01 Birth of a Killer

by Darren Shan

  Larten nodded soberly, staring with fascinated horror at the implements. If he was right and they were on their way to confront a real vampire, the holy artifacts would be of no use, and the saw and garlic were superstitious extras. But a stake through the heart… aye, that would kill even the strongest of the so-called living dead.

  “They sleep in the daytime,” Wester concluded. “If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to kill the beast before it wakes.”

  “And if we’re unlucky?” Larten asked.

  Wester smiled without humor. “Then it will be a good time to make your peace with God, because you’ll be seeing him soon.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The walls of the ruined mansion were scorched black from the fire that had destroyed it. There was still a foul smell in the air, although it had been years since the blaze. It felt like a dark, forbidding place, even to a night creature like Larten. It didn’t surprise him that the monster–the vampire?–had picked this spot for its base.

  They each took a stake from the bag. Wester kept the hammer. He gave Larten the cross and stuck the holy water in a pocket. He left the saw and the garlic in the bag outside the ruins, telling Larten that they could return for those later if they were successful.

  The scared boys slowly picked their way through the debris, saying nothing, studying each new room or corridor at length before entering. The roof and the upper floors had fallen in, but lots of floorboards and tiles remained in certain sections, casting scores of shadows. There were many places for a sun-fearing killer to hide.

  If Larten had been by himself, he would have waited until midday, when the sun was at its strongest, then proceeded at a snail’s pace, making as little noise as possible. But Wester was in a hurry to wreak revenge. He couldn’t bear to stand still—he might go mad if he did.

  Larten spotted the opening to the cellar. It had been half-covered by several planks. He considered saying nothing to Wester. It might be for the best if the boy never saw it, if he explored the rest of the ruins and came to the conclusion that the beast wasn’t here. They could go home and that would be the end of it.

  But Larten had come to uncover the truth, not engage in an act of deception. He was here to help Wester, not slyly direct him out of danger’s way. The orphan deserved his shot at revenge. So Larten tugged Wester’s sleeve and pointed.

  Wester’s cheeks paled. For a moment he looked as if he might bolt for safety. Then he steeled himself, nodded grimly, led the way to the steps, and pushed some of the planks aside.

  They descended in silence and soon found themselves in a small cellar that had probably been used to store food and wine in the past. It was dark but not pitch-black. Light filtered through from the entrance behind them and also from cracks in the ceiling.

  There was something lying by the wall to their right, in the darkest part of the room. It was the shape of a human, covered by thick blankets. Wester started forward, but Larten stopped him. Before advancing, he made a slow turn, studying the walls and the ceiling. He had been taken by surprise once in a place like this—he wasn’t about to be caught twice.

  Having checked for an ambush, Larten moved ahead of Wester and edged to one side, leaving clear the most direct route to the body. He would give Wester the first strike. If the boy failed, Larten would leap to his aid. He’d have been happier taking the lead–after his years with Seba, he was sharper than any human his age–but this was Wester’s battle, not his.

  As Wester closed in, Larten spotted a problem. Wester would have to pull back the blankets before striking, in order to pinpoint the beast’s heart. That would give the monster a chance to defend itself. Larten slid in front of Wester. The boy hissed and raised the hammer and stake—he’d been so focused on what he had to do that for a moment he didn’t realize it was Larten who’d stepped in his way. Then his vision cleared, and he relaxed slightly.

  Larten pointed at the blankets, then at himself, and made a gesture to show that he would pull them back. Wester nodded. Larten made another gesture, trying to encourage Wester to hammer the stake home quickly. Again Wester nodded, but he looked irritated now—did Larten think he planned to stand around and whistle a few verses of a song before he struck?

  They came within touching distance of the blankets. Larten’s hands were shaking but he didn’t mind—only a fool wouldn’t be scared in a situation like this. He bent softly. He wanted to flex his fingers but was afraid his knuckles might make a cracking sound and alert the sleeping monster.

