The Vampire's Assistant and Other Tales from the Cirque Du Freak

by Darren Shan

  It was a pretty good daydream.

  Then, a few minutes before lunch, the door opened and guess who walked in? Steve! His mother was behind him and she said something to Mrs. Quinn, who nodded and smiled. Then Mrs. Leonard left and Steve strolled over to his seat and sat down.

  “Where were you?” I asked in a furious whisper.

  “At the dentist’s,” he said. “I forgot to tell you I was going.”

  “What about —”

  “That’s enough, Darren,” Mrs. Quinn said. I shut up instantly.

  At recess, Tommy, Alan, and I almost smothered Steve. We were shouting and pulling at him at the same time.

  “Did you get the tickets?” I asked.

  “Were you really at the dentist’s?” Tommy wanted to know.

  “Where’s my flyer?” Alan asked.

  “Patience, boys, patience,” Steve said, pushing us away and laughing. “Good things come to those who wait.”

  “Come on, Steve, don’t mess around with us,” I told him. “Did you get them or not?”

  “Yes and no,” he said.

  “What does that mean?” Tommy snorted.

  “It means I have some good news, some bad news, and some crazy news,” he said. “Which do you want to hear first?”

  “ Crazy news?” I asked, puzzled.

  Steve pulled us off to one side of the yard, checked to make sure no one was around, then began speaking in a whisper.

  “I got the money,” he said, “and sneaked out at seven o’clock, when Mom was on the phone. I hurried across town to the ticket booth, but do you know who was there when I arrived?”

  “Who?” we asked.

  “Mr. Dalton!” he said. “He was there with a couple of policemen. They were dragging a small guy out of the booth — it was only a small shed, really — when suddenly there was this huge bang and a big cloud of smoke covered them all. When it cleared, the small guy had disappeared.”

  “What did Mr. Dalton and the police do?” Alan asked.

  “Examined the shed, looked around a bit, then left.”

  “They didn’t see you?” Tommy asked.

  “No,” Steve said. “I was well hidden.”

  “So you didn’t get the tickets,” I said sadly.

  “I didn’t say that,” he contradicted me.

  “You got them?” I gasped.

  “I turned to leave,” he said, “and found the small guy behind me. He was tiny, and dressed in a long cloak that covered him from head to toe. He spotted the flyer in my hand, took it, and held out the tickets. I handed over the money and —”

  “You got them!” we roared delightedly.

  “Yes,” he beamed. Then his face fell. “But there was a catch. I told you there was bad news, remember?”

  “What is it?” I asked, thinking he’d lost them.

  “He only sold me two,” Steve said. “I had the money for four, but he wouldn’t take it. He didn’t say anything, just tapped the part on the flyer about ‘some restrictions,’ then handed me a card that said the Cirque Du Freak only sold two tickets per flyer. I offered him extra money — I had almost a hundred dollars total — but he wouldn’t accept it.”

  “He only sold you two tickets?” Tommy asked, dismayed.

  “But that means …,” Alan began.

  “… Only two of us can go,” Steve finished. He looked around at us grimly. “Two of us will have to stay at home.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT WAS FRIDAY AFTERNOON, the end of the school week, the start of the weekend, and everybody was laughing and running home as quickly as they could, delighted to be free. Except a certain miserable foursome who hung around the schoolyard, looking like the end of the world had arrived. Their names? Steve Leonard, Tommy Jones, Alan Morris, and me, Darren Shan.

  “It’s not fair,” Alan moaned. “Who ever heard of a circus only letting you buy two tickets? It’s stupid!”

  We all agreed with him, but there was nothing we could do about it but stand around kicking the ground with our feet, looking bummed out.

  Finally, Alan asked the question that was on everybody’s mind.

  “So, who gets the tickets?”

  We looked at each other and shook our heads uncertainly.

  “Well, Steve has to get one,” I said. “He put in more money than the rest of us, and he went to buy them, so he has to get one, agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Tommy said.

