Blood (3 page)

Will spotted the notebook that Jex had been writing in and picked it up, thumbing idly through the pages. He probably would have thrown it aside again, but as he looked through it, his forearm started to itch, on the exact spot where he'd once been bitten himself.

It was a sensation he'd never experienced before, the second new experience in one night, and once again, he started to think seriously about the things Jex had said. Could it be that Lorcan Labraid was the name of the creature who'd bitten him, and that through the flaring up of this ancient wound, he was indeed calling to Will?

He even wondered if the itching was somehow linked to the simple act of picking up the notebook. It was hard to believe this book could have any connection with the creature who'd infected him so long ago, but even the slightest promise of it was enough to pique Will's interest.

Most of the pages were filled with dense script, but there were drawings, too. Much of the writing was in a tight scrawl that was hard for him to read, and nonsensical where he could, but here and there notes were written in large capital letters.

As he flicked through the pages, his eyes fixed on one of these bold statements. Two words in particular had leapt out at him as they'd flashed past, words he couldn't believe he'd seen. Surely his eyes had deceived him. He turned back, a page at a time, his heart lurching.

Then he reached it and read it again, one simple but shocking sentence, written bold, the words underlined. And there were the two words in particular that had caught his attention, words that could have no reason for being in this man's notebook—
William … Mercia
.

He tried to take in the meaning of them appearing there and of the sentence that carried them, but felt a sudden sharp discomfort on his forearm, deep in the tissue—not itching now, but the sensation of two teeth sinking into his flesh. He had to be imagining it, or remembering it, dredging up a memory that he'd never knowingly possessed. It got worse—a needle-like pain tore through his flesh, a pain so alarming, so disturbing that Will dropped the book and stumbled, kicking one of the crates.

The dogs stirred and jumped up, starting to growl, but uncertain what to do. A candle toppled and rolled across the crate before dropping to the floor, the flame catching under the edge of the blanket that covered the mattress.

Will recoiled instantly from the fire, as small as it was. One of the dogs barked at him, then the other, maybe sensing his moment of weakness. He turned and glared at them and they quietened, looking hesitant, then sloped one after the other out the door.

The blanket had started to burn properly by the time he turned back to it, smoke billowing upwards, the flames dancing against everything they touched, trying to take hold. Then he spotted the notebook lying on the mattress next to Jex, the edges of its pages already beginning to singe and crackle.

Will had never been burned, but just as some sicknesses could make their victims fear water, so he feared the flames, no less than if he were a wild animal. He'd learned to live with the careful, controlled fire of the candle, but this kind of flame, volatile and fast and greedy, made him almost as uneasy as the first glint of light at the edge of every morning.

But he knew what he'd seen in that book and the sensations it had stirred in him, and he couldn't let it burn. He kicked it clear of the flames and stamped on it, making certain that it was no longer alight before daring to pick it up.

He slipped the book into the pocket of his coat and ran from the fire, out into the freshening night where he halted again. A wind had picked up, whipping through the old warehouses, carrying broken sounds from here and there in the city, tugging violently at his hair and coat.

The night seemed volatile and in fear of itself, as if something had just been unleashed into the darkness, perhaps by his killing of Jex, or by his discovery of the book, or both. Whatever had happened in there, Will could sense that something had shifted in his nocturnal world—things were not the same as they'd been an hour before.

He put his hand into his pocket, reassuring himself that the notebook was still there, but almost instantly the wind dropped and the crisp calmness of the night settled back on to the city. He could hear only the faint crackling of the flames now, and the distant traffic that would soon bring a fire engine.

Before finding the book, he'd wanted to walk and breathe air he hadn't breathed for more than a decade, to clear his thoughts. Now he wanted only to go back to his chamber so that he could read and decipher everything Jex had written, to understand something of what was happening and the things of which he'd spoken.

But Will hadn't even started to walk again when he heard a noise from the direction of the river. He stared into the darkness and saw the two dogs, running at full speed. At first he thought they were running back to their master, but they sprinted past, determined, not even noticing Will. The look and the smell of them were unmistakable—they were running away from something in fear for their lives.

