Rollerskater: Crucefix
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This instalment contains bloody violence.
Seven a.m., Sunday, the third of November.
The radio was playing “Waterloo Sunset” by the Kinks, and that struck her as a bit strange, playing a song about watching the sunset at sunrise.
Groggily, Harri-Bec swung her legs over the edge of the bed and got up, padding over to the bedroom window and opening the curtains, which were patterned with little red Routemaster buses.
Her bedroom window faced roughly west, and the sun was behind her, so it was still dim outside. She was looking down on a set of Circle and District line tracks that ran between Paddington and Bayswater, and beyond those, a brick wall, behind which was Porchester Terrace. An observer peering over the wall from the street would not have been able to see her house, simply a set of metal struts and a very high wall, on the other side of which was the house’s façade.
A train thundered past below her on its way to Paddington. Harri-Bec watched it pass, then yawned and took herself to the bathroom.
She brushed her teeth, rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, and then removed her nightcap, taking her hair out of the braids she kept it in as she slept.
She undressed herself and showered, washing her hair with an oily shampoo, got out, dried herself, and then moisturised her hair, splitting it into partitions on her scalp and running conditioner through it, before coating it in jojoba oil.
After this, she dressed herself in a jumper with stripes patterned after the colours of the London Underground lines (brown, red, yellow, green, pink, grey, purple, black, four shades of blue…) and a pair of red dungarees, then went downstairs. Timothy was sleeping in the hallway. She crouched down and scratched his head, to which he opened his eyes. A nicitating membrane slid across each eye and then away.
“Good morning,” Harri-Bec said.
“Coo,” Timothy replied, standing up on his spider-legs. He scrabbled into the kitchen and rubbed his head against the fridge door.
“Breakfast?” Harri-Bec said, in the high-pitched tone usually reserved for cats and dogs. “Is that what you want?”
“Coo, coo.”
Harri-Bec smiled, opening the fridge. She removed an entire rotisserie chicken and, holding it by the leg, put it into a large metal bowl, setting it on the ground. Timothy seized upon it with a ferocity that would be frightening were she not aware of his more gentle nature.
She opened the bread-box and took out a loaf of sourdough bread, cut two slices from it with a serrated knife, and placed them into an automatic toaster she had set on the counter.
There was a sound from the hallway. At first, it did not strike her as strange, until she remembered what day it was.
It was the sound of post hitting the doormat.
Timothy looked up from the chicken bones he was gnawing on with his beak.
“Coo?” he said.
“It’s alright, Timothy,” she said, scratching his head. She walked from the kitchen to the hallway. There was a red envelope sitting on the doormat, bearing no stamp or any words at all. It had not been delivered by Royal Mail.
She took the envelope back to the kitchen and, leaning against the kitchen counter, used a letter opener with a small London Underground roundel on the handle to unseal it. Inside was a piece of paper, which she removed and unfolded.
Need to speak to you – Urgent.
Primrose Hill 12 noon today.
See you then.
Best, CC.
“CC?” Harri-Bec asked aloud.
Harri-Bec then became aware of something in the corner of the envelope. She opened the envelope over the breakfast table, and from it fell—
She recoiled at the sight of it – a small red crystal shard rolled across the table like a die of fate.
When it came to rest, she picked it up, inspecting it.
It could only have meant one thing – someone was aware of what had taken place in Hackney. And now they wanted to speak to her.
Her toast was burned.
*
She rode the bus to Primrose Hill, optimistically about a twenty-minute journey from Lancaster Gate with late-morning Sunday traffic.
All the while, she was turning worries over in her mind. Her hand clutched the penumbric crystal hanging around her neck, now attached to string – the silver necklace she had worn before had been lost in the fight against Amber.
Who could have seen her? Was it, perhaps, one of the passengers from that train? How had they found her? Was it the government, tricking her? Yet the tone of the letter had not been threatening, nor commanding. It felt somewhat desperate. But was it a trap?
What really unsettled her was that, from the outside, her house was a stone façade, beyond which nothing lay. All post for her actually went to the hotel next door; upon entering their postbox it would move itself into the psychic space where her house existed. So whoever had sent the letter had evidently personally delivered the letter to the hotel next door; they had evidently found out where she lived. So, at best, she had a stalker. And at worst…
“Primrose Hill London Zoo,” said a speaker in the ceiling. Harri-Bec pressed the button to disembark, thanking the driver on her way out. In the end, the journey had taken twenty-five minutes, and twelve noon was fast approaching.
The climb up Primrose Hill, especially towards its summit, can be quite gruelling. It has one of the highest gradients of any hill in London, with a grade of seven percent at its steepest. As such, it is frequented by joggers and cyclists seeking a challenge. Harri-Bec was neither a jogger nor a cyclist, and while she usually spent most of the day on her feet, and was therefore relatively fit, she found herself somewhat out of breath as she reached the hilltop, overlooking the city.
