by Tom Becker
At the same time, things weren’t getting any easier at home. Her parents were fighting over smaller and smaller things, the arguments and recriminations becoming ever more bitter. Her dad was going out alone every night now, returning home only to shower and sleep. With his torn clothing and bruised face, he looked leaner and tougher than Kate had seen him before, and at the same time somehow more at ease with himself. As the fighting worsened, Kate retreated into herself, protected by the thickness of a bedroom door. The mystery of Jonathan Starling was a welcome distraction.
She was about to decide her next move when events at school overtook her. Kate was chewing on the end of her biro, trying to untangle her thoughts for an English essay, when the teacher stood up and cleared his throat, heralding an announcement.
“OK – listen up, everyone. I’ve had a call from Justin Starling’s dad. Apparently he’s not well at the moment, and the doctor’s not sure how long he’s going to be off school. Obviously we’re in the middle of some extremely important coursework right now, and it’s vital that he has the necessary notes. It would be great if one of his friends could take the notes round to his house – I’m sure he’d be delighted to see people. Who here’s friends with Justin?”
There was a deafening silence. Slowly Kate raised her arm. “It’s Jonathan,” she said. “I’ll take it.”
She noticed one of her friends casting a quizzical look in her direction, which she ignored. The teacher gratefully laid a sheaf of papers down on her desk. “Yes, of course. Jonathan. How silly of me. The address is on top of the sheet.”
After school, Kate avoided her friends and hurried through the drizzle towards Jonathan’s house – which, as luck would have it, was quite close to hers. Given that the houses on his street were all large, detached buildings that must have cost a small fortune, Jonathan’s home didn’t quite fit in: it was a little more careworn, a little more vulnerable than its neighbours. To Kate, that seemed somehow fitting. The lights were on in the front room, but the rest of the house was dark.
Sheltering from the rain beneath the cover of a large tree on the other side of the road, Kate was suddenly struck by indecision. Although she had promised to deliver the notes, she was now reluctant to walk up the driveway and knock on the door. What if Jonathan was actually ill – what would he think about a stranger turning up on his doorstep? What if all of this was just her imagination running riot? What if there was no mystery?
As she watched the house, two figures appeared in the front room. One was the tiny woman Kate had occasionally seen picking Jonathan up from school, and a man she guessed had to be his dad. Though she couldn’t hear what they were saying, Kate recognized two people arguing when she saw it. The woman seemed distressed, laying a hand on the man’s arm as though she was trying to persuade him to stay, but he shook his head firmly. The man disappeared from the room, appearing outside the house some five minutes later, swathed in a long black coat. Bowing his head under the onslaught of the wind and the rain, he strode off into the evening. Kate was about to follow him when she saw the tiny woman standing in the doorway, staring straight at her. Startled, Kate turned and raced down the street in the other direction, the coursework notes forgotten.
Back in the safety of her bedroom, as she changed out of her sodden clothes and wrapped a towel around her hair, Kate felt a little foolish for having run away, but there was something about the woman’s stare that had unsettled her. She didn’t bother returning to the house to deliver the notes. Jonathan wasn’t ill – she was sure of it now.
Two days later, and Kate was beginning to despair of finding Jonathan. The problem was, she didn’t know anything about him: where he hung out, what he did, and with whom. Short of breaking into his house, there didn’t seem anything more she could do. Kate was frustrated – she had snapped at her friends for no reason on the way to school that morning. If they thought she was acting oddly, they didn’t mention it. They knew about the problems at home and silently drew their own conclusions.
The late November nights were rapidly drawing in, and during French, Kate’s last lesson of the day, darkness folded itself around the second-floor classroom. Above her head, a strip light buzzed like a bee as it battled to illuminate the room. Sitting next to the window, Kate caught a glimpse of a movement down by the school gates. She looked down to see a silver car drive up through the gloom to the front entrance. A man got out of the car and walked briskly into the building.
