Necroscope 9: The Lost Years (8 page)

The sarcophagus was almost five feet high; the Necroscope took up one of the central torches from its niche at the front of the great box, and leaned over to
look inside. What with the gloom, the smoke, the heady reek and al, his eyes were watering badly; it was hard to make out the contents of the cofin. But the very
terms he’d applied - ‘sarcophagus’, and ‘coffin’ -had in themselves been sufficient of a clue or forewarning. For what else would one expect to find in a tomb, but
a corpse or corpses? Except, and as Harry Keogh was only too wel aware, there are corpses and corpses.

The scatering of torches in the wals cast their flickering light down; the brand in Harry’s hand set the surface of the translucent, semi-solid resin in the
cofin glowing like burnished bronze; the vague outline of… of
something,
but something grotesque almost beyond belief, suddenly became visible. Which was
when what had started as a dream - a precognitive glimpse
-
turned into sheerest nightmare!

The figure trapped in the resin was at least seven feet long, two and a half broad at the shoulders, and narrow at the waist and hip. Still only
half-discernible but obviously a huge man, still there was that about it that smacked of the un-, the inhuman. It lay on its back, arms folded across its chest, and
despite its dimensions Harry felt that it was somehow shriveled, reduced, as if time had taken its toll on it. As to the precise nature of the thing:
Quite apart from the earlier phases of his dream, Harry was acquainted with the Wamphyri. Indeed the Necroscope knew more about vampires -real
vampires - than any other man in the world. He had seen Dragosani

at the end of their bloodfeud, in the fullness of his Wamphyri change, and he’d also been face to face with Yulian Bodescu, in the
very flux of metamorphosis. He knew
exactly
what a fully-fledged vampire looked like; that in fact it looked something like …

like this! And yet this was like
nothing
he’d ever seen before. But one thing for certain: it exuded evil as surely as its great sarcophagus
exuded pungent resin.

And now it seemed the precognitive nature of the Necroscope’s dream was over, and that purest nightmare was
taking full sway. At least he hoped so; for if the
rest
of it was a glimpse into his future, then he wanted none of it!

Suddenly aware that shadows were creeping where no shadow had been, Harry stepped back from the sarcophagus, fell into a crouch
and looked all about. There had been furtive movement, he was sure, there on the paved causeway where it passed under crazily
tilting lintels … and in the shadows along the walls … and among the countless jumbles of fallen rock. Grey shadows,
flowing, fleet-footed …

… And a renewed burst of howling, near-distant at first, but then answered from close at hand. Very close at hand!

Harry’s left hand held up the flaring torch; his right was on the rim of the sarcophagus. And even as he looked again into
the coffin, at the barely discernible yet unmistakable outline there,
something came bubbling up out of the gluey mess to grab his wrist!

It wasn’t a hand, or barely. Clawed, black, trembling and shrivelled, yet strong with some inner fever, it was
half-hand, half-paw, all horror! And it drew on Harry with an irresistible strength until in a moment he found
himself half-over the stone side of the coffin and into the resin. But at the last his wits were returned to him, and
drawing back with every ounce of his strength, finally he broke free of the thing that held him. Or rather,
it
broke free of
its arm!

How Harry danced then, with the alien hand still clasped around his wrist, as he tried to disengage, free himself
from that unearthly grip. But he’d hauled so hard that he’d dragged the owner of the shrivelled claw erect in its great coffin. And,
God help him, the triangular eyes in its resin-dripping, half-mummified head were slowly opening… and its dog’s
jaws were splitting apart in a monstrous grin!

‘Jesus! Jesus!’
Harry yelped as the Thing reached for him. And:

‘Jesus?’
it replied, its awful voice a surprised cough, a snarl, a bubbling-up of centuries-trapped phlegm and mucus. And
tilting its head sardonically on one side:
‘Ah, no, not Jesus!’
it told him.
‘If you would call me anything, call me Lykan . .

. Lord Lykan, of the Wamphyri! Or perhaps, in your case—
‘(its great arms were folding him in, while its eyes blazed like yellow
lanterns, branding his soul as it growled), ‘—
in your case I shall make an exception. Aye, for it were best if
you
call me … father?’

Harry did no such thing. Starting awake he called out for his Ma, all

Brian Luraley

40

mud and bones and weeds in her watery grave nearly four hundred miles away in Scotland. For cold and terrible as
she

might seem (to anyone else), she was the warmest, safest thing in Harry’s world.

But as has often been stated, the future is a most devious, difficult thing, and not much given to displaying itself to common curiosity. Even the Necroscope, the least common of men, could not be allowed to know or remember too much. And as is frequently the way of it with dreams, this one was already fading from the eye of memory. In a moment all that remained of it was the
fear
of it, whatever it had been. That and the cold sweat, and Harry’s tumbled bedclothes.

And his sweet mother’s anxious query, sighing in his metaphysical mind across all the miles between:
What is it,
son?

Harry stopped panting, took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and told her,
Nothing, Ma. Just a dream, that’s all.

A nightmare.

And:
Well,
she said after a little while,
and isn’t it to be expected?
(He could picture her troubled frown.)
After all,
you’ve known some strange times, Harry.
Oh, yes, she was right there! And there were also times when the Necroscope’s Ma was the very master (or mistress) of understatement. But:

Strange times, yes,
Harry answered quietly, wryly.

Then, in a moment, seeing her son was all right, she was lighter at heart.
When will you come to see me, Harry? You’ve always
a home here with me, you know.
Her words might easily have chilled another man to the bone, but Harry felt only her warmth.

Soon, I think,
he told her.
Pretty soon. But right now
… He sighed and shivered a little, for the sweat of fear was beginning to dry on him.
Oh, you know … there are problems.

