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Demon Thief
Darren Shan


A hellish nightmare for only the bravest of readers… Darren Shan’s horrifying series, The Demonata, continues with Demon Thief.When Kernel Fleck's brother is stolen by demons, he must enter their universe in search of him. It is a place of magic, chaos and incredible danger. Kernel has three aims:• learn to use magic,• find his brother,• stay alive.But a heartless demon awaits him, and death has been foretold…
























Run with demons and find the thief on the web at

www.darrenshan.com


For:

Bas — thief of my heart

OBEs (Order of the Bloody Entrails) to:

Atilla "the killah" Kovacs

Liam "mac webby" Fitzgerald

Mary "the organiser" Byrne

Public Editor #1:

Stella "the eliminator" Paskins

Guard Duty:

the Christopher Little constabulary




Contents


Into the Light

Fugitives

The Witch

Marbles

Ding Dong

Kidnap

Walking on Water

Demons and Disciples

Opening Windows

Frying Pan

Fire

Adrift

Punks

The Monster Mash

The Reluctant Disciple

Searching

Hell-Child

Fly on the Wall

At Home with Lord Loss

The Challenge

Amazeing

Marbleous

Kernel in the Sky with Demons

Thieves

The True Thief

The Theft

Goodbyes

Home Alonely

Kah-Gash

Other Books by Darren Shan

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher




INTO THE LIGHT


→ People think I’m crazy because I see lights. I’ve seen them all my life. Strange, multicoloured patches of light swirling through the air. The patches are different sizes, some as small as a coin, others as big as a cereal box. All sorts of shapes — octagons, triangles, decagons. Some have thirty or forty sides. I don’t know the name for a forty-sided shape. Quadradecagon?

No circles. All of the patches have at least two straight edges. There are a few with curves or semi-circular bulges, but not many.

Every colour imaginable. Some shine brightly, others glow dully. Occasionally a few of the lights pulse, but normally they just hang there, glowing.

When I was younger I didn’t know the lights were strange. I thought everybody saw them. I described them to Mum and Dad, but they thought I was playing a game, seeking attention. It was only when I started school and spoke about the lights in class that it became an issue. My teacher, Miss Tyacke, saw that I wasn’t making up stories, that I really believed in the lights.

Miss Tyacke called Mum in. Suggested they took me to somebody better qualified to understand what the lights signified. But Mum’s never had much time for psychiatrists. She thinks the brain can take care of itself. She asked me to stop mentioning the lights at school, but otherwise she wasn’t concerned.

So I stopped talking about the lights, but the damage had already been done. Word spread among the children — Kernel Fleck is weird. He’s not like us. Stay away from him.

I never made many friends after that.



→ My name’s Cornelius, but I couldn’t say that when I was younger. The closest I could get was Kernel. Mum and Dad thought that was cute and started using it instead of my real name. It stuck and now that’s what everybody calls me.

I think some parents shouldn’t be allowed to name their kids. There should be a committee to forbid names which will cause problems later. I mean, even without the lights, what chance did I have of fitting in with any normal crowd with a name like Kernel – or Cornelius – Fleck!

We live in a city. Mum’s a university lecturer. Dad’s an artist who also does some freelance teaching. (He actually spends more time teaching than drawing, but whenever anyone asks, he says he’s an artist.) We live on the third floor of an old warehouse which has been converted into apartments. Huge rooms with very high ceilings. I sometimes feel like a Munchkin, or Jack in the giant’s castle.

Dad’s very good with his hands. He makes brilliant model aeroplanes and hangs them from the wooden beams of my bedroom ceiling. When they start to clutter the place up, or if we just get the urge one lazy Sunday afternoon, the pair of us make bombs out of apples, conkers – whatever we can find that’s hard and round – and launch them at the planes. We fire away until we run out of ammo or all the planes are destroyed. Then Dad sets to work on new models and we do it all over again. At the moment the ceiling’s about a third full.

I like it here. Our apartment is great; we’re close to lots of shops, a cool adventure playground, museums, cinemas galore. School’s OK too. I don’t make friends, but I like my teachers and the building — we have a first-rate lab, a projection room, a massive library. And I never get beaten up — I roar automatically when I’m fighting, which isn’t good news for bullies who don’t want to attract attention!

But I’m not enjoying life. I’m lonely. I’ve always been a loner, but it didn’t bother me when I was younger. I liked being by myself. I read lots of books and comics, watched dozens of TV shows, invented imaginary friends to play with. I was happy.

That changed recently. I don’t know why, but I don’t like being alone now. I feel sad when I see groups of friends having a good time. I want to be one of them. I want friends who’ll tell me jokes and laugh at mine, who I can discuss television shows and music with, who’ll pick me to be on their team. I try getting to know people, but the harder I try, the more they avoid me. I sometimes hover at the edge of a group, ignored, and pretend I’m part of it. But if I speak, it backfires. They glare at me suspiciously, move away or tell me to get lost. “Go watch some lights, freak!”

The loneliness got really bad this last month. Nothing interests me any more. The hours drag, especially at home or when I have free time at school. I can’t distract myself. My mind wanders. I keep thinking about friends and how I don’t have any, that I’m alone and might always be. I’ve talked with Mum and Dad about it, but it’s hard to make them understand how miserable I am. They say things will change when I’m older, but I don’t believe them. I’ll still be weird, whatever age I am. Why should people like me more then than now?

I try so hard to fit in. I watch the popular shows and listen to the bands I hear others raving about. I read all the hot comics and books. Wear trendy clothes when I’m not at school. Swear and use all the cool catchphrases.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing works. Nobody likes me. I’m wasting my time. This past week, I’ve got to thinking that I’m wasting my entire life. I’ve had dark, horrible thoughts, where I can only see one way out, one way of stopping the pain and loneliness. I know it’s wrong to think that way – life can never be that bad – but it’s hard not to. I cry when I’m alone — once or twice I’ve even cried in class. I’m eating too much food, putting on weight. I’ve stopped washing and my skin’s got greasy. I don’t care. I want to look like the freak I feel I am.



→ Late at night. In bed. I’m playing with the patches of light, trying not to think about the loneliness. I’ve always been able to play with the lights. I remember being three or four years old, the lights all around me, reaching out and moving them, trying to fit them together like jigsaw pieces. Normally, the lights remain at a distance of several feet, but I can call them closer when I want to play with them.

The patches aren’t solid. They’re like floating scraps of plastic. If I look at a patch from the side, it’s almost invisible. I can put my fingers through them, like ordinary pools of light. But, despite that, when I want to move a patch, I can. If I focus on a light, it glides towards me, stopping when I tell it. Reaching out, I push at one of the edges with my fingers. I don’t actually touch it, but as my fingers get closer, the light moves in whatever direction I’m pushing. When I stop, the light stops.

I figured out very early on that I could put patches together to make patterns. I’ve been doing it ever since, at night, or during lunch at school when I have nobody to play with. Lately, I’ve been playing with them more than ever. Sometimes, the lights are the only way I have to escape the miserable loneliness.

I like making weird shapes, like Picasso paintings. I saw a programme on him at school a couple of years ago and felt an immediate connection. I think Picasso saw lights too, only he didn’t tell anyone. People wouldn’t have thought he was a great artist if he said he saw lights — they’d have said he was a nutcase, like me.

The shapes I make are nowhere near as fabulous as Pablo Picasso’s paintings. I’m no artist. I just try to create interesting designs. They’re rough, but I like them. They never last. The shapes hold for as long as I’m studying them, but once I lose interest, or fall asleep, they come undone and the pieces drift apart, returning to their original positions in the air around me.

