The Eye of the Moon (4 page)

The promenade was still deserted and the waves were breaking softly against the harbour wall just a few feet from where Beth was walking. The ocean air was refreshing as it filled her lungs and she took several deep breaths of it. At last she was finding out what it was like to be truly happy.

After less than a minute she reached the pier and stepped on to the creaky wooden boards that led out over the water. The pier was no more than fifty yards long and was a little rickety, but it yet hadn’t been deemed unsafe by the Mayor. Beth walked along it until she reached the end where she stood leaning over the wooden railing, looking out over the ocean.

The moon was still shining brightly and she lost herself in it, gazing at its reflection across the rippling waves and smiling both inwardly and outwardly. The gentle raindrops that had been splashing on her face intermittently for the last few minutes began to drop a little more frequently. Not that she minded. Nor did she care, either, that she had promised her stepmother that she would be home by midnight.

Unfortunately, there are many unwritten rules in Santa Mondega. One of them clearly states that no one is allowed to be happy for long. There’s always something bad on the horizon. In Beth’s case it was a lot closer than the horizon she was gazing at across the sea.

Just a few yards away from her was one of the most unpleasant members of the undead world. If she had glanced down she would have seen the fingertips of two bony hands clinging on to the end of the boardwalk. The hands belonged to a vampire. His clawed feet were dangling in the water beneath him. The waves were washing around his ankles because the
tide had risen significantly while he had waited patiently for a gullible innocent to come and stare out at the ocean. Beth was that gullible innocent.

Feeding time.

Sanchez hated going to church, so he made a point of not doing so too often. This, though, was a special occasion, by all accounts. With that in mind he’d picked out his best clothes: a pair of blue jeans with no rips in them, and a white polo neck sweater with no visible stains on it. He’d even put some mousse in his thick black hair to give himself that slicked-back, hey-man-you-are-
way
-too-cool, look.

They owed tonight’s special event to the new preacher who had recently taken over at the local church, and had a passion for trying new things. The latest fad involved inviting all comers to a midnight mass on Halloween, which was to feature a special guest appearance from what the Reverend claimed was ‘the greatest rock ’n’ roll act in Santa Mondega’. He hadn’t revealed the name of the act, so on the off chance that the act turned out to be some cheesy Osmonds-type group Sanchez had come prepared, bringing along a brown paper sack containing some rotten fruit to throw at anyone whose musical talents didn’t meet his exacting standards.

There was no doubt about it: the Church of the Blessed Saint Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins (la Iglesia de la Bendita Santa Úrsula y las Once Mil Vírgenes) was a magnificent spectacle, both inside and out. On a fine night the ancient building showed prominently against the dark sky, its white-stuccoed walls shining in the glow of the moon, its spire reaching towards the stars. This particular Halloween night, however, was as dark outside as it had ever been. Just as the sermon began, the heavy clouds that had been hovering over the church for much of the night released their load, the rain
pouring down upon the House of the Lord in torrents.

From where he was sitting ten rows back, Sanchez could hear the rain hammering against the stained-glass windows behind the altar at which the Reverend was standing. The rows of pews in the church were packed with people of all ages and from all walks of life. Sitting next to Sanchez was the local simpleton, a twelve-year-old kid named Casper who, it was said, wasn’t quite right in the head. No one knew exactly what was wrong with him, but Sanchez had seen the poor lad bullied mercilessly by other kids all through his childhood. It wasn’t just because he was a bit ‘country’, either. This kid looked funny. His hair was always pointing in eight different directions, and his eyes did much the same, kind of. He was one of those kids who when you saw him you half expected there to be a flash of lightning, followed by a clap of thunder and maybe a church bell chiming sonorously in the background. Of course, just to freak Sanchez out that was exactly what was happening on this particular night.

The church wasn’t well lit. On this special evening, it relied for light entirely on candles set in huge sconces around the walls, and on the pair of massive church candles at each end of the altar, the light from which flickered on the tall gold crucifix set in the centre of the altar. (It wasn’t gold, in fact, but brass. Anything even resembling a precious metal did not stay long in Santa Mondega, unless bolted down and guarded day and night by semi-wild pit bulls.) The reason for the poor lighting, Sanchez guessed from the incongruous sight of of a mass of state-of-the-art sound equipment and other gear, with the accompanying mess of cables, littering the space before the altar, was that the rock concert that was to follow must be going to involve a flashing strobe-light show.

To Sanchez, the lack of light only made things worse, because every time there was a clap of thunder the candles would flicker a little, while in the sudden flashes of lightning all he would see was the crazy kid beside him staring manically back at him with his mad eyes. Then, as expected, the church bell would chime and the kid would smile at him
with his frightening crazy grin. Sanchez would have moved, but the church was damn near full. There were no free spaces in the pews behind him, and he didn’t fancy sitting too near the front and getting called up to participate in any of the Reverend’s over-zealous storytelling. There were rumours that the recently inducted man of the cloth was a tad ‘New Age’, which was why he preferred to be called ‘Reverend’ instead of ‘Father’. Whatever the truth of that, because he was young and energetic, he had a habit of hauling members of the congregation up to take part in impromptu ‘David-and-Goliath’-type role-playing.

