Written in the Blood Page 9

  Afterwards, sitting on logs around the campfire, with the evening sun blushing the clouds to pink and setting a flame to the granite peaks, and with the sound of the river like soft applause, Angel looked at the gathered faces and wondered if they might just all work out. Her mom and Ty; her sister Hope and her brother Elliot; her new siblings, Regan and Luke. She’d been sceptical of this trip. Even now, she was unsure of how Vegas would suit her, and she grew tearful when she thought of what she’d left behind. But when she saw Ty put his arm around her mom and saw her mom rest her head against his shoulder, Angel decided that she might be able to do this, would at least try to do this. For her mom’s sake if no other’s.

  When the stars came out, she asked if she could go down to the river and watch the moon floating on the water. Her mom sat up straight, and Angel just knew she was going to tell her it was too late. But then Regan stood up and said she wanted to see it too.

  They walked to the river’s edge in companionable silence. Angel found a flat boulder and they sat, staring across the water at the silhouettes of California black oaks and incense cedar. She felt something pressing against her thigh, and when she put her hand into her pocket her fingers closed on the amber locket the stranger had given her earlier that day.

  ‘What is it?’ Regan asked, leaning over.

  Angel frowned. She hadn’t really thought about the woman since their encounter, which was odd, considering how much she had affected her at the time.

  ‘Just a locket.’

  ‘Where’d you get it?’

  ‘Someone gave it to me. A gift.’

  ‘It’s beautiful. Kind of spooky, though.’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s cool. Looks really old.’

  Angel swung the locket like a pendulum between her fingers. Its chain resembled a series of interlinked silver beetles. They’d stopped for lunch at a roadside diner on Route 41, somewhere north of Fresno. And that’s where she had met the stranger.

  The diner had a picnic area. Just a few scarred benches and a climbing frame for kids. While Ty and her mom took a table inside and figured out what everyone wanted to eat, Angel came out to check her emails and escape the diner’s piped R ’n’ B. The locket’s owner appeared a few moments later, sitting at the second bench with a coffee and a pastry.

  Angel couldn’t help but stare. The woman was, without doubt, the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. Her features were so startlingly perfect, in fact – so proportioned – she didn’t seem real: seaweed-green eyes striated with shards of emerald and pearl; pale wheat-blond hair falling over her shoulders in tresses that shimmered with captured sunlight; cheekbones that looked like they had been cut by a jeweller. She wore a white cotton summer dress under a black cardigan, and python-skin cowboy boots. Her bag looked like it was made from snakeskin, too. The amber locket hung at her throat.

  The woman took a sip of her coffee and bit into her pastry. Not in an attractive way. She opened her mouth wide and tore off a huge piece, chewing it quickly, as if she hadn’t eaten in days. In another two bites the pastry was gone, leaving nothing but a few flakes dusting the woman’s dress. She opened a paper bag and removed a second, devouring that one in the same fashion. Crumbs clung to her lips or fell into her lap. She swigged down coffee and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Seeming to notice Angel for the first time, she smiled.

  Angel flinched, impaled by all that human beauty concentrated purely on her. It felt like staring into a supernova. She felt compelled to say something. ‘I like your necklace,’ was all she managed.

  ‘Thanks,’ the woman replied. Her voice was deep, far richer than Angel had expected. Stupid, but those green eyes seemed to reach inside her head, reading every thought she’d ever spun.

  ‘How are the pastries?’ she asked, and winced. Such a dumb question.

  The woman laughed. ‘I need to brush up on my table manners, huh?’ She inclined her head towards the front of the building. ‘Did you arrive in the RV?’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘Big family. Are they really all your brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Two of them. The others . . . they’re my mom’s boyfriend’s kids.’

  ‘Where are you headed?’

  ‘Yosemite first. For some bonding time.’ She heard the childish derision in her voice, and instantly regretted it. ‘Then on to Vegas.’

  ‘You don’t want to go?’

