“You don’t have to do that. I’ll look for him. He’s a bit… he’s slightly deaf. He wouldn’t hear you calling. I need to go in myself, to look for…”

The doorman takes a step forward, crouches and in a low, foul curse tells me to go away. Then he returns to his post and waves forward the next few punks in line.

I’ve blown it. Defeated, I slink away, ignoring the catcalls of the punks, and find a quiet spot where I can think up my next approach.

More lights are floating into the building, faster now. I could wait until the concert’s over, then break in, but I don’t think I have much time. So I go looking for another entrance, figuring there must be a fire door at the rear.

A narrow, dirty alley runs behind the shops and pubs. Rubbish bags all over the place, empty cardboard boxes, bottles and cans. Dried blood, vomit and dog crap. I wade through the mess, trying to find the building where the concert’s taking place. The noise guides me and a minute later, I’m standing outside a pair of large doors, which are rattling from the vibrations of the music.

I try opening the doors, but they’re locked from the other side. I push and pull, kick and punch, to no effect. I look for windows to sneak through, but there are only a couple and they’re both bricked over.

Back to the doors. They can’t remain shut all night. People will have to come through eventually. I’m sure they’ll be opened at the end of the concert, but that might be too late—the lights may have stopped by then. I just have to hope that someone comes through before that, for fresh air or to be sick.

There are a few rubbish bins to the right of the doors. I crouch behind them and wait, planning on sneaking in if the doors open. Not a great plan, but in the absence of anything better, it’s my only hope.

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Twenty. Thirty. I’m truly cold now. I don’t think the sun has ever shone directly on this horrible hole of an alley. My nose is running. I wipe the back of my hand across it, but that doesn’t do much good.

The lights are moving very quickly, in greater numbers, powering through the walls and roof. I think a window is going to open soon. Maybe there’s a witch like Mrs. Egin inside, or perhaps the music is summoning the demons—this is the sort of din I imagine the Demonata would love.

Maybe some of them are coming to check out the concert.

I grin as I picture Cadaver and the vulture-headed demon slipping through a window between the two universes to dance with the punks. As I’m grinning, the doors open and two men step out into the alley, a wave of metallic music bursting through with them. I’m immediately alert, praying for them to turn left so I can duck in without them seeing.

But they stand where they are, looking around. One is a punk, with jeans, a leather jacket, no T-shirt, a thin black scarf knotted around his throat, spiky purple hair, a ring through his nose. Scrawny. Not much older than me. The other is wearing an army-type uniform, boots and a beret. A bit older than the punk and much bigger. There are letters tattooed on his knuckles, but I can’t read them from here.

“This will be our getaway route if we have to run,” the man in the army clothes says, letting the doors half close, cutting out the worst of the noise. “We’ll split up if we’re chased. You go left. I’ll take the right. Meet again at the hotel.”

“Can we outrun it?” the punk asks.

“Depends on what it is. Some are slow, some fast. If we can’t stop it crossing, we’ll try to fight, but if it’s too strong, we’ll have to run like hell.”

“I don’t like running,” the punk says.

“Me neither,” the army guy grunts, “but sometimes it’s the only option. These demons are fierce mothers. We can whup some of them, but others…”

At the mention of demons, a shudder of relief churns through me. In a rush, I scuttle out from behind the rubbish bins. The army guy takes a step back, fists coming up protectively. The punk puts out a hand to calm him. “Relax. It’s only a kid.”

The army guy scowls. “What are you doing here? Trying to sneak in to the concert without paying? It won’t work. Scram, you no-good—”

“Excuse me,” I interrupt, “but are you… this might sound crazy… but I heard you talking about demons and I—”

“You heard nothing!” the army guy shouts. “Now beat it, quick, before I—”

“Wait a minute,” the punk says, squinting at me with pale blue eyes. He nods for me to continue.

“Well… like I said… I heard you talking and… well… are you two guys… by any chance… I mean… are you Disciples?”

The pair stare at me dumbly. Then the army guy looks round, picks up a piece of metal, lets the doors swing almost fully closed, sticks the metal between them to keep them ajar. Strides over, the punk a couple of paces behind him.

“Who are you?” he growls.

“My name’s Kernel Fleck. I was with Beranabus. I want to get back to him. I… Do you know who I mean? Are you…?”

The pair exchange silent glances. I start to think I got it wrong, that I misheard, or maybe the Demons are just another band. But then the army guy shrugs and the punk sticks out a hand. “Yes,” the punk says as we shake hands. “We’re Disciples. This is Shark. And my name’s Dervish. Dervish Grady. But don’t ask me to whirl,” he says warningly. And smiles.

THE MONSTER MASH

Dervish starts to question me, to find out why I’m here, how I know Beranabus. But Shark cuts in. “The attack could come at any minute. We need to prepare for it.”

He pulls the doors open and gestures me inside. It’s dark and incredibly noisy. The room’s quite large, but packed with punks. Mostly guys, Dervish’s age or a bit older. A band is playing on a small stage to our right. Thrashing away at their guitars and drum kit as though the world is about to end and they’re determined to finish their song before it does. The singer screams into his microphone, mostly swear words, sticking his middle fingers up at the crowd and bellowing at them.

The punks love it. They’re dancing like crazy, leaping up and down or holding on to each other and spinning wildly. Some are fighting, but it’s good natured. They’re drawing blood, but they don’t care—that just adds colour.

There are more studs, piercings and tattoos than I’ve ever seen. That reminds me of Shark’s knuckles and I look down at his hands. His name is tattooed on both sets, a letter per finger, with a black and white shark’s head filling the flesh between both thumbs and index fingers, jaws wide, teeth glistening.

“It sounds like a dentist’s drill,” Shark yells at Dervish, scowling at the noise. “You really like this crap?”

“It’s the new wave,” Dervish grins. “The music of change. An-ar-cheeeeeee!” He punches the air with his fist.

“Grow up,” Shark snorts, then looks down at me. “You like this?”

“I’ve never heard anything like it,” I tell him. “It’s giving me a headache.”

Shark laughs. “The kid’s got more sense than you, Grady.”

The song ends and the band takes a short break so that one of the guitarists can replace the guitar which he’s just broken. Dervish uses the lull to fill me in.

“Somebody’s summoning a demon. We’ve been trying to stop him for the last couple of weeks. We don’t know who the summoner is, but we know the crossing’s going to happen here, tonight. If we can’t stop it, we plan to kill the demon or push it back.”

“We won’t be able to kill it,” Shark says. “We’re not strong enough to destroy a demon. In the Demonata’s universe, maybe—but driving it back is the best we can hope for here.”

“Have you done this a lot?” I ask.

“I have. This is Grady’s first taste of action.” He punches Dervish’s arm. “I’m not sure he’s up to it.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Dervish growls. “I’ll do what I have to.”

“I know you will,” Shark chuckles. “Now, let’s try and find the demon-loving scumbag, though I guess we won’t know who it is until—”