Brothers to the Death (The Saga of Larten Crepsley) (16 page)

“I’m going to follow my old man into the family business,” Jimmy said. “I’ll be happy to supply you with all the blood you require once I’m established. Any time you need a top-up, just come ask.”

“I will do that,” Larten smiled.

Before Jimmy could start quizzing Larten about his experiences during the war, Gavner sent him to chat with some of the other performers. “He’s a nice kid,” Gavner said when the boy was out of earshot, “but a bit too bubbly sometimes.”

“All of the young are lively,” Larten said. “I remember…” He spotted Sylva and beckoned her to join them. He thought she’d be delighted to see Gavner again, and he was keen to introduce her to Wester—the pair knew much about each other but had never actually met. But Sylva’s face was pale and she shook her head when Larten waved, then turned and stumbled away, limping heavily, her hand shaking as it gripped the head of her cane. Larten was confused, but before he could follow to investigate, Wester spoke.

“We have important news,” he said, his face aglow. “We came as fast as we could. We didn’t want you to
hear it from anyone else. Can we go somewhere private to tell you?”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” Gavner laughed. “Here’s as good a place as any.”

Wester glanced around. Nobody was paying any attention to them. He chuckled ruefully. “You’re right. No point beating about the bush. Larten, you’re going to become a Prince.”

“Of course I am,” Larten said sarcastically. “You and Gavner are here to invest me, I suppose?”

“I’m serious,” Wester said, and Larten’s smile faded. “Paris has nominated you. Arrow and Mika have already approved the nomination. Chok Yamada and Vancha haven’t yet been back to Vampire Mountain to vote, but I’m certain Vancha will recommend you. Sire Yamada will probably reject the nomination, to ensure it goes to the vote. You know what it’s like—the Princes have the power to elect a new Prince by themselves if they all agree, but they prefer to let Generals vote on the matter.”

“That’s
if
Chok makes it back,” Gavner added gloomily. “He’s in poor health according to reports. We’re expecting bad news any night now.”

“Even in death may he be triumphant,” Larten
murmured, making the death’s touch sign in honor of the aging Prince.

“It’s happening,” Wester said, barely able to contain his excitement. He gripped Larten’s arms and squeezed. “Everything’s finally falling into place.”

Larten smiled crookedly. The news was hard to absorb. The Princes were the most revered of vampires. By becoming one, he was guaranteed a privileged place in the annals of the clan. Assuming the Generals supported his nomination, in a few years he would have more power than he had ever imagined. Any honorable vampire would lay down his life for Larten and obey his every command. He would be able to exert tremendous influence over thousands of vampires, maybe even persuade the other Princes to lead them into war with the vampaneze.

Larten was ecstatic yet scared. He didn’t know whether to cheer or cringe. Part of him wanted to be invested immediately, but another part wished that he could postpone the honor. He guessed that every Prince’s senses reeled when they first heard of their nomination. The confusion would no doubt pass once the shock wore off.

“You did not need to come and tell me in person,” Larten said.

“There’s gratitude for you,” Gavner huffed.

Larten shook his head. “I am delighted to see you both, but why come all this way when you could have passed the message to me by other means?”

“I need to campaign for you,” Wester said. “Some Generals don’t like the fact that you’re associated with me. There will be opposition to your nomination. I want to gather support for you, remind the doubters of your triumphs over the vampaneze. The next few years are vital. We need to get as many Generals on our side as we can, so that you can win the vote of a clear majority.”

“Will you campaign for me too?” Larten asked Gavner, smiling to show it was meant as a joke—he knew the young vampire didn’t approve of his and Wester’s plans to provoke a war.

“I don’t think you need help,” Gavner said. “In my opinion Wester’s worrying for nothing. Some vampires will object to your nomination, but not many. You’ll sweep in without any problems. I just happened to be in Vampire Mountain when Wester heard and I wanted to come share the good news with you.”

“Speaking of which,” Larten frowned, “how do you know about the nomination? It is meant to be a secret until all of the Princes have been consulted.”

Wester laughed. “When did that ever happen? Word spreads swiftly through the Halls of Vampire Mountain.”

“Are you sure it is not just a rumor?” Larten asked.

