Melanie’s eyes opened wide. It was Sarah.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Gatwick Airport, West Sussex
A third murder had taken place in recent days. As before, the victim had been another young woman, and the manner of the killing had been identical to the two previous cases. This time, Liz had come close to making a breakthrough.
She’d arrested a man who’d been seen leaving the crime scene in the dead of night, and interviewed him under caution, after reading him his rights. ‘You do not have to say anything,’ she told him. ‘But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.’
‘Eh?’ said the guy, astonished. ‘Rely on in court?’
‘Well, that’s what I’m supposed to say,’ said Liz defensively.
Drake, Vijay and Mihai had wanted to sit in on the interview, but she’d shooed them away, bringing in Kevin instead, who seemed to think his role was to act as bad cop. He rolled up his shirt sleeves and paced the interview room menacingly, putting both the suspect and Liz on edge. ‘We know you done it,’ he told the guy, banging his fists down on the table. ‘We know you’re a werewolf. You’d better confess, or we’ll hand you over to Major Hall for interrogation. He’ll kick your arse, good and proper.’
The suspect looked suitably scared by the display of aggression, but resolutely clammed up and refused to say anything more.
‘We will not hand anyone over to Major Hall,’ said Liz. ‘This is a police investigation. And this man is not a werewolf.’
She didn’t offer to explain how she knew that. Not even Kevin knew that she could smell werewolves herself, if she sniffed them up close.
‘That’s right. I’m not,’ agreed the man. ‘Give me some fruit or vegetables to eat, and I’ll prove it.’
‘What were you doing, then, creeping away from a murder scene?’ demanded Kevin. ‘It doesn’t look good, does it?’
‘I’m saying nothing. I want to see a lawyer.’
‘No,’ said Liz. If there was one good thing about the new world order, it was that there were no more lawyers to disrupt her investigation.
‘All right then,’ said their suspect. ‘I admit it. I nicked the girl’s iPhone. I know I shouldn’t have. But she was already dead, I never touched her, I swear.’ He produced the stolen iPhone from an inside pocket and tossed it onto the table with a clatter. ‘The bloody phone’s dead too. I wish I’d never bothered.’
Liz released him without charge. Despite the efforts and enthusiasm of Kevin and her young assistants, plus the help of her neighbours, Joe and Pamela Foster, and Bill Pope, the doctor, she still had nothing to go on, other than a firm conviction that a werewolf, or more likely a vampire, was to blame.
Corporal Jones and the Welsh Guards made another appearance and gave her their opinion. ‘My boys think you’re the killer,’ said Llewelyn, matter-of-factly. ‘I say no, but I think the burden of proof’s on you, Liz.’
At least Kevin was keeping an open mind. ‘Who do you think it is, then?’ he asked her after they’d released their one and only suspect.
‘I don’t know, Dad, but I don’t think it’s a werewolf. Werewolves always rip their victims to pieces. It might be a vampire. I don’t currently have a better explanation.’
Kevin nodded. ‘I reckon you’re right. A serial killer with sharp teeth and a taste for blood. Sounds exactly like a vampire to me.’
The idea horrified Liz. She was doing her best to come to terms with being a vampire herself. Armed with dark glasses and sunblock, she had learned to manage her aversion to sunlight. Her razor-sharp fangs appeared only under the influence of full moonlight, or whenever she became really angry, and she had mostly managed to avoid losing her temper. The rest of the time her teeth retracted conveniently and invisibly into her gums. Even her desperate hunger for meat, offal, and ideally blood, was manageable, at least for as long as the camp’s meat supplies held up.
But if they ran out of meat, she didn’t know what might happen. The bloodlust might overwhelm her completely, just as it already had on previous occasions, when she had killed and drunk blood beneath the light of the silver moon. If that happened, she would become no better than the mysterious serial killer.
Kevin noticed the look of anguish on her face and hurried to qualify his conclusion. ‘I’m not saying that all vampires are evil,’ he said. ‘Some of them might be perfectly nice, just like you. After all, you only ever slaughter the bad guys, don’t you?’
