Death's Shadow (The Demonata 7)

aybe more.”

She shakes her head. “We should stay. Dervish can’t fight and we don’t know what we’d find. There could be demons waiting for us there.”

“I doubt it.”

“There might be,” she insists. “We don’t know who was behind this attack. Maybe it was Lord Loss.”

“I don’t think so. I touched one of the werewolves. I… I have a gift. I can learn things about people when I touch them.”

“What sort of things?” Meera frowns.

“I read their minds. Access their secrets. Absorb their memories. I’ve been able to do it since I came back to life.”

“Have you read my mind?” she asks sharply and I nod shamefully. “How much did you learn?”

“A lot. But I’d never reveal what I know. I wouldn’t even have taken it, except I’ve no choice. Every time I touch someone, I steal from them. I can’t stop it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Meera asks, looking more confused than angry.

“I would have eventually, but there was so much else to deal with…” I shrug it off. “Anyway, I touched one of the werewolves and saw into its mind. It was a jumble, shards of memory all mixed up. I couldn’t make sense of most of what I saw. But I learnt his name, who he was before he changed and who he was passed on to.”

“Well, come on,” Meera says when I hesitate.

“His name was Caspar,” I tell her. “He was a Grady. He turned into a werewolf when he was fourteen. His parents did what many of their kin do, and turned him over to the family executioners—the Lambs.” I know about the Lambs from the memories of Bill-E and Beranabus.

“But the Lambs didn’t execute him,” Meera says, her expression fierce.

“No. I’m assuming the other werewolves were family members scheduled for execution too. But all of them wound up here.”

“The guys with the guns…”

“They were probably working for the Lambs.”

We stare at each other, then at Dervish lying unconscious by our feet. And the temperature of the room seems to drop ten degrees.

Meera doesn’t understand why the Lambs would do this. They sometimes keep werewolves alive, to experiment on them in an attempt to unlock their genetic codes and discover a cure. But only with the parents’ permission.

“I can picture them keeping the beasts alive on the quiet,” she says. “Very few parents care to commit their children to a lifetime of laboratory misery, even if they’ve turned into werewolves. It’s no surprise if the Lambs told them their kids had been executed, then kept them alive to study.

“But why bring them here to attack us? And how did they organise them? They were working as a team, as if they’d been trained. I didn’t think you could do that with werewolves. Even if you could, why send them against us?”

That’s the key question. According to Meera, Dervish never had much love for the Lambs. They originally formed to execute children who’d turned, but over the decades they acquired more power and branched out into more experimental areas. Dervish didn’t approve of that, especially since he didn’t think science could find a cure for a magically determined disease.

“The Lambs never liked Dervish either,” Meera says. “They thought if he explained more about demons, it might help them with their studies. But they’d no reason to attack him. At least none that I’m aware of.”

“Maybe it’s me,” I mumble. “Grubbs turned into a werewolf—temporarily—and because of his magical powers, the Lambs couldn’t stop him. Maybe they’re afraid I’ll turn too and become a menace.”

“But they don’t know you’re one of the family,” Meera says. “Dervish told them nothing about you. There’s something we’re missing…”

We spend hours debating the mystery. We get no closer to the truth, but at least it helps to pass the time. During the discussions, I think of another reason why the Lambs might have targeted me. But I say nothing of it to Meera, deciding to wait until the other Disciples arrive, so I don’t have to repeat myself.

Someone knocks on the door leading to the yard.

Meera and I were both half-dozing. We jolt awake at the sound and I strengthen the magical fields around the doors and walls. Then a man shouts, “Little pigs, little pigs, let us come in!”

“Idiot,” Meera grunts, but she’s smiling. “It’s Shark.”

“I know. I remember his voice from Bill-E’s dream.” I remove the spells and the battered door swings open. A tall, burly man in an army uniform enters, followed by an elderly Indian woman who walks with a limp.