Authors: Darren Shan
Or
it
might catch
you
, the voice notes.
There could be sharks. Underwater monsters. Waiting. Moving in for the kill. Underneath you right this min —
“Shut up,” I growl.
“Art!” I yell. “Art!”
No answer. The screech of the trees would probably muf-fle his cry even if he was here and trying to call back. It’s hopeless. I’ll never find him. He’s probably dead anyway, ripped to pieces by the demon. I should try to find a way home. Worry about myself, not my doomed brother.
But I can’t think that way. I won’t. I’ve got to believe he’s alive. The thought of returning home without Art (even if I knew how) is too awful to consider.
I’ve no idea how long I’ve been here. My watch isn’t working — it stopped when I came through the grey window. Feels like a few hours. I’m wet, cold, miserable, alone. Trying hard not to think about Logan and the kids killed by the demon. Flinching every time my brain recycles an image of the bloodshed. I force myself to focus on other memories. There’s no time to deal with the massacre. I have to concentrate on finding Art.
Some small orange patches of light are flashing several feet ahead of me. They began pulsing soon after I got here. They move with me as I wander the watery forest, keeping me company.
I come to a semiclearing. The trees don’t grow so thickly together here. I can see the sky, gloomy and purplish. The sun shines dimly on my left-hand side — and a second sun shines weakly to my right!
I rub my eyes and look again. The suns are still there. Not strong like the sun I’m used to. Smaller, duller. I’m not as amazed by the twin suns as I should be — the water and howling trees tipped me off to the fact that I wasn’t in my own world anymore. I wonder how day and night work here, or if there even is a night.
As I’m staring upwards, several patches of pulsing light pass by. Different colors, shapes and sizes, slowly gliding along in the same direction. I look around and notice other patches floating through the trees, converging on a point far off to my left. Without any kind of trail, I’ve been walking aimlessly. Now I decide to follow the moving lights.
Maybe an hour later I spot the four humans who came through the window after the demon. They’re standing in a clearing, the old bearded man slightly apart from the others. I think he’s muttering a spell, hands wriggling by his sides. He’s the focus for the moving, pulsing lights. They’re gathering in the space ahead of him, slotting together, forming a window like the one in the village field.
I creep up without them seeing me.
“. . . still say we should have killed him,” the Indian woman is saying. “It was not right, letting him murder the children and take one of them. We are supposed to protect people. That is our duty.”
“The master knows what he is doing,” the black man says. “He would not have let the demon go without good cause.”
“You’ll get used to people dying,” the young blonde woman says. “Beranabus isn’t interested in saving the lives of a few individuals. He doesn’t have time for trivialities.”
“Trivialities?”
the Indian woman explodes. “You call the loss of human life a trivi —”
“No,” the younger woman interrupts. “That’s what Be-ranabus calls it. He says we serve a greater purpose, that our mission is nothing less than the protection of mankind itself. He says we can’t worry about every human killed by demons, or waste time chasing strays. He doesn’t mind you all doing it, but we —”
“I’m trying to work!” the elderly man — Beranabus —barks, turning angrily. “If you’d stop chattering like monkeys, maybe I could . . .” He sees me and stops. “Who the hell is that?”
The others whirl around defensively. They pause when they see me.
“He doesn’t look like a demon,” the black man says.
“Some don’t,” the young woman growls. “A few can take human form. You have to be careful.” She raises her right hand. I sense power in her fingertips. Power directed at
me.
“No!” I cry. “Don’t hurt me! I’m not a demon! I’m Kernel Fleck!”
The young woman’s fingers curl inward, holding back the magical power which she was about to unleash. She frowns. “He doesn’t sound like a demon.”
“It is the boy from the village,” the Indian woman says. “He was with the child Cadaver kidnapped.” She smiles at me. “Hello.”
“Hi,” I squeak nervously.
“What’s he doing here?” Beranabus huffs.
“I imagine he came through the window after us,” the In-dian woman says. “In search of his brother, perhaps?” She arches an eyebrow questioningly at me.
“Yes. The monster — demon — stole my brother, Art. I came to get him back.”
“Nonsense,” Beranabus snorts. “It will have slaughtered and devoured him by now.”
“Beranabus!” the Indian woman hisses. “Do not say such a thing!”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“You do not know that. And even if it is, you should not say it. Not in front of . . .” She nods at me.
