“I don't understand,” said Beth, feeling forced to plead her innocence. “What difference does it make if she knows that? Why can't she know everything? Why can't we tell Mum? Does this really need to be so secret that we can't tell our own family?”
Bill stared at Beth and it was intense. He didn't break the glare and she began to grow genuinely scared of him. She saw the vampire hunter and wanted to cower. Finally, he hopped forward and sat down on a bunk, throwing his head into his hands and groaning as if he were having to explain something for the hundredth time. He leaned back, controlled his breathing and the fire in his eyes began to calm.
“Once you're in the Ministry,” he began, “you don't leave. I shouldn't have married your mother. It was selfish and put numerous people in unnecessary danger. All I can do is try and keep that danger at bay. I lie to her, not because I don't care, but because I do care. I didn't want to adopt you; I've already admitted that. There was a good chance you were the very thing I'd spent the previous three years of my life saving my fellow man from.
“But everything happens for a reason. If I hadn't married your mother, God knows where you would've ended up. And without you, I'd still be a Shadow … literally. My son would barely know me, and I can't imagine my life without these people I love.
“It's that family I'm protecting and whom you need to protect too. Do you really want to drag them into this world with you? It's a horrid place. I genuinely can't imagine what you're going through, but I know that if you care about them, Mary included, you can't pull them in.”
“What if Mary wanted to be a part of it?”
“I don't doubt she'd try to help, but just knowing about you puts her in danger. ‘Careless talk costs lives’,” recited Bill of the propaganda poster. “It doesn't apply to just this war.”
“I don't understand,” said Beth.
“There's a delicate balance. It's maintained by the one and only thing we have in common with the revenants: we want them to remain hidden just as much as they do.
“Lets say you tell Mary; even if she doesn't end up putting you in a mental hospital—or end up in one herself—and even if she promises to keep the secret, it only takes one slip-up in the wrong place at the wrong time for things to go rapidly downhill. Best case scenario? People think she's crazy. Worst case?”
The implication was clear; people might believe her. Beth was once again plunged into the darkness of her own despair. She was stuck in a place that she couldn't be her true self—where she would have no option but live a life of deception. Isn't there another way?
But there was. Of course there was.
Beth felt a natural injection of enthusiasm. “I need to find them,” she said.
“Who?”
“My kind. It solves everything.”
But Beth could already see Bill's negativity. “That wouldn't be a good idea.”
Of course you don't think so, she thought. “Why?”
“They're savages, Elizabeth. You haven't been brought up like them. You know nothing of their world.”
“But surely I wouldn't feel any more an outcast than I do now.”
Bill looked to the floor, avoiding her eye contact. “Actually, you most likely would. We speculate that had you not been abandoned, you would have been groomed as a slave. Or worse.”
Beth swore her heart stopped beating. All the taunts that she had to put up with … to discover at least one of them had the potential to be true was the greatest insult of all. “How could you possibly know that?” she asked. As soon as she said the words she remembered what Mary had mentioned earlier. Beth hung her head. “My scars.”
“We think it's a mark branded into those who are to become servants. It could explain why you were abandoned in the first place, after you were turned.”
“Unless I wasn't turned,” said Beth. “Couldn't I have been born a vampire?”
“Unlikely,” said Bill.
“Why?”
“It goes against everything the Ministry believes.”
“Have they never been wrong?”
Bill's silence conveyed the suspicion that Beth might be right, but never had he given up so easily.
“You've already considered it, haven't you?”
“It doesn't matter how you became what you are; it doesn't change the fact that seeking out your kind would be a very bad idea. And trust me, even if you weren't branded you still wouldn't want to be among them.”
It was another dead end for Beth. Another chance of acceptance denied. She crossed her arms and stared at the floor, her self-pity distracting her from the awkward silence that had befallen the shelter.
TWENTY-NINE
September 3rd, 1939.
