Darren Shan on the web is a treat wherever you come from…

www.darrenshan.com

For:

Pearse and Conall — children of the night!

OBEs (Order of the Bloody Entrails) to:

Rachel Clements — one year down, only a couple of hundred to go!!

Isobel Abulhoul and all of the Shantastic gang

in Dubai

Editorial Mentor:

Nick “the blood ninja” Lake

General Masterminds:

Christopher Little and his Princely clan

Contents

PART ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

PART TWO

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

PART THREE

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

PART FOUR

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

About the Author

Other Books by Darren Shan

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

PART ONE

“Are cobwebs a treat where you come from?”

CHAPTER ONE

When Larten Crepsley awoke and yawned one grey Tuesday morning, he had no idea that by midday he would have become a killer.

He lay on his bed of sacks packed with straw, staring at specks of dust drifting through the air. The house where he lived was cramped and dark, and the room where he slept never caught the sun except at dawn. He often woke a few minutes earlier than necessary, before his mother roared for the family to get up. It was his only quiet time of the day, his one chance to lie back idly and grin lazily at the world.

There were six children in the room, five of them snoring and shifting in their sleep. Larten came from a crop of eight, but two had died young and his eldest sister left a year ago to marry. Although she was only fourteen, Larten suspected their parents were glad to be rid of her — she had never been an especially hard worker and brought home little money.

“Up!” Larten’s mother roared from the room next to theirs, and pounded the thin wall a couple of times.

The children groaned and crawled out of bed. They bumped into one another as they tried to find their way to the bedpan, the older siblings cuffing their younger brothers and sisters. Larten lay where he was, smiling smugly. He had already done his business while everyone else was asleep.

Vur Horston shared the room with the five Crepsley children. Vur was a cousin of theirs. His parents had died when he was three years old, his father in an accident at work, his mother of some disease. Larten’s mother had been keeping a close watch on the sickly widow and moved in quickly to take the baby. An extra pair of hands was always useful. The boy would be a burden for a few years, but children that age didn’t eat much, and assuming Vur survived, he could be put to work young and earn his foster parents a nice little income.

Larten felt closer to Vur than to any of his real siblings. Larten had been in the kitchen when his mother brought the silent, solemn boy home. After giving Vur some bread soaked in milk – a rare treat – she’d stuck him by Larten’s side and told her son to look after the waif and keep him out of her way.

Larten had eyed the newcomer suspiciously, jealous of the gift his mother had given the stranger. In return, Vur had stared at Larten innocently, then tore the bread down the middle and offered his cousin the bigger half. They had been best friends ever since.

“Up!” Larten’s mother roared again, slamming the wall just once this time. The children blinked the last traces of sleep from their eyes and quickly threw on their clothes. She would come crashing in on them soon, and if they weren’t dressed and ready to go, her fists would fly.

“Vur,” Larten murmured, nudging his cousin in the ribs.

“I’m awake,” Vur replied, turning to show Larten his smile.

“Don’t you need to go?” Larten asked.

“I’m bursting,” Vur giggled.

“Hurry up!” Larten shouted at one of his younger sisters, who was squatting over the bedpan as if she owned it.

“Go in the bed if you’re that desperate,” she jeered.

“You might as well,” Larten said to Vur. It wasn’t uncommon for them to wet the bed — the great thing about straw was that it dried swiftly.

“No,” Vur said, gritting his teeth. “I can wait.”

Larten’s clothes were on the floor next to the bed. He pulled them on, not removing the thin vest which he slept in. Larten’s mother was an orderly woman. She did the family laundry every second Sunday. All the children had to wait in their beds, naked beneath the covers, until their clothes were returned. Then they would wear them without changing for the next fortnight.

Larten’s sister finished on the bedpan. Before his youngest brother could claim it, Larten darted across the room, snatched it and passed it to Vur, careful not to spill the contents.

“My hero,” Vur laughed, loosely aiming with one hand while he rubbed yellow crust from his eyes with the other.

Although Vur was Larten’s age, he was much smaller — a thin, weak, mild-mannered boy. He seldom fought for anything, happy to go without if he was challenged. Larten often stood up for his cousin, even though Vur never asked for help.

“What’s keeping you?” Larten’s mother screeched, sticking her head in and glaring at the children.

“Coming!” they roared, and those nearest her ducked through the doorway even if they weren’t finished dressing.

“Vur!” she yelled.

“Just a second!” he panted, straining to finish.

Larten’s mother squinted at the boy, deciding whether or not to punish him. In the end she just sniffed and withdrew. Larten sighed happily. He didn’t mind when she hit him – he could take a fierce whipping – but he hated it when she hurt Vur. Larten’s father almost never struck the frail orphan, but his wife whacked him as much as the others. They were all equal in her eyes.

When Vur was finished with the bedpan, Larten tossed his clothes at him and hurried down the stairs to the crowded kitchen where his brothers and sisters were already making short work of breakfast.

There was never much to eat, and those who grabbed first got the most. Their father, who’d shuffled off to work three hours earlier, had generously left some strips of pig’s ears for them — he always shared what he could with his family. The older children seized upon the gristly treats with excitement. By the time Larten and Vur arrived, the strips were gone and they had to make do with stale bread and watery porridge.

Larten tore bread from the fingers of his eldest brother – they were slippery from the grease of a pig’s ear – and passed it to Vur, laughing as he bobbed out of the way of his brother’s swinging fist. Taking a couple of small, chipped bowls, he dipped them into the pot of porridge, filled them to the top and hurried to where Vur was waiting by the back door. He licked drips from the sides as he crossed the room, eager not to waste any.

They ate in silence, chewing the crust of the dry bread as if it was meat, using the rest to soak up the watery porridge. Larten was quicker than Vur and managed to refill his bowl before the pot was scraped bare. He ate half and saved the rest for his cousin.

It was cold and raining outside, but the kitchen was cosy. His mother hadn’t lit the fire – she’d do that in the evening, when she returned from work – but the tiny room was always warm, especially with so many bodies crammed into it.

“Move on!” Larten’s mother yelled, coming down the stairs. She belted those closest to her and waved a hand threateningly at the others. “Do you think I’ve nothing better to do than stand here watching you eat all day? Out!”

Still chewing and gulping, the children filed out into the yard, leaving their mother to mop up after them, before setting off for the first of the four inns where she cleaned.

There were two barrels of water in the yard, one for drinking, the other for washing. The Crepsley children rarely bothered with the latter barrel, but Vur went to it every morning to scrub the dirt from his face and neck. Larten had tried talking him out of his peculiar habit – the boy would shiver for half an hour on a bone-chilling morning like this – but Vur would only smile, nod and do it again the next day.

