Lumley, Brian - The Lost Years Volume 2

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A SOFT SOUND, AS OF SOIL CRUMBLING, BEHIND HIM ... The thing would sneak up on him. Oh so slowly,
Daham Drakesh turned his head on its scrawny neck and looked back and down. A mound of dirt was
forming, pushing up from the loose, lumpy floor. And in a moment a small eruption, when a leprous
grey-green tentacle or pseudopod pulsed up into view. It thickened, swaying like some weird
subterranean cobra, and formed a rudimentary eye in its tip. What the thing saw, if it 'saw' or
'recognized' or 'remembered' anything at all in the accepted sense of those words, Drakesh
couldn't say. But what it sensed was food! The food in his lap ... or perhaps Drakesh himself. The
tentacle thickened more yet, and he felt a creeping, shuddering, threatening motion in the earth
all around. Then the eye dissolved, reforming into faceless gaping jaws and twin rows of
nightmarish teeth! The swaying increased, the earth trembled violently, and the drooling jaws came
ever closer. The thing was on the point of striking when Drakesh turned abruptly towards it - -
And smiled... !
EPILOGUE Harry Keogh is a young man in another man's body: his mind has reanimated the brain-dead
Alec Kyle. Recently he has had to get accustomed to the idea - to the feel and looks of his new
self - which would be problem enough without the additional complications of being Harry Keogh.
For Harry is the Necroscope, the man who talks to dead people in their graves! Moreover, employing
the formulae of the long-dead mathematician and astronomer, August Ferdinand Mobius, he has
learned the secret of instantaneous travel in space and time. He's a teleport But since his
'death' and metempsychosis the Necroscope's problems have been unending. His wife, Brenda,
traumatized by past events and faced with the prospect of life with a total stranger,' has taken
their infant child and vanished off the face of the earth. The agents of E-Branch - the British,
London-based ESPionage agency Harry worked for - cannot find her, and despite his skills Harry,
too, is at a loss as to Brenda's whereabouts... or perhaps not He knows his son's powers are at
least as great as his own. It is possible that the baby has taken his mother and hidden her away.
But where? In order to devote himself to the search, Harry has left E-Branch and returned to his
home outside Bonnyrig, near Edinburgh, Scotland. Unknown to him, however, Darcy Clarke, Head of E-
Branch, has taken certain measures to ensure the Necroscope's unique skills can't be put to use by
alien powers. For British E-Branch isn't the only parapsychological intelligence organization in
the world: Red China and the Soviet Union have long followed similar lines of research and run
similar covert agencies. Clarke couldn't simply let Harry walk, and take a chance that he wouldn't
be recruited or coerced by some foreign agency or criminal organization. Indeed, the Necroscope's
wife and baby may well have been stolen away by such an agency! Which is why, before Harry left E-
Branch, Clarke had him drugged, hypnotized, and his mind seeded with post-hypnotic commands
forbidding him to divulge or display his powers to anyone else. That was three and a half years
ago. In some ways Clarke's scheme has worked out in Harry's favour; in others it has added to the
complications of his rehabilitation, his coming-to-terms with the weirdness of his situation... In
Scotland, lonely and plagued by nightmares - residual 'echoes' of Alec Kyle's precognition,
inexplicable glimpses of future events -Harry has developed a romantic relationship with Bonnie
Jean Mirlu, 'a wrong-headed girl" who helped him out of trouble on a case in London. With a staff
of attractive girls, B J. runs a wine bar in a seedy area of Edinburgh. But the bar is a front,
and B J. Mirlu is more than she seems. In fact she is a two-hundred-year-old vampire thrall who
all her life has kept watch over an ancient horror from a monstrously alien parallel world. Her
Master is Radu Lykan, whose lair is an inaccessible cavern complex in the high Cairngorms. Waiting
out his time in suspended animation - as he has waited for six centuries - Radu is Wamphyri! The
first of the Wamphyri were banished into our world almost two thousand years ago. There were four
Nonari the Gross Ferenczy, the Drakul brothers, and the dog-Lord Radu Lykan, a werewolf. And they
brought with them a blood-feud that was already hundreds of years old. But our world was different
Its teeming tribes were warriors who had their own bloodwars, in which the Wamphyri might easily
get caught up and crushed. It was a far cry from their home world, where they had only one real
enemy - themselves! At first they failed to adjust; the times were many when they came close to
extinction, before learning the golden rule for survival: that longevity is synonymous with
anonymity. Then, gradually, they began to blend in. With their metamorphism it wasn't dif ficult
to play the roles of men; in their own world they had been men before they were Wamphyri! Now they
must be men again, find positions best-suited to their skills, use them to build their power-bases
in this new world. So the banished vampire Lords went their diverse ways. They became sparing in
the dissemination of their evil; they chose their egg-sons carefully and made fewer bloodsons.
Mainly they settled in remote areas, and kept themselves secret from the affairs of men. The
Drakuls built their redoubts (or aeries) intheTransyhranian Mountains, where in nine hundred years
they became powerful Boyars. Nonari Ferenczy fled east from the dog-Lord Radu Lykan; he changed
his name, became a citizen of Rome and eventually the Governor of a small province on the Black
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Sea. He got vampire sons out of comely slave women; these made fives of their own in the gloomy
east-facing mountains, which Asiatic invaders were loath to climb. Generally the Drakuls and
Ferenczys would remain covert in their ways; they desired that the legends arising out of their
earlier days on the Danube and the wooded hills of Dacia - terrible legends of blood-sucking
beasts and loping man-wolves - be forgotten by men in the wake of all the bloody wars that had
washed across those parts. And in the main they were forgotten. But as for Radu Lykan: With that
of a wolf in him, he was the wild one. Initially Radu ignored the tenets of the rival Lords - he
would not hide himself away but go out in the world, become a mercenary, revel in the reek and
roil of warfare! Which he did with tremendous enthusiasm. And as the other vampire Lords
established themselves in their various places, Radu and his pack became warhounds caring nothing
for isolation or anonymity but lusting after the spoil of sacked cities. They fought as
mercenaries for personal gain - as well as for the sheer joy of it! - under human warlords whose
knowledge and skill in battle was varied far beyond that of any vampire Lord in the world of
Radu's origin. Thus he became an artful warrior in his own right But eventually, following an act
of human treachery, Radu knew it was time to take stock. Returning to Romania, the dog-Lord
determined to isolate himself in a mountain 'den.' Except he must find a livelihood, and the only
way he knew was by the blood which is the life. Wherefore he built an aerie, and set himself up as
Voevod - a warlord protector - to the mountain-dwelling peasants of the eastern Carpathians. But
the Drakuls, long-established in the western arms of the Carpathian horseshoe, knew his plan. They
swept down on him to murder him and destroy his manse. Radu wasn't to house; but when he returned
and saw what was done... he knew who to blame. There was nothing he could do about it; yet again
his pack had been decimated, and Radu hadn't the manpower to fight back. But at least the Drakuls
had shown their true colours, and from now on Radu would know where he stood with them. Indeed, he
had always known, but this was in effect the first actual 'declaration' of war. A bloodwar, aye!
