Birth of a Killer (8 page)

Seba frowned–he would have preferred Larten to listen some more before chipping in with questions–but Paris was happy to answer.

“A General is nominated by an existing Prince,” Paris explained. “If his fellow Princes approve–one can object, but no more than that–it’s put to a vote. That can take a few years, because at least three-quarters of the Generals must be asked. If the majority give their backing, he’s invested at the next Council.”

“But what do you have to do to be nominated?” Larten pressed.

“You must prove yourself worthy,” Seba cut in. “It starts with knowing when to ask questions and when to be silent.”

“Peace, old friend,” Paris laughed. “I have irritated you. Don’t take your anger out on the boy.”

“I am not angry,” Seba said. “I am amazed and humbled by your offer. But I must ask you not to take
this further. If you do, I will have to publicly reject you, and that would be embarrassing for both of us.”

“I don’t understand,” Paris growled. “You deserve this. You’re respected by everyone. If you were the power-seeking sort, you could have swung a nomination a couple of hundred years ago.”

“But I do
not
seek power,” Seba said quietly. He stared into the flames of the fire and spoke in a quiet tone that Larten had never heard him use before. “I fear true power, Paris. I have seen it twist people, change them beyond recognition. Some, like you, thrive on it and remain masters of their souls. But I do not believe that I would be one of those.

“There is much about the clan that I would change. I would have us regress to a simpler, purer way of life. I think we interact too much with humans. I dislike the Cubs and their war packs. I do not approve of the impasse between ourselves and the vampaneze. I would push for less personal freedom, more regimented control of ordinary vampires by the Generals, a tighter, more restricted community.”

“What’s wrong with any of that?” Paris asked. “I feel that way myself.”

“But you can act neutrally,” Seba said. “You can balance your personal wishes against those of the many. You are happy to make suggestions but not
impose your will. You consider both sides of most arguments.

“I could not. My emotions would get the better of me. I do not trust myself to act as selflessly as a Prince should. Please, Paris, do not tempt me. Some are fit to rule, but I am not one of them. If I accepted the power of a Prince, you would live to regret it. More importantly, so would I.”

Larten was bewildered by his master’s words. He had always thought Seba was in total control of himself, the equal of any challenge. It distressed him to think that Seba was afraid. The vampire had been urging Larten to overcome his fears for the last five years. How could he now back away from his own like this?

“The boy is disappointed,” Paris remarked, spotting Larten’s expression.

“Larten is sharp but inexperienced,” Seba said stiffly. “He may see it my way in time. Or he may not.”

“If he doesn’t, I certainly do.” Paris laid a hand on Seba’s arm and smiled, then arched an eyebrow at Larten. “Wipe that look from your face!” he thundered. “An assistant should never dishonor his master, even by thinking poorly of him.”

“But… you said… I thought…”

“I think Seba is incorrect,” Paris said. “He would be a fine Prince, a credit to the clan. But I can only judge him by what I see. He judges himself by what he feels. We should all be so honest and true to ourselves. It takes a vampire of the highest integrity to acknowledge self-doubt. My respect for Seba has increased after our talk tonight. Yours should too.”

Talk turned to other matters. Larten listened for a while, then slipped away and idly explored the forest. Thinking back over everything he’d heard, he wondered who or what “war packs” and “the vampaneze” were—both terms were new to him. But mostly he pondered Seba’s rejection of power and tried to decide how that made him feel.

Paris had gone when Larten returned. The boy looked around in case the Prince was still in sight, but he and Seba were alone.

“Most vampires do not bother with farewells,” Seba said without looking up. “We live for so long that after a time we tire of saying good-bye. Do not take it as a sign of disrespect.”

Larten thought his master was avoiding his gaze because he was ashamed. But when he edged around the fire and caught Seba’s wistful look, he realized the vampire’s thoughts were elsewhere.

“You wish you had accepted,” Larten said softly.

