by Jan McDonald
Helena Bancroft’s expression remained hostile but she bent forwards, picked up her stool and sat squarely on it, facing Lane with folded arms. “You have precisely two minutes. Then I’m walking. Starting now.”
Beckett smiled inwardly at the woman with attitude, Way to go Doctor. He waited for Lane to come up with a reasonable explanation. He was shocked at her words.
“Greg Randall started this work because he had a vested interest in it. AIDS research was a cover for his real work. This virus and a potential cure. He’s dead as you are aware, what you don’t know is the fact that Greg Randall had a secret. He was a vampire. As am I, and as is Beckett, though he’s only recently been turned. Randall had developed an anti virus which was showing great promise but his work died with him and all that is left are the anti bodies present in Beckett’s blood. It’s why we need you to continue his work, because without a successful anti virus this world will become the feeding ground for ruthless and vicious vampires. Does that explanation satisfy you, Doctor?”
Whatever Beckett had expected as a result of Lane’s handling of Helena Bancroft, it wasn’t what followed. She visibly relaxed and sat in silence for a moment reflecting on Lane’s words before rising from her stool and approaching with hand outstretched towards him.
Beckett took her hand and nodded at her, “Dr. Bancroft.”
“Helena,” she replied. “If this is true and really it’s too far fetched to be anything other, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” She turned to Lane. “What you tell me has to be the truth because it is so unbelievable. You should have told me in the first place. It might have saved me a whole lot of being pissed at you. A waste of energy and a waste of my valuable time. Perhaps we can start again. From the beginning. I need the full picture.” She paused, “I take it you won’t bite?”
Beckett smiled at her. “Well, that went well.”
CHAPTER SEVEN: RELAPSE
They remained with Helena for two hours, telling and retelling the events that had led to Beckett becoming a vampire. Lane’s history in particular seemed to fascinate her. Second only to her love of science and medicine Helena Bancroft was fascinated by history and Lane had lived through six centuries of it. Born Leonora Di Toledo and marrying into the Medici family she had been witness to world changing events. There had been a surprising acceptance of the hidden world of vampirism and no reference to the myths and legends that fed Hollywood and literature. For Helena it was a medical challenge that she was avid to try and get to grips with.
Beckett was wary of her complacence but Lane was constantly reading her and she seemed to trust the young doctor. It had to be enough for him for the time being.
The journey back to Lane’s home had been quiet although not uneasy. Beckett had fallen into a distant mood and Lane left him in peace. Unwilling to read him but sensing his dark thoughts, she knew there was little that could be said. He had to come to his own peace with who and what he was.
When they arrived at the Cedars Beckett looked pale and tired. He would need to feed again soon and Lane didn’t relish the struggle she would have with him again.
“You look tired,” she said. “Why not go home. Angel is still busy notifying your clients of your new office and you don’t have any appointments this morning. If anything crops up I’m sure I can handle it. If I need you, I know where to find you. I do know where to find you, don’t I Beckett?”
“You know you do. Don’t worry, Legs.” He turned to leave and in a split second, a searing pain elicited a howl of agony and brought him to his knees. Lane was with him in less than a heartbeat. She picked him like a rag doll and laid him on her brown leather Chesterfield. There was no need to call for Angel or Darius, they had heard Beckett’s scream from the other side of the house and burst through Lane’s door only a moment later.
“What the hell …?” demanded Darius.
Lane ignored him directing her attention to Angel. “I know you gave only yesterday but he needs more. He needs more and he needs it now. Will you?”
Angel nodded her understanding. “Of course.”
Lane had been anxious about Beckett’s deteriorating mood and his obvious need to feed more frequently than usual. She had put this down to the antibodies still present in his blood. The only time she had seen agony on the scale he was now displaying had been during turning.
Beckett’s agony had begun to diminish and he began moaning, but his pulse was barely discernable.
