by Brian Lumley
But now? Now she knew what it was to be “fulfilled.” Indeed, she knew that if Yulian willed it he could fill her to bursting—literally!
A chuckle rose in his throat, formed on his lips like a bubble of bile. Oh, yes, for the Other wasn’t the only one who could put out pseudopod extensions of himself! Yulian held back the laughter he felt welling inside, reached out a hand and with a deceptive gentleness stroked Helen’s cool, rounded flank.
Even deeply asleep and dreaming the dreams of the damned, still she shuddered under the touch of his hand. Gooseflesh appeared and her breathing rapidly mounted to a moaning pant. She whined in her hypnotic sleep like a thin wind through a cracked board. Her hypnotic sleep, yes. The power of hypnotism, and that of telepathy which was its kin.
Nowhere in literature—except for the occasional hint in some of the better fictions—had Yulian discovered mention of the vampire’s control of others by will and the reading of minds at a distance; and yet this, too, was one of his powers. It was very inchoate as yet, as were all his talents, but it was also very real. Once touched by Yulian, once invaded by him physically, then his victim was an open book to him, even at a distance. Even now, if he reached out his mind in a certain way … there! Those were the dull, vacuous “thoughts” of the Other. No, not even that: he had merely touched upon the Other’s instinctive sense of being, a sort of basic animal awareness. The Other was aware of himself—itself?—in much the same way as an amoeba is aware; and because it had been part of him, Yulian could sense that awareness.
Now that he had taken or used Helen, Anne, George and Georgina, why, he could sense all of them! He let his exterior thoughts leave the Other and wander, and … and there was Anne, asleep in some cold, damp corner down there in the dark. And there, too, was George. Except that George was not asleep.
George. Yulian knew he would soon have to do something about George. He wasn’t behaving as he should. There was an obstinacy in him. Oh, he’d been completely under Yulian’s control in the beginning, just like the women. But just recently …
Yulian focused on George’s mind, wormed his way silently into his thoughts and—a pit of black hatred shot with flashes of red rage! Lust, too--a bestial lust Yulian could scarce believe--and not only for blood but also … revenge?
Frowning, Yulian withdrew his mind before George could sense him. Obviously he would have to deal with his uncle sooner than he’d thought. He had already decided to make use of him—knew how he would use him—but now he must set a definite date on it. Like tomorrow. He left the unsuspecting undead creature raging and prowling the cellars, and—
What was that?
Hair prickling at the nape of his neck, Yulian swung his legs down to the floor and stood up. It hadn’t been one of the women, and he’d only just left George, so who had it been? Someone close by was thinking thoughts about Harkley House, thoughts about Yulian himself! He went to the curtains, opened them six inches, stared anxiously out at the night.
Out there, the estate. The old derelict buildings, gravel path, shrubbery and copse; the high perimeter wall and gate; the road beyond the gate, a ribbon of light under the moon, and beyond that a tall hedge. Yulian wrinkled his nose, sniffed suspiciously like a dog at a stranger. Oh, yes, a stranger—there! In the hedgerow, that glint of moonlight on glass, the dull red glow off a cigarette’s tip. Someone in the shadow of the hedge, watching Harkley. Watching Yulian!
Now, knowing where to aim, he redirected his thoughts—and met the mind of the stranger! But only for a moment, the merest instant of time. Then mental shutters came down like the jaws of a steel trap. The glint of spectacles or binoculars disappeared, the cigarette’s glow was extinguished, and the man himself, the merest shadow, was gone.
Vlad! Yulian commanded instinctively. Go, find him. Whoever he is, bring him to me!
And down in the brambles and undergrowth near the door to the vaults, where he lay half asleep, Vlad at once came alert, turned his sensitive ears towards the drive and the gate, sprang up and set off at a loping run. Deep in his throat, a growl not quite a dog’s growl rumbled like dull thunder.
Darcy Clarke was doing the late shift on the Harkley place. He was a psychic sensitive with a high degree of telepathic potential. Also, he was big on self-preservation. A freakish automatic talent, over which he had no conscious control, was always on guard to keep him “safe”; he was the opposite of accident prone and led a “charmed” life. Which on this occasion was just as well.
