The Book With No Name (52 page)

Somers drew his head back from the Kid’s neck and looked him square in the eye. A wisp of smoke rose up in the small gap between their faces. Somers glanced down. He could feel a burning sensation on his chest. Something had ignited a flame between him and the Kid. He tried to push the other away from him, but such was the strength of the Kid’s grip that for once he found himself powerless. And the burning sensation was growing, the pain now agonizing. He let out an anguished howl.

‘
Aaagh! Let go of me, you fucking maggot!
’

Much to Somers’s surprise, the Bourbon Kid obeyed. He released his arms from their grip around Somers’s back, but now the detective found that he couldn’t pull himself away. Even without the Kid holding on to him he was still attached, as if they had been bonded together with a powerful glue. The Kid used his now free hands to pull open his trench coat a little further.

Somers realized at once the severity of his predicament. Strapped to the Bourbon Kid’s chest and previously concealed neatly beneath his coat was
The Book With No Name.
Now it was pressed tightly against Somers’s chest, causing his skin to blister and peel, burning away into ash and smoke.

‘Can’t be killed by crosses, right?’ said the Bourbon Kid, smiling. ‘That’s what you said, isn’t it?’

Somers couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His body was now wreathed in flames that were even enveloping the Kid, who seemed impervious to them.

‘
Aaagh! You bastard! You fucking bastard!
’ he screamed. He staggered back, but the book ripped away from the Kid and went with him, as if it were melting into his chest.

‘
The Book With No Name,
’ said the Kid. ‘The cover and the pages were made from the Cross on which Christ was crucified. Now tell me, are you sure you can’t be killed by a cross?’

The expression on Somers’s face was a picture of fury, agony and horror. He stood here now faced with the only
thing on earth that could kill him. This was the secret he had fought to protect. He had killed all the people who had read the book, but he had been unable to destroy the book itself because to touch it meant death for him. Vampires do not go without a fight, however, and Somers wasn’t going to meet the Devil on his own if he could help it.

‘You’re coming with me, you muthafucker! I’ll take you straight to Hell.’

‘Maybe.’

The Bourbon Kid stepped back far enough to be clear of the flames that now engulfed Somers’s entire body, devouring it. For ten seconds or more he stood and watched as the creature before him turned from Dark Lord and most powerful being on earth into nothing more than smoke and ash. Screaming like a soul in torment as he went.

Then he was gone. The flames dwindled and died, the smoke evaporated, and nothing was left.

Maybe not.

The Kid stood and surveyed the carnage around him for a few moments. There were bodies strewn all over the floor. All his own doing. The important thing, though, was that Detective Archibald Somers was gone. For ever. The only legacy the Dark Lord had left behind was an irritating scratch on his killer’s neck. The Kid put his left hand up to feel how deep the wound was. His fingers ran along the small graze that Somers had inflicted upon him. Didn’t seem too bad.

He took a look at his fingertips.
Hmm, blood. That could be a problem.

Peto could finally breathe easy again. Setting foot back on the beloved soil of Hubal felt like being invited into Heaven itself. The week he had spent away from his island home had been the longest of his life. It had been an eye-opening experience, and one that he fervently wished never to undergo again. He had lost his best friend Kyle, been lied to by just about everyone he had met, had his suitcase full of money stolen, killed one man and wounded another, and witnessed a couple of former monks turn into vampires. He had seen and done a great deal more besides, and his joy at having survived it all to return in triumph almost overwhelmed him.

Hubal had been restored to its former grace and beauty during his absence, as if the recent massacre had never taken place. The mental scars from Jefe’s lethal appearance on their island would take longer to heal. Father Taos was Peto’s first port of call. His wounds had healed, the physical ones at least. As for the other surviving monks, the mental scars were probably still there, although Taos would hide them well.

The head monk was overjoyed to see Peto enter the Temple holding aloft the Eye of the Moon. He was sitting where Peto had seen him last, at the altar, only now he looked fit and well. He stood up and walked briskly down the main aisle between the rows of pews, his arms outstretched to embrace his returning hero. Peto, who felt desperately in need of that embrace, ran forward and hugged him, squeezing Taos rather tightly considering that it was not long since the old man had been shot in the stomach.

‘Peto, I’m so glad you’re alive. It’s so good to see you.
Where’s Kyle?’

‘He didn’t make it, Father.’

‘A terrible pity. He was one of the best.’

‘Yes, Father, he was. He was the best of all.’

The two men lowered their arms and each took a small step back. Embracing each other while talking of the death of their great friend seemed somehow inappropriate.

‘What about you? Are you all right, my son?’

‘I’m fine, Father.’ Then the words began to rush out of him. ‘Kyle and I had quite an adventure. I became a famous fighting champion until a man named Rodeo Rex beat me. Then we met two former brothers who had become vampires. After that Kyle was killed by a mass murderer called the Bourbon Kid, and I escaped with the Eye of the Moon, and have returned with it.’

‘That sounds like a mighty impressive story, my son. You should rest, and then tell me all about it over supper.’

‘Yes, Father.’ Peto held out the Eye of the Moon and Taos gladly relieved him of it, slipping it into a small pocket at the front of his brown robe. He then turned to walk back to the altar.

‘One thing I must know, Peto,’ he said, before walking away. ‘What became of the Bourbon Kid?’

‘I don’t know, Father. I left him behind when I made my escape. He seemed to be killing people randomly with a huge arsenal of weapons.’

‘I see.’

‘Why do you ask, Father? Do you know of this man from before? Brother Hezekiah suggested you might know of him.’

‘Brother Hezekiah?’

‘Yes, Father.’

