His right leg was a wash of blood that had smeared up over his belly and chest. His pubic hair was matted and dripping. The side of his head was a concave mess. More blood gushed from the gaping wound above his ear and covered his shoulder and right arm. Sam thought he could see his brain pulsing beneath the ruined skull. As he watched, the dent pushed itself back out, and the blood flow stopped. He heard bone popping as his head reconstructed itself. Delicately, Sam pushed the flap of skin back in place and felt it writhe slightly as it sealed back to where it belonged.
Turning to the men who had attacked him, Sam smiled maliciously. ‘This isn’t your day, boys,’ he said in an alien, growling voice. He stepped towards Machete, who squealed with terror and swung his weapon at Sam’s head. He ducked and casually batted the swinging hand aside. Reaching out with his right hand, Sam gripped Machete by the throat. He began to squeeze and heard something crunch. Sam pulled the man’s throat out with a jerk, and blood sprayed onto his face and into his mouth.
Hunger took over, and Sam fell with the body. He tore a chunk out of the man’s cheek with his teeth. The salty flesh slipped down into his belly and for a long time, Sam was lost in the rapture of feeding. By the time he was finished, the man was a badly mauled carcass, the flesh stripped from his arms and legs, his stomach open and stinking, and his ribs splayed and broken. Sam sat back and realised that the other two men had gone. He didn’t care.
The hotel room was an abattoir. The bed and walls were covered in thick, viscous blood. The space smelled of shit and raw meat, and the coppery tang of blood was the finest aroma Sam could ever remember smelling. He was covered in the gore of his human dinner. Gently probing his leg and head, he found them whole and without wound or imperfection. Sam felt empowered; for the first time in his life, he felt real.
Humming to himself, he went to the en-suite bathroom and had a shower. Calmly, he reviewed the events of the last few hours. It had been a good day: he had gotten laid, had a fight, and eaten well. What more could a man ask for?
Yet sharp sanity remained; he was not completely delusional. What he had done was murder and cannibalism. Though he could no longer understand why such things were taboo, he knew that the society he lived in would judge him harshly. He would have to hide until he could work things out for himself.
Where to go? As he soaped the blood from his body, he mulled over the question. As if in answer, that strange feeling came back – the feeling that there was another person in his head with him, a dichotomy of intelligence. This time, it did not feel strange. It felt right. The connection did not bring nausea or upset, but a sense of harmony instead. He could feel that presence somewhere to the east. Not far away at all.
Getting out of the shower, Sam quickly dried himself. As he dressed, he looked out of the hotel room window and marvelled at the darkening city. It was just after five in the evening, and dusk had settled over Manchester like a shroud.
In response, all the lights of the restaurants and bars, flats and shops had blazed into life. The roads were smears of red and white as cars whizzed along to deposit their passengers onto the Saturday night scene.
From where he stood, Sam could feel the life of the place. He could sense the hot, churning blood of the throngs so far below him. The pulse of the city was a steady beat in his gut, pulling at him, inviting him out into the night.
In that moment, Sam knew what it was to be a god, holding an entire planet on an open palm, capable of crushing it in his infinite fist on the slightest whim. Smiling to himself, he stepped over the mutilated body on the hotel room floor and went in search of the thing that was calling to him.
Rowan woke up suddenly. There was no fuzzy moment while he tried to gather his thoughts – he was fully conscious immediately. Something had disturbed him. He remained motionless, his breathing stilled, and he listened intently. There it was again – a faint thump, as if somebody had put something heavy down. His initial instinct was that burglars had invaded his home.
Poor bastards, he thought to himself. A thin smile spread across his lips. The house was left unoccupied for several months, and then some unlucky sod decided to break in the day after he got home.
He sat up silently and climbed out of bed. Quickly negotiating the dark room, he grabbed one of his dad’s golf clubs from where they had been left, untouched, beside the wardrobe for the last three years. Then, because nobody likes fighting when they’re naked, he pulled on a pair of boxer shorts.