She seated herself on a backless bench, from which she could look south-eastward towards a panorama of the city centre: One Canada Square, the Barbican Estate, the Gherkin, the Walkie-Talkie, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the Shard, the Telecom Tower (a shiver of recollection), the London Eye, and, if you really squinted, Victoria Tower, the largest tower of the Palace of Westminster.
It was because of the view that she was not alone on the hilltop.
To her right, a Japanese couple were having their picture taken by a European man, showing peace signs to the camera and smiling.
“Arigatou gozaimashita.”
“Geen dank.”
In front of her, a young couple were talking quietly. They kissed. One of them said something funny and the other laughed. They put their arms around each other and silently looked at the view.
To her left, a man with a big telephoto lens was snapping pictures with a tripod. He scratched his head in frustration – he just couldn’t seem to get the shot he was looking for. It was overcast, and while the view from Primrose Hill is no less magnificent under a cloudy sky, the natural saturation of colour provided by direct sunlight does lack somewhat.
“Lovely view, is it no’?” said a voice behind her.
She straightened her back and went to turn towards the speaker, who was sitting beside her on the bench, facing the other way.
“Dinnae turn aroond jus’ yet,” he said, gently. He had a soft, grandfatherly voice, with a Scottish accent.
“Are you ‘CC’?” Harri-Bec asked him.
“Aye,” the man replied. “And wha’ might yoor name be?”
Harri-Bec rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, manifesting a small black business card, and passed it back to him. He took it and inspected it.
“Harriet-Rebecca West, Spirit of London Transport,” she said. “But you can call me Harri-Bec.”
“Hello, Harri-Bec,” the man said. “Ye can call me Callan.”
“Hello, Callan,” she said. She cleared her throat. “Friend or foe?”
“Friend,” Callan replied. “Aye, very much so. I apologise if my letter caused any worry. Ah had some difficulty in getting it intae yer hame.”
“Do you know K-Os?” Harri asked.
“Chaos? Like the concept?”
“No, she’s – never mind.”
The old man chuckled. “If ye say so, hen.”
“How did you even find me?” Harri-Bec asked.
Callan inhaled and then exhaled.
“Let’s get some lunch,” he said, standing up. “My treat.”
“What?” Harri-Bec said. “You didn’t answer my question.”
But it was too late – Callan had already started to move away.
*
He looked like a cross between Father Christmas and a wizard.
He was a tall, wiry man, with pale blue eyes, long white beard and moustache, and long white hair. Sitting on the bridge of his nose were a pair of classic, National Health Service-style spectacles, round-lensed, with thick frames. He was dressed in a long red coat, with a black shirt and red suit trousers to match, and on his feet he wore black Oxford shoes. Atop his head, he wore a red fedora hat with a black hatband around the rim, into which was tucked a feather.
In his hand, he clutched a long umbrella, red and black, which he used as a cane. The handle was wrapped tightly in coiled leather, and there was a large gold ornament, spherical in shape, protruding from its end.
Harri-Bec might well have assumed he was a sinister figure if his voice was not so gentle. Nevertheless, she still wasn’t completely sure she should trust him. She kept her distance from him.
They descended Primrose Hill together, and began to walk northward, in the direction of Chalk Farm. As they left the hill park, they walked up Regent’s Park Road, past all manner of overpriced cafés, bistros, pet shops and newsagents.
“Ave a likin’ fer London,” Callan said. “Though dinnae let anywan fae Scotland hear I said tha’. ‘Tween you and me, it’s braw. Heavy expensive tae live here, though.”
“The only reason I can afford to live anywhere near the city centre is because my house doesn’t exist,” Harri-Bec said. “There’s no land there, so there’s no rent to be paid. No council tax, either.”
“Aye, it speaks to some’n’, dun’t it, that a young girl such as yersel’ can only afford tae live here by usin’ magic. Hoo many young fowk livin’ in th’ city that arenae so lucky as you? Survival of the fittest, some may say. Artificial scarcity, says I. Plenty o’ hoosin’ tae go roond, and naeb’dy livin’ in it.”
They reached the end of the Regent’s Park Road and crossed a railway bridge, which Harri-Bec knew to cross the Watford DC line of the London Overground, between South Hampstead and Euston. On the bridge, a homeless woman with a shopping trolley filled with carrier bags asked them for help. Harri-Bec’s hand immediately went into her pocket to get something, but Callan stopped her, took out a leather wallet from inside his jacket, and pulled from it a twenty-pound note, which he handed to her with a smile. The woman, in some disbelief, thanked him graciously, and they went on their way.
“That was very generous,” Harri-Bec said.
