Ocean of Blood

by Darren Shan

  “We seek a cabin,” Larten said.

  “Alas, this isn’t a passenger ship. We have a handful o’ passengers, but we’ve already squeezed in as many as we can fer this journey. If it’s America ye’re looking fer, I can recommend –”

  “I do not care where you are going,” Larten snapped, then paused. “America?”

  “Ultimately,” the captain nodded. “Got a few stops t’ make first, and we’re going by way o’ Greenland, but –”

  “Greenland!” Larten yelled with excitement. “That is where I want to go.”

  “A strange place t’ want t’ get off, sir,” the captain said. “But I can recommend a couple o’ ships fer there too.”

  “I do not want any other ship,” Larten growled. “This is the ship for me. The Pearly Tornado—a fine name, a fine ship and a fine captain.”

  “Very nice o’ ye t’ say, sir, but I’m afraid I really can’t –”

  Larten dug into his pockets, pulled out all of his money and thrust it at the astonished captain. “Is that enough? Malora, give him more if he wants.”

  “I don’t think he needs any more,” Malora said quietly. She shared a look with the captain and took back a couple of notes. He didn’t object—in fact he seemed relieved. “Will that cover the cost of our voyage and help you persuade some of your other passengers to make way for us?”

  “It will,” the captain said weakly. “But ye’ll have t’ share a cabin.”

  “No,” Malora said firmly. “We need a cabin of our own.”

  “But –” the captain began to protest. Malora handed him one of the notes she had retrieved and the captain glumly pocketed the money. “Give me fifteen minutes. I’ll have it sorted fer ye by then.”

  “And, captain,” Malora called him back. “Fresh linen if you please.”

  He grinned thinly and tipped his hat to her. “Aye, ma’am.”

  The Pearly Tornado set sail on the next tide. Larten missed the launch. He was asleep in their cabin, tossing and turning from the fever. Malora had washed him down once already, after he had vomited all over himself and the sheets. The next few days or weeks were going to be hard, until the flu passed. (Or until he dies, part of her whispered, but she preferred not to consider that grim possibility.)

  When she felt the ship get under way, Malora left Larten and went on deck. This was her first time sailing and she was fascinated by all the activity going on around her. She had never guessed that the running of a ship would be such a complex process.

  The other passengers were on deck too, looking at the shore with sad longing as they pulled away. There were four men, two women and a baby that clung to its mother and cried shrilly. Malora assumed they were going to start a new life in America, and were so poor that they hadn’t been able to afford passage on any of the regular ships.

  Daniel Abrams – the boy who’d first greeted them – edged up to Malora, spat over the railing and nodded pleasantly. “Yer master’s asleep?” he guessed.

  “Resting,” Malora said.

  “He looked right sick when he came aboard,” Daniel noted.

  “Influenza,” Malora said. “He’s over the worst of it, but will probably lie low for most of the journey. His eyes are weak from the illness. He can’t bear to be out in the sun at the moment—that’s why he had the umbrella.”

  “Ah.” Daniel nodded again, this time like a doctor. “If ye need anything, liquor, medicine or hot food, let me know. We don’t have much, but I can fetch the best of what there is… fer a price.” He coughed uncomfortably, unaccustomed to such bargaining.

  Malora smiled at the boy. “My master is a generous man. You will be well rewarded for any services rendered. And you already have my gratitude for making such a kind offer.”

  Daniel blushed. “Anything ye want, ma’am, just ask fer Master Abrams. I’m a right little jackdaw, me.”

  Malora remained on deck a couple of hours, adjusting to the swell of the waves, breathing deeply of the salty air. Before returning to her cabin, she asked Daniel to arrange some supplies for them, drink, food and a burner—she said she would cook in their cabin while her master was sick. As he was doing that, she went to check on Larten.

  The vampire was awake but ill. He didn’t recognize Malora when she came in—he thought she was Evanna, come to scar the other side of his face. He tried to hide beneath his blankets, but as she whispered his name over and over, his eyes half cleared and he sat up.

  “Malora?” he whined.

  “Who else?”

