by Darren Shan
Gavner didn’t like it when the pair spoke of war and wiping out the vampaneze, but he was only an ordinary General—he had passed his Trials eight years earlier—and he figured it wasn’t his place to lecture them. If Wester was right and this was the wish of the clan, he would have to swallow his misgivings and fall in behind Larten as he led them all to war.
The vampires stayed up talking long after everyone else had gone home or to bed. (Jimmy Ovo had left for a party. His parting shot to a bemused Larten was, “Catch you later, orangey dude!”) But finally even the creatures of the night grew tired. Larten offered his friends a place to sleep. Gavner accepted but Wester said that he had to move on.
“There are a few vampires based in and around New York,” he said. “I want to track them down, find out where they stand, try to win them over if they’re against your nomination. I’ll be in the city another few nights and will call again to see you before I leave.”
Gavner fell asleep in a hammock beside Larten’s coffin, and soon he was snoring soundly. Larten couldn’t sleep, and not just because of Gavner’s rasping snores. He kept thinking about his investiture, how his life would change, what it would be like to go to war. Randel Chayne would no longer be able to hide. If he was alive, he’d have to fight along with the rest of his clan. One way or another, Larten’s quest was drawing to a close.
He decided to get some fresh air before the sun rose. Slipping out, he took to the streets and set off on what should have been a long, taxing walk. But he didn’t get very far. Passing the all-night diner where he’d met Sylva a week earlier, he spotted her inside, hunched over a mug of coffee, tears streaming down her face.
Larten paused by the window and studied the weeping woman. She had looked upset when he saw her after the show. He’d meant to ask if she was all right but had been distracted by Wester’s news. He thought of leaving her to cry in private, but he hated seeing her like this and didn’t want to abandon her without trying to help. Maybe something had happened to Patrice or one of her children.
Sylva didn’t look up as he sat opposite her, but by the way her fingers tightened on her mug, he knew she was aware of his presence. He said nothing for a time, letting her recover and compose herself. Finally she met his gaze and wiped tears from her bloodshot eyes.
“I was waiting for you,” she sniffed. “I couldn’t go home. I’d have waited all day if I had to. I won’t put Patrice’s or the children’s lives in danger.”
Larten frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“You always said that you knew who he was,” Sylva moaned. “I never described him because I didn’t think I needed to. You said that you knew.”
Larten shook his head dumbly. She wasn’t making sense.
Sylva took a deep breath, then wheezed, “I saw my mother’s killer tonight.”
Larten froze. For a long minute he stared at the ashen woman, his thoughts in a mad whirl. Finally he placed his hands flat on the table and said dully, “Where was he? In the audience? On the roof?”
Sylva laughed sickly. “You’ve been a fool. The only reason I can forgive you is that I know how much this will hurt. I even considered not telling you—it would have been easier to leave you to your fantasy. But she was my mother. It’s been a long time, but I still want to see her assassin pay for what he did. I can’t let him go free, even to spare your feelings.”
Larten frowned. “I do not understand. I hate Randel Chayne. My heart will fill with joy when I kill him.”
“Such a fool,” Sylva sighed. Then she laid her soft hands over Larten’s and spoke gently, knowing she would destroy his world with her words, but unable to withhold the truth from him. “The killer didn’t hide. He didn’t need to. He would have been more careful if he knew I was at the show, but thinking that he had nothing to fear, he acted without caution.
“You have been betrayed,” she whispered. “I don’t know what his name is, but by the way you acted in his presence, he’s clearly not the one you knew as Randel Chayne. For all these decades you’ve been chasing the wrong man.”
And as she went on, Larten felt waves of madness surround and engulf him, claiming him for blood-drenched, heartbroken delirium once more.
Chapter
Nineteen
Larten spent the day in his coffin, listening to Gavner snore, thinking everything through, putting all of the pieces together. He was calmer than he should have been. If this had happened forty or fifty years ago, he would have flown into a murderous rage. But he was older now, more world-weary. This was the worst thing that had ever happened to him, but he wasn’t shocked. He had seen enough in his many decades to know that this was just the way things worked. Vulnerable boys like Vur Horston were killed all the time. True-hearted girls like Malora met with sticky ends every day. Selfish, cynical men like Tanish Eul were everywhere. He had long been incapable of claiming an innocent’s view of the world, so Larten could only feel sadness and shame—sad that he’d been betrayed, ashamed that he hadn’t spotted the deception earlier.
He rose an hour before sunset. Gavner was still snoring. Larten considered leaving while his ex-assistant slept, but that would have been unfair. He couldn’t take Gavner with him, regardless of the promise he had made to include him in the execution of Alicia’s killer if they ever learned of his whereabouts, but it would be wrong to exit without serving any sort of notice. So he bent and gently woke the sleeping General.
“Why’d you wake me so early?” Gavner yawned.
“I have to leave,” Larten said. “I need you to deliver some messages for me.”
“What sort of messages?”
“First, tell Hibernius that I cannot be part of the show tonight. It probably will not come as any surprise to him, but pass on my apologies anyway.”
“Okay.” Gavner rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Who’s the next message for?”
