Turned

by David Bussell

  Christ.

  I’d succeeded in convincing the mighty Giles L’Merrier to part with his Pope blood without killing me, only to lose it in a drive-by snatch-and-grab.

  ‘Did he just…?’ Gen started.

  ‘Yes he bloody did,’ I reported.

  At which point I was already legging it after the thief, feet pounding the pavement as his bike weaved dangerously in and out of traffic.

  Gen called to me. ‘I’ll take the back roads and see if I can cut him off,’ she shouted, but I hardly heard her over the sound of my own raging heartbeat.

  As I ran, the brand kicked in like a speedball of raw power, sending me exploding forwards. Every cell in my body was an atom bomb, all of them detonating at once. I felt incredible, indomitable, indestructible, like people in tampon commercials feel.

  The bike was fast but I was moving at an impressive speed now, closing the distance, tearing up the tarmac in hot pursuit. The bike mounted a curb to swerve a jam of parked traffic, and picked up speed, leaving me chasing a smudged red tail light. If I didn’t find a way to keep up, I was going to lose the thief for good.

  I saw a bicycle courier coming up alongside me, grabbed him by the scruff of his reflective jacket, and hauled him off the saddle.

  ‘Sorry, I need this,’ I said, jumping on board, stabbing my feet into the pedals, and racing off after the thief.

  The motorbike jumped a red light, rounded a corner and escaped down a narrow side street. I gave chase, slipping between pedestrians as they dived left and right of me. Thankfully, they were too busy dodging out of the way to take out their phones and frame a decent shot of the girl cycling a push-bike at forty-plus miles per hour, so they’d have no proof that any of this was happening. Which was a good thing. Like I said before, the war I was waging was a secret one, which meant I had to limit the amount of supernatural nonsense I got up to in public. Besides, I couldn’t be getting arrested by the police, least of all now, with Neil strapped to a bed and about to turn into a full-blown vampire. I knew all too well what Gen would do if that happened: the same thing she’d done to the chimp back at that lab, the same thing she’d done to the scientist.

  I made it to the corner the thief had taken and leant hard into the turn, only just managing to level the bike and get it upright again. I caught the burn of rubber in my nostrils as the back tyre skidded out and painted the road with a black stripe before gaining traction and propelling me forwards. Sweat stung my eyes as I pedalled frantically after the disappearing motorbike, which was already turning and pulling into another street. I wasn’t having some vampire grab the pie from my windowsill and get away with it though. No effing way.

  ‘Come on, come on!’ I screamed, urging myself to pick up the pace.

  The side street opened up on to Portobello Market. Among the buzzing throng of shoppers trawling stalls for bric-a-brac and vintage fashions I saw the motorbike, cutting through the crowd, caring for the safety of no one.

  Refusing to let up, I weaved between the market-goers, ringing my bell and sending them scattering. Up ahead, I saw the motorbike blast through a greengrocer’s stall, dispersing fresh fruit and veg all over the road. A watermelon exploded under the tread of my front tyre as I chased the bike to the other end of the market; the end selling second-hand goods and cheap socks, where the shoppers tapered out.

  I was giving it my all, leaving nothing on the field. The thief saw how little distance separated us and revved his engine. He took a hard left in an attempt to cut down another side alley and shake me properly this time, but when he reached the other end of it, he found himself at an impasse.

  Standing there, plugging the exit wall-to-wall, was a dam of shimmering light threaded with flecks of bright gold. On the opposite side of that dam was Gen, who had caught up to us on foot and summoned the magical barrier.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ she assured the thief.

  She stood with her legs planted wide and her arms raised high; a human bulwark, cutting off the motorcyclist’s only exit.

  Well, the only exit bar one...

  The bike pulled a doughnut and pointed its front wheel in my direction. As its engine idled, the rider flipped up the visor of his helmet and I saw two blood-red eyes fixing me with a burning stare.

