Kiera Hudson & The Creeping Men

by Tim O'Rourke

  I turned back to Ms. Locke. “So you lead us up to Miss Amanda’s room, where we sneak inside.”

  “Then what?” she asked.

  “I unravel the mysterious events that have been taking place at Bastille Hall,” I told her.

  “And you really think you can?” she asked, a little disbelievingly.

  “I’m sure,” I said with a confident nod of my head. “I have some theories I’d like to put to the test.”

  “And what are these theories?” she asked.

  “I’d rather not say until I have all of the threads of the case in my hand,” I explained. “But I don’t doubt that tonight we will have all the answers you have been seeking.”

  “Well, I admire your confidence,” Ms. Locke said.

  “So do I,” Potter muttered under his breath.

  Again, I ignored it, taking Locke by the arm. She stood up and I led her to the door. “Now go back to Bastille Hall and stay in your room. You will be quite safe there, I’m sure of it.”

  “If you’re sure,” Ms. Locke said. “Until tonight then.”

  “Tonight,” I smiled, closing the door behind her. I turned to see Potter looking at me from behind his desk.

  “Don’t thank me then,” he said.

  “What for?” I said right back.

  “For saving your arse,” he said, hooking his thumb in the direction of the lock picks.

  “I don’t doubt I would have found another way into that room,” I said.

  “And pigs might fly,” he grunted.

  “See you tonight then at the gates of Bastille Hall,” I said, opening the door.

  “Where do you think you’re sloping off to?” he said. “Your hours are between nine and five.”

  “Just trying not to rack up the overtime bill,” I said, closing the door behind me and heading out into the street with a smile on my face.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I parked my car on the main high street. Getting out, I wandered up and down, marvelling at how different the Ragged Cove looked in summer. How different it was in this layer. Tourists thronged the streets, eating fish and chips, sitting outside cafés drinking tea and coffee, pausing to relax, to read a book and enjoy the warm sun. Seagulls swooped overhead, and the air had that saltiness to it that all seaside towns had. I bought myself an ice cream and wandered the narrow cobbled streets, pausing to look in shop windows. I found an arcade where artists sat outside and painted.

  “Hey, pretty lady, want me to paint you?” a tousled-haired artist asked with a beaming smile. He had keen eyes and wore a threadbare denim shirt, which was flecked with paint, as were his hands and wrists.

  “No,” I said shyly, my cheeks glowing red.

  “Go on,” he urged me, pointing to the seat before his easel. “You’ll make a beautiful picture. You can hang it on your wall.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said with a smile.

  “I’ll hang it from my wall then?” He grinned boyishly.

  “Are you flirting with me?” I asked.

  “Perhaps,” he said, his smile never fading.

  He was no older than twenty-four. His hair was dark and curly and he wore a stud in his right ear. It sparkled in the sun. His shirt was open and I could see the beginnings of a black tattoo on his chest.

  “Perhaps another time,” I said, edging away.

  “Is that a promise?” he asked.

  “It’s a maybe,” I smiled.

  “A maybe is better than a no, isn’t it?” he called after me.

  “Yes.” I smiled back over my shoulder at him, walking away.

  “I’m Nev,” he called after me.

  “Kiera,” I said back.

  “Well if that maybe turns into a yes, you’ll find me right here waiting, Kiera,” he said.

  I carried on walking without looking back again. It had been a very long time since anyone had taken the time to flirt a little with me. It didn’t mean anything, and no harm had been caused, but it made me feel kinda nice.

  As I made my way back to my car, I passed a small hardware store. I stepped inside, out of the bright sun. It was cool in the shop. Taking a torch from the display, I headed for the counter. The shopkeeper took my money and I left the shop, knowing that I would need the torch later that night up at Bastille Hall.

  With the windows of my car wound down, I made my way back along the coastal road to the Crescent Moon Inn. I planned on having a deep, relaxing bath and to then sit by the window and watch the world go by as I listened to tunes on my iPhone. I wanted to clear my mind and ready myself for what might happen at Bastille Hall. If my suspicions were right, then I would need all my wits about me. I would have to see everything that there was to see.

  As I steered my car around a tight bend in the road, I eased down on the brake, coming to a juddering halt. Ahead I could see the spire of St. Mary’s church poking over the top of a nearby cluster of trees. The last time I had seen St. Mary’s church it had been a raging inferno. Beneath it had been the crypt where the vampires had lain in wait to come above ground and feed on the residents of the Ragged Cove. It was the place where I’d had my very first encounter with a vampire. Her name had been Kristy Hall. She had been just a girl who had been bitten and turned by the Vampyrus.

  Gently, I eased my foot off the brake and rolled forward toward the church. I was curious to see if it was the same in this layer, and if not, what changes I might see. By the iron gate set into the wall of the graveyard, I climbed from my car. The gate wailed on its hinges as it had before. With my ponytail swishing from side to side down my back in the breeze, I made my way slowly across the graveyard. Unlike before, the gravestones looked to be well cared for. Some were covered with flowers. Other mourners had brought vases containing posies. I looked at the church and it was picture perfect. It was white and the spire towered above me. No black smoke poured from it, and there were no flames or vampires screeching all around me.

