Allies Of The Night tsods-8

by Darren Shan

  "I don't think so," Richard said. "I was going nose-down, like a plane." He sat beside me and studied the screen. "Creating a screen saver?"

  "Yes."

  "I know where to find some really good scenes from sci-fi and horror movies. Want me to show you?"

  I nodded. "That'd be cool."

  Smiling, his fingers flew over the keyboard and soon we were discussing school and homework and computers, and the rest of the lunch break whizzed by.

  Richard swapped seats in English and history in order to sit beside me, and let me copy from his notes — he had his own shorthand system which allowed him to jot down everything that was said in class. He also started spending most of his breaks and lunches with me. He pulled me out of the computer room and introduced me to other friends of his. They didn't exactly welcome me with open arms, but at least I had a few people to talk to now.

  It was fun hanging out, discussing TV, comics, music, books and (of course!) girls. Harkat and me — Harkat and I — had TV sets in our rooms at the hotel, and I started watching a few programmes at night. Most of the stuff my new friends enjoyed was formulaic and tedious, but I pretended to enthuse about it like they did.

  The week passed swiftly and before I knew it I was facing another weekend. For the first time I was mildly disappointed to have two free days on my hands — Richard would be away at his grandparents' — but cheered up at the thought of spending them with Debbie.

  I'd been thinking a lot about Debbie, and the bond between us. We'd been very close as teenagers, and I now felt closer to her than ever. I knew there were obstacles — especially my appearance — but having spent so much time with her, I now believed we could overcome those obstacles and pick up where we'd left off thirteen years before.

  That Friday night, I summoned all my courage as we were sitting together on the couch, leant over and tried to kiss Debbie. She looked surprised, and pushed me away lightly, laughing uneasily. When I tried to kiss her again, her surprise turned to icy anger and she shoved me away firmly. "No!" she snapped.

  "Why not?" I retorted, upset.

  "I'm your teacher," Debbie said, standing. "You're my student. It wouldn't be right."

  "I don't want to be your student," I growled, standing up beside her. "I want to be your boyfriend."

  I leant forward to kiss her again, but before I could, she slapped me hard. I blinked and stared at her, stunned. She slapped me again, softer this time. She was trembling and there were tears in her eyes.

  "Debbie," I groaned, "I didn't mean to—"

  "I want you to leave now," Debbie said. I took a couple of steps back, then halted. I opened my mouth to protest. "No," Debbie said. "Don't say anything. Just go, please."

  Nodding miserably, I turned my back on her and walked to the door. I paused with my fingers on the handle and spoke to her without looking back. "I only wanted to be closer to you. I didn't mean any harm."

  After short silence Debbie sighed and said, "I know."

  I risked a quick look back — Debbie had her arms crossed over her chest and was gazing down at the floor. She was close to crying. "Does this change things between us?" I asked.

  "I don't know," she answered honestly. She glanced up at me and I could see confusion mingled in her eyes with the tears. "Let's leave it for a couple of days. We'll talk about this on Monday. I need to think it over."

  "OK." I opened the door, took a step out, then said very quickly, "You might not want to hear this, but I love you, Debbie. I love you more than anybody else in the world." Before she could reply, I shut the door and slunk away down the stairs like a downtrodden rat.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I PACED the streets as though walking fast could rid me of my problems, thinking of things I might have said to Debbie to make her accept me. I was sure she felt the same way about me that I felt about her. But my looks were confusing her. I had to find a way to get her to view me as an adult, not a child. What if I told her the truth? I imagined breaking the news to her:

  "Debbie, prepare yourself for a shock — I'm a vampire."

  "That's nice, dear."

  "You're not upset?"

  "Should I be?"

  "I drink blood! I creep around in the dead of night, find sleeping humans, and open up their veins!"

  "Well… nobody's perfect."

  The imaginary conversation brought a fleeting smile to my lips. Actually, I had no idea how Debbie would react. I'd never broken the news to a human before. I didn't know where or how to start, or what a person would say in response. I knew vampires weren't the murderous, emotionless monsters of horror movies and books — but how would I convince others?

  "Bloody humans!" I grumbled, kicking a postbox in anger. "Bloody vampires! We should all be turtles or something!"

