Lord of the Shadows (8 page)

“Make us,” R.V. giggled.

“Uhr’d luhk tuh shee im truhy!” said Morgan James, who could only speak in a slur since his accident.

“We won’t let him try anything,” Gannen Harst said quietly. He hadn’t drawn his sword yet, but his right hand was hanging purposefully by his scabbard. “He’s a dangerous foe, even injured — don’t forget that.”

“You think too much of the boy,” Steve purred, looking at me over his protector’s shoulder. “He won’t even be able to get up with a wound like that.”

“Won’t I?” I snorted, and pushed myself to my feet just to spite him. A red curtain descended for the second time, but again it passed after a couple of seconds. When my sight cleared, I saw Steve grinning wickedly — he’d goaded me to my feet on purpose, to string more entertainment out of me.

Waving the arrow shaft around at the four men, I backed away. Each step was torture, the pain in my right shoulder flaring up at the slightest movement. It was clear that I couldn’t get very far, but Gannen was taking no chances. He sent R.V. to my left and James to my right, blocking my route in both directions.

I stopped, weaving heavily on my feet, woozily trying to formulate a plan. I knew only Steve could kill me — Des Tiny had predicted doom for the vampaneze if anybody other than their Lord killed any of the vampire hunters — but the others could hold me down for him.

“Let’s finish him off quickly,” Gannen Harst said, finally drawing his sword. “He is at our mercy. Let’s not waste time.”

“Take it easy,” Steve chuckled. “I want to see him bleed a bit more.”

“And if he bleeds to death from your son’s arrow?” Gannen snapped.

“He won’t,” Steve said. “Darius shot exactly where I trained him to.” Steve glanced back at the boy and caught his troubled look. “Are you OK?”

“Yes,” Darius croaked. “I just didn’t think it would be so . . . so . . . ”

“Bloody,” Steve said. He nodded understandingly. “You did good work tonight. You don’t have to watch the rest if you don’t want to.”

“How did . . .
you
end up with . . . a son?” I gasped, playing for time, hoping an escape would present itself.

“A long, twisted story,” Steve said, facing me again. “One I’ll delight in telling you before I drive a stake through your heart!”

“You got that . . . the wrong way round.” I laughed bleakly. “
I’ll
be the one doing . . . the killing tonight.”

“Optimistic to the last.” Steve smirked. He cocked a devilish eyebrow at me. “How did Tommy die — with dignity, or like that squealing pig Crepsley?”

At that, something snapped inside me. I screamed a foul insult at Steve and, without thinking, hurled my baton at him. With blind luck, it struck his forehead and he dropped with a startled grunt.

Gannen Harst instinctively swung away from me, to check on his Lord. As soon as he made his move, I made mine. Jumping at Morgan James, I lashed out with the arrow shaft. He took a quick step back to avoid being speared. As he did, I smashed into him with my wounded right shoulder. I howled with pain as the arrowhead was forced deeper into my flesh, but my ploy worked — James toppled over.

The path ahead was momentarily clear. I stumbled forward, grasping my right shoulder with my left hand, pressing hard around the hole where the arrow- head was buried, trying to stem the flow of blood, weeping with agony. Behind me I heard Steve shout, “I’m OK! Chase him! Don’t let him get away!”

If I hadn’t been injured, I might have had enough of a head start on them. But I could manage nothing faster than a slow jog. It was only a matter of seconds before they’d catch up with me.

As I lurched away, my pursuers hot on my heels, a door to one of the buildings on my left opened and a large man stuck his head out. “What’s all the noise about?” he shouted angrily. “Some of us are trying to —”

“Help!” I screamed on impulse. “Murder!”

The man threw the door all the way open and stepped out. “What’s going on?” he yelled.

I looked back at Steve and the others. They’d come to a halt. I had to make the most of their confusion. “Help!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Killers! They’ve shot me! Help!”

Lights began flicking on in the neighboring buildings, and curtains were swished back. The man who’d come out started towards me. Steve sneered, reached over his shoulder, produced an arrow-gun, and fired at the man. Gannen Harst knocked the arrow-gun aside just before Steve fired, so the arrow whizzed wide of its mark. But the man had seen Steve’s intent and he ran back inside his house before he could be fired upon again.

“What are you doing?” Steve furiously challenged Gannen Harst.

