Halton Cray (Shadows of the World Book 1) (28 page)

‘But what real difference is there!’ he challenged,
suppressing ire. ‘People slaughter animals for food every day, when they could
survive otherwise. I have no menu, no choice! They know their sin, but would
condemn me for mine.’

He looked to me. I considered the parallel he drew
between drinking the blood of the living and eating animals. Perhaps the
vampire had a point.

‘I do what all beasts must!’ He took a step
towards me.

Naturally, I shrank back.

‘You recoil?’ he said. Stunned. Offended. ‘So I’m
just that devil in the mirror to you now?’ His hands stretched reflexively at
his sides.

I kept still. My eyes sank. I felt horrid for it.

He gave an exaggerated sigh and turned his face
away.

‘I’m sorry, Thom. I don’t know what to say.’

‘Say what you feel, or what you think.’

I inhaled deeply. ‘Do you
want
to drink
blood?’

‘Yes,’ he answered quickly. ‘I mean, I don’t want
to be what I am. But I have that desire to drink blood.’

‘Do you want to drink
my
blood?’

He turned to me. ‘No!’ His brow puckered. ‘No. I
do not wish to take a bite out of you anymore than I wish to take a bite out of
myself. You’re part of me, Alex! I couldn’t.’ He turned slightly away again and
sighed.

‘I don’t understand how you can be alive. How does
that work?’

‘Alex, I’m a parasite.’ His chin almost quivered.
‘I live on the lives of others. My body functions almost like yours, but uses
their blood to fuel mine.’

‘But you can’t…’

‘
Die
?’ He turned to look at me. ‘No, I’m not
aware that I can. Not by any way I know for sure.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I know of a poison that incapacitates the demon,
and the host along with it. I believe that over time it might destroy it – us
both, if left untreated. But it’s impossible to poison myself, and I doubt a
human could do it, except perchance by cunning. I discovered this when trying
to avoid being a killer. The blood of the dead is a poison that in time,
without cure, I think no demon could survive. But I’ve digressed, where was I?’

‘In Ireland,’ I whispered.

‘Was I?’

‘Yes. You were praying for a way out. You stumbled
upon something.’

‘Ah yes, and what a paradox!’ he scoffed in a
tormented tone. ‘I stumbled upon Death!’

‘
Death
?’ I reiterated. ‘Death, as in the
Grim Reaper?’

He nodded.

‘I thought you were just teasing that day.’

‘What day?’

‘The day you pulled me from the river. You told me
you thought I was going to perish in the water. You said you were expecting
Death.’

‘I was very serious.’

He looked it now. His eyes locked onto mine;
something distressing passed over them. He went to move towards me again.

‘So you stumbled upon Death.’ I looked away, but
didn’t flinch this time.

He stopped, taking the hint, and got back into his
chair.

‘One of Life’s cruel jokes,’ he muttered. ‘Who
should come face to face with
Grim Death
other than someone who wishes
to die but cannot? And I longed to die! I’d discovered by then my mother and
sister’s graves in a pauper’s cemetery. I don’t know how they– There was no one
left to ask. Sickened further by this discovery I tried various ways to join
them. It goes without saying they were unsuccessful attempts. They were what a
mortal might try, so you can imagine that they did nothing to me. Oldwives tales
at that time were about burying the dead to prevent them rising – useless to
me, for I was already risen. I never discovered anything on stakes through
hearts or decapitation. Much good it would have done me from what I’ve learned
of myself since. How I love those ideas: one stab to the heart with a sturdy
stake and we’re dust!’ He shook his head in disappointment. ‘Alex, what is it?
Are you in pain?’

 ‘It’s nothing.’ I shook my head, trying to hide
my agony at hearing him talk that way about himself. ‘Everything you’re telling
me is so otherworldly. Is it any wonder I’m affected by it all?’

‘It isn’t.’

‘So what did you do next?’ I steered him back.

‘My objective was to keep the beast at bay, but to
find a way to do this without grieving my conscience further. This is how I
discovered what dead blood could do to me. I’d begun to wonder how it wouldn’t
matter if I fed on the departed. I was dead after all. I was contemplating it
when I went back to that cemetery – many of these went unblessed. I wouldn’t
have been able to enter onto consecrated ground. – There I was among my own:
the dead! I saw a man sobbing his heart out over the grave of a loved one. –
Alex, did you hear a noise? It’s only the ranger patrolling the grounds, common
at this time of night.’

