Son of Blood Page 11

  ‘No…I…just…’

  ‘Yeah, whatever. A bit of flattery and our plan goes out the window?’

  ‘Hey,’ said David, the beer giving him a little more confidence than usual. ‘If anything, tonight makes the plan all the more likely to work.’

  Claire nodded her agreement.

  ‘She’ll not worry about bringing him here again, not after that show you lot put on,’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘Yeah, well I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m not sure how many times I can sit here and go through that again,’ barked Owen, jabbing his finger in the direction Sinead and Christian had left to emphasize his point.

  ‘How many times did you plan on going through this?’ Claire asked.

  ‘We’ve got his trust, or so it would seem,’ pondered Owen. ‘So, next time. We do it next time.’

  Christian and Sinead split up after ducking back through the fence, and reunited again on the dark sands of South Beach. The night had remained cold, keeping even the most ardent dog walker inside, and they were able to stroll hand-in-hand along the beach, the sounds of the sea their only companion. There was no need for words. There was no need to discuss where they were going. They had never said it out loud but they both considered the rocks at the end of the beach to be ‘their place’ and that was where they both wanted to be now.

  The waning moon was low in the sky, hanging behind the island Christian called home and emphasizing the silhouette of the tower. He stepped up on the rocks first, turned and helped Sinead keep her balance, although he knew she did not need him to; he felt it was the right thing, the appropriate way for a boyfriend to behave.

  They stood holding hands for a few moments, eyes locked on each other’s. Then slowly they came together, her arms slipping around his neck, his hands meeting behind her back. Their lips, after what seemed like an eternity, finally met. As they did so, Christian held onto Sinead a little tighter and slowly pushed up onto the tips of his toes. Gradually his feet left the rocks, and a moment later, Sinead was elevated with him. He felt her stiffen momentarily in his arms and then relax again. As they continued to kiss, they continued to rise; her trust in him was complete. He rotated them both in the air, seamless as a breeze, the moon a perfect backdrop to their dance. They broke the kiss and their eyes told each other a million things that words never would. Eventually he brought them back down to the ground and she let her head sink against his shoulder. They had still not uttered a word to each other.

  Finally, she broke the silence.

  ‘That was…’ but she could not complete the sentence. Christian suddenly released her from his arms and stepped between her and the beach.

  ‘Someone is coming,’ he said.

  Her brow furrowed in confusion. ‘No, they wouldn’t…’

  The footsteps coming along the sand towards them were heavy. Christian let himself breathe.

  ‘It’s my father.’

  Martin walked out of the night with as close to a happy expression painted across his face as Sinead had ever seen.

  ‘I am sorry to disturb you, my son,’ he said. ‘I am going home and, if it is convenient with you, I would like you to come with me.’

  Christian could not answer. His father confounded him further by turning to Sinead.

  ‘How are you, young lady?’ he asked.

  She smiled. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘Your father is a good man, Miss Mooney. But I take it he is not aware…?’ He indicated the two of them.

  ‘No. Well, not yet.’

  ‘I shall say nothing,’ Martin said with deference. ‘Are you ready, son?’

  Christian shook himself out of his befuddlement. ‘Yes. Yes, Father, of course.’ He turned to Sinead. ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course, tomorrow.’

  22

  The weeks seemed to fly by for Christian. Now he had something so special to look forward to – his time with Sinead- hours sat reading alone, hours that had once seemed so tedious, were now bearable.

  ‘Christian. We need to speak.’

  In the past when Martin said something like that to him, Christian would have expected the worst, but recently his father had been taking him more and more into his confidence.

  Christian had unlocked the chains under the rug about an hour before sunset, but his father had not emerged until nearly an hour after the skies above them had become completely jet black. The sea was a ragged dark green, the peaks of the heavy waves frothy. The clouds were low and distant thunder made even the thick walls of the tower oscillate; the incessant rain they brought with then bounced off the rocks and pitted the sand with tiny holes that soon merged as puddles formed and ran off into the sea.

  When Martin had finally risen from his sleep, he appeared troubled and lethargic. Christian had continued his tasks until he was simply repeating the same actions and then went upstairs and selected one of the new science books that Flannery had provided for his schooling. He sat at the kitchen table, having set up two fresh candles on clean white saucers to illuminate the text, and read and reread the chapter about the moon’s influence on tides. He did not care about wasting his time in this way; he knew enough not to antagonize his father, especially when he wanted to meet up with Sinead after she had finished her karate training at the leisure centre.

  Christian. We need to speak.

  That his father had initiated the conversation with a positive tone to his voice encouraged Christian. That his father was seeking to talk to him as an adult just made him feel good about himself.

  ‘Yes, Father?’

  ‘Neither of us has drunk any blood for a number of weeks. I know you do not need it as much as I do, but need it you do.’ Martin paused, waiting for the boy to disagree, but instead Christian closed the book he was reading and pushed it aside.

  ‘I understand, Father. Since my powers have been developing, I notice that I feel weaker, less able, when I do not take blood for a while.’

  Martin nodded.