The one I’m making tonight is particularly jumbled. I’m finding it hard to concentrate. Joining the pieces randomly, with no real purpose. It’s a mess. I can’t stop thinking about not having any friends. Feeling wretched. Wishing I had at least one true friend, someone who’d care about me and play with me, so I wasn’t completely alone.

As I’m thinking about that, a few of the patches pulse. No big deal. Lights have pulsed before. Usually, I ignore them. But tonight, sad and desperate to divert my train of thought, I summon a couple, study them with a frown, then put them together and call for the rest of the flashing patches. As I add those pieces to the first two, more lights pulse, some slowly, some quickly.

I sit up, working with more speed. This new flashing shape is curious. I’ve never put pulsing patches together before. As I add to the cluster, more lights pulse. I quickly slot them into place, working as if on autopilot. I have no control over myself. I keep watching for a pattern to emerge, but there isn’t one. Just a mass of different pulsing colours. Still, it’s worked its magic. I’m focused on the cluster of lights now, dark thoughts and fears temporarily forgotten.

The lights build and build. This is a massive structure, much larger than any I’ve previously created. I’m sweating and my arms are aching. I want to stop and rest, but I can’t. I’m obsessed with the pulsing lights. This must be what addiction is like.

Then, without warning, the patches that I’ve stuck together stop pulsing and all glow a light blue colour. I fall back, gasping, as if I’d got an electric shock. I’ve never seen this happen. It scares me. A huge blue, jagged patch of light at the foot of my bed. It’s like a window. Large enough for a person to fit through.

My first thought is to flee, call for Mum and Dad, get out as quick as I can. But part of me holds firm. An inner voice whispers in my ear, telling me to stay. This is your window to a life of wonders, it says. But be careful, it adds, as I move closer to the light. Windows open both ways.

As it says that, a shape presses through, out of the panel of light. A face. I’m too horrified to scream. It’s a monster from my very worst nightmare. Pale red skin. A pair of dark red eyes. No nose. A small mouth. Sharp, grey teeth. As it leans further forward into my bedroom, I see more of it and the horror intensifies. It doesn’t have a heart! There’s a hole in the left side of its chest, but where the heart should be are dozens of tiny, hissing snakes.

The monster frowns and stretches a hand towards me. I can see more than two arms — at least four or five. I want to pull away. Dive beneath my bed. Scream for help. But the voice that spoke to me a few seconds ago won’t let me. It whispers quickly, words I can’t follow. And I find myself standing firm, taking a step towards the panel of light and its emerging monster. I raise my right hand and watch the fingers curl into a fist. I can feel a strange tingling sensation, like pins and needles.

The monster stops. Its eyes narrow. It looks round my bedroom uncertainly. Then slowly, smoothly, it withdraws, pulling back into the panel of light, vanishing gradually until only its red eyes remain, staring out at me from within the surrounding blueness, twin circles of an unspoken evil. Then they’re gone too and I’m alone again, just me and the light.

I should be wailing for help, running for my life, cowering on the floor. But instead my fingers relax and my fist unclenches. I’m facing the panel of blue light, staring at it like a zombie transfixed by a fresh human brain, distantly processing information. Normally, the patches of light are transparent, but I can’t see through this one. If I look round it, there’s my bedroom wall, a chest of drawers, toys and socks scattered across the floor. But when I look directly at the light, all I see is blue.

The voice says something crazy to me. I know it’s madness as soon as it speaks. I want to argue, roar at it, tell it to get stuffed. But, as scared and confused as I am, I can’t disobey. I find my legs tensing. I know, with sick certainty, what’s going to happen next. I open my mouth to scream, to try and stop it, but before I can, a force makes me step forward — after the monster, into the light.




FUGITIVES


→ Next thing I know, I’m on the floor of my bedroom, my baby brother Art cradled to my chest. Mum and Dad are shouting at me, crying, poking and clutching me. Dad gently takes Art from my arms. Mum crouches beside me and hugs me hard, weeping over my bald skull. She’s moaning, calling my name over and over, asking where I’ve been, what happened, if I’m all right. Dad’s staring at me like I’ve got two heads, only looking away to check on Art, his expression one of total bewilderment.

There’s no panel of blue light. No monster. And no memory of what happened when I stepped through after the snake-hearted creature.



→ I learn that I’ve been missing for several days. Mum and Dad thought I’d been kidnapped, or wandered out and got lost. The police have been searching for me. They put my photo in newspapers and questioned all the people who knew me. Mum and Dad were frantic. Mum keeps weeping, saying she thought I was dead, that she’d lost another of her babies. I don’t like the way she refers to me as a baby, but this isn’t the time to correct her!

I can’t remember what happened. Up to the moment I took that step forward into the blue light — total recall. After that — nothing.

Mum and Dad don’t believe me. They think I’m lying or in shock. They ply me with hot chocolate in our kitchen and quiz me ruthlessly, sometimes gently, sometimes harshly, neither of them in complete control of themselves. They pass Art back and forth, asking me questions about how he ended up with me. I guess he must have gone missing too, after I did.

“Can I hold Art?” I ask, during a brief lull in the questioning.

Mum passes him to me, watching us suspiciously, perhaps afraid we’ll go missing again. I had a younger sister once — Annabella. She died when she was a baby. I can’t remember much about her — I was only four. But I’ll never forget Mum and Dad’s tears, the misery, the loss I sensed in the air around me. I wasn’t much more than a baby myself, but I knew something terrible had happened, and I could see how upset Mum and Dad were. I guess they never really got over that. It’s only natural that they’re more upset and worried now than most parents would be.

I bounce Art up and down on my knee, cooing to him, telling him everything’s OK. “You’re my little brother. I’ll look after you. It’s fine.” He doesn’t take much notice. He looks more sleepy than afraid. Too young to catch the bad vibes.

Mum and Dad stare at each other wordlessly then leave us alone for a while, going out into the corridor to discuss the situation. They don’t shut the door behind them, and call out to me whenever I stop talking to Art, making sure we’re still here.



→ They let me go to bed at one in the morning. Their faces are strained and red. Mum tucks me in and lets Art sleep beside me. She rubs his face tenderly as she pulls the blanket up around him. Starts to cry again. Dad tugs her away, kisses me, then takes Mum back to their bedroom, leaving me and Art to sleep.



→ I wake in the middle of the night. Mum and Dad are arguing. I don’t know what about. Mum’s saying, “Let’s give it a few days. Watch. Wait. If nobody says anything, or looks for him…”

Dad shouts, “You’re crazy! We can’t! It’s wrong! What if the police…?”

I drift back to sleep.



→ Morning. More questions. Mum sits Art on her lap and feeds him, smiling and laughing wildly every time he gurgles at her. It’s a good job I’m not jealous of my little brother as she hardly notices I’m here.

Dad’s upset. He keeps glaring at Mum and Art. Throws more questions at me. Tries to help me unlock my memories. Asks me to take him through the night I vanished, step by step. I tell him I was in my bedroom, I was playing and that’s all I remember. I don’t mention the lights or the monster. The inner voice that spoke to me that night tells me not to. Says I’d only get into more trouble if I told the truth.

“Did you go to bed?” Dad asks.

“No.”

“Did someone come into the room?”

“No.”

“Was there somebody at the window?”

A pause while I think back. “No.”

“What about… Art? Can you remember where… how you got him?”

“No.”

He curses and tugs at his hair with both hands. Looks at Mum and Art again. Mum stares back at him sternly, holding Art against her like a shield. I don’t know what her look means, but I’m glad she’s not looking at me that way — her eyes are scary!



→ Dad phones the police and they come round. He sits with me while they ask lots of questions. Mum stays in their bedroom with Art. Dad said there was no need to talk about Art with the police. It would only complicate things. Since Art’s too young to tell them anything, they want to focus on what happened to me.

