‘He isn’t Baxter Burnett,’ Alex called out to the kids. ‘He’s just a lookalike. Get away from him.’
But before anyone could react, Baxter reached out and grabbed the nearest of the crowd, a girl of about twelve with masses of golden curls and a look of bedazzlement that very quickly turned to terror as he dragged her roughly across the pavement and wrenched a handful of her hair to one side to expose her little neck. ‘I’ll bite her,’ he yelled at Alex. ‘I’ll turn her.’
Alex hesitated. The kids were screaming. The teachers had run back inside the building.
‘Put the gun down, Agent Bishop,’ Baxter shouted.
Alex tossed the Desert Eagle to the ground. ‘Now you let go of the child.’
‘Back off!’
Alex retreated a step. ‘This isn’t going to look too good in The Hollywood Reporter,’ she said. The little girl in Baxter’s grip was howling. Most of her friends had run in fright back towards the school buildings. Others hovered uncertainly, rigid with terror.
‘Like I care,’ Baxter screamed. ‘I’m sick of being told what to do all the time! I’m not going to take it any more, not from you, not from the goddamn fascists you work for!’
‘There’s nowhere you can run that they won’t track you down,’ Alex said.
‘Oh yeah? I heard the rumours. I’m not the only one that’s joining the Trads.’
‘There are no Trads left, Baxter. We wiped them out.’ There wasn’t much conviction in Alex’s voice as she said it.
‘Bullshit. I’m going to find them, I’m going to join them, and I’m going to come back and kick your Federal ass.’ Spotting a car coming down the street, Baxter dragged the little girl to the kerbside and out into the road, blocking its way. Baxter hauled the child around with him to the driver’s side, wrenched open the door and with his free hand hauled the elderly woman driver out from behind the wheel, sending her spinning to the opposite kerb.
Alex could do nothing. Baxter dumped the child on the road, then hit the gas and took off with a maniacal laugh.
Alex scooped up her gun and launched herself at the back of the car as it accelerated away. Her fingers raked smooth metal, but she had no purchase and went sprawling to the ground as the car sped into the distance.
The twelve-year-old girl was still crying hysterically at the roadside. Alex went over to her and quickly checked her for scratches or bites. Nothing. She trotted over to the old woman Baxter had pulled out of the car. Minor grazing, a couple of nasty bruises.
‘I’m with the police,’ Alex told her. ‘My unit’s on its way. They’ll look after you.’ The wail of sirens had been within vampire earshot for the last few seconds. The teachers had reported the gunshots, she guessed, and someone must have called the fire brigade too. A dark column of smoke was rising from Piers Bullivant’s nearby apartment building.
As Alex helped the old lady to her feet, suddenly feeling hungry and trying not to think about the human blood flowing within easy range, the first police car came screeching into view at the top of the street.
Alex wasn’t worried about getting away from the cops. But explaining to her Federation superiors that Baxter Burnett had now officially gone rogue, evaded her and was on the loose . . .
That part might not be quite so simple.
Chapter Twenty-One
Oxford
For the last three years, Matt Dempsey’s home had been a rambling three-storey Victorian terraced house in a quiet street in North Oxford, fifteen minutes’ bus ride from the city centre. The place was much too big for a solitary academic, but over the years he’d nonetheless managed to fill it with stuff his ex-wife would have called junk. In many cases, Matt secretly admitted that she’d have been right – the collection of antique brass lamps jostling for space on the mantelpiece of his downstairs study, for instance – but he prized them just as highly as the fourteenth-century Chinese statuettes on his bookshelf, the rare Mayan pottery in the display cabinet and the Italian medieval-period lute that hung on the wall behind his battered desk.
At this moment, though, they were the last things on his mind as he struggled to figure out the strange markings that ran around the circumference of the stone cross’s outer ring and along its pitted crosspieces.
It took him a while to root out the books he needed: the most useful of the cracked, musty leather-bound volumes were Crosman’s 1822 Lexicon of Ancient Tongues and Kerensky’s 1906 edition of Lost Runic Symbols of the Early Dark Ages, both long since out of print and very difficult to come by. Matt pored over them so intently and for so long – flicking through the yellowed pages, filling a pad with detailed notes and scribbles and furious crossings-out, one false start after another and a pile of crumpled paper mounting up at his feet – that he lost all sense of place and time.
