A long sprint. The corridor was narrow and lowceilinged. I was panting hard, not from exertion but from sorrow. I kept thinking about Tommy, Mr. Crepsley, Gavner Purl — friends I’d lost to the vampaneze. I had to fight the sorrow, or it would overwhelm me, so I thought about R.V. and Morgan James instead.
R.V. was once an eco-warrior. He’d tried to free the Wolf Man at the Cirque Du Freak. I’d stopped him but not before the Wolf Man had bitten his hands off. R.V. fled, survived, and blamed me for his misfortune. Some years later, he was discovered by Steve Leopard. Steve told the vampaneze to blood him, and the pair plotted my downfall. R.V. had been in the Cavern of Retribution when Mr. Crepsley was killed. That was the last time I’d seen him.
Morgan James was an ex–police officer. A vampet, one of the humans the vampaneze had recruited. Like the other vampets, he dressed in a brown shirt and black pants, shaved his head, painted circles of blood around his eyes, and had a “V” tattooed above each ear. Since he hadn’t been blooded, he was free to use missile-firing weapons such as guns. Vampaneze, like vampires, swear an oath when they’re blooded not to use such weapons. James had also been in the Cavern of Retribution. During the battle he was shot, and the left side of his face had been torn into fleshy strips by the bullet.
A treacherous, deadly pair. Again I found myself wondering what I’d do if I caught up with them — I didn’t have any weapons! But again I ignored that problem and concentrated on the chase.
The end of the corridor. A door swinging ajar. Two police officers and a steward lying slumped against the wall — dead. I cursed R.V. and Morgan James, and swore revenge.
I kicked the door wide open and ducked out. I was at the rear of the stadium, the quietest part of the area, backing onto a housing project. The police who had been posted out here had been attracted to the sides of the stadium — there was some kind of a disturbance at the front, no doubt timed to tie in with the assault.
Ahead of me I saw R.V. and Morgan James enter the projects. By the time the police turned their attention this way, the killers would be gone. I started after them. Stopped. Hurried back inside the stadium and frisked the dead police officers. No guns, but both had been carrying batons. I took the clubs, one for each hand, then fled after my prey.
It was dark in the projects, especially after the brightness of the stadium. But I had the extra-sharp vision of a half-vampire, so I was able to negotiate my way without any problems. The road branched off at regular intervals, one or two buildings per stretch. I paused briefly at each junction, looking left and right. No sign of R.V. and Morgan James. Forward again.
I wasn’t sure if they knew I was following. I assumed they knew I was at the game, but they might not have counted on me being the first to break out of the stadium and pursue them. The element of surprise might be on my side, but I warned myself not to count on it.
I came to the last junction. Left or right? I stood in the road, head twisting one way, then the other. I couldn’t see anyone. I’d lost them! Should I take a direction at random or backtrack and —
There was a soft screeching sound to my left — a blade scraping against a wall. Then someone hissed, “Quiet!”
I turned. There was a tiny alley between two buildings, the source of the noise. The nearest streetlights had been smashed. The only illumination came from across the road. I had a bad feeling about this — the screech and hiss had been far too convenient — but I couldn’t back off now. I advanced.
I stopped a couple of yards from the alley and edged out into the middle of the road. My knuckles were white from gripping the batons. I came into gradual sight of the alley. Nobody near the dark mouth. The alley ran back only five or six yards, and even in the poor light I could see all the way to the rear wall. Nobody was there. I breathed out shakily. Maybe my ears had been playing tricks. Or else the sound had been a TV or radio. What should I do now? I was back where I’d been moments before, no idea which way to —
Something moved in the alley, low down on the floor. I stiffened and lowered my sights. And now I saw them, crouched where it was darkest, one hugging either wall, practically invisible in the shadows.
The figure to my left chuckled, then stood — R.V. I raised the baton in my left hand defensively. Then the figure to my right rose, and Morgan James stepped forward, bringing up his shotgun, pointing it at me. I began to raise the baton in my right hand against him, then realized how worthless it would be if he fired.