  ‘I . . .’ Angel shrugged. ‘I don’t know what I want.’

  ‘Feels like a big change.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  ‘Well, big changes are coming.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The woman stood, brushing crumbs from her clothes. ‘Exactly that.’ She reached up to the back of her neck and removed the necklace. ‘Here. I think you should keep it.’

  To have this flawless creature suddenly so close was strangely disconcerting. Her perfume was spicy and floral. Overpowering. Angel felt a prickling along her spine, as if a locust had been tipped inside her shirt and was crawling around on her skin. ‘No, I couldn’t. It’s—’

  ‘Oh, hush.’ The woman draped the necklace around Angel’s shoulders. ‘You can do anything you like. Life’s for living, and you never know how much longer you’ve got.’ Turning, she walked to the picnic area’s gate and let herself out.

  Angel watched her disappear past the side of the diner. A few seconds later an engine roared and a black Chevrolet Chevelle, with two white stripes painted on the hood, accelerated hard down the road, leaving a cloud of tyre smoke.

  Now, sitting on the rock beside Regan, watching the moonlight rippling on the water, listening to the sounds of a radio playing inside someone’s RV, Angel found herself wondering who the blond-haired woman had been, and where she had been going.

  Big changes are coming.

  ‘You know, my dad can be kind of a geek,’ Regan said. ‘But he’s OK. If you give him a chance.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, he loves your mom.’

  ‘I can see that. I can see he’s good for her.’

  ‘But?’

  Angel shrugged. ‘I’m not sure there is one.’

  Regan reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘That’s good. Because I—’ The girl stopped.

  ‘Because you what?’

  ‘Keep your voice down. Look.’

  Angel raised her head, and that was when she saw the bear. The animal was on their side of the river, following the curve of the bank directly towards their boulder. It swung its muzzle from left to right as it approached, its head like a bullet between its shoulders.

  Fear slid into her, squeezing her lungs.

  ‘Stand up,’ Regan whispered, and Angel could tell she was scared too. ‘Remember what Dad said. Let’s back up a bit. I don’t think it’s seen us.’

  Angel pushed herself to her feet, willing her sneakers not to slip on the wet rock. Their RV was only fifty yards away. But the bear was closer. She heard it grunting now - a sound like a saw cutting timber.

  It paused. Raised its snout to the moon. Lowered its head and stared at them.

  ‘OK, we’re leaving,’ Regan said.

  ‘Should we shout at it?’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘No. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Definitely not.’

  They backed away, covering the fifty yards to their site in silence, eyes straining towards the bank. The bear didn’t move. But it followed their progress until, eventually, it lost them behind the trees.

  Perhaps it was the adrenalin still running through her from that encounter, or perhaps it was the altitude of the Sierra Nevada, or perhaps it was none of those things; but for whatever reason, Angel found she couldn’t sleep. Long after they had rolled out their beds and switched off the RV’s interior lights, she lay in the darkness next to Hope, listening to her sister’s steady breathing.

  When she heard the motorhome’s side door open, and the subtle shif
ting of the vehicle’s springs that suggested someone had stepped out, Angel rolled onto her side. Their bed was situated in the elevated section above the driving compartment, what Regan’s family called the attic. Beside her head was a tiny curtain drawn across a twelve-inch-high window stretching the length of their mattress. Reaching out a hand, Angel pulled the curtain aside and pressed her face to the glass.

  Below, she saw Ty appear from under the awning above the RV’s door and stroll over to the embers glowing in the fire pit. In one hand he held a bottle of Blue Moon. He took a swig from it, then he reached into the breast pocket of his shirt, pulled out a joint and screwed it into his lips. After spending a few moments lighting it, he took a long pull.

  Oh, Ty. I’m learning something new about you every day, aren’t I? Does Mom know about this, you sly old hippie, you?