  Reaching the grave that I’d once climbed into searching for clues as to the whereabouts of Kristy Hall’s corpse, I read the headstone. Despite the warmth from the sun, I felt suddenly chilled. Just like in the world before it got pushed, the name engraved on the headstone was that of Kristy Hall. It seemed that she had died in both layers at the same age. But I very much doubted that she had died in this layer because of a bite from a Vampyrus. Her grave in this layer hadn’t been desecrated. I could see by the array of pretty flowers covering it that it was looked after by the family and loved ones she had left behind.

  As I stood and looked down at her grave, I took comfort knowing that in this layer she wouldn’t rise up out of her grave like some vampire-zombie, wanting to tear my flesh from me. She was at last – in this layer at peace. I was coming to learn that although there were many similarities between the layers, there were differences too. Slowly, I turned away and I couldn’t help but wonder if I had also been changed by being pushed once again through the layers. Kristy Hall was dead, that was the same, but she was no longer a vampire. So therefore, had Potter been changed too? He still had his foul mouth and smoked like a chimney, but was he a Vampyrus here? Was I?

  Back in my car, I started up the engine and headed back to my room at the inn.

  As I crossed the bar, I looked up to see both Phebe and Uri busy serving customers with afternoon tea.

  “Hey, Kiera.” Uri waved and smiled.

  “Hey back,” I said, heading for the stairs.

  “Can I get you anything? Lunch? Tea? Coffee?”

  “A pot of tea,” I said.

  “How about a sandwich? A slice if cake?” he asked, notepad in hand again.

  “I had an ice cream in town,” I said. “Perhaps later.”

  “There’s no charge,” he said. “The agen…”

  “The agency has paid for everything,” I finished for him.

  He shot me an awkward smile and said, “Okay, if you’re sure. I’ll get Phebe to bring the tea right up.”

  “Thanks,” I said, heading up
the stairs.

  Closing my door behind me, I pulled off my jacket, dropping it onto my bed. I went to the bathroom, stretching my arms out wide. I still felt a slight ache from scrambling over the walls earlier that morning, and I was tired from waking so early. Bath, tea, and chair, I thought to myself, turning on the taps.

  As I pulled off my clothes, I thought of the young artist, Nev, who I’d met. Why he had been so insistent on wanting to paint my portrait, I had no idea. What, with my dirty clothes and all the scratches to my face. He must have noticed them. Potter had wasted no time in pointing them out. Perhaps the young artist was just being kind after all, I thought, turning to face the mirror so I could inspect the scratches to my face. But as I peered into the mirror, I was surprised to see that they had healed and vanished already. There wasn’t a mark or a blemish on me that I could see.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I had only just stepped from the bath, when there was a knock at my door. Suspecting that it would be Phebe with the pot of tea, I wrapped a towel about me and went to the door. Pulling it open, I stepped back in surprise, fixing the towel tighter about me. Potter stood in the door, his eyes slowly gliding up and down the length of me. He was holding a tray with a pot of tea and two cups on it.

  “What are you doing here?” I said.

  “Where do you want me to put the tray?” he asked, brushing past me and stepping into my room.

  “Over there,” I said, pointing to the desk.

  He put it down, then dropped into the armchair by the window. “That’s the second cup of tea I’ve got you in one day,” he said.

  “I’m honoured,” I shot back, holding the towel tight. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “What question was that?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.

  “What are you doing here?” I said pushing up the window to let some air in and his cigarette smoke out.

  He reached inside his jacket. “I brought you this,” he said, tossing a torch onto my bed.

  “I’ve already got one,” I said. “Now what are you really doing here?”

  I felt Potter’s eyes on me again. Was he imagining what lay beneath the towel? There was a time when he wouldn’t have had to imagine anything. His stare made me feel uncomfortable. Not because I didn’t like him looking at me, it was because that was all he would ever be able to do here. I wasn’t his and he wasn’t mine. Why torture myself, knowing that in a different where and when I would have dropped the towel to the floor and we would be in each other’s arms by now?

  “We need to talk,” he said, sitting forward in his chair.

  “Let me get changed first,” I said, snatching up some clean clothes and hurrying to the bathroom.

  “There’s no need to change on my account,” he called after me. I didn’t have to look to know that he was wearing a grin on his face.

  With the heel of my foot, I pushed the bathroom door closed. I pulled on some fresh underwear, T-shirt, and jeans. When I went back into my room, Potter was standing and flicking the ash from the end of his cigarette out of the window.

  “I couldn’t find an ashtray,” he said.

  “I don’t smoke, remember?” I said.

  “What do you do?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean?” Didn’t he know everything about me?

  “Well you don’t drink, you don’t speed in your car, you don’t smoke, so what is it you do? How do you get your kicks?” he asked, watching me as I went to my bed and sat on the edge. “What is your secret?”

  “I don’t have a secret,” I lied. I had plenty.

