by Preston, Ken
The blood tasted sweet.
Her tongue was rough against the skin of her palm.
Her senses twitched at the sound of a door shutting high above. Footsteps, two pairs of them, descending the steps.
Them. Back again.
With more blood?
Yes, more blood. She could smell it on them.
Good. She would drink the blood first and then she would escape. Or maybe she would kill them first. Their blood would be warm, fresh. It would spurt into her mouth, not like the sterile, cold blood that she had to suck from the bags.
‘Is that them, the bastards? They’re coming back, aren’t they?’
Chitrita crouched in the cage, both hands clenched once more, and ignored the man in the other cage. The cage on wheels. They wheeled him around, up and down the corridors sometimes, laughing and banging on his cage with metal pipes.
They never did that to her.
Was her cage on wheels? She thought so. But they never wheeled her around or banged on her cage, or did anything but feed her blood or sit on that tattered sofa and watch her whilst they held hands.
They had brought the man down here only a couple of days ago, his face purple and swollen with bruising. His shirt was ripped and stained with patches of blood. At first he hadn’t said much, but then he had started getting angry, banging his fists against his cage, spitting out curses on his captors.
They had just ignored him.
The man had tried talking to Chitrita, but she had ignored him too.
There had been another man before him, in another cage, but he had died. They had wheeled his corpse out and a few days later had returned with this man.
This man talked too much.
‘Bastards,’ he muttered. ‘Fucking bastards.’
Chitrita waited.
They arrived.
When they saw her, they paused for a moment, as though sensing that something had changed within her. That maybe something was different. The tall, skeletal one called Corpse was holding the carrier bags, both of them bulging with packets of blood. Stump was next to him, her eyes hidden as always by the dark, wraparound sunglasses.
‘The toothy biter is unsleepered, Mrs Stump,’ Corpse said.
‘Indeed, Mr Corpse,’ Stump said.
Chitrita wished she could see Stump’s eyes. The vampire sensed a sharp intelligence at work in that woman, but the glasses, they hid her from view.
‘Hey, fat bitch, when are you going to let me out of this fucking cage?’ the man said.
Stump rotated her head in the man’s direction. She was wearing what she always wore, long black leather coat, black leather trousers and boots. Her black hair was tied severely back. All her clothes strained against the weight of her rolls of fat.
‘Never, Mr Morel, but you already know that.’
‘Yeah, that’s what you said yesterday,’ Morel said. ‘Fuckers. You’re both fucking dead meat, you know that don’t you? Fucking dead meat is what you are.’
Morel’s body sagged against the back of the cage, as though his outburst had drained him of all energy.
Stump and Corpse approached Chitrita, slowly, cautiously. The bags rustled against the stiff, stained fabric of Corpse’s trousers as he walked.
Chitrita backed up against the wire meshing of the tall, narrow cage. She was still wearing the white ball gown she had been buried in, all those years ago. The fabric was stained with dried blood and dirt, and it was ripped in places. Neither Stump nor Corpse had expressed any desire to offer her a change of clothes. The only times they approached her were when they were pushing the packets of cold blood into her cage.
Stump and Corpse stopped again, just out of reach, perhaps fearing that somehow she might be able to reach through the wire meshing and grab at them if they drew too close. At the beginning, when they first put her in here, when her arms were nothing more than sticks of dried flesh and bone, they knew she was helpless, like a newborn kitten. But not anymore. Now her arms had fleshed out, the skin grown young and soft again. Her hair had grown back, luxurious and soft, and her eyes were clear once more.
And she was stronger.
‘Give her the blood, Mr Corpse,’ Stump said. ‘I will be in the kitchen, making us a nice pot of Darjeeling tea.’
‘Ooh, smashioning,’ Corpse said.
Corpse dropped the two bags on the floor as Stump left the room. He pulled out one of the clear plastic packets of blood. They had started off by cutting the bags open with scissors before carefully handing them into the cage. Now they knew that Chitrita liked to rip the bags open with her teeth and suck the blood out.
