Brothers to the Death (The Saga of Larten Crepsley) (15 page)

“I’ve seen that,” Sylva had said. “It’s in a book that Mama kept. You’re lucky it was never a bestseller or people everywhere would know what you look like.”

Sylva told Larten about her life since fleeing Europe, her husband, her children, the job she had with the United Nations. Gavner had already told Larten most of it, but he pretended it was news to him—he liked listening to her speak.

Eventually she broached the topic that they had been avoiding all night. “I still hate you,” she’d said sadly. “I blame you for Mama’s death and I always will. You dragged her into your world of darkness, and if not for that, she might still be alive.

“But I’m about the same age now that she was when she died. I know she drove you away when she was younger, then forgave you later. I know you were honest with her when you came back, that you truly loved her. I know you didn’t mean for her to be hurt, that you did what you could to save her.

“Patrice—my husband—saw many disturbing things when he returned to France and fought in the War. He saw men and women commit terrible crimes.
He still sees some of those people when he travels to Europe on business. I asked him once how he can face them. He said that we can’t afford to live in the past and be slaves to our memories. It’s hard for him—he’ll never forget or forgive—but he tries to live for the future.”

At that point Sylva had stopped and taken Larten’s hands. “I want to live for the future too. I want to stop hating you. You were an important part of my mother’s life, and mine, and I want to feel close to you again. I don’t know if I can. But I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

“That would please me more than anything else I can think of,” Larten had said in a strangely choked voice, and he’d held Sylva as she cried, remembering the losses of the past, hoping for a happier future.

Larten had visited her twice since then. They always met at neutral venues. Sylva refused to let him near Patrice or her children, for fear they might end up as her mother had. Larten didn’t think that was likely, but he respected her wishes.

The vampire normally let Sylva choose their meeting point, but on this occasion he’d asked her to let him pick the location. Some old friends of his were
going to be in the city and he wanted to introduce Sylva to them.

Sylva was waiting for him at the all-night diner where they had agreed to meet. She smiled as he entered and drew stares from the other customers, cutting an imposing figure in his red clothes and cape, with his orange hair and scar. She let him sit, then ordered for him—she was constantly trying to introduce him to new drinks. He sipped politely from the cup of coffee when it came but, to be honest, he preferred the taste of bat broth.

They spoke briefly of what they had been up to since they’d last met, but Sylva couldn’t contain her curiosity for long. “Where are we going?” she asked. “You were very mysterious on the phone.”

“I hate telephones,” Larten grumbled. “I always feel like a fool when I have to speak into one. But they have become a necessary evil. Tell me, do you enjoy the theater?”

“Very much,” she said. “But if you’re going to take me to a show, I should warn you that I’ve seen most of the plays on Broadway.”

“You will not have seen any like this,” Larten assured her.

When Sylva was ready, Larten took her arm—she needed a cane to walk now—and led her to a deserted warehouse. The building was dark outside and Sylva was nervous. Then she saw other people enter and her nerves faded.

A man was waiting just inside the door. He was the tallest man she’d ever seen, and the hat he wore made him seem even taller. He had a menacing expression and very black teeth. He was glaring at them. Sylva clutched Larten’s arm and got ready to defend herself with her cane if they were attacked.

“Do you have tickets?” the tall man growled.

“No,” Larten said gravely. “I would not waste good money on a two-bit show like this one.”

The men glowered at each other, then broke out laughing. “It’s good to see you, old friend,” the tall man smiled.

“Likewise,” Larten said. “Sylva, this is Hibernius Tall, owner of the Cirque Du Freak.”

“You run a freak show?” Sylva frowned.

“No, madam,” Mr. Tall said. “I run the most incredible, exciting, mind-boggling freak show in the history of the world. Come, I will seat you in the front row. Any friend of Larten’s is a most respected and welcome friend of mine.” He glanced at the
vampire and his eyes sparkled. “You may, of course, enter of your own free will.”

“Very droll,” Larten sighed, wishing—not for the first time—that Bram Stoker had never written that inexplicably popular book about vampires.

