Pagan (MPRD Book 1)

by Andrew Chapman

  Her hand slipped inside my boxers through the slit in the front and wrapped around my erection, pulling it out into the open. She let out a contented sigh and squeezed slowly.

  “Condom?” I managed to gasp.

  “No need,” she whispered. “Contraceptive shot.”

  I kissed her cheek, her eyelids, her jaws, her nose, her forehead, and finally, her lips. She met me hungrily, her tongue probing my mouth and soft, urgent noises coming from deep in her throat. When I tugged her earlobe with my teeth she giggled, when I kissed her neck she moaned, and when I gently bit the soft skin at her throat she growled and her hips rose up off of the bed with pleasure. I trailed my fingertips up the inside of her thigh and encountered a surprise at the top.

  “Wow, someone shaves,” I said appreciatively.

  She giggled and shook her head.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Female werewolf, Jack,” she said softly. “In human form I don’t have any body hair.”

  “Okay, that’s sexy.”

  She smiled and trailed her fingertips through my chest hair.

  “I like to see a bit of hair on a guy,” she said with a sexy little smile.

  I moved over her, between her legs, and she guided me towards her. She was wet and ready, and I was more than eager. I slid slowly inside her and she let out a strangled gasp. Her arms wrapped around my neck and her legs around my hips, pulling me deeper inside.

  “No need to be gentle, big guy,” she breathed into my ear. “I can take whatever you can dish out.”

  I may not have left a mark on her, but I wasn’t nearly as resilient. When we woke up the next morning I had a nice collection of parallel scratches on my back and a little bruise on my shoulder that was a perfect impression of a small set of teeth.

  CHAPTER

  10

  I hated that damn alarm, mindlessly braying in the darkness. Marie and I were laying on the bed, our legs entwined, our arms around each other. She stirred and let out an exasperated groan as I reached out and mashed the off button with more force than was strictly necessary.

  “Already?” Marie said sleepily.

  “Yeah,” I replied, kissing the top of her head.

  “No, don’t,” she said, hugging me tight and sighing quietly. “Stay here and we can make love all day.”

  “I can’t, love,” I said. “I have to get ready.”

  She groaned in frustration but rolled over and let me get out of the bed. I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek before heading into the bathroom.

  In the shower I examined my abused body. It seemed that every bit of me I washed revealed a fresh bruise. It was something that would take a little getting used to. Marie was stronger than she looked, stronger than I was. Being a werewolf had advantages, I suppose.

  I unpacked a tightly rolled bundle of clothes. A pair of black combat trousers and a black combat jacket. I unrolled them and hung them over the shower rail, letting the steam relax the creases while I shaved. I put on some unscented deodorant and gave the cologne a miss. I wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible, to all senses.

  Even my boxers were black, I thought ruefully as I dressed. Black boxers, black socks, black trousers, black t-shirt. I buckled on my second gunbelt, black nylon holsters on a black nylon belt. I put on my black boots, tucking the cuffs around the black bungees that kept them off the ground. I had black face paint and black gloves. I even had a black PLCE set for the various things I’d need with me.

  I studied myself in the mirror. Good enough. My kit was well-made and well-designed, nothing that would rattle, squeak or shine as I moved.

  I picked up my jacket and went back into the bedroom. Marie was sitting up in bed, the sheet pooled between her legs, and I had a sudden, irrational urge to call the whole thing off and stay here. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked into the eyes of the woman who had become the center of my entire universe.

  “Tell me again,” she said quietly. “Tell me you’re coming back.”

  I reached out and took her hands in mine, gently stroking her palms with my thumbs.

  “During medieval times,” I said quietly, “people believed that powerful sorcerers could cut out their own hearts and place them, still beating, inside a silver vessel. As long as the heart continued to beat the sorcerer could not be killed.”

  I saw the puzzlement in her eyes and smiled faintly.

  “I’m leaving my heart here,” I said firmly. “Will you look after it for me?”

  “Always,” she whispered, blinking back tears. “I love you, Jack.”

