Brian Lumley Necroscope 05 Deadspawn

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Except that would be hard enough in itself without the current recalcitrance
of the Great
Majority . . . and the knowledge or at least strong suspicion that E-Branch
was gearing itself for war . . .
and the fact that despite all of this Harry had determined to bring a certain
fiend to justice but first must find him.
Previously he would have been able to work out a logical system of approach,
like writing down an order of priorities. But his mental confusion and the
weariness it produced obfuscated, so that while he was aware of the passage of
time and of forces mobilizing against him, still he felt incapable of rising
above and proceeding beyond his personal miasma. Which in turn brought
frustration, more anger, and the first gale warnings that his whirling,
gusting emotions craved physical release.
Like an alien autism incapable of self-expression, Harry could feel his
violence lying just beneath the surface.
His violence, yes, for the vampire in him was neither violent nor
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Brian Lumley - Necroscope 5 - Deadspeak emotional: it merely amplified these
properties in its host.
Perhaps most frustrating of all, he knew that none of the things he was doing
- or would do if he felt capable -was of the slightest importance to his own
personal survival. Another in his position might seek to change his identity,
find a safe place, extricate himself permanently from all dangerous sources
and focuses.
Or would he? Would he even be able to? For as Harry had pointed out to
Pythagoras, the world is a small place.
And by definition any other in Harry's position would likewise be Wamphyri and
territorial. This was his world; this house not far from Edinburgh was his
house; especially his thoughts and actions were his territory -most of them,
most of the time - at least when others weren't snooping on them.
Yesterday he had gone to the ruins of the Castle Ferenczy and spoken to
Bodrogk the
Thracian. Bodrogk was too recent a friend to have known Harry before the start
of his transition; he accepted him for what he was now. Also, Bodrogk was
fearless and in any case could not possibly fear the Necroscope, nor for that
matter any other living man. His dust, and the dust of his wife Sofia, was
scattered to the winds and only their spirits remained in the Carpathians now.
They were quite beyond earthly harm.
The subject of Harry's inquiry had been the composition and proportions of the
chemical ingredients of Janos Ferenczy's necromantic potions. He would
retrieve Trevor Jordan and
Penny Sanderson from their 'essential salts' only if he could bring them back
perfect or as close to perfect as possible. Bodrogk, because he had been
subjected to just such experiments, was an authority. Even so, he'd inquired
at length into the Necroscope's purpose before passing on the necessary
information.
And so today Harry had been ready to become a true necromancer in his own
right, and would have proceeded . . . but at the last moment he'd felt that
twinge, that covert tweaking at the corner of his mind, which had warned him
that Geoffrey Paxton was close by and watching him. Knowing that Paxton was
seeking to prove just such unnatural activity in him, Harry had been obliged
to postpone the experiment. And then, barely able to control his rage, he'd
spoken to Darcy Clarke at E-Branch HQ.
It had come as a relief to know that Paxton wasn't Darcy's man; but if not
his, whose?
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Maybe Darcy would find out and let him know, and maybe not. And in any case
what odds? For Harry knew that sooner or later Darcy and the others must all
join forces against him. The hell of it was that the boss of E-Branch had been
a good friend, once. The
Necroscope couldn't see any way that he would ever be able to hurt Darcy. But
how to explain that to the thing inside him?
At two in the afternoon Harry had sat quite still in his study and 'listened'.
But his vampire awareness was still a fledgling thing and he'd detected
nothing. Or maybe he had: the very briefest wriggle of something on the
outermost rim of his perceptions. Whatever, it was suspicious enough that he'd
put back his experiment yet again, then rammed his wide-
brimmed hat on to his head and gone outdoors to talk to his mother.
Now, sitting on the crumbling river bank, Harry dangled his legs and looked
down into the gently swirling water which had been Mary Keogh's grave for most
of his life, and let his deadspeak thoughts reach out to her. Since there was
no one here to see him, he simply
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Brian Lumley - Necroscope 5 - Deadspeak spoke to her, which was also deadspeak
and felt far more natural: 'Ma, I'm in a mess.'
If she'd answered: 'So what's new?' he would understand; it seemed he was
always in a mess. But Mary Keogh loved her son as all mothers do, and death
had not diminished that.
Harry?
her voice seemed very faint now, very distant, as if she'd been washed away
downriver along with her physical shell.
Oh, Harry, I know you are, son.
Well, and that was only to be expected. He'd never been able to hide anything
from his Ma, who had warned him often enough that there are some things you
daren't get too close to.
This time he'd let himself get too close. 'Do you know what I'm talking
about?'
There's only one thing you can be talking about, son, (she sounded so sad, so
sorry for him).
And even if you hadn't come to speak to me, still I would know. All of us
know, Harry. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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