The Cross

by Scott G. Mariani

  ‘Can’t get the staff these days,’ Lillith murmured, returning to her sword-sharpening.

  ‘Mr Lonsdale liked to k-k-keep up with what was h-happening in the world,’ stammered the ghoul.

  ‘As if the human race had the remotest notion of what is really happening in the world,’ Gabriel snorted. ‘You’re wasting our time. Get back to your hole until we find further use for you.’ He grabbed the newspaper and hurled it violently at the cowering ghoul. ‘Do you hear me? Leave us, cur!’

  Geoffrey picked up the tray and bowed and scraped his way backwards out of the cellar.

  ‘I told you those two would be useless, Gabriel,’ Lillith said with a smile when the door had banged shut. ‘We should have just drained them dry and been done with it.’

  ‘Damn them both. Too late now. Ghoul blood is undrinkable.’ Gabriel stooped to snatch up the fallen newspapers and tossed them on the table. ‘Zachary, are you making any progress?’ he snapped.

  ‘Give me time,’ Zachary muttered, tapping more keys. ‘I’ll get it.’

  Lillith casually reached down for the crumpled newspaper, peeled away the front and back pages and used them to test the edge of her blade. The steel sliced cleanly through the paper like a razor; the two halves fluttered to the floor. ‘Not perfect,’ she said, giving the blade a few more strokes from her hone before peeling off another sheet. She was about to cut it when she stopped and let out a loud shuddering gasp. Her sword fell with a clang to the tiled floor as she twisted away from the newspaper in horror.

  ‘Lil?’ Zachary said, alarmed. ‘You okay?’

  ‘What is it, sister?’ Gabriel cried.

  Lillith pressed a hand to her chest, catching her breath, and pointed at the newspaper without looking. ‘I can’t bear to see it. I never wanted to see that thing again.’

  Gabriel strode over and snatched up the paper. His eyes searched the rumpled page, then narrowed with a blaze of anger and fear as his gaze landed on the small, crisp colour image in the bottom left-hand corner.

  An image of a cross. A Celtic cross, one whose appearance was terrifyingly familiar, its shattered fragments pieced together and held in place with wire. Who had done this?

  The headline of the small article was: HISTORY PROFESSOR’S DISCOVERY IS OUT OF THIS WORLD.

  ‘“Oxford University boffins are baffled,”’ Gabriel read aloud, ‘“by the discovery of an ancient artifact in the mountains of Romania. Chloe Dempsey, 19, a pentathlete and student at the University of Bedfordshire, came across the mysterious object while on a skiing trip with friends and brought it to the UK to show to her father, Professor Matt Dempsey, 56, a curator at Oxford’s Pitt Rivers Museum . . .” I will not read it all. Suffice to say that my fears were correct. The cross of Ardaich has been found.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Bal Mawr Manor

  When Dec awoke it was to find himself staring upwards at the canopy of the four-poster bed. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was – but as he struggled out from under the satin bedcover and dragged himself sleepily over to the window to peer at the incoming surf crashing on the rocks, it all came back to him like something out of an incredible dream and he punched a fist in the air.

  He was learning how to be a vampire hunter! YES!

  But it wasn’t going to be easy. Knightly hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he wanted to know everything. The two of them had sat up until long after midnight, writing up notes on everything Dec could tell him about his first-hand vampire experiences and poring over old books searching for anything that resembled Joel Solomon’s strange cross. By the time Knightly had eventually let him stagger off up to bed, Dec’s mind had been buzzing so intensely that he couldn’t sleep. Leafing through a bedside copy of They Lurk Amongst Us hadn’t helped, either. Dec had never been much of a reader, but Knightly’s accounts of his vampire-destroying exploits made his heart thump. It hadn’t been until sometime after three that Dec had finally dozed off into a fitful sleep that was filled with flickering shadows and sinister looming figures.

  He hauled on his jeans, took a pee in the biggest bathroom he’d ever seen, and wandered downstairs. After losing his way three times he eventually made his way to the breakfast room, where he found Knightly looking comparatively bright-eyed and heartily polishing off the remains of a plate of fried eggs and sausages.

  ‘Ah, there you are. Sit down. Help yourself to coffee. Thought you’d never show up.’

