LONDON - 1938
"But why do we have to go?" Herrick bit back a sigh of irritation at the interruption. His protégé was not only late, he smelt as though he'd half-drowned in a vat of Guinness on the way. Which judging by the look of him, he very probably had been. Mitchell, for his part, stood in the doorway, one hand trying vainly to keep his head from pounding, his bleary eyes not quite focusing on the scene that lay within. 32 Tiptree Gardens, the home, or more accurately, the former home, of Mr Albert Wainwright, had been a neat, well-kept semi. Nothing remarkable really, rather like its owner, whose day-old corpse had been laid out in front of the fire. It awaited disposal at a mutually convenient time. Mitchell watched sullenly as his maker worked silently to smooth the scene, to finesse the details. It seemed a run-of-the-mill kill, nothing special, yet there was something oddly disquieting about the scene, like some tired tableaux. Then he noticed the single glass on the mantle. He swallowed. So that's it…
Herrick tilted the man's head into a more natural position and stood back to assess the scene. For his last 'mistake' in Bristol, Seth would be the one sent for, to clean up the detritus of what had been a decidedly mixed night after all. The usual protocol for such situations was to cause as little trouble to the local network as possible, to sweep up after themselves and move on. A little of Wainwright's blood had seeped into the swirls of the ghastly patterned rug that lay beneath Herrick's feet. It was, he thought, a distinct improvement. A quiet removal, no family members left to speak of. Another of the forgotten people who waited silently, as the world passed them by. Ghosts created by life itself. No one to miss them, or mourn them. A name to be hurried over in a brief ceremony as a cheap coffin was lowered into cold ground. A man of god saying words he didn't believe in, over a man he'd never heard of. Anonymous rows of neat little graves, for anonymous persons. Herrick smiled to himself. Seth had almost managed to look suitably sombre at the last one;
"Hmm…tragic."
An accidental death, an old man hitting his head on the fireplace, nothing unusual at all. Apart from the fang marks just visible above the man's wrist. Still, the fireguard had sharp edges, a swipe of blood in the right places, just enough to blur the lines if anyone questioned the circumstances. It was unlikely that anyone would, an old man, living alone. Humans rarely looked beyond the end of their nose in Herrick's experience. Not until it was too late and their nose got bitten off…
Herrick's sharp mind, as always, was working out all the angles, the best way to handle the difficulties, all the while studiously ignoring the increasingly uncomfortable Mitchell. It was a technique he'd learned to be a most effective way of disconcerting humans and vampires alike. Let him stew – a lesson for his lateness. Herrick went back to his calculations. Who was the coroner for this part of London? Technically it was just outside the boundaries, so no real need to inform the vampires' local head, but politics being what they were, and given just who was scattered over the roses at the back...No need for Mitchell to know that little nugget of information.
"Herrick?" He straightened at the sound of his name. Mitchell was sounding more and more like a child these days. A blood-soaked child, certainly, but that annoying streak of petulance that had grown since the delightful sojourn abroad, was beginning to wear thin for the elder vampire. Mitchell's errors of judgment had proven costly lately. It had begun with that floozy in France. A needless recruit in his considered opinion, and one who'd nearly decapitated Seth when he'd made a slightly inappropriate remark - silk covered a multitude of sins, but couldn't hide the truth – Mitchell had wasted his wonderful dark gift on a vain, needy woman. Herrick had observed the traditional period of looking after the new recruit, but it had been the bare minimum before he'd quietly offloaded her as a gift to the Paris head. Mitchell had barely looked at her after the hotel room anyway, to the woman's deep indignation, and to Herrick's intense relief.