THE WARMTH OF THE AIR was such that even though it was the middle of the night, Bill knew the next day would be beautiful. He looked forward to it like he looked forward to all Sundays, for it was truly his day of rest. He could almost taste the eggs and bacon.
He had the taxi drop him off at Rotherhithe Station and walked eastward along the main street that followed the curve of the Thames, before it dipped down and around to create the Isle of Dogs. Past the gas works and Albion Dock, past Stave Dock and onward toward the northern side of Lavender Pond. He walked with care in the newly blacked out city of London, to where a small and familiar warehouse awaited. That morning, or rather yesterday morning now that midnight had passed, Bill had opened Davies & Co. Carpenters to find a hand posted note on the mat. It mentioned nothing of what was so important, only that he come to “the usual address” that night.
Unfortunately, it had turned out to be the night that his six-year-old son decided to be violently sick. Bill and his wife stayed up with him, waiting for whatever had gotten into his system to leave so that he could finally drift off to sleep. His adopted daughter had taken the opportunity to try and stay up late, but Bill had put his foot down with her before she even made it out onto the landing. Only when the family ruckus had died down could he leave for another of his midnight walks, for which he had such fondness.
The small warehouse was on the riverside of Rotherhithe Street, just before the Fire Station. He walked around the darkened side of it to the door on the corner and knocked. The viewing slot opened, and though Bill could only see an unidentifiable eye, the guard had obviously recognized him. The slot slid shut and the bulky door opened.
Bill nodded as he passed Mister Cedar. That wasn't his real name … but Mister Willow wasn't Bill's name, either. It was a further measure of protection to never speak each other's true names while on business.
The door boomed shut behind him. “What's this all about, Mister Cedar?”
Cedar shrugged. “I'm only here because Mister Quince wanted backup.” Cedar was indeed the kind of Shadow Minister you'd want for such a duty. He was young and army trained, like all Shadows. He was also the kind of man who you'd say sorry to after he bumped into you.
“Backup?” asked Bill.
“We've got a live one.”
“I wasn't aware we needed a live one.”
“Like I said, I don't know what's going on. Quince is in Room 1.”
The warehouse had been bought outright by the Ministry, though the name would never appear anywhere in print. The internal structure had been modified for their needs. Bill walked to the end of the short corridor and opened a second door into a darkened, wide-open space. Stepping into the body of the warehouse and closing the door behind him, he looked to the structure in the center. The warehouse was about forty by fifty yards, and though it was empty no echo would ever be heard due to the carpet that lined the expanse of the walls. The structure in the middle was about fifteen by twenty yards, and was a simple brick building with two doors on the near side. Above it, the high roof of the warehouse was constructed of corrugated metal, interrupted here and there by faded plastic to act as skylights. It was due to those patches of roof, so dirty you cold barely see through them, that the warehouse was in darkness. With the new blackout regulation
s the roof would create the perfect target. They were pushing their luck as it was with the dim light shining over the door to Room 1.
Room 1 had the shackles, chisels, pliers and hammers … and the blowtorch. Room 2 was filled with medical equipment: scalpels and bone saws, drip-trays and organ-weighing scales. Both were torture rooms.
Bill entered Room 1 and stepped into the partitioned observation section, closing the door behind him. The door to the interrogation cell was shut, and the blind over the large observation window was closed. Mister Quince leaned up against the far wall, the cord of the blind in his hand. Compared to Cedar he was tall and wiry, but still a force to be reckoned with.
“What's going on, Quince?” asked Bill. No Shadow Minister outranked another, but there was a certain unspoken hierarchy of which Bill was near the top, despite his so-called retired status. As such, even though Quince was the kind of guy who thought he knew it all but rarely did, his respect for Bill was clear and his top-dog persona was mostly dormant.
“You still looking for leeches with funny marks?” asked the cocky hunter.
“Their language, yes,” said Bill.
