The Colour of Death

by Elizabeth Davies

  I feared it was only the beginning.

  Chapter 51

  Olivia

  Death is never a pretty business and Meadow didn’t make a pretty corpse. She looked as though she’d been dead a while – several days, maybe even as long as two weeks, despite being filled with terrible, ravening life only a few minutes earlier.

  It took me some time to gather myself, to control the panic. Thinking straight was elusive and my mind skittered in all directions, like a rat in a maze. My first thought was to call the police or an ambulance, to let someone else take charge and clean up the mess. My second was to wonder exactly how I intended to explain the reason why there was a wooden stake in Meadow’s chest when those someones arrived. Or why she wasn’t as “fresh” as she should have been. Or why I was covered in blood from a nasty wound in my neck.

  There was nothing for it; with Crow slumped stunned and shocked on the floor next to his dead sister, it appeared that the “someone” to take charge would have to be me.

  What the hell did one do with a corpse, anyway? How did murderers dispose of their victims? A few options darted into my head, only to swiftly dart back out again. Like, I could drag her out of the house, load her into Crow’s car and take her somewhere far away, then dump her like a used fast-food carton. Like, I could bury her in Crow’s small back garden, but the problem with that scenario was the house was rented and gardens could always be dug over. I briefly considered taking her to her own house and staging a break in to make her death look like a burglary gone wrong, but I couldn’t see that working either.

  There was only one person who I could turn to, only one person who might be prepared to help.

  I staggered downstairs, my legs barely able to hold me, blood continuing to trickle down my chest, and went in search of Crow’s phone.

  Father Andrew didn’t hesitate. ‘Bring her to me,’ he said when I called him. He didn’t sound the least bit surprised to be woken in the middle of the night to be asked his advice on what to do with a dead body. ‘I’ll take care of her.’

  Thank God. He clearly wasn’t of the “you need to phone the police” persuasion, although my scrambled, addled mind did wonder why he was taking it in his stride. I clearly wasn’t – I was only holding onto my sanity by the slimmest of threads.

  I hauled my numb and reluctant body back upstairs, steeling myself to enter the charnel house that was once a bedroom.

  ‘Crow.’ I said, touching him lightly on the shoulder.

  The look he gave me could have felled a horse. He was holding Meadow in his arms, cradling her like a child, his cheeks wet, his face a mask of grief, a low, awful keening came from his open mouth. The stake poked up over his shoulder, a hideous reminder of what he’d done. Of what we’d done – because if I’d had a stake near to hand when Meadow had been worrying at my throat like a rabid dog, I would have used it gladly.

  I shuddered and swallowed down a sob.

  Hold on, Liv, hold on. You can do this. You have to do this.

  I wanted to leave him alone to mourn her for a while longer, but dawn would be here all too soon. On the one hand, I was totally and utterly terrified of going outside, but on the other, I was equally as scared of being seen dragging a dead body out to the car.

  Giving him a few more minutes, I retreated to the bathroom on still-shaking legs, uncertain how much more I could take. Over the course of the last twenty-four hours, Rochdale had tried to kill me, had destroyed everything I owned, then I’d been attacked by another vampire and had nearly been killed for a second time.

  I looked half-dead myself, I decided, when I saw my reflection. The brightness of the light in the bathroom probably wasn’t flattering at the best of times, but tonight I looked positively hideous. My face was as white as the pristine tiles, my lips were pale, and dark shadows pitted my eyes. The only splash of colour was the congealing blood and the twin tears in the skin of my throat. Purple and ugly, with ragged edges, those wounds bore no resemblance to the neat puncture holes Rochdale had given me.

  I ran some hot water and used one of Crow’s towels to dab at the wounds. Both the towel and the water quickly turned red. Yanking the soiled T-shirt over my head, I threw it in a corner with a grimace of disgust, then washed my chest. Done, I leaned against the shower cubicle to help keep me upright as I assessed the damage.

  I was weak from shock, near-suffocation, and blood loss. It was the blood loss that concerned me most, but with rest and food, I’d more than likely recover in a few days. The bites would heal. They’d probably leave a scar, but I didn’t care. I was alive.

