Absolution - The First Book Of The Vampire Immortalis Trilogy (6 page)

Furious that he hadn't got the money he wanted, Peter had waited out of sight until she locked up for the night. He then followed her as she walked the short distance to her home in Weirhill Place. Now, he was in her house. She had walked into her lounge, turned on the light, and found him sitting in her armchair by the unlit fire. She couldn't quite believe what she was seeing, but before she could let out a scream, he had vacated the chair and was right in front of her, his hand muffling her mouth. How he had moved so quickly she had no idea. She struggled frantically to break free from his grasp, but failed miserably. The stench of sweat and alcohol was suffocating, more suffocating than it had been in the shop, but it was soon to pass. “He that despiseth his neighbour sinneth,” whispered Peter as he bit into her neck.

Jane Reid was no more.

“There you go.” Adam handed Anna a glass of water.

“Thanks. This is becoming unbearable. I can't believe another person is dead because of me.”

“Don't beat yourself up like this,” Adam said, sitting down beside her on the settee. “You're not responsible for the deaths. Jacob is right. This is no ordinary resurrection. That's why you can't see anything.”

“I know what Jacob said, but it's tearing me apart knowing that innocent people are dying and I can't do anything to save them.”

“Someone must have been in or near the abbey's grounds on the night the Hundeprest returned. The Hundeprest has possessed that person's body and that's why you don't see anything. If we find out who that person is, we find the Hundeprest. That's what we've got to focus on.”

Adam put his arm around Anna, allowing her to snuggle up to him. “The Hundeprest isn't going to venture far from where he knows and that means the area around the abbey. Look, you stay here and get some rest. I'm going to go down to the abbey to see who's about. Who knows? Maybe I'll get lucky and bump into our friend, the Hundeprest. If I do, I'll be sure to say, 'hello', from both of us.”

The goths rarely found anyone sitting on their bench. Sometimes, in the summer months, a tourist or two might use it to rest their weary legs, but only for a few minutes. When that happened, the goths would simply bide their time by monkeying around in the children's play park until the unwanted visitors went on their way.

Nobody had ever been sitting on their bench in the evening though. The tourists were usually well gone by that time, especially now that Scotland had said goodbye to what little summer it had enjoyed and the nights were drawing in. This evening, however, there was a solitary figure sitting on their bench, in the dark and in the drizzle. A solitary figure that nobody recognised.

“There's half a goth!” said David as the group walked towards him.

David was somehow right with his snap diagnosis. Although evidently not a goth, the teenager sitting on the bench certainly had a gothic aura. It certainly wasn't his clothes. He was wearing standard issue blue jeans and a no-brand green hooded top, although he did get marks for sporting a pair of black Doc Marten boots and not the regulation trainers that everyone and his Dad seemed to wear these days. It wasn't his hair either. To be brutally honest, it was a cut that any mother would be proud of. There was definitely something about him though. His posture, his face, his pale complexion, maybe even his eyes, told you that he would make a very good goth if he wanted to be one. A very good looking goth too.

“How's it going, mate?” asked Muckle as the goths gathered in front of the stranger.

“How's what going?” came the reply. The stranger had obviously come a long way to sit on their bench because his accent suggested that he was American.

“How – are – you?” Muckle asked, rephrasing his question while raising his voice and stressing each syllable that came out of his mouth. He was acting on the possibly false assumption that anyone can understand English as long as you speak slowly and loudly enough.

“I - am - fine,” replied the stranger, mimicking Muckle's speech pattern. “But, hey listen, if I'm in the way here, I'm happy to move on.”

Muckle stretched out his huge hand in friendship. “Not at all. I like a man with a sense of humour. I didn't know you Americans had it in you. You're more than welcome to stay as long as you budge up.”

Parking himself next to Adam on the bench, the goth introduced himself. “I'm Muckle.”

Muckle wasn't the teenager's real name. His family called him Michael, but because of his barn door size, his friends called him Muckle, a word meaning large or big in the Scots language.