  On that ridiculous thought, I looked around and realized I'd no idea which part of city I was in. I scouted for a familiar street name, so I could chart a course for home. The streets were largely deserted. Now that the mystery killers had stopped or moved on, the soldiers had withdrawn, and although local police still patrolled the streets, the barricades had come down and you could walk unheeded. Even so, the curfew was still in effect, and most people were happy to respect it.

  I relished the dark, quiet streets. Walking alone down narrow, twisting alleys, I could have been winding my way through the tunnels of Vampire Mountain. It was comforting to imagine myself back with Seba Nile, Vanez Blane and the others, no love life, school or fate-fuelled quests to trouble me.

  Thinking about Vampire Mountain set me thinking about Paris Skyle. I'd been so busy with school and Debbie, I hadn't had time to brood on the death of the Prince. I'd miss the old vampire who'd taught me so much. We'd shared laughter as well. As I stepped over a pile of rubbish strewn across the ground of a particularly dark alley, I recalled the time a few years ago when he leant too close to a candle and set his beard on fire. He'd hopped around the Hall of Princes like a clown, shrieking and slapping at the flames until-

  Something struck the back of my head, hard, and I went toppling into the rubbish. I cried out as I fell, my recollections of Paris shattering, then rolled away defensively, clutching my head between my hands. As I rolled, a silver object came crashing down on the ground where my head had been, and sparks flew.

  Ignoring my wounded head, I scrambled to my knees and looked for something to defend myself with. The plastic top of a dustbin lay nearby. It wouldn't be much good but it was all I could find. Stooping swiftly, I snatched it up and held it in front of me like a shield, turning to meet the charge of my assailant, who was streaking towards me at a speed no human could have matched.

  Something gold flashed and swung down upon my makeshift shield, cutting the dustbin lid in half. Somebody chuckled, and it was the sound of pure, insane evil.

  For a dreadful moment I thought it was Murlough's ghost, come to wreak revenge. But that was silly. I believed in ghosts — Harkat used to be one, before Mr. Tiny brought him back from the dead — but this guy was far too solid to be a spirit.

  "I'll cut you to pieces!" my attacker boasted, circling me warily. There was something familiar about his voice, but try as I might, I couldn't place it.

  I studied his outline as he circled around me. He was wearing dark clothes and his face was masked by a balaclava. The ends of a beard jutted out from underneath it. He was large and chunky — but not as fat as Murlough had been — and I could see two blood-red eyes glinting above his snarling teeth. He had no hands, just two metallic attachments — one gold, the other silver — attached to the ends of his elbows. There were three hooks on each attachment, sharp, curved and deadly.

  The vampaneze — the eyes and speed were the giveaway — struck. He was fast, but I avoided the killer hooks, which dug into the wall behind me and gouged out a sizeable crater when he pulled free. It took less than a second for my attacker to free his hand, but I used that time to strike, kicking him in the chest. But he'd been expecting it and brought his other arm down upo
n my shin, cruelly knocking my leg aside.

  I yelped as pain shot up the length of my leg. Hopping madly, I threw the two halves of the useless dustbin lid at the vampaneze. He ducked out of the way, laughing. I tried to run — no good. My injured leg wouldn't support me, and after a couple of strides I collapsed to the floor, helpless.

  I whirled over on to my back and stared up at the hook-handed vampaneze as he took his time approaching. He swung his arms back and forth as he got closer, the hooks making horrible screeching noises as they scraped together. "Going to cut you," the vampaneze hissed. "Slow and painful. I'll start on your fingers. Slice them off, one at a time. Then your hands. Then your toes. Then—"

  There was a sharp clicking noise, followed by the hiss of parted air. Something shot by the vampaneze's head, only narrowly missing. It struck the wall and embedded itself — a short, thick, steel-tipped arrow. The vampaneze cursed and crouched, hiding in the shadows of the alley.

