"The girl will be born of a human mother, created with love and blood with a vampire, and born with such powers that all fear her. She must accept both parts of her being to become whole. Until then she will be a force of nature, adrift and terrifying. When she accepts her true nature, then her purpose will be revealed, and so will the existence and purpose of vampires.”
Of course, the issue with the text was its lack of context. When would this magical, mysterious girl arrive? How would she be revealed? How would she reveal the existence of vampires? How would she do this? Kurt threw his glasses down on the table and angrily stubbed out the dying fragment of his cigarette. At best, his colleagues would just say that this was another example of lore documented in history - beliefs in supernatural entities not making them so. He needed more. He needed evidence - he needed to find the girl. A human who would vouch for him, who would declare, "Yes, vampires exist, I'm half vamp" and allow him to come out into the open and share all that he knew, that would open the debate, that would help him find his brother. Kurt could only hope that such a girl could exist.
Feeling angry at himself and the world, he lit another cigarette, poured a measure of schnapps from the bottle on the table and kicked the chair out of his way. He needed to get out, have a change of scene. He tossed the empty shot glass into the aluminium sink, grabbed his car keys and headed out into the night. He'd go and see his woman; she'd take his mind off it.
6
The knowledge that the prickles on her skin were most likely a result of the January evening did little to alleviate Julie Morgan's sense of foreboding. The sensation had been lurking like background noise - niggling at her, rearing its head from behind her book-keeping, bi-weekly stock rotation and the perusal of the TV guide.
The feeling, that someone was watching her, had been lingering for a while but had increased recently. She had looked back over her shoulder many times, convinced someone was there. It wasn't like her to be so skittish. It embarrassed her. The feeling was becoming more frequent. A chill ran own her spine. She shrugged it off and locked the kitchen windows.
“Don’t be such a silly cow,” she muttered to herself.
She put the last of the dishes away, closed the kitchen cupboard and poured the recently boiled water from the kettle into the large mug emblazed with ‘World's Best Daughter’. Her thoughts turned to Sophie as she swirled a tea bag around the water with a spoon.
She missed the sound of Sophie in the house. The month that her daughter had stayed with her, had been the best in ages. The air had brimmed with gossip and laughter. Now Sophie was living in one of their rental properties and she was alone again. Julie wondered if she should get a cat. At least she’d have someone to talk at then – she wouldn’t become a ‘Shirley Valentine’.
“Hello wall, “Julie said. “ How are you today? What do you think of this Mickey business, eh? No, me neither. I don’t like it.” She pursed her lips and nodded. “Glad we’re on the same page, wall.”
Still, Julie knew that she had sounded harsh on the phone to Sophie. She recognised the surprise in Sophie’s voice. They had never had a cross word, more friends than mother and daughter. It wasn't in Julie’s nature to be snappy, but boys who just turned up out of the blue, inevitably disappearing as quickly, spelled trouble in Julie’s book.
“At least he’s coming for his dinner tomorrow, wall. We’ll see the cut of his jib then.”
Julie scooped the tea bag out and hurled it across the room into the sink. She punched the air. “She shoots, she scores.” She slipped her cardigan over her cold arms, took another sip of tea and pondered on what bottle of wine to open.
A chill ran down Margeaux's skin, not from the temperature, as she didn't feel it, but from fear.
"Should I put them through?" the maid asked.
"Oui, absoluement." Margeaux waved the dithering servant away with an impatient hand. The girl scurried off, muttering apologies for her stupidity.
Margeaux loathed it when Francois Thibault, her butler, was away from her home, even if he was only out briefly running errands for her. In many ways, Francois was like her friend Charles Ferrers. Francois never feared her, was utterly efficient and read her moods like the newspapers he read religiously at the beginning of each day.
She’d have to turn him one day, she often thought. He had never asked it of her; he was far too well-mannered for that.
Margeaux sat at her dressing table, teased her hair into place, applied her lipstick and sprayed cologne on her neck. Then she waited for the telephone to ring. Its shrill chirrup startled her even though she had expected it. She chose her words carefully when she spoke.
"Good morning," she said slowly and with control. "This is Madame Renard. How may I be of service?"
"Good morning Madame." The voice was stern, business-like. “My name is Onan Sadik. I take it I do not need an introduction.”
He did not; her maid had at least got that right when she’d answered the telephone. Mr Sadik was an official from one of the oldest and most influential vampire families. The Byzantines owned an unfathomable amount of property in Eastern Europe, possessed significant business interests throughout the area and could trace their lineage back through the Ottomans and to the Romans. If they called, you replied. If they asked you to do something, you did it. Margeaux remained silent. It was not her place to probe or question.
"We are contacting our most trusted and influential acquaintances across the continent regarding a most difficult problem that has arisen."
"I see," Margeaux replied.
"Rather regrettably, we have had an issue with one of our senior members of staff, who thought that his star wasn't rising at quite the trajectory it deserved. The matter of his disloyalty has been dealt with.”
“Of course.” Whatever summary action had been taken would be swift but unpleasant. She had no desire to hear further details.