I tell the police the same things I told Mum and Dad. The police are nice. They talk softly, make jokes, tell me stories about other kids who were lost or kidnapped. They want to know if I remember anything, even the smallest detail, but my mind is a complete blank. I keep apologising for not being able to tell them anything more, but they don’t lose patience. They’re much calmer than Mum and Dad.



→ I don’t go back to school. Mum and Dad keep me in. Won’t even let me go out to the park. Things feel strange and awkward. It’s like when Annabella died. Lots of crying, sorrow and uncertainty. But it’s different. There’s fear too. Mum’s especially edgy. Hardly lets go of Art. Snaps at Dad a lot of the time. I often find her shaking and crying when she doesn’t think I’ll notice.



→ Days pass. The police come back, but they’re not too worried. The most important thing is that I’m safe and back home. They recommend a good psychiatrist to Dad, and suggest he takes me to see her, to try and figure out what happened to me. Dad says he will, but I remember what Mum was like when Miss Tyacke suggested a psychiatrist all those years ago. I’m sure I won’t be going for counselling.



→ That night they have a huge row. Mum’s screaming and cursing. I’m in my room with Art. They think we can’t hear them, but we can. I’m scared. I even cry a bit, holding Art tightly, not sure why they’re behaving this way. Art’s not bothered. He gurgles happily in my arms and tries biting a hole through the new bib that Dad bought yesterday.

Mum yells, “We’ve been given a second chance! I don’t care how it happened or who gets hurt! I’m not going to suffer the loss of a child again!”

I can’t hear Dad’s reply, but it seems to do the trick. Mum doesn’t shout after that, though I hear her crying later. I hear Dad crying too.



→ The next morning, Dad calls me into his study. He has Art on one knee, a picture of Annabella on the other. He’s looking from Art to the picture and back again, chewing his lower lip. He looks up when I enter and smiles — a thin, shaky smile. Tells me we’re leaving. Immediately, this very night.

“We’re going on holiday?” I ask, excited.

“No. We’re moving house.” Art tugs at Dad’s left ear. Dad ducks his head and chuckles at Art. “Your Mum doesn’t like it here any more,” Dad says quietly, not looking at me directly. “Annabella died here. You went missing. Art… well, she doesn’t want anything else to happen. To Art or to you. She wants to go somewhere safer. To be honest, I do too. I’m sick of city life.”

“But what about school?” It’s the first question to pop into my head.

“The hell with it,” Dad laughs. “You don’t like it that much, do you?”

“Well… no… but it’s my school.”

“We’ll find you another.” He fixes Art in his left arm, then extends his right and pulls me in close. “I know you haven’t been happy here. Mum and I have been thinking about it. We’re going to move to a place we know, a village called Paskinston. The children will be very different there. Nicer than city kids. We think you’ll be happier, maybe make some friends. And you’ll be safe. We all will. How does that sound?”

“Good. I guess. But…” I shrug.

“It’s for the best, Kernel,” Dad says and hugs me tight. Art laughs and hugs me too, and that’s when I feel sure that Dad’s right. Everything’s going to be better now.



→ My last glimpse of the city is when I get into our car late that night. I don’t know why we don’t wait until morning – Dad hates driving at night – but I haven’t had time to ask. It’s been a rush, packing bags, going through all of my toys, books, comics, clothes, records, choosing what to bring and what to leave behind. Dad says we’ll get the rest of our belongings sent on later, but I don’t want to leave anything precious behind, just in case. I bombed all of the planes in my bedroom at 9 o’clock. Mum and Dad helped me. We destroyed them completely. It was cool! Even Mum enjoyed it.

As we’re getting into the car, Dad asks if I want to play a game with Art, to keep him quiet. I say sure. So he makes me sit on the floor behind Mum’s seat, with Art between my legs, and he drapes a blanket over us. “Pretend Art and you are fugitives. You’re a pair of vicious, wanted criminals and we’re sneaking you out of the city. There are roadblocks, so you have to hide and be quiet. If you’re found, you’ll be sent to prison.”

“Children don’t get sent to prison!” I snort.

“They do in this game,” Dad laughs.

I know it’s just a way for Mum and Dad to keep Art – and me – quiet for some of the journey. But part of me thinks it’s real. The fact that we’re leaving so quickly, at night, in secrecy… I hold Art tight in my arms and whisper for him to be quiet, afraid we’ll be caught by whoever’s after us. I feel like crying, but that’s because we’re leaving home. I’ve never lived anywhere else. It’s scary.

Mum checks that Art and I are OK before getting in the car. She lifts the blanket and peers in at us. We’re parked close to a street light, so I can see her face pretty well. She looks worried — maybe she’s sad to be leaving our old home, like me.

“Take care of your brother,” she says softly, stroking Art’s left cheek. He gazes at her quietly. “Protect him,” Mum says, her voice cracking. Then she kisses my forehead, replaces the blanket and we set off, leaving behind everything I’ve ever known.




THE WITCH


→ Paskinston’s a sleepy place, with a couple of tiny shops, a crumbling old school, a stumpy, ugly, modern church, and not much else. It’s in the middle of nowhere, miles away from any town or city. Power cuts are common. Television and radio reception is poor. Cars are mostly ancient wrecks. The sort of place where you expect to find loads of old people, but in fact most of the villagers are youngish parents and their children.

We’ve been here almost a year. It’s not a bad place to live. Quiet and clean. Lots of open space around the village. No pollution or crime, and people are very relaxed and friendly. A few commute to cities or towns, but most work locally. Quite a few are craftspeople and artists. We don’t get many tourists in Paskinston, but our artisans (as Dad calls them) supply a lot of tourist shops around the country. Musical instruments are the village’s speciality, traditionally carved, lovingly created and packaged, then expensively priced!

Dad’s got a job painting instruments. It doesn’t pay very well, but you don’t need much money in Paskinston. He’s happier than he ever was in the city, finally able to call himself a real artist. Mum helps out kids with learning problems, and does some teaching in the school when one of the regular teachers is off sick. She’s happy too, the happiest I’ve seen her since Annabella died.

Mum and Dad never talk about the time Art and I went missing. It’s a forbidden subject. If I ever bring it up, they change the topic immediately. Once, when I pressed, Mum snapped at me, swore and told me never to mention it again.

And me? Well, I’m OK. Dad was right. The kids here are nicer than in the city. They chat to me at school, include me in their games, invite me to their houses to read and play, take me on day trips into the local countryside at weekends. Nobody bullies me, says nasty things to me or tries to make me feel like I’m a freak. (Of course, it helps that I don’t mention the secret patches of light!)

But I still don’t fit in. I feel out of place. It’s hard to talk freely, to join in, to behave naturally. I always feel as though I’m acting. Most of the kids in Paskinston were born here or moved here when they were very young. This is the only world they know and they believe it’s perfect.

I don’t agree. While I’m certainly happier now than I was in the city, I miss the cinemas and museums. Except for not having any friends, I liked being part of a big city, where there was always something new to see or do. The village is nice, but it’s a bit boring. And although the kids are nicer to me, I still haven’t made any real friends.

But it’s not that important because I’m not miserable any more. I’m not sure why, but I don’t feel lonely these days. I’m happy just to be with Mum, Dad and Art. Especially Art. He might only be a baby, but I love dragging him around with me, explaining the world to him, telling him about books, television and life, trying to teach him to speak. He should have started by now, but so far not a word. Dad and Mum don’t mind. They say Einstein was older than Art is before he spoke. But I don’t think Art’s an Einstein — he likes tugging ears, biting people and burping too much to be a genius!

Art’s all I really need from the world right now. He keeps me company better than any friend ever could. As Dad once said when I was lonely and he was trying to cheer me up, “Who needs friends when you have family?”



→ To get to school, I have to pass the witch’s house.

