“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 forthe 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 fora 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. All 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 fora 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 ofthe 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 tell 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, “lam 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 hearthat?” Malora said brightly.
“Nonsense,” Larten sniffed, tossing a coin to the boy. He caught it midairand 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
