Allies of the Night

by Darren Shan

  "Or they might increase," I said, "to tempt us back."

  We thought about it some more, weighing up the various options.

  "I want to stay," Harkat said eventually. "Life is getting more dangerous, but perhaps … that means we're meant to be here. Maybe this city is where we're destined … to lock horns with the Vampaneze Lord again."

  "I agree with Harkat," Mr Crepsley said, "but this is a matter for Darren to decide. As a Prince, he must make the decision."

  "Thanks a lot," I said sarcastically.

  Mr Crepsley smiled. "It is your decision, not only because you are a Prince, but because this concerns you the most — you will have to mix with human children and teachers, and you will be the most vulnerable to attack. Whether this is a vampaneze trap or a whim of Mr Tiny's, life will be hard for you if we stay."

  He was right. Going back to school would be a nightmare. I'd no idea what fifteen year olds studied. Classes would be hard. Homework would drive me loopy. And having to answer to teachers, after six years of lording it over the vampires as a Prince … It could get very uncomfortable.

  Yet part of me was drawn to the notion. To sit in a classroom again, to learn, make friends, show off my advanced physical skills in PE, maybe go out with a few girls …

  "The hell with it," I grinned. "If it's a trap, let's call their bluff. If it's a joke, we'll show we know how to take it."

  "That is the spirit," Mr Crepsley boomed.

  "Besides," I chuckled weakly, "I've endured the Trials of Initiation twice, a terrifying journey through an underground stream, encounters with killers, a bear and wild boars. How bad can school be?"

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I ARRIVED at Mahler's an hour before classes began. I'd had a busy weekend. First there'd been my uniform to buy — a green jumper, light green shirt, green tie, grey trousers, black shoes — then books, notepaper and A4 writing pads, a ruler, pens and pencils, an eraser, set squares and a compass, as well as a scientific calculator, whose array of strange buttons — 'INV', 'SIN', 'COS', 'EE' — meant nothing to me. I'd also had to buy a homework report book, which I'd have to write all my homework assignments in — Mr Crepsley would have to sign the book each night, saying I'd done the work I was meant to. I shopped by myself — Mr Crepsley couldn't move about during the day, and Harkat's strange appearance meant it was better for him to stay inside. I got back to the hotel with my bags late Saturday evening, after two days of non-stop shopping. Then I remembered that I'd need a schoolbag as well, so I rushed out on one last-gasp, lightning-fast expedition to the nearest supplier. I bought a simple black bag with plenty of space for my books, and picked up a plastic lunch box as well.

  Mr Crepsley and Harkat got a great kick out of my uniform. The first time they saw me stuffed inside it, walking stiffly, they laughed for ten minutes. "Stop it!" I growled, tearing a shoe off and lobbing it at them.

  I spent Sunday wearing in the uniform, walking about the hotel rooms fully dressed. I did a lot of scratching and twitching — it had been a long time since I'd had to wear anything so confining. That night I shaved carefully and let Mr Crepsley cut my hair. Afterwards he and Harkat left to hunt for the vampaneze. For the first night since coming to the city, I stayed behind — I had school in the morning, and needed to be fresh for it. As time progressed, I'd work out a schedule whereby I'd assist in the hunt for the killers, but the first few nights were bound to be difficult and we all agreed it would be for the best if I dropped out of the hunt for a while.

  I got hardly any sleep. I was almost as nervous as I'd been seven years earlier, when awaiting the verdict of the Vampire Princes after I'd failed my Trials of Initiation. At least then I knew what the worst could be — death — but I'd no idea what to expect from this strange adventure.

  Mr Crepsley and Harkat were awake in the morning to see me off. They ate breakfast with me and tried to act as though I'd nothing to worry about. "This is a wonderful opportunity," Mr Crepsley said. "You have often complained of the life you lost when you became a half-vampire. This is a chance to revisit your past. You can be human again, for a while. It will be fascinating."

  "Why don't you go instead of me then?" I snapped.

  "I would if I could," he deadpanned.

  "It'll be fun," Harkat assured me. "Strange at first, but give it time and you'll fit in. And don't feel inferior: these kids will know … a lot more about the school curriculum than you, but you are … a man of the world and know things that they will … never learn, no matter how old they live to be."

