by Darren Shan
“Show me a woman who doesn’t,” Paris chortled and called for another glass of the interesting wine Malora had found for them.
The pair chatted the night away, retiring to a cozy back room when all the other customers had gone to bed, where they drank by the light of a single fat candle. Paris sipped wine and Larten quaffed ale. (He would get into trouble for defying Malora, but he didn’t care. This was an occasion for ale.) Paris relayed the latest news from Vampire Mountain. Seba and Wester were well. Wester had become a guard and was proud as a peacock.
“Seba is just as proud,” Paris said.
Larten was too, though it reminded him of his own failures and he had to strain to keep his smile in place.
Paris gave Larten some advice on the best way to fight off the flu. The Prince had endured a few bad cases himself over the centuries and he recommended herbs that were no longer fashionable but that had eased the worst of his suffering in the past.
“But to be honest, you just have to ride it out as best you can,” he added. “It will plague you for at least another month. It comes and goes in waves, so don’t think you’ve beaten it. Wrap up warm, heed Malora’s advice, and pray to the gods to let you live if that’s their will.”
Shortly before dawn, when they both had a rosy glow from the wine and ale, Paris spoke of his real reason for tracking down the stray vampire.
“Seba is in poor spirits,” he said.
“Sick?” Larten yelped with alarm.
“No — upset. He misses you, but there’s more to it than that. Seba doesn’t care whether or not you become a General, live among humans or take some other path. He just wants you to be happy. But from reports he’s received over the years, you’re not. He senses you struggling and wandering blindly. That troubles him.”
“I never wanted to disappoint Seba,” Larten said miserably. “I wanted him to be proud of me, like he is of Wester.”
“Then give him something to be proud of,” Paris said softly but pointedly. “In the name of the gods, Larten, choose. You’re not a new-blood. You’ve enjoyed your wild years and had time to reflect since distancing yourself from the clan. Surely by now you must have some idea of what you want to do with your life.”
Larten sighed. “It is complicated. I yearn to be a General, but I feel there is more I must do before I return and complete my training. I do not know what, but at the moment the thought of coming back…” He shook his head.
“What if you could train outside of Vampire Mountain?” Paris asked. “I could be your tutor and teach you as we travel.”
Larten was stunned by the offer. Seba had said that the Princes were interested in him, but he hadn’t believed it — he’d thought his old master was merely trying to flatter him. This was an amazing opportunity. Only a fool would turn it down. The chance to train under a Prince would probably never come his way again. And yet…
For some reason Larten recalled the ticking sound he’d heard in Evanna’s cave. That noise disturbed his dreams occasionally, though he had no idea why, just as he didn’t know why he should think of it now.
“Sleep on it,” Paris said, seeing the flicker of temptation in Larten’s bloodshot eyes. He rose and stretched. “There’s no rush. I don’t have to leave for a few more nights. Think it over. Discuss it with Malora. I won’t press you for an answer.”
“You are too good to me, Sire,” Larten mumbled, bowing his head respectfully.
“I know,” Paris laughed, then went upstairs to the room that Malora had prepared for him, where he was stunned to find a coffin lying on a couple of tables. “Now this is what I cal first-class service,” he murmured as he lay inside and happily pulled the lid closed over himself.
Chapter Twenty
As soon as Larten rose in the afternoon, Malora scolded him for drinking the night before. He tried to defend his actions and said he thought the ale had done him some good, but she made him take a cold bath to purge himself of the evils of alcohol. Afterwards he told her of Paris’s offer and asked her opinion. She thought about it a long time before answering.
“It’s not a question of if you become a General but when. ”
Larten was surprised by her certainty. “You think so?”
“You were born to be a General. It’s just a matter of whether you think this is the right time to complete your training or if you’d rather roam the world a few more years, moping about what a hard choice you have to face.”
“That is a cruel way to put it,” Larten muttered.