  ‘Right. It is similar for me. My powers do not diminish, but my strength does. I need to sleep more and my moods…well, you know all about my moods.’

  Christian was astonished by the brevity in his father’s voice.

  ‘I occasionally have travelled, far from here, to feed. I have never told you before because I felt that I have had to protect you, but you have grown up so much recently and I have to be truthful with you.’

  Christian felt a lump in his throat, and instead of trying to speak he encouraged his father to continue by meeting his eyes and leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table.

  ‘I need blood tonight. I need to hunt tonight. And when I bring blood back for you, I want you to understand where it came from. Do you understand that?’

  ‘I do, Father.’

  ‘I cannot help that this is the way I am, I…’

  ‘Father. I do understand.’ Christian reached across to his father, taking one of his huge hands in both of his. ‘Let me come with you.’

  ‘Son, I have told you—’

  ‘No, no. I do not want to kill. I want to help you. I want to see what you do. I want to understand.’

  ‘You want to come with me?’

  ‘You’ve said my skills have grown; let me try to be of use to you.’

  ‘Okay. Yes.’

  ‘It’s not like I’ll get in the—. You said yes?’

  ‘Are we going to go, son?’

  ‘Yes, yes, Father. Where are we going?’

  ‘Maybe it’s about time you saw the country I came from.’

  They flew side by side, low over the river, and Christian was amazed at how still the water was compared to the often tempestuous nature of the sea around their home. The only sound was Martin’s leather coat flapping in the wind they created as they flew. Martin pointed to their right and they tucked in against the manmade concrete bank of the river, staying deep in the shadows so they would not be visible from the houses on the opposite side. They rounde
d a bend in the river and a huge structure began to emerge ahead of them, its white support structures, illuminated by the many spotlights, resembling massive spider’s legs.

  They flew across the sea at a much higher altitude, above the clouds and the rain. By the time they dropped down not far from the Welsh coast, they had bypassed the precipitation and were able to advance towards the city without getting damp.

  ‘This place is called Cardiff,’ Martin informed Christian as they approached a bridge that crossed the river about a hundred yards up ahead. A taxi traversed the bridge, its lights splashing the stone supports, and was then gone. There was no other traffic and, apart from a few bedroom lights still on, there were very little signs of life.

  ‘That must be where Wales play rugby,’ Christian enthused, pointing at the big building. ‘That must be the Millennium Stadium.’

  ‘How do you know about that?’ Martin asked, turning his head to face his son. The boy never ceased to amaze him at the moment.

  ‘Sinead told me all about rugby.’ He was careful not to mention Owen or Frank or David. ‘I’ve decided to support Wales, because it is where you came from.’

  The shadows engulfed them in even deeper darkness as they passed under the bridge and Christian was unable to see the wide smile on his father’s face. As they emerged from the gloom, Christian could see that they were now entering parkland. Up ahead on their right, a sign advertising hourly leisure cruises had been positioned next to a small jetty. Martin pointed towards the jetty and accelerated, landing with ease and then turning on his heels to help Christian as he made his approach. Usually this would have annoyed the boy, but the long flight, as well as the prolonged fasting from blood, had made him tired and a little uncoordinated. As his feet hit the wooden decking, Martin caught him in his solid grip and they both almost stumbled.

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ Christian said. ‘Where do we go now?’

  ‘You understand we are doing this for survival, don’t you?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Then we take those who would not be missed. Do you understand?’

  ‘I do.’

  They walked along the jetty to the ramp that took them up into the wooded park. Several paths led off in different directions; one wound its way off back towards the bridge and the stadium, another continued along the side of the river on the bearing they had been flying, and the rest were lost in the dim, unlit wood and green of the park. Martin picked a path that took them between two tall, healthy trees and across a field towards a deeper copse of foliage that looked to be over half a mile away.

  ‘I have found that some people, they choose to live alone. They are homeless, they have no families. It is from these people that we shall take tonight so we can be healthy once again.’

  Christian stopped.

  Martin looked at him from over his shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Give me a moment, Father. I will not let you down.’

  ‘I know.’

  After a few minutes they were at the edge of the bush. Christian nodded deeply at his father to indicate that he was ready to press on with their task. They stepped off the path and onto the grass to mask the sound of their feet. Up ahead, nestled in between two trees, lay a pile of clothes. It was only when Christian peered more closely that he realized that the pile of clothes was laid out in the shape of a person. That it was a person. Martin brought his index finger to his lips and gestured that Christian should hold his position.

  The pile of clothes grumbled and moaned, rolling and pulling a grubby blanket up and over its pathetic form. Martin advanced slowly. Christian only realized that he was holding his breath when his father was but five yards from the prone form. He had been focusing on his father’s boots as Martin had rolled them, heel to toe, across the grass; tiny, tiny steps as he stalked his prey. As he let himself exhale, Christian’s eyes scanned the woods around him. He blinked. He blinked again. He could not believe what he was seeing. As his father crept towards his victim, Martin too was being hunted. To his left, another man, dressed all in black, his head clad in a baseball cap, matched Martin’s steps, thus covering his own sound. One arm was held out in front of him, the hand brandishing a long, silver blade that glistened even in the darkness.

