Red Grow the Roses (21 page)

A hand, filthy and stick-thin, had shot out of that dark space and sliced into his neck. He'd fallen back on to the floor, and then seen another arm seize the servant from the other side of the tomb and drag him in, snapping his spine. Slumped against the cave wall and trying desperately to staunch the blood running from his throat, Kerim had watched the other men panic. The other two servants had blundered toward the exit; one fell out as the other pushed him. The torches had gone flying, shadows leaping wildly about the cave. The two soldiers had pulled their swords and struck at the creature, but it had done them no good; it had risen out of the tomb, striking swifter than an arrow flies from the bow: blackened, skeletal, mere rags of skin on bone, with blazing eyes and long yellow teeth. It had gorged itself on the living and slain them all, and finally made its way to Kerim, who'd been barely clinging to consciousness. Its cadaverous face looming over his was the last memory he had of his living years.

It had spared him death, he'd found out, because it was acute enough to realise it was centuries since it had last moved among men and it wanted a guide. Spared him death, but not torment. For the rest of the night and all the next day and night, as the changes had ripped through his tissues, he'd suffered the agonies of rebirth while Umm Hol hissed questions in archaic Persian and lapped the blood oozing from his throat. Luckily for him the tomb faced east: as the dawn sun lanced over a mountain ridge the creature had retreated hissing, wisps of smoke rising from its exposed skin, then crawled back into its sarcophagus and pulled the slab over itself. On the second night it had gone hunting and returned with a goat whose blood it had fed to him.

On the second morning Kerim had woken to find his neck healed. He'd risen, discovered himself unable to bear the dawn light in his eyes, and withdrawn into the shadows at the back of the cave. He had seen what the light did to his captor; he didn't imagine himself immune. Three men with poles had been needed to move the lid of the tomb the first time, but he did it himself now. Umm Hol, replete with the blood, lay within – no longer a leathery corpse but a slender woman with hair like a midnight sea. Her lips had been full and red, as moist as the crease between her legs, and her dark nipples had seemed to stare up at him. Without hesitation he'd plucked her body from the sarcophagus, embraced it in his arms and walked out on to the sunlit apron of rock.

Umm Hol had burned, screaming, to greasy ash and cinders in his arms, but to Kerim's stunned dismay he himself had remained unharmed.

He hadn't even had a name for the thing he had become.

It's been a long road he's walked since that day, and everything he has learned he's discovered on his own, without guidance from vampire-kind. He has done things he's now ashamed of, and walked in the darkest of places. But somehow over the years he's finally managed to work out a peace with himself and his nature – a peace which still holds, for the moment.

So this is Reynauld, who sits in the dark before an old tin chest of junk, turning the pieces in his hands, gazing at the past but seeing with dread the future.

The man walked up to the shop window, scanned the name on the frontage and frowned. The line
Mind Body & Spirit
seemed to fill him with dismay. Cerri, standing behind the till, watched through the glass as his gaze dropped to the window display itself: witchcraft books and crystals and goddess statues and a jolly Ganesha figure that held lit incense in one outstretched hand. His expression, which had been tense up to this point, dropped like a failed soufflé and set into a stodgy solid of disapproval.

Cerri bit her lip thoughtfully. This was probably him. She was even surer when he looked around for the building number and checked a small piece of paper in his hand. Then his gaze fell on the lintel over the door, and she watched as he physically recoiled, taking a step back across the pavement and nearly backing into a passing mother and pram. Cerri continued to watch as he apologised. After that he looked around, walked away a few paces, hesitated and turned back to look at the shop.

Enough, she thought, reaching the door and opening it. His eyebrows shot up as she gestured to him with a crook of her fingers and a smile. He didn't look at all pleased, but he sidled back toward her.

‘You're Doug?'

‘Uh … Douglas.' He was younger than she'd been expecting, or perhaps just had an open youthful face. He looked like he'd grown that goatee in an ill-advised attempt to make up for eyelashes so long that they were almost feminine, but it had come out an unfortunate gingery shade despite his blond hair above. He was wearing a jacket and open shirt and chinos and she didn't think she'd ever seen a man look so ill at ease.

