The Making of Gabriel Davenport

by Beverley Lee

  Noah wasn’t happy about the decision not to look for Beth.

  ‘Look, I’ll go by myself. You’ve got a decent flashlight and waterproofs—and I managed to deter whatever it was when Gabe was a baby. I have that same psalm book in my jacket pocket.’

  Carver saw a muscle twitch in the priest’s jaw and knew the determination in that gesture. ‘Noah, that’s what it wants! To get us all singularly and somehow scope out our weaknesses. You told me so yourself. And ultimately, it wants Gabriel.’ Carver tried to play on Noah’s love for the boy.

  ‘What about Beth? Do we just abandon her?’ Noah’s voice rose. He stood and paced to the window. ‘This damn storm. Will it ever stop?’ The priest laid an open palm against the glass.

  ‘If you could produce a miracle, it would come in handy.’ Carver regretted his choice of phrase as soon as it had left his lips.

  ‘Don’t make light of the situation, Edward. Faith might be the one thing that helps, if we’re lucky.’

  Carver didn’t like the tone in Noah’s voice. It was resigned, as though speaking the words might make it be so. If Noah was losing his resolve, they could all be damned.

  He glanced up as Ollie and Gabe appeared in the doorway. Both looked uncomfortable and Gabe had a slight flush of high colour to his cheeks.

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘We just needed space,’ said Gabe as Ollie looked down at the floor. ‘And Ollie put pizza on. So I hope you’re both ready to fur up a few arteries.’ It was a typical Gabe comment, usually said with a ‘butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth’’ expression. This time it sounded as flat as the atmosphere in the room.

  Noah sighed as he stepped back from the bay window. ‘I’ll go throw together a salad. I don’t care if no one eats it. I can’t just sit here.’

  Gabe hesitated as though he was going to follow but Carver beckoned him across. Sometimes it was easy to forget he was only fifteen. Even as a child, he had possessed a maturity that defied his age. Carver wondered how on earth he was managing to hold it all together. His mother was missing. The ghost of his dead father had been sighted. The house he had called home had been burnt down by someone he trusted. And there was a palpable sense of danger in the house. It permeated every surface and hung in the air so that even the act of sitting on a chair became an unnatural, uneasy thing.

  He waited until the boy flopped down on the rug by his feet, something he hadn’t done since he was small, and allowed to stay up and listen to grown up conversation as long as he didn’t interrupt...a hard lump lodged itself inside his throat.

  Ollie was trying to get a signal on his phone, which was a waste of time considering what raged outside, but like Noah, doing anything was better than doing nothing.

  ‘Gabriel, have you seen anything strange since this morning?’ Carver tried to keep his voice steady, but behind the boy’s head, he was gripping the edge of the seat cushion. Part of him wanted to shake Gabe and make him tell. Heat rose in his veins as his hand fell to Gabe’s shoulder. The boy inclined his head and his hair fell between Carver’s fingers.

  For a few seconds, no one spoke. In that moment, Carver knew something had happened when Ollie and Gabe had been in the White Room.

  ‘Everything’s been strange.’ The reply was guarded, and not really an answer to his question.

  His fingers tightened along the curve of Gabe’s collarbone and the boy raised his head in surprise. Carver wondered how easy it would be to shatter that bone with only the strength of his fingers....how it would feel to wrench the splinter of that bone through that young skin...

  Gabe shuffled in discomfort. ‘Hey, that’s sore. I must be a bit bruised from this morning.’

  Carver’s vision narrowed until all that was in focus was the boy’s face. There was a questioning look in those eyes that made his stomach churn. How dare he sit there and lie? Wasn’t he the cause of all this upset?

  A loud drumming resounded inside his head, blocking out even the noise of the storm and a smell.... exotic incense and a pungent burning...something horrible...

  He wrenched his hand away from Gabriel’s shoulder. It was leaden and his fingers were numb.

  Ollie was moving towards them, something he felt on an instinctive level, rather than saw. The heat from Gabriel’s skin pulled away and he wanted to scream. He sat back in his chair, raising his face to the ceiling and screwing his eyes shut. Acrid bile filled his mouth but he swallowed it. The bitter pill.

