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“A Vampire Prince!” Larten gasped, eyes widening. He didn’t know much about Seba’s past. He thought his master was a General, but he wasn’t certain. And even if he was, Larten figured he couldn’t be one of great importance, since he had so little to do with the rest of the clan.
“At least the boy is excited by the prospect,” Paris muttered sourly.
“Power always impresses the young and foolish,” Seba said dismissively.
Larten scowled at his master and almost snapped at him, but bit down on his tongue, not wanting to earn a thrashing in front of their visitor. “How do you become a Prince?” he instead asked Paris Skyle.
Seba frowned – he would have preferred Larten to listen some more before chipping in with questions – but Paris was happy to answer.
“A General is nominated by an existing Prince,” Paris explained. “If his fellow Princes approve – one can object, but no more than that – it’s put to the vote. That can take a few years, because at least three-quarters of the Generals must be asked. If the majority give their backing, he’s invested at the next Council.”
“But what do you have to do to be nominated?” Larten pressed.
“You must prove yourself worthy,” Seba cut in. “It starts with knowing when to ask questions and when to be silent.”
“Peace, old friend,” Paris laughed. “I have irritated you. Don’t take your anger out on the boy.”
“I am not angry,” Seba said. “I am amazed and humbled by your offer. But I must ask you not to take this further. If you do, I will have to publicly reject you and that would be embarrassing for both of us.”
“I don’t understand,” Paris growled. “You deserve this. You’re respected by everyone. If you were the power-seeking sort, you could have swung a nomination a couple of hundred years ago.”
“But I do not seek power,” Seba said quietly. He stared into the flames of the fire and spoke in a quiet tone that Larten had never heard him use before. “I fear true power, Paris. I have seen it twist people, change them beyond recognition. Some, like you, thrive on it and remain masters of their souls. But I do not believe that I would be one of those.
“There is much about the clan that I would change. I would have us regress to a simpler, purer way of life. I think we interact too much with humans. I dislike the Cubs and their war packs. I do not approve of the impasse between ourselves and the vampaneze. I would push for less personal freedom, more regimented control of ordinary vampires by the Generals, a tighter, more restricted community.”
“What’s wrong with any of that?” Paris asked. “I feel that way myself.”
“But you can act neutrally,” Seba said. “You can balance your personal wishes against those of the many. You are happy to make suggestions, but not impose your will. You consider both sides of most arguments.
“I could not. My emotions would get the better of me. I do not trust myself to act as selflessly as a Prince should. Please, Paris, do not tempt me. Some are fit to rule, but I am not one of them. If I accepted the power of a Prince, you would live to regret it. More importantly, so would I.”
Larten was bewildered by his master’s words. He had always thought Seba was in total control of himself, the equal of any challenge. It distressed him to think that Seba was afraid. The vampire had been urging Larten to overcome his fears for the last five years. How could he now back away from his own like this?
“The boy is disappointed,” Paris remarked, spotting Larten’s expression.
“Larten is sharp, but inexperienced,” Seba said stiffly. “He may see it my way in time. Or he may not.”
“If he doesn’t, I certainly do.” Paris laid a hand on Seba’s arm and smiled, then arched an eyebrow at Larten. “Wipe that look from your face!” he thundered. “An assistant should never dishonour his master, even by thinking poorly of him.”
“But… you said… I thought…”
“I think Seba is incorrect,” Paris said. “He would be a fine Prince, a credit to the clan. But I can only judge him by what I see. He judges himself by what he feels. We should all be so honest and true to ourselves. It takes a vampire of the highest integrity to acknowledge self-doubt. My respect for Seba has increased after our talk tonight. Yours should too.”
Talk turned to other matters. Larten listened for a while, then slipped away and idly explored the forest. Thinking back over everything he’d heard, he wondered who or what ‘war packs’ and the ‘vampaneze’ were — both terms were new to him. But mostly he pondered Seba’s rejection of power and tried to decide how that made him feel.
