Blood Red City (2 page)

*   *   *

A wide trail was scorched through the scrubby woodland. Although it was right next to the road, Davy almost missed it. He drove past, Buster beside him with his head stuck out of the window as usual. Davy saw the damage in the rear-view mirror.

‘Hold on there, buddy,' he said to the dog as he slewed to a halt. ‘Let's take a look at that.'

He jumped down, Buster following, tongue hanging out as he trotted after his master. Davy stood by the edge of the road, putting his hand out for the black Labrador to lick at as they both stared into the woodland.

It looked like someone had driven a truck through. But a truck thirty feet wide and so hot it had charred the ends of the broken branches and the dry grass and undergrowth. Lucky it hadn't started a fire, Davy thought. Whatever it was.

Walking slowly along the pathway that had been created, he examined the ends of the branches. Brittle and burned. The woodland would soon recover. A good fire could clear out and revitalise a forest. But this was something different.

The trees got taller and denser further in. Soon there was a canopy over them – the lower branches ripped and burned away, leaving the upper layers still intact. The weak winter sunlight filtered through dappling the charred ground. Unsettled, Buster kept close to Davy, making small whimpering noises.

There was something there, at the end of the trail. The scattered sunlight glinted on metal. Maybe it
was
a truck. Except it looked smooth, rounded, like a structure rather than a vehicle. Had it always been here, whatever it was?

Davy stopped, peering at it from a distance. He wasn't one to get nervous or scared. He'd been farming this land, or as much of it as
could
be farmed, for over thirty years. He reckoned there was nothing left that could surprise him. He was wrong.

But nervous or not, there was something unsettling about what he could see. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Davy could make out a dark patch on the curved side of the structure. An opening. Something moved in the darkness. He was aware of Buster tensing beside him, teeth bared and a deep growl emanating from the dog's throat.

The shape detached itself lazily from the darkness, slowly approaching. Picking its way carefully through the damaged undergrowth. Eyes gleamed as they caught the filtered light, and Davy almost laughed.

It was a cat. Probably one of the farm cats wandering in search of food. This time of year, there weren't so many mice in the barns or out in the fields. Black as a shadow, the cat didn't seem at all intimidated by Davy and Buster. It continued towards them, eyes flicking from side to side before stopping abruptly. Suddenly alert.

Buster was still growling. The dog took a shuffled step backwards and gave a bark. Buster never barked.

‘What's wrong, lad? It's just a cat.'

*   *   *

She swung her legs off the side of the stone table and leaned forward. She half jumped, half fell forwards to the floor, landing on feet and hands together. The cloaked figures retreated to the edges of the chamber, giving her room. But she seemed oblivious to their presence.

For a moment the woman was still, looking round, exploring a landscape only she could see through the smoky haze. Candlelight played across her features as they contorted, lips drawn back from her teeth. Shadows elongated and sharpened her features, made her curled fingers more like claws as she scratched at the floor in front of her.

Slowly she moved forwards, on all fours. The muscles of her shoulders tensed through the thin cotton of the dress. Her body seemed to elongate as she arched her back. Her mouth opened in a hiss of satisfaction.

She moved slowly through the dim light, eyes flicking from side to side before stopping abruptly. Suddenly alert. She stretched out her arms in front of her, leaning backwards, mouth opening. Her eyes glittered as they caught the light.

*   *   *

The cat was right in front of them now. It stretched out its front legs, leaning backwards and yawning. It shook its head suddenly, as if to rid itself of fleas. Something glittered as it moved, something behind the head. A collar, perhaps?

Davy stepped towards the cat. None of the farm cats had collars. Maybe this was a pet. An expensive collar might mean a reward. He could see it now, as the cat stared back at him through unblinking emerald eyes. The collar looked heavy, dark metal inlaid with a tracery of intricate silver lines which caught and reflected the light.

Crouching down, Davy reached out his hand, encouraging the cat towards him. It stared back, eyes narrowing slightly. At the edge of his vision, Davy was aware of sudden movement. Noise – the sudden barking as Buster shot past him. Straight at the cat.

‘No – Buster, leave!'

