Ravenfall

by Narrelle M. Harris

  Or drained them, James thought, thinking bitterly of the men’s more likely fate.

  ‘Why’re you asking, anyway?’

  ‘I thought I saw him the other week,’ said James, ‘And I thought if I wasn’t seeing things, he might have been around London for a while.’

  ‘I suppose if anyone could have crawled out of that firefight and buggered off without a trace, it’d be West. I wouldn’t put it past him to be AWOL either. If I see him again, Jim, I’ll give you a buzz. How’ve you been, any rate? Feeling… better?’

  It was, James reflected, a kind way to ask whether he was still stark raving bonkers.

  ‘Still mildly loony, but doing well, thanks. Working part time as a GP in the East End. Mostly head colds, liver complaints and hypochondriacs. Nice and quiet with no loud noises. You?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Rehab’s going well. I’m learning to type left- handed and I’m being fitted for my prosthetics on Friday. I’m trying to convince the doc to give me a peg-leg, a hook and a parrot, but you know army services. “If you wanted to be a pirate, you should have got yourself blown up in the navy”.’

  ‘No imagination, those army types,’ agreed James.

  ‘Sad but true. Hey, when I’ve got my running legs back on, how about a curry and a pint?’

  ‘That’d be good, aye,’ said James. He hated the idea of trying to pretend to be anything like normal, but he hated the idea of Sunil thinking he was being abandoned.

  ‘Jim.’

  ‘Aye, Sunil?’

  ‘I know what it’s like. How lonely it is. Nobody gets it if they haven’t been there.’

  ‘I’m all right, Sunil. I’ve got friends.’

  ‘Name three.’

  ‘Sunil.’

  ‘Nobody’s heard from you in over a year. We’ve been worried, Jim.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You seeing a therapist?’

  ‘Sunil, I said I’m fine.’

  ‘Sorry. Sorry, but maybe you heard. We lost Adrian last week. Hanged himself.’

  James hadn’t heard. ‘Gabriel,’ he blurted.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can name one friend. Gabriel. He’s an artist. Has a bit of history. He understands more than most.’

  ‘Hey. That’s good. I’m glad.’

  ‘Aye. Me too. So. Maybe. Coffee. When you’ve got your running legs back on.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘We’ll talk.’

  James emerged from his bedroom, where he’d made the call, to find Gabriel in the kitchen with a tub of pig’s blood, picked up that morning from the Italian butcher.

  ‘I don’t know how often you need this,’ Gabriel said, reaching into the cupboard for a ceramic cup. ‘But I thought you’d want something before we go looking for Hannah again.’ He raised an eyebrow at James, who was staring at the cup as though it was loaded. ‘What? Oh. Do I need to microwave it?’

  James’s expression was somewhere between shame and horror. ‘You don’t have to…’ He petered out.

  ‘I don’t have to what?’

  ‘Do that. Be here. For… that.’

  Gabriel peered at him, at the container of animal blood and the cup, and then back at James.

  ‘You know, I’ve seen grosser things than a tub full of blood.’

  ‘Have you seen grosser things than someone drinking it?’

  ‘Pretty sure I have.’

  ‘You act like this is fine and normal.’

  ‘You act like I give a toss that it isn’t.’

  Silence filled the space as they stared at each other.

  ‘So. How long in the microwave?’ Gabriel asked.

  ‘Ten seconds is fine,’ said James. ‘Takes the chill off.’

  ‘Right.’ Gabriel decanted the blood into the coffee cup and put it in the microwave. They stood side by side and watched the cup circle around and around while the seconds counted down. The oven pinged. Gabriel retrieved the cup and handed it to James.

  James stared at Gabriel. At the warm, thick liquid in the cup. Back at Gabriel. Down again. He sipped the blood. It smelled, as always, odd but compelling. He sipped it. Took another sip. Licked his lip to remove the smear of blood left there. He felt Gabriel looking at him expectantly.

  ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Good. Just right. Thanks.’

  Then he met Gabriel’s gaze, his single upraised eyebrow, and they both started to giggle at the incongruity of it all.

  ‘Well, what am I supposed to say?’ demanded James.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Gabriel, reaching for the tea he’d left brewing. ‘I’m pretty sure Debrett’s doesn’t have a chapter covering small talk over a cup of warm blood.’

