by Jan McDonald
“What about your call to the Council, Doc?”
“Changed my mind. I’ll be in touch. Thanks, Jane.”
“No worries, Doc. Um … you sure everything is okay?”
“Never more sure. Goodnight.”
Lane swept out of the Sanctuary grabbing her keys from the desk as she passed. Her obsession had won the day and she gave it free rein to cloud her judgement, now only intent on one thing; finding the vampire that had eluded her for so long.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Beckett pushed the pile of books and magazines on the coffee table aside, flicked away the layer of dust and set down two glasses with a new bottle of Jack Daniels as he flopped down onto the battered old sofa beside Darius. For a few minutes he didn’t speak.
Darius remained quiet and still, sensing the anger and pain that had the potential to erupt in a lava stream of rage from Beckett if he poked a hole in the tight containment. Eventually Beckett sighed and leaned forwards and poured two glasses of the Tennessee whisky.
“Don’t know if this is your poison or not but tonight, I really don’t care. Here. Drink.”
Darius took the glass from him. “What shall we drink to?”
“Oh . . . I don’t know,” Beckett said, in a slow quiet voice. “Let’s see. How about old ghosts? And new tragedies. Yep, that about does it. Old ghosts and new tragedies.”
Darius raised his glass. “To old ghosts and new tragedies.” He took a sip of the harsh spirit and waited. Beckett was calling it and he knew if he was patient he may gain an insight into where to look for Andrei next. The bruising on his head from Beckett’s handling of him earlier still throbbed like a son-of-a-bitch and he had no wish to repeat the scenario.
Beckett downed the whisky in one and said nothing, just poured himself another large glass of his favourite ‘JD’, which followed the first in swift succession. He poured the third.
“So, Hunter – sorry, Darius – tell me about the blood-sucking bastard that you call brother. And I want the truth. All of it.”
If Darius had doubted Beckett’s purpose should he hold anything back, the hard glint in the storm-grey eyes told him the reality of his situation. They might be playing at drinking buddies, but the truth weighed heavily on him.
“There isn’t a whole lot that I can tell you that you don’t already know.” He held up a hand as Beckett shifted his weight on the sofa and inhaled deep and loud, his troubled eyes taking on a wary cast.
“Whoa, calm down. I’m going to tell you everything, it’s just that – apart from the beginning, when it all happened – you probably know as much as I do about the thing that used to be my older brother.”
He felt Beckett relax a little. “Andrei is fifteen years older than me, I was a late surprise to my parents, you may say. My family are from Hungary Budapst, to be exact – although Andrei and I were born in London. My father and mother came to this country on old money and we were educated at the best schools. Andrei always had the knack of getting into trouble; he never seemed content with anything, always searching, always looking for something better. Then when I was ten, I found my mother crying one night. I hid and listened as she told my father about Andrei’s latest obsession. It seemed that he had become involved with a satanic cult that included the drinking of blood in its nasty little rituals. Apparently it was mixed with wine and herbs, and I use that word loosely, to enable the sick acolytes to stomach it whilst getting high on the atmosphere and the drugs. At first she thought he would get bored and move on to the next thing, as he usually did. But that didn’t happen. He just got more and more obsessed by it all, and especially by the leader of the group. Then one night he came home covered in blood. It was ugly. There was dried blood on his face, around his mouth and chin and his hands and chest were plastered. My mother had gone to bed early, thankfully, and my father tried to get some sense out of him and get him cleaned up. Oh, yes, I know what you are going to say. Why didn’t he call the police? It wasn’t that simple. He didn’t know what Andrei had done, just that he was covered in blood that wasn’t his and was obviously under the effect of drugs, and Father honestly believed he would sleep it off and we could try and put things right. And then there was the issue of our being here. I said we came here on old money. Well, that is true. But we were also here illegally. That is why he didn’t involve the police or a doctor.”
