Stalking Tender Prey

by Constantine, Storm

  Othman slid into a chair beside the sofa. ‘What’s this, excitement in Little Moor? A party?’

  Barbara laughed. ‘Not exactly. Louis Cranton, a friend of mine, is having a little do tomorrow night. Lily’s brother is a friend of Louis’ son, Daniel, so Lily and Owen have been invited too.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ Othman said.

  Barbara frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I was going to take Lily and Owen out for dinner myself tomorrow night.’ He smiled at Lily, leaning forward to take the mug of tea Barbara offered him. ‘I was hoping I could persuade Owen to drive us into Patterham.’

  Lily felt unable to speak. She couldn’t help thinking about the last time she’d seen Othman. What did he think of her and Owen now? How could they possibly go out for dinner without mentioning what had happened in the cottage on Sunday night? The thought of discussing it terrified her, yet she felt crushed that she and Owen had a prior engagement. She wanted to be with Othman, yet she didn’t. The contradictory feelings confused her, because they were so alien to her simple life.

  ‘Oh, isn’t that nice of Pev, Lily,’ Barbara said uncertainly, sensing the change in atmosphere. She realised, with a sinking feeling of defeat, that Lily was interested in Peverel Othman. Pretty young Lily. Barbara strove to dampen any surges of jealousy. She liked the girl, and Othman was incredibly handsome. Who could blame her for fancying him?

  ‘Never mind. We’ll just have to do it another time,’ Othman said. ‘Although I might be moving on shortly.’

  Lily looked at him in alarm. ‘Already?’ she blurted.

  Othman shrugged, smiling. ‘Well, soon...’

  ‘Look, I’ve just thought of something,’ Barbara said. ‘Why don’t I ask Louis if Pev can come along tomorrow night with Barney and I?’ She turned to Othman. ‘Louis is a very interesting person, and I know his cook is wonderful, so you’ll have a lovely evening!’

  ‘Will Mr Cranton mind?’ Lily asked. The idea appealed to her. It might be easier to be in Othman’s company if other people were there too.

  ‘I’m sure he won’t,’ Barbara said. ‘I’ll phone him in a minute.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Barbara,’ Othman said. He stretched out his long, black-clad legs, seemingly perfectly at home in this room, even though he was a large and intrusive presence against the muted colours. ‘How’s Owen?’ he asked Lily.

  Lily felt herself blush again, having only just recovered from the last surge of heat. ‘Fine.’

  ‘I meant to come and see you both last night, but I went for a walk with my landlady instead. We had a look round the old manor house across the fields.’ He frowned at Barbara. ‘What’s it called? Something Eden?’

  ‘Long Eden,’ Barbara said in a carefully neutral tone.

  Lily looked at her askance. Something had happened between Barbara and Othman last night. She just knew it. Don’t be jealous, she told herself. Barbara is a beautiful woman, even if she is a bit old. No wonder Pev fancies her. She suddenly felt very grubby and skinny.

  ‘Quite an interesting place,’ Othman said, apparently oblivious to the conflicting emotions he was invoking in his companions. ‘I wonder why it’s shut up like that?’

  ‘It scares me,’ Lily said. ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘Oh? I thought you and Owen were keen on old buildings.’

  ‘Only some old buildings,’ Lily said.

  Barbara was wondering why Othman had come into the room. This was the first time he’d approached her in her private rooms. Was it because he wanted to see her, or because he’d found out Lily Winter was present? No reason had been offered for his entrance. She also felt he was trying to embarrass her by mentioning the previous evening’s walk. Perhaps a measure of chastisement was in order. ‘Anyway, Pev, you haven’t told us why you’re here. Is there something I can do for you?’

  Othman, she noticed with satisfaction, did look taken aback by her question. Clearly he now thought he had a right to invade her space. She would have to push him back a little; the game would be enjoyable.

  ‘I was hoping you’d be able to suggest something for me to do. I’m at a loose end.’ He smiled widely, a captivating grin.

  Barbara suddenly wished Lily wasn’t there. Strange how this man could juggle her feelings simply using his expressions. She laughed. ‘It’s a good job I don’t have all my guests expecting me to entertain them!’