  ‘A shocking oversight.’

  ‘I’ll write them a strongly worded letter about this awkward social situation as soon as I get a moment.’

  The tension broken, they sat on opposite sides of their table to drink their beverages.

  ‘This is easier,’ said James. ‘Doing this out here. Not having to wait till you’re asleep or out.’

  ‘Good. And by the way, I have.’

  ‘Have what?’

  ‘Seen much grosser things than you drinking a mug of blood.’

  James wished that Gabriel wouldn’t keep being so blunt about it, and then decided he was glad for the bluntness. Euphemisms wouldn’t change what he was, or what he did. Gabriel was meeting that head on. It was, he hoped, a healthy sign.

  ‘No details while I’m drinking,’ he said.

  ‘You’re squeamish? That must be a handicap.’

  ‘You have no idea,’ James deadpanned back at him.

  ‘Let’s talk about Hannah, and this Blakely party.’

  The Halloween party at Lord Blakely’s Kings Worthy property was five days away, which gave them very little time for learning the lay of the land and making plans for getting in, finding West and working out how to make him tell them what he was up to. Other preparations would have to be made as well, to ensure they had some kind of defence if necessary. They divided tasks for that venture between them, washed their cups and headed out to see if there was news on Hannah.

  They found Switchblade Roy hanging about the Queen’s Road off-licence a few roads from the clinic.

  ‘Wotcher, Doc,’ he greeted them. ‘Gabe.’

  ‘Hey, Roy,’ Gabriel replied, tossing the man an unopened packet of Jaffa Cakes. Switchblade Roy caught them with a brief fumble and clutched them to his chest.

  ‘Ta, Gabe. Them’s me favourite. Easy on the teeth an’ all. Though Pink Wafers is good too.’

  ‘Wafers next time,’ Gabriel promised.

  ‘An’ maybe them Bourbons? They were me gran’s favourite.’

  ‘Sure,’ agreed Gabriel readily, still not asking what they had come to ask.

  ‘I heard news about Hannah,’ Switchblade offered at last. ‘Fat Betsy, what knows her from around the dosshouse on Curzon Street, she says Hannah come in, grabbed a hat from lost and found and lit out of town. Reckons she had a niece down Bournemouth she was gonna see.’

  ‘Did Betsy say why?’

  ‘She said Hannah had the wind up pretty bad. Saw something nasty under the Chelsea Bridge, and said she wasn’t waiting around for the same thing to happen to her, so she took off.’

  So that, for the moment, was that. Gabriel pressed a folded five pound note into Switchblade’s fist and thanked him. ‘See you next week with the Wafers,’ he said.

  ‘And the Bourbons.’

  ‘And the Bourbons.’

  ‘Right you are. Wotcher, Doc, see ya at the clinic sometime.’

  James and Gabriel watched Switchblade Roy leave, cheerfully chewing on a stuffed mouthful of Jaffa Cakes. James thought a vegetable or two might have been a better offering, but Roy’s teeth were in terrible shape. A stick of celery might break another one.

  ‘Think Hannah’s clear of it?’ he asked.

  ‘I hope so. Depends on wh
ether her niece exists, and if she’ll help. It’s bloody cold in Bournemouth in October if she has to stay on the streets, and she won’t know the local safe places. I mean, relatively safe places.’ Gabriel shook his head. ‘Safer than here, anyway.’

  ‘Right. Okay. Let’s get to work on the other stuff, then.’

  Other stuff included ongoing experiments with James’s biology. Besides the experiments on his blood, James became curious about his body’s capacity to heal quickly. Gabriel was both horrified and fascinated when James cut a stripe into his arm with a steel knife, only to have the wound knit up before their eyes. He cut a second, deeper wound, and it healed as quickly.

  ‘No more of that,’ said Gabriel gruffly, putting his hand over the newly unblemished skin.

  ‘It stings, but not much,’ James said, gently. ‘It heals right up.’

  ‘No,’ said Gabriel, bothered more than he could say. ‘Please. I don’t like to see you doing that.’ He swallowed. ‘It’s like what happened to Grimshaw.’