“I ain't too sure it's any language, if you ask me. Don't see how they could come up with something like that. But weird squiggles and lines? Branded into the skin?”
“Yes?” Bill prompted.
Quince pulled on the cord and the blinds whizzed back to the wall. Chained to a bulky steel frame in the middle of the cell was a thing stripped naked. It was facing away from the window. Thick shackles around its ankles and wrists were chained to the far reaches of the room, stretching the creature into a star. Quince had already been having some fun; the creature's body was battered and bruised, and though the blood had long stopped flowing due to its near-instant clotting ability, there had been no lack of trying to bleed the thing to death.
It wasn't the recent injuries that concerned Bill. It was the old ones: a line of scars ran down the creature's spine, six in total and each an equal distance from the next. The highest was on the back of its neck, while the lowest lay at the base of its spine. Each scar was a composition of lines; some straight, some curved, but all within the rough shape of an inverted triangle. Some looked symmetrical, others not so much, but Bill agreed with the Ministry Scholars that they looked like symbols. Rudimentary hieroglyphs. He'd seen this kind of scarring before. Given a piece of paper, an ink well and a pen, he was sure he'd be able to draw the symbols from memory.
They were identical to those on his adopted daughter.
Bill commanded Quince to stay put while he entered the cell-like room, closing the door behind him. He walked around to the front of the bloodied creature that was covered in red gashes. Bill knew how tough their skin was and thus how much effort had been taken to inflict this kind of damage. But the creature was still conscious.
“What are those scars on your back?” he quietly demanded.
The vampire, its hair damp with sweat, lifted its head and looked from under its brow at Bill. Even chained up, it looked dangerous and able to kill with a stare. “Why?” it rasped.
Bill was never prepared for their voice sounding so human. “Because you're going to die, but how painfully is up to you.”
“Mister … ?” it prompted, mocking their Minister codenames.
Bill didn't answer.
“Well, Mister Whoever-you-are, tell me why you want to know, and I'll consider telling you what they are.”
Bill smiled. He'd hoped the son-of-a-bitch-from-hell wouldn't play nice, and he stepped over to the far wall. Liberating a rusty pair of pliers from its hook, he hung his long coat in their place.
“Ah,” said the bloodied creature. “The old pulling-the-tooth-and-nothing-but-the-tooth trick, hey?”
“No,” said Bill. “Not that trick. I recently thought of a new one. You see, I've noticed how you leeches like to keep your nails nice and filed. A bit effeminate if you ask me.” Bill came close to the vampire and reached up, grabbing its hand. They were known to grow their thick nails and then file them down to sharp points, to be used as vicious weapons. With the pliers Bill gripped the nail on the vampire's index finger. “You see? They're so easy to get a hold of when you let them grow so long.”
Bill paused, waiting for the creature to betray his fear, and then tugged down with all his might. The vampire howled in pain as its finger broke under Bill's weight and then its nail squelched away from the flesh. It was rooted in deep and Bill had to oscillate the tugging, almost bouncing, until finally it came out with a squirt of blood that tarnished the floor. Within minutes it would be nothing more than flecks of soot and faint scorch marks. Cleaning up after these torture sessions was a breeze.
The end of the leech's finger dangled and dripped blood for a few seconds before it clotted. Bill inspected the nail he'd just pulled out. Stepping back from the vampire, he held it in the pliers before its eyes. It was breathing heavily and quickly, panting like a dog. Bill threw the inch-long nail to the floor. It, too, would become a dark, brittle ash—eventually. Along with hair, teeth and bones, nails were the most stubborn part of a vampire to decompose.
“Now that's what I call a nail,” said Bill. “And just think, you've got another nine for me to play with.”
The creature said nothing, hanging silently with its deathly stare.
“Okay then,” said Bill with a smile. He stepped up to the other side of the vampire and grabbed the other hand, this time separating out its small finger. After a pause to allow the leech to speak passed silently, Bill tensed and put his weight into it. The vampire's finger cracked and broke, it roared and another bloody nail was thrown to the floor.
