OCEAN OF BLOOD

DARREN SHAN
OCEAN OF BLOOD

Darren Shan pilots his ship over the bloody waters of the internet at:

www.darrenshan.com

For:

Shaun, Ciarán, Áine and Cian – monsters from the deep!

OBEs (Order of the Bloody Entrails) to:

Jessica Bromberg, the East Coast Kraken!!

Editorial Skipper: Sam Quint, AKA Nick Lake!!!

Admirals of the Dark Waters: Captain Christopher Little

and his scurvy crew!!!!

Contents

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Part Two

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Part Three

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Part Four

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Part Five

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Other Books by Darren Shan

Copyright

About the Publisher

PART ONE

“a howling, hungry creature of dark delights”

CHAPTER ONE

The vampire known as Quicksilver threw a knife high into the smoke-clogged air of the tavern. Those around him watched with beady-eyed, bloodthirsty fascination as he held his head back, opened his mouth wide and waited for the knife to drop. A few people shrieked, but Quicksilver didn’t flinch, expertly tracking the flight of the dagger. At precisely the right moment he clenched his teeth together and caught the blade two inches past the tip. As the handle quivered, he turned slowly, so that everyone in the room could see. Pulling out the knife, he threw it into the wood of the table – it drove in all the way to the hilt – and took a bow.

As the crowd went wild with applause, Quicksilver grinned and slumped into a chair close to another vampire and a gaggle of admiring young ladies. “There,” he beamed. “I told you I could do it.”

“One of these nights,” the other bloodsucker said, “you’ll time that wrong and end up with a knife through the back of your throat.”

“Don’t be such an old woman, Wester,” Quicksilver laughed. “You’ll scare these lovely creatures and I would hate to send them to bed with nightmares.”

“It will take more than your dull tales to scare us,” one of the ladies snorted, but they were undeniably impressed.

“What’s your real name?” another lady asked, cuddling up to the man with the odd, orange hair, immaculate grey suit and dazzling smile.

“I only reveal that to my very special friends,” Quicksilver murmured. Then, as she blushed, he whispered in her ear, “Larten Crepsley.” After that he called for more wine and the rest of the night passed most pleasantly.

A groggy Wester rose before Larten and stumbled to the window of the inn where they had bedded for the day. He peered through the curtains at the sunlight, hissed and let them swish shut. It would be another couple of hours before they could go out. The sun wouldn’t kill the vampires instantly, but they’d start to redden within minutes and would be in agony in less than an hour. If they were exposed to its rays for two or three hours, there would be nothing left of them except for charred bones.

Wester washed in a basin of water and studied his beard in the mirror above it. Shaving was a complicated business for vampires. Normal razors were useless on their tough hair. He and Larten had picked up specially hardened blades a couple of years ago, but Wester had lost his in the course of their travels. He’d asked to borrow Larten’s, but the slightly older vampire had said it was time Wester learnt to take better care of his possessions. Larten had just been teasing him, but Wester didn’t want to give his friend the satisfaction of seeing him plead, so he’d grown a beard since then.

“My head,” Larten groaned, sitting up, then flopping back again. “What time is it?”

“Too early to be getting up,” Wester grunted.

“How much did we drink last night?”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

Vampires could consume a lot more alcohol than humans and it was difficult for them to get drunk. But Wester and Larten had been managing to defy the physical odds most nights.

“They were nice ladies,” Larten chuckled. “They loved my knife trick.”

“You should try it at the Cirque Du Freak,” Wester said drily. “It would go down a treat there.”

The pair had bumped into their old ally, Mr Tall, a while ago. They’d spent a fun few nights with the circus crew and Larten had performed some of his old magic routines in the show. He had been rusty to begin with, but adjusted swiftly. He had an incredibly fast hand, even for a vampire. It was how he’d earned his nickname — one of their friends had once said his fingers moved as if made of quicksilver.

Larten and Wester had been travelling the world for almost twenty years since their first time at Council. Both had learned a lot, not just about the ways of vampires, but about ladies too. Larten had been a slow starter, but was making up for lost time, dazzling maidens with his smile, confidence and agility wherever he went.

The pair occasionally met with their master, Seba Nile, but spent most of the time by themselves or with others their age, vampires in their thirties, forties, fifties or sixties. They were youths by vampire standards and had been cut loose by their masters to explore the world of humans one final time before pledging themselves to the demands of the clan.

The door to their room crashed open. Wester whirled defensively, then relaxed as a large vampire with long blond hair staggered in. It was Yebba. He had been travelling with them for the past month, though it had been a few nights since they’d last seen him.

“I’m thirsty,” Yebba roared, kicking Larten’s bed. “Up, cur, and come keep me company.”

“Wester says the sun hasn’t set yet,” Larten yawned.

“I don’t give a damn,” the massive vampire said, then collapsed like a bear and sat on the floor, blinking dumbly.

“A heavy night’s drinking?” Wester smiled.

“Aye,” Yebba said morosely. “A woman broke my heart. What else could I do but drown my sorrows in ale?”

“Another broken heart?” Wester tsked. “That must be the fourth this year.”

“Aye.” Tears welled in Yebba’s eyes. “Vampires weren’t made for love.”

“What happened this time?” Wester asked slyly. “Did you bite her?”

“That only happened once,” Yebba scowled. “And it was an accident.”

“It has happened to us all,” Larten said, propping himself on an elbow.

“I don’t remember you biting any of your lady friends,” Wester frowned.

“No, but there was one time…” He coughed and blushed. “Never mind.”

“Tell us,” Wester hooted. “Come on, Quicksilver, you can’t leave Yebba to bare his soul alone.”

“Well, do you recall a night a couple of years ago when I didn’t return to our inn?”

“That happens at least once a month,” Wester said.

“This was different,” Larten snapped. “I’d been out with a lady and drank more than was good for me. I felt hungry on the way home, so I popped into a room to feed. But I made too much noise and woke the woman up. She screamed blue murder and I tumbled out of her room without silencing her.”

“Why didn’t you breathe on her and knock her out?” Wester asked.

