Blood (2 page)

Will picked up the large block of stone that sealed the entrance to his chamber and moved it to one side. He walked along the passageway, passing the partially collapsed chamber into which he'd first fallen centuries earlier. At first, the passage followed the line of the city wall, but then turned abruptly, and he knew that he was now under the church and that the steps were only a short way ahead of him.

He reached them and ascended, absentmindedly counting the forty steps, and as he neared the top, he reached up with his hands to touch the stone slab above his head. He crouched down under it and waited for a moment, his palms pressed against it.

Only when he sensed the absence of life in the room above did he push the heavy stone up and across the floor of the crypt. From his crouching position he leapt up, emerging between the tombs of his father and brother.

He eased the stone back into place and walked to the outer gate, which was locked. The last time he'd emerged from hibernation had been in 1980, a period of activity which had lasted only nine years. It had been the first time in more than seven hundred years that he'd found the crypt gate and the church door locked, and whatever year it was now, the times were clearly still lawless.

Will put his hand over the lock and closed his eyes, channeling his energy into the metal. He felt the mechanism slowly freeing itself before the gate opened in his hand. He closed it again behind him and climbed the steps into the church, but halted, sensing immediately that there were people ahead, even though he couldn't see them.

A moment later, he heard some laughter, the wooden echo of a door closing, and the ascent of steps. He stood still and waited, listening. He could hear papers being sorted, and then a few soft notes emerged from the organ.

As restless as he was, as mentally fatigued, it soothed Will to hear the haunting lull of music, but his pleasure didn't last long. A woman appeared at the far end of the nave and stared in his direction. She walked towards him, an air of angry authority about her, and when she was still some way distant she said, “What do you think you're doing in here?”

He'd sensed this the last time, too, the assumption by adults that anyone of his apparent age would be about some criminal purpose. It was an odd view to take, he thought, and this woman's tone was so unpleasant that he regretted she wouldn't make a suitable feed.

If a woman like this was found murdered, the authorities would search for the killer and, sooner or later, one of those searches would find him. He never preyed on people who'd be missed, who mattered. It was easier to feed off the plentiful supply of people who mattered to no one.

Will watched as she approached. He imagined she was fifty—short gray hair, wide-hipped, and full of figure in a tweed skirt and knitted cream sweater. Clearly she had nothing better to do than feel important in God's house and carry out minor acts of tyranny.

She was almost upon him, determined to give him a telling-off for being there, but she looked into his eyes and he stared back and she ground abruptly to a halt. She didn't seem to know what to say—here was a boy, she had probably thought, a boy who was up to no good, but now that she was locked into the hidden world of his eyes she was no longer sure of anything.

She offered a weak smile and said apologetically, “The cathedral's closed, I'm afraid. From six o'clock on winter Tuesdays. I suppose you didn't hear the announcement— easily done.” He still didn't speak. “Er, yes, if you follow me, I'll be happy to show you out.”

Will took a step towards her. She looked full of fear, but couldn't move herself or speak. He took hold of her hand, his finger touching the underside of her wrist, the pulse of her blood sending a desperate hunger through him.

She moved her mouth, but no words came out, and with his free hand he reached up and put a finger on her lips. In the background, the organist started to play a louder, more uplifting piece, the notes reverberating through the air, and though his words would be drowned out, Will knew she would understand because, at this moment, she could hear and see only him. Everything else, the world she knew, had entirely fallen away.

“I will be visiting a great deal in the near future. I will become such a familiar sight that you won't notice me at all. I will be invisible to you.”

The woman's eyes flickered—it was as much of a response as she could manage. Will let go of her hand and left her standing there, knowing that by the time she came back to herself, she would remember him only like a broken dream.

He left by the side door, but was instantly blinded by floodlights and the piercing headlights of cars. For a minute or so, he could do nothing but stand still, trying not to scream out with the pain that burned through his eyes. He'd instinctively closed his eyelids against the glare, but there was no stopping all this light. He didn't wait for his eyes to adjust this time, but as soon as he was able to open them even a sliver, he stumbled forwards and headed as quickly as possible for the darker backstreets.

It was a winter Tuesday and it was after six, the woman in the church had told him that much, but the city was still thronged with tourists, and even the backstreets were full of visual hazards. He hadn't wanted to do this, but he reached into his overcoat pocket and took out a pair of dark glasses.

The city was brighter than it had been last time and his eyes would take longer to adjust, if they adjusted at all. But with the glasses on, the pain eased enough for him to open his eyes fully again and see clearly what lay around him.

The clothes of the people were not much different from the last time and, while he saw no one dressed exactly as he was, nobody stared at him, except for the occasional glance towards his dark glasses.

He was troubled though, because he could smell blood all around him, and he'd smell it that strongly until he satisfied his need. Until he fed, he wouldn't be able to move easily among people.

Will made for the South Gate, and from there into the derelict area that led down to the river. The time before last, 1920 to 1938, this Victorian warehouse district had been thriving, even at night, but the last time it had fallen into decay and become home to vagrants and drug users—people who wouldn't be missed.

It hadn't changed. Will stopped outside the second gutted warehouse and breathed deeply, the scent of his victim immediately flaring in his nostrils. He put his glasses back in his pocket and pushed through the gap in the boarded-up doors.

It was a long, low building under a gently peaked roof, only one story. The whole space was open and dark, but there was a small partially enclosed office at the far end, and through the openings where its windows had been, he could see the dim flickering of candlelight.

He walked quickly and stood in the office doorway. The little room was now a makeshift home, with charcoal pictures hanging on the walls, books stacked up on crates and shelves, an old mattress, and various grubby clothes and blankets and sleeping bags.

