Birth of a Killer

by Darren Shan

  Larten was probably on the roof no more than fifteen or twenty minutes, but it seemed much longer, especially with the sun beating down on him. He breathed a sigh of relief when his father finally drew to a close, got to his feet, and retreated back inside. Larten waited a few minutes to be sure the old man would not return, then lowered himself to the ground and stepped across to study the flowers.

  There was an inscription on the wall, carved into the crumbling brickwork. Larten had never learned to read, so he could not decode the sentences that his father had chipped out of the bricks. But there were two names at the bottom that he recognized instantly, having seen them written many times in his youth.

  Larten and Vur.

  His father had been saying a prayer for the two boys who had been taken from him. All these years later, having experienced so much and having seen so many people suffer and perish, his thoughts were still for the pair whom he had lost in such unfortunate circumstances.

  Larten recalled his flight from the city after he’d killed Traz. He had not gone home, primarily because the mob would be looking for him there, but also because he had assumed that his parents would not miss him, that they would freely hand him over to those who wished to execute him.

  If Larten had known how much his father loved him and how great an impact his son’s departure and Vur Horston’s death would have on him, he would not have stayed away so long. He would have returned after a few years to tell his father that he was alive and doing well. The pair could have kept in touch. Larten could have dropped in on the old man every so often, provided for him, given him money, medicine, anything he needed.

  Guilt consumed Larten as he stood there in the yard, staring at his name and Vur’s, remembering the past, thinking about how his father had laid flowers and said prayers for him. With a miserable, mournful moan, he staggered out of the yard, wiping tears from his eyes, fleeing as he had fled as a child, only this time not from a lynch mob but from himself and the memories of who he had been and the people he had hurt.

  Larten spent the rest of that day in the ruins of an old house, crammed into the remains of a shed, sheltered from the sun. He wept for a long time and begged forgiveness of the vampire gods, as well as the God his father had been praying to.

  Eventually, as dusk was settling upon the city, Larten picked himself up, dried his cheeks, and returned to the inn. Wester was relieved to see him again—he had started to fear that his friend might never come back.

  “Are you all right?” Wester asked as Larten let himself in.

  “No,” Larten said, but he forced a weak smile. “You were right about family being important. I’ve been a fool. My apologies.”

  “You don’t ever have to apologize to me,” Wester said. He licked his lips and thought about asking what had happened to Larten. Then he decided he should not ask such a question. If Larten wished to talk about it, he would. If not… well, everyone was entitled to their secrets.

  Shortly after Larten had cleaned himself up, the door to their room opened and Seba stood outside. “Are you ready to continue?” he boomed, acting as if he knew nothing of Larten’s absence. “All well and rested?”

  “Aye,” Larten said softly.

  “Good,” Seba smiled. “I have quite a difficult task in mind for the pair of you tonight. It is time I started to seriously test you. The easy nights are behind us. You will have to really buckle down now.”

  Wester groaned and tried to share a rueful glance with Larten. But Larten did not react to their master’s announcement. He was staring at the floor, thinking about the choices he had made, the sad old man with the flowers, wondering if he should have been so quick to pledge himself to Seba that night in the graveyard a lifetime ago.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Several weeks later, Seba and his weary assistants arrived at a town in the middle of a festival. It was late at night, but revelers still wove through the streets, singing and drinking. Seba had planned to push on, but Wester pleaded with him to stay—it had been a long time since they’d been able to enjoy a party such as this. In a rare bow to one of his assistants’ wishes, Seba altered his plans and led them to an inn.

  Wester went out to take part in the celebrations, but Larten stayed in their room. He was still morose, thinking about the past, his current position, and if this was the life for him. These past weeks he had found himself questioning the route he had taken and feeling regret at what he had lost by becoming part of the clan. He knew he could never go back to the world of humans, but he didn’t feel he was a true part of the vampire clan either. The doubts that he had experienced in Vampire Mountain returned, and again he started to wonder if he might not be happier if he put the ways of the Generals behind him and sought a new challenge elsewhere.

