Stalking Tender Prey Page 5

  Out on the moors, the traveller sleeps among the rocks, upon the sheep-cropped wilderness meadows. He breathes deeply, his cheek against the earth. And as he sleeps and breathes, he feels. It is like a voice calling his name, this deep resonance that beats through the bones, the flesh, the blood of the moors, the body of the earth. In the morning, he will remember, and he will follow the call. Now, he sleeps and dreams, male and hard against the earth.

  Chapter Three

  Saturday, 17th October, High Crag House, Cornwall:

  Enniel Prussoe sat at his desk, staring at the printout of the message which recently had been displayed on his monitor screen, encrypted information from his electronic mail address. Dim afternoon light streamed in through the stained glass behind him, covering him in muted colours. His high brow was furrowed, his long, slender fingers tapped his lips. Long, dark red hair was contained neatly at his neck in a black towelling band. His clothes were casual but expensive; he looked like someone who should be working for a record company or an up-market advertising agency. His skin was pale, almost translucent, yet his eyes were very dark. He appeared to be a man of thirty, yet was far, far older than that. When he walked the streets of the country’s cities, very few would have been able to tell that Enniel was not completely human. He was Anannage, a son of angels.

  Enniel was very tall, as were most of his kind, but for one or two stunted throwbacks that emerged from time to time. His differences from humanity were not glaring; he did not drink blood, sleep by day, change into something hideous at the full of the moon or kill people unnecessarily. Neither did he possess wings and fly. Contrary to popular, or Biblical, belief, Enniel knew that his forbears had never physically flown across the world with messages from Heaven. Sometimes, they had worn the wings of vultures upon their shoulders, and in shamanic trance had coursed the astral planes like birds. But the journeys had always been psychic rather than actual. Over the centuries, through the writings and oral traditions of ignorant peoples, the myths had changed and history had mutated into symbols. The history of the Grigori was wrapped in mummifying layers of symbols. Irritating human scholars insisted on trying to unwrap the layers, but the Grigori confounded their efforts. Whenever the academics and archaeologists got too close, the authorities of the Eastern countries in which they were working would mysteriously revoke their permits or war would commence. Iraq had been successfully closed to Western study for years, which, as Enniel knew, was the cradle of civilisation where the Grigori had been created and the secrets of pre-history still lay concealed in buried cities. Sacred sites were being destroyed all the time, their damning knowledge broken up and fragmented. Gone were the meticulously kept records and chronicles of the Anannage, the first angels who had appeared in this world and changed the course of human history. The inventory of the cultivation programmes of the Garden in Eden: gone. The details of the diaspora, when the rebel Anannage, with their human consorts and hybrid children, had fled to all corners of the earth: gone. All that survived were the legends of the fallen angels, who had bred with human women and spawned races of monsters and giants. The ‘monster’ families had been called many names: Nephilim, Rephaim, Zamzummim, Anakim. Of them all, Anakim had been the most fearsome — the outcast demon face of the giants — and nowadays the term was used to indicate the most unpredictable and troublesome Grigori individuals.

  Living amongst humans, the descendents of the ancient rebel angel families had renounced the old names and although they shrank from calling themselves Anannage, the Mesopotamian term for their forbears, they had adopted Grigori, from the Greek. They knew they could not call themselves Anannage; the pure blood-strain had been diluted and polluted with human genetic material. Still, some Grigori still yearned to reclaim their original status.

  The stories of Grigori history sought deliberately to confuse and confound, with their myriad terms and permutations, found in many corners of the world. What remained of the truth still lay in darkness in the most inaccessible places: in the chambers beneath the sphinx, in the tombs of kings, hidden beneath tons of sand, in deep, lightless caves in the high mountains of Zagros. The Grigori left it there, let it sleep, confident of their control of human affairs. The ancient paintings of the bird-shamans, with their ceremonial wings and the details of their rituals would forever remain buried beneath desert sands.

