Darren Shan: The Vampire's Assistant

"What if I don't like it there?" I asked.

"Then we leave," he said. "I enjoyed traveling with the Cirque, but I am not crazy about it. If you like it, we stay. If you do not, we hit the road again."

"They won't mind me tagging along?" I asked.

"You will have to pull your weight," he replied. "Mr. Tall insists on everybody doing something. You will have to help set up chairs and lights, sell souvenirs, clean up afterward, or do the cooking. You will be kept busy, but they will not overwork you. We will have plenty of time for our lessons."

We decided to give it a shot. At least it would mean a real bed every night. My back was stiff from sleeping on floors.

Mr. Crepsley had to find out where the show was before we could join. I asked him how he was going to do that. He told me he was able to home in on Mr. Tall's thoughts.

"You mean he's telepathic?" I asked, remembering what Steve had called people who could talk to each other using only their brains.

"Sort of," Mr. Crepsley said. "We cannot speak to each other with our thoughts but I can pick up his… aura , you could call it. Once I locate that, tracking him down will be no problem."

"Could I locate his aura?" I wanted to know.

"No," Mr. Crepsley said. "Most vampires — along with a few gifted humans — can, but half-vampires cannot."

He sat down in the middle of the church and closed his eyes. He was quiet for about a minute. Then his eyelids opened and he stood.

"Got him," he said.

"So soon?" I asked. "I thought it would take longer."

"I have searched for his aura many times," Mr. Crepsley explained. "I know what to look for. Finding him is as easy as finding a needle in a haystack."

"That's supposed to be hard, isn't it?"

"Not for a vampire," he said.

While we were packing to leave, I found myself gazing around the church. Something had been bothering me, but I wasn't sure whether I should mention it to Mr. Crepsley.

"Go on," he said, startling me. "Ask whatever it is that is on your mind."

"How did you know I wanted to ask something?" I said, sort of freaked out.

He laughed. "It does not take a vampire to know when a child is curious. You have been bursting with a question for ages. What is it?"

I took a deep breath. "Do you believe in God?" I asked.

Mr. Crepsley looked at me oddly, then nodded slowly. "I believe in the gods of the vampires."

I frowned. "There are vampire gods?"

"Of course," he said. "Every culture has gods: Egyptian gods, Indian gods, Chinese gods. Vampires are no different."

"What about heaven?" I asked.

"We believe in Paradise. It lies beyond the stars. When we die, if we have lived good lives, our spirits float free of the earth, cross the stars and galaxies, and come at last to a wonderful world at the other side of the universe — Paradise."

"And if they don't live good lives?"

"They stay here," he said. "They remain bound to earth as ghosts, doomed to wander the face of this planet forever."

I thought about that. "What's a 'good life' for a vampire?" I asked. "How do they make it to Paradise?"

"Live cleanly," he said. "Do not kill unless necessary. Do not hurt people. Do not spoil the world."

"Drinking blood isn't evil?" I asked.

"Not unless you kill the person you drink from," Mr. Crepsley said. "And even then, sometimes, it can be a good thing."

"Killing someone can be good ?" I gasped.

Mr. Crepsley nodded seriously. "People have souls, Darren. When they die, those souls go to heaven or Paradise. But it is possible to keep a part of them here. When we drink small amounts of blood, we do not take any of a person's essence. But if we drink lots, we keep part of them alive within us."

"How?" I asked, frowning.

"By draining a person's blood, we absorb some of that person's memories and feelings," he said. "They become part of us, and we can see the world the way they saw it and remember things which might otherwise have been forgotten."

"Like what?"

He thought a moment. "One of my dearest friends is called Paris Skyle," he said. "He is very old. Many centuries ago, he was friends with William Shakespeare."

" The William Shakespeare — the guy who wrote the plays?"

Mr. Crepsley nodded. "Plays and poems. But not all of Shakespeare's poetry was recorded; some of his most famous verses were lost. When Shakespeare was dying, Paris drank from him — Shakespeare asked him to — and was able to tap into those lost poems and have them written down. The world would have been a poorer place without them."

"But…" I stopped. "Do you only do that with people who ask, and who are dying?"

"Yes," he said. "It would be evil to kill a healthy person. But to drink from friends who are close to death, and keep their memories and experiences alive…" He smiled. "That is very good indeed.

"Come," he said then. "Brood about it on the way. We must be off."

I jumped on Mr. Crepsley's back when we were ready to leave, and off we flitted. He still hadn't explained how he could move so fast. It wasn't that he ran quickly; it was more like the world slipped by as he ran. He said all full vampires could flit.

It was nice, watching the countryside drift away behind us. We ran up hills and across the vast plains, faster than the wind. There was total silence while we were flitting and nobody ever noticed us. It was like we were surrounded by a magic bubble.

While we flitted I thought about what Mr. Crepsley had said, about keeping people's memories alive by drinking from them. I wasn't sure how that would work, and I made up my mind to ask him about it sometime later.

Flitting was hard work; the vampire was sweating and I could see him starting to struggle. To help, I took out a bottle of human blood, uncorked it, and held it to his lips so he could drink.

He nodded his silent thanks, wiped the sweat from his brow, and kept going.

Finally, as the sky was beginning to lighten, he slowed to a halt. I climbed down off his back and looked around. We were in the middle of a country road, fields and trees all around us, with no houses in sight.

"Where's the Cirque Du Freak?" I asked.

"A few miles farther ahead," he said, pointing. He was kneeling down, panting for breath.

"Did you run out of steam?" I asked, holding back my laughter.

"No." He glared. "I could have made it, but did not want to arrive looking flushed."

"You'd better not rest too long," I warned him. "Morning's on its way."

"I know precisely what time it is!" he snapped. "I know more about mornings and dawns than any living human. We have plenty of time on our side. A whole forty-three minutes yet."

"If you say so."

"I do. " He stood, annoyed, and began to walk. I waited until he was a little in front, then ran ahead of him.

"Hurry up, old man," I teased. "You're getting left behind."

"Keep it up," he growled. "See what it gets you. A smack on the ear and a kick in the pants."

He started running after a couple of minutes, and the two of us jogged along, side by side. I was in a good mood, happier than I'd been for months. It was nice having something to look forward to.

We passed a bunch of grungy campers on our way.

They were starting to wake up and move around. A couple waved to us. They were funny-looking people: long hair, strange clothes, weighed down with fancy earrings and bracelets.

There were banners and flags all over the camp. I tried reading them, but it was hard to focus while I was jogging, and I didn't want to stop. From what I could tell, the campers had something to do with a protest against a new road.

The road was really curvy. After the fifth turn, we finally spotted the Cirque Du Freak, nestled in a clearing by the banks of a river. It was quiet — everyone was sleeping, I imagined — and if we'd been in a car and not looking for the vans and tents, it would have been easy to miss.