  Moments ticked by like spiders scuttling up my spine. The vampaneze's angry breath and my gasping sobs filled the air. There was no sight or sound of the person who'd fired the arrow. Shuffling backwards, the vampaneze locked gazes with me and bared his teeth. "I'll get you later," he vowed. "You'll die slowly, in great agony. I'll cut you. Fingers first. One at a time." Then he turned and sprinted. A second arrow was fired after him, but he ducked low and again it missed, burying itself in a large bag of rubbish. The vampaneze exploded out of the end of the alley and vanished quickly into the night.

  There was a lengthy pause. Then footsteps. A man of medium height appeared out of the gloom. He was dressed in black, with a long scarf looped around his neck, and gloves covering his hands. He had grey hair — though he wasn't old — and there was a stern set to his features. He was holding a gun-shaped weapon, out of the end of which jutted a steel-tipped arrow. Another of the arrow-firing guns was slung over his left shoulder.

  I sat up, grunting, and tried to rub some life back into my right leg. "Thanks," I said as the man got closer. He didn't answer, just proceeded to the end of the alley, where he scanned the area beyond for signs of the vampaneze.

  Turning, the grey-haired man came back and stopped a couple of metres away. He was holding the arrow gun in his right hand, but it wasn't pointed harmlessly down at the ground — it was pointing at me.

  "Mind lowering that?" I asked, forcing a sheepish smile. "You just saved my life. Be a shame if that went off by accident and killed me."

  He didn't reply immediately. Nor did he lower the gun. There was no warmth in his expression. "Does it surprise you that I spared your life?" he asked. As with the vampaneze, there was something familiar about this man's voice, but again I couldn't place it.

  "I… guess," I said weakly, nervously eyeing the arrow gun.

  "Do you know why I saved you?"

  I gulped. "Out of the goodness of your heart?"

  "Maybe." He took a step closer. The tip of the gun was now aimed directly at my heart. If he fired, he'd create a hole the size of a football in my chest. "Or maybe I was saving you for myself!" he hissed.

  "Who are you?" I croaked, desperately pressing back against the wall.

  "You don't recognize me?"

  I shook my head. I was certain I'd seen his face before, but I couldn't put a name to it.

  The man breathed out through his nose. "Strange. I never thought you'd forget. Then again, it's been a long time, and the years haven't been as kind to me as they've been to you. Perhaps you'll remember this." He held out his left hand. The palm of the glove had been cut away, exposing the flesh beneath. It was an ordinary hand in all respects save one — in the centre, a rough cross had been carved into the flesh.

  As I stared at the cross, pink and tender-looking, the years evaporated and I was back in a cemetery on my first night as a vampire's assistant, facing a boy whose life I'd saved, a boy who was jealous of me, who thought I'd conspired with Mr. Crepsley and betrayed him.

  "Steve!" I gasped, staring from the cross to his cold, hard eyes. "Steve Leopard!"

  "Yes," he nodded grimly.

  Steve Leopard, my one-time best friend. The angry, mixed-up boy who'd sworn to become a vampire hunter when he grew up, so that he could track me down — and kill me!

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  HE WAS close enough for me to lunge at the gun barrel and maybe redirect it. But I couldn't move. I was stunned beyond anything but passive observation. Debbie Hemlock walking into my English class had left me gobsmacked — but Steve Leopard (his real name was Leonard) turning up out of the blue like this was ten times as shocking.

  After a handful of anxious seconds, Steve lowered the arrow gun, then jammed it through a belt behind his back. He extended his hands, took my left arm above the elbow, and hauled me to my feet. I rose obediently, a puppet in his hands.

  "Had you going for a minute, didn't I?" he said — and smiled.

  "You're not going to kill me?" I wheezed.

  "Hardly!" He took my right hand and shook it awkwardly. "Hello, Darren. Good to see you again, old friend."

  I stared at our clasped hands, then at his face. Then I threw my arms around him and hugged him for dear life. "Steve!" I sobbed into his shoulder.

  "Stop that," he muttered and I could hear the sound of his own voice breaking. "You'll have me in tears if you keep it up." Pushing me away, he wiped around his eyes and grinned.

  I dried my cheeks and beamed. "It's really you!"

  "Of course. You don't think two people could be born this handsome, do you?"

  "Modest as ever," I noted wryly.

  "Nothing to be modest about," he sniffed, then laughed. "You able to walk?"

