First Bites

by Darren Shan

  Larten didn’t try to appeal to the other children, to ask them to help him or to lie on his behalf. They owed him nothing. If they stood by his side or tried to hide his identity, they would suffer too.

  Turning wildly, fighting against a wave of bile, Larten searched desperately for the door—he had become disoriented and didn’t know where it was. As soon as he sighted it, he ran for his life.

  As if the children had been waiting for this signal, one of them raised a finger, pointed at the fleeing boy, and screeched, “Murderer!”

  Within seconds they were all screaming Larten’s name, pointing, howling like banshees. But they did nothing except scream. No one tried to follow him. There was no need. Others would take care of that. A full, fearsome mob of righteous executioners would soon be hot on Larten’s trail, each member of the pack eager to be the first to string up the cold-blooded, orange-haired killer.

  Chapter Five

  Larten ran without any real sense of direction. He hadn’t explored much of the city beyond his own neighborhood, but he knew every last inch of the area around the factory, all the alleys, roads, ruins, and hiding places. If he had been thinking straight, he could have slipped away quickly and cleanly or found a spot where he could hide until night.

  But Larten was in a panic. His best friend had been murdered in front of him, and he’d killed a man in response. His heart was pounding, and he fell often, scraping his legs and hands. His head was a bedlam of noise and terror, his only clear thought—Run!

  If a mob had formed swiftly, they would have found Larten flailing around the streets outside the factory, losing his way and backtracking, an easy target. But the adults who answered the calls of the children were thunderstruck. They pressed the witnesses for detailed descriptions of Traz’s last moments. If anyone had thought to give chase, others would have immediately joined them. But in the chaos, everyone assumed that a group was already in pursuit of the boy, so precious minutes passed without anybody making a move.

  Outside, Larten had turned down a dead-end alley. He was looking behind him for pursuers, so he ran into a wall and fell with a cry. As he picked himself up and rubbed his head, he spotted a girl no more than four or five, sitting on a step and studying him.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Larten shook his head.

  “You’re hurt,” the girl said.

  Larten didn’t know what she was talking about. When she pointed at his head, he rubbed it again, looked at his fingers, and saw that he was bleeding. Now that he was aware of his wound, pain kicked in and he grimaced.

  “My mommy can fix you,” the girl said. “She fixes me when I get hurt.”

  “That’s all right,” Larten croaked. “I’ll be fine.”

  “She gives me a cup of tea with sugar,” the girl said. “Sugar,” she repeated boastfully. “Have you ever had sugar?”

  “No,” Larten said.

  “It’s lovely,” she whispered.

  Larten stared around. The worst of the panic had passed. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t feel so afraid anymore. He was still a long way from normal, yet he began thinking of what he should do and where he could go. He had to get away quickly, but he’d only be able do that if he held his nerve.

  “Thank you,” he said to the girl, and headed back up the alley.

  “For what?” the girl asked.

  “Calming me down.”

  She giggled. “You’re silly. Come back and play.”

  But Larten had no time to waste on play. There was only one game of any interest to him now—beat the hangman.

  From the alley he took a right turn and soon had left behind the neighborhood where he’d spent all his life. Though he wasn’t sure of the surrounding area, he had a vague idea of the shape of the city and moved in an eastern direction. That was his quickest route to the outskirts. He didn’t run but walked briskly, head down, not making eye contact with anyone.

  Nobody paid attention to the thin, dirty, bloodied, trembling boy. The city was full of lost, wounded strays just like him.

  At the factory, someone finally asked what had become of Traz’s killer. When people realized the boy had escaped without even a halfhearted challenge, they were outraged—nobody had liked Traz, but a rebellious brat like Larten Crepsley couldn’t be allowed to stab a hardworking foreman to death and waltz away freely. A gang took to the streets and was soon joined by dozens of others as word of the murder spread. Life was monotonous in those parts, and a chase was a major attraction. Men, women, and teenagers joined the workers from the factory, brandishing knives, hooks, and any other sharp implements they could find. More than one also took the time to root out a good length of rope. Mobs were never shy of volunteers when it came to the office of hangman.

