Carter looked at his watch. ‘I have a meeting this afternoon, but I can spare a few minutes. Let’s go for a pint.’
Thirty minutes later they were sitting at a quiet corner table in the Wheatsheaf pub in central Oxford, just up the road from the police station. Talking quietly, Joel spilled out what he knew, what he feared, until there was nothing left to say and he was staring numbly into his beer. His head was still bursting with pain from where Finch had hit him.
Across the table, Sam Carter was quiet for a long time. He picked up his beer, was about to take a sip, then put the glass down again.
‘Vampires,’ he said in a flat tone.
‘This is exactly how I told you you’d react.’
‘Uh, vampires, Joel. The Undead. Human sacrifices.’
Joel shook his head. ‘It’s not a sacrifice. They do it to get the—’
‘The blood. Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’ve seen the movies.’
‘This is not a movie, Sam. This is real.’
‘This is real.’
‘Absolutely real. I saw them. And I’ve seen them before. Years ago.’
‘You’ve seen them before.’
‘You just going to keep repeating everything I say, or are you going to tell me what you think?’
Carter stared at him. ‘You’re completely fucking serious, aren’t you? Do you have any idea what you’re laying on me with this?’
‘You’ve known me a long time. When have I ever bullshitted you?’
‘Yeah, but this—’
‘Okay, you think it’s crazy.’
‘No, I wouldn’t use that word. Floridly insane, maybe – crazy doesn’t quite cover it.’
‘Thanks.’
Carter jabbed a finger at him. ‘Listen to me like you’ve never listened to anyone before. Do not – do not – breathe a single solitary word of this to anyone else. They won’t just put you on suspension. They’ll have you fucking committed, mate.’
‘You think all this doesn’t sound mad to me too?’
‘Be straight with me. Are you drinking? Doing drugs? Happens to the best of us. Goes with this shitty job. Christ knows I have moments when I’d like to dive in a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and swim around in there the rest of my life, happy as a sandboy. Except I don’t, Joel. I bounce back, every fucking time, because that’s what you do.’
‘I’m not drinking, and I don’t do drugs. You know that.’
‘Yeah, and I also know Tania walking out hit you a lot harder than you liked to let on.’
Joel sighed. ‘That was nearly seven months ago. I’m over it.’
‘Good. Then here’s my advice. Find yourself a nice young lady. Take a holiday together somewhere that has lots of sun and sand and cocktails. Shag your brains out for a week or two.’
‘I hate beaches,’ Joel said.
‘Right. I forgot you’re one of these nutjobs who gets his jollies hanging off a cliff face or diving into some icy lake in the middle of nowhere. Whatever. All I’m saying is, get out of here and forget about the Super, forget about everything. Most of all, do yourself a favour and forget about fucking vampires. Jesus Christ, Joel.’
Joel shook his head. ‘I can’t do that. I have to go on with it, my own way.’
‘I was afraid you’d say that.’ Carter sighed. ‘Fine. You’re my friend. If you need me, you know where to find me.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Shit. Got to run.’ He slurped back the last of his beer, got up and clapped Joel on the shoulder. ‘You take care, all right?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Get out of here. You’re going to be late.’ Joel watched Carter muscle his way out of the door, then finished his drink and went to get another. For a few minutes he sat drinking and gazing into the middle distance.
Maybe it was true. Maybe he’d just lost his mind.
With all his heart he yearned to be wrong, to have just concocted all this out of a stress-frazzled brain. More than anything, he wished that he could take advantage of his suspension to relax, take it easy and then wake up one morning and realise that these crazy ideas had simply evaporated from his mind.
But he knew that wasn’t going to happen. This wasn’t just going to go away. Things could only get worse, and he was going to have to face it, alone. Completely alone.
Or maybe not.
Maybe I could have helped you.
As the words came back to him, he reached for his wallet and dug out the business card Alex Bishop had given him in the hospital.