  “Agreed,” Alan said. I think he would have argued about it, except he knew he wouldn’t win.

  Steve smiled and took one of the tickets. “Who goes with me?” he asked.

  “I brought in the flyer,” Alan said quickly.

  “Forget that!” I told him. “Steve should get to choose.”

  “Not on your life!” Tommy laughed. “You’re his best friend. If we let him pick, he’ll pick you. I say we fight for it. I have boxing gloves at home.”

  “No way!” Alan squeaked. He’s small and never gets into fights.

  “I don’t want to fight either,” I said. I’m no coward but I knew I wouldn’t stand a chance against Tommy. His dad taught him how to box and they have their own punching bag. He would have floored me in the first round.

  “Let’s pick straws for it,” I said, but Tommy didn’t want to. He has terrible luck and never wins anything like that.

  We argued about it a bit more, until Steve came up with an idea. “I know what to do,” he said, opening his school bag. He tore two sheets of paper out of a notebook and, using his ruler, carefully cut them into small pieces, each one roughly the same size as the ticket. Then he got his empty lunch bag and dumped the paper inside.

  “Here’s how it works,” he said, holding up the second ticket. “I put this in, squeeze the bag shut, and shake it around, okay?” We nodded. “You stand side by side and I’ll throw the pieces of paper over your heads. Whoever gets the ticket wins. Me and the winner will give the other two their money back when we can afford it. Is that fair enough, or does somebody have a better idea?”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said.

  “I don’t know,” Alan grumbled. “I’m the youngest. I can’t jump as high as —”

  “Quit yapping,” Tommy said. “I’m the smallest, and I don’t mind. Besides, the ticket might come out on the bottom of the pile, float down low, and be in just the right place for the shortest person.

  “All right,” Alan said. “But no shoving.”

  “Agreed,” I said. “No rough stuff.”

  “Agreed.” Tommy nodded.

  Steve squeezed the bag and gave it a good long shake. “Get ready,” he told us.

  We stood back from Steve and lined up in a row. Tommy and Alan were side by side, but I kept out of the way so I’d have room to swing both arms.

  “Okay,” Steve said. “I’ll throw everything in the air on the count of three. All set?” We nodded. “One,” Steve said, and I saw Alan wiping sweat from around his eyes. “Two,” Steve said, and Tommy’s fingers twitched. “Three!” Steve yelled, and he jerked open the bag and tossed the paper high up into the air.

  A breeze came along and blew the pieces of paper straight at us. Tommy and Alan started yelling and grabbing wildly. It was impossible to see the ticket in among the scraps of paper.

  I was about to start grabbing, when all of a sudden I got an urge to do something strange. It sounds crazy, but I’ve always believed in following an urge or a hunch.

  So what I did was, I shut my eyes, stuck out my hands like a blind man, and waited for something magical to happen.

  As I’m sure you know, usually when you try something you’ve seen in a movie, it doesn’t work. Like if you try doing a wheelie with your bike, or making your skateboard jump up in the air. But every once in a while, when you least expect it, something clicks.

  For a second I felt paper blowing by my hands. I was going to grab at it but something told me it wasn’t time. Then, a second later, a voice inside me yelled, “NOW!”

  I closed
my hands really fast.

  The wind died down and the pieces of paper drifted to the ground. I opened my eyes and saw Alan and Tommy down on their knees, searching for the ticket.

  “It’s not here!” Tommy said.

  “I can’t find it anywhere!” Alan shouted.

  They stopped searching and looked up at me. I hadn’t moved. I was standing still, my hands closed tight.

  “What’s in your hands, Darren?” Steve asked softly.

  I stared at him, unable to answer. It was like I was in a dream, where I couldn’t move or speak.

  “He doesn’t have it,” Tommy said. “He can’t have. He had his eyes shut.”

  “Maybe so,” Steve said, “but there’s something in those fists of his.”

  “Open them,” Alan said, giving me a shove. “Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

  I looked at Alan, then Tommy, then Steve. And then, very slowly, I opened my right fist.

