Day of the Serpent (Ouroboros Book 3)

by David Longhorn

  “What if they go at night?” asked Norton, leaning back as they lost the view of the island and entered Fort Augustus.

  “Exactly,” said Brad. “If they don't show much light they won't be challenged for hours, maybe.”

  “That means they could raise Ouroboros tonight?” asked Denny, a trace of alarm in her voice.

  Brad pondered, trying to remember the feel of his last dream.

  “I don't think so,” he said. “I think we might have a couple of days.”

  “On what evidence do you base that reassuring conclusion, Mister Steiger?” demanded Norton, reverting to full professor mode.

  “I got the sense they were waiting, planning, but not ready to act,” he said. “I know it's not much, a feeling. But there it is.”

  “Vague plans and feelings, evil conspirators, snake-women who can crush you to death, and the end of the world is imminent,” grumbled Norton. “This is not how I envisioned spending my sabbatical.”

  Denny snorted with laughter.

  “You think you've got problems?” she asked. “The more I actually find out, the more convinced I am that no editor in his right mind will ever buy the story.”

  She followed the GPS directions, which took them down to the quayside and their hotel. As Cherry Island came into view, again they saw a white cabin cruiser passing it, heading into the town's small marina.

  “Is that what I think it is?” asked Brad.

  Denny nodded.

  “The enemy's flagship,” she said. “Well, at least we know exactly where they are.”

  “Did you have any luck trying to hire a local boatman?” asked Norton.

  “Yeah,” said Denny. “I asked somebody at the local paper. They suggested a bloke called Angus. On the phone, he sounds like the quintessential Scots fisherman. Gruff to the point of rudeness, but probably got a heart of gold.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Brad, with a smile. “The rude ones are always the best.”

  “Sarcasm,” put in Norton, “remains the lowest form of wit.”

  Brad and Denny shared a sigh.

  ***

  Katie Fox waited impatiently on the quayside for the Talisman to dock. She became even more frustrated when the boat, instead of mooring by the shore, dropped anchor in the bay about fifty yards out.

  “Bugger!” she exclaimed, taking out her phone. For the hundredth time that morning, she tried to phone Jonathan Clay, but the scientist was not picking up. She only had one number for the Loch Ness Monster Survey, his. She went back to her car and poured some coffee from a flask. She had spent the morning shadowing the Talisman down the loch from Invercraig, impatient to talk to Clay. She was a persistent journalist.

  “Come on then, you have to get off your boat sometime,” she muttered. She stared out at the cruiser, willing Clay or one of his team to appear. But the boat might as well have been abandoned, showing no signs of life.

  “Sod this,” she grunted, and got out again.

  It took Katie five minutes to find a local fisherman willing to row her out to the boat. It took her nearly fifteen minutes to haggle with him down to a price that her production company expense account would cover. She clambered into the small boat and the fisherman, Angus, started the outboard motor. As they puttered away from the quay in a cloud of blue smoke, he asked, “Are you that woman off the telly, then?”

  “Probably,” she replied cheerfully. “I'm doing a series of interviews on the monster.”

  Angus looked her up and down and then spat into the bay.

  “What's the matter?” she asked. “Nessie eating all the salmon?”

  “Oh, it's a load of nonsense,” he rumbled. “I've fished on the loch, man and boy, for nearly fifty years. I've seen nothing stranger than daft English tourists sitting around all day waiting to see a monster that isn't there.”

  “I'm guessing you're a tad skeptical,” said Katie.

  Angus looked at her sourly.

  “Sarcasm is all very well, young lady, but harping on the legend makes us all look like ignorant peasants. And we can't all make a living selling bloody T-shirts and cuddly Nessies.”

  “So you don't like these monster hunters?”

  “Not that lot!” rumbled the fisherman, jerking his head at the Talisman. “Buggers dumping their stuff in the loch, nearly ran me down. Fouled my nets, no apologies, just motored away!”

  “They dumped garbage?” asked Katie, looking dubiously at the boat.

