by Darren Shan
They spoke briefly of what they had been up to since they’d last met, but Sylva couldn’t contain her curiosity for long. “Where are we going?” she asked. “You were very mysterious on the phone.”
“I hate telephones,” Larten grumbled. “I always feel like a fool when I have to speak into one. But they have become a necessary evil. Tell me, do you enjoy the theater?”
“Very much,” she said. “But if you’re going to take me to a show, I should warn you that I’ve seen most of the plays on Broadway.”
“You will not have seen any like this,” Larten assured her.
When Sylva was ready, Larten took her arm—she needed a cane to walk now—and led her to a deserted warehouse. The building was dark outside and Sylva was nervous. Then she saw other people enter and her nerves faded.
A man was waiting just inside the door. He was the tallest man she’d ever seen, and the hat he wore made him seem even taller. He had a menacing expression and very black teeth. He was glaring at them. Sylva clutched Larten’s arm and got ready to defend herself with her cane if they were attacked.
“Do you have tickets?” the tall man growled.
“No,” Larten said gravely. “I would not waste good money on a two-bit show like this one.”
The men glowered at each other, then broke out laughing. “It’s good to see you, old friend,” the tall man smiled.
“Likewise,” Larten said. “Sylva, this is Hibernius Tall, owner of the Cirque Du Freak.”
“You run a freak show?” Sylva frowned.
“No, madam,” Mr. Tall said. “I run the most incredible, exciting, mind-boggling freak show in the history of the world. Come, I will seat you in the front row. Any friend of Larten’s is a most respected and welcome friend of mine.” He glanced at the vampire and his eyes sparkled. “You may, of course, enter of your own free will.”
“Very droll,” Larten sighed, wishing—not for the first time—that Bram Stoker had never written that inexplicably popular book about vampires.
Sylva wasn’t sure what to expect as she took her seat in front of the stage but soon realized that Mr. Tall had spoken truly. This was the most incredible show she’d ever seen. There was a man called Bradley Stretch who had rubbery bones—he could extend his arms and legs, tie his fingers into knots, and do a whole lot more. There was a woman who could set her eyes alight. A boy who could cut off pieces of his body and then grow them back again. And many, many more.
Sylva watched in a daze, along with the rest of the audience, as one freak after another took to the stage, each more amazing than the one before. Even Larten was surprised. The show was slicker and more wondrous than when he’d first seen it. The dancing ladies and stage magicians were relics of the past. It was now a display of pure, unique, unmatchable marvels.
Only one thing disturbed Larten. In the interval a number of small people in blue robes and hoods passed among the crowd, selling trinkets. These were the mysterious Little People, servants of Desmond Tiny. Their master had sent them to protect the cast and crew of the Cirque Du Freak during the War. Des Tiny had told Larten that he dispatched the Little People to guard the circus whenever great threats loomed on the horizon. The fact that they were still with the Cirque troubled Larten and made him wonder what sort of dangers might be lying in store.
Larten and Sylva went backstage after the show for a small party to which only a few select guests had been invited. Sylva got to meet some of the stars and chat with them about their lives, how they had been discovered by Mr. Tall, what it was like to have rubbery bones or regrowable limbs.
“I think she enjoyed our little show,” Mr. Tall murmured to Larten, popping up beside him without warning.
“Everybody does,” Larten smiled. “My congratulations. I did not think you could improve on the old formula, but it is better than ever.”
“We’re constantly evolving,” Mr. Tall said. “Tastes are more refined than they used to be, so I can focus solely on the bizarre and freakish now. And with modern travel being what it is, I find it easier to track down fresh talent and bring new performers into the fold.”
“I sometimes dream of taking to the stage again,” Larten said. “But I do not think my old bag of tricks would find much favor with a modern audience.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Mr. Tall said. “We have a particularly strong lineup at the moment, but there is always room for a spot of light relief. Your sleight of hand and escape tricks are not unusual, but your speed and strength are. Naleesha—the lady who sets her eyeballs on fire—is taking a short holiday. We’re playing New York for another eight nights and will be without her for the rest of our time here. We could make use of your talents.”
