The Society of Blood

by Mark Morris

  Blood gushed from the stump of his shoulder and spread across the carpet with such force it was like a living thing. Like some gelid, shimmering organism that seemed desperate to reach the limb lying inert several feet away, in the mistaken belief it might somehow find a way to reattach it to the host body.

  Clover screamed and dropped to her knees beside Hawkins as if her legs had been cut from under her. She looked wildly around for a moment, then grabbed a cushion from the nearest armchair and pressed it against the gushing wound.

  Whether at the pressure of the cushion or not, Hawkins’ body went rigid, his back arcing like a bow, his heels digging into the carpet. He let out a gurgling gasp and his legs began to kick. Then his bulging eyes rolled back in his head and his chalk-white face went slack.

  The black shape, meanwhile, flowed across the room like smoke or oil, shrinking and solidifying as it went. Tearing my gaze from Hawkins’ body and Clover’s frantic efforts to staunch the blood, I turned to see it compact down into a roughly human shape. When it moved to the half-open door of the drawing room and slid out into the hallway, panic spiked inside me, breaking through the numbness that had caused me to freeze and finally enabling me to move. I imagined the thing slithering like a vast black slug up the stairs to Hope’s room, oozing under her door. Although I was desperate to help Hawkins, I knew my priority was to protect Hope, and so, after giving my friend one last agonised glance, I turned and ran after the creature.

  Stumbling across the room, I tried to draw strength and comfort from the heart in my hand. I wondered if it would spring to life to defend Hope if the creature (and I could only imagine this was the shape-shifter I’d encountered in my own time) attacked her. Still half a dozen steps from the door into the hallway, I heard the familiar groan and creak of another door opening, and instantly I realised what the shape-shifter was doing. It hadn’t left the room to find and threaten Hope at all. It had left the room in order to open the front door and let the other Wolves into the house.

  I came to a halt, suddenly unsure what to do. I knew if I followed the shape-shifter into the hallway, the likelihood was that the Dark Man would demand I hand over the heart immediately. However, if I stayed here and waited for them to come to me, might there first be time to use the heart to somehow save Hawkins’ life, as it had apparently saved Frank Martin after he was shot during the battle of Passchendaele – or would the delay put Kate at risk?

  I may well have stood there like an idiot until the Wolves entered the room, unable to decide, if Clover hadn’t barked my name. I turned to see her kneeling in Hawkins’ blood, which now covered not only the bottom of her dress, but also gloved her hands and arms in slick, drooling redness almost up to her elbows. There were further smears and spatters on her white blouse, plus she had a blob on her chin and a thick streak on her forehead where she must have pushed a strand of hair out of her face. The cushion she’d been using was now so saturated it looked like an engorged and dripping internal organ.

  As for Hawkins, he looked worse than ever, grey and limp, his mouth hanging open. It was hard to believe he wasn’t already dead.

  Perhaps he was, but even so, Clover scowled and barked, ‘Help me!’

  I ran over and dropped to my knees beside her.

  ‘Use the heart!’ she shouted, letting go of the cushion with one hand to jab at it, flecks of blood flying from the tip of her finger.

  ‘I don’t know how,’ I said.

  ‘Just try!’

  Before I could the door flew back, and with a grinding creak the Dark Man’s spider-like conveyance edged sideways into the room.

  I jumped to my feet and turned to face him, stepping in front of Clover and Hawkins to shield them. As the spider-chair advanced, it knocked over a small table, home to a Chinese vase, which toppled to the floor, breaking into pieces.

  A couple of metres from me the spider-chair came to a halt, its limbs settling with a pneumatic wheeze. The thing sitting upright beneath the shroud of dark netting stirred feebly, like a sickly, newborn creature unable to break free of its placental sac.

  I had no idea how the Dark Man had got here, but he hadn’t come alone. As well as the oily, vaguely humanoid form of the shape-shifter, which oozed into the room behind him, he’d also brought Tallarian, who had to dip low to fold himself through the doorway, and whose fire-scarred flesh resembled a wax mask that had partly melted, then solidified.

