Necroscope 4: Deadspeak (46 page)

“You were in the shit?”

“No, in the bloody toilets,” Darcy groaned, “which in this case amounts to much the same thing! Manolis, don’t you see? It was my
talent
working for me—or against me. Against that poor girl, anyway.”

“Your talent?”

“My guardian angel, the thing that keeps me out of trouble. It isn’t something I can control. It works in different ways. This time it saw danger around the corner and … and I had to go to the damned toilet!”

Now Manolis understood, and knew the worst of it. They’ve taken her?” he hissed. “The Lazarides creature and his vampires, they have drawn the first blood?”

“God, yes!” Darcy answered. “I can’t think of any other explanation.”

In his native Greek, Manolis said a long stream of things then; curses, Darcy supposed. And: “Look, stay where you are and I’ll be right there.”

“No,” Darcy answered. “No, meet me at that place where we ate the other night.
Christ,
I need a drink!”

“Very well,” said Papastamos. “Fifteen minutes …”

Darcy was into his third large Metaxa when Manolis arrived. “Will you get drunk?” he said. “It won’t help.”

“No,” Darcy answered. “I just needed a stiffener, that’s all. And do you know what I keep thinking? What will I tell Harry? That’s what!”

“It isn’t your fault,” Manolis commiserated, “and you must stop thinking about it. Harry is back tomorrow. We must let him take the lead. Meanwhile, every policeman on the island is looking for Lazarides, his crew and his boat—and Sandra, of course. I made the call and gave the orders before I came here. Also, I should have the complete background information on this … this Vrykoulakas
pig
by morning! Not only from Athens but also America. Lazarides’s right-hand man, called Armstrong, is an American.”

Darcy looked at Manolis and thought:
Christ, I thank you for this man!

Darcy wasn’t a secret agent, nor even a policeman. He’d been with E-Branch all these years not because his talent was indispensable to them but simply because it
was
a talent, and all such weird and esoteric powers had interested them. But he couldn’t use it as the telepaths and locators used theirs, and it was useless except in special circumstances. Indeed, on several occasions it had seemed to Darcy that his talent used him. Certainly it had caused him grief now and then: as during the Bodescu affair, for example, when it had kept him safe and sound only at the expense of another esper. And Darcy still hadn’t forgiven himself for that. Now there was this. Without Papastamos to take control and actually, physically,
do
something … Darcy didn’t know what he would have done.

“What do you suggest we do now?” he said.

“What
can
we do?” the other answered. “Until we have word of them—until we know where Lazarides and the girl are—we can do nothing. And even then I will need authorization to move on this creature. Unless … I could always claim I had the strong suspicions of the drug-running, and close in on him even without authorization! But it will help when we know all about him, tomorrow morning. And Harry Keogh might have the ideas, too. So for now—” he shrugged, but heavily and with obvious frustration,”—nothing.”

“But—”

“There are no buts. We can only wait.” He stood up. “Come on, let’s get your things.”

They drove to the villa, where Darcy found himself oddly reluctant to get out of the car. “Do you know,” he said, “I feel completely done in, “knackered”, in common parlance! I suppose it’s emotional.”

“I suppose it’s the Metaxa!” Manolis answered, drily.

But as they approached the door of the place down the garden path, suddenly Darcy knew that “it” was neither. He grabbed the Greek’s arm and whispered hoarsely, “Manolis, someone is in there!”

“What?” Manolis looked at him, glanced back towards the villa. “But how do you know?”

“I know because I don’t want to go in. It’s my guardian angel acting up, my talent. Someone’s waiting in there for us—for me, anyway. My own fault. I was in such a state when I came out that I left the door open.”

“And now you’re sure someone is in there, right?” Manolis’s voice was a mere breath of air as he brought out his pistol and fitted a silencer to the barrel, then cocked it.

“God, yes!” Darcy in turn breathed. “I’m sure, all right. It’s like someone was trying to turn me around and boot me the hell out of it! First I didn’t want to get out of the car, and now, with every step I take, it gets stronger. And believe me, whoever it is in there, he’s deadly!”

“Then he’s mine,” said Manolis, showing Darcy his gun. “For this too is quite deadly!” He reached out and touched the door, which swung silently open. “Follow me in.” And he turned sideways, crouched down a very little and stepped inside.

Darcy’s every instinct, each fibre of his being, screamed RUN! … but he followed Manolis inside. He wouldn’t let it make a coward of him this time. There were two too many people on his conscience already. It was time he showed this fucking thing who was boss! And—

Manolis put on the light.

