Ocean of Blood

Chapter Nineteen

Larten blew his nose, doubled over and coughed. His face was red when he came up for air and he had to spit a mouthful of thick, horrible phlegm into an already laden handkerchief.

“Give me that,” Malora said, taking the snot-riddled rag and handing him a fresh replacement. Her nose wrinkled as she dropped the handkerchief into a tub of hot water. This was the fifth he’d gone through since sunset.

“I didn’t think vampires could catch the flu,” Malora muttered.

“It is rare,” Larten groaned. “We are immune to most sicknesses. But when the strain of vampire flu strikes, it strikes hard.”

He shivered and pulled his blanket tighter around himself, even though it did no good. He had come down with the symptoms a couple of weeks earlier. He’d worsened steadily for ten nights, but then seemed to recover. He was surprised by his rapid comeback — vampire flu often killed those it struck, or stayed in their system for months on end.

Malora pressed the back of her hand to the vampire’s forehead, checking his temperature. She hadn’t learned much in her years with Evanna, but she’d picked up some helpful healing tips.

“Drink more broth,” she grunted.

“What about ale?” Larten asked hopefully.

“If I catch you anywhere near a mug of ale, you’ll be sleeping in the street,” she snapped. It was a familiar threat and he knew better than to dismiss it lightly. She had driven him from his room more than once in the past when he’d drunk too much and irritated her.

Larten blew his nose again and studied Malora over the top of his handkerchief. She had grown into a beautiful young woman. She kept her hair short and wore trousers more often than skirts, since they were easier to travel in, but nobody could have mistaken her for a boy. She caught the eyes of gentlemen wherever they went. But even though she’d celebrated her sixteenth birthday earlier in the year — an age at which, in Larten’s youth, many girls had already married and given birth — she had never shown any interest in the men who wished to woo her.

“Are there no spells you could use to clear this up?” Larten asked.

“Evanna probably knows a few,” Malora said with fake sincerity. “We could visit her if you like.”

Larten blanched and his fingers went automatically to his scar, which he traced from top to bottom. The prominent scar would have been considered disfiguring by humans, but he carried it with pride. It reminded him of his foolishness, but also his daring and good fortune — there were few vampires who could say they had invoked the wrath of the Lady of the Wilds and lived to tel the tale.

He shuffled to the window and stared at the street outside. There weren’t many lamps, but he could see clearly, albeit through watery eyes. He wasn’t sure where they were staying. Malora had guided him for the last fortnight. They usually slept in crypts or caves, but she had insisted on inns while he was sick. He’d resisted at first — he thought clear air would be better for him — but he was so il by the third night that he would have slept on top of a giant needle if she’d ordered it.

As he was staring out the window, he saw an elderly gentleman approach. The man had long, white hair and a flowing, silver beard. His right ear had been cut off long ago and his face was lined with wrinkles. Although he looked ancient, and was even older than he appeared, he walked with a spring in his step that many younger men lacked.

“I do not believe it,” Larten gasped. “Paris Skyle!”

“The Prince?” Malora asked.

“Aye. You know him?”

“Only by reputation.” She stuck out an arm as an excited Larten tried to dart past her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To catch him,” Larten said impatiently. “I have not seen Paris in ages. I must stop him before he —”

“It could be coincidence that of all the inns in the world, he happens to pass by this one,” Malora said witheringly. “But what are the odds of that?”

“You think he has come to see me?” Larten asked, delight giving way to nervousness.

“Have another look — has he moved on or is he coming in?”

Larten returned to the window and watched as Paris paused, studied the sign outside the inn, then entered.

“You are as canny as Evanna,” he muttered.

“Nowhere near,” Malora sniffed. “But even the dumbest woman has more sense than the average man. Wait!” she shouted as Larten tried to push past her again.

“What now?” he scowled.

“You’re not meeting a Prince dressed like that,” she said firmly. He hadn’t changed his clothes recently. They were filthy and smelly, spattered with dry — and some fresh — flecks of spit and snot.

“Paris is a vampire Prince,” Larten said. “They do not care about looks.”

“Be that as it may, I’m not letting you leave in such a state. I’m going to cal for a hot bath. Once you’ve bathed, dressed in clean clothes and blown your nose a few more times, you can present yourself to him.”

“But if he is waiting for me —” Larten exploded.

“ — he will have to be patient,” Malora finished calmly. “I’l take him a glass of wine to keep him quiet — they don’t have a great selection here, but there are a few nice bottles tucked away in the back — and say that you’ll be with him presently.”

“How do you know what wine they have?” Larten asked as she let herself out.

“I’m your assistant,” Malora said. “It’s my job to know things like that. Now make sure you’re undressed by the time I get back, and don’t be shy, you don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”

“Malora!” Larten gasped, but she was already gone.

Paris was amused and impressed by Malora, and when Larten was finally all owed to present himself to his elderly friend, they spent the early part of the night discussing her. He told the Prince how they’d met and grinned sheepishly as Paris howled with laughter when he heard how Larten had acquired his scar.

“Don’t tell anyone else that story,” Paris chuckled.

“Let them think you got it fighting a lion or a vampaneze.”

“Evanna is far more dangerous than that,” Larten said.

“Aye, but she’s still a woman. Trust me, if you want to keep your reputation, be mysterious about this.”

“I did not think that I had a reputation,” Larten said glumly.

“In some quarters you do,” Paris replied kindly. “You’re not the first vampire to lose his way. We understand how difficult it can be to choose the path of the Generals. If you return to the fold, you’ll find us more welcoming than you imagine. We’ll even accept your strange choice of assistant.”

“Malora is not a real assistant,” Larten said. “She does not show any interest in being blooded. I think she just likes having someone to boss around.”

“Show me a woman who doesn’t,” Paris chortled and called for another glass of the interesting wine Malora had found for them.

The pair chatted the night away, retiring to a cozy back room when all the other customers had gone to bed, where they drank by the light of a single fat candle. Paris sipped wine and Larten quaffed ale. (He would get into trouble for defying Malora, but he didn’t care. This was an occasion for ale.) Paris relayed the latest news from Vampire Mountain. Seba and Wester were well. Wester had become a guard and was proud as a peacock.

“Seba is just as proud,” Paris said.

Larten was too, though it reminded him of his own failures and he had to strain to keep his smile in place.

Paris gave Larten some advice on the best way to fight off the flu. The Prince had endured a few bad cases himself over the centuries and he recommended herbs that were no longer fashionable but that had eased the worst of his suffering in the past.

“But to be honest, you just have to ride it out as best you can,” he added. “It will plague you for at least another month. It comes and goes in waves, so don’t think you’ve beaten it. Wrap up warm, heed Malora’s advice, and pray to the gods to let you live if that’s their will.”

Shortly before dawn, when they both had a rosy glow from the wine and ale, Paris spoke of his real reason for tracking down the stray vampire.

“Seba is in poor spirits,” he said.

“Sick?” Larten yelped with alarm.

“No — upset. He misses you, but there’s more to it than that. Seba doesn’t care whether or not you become a General, live among humans or take some other path. He just wants you to be happy. But from reports he’s received over the years, you’re not. He senses you struggling and wandering blindly. That troubles him.”

“I never wanted to disappoint Seba,” Larten said miserably. “I wanted him to be proud of me, like he is of Wester.”

