Ce
n'est pas une histoire signifiée pour le divertissement. Ce n'est aucun
récit, bien qu'il ait beaucoup de moraux. Ce n'est aucun grand travail
littéraire, cela un jour sera tenu dans l'estime élevée, et je ne suis
aucun grand auteur. C'est des excuses...au Darren Shan...avec qui
j'avais eu l'intention d'avoir beaucoup plus de conversations.
Prologue
I
was born Larten Matisse, to Jean Matisse and Marie Chaumont sometime in
the winter of 1804, in the days of harshest cold. My father and mother
were employed to an old innkeeper in Dieppe that year, my mother as a
serving wench and my father, younger by a few years, as a stable boy,
held in rather low regard. When the two found my mother pregnant, they
took themselves into hiding, fearing the retributions of their
scandalous act. My mother gave birth to me in a gatekeeper’s shed, far
on the eastern edge of town, I am told. After my birth, young Jean and
Marie thought it necessary to flee the small city of Dieppe, deeming it
a dangerous place, hardly fit to raise a child in. Many murders had
been reported during the latter part of the year, and accusations were
flying like a plague through the littered streets. Yet still, no matter
how many were executed, imprisoned, or exsorcised, villagers were
still disappearing, and were dead once retrieved. Always their throats
were slit wide, by what must have been the sharpest blade made my man,
and totally drained of their blood. It was said to be the work of the
Devil himself, and Dieppe saw many a girl burn and many a man hang for
witchery that season. Fearing for my safety and their own, my parents
began a long trek across the lesser known roads of France.
Until
I was eight years old, we moved about the country all but constantly,
staying the longest in Bourges and Vienne, towns in which my father
happened to find lasting work by some small trade or another. Still,
eventually, we were forced to move on. The murders and ill fortune
seemed to follow us across France. I would forget my fear of
being slaughtered in my bed for a year or so, and then a town crier
would herald the death of some neighbour of mine just as the sun rose,
telling of the circumstances of the murdered, and of the hellish way it
had happened. Then, mother would order me to gather my things, and we
would be gone by nightfall.
My father once said to me that it seemed as if Satan was closing his fist about the world...Satan tient le monde dans sa prise, et nous enferme.
He repeated it each night, shortly after his last prayer, like a plea
to the Lord to save him from it. I no longer slept at as I should have,
with the fear of having my blood stolen from me far too strong.
On
what my parents said was my eighth birthday, or near enough to it, we
settled in Digne. It was a well-to-do little place, and my mother and
father were swift to find work in the town’s most well known inn, La Chambre de la Ville. The
innkeeper had become short on staff when all the young men crossed the
sea to America, immigrating to the growing land for profit. The old
man’s name was Claude, and he was a round, red-faced man who liked to
laugh. Indeed, he would burst into hysterics at almost anything. Even
the coming of Satan to France and all the murders he managed to brush
away with a wave of his hand and a chuckle.
My
father served as a quartermaster, and my mother as a barmaid. In a
year, I had assumed the position of stable boy, tending every guest’s
horse with the utmost care and minding Claude’s beloved livestock. The
pay was small, but Claude was kind enough give us rooms on the dusty
third floor, which he no longer used, and afforded us food. I was alone
most of the time, but for when my mother came to my room at night to
help me say my prayers, before going back to her work in the kitchens
and the bar. It was during this time that I found that I was in my
element in solitude. Also, although I never mentioned it to mother, as
she would be most horrified, but I had realised before my tenth winter
that I held no belief in God. Although I was quite set in this, I still
felt estranged from others, and feared His wrath against my sins.
Six
years we stayed there, and soon it felt as if it had always been home.
We had never remained anywhere so long, and I was coming to enjoy it. I
learned the town, until its streets formed perfect maps in my head. I
built a life there, and comforted myself by thinking that here, in the
small town of Digne, the Devil could not reach me. However, I remained
afraid of the dark. In one horrible night, all my nightmares reached
their final convergence.
Chapter One
"The Murder"
Digne, France, 1818
I
was once an awkward boy, struggling to come of age. I was tall for my
years, yet frightfully thin, with a huge mop of the thickest, most
unruly orange curls ever seen. My eyesight was horrible then;
everything was just a fuzzy shape until it was about a foot away, and
it was difficult to read. It was a sad thing for a boy of my maturity
to fear the dark as I feared it. Every time I saw the sun go down my
stomach would churn, knowing that tonight would be the night those
murderers found me, slit my throat, and sucked my blood as I died. Lack
of sleep had made me terribly pale, and the circles beneath my eyes had
grown so dark that folk often inquired if I had been hit. Once, there
was talk in the town that I had been witched, a rumour started by a few
village children whom I did not like. Thankfully, my father had quickly
put those rumours to rest.
