by Brian Lumley
Gower stood up, went to Clarke and stared hard at him. “Darcy, is there something on your mind?”
“No,” Clarke shook his head, then changed his mind. “Yes … I don’t know! I just want to get out to Harkley, that’s all. Do my bit.”
Twenty-five minutes later he was on his way …
Shortly before 2:00 A.M. Clark parked his car on the hard shoulder of the road maybe a quarter of a mile from Harkley House and walked the rest of the way. The mist had thinned out and the night was starting to look fine. Stars lit his way, and the hedgerows had a nimbus of foxfire to sharpen their silhouettes.
Oddly enough, and for all his terrifying confrontation with Bodescu’s dog. Clarke felt no fear. He put it down to the fact that he carried a loaded gun, and that back there in the boot of his car was a small but quite deadly metal crossbow. After he had seen Peter Keen off duty, he’d bring up his car and park it in Keen’s spot.
On his way he met no one, but he heard a dog yapping across the fields, and another answering bark for bark, apparently from miles away. A handful of hazy lights shone softly on the hills, and just as he came in sight of Harkley’s gates a distant church clock dutifully gonged out the hour.
Two o’clock and all’s well, thought .Clarke—except he saw that it wasn’t. There was no sign of Keen’s unmistakeable red Capri, for one thing. And for another there was no sign of Keen.
Clarke scratched his head, scuffed the grass where Keen’s car should be parked. The wet grass gave up a broken branch, and … no, it wasn’t a branch. Clarke stooped, picked up the snapped crossbow bolt in fingers that were suddenly tingling. Something was very, very wrong here!
He looked up, staring at Harkley House standing there like a squat sentient creature in the night. Its eyes were closed now, but what was hiding behind the lowered lids of its dark windows?
All of Clarke’s senses were operating at maximum efficiency: his ears picked up the rustle of a mouse, his eyes glared to penetrate the darkness, he could taste, almost feel the evil in the night air, and—and something stank. Literally. The stink of a slaughterhouse.
Clarke took out a pencil-slim torch and flashed it on the grass—which was red and wet and sticky! The cuffs of his trousers were stained a dark crimson with blood. Someone (God, let it not be Peter Keen!) had spilled pints of the stuff right here. Clarke’s legs trembled and he felt faint, but he forced himself to follow a track, a bloody swath, to a spot behind the hedgerow, hidden from the road. And there it was much worse. Did one man have that much blood!
Clarke wanted to be sick, but that would incapacitate him and right now he dare not be incapacitated. But the grass … it was strewn with clots of blood, shreds of skin and gobbets of … of meat! Human flesh! And under the narrow beam of his torch there was something else, something which might just be—God, a kidney!
Clarke ran—or rather floated, fought, swam, drifted, as in a dream or nightmare—back to his car, drove like a madman back to Paignton, hurled himself into INTESP’s suite of rooms. He was in shock, remembered nothing of the drive, nothing at all except what he’d seen, which had seared itself onto his mind. He fell into a chair and lolled there, gasping, trembling: his mouth, face, all of his limbs, even his mind, trembling.
Guy Roberts had come half-awake when Clarke rushed in. He saw him, the state of his trousers, the dead white slackness of his face, and was fully alert in an instant. He dragged Clarke to his feet and slapped him twice, ringing blows that brought the colour back to Clarke’s cheeks—and blood to his previously blank eyes. Clarke drew himself up and glared; he growled and showed his gritted teeth, went for Roberts like a madman.
Trevor Jordan and Simon Gower dragged him off Roberts, held him tight—and at last he broke down. Sobbing like a child, finally he told the whole story. The only thing he didn’t tell was the one which must be perfectly obvious: why it had affected him so very badly.
“Obvious, yes,” said Roberts to the others, cradling Clarke’s head and rocking him like a child. “You know what Darcy’s talent is, don’t you? That’s right: he has this thing that looks after him. What? He could walk through a minefield and come out unscathed! So you see, Darcy’s blaming himself for what happened. He had the shits tonight and couldn’t go on duty. But it wasn’t anything he ate that queered his guts—it was his damned talent! Or else it would be Darcy himself minced out there and not Peter Keen …”
Tuesday, 6:00 A.M.: Alex Kyle was shaken rudely awake by Carl Quint. Krakovitch was with Quint, both of them hollow-eyed through travel and lack of sleep. They had stayed overnight at the Dunarea, where they’d checked in just before 1:00 A.M. They had had maybe four hours’ sleep; Krakovitch had been roused by night staff to answer a call from England on behalf of his English guests; Quint, knowing by means of his talent that something was in the air, had been awake anyway.