Rowan had slept in late, and then spent the day catching up on some odd jobs around the house. It was nice to just lose himself: to cut himself off from the world for a little while. He had meant to phone his sister, but somehow morning slipped into afternoon, and a quick bath turned into a luxurious hour-long soak. He topped up with hot water and fell asleep, and the hour turned into two. By the time he woke up in lukewarm water, it was getting dark outside.
Ordering a pizza, Rowan found a bargain basement action movie on TV and laughed uproariously at Hollywood’s interpretation of soldiering in a modern world. Feeling sleepy again, he went back to bed for an afternoon nap.
Slipping between the crisp, clean sheets of his big comfy bed had been liberating, and he had finally felt the tension of the last few months drain from him. He was home, he was healthy, and he had a couple more days doing nothing. So when he heard movement downstairs, his grim amusement was gilded with anger. He didn’t even think about calling the police.
The downstairs lights were off. Outside, the world was dark. A swollen moon cast an eldritch glow into the back garden, while the front of the house was lit brightly by the street lamps that marched up the road.
From the top of the stairs, Rowan could see that somebody had switched on the kitchen lights. He could hear more movement. Cheeky fuckers are having a snack, he thought as he slipped downstairs silently, the golf club held ready over his right shoulder. The graphite shaft felt disappointingly light. He’d tried to persuade his dad to buy steel, but the old man hadn’t listened.
Pushing his back up against the door jamb, Rowan paused for a moment outside the kitchen. He listened intently, trying to discern how many were in there.
It sounded like there was only one. Tightening his grip on the golf club, he swung into the kitchen and yelled wordlessly to scare the shit out of the intruder. His eyes raked the room, and he saw a figure next to the fridge, holding a pint of milk. Rowan stared incredulously for a few seconds and then burst out laughing. He dropped the golf club and opened his arms.
‘Jesus Christ, Tabby, I thought you were a burglar.’ His sister didn’t answer, and it was only then that Rowan saw the bruise around the side of her mouth and the split lip that glistened under the kitchen lights. Tabby threw herself into his arms and began to cry. ‘Shush,’ he said gently as he held her, stroking her thick hair. ‘Shush, it’s all right. I’m here.’
Through her muffled sobs, Tabby began to babble. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were home. I just needed somewhere to stay. I let myself in … I didn’t know where else to go. I went home for a bit to see if he’d come back, but the longer I stayed, the more I realised I didn’t want him to. So I packed a few things and came here. I brought some food to make a sandwich. I haven’t eaten – my appetite’s gone – but I thought I should do. So, I … I …’ Then she burst into a fresh round of sobs, and Rowan held her tight for the next few minutes while the tears exhausted themselves.
Gently, he led her through to the front room and sat her down. Then he cleared up the pizza box and took it to the kitchen. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ he shouted to her.
‘Do you have anything stronger?’
‘No – I’ve not been shopping yet.’ Rowan returned to the front room. ‘I can walk up to the off-licence if you like,’ he said.
‘I’ll come with you – I need the air … and I don’t want to be on my own. I’m so glad you’re here.’
Rowan put some clothes on, and together they walked up to the high street. Tabby slowly
told him about how Sam had been attacked and the changes that had come over him afterwards. About how they thought he would never speak again and the miraculous healing rate. Then she told him, her voice bleak, the tears banished, about how he had insulted her and finally punched her in the face. Rowan listened silently.
On the one hand, he was furious with Sam. He wanted to defend his big sister, to seek out the man who had hit her and pummel him into mincemeat. On the other hand, he could not reconcile what Tabby was telling him with the Sam he knew. The man was gentle, polite: almost stuffy. It wasn’t that he disbelieved his sister; she had never lied to him, and he knew she wouldn’t start now. It was just so out of character.
‘It doesn’t sound like Sam,’ he said when she had finished.
‘I know. He’s been under a lot of stress …’
‘Don’t defend him. There’s no excuse.’
‘But …’
‘I don’t want to hear it.’ The statement was flat and brooked no argument. Tabby fell silent. ‘Do you want me to … have a word with him?’
‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t want either of you getting hurt. And I don’t want you getting into trouble.’ Rowan shrugged as if it didn’t matter. ‘No,’ she said again in a tone just as final as Rowan’s had been, seconds earlier.
‘So, what do you want to do?’
‘I want to get drunk.’
‘Well, that I can arrange.’ They reached the off-licence shortly before eight. There was a group of three young men inside, obviously drunk. Avoiding them, Tabby went and selected a bottle of wine. Rowan picked up eight bottles of beer for himself, then made his way over to the counter. The drunks had gone outside.
Rowan paid for the alcohol on his bank card while Tabby double bagged the lot into flimsy plastic bags. They walked outside. The three men were still there. One was on his mobile phone, the other two had cracked open a can each and were swearing at each other and laughing. Rowan and Tabby walked past.
‘Hey, sweetheart,’ said one, a large man in his early twenties with a skinhead haircut and a goatee. ‘How would you like to ride this?’ He pointed at his groin and thrust towards her crudely. Tabby and Rowan ignored him and walked past. The man and his friends started laughing.
‘Scum,’ Rowan said with disgust. ‘Every time I come home it seems like the place is getting more and more shit. The whole country’s turning into a ghetto.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, it does.’
‘There’s nothing you can do.’
‘There should be,’ Rowan said.
Tabby smiled, and Rowan saw her wince as her split lip stung. ‘What are you going to do, little brother? Dress up as Batman and go around beating people up?’
Rowan grinned. ‘Well, I wasn’t going to bother with the costume,’ he said. His tone became grave. ‘Seriously though, what are you going to do about Sam?’
‘I honestly don’t know. Can I stay with you for a few days?’
‘Of course you can. It’s your house as well. You stay as long as you want.’ Together, they walked back home.
It was rare for Mark to have a face-to-face meeting with any of his employees. Jason was the exception, but only because Mark did not trust the portfolios Jason provided to the complex ether of the Internet. Mark had many interests that, by their nature, had to remain covert. Some were personal, most were business, but for all of them there was one simple rule: all communication was to be made through encrypted phone lines. These men met Mark Jones once and only once, in a neutral venue in which Mark took great pains to arrive unobserved.
When the front gate buzzer sounded, Mark sat still for a second. He had not been expecting anybody; least of all, Jason. Using the remote wand, Mark brought the gate’s security camera up on one of the monitors on his desk. He stared at it with suppressed anger for a few seconds. The buzzer went again, this time longer, as if the person pressing it were impatient.
‘Intercom,’ Mark snapped. When he heard it connect, he spoke again, his voice dangerously calm. ‘Sergei, what brings you here?’
Sergei’s swarthy face looked thin and sallow. His large nose appeared to quiver with suppressed emotion, and his dark eyes flashed worriedly. ‘I’m sorry to impose, Mr. Jones, but something went wrong, and I thought that you should know as soon as possible.’
‘And the very expensive encrypted phone I bought for you was not good enough for this purpose?’
Sergei winced at the anger in Mark’s voice. ‘I thought this might be better in person, Sir. I barely believe it … I’ve spent the last few hours trying to work out what to do … In the end, it seemed right to come and see you.’
Mark’s anger was replaced with curiosity. ‘Come in,’ Mark said as he tapped the icon on the monitor that opened the gate. ‘I’ll meet you at the back door.’
Russian-born Sergei was an ex-KGB agent who had spent twenty years running around the world, doing wetwork for his Soviet masters. He had gone into business for himself when the KGB was finally disbanded in 1995.
Since then, he had become one of the most respected mercenary captains in the world, known to be reliable, discreet, and where necessary, exceedingly deadly. Sergei was obviously curious about his current five-million-US-dollar contract to babysit a young woman, but he was far too professional to ask. Besides, Mark knew that the man liked the peace and quiet that the lucrative contract provided.
Still, Mark had done a lot of research into the mercenary before hiring him, and one thing had come out through every line of investigation: Sergei had an almost psychotic resistance to fear. No matter what circumstance Sergei found himself in, he remained dead calm at all times. The worried glint in his eyes did not fill Mark with confidence. There was one obvious reason: the girl was dead. He dismissed that out of hand. It wasn’t time yet – not until Monday. What else then? As he walked, a certainty began to creep over Mark.
