The Making of Gabriel Davenport

by Beverley Lee

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Moth shifted uncomfortably as all attention wheeled round to focus on him and what he was carrying.

  Clove regarded the dead bird with no expression on his pale face, then his brows knitted together. ‘Gabriel, come here.’

  ‘He isn’t yours to order around,’ Carver blocked Gabriel’s path.

  Clove sighed. This was proving difficult. This is why he had no contact with the human race unless he wanted to be fed. But he had no choice; he couldn’t stand by and watch them tear themselves to shreds. That would weaken them, which was exactly what this demon wanted. A quick delving into their thoughts showed him how unstable they were. But he kept to his word and didn’t intrude on Gabriel.

  Gabriel pushed past. ‘It’s okay. He wants to help us.’

  Clove didn’t miss the long look between Gabriel and Moth. He wondered where Teal was; normally, he was glued to Moth’s side. The situation with the woman in the crypt bothered him. It was hard for him to be too angry. His rules only said they weren’t allowed out by themselves. Being forced out by someone intruding hadn’t occurred to him.

  He put his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder and Carver flinched.

  ‘So the demon has left this host—which means that, as yet, we don’t know what it is using. It might try to take over someone here, although together we have strength and unity. It will feel that. I don’t think it will try anything when I am here but,’ he shrugged, ‘anything is possible.’

  ‘One of us is missing,’ said the man on the couch—the man with the crucifix branded into his skin. The priest. ‘Gabe’s mother, Beth. She disappeared hours ago. Will you help us look for her?’

  ‘What was she wearing the last time you saw her?’ Clove asked.

  ‘Only a thin summer dress. You would know if you had seen her. Her hair is white.’

  Moth shifted, the slightest of movements that Clove sensed rather than saw. Gabriel tensed, as though he was steeling himself for bad news. So that’s why he’d acted oddly at the crypt. He knew there was a chance his mother had been the victim. Clove regretted his earlier promise. It was a lot easier when he could slip in and out of thought patterns.

  ‘Go find your brother, Moth.’

  He bent his head and whispered against Gabriel’s ear, running his open palm across the boy’s face. Gabriel collapsed into his arms like a deck of cards. Clove carried him to an over-sized chair and placed him carefully into it, curling Gabe’s limp legs over the side.

  ‘What the hell have you done to him?’ Carver’s voice hissed at him from behind.

  ‘I’m letting him rest. He is exhausted. This is what the demon wants, for Gabriel to have no fight left in him.’

  Clove omitted to say that with Gabriel asleep, no one would find out about Beth.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Aka Maga swirled under the door of Beth’s room, free of the encumbrance of living flesh and pulsing with rage.

  The bird had finally taken its last breath through sheer exhaustion, and although Aka Maga was irritated by its loss, it had served its purpose in gaining Beth’s trust. The demon rose and fell in its smoke-like stance, celebrating in the energy and mayhem it had created. It felt strong enough to take its wooden prison and destroy it once and for all. Then, it could never again be trapped and silenced.

  Long, long ago, when superstition was a god, Aka Maga had been human. Born to a handmaiden of a royal household, he was snatched away as a small child and sold into slavery. On the shores of The Dead Sea stood a temple, and it was there that he was taken and schooled in his duties.

  The child grew to be a favourite of the priestess. She bathed him in perfumed oils and fed him sweetmeats from her fingers. At the age of fifteen, she took him into her bed and taught him how to pleasure her. But the nation was at war and the temple stood for everything that the opposing enemy loathed. One night, the temple defences fell and the city burned around them. When soldiers burst into the chambers of the priestess, she tipped a vial of poison to her lips. She was dead before they ripped the curtain from around the bed.

  He was not so fortunate. The general, Joab, enraged by the suicide of a bargainable hostage, ordered the boy to be hung from his wrists in the centre of the market square. Before they fastened the rope around him, he begged for his life, telling them he was only a slave carrying out orders from his mistress. They only laughed in his face and stripped him of his fine clothes.