  By the time the mob was fully formed and storming through the streets, Larten was out of danger’s immediate range. Their cries didn’t reach him or alert any of the people he was passing. With no sign of a chase party, he was able to keep calm and carry on at a steady pace.

  It never crossed his mind to go home. He knew that was the first place the mob would look for him, but that wasn’t the reason he avoided it. If he thought his parents would try to protect him, he might have returned. If he believed people would grant him a fair hearing, maybe he wouldn’t have fled. If there was any justice in the world, perhaps he’d have thrown himself at the feet of his accusers and begged for mercy.

  But nobody would care about Vur Horston. Children in factories were killed all the time. As long as the owners made money, they didn’t mind. But the killing of a foreman was a scandal. An example would have to be made, to stop other workers from following Larten’s lead.

  Larten’s father was a thoughtful, caring man, and his gruff mother loved him in her own way, but life was hard, and poor people had to be practical. They couldn’t save him from the mob, and Larten didn’t think they’d even try. He figured they would hand him over and curse him for being a fool and losing his temper.

  Larten had never heard the phrase “burning your bridges.” But he would have understood it. There was no home for him in this city anymore. He was all alone in the world and marked for death.

  * * *

  It was evening by the time Larten cleared the city. The sky had been dark all day, and now it began to blacken with the coming of night. There was a cruel bite to the air. Larten had no coat, and he shivered in his short-sleeved shirt. He was hungry and thirsty, but the cold was his main concern. He had to find shelter or he’d end up like one of the stiff, frozen street people he’d often seen.

  Hunching his shoulders against the cold, Larten walked along the main road for a while, then took a dirt track. His vague plan was to find a village and hide out in a cowshed or a barn. He didn’t know how long a walk it would be, but he guessed it couldn’t be more than a few miles.

  If it hadn’t started to rain heavily, Larten would have kept going. Maybe he’d have slipped along the way, twisted an ankle, and perished of the wet and cold in the open. Or maybe he’d have made good time and found shelter, stolen a few eggs in the morning, and set off in search of a job. He might have scraped by, worked hard, earned some money. Perhaps he’d have lived a good life, married and had children, and died at the ripe old age of forty or forty-five.

  But Larten’s destiny didn’t lie in a ditch or any of the nearby villages. Rain soaked him, forcing him to look for immediate shelter. A tree would have been fine, but the clouds looked thundery, and he’d heard tales of people who had been struck by lightning under trees. There were no caves that he knew of. That left…

  Larten looked around, praying for inspiration, and through a brief break in the rain his prayers were answered. He spotted the heads of tombstones and realized he was close to a graveyard.

  Larten had only been to a graveyard once before, one Sunday when he and Vur had trekked to the northern part of town, where a large cemetery stood. They’d gone hoping to see ghosts, having heard tales of headless horsem
en roaming the rows of graves. Of course, they didn’t see any–ghosts mostly came out at night–but they saw plenty of monuments to the dead.

  The poor of the city were carted off to be dumped in mass graves, nothing to mark the spot where they lay. Those with money secured a grave. Wealthy people bought tombs.

  Graves and tombs were of no use to Larten, but some of the truly rich invested in family crypts, small houses for the dead. If they kept the dead dry, they could keep the living dry too, at least for a night.

  Larten didn’t know if this small graveyard would boast any crypts. But on the off chance, he abandoned the path and splashed through sodden fields, fearfully edging his way towards the home of the (hopefully) sleeping dead.

  Chapter Six

  The graveyard was larger than Larten had imagined, and while it was no match for the lavish city of the dead to the north, there were a few crypts jutting out of the crop of crosses and tombs.