“Ah know some o’ what it’s like,” Callan replied. “Grew up very poor in a small village in Perthshire. Ye learn a lot aboot the value o’ money growin’ up like that. Family, too, tae some extent.”
Harri-Bec bowed her head, solemnly. “I’m very sorry to hear you went through that.”
“Nae need. Our circumstances at birth are oot o’ oor control. It’s whit ye dae after that coonts.”
They turned the corner, and there, on their right, was Chalk Farm tube station, a Leslie Green design in oxblood red tiling. Harri-Bec explained this to Callan, who smiled and seemed genuinely interested. Her initial anxieties about the old man were alleviated somewhat. He seemed nice.
He led her past the Tube station entrance.
“Wait,” Harri-Bec said. “I thought we were getting a train somewhere?”
“Oh, no,” Callan replied. “Our destination just happens tae be a stane’s throw fae th’ station. There it is, up ahead.”
Harri-Bec followed Callan’s line of sight. Up ahead, running roughly perpendicular, was Camden High Street, and squeezed into the space between a Salvation Army centre and a chicken shop (another shiver of recollection) was a pub, distinctive in design, with a black frontage. Adorning its façade, in immediately recognisable red lettering, was the pub’s name:
THE LUCKY DEVIL
Harri-Bec stopped. Callan walked a few paces ahead of her, then noticed her footsteps had stopped. He turned to meet her interrogative gaze.
“Whit?” he asked.
“How do you know what that place is?”
Callan smiled, then chortled.
“Am mair wond’rin’ hoo you know this place,” he said. “Guess we’re even.”
He turned away from her and continued to walk. Harri-Bec’s suspicions were roused again. Callan was being cagey. She didn’t like that about him.
Nevertheless, she followed him. They crossed the road and entered the pub.
“Ho!” Callan called.
The man behind the bar looked up and smiled with yellowed teeth.
“Padraig, ye great big boaby!” Callan continued. “Hoo are ye?”
“Mindin’ the pub, same as always, ye hairy bastard,” his interlocutor replied. “An’ I’ve told ye once, I’ve told ye a t’ousand times. Me name’s Paddy. It’s bad enough when she calls me that.” He leaned over and smiled at Harri-Bec. “Lovely t’see ye again, Harri.”
“You too, Paddy,” Harri-Bec replied. “You know this man?”
“Aye, so I do. Though I surely wish I didn’t.”
“Oh, Paddy,” Callan protested. “Dinnae be like that. Both Celts, are we no’?”
“Ah, there’s a word beginnin’ in ‘C’ and endin’ in ‘T’ I’d call ye, Callan, but ‘Celt’ ain’t it.”
Both men stared hard and angrily at each other for a few moments, such that Harri-Bec feared there was going to be a fight. Then they laughed uproariously, and Paddy walked around the bar to give Callan a bear hug and a pat on the back that was more of a thump than a pat.
“Table for two, Paddy,” Callan said, slightly winded. “Me an’ the wee lassie want feedin’.”
“Aye,” Paddy said. “Head upstairs an’ seat yerselves.”
Callan walked over to a rickety-looking wooden stairway and clomped up it in his hard-soled shoes, followed close behind by Harri-Bec.
“What was all that about?” Harri-Bec asked. “I thought you were going to hit each other.”
“That’s jus’ hoo auld friends be,” Callan replied. “If ye get tae my age an’ yer pals are still aroon’, you’re gonnae hate their guts much as ye love ‘em.”
Harri-Bec thought of K-Os and Chelsea, and thought, privately, that Callan didn’t realise just how right he really was.
The upstairs seating area had wooden flooring and several sets of tables, on top of which were small baskets with condiments. Callan walked to one in the corner of the room situated roughly above the bar downstairs, and the reason why became clear almost immediately – that table in particular was situated right next to a dumbwaiter, with a black door.
They sat down, and Callan set down his umbrella, leaning it against the table. Harri-Bec checked the tables around them and then the table in front of her.
“Where’s the menu?” she asked.
“Nae need,” Callan replied. “The pub awready knows whit ye want, ev’n if ye dinnae awready know whit ye want yersel’.”
Harri-Bec nodded. Her hand drifted to her chest, idly, feeling for something.
“There’s just one thing I don’t understand,” Harri-Bec said. “There’s no way you should have been able to find me. My house exists on an entirely different plane of reality.”
“We aw leave oor traces in the world,” Callan replied. “An’ in my line o’ work, it pays tae mind those traces.”
Harri-Bec’s hand found what it was looking for. She held it tightly. Her lips began to open to say something—
She was startled suddenly by a high-pitched sound, and felt the unpleasant electricity of shuddering nerves ripple through her fingers and toes. A knot formed in her stomach.
It was the sound of a bell.
The dumbwaiter’s doors came open to reveal a set of cutlery with bone handles, and a chipped willow-patterned plate. On the plate was a battered piece of fish with a portion of chips and mushy peas.