  "I think a hobble's the best I can manage," I said.

  "Then lean on me. I don't want to hang around. Hooky might come back with his friends."

  "Hooky? Oh, you mean the vampa—" I stopped, wondering how much Steve knew about the creatures of the night.

  "The vampaneze," he finished, nodding soberly.

  "You know about them?"

  "Obviously."

  "Is the hook-handed guy the one who's been killing people?"

  "Yes. But he isn't alone. We'll discuss it later. Let's get you out of here and cleaned up first." Letting me lean on him, Steve led me back the way I'd come, and as we walked I couldn't help wondering if I'd been knocked unconscious in the alley. If not for the pain in my leg — which was all too real — I'd have been seriously tempted to think this was nothing but a wishful dream.

  Steve took me to the fifth floor of a run-down apartment block. Many of the doors we passed along the landing were boarded-over or broken down. "Nice neighbourhood," I commented sarcastically.

  "It's a condemned building," he said. "A few apartments are occupied — mostly by old folk with nowhere else to go — but the majority are empty. I prefer places like this to boarding houses and hotels. The space and quiet suit my purposes."

  Steve stopped at a battered brown door kept shut by an extra thick padlock and chain. Rooting through his pockets, he found a key, unlocked the padlock, removed the chain and pushed the door open. The air inside was stale, but he took no notice as he bundled me inside and closed the door. The darkness within held until he lit a candle. "No electricity," he said. "The lower apartments are still connected, but it went off up here last week."

  He helped me into a cluttered living room and laid me down on a couch that had seen better days — it was threadbare, and wiry springs stuck out through several holes. "Try not to impale yourself," Steve laughed.

  "Is your interior decorator on strike?" I asked.

  "Don't complain," Steve scolded me. "It's a good base to work from. If we had to report back to some swanky hotel, we'd have to explain your leg and why we're covered in filth. As for accounting for these …" He shrugged off the pair of arrow guns and laid them down.

  "Care to tell me what's going on, Steve?" I asked quietly. "How you were in that alley and why you're carrying those?"

  "Later," he
said, "after we've tended to your wounds. And after you've—" he produced a mobile phone and tossed it to me "-made a call."

  "Who am I supposed to ring?" I asked, staring at the phone suspiciously.

  "Hooky followed you from your friend's house — the dark-skinned lady."

  My face whitened. "He knows where Debbie lives?" I gasped.

  "If that's her name — yes. I doubt he'll go after her, but if you don't want to run the risk, my advice is to call and tell her to—"

  I was hitting buttons before he finished. Debbie's phone rang four times. Five. Six. Seven. I was about to dash to her rescue, regardless of my bad leg, when she picked up and said, "Hello?"

  "It's me."

  "Darren? What are—"

  "Debbie — do you trust me?"

  There was a startled pause. "Is this a joke?"

  "Do you trust me?" I growled.

  "Of course," she answered, sensing my seriousness.

  "Then get out now. Throw some gear into a bag and scram. Find a hotel for the weekend. Stay there."

  "Darren, what's going on? Have you lost your—"

  "Do you want to die?" I interrupted.

  A silent beat. Then, quietly, "No."

  "Then get out." I hit the disconnect button and prayed she'd heed my warning. "Does the vampaneze know where I'm staying?" I asked, thinking of Harkat.

  "I doubt it," Steve said. "If he did, he'd have attacked you there. From what I saw, he stumbled upon you earlier tonight by chance. He was casing a crowd, selecting his next victim, when he saw you and picked up your trail. He followed you to your friend's house, waited, trailed after you when you left, and…"

  I knew the rest.

  Steve fetched a first-aid kit from a shelf behind the couch. He told me to lean forward, then examined the back of my head. "Is it cut?" I asked.

  "Yes, but not badly. It doesn't need stitches. I'll clean it up and apply a dressing." With my head seen to, he focused on my leg. It was deeply gashed and the material of my trousers was soaked through with blood. Steve snipped it away with a sharp pair of scissors, exposing the flesh beneath, then swabbed at the wound with cotton wool. When it was clean, he studied it momentarily, then left and came back with a reel of catgut and a needle. "This'll hurt," he said.