I took another step back, meaning to run, when a voice spoke from the darkness behind R.V. “No guns,” it said softly. Morgan James immediately lowered the barrel of his shotgun.
I should have run, but I couldn’t, not without putting a face to that voice. So I stood my ground, squinting, as a third shape formed and stepped out from behind R.V. It was Gannen Harst, the prime protector of the Lord of the Vampaneze.
Part of me had expected this, and instead of panicking, I experienced something close to relief. The waiting was over. Whatever destiny had in store for me, it started here. One final encounter with the Vampaneze Lord. At the end of it, I’d kill him — or he’d kill me. Either way was better than the waiting.
“Hello, Gannen,” I said. “Still hanging out with madmen and scum, I see.”
Gannen Harst bristled but didn’t reply. “Lord,” he said instead, and a fourth ambusher stepped out from behind Morgan James, more familiar than any of the others.
“Good to see you again, Steve,” I said cynically as the grey-haired Steve Leopard slid into view. I was partly focused on Gannen Harst, R.V., and Morgan James — but mostly on Steve. I was judging the gap between us, wondering what sort of damage I could do if I hurled my truncheons at him. I didn’t care about the other three — killing the Vampaneze Lord was my first priority.
“He doesn’t look surprised to see us,” Steve remarked. He hadn’t stepped out as far as Gannen Harst, and was protected by the body of Morgan James. I might be able to hit him from this angle — but it was a very big might.
“Let me have him,” R.V. snarled, taking a step towards me. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been wearing red contact lenses, and had painted his skin purple, to look more like a vampaneze. But his eyes and skin had changed naturally over the past two years, and though his coloring was slight in comparison to a mature vampaneze, it was genuine.
“Stay where you are,” Steve said to R.V. “We can all have a slice of him later. Let’s finish the introductions first. Darius.”
From behind Steve, the boy called Darius stepped out. He was wearing green robes, like Steve. He was shivering, but his face was set sternly. He was holding a large arrow-gun, one of Steve’s inventions. It was pointed at me.
“Have you started blooding children now?” I growled disgustedly, still waiting for Steve to move out a little more, ignoring the threat of the boy’s arrow-gun.
“Darius is an exception,” Steve said, smiling. “A most worthy ally and a valuable spy.”
Steve took a half-step towards the boy. This was my chance! I began to draw my right hand back, careful not to give my intentions away, totally focused on Steve. Another second or two and I could make my play . . .
Then Darius spoke.
“Shall I shoot him now, Dad?”
DAD?
“Yes, son,” Steve replied.
SON?
While my brain spun and whirled like a dervish, Darius steadied his aim, gulped, pulled the trigger, and shot a steel-tipped arrow straight at me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE ARROW STRUCK ME HIGH in my right shoulder, knocking me backwards. I roared with agony, grabbed the shaft of the arrow, and pulled. The shaft broke off in my hand, leaving the head stuck deep in my flesh.
For a moment the world around me turned red. I thought I was going to pass out. But then the crimson haze faded and the road and houses swam back into focus. Over the sound of my pained panting, I heard footsteps coming towards me. Sitting up — grinding my teeth together to fight back a wave of f
resh pain — I saw Steve leading his small band in for the kill.
I’d let go of the batons when I fell. One had rolled away, but the other was close by. I snatched for it and for the shaft of the arrow — the splintered end could be used as a crude dagger. When Gannen Harst saw this, he stepped in front of Steve. “Fan out!” he commanded R.V. and Morgan James. They swiftly obeyed. The boy, Darius, was behind Steve. He looked sick. I don’t think he’d ever shot anyone before.
“Keep back!” I hissed, waving my pitiful weapons at them.
“Make us,” R.V. giggled.
“Uhr’d luhk tuh shee im truhy!” said Morgan James, who could only speak in a slur since his accident.
“We won’t let him try anything,” Gannen Harst said quietly. He hadn’t drawn his sword yet, but his right hand was hanging purposefully by his scabbard. “He’s a dangerous foe, even injured — don’t forget that.”