Paris had gone when Larten returned. The boy looked around in case the Prince was still in sight, but he and Seba were alone.
“Most vampires do not bother with farewells,” Seba said without looking up. “We live for so long that after a time we tire of saying goodbye. Do not take it as a sign of disrespect.”
Larten thought his master was avoiding his gaze because he was ashamed. But when he edged around the fire and caught Seba’s wistful look, he realised the vampire’s thoughts were elsewhere.
“You wish you had accepted,” Larten said softly.
Seba nodded. “Part of me craves power.” He smiled bitterly and glanced at his assistant. “But it is a part I do not like, a part I must always be wary of. I said you had mixed blood when I tested you, Larten. What I did not tell you was that I have it too. My master almost rejected me when he tasted my blood. But in the end he gave me a chance. He is long dead, but there are not many nights when I do not think of him and vow to honour his memory by denying the hunger of my lesser self.”
Seba sighed and fell silent. Larten quietly cleaned around the elderly vampire, quenching the fire, scattering the ashes, bagging the remains of the Wildcat.
Finally Seba stirred. “Did you notice Paris’s bare feet?” he asked.
It was an odd question, but Larten was accustomed to strange queries. “Yes. I assumed that was his preference.”
“No,” Seba said. “Some vampires disregard footwear as a matter of course, but Paris is not one of them. He has commenced his trek to Vampire Mountain, to attend the latest Council. When we undertake that trip, we cast our shoes aside and travel barefoot. It is one of the rules of the clan.”
“Are you going to the Council this time?” Larten asked.
“Aye,” Seba chuckled wryly. “Broken legs permitting.”
“And…” Larten hesitated.
“…will I take you with me?” Seba shook his head. “Human assistants do not make the trek. You must be at least a half-blood.”
“You’re leaving me behind by myself.” Larten wasn’t dismayed. He would be able to get by for a few months without the guiding hand of his master.
“I am leaving you,” Seba said, “but not by yourself. There is a reason why I have not cast aside my shoes yet. I wish to make a detour before I set off. An old friend of mine is travelling nearby and I think you will enjoy his fine company.” The old vampire smiled warmly. “Tell me, Larten, did you ever hear tales in your youth of the weird, wild and wonderful Cirque Du Freak?”
CHAPTER TEN
Gervil was on fire. Flames engulfed his lower legs, his hands, his torso and his face. People in the crowd were screaming. Some had fainted. A few fled by the exits at the back of the large tent. On the small stage, Gervil writhed, fell to his knees and rolled around as if trying to quench the flames.
A couple of the braver men tried to mount the stage and rush to Gervil’s aid. But as they clambered on to the boards, the owner of the Cirque Du Freak, Mr Tall, appeared before them suddenly. It was as if he’d materialised out of thin air.
“Please return to your seats, gentlemen,” Mr Tall murmured in his deep, croaky voice, his lips barely moving. “Your efforts are appreciated, but unnecessary.”
The men stared doubtfully at the impossibly tall, bony man in the dark suit and red hat. He had huge hands, black teeth and even blacker eyes. They’d seen him at the start when he introduced the show. He had looked merely strange then, eerie in appearance, but otherwise harmless. Now, staring up into his pitch-black eyes, the men felt uneasy, as if the tall owner of the fantastical circus was peering into their hearts and could stop them with a whistle if he wished.
“The Cirque Du Freak has been touring the world for more than three hundred years,” Mr Tall muttered, and even though he spoke softly, everyone in the tent heard him. “We have lost several audience members in grisly circumstances during that time — as I told you before the show began, this is a place of fabulous dangers and we cannot guarantee your safety. But in all those years we have never lost a performer. And we will not break that fine record tonight. Observe!”
