Читать книгу Dark Shadows - Edmund Glasby - Страница 3

DARK SHADOWS

There were things more dangerous than the men who were after him.

“What the hell!?” Daniel Myers screamed savagely and slammed his foot down hard on the brakes. Tyres screeching, the steering wheel became a living thing in his hands as the car went into a violent spin, the dark blur that had rushed out in front of his headlights leaping into the undergrowth. With a series of bone-jarring bumps, the vehicle careened completely off the road, hit a decline, threatened to upend completely and then crashed down onto all four wheels. Wiry bushes clawed at the windscreen and windows on either side before, with a resounding crunch and the shattering of glass, the car smashed into a tree.

The violent impact threw Myers forward. The seatbelt he was wearing snapped free from its mooring and he was propelled from his seat and flung hard against the windscreen, smashing straight through it as though he had been tugged from the vehicle by invisible ropes. Narrowly missing the tree, he flew, head first for several yards before splashing down into a muddy, weed-choked pool.

Had Myers been unconscious he would undoubtedly have drowned. Bubbling mud from his mouth and nostrils, he painfully raised his head and began gasping for air. Blood trickled from his gashed forehead and yet, miraculously, despite the severity of the crash, he was not that badly injured. Getting to his feet, he winced as he withdrew a nasty-looking shard of glass from his hand.

Suddenly remembering the shadowy thing that had sprung out into the road, he staggered back to the car. It had been little more than a pile of rust when he had stolen it from a side-street in Polski Trambesh, one of Bulgaria’s larger towns, in order to hasten his getaway. Now it was just a crumpled wreck. Streams of black smoke billowed out from under the bonnet. With a fierce tug, he managed to get the driver’s door open. Reaching inside, he opened the glove compartment and took out a small automatic, checked that it was fully loaded, then slipped it into his pocket. He then retrieved from the passenger seat the slim black leather case which contained the secret files.

More than a handful of good men had died for the sake of these documents and he was going to make damn sure that they had not died in vain. There had been terrible moments back in Istanbul when it had appeared that the entire mission was doomed to failure and only he had managed to escape. However, agents from the other side were closing in. Of this he had no doubt. Had he been more cautious in his dealing with the border guards at the Turkish-Bulgarian border he could well have been in Sofia right now, preparing to board a plane bound for London or Paris. Instead, he was embroiled in this fiendish game of cat-and-mouse, trying to pick his way slowly and steadily along the seldom-used back roads. And now look where his plans had got him.

The thought almost broke him in half but he knew it would do him no good to mull over past decisions. He had to get moving. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was just after nine o’clock.

What that thing that had leapt out in front of him had been he had no idea although he was fairly certain that it had not been a human being. Although he had only seen it for a brief, flashing moment there had been something disturbing about its appearance and action. It was almost as if it had intentionally thrown itself into his path in order to cause him to veer off the road, indifferent to its own safety.

An unwelcome chill crept down his spine. Shaking a little, he looked around him, taking in his immediate surroundings, contemplating his next move. It was densely wooded. At the edge of the luminosity provided by the car headlights lay what appeared to be an expanse of marshland, the ground covered by a low lying mist. Dripping trees, covered with net-like growths of trailing weed and glistening, green algae grew on some of the tussocks of firmer ground. From all around could be heard plopping sounds as foul marsh gases belched and bubbled. There was a fetid reek in the air.

Cursing the fact that he was not in possession of a torch, Myers began to claw his way up the slope which had been carved by the car when it had come off the road. There was a jolting pain in his right leg and blood was trickling from his gashed forehead.

Upon reaching the road, he screwed up his eyes, scanning both directions. To his left and right the road disappeared in a black river of midnight, the tall trees that bordered it looming menacingly as though possessed of their own malign spirits. Here, the darkness seemed to lie more thickly, more tangibly, than anywhere else; as if it were a physical thing that pressed down upon him from all sides. He was glad of the automatic in his pocket and closed his fingers tightly around it as he stood there for a moment, deliberating whether to head back or venture on. Unfortunately, his geographical knowledge of this area was virtually non-existent. However, the last settlement he had passed through must have been at least thirty kilometres back and he had seen no other traffic on the road. Something which, initially, he had taken as a blessing but now he was not so sure.

Myers made up his mind quickly. He would set off in the other direction, in the hope that he would soon reach a village or town. If he was lucky, he might be able to flag down a passing motorist, in which case he would not be averse to using whatever violence was necessary in order to commandeer their vehicle.

It was a cloudy night and there was little moonlight and, as Myers set off, he could not dispel the feeling of horror that seeped into his mind. Whether it was due to that strange thing that he had seen earlier or whether it was down to the dark and the overall level of eeriness that seemed to pervade everything, he could not tell. He had to admit that ever since he had fled from Turkey and entered Bulgaria, he had been aware of a certain difference in the general atmosphere of the country. For this was a place that was steeped in the old ways and traditions. The ancient, dark gypsy beliefs and superstitions. To him it was a time-haunted land of mystery and evil in which the Western, modern way of life seemed to hold little sway. Things happened here. Inexplicably terrible things which were mentioned only in hushed whispers by frightened peasants.