“But during the affair, a rather important artefact has gone missing from our archive. The dissenter stole something of great value to my employer. Regrettably, it appears to have been stolen – again. It seems that despite its value, he was not as careful as he should have been with it and it's fallen into the wrong hands. "
"I see.” Margeaux paused to consider her words. So the rumours were true. A prized artefact had been stolen. Offering to help, but failing in the task, would be akin to signing her own death warrant. Refusing to help would guarantee it. “How can I help?"
"It's a delicate situation. The artefact, a manuscript from our library of religious and philosophical archives, has found its way into the hands of an academic.”
Margeaux paused to choose her words carefully. So, the rumours from her antiques expert and sometime fence were true, she thought. “I will make enquiries immediately, although I am sure I would have been alerted to its existence if it were here.”
“No need,” Mr Sadik replied. “Our intelligence tells us that it’s found its way into the possession of an academic in Wales. I'm not sure how familiar you are with the geography of the United Kingdom - quite well, I would imagine, given your connections to the political world."
“I’m not sure I understand how I can help. You would like me to go there?” Margeaux asked. If the piece wasn't in Belgium, let alone Brussels, she wondered why the Byzantines would possibly want to involve her. “Or is there something else you would like me to do to help facilitate the document’s safe return?”
"I am glad you asked,” he said. “We would like to engage the services of one of our former associates to retrieve it. Charles Ferrers. We thought an approach from you might be the best way to procure his assistance. We could, of course, take steps to find him, but we assume that you will already know his whereabouts. We'd prefer not to alert others to our activities if we do not have to."
Before Ferrers had retired from public life and retreated into positive obscurity, he had spent a little time with her in Brussels. She was the last vampire of any real power and influence whose compan
y he had enjoyed. An approach from her might be a more amenable one.
“I believe that Mr Ferrers now resides in England,” Mr Sadik continued. “The journey will only be a short one so this should be no inconvenience to him. Can you contact him and make enquiries as to his availability? He will be compensated for his trouble, of course, as will you be." The words were friendly, but their warmth did not reach the tone of the Byzantine official speaking them. Margeaux knew she wasn't being presented options. Saying no to Mr Sadik was not an avenue open to her.
"Mais oui," she replied, "of course."
"Excellent. He can still be trusted I assume. His loyalty and discretion can be guaranteed?"
It was a question loaded with danger. If she vouched for Ferrers and he failed to complete his assignment, then she may as well have signed her own death warrant. Moreover, Ferrers would understand this as soon as she made contact with him. He would be obliged to complete the task to the best of his abilities or endanger his friend.
"Of course," she replied earnestly. Ferrers was nothing but business-like, conducting the tasks assigned to him with complete impartiality and without feeling. He was a fixer. An enforcer. He sorted problems and reigned in vampires without needing to justify it to himself first. They had not shared each other's company for some years though and when they had last spoken he was distracted, preoccupied with the incidents in Antwerp over the summer, a girl she knew little about and the re-emergence of Kasper Andersen.
"Very well," the vampire said. “I will forward you instructions and background details. I will leave the rest in your capable hands to facilitate."
"Bon.”
"I will ensure that you have everything you need."
Margeaux knew better than to push for details of the manuscript, what it contained or why it was important. Onan Sadik would not have told her and it would have made no difference to the task at hand.
"Thank you, Monsieur Sadik. I will keep you updated on progress."
The receiver clicked and the line went dead.
By the end of the day, a package had arrived by courier, containing an envelope holding a bundle of names, addresses, photographs and descriptions. The documents included a short brief and instructions to be provided to Ferrers, along with a protocol for the safe return of the manuscript once it had been retrieved. She was still none the wiser as to the content and meaning of the manuscript, and in many ways, she did not want to know. Where Ferrers’ work was involved, it was best to quietly accept things on face value and not ask too many questions.
The faded green paint on the garden gate of the Morgan residence required a slight touching up, but otherwise the entrance to the property was delightful, even at night. The mild evening ensured a waft of indecipherable greenery - there were fir trees, buddleias, large, although not in flower, and mounds of hydrangeas waiting to spring to invite them to bloom. The pasturage of the large lawn was short and clean, empty apart from a small stone bird bath and the narrow way, heading to the house, which severed the garden in two. The house at the end of the path was large in an unassuming, modest way.
Kasper leaped stealthily over the gate to avoid it creaking. He kept to the garden boundary and to the bushes and trees as he made his way carefully to the property. His heart was not capable of pounding in his chest yet he was sure he felt it. I should have been here decades ago, he thought to himself, long ago and in different circumstances.
Kasper crept passed the first of the windows, cowering under the windowsill in the most part and taking no more than a cursory glance to check if the room was empty. His brief inspection noted that a pile of DVD cases sat by the TV, that one chair appeared more worn than others and that there was one solitary wine glass atop the neatly stacked nest of mahogany tables. Whoever lived here appeared to be alone, if only for the night. It reassured him.
Feeling a little more confident, he stood straighter. He passed the front door and moved on to the next window. The lights were on full, lighting the kitchen brightly, shining a spotlight on Julie as she sat quietly, her eyes pouring over the beverage in front of her. Yes, this was her home.
