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“Possibly. Demons speak many languages. But most referto it as the Kah-Gash.
”I try for maybe fifteen minutes, then give up. “It’s nogood. I can’t find it. Either it doesn’t exist or I’m not able tolocate it without more information.
”Beranabus’s face darkens. “If you’re trying to play me fora fool...”
“I’m not. The lights aren’t pulsing. I’ve tried my hardest,but nothing’s happening.”
“Maybe you need to give it more time,” Beranabus suggests.
“That’s not how it worked with the other windows. If Icould find your weapon, the lights would have started pulsing by now. I can’t do it.”
Beranabus mutters something to himself and tugs irritably at his beard.
Sharmila is looking at me, head cocked, frowning. She starts to say something, then changes her mind and instead says, “We must search for Cadaver again.”
“To rescue the child?” Beranabus sneers.
“Yes. But also to question the demon. Perhaps he knows another word for the Kah-Gash, which will enable Kernel to locate it.”
“Or maybe Nadia was wrong,” Beranabus says, glaring at his assistant’s back. “Maybe this is a wild goose chase.”
Sharmila shrugs. “Perhaps. But if we are to continue, it seems logical to make Cadaver our target.”
Beranabus thinks it over, then pins his gaze on me. “Look at me directly and tell me you can’t find the Kah-Gash.”
I don’t like him calling me a liar, but I let our eyes meet and say, “I searched for it honestly. I couldn’t find it.” I hold his gaze, trying not to blink.
Beranabus scowls. “Very well. We’ll pick up Cadaver’s trail and hope he hasn’t laid any more traps for us. Go ahead then, boy. Find him.”
“First you have to promise to help me rescue Art.”
“Don’t worry,” Beranabus huffs. “We’ll do all we can to save your little brother. If he’s still alive.” He spits spitefully. “Which I very much doubt.”
HELL-CHILD
I DON’T search for Cadaver directly, figuring that wherever Art is, the demon must be too. (Unless he killed Art and dumped his body as he darted between worlds, says an inner voice that I ignore.) So I search for my brother instead. To my surprise it takes me a few seconds to bring up an image of him. His face is hazy in my mind and I have to concentrate hard to make it clear. For some odd reason, I think of the orange marbles which he was playing with before he was stolen. He dropped them on his way to the window and I picked them up. Put them in my pocket. I reach in and touch them now, and when I do that, I click on an image of Art in Sally’s house, that night in the bedroom when he was holding them up in front of his eyes.
As soon as I recall that, a number of lights around me pulse. Many are orange, reminding me of the orange patch I saw over Art’s head that time. Maybe individual colors are associated with certain people. I must take more notice of the colors the next time I’m looking for someone, to check.
I haven’t reached out to the lights yet. I find myself reluctant to start. Afraid, almost. Because now, finally, I have to face the facts. If Art’s dead, I’ll know as soon as I step through the window. I’ve been living in hope, trying to convince myself that he’s alive and well. But once I put these pulsing lights together, hope will vanish, leaving me with the truth. Which is fine if Cadaver hasn’t killed him. But if he has...
I steel myself against the possible awfulness of the discovery. I can’t falter now, when I’m so close. If I’d known about my gift earlier, I could have gone after him from that first demon world. But this has been a learning process. I’ve found out things about myself and this strange universe, bit by bit. Time to put my learning to good use — and pray it’s not too late.
I let out a deep breath. Scratch an itchy spot on my head. Start to slot the lights into place.
The window is orange when it forms, which is no great surprise. I step back from it, nervous, thinking about how angry Beranabus will be if Art isn’t with Cadaver.
The magician steps up to the window and sniffs at it. Looks back at us. There’s a glint to his eyes which, looking around, I see reflected in Shark’s. The eager glint of men who enjoy fighting. Sharmila looks scared. Dervish seems more confused than anything else. He’s put his leather jacket on and is stroking one of his spiky clumps of hair for comfort.
“Nadia,” Beranabus calls. She’s still sitting with her back to us, though her shoulders are no longer heaving. At the call, she stands and turns. Her pale, pockmarked face is composed, like a mask. Her eyes are red from crying but there are no fresh tears. She walks towards us at an even pace, stops close to Beranabus, looks at him without interest.
“I want you to concentrate,” Beranabus says. “See if you can gain an insight that might let us know what’s on the other side.”
Nadia smiles coldly. “I’m not feeling very insightful,” she says, then steps through the window before Beranabus can respond.
Beranabus curses, but the slightest look of guilt flits across his face. He shrugs it off and nods sharply at Sharmila. “You next. I’ll come after you. Then the boy, Dervish and Shark. Is everybody ready?”
“Ready for what?” Dervish asks.