He met Sergei at the back door, a solid oak affair with a steel core. Together they walked up to the Solar and sat down. Mark keyed all the security devices to prevent eavesdroppers listening in, then turned to Sergei.
‘What’s going on?’
Sergei was quiet for a moment. Then he looked at Mark with anger in his smouldering dark eyes. ‘What the fuck did you send us into?’
Mark was genuinely surprised. Gone was the worried, nervous man from the gate. In his place was the dangerous mercenary. With a start, Mark realised Sergei had played him. A smile twitched at his lips. ‘I told you to teach the man a lesson. You did that, I assume.’
Sergei launched himself from his chair and grabbed Mark by the throat. Mark let him. ‘That wasn’t a man!’
‘Let go of me, Sergei, and tell me what happened.’
Sergei pulled a wicked-looking lock knife from his suit pocket and opened it with one hand. He put the blade beneath Mark’s chin and pushed it into the flesh. Mark rolled his eyes; if Sergei had been serious, he would have placed it against his carotid artery. Mark thought about stopping the man but decided to let the little act play out for a while at least.
‘I’ll ask the questions, you fuck,’ Sergei spat. ‘What was it?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now tell me what happened, before I get upset.’
Sergei laughed and tightened his hold on Mark’s throat. ‘Listen, you little fruitcake. I don’t mind getting paid a small fortune to watch some silly bitch you’ve got a crush on. Hell, I don’t even mind walking into a situation that might get me killed – that’s what I’m paid for. But I will not tolerate being blindsided by some sick fuck with a god complex. Now tell me what it was!’ The knife’s razor edge dug in deeper.
Enough was enough. His hand flashed up and fastened around Sergei’s wrist. Though he hadn’t been fast enough to stop the knife nicking the flesh of his throat, centuries of sword work had left Mark with an incredible grip, and he held the other man firmly.
Mark slid out of his chair, the movement lithe and graceful. Sergei
tried to move with him – tried to stop Mark slipping away – but Mark had too much experience, even for the ex-KGB operative. In seconds, Sergei was held still by a ruthless wrist lock and relieved of his knife.
Mark pushed Sergei into one of the chairs, folded the knife, and put it on the table in front of the Russian. Sergei glared at him.
‘Obviously, you’re upset, so I’m going to overlook that little … episode. If you come at me again though, I will kill you. Do you understand?’ Sergei nodded. Hatred filled his face. ‘Now, please explain what happened. I honestly haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.’
Sergei stared at him, and the anger slowly drained away. Confusion replaced it. ‘I believe you,’ he said, rubbing his wrist.
‘I’m honoured,’ Mark said wryly.
‘I thought it must have been some sort of … weapons test … or something. We went in like you told us. We were going to slap the guy around for a bit, and it started off okay. We had him pinned up, and I was giving him his warning … and then it all went wrong.’ Sergei slipped into maudlin silence.
‘Tell me,’ Mark said gently.
‘We cut him. We cut him bad. Colin had a machete, and he hit the boy in the side of the head with it so hard, he bashed his skull in. I could see his fucking brains, for Christ’s sake. It didn’t stop him. He just smiled at us. Colin screamed. I’ve never heard Colin scream. He’s ex SAS … I’ve seen him get shot and just carry right on as if nothing had happened. But he screamed … and then the boy … he …’
‘Go on,’ Mark said, not liking the way this was going.
‘The boy … ate him. Tore his face off and began … I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Sergei said weakly. The fear was back. His brows were furrowed and his face was waxy.
‘He did this with a fractured skull?’ Mark demanded.
‘No, that’s the thing. That’s why we thought it was some kind of weapons test. Like a super soldier, or something – it healed. Right there in front of us, it healed. He had a nasty cut to his leg that Colin gave him. That healed as well. Almost instantly.’ Sergei shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it.
Immortals' Requiem Page 14
