Necroscope 4: Deadspeak (54 page)

Thinking of it?
Faethor came into the open, and Harry could feel him as close as if he stood right there at his bedside.
Fait accompli, Harry. Get used to it.

Harry shook his head and grinned mirthlessly. “I will be rid of you,” he said. “Believe me, Faethor, I’ll be rid of you, even if it means getting rid of myself.”

Suicide?
Faethor tut-tutted.
No, not you, Harry. Why, you are tenacious as the ones you hunt down and destroy! You will not kill yourself while there’s still a chance to kill another one of them.

“Another one of you, you mean? But you could be wrong, Faethor. Me, I’m only human. I’d die pretty easily. A bullet through my brain, like Trevor Jordan … I wouldn’t even know about it. Believe me, it’s tempting.”

I see no real notion of suicide in your thoughts,
Faethor shrugged,
so why pretend? Do you think I feel threatened? How can you threaten me, Harry? I’m already dead!

“But in me you have life, right? Listen and I’ll tell you something: you really don’t know what’s in my thoughts. I can hide them, even from you. It’s deadspeak; that’s how I learned to do it; by keeping back my thoughts from the dead. I did it then so as not to hurt them, but I can just as easily use it the other way.”

For a moment—the merest tick of the clock—Harry felt Faethor wavering. And he nodded knowingly. “See? I know what’s on your mind, old devil. But do you know what’s on mine, if I hide it from you … so?”

Deep in the psyche of Harry, the Father of Vampires felt himself surrounded by nothing. It fell on him like a blanket, as if to smother him. It was as if he were back in the earth near Ploiesti, where his evil fats had been rendered down the night Ladislau Giresci took his life.

“You see,” Harry told him, letting the light of his thoughts shine in again, “I can shut you out.”

Not out, Harry. You can only shut me off. But the moment you relax I’ll be back.

“Always?”

For a moment Faethor was silent. Then:
No, for we made a bargain. And so long as you hold to it, then so shall I. When Janos is no more, then you’ll be rid of me.

“You swear it?”

Upon my soul!
Faethor gurgled like a night-dark swamp, and smiled an immaterial smile.

It was the natural sarcasm of the vampire, but Harry only said: Til hold you to that.” And his mental voice was cold as the spaces between the stars. “Just remember, Faethor, I’ll hold you to it …”

Manolis handled the boat. It had a small cabin and a large engine, and left a wake like low white walls melting back into the blue. Always in sight of land, they had rounded Cape Koumbourno and outpaced the water-skiers off Kritika Beach before Harry had even hit the water there. By 9:00
A.M.
they had passed Cape Minas, and with the mainland lying to port were heading for Alimnia. Darcy had thought he might have trouble with his stomach, but the sea was like glass and with the wind in his face … he might easily be enjoying an expensive holiday. That is, if he wasn’t perfectly sure he was heading for horror.

Around 10:00 a pair of dolphins played chicken across the prow of the boat where it sliced the water; by which time they’d passed between the almost barren rocks of Alimnia and Makri, and Halki (which Manolis insisted should be “Khalki”, for the chalky shells it was named after) had swum into view.

Fifteen minutes later they were into the harbour and tied up, and Manolis was chatting with a pair of weathered fishermen where they mended their nets. While he made his apparently casual inquiries, Darcy bought a map from a tiny box of a shop right on the waterfront and studied what he could of the island’s layout. There wasn’t a great deal to study.

The island was a big rock something less than eight by four miles, with the long axis lying east to west. Looking west a mile or two, mountain crests stood wild and desolate where the island’s one road of any description wandered apparently aimlessly. And Darcy knew that his and Manolis’s destination lay way up there, in the heights at the end of that road. He didn’t need the map to know it: his talent had been telling him ever since he stepped from the boat to dry land.

Eventually, done with talking to the fishermen, Manolis joined him. “No transport,” he said. “It is maybe two miles, then the climbing, and of course we will be carrying our—how do you say—picnic basket? It looks like a long hot walk, my friend, and all of it uphill.”

Darcy looked around. “Well, what’s that,” he said, “if not transport?” A three-wheeled device, clattering like a steam-engine and pulling a four-wheel cart, came clanking out of a narrow street to park in the “centre of town”, that being the waterfront with its bars and tavernas.