  “An old friend of mine told me I should be careful of the quiet ones,” he said, leaning against the wall by the window. Sun spilled into the room, highlighting the curve of his firm jawline. With the light behind him, half of his face was cast in shadow, making his eyes look deeper and darker somehow. They looked nice. He looked good standing by the window, but of course I couldn’t tell him that.

  “Who was the friend?” I asked, wanting to change the subject.

  “You wouldn’t know him,” he said, sounding as if he wanted to change the topic of conversation too.

  “So what is it you needed to talk about?” I asked.

  “After your disappearing act this morning, I contacted an old friend of mine,” he started.

  “The same old friend who told you to watch the quiet ones?” I asked.

  “It might be,” he said, eyeing me. “Anyway, he used to be in the job like me, but he’s out now. He didn’t manage to piss off as many people as I did before leaving the police, so he still has some pretty good contacts. I call him up from time to time when I need some info that I can’t get on my own.”

  “So what information did you need from this old friend of yours?” I asked, my stomach leaping at the thought he might be talking about Murphy.

  “I wanted to know more about the girl they found in that wood,” he said. “The girl who had been mutilated.”

  “And what did your friend say?” I asked, heart speeding up now.

  “He made a few calls, and the word is that this young girl, Emily Cartdew, appears to have been attacked by some kind of savage animal.”

  “What kind of animal?” I needed to know.

  “A wolf perhaps…”

  “I was right,” I said, springing from the bed.

  “Don’t get yourself too excited,” Potter said. “It’s only a might be.”

  “So you believe me now?” I said, spinning around to face him. I wanted him to say that I had been right. Not because I wanted to boast or anything like that, I just wanted him to start trusting me – start believing in me again – how we once had been. The spats we had could be fun – especially the making up part – but there wasn’t going to be any making up or making out this time around.

  “I’m not saying anything,” he said, raising his hands. “I just wanted to let you know that if you are right and there is some giant dog up at Bastille Hall tearing chunks out of people, I think we need to be careful. I just came to warn you. That’s all.”

  “You just can’t admit that I’m right,” I said, hands on hips.

  “Let’s see what happens tonight,” he said, heading for the door.

  I followed him across the room. “Is that it?”

  “Is that what?” he asked, pulling the door open.

  “You came all the way out here to tell me that?” I said.

  “Well, it’s kind of important, don’t you think?” He frowned.

  “Couldn’t you have just called me?” I said, watching every facial tic and expression.

  “I don’t have your number.” He shrugged.

  “I have yours on my phone,” I told him.

  “Good for you,” he said, lingering by the door.

  “There is something else, isn’t there?” I prompted him.

  Sighing and blowing out his cheeks, Potter looked at me and said, “Look, I’m not good at this sort of thing… but… I just wanted to apologise for… well, you know what for.”

  “No, I don’t,” I said, shaking my head. I wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily.

  “For being a jerk, okay?” he said. “Happy now?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I said, hiding my smile. It was fun watching Potter grovel. I’d always enjoyed seeing him do it.

  “Oh, Christ,” he muttered. “Look, I’m sorry for some of the things I said to you. I didn’t mean to give you such a hard time since you showed up. You just caught me at a bad point in my life. I’m not trying to make excuses, but I have stuff to deal with…”

  “Stuff?” I asked.

  “Sophie,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said, not sure if I wanted to hear about the relationship he shared with her, but respecting him for having the guts to apologise. He didn’t have to explain anything to me – not in this world.

  “Look, I better be going,” he said. “I’ll see you tonight up at Bastille Hall.”

  �
��Need a lift?” I asked.

  “No, I can find my own way there,” he said.

  Before he had the chance to step away down the hallway, I did something that not only took Potter by surprise, but me, too. I leant forward and kissed him gently on the cheek.

  “What was that for?” he asked, putting his fingertips to his cheek.

  “To say thanks, I guess,” I said, looking away.

  “For what?”

  “For saying sorry,” I told him.

  “A kiss just for saying sorry? Next time I owe you an apology, I’ll make sure I bring you a bunch of flowers,” he smiled. “What will that get me?”

  “Get out of here,” I grinned, closing the door on him.

  I waited for the sound of his feet to fade away on the stairs before I started to sob.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I sat in the chair by the window until it had grown dark. My tears had all dried away from the warm evening breeze that blew in through the open window. The last of the tea in the pot had long since turned cold. But I sat there, Ed Sheeran playing on my iPhone. I tried not to think too hard or too long about anything in particular. It sometimes hurt too much to do so. Feeling pain was not good. Not only for my wellbeing, but even though I had destroyed the Elders, the thought of them sucking off my unhappiness still lingered at the back of mind. Noah had assured me that they had gone forever, and I wanted to believe that. I wanted to believe everything he had told me. But what had he really told me in that short time we had spent together at that grand railway station? He’d shown me the light inside my heart – he had shown me the deep, unrelenting love I had for my friends. It had been that love that had defeated the Elders. I was now understanding the full price I had to pay for letting my friends go on without me. I was happy that they were no longer miserable in that dark world we had been pushed into. And I was happy if they were happy together in some other layer. As long as they were together and they never remembered. Noah had promised me that much at least.