The highs of Paris had been replaced with a sense of boredom, and a growing need for recognition on Herrick's part. They had dined out on the tales ever since, Herrick carefully nurturing the younger vampire's reputation amongst their kind, vicariously enjoying the notoriety his recruit had won, with his own particular brand of violence and charm, but always improving his own standing at the same time. He thrilled at the darkness his protégé had shown in the years following his recruitment, priding himself at how well he had chosen, that fateful day in the muck and despair of the battlefield, at the young man gripping his gun, wide-eyed at the true horror unfolding. The mist lifting, as the fragile veil that separated humans from the brutal, beautiful truth of the world, fell away. His eyes settled on the crystal glass sitting on the mantle. The last of Albert Wainwright's pitifully weak blood sat, scarlet against the yellowing condolence card behind it. Herrick stepped over the man to read the handwriting.
"In deepest sympathy, on the loss of your son." A faded photograph of a uniformed young man. That had made Herrick's blood run cold. The sooner they were out of here the better. Wainwright had muttered "John? Have you found my boy John?" just before he lost consciousness, his eyes blurring with tears. Clearly a shilling short of a sixpence, thought Herrick. Almost a kindness to put him out of his misery. Almost.
He turned, his cold eyes full of reproach. Mitchell tried to hold his gaze, but he knew better than to challenge Herrick when he had that shine in his eyes. No good ever came of it. He'd come to recognise the signs, the tightening of Herrick's expression. He looked away first, hating every minute of the close examination. He looked back, to find the expected rage replaced by a serene smile. That was Herrick all-over. Hot and cold. He was wearing his genial uncle mask now. The benign smile masking the monster within. That mildly patronising attitude, as though he was a five year old.
"You know why we are going Mitchell. One too many old son. One not enough."
Christ! Again with the mind games, thought the younger vampire. More of the "we are the future" bollocks. Ever since he'd been recruited he'd heard these words from Herrick, that vampires were the true rulers of the earth, that their time was coming. It made no difference to Mitchell, decisions being taken miles away by vampires spoken of in hushed tones, as though the mere mention of them could bring down the wrath of God. The deep reverence, and the naked ambition to become one of them, the mythical Old Ones, that his maker kept barely concealed. Hell, it was so obvious at times, Mitchell found it laughable. The desperate need to belong, Mitchell could understand, but heirs, rituals, mumbo jumbo…Where were they anyway? Hanging upside down in their caves, most likely…Stoker and his tales of vampires in spooky castles in the mist…He tried to change the subject, wary that Herrick would question his lateness further. He feigned an interest, as he fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette.
"You think war is coming then? That we'll be dragged into it?" A lighter was under his nose in a second – Herrick anticipating his moves, as ever, all behind a genial smile that never reached his eyes. Not for the first time Mitchell wondered about the sanity of his maker.
"War is always coming Mitchell, it's always there under the surface." Herrick's tone was serious for a moment. "This time, however, we won't be a part of it."
Mitchell shook his head, and smiled. The idea was unthinkable, given his experiences in the last war. The war had seemed to exist solely for their kind at times, the humanity wasted for patches of mud, the leftovers of the destruction lying there for the taking…so easy to drown in their blood…
Too easy.
"No vampires?" The very idea was ridiculous to him. Herrick smiled.
"This will be a human war."
"Uh, aren't they all?" smirked Mitchell, remembering the old days with Herrick and the other vampires, as they'd feasted their way through the mire. A whisper of something, a faded memory, suddenly sharpening, shaping into something real, something tangible - sweat and sandbags, a bunker, a body lying there, a tang of something medicinal. Arthur.
Not again.
His memories seemed to have a way of snaking into his veins, at the most inconvenient of times. It was a recent development. For the first few years he'd felt nothing, aside from that first month when he'd fought it, the hunger, and he had won, hadn't he? At least for a while. He'd run from Herrick and he'd coped. Rats and…worse…but he'd managed his…condition…until he could bare the aching, empty loneliness no longer…a stranger among humans…and Herrick had been waiting for him in the shadows, waiting for him to break, to fall…
He could feel a tremor in his hands, a chill seeping in. That was the booze talking – nothing more. Another lie to salve what was little remained of his conscience. The list was now longer than his arm.
