Isabella Senice took her hand in both of hers. ‘You’ve probably realised by now that you are not like the rest of them.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ Lisa said.
The woman chuckled. ‘Oh come now, Lisa. You’ve always known you were different, haven’t you? You’ve always known that your destiny didn’t encompass the mundane, the everyday. You are special, Lisa. That’s why I came to you in your dream. Do you know how long I have spent, searching for someone from my own bloodline?’
‘Bloodline?’
Isabella reached out and stroked Lisa’s cheek. ‘But of course. It is my blood running through your veins... much diluted of course by the countless generations who have weakened the strain... but there is enough of me in you to link us.’
Lisa winced as Isabella’s fingertips traced a line across the bruise on her cheek. The woman drew her hand away sharply – a reflex action; almost as if she had felt the pain herself.
‘He hurt you badly,’ Isabella said, and then, almost to herself added, ‘He’ll pay for that.’
Lisa was watching the woman with frightened eyes. This Isabella was an elegant, beautiful woman. The Isabella of her dream was a living nightmare. Which was the real one?
‘Many years ago I had a child,’ Isabella continued, ‘a beautiful little girl. She was taken from me when she was but a few days old. I never saw her again. But I could always feel her out there. And then when she had children, I could feel them too, and so on down countless generations.’ She gripped Lisa’s hand tightly. ‘I feel it now,’ she said.
‘But what do you want from me?’ Lisa said.
‘I want nothing from you, child... other than for you to accept your destiny.’ Isabella Senice smiled. It was a radiant smile, full of warmth and kindness.
‘Just think what we could achieve together,’ Isabella was saying. ‘With my power and your youth and beauty we could...’
The door opening interrupted her.
Roger DeMarney entered the room. He glared at Lisa then spoke to Isabella. ‘There’s no sign of him. He can’t be on the island,’ he said.
‘You fool. Of course he’s on the island,’ Isabella snapped. ‘You’re just incapable of finding him.’
‘I’ll look again.’ He turned back to the door.
‘It’s of no consequence. There’s nothing he can do now.’
Lisa watched the exchange without comprehension, until suddenly she realised they were talking about Steve. So somewhere he was still out there. There was still hope.
And then hope died.
22
DeMarney had his hand on the door handle and was about to leave the room.
Isabella reached out and stroked Lisa’s bruised cheek again. ‘Roger?’
DeMarney paused, the door half open. ‘Yes?’
‘I told you quite specifically that the girl should not be hurt, did I not?’
DeMarney sighed. ‘Together they are responsible for Sarah,’ he said, turning to glare once more at Lisa.
‘Sarah was expendable, Roger. Just as the others were expendable.’ She turned to Lisa, smiling warmly. ‘Just as you are expendable.’
Lisa was watching DeMarney. She watched as fear suddenly flooded into his eyes. She watched as he backed into the doorway. She watched as his mouth worked furiously up and down, mouthing the word ‘No!’ over and over again.
Isabella Senice was also watching him. She raised her hand, pointing to a place in the centre of DeMarney’s forehead. ‘What I give, Roger, I can also take away.’
A black spot appeared in the centre of DeMarney’s brow. It started to smoulder and grow, until it covered his forehead and was creeping down his cheek. DeMarney stood stock still, still mouthing the word, as if unable to believe that this was happening to him.
Within seconds his entire face was blackened and smoking. He raised his hands to his ruined features. They too were charred and burnt, withering into claws.
He howled in despair. It was a nerve-jangling sound; a sound of such absolute desolation that for a split second Lisa felt sorry for him. And then she remembered the others – Tim, Cat, Sean and Susan, and all pity evaporated.
In that instant Roger DeMarney caught fire.
Flames leapt from his clothes and from his flesh, and smoke billowed up around him. He staggered forward, blinded by the fire, arms outstretched, reaching for Isabella, the cry in his throat deepening to that of a wounded bull.
And then, almost before it had started, the fire was dying out, and Roger DeMarney had crumbled to nothing more than a pile of smoking ash.
