Once there, McGowan had found a space in a line of parked cars some little distance from the bar. While he was engaged in manoeuvring into position, Ianson had taken the opportunity to overtake and find a space of his own, from where he’d been able to keep an eye on his rearview and watch both McGowan’s car and the street in front of the wine-bar. Then for some fifteen minutes he had sat there rubbing his hands to keep the circulation flowing, and hoping that the heater wasn’t running his battery low. But mainly he’d been wondering what was going on here.
What, old Angus doing some investigating of his own? That wasn’t acceptable … McGowan was a vet, not a policeman! What was more, he so perfectly fitted B.J.’s description of a watcher who had been seen on several occasions before the attack on Margaret Macdowell.
Deep in thought, the Inspector had been very nearly taken by surprise when a party of girls exited from the recess leading to the wine-bar’s entrance. They were well-wrapped against the cold and too far away for him to identify any of them, and in any case they had quickly split up and gone their own ways into the night.
It was approximately an hour since the Inspector had left the bar; obviously B.J. had closed early. Well, that was self-explanatory; she had had little in the way of business to keep her open. But as the girls dispersed so old Angus’s Beetle had pulled out and driven away in some haste, so that Ianson must hurry to keep up with it.
And now where was the little man going? His route lay west on a fairly major road out of the city, so that once again Ianson was able to sit back behind a car or two as he followed the distinctive shape of the Volkswagen to whatever was its destination. But as the flow of traffic dropped off and the night grew murkier yet, the Beetle turned onto a farm track, reversed and came to a halt. And its lights went out.
Two hundred yards behind his quarry, Ianson hadn’t thought that the track would lead anywhere. Perhaps McGowan had feared he was being followed and pulled off the road to test the theory. So the Inspector had turned in through an open gate onto a lesser track, turned about and pulled forward for a quick exit, and waited. The glint of the Beetle’s windows had been visible through a near-distant hedgerow …
And by then there had been only a few vehicles on the main road, most of them heading into Edinburgh …
The next five minutes had passed slowly, until a silver-grey car had come speeding along the main road from the directtion of the city. As it passed McGowan’s farm track so the Volkswagen’s dipped lights had come on, and McGowan had turned back onto the main road. Following him, Ianson had driven on dipped lights, too …
… And now he had been sitting here in this place for half an hour, and he was still wondering what was going on and what it was all leading up to. But there was old McGowan down the road, out of his car now and leaning on its curving rear end—doubtless for the warmth from the engine—and gazing through binoculars at the lighted windows of the house across the river.
Well, enough of this. Ianson had just made up his mind to move on, go home, ask Angus about it tomorrow, when the lights in the house were suddenly turned down low. A moment later and Angus had got into his car and switched on the sidelights. And it was as much as Ianson could do to squeeze down in his seat, out of sight, as McGowan turned the Beetle about on the narrow road and headed back his way. But as the car went by he couldn’t resist it: the urge to lever himself up a little and look directly at the driver. Angus McGowan, absolutely. But—
—In that same moment McGowan looked back at him … and it was a different McGowan! How different, Ianson couldn’t say. He couldn’t even say if the other had recognized him, probably not. And he had only recognized McGowan because he knew it was him. But that look on the little man’s face: the suspicion in those rheumy eyes—those feral yellow eyes. The evil, aggressive, thrust of the man’s jaw …
For a good three minutes after the car had gone the Inspector sat there, then finally gave himself a shake, started his car and crossed the river by the old bridge. On the far side he parked and walked as quietly as he could along a rutted service road to where the silver-grey car stood in front of the middle house. Just one car, the one McGowan had been following. Ianson memorized the number plate, checked that he knew his exact location, went back to his car and drove home …
Half an hour earlier:
“I’m sorry I’m late,” B.J. breathlessly told Harry in his bedroom. “I had to see to the takings, talk to the girls, lock up. I got here as quickly as I could.”
Harry was fully awake now but still hollow-eyed. The last week had been a trying time; in fact the last three months had been trying, even if he didn’t know why. But there’d been this feeling of an impending something that had worked on his nerves like sandpaper. And looking at B.J. he knew that it hadn’t been easy on her, either. Whatever it was. But:
She should level with me, he thought, again wondering why.