“Then give him something to be proud of,” Paris said softly but pointedly. “In the name of the gods, Larten, choose. You’re not a new-blood. You’ve enjoyed your wild years and had time to reflect since distancing yourself from the clan. Surely by now you must have some idea of what you want to do with your life.”

Larten sighed. “It is complicated. I yearn to be a General, but I feel there is more I must do before I return and complete my training. I do not know what, but at the moment the thought of coming back…” He shook his head.

“What if you could train outside of Vampire Mountain?” Paris asked. “I could be your tutor and teach you as we travel.”

Larten was stunned by the offer. Seba had said that the Princes were interested in him, but he hadn’t believed it — he’d thought his old master was merely trying to flatter him. This was an amazing opportunity. Only a fool would turn it down. The chance to train under a Prince would probably never come his way again. And yet…

For some reason Larten recalled the ticking sound he’d heard in Evanna’s cave. That noise disturbed his dreams occasionally, though he had no idea why, just as he didn’t know why he should think of it now.

“Sleep on it,” Paris said, seeing the flicker of temptation in Larten’s bloodshot eyes. He rose and stretched. “There’s no rush. I don’t have to leave for a few more nights. Think it over. Discuss it with Malora. I won’t press you for an answer.”

“You are too good to me, Sire,” Larten mumbled, bowing his head respectfully.

“I know,” Paris laughed, then went upstairs to the room that Malora had prepared for him, where he was stunned to find a coffin lying on a couple of tables. “Now this is what I cal first-class service,” he murmured as he lay inside and happily pulled the lid closed over himself.

Chapter Twenty

As soon as Larten rose in the afternoon, Malora scolded him for drinking the night before. He tried to defend his actions and said he thought the ale had done him some good, but she made him take a cold bath to purge himself of the evils of alcohol. Afterwards he told her of Paris’s offer and asked her opinion. She thought about it a long time before answering.

“It’s not a question of if you become a General but when. ”

Larten was surprised by her certainty. “You think so?”

“You were born to be a General. It’s just a matter of whether you think this is the right time to complete your training or if you’d rather roam the world a few more years, moping about what a hard choice you have to face.”

“That is a cruel way to put it,” Larten muttered.

“But true,” she smirked. “I don’t know why you’ve strayed for so long. I doubt you even know that yourself. If you feel this is the wrong time to commit, say no to Paris. But you should consider the possibility that the right time might never come. Maybe you’ll feel indecisive all your life and you just have to pick a moment to say, I am going to become a General, damn the consequences. ” She did an accurate impression of him and he found himself smiling.

“What about you?” Larten asked. “If I return to the clan, you will have to study hard before I can blood you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Malora snorted. “I’ve no intention of letting you blood me. Vampirism doesn’t interest me in the slightest.”

Larten gaped at her. “Then why, by the black blood of Harnon Oan, have you been following me around the world?” he thundered.

“You really thought I wanted to become a vampire?” she asked. When he nodded, she sighed. “I knew you were naive but I didn’t think you were that dense.” As he puffed himself up to bellow at her, she reached out and gently caressed his scar. Her touch calmed him.

“I never wanted to join the clan,” Malora said softly. “I said I did because that was what you needed to hear. I don’t care about returning to the human world either. I only want to be with you for all the nights and days that I have left. I knew you were the man for me the moment I saw you.”

“Wait a minute!” Larten gulped. He hadn’t been expecting a declaration of love. “You’re a child,” he wheezed.

“A young lady,” she corrected him. “And getting older. I’m patient. I can wait until you decide I’m old enough.”

“But —”

“If you’re about to say that I’ll always be a girl in your eyes,” she interrupted sharply, “don’t. You might reject me, but don’t insult me. I won’t stand for that, not from any man, even the love of my life.”

“The love of…” Larten echoed weakly.

“You don’t need to do anything now,” Malora said sweetly. “You’re slow, like most men, but you’ll catch up soon and realize you love me as much as I love you. I just want you to know that, in the meantime, I’ll follow you no matter where you go. Your path is mine because my heart is yours.

“Now go enjoy yourself with Paris. I’ll be waiting for you when you get back. I’ll always wait for you, my love.”

With that she shooed him out of the room and left him to stare at the closed door in bewilderment. After he’d scratched his head for the sixth time, he turned he’d scratched his head for the sixth time, he turned and trudged down the steps to get a drink and mull things over.

Paris was nowhere to be found — Larten assumed the elderly Prince was still asleep — but a middle-aged man with a beard was sitting at one of the tables, writing in a notebook. He hailed Larten and invited him over. As Larten cautiously sat, the man said, “You’re Master Skyle’s friend, aren’t you?”

Larten relaxed. “You know Paris?”

“Oh, yes,” the man beamed. “My name’s Abraham, but please cal me Bram.”

Larten gave his own name, shook hands and accepted the mug of ale he was offered.

“What are you writing?” Larten asked.

“Just a few ideas for a story I’m researching.”

“You write stories?” Larten was interested. He had met several authors over the decades and found them a curious bunch.

“Novels, mostly. You might have heard of The Snake’s Pass, perhaps?”

Larten shook his head. “I am not a reader. I never learned.” He expected the man to look surprised, maybe even sneer at him, but Bram only shrugged.

“You might be better off. Writing is my life — on top of running a theater — but I often think I’d have been more successful and a lot happier if I’d never taken up a pen. The muse is a cruel mistress.”

Larten pressed Bram for details of his books and the theater. He learned that the writer was from Ireland but now lived in London, “when I’m not trotting around Europe trying to finish this dratted novel!”

When Larten asked about his new book, Bram waved aside the question. “I never discuss a work in progress. I don’t want to jinx myself. Tel me about your life instead. You’re a vampire like Paris, aren’t you?”

“A vampire, aye, but hardly like Paris,” Larten chuckled.

“He’s something of a legend, isn’t he?” Bram smiled.

“Among vampires, certainly,” Larten agreed. Over the next few hours he told Bram some of his favorite Paris Skyle stories, becoming more eloquent the more he drank. After a while Bram asked if he could take notes, “just for fun,” and Larten said that of course he could.

Bram was interested in the rest of the clan, as well as the vampaneze. He wanted to know when vampires had stopped killing when they fed, and if any ever overstepped the mark now.

“Never,” Larten said. “The punishment is severe if you break that law.”

“A stake through the heart?” Bram guessed.

“Or something similarly fatal,” Larten nodded.

“The stake tradition started with Vlad, I suppose,” Bram murmured, trying to disguise his interest in the answer.

“Vlad?” Larten blinked.

“Vlad the Impaler? Also known as Vlad Tepes or Vlad Dracula? He was one of the clan, wasn’t he?”

“No, you interfering busybody,” somebody growled behind them. “He was not.”

Larten stared up at a glowering Paris Skyle, who had appeared behind Bram’s chair. Bram choked back a gulp and turned, smiling shakily. “Good evening, Paris, I’m glad to see —”

“What have you been telling this scribe?” Paris snarled.

“Nothing much,” Larten said hesitantly, beginning to realize that he had been speaking freely with someone he didn’t know. “He asked about you and the clan.”

“And you told him what he wanted to hear?” Paris snapped.

Larten flushed. “Yes. I was open with him. He said that he knew you and I did not think I needed to be wary in his company.”