Lisa was shaking. Isabella tried to soothe her. ‘You see, there is nothing we cannot achieve together,’ she said, and Lisa nodded slowly. With the last display of ruthlessness it was inevitable that Isabella Senice would get her own way. There was nothing either she or Steve could do about it. She was praying now that Steve wouldn’t find her. She couldn’t bear the thought of any harm coming to him.
Isabella was still talking to her, but the words seemed to be coming from down a very deep well, they were hazy and indistinct. ‘...Only with your permission,’ she was saying. ‘For us to join and become one you have to give your consent. You have to invite my soul into your body.’
Lisa stared into the bottomless pools of the woman’s deep brown eyes. She felt her willpower drifting away, as Isabella’s voice, lilting and hypnotic, sucked away any resistance to the idea.
Yes, she thought, just do it, just get it over with. Just don’t hurt me, don’t hurt Steve...
‘Lisa!’ Steve was standing in the doorway.
At the sound of his voice Lisa was jerked back into reality. The fine furnishings had vanished, the Persian rug revealed itself to be nothing more than an old threadbare carpet, and the walls had turned into slabs of bare, grey concrete.
And there was Billy, slumped in the corner of the dank and dirty room, lying in a puddle of filthy water. Why hadn’t she seen all this before? She stared wide-eyed at Steve, who was approaching her, a length of rusted metal in his grip, a wicked looking spike. From Steve she turned back to Isabella and screamed when she saw the monstrosity that sat beside her.
The head was nothing more than a giant puffball of flesh. Where the mouth should have been was a red, ragged gash, two holes above it marked the nose. The eyes were at the bottom of two deep hollows, and were glittering blackly.
The head wobbled precariously on top of a body that was more reptile than human. The skin was leathery, a dullish brown, scaled and crusted with sores and scabs. Underneath the arms, protruding from either side of the body, were short, stumpy tentacles, each no more than twelve inches long, but studded with moist red suckers that pulsed and throbbed.
The body finished not with legs but with a rotting, wet, fleshy stump that hugged the floor like a snail’s foot.
‘That’s why she needs your body, Lisa!’ Steve shouted. ‘Hers is rotting away.’
The thing that was once Isabella Senice wheeled on Steve, a long, black, wolfish tongue, lolling out of the misshapen mouth.
Lisa saw her raise a disfigured hand. ‘Steve! Look out!’
But Steve was already moving. He dived forwards in a roll and came up within a yard of the decaying witch. He raised the iron spike and plunged it as deep as it would go, down into the top of the swollen head. As the spike punctured the flesh a foul smelling black liquid spurted out of the wound like a fountain. The creature screamed – the sound a mixture of pain and fury – and grasped the iron spike in both hands, rocking it backwards and forwards in an effort to pull it out.
Steve grabbed Lisa by the arm and yanked her to her feet. ‘Run,’ he said. Then he went across to the divan and hauled Billy onto the floor. Apart from being nearly paralysed by fear, there was nothing wrong with him. They hadn’t hurt him. Steve brought his face to within inches of his brother’s. ‘Run!’ he shouted. ‘Run!’
Billy scrambled to his feet, brushed Steve aside and made it to the door just before Lisa. As Steve
was about to follow something grabbed him around the ankle and brought him to the ground.
The tentacles growing out of the side of the witch’s body were stretching, elongating, and one of them had twisted itself around his leg.
Isabella Senice was staring down at him with her black, gimlet eyes. She was gradually drawing nearer and nearer, sliding across the floor like a huge slug.
Steve struggled to free himself, but the tentacle was wet and rubbery and he couldn’t grip it. He looked up into the almost featureless, puffy face and realised it was grinning triumphantly. The witch had pulled the spike from her head and was approaching, with the piece of metal clasped like a dagger in her hand.
‘Did you really think you could beat me?’ the creature hissed at him.
Before he could answer Lisa appeared in the doorway. She was holding the rusty axe from the shed. She advanced and with one swing severed the tentacle midway along its length.
