Eldren: The Book of the Dark (17 page)

She gripped the arms of the chair and started to push herself upwards. Tony was already reaching for the poker when she spoke, just one word.

“Brian,” she said, then started to scream.

He got out of the chair fast and had the poker raised above his head to strike when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“What are you doing boy,” Bill Reid said, pushing past Tony and taking the woman by the shoulders.

“Margaret,” he said softly, looking into her eyes. “Margaret,” he said again, more forcibly this time. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

She stared at him, and Tony could see no recognition in her eyes, only a wild-eyed, blank gaze. Her mouth was wide open, and he couldn’t see any fangs, but he kept the poker raised, just in case.

The Minister held Margaret’s face in his hands and brought his own face up close to the teacher’s.

“Fetch me some whisky son,” he said to Tony. “It’s in the cupboard next to the fridge in the kitchen.”

Tony sidled past them, still clutching the poker, but the teacher was now just staring, wide eyed and slack jawed.

He hurried to the kitchen and found the almost full bottle. He had to get a chair to reach it, and his legs were shaking so much that he nearly toppled to the floor, but he managed to steady himself just in time.

He was just about to take the bottle from the shelf when he saw something else...a small jar, a bit like a pepper pot. It was the label that drew him—“Garlic Granules”.

Suddenly he remembered the graveyard, the white powder and the taste in his mouth.

He took the jar from the shelf and buried it deep in his pocket before finally lifting down the whisky bottle.

The golden fluid shone in the overhead light.

“Just a little stiffener,” his father always said. That’s what Tony needed...a stiffener.

He pulled the cork out of the bottle...
it must be cheap stuff
he thought...his dad’s bottles always had a shiny smart screw top...and took a long swig of the liquid.

He gagged and had to force down the tomato soup that was threatening to come back up. His eyes watered and his stomach felt it was on fire but, strangely, he did feel better.

He grasped the bottle in his right hand and the poker in his left as he made his way back along the hall to the study. He half expected to find the teacher had turned; her teeth firmly embedded in the Minister’s neck, so that when he entered the room and found them in each other’s arms he almost dropped the bottle.

Then he saw that the teacher was crying, her head on Bill Reid’s shoulder, his hand patting uncomfortably at her hair.

The Minister gently sat Margaret back on the chair and took the whisky bottle from Tony. He must have caught the smell of the liquor on Tony’s breath, for his left eyebrow went up, but he didn’t say anything as he took two glasses from a small display cabinet.

“You won’t be wanting any of this,” he said to Tony. It wasn’t a question, but there was definitely the glint of a smile in his eyes. He poured two large measures and carefully placed one in Margaret’s hands before downing his own in one swift gulp.

He looked almost longingly at the bottle before putting it down beside the chair.

The teacher was staring into space again, the drink forgotten in her hands. Bill reached forward and guided the glass to her lips.

She took a sip and coughed, the liquid running down her chin. She grabbed the glass tight as she gulped down the rest of it greedily.

“More,” she said, thrusting the glass at the Minister.

He lifted the bottle and poured two fingers worth, then more as she gestured at the bottle, until the glass was almost full. She drank half of it before lowering the glass to her lap.

It was only then that she seemed to notice the bandage on her hand. She rolled her wrist forward and back, studying the bandage as if it was something alien and new. Her eyes went out of focus, and Tony thought that she would cry again, but there were no tears...only a low moan.

“Oh, Brian,” she said.

She looked up at Bill and her eyes were clear for the first time.

“How did I get here?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Bill replied, almost absently pouring himself a whisky from the bottle. “The policeman found you in the churchyard. You gave him a hell of a fright...he thought you were dead.”

“I remember him,” Margaret said, “I thought I dreamt it. But what was a policeman doing here?”

“It’s a long story, and it concerns our young friend here,” Bill said, “But it’ll keep for a while. You look done in. What happened to you?”

She shook her head, as if refusing to remember.

“I need to go,” she said, trying to stand, but only getting halfway out of the chair before her legs betrayed her and she fell back against the cushions.

“You’re not going anywhere until the doctor’s had a look at you,” Bill said. “That’s a nasty bite you’re got there.”

Tony noticed her flinch at the word, and she looked down at her hand but her thoughts were a long way away, remembering. Then she said the thing that made him start paying attention.

“I know you’ll think I’m mad Bill, but I’ve got to ask,” she said, gripping tighter to the whisky glass, “Do you believe in vampires?”

~-o0O0o-~

Andy Crawford looked at his watch and grimaced. Half past four in the morning, and no sign of relief.

He’d already counted the visible gravestones twice, and the only movement he’d seen all night had been the injured woman.

Even that had brought little respite. He’d just taken enough time to get her inside and to phone for a doctor, and then he’d been back out here in the cold while they were snug inside the house.

He sometimes wondered what had made him become a policeman in the first place. It certainly hadn’t been out of vocation. The long nights and shift patterns meant that he had little chance of a normal social life...not that any of the local women would be seen dead with a copper anyway.

When he’d joined up he was thinking of the early retirement and the pension, but that seemed far away...too many nights like this between now and then.

The night was quiet this far from the center of town and there was only the quiet rustle of the breeze in the trees.

“Bloody Collins,” he muttered to himself, “Leaving a man out here for hours.”

His radio crackled at his chest, but when he lifted it to his mouth it was quiet once more.

