‘I still don’t understand what this has to do with Meadow,’ Crow said.
‘God had His saints, his angels, and his cherubim, but Satan has his minions, too. Vampires are evil, supernatural beings, able to walk the earth only because their master, the Devil, permits it. It’s just another of his sales spiels.’
‘Excuse me?’ Crow was coming to the conclusion that Father Andrew was a psalm short of a hymn book. ‘Sales spiel?’
‘There are many ways one can be taken by the Devil – committing one of the seven deadly sins, breaking one of the ten commandments, doing the unspeakable things you were about to tell me of. Denying God is another, and the Devil is having a field day with that one right now. But there are remnants of the older ways which still walk this earth – rare, admittedly, but not to be dismissed or taken lightly.’
‘You’re talking about vampires.’ Crow knew his tone was flat and disbelieving, but come on! Vampires? Really?
‘They’ve always been with us, as old as mankind and just as deadly. You think Bram Stoker was making it up?’
‘Don’t you?’
Father Andrew shook his head, a pitying smile on his lips and sympathy in his eyes. ‘Not a chance. He told it as he saw it, more or less.’
‘Okay, if what you say is true, am I to assume Rochdale is the vampire?’
‘Of course, who else would it be?’
‘This doesn’t make any sense, Father.’ Crow forced himself to stop short of calling the man a total nutjob.
‘Meadow came to me because she was frightened. She told me she’d met Rochdale at some art gallery one night, and he took a shine to her. They began a relationship. At first, it all seemed normal, but then she noticed some... financial anomalies, shall we say.’
‘He was conning her out of money,’ Crow said.
‘Yes, and she’d no memory of giving it to him.’
‘Surely that’s a matter for the police and not the clergy?’
‘Under any other circumstance, I’d say yes, but what wasn’t normal was that she said she often felt ill, drained, exhausted. She looked it too, when I met her.’
‘When did you meet her?’
‘At a wedding. One of her friends was getting married and Meadow was invited.’
Crow shrugged. He didn’t recall any such wedding invitation, but then, why would he?
Father Andrew cleared his throat. ‘She wasn’t able to enter.’
‘Enter what?’
‘The church.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither did she. She made the excuse that she was ill. I was inside, preparing for the ceremony, but when one of the guests said there was a woman outside who wasn’t well, I went to check on her.
‘How was she?’
‘Terrified. The very sight of my cross,’ he held it away from his chest, ‘had her hyperventilating.’
‘That’s not exactly an indication that she was under the influence of a vampire,’ Crow pointed out.
‘The cross burnt her skin, holy water scalded her, and two bite marks gives credence to my conclusion.’
Crow was silent, disbelieving. After a while, he said, ‘Father, is it normal for a holy man, regardless of which religion they adhere to, to automatically think of vampires?’ The man was a nutter. Wasn’t he?
‘I’ve seen this before.’
‘Someone else has had the same symptoms?’
Father Andrew nodded. ‘I was a missionary in Africa.’ He fell silent.
‘And?’
‘That’s a story for another time. It’s enough for you to know that I saw things I wished I’d never seen.’
‘It’s a bit of a coincidence that you and my sister met, isn’t it? You, probably the only priest in England who believes in vampires, and my sister being “under the influence” of one.’ Crow made quotation marks in the air.
Father Andrew smiled, a warm and genuine one. ‘God does move in mysterious ways, does he not?’ Then his smile faded. ‘I do believe it must be God’s will, because the Church, in this enlightened age of ours, frowns on the darker side of the Gospel. There aren’t many of us priests who believe in such physical manifestations of evil, and fewer still who’d admit to it, not publically at least. Not unless they want to be quietly removed from office.’
‘Yet you believe...?’
‘I do. As I said, God’s ways are not for man to fathom.’
Crow shook his head slightly. This was all too surreal, but without anything else to go on, he had no option but to chase down this lead and see if it came to anything.
‘If Meadow was so afraid of the church and the cross, how come I found this in her house?’ Crow pulled the crucifix free of his T-shirt and held it out. ‘I found a Bible, too.’
‘I gave them to her. The cross has been blessed. She didn’t want to take it, but it was the only thing I could think of to help her. I would have preferred to have given her a silver one – they hate silver, you know – but needs must, and it was the only thing I had to hand at the time.’
Crow had guessed the man to be in his early to mid-sixties, but suddenly he looked much older.
‘I suspect it didn’t help her much at all,’ Father Andrew continued. ‘Not if you’re here, and she’s missing. I hope I’m wrong, but I fear you must prepare yourself for the worst.’
‘I know she’s alive. She visited a friend of mine recently.’
‘During the day?’
Crow frowned. ‘Yes, it was morning, I believe.’
‘Then there’s hope for her yet. Slim hope, but any is better than none.’
‘If he’s hurt her...’ Crow growled.
The priest reached out and patted his arm, his expression earnest. ‘You have to find her, and soon.’
‘That’s why I’m here, Father. Is there anything else you can tell me? Do you know where Rochdale is?’
‘Somewhere dark I should imagine.’