Slaughter. Kevin had never been very sensitive with his choice of words. But in this case it was accurate enough.
And who exactly were the bad guys anyway? What right did she have to judge good and bad? She was no judge, merely a lowly servant of the law. Her duty was to follow the evidence, and to protect all members of the public from harm, without fear or favour. That duty still existed, even now that the police force and all the institutions of civilization had so very clearly collapsed. In fact it was more important than ever. Even if she was just a lone enforcer taking justice into her own hands, someone had to uphold the values that held civilization together. Someone had to protect the weak and the vulnerable. And that person was Liz, whatever she was: police officer or vigilante, human or vampire.
‘Do you reckon Major Hall really will shoot the guy who did it?’ asked Kevin. ‘He certainly hates werewolves. Not surprising really. It’s his job.’
‘Yeah,’ said Liz. ‘He definitely does seem to hate them. He’s a bit of a zealot. I would never hand anyone over to him for a fair trial.’
Even if she did solve the case, there was little chance of protecting the culprit from rough justice. The mob would see to that. Prison wasn’t a realistic option. She’d heard a rumour that after the fall of the government, all of the prisons had been cleared out as people fled for safety. In some cases the prisoners had been released by their guards. In other cases, the army had carried out mass executions. Like all rumours these days, it was impossible to know for sure.
One thing she did know was that if she didn’t catch the murderer soon, the Welsh Guards were likely to come looking for her. Llewelyn might still have an open mind, but the others had already decided on her guilt. Perhaps her best option was to leave now, before she was shot by the guardsmen, or executed by Major Hall, or lynched by an angry mob.
Except that she couldn’t. She needed to stay for Samantha’s sake. She had sworn to Dean to look after her if anything ever happened to him, and she was going to make good on her promise.
Samantha was almost entirely bed-bound these days. Her cramps, insomnia, back pain, and headaches were worse than ever. Doctor Pope had become a regular visitor, treating her with kindness, and clearly pleased to be dealing with a living patient instead of the corpses that Liz usually brought him. The baby was due in the next couple of weeks. The worst would be over soon.
Or would it?
The camp’s food supplies wouldn’t last forever, and neither would its water, medicines, and other essentials. Refugees were still arriving at the camp each day, although their numbers had dwindled greatly since the beginning of the month. Those who came now told tales of being pursued by werewolves, some armed with weapons. The number of survivors still out there must be growing smaller by the day. Major Hall hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d described the land beyond the camp’s defences as lawless territory.
What really concerned Liz was the lack of long-term planning. Major Hall seemed interested only in holding back the werewolf threat. Most people she spoke to were convinced that if they could survive inside the camp for long enough, outside help would come. But Liz wasn’t so sure.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
M4 Motorway, Berkshire, crescent moon
The car was only a tiny slow-moving dot on the horizon when Warg Daddy first picked it out, but immediately he knew what it was. His vision was perfect, far better than 20/20, even with his eyes hidden behind his Ray-Bans. Long before the Brothers even suspect
ed the car’s existence, he had opened the throttle of his bike and was burning up the road, closing the distance rapidly on his prey.
They hadn’t come across a moving vehicle in days. This one was being driven timidly, its owner carefully seeking a safe path between the burned-out wrecks that littered the highway, some still smoking, others long since abandoned. But there would be no safe path.
Warg Daddy lusted for a kill. Butchery and savagery had freed him of his pain before, but now, ever so slowly, the headache was returning. At first it had been the mere ghost of discomfort, no more troublesome than the wraith of Leanna, still haunting the darkest corners of his mind. But it was creeping back slowly, threading its hot, acid tendrils through his brain, poisoning his mind, scalding his neurons, and shading his thoughts ever darker.
No matter. He had borne its torment before and he knew its cure.
Violence. Destruction. Murder.
His bike ate up the miles, closing quickly on the lone car up ahead. Already it was taking on form, turning from a coloured dot into a three-dimensional shape. The name of that shape was Toyota Prius. Its colour was blue. Its fate was oblivion. Warg Daddy accelerated harder, hungry for horror, greedy for gore, desperate for devastation.
