“Yeah. Rose said…”
“My mother,” Marty whispered, looking into his juice glass.
“I’m sorry. Yeah, three years ago I tracked one to the suburbs, out near Heathrow. It was living underground in a big sewer, part of an abandoned airport construction that was never sealed up. It preyed on tourists coming into the UK. Knew which ones to pick on too. Clever. Some of those missing were never reported, and some that were, the police put down to prostitution rings, that sort of thing. There’s a healthy sex trade into the country, would you believe.”
“‘Healthy’?”
“Oh, well, wrong word.” Lee seemed embarrassed. “Busy, I should have said. So I told Rose that I’d found one, asked her if she’d tell Francesco and the others. She and Francesco met me out there. Chased the fucker right up into the daylight. I lost Rose and Francesco somewhere, but I put a bolt into the thing as it burned. Watched it die on a bit of barren land south of the airport.” His eyes seemed suddenly far away, and there was a look of satisfaction on his face.
“You lost someone you loved,” Marty said.
Lee blinked, then glanced at Marty, and for a second his eyes were different. Harder. Then he smiled softly, as if remembering what had happened to Marty the night before.
“No,” he said. “ Friend. I was in the SIS. Secret Intelligence Service, MI6 to you.”
“You were a spy?”
“Not a word we used much, but I guess so. Anyway, we were in… eastern Europe, maybe ten years ago. One of those fuckers ambushed us, killed Phil, and I emptied my clip into its head. Ran like hell. Told my story, got sectioned out for six months, official denials, blah blah blah.” He waved one hand in the air as if it were an old story that never ended. “So I quit and started investigating them on my own.”
“And you’ve found stuff out?”
“A little,” he said, eyes growing distant. “I’m cautious. Taking my time. I hate those bastards. Really hate them. What they do, what they plan, the way they use people as slaves, livestock. They think they’re so in charge, but they slink through shadows like rats. I’ve got years left yet, and I don’t want to rush in headlong and get myself killed.”
Marty raised an eyebrow.
“At least four people I’ve been in touch with—people like me, seeking information, hunting them, believing in them—have been murdered.”
Marty looked down at his juice again. This should all have been so outrageous, and yet even Lee’s description of the vampire burning and dying in the sunlight felt real to him, gritty and brutal rather than shaded with fantasy.
“So…” Lee said softly.
Here’s where I have to be careful, Marty thought. The deception was clear in his mind, and perhaps it was masking the grief stalking him like the bastard creature that had caused it in the first place. Deception and lying gave him something to concentrate on.
“My mum,” he said. “And my dad.”
“Killed them both?”
“No. Only… her. They took him.”
Lee leaned on the table, businesslike again, the façade of pity gone. “Is she definitely dead?”
Marty nodded.
“You’re sure? Because sometimes they leave them alive and—”
“She’s dead,” Marty said, softly but firmly. “If you’d seen her…”
“And they took your dad?”
“Yeah.”
“How old is he? What does he look like? Do you have a photo?”
“What, you want to make a fucking ‘wanted’ poster?”
Lee drew back, stark realization hitting home.
“Hey, I’m so sorry,” he said. “Really. So sorry.” He turned and walked to a cupboard, opening the door, rearranging some canned contents to cover his discomfort. Marty watched and felt bad for lashing out at his host, but not enough to say it.
“What will they do with him?” Marty asked. Lee’s shoulders tensed. He turned around slowly.
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“But you have some idea?”
“They could turn him,” Lee said after a long pause. “Make him one of them.”
“Rose and Francesco killed one in my house,” Marty said slowly, listening to himself, making sure he was giving nothing away. Lee only nodded.
“Good for them. But that could give the vampires a reason to replace the one they lost.”
“Or they could use him for food.”
Lee nodded, grabbed Marty’s glass, refilled it. He’s socially inept, Marty thought. It was a phrase his mother used to describe someone who’d rarely meet your eyes when speaking. Maybe it was the result of spending most of his time locked away.
“Going for a piss,” Lee said. “Only be a minute.”
As soon as he left the room, Marty slipped from his stool and walked over to the worktop. He touched the crossbow. It was cold and heavy. The bolts were made from some sort of metal different from the weapon itself, and their heads were wide and flared, tapering to sharp points just at the tips. There was something inside there, he knew, something that would flood the victim’s system as soon as the bolt struck and shattered. He wondered what. After so many years studying them, Lee must surely have a good idea about what killed vampires.
“Garlic paste mixed with holy water,” Lee said from the doorway. Fuck’s sake, Marty, Rose had drawled when he’d mentioned garlic as a deterrent. Maybe Lee didn’t know as much as he pretended.
“And this works?”
“It will. Just need a chance to find out. And I promise you, son, I’m going to do my best with Rose and Francesco to track down the monster that attacked your family, and find your father.”
“Thanks,” Marty said, and as he tried to offer a smile, the tears came. Grief punched him with a slew of memories of his parents, some familiar, some he hadn’t thought about in years. He crumpled to the floor, and it was as if he were reliving their own lives for them before they died.
There was nothing they could do before nightfall but talk. Usually they rested, conserving energy for whatever the hours of darkness would bring for each of them. But tonight, for the first time she could recall, Francesco took some persuading.
Connie had already left, storming from the chamber when Francesco and Patrick ignored her pleas to reveal what they knew. She’d always had a short temper, and in some ways Rose was glad to have her out of the room. She was likely waiting somewhere out of sight, listening, but the risk of violence was much lessened.
For now, at least.
Jane sat silently fuming in one corner. Patrick pretended to rest, and Francesco sat with his back to the dead vampire, frowning into the darkness as if trying to recall a name.
Rose walked in a figure eight around the dead vampire and Francesco. She could see that it was getting to him, so she continued, circling the meat, then the murderer. He hadn’t yet acknowledged her constant movement, not even with a flicker of his eyes. But he would soon.
What’s the Bane? they’d asked him, and he’d shrugged and said, I don’t know.
What’s the Bane? they’d asked Patrick, and he’d turned his back on them and pretended to sleep.
What’s the Bane… what’s the Bane… And Francesco had settled into his chair, refusing to answer any more questions. Connie’s short explosion of profanity had barely registered with him, and Rose knew he needed more subtle persuasion.
Each time she walked before him she tried to catch his eye. She guessed she’d performed her figure eight fifty times before he caught her gaze and followed her as she passed around behind him again. Jane was watching. Rose smiled at her and nodded, and the woman went to where Patrick pretended to sleep.
Twenty minutes later, as Francesco stood and turned to watch Rose perform her circuit around the dead vampire, Jane nudged Patrick and told him to wake up. They all knew he wasn’t really asleep.