by Beverley Lee
A tree branch moved in the corner of her vision, suddenly weighted down. The leaves were full and densely green but something jumped about behind them. She stopped brushing and focused her attention on the movement. It was too early for her owls to make an appearance.
The branch bounced and a large black and white bird took flight. It flew towards her and landed on the windowsill, scrabbling for balance on the wood surface. It cocked its head to one side and ruffled its feathers. Beth laughed with glee and reached across to tap the glass. The bird responded with its own rap and cawed. She could see its little black tongue clicking as it opened its dark grey beak. A frown creased her brow. Ella had told her never to open the window by herself. But could it matter? She wasn’t going to climb out or do anything silly. The bird tapped again. It really wanted to play. She unclipped the catch and pushed the sash window up slightly. The wood creaked and she stopped, turning her head to the door. But everyone was downstairs, their muffled voices drifted up from the dining room.
The bird ducked its head under the raised window and blinked a beady eye, then squeezed itself underneath in a flurry of feathers. In the light from her room, the dark part of its plumage carried a sheen of blue-black. It was the most beautiful bird she had ever seen. She held out her hand and it jumped onto her wrist, surprisingly light for such a large creature. Beth sighed softly.
The bird took flight and landed at the side of her half eaten supper. It dug into the remains of her scrambled eggs and toast, tossing morsels into the air and deftly catching them. Beth clasped her hands together, delight lighting up her face
Would Ella let her keep it? She doubted the fastidious housekeeper would approve. A secret, then. Carver had told her secrets were bad things and she mustn’t keep anything from him, but surely a little pet didn’t matter?
***
The chimes of the grandfather clock heralded half past midnight. A light breeze stirred the curtains in Beth Davenport’s room, carrying the scent of the honeysuckle, which crept across the back of the house in curls and tangles.
The house slumbered in darkness, its inhabitants tucked up inside their beds. It had been a very long day and all of them were glad to be saying farewell to it.
Noah slept fitfully in the guest bedroom. The object of his disturbed sleep was spending its last night entombed in its metal prison. Fifteen years ago, he had handed the box to Carver. An innocuous, sodden vessel—but even then, it had felt like it had been vomited from hell. He could still remember the feel of it in his fingers, the way it made his flesh crawl as though a hundred insects were trying to burrow under his skin. Even now, if he was agitated, he would scratch away at his wrists, sometimes until he made them bleed. The marks took months to heal, sometimes scabbing, sometimes bruising deeply.
Gabriel lay curled up in the foetal position, his back against the wall and one hand splayed out across his pillow. The pain of loss cast shadows under his eyes. He had never felt more alone. Even Ollie’s offer to help him gain access to the vault couldn’t plug the empty hole opening up inside.
Olivia hadn’t bothered to change for bed. She lay on top of the covers, legs clad in dark jeans, dreaming of old ghosts engulfed in flames.
Ollie had fallen asleep with his laptop across his knees. It had slid to one side and gone into standby mode, one single blue light pulsing into the darkness. His glasses lay on the bedside table, smeared with fingerprints. Without them, he looked younger, more vulnerable.
Carver wasn’t in the house. He had slipped out after his conversation with Noah, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to rest. Noah had agreed to take the box, but Carver could see that the prospect terrified him. Only the curator’s appeal that Gabe and Beth’s safety might be at stake had convinced him that he had no choice. But what kind of man forces a friend to do something like that?
Carver stood by the ruins of Beth’s farmhouse under the late summer moon. A torch dangled from his hand, its beam casting yellow circles of light onto the ash-covered gravel. He had come to find Stu, which by all accounts was a desperate move, as he didn’t have the gift of ghost sight. Sometimes he questioned the life he had made for himself. Despite all of his knowledge and experience in the paranormal, he didn’t have any talents, only the gift to nurture the bizarre in others.
There was nothing in the burnt-out shell apart from a slice of moonlight carving itself through a gap in the collapsed roof.