  It was none of these three, though, that grabbed my attention. It was the smallest, most ordinary-looking member of the group that made me gasp.

  It was Kate. My Kate. My little girl. Looking just as she had on the day she’d disappeared. She was even wearing the same clothes: green and red duffel coat buttoned up to her throat, jeans, white trainers with pink flashes. And of course she was also wearing her pink-framed spectacles – although her eyes, behind the lenses, were wide and teary with fear.

  I fell to my knees, all strength, all resistance, draining out of me. I felt as though I was crumbling, as though my heart was melting. Tears shimmered in my eyes and I blinked them away, desperate not to lose sight of her even for a second.

  ‘Kate,’ I whispered. ‘Kate.’

  She was standing in front of Tallarian, whose long-fingered hand was clamped over her shoulder. It was this that prevented her from running to me when I raised my arms towards her; this and the fact that Tallarian’s other hand was poised above her, glinting hypodermic needles projecting from the tips of his fingers.

  I could see that my daughter’s bottom lip was trembling. I could see that her fear and bewilderment were far outweighing any joy she might have felt at seeing me. I wondered how long it had been for her since her abduction. Months? Weeks? Days? Hours? The fact that she looked no older, no different, suggested the latter.

  ‘Daddy,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t like these people. I’m scared.’

  Fury rushed through me then. Fury combined with an aching, overwhelming love, and an instinctive, primal desire to protect my beautiful daughter.

  I wanted to rage at the Dark Man. Wanted to turn the full, destructive force of the heart upon him. But I couldn’t let Kate see that. It would terrify her, scar her. I forced myself to smile, to speak softly.

  ‘It’s all right, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘There’s no need to be scared. It’ll all be over soon.’

  The thing beneath the shroud stirred. The front of the black, net-like material bulged outwards, forming a point, and then the material slid away with a whisper from the Dark Man’s blackened, mummy-like hand.

  ‘Give it to me,’ the creature rasped.

  ‘No, Alex!’ Clover said, but the future me’s voice was louder and more compelling. Somehow, in some alternate future, this had already happened, and I had hesitated and Kate had died.

  Perhaps she still would. Perhaps, once the Dark Man had the heart, he would simply kill us all. But it was a risk I had to take.

  Stepping forward I placed the heart in his outstretched hand.

  He gave a long, gurgling gasp of satisfaction and his fingers closed around the heart. He grasped it tightly as if he expected it to squirm and wriggle and try to escape. Behind me I heard Clover groan in despair. My eyes flickered towards Tallarian. He hadn’t moved. Was he waiting for an order from his master? In my mind I heard the Dark Man hiss, Kill her. Kill them all.

  ‘Now fulfil your side of the bargain,’ I shouted. ‘Give me back my daughter!’

  I waited, breath held. What would he do?

  His hand, still curled around the heart like a bird’s claw, snaked back beneath the shroud, the black netting closing over it. Even now, with Kate only an arm’s length away, I felt a pang of dismay at the knowledge that the heart was again slipping from my grasp.

  And then, beneath the Dark Man’s shroud, the heart came alive.

  Without warning there was a sudden blaze of light – or maybe, more accurately, of energy that my mind interpreted as light. Certainly it wasn’t light as you’d normally define it, but
a kind of… purple-black effulgence. An eruption of unearthly, blistering power.

  I staggered back from it. Felt it buffeting me, changing the air around me. This was the first time since I’d come into contact with the heart that it had acted independently of me, and oddly, mixed in with the wonder, the terror, even the exhilaration at what was happening, was a sliver of… envy, of jealousy. In that moment, stupidly and inappropriately, a tiny part of me felt like a husband who has just watched his wife kiss another man on the lips.

  Even the fact that the heart was attacking the Dark Man rather than obeying him didn’t entirely temper the feeling. And there was no doubt that it was attacking him, because the instant it came to life he released an appalling, piteous scream.

  I had no reason to feel anything but hatred for the Dark Man, yet the sound he made was so gut-wrenchingly awful I found it almost unbearable to listen to. My instinct was to try to intervene, to implore the heart to stop, to show its victim some mercy.

