The Saga of Larten Crepsley 1-4. Darren Shan
old wives have lots of names,” Wester snorted. “Most of us just call them bloodsuckers, because they drink the blood of those they kill.” He cocked an eyebrow at Larten. “Still want to come with me?”
“Do you see me backing off?” Larten growled.
Wester sighed. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not myself. When I walked in and found them…”
Larten gave the boy’s arm a squeeze, remembering what it had felt like when he lost Vur, trying to imagine how it must feel to find all your family murdered at the same time, to be the only survivor. His heart went out to Wester, and he swore a silent oath to do all that he could to protect this lonely, brave orphan.
“What’s Strasling’s?” Larten asked.
“A burnt-down mansion,” Wester explained. “The man who lived there was evil. He practised dark magic and killed lots of people. The villagers say the house was struck by lightning and all within died by the hand of God. But I think a group of them torched it and drove back those inside when they tried to get out.”
“Nice place you picked to come and live,” Larten grinned.
Wester managed a weak chuckle. “We didn’t have much choice. After Da helped kill the monster last year, we weren’t welcome in our own village, nor any of the others. I think they only accepted us here because they still feel guilty about what happened in Strasling’s.”
“The monster your father killed,” Larten said carefully. “What was it like?”
“I don’t know. He never told us. But he took this bag when he went after it. I brought it with me from the house.”
Wester opened the leather bag and Larten peered inside. He saw a hammer, a cross, a bottle of clear liquid that he guessed was holy water, some garlic, a small saw and three wooden stakes.
“The cross and holy water will hurt the monster, but not kill it,” Wester said with the air of a person who’d done this a dozen times. “We need to drive a stake through its heart, then cut off its head, scoop out its brains and fill the skull with garlic. Then bury the body and head separately at the centre of a crossroads.”
Larten nodded soberly, staring with fascinated horror at the implements. If he was right and they were on their way to confront a real vampire, the holy artifacts would be of no use, and the saw and garlic were superstitious extras. But a stake through the heart… aye, that would kill even the strongest of the so-called living dead.
“They sleep in the daytime,” Wester concluded. “If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to kill the beast before it wakes.”
“And if we’re unlucky?” Larten asked.
Wester smiled without humour. “Then it will be a good time to make your peace with God, because you’ll be seeing him soon.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The walls of the ruined mansion were scorched black from the fire that had destroyed it. There was still a foul smell in the air, although it had been years since the blaze. It felt like a dark, forbidding place, even to a night creature like Larten. It didn’t surprise him that the monster – the vampire? – had picked this spot for its base.
They each took a stake from the bag. Wester kept the hammer. He gave Larten the cross and stuck the holy water in a pocket. He left the saw and garlic in the bag outside the ruins, telling Larten that they could return for those later if they were successful.
The scared boys slowly picked their way through the debris, saying nothing, studying each new room or corridor at length before entering. The roof and upper floors had fallen in, but lots of floorboards and tiles remained in certain sections, casting scores of shadows. There were many places for a sun-fearing killer to hide.
If Larten had been by himself, he would have waited until midday when the sun was at its strongest, then proceeded at a snail’s pace, making as little noise as possible. But Wester was in a hurry to wreak revenge. He couldn’t bear to stand still — he might go mad if he did.
Larten spotted the opening to the cellar. It had been half-covered by several planks. He considered saying nothing to Wester. It might be for the best if the boy never saw it, if he explored the rest of the ruins and came to the conclusion that the beast wasn’t here. They could go home and that would be the end of it.
But Larten had come to uncover the truth, not engage in an act of deception. He was here to help Wester, not slyly direct him out of danger’s way. The orphan deserved his shot at revenge. So Larten tugged Wester’s sleeve and pointed.
Wester’s cheeks paled. For a moment he looked like he might bolt for safety. Then he steeled himself, nodded grimly, led the way to the steps and pushed some of the planks aside.
They descended in silence and soon found themselves in a small cellar that had probably been used to store food and wine in the past. It was dark, but not pitch black. Light filtered through from the entrance behind them and also from cracks in the ceiling.
There was something lying by the wall to their right, in the darkest part of the room. It was the shape of a human, covered by thick blankets. Wester started forward, but Larten stopped him. Before advancing, he made a slow turn, studying the walls and ceiling. He had been taken by surprise once in a place like this — he wasn’t about to be caught out twice.
Having checked for an ambush, Larten moved ahead of Wester and edged to one side, leaving clear the most direct route to the body. He would give Wester the first strike. If the boy failed, Larten would leap to his aid. He’d have been happier taking the lead – after his years with Seba, he was sharper than any human his age – but this was Wester’s battle, not his.
As Wester closed in, Larten spotted a problem. Wester would have to pull back the blankets before striking, in order to pinpoint the beast’s heart. That would give the monster a chance to defend itself. Larten slid in front of Wester. The boy hissed and raised the hammer and stake — he’d been so focused on what he had to do that for a moment he didn’t realise it was Larten who’d stepped in his way. Then his vision cleared and he relaxed slightly.
Larten pointed at the blankets, then at himself, and made a gesture to show that he would pull them back. Wester nodded. Larten made another gesture, trying to encourage Wester to hammer the stake home quickly. Again Wester nodded, but he looked irritated now — did Larten think he planned to stand around and whistle a few verses of a song before he struck?
They came within touching distance of the blankets. Larten’s hands were shaking, but he didn’t mind — only a fool wouldn’t be scared in a situation like this. He bent softly. He wanted to flex his fingers, but was afraid his knuckles might make a cracking sound and alert the sleeping monster.
Larten glanced up at Wester. The boy looked sick, but he wiped sweat from his brow, then positioned the stake over the area where he assumed the killer’s heart would be. He lifted the hammer. Like Larten, he was shaking, but he had a firm grip on his weapons.
Larten grabbed the coarse, hairy fabric of the blankets and prepared to pull. But before he could, the blankets were tugged sharply by the shape beneath. Caught off guard, Larten was jerked sideways into Wester, knocking him over.
As both boys shrieked, the killer of Wester’s family sprang to its feet and sneered at the amateur assassins. Even in the darkness of the cellar, Larten could see that this was no vampire, and for that small mercy he gave thanks — at least Seba had not lied to him. The creature’s skin was a gloomy purple colour and its hair, eyes, lips and fingernails were red. It had the form of a man and dressed like one, but it was clearly no human.
Wester scrambled to his feet and swung his stake wildly. The purple-skinned beast chopped at the boy’s arm. Larten heard bones snap and then Wester fell, screaming with pain. His stake dropped from his now useless fingers and rolled away.
The red-haired thing glanced at Larten and frowned when it saw his orange hair. It was momentarily thrown, not sure what to make of