01 Birth of a Killer

by Darren Shan

  There were so many of them! Larten had viewed audiences from the wings and moved among them with his wares. But now that they were staring at him, he realized for the first time how tightly packed in they were. He saw hunger in their eyes—they wanted to be entertained and would be merciless if they were denied their sport. Their lives were short and hard. This was a rare chance to escape to a more fantastical world, and they would shower abuse on anyone who disappointed them.

  As Larten’s knees trembled, Merletta stroked his cheek and said, “I think he’s shy.” There were catcalls, and some people roared at Larten to kiss her. He felt even more nervous now than he had felt in his seat.

  As Larten thought about fleeing, Merletta grabbed his wrists and pinned them behind his back. He yelped as she snapped handcuffs on them and forced him to his knees. There were lots of cheers—the crowd liked it when their stars played rough.

  “Will I make this young fool beg for freedom?” Merletta crowed.

  “Yes!” the audience screamed.

  “Will I make him crawl on his stomach like a toad and kiss my feet?”

  “Yes!”

  “Will I—”

  “You’ll do nothing,” Larten snarled, snatching her arm and dragging himself to his feet. In his anger, he’d picked the lock of the handcuffs and tossed them aside. Squaring up to Merletta, he steadied himself to deliver a foul curse. Before he could, Merletta gasped theatrically.

  “I was sure I locked those cuffs,” she called to the crowd. “Maybe there’s more to this boy than I thought.”

  Larten hesitated as a few of the people–mostly ladies who felt sorry for him–clapped halfheartedly. He was glowering at Merletta, but he sneaked a sideways glance and saw that the hunger in the eyes of the crowd had been replaced with mild curiosity.

  Merletta took Larten’s arms and bent them behind his back again. But this time she was gentler, and he didn’t resist. He kept still as she bound him with ropes and another pair of handcuffs, then turned him so that the audience could see.

  “There,” she exclaimed. “That will hold him.” She spun Larten so he was facing the crowd again. “Now what should I do with him?”

  A few of the men shouted suggestions. As they yelled, Larten worked quickly, loosening the ropes and picking the lock. As Merletta considered the cries of the crowd, Larten slipped free, tapped Merletta on the shoulder, and coughed softly.

  Merletta gave a shriek, as if taken by surprise. Larten held up his hands and smiled. The audience applauded enthusiastically, accepting him as a performer. And the rest of the show flew by smoothly after that.

  Larten felt like he was dreaming. He didn’t want the act to end. He cherished every laugh and clap from the crowd. He wasn’t up there with Merletta more than three or four minutes, but when he later looked back at this time and broke it down into every delicious second and thrill, it would seem to him as if he’d been onstage for an hour.

  Larten relished his moment in the spotlight and couldn’t understand why he had ever been scared. He had never been drunk, but he figured this must be what it felt like. It was as if he owned the world and could do no wrong.

  Larten left the stage to a huge round of applause. The crowd had taken a liking to him and were pleased for his sake—they could see that he was a newcomer and that this meant a lot to him. Larten would never forget that wonderful feeling. It was a special moment in his life, and he drew all the happiness from it that he could.

  Mr. Tall was waiting in the wings as Larten made his exit. The giant nodded to show his satisfaction. “You did well,” he murmured. Larten beamed in response, his thoughts a hundred miles high. “But now you have a more mundane but equally important job to do.” When Larten frowned, Mr. Tall angled his head to the left and Larten saw his tray, waiting on a table for him.

  “Oh,” Larten said, his smile fading slightly. “I thought…”

  “No resting on your laurels around here,” Mr. Tall said. Larten had never heard that expression before, so Mr. Tall translated it for him. “No sitting around on your backside. You had your moment of glory—bravo. I am pleased it went well. But you must not let yourself get carried away. There will be other nights and better performances, but now you must earn your keep. It is our way.”

