Resurgence_The Lost Years_Volume Two

by Brian Lumley

  From outside, Sandra was shouting: “B.J. We’re ready.”

  “There, and now you have it,” B.J. continued. “So remember it all, Harry. Every damn thing. Put it all together, tie it up in one big bundle. And when you know what you’re running from—and if you’re still capable of running—then when you wake up, run, run, run!”

  He rocked back and forward, back and forward, and his eyes were huge and round, and his face was pale and blank.

  B.J. sobbed, got behind him, and took up her shotgun from where it leaned against the wall. For she had made another decision and must act now before she changed her mind. Radu’s Mysterious One, his “Man-With-Two-Faces,” Harry Keogh? Well, fuck Radu, the two-faced treacherous bastard! And whether Harry wanted to be in on this or not—whether he would or wouldn’t be able to be in on it—it was too damn late now. He wouldn’t be going anywhere, not for a couple of hours at least. But when he did wake up, at least he’d know that she had loved him.

  And as the chair rocked forward she gritted her teeth and smacked the butt of the shotgun up against the back of Harry’s head, so that he kept right on going off the chair and crumpled to the floor …

  II

  RESTRAINTS REMOVED. THE REAL HARRY KEOGH.

  AULD JOHN WAS HEADING BACK NOW, ALONE ALONG THE EASY ROUTE, NO longer held back by his role of guide and watchdog for inexperienced companions. As for the two he had guided: well, they had been found worthy and accepted. So best to forget them now. And because on this occasion John had not been weakened by any sacrifice of his own blood, he was able to make even better speed; which was very necessary, for he had a job to do.

  Loping along the near-invisible but well-known trail that led down to the secret plateau and forest, and on to the final cliff descent, he thought back on what Radu Lykan had told him when he’d returned to the sarcophagus …

  The torches at the base of that high altar had been flickering low by then, and no sign of Garth Trevalin. For a moment that had worried John—until he’d heard his Master’s voice in his mind …

  … Just a second or so before realizing that it wasn’t in his mind at all but in his ears!

  “John—ah, John, you faithful one!” That low growl, that rumble of sound, the power in that voice! And yet—was there something else in it? Some pain, secret knowledge, recognition and acceptance of some doom-fraught intuition? Concerned, John had turned in a circle at the foot of the jumbled slab pyramid, looked all around in the gloom as he searched for the source of that voice. On the floor, the imprints of feet—or great paws, or a cross between the two, laid down in resin on the cracked slabs and fallen lintels—had directed his eyes towards a crevice in the rotted stone of an inner wall. And from the deeper gloom within that crack a pair of triangular eyes like crimson lanterns had stared out at him.

  John would have gone to Him at once, but Radu’s voice had held him at bay:

  “No, John, not now! I would not have you see me now. I am … basic; I am risen but yet laid low, not the man I would be. But it’s not too late and I can be that man even now! So listen to me. Listen and obey me.” From out of the darkness, the fire of his eyes had burned into John’s wolf soul, searing his words there.

  “Go down from here and find the Mysterious One. He is here, I know it. I found him in Bonnie Jean’s mind. He came to her as she must come to me—which is a confrontation I no longer relish. And B.J. is no longer the ‘wee mistress’ whom we trusted, John. She will not bring this man, my Man-With-Two-Faces, to me. And without him all this is for nothing. Wherefore you must bring him here. Do you understand?”

  “Master!” John had stumbled a pace closer to the crack in the wall.

  “No! Be still!” That rumble had come again, not only the physical sound of it, but the feel of it, too, like a tightening of telepathic jaws on John’s brain. For Radu had made contact—waking contact—at close range and was now firmly established in John’s mind.

  “Yes, Master,” Auld John had come to a halt, stood stock still.

  “Do you understand what must be done?”

  “I’m tae find Harry Keogh, and bring him here.”

  “And without delay, John, if I’m not to suffer.” (A movement of the eyes in the darkness, signifying a nod.) “For it’s not only Bonnie Jean but others I fear now.”

  “Aye, and Ah have dealt with some o’ they,” John had answered. “A Ferenczy, and Drakuls, too.”