Down all the centuries from that time forward, no quarter would be given or expected by the rival
Wamphyri factions. Drakuls and Ferenczys, their descendants and thralls, Radu and the pack: they
formed a far-flung triangle of mutal animosity, of a hatred and loathing far beyond the passions
of any merely human adversaries. From time to time they might come into contact - though usually
they would find it prudent to avoid one another - but in the right place at the right time......
Blood win out And blood will be let out! Keeping his band small and fighting in many of the
ancient world's great battles, Radu went on as a mercenary. When times allowed he would return to
Romania, which he considered a home of sorts. But he knew that the Drakuls continued to Lord it in
the mountains, and that his worst enemies, the Ferenczys, were still abroad in the world. He
begged of his mistress moon that eventually he would meet up with them to right the wrongs they
had worked against him. And in a way - though not entirely as he had wished it - his prayers were
eventually answered... Time went by; the world changed; a new terror came ravaging from the east
No conquering Mongol horde this time, but a horde of rats! The Black Death had come to Europe -
and vampires as well as entirely human beings were dying from it In the Vampire World there'd been
only one human disease that the Wamphyri feared: leprosy, which infected their metamorphic flesh
faster than their leeches could repair or replace it. Now in this world there was another. It
seemed grotesquely ironic: that where the Wamphyri were the greatest parasites of all, this plague
was spread by the very smallest - the fleas that infested the Asiatic rats! The last Drakul (Egon,
a Starside original) lived in Poland for the duration of the terror, Poland suffered little or no
plague mortality. As for any remaining Ferenczys: at least one may have seen out the plague years
on some easily-defended island, for at that time they were powerful in the Mediterranean. But Radu
Lykan was ever the mercenary, the adventurer and wanderer. And he was caught out in the open.
Fleeing west through a panic-stricken, plague-ridden Europe, Radu was attacked, wounded, and
infected with the plague. Overburdened with Radu's strenuous physical life-style and the disease
in his blood both, his parasite grew weak and began to Ml him. So that by the time he and the
survivors of his pack reached Scotland, he felt exhausted and had but one recourse. For a long
time the dog-Lord had pondered the preservative, perhaps curative powers of resin. Now he would
take refuge in a resin 'tomb,' immerse himself in a great vat of the stuff, and place his trust in
the tenacity of his leech. Relieved of some of its burden, his parasite would have an opportunity
first to cure itself, then to work on him. And it would have ample time in which to perform its
duties. Radu had a skill other than his hypnotism and mentalism; he was a server on future times,
which he glimpsed in oneiromantic dreams. Scanning the future, however, is a dubious art The
events witnessed may not come to pass exactly as foreseen. But the one thing Radu 'saw' quite
clearly was the duration of his planned 'sleep' - more than six hundred years! It came as a blow
at first but as the dog-Lord got weaker so he resigned himself to the idea. In the high Cairngorms
he prepared a lair and set watchers over it; when all was done, he consigned himself to the
resin... That was then and this is now. The centuries are flown and the time is right; Radu will
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return. Except first he awaits the coming of a certain 'Mysterious One' - a 'Man-With-Two-Faces' -
whom he has scried close at hand in the imminent hour of his resurgence. And B J. Mirlu has
brought just such a one to her Master's attention: the Necroscope, Harry Keogh. Radu communicates
telepathically with B J. from the resin vat in his Cairngorms hideaway. When she attends him, they
converse as if he were up and about He has ordered her to present Harry at her earliest
opportunity. He wants to know the Necroscope's mind, to see if this is indeed the man of his
dreams of the future. But Radu is not merely curious. Since his mind is mainly 'divorced' from his
physical body by virtue of his long period of suspended animation, he cannot be sure that his body
is fit and well and that his leech has beaten off his disease. However, and even in a worst-case
scenario, he believes he may still survive resurgence by use of metempsychosis: mind transference -
to the body of Harry Keogh. In which event the Keogh identity would be entirely subsumed, and
Harry would be Radu! Bonnie Jean knows Radu's plan and is in two minds about it Soon to be
Wamphyri hi her own right - if indeed she has not already 'ascended' - she would have Harry for
herself. For the moment, however, she is under Radu's spell no less than the Necroscope is under
hers. She must obey her Master, even though her every fibre cries out against it Perhaps if she
knew Harry's history, his esoteric skills, she would be of a different mind. But she can't know,
for despite that BJ. is a powerful beguiler, second only to Radu himself, E-Branch got to the
Necroscope first Even twice-hypnotized he is forbidden to reveal his talents. Radu's hypnotism, on
the other hand, is of a different order. It is possible he can even use it to enter Harry's mind.