He looked back in the direction from which they'd come, and without giving it any further thought, he set off towards the river. If there was something down there that had scared the dogs, he wanted to see it, and as he walked, his heart was full of the nervous blood of hope.

He'd lived in ignorance for nearly eight hundred years, understanding little of his sickness, gathering fragments from the superstitions of others. Nor, in all that time, had he ever met another of his own kind, but finally in this notebook, in the words of a dead man, there was perhaps a sign.

At last, in this new millennium, he'd found a message in the most unlikely of places. And it promised something that he'd never dared hope, that there had been a reason for all of this, his sickness, the centuries of loneliness, that he had a destiny.

There was something else, too, in the aching of his arm, in the way the darkness had become possessed, in the terror of the dogs, a tantalizing suggestion that the book would lead him to the one who'd made him what he was. Will rested his hand on the book now, and was almost afraid to hope that their meeting might be imminent—for after all, the dogs had run from something, or someone.

All the way to the river, the dull ache remained in his arm, reminding Will that he had been cursed with this existence, born of wickedness, reminding him, too, that whatever had come back into his life in this last hour was also wicked. And with Jex's words still in his mind, it was evil he expected to find at the river.

What he actually found there was a scene of confusion, a scene of dereliction lost. The first riverside warehouse he saw was surrounded by scaffolding and appeared to be undergoing some building work. The next one, a large four-story block that stretched all the way to the road and the bridge, had been converted into living accommodation, as had the one on the opposite bank.

Will stared at the buildings, unable to take in what was happening here. He looked up at the lit windows, at the people moving about their domestic business. It was a strange choice of place to live, he thought. If the creature who'd bitten him was anywhere here, it would not be among the living.

Instinctively, he turned and walked the other way along the river, away from the light and signs of life, further into the small island of desolation which it seemed he was already on the verge of losing.

He hadn't walked far when he sensed someone up ahead and his hope faded of finding the creature tonight, for this was a healthy living person. If she, for he sensed it was a she, was unharmed and unafraid then it was unlikely the creature was close by. With even more disappointment, he wondered if the dogs had been spooked by nothing so much as their own shadows. Even so, he walked on.

He couldn't see her, not even when he knew he was close, and he was only a few steps away when he finally spotted her, sitting on the floor inside the deep doorway of what had once been a coffee merchant's.

She looked no older than him, her skin was almost as pale, her raven hair even darker than his, and she, too, was dressed all in black, albeit with silver rings on nearly every finger.

The girl was beautiful and sad, but more importantly, Will recognized her and became hopeful again that he'd been drawn here for a reason. Because this was the girl whose picture had been on the wall of Jex's hovel. “The girl needs you, you need the girl,” that was what he'd said, or something like it. Had he meant this girl?

“What are you staring at?”

Her tone was hostile and Will had been distracted, not even realizing that he was staring. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.”

She ignored the apology, leaving no opening for conversation. Will scratched absentmindedly at his arm, not because it was itching now, but because he could still remember the discomfort so clearly.

“Are you a junkie?”

Her tone was accusatory and he dropped his hand and said earnestly, “No. Something bit me, that's all.”

“Charming,” she said sarcastically. He wasn't sure how to respond, but a moment later she added, “So? Go away. Leave me alone.”

He was a little taken aback by her unfriendliness and by the determined way she spoke, as if it didn't occur to her that he might disobey. But he quickly realized that it was a front, a defensive mechanism to fend people off.

“This is a public space,” he said, and even now, even after all this time, a voice inside his head corrected him— it was
his
space, belonging to him by right, just as all the land hereabout belonged to him.

She changed her tactics, but it was clear she didn't want to talk to him. “Maybe it is, but it's not a good place for you to be. You should go home to your parents.”

Her tone was mocking and full of contempt, but he ignored it and said, “What do you mean, it's not a good place? Have you seen anything strange down here?”

“Yeah, loads of things, so you know what? Go home, get a life.”