“That’ll be my lunch,” Callan said, smiling. He turned to the dumbwaiter and shouted down it. “And ye’d better’e deboned it properly, Paddy, or I’ll burst ye!”
The dumbwaiter, true to its name, said nothing in reply, and its doors slid shut.
Harri-Bec watched as Callan salted his chips and doused them in malt vinegar, then he grabbed a bottle of what she presumed to be tartare sauce, squirting a blob of it at either end of his fish. He then grabbed a cylindrical bottle of red sauce, squirting it liberally over the chips. It looked like blood.
He picked up a chip and ate it.
“Aye,” he said. “Now tha’ is ketchup. Not that Heinz Tomato Ketchup pish. Tha’s proper chippy ketchup, tha’ is. Mair vinegar than tomato.”
An acrid miasma of vinegar floated up from Callan’s plate, stinging Harri-Bec’s nostrils. Her hand was balled into a fist now. She gazed hard at him.
“Who are you, really?” she asked, pointedly. “And whose side are you on?”
Callan gazed back at her, the blue of his eyes contrasting against his clothes. There was a change in his jovial expression, and no longer was he a Santa Claus. An air of menace seemed to emanate from him.
“Ah come wi’ a warnin’ fer ye,” he said. “A warnin’ tha’ cood save yer life.”
“What sort of warning?” Harri-Bec asked.
Callan sighed. He removed his glasses, and from his jacket pocket pulled out a small handkerchief to clean the lenses.
“Ah wis like you, once. Scared. Mad wae fear. Didn’t trust naeb’dy. Diff’rence bein’ that ah had nae guidance. Am tryin’ tae spare ye a sim’lar fate.”
Harri’s grip loosened slightly.
“You’re saying you met one of those…things.”
“Met wid be a charitable term.” Callan looked darkly at her.
“I’m sorry,” Harri-Bec said. “I thought you were…”
“Ye thought ah wis wan o’ them. Aye.”
“It’s just – I have no idea how you even managed to deliver something into liminal space…”
Callan’s smile returned again.
“Ancient, lost technology,” he said. “Unknown even tae you an’, I assume, yer associates.”
“But nothing should be able to enter liminal space from physical space without psychic permission.”
“There are some technologies that are indistinguishable fae magick,” Callan said. “An’ this is wan of ‘em. Technology tha’ transcends space as we unnerstaun ‘t. Aye, it may be hard to get intae yer hoose usin’ methods known tae you, but if ye know the right methods…”
“I don’t understand,” Harri-Bec said, annoyed. “What methods?”
Callan paused, scratched his beard, and thought of how to explain it.
“So, the the way you conceive of liminal and physical space is that liminal space is a kind of subreality existin’ below wha’ most wood call ‘normal’ reality, aye? Well, this technology transcends aw tha’. Hink of th’ layers of a cake. This technology acts like a knife, cuttin’ through the icin’ layer oan top tae give us a complete picture of wha’ is goin’ oan below the surface. Ken?”
Harri-Bec shook her head. “You’re saying this technology is able to break through the walls between worlds?”
“No’ so much breakin’ through them as ignorin’ that they exist entirely,” Callan surmised. “‘Course, am nae expert. Far from ‘t. Am like an amoeba tryin’ tae unnerstaun a space shuttle. It was still a bastart tae get the letter tae ye.”
“But why the rubric crystal? Did you not see how I might interpret that as a threat?”
There was a lengthy pause.
“Because,” Callan said, “Tha’ way ye’d know ah wisnae jokin’.”
Harri-Bec nodded outwardly, but had her doubts within.
“Alright, I trust you,” she lied. “For now. But I still don’t understand why you’ve brought me here. You didn’t bring me all the way over here to tell me about how you sent me a letter.”
“Aye,” Callan said. “There’s mair tae this stoory, hen. Much, much mair.”
The bell rung again, and Harri-Bec nearly leapt out of her seat.
“Simmer,” Callan said. “It’s only yer lunch. Ye haven’t forgot, have ye?”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“An’ ah telt ye – the pub knows whit ye want before you dae.”
The doors of the dumbwaiter slid open, and on a tray was a china bowl, also willow-patterned, filled with meat, vegetables and rice. It, too, came with bone-handled cutlery.
Callan reached into the dumbwaiter and pulled out the tray with the cutlery.
“Get tha’ doon ye,” he said. “Whit is it?”
Harri-Bec was stunned.
“It’s curry goat,” she said. “Just like Mum used to make it.”
“The pub can tell ye need comfortin’,” Callan observed. “Yer nerves are aw jangled up.”
“It feels stupid,” Harri-Bec said. “I…I shouldn’t really tell you this, but…earlier this year, I was forced to break my spirit into two pieces, occupying two different planes of reality. And…somehow, that event was less traumatic than what happened to me in October.”