Corpse reached out, his arm outstretched, trying his best to keep as far away as he could from the vampire inside the cage. The top of the cage could be flipped open on hinges, but Stump and Corpse had secured it with chains, leaving just enough give in them that the top could be opened enough to slip the bag of blood inside. Corpse pushed the bag through the gap and let go. The bag dropped to the cage floor.
Chitrita ignored it, despite her senses screaming at her to scoop it up and rip it open, and pour the blood out over her open mouth.
Corpse tilted his head to one side and looked quizzically at the vampire.
‘You shoulded be ingurgitating the sanguinous,’ he said.
Chitrita turned away, letting her long hair hang down over her face so that Corpse could no longer see it. She squeezed her hands into fists once more, her blood dripping from between her fingers. Each drop made a tiny PLIP! as it hit the floor.
Chitrita sensed Corpse drawing a little closer. Had he noticed the blood pooling on the floor? Chitrita squeezed her hands together tighter, pushing out more blood.
Plip! Plip! Plip!
Corpse saw the blood now and his eyes grew round and wide.
Chitrita remained silent. In all these months the power of speech had slowly come back to her, but not once had she spoken to her captors.
She tensed, ignoring the primal scream for the need to grab the bag of fresh blood lying on the bottom of her cage and rip it open with her teeth. There was a much tastier bag of warm blood just outside the cage, making its way slowly to her.
Patience, Chitrita. Patience.
Corpse was up against the cage now, peering at her through the mesh work of metal. She had angled herself so that he couldn’t see where the blood was dripping from. Still she refused to turn her head and look at him.
What would he do? Would he go and find Stump? Get her to come and take a look at Chitrita, her pet as she liked to talk about the vampire? If he did, if Corpse brought Stump to take a look then Chitrita’s escape attempt would be over for the moment. Stump was cleverer than Corpse, more cunning. Chitrita sensed that Stump was beginning to wonder what they should do with her, that perhaps it had been a mistake letting her grow this strong and youthful once more.
Chitrita could sense Corpse staring at her. He was attracted to her, she knew that much. He had been fascinated by her slow transformation from ancient, wizened crone into youthful beauty. The process had taken longer than it should have done because of the sterile, cold blood they fed her with. But it had still worked.
Chitrita made a tiny whimpering sound.
Corpse began unlocking her prison, the padlock rattling against the cage as he fiddled with it.
When the door swung open, Chitrita turned and pounced.
‘Kill the skinny bastard!’ Morel shouted, banging his fists against the cage. ‘Rip his fucking head off!’
Corpse fell back with a cry as Chitrita enveloped him in her embrace. The dirty, tattered ball gown hindered her movements and Corpse managed to struggle free as he kicked and screamed. She swiped a bloody hand at him, fingers like claws. Corpse skittered away on his back, eyes wide as saucers, until he bumped into the battered old sofa they kept down here. So many times Chitrita had wished to open up their throats and drink their blood whilst Stump and Corpse had sat on that sofa, watching Chitrita inside her cage.
She had w
anted to rip them apart and slaughter them for so very long now.
‘You’re overflowing out with badliness,’ Corpse said. ‘You were acting up a storywise to be drip-drip-dripping sanguinous.’
Chitrita bared her teeth and snapped them together. Corpse flinched and clambered backwards up onto the sofa, never taking his eyes off the vampire.
Chitrita licked the blood from her palms and her arms, all the while gazing at Corpse. Leaping at Corpse had drained her of energy. She was still much weaker than she had realised.
She saw Stump enter the room.
‘Aww, fucking hell,’ Morel said. ‘Why didn’t you kill him?’
Stump looked disappointed more than shocked or frightened. Almost as though she had been expecting this moment.
‘Oh dear, Mr Corpse, what have you done?’ she said.
Corpse whimpered slightly. ‘But it wasn’t my gremlin, the toothy biter contrifuged me with her chicanerinous.’
