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NIGHTMARES
→“Of course I have nightmares—who doesn’t?”
I brushed Misery off with that line, but it followed me home from school like a stray dog. I live a couple of miles outside Carcery Vale, in a massive old house three floors high, filled with antiques and mystical knick-knacks. It was once the property of a tyrant called Lord Sheftree, a charming chap who enjoyed chopping up babies into little pieces and feeding them to his pet piranha. But these days it belongs to my uncle, Dervish Grady—as rich as Lord Sheftree, much more powerful, but without any of the nasty habits.
Dervish is munching a sandwich in the kitchen when I get home. “Good day at school?” he asks, handing me half of the sandwich.
“So-so,” I reply, taking a bite. Chicken and bacon. Yum!
Dervish looks much the same as when I first met him. Thin, tall, bald on top, grey around the sides. A tight grey beard which he shaved off a year or so ago but has grown back. Piercing blue eyes. Dressed all in denim. The only real difference is his expression. His face is more lined than it used to be, and he has the look of a man still recovering from a haunting. Which he is.
“Bill-E said he might come over this weekend,” I tell him.
Dervish nods and goes on munching. He knows things aren’t the same between Bill-E and me but he’s never said anything. I guess he doesn’t think there’s any point—nothing he says could fix the situation. It’s best for adults to keep out of things like this. It’s widely accepted that we can’t solve their problems, so I’ll never understand why so many of them think they can solve ours.
I tell Dervish about my session with Misery. He’s only mildly interested. “Mauch is a nice guy,” he says, “but not much up top. If he gets too inquisitive, let me know and I’ll have a word.”
“It’ll be a cold day in hell when I can’t handle the likes of Misery Mauch myself,” I snort.
“Oh Grubbs, you’re so manly!” Dervish gushes, fluttering his eyelids.
“Get stuffed!” I grunt.
We laugh and finish our sandwich.
→Of course I have nightmares—who doesn’t?”
I can’t get the damn line out of my head! All the way through homework, while watching TV, then listening to CDs and flicking through a wrestling magazine of Loch’s.
Everyone has nightmares, sure, but I doubt if many have nightmares like mine. Delirious dreams of demons, wholesale slaughter, a universe of webs and comet-sized monsters. All based on first-hand experience.
I get to bed about 11:30, fairly normal for me, but sleep doesn’t come easily. And when it does…
I’m in my bedroom at home—my first home. Blood seeps from the eyes of the football players in the posters on my walls, but that doesn’t bother me. Gret walks in. She’s been split in two down the back. Guts trail behind her. A demon with a dog’s body but a crocodile’s head is chewing on the entrails.
“Dad wants you,” Gret says.
“Am I in trouble?” I ask.
“Not as much as me,” she sighs.
Down the corridor to Mum and Dad’s room. I’ve walked this a thousand times in my nightmares, always feeling the heat and fear. A few tears trickle down my cheeks as my hand rests on the doorknob, the way they always do. I know what I’m going to find inside—my parents, dead, and a wickedly smug Lord Loss. I don’t want to open the door, but of course I do, and everything happens the way it did that night when my world first collapsed.
The scene shifts and I’m in the insane asylum. Arms bound, howling at the walls, seeing imaginary demons everywhere I look. Then one of the walls fades. It turns into a barrier of webs. Dervish picks his way through them. “I know demons are real,” he says. “I can help you.”
“Help me escape?” I sob.
“No.” He holds up a mirror and I see that I’ve turned into a werewolf. “Help you die,” he snarls and swings at my neck with an axe.
I kick the covers off and roll out of bed. I hit the floor hard and scramble a few metres across it, fleeing my axe-wielding uncle. Then my vision clears and I realise I’m awake. Groaning, I push myself to my feet and check my bedside clock. Nearly one in the morning. Looks like I won’t be getting any decent sleep tonight either.
