by Darren Shan
“It will take a few days for the aftereffects to pass,” he said. “ But do not worry: you are in good shape. We are lucky they buried you today. If they had waited another day to put you under, you would be feeling much worse.”
He hopped back into the grave and closed the coffin lid. When he emerged, he picked up his shovel and began tossing the earth back in.
“Do you want me to help?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “ You would slow me down. Go for a stroll and walk some of the stiffness out of your bones. I will call when I am ready to move on.”
“Did you bring my bag?” I asked.
He nodded at a nearby headstone, from which the bag was hanging.
I got the bag and checked to see if he’d searched it. There was no sign of his having invaded my privacy, but I couldn’t tell for sure. I’d just have to take him at his word. Anyway, it didn’t matter much: there was nothing in my diary he didn’t already know.
I went for a walk among the graves, testing my limbs, shaking my legs and arms, enjoying it. Any feeling, even pins and needles, was better than none at all.
My eyes were stronger than ever before. I was able to read names and dates on headstones from several yards away. It was the vampire blood in me. After all, didn’t vampires spend their whole lives in the dark? I knew I was only a half-vampire, but all the—
Suddenly, as I was thinking about my new powers, a hand reached out from behind one of the graves, wrapped itself around my mouth, then dragged me down to the ground and out of sight of Mr. Crepsley!
I shook my head and opened my mouth to scream, but then saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks. My attacker, whoever he was, had a hammer and a large wooden stake, the tip of which was pointing directly at my heart!
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“IF YOU MOVE EVEN A fraction,” my attacker warned, “I’ll drive this right through you without blinking!”
The chilling words didn’t have half as much impact on me as the familiar voice that uttered them.
“Steve!” I gasped, glancing up from the tip of the stake to find his face. It was him, sure enough, trying to look brave, but obviously terrified. “Steve, what the—,” I began but he cut me short with a poke of the stake.
“Not a word!” he hissed, crouching down behind the stone pillar. “I don’t want your friend overhearing.”
“My…? Oh, you mean Mr. Crepsley,” I said.
“Larten Crepsley, Vur Horston,” Steve sneered. “I don’t care what you call him. He’s a vampire. That’s all that bothers me.”
“What are you doing here?” I whispered.
“Vampire hunting,” he growled, prodding me again with the stake. “And lookee here: seems like I found me a pair!”
“Listen,” I said, more annoyed than worried (if he was going to kill me, he would have done it immediately, not sat around talking first, like they do in the movies), “if you’re going to stick that thing in me, do it. If you want to talk, put it away. I’m sore enough as it is without you making new holes in me.”
He stared, then pulled the stake back a few centimeters.
“Why are you here?” I asked. “How did you know to come?”
“I was following you,” he said. “I followed you all weekend after seeing what you did to Alan. I saw Crepsley going into your house. I saw him toss you out the window.”
“You’re the one who sneaked into the living room!” I gasped, remembering the mysterious late-night visitor.
“Yes.” He nodded. “The doctors were very quick to sign your death certificate. I wanted to check for myself, to see if you were still ticking.”
“The piece of paper in my mouth?” I asked.
“Litmus paper,” he said. “It changes color when you stick it on a damp surface. When you stick it on a living body. That and the marks on the fingers tipped me off.”
“You know about the marks on the fingers?” I asked, amazed.
“I read about it in a very old book,” he said. “The same one, in fact, that I found Vur Horston’s portrait in. There was no mention of it anywhere else, so I thought it was just another vampire myth. But then I studied your fingers and—”
He stopped and cocked his head. I realized I could no longer hear digging sounds. For a moment there was silence. Then Mr. Crepsley’s voice hissed across the graveyard.
“Darren, where are you?” he called. “Darren?”
Steve’s face collapsed with fear. I could hear his heart beating and see the beads of sweat rolling down his cheeks. He didn’t know what to do. He hadn’t thought this through.
“I’m fine,” I shouted, causing Steve to jump.
“Where are you?” Mr. Crepsley asked.
“Over here,” I replied, standing, ignoring Steve’s stake. “My legs were weak, so I lay down for a minute.”
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I said. “I’ll rest a little longer, then try them again. Give me a shout when you’re ready.”
I squatted back down so I was face to face with Steve. He didn’t look so brave anymore. The tip of the stake was pointing down at the ground, a threat no more, and his whole body sagged miserably. I felt sorry for him.
“Why did you come here, Steve?” I asked.
“To kill you,” he said.
“To kill me? For heaven’s sake, why?” I asked.
“You’re a vampire,” he said. “What other reason do I need?”
“But you’ve got nothing against vampires,” I reminded him. “You wanted to become one.”
“Yes,” he snarled. “I wanted to, but you’re the one who did. You planned this all along, didn’t you? You told him I was evil. You made him reject me so that you could—”
“You’re talking nonsense.” I sighed. “I never wanted to become a vampire. I only agreed to join him in order to save your life. You would have died if I hadn’t become his assistant.”
“A likely story,” he snorted. “To think I used to believe you were my friend. Ha!”