B.J. wasn’t a telepath. The germ of the talent was in her, as it was in most of the Wamphyri to one degree or another, but it wasn’t an art yet by any means. Still, perhaps she got something of what was on his mind.
“Harry, I’m sorry—” she started to say, and bit her tongue. “—I mean, I’m sorry that you’re feeling down.”
“Sure,” he said, but without conviction. And changing the subject: “Did you go away this last weekend? Did you go north?”
“Er, no,” she shook her head. “I was busy, and—”
“—The weather?” He sought excuses for her. “And the new year just in? We didn’t have much of a Christmas, B.J.”
Christmas? That was scarcely B.J.’s time! But still: “Er, no,” she answered, “we didn’t. And I’m sorry. But you know how busy the bar is in … the silly season …” She tapered off.
“It’s been a week, B.J.,” he said then. “And a week before that, and before that, etcetera. In fact it’s been this way for months. And when we’re together you’re always looking over your shoulder, avoiding my eyes, having … second thoughts?”
She had been standing there looking at him. Now her heart gave a mighty lurch as she flew into his arms, and said, “Second thoughts? Not about you, Harry! No, not about you!”
“Then say it,” he held her tightly, mumbled into her hair.
“Say it?” She wasn’t thinking straight—couldn’t, not now that she was in his arms again.
“Call me yere wee man, and put everything right,” he told her. Put it right, even if it isn’t.
Well, and she would have to switch him on if she wanted to use the phone in his presence. Else there’d be things she said to Auld John that he wouldn’t understand.
“Harry, mah wee man,” she said—and at once felt him reel a little, the sway of his upper body …
… As the full moon blazed down and the great wolf lifted his head in tribute, howling from a throat that pulsed with the power of his song.
Then B.J. felt Harry tighten up a little in her arms, and released him. “It’s all right,” she said, fixing him with those hypnotic eyes of hers. “But I have to call Auld John.”
Harry nodded. “To see how he is, yes?”
She nodded. “And then we can talk.”
“Real talk?”
It’s always real, Harry, always! For me, anyway. But B.J. knew what he meant, and said: “Real talk, yes.”
She leaned towards him and gave him a quick kiss, and he didn’t try to draw back. But neither did he respond. Then B.J. sat at the side of the bed, and phoned Auld John …
At his cottage in Inverdruie, Auld John was just done wrapping his wrist when the phone rang. His bleddy wrist! Man, if only his wounds would heal like the Wee Mistress’s. But they wouldnae. He still had scars frae three months ago, where on Bonnie Jean they’d be quite invisible by now.
And the telephone was ringing, even as he tied a knot and tugged it tight with his teeth. This would be the Wee Mistress hersel’ no doubt. But it wasnae his fault he’d no called. He’d been down and out for twenty-four hours, aye.
A full nicht and a day. And even now he wasnae feelin’ too guid.
“John Guiney,” he barked into the phone, using a strong voice to disguise the fact of his physical weakness. “Wha’ is it?”
“It’s me, John,” the Wee Mistress’s voice came back, and he could almost taste the relief in it. “I was worried—you didn’t call me.”
“Ah would‘a done it this minute!” John protested, trying not to whine. “But it’s no gone easy wi’ me, Bonnie Jean. The climb took it out’ a me. And Him up there … oh, but He was a hungry yin, lassie!”
“John, are you all right?” She was anxious now.
“Ah am the noo,” he told her. And: “Hush, hush now. Ah’m well enough. But He bled me good. No, no—it was mah own stupid fault. Like a bleddy auld fool, Ah fell asleep! And it was Himsel’ shoutin’ in mah head who woke me. Then mah wound—it wouldnae heal, and the climb down was sheer murder! That’s why Ah’ve slep’ like the big bairn Ah am this day and a half, and missed callin’ ye. Forgive me, lass, for a bleddy fool.”
B.J.’s sigh, and: “Nothing to forgive, John, as long as you’re all right. But you sound so weary!”