  The thief was a vampire, but then I’d known that from the start. The only question I had in that moment was whether he was one of Lauden’s lot, or whether he was one of the so-called “Wild Bloods” I’d been told about. Was there really such a thing as a Clan offshoot that had been making my life miserable while the rest of Lauden’s people kept themselves to themselves, or was the vampire who pulled me out of the drink running some scam? The only thing I knew for sure was that the guy staring me down looked like he wanted to smear my remains all over that back alley, and that made him enemy enough for me.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he growled, revving the engine of his bike. ‘Scared?’

  I felt a gulp travel up and down my throat. He had me outgunned.

  ‘You are scared,’ he said, face cut with a devil’s smirk. ‘Good. Scared blood is the best blood. The adrenalin gives it a nice kick. You’re going to taste like the first coffee of the day.’

  Laughing maniacally, he twisted the throttle and the back wheel spun out before it gripped tarmac and fired the bike my way at breakneck speed.

  The vamp hugged the handlebars, reducing the drag and turning himself into a perfect, streamlined a bullet.

  I briefly considered whirling my bicycle around and heading the other way, but I’d never outrun him. In any case, the brand wouldn’t hear of it. The Nightstalker didn’t run from vampires. The Nightstalker turned vampires into itty bitty pieces of ash. So instead of running, I pedalled right for him, playing a game of chicken, my spindly push-bike versus his souped-up crotch rocket.

  Unsurprisingly, the vamp didn’t deviate one inch. Instead, he kept his trajectory straight as a pin, coming right at me, nose aimed square in my direction, engine screaming. I went at him full-pelt too, pedalling like a nutter. I flicked my thumb and felt the bicycle click up a gear, its sprockets spinning smoothly beneath me as I mashed the pedals triple-time. My hair whipped back as I rode faster still, tearing down the alley so fast I felt like I was elongating. I had to reach maximum acceleration. Had to. If I didn’t get up enough speed, I’d never make it to the downpipe on the alley wall in time. If the black streak heading my way got there first, I’d lose my chance to wrench the pipe from its fittings, turn it horizontal, and use it as a jousting lance.

  Wallop.

  The vamp took the makeshift lance in the chest and shot from his saddle like he was attached to a recoiling bungee cord. Meanwhile, his bike went skidding off in the other direction and crashed into a wheelie bin, tyres spinning madly.

  I screeched to a halt next to the impaled vampire and kicked away the push-bike. The vamp lay on his back, holding the lance vertically, a desperate grimace etched into his pale white face. The spear had missed his heart by inches, but the slightest movement to or fro would turn him to ash.

  I placed the tread of a Doc Marten on his belly and grabbed hold of the downpipe. ‘Where’s the phial?’

  Hand shaking, the vamp reached into the top pocket of his leather jacket and produced the bottle of Pope blood.

  ‘Give it to me,’ I demanded.

  He coughed and gave me a big, red smile. ‘You’ll never cure him, Nightstalker. There is no remedy for what we are. Soon enough he’ll be one of us, another soldier in our army.’

  With the last of his strength, he pulled back his arm and hurled the phial, whipping it at the alley wall.

  ‘No!’ I cried, leaping for the departing bottle like a goalkeeper going after a World Cup penalty.

  There was no catching the thing though. The slim red phial slipped through my fingers and struck the brickwork with a cringe-making chink—

  And yet somehow—whether it was the phial’s sturdy construction, striking the wall at just the right angl
e, or plain good luck—the glass stayed intact.

  I breathed a sigh of relief, but the roller coaster hadn’t pulled into the station just yet.

  The phial hit the ground and started to roll, picking up speed, heading for a sewer grate.

  I scrambled after it, but there was no way I could cover the distance in time.

  The phial raced along the gutter, soon to enter London’s sewage system, where it would be swept away by a current of effluence, or claimed by some dirty sewer Fraggle. Or at least it would have if Gen hadn’t jumped in and snatched it up right before it disappeared through the grille.

  ‘Looking for this?’ she asked, waggling the phial at me like a scolding finger.

  ‘Nice catch,’ I said, for once happy to be subjected to the angel’s thin, know-it-all smile.

  I heard a gurgling noise over my shoulder and saw the vampire lying where I’d left him, weaker now and struggling to keep the pipe in his chest standing upright.