My T-shirt and boxers are soaked through with sweat. I change, pop to the bathroom, splash cold water over my face, then go on a wander of the mansion. I often stroll when I can’t sleep, exploring the warren of corridors and rooms, safe here, knowing no harm can befall me. This house is protected by powerful spells.
Creeping through the old restored part of the mansion, feet cold from the stone floors, too lazy to go back and get my slippers. I find myself in the newer section, an eyesore which was tacked on to the original shell when it was uninhabitable. Dervish keeps talking about demolishing the extension but he hasn’t got round to it yet.
I return to the ornate, overblown majesty of the older building and wind up in the hall of portraits, as I usually do on sleepless nights like this. Dozens of paintings and photographs, all of dead family members. Many are of young people, cut down long before their natural time—like my sister, Gret.
I study Gret’s photo for ages, a lump in my throat, wishing for the millionth time that I could tell her how sorry I am that I wasn’t there for her in her hour of need—her hour of lycanthropy.
It’s the family curse. Lots of us turn into werewolves. It’s been in the bloodline for more generations than anyone can remember. It strikes in adolescence. Loads of us hit twelve, thirteen… maybe even seventeen or eighteen… and change. Our bodies alter. We lose our minds. Become savage beasts who live to kill.
We’re not werewolves like in the movies, who change when the moon is round then resume our normal forms. When the change hits, it’s forever. The victim has a few months before the final fall, when he or she goes a bit nutso each full moon. But then the night of total change sweeps in and there’s no way back after that. Except one. The way of Lord Loss and demons.
→Dervish’s study. Playing chess against myself on the computer. The study’s an enormous room, even by the mansion’s grand standards. Unlike the other rooms in the old quarters it’s carpeted, the walls covered with leather panels. There are two huge desks, several bookcases, a PC, laptop, typewriter. Swords, axes and other weapons hang from the walls. Dervish removed them when he was prone to sleep-walking and attacking me in his sleep, but he’s safe as a baby now so the weapons are back. But he never replaced the five chess boards he once kept here, which is why I’m playing on the computer.
Gret was infected with the family curse. In an attempt to save her, Mum and Dad locked horns with a demon master called Lord Loss. Yeah, this isn’t just a world of werewolves—demons also prowl the shadowy corridors of the night. The Demonata, to give them their full title.
Lord Loss is a horrible creature with lumpy, pale red flesh and a snake-filled hole where his heart should be. He’s always bleeding from thousands of small cuts and cracks in his skin, and floats around instead of walking. He thrives on pain. Haunts sad, tortured humans, feeding on their misery. Nothing appeals to him more than a person in severe agony—except maybe a cracking game of chess.
My hand moves slowly on the mouse, directing black and white pieces on the screen. A powerful family magician discovered Lord Loss’s passion for chess many decades ago. He established a contest wherein two relatives of an affected child could challenge the demon master to a chess match. If Lord Loss was defeated, he’d restore the child’s natural form and lift the curse forever. But if he won…
My parents lost. Under Lord Loss’s rules, both were killed, along with Gret. I would have died too, but I was able to call upon hidden magical powers and escape.
Months later, under Dervish’s care, I learnt the truth about what happened, and that Bill-E was my secret half-brother. I also found out that Bill-E had fallen prey to the lycanthropic curse.
Dervish and I faced Lord Loss. It was the bravest, most terrifying thing I’ve ever done or hope to do. I managed to out-fox Lord Loss and turn his love of misery against him. He didn’t take it lightly. Swore revenge on all three of us.
He almost exacted that revenge months later on the set of a movie called Slawter. A horror maestro was making a film about demons. Dervish, Bill-E and I were lured into a trap. Lord Loss set an army of demons loose on the cast and crew. Hundreds of people died horribly, but we managed to escape.
Bill-E was badly shaken by his run-in with demons. With Dervish’s help he recovered and is back to his old self, pretty much. But there’s a nervousness in his look these days—he’s always watching the shadows for flickers of demons.