Darius paused, then without emotion continued with Andrei’s history. “As it turned out, it wouldn’t have made any difference. My brother died that night. We didn’t know what was happening to him then, not that we would have understood or known what to do for him. It seems that during one of the bloody rituals Andrei gave himself over to evil and allowed their leader to feed from him and then Andrei drank his blood. That much he told us before he fell into a fever and a coma. It was all over in less than two hours: the screaming and obscenities, the thrashing and the vomiting of blood, and then the death. He went quiet and we thought that was it – that he would sleep and recover – but he simply slipped away. He never even opened his eyes. Not until later.”
Beckett leaned forward and poured another Jack Daniels, the story was getting uncomfortably familiar. He moved the bottle over the other glass but Darius covered it with his hand.
“I think I know what happened next,” said Beckett, thickly.
Darius appeared not to have heard him; he carried on, talking to his own soul then and not to Beckett, as if by doing so he could purge the horror of what followed.
“My father and I cleaned him up then, washing him, getting rid of the blood, putting him into clean clothes. We didn’t want my mother to see him dead and in that state. Her health was delicate and the shock may have killed her too. So, when we had finished, my father broke the news to her gently. He told her that Andrei had taken a drug overdose. It was all we could think of to explain it.”
Darius went quiet again, the memory too vivid to carry on.
“It’s okay,” said Beckett. “I think I’ve been there.”
This seemed to anger Darius. “How can you know? That wasn’t the end. We laid him out and, as is the custom in my homeland, we sat vigil with him, saying the prayers that were to keep his soul safe while it travelled back to God. Though we may as well have saved our breath, for the good it did. We sat there until the next evening, taking it in turns, while we waited for friends from the old country to come and help with his burial. When the darkness came, Andrei sat up. Just sat up as if nothing had happened. Then . . .”
“Then,” prompted Beckett.
“Then he killed both my mother and father. Just ripped them apart with his bare hands.”
“Jesus, that was rough, at ten years old.” He couldn’t help but note the calm coldness as Darius had recounted the story without emotion.
“I grew up quickly.”
“Why do you think he spared you? Compassion?”
Darius let out a harsh laugh. “Compassion? No. He left me alone because I ran away. Yes, I ran like hell. And I ran until I couldn’t run any further. I was found exhausted and in shock. They took me into care because I pretended I couldn’t speak. Kept it up for years, then when I was old enough I just ran away. It seems to be what I’m good at,” he said bitterly. “I’ve been searching for Andrei ever since, always one step behind him. I thought I’d found him tonight; thought I was at last going to be able to put an end to it all. And what did I do? I ran. I ran away again. So I’m in the market for some help after all. I have recently come to understand that there is more to hunting and killing vampires than the movies would have you believe.”
“Well, I don’ know ‘bout that.” Beckett had begun slurring. “Seems t’me that you almost did the job on Lane. You got the right ideas. Balls is what you’re short on. S’understandable.”
Darius glanced at the now empty bottle on the table. “If it wasn’t that you’re drunk I would take offence at that.”
Beckett shrugged. “Take away, sunshine. Take away.”
“So
, I told you about Andrei. Now it’s your turn. What’s your story, Beckett?”
“You told me nothing. A sad story is all you told me. I know Andrei is a bastard. I know he’s a vampire of the worst kind; one of the Undead. I know he’ll kill without mercy or feeling of any kind. All this I already know. And my story, well, that’s kinda private. This aint no support group, kid. Just wanted to keep an eye on you while I got myself anaesthetised. Which, incidentally, takes more than a bottle of my friend ‘Jack’ these days. Now, that’s got to be a worry, heh?”
Despite the bravado, Beckett eyes were almost closed and he leaned heavily against the young man. Darius stood up.
“I’m not gonna keep you ‘gainst your will. There’s no need to run,” he said, pointedly.