“You are joking,” Larten said skeptically.
“No,” Mr. Tall said. “I’m serious. Will you perform with us again?”
“I do not think—” Larten began, but Sylva had been listening and she cut in.
“Please, Larten, say you’ll do it. I’d love to watch you. If you agree to perform, I’ll come every night and cheer for you until my voice breaks.”
“Well,” Larten chuckled, oddly nervous at the thought of stepping in front of an audience again after all these years, “with support like that, how can I refuse?” He snapped his cape and struck a pose. “Show me to my trailer, Hibernius. The real star of the show has arrived!”
Chapter
Eighteen
Larten spent most of the day rehearsing with Mr. Tall. They set up a number of high-risk escapist routines. In one, Larten was locked in chains and placed beneath a door studded with sharpened stakes. The door would be held in place over him by a rope, and a member of the audience would be invited to slice through the rope with a knife. It would take them about half a minute to cut through the strands. If Larten didn’t wriggle free in time, he’d be skewered in a dozen places, and that would be the end of him.
Getting out of the chains wasn’t the hard bit—any decent escapologist could have done that. But Mr. Tall wanted it to appear as if he’d failed, so that when the stakes dropped, the audience could see him still struggling. If he darted out of harm’s way at the last split second, using his unnatural speed, he would give the impression that he’d been trapped and everyone would think he was dead.
“That should give the crowd a juicy scare,” Mr. Tall said enthusiastically.
The difficulty was timing it so finely that those watching wouldn’t know he had escaped until after the door was raised. Larten had to do it countless times until Mr. Tall was happy. It was only when one of the stakes caught the hem of his cape and nearly speared his foot that Mr. Tall expressed satisfaction.
“Perfect!” he clapped. “That’s what I’m after. Now let’s see if we can’t knock another tenth of a second off of it.”
Larten would also lift several heavy weights and juggle them. Each object had spikes or sharp edges, so if he made a mistake, he’d lose a few fingers.
“I do not recall you being this bloodthirsty in the past,” he complained at one point.
“Audiences are more sophisticated than before,” Mr. Tall said. “We have to add an authentic element of danger. They must see that the threat of injury is genuine. If you can’t give them that, they will jeer you offstage.”
When Larten had stretched his skills and stamina as far as he could—he was sweating through his clothes—Mr. Tall dismissed him and told him to get some sleep. The General went away muttering angrily, but when the time came to perform that night—under his old nickname of Quicksilver—and he took his bows after a successful act to a chorus of cheers, he forgot about his complaints and lapped up the applause. It had been a long time since he’d been able to enjoy himself so freely, without any thoughts of his grim quest. For those brief moments he was a true part of the Cirque Du Freak again, with no other concerns in the world.
Sylva was greatly impressed and hurried backstage after the show to tell the vampire how fabulous he was. Larten tried to make light of her complim
ents, and the others that he was paid, but inside he was glowing. He had missed the stage life. The next week was going to be a lot of fun, and he was determined to rack up the tension another few notches by making his escapes even more life threatening than they already were.
The next four nights passed in a happy blur. Larten slept soundly by day—Mr. Tall provided him with a luxurious coffin—and practiced for a couple of hours every evening. Then he relaxed and had a light meal with the other performers before taking to the stage and burning as brightly as he could during his time in the spotlight.
Sylva came to every performance, as she’d promised, and clapped and cheered louder than anyone else whenever he stepped forward to take a bow. She also came backstage after each show to congratulate him. It was the closest he had felt to her, certainly since she had been a tiny girl in Paris. The Cirque Du Freak had brought them together in a way nothing else ever had.