“I’ve had the call transferred to my room,” said Krakovitch to Kyle, who was still gathering his senses. “It is someone called Roberts. He is wishing to speak to you. Most important.”
Kyle shook himself awake, glanced at Quint.
“Something’s up,” Quint said. “I’ve suspected it for a couple of hours. I tossed and turned, sleep all broken up—but too tired to respond properly.”
All three in pyjamas, they went quickly to Krakovitch’s room. On the way the Russian inquired, “How do they know where you are, your people? It is them, yes? I mean, we had not planned to be here tonight.”
Quint raised an eyebrow in his fashion. “We’re in the same business as you, Felix, remember?”
Krakovitch was impressed. “A finder? Very accurate!”
Quint didn’t bother to put him right. Ken Layard was good, all right, but not that good: The better he knew a person or thing the easier he could find him or it. He’d have located Kyle in Bucharest; they’d have systematically checked out the major hotels. Since the Dunarea was one of the biggest, it must have come up high on the list.
In Krakovitch’s room Kyle took the call. “Guy? Alec here.”
“Alec? We have a big problem. It’s bad, I’m afraid. Can we talk?”
“Can’t it go through London?” Kyle was fully awake now.
“That’ll take time,” Roberts answered, “and time’s important.”
“Wait,” said Kyle. He said to Krakovitch: “What are the odds this is being monitored?”
The Russian shrugged, shook his head. “None at all, that I can see.” He stepped to the window, opened the curtains. It would soon be dawn.
“OK, Guy,” Kyle spoke into the phone. “Let’s have it.”
“Right,” said Roberts. “It’s just about four A.M. here. Now go back two hours …” He told Kyle the entire story, then detailed the action he’d taken since Clarke’s hag-ridden drive back to the hotel in Paignton.
“I got Ken Layard in on it. He was great. He fixed Keen’s location somewhere on the road between Brixham and Newton Abbot. Keen and his car, smashed up, burned out. I scried out Layard’s fix and he was right, of course; we were able to say quite definitely that Peter was … that he was dead.
“I contacted the police in Paignton, told them I was waiting for a friend who was a little overdue, gave them his name, description, a description of his car. They said there’d been an accident; he was being cut out of the car; they could tell me no more, but an ambulance was on the scene and the driver of the car would be taken to the emergency hospital in Torquay. For me that was a ten minute drive. I was there when he was brought in. I identified him …” He paused.
“Go on,” said Kyle, knowing there must be worse to come.
“Alec, I feel responsible. We should have been tighter. The trouble with this game is that we rely on our talents too damned much! We’ve almost forgotten how to use simple technology. We should have had walkie-talkies, better contact. We should have given this damned monster more credit for mayhem! I mean, Christ, how could I let this happen? We’re espers; we have special talents; Bodescu is only one man and we’r
e—”
“He’s not just a man!” Kyle snapped. “And we don’t have a monopoly on talent. He has it, too. It’s not your fault. Now please tell me the rest of it.”
“He … Peter was … hell, he didn’t get those injuries in any car smash! He’d been opened up … gutted! Everything was exposed. His head was … God it was in two halves!”
Despite the horror conjured by Roberts’s description, Kyle tried to think dispassionately. He’d known Peter Keen well and liked him. But now he must put that aside and think only of the job. “Why the car smash? What did that bastard hope to get out of it?”
“The way I see it,” Roberts answered, “he was just covering up the murder, and what he’d done to Peter’s poor body. The police said there was a strong petrol smell all around and inside the car. I reckon Bodescu drove Peter out there, put the car in top gear, pointed it downhill and let it roll. Being what he is, a few grazes and cuts wouldn’t matter much when he jumped for it. And he probably splashed a lot of petrol around inside the car first, so as to burn the evidence. But the way he’d cut that poor lad up was … Jesus, it was horrible! I mean, why? Peter must have been dead long before that ghoul was finished. If he was torturing him at least there’d be some sense in it. I mean, however horrible, at least I could understand it. But you can’t learn anything from a dead man, now can you?”