  But I didn’t. Fists and teeth clenched, I stood by and endured it, and watched.

  After bursting into life, the energy emanating from the heart didn’t continue to radiate outwards, but instead seemed to turn back in on itself – or rather, back in on the Dark Man. It engulfed him like a swarm of devouring insects. His screams grew shriller, more inhuman, as the dark energy of the heart lit the shroud from within, turning it semi-transparent. Beneath it I could see his emaciated form, already twisted by age or illness, writhing and thrashing in agony.

  Tearing my eyes away, I looked at Tallarian, alarmed by the prospect of how he might respond to the torture being inflicted on his master. Would he panic and kill Kate? Would he be distracted enough for me to snatch her from him? But even if I could snatch her, how would I be able to defend her and myself if he lunged at us, syringe fingers extended?

  Within seconds I realised my questions were irrelevant. Horrified, I saw that both the Surgeon and my daughter were becoming indistinct, losing shape, their outlines blurring and running together like a watercolour left in the rain. What was this? Some visual distortion caused by the energy pulsing from the heart? Or was leakage from the heart affecting them even as it destroyed the Dark Man?

  ‘No!’ I shouted, and leaped forward, intent on yanking Kate out of harm’s way. Clover, though, grabbed the jacket I’d put on over my nightshirt and pulled me back.

  ‘No, Alex!’ she yelled. ‘Don’t! It’s not her!’

  My impulse was to swing round, lash out, try to break free of her grip – then I realised what she was saying. I froze, took another look at Tallarian and Kate. Clover took advantage of my indecision and wrapped her bloody arms tightly around me.

  ‘It’s a trick, Alex,’ she said. ‘Don’t you see? That’s not Kate, it’s the shape-shifter. In fact, it’s not even the real Tallarian. They’re both part of the same thing.’

  At once I realised what Clover was telling me was true. Exposed to the heart energy the two forms were losing integrity, running into one another like melting tallow. It was like watching a detailed waxwork display exposed to the heat of a blast furnace. Kate and Tallarian were losing texture, colour, reducing to a kind of black, primordial gloop, which in turn was shuddering, squirming, as it became increasingly shapeless, like a salted slug in its death-throes.

  I didn’t know whether to feel relieved that this wasn’t Kate or dismayed that she was as far away from me as ever. I didn’t know how to feel about the Dark Man’s plight either. Subject to the full force of the heart’s power, the death of this creature, who for whatever reason had invaded my life and picked it apart piece by piece, now seemed imminent, inevitable.

  Given all he had put me through, it hardly seemed possible. Was I really watching his last moments, or could this be a trick too? The Dark Man had been my (often anonymous) nemesis for so long it was hard to believe I was watching him die. And yet here he was, his screams having dwindled to gasps and whimpers, his body beneath the illuminated shroud crumbling, collapsing like ancient bones.

  Less than ten seconds later he was even less than that. The shroud sunk in on his ashen remains as the dark and terrible effulgence from the heart, having done its work, faded and died.

  The gloop on the floor, like a patch of oil given rudimentary life, continued to shudder and spasm as if in pain, or in a vain attempt to reform itself. There was no sign whatsoever now of the black, almost primordial form of whatever off-shoot of the shape-shifter had let the Dark Man into the house and that had been standing on the other side of the spider-chair. Distracted by everything else that had been going on in the last few minutes I’d lost sight of it. Perhaps it had broken down more quickly than the more elaborate forms of Tallarian and Kate, and been absorbed into the larger form?

  Clover’s arms around me loosened, but they tightened again as I took a step forward.

  ‘Careful, Alex,’ she said. ‘It might still be dangerous.’

  I realised she thought I was about to tackle what remained of the shape-shifter, though what she expected me to do to it I have no idea.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’m not going near that thing. I’ve seen what it can do.’

  The shape-shifter shuddered again, as though it had heard me, then its body suddenly elongated, stretching out like a snake. Clover yelled in surprise and jumped back, almost pulling me off balance, as the thing flexed, then shot past us. I caught a glimpse of it flowing across the floor, past Hawkins’ motionless body, up the wall and into the flue of the chimney above the still crackling fire. Then it was gone.