Before Darius could reply, Beckett was slumped into the corner of the sofa. The young man stood for a few moments watching him as he slipped deeper into an alcoholic stupor. “What happened to you? Whatever it was, it haunts you. Haunts your dreams and your waking hours. I know how that is. Maybe we have more in common that you admit to. Sleep while you can, Beckett.”
A cocktail of Tennessee whisky and the events of the previous twenty-four hours made a perfect catalyst for the action replay of the night it had all begun for Beckett. His subconscious let go of the lock he’d placed on it and his darkest memories played out like a movie on the screen of his nightmare.
It was raining and he’d been waiting for Grace to come home, determined to stay awake and talk to her, no matter how late it was. He wanted her to see a specialist, a friend of his from the seminary who had traded the pulpit for the shrink’s couch. Her constant ramblings of vampires and blood drinking were out of control now. He had no choice; he would get her psychiatric help.
His hundredth glance at the clock told him it was just past three o‘clock. Late, even for Grace. He went to the door to look out for her and almost fell over her inert body lying, soaked to the skin and in a pool of blood, on his doorstep.
“Grace! Dear God, help me.”
Beckett picked her up into his arms – no great effort needed; Grace had lost at least three stones in weight and was no heavier than a small child. She stirred in his arms.
“Paul? Paul, I’m so sorry.”
“Shhh. Don’t talk. Let me get you dry. Dear Jesus, what happened to you? Where did all this blood come from?” A quick inspection told him that it wasn’t hers, but the smears around her mouth sickened him and he didn’t dare think about how it had come to be there.
He strode up the stairs and laid her on her bed, took her soaking clothes off her shivering body, leaving her underclothes. He flinched at the emaciated frame in front of him, the protruding ribs, and paper-thin skin covering bones and precious little flesh. He’d had no idea.
In that moment shame and guilt swamped him. He should have listened to her, taken her seriously. But if he had then that meant he would have to accept that she was telling the truth. That vampires did exist. That his God had allowed such creatures of hell to walk the earth. That all he believed in had no meaning. All lies. His life was based on a lie.
Grace stirred on the bed and Beckett covered her with a blanket. He sat on the bed beside her and took her hand in his.
“Grace? Gracey? It’s me, Paul. Listen to me. It’s going to be all right. I’m going to get you help. I’ll look after you. It’s all going to be all right.”
It was then that Beckett’s world descended into even more madness.
Grace sat up and stared into his eyes, while her pitiful screams tore into his soul and held him transfixed, unable to move to telephone for help. He reached into his pocket for his prayer stole, and put it around his neck with shaking hands. And he prayed. He prayed until the screams subsided and Grace lay still and calm again. Her breathing was shallow and barely perceptible and then it stopped. Grace was dead.
Beckett didn’t know how long he sat in disbelief, unaware of the tears that slid down his face and off his chin onto his shirt, unaware of the presence of a tall beautiful woman standing behind him, unaware that he had left his front door open in his haste to get Grace inside and safe, unaware that the woman was speaking softly to him, until she put her hand on his heaving shoulder. Somewhere someone was sobbing; he looked up – expecting it to be whoever stood there in the room with him – but, gradually realised that the sobs were his own.
“Father? It isn’t over. There are things to be done. She needs to be given peace. Do you know what I’m saying?”
Beckett shook his head? “Um, I need to call our doctor. He . . . um . . . needs to come and . . . certificate . . . something. I don’t know.”
“No, Father. That isn’t what I mean. She has died, but there is something inside her, something unclean. Do you understand?”
“Possession?” he whispered, vague memories of distant lectures in the seminary, filed away for future reference – a future which thankfully had never arrived. Until now.
“Not in the way you understand it, Father. Your sister is dead. There is no bringing her back. But what lives in her will animate her unless we do what is necessary.”
Beckett nodded and stood slowly and opened the drawer of Grace’s beside cabinet. It was still there: the Bible he had given to her on the day of his ordination. He lifted it reverently, still not questioning the woman’s presence; doing everything automatically, his mind far removed from that place.