“But true,” she smirked. “I don’t know why you’ve strayed for so long. I doubt you even know that yourself. If you feel this is the wrong time to commit, say no to Paris. But you should consider the possibility that the right time might never come. Maybe you’ll feel indecisive all your life and you just have to pick a moment to say, I am going to become a General, damn the consequences. ” She did an accurate impression of him and he found himself smiling.
“What about you?” Larten asked. “If I return to the clan, you will have to study hard before I can blood you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Malora snorted. “I’ve no intention of letting you blood me. Vampirism doesn’t interest me in the slightest.”
Larten gaped at her. “Then why, by the black blood of Harnon Oan, have you been following me around the world?” he thundered.
“You really thought I wanted to become a vampire?” she asked. When he nodded, she sighed. “I knew you were naive but I didn’t think you were that dense.” As he puffed himself up to bellow at her, she reached out and gently caressed his scar. Her touch calmed him.
“I never wanted to join the clan,” Malora said softly. “I said I did because that was what you needed to hear. I don’t care about returning to the human world either. I only want to be with you for all the nights and days that I have left. I knew you were the man for me the moment I saw you.”
“Wait a minute!” Larten gulped. He hadn’t been expecting a declaration of love. “You’re a child,” he wheezed.
“A young lady,” she corrected him. “And getting older. I’m patient. I can wait until you decide I’m old enough.”
“But —”
“If you’re about to say that I’ll always be a girl in your eyes,” she interrupted sharply, “don’t. You might reject me, but don’t insult me. I won’t stand for that, not from any man, even the love of my life.”
“The love of…” Larten echoed weakly.
“You don’t need to do anything now,” Malora said sweetly. “You’re slow, like most men, but you’ll catch up soon and realize you love me as much as I love you. I just want you to know that, in the meantime, I’ll follow you no matter where you go. Your path is mine because my heart is yours.
“Now go enjoy yourself with Paris. I’ll be waiting for you when you get back. I’ll always wait for you, my love.”
With that she shooed him out of the room and left him to stare at the closed door in bewilderment. After he’d scratched his head for the sixth time, he turned he’d scratched his head for the sixth time, he turned and trudged down the steps to get a drink and mull things over.
Paris was nowhere to be found — Larten assumed the elderly Prince was still asleep — but a middle-aged man with a beard was sitting at one of the tables, writing in a notebook. He hailed Larten and invited him over. As Larten cautiously sat, the man said, “You’re Master Skyle’s friend, aren’t you?”
Larten relaxed. “You know Paris?”
“Oh, yes,” the man beamed. “My name’s Abraham, but please cal me Bram.”
Larten gave his own name, shook hands and accepted the mug of ale he was offered.
“What are you writing?” Larten asked.
“Just a few ideas for a story I’m researching.”
“You write stories?” Larten was interested. He had met several authors over the decades and found them a curious bunch.
“Novels, mostly. You might have heard of The Snake’s Pass, perhaps?”
“You might be better off. Writing is my life — on top of running a theater — but I often think I’d have been more successful and a lot happier if I’d never taken up a pen. The muse is a cruel mistress.”
Larten pressed Bram for details of his books and the theater. He learned that the writer was from Ireland but now lived in London, “when I’m not trotting around Europe trying to finish this dratted novel!”
When Larten asked about his new book, Bram waved aside the question. “I never discuss a work in progress. I don’t want to jinx myself. Tel me about your life instead. You’re a vampire like Paris, aren’t you?”
“A vampire, aye, but hardly like Paris,” Larten chuckled.
“He’s something of a legend, isn’t he?” Bram smiled.
“Among vampires, certainly,” Larten agreed. Over the next few hours he told Bram some of his favorite Paris Skyle stories, becoming more eloquent the more he drank. After a while Bram asked if he could take notes, “just for fun,” and Larten said that of course he could.