  Angel grinned in the darkness, watching as her future stepdad took another hit, breathing marijuana smoke up at the leaf canopy. She was about to drop the curtain back in place and give Ty some privacy when she spotted something else, lurking just beyond the circle of light thrown by the dying camp fire. A movement, in the shadows of the trees.

  Angel frowned, pressing her face closer to the glass. What she saw next made her mouth fall open in surprise. It made no sense, but there could be no doubt. She recognised the cobra-skin boots and the shock of pale hair, luminous in the moonlight. The stranger from the diner was as beautiful out here beneath the stars as she’d been back in the picnic area outside Fresno.

  Ty continued to smoke. The tip of his joint burned a bright orange. He arched his back and rolled his head, like a cat unwinding from a dream. The woman emerged fully from the cover of the trees. She took two steps towards him. Her shadow fell behind her. Away from Ty.

  Angel had begun to breathe faster. She tilted her head to avoid fogging up the glass.

  What’s she doing here? Did she follow us?

  Idiot. Of course she followed us.

  But why? Is Ty screwing her?

  Of course not, you freak. Look at her!

  The woman took another step, closing the gap to only a few yards. Her snakeskin bag hung over her shoulder, the scales shimmering as if the bag were alive and coiling against her torso.

  She was right behind him now. He took another drag, swigged from his beer. And then he turned and faced her.

  The woman’s eyes widened. Even from where she lay, Angel could see the green fire in them.

  Ty exhaled a plume of smoke, like a steam train venting. He frowned, but the corners of his mouth curled upwards, as if both surprised and pleased at the arrival of his guest. He licked his lips.

  The woman in the snakeskin boots reached out a hand to Ty’s face. He flinched away, just a fraction, just for a moment. And then he stopped himself, staring into her eyes. His jaw dropped open.

  Her fingers were long-boned and graceful, the nails painted with a clear gloss. They hovered beside Ty’s cheek, tantalisingly close. Finally, she touched him.

  Angel could not explain what happened next. The instant the woman’s fingertips made contact with his flesh, her legs gave out beneath her and she collapsed into a heap, head smacking against the forest floor.

  Ty stared down at her body. He took another hit on his joint, blew out smoke and flicked the butt into the fire. Then he looked straight at Angel.

  She dropped the curtain back into place and rolled onto her back, gasping. Her heart slammed in her chest.

  Christ, what the hell? What was that? What WAS that? What did you just see, Angel? What the hell did you just see him do?

  She strained her ears, mouth parched of moisture. Now she heard a dragging sound outside, a scuffling. Terrified, but compelled nonetheless to take a second look, she bent her head back to the glass and lifted a tiny corner of curtain, just in time to see the woman’s legs slide around the side of the RV, her snakeskin boots ploughing two black furrows through the pine needles.

  A clunk from the back of the motorhome. The rear baggage storage opening. A thud. The sound of something sliding. The almost imperceptible sagging of their vehicle as it adjusted to a new weight. Angel caught sight of Ty returning.

  She dropped the curtain back in place before he saw her. Lay down on the bed. Gripped the amber necklace in her fist. Prayed. Not for anything particular. Just prayed.

  Oh Lord. Oh Lord. Please. Oh Lord.

  The side door opened. The motorhome dipped as Ty stepped inside.

  Angel heard the door swing shut behind him. Heard the sound of her blood pumping in the darkness.

  CHAPTER 9

  Interlaken, Switzerland

  When Leah pulled back the curtains in her room the next morning she revealed a different world from the one she had relinquished for sleep. Clouds had rolled through overnight, but they were gone now; the sky was the fragile blue of a robin’s egg. In their wake a covering of snow had unfurled across the landscape, bringing with it a startling silence. The air seemed poised, expectant.

  And on Leah’s tongue that sensation was back, a subtle sourness, somewhere between the taste of lemon and olive.

  I was right, she thought. I can sense it. And how wonderful is that?