The driver was a slim, small Greek of about forty-five; he got down from his driver’s seat and went into a grocery store. Darcy and Manolis were waiting for him when he came out. His name was Nikos; he owned a taverna and rooms on a beach across the bottleneck of the promontory behind the town; business was slow right now and he could run them up to the end of the road for a small remuneration. When Manolis mentioned a sum of fifteen hundred drachmae his eyes lit up like lamps, and after he’d collected his fish, groceries, booze and other items for the taverna, then they were off.

Sitting in the back of the cart had to be better than walking—but not much better. On the way Nikos stopped to unload his purchases at the taverna, and to open a couple of bottles of beer for his passengers, and then the journey continued.

After a little while and when he’d adjusted his position against the jolting, Darcy took a swig of his beer and said: “What did you find out?”

“There are two of them,” Manolis answered. “They come down at evening to buy meat—red meat, no fish—and maybe drink a bottle of wine. They stay together, don’t talk much, do their own cooking up at the site …
if they
cook!” He shrugged and looked narrow-eyed at Darcy. “They work mainly at night; when the wind is in the right direction the villagers occasionally hear them blasting. Nothing big, just small charges to shift the rocks and the rubble. During the day … they are not seen to do too much. They laze around in the caves up there.”

“What about the tourists?” Darcy inquired. “Wouldn’t they be a nuisance? And how come Lazarides—or Janos—gets away with it? I mean, digging in these ruins? Is your government crazy or something? This is … it’s history!”

Again Manolis’s shrug. “The Vrykoulakas apparently has his friends. Anyway, they are not actually digging
in
the ruins. Beyond the castle where it sits up on the crest, the cliff falls away very steeply. Down there are ledges, and caves. This is where they are digging. The villagers think they are the crazy men. What, treasure up there? Dust and rocks, and that’s all.”

Darcy nodded. “But Janos knows better, eh? Let’s face it, if he buried it, he should know where to dig for it!”

Manolis agreed. “As for the tourists: there are maybe thirty of them right now. They spend their time in the tavernas, on the beach, lazing around. They are on holiday, right? Some climb up to the castle, but never down the other side. And never at night.”

“It feels weird,” said Darcy, after a while.

“What does?”

“We’re going up there to kill these things.”

“Right,” Manolis answered. “But only if it’s necessary. I mean, only if they
are
things!”

Darcy gave an involuntary shudder and glanced at the long, narrow wicker basket which lay between them. Inside it were spearguns, wooden stakes, Harry Keogh’s crossbow, and a gallon of petrol in a plastic container. “Oh, they are,” he said then, and offered a curt nod. “You can believe me, they are …”

Fifteen minutes later Nikos brought his vehicle to a halt in a rising re-entry. To the left, pathways which were little more than goat tracks led steeply up through the ruined streets of an ancient, long-deserted hill town; above the ruins stood a gleaming white monastery, apparently still in use; and higher still, on the almost sheer crown of the mountain itself—

“—The castle!” Manolis breathed.

As Nikos and his wonderful three-wheel workhorse made an awkward turn and went rattling and jolting back down into the valley, Darcy shielded his eyes to gaze up at the ominous walls of the castle, standing guard there as it had through all the long centuries. “But … is there a way up?”

“Yes,” Manolis nodded. “A goat track. Hairpins all the way, but quite safe. According to the fishermen, anyway.”

Carrying the basket between them, they set out to climb. Beyond the monastery and before the real climbing could begin, they paused to look back. Across the valley, they could pick out the boundaries of long-forsaken fields and the shells of old houses, where olive groves and orchards had long run wild and returned to nature.

“Sponges,” said Manolis, by way of explanation. “They were sponge fishermen, these people. But when the sponges ran out, so did the people. Now, as you see, it’s mainly ruins. Perhaps one day the tourists will bring it back to life again, eh?”

Darcy had other things than life on his mind. “Let’s get on,” he said. “Already I don’t want to go any further, and if we hang about much longer I won’t want to go at all!”

After that it was all ochre boulders, yellow outcrops and winding goat tracks, and where there were gaps in the rocks dizzying views which were almost vertiginous. But eventually they found themselves in the shadow of enormous walls and passed under a massive, sloping stone lintel into the ruin itself. The place was polyglot and Darcy had been right about its historic value. It was Ancient Greek, Byzantine, and last but not least Crusader. Climbing up onto walls three to four feet thick, the view was fantastic, with all the coastlines of Halki and its neighbouring islands laid open to them.