Seba nodded. “Part of me craves power.” He smiled bitterly and glanced at his assistant. “But it is a part I do not like, a part I must always be wary of. I said you had mixed blood when I tested you, Larten. What I did not tell you was that I have it too. My master almost rejected me when he tasted my blood. But in the end he gave me a chance. He is long dead, but there are not many nights when I do not think of him and vow to honor his memory by denying the hunger of my lesser self.”

Seba sighed and fell silent. Larten quietly cleaned around the elderly vampire, quenching the fire, scattering the ashes, bagging the remains of the wildcat.

Finally Seba stirred. “Did you notice Paris’s bare feet?” he asked.

It was an odd question, but Larten was accustomed to strange queries. “Yes. I assumed that was his preference.”

“No,” Seba said. “Some vampires disregard footwear as a matter of course, but Paris is not one of them. He has commenced his trek to Vampire Mountain, to attend the latest Council. When we undertake that trip, we cast our shoes aside and travel barefoot. It is one of the rules of the clan.”

“Are you going to the Council this time?” Larten asked.

“Aye,” Seba chuckled wryly. “Broken legs permitting.”

“And…” Larten hesitated.

“… Will I take you with me?” Seba shook his head. “Human assistants do not make the trek. You must be at least a half-blood.”

“You’re leaving me behind by myself.” Larten wasn’t dismayed. He would be able to get by for a few months without the guiding hand of his master.

“I
am
leaving you,” Seba said, “but not by yourself. There is a reason why I have not cast aside my shoes yet. I wish to make a detour before I set off. An old friend of mine is traveling nearby, and I think you will enjoy his fine company.” The old vampire smiled warmly. “Tell me, Larten, did you ever hear tales in your youth of the weird, wild, and wonderful
Cirque Du Freak
?”

Gervil was on fire. Flames engulfed his lower legs, his hands, his torso, and his face. People in the crowd were screaming. Some had fainted. A few fled by the exits at the back of the large tent. On the small stage, Gervil writhed, fell to his knees, and rolled around as if trying to quench the flames.

A couple of the braver men tried to mount the stage and rush to Gervil’s aid. But as they clambered onto the boards, the owner of the Cirque Du Freak, Mr. Tall, appeared before them suddenly. It was as if he’d materialized out of thin air.

“Please return to your seats, gentlemen,” Mr. Tall murmured in his deep, croaky voice, his lips
barely moving. “Your efforts are appreciated but unnecessary.”

The men stared doubtfully at the impossibly tall, bony man in the dark suit and red hat. He had huge hands, black teeth, and even blacker eyes. They’d seen him at the start, when he introduced the show. He had looked merely strange then, eerie in appearance but otherwise harmless. Now, staring up into his pitch-black eyes, the men felt uneasy, as if the tall owner of the fantastical circus was peering into their hearts and could stop them with a whistle if he wished.

“The Cirque Du Freak has been touring the world for more than three hundred years,” Mr. Tall muttered, and even though he spoke softly, everyone in the tent heard him. “We have lost several audience members in grisly circumstances during that time—as I told you before the show began, this is a place of fabulous dangers, and we cannot guarantee your safety. But in all those years we have never lost a performer. And we will not break that fine record tonight. Observe!”

Mr. Tall stepped aside, and the people in the crowd saw that Gervil had stopped struggling. He was sitting in the middle of the stage, still covered in flames but grinning. He waved at the stunned spectators,
jumped to his feet, and took a bow. As they realized this was part of his act and went wild with applause, Mr. Tall slipped offstage and paused out of sight of the audience, where Larten was watching, mesmerized as he had been every time he’d seen Gervil in action.

“A lively pack tonight,” Mr. Tall said. “But I think they will be quiet after this.” He studied the toys and sweets on the tray that Larten was holding. He picked up a statue of Gervil and frowned. It would stay lit for more than a month once its owner set it on fire. That was impressive, but Mr. Tall wanted the flames to last for a year. He walked off with the statue, stroking the side of his cheek, considering the problem. Larten barely noticed. He was entranced by the real Gervil, who had now brought a woman onstage and was letting her set his tongue on fire.