What had she meant by that? There was only one way to find out. And he couldn’t pretend to himself that he didn’t want to see her again anyway. He dialled her number, but the answering service told him the phone was switched off. He swore.
‘I’ve got to do something,’ he muttered to himself.
Then he knew what that something was.
He left his drink unfinished on the table.
By four in the afternoon, he was hard on the throttle of the Hayabusa, battling against a ninety-mile-an-hour wind as he headed north away from the city to a place he hadn’t seen for eighteen years and had never wanted to see again.
Chapter Forty-Four
90 km from Norilsk, Central Siberian Plateau
6.45 p.m. GMT/1.45 a.m. local time
The journey wasn’t far from double the distance between London and Moscow, and Gabriel Stone had been dormant in his crate for most of the time that Jeremy Lonsdale’s borrowed Gulfstream had been cutting eastwards across Europe.
Many time zones had come and gone, and it was late night by the time the jet reached the small airfield a few kilometres from the remote mining outpost of Norilsk. Stone emerged from the sanctuary of his container into a world utterly different from the one he’d left behind him. The temperature had dropped to minus fifteen centigrade.
One of only three cities worldwide residing in a continuous permafrost zone, Norilsk lay at the heart of the Russian province known as Krasnoyarsk Krai. More than two million square kilometres of sub-arctic tundra, mountains and lakes, it was one of the most inaccessible and inhospitable wildernesses on the planet. For the community of mostly miners that endured the conditions there, it was an icy hell.
For the other creatures who had chosen it as their home, it was perfect.
Stone breathed the still, freezing air, gazed up at the stars twinkling in the vast black sky and, just for an instant, he almost envied a human’s capacity to appreciate beautiful things. Almost.
A black Mercedes four-wheel drive equipped with snow chains had been waiting for him and his escort at the airfield. It had driven them far out into the wilderness, a single black speck on an endless expanse of frozen tundra overlooked by the towering Putoran Mountains. No human would have built a road where they were going.
At the outer limit of where a car could travel, they were met by a small procession of snowmobiles and skimmed at speed over the white landscape to a place where no human would willingly venture. Another civilisation dwelled here, far from the eyes of the world.
Stone left the convoy on foot. The wind howled and eddies of ice whipped around him as he walked alone to the base of the gigantic mountain that was his destination. He soon found the cave entrance, almost completely blocked by snow, and made his way downwards through winding icy tunnels carved twenty centuries ago. He was excited about the meeting that was about to take place, but though he would never have admitted it, certainly not to any of his circle and barely even to himself, mingled somewhere within that sense of excitement was an emotion that Gabriel Stone had very seldom experienced in his very long existence.
He was afraid. His Masters had that effect on him.
As he approached the citadel hidden deep inside the mountain, the ice tunnels were draped in red satin and the ornate crystalline sculptures on the mirror-polished ceilings, higher and more grandiose than in any human cathedral, depicted mythological scenes from the Old Times. As he’d done on his previous visits, he made his way to
a cavernous ante-chamber on the outer ring of the citadel. The chamber was bare except for a semicircle of red satin-covered thrones. He sat and waited there, listening to the whistle of the wind around the ice walls and going carefully through the report he was about to make.
Before long, one of the Masters arrived. Stone recognised him as one of the Elders, a creature whose age couldn’t easily be counted. The tall, thin figure was draped from head to foot in a hooded robe. Stone got to his feet and bowed formally as he entered the chamber. The robe’s sleeve fell away from a long, bony hand as the Master gestured for him to stay seated. The clawed fingers reached up and slowly peeled back the hem of the hood.
The pale, translucent, blue-hued skin of the Master’s bald skull was lined with veins and wrinkles. The ears were long and pointed. When the Master sat on the throne beside his and turned that dark gaze on him, Stone was reminded of how tiny he’d always felt in the presence of such deep, terrible wisdom. He had spent a great deal of time learning from them but, even so, their magnificence was humbling to him. A human would simply, instantly, die of terror in such a place. For Stone, it was a religious experience.
