Demon Apocalypse. Darren Shan

Beranabus says. “But we all make fools of ourselves one time or another. It’s part of being human. But that’s beside the point. I was talking about…” He frowns and looks to Kernel for help.

      “You’d just spotted the shining beacon of magic that was Grubbs Grady,” Kernel says drily, and I realise he’s jealous of me.

      “Of course. Forgive me, I lose track of my thoughts so easily. Old age and more battles with the Demonata than I care to remember. Yes, I was on the verge of leaving Carcery Vale, satisfied that no demons were lurking in the wings, when you caught my eye. I saw your magic, the struggle taking place within you, the power you could wield if you survived. It’s not often that I come across such a promising find.

      “I stayed to track your development. I staked you out and let you see me from time to time — I hoped your magic would respond to mine. I was trying to load the deck in my favour. I’d apologise, but that would be hypocritical of me.”

      “Get on with it,” I snarl.

      “There’s not much more to get on with. I spied on Dervish and Juni when I wasn’t following you. I knew that witch was up to no good, but I wasn’t sure of her exact plans. Then I saw the Lambs arrive. You burst out of the underground cellar. I trailed you to the cave, but didn’t follow you down — Juni would have sensed my presence. I waited while she came, dealt with you and left again. Then you burst out of the cave. I pursued you to your brother’s house, then the airport. When I realised Juni planned to board an aeroplane with you, I guessed what her plan was and I followed.”

      “You could have stopped her,” I say icily. “You knew she was going to kill the other passengers. You could have attacked. Ripped me from her before we got on.”

      “No,” he says. “I wasn’t sure. She might not have struck on the aeroplane. Or perhaps she was taking you somewhere else to meet Lord Loss. Maybe you were in league with her. I weighed up all my options and I decided to wait. It was the right call and if I had to make it again, I’d do exactly the same thing.”

      He scowls at the disgusted look I give him, then waves the matter away. “And here we are,” he says. “The end of the story.”

      “Not quite,” I reply. “You still haven’t said what you want me for, why you rescued me and brought me here.”

      Beranabus frowns. “Isn’t that obvious?”

      “Yes. But I want you to say it.”

      “Very well. You’re a magician. I want you to become my assistant, like Kernel, cross into the universe of the Demonata with us, and spend the rest of your life by my side, killing demons.”

      THE MONOLITH

      → Sitting on my blanket, legs crossed, hunched over, fingers locked together. Beranabus is at his table, sorting through papers, muttering and whistling. Kernel is exercising, stretching and limbering up. They’re setting off to fight demons shortly. They expect me to go with them.

      It’s crazy. I told Beranabus I wouldn’t do it. Leave my own world? Enter the Demonata’s realm? Fight monsters like Lord Loss every day? No bloody way, Jo-bloody-sé!

      Beranabus didn’t argue. Just shrugged and said we all have to make our own decisions in life, then went to get ready. I sat by the fire a while longer, watching him and Kernel prepare. Then came back here, where I’ve been sitting for the last half-hour, silent, numb.

      Kernel finishes stretching. Bends, touches his toes, then rises in the air. Slowly turns head over heels. Lands softly on his feet and lets go of his toes. Spots me watching him and walks over. “Having fun?”

      “It’s better than a circus.” I stare up at him, his scars and bruises, the marks of past battles, the fear in his eyes. “How do you do it?” I whisper. “I’ve fought demons. I know what it’s like. How do you find the courage to…?”

      Kernel shrugs like it’s no big deal. Licks his lips and glances at Beranabus, then sits beside me. “I never really had a choice,” he says. “I had a brother. Well, I thought… No, let’s leave it at that — it gets too complicated otherwise. He was kidnapped by a demon. I followed after him. Met Beranabus and some others — your uncle was one of them.”

      “You know Dervish?” I ask, surprised.

      “Yes. I haven’t seen him in thirty-odd years, but we were good friends back then. I wouldn’t have survived without him. Is he still a punk?”

      “What?” I frown.

      “He was a punk. Spiked hair, earrings, leather jacket, chains.”

      “No,” I chuckle. “We must be talking about a different guy. Dervish was never…” I hesitate. How many demon-fighting Disciples called Dervish can there be in the world? “I’ll quiz you about that later. Finish telling me about yourself first.”

      Kernel shrugs. “Things didn’t work out with my brother. I returned home, but several years had passed — time works differently in the Demonata’s universe. I couldn’t pick up the pieces of my old life. I no longer belonged to that world. So I came to work for Beranabus. He taught me how to master my powers and slay demons. I’ve been doing it ever since.”

      “What’s it like? Do you have days off? Weekends? Holidays?”

      Kernel laughs. “Sure — two weeks on a beach of fire in the sunny south of Hades, half-price off-season. Of course we don’t have holidays! We don’t fight all the time – we have to rest, and Beranabus occasionally has to do something on this world – but we’re at it most days of any given year.”

      “What do you do when you’re not fighting?”

      “Recover and relax here.”

      “You don’t get out at all? Not even for a day trip?”

      “Day trip to where?” Kernel snorts. “I pop up the ladder every now and then for a breath of fresh air. Maybe go for a walk for an hour or two. But it’s boiling by day, freezing by night, and there’s nothing to see or do.”

      “Doesn’t Beranabus take you with him when he goes away?”

      “Rarely,” Kernel says hotly. “He prefers it if one of us is here when we’re not battling demons, in case anyone tries to contact him. And even when he does take me, it’s only ever on business. We’re in and out as quickly as possible, keeping a low profile, hiding in the shadows.”

      He stops. His fingers are trembling. There are hard tears in his eyes, but he’s holding them back. I try thinking of something comforting to say, but can’t. I want to change the subject, but don’t know what to talk to him about. So I ask about his age — not entirely off-topic, but hopefully less of a sore point.

      “You said you’d been with Beranabus thirty years, but that can’t be right. You don’t look more than sixteen or seventeen.”