"Not all." Herrick hesitated, noticing the change in him. A shift from night to day. The past. A place where he did not want Mitchell to be. He had a dark and wonderful future, unlike the bag of bones that lay at Herrick's feet. His protégé had shown less interest in the chase lately, a growing refusal to play the game. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Mitchell kill. Or feed for that matter. And that bothered him. He couldn't have his breaker of hearts softening. That would never do.
"We are not taking an active part this time." Mitchell looked up at his maker in disbelief. "Orders from on high. If it falls in your lap, fill your boots. Otherwise, stay clear."
"Why?" Mitchell asked, curious. Herrick shrugged.
"Who knows? How long is a piece of string?" His eyes scanned the room. A heavily embossed, if a little tarnished, silver photo frame, a couple of nice pictures. Threadbare carpet cut square, exposing the dark floorboards round the edges. Not much for a life, he thought, but every little penny helped. It would take Seth's mind off the fact that Herrick and Mitchell had vanished. It wouldn't be long before someone opened their mouth about the fact that the London head's mother had seemingly disappeared. And from there it wouldn't be long until her precious son worked out that she was no longer in the land of the 'living'. He had been a tad careless, it had to be said. It was meant to be a quiet word, a reasonable discussion, over a glass or two of admittedly poor quality blood, but she had been the one who'd started the argument, her fox fur barely on the settee:
"How dare you?! Jumped-up little clerk! Oh you're good for keeping lists, I'll give you that," she tore at her hat, yanking the hat pin out viciously in a temper. "My son will hear of this!" All because he'd refused to extend her credit any further. The time had come to call in her debts, and the stuck-up woman had not liked that one bit. Gambling on a vampire against a werewolf in the last dogfight - and it had almost come off, the nameless vampire had managed to stick a knife in the werewolf's neck, and avoided the dripping fangs and blood, only to find that Seth had 'accidentally' lost the key to the cage. And a werewolf that had seemingly come back to life in the dying seconds of the bout. What were the chances of that?
Still, no one knew this address. Herrick was nothing if not discreet when he talked politics, or money. And one set of ashes was much like another one, when it came to it.
The offer he'd received was all too welcome. And timely.
Now he had to face the more pressing issue of Mitchell's wayward behaviour. Herrick could smell whisky. He could smell beer. But the one thing he could not detect on Mitchell's sour breath was blood. Oh, he was his usual untidy self, certainly, a frayed collar and no sign of a tie, and his eyes were blood-shot, but Herrick wagered that Mitchell had gone on one of his famous crawls of the low-life areas, got drunk, and woken up in a doorway somewhere. And picked a fight with someone, judging by the bruise to Mitchell's face.
"Where did you get to, anyway? I said I was going to make a night of it. There's a charming little redhead at the George who asks after you. It's her day-off I believe. I said we'd pop in before the off." Herrick said silkily. Mitchell's eyes narrowed slightly. He hated any questions about what he got up to, away from the chafing attention of his maker. He looked down at his feet.
"Ah…nowhere. Got into it with a couple of lads."
"I hope they came off worse." Herrick wasn't going to let it lie, Mitchell knew it. That calm way he had of making everything seem normal, as if they were having a polite chat about the weather then hitting with a barbed comment. Or a fist. And he had no desire to have his jaw broken. Again. He drew in a deep breath, and waited.
"You're here now, anyway," Herrick turned to the mantle again, and lifted the glass. The blood inside glittered in the early morning light. Mitchell realised where this was heading. He'd known the second he'd seen that glass.