  Christian had no time to shout before he realized he was reacting. His feet did not touch the ground as he followed in his father’s path, accelerating as he went. When he approached his father he turned his shoulder, and by the time he collided with Martin’s back, he was travelling as fast as he ever could have done even if he had sprinted the short distance. Martin tumbled to the grass and the mystery assailant slashed the knife across the space he had occupied a second earlier. Christian’s feet hit the ground again, shoulder-width apart ensuring he was perfectly balanced, unlike the man who had tried to hurt his father. Using this to his advantage, Christian smashed his fist down onto the man’s forearm, the two bones fracturing, splitting the skin—the knife falling without a noise into the grass.

  Christian stepped towards the man, this human piece of filth that had tried to destroy his father, and was suddenly aware of his heart pounding in his chest, jumping around like a wild, caged animal that knew it was about to be released. But now it was his turn to be stunned. He had not seen his father regain his feet, but he did see his father grab the man’s throat in one hand before the attacker had chance to scream. He did see his father dig his fingers in behind the man’s esophagus, blood seeping out around his nails. He did see his father, in one single motion, tear out the man’s windpipe and let him fall to the ground. Martin’s head snapped up as the other vagrant, the one wrapped in the rags who had been startled from his sleep, staggered to his feet. Martin dropped to his knees and checked the fallen man’s chest.

  ‘He’s dead,’ he growled. ‘Feed!’

  Martin’s feet left the ground and his body shot forward and took the baffled man in rags around the midriff, lifting him up into the treetops. Christian was suddenly overcome by an insatiable thirst and fell to his knees next to the warm corpse. He tried to bring his mouth towards the open wound but could not bring himself to do so. Instead he turned his head to the side and vomited. But he knew he had to feed, so he breathed in, breathed out, spat out the sticky residue from his mouth and cupped his hands around the man’s throat.

  As he fed he could hear terrible, terrible noises from up above him as his father tore the other homeless man limb from limb. Christian drank until he was full and then rolled over onto his back, lying beside the dead body. Something fell from a tree and Christian turned his head to inspect it. He was nearly sick again when he realized it was a human forearm, the fingers untouched but the elbow a bloody, chewed stump.

  23

  Martin took Christian and sat him under the bridge. The darkness was complete but Martin could still see his son’s eyes. They were wide, the pupils massively dilated, and Martin was not sure if Christian had blinked since he had lifted him up off the grass. He had carried him around, talking to the boy until he briefly came out of his comatose trance. Martin had placed him down on his feet and Christian had simply took over where his father left off, walking in circles, the grass under his feet crushed until it resembled a miniature crop circle. Martin had finally taken the boy in his arms again and brought him under cover.

  ‘I will be no more than ten minutes, my son,’ he murmured. Martin was afraid that the boy had been overexposed to what his father actually was. ‘You must not move. Do you understand me?’

  Christian’s eyes shifted away from the distant spot he had been focusing upon and tuned into his father’s line of vision. His jaw shifted the shortest distance, but Martin was sure it was a nod. He lovingly ruffled his son’s hair and ran back towards the bodies.

  How could I have been so stupid? he thought as he lifted first one and then the other torso over each shoulder. The severed arm he held in his hand.

  No longer caring if anyone saw him, he leapt upwards as hard and fast as he could,
veering towards the heaviest of the cloud cover and then rolling away out to sea. As he flew he realized that he had been showing off for Christian last night, that he had not taken the usual precautions, like checking that the target was alone. He realized that such lowlifes would have to look out for each other, that while one slept the other was on watch duty. They were obviously not expecting vampires to attack them but muggers, or drunken revelers looking for a bit of additional sport after a night out.

  By the time Martin returned, the boy was up and leaning on the railing between the narrow path and the river. When he saw him on his feet, a wave of relief washed over Martin. He ran towards the boy, his footsteps echoing around him as the sounds met the underside of the bridge.

  ‘Christian, are you okay?’ he asked.

  ‘You messed with my hair.’

  He did not know how to respond to that. ‘But I… So you are okay? I thought the whole experience had damaged you?’

  ‘It is hard to describe,’ Christian said, measuring each word before letting it past his lips. ‘I have drunk blood many times, but never has it been so fresh. It was like, I don’t know.’

  ‘Try to explain.’

  ‘It was like…like when we see people coming out of the pubs back home and they have no control over their bodies. I think it felt like that.’

  ‘Are you saying it made you drunk?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. But worse. Because the blood was different, because the blood was, I don’t know, redder, I guess.’

  ‘But you are okay now?’

  Christian brought his feet up off the floor and he hovered with perfect poise.

  ‘I think so.’ He smirked, easing back down.

  ‘Son, if it had not been for you tonight, I may have been hurt. But you are never to put yourself at risk again.’

  ‘But I was not at risk, Father. I disarmed him and—’

  ‘No!’ snapped Martin. ‘Not from the human. Not from being harmed by the knife. I saw that look on your face after you broke his arm. You did not want to stop there, did you?’