Free Lady of the Shades by Darren Shan Page B

trying to forget about Andeanna.
    I tossed and turned in the back of my rented car the first night, the ghosts writhing around me, half in and half out of the car’s structure. Then I booked into a cottage that has been
converted into a B&B. I slept sweetly, exhausted after my hard day, and didn’t dream of Andeanna. There was even a moment when I woke when she wasn’t in my thoughts. Then the
memories returned. I groaned, rolled over and started planning another day of harsh, demanding exercise.
    That was when my phone rang. I wasn’t going to answer, but nerves got the better of me and I lunged for it, only to discover it wasn’t Andeanna. It was Jonathan Wood, my agent. He
was in London and wanted to arrange some meetings with prospective publishers.
Soul Vultures
is being reprinted here, and a couple of editors have been in touch, wanting to know what
I’m working on next. I asked to be excused from the negotiations, but Jonathan was adamant. He doesn’t get over to England often (he’s in town drumming up business for another of
his clients) and he said it would be crazy to miss such a golden opportunity.
    Returning to London was the last thing I wanted, but professional hunger got the better of me. I was loath to waste all those years of hard work, especially over a woman who would probably laugh
with vixen delight if she found out how deeply she’d cut me. ‘OK,’ I sighed. ‘Let’s meet this evening and you can tell me more about it.’
    So I’m back. Evening has come and gone. I met Jonathan in the bar of his hotel, and we passed a pleasant few hours discussing the re-release of
Soul Vultures
, and my new work,
which I told him would be called
Pillars of Fire
or
Spirit of the Fire
. I promised to toss together a summary to present to the editors in the morning.
    The ghosts have been sluggish since I got back. They feed on negative energy. When my mood improved – when work distracted me from my dark thoughts – they lost a lot of their power
and had to settle back into their familiar holding pattern.
    I rang Joe on my way back to the Royal Munster but got his voicemail. I left a message, then settled down to work. Joe calls an hour later when I’m in the middle of a wild oasis of notes.
I growl into the mouthpiece, ‘Get over here. I need you.’
    ‘Is this about the book or . . . ?’ he asks diplomatically.
    ‘The book.’
    ‘I’ll be with you in a flash.’
    I tell Joe about my morning meetings. He wants to come with me, but I say that isn’t a good idea. I haven’t told Jonathan about my partner and I’m not sure how he’ll
react. The longer we wait, the fewer objections he can make. I explain all this to Joe, but I can see he’s disappointed. I’ll make it up to him later, take him on tour with me, let him
sit in on interviews, stuff like that.
    We work until four in the morning, fine-tuning our mass of ideas, putting them in order, searching for a nice, neat way to sum up the plot. Finally I groan, push the pile of notes away and hold
up the three-page plot outline, the fruit of all our endeavours, as if it was the Holy Grail.
    ‘What about typing it up?’ Joe asks.
    ‘Screw that.’ I stand and yawn. ‘It’ll do as it is.’
    ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Yes.’ Rubbing my eyelids, I ask Joe if he wants to sleep on the couch instead of making the long trek home.
    ‘That’s OK,’ he says. ‘I’ll head back to the flat. I find it hard to sleep if I’m not in my own bed. But do you mind if I treat myself to a
nightcap?’
    ‘Help yourself,’ I tell him, heading for the bedroom. ‘But if you get arrested for drink-driving, don’t blame me.’
    In the morning I find that all the notes have been tidied away and nine sheets of A4 paper rest on top of my laptop — the word-processed plot outline and two copies. There’s a note
from Joe.
Thought we should type it up all the same. Hope you don’t mind. Let me know how you get on. Good luck!!!
    The meetings go well.