Department 18 [02] Night Souls

by Maynard Sims

  The breathers were writhing and growing, some breaking away from their groups and starting to move toward them.

  “I think Harry’s right,” he said. “We need to get out of here.” He stood and hauled Dylan to his feet.

  Michael Dylan’s face had drained of color, and he was starting to shake. “Get them away from me,” he said quietly.

  “Jason! What’s going on?” Rachel pushed herself out of her seat, in time for one of the shadowy creatures to fly at her. For an instant the dark shape covered her features, making her look as if she’d thrown a black towel over her head. She cried out and rubbed frantically at her face, trying to brush it away. She knew what they were and who had sent them.

  At the sound of her cry, the rest of the breathers took to the air, swooping at them in a shadow flight. Dylan was knocked to the floor and quickly engulfed. He stared at them wide-eyed, seeing faces in the shadows; hideous faces with bulging eyes and gaping mouths lined with needle-sharp teeth. “Get them off me!” he screamed as he felt bony spindle-fingers raking at his clothes, ripping the material to expose his flesh. He bucked and twisted, but the shadows were embracing him, impossible to dislodge. The stench of them was overwhelming, the smell of rotting flesh making him gag. He stretched out a hand and felt strong fingers encircle it.

  “On your feet!” Pike shouted at him. “You’ve got to get to your feet.”

  Schwab was heading toward the door. He’d seen enough.

  As he gripped the handle, two of the breathers hauled him backward into the room. The machine pistol was plucked from his grasp and spun slowly, hovering in the air in front of his eyes. Mesmerized he watched the trigger being slowly depressed, but at the last second he jerked his head aside and a hail of bullets spurted from the barrel, splintering the parquet flooring behind him. He scrabbled backward, but the breathers were on him again in an instant, pinning his hands to the floor, making it impossible to move.

  Again the pistol was hanging in front of his face, but this time it spun in the air until the barrel was pointing directly away from him. His relief was short-lived as the stock slammed into his mouth, splitting his lips and shattering his front teeth. Mouth bloody and mewling with pain, he crawled away again, looking for Rachel, willing her to rescue him.

  But Rachel Grey was pinned against the wall by the shadows and couldn’t breathe. It felt as if a heavy weight was compressing her chest, crushing her lungs. Her mouth gaped open as she tried to suck in air and her eyes were bulging in their sockets.

  Harry Bailey was struggling to open the window. Every time he raised it a few inches, it was slammed back down again. A breather had draped itself over his head and shoulders like a damp black shawl, and he too was struggling to breathe. He could feel consciousness starting to slip away, but he fought it, forcing himself to concentrate, to keep his eyes open.

  He prized the window open once more, raising it higher this time, almost high enough to climb through. As he lowered his head to duck through the open window he felt freezing fingers encircle his throat and haul him away from his escape route. He was lifted off his feet and thrown backward, landing on the table and skidding across its polished surface to fall in a heap on the far side of it.

  Chapter Fifty

  Department 18 Headquarters, Whitehall, London, England

  It was a relatively short walk from the Barbican Centre to the Whitehall building. Carter was in need of fresh air and some exercise to help him blow away the cobwebs and collect his thoughts.

  His ribs ached, but the strapping that had been applied was firm and tight. The painkillers were still keeping the worst of the discomfort at bay and as he strode along the street, the cool evening weather was just what he needed. The knee ached a bit but otherwise was holding up just fine.

  The Embankment by the River Thames was less than crowded, though the usual tourists with cameras and videos were still busy taking shots of the Houses of Parliament, with the Big Ben clock tower, as well as other varied landmarks such as the London Eye, the bridges, and the Tower of London. Centuries of history encapsulated into a digital slide show that would be watched less than a couple of times back home.

  The architecture around Whitehall was formal and quite grand. Offices of the great and good, as well as the more mundane and less than good, were cloaked in a veneer of respectability behind the smart stone facades.

  Carter used his security pass to enter the discreet front door; there were no signs or nameplates to advertise the building’s use. At reception a new girl he didn’t know checked his ID, got him to sign in, and told him Simon Crozier was busy.

  Carter thanked her but took the two flights of stairs up to Crozier’s office anyway.

  Crozier’s office was empty. Carter went inside and shut the door behind him. The window was open a fraction, and outside the streets were empty of vehicles and people. There was nothing on the desk, as there never was even when the man was seated behind it. Carter had never visited Crozier’s home, and doubted he ever would, but he guessed it would be just as minimalistic as this office.

  The door opened without a knock.

  “Robert?”

  “Martin,” Carter said as Martin Impey walked in, leaving the door open.

  “He’s gone home to change. Looks like we’re in for a long night of it.”

  Carter sat in Crozier’s chair and put his feet up on the desk.

  Impey smiled. “He’ll notice the marks straightaway, you know that.”

  “Trudy still in?”

  Impey sat down on the small leather couch. “No, it’s pretty much just us.”

  “Well let’s brew up some coffee while you tell me what’s been happening.”

  Chapter Fifty-one

  What can we do but keep on breathing in and out, modest and willing, and in our places?

