by Helen Harper
‘The Whispering Gallery at St Paul’s Cathedral at midday.’
I curl my fingers into tights fists. Shit. That’s not a good time for a newbie vampire like me. ‘You can’t go,’ I say, my mind racing. If I left now, there would be enough time for me to get to St Paul’s before dawn then it’s a simple matter of hiding out until the appointed hour. I won’t be able to track Lisa’s alleged kidnappers but I’ll be able to identify them. That’s a start at least.
‘I have to go,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘If I don’t, they’ll know something is up. Why else did we do all this in the first place? I’ve found nothing about them on the net, either with or without the tree image. If you want to know more about them, I have to go.’
‘What happened to not doing any fieldwork?’ I ask.
‘This is for you. It’s completely different.’
‘No, it’s not. I’m not putting you in any danger.’
‘It’s a meeting in one of the busiest tourist spots in the city, Bo. I’m hardly going to be in danger.’
‘That’s probably what Lisa Johnson thought,’ I say drily.
‘We don’t know that she’s in danger.’
True. It doesn’t matter though. I’ve already put Rogu3 on their radar; there’s no need to push the issue any further. ‘Your parents would kill me. You’ve barely recovered from the last time. You’re not going.’
‘Bo…’
‘Enough,’ I say sternly.
‘There’s no choice.’
I pop my head round and glance at O’Shea. Kimchi has plopped himself on his lap and his weight is making the daemon’s face turn red. ‘There’s always a choice,’ I say with a half grin. ‘In fact, I’ve got the perfect solution.’
***
St Paul’s doesn’t open its doors to sightseers until late in the morning but it does permit entry for morning prayer at a far earlier hour. Vampires aren’t encouraged to attend. A church, even one on such a grand scale as St Paul’s, doesn’t actually forbid us from entering, after all they’re not residential properties, but that doesn’t mean we are welcome. There are no anti-vamp alarm systems – that would make the unfriendliness far too obvious – so as long as O’Shea’s glamour holds, I shouldn’t have a problem getting in.
I will have an issue if Tov V’ra want to go for a wander outside. Sunrise is less than an hour away. Despite the season, the clear sky suggests that it’s going to be a glorious day. I can’t even count on typically English cloud cover to get me through.
With five hours to kill before the meeting, I take advantage of the prayer ceremony. It’ll be a good opportunity to test out how I look.
O’Shea grumbled a great deal when he disguised me as Rogu3, telling me that it’s one thing to create a glamour of someone who’s a similar shape and build, and quite another when there’s at least a foot difference. I pointed out that he managed to create a glamour for himself that included breasts, so an extra bit of height shouldn’t be too difficult. All the same, it’s a strain for him to do it. He’s no witch.
As I stroll inside, I realise why such glamours aren’t more common. For one thing, it’s damn uncomfortable. Every inch of my skin is prickling and I have to make a conscious effort to keep my arms battened down by my sides so that I don’t scratch myself all over like a deranged creature covered in hives. For another thing, it’s bloody awkward to walk. With Rogu3’s physical mask covering my body, I feel as if I’m about to tip over. I’m forced to take small steps and my head swims. Perhaps it’s the altitude.
An elderly gentleman who, despite his advanced age, is able to overtake me, peers at me. ‘Are you alright, son?’
I try to smile and my mouth feels as if it’s cracking wide. I give him a brief nod and remind myself to take care when speaking. O’Shea’s skills at magicking glamour don’t extend to the voice box. It’s going to prove problematic – but not insurmountable. I croak, allowing my voice to come out as little more than a hoarse whisper. It’s not perfect but it’ll do.
‘Flu,’ I say.
He quickly withdraws, concern for an anonymous teenager overtaken by fear of germs. I wait for him to get some distance ahead of me then struggle up the aisle towards the small Middlesex chapel where morning prayers are held. I eventually grab a spot in a pew far back from the action.
The short service is surprisingly well-attended. There are quite a lot of smartly dressed people, no doubt on their way to work and taking advantage of the detour to pray for their sins. I also spot some tourists and entertain myself by guessing at their nationalities.
