Uprising (22 page)

Stone breathed the still, freezing air, gazed up at the stars twinkling in the vast black sky and, just for an instant, he almost envied a human’s capacity to appreciate beautiful things. Almost.

A black Mercedes four-wheel drive equipped with snow chains had been waiting for him and his escort at the airfield. It had driven them far out into the wilderness, a single black speck on an endless expanse of frozen tundra overlooked by the towering Putoran Mountains. No human would have built a road where they were going.

At the outer limit of where a car could travel, they were met by a small procession of snowmobiles and skimmed at speed over the white landscape to a place where no human would willingly venture. Another civilisation dwelled here, far from the eyes of the world.

Stone left the convoy on foot. The wind howled and eddies of ice whipped around him as he walked alone to the base of the gigantic mountain that was his destination. He soon found the cave entrance, almost completely blocked by snow, and made his way downwards through winding icy tunnels carved twenty centuries ago. He was excited about the meeting that was about to take place, but though he would never have admitted it, certainly not to any of his circle and barely even to himself, mingled somewhere within that sense of excitement was an emotion that Gabriel Stone had very seldom experienced in his very long existence.

He was afraid. His Masters had that effect on him.

As he approached the citadel hidden deep inside the mountain, the ice tunnels were draped in red satin and the ornate crystalline sculptures on the mirror-polished ceilings, higher and more grandiose than in any human cathedral, depicted mythological scenes from the Old Times. As he’d done on his previous visits, he made his way to a cavernous ante-chamber on the outer ring of the citadel. The chamber was bare except for a semicircle of red satin-covered thrones. He sat and waited there, listening to the whistle of the wind around the ice walls and going carefully through the report he was about to make.

Before long, one of the Masters arrived. Stone recognised him as one of the Elders, a creature whose age couldn’t easily be counted. The tall, thin figure was draped from head to foot in a hooded robe. Stone got to his feet and bowed formally as he entered the chamber. The robe’s sleeve fell away from a long, bony hand as the Master gestured for him to stay seated. The clawed fingers reached up and slowly peeled back the hem of the hood.

The pale, translucent, blue-hued skin of the Master’s bald skull was lined with veins and wrinkles. The ears were long and pointed. When the Master sat on the throne beside his and turned that dark gaze on him, Stone was reminded of how tiny he’d always felt in the presence of such deep, terrible wisdom. He had spent a great deal of time learning from them but, even so, their magnificence was humbling to him. A human would simply, instantly, die of terror in such a place. For Stone, it was a religious experience.

They exchanged the traditional greetings in the guttural, harsh tones of the Old Language.

‘My heart sings to see you again,
Krajzok,’
the Master said, using an expression that translated roughly as ‘Young One’.

‘You honour me,’ Stone replied graciously.

‘Later we will feed. First, Young One, tell me. How does your task progress?’

‘I hope you will be pleased to hear that the plans are well underway.’ Stone carefully ran through the account of the destruction of the Terzi plant, the acquisition of the pharmaceutical stockpiles, and the slaying of many enemy agents. Use of the heretical term ‘Federation’ was something to be avoided when referring to the opposition, knowing that even its mention would invoke fury. The fury of the Masters was not something Stone wanted to witness.

‘Now the traitors are weak,’ he said in summation. ‘Before long, we will strike against them using their own weapons, and finish them.’

The Master reflected a while. ‘I am not alone, Young One, in finding your use of these abominable technologies deeply discomforting. Is there no other way?’

Stone was very careful in his reply. ‘I share your sense of unease, Master. Yet I find the irony somehow appropriate. Let the filth perish by the same means they employed against their own, more worthy, kin. Once the task is fully accomplished, you may rest assured that these evil creations will be consigned to history along with their creators.’

The Master nodded slowly. ‘You are not unwise, Young One. You have repaid our trust in you. Thanks to your noble efforts, our nation will soon reclaim its rightful place.’

‘Ever your servant,’ Stone replied, bowing his head.

The Master peered deep into his eyes. It was as though a searchlight were scanning his mind.

