Birth of a Killer by Darren Shan Page B

then?”
    “Seba doesn’t say so, but I suspect that I am.”
    Paris sniffed the fumes from the cat. “In answer to your first question, yes, I accept your offer of dinner. But in the future you should be more careful who you extend an invitation to. Never ask anyone to break bread with you unless you’re sure of their intent.”
    “I knew you were a friend,” Larten said. “Seba has been waiting for you. He didn’t tell me, but I guessed.”
    “He might have been waiting for an enemy,” Paris growled.
    Larten shook his head. “You don’t smile when you’re waiting for an enemy.”
    “Certain vampires do,” Paris disagreed, but hewas prevented from arguing any further by the appearance of a yawning Seba Nile. Paris yelled a greeting when he saw Seba drift from his sleeping quarters, and the vampires gripped each other’s forearms, grinning widely.
    Larten was excited–this was the first vampire he’d met since becoming Seba’s assistant–but he fought to keep his emotions to himself. If he smiled the way the pair of old friends were smiling, he would earn a cuff from Seba. So, maintaining a neutral expression, he stayed by the fire and focused on the roasting wildcat, acting as if that was his only concern in the world.

Chapter Nine
    Seba and Paris ignored Larten for a long time, but he didn’t mind. He could tell they were old friends who had a lot to catch up on. He served them their meal and provided wine from a jug that he’d bought in the last town they’d visited. Then he settled back and listened as they swapped tales and discussed other vampires.
    “I lost my ear at the last Council,” Paris told Seba. “I was surprised you were not there.”
    “I broke my leg on the way,” Seba grunted, blushing slightly. “I had to hole up in a cave for five months. I fed on bats and the occasional stray goat. I thoughtmy time had come, but I healed and was able to hobble out in the spring.”
    “I thought you had a bit of a limp,” Paris laughed.
    “Tell me more about your ear—you look strange without it.”
    Paris shrugged. “I was wrestling. My opponent’s nails caught on my ear, and rather than take the time to free them, he ripped his hand away.”
    “Painful?” Seba asked.
    “Aye. But I bit a chunk out of his cheek in response. We forgave each other over a mug of ale later.”
    Larten knew a bit about the Council. It was held every twelve years in Vampire Mountain, and vampires from all over the world made their way to it. Laws were passed there, tournaments were held, and friendships were forged or renewed.
    While listening, Larten was stunned to learn that Paris Skyle was one of six Vampire Princes. There were three classes of vampire—thousands of normal bloodsuckers, hundreds of Generals, and, overseeing them all, the Princes. They held complete power. Their word was law.
    Larten had pictured the Princes clad in fine costumes, like royalty in the stories he’d heard as a child. He’d assumed they traveled with servants and guards.But apart from a few extra wrinkles, Paris looked much like Seba. His clothes were worn and dusty from the road. He was barefoot. He carried no crown or scepter. And unless his retinue was hiding somewhere nearby, he was alone.
    Paris threw away a bone and nodded at Larten to serve up more of the wildcat. He certainly had a princely appetite—this was his third helping.
    “What’s wrong with your hair?” Paris asked as Larten gave him the last chunk of cat. Though Larten’s hair had dulled slightly since his days in the factory, it was the same unnatural orange color it had been five years before.
    “Dye,” Larten said self-consciously.
    “You dye your hair orange?” Paris chortled.
    “The dye seeped into his skin years ago,” Seba said. “There is nothing he can do about it.”
    “Why in the name of the gods did you dye your hair in the first place?” Paris asked.
    “It was not by choice,” Larten answered quietly. “I worked in a