Larten drank thirstily, dipping his face into the barrel, ignoring the drops of rain that struck the back of his head. When he pulled away he left faint orange clouds in the water. His hair, like Vur’s, was stained a deep orange shade. The dye was caked into his scalp, and although he could never wash it out, clots came off sometimes when he dunked his head.

He watched the clouds of dye swirling around. They were pretty. He put a finger in and splashed it about, to see what other patterns he could create. He considered calling Vur over, but the clouds were already disappearing and in a few more seconds there would be nothing for his cousin to see.

“Out of it,” one of his brothers grunted, shoving Larten aside.

Larten yelled a curse and kicked out, but only hit the barrel. His brother pushed Larten again. Anger flared in the younger boy’s eyes and he stepped forward for a fight. But Vur had spotted the danger and acted quickly to avert it. He didn’t like it when Larten got into fights, even when he won, as he often did.

“If we don’t leave now, we’re going to be late,” Vur warned.

“We’ve loads of time,” Larten scowled.

“No,” Vur said. “We’ll be getting our heads daubed today. If we’re not early, Traz will beat us.”

“We got them daubed a few days ago,” Larten argued.

“Trust me,” Vur said. “Traz will do it again today.”

Larten growled, but turned away from the barrel and sloped across to where Vur was using a scrap of cloth to pat his neck dry. There was no fixed schedule for the daubing days. Traz seemed to hand them out at random. But Vur had a knack of being able to predict when one was due. He wouldn’t tell Larten how he knew, but eight times out of ten he got it right.

“Ready?” Larten asked, as if he was the one itching to leave.

“Aye,” Vur said.

“Then let’s go,” Larten sniffed, and the two boys, neither yet a teen, headed off to work.

CHAPTER TWO

Larten and Vur wound their way through the narrow, filthy streets to the factory. Though it was early, the city was already bustling with life. In these dark autumn months you had to make the most of the sunlight.

Traders had set up stalls in the gloom before dawn and were busy haggling and selling fruit, vegetables, meat, fish, shoes, clothes, rope, pots, pans and more. Larten and Vur occasionally went to one of the big Sunday markets, where animals were traded and stalls boasted exotic wares from countries that the boys had never heard of. The pair would spend their time ogling the worldly traders and their goods, dreaming of travel and adventure. Those markets were a place of magic and mystery.

These small street stalls, on the other hand, were a nuisance. It took time to detour around the crowds, and some of the traders cuffed the boys if they drew too close — they were always wary of thieves, and one dirty street urchin looked much the same as any other. Certain traders lashed out at any child who came within striking distance.

“I want to be a trader when I grow up,” Vur said, smiling as they passed a fish stall, ignoring the putrid stench.

“Aye,” Larten said. “We can hunt elephants and sell their tusks.”

“No,” Vur shivered. “I’d be afraid they’d eat me.”

“Then I’ll collect the tusks and you can sell them,” Larten decided.

They’d heard many tales of elephants, but had never even seen a picture of one. From the wild stories, they believed the mighty creatures were bigger than five houses, with twenty tusks, ten on either side of their trunk.

The two boys often discussed their plans for the future. The nineteenth century had dawned a few years earlier and the world was a place of mystery and intrigue, opening up to travellers more than it ever had before. Vur wanted to visit the great cities, climb the pyramids, sail across an ocean. Larten wanted to hunt tigers, elephants and whales. He knew that was unlikely, that both boys would probably remain at the factory, marry in their teens, have children of their own and never venture beyond the outskirts of the city where they’d been born. But he could dream. As poor as they were, even he and Vur had the right to do that.

They arrived fifteen minutes early for work, but Traz was already outside the door, buckets of dye lined up, a brush in his hand and a wicked glint in his eyes.

Traz was their foreman. He had been at the factory for a long time, part of the staff even when Larten’s father had worked there as a boy. He was a cruel master, but he produced excellent results and kept costs down, so the owners tolerated his brutality.

Traz’s eyes narrowed as the boys approached, their heads lowered and knees trembling. Part of the fun for him on daubing days was catching the children by surprise. He loved it when they turned up on time, only to find themselves at the back of a line. By the time he’d processed those ahead of them, the children at the rear would be late and Traz could legitimately beat them.

Traz disliked the Horston boy intensely. The pale weakling was too smart for his own good. He did a fine job of hiding his intelligence, but he gave himself away at times like this. Only the shrewder children were able to second-guess Traz. These two almost always turned up early on daubing days, and he was certain that the Crepsley brat wasn’t the brains of the outfit.

“You’re early!” Traz barked when the boys stopped before him, as if being early was a crime.

“Our mother had to leave earlier than usual today,” Larten muttered. “She threw us out, so we came here.”

Traz glowered at them, but decided not to press the matter. Others were already arriving and he didn’t want to waste too much time on the daubings — he would take the blame if production dipped.

“Bend over,” he grunted and grabbed the back of Larten’s neck. Thrusting the boy down, he reached into the bucket of orange dye with his brush, swished it from side to side, then ran the coarse bristles over the top of Larten’s scalp. The dye stung, and a few drops trickled into Larten’s eyes, even though he kept them squeezed shut.

Traz painted Larten’s head a second time, then a third, before releasing him. As Larten staggered away, coughing and wiping his eyes, Traz forced Vur down over the bucket. He was even rougher with Vur and daubed his scalp five times. Vur was crying when the foreman finally let him go, but he said nothing, only stumbled along after his cousin.

Traz daubed the head of every child in the factory. Each had a specific colour, depending on their job. The lucky few who worked on the looms were blue. Cleaners were yellow. Cocooners were orange. He liked being able to tell with a single look where a child was meant to be. That way, if he saw an orange-haired boy lurking by a loom, he knew straightaway that the child was shirking.

Larten and Vur had been assigned to the cocooning team when they started at the factory at the age of eight. Their heads had been orange ever since. In fact Larten couldn’t remember what colour his hair had been before that.

Larten’s father had been a muscular child and had worked on a team carting heavy loads around. His head had been dyed white, and although he’d left the factory before Larten was born, his locks had kept their unnatural colour, so Larten had resigned himself to a life of orange hair. Nobody knew what sort of poisons Traz included in his dyes, but they seeped into a person’s pores and remained there for life. Larten wouldn’t be surprised if the dye had even turned his brain a dark orange colour.

Once past Traz, the boys made their way to the room of cocoons to begin their shift. They worked in the factory for twelve hours a day, six days a week, and eight hours on most Sundays, with no more than a handful of holidays every year. It was a hard life, yet there were others worse off than Larten and Vur. Some of the children were slaves, bought by Traz from poor or greedy parents. The slaves worked constantly, except for when they slept. They were supposed to be set free once they came of age, but most died long before that. Even if they lived long enough to earn their freedom, they were usually ruined by that time, good for nothing except stealing or begging.