I’m just debating over a blond-haired couple, laying bets as to whether they are Scandinavian or German, when someone pushes past me and settles down next to me, so close that our thighs are touching. I give an involuntary grimace. I had perched right at the very end of the pew to avoid this very situation. Despite the number of people here, this is a damn cathedral – there are plenty of other places to sit. Now I have the choice of getting up and moving or being squashed into the uncomfortable wooden armrest. The former will only draw attention to me, so I decide to suffer in silence, although I throw an irritated look at my unwelcome companion. I’m playing the part of a teenager, so I figure I can get away with it. When I realise that I’m sitting next to a witch – and one who is proudly displaying both black and white on her cheeks – my resolve goes out of the window. I can’t be in such close proximity to one of those things.
I start to rise, just as the organ music stops abruptly and the minister appears. He catches sight of me and frowns, gesturing at me to sit down. On any other occasion I’d have ignored his silent command but I can’t afford to be examined too closely. I curse to myself and do as I’m told.
‘Sweetie?’ the woman asks, pushing a wrapped humbug in my direction and garnering me another frown from the minister.
I shake my head. Leave me alone. Just keep quiet and give me peace. She shrugs and noisily unwraps one, popping it into her mouth and sucking it with more fervour than even Kimchi would manage.
‘I’m Doris,’ she mumbles.
Good grief. This is supposed to be prayer time, not ‘meet a stranger and chat to them’ time. I force a smile and keep my eyes trained ahead.
‘It’s good to see a young person caring so much about prayer,’ she continues. ‘I don’t normally come on weekdays myself but after what happened last night I told myself, Doris, you have to do something. You can’t let those bloodguzzling monsters have all the power.’
Help me.
‘That Medici isn’t too bad,’ she continues, completely ignoring the fact that everyone else’s heads are now bowed as the minister leads the prayers. ‘At least he’s keeping his freaks in line. Did you see the rest of them though? Staring at him as if they wanted to murder him?’ She tuts to herself. ‘It’s just not on. They need to be stopped. That Montserrat Lord is the worst of them. Uses his greasy good looks to act as if he’s all noble. Well, I can tell you that he’s not.’
I grunt non-committally, wondering if it’s possible for this to get even worse. I try to turn away from her, to cross my legs and use my body language, if not my mouth, to make it clear that I want her to shut the fuck up and leave me alone. That’s when I remember I’m supposed to be male. That gives me an idea.
I open my legs ever so slightly. Without realising it, the witch shifts over an inch. I open my legs wider, splaying them out more and more. She keeps moving until my legs are fully apart: I’m giving every appearance of a man asserting his dominance by displaying his junk to the world. I feel ridiculous but it works. The witch barely seems to notice. She just keeps chattering away, ignoring the reason why we’re all supposed to be here.
‘They don’t expect us to fight back,’ she informs me. ‘That’s the problem. Those devil worshippers think we’re going to meekly accept them as our lords and masters.’ She snorts. ‘Well, they’re in for a surprise. One day they’ll get their come-uppance, just you wait and see.’ She seems to take my silence as agreem
ent. She nudges my side and beams. ‘You seem like a sensible lad. You wouldn’t let one of them get the better of you. Neither would I.’
A worshipper a few rows in front turns round and throws her an evil look and hushes her. Doris flips her middle finger. My mouth drops open. That was the last thing I expected in a place like this, even from a witch.
‘Tight arse,’ she mutters. She nudges me again. ‘I can tell you agree.’ She drops her voice. ‘Don’t let on to anyone, but I’m more dangerous than any of this lot realise. In fact, I gave them guzzlers what for just last week. Guess what I did?’ Her smile stretches so wide I think her face is going to crack. ‘Go on, guess.’
I grunt. Please, please, shut up.
She points to her cheeks. ‘I’m a witch, see?’
No shit. I look like a teenager, I don’t look like I’m blind. Or act like I’m half-witted.
