The Colour of Death

by Elizabeth Davies

  He was out and back in less than two minutes.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said, knocking at his own front door, the priest letting him in and closing it swiftly behind him.

  Crow carried the stakes into the kitchen and set them next to the fridge. They looked slightly ridiculous, more stage props than weapons, and he felt for the gun in the waistband of his jeans. Neither the wood nor the metal filled him with confidence. He’d never been one to underestimate an enemy – which was why he was still alive. He wondered how long he was going to stay that way.

  ‘Is there anything else I can do to help?’ Father Andrew asked.

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea,’ Crow replied.

  ‘I’ve told you everything I know. It isn’t much.’

  ‘It’s more than I knew before.’

  ‘Take care.’

  ‘I’m trying.’

  Father Andrew patted him on the arm. ‘I know you are.’

  Crow watched him leave and prayed the priest would take care, too.

  Dusk was still a few hours away, and he decided to get his head down again. He was fairly certain Rochdale would be unable to make a move before darkness fell, and he needed sleep desperately.

  ***

  The shadows had lengthened when he woke, the sun almost gone from the sky, night fast approaching.

  Crow crept upstairs, his socked feet whispering on the carpet, and cracked open the door to the spare room. Olivia was a mound in the bed, her dark hair fanned across the pillow.

  She didn’t stir.

  Wanting to leave her sleep, he softly clicked the door shut and headed back downstairs. The house was still and silent. It seemed to be holding its breath.

  Restless, Crow prowled from room to room.

  Anticipation hung heavily in the air. Something was coming; he sensed it, deep in his bones, a visceral feeling, making him uneasy, pricking the fine hairs at the back of his neck. It was almost a feeling of being watched, that sixth sense prey had when a predator was near. His instinct tonight was to crouch and hide, to wait for the hunter’s eye to skim over him and move on.

  ‘Get a grip,’ he muttered softly.

  Standing well back from the window, he scanned the road. Lights were on in his neighbours’ houses, people going about their lives oblivious to the monsters beyond the reach of their lamps, safe and secure in the normality of their nightly rituals.

  Crow couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the luxury of feeling the same way. Even before he’d joined the army, he’d been all too aware of the fragility of life, and the ease and speed at which death could strike.

  For him, evil had been cloaked in the guise of the speeding driver, the man who killed for pleasure, the finger on a trigger. All those things were down to mankind and the choices people made. If he’d been forced to consider it, Crow would have said that evil was purely a man-made concept, the decisions the individual made, the paths they chose to take.

  Never, for one second, had he considered evil to be an entity in its own right.

  He still wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about it now.

  But he wasn’t prepared to take any risks regarding the truth of it – assume the worst and prepare for the worst; anything less was a bonus. That’s what he’d been taught. That was the rule he would live by now.

  If it turned out Rochdale was nothing more than an exceptionally clever man, then so be it. But if he was something more, something beyond the realms of possibility, then Crow had to be prepared for it. And, if being prepared meant using a length of wood with a pointed end instead of a pistol, he’d do it.

  Dead was dead.

  Except when it wasn’t.

  Noise. Outside. Just beyond the door. A rustle of clothing? The patter of a loose pebble on concrete?

  The soft knock was unexpected.

  He padded to the window and eased the curtain aside. The last of the light had finally left the sky, the shadows deepening. A darker shadow stood on his doorstep, slight, slender. Not Rochdale; although the man wasn’t robust, the figure outside was too slight even for him. A woman, then? Or a teenager? Crow couldn’t tell.

  Whoever it was, he or she, had no business being there.

  Another knock. The whisper of a voice. ‘James?’

  No one called him James. No one.

  Except for one person.

  Had he imagined it?

  ‘James.’ The voice came again.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It couldn’t be; could it? He opened his eyes and slowly moved into the hall.

  Standing behind the door, he put his ear to it and listened.

  Nothing.

  His voice was hesitant, disbelieving. ‘Meadow?’ The word came out softer than a lover’s sigh.

