It's cold tonight. The creature likes it. It enjoys the way the sharp air stings my skin and sets my senses tingling. I raise my nose and sniff the air. The night is still, yet it's alive with a hundred tempting scents. The creature picks out the warm, milky scent of an infant; the heady perfume of a woman; the musky odor of a man. I run my tongue along my teeth. I can almost taste the iron tang of flesh on my tongue, feel the hot blood coursing down my throat.
I try to push the hunger from my mind—it turns my stomach just to think of it—but the creature's greed is strong. Its needs are too great, too powerful. And my feeble resistance was worn down long ago. I just want to get all this over with, and then I can rest.
But the creature thinks there are too many people here. It tells me the town is too near. It fears discovery. I must head back toward the cold emptiness of the moor: the one place where the creature is free to roam, free to howl its heart out, free to hunt.
I turn away from the town. Good—the prey tonight will be sheep or rabbit. I run silently into the night, and for the moment, I am content.
GREAT LEIGH FARM
Rob slipped out of the shed, closing the door gently behind him. The shed hadn't been locked and it had been crammed with tools. In his gloved hand, he held a sturdy masonry chisel: ten inches of solid steel. He'd have preferred a crowbar, but the chisel was strong. It would be ideal for forcing a window or if necessary, he could use it to lever open a door.
He walked quietly around the edge of the farmyard, sticking close to the shadows. When he reached the far end of the yard, he headed around the corner and crept along the narrow pathway that led to the back of the cottages. It was usually better to tackle a house from the back. If someone heard him, it was easier to run into the darkness of the back garden than to risk a dash across the open yard. And the garden backed onto the moor where he could escape into the night with little fear of being followed.
He selected a downstairs window. It was probably the kitchen window, although the drapes were closed and he couldn't be sure. It was perfect. The window sash frame was old and the wood soft. He angled the chisel against the wood where the window met the frame, and worked the blunt steel blade up and down, scraping the wood away, widening the gap between the window and its frame. Soon he'd made a hole big enough to insert the chisel properly and he slid the blade into the gap. A push and the wood began to give with a loud snap. He hesitated, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Had he made too much noise? No—it was amazing what people would sleep through. He adjusted his grip on the chisel. One more good push and the catch would give way, then he'd be in.
Bloody hell! The kitchen light flashed on and Rob grabbed the chisel and dropped to his knees. He stayed still for a second, breathing hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. Thank God the drapes were closed or he'd have been seen straight away. He turned slowly, scanning the dark swaying shadows of the back garden. He had only a split second to make his choice of an escape route. The American could come storming around the corner, or he could be phoning the police. But even if the guy had just come down for a glass of water, the whole job was ruined.
Rob moved into a half-crouch and edged away from the window, staying close to the wall. The American might open the drapes and peer out at any moment and Rob didn't want to be spotted running away; you never knew whether someone might be crazy enough to give chase. Rob bit his bottom lip. From what he'd seen, the American was physically impressive: the kind of man who went to the gym. Rob could probably outpace him, but he didn't like the odds. One slip was all it took. If he ran up against a high fence or an impenetrable hedge, it would all be over.
Rob took a breath and then he stood up straight and, placing his feet carefully on the path, he headed for the back garden.
***
Marcus punched his pillow for the third time but it remained stubbornly uncomfortable. He sat up in bed and ran his hands through his hair, massaging his scalp with his fingertips. He switched on the bedside lamp and looked around the room. He'd thought the jetlag would've been better by now. "I shouldn't have had that extra shot of coffee," he muttered. He thought of the bottle of scotch downstairs. No—he'd already had a couple of decent belts of whiskey, and it obviously wasn't doing the trick.
He reached out to switch the lamp off again, but he froze with his hand on the switch. "Not again," he said. But when he listened, there it was: the sound of an animal scratching against something, its claws scrabbling and scraping. "Goddamned badger!" The stupid animal must be back and it sounded like it was doing some damage. Marcus rubbed his bleary eyes with his fists. He should just wait. The security light might come on and frighten the damn thing away. Or maybe it would just give up.