‘I cast a spell,’ she informs me triumphantly. ‘Any guzzler comes into my neighbourhood, they’re going to be surprised.’ She lets out a cackle which makes even more people turn and glare at her. The minister, who was keen enough to frown at me, simply lets her get on with it. She’s obviously a regular and probably often does this kind of thing. Hell, he’s probably terrified of her. She jabs her elbow in my ribs again. ‘Yep, one of them vampires comes into my street and they’re going to be sick in their own mind. It’s an old hex passed down through my coven. They’ll take that sickness and go crazy. They’ll go back to where they belong and won’t be able to help themselves. They’ll end up attacking their own.’ She leans back with a self-satisfied smirk. ‘They won’t know what hit them.’
I slowly turn my head to look at her. Hexes are notoriously unstable, much like this witch seems to be. It’s as likely to affect a human as it is a vampire. Either way, if it works even slightly, it could cause a lot of damage. This witch is as stupid as she acts. Unfortunately, there’s pretty much only one way to get rid of hexes. Even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t be able to remove it.
The minister finishes up, bowing his head while everyone starts to file out. That felt like the longest twenty minutes of my life. I wait until the rest have gone then stand up and politely step to one side to allow the witch to go ahead of me. She pats me on the arm. ‘You’re a good boy. Maybe I’ll see you here again tomorrow.’
The one thing I’m absolutely sure of is that she won’t. I nod to the minister, who takes the chance to finally bestow a smile on me, then follow on her heels. I’m not going to let her out of my sight.
Early sunlight is already trickling in from the vast stained-glass windows but it’s easy enough to dodge. When it’s clear that the witch is going to leave straightaway, without taking any detours, I make a decision.
‘Excuse me,’ I ask her, as huskily as possible while pointing off to my left, ‘but what’s that?’
‘The crypt, of course!’ she says, staring at me as if I’m mad. ‘Haven’t you been here before?’
I shake my head. Come on witch, I think to myself. You know you want to.
‘You won’t be able to get down there for another hour,’ she says. ‘It’s closed off to the public till then.’
I look as disappointed as I can. Thankfully it works. She casts her eyes around, registers that we’re alone and gives me a conspiratorial grin.
‘I’m here all the time. They won’t bother me if I go down with you to take a quick peek.’ She waggles her finger at me. ‘We can’t be long, mind.’
I gaze at her admiringly. In response, she pats her hair and preens. Apparently the less I say the better. I’ll have to remember that.
With one final look around to make sure we’re in the clear, we trot over to the crypt’s entrance. I estimate there will be less than ten minutes before the cathedral staff come to get ready for the day’s many visitors. I’ll have to act quickly.
I use the suggestion of Rogu3’s long legs to keep the pace fast. The truth is that it’s remarkably hard for me to manage. I’m virtually running down the corridor, all the while looking like I’m out for nothing more than a gentle stroll.
‘That’s Lord Nelson,’ Doris says, pointing to an ornate sarcophagus. ‘He was a good man,’ she sighs. ‘He didn’t like bloodguzzlers either.’
‘No,’ I say, using my normal voice and enjoying the look of confusion, then alarm that spreads across her features. ‘But you know what his last words were, don’t you, Doris?’
‘You…’ she stammers. ‘You…’ She turns on her heel to flee but I grab her arm and hold her fast. She starts to chant a spell but there’s no time for her to complete it and she knows it. If she had been prepared for such an attack, she might have had some success but she’s not as good a witch as she likes to make out. I twist her arm and she squeals in pain, the sound echoing down the empty crypt.
‘Come on, Doris,’ I coax. ‘What were Nelson’s last words?’
She gasps, still trying in vain to free herself.
My eyes dance. ‘I might let you go if you get them right.’
‘Kiss me,’ she yelps. ‘Kiss me, Hardy!’
I shrug. ‘Alright then. My name is Bo though.’ Then just as the fear in her expression changes to outright terror, I let my fangs lengthen and I sink them deep into her papery skin, piercing through to the overly sweet blood underneath.