Crow subsided into his seat, the wood groaning beneath him.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,’ the priest said. ‘A word of advice – don’t try to tackle this creature on your own. And never, ever take that crucifix off. It may be the only thing between you and evil.’
‘Right. Thanks.’ Crow pushed his chair back and got to his feet. He wasn’t sure what to say. How could anyone follow a speech like that?
Before he walked out of the office, the priest said, ‘I sense you’re not wholly convinced, and I don’t blame you.’ He pressed something into Crow’s hand. ‘Take this. You may have need of it.’
Crow stared at the little plastic container in his hand and shrugged. ‘What is it?’
‘Holy water.’
Chapter 33
Crow
Crow needed time to process what the priest had told him. He still didn’t really believe it. Vampires didn’t exist. But some weirdos really did believe they were vampires. He remembered reading about it somewhere, in one of the tabloids, probably at the sleazier end of the newspaper spectrum. There really were fuckwits out there who bought into this whole vampire shit and even went as far as to delude themselves into thinking they were one.
Fucking nutters.
Rochdale was either one of these nutters, or he was playing some kind of game. In Crow’s limited experience, nutters probably wouldn’t have the skills needed to disappear off the grid the way Rochdale had. It took a high level of sophistication and some serious know-how to make yourself disappear without any trace whatsoever and yet still function in society.
Rochdale wasn’t homeless – one of the easiest ways to disappear. He was well-groomed, he liked the finer things in life, he had people he could control. He was no vagabond, and although there was nothing preventing anyone from acquiring a new identity, there was nearly always a paper or digital trail if you dug deep enough.
Rochdale was different – he simply didn’t appear to exist. Or, and this was more likely, Crow hadn’t asked the right questions of the right people. There wa
s a trail somewhere; it was a question of finding it.
Olivia answered the door after he’d knocked a couple of times. She was bleary-eyed and tousle-haired. Still pale, but not as wan as earlier.
He held up a grocery bag. ‘I’m going to make some lunch.’
Deliberately, he’d left the crucifix outside his clothes and her eyes went straight to it. Crow wasn’t sure what that actually proved. Something? Nothing? The cross wasn’t exactly small; it was a decent chunk of metal. It was bound to catch the eye, and not to mention that it looked rather incongruous on him. The only jewellery he normally wore was a watch, strictly for functional use. Wearing the chain didn’t feel odd though, not after the initial few minutes; it took the place of the military ID tags he’d only recently removed. The weight of the crucifix felt familiar, comforting.
Olivia didn’t move, so he stepped around her and strode into the hall. She closed the door and followed him into the kitchen.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked, her voice croaky.
‘I told you, I’m not leaving you on your own.’
‘You just did.’
He had, hadn’t he; he’d meant after dark. He didn’t intend to leave her alone once night fell. Just in case. From what Crow had seen, Rochdale tended to conduct his business later in the evening and well into the night. Crow removed two pieces of steak from the bag, took them out of their wrapping and put them on a plate. Olivia looked as though she could do with a square meal inside her. The makings of a salad and a bag of potatoes followed.
‘Baked, chipped or mashed?’ he asked her.
She grimaced. ‘None of them.’
‘You’ve got to eat something.’
She didn’t answer and Crow glanced at her. She was staring at the steak. ‘How would you like me to cook yours?’ he asked, switching the grill on.
‘Rare,’ she said, then did a little jerk. She met his gaze. ‘What am I saying? I prefer it well done, really well done. All that blood...’ She shuddered, her fingers hovering over her breast before she dropped her hand to her side.
He took a quick look at her arm. The skin was free of marks where the cross had touched her. Had he imagined it?
One thing had bothered him during the drive from the church though; if Rochdale was hypnotising vulnerable people (and the purpose was still unclear to Crow, although he strongly suspected money was involved), would the effect still work when that person was asleep? How could Olivia know the cross had come into contact with her bare arm? He hadn’t even realised himself that there had been any contact between the metal and her flesh, until later.
She disappeared upstairs to change, and Crow carried on cooking, and thinking, desperately trying not to put two and two together. Cross, burnt skin, lethargic, pale, bitten? He shook his head, trying to clear it. By the time she came downstairs again, the steaks were browning nicely and he was wielding a masher with serious intent, and had made a decision.
‘I still want to know why you’re here. I should call the police and have you removed,’ she announced.
‘You could, but you won’t.’ He added a knob of butter and stirred it into the potatoes.
‘You seem very sure of yourself.’ She folded her arms, her expression accusing.
‘You’re worried Rochdale will come back,’ he said. ‘If you weren’t, you never would have let me in.’
She looked at the floor, something she was doing a lot less lately he noticed, and he knew he’d hit the nail on the head.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘When he does, I’ll be waiting for him.’
‘You’re using me as bait,’ she accused, leaning against the kitchen counter, watching him toss the salad.
‘Yes and no. He’s going to come back anyway. It’s not as though I’m putting you in any more danger than you’re already in.’
‘You think I’m in danger?’
‘Don’t you?’
She did; he could tell by the way she wouldn’t look at him again and the way she swallowed convulsively. Then she said, ‘I don’t know what to think, or what to believe.’ She sounded like a scared little girl. It was his turn to swallow and look away.