  ‘James.’ There was relief in hers.

  He opened the door.

  Standing on the other side of it was his sister. Alive and unharmed, from what he could see of her. Streetlights illuminated her from behind, silhouetting her so he couldn’t make out her features clearly, but she didn’t appear to be injured.

  ‘Meadow,’ he whispered, hearing the hope in his voice, the slight tinge of disbelief.

  ‘Yes.’

  He stared at her for a long moment, then stood to the side. ‘You’d better come in.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a hint of a smile in the word, and he smiled back.

  ‘Are you okay? I mean, has he hurt you?’ An image of Olivia’s punctured flesh came into his mind, and his temper began to rise.

  ‘No. I’m good. More than good.’

  He was about to question her some more, when he realised they were standing on his doorstep in full view of the street and whatever was out there, so instead he stepped to one side to allow her to pass.

  She hesitated on the threshold, her eyes dark and haunted.

  Fuck knows what she’d gone through during these last few weeks, months, but he would get the truth out of her, and when he did he’d hunt Rochdale down and—

  ‘Hurry up and come in,’ he urged, tamping down his anger, and taking a swift look behind her to make sure no one lurked in the darkness.

  She nodded once and did as he suggested. When Meadow stepped inside, he shut the door firmly behind them both, and locked it, then she walked with smooth grace ahead of him into the living room. Crow’s gaze never left her. His sister had never been curvy, but he thought she’d lost weight, and there was no telling the mental and emotional scars Rochdale had left on her; the financial ones were bad enough.

  Still, he could always move in with her until she got back on her feet again. He’d help her with the bills, and help pay the loans and the credit cards, and anything else which he knew from previous experience would raise its head. He’d done it before, and he’d do it again. It wouldn’t be easy, but this time he’d be around to keep a close eye on her.

  Mindful that Rochdale was still out there, Crow drew the curtains firmly together and turned on a little lamp on a table next to the armchair. Its muted glow filled the room, and Crow saw his sister clearly for the first time in several weeks.

  She might be thin, gaunt, and pale, but she was still beautiful. More so, perhaps, with a certain ethereal quality.

  ‘Right, then...’ He was at a loss where to start. He had so many questions, but his first instinct was to deal with her physical needs. ‘Are you hungry? Can I get you something to eat?’ She looked as if a square meal wouldn’t go amiss.

  ‘Hungry,’ she echoed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can make you a sandwich, or maybe—?’

  She shook her head. ‘No...’

  ‘What, then?’

  She cocked her head, tilting it to one side, listening.

  ‘Meadow, talk to me. How can I help you? Are you hurt?’

  She paused, her expression blank, then her smile when it came, was beatific. ‘I’m not hurt.’

  Crow let out his breath in a whoosh. For a moment, he’d thought she was going to confess to something
grievous. ‘Where’s Rochdale? Are you still seeing him? Is—?’

  ‘Rest. I need rest. Sleep.’

  Ah, that was it; she was exhausted. He’d put her in his room, they could talk later.

  ‘You’re safe now,’ he assured her. ‘He won’t get to you here.’

  Abruptly, the events of the last few days, what he’d learned (or thought he’d learned) seemed ridiculous. Meadow was here, safe and well. Her mental state had yet to be determined, but she was free from Rochdale’s clutches, and that was the main thing. If the man tried to get his hooks into her again, Crow would deal with him.

  He intended to deal with him anyway, for what the bastard had tried to do to Olivia. ‘Use my room,’ he said. ‘The other is... occupied.’

  ‘Someone else is here.’ It wasn’t a question, more of a statement.

  ‘Yeah, er, a friend. I’m putting her up for a few days.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘It’s nothing like that.’

  Without a word, Meadow turned and headed for the stairs.

  ‘Try not to wake her,’ he called, softly. ‘There are clean towels in the cupboard in the bathroom and you can borrow one of my T-shirts to sleep in.’