Bram was interested in the rest of the clan, as well as the vampaneze. He wanted to know when vampires had stopped killing when they fed, and if any ever overstepped the mark now.
“Never,” Larten said. “The punishment is severe if you break that law.”
“A stake through the heart?” Bram guessed.
“Or something similarly fatal,” Larten nodded.
“The stake tradition started with Vlad, I suppose,” Bram murmured, trying to disguise his interest in the answer.
“Vlad?” Larten blinked.
“Vlad the Impaler? Also known as Vlad Tepes or Vlad Dracula? He was one of the clan, wasn’t he?”
“No, you interfering busybody,” somebody growled behind them. “He was not.”
Larten stared up at a glowering Paris Skyle, who had appeared behind Bram’s chair. Bram choked back a gulp and turned, smiling shakily. “Good evening, Paris, I’m glad to see —”
“What have you been telling this scribe?” Paris snarled.
“Nothing much,” Larten said hesitantly, beginning to realize that he had been speaking freely with someone he didn’t know. “He asked about you and the clan.”
“And you told him what he wanted to hear?” Paris snapped.
Larten flushed. “Yes. I was open with him. He said that he knew you and I did not think I needed to be wary in his company.”
“Think a bit harder next time,” Paris said coldly, then placed a hand on Bram’s shoulder and squeezed. Bram winced, but didn’t try to escape. “You’re persistent, Master Stoker. I assume you sent me the message requesting my presence across town. You wanted my friend to yourself for a while, aye?”
“I need more facts for my story,” Bram said quietly.
“Facts? I thought it was going to be a work of fiction.”
“It is. I gave you my word that I wouldn’t do anything to expose or harm the clan. But the more I know about you, the more steps I can take to ensure I don’t write something that accidentally leads people to investigate your movements.”
“If you didn’t write about us at all, you could be even surer,” Paris said icily.
“Someone’s going to write about vampires sooner or later,” Bram said. “Would you prefer a work of fiction, where I blur the truth and give the world something fantastical, or a tome that mentions Vampire Mountain, Generals and the rest?”
Paris thought about that, then removed his hand. “Perhaps you’re correct. If your story tricks people into thinking that vampires are mythical beasts, it may do some good. Not that I think many will read it — people want uplifting tales, not morbid stories of bloodsucking creatures of the night.”
“You might be surprised,” Bram said, picking up his pen again. “You’ll answer my questions?”
“Aye,” Paris nodded, “but not tonight. I’m entertaining a friend. Remain a few nights and I will let you have your… how did you put it last time… your interview with a vampire.”
“Can we shake on that?” Bram asked, extending a hand.
“No,” Paris said flatly. “A vampire doesn’t need to shake hands once he has given his word. Go from here, Abraham Stoker, and give me the space I asked for. I will speak with you shortly.”
Bram nodded and gathered his belongings. “Sorry if I got you into trouble,” he said to Larten.
“Move along,” Paris barked. “We haven’t dined yet and that neck of yours looks ripe for the biting.”
Bram flashed Paris a dark look, then backed away from the table, tossed some coins to the innkeeper and let himself out. Paris watched him leave, then sat and called for a glass of wine.
“Sire, I’m sorry if I —” Larten began.
“It matters not,” Paris said curtly. “That man has been dogging my footsteps for three years. He would have forced a confrontation eventually. I’m not worried. I’m sure his book won’t amount to much even if it’s published, which I doubt. Let us speak of more important issues. Have you considered what we spoke of?”
Larten nodded.
“And?”
If Paris had asked the question a few hours earlier, Larten would have accepted the Prince’s offer to train him. But his careless conversation with Bram Stoker had disturbed him. Paris had made light of it, but Larten knew he should have been more circumspect. Even new-bloods didn’t discuss the clan with anyone they couldn’t trust completely. Larten’s self-confidence had been shaken. He could have taken more time to answer — Paris wasn’t rushing him — but his head was sore from the flu, which seemed to be returning with a vengeance, and the ale was sitting heavily in his stomach. Al he wanted was to slink back to his room to brood.