Larten shrugged. “I was drunk. I forgot about my vampiric breath. Before I knew it, a mob had formed and I was chased out of town. I was almost trapped in the open and burnt alive.”

When Wester and Yebba had stopped laughing, Yebba said, “Why didn’t you flit? They couldn’t have troubled you once you hit top speed and vanished from sight.”

Larten’s blush deepened and Wester had to answer for him. “He can’t flit when he’s drunk — he loses his sense of coordination and can’t run that fast.”

The pair fell apart with laughter. Larten sniffed angrily, but his lips were twitching at the corners. Eventually he burst out laughing too. When their fit had passed, Wester trudged down to order food and ale, then the three of them waited for the sun to set, so that they could again seek excitement in the inns, taverns and gaming halls of the humans they had once been.

CHAPTER TWO

After a few drinks downstairs, the three young vampires went in search of whatever pleasures they could find. They were adept at sniffing out all of the hidden delights of a town.

The trio gained admittance to a boxing match that they enjoyed greatly, wagering heavily on the outcome. Vampires usually didn’t bother with money, but Cubs often stole from sleeping humans when they fed. Superstitious people thought that vampires were fanged beasts who ripped open the throats of their targets. In reality they normally slipped into a bedroom, made a small cut on the arm or leg of a sleeping human, drank just enough blood to sate their hunger, then used their spit to close the wound.

Larten studied the scars on his fingertips during a rest between rounds. He had been blooded the traditional way. Seba sliced the tips of Larten’s fingers with his hard, sharp nails, then cut his own and pumped blood into his assistant. Larten was proud of the scars, though sometimes when he studied them he felt a stab of guilt. They reminded him of Seba and he wondered what his master would think of his student’s recent behaviour.

Larten and Seba had parted on bad terms, but had made their peace since then. Larten worried that by gambling, drinking and stealing, he and Wester were soiling their master’s good name. Wester often had to remind him (especially when Larten had drunk too much and was in a maudlin mood) that Seba had told them to work their human interests out of their system. There were lots of other vampires going through the same thing. They were called Cubs by the older members of the clan.

The fight recommenced and the burly men closed in on one another. Larten looked up from his fingers and focused on the boxers. This was the thirty-second round and it had been a long time since he’d seen so engaging a battle. He cheered on the stout-hearted warriors as they clashed, weary and unsteady on their feet, but determined to keep going.

The flesh of their bare fists had been torn to pieces and blood splattered every time one of them landed a blow. The ruby-red drops made Larten’s mouth water – Wester and Yebba were staring hungrily too – and he had to warn himself to stay by the side, not dart forward and latch on to the delicious wounds.

All around, men were betting and roaring encouragement or abuse. They all had the same greedy, heated look in their eyes.

“My one’s winning,” Yebba whooped as one of the brutes landed a blow.

“You didn’t bet on him,” Wester retorted. “You bet on the other one.”

“Did not!” Yebba shouted.

“Yes you did. He has that mark on his left arm, remember?”

Yebba squinted at the boxers, then cursed. “These humans all look the same to me,” he growled. Larten and Wester laughed and passed the disgruntled vampire another mug of ale — that was guaranteed to settle him down.

After the fight, Larten and Wester collected their winnings and took Yebba to a tavern where they found ladies to dance with. Small towns lacked the dance halls of big cities, but you could always sort out something if you splashed enough money around.

They joined a card game later. All three were drunk and they lost heavily, even Larten, who rarely tasted defeat at the gambling tables. But they didn’t mind. Money was easy to come by if you were a creature of the night.

Larten wanted to do his knife-catching trick again, but Wester wouldn’t let him. He took his friend’s knife away and held it out of reach as Larten tried to snatch it back. If they had been sober, Wester couldn’t have kept it from the faster, stronger vampire. But Larten was woozy and helpless. Wester had a knack of knowing when Larten was going to drink more than he could handle, and he stayed relatively clear-headed on those nights so that he could keep an eye on his reckless friend.

“Ish not fair,” Larten complained to a man with a monocle. “I’m Qui-hic! I’m Quick-hic!” He gulped ale until the hiccups went away. “I’m Quicksilver,” he growled majestically.

“Aye?” the man said, passing Larten a pinch of snuff. “I’m in the leather trade myself.”

“Not my bizzzness,” Larten slurred. “Ish my… ish my…” He pulled a face and forgot what he was trying to say, then fell face down on the table and knew no more until morning.

Larten awoke to savage pain. He was outside in the sun and his skin was a nasty red shade. As he blinked sleep from his eyes and tried to raise a hand to protect his face from the rays, he found that his arms were tied behind his back and he was hanging upside down. His shirt had been ripped away, exposing his torso, which had been burnt as deeply as his face.

Fear flared in his heart, but he thrust it from his thoughts. He didn’t know what was going on – perhaps he had been caught feeding drunkenly – but that didn’t matter. He had to escape quickly or he would burn like a pig on a spit.

Larten set to work on the knots around his wrists. He was hanging from a thick length of rope, swinging and turning in a soft breeze, but he ignored that and kept as still as possible, except for his fingers, which danced over the knots. The long, hardened nails of the vampires were invaluable when it came to picking knots and locks, but Larten would have been able to make short work of these regardless. He had learnt well from Merletta all those years ago.

Once his hands were free, he wriggled loose of the ropes binding his arms and chest. Bending upwards, he grabbed the supporting rope with one hand, tore apart the ropes around his legs with the other, hung in the air a moment, then dropped to his feet and landed in a crouch. His first instinct was to dart for the safety of the shadows, but he forced himself to scan the doorways of the sheds around him – he was in a courtyard – looking for the enemies who had strung him up.

For long, anxious seconds, Larten searched for his foes and readied himself for battle. Then he caught a scent and his nose crinkled with disgust. He rose and brushed dirt from his trousers. He dug out his watch and checked the time – it was for show, as Seba had taught him to read the time based on the position of the sun and stars – then coolly glanced at the sky and sniffed.

“My watch has stopped, Tanish,” he called. “If it’s broken, I’ll have the price of a new one out of you.”