  Perhaps I should ask them about that?

  “Nobody takes that much trouble over garbage, young lady!” snorted Angus. “They were using weighted containers of some kind, they sank like stones. All wired together, that's what buggered my nets. Typical bloody English.”

  “Actually I think one of them was American.”

  His snort told her what he thought of that information. Katie was glad that the conversation was cut short by Angus needing to tie up his boat to the Talisman.

  “Ahoy!” she shouted at the cruiser. “Anybody aboard? Coming alongside, here.”

  Katie thought she saw a curtain twitch at the cabin window, but could not be sure. She felt a sudden urge to ask Angus to turn around and take her back to Fort Augustus, and the familiarity of her car. The quietness of the boat seemed not so much frustrating as sinister, now.

  Rubbish, she thought. Get a grip, they're probably having a tense committee meeting or something. These fringe groups lose all sense of reality.

  “You're going aboard?” rumbled Angus. “Or did we just come out here to stare at the side of a bloody boat?”

  “Yes, give us a hand,” she replied, grasping the rail of the Talisman. Angus assisted her on board. In doing so, he placed one of his large hands firmly underneath her left buttock.

  “Hey! I'd report you if I knew who to report you to, you old perv!” Katie gasped, almost falling into the bigger boat.

  “Ugh, you can find your own way back, ye wee nuisance!” Angus replied, and she heard the outboard motor start up again.

  “You shifty old bugger, I paid for a two-way trip!” she shouted at his departing back. Angus's only response was a traditional two-fingered gesture, casually flipped over his shoulder.

  “I'll report you to our consumer affairs correspondent!” Katie shouted, adding to herself, “And I suppose that's a pretty feeble threat when you think about it.”

  “Please?” said an unfamiliar voice.

  Katie turned to see a young man looking up at her through a half-open hatchway.

  “Oh, sorry!”

  She recognized one of the members of Clay's team, a slender, fair young man.

  “Please, it is important to be quiet.”

  Katie noted a trace of accent in the stranger's voice.

  German? Maybe Dutch or Swedish. And he looks ill.

  As she walked the few paces from the boat's stern to the hatchway, she was surprised by how unhealthy he looked. The young man's paleness was coupled with redness around the eyes. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and she noticed welts or bruises on his arms. She had seen pictures of prisoners with similar marks from cruel restraints.

  What kind of games are these people getting up to? You read things about cults.

  “Sorry,” she repeated. “I was looking for Doctor Clay? I'm Katie, you remember? The interview, yesterday?”

  The young man nodded dubiously.

  “Jonathan is not here. He is on an … an errand with Kelly.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “Well, who is here?”

  “Only me,” replied the man, too quickly. Katie had not been a journalist for long but she was already well attuned to lies. As if to confirm her judgment, there was a groan from somewhere below.

  There was a pause as the two looked at one another.

  “Sounds like someone is a bit seasick,” said Katie.

  “It is Cleo,” said the man. “She must rest. She needs the rest, she is absorbing energy.”

  “Cleo is the tall, black girl?” asked Katie. “Or the
short American?”

  “I don’t think you should be here,” said the man, ignoring her question. He folded his arms. He was still blocking the hatchway.

  “Well,” said Katie, choosing her words carefully, “I can't really go now, can I? Unless you give me a lift, of course. Erm, what's your name by the way?”

  For a moment, she thought he would not reply, but then he tilted his head as if hearing a sound inaudible to Katie.

  “I am called Andreas,” he said.

  “Pleased to meet you, Andreas!” she said, reaching out for a handshake. He complied hesitantly. His palm was cold, moist, his grip surprisingly flaccid for such a young, well-built person.

  “Since I'm here, maybe I can talk to you and Cleo?” she said, raising her voice slightly. She hoped she was being heard in the cabin, as women were generally more amenable to being interviewed than men.

  Again, she thought Andreas would not answer. There was an unnatural pause as he again seemed to listen.