But there it was again: this time accompanied by the harsh staccato crackle of splintering wood. "The hell with this," he grumbled and he pushed himself out of bed and headed for the stairs.
Downstairs, he hesitated. The badger had actually looked quite aggressive when it had charged toward him, and he suddenly felt vulnerable in his T-shirt and shorts.
He made a detour to the kitchen and opened a drawer, searching for some kind of weapon. Should he take a kitchen knife? No—he wasn't trying to kill the stupid animal; he just wanted to frighten it away. He tried another drawer and among the usual kitchen clutter, there was a small, black plastic flashlight. That was much more useful, and when he tested it, the beam was bright. But he still felt under-prepared.
He bent down and opened one of the cabinets. A large cast iron skillet caught his eye. He wrapped his fingers around the pan's cold handle and stood up straight, the flashlight in his left hand, the skillet in his right. "I must be going out of my mind," he muttered. Then he set his mouth in a grim line and headed for the door.
He slipped his bare feet into his shoes without tying the laces, then opened the front door slowly, peering out into the farmyard. He played the beam of his flashlight across the featureless concrete, but there was no sign of the mischievous badger. Marcus tilted his head, listening, but there was no scrabbling noise, no scraping of claws.
The damp night air prickled his skin and for a moment, he thought of his warm bed. He certainly wasn't achieving anything standing here with the door wide open. The badger or whatever animal had caused the noise had probably gone by now, frightened by the flashlight.
But if he went back to bed and the noise started up again, he'd be furious. It was better to be sure: to make certain the damned animal had gone for good.
He held his flashlight at shoulder height and advanced into the yard, moving the flashlight's beam slowly from side to side. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom and he was starting to enjoy the cool night air; it was crisp and fresh and it made him feel alive. He breathed deep and exhaled noisily, watching the plume of his steamy breath billow up into the night. But then, as he stepped forward, a burst of brilliant white light flooded across the yard.
"Goddamnit!" Marcus raised his hand to shield his eyes, but even squinting against the light, he could see nothing. He must've triggered the yard's security light. He turned away from its glare and looked down. Dear God, what must he look like? Here he was, outside in the middle of the night, only half dressed and carrying a frying pan for Christ's sake. He glanced over at the farmhouse but thankfully its windows were all dark. No doubt Elizabeth was fast asleep in her bed. Please God, he thought, don't let her look outside. If she caught him like this, he'd never be able to look her in the eye again.
Marcus shook his head and turned back toward his cottage. He walked slowly, deep in thought. I must be losing it, he thought. What the hell am I even doing over here? He should be back at home, focusing on his career, getting his life back together. He didn't need to fly halfway around the world to put his divorce behind him. It was time to let go of the past, time to move on.
He paused at the cottage door and looked up into the night sky. He was ready for bed now: ready to take his mind off the hook and sleep like a baby.
***
/> Rob kept to the shadows as he crept into the back garden. The lawn was soft underfoot and his footsteps made barely a whisper as he walked slowly across the dew-damp grass. The pale moonlight gave him just enough illumination to see where he was going, and he chose his path carefully. In seconds, he was hidden from the houses by a screen of shrubs and he increased his pace.
Rob allowed himself a grin. He was going to be fine. In a few minutes, he'd cut across the moor then make his way home along the road. Even if the police did arrive and they managed to spot him, they had no grounds to take him in. Of course, he'd have to get rid of the chisel before he met the road, or he'd have a hard job explaining it.
He may as well do it now. He stopped walking and scanned the garden. There was a darker patch of ground over to his left. It looked like it was freshly dug earth. Perfect.
He glanced back over his shoulder. There was no sign of any danger, so he crossed the garden and squatted down on his haunches then he pushed the point of the chisel down into the soft, cold earth. He pressed it firmly until it was embedded all the way, then he smoothed the soil over with his gloved hands.