  Meadow didn’t acknowledge him, and he sighed. What the fuck had that bastard done to her? Crow hardly recognised her. Gone was the sister he knew, and in her place was a stranger, closed off to him, in her own world. God help Rochdale when he got his hands on him. He’d make the fucker suffer.

  ‘You’re mine,’ he whispered into the night. Then he turned off the lamp, opened the curtains, and waited.

  If Crow had read him right, Rochdale was the kind of man who didn’t like to lose. He’d not let Meadow go without a fight, not after spending so much time and effort on her. Look at what he’d tried to do to Olivia.

  He’d come, sooner or later, and this time Crow would be ready for him.

  Chapter 49

  Olivia

  Oh, that felt good. Kisses, soft and cool, trailed down my cheek to my throat. A weight pinned me to the bed, a pleasant weight, a lover’s weight. Deliciously trapped by it, I moved slightly, feeling a warmth between my legs, growing hotter with each kiss.

  Even as I slept, I was aware I was dreaming and desperate to stay in it. This was no self-pleasuring, no remnant of Rochdale’s thrall, but a new love, a new desire. Soft hands, gentle hands, caressing. Lust flamed, deep and primitive, heating my insides, turning me to liquid.

  I moaned again.

  Crow. It had to be Crow. I wanted it to be Crow. My saviour, my protector. I’d keep this secret coupling to myself, I vowed, even as his lips nibbled at the delicate skin on my neck, sending shivers of delight down my spine.

  No need for him to suspect I’d had an erotic dream about him, although his touch felt so real, so there.

  Oh, God don’t stop.

  I want you, all of you, deep inside me, quenching this fire, this need, this—

  An abrupt flare of pain at my throat was followed by a groan of satisfaction. But the noise hadn’t come from my lips.

  I opened my eyes and the dream fled.

  My lover, unfortunately, didn’t.

  His body was on top of mine, holding me down. His hands were on my arms, pinning me to the bed, his legs between mine. Entangled in the covers and with his weight trapping me, I was unable to move.

  For a second, I thought Rochdale had found me.

  It wasn’t him.

  There was hardly any light, the room was shrouded in darkness, but I saw enough, felt enough, to realise that my dream lover was neither Crow nor Rochdale. She was female.

  There was something else, too, something which made the blood flowing through my veins run cold. My assailant didn’t have an aura.

  I screamed, harsh and loud. A fraction too late, her hand clamped over my mouth and nose, cutting my cry off almost before it had begun. All I could hope was that Crow had heard my strangulated cry.

  Pain flared in my neck, sharp and urgent, as she slurped and suckled, and there was an awful drawing sensation in my throat. The life was being sucked out of me, one horrific mouthful at a time.

  I twisted and thrashed, but she was so much stronger than she had any right to be, holding me down with ease, ignoring my drumming feet and the flailing slaps from my free hand. Desperate for air, I bucked and writhed, trying to gain enough purchase to throw her off me.

  My lungs burned with the need for air, and I jerked my head back, driving my skull into the pillow, arching my neck as I fought to breathe.

  God help me, but I was going to die, right here, right now, at the hands of this thing. If blood loss didn’t put an end to me first, suffocation would almost surely do the trick.

  They say hearing is the last to go when you’re dying, and what I heard gave me a faint glimmer of hope – feet pounding on the stairs.

  Crow was coming.

  The door crashed open, Crow leapt into the room and was two strides in and had almost reached the edge of the bed, before he staggered to a halt. ‘Olivia? Meadow? What are you doing?’

  He sounded confused; his confusion remained even as he slapped at the switch and the overhead light came on, and he was able to see exactly what his sister was doing.

  ‘Meadow!’

  Crow’s shout tore the air, and for a second the awful pressure in my neck eased as the vampire lifted her head and turned towards her brother.

  I caught a glimpse of red lips, incredibly long, sharp teeth stained with blood, and a dark, insatiable, ravening hunger.

  ‘Dear God... Noooo!!! Get off her. Meadow, get off her!

  My eyesight was fading fast, darkening at the edges. The pain in my chest was excruciating, as my lungs laboured to tease the last remnants of oxygen from the tiny amount of stale air remaining in them. My body was shutting down, my mind growing sluggish.