Indeed, to achieve metempsychosis he will have to do just that! Thus Harry's secrets may yet be
discovered... Radu is not the only Great Vampire who survived the turbulent centuries. The only
original, yes, but not the last On Tibet's Tingri Plateau, Daham Drakesh, a Drakul, is the self-
proclaimed High Priest of a monastery where he is breeding an army of vampire thralls. Ostensibly
he is in league with a parapsychological unit of the Chinese Red Army, based in Chungking. But in
a region as desolate and inaccessible as the Roof of the World, Drakesh is left much to his own
devices. He knows that Radu Lykan is still 'alive,' and that hell soon return as a power in the
world. Drakesh emissaries, vampire disciples, are searching for Radu's lair, to destroy him before
he can re-establish himself. Likewise the last Ferenczys, twin brothers, have risen to the status
of Dons of Dons in Sicily. They are not part of the Mafia as such, but they are 'advisers' to the
heads of all the Families on a world-wide scale; also, they are part-time advisers to the KGB, the
CIA, and other intelligence organizations. Their 'oracle,' the source of their information, is the
vastly mutated Angelo Ferenczy - great-grandson of Nonari the Gross! Some three hundred years ago
Angelo's parasite suffered a metabolic breakdown; his metamorphism overran him, reducing him to a
freakish, lunatic Thing who is now confined to a pit under Le Manse Madonie, a Villa' in the
Sicilian mountains of the same name. His bloodsons, Anthony and Francesco, feed him, extorting the
information that keeps them in business. For, paradoxically, Angelo's vampire talents have been
enhanced by his disorder; he is a server and seer of extraordinary power. Being Wamphyri, however,
and mad, Angelo's solutions, his answers, are seldom direct he obfuscates and plays word-games to
keep his bloodsons guessing. But he has warned them of Radu Lykan's imminent return, and of what
the dog-Lord will do when he returns: that hell seek them out to destroy them! Recently then, both
Daham Drakesh and the Ferenczys have set to with greater determination to find Radu and kill him
in his lair before his planned resurrection. They have discovered his keeper, B.J. Mirlu, and know
that she has the assistance of Harry Keogh. Except they believe him to be Alec Kyle! Also, it
would appear that this same Kyle has somehow contrived to break into the Ferenczys' treasure vault
at their 'impregnable' manse, and make off with millions in negotiable currencys. Daham Drakesh -
who has kept himself secret even from the Ferenczys - is playing agent provocateur, he has sent
disciples into Scotland to take out Bonnie Jean Mirlu and stir up additional trouble between Radu
and the Ferenczys. Drakesh's plan has backfired; protected by the Necroscope, BJ. has survived;
Drakesh's bloodson and a thrall have paid the ultimate price. At Le Manse Madonie, the Ferenczys
are furious over their own losses; they believe the break-in was a 'pre-emptive strike' by Radu's
people, to discover their weaknesses before the dog-Lord's return and the commencement of all-out
war. In addition, they are now aware of a third player, for one of their thralls, a sleeper in
Scotland, has witnessed something of the death of Drakesh's disciples at the hands of Harry Keogh.
But while Drakesh's losses are considerable (and while he has inadvertently shown his hand in
things), he still plans to be the Necroscope: The Lost Years - Vol. H ultimate agent
provocateur. In possession of a means to set not only vampires but nations at each other's
throats, the last Drakul is simply biding his time while continuing to plot against his own kind
and humanity in general ... and BJ. Mirlu and 'Alec Kyle' specifically. There are desperate,
dangerous times ahead for Harry and Bonnie Jean - not least because the Necroscope's mind is under
her control. Already, many of the things that have happened to him are blank spaces in his memory,
missing from his life like pages ripped from a book. As such, they are part of the lost years... o
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s I Two of them waited in the snow, both predators however disparate in means and motives. The
first was a man, while the other... was Other. It was other than wholly human. That of humanity
was in it, but there was a great deal of something else. It was part-human female, and part Other.
Though the man was unaware of the Thing's presence, it had been here for some time, watching him
put the finishing touches to his lair. This was something that it understood well enough: the
compulsion to build a lair, a base of operations, a secret, private place to call one's own.
Indeed, far to the north, inaccessible in a mountain fastness, the Thing knew of just such a lair:
not its own, but that of a Higher One. Normally at this time of the year, the month, the thirty-
day cycle -at this oh-so-dangerous time - the she-Thing might even be there, attending her Master
in his lair. But not this time. For this time one of her own was threatened, which meant that she
herself was threatened. And this was her response: to watch and wait, for the moment, while the
human predator prepared his lair. But there are lairs and there are lairs... The man's lair wasn't
intended as a permanent structure. Scarcely a structure at all, it was... a hollow, a burrow, a
low cave scooped out of the snow drifted against the side of a knoll at the foot of the hills,
like a play-place such as children might make; except it wasn't a play-place, and he wasn't a
child. Its roof was the hard, crystallized snow that crusted the drift, layered now with the grey,
camouflaging cover of a fresh fall; its floor was of hard-packed snow, compressed by the body
weight of the man during the process of excavation. The cavity was eight feet long, four and a
half wide, three and a quarter deep. A fragile/temporary place at best, yet still a lair. The den
of a monstrous human beast And the beast had completed his work on it a full ten minutes ago.
Ntcroscope: The Lost Years - Vol. II Something less than one hundred and fifty feet away, and
seventy higher up the steep hillside in the lee of a rocky outcrop, the Thing sat, watched,
scented - generally sensed - the man's activity. She knew what he had done, the preparations he
had made and those he was making even now. Her eyes, of a penetrating feral yellow with crimson
cores, yet alive with a sentience far beyond the ken of the wild, a more than merely animal
cunning, gazed down on the snowcapped knoll and the man's lair at its base. She watched the soft
outlines and silhouettes disrupted by his work gradually regaining their bland white anonymity, as
the snow continued to fall. Penetrating eyes, yes: they saw the fault red glimmer of a torch
switched on, even through the cave's ice-crystal roof; and a second torch, to lend the lair a
sensual, blood-hued illumination. At last all grew still, except - to the Thing's differently
intelligent mind, her alien perceptions - a sense of the man's actions inside his lair, his final
preparations. At which she knew that the human predator intended to go through with it Then,
maintaining a low profile - her chest ploughing the snow, which tumbled before her in a small,
silent avalanche - the Thing came down from the hillside. Where the ground was uneven she
wriggled; where the snow was thin she slid on belly and paws; but on a weathered snow-covered
scree saddle between the hillside and the knoll she halted, crouched down low, listened, and
continued to sense. She was now less than sixty feet from die man's lair and only twenty feet
higher. As yet, the Thing's telepathy wasn't of a high order - it could scarcely be compared with
the 'mentalism' of her Master in his northern lair - but there are other arts, and the human
predator wasn't unknown to her. For which reason she attempted to reach out to him across the
distance of two dozen paces and implant this message in his mind: You were given a warning. There
is still time to heed it. What you do now is of your own free will, and its result win be as you
willed it. Perhaps something of it got through to the man; he switched off a penlight torch,
paused in his pig-eyed scrutiny of grotesquely lewd photographs in a wallet of pornographic poses,
cocked his head on one side and adopted a frowning, listening attitude. But there was nothing to
hear - except in his head, like a memory: This one is not for you. To pursue and take her will
place you in extreme jeopardy! No, not like a memory, it was a memory - but from where, from when?
Some thought he'd had? Some premonition? The customary lump in his throat as the final phase of an
operation moved towards its inevitable conclusion? An attack of... what, conscience? Scarcely
that! His 'good' side, then (did he have one?), telling him this need not be inevitable? But it
was! It was, and he must have her! (A glance at the luminous dial of his wristwatch... 7:30 p.m.)
