The Colour of Death

by Elizabeth Davies

  ‘No, thanks. Take it away. Please.’

  He stared at her curiously. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you,’ he told her gently. ‘I was checking if you were all right. You are, aren’t you?’

  She slumped back against the pillows. ‘Just tired. Really, really tired.’ Her eyelids closed and her expression slackened.

  Deciding to leave her be, and not to try to coax her to lie down completely, he went to pull up the duvet once more.

  Something caught his attention.

  A mark on her arm, slightly raised and red. Nothing much, nothing to be concerned about.

  Except for one small thing. A curiosity, nothing more.

  It was in the faint shape of a cross.

  Chapter 31

  Olivia

  ‘We make a right pair, don’t we?’ I said. I’d come downstairs to find Crow making coffee. He didn’t look much better than I’d done when I’d foolishly glanced in the bathroom mirror a few minutes ago. ‘Did you stay here all night?’ I wasn’t happy about it, but it was done now.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I, um, had this dream that you er... burnt my arm with something in the middle of the night.’ I hadn’t been sure if it was a dream or not; the way my head had been these past couple of days, I wasn’t sure what was true and what wasn’t. I’d checked – no mark.

  Crow’s aura was still deep, dark red with black swirling through it like oil in water. It wasn’t terribly pleasant to look at. I stared at the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you,’ I added, when he didn’t answer, holding a mug out to me instead. ‘Thanks.’ I took the coffee, although I would have preferred tea.

  ‘Show me your arm.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Where I burnt it.’

  ‘There’s nothing there.’ I showed him anyway. ‘See, you didn’t really hurt me.’ The cigarette scars were on the other arm and much higher up. I’m glad – I couldn’t face explaining them and seeing his pity.

  ‘I did come into your room, though. You didn’t dream that part.’

  ‘Oh.’ Creepy. ‘Why?’

  ‘To check on you. Omelette?’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘When was the last time you ate?’

  I shrugged, remembering the half-eaten Chinese with a shudder. Who’d eaten that? Had I? Or had Rochdale felt a bit peckish after he’d practically seduced me? And why couldn’t I remember everything?

  I decided to have a shower, hoping Crow would have taken the hint and left by the time I came back downstairs.

  The strange bites were healing nicely and there was no mark on my arm. If only I could persuade my head to behave itself, I’d be back to normal. I longed for my life to return to where it had been before Oxford, Rochdale, and Crow. Crow’s problems weren’t my problems, and although I did feel sorry for him, Meadow was nothing to do with me.

  Rochdale is.

  I grimaced and told the little voice in my head to pipe down. Rochdale had caught me at a weak moment. I’d been ill. But I was better now; a little tired and shaky perhaps, but nothing that a nice cup of tea wouldn’t cure.

  When I went back downstairs to make myself one, it was to find Crow still in my kitchen, this time with a frying pan in his hand. Couldn’t the man take a hint?

  ‘Eat this.’ He put a plate on the table and gestured for me to sit down.

  Hunger twisted my stomach at the smell of food, so I sat. He placed a glass of orange juice next to the omelette and fetched his own breakfast.

  We ate in silence.

  When I put my fork down, and my plate was practically licked clean, he gathered up the dishes. I’d never felt awkward in my own home before; it was a new experience for me, and one I didn’t particularly care for.

  ‘I’m fine now,’ I said, breaking the silence. ‘Thanks for coming over. You really don’t need to stay.’

  Crow turned to look at me. His face gave nothing away. ‘Rochdale.’

  ‘I’m sure he won’t be back.’

  ‘I'm sure he will, now he’s got his teeth into you.’

  My fingers crept up to the twin bites. I didn’t actually believe Rochdale had bitten me, did I? I know I’d forgotten things lately, like inviting Rochdale into my house, and although I vividly remembered how he’d made me feel and that I’d told him about my ability to see auras, he must have left at some point because I’d gotten on with eating my takeaway, and I couldn’t remember doing that, either.

  An image of a red mouth and blood-daubed teeth imposed itself on my mind.

