wing. Dr Andrews descended the stairs and pushed through the fire doors into his least favourite part of the hospital.
In what the staff called ‘the Cooler’ was a wall of stainless steel panels. Behind each panel was a retractable compartment seven feet long and three feet wide, running on rails. They were like the drawers of a huge filing cabinet, each labelled with a name and a number. This was only a small private facility, and the Cooler was never anywhere near capacity. At most, they had four or five cadavers in at a time. He quickly found the compartment with Kate Hawthorne’s name and admission number. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the cold steel handle and pulled.
The compartment slid open smoothly on its rails.
He looked inside.
Blinked. Then looked again.
It was empty.
Dr Andrews took a step back. Was this some kind of administrative error? He was about to open another compartment when he heard a voice behind him.
‘Hello, Doctor. Looking for me?’
He swung round.
Kate Hawthorne was standing behind him, naked. He gaped, speechless. A rapid drum rhythm started up inside his ribcage.
She smiled.
Holy Lord, those teeth.
The drum began to roll faster, louder, building to a crescendo…then…
Bang.
‘My heart—’ Dr Andrews clutched at his chest and cried out in pain as the cardiac attack ripped through him. His knees buckled. He pitched forward, felt his head crack open on the tiled floor. His eyes rolled up, and through the rising mist he saw Kate Hawthorne beaming bright-eyed down at him, her fangs white against her red lips.
Then his vision dimmed, and he saw no more.
Crowmoor Hall
8.12 p.m.
Lillith skidded her bright yellow Lotus Elise to a halt on the gravel, threw open the door and grabbed the bundle from the passenger seat. It wriggled feebly in her arms as she carried it into the dark house. She was sated from her evening feed, but who said you had to be hungry to eat? Something for dessert.
With that thought in mind she made her way through the gloomy passages to the tower in the east wing where her private quarters were situated. The creaking of a door made her turn, and she saw Finch standing there.
‘What happened to your face?’ she asked him, noticing the bruises. In a grave, solemn tone he told her about that day’s incident with Solomon, the police officer.
‘Interesting,’ Lillith purred. ‘So now we know all about our little cross-bearing friend.’
As she spoke, her vampire’s mind was turning over at high speed. So much for the human having found the cross of Ardaich, she thought. If his claim had been anything more than a desperate bluff, he could have destroyed them all. Gabriel would have returned home to a graveyard.
Lillith felt anger rise up inside her at the thought of her brother. He’d been a warrior once, like her. No vampire had been bolder, wilder, more wonderfully cruel and impetuous. But he’d changed of late. She was tired of his cautious diplomat’s ways, frustrated by his endless politicising.
‘Did I do well, ma’am?’ Finch’s voice was cracked with anxiety. ‘I obeyed Mr Stone’s wishes as best I could.’
‘You did brilliantly, Seymour. Gabriel will be very pleased. As am I.’
Finch bowed his head in relief. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘Now for the next part of your task,’ she said. ‘Now that we know who the human is, you are to pay him a visit. Retrieve whatever evidence he has to do with the cross, and then slaughter him.’
‘Ma’am? I thought Mr Stone said not to kill—’
‘I was talking to Gabriel just minutes ago,’ she lied. ‘There’s been a change of plan. We want the human dead. You understand me?’
Finch nodded. ‘I understand perfectly.’
‘Your loyalty will be repaid,’ she said.
‘If I m-may be so bold as to mention it,’ Finch stammered. ‘I have long hoped—’
‘That you would be inducted into our circle? Become one of us?’
‘It is my deepest, most heartfelt wish,’ Finch said with a quaver.
Lillith knew that Gabriel would never consider such a thing. Finch was far too useful to them as a ghoul. Not quite a vampire, but not quite a human either. Ghouls dwelt in a shadow world somewhere in between.
‘Do this thing for us,’ she said, ‘and I’m sure my brother will express his gratitude. In the meantime, Seymour, a token of our appreciation.’ She passed him the bundle that she’d been holding in her arms. Finch took it from her, and examined it with glittering eyes as it stirred and mewled in his grip.
‘Its owner left it unattended,’ she said.
Finch looked up at her, melting with gratitude. ‘For me?’
‘Enjoy,’ she smiled.
‘Inspector Joel Solomon is a dead man,’ Finch said
.
Chapter Forty-Six
Dec lay curled up in a foetal position in his bed with the covers pulled up over his head. He wondered whether he could suffocate like this.
He hoped so.
It was impossible to stop the replay looping through his mind as he relived the scenes he’d witnessed earlier that day. The ambulance crew wheeling the gurney out into Lavender Close. Kate’s still body covered by a white sheet. Her mother howling with grief. The whole fucking street out gawping, half of them already prodding their mobiles to text their family members at work about the latest gossip that would keep them morbidly entertained for days and weeks to come. He’d wanted to punch them, ram their phones down their fucking throats.
He’d watched as the gurney was loaded into the back of the ambulance.
Still she hadn’t stirred.
Then they’d closed the doors and driven away. With tears streaming down his face he’d sprinted back into the house, crashed into his room and hurled himself into bed. Never to come out. This was it. The end of everything.
It was all his fault. If he hadn’t tried to play the smart guy, the man of the world, with those cursed ecstasy pills. If he’d just been himself, ordinary old Dec Maddon.
Then Kate would still be alive.
He’d lain here in bed all through the day, rocking from side to side and sobbing on his pillow, only a few snatches of fitful sleep offering any respite from the torture.
Through his pain he’d heard the sounds of the street outside, cars coming and going, voices. The familiar engine note of his ma’s Renault Clio pulling up on the driveway after five o’clock when she got back from work. Mrs Jackson from number twenty calling across to her, ‘Have you heard?’ His ma’s cry of horror as she was told the news, and then a lot of talking in low voices that he hadn’t been able to make out.
He’d sunk back into his torpor, not responding when his mum had come to his room five minutes later to see how he was.
For once she didn’t scream at him for lying in bed with his shoes on. He heard the door shut and her soft steps walk away. Some time later the diesel clatter of the Transit told him his da and brother Cormac were home.