With a nervous gulp, Myers plunged on into the darkness. There was nothing else for it.

He had only been going a couple of minutes when it started to rain. At first it was just a few drops but it soon became heavier. A sudden flash of lightning rent the murk asunder, illuminating the great straggling trees on either side. They were of a variety he had never seen before. Thunder boomed ominously in the distance.

Head down, hands thrust deep into his pockets, the leather case clenched tightly under one arm, Myers stubbornly walked on. Grimly, he squared his shoulders and gritted his teeth, his face set in a dripping scowl, his eyes sharp and alert. This had to be the worst assignment he had ever been on and it appeared that things were just going from bad to worse for, without any means of transport, short of his own feet, he was now deep in enemy territory. The more suspicious part of his mind could not help but entertain the idea that this entire mission had been a setup for what should have been a relatively easy task of procuring the secret documents had instead resulted in a bloody shootout necessitating his swift departure from Turkey. It was this belief that gave him the determination to keep going, in the full knowledge that if he were to discover just who was behind this then he would make them pay. Whatever it took.

An inner rage lent him strength and he began to jog, keen now to get out of the rain and find somewhere he could spend the night. He had passed numerous decrepit farmyard barns further back and he hoped that there might be some up ahead.

He stopped briefly in order to tie a shoe-lace. It was then that, back along the road he had travelled, he saw approaching headlights, the dull, yellow beams looking like the eyes of some alien monster. The vehicle was not travelling fast, indeed, as he crouched there watching it, he had the unnerving impression that the occupants were looking for him. Maybe his pursuers had discovered where he had crashed and were now trying to track him down.

Straining his eyes, Myers was sure that whoever was back there had brought the car to a standstill. Then, faintly, he heard the slamming of a door and the revving of an engine. The vehicle began to move towards him once more.

Knowing that there was little time to spare, Myers headed into the undergrowth. His marshy surroundings were hideously dark; a morass of stinking, dank pools on either side. He sank low into a patch of dense ferns, grasping his gun, aware of the heavy thumping of his heart.

The headlights drew closer, accompanied by the spluttering wheeze and the rattling of the approaching vehicle. It sounded as though it were on its last legs. Then it came to stop. A car door was opened, followed shortly after by another one. Two clearly agitated Bulgarian voices could be heard.

Myers knew nothing of the language, however it was fairly obvious that the others were keen to find him and that they would stop at nothing to retrieve the secret files that he had stolen. He didn’t move, well aware that any sound he made would draw their attention. Cold water began to seep into his shoes and he realised with some alarm that he was slowly sinking into the brackish depths. Looking down, he could see that the water was now over his ankles. For some reason this foul dampness seemed to be something other than just a physical thing. It was almost as though the chill was spreading into his very soul.

Accompanied by a stream of harsh words, a beam of torchlight panned over to Myer’s left. Countless seconds passed as he crouched on the damp ground, the horrendous stench of the marsh gases almost causing him to be sick. It seemed as though the mire was oozing over him, attempting to pull him down, to engulf him completely. No doubt men had been lost in these trackless swamps and once beneath these black waters, their bodies would never be recovered.

The voices ceased. With a sense of relief, Myers heard the car doors being slammed shut, the engine started up after several tries, and his pursuers drove off. From the sounds of it, they had decided to go back in the direction from whence they had come. It could be that they had considered it unlikely, given the state of the wrecked vehicle he had escaped from, that he could have got far.

Dragging himself out of the swamp, which was now up to his knees, Myers crawled his way back onto the road. He was soaked and he was stinking, but all that mattered was that he still had the files. He felt a sudden sharp pain in his leg. It was too dark to see things properly, however, reaching down with his hand he felt the slimy wetness of something slug-like adhered to his soaked trouser leg. Whether it was a leech or something else he didn’t know but it had bitten through the thin fabric. Wincing, he squeezed its bloated body between his fingers, pulping it before painfully plucking it free. Running his hands over his lower legs, he brushed off several more which hadn’t as yet latched their puckered mouths onto his flesh.

How much longer would he have to go on before he reached anything that even remotely resembled civilisation? It could be all night. Maybe he would be better off finding shelter somewhere among the trees and resting until dawn. That said, it was highly probable that his pursuers would widen their search for they had no doubt been given explicit orders to find him at all costs. It was just as vital for them to retrieve the classified documents as it was for him to hand them over to his superiors. And he knew from personal experience what failure could mean in this great game of global espionage.

Accompanied by the sound of his squelching shoes, Myers jogged along the road. He was drenched, cold and covered in filth. His sodden clothes clung to him like a sagging, second skin. At least it seemed as though the rain was beginning to slacken.

