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Demon Thief demi interiors:DEMON THIEF 11/19/09 11:39 AM Page 3

Run with demons and find the thief on the web atwww.darrenshan.com

First published in hardback in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2005HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

77-85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London, W6 8JB

www.harpercollinschildrensbooks.co.uk

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Copyright © Darren Shan 2005

ISBN-13: 978 0 00 719322 XISBN-10: 0 00 719322 X

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

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

Conditions of SaleThis book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than

that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.


i n t o t h e l i g h t

→People think I’m crazy because I see lights. I’ve seen them allmy life. Strange, multicoloured patches of light swirlingthrough the air.The patches are different sizes, some as small asa coin, others as big as a cereal box. All sorts of shapes —octagons, triangles, decagons. Some have thirty or forty sides.I don’t know the name for a forty-sided shape. Quadradecagon?

No circles. All of the patches have at least two straightedges. There are a few with curves or semi-circular bulges,but not many.

Every colour imaginable. Some shine brightly, othersglow dully. Occasionally a few of the lights pulse, butnormally they just hang there, glowing.

When I was younger I didn’t know the lights werestrange. I thought everybody saw them. I described them toMum and Dad, but they thought I was playing a game,seeking attention. It was only when I started school andspoke about the lights in class that it became an issue. Myteacher, Miss Tyacke, saw that I wasn’t making up stories,that I really believed in the lights.

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Miss Tyacke called Mum in. Suggested they took me tosomebody better qualified to understand what the lightssignified. But Mum’s never had much time for psychiatrists.She thinks the brain can take care of itself. She asked me tostop mentioning the lights at school, but otherwise shewasn’t concerned.

So I stopped talking about the lights, but the damage hadalready been done. Word spread among the children —Kernel Fleck is weird. He’s not like us. Stay away from him.

I never made many friends after that.

→My name’s Cornelius, but I couldn’t say that when I wasyounger. The closest I could get was Kernel. Mum and Dadthought that was cute and started using it instead of my realname. It stuck and now that’s what everybody calls me.

I think some parents shouldn’t be allowed to name theirkids. There should be a committee to forbid names whichwill cause problems later. I mean, even without the lights,what chance did I have of fitting in with any normal crowdwith a name like Kernel – or Cornelius – Fleck!

We live in a city. Mum’s a university lecturer. Dad’s anartist who also does some freelance teaching. (He actuallyspends more time teaching than drawing, but wheneveranyone asks, he says he’s an artist.) We live on the third floorof an old warehouse which has been converted intoapartments. Huge rooms with very high ceilings. Isometimes feel like a Munchkin, or Jack in the giant’s castle.

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Dad’s very good with his hands. He makes brilliant modelaeroplanes and hangs them from the wooden beams of mybedroom ceiling. When they start to clutter the place up, orif we just get the urge one lazy Sunday afternoon, the pair ofus make bombs out of apples, conkers – whatever we canfind that’s hard and round – and launch them at the planes.We fire away until we run out of ammo or all the planes aredestroyed. Then Dad sets to work on new models and we doit all over again. At the moment the ceiling’s about a thirdfull.

I like it here. Our apartment is great; we’re close to lotsof shops, a cool adventure playground, museums, cinemasgalore. School’s OK too. I don’t make friends, but I like myteachers and the building — we have a first-rate lab, aprojection room, a massive library. And I never get beaten up— I roar automatically when I’m fighting, which isn’t goodnews for bullies who don’t want to attract attention!

But I’m not enjoying life. I’m lonely. I’ve always been aloner, but it didn’t bother me when I was younger. I likedbeing by myself. I read lots of books and comics, watcheddozens of TV shows, invented imaginary friends to playwith. I was happy.

That changed recently. I don’t know why, but I don’t likebeing alone now. I feel sad when I see groups of friendshaving a good time. I want to be one of them. I want friendswho’ll tell me jokes and laugh at mine, who I can discusstelevision shows and music with, who’ll pick me to be on


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their team. I try getting to know people, but the harder I try,the more they avoid me. I sometimes hover at the edge of agroup, ignored, and pretend I’m part of it. But if I speak, itbackfires. They glare at me suspiciously, move away or tell meto get lost. “Go watch some lights, freak!”

The loneliness got really bad this last month. Nothinginterests me any more. The hours drag, especially at home orwhen I have free time at school. I can’t distract myself. Mymind wanders. I keep thinking about friends and how I don’thave any, that I’m alone and might always be. I’ve talked withMum and Dad about it, but it’s hard to make themunderstand how miserable I am. They say things will changewhen I’m older, but I don’t believe them. I’ll still be weird,whatever age I am. Why should people like me more thenthan now?

I try so hard to fit in. I watch the popular shows and listento the bands I hear others raving about. I read all the hotcomics and books. Wear trendy clothes when I’m not atschool. Swear and use all the cool catchphrases.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing works. Nobody likes me. I’mwasting my time. This past week, I’ve got to thinking that I’mwasting my entire life. I’ve had dark, horrible thoughts,where I can only see one way out, one way of stopping thepain and loneliness. I know it’s wrong to think that way – lifecan never be that bad – but it’s hard not to. I cry when I’malone — once or twice I’ve even cried in class. I’m eating toomuch food, putting on weight. I’ve stopped washing and my

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skin’s got greasy. I don’t care. I want to look like the freak Ifeel I am.