  ‘I got lost,’ Dec said, pouring coffee into a fine china cup that he was terrified to touch in case it broke.

  ‘Easily done, in this big old pile,’ Knightly said through a mouthful of sausage. ‘After breakfast I’ll give you the tour.’

  Which he duly did, proudly showing Dec through a seemingly endless procession of rooms and passageways. Bal Mawr was a veritable anti-vampire fortress. Everywhere Dec looked were hanging crucifixes, wreaths of garlic, bunches of hawthorn. On the outside of every door, a large iron cross had been securely screwed to the wood, bearing the words ‘Vampyre, You May Not Enter Here’ in bold gothic engraving; and on its inside each door had two tall mirrors flanking it left and right, angled a few degrees inwards. ‘So you can tell immediately whether anyone coming into the room has a reflection,’ Knightly explained to a quizzical Dec. ‘Though it’s highly unlikely that any vampire could penetrate so far through my defences. Still, when dealing with the Undead one can’t be too careful. They’re a tricksy lot, you know, Declan.’

  And on and on the manor went, room after room, filled with all manner of paraphernalia. Everywhere they went was the same pungent smell of sandalwood incense. In Knightly’s grand salon Dec paused to admire a display of silver-bladed daggers and carved wooden stakes whose points had been rubbed with essence of garlic. ‘These are really for show,’ Knightly admitted. ‘Most of the real weaponry is in the armoury room.’

  ‘What does the holy water do?’ Dec asked, pointing at the labelled bottles of the stuff on a sideboard.

  ‘It dissolves them,’ Knightly said. ‘They just fizz away.’

  ‘Kind of like those aspirins you put in water?’

  ‘Exactly like that.’

  ‘Now, this here’s the bollocks, so it is,’ Dec said, picking up a huge antique pistol from a table and weighing it admiringly in his hand.

  ‘A Napoleonic infantry trooper’s flintlock sidearm,’ Knightly told him. ‘I like to keep it handy, just in case. Careful, it’s loaded. It fires a .75 calibre ball made of pure silver.’

  ‘That’ll do the job,’ Dec said, aiming the heavy pistol towards the window at a distant ship tracking across the horizon, imagining that it was full of vampires.

  ‘Only if you hit them right in the heart,’ Knightly said, ‘which requires a very exact aim. And you only get one shot, Declan. That’s why a true vampire hunter needs to be proficient with the full range of weaponry at his disposal.’

  Dec replaced the gun on the table and peered at a small gilt-framed photo that hung over the fireplace. It showed an attractive, pleasantly plump woman with sandy hair and laughter on her face, sitting on a beach. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

  Knightly gazed at the picture, smiled sadly and hesitated before replying, ‘Someone I used to know.’

  Dec thought it better not to pry. He pointed at a massive wooden sea chest whose lid was fastened by a padlock. ‘And what’s in there?’

  ‘Oh, that’s money,’ Knightly said, as nonchalantly as he could; but he was unable to hide the glitter that suddenly came into his eye, replacing the wistful look of a moment earlier. ‘Cash. Lots and lots of it. You might call it my fighting fund against the forces of evil.’

  They walked on through the house. Beyond the gleaming double doors of the library, a winding passage led to a circular hallway dominated by a full-size armoured knight mounted dramatically astride a rearing war-horse. From the knight’s gauntlet hung a morning star mace – a length of stout iron chain attached to a heavy spiked ball that looked to Dec as if
it could crush a car if swung hard enough. He ran his hand down the horse’s glass-fibre foreleg.

  ‘One of my more illustrious ancestors,’ Knightly said, waving up at the shining warrior. ‘You’re looking at Sir Eustace Knightly, killed at the Battle of Tewkesbury in 1471. If you look, you can see the hole in the breastplate where the fatal arrow hit him. But aside from his military exploits, he was the very first of our family to wage a private war against the legions of the Undead.’

  ‘You mean he was a vampire hunter too?’

  Knightly nodded. ‘Very much so. Of course, back then they had other names for them. The very first mention of the word “vampire” in our family records wasn’t until my great-grandfather’s day. Each generation of Knightlys has passed its knowledge down to the next.’

  ‘Like you will to your son one day,’ Dec said brightly.

  Knightly looked away, and was momentarily quiet as he continued up the passage.