But Davy's voice was drowned out by the dog's barks and the screech of the cat. The two animals were a rolling mass of fur and claws. The poor cat wouldn't stand a chance against the large gundog. All Davy could do was shout at Buster to stop.

*   *   *

A blur of motion in the guttering light as she rolled backwards. Her hands curled into claws, slashing at the air.

The bald man licked his pale lips as he watched, eyes gleaming.

Her face was a mask of anger and determination as she lashed out again at the invisible attacker. A red streak appeared in the front of the white dress, blood seeping through from inside, as if a knife had been drawn from her shoulder down to her navel. Another stain close to the hem. Patches of blood diffused through the white cotton.

The thin dress was soaked red, clinging wetly to her body, emphasising every curve in scarlet. Her hands were slick with blood, grasping it out of the empty air …

*   *   *

Something splashed against his cheek and Davy instinctively glanced up to see if it was raining. He wiped his hand across his face. It came away red. Blood.

The dog's barks were howls. The cat's screeches unabated. Somehow the cat was on top of the dog, raking its elongated claws down as Buster rolled and thrashed, desperate to throw the cat off. But it clung on with its hind legs, claws deep in the dog's fur, biting into its flesh with unnatural strength and determination.

Fur slick with blood, the dog was weakening – losing blood from a ripped artery. It collapsed panting on its back. The cat forced its way from underneath, then suddenly it was on top of the dog again, forepaws whipping out and claws slashing across the dog's exposed throat, where the fur was thinnest. Barks became liquid howls. The cat jumped down, arching its back as it watched the lifeblood pumping from its opponent's neck.

Davy stared in horror, rooted to the spot, sick from what he'd just seen. The cat tilted its head slightly, staring up at him. Its fur was matted and stained and damp. Davy took a step towards it, rage building within him. He'd stamp on the bastard thing. He'd rip its scrawny head off.

The anger mixed with sorrow as he watched Buster's frantic panting slow to a halt. Became fear as he realised he couldn't move his leg. He looked down – and saw the dark, bulbous shape like a huge spider that held him tightly wrapped between its front legs.

Then he was falling, legs pulled from under him. His face was level with the cat's, staring into the image of his own terrified face reflected in its unblinking green eyes. Behind the cat, another of the dark spider-like creatures scuttled through the burned undergrowth towards him.

*   *   *

Norma Wiles was dozing by the fire when she heard the familiar sound of the truck pulling up outside. She went through to the kitchen to put some coffee on for Davy.

He watched her from the doorway, silhouetted by the low afternoon sun behind him.

‘You've been gone a while,' Norma said. ‘Reckon you'll be feeling the cold.'

His reply was dry and devoid of inflection. A simple ‘No'.

Norma frowned. It didn't sound like Davy at all.

A black cat pushed between her husband's feet and padded into the kitchen, looking up at Norma. Its fur was matted, a thick metal collar gleaming beneath.

‘Where's Buster?' she asked. The dog was usually into the kitchen before its master, looking for food and water.

‘We don't need the dog.'

Davy stepped into the light and Norma gasped. ‘What's happened to you. Look at your clothes – and you've got blood across your face. Are you all right?'

‘Never better.'

‘That's not how it looks, let me tell you.'

He shook his head. ‘You can't tell me anything. I already know everything you do. Everything I need to know.'

He reached out for her, and she let him put his hands on her shoulders, drawing her towards him. She felt his familiar callused hand on her cheek, stroking. Down to her throat.

The cat jumped up onto the kitchen table in a single elegant movement, as if to get a better view of them. It tilted its head slightly, watching.

As Davy Wiles held his wife's neck carefully between his hands. Then twisted.

*   *   *

She padded across the floor, hands and feet stained red. At the stone table, she paused, then jumped easily up in a single elegant movement, as if she weighed almost nothing, landing on all fours.

*   *   *

Norma's body slumped to the floor. The cat closed its eyes and lay down on the table. It understood that it needed to rest. Soon it would start on a long journey.

*   *   *

Blood was streaked across her face, running down her chin and neck, trickling between her breasts where the sodden fabric clung to her body. The dress was as scarlet as the velvet sheet over the stone table.