He stopped. Were those lights up ahead? Rubbing the dampness from his eyes, he peered in that direction. There was no doubt in his mind now. There were lights glowing less than a kilometre away over to his right. They appeared to be static—perhaps house lights. They seemed to be oil lamps as opposed to electric.

It was about time his fortune changed. Surely there would be someone there who could help him—whether willingly or unwillingly. That, of course, was for them to decide, however, removing the automatic from his pocket, he knew just how persuasive he could be if the situation warranted it. If he was lucky there would be a car or truck that he could make use of—some means of escaping from this godforsaken land.

Myers walked purposefully towards the lights. He had only gone several yards when he heard the faint music. He stopped and listened. The almost unearthly quality in the high-pitched whistling and in the wailing screech of violins sawed at his soul. The sound was unlike anything he had ever heard before although he had heard tales of the violently passionate wild gypsy music that the forgotten hillfolk still made. For some reason he could not help but feel that there was an evilness to the frantic playing; something which he couldn’t define but was undeniably there.

Abruptly, the tempo changed and the music became eerily sombre. There was now a haunting, almost unholy edge to it. It was as though a nightmare had been made audible.

Myers was not one to scare easily and yet a ripple of fear threatened to momentarily overcome him. It was widely rumoured that the gypsies of this land; the Roma, the Kardarashi and the Vlach, were a fiercely xenophobic lot and that they held allegiance to none but themselves. They were also rumoured to be highly volatile, as capricious and tempestuous as the wilds from which they originated. If he had plenty of money on him he may have been able to bargain with them, but he knew the price of their assistance would be steep indeed.

Apprehensively, he began to walk forward once more, his nerves tingling. From the sounds of it there was quite a gathering and as he neared he was somewhat dismayed to notice a complete lack of parked vehicles. The building itself was slightly off the road and shrouded in gloom and as it began to emerge, spectrally, from the darkness, he could discern that it was at least three storeys tall with two smaller annexes. There was a general feeling of oddness about its design as though it was the product of some insane architect. He had been threading his way through the backwaters of Bulgaria for nigh on two days now and this was unlike any of the buildings he had seen previously.

Suddenly the hellish music stopped.

After a hasty look over his shoulder, Myers returned the gun to his pocket, ensuring it was within easy reach should things turn nasty. He waited the best part of a minute, still undecided as to whether engaging with these people would be a wise move. Perhaps he was being too paranoid, too cautious, after all it could be that these simple folk would prove to be helpful, providing they could understand anything of what he told them. There was only one way to find out.

The last thing he wanted was for attention to be drawn to the contents of the slim leather case he carried. Looking around, he saw a large tree, at the base of which he cleared away some of the thorny vegetation in order to deposit the secret files. Once satisfied that they were well concealed, he walked up to the main door, turned the handle and went inside.

Twenty or so wary faces turned towards him. They were a miserable and unfriendly-looking lot—their clothes, hands and faces covered in what looked like a month’s amount of grime and dirt from working the fields. Most were short and stunted, long-haired and bearded, their unpleasant faces set in permanent scowls. From the doorway, Myers’ initial reaction was to turn on his heels and make a run for it for there was a blatant animosity levelled at him. He was the outsider and he had dared walk into this social gathering uninvited. Mustering his courage, he defiantly stood his ground and glanced around, taking in his surroundings. The room itself was extremely run-down; the wallpaper peeling away in great flakes, the floor unswept and the black-beamed ceiling sagged noticeably.

It was clear that the building served as a tavern or an inn of some sort for several unsavoury patrons we gathered at a makeshift bar. Others were sat at tables, whilst in one corner a group of bizarre-looking musicians glared at him. There was a fat, drooling imbecile seated at a dust-covered piano and a tall, gangly freak cradling an ancient-looking double bass. Mercifully shadowed, something unsightly with a violin sat huddled in a corner.

There was not a single woman to be seen, which, given the overall level of ugliness of those inside was probably for the best.

A gruff, questioning Bulgarian voice called out from behind the bar.

Myers shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

The man who had spoken stepped forward. “You English, yes?” He smiled in a tight, wintry way, with the smile never reaching his eyes. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a thick, high-bridged nose and eyes set a little too close to it, giving him a mean, crafty look.

Myers nodded. “Yes. I had an accident on the road.” He was becoming increasingly uncomfortable under the disturbing scrutiny he was being subjected to.

The stranger stomped over and grinned, revealing a largely toothless mouth. With what was supposed to be a friendly gesture, he patted Myers painfully hard on the shoulder and steered him towards an empty table. “You need a room? Food and a good drink, yes?” He gestured towards a stool. “You sit here.”

Myers sat down, positioning himself so that he had his back to a wall. Gazing around, he found it hard not to stare back at the gathered misfits. With some level of revulsion, he noted a badly scarred hydrocephalic giggling as he shared his supper with a large rat that squatted at the end of his plate.

“You like soup? I make great soup.” Without waiting for an answer, the innkeeper slouched off behind the bar and went through a door into what was presumably the kitchen.