“Paris Skyle. Tell him that I do not want to become a Prince. I am sick of this business and want nothing more to do with the clan. I do not even wish to be a General any longer. Tell him I have resigned with immediate effect.”
Gavner scowled. He thought Larten was joking and he was trying to figure out the punchline. Then he focused on the vampire’s dark expression and realized this wasn’t a gag.
“Larten!” he gasped, clambering to his feet. “What happened? Why are you saying this? What—”
“I do not care to discuss the matter,” Larten interrupted. “I was once your master. I might even have been a father to you if I had not been so stuck in my stuffy ways.” He smiled fleetingly, but it was a lonely, distressed shade of a smile. “If you bear any love for me, you will do as I request and ask no questions.”
Gavner gulped, then nodded slowly. He was silently cursing himself for being such a sound sleeper. He didn’t know what he’d missed, but something had gone seriously amiss with the world while he slumbered.
“There is one more message,” Larten said evenly. “Tell Seba that I am sorry if I disappointed him. I will always love and respect him, but he should not expect a visit from me or Wester anytime soon. In fact he might never see us again.”
“Wester’s leaving too?” Gavner asked, blinking with confusion.
“We must both… withdraw,” Larten said. “One of us might return to him some night in the future, but it is unlikely.”
Gavner shook his head helplessly. “I don’t understand.”
Larten gave the young vampire’s shoulder a squeeze. “There are some things in life we can never understand, things we are better off not understanding. Pass on my messages. Try to be a General of good standing. Make me proud of you.”
With that he turned and left. Gavner didn’t call after him. He had lost his voice. The last time he’d felt this bewildered and alone was when Larten and Vancha tracked him down in Petrograd and killed Tanish Eul. But he felt even worse now, as he was about to lose someone who meant much more to him than Tanish had.
Finally, when his throat cleared, he mumbled
, “Good-bye… father.”
But Larten never heard. He was already gone.
Larten was able to track Wester mentally. The pair had bonded many decades ago and one could always locate the other, no matter where in the world they were. He found Wester shortly after dusk, near the top of one of New York’s many towering skyscrapers, conversing with another vampire. Larten studied them from his perch outside the window. It didn’t bother him that he was high off the ground, clinging to the wall like a spider, facing certain death if his grip slipped. He felt at one with the world up here.
Wester was talking about Larten becoming a Prince, and the possibility of war with the vampaneze. He was animated, making grand promises and pledges. The other vampire looked dubious.
Larten sent a mental burst to Wester. Vampires couldn’t communicate at length in this manner, but they could exchange short messages. I need to speak with you, Larten transmitted. Meet me on the roof.
Wester paused and frowned, then carried on as if nothing had happened. After a minute he made an excuse to leave and said he would return shortly. As Wester exited, Larten crawled up the outside of the building, digging his nails into the bricks, climbing swiftly. He hauled himself onto the roof before Wester got there. When the guard arrived, Larten was standing close to the edge, staring out over the city, his back to Wester.
“What’s up?” Wester asked.
“It will be a fine night,” Larten replied, gazing at the clear sky.
Wester laughed uneasily. “You didn’t come here to discuss the weather.” He could tell something was wrong by the way Larten stood so stiffly.
“You have always been a brother to me,” Larten said. “Along with Seba, you are the closest family I have had since turning my back on those who brought me into this world.”
“I feel the same way about you.” Wester’s face twisted into a worried frown. “Is something wrong with our old master?”
“No.” Larten cracked his knuckles and changed the subject. “It is strange how Randel Chayne disappeared. Vampires and vampaneze often die in the wilds and are never discovered, but if he had been trailing me, he would have been frequenting the cities of Europe. There should have been some trace of him.”
“I suppose he tried to hide after…” Wester cleared his throat diplomatically.
“That is what I imagined too,” Larten said. “I thought, after he killed Alicia in Paris, that he fled and lay low for a while, and was either in hiding or had died in an accident at some point over the years.” Larten turned and looked at Wester calmly. “When did you kill him?”
Wester blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“I assume you killed him before you slaughtered Alicia, so that you could be certain of being able to point the finger of blame at him. Was it days before? Weeks? Months? How long had you been planning it, Wester? How long did you have it in mind to kill the woman I loved, pin the blame on Randel Chayne, turn me against the vampaneze and use me to lead our people into war?”
Wester gulped and desperately searched for a way out of this dire predicament. But he quickly realized that nothing he said could have any impact on the stern-faced General. Larten would not have leveled such an accusation at him if he wasn’t one hundred percent sure.
“How did you find out?” Wester asked softly.
“Sylva saw you after you killed her mother, as you were fleeing. She was at the show last night and recognized you when you came backstage.”
Wester sighed. “I should have killed her in Paris. When I looked back on it later, I regretted being merciful. I often meant to track her down and eliminate her, but I didn’t want to hurt you any more than I already had, and as the years passed it seemed as if I had nothing to worry about. I stopped thinking of her as a potential threat.”
“You are an amateur villain,” Larten noted cynically.