“Death’s a funny hing,” Callan said. “Happ’ns tae all of us eventually, yet when we stare it in the face…”
“I keep having these bad dreams,” Harri-Bec said. “Like I’m in my house and there’s someone just standing there in the window, watching me. In every window. I run into every room and they’re still there…and then the glass breaks.”
“Yer no’ alone,” Callan said. “Tha’ is why ave asked ye here oan this day. Because it’s no’ jus’ you tha’s in danger, hen.”
Harri-Bec took hold of the cutlery and began to eat her lunch, and Callan followed suit with his lunch.
“Right,” Harri-Bec said, eating a spoonful of the curry, which was so good, it tasted as if her mother had made it right there in the kitchen. “But that doesn’t explain why we’re here.”
“Ah dinnae think you and yer associates really unnerstaun hoo bad things are right noo. Ah know whit the government is daein’. Ah’ve heard whispers of whit happen’d back in September at tha’ university. An’ am here tae tell ye that this runs far deeper than the State. Right noo, you’re hinkin’ that aw this shite wi’ MI5 and that hing that came after ye in Hackney are sep’rate, aye?”
“…that was my assumption,” Harri-Bec said, after a pause. “Surely you’re not saying—”
“Yer no’ fightin’ two foes,” Callan said, gravely. “Yer fightin’ wan.”
There was a very long pause.
“What?”
“There’s a lot more goin’ oan than you recognise, hen. Ye need tae listen. Someone in higher government is manipulatin’ matters tae ends that ah dinnae really unnerstaun, but it has some’n’ tae dae wi’ some’n’ named ‘the Blood Moon’.”
And then Harri-Bec was back on the tracks in Hackney, with the vampire clutching her by the throat. She could hear a very distinct voice cackling, and then:
“In the exalted name of the Blood Moon, I consecrate—”
Harri-Bec felt the blood leaving her face.
“Oh, shit,” she said. Harri-Bec was not usually given to profanity, but she was when she—
Oh god
*
“Yer okay,” Callan said.
Harri-Bec could see a field of stars and phosphenes clouding her vision, rippling in checkerboard patterns and blue lights like when you squeeze fingers against your eyes at night. She was completely blind for a few moments, and couldn’t feel her arms and legs.
“What happened?” Harri-Bec said.
“Ye fainted, so ye did,” said another voice from behind her. Paddy. “Callan called for help as soon as he saw ye start to go.”
Callan nodded, then held out a hand to help Harri-Bec to her feet. She unsteadily stood, a wave of nausea washing over her, then receding.
Callan grabbed a small, stemmed copita on the table, inside which was a golden-brown liquid.
“Here,” he said. “Get that doon ye.”
Harri-Bec did not drink often, but she threw back the whisky regardless. It burned her throat and made her cough, but brought her back to her senses all the same.
“Thanks, Paddy,” Callan said. “We’ll be awright noo.”
“Aye,” Paddy said. “Look after her, Callan. She’s a friend.”
“Aye,” Callan replied.
Harri-Bec held her head in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just…I remembered something. How close the vampire got to killing me. And before that…she said something about the Blood Moon. It all just came rushing back.”
“Ye believe me noo, aye?” Callan said.
“Yes,” Harri-Bec said. “But what is the Blood Moon?”
“Naeb’dy but the vampires knows,” Callan replied. “Cood be some sort of god they worship, cood be a secret name for some’n’ or someb’dy. Whit ah dae know is tha’ the vampires are makin’ preparations for some’n’ involvin’ it. An’ soon. Awready hings are movin’ intae place. If we dinnae act soon, ah dinnae ken whit will happ’n, but believe me, hen, it wilnae be good news.”
Harri-Bec inhaled and exhaled deeply.
“That’s a lot to take in,” she said, laughing slightly, even though it wasn’t funny.
“Aye,” Callan replied. “But now ye know, ye be sure tae tell whoever it is you’re workin’ wi’, unnerstaun? The fate of the human race depends on it. Dae ah have yer word?”
“Yes,” Harri-Bec replied. “Yes, you have my word.”
“Good,” Callan said. “Noo, best be gettin’ yersel’ home. It’s gettin’ dark oot.”
*
Harri-Bec caught a Northern line train back from Chalk Farm, southwards. Problems on the Central line forced her to disembark at Kings Cross St Pancras and change for the Circle line to Paddington.
When she got off at Paddington, the sun had set. It was cold now and the light cloud from earlier had thickened into gloomy rain clouds. The moon was currently in its first quarter, and was obscured by clouds. She felt slightly queasy, partly from the whisky, partly from her ill-digested lunch, and partly from the faint. She really should have gone home right away after fainting. She had not realised until that moment just how badly she had been affected by Amber’s rampage.