Finally, after what could have been three hours or thirty, he found himself staring with bleary eyes at what he reckoned was the closest possible translation of the markings on the cross.
Bizarre. Had he got it right? Some of the inscriptions that hadn’t been destroyed by the ravages of time still eluded him, and not even the scholarly erudition of A.P. Kerensky could shed light on them. But there it was, as best he could figure it out:
He who wields this cross of power shall gain protection from the dark revenants of Deamhan, drinkers and plunderers of the life of Man. May the Divine Virtue of Our Lord descend upon thee and hold thee safe.
Matt studied the smooth, creamy-white stone of the cross and wondered how old it must be. There could be no question of sending it off for testing through the normal Pitt Rivers Museum channels – that could take weeks. But what about his pal Fred Lancaster? Stiff from being bent over the desk for so long, Matt hobbled over to the phone and looked up his number at the Oxford University Department of Geology.
‘Fred? Matt Dempsey here.’
‘Matt, old boy. How long has it been?’
‘Listen, I need a favour. Wondered if I could run by the lab with something interesting that’s come my way?’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Southampton docks
The voyage seemed to have gone on forever. After the incessant, monotonous rumbling of the ship’s diesels and the echoing boom of its motion through the sea finally died away, Joel hesitated a while in the half-empty freight container deep in the bowels of the hold where he’d found a place to stow away. The faint glow of his watch dial, radiating the stored energy of the only sunlight he could bear to be exposed to, told him that it was after one in the morning. He held back another half hour, then, frightened that the ship might sud denly set off again and carry him off to some unknown destination, he crept out of the hold and made his way undetected to deck level.
In the middle of the night the Port of Southampton was a blaze of frenetic industry. Dock workers swarmed this way and that like ants under the glare of the lights that streaked across the water, while giant cranes reared high overhead like dinosaurs, carrying out the endless cycle of loading and unloading cargo onto the decks of the hulking ships moored against the harbour walls. Joel was able to sneak away through the vast facility without anyone challenging him. By the time he’d made it out to the streets of Southampton his energy was all but sapped and he had to stop frequently to lean against a wall. He was already fearfully counting the hours until sunrise. This awful nightly race against the clock was going to be the centre of his whole existence now, for the rest of eternity. Would there never be a way out for him?
Passing the pitted brickwork mouth of an alleyway that was cluttered with old metal bins and crates of empty bottles, he heard the dull thump-thump-thump of a nightclub in full swing and moved on hurriedly to avoid any chance of getting caught up in a crowd. Some drunks loitering about in the street ignored him as he went by.
A few yards further on, Joel heard something that made him stop in his tracks. Even as he whipped around at the sound of the woman’s cry of distress, he was falling instinctively back on his police inspector’s training.
His eyes darted across to the nightclub doorway and picked out the figures of a burly man in a leather jacket and a woman who was staggering away from him. As Joel watched, the big guy pursued her aggressively across the street, slurring loudly, ‘I’ll smack your teeth out, you fucking bitch!’
There were no club bouncers anywhere to be seen, nobody except the drunks Joel had passed by, who were all propped against the wall or slouched on the pavement, smoking and grinning inanely and obviously disinclined to intervene in the situation. The woman couldn’t run properly in her high heels, and in just a few steps the man caught up with her, grabbed her arm and slapped her hard across the face. She screamed and lost her footing, her legs kicking out, one shoe tumbling into the gutter.
Still clutching her arm, the big guy started dragging her roughly towards the dark entrance to the alleyway. She screamed again as he swung his arm around and hurled her crashing into the row of bins. A stack of crates collapsed and empty bottles rolled across the alley floor as the woman struggled to get to her feet.
The big guy swayed up to her and started undoing his belt and fumbling for his flies. He was so focused on his wriggling victim and on what he was about to do that not even a noisy human coming up behind him would have drawn his attention.