How did he know? He couldn't know. That he had not been feeding, not even a drop at the hospital. St Thomas's, where he'd met Sweet Mary. He'd been plying her for weeks, but not taken advantage of her. Well not in the way that Herrick would approve of…It was always a useful tactic, to find a human to use, even if it was only in case of emergencies, when the hunger struck at its most fierce. But he'd been resisting the blood, even when he could feel it coursing through her veins as he took her against the wall…her soft moans had increased his hunger, but he'd held on…not giving in to the temptation to sink his fangs into her milk-white flesh…He remembered the last kill though. A man wasted by time on the streets. The pallor of poverty. A quiet lane behind a dilapidated warehouse at Ratcliff Cross. Weak fingers grasping at him, tugging at life as it ebbed away.
"No…you're not gettin' it…no" As though that would make any difference. A gentle clink as something fell from the man's calloused hand. In the midst of a glorious blood high, he had bent down to see what the man had kept clutched so tight. Something shiny. He turned it over.
A metal cap badge, gleaming in the mud. He recognised the detail on it at once, in a sickening realisation. His own former regiment…
He felt his feet give way, he'd gripped at the wall, to steady himself, his nails scratching at an advertising poster, Bovril, god why did he remember that? He saw tin mugs lying on a makeshift table…the sound of a mouth organ…cold breaths gasped in sunken holes of mud…
Breathe…breathe…
Why did the little things break through when screams and blood made no difference?
That's your conscience…what's left of it…bet he left that bit out of the recruiting spiel…oh…I forgot…you chose this…
Some choice.
He'd glanced warily over at the man's already cooling body, lying bent and broken among the smashed bottles in the gutter, and just for a second he'd seen Arthur's face, just as he slipped away…He'd thrown the thing as far as he could. It was nothing more than a piece of rubbish now, to clutter up the bottom of the Thames. He'd looked into the man's now set eyes, at the mess he'd made of his neck, and then thrown up. He hadn't touched a drop of blood since.
Until now.
Herrick smiled. Mitchell frowned as his maker raised the glass, and offered it to him. He knew what was expected, but he was growing to despise the displays of power that Herrick insisted upon. The pleasantries of pain. He'd grown tired of the constant need to play to his maker's twisted whims and fancies. Crystal was fine in Paris, where everything was more refined. Here, as far as Mitchell was concerned, it just meant one more thing to wash up afterwards.
"A toast. To the future. New worlds, and all that." Mitchell looked up to the ceiling rose. The invitation hung on the air. He could smell the blood. It sat there, waiting, its aroma increasing moment upon painful moment. The temptation deepening…and beckoning…How long since he'd fed?
Four weeks…three days…two hours…and…
"Mitchell." He was counting off the seconds in his mind. Just how long would Herrick wait, before the inevitable questions would begin? He turned on the charm, the winning smile that worked so well with women.
"I'm alright Herrick. I had a little bite. Actually a pretty big bite. That bastard won't be picking any more…" He heard Herrick's harsh laugh.
"It would be rude not to have a last sip of old Albert here. Mine host, and all that. Mitchell," Herrick's tone changed. "I insist."
He knew! The crafty old bugger knew. How? Christ, he'd just about got through the nightmares, the delusions, the victims standing just outside his vision, their eyes haunting him, the screams in his head…but a glass of blood being dangled in front of him, like a sick Christmas present…
Take it…it will make it all go away…it's too late anyway…you lost the moment you bartered your life away on that battlefield…take it…
Herrick waited patiently, so sure that he'd reach for the glass. So cocksure, thought Mitchell. He could almost taste it, mere inches away. He clenched his fists, bracing against the urge. His eyes turned black, for a second.
"When was the last time, Mitchell?" It was said softly, paternally even. Mitchell crossed his arms, forcing himself to look anywhere but at his maker. Whatever he said would be an acknowledgement that he'd failed, that he'd weakened. That for a brief moment he had seen a glimpse of something different, a way through the corpse-filled woods…
But he knew that forgiveness was not for the likes of him. The War had ripped that part of him away a long time ago. It left this husk, only truly alive when killing. The irony was not lost on him. He could fool himself with excuses, the blood delaying the inevitable. It wasn't his fault, the others lived because he'd chosen sacrifice instead of death, weary of the carnage around him.