  —Mary Oliver

  Hampstead, London, England

  Rachel Grey pushed out at the shadows. Some had burrowed beneath her clothes and were biting at her skin with small sharp teeth.

  She knew what they were; she was one of them. That they had attacked her in this way, in her own home, was unforgivable. She had no doubts that John Holly was behind the assault. He would dress it up as a necessary move due to the presence of the government people with her, but she knew the truth.

  Holly wanted to destroy her and the breathers that were loyal to her and her vision of their future. Sometimes she believed Holly wanted to destroy the breathers completely.

  Harry Bailey was lying on the floor. The table he had fallen from stood over him as if threatening with its height. He had far more to be concerned about. The breather that had enveloped his neck and shoulders was still attached, and Bailey could feel the fingers digging into his side, opening and closing as if tiny mouths.

  He raised his arms and tried to grasp the creature’s back, but it was like trying to hold onto smoke. As solid as it felt as it swathed his head, it felt ephemeral to the touch.

  Clouds of breathers were still in the air, rising and falling on invisible airwaves. Dylan had been knocked to the floor and quickly engulfed. He was using his powers to hold them at bay, but he seemed to lack the resolve to fight them off. He was hallucinating, seeing faces in the shadows; faces from his past, distorted versions of faces from his present.

  The breathers were massing over and on top of him, mouths lined with needle-sharp teeth. Bony spindle-fingers raked his clothes, tearing his flesh. He remembered Father Donovan and realized his words were coming true. He had prophesied what would become of Michael Dylan.

  As the breathers grew stronger on top of him, he felt the sharp insertion of fingers into his body. Faces were distinguishable in the mass now; he saw his father and his mother, their features distorted into lustful urging. The creatures were crawling over his entire body, scurrying under his clothes, piercing his skin. The stench of them was overwhelming; the smell of rotting flesh making him think about dead things and redemption.

  “We have to get out,” Pi
ke shouted, but no one was listening; no one was able to respond.

  Carl Schwab was on his knees, his mouth hanging open, blood and torn lip dripping onto his chin. The machine pistol was hovering in the air in front of his face. First the barrel was toward him, and then it was reversed and the stock was there. He tried to move his head out of the way, but hands gripped his shoulders and movement was not easy.

  Without warning the pistol fired, and bullets passed through his ear. He screamed at the pain, aware of the burning sensation as blood trickled down his cheek.

  Rachel Grey was sinking beneath the weight of the shadows and couldn’t move or even breathe properly. It felt as if a truck was parked on her chest, pushing her ribs into her lungs. Her mouth opened, then closed as she gasped for air. She was fighting for control, but she was fighting for her life. There were so many of the breathers, and they were not just young unformed creatures; these were a well-disciplined force that seemed to know exactly what it was doing.

  Schwab was knocked to the floor as the stock of the pistol cracked against his jaw. The impact propelled his body backward, his arms flailing for something to slow his fall. There was nothing. His shoulder took the brunt of the reverberation as his whole weight bounced off the wood floor. Sharp teeth and talons ripped at him.

  Pike had, for the most part, kept the breathers at bay. As soon as he recognized what was happening, he shut his mind down so that in effect he created a force field of energy around him. As long as he stayed where he was, kept as still as he could, he would be able to keep the attack away from him.

  His problem was that keeping himself safe did nothing to help the others.

  He watched as Rachel began to dissolve into a black lake unable to break free. Schwab was all but unconscious on the floor. Bailey looked as if a blanket was shrouding his head. Dylan had not moved for minutes, although his eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling and the walls as if he could see things there that Pike was unaware of.

  Pike could not hesitate any longer.

  He pushed out with his mind, finding resistance, solid at first, then wavering, a little uncertain, liquid at the edges, fraying as a shape, the seams starting to strain. He shut down entirely. Felt the shock, then opened. Not completely open, not fully vulnerable, keeping enough in reserve for preservation.

  Freed, even if temporarily, he rushed across to Rachel. Her eyes were wide open, in obvious pain. The source of the physical pain was clear to see. Her chest and upper body were coated as if by thick oil paint. He could only guess at the mental strain she was under.

  He probed her mind. He and Rachel were from the same species as their attackers, both possessed powers. Pike was devoid of emotion about the attack; he had experienced persecution by Holly for years and was under no illusions about him. Grey, though, had a romantic notion about the nobility of the breathers. For her, the attack by her own kind, even a rival faction, was a treason far more painful than the physical threat.

  He sent waves of energy into her mind. She responded with surprise; then, quickly realizing what was happening, her thoughts gripped his with grateful enthusiasm.

  Force

  Pike insinuated words into her brain.

  Force your strength

  Force your strength into your neck

  Almost immediately Pike felt his own mind lurch downward as if he was physically linked to Rachel. As her thoughts focused on freeing her neck and shoulders so his mind and his power were transmitted there.

  It was like aiming a jet-wash hose at her. The black cloak of breathers began to fall away until her body was clear. The effect was like watching an Etch A Sketch being erased.

  She fell forward when she was finally free, but Pike was ready and caught her.

  “Are you strong enough?”

  She looked at him, and a ghost of a smile caressed her lips. “The weaker sex?”