  “Where are we?”

  “On a ship.” When he stared at her, she said, “You wanted to see Greenland.”

  He tried to work out why he might have said such a thing, but his head hurt when he thought too much. “I’m hungry,” he whimpered instead.

  “Food is on its way.”

  “No,” he said. “The other kind of hunger.”

  Malora frowned. She had already considered this – it was one of the reasons she’d been reluctant to set sail in the first place – but hadn’t thought he’d need to feed so soon.

  “Can you wait?” she asked. “We dock at our first port in less than a week. We can slip ashore then and…”

  He was already shaking his head. “Can’t,” he wheezed. “The hunger… I have to feed when it comes. Dangerous not to. Might drink recklessly if I do not sip regularly.”

  “Very well,” she sighed and sat beside him. She rolled up a sleeve, took a knife from her belt and made a small cut beneath her elbow. She didn’t wince as the blade bit into her flesh—it would take more than that to make her cry. “Not too much,” she murmured as Larten leaned forward eagerly. “We have to make it last.”

  He nodded, then fixed his lips around the cut. Malora smiled and stroked his hair as he fed, her expression and gestures very much like those of the mother’s on deck had been as she’d tried to soothe her wailing baby.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Malora hoped that Larten would disembark when they docked. His condition was worsening and he needed rest and warmth. But he wouldn’t hear of it. When the fever made him feisty, he insisted on going to Greenland to search for the palace of Perta Vin-Grahl. (Malora had no idea who that was.) In his lower moments he moaned that he wanted to die onboard and be buried at sea. Either way, he had no intention of setting foot ashore at any of their early stops.

  Malora never lost her temper, even when he was at his most pitiful and demanding. This was the man she had chosen and she loved him as completely as any sixteen-year-old had ever loved. Nothing he did tested her patience, whether he yelled abuse, wept and asked her to kill him, threw up over her or spat in her face. It was the flu that made him do these things and she refused to blame him for his addle-headed actions.

  The captain, Daniel and the rest of the crew were enamored with Malora. She spent a lot of time making friends, joking with the sailors, stitching clothes for them, helping out in the kitchen. Daniel was especially fond of her, even though he knew he couldn’t win her heart, being younger than she was and just starting out in life. He trailed her like a faithful dog whenever he could. He even asked her to teach him how to cook, so that he could spend more time with her in the kitchen. He was a terrible chef, but he stuck with it to be close to Malora.

  Because they liked the girl so much, they said nothing critical of her bedridden master. When he roared abusively, they turned a deaf ear to his insults. On the rare occasions when he staggered out of his cabin and caused a disturbance on deck, they veered around him and waited for Malora to usher him back inside. They would have put ashore any other passenger who proved so disruptive, no matter how much he had paid, but for Malora’s sake they tolerated the orange-haired nuisance.

  Looking after Larten was exhausting, but Malora was up for the challenge. She worked hard, guarded him fiercely, and let him feed from her when he needed blood. The only problem was that her blood was not going to be enough. He was drinking more than usual because of the fever and she would not be
able to supply him indefinitely from her own veins.

  When they made their final dock before embarking on the long, uninterrupted stretch to Greenland, Malora tried to convince him to go ashore with her, to feed on another person’s blood and restock the vials he carried in case of emergencies. But Larten thought she was trying to trick him, that the ship would sail without them if he got off, so he refused to budge.

  Out of desperation, Malora took the vials and went ashore by herself. Scouring dark, unpleasant alleys, she found a number of sailors sleeping off hangovers. Taking care not to hurt them, she made small cuts on their arms and legs and tried to fill the vials. It was a messy job, but she returned with something to show for her efforts, pleased with what she had brought back.

  Malora would have been far less pleased if she had spotted Daniel Abrams trailing her through the alleys from one victim to another.

