Hunters of the Dusk (9 page)

When we reached the mouth of the cave, we stopped. Mr. Crepsley and Vancha sat down and laid aside their packs. Vancha took out a bone he’d been chewing on for the last couple of nights and got to work on it, pausing only to spit at the occasional frog that wandered too close to us.

“Aren’t we going in?” I asked.

“Not without being invited,” Mr. Crepsley replied. “Evanna does not take kindly to intruders.”

“Isn’t there a bell we can ring?”

“Evanna has no need of bells,” he said. “She knows we are here and will come to greet us in her own time.”

“Evanna’s not a lady to be rushed,” Vancha agreed. “A friend of mine thought he’d enter the cave on the quiet once, to surprise her.” He munched cheerfully on his bone. “She gave him huge warts all over. He looked like . . . like . . .” Vancha frowned. “It’s hard to say, because I’ve never seen anything quite like it — and I’ve seen most everything in my time!”

“Should we be here if she’s that dangerous?” I asked worriedly.

“Evanna will not harm us,” Mr. Crepsley assured me. “She has a quick temper, and it’s best not to rile her, but she would never kill one with vampire blood, unless provoked.”

“Just make sure you don’t call her a witch,” Vancha warned, for what must have been the hundredth time.

Half an hour after we’d settled by the cave, dozens of frogs — larger than those surrounding the pond — came hopping out. They formed a circle around us and sat, blinking slowly, hemming us in. I started to get to my feet, but Mr. Crepsley told me to stay seated. Moments later, a woman emerged from the cave. She was the ugliest, most unkempt woman I’d ever seen. She was short — barely taller than the squat Harkat Mulds — with long, dark, untidy hair. She had rippling muscles and thick, strong legs. Her ears were sharply pointed, her nose was tiny — it looked like there were just two holes above her upper lip — and her eyes were narrow. When she got closer, I saw that one eye was brown and the other green. What was even stranger was that the colors switched — one minute her left eye would be brown, the next her right.

She was extraordinarily hairy. Her arms and legs were covered with black hair; her eyebrows were two large caterpillars; bushy hair grew out of her ears and nostrils; she had a fairly full beard, and her mustache would have put Otto von Bismarck to shame.

Her fingers were surprisingly stubby. As a witch, I’d expected her to have bony claws, though I guess that’s an image I got from books and comics I read when I was a child. Her nails were cut short, except for on the two little fingers, where they grew long and sharp.

She didn’t wear traditional clothes, or animal hides like Vancha. Instead she dressed in
ropes.
Long, thickly woven, yellow ropes, wrapped around her chest and lower body, leaving her arms, legs, and stomach free.

I’d have found it hard to imagine a more frightening, off-putting woman, and my insides gurgled uneasily as she shuffled toward us.

“Vampires!” she scoffed, stepping through the ranks of frogs, which parted as she advanced. “Always ugly bloody vampires! Why don’t handsome humans ever come a-calling?”

“They’re probably afraid you’d eat them.” Vancha laughed, then stood and hugged her. She hugged back, hard, and lifted the Vampire Prince off his feet.

“My little Vancha,” she cooed, as though cuddling a baby. “You’ve put on some weight, sire.”

“And you’re uglier than ever, Lady,” he grumbled, gasping for breath.

“You’re only saying that to please me.” She giggled, then dropped him and turned to Mr. Crepsley. “Larten,” she said, nodding politely.

“Evanna,” he replied, standing and bowing. Then, without warning, he kicked out at her. But, swift as he was, the witch was swifter. She grabbed his leg and twisted. He rolled over and collapsed flat on the ground. Before he could react, Evanna jumped on his back, grabbed his chin, and pulled his head up sharply.

“Surrender?” she yelled.

“Yes!” he wheezed, face reddening — not with shame, but pain.

“Wise boy.” She laughed, and kissed his forehead quickly.

Then she stood and studied Harkat and me, running a curious green eye over Harkat and a brown one over me.

“Lady Evanna,” I said as warmly as I could, trying not to let my teeth chatter.

“It is good to meet you, Darren Shan,” she replied. “You are welcome.”

“Lady,” Harkat said, bowing politely. He wasn’t as nervous as me.

“Hello, Harkat,” she said, returning Harkat’s bow. “You are also welcome — as you were before.”

“Before?”
he echoed.

“This is not your first visit,” she said. “You have changed in many ways, within and without, but I recognize you. I’m gifted that way. Appearances don’t deceive me for long.”