  “I love you, Marie.”

  I leaned forward and kissed her. She slipped her arms around my neck and hugged me fiercely. Then she leaned back and looked at me speculatively.

  “No,” she said. “You can’t leave like this, with me all weepy and soppy.”

  Before I could say anything she shoved me back onto the bed. She unbuckled my gunbelt and unzipped my trousers.

  “Well, now,” I said with a smile.

  She shushed me and yanked my trousers down as far as the holsters would allow. He was awake and very interested in events.

  She swung her leg over my hips and lowered herself with a blissful look on her face. She leaned on her hands, her face over mine as she slowly rocked back and forward.

  “You’re gonna be late,” she said breathlessly. “You mind?”

  “Not in the slightest,” I said, my hands moving over her hips and up to cup her breasts. “Just don’t stop.”

  She smiled wickedly, her hips speeding up.

  Some goodbyes have to be done properly.

  When I made it downstairs the bar was empty except for John and Anna. They were seated at a table that held three steaming mugs.

  “Finally,” said John. “We heard your alarm go off. You took your time.”

  He reached out and slid one of the mugs toward me. I sat down and took a sip. John couldn’t make a decent cup of tea if you held a gun to his head, so I assumed this was Anna’s work.

  “You about ready?” she asked me.

  “Yeah, no point in putting it off.”

  “You taking the Land Rover?” John asked.

  “Nope,” I replied. “Norse has graciously allowed me the use of his Cortina.”

  “Oh, well, that’ll be a treat,” said Anna with a broad smile.

  “Less conspicuous than the ‘Rover, anyway,” I pointed out.

  I finished my tea and put the mug down.

  “Listen,” I said intently. “You two will look after Marie, won’t you?”

  Anna smiled warmly and gripped her husband’s hand.

  “Sure we will, Jack,” she said.

  “You two finally get together?” asked John.

  I nodded and smiled, enjoying the warm rush that the admission brought with it. I’m a hard-bitten vampire slayer with a long, bloody history of defending my country, but I suddenly felt like a schoolboy with a crush.

  “And don’t think for a second that I fell for that whole ‘only two rooms, boss’ business either.”

  Anna looked innocent; John wasn’t as good an actor.

  “The Wheatsheaf has six rooms and they were all empty when we arrived, luv,” I said to Anna.

  Anna had the good grace to blush but John looked like he was worried I was angry. I decided to head that one off before it started.

  “Thank you both,” I said earnestly. “Thank you for knowing me better than I know myself.”

  Schoolboy again.

  “Well, time for me to go,” I said standing up.

  Anna stood and hugged me fiercely.

  “Come back to us, Jack,” she said.

  “Oh, I will,” I said firmly. “I left something important here I’ll need to pick up.”

  I shook hands with John and left my friends behind, for all I knew, it would be the last time I saw them.

  Norse’s Cortina might look like rust held together with hope and spit but he was right about the engine. It purred like a
kitten would if it was the size of a Bengal tiger.

  I wasn’t heading north, not yet. My destination was Brize Norton. It was the largest Royal Air Force base in the country and Carterton, the surrounding town, was a human stronghold. Driving through the Home Counties was always a trip through time for me. I grew up in this area after my parents moved from London. The rolling fields and quaint towns brought simple, homey memories to the fore, and everywhere I looked I could see something that made me smile.

  There did seem to be a lot more crosses and churches than I remembered. I laughed as I went past a farmhouse where somebody seemed to have gone a little overboard. The surrounding fence was made entirely of interlaced crosses. The walls and doors of the house itself were painted with various religious icons. There was even a diverted stream running moat-like around the perimeter. Because everyone knows vampires can’t cross running water.

  Running water? No, vampires can cross running water with no problem.

  Crosses? Crosses don’t work unless you believe in them. If you truly believe a cross will protect you, that belief will provide some protection against the vamp’s mind tricks. It will seem like the cross has weakened the vampire, but the effect is all in your mind, quite literally. Holy water is about the same. Though stripped of his mind tricks the vamp will, in all probability, still be faster and stronger than you, just not in that ‘faster than a speeding bullet’ way. You still have to kill them.

