The Making of Gabriel Davenport

by Beverley Lee

  Her head throbbed with exertion. From somewhere, she thought she heard a voice call her name. She clasped her hands over her head and dug her fingers into her scalp. Her head jerked up as a voice, muffled by rain, came from outside. A sob caught in her throat.

  A tapping on the windscreen and then a shout for her attention.

  Covering her face, she did as she was told. A sharp rap and the glass collapsed. Through her fingers, she saw fragments littering the dash and the ruddy, concerned face of Tom Jacobson. A few pieces hit her jean-clad thighs. They sparkled like diamonds in his torch beam. His head was covered in a bright yellow sou’wester, the kind fishermen use, and water dripped from its rim.

  ‘Well, Miss Olivia, looks like you got yourself in a spot of bother. Are you hurt?’ His eyes scanned her face, the deep lines across his brow creasing.

  ‘I think I’m okay...’ It was all she managed to get out before, to her horror, her eyes filled with tears.

  Tom reached down and touched her shoulder then curled his large hand around her wrist. ‘Hang onto my arm and I’ll pull you out. It’s not the weather for man or beast to be out in this.’ His voice was gruff, but kind. Her lower lip trembled. Grasping his arm with both hands, she found something solid to rest her foot on. And with a strength that came from working the land for fifty years, he yanked her through the gap where her windscreen had been onto the soaking and slippery ditch side. His vehicle was parked at the top, its yellow hazard lights flashing, casting little beacons in the night.

  Tom pushed her up the slope as though she was a stray sheep who had wandered off, but Olivia didn’t care. Relief had turned her legs to jelly. Rivulets of rain ran down the hill and the wind tunnelled through the trees, swaying their canopies dangerously.

  Tom opened the passenger side door, holding it firm against the wind as she climbed in. The inside of the old 4x4 smelled of dusty hay and new tobacco but that didn’t matter either. It was warm and dry. Her hands shook as she clasped them together on her stomach.

  ‘Tom, can you take me to The Manor? There’s something really important I have to tell Noah.’ Her words came out in a long garble, each one running into the next.

  He started the engine and pulled out, glancing at her from underneath his dripping hat.

  ‘And thank you. Thank you so much.’

  A little smile curled from the side of his mouth.

  ‘No one’s going anywhere down that lane. There’s trees down all over. Heard that it might have been a tornado.’

  He grunted and she found a smile; Tom Jacobson was not the sort of man who believed things like that happened in England. ‘You’ll come back to mine and we’ll try and phone, although I doubt the lines have held up. In any case, you’ll be warm and dry and fed.’

  For once in her life, Olivia didn’t argue.

  The windscreen wipers of the old 4x4, even on double speed, did little to sweep the deluge of rain from the glass, but Tom didn’t seem to notice. He’s like a homing pigeon, she thought, running on instinct.

  The sticky stuff on her face was blood from a small but deep cut at her hairline, but apart from this and a tender shoulder and hip, she had survived with nothing broken. At least something had gone her way today. The night clung outside like it was never going to give in. She was tired—bone tired—and found her head nodding as Tom pulled into the farmyard.

  A light burned bright in the kitchen, the only glow in a landscape of grey gloom. From inside, a dog barked a welcome. A wet nose and a flurry of tail-wagging greeted her. The range filled the room with warmth and a little of the tension fell out of her shoulders. Tom disappeared upstairs whilst she looked around. In the centre of the kitchen and taking up most of the floor space stood an old table with a gnarled pine top, surrounded by six mismatched chairs with chintzy seat cushions. On top sat a vase of slightly wilted flowers and a farming magazine. A painted Welsh dresser with rows of china plates and a small stack of jams stood in the alcove near the door.

  The clump of feet on the stairs announced Tom’s return. In his hands he had a towel, a quilted dressing gown, and a hand-knitted jumper. He held them out and she thought a slight blush rose in his cheeks, even with his ruddy complexion. The dog settled at his feet, its head raised in expectation.