The “witch” is Mrs Egin. There are thirty-seven families and six single people in Paskinston, and everyone’s on friendly terms with everybody else. There’s a real sense of community. They all take an interest in and see a lot of each other, chat among themselves when they meet in the street or at church, hold big parties every few months to which everyone comes.

Except Mrs Egin. She lives by herself in a dirty old house and almost never has anything to say to anybody. She comes out for a long walk every day and to draw water from the well. (There’s running water in Paskinston, but Mrs Egin and a few others prefer to get theirs from an old well in the centre of the village.) But otherwise we rarely see her. She spends most of her time indoors, behind thick curtains, doing whatever it is that witches do.

I’m sure she’s not really a witch, but all the kids call her the Pricklish Witch of Paskinston. Some of the adults do too!

There isn’t a real school in Paskinston, just a converted stable which is being used as a school until the villagers manage to build a proper one. There are three teachers (two are volunteers), crappy old desks, wobbly chairs, a few tired blackboards, and nothing else except the ancient toilets out the back. A big change from my school in the city!

The school’s down the street and round the corner to the left from where we live. To get there, I have to walk past Mrs Egin’s house. I could go the opposite way and circle round the backs of the houses if I wanted. But Mrs Egin has never done anything bad to me. She hasn’t even spoken to me in the year that I’ve lived here. She doesn’t frighten me.

Today, I set off for school as normal. Classes start at 9:30 a.m. but I normally get there for 9 o’clock, to play some games with the other kids beforehand. Trying hard to fit in, to be like they are, to have them accept me. Not that I’m too bothered if they don’t.

“Off to school?” Mum asks as I’m heading out.

“Yes.”

“Want to take Art to the crèche?”

“Sure.”

The makeshift crèche is in another converted stable, right next to the school. I often drop Art off.

Art’s small and skinny. A large head though. Dad says that’s a sign that he has lots of brains, but I think it’s because he has a thick skull — all the better for headbutting!

I stop Art trying to bite the hands off a soldier doll and pick him up. He struggles, eager to finish off the soldier. “Stop,” I grunt. Art calms down immediately. He always does what I tell him. He’s more obedient for me than for Mum or Dad. Mum says that’s a sign that he really loves me. It makes me proud when she says stuff like that, though I usually scowl — don’t want her thinking I’m soft.

Art’s pale, like Mum, with dirty dark hair that looks like it’s never been washed. Mum always complains about Art’s hair. She regularly threatens to shave him bald like me. (Not that I need to shave — I’ve been bald since birth.) She says every guy should be bald — it makes life much simpler for the women looking after them.

I throw Art up in the air and catch him. He laughs and gurgles for me to do it again. I compare my skin to his as I toss him up a second time. I’m much darker, a nice creamy brown, more Dad’s colour than Mum’s. We don’t look like brothers. Mum says that’s good — people won’t confuse us when we’re older.

I settle Art down and head for the door, carrying him under one arm like a skateboard. He swings his fists around, looking for something to hit. He almost never hits or bites me, but I’m the only one who’s safe around him. He’s given Mum a black eye a few times and bit one of Dad’s fingernails off once. He’ll be a real terror when he’s a couple of years older.

We set off down the street. There’s nobody else around. A quiet spring day. Birds are twittering in the trees. A cow moos in the distance. I feel warm and happy. Looking forward to summer. Dad said we might go to the beach for a week or two. We haven’t been on a holiday since we left the city. I’m excited about it.

“You’ve never seen a beach, have you?” I say to Art. “It’s great. More sand than you could imagine. Salt water, not like the ponds here. Seaweed. We can swim and make sandcastles. Eat ice cream and candyfloss. You’ll love it. And if we can’t go, well, we’ll camp round here instead. Find a lake, maybe near a small town, with a cinema and amusement arcades and–”

“Thief!” someone screeches.

We’ve just passed the witch’s house. I look back. The front door’s open. Mrs Egin is standing on the doorstep. Her eyes are wild and she’s trembling. Her hair’s normally tied in a ponytail, but today it’s hanging loose, strands blowing across her face in the light breeze.

“Who’s the thief?” she mutters, staggering towards me.

“Mrs Egin? Are you all right? Do you want me to fetch help?” I set Art down to my left and step in front of him, shielding him with my legs, in case she falls on top of him.

Mrs Egin stops less than a foot away. She’s mumbling to herself, strange words, no language that I know. Her lips are bleeding — she’s bitten through them in several places. Her fingers are wriggling like ten angry snakes.

“Mrs Egin?” I say softly, heart racing.

“Such a beautiful baby,” the witch says, eyes fixed on Art. He’s staring up at her silently. Mrs Egin bends and reaches for Art, cooing, smiling crookedly.

“Leave him alone,” I gasp, shuffling Art back with my left foot, standing firmly in front of him now, blocking her way.

“Not yours!” she snarls, glaring at me. I’ve never seen an adult look at me that way, with total hate. It scares me. I feel like I have to pee. Clench my legs together so I don’t have an accident.

But, scared as I am, I don’t move. I stand my ground. I have to protect Art.

“Are you ill, Mrs Egin?” I ask, my voice a lot calmer than I feel.

“Find him!” she shouts in reply. “Find the thief! Beautiful baby.” She smiles at Art again, then mumbles to herself, like a minute ago, but gesturing at Art this time, as though she’s casting a spell on him.

I look for help but we’re all alone. I can’t just stand here and let this go on. No telling what she’ll do next. So, without taking my eyes off her, I stoop, grab Art and awkwardly hold him up behind my back. Art squeals happily — he thinks I’m giving him a piggyback ride.

“We have to go now,” I say, edging away. Mrs Egin’s still looking at the spot where Art was. I notice that lots of the patches of light around us are pulsing. They’re closer than they normally are, as if hedging us in. But I can’t worry about the lights. Not with Mrs Egin acting like a real, mad witch.

“Soon!” Mrs Egin barks and her eyes snap upwards. “All be happening soon. They thought I didn’t have it in me. Said I was weak. But they were wrong. I have the power. I can serve.” Her hands go still. Her eyes soften. “You will see me die,” she says quietly.

Tears of confusion and fear come to my eyes. “Mrs Egin, I… I’ll fetch help… I’ll get someone who can–”

“Thief!” she yells, silencing me, wild and twisted again. Her hands come up and wave angrily at me. “Find the thief! Soon! You’ll see. The mad old witch going up in a puff of smoke. Boom, Kernel Fleck. Boom!”

She laughs hysterically. When you hear a witch laugh in a movie, it’s funny. But this isn’t. The laughter hurts my ears, makes them ring from deep inside. I half expect them to start bleeding.

“I have to go now,” I say quickly, turning away from her, sliding Art round so he’s in front of me, all the time protecting him from her.

“Kernel,” the witch says in a cold, commanding tone. Reluctantly, I stop and look back. “You won’t tell anyone what you’ve seen today.” It’s not a question.

“Mrs Egin… you need help… I think…”

She spits on the ground by her right foot. “You’re a fool. I’m not the one who needs help — you are. But never mind that. You won’t tell anyone. Because if you do, I’ll creep into your room late at night when you’re asleep and slit your throat from your left ear to your right.” She uses a trembling index finger to illustrate.

That’s too much. I lose control and, to my shame, feel the front of my trousers go wet. Fortunately Mrs Egin doesn’t see. She’s already turned away. Walks back to her house. Pauses at the front door. Looks up. There’s a six-sided patch of pink light pulsing rapidly just above her head. She reaches up and strokes it. The pulse rate slows, as if the light was afraid and she has calmed it down.

“Thought you were the only one who could see them,” she says as I stare at her in shock. “But I can too. Now. For a while. Until they take me.”

Then she goes inside and shuts the door.