The factory primarily produced carpets, but it also manufactured silk clothes for patrons with more money than Larten or Vur could dream of ever possessing. Silk came from worms, and the boys were part of the team responsible for loosening the strands of the worms’ cocoons.

Silk worms hatched from the eggs of carefully bred moths, and were fed on chopped mulberry leaves to fatten them up. They were kept in a warm room, countless thousands stacked on wooden trays from floor to ceiling, munching away. Larten had been in the room a few times and the sound was like the rain falling on the roof of their house during a storm.

When they had eaten enough, the silk worms spun a cocoon around themselves. It took three or four days. After that they were stored in an even warmer room for eight or nine days, then baked in an oven to kill the worm, but preserve the cocoon.

That was when Larten, Vur and their team went into action. When the cocoons were delivered, they sorted through them, dividing them into piles on the basis of size, colour and quality. Then they dipped the cocoons into vats of hot water to loosen the threads. Once they’d done that, they passed the cocoons to another team, whose members unwound the threads onto spools, which were finally given to the weavers at the looms.

Although Larten couldn’t remember what colour his hair had been when he first came to the factory, he would never forget the first time he dunked his hands in a vat of near-boiling water. Traz watched, smiling, as the boy worked up the courage to stick in his fingers. The foreman laughed when Larten touched the hot water and jerked away with a yelp. Then he grabbed the boy’s hands by the wrists and jammed them in. He held them under, chuckling sadistically while Larten cried and his flesh reddened.

Larten studied his fingers. They were callused, stained and cut in many places. He didn’t mind the calluses and stains, but the cuts worried him. Silk worms were disgusting, filthy creatures. Larten had seen many of his team lose a finger or a hand when a dirt-encrusted cut became infected. Some had even died of blood-poisoning.

There was nothing worse than the stench of gangrene. Sometimes a child tried to hide an infected wound in the vain hope that it would miraculously cure itself. But the smell always gave them away, and Traz would gleefully cut out the rot with a heated knife, or hack off the diseased limb with an axe.

Larten lived in fear of infection. He hoped he would have the courage, if the day ever came, to cut himself before Traz could, and cleanse the wound with a firing brand. But he knew it would be a difficult thing to do, and he was afraid he’d try to hide it as so many others had before him.

“I see some green,” Vur murmured, looking closely at Larten’s left hand. Larten’s heart beat faster and his head darted forward. Then he caught Vur’s smile.

“Cur!” he growled, playfully punching his cousin.

“They’re fine,” Vur laughed. “The sweetest pair of hands in the factory. Now let’s stop wasting time. There are cocoons to boil.”

Sighing, Larten reached into his bucket. He took out a few cocoons, steadied himself, then drove his hands deep into the heart of the bubbling vat. The pain was fierce to begin with, but after a few seconds his toughened flesh adjusted and he worked without complaint for the rest of the morning.

CHAPTER THREE

The hours passed slowly and quietly. Dunking cocoons wasn’t a demanding job and boredom quickly set in. Larten would have loved to chat with Vur and the others on his team. But Traz prowled the factory relentlessly, and although he was a large man, he could move as lithely as a cat. If the foreman caught you talking, he would whip you until he drew blood. There was a rumour that he’d once cut out a girl’s tongue and kept it in his wallet. So all of them went about their business in silence, only talking if it was work-related.

The fires beneath the vats were kept burning around the clock – slaves worked throughout the night – and the room was forever smoke-filled. It wasn’t long before the children were coughing and spitting, rubbing grit from their eyes. Larten could never get the taste of smoke out of his mouth. Even in dreams his tongue was heavy with soot.

His clothes stank too, as did Vur’s. Some nights, when Larten’s mother was in a foul mood, she would scream at the boys and force them to undress. She’d toss their clothes into the yard and they’d have to go to bed early to hide their naked bodies from Larten’s jeering brothers and sisters.

Larten’s father hadn’t wanted to send the boys to the factory. He hated the place as much as they did, even though he’d escaped and now laboured elsewhere. He had managed to find work in other areas for the older children, but jobs were scarce when it came time for Larten and Vur to earn a living. The silk factory had recently won a lucrative contract and Traz was offering halfway decent wages. There was nowhere else for the unlucky pair to go.

Larten had to keep the fire beneath his vat at a constant heat. As soon as he felt the temperature of the water dropping, he fed the flames with an armful of logs from a mound at the back of the room.

Across from him, Vur finished dunking another batch of cocoons, then set off at a jog for the pit out back. Traz reluctantly accepted the need for toilet breaks, but if he caught you walking instead of running, you were guaranteed a whipping.

Larten grinned. Vur had a weak bladder and most days he had to go to the pit three times to Larten’s once. Vur tried drinking less, but it made no difference. Traz had beaten him in the early days, when he thought the boy was making excuses. But eventually he realised that Vur’s complaint was genuine, and though he still cuffed Vur occasionally, he let the wretch go as often as he needed to.

Vur looked worried when he returned this time.

“What’s wrong?” Larten whispered.

“One of the owners was with Traz,” Vur panted. “They were on their way to inspect the room of baby worms.”

Word spread and everyone upped the tempo. It was bad news whenever one of the owners came to visit. Traz got nervous in the presence of his employers. He would meekly lead his boss around, a false smile plastered in place, sweating like a pig. As soon as the visitor departed, Traz would take a few swigs from a bottle of rum that he kept in his office, then storm furiously through the factory, finding fault wherever he looked.

They were hard days when Traz was on the warpath. No matter what you did, he could turn on you. Even the most skilful workers on the looms – normally the best treated in the factory – had suffered lashings at times like this.

Larten prayed while he worked, begging a variety of gods to keep Traz away from their vats. Though Larten wasn’t religious, he figured there was no harm in covering all the angles when trouble was in the air.

They heard a roar and every child lowered their head and dunked cocoons as fast as they could. The problem was, they had to leave them in the water until the cocoons had softened properly. If Traz found hard cocoons in their baskets it would be far worse than if he thought they were going slow.

Traz entered like a bear, growling and glaring, hoping someone would glance up at him. But all the children stared fixedly into their vats. He was pleased to see that most of them were trembling. That sapped some of the fire from his rage, but he needed to hand out three or four more beatings before he’d really start to calm down.

A girl lost her grip on a couple of cocoons as Traz was passing and they bobbed to the surface. He was on her like a hawk. “Keep them down!” he bellowed, swatting the back of her head. She winced and drove the cocoons to the base of the vat, soaking the sleeves of her dress.

“Sorry, sir,” the girl gasped.

Traz grabbed her hair – she was new to the team and had made the mistake of not cutting it short – and jerked her face up to his. “If you ever do that again,” he snarled, “I’ll bite off your nose.”