  For now.

  The thought, when it occurred to me, almost sent me to my knees. I gripped the wash hand basin hard, to stay upright.

  I’d been bitten three times. Just how many times did a person have to be bitten before they turned into a vampire themselves? Once? Twice? More? Or were new vampires created by another method entirely? The questions came thick and fast, but there was no time to consider the answers. The important thing now, was to deal with Meadow and keep Crow out of prison.

  Steeling myself for what was to come, I straightened, with effort. The wound needed dressing, I needed dressing – or at least, I needed to find something to cover my naked torso – and we had to get Meadow to Father Andrew. I’d do it myself and spare Crow the ordeal, but I could barely stay upright. I didn’t have a hope in hell of hauling a body around, no matter how slender its owner.

  When I returned to the bedroom Crow hadn’t moved, but at least he’d stopped making that awful sound.

  ‘We’ve got to take her to Father Andrew.’ I said. ‘He’ll know what to do.’

  Crow looked up at me with dull eyes, and I realised he was in shock.

  Welcome to the club.

  We made a sorry pair. I just hoped we weren’t forced to become any sorrier before this terrible night was over.

  I said his name, louder, more urgently.

  Awareness returned to his face with all the speed of dawn on a dark day in November – slowly and with the same reluctance. He would have been far happier in his bubble of disbelief, I could tell, but training or self-preservation kicked in and brought him back to me.

  ‘I’ve killed her,’ he said. ‘My own sister.’

  I perched on the edge of the bed, needing desperately to sit. ‘You saw what she was.’

  ‘Yes.’ That one word held so much pain.

  ‘You had no choice.’

  For a second, and maybe I was reading into it something that wasn’t there, I could have sworn he wished he’d let his sister have me, that he wished I was the one with a stake in my chest.

  I didn’t blame him; I’d probably feel the same way if I was in his shoes.

  ‘Father Andrew,’ I reminded him, keen not to let him drift off. I needed him to focus. I needed him to be Crow.

  Abruptly, I realised how much I’d come to rely on him over the last few days, how I’d leaned on him. The knowledge unsettled me.

  ‘You can’t go like that,’ he said, sounding a little more like his old self. He was staring at my naked breasts.

  I’d forgotten I was only half-clothed. ‘Neither can you.’

  Crow was covered in yuck. Not blood exactly, but it was most definitely body fluids. And he stank.

  He glanced down at himself, and at Meadow, lying still and silent in his arms, then he looked back up at me.

  ‘Something’s not right,’ he said.

  You can say that again...

  ‘She shouldn’t look like this,’ he added. With each passing minute he became more himself. I prayed it would last long enough to get the deed done.

  ‘No one should,’ I replied gently. There shouldn’t be any need in this modern world of ours for stakes.

  ‘No, I mean, if I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s been dead for several days.’

  That was exactly what I’d been thinking.

  ‘Have you seen many bodies?’ I asked. I wanted to urge him to get moving, but I d
idn’t have the energy.

  ‘A few, and Meadow shouldn’t look like this.’ His voice broke on her name and sympathy welled up in my heart, threatening to spill over and drown me in tears.

  I gulped them back, not sure which of us I’d be crying for.

  ‘You had no choice,’ I repeated.

  ‘I could have—’

  ‘Reasoned with her?’ Faint tendrils of anger wafted through me. ‘Rochdale turned her into a fucking vampire!’ She’d tried to kill me. Would have succeeded, too, if it hadn’t been for Crow. It had been a her or me situation. I was thankful he’d chosen me.

  ‘Rochdale.’ Crow said the name with complete and utter loathing.

  Anger stirred in him, too; I saw it in his face and was glad.

  Slowly, gently, he lowered his sister to the floor, and got slowly to his feet. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered to her, then he grasped the stake and pulled.

  It came away with a sucking sound and a blast of putrid air.

  Bile surged into my mouth, burning my throat, and I turned away.

  When I looked back, Meadow appeared shrunken and harmless, and very, very dead.