He was cute, she thought. Cute like a puppy. And nearly as helpless.

‘And you're Cerri?'

‘That's right. You want to come in?'

His gaze drifted up again, to the lintel where the iron pentagram was fixed. ‘I don't think so.'

‘You asked for help.'

‘I'm sorry.' He started to back away. ‘I won't waste any more of your time.'

‘It symbolises the whole human being,' she said, more firmly. ‘The five points represent earth, air, fire, water and spirit.' She smiled. ‘Absolutely nothing to do with devil worship, I promise.'

His mouth opened a little, his eyes searching her. She waited, giving him the chance to take in her long corded braids, the blue and lilac hair weaves, the stud through her nose, the rather generous cleavage of her low-cut dress. This was his last chance.

‘Um,' said he.

‘Amanda said you were looking for help. Come on in.' Turning back into the shop interior, she didn't wait to see if he would obey. But she was pleased when he did. Once inside he looked around with undisguised suspicion at the bright and glittery New Age wares, as if he expected the walls to start running with blood.

‘Drop the latch, will you? And turn the sign over so it says
Closed
.' He cleared his throat, but she carried on before he could question her: ‘I'm assuming you'd like this to be confidential?'

‘Yes,' he admitted faintly. ‘That'd be good.'

‘Right. Cup of tea?'

‘Um …'

‘Camomile, or sage, or raspberry ‘n' rose-petal? It won't be poisoned. Or spiked.'

He flushed. ‘Raspberry then?'

‘This way.'

She led him through the door at the rear of the small shop and up the stairs to her apartment. She was rather proud of her flat, as she was proud of her cleavage: she knew it made a favourable impression on most people. Everything was light and clean, the floors all bare pale wood, the walls cream, the furniture draped with white throws. She took him into the living room where a case of books was the only thing that clashed with the decor, and sat him down. He glanced at the pictures hung on the walls: framed collages of dead leaves and pressed flowers and natural
objets trouvés
. He brushed a large driftwood stump beside his chair with nervous fingers.

‘The pictures are nice. Did you make them?'

Cerri nodded, pleased. ‘I sell them online. Back in a sec.'

When she came back in with mugs of tea he was still perched in the armchair, his elbows on his knees, but she was fairly sure he'd been peering at the books on her shelf.

‘You're a Wiccan,' he said, as if concluding an investigation.

‘I'm a pagan,' she corrected. ‘But not Wiccan. And not,' she added with a grin, ‘any sort of Satanist. Promise.'

‘OK.' He had a look that said he was reserving judgement, but willing to talk. She took the light out of his eyes with her next words though.

‘So, what's your problem?'

He looked down into his fragrant tisane. ‘I'm not sure that …' He let the sentence hang miserably.

‘Let me make it easier. It was Amanda Grey who rang me and asked me to help you.'

‘Amanda?'

‘Silvery hair, expensive clothes, very respectable looking? You had an appointment with her at nine this morning.'

‘Oh. Oh, yes … She didn't tell me her name. Amanda.'

‘So it's something to do with vampires then?'

Doug's eyes narrowed. ‘You know about them?'

‘You'd be amazed how many people know.' She slipped her shoes off and tucked her feet up beneath her on the sofa. ‘What's your story, Doug?'

He swallowed. ‘I'm being threatened by one.'

‘A vampire?'

He nodded.

‘In what way?'

‘Didn't Amanda tell you?'

‘She hasn't told me anything except that you need help. Start at the beginning, Doug.'

‘Right.' He wet his lips. ‘Well, a week ago this man … came up to me. He started to make threats. He's been round my house and … waiting for me after work. He stands in the garden at night. He turns up out of the blue …' He shivered. ‘You can't see him coming. He's just there. I went to the police, of course. I said I was being stalked and threatened. When I told them what he'd said they …' There was a moment's pause. ‘They said it wasn't police business.'

‘What had he said?'