  ‘I couldn’t find anything modern, but this will have to do. You can put your jeans in the tumble dryer through there.’ He pointed behind him. ‘Come, Jip. Time we did our last rounds.’ Jip bounced to his feet. Only a dog would be excited about going out in this weather.

  ‘I’ll be about ten minutes,’ said Tom. ‘You can put that pot of soup on to heat whilst I’m gone.’

  Olivia sat in the strange kitchen, listening to the wind howling around the barn. She knew that if she put her head down on the table she would be instantly asleep, but she had to keep going. Stripping out of her wet things, she towelled her hair and wiped away the mud. It felt really odd standing there nearly naked, with the possibility that Tom could walk in any second. He had told her ten minutes, probably to let her know she had privacy for that amount of time. She wondered if checking things took that long, or would he be standing under an overhang, mentally ticking off the minutes. The thick jumper drowned her, falling to mid-thigh. At least that saved her from having to wear the hideous pink dressing gown.

  Throwing her wet things in the tumble dryer, she cranked it up to high and flicked the switch. A plastic wash basket stood on top of the washing machine, filled with a jumble of clean work shirts and socks. Rifling through, she found a pair of woollen socks and pulled them on. Ollie would fall about laughing if he could see her now. An almost physical pang came from her chest. She had to get in touch with him. He would be worried sick. All of the drama of the morning seemed far away and of little importance. She would have given anything to be back at The Manor having an argument with Carver right now.

  Padding through to the kitchen, she twiddled a few knobs until the burner lit under the soup and she leaned against the range, rubbing one socked foot on top of the other. Wafting up from under the lid came the satisfying smell of chicken soup.

  The outside door rattled and about thirty seconds later, Tom came in with Jip at his heels. He took off his coat and hat and shook them. Jip took that for a sign and shook too, spraying water all over the floor.

  She looked back, still stirring the soup and smiled. Tom was staring at her with his mouth slightly agape and there was an awkward silence. Jip broke it by barking and sitting at her feet, his head cocked to one side with his tongue hanging out.

  Tom rubbed his eyes and took two bowls down from a cupboard. ‘He’s asking for his supper. Jip has a liking for chicken soup.’

  Olivia pursed her lips as she continued to stir. Should dogs eat things like that?

  ‘You took me by surprise, Miss Olivia. It was as if the clock had been turned back forty years and it was my Betty standing there.’

  She mentally kicked herself for not asking about Betty, who she knew from bits of overheard conversation wasn’t well at all. ‘Is she upstairs?’

  ‘No. She goes to her sister’s twice a week and stays over. Maureen has got lots of time and patience.’ He brought the bowls across and took a ladle down from the hood of the range. ‘I can’t be here for her when I have to do chores and keep the business ticking over.’

  She watched through a haze of steam as he ladled two generous portions into each bowl and glanced away as his jaw started to tremble.

  Tom brought a hunk of bread from the pantry as she sat. He tore off a corner and handed it to her. ‘No airs and graces in this house. Just good food.’

  If that wasn’t permission to dunk then what was? She pulled her hair over one shoulder and dipped her spoon into the creamy broth. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tom dip a chunk of bread about the size of her hand into his soup.

  ‘Tom, I really need to make that phone call after we’ve eaten.’

  He continued to dunk the rest of his bread before answering. ‘I checked whe
n I fetched those clothes. The lines are down. Even the mobile isn’t working. It’s this confounded weather.’

  She sipped some of her soup before diving in as her stomach came to life. They ate in silence for a few minutes, punctuated only by the lashing of the rain against the window.

  ‘I need to ask a huge favour then. I need you to take me somewhere—to St Jude’s. Can you do that?’

  He stopped eating and studied her face. She could feel his eyes scrutinising every gesture she made.

  ‘Is this to do with what happened all those years ago with Beth and young Gabriel?’

  She nodded, not trusting her voice or her ability to make any sense if he demanded an explanation.

  Tom stared out of the window and the cords in his neck tightened.

  If he said no, she wasn’t sure what she was going to do.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Despite the horror of once again being pulled close to what he now knew was a vampire, Gabe clung on tightly. Folds of the cloak covered him, but occasionally he caught glimpses of trees moving past far too quickly—like a plane just before take-off.