  And the dog-Lord had seen the truth of it in John’s mind. “Good! Good!—but still others will come. I sense them close to me, sniffing me out. I may have to hide from them—when I would so love to ravage among them!—but I will not hide from you, when you return with my Mysterious One. Very well, go now, my faithful. But hurry, for the time is nigh …”

  Then the red-glowing eyes had dimmed a little, backed off and turned away, and John had heard the receding sound of slow-padding footsteps. And when at last he had ventured to stand in the mouth of the crevice, it had been dark, deep, and empty.

  Time had been of the essence, but still John had stolen a little of it to climb the jumble to the foot of Radu’s sarcophagus and snuff the failing torches; following which he must get on his way. And there on the dais platform he’d seen the resin slopped from Radu’s emergence—and something else to stop him momentarily in his tracks:

  A white alabaster hand hanging loose over the rim of the huge stone coffin; a hand so white it looked carved from snow. Young Garth’s hand, obviously, for it wore his gold ring on the index finger. But no longer young. The arm was shrivelled, that of an old, old man, and John remembered the rising scream shut off at its zenith.

  Well, and there you had it, and John could find nothing to fault it. What was the dog-Lord’s to give was his to take away, and he had. And after all, wasn’t it only to be expected after a fast such as his?

  After that: time was of the essence, and John had wasted no more of it. Retracing his tracks through the labyrinth, and climbing up his rope through a vertical pothole, he had exited from the lair onto the rotten roof of the promontory—and at the moment he emerged thought to see some hasty movement among a clump of boulders! But there were only clouds scudding west in a lowering sky, the wind in the signpost branches of a leaning, stunted pine, and the hammering of his own heart. The perhaps imagined motion could only be his nerves, or a rabbit, or maybe an eagle settling to its nest beyond the rim.

  And without more ado John had set off south-west along the well-known trail—

  —Never knowing that Singra Singh Drakesh was his rabbit, or eagle settling to its nest. And in his nest of boulders, the Drakul lieutenant composed himself in a meditative trance, completely ignored the cold, and settled down to wait for whatever would be. Oh, he could have ventured down into this wolfs lair there and then, but Singra Singh was an exceptional telepath in his own right and had “overheard” Radu’s conversation with Auld John.

  Radu was weak; perhaps from his years of hibernation, perhaps from something else. What use to catch and kill one ailing Lord of the Wamphyri when others might soon be presenting themselves as unsuspecting targets? And then there was the woman—and her girls, too—and this was now Singh’s vendetta no less than that of his Tibetan Master. And last but by no means least there was this Harry Keogh. The Last Drakul’s instructions with regard to Keogh, the destroyer of his bloodson, had been especially explicit.

  And so, with his eyes closed and palms flattened together on his chest, Singra Singh sat amidst the boulders of the mountain, composed himself in a discipline learned as a boy, sixty years ago at the Drakesh Monastery, felt the comforting weight of the machine-pistol in his lap, and waited …

  At Aviemore, Francesco Francezci was furious. But the resort wasn’t Le Manse Madonie; he couldn’t display his displeasure too openly; the dark genie of the Wamphyri must be contained, bottled up inside for now.

  In the iced-over tennis court that served as a makeshift helipad, he spoke, whispered, spat at Luigi Manoza and Angus McGowan where
none of the resort staff could see them. “Where the fuck are they? Where’s Jimmy Nicosia, and that idiot Potenza?”

  “You sent them out in the car, Francesco, to that game-keeper’s place,” the stubby Manoza nervously answered. “You said they were to check if the woman was there. But … that was all of an hour ago.”

  “It was more than an hour,” Francesco continued to spit his words. “What, for a job that should have taken twenty minutes?”

  “Aye, it was a mistake, that,” Angus McGowan nodded … and at once stepped back a pace as he realized his own mistake. The Francezci rounded on him, his dark eyes bloodshot in their corners. “Ah mean,” McGowan hurriedly added, “a mistake for ye tae place yere trust in they two. Split up, they’re OK. But put‘em taegether—a pair o’ fuckin’ hotheads! No worthy o’ ye, Francesco.”