There was a small stove in the corner, the one remaining part of the original office's comfort, a black pipe rising from it and up through the roof. The stove was lit and two wiry black dogs lay dozing in front of it.

On the other side of the room, sitting cross-legged on the mattress, was a man with matted brown hair and a beard. He was barefoot, wearing khaki trousers and a thick top, which had once been pale blue, but now appeared to have grime in every one of its fibers. There were beads and bangles around both of his wrists, and a leather bracelet around one of his ankles.

The man was writing in a notebook by the light of three large candles, but he stopped now and looked up. He was surprised but not alarmed to see Will standing there.

Will was surprised, too, because the man's face was young beneath his beard and scraggly hair. He was young and healthy and, judging by the many books, educated, too, so Will found it hard to understand how his circumstances could have been so reduced.

The man spoke and his voice was soft and distracted, as if he had to keep calling himself back from some distant place. “Hey, man, I didn't see you there.” He looked towards the stove and said, “Weird that the dogs didn't hear you coming—they're normally bang on.”

Will stepped inside without answering, avoiding a waist-high stack of magazines just inside the door. He picked one up and looked at it before saying, “What is this?”

“It's the
Big Issue
, man. I'm a seller.” Will didn't comprehend, even though he could see the name of the publication. “You must've heard of it. You must have seen people selling it in the street.” The man seemed intrigued now and put his notebook to one side, staring at Will. “You don't seem like the usual kind of runaway—what's your story?”

Will was still looking at the magazine and said, “Is this the date?”

“Yeah, it's this week's.”

It should have been obvious to him because he'd already come to the conclusion that he'd slept for at least ten years, but even so, Will was shocked at the realization that this was the twenty-first century.

He'd found himself in new centuries many times before, but the thought of being adrift in a new millennium was troubling somehow. He imagined the next thousand years stretching out ahead of him, saw himself a prisoner to this half-life across ten more centuries, then another, and another. The only thing he couldn't imagine was why, to what purpose?

“Look, man, whatever your problem is, it's cool, you know.” Will dropped the magazine back on the pile and stared at him. “I'm Jex, and trust me, I've seen and heard everything, man, and it's all cool.”

Will had never heard such a name before—Jex. Jex, who thought he'd seen and heard everything.

He continued to stare and said, as a matter-of-fact, “I could tell you some things you haven't heard before.”

Jex started to laugh, perhaps thinking it funny that this boy thought he knew more of the world than him, but then he made eye contact and stopped with the sound still unformed in his throat. Within a moment, he'd become mesmerized by the intensity of Will's gaze.

Will took another step forwards and knelt down in front of him. He took the young man's hand and pushed up the grubby blue sleeve of his top. Jex looked down at his own forearm and then back at Will, already totally within his power, no less than a fly paralyzed by a spider's venom.

Will held the wrist, just above the assorted bangles and bracelets, then took a small knife from the pocket of his overcoat and cut a short, neat line up the arm. As the blood started to flow, his instinct was to lap it up urgently, so great was his need, but just as he was about to lock his mouth around the wound, Jex spoke from deep within his trance.

“He's calling.”

Despite his hunger for blood, Will sat back on his haunches and stared at Jex in shock. This didn't happen: his victims did not speak once they were entranced. And Jex was still hypnotized, but he had definitely spoken, a fact that unnerved Will more than perhaps it should have done.

“Who?”

Jex's eyes were fixed on the point in space where Will had stood, and he showed no signs of having heard him, but even so, he responded mechanically, saying, “Lorcan Labraid. He calls.”

“Who is Lorcan Labraid?”

Jex's head shook with a fearful tremor, as if he didn't want to hear what he could hear, as if he didn't want to speak, but could not stop himself. “Lorcan Labraid? He is the evil of the world. And he calls you.” He slumped back a little, apparently exhausted, mumbling, “You need the girl, the girl needs you, you need the …”

Will stared at him for a second or two more, intrigued even as he tried to dismiss the words as those of a dying man, but he could wait no longer, distracted by the rich scent of the blood. He lowered his head to the wound and took the liquid as it pumped gently from the torn flesh.

He felt better almost instantly with the metallic warmth filling his mouth. He'd long understood that this wasn't food—he didn't need blood the way he'd once needed meat or bread. It was something else that he took from it, as if he was draining the life force itself from his victims.

He didn't need blood all the time. He needed it most when he first emerged from hibernation. After that, he could go weeks or even months without the need for more, and the need wasn't a bodily hunger, but a spiritual one.

He was never physically weak for want of blood, but sometimes before he fed, it felt as if every last fragment of his soul was floating away and dispersing into the void. Only blood brought it back.

Within forty minutes it was done. Jex lay on the mattress now, both arms exposed, two cuts on each, and the blood continued to seep weakly out of the wounds. Will hadn't drained him and had stopped drinking as soon as the life had left him.

He stood and looked around the room. For a moment, he thought back to the strangeness of Jex talking through his trance and of the things he'd said—Lorcan Labraid, the evil of the world, something about a girl— but the room alone was enough to convince him that Jex had taken drugs aplenty in his time, that his mind had been unhinged even though his body had remained healthy.

The dogs were still sleeping, unaware that he was there or what fate had befallen their master. The stove was burning low and orange, and if Jex had been still alive, he might have put more wood on it.

He looked at the charcoal pictures then. They were well drawn, some of the dogs, some of faces, including a girl who looked cross and unhappy, many of the city itself, some of the church. Again, it surprised and even saddened him that a young man of talents had come to live like this.

Will felt a little saddened, too, for having ended that life, but it was the nature of his sickness. Besides, millions of people had died during his long existence, and many of them had lost their lives far more pointlessly than the man in front of him now.