Rob stood and rubbed the soil from his gloves, then he walked on. But as he approached the garden's edge, he heard something: a soft sound, almost like a sigh. He froze. The sound had come from a clump of trees: a woodland bordering the garden on his right. Could it have been a breeze whispering through the leaves? No. It had been an animal sound: perhaps a wild animal snuffling through the wood. Or it could've been the cattle in a distant field. Sound traveled a long way on a cold night like this.
Rob stared into the deep shadows beneath the trees. Whatever had made the sound, it wasn't going to affect him. He looked back toward the cottage, and despite himself, he gasped. There was an aura of white light around the dark stone buildings. Someone had evidently tripped the security light in the yard. It looked like someone was coming out to investigate. It was time to go.
Rob turned back to the garden, and when he glanced over toward the woodland, his heart lurched in his chest.
A gentle breeze blew on the treetops, the branches shifted and swayed, allowing a stray beam of light from the yard to filter down and penetrate the shadows below. And caught in that light was the unmistakable glow of a pair of eyes.
But this was no farm cat, nor could it be any wild animal: the eyes were huge and too high above the ground to be any forest animal. They stared at him, unblinking.
Rob stepped backward. His throat tightened and he put his hand on his chest, willing his lungs to fill with air. Jesus Christ! He had to run, but he dare not look away from those pallid, glowing eyes. He took another step back.
A low snarl—it split the night and snapped Rob out of his terrified trance. He turned back toward the cottage, thinking only of light and safety, but as he turned, something surged from the gloom beneath the trees, bursting free from its cloak of shadows, erupting into the moonlit garden.
Rob sensed the movement from the corner of his eye and a jolt of adrenaline flooded through his veins. He powered forward, arms pumping, chest heaving, the cold air rasping in his dry throat, his blood roaring in his ears.
He changed course, veering straight toward the brightly lit yard, and the wet grass slid from beneath his feet. For a heartbeat he flew through the air, arms flailing, legs thrashing uselessly beneath him. And then he was on the ground, landing heavily on his front. The impact forced his face into the soft earth, the sickly sweet stench of moldering leaves saturating his senses.
Behind him, something was running, closing in on him, its feet thudding against the ground. Rob pressed his hands against the grass and scrambled up on all fours. As he pushed himself up, he realized he'd fallen next to the patch of freshly dug earth. The steel chisel was within his grasp. He could remember the place exactly.
He reached out, but as his gloved hands brushed the soil, something barreled into him, slamming his body back against the ground. He twisted and struggled, and somehow he managed to roll over, but he could not escape from the weight pressing down on him.
Rob panicked, his mind a whirl of bewildering images: a gray muzzle twitching in a savage snarl; vicious fangs flashing impossibly white in the moonlight; cold, heartless eyes staring down at him, glittering with greed, burning with a brutal hunger. And there was nothing he could do to escape.
The dog-like beast pushed its muzzle toward Rob's face. He could feel its hot breath on his cheeks, smell the dampness of its fur. He threw up his arms to protect himself, but he was too slow.
The beast lunged at his neck, its jaws wide open. Rob screamed as the beast's teeth sliced into the soft skin of his throat, but then its jaws shut tight and suddenly Rob could only gag and gasp for air.
With his last reserve of energy, Rob lashed out, beating his fists against the beast's tangled fur, but it had no effect. And then, as Rob's vision blurred, and the cold crept into his veins, he realized that the creature was dragging him across the wet grass, taking him toward the woodland. In the distance, Rob could just make out the glow from the farmyard, but he could not call out for help. And when the darkness came to claim him, he was powerless to prevent it.
***
Marcus stepped back into the relative warmth of the cottage. But as he closed the door behind him, an unearthly shriek of tortured agony shattered the silence.
He froze, the blood draining from his face, then he checked the door was fully closed, leaning his full weight against it. "Jesus Christ," he whispered. "What was that?" Could it really have been the cry of a man? Or was it the last desperate yelp of a wounded animal?