  I didn’t want to die this hideous death, sucked dry by a creature that shouldn’t exist. I wasn’t ready to leave this world; there was so much I had yet to do, so much I wanted to experience. Hell, I hadn’t even been in love yet. And for all my griping and whining about the hand fate had dealt me, the colours in this world were precious and beautiful, and infinitely preferable to death.

  Meadow ignored her brother. The respite his arrival gave was all too brief. She turned her attention back to me, her head lowered, and the sharp plunge of her daggered canines into my neck once more signalled the end for me.

  I was done.

  But even as the life was being sucked out of me, I prayed to God to let me live.

  One last spasm of my chest, and—

  A piercing scream brought me back from the brink. One word filled the night.

  ‘Byron!’

  Another screech, sharp and piercing, and with it the awful pressure lifted, freeing my nose and mouth, allowing me to take a desperate breath.

  Air, sweet, blessed air. My lungs filled with it; it flooded into each cell bringing renewed hope and a trickle of strength back to my wooden limbs. Gasping, I couldn’t breathe fast enough, my oxygen-depleted body begging for more. The gasps turned to coughing as the sudden rush of air expanded my throat and chest, like a thirsty man drinking too deeply and too fast.

  Meadow was no longer on top of me. Her lips were no longer drawing my lifeblood out through the wound in my neck.

  Meadow was lying on her back on the soft, cream carpet with a length of wood protruding from the centre of her chest. Her mouth was a grimace of agony, and her eyes were open and sightless.

  With difficulty, I rolled over onto my side and levered myself up. I was weak and dizzy, and in considerable pain, but I was alive.

  Meadow, however, wasn’t.

  Crow had killed her.

  Chapter 50

  Olivia

  Crow stood there, still and silent, his face a mask of shock, horror, and disbelief. I thought, briefly, that he might faint. His skin was pale, almost grey, in the harsh glare of the overhead light.

  In contrast, Meadow was a mo
ttled yellow, purple, and black, with a smear of bright crimson on her teeth and around her mouth.

  She looked every inch the corpse she was, yet she’d only been dead a few seconds, a minute at the most.

  Crow looked as though he was about to join her in the afterlife, his face totally devoid of colour except for the dark shadows around his eyes. His expression was a grimace of anguish, his lips pulled back from his teeth, his eyes huge and wide, full of dismay and revulsion. His aura was pulsating black, shot through with crimson and scarlet. It hurt to look at it.

  I had no words with which to comfort him. I had no words with which to comfort myself. I was numb and empty, and filled with disgust and disbelief. I was also filled with hate and with a desperate sorrow.

  But most of all, I was filled with relief that it was Meadow who lay dead this night, and not me.

  I didn’t believe Crow felt the same way.

  My pulse throbbed and beat in my neck, and when I touched the wound my fingers were coated with red.

  It was the only colour of any significance in the room, the only colour which mattered.

  Crow’s aura darkened even more as I watched, the black spreading, staining the remaining red with obsidian until hardly any scarlet remained.

  ‘Meadow,’ he whispered, in a voice as dry and as lifeless as ash.

  I sat upright, blood running down my chest and blooming across my borrowed T-shirt, stark against the white, then swung my heavy, reluctant legs over the side of the bed.

  I don’t think Crow knew I was there. All his attention was on Meadow, lying dead at his feet.

  Dry-eyed and drawn, he dropped to his knees with a thud. Reaching out with shaking fingers, he stroked her cheek, and as he touched her his cry of anguish razored my heart into shreds.

  ‘She’s dead. Dead. I killed her.’ The grief of a thousand deaths was in his voice.

  That he hadn’t any choice would be cold comfort to him right now.

  He gathered her into his arms, his terrible sorrow breaking my heart.

  Crow rocked his sister and howled his grief, and all I could do was watch.

  And hope. And pray.

  Because this wasn’t over yet. Meadow’s death resolved nothing, ended nothing.