  He had thought they would all be safe if they just stayed together. But now it was using them against each other to tear them apart. It was winning.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Noah Isaacs had not gone to make a salad.

  And it was a testament to how distressed Carver was that the curator hadn’t seen through the lie as soon as he had spoken it. Noah didn’t even like salad; it was the subject of many of the students’ jokes that he could hide unfinished greenery on his plate enough to not ruffle Ella’s feathers.

  Three pendant lights hung over the kitchen central island, casting pools of golden light onto the surface below—the low hum of the electric oven the only sound. He stopped and ran a finger along a small pool of melted ice, listening to make sure no one had followed him. Gabe looked as if he might.

  Noah hadn’t lied when he said he had to do something, though the decision didn’t bring him any joy. His conscience wouldn’t let him rest until he had at least looked for Beth. It might be a fruitless labour in this storm, but at least he would know he had tried.

  A small window of opportunity beckoned. If he dallied, the boys would be through to check on the pizza, though he doubted anyone would be able to stomach it.

  The waterproofs and other outdoor clothing lived in the boot room, and a supply of torches stood in the cupboard under the sink. This was a rural place with no streetlights and the dark came earlier than in the town. Noah tried to pluck his courage from any small space he could. Wasn’t this where the heroic minister went out into the storm and single-handedly rescued the hapless victim? But in this case, he could very well be the victim. Carver was right in his assumption that whatever evil was out there was trying to pick them off singularly. He knew that deep down, so it made even thinking about going out into the night about as appealing as kneeling on gravel for a penance.

  He grabbed a dark green parka and shrugged himself into it. It seemed a ridiculous piece of clothing for a late summer evening. He pulled on Carver’s weatherproof boots and knelt to tie them, all of the time wishing some kind of divine light would tell him that this was the right thing to do. He wet his lips with his tongue—his mouth seemed to have lost all moisture.

  The door creaked slightly as he pulled down the handle and he paused, listening for footsteps. He had to fight with the wind as it opened, the sheer force of the blast wanting to tear it from his hand and send it slamming against the wall. Sheets of rain caught him full in the face as he moved away from the shelter of the porch overhang. He turned his back and was immediately buffeted by the gusts. With slippery fingers, he switched on the flashlight and pointed it across the lawn. It arced through the darkness, highlighting the heavy rain as it swirled in the storm’s grasp.

  He called her name only for it to be torn from his lips. Overhead, a great peal of thunder rolled through the sky. He understood how in the past, people thought it was God’s displeasure.

  If Carver came looking for him, he wouldn’t even hear the curator’s shout, such was the ferocity of the weather. That was one thing he didn’t have to worry about. But he had told his friend another untruth; the psalm book he had claimed was in his jacket was at home on a table in the hallway. When had it become so easy to lie?

  Noah had thought about trying to find a small bible or something holy to clasp, although there was a gnawing fear in his gut that this time, it wouldn’t matter. He battled on, the wind tearing his breath away. He had to stop and inhale against his arm before continuing. The torch pinpointed dark bushes and swathes of gr
een, battered flowers as they lay on the ground, and tunnels of complete blackness. He scoured the perimeter of the garden, checking the outhouse, where the gardening tools glinted in the torch light, and the workshops at the back of the garages, all in the vain hope Beth had gone outside and simply lost her bearings. But a constant voice in his head told him she must have climbed out of the window. His heart was in his mouth as he searched the ground underneath the back windows and all of the little alcoves where the climbing roses rambled behind wooden seats.

  Time began to have no meaning. He couldn’t have said if he had been out here for ten minutes or a few hours. But the thing he had feared didn’t come and that spurred him on. A strange sense of elation crept up like the moment you realise you can swim without holding onto the side of the pool. Was it possible all of this was in their heads?