Laughter greeted this statement and four vampires lurched out of a shed. One was a sheepish-looking Wester Flack. The others were Yebba, Zula Pone and Tanish Eul, the vampire who had originally given Larten his nickname.

“The same old Quicksilver,” Tanish snorted admiringly, then hurried forward to throw a cloak over the head and shoulders of his friend and bundle him into the shadows of the shed where a barrel of ale was waiting.

CHAPTER THREE

Tanish Eul was tall and thin, with a stunning smile and carefully groomed hair and nails. He was always stylishly dressed, and spoke in the smooth tones of a silver-tongued rogue. If Larten was a Romeo, Tanish was a full-blown Casanova — his success with the ladies was legendary.

Zula Pone, on the other hand, was one of the shortest people Larten had ever met. He was stout and ugly. Many vampires were rough by human standards, their faces laced with scars and patches from old wounds, but they were considered fair among their own. Poor Zula was ugly by any reckoning. Fortunately he didn’t care, and even wore shabby clothes and cut his hair crookedly to prove he was immune to what others thought of his looks. Despite this, Zula was a surprise hit with those of the fairer sex. He generally repulsed them to begin with, but after ten minutes in his company virtually any woman found herself won over by his charm.

Tanish had run into Zula a few years ago and instantly recognised a kindred spirit. They’d become fast friends and it wasn’t long before Larten and Wester were introduced to the newest member of their rowdy pack.

“You’ve got fairer skin than a baby,” Tanish hooted as Larten rested in the shed and tried not to move — his burnt flesh sent needles shooting through him every time he shifted. “You were only up there half an hour. I’d be a mild pink colour if it had been me.”

“You’ll be red with your own blood if you ever try that again,” Larten said angrily. “What if I hadn’t been able to undo the knots?”

“We were keeping a close watch on you,” Wester said. “We would have seen if you were in trouble.”

“And left you there to burn!” Zula exploded.

Larten found himself laughing along with the others. It had been a good joke, even though he was the butt of it. Wester was the only one who couldn’t see the funny side. He smiled along with the rest of them, but his smile was strained. Larten would be tender for the coming week, his flesh would peel and some of the sores might fester. Wester saw nothing humorous in that.

The vampires drank and chatted for a few hours, telling tall and bawdy tales. Tanish and Zula had been involved in a number of near scrapes as usual and had been run out of the last three towns they’d visited.

“The problem with humans is that they take life too seriously,” Tanish sneered. “Admittedly, we burnt down a storehouse with a winter’s supply of grain in it, so a few children will go hungry this year. So what? It will sort out the strong from the weak. Humans are too attached to their young. The vampaneze have the right idea — humans are only fit for killing.”

Tanish winked at Larten as he said that, then looked as innocent as he could when Wester flared up. “That’s a horrible thing to say! We were the same as them before we were blooded. They have shorter lives than us and are much weaker. If we kill humans, we disgrace ourselves. The vampaneze are soulless scum who will never find Paradise, and more fool you if you can’t see that.”

Wester ranted for another fifteen minutes. His hatred of the vampaneze had set in him like a disease, and though he spoke little of the matter most of the time, those close to him knew of his true feelings. Seba had tried reasoning with him – just because a vampaneze had killed his family, it didn’t mean he should hate all of them – but Wester refused to listen.

Wester’s hatred of the breakaway group of night-walkers troubled Larten more than it worried Seba. Their master had seen this dark bent in Wester many decades before and was convinced the young vampire would meet an early end at the hands of one purple-skinned vampaneze or another. But Larten had always hoped that Wester would come to terms with his loss and put his hatred behind him.

Larten had urged his dearest friend to track down Murlough – the one who had slain Wester’s family – and kill him. He thought that would finally help Wester to put that dark night behind him. But Wester was reluctant to do that. He had come to hate the entire vampaneze clan. He sometimes swore that he would finish off Murlough only when he was done with the rest of the scum, that he wanted his foe to suffer the same kind of loss that Wester had been forced to endure.

Tanish shrugged when Wester finally lapsed into a fuming silence. “The vampaneze mean nothing to me,” he said. “If war breaks out between us, I’ll fight them and be glad of the challenge. But as long as the truce is in place, what do they matter?”

“Desmond Tiny would beg to differ,” Wester growled. “He said the vampaneze would unite behind a mighty leader one night, that their Lord would lead them into war with us and wipe us from the face of the Earth.”

“I’ve never seen the legendary Mr Tiny and I don’t believe he’s as powerful as certain old fools claim,” Tanish said dismissively.

“Seba saw him,” Larten said softly. “He was at Vampire Mountain when Tiny visited after the vampaneze split from the clan. Seba heard him make his prophecy. He takes it seriously.”

Desmond Tiny was a being of immense magical power, who had predicted the downfall of the clan at the hands of the vampaneze. Lots of younger vampires thought he was a mythical creature. Larten might have too if his master hadn’t told him of the night when Mr Tiny visited the vampire base. He had seen the fear in Seba’s eyes, even all these centuries later.

“When I was blooded,” Larten continued, “Seba made me hold on to the Stone of Blood for longer than necessary. He said that the Stone was our only hope of thwarting destiny. Mr Tiny gave us the Stone to give us hope. Tiny craves chaos. He doesn’t want the vampaneze to eliminate us too easily. He’d rather we get dragged into a long war full of suffering and torment.”

Larten stared again at the marks on his fingers, remembering the night when he had embraced the Stone of Blood and surrendered himself forever to the rule of the clan.

“I didn’t mean to belittle Seba Nile,” Tanish said, choosing his words with care. He wasn’t close to his own master, but he knew Larten respected Seba. “If he says he saw Desmond Tiny, I believe him and apologise if I offended you.”

Larten made light of Tanish’s apology, though secretly it made him uneasy. He could feel himself starting to drift away from Tanish and the Cubs. Larten was growing tired of the endless drinking, gambling and womanising. He wasn’t yet ready to turn his back on the human world and its many delights, but he was sure he would return to Seba in a few more years to resume his studies.