“Think a bit harder next time,” Paris said coldly, then placed a hand on Bram’s shoulder and squeezed. Bram winced, but didn’t try to escape. “You’re persistent, Master Stoker. I assume you sent me the message requesting my presence across town. You wanted my friend to yourself for a while, aye?”

“I need more facts for my story,” Bram said quietly.

“Facts? I thought it was going to be a work of fiction.”

“It is. I gave you my word that I wouldn’t do anything to expose or harm the clan. But the more I know about you, the more steps I can take to ensure I don’t write something that accidentally leads people to investigate your movements.”

“If you didn’t write about us at all, you could be even surer,” Paris said icily.

“Someone’s going to write about vampires sooner or later,” Bram said. “Would you prefer a work of fiction, where I blur the truth and give the world something fantastical, or a tome that mentions Vampire Mountain, Generals and the rest?”

Paris thought about that, then removed his hand. “Perhaps you’re correct. If your story tricks people into thinking that vampires are mythical beasts, it may do some good. Not that I think many will read it — people want uplifting tales, not morbid stories of bloodsucking creatures of the night.”

“You might be surprised,” Bram said, picking up his pen again. “You’ll answer my questions?”

“Aye,” Paris nodded, “but not tonight. I’m entertaining a friend. Remain a few nights and I will let you have your… how did you put it last time… your interview with a vampire.”

“Can we shake on that?” Bram asked, extending a hand.

“No,” Paris said flatly. “A vampire doesn’t need to shake hands once he has given his word. Go from here, Abraham Stoker, and give me the space I asked for. I will speak with you shortly.”

Bram nodded and gathered his belongings. “Sorry if I got you into trouble,” he said to Larten.

“Move along,” Paris barked. “We haven’t dined yet and that neck of yours looks ripe for the biting.”

Bram flashed Paris a dark look, then backed away from the table, tossed some coins to the innkeeper and let himself out. Paris watched him leave, then sat and called for a glass of wine.

“Sire, I’m sorry if I —” Larten began.

“It matters not,” Paris said curtly. “That man has been dogging my footsteps for three years. He would have forced a confrontation eventually. I’m not worried. I’m sure his book won’t amount to much even if it’s published, which I doubt. Let us speak of more important issues. Have you considered what we spoke of?”

Larten nodded.

“And?”

If Paris had asked the question a few hours earlier, Larten would have accepted the Prince’s offer to train him. But his careless conversation with Bram Stoker had disturbed him. Paris had made light of it, but Larten knew he should have been more circumspect. Even new-bloods didn’t discuss the clan with anyone they couldn’t trust completely. Larten’s self-confidence had been shaken. He could have taken more time to answer — Paris wasn’t rushing him — but his head was sore from the flu, which seemed to be returning with a vengeance, and the ale was sitting heavily in his stomach. Al he wanted was to slink back to his room to brood.

“I thank you for offering to take me under your wing, but I do not think that I am ready to resume my lessons,” he said.

Paris sighed. “I had hoped for a different answer.”

“I am sorry to disappoint you, Sire. I mean no disrespect.”

“You must do as your heart dictates, of course, but…” Paris hesitated, then pressed on. “Wander if you must, Larten, but the longer you live in exile, the more risks you run.”

“Risks, Sire?” Larten frowned.

“You risk losing yourself forever,” Paris said. “You might never find your path, and end up becoming something bitter and adrift. This world can corrupt a lone vampire. We are beings of the night, but the darkness is a dangerous place for one without friends.”

“I have Malora,” Larten said softly.

“She might face even worse dangers,” Paris retorted, then grimaced. “But I’m doing what I said I wouldn’t, trying to persuade you. Ignore my last comments. I am old and addled. Like all old men, I see pitfalls where none exist. You are eager to return to your room, I know, but pray have one last drink with me. I promise not to speak of this matter again.”

Larten had a final drink with Paris, but he couldn’t enjoy it. He kept thinking about what the Prince had said. Talk of dangers in the darkness had unsettled him. He had survived this long by himself and never felt under threat. And no harm could befall Malora while she had Larten to protect her. Yet he sensed truth — almost a prediction — in Paris’s warning.

Coughing heavily, wiping phlegm from his lips with one of the handkerchiefs that Malora had washed clean for him that morning, Larten struggled to pinpoint the source of his unease, but he couldn’t. He decided in the end that the flu had simply sapped him of his strength. That was why he felt so gloomy. It would pass when he got better. Everything would be fine then, he was sure of it. After all, in this world of humans, he was little better than a monster, and what did a monster have to be afraid of in the dark?

Chapter Twenty-one

“Going to sea!” Larten snarled, dragging himself towards the docks.

“This is a bad idea,” Malora gasped, trying to tug him back, but having as much luck as a dog would have with an elephant.

“Want to sail… the seven seas.” Larten laughed. “Sick of these towns and… cities. Got to keep… going. Don’t trust land.”

He stopped in the middle of the street and glared at the people who were looking at him oddly. He was dressed in a smart pair of trousers and a dirty white sweater that he’d bought from a sailor the night before, with a shoe on his right foot and an old boot on his left. He was holding a lady’s umbrella over his head to protect him from the sun.

Malora thought that the sweater had put the idea into his head. The flu was ultimately to blame — it had ebbed and flared in him over the last six weeks, and was now worse than ever — but he’d been content to stay inside and follow her lead until he bought that stupid sweater. As soon as he pulled it on, he began ranting about going to sea — he had smelled the salt air a couple of nights before when they’d come to this town. She’d managed to calm him and get him to sleep, but he had woken with the notion fresh in his head. Without pausing to eat, he had dressed and hobbled down to the docks, Malora hurrying to keep up, trying to make him change his mind.

“Larten!” she snapped as he stared around. “This isn’t a good idea. We’ll go on a long cruise when you feel better. You’re sick. We should stay somewhere warm and dry, so that you can —”

“No!” he bellowed, taking off again. “Vampire hunters… on land. They’ll stick a stake through… my heart. Have to get to sea. Life on the waves. Aye!”

Malora argued with him all the way, but he ignored her. At the docks he strode around like a madman, checking all the ships. He stopped several sailors and asked if they knew which boat was making the longest journey. Some shrugged him off and didn’t answer. Those who responded gave conflicting reports. But when a third man mentioned the Pearly Tornado, Larten’s mind was decided.

Malora was almost crying. When Larten found the gangplank, she darted ahead of him and set herself in his way. “No farther,” she croaked. “This is madness. If you go on, you’ll go without me. I’ll leave you here, Larten, I swear I will.”

“Then leave,” he said coldly and leapt over her. As he stormed up the plank, Malora cursed, looked longingly at the dry land of the docks, then followed him. She tried to put on a brave face — “Very well. I’ve always wanted to see more of the world.” — but she was dreadfully worried. The flu was playing havoc with Larten. If it worsened at sea, he was a dead man.

A boy was swabbing the deck when Larten boarded. The boy glanced at the shoddily dressed stranger, shrugged and spat on the boards, then wiped them clean.

“You!” Larten yelled. “Where’s your captain?”

“In his cabin,” the boy said.

“Get him for me.”

The boy was going to tel the man to run his own errands, but then he spotted Malora and straightened. “Afternoon, ma’am,” he saluted, smiling in what he hoped was a rakish way. “Can I help ye at all?”

“Larten,” Malora tried one last time, but he shook his head aggressively. She gave up and sighed. “I am Malora. This is my master, Larten Crepsley. He seeks travel onboard this ship.”