For a long moment I stand, fighting back tears, ears still ringing, wanting to run away and never return. But I can’t do that, and I can’t turn up at school with wet, stained trousers. So I hurry home, clutching Art tight to my chest, steering as far wide of the witch’s house as I can.




MARBLES


→ I lie to Mum. Tell her Art peed on me. She’s surprised — he’s never been a wetter. She wants to change him. I tell her it’s all right, I’ll take care of it. I hurry to my bedroom and change my trousers. I’m almost out the door before I remember that Art should be changed too, so I quickly find clean clothes for him.

I consider telling Mum about Mrs Egin’s behaviour. Recall her threat — “slit your throat from your left ear to your right.” Don’t say a word.



→ The day passes uncomfortably. I can’t forget what Mrs Egin said, her wicked expression, stroking the pulsing patch of light. “You will see me die.”

I should tell someone. It doesn’t matter that she threatened me. She won’t be able to sneak into my room if I tell someone and they lock her up like the mad old witch she is.

But I wet my trousers. If I tell about the rest, I’ll have to tell about that too. And I don’t want people knowing. So I say nothing. I pretend it didn’t happen, that it doesn’t matter. And all day long I feel as if a thousand eels of terror are wriggling around inside me.



→ Dad’s talking with Mum about a craft fair when I come home. She’s listening quietly, sitting by the piano. (It was in the house when we moved in — none of us can play.) She’s frowning.

“This is one of the biggest fairs in the country,” Dad says. “It’s held every year, and a few of the Paskinston artists always go, representing the village. They sell a lot of work at it and rack up loads of orders. It’s a real honour to be asked. It would be rude to refuse.”

“But can’t one of us go and one stay here?” Mum asks.

“Yes, but couples normally go together. It’s not just about selling. There are hundreds of artists and interesting people there. It’s a chance to meet, mingle, get to know other people. It’ll be fun.”

I hand Art to Mum and sit close to her, following the conversation. I learn a bit more about the fair, where it’s held, who’s going, how long they’ll be gone for. Dad’s proud to have been invited and keen to go, but Mum’s worried about Art and me. She doesn’t want to leave us alone. “Can’t we take them along?” she asks.

“It’s not the done thing,” Dad says patiently. “Nobody else brings their kids.”

Mum’s frown deepens. We haven’t been apart since we left the city, not for a single night. But if they go to the fair, they’ll be gone for at least a week.

“They won’t be by themselves,” Dad says. “We’ll leave them with one of the neighbours.”

“I know, but…”

“Kernel doesn’t mind. Do you, Kernel?” He smiles broadly at me, expecting my support. If this was yesterday, I’d have given it instantly. But Mrs Egin’s threat is fresh in my thoughts. I don’t want to be left alone. So I just shrug in answer. “You OK, big guy?” Dad asks, surprised.

“Yeah.”

“If you don’t want us to go, just say. It’s not that important.”

“No. I mean, I don’t mind. Not really. It’s just…” I can’t explain without telling them the truth. So again I shrug.

“What about Art?” Mum says, kissing his head, looking up at Dad.

“Art will be fine too,” Dad says and he sounds a little impatient now.

“I’m not sure, Caspian.”

“Melena…” Dad sighs. “Look, if it’s going to be a big deal, we won’t go. But this is our home now. We’re safe here. I don’t think we’ve anything to fear in this place. Do you?”

“No,” Mum says quietly.

“So…?”

Mum pulls a face. “I just don’t like being apart from my darling babies!” she exclaims. We all laugh at that, and everything’s fine again. Mum bounces Art up and down on her knee. Dad smiles and hugs her. I feel happy and safe. I ask what’s for dinner, and forget about the witch and all the bad thoughts of the day.



→ The morning of their departure. Dad gets the car ready while Mum takes Art and me over to Sally’s house. Sally is one of the villagers who lives alone. A bit older than Mum. Fat. A great singer. She has two children of her own, but they’ve grown up and left.

“We’re going to have a great time,” Sally says as we set our bags down in the room where Art and I are staying.

“I wish there was a phone, so we could call and check that everything is all right,” Mum grumbles. There aren’t many phones in the village and Sally doesn’t own one.

“Relax!” Sally laughs. “These boys can get along fine without you for a few days. Can’t you, Kernel?”

“Sure,” I smile. Mum smiles back, but shakily.

Dad calls us and we head out. He’s standing by the car. The back seat and boot are filled with musical instruments and paintings. Two other couples have already left in a caravan with the majority of the pieces which they hope to sell. Dad hugs Art, then me.

“Look after your brother,” Mum says, kissing my cheek.

“Of course he will,” Dad says. “Kernel’s the best brother in the world. He’ll take care of Art better than you or I could.”

Dad gets in and starts the engine. Mum hugs us one last time, then sits in beside him. And they’re off. Art, Sally and I wave after them. Mum rolls down her window, leans out and waves back, until they turn a corner. Although Sally’s right beside us, I can’t help but think as they roll out of sight — we’re alone now. Just Art and me. In a remote village. With a witch.



→ The day passes smoothly. School, playing with Art during lunch, dinner with Sally and some others. The villagers like to share meals. Here it’s not polite to eat by yourself all the time. We often have guests over to eat with us, or go to a neighbour’s house.

Art doesn’t miss Mum and Dad. He eats, drinks, plays and behaves the same as always. Doesn’t cry when Sally gives him a bath. He does give her a sharp nip on her left forearm at one stage, leaving deep marks, but that’s normal for Art.

“We should stitch his lips together when he’s not eating,” Sally says, rubbing her arm. But she’s only joking. Sally loves kids. Of course, she’d rather not be bitten, but the whole village knows about Art’s biting habits. Sally knew what she was letting herself in for when she offered to have us.

It’s strange not having Mum and Dad around. Things were different when we lived in the city. They often went out at night, leaving me with a babysitter. And they’d go for holidays by themselves occasionally. I didn’t mind. I enjoyed staying with other people — I always got loads of treats.

But for the last year we’ve been together all the time. I’ve got used to them being at home every night. I feel like I did when I lost my favourite teddy bear a few years ago. It was a scruffy grey bear, nothing special, but I’d had it since I was a baby. It had been my constant companion, even when I’d outgrown my other teddies. I took it to bed, on holiday, even to the cinema. I felt like a friend had died when I lost it.

This is almost the same. Not as bad because I know Mum and Dad will come back. But strange. Like something’s wrong with the world.



→ I’m uneasy when it’s time for bed. Sally’s spare bed is soft, but it smells damp, like my socks when they’re wet. Art goes to sleep immediately, delighted to be sharing a bed with me. But I can’t drop off. I’m tired – I woke early, knowing Mum and Dad were leaving – but my eyelids won’t stay closed.

I think about Mrs Egin. I haven’t seen her since that morning when she witched out on me. I’ve taken the long way to school and back every day since. I’ve tried to laugh it off, make like it was no big deal. Told myself I imagined the curses and her stroking the patch of light.

But I know what I saw. I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. And although I’m not as scared as I was that first night, I’m still shaken, afraid to close my eyes in case she’s there when I open them, standing over me, cackling, a knife to my throat.

I turn from my left side to my right, then back again. I try lying flat on my back, then on my stomach. Nothing works.

Annoyed, I stop trying to sleep, hoping I’ll drift off by accident. I look round the small, cosy room, then focus on the patches of light. They look the same as ever, various shapes and shades. I count triangles, quadrangles, pentagons, sextants… No, that’s an instrument. Sextuplet? I’m not sure. I think that’s right, but I’m not… maybe it’s a…



→ I wake suddenly. Hexagon! Of course. Can’t believe I had trouble remembering that. The brain can play funny tricks when you’re tired. I turn, yawning, looking for Art.

He isn’t there.