Behind him the Brothers revved their bikes, struggling to match his pace. He watched them in his mirrors, black shapes, like bats swooping down from the sky.
Valkyries. That’s what his old mate, Wombat would have said. Valkyries riding out to bring back the souls of the slain. Wombat was always saying shit like that. Warg Daddy had mocked him at the time. Now a strange sadness visited him as he remembered the fallen Brother. Wombat had been a fool, no doubt, but he had been a loyal fool, one of the very first of the Brothers. Leanna had killed him, stealing his life in order to set an example to the others. Or maybe just for pleasure. You never knew with Leanna.
Well, we shall be like valkyries then. Daughters of Odin, creatures of fate, selecting those who might live, and those who would be slain in battle, and taking them back to the halls of Valhalla to prepare for Ragnarok. Wombat had been obsessed with tales of Norse gods and Viking warriors. Perhaps that’s where he was now, drinking mead with dead heroes, and preparing for the end of the world. It was a comforting thought.
Prepare well, my old friend. The end of the world was coming soon, as unstoppable as a juggernaut.
The Prius was close now, and seemed to have noticed them. It was taking evasive action. Its driver had speeded up, swerving around the crashed cars, desperate to escape his fate.
But no one can avoid fate. However fast you ran, wherever you tried to hide, whatever deals you might strike with the Devil, fate was always one step ahead of you, patiently waiting your arrival.
Warg Daddy arrived now, and suddenly the Prius was trapped like a rat in a maze. A wall of wrecked cars blocked the road ahead and the driver had no choice but to stop.
Warg Daddy braked too, stopping just behind the car. The Brothers joined him moments later, engines roaring, leather jackets standing shoulder to shoulder, blocking all chance of escape. They were ready to seize their victim and drag him kicking and screaming from his car.
Warg Daddy raised one hand. ‘Wait.’
A minute passed, and then another. The Brothers grew restless, but Warg Daddy was in no hurry. Fate was never impatient.
Eventually the driver emerged from his car. A short man, heavy with fat, sweat on his brow, wet patches under his armpits, literally quaking in his boots. This was a man who had looked into the future and didn’t like what he saw. This was a man whose future prospects looked very poor indeed.
He turned his head to Warg Daddy, blinking in the sunlight. Raw terror filled his eyes. ‘What do you want from me?’
Warg Daddy looked on, saying nothing.
‘Take my food,’ said Prius Man. ‘Take my car. Take everything. Just, please, let me live.’ He glanced around helplessly, searching for something, hoping for anything that might yet save him from his doom.
Warg Daddy watched, silent, waiting.
Slasher and Meathook dismounted and approached the man. They seized him by his sweaty collar and dragged him over to Warg Daddy.
‘Please,’ begged Prius Man. ‘Don’t kill me.’
Slasher pushed him to his knees and Meathook kicked him onto his side, then gave him another good kicking, because Meathook was like that. Warg Daddy motioned for him to stop.
Prius Man lay on the road, looking up, beseeching Warg Daddy for his life.
Warg Daddy rubbed his head. The pain was rising higher, like a black tide. As the sun grew higher and brighter, the ache inside grew stronger and darker. Leanna’s voice was growing louder too, rattling around like echoes inside his skull, whispering, telling him what he could and couldn’t do. Sometimes, in the dead of night, after Vixen had left his arms, and he was alone with his thoughts, he could almost make out Leanna’s words. Soon, he feared, the phantom Leanna would begin to command him, giving orders that must be obeyed. He worried that he might follow her instructions, simply to make her shut up.
Prius Man was blubbering now. ‘Please. I don’t want to die.’
Warg Daddy stooped down, bringing his gaze level with his victim’s snivelling features. He cupped the man’s chin in his huge palm. ‘Die?’ he queried. ‘Who said you were going to die?’
