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 finst 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 tell 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 ofthe famous city, the delights it could offer, shops full 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. All things considered, it could have been a lot worse.
And then, as the captain roared at his crew and demanded to know what the hell 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 ofthe 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.”
