Hunters of the Dusk (2007)
“As we marched, Mr. Crepsley told the Prince of Mr. Tiny’s visit to Vampire Mountain, and what he’d predicted. Vancha said little while Mr. Crepsley was talking, and brooded upon his words in silence for a long time after he finished.
“I don’t think it takes a genius to surmise that I’m the third hunter,” he said in the end.
“I would be most surprised if you were not,” Mr. Crepsley agreed.
Vancha had been picking between his teeth with the tip of a sharp twig. Now he tossed it aside and spat into the dust of the trail. Vancha was a master spitter — his spit was thick, globular, and green, and he could hit an ant at twenty paces. “I don’t trust that evil meddler, Tiny,” he snapped. “I’ve run into him a couple of times, and I’ve made a habit of doing the opposite of anything he says.”
Mr. Crepsley nodded. “Generally speaking, I would agree with you. But these are dangerous times, sire, and —”
“Larten!” the Prince interrupted. “It’s ‘Vancha,’ ‘March,’ or ‘Hey, ugly!’ while we’re on the trail.
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