  James pushed the knife away. ‘There, gone. No harm done.’ He knew he wasn’t invulnerable. Grimshaw’s fate made that clear. But it warmed him that it mattered so much to Gabriel.

  On impulse, Gabriel lifted James’s hand so he could drop a kiss on the skin that showed no sign of scar or bleeding.

  James, just as impulsively, lifted a hand to pet Gabriel’s head, to slide his fingers through the locks of Gabriel’s dark, unruly hair.

  The next round of experiments with James’s healing ability began the next day, when Gabriel had warmed up a cup of blood for James and made tea for himself. He jumped up too quickly to answer a phone call from Helene, upsetting the teapot and spilling scalding tea all over his hand. He dashed to the sink, swearing, to plunge his hand under a torrent of cold water, and swore again when James inspected the damage. Gabriel snatched his hand away, hissing with the blooming pain of the burn.

  ‘For God’s sake, Gabriel, hold still. Let me see it. I’m a doctor.’

  Gabriel, wincing, allowed James to inspect his hand. His index finger was blistering, the skin around it red and puffy already. He was not expecting it when James bent to the injured finger and licked it. He licked it a second time, then put it in his mouth. Gabriel stared in astonishment when James swirled his tongue around his finger, wetting it thoroughly with saliva, then withdrew it to lick all around it.

  He gaped at his finger and hand, no longer red; looking perfectly healthy and unharmed. ‘So it doesn’t only work on the bites you make,’ he accused.

  ‘No,’ said James sheepishly.

  ‘It’s magic doctor spit.’

  ‘To be technical, it’s magic vampire spit.’

  ‘So technically, if you kiss me, you really will be kissing it better.’

  James began to laugh. ‘I suppose, technically, yes.’

  Gabriel beamed. ‘Nice.’ He offered his cheek and James, with great ceremony, pressed a soft, lingering kiss to it. Gabriel tilted his head so that his lips met James’s. Their eyes met, warm and delighted, then drew apart, not wanting to push too far.

  Then James reached for Gabriel again, his hand sliding around Gabriel’s waist. They touched these days: they could hug, and he liked that. He had missed that, and he’d missed this, the warmth of kissing another person. He liked kissing Gabriel. He liked how he felt, as though he were alive again, still human, still capable of loving and being loved.

  He stretched up and pressed his mouth softly again to Gabriel’s, holding to his waist gently, giving Gabriel every chance to draw away. Instead, Gabriel wrapped his arms around James and returned the kiss, softly, too, at first, then harder, more demanding.

  James lifted his free hand to Gabriel’s jaw, rubbed his thumb along the line of it, loving the texture of stubble on his fingertips. His fingers continued along to his hairline, and James’s hypersensitive skin felt every strand of Gabriel’s dark hair that bore the splendid scent of oil paints, Gabriel’s lemon-scented shampoo, and his own clean maleness.

  Gabriel made a low, sweet sound and tentatively brushed the tip of his tongue along the inside of James’s lip. James sighed low himself as he deepened the kiss, wanting no breath in him but Gabriel’s. Gabriel didn’t shy from him, but kissed him more deeply still.

  As Gabriel’s heartbeat quickened, as he became warm and pliant with the kiss, James treasured the willing surrender. Trust and need tasted like this. Like belonging.

  When the kiss finally ended they stayed in each other’s arms.

  ‘See?’ said Gabriel languidly. ‘All better.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Towards the very end of James’s clinic shift the next day, the staff and patients heard the sirens. Someone came in with the word. Something terrible had happened at the Donal house, three streets away; his dodgy business interests coming home to roost in the most dreadful way. Even the kids, was the horrified, salacious whisper.

  James wondered if this latest tragedy related to Cael West’s vicious doings. He detoured by the Donal’s street on his way home. There was crime scene tape, cars with flashing lights and both uniformed and plainclothes cops all over the place. James listened and inhaled deeply, but no scent of West greeted him – only blood masking the usual suburban smells. The conversations he heard didn’t indicate anything strange.

  But he could hear a grown woman crying.

  Concerned, James followed the sound to a narrow service alley half a block away from the Donal house, beyond the cordoned crime scene.