The stranger shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Muckle. I'm Adam.”

Adam was soon shaking hands with each of the goths in turn, but only David said out loud what they were all thinking. “Your hand is freezing, man! You've been sat out here far too long!”

“It's not Palm Beach, that's for sure!”

“So what brings you to sunny Melrose then, Adam?” asked Lisa, one of two girls out of the six goths present, the other being her best friend, Heather.

“Well, to cut a long story short, I completed 12th grade at High School in June and decided to do some travelling before making my mind up what to do with the rest of my life. I have an aunt who lives in Melrose and so decided to pay her a visit.”

“So how long are you here for?” asked Muckle.

“No definite dates,” said Adam. “I'll know when it's time to go home.”

“When your aunt's had enough of you, you mean,” said Muckle with a big smile on his face.

“Hey, you're not the guy that strung up big Jim Scott, are you?” asked David jokingly.

Adam shook his head and laughed in reply. “I've the perfect alibi. I only arrived from the States yesterday.”

News of the murder of Jim Scott had been the talk of the town ever since he had been found hanging from the rugby posts by a woman out walking her dog. Journalists and camera crews had descended on Melrose as soon as the story broke, although the police statement regarding the murder investigation had omitted any mention of either the puncture wounds to the neck or the smell of toilet disinfectant. Key information that would be known only to the murderer is often withheld during the early stages of such an investigation and DCI Buchan was playing it strictly by the book.

“I was just admiring your abbey,” Adam said. “Looks pretty cool all lit up at night.”

“Aye, I suppose it does,” said David as if he was looking in its direction for the first time. “We see it that much you forget it is even there!”

“Do you come down here a lot then?”

“Most nights,” chipped in Heather. Although the same age as Lisa, she looked older because she was quite a bit taller, almost as tall as Adam in fact. “There's no' a great deal to do in Melrose as you'll soon find out. This bench is basically where it's at, I'm afraid.”

“Cometh the hour, cometh the man!” Muckle had spotted Liam heading towards them.

“Here we are, boys and girls,” Liam said as he pulled two bottles of Buckfast wine out of the plastic bag he was carrying.

The Family were aficionados of this particularly tasty brand of fortified wine that is known throughout Scotland as Wreck The Hoose Juice. Their thinking was that if they were drinking so close to Melrose Abbey, it was only right and proper that they drank alcohol made by monks from another abbey, Buckfast Abbey. The fact that it was cheap, sweetened the deal. Interestingly, given recent events, Buckfast was once sold using the advertising slogan,
Three small glasses a day, for good health and lively blood
.

Liam walked over to Lisa and kissed her.

“How was work?” she asked.

“Usual nonsense,” replied Liam. He worked at the Asda supermarket in Galashiels, stacking shelves mostly, and had come straight from work to the park. There wasn't much reason to go home. That morning, Liam had come back from buying some milk to find his Dad going through the pockets of his work clothes, looking for money to buy drink, and they'd had a blazing row about it. The irony was he could usually go days without exchanging so much as a word with his father, even when sat in the same room.

“I see the police have cordoned off the toilets in Abbey Street,” said Liam, not wanting to dwell on the subject of work. “I wonder if that's to do with the Scott murder?”

“No, it's just our Alan they're looking for,” said Muckle pointing at the youngest goth present. “He did a dump in there on his way down here and it's now a major crime scene. That's why they're all wearing those chemical suits. They think it might be one of those dirty bombs and are talking about evacuating the town! Just call him wee Osama!”

Everyone was laughing, including a red-faced Alan, but Adam was less interested in what was being said and more so in the fact that, ever since Liam's arrival, the faint smell of vampire was unmistakable. It wasn't enough to suggest another vampire was present, but it did suggest that someone had come into contact with a vampire. Adam hadn't come across a vampire possession before, but maybe that would mask the smell.

Adam got up from the bench and walked over to Liam. “Hi, I'm Adam,” he said holding out his hand. “I'm on vacation here.”

