Damn it, but sodding Rochdale had a lot to answer for, because it seemed like my previously dormant libido was now wide awake and raring to go.
Don’t think of Crow like that... don’t think of Crow like that... I chanted silently. There was too much going on to start getting all tingly over any man, no matter how good-looking. The fact that he’d saved my life and was still protecting me had nothing to do with me feeling ever so slightly girly whenever I thought of him.
‘Get a grip,’ I muttered under my breath; love, sex, a relationship was not on my radar, and was almost definitely not on his.
Crow had left the stakes, the plastic container of holy water (shouldn’t it be in an ancient vial with unintelligible writing around the sides, or was I just being flippant?) and the cloves of garlic (now those, I could most definitely use) in my living room. It seemed if there was going to be any staking to be done, hard-man Crow expected me to do it. Not on your life, buddy.
I gathered the vampire-weapons together and put them in the cubby-hole under the stairs, where everything I didn’t know what to do with but wasn’t prepared to throw out were kept. The garlic, I took into the kitchen; the cross, I removed and put on the counter. Then I made supper number two and ate the lot, followed by three cups of tea and the best part of a packet of chocolate biscuits.
I returned to the living room in time to see a flash of colour from beyond the garden at the front of my cottage, a pale shimmer at my gate. It could be a dog-walker, or someone out for a stroll, but I thought not.
I crept to the window, stood to one side so I couldn’t be seen and peered through the glass, my fingers gripping the curtain to prevent any inadvertent movement of the fabric.
The shimmer moved again, coming out from behind the hedge, and I saw it clearly. The aura belonged to Father Andrew.
But what the hell was he doing skulking around outside my house, and more to the point, how did he know where I lived?
I reached for my phone.
‘Crow?’ I whispered. ‘Father Andrew is here.’
‘Is everything all right?’
My heart missed a beat at the sound of his voice, and I coughed to cover my confusion. ‘No, it isn’t. He’s prowling around outside.’
‘Okay.’
‘How does he know where I live?’ I hissed.
‘I told him.’
‘Great. And how many other people have you given my address to?’
‘Just the Father.’
‘Why?’
‘He said he wanted to bless your house, or something. There’s holy water involved. Possibly a bit of Latin, too.’
‘Wonderful.’
‘Is he still there?’
I looked out of the window. ‘I can’t see him.’
‘He’s probably done what he needed to do and gone home. I’ll see you in the morning, but phone me if anything happens before then.’
I ended the call without replying. Crow had a bloody nerve. I’d kind of guessed I hadn’t seen the last of him because I was still the only link to his sister that he had, but at least I would be alone again for a while, the way I liked it, once the damned priest had stopped messing about outside.
Or did I? Tonight, the idea of being on my own didn’t fill me with the relief it usually did.
In fact, it was rather unnerving.
I pottered and mooched for a couple of hours or more, not able to settle to anything. Work held no appeal, neither did the laundry, or the cleaning. The TV remained off, and my latest psychological thriller remained unread.
It was getting dark. I hadn’t really noticed the light bleeding from the sky until it had almost gone, the sun leaving fleeting reminders in the soft, peach glow of distant clouds. A sliver of unease crept over my skin, raising the fine hairs along my arms and I shivered. Suddenly, my formerly serene and safe house felt more like a cage.
Or a trap.
Leaving the lights off, I tiptoed from room to room, taking care not to get too close to the windows. Just in case. Each room was empty. Of course, it was. What had I expected? And there were no giveaway colours outside, apart from those orange-yellow shades left in the sky by the fleeing sun.
But then, I probably wouldn’t see Rochdale if he was out there, because he was colourless. Like death.
Oh.
I was halfway down the stairs when the realisation hit, and I sank onto one of the risers to let the thought do its work.
After a while, I got to my feet, retrieved the stakes and the holy water, took the garlic cloves out of the fridge, and slipped the chain holding the crucifix over my head.
Not that I thought I’d need them.
But just in case.
Darkness had descended, full and thick, and alive with menace.
Since when had night become an issue? It had never bothered me in the past, but now it was weighing me down, forcing me to creep, and crawl, and hide, like a small mammal who knows the darkness contains teeth, claws, and bloody death.
That was the feeling – I’d pinned it down. Staked. I felt pinned, like a goat tethered to a tree for the sole purpose of reeling in a tiger.
Should I leave? Just get in my car and drive? Or would I be safer here?
Get a grip, I told myself. I was tired, emotional, and had just experienced the weirdest week of my life. No wonder I was jumpy and nervous.
Tired or not, emotional or not, the insistent little thought wouldn’t go away.
Rochdale had no aura.
Neither did the dead.
Vampires were referred to as the undead...
But vampires weren’t real. They didn’t exist.
Who said so?
Every normal, sane person.
I seriously wanted to slap myself inside out. The argument went around and around in my head, driving me to distraction. I’d start talking to myself next.
But Rochdale had no aura.
Balls. Have a cup of cocoa and go to bed, I told myself. Things always look different in the morning.
When it came, the knock didn’t really surprise me.
‘Olivia...?’
