Okay, I just needed to write something, all right?
Disclaimer: I am not Darren Shan; therefore, I do not own any of the characters in this fanfiction besides the "beautiful girl," the man and teenager at the traffic light and the unnamed vampaneze. Nor do I own the last two scenes - they were written by Darren Shan and are taken word for word from the ninth book of the Darren Shan Saga.
He is there when you think you are alone.
Oh yes.
Have no doubt about it. He quite definitely is.
When you are awake in the middle of the night, or maybe later, talking to strangers on the internet. The lights are dim, the curtains are drawn. You're sitting quiet as a mouse somewhere in your bedroom—on a chair, maybe, or right on your bed, your eyes glued to the computer screen.
You can't sense it, but a pair of eyes is watching your every movement.
Listen!
What's that?
Tick ... tick ... tick ...
It doesn't come from your vintage Cartier that went missing a few days ago. You're pretty sure that that had been stolen from you.
No, this mechanical heartbeat comes from a watch that belongs to a man named Desmond Tiny. Des Tiny … Destiny.
He is Destiny with a form, with many forms. He is a man; he is all four walls of your bedroom; he is each and every raindrop that the sky pisses onto the world outside.
Yes, it's raining heavily, isn't it.
Tomorrow is today.
You work at the shopping mall. At the Information Counter. That must be difficult; dealing with confused-looking people nearly every day of the week. Sometimes it takes them a while to fully comprehend your gentle instructions. Sometimes they keep coming back, looking more and more confused.
You don't have a car.
Evidently, it doesn't pay well, either.
There's an upside though. That beautiful girl who sings at that expensive restaurant opposite your counter. She has red-gold hair and a smile as bright as a tiny piece of the moon. The only time that you've ever been rewarded with that smile was when she sang I've Got You Under My Skin. She turned away from the diners and noticed you gazing at her, enthralled. And blessed you with a smile that was a thousand times more beautiful than any other you have ever seen.
You think about her as you open your umbrella and walk down the street. She has small hands. She has brown eyes. She has only noticed you once in the six months that she has been working there.
It's still raining. It's so cold that your hands are curled into fists inside your coat pockets and you're shivering like the last goddamned leaf on a dead branch. You contemplate your surroundings when you stop at the zebra crossing.
The world is a mess of grey and white, with occasional streaks of black. These are supposed to be people(hiding beneath pitch-black umbrellas and dark winter clothes), but they look more like shapes to you. Dark, quiet shapes, forced to endure the tediousness of their everyday responsibilities.
It gives you a shock to suddenly realise that you are one of them. You are one of those joy-deprived beings walking home from another sickeningly long day at work.
You know that you will return to a house that you do not care for, and that after putting your umbrella away and shrugging off your coat, you are going to switch on the computer and talk to those faceless people who think they know you so well.
Let me tell you this: they know nothing about you but your words.
"Move it," snaps a man somewhere near you, bringing you out of your reverie. You look around just in time to see a man with an umbrella identical to yours pushing past a teenager.
You're all waiting for the green light to appear. Cars zip past, equally displeased to be caught in such foul weather.
By the time you are just a few buildings away from where you live, your feet are sore and your thighs ache. You have a splitting headache today and it makes you feel so weak that you can only struggle feebly when a stranger(who had been standing across the street) rushes toward you with astounding speed and pins you to the wall of a building.
"What the--let me go!" you cry.
The stranger's dark hood slips backward and you are stunned into silence by the sight of his face.
He has blood-red eyes and purple skin. A monster. You're convinced that you're being assaulted by something that isn't human. You open your mouth to scream, but the creature claps its hand over your mouth and drags you into an alley. You thrash wildly, fear lending you strength. Your fists fly, striking it on the chin several times but not appearing to hurt it.
"Shut up--shut the fuck up!" the freak hisses at you.
Despite its abnormal appearance, you aren't surprised that it can speak English. "Let me go!"
"I will soon," it promises. Its sharp nails are digging into your forearms. The creep leans a little closer.
"Are you--" and it whispers your name.
You stop struggling and stare at it. Both of you are soaking. Out of the corner of your eye you see a rat scurry past.
After a moment's hesitation:
"Yes."
It pauses for a moment; licks its ruby-red lips. "You may not have heard of us before ... I'll start with something else, then ..."
Its nails are so sharp and clinging so tightly to you that your arms are bleeding. "Do you believe in vampires?"
The first year or so is drawn-out torture. Nothing satisfies your appetite but the taste of warm human blood. Whenever your crazed "mentor" forces you--with ample violence--to drain a human, you are filled with self-loathing ... yet, at the same time, a frenzied, inhuman delight ...
The first time you look in a mirror after your blooding, it isn't your reflection that gazes back at you. It is the image of a grinning, white-haired man in a bright yellow suit. He holds up and points at a heart-shaped watch, as though telling you that time is running out.
(And it shifts back to your reflection. You haven't begun to take on the appearance of your mentor yet--your eyes are the same shade of blue, but you've grown considerably paler.)
He haunts your dreams, that strange yellow-suited man; he makes you toss and turn at night. Sometimes you wake up in a cold sweat, having just seen yourself die in a dream. You were in a pit filled with stakes, and you had been impaled in a dozen different places. The pit had been set alight. Flames licked at every inch of you. Even in the dream you could feel the violent heat of the fire.
When you awake, you are overcome with fear.
You know what you have to do now. You know what awaits you like a grim old promise in these tunnels: Death.
You consider yourself fortunate, really.
You are the only one who knows what lies in store--for yourself, at least. You know what brought you here and why it did: Destiny.
On Destiny's orders, the lunatic vampaneze blooded you and, after you were well trained in the ways of the vampaneze, committed suicide. With Destiny's help, you found your way into the secluded vampaneze lair and found your place amongst the damned.
You know your role in Destiny's Grand Scheme and what you have to do to fulfil it.
Taking a deep breath, you step onto the railing and lower your hood to show the vampires your face.
It was the first time I'd seen the Vampaneze Lord's face and I was surprised by how ordinary he looked. I'd built up a picture in my mind of a fierce, fiery, wild-eyed tyrant, whose gaze could turn water to steam. But this was just a man in his twenties or early thirties, normal build, light brown hair and rather sad eyes. The wound he'd received to his shoulder was minor--the blood had already dried--and he ignored it as he spoke.
"I knew this was coming," the Lord of the Vampaneze said softly, turning his head to gaze at Mr. Crepsley. "Des Tiny predicted it. He said I'd have to fight one of the hunters here, above the flames, and that it would most likely be Larten Crepsley. We tried to turn his prophecy on its head and lure the boy up instead. For a while I thought we'd succeeded. But in my heart I knew it was you I'd have to face."
And the real battle begins.
Mr Crepsley lowered himself to chin level with the rail, then thrust away from it with all his strength. The vampire sailed, full stretch, through the air, soaring over the Vampaneze Lord and Gannen Harst--who'd stepped in front of his Lord to protect him, as he'd done many times during the fight--and Steve Leopard, who was still lying on the platform.
Mr Crepsley landed on his feet like a cat, behind the unprotected back of the Vampaneze Lord. Before the half-vampaneze or Gannen Harst could react, Mr Crepsley seized the Lord by the scruff of his shirt with his left hand, grabbed the waist of his trousers with his right, lifted him off the floor, spun to the edge of the platform--and tossed him head-first over the side, into the pit of stakes below!
There was time for the Lord of the Vampaneze to scream--once--then he hit the stakes with a thud which made me wince. The stakes impaled him in a dozen different places, including through the heart and the head. His body twitched a couple of times, then went still, and flames caught in his hair and clothes.