  A crowd gathered despite the flames, baying for blood and grateful that they were not the focus of Joab’s attention. Before they hoisted him onto the lower branches of the killing tree, Joab sliced off the boy’s tongue and then castrated him. It took the boy over twelve hours to die. But Joab was not finished. Just before the boy’s last breath, Joab produced his own priest, a sorcerer of sorts. His magic was of a dark and dismal kind, his incantations devilish and devious. The boy’s dying breath was captured by the old man’s mouth, his rotting teeth the last scent the boy ever remembered.

  The priest spat into a box, a simple carved affair. He took a knife and disembowelled the boy, shaking blood from his fingers into the box. An incantation as dark as the smoke filled sky above, and the boy’s fate was sealed. His soul, forever damned, would be held in the wooden confines. The priest forbade him ever to take over the body of a man, a lasting curse that the boy should never know the satisfaction of existing as an adult male.

  Decades passed before the spirit of that boy amassed enough energy to leave the box. Insects became the host of choice, then small reptiles, snakes and finally birds. The latter proved to be invaluable in scheming and drawing powerful men to their deaths. But it always had to return to the box. Now, after centuries of trials and errors, its time had come.

  Gabriel would be the perfect host—an almost man with the intelligence and strength of character to corrupt and mould to its own dark desires. It would take its revenge on religion and armies. It had been abandoned by the women it trusted and abused and tortured by men in the name of gods and Kings. The need for vengeance had devoured its once innocent heart and left a corpulent, stagnant hole. Where once light had danced, now darkness reigned.

  Aka Maga curled under the covers on Beth’s bed, its smoky fingers slipping through the pale fabric, leaving small, wriggling maggots in its wake. It searched vainly, and then rose into a column of agitated darkness. A noise, unlike anything human or animal, came from its centre, a terrible despairing rage. An empty glass on Beth’s bedside table shattered.

  It ripped, scattering itself into a thousand pieces then regrouping again. This time, the tendrils of smoke clung together, a black ball of violent and thwarted energy, hell bent on destruction.

  It tore through the closed door, ripping the hinges from the wood and sending it crashing to the floor. At the top of the stairs, it folded into itself, becoming smaller for a moment as it grew to understand what was happening within.

  No longer existing purely on the black hate that had kept it focused through the centuries, something impossible was taking place. Now, just before the battle for the soul of Gabriel Davenport, something pulsed within it.

  Aka Maga’s heart was beating.

  Chapter Sixty

  Moth was happy to be out of the room where too many heartbeats sounded in his ears. Hunger gnawed at his bones like a small animal.

  A gauntlet of emotions ran riot in his head. Relief ran the highest. Since the appearance of the woman in the crypt, everything had turned to shit fast. His attempt to keep Teal away from her had failed. His blood was good, but compared to the living warmth of something human it was like offering Teal stale bread when a banquet lay in the corner. She had come to them like a prayer, inviting, warm, and unafraid. His tongue darted over his lips, remembering.

  So being alive, or technically still being undead, was a bonus. Clove was angry, but not quite as angry as he had expected. Maybe when things calmed down the repercussions would fly, but right now he would become Gabriel’s wet nurse for Clove. He
wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, wandering down the hallway, his worn shoes squeaking on the polished black and white tiles.

  He didn’t like Gabriel at all. He didn’t like the way Clove pandered to him. What made him different anyway? To Moth, he was just another meal ticket.

  But Moth wasn’t stupid. He had a fine intelligence that he didn’t normally show. He listened and stored stuff in his head. He knew there was something evil out there that could pose a threat, perhaps even to their race. The trouble was that Teal didn’t know—or rather, that Teal’s attention had been taken up by all of the shiny things in the house. Moth didn’t care where he slept or what he wore, but Teal had come from finer things and the draw was still there and whilst his head was full of glitter, he didn’t have any room for instinct. Teal by himself in a place like this was an accident waiting to happen. Moth sighed and poked his head around the nearest door. It would be easier to call him mentally, but Teal wasn’t so good at that.

