The Saga of Larten Crepsley 1-4. Darren Shan
and magician were married, but they never told that to an audience. It was more fun to let people think that Merletta had turned the tables on Verus.
After a few small tricks, Merletta sawed a woman in half, then made herself vanish. Mr Tall came on with the final performer, Deemanus Dodge. As the stage was cleared, Larten and others went through the crowd, handing out rotten fruit and vegetables, along with dirt-encrusted rocks and chunks of coal.
“Ladies and gentlemen — observe!” Mr Tall yelled, producing a bar of solid gold. A hush fell over the audience, all eyes pinned on the yellow bar. It was a genuine fortune. Though there were some wealthy people in the crowd, most were poor and had to scrape by in life, surviving day to day in a hard, cruel world. A bar of gold like this would change their lives forever.
“You have all paid an entrance fee and bought many of our trinkets, for which we bid you thanks,” Mr Tall said. “But you do not have to go home lighter of pocket. We will give you a chance to win this gold bar and walk out of here rich beyond your wildest dreams. When I leave, Deemanus will issue a challenge. If any of you get the better of him, this bar will be yours.”
Mr Tall glided off stage and Deemanus stepped forward. He was wearing a white suit and a matching bowler hat. He smiled at the silent, covetous crowd. “It’s very simple, good ladies and gents. All you have to do is throw your missiles – that is to say, the objects that have been handed out – at me. You can throw other things too: shoes, coins, whatever you like. The first person to hit me wins the gold bar.”
Deemanus stood there, smiling and waiting. For a few seconds nobody moved. Most people were frowning, trying to figure out the catch — winning a gold bar could never be that simple. Then one man, a bit quicker or greedier than the rest, stood up and threw a head of cabbage at the stage.
Deemanus stepped aside as the cabbage sailed past. “A lame first shot,” he chided the man. “Surely the rest of you can do better than that.”
As soon as he said it, objects rained down on him from all directions. People threw manically, savagely, fruit, vegetables, rocks and coal. Some tore off their shoes or snatched trinkets from their pockets and lobbed those at him. Many raced to the front of the stage for a better shot, tussling with those in their way. One over-eager man produced a gun in his furious excitement and fired two shots at the performer.
Deemanus dodged everything, even the bullets. He didn’t move at an incredible speed, but simply seemed to dance around the stage, making tiny adjustments to his limbs to avoid the flying objects.
It seemed to last an age, but in reality the act lasted no more than a minute. The rain of objects trickled to a drizzle, then ceased. People were panting, wide-eyed, staring hungrily at Deemanus, scouring his suit for the slightest smudge. But it was spotless. He turned slowly, letting everyone see, even taking off his hat to display the top of it. Then, with a wink, he bowed and skipped from the stage.
Disappointment gave way to chuckles. People laughed at others and themselves, appreciating the humour in their wild display. A few looked genuinely bitter, but most had enjoyed the sport. The applause, as Mr Tall took to the stage to bid them goodnight, was deafening. They filed out in high spirits, buying more of the toys and sweets from Larten and his crew, before strolling home to catch as much sleep as they could before work early in the morning.
As the last patron left, Larten stowed his tray, then returned to the tent to help clean the stage. This was the only part he disliked, but with lots of people chipping in, they swept up quickly enough. By midnight he was sitting by a huge fire with the cast and crew of the circus, enjoying a hot drink and the warm glow of having been part of another legendary, unique and freakishly fabulous performance.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Larten woke late in the morning and lay smiling up at the wooden ceiling of his caravan. He studied the rays of light streaming through a crack in the curtains. It reminded him of home, the mornings when he’d stirred before the others to catch the rising sun. But the memories didn’t hurt. There had been times when Larten missed his family, and he still missed Vur. But many years had passed. He liked his new life and never looked back with regret.
Larten had a quick bath in a tub of chilly water out back. He shared the caravan with Verus and Merletta, and although the magician was easy-going in most ways, she was strict when it came to cleanliness. She insisted that Larten wash every third day. He had grumbled a lot to begin with, but now he didn’t mind. After Larten had dried himself, he dressed and reported for duty. People were already dismantling the tent, supervised by Mr Tall. Larten helped stack and move chairs, then joined in the rolling of the canvas, an arduous but enjoyable task in which most members of the circus took part.
By midday everything was packed away neatly and the troupe took to the road in their horse-drawn carriages. Larten rode up front with Verus, enjoying the scenery from his seat beside the ventriloquist. Verus never forced words from the mouths of his friends — he kept his special talent for the stage. He was a quiet man at times like this, saying little, focused on the horse.
When Larten tired of the scenery, he withdrew and asked Merletta to teach him some tricks. He didn’t have any freakish abilities, so he could never be a star at the Cirque Du Freak. But he had a quick hand and a keen eye, and was able to copy any trick once he’d seen it performed slowly. Merletta said he could carve out a career for himself as a magician if that was the path he wished to take. Larten knew he wouldn’t – his heart was set on becoming a Vampire General – but it was fun to play at being a magician’s apprentice.
Merletta ran him through a few of the card tricks that he’d already mastered, then taught him some new moves. He was able to slide cards around swiftly between his fingers and could make them disappear and reappear at will. Merletta was sure that he would soon overtake her in this discipline if he stuck with it. He was a natural at cards.
When it came to locks, chains and handcuffs, Larten already outshone his tutor. Merletta had never seen anyone pick a lock as swiftly or easily as the orange-haired teenager. There wasn’t much she could teach him about escapology — once he’d learnt the basics, he had sprinted ahead of her.
Larten strolled between caravans later, visiting the friends he had made since linking up with the Cirque Du Freak. Some performers were vain and didn’t mingle much – Gervil and Rax were especially pompous – but most were welcoming, as were the crew. Larten had never been more relaxed than he was here. If he hadn’t felt the itch to explore the night, he would have been delighted to put down roots and call the circus home.
He wound up in Mr Tall’s caravan. The owner of the travelling show was a solitary man. During their long hours of travel, he kept to himself. He didn’t like physical contact with other people and hadn’t even shaken Seba’s hand when the vampire dropped off Larten. The pair were old friends – Mr Tall had received his visitor warmly and they’d swapped tales for hours – but the giant preferred not to touch those he mixed with.
Although Mr Tall didn’t usually encourage visits, he had told Larten to call in on him as often as he liked. Perhaps it was because Larten was Seba’s assistant, or maybe he had seen something in the orange-haired youth that interested him. Either way, the pair spent a couple of hours together most days.
Mr Tall was working on a Laveesha doll when Larten knocked and entered. The oversized man had enormous hands, but his fingers were even nimbler than Larten’s. Using his fingernails and a tiny, sharpened piece of glass, he could make adjustments to a doll or statue that others could only see with the aid of a magnifying glass.
Mr Tall passed Larten a small set of jars filled with paint and he set to work on the pieces awaiting his attention. They often worked in silence like this, but on some days Mr Tall asked about Larten’s past, or told him stories of Seba, Paris and other vampires. Larten always listened intently, absorbing every word, eager to learn anything that he could about the clan.
“Seba sends you his regards,” Mr Tall said after a while. “He is doing well and has almost made it to Vampire Mountain. No broken legs yet.”
The pair shared a chuckle. Even though he