And me? Apart from the nightmares and sleepless nights, have I got over it? Am I living the good life, getting on with things, making my way in the world? Well, yes, I’m trying. But there are a couple of flies in the ointment of my life, threatening to mess everything up.
First, it’ll be a few more years before I know for sure whether or not I carry the lycanthropic gene. There’s a strong possibility I could turn into a werewolf.
If I do start to turn, I’m damned. Lord Loss won’t intervene. He hates us with an inhuman passion. Nothing in either universe would tempt him to offer me the chance of salvation. Dervish hasn’t said as much but we both know the score—if I fall under the spell of the moon and my body changes, an axe to the neck will be the only cure.
As for the second fly… Well, in a way that’s even worse than the first.
Back in my bathroom, I splash more water over my face. Letting myself drip-dry, I study the water flowing down the drain. It spirals out of the sink in an anticlockwise direction, under the control of gravity. I focus and stare hard at the water. An inner force grows at my prompting. The stream of water splutters, then starts to spiral downwards smoothly again—but in a clockwise direction.
I watch for a few seconds, then shake my head and break the spell. The flow of water returns to normal. I head back to bed, dejected and scared, to spend the rest of the night awake and miserable beneath the covers.
Magicians are rare. Only one or two are born every century, humans with the magical potential of demons, who can change the world with the flick of a wrist.
There are others called mages. They can perform magic when there’s demonic energy in the air, but under everyday conditions they can only manage minor spells. Most mages are part of a group known as the Disciples—they fight demons and try to stop them crossing to our world.
As far as anyone knows, I’m neither a magician nor a mage. I have more magical ability than most people, and tapped into it when I faced Lord Loss and his familiars. But I’m not a true part of the world of magic.
That suits me fine. I don’t want to become a demon-battling Disciple. I want to lead an ordinary life. The thought of brushing shoulders with Lord Loss or his kind again terrifies me. And as somebody who isn’t naturally magical, there’s no reason why I should get involved in any more demonic battles. I can sit on the sidelines with the rest of humanity, ignorant of the wars being fought between the forces of good and evil, free of the curse of magic and the responsibilities it brings.
At least that’s what Dervish believes. That’s how I’d like it to be.
But something changed in Slawter. I discovered a power within myself, and although I masked it from Dervish, it hasn’t gone away. The magic is working its way out, keen to break free. It allows me to reverse the flow of water, lift great weights, move objects without touching them. I’ve awoken several times to find myself levitating above my bed.
I’ve fought the magic with desperate determination. And for the most part I’ve been successful. I hope that by focusing and fighting it every step of the way, I can work it out of my system and return to normal.
I’d like to talk with Dervish about it and seek his advice. But I’m afraid. Magic is his life. He’s a Disciple first and foremost, dedicated to the task of keeping the world safe from demons. Dervish loves me, but I have no doubt that if he knew about my power he’d press me into learning more spells. He’d say the world needed me. He’d nag, lecture and plead. I’d resist, but my uncle can be extremely persuasive when he puts his mind to it. I’m certain he’d nudge me back into the world of magic… back into the world of demons.
So here I am. I want to be an average teenager whose only worries are puberty, acne, scoring with girls, impressing my friends and getting through school in one piece. But I’m forced to spend the better part of every day brooding about turning into a werewolf or becoming a whizz-kid wizard who has to fight evil, heartless demons.
“Of course I have nightmares…”
PREPARATIONS
→Dervish has to go away for a couple of days. “Meera’s heading off for pastures distant, might not be back this way for several months, wants to say goodbye in style.”
“‘In style’?” I smirk. Meera Flame is one of Dervish’s closest friends. Definitely his sexiest. She’s hotter than a hot dog that’s been cooked extra HOT! “Are you and Meera finally going to get it on?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dervish snorts. “We’re just friends. You know that.”
“That’s what you always tell me…” I tease.
“Well,” Dervish huffs, “it’s true. I’ve never made a pass at her and I don’t intend to start now.”
“Why not?” I ask, genuinely interested.