By now she would at be on her way, coming. Soon he'd be coming, too! Then her blood coming... hot
spurts from the raw red gash of her throat, gradually slowing, like a well drying up: the well of
her life. Her hot breasts cooling, elastic for now but slowly stiffening. Her face pale as the
snow, eyes glazed as the ice on the beck. He shuddered. It was awful... and it was wonderful! Like
being a strange dark god: the power of life and death. But not really, for a god has a choice and
the man had none. Afterwards ... she must die. Only let her live and she'd talk; it would be the
end of everything. They would find him; she'd identify him; they'd crucify him! Not like the son
of a god but like a beast Not on a cross but in a cell, behind bars, forever - or for as long as
the other inmates allowed him to live. Strange how even the most vile and violent men hated his
sort... He had been to the place where she worked. (Funny, but he couldn't remember much about it)
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A darkish place, and red like his snow cave of red light So she'd lived and so she would die -
like a temptress. All who lived as she had lived, luring and teasing and promising, but never
living up to the promise, took their chances. So she'd taken hers. And he had taken his, just
going there, to the place where she worked... but of course he must in order to know all about
her. He'd gone there two or three times, yet couldn't remember a thing about it except... it was
dark, red-lit with dark-eyed Loreleis serving drinks. The Lorelei... a legend out of Germany... it
was associational. There'd been places like it hi Hamburg: low music, low lights, lowlife... He
had been a Sergeant then, but his rank had given him no special privileges with the nightclub
girls. Oh, the men in his platoon had had them - whores galore! - but the only way he'd been able
to get it was to pay for it How he'd hated that the fact that they rarely took him a second time,
not even for his lousy 'geld*. There'd been something about his eyes, something... cold, in his
eyes. Cold, yes. For other men it was heat that went with lust but for him it was the cold that
turned him on. Six years ago in die Harz Mountains, on a winter warfare course (before various
misuses of rank and privilege had come to light sufficient to see him reduced from a promising
middle-ranker to an out-of-work bum in a society with little or no use for die specialized skills
of a commando), he remembered being holed-up for a week on a snow-covered mountain, allegedly
acquiring survival skills while in fact fantasizing about sex with hot quivering, naked women.
That was where die notion had first occurred to him: in die Harz, in Germany... Necroscope: The
Lost Years - Vol. II ... But snow is snow the world over, and women are women: good for nicking
but small use for anything else. Except a man can't be a 'real* man without he at least has the
use of a woman's body; but only the use, since the permanent possession of a woman, the burden of
ownership, will very quickly reduce him to less than a man! That was the lair-bunder's
understanding of male/female relationships, anyway - a paradox where the man always came out the
loser. And it had seemed to him that there ought to be an alternative. Well, and so there was, and
this was it But since it served only the needs of a minority of one (namely himself) it was
unacceptable to the majority. So... fuck the majority! How he wished he could, except from his
point of view the society that rejected him had its own predators. They were called police and he
was their prey; or would be, but he was wily and they hadn't caught him yet Almost but not quite,
not yet There are predators and predators, known and unknown. Even among the known sort you are
only a small creature of the kind, while among the unknown things you are a speck, a mote, a
minuscule! So back off now, while yet you may... What? Talking to himself again? That recurrent
dream he'd been having: of something awesome stalking him? Not conscience, no, but guilt pure and
simple. For he was the stalker, the Awesome One. He shrugged off the feeling of eyes where there
were no eyes, and warning voices where there couldn't possibly be. A short distance away, the
Thing crouching at the crest of the scree saddle sensed the man's rejection of her - her what? Her
reminder? Its suggestion? Sensed, anyway, the human beast's resolution, his determination, the
fact that he would indeed go through with it. So be it it was of his own free will. Beyond the
knoll, the narrow road was an icy black ribbon chopped two feet deep through the snow. Maintained
by the snowplough team that serviced the local villages, the road had last been cleared two hours
ago. Since when it had furred over again with a pelt of fresh snow, through which the tarmac's
black ice glittered like jet. In these parts conditions such as this were common; the weather
would have to be a lot harsher to dose the roads completely. And in any case, this was only a
service road to the hamlet The mam highway, to Perth in the north and Dunfermline and Edinburgh in
the south, lay a mile and a half away through a pass hi the Ochil Hills. The tiny hamlet itself,
Sma' Auchterbecky, lay in a valley or reentry in the Ochils. This was the only road hi; it came to
an abrupt halt at a wooden footbridge over the currently frozen beck. Where the road ended a
blacktopped rectangle served a dual purpose, as a turning place for vehicles and as the hamlet's
communal car park. The squat humped, anonymous shapes of jacketed cars, three of them - Sma'
Auchterbecky's total vehicular complement - crouched on the parking area like a trio of oddly
frozen mammoths on some Siberian tundra. No longer black- but grey-topped under a layer of snow,
the rectangle turned briefly to glittering white as the light of a full moon penetrated the
threatening cloud blanket Only a momentary effect -a churning of leaden, snow-laden clouds,
allowing just one blink of the silver Cyclops eye - still the Thing felt it like the jab of a
cattle prod. Magnetized by the moon, a ridge of erectile fur stiffened along her spine; lured by
the Lunar orb, & sound died unborn, aborted with difficulty in her throbbing throat But at the
same time a need was born in her belly. The crimson cores of her eyes expanded, driving back the
feral yellow; her jaws dripped saliva; her head turned, muzzle twitching, from the safely sealed
vault of the sky back to the cyst in the snow that was the man's lair. All of her awareness was
now centred on the cavern of the beast - the human beast - where he lay on his back, masturbating
by red torchlight to a pornographic centrefold ripped from a men's magazine. The Thing smelled his
sex, heard his pounding heartbeat and sensed the coursing of his rich blood. But this was scarcely
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the climax of the man's activity, merely a part of it The last part as he... readied himself. For
everything was now in position and the predator was poised. Only one thing was missing: the prey,
and she was coming. It called for one final effort on the part of the Thing; for to simply let
this go ahead - to encourage it if only by non-interference - might in the long run mean
endangering herself. Indeed, in any other scenario but this one, the man might even be considered
her ally, her cover! But not when he threatened one of her own. Wherefore: You are making a
mistake. There is great danger here! But despite all the effort she put into it the man heard
nothing - or if he heard anything at all it was only an echo from that dream again: Of the red-lit
darkness... of the Loreleis taunting, and flaunting their flesh... of the Awesome Stalker, not
himself'after all but some other, or rather some other's voice in his head, questioning, whose
simple questions he couldn't refuse but must answer. That was what really stalked him, gnawed at
him: the idea that he might have told someone (some thing?) his innermost thoughts. But... in a
dream? It returned, as dreams are wont to do, unexpectedly. Finally he remembered it something of
it at least He stood on a black road on a black night and gazed into the yawning throat of a black
tunnel cut in a black mountainside. And he was frozen there, bereft of will, unable to move a
muscle as something (a vehicle?) approached, bearing down on him in dreadful, inexorable slow-
motion out of the tunnel Its yellow headlights shone on him, fixed him in their Necroscope: The
Last Years -Vol. II blinding glare, froze him like a rabbit in his tracks. Then, from the utter
darkness behind the dazzling yellow lights, a question: 'Why?" And he knew the meaning of it, also
that he must answer. 'Because I want her.' 'For her body? •Yes.' 'Only for that? 'And for her
life.' 'my? 'I can't leave a tndl. Can't leave any tracks.' 'Tracks? 'I mean, she would talk.'