  “Of course,” Larten said, putting his childish disappointment behind him. He was glad Seba hadn’t seen him act so vainly. Picking up the tray, he waited for the next act to finish, then wound his way through the crowd. He smiled when people said something nice or slapped his back, but he also stayed focused on his job and sold steadily, like a true professional.

  There was a party later that night. They held parties regularly at the Cirque Du Freak. The celebrations served as a reward for the hardworking staff and stars, but they were also a chance for Mr. Tall to invite influential people from the towns and villages near where they performed. While there was no law against a freak show (such restrictions would not come into play until the next century), life was easier if you kept a certain breed of man happy. It was better to flatter than annoy people with money and power.

  Larten had always been shy at events like this. He normally kept to the sides, serving drink and food, avoiding conversation. But tonight he was on a high. It helped that some of the guests recognized him from his stint onstage and paused to commend his efforts. He even chatted with a few young ladies, who smiled at him and shot him sly looks that the innocent boy missed completely. Larten was able to learn the ways of magic quickly, but it would be a long time before he learned much about women!

  He tried to sleep after the party, but he was agitated and couldn’t keep his eyes shut. He kept flashing back to his time onstage, wishing he could have done more, trying to decide what he would do the next time he was up there.

  Since sleep was proving elusive, Larten got up to watch the sunrise. He beamed as daylight crept across the world, warming the earth and waking the animals and birds. He considered going back to bed, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Besides, it had been a long time since he’d been abroad at so early an hour. It would be nice to go for a stroll and watch the world come to life.

  Mr. Tall had set up camp close to several towns and a scattering of villages. People would travel many miles for a performance of the legendary Cirque Du Freak, but the owner tried to make things as easy as possible for them. Larten skirted the homesteads, preferring the countryside. He smiled as he walked, as if the cattle and sheep he passed were old friends. He spotted a fox on its way home. He could have stalked and caught it, but there was no need—Seba would soon be feasting in the Halls of Vampire Mountain, and the cupboards and barrels at the circus were always well stocked.

  Larten wove his way along paths and through forests for a few hours before pausing to rest. He sat on a hill overlooking a village and soaked up the sunlight. He was hungry, so he looked for a shop or an inn where he might be able to buy food.

  As Larten was studying the village, he spotted a handful of people scurrying towards a tiny church. A few more tore along after them less than a minute later. Larten’s interest was aroused. This wasn’t a holy day, and even if it had been, the people hadn’t looked as if they were on their way to a service. They’d looked scared.

  Larten trotted down the hill. A few more villagers hurried along and passed him on the street. None spared him a glance, even though a stranger would have drawn curious stares on any normal day.

  He paused at the door of the church. He could hear angry muttering and weeping from within. He had a bad feeling about this. Perhaps it would be better if he didn’t enter.

  Larten would have retreated, except a family of four children and their parents pushed up behind him while he was dithering, the father carrying the smallest child and looking wild. “Go on!” the man snapped. “Get the door!”

  Larten pulled the door open and stood back as the man and children brushed by. He still might have turned away if the woman hadn’t waved him in. She looked on the verge of tears, and
Larten didn’t want to upset her, so he stole in ahead of her and let her close the door behind them.

  Larten’s unease increased inside the church. He hadn’t been in one since he’d become Seba’s assistant. Vampires had their own gods, and although Larten didn’t know much about them, he knew that he was finished with the religions of humanity.

  But that wasn’t the reason for his discomfort. He could see that these people were distraught. Many were crying. Others were cursing and striding around like caged wolves, snapping at their neighbors or the empty air.

  A group of men stood at the center of the church, in front of the altar, huddled close together as if protecting something. A few women and children approached them but were turned back with angry gestures. Larten found himself drawn to the group as if hypnotized. It wasn’t just curiosity. It was as if this church had been lying in wait for him, as if he had business here that couldn’t be avoided.