With some level of relief, Myers noted that he was no longer the main focus of attention. What he needed right now was an opportunity to get out of these wet clothes, take a warm shower and have a good night’s sleep. He was considering the wisdom of asking whether or not there was a room available and thus risk spending the night here when, out of the corner of his eye, he detected someone coming towards him.

It was the gaunt man he had seen with the double bass.

The musician pulled up a stool and sat down. He had a long, drooping moustache, which seemed to dominate his face, although it could not quite detract from the cross-eyed stare that, in its own, strange way, regarded Myers suspiciously. “Nikolai.” He pointed to himself.

“Hello.” Myers tried to smile, to at least present a veneer of friendliness. However, he could not help but feel uncomfortable about all of this. He watched as Nikolai scratched at his moustache. There was a bad stink coming from the other and when the man grinned he revealed a set of front teeth which were sharp and crooked.

Several uneasy minutes passed, neither of the two initiating any conversation. Eventually the innkeeper returned carrying a tray on which rested a mug of beer and a bowl of steaming soup.

Nodding thankfully, Myers started on the soup, pleased to be doing something to break the awkward silence. He spat out the first mouthful. It was truly horrendous, but whereas his displeasure ought to have earned a comment or an apology, it got no reaction whatsoever from the innkeeper. It was almost as though he had expected this.

Flicking a large beetle off the table, the grin on Nikolai’s face widened.

The soup had left a foul aftertaste in his mouth, prompting Myers to take a hearty glug of beer. It was surprisingly nice. Cool and refreshing. He had now made up his mind that as soon as it was finished he would get away from here and its unusual clientele. To hell with staying here the night. He would much rather take his chances out in the wilderness. He took another drink, aware that the innkeeper was watching him speculatively.

And then, over the innkeeper’s shoulder, Myers saw the front door open. Two men in dark black coats stood for a moment, menacingly framed in the doorway. He could tell just from their appearance that they were some of the thugs who were after him. Lowering his head, he tried to look inconspicuous, to melt in with the weirdos.

The enemy agents got the same kind of reception that he had received only minutes before. All eyes turned to stare at them. One of the men in the doorway said something in an authoritative voice.

For one dreadful moment Myers was certain that someone was going to give him away. His fingers tightened on the gun in his pocket, ready to draw it out and start shooting but after a few more words the door was slammed shut and the men were gone.

The innkeeper walked over. “Those men…after you? They say they will be on the lookout for you. Maybe best to stay here tonight.”

“Thanks for not telling them that I was here.” It appeared that Myers had misjudged these people. Clearly looks could be deceptive. Maybe these outcasts felt some kindred spirit for someone on the run from the authorities. “So I take it you have a spare room?” he asked.

* * * *

Myers came awake swiftly and sharply, that part of his mind which had learned never to fully sleep dragging him back to consciousness at the faintest flicker of sound. For a long moment, he lay there on the low wooden bed, searching the darkness with eyes and ears, straining to pick up the sound that had woken him, to identify it and pinpoint its location.

Then it came again—the faint sound of someone moving just outside the door to his room. As always, before going to bed in a strange place, he had left his holstered gun propped by the bedstead, where it could be reached readily. His right hand grasped the butt. Wearing only a rather ragged nightshirt and a pair of breeches which had been loaned by the innkeeper, he rose to his feet, his eyes staring fixedly, almost cat-like, at the door. Hurriedly he put his shoes on.

Myers had locked the door before settling down for the night; a precaution he always took when staying indoors in foreign parts, but from the sounds of it, someone else had a spare key. It turned in the lock and he heard the handle twist. A moment passed before the door slowly creaked open. Through narrowed eyes, he caught a glimpse of the faint light from the corridor outside, shining around the edge of the door. Stealthily, he sidestepped to his right, clinging to the shadows of the room, making for the space behind where the door would open.

The door opened wider and a figure edged inside. He could see it was Nikolai. Cautiously, the man crept in further, his footsteps barely audible. A faint gleam of lamplight on the knife he carried announced his intention—leaving Myers in no doubt that this was something other than a social call. Swiftly, he moved forward and crashed the butt of the automatic down on the skull of his early morning intruder.

Uttering a curse, the man staggered back, falling to his knees under the force of the blow. He lunged forward, arms flailing, head down, pummelling into Myers as he pushed himself upright, catching him before he could crack down a second time. Together they fell back, colliding with a chair and falling to the floor, both the automatic and the knife spiralling out of the melee.

Scrambling to his feet, Myers grabbed the other by the shirt collar and was just about to smash his right fist into the moustachioed face when Nikolai jabbed him in the stomach. There was a dull roaring in his ears and all the wind seemed to rush out of his lungs. An uppercut from Nikolai sent Myers staggering back, his head temporarily swimming.

Nikolai pulled back into the dingy corridor. Hate swelled in his piggish eyes.