'You've done it before...' (But since it wasn't a question, there was no requirement to answer
that one.) 'Have you done it before? •Yes.' , 'How often? I 'Three times.' p 'Murder? (A
question this time). 'Not for the sake of murder, but for the sake of my needs.. .at first,
anyway.' 'You've killed innocents? "They weren't innocent! Shaking their backsides, flashing their
[ tits! They were asking for it!' And att the while the yellow headlights expanding, coming ever
closer; and the darkness behind them and surrounding them growing darker yet... , 'When? | 'Soon.
When it snows good and deep.' \ 'Where? \ (Hesitation. He shouldn't be telling this, not even in a
dream, not even to himself. But he couldn 't refuse to answer). TH do it where she lives.' 'How?
'Ill wait for her, and do it in the snow.' A long pause, and then: 'Ofyour own free witt, aye. But
I warn you: rtts one is not for you. To pursue and take her witt place you in extreme jeopardy!
But if you, must - so be it..." Then: The headlights sweeping upon him, expanding to envelop him!
The darkness opening, as if to swallow him whole! A rumbling growl that wasn't the thunder of an
engine. And the headlights ...the headlights! Not yellow but- I -Red? The man gave his head a
shake, snapped out of it He had been daydreaming, staring at his red torches where he'd rammed
their tubes into the soft snow walls. Staring as if hypnotized by them. Hypnotized? Had he been
hypnotized by someone, somewhere? He blinked, then issued a snort of self-derision. Maybe he was
losing it Maybe he was mad! (Well of course he was, had to be - a homicidal maniac!) But it didn't
change anything. Neither did his dream, already slipping away, fading into the mists of his
twisted mind. Nothing had been changed. His course was set He was going to do it So be it! Hidden
in the shadow of the hillside, the Thing slid and tobogganed on her chest and belly down the slope
of the saddle to level ground. She was only fifty feet or so from the predator's lair now; his
man's scent hung heavy in the sharp, otherwise clean night air, which pulsed with his vibrations.
He was a strong one, just as she remembered him. Good! And his timing was perfect Headlights on
full beam sliced the night cut twin swaths through the silently falling snow, swung like
searchlight beams towards the hamlet across the frozen beck but without reaching it Myriads of
drifting snowflakes diffused the light reducing its penetrative power; likewise the sound of the
taxi's engine, muffled by the snow. Maybe this was what the predator had been dreaming of: the
arrival of the taxi, its lights and the purr of its engine. And out from his lair he crept
invisible in a white nylon track-suit and parka, the hood zipped to the neck and his face hidden
behind a white stocking mask. Meanwhile the taxi had slowed, turned, halted on the hard-standing;
a female figure was getting out standing in the pale glow from the driver's window. The oval of
her face was visible inside the fur-lined hood of her coat; she fumbled with payment for her ride.
Then the taxi's door slammed; it pulled carefully away in a crump of crushed snow and a puff of
exhaust smoke. And clasping the neck of her coat close to her throat the girl tramped fresh-fallen
snow towards the footbridge. But before she could reach it- -Out of nowhere, the predator was
there before her! Her instinctive, involuntary gasp galvanized him to violent action. As her eyes
went wide and she tried to jerk herself out of reach, he stiff-fingered her deep in the stomach.
And as the air she'd drawn to scream whooshed uselessly out of her and she folded forward from the
first blow, he hit her again; this time in the throat... but not hard enough to kill. Not yet
Choking, she crumpled; her feet shot out from under her on the Necroscope: The Lost Years - Vol.
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II icy surface. If he hadn't caught her she would have fallen. And with his right arm under her
neck, breast, and armpit, and his other hand in her hair, he dragged her writhing form back across
the road to the side of the knoll. He was tittering now but couldn't help it - little girl's
laughter that bubbled up in his throat to spill from his mouth in short bursts -hyena laughter,
excited but muted: the call of a wild dog to the pack as it tracks its wounded prey. Hooting and
giggling, but softly. And between each crazed burst, a guttural, frothing spray of obscenity:
'Fuck, fuck,/we*/ Fuck, fuck, fuck? And his flesh hard and throbbing under the zipper of his track-
suit trousers. The girl was making a recovery. She fought harder as he dragged her round the foot
of the knoll to his snow-cave's low entrance. He paused to grip her throat and crush it, shake her
head like the head of a rag doll until she went quiet Then he was dragging her into his den ...
his red-glowing lust-lair. Inside, he hauled her up alongside, kneeled over her. She moaned and
clutched her throat, trying to breathe as he showed her his mad smile, his teeth, his pig eyes. He
wrenched at his zipper and his steaming meat jerked and nodded into view. Smelling it, her eyes
went wide with knowledge; she knew his intention, what he would do! Her coat was open; his hand
raked down the front of her blouse, caught at her bra, popped buttons and ripped material. Her
breasts lolled out, hot and quivering. 'For you!' He waved his swollen, throbbing penis at her.
'Ur-ur-urghf She gurgled and choked, trying to rise up on her elbows. He backhanded her - not too
hard, just a slap to let her know who was boss here, which rocked her head back and stretched her
prone - then reached down, snatched up her short skirt and groped between her legs for her
panties. God! He'd be into her in a minute ... biting her tits... shooting his spunk! A whole
year's worth into her hot, slimy little- -His obscene giggling and mouthings were cut short in a
moment. For holding her neck, looking down between her legs, looking back at the burrow
entrance... someone was there! He recognized the scene immediately, the prescience of it falling
like a hammer blow on his mind, so that he jerked back from it as if shot. His dream, but no
longer a dream! The dark tunnel and yellow headlights; except, as he now saw, the headlights were
eyes! Great yellow eyes, triangular, unblinking, hypnotic, and oh so intelligent! And the voice
when it came - that soft burr of a Scottish brogue, more growled than spoken, but hinting of a
monstrous strength - no longer the suppressed memory of a conversation but real, immediate, now!