  Othman smiled thinly. He wouldn’t have bothered coming up to the room, but for the covert enquiry at the bar concerning Barbara’s whereabouts, which had prompted the sluggish barmaid to reveal that Lily Winter was visiting. Othman wanted to observe her, and Barbara’s prickly behaviour, which could only be perceived as an obstruction, annoyed him. He thought he’d got her hooked. The truth was, after leaving the day centre, he’d had no immediate plans. He needed to make more acquaintances in the village. Barbara’s suggestion that he accompany her to this dinner party was fortuitous. ‘Well, perhaps there’s something I can do for you,’ he said. ‘I don’t like to be idle.’

  Barbara’s instinctive response to this idea was to ask, ‘What exactly are you doing here in Little Moor?’, but she did not voice it. Her usual guests, walkers and tourists, were content either to ramble around the countryside or explore by car. Othman had no transport, and seemed to possess no purpose for his visit. She wondered, for the first time, whether Peverel Othman was actually hiding from something by staying in the village. He was keen to get to know people, almost as if he’d recently moved here and intended on staying. Was that his plan? Yet he’d talked of moving on soon. Othman was a person of mystery. Perhaps she was unwise in befriending him and putting herself at risk by spending time alone in his company. These thoughts passed through her mind very quickly, enabling her to respond without a noticeable pause. ‘I won’t hear of that, Pev. Why don’t you walk over to Long Eden again. You might see more in daylight.’

  Othman said nothing for a moment, then stood up. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea. Thanks. And thanks for the tea. Goodbye Lily.’

  It had been that simple to get rid of him. As he left the room, Barbara wondered whether she’d offended him. He made her angry, in a strange kind of way; she wanted to provoke him. Yet the undeniable attraction to the man was still there. She poured herself another mug of tea. Lily had gone very quiet, tapping her mug against her teeth.

  ‘He’s an odd one,’ Barbara said, to break the silence.

  ‘Mmm.’ Lily flicked a furtive glance at Barbara.

  Barbara touched Lily lightly on the arm. ‘Be careful, won’t you,’ she said. ‘We don’t know that much about him.’

  ‘OK,’ said Lily.

  Peverel Othman walked down the road like a grey cloud, his hands in his pockets. He sent out calls from his throbbing mind, angry calls; he felt thwarted. Woman, corruptible nothing! Alone, he allowed his masks of smiles and pleasantries to slip. If anyone should have seen his face at that moment, they would have witnessed the truth of him; light leaked from his serpent eyes. Pure Grigori, he abandoned the need to use human methods of navigating around. The microcosm of Little Moor, its leafy lanes in russet plumage, its grey walls seamed with moss, became insubstantial to him. He let his senses guide him, the other senses. Such was the intensity of his inner concentration, he did not even notice that his body passed through the tall iron gates of Long Eden, rather than around them. Rage had conjured this unexpected effect. Material impediments shuddered at the passage of his flesh, mutated to a fluid substance. He could have crawled, snake-like, over the tumbled stones of the wall, but in his rage he kept a straight path, through everything, while remaining consciously ignorant of what was happening.

  Such concentrated anger was an unfamiliar sensation to him. He felt it rarely, only when he sensed he was losing control, however slightly. Fury always brought with it a memory of a memory that he could not place, and the brief image in his mind of a gate closing. Again the imperative came to him, nebulous and worrying: he must open the gate. Bu
t what gate? Was it physical? Where was it? Time and again, he had called upon the darkest powers of his imagination to give him the information he needed, to blast wide the shutters in his mind. He always failed, but one day, he knew, he would hit upon the right sequence of events and perform the right actions to blow the damned gate, whatever it was, into infinity. He sensed that immeasurable power lay waiting for him to claim it, beyond the gate.

  Long Eden appeared round a corner of the driveway. Its massive black stones looked damp, its boarded windows impenetrable. At the sight of it, Othman’s inhuman rage diminished, eclipsed by curiosity. After his visit to the old people’s day centre, and all the other information he’d gathered, it seemed almost certain that a Grigori family had once lived in Long Eden. The name of the house alone was a clue. Eden had been the country where, over eight thousand years ago, the Anannage had lived. Most Grigori strongholds were named after the Anannage settlement in Eden: The High House, Cedar House, Bright House, High Crag. Othman had seen many such names on his travels. Now, it was essential he accessed whatever remained of Grigori power in Little Moor, in an attempt to satisfy a hunger for power which had hounded him through his life. Power to open. Some of the Murkasters’ power, he was sure, lingered at the High Place. Why hadn’t he realised immediately the significance of that name? Scholars translating the old documents had often misinterpreted the words. It was common to find it transcribed as Heaven. The High Place among the crags in Eden. Home. And here was a piece of it.

