Palace of the Damned. Darren Shan
a type he’d never suspected he might be capable of experiencing. He couldn’t walk away from that. With her, he could nearly forget about Malora, the killings, the dark abyss into which he had almost literally fallen. If he cut her out of his life, he feared what might happen to him next.
“Vur?” Alicia asked quietly, breaking into his gloomy reverie.
For a moment he thought she was calling to the real Vur Horston and he looked around eagerly for a thin, poorly boy he hadn’t seen in close to a hundred years. But when he only found the chubby Gavner Purl – still chasing the bird – he realised she was speaking to him. “Yes?” he replied.
“A centime for your thoughts,” Alicia said.
Larten smiled thinly. “They are not worth that much.”
Then he held her close and strolled after the running, laughing boy, afraid that he’d lose her – and himself – forever if he let her go.
A few nights after their walk in the park, Alicia dragged Larten along to an art exhibition. Among the works on display were some new paintings by a young Spanish artist called Pablo Picasso. Larten liked most of the art, but he wasn’t too keen on the crowd.
Larten was uncomfortable in large gatherings. When it was just him and Alicia, he could forget that he was different. In other company he became self-conscious. He kept expecting someone to recognise him for what he truly was and scream, “Vampire!” The book by that dratted Bram Stoker had come out some years before and everyone knew the word now. There was no point claiming innocence and saying he wasn’t like the fictional Dracula. Larten knew how mobs worked. If his true identity was ever revealed, he would have no choice but to flee.
Larten had been uneasy since they arrived at the exhibition. As they wandered, stopping to chat with friends of Alicia, that feeling intensified. He felt certain that he was being watched. Some people might have dismissed such a hunch, but Larten knew better than to doubt his instincts.
The vampire smiled freely and pretended to listen to the conversation flowing around him. He didn’t want to let the person watching him know that he was aware of their scrutiny. But all the time he was slyly sweeping the rooms with his gaze, searching for the one who had pinpointed him.
Finally he singled out his potential enemy. It was a tall, fat man. He was twice the size of anybody else and Larten was surprised not to have noticed him before. The man’s face was virtually hidden behind layers of blubber. He had long, curled hair and a majestic, drooping, waxed moustache. He was finely dressed, his fingers – Larten noted without surprise that each one had a small scar at the tip – glittered with rings, and he sported a diamond-studded monocle. But there was something vulgar about him, and it wasn’t just the four scantily clad women who encircled him and tittered at his every joke.
The fat man saw that he had been spotted. With a sharp word and a curt snap of a hand he dismissed the women. They drifted away to talk with some of the other men – they had plenty of admirers – though Larten was sure they’d return once their master clicked his scar-tipped fingers. They were the type of women he had seen much of in his younger days as a vampire Cub.
The fat man inclined his head and stepped out on to a balcony, inviting Larten to follow. “Excuse me a moment,” he murmured to Alicia. “I wish to take some air.”
“Don’t be long,” she said.
“Of course not,” he promised, but he wasn’t sure if he could keep this particular vow. He didn’t know what the fat man wanted, but he was sure of one thing — the stranger was a vampire. And that spelt bad news whatever way he looked at it.
The obese vampire was snorting a pinch of snuff when Larten joined him on the balcony. He offered some, but Larten shook his head.
“You never did like snuff, did you?” the man purred, putting it away.
“You know me, sir?” Larten frowned, studying the stranger again, trying to place him. There was something familiar about the voice, but not the man’s face. Had they met in Vampire Mountain?
“I know you well, Vur Horston,” the man smirked. “I also knew you when you went by your real name. And I knew you by another name too.” His eyes twinkled and Larten realised that whoever this was, the man meant him no harm.
“What name might that have been?” Larten asked, relaxing slightly.
“It was one I gave you myself,” the vampire said, then smiled nervously as he removed his monocle and brushed his hair back, revealing his face in full. “I called you Quicksilver.”
The mention of his old nickname astonished Larten, but as the man formed the word, something about the movement of his lips triggered a memory that was even more astonishing. Leaning close, eyes widening with shock, Larten seized the man’s shoulders and croaked with disbelief, “Tanish Eul?”
CHAPTER SIX
Larten and Tanish sat in plush leather chairs in the study of Tanish’s house, sipping wine from France’s finest vineyards. Larten preferred ale to wine, but Tanish was proud of his collection and forced a glass on his guest.
Larten had known Tanish when they were Cubs, young vampires with a taste for war, and the seedier human pleasures. They’d drunk, gambled and womanised their way across much of the world. He had counted Tanish as a close friend, one who got him into much trouble, but who was always fun company. Then Tanish refused the challenge of a vampaneze and was shamed in front of his peers. He departed in disgrace, never again to take his place in the clan. Larten thought that was the last he would see of the dashing, finely groomed vampire. Over the years he had occasionally wondered what might have happened to Tanish, but only idly, never expecting an answer.
Now here was the exile, bloated beyond recognition, wealthy and dressed in the most expensive clothes that Paris could offer, with a coterie of pretty young women and faithful servants.
“I knew you as soon as I saw you,” Tanish said for the umpteenth time. “The scar’s new, but otherwise you look the same. Not me! I’ve fattened out, haven’t I, Quicksilver?”
“You have,” Larten smiled. “But please, call me Vur.”
“Afraid I might ruin your cover?” Tanish smirked.
“Aye,” Larten admitted. He’d sent Alicia home, only telling her that he had met an old friend with whom he had much to discuss. Alicia wanted to meet Tanish Eul, but Larten had asked for some time alone with him.
“There’s no need to fear my tongue,” Tanish said. “Discretion is vital to me too. We both have secrets we wish to keep safe. I’ll say nothing of your past, Vur Horston.”
Larten thanked Tanish, then remarked on how well he seemed to be doing.
“Not bad,” Tanish sniffed, waving a hand at the beautifully decorated walls, the statues and paintings, the giant chandelier. The room was as big as the apartment where Larten and Alicia lived, and it was only one of many in the mansion, which was situated in the most fashionable part of Paris. “Of course this is just my town house. My place in the country is grander. I like an intimate setting when I come to the city.”
“It must have cost a fortune,” Larten noted. “You cannot have made such profits from gambling, surely.”
“Actually I did,” Tanish said. “But from the other side of the table. I run several casinos. There’s more to be made hosting gamblers than playing with them. Most of my profits come from drink and my pretty things, though I get a cut of all the table action too.”
Larten frowned. “What are your pretty things?”
“Women,” Tanish laughed. “We never had problems attracting young maids, did we? But others aren’t as lucky with the ladies as we were. For a price I supply the wealthier men of Paris with an introduction to companions who warmly welcome their attention.”
“Ah,” Larten sighed.
“You