  "You are a Prince," Mr Crepsley agreed, "far superior to any there."

  Their efforts didn't really help, but I was glad they were supporting me instead of mocking me.

  With breakfast out of the way, I made a few ham sandwiches, packed them in my bag along with a small jar of pickled onions and a bottle of orange juice, and then it was time to leave.

  "Do you want me to walk you to school?" Mr Crepsley asked innocently. "There are many dangerous roads to cross. Or perhaps you could ask a lollypop lady to hold your hand and—"

  "Stuff it," I grunted, and bolted out the door with my bag full of books.

  Mahler's was a large, modern school, the buildings arranged in a square around an open-air, cement recreational area. The main doors were open when I arrived, so I entered and went looking for the headmaster's room. The halls and rooms were clearly signposted, and I found Mr Olivers' room within a couple of minutes, but there was no sign of the headmaster. Half an hour passed — no Mr Chivers. I wondered if Mr Blaws had forgotten to tell the headmaster of my early arrival, but then I recalled the little man with the huge briefcase, and knew he wasn't the sort who forgot things like that. Maybe Mr Chivers thought he was supposed to meet me by the main doors or the staffroom. I decided to check.

  The staffroom could have held twenty-five or thirty teachers, but I saw only three when I knocked and entered in response to a cry of, "Come in." Two were middle-aged men, glued to thick chairs, reading enormous newspapers. The other was a burly woman, busy pinning sheets of printed paper to the walls.

  "Help you?" the woman snapped without looking around.

  "My name's Darren Horston. I'm looking for Mr Chivers."

  "Mr Chivers isn't in yet. Have you an appointment?"

  "Um. Yes. I think so."

  "Then wait for him outside his office. This is the staffroom."

  "Oh. OK."

  Closing the door, I picked up my bag and returned to the headmaster's room. There was still no sign of him. I waited ten more minutes, then went searching for him again. This time I made for the school entrance, where I found a group of teenagers leaning against a wall, talking loudly, yawning, laughing, calling each other names and cursing pleasantly.

  They were dressed in Mahler uniforms like me, but the clothes looked natural on them.

  I approached a gang of five boys and two girls. They had their backs to me and were discussing some programme they'd seen on TV the night before. I cleared my throat to attract their attention, then smiled and stuck out a hand to the nearest boy when he turned. "Darren Horston," I grinned. "I'm new here. I'm looking for Mr Chivers. You haven't seen him, have you?"

  The boy stared at my hand — he didn't shake it — then into my face.

  "You wot?" he mumbled.

  "My name's Darren Horston," I said again. "I'm looking for—"

  "I 'eard you the first time," he interrupted, scratching his nose and studying me suspiciously.

  "Shivers ain't in yet," a girl said, and giggled as though she'd said something funny.

  "Shivers ain't ever in before ten past nine," one of the boys yawned.

  "An even later on a Monday," the girl said.

  "Everyone knows that," the boy who'd first spoken added.

  "Oh," I muttered. "Well, as I said, I'm new here, so I can't be expected to know things that everyone else knows, can I?" I smiled, pleased to have made such a clever point on my first day in school.

  "Get stuffed, asswipe
," the boy said in response, which wasn't exactly what I'd been expecting.

  "Pardon?" I blinked.

  "You 'eard." He squared up to me. He was about a head taller, dark-haired, with a nasty squint. I could knock the stuffing out of any human in the school, but I'd momentarily forgotten that, and backed away from him, unsure of why he was acting this way.

  "Go on, Smickey," one of the other boys laughed. "Do 'im!"

  "Nah," the boy called Smickey smirked. "He ain't worth it."

  Turning his back on me, he resumed his conversation with the others as though nothing had interrupted it. Shaken and confused, I slouched away. As I turned the corner, out of human but not vampire hearing, I heard one of the girls say, "That guy's seriously weird!"

  "See that bag he was carrying?" Smickey laughed. "It was the size of a cow! He must have half the books in the country in it!"

  "He spoke weird," the girl said.