Later, looking back on those few delightful nights, he would curse himself for not realizing that it was too good to be true, for not anticipating the sorrow and pain that always struck whenever he was happy. But at the time he genuinely had no notion that his involvement with the freakish circus would result in the deepest, cruelest cut of his long, dark, tragic life.
On the night of his sixth performance, as he was about to launch into the first of his escapes, somebody in the crowd heckled him. “Hey, ugly, get off the stage! The only freakish thing about you is your hideous face!”
Larten flushed angrily and squinted against the glare of the spotlights, scanning the crowd to find the one who had insulted him. Anger quickly gave way to delight when he spotted a grinning Gavner Purl sitting near the back. Beside him sat an even more welcome and unexpected sight—Wester Flack.
Larten was thrilled to see his old friends, regardless of the fact that Gavner continued to heckle him, and he put on an extra-fine, precisely timed show. Even Wester and Gavner had trouble keeping sight of him when he darted out of the way of the falling stakes and a massive rolling boulder. On a couple of occasions they thought, along with the rest of the audience, that he had been squashed or speared. But the orange-haired General always reappeared to take his deserved applause.
When Larten took his final bow at the end of the show, he signaled to the pair to meet him around back. They were led through to the aftershow party along with a handful of other select guests. While most of the VIPs made straight for the more remarkable stars of the show, the vampires hurried over to Larten.
“What are you doing here?” the General beamed. He was particularly surprised to see Wester.
“We’re messengers of good fortune,” Wester grinned, but before he could continue, a teenager stuck his head between the two vampires.
“Is this him?” the boy gasped.
“The one and only,” Gavner said.
The excited teen extended a hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. My father told me many tales about you.”
Larten shook the young man’s hand, smiling uncertainly. “I am trying to place your face, but I do not know…”
“My name’s Jimmy, sir. Jimmy Ovo.”
It clicked. “The undertaker in Berlin!” Larten exclaimed. “Your father was helping Kurda Smahlt when I met him. He traveled with us for a while. What in the name of the gods are you doing here with these two?”
“I met James when I was with Kurda,” Gavner explained. “He went back into undertaking after the war. I’ve kept in touch. It’s handy knowing a man in his line—he and his contacts are able to provide us with bottled blood when we need it. I dropped by to see him on our way. He told me Jimmy was in New York on vacation, so I thought I might as well invite him to the Cirque Du Freak while I was here.”
“I’m going to follow my old man into the family business,” Jimmy said. “I’ll be happy to supply you with all the blood you require once I’m established. Any time you need a top-up, just come ask.”
“I will do that,” Larten smiled.
Before Jimmy could start quizzing Larten about his experiences during the war, Gavner sent him to chat with some of the other performers. “He’s a nice kid,” Gavner said when the boy was out of earshot, “but a bit too bubbly sometimes.”
“All of the young are lively,” Larten said. “I remember…” He spotted Sylva and beckoned her to join them. He thought she’d be delighted to see Gavner again, and he was keen to introduce her to Wester—the pair knew much about each other but had never actually met. But Sylva’s face was pale and she shook her head when Larten waved, then turned and stumbled away, limping heavily, her hand shaking as it gripped the head of her cane. Larten was confused, but before he could follow to investigate, Wester spoke.
“We have important news,” he said, his face aglow. “We came as fast as we could. We didn’t want you to hear it from anyone else. Can we go somewhere private to tell you?”
“Don’t be melodramatic,” Gavner laughed. “Here’s as good a place as any.”
Wester glanced around. Nobody was paying any attention to them. He chuckled ruefully. “You’re right. No point beating about the bush. Larten, you’re going to become a Prince.”
“Of course I am,” Larten said sarcastically. “You and Gavner are here to invest me, I suppose?”
“I’m serious,” Wester said, and Larten’s smile faded. “Paris has nominated you. Arrow and Mika have already approved the nomination. Chok Yamada and Vancha haven’t yet been back to Vampire Mountain to vote, but I’m certain Vancha will recommend you. Sire Yamada will probably reject the nomination, to ensure it goes to the vote. You know what it’s like—the Princes have the power to elect a new Prince by themselves if they all agree, but they prefer to let Generals vote on the matter.”