You were warned, were ye no? /warned ye!' •Wha-?Wha-?Wha-?' 'I warned ye: this one was no for ye.
To pursue her would place ye in jeopardy most extreme! Aye, but ye ignored mah warning! So be
it...' ma-? Wha-? Wha-?' He groped for his knife, found it; the blade gleamed red in red
torchlight But the Thing inching forward in the tunnel wasn't in the least afraid. And suddenly:
it was as if the predator were really there, back in his dream! Once again he stood on a black
road gazing into the yawning black throat of a tunnel, and as before he was frozen, unable to move
a muscle, as something awesome bore down on him in a dreadful, inexorable slow-motion. Its yellow
eyes shone on him, freezing him rigid, while the darkness surrounding those eyes grew darker
yet... It had never been a dream (he knew that now), but it was a nightmare! The headlight eyes
expanding to envelop him. The darkness opening to swallow him whole. The rumbling growl that
wasn't the roar of an engine. But the eyes - those awful eyes - no longer feral yellow! The face
emerging from the darkness wasn't human. It was triangular. Ears pointing forward, pointing at the
man; bottom jaw yawning open; great yellow headlight eyes... turning luminous red. As red as
blood! 'Eh?!' said the man; simply that It scarcely qualified as a question, and wasn't even close
to a scream - no more than a squeak or a whimper - as a hand, a paw, something, reached out of the
tunnel, arched for a moment like a great grey furry spider over his leg, and drove home inches
deep through track-suit trousers and flesh to scrape the bone of his thigh. TJien he screamed,
dropped the knife, tried to hang on to the girl where she had finally managed to sit up... and
where she sat there smiling at him! But there are smiles and there are smiles. And her eyes were
as yellow as the Thing's had been just a moment ago, rapt on him, watching him being dragged into
the tunnel; and her ears seemed to reach tremblingly forward, like the Thing's ears, eager for his
panting, bubbling screams and the terrible rrrip! of his clothing and flesh, as talons sharp as
razors opened him up the middle like a steaming, screaming joint of meat After that, amid all the
slobbering, snarling and panting it was as much as the girl could do to cram herself in a corner
and so avoid the hot red splashes. Knowing the Thing the way she did, she knew how dangerous it
would be to try to take her share. Well, not for a little while, at least... PART ONE: THE
SLEEPING AND THE UNDEAD INSPECTOR IANSON INVESTIGATES It was ten in the morning, but at this time
of year, in this place, it might just as easily be four in the evening. Under a heavy blanket of
lowering snow clouds and in the shadow of the hills the time made little or no difference:
everything looked grey... except that which now lay exposed, with the snow shovelled back from it,
under the canopy of a scenes-of-crime canvas rigged up by the local police. That - what was left
of it - was not grey but red. Very red. And torn... 'Animal,' said old Angus McGowan, giving a
curt, knowing nod. 'A creature did it, an' a big yin at that!' 'Aye, that's what we thought,'
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Inspector lanson returned the old man's nod. 'A beast for sure. That's why we called you in,
Angus. But now the big question: what sort of a beast? And how a beast... I mean, up here in the
snow and all?' 'Eh?' Angus McGowan looked at the Police Inspector curiously, even scathingly. 'Up
here in the snow and a'? Why... where else, man?' lanson shrugged, and shivered, but not entirely
from the cold. 'Where else?' He frowned as he pondered his old friend and rival's meaning, then
shrugged again. 'Just about anywhere else, I should think! The African veldt, maybe? The
Australian outback? India? But Scotland? What, and Auld Windy, Edinburgh herself, little more than
seven or eight miles away? No lions or tigers or bears up here, Angus - not unless they escaped
from a zoo! Which is the other reason I called you in on it, as well you know.' Angus glanced at
him through rheumy, watering eyes. The cold -and, just as the Inspector himself had felt it, maybe
something other than the cold - had seeped through to the old vefs bones. But then, the sight of
bloody, violent, unnatural death will have a similar effect on most men. Necroscope: The Lost Yean
- Vol. II Inspector lanson was tall, well over six feet, and thin as a pole. But for all that he
was getting on a bit in years, George lanson remained spry and alert, mentally and physically
active. Homicide was his job (he might often be heard complaining, in his dry, emotionless brogue,
'Man, how I hate mah work! If s sheer murrrderl'), and this was his beat, his area of
responsibility: a roughly kite-shaped region falling between Edinburgh and Glasgow east to west,
Stirling and Dumfries north to south. Outside that kite a man could get himself killed however he
might or might not choose, and his body never have to suffer the cold, calculating gaze of George
lanson. But inside it... 'Africa? India?" Angus echoed the gangling Inspector, then squinted at
the tossed and tangled corpse before shaking his head in denial. 'No, no, George. She was no big
cat, this yin. Nor a dog... but like a dog, aye!' It was lanson's turn to study the other, dour
old Angus McGowan, whom he'd known for years. A living caricature! Typically a 'canny old
Scotsman,' hugging his knowledge as close to his chest as a gambler with his cards, or a rich man
with his wealth. His rheumy grey eyes - the eyes of a hawk for all that they were misted - missed
nothing; his blue-veined nose seemed sensitive as a bloodhound's; his knowledge (he'd been a
recognized authority in zoology for all of thirty years) brimmed in the library of his brain like
an encyclopaedia of feral lore. Quite simply, as the Inspector was gifted to know men -their ways
and minds and, in his case especially, their criminal minds - so Angus was gifted to know animals.
Between the two of them, on those rare occasions when the one might call upon the other for his
expert knowledge, it had become a game, a competition, no less than the chess game they played
once a week in the Inspector's study at his home in Dalkeith. For here, too, however serious the
case, they vied one with the other, trying each other's minds to see which would come closest to
the truth. The beauty of it was this: in chess there's only one winner, but here they could both
win. 'Like a dog?' lanson looked again, deeply into McGowan's watery eyes, his wrinkled face. Old
Angus: all five foot four or five of him, shrivelled as last year's walnuts, but standing tall now
with some sure knowledge, some inner secret that loaned him stature. Nodding, and careful to avoid
the bloodied snow, he went to one knee. Not that it mattered greatly - no need to worry about the
destruction of evidence now, the scenes-of-crime men had been and gone all of an hour ago - but
Angus didn't want this poor devil's blood on his good overcoat Looking up at lanson from where he
kneeled - and had the situation been other than it was - the slighter man might well have grinned.