Myers had been trained to fight and kill if need be. Both were things he was good at. Springing forward, he caught hold of one of Nikolai’s arms and hauled him close. With his other hand, he reached out and grabbed a handful of unwashed hair. He slammed the head down to meet his rising knee.

Howling in pain, Nikolai tried to break free, smacking two quick-fire jabs into Myers’ ribs, savagely breaking the hold. Then, even as Myers was about to chop down with the palm of his right hand, Nikolai pulled back, spotting the shadowy outline of his knife on the floor. Clambering swiftly over the bed he whisked it up. Myers was on him before he could take a swing, barging him into the wall, crushing the air from him and knocking the blade from his hand. Viciously, he then hauled his attacker to his feet and spun him around, driving his head into the wall before throwing the badly battered man to the floor. For a moment, he considered standing on the other’s throat, but changed his mind and bent down to retrieve his gun. It was that moment’s indecision that allowed Nikolai to act. With a twist of his boot, he tripped Myers up, sending him falling against the bed.

Before Myers could get to his feet, his attacker was on him, punching and scratching. Fighting savagely, the two tore at each other, each seeking to get in the one blow that would assure victory—whether a kick in the groin or a gouge in the eye. Blood streamed from a gash on Nikolai’s forehead and dripped down onto Myers’ face.

Bloodlust lent Nikolai strength. His hands clasped around Myers’ throat, the nails digging in and puncturing the soft flesh. His grip tightened and Myers now began to panic. Desperately, he reached out for anything that might be useful, his fingers tightening around the handle of a ceramic jug. He crashed it down on the head of his attacker, succeeding in forcing the other off. Gasping for air, he groggily got to his feet and half-fell out into the corridor.

With a maniacal scream Nikolai came charging, arms outstretched, curling a little, fingers stiff, as if he already had his foe in the circle of his arms, crushing him in a bear hug. Myers stepped to one side and drove in two solid punches, both landing hard and firm on the other’s jaw, Nikolai’s forward momentum adding weight and force to them. His head danced loosely on his shoulders and his knees began to buckle, took a surge of strength, then went completely as a third jab from Myers burst his nose.

Nikolai slumped to the floor, out for the count.

Rubbing his wounds, Myers went back into the room and retrieved his automatic. So much for Bulgarian hospitality, he thought. Stepping back onto the landing, he froze. Something strange was happening to the man on the ground. He was shaking terribly, convulsing as though he was undergoing an epileptic fit. Squealing like a skewered pig, he started to undergo a gruesome transformation. Greyish-black hair sprouted from his hands and face. His eyes narrowed and turned pinkish. His ears became pointed and his nose became a whiskered snout. His mouth was stretched back, snaggle-toothed incisors emerging from his gums. Inch-long ragged nails tore through the flesh of his fingers.

With a snarl, the thing that had been Nikolai scrambled to its feet.

“Jesus Christ!” Myers stepped back in utter shock. What in God’s name was this?

Hissing its wrath, the thing approached. It was slightly smaller than the human version of Nikolai had been, is back hunched, clawed hands extended, ready to rend.

Myers raised his gun and shot off half a dozen bullets. The force of the slugs knocked the horror back but did not seem to cause any true damage. He had heard stories and seen films of men who had turned into wolves, immune to everything bar silver bullets. Could it be that this was such a creature? He fired twice more, then sprang back into his room and slammed the door to, hastily dragging a chair over and ramming it against the handle.

There came a loud thump on the door and the wood rattled.

Myers had to get out of here. For the moment, his survival instincts were greater than his fear. He dashed for the thick curtains and parted them, lifted the window and looked down.

The door was thumped a second time and one of the wooden boards splintered. With the thing’s third blow its clawed hand smashed through the door.

Myers had no more bullets. Nerves afire, he clambered out of the window, took a hold of the lintel and let himself drop. A second or two later, the ground came up to meet him, the impact jarring through his feet, up his legs and into his entire body. He lost his footing and fell over backwards. For a moment, the pain in his ankles was excruciating, but at least he hadn’t broken anything.

The hideous face was at the window, peering down, snout twitching, its red-rimmed eyes full of hatred.

Gritting his teeth, Myers scrambled to his feet. What the hell was going on? He turned and began limping away into the darkness, his heart sinking as he heard a chorus of angry shouts coming from around the corner of the tavern.

A crowd of dark shapes came into view. Some held aloft flaming brands. There were far too many of them to fight. One of their number rushed forward. He was a thoroughly ugly individual; bearded and with shoulders that were nearly as broad as he was tall. Laughing insanely, he leapt at Myers, tackling him to the ground. Then there came kicks and punches. A black hood was savagely forced over his head and something hard smote against it, knocking him out.

* * * *

“Psst! You. Englishman. Are you alive?”