  His mind tried to process his newfound knowledge but it refused to fully accept the facts Clove had told him. There weren’t any synapses in the brain for dealing with stuff like this. But here he was, hanging onto something that had been dead for hundreds of years. Fear crawled into his throat. Why had he agreed to Clove’s proposition? Because he was right out of options.

  Their chase slowed. The rustling of leaves came from underfoot and Gabe knew they must be in some kind of wood, but his sense of direction was skewed. Finally, Clove came to a halt and dropped his hold. The rain seemed finer here; the canopy of trees forming some protection, but it was pitch black. Gabe stretched out his arms and took a tentative step forwards.

  ‘Stay there.’ Clove’s voice was farther away than Gabe expected—he was no longer by his side. Gabe couldn’t decide if he was more scared with Clove near or far away. He desperately needed to piss. That act hadn’t been on his list of priorities all day.

  A small, flickering light flared in the darkness. It drew closer and he could see the outline of Clove and a doorway. The light, though feeble, cast shadows on the stone walls around it.

  Clove sighed. ‘Relieve yourself.’

  ‘You said you wouldn’t read my mind,’ Gabe blurted out the words without thinking.

  ‘I didn’t. Your stance tells me more than thoughts.’

  A flush of colour rose in his cheeks. He found the nearest tree. Clove’s eyes drilled into his back as the hot stream crackled on the dry leaves below. After what seemed like an eternity, he stumbled back, groping his way up the worn stone steps.

  Clove knelt in the crypt, one hand holding a small candle and one splayed out on the floor. His eyes were shut, and in the flickering light, the bones of his skull seemed to be pressing through his skin.

  Gabe shuddered. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Clove got up, a fluid movement seemingly uninfluenced by the movement of bone or muscle. He licked the end of his finger and thrust the stub of candle at him. ‘For your benefit.’ He paused. ‘It appears we have another problem. The two fledglings under my care are missing. They wouldn’t dare to leave if something catastrophic hadn’t occurred. And there is blood on the floor, human blood.’

  Gabe’s mouth fell open. ‘There are more of you?’ His mind catapulted off into all of the fiction he had read and movies he had seen where vampires live in covens. But Carver had always said that the truth of anything paranormal would be so far from the Hollywood ideal that it would be hard to see any similarities.

  ‘Of course. Did you think I was a single anomaly? They are under my protection until they can prove to me they can fend for themselves.’

  Gabe wondered who the unfortunate human had been. Someone out walking, caught by the storm and searching for shelter.

  ‘But there isn’t any trace of the human, I mean apart from the blood?’ The candle dripped wax onto his finger but he barely felt it.

  ‘So you think we eat all of our prey?’ The faintest hint of a smile played on Clove’s lips.

  ‘No...no...well...I don’t know.’ Gabe was trying very hard not to upset any equilibrium he had managed to forge but when you can’t see the line it’s hard not to cross it.

  ‘We only have need for the blood, so this person may have left these walls alive. They are what we call renegades. Such aberrations are rare and exist only for hours, locked in their own madness.’

  Gabe shifted uncomfortably at the thought.

  ‘So why are we here? Did you get a message from one of your...fledglings?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions, Master Davenport.’

  ‘Sorry...it’s the only way to learn. But I’ll stop, if you want.’ There he was again, rocking the little boat they were sailing on. And the sea was deep and cold and dark.

  ‘No, you do not have to stop. It is a long while since I conversed with someone human. I had forgotten that your knowledge is basic. I did not get a message as such, but something is amiss...’ Clove’s words trailed off as he fixed his eyes on the blackness outside.

  Two figures emerged from the forest. Gabe held the candle in front of him as if it was some kind of weapon. He moved closer to Clove.

  Tentatively, the figures approached—two boys, maybe around his age. Both were filthy. One cowered behind the other with his head down.

  ‘Explain.’ Clove’s voice was icy, controlled. Despite Clove’s proximity, Gabe’s legs trembled.