He doubted Tanish would abandon the easy life so willingly. Some Cubs ended up rejecting the ways of the clan. They grew attached to human comforts and chose to remain in that soft, safe world. The Generals allowed them their freedom so long as they obeyed certain laws. Larten thought that Tanish would be one of those who never returned to Vampire Mountain, but wandered forever among humans.

“Enough of the damn vampaneze,” Zula scowled. “A pox on their purple skin. We have more important matters to discuss.”

“Such as?” Larten asked, a twinkle in his eyes, anticipating the answer.

“A war pack has formed.” Zula licked his lips and grinned. “They’re no more than a night’s march from here.”

“We thought we’d swing by for you two in case you were interested,” Tanish said.

“You thought right,” Larten chuckled. “We’ll set off at dusk.”

“With your skin as red as a lobster’s?” Wester asked.

“A minor irritation,” Larten said, wincing as he leant back on his bed of straw.

Without any further discussion he closed his eyes. The others lay down and also prepared for sleep, though it would be a long time before any of them dozed. They rested in the shade for much of the morning, eyes closed but awake, thinking of the war pack, stomachs rumbling with excitement… and hunger.

CHAPTER FOUR

War was the great addiction of humans. Vampires loved to fight and got involved in bloody, brutal challenges all the time. But they had only been involved in a war once, when seventy of their clan broke away to become the vampaneze. Although various vampires had clashed with human forces in the past, they had never engaged in all-out conflict. As an old pun put it, war was not in their blood.

Humans, on the other hand, seemed to be interested in nothing else. Larten had seen much of the globe in the last twenty years. He had explored the continents of Europe, Africa, America and Asia. Wars raged everywhere as men found new, inventive ways to kill even more of their race. It was like a contest, the many tribes of mankind competing to see who could commit the worst atrocities.

Although mature vampires were not drawn to war, the Cubs were fascinated by it. To them it was a spectator sport, the same as boxing or wrestling. Many met at battlefields and cheered on the soldiers, laughed at the innocents trying to escape the crossfire, gambled on who would claim victory.

And of course they fed. By the gods, how they fed!

The war which Larten and his associates travelled to observe that night was a minor skirmish. Scholars might recall it in later decades, but it would not be marked as one of the important battles of its time. No vast chunks of land were at stake. History didn’t hang in the balance. There were no real profits to be made. It was just one more clash of men who felt driven to kill each other for reasons only their leaders knew. And sometimes not even their kings and generals could explain why they were fighting. They often went to war simply because they could think of nothing else to do.

The vampires arrived a few hours before dawn. Signs of fighting were everywhere — bloodstained fields, discarded swords and muskets, limbs that had been left to rot, even a few whole bodies. There was a foul stench and the animals and birds of the night were gorging themselves, picking flesh from bones and nibbling on guts, making the most of the unexpected feast.

Tanish studied a field of trampled crops. His sharp eyes picked out the corpse of a child among the broken stalks. The head of a soldier was half submerged in a rabbit hole. A bare foot was sticking up into the air — the four small toes had been chewed off, leaving only the big toe pointing oddly at the sky. Tanish ran his gaze over the blood and entrails, taking it all in.

Then he laughed.

“These look like an especially vicious lot,” Tanish said enthusiastically. “We should have an interesting day.”

“You don’t think we’ve missed all the fighting?” Zula asked.

“Not by a long shot,” Yebba said. “I smell human fear in the air. That way.” He pointed west. “And there.” East. “They mean to clash again and they know many more will die when they do.”

Although Larten could smell the soldiers, he wasn’t able to pinpoint the scent of fear. But Yebba was fifteen years older and had been blooded when he was only thirteen. A vampire’s senses improved for most of their first hundred years.

The sharp-nosed Yebba led the way as they homed in on their kin. Vampires were harder to track than humans. If Larten hadn’t known there were others present, he probably wouldn’t have noted the subtle traces of their smell in the air.

They found the war pack resting beneath a massive, leafy tree. There were eight of them, a couple younger than Larten, the rest the same age as him or older. Tanish was the eldest and he immediately acted as if he was the ranking vampire.

“On your feet, you lazy, good-for-nothing Cubs,” he snarled, standing just beyond the limbs of the tree, glaring like a General. “Is this any way to behave in front of your betters?”

“You’re no better than the pimples on my backside, Tanish,” a vampire drawled. Larten recognised him — Jordan Egin, one of three in the pack that he’d met before.

Jordan rose, slouched towards Tanish, sneered in his face, then laughed and hugged him hard. “Good to see you again, old friend.”

“And you,” Tanish beamed. “You’ll remember these two.”

“Larten and Wester,” Jordan nodded. “We feasted heartily last time, aye?”

The pair chuckled at the memory, although Wester looked somewhat ashamed. He had overindulged on that occasion and been violently sick afterwards.

“These are Yebba and Zula Pone,” Tanish said. “Yebba has a nose like a hound and Zula is a villain of the highest order. You’ll get on well.”

The vampires shook hands, then moved forward to greet the rest of the pack. It wasn’t long before they were guzzling ale and swapping tales of their adventures.

War packs were a relatively new phenomenon. Vampires had tended to stay out of the way of warring humans in the past, not drawing attention to themselves. But there were so many wars being fought now, on such a massive scale, that the night-walkers could mingle freely with human troops in most places. The Cubs had started frequenting battlefields several decades earlier and now it was a common part of their lives. A lone vampire could nearly always be assured of finding company in a war zone.

Larten listened happily to the stories of Jordan and the others, and told some of his own in return. There was much laughter when Tanish told them of the trick he had played the previous night, and Larten had to take off his jacket and shirt to show his sunburnt back. He had already recovered from the worst of the burning, but his skin was still sore to the touch and a few of the vampires slapped him and hooted when he screeched. He had to knock a couple of heads together before they left him alone, but it was all done in good spirits.

The next bout between the armies wasn’t due to start until late in the morning — both sides were waiting for fresh recruits. So the pack turned in when the sun rose and caught some sleep. When they were awakened by the sound of gunfire, they groaned, stretched, took umbrellas from a large sack and set off to find the battle.