After listening to the Reverend talk passionately about God and Jesus and all that stuff for over an hour, Sanchez began to get restless. He was only really here to check out the band. If they were any good he was going to see if he could get them to play at his new drinking hole, the Tapioca bar in downtown Santa Mondega. If they were shit he was getting up and going home. First, though, he’d offload his rotten fruit.

Finally, at five past midnight, the Reverend ended his sermon and people began to stir themselves in readiness for the band. From behind a four-foot high wooden pulpit set on a raised platform in front of the altar, the Reverend (who was a big fucker for a priest, the bar owner thought) addressed his audience. Although he was only in his very early twenties he did have a certain presence about him, and Sanchez sensed that beneath the long sombre black robe lay a fairly broad, muscular fella. That would be why the first six or seven rows were filled with good young Christian women, and hookers disguised as good young Christian women. They all hung on his every word.
It’s a goddam disgrace,
Sanchez thought to himself.
Only comin’ to see the Reverend. Have they no shame? And when in the hell is the band gonna start?

‘Well, folks, I’m sure you’ve heard enough from me for one night,’ said the Reverend, smiling down at the congregation. He had one of those smiles that melts the hearts of women, and for a man of the cloth, Sanchez thought, a highly inappropriate glint in his eye. ‘I have just one or two minor announcements
to make before the evening’s musical extravaganza gets under way. First up, I would ask that you all give generously, by making a donation in the collection boxes by the main doors as you leave.’ There was an unmistakably steely note in his voice, and his listeners shifted uncomfortably in their pews. (Charity began at home in Santa Mondega. Charity stayed there, too.) He paused, clearly reflecting on what he had to say next. ‘And secondly,’ he boomed, ‘and, it must be said, somewhat disappointingly, I’ve been informed that traces of urine have been discovered in the holy water. Would everyone therefore please avoid the water in the stoups by the west door. For sacred purposes, we have some bottled holy water; otherwise, tap water is available should anyone be thirsty.’ He looked sternly around his audience, then added, ‘And if I find out who is responsible for this loathsome act, then God help them.’

This was greeted by his audience with a mixture of tutting and disapproving shakes of the head. Sanchez suddenly became very conscious of the loony kid next to him giving him an evil look, as though he suspected that the bartender had been responsible for the contamination.

‘
What?
’ Sanchez hissed at him, unnerved by the boy’s squinting and inscrutable gaze.

The kid shook his head, then pulled the hood of his parka up over his head and turned away to face the front again. Sanchez brought his attention back to the preacher. No sense in being spotted eyeballing a mentally challenged kid. Looked kinda flaky. Not a good rep to get.

Up by the pulpit, the Reverend was flicking a few switches on a control console in front of him. First, lights on the sound equipment began to glow and flicker, and then the music kicked in. The main title theme from the movie
2001: A Space Odyssey
began to blare out from a number of huge speakers. Sanchez liked the tune,
^*
and it created quite an atmosphere,
especially in the dark draughty nave of the church, with the rain still beating the roof and windows.

The music had played for less than twenty seconds when from behind him a blast of cold, damp air entered the dimly lit building. A musty, unpleasantly dank smell accompanied it. Someone had opened the large double doors at the back, behind the rows of pews.

Everyone looked round, and from his place by the altar the Reverend peered over his congregation’s heads to see who could possibly be arriving so late for the service. What they all saw was a man enter. He was wearing a long black cloak with the hood pulled up over his head. A moment later a number of other men, all dressed identically, appeared through the door, following in his footsteps. They filed in singly, then stopped and spread out in a row behind the pews. There were seven of them in all, and the last one to enter closed the great double doors behind him, making the cloaked figures all but impossible to see amid the looming black shadows at the back. An unnerving sense of evil accompanied them, wafting over the congregation like the smell that had drifted in when the doors opened. They didn’t belong here – it didn’t take a genius to work that out. Tonight was Halloween, and these seven hooded creatures looked like boogeymen, in church to cause havoc and mayhem.

The Reverend recognized the menace straight away and flicked a switch on his control panel. Immediately the lights at the far end of the church came on. The seven men were now lit up for all to see, the harsh electric lighting eliminating any element of surprise they might have had in mind if they had intended to sneak up on anyone in the shadowy church. Oddly enough, that was exactly what they’d had in mind.

As the music grew louder and more intense the two hundred or so churchgoers in the rows of pews stared back at the seven men, all in mortal fear of what was about to happen. Then the Reverend spoke for everyone, directing his words at the unwelcome visitors.

‘Your sort are not welcome here. Leave at once.’ He spoke
calmly into his microphone, but loudly enough to be heard over the music. There was an undeniable authority to him now, and even in his own dread, Sanchez noted again,
Yeah, he’s a big fucker, all right.

For a few seconds there was no movement from the seven shadowy figures at the back. Then the one in the middle, who had entered first, stepped forward and lowered his hood. He had a narrow, ghost-white face framed by long dark hair that hung over his shoulders. When he opened his mouth to speak he revealed a huge set of bright yellow fangs.

‘It is Halloween, and it is the witching hour,’ he hissed. ‘We are the vampires from the Hoods clan, and we are claiming this church and all those in it as our own.
No one in here gets out alive!
’