“I am your friend!” I cried. “Steve, you don’t understand. I would never do anything to harm you. I hate what’s happened to me. I only did it to—”
“Spare me the sob story,” he sniffed. “How long were you planning this? You must have gone to him that night of the freak show. That’s how you got Madam Octa, wasn’t it? He gave her to you in return for your becoming his assistant.”
“No, Steve, that’s not true. You mustn’t believe that.” But he did believe it. I could see it in his eyes. Nothing I said was going to change his opinion. As far as he was concerned, I’d betrayed him. I had stolen the life he felt should have been his. He would never forgive me.
“I’m going now,” he said, starting to crawl away. “I thought I’d be able to kill you tonight, but I was wrong. I’m too young. I’m not strong enough or brave enough.
“But heed this, Darren Shan,” he said. “I’ll grow. I’ll get older and stronger and braver. I’m going to devote my entire life to developing my body and my mind, and when the day comes… when I’m ready… when I’m fully equipped and properly prepared…
“I’m going to hunt you down and kill you,” he vowed. “I’m going to become the world’s best vampire hunter and there won’t be a single hole you can find that I won’t be able to find, too. Not a hole or a rock or a cellar.
“I’ll track you to the ends of the Earth if I have to,” he said, his face glowing madly. “You and your mentor. And when I find you, I’ll drive steel-tipped stakes through your hearts, then chop off your heads and fill them with garlic. Then I’ll burn you to ashes and scatter you across running water. I won’t take any chances. I’ll make sure you never come back from the grave again!”
He paused, produced a knife, and cut a small cross into the flesh of his left palm. He held it up so I could see the blood dripping from the wound.
“On this blood, I swear it!” he declared, then turned and ran, disappearing in seconds into the shadows
of the night.
I could have run after him, following the trail of blood. If I’d called Mr. Crepsley, we could have tracked him down and put an end to both Steve Leopard and his threats. It would have been the wise thing to do.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. He was my friend….
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
MR. CREPSLEY WAS SMOOTHING OVER the mound of earth when I returned. I watched him work. The shovel was large and heavy but he handled it as if it were made out of paper. I wondered how strong he was and how strong I would one day be.
I considered telling him about Steve but was afraid he’d go after him. Steve had suffered enough. Besides, his threat was an idle one. He’d forget about me and Mr. Crepsley in a few weeks, when something new grabbed his attention.
I hoped.
Mr. Crepsley looked up and frowned. “Are you sure you are all right?” he asked. “You seem very uptight.”
“So would you if you’d spent the day in a coffin,” I replied.
He laughed out loud. “Master Shan, I have spent more time in coffins than many of the truly dead!” He gave the grave one last hard whack, then broke the shovel into little pieces and tossed them away. “Is the stiffness wearing off?” he asked.
“It’s better than it was,” I said, twisting my arms and waist. “I wouldn’t like to fake my death too often, though.”
“No,” he mused. “Well, hopefully it will not be necessary again. It is a dangerous stunt. Many things can go wrong.”
I stared at him. “You told me I’d be safe,” I said.
“I lied. The potion sometimes drives its patients too far toward death and they never recover. And I could not be sure they would not perform an autopsy on you. And… Do you want to hear all this?” he asked.
“No,” I said sickly. “I don’t.” I took an angry swing at him. He ducked out of the way easily, laughing as he did.
“You told me it was safe!” I shouted. “You lied!”
“I had to,” he said. “There was no other way.”
“What if I’d died?” I snapped.
He shrugged. “I would be down one assistant. No great loss. I am sure I could have found another.”
“You… you… Oh!” I kicked the ground angrily. There were lots of things I could have called him but I didn’t like using bad language in the presence of the dead. I’d tell him what I thought about his trickery later.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked.
“Give me a minute,” I said. I jumped up on one of the taller headstones and gazed around at the town. I couldn’t see much from here but this would be my last glimpse of the place where I had been born and lived, so I took my time and treated every dark alley as a posh cul-de-sac, every crumbling house as a sheik’s palace, every two-story building as a skyscraper.
“You will grow used to leaving after a time,” Mr. Crepsley said. He was standing on the stone behind me, perched on little more than thin air. His face was gloomy. “Vampires are always saying good-bye. We never stop anywhere very long. We are forever picking up our roots and moving on to new pastures. It is our way.”
“Is the first time the hardest?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “But it never gets easy.”
“How long before I get used to it?” I wanted to know.
“Maybe a few decades,” he said. “Maybe longer.”
Decades. He said it as though he was talking of months.
“Can’t we ever make friends?” I asked. “Can’t we ever have homes or wives or families?”
“No,” he sighed. “Never.”
“Does it get lonely?” I asked.
“Terribly so,” he admitted.
I nodded sadly. At least he was being truthful. As I’ve said before, I’d always rather the truth—however unpleasant it might be—than a lie. You know where you stand with the truth.
“Okay,” I said, hopping down. “I’m ready.” I picked up my bag and dusted some graveyard dirt from it.
“You may ride on my back if you wish,” Mr. Crepsley offered.