It would have been funny if anyone else had made such a ludicrous threat. But Traz had bitten off more than one nose in his time – a good number of ears too – and they all knew that he meant it. Nobody snickered.

Traz released the girl. He wasn’t interested in newcomers. He knew the younger children were terrified of him and probably dreamt about him when they went to bed every night. They were too easy to scare. He wanted to work on some of the more experienced hands, remind a few of the older lot of his power, make sure they didn’t start taking him for granted.

He cast his gaze around. There was a tall boy in one corner, a lazy piece of work. Traz started to move in on him, but then he caught sight of Vur Horston and changed direction.

Traz slowly strolled past Vur, giving him the impression that he’d escaped the foreman’s wrath. But when he was about four strides past he stopped, turned and stepped up behind the boy.

Vur knew he was in trouble, but he worked on, not giving any sign that he was aware of Traz’s presence. Larten could see that his cousin was in for a beating, and although he risked drawing attention to himself, he raised his head slightly to watch. He felt sick and hateful, but there was nothing he could do.

For a while Traz didn’t say anything, just studied Vur as he dunked cocoons and held them beneath the surface of the water. Then he stuck a thick, dirty finger into the vat and held it there for a couple of seconds.

“Lukewarm,” he said, withdrawing the finger and sucking it dry.

Vur gulped, but didn’t move. He wanted to throw more sticks on the fire – even though the heat was fine – but he had to keep the cocoons down. If he released them early, he’d be in an even worse situation than he was now.

Behind Vur’s back, Traz scowled. He’d hoped the boy would panic, release the cocoons and give the foreman an excuse to batter him.

“You’re a vile, useless piece of work,” Traz said. He tried to think of something more cutting, then recalled someone telling him that the boy was an orphan. “An insult to the memory of your mother,” Traz added, and was delighted to note the boy’s back stiffen with surprise and anger.

“You didn’t know that I knew your mother, did you?” Traz said slyly, walking around the vat, cracking his knuckles, warming to the game.

“No, sir,” Vur croaked.

“She didn’t work here, did she?”

“No.”

“So where do you think I knew her from?”

Vur shook his head. Across from him, Larten guessed what the foreman was up to, but there was no way he could warn Vur. He just hoped that Vur was reading Traz’s intentions too. Usually Vur was a better judge of people than Larten was, but fear had a way of shaking up a person’s thoughts.

“Well?” Traz purred.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Inns,” Traz declared grandly. “I knew her from inns.”

Vur’s head rose and he frowned. Larten groaned — his cousin had swallowed the bait. This was going to be bad.

“Beg pardon, sir, but you’re mistaken. My mother didn’t work in an inn.”

“She did,” Traz sniffed.

“No, sir,” Vur said. “She was a seamstress.”

“By day,” Traz jeered. “But she earned a bit extra by night.” He gave Vur a few seconds to dwell on that. “Worked in a lot of inns. I met with her many times.”

Vur was too young to have kissed a girl, but there were few true innocents in the world at that time. He knew what the foreman was implying. His cheeks flushed. The worst thing was, he couldn’t say for sure that it was a lie. He was almost certain that Traz was toying with him, but Vur had few memories of his parents, so he couldn’t dismiss the insult as an outrageous piece of slander.

“She wasn’t a pretty thing,” Traz continued, relishing the twisted look on Vur’s face. “But she was pretty good at her job. Aye?”

Vur started to tremble, but not with fear. He had always been able to control his temper – much better than Larten could – but he’d never been subjected to an insult of this nature before.

Traz whispered something in Vur’s ear. The boy’s face went white and a lone cocoon bobbed up inside the vat.

“Keep the bloody things down!” Traz roared, punching Vur hard in the left side of his head. Vur was slugged sideways and lost his grip on the cocoons. They all shot to the top. “Idiot!” Traz yelled and followed it up with cruder curses, each accompanied by a blow to Vur’s head.

Vur tried to push the cocoons down again, but was knocked away from the vat by the bullying foreman, then to the ground. As he hit the floor, Traz kicked the boy in the stomach. Vur cried out with pain, then threw up over Traz’s boot.

The foreman’s fury doubled. Cursing the boy with his vilest insults, he grabbed cocoons from the vat and lobbed them at Vur’s face. Vur retreated like a crab, trying to avoid the soggy missiles. Larten and the others watched with their jaws open. They had never seen Traz as mad as this. Nobody was bothering with work any longer. All eyes were on the furious bully and his defenceless victim.

When the vat ran out, Traz plucked cocoons from the vat next to it. He had never before manhandled the valuable balls of silken thread, but something inside him had snapped. It wasn’t anything Vur had said or done. This had been building within the hate-filled foreman for a long time, and Vur was simply in the wrong place at the worst possible moment.

Traz stamped after the fleeing Vur, pelting him with cocoons, calling the boy and his mother all sorts of disgusting names. Larten saw Vur getting close to the door and prayed his cousin wouldn’t make it. He had a vision of Traz slamming the door shut on Vur, over and over, smashing the bony boy to pieces. It would be better if Vur collapsed in the middle of the floor. All Traz could hit him with then would be his fists, feet and cocoons.

As if responding to Larten’s silent prayer, Vur stopped crawling and held his ground ahead of the advancing foreman. But Vur hadn’t stopped to take a beating. Something had switched inside him, just as it had inside the vicious Traz. He knew it was lunacy, but he couldn’t stop himself. Maybe it was a reaction to one of the insults aimed at his dead mother. Maybe a bone had shattered in his ribs and the pain drove him momentarily insane. Or maybe life had been leading him to this point since he first stepped into the factory, and it was simply his destiny to one day hit back at a world that treated helpless children so repulsively.

Vur snatched a cocoon from the floor, hurled it at Traz and screamed, “Leave me alone, you…” He paused as the cocoon struck Traz between his eyes, then smiled and finished with an insult every bit as crude as any the foreman had used.

Traz came to a stunned halt. The cocoon had only left a wet, slimy mark behind, and he’d been called far worse in his time by drunkards, scoundrels and women of ill repute. But no child had ever spoken that way to him. And he had never been struck in front of a crowd of gawping children.

Traz was a beastly man and always had been. But in that second he slipped beyond the boundaries of mere brutality. He had beaten children senseless in the past. He had chewed off noses and ears, and the story about cutting out a girl’s tongue was true. Children had died under his watch from festering wounds and starvation, and he had laughed at their agonies. But he had never set out to openly murder one of his crew.

As the cocoon dripped on the floor and the echoes of Vur’s curse died away, Traz lost control of himself. It was abrupt and awful, and before anyone knew it was coming, he had already launched himself at the boy.

Traz scooped Vur up from the floor with one huge paw. Vur cursed him again and hit him with a fist instead of a soft cocoon. But Traz was in no mood to play. Instead of beating the boy, he swept Vur over to the nearest vat and shoved a cringing girl out of his way. Before Vur could protest, Traz upended him and thrust him underwater, pushing him all the way to the bottom and holding his head there with one thick, hairy, powerful hand.