Stumbling home, she stopped a few moments to steady herself against a set of railings. It began to rain.
She ran the rest of the way, finally reaching her front door after a couple of minutes. She closed the front door, took off her shoes and sat down, resting against the front door a few moments. Her heart was beating very quickly. She realised then that she had been running not only to escape the rain, but because she had got the frightening sense that somebody was after her.
She stood, her ankles aching, and took herself into the kitchen.
“Timothy?” she called, switching on the light. “Are you there?”
There came no response. Timothy was probably sleeping in his basement cubby.
She sat down at the breakfast table, trying to think of a way to get her heart rate down.
Water, she thought. I need a glass of water.
Standing, she checked the fridge for any bottles, but there were none, so she opened a cabinet, grabbed a glass and walked over to the sink, turning on the tap.
Cold water began to pour from the faucet, and as she filled the glass, her eyes drifted across the room, back to the breakfast table.
Before she could take a closer look, however, the faucet suddenly sputtered. The water stopped.
She turned her head back to look at the tap.
That’s odd, she thought. Instinctively, she turned the taphead to see what the matter was.
The plumbing gurgled.
For a moment, Harri-Bec thought she had been cut, and there were a surreal few moments as she comprehended what she was seeing.
The tap faucet was spraying blood.
Instantly, she dropped the glass she was clutching, shattering it. She backed away from the sink, covering her mouth.
It was only then that she noticed the man standing in the kitchen doorway. He smiled at her.
Harri-Bec screamed in shock. Her hand went to her chest. She was feeling for – feeling for—
Her crystal was not there. The Scot had stolen it from around her neck when she fainted. She had been set up.
Uselessly, she pawed at the countertop for her knifeblock, wrenching from it the first knife she could find.
“Did you really think we wouldn’t find you?” the man in the doorway said. He stepped through it. He was extremely, unnaturally lean, and tall, gigantically so – he must have been approaching seven feet. He was dressed in black trousers, metal-heeled leather boots, and a leather waistcoat. A cravat was tied securely around his neck. His skin was pale, and he had blue eyes, with long black hair. In his grinning mouth, Harri-Bec saw the familiar carnivore teeth that she had last seen on the train tracks in Hackney.
“Get out of here!” Harri-Bec shouted. “You shouldn’t be in here! I didn’t let you in!”
That refusal of permission should have ejected him from the house, moved him outside, dropped him on to the tracks below. But he persisted.
“You were very lucky,” the vampire said. He spoke in an upper-class accent. “Poor little Amber Stork. She hadn’t long been one of us, you see…she was stupid, reckless. Not the qualities we look for in our very élite circles. And those tattoos were ghastly. Frankly, I’m glad you killed her, but honour is honour. I’m sure you understand that these things come with a price. Now…”
The man’s left arm transformed into a long, clubbed weapon before Harri-Bec’s eyes.
“In the exalted name of the Blood Moon, I consecrate this sacrifice!” the vampire said.
He raised the clubbed arm. Harri-Bec closed her eyes, dropping the knife—
Screaming.
Harri-Bec opened her eyes. An assailant, clad in red, had his hand pressed against the vampire’s face, and wrapped around his fingers, a familiar-looking piece of string.
“FUCKING BASTARD!” the vampire screamed, clutching his half-melting, half-powderising face.
“Tha’s Callan Crucefix tae you, ye foul bastart,” the assailant said. “But ye already knew that, didn’t ye.”
The half-blinded vampire roared and swung his arm at Callan, who dodged it with impressive agility for a man of his age.
“So I hear, am some’n’ of a legend tae you lot.”
The vampire took another swing at him and missed again.
“You’re a pain in the arse,” the vampire said. “Nothing more.”
“The great and pooerful Edvard Thirlwell,” Callan said. “Nice tae fin’lly meet ye. Ye’ve been oan mah list for quite some time.”
“And you on mine, you Jock bastard,” Edvard replied. Callan was tall, but Edvard towered over him.
“Ah, is that right?” Callan replied. “Then am sure ye know all there is tae know aboot me.” He held something up in his right hand. Harri-Bec realised immediately what it was.
“This,” Callan said, “Is no’ an umbrella.”
The umbrella immediately twisted, flattened, lengthening, hardening, until Harri-Bec saw that what Callan held in his hand was not an umbrella at all, but a sword, a little over a metre in length. A claymore, with its blade fashioned of red crystal.
Edvard swung his clubbed arm at Callan, who parried it with the sword.
“Like it?” he said. “Made it mahsel’.”
“You are a fool,” Edvard said. “Rubric cannot kill us, only injure.”
“Och, aye, am quite aware of tha’. Only…th’ timely application o’ penumbric degrades yer crystal structure, aye? An’ by the looks of yer face, ad say yer startin’ tae crumble.”
