Vampire Rites Trilogy

“Not as such,” Mr Crepsley replied, stepping out of his waterfall and running a hand through his short crop of orange hair, before shaking it dry like a dog. “But cold water is good enough for nature’s other creatures of the wilds – we prefer not to heat it, at least not here, in the heart of our homeland.”

Rough, prickly towels had been laid out close to the pond, and I wrapped myself in two of them as soon as I got out from under the waterfall. For a few minutes I felt as though my blood had turned to ice, but then my sensations returned and I was able to enjoy the warmth of the thick towels.

“Bracing,” Mr Crepsley commented, rubbing himself dry.

“Murder, more like,” I grumbled, though secretly I’d rather enjoyed the originality of the primitive shower.

While we were dressing, I stared at the rocky ceiling and walls and wondered how old the Halls were. I asked Mr Crepsley.

“Nobody knows exactly when vampires first came here or how they found it,” he said. “The oldest discovered artefacts date back about three thousand years, but it is likely that for a long time it was only used occasionally, by small bands of wandering vampires.

“As far as we know, the Halls were established as a permanent base about fourteen hundred years ago. That is when the first Princes moved in and the Councils began. The Halls have grown since then. There are vampires at work on the structure all the time, hollowing out new rooms, extending old ones, building tunnels. It is long, tiring work – no mechanical equipment is allowed – but we have plenty of time to attend to it.”

By the time we emerged from the Hall of Perta Vin-Grahl, word of Harkat’s message had spread. He had told the Princes that the night of the Vampaneze Lord was at hand, and the vampires were in an uproar. They milled around the mountain like ants, passing on the word to those who hadn’t heard, discussing it hotly and making absurd plans to set out and kill all the vampaneze they could find.

Mr Crepsley had promised to take me on a tour of the Halls, but postponed it because of the commotion. He said we’d go when things quietened down – I might be trampled underfoot by agitated vampires if we set off now. I was disappointed, but knew he was right. This was no time to go exploring.

When we got back to my sleeping niche, a young vampire had taken away our coffins and was stringing up hammocks. He offered to find new clothes for Mr Crepsley and me if we wanted. We thanked him and accompanied him to one of the store-rooms to be kitted out. The stores of Vampire Mountain were full of treasures – food and blood vats and weapon caches – but I only got a brief look at these: the young vampire took us directly to the rooms where spare clothes were stored, and left us alone to pick whatever we liked.

I searched for a costume like my old one, but there were no pirate suits, so I chose a brown jumper and dark trousers, with a pair of soft shoes. Mr Crepsley dressed all in red – his favourite colour – though these robes were less fanciful than the ones he normally wore.

It was while he was adjusting his cape that I realized how similar his dress sense and Seba Nile’s were. I mentioned it to him and he smiled. “I have copied many of Seba’s ways,” he said. “Not just his way of dressing, but also his way of speaking. I did not always use these precise, measured tones. When I was your age, I ran my words together the same as anybody. Years spent in the company of Seba taught me to slow down and consider my words before speaking.”

“You mean I might end up like you one day?” I asked, alarmed at the thought of sounding so serious and stuffy.

“You might,” Mr Crepsley said, “though I would not bet on it. Seba commanded my utmost respect, so I tried hard to copy what he did. You, on the other hand, seem to be determined to do the opposite of everything I say.”

“I’m not that bad,” I grinned, but there was some grain of truth in his words. I’d always been stubborn. I admired Mr Crepsley more than he knew, but hated the idea of looking like a pushover who did everything he was told. Sometimes I disobeyed the vampire just so he wouldn’t think I was paying attention to what he said!

“Besides,” Mr Crepsley added, “I have neither the heart nor the will to punish you when you make mistakes, as Seba punished me.”

“Why?” I asked. “What did he do?”

“He was a fair but hard teacher,” Mr Crepsley said. “When I told him of my desire to mimic him, he began paying close attention to my punctuation. Whenever I said ‘don’t’ or ‘it’s’ or ‘can’t’ – he would pluck a hair from inside my nose!”

“No way!” I hooted.

“It is true,” he said glumly.

“Did he use tweezers?”

“No – his fingernails.”

“Ow!”

Mr Crepsley nodded. “I asked him to stop – I said I no longer cared to copy him – but he would not – he believes in finishing what one starts. After several months of having the hairs ripped from inside my nostrils, I had a brainwave, and singed them with a red-hot rod – not something I recommend you try! – so they would not grow back.”

“What happened?”

Mr Crepsley blushed. “He began plucking hairs from an even more tender spot.”

“Where?” I quickly asked.

The vampire’s blush deepened. “I will not say – it is far too embarrassing.”

(Later, when I got Seba by himself and put the question to him, he chortled wickedly and told me: “His ears!”)

While we were slipping on our shoes, a slender, blond vampire in a bright blue suit barged into the room and slammed the door behind him. He stood panting by the door, unaware of us, until Mr Crepsley called to him. “Is that you, Kurda?”

“No!” the vampire yelled and grabbed for the handle. Then he paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Larten?”

“Yes,” Mr Crepsley replied.

“That’s different.” The vampire sauntered over. When he got closer, I saw that he had three small red scars on his left cheek. They looked somehow familiar, though I couldn’t think why. “I was hoping to run into you. I wanted to ask about this Harkat Mulds person and his message. Is it true?”

Mr Crepsley shrugged. “I have only heard the rumour. He said nothing to us about it on our way here.” Mr Crepsley hadn’t forgotten our promise to Harkat.

“Not a word of it?” the vampire asked, sitting on an upturned barrel.

“He told us the message was for the Vampire Princes only,” I said.

The vampire eyed me curiously. “You must be the Darren Shan I’ve been hearing about.” He shook my hand. “I’m Kurda Smahlt.”

“What were you running from?” Mr Crepsley asked.

“Questions,” Kurda groaned. “As soon as word of the Little Person and his message circulated, everyone ran to me to ask if it was true.”

“Why should they ask you?” Mr Crepsley enquired.

“Because I know more about the vampaneze than most. And because of my investiture – it’s amazing how much more you’re expected to know when you move up in the world.”

“Gavner Purl told me about that. Congratulations,” Mr Crepsley said rather stiffly.

“You don’t approve,” Kurda noted.

“I did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face. But I don’t mind. You’re not the only one who objects. I’m used to the controversy.”

“Excuse me,” I said, “but what’s an ‘investiture’?”

“That’s what they call it when you move up in the organization,” Kurda explained. He had a light way of speaking, and a smile was never far from his lips and eyes. He reminded me of Gavner and I took an immediate shine to him.

“Where are you moving to?” I asked.

“The top,” he smiled. “I’m being made a Prince. There’ll be a big ceremony and a lot of to-do.” He grimaced. “It’ll be a dull affair, I’m afraid, but there’s no way around it. Centuries of tradition, standards to uphold, etcetera.”

“You should not speak dismissively of your investiture,” Mr Crepsley growled. “It is a great honour.”