In the note she says she’s confused. She knows Chuda was guilty, deserving of punishment, but she can’t believe she acted so callously. Her whole world has changed. She knows about demons now and she’s seen a side of herself that she doesn’t like. She needs time alone, to reflect, consider, explore. She says she has strong feelings for Dervish, but doesn’t know if she ever wants to see him again. Tells him not to look for her. Promises to visit him in Carcery Vale one day—if. That’s the last word—if. I think she meant to write more, but couldn’t.
Dervish doesn’t say anything when he reads the note. Just hands it to me and Bill-E once he’s done, then goes for a long, lonely walk. I’d help him if I could, say something to make him feel better. But I don’t know what to say. Bill-E doesn’t either. So we don’t say anything when he returns, only stay close in case he needs us.
The evacuation proceeds smoothly, people leaving without a fuss, driven home or to train stations, airports, wherever. Some of the counsellors travel with the worst affected, not only to comfort them, but to make sure they don’t harm themselves or wind up in trouble.
I think some of the survivors won’t be able to live with what they’ve witnessed. This will haunt all of us, but it will hit some harder than others. I think there will be a few more deaths in the years to come.
I’d like to do something to help the worst afflicted, but I can’t. It’s not possible to save everybody. Even heroes have their all-too-human limits.
By four in the afternoon the last cars are leaving. The press has been told of the supposed fire and news teams begin to arrive, eager to scour the ashes of Slawter—renamed Haymsville for the benefit of the rest of the world. They’re angry to find none of the survivors here, and they hit the roof when they learn that the emergency crews were on the scene so long before them. But there’s nothing they can do about it except moan.
I watch with little interest as the reporters circle the skeletal remains of the town. I’ve had enough of the place.
I just want to forget about it. Put it behind me and move on.
Bill-E is beside me, silent as a corpse. He’s kept himself busy in the aftermath, spending a lot of time with the other children who made it out alive, talking about what happened, trying to help. That’s been his way of dealing with the tragedy. He doesn’t want time alone to think about it, to remember, to fear. At night he wakes screaming, but in the day he fights the memories. What will he do when we’re home and he has nothing but ordinary life to occupy his time? What will I do?
“They didn’t find all the bodies,” Bill-E says. “I heard Dervish talking about it with another Disciple. The demons took some people back to their universe. Maybe Bo was one of them. Maybe she’ll escape and return. I’m sure it’s possible. I mean, Dervish did it, right?”
I grunt negatively in reply, knowing in my heart that Dervish would have told us if there was even the slightest glimmer of hope.
I turn to face Bill-E. I instinctively know that this is the right moment, the one I’ve been waiting so many months for. Time to tell him we’re brothers.
“Bill-E…” I begin, but before I get any further, Dervish appears.
“Hey,” he says with forced good humour. “You want to stay here all night or are you coming with me?”
“Coming where?” Bill-E asks, turning, and the moment is lost. I won’t make the great revelation, not now. Later. When another good time comes around.
“Yes—where?” I ask, turning like Bill-E, so we’re both looking at our uncle.
“Home,” Dervish croaks. And as soon as he says that, for reasons I don’t quite understand, all three of us smile shakily and then start to cry.
A LITTLE CHAT
It’s strange, trying to settle back into everyday life, not telling anyone about Slawter, acting like normal people who’ve merely survived a very human tragedy. Bill-E and I lie to our friends, make up stories about the filming, describe the fire and how we were lucky to escape. Not a word about demons.
Bill-E stays with us the first few nights, despite the objections of Ma and Pa Spleen. Nightmares galore, both of us. Remembering. Screaming. Crying. Talking with each other and Dervish, trying to cope. Ironically—considering how this all started—Dervish sleeps like a baby. The confrontation with evil was a tonic for him. It blew the cobwebs from his head, helped him out of the bad patch he’d been stuck in. The fighting, the cover-up, getting in touch with the other Disciples, discussing ways to keep the truth secret… All of that was nectar to my uncle. It fired up his engines. He was in his element dealing with the demonic fallout. I’m not saying he enjoyed it, but he needed it. That’s his real work.
I wish it was so easy for me, that I could go off, find a demon, have a scrap, purge myself of the bad memories and fears. But I took nothing positive out of what happened in Slawter. I’m just disgusted, tired and afraid. I’m sure it will be years before I can sleep properly. If ever.
But the show must go on. The charade has to be maintained. So Bill-E returns to Ma and Pa Spleen. We go back to school. We force ourselves to focus on homework, friends, sports, TV, music, day-to-day life. We pretend that’s all there is to the world, that there’s nothing more frightening in life than a surprise test or saying something stupid in front of your friends and having them laugh at you.
And sometimes—just sometimes—I almost believe it, and for a little while I forget about Lord Loss, Davida Haym, Bo Kooniart, Emmet, the demons, the dead. And life is the way it should be, like it is for most people. But the sensation never lasts. It can’t. Because I know the truth. I’ve seen behind the curtain of reality. I know that monsters are hiding underneath a billion beds across the world. And I know that sometimes… more often than we imagine… they come out.
“Time for that talk.”
We’ve been home for nearly three weeks. I’m in the TV room, some comedy show playing on the big screen, not really concentrating. When Dervish sits beside me and speaks, I’m not sure what he’s talking about. Then, as he switches off the TV, I remember. In the middle of the madness he said that if we got out alive, we’d have to have a chat about my magical prowess.
“You were amazing in Slawter,” Dervish says. “Magic was pumping through you and you had complete control over it.”
“I just tapped into the power in the air,” I shrug uneasily. “No biggie.”
Dervish smiles. “Modesty’s becoming, but let’s not bull ourselves—you were on fire. You did things I can’t even comprehend. When I was fighting Lord Loss, I noticed some of the demons trying to get through the hole in the barrier. You kept them back. How?”
“I established a second barrier around the hole. Demons couldn’t get through it but humans could.”
Dervish chuckles. “Do you realise how difficult that is? I couldn’t do it. Even when I was in Lord Loss’ realm, at my most powerful, I couldn’t have pulled off something like that. I don’t know many who could.”
“It wasn’t like I planned it,” I say, for some reason feeling edgier the more he praises me. “I reacted to what was going on around me. The magic told me what to do. I wasn’t in control. I couldn’t do any of it again. I don’t even remember most of what I did.”
Dervish studies me closely, his expression serious. I sense his reluctance to continue—and with a jolt, I guess the reason why and instantly understand why I’ve been so nervous.
“The Disciples are few in number,” Dervish says quietly. “We’re always on the lookout for new recruits, but most mages never realise their magical potential. It lies dormant unless they have an encounter with the Demonata. Even then there’s no guarantee that it will develop, that we’ll be able to make use of them.”