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“Lord Loss was keen on Davey's idea, but he added a few kinks of his own. When playing Bartholomew, he'd told his familiars to stand at bay. He refused to grant Davey that privilege. Somebody would have to partner Davey and fight the demons while he played. As long as Davey's protector lived, the familiars wouldn't attack Davey. But if his partner was killed they'd be free to slaughter Davey and his son too.
“Another new rule was that the games had to be played simultaneously, in a single sitting — to heap the pressure on Davey and his partner.
“And his final clause — if Davey won, he'd have to enter Lord Loss's realm and fight him personally for possession of his soul.”
“What?” I mutter, not catching the meaning of the last part.
“The games take place between the Demonata's universe and ours,” Dervish explains. “You probably noticed in your parents' room that there were bits of our world as well as bits of Lord Loss's. That in-between state was where Davey would challenge Lord Loss. If Davey won, his son would be cured, and the boy and Davey's partner could get on with their lives. But Davey would have to enter Lord Loss's world and fight the demon master on his home turf. If he beat him, he'd walk free. But if he lost, Lord Loss would take control of his soul, and he'd live out his remaining days as a zombie.”
“Sounds like a raw deal to me,” I grunt.
“It was,” Dervish agrees. “But those were the terms. Davey had to agree.” Dervish pauses, then says softly, “Davey McKay lost. His brother stood as his partner. The demons overwhelmed him. Davey was killed before even one of the games was decided. His son too. All three were ripped to pieces by the demons.”
He takes the photo from me and gazes at it in heavy silence.
“But Davey's sacrifice wasn't in vain,” he resumes. “Lord Loss developed a taste for this new contest. He approached Davey's relatives — those with magical power
s — offering them the chance to compete for lives as Davey had.
“Most refused. But two — both with young children on the verge of turning — accepted the challenge. One was defeated — but the other won. His victory gave hope to the others, and a series of Garadexes and Gradys have sustained the challenge over the long decades since. Some win, some lose. Most who win subsequently lose their souls in the ensuing battle in Lord Loss's realm, but a few have made the journey back, proof that it can be done.”
Dervish lays the photo back in the drawer and closes it slowly. He blinks owlishly and wipes a hand across his eyes — he's fighting back tears.
“Your parents didn't win,” he says. “Gret was infected. Your father and mother challenged Lord Loss. One of them proved inadequate to the task. All three died as a result. I was meant —”
His voice catches and he turns away, rubbing his eyelids, trembling with emotion. “Your father and I had an agreement,” he says bleakly. “If any of his children succumbed to the disease, I was to be his partner. I thought he was wrong to have children, but I loved him, and I loved the kids he fathered. I wasn't going to stand to one side in their hour of need.”
“Then why weren't you there?” I cry, tears streaming down my cheeks.
“He never told me Gret was changing,” he croaks. “Your mother must have convinced him to let her face the demons with him. I'm sure Sharon had Gret's best interests at heart, but I was a better chess player, and a much stronger fighter. Cal should have held me to my promise. He should have called. Maybe I could have …”
He breaks down. His eyes close. His hands clench into fists. Then he raises his face to the ceiling and howls. From the secret cellar I imagine I hear an echoing howl, as the transformed Bill-E Spleen pauses during feeding and answers his uncle's tortured call.
I stop crying before Dervish does. I don't think he cries very often, so he has a hard time regaining control. When the tears finally cease and he's wiping his face clean with a denim sleeve, I put an accusation to him as softly as I can. “Are you saying it was Mom's fault?”
“Of course not!” he answers promptly.
“But if Dad had picked you instead of her …”
Dervish hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “I've got to be truthful — I was the logical choice. But logic and magic don't always mix. Sometimes amateurs fare better than professionals. Nobody ever really knows how they'll fare until they put themselves on the spot.”
He pulls out a handkerchief and blows his nose. “In the end, it's all relative. Your father chose — rightly or wrongly — and the outcome stands. We can't change the past and we'd be fools if we tried.
“But whatever my personal feelings about his choice,” Dervish adds, “don't ever think I believe it was your mother's fault. It wasn't. It was our curse, not hers. She deserves nothing short of absolute love and respect for taking on that curse, and laying her life on the line to try and avert it.”
I nod slowly, thinking it over. “But if they hadn't laid their lives on the line,” I whisper. “If they'd called in the Lambs and not gone to Lord Loss …”
“They'd be alive.” Dervish says it bluntly. “That's why I said you might not like the truth. They put Gret's life before their own — and yours. If they hadn't interfered, you'd have lost a sister but kept your parents.”
I stare at him uncertainly, my lower lip trembling, part of me hating Mom and Dad for putting me through this, another part hating Gret, blaming her for the mess.
Dervish reads my thoughts and shakes his head calmly. “Don't go down that road, Grubbs,” he says. “Cal and Sharon did what they had to. They'd have done the same for you if you'd been infected. I know you feel cheated. I know you want them back. But if you look deep inside, and recall the people they were, the love they had for you and Gret, you'll understand why they did it.”
“They should have told me,” I moan. “They cut me out completely. I could have helped. I —”
“No,” Dervish says firmly. “The rules are clear — only two may challenge Lord Loss and his familiars. Telling you would have achieved nothing.”
“It would have prepared me for the worst,” I disagree.