Vur kicked out wildly. One of his feet struck Traz’s chin. The foreman grunted and slipped. Vur bobbed to the surface like a cocoon. But then Traz regained his balance and pushed Vur down again, using his free arm to bend back the boy’s legs. Ignoring the heat of the water, he held Vur in place, fingers squeezed tight into the flesh of the boy’s skull.

“Let him go!” Larten shouted, surprising even himself.

Traz’s eyes flared and he bared his teeth. “Stay out of this!”

“Stop it!” Larten cried. “You’ll kill him!”

“Aye,” Traz chuckled. “That’s what I’m aiming to do.”

Larten had lived in fear of the foreman since the age of eight, but there was no time for terror on that cold, grey Tuesday. Vur was drowning. Larten had to act swiftly or it would be too late.

Abandoning the safety of his vat, Larten raced towards the laughing Traz and threw himself at the monstrous man. The floor was wet and he hoped Traz would lose his footing when he was tackled. If he could get Vur out of the vat, they’d flee like rats and never come back. His father wouldn’t care, not when Larten told him what had happened. There were limits to what even the likes of Traz could get away with.

But Traz had clocked the Crepsley boy’s every move. He anticipated the leap and adjusted his stance. When Larten threw himself forward, Traz simply let go of Vur’s legs – not thrashing now – and slammed a fist down on Larten’s skull.

Larten felt as if his head had been caved in. For a few seconds he came close to blacking out. He would have fainted any other time, but he knew Vur needed him. He couldn’t afford to fall unconscious. So, drawing strength from deep within himself, he shook his head and lurched to his knees.

Traz was surprised. He thought he’d killed the boy, or at least hit him so hard that he’d slump around simple-minded for the rest of his days. Even in the midst of his murderous fit he found himself respecting the way Larten hauled himself up, first to his knees, then to his feet. His legs were swaying like a drunk’s, but Traz admired the boy for rising to make a challenge.

The worst of the foreman’s rage ebbed away and he grunted. “Stay down, you fool.”

Larten moaned in reply and staggered forward. This time he didn’t try to hit the huge man. He was only focused on Vur’s legs. They were as still as a crushed dog’s and Larten knew he had mere seconds in which to fish out his cousin — if it wasn’t already too late.

Traz squinted at the advancing child. When he realised Larten was only worried about the drowning boy, Traz looked down and hissed. Vur Horston was no longer moving and no bubbles of air were trickling from his mouth.

Traz felt no guilt, merely unease. Though he doubted his employers would care too much if word of this incident reached them, there was always the possibility that they might decide he had gone too far. Releasing Vur’s legs, he stepped away from the vat and wrung water from the sleeves of his jacket, thinking hard.

Not being a man of the world like Traz, Larten thought there was still hope. He gurgled happily when Traz moved aside, then gripped Vur’s legs and dragged him out of the vat. His cousin was heavier than normal, his clothes soaked, and Larten was still dizzy from the blow to his head. But it only took him a couple of seconds to pull Vur clear and lay him on the floor.

“Vur!” Larten called, sprawling beside his motionless cousin. When there was no answer, he turned Vur’s head sideways and prised his lips apart to let water out. “Vur!” He slapped the silent boy’s back. “Are you all right? Can you hear me? Did he–”

“Silence!” Traz barked. When Larten glanced up, blinking back tears, the foreman added coldly, “There’s nothing you can do for him. The gutter rat’s dead. All that’s left for him now is the grave.”

CHAPTER FOUR

As the world seemed to spin wildly around the dazed, sickened Larten, Traz faced the rest of the cocooners. He was only worried about protecting his job. He didn’t care a shred for the bedraggled remains of the murdered Vur Horston.

“Listen up!” Traz roared, glaring at one and all. “The savage little rat attacked me. Everybody saw it. I was defending myself and it’ll go bad with anyone who says different.”

Traz cast his gaze around, challenging the children to disagree with him. They all dropped their heads and Traz puffed up proudly. He had nothing to fear. None of these cowards would speak out against him.

“I’m going to hang his body off a hook out back,” Traz boasted. “I want you to study it long and hard before you go home. This is what happens to vicious fools who attack their foremen. We won’t be having any revolutions in this factory!”

Already, in his mind, he was exaggerating the boy’s act of defiance. He would tell the owners that several of the brats attacked him. Claim it was an organised revolt, that the Horston boy was its leader. Fake regret and say that he had to kill Vur for the good of the factory. Let them believe there were others who were plotting against them. If they believed there was a threat to their profits, they’d give Traz a medal for working so hard to suppress it.

Men of wealth were easy to appease. If you kept money flowing into their pockets, they backed every move you made. They wouldn’t care that he’d killed an orphan, not as long as he could put a price on the cur’s head.

On the floor, Larten was staring at Vur with horror. The dead boy’s right eye was closed, but his left was open a fraction, as if he was winking. Larten wished Vur was playing a joke. He wouldn’t mind if his cousin sat up and laughed at him for falling for the trick. Larten would cry with joy if that happened.

But Vur wasn’t acting. Larten had seen death many times — an older sister, children in the factory, corpses in the street waiting to be collected. There was no mistaking the chilling stillness of the dead.

“Out of my way,” Traz sneered, pushing Larten aside.

Larten hadn’t been focusing on Traz’s speech. He didn’t know what the foreman intended to do with Vur. In his bewildered state, he thought Traz was trying to help.

“It’s no good,” Larten whispered. “You can’t help him. He’s dead.”

Traz cocked an eyebrow at Larten and laughed. “Help him? Didn’t you hear me? I’m going to hang him from a hook and teach you all a lesson.”

Larten gawped at the burly foreman.

“Go home to your father,” Traz huffed. “Tell him he’s lucky I let you live. I could have killed you too for attacking me. But because I’m a merciful man, I’m letting you go.”

Larten didn’t move. He had been crying, but the tears dried up now and a cold fire ignited at the back of his eyes.

“Go on,” Traz said, picking up Vur and slinging him over a shoulder as if he was a sack of cocoons. “You can have the afternoon off. But be back here first thing tomorrow. And tell your father he can pick this one up on Friday — I want to hang him for a few days like a pheasant.”

As Traz turned away, Larten calmly picked something off the floor. He would never remember what he’d grabbed. The area was littered with every sort of cast-off — nails, old spools, broken knives and more. All he knew was that it was sharp and cool, and it fitted perfectly into his small, trembling hand.

“Traz,” Larten said with surprising softness. If he’d screamed, maybe the foreman would have sensed danger and jerked aside. As it was, Traz simply paused and looked back, half smiling the way he would if an old friend hailed him in a park on a Sunday.

