Sanctifying Grace (Resurrection) (14 page)

‘I thought you usually kept a low profile,’ I said.

‘Not easy when you look like this; over six foot, pale skin, black eyes, long, black hair, and then there’s the accent. It’s difficult to fade into the background in Brecon if I spend any time here.’

When I finished my meal he pointed me in the direction of the stairs. ‘Get some sleep. I won’t be far.’

I found it hard to settle, though I was deathly tired. I kept mulling over the things Roman had told me, trying to reconcile the invincibility of vampires with the determination of The Brotherhood, and I couldn’t shake off the feeling there was something I was missing. If The Brotherhood had hunted vampires with such limited success for hundreds of years, why was Roman so concerned now? What had changed?

Eventually it came to me: he had said there were disturbing reports coming out of a country in Europe and I knew instinctively what that country was – Germany. Hitler was on the rise, and I knew from my school-girl history and from watching documentaries that Nazi Germany had been involved in much more than normal warfare. They had performed experiments on twins, they were rumoured to have dabbled in the occult, they sterilized people with hereditary diseases
, and they had the idea of the master race. What could be more appealing to them than a genuinely superior being, a vampire?

A chill rushed through me before common sense cut in
: Roman had already told me The Brotherhood hadn’t had any success so far. Why should it be any different now? Rationalisation aside, I still couldn’t sleep, and after lying on one of the beds in an upstairs room, squirming and turning, trying to find a comfortable position, I gave up and went back downstairs.

The house was large
, with four bedrooms, a formal dining room, a parlour, a kitchen, and a cellar. It reminded me of Mr Arnold’s house and not in much better condition. Though I had become accustomed to squalor in Roman’s various worlds, I expected pre-war accommodation to be more modern, and it surprised me to witness how basic living arrangements had been back then – or now, depending on which viewpoint I wanted to take. I seriously missed power showers, coffee machines and microwaves. At least there was hot running water and I made full use of the large bath, after I had given it a thorough scrub. Clean and refreshed, but still not inclined to sleep, I wandered aimlessly from room to room, wondering where Roman was hiding and if he were near.

I wasn’t aware of the noise at first; it was simply part of the background hum of daily life in Brecon. There was the clatter of a horse’s hooves
, as the milkman did his rounds, and I watched in fascination as, one by one, women emerged from their houses bearing empty jugs and had them filled from one of the silver churns on the back of the cart. Children darted into the road with shovels and buckets to collect the copious offerings left by the patient horse. A rag and bone man yelled a yodelling call, setting the dogs to barking, and grumbling, chugging vans trundled down the street. A woman opposite knelt on her step, scrubbing brush in hand and a bucket of hot, soapy water by her side.

I let the grubby net curtain fall back into place. It wouldn’t do to be seen peering out through the window if someone else was supposed to live here
, and I knew all about the nosiness of small communities. I frowned in annoyance: even if I could sleep, it wouldn’t be easy with those damned dogs. Then my heart almost stopped – dogs. It was no ordinary barking, it was more like baying, and I’d heard it last night, too, when we were being tracked.

They were coming here! The barking grew steadily louder and I knew I only had moments to get out of the house.

I raced for the back door and skidded to a halt, seeing hatted heads bobbing above the wall. Too late. I was too late. The only other option was to hide. I darted back into the hall, thinking furiously, rejecting suggestions as soon as they surfaced: under a bed, in a wardrobe, behind a door. If one of the men didn’t notice me, then a dog surely would.

I dashed down the cellar steps, the one room I hadn’t explored
, and as my feet touched the final riser I heard insistent banging, then the tinkle of glass as a pane in the front door was broken.

‘Search the house and let Powell and his men in,’ a man called.

Holding my breath, I crept forward, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom. One end of the cellar had a filthy window and through it I could see iron grating in the pavement above and the sky beyond that. A pair of boots hurried across the railings and I knew there was no way out there.

Above my head came the stomp of heavy feet and I heard the same man shout ‘Upstairs. Search upstairs.’ It wouldn’t be long before they checked the cellar.

I slipped around stacked boxes and an ancient bike, careful not to bump into anything, heading for a square of daylight at the opposite end to the window. The cellar was sectioned off with a wall at chest height and behind it was a hill of heaped coal, and I suddenly knew what the patch of daylight signified – a coal hole.

As quietly as I could I scrambled up the mound of dusty black nodules until I reached the chute and I thanked my lucky stars I was still skinny when I saw the size of the opening. It was barely two feet across and although it was only about three feet from the bottom of the chute to the top, I was certain I was going to get my shoulders stuck. My socked feet gave little purchase on the smooth metal and I scrabbled and pulled my body up through the narrow hole, arms trembling with the effort.

I flopped onto the yard and lay still for a second, panting and wheezing, coal dust coating the back of my throat, expecting to be seen and hauled to my feet. Catching my breath, I clambered upright, risked a swift glance then took off like a rabbit out of a burrow. The back gate was wide open and I careened through it, ignoring the stab of pebbles and stones on my shoeless feet, leaving black footprints on the concrete, a trail easier to follow than my scent.

I had no idea where I was going, I simply ran down the lane separating the two rows of gardens and shot out of the alley into a residential street, knocking over an elderly woman, with a wicker shopping basket hooked over one arm. Groceries scattered everywhere. I slipped on a mess of smashed eggs and my foot came down hard on an apple, then I, too, crashed to the ground.

The screech was ear-splitting.

‘You stupid boy! Watch where you’re going! You’re gonna have to pay for them eggs.’

I levered my winded body off the floor, smiled apologetically and ran, leaving her shrieking insults at my retreating back. My ankle hurt like the very devil and my run rapidly became a hobble and a lurch.

