Death's Shadow (The Demonata 7)

“Then keep this one alive and watch for signs of further activity. If you sense anything, summon us and we’ll withdraw. Is everyone satisfied with that?”

He looks pointedly at Sharmila. She frowns then shrugs. Taking the lead, Beranabus picks his way across the bloody, corpse-strewn deck and the rest of us cautiously, nervously follow.

My feet are soon sticky with blood, but I ignore my queasy feelings. This isn’t the way the world should be, having to creep through pools of blood, past dozens of slaughtered humans. But when you find yourself in the middle of a living nightmare you have two choices. You can cower in a corner, eyes shut, praying for it to be over. Or you can get on with things and do your best to deal with the job in hand. I don’t think I’m particularly brave, but I like to think I’ve always been practical.

We undertake a circuit of the upper deck before venturing into the depths of the ship, making sure there aren’t any surprises waiting for us up here if we have to make a quick getaway. We don’t find any demons or soldiers in league with the Demonata. Just one corpse after another, slowly frying beneath the merciless sun.

We’re passing a row of lifeboats when I feel a twitch at the back of my eyes. It’s the subtlest of sensations. I’d ignore it any other time. But I’m trying to be alert to the least hint of anything amiss, so I stop and focus. The twitch draws me to the third boat ahead of us. It hangs from hooks high above the deck.

“What is it?” Beranabus whispers. I feel magic build within him. He’s converting the energy in the air into a force he can use.

“Somebody’s there.” I point to the lifeboat. “A man. Hiding from us. He’s using a masking spell.”

“Get ready,” Beranabus says to the others. He points a finger at the hooks. They snap and the boat drops abruptly, landing hard on the deck. The man inside it yelps and tumbles out as the boat keels over.

Sharmila and Dervish step ahead of Beranabus, fingers crackling with pent-up magic. The man shrieks and wildly raises his hands, shouting, “I surrender!”

“Wait!” Sharmila snaps, grabbing Dervish’s arm. “I know him.”

The man pauses when he hears Sharmila’s voice. He stares at her shakily as if he doesn’t believe his ears or eyes.

“Kirilli Kovacs,” Sharmila says.

“I… I recognise you… I think,” he croaks.

“We met several years ago. You were with Zahava Lever. She was your mentor. My name is Sharmila—”

“—Mukherji,” the man says, breaking into a big smile. “Of course. Zavi spoke very highly of you. She said you were a great Disciple, one of the finest. I should have recognised you immediately. My apologies. It’s been a hard few…” He frowns. “I was going to say days, but it’s only been hours.”

“This is one of your lot?” Beranabus sniffs. We’re all a bit mystified. The man is wearing a dark suit, but there are silver and gold stars stitched into the shoulders and down the sides. He sports a thin moustache and is wearing mascara. He looks like a stage magician, not a Disciple.

“This is my cover,” he explains sheepishly. “I ran into fiscal complications…” He clears his throat. “Actually I gambled away my cash and my credit card was taken from me by a woman in… but that’s another story. I had to get on the ship. I could have used magic but it was easier to get a job. So I did, as Kirilli the Konjuror. I’ve used this disguise before. It’s always been effective. I can put on a first-rate stage show when I have to.”

“Your standards are slipping,” Beranabus says to Sharmila. “I might have to review the recruiting policy of the Disciples.”

“I’m of a first-rate pedigree, sir,” Kirilli snaps. “Even the best of us can fall prey to the occasional vice.” He tugs the arms of his jacket straight and glares.

“Zahava said Kirilli was an excellent spy,” Sharmila says. “He is very adept at trailing people and hiding from them. The fact that he survived the massacre here is proof of that. The Disciples need spies as much as they need warriors.”

“Precisely,” Kirilli huffs. “There’s a man for every job, as my dear departed father used to say.”

“I bet he worked in sewerage,” Dervish says drily.

Kirilli flushes, but ignores the jibe. “By the way,” he says stiffly, “I didn’t catch your names.”

Beranabus shrugs. “This is Dervish Grady. That’s Bec. I’m Beranabus.”

Kirilli’s jaw drops and he loses his composure completely.

Beranabus winks at me. “I have that effect on a lot of my idolising Disciples.”

“Only until we get to know you,” Sharmila mutters, then addresses Kirilli again. “Can you tell us what happened? Swiftly, please—we do not have much time.”

“That’s really Beranabus?” Kirilli says, wide-eyed. “I thought he’d look more like Merlin or Gandalf.”

“He’ll turn you into a hobbit if you don’t start talking,” Dervish growls.

Kirilli blanches, then scowls. “I was tracking a pair of rogue mages,” he says, adjusting his bow-tie—I spot a playing card up his sleeve. “They were planning to open a window.”