Larten stepped forward and drove his hand up. The boy’s eyes were flat, as devoid of expression as Vur’s, but his mouth was twisted into a dark, leering grin, as something vile and inhuman inside him rejoiced at being set free.

When Larten lowered his hand, whatever he’d picked up was no longer in his palm. The object was now buried deep in Traz’s throat.

Traz stared at Larten through a pair of wide, bulging eyes. He didn’t drop Vur. Indeed, his grip on the boy tightened. With his free hand he tried to pull out the object that was stuck in his windpipe. But there was no strength in his fingers and the flesh around his neck was slippery with blood. His arm fell by his side. He opened his mouth and tried to say something, but only blood gurgled out.

Still staring at Larten, Traz fell to his knees, swayed for a moment, then slumped. He lost hold of Vur and the boy’s body rolled away from him.

The silence in the room was more frightening than any bellow of Traz’s had ever been. The children were transfixed. Vur’s death had been unexpected, but it hardly counted as a cataclysmic event in this factory of misery. But the slaying of Traz had shaken their world to its core. Nothing could be the same after this.

Larten licked his lips and began to lean forward. The hateful thing inside him wanted to retrieve the object from Traz’s throat and use it to stab out the dead foreman’s eyes. But as his fingers stretched out before him, he shuddered and blinked, then took a step backwards, shocked by what he had done and had been planning to do.

Feeling sick and bewildered, Larten took a couple more steps away. As he was backing up, his gaze flickered from Traz to Vur, and realisation of what he’d done struck him like a lightning bolt. He had killed a man. And not just any man, but Traz, the darling of the owners. Nobody in the neighbourhood liked Traz, but he had been respected. Larten would have to answer for the foreman’s death, and he knew what form that answer would take — a carefully knotted hangman’s noose.

Larten didn’t try to appeal to the other children, to ask them for help or to lie on his behalf. They owed him nothing. If they stood by his side or tried to hide his identity, they would suffer too.

Turning wildly, fighting against a wave of bile, Larten searched desperately for the door — he had become disoriented and didn’t know where it was. As soon as he sighted it, he ran for his life.

As if the children had been waiting for this signal, one of them raised a finger, pointed at the fleeing boy and screeched, “Murderer!”

Within seconds they were all screaming Larten’s name, pointing, howling like banshees. But they did nothing except scream. No one tried to follow him. There was no need. Others would take care of that. A full, fearsome mob of righteous executioners would soon be hot on Larten’s trail, each member of the pack eager to be the first to string up the cold-blooded, orange-haired killer.

CHAPTER FIVE

Larten ran without any real sense of direction. He hadn’t explored much of the city beyond his own neighbourhood, but he knew every last inch of the area around the factory, all the alleys, roads, ruins and hiding places. If he had been thinking straight, he could have slipped away quickly and cleanly, or found a spot where he could hide until night.

But Larten was in a panic. His best friend had been murdered in front of him and he’d killed a man in response. His heart was pounding and he fell often, scraping his legs and hands. His head was a bedlam of noise and terror, his only clear thought, “Run!”

If a mob had formed swiftly, they would have found Larten flailing around the streets outside the factory, losing his way and backtracking, an easy target. But the adults who answered the calls of the children were thunderstruck. They pressed the witnesses for detailed descriptions of Traz’s last moments. If anyone had thought to give chase, others would have immediately joined them. But in the chaos, everyone assumed that a group was already in pursuit of the boy, so precious minutes passed without anybody making a move.

Outside, Larten had turned down a dead-end alley. He was looking behind him for pursuers, so he ran into a wall and fell with a cry. As he picked himself up and rubbed his head, he spotted a girl no more than four or five, sitting on a step and studying him.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Larten shook his head.

“You’re hurt,” the girl said.

Larten didn’t know what she was talking about. When she pointed at his head, he rubbed it again, looked at his fingers and saw that he was bleeding. Now that he was aware of his wound, pain kicked in and he grimaced.

“My mummy can fix you,” the girl said. “She fixes me when I get hurt.”

“That’s all right,” Larten croaked. “I’ll be fine.”

“She gives me a cup of tea with sugar,” the girl said. “Sugar,” she repeated boastfully. “Have you ever had sugar?”

“No,” Larten said.

“It’s lovely,” she whispered.

Larten stared around. The worst of the panic had passed. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t feel so afraid any more. He was still a long way from normal, yet he began thinking of what he should do and where he could go. He had to get away quickly, but he’d only be able to do that if he held his nerve.

“Thank you,” he said to the girl and headed back up the alley.

“For what?” the girl asked.

“Calming me down.”

She giggled. “You’re silly. Come back and play.”

But Larten had no time to waste on play. There was only one game of any interest to him now — beat the hangman.

From the alley he took a right turn and had soon left behind the neighbourhood where he’d spent all his life. Though he wasn’t sure of the surrounding area, he had a vague idea of the shape of the city and moved in an eastern direction. That was his quickest route to the outskirts. He didn’t run, but walked briskly, head down, not making eye contact with anyone.

Nobody paid attention to the thin, dirty, bloodied, trembling boy. The city was full of lost, wounded strays just like him.

At the factory, someone finally asked what had become of Traz’s killer. When people realised the boy had escaped without even a half-hearted challenge, they were outraged — nobody had liked Traz, but a rebellious brat like Larten Crepsley couldn’t be allowed to stab a hard-working foreman to death and waltz away freely. A gang took to the streets and was soon joined by dozens of others as word of the murder spread. Life was monotonous in those parts and a chase was a major attraction. Men, women and teenagers joined the workers from the factory, brandishing knives, hooks and any other sharp implements they could find. More than one also took the time to root out a good length of rope. Mobs were never shy of volunteers when it came to the office of hangman.

By the time the mob was fully formed and storming through the streets, Larten was out of danger’s immediate range. Their cries didn’t reach him or alert any of the people he was passing. With no sign of a chase party, he was able to keep calm and carry on at a steady pace.

It never crossed his mind to go home. He knew that was the first place the mob would look for him, but that wasn’t the reason he avoided it. If he thought his parents would try to protect him, he might have returned. If he believed people would grant him a fair hearing, maybe he wouldn’t have fled. If there was any justice in the world, perhaps he’d have thrown himself at the feet of his accusers and begged for mercy.

But nobody would care about Vur Horston. Children in factories were killed all the time. As long as the owners made money, they didn’t mind. But the killing of a foreman was a scandal. An example would have to be made, to stop other workers from following Larten’s lead.

Larten’s father was a thoughtful, caring man, and his gruff mother loved him in her own way, but life was hard and poor people had to be practical. They couldn’t save him from the mob, and Larten didn’t think they’d even try. He figured they would hand him over and curse him for being a fool and losing his temper.