  Larten’s dark spirits didn’t lift in the morning. Unable to sleep, and tired of listening to Wester’s snores, he rose not long after midday and went down to get some food. He found a seat close to a window but still in the shade, and watched people outside getting ready for another evening of delights. Children ran around freely, sticking up bunting and flowers wherever they could find a niche. Larten smiled ruefully as he thought of his own hard childhood. He wished there had been time for him to play like these children, but even before he went to work in the factory, his mother had kept him busy around the house and almost never let him out.

  Looking at these humans, thinking again about his father, Larten brooded on all that he had sacrificed to become a vampire. He would never have a son or a daughter to carry on his name and love him unreservedly. He couldn’t sit out in the sun like the older men of the town and sip ale while watching the world roll by. His was a world of blood, darkness, and battle. How much simpler life must be for these less powerful but far happier folk.

  Larten stayed by the window for most of the day, shifting to keep to the shade as the angle of the sun changed. He was in a thoughtful mood and he drank lots of ale. Vampires could tolerate more alcohol than humans could, and he would have had to drink wildly to get drunk. But the ale did give him a warm feeling in his stomach, and despite his melancholy he found himself chuckling at his reflection in the glass every so often.

  “Why so merry?” someone asked after his latest dry chuckle.

  Larten blinked and turned. A pretty lady was standing by his table and smiling at him. She had long brown hair, warm eyes, and was dressed colorfully. Larten felt himself blush.

  “I was… thinking about… something,” he mumbled. He hadn’t had much experience talking to pretty ladies.

  “It must have been something nice,” the woman pressed.

  “Um. Yes. It was.” Larten knew that he must sound like a simpleton and he felt his blush deepen.

  The woman swung her hands slightly and tilted her head. She wanted Larten to ask her to sit, but he had no idea that she was interested in him. He thought she was a waitress. He downed his ale and held out the mug, grinning awkwardly.

  The lady frowned. “I don’t work here,” she said.

  “No?” Larten stared at the mug, not sure what to do with it. In the end he raised it to his lips again, as if there were a few drops still in it. He held the mug over his face until the lady shook her head, bemused, and turned away. Then he lowered it and breathed out heavily. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt like he’d been running very fast.

  Larten caught the lady’s eye a few times after that—she was with some friends in a corner, working on garlands of flowers for the festival. He wanted to smile at her and invite her over, tell her he liked her hair, that the flowers were nice and he was sorry for acting so foolishly earlier. But every time he thought of speaking to her, his stomach clenched and his mouth went dry. In the end he stayed where he was, kept his head low, and drank in silence, trying hard to convince himself that he enjoyed being alone.

  Larten didn’t want to go hunting when Seba and Wester came to fetch him at sunset. He hadn’t said much to Seba since their argument in the stream. He’d tried to
avoid the elderly vampire altogether, but that was hard when you were traveling in a small pack. Tonight he had a good excuse to give his master the cold shoulder.

  “I want to stay and enjoy the festival,” he said. “You can hunt without me.”

  Seba’s eyes narrowed, and he thought about forcing Larten to accompany him. But then Wester said, “I’d like to stay too. Please, Master. It will be fun. I had a good time last night, but the festivities were almost over when we arrived.”

  “Vampires should not mix with humans at times like this,” Seba said. “We are hunters. We should hunt.”

  “Even hunters need a break now and then,” Larten growled, gearing up for an argument.

  Seba prepared a retort, but then he caught sight of somebody familiar walking past outside. He paused, put a name to the face, and realized that this might be the stroke of luck he had been waiting for. He shrugged. “Very well. I will hunt by myself. Enjoy your night off.”

  Larten and Wester stared at each other as Seba let himself out.

  “That was too easy,” Wester said suspiciously.