‘Oh – it startled me. Before you go on, I was
wondering about consecrated ground. It’s not a myth then?’

He shook his head. ‘When I entered that cemetery I
never gave it a thought; fortunately it was not blessed. I once put a foot on
hallowed ground, long after this time, to test the claim – not to immolate
myself! It’s often said that should someone in my predicament step one foot on
sacred soil they would combust. It is not literally meant however. My foot
became locked down as if the ground were magnetised and I was forged of metal.
My mind flooded with fire! It was my conscience alight with every sin I’d
committed over my entire existence. That, as I understand it, was an experience
of Hell. I burnt with every feeling of suffering: dread, pain, hopelessness,
with my own guilt the cherry on top. And when I say
cherry
, I mean the
red-hot ember on the grate, as opposed to the sweet fruit of life! The
extraordinary pain kept me there, a prisoner, unable to move. After some time
and using a great deal of strength I was able to prise myself away.

‘The man in the unblessed cemetery mourning his
loved one knelt over her freshly sealed grave. This called to me and I
contemplated ending his deep sorrow as he grieved. Giving him what I desired
for myself. Something changed in the air and I was aware of a presence I’d
never felt before. Then I saw it for the first time, approaching the
grief-stricken man in the image of a woman. I knew she was not of any
substance! I was thinking more of ghosts. – He repeated her name with the
question “Are you real?”

‘She nodded and spoke his name affectionately,
then did nothing more than stand in front of him. I moved closer for a better
look, at which moment I saw a boy enter the cemetery. He was about fifteen. He
snuck up to the man, paying no attention to the woman, and the woman paid no
notice to him. The man shook his head at him, as if to say he had no money to
give. The boy very suddenly withdrew a small blade and ended the man’s life in
a frenzy.’

‘What– he killed him? What did you do?’

‘Nothing. Alex, he was a kid. I didn’t imagine
he’d do that. As the boy ransacked his pockets, I realised what the woman was
as she faded into nothing before my eyes. Death! Death wearing the face of a
woman, his woman, in order to take him. I’m convinced the dying know what’s
coming days before. It’s as if they’re sensing the approach of their own end.
That often makes me wonder, since Death doesn’t recognise me, if
it
senses
my presence at all.’ He paused, seeing my confusion.

‘I’ve no soul, Alex. The demon replaced it, that
monster now a part of me. Death cannot see me or know I’m there. I’m no longer
on Death’s list. It’s important you understand this, Alex. Look at me. When
Death is on the trail of someone, that someone
will
die. Don’t confuse
Death with Fate. Their paths may cross from time to time but they’re not the
same thing, and they work to different agendas. The clocks and calendars here
do not measure out their schedules. Time is measured very differently for that
purpose. I only take a life that is about to end, just before Death brings it. I
believe for some, I give a more painless exit than what was in store for them.
I’ve had many occasions to study it, in the last moments when Death personifies
a human, just as it’s about to collect their soul. I wait until it takes form,
to be sure, before I move in to seize my chance. You’ve seen me use my shadow,
as if it had a life of its own. I can move only by shadow and occasionally drink
by shadow, if I wish. I’ve found this best practised during the gloaming, just
after the streetlights come on. It is therefore my favoured time to feed.’

He paused and ran his eyes over me. I realised I
was clasping my neck, from listening to his description of how he
feeds
.
I released myself.

‘Perhaps that’s enough truth telling for now. You
seem–’

‘I’m fine,’ I demanded. ‘I’m pretty sure this is
all a dream but I want to hear this. All of it.’

‘Very well.’ He straightened up. ‘It’s also easier
on the dying not to see me in their last moments. Sometimes Death lurks after
them for days, weeks, or even months, waiting for their time, I suppose.
Sometimes it doesn’t, and I’ve often raced that omnipresent Reaper to one
portion of its work. It never takes form before the final visit, and I imagine
it’s a loved one, like the woman in the cemetery, to ease the crossing. Now I
find, occasionally, after so many years chasing Death, I’m drawn to the dying
before it
begins to stalk.’

