Birth of a Killer. Darren Shan
Darren Shan on the web is a treat wherever you come from…
www.darrenshan.com
For:
Pearse and Conall — children of the night!
OBEs (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
Contents
PART ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
PART TWO
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
PART THREE
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
PART FOUR
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
About the Author
Other Books by Darren Shan
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
PART ONE
“Are cobwebs a treat where you come from?”
CHAPTER ONE
When Larten Crepsley awoke and yawned one grey 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 which he slept in. Larten’s mother was an orderly woman. She did the family laundry every second 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.
“What’s keeping you?” Larten’s mother screeched, sticking her head in and glaring at the children.
“Coming!” they roared, and those nearest her ducked through the doorway even if they weren’t finished dressing.
“Vur!” she yelled.
“Just a second!” he panted, straining to finish.
Larten’s mother squinted at the boy, deciding whether or not to punish him. In the end she just sniffed and withdrew. Larten sighed happily. He didn’t mind when she hit him – he could take a fierce whipping – but he hated