The Grotesques (2 page)

The gods help Rouen.

One of her sons had been born on Samhain.

Demons could wreak havoc with such a life.

THE EERIE CRY
, half human, half something . . . alien, tore through her self-pity for the second time that night. Ella shivered and closed the lapels of her raincoat against the whipping wind. Her source was late. So late as to make her wonder if he was the one behind the unnatural sound, trying to convince her there really was a story here. Well, he needn’t have worried about that. She was working for the
Informer,
for God’s sake. With headlines like “Bunyip Devours Infant” and “Opera House Alien Spaceship”, the tabloid would accept any rubbish he cared to dish up. Disgusted, she dug into her bag for a piece of the chocolate she never went anywhere without. Stuff the extra kilos piling onto her hips. She would get rid of them later when, or rather
if
, her life ever got back in order.

Again the cry pierced her thoughts, a spine-tingling screech, nearer this time. Ella felt the cold prickle of fear on the nape of her neck. She forgot the chocolate and fumbled for the record button on her digital recorder.

A dark shape whizzed past her head. Instinctively, she ducked and turned, her stomach somersaulting into her mouth. The moonless night obscured the alleyway she had traversed to reach the short canal. Shadowy buildings rose on either side, giving cover to anyone—or anything—that chose to lurk. Deep in the gloom, metal crashed. Ella jumped. A hiss and yowl punctuated the dying clangs. A cat sped past her, fleeing into the square. She let out her breath.
Stupid woman
.

Then it came a fourth time. A screech, birdlike, tormented, followed by the sound of nails clicking the pavement. That was no cat. She felt a flutter of panic and opted out. There was only so much she would endure for a story, especially one for the
Informer
.

She hurried away from the alley, along the short Port Canal. Her heels clacked on the cement path. She wished she had found time to change into trainers. To her left a row of fenced-off gardens walled the square; in front and to her right the church loomed. As she drew level with the bell tower, she paused to listen, but heard nothing over the gathering wind.

A piece of chocolate helped speed the return of her sanity, if not her nerves. Her source was obviously not going to show. The path along the church and into Formby Crescent would take her back to the security of her car. If only two forms were not winging from that direction, their turbulent course angled toward her.

That settled it. Ella jogged the other way, across the width of the canal and around the bell tower. She was grateful to discover a soft light burning through a horizontal slit of glass at ground level. The higher windows gaped like decaying teeth in the face of the stone church. Cursing her stupidity in coming alone, she glanced at the dark copse to her right, certain her rising nausea had more to do with the uncanny sensation she was being watched than the block of chocolate she had consumed.

As she dashed past the back of the church, someone wrenched her bag from her shoulder. She wriggled, trying to worm free of the strap, entirely willing to forfeit her one and only Oroton tote and maxed-out credit card to save a mugging. A hand gripped her wrist as the strap snapped. She screamed and kicked. Her toe connected with shin. She heard a muffled grunt, but her assailant held fast.

“Ella. Ella!”

She finally registered her name, recognised the deep voice as the one on the phone. She stopped fighting.

“I told you not to approach the church.”

“Let go of me.” Her voiced wavered.

“Come on. It’s not safe here.” He released her and strode north.

“You’re late,” she accused. He didn’t answer, whether through stubbornness or an inability to hear her over the strengthening gusts she couldn’t tell. She rubbed her wrist, contemplating her options. Pride be damned. She had waited a chilly hour and been scared half to death. The least he owed her was an explanation. Besides, whatever was flying around probably still skulked nearby. She trotted after him, around the back of the church, then down its side and into the alley, a short passageway that left her wondering how she had ever imagined it contained any depths at all. They emerged on an unlit street and headed for an old green station wagon a few feet from her own Toyota. He opened the door for her. She hesitated only a moment then climbed in, curiosity overpowering her vivid imagination, which was currently flashing alternate images of murdered hitchhikers and her belligerent editor demanding information for copy.

“You’re late,” she repeated, forcing irritation to replace her fear. She played with the broken strap on her bag, more annoyed than she would have guessed that a present from someone she had broken up with badly was ruined. “And you owe me a handbag.” Not that it would be a handbag from her ex, Rob.

He didn’t answer, and she didn’t bother to say anything more. Instead, she concentrated on keeping track of their route, straight down Port Road. She was less than impressed when he pulled the station wagon into West Terrace McDonald’s. He ordered two coffees and nodded toward a table in the corner. Three teenagers, scruffily dressed and loud, were devouring burgers and fries near the front window, soaking up a night’s alcoholic binge by the sound of it.

“Great place,” Ella said, sliding into a chair.

She took a sip of the coffee and studied him over the rim of her paper cup while the warmth defrosted her veins. He was ruggedly attractive, mid-thirties, with thick, blonde hair that topped the body she dreamed of. He obviously worked out, which made her acutely conscious of her extra roll of flab. At least she had managed a hairdresser’s visit last week. The consensus at the office was that the brown, layered look suited her.

“Sorry, but it’s bright so there’s no chance of being observed without our knowing.”

Ella had developed an unhealthy dose of cynicism since working for the
Informer.
She wanted to tell him to cut the cloak-and-dagger routine but his harried frown jangled her journalistic instincts. She sighed, retrieved the digital recorder from her bag, realised the record button was still depressed, and took another sip of scalding coffee while waiting for him to speak.

He glanced round quickly. “How much do you know about the disappearances?”

