The Demonata #10: Hell's Heroes (6 page)

She walks out of the room and I automatically trail her, thinking to myself, What the hell? Lord Loss stays where he is, fondling the Board, staring after Bec with an unreadable expression.

I stay with Bec as she weaves through rooms and corridors of webs, eventually ending up back in the bedroom where she started. She looks exhausted. I think more time passed for them inside the Board than it did for me as an onlooker. But what did they do in there? What did they talk about? It sounded like Bec made some sort of an offer to Lord Loss. But
what
?

She undresses and wipes the makeup from her face. Steps into her nightgown, then returns to the seat by the table and stares into the mirror. She looks doubtful, like she’s gambled everything and doesn’t know which way the dice will roll. For a moment I believe she’s tried to persuade Lord Loss to throw in his lot with us. Perhaps she’s been playing him all along, waiting until the time was right to sign him up for our side. I have crazy thoughts of the demon master doing a Darth Vader and joining our side to stop the evil Emperor of Death.

But this isn’t
Star Wars,
and almost as soon as the childish hope forms, reality knocks a thousand holes in it.

“I reached my conclusion sooner than I anticipated.”

Bec turns. Lord Loss has entered the bedroom. He’s smiling. She stands and walks over to him, trembling. “You’ve decided?”

“Yes.” He leans down and kisses her. For a second I think he means to draw the life from her lips, but this is a kiss of passion, not destruction.

“I admire your daring and cunning,” he murmurs. “We will proceed as you suggested. If you can find the lodestones, I’ll help open the tunnels.”

Bec throws her arms around Lord Loss and hugs him. As she does, I’m torn from my dream. Snapping awake, I hurl myself from my makeshift bed in the hospital, smash a fist into the wall, then howl at the ceiling like a madman.

I
cancel my plans to travel to the city where the next crossing is due. Instead I send the werewolves, under the guidance of Prae Athim and her Lambs. They’ll have to handle this one without me.

I catch a separate plane, with Kernel, Kirilli, Moe, and Curly. I leave Larry with the other werewolves to keep them in line. I’m twitching with nerves, unable to forget the dream for an instant, wondering about the pact Bec made with Lord Loss, recalling the way she embraced him. The memory chews me up inside. I wish I’d gone after her as soon as she was kidnapped, and killed that damn priestess from the past.

On the plane, I tell Kernel and Kirilli about the dream. It’s essential they know about the threat, in case anything happens to me.

Kernel hits the roof. “Why didn’t you tell us before?” he roars. I claim innocence—until last night, there was no hint that Bec might betray us—but he doesn’t buy that. “You should have told us anyway. You know better than to hide something this important.”

There’s nothing I can say to defend myself, because he’s right.

Moe and Curly hate planes. They cower in their seats, as far from the windows as they can squirm, whining at the noise of the engines and every bump caused by turbulence. All of the werewolves hate flying. They suffer it only because they know there will be rich pickings at the other end.

At least we don’t have to bother with connecting flights. The governments and armies of the world work hand-in-hand with the Disciples now. A jet is put at my disposal as soon as I ask for one. It makes getting around a hell of a lot easier.

Kernel is still griping as we hit the runway, saying he warned me about Bec, that this wouldn’t be happening if I’d listened and that I should return him to the demon universe and set him free. He insists we’re wasting our time trying to thwart the plans of Bec and Lord Loss. Although many of the world’s lodestones—reservoirs of ancient, magical power—were destroyed or drained long ago, an unknown number still exist.

“The locations of most are a mystery to us,” Kernel says, “but Beranabus knew about a few stones that he either wasn’t able to destroy or wanted to keep intact. He never told us where they were, but Bec absorbs the memories of everyone she touches, and she spent a lot of time with Beranabus. She’ll lead Lord Loss to the lodestones, and we can’t stop her. We’re done for.”

Again, I can’t argue. The more potent lodestones can be used to open a tunnel between the demon universe and ours. The Demonata can cross without limits through such tunnels and stay here as long as they remain open, which could be years or even longer—some can stay open until the end of time itself. If Bec and Lord Loss get hold of those stones, this war is finished.

But we have to
try
to stop them. I despise Kernel’s defeatist attitude. And we’re not entirely helpless—if Kernel’s eyes are restored, he can target Bec and we can maybe kill her before they get going. But I don’t say that to him because it would set him off on another rant.

A helicopter is waiting for us when we disembark—again, a perk of the job. I’ve never ridden in a helicopter for fun. I’m always zipping off to one fight or another. I’d like to take a scenic flight one day, but the way things are stacking up against us, I doubt that will ever happen.