I had to ask Thom to repeat some of this, where
the mental gymnastics I was doing prevented me from absorbing it all. It was
too incredible, too surreal for me to process. – A vampire stalking Death; Death
in turn stalking a human; and respectively each cannot see nor hear their
pursuer.

I’d heard stories about people who knew they were
going to die days before it happened. Did they sense the presence of Death? And
if so, could Death sense the vampire?

Twenty-five

‘May he be rooted, where he stands, for ever; his Eye-Balls never more,
Brows be unbent, his Blood, his Entrails, Liver, Heart and Bowels, be blacker
than the Place I wish him, Hell.’

– John Dryden and
Nathaniel Lee,
Oedipus

A question soon emerged
from me –

‘You say you never saw Death before he came for
the man in the cemetery? But if you’d killed people already, why didn’t you see
him then? Didn’t he come for them?’

‘Death is ignorant of the soulless.
It
–
not he, Alex – cannot direct our demons to kill, or know that we will. It’s not
prepared when those deaths happen. I’ve interfered with Death’s work! Just as
Johan still does. It’d be a lie to say I don’t know what happens with their
souls, because I do: we create ghosts. Beyond this, I don’t know. Perhaps those
lost souls transfer to some limbo, or Death cleans up later. I could only
guess.

‘As I said,’ he went on, ‘I tried other ways to
survive without harming anyone before I chanced upon Death. That man in the
cemetery, his lifeless body lying on that grave, having died by Death’s orders
– yes! Death causes the demise! Then carries the soul to that place I’ll never
go! – His body was still warm though his heart had stopped. I thought I could
survive that way. I drank deeply and ignorantly, and although it tasted strange,
I began to feel revitalised. Shortly after, I knew it would end me. I would
have welcomed it if my new overly alert instincts didn’t take command. The fury
of the demon instantly possessed me. I found the only cure to be in living
blood. It dilutes the poison. I killed again at random, which left me sickened
once more.

‘After regaining control, I contemplated revenge
on my maker. It was all that hung on my mind. I would travel back to America to
avenge my own death and put an end to his murderous rampages. I intended to be
cunning and gain his trust. I would defeat him in strength and agility. I had
something on my side, that passion, a true hatred, which would give me the
upper hand. I hatched a plan to drain the blood of a fresh corpse and force him
the poison. Then while he was weak I would have–’ His hands clenched into
fists. He shook his head.

‘But he’d moved on. Each time I went back I found
little or no trace of him. For a while it seemed he could have been anywhere in
the world. Then I found evidence he was still in the States. Meanwhile, I’d
been studying that Angel of Death. The way it moved from one place to the next.
This kept me occupied. At first it proved near impossible to track, passing
through energy as just that. I lingered in places with a high mortality rate,
trying to attune my senses to it. I stalked it as it stalked the dying, letting
nothing faze me while on its scent. Now I feel its energy bending all the time,
distantly, and can track its target. – You look very stern, Alex, as if you
don’t quite agree that this is a more righteous, or at least
sinless
way
of doing things.’

‘Not at all, Thom. I was absorbed in listening,
and– and remembering a man who was killed in St. Martins Woods during a storm
last year. I suppose he was one of your… targets?’

He hardly looked at me while recollecting.

‘Death hung around him for only two days,’ he said
finally. ‘Timing is everything to that Pale Rider. People’s deaths are
scheduled. It was his time to die and I took advantage of that. I waited until
Death took its form, of a child this time, a small boy. As he approached so did
I. Since Death was there and the man’s time was at an end in this world, it
took his soul, as it should. I’ve deviated again,’ he said quickly.

It was clear that the example was too close to
home and too recent. He had wanted to avoid it.

