Lord of the Shadows Page 3

  I started with the earliest editions of the national paper, from a few months before I ran into trouble with the law. I was looking for any mention of Mr. Crepsley’s city and the killers plaguing it. I made quick time, glancing only at the international sections. I found a couple of references to the murders — and they were both mocking! Apparently journalists here were amused by the vampire rumors that had swept the city, and the story was treated as light entertainment. There was a short piece in one issue, relaying the news that the police had caught four suspects, and then carelessly let all four escape. No names, and no mention of the people Steve had killed when he broke out.

  I was relieved but angered at the same time. I knew the pain the vampaneze had brought to that city, the lives they’d destroyed. It wasn’t right that such a grim story should be turned into the stuff of funny urban legends, simply because it happened in a city far away from where these people lived. They wouldn’t have found it so amusing if the vampaneze had struck here!

  I made a quick check on issues from the next few months, but the paper had dropped the story after news of the escape. I turned to the local paper. This was slower going. The main news was at the front, but local interest stories were scattered throughout. I had to check most of the pages of each edition before I could move on to the next.

  Although I tried not to dwell on articles unrelated to me, I couldn’t stop myself from skimming the opening paragraphs of the more interesting stories. It wasn’t long before I was catching up with all the news — elections, scandals; heroes, villains; policemen who’d been highly commended, criminals who’d given the town a bad name; a big bank raid; coming in third in a national clean towns competition.

  I saw photographs and read clips about several of my school friends, but one in particular stood out — Tom Jones! Tommy was one of my best friends, along with Steve and Alan Morris. We were two of the best soccer players in our class. I was the goal-scorer, leading the line up front, while Tommy was the goal-stopper, pulling off spectacular saves. I’d often dreamt of going on to be a professional soccer player. Tommy had taken that dream all the way.

  There were dozens of photos and stories about him. Tom Jones (he’d shortened the “Tommy”) was one of the best keepers in the world. Lots of articles poked fun at his name — there was also a famous singer called Tom Jones — but nobody had anything bad to say about Tommy himself. After working his way up through the amateur ranks, he’d signed for a foreign, world-famous club, and made a name for himself, eventually becoming captain of the national team.

  In the most recent editions, I read how local soccer fans were buzzing with excitement at the prospect of a vital World Cup qualifier, which was being held in our town. It was Tommy’s first game here in several years, and even non-soccer fans had been caught up in the hype. Organizers were expecting a huge, enthusiastic crowd on the day of the game.

  Reading about Tommy brought a smile to my face — it was great to see one of my friends doing so well. The other good news was that there was no mention of me. Since this was quite a small town, I was sure word would have spread if anyone had heard about me in connection with the killings. I was in the clear.

  But there was no mention of my family in the papers either. I couldn’t find the name Shan anywhere. There was only one thing to do — I’d have to dig around for information in person by going back to the house where I used to live.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE HOUSE TOOK MY BREATH AWAY. It hadn’t changed. Same color door, same style curtains, same small garden out back. As I stood gazing at it, gripping the top of the fence, I almost expected a younger version of myself to come bounding out the back door, clutching a pile of comics, on his way over to Steve’s.

  “May I help you?” someone asked behind me. My head snapped round and my eyes cleared. I didn’t know how long I’d been standing there, but by my white knuckles, I guessed it had been a few minutes at least. An elderly woman was standing close by, studying me suspiciously. Rubbing my hands together, I smiled warmly. “Just looking,” I said.

  “At what, precisely?” she challenged me, and I realized how I must appear to her — a rough-faced teenager, gazing intently into a deserted backyard, checking out the house. She thought I was a burglar casing the joint!

  “My name’s Derek Shan,” I said, borrowing an uncle’s first name. “My cousins lived here. In fact, they still might. I’m not sure. I’m in town to see some friends, and I thought I’d drop by and find out if my relatives were here or not.”

  “You’re related to Annie?” the woman asked, and I shivered at the mention of the name.