  “He must be getting soft in his old age,” Larten sniffed, and ordered a mug of ale for Wester. They ate some food, then wandered out to explore the town.

  The festival was hitting full swing as they strolled. People danced and sang. A pig roasted on a spit, and young children watched it with hungry, impatient eyes, squealing with delight when drops of fat dripped into the flames and sizzled.

  A street magician entertained a mesmerized crowd, but Larten wasn’t impressed. He could have put on a much better show. He almost volunteered, but that would have drawn attention, and it was better for vampires to keep a low profile.

  Wester insisted they stop and watch a puppet show. He laughed with delight as two male puppets fought over an ugly stick woman who was actually a crocodile in disguise. She ended up eating both of the men. It was the sort of crude act that never would have been approved at the Cirque Du Freak, but Larten had to admit that the puppeteer was quite skilled, and his lips twitched at a few of the jokes.

  “That was great,” Wester chortled as they moved on.

  “It was passable,” Larten murmured.

  “The puppets looked like something Mr. Tall might have carved.”

  “No,” Larten said. “He creates realistic masterpieces. Those were just—”

  An excited roar silenced him. They were passing an alley. He hadn’t been paying attention, but when he heard the roar, he glanced up. A group of people crowded around two men, cheering them on. Larten caught glimpses of fists flying. “A boxing match,” he noted.

  “Shall we go and observe?” Wester asked.

  “Why not?” Larten grinned. “It is fun to watch humans beating each other up.”

  The pair moved into the alley and pressed through the throng. When they got to the front, they were confronted with a peculiar sight. Both boxers were large men, but one was massive–tall and broad–with hands that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a giant. It should have been a one-sided contest, but the larger man wasn’t defending himself. He just stood, letting his opponent punch him. And all the time he was laughing.

  “Come on!” the bigger man shouted as his opponent panted and wiped blood from his hands. The blood hadn’t come from the giant, but from the other man’s knuckles, the skin of which had been torn up. “You can do better than that.”

  “I think he’s tiring, Yebba,” somebody else said. “Perhaps he would appreciate a rest.”

  “To hell with rest!” The boxer snarled and started hitting the larger man again, blow after blow to his chin and cheeks, without any noticeable effect.

  Larten looked for the man who had spoken and found him sitting on a barrel, smoking a delicate pipe, surrounded by a handful of pretty, giggling women. The man was tall and thin, dressed in the finest clothes Larten had ever seen. His hair was carefully swept back, and his face had been artfully painted. He was the person Seba had recognized earlier, and Larten remembered him too.

  “You are Tanish Eul, are you not?” Larten said softly, slipping up behind the man on the barrel.

  The vampire half-turned and glanced at Larten and Wester. His gaze flickered to their fingers, and when he spotted the scars on the tips he relaxed. “You have the advantage of me, good sirs. I don’t believe we’ve met….”

  “You invited me to join you in a game of cards some years back,” Larten said. “We were in a rather infamous mountain at the time.”

  Tanish squinted, then nodded. “Actually I do remember, which is a miracle, given the amount of ale I drank at Council. You were in a foul mood and turned down my offer. You’re Seba Nile’s assistant, aren’t you?”

  “Aye. Larten Crepsley. And this is Wester Flack.”

  “Seba’s other assistant,” Wester clarified.

  “A pleasure to meet you both.” The cultured vampire held out his pipe to them. “Do you smoke?”

  “No,” Larten said.

  “A shame. Perhaps I can introduce you to the pleasures of the pipe later. Are you here with your master on business?”

  “We’re with Seba,” Larten scowled. “But not on business. He’s off hunting. We decided to enjoy the festival.”

  “Men after my own heart,” Tanish cooed, and slid off of the barrel. “Ladies, I’d like to introduce you to some good friends of mine.” The women around Tanish all curtsied and fluttered their eyelashes. Larten found himself blushing, as he had in the inn.

  “Yebba!” Tanish yelled. “I’m bored. Let’s move on.”