Honeyed death floated through the door and my soul trembled.
‘Rochdale,’ I whispered in total and utter dread.
Chapter 39
Crow
Maybe he shouldn’t have left her on her own, Crow thought, but what else was he to have done? She’d insisted, and he could hardly have demanded he stayed, despite everything. At least he had some insurance in the form of a hidden camera, so he might as well make use of it.
Or should he say them? Because he hadn’t installed just one camera – there were five. One each in the hall, the living room, the kitchen, Olivia’s bedroom, and the last one was located immediately outside the back door. They all had mics, too. And infrared. They were the only reason Olivia had been able to persuade him to leave. He hadn’t wanted to go, but she’d not given him any choice, but at least he could still keep an eye on her.
He’d checked they’d all worked after he installed them but hadn’t looked at any footage since. Now was as good a time as any. He didn’t seriously think anyone had been in the house while they were out today, but Crow wasn’t one for assuming anything. Assumptions got people killed.
He grabbed a can of Coke, popped the tab, took a long swallow, before starting up his laptop. He could access the footage, both recorded and live, on his phone, but he preferred the bigger screen. It made for easier viewing.
There he was, fiddling with the tiny camera. He saw himself on the screen adjusting the angle, checking the view on his phone, adjusting it again. He remembered how fast he’d worked, because Olivia was downstairs and could come up any minute. She wouldn’t have been happy to find him installing a hidden camera in her bedroom, but she’d given him no choice, having made it clear she wanted him gone. He couldn’t be gone, not when he still had Meadow to find.
He let the video of the bedroom camera run while he fetched himself another can, and by the time he’d retu
rned to the living room, the footage showed Olivia in her room, in bed. The covers were around her waist, but she was wearing a T-shirt, thank God. He really didn’t want to become a voyeur, and he was about to fast-forward the recording to nearer to the time the pair of them had left her house, when a low moan made him pause.
He involuntarily glanced up and away from the screen, thinking the noise was in the living room with him, before he understood; it had come from Olivia.
Her head was thrown back against the pillows, the smooth column of her throat arched, her lips parted. The covers moved gently between the outline of her spread legs and he realised what he was looking at. Olivia was playing with herself, and thoroughly enjoying it, too.
Another moan was followed by yet another.
He wanted to look away, he knew he should fast-forward through this most intimate of moments, but God it was so erotic. His own arousal surprised him. He’d not viewed Olivia Parr as anything other than a way to find his sister, and now here he was nursing an erection.
The covers moved faster and faster, the soft moans became more frequent. Her other hand crept up underneath her T-shirt, reaching for her breast.
She came, stiffening and gasping; then her hand stilled, and she relaxed.
Crow licked his lips, his own breathing harsh in the silence of his living room. His arousal soon dissipated, though, when she uttered a single word, breathing it out softly, like a lover’s caress.
‘Rochdale.’
Desperately wanting a stiff drink but making a strong, black coffee instead, Crow was filled with disgust at himself.
He wasn’t certain exactly why he felt so revolted – was it because of his voyeurism, or because she’d been pleasuring herself with Rochdale’s name on her lips? It was almost as if the damned man had been in the same room as her, and Crow had been watching as the bastard had made love to her.
He fast-forwarded the rest of the recording, one eye on the clock in the corner of the screen until it caught up with the present time. Apart from seeing Olivia in various stages of undress, which he didn’t slow the video for, nothing further happened.
He did the same with the camera in the kitchen, the hall, and the one outside the back door, catching swift glimpses of himself and Olivia going about the events of last night and today. He saw himself leave, watched her put the items Father Andrew had given them under the stairs, make herself another meal and eat every mouthful, then, as night fell, he saw her prowl around the house and peer through windows.
Olivia Parr wasn’t as confident as she appeared to be, and his suspicion was confirmed when she retrieved the stakes, holy water and garlic, and watched as she hung the cross around her neck again.
Then he saw her looking closely through the living room window and reach for her phone. That was her phone call to him, when Father Andrew had spooked her. He wondered what else might be keeping her on edge.
Olivia didn’t seem in any hurry to go to bed, despite the lateness of the hour, so Crow didn’t either, even though he was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. He needed sleep desperately, but if Rochdale was to make a move, it would probably be at night, under the cover of darkness. Vampire or not, the bloke was a night-owl.
When the atmosphere inside Olivia’s house changed, Crow was kind of ready for it. Olivia had been tense and watchful since he’d spoken to her about Father Andrew, though not unduly so, but when she leapt up from the arm of the chair where she’d been sitting and staring into the little garden at the front of her house, he knew something was up.
Quickly, he switched cameras as she darted into the hall.
She halted by the front door and Crow sat forward in his chair as she spoke, listening intently.
‘Rochdale.’ Her whispered voice was full of dread.
He saw her hesitate, then her arm moved, and although her body blocked most of the door from his view, Crow guessed she was reaching for the handle.
‘Don’t...’ he muttered.
She opened the door.
Oh, fuck.
Crow snatched his car keys from the coffee table and sprinted for the car, praying he wouldn’t be too late.