  “Cleo is resting,” he said. “She says … she says I cannot give interviews. You are welcome to come back tomorrow.”

  Andreas then twisted the corners of his mouth up into the most painfully insincere smile Katie had ever seen. And she had interviewed a large number of politicians.

  “Oh,” she said. “I was hoping to round off my interviews about the monster with a few comments from Jonathan and Mike. You haven't seen Mike, by the way?”

  Andreas shook his head briefly.

  “That's odd,” Katie said, half to herself. “I thought I saw him driving back towards Invecraig yesterday evening. You were still moored at the village jetty then, weren't you? I assumed he was going to have a word with Jonathan. Did he come here?”

  Andreas's eyes widened in apparent alarm. Again, he tilted his head and gave the mechanical smile. At the same time, he took hold of the ladder and started to climb down.

  “Cleo thinks she could talk to you, but just for a moment,” he said.

  “Oh, that's great!” said Katie. She was already descending into the darkness of the cabin when it occurred to her that she had not heard Cleo speak. Then another oddity demanded her attention. The cabin was dark thanks to curtained windows, and smelled peculiar. There was a cloying odor of incense, but beneath it something altogether less pleasant.

  “You're looking for Mister Carlton?” said a deep voice from a corner of the cramped compartment.

  “Yes,” replied Katie, peering into the gloom. The new voice emanated from what seemed to be a large heap of bedclothes along one side of the cabin. “Cleo, is it?”

  “Yes,” came the reply. “Sorry I can't get up very easily in my current condition. I'm feeling a little delicate.”

  Condition? Katie suddenly realized what Cleo was implying.

  “Oh, God,” she said, “you mean you're pregnant?”

  “Yes,” said Cleo. The heap of blankets moved ponderously, and a head appeared. Katie could not make out the woman's features in the semi-darkness. Then two green-gold eyes gleamed, almost like a cat's. The feeling of something sinister returned, and Katie took a step backwards. She bumped into Andreas, who put his hands lightly around her waist.

  “Hey, now,” she protested, pulling away and turning to face the young man. “No funny business. People know I'm here!”

  “We'll soon find out,” said Cleo. Katie heard a stirring behind her and what seemed to be a slithering. She spun round to see a huge body emerge from the heaped blankets. It had a human head, plus arms and a torso, but below the waist, it was a huge bloated sac of tissue. The skin of the thing glistened faintly in the gloom.

  “By the way,” said Cleo, as Andreas gripped Katie more firmly, “you're quite right. Mister Carlton did come here last night. As a matter of fact he never left.”

  The monster ran a hand down its swollen form.

  This is some kind of gag, she thought. Nothing this weird can be real.

  “Okay, joke over, where's the camera?” she demanded, just as Andreas grabbed her arms. This time his grip was much firmer. Then Cleo squirmed ponderously across the cabin as Katie struggled to break free. The wriggling lower body made gurgling sounds.

  “No cameras here,” chuckled the monster. “Just us girls, and my lovely boyfriend of course. He's the father. He's why I needed poor Mike. Lots of energy required for a multiple birth.”

  Andreas forced Katie forward and the creature rose up to grasp her head in its hands. Katie wanted to close her eyes as the bright gaze pierced her mind, her soul. But before she could act upon the impulse, and all her other thoughts, belonged to the lamia.

  ***

  “Close, but not too close,” said Lisa. “Inverness is just a short drive from the bad guys' base! We are within striking distance.”

  “Close,” repeated Pavel. He stood in the doorway of their hotel room, burdened by half a dozen bags. Most of them contained Lisa's shoes and clothes.

  “Put them on the bed, silly!” she chided him. “Oh how I wish you still had a mind of your own.”

  But there's only one way that could happen. And I'm not letting that evil creature bite him, that's for sure.

  As she watched Pavel put their bags down, a troubling thought arose and lingered at the edge of her mind.

  Maybe there is another way.