Instead he grimaced, tapped the side of his dripping nose with his index finger, and answered,
'Shall we say - oh, Ah dinnae ken - a dog o' sorts? Shall we say, a dog, or a bitch, o' a
different colour? Like maybe, grey?' A great grey dog. Angus could mean only one sort of beast.
Ridiculous! Except he wasn't given to making ridiculous statements. Wherefore: 'From a zoo?'
lanson gripped McGowan's shoulder as he made to straighten up. 'Or maybe a circus? Have you heard
of an escape, then? Has one got out?' 'One what?' The other was all wide-eyed innocence. 'Come
now, Angus!' The Inspector tut-tutted. 'A wild creature of the snows, like a great, grey, handsome
dog? You can only be hinting at a wolf, surely?' 'Hintin', is it!' the other chuckled, however
drily, and was serious in a moment. 'Ah'm no hintin', George. Ye want mah opinion? This was a
wolf, aye! An' one hell of a wolf at that! But escaped frae a zoo... ?' He shook his head; not in
denial, more out of puzzlement 'Ah've never come across a beast this size - no in any zoo in
England, Scotland or Wales, at least. And as for yere circuses - what, at this time of year?
Certainly no up here! An' so, well, Ah really canna say; Ah mean, Ah wouldnae care to commit
mahsel'.' 'But you've done exactly that,' the Inspector pointed out. The piece is moved, Angus.
You can't put it back.' 'Wolf, aye!' the other snapped, more decisively now. 'But as for how she
got here, her origin ..." He offered a twitch of his thin shoulders, stamped numb feet, blew into
cupped hands. 'If s your move, George. It's your move.' 'Me ... I say we move in out of the cold!'
lanson shook himself, both mentally and physically, breathed deeply of the wintry air,
deliberately forced himself to draw back from the morbid spell, the dreadful fascination of the
case - for the moment, anyway. For if McGowan was right, which in all likelihood he was (or there
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again not, for after all, the Inspector did have information to the contrary), then it was out of
his hands. Murder by a man is one thing ... but by a dog, a wolf, or some other wild creature,
then it becomes something else: a savaging, a misadventure, simply a killing. (And what of a man
and a dog?) But "/McGowan was right then they'd need to call in a different kind of hunter with a
very different brief: to kill on sight! Old Angus guessed what he was thinking - the latter part
of it, anyway - and was quick to say, 'But first we must try to prove it or narrow down the
suspects, at least' 'Back to the house?' lanson ducked out into the open with his small friend
close behind. The house he referred to was one of a picturesque cluster standing some three
hundred yards away across Necroscope: The Lost Years - Vol. U the footbridge. Once a great farm
with outbuildings, now Sma' Auchterbecky housed a small community, scarcely a hamlet, in the very
lee of the mountains. 'Ah can make a few calls frae there, aye,' Angus nodded. 'D'ye see the
telephone wires?" 'And I've a few more questions for the girl,' the Inspector replied, turning up
the collar of his coat He scanned the land all about, noted that it had started to snow again:
great fat flakes that fell straight out of a leaden sky. In the lowering atmosphere there was
little or no wind. 'A pretty enough place in the summer,' McGowan commented. 'But in the winter? A
hell o' a place for a man tae die. Huh! An* a hell o' a way for one tae die, too!' They stood side
by side a while, scanning the valley between the hills. Nearby, a police Land Rover hunched on the
verge at the side of the road, also a squad car fitted with snow chains, and an ambulance with its
rear doors open, waiting. The blue lights of the vehicles, silently revolving, loaned eerie,
intermittent illumination to the handful of stamping, arm-flapping uniformed policemen and
paramedics in attendance. Exhaust fumes from the Land Rover went up in a blue-grey spiral,
mimicking the smoke from the cluster of near-distant cottage chimneys. lanson signalled the
paramedics forward; now they could take the body - its remains - out of here. The forensic lab in
Edinburgh would be its next port of call, then the morgue. But there wouldn't be much gutting of
this one. He'd had more than his fair share of that already. 'A hell of a way to die?' The
Inspector echoed his companion curiously, enigmatically. 'Or maybe a weird sort of... I don't
know, justice, maybe?' There was that in his voice which caused old McGowan to glance at him
sharply. Something he'd not been informed of, then? Oh, the vet would stand by his claim to the
bitter end, that this was the work of a wolf. For he'd seen (indeed he had sensed./fe//) evidence
which to him was indisputable. But lanson was the policeman after all, and a damned good one!
Anyway, it wouldn't do to press the point; a man can't be seen to know too much, or he might have
too much explaining to do. A hunch is one thing, but an assertion needs proving. 'Justice?' Angus
let his sharp tone reveal his own suspicions. 'Somethin' ye've nae told me, George?' It was hardly
surprising; this was the way their game usually went lanson's smile was grim. 'Oh, a lot to come
from this yet, Angus... not least from you! Nothing's solved until everything is known.' And
before the other could question further: 'Let's get on over to the house now. We can talk as we
go...' 'I know him,' lanson admitted, as they crossed the footbridge. The victim?' 'Victim,
villain, whatever,' the Inspector shrugged. 'John Moffafs his name. I wouldn't have known his body
- who would? But I recognized his face. Moffat aye: prime suspect in a murder case in Glasgow just
a year ago. Then, too, he'd done it in the snow; a park on the outskirts of the city, in the wee
small hours of the morning. The same modus operandi: he dug a hole in a snowdrift, chose a
prostitute on her way home and dragged her in. He raped and murdered her. Slit her throat ear to
ear. He'd been seen in the park earlier. There were one or two other bits of inconclusive
evidence... not enough to pin it on him.' 'He walked away frae it' McGowan nodded. 'But not away
from this one,' lanson's voice was grim. 'So it's one down... but it's still one to go.' 'Ye're
saying that this was... what, revenge? Which means ye believe it was a man. A man and his bloody
big dog, maybe?' lanson glanced at him out the corner of his eye. 'Maybe,' he answered. "Which
would put the whamrny on your wolf theory.' The other made no reply. It suited him either way. He
knew that lanson wouldn't have asked him along if he hadn't at least suspected a large canine or
some other animal. The Inspector had admitted as much. 'I only know that someone protected the
girl,' lanson went on. 'Except he did too damn thorough a job of it!' 'Someone close to the
Glasgow prostitute, maybe?' 'Eh? Aye, possibly. Close to that one, anyway.' 'Oh? Has there been
more than one, then? Unfair, George!' McGowan tut-tutted. 'A man cannae play if the lights are
out! Ah have tae know all yere moves.' 'One more at least,' lanson said. 'Gleneagles, two winters
ago.' 'In the snow again! And no too far away, at that A prostitute, was she?' 'Aye. We didn't
find that one until the first of the warm weather when the snow melted. She'd been there a month
or more. Any evidence had been washed away. Our wee man back there could have done it, though.