“This ain’t a passenger ship, ma’am,” the boy said.

“We sometimes take a few paying customers when there’s space, but mostly it’s crew and cargo. I don’t think there’s any cabins left on this trip.”

“Did you hear that?” Malora said brightly.

“Nonsense,” Larten sniffed, tossing a coin to the boy. He caught it midair and pocketed it immediately. “What is your name?”

“Daniel Abrams,” the boy said smartly.

“You will get another coin when you bring your captain to me.”

“Yes, sir, Master Crepsley, sir!” Daniel yapped, then raced off.

The captain was a gruff, thickset man. He eyed Larten dubiously, but like Daniel, his face lit up when he spotted the pretty Malora. “Sir. Ma’am. Can I be of help?”

“We seek a cabin,” Larten said.

“Alas, this isn’t a passenger ship. We have a handful o’ passengers, but we’ve already squeezed in as many as we can fer this journey. If it’s America ye’re looking fer, I can recommend —”

“I do not care where you are going,” Larten snapped, then paused. “America?”

“Ultimately,” the captain nodded. “Got a few stops t’ make first, and we’re going by way o’ Greenland, but —”

“Greenland!” Larten yelled with excitement. “That is where I want to go.”

“A strange place t’ want t’ get off, sir,” the captain said. “But I can recommend a couple o’ ships fer there too.”

“I do not want any other ship,” Larten growled. “This is the ship for me. The Pearly Tornado — a fine name, a fine ship and a fine captain.”

“Very nice o’ ye t’ say, sir, but I’m afraid I really can’t —”

Larten dug into his pockets, pulled out all of his money and thrust it at the astonished captain. “Is that enough? Malora, give him more if he wants.”

“I don’t think he needs any more,” Malora said quietly. She shared a look with the captain and took back a couple of notes. He didn’t object — in fact he seemed relieved. “will that cover the cost of our voyage and help you persuade some of your other passengers to make way for us?”

“It will,” the captain said weakly. “But ye’l have t’ share a cabin.”

“No,” Malora said firmly. “We need a cabin of our own.”

“But —” the captain began to protest. Malora handed him one of the notes she had retrieved and the captain glumly pocketed the money. “Give me fifteen minutes. I’ll have it sorted fer ye by then.”

“And, captain,” Malora called him back. “Fresh linen if you please.”

He grinned thinly and tipped his hat to her. “Aye, ma’am.”

The Pearly Tornado set sail on the next tide. Larten missed the launch. He was asleep in their cabin, tossing and turning from the fever. Malora had washed him down once already, after he had vomited all over himself and the sheets. The next few days or weeks were going to be hard, until the flu passed. (Or until he dies, part of her whispered, but she preferred not to consider that grim possibility.)

When she felt the ship get under way, Malora left Larten and went on deck. This was her first time sailing and she was fascinated by all the activity going on around her. She had never guessed that the running of a ship would be such a complex process.

The other passengers were on deck too, looking at the shore with sad longing as they pulled away. There were four men, two women and a baby that clung to its mother and cried shrilly. Malora assumed they were going to start a new life in America, and were so poor that they hadn’t been able to afford passage on any of the regular ships.

Daniel Abrams — the boy who’d first greeted them — edged up to Malora, spat over the railing and nodded pleasantly. “Yer master’s asleep?” he guessed.

“Resting,” Malora said.

“He looked right sick when he came aboard,” Daniel noted.

“Influenza,” Malora said. “He’s over the worst of it, but will probably lie low for most of the journey. His eyes are weak from the illness. He can’t bear to be out in the sun at the moment — that’s why he had the umbrella.”

“Ah.” Daniel nodded again, this time like a doctor.

“If ye need anything, liquor, medicine or hot food, let me know. We don’t have much, but I can fetch the best of what there is… fer a price.” He coughed uncomfortably, unaccustomed to such bargaining.

Malora smiled at the boy. “My master is a generous man. You will be well rewarded for any services rendered. And you already have my gratitude for making such a kind offer.”

Daniel blushed. “Anything ye want, ma’am, just ask fer Master Abrams. I’m a right little jackdaw, me.”

Malora remained on deck a couple of hours, adjusting to the swell of the waves, breathing deeply of the salty air. Before returning to her cabin, she asked Daniel to arrange some supplies for them, drink, food and a burner — she said she would cook in their cabin while her master was sick. As he was doing that, she went to check on Larten.

The vampire was awake but ill. He didn’t recognize Malora when she came in — he thought she was Evanna, come to scar the other side of his face. He tried to hide beneath his blankets, but as she whispered his name over and over, his eyes half cleared and he sat up.

“Malora?” he whined.

“Who else?”

“Where are we?”

“On a ship.” When he stared at her, she said, “You wanted to see Greenland.”

He tried to work out why he might have said such a thing, but his head hurt when he thought too much. “I’m hungry,” he whimpered instead.

“Food is on its way.”

“No,” he said. “The other kind of hunger.”

Malora frowned. She had already considered this — it was one of the reasons she’d been reluctant to set sail in the first place — but hadn’t thought he’d need to feed so soon.

“Can you wait?” she asked. “We dock at our first port in less than a week. We can slip ashore then and…”

He was already shaking his head. “Can’t,” he wheezed. “The hunger… I have to feed when it comes. Dangerous not to. Might drink recklessly if I do not sip regularly.”

“Very well,” she sighed and sat beside him. She rolled up a sleeve, took a knife from her belt and made a small cut beneath her elbow. She didn’t wince as the blade bit into her flesh — it would take more than that to make her cry. “Not too much,” she murmured as Larten leaned forward eagerly. “We have to make it last.”

He nodded, then fixed his lips around the cut. Malora smiled and stroked his hair as he fed, her expression and gestures very much like those of the mother’s on deck had been as she’d tried to soothe her wailing baby.

Chapter Twenty-two

Malora hoped that Larten would disembark when they docked. His condition was worsening and he needed rest and warmth. But he wouldn’t hear of it. When the fever made him feisty, he insisted on going to Greenland to search for the palace of Perta Vin-Grahl. (Malora had no idea who that was.) In his lower moments he moaned that he wanted to die onboard and be buried at sea. Either way, he had no intention of setting foot ashore at any of their early stops.

Malora never lost her temper, even when he was at his most pitiful and demanding. This was the man she had chosen and she loved him as completely as any sixteen-year-old had ever loved. Nothing he did tested her patience, whether he yelled abuse, wept and asked her to kil him, threw up over her or spat in her face. It was the flu that made him do these things and she refused to blame him for his addle-headed actions.

The captain, Daniel and the rest of the crew were enamored with Malora. She spent a lot of time making friends, joking with the sailors, stitching clothes for them, helping out in the kitchen. Daniel was especially fond of her, even though he knew he couldn’t win her heart, being younger than she was and just starting out in life. He trailed her like a faithful dog whenever he could. He even asked her to teach him how to cook, so that he could spend more time with her in the kitchen. He was a terrible chef, but he stuck with it to be close to Malora.

Because they liked the girl so much, they said nothing critical of her bedridden master. When he roared abusively, they turned a deaf ear to his insults. On the rare occasions when he staggered out of his cabin and caused a disturbance on deck, they veered around him and waited for Malora to usher him back inside. They would have put ashore any other passenger who proved so disruptive, no matter how much he had paid, but for Malora’s sake they tolerated the orange-haired nuisance.

