The Seeker Read online

  As a child and younger man he had prayed when he went to bed, prayed to a loving, considerate god who had ordered the universe to be a good and beautiful place to exist. Then his father died and he came into his powers, the powers of which he had previously known nothing, the powers that had destroyed his life.

  Now, while he was not yet prepared to say that god did not exist, it had become so obvious that praying to Him, or Her as the case might be, was of no utility, that the lines of communication were blocked, and so he didn’t go through the ritual any more. He did not have enough time or energy to waste anymore. Life was short.

  Just before he went to sleep he reviewed the night’s action, how he had gone out with no real object in mind only to find the two vampires without even trying. The noise they made on his other senses was so brash, so loud he could not have avoided them even if he had wished it.

  Finding them had been easy, killing them easier. They had believed themselves such fearsome, fabulous creatures whereas the truth of it was they were little more of a challenge than a pair of badly behaved children whose master had taught them nothing of how to survive in a world where real monsters like him prowled the shadows. He almost felt sorry for them, having been extinguished so quickly, so easily. But not quite.

  He was in a constant, lifelong state of war with vampires, a war that had cost him everything he had held dear before his talent – if that was what it was – had manifested itself. There could only be one justification for that loss, and that was winning his war. To do that he would take any advantage he could get. There was no fair or unfair, just his life and their death. In the greater scheme of things, destroying Fill and Shona did not amount to very much. Nevertheless it was on the credit side of the ledger. He had saved Emily’s life too. They had lied about only feeding from her, even if Shona had believed it when she said it.

  They were too new to comprehend the demands their thirst would impose upon them. They would have drained the child of every drop of blood in her body before they knew what they were doing. The sun was rising on a slightly better world because of what he had done.

  Call fell asleep with a smile on his face, forgetting that knot of uncertainty at the back of his mind. Time enough to consider that when he woke.

  Chapter Three

  A shape detached itself from the shadow thrown by the street light on a box tree on the opposite side of the cobbles and coalesced into a woman, tall, slender with a long nosed white face, grey eyes and a mane of copper coloured curls falling down her back that would have brought tears of joy to classical painters everywhere and everywhen.

  She wore a black leather coat that covered her from throat to mid-calf and carried a hat that was not dissimilar to Call’s, only distinctly more feminine. Her heels were high enough to emphasize the slender muscularity of her legs, but not so high that walking posed the slightest problem.

  She stared up at Call’s bedroom window, aware of his consciousness slipping away although that vague sensation of discomfort he felt remained as it was, ready to infect his dreams if it did not leave him. Which she knew it could not, not until she left. She was the cause of it, although he had no idea of that. How could he?

  When she was convinced he was asleep she walked out of the mews, leaving him to his dreams, aware that his discomfort grew less with every step she took. It would never leave him entirely, not while they both remained in the city and perhaps not even if one or the other left London, but there was nothing she could do about that, so she disregarded it and went on her way.

  Reaching Kensington High Street she turned east and began to stride out. It was too early on a Sunday morning for the buses to be out and about, and although she was aware of Underground trains being moved about to be in the right stations when services began, she ignored them.

  There was something about the Underground that made her uneasy, she was not sure what, or whether she really wanted to know what that reason was. She was prepared to walk all the way home until she spotted a black cab coming in the opposite direction with its orange ‘For Hire’ sign illuminated.

  She waved, unsure whether the driver had seen her because he did not slow down, but instead pulled a tyre squealing U-turn and stopped at the kerb beside her. It was a stunt that would have cost him his license had there been a policeman nearby to see it and still might in the future if anyone ever reviewed the CCTV footage.

  The passenger side window wound down. The cabbie was a heavily stubbled man with a Mediterranean complexion, one gold tooth and the typical build of a man who drove all day for a living and drank too heavily at night to forget what he had done during the day. At least he didn’t smell.

  She gave him her address and, for a moment, his eyes lost focus as he searched his knowledge for where that was. Then he grinned. “Of course, get in.”

  The door locks clicked open and she climbed into the back of the cab, which had clearly been cleaned overnight, the leather upholstery polished. She sat down and pulled the brim of her hat down over her eyes to discourage the cabbie from sharing his wit and wisdom with her, but not so far that he might imagine she would not see him if he strayed from the most direct route.

  It was Sunday morning, after all. There were no road works anywhere, no congestion. She could see his eyes in his rear view mirror, studying her, and she looked back at him just long enough for him to decide it was a good idea to concentrate on driving and keep his eyes out for other traffic.

  She gave him a tenner and change for a tip when he dropped her outside the royal blue door in the whitewashed garden wall that had thick, dark green foliage boiling over the top. “Thanks, lady,” he said and she smiled at him, a weak, wan smile and turned away, reaching into her coat pocket for her keys. When they had first acquired this house shortly after it was built there had been no need to lock even the doors to the house itself, let alone the garden gate.