  “Yes,” I said, fighting hard to keep my voice steady. “And Dermot and Angela.” My parents. “Do they still live here?”

  “Dermot and Angela moved away three or four years ago,” the woman said. She stepped up beside me, at ease now, and squinted at the house. “They should have left sooner. That was never a happy house, not since their boy died.” The woman looked sideways at me. “You know about that?”

  “I remember my dad saying something,” I muttered, ears turning red.

  “I wasn’t living here then,” the woman said. “But I’ve heard all about it. He fell out of a window. The family stayed on, but it was a miserable place after that. I don’t know why they stuck around so long. You can’t enjoy yourself in a house of bitter memories.”

  “But they did stay,” I said, “until three or four years ago? And then moved on?”

  “Yes. Dermot had a mild heart attack. He had to retire early.”

  “Heart attack!” I gasped. “Is he OK?”

  “Yes.” The woman smiled at me. “I said it was mild, didn’t I? But they decided to move when he retired. Left for the coast. Angela often said she’d like to live by the sea.”

  “What about Annie?” I asked. “Did she go with them?”

  “No. Annie stayed. She still lives here — her and her boy.”

  “Boy?” I blinked.

  “Her son.” The woman frowned. “Are you sure you’re a relative? You don’t seem to know much about your own family.”

  “I’ve lived abroad most of my life,” I said truthfully.

  “Oh.” The woman lowered her voice. “Actually, I suppose it’s not the sort of thing you talk about in front of children. How old are you, Derek?”

  “Sixteen,” I lied.

  “Then I guess you’re old enough. My name’s Bridget, by the way.”

  “Hello, Bridget.” I forced a smile, silently willing her to get on with the story.

  “The boy’s a nice enough child, but he’s not really a Shan.”

  “What do you mean?” I frowned.

  “He was born out of wedlock. Annie never married. I’m not even sure anyone except her knows who the father is. Angela claimed they knew, but she never told us his name.”

  “I guess lots of women choose not to marry these days,” I sniffed, not liking the way Bridget was talking about Annie.

  “True.” Bridget nodded. “Nothing wrong with wanting the child but not the husband. But Annie was on the young side. She was just sweet sixteen when the baby was born.”

  Bridget was glowing, the way gossips do when they’re telling a juicy story. I wanted to snap at her, but it was better to hold my tongue.

  “Dermot and Angela helped raise the baby,” Bridget continued. “He was a blessing in some ways. He became a replacement for their lost son. He brought some joy back into the house.”

  “And now Annie looks after him by herself?” I asked.

  “Yes. Angela came back a lot during the first year, for weekends and holidays. But now the boy’s more independent, Annie can cope by herself. They get along as well as most, I guess.” Bridget glanced at the house and sniffed. “But they could do with giving that old wreck a slap of paint.”

  “I think the house looks fine,” I said stiffly. “What do sixteen-year-old boys know about houses?” Bridget laughed. Then she bid me good day and went about her business. I wa
s going to call her back, to ask when Annie would be home. But then I decided not to. Just as easy — and more exciting — to wait out here and watch for her.

  There was a small tree on the other side of the road. I stood by it, hood up over my head, checking my watch every few minutes as though I was waiting to meet somebody. The street was quiet and not many people passed.

  The day darkened and dusk set upon the town. There was a bite in the air but it didn’t trouble me — half-vampires don’t feel the cold as much as humans. I thought about what Bridget had said while I was waiting. Annie, a mother! Hard to believe. She’d been a kid herself the last time I saw her. From what Bridget said, Annie’s life hadn’t been the easiest. Being a mother at sixteen must have been rough. But it sounded like she had things under control now.

  A light went on in the kitchen. A woman’s silhouette passed from one side to the other. Then the back door opened and my sister stepped out. There was no mistaking her. Taller, with long brown hair, much plumper than she’d been as a girl. But the same face. The same sparkling eyes, and lips that were ready to turn up into a warmhearted smile at a moment’s notice.