Dervish pulls a saintly expression. “Grubbs,” he says softly. “Remember when I told you that your dad was Bill-E’s dad too?”
“Yes…” Warily.
“What I didn’t tell you was that your mother… well, the woman you thought of as your mum only met your dad after you were born. Meera…” He stops.
I gawp at him, head pounding, limbs trembling. My world starts to explode.
Then I catch his grin.
“You son of a jackal!” I roar, swatting him around his balding head. “That wasn’t funny.”
“Oh, it so was,” he laughs, wiping away tears.
Most of the time I get a kick out of Dervish’s warped sense of humour. But there are other times when it really gets up my nose.
“Keep it up,” I growl. “Maybe I’ll tell Misery Mauch about you. I doubt if he’d see the funny side of a sick joke like that. Wouldn’t surprise me if he took me out of your custody and put me some place where the people are halfway normal.”
“If only,” Dervish sighs, then squints at me. “I don’t want to lay it on heavy, but I’ve something to say and I want you to pay attention.”
“What now?” I ask with a sulky sneer. “Ma and Pa Spleen are my grandparents? Misery Mauch is your long-lost brother?”
“This house has been wrecked once already,” Dervish says. “I don’t want it destroyed again. Keep your freakish little friends under as much control as you can. A certain amount of wear-and-tear is unavoidable, I accept that, but they’ll only run wild if you let them. Lay down the law and they won’t cause too much damage. And for heaven’s sake, don’t let any of them into my study. Remember that it’s guarded by spells, so if anyone wanders in there uninvited…”
“What are you babbling about?” I snap. I hate when he starts on a spiel without making it clear what the subject is.
Dervish frowns. “A bit slow today, aren’t you?”
“What?” I roar impatiently.
“I’m going away.” He raps my head with his knuckles. “You’ll have the house to yourself.” He raps it again. “It’s the weekend.”
He goes to rap my head a third time. I catch his hand in mid-air, my face lighting up with a smile as I finally get it. At the exact same moment we exclaim, me excitedly, Dervish sarcastically—
“Paaarteeeeeee!”
→Strip poker,” Frank says earnestly. “It’s a must.”
“Hey!” Loch barks. “My sister will be there.”
“So we’ll wait till she sneaks off with Grubbs, then… ba-bumba!”
Everybody laughs, even Loch.
“Have you told the girls yet?” Charlie asks.
“No. I wanted to discuss it with you lot first, get some ideas, like how many people to invite, should I have a theme, if –”
“Theme?” Loch snorts. “This isn’t a fancy dress party, fool!”
“I wouldn’t invite too many,” Leon says, a worried look on his face. “I made that mistake once. Had just about the whole school back to my place while my parents were away skiing. I did what I could to clean up the next day but it was impossible.”
“Yeah,” Frank nods. “This is your first party. You don’t want to blow it by taking on more than you can handle.”
“Especially since there’s so much opportunity for the future,” Loch agrees. “That mansion could be highly valuable over the next few years. Loads of rooms – loads of bedrooms – and an uncle who knows the score… It’s a goldmine. But we’ve got to tread carefully. If we trash the house now, Dervish might never leave you alone again.”
The discussion continues. Everyone – Loch, Frank, Charlie, Leon and Robbie – chips in with their own ideas. Music, food, drink, the guest list… each is debated at great length. But the guest list is the one we keep coming back to, the topic that creates the most divisions.
“Two girls to each guy,” Frank insists. “If not three.”
“Nah,” Robbie grunts. “Equal numbers or else they’ll gang up on us.”
“What do you care?” Leon challenges him. “You only have eyes for Mary.”
Robbie winks. “A lot can happen at a party.”
Out of the blue, Charlie shouts, “Jelly beans. You’ve got to have jelly beans. Plates of them everywhere.”
“You’re a bloody jelly bean!” Loch roars as we fall apart in tears of laughter.
“What are you hyenas splitting your sides about now?” Reni asks, appearing on the scene without warning, Shannon by her side.