Sylva wasn’t sure what to expect as she took her seat in front of the stage but soon realized that Mr. Tall had spoken truly. This
was
the most incredible show she’d ever seen. There was a man called Bradley Stretch who had rubbery bones—he could extend his arms and legs, tie his fingers into knots, and do a whole lot more. There was a woman who could set her eyes alight. A boy who could cut off pieces of his body and then grow them back again. And many, many more.

Sylva watched in a daze, along with the rest of the audience, as one freak after another took to the stage, each more amazing than the one before. Even Larten was surprised. The show was slicker and more wondrous than when he’d first seen it. The dancing ladies and stage magicians were relics of the past. It was now a display of pure, unique, unmatchable marvels.

Only one thing disturbed Larten. In the interval a number of small people in blue robes and hoods passed among the crowd, selling trinkets. These were the mysterious Little People, servants of Desmond
Tiny. Their master had sent them to protect the cast and crew of the Cirque Du Freak during the War. Des Tiny had told Larten that he dispatched the Little People to guard the circus whenever great threats loomed on the horizon. The fact that they were still with the Cirque troubled Larten and made him wonder what sort of dangers might be lying in store.

Larten and Sylva went backstage after the show for a small party to which only a few select guests had been invited. Sylva got to meet some of the stars and chat with them about their lives, how they had been discovered by Mr. Tall, what it was like to have rubbery bones or regrowable limbs.

“I think she enjoyed our little show,” Mr. Tall murmured to Larten, popping up beside him without warning.

“Everybody does,” Larten smiled. “My congratulations. I did not think you could improve on the old formula, but it is better than ever.”

“We’re constantly evolving,” Mr. Tall said. “Tastes are more refined than they used to be, so I can focus solely on the bizarre and freakish now. And with modern travel being what it is, I find it easier to track down fresh talent and bring new performers into the fold.”

“I sometimes dream of taking to the stage again,”
Larten said. “But I do not think my old bag of tricks would find much favor with a modern audience.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Mr. Tall said. “We have a particularly strong lineup at the moment, but there is always room for a spot of light relief. Your sleight of hand and escape tricks are not unusual, but your speed and strength are. Naleesha—the lady who sets her eyeballs on fire—is taking a short holiday. We’re playing New York for another eight nights and will be without her for the rest of our time here. We could make use of your talents.”

“You are joking,” Larten said skeptically.

“No,” Mr. Tall said. “I’m serious. Will you perform with us again?”

“I do not think—” Larten began, but Sylva had been listening and she cut in.

“Please, Larten, say you’ll do it. I’d love to watch you. If you agree to perform, I’ll come every night and cheer for you until my voice breaks.”

“Well,” Larten chuckled, oddly nervous at the thought of stepping in front of an audience again after all these years, “with support like that, how can I refuse?” He snapped his cape and struck a pose. “Show me to my trailer, Hibernius. The real star of the show has arrived!”

Larten spent most of the day rehearsing with Mr. Tall. They set up a number of high-risk escapist routines. In one, Larten was locked in chains and placed beneath a door studded with sharpened stakes. The door would be held in place over him by a rope, and a member of the audience would be invited to slice through the rope with a knife. It would take them about half a minute to cut through the strands. If Larten didn’t wriggle free in time, he’d be skewered in a dozen places, and that would be the end of him.

Getting out of the chains wasn’t the hard bit—any decent escapologist could have done that. But
Mr. Tall wanted it to appear as if he’d failed, so that when the stakes dropped, the audience could see him still struggling. If he darted out of harm’s way at the last split second, using his unnatural speed, he would give the impression that he’d been trapped and everyone would think he was dead.

“That should give the crowd a juicy scare,” Mr. Tall said enthusiastically.

The difficulty was timing it so finely that those watching wouldn’t know he had escaped until after the door was raised. Larten had to do it countless times until Mr. Tall was happy. It was only when one of the stakes caught the hem of his cape and nearly speared his foot that Mr. Tall expressed satisfaction.

“Perfect!” he clapped. “That’s what I’m after. Now let’s see if we can’t knock another tenth of a second off of it.”

Larten would also lift several heavy weights and juggle them. Each object had spikes or sharp edges, so if he made a mistake, he’d lose a few fingers.