  The giant boxer groaned. “But it was just getting interesting.”

  “You can stay if you like.” Tanish sniffed. “I’m going.”

  Yebba scowled, then eyed his opponent. He thought about hitting the human, but in the end just picked him up and held him over his head while the people around them jeered. “Do you surrender?” Yebba asked politely. The man cursed loudly. Yebba shook him hard, then asked again if he was ready to yield.

  “Yes,” the man moaned, his face having turned a pale green shade.

  Yebba set down his defeated foe, then accepted a towel from one of the ladies and wiped sweat and blood from his face. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Wherever there is fun, frivolity, and lakes of ale.” Tanish laughed and led the small group of vampires and their admiring ladies off into the night.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Larten’s head was throbbing when he woke. He groaned, tried to get out of bed, but collapsed and lay on the floor in a huddle, shivering like a wet dog. “I’m dying,” he whimpered.

  “You’re lucky,” Wester croaked. “I think I’m already dead.”

  Larten looked up and spotted Wester sitting in a corner, holding a bucket, his face as white as flour.

  “Have we been poisoned?” Larten asked.

  “Hangovers,” Wester whispered.

  “I thought vampires did not get hangovers,” Larten said.

  “You thought wrong,” Wester replied, then thrust his head over the bucket.

  “My fine, sensible, hard-drinking assistants!” Seba bellowed, opening the door and stepping into the room. He was grinning wickedly.

  “Not so loud,” Larten begged, jamming his hands over his ears.

  “What was that?” Seba roared.

  Larten scrunched his eyes shut and took deep breaths, trying hard not to be sick. “I’m never drinking again,” he vowed.

  “I am,” Seba chuckled. “But beware of making promises you cannot keep. I am sure you will find your way back to the barrel once your head clears.”

  “Barrel?” Larten echoed.

  “You each had a barrel of ale on your shoulder when you staggered home this morning,” Seba said. “You were swigging from them, laughing about puny humans who could only drink from mugs. I put them out in the Hall when I got up. I can fetch them for you if you would like some more.”

  “No!” Larten and Wester yelled.

  “I need that buck
et,” Larten gasped.

  “Get your own,” Wester snapped.

  Seba laughed again, then sat on Larten’s bed and picked a flower from his groggy assistant’s orange hair. “Where did this come from?” he asked.

  Larten stared at the flower and shrugged.

  “Have you been courting pretty maids?” Seba pressed.

  “I can’t remember,” Larten said.

  “I did not have you pegged for a romantic,” Seba hummed, “but perhaps there is hope for you yet.” He cocked an eyebrow at Wester. “Did you come home bearing flowers too, Master Flack?”

  “I don’t think so,” Wester said, running a hand through his hair just in case.

  “Perhaps it fell into your bucket,” Seba said. “Have a look.”

  Wester almost got sick again at the thought of that.

  “You are loving this,” Larten snarled.

  “Aye,” Seba beamed. “You will too when you are my age. One of the few joys for old men is being able to relish the suffering of the young when they overindulge. Now, who would like a hearty breakfast? Bacon? Sausages? A leg of lamb? Runny eggs?”

  Larten lurched to his feet, darted across the room, and snatched the bucket from Wester just in time. When he sank back, wiping drool from his lips, Seba said, “While I would happily stay and watch you suffer for several more hours, time is against us. Get ready, gentlemen. We depart in five minutes.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Larten groaned.

  “I couldn’t leave this room even if I wanted to,” Wester agreed.

  “Never mind your hangovers,” Seba barked. “I gave you your freedom last night with the understanding that it would be a one-off. You have had your fun. Now it is time to resume training. We will hunt, and then I will set a fresh test for you.”

  “To hell with your tests!” Larten shouted.

  Seba’s features darkened. “Do not take that tone with me,” he growled. “I am your master and I demand respect.”

  “Then earn it!” Larten challenged him. “If you showed us some compassion and understanding, maybe we would return it.”