Larten had felt foolish the first time he’d stood by a group of soldiers hellbent on killing one another, sheltered from the sun beneath an umbrella that would have suited a lady far better. But he had grown accustomed to it. He now felt the same way a huntsman did when he pulled on ridiculous-looking clothes before mounting his horse and riding out behind his hounds.

The Cubs found the soldiers massed in a large field. They were fighting hand to hand. Most were armed with swords or knives, which the vampires preferred. They disliked guns for a number of reasons, firstly because the clan frowned on the use of them — guns were the choice of cowards. There was also the fact that guns could be turned against the Cubs. Vampires were tougher than humans and much harder to kill, but a well-placed bullet could account for even the best of them. It was an embarrassing way to die, your brains blown out from a distance.

But mostly the Cubs disapproved of long-range warfare because it was boring. There wasn’t much fun in watching humans shoot each other. The delight came in observing them struggle to stay alive. In dirty scraps like this, dozens of duels were being fought, life-or-death dramas which the vampires could follow with ghoulish glee, then turn away from at the end and discuss like a play.

Some of the soldiers noticed the curious men with the umbrellas, but most were too focused on the business of staying alive. If they caught sight of the scarred, pale-skinned figures walking among them, they paused to assess whether or not the strangers posed a threat. When the soldiers saw that the observers meant them no harm, their attention returned to those who did.

The vampires were almost never challenged. Humans who spotted them didn’t always know who the spectators were – many had never heard the vampire myths – but they could tell that the guests were not of their own kind. They would watch the wan creatures gliding through their ranks, neatly stepping out of danger’s way whenever they got too close to the action. Sometimes the soldiers would cross themselves and mutter prayers. But the majority chose not to confront the spectral visitors and did their best to forget about them if they survived. There were things in the world that most people didn’t want to dwell on at any great length.

Larten had a fine time that day. As Tanish had predicted, the armies fought with a vengeance. Whatever they were warring over, the troops clearly hated their opponents and were determined to shed as much blood as possible before a truce was declared. They didn’t just stab one another and move on. When a soldier knocked down a foe, he paused to strike again, gutting his opponent, smashing his face to pieces, often maiming him even after he was dead. It was a savage, bloodthirsty display, very much to Larten’s liking.

Occasionally, when straddling corpses and wading through puddles of blood, Larten would remember that he had once been human. If his life hadn’t taken the turn it did, he might have wound up on a field like this, fighting to the death, killing because he had to. He’d wonder how he would have felt in that position if he had looked up and seen a vampire studying him like an insect.

Larten always pushed such thoughts swiftly from his head. One of the hardest things about being a vampire was separating yourself from your origins. You had to leave behind your old ways to truly fit into the clan. There was no room for pity if you wanted to become a vampire of good standing. You had to force yourself to see humans as a different, lesser species.

A young man was shot in the shoulder and spun around from the force of it. He fell against Larten, who steadied him with one hand, keeping his umbrella straight with the other. The man’s eyes widened with fear and wonder. Then the pain kicked in and he doubled over. Larten nearly bent to help him, but if he showed favouritism the soldiers of the other army might fire on him. Both sets ignored the vampires because they were neutral. If they interfered, they risked drawing fire. So Larten left the young man to writhe in the dirt, lonely and untended, and strolled along.

The battle lasted most of the afternoon. The war pack withdrew in the evening to rest. They debated the highlights, each reporting on what he had witnessed. A few had been cut or struck, and Jordan had been shot in his left arm. But the wounds weren’t serious and they laughed about them as they relaxed beneath a tree, comparing scratches.

The vampires dozed, letting the sun drop. When darkness had settled on the world, they returned to the killing zone. There were no smiles this time, or if there were, they were tight, vicious, inhuman sneers. No banter either. They proceeded smoothly and silently. The umbrellas were left behind and when they reached the edge of the battlefield they shed their coats, cloaks and boots. A couple even stripped naked, baring all beneath the moon.

For a minute they stood on the flanks, drinking in the sight of the corpses and mouthwatering pools of blood. No humans moved. Even those who’d never heard of vampires had sensed menace in the night air and withdrawn to the safety of camp. In the morning they would return to bury the bodies of their fallen allies and pick weapons, shoes and other items from the dead. But the night belonged to the Cubs.

When the vampires were satisfied that the field was theirs, they closed in. Each trod softly, barely trampling the grass as they advanced on the corpses. Their nostrils and eyes were wide. Drool dripped from the lips of many. Some trembled with expectation. Others growled softly.

They held as a pack until they were in the middle of the slaughter. Then all eyes settled on Tanish. Though they had scorned his claims of leadership earlier, in this situation they acknowledged his right to command. If he hesitated, they would ignore him and press on, but they gave him the chance to unleash them, as was the vampire way.

Tanish beamed wolfishly, then snapped his teeth and threw himself on to all fours. Around him the others did the same. Breaking away from one another, they dug into the bodies of the slain, slicing flesh from bone, gulping blood as it gushed into the air, wallowing in the thick, red liquid.

After a while they started to howl and beat the ground with bones which they had snapped loose. Some fought with each other, wrestling clumsily, but the fights didn’t last long. They could challenge one another for real any time. These ripe nights were reserved for pleasures more savage than battle.

Like the rest of his pack, Larten soon lost himself in the feeding frenzy. For an hour or more he was neither human nor vampire, just a howling, hungry creature of dark delights. At times he slithered across the cool, sticky bodies like a ravenous worm, cutting, chewing, drinking. And all he knew… all any of them knew… all that their world consisted of in that intense, vicious, darkly delicious time… was blood.

CHAPTER FIVE

The vampires slept late the following day. A couple rose to observe the fighting in the afternoon, but most had seen enough and preferred to rest, digest their feast and dream of future feeding frenzies.

“Wake up,” Tanish grunted in the evening, digging Larten in the ribs.

“Leave me alone,” Larten growled.

“You’ve slept enough,” Tanish said. “I’m bored. I want you to teach me some new tricks.”