  I helped myself to my feet and went over to him. ‘Sorry, chuckles,’ I said. ‘Looks like you’re shit out of luck.’

  I twisted the lance, found the vampire’s heart, and turned him into a pile of soot.

  15

  How did it go?’ asked Vizael, greeting us at the door of the gas tower with a hopeful look in his eye.

  ‘Smashed it,’ I replied, brandishing the phial and giving its contents a victory swirl.

  ‘Congratulations!’ He gave me a fatherly hug. ‘And what of L’Merrier? Did you manage to secure his assistance?’

  ‘We tried, but he’s staying Switzerland.’

  ‘That is unfortunate, but perhaps for the best. Did he give you any trouble?’

  ‘Nah, he was all right. He’s a big softie so long as you don’t mind bowing and scraping a bit. If you ask me, there’s a decent man hiding under that big old muumuu.’

  Gendith disagreed. ‘Giles L’Merrier isn’t a decent man. I can see his aura, and I can tell you this: he’s barely a man, let alone a decent one.’

  Whether Gen could see auras or not, I was starting to have serious doubts about how good a judge of character she was. This was a woman whose idea of a cure was a bullet in the brainpan. A woman who ended conversations with a knife to the heart.

  ‘Ignore her,’ I told Viz, ‘she’s just bent out of shape because, well, L’Merrier bent her out of shape.’ I flashed a big grin at Gen. It was not reciprocated. ‘Anyway, he gave us the red stuff, didn't he?’

  ‘You think he parted with it out of the goodness of his heart?’ Gen scoffed. ‘He gave it to us because he had to.’

  ‘Had to? Why?’

  There was that know-it-all smile again. ‘Because he isn’t brave enough to risk using it himself. The truth is, the greatest magician in the Uncanny Kingdom is scared to go up against the Judas Clan, and that is not good.’

  I waved her off. At that point it didn’t matter what L’Merrier’s deal was, we already had what we needed from him. So what if Gen was right and the almighty wizard was just some weird old guy hiding behind a curtain? Forget him.

  ‘Whatever,’ I said, clapping my hands together. ‘Let’s get back to the shopping list, shall we?’

  Viz scratched his chin. ‘If L’Merrier won’t play ball, we’ll have to petition London’s next most powerful magician.’

  ‘Great. So what’s his name?

  ‘Actually, it’s a her,’ Gen corrected.

  I was a bit ashamed of myself for that, but ultimately, as always, I blame the patriarchy.

  Viz pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat and checked the time. ‘The woman you need to speak to is likely to be found in The Beehive at this time of evening.’

  The Beehive was a pub hidden down an impossible backstreet in Ealing that catered to London’s many misfits and broken toys. I’d been there a few nights ago, celebrating a rare win, and rubbed shoulders with a werewolf and an ogre, to mention just a couple of the weird and wonderful creatures that called the pub their local.

  ‘And this magician I’m looking for,’ I said, ‘what is she, like a witch?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Viz replied, ‘though she did once belong to a coven. Her name is Stella. Stella Familiar.’

  Before I left for The Beehive, I decided to check in on Neil. I found him where I left him: in his cot, strapped down and unconscious still, but breathing normally.

  I spent a while at his bedside, stroking his hair as he slept. If the peaceful look on his face was to be believed, I was in more pain than he was, and rightly so. I was the one who’d dragged him into this whole mess. Before I picked up the dagger and got the brand, the only vampires in Neil’s life were the ones he wrote about in his novels. Vampires who lived in the shadows, not in the bright light of day. Vampires who swished their cloaks to show off their fancy red silk lining: comic book monsters with diabolical master plans, not corporate scumbags in tailored suits who forced me to act like a weapon.

  A weapon.

  That’s what Lauden had called me, after saving me from that river hag. A weapon forged against my will. He was right. The angels had turned me into something lethal, but then so had his kind when they sank their fangs into Neil. When it came down to it, were either side really any better than the other?

  ‘Abbey?’

  My eyes darted to the cot and found Neil, awake and confused.

  ‘Oh my God, Neil!’