Edvard felt his face with his right hand, wincing as he pulled away the pink powder that resulted from penumbric combining with rubric.
“Noo ye see whit am gettin’ at, don’t ye?” Callan said.
Edvard growled.
“Then I suppose I must drink your blood, old man, if I am to heal myself.”
Cold blue eyes met Harri-Bec’s gaze.
“And then I can finish the job.”
Callan held the sword steady against the clubbed arm, and there was the sound of stone scraping against stone.
“If it’s a square go yer wantin’…” he said, turning to Harri-Bec. “Run, lassie! Al hauld ‘im aff!”
Harri-Bec quickly dashed from the kitchen and up the stairs. Behind her, she heard a great crash, and turned to watch as Callan came flying from the kitchen, across the hallway and into the living room.
At the top of the staircase was a bureau. She ran up the stairs and wrenched it open with a key set atop it, then withdrew something from it.
Edvard emerged from the kitchen, and with his heavy metal boots, stamped towards the living room, where Callan, live or dead, was laying.
He made it halfway across the hallway before his head was struck by something, which embedded itself in his head. He cried out in pain and withdrew it, looking down at his hand to see what it was: A London Underground letter opener.
Edvard looked up at where it had come from, and Harri-Bec quickly dashed for her bedroom, barricading the door shut by pushing her chest of drawers across the floor, scratching up the wooden floor in the process.
Heavy footsteps came up the stairs and across the landing.
There were several long moments of silence.
There was the quiet sound of the door handle being turned. Thinking quickly, Harri-Bec jumped into her fitted wardrobe, closing the doors behind her.
There was the sound of banging against the door – the vampire was throwing himself against it. When that didn’t work, she heard the sound of wood splintering and a hand scrabbling desperately, trying to budge the door open.
Harri-Bec suddenly became aware of a presence in the wardrobe with her.
“Hen!” shouted the voice behind the door. “This hoose isnae made of physical space! He can walk through the walls—”
Harri-Bec dived out of the wardrobe just as Edvard struck at her, knocking down the clothing rail and smashing plaster as with a sledgehammer. She quickly scrambled on to her bed. Edvard charged again, bringing down the clubbed arm on it and smashing one of the bedposts through the floor.
Harri-Bec leapt from the bed, and positioned herself in front of the chest of drawers. The vampire rushed at her, and she ducked and rolled just in time for him to smash the chest of drawers to bits, sending underwear and socks careening across the bedroom floor.
Hearing the sound, Callan kicked the door through and roared like a Pictish warrior, ferociously swinging the sword. Harri-Bec, thinking quickly, kicked Edvard’s legs out from under him, and knocked him to the ground.
Callan brought down the sword, but his blade only ended up embedded in the wood floor, as Edvard righted himself in time to tackle Callan to the ground.
The vampire panted and gasped. Harri-Bec had seen this before in Amber Stork – he was starving. The catastrophic nature of his injury must have been weakening him.
“The great vampire hunter, Callan Crucefix,” Edvard hissed, chuckling darkly. “You’re getting weaker as you get older, sir. There was a time you were one of the most feared men among our people. But look at you now. Weak, pathetic, useless!”
“Aye,” Callan said. “That ah may be. But ah nivver forget the golden rule.”
His eyes moved to something just over Edvard’s shoulder. The vampire turned—
The vampire had no time to scream as his head instantly exploded into a shower of what looked like pink snow.
Harri-Bec had swung the rubric claymore at his head, striking it once.
The headless body wobbled a few moments, then toppled to the floor, shattering into a pile of little red crystals, encased in black clothing.
“Dinnae waste time gloatin’ when ye hink ye’ve awready won,” Callan said, looking at Harri-Bec. “Ye rarely have.”
*
“You’re saying you invited a murderer into my house?” Harri-Bec said, indignantly.
“One way or another, somewan wood’ve come for ye,” Callan said. “The vampires’ve had ye on their radar since one of their own died fightin’ ye. The vampire ye ran intae – Amber Stork – she wis a low-rank vampire, prob’ly recently turned, overconfident. They’ve been plannin’ tae come for you but they know they cannae fight ye in the transport network, and gettin’ intae yer hoose is a bit of a bastart as well. So I sprung a trap for ‘em – draw ‘em in wi’ a rubric crystal tak’n fae the body of Miss Stork, providin’ a small openin’. They took the bait, aye.”
He drummed his fingers on the table. “When ye fainted in th’ pub, ah took note that ye were wearin’ penumbric roond yer neck, and took it so ah cood use it later. ‘Course, I coodnae tell you what was goin’ oan, ‘cause it’d hae caused problems, y’see – ye wid hae acted unnat’rally, giv’n the game away. Still, aw’s well that ends well, eh.”