Marcus chewed the inside of his cheek. Someone could be in real trouble and he couldn't just stand there and ignore it. But what should he do? Elizabeth would have a phone in the farmhouse, but it would take some time to rouse her, and what would he say to her—he heard a noise and got scared?
Marcus shook his head. He'd have to go and take a look himself. After all, he had a flashlight; if someone was up to no good, the sight of the flashlight's beam might be enough to send them running.
Marcus looked down at the cast iron skillet in his hand. It was a clumsy weapon and he'd no intention of engaging in a fight with a criminal, but perhaps it was better than nothing. He took a breath and opened the door once more, stepping out into the night. The yard was still lit by the security light, and clearly empty, so he moved on, glancing nervously from side to side.
The first thing to do was to make sure the immediate area was secure. He'd check around the back of the cottage, then move on from there. He held the flashlight high and turned the corner, heading for the back garden.
***
It's almost over for tonight, even though I've just begun to feed. I cram the meat into my mouth as quickly as I can, tearing at the carcass with my fangs, but already my limbs are trembling. I'm going to change soon. The creature has almost finished with me. But its pitiless hunger still stirs in my belly and I want more. More! And I know exactly where I can get it.
***
There was no security light in the back garden and Marcus's small flashlight did little to puncture the darkness. In the daylight, he'd found the garden's carefree scattering of shrubs and roses charming, but in the darkness, the twisted tangle of branches and thorns felt threatening. As Marcus played the flashlight's beam across the garden, the dark shapes of the shrubs sent sinister shadows sliding across the wet grass.
Marcus hesitated. There was nothing to see here, but should he go farther into the garden or return to the yard and make sure there was no trouble up at the farmhouse? He turned slowly, listening. There—the sound of someone, or some animal, rustling through the undergrowth. The sound echoed in the chill night air, but it seemed to come from the far end of the garden.
Marcus fought the urge to call out. Better to keep quiet until he knew what he was dealing with. He tightened his grip on the skillet and set off across the grass, placing his feet carefully and keeping to the center of the garden, avoiding
its shadowy perimeter.
He moved slowly, shining the flashlight into every shady space between the shrubs, double-checking every nook and cranny. But the narrow beam found no sign of a disturbance, and he could hear nothing except the gentle whisper of the wind in the treetops. And when he reached the fence at the far end of the garden, Marcus knew he had no choice but to return to the cottage.
"Waste of time," he muttered. But he'd done his bit, and he could never have rested if he hadn't, at least, tried to see what was going on. He heaved a sigh then started back toward the cottage, still shining his flashlight around the garden, but no longer expecting to see anything.
The farmyard was still lit by the security light, but Marcus scarcely spared it a glance as he walked back to the cottage's front door. He hesitated with his hand on the door handle. He didn't remember closing the door properly, but it was tightly shut now. A breeze must've blown it shut, he thought as he let himself in. Thank God I disengaged the latch. Locking himself out would've been the last straw.
Marcus padded along the hall and stopped off in the kitchen to drop the flashlight and skillet on the table, then he trudged up the stairs, holding tightly onto the banister as he went. He was feeling a little dizzy and his whole body was heavy with fatigue. "Man, I'm going to sleep all right now," he murmured.
But as he stood in his bedroom doorway, all thoughts of sleep fled from his mind. The bedroom light was switched off, but the faint glow from the hallway behind him was bright enough to show that someone lay beneath his bedclothes.
Marcus staggered backward, his heart hammering in his chest. He opened his mouth to yell, but his throat was too tight. He wanted to run for his life, but his legs refused to move. He could only gape in horror as the shape beneath his bedclothes shifted and turned.
"It's all right, Marcus. It's me—Elizabeth."
Marcus put one hand on the wall for support. "What? Elizabeth!"
"It's all right," she said. "Don't turn the light on. Just come to bed."
Once in a Blood Moon Page 3