  The boy hadn’t set out to spy. At first he’d followed after her like he did on the ship, simply wanting to be close to the girl. When she started exploring the alleys, he figured he should watch out for her in case she ran into trouble—he had vague notions of saving her life and winning her heart. But when he saw her bleeding the snoring sailors…

  Daniel was deeply troubled when he returned. His first instinct was to report it, but he was certain the captain would throw them off if he knew what the sweet-looking girl had been up to. Daniel couldn’t care less about Larten Crepsley, but he would miss Malora. In the end he kept his own counsel, but decided to monitor the girl and her mysterious master. He wasn’t sure what Malora wanted with the blood. It might have been for some strange medical purpose. But he thought there was something more diabolical going on. He wasn’t sure what, but he was certain he’d find out. Daniel was sharp. He would uncover their dark, crimson secret in the end, no matter what it was.

  The ship sailed on, one day blurring into another. The waters were calm for that time of year, but they still had to endure a few rough nights when Malora was sure the vessel would capsize. The other passengers were as scared as she was on those occasions, but the crew never looked worried. Malora didn’t know if that was because they felt safe, or because as sailors they’d accepted the fact that they were going to die at sea eventually. She never asked—it was better not knowing, in case the answer was the latter.

  Larten’s spirits improved temporarily, then darkened again. She had never known a fever like this. She was sure it couldn’t be natural, even in a vampire. Paris Skyle could have told her otherwise, and there were herbs and treatments he could have recommended. But as the Prince had tried to tell Larten in the inn, there was only so much a human could understand about the creatures of the night. Larten had cut himself off from the clan, and Malora had to deal with the crisis as best she could.

  She changed his clothes regularly, bathed him, wiped sweat from his face when the shakes took hold. She made sure he ate and drank enough, and kept the small window open to let in fresh air. He had stopped asking for blood, and though she forced a few drops into his mouth – from another of her cuts, having long since worked through the vials – he spat out most of it. She wasn’t sure if he was trying to die or just couldn’t digest blood in his weakened condition.

  Larten looked like a man on the verge of death. He had aged several years. His skin was saggy and gray, his nails broke off easily, his eyes were red and lifeless. Only his orange hair looked the same as ever—Traz would have been proud to note that his dye could withstand even the ravages of vampire flu.

  The last couple of days and nights had been particularly difficult. Larten had thrashed and moaned nonstop, denying Malora sleep. She’d been awake for sixty hours. This was the closest she had come to breaking, but even at her weakest, exhausted and irritable, she kept her wits about her and saw to Larten’s needs before her own.

  “He’d better appreciate this when he pulls through,” she grumbled, refusing to consider the likelihood that he might not recover. “I’ll expect presents, fine meals and the grandest hotels. I won’t settle for Greenland. He can forget about his palace of ice. I’ll insist he treat me to the best New York has to offer.”

  Malora had heard much about the marvels of New York, mostly from Daniel—he’d never been there, but had picked up tales from other sailors. As Larten snored and lay peacefully for a change – he seemed to be recovering from his latest setback – she thought of the famous city, the delights it could offer, shops full of incredible trinkets and dresses, bustling streets, bright lights that lit up the sky at night. Smiling at the prospect of being able to relax in such a wonderland, she nodded off and was soundly asleep when Larten stirred, rose from his bed and let himself out, moving like a man in a trance.

  Screams woke Malora. For a moment she thought it was a nightmare – she’d had plenty of those recently – but then her head cleared and she realized the screams were real.

  Malora grabbed the covers on the bed and whipped them away—no sign of Larten. They were in trouble. She knew it instantly. It was now simply a case of if she could fix the situation before it got any worse.

  She hurried out of their cabin and tracked the screams. They were coming from a cabin lower than theirs, where the other passengers were staying. The women were shrieking and the men were shouting. When Malora arrived, some of the crew were already there, gathered around the open door, staring at something inside.

  Malora pushed her way through, knowing what she’d find, trying to think of a way to make light of it, to dismiss it as a moment of madness brought on by the fever. As she reached the door, she saw that her fears were well founded. Larten was inside and he had latched on to Yasmin’s left arm. Yasmin was the mother of the baby, and Larten was feeding from her as her child did every day. But he wasn’t interested in milk. He had made a cut, either with his nails or his teeth, and was gulping blood from a wound far bigger than any a sane vampire would have ever made.