  The main difference between Enniel and humanity was his knowledge, for he and his people remembered far more than humanity did. Pre-history was not a mystery to Enniel. He knew the answers to the puzzles of the Pyramids, the secrets of the stars, the historical information concealed within all the ancient myths. In his mind lay all the wonders of the true magic, the oldest magic. Using it was no more unusual to Enniel than turning on a TV was for most humans. And he hardly aged. This was perhaps an inconvenience at times, for the Grigori had always liked to walk unseen among the little people of the world, the unawakened, the ignorant. Still, over the centuries, they had learned to shape their flesh to a degree and could disguise their longevity. Deaths could be faked, new relatives produced at will. There were also other tools that Enniel’s people had at their disposal to shroud their existence.

  Enniel was a member of the Parzupheim, the worldwide governing body of the Grigori families, which as well as controlling the affairs of its own kind, held significant interests in human commerce. Grigori money fuelled many corporations. Juntas rose and fell on the strength of Grigori wealth. Perhaps because of their long lives, Enniel’s people had a passion for making money, gambling with it and being creative with it. They liked to inject affluence into certain floundering societies, or cause financial famine in others. Theirs was the world of wheels within wheels, the laundering of money, arms dealing and drug trafficking.

  Enniel’s working day consisted mainly of talking on the phone and using the Internet, making data fly around the world, changing the future. The Grigori had taken well to the advance of human technology. In this respect, they regarded the little people as their workers, the ones who could get their hands dirty inventing and building. Grigori merely took advantage of the finished products. Their own evolution was geared more towards spiritual matters.

  Enniel likened his occupation to the fluttering of the hypothetical butterfly’s wings, which in Chaos Theory, could cause a hurricane half way around the world.

  Today, however, the instantaneous dance of data had caused Enniel only consternation. The message was emphatic, spoken straight from the inner chambers of the Parzupheim: track down the Anakim, contain him. It is time for us to intervene. Enniel did not want this responsibility. He sensed the unpredictable nature of his prey, and knew that his capture would involve unwelcome and incalculable consequences.

  Drawing in his breath, Enniel screwed up the printout, transferred it to an ashtray and set fire to it with the onyx lighter that stood next to his monitor. He watched the flames devour the paper into a curl of diminished blackness, then stood up and paced around his study. The room was large, opulent, filled with the curios of dead nations, which were unspeakably valuable. Enniel picked up a statuette of an ancient Sumerian demon, its detail worn away until only a suggestion of its features remained. Enniel weighed it in his hands, considered hurling it against the high stone fireplace. If only other evils from the past could be so easily destroyed.

  The end of the millennium approached, and, as all high-ranking Grigori had suspected and feared, momentous and inevitable changes were preparing to occur. Planets and stars slid towards their inexorable positions in the heavens, influencing the political climate upon the earth, and the lives of those who lived there. And as with the butterfly of Chaos Theory, sometimes it was something small and fluttering that initiated the greater changes. The beating of tiny wings, growing and growing, like a shadow play upon the world, until there were mighty pinions sweeping hurricanes of transformation from pole to pole. Far better then, if one was to stem the changes, to press a thumb against the helpless butterfly and squash it flat. Or el
se, the pretty insect could be netted and transferred to a sealed jar, where the beat of its wings could have little effect. The jar could be opened occasionally when the winds of change needed to be invoked, but anything other than that was unthinkable.

  Enniel replaced the statuette upon its table. No, the insect must be netted, the power of its wings analysed and channelled.

  The Parzupheim intended to do just that. They believed they were acting in the best interests of all the creatures upon the earth. Whilst they might play with humanity, they also felt they should be responsible for the little people and endeavour to protect them whenever possible. In any case, a world without toys would be a terribly dull place.

