Darren Shan: City of the Snakes

“They’ve nothing to do with it,” he grunts.

“You’re acting alone?” I sneer. “Then you’re dumber than I thought. With the support of the priests, you could have held on for six months, maybe a year. Alone, you wouldn’t last a month.”

“We’ll see,” Gico snarls, then nods sharply at Cathal. Ducking low, Cathal propels himself into the small of my back, knocking me over the ledge. Gico grabs my feet as I spin over the rails and shoves hard, to hasten my descent. The faces of both men are contorted with gleeful terror.

It’s a fifteen-floor drop. Plenty of time to admire the scenery. I sail to earth relaxed, knowing it can’t hold me. I smile against the rush of air. “They’ll have to do better than this,” I chuckle, then hit the ground and die in a shattering explosion of bones and shredded flesh.

On a train, approaching a gray, sprawling, menacing city. For a few minutes I don’t know who or where I am. Then my memories return. I’m Capac Raimi, The Cardinal, recently deceased, freshly resurrected, on my way home. Coming back from the dead threw me for a loop the first few times, but like most things in life, a man can get used to it.

A conductor passes up the aisle, asking for tickets. I fish mine out and hand it to him with a polite smile. I’ve never worked out how I re-form and wind up on this train, fully dressed, with a ticket from Sonas to the city in my pocket. It bothered me to begin with, but I’ve given up worrying about it. One of those mysteries of the universe I’ve learned to accept without query.

It’s been close to four years since my last execution. I’d aged slightly, gained a few pounds, developed a spray of gray hairs, picked up wrinkles around the eyes. But now I’m the way I was when I came to this city eleven years ago, bright, fresh, youthful. “Hi, handsome,” I mutter to my reflection in the window as we enter a tunnel.

We pass Vidalus — a shantytown for immigrant Eastern Europeans — on the outskirts of the city. I check my watch — two p.m. It will be another forty minutes before we hit Central Station. Might as well lie back and make the most of the break. It’ll be all systems go once I’m back in the thick of things.

Closing my eyes, I drown out the sounds, smells and sights of the city and think about immortality. Ferdinand Dorak had the power to bring dead people back to life, instilling them with talents and drives of his making. The villacs were the source of his power. Over the centuries, since coming to this city, they’d placed their fate in the hands of men they called Watanas, who could summon shades of the dead and create leaders to cement their control of the city. The Cardinal was the last of the Watanas, charged with the task of creating a leader who could meet the demands of the twenty-first century and all the millennia beyond. Me .

When The Cardinal created an Ayuamarcan, he was given a doll, a replica of the creation, with a heartbeat of its own. When the Ayuamarcan had served its purpose, The Cardinal wiped that person out of existence by piercing the doll’s heart. A green fog then enveloped the city, eradicating memories of the Ayuamarcan from the minds of all.

I was created differently. To guard his empire indefinitely, he required an heir who could withstand the march of time. So he made me immortal. I’ll live forever, aging slightly (he said I’d stop when I hit my early forties, though I revert every time I’m killed). I’m more resilient than most — minor wounds heal quickly — and though death knocks me back, it can’t keep me down for more than a handful of days at a time.

It’s a strange existence, but The Cardinal designed me to cope with the staggering implications. I don’t like the hand fate has dealt me, and I dread the loneliness the centuries will bring, as old acquaintances die and new generations come to regard me as an unapproachable god, but I’ll get by. I’ll have to. You can’t mope around angst ridden if you’re doomed to last as long as the sands of time itself.

Jerry’s waiting for me at the station, decked out in his uniform. I’ve told him he doesn’t need to wear it, but Jerry Falstaff’s a stubborn man, slow to change. “Good to have you back, boss,” he says, helping me off the train, taking my bag (it changes with the reincarnations, keeping up with the latest fashions — a nice touch).

“How long have I been gone?” I ask, stretching, waiting for the crowd to disperse.

“You were killed at 23:14, Tuesday,” Jerry says matter-of-factly. “It’s now 15:03, Friday.”

“How’s Gico bearing up?”

“Great.” Jerry grins. “A natural leader.”

We follow the last few stragglers out of the station, to the waiting limo. Thomas holds the door open for me. Dry, faithful Thomas. He’s been my driver almost as long as I can remember. Nothing shakes Thomas (though the bomb that took the two smallest fingers of his left hand seven years ago came close).

“Party Central, Mr. Raimi?” he asks as I get in.

“Party Central,” I concur, and discuss affairs of state with Jerry during the ride.

Jerry’s one of the few who know the secret of my immortality. The city’s awash with rumors, but to most people that’s all they are, fairy tales circulated by a power-hungry despot to psych out his opponents. Only those closest to me know about The Cardinal’s legacy. I was on the point of letting Gico Carl in on the big secret, but I sensed something weak in him. It didn’t surprise me when he turned.

Jerry’s a soldier, a long-serving Troop who came to my attention when he took a bullet intended for me eight years ago. Once he’d recuperated, I had Frank Weld — still head of the Troops in those days — assign him to the fifteenth floor of Party Central, where our relationship developed. He was shaken when I first displayed my Lazarus trick, but now he takes my comebacks in his stride.

“What about Mr. Sampedro?” Jerry asks as we draw close to Party Central, the fortress I inherited from the previous Cardinal. “He’s been led astray by Gico, but we could still use him.”

I consider Cathal Sampedro’s fate, then shake my head. “He’s blown it.”

Jerry nods obediently and draws a pistol from his holster.

“It was Alice’s birthday yesterday, wasn’t it?” I ask.

Jerry looks surprised. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“Death’s a small matter,” I quip. “Birthdays are important. Do anything nice with her?”

He shrugs. “We meant to go away for a couple of days, but your getting iced put paid to that. I took her out for a meal. She wasn’t overly impressed, but she knows how it goes.”

We stop at the rear of Party Central and Thomas gets out to open my door. Frank Weld materializes out of the shadows, flanked by ten of the toughest-looking sons of bitches I’ve ever seen.

“Capac,” he greets me, grinning edgily. He’s never come to terms with my indestructibility. My returning freaks the shit out of him, but he puts up with me because he senses — in a way Gico Carl and Cathal Sampedro can’t — that I’m the future. Frank, like Ford Tasso before him, is a man propelled by instinct to identify and follow the strongest master.

Frank quit as head of the Troops three years ago. He moved up in the organization, becoming overseer of my international interests. Although eternity is mine to play with, I’m limited physically to the boundaries of this city. If I spend more than three or four days away, my body unravels and I find myself back on the train. I can handle most of my global business from Party Central, and by arranging short trips abroad for face-to-face meetings, but it helps to have a strong lieutenant active in the field.

“Sorry to pull you away from your regular duties.”