Necroscope 9: The Lost Years (33 page)

‘You do believe me, don’t you?’ she went on. ‘You do feel those effects I’ve described?’ In combination with her purring, persuasive voice, the action of the delusion-inducing, suggestion-enhancing wine worked on Harry’s mind to the desired effect. He was pale as death, panting now and beginning to convulse. As rapidly as that, he displayed al the symptoms of physical illness; in a little while he might even be sick!

And:
Now!
thought Bonnie Jean, reaching behind her back to the top of her sheath dress, finding the zipper, drawing it down, down, and shrugging the garment off her shoulders.
Let it be now!
For a moment the dress clung to her breasts, then fel forward and exposed her to the waist. She stood up, stepped out of the dress as it fel, and pushed down her panties. And once again:
Now! Let it be now!

This would take some effort; it wasn’t her time; the ful moon was B.J.’s time. But she needed more than her own strength now, more than the strength of her human eyes. Oh, Harry Keogh would listen to her as a woman, and obey her to a point. But as the
Other
she would be more powerful yet and have complete control over him, or so nearly complete that it wouldn’t mater.

And seating herself naked before him, she turned her gaze on the chandelier and let its light fill her brain. It formed a softly glowing moon floating right there in her room, a gloriously
full
moon. A moon of strange powers, and one of change. And Bonnie Jean … changed!

It was as if her flesh
rippled;
it was as if her colours flowed, especialy the colour of her hair, out of her head and into her body. The grey highlights were highlights no more but solid colour;
she
was grey, almost white. Her coat, pelt, fur, was white! And her eyes: their shape was angular now, triangular, or at
least
framed
in triangles of white fur. And their size was huge, and their colour - was blood!

And Bonnie Jean’s lips … her mouth … her teeth!

It was metaplasia, but almost instantaneous. It was metamorphosis, monstrous and immediate. If the Necroscope had been awake, or other than entranced - if he’d seen it, experienced it - then he would have known what it was, would have known to cry out. And the one awesome word he would have cried: 169

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Wamphyri!

But he hadn’t seen, didn’t know. And the breath he
might
have felt upon his face, which came from scant inches away now, was still sweet

- not with the sweetness of perfume but an animal sweetness, or musk

- and the words he heard when she spoke were more a cough, a grunt, a growl, but still
her
words which he must obey:

‘My eyes, Harry. Only my eyes. If you would put an end to your sickness, your misery, then look into my eyes.

Don’t look at me … but only into my eyes.’

And he did. Into her furnace gaze, into those eyes which had fascinated Mesmer himself, into a hypnotic whirlpool that was easily the equal of Doctor James Anderson’s; except James Anderson had been here first, and his post-hypnotic commands still applied. They were buried deep, but they were here and they were still active.

And: There,’ the creature that was Bonnie Jean husked, binding Harry to her gaze. ‘And all your pain is eased, your sickness is washed away, the whirling of your brain has been stilled. Now tel me, is it good, Harry?’

The Necroscope tried to answer but couldn’t; his tongue was swollen, his throat parched. But she heard his sigh, and saw how the heaving of his chest gradually subsided. And finally, completely under her spell, he nodded.

And his pinprick pupils were like crimson motes burning in the reflection of her gaze, or tiny planets swayed by the lure of twin suns …

In the morning, starting awake from some instantly forgotten nightmare, Harry had a splitting headache and felt like death warmed up. Then he saw where he was, knew that he’d spent the night here without remembering a thing about it (well, except for the really important stuff), and felt even worse. B.J.’s living-room, her lounger … herself, emerging onto the stairwell landing in a towelling robe. She’d showered and her hair was still damp on her collar. The smells of coffee and toast came wafting from the tray she was carrying.