  He helped her to stand upright. “Weak isn’t a word I associate with you, Rachel.”

  Gunshots distracted them.

  Schwab was clutching his left arm. Blood poured from a jagged hole in it, and his hand was doing nothing to stem the flow.

  Rachel Grey ran to him.

  Pike closed his eyes.

  He concentrated on the machine pistol.

  Gradually it began to change shape. The end compressed until the barrel squashed toward the magazine. The stock enlarged, and then the whole thing exploded. A shower of metal and plastic flew over Schwab, who looked half dead. Blood coated his face and his arm hung, useless, by his side.

  Pike opened his eyes. Rachel was kneeling beside Schwab, trying to comfort him.

  “Bailey,” Pike shouted to her. “We must help Bailey.”

  Rachel stood and looked over at Bailey. He was like the Elephant Man. A huge misshapen mass of black clung to his head and was folding over his shoulders and chest. It was as if discolored skin had grown out of the top of his skull and was seeping downward, intent on covering his entire body. It was amazing he was still standing.

  Pike probed into Bailey’s mind and found huge concentration. Clearly Bailey was using all his strength and power to resist the breathers. Only it looked as if they were winning.

  Pike felt a hand grasp his. “Don’t get any ideas, Jason,” Rachel said. “Purely professional.”

  Pike smiled. “I won’t order the engagement ring just yet.”

  Rachel’s grip tightened in his, and they both threw their thoughts at Bailey. Trying to penetrate the barrier of the breathers was difficult. Resistance was strong.

  Pike and Rachel released hands. “Will you do it or me?” she asked.

  “You are purer than I am. It has to be you.”

  “Buy me some time,” she said as she turned away.

  Pike renewed the mental battle inside Bailey’s mind. Occasionally he glanced across at Rachel, who had moved over to the window to take off her clothes. Her body was toned and beautiful. High, firm breasts; flat, smooth stomach; long, tapering legs.

  That was her human shape.

  Her true body began to reveal itself.

  The hands were first to change, elongating and sharpening at the nails. The ends turning into small openings, which flicked and twitched in the air seemingly seeking food. Her head lolled back as if the neck muscles weren’t strong enough to support the enlarged skull. The shape of the head changed completely, the forehead swollen, the skin taut with sinews and veins throbbing at the temples. The skin over the body was gray, darker in places to an almost black color. The texture was dry like flaking cement. The feet were clawed and wide.

  Rachel Grey was now in her natural form.

  She launched herself at Bailey. Her fingers thrust into the black cloud over his head, pulling and ripping. Her mouth closed over the clothlike shape and bit down hard. Holes started to appear in the shadows coating Bailey, and Pike felt the change in his brain. Bailey was getting stronger.

  Rachel continued her assault. Her anger and betrayal were feeding her energy, giving her a strength even she was not familiar with. She was like a lioness hanging on to its prey. Her feet scrabbled at the figures covering Bailey, scratching and tearing to make them release their grip. Her teeth and claws ripped at them to cause maximum damage.

  It succeeded.

  Pike felt Bailey suddenly open and his full force joined Pike’s. Between them, and with Rachel still attacking like a thing demented, Bailey was free.

  Schwab lay quietly licking his wounds.

  That left Michael Dylan.

  He lay motionless on the floor. His eyes were wide open, but they weren’t blinking.

  Pike looked around the room. There were no more black shadows, no shapes.

  “I think they’ve gone,” Pike said.

  Rachel barely registered his words. She was still enjoying the high level of bursting energy that always came with the kill.

  He left Rachel to revert to human form, and knelt down beside Dylan.

  He was still, and he was cold.

  Cha
pter Fifty-two

  Zurich, Switzerland

  The Spree Clinic was all Swiss efficiency and respectability from the outside.

  Inside the illusion was maintained. Glass and chrome predominated, with swirling abstract paintings on the walls and polished ash flooring.

  The reception desk was peopled by three young men and a slightly older woman. As soon as she saw Holly, the woman spoke quietly to one of the men, and he slipped away through a side door.

  “Mr. Holly.” The woman extended her hand and suppressed the natural shudder when Holly grasped it. “I trust you had a good trip?”

  Holly ignored the question. “Is everything ready?”

  The woman nodded. “I have just sent Klaus downstairs to ensure your vehicles are safely parked and the contents transferred. Will you be with us long?”

  “A couple of hours at most. I have urgent business to attend to in England. Oh…” he added as if it was an afterthought. “There will be one less…content…on the flight back.”

  The woman turned away. Another administrative task for her to sort out before she could go home for the night.

  In the basement the second limousine was parked and the driver gestured for Alice to get out. Annoyed but without choice, she stood by the elevator and waited.

  The first limo sat silent by another elevator, the occupants still seated in the back.

  Alice had no idea why Holly had brought them. This trip was a regular event, and it was usually just the two of them plus the driver. She was suspicious of change, concerned whenever Holly didn’t operate to his usual routine. He liked order in his life, and bringing those two here was a break in the pattern.

  Just then the elevator doors opened and Holly appeared.

  “John—” Alice began, but he cut her off with a gesture. He walked across to the other limo, where he gave whispered instructions to the driver.