Kate tried to focus on irregular verbs. A few minutes later a boy came into the classroom to deliver the teacher a note. She read it, raising an eyebrow.
“Kate? The headmaster wants to see you after school.”
Thirty pairs of eyes turned towards Kate, thirty minds speculating on what terrible crime she had committed. There were a couple of low, mocking whistles. Her cheeks burned with the attention, and she was relieved when the final bell rang.
She walked slowly through the turmoil of the home-time rush to the headmaster’s office, and settled in a chair in the reception room outside. As she waited, the shouts and footsteps gradually died away, until the last straggler had packed up his PE kit and wandered out of the school. The only sound was the faint oompah of the orchestra practising in the theatre on the other side of the school grounds.
Eventually the door to the office opened, and the headmaster appeared. Mr Holmes had never spoken to Kate before; for five years he had been little more than a distant figure on the stage during assembly, his booming voice echoing around the hall. As he ushered her inside the office, Kate noticed that for once he seemed unsure of himself, nervous almost. A blond-haired man turned in his seat, subjecting Kate to a piercing gaze. He was handsome, in a cold way, and he knew it.
“Kate,” the headmaster said, “this is Richard Starling, Jonathan’s uncle. He’s here on behalf of his brother Alain, who’s suffering from some health problems. Mr Starling has some questions he wants to ask you.”
“What sort of questions?”
“Well, to begin with,” the blond man said sharply, “where is he?”
“At home, isn’t he?” Kate stalled, thinking quickly. “He’s ill.”
“No, he isn’t,” the man said. “Jonathan’s gone missing – again. My brother’s health isn’t strong enough for him to come down to the school, so he asked me to try and find out what’s going on. It’s a good job I did. It doesn’t appear that your headmaster was even aware that my nephew had vanished, let alone where.”
“We know that you’re a friend of Jonathan’s,” Mr Holmes cut in, tugging at his collar, “and that you volunteered to take him some coursework notes. Did you see him at all, or anything unusual? It could be important.”
Kate bit her lip, facing a real dilemma. If Jonathan was in danger, she didn’t want to lie about what she had overheard. On the other hand, there was something profoundly wrong about this situation. The atmosphere in the room was too tense, the blond man too impatient for a concerned relative. Also, he looked nothing like the man Kate had seen in Jonathan’s house – there was no way they could be related, let alone be brothers.
“I forgot to deliver the notes,” Kate said finally. “I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want to get into trouble. I haven’t seen Jonathan for days. If he has disappeared, I don’t know where.”
The last of which was true, at least. Kate stared straight ahead at Mr Holmes, aware of the other man’s icy stare boring into her skin. The headmaster nodded, seemingly relieved by her answer.
“And if he contacts you – or you hear anything at all, you’ll tell me?”
She nodded.
“Thank you, Kate. That will be all. As I told you, Mr Starling, Jonathan is a most irregular pupil. The school can’t be held responsible for. . .”
Kate quickly shut the office door behind her, glad to escape the room. She walked out into the corridor, her heart pounding, and leaned against the wall. W
ithout the chatter and laughter that echoed throughout the day, the building felt horribly empty. Notices pinned to the board flapped forlornly in draughts which seemed to come from nowhere. Kate shivered.
She was about to pull on her coat when there came a thud from the headmaster’s office. Kate stepped hesitantly over to the door and listened, but all she could hear were low murmuring sounds. She shook her head. What did she think might be happening? All this stuff with Jonathan was making her go crazy. Kate was about to walk away when the door handle turned and the blond man strode out of the office. Behind him, Kate caught a glimpse of Mr Holmes slumped in his seat.
“Hey!” she shouted. “What’s going on? What have you done to him?”
“Nothing that need concern you,” the man snapped, advancing upon her and grabbing her arm tightly. Even through the sleeve of her school blouse, Kate could feel the chill of his hand.
“You’re hurting me!” She squirmed. “Let go!”