Myers began to stir. From somewhere within the gloom, he heard a whispered voice, the words heavily accented. Pain crept into his body, letting him know that he was very much alive, although for how much longer, he had no idea. His head ached and it was with a considerable effort and a wrenching of neck muscles that he managed to look to one side. Panic set in as he felt the cold dampness at his back and he realised that he was manacled to a wall; arms outstretched. He saw the flash of torchlight. A moment later there came the sound of a metal gate opening and suddenly a dark figure appeared.

“I don’t know who these people are that have you prisoner and to be honest, I don’t care, but if you don’t tell me where they’ve taken the files I’ll kill you where you stand.”

In the dim light, Myers could see that the man who had spoken was tall and well-built. His black hair was parted down the middle. His features were strong and chiselled, with a jutting jaw and wide forehead. A deep scar ran down his right cheek. He was one of the men whom he had seen enter the tavern; one of those that had been searching for him—one of the enemy agents.

From further back in the shadows came an agitated whisper which prompted the big man to turn around. He responded in Bulgarian before glaring at Myers once more. Menacingly, he drew out a knife, its blade serrated.

“I know where the files are. Get me out of here and I’ll show you.” Myers knew his situation was dire to say the least and that this was his only card left to play. Throughout his career as a professional spy he had not once been captured by the enemy yet he was fully aware of the many means of interrogation that were commonly used. He didn’t think this man was a professional however, rather he was an underling, a bit of hired muscle. If it had been someone with the proper skill and training he would have been in serious trouble.

“Tell me where they are!”

“You’re going to have to get me out of here first.”

The big man held his knife against Myers’ neck. “Tell me or I’ll cut your throat.”

“Do that and you’ll never find them.”

The man’s companion who had been stationed by the cell door skulked into view. He was shorter, timid-looking, bespectacled. His eyes were darting in all directions and it was obvious that he wanted to be gone from this place as soon as possible. He gestured animatedly as he spoke as quietly as he could to the other in his own language, a gun in his hand.

The big man snorted his displeasure at something. He then returned his knife to a belt sheath and turned his attention to the shackles that held Myers. With an audible click, the lock which held his left hand sprang open. The tall thug moved into position and began to pick the remaining manacle. When he couldn’t get it to open, he gave a grunt and with a superhuman effort wrestled it from the wall.

“Thanks,” Myers said coolly. Had he been feeling up to it he might have considered taking a swing at his liberator, using the length of chain that now dangled from his right wrist as a weapon. Before he could make such a foolhardy move, a vice-like hand clamped down on his shoulder and he was roughly steered forward, out of the cell.

The man with the gun led the way along a dank stretch of passage before arriving at a flight of stone steps that went up to a small door. A terrible smell struck the backs of their nostrils, their feet splashing through the small puddles that had gathered on the ground. Rats scurried along the tunnel and Myers couldn’t help but notice the strange way in which the large rodents seemed to be paying acute attention to their movements.

The door on the short landing was opened and in the torchlight Myers could see that he was in a large cavern that looked like an abandoned mine. Heaps of rubble and collapsed roof supports lay on the ground and nearby there was a sprawl of thick and rusty metal chains along with some huge cogs and dented buckets. More chains dangled from the cavern roof. In the centre, some piece of long-forgotten mining machinery lay broken and twisted, its rusted components resembling a giant, upturned, multi-legged insect. Over to their right, a further passage wound its way elsewhere and to their left, a tunnel-like ramp descended into the unlit depths. Directly opposite them, against one wall, was a rickety, wooden ladder.

“Move it!”

Myers was viciously pushed forward.

The smaller Bulgarian stopped suddenly, his eyes wide like those of a frightened rabbit’s behind his thick lenses. He muttered something and pulled a chain with a small crucifix on it from beneath his collar.

Myers knew the other was scared and what was more, given what he had seen Nikolai transform into, he had good reason to be so. He too was frightened. The fear was like an unreachable prickling between his shoulder blades; a cold heat that raised sweat to his forehead. Now that the three of them had stopped he could detect sounds, barely audible sounds, like the burrowing of worms as heard by someone buried alive in a coffin or the fluttering of birds heard by someone drowning in a pool. The sounds grew louder. And now he was sure of both the source and the cause. Rats…scampering up the ramp, streaming from the deeps—a whole pattering, verminous horde, hungry for blood and eager for flesh.

Suddenly, out of the darkness they came—a plague of rats and a dark tide of misshapen grotesques; their faces twisted and repellent, their peasant clothes torn and filthy. Some brandished primitive weapons—sticks, knives and sickles—but most of the score or so were unarmed, their teeth and claws more than compensating. Several hunched, scabrous horrors rushed forward, their hideous faces and whiskered snouts matted with blood and dirt no doubt gathered from a lifetime of looting graveyards and gnawing on corpses.

As one, the three men screamed and rushed for the ladder.