Clarke was young, only twenty-five, but what he lacked in years he more than made up for in zeal. He would have made a perfect soldier, for his duty was his all. It was that duty which had kept him here in the vicinity of Harkley House from 5:00 till 11:00 P.M. And it was exactly on the dot of 11:00 P.M. that he saw the crack of the curtains widen a little in one of Harkley’s dormer windows.
That in itself was nothing. There were five people in that house and God-knows-what else, and no reason at all why it shouldn’t show signs of life. With a grimace, Clarke quickly corrected himself: sign of undeath? Fully briefed, he knew that Harkley’s inhabitants were something other than they seemed. But as he adjusted his nite-lite binoculars on the window, suddenly there was something else, a realization that struck at Clarke like a bolt of lightning.
He had known, of course, that someone in there, probably the youth, was psychically endowed. That had been obvious for the last four days, ever since Clarke and the others first clapped eyes on the place. To any half-talented sensitive the old house would reek of strangeness. And not just strangeness, evil! Tonight, as darkness fell, Clarke had sensed it growing stronger, the wash of dark emanations flowing from the house right past him, without touching, but as that dark figure had come into view behind the crack in the curtains, and as he’d focussed his binoculars upon it—
—Something had been there in his head, touching on his mind. A talent at least as strong as his own, probing his thoughts! But it wasn’t the talent that surprised him—that was a game he’d played before with his colleagues at INTESP, where they’d practiced constantly to break in on each other’s thoughts—it was the sheer unbridled animal animosity that caused him to gasp, draw back a little, slam the doors on his ESP-endowed consciousness. The gurgling black whirlpool bog of the invading mind.
And because he had set up defences, so he failed to detect any hint of the physical threat, the orders Yulian had issued to his black Alsatian. He had failed, but his primary talent—the one no one as yet understood—was not failing him. It was 11:00 P.M. and his instructions were quite clear: he’d go back now to the temporary surveillance HQ at a hotel in Paignton and make his report. The watch on the house would begin again at 6:00 A.M. tomorrow, when a colleague of Clark’s would take it up. He tossed his cigarette down, ground it out under his heel, pocketed his nite-lites.
Clarke’s car was parked in a layby where the hedge and fence were cut back twenty-five yards down the road. He was on the field side of the hedge. He put his hand on the top bar preparatory to climbing over to the road, then thought better of it. Though he didn’t know it, that was his hidden talent coming into play. Instead of climbing the fence, he hurried through the long grass at the edge of the field towards his car. The grass was wet where it whipped his trousers, but he ignored it. It saved time this way and he was in a hurry now, eager to be away from the place. Only natural, he supposed, considering what he’d just learned. And he hardly gave it a thought that by the time he got to his car he was almost running.
But it was then, as he fumbled the key into the lock and turned it, that he heard something else running: the faint scuff of padded feet slapping the road, the scrabble of claws as something heavy jumped the fence back there where he’d been standing. Then he was into the car, slamming the door behind him, eyes wide and heart thumping as he gazed back into the night.
And two seconds later Vlad hit the car!
He hit so hard, with forepaws, shoulder and head, that the glass of the window in Clarke’s doo
r was starred into a cobweb pattern. The impart had sounded like a hammer blow, and Clarke knew that one more charge like that would shatter the glass to fragments and leave him totally unprotected. But he’d seen who, or what, his assailant was, and he had no intention of sitting here immobile and just waiting for it to happen.
Clarke turned the key in the ignition, revved, reversed a skidding three feet to bring the bonnet free of overhanging branches. Vlad’s second spring, aimed again at Clarke’s window, sent the dog sprawling on the bonnet directly in front of the windscreen. And now the young esper saw just how fortunate his escape had been. Out in the open—there was little he could have done against that!
Vlad’s face was a savage black mask of hatred, a contorted, snarling, saliva-flecked visage of madness! Yellow eyes spotted with crimson pupils glared through the glass at Clarke with such a burning intensity that he almost fancied he could feel their heat. Then he was into first gear and skidding out on to the road.
