The Demonata 6-10

HarperCollins Children's Books A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 77-85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith London, W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Demon Apocalypse: Text copyright © Darren Shan, 2007 Death’s Shadow: Text copyright © Darren Shan, 2008 Wolf Island: Text copyright © Darren Shan, 2008 Dark Calling: Text copyright © Darren Shan, 2009 Hell’s Heroes: Text copyright © Darren Shan, 2009 Cover illustrations © Dominic Harman

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Darren Shan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Source ISBNs: 9780007435401, 9780007435609, 9780007435395, 9780007435388, 9780007435371

Ebook edition © December 2014 ISBN: 9780008126001

Version: 2014-12-09

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Demon Apocalypse

Death’s Shadow

Wolf Island

Dark Calling

Hell’s Heroes

Back ads

About the Publisher

For:

Bas — back with a vengeance!

OBEs (Order of the Bloody Entrails) to:

evil Elizabeth Eulberg — mistress of Duke’s! sinister Cynthia Eagan — steer clear of the spoon!

Prophet of doom:

Stella Paskins

Horsemen of the Apocalypse:

the Christopher Little seers

PART ONE: BERANABUS

The Snatch

Flight

Power of the Beast

The Veteran

The Monolith

The Stuff that Heroes are Made of

A Face from the Past

The Warning

PART TWO: BEC-E

The Messenger

Valkyries

Spartans

A Second Chance

Timely Intervention

The High…

…And the Low

Empty Vessel

One Small Step for Man

→ A demon shaped like a giant scorpion digs its stinger into a woman’s eyes. As they pop, it spits eggs into the bloody sockets, then watches with its almost human face as the eggs hatch and wriggling maggots feast on her flesh.

Another demonic beast – it looks like a cute rabbit, though it has an ugly bulge on its back – vomits over a man and his two children. The acidic liquid sizzles and dissolves them down to the bone.

A third footman of the Demonata runs after an air hostess. He has the body of a young boy, but his head is larger than an adult’s, he has a wig of living lice instead of hair and fire burns in the holes where his eyes should be. He also has two extra mouths in the palms of his hands. The teeth of both are eagerly snapping open and shut as he chases the screaming air hostess.

All the people on the plane are screaming – except those who’ve already been killed – and it’s music to the ears of the demon master, Lord Loss. He hovers in the aisle, mouth twisted into a sad smile, red eyes distant. A few of his eight arms twitch in rhythm with the screams, like a conductor’s at an orchestra. Then his eyes snap back into focus and he turns his gaze on me.

“You should not have humiliated me, Grubitsch,” Lord Loss says, still furious about the time I beat him at chess. “You should have fought fairly, faithful to the spirit of the contest, and won or lost on merit alone. You ruined chess for me. For many centuries it was my only other source of joy. Now I have just the agony and torture of humans to keep me amused.”

He slowly drifts down the aisle towards me, the strands of flesh that pass for his legs floating a few centimetres above the floor. The tiny snakes in the hole where his heart should be are writhing, hissing hatefully, spitting venom in my direction. Blood is flowing from the many cracks in his pale red skin. The holes above his upper lip – he has no nose – quiver wildly as he gleefully inhales the stench of terror from the doomed passengers. His dark red eyes are dilated with morbid pleasure. All eight arms are extended. Some of his mangled hands brush the heads and cheeks of humans as he passes, as if he is obscenely blessing them. The white-haired, pink-eyed albino traitor, Juni Swan, is behind him, smiling serenely.

A woman clasping a baby falls to her knees in front of Lord Loss, sobbing painfully. “Please!” she cries. “Not my child. Have mercy on my baby. Don’t kill him. I beg you!”

“Suffer unto me the little children,” Lord Loss murmurs blasphemously, taking the baby with three of his hands. He strokes the boy’s face and the baby laughs. Lord Loss passes him to Juni. “For you, my darling swan.”

“You are generous to a fault, my lord,” she smiles, then kisses the infant.

“No!” I scream. But it’s too late. A moment later she tosses the grey remains of the baby aside, having sucked his fragile life from him. The child’s mother chokes, eyes wide with disbelief and horror. Lord Loss bends and breathes in her sorrow, sighs contentedly, then moves on, leaving her to the lesser demons.