She eyed him curiously. He didn’t seem the type to claim alien abduction or flesh-eating-monster. “I think the question is: how much do you?”

“Every disappearance occurred around the Church of the Resurrection.”

Ella leant back. That was not new information, if slightly exaggerated. From what she recalled, of the five girls who had gone missing in the past few weeks, three were last reported in the vicinity of the church. Another had been pulled from the river, her severed torso sporting jagged tooth marks that had prompted the
Informer
to splash “Mutant Killer Shark Prowls Estuary” across its front page. Disgusted, she had read no further and reached for a
Nationwide Daily
to fill in the blanks. It had, ironically, proposed an almost identical theory, the only difference the lack of unsupported reference to radioactive industrial sludge mutating great whites.

“Got an alternative theory to man-eating monsters, huh?”

He didn’t react to her jibe. “I think the church is linked.”

Here we go
, she thought,
satanic cults, fallen angels
. “What do you mean by ‘the church’?” Whether building or faith, this conversation was heading for disaster.

“I don’t know.”

“So you have no proof?” This was, she thought regrettably, going to turn out to be another wasted evening. She might work for the most ill-reputed tabloid in the country, but she was not quite ready to sink to the depths of the other journalists on staff.

“Not yet. I need someone to help me investigate.”

“I didn’t take you for a cop.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what’s this to you?”

She caught the pain in his sharp intake of breath. “My cousin was the first to go missing.”

Ella sat straighter, racking her brains for details. “Cecily Williams?” The teenager had been here on holiday from England, visiting relatives. The case had made the national press. When had it happened—two, three weeks ago? For the first time in months she wished she had paid better attention to the news. Twelve months ago she would have revelled in a story like this. Now, well, the only angle she was likely to get was the flesh-eating-monster version. The taste of betrayal still left a bitter coating in her mouth.

“Yeah,” he acknowledged. “Cecily.”

Interest piqued, she leant toward him, almost upsetting her nearly full cup. He hadn’t even touched his. “You don’t look like the type of relative who would sell out his cousin for a few bucks. So what’s the deal?”

“Like I said, I need someone to help me investigate.”

“I work for the
Informer
. We allege, but we sure don’t investigate.”

“You used to work for the
Nationwide Daily
.”

“And plenty still do.”

“Yeah, but I want you, Ella Jerome.”

A forgotten prickle of curiosity stirred inside her. Eyes narrowed, she retorted, “I can’t think why.”

“You were the best.”

Were.
Yeah, that summed it up. “You got something to say, find yourself a real journalist. You want to dish up dirt on your cousin, it’s not my style, and you looking to discredit me further, I’m not about to help with that.”

She rose to leave. He gripped her wrist. They locked eyes, his pleading, hers defiant.

“You were set up. Half of Adelaide figured that out.” The left side of his mouth twitched in mockery of a smile. “The other half doesn’t read the newspaper.”

She looked at his hand. He was gripping so tightly the tendons on the back formed a fan. He relaxed his hold. His gaze regained its focus. “Cut the blasé act. Your opinion of the paper you find yourself working for is crystal. I’m offering you a chance to restore your reputation.”

Her eyes widened momentarily. She had only forged her offhand attitude this last year, and while the armour was not something she was proud of, complete strangers didn’t usually see through it. “You haven’t told me why you want
me
.”

He was intent on her, trying to gauge her reaction, she guessed. She studied him back, counting the seconds that would lead to one of those moments that required a decision with far-reaching consequences. She had had enough of those this past year.

“I need someone who can keep an open mind,” he said at last, retrieving his hand.

“Flesh-eating-monster type open mind?”

She really should just walk out of here. A story of that sort would destroy what vestiges of a reputation clung to her. Instead, she waited for his answer. He gave it by reaching inside his jacket and pulling out two photos, which he placed on the table in front of her. Their subjects were dark, indistinct. She lifted the top one. A blurred shape filled one side. It could have been anything. She tossed it onto the table and picked up the second. A webbed membrane spanned the bottom corner.

“What is it?”

He hesitated, which told her that despite his answer he had an opinion. “I don’t know.”

Sure you do
, she thought, and his reluctance to divulge the goods clinched her interest. “I’m listening,” she said, settling into her chair. “I’m not making any promises, mind you.”

He relaxed, and the lines around his eyes smoothed out. “That’s all I’m asking.”

“You’d better start at the beginning.” She took a sip of cold coffee and grimaced. “Just a moment.” She rewound her recorder and went to the counter, waiting behind one of the rowdy teens. Night was deepening outside. Traffic was thinning. Something that looked suspiciously like a bat was fluttering around the outside lights. A little queasy, she ordered. Caffeine and chocolate might yet be the key to getting through a wild tale of God-knew-what atrocity.

She passed her source a cup and fumbled with the recorder while sipping coffee. None of the eerie sounds had stuck.

“Go ahead. Can you start with who you are?” She had only just realised she didn’t know his name.

“I’m Adam Lowell. I’m a zoologist researching Adelaide’s bat population.” He caught her blink. “There’s quite a few around the city.”

Ella glanced at the photos.

“I’m not sure, but I don’t think so,” he said slowly.

She wondered if he guessed headlines about vampire bats were running through her mind. She had to make a living, after all, and being relegated to the back pages of a trashy newspaper for covering truthful if scandalous stories on drug-taking sports stars was not doing a whole lot for her currently fragile ego. Unfortunately, she suspected front page trash would make her feel worse.

“Cecily and I were bat spotting the night she disappeared.”