Chitrita ached to rip them apart right now, to shower this place in their blood and to rub it into her face and over her body even as she was drinking it.
She crouched, the blood from her hands smeared across the concrete floor.
‘Well, this is a problem, isn’t it?’ Stump said. ‘And here I was looking forward to a nice cup of tea.’
‘Fucking fat slag,’ Morel said.
Stump began stroking her mannequin hand, fingers sliding up and down the shiny, yellowed plastic.
‘Watch out,’ Morel said. ‘I’ve heard she’s got a fucking blade inside there, slice and dice you before you know what’s happened.’
Chitrita regarded the plastic hand. Was she as strong as she thought? Was she as fast? At the height of her powers she could be near indestructible, but right now? No, she was too tired, too weak. She still needed to feed, needed fresh warm blood straight from an open wound.
She needed to be back outside where she could hunt down the human cattle and gorge herself. Even though she was inside, deep underground Morel had said, Chitrita could still sense the night outside. Her time. Feeding time.
She needed to get outside. And feed.
Chitrita opened her mouth and for the first time in over a hundred years, she spoke.
‘Let me out,’ she said. The words came out clumsily, slurred.
Stump and Corpse glanced at each other.
‘The toothy biter can speechify, Mrs Stump,’ Corpse said.
‘Indeed, Mr Corpse,’ replied Stump.
‘Hey, lady, take me with you,’ Morel said, rattling the metal cage.
Chitrita ignored him. Held Stump in her gaze. Stump gazed back, the dark sunglasses hiding her eyes.
‘Let’s do as she asks, shall we?’ Stump said. ‘Mr Corpse, would you be so good as to escort her to the front door?’
‘By me and my particulars?’ Corpse said.
‘Oh yes, I think so,’ Stump said. ‘I’d quite like to play with Mr Morel here for a few minutes.’
Corpse climbed off the sofa and stood up. He motioned to Chitrita.
Chitrita rose slowly from her crouch and followed Corpse as he walked away.
He led her through several connecting corridors and to a set of concrete steps. He kept his eyes on her at all times. He motioned at her to follow him up the steps. Their path was illuminated by bare bulbs set into metal grilles. At the top was a short corridor leading to a metal door.
Corpse, head twisted around to look at Chitrita all the time, unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The sound of Morel screaming echoed faintly up the stairwell.
Chitrita stepped outside, the cool, damp air like a balm on her flesh. On the ground were train tracks. Brickwork arched overhead. Her nose twitched and her tongue flooded with saliva at the smells she could pick out.
The door clanged shut behind her.
She was on her own.
She was free.
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The torchlight illuminated the towpath, picking out the bank on his right where the ground fell away and the water began, and the grassy verge on his left. Coffin could hear the city centre, its life, its heartbeat, the drone of traffic. This early in the morning and the city was coming alive already. But here by the canal all was quiet. Overhead there was the soft whisper of leaves in the wind, and below him the soft splash of water as something disturbed the canal’s surface.
Coffin hated it out here.
The city centre was where he belonged.
Coffin ran his torchlight over the boarding on his left. He knew what was on the other side even if it was no longer there. Number Ninety-Nine had been demolished and the rubble taken away by order of the Birmingham council. Now only the ground was left, the scar, the reminder of the horrors that were perpetrated there, waiting to be redeveloped and landscaped. There would be a pathway through the gardens down to the canal and a piece of artwork in tribute to Peter Marsden, who had been kept inside that house and turned into a vampire.
Peter’s mother, Brenda, had made a tearful tribute to her son on the local news and there was a lot of sympathy for her.
Coffin had no sympathy. For her son maybe, the poor little bastard. But not Brenda. From what Coffin knew of her she had never been much of a mother.
Besides, Coffin had his own bad memories of number Ninety-Nine.
Abel Mortenson and Steffanie.
