Barbara Eager appeared from the study, carrying another of Louis’ old guns in her hand. She did not try to shoot Daniel, but smacked him full in the face with the butt of the weapon. He crumpled to the ground without a sound.
Barbara stood over him, peering down as if unable to identify the object at her feet.
Louis appeared from the parlour. He took the gun from their hands.
‘We have to confine them both,’ he said.
Barbara looked up at him. A small voice inside her wanted to ask, ‘But what are we doing, Louis? Why are we doing this?’
Instead, she helped Louis to lift his son. Effortlessly, Louis threw the inert body over his shoulder. ‘Bring the girl,’ he said shortly.
Not Verity, not any more: just ‘the girl’.
Barbara went into the study. Verity was slumped over her father’s desk, holding a tissue to her nose, which was still bleeding. She was weeping. The gun cabinet hung open behind her.
‘Come along,’ Barbara said, in a ghost of her former voice.
Verity raised her head. ‘Fuck off, you old bitch!’
Barbara walked to the desk, picked up a heavy book which lay upon it, and without hesitation hit Verity over the head with it. The girl cried out and fell out of the chair to lie twitching upon the floor. Barbara peered down at her dispassionately. It looked as if Verity was still conscious, but dazed. Swiftly, Barbara grabbed hold of the girl’s arms and dragged her to the door. Deep within Barbara’s mind, a shocked but weak voice, was protesting, What are you doing? Why are you doing this? but she ignored it. There were certain things that needed to be done now: it was part of the change in Barbara’s life that had been initiated in the forest. There could be no going back.
As Barbara was dragging Verity across the hallway, Louis reappeared from the back corridor. Without saying anything, he helped Barbara carry his daughter to the cellar entrance, which stood opposite the door to the kitchen. After placing Verity’s barely moving body on the top step of the cellar, Louis shut the door and locked it. He and Barbara stared at one another for a few moments, but it seemed impossible to communicate. Something was missing.
Othman came into the kitchen from the garden. He glanced at the doorway, where Barbara and Louis were held in a kind of stasis, staring expressionlessly at one another. He ran water from the tap, splashed it onto his scratched face. Then he dried himself on a tea-towel. The messiness of the past quarter hour distressed him. He disliked overt violence.
‘Make us all something to eat,’ he told them, and walked past them. There was blood on the hall floor. Stepping daintily over it, Othman went to close the front door, before going into the lounge, where he made himself comfortable on the sofa. While Barbara and Louis silently prepared a meal, he watched TV, flicking across the channels with the remote control. His face stung a little where the animal had clawed him. He needed to reorganise his thoughts. Things had gone well, although he would have preferred less violence. Daniel was more resistant than he’d anticipated. Still, something else nagged at his mind. He felt paranoid and uneasy. I’ve been too loud, he thought, and remembered the sensation of being able to walk through solid objects. He felt he must have done that many times before in dreams, but never in reality. Such overt paranormal behaviour would act like a beacon. Was it a sense of pursuit that now scratched at his mind? He walked to the window and looked out. Little Moor looked as it always had, sleepy and serene, yet somewhere, somewhere, Othman sensed imminence and approach. He had betrayed his presence and someone out there had perceived it.
Lily heard the sound of a cat fight while she was in the kitchen stirring spaghetti round a saucepan. She went to the kitchen window and leaned over the sink, trying to see the cause of the row. Her own cats occasionally got into skirmishes with other local felines. Once a trip to the vet in Patterham had been necessary.
She could see two of her own cats, Minda and Titus sitting upright on the front lawn, their postures that of alertness. Lily went out into the garden. The evening was oppressive, thick with impending storm. Minda and Titus ran to her as she approached them, wound around her legs, mewing loudly. ‘What is it?’ she said. Titus lowered himself to the ground, and growled at the hedge. Lily hunkered down, tried to peer into the shadows. She saw a flash, heard a long, sinister hiss.