  Like so much else that had changed over the years, there was nothing she could do about that, so she shook her head briefly as she unlocked the gate and went inside, locking it after herself. She was not afraid of anyone who might enter if she left it unlocked but did not want the inconvenience of having to deal with the unexpected. She was not afraid of anything, or anyone. There was no reason for her to fear.

  But what did reason have to do with fear?

  She opened the front door, painted blacker than midnight, but hesitated before entering, reaching out with her senses, just in case he had returned, only to find nothing that had not been there when she left.

  “Cyrano,” she whispered, her voice scarcely strong enough to make it past her lips. If he was there he would hear her anyway and reply. Nothing. She stepped inside, hung up her hat and coat, slipped off her shoes and replaced them with pink fluffy slippers, which made an incongruous contrast to the black of her dress and tights, and took down an oversized mauve coloured cardigan from the peg, replacing it with her coat and hat.

  Walking down the back corridor into the kitchen, she opened the fridge and took out a bottle of chilled wine. The sun was barely showing above the horizon never mind the yard arm, but if there was one lesson she had learned well during her long life it was that it was always time to drink good wine. Good wine alleviated problems and enhanced the good times. If it didn’t do that it wasn’t a good wine and, by definition, was not worth drinking.

  She sat in the full height French windows looking out over the back garden and took a sip of the wine. It made her just a little less aware of her solitude within her big, echoingly empty home. Solitude itself was no hardship to her. The years had made it one of her best friends and she had no qualms about living on her own. She did miss Cyrano, however, missed him in the marrow of her bones. He was her twin brother and they had been turned at the same time.

  They had spent so long with only each other for company it was no wonder she should be acutely aware of the gap within her when he was absent. They had been apart, often, but never had he just vanished without a word or a ‘b
y your leave’, or spent so long away from her – more than six months now – without getting in touch to allay whatever concerns she might have about his welfare. It wasn’t as though they had had an argument lately.

  They had come close to killing each other at times, in the past – what as-good-as-married couple who had been together centuries hadn’t? – and one or other had taken time on their own afterwards. But no matter their disagreements, they both knew – deep down in their bones – they were committed utterly to each other, they were all they had.

  Time might have to pass before they could bear each other’s company again, but they had checked in with each other during those days, even if it the merest brushing of mental fingers at the very farthest extent of the other’s senses, a reassurance. Not this time, however. Not this time.

  He had gone out of the house on a Friday night, to dive into the sea of humanity that was central London at play, and the West End, to have fun. It had been his practice since they came to the city, and there had been times they had gone together, searching out suitable prey, feeding, sometimes even killing. The right kill, the justified kill, was always thrilling, although she could no longer see the face of the last villain they had drained together, could scarcely remember the last time she had fed on anyone but him. She knew he no longer hunted, no longer fed. He would be incapable of hiding that from her, any more than she could hide it from him. They both kept their vow to each other. He might well have found a playmate, someone to divert him, but he’d never kept one secret for so long. Cyrano liked to share his pleasures with her, saying that made them the deeper, more piquant. She felt guilty that she did not share her occasional distractions with him, but he had a talent for finding more open minded people than she did. He had never complained.

  Putting down the glass only half emptied, she went upstairs to the room at the back of the house she used as a library, a large, tall room shelved from floor to ceiling and each shelf packed with books. There was no room for more, which did not prevent her from having a ‘to be read’ pile that covered a table to the height of two feet. There were books on the floor, piled against the shelves. Books were the one acquisition she could never bring herself to part with, even though that made their lives so much more complicated than they would otherwise be when circumstances compelled them to move. They lived on the principle that anything could be replaced, except her books.

  She picked the top book from the pile on the table nearest to her as she went to her reading chair, a high, wing backed chair upholstered in green leather, its legs the exact length to permit her to sit in it with her feet flat on the floor. The book was entitled ‘The Quarry’, written by a Scotsman, Iain Banks. She had liked his work from the very beginning, and while she had only met him the once she had felt a personal loss when he died at an appallingly young age, when he should have just been getting into his writing stride.

  One of the features of his work she particularly liked was that while his novels were set in a world that was recognisably the one in which she lived, he imbued that world with a convincing quality of otherness that was immersive. She had no doubt that Mr Banks would have had no difficulty reconciling himself to the existence of the likes of her in the ‘real’ world. Settling down, she began to read.

  It was growing dark outside when she closed the book, got up and put it into the ‘Been Read’ pile on another table. A whole day had passed without her noticing, but at least she had been in good company, been compelled to look at the world in a way she would never have done had she not read the book, no matter how long she had lived, or would. That was the reason she loved books. Whether they were great literature or simple diversion, the poetry of God or the clumsiest of prose, books gave her an insight into someone else’s mind, their imagination.

  Yes, she was blessed – or was it cursed? – with sensitivity most humans had not yet developed. Even so, she had no more comprehension of those emotions that had raised human beings from cowering in caves at night, paralysed with fear of the monsters out there in the darkness to being able to leave the planet behind them, to gaze into the infinite darkness of the eternal abyss and have no fear of what they might find there. This was a function of the balance that was at the core of everything, she knew – up and down, light and dark, yin and yang – life and death. Her extended life – as good or bad as eternal for all she could tell – did not give her any access to the secrets of life. She might have the how of it, bought with the life blood of others, but she had not the slightest idea of the why.