  No, seriously, I told myself, I’d been bitten by something nasty, like a horsefly, and my fevered imagination had entwined the two events into one. I really don’t know what I’d been thinking of last night, when I’d told Crow that Rochdale had bitten me. No wonder the man wasn’t in a hurry to leave. He must think I’m in danger.

  You are...

  Give it a rest; the whole episode was a combination of actual events, nightmare, hallucination, and a distorted memory brought on by a virus or something.

  Sudden lust shot through me at the memory of Rochdale sucking on my nipple and the exquisite delight of it, the intensity of my orgasm, followed by the disgusting realisation that I wanted Rochdale to do it to me again. But next time I wanted more. All of him. Inside me, filling the emptiness.

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Huh?’ I returned to the present with a start.

  Crow was studying me, concern and curiosity in his eyes. ‘You were miles away for a second.’

  ‘I’m frightened.’ The words were out of my mouth before I’d thought about what I was going to say. I hadn’t meant to utter them, but they were out there, hanging on the air between us, heavy and solid, and oh-so-true.

  I’d never been in love. I’d never been in lust, either. What I felt for Rochdale, the emotions he stirred in me, were nothing like the crushes of my teenage years. I didn’t want to feel like this, I didn’t like it (but you’d like him to fuck you, wouldn’t you? You’d really, really like that) – it wasn’t me. When I thought about Rochdale, which was probably every other minute, it was with an odd mixture of disgust and desire, fear, and overwhelming longing.

  ‘I’m meeting a Catholic priest by the name of Father Andrew Nuffield, and I’d like you to come with me,’ Crow said.

  ‘I don’t do God.’

  He raised an eyebrow. I raised him two and widened my eyes for good measure. ‘Is this where you say, “It doesn’t matter whether you believe in God, because He believes in you?” I asked sourly.

  I really hoped he wasn’t going to try to foist religion on me. I didn’t care what he believed. He could believe the earth was flat and the moon was made of creamed cheese, for all I cared, just as long as he didn’t try to ram his coda down my throat.

  His gaze was steady, non-committal. ‘He knows Meadow.’

  ‘So?’ I didn’t want to meet this man. I didn’t believe in God, Heaven, Hell, or the hereafter. When we die, we die. That’s it, the end. Finito. I envied people who believed otherwise, because it must be such a comfort to them. But I didn’t. I didn’t begrudge them their beliefs or try to change their minds, therefore I didn’t appreciate anyone trying to force their blind faith on me.

  Crow shrugged. His shoulders were huge. Solid slabs of muscle underneath a black T-shirt. I had a vague dream-memory of being carried upstairs, held firmly by those arms, snug up against that wide chest. I ignored it.

  ‘So, I need all the help I can get,’ he said, folding his arms across his chest, the biceps bulging. ‘Which is why I’m meeting with him.’

  Rochdale wasn’t muscular; he was quite slender. I flicked the thought away.

  ‘You don’t need me to hold your hand,’ I told Crow.

  His mouth twitched, curving into a smile.

  Rochdale didn’t so much smile, as sneer, with those full, sensual lips of his.

  ‘I rather thought it was the other way around,’ Crow pointed out.

  ‘
I don’t need a babysitter.’

  ‘You just said you were frightened.’

  I hung my head. I was scared, but I wasn’t sure whether the fear was of Rochdale, or of myself. The man had awakened something in me that I’d never felt before, and it terrified me. The inability to remember everything didn’t help my state of mind, either.

  When it was clear he’d get nothing further from me, Crow unfolded his arms and took a step closer. I resisted the urge to take a corresponding step back. I didn’t want him to think he unnerved me, so I lifted my chin, a defiant gesture.

  ‘I don’t want to leave you on your own,’ he said. ‘Rochdale will be back. You know it.’

  ‘Religion isn’t my thing,’ I said.

  He shrugged. ‘It’s not mine, either.’ He pulled at something around his neck, a chain of sorts, and tugged until an object came free.

  Gold and shiny, the cross dangled on the end of the chin, swinging to and fro. My eyes followed it. I couldn’t drag them away.

  ‘It’s Meadow’s. That’s why I wear it,’ he said.