“We’re –” Charlie starts.
Loch elbows him and nods sharply at me—my party, my news.
“Dervish is away this weekend,” I tell Reni, wishing my heart wouldn’t throb so loudly—I’m sure she can hear it. “I’m having a party.”
“Great,” Reni smiles. “I hope we’re invited?”
“Of course,” I say miles too quickly. Then, aiming for cool, “But don’t tell anyone. I want to keep it exclusive—just a select handful of my more discerning acquaintances.”
“Nice,” Reni says and strides away, sharing a giggle with Shannon.
“‘More discerning acquaintances’,” Leon mimics as the others poke me in the ribs and make cat-calls. “You’re full of it sometimes, Grady.”
→Word spreads quickly about the party. I’ve never been so popular, surrounded at the start and end of classes, pumped for details, besieged with requests for an invite. I think the location of the party is as much a draw as anything else. Everyone in the Vale knows about the spooky old mansion where I live but most have never been inside.
At lunch I’m faced with a steady stream of party-hungry teens, all in search of a golden ticket. I feel like a king, hearing petitions, flanked by my royal advisors (Loch and co). I play it icy at Loch’s advice, saying numbers are limited, I can only invite a select few. I don’t say an absolute no to anyone and promise to take all requests into consideration.
So I’m a poser. So sue me.
→Just before the bell rings for class, my last petitioner approaches. Bill-E. He’s smiling awkwardly, even more so than usual. “Hi Grubbs.”
“Hi.”
“How’s tricks, Spleenio?” Loch says, putting out his hand. I groan as Bill-E falls for the trick again, makes to shake and is humiliated when Loch whips his hand away. “Sucker!”
I don’t wait for Bill-E or Loch to say anything else. “Have you heard about the party?” I ask quickly.
“Yeah,” Bill-E says. “I know I was supposed to come over this weekend, but –”
“You’re not going to back out, are you?” I cut him short. “C’mon, Bill-E, this is my first party. I need you there for moral support.”
A rosy glow of happiness spreads outwards from the centre of the chubby boy’s cheeks. “You want me to come?” he asks quietly, half-suspecting a cruel joke.
“Of course,” I say firmly. “In fact, if you don’t, the party’s off.”
“Now hold on a minute…” Loch begins, startled.
“I mean it,” I silence him, eyes on Bill-E, trying to put right at least some of the wrong things between us.
“Well… I mean… I guess… OK,” Bill-E grins. “Sure. Why not?”
“Great.” I raise a warning finger. “But don’t tell Ma and Pa Spleen it’s a party or they’ll never let you come.”
“No sheet, Sherlock!” Bill-E laughs and heads off, much happier than I’ve seen him in a long while.
→Dervish is getting ready to leave. In his leathers, pulling the straps out of his helmet. His motorcycle’s outside the front door, primed to go. “Is the party tonight or tomorrow?” he asks.
“Tomorrow. Too awkward for people to come tonight. Plus it gives me time to go shopping in the Vale in the morning.”
“You know I’ll be back early Sunday afternoon,” he reminds me.
“I know.”
“If I walk in and find pools of puke and mountains of rubbish…”
“You won’t,” I assure him. “There aren’t many coming, and a few are sleeping over to help clean up in the morning. The only thing is, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to do all the laundry before you return.”
“That’s fine,” Dervish says, then raises an eyebrow. “Those staying over are all boys, I presume?”
“Of course.”
“They’d better be. Because if I find out otherwise…”
“You won’t.”
“Good.”
The pair of massive front doors are already open. Dervish walks out, breathing in fresh spring air. “It’s supposed to be cold over the weekend,” he says. “Don’t leave the windows open or the house will be freezing.”
“I have everything in hand,” I tell him.
“I doubt it.” He climbs on to his bike.
“Say hi to Meera from me.”
“Sure.”
“Give her a kiss from me too.”