As the car jerked and slewed forward, so the dog’s feet were jolted from under him. He crashed over on to his side on the bonnet and was sent sprawling into the darkness of the hedgerow as Clarke straightened the car up and sent it careening along the road. In his rearview mirror, he saw the dog emerge from the hedge and shake itself, glaring after the speeding car. Then Clarke was round a bend and Vlad lost to sight.
That wasn’t something he felt sorry about. Indeed, he was still shaking when he switched off the car’s engine in the hotel car park in Paignton. Following which … he flopped back in his seat and wearily lit a cigarette, which he smoked right down to the cork tip before securing the car and going in to make his report …
Frankie’s Franchise was wall to wall sleazy. It was a place for habitual wharf-rats, prostitutes and their pimps, pushers and Genoese low-life in general. And it was noisy. An old American juke-box, back in fashion, was blasting Little Richard’s raw “Tutti Frutti” across the main room like a gale force wind. There was no smallest corner of the place that escaped the music’s blast, but in any one of the half-dozen arched alcoves you could at least hear yourself think. That was why Frankie’s was so ideally suitable: you couldn’t concentrate enough to hear anyone else think.
Alec Kyle and Carl Quint, Felix Krakovitch and Sergei Gulharov, sat at a small square table with their backs to the protective alcove walls. East and West faced each other across their drinks. Curiously, on one side Kyle and Quint drank vodka, and on the other Krakovitch and Gulharov sipped American beers.
Identifying each other had been the easiest thing in the world: in Frankie’s Franchise, no one else fitted the prescribed picture at all. But personal appearance wasn’t the only yardstick; for of course, even in the hubbub, the three sensitives were able to detect each other’s psychic auras. They had made their acknowledgement with nods of their heads, picked their way with their drinks from the bar to an empty alcove. Certain of the club’s regulars had given them curious glances: the hard men a little wary, narrow-eyed, the prostitutes speculative. They had not returned them.
Seated for a few moments, finally Krakovitch had opened the discussion. “I don’t suppose you speaking my language,” he said, his voice heavily but not unpleasantly accented, “but I speaking yours. But badly. This my friend Sergei.” He tipped his head sideways a little to indicate his companion. “He know a little, very little, English. He not have ESP.”
Kyle and Quint glanced obediently at Gulharov. What they saw was a moderately handsome young man with close-cropped blond hair, grey eyes, hard-looking hands where they lay loosely crossed on the table, enclosing his drink. He seemed uneasy in his modern Western clothes, which weren’t quite the right fit.
“That’s true enough,” Quint narrowed his eyes, turning back to Krakovitch. “He’s not skilled that way, but I’m sure he has many other worthwhile talents,” Krakovitch smiled thinly and nodded. He seemed a little sour.
Kyle had been studying Krakovitch, committing him to memory. The Russian head of ESPionage was in his late thirties. He had thinning black hair, piercing green eyes and an almost gaunt, hollow face. He was of medium height, slimly built. A skinned rabbit, thought Kyle. But his thin, pale lips were firm, and the high dome of his head spoke of a rare intelligence.
Krakovitch’s impression of Kyle was much the same: a man just a few years younger than himself, intelligent, talented. It was only the physical side of Kyle that was different, which hardly mattered. Kyle’s hair was brown and plentiful, naturally wavy. He was well fleshed, even a little overweight, but with his height that scarcely showed. His eyes were brown as his hair, his teeth even and white in a too-wide mouth that sloped a little from left to right. In another face that might well be mistaken for cynicism, but not in Kyle, Krakovitch thought.
Quint, on the other hand, was more aggressive, but he probably had superb self-control. He would reach conclusions quickly, right or wrong. And he would probably act on them. He would act, and hope he’d done the right thing. But he wouldn’t feel guilty if it turned out wrong. Also, there wasn’t much emotion in Quint. All of this showed in his face, his figure, and Krakovitch prided himself on reading character. Quint was lithe, built like a cat. In no way massive, but he had that coiled spring look about him. Not nervous tension, just a natural ability to think and act fast. He had eyes of disarming blue that took in everything, a thin, even nose, and a forehead creased from frowning. He too was in his mid-thirties, thin on top, dark featured. And he had a talent. Krakovitch could tell that Quint was extremely ESP-sensitive. He was a spotter.