They clambered over heaps of stony debris in the shell of a Crusader chapel whose walls still carried fading murals of saints wearing faded haloes, and finally stood on the rim of the ruins looking down on the Bay of Trachia.

“Down there,” said Manolis. That’s where they are. Look: do you see those signs of excavation, where all of that rubble makes a dark streak on the weathered rocks? That’s them. Now we must find the track down to them. Darcy, are you all right? You have that look again.”

Darcy was anything but all right. They … they’re down there,” he said. “I feel rooted to the spot. Every step weighs like lead. Christ, my talent’s a coward!”

“You want to rest here a moment?”

“God, no! If I stop now I’ll not get started again. Let’s get on.”

There were several empty cigarette packets, scuff marks on the rocks, places where the sandy soil had been compacted by booted feet; the way down was neither hard to find nor difficult to negotiate. Soon they found a rusting wheelbarrow and a broken pick standing on the wide shelf of a natural ledge which had weathered out from the strata. And half-way along the ledge … that was where much of the stony debris had been excavated from the mouths of several gaping caves. Moving quietly, they approached the cave showing the most recent signs of work and paused at its entrance. And as they took out spearguns from their basket and loaded them, Manolis whispered: “You’re sure we’ll need these, yes?”

“Oh, yes,” Darcy nodded, his face ashen.

Manolis took a step into the echoing mouth of the cave.

“Wait!” Darcy gasped, his Adam’s apple working. “It would be safer to call them out.”

“And let them know we’re here?”

“In the sunlight, we’ll have the advantage,” Darcy gulped. “And anyway, my urge to get the fuck out of here just climbed the scale by several big notches. Which probably means they already know we’re here!”

He was right. A shadow stepped forward out of the cave’s darker shadows, moving carefully towards them where they stood in the entrance. They looked at each other with widening eyes, and together thumbed the safeties off their weapons and lifted them warningly. The man in the cave kept coming, but turned his shoulder side on and went into something of a forward leaning crouch.

Manolis spat out a stream of gabbled Greek curses, snatched his Beretta from its shoulder holster and transferred the speargun to his left hand. The man, thing, vampire was still coming at them out of the dark, but they saw him more clearly now. He was tall, slim, strangely ragged-looking in silhouette. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, baggy trousers, a shirt whose unbuttoned sleeves flapped loosely at the wrists. He looked for all the world like a scarecrow let down off his pole. But it wasn’t crows he was scaring.

“Only … one of them?” Darcy gasped—and felt his hair stand on end as he heard pebbles sliding and clattering on the ledge
behind
them!

The man in the cave lunged forward; Manolis’s gun flashed blindingly, deafeningly; Darcy looked back and saw a second—creature?—bearing down on them. But this one was much closer. Like his colleague in the cave he wore a floppy hat, and in its shade his eyes were yellow, viciously feral. Worse, he held a pickaxe slantingly overhead, and his face was twisted in a snarl where he aimed it at Darcy’s back!

Darcy—or perhaps his talent—turned himself to meet the attack, aimed point-blank, squeezed the trigger of his speargun. The harpoon flew straight to its target in the vampire’s chest. The impact brought him to a halt; he dropped his pickaxe, clutched at the spear where it transfixed him, staggered back against the wall of the cliff. Darcy, frozen for a moment, could only watch him lurching and mewling there, coughing up blood.

In the cave, Manolis cursed and fired his gun again—and yet again—as he followed his target deeper into the darkness. Then … Darcy heard an inhuman shriek followed by the slither of silver on steel, and finally the meaty
thwack
of Manolis’s harpoon entering flesh. The sounds brought him out of his shock as he realized that both his and Manolis’s weapons were now empty. He leaned to grab a harpoon from the open basket, and the man on the ledge staggered forward and kicked the whole thing, basket and contents, right off the rim!

“Jesus!” Darcy yelled, his throat hoarse and dry as sandpaper as again the flame-eyed thing turned towards him. Then the vampire paused, looked about and saw its pickaxe where it lay close to the rising cliff. It moved to pick it up, and Darcy moved too. His talent told him to run, run,
run!
But he yelled
“Fuck you!”
and flew like a madman at the stooping vampire. He bowled the thing over, and himself snatched up the pick. The tool was heavy but such was Darcy’s terror that it felt like a toy in his hands.