Beranabus laughs. “If the child was bold enough to follow us, he’s bold enough to be told the truth. Isn’t that right, boy? We don’t have to lie. You’d rather we were honest about it, aye?”
“Art isn’t dead,” I say, my voice trembling. “He’s alive. I’m going to get him back.”
“Steal him back from Cadaver?” Beranabus laughs again. “You’re brave, but stupid. You couldn’t find him, not if you searched for the rest of your life. So it doesn’t really matter if he’s alive or not, does it?”
“Is that the demon’s name?” I ask, ignoring his question. “Cadaver?”
“Aye. But that’s no use to you. What are you going to do — report him to your police?”
“We have to send this boy back,” the young woman says. “Open another window. Return him.”
“We don’t have time,” Beranabus says. “Cadaver knows we’re after him. He’s on the run. The farther ahead he gets, the harder he’ll be to find.”
“That doesn’t matter. We must —”
“You’re chasing him?” I cut in, excited. “You’re going after the monster who stole my brother?”
“Aye,” Beranabus says, eyes twinkling.
“Then I’ll come with you. Please. Let me. When you find him, if Art’s still . . . you know . . . I can snatch him back. Take him home.”
“No,” the Indian woman says immediately. “It is too dangerous. You do not know what you would be getting yourself into. . . . Excuse me, but what did you say your name was?”
“Kernel. Kernel Fleck.”
“My name is Sharmila.” She smiles. “You must go home, Kernel. If we find your brother, we will return him to you. I promise.”
“No,” I say stubbornly. “I want to help find him.”
“Help?”
Beranabus repeats, cocking an amused eyebrow. “How exactly do you plan to
help?
”
“I . . . I don’t know. With the spells? The lights?”
“What lights?” Beranabus frowns.
I point to the patches of light that are joining together ahead of him. He looks at where I’m pointing and his frown deepens. I realize these people can’t see the patches either. Before I can explain, the black man speaks up.
“Sharmila and Nadia are right, master. This child does not belong here. We must return him. If we don’t . . . if we leave him in this nightmarish world of water and screaming trees . . . we will be no better than the demons we seek to stop.”
Beranabus sniffs. “A nice plea, Raz, but I never claimed to be any better than the Demonata. I say we leave him, and my word is final — isn’t it, Nadia?”
He looks hard at the young woman. She stares back defi-antly for a few seconds, then drops her gaze. “It wouldn’t take long to open a window . . .” she mutters. “I could do it while you search for Cadaver.”
“You’re not very skilled at finding your way around,” Be-ranabus says. “What makes you think you could locate the right place?”
“I could try,” she insists. “And even if I don’t find the exact spot, I can return him to our world. He could make his own way home from there.”
Beranabus thinks a moment, then shrugs. “So be it. Waste your time if you wish. But keep out of my way, so you don’t interfere with —”
“I’m not going!” I shout. “I came to find Art and I’m not going home without him!”
“Kernel,” the black man — Raz — says, “you don’t know what is happening. This is not a place for children. You must go home. Mustn’t he, Sharmila?”
“Yes,” the Indian woman says, glaring at me like an angry teacher. “I gave you my word that I will return your brother to you if we find him alive. That will have to be enough.”
“Trust me,” the younger woman — Nadia — says with a sad smile, “you don’t want to stay here. You’ve followed us into a different universe — the home of the Demonata. It’s a hellhole. This part isn’t so bad, but we’re going to encounter far worse very soon. You don’t want to be with us when that happens.
I
wouldn’t be here if I had a choice.”
“I don’t care,” I say, close to tears. “Art’s my brother. Mom told me to look after him. I’m not going back alone.” Softly, voice cracking, I add, “I can’t.”
Sharmila’s eyes go soft with pity. “I am sorry, Kernel. We have spoken harshly. But you have to understand — it is impossible. You cannot stay. You could do no good here. You must go home. Your parents will be frantic, thinking they have lost you both. That is not fair, is it?”
“No, but . . .” I can’t find the words to explain.
“Enough talk,” Beranabus grunts, losing his patience. “The boy wants to stay . . . you all want to send him home . . . this is easily decided.”
He flicks a hand at me. Suddenly I’m flying through the air. I smack hard into a tree and cry out with shock and pain, mostly from my broken arm. As I fall to the ground, the branches of the tree move quickly. Catch me. Wrap themselves around me. Squeeze.