  You can try a stake through the heart. That’s always nice and bloody. Just make sure you use a wooden stake, ash or oak preferably. A crossbow makes an excellent long-range staking device. The vamp is unlikely to stand still for that, though, so a gun is your best friend. Plenty of shots in the ‘T’ and your vampire will go down like a sack of spuds, even if you’re using regular rounds. The ‘T’? Draw a line from one temple, across your forehead, to the other then, from the center of your forehead draw another line down through your nose, down your neck, and to your belly button. That’s the ‘T’ and if you shoot a human anywhere on the ‘T’ they die—almost instantly. Hit a vamp there, even with a regular jacketed lead round, you’ll seriously put a crimp on their day. Hit them on the ‘T’ with a silver round and it’s all over.

  Garlic? Now garlic is actually spot on. Vampires detest garlic. It’s the allicin, which is an antibiotic and a phytoncide, which burns the vampire’s skin. Allicin isn’t strong enough to use as a weapon on its own, but rubbing crushed garlic around door handles, gates, and the like is an effective, if smelly, vampire repellent. The Ministry was working on an allicin concentrate that could be delivered by a dart gun. Personally I’ve found that a silver round is smaller and just as effective. Concentrated allicin in a pepper-spray canister might be useful as a last-ditch emergency weapon. Must look into that.

  Sunlight? Sunlight works, but forget the movies. Vamps are nocturnal, so they are naturally weaker during the day. Vamps do not burst into flame or crumble into dust when they are exposed to sunlight, though. Here’s a little thought experiment; imagine a fair-skinned human, on the hottest day of the year, going to the beach and laying down without shade or sun block, for ten hours a day, every day for a week. Their skin at the end of that week is how a vampire looks after about thirty minutes in bright sunshine. Boiled-lobster red, cracked, peeling, blistered, covered with open, weeping sores. Not a pretty picture, is it?

  And tanning beds work just as well. We—Bill, Norse, Coop and I—once chained a vampire inside a tanning bed and turned it on for a minute at a time, full intensity.

  Yes, we were torturing him and yes we were enjoying it. I never claimed to be a boy scout.

  Shock you? Well bear this is mind: the vamp in question had just rampaged through a hospital and drained twelve newborn babies in accordance with an insane, rambling prophecy he’d found in some crumbling book of vampire lore. What? Suddenly not so concerned about the vamp we were slowly killing?

  Thought not.

  Horseshoes? Where did this one even come from? For thousands of years the English have been nailing a horseshoe above their door as a good luck charm. Somehow someone managed convince enough people that this was to keep vampires out that the ‘horseshoe iron’ charm industry was born, and is now small but thriving. I’ve even known vampire hunters that swore by special ammunition sold as ‘good English horseshoe iron coated with honest silver’. No, a horseshoe is just a horseshoe. It’s just iron.

  A branch from a Wild Rose tree, rosa acicularis, or from a Hawthorne tree, crataegus monogyna, nailed above the door of a building will prevent weaker vamps from entering, even if it isn’t someone’s home. Any vamp worth talking about will barely notice it.

  Fire? Now we come to the big one. Fire is the great cleanser. Wounds inflicted by fire on a vampire never fully heal; they always leave livid scars. That’s why my M203 has incendiary rounds and why we burn buildings a lot.

  I drove along winding roads through the outskirts of Oxfordshire and saw the buildings of RAF Brize Norton in the distance. Here I would meet with the Ministry, hash out a plan, and leave to assault the headquarters of a vampire Lord single-handedly.

  Piece of cake.

  The gates to Brize are fairly impressive, guarded by tough young men and women in DPM and blue RAF berets. They are armed with L85 assault rifles and behind the gates sit a pair of vehicles, an open-top Land Rover with a pintle-mounted L7A2 GMPG, and a Sabre armored reconnaissance vehicle with its 30mm RARDEN cannon pointed straight at my car.