  ‘You can put it away now,’ I said. Why anyone would want to wear the image of a dead man nailed to a piece of wood, was beyond me. It was barbaric. Quite hideous in fact. The whole thing was sickening and quite disturbing.

  ‘Put it away,’ I repeated, shrinking back slightly.

  Crow frowned, although he did as I asked. ‘Shall we go? I’m meeting him at eleven.’

  ‘No, I told you, I don’t do religion.’ I didn’t do meeting new people, either.

  ‘I don’t want to—’

  ‘—leave me on my own?’ I finished for him. ‘You can’t stay here forever, and anyway, I don’t want you to. I’ll be okay.’

  Which was true, although I was becoming more used to his presence with every hour that passed.

  ‘You’re not okay, though, are you?’ he asked.

  He was right, not that I’d admit it to him. I was as far from okay as I could get. I was used to being “not okay”. I lived with it every day. Some days were easier than others. These last few days hadn’t been “okay days” at all. I hadn’t been myself since Oxford. I hadn’t been myself since I’d seen a man without an aura.

  I hadn’t been okay since Rochdale had stirred a dark and desperate desire in my soul and a—

  ‘You keep slipping away. What’s going on, Olivia?’ Crow’s voice was soft, full of concern. It moved me.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I decided to come clean and I almost laughed aloud at the thought. Yesterday “coming clean” meant confessing my affliction. Today coming clean meant telling Crow that I’d been seduced by Rochdale, that I was under his spell.

  ‘I haven’t told you everything,’ I admitted.

  And so I told him.

  It went as well as could be expected. Considering.

  Chapter 32

  Crow

  The Church of the Sacred Heart was old, possibly of Norman origin. It blended in with its surroundings as if it had grown organically out of the earth and not quarried by the busy hands of man.

  Churches didn’t usually do much for Crow, but this one he liked. The dim, calm interior was soothing, and as he walked quietly into its depths its peace settled on his soul. The place smelled of incense and furniture polish, sunlight poured through the stained-glass window behind the altar, and dust motes drifted idly on the air on faint, unfelt currents.

  Father Nuffield, older than Crow had imagined from his voice, was dressed simply in a black cassock and wore a larger version of Meadow's cross around his neck, but made of sterling silver instead of gold.

  ‘James Robinson,’ Crow said, walking up to him and holding out a hand.

  They shook.

  ‘Do you mind?’ the priest asked, and Crow blinked as Father Andrew picked up a small bowl, dipped his fingers in, and flicked liquid into Crow’s face.

  ‘Holy water,’ the Father explained. ‘I had to be sure.’

  ‘Er, yeah, of course.’ A droplet trickled down Crow’s cheek. What was all that about? ‘You’ve got some information about Meadow?’ he prompted.

  ‘Yes, come through.’

  Crow followed him to a small, wooden door, heavy and solid, and into an office crammed full of old, leather-bound books.

  ‘I really should find a proper home for them,’ Father Nuffield said, when he saw Crow staring. ‘Some of them are quite old indeed, but they’ve been here since before the First World War, and I’ve become rather attached to them. The Ladies of the Church of the Sacred Heart don’t agree, however.’ He laughed, his voice as dry and as dusty as some of the tomes. ‘They have to clean them.’

  Crow chuckled politely. ‘Meadow?’ he reminded him.

  ‘Ah, yes. James; can I call you James?’

  ‘I prefer Crow.’

  ‘Oh, well, I see. That’s an odd name, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘Robinson, robin, crow. The nickname has been with me for a while.’

  ‘Ha, ha. Very well, Crow it is. I’m Father Andrew.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Father.’

  ‘Likewise. Tea?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘I’ll just get on with it then, shall I?’

  ‘Please.’

  The priest nodded once, more to himself than to Crow, walked behind his desk, sat down, and took a breath. ‘Meadow, your sister, is under the influence of a vampire.’

  Crow froze.

  Father Andrew leaned back in his swivel chair and steepled his hands under his chin, resting his elbows on his stomach.