At the far side of the room, Angel had already bared her arm and Darius was showing extreme skill in assembling the collecting gear. His face was deadpan but Lane could read his inner panic and along with it the boy’s obvious care for Beckett. In seconds Lane exchanged places with Darius and had found Angel’s vein with accustomed ease and the blood was already dripping into the collecting bag when Beckett opened his eyes and tried to sit up.
Darius put a restraining hand on his shoulder. “No, Beckett. Lay down. You need to feed again and before you say otherwise, I should warn you that if you try to avoid it I will personally knock you into next week; I think that’s the phrase. So lay the fuck down and do as you’re told.” His voice was harsh and stern but the moisture in his eyes told of his true feelings. Beckett would have to have been dead not to notice it. He lay back against the cushion.
“I guess this is it then, this is what I am now. One of them.”
“Oh, you think so? Well let me remind you that Lane is ‘one of them’ and a finer more descent person I have yet to meet. You too Beckett. And the fact that you may have to take your nourishment in a different way doesn’t diminish that. You are no predator, old man. Your nourishment is given freely and safely and if that is how it’s to be then you are going to have to deal with it. Sooner rather than later. I know it’s a shit but we’re all here for you. And it may be the time to remind you that while your personal revenge has been satisfied there are others out there that need dealing with. You made a promise in Greece to Mihai, were they empty words?”
Beckett felt ashamed, realising his self pity. He swallowed hard. “Help me up, son.”
Darius stopped dead as Beckett’s words filtered into his consciousness. Whether it was a slip of the tongue or not, the effect on him was profound. His voice shook, “What did you call me?”
“I said, help me up, son. Because I just realised that is how I think of you. I’m sorry if it offended you. Forget it. Just help me the hell up.” He struggled onto his elbow trying to propel himself from the couch.
Darius helped him up, unable to process what Beckett had said. Then he said, “No, it’s OK. I … I quite like it.”
“Good, just don’t hug me. That would be too much.”
Lane approached with a silver cup containing Angel’s blood. “Are we going to have a problem, Handsome?”
Beckett shook his head and took the cup from her and drank until it was empty.
Lane nodded at him. “Good. I haven’t given you all I took from her in case you need more later.”
Beckett felt the normal human blood coursing through him, energising him. And in that moment came acceptance.
Lane read him and placed a hand gently on his arm. “You’ll be all right. I promise.”
He smiled at her and looked over to Darius and Angel. “I know that now. I’m sorry I’ve been such a big pain in the backside. It won’t happen again.”
Lane, determined to defuse the tension and emotion in the room, laughed shortly. “I doubt that, Handsome. You’ve always been a pain in the backside; it’s not likely to change. How do you feel now?”
“Considering how I felt a moment ago, surprisingly well.”
She narrowed her eyes, “Of course that …”
He interrupted her. “That begs the question, when will it happen again? Let’s hope the good Doctor Bancroft is up to the job.”
Lane’s telephone rang, reminding Beckett that his own phone had been switched off. He switched it on an immediately it beeped, notifying him of a text message r
eceived the day before.
He read his message with a deep frown as his senses also tracked Lane’s conversation.
“Patriarch, an unexpected pleasure.”
Michael Rabb, born Mihai Rabinescu in Prague at the turn of the fourteenth century, the new Patriarch of the Vampire High Council was in sombre mood.
“I thought we had agreed that we were friends, Leonora, and my friends address me as Mihai, or Michael if you prefer. Lane, my dear, I need to ask you if Father Beckett is ready for service. I’m afraid things are hotting up between the Born and the Created.”
Lane smiled. “Beckett,” she said. “He renounced the title along with the Church.”
“Hm. Possibly so, but being a priest has little to do with the Church. He’ll find his way back. So, is he ready?”
Lane glanced at Beckett’s concerned expression. “Yes, I believe he is.”
“Good, because I had some information of concern from Greece. It may be nothing but I’m very much afraid that it isn’t over. Please be ready.”
Lane fell silent, reaching into the ether in an effort to fully understand the meaning of Mihai’s terse warning.