  Larten glanced up at Wester. The boy looked sick, but he wiped sweat from his brow, then positioned the stake over the area where he assumed the killer’s heart would be. He lifted the hammer. Like Larten, he was shaking, but he had a firm grip on his weapons.

  Larten grabbed the coarse, hairy fabric of the blankets and prepared to pull. But before he could, the blankets were tugged sharply by the shape beneath. Caught off guard, Larten was jerked sideways into Wester, knocking him over.

  As both boys shrieked, the killer of Wester’s family sprang to its feet and sneered at the amateur assassins. Even in the darkness of the cellar, Larten could see that this was no vampire, and for that small mercy he gave thanks—at least Seba had not lied to him. The creature’s skin was a gloomy purple color, and its hair, eyes, lips, and fingernails were red. It had the form of a man and dressed like one, but it was clearly no human.

  Wester scrambled to his feet and swung his stake wildly. The purple-skinned beast chopped at the boy’s arm. Larten heard bones snap and then Wester fell, screaming with pain. His stake dropped from his now-useless fingers and rolled away.

  The red-haired thing glanced at Larten and frowned when it saw his orange hair. It was momentarily thrown, not sure what to make of its strange assailant.

  Larten seized the moment of indecision and threw his stake at the monster. The beast ducked and Larten lunged. He grabbed Wester’s stake and came to his feet a safe distance from their opponent. As the purplish creature straightened and studied its foe, Larten fixed on the area around him, not on the monstrous man. He stood motionless, stake by his side, trying not to breathe.

  Wester pushed himself off the floor and lashed out with his hammer. The killer caught it and calmly snapped off the head. As Wester stared despairingly at the piece of wood in his hand, the monster clubbed him over the head, and he slumped. It was impossible to tell if he was unconscious or dead, and Larten had no time to worry about it.

  The monster shifted away from Larten as it struck Wester. Larten was tempted to break for the stairs, but that was what the beast wanted. If he turned his back on the purple-skinned killer, he was finished for sure. So he held his ground, moving as little as possible, not blinking.

  The monster faced Larten and narrowed its eyes, wary of this young but clearly far-from-foolish foe. The creature took a step forward, then smiled thinly and pounced, faster than the human eye could follow. But Larten had been trained to register the blur of a vampire. Seba had feinted at him on countless occasions to sharpen his senses and teach him how to defend himself against an enemy quicker than he was.

  As the killer lunged, Larten brought up the stake, judging it finely, trying to hit the spot where Seba would appear if this was just another test.

  To his delight he struck flesh, and the monster wheeled away, clutching its left arm. Larten had hoped to do more than just wound the creature, but at least this proved he had a chance. Adjusting his stance, he again focused on the area around him and waited for his opponent to make a second pass.

  But the beast didn’t move. It was smiling broadly, almost smirking. Licking a finger, it ran spit over the shallow cut on its arm, and the wound began to close. Seba’s spit had the same healing properties. As far as Larten knew, that was only common to vampires. Confusion set in. Was this bizarre monster one of the clan? As Larten was trying to decide the nature of his foe, the killer spoke.

  “You are a vampire’s assistant. I could smell your master’s scent, but I wanted to se
e you in action to be certain, hmmm?” The creature had an unfamiliar accent and an odd way of talking.

  “What are you?” Larten snarled, not lowering his guard.

  The beast frowned. “Your master has not told you about the vampaneze?”

  Larten recalled Seba’s meeting with Paris Skyle. Seba had mentioned something then about vampaneze. Larten had filed the nugget away, to investigate the matter some other time. It seemed that time was now.

  “You have the speed and spit of a vampire,” Larten said, “and you drink blood. But you’re not a vampire, are you?”

  “I’d rather be a dog than a vampire. I have no time for those of the clan.” He spat out the word as if it was a curse. “I am of a purer breed. Vampaneze always drain our victims. We don’t leech off them, as your master does.”

  “You kill every time you feed?” Larten gasped.

  “It’s the proper way,” the vampaneze sniffed. “Vampires fed like us too, before they grew soft. We don’t feed often–there’s no need when you drink deeply–but when we do, we sup until we hit the bottom of the well, thus taking a shade of the victim’s soul and honoring them.”