“So Ah am, but never ye fear. Ah’m stoked tae the brim on guid broth. Another nicht shid see me fine and dandy. And down inside Ah feel stronger than ever. For think, Bonnie Jean, just think! It’s mah blood that sustains Him the noo!” But a moment later the excitement ebbed from his voice. “Excep’ …” And he paused.
“Except?” she prompted him. “Is there something, John?”
Trembling, Auld John sat down with the telephone. “Bonnie, He wasnae pleased. No, not this time, and far worse than last. Ah tol’ Him a’ ye said Ah shid; it wouldnae do. He spoke tae me—in mah head, ye ken—and oh He was angry! No so much wi’ ye as wi’ they others, they Ferenczys and Drakuls! But angry anyway. Ah could feel it boilin’ in Him! And it’s the Wee Mistress He needs, no this auld sod—if ye’ll excuse mah language.”
“What did you tell him? What did he get from you?” B.J.’s tone was anxious again; John could almost hear her heart pounding.
“Why, only what ye’d tol’ me!” He trembled again, his old head swimming in a sudden dizzy bout. “Excep’ ye ken Ah didnae tell Him anythin’ much, but He took it right out o’ mah head.”
“Yes, yes,” (he sensed B.J.’s nod of understanding). “But what did he tell you?”
“Oh, Ah’ve a message for ye, be sure,” John answered. “No more putting it off, Bonnie Jean, no any more. Neither Ferenczys, Drakuls, disaster, nor even death—nothin’s tae stand in yere way. Ye’ll attend Radu in person next time, or it’s over and He’s done wi’ ye! As for yere wee man, that Harry Keogh—he’s tae be wi’ ye. Aye, for he’s verra important, that yin.”
For a moment there was silence on the line, only a faint crackle of static in Auld John’s ear. He could hear a log hissing sap in his grate, and the wind in the eaves. Then at last B.J.’s voice again, but faint as a whisper. “Will he … is he … does he think he’ll be up?”
“Eh? The great wolf? Up, ye say? No, no, that wasnae mah meanin’. Six months, He said. But that’s why He must see yere Harry next time, so that He may know the way of it. But Ah’m no the clever yin, Bonnie Jean, as well ye ken. Ah wasnae too sure what He meant …”
No, but on the other end of the line Bonnie Jean believed she understood only too well what the dog-Lord meant! Sitting beside her, drawn and hollow-eyed, Harry Keogh might well have understood it, too, if he’d heard. He hadn’t, however, and:
“Don’t worry about it, John,” she told her old friend. “I can sort things out.” And she was at once concerned again, for him: “But what about the climb? Was it really that bad?”
“Oh, aye, but Ah took the easy route up, and killed a fine beast along the way for His creature. That yin’s … well, he’s comin’ on, ye ken?”
“Yes,” she agreed. “I know …”
Auld John heard the dubious note in her answer, very much as his query had sounded dubious. “Lassie, is a’ well?”
“As well as it can be,” she answered. And before he could question that, too: “John, we have—He has—enemies here. I hope you were careful not to be followed. Are there any strangers up your way? Have you noticed anything odd?”
“No one, and nothin’,” he answered. “But ye know me. Ah’m no the one tae take chances. Why, even when Ah answer the door, mah gun goes wi’ me! Ah reckon it was sheer luck they picked ye up that time. And as for mahsel’—why, Ah’m just a cranky old gillie, as anyone hereabouts will be pleased tae confirm!” And sensing her grin, he smiled. Then she said:
“Take care, John. We’ll talk soon. But don’t you call me, I’ll call you. Look after your … wound. Make sure it heals.”
“Oh, it will. But it was only mah duty, ye ken …”
And after he heard the click as she put the phone down, Auld John sat and listened to the purring receiver in his hand, and stared at his bandaged wrist where a thin red line was showing through even now. His duty, aye—but it hadnae gone unappreciated. And then he remembered what else Radu had told him, which he hadn’t dared repeat to Bonnie Jean:
You are second in line, John, after the Wee Mistress. Ah, but she is only a lassie after all, and weak as all women are. I fear that when my time comes she may bend, or even break. So mark these words, which are for you alone: keep my secrets and serve me well, John, as your ancestors before you. And who can say? … One day you could be first in line!