Coffin had battled Mortenson twice, once inside the house down in the cellar and the second time out here on the canal. And when he had finally killed Mortenson, Coffin had carved his body up into pieces and tossed them into that pit in the cellar where Guttman had been buried and set the pieces alight.
Coffin had thought that might be the end of his association with the house, but then he had fought Guttman in the very same place, down in that cellar once more where Jacob had been held prisoner.
Coffin had made sure Guttman wasn’t coming back either.
And now the cellar was filled in and the house of horrors flattened to make way for a park.
Coffin swung his torchlight up and down the towpath. Thought he caught the flutter of wings in the darkness. A bat maybe.
He carried on walking, swinging his torch back and forth. The surface of the canal water looked pitch black, even in the light of the torch.
The beam of light caught movement up ahead, a figure emerging from the shadows.
Coffin’s free hand instinctively moved towards the sharp, wooden stakes he kept on his belt, beneath his jacket. Guns didn’t kill vampires, but a stake through the heart did the job. At least for a while, anyway.
The figure drew closer. Threw a hand across its face to shield its eyes from the glare of the torch.
‘Bloody hell, Coffin, couldn’t we have met at Starbucks or something?’ Nick Archer said. ‘I can’t see a bloody thing out here. And what the hell do you call this time of the morning? Never took you for an early riser.’
‘How’s the leg, Detective?’ Coffin said, lowering the torch.
‘Yeah, it’s fine, what the hell do you care?’ Archer replied.
‘Just making conversation,’ Coffin said.
‘Really? That’ll be a first.’ Archer looked up and down the canal. ‘So come on, tell me, why the hell did we have to meet here? This spot got some special memories for you or something?’
Coffin grinned. ‘Sure it has. Like that night I slapped your own cuffs on you and left you to keep my son company on that narrowboat, remember?’
‘Like I’m ever going to forget.’ Coffin noticed Archer’s hand unconsciously move to his thigh and massage it. ‘You done gloating now, or can we get on with business?’
A bat darted past, its dark shape a blur in the gloom. Archer ducked.
Straightened up, staring at Coffin.
‘Are those knives you’ve got strapped to your waist?’ he said.
‘No, stakes,’ Coffin said, pulling one out of its strap and holding it up for Archer to see.
‘Bloody hell, I feel like I’m stuck in a Chr
istopher Lee film,’ Archer said. ‘Bats and stakes, and . . .’
Vampires, Coffin thought.
‘You come across any of the bastards recently?’ Archer said.
Coffin shook his head. ‘No. You?’
‘Still got a mortuary full of them. They were meant to be moving out last month but there’s been a holdup, don’t know what, probably somebody lost the bloody paperwork or something.’
‘Where are they going?’
‘Some research lab down in London I think, nobody really knows for sure.’ Archer looked at the black surface of the canal water. ‘You think there are any more out there? Besides . . .’
‘Steffanie and Michael,’ Coffin finished for him. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You missed one out,’ Archer said.
Coffin waited.
‘Julie Carter, teenager, she was on the narrowboat with Emma, had her throat ripped open by that bastard you chopped into pieces and barbequed.’
‘Wasn’t me, officer,’ Coffin said. ‘I was found not guilty by a jury in a court of law, remember?’
‘Yeah, a jury that had been paid off by that pathetic excuse for a solicitor of yours,’ Archer said.
‘So there are three of them out there,’ Coffin said. ‘Not that I’ve noticed, though. Have you?’
‘No, it’s been quiet lately hasn’t it? Sometimes I get to thinking that maybe it was all a delusion of some kind, like a dream. I have trouble remembering that it all really happened. And then I go down to the mortuary and sit in the viewing gallery and stare at all the blood smeared across the glass and the shapes behind it and I soon get to remembering again.’
‘I’ve been doing some remembering of my own recently, Detective,’ Coffin said.
Archer looked at him. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. That night when I cuffed you up and left you inside the narrowboat cabin with Michael.’
Archer said nothing.
‘And then I got back and you were outside, bleeding from that wound in your thigh.’