Joel tapped him lightly on the shoulder. Up close, the guy was as broad as a bear and a good three inches taller than him. The big man turned round and snarled at Joel. ‘Fuck off.’
‘Police,’ Joel said, and for just an instant it was like stepping back into the lost world of his past. But the illusion didn’t last long. He reached out an arm and grabbed a fistful of the guy’s lank brown hair.
Even in Joel’s state of extreme hunger and weakness, fifteen stone of muscle and lard felt like no weight at all as he lifted him clear off his feet with one hand. The guy kicked and thrashed in mid-air, yelled in pain and rage and clapped his hands to his head, trying to prise Joel’s fingers away. Joel drew back his fist and punched him in the midriff. He went flying as if he’d caught a cannonball in the stomach. The impact against the alley wall drove a grunt of air from his lungs. He bounced, hit the ground hard and lay still.
The woman staggered to her feet. Scrabbling for her lost shoe, she stared up at Joel with big, frightened eyes. ‘You’re not the cops,’ she said uncertainly. ‘No way.’
‘Are you all right, miss?’ Joel asked her, and she nodded. He tossed away the big fistful of hair that had come away from the guy’s scalp, roots and all, and pointed down at the slumped heap on the ground. ‘Who is he?’
‘Dunno. Just some guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer.’
‘Okay. You’d better get out of here,’ Joel said.
She hesitated a second, then stepped into her shoe. ‘You take care, now,’ Joel called after her as she scurried away up the street, leaving him alone with her attacker. The guy was slowly coming round now, groaning and trying to gather himself up. Joel grabbed the collar of his jacket and dragged him a little deeper into the shadowy alley. He glanced back at the street. The drunks were out of sight. Nobody was around.
This is it, he thought. You have to do this. You won’t survive otherwise. He could feel the teeth grown long and sharp behind his lips, just as they had before. Except it wasn’t like before. This time, it felt right. This time, he was going in for the bite. The dark instinct that was surging up from some unknown place deep inside him commanded him to surrender, and it was a force he couldn’t deny any longer. Joel yanked the guy’s collar down, exposing a few inches of thick neck. The scent of human blood made him quiver with anticipation.
Joel opened his mouth and felt his upper lip roll back from the long vampire fangs. The big guy’s eyes opened wide in terror as the sight jolted him fully awake. He let out a strangled whimper and tried to crawl away. Joel held him tight.
But then he looked into the liquid, pleading, pitiful eyes of the helpless human, and he stopped.
No. He couldn’t bring himself to do such a thing.
Joel let the man go. He sat heavily on the ground as he watched the human scramble desperately to his feet and stagger blindly away up the alley.
The guy didn’t get very far before a shape lunged out of the shadows and caught him with a hard, fast blow to the neck that knocked him cold.
The shape stepped over the unconscious body and clumped towards Joel in heavy boots that echoed in the alley.
‘Who are you?’ Joel called out. It was the shape of a man – but Joel already knew he was no man. As the figure came closer, Joel could see him more clearly. He was short, stockily built and, to judge from the grizzled beard that hung halfway down his chest, he looked about sixty in human years. A long Viking-like grey plait of hair was draped down one shoulder of the chunky Aran sweater he was wearing.
As Joel stared, the figure spoke in a deep, rumbling voice. ‘That wasnae such a clever idea, laddie.’
‘Who are you?’ Joel said again.
‘Once you’ve hooked your wee fish, you dinnae let him go. Not until you’ve done the necessary.’
Joel blinked. ‘I . . . I couldn’t—’
‘No room for pity, laddie. Pity won’t get you very far. Something tells me ye’re a bit new to this vampire lark, aye?’ The thick grey beard broke into a grin. ‘The name’s Tommy. Tommy McGregor. Luckily for you, I’ve been around a while longer. Now let’s get this thing done properly and get oot of here before someone comes.’
Speechless, Joel watched Tommy one-handedly drag the unconscious body of the human across the alley and prop it up against the wall. ‘Big bugger, this one,’ the grizzled vampire muttered. ‘Like a damn sack o’ spuds.’