The main living-room was empty, looked just as Darcy had left it. Manolis looked at Darcy, cocked his head on one side inquiringly and gave a small, questioning shrug. “Where?” his whisper was so quiet as to be a mere shaping of the lips.

Darcy looked around the room, at the beds grouped in the centre of the floor, the tapestry on the wall, a pair of ornamental oil lamps on a shelf, a suitcase of Harry’s under the bed he’d never used. And the doors, closed, leading to the bedrooms, which likewise hadn’t been used. Until now …

Then his eyes went back to Harry’s suitcase, and narrowed.

“Well?” Manolis shaped his mouth again.

Darcy held a finger to his lips, crossed to the beds and slid Harry’s suitcase fully into view. The lid was open; he lifted it, took out the crossbow and loaded it, and stood up. Manolis nodded his approval.

Darcy crossed to the bedroom doors and reached out a hand to touch the first one. His trembling fingertips told him nothing except that he was scared half to death. He commanded his feet to carry him to the second door, and went to touch that, too. But no, that was as brave as his talent would let him be. NO! something screamed at him. FOR FUCK”S SAKE, NO!

Gooseflesh crawled on his arms as he half-turned towards Manolis to say, “In here!” But he never said it.

The door was hurled open, knocking Darcy aside, and Seth Armstrong stood framed in the opening. Just looking at him, apish, threatening, no one could have mistaken his alienness, the fact that he was less, or more, than a mere man. In the subdued lighting of the room, his left eye was yellow, huge, expanded in its orbit, and a black eyepatch hid the right eye from view.

Manolis shouted, “Stay where you are! Stand still!” But Armstrong merely smiled grimly and came loping towards him.

“Shoot him!” Darcy shouted, scrabbling on his hands and knees. “For Christ’s sake shoot him!”

Manolis had no choice for Armstrong was almost upon him—and he’d opened his mouth to display teeth and jaws which the Greek simply didn’t believe! He fired twice, almost point-blank; the first into Armstrong’s shoulder, which served to snap the big American upright, and the second into his belly, which bent him down again and pushed him back a little. But that was all. Then he came on again, grasped Manolis by the shoulder and hurled him against the wall. And Manolis knew where he’d felt such strength before, but knowing it didn’t help him now. His gun had been sent flying, and Armstrong—and Armstrong’s teeth—were coming for him again!

“Hey, you!” Darcy shouted. “Fucking vampire!”

Armstrong was dragging Manolis to his feet, lowering his awful face towards him; he turned to face Darcy; and Darcy, aiming at his heart, pulled the trigger of his crossbow.

That did it. As the bolt went in the American released Manolis and smashed back against the wall. Gagging and choking, he sought to grasp the bolt and draw it out. But he couldn’t. It was too close to his heart, that most vital of organs. His heart pumped his vampire blood, and that was the source of his hideous strength. He gurgled, coughed, staggered to and fro and spat blood. And his left eye glared like a blob of sulphur seared into his face!

Manolis was on his feet again. As Darcy fumbled frantically to reload his crossbow, so the Greek tried a second time and pumped four carefully aimed shots into the stricken vampire. But now the bullets had more effect. Each one drove Armstrong like a pile-driver backwards across the floor, and the last one hurled him against a window which shattered outwards, showering glass, broken louvre boards and Armstrong himself into the night garden.

Darcy had loaded up. He stumbled out into the garden, with Manolis right behind him. Armstrong lay flat on his back in the remains of the window, alternating between flailing his arms and tugging at the hardwood bolt where it transfixed his chest. But he saw Darcy approaching and somehow sat up!

Darcy took no chances; from no more than four feet away he sent the second bolt crashing through the vampire’s heart, which not only served to stretch him out again but pinned him down and kept him still.

Manolis, his mouth hanging open, came forward. “Is he … is he finished?”

“Look at him,” Darcy panted. “Does he look finished? You may believe in them, Manolis, but you don’t know them like I do. He’s not finished—yet!”

Armstrong was mainly still but his fingers twitched, his jaws chomped, and his burning yellow eye followed them where they moved about him. His eyepatch had been dislodged and an empty socket gaped black in the light from the wrecked window.

Darcy said: “Watch him!” and hurried back inside. A moment later he was back with a heavy, razor-honed, long-bladed cleaver, also from Harry’s suitcase. Manolis saw its silvery gleam and said:

“What?” His upper lip at the left drew back from his teeth in a nervous grimace.