At first, I think he’s just slipped further down beneath the covers, but when I lift them there’s no sign of him.

I sit up swiftly, sensing danger, recalling Mum’s last words to me — “Look after your brother.” Flash on an image of Mrs Egin sneaking in, stealing Art, putting him in a big black pot and boiling him alive.

My world is never truly dark. The patches of light mean I can see pretty well even on the blackest night. Mum and Dad used to try to convince me that the lights weren’t real, but if they’re imaginary, why do I have such fantastic night vision?

I get out of bed and hurry to the door, so certain Art isn’t in the room that my gaze glides right over him and I almost crash into him. Then my senses click in and I stop. Blink a couple of times to properly clear my eyes.

Art’s in the middle of the room. There’s a large patch of orange light pulsing just over his head. He’s playing with marbles which Sally gave to me earlier. He’s holding two of them up over his eyes. They’re orange-coloured, like the light.

Art sees me and smiles, looking at me through the orange marbles. For a brief second I’m positive that somebody or something is in the room with us. I think I hear a soft growling noise. My head snaps left, then right — nothing. I look back at Art. In the strange orange light, with the marbles covering his eyes, he doesn’t look like my brother. I start to think that it’s not Art, that he’s been replaced by some evil spirit, that the witch has been here. I feel afraid. I back up to the bed.

“Art?” I say, very softly. “Is that you? Are you OK?”

A giggle breaks the spell. Art lowers the marbles. And I see that of course it’s him.

“Idiot!” I laugh weakly at myself. I go pick Art up and take the marbles away. Sally said not to let him have them in case he swallowed one. Art grumbles and tries to grab them back, but I tell him they’re dangerous. He understands that and snuggles into me, nuzzling my shoulder with his teeth, but gently, not like when he bites somebody.

I stand there with Art, feeling cold but happy, smiling at how silly I was. Art falls asleep in my arms. I carry him back to bed, tuck him in, then climb in beside him. Lying on my side, I stare at the orange light, still pulsing. It seems to have grown bigger, but that’s not unusual — the patches often change size.

I don’t like this orange light. There’s something creepy about it. It reminds me of the pink light which Mrs Egin stroked. I turn my back on it and shut my eyes tight, trying to fall asleep again. But I can still sense it there, hanging in the cold night air, lighting up the room with its ominous orange glow. Pulsing.




DING DONG


→ Two days later. The orange light is still pulsing and changing size. Although I can call it closer like the other patches, I can’t send it away more than twenty or twenty-five feet. It’s started to bug me, like an insect which keeps buzzing in front of my face. An uneasiness chews away at me every time I catch sight of it. I know it’s crazy, worrying about a light, but I can’t help myself. I have a bad feeling about this.



→ It’s a lovely sunny day. Our teacher, Logan Rile, decided not to waste the weather, so we’re having lessons outside, in one of the fields around Paskinston. There are thirty-four of us, a variety of classes and ages, sitting in a semi-circle around Logan. He’s telling us about tectonic plates. Logan’s not the best teacher. He sometimes forgets he’s talking to children and gets too technical. Very few of us understand everything he says. But he’s interesting, and the bits that make sense are fascinating. It’s also fun when you do understand him — it makes you feel clever.

Some of the younger children from the crèche have come with us. Their normal minder has gone to the fair and her replacement’s finding it hard to cope with so many little ones. She was delighted when Logan offered to take a few off her hands for the day.

Art’s playing with the orange marbles beside me. I shouldn’t let him have them, but he really likes them. Anyway, he hasn’t put them in his mouth yet. I keep a close eye on him, checking every couple of minutes to make sure both marbles are in sight — not in his stomach.

“So these plates are moving all the time?” Bryan Colbert asks. Bryan’s one of the eldest children, nearly seventeen.

“Yes,” Logan says.

“Then why don’t countries move?”

“They do,” Logan says. “The continents are drifting all the time. It’s very slow, but it’s happening. One day Australia will collide with America or Africa – I can never remember which – and the effects will be catastrophic. New mountains will be thrust upwards. There’ll be tidal waves. Dust will clog the air. Billions of people and animals will die. It might be the end of all life on this planet.”

“All life?” Dave English – a kid a year younger than me – asks.

“Yes.”

“But I didn’t think that could happen. Everybody… everything…can’t just die. Won’t God keep some of us alive?”

“No god can prevent the end of life on this planet,” Logan says in his usual serious way. “Or the end of life in this universe. Everything has an end. That’s the way life is. But maybe there’ll be a new beginning when our world ends. New life, new creatures, new means of existence.”

“That’s scary,” Dave mutters. “I don’t want everything to die.”

“Nor me,” Logan smiles. “But our wants are irrelevant. This is the way things are. We can accept the truth and deal with it, or live in ignorance. Death is nothing to be afraid of. Once you think it through and get it into perspective, it’s not so bad. In fact, many people–”

“Now!” a woman screams, cutting Logan off. All our heads turn at once, as if our necks were connected. I see Mrs Egin lumbering up behind us, fingers twitching, frothing at the mouth. “Now it happens! Up the throat, past the gums, look out world, here it comes!”

The pink light which I saw her stroking a few days ago has grown much bigger and now seems to be touching her just behind her head. It’s pulsing quickly. Other patches of light around it are pulsing too, and moving towards it, as though magnetically drawn to it.

“Mrs Egin?” Logan says, rising, signalling for the rest of us to stay seated. “Are you all right?”

“They said I couldn’t do it! Thought I wasn’t strong enough to summon them!” She laughs her witch’s laugh, then sings, “Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Now! Now! Now!”

“Mrs Egin, I think you should–”

“You will see me die!” she shouts and her eyes scan the group, fixing on me. “Find the thief! Who’s the thief? Find him!”

Fear comes shooting back. I’m not as afraid as when I was alone with her, but I’m pretty petrified. The others are too. We huddle close together, shuffling into a tighter group for protection.

Logan steps forward. “Let me take you home, Mrs Egin. We’ll get you to bed, I’ll call for a doctor, and you’ll be right as rain in–”

Mrs Egin roars a word I don’t know. Her lips are moving fast now, in that strange language she was speaking before. Logan stops short and hesitates. That scares me even more — it’s bad news when your teacher is as frightened as you are.

The pulsing patches of light are moving faster, drawn towards the pink light. They merge with it, then flow into Mrs Egin. Now she’s glowing from within, the lights beneath her flesh, spreading through her body.

I stumble to my feet. “The lights!” I gasp.

Logan looks back at me. “Calm down, Kernel.”

“But the lights! Can’t you see them?”

“What lights?”

“Inside her! She’s swallowing the lights!”

Mrs Egin cackles while Logan stares at me dumbly. I glance around. Everyone’s looking at me oddly. They can’t see the lights. There’s nothing any of them can do to stop this happening.

I focus on Mrs Egin. A bulging, pulsing bubble of light has formed behind and above her, patches melting together, colours mixing, flowing into her. Her eyes are bowls of light. I can’t see her lips — multicoloured froth hides them. Her skin appears to be rippling.

“Mrs Egin,” Logan tries again, facing her. “You have to–”

The witch shrieks triumphantly. A piercing note of wickedness and victory. I cover my ears with my hands. Logan covers his too. My eyes scrunch shut, but I quickly force them open a crack. I see Mrs Egin stagger backwards. She goes stiff, arms wide at her sides, head cocked to the left. A gentle, tender smile crosses her lips.

Then the lights explode through her. And she explodes. Scraps fly everywhere — flesh, bone, guts, blood. Logan and the kids at the front are splattered by the spray. They squeal with disgust and terror. A chunk of bone hits Logan hard in the face and he drops, grunting with pain.