  The young vampire in front brushed his dirty hair back from his face. His eyes fixed on Gabe for an instant.

  ‘Please don’t blame Teal. It was me. I took him outside. But I had to, she came from nowhere and she was bleeding...’

  Gabe’s heart lurched. The young vampire’s eyes fell on him again and Gabe knew he had felt it too.

  ‘Did you feed from her?’ This time, there was no mistaking the anger in Clove’s voice.

  Neither one of the young vampires spoke. Gabe saw two piercing blue-green eyes appear for a second and then they were gone.

  They drew nearer and fell to their knees on the stone steps.

  ‘Don’t hurt Teal. He can’t help how he is.’

  ‘Do not tell me what I can or cannot do, Moth. You both broke the rules.’

  The one called Teal kept his eyes fixed on the floor. His shoulders were trembling.

  Clove motioned for Moth to stand.

  Gabe hugged one arm around his body, digging his fingers into the flesh above his elbow. He had no reason to believe the human had been Beth, except for a terrible instinct that churned in his gut.

  Clove grabbed a fistful of Moth’s hair and pulled his head back, exposing a pale column of neck. He lowered his face until it nearly touched Moth’s then grasped his throat with his other hand. ‘You are lucky that there are much more important things for me to do than punishing you.’ Teal whimpered at their feet. ‘I will warn you now: Gabriel here is very much out of bounds. If either of you so much as look at him the wrong way, I will tear out your throats without a second thought.’

  Moth’s eyes bulged in his head as Clove’s fingers dug a little deeper, and then released.

  Gabe watched in fascinated horror. His thoughts did cartwheels in his head. Part of him wanted to ask about the woman, but a bigger part didn’t. He might fall apart if he found out Beth was dead.

  ‘I fear we may have underestimated what wants you, Gabriel. It knows us all far too well. We need to get you to the house. Splitting everyone up seems to be its battle plan—and one it has succeeded with rather well. I’m going to throw you back in; you’re the prize and I want to draw it out.’

  Clove put his hand on Gabe’s shoulder, just as the candle fizzled out. ‘I promise you that if the demon succeeds in entering your body, I will kill you myself.’

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Angry flashes of lightning pulsed behind clouds and the moon
hung, fat and late summer ripe, in the sky. For now, the storm had calmed.

  Beth dragged her feet through the wet grass. She felt strange; a sensation beyond tiredness had overtaken her limbs, masking even the chill, which went right through to her bones. Maybe she should have stayed in the little house with the boys. Did she know them? It was all too confusing. They weren’t much older than the boy in the manor house, Gabriel, but they were very dirty. Ella wouldn’t like them. But they seemed to know her, by the way they’d snuggled close and kissed her skin.

  They had been frightened at first, cowering against the wall, but soon the blonder one had broken free and tip-toed across, taking one step forwards, then two back as though he was afraid of her. She had called to him, opening her arms, because no one should be scared. He had come willingly then, and she had wrapped her arms around his cold body, smoothing back his hair as he nuzzled against her. The dusty-haired boy hesitated longer, only approaching as a sudden exhilaration made her gasp, not quite in pleasure and not quite in pain.

  Did she sleep after that? She wasn’t sure. But when she opened her eyes, they had gone and she’d felt cold, so cold.

  The trees all looked the same as she searched for a path. She followed one blindly until she came to a wooden stile. An owl hooted nearby and she raised her head, hoping it was Secret. The stile proved difficult to climb, her foot felt heavy and kept slipping on the wet wood step. After a few failed attempts, she gave up and followed the fence as it led downhill. In the distance, the lights of The Manor twinkled like an oasis in the darkness.

  Her chest hurt, a tightness that made breathing hard, and she couldn’t feel her fingers or her toes. When she got home she would be told off for going out without a jacket. Her lower lip trembled. She couldn’t even remember why she had left in the first place.

  Her throat constricted and she had to stop every few steps, but every time she did, a wave of nausea wracked her body and she doubled over, a thin, sticky film of liquid dribbling from her lips. She must be very sick.