“Aye,” Wester grimaced. “Like Tanish Eul, I was never cut out for murder. Clumsy assassins like us should leave it to the professionals.” He was calm now that his deception had been revealed, calmer than he had ever thought he would be when he’d imagined this scenario. And he had imagined it countless times over the years, haunted by memories of what he had done and fears of what would happen if his crime came to light. “How much do you want to know?”
“Not a lot,” Larten answered curtly. “I have been able to work out most of it. When you saw that you were losing the support of the clan, you made one last attempt to convince me to join you. When that failed, you killed Alicia and framed Randel Chayne.”
“Having already executed him,” Wester nodded. “I’d been keeping tabs on Randel for years. I have contacts among the vampaneze who yearn for war as much as I do—we’re strangely united by our hatred of each other. They kept me abreast of his movements. I killed him before I came to you, knifed him while he was asleep. An ignoble end for a child of the night, but he was an ignoble individual, so I didn’t worry too much about it.”
“Did Desmond Tiny put the idea in your head when he came to visit you at Vampire Mountain?” Larten asked.
“Not directly,” Wester said. “He told me that I needed your support to lead the clan to war, and he mentioned the fact that if you hated the vampaneze as much as I did—if you lost someone close to them as I had—you might sympathize more with my cause. But he never mentioned Alicia specifically.”
“He did not need to,” Larten said. “He knew you were clever enough to put two and two together.” For the first time a bitter edge crept into his voice.
“I had to do it,” Wester said, staring down at his hands, remembering that awful night, the bloodstains on his fingers, sobbing uncontrollably as he took Alicia’s life, hating himself but pressing on regardless.
“Had to?” Larten snarled.
“The vampaneze must be eradicated,” Wester said. “You were the key. That’s become more obvious with every passing year. It was your destiny to lead the clan to glory, to destroy our enemies and secure our future. But sometimes destiny needs a helping hand. I didn’t want to do it, but ultimately she was only one woman. What’s a single life measured against the lives of everyone in our clan?”
Larten trembled with rage but said nothing, waiting for the emotion to pass. He didn’t want to get into a war of words with Wester. It was too late for that. Nothing either of them said could change what had happened or what must be done now.
“It will be a fine night,” Larten said again, returning to the subject of the weather.
“I suppose,” Wester frowned, glancing at the sky.
“A good night to die,” Larten added.
“Oh.” Wester’s features clouded over. “You plan to kill me?”
“We will duel,” Larten said. “I am your superior in combat, as we both know, but perhaps I will make mistakes in my current unsettled state. Either way it will be a fair fight.”
Wester nodded. “Will you give me an honorable burial if you win? Will you tell Seba I fell in battle and praise my name in the Halls of Vampire Mountain?”
“No,” Larten croaked, tears springing to his eyes.
Wester had been waiting for the tears. As Larten blinked them away, Wester thrust forward. His fingers twisted into a hook and he lashed at Larten’s stomach, hoping to slice it open and end the fight early.
Although Larten was temporarily blinded, he heard Wester close in on him and shimmied aside as the guard struck. Wester’s nails cut through the material of Larten’s red cloak but didn’t even scratch his flesh.
Larten caught Wester’s outstretched arm and twisted it up behind his back, snapping the bones in several places. Wester screamed and spun away, his arm hanging uselessly by his side, face pale with pain and shock.
Larten darted at the injured guard. Wester tried to drive him back with his good hand, but Larten caught his fist midair, then chopped at his wrist. He had only meant to shatter the bones, but he struck harder than intended and his nails tore through Wester’s flesh and severed the guard’s hand.
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br /> They were close to the edge of the building. Wester watched as if in a dream as his hand bounced off the roof and fell into the abyss beyond, the fingers still twitching as they dropped upon the unsuspecting city below.
Wester staggered and almost toppled off the roof after his hand. Larten grabbed the guard and held him by the pale gray cloth of his jacket. Wester was defenseless now, unable to strike back. Blood spurted from his wrist, soaking the pair of them. The fight was over and both vampires knew it.
“I… love… you,” Wester moaned pitifully.
“I love you too,” Larten whispered, then dug his fingers into the soft flesh of his best friend’s throat and crushed it. As Wester’s dying gurgles were whipped away by the wind, Larten wrapped his arms around him and howled at the sky like an agonized wolf, floods of tears streaming down his cheeks, clutching his blood brother tightly as the warmth seeped from his limp, lifeless form.
Part Five
“This was his destiny.”
Chapter
Twenty
Larten buried Wester in a field far beyond the borders of New York, having flitted for a couple of hours, the corpse slung across his shoulders. He said no words of mourning and put up no marker, just dug a hole, laid Wester in it, and filled it in again. He stood over the grave for a long time, head bowed. He wasn’t crying now but he felt hollow inside. Finally, without warning, he turned and jogged away. Soon he was running, and then he flitted, leaving Wester to cool and rot in the earth behind.
He never returned to the grave in the years to come, but in his dreams he went back often.
Larten knew where he was headed even before he consciously decided on his path. The future gaped ahead of him like an ugly, open wound. He had no idea what he would do once he recovered from this terrible night, if he’d ever return to the clan, if he’d even find the strength to carry on living. But he knew the perfect place to hole up while he tried to deal with his shock.