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

by Darren Shan

  The last straw came when Danny pinched me in a very painful place! Even vampires have their limits. I yelled out and bent over, wincing from the pain.

  Danny laughed and took off with the ball.

  I got up after a few seconds, mad as hell. Danny was halfway down the rink. I sprinted after him. I knocked the players between us aside — it didn’t matter if they were on his team or mine — then caught up behind him and swiped at his legs with my stick. It would have been a dangerous tackle if it had come from a human. Coming from a half-vampire...

  There was a sharp snapping sound. Danny screamed and went down. Play stopped immediately. Everybody in the game knew the difference between a yell of pain and a scream of real agony.

  I scrambled to my feet, already sorry for what I’d done, wishing I could take it back. I looked at my stick, hoping to find it broken in two, hoping that had been what made the snapping noise. But it wasn’t.

  I’d broken both of Danny’s shinbones.

  His lower legs were bent awkwardly and the skin around the shins was torn. I could see the white of bone in among the red.

  Michael bent over to examine Danny’s legs. When he got up, there was a horrified look in his eyes.

  “You’ve cracked his legs wide open!” he gasped. “I didn’t mean to,” I cried. “He squeezed my . . .” I pointed to the spot beneath my waist.

  “You broke his legs!” Michael shouted, then backed away from me. Everyone around him backed away as well.

  They were afraid of me.

  Breathing hard, I dropped my stick and left, knowing I’d make matters worse if I stayed and waited for grown-ups to arrive. None of the guys tried to stop me. They were too scared. They were terrified of me . . . Darren Shan ...a monster.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was dark when I got back. Mr. Crepsley was awake. I told him we should leave town right away, but didn’t tell him why. He took one look at my face, nodded, and started gathering our stuff.

  We didn’t say much that night. I was thinking how much it stunk to be a half-vampire. Mr. Crepsley could tell there was something wrong with me, but didn’t bother me with questions. It wasn’t the first time I’d been grouchy. He was getting used to my mood swings.

  We found an abandoned church to sleep in. Mr. Crepsley lay out on a long pew, while I made a bed for myself on a pile of moss and weeds on the floor.

  I woke early and spent the day exploring the church and the small cemetery outside. The head-stones were old and a lot of them were cracked or covered with weeds. I spent a few hours cleaning some, pulling weeds away and washing the stones with water I got from a nearby stream. It kept my mind off the hockey game.

  A family of rabbits lived in a nearby burrow. As the day went by, they crept closer to see what I was up to. They were curious little guys, especially the young ones. At one point, I pretended to be asleep and a couple edged closer and closer, until they were only a few feet away.

  When they were as close as they would probably come, I leaped up and shouted, “Boo!” and they went running away like wildfire. One fell head over heels and rolled away down the mouth of the burrow.

  That totally cheered me up.

  I found a grocery store in the afternoon and bought some meat and vegetables. I made a fire when I got back to the church, then grabbed the pots and pans bag from underneath Mr. Crepsley’s pew. I looked through the contents until I found what I was looking for. It was a small pot. I carefully laid it upside down on the floor, then pressed the metal bulge on the top.

  The pot mushroomed out in size, as folded-in panels opened up. Within five seconds it had become a full-sized pot, which I filled with water and stuck on the fire.

  All the pots and pans in the bag were like this. Mr. Crepsley got them from a woman called Evanna a long time ago. They weighed the same as ordinary cook-ware, but because they could fold up small, they were easier to carry around.

  I made a stew like Mr. Crepsley had taught me. He thought everybody should know how to cook.

  I took leftover pieces of the carrots and cabbage outside and dropped them by the rabbit burrow.

  Mr. Crepsley was surprised to find dinner — which was breakfast from his point of view — waiting for him when he awoke. He sniffed the fumes from the bubbling pot and licked his lips.