“Positive,” Wester said. “Seba confirmed it—Paris asked him for his thoughts before nominating you. He asked me to pass on his congratulations. He said to tell you he was proud, and that he was confident you would prove an immense credit to the clan.”

Larten felt tears tickling the corners of his eyes but he blinked them away before they had time to fully form. “Well,” he said, stroking his scar, “this is a lot to take in. I am glad you did not tell me before my performance—if I had been distracted, I might have missed my mark and you could have been burying me tonight instead of celebrating my nomination.”

The vampires laughed and clapped Larten’s back. They spent the next few hours discussing the future and what lay in store for the soon-to-be Prince. Larten still had trouble believing it and grimaced each time one of them referred to him as
Sire Crepsley
. Wester was already plotting their strategy.

“I think we can gather enough support to launch an offensive in ten, maybe fifteen years,” he mused aloud. “Paris nominated you, so we can probably rely on his vote. Arrow will definitely fall in with us once he sees how passionate you are about this. Vancha and Mika will be more difficult to persuade, but if we can get most of the Generals behind us, they’ll give their blessing too.”

Gavner didn’t like it when the pair spoke of war and wiping out the vampaneze, but he was only an ordinary General—he had passed his Trials eight years earlier—and he figured it wasn’t his place to lecture them. If Wester was right and this was the wish of the clan, he would have to swallow his misgivings and fall in behind Larten as he led them all to war.

The vampires stayed up talking long after everyone else had gone home or to bed. (Jimmy Ovo had left for a party. His parting shot to a bemused Larten was, “Catch you later, orangey dude!”) But finally even the creatures of the night grew tired. Larten offered his friends a place to sleep. Gavner accepted but Wester said that he had to move on.

“There are a few vampires based in and around New York,” he said. “I want to track them down,
find out where they stand, try to win them over if they’re against your nomination. I’ll be in the city another few nights and will call again to see you before I leave.”

Gavner fell asleep in a hammock beside Larten’s coffin, and soon he was snoring soundly. Larten couldn’t sleep, and not just because of Gavner’s rasping snores. He kept thinking about his investiture, how his life would change, what it would be like to go to war. Randel Chayne would no longer be able to hide. If he was alive, he’d have to fight along with the rest of his clan. One way or another, Larten’s quest was drawing to a close.

He decided to get some fresh air before the sun rose. Slipping out, he took to the streets and set off on what should have been a long, taxing walk. But he didn’t get very far. Passing the all-night diner where he’d met Sylva a week earlier, he spotted her inside, hunched over a mug of coffee, tears streaming down her face.

Larten paused by the window and studied the weeping woman. She had looked upset when he saw her after the show. He’d meant to ask if she was all right but had been distracted by Wester’s news. He thought of leaving her to cry in private, but he hated
seeing her like this and didn’t want to abandon her without trying to help. Maybe something had happened to Patrice or one of her children.

Sylva didn’t look up as he sat opposite her, but by the way her fingers tightened on her mug, he knew she was aware of his presence. He said nothing for a time, letting her recover and compose herself. Finally she met his gaze and wiped tears from her bloodshot eyes.

“I was waiting for you,” she sniffed. “I couldn’t go home. I’d have waited all day if I had to. I won’t put Patrice’s or the children’s lives in danger.”

Larten frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“You always said that you knew who he was,” Sylva moaned. “I never described him because I didn’t think I needed to. You said that you
knew
.”

Larten shook his head dumbly. She wasn’t making sense.

Sylva took a deep breath, then wheezed, “I saw my mother’s killer tonight.”

Larten froze. For a long minute he stared at the ashen woman, his thoughts in a mad whirl. Finally he placed his hands flat on the table and said dully, “Where was he? In the audience? On the roof?”

Sylva laughed sickly. “You’ve been a fool. The
only reason I can forgive you is that I know how much this will hurt. I even considered not telling you—it would have been easier to leave you to your fantasy. But she was my mother. It’s been a long time, but I still want to see her assassin pay for what he did. I can’t let him go free, even to spare your feelings.”

Larten frowned. “I do not understand. I hate Randel Chayne. My heart will fill with joy when I kill him.”