  “What are you talking about?” Larten asked.

  The vampaneze tutted. “Your master has been lax. He should have told you that if a vampire drains a person dry, the vampire absorbs that person’s memories, keeping part of their soul alive. We vampaneze kill every time we feed, but those we target live on inside us for decades or centuries to come.”

  “You think that makes it acceptable?” Larten snarled.

  “Yes,” the vampaneze said. “Vampires did too, before they grew soft.”

  Wester groaned and twitched. The vampaneze squinted at the unconscious boy. “He is one of the Flacks. I thought I’d killed them all. Generous of him to come to me like this. It would have been embarrassing if I’d left with the job half-done, hmmm?”

  As the killer stepped towards Wester, Larten slid between them. “Leave him alone.”

  “You’re his friend?” the vampaneze asked.

  “No,” Larten said. “I only met him for the first time today.”

  “Then this is not your business,” the killer snapped. “You’re new to this, wet behind the ears, so I’m willing to overlook your interference. Vampires don’t meddle with our affairs, and we don’t mess with theirs. I have the right to kill you for attacking me, but I’m prepared to let you leave. You can chalk it up to experience, hmmm? But the human dies. His father killed a friend of mine.”

  “Wester had nothing to do with that,” Larten said, holding his ground.

  The vampaneze shrugged. “In our world, the sins of the father are the sins of the sons. And the wife and daughters too. Last chance. Get out of my way.”

  “No,” Larten said firmly. “If you want to kill Wester, you’ll have to kill me first.”

  The purple-skinned man laughed. “So be it.”

  The vampaneze was even faster this time. Larten managed to strike, but his arm was slapped aside and a hard palm banged into his chest. He flew across the room and slammed into a wall. Stars flashed before his eyes, but he blinked them away and tried to haul himself to his feet. The vampaneze, having followed, stopped him with a soft shove to his head.

  As Larten collapsed, defeated, the vampaneze squatted beside him. “Abandon the boy,” he whispered. “If you renounce him, I’ll spare you, yes, I will. Why waste your life on a worthless human that you barely know?”

  “I gave him… my word… that I would… help,” Larten gasped.

  “But you cannot save him,” the vampaneze reasoned.

  “Then I’ll… die with him. I gave… my word.”

  The vampaneze’s blazing red eyes were terrifying, but Larten never lowered his gaze or flinched. Seba had taught him to face up to the things he was afraid of.

  The vampaneze laid a jagged fingernail to the flesh of Larten’s throat. Larten wanted to close his eyes and pray, but didn’t. Instead he stared at his murderer, determined to die looking squarely at his executioner rather than cowering away from him.

  The nail dug into Larten’s flesh and he tensed, sure that this was the end. But then the vampaneze withdrew his finger. Wiping blood on his trouser leg, he stood and smiled tightly at the confused boy.

  “You will make a true vampire,” he said with grudging respect. “You’d fare better as a vampaneze–our way would suit a fiery pup like you, yes, it would–but you’ve chosen your master, and I won’t ask you to break your pledge to him. But if you ever tire of the confines of the clan, seek me out.”

  The vampaneze cracked his knuckles, then spat at the unconscious Wester, the same way that Larten had spat at the feet of the priest. “I shouldn’t have to leave, but if I don’t, he’ll come after me again and you’ll have to help him–since you’ve given your word–and I wouldn’t be able to pardon you a second time. Anyway, it’s been a while since I ran beneath a full sun. The sunburn will be good for me. We should all suffer every once in a while, hmmm?”

  The purple-skinned creature walked to the steps, where he paused and looked back at the startled Larten Crepsley. “I won’t ask for your master’s name, just as I have not requested yours. But I am not afraid to give you mine. When he asks, tell your master that Murlough held your life in his hands and chose to be merciful. Let him and his clan brood on that the next time they’re belittling the good name of the vampaneze in the wretched Halls of Vampire Mountain.”