During
my fifteenth year, I slept less than ever, but my fear was less. I was
an insomniac by habit, by then. I had stopped looking forward to my
work in the morning, as I had when I was young, and now could only
manage to look sick. I wanted more than anything to be able to bring
myself to shut my eyes each night.
Yet
again, the night was passing on, and the darkness was waning, leaving
me in its wake with no sleep. I lay still in my bed, listening to the
decrescendo of voices in the inn as many customers went to their rooms
for the night. I smiled. Soon my mother and father would come up the
creaky wooden stairs and creep through my room, each sparing me a brief
kiss as they went to their own, and then I would be able to sleep. Then
I could let my heavy lids fall...
Downstairs,
someone slammed the wide oak door of the inn. I might have thought it
was some drunkard going out to sing and find a place to pass out, but
then I heard voices down in the Commons. My hearing was very good
(making up for my terrible eyesight), and I could pick out a few of the
words being said. Their tones sounded suspicious to me. I have not knwn
since if it was paranoia that did this to me, or good sense, and there
is no saying whether or not it served me well in the end. I decided
immediately that I had no liking for these newcomers. As silently as I
was able, I rose and crept to the wide landing and down the first
flight of stairs. I did not go all the way to the next landing, but
instead concealed myself in the shadows of the second floor hallway,
and there, I listened.
“Bonjour,”
I heard my mother saying, with her usual tired cheer. “I’m afraid the
innkeeper’s gone to his bed for the night, but I can write down your
names and let you pay in the morning...”
“That will not be necessary,” said one of the men. His accent was foreign, but that was the least of my worries. La Chambre housed
visitors from as far east as Genoa, being so close to the border. “We
have no need of rooms. But we do desire drinks, my dear, so if you
could be so kind...”
“I’m
sorry, sirs, the bar’s closed for tonight,” my mother said politely.
Even from the landing, I could hear her stowing away the heavy mugs and
making ready to come to bed. In the hall below me, I could hear my
father’s quiet footfalls as he went about, locking all the unused
rooms. At least he would be near at hand if there were trouble.
“There’s an inn across the way that’s still open, if you want to --”
But
the man cut her off, very rudely. I heard my father stow his keys away,
ready to protect her. “You mistake me, mademoiselle.” Slow, measured
footsteps made there way across the room, and for a moment I was afraid
someone was going to come up to the landing and see me, but they passed
the stairs and entered the first floor hallway, coming towards my
father. He held his ground. “My party shall only be a moment, madam,
and then...” Steel rang softly, my father made to dash for the bar, but
he fell silent, and as I listened, two bodies fell to the floor with
muffled thuds. “You shall never see us again.”
I
had to shove my fist into my mouth to keep silent. Directly below me, I
heard the smallest of sounds. Something was snuffling
about...sucking...feeding. I could hardly draw breath. What seemed ages
after, I heard the footsteps again, and then the door. I would go
downstairs and see what had happened to my parents (I tried not to
believe that I already knew), then go to the innkeeper and raise the
alarm in Digne, before these men could slaughter anyone else.
The
candles in the Commons had been blown out, the blazing fire reduced to
a view glowing embers, by the light of which I crossed the large Common
room. I stood in its centre, not daring to move. "Papa," I called once
into the darkness. My voice barely reached a trembling whisper. "Mama?"
No one answered me. I dared not look to the bar, or to the hallway, and
just stood there, shaking, breath bated. Slowly, I turned to face the
door, which was still swinging back and forth, creaking quietly on its
hinges. Then, a slight tap made me jump, as if someone had
grabbed my insides and given them a violent jerk. Stumbling backward,
my hands found the wooden panelling of the bar. Then, before I could
check my fall, I felt the touch of cold, lifeless fingers on the bare
back of my neck. Finally letting loose a cry of fear, I spun around, to
face my mother’s white features, staring blindly into my eyes. Then,
another pair of hands found me, not lifeless, but every bit as cold. I
spun around, only to find myself confronted by a strange, terrible
face. Dark, purplish skin encased a bloated body, and deeply bloodshot
eyes bore into me.
“Well,
well,” the man said, taking hold of my chin and forcing me to look
upward at him. “What have we here? A meal or a potential ally?”
“You’ve killed them!” I said, frantic. “You killed my Mama and Papa!”