“407 Crawford here,” he said, and waited for a reply, but there was only static.

“Bloody Johnson. Probably jerking off in the lavvy.”

“407 Crawford here. Come on Gus, talk to me.”

But there was still no reply.

They’d probably all be in the station, swigging coffee and having a good laugh at his expense. Well he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of being worried by it.

He paced backward and forward, trying to get some feeling into his toes, cursing under his breath, so his back was to the slim figure that slipped out from the trees like a ghost.

He only caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye and didn’t have time to turn fully before something jumped on his back and thin legs were wrapped around his waist.

His hair was pulled hard, bringing his head up and back and there was a sudden jab of pain as teeth pierced his neck.

He rammed his body backwards, catching his attacker between himself and the stone wall of the church, the jar of impact driving most of the air from his lungs but failing to dislodge whoever was clutching him.

He bent almost double and rolled forward, until he toppled in a forward roll, and he smiled as he brought a small shriek from his attacker and felt the limbs that were gripping him loosen and fall away.

Blood was welling from the wound at his back and he felt it pooling at his stiff collar. He put a hand to his back and it came away dark and wet.

“You bastard,” he said, and turned to his attacker.

She was small, less than ten years old, and her nightgown was ripped and torn in a dozen places. Long blonde hair hung in a tangle over her left shoulder and large blue eyes stared up at him from beneath an uneven fringe. She hooked a finger at one side of her mouth and tugged at her lips, looking ready to burst into tears at the slightest provocation.

“Oh shit,” Crawford muttered to himself. His mind was reeling with visions of being charged with assault on a child.

“Are you my daddy?” the girl asked. It sounded like there was something wrong with her throat...her voice coming harsh and strained...but there was no missing the loss and pain in her tone.

“No darling,” Crawford said, and bent down to be at the same level as the girl. “But I’m sure I can find him for you. Come here,” he said, opening his arms and gesturing her forward.

She shook her head.

“Don’t want to,” she said. “I’m having fun with my new friends.”

Now Crawford was thinking about child abuse, and possibly catching the perpetrator.

“And what friends are these then?” he asked, just as he noticed her gaze slip over his left shoulder.

“Friends like me,” she said, and giggled.

Crawford didn’t have time to react. He barely had time to turn. They were standing around him in a rough semi-circle.

They were all wearing nightclothes, apart from two that were completely naked. And they were getting closer.

They didn’t even give him time to scream.

~-o0O0o-~

The head of the serpent swelled and grew, six, eight then ten feet across, its fangs great swords of razor sharp steel, its eyes like twin pools of fire.

The floor shifted under Brian’s feet as the coils unfurled and the length of the wyrm rose up from the mosaic, its scales shining in a myriad of rainbow colors.

A red tongue protruded from between the teeth, and kept coming, its forked end flicking at the air as if tasting for prey.

My Master is here
, the voice in his head said.
Kneel before the great one.

But Brian could only stand and stare, transfixed by those eyes.

“Kneel,” the voice hissed in his ears, and he felt the warm vibration begin in the air around him. The voice deep inside him was stronger still, advocating flight, reminding him of what it was to fear.

“No,” he shouted, and began to back away from the serpent.

“Kneel,” the creature said, more insistent this time, and was answered by a voice in the doorway.

“Not this one Shoa. This one resists you, the same way that I did.”

A black clad figure walked into the room. He was tall, over six feet, with a mane of jet-black hair that reached down almost six inches past his collar. His eyes looked black in the moonlight and his step was confident and assured as he strode into the center of the mosaic, ignoring the serpent that lay in coils all around him.

“Donald Allan?” the white vampire said. “I should have given you the final death when I had the chance.”

The newcomer didn’t reply, but raised a hand, and where his fingers passed a burning flame appeared, upwards, then downwards and through a series of fast passes until a complicated pentagram of fire burned in the air above the serpent’s head. He made a final flourish and the pentagram exploded in gold brilliance. Brian blinked, and when he looked again, he was alone in the room with the stranger.

He had expected the unnatural brilliance to be gone along with the serpent, but he could still see every tile in the mosaic that now lay inert on the floor, and blue ice still had hold of his veins.

The stranger turned towards him, and Brian saw that his eyes were not black...they were deep blue, almost purple, and their gaze seemed to pierce him.

“You have a choice,” the stranger said. “You can follow Shoa, who even now is looking for a place to sleep, or you can come with me. I can’t promise you anything, but you will have your own free will...and I might be able to shed some light on what happened to you tonight.”

Brian tried to speak, but it was as if his throat muscles had become one, tight cord. Instead he put out a hand and grasped the stranger by the upper arm. He looked deep into the stranger’s eyes and nodded, just once.

“Good. Come on then. We need to get out of here...Shoa is stronger than I thought he would be, and I’m not best prepared.”

Brian was once more led by the hand, out of the room and out into the grounds of the house.

The noise was so loud that Brian fell to his knees, his hands covering his ears trying to blot out the sound.

Every tree sang, a chorus of bass chords that drummed loud in the night counterpointed by the high tenor of the grass on the verges and the sweet soprano fluting from the flowers and shrubs in the borders. The whole night seemed alive in sound, like several orchestras all playing at once, all performing different concertos.

The stranger was still standing over him, and when Brian looked up he saw that the man was smiling down at him.