Lord of the Shadows by Darren Shan

groaned. “What time . . . is it?” I asked.
    “We don’t bother with watches,” Declan chuckled. “But it’s late, maybe one or two in the morning.” He took hold of my chin, turned my head left and right, then picked at the strip of shirt that was stuck to my shoulder with dried blood.
    “Ow!” I yelped.
    Declan released me immediately. “Sorry,” he said. “Does it hurt much?”
    “Not . . . as much . . . as it did,” I muttered. Then my head began to swim and I half-blacked-out again. When I recovered, the two men were huddled together a few feet away, discussing what to do with me.
    “Leave him,” I heard Little Kenny hiss. “He can’t be more than sixteen or seventeen. He’s no good to us.”
    “Every person matters,” Declan disagreed. “We can’t afford to be picky.”
    “But he’s not one of
us,
” Little Kenny said. “He probably has a family and home. We can’t start recruiting normal people, not until we’re told.”
    “I know,” Declan said. “But there’s something different about him. Did you see his scars? And he didn’t get that wound fighting on the playground. We should take him back with us. If the ladies choose not to keep him, we can get rid of him easily enough.”
    “But he’ll know where we are!” Little Kenny objected.
    “The shape he’s in, I doubt he even knows what town this is!” Declan snorted. “He’s got more things to worry about than marking the route we take.”
    Little Kenny grumbled something I couldn’t hear, then said, “OK, but don’t forget it was your choice, not mine. I’m not taking the blame for this.”
    “Fine,” Declan said, and returned to my side. He rolled my eyelids all the way up and I got my first clear look at him. He was a large, bearded man, dressed in shabby clothes, covered in grime — a tramp. “Kid,” he said, snapping his fingers in front of my eyes. “You awake? Do you know what’s going on?”
    “Yes.” I glanced over at Little Kenny and saw that he was also a tramp.
    “We’re taking you back with us,” Declan said. “Can you walk?”
    I assumed that they meant to take me to a mission house or homeless shelter. That wasn’t as preferable as the Cirque Du Freak, but it was better than a police station. I wet my lips and locked gazes with Declan. “No . . . police,” I moaned.
    Declan laughed. “See?” he said to Little Kenny. “I told you he was our kind of people!” He took hold of my left arm and told Little Kenny to take my right. “This will hurt,” he warned me. “You ready for it?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    They pulled me to my feet. The pain in my shoulder flared back into life, my brain ignited with fireworks, and my stomach lurched. Doubling over, I threw up on the alley floor. Declan and Little Kenny held me while I vomited, then hauled me up.
    “Better?” Declan asked.
    “No!” I gasped.
    He laughed again, then shuffled around, dragging me with him, so we were facing the entrance of the alley. “We’ll carry you as best we can,” Declan said. “But try to use your legs — it’ll make life easier for all of us.”
    I nodded to show I understood. Declan and Little Kenny linked hands behind my back, put their other hands on my chest to support me, then led me away.
    Declan and Little Kenny were a strange pair of guardian angels. They encouraged me along with a series of curses, pushes, and pulls, kicking my feet every so often to goad me into short bursts of self-momentum. We rested every few minutes, leaning against walls or lampposts, Declan and Little Kenny panting almost as hard as I was. They obviously weren’t accustomed to this much exercise.
    Even though it was the middle of the night, the town was abuzz. Word of the stadium slaughter had spread, and people had taken to the streets in outrage. Police cars passed us regularly, sirens blaring, flash-lights glaring.
    We marched in plain view of the police and angry citizens, but nobody took any notice of us. With Declan and