“We must get out of here!” Gannen shouted. “Not without killing him!” Steve yelled, jerking his arrow-gun at me.

“Then kill him, quick, and let’s go!” Gannen responded.

Steve stared at me, eyes filled with hatred. Behind him, R.V. and Morgan James were looking on with hungry longing, eager to see me die. Darius was farther removed from the gang — I couldn’t tell if he was watching or not.

Steve raised his arrow-gun, took a couple of steps closer, trained his sights on me, then . . .

. . . lowered it, unfired. “No,” he said sullenly. “This is too easy. Too fast.”

“Don’t be foolish!” Gannen roared. “You have to kill him! This is the predicted fourth encounter. You must do it now, before —”

“I’ll do what I please!” Steve yelled, turning on his mentor. For a moment I thought he meant to attack his closest ally. But then he got ahold of himself and smiled tightly. “I know what I’m doing, Gannen. I can’t kill him this way.”

“If not now, then when?” Gannen snarled.

“Later,” Steve said. “When the time is right. When I can torment him at my leisure and make him feel the pain I felt when he betrayed me and pledged himself to Creepy Crepsley.”

“And Mr. Tiny’s prophecy?” Gannen hissed. “Stuff it!” Steve smirked. “I’ll create my own destiny. That mug in the rain boots doesn’t rule my life.”

Gannen’s red eyes were ablaze with rage. This was madness. He wanted Steve to kill me, to settle the War of the Scars once and for all. He would have argued the point, but more doors were opening and people were poking their heads out. Gannen realized they were in danger of attracting too much unwanted attention. He shook his head, then grabbed Steve, spun him away from me, and pushed him back the way they’d come, ordering R.V. and Morgan James to retreat.

“Catch you later, vampire-gator!” Steve laughed, waving at me as Gannen shepherded him away.

I wanted to respond with a suitable insult, but I lacked the strength. Besides, I had to get out of there as quickly as Steve and his gang. If the people came out and found me, I’d be in major trouble. It would mean the police, hospital, recognition, and arrest — I was still a wanted fugitive. The general public here might not know about the alleged killer Darren Shan, but I was sure the police did.

Turning my back on the emerging humans, I staggered to the end of the block, where I rested a moment, leaning against a wall. I wiped sweat from my forehead and tears from my eyes, then checked the hole in my shoulder — still bleeding. There was no time to examine it further. People were spilling out onto the street. It wouldn’t be long before news of the killings at the stadium trickled through. Then they’d be on their phones to the police, telling them all about the disturbance.

Pushing myself away from the wall, I stumbled left and started down a path that would hopefully lead me away from the projects. I tried to jog but it was too painful. I slowed to the fastest walk I could manage, bleeding with every step I took, head ringing, desperately wondering how far I could struggle on before I collapsed from loss of blood or shock.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I
CLEARED THE HOUSING PROJECTS
a few minutes later. In the distance police sirens screamed like banshees in the night. The stadium would be their first priority, but once word reached them of the scuffle in the projects, units would be sent to investigate.

As I stood bent over, panting for breath, I studied the path I’d taken and saw little puddles of blood marking my course — a clear trail for anyone who followed. If I was to progress any farther undetected, I’d have to do something about my wound.

I examined the hole. There was a tiny bit of shaft sticking out of it, attached to the arrowhead. I took hold of the light piece of wood, closed my eyes, bit down hard, and pulled.

“Charna’s guts!”

I fell back, shivering, fingers twitching, mouth opening and shutting rapidly. For maybe a minute, I knew only pain. The buildings around me could have collapsed and I wouldn’t have noticed.

Gradually the pain abated and I was able to study the wound again. I hadn’t managed to pull the head out, but I’d drawn it closer towards the hole, plugging it up. Blood still oozed out but it wasn’t flowing steadily like it had been. That would have to do. Tearing a long strip off my shirt, I balled it up and pressed it over the wound. After a few deep breaths, I got to my feet. My legs were shaking like a newborn lamb’s, but they held. I made sure I wasn’t dripping blood, then resumed my sluggish flight.

The next ten or fifteen minutes passed in a slow, agonized blur. I had enough sense left to keep moving, but I wasn’t able to take note of street names or plot a course back to the Cirque Du Freak. All I knew was that I couldn’t stop.

