“But…” I stare at the elderly, bearded magician. He looks maybe sixty or more, but nothing like a guy in his hundreds, assuming a man could live that long—which is impossible.

“Time works differently in the Demonata’s universe,” Nadia says. “It can move more slowly or quickly, depending on where you are. But normally it’s slower. An hour here could be a day or more on Earth. A week could be a year. You could spend three or four years here and return to a brand new century. Or spend ten years here and return to a world which has only moved on by a week.

“But humans can’t survive in this universe. Even real magicians fall foul of the demon forces. Several have tried to extend their natural lifespan by coming here, but they’ve all been ripped to shreds by the Demonata. Except Beranabus. He’s strong enough to fight the demons as an equal, to survive among them. He’s a few hundred years old. At least.”

Raz and Sharmila have stopped arguing. Raz moves close to his master, in case he needs help. Sharmila comes to squat by Nadia and me, and listens as Nadia continues her explanations.

“The mages who wanted to fight the Demonata contacted Beranabus. He’d been fighting demons long before they came along, but usually in this universe. He saw it as his duty to prevent the stronger demons from building tunnels and crossing over. He focused on the demon masters— the ones who could destroy our world if they found a way across.”

“Have you ever fought a demon master?” Sharmila asks Nadia.

“Not yet,” she says and a troubled expression flits across her face. She falls silent and starts chewing her nails again, biting hard. Sharmila squeezes the younger woman’s shoulder, then takes up the story. She has a soft but firm voice.

“The mages asked Beranabus to teach them his ways. They wanted to study his methods, so they could fight the stronger demons too. He told them he was not interested in being their teacher. But they were persistent. Dogged him. Begged to become his students, to learn, to help.

“Finally, because he was tired of being bothered, or because he thought they might serve some good, he agreed.

“He let a few travel with him through this universe, showed them how to fight, helped them understand more about their enemies. They passed that knowledge on, teaching others how to destroy windows before they were fully formed, how to fight demons who made it through. Although often, when a demon crosses, it is better not to engage them directly, just try to limit the damage.”

She pauses and shrugs stiffly. “That is not the way we like it, but it is the way it must be. There are too few of us to take risks. Better we avoid direct conflict, and prevent other crossings, than fight, perish and leave the demons free to come as they please. Some disagree with that and take the fight to the Demonata, but they do not last very long.”

“You tried fighting when you were younger,” Nadia says, and Sharmila nods. “That’s why Beranabus recruited you. You and Raz have fought demons. He knows he can take advantage of your nobler nature.” She chuckles dryly and shoots Beranabus a dark look. I realise she doesn’t like the ancient magician. Maybe even hates him. But in that case, why does she work for him? Before I can ask, Nadia picks up the story again.

“The mages called themselves the Disciples, to honour Beranabus. He didn’t care about that, but to them it was important. It still is. Their followers have kept the name. There are never many Disciples—maybe forty or fifty at any time. They patrol the world, thwarting the plans of lesser demons, searching for other humans with powers like their own, to recruit, train and set against the Demonata.”

“Mostly we act independently of the master,” Raz says and all our heads bob up. He’s standing over me, rubbing his hands together, smiling. “We were not properly introduced earlier. My name is Raz Warlo. This is Sharmila Mukherji. And Nadia Moore. We are—I’m sure I speak for us all— delighted to meet you, and will do all in our power to make you feel that you are among friends and allies.”

Sharmila laughs shortly. “Always the diplomat, Raz.”

“One of us needs to be,” he laughs back, then squats. “As I said, the Disciples mostly act without orders from the master. He leaves us free to operate as we see fit. Occasionally, he’ll assign one of us a task, perhaps to watch for signs of demonic activity in a certain area, or to come into this universe with him to fight. But mostly we follow our own path.”

“Lucky you,” Nadia says bitterly and shoots another harsh look at Beranabus.

“Are you his… slave?” I ask hesitantly.

“I might as well be,” she spits, then smiles painfully. “No. Beranabus is a real son of a bitch, but I’m free to leave if I wish. I’m different from Raz, Sharmila and the rest of the Disciples—more gifted. Not necessarily more powerful, but I can…” She trails off and glances at Raz and Sharmila, who are staring at her curiously. They don’t know this bit either.

Nadia sniffs. “It’s not a secret. Beranabus didn’t tell you because there wasn’t time. He won’t mind if I fill you in. And I think I should because it concerns you and Raz too. It’s the reason you’re here.”

“I have been curious about that,” Sharmila says, and though Raz says nothing, I can see that he’s intrigued also.

Nadia rubs her arms, shivering slightly. “I’ve been with Beranabus a long time, maybe seven or eight years—though it’s been a lot longer than that in the human world. When Beranabus recruited me, talking movies had just come into fashion. It was 1929.”

We gawp at her. Sharmila covers her mouth with a hand. Raz blinks owlishly.

“1929?” I echo. “But you’re so young.”

“I’ve spent most of those seven or eight years here, where—as I’ve explained—time works differently.”

“You mean you missed the Second World War?” Raz asks. “Rock and roll? The Beatles?”

“Beetles?” Nadia asks innocently.

“The Beatles. The biggest band in the world. They…” He stops, not sure how to explain the Beatles to somebody from 1929.

“Poor girl,” Sharmila says, tears of pity in her eyes.

“It’s not so bad.” Nadia shrugs uncomfortably. “When we return to the human world, we stay in a cave which has been Beranabus’ base for many centuries. I haven’t seen the outside world since I joined him. I’m not jealous or regretful. Not really.”

She tries to make it sound like she honestly feels that way, but it’s clear that she’s deeply unhappy.

“Why?” Raz asks softly. “Why did the master ask this great sacrifice of you? What is your gift?”

“Fortune-telling,” Nadia says with a giggle. “I was a child fortune-teller. I’d dress up as a gypsy and read people’s palms, tea leaves, a crystal ball—whatever. When my parents realised I could make money doing it, they set up a special room in our house. Later, they took me on the road with a travelling fair. I had a tent of my own. They billed me as Nadia Le Tarot. It was fun, but frightening sometimes—I could see people’s death. I was supposed to just tell them good things, but if I saw something upsetting, I couldn’t always hide it. That got me into trouble.

“I don’t know how Beranabus found me. He just turned up one night, and whisked me off into the madness of this. I was terrified. I didn’t know who he was or what he wanted. And all the demons…”

She shudders and glares at Beranabus. I try to imagine what that must have been like. It’s not difficult, since I’m in much the same boat as she was. But at least I made the decision to come here.

“In time, I learnt why Beranabus took me,” Nadia says. “I can sense things which have not yet happened. There are many people who claim that gift, but I’m one of the few who can really do it. Beranabus says my kind are even rarer than magicians.”

“How much can you see?” Sharmila asks, and there’s an edge to her voice. “Can you see when we will die? And by what means?”