They exchanged the traditional greetings in the guttural, harsh tones of the Old Language.
‘My heart sings to see you again, Krajzok,’ the Master said, using an expression that translated roughly as ‘Young One’.
‘You honour me,’ Stone replied graciously.
‘Later we will feed. First, Young One, tell me. How does your task progress?’
‘I hope you will be pleased to hear that the plans are well underway.’ Stone carefully ran through the account of the destruction of the Terzi plant, the acquisition of the pharmaceutical stockpiles, and the slaying of many enemy agents. Use of the heretical term ‘Federation’ was something to be avoided when referring to the opposition, knowing that even its mention would invoke fury. The fury of the Masters was not something Stone wanted to witness.
‘Now the traitors are weak,’ he said in summation. ‘Before long, we will strike against them using their own weapons, and finish them.’
The Master reflected a while. ‘I am not alone, Young One, in finding your use of these abominable technologies deeply discomforting. Is there no other way?’
Stone was very careful in his reply. ‘I share your sense of unease, Master. Yet I find the irony somehow appropriate. Let the filth perish by the same means they employed against their own, more worthy, kin. Once the task is fully accomplished, you may rest assured that these evil creations will be consigned to history along with their creators.’
The Master nodded slowly. ‘You are not unwise, Young One. You have repaid our trust in you. Thanks to your noble efforts, our nation will soon reclaim its rightful place.’
‘Ever your servant,’ Stone replied, bowing his head.
The Master peered deep into his eyes. It was as though a searchlight were scanning his mind.
‘I sense you have more to tell us,’ the Master said with a thin smile. ‘Something important.’
All throughout the long journey to Russia, as he’d lain there in his box, Stone had been debating furiously with himself as to whether he should mention the possible discovery by a human of the cross of Ardaich. To do so would entail explanations that he preferred to avoid. He’d allowed the human to escape him, and that was a sign of weakness he couldn’t afford to display.
‘Well?’ the Master said, waiting.
‘I have told you all there is to tell,’ Stone lied, using all his mental powers to conceal his true thoughts. Inwardly, he was cringing. The Master was a powerful mindreader and his wrath would be beyond imagining if he discovered he was being deceived.
‘You are sure?’
‘I am sure.’
The Master seemed satisfied. He laid his clawed hand on Stone’s shoulder.
‘Come. You have a long journey back. Feed with us a while before you leave, and let us discuss our plans further.’
Chapter Forty-Five
It was dark outside Bill Andrews’s office window at the private Rothwell Clinic outside Wallingford. In front of him on his desk were Kate Hawthorne’s case notes. He’d been staring at them long enough for the words to start to float before his eyes. He took off his glasses and rubbed his face. Fatigue was making his head spin and his brow prickled with cold sweat. He reached for the little bottle of pills in the breast pocket of his white coat, gulped one down.
It had been a ghastly afternoon. Most of it had been spent on the impossible task of trying to console the Hawthorne family. He’d had to listen to Gillian weeping uncontrollably, while struggling to come up with a semi-plausible explanation as to how their lovely, healthy daughter could have just faded away for no apparent reason, in just a matter of days.
The fact was, he was completely stumped.
‘Start from the beginning, Bill,’ he muttered. He flicked back to the first page and began scrutinising the case notes for the thousandth time, determined to make sense of them.
But how could you make sense of something that seemed scientifically impossible? She was healthy. Normal. All the tests were negative. Technically, there was nothing wrong with Kate Hawthorne – other than the fact that she was lying dead on a steel tray in the main building across the way from his office.
Even more perplexing were the lesions on the girl’s neck. When Gillian had first called him out to the house, they’d been livid and ugly, the flesh around them mottled and purple. When he’d caught a glimpse of Kate’s dead body under the sheet this afternoon, the marks seemed to have virtually gone.