  The men close to the altar stared suspiciously at Larten as he drew near. He could see them silently debating whether to let the stranger step among them or drive him back like the other youths. Larten straightened his shoulders and looked directly at the men, neither slowing nor speeding up. As he came level, a couple shrugged and stepped aside so that he could slip between them.

  Larten found a boy beyond the men, his own age or a bit younger. The boy was kneeling in the middle of four bodies–a man, a woman, and two children–that were laid out on the floor, arms crossed neatly over their chests. The boy was rocking backwards and forwards, moaning softly, his hands outstretched and bloodstained. One lay on the forehead of the man. The fingers of the other stroked the cheek of the woman.

  The man, woman, and children were dead, and Larten could see that they’d been murdered—their throats had been slashed open. He also saw, by the small amount of blood around their necks and the pale shade of their faces, that their killer had drunk from them. No, even worse than that—they had been drained.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Larten was horrified. This looked like the work of a vampire. But Seba had sworn to him that the children of the night did not kill. He’d said that the Generals quickly put an end to any vampire who slaughtered humans without just cause. This could be the work of a mad, rogue vampire… or maybe Larten’s master had lied to him.

  The weeping boy was obviously related to the corpses—they shared the same build and facial features. The man and woman were his parents, and the dead boy and girl were his brother and sister. Larten’s heart immediately went out to the orphan. He knew how painful it was to lose those whom you loved.

  Larten was nudged aside as a man with long gray hair moved forward for a better look. The man cursed but didn’t step back as others had. He wiped sweat from his cheeks, then cleared his throat.

  “My Diana saw something pass our house this morning, just before daybreak.” A silence fell upon the men, and all eyes focused on the newcomer. He looked nervous–he didn’t like the attention–but he went on. “She was out back. A shadow passed in the dark. She said it looked like a man, but at the same time it didn’t. She thought it was a monster. I told her not to be daft—kids are always imagining things in the dark. But when I heard about this…”

  The man crossed himself. The boy was staring at the man now, his eyes starting to clear, fury filling the gap that grief left behind.

  “Where did this monster go?” one of the other men asked.

  “Towards Strasling’s,” the man said, and a fearful sigh swept through the crowd.

  The boy rose slowly, his gaze still fixed on the gray-haired man, who gulped and said, “Did you see anything, Wester?”

  The boy shook his head. “I was sleeping in the shed. Jon had a cold and was snoring like a pig. I went to the shed to escape the noise.”

  “We should go to Strasling’s,” a woman cried from behind them. “Take crosses and stakes and…”

  She fell silent when others glared at her. Larten was surprised by their reaction. He’d assumed the villagers would be eager for revenge. But as he glanced around, he saw that most were looking at the floor with shame.

  “We all know why this happened,” Wester said. He had a soft voice, and there was a trembling edge to it, but he spoke clearly. “My da helped kill one of those beasts last year. We moved to a new home afterwards, in case any of its kin came seeking revenge, but they must have found us anyway. Ma tried to tell him we hadn’t gone far enough, but he wouldn’t…”

  Tears welled in the boy’s eyes, and he stalled. People blessed themselves and muttered words of consolation. But nobody slid forward to embrace Wester or pledge their support.

  “I’ve got to go to Strasling’s,” Wester said, brushing away tears. “I know if any of you come with me, and we kill this monster, another might come looking for you and your folk, like this one came for my da and us. I won’t ask for help, but I’d appreciate it if anyone offers.”

  Wester stood over the bodies of his dead family, head low, awaiting a response. When nobody said a word, he nodded sadly and picked up a bag lying to the left of his father. “I’d be grateful if you’d bury them, and me too if you find my bones.”

  The boy strode through the ranks of men–they parted before him like a flock of sheep breaking ahead of a wolf–and marched up the aisle. He slipped out and closed the door softly behind him.

  “We should help!” the woman who’d spoken earlier shouted. “If we don’t, we’re nothing but—”

  “We know what we are!” one of the men roared. “You think any of us wants to let a child like that go off by himself? But Jess Flack interfered, and look where it got him. If he’d left the monster alone when it came to his village, he’d be alive now, and his family too.”