Yeah, right.
I was weak.
The truth.
I still am.
He launched himself forward, grabbed the glass and gulped it down. Herrick showed no emotion as he watched him hurl the glass at the fireplace. It smashed into fragments, showering the man's body. The blood still clung to Mitchell's lips as he threw his arms wide open.
"Happy now?!" The temper was back. Good, thought Herrick. A broad smile spread across his face, like the cat that got the cream.
"Delirious…" he replied, his eyes glittering. A mere blip. A closer watch was all he needed. His soldier would be fine.
"It was a whisper, just a whisper that's all. " God, the man was sweating like a pig. Then again, given his surroundings, he would probably do the same. If he had a soul that is…
"What was?"
"There was a fight last week. Out Bethnall Green way. A huge bet. Her Nibs…" The darkest of glares.
"Yes?" The man swallowed, his throat felt like sandpaper.
"Sorry…your sainted mother…she lost big…"
Damn her…
"Who was the taker?" The man's face showed his confusion. He looked round wildly at the faces surrounding him. Not one human among them...
"The taker?"
"The taker of bets." Was he talking to himself? "The person who held the stakes." The man beneath him flinched at the sound of laughter coming from behind him. "Stakes, get it?! I'm wasted here, I am…" The figure wheeled round. "Sorry…" mumbled the unseen voice.
"I repeat." He stooped down, his black eyes meeting the now terrified human who cowered at the sight of those fangs. So sharp. The human closed his eyes, defeated.
"One of your lot…" A hand slid round his throat, tipping it to one side.
"Yes?"
The name stumbled out, just before the screams began.
"Herrick…William Herrick…"
Footsteps in an empty house. So simple when you joined the dots. She never could throw anything out. It was a compulsion with her. From the days when they had nothing, hand-me-downs until even the rag man wouldn't take them. A cursory search of her dressing table had yielded an obscure address scribbled on the back of an envelope. And now they were here, searching for her, for any sign…
His foot stepped on something with a crunch. He lifted his foot away, to reveal a small shard of what looked like glass. The merest tint of blood on its edge. Someone had been thorough in gutting the house, clearing up, he could even smell bleach, carbolic soap, but not quite thorough enough. His anger, which he prided himself on keeping, even in the most trying of times, sparked. He had an appointment to keep the next day. The kind where it would be considered a staking offence if he did not keep it. Where was she? He walked through the house, and opened the back door. A withered rose bush sat in a gloomy garden. He walked over to it, as the sun faded. Odd, the colour of soil at its base…grey…An empty metal barrel stood close by. On an impulse, he reached down into the barrel, and pulled out a tattered scrap of fur. Two dead glass eyes looked up at him.
An impotent scream of rage rent the air.
The others looked round uneasily at each other.
"Oh shit…"
The cab pulled up just outside Marylebone Station. Herrick dipped his hand into his pocket.
"Keep the change." The cab driver took one look at the coins that had dropped into his palm.
"Thanks a bunch mate." He was still grumbling as he drove off.
"Now, where were we…ah yes?" Herrick strode off, case in hand, down the street. Mitchell stared up at the unfamiliar names. One stood out to his left. Wyndham Street. It rang a bell. He went to ask Herrick, but the older vampire was moving too briskly, his eyes focused on the task ahead.
"This way." Herrick was making for somewhere, that was obvious. He ran across another road, his gestured "sorry" cutting little ice with the annoyed driver that yelled at him. Mitchell had no idea where they were going, Herrick had mentioned a trip, but not the destination. In spite of Herrick's bravado it was obvious that his maker was nervous about something. Or someone. If he didn't know better, he would swear the old devil was dodging someone, like the times back home when Mitchell's mother had to dodge the rent man. They cut down another street. At last Mitchell recognised a landmark - Marble Arch. Herrick gestured to the Underground sign.