Doug stared across the room at the window, a muscle in his jaw flexing. ‘He said he was going to rip out my throat with his teeth and … um … make use of my still-warm body. And that, apparently, is not something the police see fit to take seriously.'

‘I see.'

‘But they gave me a number to call, said it was a special harassment helpline, and I was given an interview with this woman. Amanda. It didn't seem right to me. Little office, no nameplate on the door, barely any furniture. I didn't believe it was straight up. And she wasn't exactly sympathetic.'

‘But she believed you?'

Doug snorted, bitterly. ‘Oh, yes, she believed me. She took notes on everything and then told me to Lie Back and Think of England.'

‘What?'

‘Words to that effect anyway. She said the man was lying, that he wouldn't kill me or cause any permanent damage: that he was just trying to scare me. That was how he got his kicks. She said he'd only take a little blood – maybe a pint – and there wasn't any health risk, so that's all right then. Then she showed me the door.'

She's almost certainly right, Cerri thought, but didn't say it out loud: she could see he wouldn't take it well. ‘OK. I'm going to have to ask: are you sure he's a real vampire?'

‘Yes!' He was surprisingly vehement and he seemed to recognise that. ‘I know … I've seen one before. I know what they're like.' Abruptly he switched tone. ‘And anyway I saw him; he walked into a shadow and just vanished. I mean that: he disappeared.'

‘OK then. What does he look like?'

‘Um. Shorter than me. About five-six, I think. Thin build. Dark, longish hair. Young: about eighteen, I'd guess. Quite striking features.'

Cerri nodded thoughtfully. ‘Sounds like Naylor.'

‘You're on first-name terms with them?'

She wanted to pat his ruffled feathers. ‘I've seen some of them. Naylor's … not nice, certainly. He likes to play rough. But he won't hurt you, not really: he can't kill you. You needn't panic. There are limits on them, you see, and they don't go beyond that.'

‘But forcing me down and biting me is within those limits?'

She sucked the inside of her lip. ‘It doesn't hurt that much. And afterwards it feels wonderful. Really great. Plenty of people seek it out, for the thrill.'

‘And what about the rape?'

‘Um.' She met his stony glare mildly. ‘It won't be rape by that point, believe me. You'll want it. It's an effect of the bites.'

‘I see.' His voice was clipped. ‘So if you go to a club and someone spikes your drink with GHB and has sex with you when you're too wasted to care, you're saying you wouldn't count that as rape, would you? You're saying that's OK?'

Cerri winced. ‘Fair point. It's not great. But it could be a lot worse. A
whole
lot worse. There are vampires out there and they're stronger than us and faster than us and they have these weird abilities … They can mess with the way we see things. Like a sort of mental suggestion. And we are lucky they don't abuse that power more than they do. Believe me, they're holding back.'

‘Lucky? To be treated like serfs or cattle?'

‘Yeah, that's pretty much it. The fact is that we're not top of the food-chain. And it's painful to realise that, I do get it.'

He ground his teeth. ‘Well, someone should do something. Someone should stop them. If the police, the government know … They ought to do something!'

‘Really?' Cerri sighed. ‘D'you want to see a real fight between us and them, Doug? D'you want to see how much they could hurt us if they really tried?'

‘I thought you were going to be on my side.'

‘I am on your side. But I'm just being realistic.'

He put his mug down carefully on the low table, his face stiff. ‘Thank you for the tea,' he said, standing. ‘I can see you're not going to be able to help.'

‘I didn't say that.' She looked up at him sympathetically. ‘I can't kill him, if that's what you're after: I'm not bloody Buffy, you know. But I can show you how to protect yourself. How to put him off.'

He hung for a moment then hesitantly sat again. ‘This isn't going to involve … magic, is it?' The way he said the word made it sound dirty.

‘Why?'

‘No magic.' His voice was hard. ‘Absolutely not. I'd rather he bit me.'

That made her sit up, her cheeks flushing. ‘Why not? If you believe in vampires, why not in magic?'

His glare was rather diminished in effect by the fact that she was finding him irresistibly cute. ‘I'm a vicar.'