by Darren Shan
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.”
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 see 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.”