“No, thank you,” I replied politely. “Maybe later, but I’d rather walk the stiffness out of my legs first.”
“Very well,” he said.
I rubbed my belly and listened to it growl. “I haven’t eaten since Sunday,” I told him. “I’m hungry.”
“Me too,” he said. Then he took my hand in his and grinned bloodthirstily. “Let us go eat.”
I took a deep breath and tried not to think about what would be on the menu. I nodded nervously and squeezed his hand. We turned and faced away from the graves. Then, side by side, the vampire and his assistant, we began walking…
… into the night.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Read all the books in Darren Shan’s New York Times bestselling Cirque Du Freak series!
A Living Nightmare (Book 1)
The Vampire’s Assistant (Book 2)
Tunnels of Blood (Book 3)
Vampire Mountain (Book 4)
Trials of Death (Book 5)
The Vampire Prince (Book 6)
Hunters of the Dusk (Book 7)
Allies of the Night (Book 8)
Killers of the Dawn (Book 9)
The Lake of Souls (Book 10)
Lord of the Shadows (Book 11)
Sons of Destiny (Book 12)
For:
Pearse and Conall—children of the night!
OBE (Order of the Bloody Entrails) to:
Rachel Clements—one year down, only a couple of hundred to go!!
Isobel Abulhoul and all of the Shantastic gang in Dubai
Editorial Mentor:
Nick “The Blood Ninja” Lake
General Masterminds:
Christopher Little and his Princely clan
Part One
“Are cobwebs a treat where you come from?”
Chapter One
When Larten Crepsley awoke and yawned one gray Tuesday morning, he had no idea that by midday he would have become a killer.
He lay on his bed of sacks packed with straw, staring at specks of dust drifting through the air. The house where he lived was cramped and dark, and the room where he slept never caught the sun except at dawn. He often woke a few minutes earlier than necessary, before his mother roared for the family to get up. It was his only quiet time of the day, his one chance to lie back idly and grin lazily at the world.
There were six children in the room, five of them snoring and shifting in their sleep. Larten came from a crop of eight, but two had died young, and his eldest sister left a year ago to marry. Although she was only fourteen, Larten suspected their parents were glad to be rid of her—she had never been an especially hard worker and brought home little money.
“Up!” Larten’s mother roared from the room next to theirs, and pounded the thin wall a couple of times.
The children groaned and crawled out of bed. They bumped into one another as they tried to find their way to the bedpan, the older siblings cuffing their younger brothers and sisters. Larten lay where he was, smiling smugly. He had already done his business while everyone else was asleep.
Vur Horston shared the room with the five Crepsley children. Vur was a cousin of theirs. His parents had died when he was three years old, his father in an accident at work, his mother of some disease. Larten’s mother had been keeping a close watch on the sickly widow and moved in quickly to take the baby. An extra pair of hands was always useful. The boy would be a burden for a few years, but children that age didn’t eat much, and, assuming Vur survived, he could be put to work young and earn his foster parents a nice little income.
Larten felt closer to Vur than to any of his real siblings. Larten had been in the kitchen when his mother brought the silent, solemn boy home. After giving Vur some bread soaked in milk–a rare treat–she’d stuck him by Larten’s side and told her son to look after the waif and keep him out of her way.
Larten had eyed the newcomer suspiciously, jealous of the gift his mother
had given the stranger. In return, Vur had stared at Larten innocently, then tore the bread down the middle and offered his cousin the bigger half. They had been best friends ever since.
“Up!” Larten’s mother roared again, slamming the wall just once this time. The children blinked the last traces of sleep from their eyes and quickly threw on their clothes. She would come crashing in on them soon, and if they weren’t dressed and ready to go, her fists would fly.
“Vur,” Larten murmured, nudging his cousin in the ribs.
“I’m awake,” Vur replied, turning to show Larten his smile.
“Don’t you need to go?” Larten asked.
“I’m bursting,” Vur giggled.
“Hurry up!” Larten shouted at one of his younger sisters, who was squatting over the bedpan as if she owned it.
“Go in the bed if you’re that desperate,” she jeered.
“You might as well,” Larten said to Vur. It wasn’t uncommon for them to wet the bed—the great thing about straw was that it dried swiftly.
“No,” Vur said, gritting his teeth. “I can wait.”
Larten’s clothes were on the floor next to the bed. He pulled them on, not removing the thin vest that he slept in. Larten’s mother was an orderly woman. She did the family laundry every other Sunday. All the children had to wait in their beds, naked beneath the covers, until their clothes were returned. Then they would wear them without changing for the next fortnight.
Larten’s sister finished on the bedpan. Before his youngest brother could claim it, Larten darted across the room, snatched it, and passed it to Vur, careful not to spill the contents.
“My hero,” Vur laughed, loosely aiming with one hand while he rubbed yellow crust from his eyes with the other.
Although Vur was Larten’s age, he was much smaller—a thin, weak, mild-mannered boy. He seldom fought for anything, happy to go without if he was challenged. Larten often stood up for his cousin, even though Vur never asked for help.