Uprising

Chapter Forty-Five

It was dark outside Bill Andrews’s office window at the private Rothwell Clinic outside Wallingford. In front of him on his desk were Kate Hawthorne’s case notes. He’d been staring at them long enough for the words to start to float before his eyes. He took off his glasses and rubbed his face. Fatigue was making his head spin and his brow prickled with cold sweat. He reached for the little bottle of pills in the breast pocket of his white coat, gulped one down.

It had been a ghastly afternoon. Most of it had been spent on the impossible task of trying to console the Hawthorne family. He’d had to listen to Gillian weeping uncontrollably, while struggling to come up with a semi-plausible explanation as to how their lovely, healthy daughter could have just faded away for no apparent reason, in just a matter of days.

The fact was, he was completely stumped.

‘Start from the beginning, Bill,’ he muttered. He flicked back to the first page and began scrutinising the case notes for the thousandth time, determined to make sense of them.

But how could you make sense of something that seemed scientifically impossible? She was healthy. Normal. All the tests were negative. Technically, there was nothing wrong with Kate Hawthorne — other than the fact that she was lying dead on a steel tray in the main building across the way from his office.

Even more perplexing were the lesions on the girl’s neck. When Gillian had first called him out to the house, they’d been livid and ugly, the flesh around them mottled and purple. When he’d caught a glimpse of Kate’s dead body under the sheet this afternoon, the marks seemed to have virtually gone.

He frowned. Not even a healthy patient could have healed so fast. How could someone who was dying? It just didn’t make sense.

Could he have imagined it? A trick of the light? Too distracted by the chaos and the scenes of grief going on around him?

‘Damn it,’ he said out loud. ‘Let’s take another look.’ He got up from his desk, left the office and walked through the neon-lit corridor that led to the main building. The mortuary was located in the basement of the east wing. Dr Andrews descended the stairs and pushed through the fire doors into his least favourite part of the hospital.

In what the staff called ‘the Cooler’ was a wall of stainless steel panels. Behind each panel was a retractable compartment seven feet long and three feet wide, running on rails. They were like the drawers of a huge filing cabinet, each labelled with a name and a number. This was only a small private facility, and the Cooler was never anywhere near capacity. At most, they had four or five cadavers in at a time. He quickly found the compartment with Kate Hawthorne’s name and admission number. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the cold steel handle and pulled.

The compartment slid open smoothly on its rails.

He looked inside.

Blinked. Then looked again.

It was empty.

Dr Andrews took a step back. Was this some kind of administrative error? He was about to open another compartment when he heard a voice behind him.

‘Hello, Doctor. Looking for me?’

He swung round.

Kate Hawthorne was standing behind him, naked. He gaped, speechless. A rapid drum rhythm started up inside his ribcage.

She smiled.

Holy Lord, those teeth.

The drum began to roll faster, louder, building to a crescendo…then…

Bang.

‘My heart—’ Dr Andrews clutched at his chest and cried out in pain as the cardiac attack ripped through him. His knees buckled. He pitched forward, felt his head crack open on the tiled floor. His eyes rolled up, and through the rising mist he saw Kate Hawthorne beaming bright-eyed down at him, her fangs white against her red lips.

Then his vision dimmed, and he saw no more.

Crowmoor Hall

8.12 p.m.

Lillith skidded her bright yellow Lotus Elise to a halt on the gravel, threw open the door and grabbed the bundle from the passenger seat. It wriggled feebly in her arms as she carried it into the dark house. She was sated from her evening feed, but who said you had to be hungry to eat? Something for dessert.

With that thought in mind she made her way through the gloomy passages to the tower in the east wing where her private quarters were situated. The creaking of a door made her turn, and she saw Finch standing there.

‘What happened to your face?’ she asked him, noticing the bruises. In a grave, solemn tone he told her about that day’s incident with Solomon, the police officer.

‘Interesting,’ Lillith purred. ‘So now we know all about our little cross-bearing friend.’

As she spoke, her vampire’s mind was turning over at high speed. So much for the human having found the cross of Ardaich, she thought. If his claim had been anything more than a desperate bluff, he could have destroyed them all. Gabriel would have returned home to a graveyard.

Lillith felt anger rise up inside her at the thought of her brother. He’d been a warrior once, like her. No vampire had been bolder, wilder, more wonderfully cruel and impetuous. But he’d changed of late. She was tired of his cautious diplomat’s ways, frustrated by his endless politicising.

‘Did I do well, ma’am?’ Finch’s voice was cracked with anxiety. ‘I obeyed Mr Stone’s wishes as best I could.’

‘You did brilliantly, Seymour. Gabriel will be very pleased. As am I.’

Finch bowed his head in relief. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

‘Now for the next part of your task,’ she said. ‘Now that we know who the human is, you are to pay him a visit. Retrieve whatever evidence he has to do with the cross, and then slaughter him.’

‘Ma’am? I thought Mr Stone said not to kill—’

‘I was talking to Gabriel just minutes ago,’ she lied. ‘There’s been a change of plan. We want the human dead. You understand me?’

Finch nodded. ‘I understand perfectly.’

‘Your loyalty will be repaid,’ she said.

‘If I m-may be so bold as to mention it,’ Finch stammered. ‘I have long hoped—’

‘That you would be inducted into our circle? Become one of us?’

‘It is my deepest, most heartfelt wish,’ Finch said with a quaver.

Lillith knew that Gabriel would never consider such a thing. Finch was far too useful to them as a ghoul. Not quite a vampire, but not quite a human either. Ghouls dwelt in a shadow world somewhere in between.

‘Do this thing for us,’ she said, ‘and I’m sure my brother will express his gratitude. In the meantime, Seymour, a token of our appreciation.’ She passed him the bundle that she’d been holding in her arms. Finch took it from her, and examined it with glittering eyes as it stirred and mewled in his grip.

‘Its owner left it unattended,’ she said.

Finch looked up at her, melting with gratitude. ‘For me?’

‘Enjoy,’ she smiled.

‘Inspector Joel Solomon is a dead man,’ Finch said

.