‘God!’ said Harry, sitting up and laying aside the blanket she had thrown over him. And he meant it when he repeated:
‘God!’
For the last time he’d felt like this was on that morning in London, after taking Darcy Clarke’s sleeping pill…

She smiled at him where he screwed up his eyes, fingered back his hair and gritted his teeth, and told him: ‘When you went, you went
really
fast and never knew what hit you. But I have to admit I asked for it. After all, you’d warned me that you weren’t much of a drinker.’

The wine?’ Harry grunted. That stuff? How can anything that tastes so good be so wicked?’

‘But isn’t that always the way is it?’ She laughed at his pained

expression. ‘Anyway, it was either the wine … or the life of a secret agent is very, very strenuous!’

‘Ah!’ he said. ‘I told you about that?’ (But how much? Had he been
that
drunk, or ill, or whatever?)

‘Nothing specific - but I would have known anyway. I mean, you were so calm and controlled in that awful situation in London. You would have to be something special just to be able to get us out of that place the way you did!’

With which most of it came flooding back - or so the Necroscope thought. The words ‘that awful situation in London’ were a mental trigger, a trip to release his stored ‘memories.’ And now they were there, dropping neatly into place …

…
Her motive had been revenge pure and simple. Her girls were very special to her, and she felt like a mother to them; in
almost every case they’d been in need of care up until the time she employed them. Also, she had known that Skippy was ‘a bad one.’ If the
police weren’t able to pin the murder on him, he might easily put two and two together and work out that B.J. had
fingered him. After that, he might even have come looking for her!
It seemed like a perfectly sound motive - to the Necroscope, at least. Because B.J. had
told
him it was sound.

And the silvering on the heads of the ornamental crossbow bolts?
Perfectly acceptable. Even the odd little chap who had
been watching the place: the father of one of the bar’s hostesses, maybe, checking that she worked in a decent place? Or
perhaps a private detective following one of B.J. ‘s more dubious customers? Wel, if she had any more clients like Big Jimmy, that would seem
reasonable enough, too!

And so his memories seemed whole, complete as some well-remembered tune, and not a single discordant note to jar his mind awake to its errors. As far as last night was concerned, that page of the Necroscope’s mind had been re-written.

Maybe he frowned once or twice, and blinked as B.J. sat down beside him and poured coffee, but that was all. Harry’s main concern right now was that he hadn’t been bothersome to his lady host. For after drinking her red wine … well, the night’s events were vague, to say the least!

‘Have you decided, then?’ B.J. broke into his thoughts.

Startled, he looked at her. ‘Decided?’

She nodded, sighed, said, ‘My, but you’re having a really rough time of it, aren’t you? Have you decided when you’ll continue your search for your wife and baby! It was the very last thing you said to me before you, er, turned in? No, I can see that you don’t remember. You said that you’d have to sleep on it. You told me it could be as early as today. But looking at you this morning … I can’t say I’d advise you to travel
anywhere
too far too fast, Harry Keogh!’

Too far too fast.’ The word sequence opened another door in the Necroscope’s mind.
Brenda and his son. He had
come here to find out if

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there was a connection between Bonnie Jean and their disappearance. Forlorn hope! No, B.J. was just a strong-willed young
woman who believed in taking matters into her own hands. And Harry couldn’t deny that if he’d been in her place he would probably have
done pretty much the same thing. An eye for an eye. Her connection therefore was purely coincidental.

And despite his false memories, this time Harry was absolutely right: where Brenda was concerned, BJ.’s coming on the scene had been entirely coincidental.

So, back to her question. Til think it over - think it out - a while longer,’ he said. ‘Well, for a couple of weeks, anyway.’
(A couple of weeks? Yes, he was decided. Three weeks at least
… to
think it out.)
And fingering his scalp again: That is, when I
can
think again! But I’l need at least that long to work out some kind of plan - won’t I?’

She nodded and shrugged. ‘Well, it’s none of my business, of course. It’s just that I wish you luck. But whatever you do, you will stay in touch, right? Let me know how you get on?’