Mr Tall stepped aside and the people in the crowd saw that Gervil had stopped struggling. He was sitting in the middle of the stage, still covered in flames, but grinning. He waved at the stunned spectators, jumped to his feet and took a bow. As they realised this was part of his act and went wild with applause, Mr Tall slipped off stage and paused out of sight of the audience, where Larten was watching, mesmerised as he had been every time he’d seen Gervil in action.
“A lively pack tonight,” Mr Tall said. “But I think they will be quiet after this.” He studied the toys and sweets on the tray that Larten was holding. He picked up a statue of Gervil and frowned. It would stay lit for more than a month once its owner set it on fire. That was impressive, but Mr Tall wanted the flames to last for a year. He walked off with the statue, stroking the side of his cheek, considering the problem. Larten barely noticed. He was entranced by the real Gervil, who had now brought a woman on stage and was letting her set his tongue on fire.
Larten had been travelling with the Cirque Du Freak for six weeks and he still found himself transfixed at each performance. Tonight’s show had started normally enough. After Mr Tall’s introduction, a group of scantily clad dancing ladies had taken to the stage, to the delight of the men in the audience. Mr Tall didn’t like the dancers – he felt they cheapened the show – but they were expected. By the end, nobody would remember them — they’d stream away yammering about Gervil, Laveesha and the rest. But many had come to see semi-naked ladies, and Mr Tall knew that it paid to give your audience what it wanted. At least to begin with.
Rax, the human hammer, followed the dancers. He could hammer nails into wood and stone blocks using his head. It was a fun but unspectacular act. Merletta, a magician married to Verus the Ventriloquist, followed Rax. She was a skilled magician and wore almost as little as the dancers, so she was warmly received. But, like Rax, she offered nothing out of the ordinary.
Gervil was the first of the magical freaks. His appearance marked the real start of the show. The lucky people in the crowd would be taken on a voyage of dreamy, unbelievable dimensions from this point on. By the time they filed out an hour or so before midnight, their imaginations would never be the same again.
The hairless Gervil could set his flesh on fire and not be burnt. It was a truly remarkable gift. Larten knew that many people came to the Cirque Du Freak convinced it was a sham. And while they fell into a wondrous spell during the performances, he was sure a lot of them would convince themselves in the cold light of day that it had all been a clever act.
Larten knew better. He had travelled with these people, eaten with them, run errands for them, traded tales with them. Each performer was genuine. Mr Tall had no place in his show for fakes.
Gervil finished by setting his eyeballs on fire – that part of the act still shocked Larten – then left the stage to riotous applause. There was a break after that, during which Larten wove through the crowd, selling wares from his tray, shaking his head with a smile whenever he was asked how Gervil had endured the flames.
Salabas and Laveesha were the stars of the second act, Merletta sandwiched between them in order to allow the crowd to draw its breath. She often performed in all three acts, a variety of impressive tricks. She had amazed with playing cards to begin with. Now she displayed her escapology skills, wriggling free of chains and shackles, topping it off with an escape from beneath a dropping frame of stakes. Her routine was slick and exciting, but nothing compared to the pair set either side of it.
Salabas Skin looked like an ordinary person. He told a short story about his life and made it sound very dull. “But then, one day, I had an itch. I tugged at my skin and lo and behold…” He grabbed the flesh of his right forearm and pulled. The skin stretched away from the bone as if it was made of some supple fabric.
To gasps of disbelief and delight, Salabas proceeded to stretch the skin all over his body. He pulled out the wall of his stomach by nine inches on either side. Tugging the flesh of his face, he invited audience members up and had them attach more than fifty pegs to his cheeks. He tied the skin of his chest into a bow.
His grand finale involved Salabas gathering the skin of his throat. He raised it higher and higher until it formed a weird mask over his mouth and nose. It was both disgusting and hilarious. Salabas exited to a huge round of cheers, as he did every night.
Laveesha was billed as the tattooed lady. Most freak shows had a tattooed performer, someone who showed off their fleshly display of art, but Laveesha’s tattoos were mystical and spellbinding. They changed shape whenever somebody sat close to her and stared at them. The inks would shimmer and run, break apart, then reform to reveal a new image, reflecting a hidden desire or secret of the person watching.