The newest guest in The Manor knew all of this. It fluffed out a spray of tail feathers, fluttering its way from room to room checking on each inhabitant and easily slipping into their defenceless, sleeping minds. Beth had made a small nest under the bed from a wicker basket and a red shawl—a kind act from an innocent, childlike soul.
Today it had remembered its name, or the name it had last been known by. Aka Maga, breath of corruption.
Kind of dear Beth to invite me in, it thought. So fitting she should be the one to spark the flame of destruction. This time, it wouldn’t be defeated. It was stronger now—fifteen years stronger—and wiser. It knew the minds of modern men, their strengths and weaknesses. Especially their weaknesses. It had used its time wisely, learning to manipulate minds, to train them to its needs and whims. The pet dog that savaged its master’s child, the endangered species that ate its young, the nurse who turned off a newborn’s incubator—all part of its learning curve in control.
It had licked its wounds over its loss on that snow-filled night, had dwelt on the moment where the priest interrupted its descent into the squalling infant. It had planned and plotted and schemed. It wasn’t only about corrupting the boy; it had a grudge to avenge. The priest, the curator who had meddled into things that didn’t concern him, Beth. It wanted them all to know pain and loss and the great black weight of hopelessness.
And it had such deliciously wicked plans for the boy.
Chapter Thirty-One
On the lawn where Beth had seen little lions gambolling, a tall, dark figure watched the house. Keen eyes, well used to finding their way even without the help of moonlight, scanned the walls. Heat from the day still radiated from the dark red brickwork.
Intrigue had brought him. He knew what this place was and what they did here. He was amused by their dedication, but this amusement tended to be a brief affair. Still, it held enough magnetism to draw his attention whenever he passed by. Tonight, there was a different presence within the walls and it had all the makings of a very entertaining interlude. He smiled, but his eyes showed no mirth. They hadn’t for nearly three hundred years.
He toyed with his options. Sit back and watch what unfolded? Find an entrance and join in the fun? Drive out what dwelt there and take his leave? Many choices, many ways the dice could fall. It was…appealing.
All the darkened windows facing the lawn were open, hoping for the freshness of a night breeze to stir the sticky air. He inclined his head to one side and chose the window on the right, for no other reason than the scent that filtered down from it, to his acute senses.
It was too easy to scramble up the wall, the creeping honeysuckle forming wooden fingers to aid his ascent. The sash window lifted as though it weighed no more than a feather. The figure in the bed remained motionless as his feet touched the floor, noiseless.
It had been a while since he had been inside a modern dwelling, if you could call this place that. Its foundations were older than he was and he respected their seniority. The bed stood against the window wall, the covers kicked back and bunched to one side. It was a tiny space, especially when you were used to constellations as your ceiling. The flotsam of human life lay scattered about the room, but his gaze fell to the pile of books immediately. They were the only thing he really recognized. So, some intelligence in the slumbering mind.
He studied the face half hidden from view. Taut, pale skin and dark brows. The tiniest quivering of an eyelid. The moon’s reflection turned a high cheekbone to marble. Below, a small dimple. Hair that fell across the pillow, the curve of a sharply defined jaw
. Youth personified. A fluttering of something that might have been remembrance stirred in his brain. It had been a long time since he had been this close to something human without regarding it as edible, but he had fed tonight, not from need but from boredom.
Instinct prickled the hair at the nape of his neck. The beasts on the land, the fish in the ocean, and the birds in the sky still carried the same reflex. Only the soft and tender human mammal has lost this vital sense. Outside on the landing, another form of supernatural creature bristled with the same survival instinct.
The door yawned open. Out of the dense darkness, a shape launched itself towards him and halted in mid-air. Its form dissolved into a shapeless swirl of black, a somehow cloying substance, not quite solid and not quite gas. It rose in a menacing pillar. A silent language, old and cracked, emanated from inside, but he understood it, as predators do.