Once we’re all strapped in, we take off. Curly and Moe howl happily and stick their heads out of the windows. As much as they hate planes, they love helicopters. Werewolves—go figure!

It’s a short flight, and although Kernel carries on with his tirade, I tune him out, thinking about the past, my history, all that I’ve lost and left behind. I haven’t been back here since the night Bill-E died—the night I killed him. Scores of dark memories bob to the surface, mixed in with happier recollections.

We hit the outskirts of Carcery Vale and skim over the houses, shops, and schools. They look unfamiliar from up high. It’s evening and the streets are quiet, with only a few people strolling or driving around. We might be facing the end of the world, but life carries on as normal for the most part.

The plan was to head straight to the cave, but on an impulse I lean forward, tap the pilot’s shoulder, and point him in a different direction.

“What are you doing?” Kernel asks, feeling the helicopter bank around.

“I want to visit the mansion first.”

“What’s the point? If we’re going to do this, let’s crack on and do it. We don’t have time for trips down memory lane.”

I ignore him and watch intently as we home in on the massive house a few miles outside the town. This is where I lived with Dervish after my parents were slaughtered. It’s the last place I was able to call home. Probably the last place I’ll
ever
be able to call home.

We touch down in the large courtyard, and the pilot kills the engines. Curly and Moe are first out, sniffing the ground, marking their territory, making sure it’s safe for their leader. I slide out next, leaving Kirilli to help Kernel down. The pilot stays with the helicopter.

I stare up at the gigantic house, recalling a variety of memories, a mix of good and bad. The glass in the windows has been shattered by gunfire, but otherwise the building looks much the way it did when I cast my final look back on that sad night.

The spare key isn’t under the pot to the left of the front doors, and I prepare to break in. But when I try the doors, they’re not locked. Entering, I call “Hello?” but nobody answers. There are no noises apart from the creakings of the house.

As the others follow me in, I spot scores of bullet holes in the walls and ornate old staircase that is the spine of the house, and much of the furniture has been torn to pieces. On Dervish and Bec’s last night here, they were attacked by soldiers in the employ of Antoine Horwitzer, a rogue Lamb.

“It smells stale,” Kirilli says, limping along behind me.

“It’s been deserted for ages,” I tell him.

“Not that long,” Kernel mutters.

“Perhaps it’s mourning the death of its owner,” Kirilli says. “Houses have feelings too. They don’t live and feel like we do, but they absorb part of the spirit of those who inhabit them.”

“Weirdo,” Kernel grunts, and I laugh with him. Kirilli shrugs and shuffles off to explore.

“Do you want to come with me?” I ask Kernel, feeling faint traces of the bond that once existed between us.

“No,” he sighs, moving to a window and standing by it as if he can see out. “I’ll stay here and admire the moonlight. You go cheer up the house. Grubbs?” he adds softly as I turn to pad up the stairs. “I know how much this place means to you. Take your time.”

“Thanks.” I smile.

I head for Dervish’s office first. This is the room he spent most of his time in, where he worked, plotted, and relaxed. It’s been shot up badly, but it still reeks of my uncle. His books lie scattered across the floor. His computers have been blown to smithereens, but I can picture him hunched over the screens, frowning as he read about some old spell or other. And maybe it’s just my imagination, but I’m sure I can smell the musty stench of his feet—he loved to kick off his shoes in here, but he wasn’t great at changing his socks regularly.

I want to say something to mark the occasion and pay homage to the memory of my dead uncle. But everything I think of seems trite and clichéd. I was never the best with words. They’ve failed me often in the past, and they fail me again now. In the end I just pat the back of the chair where Dervish used to sit.

I visit the hall of portraits and run my gaze over the faces of the dead, all our family members who have perished over the centuries, most as a result of lycanthropy. I’d like to add photos of Dervish and Bill-E to the rows of frames, but I don’t have any on me. I could fetch a couple from the study, but I don’t want to go back there.

I settle for writing their names in the dusty glass of a couple of the larger pictures, along with their dates of birth and death. Pausing, I smile and add a line under Dervish’s name. “Died fighting the good fight.” A longer pause, then, with no smile, I write under Bill-E’s name, “Killed by his half brother.”

Let future visitors make of those epitaphs what they will.

My old bedroom. I lie on the bed and sigh happily. Wouldn’t it be great if I woke up now and everything had been a bad dream? I could have a good chuckle with Dervish and Bill-E, tell them how they’d been killed off, play up the grisly circumstances of their deaths, stick some hair around my face to make me look like a werewolf.

But it’s not a dream and I can’t pretend that it is. Too much about me is different, not least the fact that my legs stick way out over the end of the bed, far past the point where my feet used to stop.