  ‘I’m sorry, I could have sworn you said “vampire”.’ Crow laughed, a quick self-conscious bark.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Okaaay.’ Crow drawled out the word, trying to give himself time to think. ‘You mean, she believes she is? Do you think she’s mentally ill?’ he said.

  ‘No, I mean she is being controlled by one of the undead.’

  My God, the man actually believed what he was saying. He looked deadly serious. Crow scratched at the stubble on his cheek, uncertain how to respond.

  ‘Do you believe in Heaven?’ Father Andrew asked after the pause went on for a little too long.

  ‘Not really.’ Crow was a little embarrassed to be confessing such a thing to a priest, but he couldn’t bring himself to lie.

  ‘Many people do,’ the priest continued. ‘It’s an integral part of the Christian faith.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Do you believe in God?’

  Crow shook his head. ‘I’ve seen too much—’

  ‘Nonsense! Man does awful, dreadful things to Man. But that’s Man’s choice, not God’s.’

  Was he really going to get into a theological discussion with a member of the cloth, Crow wondered, with a weary sigh? He was here to find out what, if anything, this man knew about his sister; not to talk about the possibility of there being an all-knowing being.

  He couldn’t help himself. ‘What about accidents, cancer, cot-death, bad things happening to good people...? I could go on.’

  ‘It’s all part of faith,’ Father Andrew stated serenely.

  Trite and convenient. Crow suppressed a sigh. ‘Why doesn’t God intervene, if he cares about us?’

  ‘His ways are mysterious,’ Father Andrew countered.

  That old chestnut? It may have worked on the ignorant peasants in the Dark Ages, but not today. Not in this age of science, free-thinking, and enlightenment. Crow let the matter drop.

  ‘Meadow,’ he said, instead. That was the only reason he was here. The only thing he was interested in. ‘Please tell me what you know.’

  ‘I suspect something’s happened to her, or else you wouldn’t be here?’ Father Andrew asked.

  ‘She’s gone missing.’

  ‘Do you think she’s dead?’

  ‘What? No!’ For the Father to even suggest it, was unthinkable.

  ‘What do you think has happened to her?’

  ‘I told you – she’s missing. A man by the name o
f Rochdale has got his claws into her and has syphoned off all her money. At first, I did think she might have run away, too ashamed to admit that she’d been taken for a ride, again, but if I’ve read the situation right, he should have dropped her like a hot cake once he’d bled her dry. Unfortunately, without any other clues or leads as to where she might be, all I have to go on is this fella, Rochdale. I think she may still be with him.’

  ‘No doubt, she is.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘This man, this vampire, won’t let her go. She’s his now, his pet; if he hasn’t turned her already.’

  ‘You're speaking hypothetically, right?’ Father Andrew must be. The church believed in Heaven, God, angels, and the virgin birth, which were all fantastical enough on their own. But vampires? In this day and age? Nah...

  Father Andrew shook his head. ‘Regretfully, no. I wish I was. Look, my son, I know what you’re thinking, and many believers also think the same way. I don’t blame you. I don’t blame them, either. Everyone seems to think they’ll go to Heaven if they live a good life, and many Catholics believe that even if their lives are less than exemplary, they can be absolved of their sins. You don’t hear many people spouting about Hell and Satan anymore – the Catholic Church doesn’t encourage it.’

  ‘I supposed it’s only logical that if you believe in the one, then you have to believe in the other,’ Crow conceded.

  ‘You would have thought,’ was the priest's dry response. ‘Today, it doesn’t work like that. It seems that people are happy to believe in Heaven, but the alternative isn’t as much to their liking, so they pretend it doesn’t exist.’

  ‘What are you saying, that you can’t have one without the other?’

  ‘Correct. You can’t cherry pick the bits of God you want to believe in and discard the rest. It’s an all-or-nothing kind of thing.’

  Having little in the way of alternatives, Crow decided to play along. ‘Assuming Heaven is real and Hell, by default, is also real, then good and evil in the form of God and Satan must also be real.’

  ‘You’ve got it in one. People today are so ready to believe in Our Father, but not in His counterpart. The two are flip sides of the same coin.’