Laveesha always warned her volunteers of the power of her tattoos, and urged them not to come close if they had any deep, dark secrets they wished to hide from the world. Killers had revealed their murderous deeds in her presence. So had other criminals. Many more had brought forth the faces of people they lusted after, or images of loved ones who had died.
Her show was unsettling and upsetting. Yet volun-teers always came, even after the first few had reeled away from the tattoos in tears or screaming or protesting their innocence. They were drawn to her, compelled to approach, darkly fascinated by what their souls would reveal. It was like having a mirror that showed only the features you least wanted to behold. A person might hate such a mirror, yet still feel driven to stare into it.
Laveesha could have entertained a steady stream of customers all night, but she stopped after the sixth. She was a superstitious woman and didn’t like a straight string of seven clients. But as she took her bows, a number of people slipped away to meet her in her tent for a private audience. Individuals sought out Laveesha after every show, even though she never offered her services or told them where her tent was. Larten could have eavesdropped on those meetings, but he didn’t, partly because it would have been rude, mostly because he was scared of what he might learn.
He circulated with his tray during the second interval. Dolls of Salabas Skin disappeared from it like magic — they always sold well, especially the versions which you could eat. But although there were beautifully crafted dolls of Laveesha, featuring a variety of tattoos, Larten only sold a couple of them. If he had been responsible for production of the merchandise, he wouldn’t have bothered with any doll of Laveesha. But Mr Tall made most of the sweets, toys and dolls, and for him the reward lay in the creation more than the sales.
“Having no need for money, I would happily give my wares away,” he’d told Larten one day, “but humans don’t appreciate anything unless they pay for it.”
Larten had noted the tall man’s use of the word humans, but made no comment. There was a lot more to Mr Tall than met the eye, but the owner of the Cirque Du Freak guarded his secrets carefully and Larten figured he would learn more by watching than by asking questions.
Acrobats spun around the stage while Larten and his team sold goods to the crowd. Most of the acrobats doubled as the dancing ladies at the start, only now they were dressed in different costumes. Once they’d departed, a couple of clowns caused chaos in the aisles, drenching people with water and telling rude jokes. Mr Tall was a master when it came to judging the mood of an audience. Laveesha was a true star, but she had a grim effect on the crowd. These simple entertainers were his way of shifting the show back on track for an uplifting finale guaranteed to send everyone away with a smile. (On other occasions he kept Laveesha back until the end and sent the audience away uneasily into the night. He liked to experiment with the line-up.)
As the clowns rolled away, fighting and cursing, Verus the Ventriloquist took to the stage. He started with a dummy, like any other of his kind. But after a few minutes he put the wooden figure aside and pointed at a woman near the front.
“I think you have been secretly admiring me, madam,” he said.
The woman looked shocked and opened her mouth to protest. But what came out was, “Yes, Verus, you’re the most dashing man I’ve ever seen.”
Her husband started to roar at her, but his angry cry changed halfway through and instead he said, “I’ve been admiring you too, Verus!”
The crowd erupted with laughter as they realised Verus was manipulating the pair, working them as he had the dummy. The laughter never stopped as Verus picked on one member of the audience after another, having them say whatever he wanted them to, but in their voices, not his.
As Verus drew his act to a close, Merletta came on one last time. Verus cocked an eyebrow at her, but she shook her head. He focused and pointed both hands at her. He was trembling slightly. Merletta only smiled, then crooked a finger in Verus’s direction. He fell to his knees and declared, “You’re beautiful, Merletta! You’re the real star of the show!”
To a chorus of cheers and whistles, Verus rose and passionately kissed Merletta before exiting the stage. In real life the ventriloquist and magician were married, but they never told that to an audience. It was more fun to let people think that Merletta had turned the tables on Verus.