Finally, sighed Mitchell. This wild-goose chase would end soon.
"Where are we going?" he asked, exasperated.
"King's Cross - eventually," Herrick said quietly, keeping his voice low, his eyes searching out the humans around him. Their reassuring heartbeats. "Train leaves at half past seven."
"What train?" Herrick sat down heavily on the seat. Mitchell sank into the seat opposite as the train pulled away.
"The one to Scotland. The overnight train." Scotland? Herrick must have really pissed someone off, thought Mitchell. That was the only reason they'd be heading that far north.
"Great, so we leave Bristol, to go to London, now we are going…" Herrick held up a hand.
"All in good time, Mitchell. We will have a pleasant trip." Mitchell decided to chance his arm.
"And leave the mess behind?" Herrick's manner changed, just for a moment, then the smile was back in place. His recruit was learning.
"That obvious?" Mitchell smiled, relaxing as much as he could in the uncomfortable seat as he lifted a left-behind newspaper.
"Kinda."
"Tickets please!" A blast of steam meet them as they entered King's Cross. A jumble of bodies surrounded them. If anyone could spot them in this sea of humanity heading home to their dreary families, then they deserved every penny, thought Herrick.
"The LNER service to…" the voice on the tannoy could barely be heard above the din, but Herrick's sharp ears caught it.
"Which platform is it?" He looked up at the announcement board. A small queue stood waiting at the gate. Not too many, noted Mitchell. A quiet train then. Herrick bustled over to the railway office to buy their tickets, as Mitchell's attention was drawn to a woman standing a little away from the queue. She seemed to be holding back, as though she was waiting for someone. Long blonde hair, and legs that seemed to reach to heaven. He could just catch the scent she wore, lilies and something he couldn't place. He licked his lips. He still had the taste of the pretty barmaid who'd made them most welcome, until she'd seen their true nature. He could still hear her stifled scream as Herrick broke her neck. Mitchell had insisted on laying her out on the soft bed. She could almost have been sleeping, bar for the trace of blood weeping slowly into the frayed eiderdown from her pale wrists. No tidying up necessary after this one. Cheap accommodation for a cheap life. Violence was expected in such places.
"One for the road." Herrick had chuckled, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth. This time he'd decanted the blood into a pint glass, a mocking last salute.
Back on the platform, the woman turned her face away, and Mitchell lost her momentarily in the crowd that surged forward for the boat train. A man stepped up to the ticket inspector, who glanced at his ticket, just as the man's case split open, depositing its contents on the ground. A chorus of laughs and catcalls ensued.
"I'm a commercial traveller." the red-faced man muttered, as he grasped at the frills and finery that now lay on the ground. Mitchell burst out laughing himself as a train guard came past.
"Suits you…" as the poor man lifted up something scarlet and lacy. The guard bowed to his audience as Mitchell glimpsed a swish of blonde hair as the woman took advantage of the commotion to slip past the ticket inspector with the studied ease of a professional. He smiled to himself. Tonight might be an interesting one.
Herrick walked back towards him, pocketing his wallet.
"Come on. We've time for a refreshment."
"Not here…" Mitchell whispered, eyes downcast. Herrick smiled.
"As if. I'm told they do a very nice sticky bun."
Mitchell watched Herrick pay for their cups of tea. "In finest bone china, you are a treasure my dear. Oh, and two of those delicious-looking…" Even Herrick's politeness hesitated at the soggy buns sitting on the counter. The woman serving him beamed, taken in by his polite brand of smarm, patting her hair back with one hand, revealing a long neck. With a small golden cross around it. Herrick winced. The woman seemed not to notice, but then she wasn't the most observant of women, two men sitting before her, who couldn't be seen in the mirror behind her…
Mitchell spread the tickets out on the table. Herrick seemed to have bought several, in First and Third Class, and for several destinations. It puzzled him for a minute.