Looking after Larten was exhausting, but Malora was up for the challenge. She worked hard, guarded him fiercely, and let him feed from her when he needed blood. The only problem was that her blood was not going to be enough. He was drinking more than usual because of the fever and she would not be able to supply him indefinitely from her own veins.

When they made their final dock before embarking on the long, uninterrupted stretch to Greenland, Malora tried to convince him to go ashore with her, to feed on another person’s blood and restock the vials he carried in case of emergencies. But Larten thought she was trying to trick him, that the ship would sail without them if he got off, so he refused to budge.

Out of desperation, Malora took the vials and went ashore by herself. Scouring dark, unpleasant alleys, she found a number of sailors sleeping off hangovers. Taking care not to hurt them, she made small cuts on their arms and legs and tried to fill the vials. It was a messy job, but she returned with something to show for her efforts, pleased with what she had brought back.

Malora would have been far less pleased if she had spotted Daniel Abrams trailing her through the alleys from one victim to another.

The boy hadn’t set out to spy. At first he’d followed after her like he did on the ship, simply wanting to be close to the girl. When she started exploring the alleys, he figured he should watch out for her in case she ran into trouble — he had vague notions of saving her life and winning her heart. But when he saw her bleeding the snoring sailors…

Daniel was deeply troubled when he returned. His first instinct was to report it, but he was certain the captain would throw them off if he knew what the sweet-looking girl had been up to. Daniel couldn’t care less about Larten Crepsley, but he would miss Malora. In the end he kept his own counsel, but decided to monitor the girl and her mysterious master. He wasn’t sure what Malora wanted with the blood. It might have been for some strange medical purpose. But he thought there was something more diabolical going on. He wasn’t sure what, but he was certain he’d find out. Daniel was sharp. He would uncover their dark, crimson secret in the end, no matter what it was.

The ship sailed on, one day blurring into another. The waters were calm for that time of year, but they still had to endure a few rough nights when Malora was sure the vessel would capsize. The other passengers were as scared as she was on those occasions, but the crew never looked worried. Malora didn’t know if that was because they felt safe, or because as sailors they’d accepted the fact that they were going to die at sea eventually. She never asked — it was better not knowing, in case the answer was the latter.

Larten’s spirits improved temporarily, then darkened again. She had never known a fever like this. She was sure it couldn’t be natural, even in a vampire. Paris Skyle could have told her otherwise, and there were herbs and treatments he could have recommended. But as the Prince had tried to tel Larten in the inn, there was only so much a human could understand about the creatures of the night. Larten had cut himself off from the clan, and Malora had to deal with the crisis as best she could.

She changed his clothes regularly, bathed him, wiped sweat from his face when the shakes took hold. She made sure he ate and drank enough, and kept the small window open to let in fresh air. He had stopped asking for blood, and though she forced a few drops into his mouth — from another of her cuts, having long since worked through the vials — he spat out most of it. She wasn’t sure if he was trying to die or just couldn’t digest blood in his weakened condition.

Larten looked like a man on the verge of death. He had aged several years. His skin was saggy and gray, his nails broke off easily, his eyes were red and lifeless. Only his orange hair looked the same as ever — Traz would have been proud to note that his dye could withstand even the ravages of vampire flu.

The last couple of days and nights had been particularly difficult. Larten had thrashed and moaned nonstop, denying Malora sleep. She’d been awake for sixty hours. This was the closest she had come to breaking, but even at her weakest, exhausted and irritable, she kept her wits about her and saw to Larten’s needs before her own.

“He’d better appreciate this when he pulls through,” she grumbled, refusing to consider the likelihood that he might not recover. “I’ll expect presents, fine meals and the grandest hotels. I won’t settle for Greenland. He can forget about his palace of ice. I’ll insist he treat me to the best New York has to offer.”

Malora had heard much about the marvels of New York, mostly from Daniel — he’d never been there, but had picked up tales from other sailors. As Larten snored and lay peacefully for a change — he seemed to be recovering from his latest setback — she thought of the famous city, the delights it could offer, shops ful of incredible trinkets and dresses, bustling streets, bright lights that lit up the sky at night. Smiling at the prospect of being able to relax in such a wonderland, she nodded off and was soundly asleep when Larten stirred, rose from his bed and let himself out, moving like a man in a trance.

Screams woke Malora. For a moment she thought it was a nightmare — she’d had plenty of those recently — but then her head cleared and she realized the screams were real.

Malora grabbed the covers on the bed and whipped them away — no sign of Larten. They were in trouble. She knew it instantly. It was now simply a case of if she could fix the situation before it got any worse.

She hurried out of their cabin and tracked the screams. They were coming from a cabin lower than theirs, where the other passengers were staying. The women were shrieking and the men were shouting. When Malora arrived, some of the crew were already there, gathered around the open door, staring at something inside.

Malora pushed her way through, knowing what she’d find, trying to think of a way to make light of it, to dismiss it as a moment of madness brought on by the fever. As she reached the door, she saw that her fears were well founded. Larten was inside and he had latched on to Yasmin’s left arm. Yasmin was the mother of the baby, and Larten was feeding from her as her child did every day. But he wasn’t interested in milk. He had made a cut, either with his nails or his teeth, and was gulping blood from a wound far bigger than any a sane vampire would have ever made.

“Larten!” Malora screeched, trying to fake shock. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t respond. His eyes were closed and he was drinking happily, ignorant of the screams, the way Yasmin and the other woman were striking him, the men trying to tug him off. He only knew blood.

As the sailors gaped, Malora looked around, spotted a bucket of water, picked it up and doused Larten. The shock of the cold water made him fall away. He tried to get up and grab the bucket, but he toppled and fell in a heap on the floor.

Yasmin ran to her husband and her baby and they barged through the sailors, wanting to get as far away from the madman as possible.

Malora knew she had to act quickly. “Help me,” she snapped at two of the crew. “He’s had some kind of fit. We have to take him back to his cabin.”

The sailors were dubious — a fit couldn’t explain the blood smeared around his lips and chin — but they liked Malora, so they picked up the almost unconscious Larten and hauled him back to his bed. Malora followed, talking rapidly, telling the others trailing behind of the medicine she’d need, asking them to apologize to Yasmin, hoping they wouldn’t stop to ask questions if she kept them busy.

As the sailors maneuvered Larten through the doorway of their cabin and into bed, Malora paused outside and offered up a silent prayer to the gods. It seemed as if they’d gotten away with it. The captain was arriving and he looked like thunder, but she was sure she could laugh her way out of this. She’d blame it on the flu, let them strap Larten down if they wished to stop him straying again. No real harm had been done. Al things considered, it could have been a lot worse.

And then, as the captain roared at his crew and demanded to know what the hel was going on, it did get worse.

“He drinks blood!” someone yelled.

The captain and the others fell quiet. The sailors who’d dropped off Larten joined the rest of the crew outside and stared with them at the person who had spoken. It was, of course, young Daniel Abrams.

“He’s a bloodsucker,” Daniel said, relishing the attention. He hadn’t meant to speak up, but the drama in the cabin had excited him and he wanted to see more fireworks. “He’s some sort of demon.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Malora snapped. “It’s the flu. He didn’t know what he was doing. Captain, you must believe me.”