After a few small tricks, Merletta sawed a woman in half, then made herself vanish. Mr Tall came on with the final performer, Deemanus Dodge. As the stage was cleared, Larten and others went through the crowd, handing out rotten fruit and vegetables, along with dirt-encrusted rocks and chunks of coal.
“Ladies and gentlemen — observe!” Mr Tall yelled, producing a bar of solid gold. A hush fell over the audience, all eyes pinned on the yellow bar. It was a genuine fortune. Though there were some wealthy people in the crowd, most were poor and had to scrape by in life, surviving day to day in a hard, cruel world. A bar of gold like this would change their lives forever.
“You have all paid an entrance fee and bought many of our trinkets, for which we bid you thanks,” Mr Tall said. “But you do not have to go home lighter of pocket. We will give you a chance to win this gold bar and walk out of here rich beyond your wildest dreams. When I leave, Deemanus will issue a challenge. If any of you get the better of him, this bar will be yours.”
Mr Tall glided off stage and Deemanus stepped forward. He was wearing a white suit and a matching bowler hat. He smiled at the silent, covetous crowd. “It’s very simple, good ladies and gents. All you have to do is throw your missiles – that is to say, the objects that have been handed out – at me. You can throw other things too: shoes, coins, whatever you like. The first person to hit me wins the gold bar.”
Deemanus stood there, smiling and waiting. For a few seconds nobody moved. Most people were frowning, trying to figure out the catch — winning a gold bar could never be that simple. Then one man, a bit quicker or greedier than the rest, stood up and threw a head of cabbage at the stage.
Deemanus stepped aside as the cabbage sailed past. “A lame first shot,” he chided the man. “Surely the rest of you can do better than that.”
As soon as he said it, objects rained down on him from all directions. People threw manically, savagely, fruit, vegetables, rocks and coal. Some tore off their shoes or snatched trinkets from their pockets and lobbed those at him. Many raced to the front of the stage for a better shot, tussling with those in their way. One over-eager man produced a gun in his furious excitement and fired two shots at the performer.
Deemanus dodged everything, even the bullets. He didn’t move at an incredible speed, but simply seemed to dance around the stage, making tiny adjustments to his limbs to avoid the flying objects.
It seemed to last an age, but in reality the act lasted no more than a minute. The rain of objects trickled to a drizzle, then ceased. People were panting, wide-eyed, staring hungrily at Deemanus, scouring his suit for the slightest smudge. But it was spotless. He turned slowly, letting everyone see, even taking off his hat to display the top of it. Then, with a wink, he bowed and skipped from the stage.
Disappointment gave way to chuckles. People laughed at others and themselves, appreciating the humour in their wild display. A few looked genuinely bitter, but most had enjoyed the sport. The applause, as Mr Tall took to the stage to bid them goodnight, was deafening. They filed out in high spirits, buying more of the toys and sweets from Larten and his crew, before strolling home to catch as much sleep as they could before work early in the morning.
As the last patron left, Larten stowed his tray, then returned to the tent to help clean the stage. This was the only part he disliked, but with lots of people chipping in, they swept up quickly enough. By midnight he was sitting by a huge fire with the cast and crew of the circus, enjoying a hot drink and the warm glow of having been part of another legendary, unique and freakishly fabulous performance.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Larten woke late in the morning and lay smiling up at the wooden ceiling of his caravan. He studied the rays of light streaming through a crack in the curtains. It reminded him of home, the mornings when he’d stirred before the others to catch the rising sun. But the memories didn’t hurt. There had been times when Larten missed his family, and he still missed Vur. But many years had passed. He liked his new life and never looked back with regret.
Larten had a quick bath in a tub of chilly water out back. He shared the caravan with Verus and Merletta, and although the magician was easy-going in most ways, she was strict when it came to cleanliness. She insisted that Larten wash every third day. He had grumbled a lot to begin with, but now he didn’t mind. After Larten had dried himself, he dressed and reported for duty. People were already dismantling the tent, supervised by Mr Tall. Larten helped stack and move chairs, then joined in the rolling of the canvas, an arduous but enjoyable task in which most members of the circus took part.