“I do not recall you being this bloodthirsty in the past,” he complained at one point.

“Audiences are more sophisticated than before,” Mr. Tall said. “We have to add an authentic element of danger. They must see that the threat of injury is
genuine. If you can’t give them that, they will jeer you offstage.”

When Larten had stretched his skills and stamina as far as he could—he was sweating through his clothes—Mr. Tall dismissed him and told him to get some sleep. The General went away muttering angrily, but when the time came to perform that night—under his old nickname of Quicksilver—and he took his bows after a successful act to a chorus of cheers, he forgot about his complaints and lapped up the applause. It had been a long time since he’d been able to enjoy himself so freely, without any thoughts of his grim quest. For those brief moments he was a true part of the Cirque Du Freak again, with no other concerns in the world.

Sylva was greatly impressed and hurried backstage after the show to tell the vampire how fabulous he was. Larten tried to make light of her compliments, and the others that he was paid, but inside he was glowing. He had missed the stage life. The next week was going to be a lot of fun, and he was determined to rack up the tension another few notches by making his escapes even more life threatening than they already were.

The next four nights passed in a happy blur.
Larten slept soundly by day—Mr. Tall provided him with a luxurious coffin—and practiced for a couple of hours every evening. Then he relaxed and had a light meal with the other performers before taking to the stage and burning as brightly as he could during his time in the spotlight.

Sylva came to every performance, as she’d promised, and clapped and cheered louder than anyone else whenever he stepped forward to take a bow. She also came backstage after each show to congratulate him. It was the closest he had felt to her, certainly since she had been a tiny girl in Paris. The Cirque Du Freak had brought them together in a way nothing else ever had.

Later, looking back on those few delightful nights, he would curse himself for not realizing that it was too good to be true, for not anticipating the sorrow and pain that always struck whenever he was happy. But at the time he genuinely had no notion that his involvement with the freakish circus would result in the deepest, cruelest cut of his long, dark, tragic life.

On the night of his sixth performance, as he was about to launch into the first of his escapes, somebody in the crowd heckled him. “Hey, ugly, get off
the stage! The only freakish thing about you is your hideous face!”

Larten flushed angrily and squinted against the glare of the spotlights, scanning the crowd to find the one who had insulted him. Anger quickly gave way to delight when he spotted a grinning Gavner Purl sitting near the back. Beside him sat an even more welcome and unexpected sight—Wester Flack.

Larten was thrilled to see his old friends, regardless of the fact that Gavner continued to heckle him, and he put on an extra-fine, precisely timed show. Even Wester and Gavner had trouble keeping sight of him when he darted out of the way of the falling stakes and a massive rolling boulder. On a couple of occasions they thought, along with the rest of the audience, that he had been squashed or speared. But the orange-haired General always reappeared to take his deserved applause.

When Larten took his final bow at the end of the show, he signaled to the pair to meet him around back. They were led through to the aftershow party along with a handful of other select guests. While most of the VIPs made straight for the more remarkable stars of the show, the vampires hurried over to Larten.

“What are you doing here?” the General beamed. He was particularly surprised to see Wester.

“We’re messengers of good fortune,” Wester grinned, but before he could continue, a teenager stuck his head between the two vampires.

“Is this him?” the boy gasped.

“The one and only,” Gavner said.

The excited teen extended a hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. My father told me many tales about you.”

Larten shook the young man’s hand, smiling uncertainly. “I am trying to place your face, but I do not know…”

“My name’s Jimmy, sir. Jimmy Ovo.”

It clicked. “The undertaker in Berlin!” Larten exclaimed. “Your father was helping Kurda Smahlt when I met him. He traveled with us for a while. What in the name of the gods are you doing here with these two?”

“I met James when I was with Kurda,” Gavner explained. “He went back into undertaking after the war. I’ve kept in touch. It’s handy knowing a man in his line—he and his contacts are able to provide us with bottled blood when we need it. I dropped by to see him on our way. He told me Jimmy was in New
York on vacation, so I thought I might as well invite him to the Cirque Du Freak while I was here.”