  "And he looked even weirder," the other girl added. "Those scars and red patches of flesh. And did you see that awful haircut? He looked like somefing out of a zoo!"

  "Too right," Smickey said. "He smelt like it too!"

  The gang laughed, then talk turned to the TV programme again. Trudging up the stairs, clutching my bag to my chest, feeling very small and ashamed of my hair and appearance, I positioned myself by Mr Chivers' door, hung my head, and miserably waited for the headmaster to show.

  It had been a discouraging start, and though I liked to think things could only get better, I had a nasty feeling in the pit of my belly that they were going to get a whole lot worse!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MR CHIVERS arrived shortly after a quarter past nine, puffing and red-faced. (I later learnt that he cycled to school.) He hurried past me without saying anything, opened the door to his room, and stumbled to the window, where he stood staring down at the cement quad. Spotting someone, he slid open the window and roared, "Kevin O'Brien! Have you been kicked out of class already?"

  "Wasn't my fault, sir," a young boy shouted back. "The top came off my pen in my bag, ruining my homework. Could have happened to anyone, sir. I don't think I should be kicked out for—"

  "Report to my office during your next free period, O'Brien!" Mr Chivers interrupted. "I have a few floors for you to scrub."

  "Aw, sir!"

  Mr Chivers slammed the window shut. "You!" he said, beckoning me in. "What are you here for?"

  "I'm—"

  "You didn't break a window, did you?" he cut in. "Because if you did, there'll be hell and leather to pay!"

  "I didn't break a window," I snapped. "I haven't had time to break anything. I've been stuck outside your door since eight, waiting. You re late!"

  "Oh?" He sat down, surprised by my directness. "Sorry. A flat tyre. It's the little monster who lives two floors below. He …" Clearing his throat, he remembered who he was and adopted a scowl. "Never mind about me — who are you and why were you waiting?"

  "My name's Darren Horston. I'm—"

  "—the new boy!" he exclaimed. "Sorry — clean forgot you were coming." Getting up, he took my hand and pumped it. "I was away this weekend — orienteering — only got back last night. I jotted down a note and pinned it to the fridge on Friday, but I must have missed it this morning."

  "No problem," I said, freeing my fingers from his sweaty hand. "You're here now. Better late than never."

  He studied me curiously. "Is that how you addressed your previous headmaster?" he asked.

  I remembered how I used to tremble when faced with the headmistress of my old school. "No," I chuckled.

  "Good, because it's not how you'll address me either. I'm no tyrant, but I don't stand for backchat. Speak respectfully when you talk to me, and add a 'sir' at the end. Got that?"

  I took a deep breath. "Yes." A pause. "Sir."

  "Better," he grunted, then invited me to sit. Opening a drawer, he found a file and perused it in silence. "Good grades," he said after a couple of minutes, laying it aside. "If you can match those here, we won't complain."

  "I'll do my best. Sir."

  "That's all we ask." Mr Chivers was studying my face, fascinated by my scars and burn-marks. "You've had a rough ride, haven't you?" he remarked. "Must be horrible to be trapped in a burning building."

  "Yes, sir." That was in the report Mr Blaws had shown me — according to the forms my 'father' submitted, I'd been badly burnt in a house fire when I was twelve.

  "Still, all's well that ends well! You're alive and active, and anything else is a bonus." Standing, he put the file away, checked the front of his suit — there were traces of egg and toast crumbs on his tie and shirt, which he picked at — then made for the door, telling me to follow.

  Mr Chivers led me on a quick tour of the school, pointing out the computer rooms, assembly hall, gymnasium and the main classrooms. The school used to be a music academy, hence its name (Mahler was a famous composer), but had closed down twenty years earlier, before reopening as a regular school.

  "We still place a lot of emphasis on musical excellence," Mr Chivers told me as we checked out a large room with half a dozen pianos. "Do you play any instruments?"

  "The flute," I said.

  "A flautist! Superb! We haven't had a decent flautist since Siobhan Toner graduated three — or was it four? — years ago. We'll have to try you out, see what you're made of, eh?"