"Can't be too careful Mitchell," Herrick sat down, and took a bite of the iced currant bun. He made a face. "Fresh…perhaps in 1936…"
"So we're headin' north." Herrick nodded. "Why?" He stirred his tea, not answering Mitchell immediately. He tapped the spoon on the cup.
"We are going to be doing a spot of travelling. I thought a change would do us both good. Sea air, bracing sea air…" There was that twinkle in Herrick's eye again. The bastard was enjoying himself, Mitchell knew.
"Where? It's not like you even like Scotland Herrick. What was it you called them? A bunch of porridge-eating, penny-pinching…"
Herrick's smile widened.
"All in good time Mitchell." A loud bell dinged. "Time to go."
"First Class?" Mitchell exclaimed, as he walked up the platform towards the right section. That was not laying low, but then Herrick did always like a touch of style. The stream-lined locomotive shone in its blue livery, a worker rubbing at a smear on the glass of a carriage as they passed.
"Might as well be comfortable. Long trek to Scotland." Herrick's eyes betrayed his nervousness. He glanced over his shoulder.
"Who have you pissed off, Herrick?"
"No one important Mitchell. And when we come back I will deal with it."
"We're coming back then?" Herrick's smile wavered for a moment.
"Oh yes. Nothing lasts forever, Mitchell." He waited for the platform guard to open the door to the First Class coach.
"Except us maybe…" muttered Mitchell, one eye on the man hauling what little luggage they had up into the racks above the seats, the other searching the faces of the few passengers who took their seats. He noted that no one else entered their compartment. Only six seats, and comfortable with it. He thought back to the rickety trains he'd been squeezed into travelling to the Front, his fellow troops practically sitting on top of each other, as the train belched out smoke.
"Only the best Mitchell." Herrick leaned forward and closed the curtains, pulling down the blinds to cover the glass panes that looked out onto the corridor. He slipped his hand into his coat, and drew out a silver pocket watch. He flipped it open.
One minute to go.
A whistle blew. Herrick finally sat down with an audible sigh of relief, as the train pulled away from the platform. Now he could relax and enjoy the journey.
The car screeched to a halt outside the station. He cursed the fools he'd set to watch the train stations. He'd sent one of his best to Dover, sure the boat train would be Herrick's choice, and Paris was a known hiding place of his, with that slut of a recruit of his precious John Mitchell running things in all but name. Liverpool Street…Euston…Marylebone…St Pancras…and now King's Cross…He'd threatened, cajoled, staked, and finally heard a vague rumour about a ship leaving port. He ran onto the concourse, reaching the gate in time to see the train pulling out. He stood seething, his sides aching, his brain frantically reaching for solutions. When was the next train north? A car would take too long. There'd be no flights from Croydon this late, so the earliest he could get there would be…
"Hello Villiers, old mate. Long-time no see. Come to see me off?" An all too familiar voice.
He cursed inwardly. Of all the times to miss an appointment.
"You look a bit pissed off…Buy an old friend a cuppa? Tell me all about it." It wasn't an invitation, he knew, more a command.
"The buns are good, or so I'm told. And if they aren't, we can always snack on a ticket inspector…"
And you very probably will, he thought wearily.
"Fancy a bite? They have a restaurant car, wood panelling, silver service…" Herrick was reading off a menu card.
"Nah, I'm still recovering from that wonderful iced bun," Mitchell said sarcastically, closing his eyes.
"That and the ravishing red head." Herrick broke into a grin.
God, thought Mitchell, leave me alone for five fucking minutes…I drank her dry but it's still not enough for you. You have to pick over their very bones… I was a monster, I tormented her, because that's what you wanted me to do, wasn't it? It's what I am.
But…oh she'd tasted so sweet after the cold draft of Albert…the warmth in that blood…the fire…
"Yes she was a fine enough meal. Fear makes them more full-bodied, I find. Plenty more of them where we're headed."
"Which is where, Herrick?" His maker smiled knowingly, before replying:
"Glasgow."