“Such a fool,” Sylva sighed. Then she laid her soft hands over Larten’s and spoke gently, knowing she would destroy his world with her words, but unable to withhold the truth from him. “The killer didn’t hide. He didn’t need to. He would have been more careful if he knew I was at the show, but thinking that he had nothing to fear, he acted without caution.

“You have been betrayed,” she whispered. “I don’t know what his name is, but by the way you acted in his presence, he’s clearly not the one you knew as Randel Chayne. For all these decades you’ve been chasing the wrong man.”

And as she went on, Larten felt waves of madness surround and engulf him, claiming him for blood-drenched, heartbroken delirium once more.

Larten spent the day in his coffin, listening to Gavner snore, thinking everything through, putting all of the pieces together. He was calmer than he should have been. If this had happened forty or fifty years ago, he would have flown into a murderous rage. But he was older now, more world-weary. This was the worst thing that had ever happened to him, but he wasn’t shocked. He had seen enough in his many decades to know that this was just the way things worked. Vulnerable boys like Vur Horston were killed all the time. True-hearted girls like Malora met with sticky ends every day. Selfish, cynical men like Tanish Eul were everywhere. He had long been incapable of
claiming an innocent’s view of the world, so Larten could only feel sadness and shame—sad that he’d been betrayed, ashamed that he hadn’t spotted the deception earlier.

He rose an hour before sunset. Gavner was still snoring. Larten considered leaving while his ex-assistant slept, but that would have been unfair. He couldn’t take Gavner with him, regardless of the promise he had made to include him in the execution of Alicia’s killer if they ever learned of his whereabouts, but it would be wrong to exit without serving any sort of notice. So he bent and gently woke the sleeping General.

“Why’d you wake me so early?” Gavner yawned.

“I have to leave,” Larten said. “I need you to deliver some messages for me.”

“What sort of messages?”

“First, tell Hibernius that I cannot be part of the show tonight. It probably will not come as any surprise to him, but pass on my apologies anyway.”

“Okay.” Gavner rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Who’s the next message for?”

“Paris Skyle. Tell him that I do not want to become a Prince. I am sick of this business and want nothing more to do with the clan. I do not even wish to be a
General any longer. Tell him I have resigned with immediate effect.”

Gavner scowled. He thought Larten was joking and he was trying to figure out the punchline. Then he focused on the vampire’s dark expression and realized this wasn’t a gag.

“Larten!” he gasped, clambering to his feet. “What happened? Why are you saying this? What—”

“I do not care to discuss the matter,” Larten interrupted. “I was once your master. I might even have been a father to you if I had not been so stuck in my
stuffy
ways.” He smiled fleetingly, but it was a lonely, distressed shade of a smile. “If you bear any love for me, you will do as I request and ask no questions.”

Gavner gulped, then nodded slowly. He was silently cursing himself for being such a sound sleeper. He didn’t know what he’d missed, but something had gone seriously amiss with the world while he slumbered.

“There is one more message,” Larten said evenly. “Tell Seba that I am sorry if I disappointed him. I will always love and respect him, but he should not expect a visit from me or Wester anytime soon. In fact he might never see us again.”

“Wester’s leaving too?” Gavner asked, blinking with confusion.

“We must both…
withdraw
,” Larten said. “One of us might return to him some night in the future, but it is unlikely.”

Gavner shook his head helplessly. “I don’t understand.”

Larten gave the young vampire’s shoulder a squeeze. “There are some things in life we can never understand, things we are better off
not
understanding. Pass on my messages. Try to be a General of good standing. Make me proud of you.”

With that he turned and left. Gavner didn’t call after him. He had lost his voice. The last time he’d felt this bewildered and alone was when Larten and Vancha tracked him down in Petrograd and killed Tanish Eul. But he felt even worse now, as he was about to lose someone who meant much more to him than Tanish had.

Finally, when his throat cleared, he mumbled, “Good-bye…
father
.”

But Larten never heard. He was already gone.

Larten was able to track Wester mentally. The pair had bonded many decades ago and one could always
locate the other, no matter where in the world they were. He found Wester shortly after dusk, near the top of one of New York’s many towering skyscrapers, conversing with another vampire. Larten studied them from his perch outside the window. It didn’t bother him that he was high off the ground, clinging to the wall like a spider, facing certain death if his grip slipped. He felt at one with the world up here.