Birth of a Killer

by Darren Shan

  “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 offstage, 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 overeager 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 humor in their wild display. A few looked genuinely bitter, but most had enjoyed the sport. The applause, as Mr. Tall took the stage to bid them good night, 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 easygoing 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. Supervised by Mr. Tall, some people were already dismantling the tent. 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 learned 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 traveling 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 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 wasn’t a vampire, Mr. Tall was able to bond mentally with members of the clan. When two vampires bonded, one was able to find the other no matter where in the world they were. They could also trade basic messages. Larten didn’t know how Mr. Tall was able to bond with vampires, but he had no intention of asking. Mr. Tall was even more secretive than Seba Nile.

  “You hunger to follow in his footsteps,” Mr. Tall noted.

  “Aye,” Larten nodded, sighing happily at the thought of making the trek to the legendary mountain.

  “It’s a hard life,” Mr. Tall said. “Long, perilous, dark. You would have a much more rewarding career if you remai
ned with us and worked on your stage skills.”

  Larten hadn’t told Mr. Tall about his lessons with Merletta, but he wasn’t surprised that the circus owner knew.

  “Why do you wish to become a vampire?” Mr. Tall asked.

  Larten paused, then frowned and admitted, “I’m not sure.” It was a question he had never asked himself. He’d just followed his instincts since that first meeting with Seba in the crypt.

  “Do the centuries appeal to you?” Mr. Tall pressed. “Many humans yearn to lead long lives. Do you want to extend your natural time and live four hundred years… five hundred… more?”

  Larten shrugged. “I’m not too bothered.”

  “Is it the power? You will be stronger than any human when you are blooded. You can force people to do as you wish, to respect and obey you.”

  “Seba…” Larten stopped. He’d been about to tell Mr. Tall of Seba’s decision not to become a Vampire Prince. But on reflection he wasn’t sure if he should. That might not be something that Seba wanted to share, even with as close a friend as Hibernius Tall.

  “Seba told me a vampire shouldn’t seek power,” Larten said instead. “We leave humanity behind when we’re blooded. He said the Generals take a dim view of any vampire who tries to set himself up as a lord of humans.”

  “So why do you hunger to join the clan?” Mr. Tall asked again, and looked up. His gaze was dark and burning. Larten wanted to look away–he felt oddly afraid–but he didn’t break eye contact.

  “I don’t know,” Larten said. “It’s just something I have to do. If I could explain it, I would, but…”

  Mr. Tall grunted. “A victim of destiny,” he muttered, and his head turned slightly as if he was sniffing the air. Larten realized that the caravan had come to a halt. Mr. Tall always led the way, guiding his troupe from one place to another. He had a faithful piebald horse but rarely sat up front to direct her. He was able to transmit his thoughts to the beast and steer the caravan from within.

  Larten glanced out of the window. They had come to a crossroads. The horse had started to take a right turn, but now she hesitated, her head flicking to the left. To an outsider it would have looked like she was unsure of which path to take. But Larten knew that it was actually Mr. Tall who was caught between two minds.

  “There are some in life who serve destiny unconsciously,” Mr. Tall said softly. “Their lives are mapped out for them, but they are unaware of it. I envy their ignorance—I, alas, know far too much. Others make of life what they wish. They are free to choose and go this way or that on a whim. I envy their freedom—I, unfortunately, am bound never to make such a loose choice.

  “I see the paths of other people sometimes.” Mr. Tall’s voice was now a whisper, and his eyes were distant. Larten wasn’t sure if the tall man even knew that he was speaking. “I try not to, but on occasions I cannot avoid it. It’s tempting to make a change, to interfere, to avert the pain one can see lying in wait for others. Destiny is a tower of cards—nudge one just an inch and everything stacked on top comes crashing down. To be able to help people, but to live in terror of the dire consequences…”

  Mr. Tall’s face darkened–his features seemed to vanish–and then cleared. He smiled thinly at Larten. “Sometimes I think too much and say even more. Ignore me, my young friend. I should stick to what I am good at—running a freak show and carving dolls that nobody wants to buy.”

  As Larten stared at the mysterious owner of the Cirque Du Freak, not sure what to say, Mr. Tall lowered his head and concentrated on the doll. Outside, the horse’s head steadied, and the animal took the right turn. Without hesitation it followed its original route, carrying Larten forward into the darkness and damnation of destiny.

  Chapter Twelve

  Three nights later, Larten Crepsley took his first-ever stage bow. Merletta sprang it on him at the last moment. He had been preparing his tray, and smiled briefly as Merletta approached, expecting her to pass him by. When she stopped, he looked up, slightly annoyed–she knew he was on a tight schedule–only to almost drop the tray with shock when she said, “Would you like to be part of my act tonight?”

  Larten thought he must have misheard. But before he could ask Merletta to repeat herself, she said, “You won’t have to do anything hard, just wriggle out of some locks and chains. It will be easy. If you’re not scared, that is.”

  She smirked, confident he wouldn’t turn away from a challenge. But he nearly did, regardless of the shame it would bring.