  He was glad to be free of the dead bird. There was something about it that made him feel like it was poisonous. He kept telling himself that it was only a mass of feathers and bones, but for the first time since he had been turned, something dead had repulsed him. Is this what humans felt?

  This house unnerved him, and not just because of the people in it or the threat of the entity. It was as if the ghosts of those who had lived here clung to its fabric. Maybe they were more than happy to still be tied to a place that would welcome them with open arms. Moth knew a lot about the supernatural. Teal read to him, sometimes all night long or until his voice had become so hoarse that Moth had to let him stop.

  All the doors at this level of the house were closed and Moth’s heart fluttered as he opened each one and looked inside. Vampires weren’t meant to be frightened, but he and Teal had been made by weakness. They were at the lower level of the dark side, with tiny fangs and not that many special qualities. In time their fangs would grow but until then, Clove was their provider and teacher. He rubbed his forehead with his fingers, leaving a dirty smear.

  Moth back-tracked, his steps taking him past the room where Clove and all the humans were. Clove glanced up as he stole past, not losing a beat in the words he was speaking, but no one else noticed. The smell of blood made his mouth water.

  The hallway narrowed a little and off to the left, a chink of light spilled out through a gap between two double doors. Teal sat in a brocade-upholstered armchair, his legs dangling over the chair arm. Strands of matted blond hair hung over his face but he hardly seemed to notice them. A book lay open on his lap, his finger tracing the words as he concentrated. Moth paused mid-step, not wanting to break the spell. Teal was a pretty pathetic excuse for a vampire but Moth was stuck with him for a brother. And after what had happened to Sasha, they were all one another had left.

  Moth pushed the door open enough to slip in and Teal looked up, his bright eyes dazzling in the lamp glow. Moth scanned the row of spines stacked neatly on shelving that stood floor-to-ceiling on two walls.

  ‘I might have known I would find you with your nose in a book.’ He grinned. Teal had a hard job judging when he was serious or not.

  ‘This one is a first edition, look.’ A leather spine was pointed in his direction. ‘How can they have so many? There’s more than anyone could read in a lifetime.’ A shadow passed over Teal’s face. Coming to grips with what he was hadn’t come easy.

  ‘Clove wants us back to play happy families.’

  Teal sighed and closed his book. Both of them knew that what Clove wanted, he got.

  ‘The bird’s dead, by the way. I found it outside on the path, so we’re on the lookout for its new host.’

  Teal eased himself out of the chair, his fingers idling on the raised velvet pattern for a few seconds. Moth pretended he hadn’t seen.

  ‘Bring the book with you. They won’t mind. And if they do, tough.’

  ‘I don’t like being here, Moth. It feels wrong. Bad things are happening here.’

  Moth felt the same way but he wasn’t going to admit it. He held open the door. ‘Just bring the damn book and let’s get back.’

  Side by side like two creatures from the ark, they walked back slowly, neither of them wanting to be under the scrutiny of strangers.

  Without warning, Teal stumbled, dropping the book and clawing at his head with his fingers. His face contorted in pain. Moth slammed down his mental shields so fast it almost made him dizzy. He expected Clove to race around the corner, but when he didn’t, he did the only thing he could. He grabbed hold of Teal and hauled him to his feet then took off at a run, dragging Teal along with him. He wasn’t staying around to find out what happened next.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Clutching her find under her jacket, Olivia ran down the silent, dark church aisle as though every nightmare from her childhood was nipping at her heels. She kept her gaze focused on the black hole at the end where she knew the door was, her torch beam now no more than a thin yellow light. Her imagination went wild. The eyes of all the plaster statues and glassy features in the windows were watching, just waiting for her to trip and then...she hit the door with a bit too much force and scrabbled for the handle, splitting her fingernail too close to the nail bed. She yelped in pain and tore open the door. The night air hit her face, sweet and cool.

  Her feet slipped on the wet gravel as she sped down the path, the two yew trees which framed it blocking her view of where Tom had parked the 4x4. But she knew he was there. Underneath her jacket, the strange steal from the church lay against her shirt, the edges scratching her skin. He saw her as she rounded the corner, the lych-gate thudding back against itself on the latch.