“Funny guy.” Then without a goodbye he’s off, tearing down the driveway, already approaching the speed limit—and he’s only warming up. If everyone drove like my maniac of an uncle, the roads would be awash with blood.
→This isn’t the first time Dervish has left me alone in the house, but it’s the first time he’s left me in total control. Before, the understanding was always that I was simply holding the fort. No parties. This time he’s as good as said the house is mine for the next forty-odd hours, to do with as I wish.
It feels strange. I find myself thinking of everything that could go wrong—broken windows, smashed vases, someone stumbling into Dervish’s study and turning into a frog. I half wish I could cancel. I’ve been to a couple of wild parties with Loch over the last few months and never worried about what we were doing, the mess we were making, what would happen to the kids who lived there when their parents returned. Now the shoe’s on my foot, I realise what a risky undertaking it is. Maybe I should pull a sickie and call the whole thing off.
The phone rings. Loch. It’s as if he’s sensed my wavering mood and is intervening to sway me back into party mode. “Has Dervish gone?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Good. I didn’t want to discuss it at school – too many ears – but what about booze? Yay or nay?”
“That might be a bit much,” I mutter. “Things will probably be wild enough if everyone’s sober.”
“Yeah, it’ll be wilder if everyone’s drunk,” Loch laughs, “but a lot more fun! I was thinking about all those bottles of wine in the cellar…”
“No way,” I snap. “Most are expensive. Very expensive. Nobody goes near the wine. That’s a golden rule. If anyone breaks it, I’ll kick you all out.”
“Spoilsport,” Loch grumbles. “Well, what about beer? I could ask one of my older cousins to get us a crate or two.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“You’re not wimping out, are you?” he asks suspiciously.
“Well…” I start.
“Good,” Loch says quickly. “Let’s forget about the booze then. If anybody brings some, great. If not, we’ll just muddle by sober. Fair enough?”
“Yeah,” I say unhappily. “I guess.”
“Great. See you in the morning. Oh, and I’ll be bringing Reni, to help carry the bags. Is that OK?”
“Sure,” I say, spirits lifting, instantly forgetting about my reservations. “That’ll be… fine. Yeah. Whatever.”
A short laugh, then Loch hangs up, leaving me to get on with the planning of the party.
→Loch, Reni and I make three runs to the village. Frank and Leon join us on the last run, when we realise we need more hands. It’s brilliant spending so much time with Reni, walking beside her in and out of Carcery Vale, discussing the party, bands, politics… whatever she feels like talking about.
Loch offers to chip in with some money for the drinks and food, but I tell him it’s OK. Dervish is rich – there’s a family fortune knocking about which will one day be mine and Bill-E’s – and he never begrudges me anything. He left a wad of cash for me in his study and told me to make good use of it.
Reni does a lot of the organising. I spent a couple of hours last night drawing up a list of everything we might need and was more than a little pleased with myself. She took one look at the list this morning, laughed and tore it up. “Is Jesus coming?” she asked.
“Uh… no,” I replied, astonished.
“Then forget about the loaves and fishes miracle. What you had on that list wouldn’t have got us through to nine o’clock. Now, fetch me a fresh pad and pen—this needs a woman’s considered touch.”
Much as I hate to admit it, she was right. Carrying the supplies back from Carcery Vale, it feels like we’ve bought far too much—we could feed the starving millions with this lot. But by the time we’ve divided it out into plates and bowls, and distributed them around the three main party rooms – two big living rooms and the kitchen – there doesn’t look to be a whole load.
“Maybe we need to make another run,” Frank muses, opening a bag of crisps.
“Maybe you need to stop snacking before anyone arrives,” Reni retorts, grabbing the bag from him. “No,” she says, casting a professional eye around. “This will do. Any more would be a waste.” She checks her watch. “I’m going home to get ready. And you boys…” She wrinkles her nose and pulls a face. “Ever heard of showers?”
She leaves. I look around at Loch, Frank and Leon. They stare back. Then we all raise an arm and sniff.
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