City of the Snakes by Darren Shan Read Free Book Online Page A

razor rid me of that. Green contact lenses for the eyes. Then the tattoos (which, as a bonus, hid the worst of my scar tissue). It took awhile to find a tattooist capable of replicating my father’s serpentine design, and several lengthy, painful sessions to ink in every last coil, scale and link, but eventually it was done and I took on the full look of Paucar Wami, down to the leather jacket and motorcycle that were favorites of his.
    All that remained was to kill.
    I used to remove the contact lenses each night, before retiring, but now I leave them in, not caring about the damage that must be doing to my eyes. They help keep me in character. Such small touches have become second nature. They have to, if the disguise is to work, if I’m to truly become the killer I seek to mimic and tempt my tormentor out of hiding.
    I realized it wasn’t enough to look like Paucar Wami. To
be
him, I had to act as he had. I had to murder. At first, when the madness was fresh upon me, I thought to kill indiscriminately. The world had treated me cruelly and I meant to react in kind. I imagined myself butchering bloodily, freely. I got as far as shadowing a randomly picked woman to her home, slipping in at night while she was asleep and pressing my knife to the soft flesh of her throat.
    I went no further. After an eternity of indecision, I withdrew, having shed no blood, to marvel at how close to true evil I had sailed. If I’d killed her, I genuinely would have become my father, and in time I’m certain I would have abandoned thoughts of revenge and lost myself entirely to viciousness.
    Instead I ran home, moaning and weeping, and prayed for death. I almost took my life in the dark hours that followed, but the blade that had wavered at the woman’s throat crept away of its own accord every time I raised it to mine.
    Over the next few days, between fits of rage and remorse, I found myself readjusting my
plan
. I couldn’t bring myself to kill the innocent, but I knew from experience that I was capable of dispatching the guilty. I’dkilled during my years working for The Cardinal, as one of his Troops, and when I’d been betrayed by a woman in league with Bill and the
villacs
. This city’s full of criminals, deserving of death. If I left the innocent alone and set my sights on the scum…
    Coming out of the bathroom, I wipe my hands dry, get down on the floor and launch into a punishing set of squats, hard and fast, thinking, Machine. Machine. Machine. Al Jeery grimaces as I break the hundred mark. Paucar Wami licks his lips and asks for more. His wish is granted. Two hundred. Three hundred. Four…
    The New Munster hotel, 14:00. Three ground-level rooms packed with booksellers and buyers. Long tables overflowing with first prints and rare editions. Very little in the way of popular or pulp material—this is a fair for serious collectors. Most of the clientele are middle-aged and formally attired. Very little cash exchanges hands. It’s all credit cards these days.
    I mingle unobtrusively with the rich as they fawn over the tomes, discussing print runs, volume conditions and prices. They also talk a lot about other fairs. Apparently Paris is the hot city at the moment, wonderful finds lying in wait on dusty shelves for those prepared to look. They take no notice of me, assuming—if they assume at all—that I’m with security.
    I’ve removed my contact lenses and covered my tattoos with flesh paint, and I wear a wig of tight black curls. A shabby but acceptable suit. Neat shoes. Sometimes it’s better to go abroad as Al Jeery. These people would flee in terror at the sight of my nocturnal face.
    I’ve been to dozens of fairs over the years, and I visit all the bookstores in the city on a regular basis. Books were Bill’s great love. He had a massive collection of first editions, a collection many of the people here today would happily steal, mug or even kill for. When he disappeared ten years ago, he took the books with him.