And maybe he would have, except that was when a chaos-craving Daniel played his ace.

“If he’s not a bloodsucker, why was you cutting open sailors and bottling their blood the last place we docked? It was t’ feed yer bloodthirsty beast of a master! There’s vials in the cabin,” he said triumphantly to the shocked captain. “Search. You’ll find ’em, still bloodstained I bet, unless he’s licked ’em clean.”

“Daniel!” Malora cried. “Why are you doing this? I thought you were my friend.”

But Daniel had forgotten about his crush on Malora. He craved bloodshed. The scene with Yasmin had whet his appetite and he couldn’t stop now, any more than Larten could have when the hunger overwhelmed him.

The captain studied Daniel soberly, then turned his gaze on Malora. “Step out of the way, please, ma’am.” He nodded at a few of his sailors.

Malora shook her head. “Captain, no, don’t listen to him, it was just —”

“Ma’am!” the captain barked. “Ye’re not listening t’ me. Ye have t’ move now. This is bad fer yer master and if ye don’t get away from there immediately it’ll be bad fer you and all. If ye give him to us, I’ll settle fer that and spare ye. But if ye stand up fer him… fer what he did…” His features hardened. “It’s time t’ choose.”

The young woman looked from one stern-faced sailor to another. There was a vicious gleam to their eyes — they had caught the same dark lust as Daniel. Her friends had disappeared and she knew better than to beg for mercy. It didn’t exist here now.

Malora nodded slowly, accepting what destiny had unleashed upon her. Unlike Larten, she had no problem choosing her path. No problem at all.

“So be it,” she said, softly closing the door so as not to disturb the unconscious vampire. As the sailors bunched around her, silent as a pack of sharks, she laid the palm of one hand on the door and bid a silent farewell to the lover she would never get a chance to truly love. Then, turning calmly, she faced the mob closing in on her, sneered at their savage, bestial hunger, drew a knife and made her stand.

Chapter Twenty-three

If the crew had stormed the cabin, Larten would not have been able to resist. He had passed out on top of his bed. It would have been a simple matter for them to turn him over, bare his left breast and drive a sharpened stake through his heart.

But superstition and fear swept through the sailors once they had dealt with Malora. Instead of rushing to finish the cruel business, they paused to debate the situation. And in that pause their doubts exploded.

“He’s a vampire,” one hissed, and explained what vampires were for those who didn’t know. It was a maelstrom of myths, theories and hysteria after that.

“He can turn into a bat.”

“He can turn into smoke and slip away.”

“He’s powerful at night, but weak in the day. We should wait for the sun.”

“A stake through the heart willdestroy him.”

“So willsunlight.”

“And holy water, but we ain’t got any of that.”

“If we attack now and he wakes, he’l be stronger than us.”

“Wait.”

“Daylight turns them to ash.”

“Aye, wait.”

“He can’t hide from the sun.”

“Wait.”

“Aye.”

“Wait.”

Larten was groggy when he awoke. He could have happily slept much longer, but something had disturbed him. Creaking noises, sharper and louder than the normal twangs of the ship, coming from directly overhead. As he listened, the sounds came again. It was as if the room was trying to rip itself apart.

As Larten sat up, confused, a couple of planks were torn loose from the ceiling and sunlight pierced the cabin. He flinched and drew back from the beams. There was laughter outside.

“There! He’s frightened o’ the light. Hurry, lads. Once we pull the rest o’ that ceiling away, he’s finished. He’ll be ash by breakfast.” Larten stared with astonishment as a crowd of sailors hacked through the thin roof of his cabin. They were working like a team of ants. They’d tear all of the planks away in a matter of minutes and Larten would have nowhere to shelter.

He couldn’t remember much of the night before, but he swiftly worked out what had happened. They had discovered his true identity and were coming to kill him. This was serious. The sunlight wouldn’t destroy him instantly, but he couldn’t stay exposed to it for long. He would have to retreat and seek shelter in the bowels of the ship. He could barricade himself in somewhere, but it was going to be nigh impossible to keep them out. Still, he had to try.

“Malora?” he croaked, although he already knew she wasn’t there. He looked for her, to be sure, then sighed with relief. They’d either captured her or she had gone over to their side to save her own neck. He didn’t mind which, just as long as she wasn’t sucked down into the pit with him. If this was to be his end, so be it, but there was no reason why the innocent girl should suffer too.

The vampire grinned bleakly as the sailors tore the ceiling to shreds. He felt better than he had in ages, stomach stil warm with Yasmin’s blood, head clearer than it had been for several days. Ironically, it seemed that he had gotten the better of the flu at last, so at least he could die in good health.

Larten washed his hands in a finger bowl, gargled from a glass of water, then drank the rest. He dusted off his clothes, brushed his hair back and blew his nose several times for good measure. Vampires didn’t fear death. Larten had already lived longer than most humans. This would be a good way to die, hunted and staked by a mob. Seba would chuckle proudly if word ever reached him in Vampire Mountain. “When you have to go,” he had often said to Larten and Wester, “try to go in style!”

As the last of the ceiling was pried away with crowbars, Larten crouched, then sprang through the gap that had been created, landing on the deck like a cat. The sailors cried out with alarm and reeled away from the freed vampire. As they scrambled over one another, shrieking with terror, Larten stood to his full height and glared at his tormentors, looking majestic despite his dirty clothes, red eyes and scraggly beard.

“Come then, humans!” he bellowed. “I am Larten Crepsley of the vampire clan and I fear no man.”

The sailors paused and gaped. They hadn’t expected a response like this. They thought he’d howl and screech and fight like a cornered rat to the bitter, bloody end. But here he stood, tall and straight, unafraid of his foes, challenging them to do their worst.

The captain recovered and pointed at Larten with a hook he’d kept over his bed for many years in case he ever faced a mutiny. “Crosses!” he barked, and six sailors pressed forward holding crucifixes.

Larten laughed. Perhaps the clan didn’t require Bram Stoker to spread silly myths about the creatures of the night. These humans had accepted the old, crazy legends without any need of a novel.

The captain scowled. He didn’t like the way the monster was laughing. The beast should be cowering, begging them to spare his worthless life. The captain was eager to finish off the vampire, but first he wanted to see that smirk wiped from the villain’s face.

“Ye think this is funny?” the captain snarled.

“I think it is pathetic,” Larten retorted.

“Ye’re a monster. A vampire. A servant o’ the devil himself.”

“You know far more about the devil than I do, sir,” Larten replied. He wouldn’t normally have played for time — it would have made more sense to make his break and seek shelter from the sun — but he was scanning the crowd for Malora. He wanted to be sure she was safe before he fled. Maybe curse her as a traitor or act as if he’d fooled her along with the rest, to make them think she hadn’t been working in league with him.

The captain saw Larten looking and realized what he was searching for. A dark flicker of a smile danced across his lips. “Are ye worried about yer wench?” he asked innocently.

Larten felt a chill form inside his stomach. “She knows nothing about me,” he said, trying to distance himself from Malora to help her as much as he could — if that was still possible. “She is just a girl I picked up and used. I do not care what you do with her.”

“That’s good,” the captain purred. “Then ye won’t be too upset when ye look up and see that. ” He pointed to the rigging with his hook.

The last thing Larten wanted to do was raise his gaze. He knew what was waiting for him if he did. But a vampire of good standing never tries to hide from the truth, and Larten had been trained to always face his fears and losses.