  “I could get used to this.” He smiled, then yawned, stretched, and ran a hand through the short crop of orange hair on his head. Then he scratched the long scar running down the left side of his face. It was a familiar routine of his.

  I’d always wanted to ask how he got his scar, but I never had. One night, when I was feeling brave, I would.

  There were no tables, so we ate off our laps. I got two of the folded-up plates out of the bag, popped them open, and grabbed knives and forks. I served the food and we ate.

  Toward the end, Mr. Crepsley wiped around his mouth with a white napkin and coughed awkwardly.

  “The stew is very nice,” he complimented me. “Thank you,” I replied.

  “I ...um... that is . . .” He sighed. “I never was very good at being subtle,” he said, “so I will come right out and say it: What went wrong yesterday? Why were you so upset?”

  I stared at my almost empty plate, not sure if I wanted to answer or not. Then, all of a sudden, I blurted out the whole story. I hardly took a breath between the start and the finish.

  Mr. Crepsley listened carefully. When I was done, he thought about it for a minute or two before speaking.

  “It is something you must get used to,” he said. “It is a fact of life that we are stronger than humans, faster and tougher. If you play with them, they will be hurt.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” I said. “It was an accident.”

  Mr. Crepsley shrugged. “Listen, Darren, there is no way you can stop this from happening again, not if you interact with humans. No matter how hard you try to be normal, you are not. There will always be accidents waiting to happen.”

  “What you’re saying is, I can’t have friends anymore, right?” I nodded sadly. “I’d figured that out by myself. That’s why I was so sad. I was getting used to the idea of never being able to go back home to see my old friends, but it was just yesterday that I realized I’d never be able to make new ones, either. I’m stuck with you. I can’t have any other friends, can I?”

  He rubbed his scar and pursed his lips. “That is not true,” he said. “You can have friends. You just have to be careful. You —”

  “That’s not good enough!” I cried. “You said it yourself; there will always be an accident waiting to happen. Even shaking hands is dangerous. I could cut their wrists open with my nails!”

  I shook my head slowly. “No,” I said firmly. “I won’t put people’s lives in danger. I’m too dangerous to have friends anymore. Besides, it’s not like I can make a true friend.”

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “True friends don’t keep secrets from one another. I could never tell a human that I was a vampire. I’d always have to lie and pretend to be someone I’m not. I’d always be afraid he’d find out what I was and hate me.”

  “It is a problem every vampire shares,” Mr. Crepsley said.

  “But every vampire isn’t a child!” I shouted. “What age were you when you were changed? Were you a man?” He nodded. “Friends aren’t that important to adults. My dad told me that grown-ups get used to not having a lot of friends. They have work and hobbies and other stuff to keep them busy. But my friends were the most important thing in my life, besides my family. Well, you took my family away when you pumped your stinking blood into me. Now you’ve ruined the chances of my ever having a real friend again.

  “Thanks a lot,” I said angrily. “Thanks for making a monster out of me and wrecking my life.”

  I was close to tears, but didn’t want to cry, not in front of him. So I stabbed the last piece of meat on my plate with my fork and rammed it into my mouth, then I chewed on it fiercely.

  Mr. Crepsley was quie
t after my outburst. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or sorry. For a while I thought I’d said too much. What if he turned around and said, “If that’s the way you feel, I will leave you”? What would I do then?

  I was thinking of apologizing when he spoke in a soft voice and surprised me.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “I should not have blooded you. It was a poor call. You were too young. It has been so long since I was a boy, I had forgotten what it was like. I never thought of your friends and how much you would miss them. It was wrong of me to blood you. Terribly wrong. I . . .”

  He trailed off into silence. He looked so miserable,

  I almost felt sorry for him. Then I remembered what he’d done to me and I hated him again. Then I saw wet drops at the corners of his eyes that might have been tears, and I felt sorry for him again.

  I was really confused.

  “Well, there’s no use crying about it,” I finally said. “We can’t go back. What’s done is done, right?”