  “Larten!” Malora screeched, trying to fake shock. “What are you doing?”

  He didn’t respond. His eyes were closed and he was drinking happily, ignorant of the screams, the way Yasmin and the other woman were striking him, the men trying to tug him off. He only knew blood.

  As the sailors gaped, Malora looked around, spotted a bucket of water, picked it up and doused Larten. The shock of the cold water made him fall away. He tried to get up and grab the bucket, but he toppled and fell in a heap on the floor.

  Yasmin ran to her husband and her baby and they barged through the sailors, wanting to get as far away from the madman as possible.

  Malora knew she had to act quickly. “Help me,” she snapped at two of the crew. “He’s had some kind of fit. We have to take him back to his cabin.”

  The sailors were dubious – a fit couldn’t explain the blood smeared around his lips and chin – but they liked Malora, so they picked up the almost unconscious Larten and hauled him back to his bed. Malora followed, talking rapidly, telling the others trailing behind of the medicine she’d need, asking them to apologize to Yasmin, hoping they wouldn’t stop to ask questions if she kept them busy.

  As the sailors maneuvered Larten through the doorway of their cabin and into bed, Malora paused outside and offered up a silent prayer to the gods. It seemed as if they’d gotten away with it. The captain was arriving and he looked like thunder, but she was sure she could laugh her way out of this. She’d blame it on the flu, let them strap Larten down if they wished to stop him straying again. No real harm had been done. All things considered, it could have been a lot worse.

  And then, as the captain roared at his crew and demanded to know what the hell was going on, it did get worse.

  “He drinks blood!” someone yelled.

  The captain and the others fell quiet. The sailors who’d dropped off Larten joined the rest of the crew outside and stared with them at the person who had spoken. It was, of course, young Daniel Abrams.

  “He’s a bloodsucker,” Daniel said, relishing the attention. He hadn’t meant to s
peak up, but the drama in the cabin had excited him and he wanted to see more fireworks. “He’s some sort of demon.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Malora snapped. “It’s the flu. He didn’t know what he was doing. Captain, you must believe me.”

  And maybe he would have, except that was when a chaos-craving Daniel played his ace.

  “If he’s not a bloodsucker, why was you cutting open sailors and bottling their blood the last place we docked? It was t’ feed yer bloodthirsty beast of a master! There’s vials in the cabin,” he said triumphantly to the shocked captain. “Search. You’ll find ’em, still bloodstained I bet, unless he’s licked ’em clean.”

  “Daniel!” Malora cried. “Why are you doing this? I thought you were my friend.”

  But Daniel had forgotten about his crush on Malora. He craved bloodshed. The scene with Yasmin had whet his appetite and he couldn’t stop now, any more than Larten could have when the hunger overwhelmed him.

  The captain studied Daniel soberly, then turned his gaze on Malora. “Step out of the way, please, ma’am.” He nodded at a few of his sailors.

  Malora shook her head. “Captain, no, don’t listen to him, it was just –”

  “Ma’am!” the captain barked. “Ye’re not listening t’ me. Ye have t’ move now. This is bad fer yer master and if ye don’t get away from there immediately it’ll be bad fer you and all. If ye give him to us, I’ll settle fer that and spare ye. But if ye stand up fer him… fer what he did…” His features hardened. “It’s time t’ choose.”

  The young woman looked from one stern-faced sailor to another. There was a vicious gleam to their eyes—they had caught the same dark lust as Daniel. Her friends had disappeared and she knew better than to beg for mercy. It didn’t exist here now.

  Malora nodded slowly, accepting what destiny had unleashed upon her. Unlike Larten, she had no problem choosing her path. No problem at all.

  “So be it,” she said, softly closing the door so as not to disturb the unconscious vampire. As the sailors bunched around her, silent as a pack of sharks, she laid the palm of one hand on the door and bid a silent farewell to the lover she would never get a chance to truly love. Then, turning calmly, she faced the mob closing in on her, sneered at their savage, bestial hunger, drew a knife and made her stand.