It was a bright day and his eyes were narrow slits against the painful rays of the sun. But he could see the sails clearly enough, and the wooden rigging to which they were attached. And he could also see poor Malora hanging from one of the poles, a length of rope looped around her neck, swaying lifelessly in the breeze and from the ever-constant rise and fall of the ship.

A cold calm washed through Larten Crepsley. Many years earlier, as a boy, he had experienced a similar calmness just before he’d killed the brute of a man who had murdered his best friend. It was as if he withdrew emotionally from the world. He forgot every rule he’d lived by and every moral restraint he had ever placed upon himself.

In that moment he was neither man nor vampire, but a force, one that would not stop until it had been spent. In the factory he’d only had one man to direct his fury against. Here he had dozens. And for that he was glad.

“They used to cal me Quicksilver,” he whispered, smiling hollowly. “Fastest hands in the world.”

Then the smile vanished. His eyes flashed. And like a sliver of deadly mercury, he attacked.

Chapter Twenty-four

Larten sat near the prow of the ship. He was holding the baby and absentmindedly bouncing it up and down. The baby was cooing happily. Larten’s hands were soaked with blood and the red, sticky liquid had seeped through the baby’s shawl, but neither seemed to notice or care.

He would never recall the slaughter in detail. Fragments would haunt him, both awake and sleeping, for the rest of his life. Faces would flash in front of him or shimmer in the theater of his dreams. He’d see his nails, jagged and deadly, slicing open a throat as if it was a slab of butter. His fingers gripping a man’s skull, digging deep, crushing bone, sinking into brain.

Sometimes he’d get a strange taste in his mouth. It always puzzled him for a few seconds. Then he would remember biting off a sailor’s salty toes while the man was alive, leaving him awhile, then returning to finish the job like a butcher who had been momentarily sidetracked.

He had saved the captain for last, letting him bear witness to the destruction. The seasoned sailor wept and begged for his men’s lives, then for his own. Larten only grinned and pointed to the girl dangling above their heads.

In his dreams he often chased sailors into the rigging. In reality only three had tried to climb to safety, but in Larten’s nightmares there were hundreds and the poles stretched to the sky and beyond. But no matter how many fled ahead of him, he always killed every last one of them before he stirred and woke.

The baby gurgled, then started to cry hungrily. Larten bounced him a few more times, hoping to shush him, but the infant boy wasn’t to be distracted. With a sigh, Larten reluctantly turned from the prow and surveyed the deck of corpses.

He knew it would be bad, but this was even worse than he’d feared. So many hacked (bitten, chewed, torn) to pieces. Blood everywhere. Guts hanging from the ropes in the rigging. Heads set on spikes and hooks. The eyes of one were missing, two crosses rammed deep into the bloody sockets.

Larten had seen much in his time on the battlefields of the world, but nothing as vicious as this. He wanted to weep, but he could find no tears within himself. It would have been hypocritical to cry. He didn’t deserve that release.

Steeling himself, Larten stared long and hard at the bodies. This was his work. He could blame it on the flu, but that would be a lie. He had chosen to do this. Malora had been murdered and he had let himself go wild and wreak a terrible revenge. He felt shame and disgust, more than he could ever express. There was no justification and no hiding. He did this. He had become the monster these people feared. Paris had warned him of the dangers of indecision and isolation, but he had ignored the Prince’s advice. This was the result. This was what happened when vampires went bad.

Larten picked his way through the mess, holding the baby high above it, glad that the child was too young to understand any of this. Entering the boy’s cabin, he found a small bottle half full of milk. Sitting on the bed, he perched the baby on his lap and let him feed.

It was only as the baby greedily gulped the milk that Larten wondered what had happened to the boy’s mother.

When the child had his fill, Larten scoured the ship from top to bottom, praying he’d find the pretty Yasmin alive, cowering in a corner. If he could hand her baby back to her, he would have done at least that much right on this awful, notorious day.

But Yasmin was nowhere onboard. He found the body of the other woman, along with the corpses of the male passengers, mixed in with the remains of the sailors, but Yasmin must have leapt overboard, preferring the sea to death at the vampire’s wretched hands.

Or else he had thrown her off.

Until the night he died, Larten would pray a few times a week, begging the gods to reveal Yasmin’s end to him. It seemed important, a crucial missing piece of the puzzle. Until he put it in place he could never draw a line under the calamity. But as hard as he prayed, that memory would always be a mystery to him.

What he did find during his search was a sealed door. It had been locked from the outside. The key was missing, but to Larten — Quicksilver, he’d told them, as if by using a different name he could distance himself from the guilt — it was a simple thing to pick. Moments later he pushed the door open, and four terrified pairs of eyes stared out at him.

One of the four was a high-ranking mate. Larten immediately understood why he had spared this man — even in his murderous rage, he’d known that he would need someone to steer the ship. Right now Larten didn’t care if he lived or died, but a part of him had been thinking about life, even while he was dealing out death to all in sight.

But what of the others? There were two men, and the boy, Daniel Abrams. Why had he let these live? It couldn’t have been mercy or because he needed them for the ship — he would have spared another mate, not a worthless boy, if that was the case. So why…?

The answer came to him and he chuckled drily.

He’d had to keep a few alive. The deck was awash with blood, but it would soon spoil and be of no use to him. He had to assume that they were a long way from land. He might be on this ship a good while yet.

He would need to feed.

Still chuckling — edgily now, the laughter threatening to turn into a scream — he shut the door on the moaning, weeping humans, locked it, then retired to the deck with the baby, to wet his whistle before the pools of blood thickened and soured in the sun.

Having drunk his fill on deck, Larten retreated from the daylight before it burned him. He didn’t care what happened to him now, but if he gave in to bloodthirsty insanity or let himself die, the baby would perish too.

Larten cradled the boy in the shelter of the captain’s cabin, holding him gently as if he was something precious. Nothing would ever set right this dreadful wrong, but if he could protect this innocent child, that would be one less dark mark against his name when he passed from this world of hurt and shame. He felt as far from the gates of Paradise as it was possible to get, so it wasn’t redemption that he sought. He simply didn’t want to add to his crimes, even though in the greater scheme of things one more wouldn’t make any real difference.

He changed the baby’s undergarments when he realized why the boy had started crying again. Then he went below deck to find more milk and look for other food.

They slept in the cabin that night, the baby tucked between Larten and the wall. But although the boy snoozed sweetly, Larten spent most of the night staring at the ceiling. It wasn’t because he had become accustomed to sleeping in the day or because of the baby’s surprisingly deep snoring, but because after what he’d done, he couldn’t face the nightmares that were certain to be lying in wait for him.

Shortly before dawn, after feeding the baby again, Larten returned to the room with the four captives and opened the door. They thought he’d come to kill them, and they cowered against the wall. But he only pointed a finger at the senior mate and said, “You.” The sailor crossed himself, muttered a quick prayer, then staggered out of the cabin. He was sweating and trembling, but otherwise carried himself with dignity.

Larten locked the door and led the way to the deck.

The mate’s face blanched when he cast his eye around, but he didn’t try to run.

“You can sail this ship?” Larten asked wearily. If not for the baby, he’d have lowered himself over the side and gone for a swim with the sharks. But if the boy was to live, this had to be done.

“I’m no captain,” the mate said quietly.