  “We’ll pray for him,” another man said, moving to the altar. Larten realized this was the priest. “Maybe he’ll find the strength to kill this thing, and that will be the end of it.”

  The other men looked dubious but filed back to the pews, joining their wives and children. Soon Larten and the priest were the only two standing. The priest smiled uncertainly at the youthful stranger and waved for him to step down. In response, Larten spat at the priest’s feet. A shocked gasp ran through the church.

  “You’re nothing but cowards,” Larten snarled, the words coming from a dark, angry place inside him. “I hope your animals die, your crops fail, and that each one of you rots in the fires of hell.” He felt the same sort of cold fury he’d felt the day he killed Traz.

  As the church members gaped at him, Larten considered adding a few curses, then decided against it and hurried down the aisle. Wester Flack had a head start. If he didn’t catch up with the boy quickly, he might lose him—unlike the rest of the people in the church, Larten didn’t know the way to Strasling’s.

  A couple of minutes later, Larten drew alongside Wester. The boy frowned warily at the orange-haired stranger.

  “I’m Larten Crepsley. I want to help if you’ll have me.”

  “Why?” Wester asked. “I don’t know you. What business is this of yours?”

  Larten didn’t want to confess to being worried that the murders might be the work of a vampire like his master, so he told Wester the other–equally truthful–reason for his interest.

  “You remind me of myself. I once went up against a foul murderer, and nobody helped me. I had to face him all on my own.”

  “What happened?” Wester asked.

  “I killed him.”

  Wester gulped, then said, “This is no ordinary killer. It’s a monster. The beast is stronger and faster than us. I’ll most likely die, and if you come with me, you will too.”

  “I’m not afraid of death,” Larten said quietly. “And I’ve no family to worry about, unlike those cowards back in that church.”

  “It’s not their fault,” Wester sniffed. “The monsters don’t pass through here often and never kill many when they do. But if you anger them…”

  “This isn’t the first time that it’s happened?�
�� Larten asked, and Wester shook his head. Larten licked his lips and tried to make his next question sound natural. “Do you have a name for the monsters?”

  “The old wives have lots of names,” Wester snorted. “Most of us just call them bloodsuckers, because they drink the blood of those they kill.” He cocked an eyebrow at Larten. “Still want to come with me?”

  “Do you see me backing off?” Larten growled.

  Wester sighed. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not myself. When I walked in and found them…”

  Larten gave the boy’s arm a squeeze, remembering what it had felt like when he lost Vur, trying to imagine how it must feel to find all your family murdered at the same time, to be the only survivor. His heart went out to Wester, and he swore a silent oath to do all that he could to protect this lonely, brave orphan.

  “What’s Strasling’s?” Larten asked.

  “A burned-down mansion,” Wester explained. “The man who lived there was evil. He practiced dark magic and killed lots of people. The villagers say the house was struck by lightning and all within died by the hand of God. But I think a group of them torched it and drove back those inside when they tried to get out.”

  “Nice place you picked to come and live,” Larten grinned.

  Wester managed a weak chuckle. “We didn’t have much choice. After Da helped kill the monster last year, we weren’t welcome in our own village, nor any of the others. I think they only accepted us here because they still feel guilty about what happened in Strasling’s.”

  “The monster your father killed,” Larten said carefully. “What was it like?”

  “I don’t know. He never told us. But he took this bag when he went after it. I brought it with me from the house.”

  Wester opened the leather bag and Larten peered inside. He saw a hammer, a cross, a bottle of clear liquid that he guessed was holy water, some garlic, a small saw, and three wooden stakes.

  “The cross and holy water will hurt the monster but not kill it,” Wester said with the air of a person who’d done this a dozen times. “We need to drive a stake through its heart, then cut off its head, scoop out its brains, and fill the skull with garlic. Then bury the body and head separately at the center of a crossroads.”