“Have you mastered the ones I taught you last time?”

“Some of them.” Tanish laughed. “I’m quite good at those that I can use when playing poker.”

“You cheat when you gamble?” Larten frowned, sitting up.

“If I need money.” Tanish shrugged. “I don’t like to steal. I’d rather work for my ill-gotten gains.”

“You think cheating is work?”

“We’re only talking about humans,” Tanish said. “I’d never scheme against one of our own. Come on, Quicksilver, you love to show off. You’ve the fastest hands I’ve ever seen. Teach me, o wise and nimble-fingered one.”

Larten smiled and took a pack of cards from a small, leather bag. He shuffled for a couple of minutes to limber up, then taught Tanish a few new ways to make the cards do whatever he wished. He had to slow down his movements so that his friend could follow.

“You’re unnatural,” Tanish said admiringly. “Are you this fast in a fight?”

“You’ve seen me fight many times,” Larten said.

“Drunken skirmishes, yes, but never in a real battle. Have you ever fought to the death?”

Larten shook his head. “Not since I was blooded.”

“You mean you killed before?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh-ho! Quicksilver’s hiding a secret. Tell me. I won’t leave you in peace until you do.”

“This is not a topic for discussion,” Larten said softly, and although there was no menace in his tone, Tanish knew immediately that the orange-haired vampire was serious. He snorted as if he didn’t care, then focused on the cards.

As they played and the others stirred around them, a man approached across one of the fields of carnage. He was moving faster than a human, sheltered beneath a heavy cloak. Larten assumed it was another Cub coming to join the pack. The newcomer would be disappointed — by the diminished sounds of battle, it seemed that the soldiers had spent the worst of their anger. The war was winding down.

The man slowed when he spotted the vampires under the tree. He studied them, his face masked by the shadows cast by his cloak. Then he came forward. When he was at the edge of the tree’s reach, he let his cloak drop.

“By the black blood of Harnon Oan!” Wester roared, leaping to his feet, gawping at the stranger with disbelief.

The newcomer was no human, but he wasn’t a vampire either. He had light red hair and fingernails, a pair of burning red eyes, and his skin was a purplish shade.

“I am Randel Chayne of the vampaneze,” he said as the rest of the Cubs leapt up like the shocked Wester. “I come to seek a challenge.”

Nobody spoke. They were astonished. Challenges between the two tribes of the night were nothing new, but Cubs were normally ignored in favour of Generals. This was the first time most of them had seen one of their estranged blood-cousins.

Randel studied the dumbstruck vampires, his eyebrows arching. “If this is how vampires react in the face of a challenge, perhaps you are not worth fighting.”

“We’ll teach you about worth, you scum!” Wester screamed, lunging at the vampaneze, hands twisted into claws, hatred darkening his features.

Larten grabbed his friend and held him back. “No,” he snapped. “You’re not ready for this. He’ll kill you.”

“Let me go,” Wester snarled as Randel laughed cruelly. “You have no right to get in my way. I’ll rip his throat open, and if you try to stop me, I’ll–”

“He’ll break your neck before you can lay a hand on him,” Larten said coldly. “He’s not an assistant, you can tell by the dark colour of his skin. He’s a full vampaneze. He must be a vampire-hater or he wouldn’t have bothered with Cubs like us. He’s not looking for a challenge — he just wants to rack up an easy kill.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Larten shouted at the vampaneze. “You don’t dare face one of our Generals, so you hunt among the inexperienced Cubs. You’re a coward.”

Randel sneered. “I’ve fought and killed Generals, and one night I will fight and kill a Prince if the gods are good to me. I have nothing to prove and I don’t react to the insults of curs like you. But today, to pass the time, I want to face a Cub. I’ve been told you’re slow and soft. Can any of you prove me wrong?”

Wester’s eyes flashed and again he tried to strike. Larten blocked him and said without emotion, “If you fight, he’ll slay you and you’ll never be able to take revenge on the one who murdered your family.” Then he stood aside, letting Wester make the final decision, as was his right.

As Wester agonised – he wanted more than anything to kill the stranger, but he knew Larten spoke truly – Randel gazed with disgust at the war pack. “Surely you have a leader,” he teased. “Vampires love to be led. Will not even the mighty pack leader meet my challenge?”

All eyes turned to Tanish. He had demanded the right to rule and they’d granted it. If he didn’t meet this challenge, he would be disgraced. Any vampire of good standing in his position must step forward. Even the wayward Cubs had standards to uphold. The members of the pack expected Tanish to face this purple-skinned villain, put up a good fight and die with honour.

But Tanish didn’t move. His cheeks were burning and he stared at the ground as if he could never look up again. When they realised he wasn’t going to react, their faces hardened. Several puffed themselves up for battle – even the wounded Jordan struggled to his feet – but Zula Pone was the first to step forward.

“I will face you, Randel of the vampaneze,” Zula said, taking off the overcoat in which he had been sleeping. “And when I kill you, I will honour your corpse and say a prayer to the vampire gods to accept your wayward soul.”

Randel laughed, but the sneering tone was gone from his voice when he said, “I accept your challenge. But I’ll not ask for your name or make pleas on your behalf to the gods when this is over. That’s not our way. We simply kill or die. The glory lies in the battle, not what is said or done afterwards.”

Randel edged away from the shelter of the tree, into the deadly sunlight. Like vampires, he couldn’t comfortably stand exposure to the sun. But fights between children of the night seldom lasted more than a minute or two. One way or the other, he wouldn’t have to tolerate the irritation for long.

The squat, ugly Zula followed Randel into the clearing. He went calmly, eyes clear and steady, ready to accept whatever came his way. In that moment he was a true vampire, nobler than any of the Cubs watching him, and all of them felt humbled.

“What is your choice of weapon?” Zula asked as they squared up to each other.

“Hands are fine by me,” Randel said, flexing his fingers.

“As you wish.”

Zula lashed out, five sharp nails guaranteed to cut through almost any material on Earth, including the flesh of a vampaneze’s throat. But Randel blocked Zula’s arm and kicked him in the stomach. Zula grunted and fell back. Randel could have pressed after him, but he held his ground and waited for the vampire to attack again.