I kept to the sides of streets and alleys, so I could grab a fence for support or lean against a wall to rest. I didn’t pass many people. Those I did pass ignored me. That surprised me, even in my dazed state, until I realized how I must look. A teenager, reeling along the path, head bowed, body crooked over, moaning softly — they thought I was drunk!

Eventually I had to stop. I was at the end of my rope. If I didn’t sit down and rest, I’d drop in the middle of the street. Luckily I was close to a dark alley. I fell into it and crawled away from the streetlights, deep into welcome shadows. I stopped beside a large black garbage can, sat up against the wall by which it was set, and dragged my legs in.

“Just . . . a short . . . rest,” I wheezed, laying my head on my knees, wincing at the pain in my shoulder. “A few . . . minutes . . . and then I can . . .”

I got no further. My eyelids fluttered shut and I passed out, at the mercy of any who happened to chance upon me.

My eyes opened. It was later, darker, colder. I felt like I was encased in a block of ice. I tried lifting my head, but even that small effort proved too much for me. I blacked out again.

The next time I awoke, I was choking. Some stinging liquid was being forced down my throat. For a confused moment I thought I was a raw half-vampire again, and that Mr. Crepsley was trying to force me to drink human blood. “No!” I mumbled, slapping at the hands holding my head. “Not gonna . . . be like you!”

“Hold him still!” someone grunted.

“It’s not that easy,” the person holding me complained. “He’s stronger than he looks.” Then I felt a body pressing down on mine, and a voice whispered in my ear, “Steady, kid. We’re only trying to help.”

My head cleared slightly and I stopped struggling. Blinking, I tried to focus on the faces of the men around me, but it was either too dark or my sight was clouded with pain. “What . . . are you?” I gasped, meaning were they friends or foes.

The man holding me must have misheard my question, and thought I’d asked
who
were they. “I’m Declan,” he said. “This is Little Kenny.”

“Open wide,” Little Kenny said, pressing the rim of a bottle to my lips. “This is cheap and nasty, but it’ll warm you up.”

I drank reluctantly, unable to argue. My stomach filled with a sickening fire. When Little Kenny took the bottle away, I leaned my head back against the wall and groaned. “What time . . . is it?” I asked.

“We don’t bother with watches,” Declan chuckled. “But it’s late, maybe one or two in the morning.” He took hold of my chin, turned my head left and right, then picked at the strip of shirt that was stuck to my shoulder with dried blood.

“Ow!” I yelped.

Declan released me immediately. “Sorry,” he said. “Does it hurt much?”

“Not . . . as much . . . as it did,” I muttered. Then my head began to swim and I half-blacked-out again. When I recovered, the two men were huddled together a few feet away, discussing what to do with me.

“Leave him,” I heard Little Kenny hiss. “He can’t be more than sixteen or seventeen. He’s no good to us.”

“Every person matters,” Declan disagreed. “We can’t afford to be picky.”

“But he’s not one of
us,
” Little Kenny said. “He probably has a family and home. We can’t start recruiting normal people, not until we’re told.”

“I know,” Declan said. “But there’s something different about him. Did you see his scars? And he didn’t get that wound fighting on the playground. We should take him back with us. If the ladies choose not to keep him, we can get rid of him easily enough.”

“But he’ll know where we are!” Little Kenny objected.

“The shape he’s in, I doubt he even knows what town this is!” Declan snorted. “He’s got more things to worry about than marking the route we take.”

Little Kenny grumbled something I couldn’t hear, then said, “OK, but don’t forget it was your choice, not mine. I’m not taking the blame for this.”

“Fine,” Declan said, and returned to my side. He rolled my eyelids all the way up and I got my first clear look at him. He was a large, bearded man, dressed in shabby clothes, covered in grime — a tramp. “Kid,” he said, snapping his fingers in front of my eyes. “You awake? Do you know what’s going on?”

“Yes.” I glanced over at Little Kenny and saw that he was also a tramp.

“We’re taking you back with us,” Declan said. “Can you walk?”

I assumed that they meant to take me to a mission house or homeless shelter. That wasn’t as preferable as the Cirque Du Freak, but it was better than a police station. I wet my lips and locked gazes with Declan. “No . . . police,” I moaned.

Declan laughed. “See?” he said to Little Kenny. “I told you he was our kind of people!” He took hold of my left arm and told Little Kenny to take my right. “This will hurt,” he warned me. “You ready for it?”