Harry wasn’t looking at her; he was sitting there holding his head between his hands, blinking his stinging eyes and trying to focus them, looking at his left sock where it hung half off his foot. But her words rang in his mind like a bel:

‘Stay in touch … ”

He gave a slight involuntary jerk, was unable to stop his reaction, as a short, sharp series of vivid scenes flooded his mind:

A full moon, brilliant yellow, like burnished gold, sailing a clear night sky.
That was al he should have seen, and he knew it - knew
something

-
remembered something however briefly, like a name on the tip of the tongue that comes … then slips maddeningly away: ‘When the moon is nearing its full, stay in touch!’ That was all there should be, yes. But there was more:
A snarling visage: the merest glimpse of dripping fangs, salivating leathery lips, pointed ears and grey fur; and
commanding eyes, red as sin

-
ful
of sin - carrying some secret message that Harry couldn’t read. Then the moon again, showing the wolfs head in silhouette, thrown back
in a silent, throbbing howl!

The kaleidoscopic scenes were there …
and they were gone. And even the knowledge that they’d
been
there was gone, except for a fading shadow on Harry’s metaphysical mind.

And of course he jumped to the wrong, or not entirely correct, conclusion: it had to be Alec Kyle, his precognition!

But had it been a warning, or what? Or was it simply an echo not of the future but the past, a flashback to the madness and mayhem down in London? And if so, why? But already it was gone …

B.J. had seen him start; he could feel her watching him. He jerked up his head and looked at her, catching her off balance. There was a smile

on her face - or the vestiges of one - that she hadn’t quite managed to drop. And knowing she’d been caught out, as it were, she shook her head and said: ‘So there we have it: no drinking man, you, Harry! Man, ye’re
rough!’

So, she’d been smiling at his discomfort - right? But a very secretive sort of smile. Or maybe a knowing smile? Again Harry jumped to the wrong conclusion:

B.J. must see a good many heavy drinkers in her bar. Alcoholics even. Let’s face it, you could find alcoholics in just about any bar anywhere in the world. Couldn’t you? The trouble was the Necroscope didn’t know much about them.

Only what he’d heard. For instance: one drink is enough for some people, while others can drink all night and never show it for a moment. What kind of drinker had Alec Kyle been, really? A heavy one, maybe? Too heavy? A secret one? Secret enough to hold down his job at E-Branch? And here was Harry Keogh, lumbered with Kyle’s body.
And
his addiction?

He looked at the tray where B.J. had set it on the pine table. The coffee looked good but he really didn’t fancy anything to eat. His throat was sandpaper-dry and his brain felt like a wet sponge! But Bonnie Jean had asked him a question. God, he felt so stupid! What was it she’d asked?

‘Won’t I be seeing you again?’ She obliged him.

‘I… I have your number,’ he told her. ‘I’ll know where to contact you.’ (But why in hell would he want to contact her, apart from the obvious reason? What
arrangements
had been made last night? He was sure that nothing had happened here.)

Mulling it over, he drank his coffee … ‘

Half an hour later he left, walking off along the street into a dreary morning. And not long after that one of B.J. ‘s girls reported back to her and said: ‘I followed him, like you said. But… I lost him!’

‘What?’ B.J. was angry. She had obtained Harry’s telephone number but that was all. It was a simple oversight, an error on her part. She’d wanted to know where he lived, how to get there and what it looked like - things that she could have asked him last night. It had seemed such a perfect coincidence: the fact that he had a place up here close to Edinburgh! But she’d known that Harry would ‘stay in touch’ with her, and so hadn’t really considered the possibility that he might be hard to locate. She had only sent the girl after him on an afterthought. Now, however, taking time to give it a little
more
thought:

Harry was (or had been) some kind of agent. What if this place of his wasn’t ‘his’ place at all but a safe house?

Perhaps it was a good thing her girl had lost him. Perhaps these ‘people’ of his had been waiting for him, to whistle him away, and the telephone number was merely a contact number. She knew it was listed, which meant she couldn’t use it to

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