  He knew Sergeant Tavisa Datta by her scent before he saw it was her. He was tempted to walk on by, but whatever else he was, and however angry she made him, he was still a doctor, and she was a person in distress.

  James stepped down the service alley.

  Datta was hunched against the wall, hands clutched in her hair, hiding her face. Every now and then, she emitted a sharp sob. She was clearly trying her hardest not to cry and failing terribly.

  She glared up at him. ‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice shook.

  ‘Walking home. I live a few streets that way, remember?’

  She pressed her forehead against her knees. James could hear her teeth chattering.

  ‘Sergeant Datta–’

  ‘Four dead,’ she said in a voice that was almost a moan. ‘Mother. Father. Son. Daughter. Mum, Dad and the boy have their throats slashed. The son will be in the front hall. He tried to run. He was only 12. The father will be in the back garden. There’ll be fourteen stab wounds. The killer really, really hated him.’

  Her next breath juddered in; hissed out. ‘The mother will be upstairs in the daughter’s bedroom. The blood will have soaked into the duvet. A Wonder Woman duvet. It’s pooling on the floor against the doll’s house. A big plush teddy bear is soaking it up. So much blood, Doctor Sharpe. The smell of it. The smell of it.’

  James knew exactly what she meant.

  ‘I don’t want to do this anymore,’ she said, and wept.

  ‘Sergeant?’

  ‘I haven’t been to the scene yet. But I know what’s there.’

  Many years ago, James Sharpe would have assumed fatigue or drugs or psychosis. That was before Afghanistan and Cael West, and waking up dead.

  He wondered which kind of monster Tavisa Datta would turn out to be, and why he’d never noticed before.

  ‘I dream things,’ she said. ‘And they come true.’

  Oh. That kind of monster.

  ‘You don’t make them happen,’ he said, as kindly as he could.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘How could you possibly cause them with a dream?’

  ‘I couldn’t,’ she decided. ‘But I can’t stop it either. I don’t know why I see these things if I can’t stop them.’

  ‘Things don’t always make sense. They’re not always for a reason.’

  ‘That. Doesn’t. Help.’

  ‘I know.’

  She glared at him with as much fear as f
erocity. ‘He’s going to hurt you, Doctor Sharpe. Kill you. Gabriel Dare.’

  ‘No he won’t.’

  ‘It’s what I see. When I see you, all I see is a dead man. Which is horrible, I know. I’m sorry. But you look dead to me. I can’t see what you look like alive any more. Too pale. Like you don’t breathe. Just a trick of the brain. This crazy brain.’ She tapped her temple with her forefinger and tried to pretend it was a joke, but she was crumbling to pieces instead.

  James wondered what the hell he was supposed to say next, but Datta hadn’t finished. The anger rose up over her fear.

  ‘I keep telling you. Gabriel Dare will kill you one day. I saw it.’

  ‘What did you see? Him killing me? My body?’

  ‘Yes. No. Yes. I don’t know. But your body is there. There’s a body, covered in blood, and you’re next to it, not a mark on you. Sitting there. Not breathing. Pale as death. No pulse. You’re next to the body Gabriel Dare killed and you’re dead, with a look on your face like you’ve been betrayed, or like your best friend died, because you know. You know. He’s going to be the death of you. Get out while you can. Please. Please.’ The rage was gone again, leaving only the despair. ‘I know I’m a freak, I know it, but I’ve seen this. I dreamed that body two years ago and I know Gabriel has something to do with it. I’ve never trusted him. He’s going to become a killer. When I saw you with him, I realised you were the one I’d dreamed of. And now when I have that dream, I know what’s coming and I can’t…I can’t stop it.’

  James remained steady in the face of her certainty. After all, he was the one who knew he was already dead. ‘I believe you, all right? I believe you see what you see.’

  She gave him a sceptical look.

  ‘I’ve seen a lot of the world, Sergeant Datta,’ said James. ‘I’ve seen a lot of strange things that can’t be explained by science.’ Done a few by now, too. ‘One bloke I served with in Afghanistan dreamed things exactly three days before any IED incident. So I believe you when you say you’re having precognitive dreams. But it’s a dream, open to interpretation. You’re not interpreting it correctly. You can’t be. Gabriel won’t kill me. He can’t kill me.’