Vampire Destiny Trilogy. Darren Shan

a … what did ye call it?”

      “Grotesque,” Harkat said.

      “Aaarrr. Ye never shared a tent with a Grotesque, did ye? So ye know nothing about ’em. Ye’d be mad t’ risk it. And what about that crazy pink-haired mob? If they catch ye, they won’t be long offering ye up t’ that giant mongrel o’ theirs.”

      “What do you think the deal … is with them?” Harkat asked. “I believe they worship the Grotesque. That’s why they … sacrificed the boy.”

      “A fine how-d’ye-do!” Spits huffed. “’Tis one thing t’ go killing a stranger, but t’ willingly give up one o’ yer own—madness!”

      “They can’t do it often,” I noted. “There aren’t many of them. They’d die out if they made a human sacrifice every time the beast was hungry. They must feed it with sheep and other animals, and only offer up a human on special occasions.”

      “Should we try … talking to them?” Harkat asked. “Many civilized people in the past … offered human sacrifices to their gods. They might not be violent.”

      “I’ve no intention of putting them to the test,” I said quickly. “We can’t walk away from this—we saw them milk the snake’s fangs, and I’m pretty certain that poison is the holy liquid we need. But let’s not push our luck. There’s no telling what the people of this world are like. The Kulashkas might be lovely folk who welcome strangers with open arms—or they might feed us to the Grotesque the instant they set eyes on us.”

      “We’re stronger than them,” Harkat said. “We could fight them off.”

      “We don’t know that,” I disagreed. “We’ve no idea what these people are capable of. They could be ten times as strong as you or me. I say we hit the temple, grab the vials, and beat it quick.”

      “Forget the vials!” Spits pleaded. He’d been drinking heavily from his jug since we’d retreated to safety and was trembling worse than normal. “We can come back later if we need ’em.”

      “No,” Harkat said. “Darren’s right about the Kulashkas. But if we’re going to launch a … quick raid, we need to do it while the Grotesque is sleeping. We have to go after the … holy liquid now. You don’t have to come … if you don’t want.”

      “I won’t!” Spits said quickly. “I ain’t gonna chuck my life away on a crazy thing like this. I’ll wait out here. If ye don’t return, I’ll carry on ahead and look fer yer Lake o’ Souls myself. If it holds the dead like ye say, I might meet ye there!” He chuckled wickedly at that.

      “Will we go while it’s dark,” I asked Harkat, “or wait for morning?”

      “Wait,” Harkat said. “The Kulashkas might have sung themselves … to sleep by then.” The pink-haired people had returned to their village an hour after making their sacrifice, and had been singing, dancing and chanting ever since.

      We lay back and rested as the moon crossed the cloudless sky (typical—when we wanted clouds for cover, there weren’t any!), listening to the music of the strange Kulashkas. Spits kept sipping from his jug of poteen, his beady eyes getting smaller and smaller, tugging at the strands of his tied-back hair, muttering darkly about block-headed fools and their just comeuppances.

      The noise from the Kulashka village died away towards morning, and by dawn there was silence. Harkat and I shared a questioning glance, nodded and stood. “We’re going,” I told Spits, who was half dozing over his jug.

      “Wha’?” he grunted, head snapping up.

      “We’re going,” I said again. “Wait here. If we’re not back by night, go your own way and don’t worry about us.”

      “I won’t wait that long,” he sniffed. “I’ll be gone by midday, with ’r without ye.”

      “Suit yourself,” I sighed, “but you’d be less visible in the dark. It would be safer.”

      Spits’s features softened. “Ye’re mad,” he said, “but ye’ve more guts than any pirate I ever sailed with. I’ll wait till sunset and keep the poteen ready—ye might be glad of it if ye survive.”