He frowned. Not even a healthy patient could have healed so fast. How could someone who was dying? It just didn’t make sense.
Could he have imagined it? A trick of the light? Too distracted by the chaos and the scenes of grief going on around him?
‘Damn it,’ he said out loud. ‘Let’s take another look.’ He got up from his desk, left the office and walked through the neon-lit corridor that led to the main building. The mortuary was located in the basement of the east wing. Dr Andrews descended the stairs and pushed through the fire doors into his least favourite part of the hospital.
In what the staff called ‘the Cooler’ was a wall of stainless steel panels. Behind each panel was a retractable compartment seven feet long and three feet wide, running on rails. They were like the drawers of a huge filing cabinet, each labelled with a name and a number. This was only a small private facility, and the Cooler was never anywhere near capacity. At most, they had four or five cadavers in at a time. He quickly found the compartment with Kate Hawthorne’s name and admission number. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the cold steel handle and pulled.
The compartment slid open smoothly on its rails.
He looked inside.
Blinked. Then looked again.
It was empty.
Dr Andrews took a step back. Was this some kind of administrative error? He was about to open another compartment when he heard a voice behind him.
‘Hello, Doctor. Looking for me?’
He swung round.
Kate Hawthorne was standing behind him, naked. He gaped, speechless. A rapid drum rhythm started up inside his ribcage.
She smiled.
Holy Lord, those teeth.
The drum began to roll faster, louder, building to a crescendo…then…
Bang.
‘My heart—’ Dr Andrews clutched at his chest and cried out in pain as the cardiac attack ripped through him. His knees buckled. He pitched forward, felt his head crack open on the tiled floor. His eyes rolled up, and through the rising mist he saw Kate Hawthorne beaming bright-eyed down at him, her fangs white against her red lips. Then his vision dimmed, and he saw no more.
Crowmoor Hall
8.12 p.m.
Lillith skidded her bright yellow Lotus Elise to a halt on the gravel, threw open the door and grabbed the bundle from the passenger seat. It wriggled feebly in her arms as she carried it into the dark house. She was
sated from her evening feed, but who said you had to be hungry to eat? Something for dessert.
With that thought in mind she made her way through the gloomy passages to the tower in the east wing where her private quarters were situated. The creaking of a door made her turn, and she saw Finch standing there.
‘What happened to your face?’ she asked him, noticing the bruises. In a grave, solemn tone he told her about that day’s incident with Solomon, the police officer.
‘Interesting,’ Lillith purred. ‘So now we know all about our little cross-bearing friend.’
As she spoke, her vampire’s mind was turning over at high speed. So much for the human having found the cross of Ardaich, she thought. If his claim had been anything more than a desperate bluff, he could have destroyed them all. Gabriel would have returned home to a graveyard.
Lillith felt anger rise up inside her at the thought of her brother. He’d been a warrior once, like her. No vampire had been bolder, wilder, more wonderfully cruel and impetuous. But he’d changed of late. She was tired of his cautious diplomat’s ways, frustrated by his endless politicising.
‘Did I do well, ma’am?’ Finch’s voice was cracked with anxiety. ‘I obeyed Mr Stone’s wishes as best I could.’
‘You did brilliantly, Seymour. Gabriel will be very pleased. As am I.’
Finch bowed his head in relief. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘Now for the next part of your task,’ she said. ‘Now that we know who the human is, you are to pay him a visit. Retrieve whatever evidence he has to do with the cross, and then slaughter him.’
‘Ma’am? I thought Mr Stone said not to kill—’
‘I was talking to Gabriel just minutes ago,’ she lied. ‘There’s been a change of plan. We want the human dead. You understand me?’
Finch nodded. ‘I understand perfectly.’
‘Your loyalty will be repaid,’ she said.
‘If I m-may be so bold as to mention it,’ Finch stammered. ‘I have long hoped—’
Uprising Page 17