  ‘Shitting thing,’ Clover said. ‘Good riddance.’

  Although her words were defiant, her voice was shaky. Feeling shaky myself, I stepped forward, grabbed the edge of the Dark Man’s shroud, and, wary of the possibility that he may have one last, unpleasant surprise for me (maybe the spider-chair was booby-trapped?) I pulled it away.

  Nothing happened. The Dark Man was nothing but ash and a few brittle, grey bones, in the middle of which, like a black bomb, sat the heart. Grimacing, I reached across and picked it up, holding it gingerly between my thumb and forefinger as I wiped the dust of its latest victim, which dulled its surface, on my jacket sleeve.

  ‘Alex,’ Clover said from behind me, her voice urgent but still shaky.

  I turned. She was kneeling beside Hawkins again, one hand resting lightly on his chest.

  ‘Use the heart. Now that they’re gone.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I dropped down beside her, my knees squelching in blood.

  ‘Is he dead?’ I asked, looking into Hawkins’ face, into his glazed, half-open eyes.

  ‘I don’t know. I think so. But you can bring him back, can’t you? You brought Frank back. He told me.’

  I had no idea what to do, but I had to try. Tentatively I put the heart against Hawkins’ chest, against his own heart. Nothing happened. Both hearts remained silent, inactive.

  ‘Come on,’ I muttered. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Hit him with it,’ suggested Clover.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hit him with it. Like you’re giving him CPR. Like you’re trying to get his heart started again.’

  ‘I can’t hit him with this. I’ll break his ribs.’

  Her voice splintered. ‘What does it matter? He’s dead. You have to try, Alex. You have to fucking try!’

  I tried. I hit Hawkins in the chest. Then I did it again. Again. Something cracked.

  ‘Come on,’ I muttered. ‘Come on.’

  I tried again. Again. Again.

  ‘Come on.’ I started to chant it. ‘Come on. Come on. Come on.’

  Bitter tears of rage, frustration and grief welled up in me, spilled out of my eyes, down my cheeks.

  ‘Come on. Come on. Come on.’

  Clover was crying now too, her face wet and red, her body hitching.

  ‘Come on. Come on. Come on.’

  I don’t know how long I tried for. Twenty minutes. Half an
hour. But nothing happened. The heart didn’t respond. Hawkins stayed dead.

  In the end, the strength draining out of me, I slumped forward over my friend, the man whose life I had once saved, and who had saved mine in return. I opened my hand and the heart, nothing but a black stone now, heavy and inert, rolled out of it and into Hawkins’ blood on the floor.

  ‘You can’t give up,’ Clover said, but I could tell by her voice that she knew it was hopeless. ‘Alex, you can’t!’

  ‘It’s too late, Clover,’ I said. ‘He’s dead. We’ve lost him.’

  She reached for me, and, clinging together, we wept.

  NINETEEN

  HEART TO HEART

  Hawkins’ funeral was a small affair. To reduce the risk of being identified in public as a convicted murderer who’d mysteriously absconded from a condemned cell the night before his execution, he was a man who had kept a low profile, and so for that reason the only mourners gathered around his graveside five days into the New Year were me, Clover, Hope, Mrs Peake and the three girls. Mrs Peake surprised me by weeping bitterly throughout the ceremony. After it was over we trundled silently back to the house in a couple of carriages through wet, muddy streets still streaked with dwindling patches of grey snow.

  The house had been like a mausoleum since Hawkins had died, cold and mostly silent, the adults drifting around one another like ghosts. For the first few days I’d busied myself by examining and then – with the aid of Frith and a couple of others, all of whom had been paid a handsome bonus to keep schtum – dismantling the Dark Man’s spider-chair. I’d hoped to learn something of his nature, something that might give me an advantage over the existing Wolves, or an insight into Kate’s true whereabouts, but the conveyance turned out to be simply a machine composed of steel and pistons and cogs. Ingenious, yes, but nothing that couldn’t have been conceived and knocked up by a forward-thinking engineer or mechanic.