“You mean . . . you know who I was . . . before I became a Little Person?” Harkat asked, astonished. When Evanna nodded, he leaned forward eagerly. “Who was I?”

The witch shook her head. “Can’t say. That’s for you to find out.”

Harkat wanted to ask more, but before he could, she fixed her gaze on me and stepped forward to cup my chin between several cold, rough fingers. “So this is the boy Prince,” she murmured, turning my head left, then right. “I thought you would be younger.”

“He was struck by the purge as we traveled here,” Mr. Crepsley informed her.

“That explains it.” She hadn’t let go of my face and still her eyes scanned me, as though probing for weakness.

“So,” I said, feeling as though I should speak, saying the first thing that came into my head, “you’re a witch, are you?”

Mr. Crepsley and Vancha groaned.

Evanna’s nostrils flared and her head shot forward so our faces were almost touching. “
What
did you call me?” she hissed.

“Um. Nothing. Sorry. I didn’t mean it. I —”

“You two are to blame!” she roared, spinning away from me to face a wincing Mr. Crepsley and Vancha March. “You told him I was a witch!”

“No, Evanna,” Vancha said quickly.

“We told him
not
to call you that,” Mr. Crepsley assured her.

“I should gut the pair of you,” Evanna growled, cocking the little finger of her right hand at them. “I would, too, if Darren wasn’t here — but I’d hate to make a bad first impression.” Glowering hotly, she relaxed her little finger. Mr. Crepsley and Vancha relaxed too. I could barely believe it. I’d seen Mr. Crepsley face fully armed vampaneze without flinching, and was sure Vancha was every bit as composed in the face of danger. Yet here they stood, trembling before a short, ugly woman with nothing more threatening than a couple of long fingernails!

I started to laugh at the vampires, but then Evanna whirled around and the laughter died on my lips. Her face had changed and she now looked more like an animal than a human, with a huge mouth and long fangs. I took a frightened step back. “Mind the frogs!” Harkat shouted, grabbing my arm to stop me from stepping on one of the poisonous guards.

I glanced down to make sure I hadn’t stepped on any frogs. When I looked up again, Evanna’s face was back to normal. She was smiling. “Appearances, Darren,” she said. “Never let them fool you.” The air around her shimmered. When it cleared, she was tall, slim, and beautiful, with golden hair and a flowing white gown. My jaw dropped and I stared at her rudely, astonished by how pretty she was.

She snapped her fingers and was her original self again. “I’m a sorceress,” she said. “A wyrd sister. An enchantress. A priestess of the arcane. I am not —” she added, shooting a piercing look at Mr. Crepsley and Vancha, “— a
witch.
I’m a creature of many magical talents. These allow me to take any shape I choose — at least in the minds of those who see me.”

“Then why . . .” I started to say, before remembering my manners.

“. . . do I choose this ugly form?” she finished for me. Blushing, I nodded. “I feel comfortable this way. Beauty means nothing to me. Looks are the least important thing in my world. This is the shape I assumed when I first took human form, so it is the shape I return to most often.”

“I prefer you when you’re beautiful,” Vancha muttered, then coughed gruffly when he realized he’d spoken aloud.

“Be careful, Vancha,” Evanna said, chuckling, “or I’ll take my hand to you as I did to Larten all those years ago.” She cocked an eyebrow at me. “Did he ever tell you how he got that scar?”

I looked at the long scar running down the left side of Mr. Crepsley’s face, and shook my head. The vampire was blushing a deep crimson color. “Please, lady,” he pleaded. “Do not speak of it. I was young and foolish.”

“You most certainly were,” Evanna agreed, and nudged me wickedly in the ribs. “I was wearing one of my beautiful faces. Larten got tipsy on wine and tried to kiss me. I gave him a little scratch to teach him some manners.”

I was stunned. I’d always thought he picked up the scar fighting vampaneze or some fierce animal of the wilds!

“You are cruel, Evanna,” Mr. Crepsley said miserably, stroking his scar.

Vancha was laughing so hard that snot was streaming from his nose. “Larten!” he howled. “Wait till I tell the others! I always wondered why you were so coy about that scar. Normally vampires boast about their wounds, but you —”

“Shut up!” Mr. Crepsley snapped with uncharacteristic bluntness.

“I could have healed it,” Evanna said. “If it had been stitched immediately, it wouldn’t be half as noticeable as it is. But he took off like a kicked dog and didn’t return for thirty years.”