I have no intention of letting her live. It’s not just because her stupid spell is targeting bloodguzzlers; it’s that it could go wrong and affect all manner of people. That’s what I tell myself as I drain her completely dry, leaving little more than a husk behind. When I’m done I lift up her almost weightless body and take her to Nelson’s sarcophagus. It would be the ideal hiding place if it weren’t sealed shut. There’s no way even my vampiric strength is going to get the thing open. In the end I’m forced to take her to a lesser-known tomb where I slide the heavy stone aside and throw her in.
I apologise to the body inside. Hopefully Hubert Cruickshank, whoever he was, won’t have to spend the rest of eternity listening to her prattle on. I return the stone to its original position, dust off my palms and leave.
Chapter Seventeen: Premature Ejaculation
I wasn’t lying to pathetic, dead Doris. I’ve lived in London all my life and I don’t think I’ve ever been to St Paul’s Cathedral before, unless it was on some long-forgotten school trip. I suppose that’s what happens when you live in close proximity to lots of places of interest; when they’re right on your doorstep, you never bother to visit them because, well, they’re always there. It’s a different story when you’re on holiday when you pack in as many landmarks as you possibly can.
I spend half the morning trailing around after groups who have probably seen far more London sights in their three-day-two-night stays than I have in a lifetime. I wonder for a moment whether my grandfather has been here, then quickly quash the thought.
When noon approaches, I make my way up to the Whispering Gallery. It’s almost the perfect place for this kind of meeting; there are remarkably few hiding spots this high up. The gallery visitors may be watched constantly by the frescoes of watchful saints but there’s nowhere for a surreptitious tail to eye their quarry without being seen.
I suppose it would be possible to watch from the ground. Edging over, there’s a remarkable view of the cathedral below but it’s a long way down. Even if someone did hang around and peer upwards for any length of time, they wouldn’t see much – although they’d get a damn sore neck for their efforts. As for the much-vaunted whispers – the ability to whisper into the wall and for it be heard round the other side of the gallery – that feat is next to useless as well. There are too many people doing exactly that so that what occurs is a mesh of woven whispers, too many to be distinct.
I shrug and act like the teenager I’m supposed to be, pasting on a sullen look and hanging myself over the balustrade with my mobile phone in my hand.
Whoever the Tov V’ra group actually are, they are certainly punctual. Bang on midday, someone appears by my side. The
action is too deliberate to be a coincidence. I don’t look at them; instead I concentrate on my game of virtual Sudoku.
‘All these people,’ my new companion murmurs, ‘scurrying around with wide eyes taking selfies instead of focusing on what’s right in front of them. As a nation, we’ve become blind to reality.’
It’s the kind of opener designed to fully engage a disaffected teenage hacker. I maintain my slumped stance; it wouldn’t do to look too eager. Besides, I’m worried that any sudden movements will cause O’Shea’s glamour to slip.
‘Most people think that they’re safe from the bloodguzzlers when they’re inside the house of God. You know differently though, don’t you, Alistair?’ There’s a pause. ‘Or should I call you Rogu3?’
At least they’ve done their homework. I turn my head slightly. I’m faced with a youngish-looking man, not so old that I’m likely to consider him a threat or an unwanted authority figure, and not so young that someone like Rogu3 would dismiss him. Tov V’ra know what they’re doing. He is wearing jeans and a carefully ironed T-shirt with a fish on it – one of those Christian emblems. It’s a shame he’s not using the Tov V’ra tree then I could ask him about it.
He chuckles. ‘Yes, we know who you are.’
No, you really, really don’t. He holds out his hand for me to shake. When I ignore it, he shrugs and drops it. My lack of manners doesn’t appear to bother him.
‘I’m Isaac.’
I grunt.
‘That was quite some show you put on the other night,’ he remarks. ‘We were under the impression until then that you were fully bloodwashed.’ He leans in slightly closer. ‘That’s what we call those who’ve allowed the vampires to fool them.’