‘I sense you have more to tell us,’ the Master said with a thin smile. ‘Something important.’

All throughout the long journey to Russia, as he’d lain there in his box, Stone had been debating furiously with himself as to whether he should mention the possible discovery by a human of the cross of Ardaich. To do so would entail explanations that he preferred to avoid. He’d allowed the human to escape him, and that was a sign of weakness he couldn’t afford to display.

‘Well?’ the Master said, waiting.

‘I have told you all there is to tell,’ Stone lied, using all his mental powers to conceal his true thoughts. Inwardly, he was cringing. The Master was a powerful mindreader and his wrath would be beyond imagining if he discovered he was being deceived.

‘You are sure?’

‘I am sure.’

The Master seemed satisfied. He laid his clawed hand on Stone’s shoulder.

‘Come. You have a long journey back. Feed with us a while before you leave, and let us discuss our plans further.’

Chapter Forty-Five

It was dark outside Bill Andrews’s office window at the private Rothwell Clinic outside Wallingford. In front of him on his desk were Kate Hawthorne’s case notes. He’d been staring at them long enough for the words to start to float before his eyes. He took off his glasses and rubbed his face. Fatigue was making his head spin and his brow prickled with cold sweat. He reached for the little bottle of pills in the breast pocket of his white coat, gulped one down.

It had been a ghastly afternoon. Most of it had been spent on the impossible task of trying to console the Hawthorne family. He’d had to listen to Gillian weeping uncontrollably, while struggling to come up with a semi-plausible explanation as to how their lovely, healthy daughter could have just faded away for no apparent reason, in just a matter of days.

The fact was, he was completely stumped.

‘Start from the beginning, Bill,’ he muttered. He flicked back to the first page and began scrutinising the case notes for the thousandth time, determined to make sense of them.

But how could you make sense of something that seemed scientifically impossible? She was healthy. Normal. All the tests were negative. Technically, there was nothing wrong with Kate Hawthorne – other than the fact that she was lying dead on a steel tray in the main building across the way from his office.

Even more perplexing were the lesions on the girl’s neck. When Gillian had first called him out to the house, they’d been livid and ugly, the flesh around them mottled and purple. When he’d caught a glimpse of Kate’s dead body under the sheet this afternoon, the marks seemed to have virtually gone.

He frowned. Not even a healthy patient could have healed so fast. How could someone who was dying? It just didn’t make sense.

Could he have imagined it? A trick of the light? Too distracted by the chaos and the scenes of grief going on around him?

‘Damn it,’ he said out loud. ‘Let’s take another look.’ He got up from his desk, left the office and walked through the neon-lit corridor that led to the main building. The mortuary was located in the basement of the east wing. Dr Andrews descended the stairs and pushed through the fire doors into his least favourite part of the hospital.

In what the staff called ‘the Cooler’ was a wall of stainless steel panels. Behind each panel was a retractable compartment seven feet long and three feet wide, running on rails. They were like the drawers of a huge filing cabinet, each labelled with a name and a number. This was only a small private facility, and the Cooler was never anywhere near capacity. At most, they had four or five cadavers in at a time. He quickly found the compartment with Kate Hawthorne’s name and admission number. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the cold steel handle and pulled.

The compartment slid open smoothly on its rails.

He looked inside.

Blinked. Then looked again.

It was empty.

Dr Andrews took a step back. Was this some kind of administrative error? He was about to open another compartment when he heard a voice behind him.

‘Hello, Doctor. Looking for me?’

He swung round.

Kate Hawthorne was standing behind him, naked. He gaped, speechless. A rapid drum rhythm started up inside his ribcage.

She smiled.

Holy Lord, those teeth.

The drum began to roll faster, louder, building to a crescendo…then…

Bang.

‘My heart—’ Dr Andrews clutched at his chest and cried out in pain as the cardiac attack ripped through him. His knees buckled. He pitched forward, felt his head crack open on the tiled floor. His eyes rolled up, and through the rising mist he saw Kate Hawthorne beaming bright-eyed down at him, her fangs white against her red lips. Then his vision dimmed, and he saw no more.