“I did not feel wanted,” Mr. Crepsley said softly. “Poor Larten,” she said, smirking. “You thought you were a real ladies’ man when you were a young vampire, but . . .” She pulled a face and cursed. “I knew I’d forgotten something. I meant to have them set up when you arrived, but I got distracted.” Muttering to herself, she turned to the frogs and made low, croaking noises.

“What’s she doing?” I asked Vancha.

“Talking to the frogs,” he said. He was still grinning about Mr. Crepsley’s scar.

Harkat gasped and dropped to his knees. “Darren!” he called, pointing to a frog. Crouching beside him, I saw that on the back of the frog was an eerily accurate image of Paris Skyle, in dark green and black.

“Weird,” I said, and gently touched the image, ready to whip my hand back if the frog opened its mouth. I frowned and traced the lines more firmly. “Hey,” I said, “this isn’t paint. I think it’s a birthmark.”

“It can’t be,” Harkat said. “No birthmark could look that . . . much like a person, especially not one we — Hey! There’s another!”

I turned and looked where he was pointing. “That’s not Paris,” I said.

“No,” Harkat agreed, “but it’s a face. And there’s a third.” He pointed to a different frog.

“And a fourth,” I noted, standing and gazing around.

“They
must
be painted on,” Harkat said. “They’re not,” Vancha said. Bending, he picked up a frog and held it out for us to examine. This close, by the strong light of the moon, we could see that the marks were actually under the frog’s top layer of skin.

“I told you Evanna bred frogs,” Mr. Crepsley reminded us. He took the frog from Vancha and traced the shape of the face, which was burly and bearded. “It is a mix of nature and magic. She finds frogs with strong natural markings, magically enhances them, and breeds them, producing faces. She is the only one in the world who can do it.”

“Here we are,” Evanna said, pushing Vancha and me aside, leading nine frogs over to Mr. Crepsley. “I feel guilty for lumbering you with that scar, Larten. I shouldn’t have cut so deeply.”

“It is forgotten, lady.” He smiled gently. “The scar is part of me now. I am proud of it —” he glared at Vancha “— even if others can only mock.”

“Still,” she said, “it irks me. I’ve presented you with gifts over the years — such as the collapsible pots and pans — but they haven’t satisfied me.”

“There is no need —” Mr. Crepsley began.

“Shut up and let me finish!” she growled. “I think at last I have a gift that will make amends. It’s not something you can take, just a little . . . token.”

Mr. Crepsley looked down at the frogs. “I hope you do not mean to give the frogs to me.”

“Not exactly.” She croaked an order to the frogs and they rearranged themselves. “I know Arra Sails was killed in the fighting with the vampaneze six years ago,” she said. Mr. Crepsley’s face dropped at the mention of Arra’s name. He’d been very close to her and had taken her death hard.

“She died valiantly,” he said.

“I don’t suppose you kept anything of hers, did you?”

“Such as?”

“A lock of hair, a knife that was dear to her, a scrap of her clothes?”

“Vampires do not indulge in such foolishness,” he said gruffly.

“They should.” Evanna sighed. The frogs stopped moving. She looked down at them, nodded, and stepped aside.

“What are —” Mr. Crepsley began, then fell silent as his eyes took in the frogs and the huge face spread across their backs.

It was the face of Arra Sails, a section on each frog’s back. The face was perfect in every detail and boasted more color than the faces on the other frogs — Evanna had worked in yellows, blues, and reds, bringing life to its eyes, cheeks, lips, and hair. Vampires can’t be photographed — their atoms bounce around in a bizarre way, impossible to capture on film — but this was as close to a photo of Arra Sails as was imaginable.

Mr. Crepsley hadn’t moved. His mouth was a tight line across the lower half of his face, but his eyes were filled with warmth, sadness, and . . . love.

“Thank you, Evanna,” he whispered.

“No need,” she said, smiling softly, then looked around at the rest of us. “I think we should leave him alone for a while. Come into the cave.”

Wordlessly we followed her in. Even the normally raucous Vancha March was quiet, pausing only to clasp Mr. Crepsley’s left shoulder and squeeze comfortingly. The frogs hopped along after us, except the nine with Arra’s features plastered across their backs. They stayed, held their shape, and kept Mr. Crepsley company as he gazed sorrowfully at the face of his one-time mate and thought about the painful past.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

E
VANNA HAD PREPARED A FEAST
for us, but it was all vegetables and fruit — she was a vegetarian and wouldn’t allow anyone to eat meat in her cave. Vancha teased her about it — “Still on the cow-food, lady?” — but ate his share along with Harkat and me, though he chose only food that hadn’t been cooked.