  “Yes.” He sighed. “If I could, I would take back my terrible gift. But that is not possible. Vampirism is forever. Once somebody has been changed, there is no changing back.

  “Still,” he said, mulling it over, “it is not as bad as you think. Perhaps . . .” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

  “Perhaps what?” I asked.

  “We can find friends for you,” he said. “You do not have to be stuck with me all the time.”

  “I don’t understand.” I frowned. “Didn’t we just agree it wasn’t safe for me to be around humans?”

  “I am not talking about humans,” he said, starting to smile. “I am talking about people with special powers. People like us. People you can tell your secrets to. . . .”

  He leaned across and took my hands in his. “Darren,” he said, “what do you think about going back and becoming a member of the Cirque Du Freak?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The more we discussed the idea, the more I liked it. Mr. Crepsley said the Cirque performers would know what I was and would accept me as one of their own. The lineup of the show changed a lot and there was almost always someone who would be around my own age. I could hang out with them.

  “What if I don’t like it there?” I asked.

  “Then we leave,” he said. “I enjoyed traveling with the Cirque, but I am not crazy about it. If you like it, we stay. If you do not, we hit the road again.”

  “They won’t mind me tagging along?” I asked. “You will have to pull your weight,” he replied. “Mr. Tall insists on everybody doing something. You will have to help set up chairs and lights, sell souvenirs, clean up afterward, or do the cooking. You will be kept busy, but they will not overwork you. We will have plenty of time for our lessons.”

  We decided to give it a shot. At least it would mean a real bed every night. My back was stiff from sleeping on floors.

  Mr. Crepsley had to find out where the show was before we could join. I asked him how he was going to do that. He told me he was able to home in on Mr. Tall’s thoughts.

  “You mean he’s telepathic?” I asked, remembering what Steve had called people who could talk to each other using only their brains.

  “Sort of,” Mr. Crepsley said. “We cannot speak to each other with our thoughts but I can pick up his . . . aura, you could call it. Once I locate that, tracking him down will be no problem.”

  “Could I locate his aura?” I wanted to know. “No,” Mr. Crepsley said. “Most vampires — along with a few gifted humans — can, but half-vampires cannot.”

  He sat down in the middle of the church and closed his eyes. He was quiet for about a minute. Then his eyelids opened and he stood.

  “Got him,” he said.

  “So soon?” I asked. “I thought it would take longer.” “I have searched for his aura many times,” Mr. Crepsley explained. “I know what to look for. Finding him is as easy as finding a needle in a haystack.”

  “That’s supposed to be hard, isn’t it?”

  “Not for a vampire,” he said.

  While we were packing to leave, I found myself gazing around the church. Something had been bothering me, but I wasn’t sure whether I should mention it to Mr. Crepsley.

  “Go on,” he said, startling me. “Ask whatever it is that is on your mind.”

  “How did you know I wanted to ask something?” I said, sort of freaked out.

  He laughed. “It does not take a vampire to know when a child is curious. You have been bursting with a question for ages. What is it?”

  I took a deep breath. “Do you believe in God?” I asked.

  Mr. Crepsley looked at me oddly, then nodded slowly. “I believe in the gods of the vampires.”

  I frowned. “There are vampire gods?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Every culture has gods: Egyptian gods, Indian gods, Chinese gods. Vampires are no different.”

  “What about heaven?” I asked.

  “We believe in Paradise. It lies beyond the stars. When we die, if we have lived good lives, our spirits float free of the earth, cross the stars and galaxies, and come at last to a wonderful world at the other side of the universe — Paradise.”

  “And if they don’t live good lives?”

  “They stay here,” he said. “They remain bound to earth as ghosts, doomed to wander the face of this planet forever.”

  I thought about that. “What’s a ‘good life’ for a vampire?” I asked. “How do they make it to Paradise?”

  “Live cleanly,” he said. “Do not kill unless necessary. Do not hurt people. Do not spoil the world.”