Its threats were malice-ridden and thick with hate. It staked a claim to this house and its occupants, screaming its fury at his interruption. He stood his ground, slamming closed the shield of his thoughts. It had tried to filter into his mind as soon as it had changed its form. Its touch burned into the flesh of his scalp. This was madness—but madness with a purpose, which made it deadly dangerous.
They faced each other whilst Gabriel slept, like two gunslingers, weighing up each other’s weaknesses.
Later, the vampire would stop and contemplate what had drawn him here this night and what battle he had wandered into. A challenge was something he vaguely remembered. It was something he had never walked away from. It wasn’t as if he had any feelings for the human inhabitants, but this entity was a threat to him and to others like him. The thought of his species being ruled by such a being was unthinkable.
It had its dangers, of course, one of which was discovery by the ones who lived here. They would know what he was and possibly have ways to impede or even threaten him, but that thought posed no cause for concern. They were, after all, flesh and blood, and therefore expendable.
He toured the house after his assailant had melted into the shadows. No one had backed down, but no one had made the first move. They were both astute enough to know that the way to beat an enemy is to discover its flaws. He looked in on the boy a little before 6 a.m. The first rays of light brightened the eastern sky and he had no choice but to withdraw to his hiding place. The boy’s face was turned towards the window, his hand raised above his head, resting palm up on his pillow. His fingers curved over his palm, causing his lifeline to deepen. It had many tendrils running from it.
The vampire cupped his hand under Gabriel’s, the soft cotton of the pillowcase slightly warm from the boy’s skin. He closed his fingers so the smaller fist lay completely enclosed in his. It would be sweet to gather up this young bundle and be gone from here before the boy even stirred. A trickle of saliva dripped into his mouth. The blood would be vibrant.
He steeled himself, letting Gabriel’s hand fall back upon its pillow. There was time enough for pleasure, but the greater task was of more importance.
The raised window was the only sign of his presence and he had left that on purpose.
Let the boy wonder.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Gabe awoke with a start.
Outside his window, birds chattered, a light breeze wafted his curtains and the sun stole in through the gap. Another perfect late-summer dawn. He sat up and rubbed his right hand. It felt cold and a little numb. His half-awake brain told him that he must have slept on it all night.
The house was still quiet. He squinted at his phone and groaned. 6.40 a.m. This was stupid early. He contemplated pulling the covers over his head and going back to sleep, but his mind had dived into the day, juggling the contents of yesterday around like a clown spinning plates.
The link to his old life had gone up in smoke, which had to be the kicker of all ironies. Olivia’s actions had pried open the old scars, found the tender tissue underneath, and sprinkled a liberal amount of salt into the wound. All of his ridiculous childhood dreams of taking his mother back to their home after vanquishing the demon seemed just that—the daydreams of a child. Did it really matter anymore if he found something in the vault? Like hell it did. He still had a score to settle. It irked him more than he was willing to admit that Carver had never really come up with anything concrete. I mean, the guy was one of the top professionals in his field, so why did he seem willing to file it all away as a cold case?
Ollie had agreed to help him, which was a definite plus point, but he knew his friend wouldn’t take any more risks than he had to. The timing would have to be right—and that could take months. Gabe decided then and there he wasn’t prepared to wait that long.
He pulled on a pair of jeans and a creased t-shirt he scooped from the floor. Running a hand through his hair, he padded barefoot to the door. The birds were in full chorus and the swallow chicks incessant as they demanded breakfast. They were louder than normal. Gabe stopped and spun round, his mouth dropping open. There was a reason he could hear them better; his window was nearly fully open. And he knew that he hadn’t done it.
An agonised screech hit him right between the eyes. Gabe half stumbled to the window and looked out. A picture-perfect morning with barely a cloud in the sky and the sun, still rising, like liquid gold. Down on the lawn and beneath the cherry tree, a large magpie held something down with one of its taloned feet. A swallow chick.