The man looked up, hope flooding his face. ‘You’re not going to kill me? I just saw you and I assumed …’ His words trailed off as he caught the look in Warg Daddy’s eyes.
‘It is not for me to decide your fate,’ declared Warg Daddy. ‘Only the gods can do that, and I am not a god, merely a messenger.’
Prius Man stared at him, hope alternating with despair as he struggled to discern meaning in Warg Daddy’s pronouncement.
Warg Daddy turned to address the Brothers. They were staring at him too, puzzled. Meathook, Bloodbath, Slasher, Vixen. He was leader of the Pack, and they were waiting for his explanation. ‘We answer only to fortune,’ he told them. ‘We are servants of blind chance. We will not take this man’s life unless the gods tell us to.’
Everyone was looking at him, blank incomprehension still on their faces.
He sighed. Words would not serve him here. He must lead through action, and instruct his followers with a demonstration. He reached into his pocket and drew out the tarnished coin, resting it in his palm. It had been gold once, or perhaps bronze, and glittered dimly under the noonday sun. He wiped it with his palm, but the grime would not shift. No matter.
‘Heads you win, tails you lose,’ he told Prius Man.
He flicked his forearm, and the coin rose spinning into the air. They watched it as it spun, from life to death and back to life, ever spinning, ever changing. He caught it neatly as it landed, and looked to see what fate had chosen.
He paused, giving the moment the sense of occasion it deserved. After all, a man’s life hung in the balance. These things should not be rushed. When the suspense had grown to fever pitch, he announced the outcome.
‘Tails,’ he said, shaking his head sadly. ‘You lose.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Stoke Park, Buckinghamshire, crescent moon
When Sarah had first seen James brought to the camp he had been naked, but he was wearing clothes now. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling when she saw the way he was dressed. His clothes were old man’s clothes, almost like Grandpa’s. Corduroy trousers, a cotton shirt and a tweed jacket.
‘Where on earth did you find these?’ she asked him.
‘A kind lady called Joan gave them to me. They belonged to her husband, Ted.’
‘Well, you look very distinguished, like you’re going to a shooting party at a country house.’
He smiled at her sadly. ‘I don’t feel distinguished.’ His eye was still red and swollen and his nose had been broken when the soldiers beat him. They had kicked him in the ribs too, and he sat hunched on the floor, his wrists and ankles tightly bound. Worst of all was the metal cage they had l
ocked him in. Sarah could hardly bear to see him this way, but Colonel Sharman had insisted on it.
She still couldn’t say what had led her to James, other than sheer chance. When Melanie had stormed out of the tent and Ben had gone to find her, Sarah had decided to take the opportunity to venture out. She had read enough psychology books over the years to know that the only way to overcome a phobia was to face it down. Desensitisation, the therapists called it. Exposure therapy. She knew also that if she did not overcome her fear of other people, she would not be able to survive, now that the world had changed so much.
She had only intended to take a quick peek through the open door of the tent, to begin to expose herself to the outside world in a short, controlled dose, perhaps just for a few seconds. That was what the psychologists recommended. Gradual, slow exposure. But after a minute, nothing terrible had happened, and she had plucked up the courage to step all the way outside. There were people all around the tent, but none of them looked her way. They seemed consumed by their own worries. She wondered if they were all secretly scared too. Perhaps everyone was afraid of something, not just her. The thought gave her courage.
It occurred to her then that other people might not be her real problem. After all, she had never been afraid of Grandpa, and had grown to accept James, and Ben too. Perhaps the root of her phobia lay elsewhere.
What if it is Melanie I am truly afraid of?
Her sister could be so overbearingly confident, it was intimidating to be around her. She adopted such an attitude of invulnerability, that Sarah felt insubstantial by comparison. And Melanie had no patience. She was forever throwing barbed comments Sarah’s way, each one like an arrow or a poisoned dart piercing her skin. With Melanie gone, she felt suddenly braver than she had done for a long time. She left the safety of the tent behind and began to tiptoe through the camp.
Lycanthropic (Book 4): Moon Rise [The Age of the Werewolf] Page 13