“No,
young man,” said another voice, and suddenly the light of a single
candelabra flooded the room illuminating the faces of the demons. All
were as discoloured as the first, all as bloated, and all as horrible.
“We have honoured them.”
A
third stepped out of the shadows of the hallway, what must have been my
father’s blood staining his lips a deeper crimson. “He is young...he is
no use to us as food; he’s sickly. Take him to Arkadiy, I say. He may
be able to do something with him.”
“Little,
but I suppose we should not take chances with Arkadiy. Where is he
based?” the one before me asked, still inspecting me critically.
“Cannes, I should think,” said the other.
“Good,”
he answered, and lifted me easily onto his back. I wanted very much to
struggle, or at least scream for help, but shock had rendered my body
useless. I felt as if I would be sick soon.
Suddenly,
all the demons looked upward, their ears straining. It was a moment
before I heard anything. Then, clearly, I recognised the creaking of
the stairs. In a moment, a young girl appeared, and she laid eyes on me
from the second floor landing. She stared at the scene before her for a
moment, and then screamed loudly. I saw nothing, but before I could
blink the demon who had just spoken appeared beside the one that held
me, the little girl on his back. "Come!" yelled the one that carried
her. "She has raised the whole town."
And
with that, we were carried outside, that little crying girl and I, and
I held my breath as the demons ran, gaining speed, until we seemed to
have entered a different world. They're taking me to Hell with them!" I thought. I am going to Hell with these monsters because I did not love in God! I shall burn!
Moments later, I fell unconscious, and the image of my mother's lifeless face returned to me.
Cannes
It
was a long time before the November cold woke me. I heard voices first,
speaking quietly in a language I did not know. I opened my eyes. An old
stone building surrounded me, seeming ready to crumple in on itself.
Squinting, it became apparent the place had not been used in many
years. I tried to sit up, but then I realised that my hands and feet
were bound. I tested the ropes about my wrists and ankles, but there
would be no escaping them. I looked to the group of demons nearest to
me. They had gathered around a fire, and seemed to know that I was
awake, but were disinterested for the moment. I was absolutely
shivering with cold and fear, and I found myself wishing then that I
owned more than my breeches to sleep in. I rolled over. The little girl
they had taken was huddled in the corner, still crying quietly, her
black locks mussed and damp. I dragged myself over to her side,
figuring we must be in this predicament together, and with the help of
the wall, I managed to sit up.
I
had never dealt with small children before, especially one who was this
frightened, but she did not hesitate to take hold of my arm and clutch
me as if I was here father. I understood suddenly that I was all she
had left, and I held her close in turn. My parents were gone too, now,
I thought. They were gone with somewhat more finality than this child’s
were
A
moment later, one of the men, if they were indeed human, turned away
from the fire to gaze darkly at the girl and me. I held her closer,
ready to shield her if that thing decided to come near. He rose and
approached us, but fortunately, he grabbed me. He lifted me to my feet
and practically dragged me to the fire. For a second I was sure they
would burn me, but I had not the strength to struggle. I was tired and
still in shock from the sight of my dead mother. Fortunately, the demon
did not intend to make a sacrifice of me. Looking toward the others, as
if they were all anticipating something, he brandished one long,
impossibly sharp fingernail, and brought it towards my exposed throat.
Then, I realised what I should have known since first setting eyes on
these creatures. I should have known by those bloated bodies and hungry
gazes...by the crimson lips of the vampire who had killed my father. I
should have remembered all the horrible legend that stole sleep from me
those many nights. This creature was no demon. This creature, preparing
to feed on me, was a vampire.
Chapter Two
"Seba Nile"
I
heard only a light whistle, as if something were slicing through the
air, and then my captor's hand flew from me, and grasped frantically at
his neck. He made a strange, choking noise as he withdrew a bloody
shuriken, and starred dumbly at it for a moment. Blood flooded from the
wound on his neck, and within seconds, he fell backward, dead.
It
was as if both sides of the battle attacked at once. All the vampires
sprang to their feet and drew weapons, and suddenly, three more figures
sprang down from the trees, moving so quickly my bad eyes barely caught
them. The little girl broke into tears again, and, having been dropped
by the vampire who I assumed was Arkadiy, I crawled over to her and
gathered her into my arms. Both of us were frightened beyond thought,
and we did not know if these newcomers meant us good or ill, or even if
they would triumph over the vampires. I turned to watch the fight, and
saw two more of the six fall to the ground, dead. One of the others, a
young stocky man who was using the shuriken and his hands only to
defend himself, doubled over in pain, clutching his abdomen. The other
two came and stood over their fallen alley, killing another two
vampires in his defence. Now only one of the creatures remained, and he
turned to run for the door, but one of the men caught him, and slammed
him into the wall I sat against, not ten feet away from the little girl
and myself. I recognised him as the one who had caught me in the
Commons of La Chambre. The vampire met the man's gaze with reddened eyes, sneering at him contemptuously.
