we wouldnae have gone to all this trouble. Nowadays, we’ve got to stay in line. Or else,’ he added darkly.
‘What the hell is that stuff?’
Tommy dropped the syringe back in his belt pouch and zipped it up. ‘Oh, it’s probably got some fancy chemistry name, but the Feds call it Vambloc. Pretty nifty stuff it is too. Stops the humes from turning, erases their short-term memory and heals them up fast to boot. No’ the worst idea the Feds have had. Still gottae hate the bastards, though.’
‘Feds?’ Joel asked, frowning.
‘Aye, Feds. They make the rules. And ye dinnae want them catching you, believe me. They’ve got their own way of dealing with illegals like you.’
‘Illegals?’
‘Listen, laddie, instead o’ just repeating everything I say like some kind o’ moron, why don’t ye come and have a wee snifter yourself?’ Tommy pointed down at the inert human, then at Joel. ‘Ye look like ye need it. Don’t be shy. I dinnae mind sharing.’
‘I … I can’t …’
Tommy roared with laughter. ‘Takes me back, laddie. Takes me right back to my first time. Tell ye what. Hold on.’ He snatched up one of the empty beer bottles that were lying around the alleyway. Then, crouching down to grab the human’s limp wrist, he nipped open a vein with his teeth and a small fountain of blood jetted out. Tommy caught it with the bottle, which quickly started filling with the dark, viscous juice.
‘He’s going to bleed to death,’ Joel said.
Tommy shook his head. ‘Vambloc hasnae kicked in yet, is all. Yer man’ll soon clot up right as rain. I wouldnae worry about the fucker. If I were you, I’d be more worried about myself.’ Letting the bleeding arm flop to the ground, he stood up and offered Joel the bottle.
‘What if I don’t? What if I just starve myself?’
‘You cannae die,’ Tommy said. ‘You’re already deid, ye silly arse.’ His grin gave way to a grimace. ‘But if ye dinnae like the idea of being a vampire, ye’ll not be very happy aboot becoming a
Joel grasped the bottle that Tommy was holding out to him. He raised it hesitantly. The blood looked almost black inside. It clung thickly to the glass, and he could feel its warmth against his hand.
‘This is disgusting,’ he muttered.
But it wasn’t. It was luscious and nourishing. The elixir of eternal life. Scarlet ambrosia. Joel suddenly wanted it more than anything in the world. He pressed the neck of the bottle to his lips and began to drink greedily. He gasped at the sensation of energy flowing into him, like nothing he’d ever experienced before.
Tommy watched approvingly. ‘Hard to describe the buzz, isn’t it?’ he laughed. ‘There’s nothing like that first time. I envy ye, laddie. Now let’s make ourselves scarce before someone comes.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Adjoining the seven-bedroom, eight-bathroom, twelve-and-a-half-million-pound mansion, with its five acres of sweeping grounds comprising tennis courts, indoor pool, gazebo, stables and helicopter pad, was a comfortable little former coach-house that for the last six years had been the home of the middle-aged couple employed by the cabinet minister Jeremy Lonsdale to look after the place when he wasn’t around. Which, as the great man could more often be found enjoying the bachelor lifestyle at his Kensington apartment or lounging around his Tuscan villa than at his English country pile, was most of the time.
Sharon and Geoffrey Hopley had spent that evening by the woodburner in the cosy sitting room of the coach- house, discussing the problem of their missing employer. As the days passed and the anxiously-expected phone call never came, they’d been growing increasingly worried. The visit from the police had only deepened their anxiety. Had something awful happened to Mr Lonsdale? And — more to the point, since Sharon and Geoffrey were much more attached to Castor and Pollux, Lonsdale’s pair of great Danes, than they were to the man himself — what would happen to their jobs and their home if he never returned?
Another subject of discussion that evening, over mugs of Horlicks before bed, had been the unexpected delivery earlier in the day. The Fed-Ex drivers who’d unloaded the three large boxes had almost broken the hydraulic lift of their truck with the weight of them.
The typed instructions attached to the delivery note had been strict and clear: the items were to be stored in the mansion’s basement under lock and key, and on no account was anyone except Mr Lonsdale to open them or tamper with them in any way.
Two of the boxes were about the same size, about six feet long. The third was closer to seven, much wider, and weighed almost twice as much. Getting them down into the basement had been a grunting, straining, gut- busting endeavour. In the end, they’d had to lower them in with ropes via the disused Victorian-era coal chute, and when it was done, Geoffrey was talking about suing Fed-Ex for the pain in his back.
Tucked up in bed sometime after midnight, Sharon rolled over and nudged her husband on the shoulder. ‘Psst. Psst. Are you awake?’
‘No,’ he grunted in the dark.
‘I can’t sleep. I was thinking—’
Geoffrey propped himself up against the pillow and rubbed his eyes. ‘What is it now?’ he moaned. ‘Christ, my back.’
‘Maybe we should tell the police. About that delivery. I mean, maybe it could, you know, help them find Mr Lonsdale, maybe.’
Geoffrey was wide awake now. ‘It’s just something he must have ordered before he went off,’ he said irritably. ‘You saw the instructions. He won’t be very happy when he comes back and finds that we’ve opened his private mail.’
‘Those things aren’t just any old mail. And he’s not coming back, and you know it.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t say that.’
A silence; then Sharon said, ‘Those boxes could be coffins, you know.’
Geoffrey reached out and clicked on the bedside light, turned to stare at his wife in bewilderment. ‘Coffins! What the hell makes you think they’re coffins?’
She shrugged. ‘Something creepy about them, if you ask me. Why, what do
‘Crates of wine, perhaps, or antique furniture. Or artwork? Mr Lonsdale collects artwork, as you know.’
‘Too heavy for artwork. And if it was wine the boxes would be marked “fragile”. No markings on them at all. Don’t you find that a bit odd?’
‘I don’t know, Sharon, and I don’t care. Can we please get back to sleep now? Honestly.’ Geoffrey turned the light back out and buried his head in his pillow.
For the next few minutes, the only sound in the dark bedroom was the gentle rasp of Geoffrey’s snores. Sharon felt herself getting drowsy. Maybe Geoffrey was right, was her last thought as sleep came down like a curtain.
Then, in their kennel outside, Castor and Pollux suddenly began to bark furiously.
Sharon sat bolt upright in the bed. ‘Geoffrey!’ she whispered. ‘Listen!’
‘For God’s sake, it’s probably just a fox,’ he muttered.
As suddenly as it had begun, the chorus of barking ended in a high-pitched whimper. Sharon tore the covers off her and scurried to the window. She could see nothing outside. ‘Someone must be out there.’
Geoffrey nodded, suddenly alert and panic-stricken. ‘I’ll get the shotgun.’ There had been burglaries in the area recently, and he’d taken to keeping the old side-by-side behind the door. Sharon clung to his arm as they crept downstairs and ventured out into the cold night air.