  I stared at Annie as though in a trance. I wasn’t able to tear my eyes away. I was trembling, and my legs felt like they were about to give way, but I couldn’t turn my gaze aside.

  Annie walked to a small washing line in the backyard, on which a boy’s clothes were hanging. She blew into her hands to warm them, then reached up and took the clothes down, one garment at a time, folding each over the crook of her left arm.

  I stepped forward and opened my mouth to call her name, all thoughts of not announcing myself forgotten. This was Annie — my sister! I had to talk to her, hold her again, laugh and cry with her, catch up on the past, ask about Mom and Dad.

  But my vocal cords wouldn’t work. I was choked up with emotion. All I managed was a thin croak. Closing my mouth, I walked across the road, slowing as I came to the fence. Annie had gathered all the clothes from the line and was returning to the kitchen. I gulped deeply and licked my lips. Blinked several times in quick succession to clear my head. Opened my mouth again —

  — and stopped when a boy inside the house shouted, “Mom! I’m home!”

  “About time!” Annie yelled in reply, and I could hear the love in her voice. “I thought I told you to bring in the clothes.”

  “Sorry. Wait a sec . . .” I saw the boy’s shadow as he entered the kitchen and hurried over to the back door. Then he emerged, a chubby boy, fair-haired, very pleasant looking.

  “Do you want me to take some of those?” the boy said.

  “My hero,” Annie laughed, handing half of the load over to the boy. He went in ahead of her. She turned to shut the door and caught a glimpse of me. She paused. It was quite dark. The light was behind her. She couldn’t see me very well. But if I stood there long enough . . . if I called out to her . . .

  I didn’t.

  Instead I coughed, pulled my hood tight around my face, spun, and walked away. I heard the door close behind me, and it was like the sound of a sharp blade slicing me adrift from the past.

  Annie had her own life. A son. A home. Probably a job. Maybe a boyfriend or somebody special. It wouldn’t be fair if I popped up, opening old wounds, making her part of my dark, twisted world. She enjoyed peace and a normal life — much better than what I had to offer.

  So I left her behind and slunk away quickly, through the streets of my old town, back to my real home — the Cirque Du Freak. And I sobbed my heart out every painful, lonely step of the way.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ICOULDN’T BEAR TO TALK to anybody that night. I sat by myself in a seat high up in the football stadium while the show was in progress, thinking about Annie and her child, Mom and Dad, all that I’d lost and missed out on. For the first time in years I felt angry with Mr. Crepsley for blooding me. I found myself wondering what life would be like if he’d left me alone, wishing I could go back and change the past.

  But there was no point tormenting myself. The past was a closed book. I could do nothing to alter it, and wasn’t even sure I would if I could — if I hadn’t been blooded, I wouldn’t have been able to tip the vampires off about Kurda Smahlt, and the entire clan might have fallen.

  If I’d returned home ten or twelve years earlier, my feelings of loss and anger might have been stronger. But I was an adult now, in all but looks. A Vampire Prince. I’d learned to deal with heartache. That wasn’t an easy night. Tears flowed freely. But by the time I drifted off to sleep a few hours before dawn, I’d resigned myself to the situation, and knew there would be no fresh tears in the morning.

  I was stiff with the cold when I awoke, but worked it off by jogging down the tiers of the stadium to where the Cirque was camped. As I was making for the tent I shared with Harkat, I spotted Mr. Tall. He was standing by an open fire, roasting sausages on a spit. He beckoned me over and threw a handful of sausages to me, then speared a fresh batch and stuck them over the flames.

  “Thanks,” I said, eagerly munching the piping-hot sausages.

  “I knew you would be hungry,” he replied. He looked at me steadily. “You have been to see your sister.”

  “Yes.” It didn’t surprise me that he knew. Mr. Tall was an insightful old owl.

  “Did she see you?” Mr. Tall asked.

  “She saw me briefly, but I left before she got a good look.”

  “You behaved correctly.” He turned the sausages over and spoke softly. “You are about to ask me if I will help protect your sister. You fear for her safety.”

