Demon Thief (The Demonata 2)

I haven’t given up on my brother. The lights might not work the same way as in that other universe, but I can still see them. There must be a way for me to start the patches pulsing. I just have to figure it out.

While I’m puzzling over the problem, I continue walking. I listen carefully to people talking. Most speak the same language as me, but the accents aren’t familiar. I wish again that I could ask where I am, but it isn’t possible.

I’m growing hungrier with every step. I’ve drunk plenty of water from drinking fountains, but I’ve had nothing to eat. I pass a stall selling hot dogs and pretzels. I root through my pockets but I don’t have any money. I think about trying to steal a pretzel, but if the owner catches me it could mean big trouble.

Stomach growling, tears tickling the corners of my eyes, I walk on.

My watch is working again. I’ve been here at least two hours, wandering without direction. The sun is starting to set. It will be night soon. Where will I sleep?

Time to sit and think this through. I find a bench in a small park. I’m shivering. Though it’s not especially cold, I’m only wearing a T-shirt, no sweater. There aren’t many people in the park. One woman who passes looks at me closely. I think she’s going to stop and ask if I’m OK. I’m not sure what to say if she does. I was never a good liar. But then she carries on, deciding I’m not her business.

I try to lay all my problems out nice and simply, so I can think them through one at a time. My main priority is getting back to the Demonata’s universe. But that will have to wait. Things I have to settle first — Where am I? Where will I sleep tonight? How will I find food?

Take them one at a time. Location. I can’t find out by asking passersby, but there must be alternatives. A library, perhaps, except I don’t know where to find one. But now that I set my mind to it calmly, I see there are other ways. I can look in a telephone book at a pay phone. Or go to a newsstand and read the titles of the local papers.

I manage a small chuckle when I realize how simple it is to place myself. That gives me confidence, and I turn to the other problems more positively. I can dig through garbage cans for food. Not very nice, but I’m sure I’ll scavenge enough to keep myself from starving.

Finding somewhere to sleep is harder. Hide in a library or museum? Or maybe in a shop that sells furniture? Keep low while they’re closing, then come out when it’s deserted, sleep on a couch or bed.

Not a bad plan, except all the shops have already closed. I might be able to do it tomorrow, but it won’t work now. Maybe I’ll have to sleep in the open tonight, over a street grill or on a park bench. Collect newspapers to wrap around myself. Hope I’m not discovered by a policeman. Look for somewhere better in the morning.

As I’m thinking that over, I catch sight of a pulsing light out of the corner of my left eye. My head jerks towards it. This isn’t the first time it’s happened. I’ve been reacting to every flashing light in shops or on street corners, hopes rising, thinking for a second that they’re one of the magical pulsing patches.

I scowl at myself, feeling stupid for falling for the same trick for the hundredth time. I start to look away, telling myself to behave more sensibly next time, when it strikes me —

There’s no shop or street corner where the flash came from.

I look left again, but slowly, not letting myself get excited. It’s probably somebody on a bicycle, or a bird with a strip of foil in its beak, or...

But it isn’t. It’s a yellow patch of triangular light, drifting through the park, attached to nothing.

I’m on my feet immediately, thoughts of food and shelter forgotten, hurrying after the light. I catch up to it, reach for it like a baby reaching for its pacifier, then stop. There’s no point interfering with it, since there are no other pulsing patches for me to add it to. Better to follow, see where it leads, and hope that luck is with me.

The light passes through the bars at the rear of the park. I clamber over them, almost spearing myself on the spikes at the top, ripping the back of my T-shirt. I start to follow it across the road behind the park, but the driver of an approaching car blows his horn, warning me back. I wait impatiently for him to pass, then hurry after the light. Luckily it’s not moving very fast, so I soon catch up.

I w

alk along beside the patch until it passes through the wall of a building. I stare at the wall for a moment, lost, then look backwards, judging the path of the light. It’s come at an angled line from the park. If it continues in that direction it should come out again at some point to my right on the other side of the building.

I race around the building to the back. Advance to the point where I think the light will emerge, then stand, clenching my hands into fists, waiting, counting the seconds off inside my head. Five...eight...ten...fifteen... twenty-one...

The light reappears on the count of twenty-three, farther to my right than I’d calculated. Grinning, I jog over, catch up with it, walk with it to the wall of another building, then quickly make my way to the rear, to wait for it again.

I eventually lose the light at a collection of warehouses. There’s no way for me to get to the rear before the light reemerges. But that’s not a concern. Because I’ve spotted other lights, floating through the air from different directions, all angling towards the same spot several hundred yards ahead of me. I can’t see where they meet, because of the buildings, but I have a good sense of where it is, so I weave through the streets. There’s no need to bother with the lights anymore, just head for the point of intersection.

Ten minutes later I round a corner and see a handful of lights penetrating the walls and roof of a large building in the middle of a row of restaurants, bars and shops. There are people in front of the building, waiting to get in. As I edge closer I see that they’re mostly teenagers dressed in leather jackets, ripped jeans, fishnet stockings. Many have spiky, colored hair, and chains dangling from their ears, noses and lips. They look quite frightening. Not as frightening as demons, but pretty scary as humans go.

I hear music coming from inside the building, and realize this is a concert. It’s harsh, ugly music, loud and unpleasant, very fast. It sets my ears ringing, even from this far outside.

I stop close to the crowd. There are a couple of men at the front door, dressed differently. They’re the ones in charge, taking money from the people who want to go to the concert, letting in a few at a time. As I watch, the doormen turn away a girl and three boys. A fight develops. I hear the girl shouting that they’re over eighteen. One of the doormen laughs and tells them to produce an ID or leave.

This isn’t going to be easy. If they won’t let those four in, they certainly won’t let in someone like me. I’ll have to try a bluff, say that my dad — maybe an older brother would be better — is in there. It probably won’t work, but I’ve got to give it a try.

I listen to the teenagers chatting about the concert, gathering as much info as I can. They call it a punk concert. There are several bands on the bill. Names like The Clamps, Thunderballs, The Damnable. When I’m

ready, I walk boldly to the front of the line and smile at the doormen. “Excuse me,” I say politely. “Is this where The Clamps are playing?”

The doormen squint at me. One grunts, “Yeah. But it’s over eighteen.”