After two more fingernails and a thumbnail, Bill was beginning to sweat. He ploughed on and gripped the other thumbnail. The last one took a lot of work to pull out, and more work equaled more pain. He got ready to pull.
“Did you take her?” it asked breathlessly.
Bill paused, released the thumbnail and stepped back. “What did you say?”
“You have her, don't you?” The creature, looking exhausted and close to death, actually smiled at its deduction. Its teeth were red with it's own blood, flowing freely due to its saliva.
“Who?”
“You know who, or you wouldn't be asking about the scars. The symbols.”
Bill took another step back and looked past the vampire at Quince through the window. In the observation area he wouldn't be able to hear anything, but he had been watching with pleasure. Bill returned his attention to the leech. “What do they mean?”
“Is she here? In London?” The leech was smug. Too smug.
“What do they mean?” Bill shouted.
“How would I know?” The leech spoke softly in breathless rasps.
“It's your language!”
“Is it?”
Bill paused. “Why do you have them?”
“You can't brand a traitor,” it said cryptically.
“What?”
“Over time we'd heal from any torture, so if we're naughty we're just banished or killed. That's not control, though. It's a simple punishment, not a threat. So instead our children are branded for our mistakes. My father decided my fate before I was even born, and I've been redeeming myself ever since.”
Bill looked at the vampire in shock at what must surely be lies. “By children, you mean the ones you turn?”
“Do I?”
Bill looked at Quince and saw his smile had gone; he was beginning to suspect something. Bill focused on something the leech had just said. “Redemption?”
The bloodied and battered leech smiled back at him and began to laugh. This creature was in the midst of its redemption.
Bill burst back into the observation room slamming the door behind him. “Where the hell did you get it?”
Quince backed off at Bill's fury. “What?”
“No ‘what’ Quince; where the hell did you find this thing?”
“I-I was on a hunt last night. I spotted it ju
mping from a roof and shadowed it into an empty park. I snared it using a blood bomb.”
“How did you know about the marks?”
“What?”
Bill flinched at Quince who twitched in defense. “H-he wasn't wearing a shirt or anything. I was about to spike the bastard when it rolled over.”
Bill hung his head in his hand, shaking it as he turned his back on Quince, but continued talking like he would to a naughty child. “It didn't strike you as a little odd that a vampire on a hunt would needlessly draw attention to itself by running around naked?”
“It's a leech,” Quince shrugged.
The vampire was laughing so hard now that Bill could just about hear it through the thickened glass. The creature looked skyward.
“Get your bow!” Bill shouted before leaping out through the door into the expanse of the warehouse. “Cedar!” he called. He was about to run over to the entrance corridor when its inner door exploded into a mass of splintered wood. Amongst it flew Cedar's lifeless body, landing on the floor in a shower of splinters. Bill wasted no time retreating to Room 1 where Quince had retrieved an Assault Crossbow from beneath the bench.
“Mine?” Bill asked. Quince looked ashamed as he threw his crossbow to Bill before fumbling under the bench for another of the Ministry-made weapons. Bill pointed to the cell. “Get in there, close the door and watch the roof. If anything, and I mean anything breaches that room, the first thing to die is that chained-up leech. Got it?”
Quince nodded and rushed through the door. Bill could only hope some of the man's top-dog wits had returned to him. Bill took a quiet breath and stepped quietly back out into the open space. Made from hardwood and steel, the Ministry's unique crossbows were an unwittingly elegant weapon. With his right hand on the grip and index finger on the trigger, Bill's left hand gripped the fore stock, which he slowly pulled back as someone would a shotgun. The wire along the top of the stock was pulled, bending the two ends of the prod toward him to create the tension. The small catch in the middle of the string that acted as a hammer clicked into place just behind the back of the nine-inch aluminum bolt.
No Shelter from Darkness Page 22