  “Harkat thinks something’s going to happen,” I said. “He’s not sure what. If Steve Leopard’s part of it, he might use Annie to hurt me.”

  “He won’t,” Mr. Tall said. I was surprised by his directness — normally he was very cagey when it came to revealing anything about the future. “As long as you stay out of her life, your sister will be under no direct threat.”

  “What about indirect threat?” I asked warily.

  Mr. Tall chuckled. “We are all under indirect threat, one way or another. Harkat is correct — this is a time and place of destiny. I can say no more about it, except leave your sister alone. She is safe that way.”

  “OK,” I sighed. I wasn’t happy about leaving Annie to fend for herself, but I trusted Hibernius Tall.

  “You should sleep some more now,” Mr. Tall said. “You are tired.”

  That sounded like a good plan. I wolfed another sausage, turned to leave, then stopped. “Hibernius,” I said without facing him, “I know you can’t tell me what’s going to happen, but before we came here, you said I didn’t have to come. It would have been better if I’d stayed away, wouldn’t it?”

  There was a long silence. I didn’t think he was going to respond. But then, softly, he said, “Yes.”

  “What if I left now?”

  “It is too late,” Mr. Tall said. “Your decision to return set a train of events in motion. That train cannot be derailed. If you left now, it would only serve the purpose of the forces you oppose.”

  “But what if —” I said, turning to push the issue. But Mr. Tall had disappeared, leaving only the flickering flames and a stick speared with sausages lying on the grass next to the fire.

  That evening, after I’d rested and enjoyed a filling meal, I told Harkat about my trip home. I also told him about my short conversation with Mr. Tall and how he’d urged me not to get involved with Annie.

  “Then you were right,” Harkat grunted. “I thought you should involve yourself with . . . your family again, but it seems I was wrong.”

  We were feeding scraps of meat to the Wolf Man, part of our daily chores. We stood at a safe distance from his cage, all too aware of the power of his fearsome jaws.

  “What about your nephew?” Harkat asked. “Any family resemblance?”

  I paused, a large sliver of meat in my right hand. “It’s strange, but I didn’t think of him as that until now. I just thought of him as Annie’s son. I
forgot that also makes him my nephew.” I grinned crookedly. “I’m an uncle!”

  “Congratulations,” Harkat deadpanned. “Did he look like you?”

  “Not really,” I said. I thought of the fair-haired, chubby boy’s smile, and how he’d helped Annie bring in the washing. “A nice kid, from what I saw. Handsome, of course, like all the Shans.”

  “Of course!” Harkat snorted.

  I was sorry I hadn’t taken more notice of Annie’s boy. I didn’t even know his name. I thought about going back to ask about him — I could hang about and collar Bridget the gossip again — but dismissed the idea immediately. That was precisely the kind of stunt that could backfire and bring me to Annie’s notice. Best to forget about him.

  As we were finishing off, I saw a young boy watching us from behind a nearby van. He was studying us quietly, taking care not to attract attention. In the normal run of things, I’d have ignored him — children often came nosing around the Cirque site. But my thoughts were on my nephew and I found myself more interested in the boy than I would otherwise have been.

  “Hello!” I shouted, waving at him. The boy’s head instantly vanished behind the van. I would have left it, but moments later the boy stepped out and walked towards us. He looked nervous — understandable, since we were in the presence of the snarling Wolf Man — but he was fighting hard not to show it.

  The boy stopped a few yards away and nodded curtly. “Hello,” he mumbled. He was scrawny. He had dark blond hair and bright blue eyes. I put his age at somewhere in the region of ten or eleven, maybe a little bit older than Annie’s kid, though there couldn’t have been much of an age difference. For all I knew they might even be going to school together!

  The boy said nothing after greeting us. I was thinking about my nephew and comparing this boy to him, so I said nothing either. Harkat finally broke the silence. “Hi,” he said, lowering the mask he wore to filter out air, which was poisonous to him. “I’m Harkat.”