  Othman walked round the side of the house to a yard at the back, where the doors of deserted stables hung open. He inspected the outbuildings, hoping he might find some way in which he could penetrate the main house. Restored to emotional equilibrium, his body could no longer insinuate itself unconsciously through solid objects. He wondered how strong the guardian of the house might be. Othman knew he was powerful, and often subjugated people and spirits weaker than himself, but his was a lazy sense of power. He balked at confronting entities that might be a match for him.

  Most of the buildings were tumble-down, vandalised. Graffiti marked their inner walls, old beers cans and the other flotsam of youthful festivities littered the floors. A depressing scene. Othman was glad the house itself had been secured; mindless destruction could so easily have been its fate.

  A line of one-storeyed rooms stuck out from the right side of the house, enclosing that side of the yard. These must have been the sculleries, laundry rooms and such like. It was amazing the locals hadn’t ripped out the boards that covered the windows. Othman wondered whether he could use that route, or whether others had tried it before and failed. He could see that the boards were heavily marked, as if by a pen-knife. He refused to think of claws. Experimentally, he banged his fist against one of the boards, it felt utterly solid, as if it was about two inches thick. Whoever had secured the place had taken great pains to make sure it remained that way. He could see no sign of nails; the joins, if they existed, were seamless.

  Wandering back into the centre of the yard, Othman threw back his head to take in the massive vista of Long Eden. The blind eyes of its windows seemed to regard him, as if they could see by an extra sense, or could smell his presence. ‘Let me in,’ he said, under his breath. ‘You know you want to.’

  The house remained impassive.

  Othman had the curious feeling that there were people hiding within it, listening with suspended breath, waiting for him to leave. He sensed fear. Was it possible there really were people left inside? Knowing his people as he did, that was not as incredible as it sounded. He would have to find out exactly why they’d left the village, abandoned their family seat. His enquiries could begin with the old ones in the community. He would give them what they wanted, for a price. He felt nothing would be gained from lingering in this spot just now. Other visits were long overdue; a return to the Winters’ cottage, for example. He had been acutely aware of Lily’s confusion earlier. It was perhaps time to tweak a few nerves.

  A ragged shape suddenly launched itself upon him from the shadows as he walked beneath the stable arch. Othman cried out in surprise, thinking of feathers and claws. He was not prepared to engage in combat with the guardian, preferring less violent and more subtle methods of persuasion. But no shadowy, winged entity hovered behind him. Another surge of annoyance crested through him. It was only Emilia Manden.

  ‘Thought I’d find you here.’ Her voice was cracked, a hideous parody of a seductive tone.

  ‘What do you want?’ Othman asked coldly. The woman was supposed to dance to his tune, and he was in no mood for music at the moment.

  Emilia laughed in an imitation of girlish glee. ‘Oh, come now, Peverel Othman. You know exactly what I want. I’ve waited long enough for it.’

  ‘Not from me, you haven’t.’ He made to walk past her, but the crone grabbed his arm. There was still strength in her grip, but then it was common for the cosmetic effects of quickening to be the first to disappear.

  ‘You’re all one and the same,’ Emilia said. ‘You’ve done this to me. Now put it right.’ She indicated her shrunken body. Her loathing for it was clear in her eyes, those strangely bright, youthful eyes. Othman loathed it too. He did not want to touch it.

  ‘I have other things to attend to — first,’ Othman said, and smiled, lightly patting the old woman’s fingers where they dug into his arm. ‘You can wait. As you said, you’ve waited a long time already.’

  Emilia shook her head. ‘Oh no. There is the pact, and you are all party to it. I’ve kept my side — my silence. I’ve been patient. Now, you must give me my reward, the fruit of healing and of life.’ She paused, put her head on one side. ‘I know what you people are like. You need followers: people to do this for you and that for you. You’re lazy. Give me life and I’ll work for you. You know I’ll have no choice.’ Her voice became provocative. In the half light beneath the arch, it was easy to believe she was a lot younger than she appeared. ‘You have come for the house, haven’t you, but you can’t get in. Maybe I can help you.’