‘Back in Ireland,’ he continued. ‘Even though I’d
found a way to keep the beast quiet, and my conscience eased, I was growing
restless in my choiceless subsistence. I was desperate. Do you remember when
you spoke of not fitting in? I knew it would always be that way. Nobody would
ever know me, recognise me, or understand me. It would go on for eternity. I
was utterly different and completely alone. There is no captivity so appalling,
so dreary, as isolation! It’s torturous. What lengths would you go to, to fit
in, Alex? Because that part of me that was still human – that will always be
human – longed for normality. I ached for acceptance, for sympathy with
another. I longed for a purpose. I gave myself different names and backgrounds,
trying to get work, just to fit in. Nobody would take me on. They saw me
immediately as a danger – I was too different, and as you so accurately pointed
out, people fear different. I was lonely to the point of insanity, utterly
without another soul to empathise. I was going out of my mind moving from place
to place, walking around as a restless spectre. For over a century I travelled
the globe to no end, a nomad, just tracking Death for pitiful survival – for
control
of my killer instinct. It was an endless, joyless, repetition of tedious
routine. My cup for Hope was empty, with a hole in the bottom. I had to’ – he sneered
– ‘get a life! What else could I do? It was useless to go on as I was. I had to
find a way out of it. A way to live an everyday civilised life with an official
identity, a job and a home – these being the foundations of it. It became my
fuel for the reward. I didn’t know how I was going to do it yet. I hadn’t
formed any plan. That is until I tracked Death to a young dark-haired man, a
little farther east of the country.

‘He lived in a small wreck of a cottage, with no
electric, on some abandoned farmland. A smashed TV collected rain on the empty
gravel drive. I didn’t pay too much attention to him at first. I only visited
when Death did. My mind was busy elsewhere, having grown well used to the
routine of my meals. It was hard though not to notice the place surrounding the
victim, which looked as though a bomb had hit it. I watched as Death watched;
too distracted by my worries and miseries to notice anything particular about
him. At one point I did notice him; the day he shaved his face, which he hadn’t
done for a while. He was clearly into drinking and looked haggard most of the
time. I had thought his features were similar to my own. As soon as I saw him
clean-shaven, here stood my double, so absolutely my doppelganger! We could
have passed as brothers without a doubt. Here –’ Thom moved across the room to
the writing desk, picked up his wallet and brought it over to me, unfolding it
meanwhile. ‘That’s his picture on the licence, not mine. Is he not my genetic
copy?’

I took the photo-card with a shaky hand. I looked
back and forth between their faces.

‘Yes, I would think this is you, easily.’

‘Everybody has a look-alike in the world, so I’ve
come to believe.’ He put the
licence back. ‘Seeing him properly for the
first time, it gave me ideas while Death stalked him for a week. I could become
him; assume his identity, and take on his life just as it ended. It would give
me the starter I desperately wanted. His end was certain; it would be a gunshot
wound to the chest.’

‘How– how did you know that?’

‘Because I watched him load the thing, Alex, and
take aim.’

‘Oh, I see. But then he didn’t kill himself, because–’

‘
I
killed him. Yes. I drank his blood until
his heart stopped. He would have died with or without me there. I could do nothing
for him; you must understand that! But he could do something for me. I believed
it was fate. I would study him, gather every piece of paper about him, and know
everything I could. In short, I did it. I gave him a decent funeral in the
countryside, but in such a way, no one would ever find his body. The vocation
of curator came with the identity I took, and it suited me well. He was then thirty-three,
which wasn’t far off my age when I was turned. The man had been out of work. I
took that opportunity to start afresh in England where I’d always wanted to
live, and where nobody would know him. My predecessor, George, interviewed me
over the telephone for this job. He would never have given it to me had he met
me in person. It was the perfect way into a perfect situation.’

‘And this was just a couple of years ago?’

‘Though it feels like last month.’

‘How is it you don’t have an Irish accent?’

‘Because I grew up copying my father in speech,
and not my mother or anybody but him. Bronagh went the way of our mother’s
enunciation. Though I’m more than capable of imitating it, should someone
recognise me and ask what I was doing in England. Though the real Thomas Rues
was no Irishman by birth, like the Saint, he certainly possessed the voice of
an Irishman.