  There was nothing there.

  My heart and stomach dropped. Alan smiled and Tommy started looking down at the ground again, trying to find the missing ticket.

  “What about the other hand?” Steve asked.

  I gazed down at my left fist. I’d almost forgotten about that one! Slowly, even slower than the first time, I opened it.

  There was a piece of green paper smack-dab in the middle of my hand, but it was lying facedown, and since there was nothing on its back, I had to turn it over, just to be sure. And there it was, in red and blue letters, the magical name:

  CIRQUE DU FREAK.

  I had it. The ticket was mine. I was going to the freak show with Steve. “YEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!” I screamed, and punched the air with my fist. I’d won!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE TICKETS WERE FOR the Saturday show, which was just as well, since it gave me a chance to talk to my parents and ask if I could stay over at Steve’s Saturday night.

  I didn’t tell them about the freak show, because I knew they would say no if they knew about it. I felt bad about not telling the whole truth, but at the same time, I hadn’t really told a lie: all I’d done was keep my mouth shut.

  Saturday couldn’t go quickly enough for me. I tried keeping busy, because that’s how you make time pass without noticing, but I kept thinking about the Cirque Du Freak and wishing it was time to go. I was pretty grumpy, which was odd for me on a Saturday, and Mom was glad to see me go when it was time to leave for Steve’s.

  Annie knew I was going to the freak show and asked me to bring her back something, a photo if possible, but I told her cameras weren’t allowed (it said so on the ticket) and I didn’t have enough money for a T-shirt. I told her I’d buy her a pin if they had them, or a poster, but she’d have to keep it hidden and not tell Mom and Dad where she got it if they found it.

  Dad dropped me off at Steve’s at six o’clock. He asked what time I wanted to be picked up in the morning. I told him noon if that was okay.

  “Don’t watch horror movies, okay?” he said before he left. “I don’t want you coming home with nightmares.”

  “Oh, Dad!” I groaned. “Everyone in my class watches horror movies.”

  “Listen,” he said, “I don’t mind an old black-and-white film, or one of the less scary Dracula movies, but none of these nasty new ones, okay?”

  “Okay,” I promised.

  “Good man,” he said, and drove off.

  I hurried up to the house and rang the doorbell four times, which was my secret signal to Steve. He must have been standing just inside, because he opened the door right away and dragged me in.

  “About time,” he growled, then pointed to the stairs. “See that hill?” he asked, speaking like a soldier in a war film.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, clicking my heels together.

  “We have to take it by dawn.”

  “Are we using rifles or machine guns, sir?” I asked.

  “Are you crazy?” he barked. “We’d never be able to carry a machine gun through all that mud.” He nodded at the carpet.

  “Rifles it is, sir,” I agreed.

  “And if we’re taken,” he warned me, “save the last bullet for yourself.”

  We started up the stairs like a couple of soldiers, firing imaginary guns at imaginary enemies. It was childish, but great fun. Steve “lost” a leg on the way and I had to help him to the top. “You might have taken my leg,” he shouted from the top of the stairs, “and you might take my life, but you’ll never take my country!”

  It was a stirring speech. At least, it stirred Mrs. Leonard, who came up from the downstairs living room to see what the racket was. She smiled when she saw me and asked if I wanted anything to eat or drink. I didn’t. Steve said he’d like some caviar and champagne, but it wasn’t funny the way he said it, and I didn’t laugh.

  Steve doesn’t get along with his mom. He lives alone with her — his dad left when Steve was very young — and they’re always arguing and shouting. I don’t know why. I’ve never asked him. There are certain things you don’t discuss with your friends if you’re boys. Girls can talk about stuff like that, but if you’re a boy you have to talk about computers, soccer, war, and so on. Parents aren’t cool.

  “How will we sneak out tonight?” I asked in a whisper as Steve’s mom went back into the living room.

  “It’s okay,” Steve said. “She’s going out.” He often called her she instead of Mom. “She’ll think we’re in bed when she gets back.”