  ‘You know a way in?’ Othman’s voice was sharp. He realised he’d made a mistake, let her see his eagerness.

  Emilia took a few steps away from him. ‘They lied to us, you know. Told us we’d be fine. We had no idea how quickly the dissolution would come. They didn’t care. They just left. We were nothing to them. Nothing...’

  ‘Why did they leave?’ Othman asked. He realised that Emilia was determined to make herself useful, and was succeeding.

  ‘No more, not yet,’ she replied. ‘You know what I want. After that, we can talk.’ She glanced around herself. ‘But not here. You never know who might be listening.’

  It was true the atmosphere around them was that of intense concentration. ‘Where?’ Othman asked.

  ‘Not the woods,’ Emilia said. ‘They’re neither safe nor free. The village is patchy, but the safest places are where the new houses are.’

  ‘Is there anywhere near there we can have privacy?’

  ‘We’ll have to see, won’t we...’

  Emilia walked unevenly towards the drive, and Othman followed her. He felt faintly nauseous, knowing what he’d have to do. But it was perhaps expedient.

  Emilia took his arm as they walked down the lane. ‘I was very beautiful once,’ she said. ‘And I will be so again.’

  Othman remained silent. He sensed unseen eyes at the cottage windows, from the shadowed gardens. People knew what was happening, he was sure.

  They turned onto Endark Lane, and walked past the looming portico of the Murkasters’ hall. Here, Emilia seemed to want to hurry. Cruelly, Othman hung back. ‘What about here?’

  Emilia did not answer, but stuck out her lower jaw and dragged him on. Othman laughed softly. ‘They can’t hurt you. How can they?’ He paused. ‘But aren’t you worried that I can?’

  Emilia did not slow her pace. ‘I’ve got things you need. You need me. You’ll not harm me.’ She glanced at him. ‘You are not like them.’

  ‘If yo
u say so.’ He smiled to himself. He thought he must be much worse than the Murkasters, who had fled.

  The new bungalows all stood precisely in a row on the right side of the road. They had names like Sunnyside, with long drives sweeping round to porticoed front doors where electric lanterns hung, festooned with wreaths of moths. There seemed to be a large amount of moths about. Othman felt another memory tickle his mind, just below consciousness, but swiftly suppressed it. Strange feelings and moods were coming upon him more frequently now.

  Few of the bungalows had net curtains or blinds. Othman saw huge televisions flickering, shadowy figures moving about in dim, comforting light. Sounds came from the houses: family sounds. He curled his lip in disgust. Only so much meat, he thought, nothing more.

  Where the row of bungalows ended, there was a lane, leading to a small children’s playing field, where a bright plastic slide glowed in the dusk, and swings moved restlessly. Othman looked back at the bungalows. Their gardens were long, but he felt he was still fairly visible from any of the kitchen windows. ‘Here?’ he asked. ‘I’ll get arrested!’

  ‘They won’t see,’ Emilia said. ‘They are blind to most things. Anyway, it won’t take long.’

  Sighing, Othman rolled back his sleeve. His skin shone palely as if lit from within. ‘You must let me concentrate for a moment,’ he said.

  Emilia made a whickering noise. Then he heard her swallow thickly. He turned his back on her. Holding onto his exposed wrist, he summoned his inner energy from the dark abyss: the void, which traversed space and time, and from where essences of power could be called into the present. In some Grigori, this ability and its products were just memories. Othman could feel it now, rushing down the tides of time towards him, crashing into his body, electrifying its fibres. If he turned to the woman now, the sight of his face would burn her. He considered doing that for a moment, then, without turning, offered her his arm. ‘Take it, then.’

  Surely, anyone looking from a window at the back of the bungalows would see him. Light leaked from his clothes, his eyes, irradiating the hunched form of the old woman. He felt her grab his arm, fasten her loose old mouth upon it. She desired to bite, to suck his fluids, but lacked the teeth, fortunately. He did not want to bestow such favours. Instead, she sucked with as much power as her ruined facial muscles could muster: sucked the light from him, the life, from the place where the skin was thin. There were other places, but he would not give her access to them. In the event, she drew blood too, but not much.