“I’ll contact you when I have a fuller picture. But I fear there may yet be cause for concern. Goodbye Lane.” The constant burr on the line indicated that the Patriarch had hung up.
Lane put the receiver down carefully. Beckett interrupted her thoughts.
“It’s from Jude Mason,” he said, waving his cell phone at her. “Read it.”
Lane read the digital message. “Help me, Beckett. For God’s sake, help me.”
CHAPTER EIGHT: THE FARMHOUSE
Unable to get a reply from Jude Mason’s telephone, Beckett and Lane decided to head out to the remote farmhouse.
Lane took the B roads from Crickhowell, both of them preferring the scenic drive through the rugged vistas of the mountain region towards Pen Y Fan. The roads became mere tracks as they left the village of Cwmgwdi and Beckett began searching for the turning to the farmhouse.
“Here,” said Beckett, pointing at a sign at a small turning, ‘Brecon Beacons Training Centre’.
“I’m beginning to think you were right, we should have brought your heap, it’s barely a track,” said Lane.
They continued at a snail’s pace down the stony track that was more mud than trackway. It ran through a small copse, and as they emerged at the other side, the farmhouse with its numerous outbuildings came into view.
Traditional welsh stone, it was built two hundred years previously and had been the centre of sheep farming for the two centuries in a place where not much grew and the inhospitable landscape was nurturing to only the hardy breed of welsh sheep. No livestock was in evidence as they got out of Lane’s MG and as they approached the front door, it stood ajar.
“Hello!” shouted Beckett. “Hello, Mr Mason?” He pushed the door open further.
Lane put a hand on Beckett’s arm. “Wait, Handsome. Use your senses, there’s something very wrong here.”
Beckett relaxed and focussed his heightened senses of hearing and scent. His nostril twitched as the scent of blood assailed them. He could hear no sound from within the house but there was something, a presence that rang bells of alarm in his deeper consciousness. Lane read him and nodded. “Well, done. You sense it too, though the place reeks of blood, you’d have to be dead not to smell it.” She wrinkled her nose, “And it’s human.”
They were both on high alert as Lane leaned forwards and pushed the door wide open.
Inside, lights were burning despite it being a bright day and the room had obviously been the scene of some turmoil or other, resembling the aftermath of a natural disaster. Furniture had been overturned and the ancient welsh dresser, although still standing against the back wall, had been cleared of its china, which now lay shattered across the flagstone floor.
“What the hell, happened here?” demanded Beckett of no one in particular. “And what is that god awful stench?”
Lane concentrated her vampire senses on a scent that no human would detect. The source of which seemed to be underneath the flagstones on which they stood.
“The cellar,” they said in unison. Beckett yanked open a small door to the left of the dresser and Lane moved in vampire mode and was at the foot of the wooden staircase in a fraction of a second. The cellars covered the entire footprint of the old house and one room opened up into another. The door into the adjoining room was heavily studded and was locked from the inside.
Beckett sniffed the air. “I know that smell now.”
Lane nodded. “Wet dog. A big wet dog. Stand back Handsome, I’m stronger than you. For now.”
Beckett stood aside as Lane hurled herself at the door. There was the sound of splintering wood but the door held. As she threw herself forwards a second time, Beckett kicked out against it simultaneously. Their joint force parted the huge iron bolt from the door jamb and together they moved at lightening speed into the darkened cellar. Their vampire eyes pierced the darkness, across the room to the far wall.
Heavy chains hung from high on the wall attached to manacles. Jude Mason hung chained against the wall, his head fallen onto his bare chest which was splattered with blood and covered in deep gashes, sweat and mud. What was left of his clothing hung in tatters and a chair fallen to the side gave explanation to how this had been possible. To a human eye he appeared dead, not breathing, but Lane and Beckett simultaneously read a faint heartbeat.
“Those irons are not beyond me, but I fear we don’t have the time,” she said.
