Lord Loss by Darren Shan Read Free Book Online

I'm safe here. Leaving might be an invitation to danger and further sorrow. I won't improve in this place, holding true to my story, defying the doctors and nurses — but I can't be harmed either. Out in the real world, I might have to face demons again. Simpler to stay here and hide.
    One morning I wake from a nightmare. In it, I was at a party, wearing a mask. When I took the mask off, I realized I'd been wearing Gret's face.
    Sitting up in bed. Shaking. Crying. I stare out the window at the world beyond.
    I decide.
    Exercising. Eating sensibly. Putting on weight. Talking directly with my doctors and nurses, answering their questions, letting them into my head, “baring my soul.” I allow them to help me. I work with them. Lie when I have to. Say I saw humans in the room that night. Police come and take my statement. An artist captures my new, realistic, invented impressions of the murderers. My doctors beam proudly and pat my back.
    Weeks pass. With help and lots of hard work, I get better. Dervish was right. Now that I'm working with them, they
are
able to help me, even if we're progressing on the basis of a lie — that demons aren't real. I weep a lot and learn a lot — how to face my grief, how to confront my fear and control it — and let them guide me out of the darkness, slowly, painfully, but surely.
    In one afternoon session with a therapist, when I judge the time to be right, I make a request. Lots of discussions afterwards. Long debates. Staff meetings. Phone calls. Humming and hawing. Finally they agree. There's a big build-up. Lots of in-depth therapy sessions and heart-to-hearts. Tests galore, to make sure I'm ready, to reassure themselves that they're doing the right thing. They have doubts. They voice them. We talk them through. They decide in my favor.
    The last day. Handshakes and emergency contact numbers from the doctors in case anything goes wrong. Kisses and hugs from my favorite nurses. A card from Leah. Facing the door, a bag on my shoulder with all I have left in the world. Scared sick but determined to see it through.
    I leave the institute on the back of a motorbike. Driving — my rescuer, my lifeline, my hope — Uncle Dervish.
    “Hold on tight,” he says. “Speed limits were made to be broken.”
    Vroom!

THE GRAND TOUR
    D ERVISH drives like a madman, a hundred miles an hour. Howling wind. Blurred countryside. No chance to talk or study the scenery. I spend the journey with my face pressed between my uncle's shoulder blades, clinging on for dear life.
    Finally, coming to a small village, he slows. I peek and catch the name on a sign as we exit — Carcery Vale.
    “Carkerry Vale,” I murmur.
    “It's pronounced Car-sherry,” Dervish grunts.
    “This is where you live,” I note, recalling the address from cards I wrote and sent with Mom and Gret. (Mom didn't like Uncle Dervish but she always sent him a Christmas and birthday card.)
    “Actually, I live about two miles beyond,” Dervish says, carefully overtaking a tractor and waving to the driver. “It's pretty lonely out where I am, but there are lots of kids in the village. You can walk in any time you like.”
    “Do they know about me?” I ask.
    “Only that you're an orphan and you're coming to live with me.”
    A winding road. Lots of potholes that Dervish swerves expertly to avoid. The sides of the road are lined with trees. They grow close together, blocking out all but the thinnest slivers of sunlight. Dark and cold. I press closer to Dervish, hugging warmth from him.
    “The trees don't stretch back very far,” he says. “You can skirt around them when you're going to the village.”
    “I'm not afraid,” I mutter.
    “Of course you are,” he chuckles, then looks back quickly. “But you have my word — you've no need to be.”
    Chez
Dervish. Three storeys. Three floors. Built from rough white blocks, almost as big as those I've seen in photos of the pyramids. Shaped like an L. The bit sticking out at the end is made