Lord Loss (The Demonata 1)

“What?” I mumble.

“My body will survive if I lose the battle after the chess match,” he explains, “but my soul and mind won't. I'll be able to move about, but I won't be capable of thought or speech. I won't be able to shop, pay bills, cook, clean the house, etc. You'll have to babysit me, or hire somebody to do it.”

Dervish taps a drawer in his desk. “The necessary forms and information sheets are here. Names and numbers of lawyers and bankers, details of various credit accounts. You have my permission — written as well as verbal — to manage my estate as you see fit, though a large portion will remain in the hands of your legal guardians until you come of age.”

“I don't want your money,” I sniff.

“You won't feel that way always,” he smiles. Picks up the phone. Hesitates. Lays it down. “One last thing. If things pan out badly. I'll appear no better than a mindless robot. You might feel sorry for me, be tempted to put me out of my misery.”

“I wouldn't do that!” I shout. “I'm not a killer! I couldn't —”

“You could,” Dervish cuts me short. “Most people are capable of extreme actions when pushed.” He licks his lips nervously. “You mustn't. Time is different in the Demonata's universe. There's no telling how long our fight could last. The few who've fought him and returned have been absent for months … years … on one occasion, decades.

“No matter how much time passes, there's always hope,” he says. “Don't give up on me, Grubbs. Look after my body. I might have need of it again someday.”

He finds the number in the book, picks up the phone, and starts dialing.

“Wait,” I stop him. He looks up expectantly. I lick my lips nervously. “What happens if you don't win and I turn into a werewolf later?”

Dervish's features soften. “‘And the wolf shall lie down with the lamb.’”

“Come again?” I frown.

“It's a biblical quote. Isaiah. It's where the Lambs got their name from.” He jerks his head at the desk. “There's a black folder in the second drawer down on the left. Names and numbers for the Lambs. Contact them if the need arises. But only do it if you're sure that you're changing. The Lambs don't mess around. Once you set them in motion, they won't stop, even if you change your mind and try to call them off.”

“How will I know?” I ask. “Bill-E didn't know he was changing.”

Dervish chews on his lower lip in thoughtful silence, then says, “Nobody turns without warning. If the lycanthropy strikes, there'll be at least two or three full moons during which you won't physically alter, but run wild like Bill-E did. You won't be able to recall such episodes, but if you find blood under your fingernails, animal hairs between your teeth …”

Dervish stiffens and speaks roughly. “That's when you need to think about calling in the Lambs.”

As I stare at him miserably, Dervish returns his attention to the phone and hits the buttons. The phone at the other end rings and is picked up almost instantly. I hear a man say, “Yes?”

Dervish starts to reply.

“Tell him it's OK,” I interrupt softly. “Tell him you rang his number by accident.”

“Grubbs, you don't have to —”

“I won't live with the threat of the change hanging over me. Or with the guilt of not fighting for Bill-E.” Deep breath. Thinking — crazy for doing this. But also — it's what Dad would have wanted.

“I'll do it,” I wheeze. “I'll fight Vein and Artery.” The thinnest, most fleeting of smiles. Mock bravado. Grubbs Grady — demon killer! “I'm your man.”

THE SUMMONING

THE cellar. Bill-E beating at the bars of his cage with a bloody leg he's torn from the deer, howling madly. Dervish checking the chess boards and weapons, ignoring Bill-E. I want him to talk me out of it, tell me it's madness, reject my offer.

But he says nothing. In the study, he didn't even ask if I was sure, just nodded once and told Pablo he'd call him some other time. Then it was straight back here. No “Thank you,” or “Well done, Grubbs,” or “I'm proud of you.”

I examine the chess boards with forced interest, desperate to keep my mind off the weapons. Five boards, laid in a line across the three tables. The Lord of the Rings set in the center, flanked by a board of crystal pieces on one side and Incan-fashioned pieces on the other. The sets at either end are ordinary.

“Did you lay the boards out that way for a reason?” I ask Dervish.

“No,” he replies, testing a sword's handle, wiping it clean. “The sets don't matter, as long as there are five.”

“Explain how the contest works,” I urge him.

“The games are played simultaneously,” Dervish says without looking over. “When it's my turn, I can move any piece I like, on any board. Lord Loss can then reply to the piece I've moved, or move a piece on a different board.”