  I leapt on top of him and held on like a limpet. I wasn’t thinking. All thoughts for my own safety flew out of the window the moment I heard him say my name.

  ‘Are you okay? How do you feel?’

  ‘Pretty good,’ he replied, a little groggy maybe, but sounding like himself.

  ‘Are you sure? Can I get you something?’

  ‘A drink would be nice.’

  I leapt off him. ‘Sure, sure, let me just get you some water—’

  He shook his head. ‘Not that kind of drink.’

  Of course. Stupid Abbey. ‘I can give you something, okay. Just a little. To keep your strength up.’

  ‘That’s all I need,’ he said. ‘Honest.’

  I offered Neil my wrist and he leaned towards me; as much as he could with his body strapped to the bed and his arms pinned by his sides. He bit down on my flesh like he had before, carefully, gently, like a teething kitten. He supped on me for a few seconds, then he pulled back, turning away to wipe his mouth on his shoulder.

  ‘Is that all?’ I asked, surprised at the speed he withdrew. ‘Don’t you want more?’

  He chuckled. ‘You’re giving out free refills now?’

  ‘No, it’s just... is something wrong?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong. I feel great.’

  I’ll confess to feeling a little rejected. ‘You’re sure you don’t want any more?’ I waggled my wrist at him temptingly. ‘It's from my own special reserve...’

  He laughed again. ‘No, I’m full.’ He put on a daft Cookie Monster voice. ‘The Nightstalker’s blood is full of goodness!’

  ‘Keep it down,’ I whispered, putting a finger over his lips and holding back a laugh of my own. ‘I can’t have the angels knowing I’m feeding you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, matching my volume. ‘It’s just… I feel really good.’ He sucked in a breath of air. ‘I reckon I could run those nine flights of steps to our flat and my heart wouldn’t skip a beat. I don’t know what those vampires did to me, but I can tell you this much, it definitely doesn’t feel like a curse.’

  He certainly looked much better. The strongest I’d seen him in a long while, really. His oxygen tank was sat at home collecting dust, but despite that he appeared healthy, shiny and new, like he’d been buffed inside a rock polisher. Before he got bitten, back when he needed that tank, the doctors had said Neil’s life expectancy was likely to be forty at best. Could being a vampire have changed that? Was this a blessing in disguise?

  I remembered my encounter with Lauden. What if he was telling the truth? What if the Clan weren't monsters after all? What if all the
y really wanted was to let us live forever? To give us eternal life. Had I been playing for the wrong side ever since I got the N on my hand? Was I looking for a cure, or was I doing all this fighting, shedding all this blood, just to find a cure for something that wasn’t even a sickness? As a vampire, Neil could be his own man—not a man with a debilitating medical condition, not some damsel I had to keep rescuing—a man with a clean bill of health and a life-expectancy that cleared his forties.

  Then again, maybe Neil wasn’t cured of anything. Maybe he was just high, the way Carlo got when I plugged some Nightstalker blood in his veins. I peered into Neil’s eyes. His pupils were pretty big. Matter of fact, I hadn’t seen them that size since he bought a cookie from a guy at Glasto. A guy with flowers in his hair who stank of patchouli.

  I put a hand on Neil’s chest. ‘How do you feel? Are you okay?’

  He smiled. ‘Remember when we went to Comic-Con a couple of years ago?’

  I did. One of his books had won a writing contest and the prize was two tickets to San Diego. ‘Yeah, I remember. What about it?’

  ‘I made it to the front of the queue for Hall H, Abbey. Fought my way past six-thousand screaming nerds to get a front row seat to that panel. Trust me, I can handle a bit of vampirism.’

  I kissed him on the lips and pressed my forehead to his.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For being you.’

  But was he really who I thought he was? Was he really Neil—my Neil—the boyfriend I’d had since college, or was he a vampire assassin who’d rip out my throat the moment my back was turned? There was no way of knowing, and that’s why I had no choice. I had to find that cure. I had to find Stella Familiar and convince her to perform the ritual that would rinse the vampire blood from his veins and turn him back into the man I knew.

  ‘I’ve gotta go,’ I said, climbing to my feet and grabbing my jacket.