“All in good time,” the man murmured quietly. “Tell me where Starling is.”
“I already told you: I don’t know.”
“You’re lying,” he said flatly.
“So are you,” Kate shot back fiercely. “You’re not his uncle. I don’t know what you said to Mr Holmes, but I don’t believe you. What did you do to him?”
It was at that moment she caught sight of the reddish smear of blood on the man’s lip, and suddenly he didn’t need to answer. With a sickening lurch in her stomach, Kate was reminded of something Jonathan had said behind the sports hall. At the time it had seemed like a bad joke, but now. . .
“I know who you are!” She gasped. “You’re Vendetta. But Jonathan said you were a . . . you can’t be!”
“A vampire?” The man grinned, revealing two elongated incisors at the front of his mouth. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
It was too much to take in. Kate felt dizzy.
“But that’s impossible,” she murmured. “There’s no such thing!”
“Really? I have to say, I expected you to have a slightly more open mind. After all, Kate. . .” She flinched as Vendetta leaned in closer to her, continuing in a whisper: “There’s Darkside blood in you too. Diluted, weak, but there. I can almost taste it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kate replied. Her pulse was racing even as she spoke, as though the vampire’s words had stirred something deep within her.
“Perhaps not,” breathed Vendetta. “Not all Darksiders are proud of their heritage. Which parent has been keeping secrets from you, I wonder?”
Kate felt an explosion of rage within her chest. With a piercing scream, she wrenched her arm free with a strength she’d never thought she possessed. Vendetta tried to grab her, but Kate was already sprinting down the corridor.
She ran blindly, not conscious of the direction, spurred on by the urge to put distance between herself and Vendetta, up flights of stairs and through gloomy hallways. Kate dared not glance behind her, for fear of seeing the vampire on her heels. Though she couldn’t hear him, she could feel his presence, was horribly aware of his silent pursuit.
After clattering through a set of fire doors on the first floor, Kate skidded to a stop, a burning pain in her side. She’d never run so fast and so far before. As she caught her breath, she became aware of the discordant sound of the orchestra floating up from the hall below her. They had to be the only people left in the school. If Kate could reach them, she’d be safe! Bracing herself for one final effort, she hurried down the nearest flight of steps back towards the hall.
The brash chorus of trumpets and trombones were getting louder now. The sound had never been more welcoming. Avoiding the dangerously open spaces of the main corridor that led down to the hall, Kate ducked into a side room, a technology workshop instantly recognizable by its ever-present perfume of glue and sawdust. The room was pitch-black, wheels and lathes lying dormant in the darkness. On the other side of the room was a door leading to the main hall.
Sighing with relief, Kate walked up and tried the handle.
“It’s locked, I’m afraid.”
She whirled round, heart in her mouth. Vendetta stood in the shadows by the window. The vampire didn’t seem out of breath – in fact, Kate wasn’t sure if he was breathing at all.
“HELP!” Kate shouted, but at that moment the orchestra roused itself into a cacophonous finale of crashing cymbals that drowned out her cry. As Vendetta advanced, she backed across the workshop, until she bumped up against a workbench. As she scrabbled around for a weapon, her hands fell upon a chisel, which she thrust out to defend herself, only for Vendetta to knock it contemptuously from her hand. Kate wanted to scream but it felt as though all the air had been drained from her lungs. Instead, she stood motionless, transfixed by the vampire’s piercing stare as he loomed over her, teeth glinting. . .
9
Carnegie didn’t hesitate. With a snarl he grabbed hold of Scabble and hurled the little man in the direction of the sailors. They had just enough time to bundle him out of the way before the wereman’s charge – an onslaught of teeth and claws that managed to engage all three of them.
The tiny office struggled to contain the combatants: the windows rattled with every punch and the wooden walls creaked with every curse. As he scanned around for a weapon with which to help Carnegie, Jonathan spotted Scabble crawling out through the door on his hands and knees. He raced across the room and grabbed hold of one of the little man’s legs, dragging him back inside the cabin.