Flushed, Zula darted at his foe, then stopped and took a deep breath, regaining his composure. When he was in control of himself, he advanced slowly, studying Randel’s eyes for warning signs of what his intentions might be. Larten had thought that Zula was doomed when he accepted the challenge, but watching him now, he believed that maybe the Cub had a chance.

When Zula was within reach, Randel swung a fist at him. Zula blocked it and kicked at Randel’s shin. He connected and Randel went down. The vampires roared with excitement, but their cheers were shortlived. As Randel fell, he caught Zula and twisted him around and down. Zula realised too late that his opponent had anticipated his strike. Before he could adjust, he landed heavily on his back — and on the outstretched fingers of one of Randel’s hands, which the vampaneze had slyly slid beneath him.

Zula cried out as the vampaneze’s nails ripped into his lungs. Then he stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. His legs spasmed, but his arms were strangely still by his sides. He gulped a few times, blood exploding from his mouth, eyes widening, staring at the sun. He had always thought that he would die by the light of the moon. It seemed unfair that a child of the night should perish this way, before the sun had set. He wished Randel had come a few hours later, so he could at least have counted the stars one last time.

And then he wished no more.

Randel shoved the dead vampire away, wiped his hand clean on the grass and stood. He didn’t even glance at Zula, but he did cast an eye over the pale-faced vampires sheltering beneath the tree.

“You’re a disgrace to your masters,” Randel growled, then picked up his cloak, settled it over his head and moved on.

The Cubs stared after the departing vampaneze and watched in silence until he flitted out of sight. Then Larten and Jordan went to fetch the body of Zula Pone. They would burn it later or launch it down a river, depending on what the majority thought the ugly vampire would have preferred.

Tanish was sitting by himself when Larten returned. He had his back to the rest of the Cubs and nobody went near him. They ignored their fallen leader, treating him with the scorn he deserved. Larten felt sorry for his friend, but it couldn’t be helped. One of the first things Seba had taught him was that every man made his own decisions in life, and each must stand by the consequences of those choices.

As the sun set, Tanish stood and set off. He didn’t say goodbye and nobody asked where he was going. He took nothing, even dropping his expensive coat and discarding his silk shirt. Larten knew, as he watched the disgraced Tanish leave, that this was probably the last they’d see of him. Tanish Eul was no longer part of the clan. He wasn’t a traitor, but the Cubs would never mention his name again, and if anyone ever asked about him, they would respond with a simple, damning, “He walks with the humans now.”

PART TWO

“If the entire clan stood against her, we would fall.”

CHAPTER SIX

The American Civil War was the bloodiest waste of life Larten had yet to witness. Vampires had known about America long before Europeans discovered it. One of the clan had sailed with Leif Ericsson and thirty-four others early in the second millennium, and before Paris Skyle became a Prince he stayed Columbus’s hand when the human had lost hope and was on the verge of turning back. The elderly vampire would have been saddened to see what had become of the country, but not surprised. Why should these tribes be any different to those they had left behind? People might speak of it being a New World, but they were the same old humans.

Larten watched from a distance as thousands of young men clashed and went to an early grave. He, Wester and Seba had made camp on a hill out of the way of the fighting a few nights earlier. Since then they’d kept vigil, leaving only to hunt and stretch their legs.

The pair of Cubs had abandoned the war packs and returned to their master a few years after Tanish’s fall. They had never been able to lose themselves in warfare and other petty pursuits in quite the same way after that dark day. They felt shamed, and the Cubs they cavorted with were a constant reminder of what had happened.

Seba never asked his assistants why they had returned. He was surprised to see them come back to him so early – he hadn’t expected them for another decade – but a master didn’t need to know everything about his students. He let them keep their secrets and focused on their training.

Seba didn’t humiliate them as he had before, or set them tasks they couldn’t complete. The pair had changed, Larten in particular, and Seba now deemed them worthy of respect. He believed they were ready to undertake the testing trials that would decide whether or not they were capable of playing an active role in the affairs of the clan.

As Larten studied the warring American factions, he wondered again why Seba had brought them to this place. Their master had never shown an interest in the affairs of humans and hadn’t even glanced at the soldiers since they’d arrived. What could have lured him to this maelstrom of slaughter?

Wester stepped up beside the man he thought of as a brother and watched for a while with him. Both were thinking of Tanish Eul.

“How much longer do you think we’ll be here?” Wester asked, but Larten only grunted in response. “Did you smell the war pack last night?”

Larten nodded gruffly. “Aye.”

Larten’s senses had improved greatly in recent years. He’d been aware of the other vampires for the past two nights, but had avoided them, staying by Seba’s side, ready to obey his master’s orders.

“I miss being part of a pack,” Wester sighed. “Feeding on the battlefields was barbaric, but exquisite.”

“I am sure reformed opium addicts miss their pipes,” Larten said drily. “It does not mean they should return to their old ways.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Wester said.

“No?” Larten shrugged. “I have often told myself that there was nothing wrong in what we did, since so many other vampires were revelling in the bloodshed. But that is no excuse. Humans might not deserve our respect, but they do not merit our contempt either.”

Wester smiled. “You sound just like Seba.”

Larten winced and scratched his nose, then his ears. He had tried to copy Seba’s way of speaking in the past, and Seba had simply corrected him when he made a mistake. But since he’d returned from his time with the Cubs, Seba had taken it more seriously. He had asked Larten if he truly wished to master his vocabulary. When the unsuspecting assistant confirmed that he did, it was the beginning of a new phase, one he had come to despise. He had often begged Seba to stop, but the ancient vampire wouldn’t relent.

Under the new regime, when Larten said “don’t” or “can’t”, Seba plucked hairs from his student’s nostrils, which was far more painful than Larten would have imagined. After a year of that, he’d tried to outfox his master by burning the hairs from his nose, but Seba set his sights on the hairs in Larten’s ears instead and that was even worse! The orange-haired assistant had learnt swiftly in the face of such punishing lessons. He suffered an occasional lapse, but only rarely. It had been weeks since Seba had felt obliged to pluck any hairs.