  “What if she checks?”

  Steve laughed nastily. “Enter my room without being asked? She wouldn’t dare.”

  I didn’t like Steve when he talked like that, but I said nothing in case he went into one of his moods. I didn’t want to do anything that might spoil the show.

  Steve dragged out some of his horror comics and we read them out loud. Steve has great comic books, which are only meant for adults. My mom and dad would hit the roof if they knew about them!

  Steve also has a bunch of old magazines and books about monsters and vampires and werewolves and ghosts.

  “Does a stake have to be made out of wood?” I asked when I’d finished reading a Dracula comic.

  “No,” he said. “It can be metal or ivory, even plastic, as long as it’s hard enough to go right through the heart.”

  “And that will kill a vampire?” I asked.

  “Every time,” he said.

  I frowned. “But you told me you have to cut off their heads and stuff them with garlic and throw them in a river.”

  “Some books say you have to,” he agreed. “But that’s to make sure you kill the vampire’s spirit as well as its body, so it can’t come back as a ghost.”

  “Can a vampire come back as a ghost?” I asked, eyes wide.

  “Probably not,” Steve said. “But if you had the time, and wanted to make sure, cutting off the head and getting rid of it would be worth doing. You don’t want to take any chances with vampires, do you?”

  “No,” I said, shivering. “What about werewolves? Do you need silver bullets to kill them?”

  “I don’t think so,” Steve said. “I think normal bullets can do the job. You might have to use lots of them, but they should work.”

  Steve knows everything there is to know about horror facts. He’s read every sort of horror book there is. He says every story has at least some truth in it, even if most are made up.

  “Do you think the wolf-man at the Cirque Du Freak is a werewolf?” I asked.

  Steve shook his head. “From what I’ve read,” he said, “the wolf-men in freak shows are normally just very hairy guys. Some of them are more like animals than people, and eat live chickens and stuff, but they’re not werewolves. A werewolf would be no good in a show, because it can only turn into a wolf when there’s a full moon. Every other night, it would be a normal guy.”

  “Oh,” I said. “What about the snake-boy? Do you —”

  “Hey,” he laughed, “save the questions for later. The shows long ago were terrible. The owners u
sed to starve the freaks and keep them locked up in cages and treat them like dirt. But I don’t know what this one will be like. They might not even be real freaks: they might only be people in costumes.”

  The freak show was being held at a place near the other side of town. We had to leave shortly after nine o’clock, to make sure we got there in time. We could have got a cab, except we’d used most of our allowance to replace the cash Steve took from his mom. Besides, it was more fun walking. It was spookier!

  We told ghost stories as we walked. Steve did most of the talking, because he knows way more than me. He was in rare form. Sometimes he forgets the ends of stories, or gets names mixed up, but not tonight. It was better than being with Stephen King!

  It was a long walk, longer than we thought, and we almost didn’t make it on time. We had to run the last quarter-mile. We were panting like dogs when we got there.

  The venue was an old theater that used to show movies. I’d passed it once or twice in the past. Steve told me once that it was shut down because a boy fell off the balcony and got killed. He said it was haunted. I asked my dad about it, and he said it was a pack of lies. It’s hard sometimes to know whether you should believe the stories your dad tells you or the ones your best friend tells you.

  There was no name outside the door, and no cars parked nearby, and no waiting line. We stopped out front and bent over until we got our breath back. Then we stood and looked at the building. It was tall and dark and covered in jagged gray stones. Lots of the windows were broken, and the door looked like a giant’s open mouth.

  “Are you sure this is the place?” I asked, trying not to sound scared.

  “This is what it says on the tickets,” Steve said and checked again, just to be sure. “Yep, this is it.”

  “Maybe the police found out and the freaks had to move on,” I said. “Maybe there isn’t any show tonight.”

  “Maybe,” Steve said.

  I looked at him and licked my lips nervously. “What do you think we should do?” I asked.