Larten had never heard the phrase, “burning your bridges”. But he would have understood it. There was no home for him in this city any more. He was all alone in the world, and marked for death.

It was evening by the time Larten cleared the city. The sky had been dark all day, and now it began to blacken with the coming of night. There was a cruel bite to the air. Larten had no coat and he shivered in his short-sleeved shirt. He was hungry and thirsty, but the cold was his main concern. He had to find shelter or he’d end up like one of the stiff, frozen street people he’d often seen.

Hunching his shoulders against the cold, Larten walked along the main road for a while, then took a dirt track. His vague plan was to find a village and lay up in a cowshed or barn. He didn’t know how long a walk it would be, but he guessed it couldn’t be more than a few miles.

If it hadn’t started to rain heavily, Larten would have kept going. Maybe he’d have slipped along the way, twisted an ankle and perished of the wet and cold in the open. Or maybe he’d have made good time and found shelter, stolen a few eggs in the morning and set off in search of a job. He might have scraped by, worked hard, earned some money. Perhaps he’d have lived a good life, married and had children, and died at the ripe old age of forty or forty-five.

But Larten’s destiny didn’t lie in a ditch or any of the nearby villages. Rain soaked him, forcing him to look for immediate shelter. A tree would have been fine, but the clouds looked thundery and he’d heard tales of people who had been struck by lightning under trees. There were no caves that he knew of. That left…

Larten looked around, praying for inspiration, and through a brief break in the rain his prayers were answered. He spotted the heads of tombstones and realised he was close to a graveyard.

Larten had only been to a graveyard once before, one Sunday when he and Vur had trekked to the northern part of town where a large cemetery stood. They’d gone hoping to see ghosts, having heard tales of headless horsemen roaming the rows of graves. Of course they didn’t see any – ghosts mostly came out at night – but they saw plenty of monuments to the dead.

The poor of the city were carted off to be dumped in mass graves, nothing to mark the spot where they lay. Those with money secured a grave. Wealthy people bought tombs.

Graves and tombs were of no use to Larten, but some of the truly rich invested in family crypts, small houses for the dead. If they kept the dead dry, they could keep the living dry too, at least for a night.

Larten didn’t know if this small graveyard would boast any crypts. But on the off-chance he abandoned the path and splashed through sodden fields, fearfully edging his way towards the home of the (hopefully) sleeping dead.

CHAPTER SIX

The graveyard was larger than Larten had imagined, and while it was no match for the lavish city of the dead to the north, there were a few crypts jutting out of the crop of crosses and tombs.

Larten scrambled across the graves, muttering prayers to every god he’d ever heard of, eyes cast low. He wanted to look every which way at once, to check for ghosts, witches, demons. But he thought that if he saw them, they would see him too. By not looking, he hoped no ghosts would notice him, so he kept his eyes on the ground. It was a foolish notion, but it gave Larten the courage to go on.

He couldn’t get into the first crypt that he tried — the doors were sealed shut. There was a chain on the woven copper gates of the next. He tugged at the gates as hard as he could, and the chain gave a little, but not enough.

Larten thought he heard movement behind him. He stood, head lowered, expecting an attack. When nothing leapt out of the growing darkness, he looked around for another crypt, then hurried towards it.

He almost didn’t try this door. It was on hinges and slightly ajar, but it was carved of stone and he doubted he had the strength to move it. But rain was lashing down, exhaustion had set deep into his bones, and the next crypt was some way off. So, with no real hope, he grabbed the edge of the door and pulled.

The door slid open so smoothly that he slipped and fell. Landing with a splash in a puddle of rain and mud, he tensed and peered into the darkness. Maybe the door had opened so easily because something inside had pushed out at the same time that he’d pulled. But if a ghost was lurking within, Larten couldn’t see it.

“Are you mad?” a voice very much like Vur’s whispered inside his head. “Don’t go in there. It’s a place for the dead.”

But Larten was out of options. If he didn’t find shelter here, he doubted he’d find it anywhere. As terrified as he was by the thought of spending the night in a crypt, he had a better chance in there than out here. So, with one last quick prayer, he got to his feet, wiped his hands dry on his trousers, then ducked and entered the crypt.

At first he thought it was pitch black. But he closed his eyes for a while, and when he opened them again he could see fairly well. There were glass panels in the ceiling. That seemed strange to Larten, but maybe some of the people buried here had been afraid of the dark.

He remained by the door while his eyes adjusted, then studied the crypt. There were brick walls on either side, behind which the coffins were stacked. A strange sort of ornamental fountain in the middle. No sign of any ghosts.

Growing braver, Larten moved away from the door, into the centre of the crypt. It was cool here, but warmer than outside and a lot drier. He rubbed his arms up and down, trying to generate heat. He’d have to take his clothes off later to let them dry, but he was wary of undressing too soon in case a ghost rose from one of the coffins and attacked. He didn’t want to have to flee naked through the graveyard!

Larten chuckled weakly at the image. Then his stomach rumbled and he winced. He’d been hungry for a long time, but had been able to ignore it. Now his hunger kicked in hard. If only the owner had come to the factory after lunch. The children didn’t get much in the middle of the day, but a few scraps of bread and some slops of watery soup would have made a big difference. Trust Traz to pick the worst possible time to get killed.

Larten chuckled again. He knew murder was wrong, and he wished he could go back and change this day, but in all honesty he wasn’t sad that Traz was dead. He and Vur had often prayed for the gods to strike down their bullying foreman. He didn’t think too many people would shed tears on Traz’s account.

As Larten approached the fountain, he saw that it was covered in cobwebs. He scanned the strands for spiders – he’d eaten insects before when food was scarce – but they were either hiding or had moved on. Sighing, he figured he might as well try the webs since there was nothing else available. He doubted they’d fill him up – they might even make him sick – but what choice did he have?

He ran a couple of fingers through one of the webs, breaking the strands. Then he twirled his fingers around several times, adding to the webby covering. When it was thick enough to hide his flesh, he brought his fingers to his mouth, shut his eyes and peeled off the webs with his teeth.

Larten gagged on the foul-tasting webs and almost vomited, but then he gulped and forced down the disgusting, dusty strands. After a brief pause for breath, he scooped up more, working his way down from the top of the fountain. He kept looking for spiders or even a few desiccated flies, but no joy.

Then, out of the solemn, sinister silence of the crypt, as he was sucking more of the spider’s silk from his sticky fingers, someone spoke from a spot high above and behind him.

“Are cobwebs a treat where you come from?”

Larten whirled, eyes locking on the wall above the door, the one place he hadn’t thought to check when he’d entered the crypt. Something was attached to the bricks. It was a red-skinned beast, with a pale face and long dark hair streaked with white. Its claws were dug into the bricks and it was studying Larten with what seemed to be a wicked, bloodthirsty smile.