Kasper stepped back and crouched a little, low enough to be wrapped up in the darkness and close enough to watch her.
Julie was beautiful in her sadness. The faint lines, that had started to form around her eyes, reminded him of the laughter he had missed, the private jokes which they should have shared over the years. Her red hair was still fiery but had mellowed to the colour of ancient amber, the freckles on her arms blended from summers in the sun so that her pale skin now had a healthier complexion.
A hunger surged inside him. He ran his fingers through his hair and tugged at it. Julie was a matter of moments away. All he had to do was call her name, knock on the window, rip off the door and announce himself to her, take her in his arms, slip his tongue around hers, press his teeth into her flesh, own her, be with her, climb into her and walk around in her flesh, in her heart, in her soul till they both descended into rapturous madness.
In the flood of hitherto suppressed emotion that washed over him, Kasper forgot himself for a second and lost himself in Julie. In that moment, he was with her, stood next to her, cradling her in his arms as a father, a lover, a son. He wanted to be everything to her, to show her the world.
He didn't hear the footsteps that quietly crept up from behind him, cushioned by the damp grass and soft soles. Nor did he hear the rustle of coat sleeves as the arm swung back and launched the tyre iron at his skull. The swift thud of metal against flesh was barely audible, as was the gentle plod of footsteps making away with his limp body across the lawn.
Julie put down the mug and turned sharply towards the kitchen window. What was that noise? She was sure she'd heard something, but she'd been doing that a lot recently and it inevitably turned out to be nothing. "God, woman, pull yourself together,” she said to herself. She hopped off the stool and, slipping her feet into her slippers, plodded over to the window and gazed out into the darkness. No, nobody there – again.
7
Kurt pulled on the ropes restraining his hostage, doubling the knot again for good measure. His handiwork was clumsy and bulky, but better it stays put, he told himself, along with the vampire. It was all that he had, not even rope actually, but bungee cords he used to strap his bike to the rack he had mounted on the rear of the car. They had seen better days, but they should do the job until he could at least figure out a plan. He hadn't prepared for this.
Some of the properties on Cathedral Road had basements that had been converted into individual flats and maisonettes; many of the basement flats would have been quarters for the "staff,” the houses owned by the rising middle class. His house wasn't that grand. The basement was exactly that - a room around fifteen feet by ten feet, with a few electricity sockets and a cheap pendant light which hung from the centre of the ceiling. Wood panelling and a tile floor had been installed by one of the former owners, along with a damp membrane. He'd seen that on the plans. There was no heating which meant it was cold most of the time, even in the summer months. It hadn't bothered him; he lived alone and didn't need much room, although it provided a useful space to keep his bikes, lawn mower and a handful of tools. The tiny wooden shed at the rear of the garden, snuggled into the blackberry bushes wasn't secure enough to store anything of value.
Kurt sat down on the wooden stairs leading down into the dark space and studied his hostage. He'd been lucky and caught him unawares - good job that he had the tyre iron with him - it was his habit to keep it with him when he went out into the night to watch Julie. He didn't go there often; he knew it was stupid, she'd see him one day. He just wanted to protect her and to do that he needed to be prepared to use a weapon if he had to. Who could have known that he would have had to use it on a vampire? He knew they existed, sure, hadn't he spent the best part of his adult life researching them, building up a picture of their habits and features. The incident with the vampire in Bristol a few weeks earlier was just t
he icing on the cake - the cherry on top even. Of all the places he'd been, it would be the tiny town of Bethel that he'd find another one - not even the one he'd hit with the car - and even more remarkably in the quiet rural suburb of Bethesda, right there in the quiet night, right there outside Julie's window.
The creature sat quietly in the chair, his head dropped so that his chin nestled in the dip where his collarbones met. The wound, that the bar had left in his head, had already healed. It had troubled Kurt for a while; he didn't want to kill him, he just needed to incapacitate him, keep him immobile for the half hour it would take to get him from Bethesda to Cardiff in the boot of his car. The vampire hadn't made a sound for the entire journey and he'd listened intently for any sign of life the whole way, though the noise of his car roaring at ninety miles per hour had made it difficult for a large part of it.
Kurt took a cigarette from the battered packet of Marlboros in his jacket pocket. The packet was half empty; he'd need to go out for more tomorrow. Removing the disposal lighter that nestled within, he lit the cigarette with its flame and tossed the packet on to the wooden step next to him. He inhaled deeply, the smoke filling his lungs, the adrenaline surging through him mixing with the nicotine, making him heady. He needed a drink, but that meant leaving the vampire.
He sat there for a long time watching the undead being that was slumped comatose on a folding garden chair. Soon it would wake, but he'd be ready for it. He had questions and he wanted answers. Yes, his brother had a lot to explain.
"Oh God, we shouldn't have done that," I said, squirming with discomfort. It had been filthy and indulgent of us. I felt ashamed.
"Nah, it was worth it. We should clean up though."
"Yeah, the last thing, you want to face in the morning, is the evidence of a night of badness."
Sophie Morgan (Book 2): Death in the Family Page 7