“You think too much of the boy,” Steve purred, looking at me over his protector’s shoulder. “He won’t even be able to get up with a wound like that.”
“Won’t I?” I snorted, and pushed myself to my feet just to spite him. A red curtain descended for the second time, but again it passed after a couple of seconds. When my sight cleared, I saw Steve grinning wickedly — he’d goaded me to my feet on purpose, to string more entertainment out of me.
Waving the arrow shaft around at the four men, I backed away. Each step was torture, the pain in my right shoulder flaring up at the slightest movement. It was clear that I couldn’t get very far, but Gannen was taking no chances. He sent R.V. to my left and James to my right, blocking my route in both directions.
I stopped, weaving heavily on my feet, woozily trying to formulate a plan. I knew only Steve could kill me — Des Tiny had predicted doom for the vampaneze if anybody other than their Lord killed any of the vampire hunters — but the others could hold me down for him.
“Let’s finish him off quickly,” Gannen Harst said, finally drawing his sword. “He is at our mercy. Let’s not waste time.”
“Take it easy,” Steve chuckled. “I want to see him bleed a bit more.”
“And if he bleeds to death from your son’s arrow?” Gannen snapped.
“He won’t,” Steve said. “Darius shot exactly where I trained him to.” Steve glanced back at the boy and caught his troubled look. “Are you OK?”
“Yes,” Darius croaked. “I just didn’t think it would be so . . . so . . . ”
“Bloody,” Steve said. He nodded understandingly. “You did good work tonight. You don’t have to watch the rest if you don’t want to.”
“How did . . . you end up with . . . a son?” I gasped, playing for time, hoping an escape would present itself.
“A long, twisted story,” Steve said, facing me again. “One I’ll delight in telling you before I drive a stake through your heart!”
“You got that . . . the wrong way round.” I laughed bleakly. “I’ll be the one doing . . . the killing tonight.”
“Optimistic to the last.” Steve smirked. He cocked a devilish eyebrow at me. “How did Tommy die — with dignity, or like that squealing pig Crepsley?”
At that, something snapped inside me. I screamed a foul insult at Steve and, without thinking, hurled my baton at him. With blind luck, it struck his forehead and he dropped with a startled grunt.
Gannen Harst instinctively swung away from me, to check on his Lord. As soon as he made his move, I made mine. Jumping at Morgan James, I lashed out with the arrow shaft. He took a quick step back to avoid being speared. As he did, I smashed into him with my wounded right shoulder. I howled with pain as the arrowhead was forced deeper into my flesh, but my ploy worked — James toppled over.
The path ahead was momentarily clear. I stumbled forward, grasping my right shoulder with my left hand, pressing hard around the hole where the arrow- head was buried, trying to stem the flow of blood, weeping with agony. Behind me I heard Steve shout, “I’m OK! Chase him! Don’t let him get away!”
If I hadn’t been injured, I might have had enough of a head start on them. But I could manage nothing faster than a slow jog. It was only a matter of seconds before they’d catch up with me.
As I lurched away, my pursuers hot on my heels, a door to one of the buildings on my left opened and a large man stuck his head out. “What’s all the noise about?” he shouted angrily. “Some of us are trying to —”
“Help!” I screamed on impulse. “Murder!”
The man threw the door all the way open and stepped out. “What’s going on?” he yelled.
I looked back at Steve and the others. They’d come to a halt. I had to make the most of their confusion. “Help!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Killers! They’ve shot me! Help!”
Lights began flicking on in the neighboring buildings, and curtains were swished back. The man who’d come out started towards me. Steve sneered, reached over his shoulder, produced an arrow-gun, and fired at the man. Gannen Harst knocked the arrow-gun aside just before Steve fired, so the arrow whizzed wide of its mark. But the man had seen Steve’s intent and he ran back inside his house before he could be fired upon again.
“What are you doing?” Steve furiously challenged Gannen Harst.
“We must get out of here!” Gannen shouted. “Not without killing him!” Steve yelled, jerking his arrow-gun at me.
“Then kill him, quick, and let’s go!” Gannen responded.