  Crow stared at her for a moment, then threw the stake to one side and walked out of the room. I heard drawers opening and closing. When he returned, he’d changed into clean clothes, and was carrying another of his T-shirts.

  He tossed it to me, and I swiftly pulled it over my head.

  ‘Steri-strips,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’

  I followed him into the bathroom and let him stick the raw edges of the wounds together. They probably needed stitches, but the little butterfly plasters would have to do for now. Afterwards, he placed a sterile pad on them and secured it in place with medical tape.

  It was a relief not to have to look at them.

  Some colour had returned to my cheeks and although I was still wan and pale, I didn’t look quite so near death’s door.

  Together, we wrapped Meadow in plastic rubbish bags, using duct tape to seal them, and when we were done, he held his arms out to me. I walked into his embrace, needing the comfort of being held as much as he did. We stayed that way for a long time, his breath in my hair, his heartbeat in my ear as I rested my head against his chest.

  Finally, when we broke apart, I saw a new emotion in his eyes.

  Revenge.

  Chapter 52

  Olivia

  Father Andrew was waiting for us in the pre-dawn, hovering by the lych gate. He reached the car before it drew to a halt, his expression grim and determined.

  ‘Are you alright?’ he asked as soon as I opened the door.

  ‘Not really.’ I got out with difficulty, my muscles stiff and protesting. Weak, exhausted, and aching, I tottered to the back of the car. Crow followed me and popped the boot open. He looked worse than I felt.

  Father Andrew’s gaze went from one to the other of us, and his lips drew into a thin, hard line, but all he said was, ‘I’ve brought shovels.’

  Together the two of them manoeuvred Meadow’s body out of the car, and Crow carried her through the lych gate and into the graveyard beyond.

  ‘Over there, behind the church,’ the priest said, pointing, and the three of us wound our way through the graves, the newer headstones giving way to older, more decrepit markers. Weathered by lichen and the elements, the further we walked into the graveyard, the less clear the inscriptions became. Time and rain had almost smoothed the words completely in places, as though the stone was eager to return to its unmarked state. Many were lopsided, and some had toppled over, lying forgotten and abandoned among the grass and weeds. All of them were overgrown and neglected, the people in the ground beneath unloved and unmourned.

  It was both sad and inevitable; life had a habit of moving on.

  Resting against the graveyard wall were three shovels and a pick. With no diesel-powered digger to make our job easier, we’d have to do this the old- fashioned way with hard work and blisters. It seemed only fitting that the disposal of Meadow’s body wasn’t made too easy.

  ‘Where?’ Crow asked gruffly.

  Father Andrew pointed to a spot near an ancient yew tree. The ground was hard and root- packed. ‘She’ll not be noticed there. No one visits this part of the graveyard. There’s no one left alive to care about these poor souls,’ he said.

  ‘You care,’ I said, intuitively.

  ‘And I’ll care about Meadow, too,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter if nature reclaims her resting place, I’ll know she’s there, and so will you.’ He glanced at the lightening sky. Dawn came early to this part of the world in late spring. The night was fading fast and so was our cover. We might be safer in daylight, but we’d be more easily seen, too.

  Not wanting to risk the curiosity of an early dog walker or a pre-work jogger, I reached for a shovel, hefting its weight in my hands.

  Father Andrew picked up another and using its edge, he marked out the sides of the grave. The tiniest of movements caught my eye and I looked towards the plastic-wrapped corpse. For a second, I could have sworn it rustled.

  But I wasn’t imagining the faint wisps of smoke emanating from it, was I?

  I put a shaking hand to my forehead. My skin was cold and clammy, and a brief dizziness swept over me. God, I felt awful.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ I said, anxious to get it done before I keeled over and needed my own hole dug. We got to work, Father Andrew soon tiring. This was no task for a man of his age. But Crow kept going, and with my feeble efforts at helping, the grave gradually took shape.

  ‘It needs to be at least four-foot-deep,’ Father Andrew advised.

  ‘'Foxes?’ I guessed.