“If we are to live, you will have to be,” Larten retorted.

“If I had a crew…”

“You do not. Can you steer it anyway?”

The mate checked the rigging and shrugged. “We’re not so far from land — a week’s sailing, I reckon. I can get us there if the weather holds. We’ll struggle t’ dock, but we can get close enough t’ set one o’ the scows down and row ashore. If the weather holds. If we hit a storm, we’re finished.”

Larten nodded. “Do your best. I will be taking care of the child. If you need me, shout. Do not try to release the others, and do not try to kill me — I will hear you coming, even in my sleep. If you can drop us ashore, I will set you free.”

“What about them?” the mate called as Larten left. He pointed a shaking finger at the corpses. “They’ll fester if we leave ’em. The stench…”

“I will dispose of them later,” Larten promised. “When the sun goes down. That is when I am most powerful, is it not?” Smiling thinly, he went inside to play with the baby, leaving the mate to steer the ship of corpses through the waves of the ever-hungry sea that would soon receive their lifeless, bloodied hulks.

Chapter Twenty-five

Feeding the baby and prisoners became the focus of Larten’s time. Daniel and the sailors were easy to care for — he just threw them food and water a couple of times a day — but the baby was a different matter. Larten had no experience with babies and was astonished by how often the child wanted to feed. Keeping the boy content was a full-time job.

The mate in charge of the ship reported to Larten regularly. Larten had no interest in their course — he wouldn’t have cared if they’d sailed in circles forever — but it was easier to let the mate deliver his reports and nod thoughtfully while pretending to listen.

Larten was ravenous — he needed blood — but he waited until the mate said they were a day from shore. Tucking in the baby, he went below to the locked room and opened the door. Daniel and the sailors thought that he was coming to feed them, and they shuffled forward eagerly. They still feared the vampire, but had come to believe that he meant them no harm.

Not wishing to alarm them, Larten moved quickly, as he had when he’d embarked on his killing spree. Darting from one to another, he blew a sharp breath of gas in their faces, the gas of the vampires that sent humans to sleep. Once they were unconscious he drank from each of them, then refilled the vials that, unknown to him, had cost Malora her life.

Daniel stirred as Larten was leaving. The vampire had breathed on the boy last, so Daniel hadn’t been dealt as strong a blast of the gas as the others. Larten took no notice as the boy’s eyes flickered open, only closed the door and locked it, then went to feed the baby.

Larten spent most of that last night on deck, watching by the light of the stars as they drew closer to land, thinking of what he’d done, numbly considering what he must do next. He didn’t know much about Greenland, but he knew it was an ice-covered, sparsely populated country. Many cold, lonely, unforgiving places where a vampire could pass quietly from this world. He would find a suitably desolate spot and let the snow and ice finish him off. A fittingly meek finale for a vampire who had lost the right to die a noble death.

The mate approached late the following evening, as Larten was feeding the baby. “We’re almost there,” he noted.

“Aye,” Larten murmured.

“We should make port not long after sunset, if the wind’s fair.”

“I will disembark before that,” Larten said.

The mate frowned. “Disembark?”

“I will take a scow and sail ashore by myself.”

“Are ye sure?” the mate asked. “There’s nothing much along this stretch and the weather’s fierce inhospitable.”

“Good,” Larten said shortly.

A wave of joy swept through the sailor. He had tried not to think about what would happen when they docked, but whenever he did, he saw no way that the vampire would let them live. They were witnesses to the massacre. He surely could not spare them if he wanted to escape.

But now the mate saw that Larten didn’t care. He was going ashore to die. For the first time in a week, the sailor faced the future with real hope. He almost cried, he was so relieved.

“You will take care of the child when I go?” Larten asked.

“Of course. I’ll take him home with me. I have six already, so one more won’t make much difference.”

“Thank you,” Larten said softly. “And,” he added as the mate returned to the wheel, “you will keep him away from vampires?”

The sailor nodded grimly. “Aye, sir. That I most definitely will.”

The mate helped Larten ready and lower the scow. Before he departed, Larten went down to the locked room one last time, to release the prisoners. He could have left that job to the mate, but he wanted to do it himself, so they could come up, see him leave and know for certain that they had nothing to fear from this night on.

“Come, gentlemen,” Larten said as he opened the door. “Your time of captivity is over. You are free to…”

He came to a stunned, horrified stop.

Daniel Abrams was sitting on the floor, hands and lips as red with blood as Larten’s had been a week before. The boy had torn open the throats of the two men while they were unconscious and drank as much of their blood as he could stomach. He’d even bitten chunks out of their flesh and eaten it. He was chewing a sliver of cheek, pausing every so often to spit out blood, when Larten entered.

Daniel’s face lit up crazily when he spotted the vampire, and he staggered to his feet. “I’m one o’ yer lot now,” he cackled, waving the strip of flesh at Larten as if it was a flag. “Ye don’t have t’ kill me. Ye can take me with ye. I’m a bloodsucker too, see? We’re the same.”

Larten stared at the boy, first with shock, then disgust. “You think that you are the same as me?” he snarled.

“Aye,” the boy hooted. “We both kill and drink blood. What’s the difference?”

And the awful thing was, he was right. When you put the two of them side by side, there was no real difference at all. A pair of well-matched monsters.

Larten backed out of the room, away from the blinking, spitting, blood-smeared boy. He glanced at the murdered sailors, then bolted for the deck, where he raced to the side and threw up over the railing. Before Daniel Abrams could climb the steps and ask again to travel with him, Larten ducked into the captain’s cabin and picked up the baby.

He had meant to bid the child farewell, but as he stared at the chubby babe, he decided he couldn’t leave the boy behind. Not with a beast like Daniel Abrams on the prowl. Maybe they were cut from the same cloth, but at least Larten wouldn’t feed on the innocent baby. If Larten took him from the ship, the boy was doomed, but death in the wilds was preferable to what might happen to the infant if he remained.

Larten never considered the possibility of simply killing Daniel. In a mindless panic, he thought that there were only two options — take the baby or leave him to be bled and devoured.

Larten wrapped the child up warmly and staggered across the deck to the scow. The mate was bewildered when he saw the wild-eyed vampire climb in with the baby. “What are you doing?” he shouted. “I thought you were leaving him.”

But Larten would neither listen nor respond. Before the mate could stop him, he cast off and rowed madly towards the icy shore. Understanding would come to the sailor later, when he discovered the young cannibal below, but for the time being he could only stand on deck and stare dumbly at the swiftly receding boat.

* * *

Larten thrust ahead without pause, muscles aching, neck bent stiffly, never looking up. If he’d gone in the wrong direction and missed land, perhaps he would have rowed until he weakened and died. But the mate had pointed the scow true, and before long he struck shore and ground to a halt.

Larten stood in a daze and gazed at a giant sheet of ice that seemed to stretch from one end of the horizon to the other. For a moment he was overwhelmed and thought about returning to the ship. Then he grinned darkly, seeing the obstacle for what any true vampire would have judged it — a challenge to be met.

Picking up the baby, Larten strapped the silent, shivering boy to his back and made sure he was secure. Then, with a cry of total abandon, he leapt from the boat and cut a path towards the glittering wall of ice. Dragging his way through mounds of thigh-high snow, Larten laughed manically at the moon and stars as he pushed on in delirious pursuit of his place in that other, eternal, always freezing night.

To be continued…