For a long time there’d been peace between the two clans. That ended when the Lord of the Vampaneze emerged. This vampaneze leader was destined to lead them into war against the vampires and destroy us. But if we found and killed him before he became a full-vampaneze, the war would go our way instead.
Only three vampires could hunt for the Vampaneze Lord (according to a powerful meddler called Desmond Tiny, who could see into the future). Two were Vampire Princes, Vancha March and me. The other had been Mr Crepsley, the vampire who’d blooded me and been like a father to me. He’d faced the person we thought was the Vampaneze Lord earlier that night and killed him. But then Steve sent Mr Crepsley tumbling to his death in a pit of flame-tipped stakes — shortly before he let me know that the person Mr Crepsley killed was an impostor, and that Steve himself was the Vampaneze Lord.
It didn’t seem possible that Mr Crepsley was dead. I kept expecting a tap on my shoulder, and the tall orange-haired vampire to be standing behind me when I turned, grinning wickedly, his long facial scar glinting as he held up a torch, asking where we thought we were going without him. But the tap never came. It couldn’t. Mr Crepsley was dead. He’d never come back.
Part of me wanted to go mad with rage, seize a sword and storm off after Steve. I wanted to track him down and drive a stake through his rotten excuse for a heart. But Mr Crepsley had warned me not to devote myself to revenge. He said it would warp and destroy me if I gave in to it. I knew in my soul that there was unfinished business between Steve and me, that our paths would cross again. But for the time being I pushed him from my thoughts and mourned for Mr Crepsley.
Except I couldn’t really mourn. Tears wouldn’t come. As much as I wanted to howl and sob with grief, my eyes remained dry and steely. Inside, I was a broken, weeping wreck, but on the outside I was cold, calm and collected, as though I hadn’t been affected by the vampire’s death.
Ahead, Vancha and Alice came to a halt. The Prince looked back, his wide eyes red from crying. He looked pitiful in his animal skins, with his filthy bare feet and wild hair, like an overgrown, lost child. “We’re almost at the surface,” he croaked. “It’s still day. Will we wait here for dark? If we’re spotted…”
“Don’t care,” I mumbled.
“I don’t want to stay here,” Debbie sobbed. “These tunnels are cruel.”
“And I have to inform my people that I’m alive,” Alice said, then frowned and picked dried blood flecks from her pale white hair. “Though I don’t know how I’m going to explain it to them!”
“Tell the truth,” Vancha grunted.
The Chief Inspector grimaced. “Hardly! I’ll have to think up some–” She stopped. A figure had appeared out of the darkness ahead of us, blocking the path.
Cursing, Vancha ripped loose a shuriken – throwing stars he kept strapped in belts around his chest – and prepared to launch it.
“Peate, Vancha,” the stranger said, raising a hand. “I am here to help, not harm.”
Vancha lowered his shuriken and muttered in disbelief, “Evanna?”
The woman ahead of us clicked her fingers and a torch flared into life overhead, revealing the ugly witch we’d travelled with earlier in the year, while we were searching for the Lord of the Vampaneze. She hadn’t changed. Short thick muscles, long untidy hair, pointed ears, a tiny nose, one brown eye and one green (the colours kept shifting from left to right), hairy body, long sharp nails and yellow ropes tied tight around her body instead of clothes.
“What are you doing … here?” Harkat asked, his large green eyes filled with suspicion — Evanna was a neutral in the War of the Scars, but could help or hinder those on either side, depending on her mood.
“I came to bid Larten’s spirit farewell,” the witch said. She was smiling.
“You don’t look too cut up about it,” I remarked without emotion.
She shrugged. “I foresaw his death many decades ago. I did my crying for him then.”
“You knew he’d die?” Vancha growled.
“I wasn’t certain, but I guessed he would perish,” she said.
“Then you could have stopped it!”
“No,” Evanna said. “Those with the ability to sense the currents of the future are forbidden to interfere. To save Larten, I’d have had to abandon the rules I live by, and if that happened, all chaos would break loose.”
The witch stretched out a hand, and even though she was many metres away from Vancha, her fingers cupped his chin tenderly. “I was fond of Larten,” she said softly. “I hoped I was wrong. But I couldn’t take it upon myself to spare him. His fate wasn’t mine to decide.”
“Then whose was it?” Vancha snapped.
“His own,” Evanna replied steadily. “He chose to hunt for the Lord of the Vampaneze, to enter the tunnels, to fight on the platform. He could have walked away from his responsibilities — but he chose not to.”
Vancha glared at the witch a moment longer, then lowered his gaze. I saw fresh tears splash in the dust at his feet. “My apologies, Lady,” he muttered. “I don’t blame you. I’m just so fired up with hatred…”
“I know,” the witch said, then studied the rest of us. “You must come with me. I have things to tell you, and I’d rather talk on the outside — the air here is rank with treachery and death. Will you spare me a few hours of your time?” She glanced at Alice Burgess. “I promise I won’t keep you long.”
Alice sniffed. “I guess a few hours can’t make much of a difference.”
Evanna looked at Harkat, Debbie, Vancha and me. We shared a glance, then nodded and followed the witch up the last stretch of the tunnels, leaving the darkness and the dead behind.
Evanna gave Vancha a thick deer hide to drape over his head and shoulders, to block out the rays of the sun. Trailing after the witch, we moved quickly through the streets. Evanna must have cast a spell to hide us, because people didn’t notice us, despite our blood-stained faces and clothes. We ended up outside the city, in a small forest, where Evanna had prepared a camp amidst the trees. At her offer, we sat and tucked into the berries, roots and water she’d set out for us.
We ate silently. I found myself studying the witch, wondering why she was here — if she’d really come to say goodbye to Mr Crepsley, she’d have gone down to where his body lay in the pit. Evanna was Mr Tiny’s daughter. He had created her by mixing the blood of a vampire with that of a wolf. Vampires and vampaneze were barren – we couldn’t have children – but Evanna was supposed to be able to bear a child by a male of either clan. When we met her shortly after setting out to hunt the Vampaneze Lord, she’d confirmed Mr Tiny’s prophecy – that we’d have four chances to kill the Lord – and added the warning that if we failed, two of us would die.
Vancha finished eating first, sat back and burped. “Speak,” he snapped — he wasn’t in the mood for formalities.
“You’re wondering how many chances you’ve used up,” Evanna said directly. “The answer is — three. The first was when you fought the vampaneze in the glade and let their Lord escape. The second, when you discovered Steve Leonard was a half-vampaneze and took him hostage — although you had several opportunities to kill him, they count as one. The third chance was when Larten faced him on the platform above the pit of stakes.”
“That means we still have a shot at him!” Vancha hissed excitedly.
“Yes,” Evanna said. “Once more the hunters will face the Vampaneze Lord, and on that occasion the future will be decided. But that confrontation will not come in the near future. Steve Leonard has withdrawn to plot anew. For now, you may relax.”
The witch turned to me and her expression