He sensed her nod of understanding.
There always will be problems, Harry, among the living. And, as you know well
enough, even among the dead! But whenever, I’ll be waiting here, knowing that soon you’ll be close tome …

Her incorporeal voice faded slowly away.

Problems among the living, and among the Great Majority. And all too often their problems were Harry’s. His nightmare had disappeared completely now, forgotten, sunk back into the depths of his subconscious mind … but however briefly, his mother’s words had struck a chord there.

Problems among the living and the dead.

And … the undead?

II

BUT WHERE IS HARRY KEOGH?

‘Er, Harry?’

Darcy Clarke stuck his head round the door of the Necroscope’s E-Branch ‘suite’: a long, narrow room, realy, fited out like a smal hotel room for Harry’s convenience, until he could find the time and opportunity to look round for a place for himself and his family in London …
if
he could convince his wife to stay.

Right now, though, the way it was going with Brenda and al, Clarke considered it a hel of a big if…

In fact, in years gone by when this entire top-floor complex had belonged to the hotel below, Harry’s apartment had
been
one of the rooms. In front, it was simply an overnight bedroom some four or five paces square. At the rear, partitioned behind a sliding door, there was a wash-basin, a shower and WC. The floor space of the main room was occupied along one wal by a computer console with a swivel-chair and space beneath for the operator’s feet; it was of little or no use to the Necroscope, who had his own unique ways of solving problems. In a corner a wardrobe stood open. Some items of Harry’s clothing were hanging there; others lay folded on shelving to one side.

Harry had been about to shave. He wore a towel round his waist and foam on his face, and was leaning over the wash-basin with a plastic shaver in his hand. And he looked just a little sick: pale and sick and tired.
Well,
Darcy thought,
he’s looked pale ever since I’ve known him … ever since
I’ve known him as Harry, anyway!
Because of course that had only been for seventeen months; but he’d once known him a lot longer than that as someone else. It was that previous person whom Darcy was looking at now - on the outside, at least.

Harry was only twenty-one, but his body (or Alec’s) was ten years older. The Necroscope’s hair was russet-brown, plentiful and naturally wavy; but even in the last few months a lot of the lustre had disappeared, and the odd strand of grey hair had appeared among the

Necroscope: The Lost Years - Vol. I

42

Brian Lumley

43

brown in the temples. His eyes too were honey-brown; very wide, very intelligent, and (strange beyond words) very innocent! Even now, for all they’d seen - for all that he’d experienced and learned - they were innocent. Darcy knew it could be argued, however, that certain murderers have the same look. But in Harry the innocence was mainly genuine.

He hadn’t asked to be what he was, or to be called upon to do the things he’d done - but he
had
done them.

His teeth were strong, not quite white, a little uneven; they were set in a mouth that was unusually sensitive but could also be cruel, caustic. He had a high brow, a straight nose, cheeks that seemed just a fraction sunken. Not surprising, that last, for the Necroscope had lost weight. Alec Kyle had been perhaps too well-fleshed - once. With his height it hadn’t mattered much. Not to Alec, whose work in E-Branch had been in large part sedentary. But it mattered to Harry Keogh. It had been bad enough carrying around those extra years, let alone the extra weight! He was trying to find time to get his new body in training, bring it to its best possible condition.
He’d be better off,
Clarke thought,
if
he got his mind sorted out first!
He suspected Harry’s mind must feel something like a nervous cat in a new house -prowling around and trying to get used to the layout. But it was already more than a year.

‘What is it, Darcy?’ the Necroscope asked, his voice listless as his looks - listless, but not lost. The man might be little more than a boy, but still he carried a lot of mileage. And his tone of voice, the depth of his penetrating gaze, his obvious intelligence, carried a whole world of authority.

But his looks, Harry Keogh’s
looks!
They were the stumbling block, and not only for Clarke but for every esper in the Branch. The fact that each time they spoke to Harry - or even thought of him - it was on the tip of every tongue to call him Alec, just as Clarke had barely avoided doing a moment ago. And this despite that he’d been deliberately rehearsing to himself,
Harry, Harry, Harry,
all the way down the corridor.

Clarke forced himself back to earth. ‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘And, well, one or two of the gang just happened to mention you mightn’t be … you know, feeling too good?’ He came in, closed the door behind him and sat on Harry’s tumbled bed.

The Necroscope gave a shrug of his shoulders and offered a mirthless,
‘Huh!
They just “happened” to mention it, right? I mean, it’s not that these espers of yours have been into my mind or anything. Hell no! But they just kind of

“suspected” I might be a bit down this morning.’ He frowned and gave a snort of derision. ‘Christ, give it a
rest,
can’t you, Darcy! I mean, surely you know I’ve been feeling them groping away in my head morning, noon and night every day for well over a year now!’

Clarke flopped his hands uselessly. ‘But they’re … well,
espers,

Harry!’ he said, making it sound like an apology. ‘And they do manage to keep their talents pretty much to themselves. I mean, we have our code, you know? But we can’t help worrying about you … ”
Or thinking about you, and about Alec. Wondering
what kind of a freak you are; how you feel about it. And what about that poor girl downstairs; how she feels. Because we told her you were
dead! And now you’re alive, but no longer you! And as for Alec, he’s gone forever. We know how it was -you’ve told us how it was, and Ben
Trask has corroborated it - but we wonder anyway …
The Ben Trask of Clarke’s silent reflections was another Branch operative, a human lie-detector.

The Necroscope looked at Clarke and he looked back: at a man he’d known as the precog Alec Kyle. Or rather, he looked at the
shape
of Kyle with Harry’s mind in it. And so back to that again: a complete fuck-up of a situation! And Clarke thinking:
But if it
can fuck me up like this, what must it be doing to him and his family?