‘Oh, we have a visitor, do we!’ She picked up a garden rake which was lying on the lawn, discarded after a half-hearted attempted at gathering leaves. With this, she poked at the interloper in the hedge. Her assault elicited a frenzy of hissing and spitting, but the animal did not move. Its furious snarls sank to a monotonous yowl, which Lily recognised as distress. Perhaps Minda or Titus had already dealt with the unwanted visitor. Lily put down the rake. The animal had stopped yowling now, and seemed to be panting. She edged forward, murmuring soothing sounds. Perhaps the cat had been run over in the lane and had crawled into the hedge seeking sanctuary. She wished Owen was home, but she had asked him to go to the supermarket to fetch some groceries. She would have to deal with this alone. What if the cat was badly injured? What could she do? Cautiously, she extended a hand, expecting the creature to lash out at her in terror, but the cat didn’t move. It was a big, black, long-haired animal, similar to the one she and Owen and Daniel had seen at Long Eden. Could this be Verity’s cat? She touched its head, and the cat began to purr, the ragged, desperate purr of pain. Gently, Lily stroked it. She would have to move it, even if that risked further injury. As she was contemplating how to do this, the cat tried to rise to its feet. It leaned against her arm, almost as if it sensed she was trying to help it. Lily put her hands rounds its body behind its front legs and gently pulled. The cat yowled in pain, but strained to come to her. It was so heavy. As it emerged from the shadow of the hedge, it seemed to grow before her eyes. She would have to try and pick it up. The cat remained passive as she hefted it into her arms. It was like trying to carry a child. There was wetness on the fur around the back legs. Blood? In the twilight, it was difficult to tell.
Staggering, and followed by Minda and Titus, Lily carried the injured cat into the cottage. Carefully, she put it down on the kitchen table, amid a jumble of unwashed plates and scattered newspapers. The cat lay on its side, its head raised, its enormous orange eyes gazing at her. Lily stroked it while she tried to locate the injury. She used a fork to part its fur, aware that her makeshift instrument was covered in tomato sauce and hardly sterile, but it seemed better than probing with clumsy fingers. There seemed to be a flesh wound on the back leg. Could be a burst abscess, she supposed, or a wire tear, perhaps even a bite. She hoped the cat would allow her to bathe the wound with salt water.
It lay quietly while she cut away some of its long fur with kitchen scissors. She could see the animal was amazingly well-muscled. Its hind leg was as sturdy as a dog’s. ‘You are good,’ she murmured. She had to go upstairs to find some cotton wool, but the cat did not move while she was out of the room. As she cleaned the wound, it rested its head on the table and closed its eyes. This worried Lily for a moment, because it was not typical cat behaviour. Her cats were more likely to struggle and attack when they were hurt. This one seemed to understand her ministrations were necessary, or was it simply weak and dying? The wound did not look too bad. It was long and quite wide, although not deep. Also, there was not as much bleeding as she would have expected. She felt the cat shuddering as the salt water went into the wound, but it kept still and made no sound, other than the occasional soft gibber. It was obviously in shock. Lily decided to move the cat to the parlour, where it could lie on a blanket. She was just about to see to this, when she felt a strong compulsion to hide the cat in her mother’s bedroom. She paused. This thought was absurd. Why should she think that? However, the drive was too strong to ignore. It did look like Verity’s cat, and surely there weren’t two like this around Little Moor. Perhaps she should call Low Mede and tell Verity what had happened. Again, as she moved towards the phone, something in her mind seemed to prevent her from picking
it up. No, she wouldn’t call Verity. That was not a good idea.
Nonplussed, she stared at the cat for a few moments. It raised its head and stared back at her, its eyes round. ‘All right,’ she said, realising, as she spoke, that the idea about the hiding place and the decision not to call Verity had come from the cat itself. At any other time, Lily would have chided herself for her fantasies, but too much had happened recently for her to ignore this idea, however bizarre it seemed. She went back to the table, and stroked the cat’s head again. It nudged her gently, purring once more. ‘I wish you could talk to me,’ Lily said. ‘What kind of cat are you?’ The cat blinked at her slowly.