‘My subsistence however is never without irony! As
you’ve observed, Mrs Evans is far from fond of me. Now you’re wondering if she
saw the demon in the mirror as you have done. It’s actually simpler than that.
The identity I took on had a criminal record for involuntary manslaughter. Befitting
if not wholly typical! It’s the reason my twin was so clearly depressed: he’d
unintentionally killed his girlfriend and served a suspended sentence. I don’t
know when or how Mrs Doreen Evans learned of this, but following the
disappearance of Tess, she gossiped about me to the other shop girl, Rebecca,
and between them suspicion fell on me. To Mrs Evans
my
conviction was as
good as first-degree murder. No doubt she frightened Rebecca out of her wits because
she left that same day. This taught Mrs Evans not to do it again, as it caused
her grief to find a replacement quickly. She told Frances too of my past, but she
didn’t judge me. She’s a sweet soul that one! Good fortune often comes in the
guise of bad luck, because if that interfering Evans woman hadn’t have gossiped
then you’d never have come to work here, and I may never have known you.’ He
edged closer. ‘Alexandra, what are you thinking?’

‘A million things. You’re not who I thought you
were, right from the start.’

He went to speak, but I cut him off –

‘How is it I hit you with the jeep?’

‘
Alex
,’ he muttered slowly, ‘I am still
me
.’

‘Whoever
you
is. Answer me, please. Was it deliberate?
Well, was it?’

‘Yes!’ he said with his eyes closed. ‘I saw you in
the house that day, wandering around, half in this world and half in another.
Nothing particularly different about you, physically I mean. Coppery hair, modest
looking girl, a bit on the short side. You walked straight past me after an
innocent glance at my face. Your calm and collected expression didn’t alter,
despite being nearer to me than you are now. You hardly noticed me. If I’d been
an ordinary man, I might have taken it to mean you weren’t meant for me.’ He
smiled and it quickly fell away. ‘But I’m not an ordinary man. And I never met
anyone who didn’t edge back, flinch, or flat-out runaway on first encountering my
face. You’ve seen how strangers react, Alex. I was in awe of your fearlessness.
I wanted to understand why you differed from everyone else. I watched you from
the landing window as you left The Jacobus. You waved goodbye to Stacey and got
into the jeep. I’d overheard your interview. I knew it was likely you’d work
here, but I couldn’t wait to find out. I wanted to test you. I wanted you to
look directly at me again, to see if your mettle was constant. You were about
to leave. I got in the way to make you stop – to make you look at me. Not the
most heroic way to go about it, but I wasn’t thinking romantically at that
point. How you first looked at me–’ He went to approach me and then thought
better of it. ‘I had to then act the role of the injured party. And what if I
grew a little annoyed with you for running me down? Would you shiver then?
Would you jump back in the car and hurry to pull away? No, you didn’t! You
became audacious. But I had no idea then you’d come straight from the loony
bin. Alex, I’m so used to people immediately backing off. All people do it,
even those like Frances, who have no sense of danger.’

‘But it appears I’m the same.’

‘No. You’re different. You have no sense of fear.’

‘I think you’ll find I do. I fear lots of things.’

‘You don’t fear the inevitable. You don’t fear the
truth. I had to work so hard to gain the trust of Daniel and Frances after
introductions. – Alex, imagine a ferocious looking dog – name one for me?’

It was easy. ‘A Rottweiler.’

‘Right, a Rottweiler. Good choice, they’re none
too pretty when agitated. Imagine you were introduced to a fierce Rottweiler
without warning, and this Rottweiler was bigger than you – which isn’t saying
much, considering most things
are
bigger than you! But you also had a
very bad feeling about that hound.’

‘I don’t quite follow.’

‘My point, Alex, is that the Rottweiler might be playful
as a pup, and just can’t help its outward appearance or indeed the signals it
gives off. Everybody sees a ferocious Rottweiler when they meet me.’

‘Eloise didn’t.’

‘A small child doesn’t
understand
danger. Kids
often look at a dangerous dog and automatically see a playful one. They’re
habitually injured because of that misconception. Some adults overcome their
fears and pet its head, forgetting later how it terrified them at first. Others
don’t want to overcome their fears and they simply avoid it. Mrs Evans and a
handful of staff here are those
others
. They would never give me an inch,
always seeing the Rottweiler. But you! You didn’t even see it, you saw
me
.
Then you tried to make me out. You treated me like anybody else. You weren’t
afraid to show it when you were annoyed with me, even before you heard any
rumours. I admit I enjoyed teasing you afterwards. The way you tried to hide
how it bothered you. I had so much trouble staying away from you. I didn’t
realise how much I liked you until that Mark showed up and drove you home. I
never felt jealousy like it!