  “Damn them to every hell!” Francesco hissed from between clenched teeth. “Are all of my people idiots?”

  “They were too long under Vincent,” Manoza tried to calm him down, find excuses for the missing men, and for everyone. “Maybe they found what they were looking for but weren’t satisfied to leave it at that. Maybe they did it for Vincent.”

  “Did what, got themselves killed?” Francesco snarled, not yet knowing that he had guessed the truth of it. “I told them to observe and report back! And I told them when to be back.”

  “Aye,” McGowan took another chance. “But maybe they found what they weren’t lookin’ for, or weren’t expectin’. And maybe they were observed, eh?”

  “I should have sent you,” Francesco said, “and maybe Guy. Dancer’s a dummy, too—but at least he does as he’s fucking told!”

  “Here he comes now,” Manoza said, glad of the diversion, as Tanziano tooled the second of their saloons into the court. As they reached him he was opening the boot. Dancer was a six-foot wedge of bullet-headed muscle; his piggy eyes met theirs, redirecting their gaze into the boot of the big car.

  “What?” said the Francezci, his jaw falling open. “What the—?”

  “It was caught up in a bush about a kilometre from that old guy’s house,” Dancer grunted. “I recognized it. It was me hired the car in Aberdeen. But I used fake ID, so there’ll be no trouble with the hire company …”

  “No trouble with the—?” Francesco looked at him disbelievingly. “Fuck the hire company! Where are Jimmy and Frank?”

  But Dancer could only shrug, as Manoza picked up one end of the buckled fender and sniffed it. “I thought so,” he said. “This is hi-tech stuff. Ordinary plastic’s about as deadly as toothpaste by comparison.”

  “And this … is all that’s left?” Francesco still couldn’t believe it.

  “And a few nuts and bolts,” Dancer told him, shrugging in a way that only increased his master’s irritation. “I checked out the whole area but there was nothing. Just scorch marks on the road.”

  “Scorch marks?” Francesco was trembling now, barely able to contain his rage. “Fucking scorch marks?”

  “Harry Keogh,” said McGowan, his ugly face as thin as a greyhound’s, eyes silvery-yellow under the brim of his hat.

  Francesco whirled on him again, but eagerly now, no longer in anger. “Do you think so?”

  “I saw the mess that yin made o’ the Drakuls that time,” McGowan answered. “Their car was a wreck, too. And Keogh did’nae fuck about wi’ them, either!”

  Francesco actually grinned, but it was mirthless: a grin full of malice and the promise of an agonizing death. “And you think he could be with the woman at the cottage? Personally, I want that one more than I want the dog-Lord. Angus, you found fault with my sending Jimmy and Frank to do a simple job. Well, the job’s still available but it’s not so simple now. If Keogh and the woman are there, they’ll be alert for us. So this time you’re going. You and Dancer. I’ll be here with Luigi when you get back. But do try to get back, won’t you?”

  “It’ll take maybe half an hour,” McGowan called after him, as Francesco and Manoza strode off towards the ski lodge.

  “But no longer,” Francesco called back. “In something less than four hours it will be dark. And we still have to load the … the cameras.” He was talking about a box of heavy weapons.

  Left on their own on the tennis court, McGowan and Tanziano looked at each other. Then the latter turned up the collar of his overcoat and got back into the driver’s seat, while McGowan sniffed at the cold air for a moment or two before joining him. And: “Guy, laddie,” he said, “this is where it really begins. Ah can feel it in the air, so Ah can. Tomorrow it’ll a’ be over, and we’ll be able tae take it easy and sit down tae a guid breakfast.”

  But as Tanziano headed back for the road, the little man quietly added, “Or we won’t …”

  Francesco was watching from a table in the lodge bar’s panoramic window when the saloon returned; it drew up under the helicopter’s rotors and a moment later McGowan and Dancer unloaded something from the boot of the car into the aircraft’s passenger cabin. Then:

  “Let’s go,” said Francesco. He and Manoza carried a heavy wooden box marked “cameras” out of the bar to the tennis court, where Tanziano had lowered steps from the aircraft’s interior. Hoisting the box between them, Francesco and Manoza passed it up to Dancer and McGowan. And looking up at McGowan, Francesco saw that he was wearing a grin as broad as his narrow face.