Larten darted for the door, certain he was too late, that the creature would drop in front of him and block his way, before falling upon him and finishing him off. But to his surprise the beast never moved and a second later Larten was in the doorway, freedom a couple of paces ahead of him.

“I would ask you to stay a while,” the creature murmured, and something in its tone made Larten pause. He cast a quick glance upwards and saw that the thing had lowered its head. Only a handful of inches now separated their faces.

Larten squealed and slammed against the jamb of the doorway. But still he didn’t spill out of the crypt and run away. Because the creature hadn’t sounded threatening when it spoke. It had sounded strangely lonely.

“What are you?” Larten gasped.

“Should not the question be who am I?” the creature asked, then released its grip, dropped to the floor and stood. Larten saw that it was actually a man — or at least it had the body and face of one. The red he’d glimpsed was the material of the man’s clothes, not his skin, which – from what Larten could see – was no different to any other person’s.

“Aren’t you a monster?” Larten frowned, eyeing the man suspiciously.

“I would not describe myself as one,” the man chuckled, “although there are many who would.”

To Larten’s surprise, the man extended a hand. Larten’s heart was pounding, but it would be rude to refuse this gesture of friendship. Sticking out a trembling hand of his own, he accepted the man’s offer of a handshake. The man’s grip was loose, but Larten sensed immense strength in the fingers.

“My name is Seba Nile,” the man said, “and this is my home for the night. You are more than welcome to share it with me if you wish.”

“Thank you,” Larten said weakly, feeling like he was in a dream. “My name’s Larten Crepsley.”

“I bid you welcome, Larten,” Seba said warmly, and without releasing the boy’s hand, he led him back into the shadows of the crypt.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Seba Nile sat on the floor, brushed away dust, then produced an apple from within the long red cloak he was wearing. He split the apple in two with his sharp but clean fingernails and offered half to the boy. Larten wolfed down the fruit. When Seba saw how ravenous the child was, he gave him the second half of the apple too. Taking it with a brief nod of thanks, Larten sat crosslegged like Seba and munched down to the core, chewing the pips and all.

“I am guessing that you have not eaten in a while,” Seba noted drily. “I would give you more if I had any, but I do not. You can hunt with me later, or I can bring food back for you if you prefer to remain where it is warm and dry.”

Larten grunted and picked the remains of a pip from between two of his teeth. Squinting at Seba, he said suspiciously, “What do you want?”

“I do not want anything,” Seba replied.

“Then why are you helping me? Why let me stay here and give me food?”

Seba smiled. “I am simply being hospitable.”

“I don’t believe you,” Larten sniffed.

“You should never call a man a liar unless you are sure,” Seba said coldly.

“You’re living in a crypt,” Larten said. “You can’t be up to any good if you’re staying in a place like this.”

Seba raised an eyebrow. “I could say the same about you, young pup!”

Larten chuckled weakly. “I suppose you could.”

“Why are you here?” Seba asked. When Larten’s lips drew thin, he added, “You do not have to tell me, but you look troubled. I think you will rest easier if you are open with me.”

Larten shook his head. “You first. What are you doing here?”

“I often stay in places like this,” Seba said.

“You sleep in crypts?” Larten asked.

“Usually.”

“Why?”

“Because I am a vampire.”

Larten frowned. “What’s a vampire?”

Seba was surprised. “You have not heard the tales? I thought, in this part of the world… Have you perhaps heard of the living dead? The walkers of the night?”

“Do you mean ghosts?”

“No. Vampires are…” Seba considered his words.

“Hold on,” Larten said, a memory sparking somewhere inside his head. “You’re not a bloodsucker, are you?”

“Now you have it,” Seba beamed.

“I remember Vur telling me…” What? Larten only had a dim recollection. Vur had told lots of tales. It was something about creatures who drank blood and lived forever.

“There are many legends about vampires,” Seba said. “Most are unreliable. We do drink blood to survive, but we are not killers. We do no harm to those from whom we feed.”

“A monster who doesn’t kill?” Larten was sceptical.

“Not monsters,” Seba corrected him. “Just people with extraordinary powers. Or weaknesses, depending on how one looks at it.”

Seba uncrossed his legs and stretched. “I cannot recall my exact age, but I am more than five hundred years old.”

Larten grinned — he thought it was a joke. Then he saw Seba’s expression and his smile faded.

“All vampires start life as humans,” Seba continued. “We turn from the path of humanity when another vampire bloods us.” He held up his hands and Larten saw small scars at the tip of each finger. “My master cut my fingertips, then his own, and pumped his blood into me. That is how I became a vampire.”

“Why did he do it?” Larten asked.

“I wanted him to.” Seba explained how vampires aged at one-tenth the human rate, meaning they could live for several hundred years. He told Larten of their great strength and speed, the codes of honour by which they lived. He explained about the hardships, the way humans feared and hunted them, how sunlight killed them after a few hours, their inability to have children.

Larten listened, entranced. Like most of his friends, he believed fully in a world of ghosts and magic, demons and witches. But this was the first time he had been exposed to the reality of that world, and it was far different than he’d imagined.

Seba told Larten some of the many myths about vampires. Crosses were meant to frighten them. Holy water could burn them. You had to drive a stake through a vampire’s heart, then cut off his head and bury him at the centre of a crossroads to stop him rising again. They could change shape and turn into bats or rats.

“All rot!” Seba snorted. “The hysterical rantings of superstitious fools.”

Larten had heard some of the tales before, but in relation to other monsters. He asked Seba if they were also real — demons, witches and the rest.

“Ghosts, yes,” Seba said seriously. “And witches. As for demons and the like… Well, in five hundred years, I have not seen any.”

He told Larten how he had been blooded as a child, and spoke of some of the countries he’d visited, and a few of the famous people he’d met. Larten didn’t recognise most of the names, but he didn’t admit that, not wanting to appear ignorant.

Finally, when Seba felt the boy had learnt enough about the world of vampires for one night, he reversed the question. “And you?” he asked gently. “Why are you here, so far from home and other humans?”

Larten’s first instinct was to make up a story – he didn’t want to confess to his terrible crime – but Seba had been honest with him and Larten didn’t want to lie in return.

“I killed a man,” Larten said hollowly, then told Seba the whole sorry tale. He cried while telling it. This was the first chance he’d had to think about what he’d lost, not just his best friend, but his parents, his brothers and sisters, his entire way of life. But he didn’t let the tears overwhelm him. He kept talking, even when it hurt to speak.

Seba nodded slowly when Larten had finished. “From what you say, that wretch of a man deserved to be killed. Aye, and long before you struck the fatal blow. But murder always hurts. It is right that we grieve when we kill. If we did not feel pain, we would kill more freely, and what would the world be like then?”

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