Kyle almost dropped the telephone. “Oh, my God!” he whispered.
“Eh?”
Kyle said nothing, stood frozen in sudden shock.
“Alec?”
“Yes you can,” Kyle finally answered. “You can learn an awful lot from a dead man—everything, in fact—if you’re a necromancer!”
Roberts had had access to the Keogh file. Now it all came back to mind and he saw Kyle’s meaning. “You mean like Dragosani?”
“I mean exactly like Dragosani!”
Quint had caught most of this. “Good Lord!” He grabbed Kyle’s elbow. “He knows all about us. He knows—”
“Everything!” Kyle said, to Quint and to Roberts. “He knows the lot. He dragged it out of Keen’s guts, out of his brains, his blood, his poor violated organs! Guy, now listen, this is important. Did Keen know when you plan to move in on Harkley House?”
“No. I’m the only one who knows that. Those were your instructions.”
“That’s right. Good! Well, we can thank God we got that right, anyway. Now listen: I’m coming home. Tonight—I mean today! On the first possible flight. Carl Quint will stay out here and see this end sewn up, but I’m coming back. Don’t wait for me if I can’t get down to Devon in time. Go in as planned. Have you got that?”
“Yes.” The other’s voice was grim. “Oh, yes, I’ve got that! Christ, and I’m looking forward to it!”
Kyle’s eyes narrowed, grew very bright and fierce. “Have Peter’s body burned,” he said, “just in case … And then burn Bodescu. Burn all the blood-sucking bastards!”
Quint gently took the phone from him and said, “Guy, Carl here. Listen, this is top priority. Get a couple of our best men up to Hartlepool A.S.A.P. Darcy Clarke especially. Do it now, even before you move on Harkley.”
“Right,” Roberts answered. “I’ll do it.” Then he got the point. His gasp was perfectly audible, even over the none too clear connection. “Hell, of course I’ll do it—right now!”
Wide-eyed and pale, Kyle and Quint stared at each other. There was no need to give voice to what was on their minds. Yulian Bodescu had learned almost everything there was to know about them. Keen had access, as had they all, to the Keogh file. A vampire’s greatest fear is to be discovered for what he is. He will try to destroy anyone who even suspects him.
INTESP knew what he was, and the focus—the jinni loci—of INTESP was someone called Harry Keogh …
Darcy Clarke had swallowed two double brandies in quick succession before insisting on going back on duty. That had been shortly before Roberts’s call to the Hotel Dunarea in Bucharest. Roberts, at first dubious, had finally let Clarke go back to Harkley, but with this warning: “Darcy, stay in your car. Don’t leave it, no matter what. I know you have your juju working, but in this case it mightn’t be enough. But we do need someone watching that hell-house, at least until we can get fully mobilized, and so if you’re volunteering …”
Clarke had driven carefully, coldly back to Harkley House and parked on the stiff black grass close to where Keen’s car had stood. He tried not to think about the ground where his car stood, or what had happened there. He was aware of it—would never forget it—but he kept it on the periphery of his consciousness, didn’t let it interfere. And so with his gun and loaded crossbow beside him he’d sat there watching the house, never taking his eyes off it for a moment.
Fear had turned to hatred in Clarke’s heart; he was here as a duty, yes, but it was more than that. Bodescu might just come out, might just show his face, and if he did … Clarke needed desperately to kill him.
In the house Yulian sat in darkness by his garret window. He, too, had known a little fear, something of panic. But now, like Clarke, he was cold, calm, calculating. For now, with one very important exception, he knew all there was to know about the watchers. The one thing he didn’t know was when. But certainly it would be soon.
He gazed out into the darkness and could sense the approaching dawn. Down there, beyond the gate, in a car in the field across the road someone else watched. Ah, but this one would be better prepared. Yulian sent his vampire senses reaching into the cold and misty pre-dawn gloom, touched lightly upon a mind. Hatred lashed out at him before the mind closed itself—but not before he recognized it. Yulian merely grinned.
