Free Birth of a Killer by Darren Shan

honor his memory by denying the hunger of my lesser self.”
    Seba sighed and fell silent. Larten quietly cleaned around the elderly vampire, quenching the fire, scattering the ashes, bagging the remains of the wildcat.
    Finally Seba stirred. “Did you notice Paris’s bare feet?” he asked.
    It was an odd question, but Larten was accustomed to strange queries. “Yes. I assumed that was his preference.”
    “No,” Seba said. “Some vampires disregard footwear as a matter of course, but Paris is not one of them. He has commenced his trek to Vampire Mountain, to attend the latest Council. When we undertake that trip, we cast our shoes aside and travel barefoot. It is one of the rules of the clan.”
    “Are you going to the Council this time?” Larten asked.
    “Aye,” Seba chuckled wryly. “Broken legs permitting.”
    “And…” Larten hesitated.
    “… Will I take you with me?” Seba shook his head. “Human assistants do not make the trek. You must be at least a half-blood.”
    “You’re leaving me behind by myself.” Larten wasn’t dismayed. He would be able to get by for a few months without the guiding hand of his master.
    “I
am
leaving you,” Seba said, “but not by yourself. There is a reason why I have not cast aside my shoes yet. I wish to make a detour before I set off. An old friend of mine is traveling nearby, and I think you will enjoy his fine company.” The old vampire smiled warmly. “Tell me, Larten, did you ever hear tales in your youth of the weird, wild, and wonderful
Cirque Du Freak
?”

Chapter Ten
    Gervil was on fire. Flames engulfed his lower legs, his hands, his torso, and his face. People in the crowd were screaming. Some had fainted. A few fled by the exits at the back of the large tent. On the small stage, Gervil writhed, fell to his knees, and rolled around as if trying to quench the flames.
    A couple of the braver men tried to mount the stage and rush to Gervil’s aid. But as they clambered onto the boards, the owner of the Cirque Du Freak, Mr. Tall, appeared before them suddenly. It was as if he’d materialized out of thin air.
    “Please return to your seats, gentlemen,” Mr. Tall murmured in his deep, croaky voice, his lipsbarely moving. “Your efforts are appreciated but unnecessary.”
    The men stared doubtfully at the impossibly tall, bony man in the dark suit and red hat. He had huge hands, black teeth, and even blacker eyes. They’d seen him at the start, when he introduced the show. He had looked merely strange then, eerie in appearance but otherwise harmless. Now, staring up into his pitch-black eyes, the men felt uneasy, as if the tall owner of the fantastical circus was peering into their hearts and could stop them with a whistle if he wished.
    “The Cirque Du Freak has been touring the world for more than three hundred years,” Mr. Tall muttered, and even though he spoke softly, everyone in the tent heard him. “We have lost several audience members in grisly circumstances during that time—as I told you before the show began, this is a place of fabulous dangers, and we cannot guarantee your safety. But in all those years we have never lost a performer. And we will not break that fine record tonight. Observe!”
    Mr. Tall stepped aside, and the people in the crowd saw that Gervil had stopped struggling. He was sitting in the middle of the stage, still covered in flames but grinning. He waved at the stunned spectators,jumped to his feet, and took a bow. As they realized this was part of his act and went wild with applause, Mr. Tall slipped offstage and paused out of sight of the audience, where Larten was watching, mesmerized as he had been every time he’d seen Gervil in action.
    “A lively pack tonight,” Mr. Tall said. “But I think they will be quiet after this.” He studied the toys and sweets on the tray that Larten was holding. He picked up a statue of Gervil and frowned. It would stay lit for more than a month once its owner set it on fire.