Myers got there first and started to frantically pull himself up. His limbs ached and his mind was a riot of thoughts. The ladder went up maybe forty feet or so, ending at a stout trapdoor lid. Hanging on with one hand, he pushed with all of his might and it mercifully swung open. Pale yellow sunlight bathed the wrecked room into which he scrambled, temporarily stinging his eyes. He turned, tempted for a moment to slam the lid shut on the two ascending Bulgarians. When he saw the gun the shorter man had levelled at him he changed his mind and pulled back further, permitting the other to climb free.

And then came a loud, splintering crack followed by bloodcurdling screams.

Heart thumping, Myers watched as the small man glanced down the trapdoor, noting the way in which the other winced as though he had been a spectator to something extremely gruesome. Myers assumed from the other’s reaction and the noises he had heard, that the ladder had given way causing the big man to fall into the midst of the bestial degenerates. The remaining Bulgarian slammed the wooden lid down. At least those horrors wouldn’t be climbing up.

“Now then, Mr. Myers, let me introduce myself,” the man said, panting from the exertion of the climb. “My name is Dragomir Sarac.”

Myers was thrown by the man’s perfect English and the use of his name.

“The agency I work for is very keen to acquire those files that were stolen from our research station. So much so that I am prepared to make you a deal. Unless you were just—as you English say—‘saving your bacon’ back in the cell, you claim to know where they are. If you hand them over to me I may let you live.” Sarac’s face was as cold as his voice.

“You may let me live?” Myers said incredulously. “I think it more likely that we’re both going to die here.” He found it hard to believe how this man could still be so calm after what had just happened. Right now he couldn’t give a damn about the top-secret data. All he wanted was to get as far from here as possible. There were things under their very feet that had no right to be. Surely even the shadowy world of national allegiance and covert operations went by the wayside when faced with this. They should be uniting to stamp out this abomination, this threat to civilised existence, instead of continuing in their game of cloak and dagger.

“Unlike Krastio,” Sarac crossed himself, “I knew exactly what was going on here. I am of the Roma and we have come to live with such things.”

A fresh wave of unreality pounded at Myers. “You know about these monsters?”

“They are the vrkolak—the shadow men. Vampire-like shapeshifters, creatures born of nightmare. I recognised them the moment I saw them. Even in their human forms they are discernible to one who knows what to look for. Their shadows are darker than yours or mine. It is daylight now and they will not willingly venture outside. For the time being they will retreat to their lairs, bury themselves in their underground warrens. They are as old as the land. Their skeletons are sometimes unearthed, found staked down with iron rods.”

There was a question Myers had to ask. “Why did they take me prisoner? Why didn’t they kill me?”

“Simply because you are very fortunate. Tonight is the night when the moon is at its darkest. It is tonight that you were to be offered to the matriarch of this clan.”

“You knew all this…and yet you still came down to free me.”

“As I said, I want those files. Besides, I have my own protection. The crucifix I carry will keep most of them at bay.”

Myers wanted out of here. The room was becoming oppressive and there was a bad stench rising up through the trapdoor. “Come on then. I’ll show you where I’ve hidden the documents.” With the gun trained on him, he headed for the door, opened it and stepped outside.

The early morning sunlight was weak but welcome. Myers noted with some surprise that he was actually only a couple of hundred yards away from the building which he took to be the tavern from which he had escaped earlier that morning. He had only seen it in the darkness but he was fairly sure it was the one. Parked over to one side he saw a car, no doubt the one in which the two agents had travelled here in.

“Believe me, I won’t hesitate to shoot you,” Sarac warned. “What’s more, I won’t kill you. I’ll just cripple you and leave you here. Leave you here for the matriarch. Think about that before you try anything.”

“How do I know you won’t just shoot me after I take you to them?”

“I guess you’ll just have to take my word.”

“Hmm. Thought as much.” With the manacle still dangling from his right wrist, Myers began walking towards the tree near which he had secreted the black case. As he headed over, he couldn’t help but think that perhaps one of those foul beings had seen him hide it there and had then stolen it. How would he explain that away to Sarac? Thankfully, it was still there. He pointed down at it. “They’re all inside.”

“Get it!” Sarac gestured with the gun.

Carefully, Myers went down on one knee and retrieved the case.

“Now open it. Let me see.”

Myers opened the container, revealing the highly sought after papers.

“Excellent. Now place it at your feet and walk over there.”

Myers knew what was going to come next. This bastard was going to execute him, shoot him dead where he stood. With a cry, he threw the case at the other and leapt to one side, swinging out with the chain attached to his arm. It whipped across Sarac’s hand, knocking the gun to the ground.

Sarac had been disarmed but he now had the case. He clutched it to his chest as he pulled back, staying out of reach of Myers’ swings.

Spotting the fallen gun, Myers crouched down in order to get it. He picked it up, aware that the small Bulgarian had already taken to his heels. The man was fast, sprinting as though all the devils in Hell were after him.

Myers had never been keen on shooting someone in the back but he was prepared to make an exception. He took aim and squeezed the trigger.

The bullet took Sarac in the lower left leg. Limping, he staggered off course. Realising he wasn’t going to reach the car before another shot hit him he half-fell, half-ran towards the tavern door.