I catch sight of Sharmila darting to my rescue. Beranabus waves a hand, stopping her. The branches tighten. The tree howls louder than ever. I’m lifted up. The holes in its bark are expanding. It means to crush and swallow me. A few seconds more and I’ll be dead, killed and eaten by this monstrous sham of a tree.
Something flares within me. I scream at the tree, set my teeth on the nearest branch to my face, and bite hard. The tree screeches. I chew through the branch, snapping it loose. Another. My left arm comes free. There’s heat in my palm. I grab a branch and feel power shoot through my hand, into the wood.
The tree howls with pain, then abruptly releases me. I drop, hit the water, go under, come up spluttering and thrashing. I dip under again. This time I stay there, feeling the water drag me down. I realize the water’s alive too, like the trees. Just as hungry and eager to kill.
I fight the panic. Force my legs to stop kicking wildly. Direct the power in my palm down towards my feet. I imagine myself as a rocket, blasting off, breaking free of the pull of the water. For a few seconds nothing happens. My lungs tighten. My mouth twitches.
Then, in a sudden burst, I explode upwards, out of the water, coughing, shivering, but free. I land on my feet, and this time the surface of the water holds. There’s terrible pain in my broken arm as I land, but I quickly use the power to numb myself to it.
I face Beranabus, furious at him for launching me at the tree and nearly killing me. Ready to attack him, to use my power to smash him to pieces.
He’s laughing. The others are staring at me, stunned, but Beranabus is laughing. “I thought so!” he cackles. “I guessed there was more to this one than mere flesh and bone. Ordinary children don’t step out of their own world into the universe of the Demonata. You need to be one of us to be that crazy. We’ll hold on to him.”
“No!” Sharmila cries.
“But . . . master . . . he’s only a child,” Raz mumbles. “This is a bad idea,” Nadia adds.
“I don’t care,” Beranabus says, waving away their protests. He grins at me, but it’s the smile of a cutthroat pirate. “You want to stay and help us find Cadaver? You want to search for your brother and rescue him like a knight of old? Very well, boy, you’ve got your wish.” He sticks out an arm, even though we’re too far from each other to shake hands. “You’re one of us now, Kernel Fleck. A demon hunter. Welcome to the Disciples!”
B
ERANABUS
is still working on his spells. Trying to find Cadaver and open a window which will lead us to the creature. According to Nadia there are thousands of demon worlds like this. Cadaver could be on almost any of them.
I’m squatting with the Disciples in a semicircle. We can’t sit down, because of the water. They look tired and upset. Sharmila argued with Beranabus for a long time, insisting he send me back. She said he was irresponsible and vile. He just swore and told her not to tell him his business. He said when she’d lived as long as he had, and seen all the things he’d seen, she could lecture him — but only then.
I study the Disciples while Beranabus works. Sharmila’s the oldest, fifty or more (though I’m not very good at guessing ages). She has a painted red spot in the middle of her forehead. I should know the name for it, but I can’t remember. Wrinkly skin. Dark, soft eyes. A long sari, many colors, ripped in several places and stained around the edges with blood and dirt.
Raz is fat and black. His skin’s incredibly dark. If it was night, no moon, and he shut his eyes, he’d be invisible. Tight, curly hair. Not overly tall. Maybe in his thirties. He wears a very fine suit. I think he’s wealthy — he looks like someone who hasn’t worked with his hands a lot. No shoes — none of the Disciples wear shoes or socks.
Nadia is in her late teens or early twenties. She has short blond hair, blue eyes and very bad skin. Lots of spots and acne scars. A hard, plain face. She wouldn’t be especially pretty even if she had the clearest skin in the world. Plump, but with bony legs and arms. She wears jeans and a dark green top. Looks unhappy, as though she’s suffered a lot.
Nadia catches me watching her and smiles. Her whole face changes. She looks a lot prettier. “Strange days, huh, Kernel Fleck?”
“I still don’t understand it all,” I mutter. “Actually, I don’t really understand any of it.”
Nadia laughs. “At least you’re honest.” She chews a fingernail, considering what to say. Eventually she gestures at the elderly man on his feet. “That’s Beranabus. He’s a magician. There aren’t many of them in the world. Lots of people can do some magic if the situation is right, but only a few are born with full magical powers.”