  He shook his head. ‘Wild animals used to be one of the reasons for burying deep. The other was pestilence. Our ancestors knew the dead brought disease if they weren’t disposed of correctly. But they called it evil and the work of the devil. I’m not sure they were entirely wrong about that.’ He stopped to wipe sweat from his brow. ‘The other reason was to prevent the dead from rising. But they were wrong about that. A grave would have to be very deep indeed to keep the undead down. Speaking of the undead...’ He paused and rested his hands on the handle of his shovel. ‘You said on the phone that Crow killed her. I’m assuming he used a stake?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Um, on the bedroom floor, I think.’ The noise as Crow pulled it free echoed in my mind.

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We need it to pin her down.’ The priest looked at Meadow’s body and I followed his gaze. Something definitely twitched underneath the black plastic...

  Eyes wide, I turned to the Father. ‘She’s not dead.’ Oh my God, we’d just been about to bury Meadow alive.

  ‘Believe me, she most certainly is,’ the priest said.

  ‘But she’s moving!’

  ‘Shh. Keep your voice down, sound travels at night.’

  Only, it wasn’t night any longer, and suddenly things appeared much different in the cold, silver light of the approaching dawn.

  What the fuck were we doing?

  Crow had stopped digging, too, and he was staring at the body as it twitched and squirmed. Hope flared in his face.

  ‘She’s not alive,’ Father Andrew said. ‘She’s not your sister, either – not anymore. She’s undead and she’ll suck you dry as soon as look at you. Hurry, we’ve not got much time.’

  Crow didn’t move, and neither did I. We weren’t seriously going to go through with this, were we?

  ‘Crow, don’t,’ Father Andrew hissed.

  Too late.

  Crow dropped to his knees and tore at the plastic covering his sister’s face, peeling it away. What I saw then would haunt me to my dying day. Meadow’s face was a mask of fury. Her eyes were black orbs, her mouth full of sharp red-stained teeth, and when the faint daylight touched her cheeks she screeched, the noise high-pitched and shrill. Smoke curled and coiled, rising from her like steam from a kettle.

>   Cow recoiled, falling back onto his arse, and let out his own cry.

  Father Andrew moved fast for an old man. In two strides, he reached the old yew, grabbed a branch and yanked hard, twisting it violently this way and that until it sheared off in his hand.

  He whirled and plunged the sheared end into Meadow’s chest, and Crow’s sister collapsed into herself, at rest once more.

  ‘See?’ he said, almost conversationally. ‘Vampire.’

  Crow was motionless, as was I, our attention on the monster.

  If we hadn’t believed in evil before, we bloody well did now.

  Chapter 53

  Olivia

  ‘That looks nasty,’ Father Andrew said, studying my neck after carefully peeling back the tape to reveal my injury. ‘You really should see a doctor.’

  ‘And say what?’ How was I going to explain it? The truth wasn’t an option.

  Father Andrew shrugged.

  I’d taken the opportunity to talk to him without Crow around. Crow was in the little washroom behind the vestry, doing his best to clean up. We couldn’t do anything about the state of our clothes but at least we could get the worst off our hands and faces. The dirt under my fingernails would be there for a while, I suspected, and the smell of smoke and blood clung to me, despite the shower yesterday morning.

  Running water covered my whispered conversation with the priest. Crow had enough on his plate right now, without me putting the idea in his head that I might turn into a vampire at any moment. But I had to know. I couldn’t deal with anything else until I did.

  ‘Will I be next, Father?’ I asked.

  ‘Next what?’

  ‘I’ve been bitten twice before by Rochdale. Will I become a—’ I couldn't bring myself to say the word.

  Father Andrew said it for me. ‘Vampire? I doubt it.’

  ‘But you don’t know for sure?’

  He hesitated. ‘Not for certain, no. You see, I don’t know how vampires become vampires. Of course, there are plenty of rumours. It was once believed that suicides would turn into vampires, or they were corpses who became inhabited by malevolent spirits, or you’d become one if you were bitten by one, but I don’t know if any of them are in the remotest bit true.’