  ‘I was reading your book,’ Dec said, sensing that he’d accidentally touched some sensitive spot and should change the subject. ‘It’s awesome.’

  ‘Very kind of you to say so, Declan.’

  ‘So, like, how many does it come to altogether? I mean, how many have you kill— destroyed? I know you didn’t want to tell that daft interviewer, but you can tell me, so you can.’

  Knightly shrugged modestly. ‘Oh, you know, it’s very hard to say—’

  ‘Go on, tell me,’ Dec urged him. ‘Fifty?’

  ‘Hmmm . . .’

  ‘A hundred? A thousand?’

  ‘Let’s have a nice cup of tea,’ Knightly said.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Wheatsheaf pub, central Oxford

  ‘Where the hell’ve you been?’ were the first words out of Sam Carter’s mouth as his broad, boxy frame filled the doorway and his bulk creaked the old floorboards of the pub bar.

  Sitting at a corner table with an untouched beer in front of him, Joel shrugged. ‘Just out and about,’ he said. ‘What else is there for a guy to do when he’s on suspension?’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ Carter said. ‘Hang on.’ Carter never just walked anywhere. He charged over to the bar like a buffalo and came tramping back a moment later, foam from a pint of bitter spilling generously down his fingers. He banged the glass down on the table, then parked his wide bulk into a chair opposite Joel. ‘You not drinking?’ he asked, glancing at Joel’s beer.

  ‘Not thirsty,’ Joel said. He’d taken a swig of Tommy’s blood bottle in the pub toilets on arrival.

  Carter squinted at him closely. ‘What’s different about you? Can’t put my finger on it. You been working out or something?’

  Joel shrugged and didn’t reply.

  ‘You must have seen the news?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You should. A lot of things have been happening. Stone’s place out near Henley, Crowmoor Hall? You were right, Joel. More fucking corpses tucked away than Rose Hill cemetery. I’ve never seen anything like it, and neither had Jack Brier. Thirty years as a forensic pathologist and the poor sod was being sick all over his shoes when we started pulling them out of there. Fucking body parts heaped up in piles. Little baby skeletons with their arms and legs pulled off. Jesus Christ. It was terrible. Brier’s department has had to draft in extra staff from all over the place to start the work of sifting through all the body parts and skeletal remains to try to identify some of the victims. Brier reckons a few of them might have been homeless people, runaways and the like.’

  Carter slurped his beer. ‘Fucking babies,’ he muttered, shaking his head in disgust. ‘Can you believe it?’ Collecting himself, he went on, ‘And now we’re launching a major manhunt for Gabriel Stone and the other sickos he hangs out with. One of them’s already turned up dead. Some kids found him floating down the Isis with a .45 slug in him. Can’t trace him on any records, but an officer recognised him as Seymour Finch. Stone’s butler, or whatever the hell he was. The one you beat up. I mean, allegedly beat up.’

  That had been the primary reason for Joel’s suspension from duty. ‘I did beat him up,’ Joel admitted. ‘And shot him, and drowned him too,’ he could have added, but didn’t.

  ‘Anyway, the official theory is that Finch might have been about to dob Stone in, and so he put a bullet in him.’

  Joel shrugged. ‘Maybe. Nasty character.’

  ‘With friends in high places,’ Carter said in a lower voice. ‘Friends like our illustrious cabinet minister Jeremy Lonsdale. Someone else we’re very keen to have a little chat with. Keep this under your hat, Joel. All the press have been told is that an MP is helping with the inquiry. Truth is, Lonsdale’s vanished. Nobody knows where the bastard is.’

  ‘Try Romania,’ Joel wanted to say. He remembered now. The familiar face of the man with the gun on Gabriel Stone’s castle battlements. Stone had called him Lonsdale. But Joel wasn’t about to mention any of that to Carter.

  ‘Anyway,’ Carter said. ‘Let me cut to the chase. The reason I wanted to talk to you is that the old man wants you back.’

  The old man Carter was talking about was their mutual boss, Chief Superintendent Lester Page, who had personally signed Joel’s suspension from duty just days before.

  Joel smiled bitterly. ‘He does, does he?’

