Darren Shan - Procession of the dead

Pieces of a broken vase littered the floor. I found the longest shard and gripped tightly, grimacing as it sliced a thin ridge in my palm. It wasn't much of a weapon but it would have to do.

I heard the front door opening. They had keys. I made to leave the room, then stopped. They'd see or hear me if I did. Besides, there was nowhere to hide out there. I dived under the bed covers and pulled them over me. Fluffed them up a bit and lay as still as I could. Some camouflage!

Voices drifted up from downstairs. They obviously didn't feel any need to tread softly. I recognized Vincent's voice immediately, complaining as usual. "Like I've got nothing fucking better to be doing. I mean, he's really gonna come back here, isn't he? He's halfway to Alaska or the fucking Alps by now."

"Sure he is. But The Cardinal said come check, and when The Cardinal says come check, we come check." I didn't know this guy.

"You're so right." Vincent's voice dripped with sarcastic venom. "Go check the back door. Look for a beer in the kitchen while you're at it, make us a cup of tea or something if you can't find one." The back door! I'd left it ajar in case I needed to make a quick getaway.

"Vincent." The voice of the second guy came a few seconds later, softer, urgent. "It's open. Someone's been here."

"Fuck." A long pause. "OK. We'll search the house. You take the bottom, I'll take the top. Be careful. The fucker could still be here. You see anything, shoot. Don't fuck around with this guy."

"You think we should call this in?"

"You don't think we can handle a fuck like this by ourselves?"

"We should let them know."

"Know what? That the door's open? Hell, it could be a bum or a kid. We'll search the place first. If we find him, we'll kill him and call then."

He came up the stairs slowly, flicking on the light as he did. The moron. I'd never known why Tasso kept Vincent around. He was dumb, plain and simple. If I got out of here alive, it would be thanks to his stupidity.

Vincent checked the bathroom first, then my bedroom, the spare room, then the closet. Finally he reached rainbow's end. Turned on the light and looked around. I held my breath and acted like a corpse. "Shit," he muttered, coming forward. He must be on to me! I tried to spring away but found myself paralyzed. I couldn't move. He was going to walk up and kill me and there wasn't a thing I…

He sat on the edge of the bed.

"Fuck," he said, lighting a cigarette. "I could be out getting laid. Fucking Ford. One of these days…"

I didn't deserve this much luck. I'd screwed up by coming here and by rights should pay dearly for my mistake. But fate can be kind occasionally.

I gripped the jagged shard, ignoring the pain, and sat up swiftly. I could see Vincent through the thin fabric of the sheets, so I didn't waste time throwing them off. He must have gotten a shock, seeing those harmless bedclothes spring to life.

I clamped one hand over Vincent's mouth, jerked his head back, jabbed the other forward and drove the point of the makeshift dagger into his throat. It snapped in half. I dug the second shard in and whipped my hand from left to right several times. Vincent's body writhed but it was too late. His warm blood gushed like swarming locusts from some biblical breach in the heavens, soaking his chest, the bed, the covers, me. Within seconds he was through struggling for all eternity.

I'd killed him.

My first kill. I'd thought about it for such a long time. I'd wondered, nights when I couldn't sleep, how I'd react when I finally crossed this bridge. Now I knew.

I pushed the covers off and raised a hand. Touched my mouth and felt a smile. I liked it. Killing suited me. This was what I was born for. In that moment I knew, whatever else I might have been-whoever-I was a killer first and foremost. The Cardinal would have been proud.

I rolled off the bed, took Vincent's gun from his limp hand and made for the door, picking up another piece of vase along the way. I didn't want to use the gun unless I had to-too noisy.

I left the room, the sticky smell of death wafting after me. I meant to wait at the top of the stairs and knife Vincent's buddy as he came up. Then I could take my time deciding what to do with the one outside.

That plan went out the window because the man was coming up the stairs as I crossed the landing. Thanks to the light, he got a clear view of me. He began firing immediately, shouting something incoherent. But he panicked and his shots missed by a wide margin.

I stood my ground, let his bullets whistle by, took a bearing and fired. A duck in a bath would have stood a better chance than the unfortunate guy on the stairs. My first bullet ripped a fifth hole in his heart. The second tore his eyes out, smashed his skull and sent him flying backward.

I rushed down the stairs, jumped the body at the base, knowing I had only seconds to act. I raced out the front door, into the street. The driver was out of the car when I burst into sight, crouched behind it. He fired as soon as he saw me. I dived for the thin bushes in front and came up shooting. My first bullet tore into the car inches from his head. The second must have grazed his left ear. The third would have been the killer.

But there wasn't a third. I pulled the trigger and hit an empty chamber. That asshole Carell had come without a fully loaded weapon! The driver smiled and walked out in front of the car, taking his time, knowing I was trapped. I glanced around, weighing my options. I could duck back inside the house, but it was open ground and he'd have ample time to put a couple of shots into my back. Or I could wait until he was closer and rush him. Neither option looked promising.

I was making up my mind when another gun disrupted the quiet of the night. It fired three times. The body of the driver jerked briefly, then dropped. I got to my feet, unable to believe my luck. It must be Margaret, come to my rescue. I looked at the cab. She was still inside, crouched down, only the tip of her head in sight, the windows rolled up. It couldn't have been her. Then who…

A scooter kicked into life and pulled up in front of me. An unhelmeted Paucar Wami grinned and saluted. "We must stop meeting likethis."

I stared at the scooter, the driver, then the dead man. "You saved me," I said.

"I was asked to."

"By who?"

"Your blind friends."

"The ones in the robes?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "They didn't say. Just gave me the address and said you might need me."

"Why did you come?" I asked. "Why go out of your way to helpme?"

He smiled. "Like I said, you interest me. Luck, Capac Raimi."

With that he disappeared into the night.

I made my way back to the car, numb, head spinning. Margaret had already started the engine. I climbed in and stared at the useless gun in my hands.

"Who was that?" she asked.

"Drive," I told her. "Take me outside the city. Drop me at a train station. Any will do. You pick."

"But who was-"

"You don't really want to know, do you?"

She looked at my face in the mirror. Glanced at the body in the road. Pulled away. "Don't reckon I do," she muttered, and said no more as we sped through the dark.

I unzipped the money belt at last and examined the ticket. Sonas was the name. I held the stub between two reverent fingers. Sonas. It didn't mean anything. I'd expected bells to sound, memories to flash through my mind at the speed of light, everything to come back in the snap of a wasp's wing. But Sonas could have been the name of an Eskimo's ranch for all it meant to me.

As dawn broke above us, Margaret dropped me off about twenty miles outside the city. "You ever need a lift again," she said, "get out your thumb and hitch!"

"Here," I said, and gave her an extra roll of hundreds. "That's for sticking by me. You could have fled and nobody would have blamed you."