Verity and Daniel hugged one another in the darkness. The light switch was outside the door, at the top of the steps. Both of them had wept, both of them were afraid. Daniel’s forehead had been bleeding but the flow seemed to have congealed now. Still, he seemed feverish. Verity was worried he might have concussion or a fractured skull. Her own head ached from Barbara’s blow with the book. Daniel was sleeping now. He twitched in his sister’s arms, dreaming. What would happen to them? Would someone come looking for them? Verity’s main hope had been Raven, but she knew her father had shot at the cat in the garden. Had he survived? She dared not think otherwise. Raven was powerful. Surely, he couldn’t be killed so easily. Earlier that day, Verity had called Mrs Roan and told her not to come to work for a few days. She had done this to give herself time to formulate a believable story about her father and to get her own head together, but in retrospect, cancelling the cook had been a stupid idea. She and Daniel needed allies now. Daniel had murmured something about how Owen Winter would find them. They had only to wait. Verity couldn’t bear to argue with him, but privately, she wondered how Winter could guess where they were. Louis would make up an excuse about their absence, and Owen could hardly come rampaging into the house to search for them.
Daniel had tried to explain to his sister what kind of creature Othman was. Verity supposed this was no more unlikely than all the things she’d experienced over the last week or so. At least Othman hadn’t killed them outright. Did that mean he never would? What were his plans for the family exactly? Verity knew that Louis and Barbara had surrendered all autonomy to Othman, whereas she had been able to retain a certain amount of liberty. Othman thought he’d achieved control of her, but he’d been wrong. Now, she wished she hadn’t tried to help Daniel in the hallway. If she was still free, and pretending to be obedient, she might have found out what was going on and been able to fetch assistance. Also, because of this error, Raven had been either wounded or killed. She’d ruined everything. Too many mistakes, Verity thought. That’s the story of my fucking life!
Above Verity and Daniel, in the lounge of Low Mede, Peverel Othman watched Barbara and Louis make love on the rug before the log-effect gas fire. He took some satisfaction from their relief, from Louis’ almost tearful gratitude for the body he now inhabited. Othman felt he should go and visit the Winters, although for some reason, he felt compelled to stay at Low Mede. He knew he would feel vulnerable beyond its walls. He was not strong enough at the moment to control Lily and Owen. If only the oppressive heat would break in thunder and rain. He felt the weather conditions were draining him. Also, the wounds he’d received from Verity’s cat were still throbbing. He knew it was no ordinary animal, and could only assume it had some connection with the guardian of Long Eden. He could only conjecture as to why it had attacked him. Surely, it should have recognised him as Grigori? Othman felt very tired. Memories tugged at his mind, which he had forcibly to repress. He must not fall apart now. They would swamp him. All of them. Whatever they were.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Tuesday, October: Patterham
Another hotel, this one dingy and utterly human. Aninka forced herself to like it, although in her heart she missed the opulence of the Grigori safe-house in London. They had separate rooms; nasty, functional, plastic rooms. ‘What place is this?’ Aninka asked, as they met in the undersized ‘lounge’, after dumping their baggage in their respective rooms.
‘Patterham,’ Lahash replied. ‘We are close now to our target.’
Aninka shuddered involuntarily. She sipped from her warm gin; there was no ice available. Lahash wouldn’t tell her what was going to happen, and she dared not guess. Othman was nearby, causing trouble, no doubt. Perhaps he’d found another youthful Grigori like herself to seduce and corrupt. ‘Are any of your people left around here?’ she asked Lahash.
He shook his head, then shrugged. ‘There are not supposed to be, but I have no idea, really.’ He seemed awkward in the confined space of the room, too gangly. His clothes had fitted him perfectly in London, now they seemed too small, the arms of his jacket too short. Taziel simply looked ill. He wore his shades again, but Aninka had seen the state of his eyes as he’d got out of the car: red-rimmed and blue-smudged beneath. Aninka wondered what she looked like herself. Did her face bear evidence of anxiety and exhaustion? She didn’t feel exhausted. In fact, she felt quite energetic. Her heart was beating too fast continually. She likened it to the state of her body when she was about to leave home to meet someone she found very attractive, no, someone she loved. Anticipation, but with a delicious undercurrent of fear of rejection. Did her heart harbour some secret agenda? She sipped her drink again. She wanted to ask Lahash what his family had done to deserve exile, but knew she’d be invading his privacy. If he wanted to tell them, he would. That much had been established on the journey north.
