their opponent. As the purplish creature straightened and studied its foe, Larten fixed on the area around him, not on the monstrous man. He stood motionless, stake by his side, trying not to breathe.
Wester pushed himself off the floor and lashed out with his hammer. The killer caught it and calmly snapped off the head. As Wester stared despairingly at the piece of wood in his hand, the monster clubbed him over the head and he slumped. It was impossible to tell if he was unconscious or dead, and Larten had no time to worry about it.
The monster shifted away from Larten as it struck Wester. Larten was tempted to break for the stairs, but that was what the beast wanted. If he turned his back on the purple-skinned killer, he was finished for sure. So he held his ground, moving as little as possible, not blinking.
The monster faced Larten and narrowed its eyes, wary of this young but clearly far from foolish foe. The creature took a step forward, then smiled thinly and pounced, faster than the human eye could follow. But Larten had been trained to register the blur of a vampire. Seba had feinted at him on countless occasions, to sharpen his senses and teach him how to defend himself against an enemy quicker than he was.
As the killer lunged, Larten brought up the stake, judging it finely, trying to hit the spot where Seba would appear if this was just another test.
To his delight he struck flesh and the monster wheeled away, clutching its left arm. Larten had hoped to do more than just wound the creature, but at least this proved he had a chance. Adjusting his stance, he again focused on the area around him and waited for his opponent to make a second pass.
But the beast didn’t move. It was smiling broadly, almost smirking. Licking a finger, it ran spit over the shallow cut on its arm and the wound began to close.
Seba’s spit had the same healing properties. As far as Larten knew, that was only common to vampires. Confusion set in. Was this bizarre monster one of the clan? As Larten was trying to decide the nature of his foe, the killer spoke.
“You are a vampire’s assistant. I could smell your master’s scent, but I wanted to see you in action to be certain, hmmm?” The creature had an unfamiliar accent and an odd way of talking.
“What are you?” Larten snarled, not lowering his guard.
The beast frowned. “Your master has not told you about the vampaneze?”
Larten recalled Seba’s meeting with Paris Skyle. Seba had mentioned something then about vampaneze. Larten had filed the nugget away, to investigate the matter some other time. It seemed that time was now.
“You have the speed and spit of a vampire,” Larten said, “and you drink blood. But you’re not a vampire, are you?”
“I’d rather be a dog than a vampire. I have no time for those of the clan.” He spat out the word as if it was a curse. “I am of a purer breed. Vampaneze always drain our victims. We don’t leech off them like your master.”
“You kill every time you feed?” Larten gasped.
“It’s the proper way,” the vampaneze sniffed. “Vampires fed like us too, before they grew soft. We don’t feed often – there’s no need when you drink deeply – but when we do, we sup until we hit the bottom of the well, thus taking a shade of the victim’s soul and honouring them.”
“What are you talking about?” Larten asked.
The vampaneze tutted. “Your master has been lax. He should have told you that if a vampire drains a person dry, the vampire absorbs that person’s memories, keeping part of their soul alive. We vampaneze kill every time we feed, but those we target live on inside us for decades or centuries to come.”
“You think that makes it acceptable?” Larten snarled.
“Yes,” the vampaneze said. “Vampires did too, before they grew soft.”
Wester groaned and twitched. The vampaneze squinted at the unconscious boy. “He is one of the Flacks. I thought I’d killed them all. Generous of him to come to me like this. It would have been embarrassing if I’d left with the job half done, hmmm?”
As the killer stepped towards Wester, Larten slid between them. “Leave him alone.”
“You’re his friend?” the vampaneze asked.
“No,” Larten said. “I only met him for the first time today.”
“Then this is not your business,” the killer snapped. “You’re new to this, wet behind the ears, so I’m willing to overlook your interference. Vampires don’t meddle with our affairs and we don’t mess with theirs. I have the right to kill you for attacking me, but I’m prepared to let you leave. You can chalk it down to experience, hmmm? But the human dies. His father killed a friend of mine.”
“Wester had nothing to do with that,” Larten said, holding his ground.
The vampaneze shrugged. “In our world, the sins of the father are the sins of the sons. And the wife and daughters too. Last chance. Get out of my way.”
“No,” Larten said firmly. “If you want to kill Wester, you’ll have to kill me first.”
The purple-skinned man laughed. “So be it.”
The vampaneze was even faster this time. Larten managed to strike, but his arm was slapped aside and a hard palm banged into his chest. He flew across the room and slammed into a wall. Stars flashed before his eyes, but he blinked them away and tried to haul himself to his feet. The vampaneze, having followed, stopped him with a soft shove to his head.
As Larten collapsed, defeated, the vampaneze squatted beside him. “Abandon the boy,” he whispered. “If you renounce him, I’ll spare you, yes, I will. Why waste your life on a worthless human that you barely know?”
“I gave him… my word… that I would… help,” Larten gasped.
“But you cannot save him,” the vampaneze reasoned.
“Then I’ll… die with him. I gave… my word.”
The vampaneze’s blazing red eyes were terrifying, but Larten never lowered his gaze or flinched. Seba had taught him to face up to the things he was afraid of.
The vampaneze laid a jagged fingernail to the flesh of Larten’s throat. Larten wanted to close his eyes and pray, but didn’t. Instead he stared at his murderer, determined to die looking squarely at his executioner rather than cowering away from him.
The nail dug into Larten’s flesh and he tensed, sure that this was the end. But then the vampaneze withdrew his finger. Wiping blood on his trouser leg, he stood and smiled tightly at the confused boy.
“You will make a true vampire,” he said with grudging respect. “You’d fare better as a vampaneze – our way would suit a fiery pup like you, yes, it would – but you’ve chosen your master and I won’t ask you to break your pledge to him. But if you ever tire of the confines of the clan, seek me out.”
The vampaneze cracked his knuckles, then spat at the unconscious Wester, the same way that Larten had spat at the feet of the priest. “I shouldn’t have to leave, but if I don’t, he’ll come after me again and you’ll have to help him – since you’ve given your word – and I wouldn’t be able to pardon you a second time. Anyway, it’s been a while since I ran beneath a full sun. The sunburn will be good for me. We should all suffer every once in a while, hmmm?”
The purple-skinned creature walked to the steps, where he paused and looked back at the startled Larten Crepsley. “I won’t ask for your master’s name, just as I have not requested yours. But I am not afraid to give you mine. When he asks, tell your master that Murlough held your life in his hands and chose to be merciful. Let him and his clan brood on that the next time they’re belittling the good name of the vampaneze in the wretched Halls of Vampire Mountain.”
With a sneer, Murlough bounded up the steps and smashed aside the planks at the top. He raced out of the wreck and across the fields, already wincing