Harri-Bec frowned.
“It’s going to take me months to fix this house. You realise that, right?”
“But yer alive, are ye no’?” Callan said. “Coont yer blessin’s.”
They were sitting in the half-ruined kitchen. Harri-Bec had brewed tea for them both in the teapot, miraculously undamaged, and they were currently sitting at the breakfast table, sipping at it. There was no sugar – the vampire had dashed the jar on the floor.
“How did Edvard manage to walk through the walls?” Harri-Bec said. “Not even K-Os could do that.”
Callan sipped his tea and set the cup down gently.
“He used the strings,” he said.
Harri-Bec lowered her eyebrows.
“Strings?” she said. “What are you talking about?”
“Tha’s the ancient technology ah was tellin’ ye aboot earlier,” Callan replied. “They were created – or discovered – by a people, lost noo tae the sands o’ time. The mair elite among vampire ranks are entrusted wi’ knowledge of hoo they work, but ev’n they lack total mastery of’t. Mah expertise in usin’ ‘em disnae stretch far either, which is why ah coodnae pursue ‘im.”
“But what are they?” Harri-Bec asked.
“Like ah said earlier – it’s a psychic technology, contained entirely within psychic space. It unifies psychic and physical space intae wan space – alloos ye tae see whit’s betwixt th’ worlds, the psychic traces that people an’ hings leave behind, an’ tae project yer mind intae th’ world tae obtain knowledge tha’ is otherwise inaccessible.”
Callan sipped at his tea again, then continued: “They’re moostly autonomous, an’ neither good nor evil – just like hoo uranium can be used to build a nuclear reactor tae pooer a city, or a nuclear bomb tae obliterate it, so can the strings be used for good or for ill, like any tool.”
“Can I learn how to use them?” Harri-Bec asked.
Callan laughed slightly.
“Am afraid no’,” he said.
“Why?” Harri-Bec asked, indignant once again.
Callan sighed, setting his cup down once more.
“The strings make themselves known only tae some,” he said, carefully, as if trying not to insult someone who might be listening. “Some are born talkin’ tae them – we say those people have a sixth sense. Some only make contact wi’ them late in life, no’ long befoor death. An’ some…”
He looked very gravely at Harri-Bec, in a way that made her retreat and sink back into her seat.
“…some get talkin’ tae them when the worst thing in the world happ’ns tae them.”
Harri-Bec hung her head.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Nae need,” Callan said. “Just know that tho’ mah methods be strange, they are soond. Am very good at wha’ ah dae.”
Harri-Bec stood, then went over to the sink, turning the taphead. From it there issued clear water once again. She idly caught herself wondering where the blood had come from—
“Oh God,” she said. “Timothy!”
“Hen?” Callan asked.
She dashed from the room, opening the basement door, switching on the light and almost throwing herself down the stairs.
There, at the bottom of the stairs, in the shadows, she found Timothy.
He was badly injured – the vampire had clearly maimed him as a burglar might kill a guard dog before entering a building. At least two of his eight legs were missing.
“Oh, Timothy,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
Callan followed after her, and involuntarily recoiled at the sight of the creature that Harri-Bec now held in her arms.
“Coo…” Timothy whined. His eyes were filled with tears.
“Is tha’ yer pet?” Callan asked. Harri-Bec glared at him. “…Am sorry.”
“I think you’ve said enough for one day,” she said, calmly. “Leave this house.”
Callan nodded, pulling the corners of his mouth down. He carried the sword, once again an umbrella, with him, up the stairs.
“Al be in touch,” he said, turning at the top of the stairs. “The vampires—”
“Get out!” Harri-Bec shouted.
Without another word, he left.
Timothy was strong, Harri-Bec knew this. It wouldn’t take him long to heal. K-Os ran him over with a train once and he came back from that. But that wasn’t the point.
After a while of stroking and nursing Timothy, Harri-Bec went back up to the kitchen and grabbed some leftover meat from the fridge, brought it down, and got Timothy to eat it after some coaxing. When Timothy fell asleep, she went up the stairs herself.
Standing in the hall, she held a hand out, and bars appeared over the windows outside.
Exhausted, she went to her ruined bedroom, and, finding that the bed was now unusable, elected to unplug the radio. She took a pillow and some bedding with her down to the living room, mostly unscathed, and set up the alarm clock on the windowsill, then went to the bathroom to change into her nightclothes, brush her teeth and braid her hair once more.
She returned to the living room and switched on the radio, to check that it still worked.
She switched the radio off, then sat herself down on the sofa.
In the morning, she thought, she would start searching the network for means to repair her house, and also get a new crystal.
But for now, she gazed up at the ceiling, and felt herself drifting into a haunted, uneasy sleep.
Another time, another place…
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ARC THREE: NEW CULTURE
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