Larten had been traveling with the Cirque Du Freak for six weeks, and he still found himself transfixed at each performance. Tonight’s show had started normally enough. After Mr. Tall’s introduction, a group of scantily clad dancing ladies had taken the stage, to the delight of the men in the audience. Mr. Tall didn’t like the dancers–he felt they cheapened the show–but they were expected. By the end, nobody would remember them—they’d stream away
yammering about Gervil, Laveesha, and the rest. But many had come to see semi-naked ladies, and Mr. Tall knew that it paid to give the audience what it wanted. At least to begin with.

Rax, the human hammer, followed the dancers. He could hammer nails into wood and stone blocks using his head. It was a fun but unspectacular act. Merletta, a magician married to Verus the Ventriloquist, followed Rax. She was a skilled magician and wore almost as little as the dancers, so she was warmly received. But, like Rax, she offered nothing out of the ordinary.

Gervil was the first of the magical freaks. His appearance marked the real start of the show. The lucky people in the crowd would be taken on a voyage of dreamy, unbelievable dimensions from this point on. By the time they filed out an hour or so before midnight, their imaginations would never be the same again.

The hairless Gervil could set his flesh on fire and not be burned. It was a truly remarkable gift. Larten knew that many people came to the Cirque Du Freak convinced it was a sham. And while they fell into a wondrous spell during the performances, he was sure a lot of them would convince themselves in the cold light of day that it had all been a clever act.

Larten knew better. He had traveled with these people, eaten with them, run errands for them, traded tales with them. Each performer was genuine. Mr. Tall had no place in his show for fakes.

Gervil finished by setting his eyeballs on fire–that part of the act still shocked Larten–then left the stage to riotous applause. There was a break after that, during which Larten wove through the crowd, selling wares from his tray, shaking his head with a smile whenever he was asked how Gervil had endured the flames.

Salabas and Laveesha were the stars of the second act, Merletta sandwiched between them to allow the crowd to draw its breath. She often performed in all three acts, a variety of impressive tricks. She had amazed with playing cards to begin with. Now she displayed her escapology skills, wriggling free of chains and shackles, topping it off with an escape from beneath a dropping frame of stakes. Her routine was slick and exciting, but nothing compared to the pair set either side of it.

Salabas Skin looked like an ordinary person. He told a short story about his life and made it sound very dull. “But then one day I had an itch. I tugged at my skin and lo and behold…” He grabbed the flesh of his right forearm and pulled. The skin stretched
away from the bone as if it were made of some supple fabric.

To gasps of disbelief and delight, Salabas proceeded to stretch the skin all over his body. He pulled out the wall of his stomach by nine inches on either side. Tugging the flesh of his face, he invited audience members up and had them attach more than fifty pegs to his cheeks. He tied the skin of his chest into a bow.

His grand finale involved Salabas gathering the skin of his throat. He raised it higher and higher until it formed a weird mask over his mouth and nose. It was both disgusting and hilarious. Salabas exited to a huge round of cheers, as he did every night.

Laveesha was billed as the tattooed lady. Most freak shows had a tattooed performer, someone who showed off a fleshly display of art, but Laveesha’s tattoos were mystical and spellbinding. They changed shape whenever somebody sat close to her and stared at them. The inks would shimmer and run, break apart, then reform to reveal a new image, reflecting a hidden desire or secret of the person watching.

Laveesha always warned her volunteers of the power of her tattoos and urged them not to come close if they had any deep, dark secrets they wished to hide from the world. Killers had revealed their
murderous deeds in her presence. So had other criminals. Many more had brought forth the faces of people they lusted after, or images of loved ones who had died.

Her show was unsettling and upsetting. Yet volunteers always came, even after the first few had reeled away from the tattoos in tears or screaming or protesting their innocence. They were drawn to her, compelled to approach, darkly fascinated by what their souls would reveal. It was like having a mirror that showed only the features you least wanted to behold. A person might hate such a mirror yet still feel driven to stare into it.