As Larten and Wester stood watch, Seba joined them and stretched, enjoying the weak evening sun. It had been nearly half a century since he’d met a scared boy in a gloomy crypt and taken him on as an assistant. Seba had aged a lot in that time. His long hair was mostly grey now. He’d shaved his beard and the skin around his throat was dry and wrinkled, covered with old scars and blotches. He looked battered and weary, and groaned if he moved too quickly.

Yet he could set a pace his assistants struggled to match, and he was as light of foot and fast of hand as ever. He often spoke of being near to his end, but Larten suspected his old master might see out this century and perhaps a couple more. Not that he ever said such a thing — he didn’t want to invite bad luck.

“Wester thinks I sound like you,” Larten said.

“He must be going deaf,” Seba huffed. Shading his eyes, he studied the soldiers. They had concluded their killing for the day and were limping back to camp, dragging the wounded, leaving the dead for the creatures of the night which they could sense circling them. “Such noble fools,” Seba sighed. “One war should be enough for any race. Why do they go on and on?”

Neither Larten nor Wester tried to answer. They hadn’t been vampires anywhere near as long as their master, but as young as they were, both found it hard to recall the time when they had walked as humans, or how their thoughts had functioned in those less blood-riddled days.

“We will move on tonight,” Seba said. “Just a few miles. I would be obliged if you carried my coffin.”

Larten and Wester fetched Seba’s coffin from the rough shelter they had made, then followed him down the hill and around a field of corpses. The younger vampires had not yet developed a taste for coffins. They’d slept in many while travelling with Seba, holed-up in crypts or tombs, but when given a choice they preferred beds. Their master, however, only felt snug with pine walls encaging him and a lid overhead. He had tried several coffins since they’d landed in America. When he finally found one to his liking, he claimed it for his own and begged pardon of the skeleton he’d evicted. His assistants had been carting it around after him ever since.

As the trio followed the course of a small stream, someone called out abruptly from a tree on the other side. “Same old Seba Nile, always has to have the modern conveniences. Can’t settle for a stone floor and a roof of sky.”

Larten and Wester set the coffin down and squinted. Larten knew the voice, but couldn’t place it. As he tried to put a face to it, a shabby vampire dropped from the branches. He was dressed in animal hides and had a couple of belts strapped around his chest, throwing stars hanging loosely from them. He had long green hair. He spat into the stream as he crossed and Larten was fairly sure he heard the General break wind, though it might have been the creaking of the trees.

“Vancha March,” Seba smiled. “I wondered where the foul stench was coming from.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Vancha scowled. “I bathed last spring, even though I didn’t need to.” He frowned. “Or was it the spring before?” With a laugh, he tossed a salute to Larten and Wester. “Still hanging around with this old vulture?”

“Someone has to look after him,” Larten said.

“He’s too weak to carry his own coffin,” Wester added.

Larten and Wester hadn’t seen the filthy General since their first meeting in Vampire Mountain, so there was much to catch up on. But before they could ask questions, Seba pointed to his coffin and coughed purposefully. Groaning, they picked it up and followed behind at a respectable distance as their master strolled with Vancha and the pair discussed business that was not for the ears of the young.

In time they turned a bend and Larten caught sight of a tent. He might have dismissed it as the camp of a human officer, but Seba and Vancha were heading for it, so he adjusted the coffin on his shoulder and stole a closer look.

The tent was like none he’d seen so far. It was circular, tall and wide, adorned with beautiful, stitched patterns of water flowers and frogs. It looked a bit like the tent in which the Cirque Du Freak performed, but nowhere near the same size. There were three smaller tents around it and a clothesline stood behind them, hung with a variety of dresses and women’s undergarments.

A confused Wester nudged Larten, who frowned at the feminine clothes and said, “What sort of a woman would pitch her tent at the edge of a battlefield?”

The answer came to both of them at the same time, but Wester was the one who exclaimed, “A woman of the wilds!”

Sharing a thrilled look, they bustled after their master and his foul-smelling ally, heading for the tent of the woman who – if they had guessed right – was as powerful and as crucial to the fate of the vampire clan as any goddess of legend.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Seba paused at the entrance to the tent and asked Larten and Wester to set aside his coffin. He tugged at his red shirt and cloak, straightened some creases, then examined the material for dirt.

“How do I look?” Vancha asked, spitting into his palm and using it to brush back his green hair.

“Like a cherub,” Seba murmured.

“Do you think–”

The flap over the entrance swished back, cutting short his question, and a woman stepped forward. She was short and ugly – she reminded Larten of Zula Pone in some respects – and even filthier than Vancha. She wore no shoes or clothes. Instead there were ropes wrapped around her body. She had pointed ears, a tiny nose, one brown eye and one green. She was as muscular as a man and hairier than most, from a thin beard and moustache down to ten furry toes. Her fingers were stubby and the nails cut short on all of them except the two little fingers, where they grew long and sharp.

Larten thought this was a strange choice of servant for a witch as powerful as the Lady Evanna (if that was indeed who they were coming to meet). He had assumed that Evanna would have pretty, finely dressed maids to wait on her. Maybe she had taken pity on this misfortunate creature and given her a home because nobody else would.

Then, to Larten’s astonishment, the short, ugly woman squealed, darted forward and cried, “My little Vancha!” As the General tried to back away in a panic, she hoisted him off the ground and shook him in the air as if he was a large doll.

“Let me down!” Vancha yelled furiously.

“Not until you give me a kiss, you naughty boy,” she chortled.

“I’ll give you a kick up the–”

“Language, Vancha,” she stopped him, squeezing his ribs so hard that his eyes almost popped.

“Apologies… Lady,” he wheezed, then pecked her cheek before he suffocated.

The woman smiled and let him drop, then curtsied gracefully to Seba. “You are welcome as always, Master Nile,” she said in a soft, melodic voice.

“And grateful for that privilege, my Lady,” Seba said, bowing as he would have before a Prince.

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