  His steps led to the furthest point of the garden, where the fountain stood on its plinth of weathered stone. Carver had disconnected the fountain when Gabe was a toddler and had the whole piece covered in soil and bedding plants. Somehow, it had never been returned to its former glory. Noah rested against the rim to catch his breath and dipped the torch beam down the slight incline to the fence, which separated the grounds and the field. The black void beyond seemed never-ending. Rain ran down the inside of his boots and the neck of his parka, the moisture mixing with his sweat. A trickle ran down his spine and he shrugged against the feeling sending his beam of light away to the left.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something. Swinging the torch back, a flicker of pale material whipped against the fencepost. Noah set off at a run, sliding down the embankment as the sodden ground gave way under his feet. Half stumbling and half upright, he followed the line of the fence, his heart tripping against the inside of his chest. If Beth had fallen here and had been out all of this time...he pushed the thought away, snatching at his hood as the wind found a gap and demanded an entrance.

  The thin wisp of material twisted madly in the gale and he had to grab for it twice. Even soaked through, he recognised it as part of the shawl Beth had been wearing that morning.

  He should go and get the others to come and search. Beth had been here. Tearing the remnants from the splinter of wood it had snagged on, he turned back to the house, sharpening his focus on the soft glow of the few lights that interrupted the darkness. Every bone in his body screamed for attention. So much for thinking that he was fairly fit.

  The bird came out of nowhere, its front legs extended, talons gleaming as the torch caught the shape. There was something in its claws; Noah’s vision registered this right before his feet went from underneath him in the gulley by the fence. The bird latched onto his head, talons slicing into the soft wet flesh of his cheeks. An image of Gabe at the bottom of the steps flooded into his mind and he cried out, but the sound was suffocated against the sour-smelling feathers. He tried to tear it away, dropping his flashlight. It rolled down into the ditch, sending a pitiful shaft of light into the field. Why couldn’t he beat the bird off? His fingers flailed against the seething mass of dark feathers. It opened its beak and flung back its head, letting out a cry of triumph. This wasn’t the caw of any corvid, but the manic skittering of a thousand tiny feet.

  Noah tried to scream. He tried to pray. But all of his faith was carried away by that poisonous sound. The bird plucked the object from its claws, spinning it in its beak, and plunging it against Noah’s forehead. A bolt of pain shot through him as his skin seared under blazing heat. His nerve receptors fired in unison as the stench of his own burning skin hit his nostrils.

  The bird settled itself against his face and mouth, stifling any catch of breath. It raised the object high then dropped it on the ground. Noah shifted his head, eyes fluttering as a high-pitched buzzing filled his ears.

  In the dim light of the torch beam, he could just make out that the object on the ground was a crucifix.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Elation flowed through Aka Maga.

  It flew with the storm, allowing itself to be buffeted and swept before this force of nature, revelling in the power as only it could. Only the complete saturation of its host’s feathers caused it to stop, diving into the leaf-filled branches of the tallest tree in the garden. From there, it shook itself and stood sentinel over the chaos it had begun. The bird cowered, its fragile bones battered. Aka Maga relented. It could not risk losing this vessel, not yet.

  Far below, the priest crawled up the gulley, hampered by sodden mud and the knowledge that his faith had been used against him. It had been too easy to fly to the vicarage and slip into the quiet house. Too easy to find the crucifix the priest kept displayed on a shelf in a dusty alcove. This one thing had belonged to his father, a chaplain, who for forty years had served his local parish, wearing that very cross daily. But Benjamin Isaacs had lost his faith—not due to any act of God or family tragedy, but because God hadn’t granted him anything but a bad case of arthritis and Benjamin expected more. He had gone the way of many wearing the cloth and turned to drink. The cross lay discarded in a drawer until Benjamin’s death, when Noah brought it out of the dark, fingering its ornate carved surface. He couldn’t throw it away, but it became a constant reminder of how easy it would be to simply give in and spend your life staring into the bottom of a glass.

  Aka Maga thought it perfectly fitting that it had used this same crucifix to brand the man who had stolen away its prize. It had carried the crucifix back through the night, letting it soak up the poison it had borne for so long. An unloved, holy relic can easily be imbibed by any force.