  Larten scrambled across the graves, muttering prayers to every god he’d ever heard of, eyes cast low. He wanted to look every which way at once, to check for ghosts, witches, demons. But he thought that if he saw them, they would see him too. By not looking, he hoped no ghosts would notice him, so he kept his eyes on the ground. It was a foolish notion, but it gave Larten the courage to go on.

  He couldn’t get into the first crypt that he tried—the doors were sealed shut. There was a chain on the woven copper gates of the next. He tugged at the gates as hard as he could, and the chain gave a little, but not enough.

  Larten thought he heard movement behind him. He stood, head lowered, expecting an attack. When nothing leapt out of the growing darkness, he looked around for another crypt, then hurried towards it.

  He almost didn’t try this door. It was on hinges and slightly ajar, but it was carved of stone, and he doubted he had the strength to move it. But rain was lashing down, exhaustion had set deep into his bones, and the next crypt was some way off. So, with no real hope, he grabbed the edge of the door and pulled.

  The door slid open so smoothly that he slipped and fell. Landing with a splash in a puddle of rain and mud, he tensed and peered into the darkness. Maybe the door had opened so easily because something inside had pushed out at the same time he’d pulled. But if a ghost was lurking within, Larten couldn’t see it.

  Are you mad? a voice very much like Vur’s whispered inside his head. Don’t go in there. It’s a place for the dead.

  But Larten was out of options. If he didn’t find shelter there, he doubted he’d find it anywhere. As terrified as he was by the thought of spending the night in a crypt, he had a better chance in there than out here. So with one last quick prayer, he got to his feet, wiped his hands dry on his trousers, then ducked and entered the crypt.

  At first he thought it was pitch-black. But he closed his eyes for a while, and when he opened them again, he could see fairly well. There were glass panels in the ceiling. That seemed strange to Larten, but maybe some of the people buried here had been afraid of the dark.

  He remained by the door while his eyes adjusted, then studied the crypt. There were brick walls on either side, behind which the coffins were stacked. A strange sort of ornamental fountain in the middle. No sign of any ghosts.

  Growing braver, Larten moved away from the door, into the center of the crypt. It was cool here, but warmer than outside, and a lot drier. He rubbed his arms up and down, trying to generate heat. He’d have to take off his clothes later to let them dry, but he was wary of undressing too soon, in case a ghost rose from one of the coffins and attacked. He didn’t want to have to flee naked through the graveyard!

  Larten chuckled weakly at the image. Then his stomach rumbled and he winced. He’d been hungry for a long time but had been able to ignore it. Now his hunger kicked in hard. If only the owner had come to the factory after lunch. The children didn’t get much in the middle of the day, but a few scraps of bread and some slops of watery soup would have made a big difference. Trust Traz to pick the worst possible time to get killed.

  Larten chuckled again. He knew murder was wrong, and he wished he could go back and change this day, but in all honesty he wasn’t sad that Traz was dead. He and Vur had often prayed for the gods to strike down their bullying foreman. He didn’t think too many people would shed tears on Traz’s account.

  As Larten approached the fountain, he saw that it was covered in cobwebs. He scanned the strands for spiders–he’d eaten insects before, when food was scarce–but they were either hiding or had moved on. Sighing, he figured he might as well try the webs, since there was nothing else available. He doubted they’d fill him up–they might even make him sick–but what choice did he have?

  He ran a couple of fingers through one of the webs, breaking the strands. Then he twirled his fingers around several times, adding to the webby covering. When it was thick enough to hide his flesh, he brought his fingers to his mouth, shut his eyes, and peeled off the webs with his teeth.

  Larten gagged on the foul-tasting webs and almost vomited, but then he gulped and forced down the disgusting, dusty strands. After a brief pause for breath, he scooped up more, working his way down from the top of the fountain. He kept looking for spiders or even a few desiccated flies, but no luck.

  Then, out of the solemn, sinister silence of the crypt, as he was sucking more of the spider’s silk from his sticky fingers, someone spoke from a spot high above and behind him.