He sent his telepathic thoughts down to the vaulted cellars: Vlad, an old friend of yours is keeping a vigil on the house. I want you to watch him. But don’t let him see you, and don’t try to hurt him. They are wary now, these watchers, and coiled like springs. If you are seen it may not go well for you. So just watch him, and let me know if he moves or does anything other than watch us! Now go …
A huge black shadow, slope-eared, feral-eyed, padded silently up the narrow steps in the small building standing towards the rear of the house. It came out into the grounds, turned towards the gates, kept to the darker areas of trees and shrubbery. Tongue lolling, Vlad hastened to obey …
Yulian called the women down into the main living room on the ground floor. It was totally dark in that room, but each present could see the others perfectly well. Like it or not, night was now their element. When they were assembled, Yulian seated himself beside Helen on a couch, waited a moment to be sure he had the full attention of the women, then spoke.
“Ladies,” he commenced, mockingly, his voice low and sinister, “it will soon be dawn. I can’t be certain but I rather fancy that it will be one of the last dawns you ever see. Men will come and they will try to kill you. That may not be easy, but they’re determined and they’ll try very hard.”
“Yulian!” His mother at once stood up, her voice shocked, fearful. “What have you done?”
“Sit down!” he commanded, glaring at her. She obeyed, but reluctantly. And when she was perched again on the edge of her chair, he said, “I have done what I must do to protect myself. And you—all of you—shall be obliged to do likewise, or die. Soon.”
Helen, simultaneously fascinated and horrified by Yulian, her skin crawling with her fear of him, timorously touched his arm. “I shall do whatever you ask of me, Yulian.”
He thrust her away, almost hurled her from the couch. “Fight for yourself, slut! That is all I ask. Not for me but for yourself—if you desire to live!”
Helen cringed away from him. “I only—”
“Only be quiet!” he snarled. “You must fight for yourselves, for I shall not be here. I’m leaving with the dawn, when they’d least expect me to leave. But you three will remain. While you are here they may be fooled into thinking that I am still here.” He nodded and smiled.
“Yulian, look at you!” his mother sudden
ly hissed, her voice venomous. “You were always a monster inside, and now you’re a monster outside, too! I don’t want to die for you, for even this half-life is better than none, but I don’t intend to fight for it. Nothing you can say or do shall make me kill to preserve what you’ve made of me!”
He shrugged. “Then you’ll die very quickly.” He turned his eyes on Anne Lake. “And you, Auntie dear? Will you go to your maker so passively?”
Anne was wild-eyed, dishevelled. She looked mad. “George is dead!” she babbled, her hands flying to her hair. “And Helen is … changed. My life is finished.” She stopped fussing, leaned forward in her chair and glowered at Yulian. “I hate you!”
“Oh, I know you do,” he nodded. “But will you let them kill you?”
“I’d be better off dead,” she answered.
“Ah, but such a death!” he said. “You saw George go, Auntie dear, and so you know how hard it was. The stake, the cleaver, and the fire.”
She sprang to her feet, shook her head wildly. “They wouldn’t! People … don’t!”
“But these people do,” he gazed at her wide-eyed, almost innocently, aping her expression. “They will, for they know what you are. They know that you’re Wamphyri!”
“We can leave this place!” Anne cried. “Come on, Georgina, Helen—we’ll leave right now!”
“Yes, go!” Yulian snapped, as if done with them, utterly sick of them. “Do go, all of you. Leave me—go now …”
They looked at him uncertainly, blinking their yellow eyes in unison. “I won’t stop you,” he told them with a shrug. He got to his feet, made to leave the room. “No, not I. But they will! They’ll stop you dead! They’re out there now, watching—and waiting.”
“Yulian, where are you going?” His mother stood up, looked as if she might even try to take hold of him, detain him. He forced her back with nothing but a growl of warning, swept by her.
“I have preparations to make,” he said, “for my departure. I imagine that you, too, will have certain final things you want to do. Prayers to some non-existent god, perhaps? Cherished photographs to look at? Old friends and lovers to remember, while you may?” And sneering, he left them to their own devices …