She was definitely mocking him, but as ever, it was taking him a little while to get used to the words and rhythm of the language. As he tried to understand what she'd said, he noticed her shiver slightly.

“You're cold.”

“It's a cold night—it has been known in November.” Will nodded. He was conscious of the crispness in the air, but didn't feel it in his bones as he would once have done. She tried another tactic, saying, “Look, I don't mean to be rude, but please just leave me alone.”

“Of course. It wasn't my intention to intrude.” He took a step backwards, but before turning he said, “And I'm an orphan.”

“Oh.” She seemed to think about it a second before saying, “How long?”

“A long time.”

The girl nodded, still not giving any ground, but said, “That's too bad.”

Will turned and walked away. This wasn't the right time, but she had at least spoken to him and he would have all the time he needed. It was unfortunate that she'd been so unfriendly because he'd liked the way she looked—if it hadn't been for her scent, he might even have taken her for one of his own.

More important was that her picture had been on Jex's wall, and that Jex had talked about a girl immediately after he'd spoken of Lorcan Labraid. So possibly it was no coincidence that Will had found her. If greater powers were at work, maybe there would be no more coincidences—he had been lured to the river, and he had found a girl there.

A fire engine had reached the warehouse and was in the process of putting out the fire, which was intense but contained at the far end. He put his dark glasses on and, as he passed, one of the firemen turned and laughed, saying, “Too sunny for ya?”

Will paid no attention and walked on. It was one of his curses that men like that would talk down to him because he was a boy. If they knew only a fraction of the truth, about his age or his power, they would bow down before him no less than their long-distant grandfathers had done.

He returned the way he'd come and entered the church through the side door. He'd been away nearly two hours, but there were still people in there, even if the music had now stopped and the cavernous silence had once more returned. Perhaps the woman who'd shouted at him was among them, sensing that something important had happened earlier in the evening, but unable to remember what.

Later, when the church was quite empty, Will would go to the office and take spare keys for the crypt and the side door, a more practical and speedy method than constantly relying on his powers over the inanimate. For now though, he descended to his lair, sat down in an ornate wooden throne, and started to read greedily.

Sadly, much of what Jex had written was nonsense, composed under the power of some drug or other, but in places it was quite different, almost as if written by another hand, and in those passages it took on the tone of prophesy.

Even then, little of it made sense readily, but Will pored over it, absorbing phrases and fragments—
his enemies will be legion; the circle is broken and is made complete; Asmund waits with the spirits; from four will come one; the church will speak, that has no people; the Suspended King calls across the ages.

There was much talk of a Suspended King, a phrase he couldn't begin to understand. As of his last counting, there had been twenty-eight kings and six ruling queens in his lifetime, but he couldn't see how any of them might have been “suspended.” Unless, as he hoped, this was a different kind of king; unless it spoke of and promised that second encounter with the one who had bitten him.

He turned another page and found a pencil portrait of the girl by the river. There was a beauty about her, and perhaps Jex had merely been infatuated. But after hearing him speak the way he had, it was a puzzle to find her here in this book as well as on his wall. Everything tonight had been a puzzle, a maze of words and oddities, with the girl appearing at every turn.

Will continued to leaf through the book and finally found the page that had first surprised him earlier that evening. It was all at once strange and terrifying and full of promise, a promise that this prison, its walls made of time itself, had all been for some purpose.

Was it possible he had a destiny to fulfill? For all these centuries he had considered himself cursed, a victim, and the fantasies he had entertained on and off had been of vengeance, not of fulfillment. Even now, it was the thought of a confrontation with the creature that stirred him most, but he couldn't help being drawn to the siren call of destiny, to the suggestion that his existence had meant something.

And it could not be simply the ramblings of a madman or a student of the history books because none of Will's ancestors, nor any of the usurpers of his brother's line, had ever borne his name, and so he alone knew that his name and that title had belonged together for more than seven hundred years. Nevertheless, the inscription in Jex's book was clear:

William, Earl of Mercia, will rise again.