Impatience flickered momentarily around her sensuous mouth. “No, Father. That won’t help. Not now; maybe not ever. Your sister is the victim of a vampire and her body has become host to something unholy. Unless her heart is cut out and her head removed she will rise and become a filthy creature of the darkness, living only on the blood of the innocent, killing and corrupting as she herself was killed and corrupted.”
“Get out,” Beckett yelled. “Whoever you are, get out of my house and take your filthy lies with you. I’m calling the doctor and then I’m calling the police.”
She moved so quickly his human eyes did not see it. She was in front of him, holding on to his arms, pinning them to his side and staring into his eyes. He couldn’t move. It was as if he was paralysed. But he heard her. She didn’t speak, yet he heard her, and he became quiet under her gaze.
“I hate doing that, but it’s the only way to get you to listen to me and let me do what has to be done. It would be better if you could do it, loving her like you do, but you can’t, I can see that. But you have to be there. Someone who loves her should be with her.”
She sighed, compassion for the broken priest outweighing her instincts.
“All right, Father, have it your way. We’ll wait. We’ll wait and watch and when the first rays of the sun come through that window, if she rises as one of the Undead then you must allow me to do what is necessary. If not, then I will stand aside and you can do it your way. Is that a deal?”
Beckett somehow knew at the deepest level of his soul, that he was hearing the truth, and now he was being given the opportunity to see for himself. He looked down at Grace’s lifeless face … she was still beautiful, and it was hard to believe that she was dead. Hard to think that only minutes earlier her screams would have chilled the coldest soul; her torment undeniable.
“Father? Do we have a deal?”
Deal with the Devil, he thought. He gave the smallest of nods. He had no reason to trust her, but he did.
In the long hours that followed they sat beside Grace, watching and waiting. For what? She may rise, the woman had said, but what did that mean? Surely if she rose again it didn’t have to mean that she was a vampire. It could be a miracle. After all he had been praying hard enough for one. Jesus had risen and promised eternal life to all who believed in him. And there was the problem. Grace had vehemently denied Christ; she had shunned religion in all its forms, especially the Church, which in her eyes was responsible for the fact her brother was allowing his life to drain away. She didn’t see the joy or the love, just the burden of others’ suffering. In fact,
that’s what it all seemed to be about: suffering. Well, not for her, she was going to live her life to the fullest because there was nothing else after it. No angels, no heaven or celestial choirs, no long tunnels into light, and no ancestors in blessed reunion; it was all crap. This was all there was: finito.
Father Beckett prayed silently. Oh Grace, I pray it’s not too late. Dear Lord, she is so young, give her another chance, give me another chance to show her, to bring her to you. I can do it, I know I can. Please, God, I have tried to be your servant and I have failed with Grace, if anything her waywardness is my fault; I have not seen what was before my eyes. I promise, Lord, if you spare her I will bring her to you. Amen.
The woman’s voice brought him back to the present. Her name was Lane, she said, Lane Dearing. She was a psychiatrist with an exclusive private practice. For hours she talked to him although he remembered nothing of it later. All he would remember was what took place after the first infinitesimal movement of the sheet which covered Grace up to her shoulders.
At first he wasn’t sure if he had seen it at all; he was tired and his eyes stung. He held his breath, trying to hold time in a frame that would remain unchanged, becoming unaware of anything outside the arena of Grace’s bed. The atmosphere changed subtly. The temperature dropped and the air seemed rarefied; his chest was tight and his lungs struggled for essential oxygen, making him feel dizzy and disorientated.
He felt Lane tense, on the alert after hours of waiting. Whatever it was that she waited for was about to happen.
There was a heavy silence and then Grace’s lips parted and her left arm began to move under the sheet. In what was a fraction of a second, but in what seemed like an eternity to Beckett, Grace brought her arm from beneath the sheet and turned her face to look at Beckett.
And he knew.