  “Drinking blood isn’t evil?” I asked.

  “Not unless you kill the person you drink from,” Mr. Crepsley said. “And even then, sometimes, it can be a good thing.”

  “Killing someone can be good?” I gasped.

  Mr. Crepsley nodded seriously. “People have souls, Darren. When they die, those souls go to heaven or Paradise. But it is possible to keep a part of them here. When we drink small amounts of blood, we do not take any of a person’s essence. But if we drink lots, we keep part of them alive within us.”

  “How?” I asked, frowning.

  “By draining a person’s blood, we absorb some of that person’s memories and feelings,” he said. “They become part of us, and we can see the world the way they saw it and remember things which might otherwise have been forgotten.”

  “Like what?”

  He thought a moment. “One of my dearest friends is called Paris Skyle,” he said. “He is very old. Many centuries ago, he was friends with William Shakespeare.”

  “The William Shakespeare — the guy who wrote the plays?”

  Mr. Crepsley nodded. “Plays and poems. But not all of Shakespeare’s poetry was recorded; some of his most famous verses were lost. When Shakespeare was dying, Paris drank from him — Shakespeare asked him to — and was able to tap into those lost poems and have them written down. The world would have been a poorer place without them.”

  “But . . .” I stopped. “Do you only do that with people who ask, and who are dying?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It would be evil to kill a healthy person. But to drink from friends who are close to death, and keep their memories and experiences alive . . .” He smiled. “That is very good indeed.

  “Come,” he said then. “Brood about it on the way. We must be off.”

  I jumped on Mr. Crepsley’s back when we were ready to leave, and off we flitted. He still hadn’t explained how he could move so fast. It wasn’t that he ran quickly; it was more like the world slipped by as he ran. He said all full vampires could flit.

  It was nice, watching the countryside drift away behind us. We ran up hills and across the vast plains, faster than the wind. There was total silence while we were flitting and nobody ever noticed us. It was like we were surrounded by a magic bubble.

  While we flitted I thought about what Mr. Crepsley had said, about keeping people’s memories alive by drinking from them. I wasn’t sure how tha
t would work, and I made up my mind to ask him about it sometime later.

  Flitting was hard work; the vampire was sweating and I could see him starting to struggle. To help, I took out a bottle of human blood, uncorked it, and held it to his lips so he could drink.

  He nodded his silent thanks, wiped the sweat from his brow, and kept going.

  Finally, as the sky was beginning to lighten, he slowed to a halt. I climbed down off his back and looked around. We were in the middle of a country road, fields and trees all around us, with no houses in sight.

  “Where’s the Cirque Du Freak?” I asked.

  “A few miles farther ahead,” he said, pointing. He was kneeling down, panting for breath.

  “Did you run out of steam?” I asked, holding back my laughter.

  “No.” He glared. “I could have made it, but did not want to arrive looking flushed.”

  “You’d better not rest too long,” I warned him. “Morning’s on its way.”

  “I know precisely what time it is!” he snapped. “I know more about mornings and dawns than any living human. We have plenty of time on our side. A whole forty-three minutes yet.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.” He stood, annoyed, and began to walk. I waited until he was a little in front, then ran ahead of him.

  “Hurry up, old man,” I teased. “You’re getting left behind.”

  “Keep it up,” he growled. “See what it gets you. A smack on the ear and a kick in the pants.”

  He started running after a couple of minutes, and the two of us jogged along, side by side. I was in a good mood, happier than I’d been for months. It was nice having something to look forward to.

  We passed a bunch of grungy campers on our way. They were starting to wake up and move around. A couple waved to us. They were funny-looking people: long hair, strange clothes, weighed down with fancy earrings and bracelets.

  There were banners and flags all over the camp. I tried reading them, but it was hard to focus while I was jogging, and I didn’t want to stop. From what I could tell, the campers had something to do with a protest against a new road.