  "Yes, sir," I replied weakly. I figured we were talking at cross purposes — he was referring to real flutes, whereas all I knew how to play was a tin-whistle — but I didn't know whether it was the time for me to point this out. In the end I kept my mouth shut and hoped he'd forget about my supposed flute-playing talents.

  He told me each lesson lasted forty minutes. There was a ten-minute break at eleven o'clock; fifty minutes for lunch at ten past one; school finished at four. "Detention runs from four-thirty to six," he informed me, "but hopefully that won't concern you, eh?"

  "I hope not, sir," I replied meekly.

  The tour concluded back at his office, where he furnished me with my timetable. It was a frightening list — English, history, geography, science, maths, mechanical drawing, two modern languages, computer studies. A double dose of PE on Wednesdays. I had three free periods, one on Monday, one on Tuesday, one on Thursday. Mr Chivers said these were for extra-curricular activities, such as music or extra languages, or they could be used as study classes.

  He shook my hand again, wished me the best of luck and told me to call on him if I ran into difficulty. After warning me not to break any windows or give my teachers grief he showed me out into the corridor, where he left me. It was 9.40 A bell rang. Time for my first class of the day — geography.

  The lesson went reasonably well. I'd spent the last six years poring over maps and keeping abreast of the War of the Scars, so I had a better idea of the shape of the world than most of my classmates. But I knew nothing about human geography — a lot of the lesson revolved around economies and culture, and how humans shaped their environments — and I was at a loss every time talk switched from mountain ranges and rivers to political systems and population statistics.

  Even allowing for my limited knowledge of humans, geography was as easy a start as I could have wished for. The teacher was helpful, I was able to keep up with most of what was being discussed, and I thought I'd be able to catch up with the rest of the class within a few weeks.

  Maths, which came next, was a different matter entirely. I knew after five minutes that I was in trouble. I'd covered only basic maths in school, and had forgotten most of the little I used to know. I could divide and multiply, but that was as far as my expertise stretched — which, I quickly discovered, wasn't nearly far enough.

  "What do you mean, you've never done algebra?" my teacher, a fierce man by the name of Mr Smarts, snapped. "Of course you have! Don't take me for a fool, lad. I know you're new, but don't think that means you can get away with murder. Open that book to page sixteen and do the first set of problems. I'll collect your work at
the end of class and see where you stand."

  Where I stood was outside in the cold, a hundred kilometres distant. I couldn't even read the problems on page sixteen, never mind solve them! I looked through the earlier pages and tried copying the examples set there, but I hadn't a clue what I was doing. When Mr Smarts took my copy from me and said he'd check it during lunch and return it to me that afternoon in science — I had him for that as well — I was too downhearted to thank him for his promptness.

  Break was no better. I spent the ten minutes wandering alone, being stared at by everyone in the yard. I tried making friends with some of the people I recognized from my first two classes, but they wanted nothing to do with me. I looked, smelt and acted weird, and there was something not right about me. The teachers hadn't sussed me out yet, but the kids had. They knew I didn't belong.

  Even if my fellow students had tried making me feel welcome, I'd have struggled to adapt. I knew nothing of the films and TV shows they were discussing, or the rock stars or styles of music, or the books and comics. Their way of speaking was strange too — I couldn't understand a lot of their slang.

  I had history after the break. That used to be one of my favourite subjects, but this syllabus was far more advanced than mine had been. The class was focusing on World War II, which was what I'd been studying during my last few months as a human. Back then I'd only had to learn the major events of the war, and the leaders of the various countries. But as a fifteen year old, who'd supposedly progressed through the system, I was expected to know the detailed ins and outs of battles, the names of generals, the wide-ranging social effects of the war, and so on.

  I told my teacher I'd been concentrating on ancient history in my old school, and complimented myself on such a clever answer — but then she said there was a small class of ancient history students at Mahler's and she'd get me transferred first thing tomorrow.

  Ai-yi-yi-yi-yi!

  English next. I was dreading it. I could bluff my way through subjects like geography and history, by saying I'd been following a different syllabus. But how was I going to explain my shortcomings in English? I could pretend not to have read all the books and poems that the others had, but what would happen when my teacher asked what I'd read instead? I was doomed!