  The guard waved me to a stop and ordered me to step out of the car. He carefully inspected my ID card while others checked under and around the car for explosive devices. Unusually, I felt no impatience with the security. The guns, the checks, the hard-eyed stares were reassuring. Security was our best weapon against the undead and the moment we relaxed our guard, the vamps would win.

  “You’re Pagan?” asked the young guard with surprise in his voice.

  “I know, disappointing isn’t it?” I said with a grin.

  “No, sir!” he said crisply, handing my ID back. “Big fan, sir!”

  “Don’t call me ‘sir’,” I said, forcing a glare. “I work for a living.”

  “Sorry, Sarge, din’ mean no offense, Sarge. Sarge? Can I ask you for an autograph? For my little boy?”

  The guard was holding out a pen and a spiral-bound notebook. Fame has problems, but this I didn’t mind. If I could spend a few seconds to scrawl a message for the airman’s son, it was time well spent. Kids these days learn pretty quickly that the monsters are real. It’s nice sometimes to be able to teach them that the monsters can be killed, too.

  “Sure, what’s his name?”

  “Well, it’s Jack,” said the airman, looking embarrassed.

  I gave him a hard look.

  “He wasn’t named after you, si—Sarge. Not really. His name’s John but now he wants to be called Jack because, you know … when his friends play he always wants to be you.”

  I smiled and shook my head. I took the pad and pen and wrote ‘To Jack, always be the hunter, never forget you may be prey. Your friend Jack Henderson, The Pagan.’

  The airman took the pad with a broad grin and thanked me profusely.

  “Hang on,” I said, rooting in one pocket.

  I found and pulled out a spent 7.62 cartridge.

  “We went hunting night before last,” I said, handing it over. “Little souvenir for the lad. If I see that on eBay I’ll come back and introduce you to some of its friends.”

  “Yes Sarge, I mean, no Sarge. I’ll give it to him.”

  I got back into Norse’s car and the guard waved me through, grinning wide enough to put the top of his head in danger of falling off.

  I wondered what the chances were that the rest of my day here would be as pleasant.

  I checked in at Gateway House, the transit hotel that provided a place to sleep for those military personnel passing through Brize and made my way to the station’s command center. This promised to be a moderately unpleasant brie
fing session, despite the fact that I was promised full operational control.

  CHAPTER

  11

  The briefing room inside the Ministry building at Brize was, we were assured, electronically isolated from the rest of the universe, soundproof, sealed and swept daily for any possible observation devices. It was also full of suits and gold braid—pompous men well aware of the importance of the meeting who wanted a chapter for their memoirs. Each, I decided, wanted to be able to boast that they had been here when the attack was planned.

  Amongst the military men I was both the lowest and highest ranked. As—officially—a sergeant in the Marines I was outranked by every one of those self-important men with scrambled egg on their hats and shoulders. As the vampire hunter who would actually be putting his arse on the line, none had the authority to overrule me. It would have been easy to wave that ‘full operational control’ in their faces and order them out of the room, but you don’t get to be a sergeant in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces without learning how to gently guide officers to the point where they give you the right orders.

  A sergeant in an O group—a briefing session where orders are passed from those who make decision to those who carry them out—was, according to my old friend Bill, the most dangerous animal in the world. They were just so many weak chins looking to be led; you just had to convince them that they were having the ideas. That’s why they normally keep us out.

  First, I had to dispose of the notion that I should be going in at the head of a platoon-strength force. I wasn’t about to risk anyone else on this mission. Luckily I had an ally on that point. Colonel Dillon Tilehurst was from my former unit, his tan beret neatly folded on the table in front of him. He’d been in command when I was in Eastern Europe and I knew his style.

  “Trust me on this, gentlemen,” said Tilehurst with quiet authority. “There are places that a small group can get into that an entire army cannot. This is one of those places.”

  “So how many?” said Group Captain Iain Montgomery-Standish, the station commanding officer who was, technically, presiding over the meeting.