By midday everything was packed away neatly and the troupe took to the road in their horse-drawn carriages. Larten rode up front with Verus, enjoying the scenery from his seat beside the ventriloquist. Verus never forced words from the mouths of his friends — he kept his special talent for the stage. He was a quiet man at times like this, saying little, focused on the horse.
When Larten tired of the scenery, he withdrew and asked Merletta to teach him some tricks. He didn’t have any freakish abilities, so he could never be a star at the Cirque Du Freak. But he had a quick hand and a keen eye, and was able to copy any trick once he’d seen it performed slowly. Merletta said he could carve out a career for himself as a magician if that was the path he wished to take. Larten knew he wouldn’t – his heart was set on becoming a Vampire General – but it was fun to play at being a magician’s apprentice.
Merletta ran him through a few of the card tricks that he’d already mastered, then taught him some new moves. He was able to slide cards around swiftly between his fingers and could make them disappear and reappear at will. Merletta was sure that he would soon overtake her in this discipline if he stuck with it. He was a natural at cards.
When it came to locks, chains and handcuffs, Larten already outshone his tutor. Merletta had never seen anyone pick a lock as swiftly or easily as the orange-haired teenager. There wasn’t much she could teach him about escapology — once he’d learnt the basics, he had sprinted ahead of her.
Larten strolled between caravans later, visiting the friends he had made since linking up with the Cirque Du Freak. Some performers were vain and didn’t mingle much – Gervil and Rax were especially pompous – but most were welcoming, as were the crew. Larten had never been more relaxed than he was here. If he hadn’t felt the itch to explore the night, he would have been delighted to put down roots and call the circus home.
He wound up in Mr Tall’s caravan. The owner of the travelling show was a solitary man. During their long hours of travel, he kept to himself. He didn’t like physical contact with other people and hadn’t even shaken Seba’s hand when the vampire dropped off Larten. The pair were old friends – Mr Tall had received his visitor warmly and they’d swapped tales for hours – but the giant preferred not to touch those he mixed with.
Although Mr Tall didn’t usually encourage visits, he had told Larten to call in on him as often as he liked. Perhaps it was because Larten was Seba’s assistant, or maybe he had seen something in the orange-haired youth that interested him. Either way, the pair spent a couple of hours together most days.
Mr Tall was working on a Laveesha doll when Larten knocked and entered. The oversized man had enormous hands, but his fingers were even nimbler than Larten’s. Using his fingernails and a tiny, sharpened piece of glass, he could make adjustments to a doll or statue that others could only see with the aid of a magnifying glass.
Mr Tall passed Larten a small set of jars filled with paint and he set to work on the pieces awaiting his attention. They often worked in silence like this, but on some days Mr Tall asked about Larten’s past, or told him stories of Seba, Paris and other vampires. Larten always listened intently, absorbing every word, eager to learn anything that he could about the clan.
“Seba sends you his regards,” Mr Tall said after a while. “He is doing well and has almost made it to Vampire Mountain. No broken legs yet.”
The pair shared a chuckle. Even though he wasn’t a vampire, Mr Tall was able to bond mentally with members of the clan. When two vampires bonded, one was able to find the other no matter where in the world they were. They could also trade basic messages. Larten didn’t know how Mr Tall was able to bond with vampires, but he had no intention of asking. Mr Tall was even more secretive than Seba Nile.
“You hunger to follow in his footsteps,” Mr Tall noted.
“Aye,” Larten nodded, sighing happily at the thought of making the trek to the legendary mountain.
“It’s a hard life,” Mr Tall said. “Long, perilous, dark. You would have a much more rewarding career if you remained with us and worked on your stage skills.”
Larten hadn’t told Mr Tall about his lessons with Merletta, but he wasn’t surprised that the circus owner knew.