  “So what have you got?” he said, climbing the steps.

  “Except for one item,” McGowan answered, assisting Francesco up, “the cottage was deserted.” He pointed to a corner of the cabin.

  Francesco looked, said, “What, a sleeping bag?”

  “And what’s in it!” McGowan stooped, unzipped the top of the bag. And Harry Keogh’s pale face lolled out. “Someone has given him a bump on the head he’ll no forget in a while. He’s out cold. Oh, and one other thing. There was a lot of makin‘s—explosive makin’s—tossed under a bush outside the house. Keogh’s gear, Ah reckon. It’ll have his prints a’ over it but none o’ ours, so Ah left it there. It looks like Ah was right and he’s the one who got Frank and Jimmy.”

  Manoza had joined them inside the cabin. Closing the door behind him, he said, “So, what have we here?” Then he saw what they had here, and gave a low whistle.

  Francesco was smiling. It would pass for a smile, anyway. And: “The best prize of all!” he grunted. “Well done, Angus.”

  “Also,” the little man told him, “if ye’re interested, we spotted two o’ B.J. Mirlu’s girls in the woods on the mountain side o’ the road. At least one o’ them was armed wi’ a shotgun. They’ll be coverin’ B.J.’s tracks, Ah reckon. An ambush for anyone who might try tae follow her.”

  Francesco’s smile grew broader yet. “Oh, indeed I am interested,” he said, and he visibly relaxed. For suddenly he was in no great hurry. “B.J.’s girls in the woods?” he repeated Angus. “That’s means she’s not long flown. And how long, do you think, to climb that mountain, Angus?”

  “For me? I would‘nae even try. For her: she’s been doin’ it since she was a girl. And that was a long, long time ago. Still and a’, she could’nae make it in daylight. It’ll be late in the evening by the time she’s up.”

  “And we can do it in fifteen minutes,” Francesco was almost ecstatic now. “And meanwhile … from this one, I want answers. We can wait for him to wake up. And from those girls, more answers. About B.J.’s and maybe even Radu’s plans. The more we can find out the better, before we fly up to the dome of that mountain and finish this thing.” He turned to Manoza.

  “Luigi, you stay and look after this one. Tie him up, throw the sleeping bag over him, and watch him. I mean stay here with him. This is one slippery fish. Later, I’ll want to know why he fell out with the woman. And there are also a few things I want to know about his visit to Le Manse Madonie that time. Hah! But one thing is certain—however he did it, he won’t be doing it again! Myself: I’m going with Dancer and Angus to see if I can get hold of one of these girls. Any questions?”
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  There were none, and Manoza was left alone in the helicopter, guarding the unconscious Necroscope …

  B.J.’s rearguard was made up of Moreen Lowrie and Margaret Macdowell, which was all she could afford. They were moon-children—which is to say would-be werewolves and blood-takers, naturally—but they were up against Francesco Francezci, a Lord of the Wamphyri, Angus McGowan, a lieutenant of long-standing, and Guy “Dancer” Tanziano, a brutal thug of a vampire thrall.

  Trapped in a pincer manoeuvre, they didn’t stand a chance. Separating, trying to lead their pursuers off through the woods in different directions, away from the foothills route taken by B.J. and Sandra, Margaret was the first to be caught and killed by Dancer—broken like a stick over his knee, when she fought back with such ferocity as to demonstrate to him that there was no other way. Dumping her body in a deep ditch, he rolled rocks and earth on top to bury and hide it.

  By then Francesco and McGowan had taken Moreen; when she ran out of shotgun shells, they’d jumped her and Francesco had knocked her unconscious. Then back to the car where Dancer had parked it at the edge of the woods, and so on to John Guiney’s place. In this Francesco took a chance, but he didn’t have too much choice. Unable to take the girl live and kicking (or soon to be) back to the lodge at Aviemore, the old gamekeeper’s cottage had seemed the next best bet. And with the big saloon hidden behind the cottage, invisible from the road, the Francezci did what he liked best, working on the girl to get the information he wanted.