I cover my eyes and drag Art in close, turning him away from the carnage. I’m screaming. Everybody is. But I can still hear Mrs Egin’s scream over the sound of all the others, even though she can’t be making any noise now.

For an uncountable number of seconds the witch’s scream holds, mingling with ours. Then it stops. All the screaming stops in the space of a second or two. Eerie, unnatural silence.

I don’t want to take my arm away, but I must. I have to look. Others are peeping too, although most are still covering their eyes or looking away from where the witch was standing.

Mrs Egin is gone. Nothing of her remains, except a circle of blood and grisly carnage, covering the grass, Logan and many of the children. And at the centre of the circle — a panel of greyness.

The large grey patch of light hangs motionless a foot or two above the ground. It’s three or four feet wide, maybe six or seven high. Jagged round the edges.

I’m not the only one who can see this light. Others are pointing at it, gasping, murmuring, “What the hell is that?” This is a different type of light from the ones I usually see.

Logan rises, rubbing his head. Stares in disbelief at the gory mess, then at the grey wall of light. He’s an educated, experienced man. But he’s seen nothing like this before.

“She exploded!” a boy yells, excited. “Did you see her? It was amazing!”

“Is she dead?” a girl asks, voice trembling.

“What’s that light?”

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Yeah.”

Logan walks round the panel of light. I can only see his feet when he’s behind it. Then he comes back into view. He’s more bewildered than afraid, like most of the kids around me. The light has made more of an impression than Mrs Egin exploding! Perhaps they’re in shock, not ready to deal with the explosion – and her death – yet.

“We have to get away from here.”

I hadn’t meant to speak, but now that the words have popped out, I know I’m right. Everybody gawps at me. “This is bad!” I shout. “That light’s dangerous. We have to run.”

“It’s OK, Kernel,” Logan says. “This is mind-blowing, but we’re in the midst of something wondrous. I’m not sure what’s going on, but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity to experience the miraculous. Mrs Egin… this light… it’s incredible!” He beams with delight.

Some kids get to their feet and drift towards Logan and the panel of grey light. They’re not afraid now that Logan isn’t. They trust him. They think he knows best.

“This is wrong!” I yell. “It’s evil! Can’t you feel it?”

“You shouldn’t be so suspicious, Kernel,” Logan laughs uneasily.

“You’re covered in blood!” I roar angrily, unable to believe that someone so smart can be this stupid. “Mrs Egin’s dead! You’re walking through her guts!”

Logan blinks. Looks down at his blood-soaked shirt and trousers. His red hands. The mess around him. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Oh my–”

Something bursts out of the grey light. It has two long legs, a stumpy, leathery body, four arms which end in thick, hairy fingers. A dark green head, a cross between a human’s and a dog’s. No mouth. Long draping ears. Wide, white, evil eyes.

The thing grabs Logan. It somehow makes a hissing, whistling noise. Logan stares at it in shock. Two of its hands lock on his head. The others clasp his shoulders. The hairs on its fingers extend, growing at an unnatural speed, digging into the flesh of Logan’s face. One hair darts into his right eye, puncturing it. Logan shrieks with pain.

Then the thing’s upper arms jerk apart quickly — ripping Logan’s head off his neck! The monster tosses it to the ground. Stamps down hard with its right foot. And Logan’s severed head pops like a melon dropped from a great height.

The thing looks at the rest of us. Spreads its arms and hisses. And thirty-four kids scream as one and crap their pants.




KIDNAP


→ Chaos. Everyone’s running, crashing into each other, falling, screaming. I’m part of the madness. Clutching Art in my arms. Fleeing blindly. Away from the grey light and the four-armed monster. Trying to stay on my feet. Weeping, partly because Logan has been killed, mostly because I’m terrified.

A girl smashes into me and knocks me to the ground. I manage to fall with Art on top of me, so he isn’t injured. He’s laughing — he thinks this is a game. I start to yell at the girl, but then I see blood gushing from her throat, her arms thrashing. She topples over. Flops about, then goes very still.

I look away before I can focus on her face. I don’t want to know who she is. Right now I want to concentrate on the one thing that matters more than anything else — getting out of here before the monster kills me.

I push myself to my feet, chest heaving. Look for the best way out. It’s hard to tell. I’m surrounded on all sides by panic. I count two, three, four dead children — then stop. I don’t want to know the numbers.

The monster’s on top of a boy — Dave English, who was so afraid of death. The beast’s fingers are buried in Dave’s stomach. It’s gazing around, white eyes darting from one child to another. Like it’s choosing its next victim. Or looking for someone in particular.

I’m getting ready to run again when I spot movement in the panel of grey light. A man steps through. Behind him is a blonde woman. Another woman after her, Indian, wearing a sari. Then a second dark-skinned man.

The Indian woman curses when she sees the corpses. Starts after the monster, her hands coming up, murder in her eyes.

“Sharmila! No!” barks the first man. He’s old. He has a short beard and messy dark hair. A shabby suit.

“We must stop this!” the Indian woman shouts.

“No,” the man repeats, and I can tell by his tone that he’s accustomed to being obeyed.

“Master…” the second man says uncertainly. He has the darkest skin I’ve ever seen, as if his mother was the night.

“I know, Raz,” the first man snaps. “But we mustn’t kill him.”

“The children,” the Indian woman snarls. “I will not stand by and let that demon murder all these children. That would be monstrous.”

“She is right, master,” the black man says.

“Oh, very well,” the man in the shabby suit grumbles. “We’ll save as many of the young as we can. We don’t want to be considered barbarians.” He laughs then signals for the others to spread out. “Work Cadaver back to the window and force him through. We’ll track him down again later.”

This sudden appearance and surreal conversation has astonished me so much, I’m standing still instead of fleeing for safety. The monster – a demon, the woman said – has moved on from Dave English and is lolloping after a girl. She’s racing from it like an Olympic sprinter, but the monster’s legs are longer and it catches up with her in a couple of seconds. Reaches out with its long, hairy fingers… then recoils when the ground at its feet explodes upwards.

The demon makes a high whistling sound, its head snapping round. It spots the four humans who came through the panel (or window, as the man called it). It glares at them, white eyes filled with fury and hate. They’re closing in on it from both sides, leaving a path to the window free. Pale blue light crackles from the black man’s fingertips — I guess he made the ground explode, distracting the monster and saving the girl.

Art bites my right arm, hard. It’s the first time he’s ever bitten me. I get such a shock, I drop him and collapse on my bum. He lands with a heavy thud, rolls over, then crawls towards the demon, gurgling happily. He must think it’s some giant toy. He’s so anxious to play with it, he bit me so I’d release him.

“Art!” I yell. “Come back! It’s…”

The demon spots me. Its white eyes roll down and fix on Art. It gives a loud, high-pitched whistle. And then it’s running towards us, impossibly long steps. I barely have time to register fear — then it’s on us. It stoops, picks Art up with one hand, hisses like a nest of snakes.

“No!” I cry, leaping at the demon, forgetting my fear, caring only about Art. I land on the monster’s left side. From a distance I thought its skin was leathery, but now I realise it’s more like an insect’s brittle shell. My fists crunch into it, knocking crinkly flakes loose. I’m yelling wildly, the way I always do when I get into a fight.

I tug at its hairy arms – they feel like strands of seaweed – desperately reaching for Art. The demon hisses again then knocks me aside. I land hard on my right arm. It twists beneath me and snaps. I roar with pain, but roll over and force myself back to my feet, woozy but determined to rescue Art.

But the demon isn’t there. It’s racing towards the grey window, Art cradled in its arms, head down, legs a whirl of motion.

“Beranabus!” the Indian woman shouts.

“Let him go,” the leader of the quartet says.

“But the child…”

“Not our problem.”

