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Authors: Darren Shan
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at that and spat out a chunk of nail. “I think we’re going to get along fine, Mulds!”
“Hard trek, sire?” Mr. Crepsley asked, sitting down beside the Prince, covering his eyes with cloth again.
“Not bad,” Vancha said with a grunt, uncrossing his legs. He then started in on his right toenails. “Yourselves?”
“The traveling has been good.”
“Any news from Vampire Mountain?” Vancha asked.
“Lots,” Mr. Crepsley said.
“Save it for tonight.” Vancha let go of his foot and lay back. He took off his purple cloak and draped it over himself. “Wake me when it’s dusk,” he yawned, rolled over, fell straight asleep, and started to snore.
I stared, goggle-eyed, at the sleeping Prince, then at the nails he’d chewed off and spat out, then at his ragged clothes and dirty green hair, then at Harkat and Mr. Crepsley. “
He’s
a Vampire Prince?” I whispered.
“He is,” Mr. Crepsley smiled.
“But he looks like . . .” Harkat muttered uncertainly. “He acts like . . .”
“Do not be fooled by appearances,” Mr. Crepsley said. “Vancha chooses to live roughly, but he is the finest of vampires.”
“If you say so,” I responded doubtfully, and spent most of the day lying on my back, staring up at the cloudy sky, kept awake by the loud snoring of Vancha March.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
W E LEFT THE VAMPETS lying where we’d killed them (Vancha said they weren’t worthy of burial) and set off at dusk. As we marched, Mr. Crepsley told the Prince of Mr. Tiny’s visit to Vampire Mountain, and what he’d predicted. Vancha said little while Mr. Crepsley was talking, and brooded upon his words in silence for a long time after he finished.
“I don’t think it takes a genius to surmise that I’m the third hunter,” he said in the end.
“I would be most surprised if you were not,” Mr. Crepsley agreed.
Vancha had been picking between his teeth with the tip of a sharp twig. Now he tossed it aside and spat into the dust of the trail. Vancha was a master spitter — his spit was thick, globular, and green, and he could hit an ant at twenty paces. “I don’t trust that evil meddler, Tiny,” he snapped. “I’ve run into him a couple of times, and I’ve made a habit of doing the opposite of anything he says.”
Mr. Crepsley nodded. “Generally speaking, I would agree with you. But these are dangerous times, sire, and —”
“Larten!” the Prince interrupted. “It’s ‘Vancha,’ ‘March,’ or ‘Hey, ugly!’ while we’re on the trail. I won’t have you groveling to me.”
“Very well —” Mr. Crepsley grinned
“— ugly.”
He grew serious again. “These are dangerous times, Vancha. The future of our race is at stake. Dare we ignore Mr. Tiny’s prophecy? If there is hope, we must seize it.”
Vancha let out a long, unhappy sigh. “For hundreds of years, Tiny’s let us think we were doomed to lose the war when the Vampaneze Lord arose. Why does he tell us now, after all this time, that it
isn’t
cut and dried, but we can
only
prevent it if we follow his instructions?” The Prince scratched the back of his neck and spat into the bush to our left. “It sounds like a load of guano to me!”
“Maybe Evanna can shed light on the subject,” Mr. Crepsley said. “She shares some of Mr. Tiny’s powers and can sense the paths of the future. She might be able to confirm or dismiss his predictions.”
“If so, I’ll believe her,” Vancha said. “Evanna guards her tongue closely, but when she speaks, she speaks the truth. If she says our destiny lies on the road, I’ll gladly tag along with you. If not . . .” He shrugged and let the matter rest.
Vancha March was
weird
— and that was putting it mildly! I’d never met anyone like him. He had a code all of his own. As I already knew, he wouldn’t eat cooked meat or drink anything but fresh water, milk, and blood, and he made his clothes from the hides of animals he hunted. But I learned much more about him during the
“Hard trek, sire?” Mr. Crepsley asked, sitting down beside the Prince, covering his eyes with cloth again.
“Not bad,” Vancha said with a grunt, uncrossing his legs. He then started in on his right toenails. “Yourselves?”
“The traveling has been good.”
“Any news from Vampire Mountain?” Vancha asked.
“Lots,” Mr. Crepsley said.
“Save it for tonight.” Vancha let go of his foot and lay back. He took off his purple cloak and draped it over himself. “Wake me when it’s dusk,” he yawned, rolled over, fell straight asleep, and started to snore.
I stared, goggle-eyed, at the sleeping Prince, then at the nails he’d chewed off and spat out, then at his ragged clothes and dirty green hair, then at Harkat and Mr. Crepsley. “
He’s
a Vampire Prince?” I whispered.
“He is,” Mr. Crepsley smiled.
“But he looks like . . .” Harkat muttered uncertainly. “He acts like . . .”
“Do not be fooled by appearances,” Mr. Crepsley said. “Vancha chooses to live roughly, but he is the finest of vampires.”
“If you say so,” I responded doubtfully, and spent most of the day lying on my back, staring up at the cloudy sky, kept awake by the loud snoring of Vancha March.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
W E LEFT THE VAMPETS lying where we’d killed them (Vancha said they weren’t worthy of burial) and set off at dusk. As we marched, Mr. Crepsley told the Prince of Mr. Tiny’s visit to Vampire Mountain, and what he’d predicted. Vancha said little while Mr. Crepsley was talking, and brooded upon his words in silence for a long time after he finished.
“I don’t think it takes a genius to surmise that I’m the third hunter,” he said in the end.
“I would be most surprised if you were not,” Mr. Crepsley agreed.
Vancha had been picking between his teeth with the tip of a sharp twig. Now he tossed it aside and spat into the dust of the trail. Vancha was a master spitter — his spit was thick, globular, and green, and he could hit an ant at twenty paces. “I don’t trust that evil meddler, Tiny,” he snapped. “I’ve run into him a couple of times, and I’ve made a habit of doing the opposite of anything he says.”
Mr. Crepsley nodded. “Generally speaking, I would agree with you. But these are dangerous times, sire, and —”
“Larten!” the Prince interrupted. “It’s ‘Vancha,’ ‘March,’ or ‘Hey, ugly!’ while we’re on the trail. I won’t have you groveling to me.”
“Very well —” Mr. Crepsley grinned
“— ugly.”
He grew serious again. “These are dangerous times, Vancha. The future of our race is at stake. Dare we ignore Mr. Tiny’s prophecy? If there is hope, we must seize it.”
Vancha let out a long, unhappy sigh. “For hundreds of years, Tiny’s let us think we were doomed to lose the war when the Vampaneze Lord arose. Why does he tell us now, after all this time, that it
isn’t
cut and dried, but we can
only
prevent it if we follow his instructions?” The Prince scratched the back of his neck and spat into the bush to our left. “It sounds like a load of guano to me!”
“Maybe Evanna can shed light on the subject,” Mr. Crepsley said. “She shares some of Mr. Tiny’s powers and can sense the paths of the future. She might be able to confirm or dismiss his predictions.”
“If so, I’ll believe her,” Vancha said. “Evanna guards her tongue closely, but when she speaks, she speaks the truth. If she says our destiny lies on the road, I’ll gladly tag along with you. If not . . .” He shrugged and let the matter rest.
Vancha March was
weird
— and that was putting it mildly! I’d never met anyone like him. He had a code all of his own. As I already knew, he wouldn’t eat cooked meat or drink anything but fresh water, milk, and blood, and he made his clothes from the hides of animals he hunted. But I learned much more about him during the
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