Myers fired again, cursing as the bullet smashed into the crumbling white-washed wall an inch above Sarac’s head. A third shot tore into the door. And then his target had disappeared inside.

All was eerily quiet.

Checking the gun, Myers saw that there were three bullets remaining. He now had one hell of a decision to make. Common sense screamed at him to get in the car, hotwire it if the keys hadn’t been left in the ignition and get out of here; or, venture back into that horrible place, kill Sarac and retrieve the files.

Now that he had the time to take notice, he shuddered as he gazed at the decrepit building and its surroundings. Daylight did nothing to mask the fact that this place was evil—it was almost as tangible as the ground beneath his feet or the chill mistiness in the air. Whatever wickedness had been perpetrated in this foul place had left an unholy residue; a lingering trace of vile corruption which, alongside the memories of what he had seen, was enough to make the skin crawl.

Still, he had the gun. And hadn’t Sarac said that these things would stay underground during the day? Maybe the enemy agent was even now lying bleeding to death in the main room, in which case it would only take a minute or two to finish him off and retrieve the papers. Didn’t he owe it to those others who had died back in Istanbul?

Myers cursed. Mustering his courage, he moved forward, gun held out before him as though it were a talisman which would keep the darkness at bay. At the doorway, he could see the main communal area much as he had left it that evening, the tables set as though in readiness for another evening’s gypsy revel—in addition to the odd little bit of abduction, attempted murder and shape-changing skulduggery. Apart from that, it was dark and empty. Fresh blood stains lay spattered on the floor.

He made his way in. In the gloom, he could just make out the bar and the door beyond. To his right, around the corner was where the stairs up to the first floor began. After a brief pause, during which he wrestled the mental image of the dreadful horde from his mind, he made his way over to the foot of the stairs. Looking down, he could see more blood. Sarac had definitely gone this way. Treading carefully, aware of the many shadowy shapes, he edged forward, his body pressed tightly against the wall.

Before him the stairs ascended into the gloom.

Myers found it hard to look up, to push his vision into the darkness. In his mind, he could see the many sets of red eyes that peered out from the shadows.

There came a creak from overhead.

That same cold prickling that he had felt inside the mine crept unwelcomingly up his back. Slowly, he started up the stairs, afraid now that each step would fall on a rotten tread and that he would crash through into a dark cellar where he would soon find himself surrounded by thousands of flesh-hungry monsters.

The sound came again, the unnerving creak of tortured wood. It sounded like either a clumsy step on a loose board or the slow rocking of an old-fashioned chair. This was becoming truly nightmarish. The hand which grasped the gun was shaking and the desire to just turn around and flee was almost overwhelming.

Somehow, Myers kept moving, trying his best to convince himself that there were no bogeymen lurking under the floorboards or grotesques ready to spring out of the dark places.

In the shadowy darkness, he reached the top of the stairs and started along the corridor. The door to the room at the far end, the one in which he had spent the night was wide open. The creaking was coming from this room and it was here the trail of blood led.

What madness drove him forward he would never know. Stepping out into the doorway he peered inside.

Shadows shifted, drawn back towards one corner, as though to conceal further the ragged form that sat huddled in its rocking chair, absently flicking through the contents of the file. It was a horrid thing, an ancient, wizened being, wrapped in a tattered shawl, its greenish, furry arms wiry, its face more shrivelled and rat-like than any of the others—apart from the brass-rimmed pince-nez it had resting on its whiskered snout. Its pink-red eyes were rheumy and burned with an intense malevolence. It was festooned with dusty amulets and terrible gypsy trinkets.

Uttering unholy curses, the matriarch of the vrkolak—a veshtitsi, an ancient, vampire-witch—rose arthritically from her chair.

“God save me!” At point-blank range, Myers fired his remaining three bullets into it. It was only then that he saw the battered and bloody form of Sarac lying in one corner. He was still alive, the impotent crucifix warped and blackened at his feet.

The horror slavered and spat, the bullet wounds closing up and vanishing.

Knowing there was nothing else for it, Myers snatched the file from the fiend’s claws and ran out of the room. Several of the papers went astray but he was past caring. If and when he returned to England he would retire from espionage. Become a postman or something. To think that he would have been offered to this horrendous thing sent an uncontrollable shudder of revulsion through him. He lost his footing and tumbled down the stairs. On hands and knees he crawled out of the tavern into the sunlight dreading at the last moment that he would feel the thing grasp him and pull him back inside; into the shadow-filled interior.

Desperately, Myers stumbled towards the car. He stopped and peered back at the upper storey windows with their thick curtains trying not to imagine what horrible fate lay in store for Sarac. Had there been any bullets left he would have shot the Bulgarian, as an act of mercy. Throwing the case onto the passenger seat, he set about fiddling with the wires. The engine sparked into life and he was reversing out. Soon he was speeding away as yet unaware of the two puncture marks on his neck just below his collar.