I catch Dervish in the hall of portraits. He snuck past my room without me hearing, even though I’d been listening closely. But a minute ago the screaming started and it was easy to track him down.
The walls of this hall are lined with photographs and paintings of dead family members, mostly teenagers who became werewolves. It’s on the first floor, close to my bedroom. When I arrive, Dervish has knocked several photos to the floor and is wrestling with a large portrait, trying to tear it free of its peg.
“Leave me alone!” he screams. “It’s not my fault!”
“Dervish,” I call, hurrying over to him, grabbing his right hand, trying to prise his fingers loose. “Derveeshio! Derv on a curve—don’t lose your verve. Don’t roar and bawl—not in this hall.”
He ignores the rhymes and jerks free. “Get out of my skull! You’re eating my brain!” He collapses to his knees, grips his head hard with both hands, moans with pain and terror.
“Dervish, easy, it’s OK, it’s coolio, you have to chill. You on the ground—everything’s sound.”
His eyes fix on a nearby photograph. His breath catches. “I didn’t do it!” he gasps. “I didn’t kill you! Leave me alone!”
I sweep the photos away, then grab Dervish’s hands, pull them down from his head and lock gazes with him. “Wake up, you crazy, bald coot! It’s only a dream—no need to scream. None of it’s real—fantasy’s the deal. You have to snap back. Come on, I know you’re in there, I know…”
His expression clears. He looks like a lost child for a few seconds, pitiful, silently begging me for help. Then the real Dervish surfaces and terror gives way to exhaustion and embarrassment. I release him, nodding slowly and repeatedly to show that everything’s OK, no damage done.
Dervish looks around at the photos on the floor. Most are ripped, a couple beyond repair. No glass in the frames. We removed all the glass a few months ago, in case something like this happened. Didn’t want him hurting himself—or me.
“I thought they’d come back to life,” Dervish says. “They blamed me. Claimed I was the cause of the curse. They wanted revenge.”
“It was just a dream.”
“I know. But still…” He shivers. “I could have done without Prae Athim and the Lambs. I didn’t need them now. Not in this state. Why do bad things always come at the worst time?”
“Forget about her,” I tell him. “She’s gone. You ran her off.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe…” He coughs, then stands. “No. That’s the nightmare talking. The Lambs can’t help. They mean well, but in matters like this they’re helpless.”
“Unlike the Disciples?” I ask, broaching the mysterious subject for the first time, not sure if it’s the right moment, but curiosity getting the better of me.
Dervish shakes his head. “I’ll tell you about them later. Not now. OK?”
I sniff like it doesn’t matter.
Dervish grows thoughtful. “Billy doesn’t know about the change, Lord Loss, what we did for him. It’s better this way. No point throwing his world into chaos. The Lambs are part of the human world. They’ve no direct experience of the Demonata or magic. They couldn’t learn anything from Billy.”
“Then don’t worry about it,” I mutter. “Go back to bed, get a good night’s sleep, kick the nightmares out the window.”
Dervish laughs. “If only it was that easy.” He checks his watch. Yawns. “But I’ll try to snooze, to keep nurse Grubitsch happy.” He glances at me. “If I drop off, I might go walkabout again. You should lock me in.”
“Nah,” I smile. “You’d wreck the room. Don’t worry about it. I’ll sleep with one ear open. I’ll see you don’t come to harm.”
Dervish reaches over, squeezes my hand, then shuffles off for the stairs and bed. I watch until he turns the corner. Stay for a while, thinking about Bill-E, the Lambs, demons, the mysterious Disciples. Then I start clearing up the photos and hanging the less tattered snapshots back on their pegs, knowing I won’t be able to sleep.
→Tired. Finding it hard to stay awake. My friends want to know if there are any David A Haym updates, but I only grunt at their questions. Studying Bill-E during lunch. Thinking about him in the hands of the Lambs, strapped to a table, hooked up to banks of electrodes. Can’t let that happen. I faced Lord Loss for my brother. If Prae Athim tries anything with Bill-E, she won’t just have to worry about Dervish and the Disciples—she’ll have to deal with me.
Yeah, I know, she’s hardly trembling with terror at the thought of having to go up against a teenager. But I’m big. And I can be nasty. If I have to.
***
→A limousine’s parked in the drive when I get home. A chauffeur sits behind the wheel, dozing. No prizes for guessing who the limo belongs to.
I hear her as soon as I push open the front doors. She’s in the TV room. A loud voice, high-pitched, very theatrical. She’s talking about one of her earlier movies – it might be Zombie Zest – telling Dervish about the problems she faced trying to get the look of the monsters right.
“…but everybody’s using CGI these days! I don’t like it. The audience can tell. They’re not afraid. It’s psychological. You see a guy in a monster costume, or a cleverly designed puppet, and even though you know it’s not real, you can trick yourself into believing it is. But if you see something that’s the work of a computer, your brain can’t accept it. It doesn’t scare you. I think…”
I walk into the room and cough softly. Davida Haym looks up from where she’s sitting on the couch. A surprisingly normal-looking woman. Fiftyish. Black hair streaked with grey. Pudgy. A warm smile. Purple-rimmed glasses. A bright flowery dress. She looks more like a giggling granny than a horror-movie meister.
“Davida, this is my nephew, Grubbs,” Dervish introduces us. He’s sitting beside her on the couch, looking a bit overwhelmed—I have the feeling Davida hasn’t stopped talking since she came in. “Grubbs lives with me.”
“Hello, Grubbs,” Davida says, rising to shake my hand. A short woman. Barely comes up to my chest. “Neat name. Is it short for something?”
“Grubitsch,” I mutter. “I’m a big fan of yours. I thought Night Mayors was the best horror film of the last ten years.”
“Why, thank you!” Davida booms, not releasing my hand. “Although, to be honest, my input wasn’t so great. The director – Liam Fitz – is a real hardhead. Likes to make the creative decisions himself. I set him off, gave him whatever he asked for, but after that…” She shrugs, still holding my hand.
“And this is June,” Dervish says, drawing my attention to a third person in the room, sitting in a chair to my left.
“Juni,” she corrects him, getting up. “Juni Swan.” Davida Haym finally releases my fingers and I shake hands with the other woman. She’s small too, but slightly taller than Davida. Thin. Pretty. White hair, very pale skin, pinkish eyes. An albino. Her hair’s tied back in a ponytail. Hard to tell her age because her skin’s so white and smooth.
“Juni is Miss Haym’s assistant,” Dervish says.
“Davida,” the producer corrects him. She tuts loudly. “I don’t stand on ceremony.”
“And I’m not her assistant,” Juni says, almost apologetically. She speaks very softly. “Although I am here to assist.”
“Let’s sit down,” Davida says, as if this was her house. She leads us back to the chairs and pats the space on the couch beside her, forcing