  Tom’s face was the most welcome thing she had seen in a long time. He started the engine before she had even opened the door, nodding as his eyes took in her arm clasped across her chest.

  They sat in silence until the church had been swallowed up behind them by the night. Olivia stared out of the window, watching the wiper blades swishing across the windscreen. The sweet aroma of hay wafted up from the back seat.

  ‘You get what you wanted?’ Tom kept his eyes on the road, his gnarled knuckles gripping the wheel tightly.

  She pulled open her jacket and laid her find on her lap, half hoping they would take on some magic glow to at least tell her she wasn’t crazy for having dashed out in the tail end of a storm, on the advice of a man who had been dead for fifteen years.

  Tom glanced across and grunted.

  She didn’t know what that meant. She was beginning to think she didn’t know what anything meant anymore. A lump formed in her throat and she stared out of the side window, resting her cheek against the glass.

  Tom slowed the 4x4 and wound down his window. A gust of drizzle-laced wind hurtled in, lifting the fine white hair on the side of his head. Olivia peered out to where the headlight beams cut through the night. What looked like a river ran down the switchback known as Pool Bank.

  Tom tutted. His mouth twisted into a grimace.

  ‘Never known the stream to burst through like this,’ he said, more to himself than to Olivia. ‘But a bit of water won’t stop this old girl.’ He patted the front of the dashboard as though it was a prize cow and Olivia smiled in spite of feeling like she was falling apart.

  They crawled up the hill, the water running underneath them, as though they were in a boat. Occasionally, the wheels lost traction and they slid a little. She held her breath, the memory of her own accident still fresh in her mind. The road turned back on itself sharply. This was where the water gushed the quickest, emptying over the banking like a waterfall. Tom slammed the 4x4 into first gear and the engine whined. The main beam of the headlights cut through the hawthorn hedge along the left side of the road, and she saw a startled rabbit shoot back underneath, its pale bobtail stark against the blackness.

  Slowly, they started to slide backwards and she tensed, her hand grabbing the side of the seat. Tom took one hand off the steering wheel for a moment an
d clasped her shoulder, then flicked a switch on the dashboard. The wheels spun and managed to find some grip. Finally, at a snail’s pace, they were moving again. To their right, in the dip where the stream normally skirted, the faint glow of lights could be seen. From her vantage point near the apex of the hill, the white flickering glow of a TV screen reminded her that some people were doing ordinary things on this, the wildest night the village had seen in decades. She ran her fingers over the coarse surface of the objects in her lap, wanting to make sure they hadn’t evaporated into thin air.

  Tom cleared the hill and chuckled, a pleased-with-himself sound that was clearly intended for his car, rather than his own merits.

  The Manor stood three fields away as the crow flies but the main road snaked the perimeters, passing the canoeing club and crossing the river before leading onto The Lane. It was a good three miles on that route and parts of it were littered with fallen trees. She knew Tom would have to take the narrow farm road that the milk tankers used when Beth’s house was a working farm cottage.

  Her heart rate spiked. Gut instinct told her something horrible had happened at the place she called home.

  They hadn’t been on the farm track for long before Tom suddenly braked and the 4x4 juddered to a halt. Her head jolted against the headrest, scattering the thoughts she had been trying to gather.

  Tom climbed out and stood in the light arcs from his headlights, his hands on his hips. Olivia opened her door and looked out, her foot planted on the door’s footrest.

  The road, which was barely more than a dirt track, lay before them. But it wasn’t a road, only a great, gaping black hole where the road once had been.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Gabe dragged himself out of a deep sleep. His whole body ached, including his eyes, which were right now trying to focus on the scenario in the White Room. If it wasn’t so messed up, the situation would be funny.

  Carver and Ollie sat side by side, their faces nearly as pale as Clove’s as he loomed over them, his presence as imposing as his height. They seemed to have relaxed a little and Carver’s eyes were animated, as though finally meeting the objects of years of study was just about sinking in.