  “Are cobwebs a treat where you come from?”

  Larten whirled, eyes locking on the wall above the door, the one place he hadn’t thought to check when he’d entered the crypt. Something was attached to the bricks. It was a red-skinned beast, with a pale face and long dark hair streaked with white. Its claws were dug into the bricks, and it was studying Larten with what seemed to be a wicked, bloodthirsty smile.

  Larten darted for the door, certain he was too late, that the creature would drop in front of him and block his way before falling upon him and finishing him off. But to his surprise the beast never moved, and a second later Larten was in the doorway, freedom a couple of paces ahead of him.

  “I would ask you to stay awhile,” the creature murmured, and something in its tone made Larten pause. He cast a quick glance upwards and saw that the thing had lowered its head. Only a handful of inches now separated their faces.

  Larten squealed and slammed against the jamb of the doorway. But still he didn’t spill out of the crypt and run away. Because the creature hadn’t sounded threatening when it spoke. It had sounded strangely lonely.

  “What are you?” Larten gasped.

  “Should not the question be who am I?” the creature asked, then released its grip, dropped to the floor, and stood. Larten saw that it was actually a man—or at least it had the body and face of one. The red he’d glimpsed was the material of the man’s clothes, not his skin, which–from what Larten could see–was no different from any other person’s.

  “Aren’t you a monster?” Larten frowned, eyeing the man suspiciously.

  “I would not describe myself as one,” the man chuckled. “Although there are many who would.”

  To Larten’s surprise, the man extended a hand. Larten’s heart was pounding, but it would be rude to refuse this gesture of friendship. Sticking out a trembling hand of his own, he accepted the man’s offer of a handshake. The man’s grip was loose, but Larten sensed immense strength in the fingers.

  “My name is Seba Nile,” the man said, “and this is my home for the night. You are more than welcome to share it with me if you wish.”

  “Thank you,” Larten said weakly, feeling like he was in a dream. “My name’s Larten Crepsley.”

  “I bid you welcome, Larten,” Seba said warmly, and without releasing the boy’s hand, he led him back into the shadows of the crypt.

  Chapter Seven

  Seba Nile sat on the floor, brushed away dust, then produced an apple from within the long red cloak he was wearing. He split the apple in two with his sharp but clean f
ingernails and offered half to the boy. Larten wolfed down the fruit. When Seba saw how ravenous the child was, he gave him the second half of the apple too. Taking it with a brief nod of thanks, Larten sat cross-legged, like Seba, and munched down to the core, chewing the seeds and all.

  “I am guessing that you have not eaten in a while,” Seba noted drily. “I would give you more if I had any, but I do not. You can hunt with me later, or I can bring back food for you if you prefer to remain where it is warm and dry.”

  Larten grunted and picked the remains of the core from between two of his teeth. Squinting at Seba, he said suspiciously, “What do you want?”

  “I do not want anything,” Seba replied.

  “Then why are you helping me? Why let me stay here and give me food?”

  Seba smiled. “I am simply being hospitable.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Larten sniffed.

  “You should never call a man a liar unless you are sure,” Seba said coldly.

  “You’re living in a crypt,” Larten said. “You can’t be up to any good if you’re staying in a place like this.”

  Seba raised an eyebrow. “I could say the same about you, young pup!”

  Larten chuckled weakly. “I suppose you could.”

  “Why are you here?” Seba asked. When Larten’s lips drew thin, he added, “You do not have to tell me, but you look troubled. I think you will rest easier if you are open with me.”

  Larten shook his head. “You first. What are you doing here?”

  “I often stay in places like this,” Seba said.

  “You sleep in crypts?” Larten asked.

  “Usually.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am a vampire.”

  Larten frowned. “What’s a vampire?”

  Seba was surprised. “You have not heard the tales? I thought in this part of the world… Have you, perhaps, heard of the living dead? The walkers of the night?”