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 and 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. 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, Mom and Dad locked horns with a demon master named Lord Loss. Yeah, this isn’t just a world of were-wolves — 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 he 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 learned 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 outfox 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 extracted 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 encounter 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 gotten 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 a counterclockwise direction, under the control of gravity. I focus and stare hard at the water. An inner force grows at my will. The stream of water sputters, 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 from crossing over 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 just 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 hid it from Dervish, it hasn’t gone away. These past few months, I’ve found myself doing things I shouldn’t be able to. The magic is working its way out, eager 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 whiz kid wizard who has to fight evil, heartless demons.
“Of course I have nightmares. . . .”
D
ERVISH has to go away for a couple of days. “Meera’s heading off for distant pastures, might not be back in our neck of the woods 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 mom only met your dad after you were born. Meera . . .” He stops.
I gape at him, head pounding, limbs trembling. My world starts to explode.
Then I catch his grin.
“You son of a jackal!” I roar, smacking 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 humor. But there are other times when it really gets to me.
“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 someplace 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 got 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 midair, 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-da-boom!
”
Everybody laughs, even Loch.
“Have you told the girls yet?” Charlie asks.
“No. I wanted to discuss it with you all first, get some ideas, like how many people to invite, if I should 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 at 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
bed-
rooms — and an uncle who knows the score. . . .It’s a gold mine. But we’ve got to be careful. 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 catcalls. “You’re full of it sometimes, Grady.”
Word spreads quickly about the party. I’ve never been so popular, surrounded before and after classes, pumped for details, besieged with requests for an invite. I think the location of the party is as much of a draw as anything else. Everyone in the Vale knows about the spooky old mansion where I live, but most people 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 advisers (Loch and Co.). I play it cool 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 poseur. So sue me.