Blood Beast
Copyright © 2007 by Darren Shan
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10169
Visit our Web site at
www.lb-teens.com
First eBook Edition: November 2008
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN: 978-0-316-04070-9
Contents
Also in
THE DEMONATA
series:
Lord Loss
(Book 1)
Demon Thief
(Book 2)
Slawter
(Book 3)
Bec
(Book 4)
For: Mary Barry (my gruesome Granny), who overcame a much fiercer beast than any Grubbs Grady ever faced! Glad to still have you with us, old ’un!!!
OBEs (Order of the Bloody Entrails) to: Catherine “the cutthroat” Holmes Katie McGowan — there’s a new killer kid on the block!
Mage superior: Stella “the gouger” Paskins
Magical support: Christopher Little’s circular crew
LOCH
M
Y hands are red with blood. I’m running through a forest. Naked, but I don’t care. I’m an animal, not a human. Animals don’t need clothes.
Blood on my tongue too. Must have fed recently. Can’t remember if it was a wild creature or a person. Not bothered much either way. Still hungry — that’s all that matters. Need to find something new to chew. And soon.
I leap over a fallen log. As I land, my bare feet hit twigs. They snap and I sink into a pool of mud. I collapse, howling. The twigs bite into me. I catch a glimpse of fiery red eyes, peering up out of the mud. They aren’t twigs — they’re teeth! I lash out with my feet, screaming wordlessly. . .
. . . and mud and pieces of bark fly everywhere. I stare at the mess suspiciously, my heart rate returning to normal. I was wrong. I haven’t fallen victim to a monstrous baby with mouths in the palms of its hands and balls of fire where its eyes should be. It’s just a muddy hole, covered with the remains of branches and leaves.
Scowling, I rise and wipe my feet clean on clumps of nearby grass. As I’m using my nails to pick off some splinters, a voice calls,
“Grubbs. . . ”
The name doesn’t register immediately. Then I remember — that’s
my
name. Or it used to be, once upon a time. I glance up warily, sniffing the air, but all I can smell is blood.
“
Grubitsch. . .
” the voice murmurs, and I growl angrily. I hate my real name. Grubbs isn’t great, but it’s better than Grubitsch. Nobody ever called me that except Mom and my sister, Gret.
“You can’t find me,”
the voice teases.
I roar into the darkness of the forest, then lurch at the bushes where I think the voice is coming from. I tear through them, but there’s nothing on the other side.
“Wrong,”
the voice laughs, coming from somewhere behind me.
I whirl and squint, but I can’t see anyone.
“Over here,”
the voice whispers. This time it’s coming from my right.
Still squinting, I edge closer towards the source of the voice. This feels wrong, like it’s a trap. But I can’t back away from it. I’m drawn on by curiosity, but also something else. It’s a girl’s voice, and I think I know whose it is.
Movement to my left, just as I’m about to round a tree. Eight long, pale arms wave in the light of the moon. Dozens of tiny snakes hiss and slither. I cry out with fear and slam into the tree, shielding my eyes from the horror. Seconds pass but nothing attacks. Lowering my arms, I realize the arms were just branches of a couple of neighboring trees. The snakes were vines, blowing in the wind.
I feel sick but I force a weak chuckle, then slide around the tree, in search of the person who called to me.
I’m at the edge of a pond. I frown at it. I know this forest, and there should be no pond here. But there it lies regardless, the full moon reflected in its still surface. I’m thirsty. The blood has dried on my tongue, leaving a nasty copper-like taste. I crouch to drink from the pond, going down on all fours and lowering my head to the water like a wolf.
I see my face in the mirrorlike water before I drink. Blood everywhere, caked into my flesh and hair. My eyes widen and fill with fear. Not because of the blood, but because I can see the shadow of somebody behind me.
I start to turn but it’s too late. The girl pushes my head down hard and I go under. Water fills my mouth and I gag. I try to fight but the girl is strong. She holds me down and my lungs fill. The coppery taste is still there and I realize, as I blink with horrified fascination, that the pond is actually a pool of blood.
As my body goes limp, the girl pulls me up by my hair and laughs shrilly as I draw a hasty, terrified breath.
“You always were a useless coward, Grubitsch,”
she sneers.
“Gret?” I moan, staring up at the mocking smile of my sister. “I thought you were dead.”
“No,”
she croaks, eyes narrowing and snout lengthening.
“You are.”
I weep as her face transforms into that of a mutant wolf. I want to run or hit her but I can only sit and stare. Then, as the transformation ends, she opens her mouth wide and howls. Her head shoots forward. Her fangs fasten around my throat. She bites.
I wake choking. I want to scream, but in my imagination Gret’s teeth are locked around my throat. I lash out at my dead sister, still half in the dreamworld. When my arm fails to connect, I rub at my eyes, and my bedroom swims back into sight around me.
Groaning softly, I sit up and dangle my legs over the edge of the bed. Covering my face with my hands, I recall the worst parts of the dream, then shiver and get up to go to the bathroom. No point trying to sleep again tonight. I know from past experience that the nightmares will be even worse if I do.
I pause in the doorway of the bathroom, suddenly certain that demons are lurking in the shadows. If I turn on the light, they’ll attack. I know it’s ridiculous, a ripple from the nightmare, but despite that, my finger trembles in the air by the switch, refusing to press.
“The hell with it,” I finally sigh, stepping forward. Letting my fear have its way, on this night, as on so many others, I go about my business in the dark.
O
F course I have nightmares — who doesn’t?”
“Every night?”
“No.”
“Most nights?”
A pause. “No.”
“But a lot?”