“Hello, Serge,” the man pinning him to the wall said, a deep hatred tainting his voice.
“You can’t kill me,” Serge laughed. “They’ll hunt you down. You’ll be bringing war down upon yourself!”
“Your
kind want murderers dead just as badly as I,” said the man, then took
his bare hand, and, shockingly, pierced deeply into the vampire’s
abdomen. Still looking surprised, Serge slumped to the floor, dead.
Wiping
his hand, the man who had killed Serge strode over to us. I had thought
he might be hostile, but his face was kindly, and he cut the cords,
which had sliced deeply into my wrists and ankles. Briskly, he ordered
that I roll my pant-legs up and give him my wrists. Deciding to trust
him, I obeyed. I was utterly disgusted when he proceeded to spit into
his hand and rub it over my cuts, but then gasped as a slight stinging
sensation heralded the disappearance of the raw bleeding skin. He had
healed me!
“What
are you?” I asked as he looked the little girl over, checking for any
injuries. He did not answer me, only rushed back to his injured friend.
I guessed that they were some sort of angels, though they were not
beautiful, as most Christian women said the angels were. They were far
from beautiful, in fact.
The
other, who had long, unkempt black hair and a strong build, looked up
to him and nodded, smiling, assuring him that the third was not badly
injured. I watched as the injured one opened his shirt, so that both of
them could rub spit into the cut. I could tell it had been fairly deep,
perhaps not fatal but enough to put a grown man out of action for a few
days. But this man was talking and laughing with the other two, who did
not seem very concerned for him, and, with their help, he was sitting
upright. Soon, the gash was no more that a rather tender looking pink
scar.
Next
to me, the child had stopped crying, and was surveying me with her
red-rimmed grey eyes. I shrugged to myself, then held out my arms to
her. After a moment, she rose and let me pick her up. She simply buried
her face in my neck, seeming very tired. In a few minutes, she brought
her head up to look at me, acting as if she’d slept all night.
“What’s
you name?” she asked. She spoke well, surprisingly, but I had to
conjure all I knew of English to understand her. Now, I guessed that
she was about five or six years old, and just terribly small for her
age.
“Larten,”
I smiled, brushing a few stray locks out of her face. I was about to
ask hers when she clambered down and ran over to the men, who were
holding a quiet council amongst themselves. I almost laughed aloud as
she pushed her way into their circle, acting as if it was all of her
business to know their conversation. For a moment, they all looked down
at her, their expression somewhat stunned as she stared boldly back at
them. Then, they all laughed most heartily with one another, and they
black-haired man, the most muscular and dangerous looking of the three,
swept her up into his arms and sat her on his hip.
”Hello there, sweetheart,” he grinned, rather stupidly, I thought.
“I
always knew Vanez was a born mother,” said the stocky one, who had a
faint German accent. The other laughed. He seemed to be the oldest of
the three; tall and thin, with light brown hair and features that did
not denote that he smiled much. Slowly, I made may way over to them,
wanting to be as unobtrusive as possible.
“What’s your name?” asked Vanez.
“My
name’s Arra Sails, and that’s Larten,” she said, pointing to me. “I’m
from London, but he’s not. He can’t speak English very well, I think.”
Now we all laughed at her precocious manner, while she simply stared at
us matter-of-factly.
“She
is right,” I said, still laughing a bit. I was stumbling over my words
and I figured my English was barely understandable. “I don’t know
English so well.”
"I
suppose you will have to learn, then," said the eldest. "But, for now,
we must flee. Their kind may hunt us yet. Even though the vampaneze may
be willing to let us slay murderers who don't bother to mark their
victims, there are always radicals..."
"Vampaneze?" I repeated curiously, wondering if it was only a difference in our languages. "Does that mean vampire?" I asked.
"Most
certainly not!" the man replied. He seemed almost offended. "We do have
our pride, Larten. And, by the way, that is Vancha March," he said,
motioning to the (previously) wounded man, who saluted me politly.
"Vanez, whose name I think you already know," Vanez smiled and nodding,
setting down little Arra. "And you may call me Seba. We here are true vampires, my young friend."
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sleepy
artistic
predatory
chipper
nerdy
bitchy
bouncy
blah