  With a sneer, Murlough bounded up the steps and smashed aside the planks at the top. He raced out of the wreck and across the fields, already wincing from the burning heat of the sun, looking for somewhere new to hole up and hide until night fell and the world was his again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When Wester regained his senses, he was lying in the open, upstairs. He sat up, groaned, and looked around with confusion. Larten was nearby. He’d thought about leaving but he wanted to monitor the boy’s recovery. Now he held a pouch of leaves filled with water to Wester’s lips.

  “What happened?” Wester asked once he’d drunk.

  “The monster knocked us out,” Larten lied. “He was gone when I recovered. I dragged you up here and went to wash my wounds and fetch water for you.”

  “He didn’t kill us?” Wester frowned.

  “Doesn’t look like it,” Larten laughed.

  “Why not?”

  Larten shrugged. “Who can know the mind of a monster?”

  Wester staggered to his feet, groaning at the pain in his broken arm, and returned to the cellar entrance. Larten tried to call him back, but Wester growled, “I have to be sure.”

  Larten lay in the sun while Wester explored the empty cellar. When the boy reappeared, he looked drained of energy and life. He slumped next to Larten, his eyes full of tears.

  “I failed,” Wester whimpered.

  “At least you tried,” Larten consoled him. “We knew the odds were against us. We were lucky to survive.”

  “I wish he’d killed me,” Wester cried. “How can I go back? They’ll think I didn’t face him, that I was afraid.”

  “Your wounds…” Larten muttered.

  “Anyone can fake injuries,” Wester snorted. He got up and looked around for footprints.

  “What will you do?” Larten asked.

  “Find the monster,” Wester said. “I tracked him down once. I can do it again.”

  Larten didn’t comment on how crazy that plan was–the vampaneze would already be many miles from here–but he said nothing. Wester would come to realize the futility of his quest in his own time.

  “You won’t be able to face him until your arm heals,” Larten said, trying an indirect approach. “You’ll need to rest, gather your strength, get a new hammer and more stakes.”

  Wester nodded thoughtfully. He tried moving his fingers and winced. “Do you know how to make a splint?” he asked.

  “No,” Larten said, “but I know a man who does. You should return to your home and bury your family. Bu
t if you truly don’t want to,” he said quickly before Wester could argue, “you can come with me and seek refuge at the Cirque Du Freak.”

  “What’s that?” Wester asked.

  “It’s many things to many people,” Larten said softly, taking Wester’s good arm and leading him away. “For you, temporarily, it can be a sanctuary.” But he knew, even as he said it, that what he was really offering Wester was a new home.

  Wester’s broken arm healed, and so did the hurt inside him. The first few nights were horrible, a time of sobbing and hateful curses. Larten wouldn’t have been able to console Wester by himself, but there were many at the Cirque Du Freak who knew what it was like to lose loved ones, to find yourself an outcast from the world. They did what they could to comfort the miserable orphan.

  Wester was full of talk about how he was going to find and kill the monster. He made all kinds of outlandish plans. Larten listened quietly and never exposed the flaws in Wester’s wild schemes, and as his fury dwindled, Wester came to see them himself and stopped muttering darkly. He hadn’t forgotten his vow to slaughter the beast, and Larten doubted this was the end of the matter, but for the time being he was content to let it rest.

  Even before he regained the use of his arm, Wester started helping Larten with his chores. He was intrigued by the magical circus. He worked hard and adapted swiftly to the way of life. Larten wondered sometimes if any stray in their position would fit in with the circus folk, or if he and Wester were different. He had a feeling the Cirque wasn’t for everyone, only for those of a certain bent. Although they looked normal, he came to believe that he and Wester were in their own way every bit as freakish as the stars of the show.

  The pair spoke often of their lives, especially at night when Verus and Merletta were asleep. In whispers, Larten told Wester about Vur Horston and Traz, how he had become a murderer on the factory floor. He thought Wester might think less of him then, but his new friend said nothing as Larten laid bare his soul, only listened silently and patted Larten’s hand when he was finished.