  Carter nodded. ‘You’re to be fully reinstated. I watched him tear up the suspension papers myself. He wants you to head up a new team that’ll be committed to this, twenty-four-seven, until we get Stone and . . .’ Carter shot a glance back over his bulky shoulder at the other lunchtime drinkers in the pub ‘. . . and you-know-who. Lonsdale,’ he added in a hoarse whisper, in case Joel hadn’t twigged. ‘Bastard’s got to pop up somewhere. Can’t just vanish into thin air.’ Carter took another slurp of beer, peering at Joel over the top of his glass. ‘One thing, though, Joel . . .’

  ‘What?’ Though Joel had a pretty good idea what was coming.

  ‘This is a fresh start for you, yeah? You don’t want to fuck this up. So no mention of the v-word. Get what I’m saying?’

  ‘I’m over it now,’ Joel said. ‘I don’t believe in v— I mean, I don’t believe in that stuff any more. Don’t know what got into me. Maybe I just let that kid Dec Maddon freak me out with his crap.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Carter said, beaming. ‘Looks like Dec Maddon’s come to his senses, too. Some officers went round to his folks’ place in Wallingford, to go back over his original statement. Now he’s saying he’s not so sure he saw anything like that at all. Just a good old straightforward brutal, bloody murder.’ He paused. ‘So you want the job, then?’

  ‘I want the job,’ Joel said. ‘I want to catch Gabriel Stone and every one of his . . .’ He’d been about to say the v-word. He caught himself just in time. ‘Everyone that’s linked to him.’

  Carter nodded briskly and drained the last of his beer. ‘Excellent. Welcome back, then.’

  ‘So when do I start?’ Joel asked.

  Carter glanced at his watch. ‘I’m heading right back to St Aldates station this minute. You want to string along?’

  Chapter Thirty

  The Ridings

  Lillith and Zachary sat in silence in the wine cellar as Gabriel paced furiously up and down, deep in thought.

  ‘What do we do?’ Lillith said eventually.

  ‘It’s simple,’ Gabriel told her. ‘We must take it back. We have to retrieve it. Such a weapon is perfect for us. Our enemies will be annihilated at a stroke. Then, once victorious, we will ensure that the cross is destroyed once and for all.’

  ‘Brother, you surely can’t have forgotten that we can’t go near it?’

  Gabriel nodded. ‘Indeed. The sword is double-edged, so to speak. Which is why we need to enlist a human to carry out the task.’

  ‘Not another ghoul,’ Lillith groaned. ‘Look at the two specimens we have with us here. And remember what happened with Lonsdale.’ She spat out the name. ‘We took him in, we gave him everything he c
ould have asked for, and he betrayed us.’

  ‘The motherfucker was a politician,’ Zachary said, gazing closely at the computer screen and clicking the keyboard as he spoke. His big fingers were getting more accustomed to the keys. ‘You can’t trust those guys.’

  Gabriel shook his head. ‘No. No ghouls this time. This must be done properly. And evidently, the right candidate for this particular task will require a certain set of virtues. Leave that to me.’ He paused, rubbing his eyes to clear away the mental picture of the cross that was still haunting him. ‘In the meantime, we have another, very grave, problem. The Federation have agents combing the human media constantly. They only have to find this article, and they will know the location of the weapon.’

  Lillith blanched. ‘What if they already have? They went after it before; they can do it again.’

  Gabriel pursed his lips. ‘I believe we have the advantage in this situation. The Federation have no reason to be looking for the cross. However, it is only a very narrow advantage. We must act quickly to ensure we get to it first. Zachary, you are interrupting my train of thought with your incessant tapping. Pray leave the computer alone for now.’

  ‘I was going into their news sites to see if there was more on the cross story,’ Zachary rumbled.

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Zachary said, still peering hard at the screen. ‘I’m looking at something else. The kind of guy you’d be looking for – I guess he’d have to be the meanest hard-assedest motherfucking killer that ever walked the earth? For a human, I mean.’

  ‘A man of little scruple, certainly,’ Gabriel said. ‘A man of physical strength and brutality. And one who is open to the sort of persuasion that we are in a position to offer.’

  ‘What I thought. Then I think I might have found just the guy we need,’ Zachary said, pointing at the screen as he heaved his bulk out of his chair. ‘Take a look at this.’