  “I can’t,” Larten gasped. “I don’t have anything to wear.” Every performer had a specially designed costume.

  “I’m going to plant you,” Merletta said. “You’ll pretend to be part of the crowd. I’ll ask for a volunteer and pick you. That way you don’t need a costume.”

  Larten tried to think of another objection, but Merletta headed him off at the pass again. “It was Hibernius’s idea.”

  “Mr. Tall wants me to go on?” Larten groaned.

  “He thinks you have what it takes. I do too, though I wouldn’t have introduced you to the act this soon. I’d have given you another month. But Hibernius thinks you’re ready, and he is rarely wrong in these matters.”

  “All right,” Larten mumbled, and set his tray aside. He didn’t ask anyone to take it for him—he was sure Mr. Tall would have thought of that and sorted it out already.

  Larten took a seat in the tent and chewed his fingernails as the rows around him filled. He felt dizzy and sick. He would have backed out if it had just been Merletta, but he was certain Mr. Tall was watching him. He didn’t want to let down the man who had given him a temporary home.

  When the lights dimmed and the show began, Larten could hardly breathe. The first few acts came and went without making any impression on him—afterwards he couldn’t remember what the lineup had been. He sat chewing his nails or squeezing his hands, praying to the gods for a miracle.

  But Larten’s prayers went unanswered, and Merletta took to the stage as usual. She normally held back her chains for the second act, but mindful of what Larten was going through, she opened with them that night. She performed a few tricks, slipping free of handcuffs and knotted ropes. Then she stepped forward and asked if any young man would be so good as to come up and assist her.

  A few dozen hands shot into the air–Merletta’s beauty ensured that she never went short of love-struck volunteers–but Larten’s wasn’t among them. He had made a spur-of-the-moment decision to keep his hand down. Mr. Tall might criticize him later, but that was better than having to get up there and…

  To his amazement, his right arm shot into the air, and he half leapt out of his seat. He tried pulling his hand down, but he was no longer in control of the limb.

  “There we go!” Merletta cried. “You’ll do, young sir. Give him a warm round of applause, please, ladies and gentlemen. He’s a brave young man, isn’t he?”

  As people clapped and cheered politely, Larten found himself edging forward, propelled, he was sure, by the magic of the unseen Mr. Tall. About halfway to the stage he regained control, but it was too late to back out. Gulping, he mounted the steps and grinned crookedly as Merletta turned him to face the crowd.

  There were so many of them! Larten had viewed audiences from the wings and moved among them with his wares. But now that they were staring at him, he realized for the first time how tightly packed in they were. He saw hunger in their eyes—they wanted to be entertained and would be merciless if they were denied their sport. Their lives were short and hard. This was a rare chance to escape to a more fantastical world, and they would shower abuse on anyone who disappointed them.

  As Larten’s knees trembled, Merletta stroked his cheek and said, “I think he’s shy.” There were catcalls, and some people roared at Larten to kiss her. He felt even more nervous now than he had felt in his seat.

  As Larten thought about fleeing, Merletta grabbed his wrists and pinned them behind his back. He yelped as she snapped handcuffs on them and forced him to his k
nees. There were lots of cheers—the crowd liked it when their stars played rough.

  “Will I make this young fool beg for freedom?” Merletta crowed.

  “Yes!” the audience screamed.

  “Will I make him crawl on his stomach like a toad and kiss my feet?”

  “Yes!”

  “Will I—”

  “You’ll do nothing,” Larten snarled, snatching her arm and dragging himself to his feet. In his anger, he’d picked the lock of the handcuffs and tossed them aside. Squaring up to Merletta, he steadied himself to deliver a foul curse. Before he could, Merletta gasped theatrically.

  “I was sure I locked those cuffs,” she called to the crowd. “Maybe there’s more to this boy than I thought.”

  Larten hesitated as a few of the people–mostly ladies who felt sorry for him–clapped halfheartedly. He was glowering at Merletta, but he sneaked a sideways glance and saw that the hunger in the eyes of the crowd had been replaced with mild curiosity.

  Merletta took Larten’s arms and bent them behind his back again. But this time she was gentler, and he didn’t resist. He kept still as she bound him with ropes and another pair of handcuffs, then turned him so that the audience could see.

  “There,” she exclaimed. “That will hold him.” She spun Larten so he was facing the crowd again. “Now what should I do with him?”

  A few of the men shouted suggestions. As they yelled, Larten worked quickly, loosening the ropes and picking the lock. As Merletta considered the cries of the crowd, Larten slipped free, tapped Merletta on the shoulder, and coughed softly.

  Merletta gave a shriek, as if taken by surprise. Larten held up his hands and smiled. The audience applauded enthusiastically, accepting him as a performer. And the rest of the show flew by smoothly after that.

  Larten felt like he was dreaming. He didn’t want the act to end. He cherished every laugh and clap from the crowd. He wasn’t up there with Merletta more than three or four minutes, but when he later looked back at this time and broke it down into every delicious second and thrill, it would seem to him as if he’d been onstage for an hour.