With a howl of pain the witch drew the rest of the tentacles back into her body, and clamped her hand over the end of the severed one. Steve shook the rubbery end of the tentacle from his leg and scrambled to his feet, running to the door while Isabella was still reeling in pain.
He was seconds behind Lisa as he burst from the shed. Billy was there, standing in the middle of the garden, waiting for them, a look of total fear on his face.
‘The lake,’ Steve said. ‘Make for the boat.’
They ran through the trees, lashed by low branches, and tripped by hidden roots as the fauna of the island conspired with the witch to impede their progress. Finally they broke from the trees.
The boats were still moored at the jetty. ‘Quick,’ Steve said. ‘Get aboard.’
But before they even got onto the jetty the water of the lake began to boil.
Billy cried out in terror as a huge waterspout formed in the centre of the lake, spinning like a tornado, sucking in weed and water lilies, mud and stones. It towered above them, gradually shifting, the shape of Isabella Senice slowly forming out of the elements drawn in by the waterspout.
They watched mesmerised as the figure grew and grew as more debris was sucked in. A column of water detached itself from the main mass and snaked out across the water towards them. As it drew nearer it started to change shape, becoming spherical, until, at last, it formed itself into a replica of the witch’s head. It hung just yards before them, a grotesque representation made from water, weed and mud.
A slit appeared in the head as the mouth opened. ‘You fools, did you really think you could beat me?’
Steve was about to tell the others to run. But, as the watery, evil head hung in front of them, Lisa stepped forward.
‘We can beat you,’ she said, but not in her own voice.
The sound issued from her mouth was like a chorus – a hundred voices speaking together.
Steve and Billy stared at her, but Lisa was oblivious. Her eyes had rolled back into her head, so that only the whites were showing, and her whole body was trembling violently. As they watched, white globes of light started flitting and flying through the air, circling above Lisa’s head. They circled and swooped, passing through her body, entering her stomach to emerge from her back. Lisa stretched her arms out wide and the ground around her began to vibrate; to shake and rumble, until it felt to Steve and Billy that they were in the middle of an earthquake.
‘What’s happening?’ Billy shouted to Steve above the growling of the earth.
‘I don’t know,’ he shouted back. ‘But look, it seems to be working.’
The head of the witch had retreated, and had joined itself back to the main mass of the body. The bright spheres of light flying about Lisa’s head were now swirling above her in one mass, a spinning vortex that was slowly lowering itself, gradually sinking into her body.
‘Oh come now, Lisa. You’ve always known you were different, haven’t you? You’ve always known that your destiny didn’t encompass the mundane, the everyday. You are special, Lisa. That’s why I came to you in your dream. Do you know how long I have spent, searching for someone from my own bloodline?’
Lisa was growing more powerful by the moment. She didn’t know why but she could feel the strength of others within her. It was as if she was being held and supported.
As the shadows were absorbed into Lisa’s flesh Steve watched her face. It was in a state of constant change, as different faces merged with her own. It was when he saw Tim’s face superimposed over Lisa’s, followed by Cat, Sean and Susan, that he realised what was happening.
Billy was watching the transformation, his jaw gaping open in disbelief.
‘It’s Cat and the others,’ Steve shouted. ‘They’re helping us.’
Lisa felt warmth flowing through her. Hundreds of emotions were flooding her mind as the thoughts and feelings of those the witch had taken over the centuries were released into her.
At the edge of the lake, Lisa stood facing Isabella Senice, and as Steve and Billy watched she raised her arms to the sky, and the sky turned black as huge storm clouds gathered overhead.
She lowered one arm until she was pointing directly at Isabella Senice, and then snapped her fingers. In a blinding flash a bolt of lightning crackled down from the sky, connected with Lisa’s raised arm and travelled through her body, emerging from her fingertips.
It arced across the lake, striking the witch’s grotesque head, vaporising it instantly. The air around them was filled with the smell of ozone, and from the centre of the lake came an unearthly shriek as the rest of the body sank back into the lake, becoming just weed and mud once more.