“The stake, the sword, and the fire!” Darcy answered.

“Decapitation?”

“And right now. His vampire is already healing him. See, no blood. In an ordinary man your bullets—any one of them—might have killed him with shock, let alone damage. But he’s taken six and he isn’t even bleeding! Two bolts in him, one right through the heart, and his hands are still working. His eyes, too …
and
his ears!”

He was right: Armstrong had heard their conversation, and the loathsome orb of his left eye had swivelled to gaze upon the cleaver in Darcy’s hand. He began gurgling anew, his body vibrating against the earth, the heel of his right foot hammering robotically into the dry soil of the garden.

Darcy got down on one knee beside him and Armstrong tried to take hold of him with a spastic right hand. But he couldn’t reach him, couldn’t make his limbs work properly. Froth, phlegm and blood welled up in the vampire’s throat. His right hand scuttled a little way towards Darcy like a spider, until the arm it dragged got too heavy for it. He tried a third time, then abruptly fell back and lay still.

Darcy gritted his teeth, raised the cleaver—And the membrane in the back of the cavity of Armstrong’s right eye bulged and erupted, and a
finger,
blue-grey and pulsating, wriggled out onto his cheek!

“Jesus!” Darcy fell back, almost fainted, and Manolis took over. He fired at Armstrong’s face, pulling the trigger of his silenced gun until the nightmare finger and face both were so much pulp. And when his magazine was empty, then he took the cleaver from Darcy’s rigid fingers, and took Armstrong’s head, too.

Darcy had turned away and was throwing up, but between each bout he gasped, “Now we … we have to burn the … the ugly bastard!”

Manolis was up to that, too. The lamps in the villa weren’t just ornamental after all. They contained oil, and there was a spare can of fuel in the kitchen. By the time Darcy could take control of his heaving stomach, the remains of Armstrong were burning. Manolis stood watching, until Darcy got hold of his arm and took him off to a safe distance.

“You can never tell,” he said, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. “There might be a lot more in him than just that godawful finger!”

But there wasn’t …

“I hope you didn’t leave it like that,” said Harry. “The oil couldn’t have burned all of him.”

“Manolis got a body-bag,” Darcy explained. “We took him to an incinerator in the industrial part of town. Said he was a mangy dog that crawled into the garden to die.”

“The heat of that incinerator would calcine his bones down to powder,” Manolis added.

“So, we took second blood!” Harry growled, but with such uncharacteristic savagery that the others glanced at him in surprise. He saw their looks and turned his face away. But not before Darcy noted that his eyes were more soulful—or soulless—than ever. And of course he knew why.

“Harry, about Sandra,” he started to explain yet again.

But Harry cut him off. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “If anyone’s it was my fault. I should have made sure personally that she was out of this. But we can’t think about her now, and I
mustn’t
think about her—not if I want to be able to think about anything else. Manolis, did the information you were waiting for come in?”

“A great deal of information,” said the other. “Almost everything, except that which is the most important.”

Manolis was driving his car, with Harry and Darcy in the back seat. They were approaching the centre of Rhodes New Town where Manolis was quartered. It wasn’t yet 6:00
P.M.
but already some tourists were out in their evening finery. “Look at them,” said Harry, his voice cold. “They’re happy; they laugh and dress up; they’ve had a blue sky all day and a blue sea to swim in, and the world looks fine. They don’t know there are scarlet threads among all that blue. And they wouldn’t believe it if you told them.” And to Manolis, abruptly: “Tell me everything you’ve learned.”

“Lazarides is a very successful archaeologist,” Manolis began. “He came into prominence, oh, four years ago, with several important finds on Crete, Lesbos and Skiros. Before that… we don’t have much on him. But he does have Greek nationality,
and
Romanian! This is very odd, if not unique. The authorities in Athens are looking into it, but —” he shrugged,”—this is Greece. Everything takes time. And this Lazarides, he has the friends in high places. Perhaps he purchased his nationality, eh? Certainly he would have the monies for it if the rumours are correct. Rumours? They abound! It is said that he keeps—or sells to unscrupulous collectors—at least half of the treasures he excavates; also that he is the—how do you say?—the Midas! Everything he touches turns to gold. He only has to look at an island to know if any treasure is hidden there. Why, even now men of his are digging in an old Crusader castle on Halki!”