Joel turned his face away and closed his eyes as Tommy lunged towards the human’s throat. The sounds of sucking and slurping made him feel queasy. When Tommy finally pulled away, letting out a loud belch and wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Joel risked a glance and saw that his beard was slick and dripping with blood.
‘Dear me. Looks like I’ve landed on a real newbie, all right,’ Tommy said, grinning at his expression. ‘So where’d you spring up from, eh?’
‘I . . . I just came off a ship,’ Joel stammered. ‘I don’t know exactly where from.’
Tommy clicked his tongue. ‘We really are a wee bit confused, aren’t we? Have you got a name, or do you not remember that either?’
‘My name’s Joel.’
‘Well, Joel, if ye dinnae mind my telling you, you’ve got a bit of learning to do.’ Tommy reached into a pouch on his belt, and with a flourish he produced a syringe. He used his teeth to pluck away the cork on the end of the needle, then stabbed it to the hilt into the bloody neck of his still-unconscious victim and pushed the plunger all the way home.
‘There we go,’ he grunted with satisfaction as he yanked the needle out and stuck the cork back on. ‘When yer man wakes up in the morning, sick as a dog wi’ a few bruises and these wee holes in his neck, he’ll just think he was too pissed to stand up straight and had an argument wi’ something sharp. See how it’s done? In the old times, we wouldnae have gone to all this trouble. Nowadays, we’ve got to stay in line. Or else,’ he added darkly.
‘What the hell is that stuff?’
Tommy dropped the syringe back in his belt pouch and zipped it up. ‘Oh, it’s probably got some fancy chemistry name, but the Feds call it Vambloc. Pretty nifty stuff it is too. Stops the humes from turning, erases their short-term memory and heals them up fast to boot. No’ the worst idea the Feds have had. Still gottae hate the bastards, though.’
‘Feds?’ Joel asked, frowning.
‘Aye, Feds. They make the rules. And ye dinnae want them catching you, believe me. They’ve got their own way of dealing with illegals like you.’
‘Illegals?’
‘Listen, laddie, instead o’ just repeating everything I say like some kind o’ moron, why don’t ye come and have a wee snifter yourself?’ Tommy pointed down at the inert human, then at Joel. ‘Ye look like ye need it. Don’t be shy. I dinnae mi
nd sharing.’
‘I . . . I can’t . . .’
Tommy roared with laughter. ‘Takes me back, laddie. Takes me right back to my first time. Tell ye what. Hold on.’ He snatched up one of the empty beer bottles that were lying around the alleyway. Then, crouching down to grab the human’s limp wrist, he nipped open a vein with his teeth and a small fountain of blood jetted out. Tommy caught it with the bottle, which quickly started filling with the dark, viscous juice.
‘He’s going to bleed to death,’ Joel said.
Tommy shook his head. ‘Vambloc hasnae kicked in yet, is all. Yer man’ll soon clot up right as rain. I wouldnae worry about the fucker. If I were you, I’d be more worried about myself.’ Letting the bleeding arm flop to the ground, he stood up and offered Joel the bottle.
‘What if I don’t? What if I just starve myself?’
‘You cannae die,’ Tommy said. ‘You’re already deid, ye silly arse.’ His grin gave way to a grimace. ‘But if ye dinnae like the idea of being a vampire, ye’ll not be very happy aboot becoming a wraith: a poor, miserable withered ghost of a thing that’s neither vampire nor human. A fate worse than undeath, believe me. Forget about it, laddie. Take the plunge. Drink up.’
Joel grasped the bottle that Tommy was holding out to him. He raised it hesitantly. The blood looked almost black inside. It clung thickly to the glass, and he could feel its warmth against his hand.
‘This is disgusting,’ he muttered.
But it wasn’t. It was luscious and nourishing. The elixir of eternal life. Scarlet ambrosia. Joel suddenly wanted it more than anything in the world. He pressed the neck of the bottle to his lips and began to drink greedily. He gasped at the sensation of energy flowing into him, like nothing he’d ever experienced before.
Tommy watched approvingly. ‘Hard to describe the buzz, isn’t it?’ he laughed. ‘There’s nothing like that first time. I envy ye, laddie. Now let’s make ourselves scarce before someone comes.’
The Cross Page 13