Lahash finished his beer, a bottled variety poured into a glass, without the benefit of prior refrigeration. ‘There are some things I have to see to.’ He stood up.
Aninka did not relish the thought of being left alone with Taziel Levantine, who despite brief periods of sociability, was inclined to taciturn silence. ‘Can I help?’
Lahash glanced at Taziel. ‘I’d prefer it if you’d stay here.’ He gave her a significant glance. OK, she was to be a babysitter.
She shrugged. ‘Very well. Perhaps we could look around the town.’ On the way to the hotel, she’d seen little to interest her, but perhaps Taziel might be more tolerable in the open air.
Lahash pulled a rueful face. ‘I’m sorry, but I think it would be better if you remained here. There’s a possibility Othman might frequent this town. We don’t want him to see either you or Taziel here.’
‘Of course.’ Aninka sighed. ‘I suppose we’ll just have to sit here drinking warm alcohol.’
‘There are worse ways to spend an afternoon.’ Lahash grinned. ‘I shan’t be long.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To meet with some people. Our reinforcements, if you like.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Don’t ask!’ Taziel interrupted. He took off his dark glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘You wouldn’t want to meet them.’
‘We might have to stay here a couple of days,’ Lahash said smoothly. ‘We can drive out somewhere for dinner later. I’ll suss out a safe place.’
When he’d left the room, Aninka said, ‘Exactly who is he meeting, Taz?’
Taziel wriggled his shoulders. It was not quite a shrug, more a gesture of discomfort. He took off his shades to reveal the vulnerable state of his eyes. ‘Kerubim,’ he said. ‘Grigori militia. And you don’t meet them, you conjure them.’
Aninka grimaced. ‘There is so much we don’t know about our own people. Militia? I can’t believe it.’
‘I know too much,’ Taziel said. ‘Think yourself lucky.’
Aninka wasn’t sure whether that was a sarcastic remark. ‘You must have been around, then, to have amassed all this knowledge?’
‘Here and there.’ He carefully put down his drink, and paused, alerting Aninka to the fact a significant comment was about to be uttered. She was not disappointed. ‘Most of it I learned through Peverel Othman.’
Aninka held her breath, hardly daring to speak. How could she draw him out? He glanced up at her, perhaps unsure of what her sile
nce signified. She smiled in what she hoped would appear as sympathy. ‘I know a little of what happened, but not much.’
Taziel leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers, which Aninka noticed were shaking, across his stomach. ‘Othman ruined me,’ he said.
‘He killed my friends,’ Aninka said. ‘I was lucky, I suppose. Hardly damaged.’
Taziel sighed. ‘I don’t know why he did it to me. I wish I did. Was it because he hated me, or because he didn’t care one way or the other? Do you know about him, Aninka?’
Aninka frowned. ‘Know what? Something other than that he’s a cold-blooded killer, an Anakim?’
Taziel nodded to himself. ‘There is more. They won’t tell me, and I can’t find the knowledge I need, but there is more. That is why they’re so desperate to find him now. They’ve been waiting. People like us, we are nothing, fodder for the beast. All this talk about Lahash protecting us is bollocks. We are disposable, Othman is not. They want him, they prize him, they fear and respect him. What is he, huh? What do you think he is?’
Aninka shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t know.’ She offered Taziel a cigarette, which he took. She lit her own. ‘Why are we here, Taz? Do they really need us to find him? You, perhaps, but me? How am I of use to them?’
‘They’ll need you, don’t worry. They’ll send you in as bait, to talk to him. It’ll be an attempt to catch him off guard. But he’s sharp. You’ll have to be careful.’
‘What if I refuse to do that?’
Taziel laughed. ‘You won’t. You know you won’t.’
Aninka objected to his tone. ‘What about you?’
Taziel took a long draw off the cigarette. ‘I would die for him, still. But I would also like to see him dead. You know these feelings, of course, or an approximation of them.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I want to see him again, yet I dread it.’
‘I know what you mean.’
Stalking Tender Prey Page 48