As the witch disintegrated, Lisa fell to the ground. Her clothes were smoking from the lightning strike and her hair had been burnt to no more than black stubble that covered her scalp. She was not moving.
‘Lisa!’ Steve cried out and ran to her, crouching down and cradling her in his arms.
Billy was hovering nearby, tears coursing down his face. ‘Is she dead?’ he said, his voice trembling.
Steve was feeling for a pulse in the side of Lisa’s neck and could feel nothing. She wasn’t breathing. ‘Yes,’ he said in reply to his brother. He pulled the limp body closer, never wanting to let it go. ‘Yes, she is.’
Billy turned away.
Above the trees a column of smoke hung in the air. The fire had spread from the shed to the cottage, turning the place into an inferno. Steve knew they had beaten the witch. They had beaten Isabella Senice and sent her to the hell she deserved. But there was no glory in the triumph. The cost had been too great... far too great.
Something stroked his hand. He looked down at Lisa’s face. There still seemed no sign of life there, but her fingers were brushing against his. Suddenly her body heaved and her mouth opened, emitting an ear-splitting shriek and she lurched forward.
‘Lisa!’ Steve cried out.
Billy spun round in time to see a column of light streak out from Lisa’s open mouth. The light formed itself into a glowing silver ball and shot into the sky, disappearing from view within seconds.
Lisa was in Steve’s arms sobbing. ‘They beat her,’ she was saying over and over again. ‘They beat her.’
As Steve held her tightly, the tears poured down his face.
HIS OTHER SON
Ray Stock stood naked at the hotel window looking out at the dancing lights in the harbour. Fishing boats coming back with their catch of tuna and cod, private yachts with all their lights burning. A police launch cruising by, sweeping the wharf with a single piercing spotlight, keeping watch. Along to the right the shingled roof and striped awning of Angie’s Bar and Grill, the best fish restaurant on this stretch of the west coast.
Ray knew that if he opened the window just a fraction the tantalizing aromas of clam chowder and lobster bisque would enter the hotel room, washing away the smell of cigarette smoke and futile sex. He glanced guiltily back at the bed. The girl was still sleeping, one arm raised above her head, her slender fingers tangling in her long fair hair. She was a to
urist. There were a lot of them here; cheap casual labour in the harbour, cheap impartial sex in the hotels. He couldn’t even remember her name. Guilt surfaced again, but he was well practiced at avoidance.
He lit another cigarette and angled his watch so he could read it by the harbour lights. Ten thirty. He walked across to the bed and picked up his Levis from the crumpled heap of clothing on the floor. As he dressed he smoked, and wondered how long it was going to take him to drive to the party. He reached in his hip pocket and pulled out the dog-eared, grease-stained invitation. It was gilt edged, the lettering raised and black; very formal, with RSVP in the bottom left hand corner. He hadn’t bothered. Caroline knew he’d be there. He didn’t have a choice. Not anymore.
He finished dressing, took a handful of dollar bills from his wallet and laid them down on the nightstand. The blonde girl had insisted that she wasn’t a hooker, that she wanted to go with him because she genuinely liked him, but he left the money anyway. At least she’d have something to remember him by.
Out on the street the smells from Angie’s hung in the air, an appetizing lure for hungry customers. He wondered if he had time to grab something to eat. His stomach was empty and starting to complain, but he checked his watch again and headed off in the opposite direction to Angie’s, to where he’d left his car three hours earlier.
As he approached the wharf he saw Oscar Hernandez, and his son Rudy, unloading their catch, the old man cursing his son good naturedly, Rudy responding with a few well-chosen expletives.
Oscar waved and called out to Ray as he drew level with the boat. “Hey, Ray, you not working tonight? What’s the matter, the water too cold for you, eh?”
“No customers,” Ray replied. “Butt end of the tourist season. Who the hell wants a pleasure cruise this time of night anyway?”
Oscar Hernandez grinned at him, his one good eye twinkling in the rays of the mast light. He’d lost the other in a fight with a six-foot marlin he’d landed thirty years ago, just off Carrion Reef.
A Weaving of Ancient Evil Page 13