Crowmoor Hall

8.12 p.m.

Lillith skidded her bright yellow Lotus Elise to a halt on the gravel, threw open the door and grabbed the bundle from the passenger seat. It wriggled feebly in her arms as she carried it into the dark house. She was sated from her evening feed, but who said you had to be hungry to eat? Something for dessert.

With that thought in mind she made her way through the gloomy passages to the tower in the east wing where her private quarters were situated. The creaking of a door made her turn, and she saw Finch standing there.

‘What happened to your face?’ she asked him, noticing the bruises. In a grave, solemn tone he told her about that day’s incident with Solomon, the police officer.

‘Interesting,’ Lillith purred. ‘So now we know all about our little cross-bearing friend.’

As she spoke, her vampire’s mind was turning over at high speed. So much for the human having found the cross of Ardaich, she thought. If his claim had been anything more than a desperate bluff, he could have destroyed them all. Gabriel would have returned home to a graveyard.

Lillith felt anger rise up inside her at the thought of her brother. He’d been a warrior once, like her. No vampire had been bolder, wilder, more wonderfully cruel and impetuous. But he’d changed of late. She was tired of his cautious diplomat’s ways, frustrated by his endless politicising.

‘Did I do well, ma’am?’ Finch’s voice was cracked with anxiety. ‘I obeyed Mr Stone’s wishes as best I could.’

‘You did brilliantly, Seymour. Gabriel will be very pleased. As am I.’

Finch bowed his head in relief. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

‘Now for the next part of your task,’ she said. ‘Now that we know who the human is, you are to pay him a visit. Retrieve whatever evidence he has to do with the cross, and then slaughter him.’

‘Ma’am? I thought Mr Stone said not to kill—’

‘I was talking to Gabriel just minutes ago,’ she lied. ‘There’s been a change of plan. We want the human dead. You understand me?’

Finch nodded. ‘I understand perfectly.’

‘Your loyalty will be repaid,’ she said.

‘If I m-may be so bold as to mention it,’ Finch stammered. ‘I have long hoped—’

‘That you would be inducted into our circle? Become one of us?’

‘It is my deepest, most heartfelt wish,’ Finch said with a quaver.

Lillith knew that Gabriel would never consider such a thing. Finch was far too useful to them as a ghoul. Not quite a vampire, but not quite a human either. Ghouls dwelt in a shadow world somewhere in between.

‘Do this thing for us,’ she said, ‘and I’m sure my brother will express his gratitude. In the meantime, Seymour, a token of our appreciation.’ She passed him the bundle that she’d been holding in her arms. Finch took it from her, and examined it with glittering eyes as it stirred and mewled in his grip.

‘Its owner left it unattended,’ she said.

Finch looked up at her, melting with gratitude. ‘For me?’

‘Enjoy,’ she smiled.

‘Inspector Joel Solomon is a dead man,’ Finch said

.

Chapter Forty-Six

Dec lay curled up in a foetal position in his bed with the covers pulled up over his head. He wondered whether he could suffocate like this.

He hoped so.

It was impossible to stop the replay looping through his mind as he relived the scenes he’d witnessed earlier that day. The ambulance crew wheeling the gurney out into Lavender Close. Kate’s still body covered by a white sheet. Her mother howling with grief. The whole fucking street out gawping, half of them already prodding their mobiles to text their family members at work about the latest gossip that would keep them morbidly entertained for days and weeks to come. He’d wanted to punch them, ram their phones down their fucking throats.

He’d watched as the gurney was loaded into the back of the ambulance.

Still she hadn’t stirred.

Then they’d closed the doors and driven away. With tears streaming down his face he’d sprinted back into the house, crashed into his room and hurled himself into bed. Never to come out. This was it. The end of everything.

It was all his fault. If he hadn’t tried to play the smart guy, the man of the world, with those cursed ecstasy pills. If he’d just been himself, ordinary old Dec Maddon. Then Kate would still be alive.

He’d lain here in bed all through the day, rocking from side to side and sobbing on his pillow, only a few snatches of fitful sleep offering any respite from the torture.