Darren Shan - 02 Ocean of Blood

“But he left in such a foul temper. Perhaps I should cal him back and —”

“By the gods, no!” Seba shouted. “You are wiser than that, Wester Flack, so do not act like a fool. I know you will miss Larten — I will too — but it is time for him to seek his own way. If you interfere now, you might destroy him. This has been a difficult decision for him to make. If he relented, returned and had to make the choice again later, I do not think that he could.”

“But…” Wester stared at his master. “What if I went with him?”

“You have the same right to leave as he has,” Seba said stiffly. Then he smiled. “But you willnot. Your place is here and you know it. We must let him go. If the luck of the vampires is with him, he willreturn when he is ready. But for now he must walk his own path, or at least try to find it.”

Wester nodded slowly, then looked at the gaping space of the doorway. “I fear for him. He doesn’t know what he wants. He’ll run into trouble.”

“Probably,” Seba said glumly. “But he is strong and I believe that he will find his way in the end. If I am wrong…” Seba sighed and pressed the middle finger of his left hand to his forehead. Keeping his eyes open, he covered them with his second and fourth fingers, spreading his thumb and small est finger wide. “Even in death may he be triumphant.”

Then Seba put all thoughts of his departing assistant from his mind and focused on his duties, leaving Larten Crepsley to the unknowable workings of whatever destiny held in store for him.

The next few years of Larten Crepsley’s life were his wildest and most carefree. Larten flitted to get away swiftly from all that he had come to loathe, even though vampires were not supposed to flit on the path to or from the mountain. The rebellious act was his way of showing how little he cared for the rules of the clan. He knew it was a petty gesture, but that didn’t stop him.

He cut through the world at a frenetic pace, traveling freely, spending much of his time on boats, carriages, even trains. It was his first time trying one of the iron horses. The rocking motion made him feel sick to begin with, but he adjusted to it after a while, even though he never wavered from his opinion that it went far faster than any land vehicle had a need to.

For years he avoided contact with other vampires, moving from one town and city to another, mixing mostly with men of lax principles and ladies of easy virtue, since they were the ones who came out at night. He stole vast amounts of money and spent it lavishly. He gambled heavily, backed many foolish, high-risk ventures for sport, and at one stage ran his own stable of boxers and fighting cockerels.

Larten tried things he’d avoided even as a Cub, things no sane person should try. He treated his body with disrespect, interested only in how far he could push it. There were many nights when he couldn’t rise, only lie in a dark room, shaking like a rabid rat, waiting for death to put him out of his misery.

If he had been a lesser vampire, he would have surely died. But his years of harsh lessons had toughened him. He could take more punishment than most, go further, last longer. No matter how many mad nights he subjected himself to, he always struggled back.

In time he calmed down and put the worst of the craziness behind him. He had tasted almost all the dark pleasures of the human world and was bored of them. He made no friends in those seedy years, but many cronies flocked to his side, men and women all too eager to spend the money he never seemed to run out of, to go on wild sprees with him and try to match his wild appetites. They praised Larten and spoke of their love and respect for him, but he knew they were lost, base creatures, wringing what profit they could from one in an even worse state than themselves.

One night he simply walked out on the hangers-on, the same way he had walked out on the clan. They were much easier to leave behind than Seba or Wester. These people didn’t truly care for him, only for the wicked pleasures he brought into their lives. They were vermin and vultures. He didn’t think he was any better than them, but he hoped that he could be. Out of pity, he threw what cash he had at them and left while they squabbled over it.

He tried running with the Cubs again. There was a gaping hole in his life that needed to be fil ed. He craved company and excitement. He didn’t want to wake every evening by himself, bored, lonely, desperate to kill time. He yearned to find a purpose and he thought the Cubs might give him that, at least for a time.

But going back to the war packs was a mistake. all of the vampires he’d known had moved on or died.

Their replacements welcomed Larten into the fold, but he felt awkward around them. He couldn’t work up the same enthusiasm for drink, war, women and gambling. He found the young Cubs loud, ignorant and dull. He didn’t like to believe he’d ever been so shallow, but was sure he must have been.

He fed with war packs a couple of times, then no more. Bidding the Cubs a not-so-fond farewell, he wandered again, keeping to himself, avoiding the larger towns and crowds. He spent many lonely nights in graveyards or caves, brooding, feeling as if he would never find his place in the world.

Returning to the Cirque Du Freak, he asked Mr. Tall if he could help out as he had before. Hibernius Tall wasn’t one to turn away an old friend, but Larten soon realized this wasn’t the life for him, certainly not in his current state. He loved the circus and would have been happy at another time to settle down there. But he was restless, so he moved on with no more idea of what he wanted than he had when he left Vampire Mountain.

A few years after that, Larten was hunting deer. He had been tracking a herd for hours. He could have moved in for the kill sooner, but he was in no rush. His clothes were filthy rags. He’d grown a beard — a light brown color, which must have been the original shade of his hair — and his nails were long and ragged. There were bloodstains around his mouth from previous feasts, and dried-in smears across his cheeks.

“Charna’s guts! You look even rougher than me,” someone laughed behind him, startling the vampire. He twirled so fast that he lost his balance and fell. As he landed on his backside, his gaze settled on a grinning Vancha March.

“What are you doing here?” Larten barked.

“Just happened to be passing,” Vancha sniffed. “I caught your smell — couldn’t really miss it — and thought I’d come see what you were up to.” Vancha spent the next couple of nights roaming with Larten, letting him tel his sorry story. The General made no comment, just listened quietly. When Larten finally ran out of words to express his miserable state, Vancha said that the younger vampire could travel with him if he wished.

“I’m going through a bit of an aimless period myself,” he said. “I went on a quest to find the palace of Perta Vin-Grahl a few years ago.” Vin-Grahl had led a group of vampires off into a frozen wilderness to die not long after the war with the vampaneze. According to legends, they’d built a castle of ice and turned it into a mass burial tomb. Many vampires had searched for the last resting place of the doomed group over the centuries.

“Any luck?” Larten asked.

“No,” Vancha sighed. “I really thought I’d find it, but all I got in the end was frostbite. Almost lost a few toes. I’ve been too ashamed to report back to the clan. I can’t avoid them indefinitely, but I’d like to wait a bit longer before subjecting myself to their laughter. Paris will be especially tickled — he bet me my favorite shuriken that I wouldn’t find the palace.”