Steve stared at me, eyes filled with hatred. Behind him, R.V. and Morgan James were looking on with hungry longing, eager to see me die. Darius was farther removed from the gang — I couldn’t tell if he was watching or not.
Steve raised his arrow-gun, took a couple of steps closer, trained his sights on me, then . . .
. . . lowered it, unfired. “No,” he said sullenly. “This is too easy. Too fast.”
“Don’t be foolish!” Gannen roared. “You have to kill him! This is the predicted fourth encounter. You must do it now, before —”
“I’ll do what I please!” Steve yelled, turning on his mentor. For a moment I thought he meant to attack his closest ally. But then he got ahold of himself and smiled tightly. “I know what I’m doing, Gannen. I can’t kill him this way.”
“If not now, then when?” Gannen snarled.
“Later,” Steve said. “When the time is right. When I can torment him at my leisure and make him feel the pain I felt when he betrayed me and pledged himself to Creepy Crepsley.”
“And Mr. Tiny’s prophecy?” Gannen hissed. “Stuff it!” Steve smirked. “I’ll create my own destiny. That mug in the rain boots doesn’t rule my life.”
Gannen’s red eyes were ablaze with rage. This was madness. He wanted Steve to kill me, to settle the War of the Scars once and for all. He would have argued the point, but more doors were opening and people were poking their heads out. Gannen realized they were in danger of attracting too much unwanted attention. He shook his head, then grabbed Steve, spun him away from me, and pushed him back the way they’d come, ordering R.V. and Morgan James to retreat.
“Catch you later, vampire-gator!” Steve laughed, waving at me as Gannen shepherded him away.
I wanted to respond with a suitable insult, but I lacked the strength. Besides, I had to get out of there as quickly as Steve and his gang. If the people came out and found me, I’d be in major trouble. It would mean the police, hospital, recognition, and arrest — I was still a wanted fugitive. The general public here might not know about the alleged killer Darren Shan, but I was sure the police did.
Turning my back on the emerging humans, I staggered to the end of the block, where I rested a moment, leaning against a wall. I wiped sweat from my forehead and tears from my eyes, then checked the hole in my shoulder — still bleeding. There was no time to examine it further. People were spilling out onto the street. It wouldn’t be long before news of the killings at the stadium trickled through. Then they’d be on their phones to the police, telling them all about the disturbance.
br /> Pushing myself away from the wall, I stumbled left and started down a path that would hopefully lead me away from the projects. I tried to jog but it was too painful. I slowed to the fastest walk I could manage, bleeding with every step I took, head ringing, desperately wondering how far I could struggle on before I collapsed from loss of blood or shock.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ICLEARED THE HOUSING PROJECTS a few minutes later. In the distance police sirens screamed like banshees in the night. The stadium would be their first priority, but once word reached them of the scuffle in the projects, units would be sent to investigate.
As I stood bent over, panting for breath, I studied the path I’d taken and saw little puddles of blood marking my course — a clear trail for anyone who followed. If I was to progress any farther undetected, I’d have to do something about my wound.
I examined the hole. There was a tiny bit of shaft sticking out of it, attached to the arrowhead. I took hold of the light piece of wood, closed my eyes, bit down hard, and pulled.
“Charna’s guts!”
I fell back, shivering, fingers twitching, mouth opening and shutting rapidly. For maybe a minute, I knew only pain. The buildings around me could have collapsed and I wouldn’t have noticed.
Gradually the pain abated and I was able to study the wound again. I hadn’t managed to pull the head out, but I’d drawn it closer towards the hole, plugging it up. Blood still oozed out but it wasn’t flowing steadily like it had been. That would have to do. Tearing a long strip off my shirt, I balled it up and pressed it over the wound. After a few deep breaths, I got to my feet. My legs were shaking like a newborn lamb’s, but they held. I made sure I wasn’t dripping blood, then resumed my sluggish flight.
The next ten or fifteen minutes passed in a slow, agonized blur. I had enough sense left to keep moving, but I wasn’t able to take note of street names or plot a course back to the Cirque Du Freak. All I knew was that I couldn’t stop.