  She could not believe in any gods. Her mere existence made a mockery of them, and life was not to be mocked. Anyone who held life in such little regard did not deserve the gift of it. Anyone who was prepared to waste life had no understanding of it. Life was everything.

  Death was nothing, the absence of life, a nullity. Life was to be celebrated while you had it, not frittered away in the expectation of some unknowable reward on the other side of the never ending night. Yet some of the mayflies caught a glimpse of the glory, whether it was in a sunlit flower or the relentless splendour of a winter storm at sea pounding down on the shore, the uplifting exhilaration of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy or the mesmerising perfection of a single brush stroke of calligraphy.

  She sometimes thought that such ability might be worth being an ordinary human, strutting and fretting their hour upon the stage, but not very often and hardly ever now. Since her begetter had sunk his fangs into her neck she might as well wish to hold the sun and the stars in her hands as for an ordinary human life. He had taken that from her. She would never get it back. To wish for it in the belief it might be possible was to take the first step on the road to madness. She and Cyrano had encountered their share of mad vampires. Indeed, most seemed sane only north by north west. It was not a fate she wished to share. So she sought out the vicarious insights of human arts, hoped a little would rub off on her. Who was to say whether it had?

  Closing the shutters on the library windows, she went upstairs, trailing her fingers on the highly polished banister. There had been a time when the sensation she felt on doing that would have tingled up her arm like electricity and made her shiver with delight. Now it was just two smooth, impervious surfaces sliding across each other.

  She went to Cyrano’s bedroom and stood by the door, listening for the slightest sign of his presence there, the fluttering of his lips as he breathed. There was only silence to be heard, deep, unbearably weighty silence. Even if she could have entered his room she knew that she would be driven to her knees and then the floor by the intolerable emptiness in there. She might enter without Cyrano’s presence there, but she would never leave.

  Knowing that she crossed the corridor and entered her own room, which was furnished austerely - no feminine pinks and frills for her. She never had been that kind of girl, and she certainly was not now. Simplicity was the watchword, a bleached, coarse cotton throw over the bed, enlivened by two threads of blue at the edges, the blue of a summer sky over Mycenae, a colour that had not been seen since Thera exploded and destroyed the Minoans.

  There was a rattan chair by her dressing table, of the sort that had been popular when newly rich European travellers had rediscovered India after the Second World War, only hers had found its way to London a century before that. The surface of her dressing table was clear and there was no mirror for her use to apply her make up. What use was a mirror to a vampire? She had to use her imagination and her memory.

  She lay down on the bed, her head inclined on the pillows beneath the throw, and closed her eyes for a while as she wondered whether she had actually come to a decision. Hours later, she had no idea how many, she opened her eyes and reached for her phone. Her decision was made

  The phone rang twice at the other end. “Yes, Ma’am.” Hortensia always picked up as quickly as she could when this particular client called, even taking the phone with her to the bathroom.

  “I need you to get me the Seeker’s telephone number.”


  There was a brief silence. “The Seeker. Ma’am?”

  “Quickly as you can.”

  She heard Hortensia draw breath to ask whether this was something to do with the disappearance of the Master, only to decide against it. “Right away. Where should I start looking?”

  She gave her the address and then closed her phone. She knew she could rely on the woman.

  Chapter Four

  Call sat at a round table topped with bright, beaten copper top on the pavement outside a Cypriot café just off Green Lanes. The evening was not quite warm enough for him to imagine he was enjoying a café au lait and grappa in a Mediterranean quayside cafe.

  The coffee was thick and Greek, and the colourless liquid in the tiny glass that he had not yet tasted was raki fermented from the grape pips and stems rather than the grapes themselves, rocket fuel in disguise. He was alone at his table, and his table was at the end of the row outside Dimas’ Taverna, or Dino’s Bar and Grill as the regulars called it. He was the only ethnically British man there.

  The Cypriots tolerated him as they talked business and played dominoes, smoked their foul cigarettes and drank their raki without seeming to get drunk. They tolerated him because he always paid in cash, sat there reading his book and displayed not the slightest understanding of their business talk, which was mostly business several steps removed from legality.

  As a matter of fact Call spoke fluent Greek, both the sort spoken in Athens and the degraded patois of North London. He didn’t care how they made their livings as long as it did not impinge upon him, although he believed he might draw the line if he heard any talk of trafficking, drugs, guns or women. Stolen cars and robbing trailers of their tobacco loads were one thing, the occasional ruck with the Turks down by Newington Green, even supplying the local kids of all nationalities with their uppers and downers and dance the night awayers. Trafficking was beyond the line in the sand. He wasn’t exactly sure what he would do when that time came – if, if was good – but he knew he would do something. In the meantime he took a sip of raki, feeling his tooth enamel scream for mercy, and opened his book at the first page of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.