  Enniel knew that one of his wards, the artist Aninka Prussoe, was currently waiting to see him. He could feel her presence in the front hall of the house, her tension, her nervousness. Enniel had summoned her to the house to interview her about recent events in Cresterfield, where she lived. Aninka had no idea what she had become mixed up in, poor child. Neither did Enniel have any intention of enlightening her too fully. She would not understand the implications, and might prove obstructive to his aims. The problem with so many of the young, Enniel thought, was that they foolishly considered the past should be abandoned and forgotten. They wanted the fast, colourful world of humanity, its trivialities and surface gloss. They were glamorised by it all. Aninka, courted by the artistic world because of her talents (a gift of her heritage, though she chose to ignore it), was perhaps one of the worst examples. Maturity would bring common sense, Enniel knew. She could not maintain her heretical beliefs for centuries, when her inhuman condition would force her to seek the asylum of her own kind, but in the meantime she insisted on playing the role of the rebel child, transforming herself into a beacon for the spirits of corruption. Enniel was annoyed by this, for now was too delicate a time for maverick Grigori to be charging about the world. They would be gathered up and used by the powers that instigated change, the powers of time. For this reason, Enniel would coax Aninka’s story from her and then use her as a lure to capture his prey.

  As he sauntered back to his desk to call a member of his staff on the intercom so that Aninka could be brought to his study, Enniel’s eyes were drawn to a tapestry hanging upon the wall, half-hidden in the shadows cast by the long curtains beside the coloured window. The tapestry had been designed by a famous Pre-Raphaelite painter in the early part of the century, but its existence was not proclaimed in any catalogue of the artist’s work. It depicted one of the ring-leaders of the original Anannage rebellion standing in a field of corn, dressed in a robe of white and gold: Shemyaza, the beautiful seducer, whose lust had caused the downfall of his race. Enniel thought he detected a smugness hovering around the ascetic yet sensual features.

  Thought you could be rid of my influence? Fool! You are wrong to think I would leave you in peace. Why should you prosper while I suffer?

  Shemyaza had been punished severely for his actions, and in the myths of the Grigori, he suffered eternal torment, his soul held in limbo, neither in this world nor the next. Still, his spirit prevailed in the hearts of those considered Anakim, and their followers. Trouble-makers, fired by the frustrated bitterness of Shemyaza’s hatred.

  Enniel was a powerful man, and he had powerful allies, but still he feared the task he had been given. He knew powers existed that were greater than the combined might of his people, and in the forthcoming chase, the prey might well turn and devour the hunters.

  Aninka Prussoe knew she was being kept waiting on purpose. The hall of the old house was dark and silent, but for the ticking of the grandfather clock under the stairs. A wash of green and ruby light fell down the stairs onto the black and white tiled floor from the stained glass windows above the first landing. It was like a museum, or a mausoleum. The grim, reclining angelic effigy of grey stone against the wall did nothing to dispel the gloomy atmosphere. Once, she could have wandered into one of the parlours, or the library, to amuse herself until her guardian, Enniel, had the time and politeness to see her. Now, she felt like a visitor, and the hall kept her at bay. Only once Enniel had accepted her presence could she feel comfortable roaming the house.

  Aninka stood up, and paced across the hall, her high heels staccato and echoing against the tiles. She peeled off her long black kid gloves and slapped them against the palm of one hand. She was nervous. Last night, at her cousin Noah’s in the north, she had somehow managed to fire herself up again. She’d convinced herself she must speak honestly to her guardian about her part in the atrocity which had taken place in Cresterfield. Now, entombed by the silence of his oppressive house, she wondered whether she had been right. Wouldn’t he scorn her for her involvement, chastise her stupidity? She was not the guilty party, but she was afraid she’d be sent from this place feeling as if she was. She so rarely returned to the house since she’d left it as a teenager to attend university in the city. The release had been euphoric. Not until she’d escaped had she realised how oppressed she’d been within its walls. Enniel had not rebuked her absences at family celebrations, but alone in her room in the city, she’d sensed the condensed activity going on back home, the space where her soul should be in the collective gathering. In some ways, she knew she could never really be absent. In her dreams, they summoned her, and she went there, denied of choice. It was easy to believe she’d adopted the life beyond the family, free of all it implied. In truth, her ‘real life’ could only ever be a sham, something she could play at until time decreed she must seek the sanctuary of the enclosing walls once more. Enniel let her play; he indulged her — and her cousins, most of whom had fled to immerse themselves in the hustle of mundane life. They were all still bound to him, and knew it. Perhaps she should have sent an occasional letter, she thought.