“Oh, Sergei Gulharov has been trained—” Krakovitch finally answered, “—as my bodyguard. But not in your arts, or mine. He has not got that kind of mind. Indeed, of the four of us, I could argue that he is the only ‘normal’ man present. Which is unfortunate,”—now he stared accusingly at Kyle—“for you and I were supposed to meet as equals, without, er, backup?”
At that moment the music went quiet, the rock’n’roll replaced by an Italian ballad.
“Krakovitch,” said Kyle, hard-eyed now and keeping his voice low, “we’d better be straight on this. You’re right, our deal was that the two of us should meet. We could each bring along a second. But no telepaths. What we have to say to each other we’ll just say, without someone picking our thoughts. Quint isn’t a telepath; he’s a spotter, that’s all. So we weren’t cheating. And as far as your man here—er, Gulharov?—is concerned: Quint says he’s clean, so you aren’t cheating either. Or you wouldn’t appear to be—but your third man is something else!”
“My third man?” Krakovitch sat up straight, seemed genuinely surprised. “I have no—”
“But you do,” Quint cut in. “KGB. We’ve seen him. In fact, he’s here in Frankie’s Franchise right now.
That was news to Kyle. He looked at Quint. “You’re certain?”
Quint nodded. “Don’t look now, but he’s sitting in the corner over there with a Genoese whore. He’s changed his clothes, too, and looks like he’s just off a ship. Not a bad cover—but I recognized him the moment we walked in here.”
Out of the corner of his eye Krakovitch looked, then slowly shook his head. “I do not know him,” he said. “Not to be surprised. I do not know any of them. I dislike—strongly! But … you are sure? How can you be so sure?”
Kyle would have been caught on the hop, but not Quint. “We run the same sort of branch as the one you run, Comrade,” he stated flatly. “Except we have the edge on you. We’re better at it. He’s KGB, all right.”
Krakovitch’s fury was obvious. Not against Quint but the position in which he now found himself. “Intolerable!” he snapped. “Why, the Party Leader himself has given me his—” He half looked up, half turned towards the man indicated, a thick-set barrel of a man in rough and ready suit and open-necked shirt. His neck must be at least as thick as Krakovitch’s thigh! Fortunately he was looking the other way, talking to the prostitute.
Before Krakovitch could carry it any further, Kyle said, “I belie
ve you—that you don’t know him. It was done behind your back. So sit down, act naturally. Anyway, it’s obvious we can’t talk here. Apart from the fact that we”re being watched, it’s too damned noisy. And Christ, for all we know there might even be someone listening in on us!”
Krakovitch abruptly sat down. He looked startled, glanced nervously about. “Bugged?” He remembered how his old boss, Borowitz, had had a thing about electronic surveillance.
“We could be.” Quint gave a sharp nod. “This one either followed you here or he knew in advance where we were going to meet.”
Krakovitch gave a snort. “This getting out of hand. I no good at this. What now?”
Kyle looked at Krakovitch and knew he wasn’t faking it. He grinned. “I’m no good at it either. Listen, I’m like you, Felix. I prognosticate. I don’t know your word for it. I, er, foretell the future? I occasionally get fairly accurate pictures of how things are going to be. Do you understand?”
“Of course,” said Krakovitch. “My talent almost exactly. Except I usually get warnings. So?”
“So I saw us getting along OK together. How about you?”
Krakovitch heaved a sigh of relief. “I also,” he shrugged. “At least, no bad warnings.” Time was running out for the Russian and there were things he desperately needed to know, questions he must have answered. This Englishman might be the only one who could answer them. “So what we do about it?”
Quint said, “Wait.” He got up, crossed to the bar, ordered fresh drinks. He also spoke to the bartender. Then he came back with drinks on a tray. “When we get the nod from the bloke behind the bar we pile out of here fast,” he said.
“Eh?” Kyle was puzzled.
“Taxi,” said Quint, smiling tightly. “I’ve ordered one. We’ll go to … the airport! Why not? On the way we can talk. At the airport we find a warm, comfortable place in the arrivals lounge and carry on talking. Even if our pal over there manages to follow us he won’t dare get too close. And if he does show up we’ll take a taxi somewhere else.”