Liam shook his hand and introduced himself. “You must have a screw loose to want to come to Melrose for your holidays!”

“Well, maybe I do, but I have an aunt here, and my family are originally from Scotland, so I thought it was about time I came over and paid my respects.”

“Good on you,” said Liam, offering one of the bottles of Buckfast to the newcomer. “Here, have some Buckie.”

“Thanks all the same, but I don't drink.”

“You don't drink?” said Muckle with
feigned incredulity. “And people say we are weirdos!”

“Aye, well, in your case, Muckle, they probably aren't far wrong,” said Lisa jokingly. “Where does your aunt live, Adam?”

“Just opposite the golf course.”

“That's not far from me,” said Lisa, who by now had her arms wrapped around Liam's waist. “I live on Fairways, down Chiefswood Road.”

Adam smiled. He had no idea where Fairways or Chiefswood Road was. He was still trying to make up his mind about Liam. The scent of vampire was definitely coming from him, but the hand he had shook was warm and his face was ruddy. There was no getting away from the fact that, at some point, the Hundeprest and Liam had crossed paths, but whether they were one and the same, Adam wasn't so sure.

“You work in the evening?” Adam asked, suspicious that Liam had been absent from the park when the Hundeprest had struck.

“Aye, the shop's open 24 hours a day, seven days a week, so somebody has to. I was only in for six hours today, but from tomorrow I'm on nights, ten till six the next morning. That's a killer.”

I hope it's just the job that's the killer
, Adam said to himself.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Nick Webster was looking out of the window of his first floor hotel room. He couldn't care less about the colour television, the coffee and tea tray with complimentary shortbread biscuits, the hairdryer in the top drawer, room service from 7am until 10pm, or any of the other facilities the landlady had waxed lyrically about when showing them to their room. All he wanted was this window.

All Walter Miller wanted was sleep. He was as tired as the hotel's decor. Nick had made him drive through the night, from London to Melrose, scrunched up in an old Nissan Micra. A couple of quick toilet stops and another to buy petrol and that was it. They had then spent the best part of an hour, trailing around Melrose, in the rain, looking for a room to call home for the duration of their stay. Media interest in the murder meant that every hotel and bed and breakfast in the small town was fully booked. They'd only got lucky with this room because of a last minute cancellation.

It was funny how the landlady had simply assumed that the two new guests, with their fancy dan London ways, were journalists. It certainly saved them having to cook up a cover story. It also meant they could ask as many questions as they wanted, without arousing suspicion, because journalists were expected to ask questions. But Nick and Walter didn't work for Fleet Street or the BBC or even the
Mitcham, Morden & Wimbledon Post
. They were in Melrose because they were vampire hunters.

At first glance, you wouldn't think Nick and Walter were capable of hunting anything, let alone vampires. Both were in their forties, balding and overweight. They had actually only been vampire hunters for a matter of months: six in the case of Nick, and three in the case of Walter. This gave Nick seniority over the wet behind the ears Walter, or so Nick said anyway.

Both men had been recruited to the Sabbatarian cause after frequenting the same obscure internet chat room dedicated to vampire hunting. Nick and Walter were exactly what the Battalion Sabbatarian looked for when recruiting cannon fodder. Both were single men with no job and no ties. Nobody would miss them when they were away on Sabbatarian business and nobody would miss them if they didn't come back. Most low level operatives never did come back. Most importantly, both men were born on a Saturday. Tradition dictated that all vampire hunters are born on a Saturday.

The two men had never met before joining the Sabbatarians despite living only a few miles away apart in South West London. Apart from each other, they had also never met any other Sabbatarians, although they had discussed at length the possibility of them being one of maybe hundreds if not thousands of small sleeper cells scattered throughout the country, and probably the world, waiting for orders from Battalion HQ. Only when they received orders to travel 350 miles north to Scotland did they guess that there might not be many other cells after all. Or, as Nick had suggested during the drive up, maybe they had been specifically chosen for this mission from those hundreds or thousands of cells. That idea appealed to both of them, especially Nick.