Taos turned back to face Peto once more. His face no longer looked relieved at seeing his young friend again. Instead, it now looked deeply concerned, even troubled.

‘But Brother Hezekiah is dead,’ he said quietly.

‘No, Father – well yes, he is now, but he was one of the monks Kyle and I met who turned into a vampire. He told us
many lies, I think, before … before he died.’

‘Peto, my dear young friend, you will learn as you get older that not everything is black or white, true or false. What brother Hezekiah told you may actually not have been lies. Once a monk leaves the island of Hubal and travels to a place as evil as Santa Mondega, it is almost impossible for him to remain pure. You must know that by now. It is true of brother Hezekiah, I’m sure it is also true of you and poor Kyle, and I know for damn sure it’s true of me.’

Peto looked stunned. Quite apart from anything else, he had never heard the old monk swear before. He stammered out the question that had stayed with him ever since Hezekiah had sown the seeds of doubt in his and Kyle’s minds.

‘But Father, surely
you
didn’t break the sacred laws of Hubal while you were in that dreadful place?’

Taos walked away a little and sat himself down on the steps leading up to the altar. He looked tired again, much as he had a week earlier. The young monk moved towards him.

‘Alas, I’m afraid I did, Peto. I fathered a child, a son with the same blood that courses through my veins.’

Peto stood aghast at the revelation from Father Taos.

‘Father Taos, how could you? I mean, how could you keep this secret for so long? And what happened to your son? And who was the mother?’

Ishmael Taos had waited a very long time for the opportunity to confess his sins, yet he had never imagined that he would be confessing to Peto, of all people.

‘His mother was a hooker. That is, a prostitute.’

‘A
hooker?
’ To say that Peto was shocked would have been an understatement akin to saying that the Bourbon Kid might have killed one or two people. The Santa Mondegan in him surfaced. ‘What the
fuck?
Is she still alive? And, shit, hold on a minute – you mean I could have fucked a hooker and still come back?’

‘No, Peto, you could not.’

‘So what’s the deal, then? Were you in love with her?’

Taos shook his head. ‘That’s another story, Peto,’ he said.
If he had disapproved of the novice’s language, he gave no sign. ‘The short story is that many years after she and I parted, she was bitten by a vampire.’ The young monk was immediately contrite.

‘Oh dear, I’m sorry, Father,’ he said in a gentler tone. ‘I guess it’s none of my business.’ He bowed his head for a second, then looked back up suddenly. ‘So did she become one of them?’

Taos shook his head again and took a deep breath. This was harder than he had expected.

‘No, I’m afraid not. Not that I would ever wish such a fate on anyone. But her son,
my son,
even, witnessed the whole thing and went berserk. His mother was all he had in the world, because I had deserted him when he was a child. In his rage he killed the vampire and then, at her request, he killed his mother too, to spare her from a life among the Undead.’

Peto put his hand over his mouth in shock.

‘That’s terrible, Father. No child should have to do that.’

‘He was not exactly a child, Peto. He was sixteen at the time.’

‘With all due respect, Father, how does a sixteen-year-old kill his mother?’

Taos took a deep breath, ready to unveil the final, terrible truth to his confused and stuttering novice.

‘He couldn’t do it at first, so he drank a bottle of bourbon. A whole bottle. Then he blew a hole through her heart.’

‘Bourbon?’ Peto gasped, realizing at once who Taos’s son was.

‘Yes, my son. It had a profound psychological effect on him, as you would expect. But I guess you already know that.’

‘My God! This all makes sense. But it is all still so … so unbelievable … So, are you still in touch with your son?’

Taos was beginning to tire. Just talking about this particular episode of his life, and its consequences, was exhausting.

‘It’s been a long day, Peto. Let us talk about it again
tomorrow. You should get some rest, then we can both confess to our sins. I shall not join you for supper; instead, we shall meet again in the morning.’

‘Yes, Father.’ Peto bowed his head to show that he still had the utmost respect for Father Taos, and then retreated from the Temple back to his own quarters. Taos took the Eye of the Moon and returned it to its rightful place. Feeling somewhat reassured that all was right with the world once more, he returned to his private chambers and retired to bed. It was early for him to do so, but he knew that he needed to rest.

Father Taos slept deeply and peacefully for the first three or four hours, until he was suddenly woken. Not by a sound or a touch. What had brought him from contented sleep was a feeling that all was not well.

His bedroom was pitch dark, so he reached out to his bedside table where he kept a candle in a small jar in case he needed to get up during the night. Beside the candle was a tray of matches and a brick. He fumbled around with the matches, sitting up in his hard monk’s bed as he did so. When he had hold of one and was sure he had it the right way up, he scratched it against the brick. It flared up with a sharp hiss. Blinking his eyes a little to grow accustomed to the glow from the flame, he held it over the candle wick and watched with satisfaction as it took flame. He blew the match out and placed it on top of the brick, then picked up the jar with the candle in it and held it up before him.

‘
Aaagh!
’ Taos’s heart missed more than just one beat. There at the end of his bed was the silhouette of a hooded man standing over him, as though he had been watching the old monk sleep.

‘Hello, Father.’

Taos put his free hand over his mouth to keep himself from gasping out loud. When at last he had steadied his breathing, he regained his composure a little and asked a question of his intruder.

‘What are you doing here? This is my private chamber. You should not be here.’

The hooded man stepped forward, his face almost visible in the candlelight, but not enough to be recognizable.

‘I’ve been looking for the best place to die. There’s no better place than this, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t think you want to die here, my son,’ Taos reasoned. He spoke as if he was trying to persuade someone not to jump from a building.

The man pulled his hood back and revealed a pale face covered in speckles of dried blood.

‘Who said anything about me?’

The End (maybe …)