Beckett was already at the top of the wooden staircase and heading for the outbuildings. It may no longer be a working farm but the nature of his business meant that Jude Mason would have some serious outdoor equipment somewhere about the place.
Beckett didn’t stop to be aware of the speed in which he moved, a mere shadow, a flicker of movement to human sight. The first outbuilding yielded nothing but the second, a smaller building, housed what he searched for. Propped against the inside of the door was a huge axe. He grabbed it and his shadow crossed the threshold once more as he moved with vampire speed back to the cellar. He heard Lane somewhere inside his head. Hurry Beckett!.
Back in the cellar he drew the axe sharply over his head and aimed with deadly accuracy at the chain just above Mason’s manacled wrist. It gave with a clanking sound and as the second followed likewise, Lane caught him as he fell away from the wall. Despite his muscular build she picked him up and carried him up the staircase and into the wrecked room. She laid him on an old sofa and bent over him, gently moving the dreadlocks away from his blood smeared face.
She looked at Beckett, “Christ, Beckett, can’t you sense it?”
Beckett remained stone faced but the twitch of his cheek muscles betrayed his anxiety. He ran his fingers through his hair. “He smells of wet dog. It looks as though he’s been attacked by some wild animal, a wild dog maybe. Those gouges on his chest have been made with claws.”
Lane was quiet for a moment. “Not a wild animal, Handsome. Those claw marks have thumbs.”
Lane had opened her mind to him and he accepted her invitation. As he read her, he took a step backwards.
“God in heaven, no. How can that be?”
Before there could be any further debate they both sensed an increase in Mason’s heartbeat. It picked up speed at an alarming rate before settling into a more normal rhythm. As they watched him anxiously he began to moan quietly and toss his head from side to side. He opened his eyes and they held something that Beckett had not seen in him previously, something wild, something feral.
CHAPTER NINE: NOT PTSD
Beckett read Lane and instantly turned to the sink under the window and drew a glass of water. He returned as a shadow moves and she held the glass to the parted lips.
Jude Mason drank deep and long then lay back on the sofa. He turned to Beckett. “I’m sorry, Beckett. It’s too late. I left it too late. You should leave, both of you. For everyone’s sake.”
Lane studied him closely, probing his mind, feeling the barrier and not wanting to push too far. There was injury there, deep in his mind and she had no intention of pushing him into crisis.
“I don’t think we’re in any danger. Not until night. That’s so isn’t it?”
Beckett raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, this is Dr Lane Dearing, we work together and I thought that she may possibly help,” he said pointedly.
Jude Mason shook his head, “I’m past help, Beckett. Unless you’ll do the honours with my shotgun, that is? If not, don’t worry, I can manage it myself.”
Lane persisted. “You chained yourself to the wall I take it. Standing on the chair while you snapped the manacles closed. I see they were rigged to self lock. No key to worry about.”
Beckett frowned, once more unable to read Lane.
“Did you find your answer? You understand now what is happening to you?” she continued.
He nodded reluctantly. “Yes. The PTSD is out of control and so am I. Please, Dr Dearing, take Beckett with you and get the hell out of here. Before …”
“Before you lose control and turn on us. Before you lose yourself in the rage and the urge to kill? I sense the blood on you is your own but there is other blood too. Animal blood. I expect there may be a nearby farmer minus a sheep or two when he next goes to check his flock. Isn’t that so, Mr Mason? Or may I call you, Jude?”
“You can call me whatever the hell you like, as long as it’s from a distance. I’m not safe to be around. Please, both of you leave.”
Images chased through Beckett’s consciousness, images that gripped his heart with icy fingers. Why hadn’t he seen this before? How had he missed it?
Lane sensed his thoughts as if he had spoken them aloud. “Because it hadn’t developed fully until now, Handsome. Don’t beat yourself up.” She turned to Jude, “If what I believe is happening to you, Jude, we are going to need help.”
Beckett frowned at her. PTSD was well within both of their capabilities to deal with. She shook her head. “Not PTSD Beckett. Lycanthropy.”