Meadow was his number one priority – she had to be – but he didn’t want anything to happen to Olivia, either. He’d protect her, do whatever it took to keep her safe. As long as it didn’t compromise Meadow’s safety.
‘I’m not surprised you’re confused,’ Crow said softly. ‘That fucking Rochdale has messed with your head. I think he might have drugged you, too. How do you feel about giving a blood sample and seeing what we can find?’ He’d meant to bring it up sooner, but the first part of the day had been taken up with his visit to the priest. There had to be a more logical explanation for what was happening to the girl than vampires, despite the amount of evidence, and Crow intended to find it.
She worried at her bottom lip, thought for a second, then nodded.
‘I’ll make a call, then we’ll eat. I’m not promising anything. It depends on what that bastard has given you and how long any traces of it remain in your system.’
‘Okay. And Crow?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Thank you. I know you’re doing this for your sister but thank you, anyway.’
He gave a small smile. Taking his phone out of his pocket, he walked into the hall and called in the favour.
‘Right, that’s done,’ he said, coming back into the kitchen. He put two plates on the counter and dished up. ‘We’ll get your blood tested as soon as we’ve eaten.’
Putting the meals on the table, he gestured for her to eat. ‘Get started, don’t let it go cold,’ he said, his voice gruff. ‘I’ll pour us some water.’
She sat at the little kitchen table and picked up her knife and fork. Crow turned back to the sink and ran the tap, sticking his finger underneath the flow. When the water was as cold as it was going to get, he filled a couple of glasses.
With his back to her, he eased a plastic container out of his jeans pocket, unscrewed the lid, dipped his fingers into the liquid it contained, then picked up the drinks.
He came up behind her, put a glass next to her plate and – flick.
‘Ow! What was that?’ Olivia slapped a hand to the back of her neck, and turned to glare at him, furiously.
‘Water, just water’ He held up his hands. ‘See, wet hands.’
‘It was more than water,’ she said, two high spots of colour on her cheeks. When she took her hand away, there were several inflamed, slightly raised splatter of spots on her neck. Burn marks.
She rubbed at her neck again and winced. ‘That wasn’t just water on your hands.’
She was right – Olivia had just reacted to the holy water as if it was acid.
Oh, fuck.
He needed to make another phone call – this time to the priest.
Chapter 34
Olivia
I didn’t know what was going on, but something was and I didn’t like it. Crow was hovering around me and acting really weird. I know he wanted to get his hands on Rochdale, and I sort of wanted him to catch him, too, but more than that, I wanted both of them out of my life. If I never saw either man again it would be too soon.
Would it, would it really?
Oh, shut up. I tried to push away the image of a man with dark, curling hair and sensuous lips suckling at my breast and the deep, dark pleasure it had brought me, but I failed.
With what little appetite I’d possessed now gone, I pushed my barely-touched plate away. Crow tucked into his lunch as if he hadn’t seen food for a week. The sight made me feel slightly nauseous, especially when the faint trace of bloody juice from the slab of meat spread across his plate. Crow liked his steak on the raw side.
I took a sip of my water and felt marginally better, so I drained the glass and got up to pour another one.
‘What’s this?’ I pointed to a small plastic container, the kind you peed into when you had to take a specimen of urine to the doctor.
‘Nothing.
Just water.’ Crow carried on munching. He looked so nonchalant and unconcerned I simply knew it was an act.
‘Water?’ I repeated.
‘Uh, huh.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Open it and see.’
I picked it up and unscrewed the lid, brought it to my nose and sniffed. It didn’t smell of anything in particular, but the fine hairs on the back of my neck prickled all the same, and goosebumps rose along my arm. There was something deeply unpleasant about it, something repulsive.
Hastily, I screwed the lid on and put it back on the counter, then stepped away from it, wiping my fingers on my jeans. The container, innocuous and unthreatening, screamed danger.
‘I’m going back to bed,’ I announced.
‘How about the blood test?’ Crow placed his knife and fork neatly on his plate.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Don’t you want to know if you’ve been drugged?’
‘I’m tired.’
‘You slept most of last night and all this morning.’
‘So?’
‘Don’t you think that’s unusual?’
‘Fine. Whatever. I’ll get dressed.’ I stomped upstairs and left Crow to wash up the lunch things. He’d made himself at home in my kitchen, so he might as well finish what he’d started. Anyway, it wasn’t as though I’d begged him to cook for me.
Full of resentment and a strange disgruntlement, I dragged a brush through my hair, and changed into a clean pair of jeans and a fresh top. The bites were healing, no longer raw and red. The memory of a bent head, the sounds of Rochdale nuzzling and licking, the flare of sharp desire, the way I’d caught hold of his head and pressed him to me, the—
‘Are you ready?’ Crow called from the hall, jangling his keys, impatiently.
Reluctantly I let the image go, and withdrew my hand from down the front of my jeans with faint disgust. My fingers were slick and wet, my breathing was harsh, and my heartbeat pounded in my ears.
God, I wanted Rochdale. Every hard, stabbing inch of him.
And I wanted him to bite me as he drove into me, deep and fast and—
The Colour of Death Page 16