  Someone came through the curtains that obscured a corridor ahead of her. Soft-footed, politely distant and utterly correct. Her guardian’s apprentice. They called him a bottelier, more commonly known as a butler. ‘Austin,’ she said. ‘I’ve been here nearly twenty minutes!’

  The bottelier bowed. He was a tall man, apparently of early middle age, severely handsome, his steel grey hair held in a knot at the nape of his neck. Aninka was only an inch or so shorter than he. ‘Apologies, Miss Aninka. Mr Enniel has been on the phone.’

  ‘Is that any reason to leave me sitting here in the hall like a stranger?’

  ‘With respect, Miss Aninka, that was your choice. This house is your home; you were free to wait where you liked.’

  Aninka could not respond. The old devil knew only too well how she felt. ‘Well, take me to him, then. Let’s not drop the formalities.’

  Austin led the way into the corridor. Beyond the curtain, no natural light shone. Peacock lamps illumined the hallway only dimly, their ancient coloured glass too thick and rheumy to provide much brilliance. Here the floor was carpeted, and the smell of cedar wood was strong. How long was it since she’d last visited: three years, four? Childhood memories came back with startling clarity. The feel of the ancient plush against small, bare feet. She knew the feel and the character of each goblin carving on the wall panels. Every one of them had experienced her childish, exploring hands. She had named them too: Aster, Colly, Sarry-bun.

  The corridor ended at a T-junction where a woman in black was seated in a high-backed chair before an imposing double doorway. Beside her was a table, highly polished, which supported a florid bowl of carnations, deep red, almost unnaturally so. Aninka repressed a shudder. ‘Good morning, Aunt,’ she said. The woman neither responded, nor even acknowledged Aninka’s presence. Her face was white, her eyes dark and staring. She did not look mad, merely contemplative. She had the ability to make anyone feel like a ghost.

  Austin knocked politely on the double doors and then slid them apart. Aninka drew in her breath and marched through the aperture. The doors whispered shut behind her.

  Enniel had positioned himself against the window of stained glass. This was the famous peacock window; th
e tail was fully seventeen feet across. The body of the bird changed into a serpent; it had a serpent’s head. Enniel was relaxed. He could have been Aninka’s age.

  ‘Good of you to see me, Enniel,’ Aninka said. ‘You must be busy.’ She wanted to be sarcastic, but failed.

  ‘Not as busy as you, presumably,’ he answered silkily, ‘seeing as you so rarely have the time to visit me.’

  It could easily become an argument. Aninka refused to be drawn in. ‘Well, after Noah called you, I knew I’d have to see you. I feel it’s urgent we talk.’

  Enniel gestured towards a bulky leather sofa at the side of the room. Beside it, a tray of tea things waited on a spindly table. All was prepared. ‘Please, sit down.’

  Aninka perched herself precariously on the edge. She wanted to appear at ease, but it was difficult. Echoes of previous visits marred the atmosphere. Ghosts of her own raised voice could be heard in the dark tapestries upon the panelled walls. She found her hands were clutching each other in her lap. Enniel slid down beside her and set about pouring her a cup of tea, Assam, his preferred brew.

  ‘So, there has been a spot of... unpleasantness,’ he began. She was relieved he did not intend an overture to their interview of questions about her life, her friends, her career. Normally, he wanted to put all that under minute inspection.

  ‘Thank you for getting me out of a mess,’ she said. ‘I was... perhaps unwise in my choice of friends.’

  ‘Do not chastise yourself, my dear. What’s done is done. Nobody blames you.’ He handed her the tea in a large ancient cup, decorated with delicate enamel paintings of dragons. The cup wobbled unevenly upon its saucer. She took it.

  ‘I want to tell you how it happened, then you can judge for yourself. I’ve been living in Cresterfield for a couple of years, as you know...’