Darren Shan - Birth of a Killer

‘Will you give her my apologies in the morning?” Larten asked.

“No,” Malora surprised him. “I’m leaving with you.”

‘What are you talking about?” Larten frowned and the gesture brought a fresh torrent of blood from the cut.

“I told you I was unhappy,” Malora said. “I’ve been waiting for an escort to lead me out of here. You’ll do.”

‘Wait a minute,” Larten said, alarmed. “I am no escort. You do not know where I am going. I might not see another human for months.”

She shrugged. “That doesn’t bother me. I might not even go back to my human life. I’m interested in vampires. I want to learn about your ways, maybe become one of you.”

“No!” Larten barked. “I do not want an assistant. I am not a General. You heard me talking with Evanna. I am confused, lost. I do not know what I want for myself, so I can hardly make decisions for you.”

“I’m not asking you to make any decisions for me,” Malora said coolly. “I’ve already made them. I’m coming with you. Where you lead doesn’t matter. I don’t care that you’re not part of the clan, that you might never be again. I just want to travel with you awhile. When I’ve had enough of your company, I’ll move on.”

Larten stared at the girl, not sure what to say. “You are too young,” he tried. “A vampire’s life is hard and testing. I could not make allowances fora child.”

“If I’m old enough to be a witch’s apprentice, I’m old enough to serve a vampire,” Malora huffed. “As for making allowances, that won’t be a problem. I need your help to get out of here, but once we reach civilization I’ll look after myself. If I can’t keep up, you have my permission to cut me loose.”

Larten tried one last tactic. “You might not be safe traveling with me,” he said darkly. “What if I try to kiss you like I kissed Evanna?”

“Nonsense,” Malora snorted. ‘You’re not the type of man to make an advance on a girl like me. Even if you were… well, I have sharp nails too, only I’d slit your throat, not your cheek.”

Larten laughed, then grimaced as his wound flared. “Very well,” he muttered. “As long as you understand that you are not my assistant, just a companion, aye?”

“Of course,” Malora said meekly, then added wickedly, "master."

Larten pushed himself up. He offered Malora a hand, but she waved it aside and hopped to her feet. Smiling brightly, she asked, “Which way?”

Larten blinked, then looked around and pointed to his right.

Malora shook her head.

“Left?” he tried weakly.

“An excellent choice,” she beamed and started down the path ahead of him. Larten thought about fleeing in the opposite direction — she couldn’t catch him if he flitted — but he didn’t want to leave the girl alone in the dark. Wringing blood from the handkerchief, he reapplied it to his cheek, rolled his eyes at the heavens, then followed after Malora like a lamb.

Larten blew his nose, doubled over and coughed. His face was red when he came up for air and he had to spit a mouthful of thick, horrible phlegm into an already laden handkerchief.

“Give me that,” Malora said, taking the snot-riddled rag and handing him a fresh replacement. Her nose wrinkled as she dropped the handkerchief into a tub of hot water. This was the fifth he’d gone through since sunset.

“I didn’t think vampires could catch the flu,” Malora muttered.

“It is rare,” Larten groaned. “We are immune to most sicknesses. But when the strain of vampire flu strikes, it strikes hard.”

He shivered and pulled his blanket tighter around himself, even though it did no good. He had come down with the symptoms a couple of weeks earlier. He’d worsened steadily for ten nights, but then seemed to recover. He was surprised by his rapid comeback — vampire flu often killed those it struck, or stayed in their system for months on end.

Malora pressed the back of her hand to the vampire’s forehead, checking his temperature. She hadn’t learned much in her years with Evanna, but she’d picked up some helpful healing tips.

“Drink more broth,” she grunted.

‘What about ale?” Larten asked hopefully.

“If I catch you anywhere near a mug of ale, you’ll be sleeping in the street,” she snapped. It was a familiar threat and he knew better than to dismiss it lightly. She had driven him from his room more than once in the past when he’d drunk too much and irritated her.

Larten blew his nose again and studied Malora over the top of his handkerchief. She had grown into a beautiful young woman. She kept her hair short and wore trousers more often than skirts, since they were easier to travel in, but nobody could have mistaken her for a boy. She caught the eyes of gentlemen wherever they went. But even though she’d celebrated her sixteenth birthday earlier in the year — an age at which, in Larten’s youth, many girls had already married and given birth — she had never shown any interest in the men who wished to woo her.

“Are there no spells you could use to clear this up?” Larten asked.

“Evanna probably knows a few,” Malora said with fake sincerity. “We could visit her if you like.”

Larten blanched and his fingers went automatically to his scar, which he traced from top to bottom. The prominent scar would have been considered disfiguring by humans, but he carried it with pride. It reminded him of his foolishness, but also his daring and good fortune — there were few vampires who could say they had invoked the wrath of the Lady of the Wilds and lived to tell the tale.

He shuffled to the window and stared at the street outside. There weren’t many lamps, but he could see clearly, albeit through watery eyes. He wasn’t sure where they were staying. Malora had guided him for the last fortnight. They usually slept in crypts or caves, but she had insisted on inns while he was sick. He’d resisted at first — he thought clear air would be better for him — but he was so ill by the third night that he would have slept on top of a giant needle if she’d ordered it.

As he was staring out the window, he saw an elderly gentleman approach. The man had long, white hair and a flowing, silver beard. His right ear had been cut off long ago and his face was lined with wrinkles. Although he looked ancient, and was even olderthan he appeared, he walked with a spring in his step that many younger men lacked.

“I do not believe it,” Larten gasped. “Paris Skyle!” “The Prince?” Malora asked.

“Aye. You know him?”

“Only by reputation.” She stuck out an arm as an excited Larten tried to dart past her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To catch him,” Larten said impatiently. “I have not seen Paris in ages. I must stop him before he

“\t could be coincidence that of all the inns in the world, he happens to pass by this one,” Malora said witheringly. “But what are the odds of that?”

‘You think he has come to see me?” Larten asked, delight giving way to nervousness.

“Have another look — has he moved on or is he coming in?”

Larten returned to the window and watched as Paris paused, studied the sign outside the inn, then entered.

‘You are as canny as Evanna,” he muttered.

“Nowhere near,” Malora sniffed. “But even the dumbest woman has more sense than the average man. Wait!” she shouted as Larten tried to push past her again.

“What now?” he scowled.

‘You’re not meeting a Prince dressed like that,” she said firmly. He hadn’t changed his clothes recently. They were filthy and smelly, spattered with dry — and some fresh — flecks of spit and snot.