Chapter 40
Olivia
‘Olivia?’ Rochdale’s voice was firm, insistent. ‘Who have you been talking to, my love? I thought we had a connection, yet I find another man sniffing about your door.’
‘He means nothing. He’s no one.’ I wasn’t entirely certain whether I was referring to Father Andrew or Crow.
‘Open the door.’
‘No...’
‘Do you want me to show you how much you mean to me, and force me to break it down?’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because I want you. I know you want me. We can be so good together, sooo good.’ His voice was like honey, sweet, sticky, and golden. It dripped from him, coating me in sugar, like a fly trapped in resin.
Instead of making me want him, I was vaguely revolted.
A warmth between my breasts made me looked down.
The crucifix was glowing. I considered grabbing one of the stakes and the holy water, but I found I couldn’t move.
‘Olivia?’ He was harsher now, more commanding. ‘Open the door. Now.’
Of its own volition, my hand levered the handle downwards; the gentle click of the lock disengaging sounded like a gunshot.
The door crashed open, pushing me back, and Rochdale stormed into the hall, towering over me, larger and more menacing than a man of his stature had any right to be. The door slammed shut behind him and he dived forward, driving me against the wall, and smashing me into it so hard, I had no breath left to scream.
Fear drenched my soul in icy dread, chilling my blood, slowing my mind and my reflexes.
I’d never seen such malevolence, and I realised I was about to pay for my effrontery. I could tell he knew that I knew what he was. I think he could smell the hand of God on me.
‘What the fuck?’ He reared back, his black gaze on my chest. ‘Take. That. Thing. Off.’ He spat the words out through gritted teeth, his lips twisted into a snarl.
He meant the cross hanging around my neck.
Rochdale appeared frightened of it.
Maybe frightened was too strong a word. He seemed to loathe it, as if he’d lifted a log or a stone and had found something disgusting and vaguely threatening lurking underneath.
‘Take it off.’ His voice was hard, commanding. He clearly expected me to obey. ‘Has that silly little priest been filling your head with nonsense?’
I said nothing, too scared to answer him. His wrath grew with each passing second; it rolled off him in stinking waves, sulphurous and choking. I began to fear for my life, an unholy terror consuming my insides and turning my mind to liquid.
‘Do you think you can elude me so easily, little girl?’ He loomed closer, less than a foot away. His black eyes flashed red, the whites tinged with ruby, his face a luminous disk in the darkness of my hallway.
I shuddered and shook, the tremble starting in my knees and working its way upwards, until my whole body vibrated with fear.
‘I will have you, one way or another.’ His promise resonated in my soul and filled me with sick dismay.
‘No,’ I moaned. ‘Please leave me alone.’
‘Too late for that, my dearie, far too late for that.’
He put his palm between the swell of my breasts, pressing the crucifix into my chest. The stench of burning flesh seared my nostrils, and he hissed, baring his teeth. His eyes bored into mine, and something deep and dark moved in their depths.
I shuddered and moaned.
He was going to kill me, eat my flesh, then suck on my bones and spit them out in Hell.
Any doubt had fled. This man was a monster. A creature of Satan. I knew it in my heart I could feel it in my soul.
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Rochdale; one of my names.’ Idly, he took his hand from my chest and looked at his palm, then he turned it to
face me.
The cross had burnt deeply into his hand, the outline of Jesus in stark relief, branded into his flesh. Rochdale smiled. ‘Don’t worry, little bird, it will soon be as good as new, with your help, of course.’
What did he mean? How could I help him?
When he opened his mouth wide and showed me his fangs, I almost blacked out. Abruptly, I knew what he was going to do, and it filled me with terror.
‘Please, no, I don’t want to die.’
‘Yes, it is a shame; you have such a rare talent.’ His head moved closer, slow and relentless. He was enjoying himself, tormenting me, playing with me. ‘I agree, it is a pity, but you should never have involved that snivelling sycophant of a priest. I would have liked to keep you as a pet. It would have been most entertaining.’
This was it, I was going to die. Not of old age as I’d imagined, but at the hands and teeth of something straight from a horror film. How stupid I’d been to wallow in self-misery, when there were far greater things to worry about on this earth than my measly ability to see the colours of the living.
Rochdale didn’t have a colour; he was the colour of death.
How ironic that I was to die just as I’d discovered my gift was the ability to see monsters.
I closed my eyes as a cold, wet tongue licked the side of my neck, tracing the large vein hiding underneath the skin, then he inhaled deeply. ‘Just how I like it, with a soupcon of fear. Mmmm.’
‘I promise I won’t tell,’ I whimpered. ‘Please, just go. I won’t say a word.’
His answer was a sharp bark of laughter.
‘Leave me alone, please, please...’ I was sobbing now, tears trickling down my cheeks, my heart pounding and my chest heaving. Rochdale seemed to be enjoying the spectacle of my absolute terror, in no hurry, like a cat playing with a mouse.
This was all my own fault. I’d brought this on myself; if I hadn’t stared at him, if I hadn’t responded to him, if I hadn’t invited him in – Father Andrew!
The Colour of Death Page 19