Descendant

The Curse of Duca

The two Screechers looked up at me as I came back into the house and I don’t think that I have ever seen such hatred on any creature’s face, human or not.

“You still don’t want to answer my questions?” I asked them. “All I need to know is where Duca is hiding himself, and how many people he’s infected.”

“You can kill us but we won’t die,” said the young man, contemptuously. “You can even cut our heads off and we won’t die.”

“Oh, yes, I know that. But that can only happen if your body is able to escape from the place where I put it, and your head is still reasonably intact. Since I’m going to bury your bodies in consecrated ground, and I’m going to boil your heads until there’s nothing left of your brains but soup, which I’m going to pour down the drain, there isn’t much chance of that happening.”

“Duca will find you, and Duca will make sure that you suffer.”

“Duca doesn’t have to worry about finding me. I’m going to find it first. I have a score to settle with Duca.”

“Well, we’re not going to help you find him,” said the gingery-haired girl.

“You want to bet?” I asked it. I went to the windows which overlooked the backyard, and pulled down the grubby net curtains. Then I came back and wrapped the curtains around the Screecher’s heads.

“What are you doing, you tosser?” the young man said, spitting to get the net curtain out of its mouth.

“Guy Fawkes’ Night just came early,” I told it.

“What?”

I took the holy oil out of my Kit, unstoppered it and poured it over their wrapped-up heads.

“Bloody hell, that burns!” the young man shouted, tossing its head violently from side to side. The girl didn’t say anything, but sucked in its breath because the oil hurt so much.

I took a box of Swan Vestas and struck one, holding it up in front of them so that they could see the flame.

“Now do you want to tell me where Duca is hiding?”

“You’re mad, you are!” the young man screamed. “I’m not going to tell you nothing!”

“The choice is yours, buddy. How about you, sweetheart, are you going to tell me where Duca is?”

“Go to hell,” the girl retorted, its voice muffled under the nets.

“In that case, you don’t leave me any alternative.” The match had burned right down to my fingers and I had to blow it out and take out another one.

At that moment, though, Jill came back into the living room. She looked wide-eyed at the two Screechers with the net curtains wrapped around their heads, but she didn’t ask me what I was doing. Instead, she said, “I’ve just spoken to Terence. He’s identified the car.”

“Well, that’s good news for these two. Comparatively speaking.”

Jill had written the car-owner’s address on the back of a laundry bill. “It belongs to Dr. Norman Watkins, the Laurels, Pampisford Road, South Croydon. He’s in general practice, but most of his patients are private.”

“So. I wonder what a strigoi mort is doing, driving his car around?”

“Terence is leaving now. He’s going to collect his car from Beddington Park, and then he’s coming over here with a van. He says that he shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

“That’s plenty of time. Do you want to take Bullet for a walk while I do the necessary?”

Jill said, “All right. Come on, Bullet.” But when she reached the door she hesitated. “Do you have to do this? I mean, is there really no other way?”

“Come on, Jill — you saw for yourself what these two jokers are capable of. And once they become strigoi mortii they’ll spread their infection like wildfire.”

“Can’t they be given a proper trial?”

“Jill — justice is a human right. These goddamn things are halfway to losing their humanity already.”

“Duca will drain your blood, even if we can’t,” said the gingery-haired girl. “I promise you that, you piece of shit. I promise both of you.”

“Watch your language,” I told it.