  The sun was a pinwheel of fire in the east, hanging low in the sky. It infused the morning snow with a copper hue, violet in the shadows. To the south, the three giants of the Bernese Alps appeared unreal – jagged expressions of a Cubist’s art.

  Leah was about to turn from the window when she saw them in the snow, on the balcony outside her room: a double row of individual depressions, each one sinking four inches to the wooden deck beneath.

  Prints.

  They were circular in shape, as if someone had stilt-walked along the balcony wearing tin cans on their feet. But whatever had left these tracks had walked upon four feet rather than two.

  Leah groped backwards through her memory for the image she had glimpsed the night before as she broke the surface of a dream and caught a shape moving beyond the glass. At the time she had barely considered it; a fleeting dream shadow, something that had lingered a while and then faded. Now, staring at the prints, she tried harder to remember. She recalled a dark mass; a blast of condensation against the glass; a jewel-like flickering of deep-set eyes.

  Something else remained of whatever had visited. It clung to the glass at about chest-height: a curving slick of mucus, like a question mark shaped from ghee. Frowning, Leah unlocked the French window and slid the panel of glass sideways along its runners. A frozen slab of air pressed inside, pinching her skin.

  She stepped onto the balcony and gasped as her bare feet plunged into snow. Turning back to the window’s outer pane, she bent closer to the glass and examined the yellowish smear. It was streaked with a darker pigment. Leah reached out, hesitated, then slid a finger through it, grimacing at its cold, gelatinous texture. She raised her hand. Sunlight glimmered on the secretion attached to her finger.

  The stench of it hit her then: a foulness in her airways, lodged deep and clinging. Alive, like a curling slug in her throat. Spluttering, repulsed, Leah shook her head to repel it. Crouching down, she pressed her hand into snow and wiped the residue away.

  She saw something else, then: a hair. It stood straight, trapped against the wall of one of the depressions. After her experience with the mucus she didn’t want to touch it, but she forced herself, plucking it from the snow and holding it up to the light. Close up, it looked more like a bristle than a hair, a serrated shaft of stacked arrowheads, with a pale bulb and a sharp, hard tip. Leah stepped to the balcony’s railing and dropped it over the edge, watching it spiral away.

  She suddenly needed a shower. Needed to scrub her hands, inhale good hot steam and rid the last clutches of that corporeal stink from her nose.

  Afterwards, skin red from its water blasting, she dressed in jeans, checked shirt, jumper and boots.

  Someone knocked at the door. ‘It’s open,’ she called.

  The maid, Ede, slipped into the room. ‘If you’re ready
for breakfast, I’ll take you down.’

  Something different about her this morning, Leah thought. A distance. She watched the woman for a moment and then shrugged, following her out of the room.

  She found her hosts in the first-floor living room, where she had dined the previous evening. A Kutya Herceg sat at the head of the table; his son to his left. The remains of an enormous breakfast lay before them. Silver tureens contained steak, sausages, bacon, black pudding and scrambled eggs. She saw fried tomatoes, hash browns; a bowl of steaming mushrooms; triangles of toast; smoked mackerel and salmon. Splayed out in a fan among the jars of jam, marmalade and pepper sauce lay the morning editions of papers from around the world.

  Ágoston, sitting erect in his chair, was reading the front-page story from Le Monde. Luca Sultés, in contrast, slouched in his seat. He smoked a panatela, the cream smoke snaking up to the ceiling where it hung above his head like a raincloud. Beside him stood a silver coffee pot and a half-drunk glass of grapefruit juice.

  He watched her approach the table. ‘Leah. I trust you slept well?’

  ‘I’ve had better nights.’

  Frowning, he turned to the maid. ‘Thank you, Ede. That’ll be all.’

  A Kutya Herceg folded up his newspaper and laid it down. He examined Leah with lukewarm detachment. ‘My son,’ he said, ‘believes I owe you an apology.’

  She met his eyes, relieved to see that the violence they’d contained the previous night had all but disappeared. ‘What do you believe?’