everything… so deep… it goes on for ever… it's sending out… things… to hunt… the dragon… Caitlin… to destroy her…'
Mary threw her head back as if someone had grabbed her shoulders and hurled her against the sofa. Her mouth sagged, her eyes wide and staring, fixed on some spot on the ceiling. She didn't look like Mary at all.
Caitlin jumped in shock. 'Mary…?'
Before she could act, Mary began to speak. At first it was just a mumble, barely audible. But as Caitlin leaned in to hear, the words came out loud and clear. Yet it wasn't Mary's voice. A deep masculine rumble reverberated through it, distorted as though it came from the depths of a well. Caitlin's blood ran cold. It was no trick.
'You have been noticed.' There was a long pause as phlegm rattled in Mary's throat. 'It is coming.'
Caitlin shivered at the growling old-man voice. Who had been noticed? Her second question made a cold shadow move in her heart: And what was coming?
Mary turned her head slightly so that her staring, unseeing-yet-seeing eyes were fixed firmly on Caitlin. 'The Lament-Brood is stalking. They smell your soul.' Another phlegm-rattle. 'They will have you, Sister of Dragons. There is no running.'
Drool ran from the corner of Mary's mouth as tiny tremors rippled through the muscles of her face. Caitlin grabbed Mary's shoulders, afraid that she was on the brink of a fit.
There was an instant when Mary's body went rigid, but then she relaxed, her head sagged and a cloudy, frightened consciousness surfaced in her glassy eyes. She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
'Just take it easy,' Caitlin said, not really understanding what had happened.
Mary shoved her aside with one flapping arm and reached for the Jack Daniel's bottle. She poured herself a shot with shaking hands and downed it in one go.
'What was that?' Caitlin asked once Mary had calmed a little.
'It's never been that strong before,' Mary said weakly. 'Things have been more focused since the Fall, but that…' She took Caitlin's hand firmly. 'I think there's trouble coming.'
'You mentioned my name.' Caitlin's thoughts were too jumbled under the geological layers of stress of numerous tensions. She collapsed back into the sofa, trying not to cry. 'I can't take any more. Really.' The pity she saw in Mary's face made it even worse.
'Have another drink.'
Caitlin shook her head. 'What just happened?'
'Nothing. Just… silliness.' Her expression gave the lie to her words.
'Nothing makes sense any more.' Caitlin dried her eyes with the back of her hand and stood up. 'I'd better be going. I have to call in at the… the village hall.' She'd wanted to say surgery, but had almost said morgue. 'They need my help.'
'I need to… think about what just happened, Caitlin,' Mary said gravely. 'But I'll come looking for you when I've worked out what it all meant.'
Caitlin forced a smile. 'It'll wait till morning, I'm sure. I'm not going to stay at the hall for long. I want to get back home.'
Mary saw her to the door, but just as she was stepping out into the gale, Mary gave her a fierce hug in an unprecedented show of physical affection. 'Look after yourself,' she said. Then, 'Be careful.'
It sounded like a warning. As Caitlin entered the foul atmosphere of the village hall, Gideon greeted her with a sad expression and nodded to one of the side rooms. Through the gap in the door, Caitlin could see Eileen sitting hunched beside her sister, holding her hand loosely. Daphne was lying on a table, already comatose and sleek with sweat. The black mottling was visible in contours on her face and forearms like some Maori tattoo. Caitlin couldn't believe the speed with which the plague attacked the body.
Was this the end of the world? she wondered. Humanity wiped out in a matter of weeks, nature clearing the decks ready for the next phase? It seemed so unfair after all they'd endured during the last few months: they had escaped the bang, only to be done for by the whimper.
There was nothing she could say to Eileen, so she left her to her grief. No more new patients were being brought in, so she retired to the office, grateful for a moment of privacy to try to make some sense of the illness. Frantically scrawled notes on sickeningly stained paper were scattered all over the desks, while charts and graphs were pinned to the cork board next to a yellowing announcement of some pre-Fall Best-Kept Village contest.
Caitlin still nurtured a desperate hope that if she kept turning over all the details, sooner or later she'd hit upon some startling insight that would reveal the plague's true nature. But the mechanics of transmission escaped her; the whole epidemiological nature of the disease was a complete mystery. Were some people genetically predisposed to contracting it? Perhaps even for those like herself who appeared immune, it was just a matter of time.
She tried to focus on the positive, but everything pointed towards the unthinkable: at best, humanity stripped back to a handful of survivors. At worst: the end. She stared at the mass of notations and scribblings and felt the waves of despair break against her. It was all chaos. All too much, with no time to make sense of it. Liam was still in his bed. Grant was fast asleep, too. Relieved, she went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of beer. She hated the taste of it, but at least it anaesthetised her. Finally, she had calmed enough to go to bed. She would wake Grant, she thought, and they would make love, and the world and all its hideous threats would be forgotten.
Her desperation for something life-affirming made Caitlin as drunk as the alcohol. She slipped into the dark bedroom and pulled off her clothes, her awkwardness dissipating in the heat of her rapid arousal. Grant was dead to the world, but she knew how to wake him. She found his chest and moved her hand towards his groin. It took a second or two before the sensations told her something was wrong. Grant's skin felt waxy and feverish, and there was a puddle of sweat near his belly button. For the first time, she listened to his breathing: it was shallow and laboured.
'Grant?'
Her mind became a mad jumble of thoughts: flashes of worst-case scenarios, quickly suppressed, prayers, memories, oddly settling on the time when he had proposed to her, when everything had been perfect. Deep in her heart, she knew the truth, and she thought the rush of brutal emotion would drive her mad.
She jumped from the bed, cursing the lack of electricity, and raced to fetch the candle from the hall. Shielding it with her hand, she closed her eyes briefly before she dared take that first look. The pain was as sharp as if she'd been physically struck. In the candlelight, Grant's skin looked hoarfrost-white, only emphasising the black mottling running in lines all over him. Pretending she was doing something worthwhile, she checked his pulse and then opened his eyelids.
He wouldn't regain consciousness. She'd already felt his final kiss, shared her last words with him — and what had they been? The bitterness and anger of their parting brought another stab of pain. Amidst the cold depths of her despair, she felt a burst of self-loathing, but it only had a second of life before another thought struck her, just as terrible. And then she had the candle and was into the hall, hovering outside Liam's door, whispering, 'Please, God, please, God, please, God,' not daring to go in, thinking she might actually go mad there and then from the sight she was projecting.
But the reality was much, much worse. Liam lay in his bed, the sheets tucked up, just as she had left him, just before the goodnight kiss. His skin was white. And black.
The storm outside had broken, but the one within would rage for ever.
Chapter Two
'Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.'