Gabe shouted and waved his arms, but the bird ignored him. He shouted again, this time louder, and grabbed a trainer from the floor. His aim wasn’t spot on but it was near enough to scare away any bird he had ever known. But this one merely ruffled its feathers and fixed him with a glassy stare—before delivering death to the hapless chick. One for sorrow…
A wave of nausea rose in Gabe’s throat. He pulled down the window hard enough to cause the glass to rattle, but still the bird continued to feast. It pulled a long, pink trail of tissue from the small belly of its prize and he gagged. Gabe only just made the bathroom. The tiles were cold under his feet as he cupped his hand beneath the sink faucet, and splashed his face. He wasn’t normally squeamish, but there was something about the way the bird had acted that unnerved him.
He contemplated waking Ollie, but decided he wasn’t in the mood for talking. The house was rarely this quiet. Or maybe he was rarely up early enough to enjoy it. He padded down the stairs, the carpet soft under his feet.
He knew where he was heading, but with each step, a niggling uncertainty grew. For close on a year, a seed inside him had sprouted and then grown roots. He couldn’t pinpoint an exact moment in time when everything felt different; he just woke up one morning, knowing he couldn’t resist the growing need to find out why. But now, the time had come to actually put his plan into action. Could he do it? Truth be told, he didn’t have a plan, only a daydream that he would a) discover something everyone else had missed and b) have the knowledge/balls to put it into action.
In the kitchen, the dishes from last night were where Ollie and he had dumped them. Ella must really be in a strop if she hadn’t cleared them by now. The congealed remains of the casserole reminded Gabe about the magpie and he shuddered. The inside of his mouth was coated with the disgusting fur of throwing up. He poured a glass of orange juice from the fridge. It was so quiet he could hear himself swallowing. He felt strange, like someone had pulled him out of his normal life and dropped him inside another that looked the same, but wasn’t. He couldn’t remember a time when nearly everyone was at war with each other.
The grandfather clock chimed the hour and Gabe jumped, dropping the glass. It hit the tiles and smashed into a million pieces. He swore under his breath, clenching his teeth in frustration. Maybe he should have stayed in bed.
Ella kept all her cleaning supplies in the boot room, a small square annex off the main kitchen. It also housed another entrance door to the cellar where she kept surplus jars of jams and preserves on shelves built under the stairs. When Gabe was little, he’d had to weigh
up his need for another jar of gooseberry with his fear of what might be down there, even though Ella’s side of the cellar was well lit and shielded from the main part by the wall forming the old coal bunker. There were air holes in the bricks where you could just about peer through, if you were brave enough.
The door was slightly ajar.
He paused. No one really went down there but Ella. His sticky feet clung to the tiles as though they didn’t want him to open it. Hooking a finger around the edge of the door, he eased it back. A cold draught met his face, ruffling his hair. He listened, holding his breath.
‘Ella?’ His voice echoed through the dark void below.
The reasoning side of his brain told him it was an old door with an old catch, it had simply sprung open. He should be cleaning up the mess in the kitchen before Ella appeared. Trouble didn’t have to be looked for; it was lying right behind him in a puddle of juice and glass shards.
He rested his palm against the door. A fraction of a second before his brain told his muscles to push it shut, there was a noise. Stock still, and with one foot lifted slightly off the floor, he listened, honing that one sense. It was the unmistakably electronic click of the vault door whirring into life.
Who the hell was down there at this time?
Very carefully, Gabe pulled open the door again. If he wanted to find out what was going on, he would have to go down the steps in the dark. Whoever was in the main part of the cellar hadn’t put the overhead lights on.
Irrational childhood fear froze him to the spot. Going down into the cellar had been the one thing that had truly scared him when he was little. Carver had once told him that everyone fears something, but it was the mind that fed it. ‘Get a grip. Get a grip.’ The whispered words clogged at the back of his throat. He forced one foot down. The first few steps were visible in the light from the boot room, but the rest were swallowed whole by the darkness.