→Late at night. In bed. I’m playing with the patches of light,trying not to think about the loneliness. I’ve always been ableto play with the lights. I remember being three or four yearsold, the lights all around me, reaching out and moving them,trying to fit them together like jigsaw pieces. Normally, thelights remain at a distance of several feet, but I can call themcloser when I want to play with them.

The patches aren’t solid. They’re like floating scraps ofplastic. If I look at a patch from the side, it’s almost invisible.I can put my fingers through them, like ordinary pools oflight. But, despite that, when I want to move a patch, I can.If I focus on a light, it glides towards me, stopping when I tellit. Reaching out, I push at one of the edges with my fingers.I don’t actually touch it, but as my fingers get closer, the lightmoves in whatever direction I’m pushing. When I stop, thelight stops.

I figured out very early on that I could put patchestogether to make patterns. I’ve been doing it ever since, atnight, or during lunch at school when I have nobody to playwith. Lately, I’ve been playing with them more than ever.Sometimes, the lights are the only way I have to escape themiserable loneliness.

I like making weird shapes, like Picasso paintings. I saw aprogramme on him at school a couple of years ago and felt


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an immediate connection. I think Picasso saw lights too, onlyhe didn’t tell anyone. People wouldn’t have thought he was agreat artist if he said he saw lights — they’d have said he wasa nutcase, like me.

The shapes I make are nowhere near as fabulous as PabloPicasso’s paintings. I’m no artist. I just try to createinteresting designs. They’re rough, but I like them. Theynever last. The shapes hold for as long as I’m studying them,but once I lose interest, or fall asleep, they come undone andthe pieces drift apart, returning to their original positions inthe air around me.

The one I’m making tonight is particularly jumbled. I’mfinding it hard to concentrate. Joining the pieces randomly,with no real purpose. It’s a mess. I can’t stop thinking aboutnot having any friends. Feeling wretched. Wishing I had atleast one true friend, someone who’d care about me and playwith me, so I wasn’t completely alone.

As I’m thinking about that, a few of the patches pulse. Nobig deal. Lights have pulsed before. Usually, I ignore them.But tonight, sad and desperate to divert my train of thought,I summon a couple, study them with a frown, then put themtogether and call for the rest of the flashing patches. As I addthose pieces to the first two, more lights pulse, some slowly,some quickly.

I sit up, working with more speed. This new flashingshape is curious. I’ve never put pulsing patches togetherbefore. As I add to the cluster, more lights pulse. I quickly

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slot them into place, working as if on autopilot. I have nocontrol over myself. I keep watching for a pattern to emerge,but there isn’t one. Just a mass of different pulsing colours.Still, it’s worked its magic. I’m focused on the cluster oflights now, dark thoughts and fears temporarily forgotten.

The lights build and build. This is a massive structure,much larger than any I’ve previously created. I’m sweatingand my arms are aching. I want to stop and rest, but I can’t.I’m obsessed with the pulsing lights. This must be whataddiction is like.

Then, without warning, the patches that I’ve stucktogether stop pulsing and all glow a light blue colour. I fallback, gasping, as if I’d got an electric shock. I’ve never seenthis happen. It scares me. A huge blue, jagged patch of lightat the foot of my bed. It’s like a window. Large enough for aperson to fit through.

My first thought is to flee, call for Mum and Dad, get outas quick as I can. But part of me holds firm. An inner voicewhispers in my ear, telling me to stay. This is your window to a

life of wonders, it says. But be careful, it adds, as I move closerto the light. Windows open both ways.

As it says that, a shape presses through, out of the panelof light. A face. I’m too horrified to scream. It’s a monsterfrom my very worst nightmare. Pale red skin. A pair of darkred eyes. No nose. A small mouth. Sharp, grey teeth. As itleans further forward into my bedroom, I see more of it andthe horror intensifies. It doesn’t have a heart! There’s a hole


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in the left side of its chest, but where the heart should be aredozens of tiny, hissing snakes.

The monster frowns and stretches a hand towards me. Ican see more than two arms — at least four or five. I wantto pull away. Dive beneath my bed. Scream for help. But thevoice that spoke to me a few seconds ago won’t let me. Itwhispers quickly, words I can’t follow. And I find myselfstanding firm, taking a step towards the panel of light and itsemerging monster. I raise my right hand and watch thefingers curl into a fist. I can feel a strange tingling sensation,like pins and needles.

The monster stops. Its eyes narrow. It looks round mybedroom uncertainly. Then slowly, smoothly, it withdraws,pulling back into the panel of light, vanishing graduallyuntil only its red eyes remain, staring out at me from withinthe surrounding blueness, twin circles of an unspoken evil.Then they’re gone too and I’m alone again, just me and thelight.

I should be wailing for help, running for my life, coweringon the floor. But instead my fingers relax and my fistunclenches. I’m facing the panel of blue light, staring at itlike a zombie transfixed by a fresh human brain, distantlyprocessing information. Normally, the patches of light aretransparent, but I can’t see through this one. If I look roundit, there’s my bedroom wall, a chest of drawers, toys andsocks scattered across the floor. But when I look directly atthe light, all I see is blue.

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The voice says something crazy to me. I know it’smadness as soon as it speaks. I want to argue, roar at it, tellit to get stuffed. But, as scared and confused as I am, I can’tdisobey. I find my legs tensing. I know, with sick certainty,what’s going to happen next. I open my mouth to scream, totry and stop it, but before I can, a force makes me stepforward — after the monster, into the light.



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