The dog-Lord’s promise! It ran through Auld John’s veins like wine and sang to him! It gave a new meaning to existence, and was well worth every extra drop of life’s blood that he’d let flow down the funnel to the great hound-like thing in the vat. Worth, too, the lie he’d been obliged to tell B.J.—but that had been on the orders of Radu himself, and who was Auld John to defy Him in His high place?
Aye, for Radu was quickening and He had needed that extra drop or two. Up in a six-month? Ah, no … try four! But Radu had told John that he couldn’t tell Bonnie Jean; indeed, that he must lie to her! For John was to be His confidant now that the Wee Mistress had shown herself to be … well, just a wee lassie after all.
It wasn’t her fault, though, John was sure. (And he frowned and felt concerned for the ex-Wee Mistress.) More likely it was all down to that Harry Keogh, aye! Ah, but the dog-Lord had plans for him, too. Up in just four more months, and then we’d see about this Harry! And here’s B.J. worrying about John contacting her. Well, he wouldn’t. But Radu would, be sure!
Three moons from now—just thirteen weeks, that was all—and then she’d hear His call. That silent howling in her head, that drew her like a magnet. She’d get her instructions then, aye. And a month later, the one who’d caused her to stray from the path … he would get his comeuppance!
“His wound?” Harry had overheard one or two things after all.
“Hmm?” B.J. looked at him.
“You told him to take care of his wound.”
“He cut himself on the rock face,” she lied.
“Oh?”
“Is this the real talk you wanted?” She began unbuttoning her blouse. For there are other ways to beguile a man, and better ways to ease his pain, too. And hers.
“You tell me,” he said.
“Very well, you can think and speak normally.” And at once he was himself, those warm eyes disguising a cold and calculating brain.
“B.J., did something happen that time, when we were up in the Highlands? We went up to Auld John’s place in Inverdruie to climb and hunt, but you cried off. And this last weekend, again you cried off going. Well, OK—for after all it’s the middle of winter now—but what about the last time?”
“Have you been reading the newspapers, Harry?”
“No,” (but E-Branch had contacted him that time three months ago, about some weird shit in his neck of the woods?) “Why? Was there something I should have read?”
B.J. shook her head. She’d cancelled the episode from his mind and did
n’t want to let it surface now, which obviously it was trying to do. “Have you been having bad dreams, Harry? You said on the phone that you’d been dreaming.”
“Dreams, half-memories … anxieties and feelings I don’t understand. You name it.” He shrugged, despairingly she thought. And then, out of the blue: “B.J., why don’t you level with me?”
“Level with you?” Her blouse was off now, and her breasts proud and stiff-tipped where they begged for Harry’s attention. Almost automatically, she wriggled out of her skirt. “Ask your questions. If I can answer them, I will.”
“I don’t know all of it, do I?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I can only tell you what he’ll let me tell you.”
“Radu?”
“The dog-Lord, yes.”
“But he’s a liar!” Harry snapped, his voice suddenly harsh and full of hate. “He’s Wamphyri, and they’re all liars!”
Again B.J. was taken aback. “But … did I tell you that, that he’s Wamphyri?” Had she? Well of course she had, that time when she’d “explained” her purpose—and Harry’s eventual role in things. She’d been thrown, that was all, by the vehemence in his voice, the knowledge in his eyes. But damned if she remembered telling him that the Wamphyri were all liars!
B.J. couldn’t know it but Harry, too, had been thrown into a state of confusion. He’d almost trapped himself, tripped over his own tongue. For the Necroscope wasn’t the only one who “didn’t know it all.” There were quite a few things that he hadn’t, or couldn’t, tell B.J., too.
“Yes,” he said, “you told me. Radu is Wamphyri—a Great Vampire—and he has enemies opposed to his return: the Ferenczys and the Drakuls. And that they are full of lies.”