I couldn’t keep this up for long: I needed to either get off the street or find the river, like Roman did last night. The river would be better because if I could stay in it for a couple of miles the dogs would lose my scent.

I knew where I was; the old part of Brecon hadn’t changed an awful lot from now until my time and I estimated that the river was to the end of this street, turn right, then left, and down the hill.

I didn’t get that far. I didn’t even get to the end of the street. The old lady’s shouting hadn’t done me any favours, alerting my hunters that their quarry was on the move. And with my possibly sprained ankle I had no hope of outrunning them. A hand grabbed the back of my shirt and yanked me backwards and I staggered, my ankle protesting painfully. My arms were held in a firm grip and I was shaken, roughly. Surrounded by four men, all I could do was stand still and pray.

‘Where is he?’

The man who spoke was a bull, at least six foot, with a body built for wrestling. Clean shaven face, small eyes, thick lips and a mean expression.

He shook me again when I failed to answer.

‘Where is he? Tell me.’

I stared belligerently at him and pursed my lips, and noticed we weren’t alone. This little bit of street theatre was attracting quite a crowd.

‘Help!’ I yelled, taking thick-lips by surprise. ‘I’m being attacked! Call the police.’ I thrashed and struggled, but the grip of the two men on either side remained firm. ‘Help!’

‘She’s a thief. Caught her trying to break into a house,’ thick-lips stated to the small group of rubber-neckers. ‘We’re taking her to the constable.’

‘You could do with taking her for a bath,’ an older gentleman quipped. ‘Look at the state of her.’

I was aware I wasn’t looking my best: no shoes, men’s clothes and covered head to foot in coal dust. No wonder no one believed me. I was hardly a respectable lady being attacked by a group of ruffians.

‘Get her off the street,’ thick-lips ordered.

‘Back to that house?’

‘Why not?  He’ll come looking for her there, most likely.’

He half dragged, half marched me back up the lane and in through the gate.

‘Get that front door fixed. I don’t want him suspecting anything,’ he said, once we were inside.

He threw me onto the settee and I sat glowering at him.

There were five of them and all of them looked hard and capable. They were also armed. I could see the handles of guns poking out from several waistbands and the one that had been left behind during the chase held a shotgun loosely in one hand. He was also holding the leashes of two hounds.

‘Move it! We haven’t got all day. It’ll be dark in less than eight hours.’

The man with the shotgun said, ‘I’ll take the dogs back and get more ammo. We’re gonna need it.’

Thick-lips nodded. ‘Bring my MP38 and make sure to bring the nine mil bullets. We’ll need the stakes, too, if things get out of hand.’

He set a couple of the men to watch me, guns trained at my chest, and my skin tingled with fear. Each man was on high alert and I just hoped they weren’t trigger happy.

Thick-lips had a tiny trace of unidentifiable accent beneath the quite clipped English syllables. ‘German?’ I wondered aloud.

He had been sitting at the small writing desk, examining some papers he had found there, but at my question his head swung round and he stared at me.

I smiled nervously back at him, mouth dry, and wished I hadn’t spoken.

‘Why do you say that? What do you know?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I don’t believe you. What has he told you and why?’ He got out of his chair and towered over me. One of the guards shifted his stance, but the pistol never wavered. I swallowed nosily.

‘You will answer me, sooner or later. It will be better for you if it is sooner.’

‘Is she a scion, Smith?’

Smith, aka thick-lips, examined me closely. ‘No, I don’t think so. She doesn’t act like one. She knows too much, you can tell.’

‘What’s a scion?’ I had to ask.

‘Don’t play stupid.’ Smith scoffed.

‘I’m not. I really don’t know what you mean?’

‘Huh!’

He hunkered down on his heels and scrutinised me. ‘I will ask you again. Where does he go to ground?’

‘I honestly don’t know. He didn’t tell me.’

‘She’s probably telling the truth, Smith,’ one of guards said. ‘They never let any humans know where they hide.’ He turned towards the other man and the muzzle of the gun dropped slightly.

‘Shut up, Powell, and let me handle this.’

‘He’s right,’ I said. ‘He would never tell me.’

Smith huffed his annoyance. ‘I said, shut up, and you,’ he jerked his head at Powell, ‘keep your mind on your job.’

The gun resumed its position, pointing at my chest.

‘What are you to him?’ Smith asked. ‘I know you were at his house with him, yet he took you with him and hid you here.’

I shrugged. There was no way I was going to tell him the truth.

He smirked, rose to his full height and put his hand in his pocket. I tensed, expecting him to pull out a weapon and relaxed when I saw the pack of Woodbines and a lighter.

‘Cigarette?’ He offered the pack to me.

I shook my head.

He lit one, blowing the smoke in a steady stream, took two more puffs whilst he studied me, then grabbed my arm and ground the burning tip into my flesh.

I screamed, the pain sharp and biting. Smith held to cigarette to my skin for several seconds, then he released his grip and smiled. The cigarette had gone out so he re-lit it.

I sobbed, my arm throbbing, the smell of roast meat making me gag. There was a circular burn slightly larger than a five pence piece just above my wrist. It was raw and weeping, little blisters appearing on the reddened skin around the small hole, a sharp contrast to the rest of my coal-dust-blackened arm. I could feel the heat of the wound, pulsing in time to my heart beat, a fast, erratic rhythm.

‘What are you to him?’

I stared at him through tear filled eyes and prayed he wouldn’t burn me again.

He did.

I nearly passed out from the agony as another neat hole appeared beside the first. My whole forearm was aflame, the pain radiating outwards.

One of the guards kept his eyes steadfastly on my torso, a faint expression of disgust on his face, but the other, Powell, licked his lips, eyes glittering with excitement as he switched from the twin burns, to Smith, and back again. He was getting off on this.