“That’s if Chok makes it back,” Gavner added gloomily. “He’s in poor health according to reports. We’re expecting bad news any night now.”
“Even in death may he be triumphant,” Larten murmured, making the death’s touch sign in honor of the aging Prince.
“It’s happening,” Wester said, barely able to contain his excitement. He gripped Larten’s arms and squeezed. “Everything’s finally falling into place.”
Larten smiled crookedly. The news was hard to absorb. The Princes were the most revered of vampires. By becoming one, he was guaranteed a privileged place in the annals of the clan. Assuming the Generals supported his nomination, in a few years he would have more power than he had ever imagined. Any honorable vampire would lay down his life for Larten and obey his every command. He would be able to exert tremendous influence over thousands of vampires, maybe even persuade the other Princes to lead them into war with the vampaneze.
Larten was ecstatic yet scared. He didn’t know whether to cheer or cringe. Part of him wanted to be invested immediately, but another part wished that he could postpone the honor. He guessed that every Prince’s senses reeled when they first heard of their nomination. The confusion would no doubt pass once the shock wore off.
“You did not need to come and tell me in person,” Larten said.
“There’s gratitude for you,” Gavner huffed.
Larten shook his head. “I am delighted to see you both, but why come all this way when you could have passed the message to me by other means?”
“I need to campaign for you,” Wester said. “Some Generals don’t like the fact that you’re associated with me. There will be opposition to your nomination. I want to gather support for you, remind the doubters of your triumphs over the vampaneze. The next few years are vital. We need to get as many Generals on our side as we can, so that you can win the vote of a clear majority.”
“Will you campaign for me too?” Larten asked Gavner, smiling to show it was meant as a joke—he knew the young vampire didn’t approve of his and Wester’s plans to provoke a war.
“I don’t think you need help,” Gavner said. “In my opinion Wester’s worrying for nothing. Some vampires will object to your nomination, but not many. You’ll sweep in without
any problems. I just happened to be in Vampire Mountain when Wester heard and I wanted to come share the good news with you.”
“Speaking of which,” Larten frowned, “how do you know about the nomination? It is meant to be a secret until all of the Princes have been consulted.”
Wester laughed. “When did that ever happen? Word spreads swiftly through the Halls of Vampire Mountain.”
“Are you sure it is not just a rumor?” Larten asked.
“Positive,” Wester said. “Seba confirmed it—Paris asked him for his thoughts before nominating you. He asked me to pass on his congratulations. He said to tell you he was proud, and that he was confident you would prove an immense credit to the clan.”
Larten felt tears tickling the corners of his eyes but he blinked them away before they had time to fully form. “Well,” he said, stroking his scar, “this is a lot to take in. I am glad you did not tell me before my performance—if I had been distracted, I might have missed my mark and you could have been burying me tonight instead of celebrating my nomination.”
The vampires laughed and clapped Larten’s back. They spent the next few hours discussing the future and what lay in store for the soon-to-be Prince. Larten still had trouble believing it and grimaced each time one of them referred to him as Sire Crepsley. Wester was already plotting their strategy.
“I think we can gather enough support to launch an offensive in ten, maybe fifteen years,” he mused aloud. “Paris nominated you, so we can probably rely on his vote. Arrow will definitely fall in with us once he sees how passionate you are about this. Vancha and Mika will be more difficult to persuade, but if we can get most of the Generals behind us, they’ll give their blessing too.”
Gavner didn’t like it when the pair spoke of war and wiping out the vampaneze, but he was only an ordinary General—he had passed his Trials eight years earlier—and he figured it wasn’t his place to lecture them. If Wester was right and this was the wish of the clan, he would have to swallow his misgivings and fall in behind Larten as he led them all to war.