  Inside The Manor, Ollie and Carver sat together—but their thoughts were deep inside their own world. The student, who had been the easiest to corrupt, sat on the high-backed wooden chair by the window, staring out at the storm. His eyes were glazed, his fingers picking a hangnail and pulling the skin down to the quick. Aka Maga had chosen Ollie’s fear well. He had never felt anything more than platonic love for Gabriel, but it had found the desire as soon as it had slipped unobtrusively inside Ollie’s head. It knew it could not claim him, for he was an adult man, but a little mental tweaking? It had been a thrill to witness the scene in the kitchen as those first thoughts entered the student’s head.

  The girl had sealed her own fate by storming out of the house that morning. Aka Maga bore a grudging respect for the fiery side of her nature. It found the fact the box had been part of her hasty exit extremely fitting. How very little they all knew about its power now it had left the prison behind. Aka Maga had hoped she would meet an oncoming car as she sped around the narrow lanes, but it seemed fate walked by her side in that respect.

  Her meeting with the meddling spirit of Stu Davenport was the one irritating part of its day. At the time, it had been busy with Beth. And even Aka Maga, all seeing, all hearing, could not be in two places at one time. It had had no hand in the accident, apart from its swoop down across the windscreen, which it had done out of spite for her conversation with the dead man. The car and the ditch were well on the way to meeting at that point, but it wanted her to see and to take that image down to her grave.

  In the drawing room, the curator sat in the same chair where he had clawed at Gabriel’s shoulder. Carver’s face was bone white and drawn. He had aged a decade in a day. He lowered his head into his hands as the grandfather clock chimed eleven times. Edward Carver would rather have eaten shards of glass than hurt Gabriel. Keeping him safe had been at the forefront of all of Carver’s decisions for fifteen years.

  The professional side of Carver’s brain knew his thoughts had been compromised, just as he had told Noah, but pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind proved to be as hard as trying to hold water in your hand. The sense and logic all drained away into the bowl leaving only a wet smear of hopelessness.

  But oh, vexing the vampire had been its greatest triumph of the night. Aka Maga knew that as an adversary, the blood drinker was a worthy opponent; they each had their unique talents. So tempting the va
mpire’s children, especially with someone from this household and therefore off-limits, was a touch of sheer genius.

  The bird fluffed up its feathers, its small brain incapable of understanding what lurked in its veins. Such a dark tableau of infinite possibilities and enjoyment. And it hadn’t even started on the boy yet. It preened a wet wing feather and imagined the moment when Gabriel Davenport became its vessel of destruction.

  Chapter Fifty

  Gabe slipped out of the parlour fully expecting someone to pull him back in again.

  Carver had said being alone was dangerous, but right now being with people made him feel edgy and confused. The episode with Ollie in the kitchen played on his mind even though he tried to shut it out. If they had stood there a moment longer, Ollie would have tried to kiss him, which had to be up there in the top three of weird happenings today. Was that Ollie’s mind being played with, or some long-held desire that had chosen that moment to pop up?

  Gabe had so much swirling around in his head, it took him a few moments to register that Noah wasn’t in the kitchen. He looked round, expecting the priest to appear from the depths of the pantry or the boot annex, but the room was silent apart from the hum of the oven. Inside, the pizza was slowly baking itself into a burnt offering. Gabe shut off the oven and left it to finish its cremation.

  ‘Noah?’ For a moment, he wondered if he had gone down into the jam cellar again. Something that could only have been euphoria blanketed the prickling of fear. The door was closed.

  Gabe did a sweep of the room and found the cupboard door under the sink slightly ajar. His first glance told him there was a flashlight missing, the biggest one, which Carver used when the power went out. A cold realisation hit him. The only reason someone would need a torch like that was if they were out on a night like this. Noah had gone looking for Beth, despite Carver’s protests. It was a stupid—and probably fruitless—task, but Gabe felt a rush of love for the man who had already saved his life once. The emotion came to a sudden halt, overridden by the cold trickle of dread.