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 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? 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 spoke to her, which was also deadspeak and felt far more natural: ‘Ma, I’m in a mess.’