him, listening to the glass rattle as the beetles launched themselves at it in pursuit.
He stood on the patio, panting, trying to get his breath back. Sian was watching him with tear-smudged eyes. ‘What were those things?’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen beetles like them before.’
‘Well, I don’t think you’ll find them in any reference works on coleopterans,’ Carter said, drawing the warm afternoon air into his lungs. ‘At a guess I would say they were elementals, some kind of physical embodiment of the power, or powers, in that house. How’s your neck?’
Her fingers went to the soft skin at the side of her throat and came away bloody. Carter pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket, folded it into a pad and handed it to her. ‘We’d better get you to the hospital. You’re going to need a tetanus shot for that.’
Sian was shaking. ‘But they were real,’ she said, shock reducing her voice to no more than a whisper. ‘At first I didn’t think they had any substance…like the cat…but it hurt. Christ, it hurt!’ She held the pad to the wound as tears welled in her eyes again. Carter wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her back to their car parked in a bay at the back of the house. He opened the passenger door and ushered her inside. ‘Wait here,’ he said.
She grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Where are you going?’ she said, close to panic. She didn’t want to be left alone. She was badly frightened and the fear was making her feel nauseous. She didn’t want Robert to take the risk of going back to the house.
‘Back in there,’ he said, and saw the panic flare in her eyes. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be fine now I know what I’m up against.’
Sian chewed her lip, unconvinced. She was trying to conquer her fear, furious with herself for appearing so weak, so bloody girly! He’d never take her out on an assignment again. She’d screwed up and was anxious to make amends. ‘I’ll come with you.’ ‘No, you won’t. You’ve had enough for one day. This won’t take long, then I’ll take you to A and E, to get that wound looked at.’ He slammed the door and started to walk back to the house. Halfway there he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number.
CHAPTER TWO
The call was answered instantly. ‘Crozier.’
‘It’s Carter. This is worse than we thought. It’s degenerated very quickly, too quickly. There are some nasty physical manifestations.’ He described the events briefly.
There was a pause at the other end of the line and Carter could almost hear the other man thinking as Crozier’s sharp and well-ordered mind weighed the ramifications of what he’d been told and considered his options. ‘Is the girl badly injured?’ It was typical of Crozier not to use a person’s name if he could show some superiority over them.
‘Nothing major.’ He was damned if he was going to give Crozier the full details.
‘Careless, Robert.’ The evident pleasure at a possible Carter mistake was like the purr of a satisfied cat.
‘I know. I wasn’t expecting anything quite this violent.’ He had, though. As soon as he entered the house he knew there were powerful forces there. He needed to check a couple of things inside the house; then he would know which direction to take his investigation.
‘Hmm. Do you need a cleanup team or do you think you can deal with it yourself?’ Crozier said. He made the possible need for help seem like a definite sign of weakness.
Carter had reached the French doors. He shaded his eyes with his hand and peered in. There were no signs of anything unusual; nothing flying about the room, the wallpaper smooth and undamaged. ‘I think I can handle it,’ he said. He wouldn’t be reckless enough to deny help just because it was Crozier’s suggestion; he was far too professional for that. But there were suspicions he had that had to be confirmed before he could let others into the house.
‘Okay. Let me know how it pans out,’ Crozier said and rang off. Letting him make the decision about when help was given was as near to a show of courtesy as Crozier would afford Carter.
Carter slipped the phone into the pocket of his jacket and let himself back into the house. He stood in the center of the dining room breathing deeply, eyes tightly closed. It was time to open up, to let down his guard, to try to discover the secrets of the house. Four investigations in as many months, each one progressively worse than the last. Something was happening. Something out of the ordinary, and he felt it was down to him to discover exactly what was going on. This was no poltergeist upset at not reaching closure before death. This was no ghost whose violent death couldn’t be forgiven. What was attacking this house, using it, was far more dangerous.
The process of opening his mind was easy, rather like taking off a pair of sunglasses and letting his eyes see the brightness, but it had to be done carefully. If he exposed himself fully he would be vulnerable to attack. If he didn’t open himself enough he would learn nothing. He’d been preparing for this moment for days; increasing his work rate at the gym, pushing his body, getting it as fit and as strong as possible to be able to withstand the sheer physical toll that his mind would demand.
He spread his arms wide and opened his eyes.
Nothing.
He frowned, puzzled. The electromagnetic disturbance and the manifestations he’d witnessed in the house told him that there were very strong influences here. So why was he not picking up anything?
He tried again, concentrating more deeply, lowering his defenses still further.
Nothing.
It was as if the house was depleted, a flat battery, devoid of energy.
It made no sense. He took another deep breath, stretching his arms wider. ‘Come on,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Show me.’
A second later the forces in the house rushed at him like an express train and he cried out as he was lifted off his feet and hurled against the wall. He hung there for a second before sliding to the floor, his breath knocked out of him. ‘Shit!’ he said and struggled to stand.
It hit him again, this time with a more mental attack. His mind was filled with spiraling images. The beetles were back in the room, hundreds of them, flying at his face, nipping and biting his hands as he raised them to protect himself. In the next second they were gone and the image of a desolate landscape rushed into his mind. He felt himself transported, picked up and dragged through the air.
He was pulled upwards, through the ceiling of the dining room and the roof of the house, until he was hundreds of feet in the air. Unseen forces were holding him there, suspended over the house. He looked down and could see the streets of the town, the shops, the houses, the cars, and the people going about their daily lives. The church, easily identified from its steeple, was crumbling, brick by brick, as if it was dissolving into the ground. He blinked, once, twice and the scene changed.
He was staring down at the sea, choppy gray waves capped with white, rolling in on a clean sandy beach and crashing over rocks that guarded the coastline of a bleak, inhospitable island.
And then he was falling down to the ground beneath. He landed without impact, his body cushioned by pads of soft heather and bracken. Above him a pale sun glared down at him, its white light hurting his eyes. He squeezed them shut and when he opened them again he was staring up at a circular dish filled with electric lights.
He was lying on an operating table, a sharp antiseptic smell filling his nostrils. And he was seven years old again, at his most vulnerable, in hospital for a tonsillectomy, while about him white-clad figures stood watching him, their faces obscured by white masks, but their eyes earnest and threatening. A scalpel hovered in front of his own eyes, then with a swift downwards slash cut a line in his flesh from sternum to pelvis. Hands reached inside him, searching out vital organs. He could feel soft fingers caressing his liver, his spleen, his lungs, his heart.
He could hear a voice, whispering, the sound too muted to be clear, and then many voices, the sounds merging into one long sonorous drone. Finally silence.
Then ‘Take him back.’ Sharp, clipped. An order.
‘Will he return?’ A softer voice, almost female, but not quite.
‘He has no choice. Take the girl.’