I shrug and look away. I’m in Mr. Mauch’s office. Misery Mauch, the school guidance counselor. He holds court a few times a week. Chats with students who are struggling with homework, peer pressure, pushy parents. Normal kids with normal problems.
And then there’s me.
Misery
loves
sitting down for a warts ’n’ all session with
me.
Why wouldn’t he? Everyone here knows the Grubbs Grady story — parents and sister slaughtered in front of him. . . long months locked up in a nuthouse (“incarcerated in a facility for the temporarily disturbed,” Misery puts it). . . came to Carcery Vale to live in a spooky old house with his uncle Dervish. . . that uncle lost his marbles soon after. . . Grubbs played nurse for a year until he recovered. . . went to a movie set with Dervish and his friend Bill-E Spleen months later. . . witnessed the tragic deaths of hundreds of people when a disastrous fire burned the set to the ground.
With a history like that, I’m a dinosaur-sized bone for every psychiatric dog within a hundred-mile radius!
“Would you like to tell me about your dreams, Grubitsch?” Misery asks.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
I feel like laughing but don’t. Misery’s harmless. It can’t be much fun, trekking around his small collection of schools, dealing with the same boring teenage problems day after day, year after year. If I were in his shoes, I’d be itching to get my hands on a juicily messed-up student like me too.
“Grubitsch?” Misery prods after a few seconds of silence.
“Hmm?”
“Telling me about your dreams might help. A problem shared is a problem halved.”
I almost respond with, “What’s a cliché shared?” but again I hold my tongue. I’d ruin Misery’s day if I cut him down like that. Might reduce him to tears.
“They’re not much of a problem, sir,” I say instead, trying to wind the session down. I’m missing physics and I actually like that class.
“Please, Grubitsch, call me William.”
“Sorry, sir — I mean, William.”
Misery smiles big, as if he’s made a breakthrough. “The nightmares must be a problem if they’re not going away,” he presses gently. “If you told me, perhaps we could find a way to stop them.”
“I don’t think so,” I respond, a bit sharper than I meant. He’s talking about stuff that is way over his head. I don’t mind a school counselor showing interest in me, but I dislike the way he’s acting like a second-rate mind-sleuth, clumsily trying to draw out my secrets.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Grubitsch,” Misery says quickly, realizing he’s stepped over the line.
“To be honest,
sir,
” I say stiffly, “I don’t think you’re qualified to discuss matters like this.”
“No, no, of course not,” Misery agrees, his features sorrowing up. “I don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not. I apologize if I gave that impression. I only thought, if you were in the mood to talk, it might help. It might be a beginning. Of course it’s not my. . . I’m under no illusion. . . like you said, I’m not qualified to . . .” He mutters to a halt.
“Don’t have a breakdown,” I laugh, feeling guilty. “It’s no biggie. I just don’t want to talk about my dreams to anyone. Not right now.”
Misery gulps, nods sharply, then says I can go. Tells me he’ll be back next week but won’t ask to see me. He’ll give me some space. Maybe, in a month or two, he’ll call me in again, to “shoot the breeze.”
I hesitate at the door, not wanting to leave him on such a down note — his head’s bowed over his notes and he looks like he’s fighting back tears.
“Mr. Mau — William.” He looks up curiously. “Next time, if you want, you can call me Grubbs.”
“Grubbs?”
he repeats uncertainly.
“It’s what my friends call me.”
“Oh,” he says, and his face lights up like he’s won the lottery.
I slip out, masking a smile. Guidance counselors — child’s play!
Lunch. Loch wants to know what I was talking with Misery about.
“The size of your brain,” I tell him. “We wondered how small it was.”
“Don’t worry about the size of
my
brain,” Loch snorts. “My brain’s fine. A lot healthier than your pea of a think tank.”
“How big
is
a brain?” Charlie asks. Everyone stares at him. “I mean, does it fill up the whole head?” He starts poking his skull, searching for soft spots.
“In your case, I doubt it,” Loch says. “You’ve probably got enough empty space in there to hold a soccer ball.”
Laughter all around. Even Charlie laughs. He’s used to being the butt of our jokes. He doesn’t mind. They’re always lighthearted. Everyone likes Charlie Rall. He’s too nice to be mean to.
Six of us, finding cover from the rain in a doorway over-looking the soccer field. The usual pack of barbarians are kicking the life out of a tired old ball — and each other — on the field, oblivious to the rain. My group — me, Loch, Charlie, Frank, Leon, and Mary. Loch and I stand a head or more above any of the others. We’re the biggest pair of hulks in our school, which is what drew us to each other in the first place. Loch’s a wrestler.
He wanted me to be his partner, so he became my friend. I held out for a long time — real wrestling’s nothing like the stuff on TV, very calculated and unspectacular — but he eventually persuaded me to try it. I’m not very good and don’t get a real kick out of it, but to keep Loch happy I travel to a few meets every month and get down ’n’ sweaty on the mats.
“I think Misery’s sexy in an older man kind of way,” Mary says to a chorus of astonished jeers and catcalls.
“You’ve got the hots for
Mauch?
” Leon gasps, faking a heart attack.
“No,” Mary says coolly. “I just think he’s sexy. I bet women are all over him outside school hours.”
The laughter dies away and the five testosteronetastic guys in the group look at one another uncertainly. It’s not something we’d admit to, but girls our age know a hell of a lot more about the adult world than we do. Adults operate differently. It’s easy to tell the winners and losers in school, the cools and geeks. But the world beyond is puzzling. Professional athletes are obviously cool, and so are actors, rock stars, and so on. But what about normal guys? What makes an ordinary man attractive to a woman? I don’t know. But if Misery Mauch has
it,
we could all be in trouble later on. By their frowns, I know the others are thinking exactly the same thing.