Darren Shan - Birth of a Killer

“I never wanted to join the clan,” Malora said softly. “I said I did because that was what you needed to hear. I don’t care about returning to the human world either. I only want to be with you for all the nights and days that I have left. I knew you were the man for me the moment I saw you.”

“Wait a minute!” Larten gulped. He hadn’t been expecting a declaration of love. “You’re a child,” he wheezed.

“A young lady,” she corrected him. “And getting older. I’m patient. I can wait until you decide I’m old enough.”

“But-”

“If you’re about to say that I’ll always be a girl in your eyes,” she interrupted sharply, "don't. You might reject me, but don’t insult me. I won’t stand for that, not from any man, even the love of my life.”

“The love of…” Larten echoed weakly.

‘You don’t need to do anything now,” Malora said sweetly. ‘You’re slow, like most men, but you’ll catch up soon and realize you love me as much as I love you. I just want you to know that, in the meantime, I’ll follow you no matter where you go. Your path is mine because my heart is yours.

“Now go enjoy yourself with Paris. I’ll be waiting for you when you get back. I’ll always wait for you, my love.”

With that she shooed him out of the room and left him to stare at the closed door in bewilderment. After he’d scratched his head for the sixth time, he turned and trudged down the steps to get a drink and mull things over.

Paris was nowhere to be found — Larten assumed the elderly Prince was still asleep — but a middle-aged man with a beard was sitting at one of the tables, writing in a notebook. He hailed Larten and invited him over. As Larten cautiously sat, the man said, “You’re Master Skyle’s friend, aren’t you?”

Larten relaxed. “You know Paris?”

“Oh, yes,” the man beamed. “My name’s Abraham, but please call me Bram.”

Larten gave his own name, shook hands and accepted the mug of ale he was offered.

‘What are you writing?” Larten asked.

“Just a few ideas for a story I’m researching.”

‘You write stories?” Larten was interested. He had met several authors over the decades and found them a curious bunch.

“Novels, mostly. You might have heard of The Snake's Pass, perhaps?”

Larten shook his head. “I am not a reader. I never learned.” He expected the man to look surprised, maybe even sneer at him, but Bram only shrugged.

‘You might be better off. Writing is my life — on top of running a theater — but I often think I’d have been more successful and a lot happier if I’d nevertaken up a pen. The muse is a cruel mistress.”

Larten pressed Bram for details of his books and the theater. He learned that the writer was from Ireland but now lived in London, “when I’m not trotting around Europe trying to finish this dratted novel!”

When Larten asked about his new book, Bram waved aside the question. “I never discuss a work in progress. I don’t want to jinx myself. Tell me about your life instead. You’re a vampire like Paris, aren’t you?”

“A vampire, aye, but hardly like Paris,” Larten chuckled.

“He’s something of a legend, isn’t he?” Bram smiled.

“Among vampires, certainly,” Larten agreed. Over the next few hours he told Bram some of his favorite Paris Skyle stories, becoming more eloquent the more he drank. After a while Bram asked if he could take notes, “just for fun,” and Larten said that of course he could.

Bram was interested in the rest ofthe clan, as well as the vampaneze. He wanted to know when vampires had stopped killing when they fed, and if any ever overstepped the mark now.

“Never,” Larten said. “The punishment is severe if you break that law.”

“A stake through the heart?” Bram guessed.

“Or something similarly fatal,” Larten nodded.

“The stake tradition started with Vlad, I suppose,” Bram murmured, trying to disguise his interest in the answer.

‘Vlad?” Larten blinked.

“Vlad the Impaler? Also known as Vlad Tepes or Vlad Dracula? He was one ofthe clan, wasn’t he?”

“No, you interfering busybody,” somebody growled behind them. “He was not.”

Larten stared up at a glowering Paris Skyle, who had appeared behind Bram’s chair. Bram choked back a gulp and turned, smiling shakily. “Good evening, Paris, I’m glad to see

‘What have you been telling this sen be?” Paris snarled.

“Nothing much,” Larten said hesitantly, beginning to realize that he had been speaking freely with someone he didn’t know. “He asked about you and the clan.”

“And you told him what he wanted to hear?” Paris snapped.

Larten flushed. ‘Yes. I was open with him. He said that he knew you and I did not think I needed to be wary in his company.”

“Think a bit harder next time,” Paris said coldly, then placed a hand on Bram’s shoulder and squeezed. Bram winced, but didn’t try to escape. “You’re persistent, Master Stoker. I assume you sent me the message requesting my presence across town. You wanted my friend to yourself for a while, aye?”

“I need more facts for my story,” Bram said quietly.

"Facts? I thought it was going to be a work of fiction.”

“It is. I gave you my word that I wouldn’t do anything to expose or harm the clan. But the more I know about you, the more steps I can take to ensure I don’t write something that accidentally leads people to investigate your movements.”

“If you didn’t write about us at all, you could be even surer,” Paris said icily.

“Someone’s going to write about vampires sooner or later,” Bram said. “Would you prefer a work of fiction, where I blur the truth and give the world something fantastical, or a tome that mentions Vampire Mountain, Generals and the rest?”

Paris thought about that, then removed his hand. “Perhaps you’re correct. If your story tricks people into thinking that vampires are mythical beasts, it may do some good. Not that I think many will read it — people want uplifting tales, not morbid stories of bloodsucking creatures of the night.”

‘You might be surprised,” Bram said, picking up his pen again. ‘You’ll answer my questions?”

“Aye,” Paris nodded, “but not tonight. I’m entertaining a friend. Remain a few nights and I will let you have your… how did you put it last time… your interview with a vampire.”

“Can we shake on that?” Bram asked, extending a hand.

“No,” Paris said flatly. “A vampire doesn’t need to shake hands once he has given his word. Go from here, Abraham Stoker, and give me the space I asked for. I will speak with you shortly.”

Bram nodded and gathered his belongings. “Sorry if I got you into trouble,” he said to Larten.

“Move along,” Paris barked. “We haven’t dined yet and that neck of yours looks ripe forthe biting.”

Bram flashed Paris a dark look, then backed away from the table, tossed some coins to the innkeeper and let himself out. Paris watched him leave, then sat and called fora glass of wine.

“Sire, I’m sorry if I — ” Larten began.

“It matters not,” Paris said curtly. “That man has been dogging my footsteps for three years. He would have forced a confrontation eventually. I’m not worried. I’m sure his book won’t amount to much even if it’s published, which I doubt. Let us speak of more important issues. Have you considered what we spoke of?”

Larten nodded.

“And?”

If Paris had asked the question a few hours earlier, Larten would have accepted the Prince’s offer to train him. But his careless conversation with Bram Stoker had disturbed him. Paris had made light of it, but Larten knew he should have been more circumspect. Even new-bloods didn’t discuss the clan with anyone they couldn’t trust completely. Larten’s self-confidence had been shaken. He could have taken more time to answer — Paris wasn’t rushing him — but his head was sore from the flu, which seemed to be returning with a vengeance, and the ale was sitting heavily in his stomach. All he wanted was to slink back to his room to brood.