Head tilted slightly to one side, she seemed to be watching something. Her bloodied mouth twisted into a cruel smile. Then her eyes blinked rapidly and she toppled sideways in a dead faint. She lay across the table, one arm thrown out over the edge, legs twisted under her. Her chest rose and fell slowly, rhythmically, in peaceful sleep. Bloodstained scarlet across crimson velvet in the dying light of the candles.

 

CHAPTER 2

February was cold in London, with a hint of snow in the air. Major Guy Pentecross and Colonel Oliver Brinkman walked the short distance from the car through the darkness of the blackout, taking the chance to discuss their imminent meeting. In the months since he had been recruited to Station Z, Guy Pentecross had seen things he never would have imagined. But the prospect of meeting Aleister Crowley again still made his skin crawl.

‘It's not just the fact that he's a practising expert in the occult,' Guy told his commanding officer. ‘I just find him so…' He struggled to think of a word to describe it.

‘Reptilian?' Brinkman suggested.

Guy nodded. ‘You can see how he got the reputation of being the most evil man in the world.'

‘That was before Hitler and his cronies came on the scene,' Brinkman pointed out. ‘And the competition is confined to humans.'

A year ago, even a few months ago, before joining Station Z, Guy would have thought that Brinkman was joking. But now he knew all too well that there were creatures that were far from human which could be described as ‘evil'. Station Z's mission was to discover all they could about the Vril, as the creatures were called, and formulate a strategy to deal with them.

Fighting a war at the same time made it more complicated. Much more complicated, since they knew Himmler and the SS also had a group dedicated to learning about the Vril. But the Nazis planned to exploit the creatures, using whatever they learned and perhaps even the creatures themselves to their advantage, harnessing Vril knowledge and technology against the Allies.

Though the threat of the Vril was real and serious, Station Z's resources were limited and their mission kept secret. Seconded from his job at the Foreign Office after being wounded serving in the British Expeditionary Force at Dunkirk, Guy was now second in command at Station Z.

Not that there were many people under his command. The entire staff consisted of Brinkman's secretary Miss Manners, though she was far more than a mere filing clerk; Segeant Green, who was responsible for liaising with the regular military forces when necessary; Leo Davenport from the Special Operations Executive; and Sarah Diamond, a pilot from the Air Transport Auxiliary, who had joined at the same time as Guy.

There were others too whose expertise Brinkman and his team could call on – like David Alban at MI5, Elizabeth Archer at the British Museum, and Dr Wiles at the top secret code-breaking centre at Bletchley Park.

And Aleister Crowley.

Guy tried to keep his disgust hidden as he sat in Crowley's office with Colonel Brinkman a few minutes later.

Crowley faced them across his desk, chubby fingers laced together on the blotter. He wore a dark robe, hood pushed back from his craggy, bald head. Behind him the unpleasant figure of Ralph Rutherford leaned against a bookcase, arms folded, watching Guy and Brinkman without disguising his own contempt.

‘The results were rather ambiguous, I'm afraid,' Crowley said. He unlaced his fingers and opened his hands briefly in an apology that didn't reach his face. ‘But I shall tell you what I can.'

‘Why?' Rutherford said. ‘Why tell them anything?'

‘Ralph, Ralph, Ralph,' Crowley soothed without turning. He pronounced it ‘Rafe'.

‘Any help you can give us will be greatly appreciated, sir,' Brinkman said. ‘For the war effort.'

Brinkman and Guy had agreed they would focus only on the advantages Crowley's information might give them against the Germans. There would be no mention of the Vril, since Crowley seemed to regard them with something approaching reverence. He saw them as higher beings, if they existed, that promised power and enlightenment.

But Guy knew from his own experience that what they brought was blood and death. What Station Z lacked most was information about the Vril, knowledge they could turn to their advantage. They tracked the strange wingless aircraft that the Vril used. They had survived attacks by the superhuman Ubermensch creatures into which the Vril could somehow convert ordinary people. But they still didn't really know where the Vril came from or what they intended. They were hostile, and they had bases of operations hidden below ground around the world.