“I thank you for offering to take me under your wing, but I do not think that I am ready to resume my lessons,” he said.
Paris sighed. “I had hoped for a different answer.”
“I am sorry to disappoint you, Sire. I mean no disrespect.”
“You must do as your heart dictates, of course, but…” Paris hesitated, then pressed on. “Wander if you must, Larten, but the longer you live in exile, the more risks you run.”
“Risks, Sire?” Larten frowned.
“You risk losing yourself forever,” Paris said. “You might never find your path, and end up becoming something bitter and adrift. This world can corrupt a lone vampire. We are beings of the night, but the darkness is a dangerous place for one without friends.”
“I have Malora,” Larten said softly.
“She might face even worse dangers,” Paris retorted, then grimaced. “But I’m doing what I said I wouldn’t, trying to persuade you. Ignore my last comments. I am old and addled. Like all old men, I see pitfalls where none exist. You are eager to return to your room, I know, but pray have one last drink with me. I promise not to speak of this matter again.”
Larten had a final drink with Paris, but he couldn’t enjoy it. He kept thinking about what the Prince had said. Talk of dangers in the darkness had unsettled him. He had survived this long by himself and never felt under threat. And no harm could befall Malora while she had Larten to protect her. Yet he sensed truth — almost a prediction — in Paris’s warning.
Coughing heavily, wiping phlegm from his lips with one of the handkerchiefs that Malora had washed clean for him that morning, Larten struggled to pinpoint the source of his unease, but he couldn’t. He decided in the end that the flu had simply sapped him of his strength. That was why he felt so gloomy. It would pass when he got better. Everything would be fine then, he was sure of it. After all, in this world of humans, he was little better than a monster, and what did a monster have to be afraid of in the dark?
Chapter Twenty-one
“Going to sea!” Larten snarled, dragging himself towards the docks.
“This is a bad idea,” Malora gasped, trying to tug him back, but
having as much luck as a dog would have with an elephant.
“Want to sail… the seven seas.” Larten laughed. “Sick of these towns and… cities. Got to keep… going. Don’t trust land.”
He stopped in the middle of the street and glared at the people who were looking at him oddly. He was dressed in a smart pair of trousers and a dirty white sweater that he’d bought from a sailor the night before, with a shoe on his right foot and an old boot on his left. He was holding a lady’s umbrella over his head to protect him from the sun.
Malora thought that the sweater had put the idea into his head. The flu was ultimately to blame — it had ebbed and flared in him over the last six weeks, and was now worse than ever — but he’d been content to stay inside and follow her lead until he bought that stupid sweater. As soon as he pulled it on, he began ranting about going to sea — he had smelled the salt air a couple of nights before when they’d come to this town. She’d managed to calm him and get him to sleep, but he had woken with the notion fresh in his head. Without pausing to eat, he had dressed and hobbled down to the docks, Malora hurrying to keep up, trying to make him change his mind.
“Larten!” she snapped as he stared around. “This isn’t a good idea. We’ll go on a long cruise when you feel better. You’re sick. We should stay somewhere warm and dry, so that you can —”
“No!” he bellowed, taking off again. “Vampire hunters… on land. They’ll stick a stake through… my heart. Have to get to sea. Life on the waves. Aye!”
Malora argued with him all the way, but he ignored her. At the docks he strode around like a madman, checking all the ships. He stopped several sailors and asked if they knew which boat was making the longest journey. Some shrugged him off and didn’t answer. Those who responded gave conflicting reports. But when a third man mentioned the Pearly Tornado, Larten’s mind was decided.
Malora was almost crying. When Larten found the gangplank, she darted ahead of him and set herself in his way. “No farther,” she croaked. “This is madness. If you go on, you’ll go without me. I’ll leave you here, Larten, I swear I will.”