“Art!” I bellow, tears streaming from my eyes. It’s hopeless, but I run after the demon, praying for the strength and speed to draw level with it before it reaches the window.

The demon pauses at the panel of grey light. Looks back at the four adults. It hisses and shakes Art at them, mocking them. The hairs of its hands wrap round Art’s ankles then snake up his legs. He’s giggling, tugging at the monster’s floppy ears, no idea of the danger he’s in. He drops his orange marbles — he’s found something better to play with.

The Indian woman snarls and extends a hand towards the demon. She starts muttering the words of what sounds like a spell. Before she can complete it, the monster jumps at the window, hits the grey light and vanishes. Returns to whatever hellish place it came from — with Art.



→ I sink to my knees, stunned, staring at the window. Around me — screams, sobbing, moans. The stench of blood and death. Calls from the village as terrified adults race towards their stricken children, too late to help, only in time to mop up the blood.

The four people who came through after the monster have gathered by the window. The light is pulsing again. The edges are throbbing inwards, turning white. The leader stands in front of the panel.

“Do you think he’s waiting for us on the other side?” the dark-skinned man asks.

The leader shrugs. “Only one way to find out.” He steps forward and disappears like the demon. The blonde woman follows, then the black man. The Indian woman pauses and looks round the field of misery. Her gaze rests on me. She winces. Starts to say something. Changes her mind and steps into the light.



→ I’m dazed. Shaking from shock and the pain in my right arm. Silently staring at the grey light as it pulses quicker and quicker, the edges closing in. It’s about to collapse, break apart, become fragmented patches of light again.

Fresh screams as parents find the remains of their children. A chorus of wails, growing by the second, becoming a wall of anguished sound. Some kids are still running. They don’t know it’s finished, that the monster’s gone, that the last victim was Art.

I stumble towards the flickering window, wanting to believe there’s hope, that the Indian woman will reappear with Art in her arms. Art can’t be gone for ever. I can’t have lost him. He’s my brother.

I spot the marbles on the ground by the window. I pick them up, study their orange centres, then put them in my left trouser pocket. I’m numb. Hardly aware of the throbbing pain in my broken arm.

I think about Mum and Dad, how they’ll react when they return to find Paskinston in mourning, Art abducted. Mum’s last words to me echo inside my skull — “Look after your brother.” Dad calling me the best brother in the world, saying I’d take better care of Art than they could.

But I didn’t. I let a demon take him.

Staring into the heart of the grey light. I tune out the screams. Focus on the window. A voice whispers to me, a voice I haven’t heard for a year. Tells me what I must do. What it suggests is crazy. I should dismiss it immediately. But I can’t.

The window is closing. Any second now, it’ll be gone. But if I step forward before it closes… chase after the demon… perhaps I can find Art, rescue him, bring him back home.

Madness. Art’s probably dead already, slaughtered by the demon as soon as it escaped. Besides, I don’t know what lies on the other side of the window. Most likely more monsters like the one that took Art. I’ll almost certainly be killed. Even if I’m not, there’ll be no way back once the window breaks up. Mum and Dad will lose both their children. Double the sorrow. I should forget about it. Ignore the voice and its suicidal suggestion.

But I can’t. Because they’ll blame me. They won’t want to, but the accusation will be there, in their eyes. A look that says, “You didn’t take care of him. He was your brother. You didn’t protect him. You let him go. It’s your fault.”

The edges of the window bend inward. The grey light sputters. There’s no more time. I have to decide.

I start to look back, wanting the window to close before I can act, to cheat myself of the chance to go after Art. But as my head turns, my feet move forward. Instinct makes me step through the grey light of the window — into the realm of the murderous demon.




WALKING ON WATER


→ The greyness lasts a few seconds. Like a mist around me, except there’s no damp or cool sensation. Then it parts and I find myself surrounded by trees. A forest of crooked, twisted, pitiful trees.

They’re howling.

At first I think something else is making the horrible noise, like a mix of car brakes squealing and somebody sawing through metal. My brain tells me there are workmen nearby, or a weird animal. But then I see the trees moving, swaying weakly. There are holes in their dark, mottled bark. And the howls are coming from the holes. No question about it.

I try applying logic to the situation, like Mr Spock. The howls must be the wind blowing through the holes. Except there isn’t any wind. And I know – I know – that the trees are making the noise themselves. They’re alive. In pain. Howling with anger, hatred — and hunger.

I look for the window but there’s nothing. Either you can’t see it from this side or it broke up into pieces while I was staring at the trees.

I take a hesitant step forward. There’s a soft splashing sound. I look down. See water everywhere underfoot, covering the ground. I look again at the trees. I can’t see any roots. They’re all below the waterline.

I crouch, trying to see how deep the water is. But it’s murky and muddy, and the trees block out most of the light. I stick a finger in. It slides down to the first knuckle, the second, the beginning of my palm. I push my hand in up to my wrist without touching anything solid. Stare at my hand, then my feet. I could be standing on a platform. Except I know – the same way I knew about the trees – that I’m not.

I’m standing on the surface of the water!

I rise quickly, fear setting in again, certain I’m about to drop and drown. But although water splashes when I move my feet, I don’t sink. I explore with my right foot, angling it downwards. It dips into the water. But when I bring it back up, level my foot and plant my sole down, the surface supports me.

I take one step. Two. A third. It’s not the same as walking on land. More like walking across the floor of an inflatable castle. But somehow, impossibly, the water keeps me up.

I smile at the craziness of it, then gasp as pain flares in my right arm. I’d completely forgotten about my broken limb. The sudden surge of pain reminds me that I’m walking wounded. I’ve never broken an arm before. It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, but it’s certainly no picnic.

I carry on walking, trying to keep my arm from jolting. Easier said than done — the watery floor is uneven, hard to balance on. I don’t feel as if I’m going to fall, but I tilt left and right quite often. I have to use my arms to maintain my balance, which sets off the pain again.

I deliberately don’t think about where I am or the impossibility of walking on water. I can’t care about stuff like that. I’m here to find Art. Nothing else matters. I can marvel at the rest of it once we’re both back home, safe with Sally.

Yeah, like that’s gonna happen, an inner voice sniggers.

I ignore it. Try not to let the howls of the trees unsettle me. Stagger on in search of my kidnapped brother.



→ The water has seeped through my shoes and socks, and is climbing up the legs of my trousers. I take no notice. I have bigger things to worry about.

There’s no sign of the four humans, the demon or Art. And no way of tracking them. If we were in a normal forest, perhaps there would be footprints. But apart from ripples as I move across the water, the surface is smooth, unmarked.

I haven’t seen any animals or birds. Only the trees. And there aren’t even leaves on those. I’d think they were dead if not for the howls, which echo relentlessly. The noise is like needles poking away at my eardrums.

What now? the voice inside my head asks.

“Keep walking,” I answer aloud, trying to drown out the howls of the trees. “They have to be here somewhere. I’ll find them.”

Not necessarily. They might have gone through another window. Or maybe they didn’t come out the same place you did.

“I’ll find them,” I insist.

What if you don’t? There’s nothing to eat. Nowhere to aim for — every bit of this forest looks the same. And how will you sleep? The water might not hold you if you lie down. Even if it does, it’ll drench you to the bone.

“I can sleep on the branches of a tree.”

Maybe they eat humans, the voice suggests.

“Don’t be stupid,” I mutter unconvincingly. “And there are probably fish in the water. I can catch one to eat.”

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 muffle 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 semi-clearing. 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 on my own world any more. 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 colours, 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 in front 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 Beranabus 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 lot 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 Indian 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 further 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 letting yourself in for… 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 which are joining together ahead of him. He looks at where I’m pointing and his frown deepens. I realise 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 defiantly 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,” Beranabus 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 hell-hole. 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. Mum 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 lot 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 round 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.




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