  But the idea was too disturbing, and she pushed it away. Instead, she started to unpack, which mostly consisted of closely supervising Pavel. When they had finished, she kicked off her shoes and flung herself onto the bed. Pavel obediently lay beside her when she patted the covers.

  “Okay, baby, let's check out the news,” Lisa said, picking up her phone from the bedside table. As she scrolled through various media reports, she reflected, not for the first time, on how baffling all this new technology had been when she left her lair in the wilds of Poland. Now, being part of the internet culture was second nature to her.

  “So much to see, so much going on!” she said, checking rumors about her favorite boy band. “Whoa, they're breaking up? Bullshit! I call bullshit, Pavel.”

  “Bullshit,” he repeated, with a vague smile.

  Lisa brushed a strand of hair away from her slave's forehead. She would have to order him to get a haircut soon. She had tried doing it herself, but the results had been more comical than stylish.

  Being a hot chick with superpowers doesn't mean you can manage the small stuff, she thought.

  “Hot chick,” said Pavel, looking into her eyes. He seemed puzzled, as he often did when she touched his mind with hers.

  “Sorry, honey, I know it's confusing,” she soothed, kissing him on the tip of his nose. “I'll kiss it better all over while we have a shower, how about that?”

  But before she could carry out her plan, a call came through. She frowned at the unfamiliar number, touched Accept. It was Knapton.

  “What do you want, Mister Policeman? Your friend, did he get better?”

  “It's still touch and go,” replied the officer. “But Healy did become lucid for a moment. That's why I'm calling.”

  “To thank me, maybe?”

  She heard a tiny bark of humorless laughter.

  “To warn you,” he said. “And maybe help. I've got two bits of information.”

  “About Cleo?” she asked.

  “I assume so,” he said. “What the boss said was 'With the chaos comes the breeding.’ Does that mean anything?”

  Lisa frowned.

  “No,” she admitted. “Is that all he said?”

  “Yes,” said Knapton. “I think it came via his link to Cleo, which was badly damaged but not entirely broken. Is that possible?”

  “Yeah, why not?” she said impatiently. Lisa had never thought deeply about the nature of her or Cleo's powers. Ouroboros was a source of energy that she tapped, but at the same time, she did her best to block the collective consciousness behind that primal force. It had driven her insane once before, she did not intend to let it have untrammeled access to wreck her mind again. She knew she was far from
stable.

  “You said there were two things?” she went on. “But he only said one?”

  “The other is just old-style detective work,” he said. “Same as the kind that got me your number. It's about the American girl, Steiger's daughter. She seems central to the cult, yes?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Lisa impatiently. “I don't know why, but they need her. Without her, they cannot succeed.”

  Suddenly it occurred to her that killing Kelly Steiger would be so much easier than taking on Cleo, and probably just as effective. She smiled sweetly at Pavel, who smiled back. The revelation meant she lost track of what Knapton was saying.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, interrupting him. “You say she has a bad credit card?”

  “No!” sighed Knapton. “Not that kind of visa. The point is that if someone were to tell the local police they could, in theory, arrest her.”

  “Why don't you tell them?” she asked.

  “I'm under orders not to contact law enforcement, or Steiger, or any of his friends,” said Knapton sourly.

  Lisa giggled at the thought of anyone obeying orders they did not agree with.

  Silly little men, and to think this is how they run the world.

  “So you told me?”

  “Right, oddly enough my other boss, the one I can't afford to disobey, did not mention telling crazy half-human killers about my findings.”

  “Hey, less of the crazy, fella!” she protested.

  “Sorry,” said Knapton. “You may be a very sensible half-human killer, I suppose. I don't have much experience of the type.”

  “That's better,” she said dubiously. The British habit of inserting irony and sarcasm into almost any situation was still confusing her. “But I don't want to talk to the police!”

  “Well, tell Steiger,” Knapton suggested. “She's his girl, after all.”

  Before she could object that Steiger might shoot her if he knew she was still alive, the policeman had ended the call.

  “Bugger!” she said. It was one of her favorite British words.

  “Bugger,” repeated Pavel.