“No!” Scabble cried, kicking out wildly.
Jonathan had pulled Vendetta’s ledger from his bag, and was about to bring the book down on the thief’s head when a large weight crashed into the side of him. Jonathan hit the floor hard, his landing only partially softened by Scabble himself. Dazed, still clutching hold of the ledger, Jonathan caught sight of an earring flashing in the light, and a tattoo of a mermaid etched on weather-beaten skin. An arm was pressing down across his chest, pinning him.
As Jonathan’s head began to clear, a leering, scarred face filled his vision. Over his assailant’s shoulder, Carnegie was occupied by the other two sailors, trading vicious slashes for their barrelling forearm blows. Jonathan was on his own.
With his free arm, the sailor pulled out a belaying pin from his belt – a long wooden club with a handle. He raised it above his head, his earring gleaming.
“Sweet dreams, laddio,” he said.
Suddenly Jonathan knew what to do. With a giant effort he forced his left arm free, reached up and yanked the earring from the sailor’s ear. The sailor screamed, clutching his bloodied lobe. With the grip loosened, Jonathan twisted his body and followed up with a swift knee to the groin. His assailant crumpled like an accordian, allowing Jonathan to roll free.
The pandemonium showed no sign of relenting. Carnegie had disposed of one of the sailors, and was now attacking the other. Scabble was lying winded on the ground, immobile.
“Get the girl!” he called out weakly to his henchmen.
In response, the sailor with the bleeding ear got to his feet and went after Raquella, who had taken up a position behind Scabble’s desk. Jonathan raced after the man and tried to rugby tackle him, only for the sailor to brush him off with a trailing arm. Jonathan’s nose exploded with pain – then, through his tears, he saw Carnegie step between Raquella and the sailor.
For a couple of seconds neither the wereman nor the final sailor moved. Then, without warning, Carnegie stepped up and unleashed an earth-shattering roar inches from the sailor’s face. As the man blanched with horror, Carnegie picked him up and hurled him through the window overlooking the river. There was a scream, and then a splash as the sailor hit the water.
Suddenly it was very quiet, and very still. Carnegie glanced across at Jonathan, his eyes narrowed. “You all right, boy?”
Jonathan nodded, holding his nose, which was
bleeding profusely. The wereman strode over to Scabble and lifted him up off the floor. He bunched a hairy fist.
“OK, OK!” Scabble cried out, shielding his face with his hands. “I’ll tell you everything! It was a moonstone!”
Carnegie’s brow furrowed. “What was a moonstone?”
“Vendetta’s order. It’s a kind of quartz . . . rare. . . I stole it direct from a steamer that had just come in from the east.”
“What did Vendetta want with it?”
“He didn’t tell me,” the thief sobbed. “That’s all I know, I swear!”
Carnegie relented, dropping Scabble into a forlorn heap on the floor. “For once, I’m going to take you on your word. For your sake, I hope I don’t regret it. We’ll see ourselves out. Oh, and Dexter?”
The thief looked up groggily, to see Carnegie nod at the stolen crates in the corner of the room.
“I’ll be back to collect those silks when the Succession’s over. Keep an eye on them for me, will you?”
Outside, the shadows were starting to lengthen along the waterfront. Carnegie buttoned up his overcoat and inhaled a deep breath of the salty air, apparently invigorated.
“That was fun,” he said brightly.
Jonathan eyed the wereman grumpily, dabbing at his nose with a bloody handkerchief. “For you, maybe. You weren’t the one having your nose broken.”
“What are you complaining about, boy? A broken nose gives a man character. Darkside women don’t trust a man with an unmarked face.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Raquella was staring out over the murky waters, lost in thought. She turned back to look at them. “I’ve never heard Vendetta talk about moonstones before. I can’t imagine what he’d want with one.”