Again, same modus operandi. But of course we didn't know him then. He didn't come into the picture
until the Glasgow thing.' 'And that's it?' That's it for the prostitute murders... well, as far as
I'm aware. Of course there could be others we don't know about People disappear and are never
found - as well you know.' And again he gave that sideways glance. 'But if our man John Moffat
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wasnae linked to the Gleneagles murder, and if who or whatever killed him was somebody out for
Necroscope: The Lost Years - Vol. II revenge, then this new killer can only be someone who knew
the Glasgow girl, surely?' lanson frowned. 'Or someone who knew John Moffat, what he was doing -
someone close to him, maybe? - who thought it was time he was stopped.' 'No just someone
protectin' this girl especially, then?' 'Eh?' lanson paused and stared hard at the other. "When I
said she'd been protected, I meant by accident; by someone just happening on the scene, as it
were.' 'Ye hadnae thought o' the other sort o' protection, then? That this one's pimp might have
been lookin' out for her?' 'Pimp?' 'Well, it follows that if yere man only kills whores, the girl
must be one. And if so, she probably has a pimp. Someone - and his dog? -who was waiting for her
when she got dropped off last night!' The Inspector started, then grinned and took the other's arm
above the elbow. Frail as old Angus seemed, the resilience of his flesh never failed to surprise
lanson; he felt the muscles move under the man's clothing, bunching at his unexpected grip as if
resenting it. 'Now see!' lanson said. 'What a grand team we make! Why, it's possible ye've just
hit the nail right on the head!' McGowan freed himself and said, 'Maybe. But it's like ye said:
nothing's solved until everything is known.' And now it was time to change direction again:
'Personally, well, Ah still opine tae a big animal. On its own. A wild thing come down out o' the
hills tae hunt' 'I thought we had discounted the wolf theory?' The Inspector was making for the
houses again. 'No, you had,' McGowan told him. 'But me, Ah have several theories. See, if ye'd no
told me about they other murders, or that this John Moffat was a suspect, Ah'd still be thinkin'
in terms o' a wild yin. And deep down inside, Ah still am.' 'A wild one? How long ago since there
was a wild wolf in Scotland, Angus?' Two hundred and fifty years, that we know of,' the other
answered. 'But Scotland's a big place, and plenty of wild country still. All over the world the
wolves are stealin' back down frae the north, so why not here?' 'Because we're an island, Angus,
that's why!' 'Is that so? Then explain the big cats on Bodmin Moor, and Dartmoor, and other
places. Sheep killers, them - and real!' 'Not proven,' lanson said. 'Proven for mah money!'
McGowan snorted. 'Ah was down in Devon and Cornwall, remember? They called me in on it. No, Ah
didnae see the beasts in question, but Ah saw their handiwork! Big cats, George. Take mah word for
it!' 'My God, you'll be swearing an oath on Nessie yet!' lanson grinned. They called you in on
that one, too, didn't they?' That American team? Three months' work there, George. It was the
easiest money Ah ever made in mah life! What? A summer holiday on the banks o' Loch Ness, with all
found and money in the bank?' McGowan chuckled and smacked his lips, and then was serious again.
'Anyway, Ah was only a "technical adviser." Ah didnae have tae believe ... no as long as they
thought Ah did! But a wolf is no a plesiosaur, George. They big yins have been gone a long time,
but there are still wolves in the world.' 'Not in Scotland,' the other was stubborn. 'Ah, but
there could be soon enough!' 'Eh?' There's talk o' stocking a sanctuary somewhere up north. They'd
have tae cull them, o' course, or shoot any that strayed too far. But there's a study on it.'
'Really?' 'Well why not? The wolves have been here just as long as we have. And there are still
foxes, after all. Even the cities have foxes! Ah mean, is it no ridiculous? The Irish have their
Irish wolfhounds - and never a wolf to be found!' 'Except here?' But Angus only shrugged. From now
on he would take a back seat and only do or say what was expected of him. He had talked of men and
he had talked of wolves, but he'd not once mentioned the creature in between. Nor would he. Unlike
the Loch Ness Monster, who really didn't exist, that would be just too close for comfort But in
the final analysis - if and when it should come to it - it would be no bad thing for Inspector
George lanson to have a wolf on his mind... or even a werewolf. For as a legend the creature was
far enough removed from certain other myths to make it unique in its own right No one in his right
mind would confuse an isolated case (or even an outbreak) of strictly medical or pathological
lycanthropy with vampirism. It might alert humanity to the one type of monster in its midst, but
the other would remain obscure as ever... While the Inspector talked to the girl, Margaret
Macdowell, old Angus spent the time on the telephone. When both were done they thanked the girl
for coffee and sandwiches, then walked back to lanson's car. It was snowing again and the path was
white under foot. On their way into Edinburgh, they talked: 'No whore, that lady,' lanson said.
'She sells booze, not her body. Works at a wine bar in Edinburgh. That's why she was late home:
late opening hours. It might easily have been later still, but her boss lets Necroscope: The Lost
Yean - Vol. II her off early if the forecast is bad. As you probably overheard, Moffat had been
frequenting the bar, chatting up the other girls, too, but paying particular attention to Margaret
Macdowell. She knew his first name, that's all. She did recognize him, however - barely, or
briefly -during the attack, after he'd dragged her into his... what, his den? And she knew that he
would kill her. Before she passed out she sensed that someone else was there. And she woke up
to... all that mess! She thinks she remembers snarling and savage motion, and something of Mof
fat's gibbering. And that's about it' 'Ye spoke to her before the police drove me up here,' old
Angus was thinking out loud. 'Didnae ye get any o' this then?' 'She was tired, shaken, shocked,'
file:///G|/rah/Brian%20Lumley/Brian%20Lumley%20-%20The%20Lost%20Years%20Volume%202.txt (10 of 191) [2/13/2004 10:22:33 PM]
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file:///G|/rah/Brian%20Lumley/Brian%20Lumley%20-%20The%20Lost%20Years%20Volume%202.txtASOFTSOUND,ASOFSOILCRUMBLING,BEHINDHIM...Thethingwouldsneakuponhim.Ohsoslowly,DahamDrakeshturnedhisheadonitsscrawnyneckandlookedbackanddown.Amoundofdirtwasforming,pushingupfromtheloose,lumpyfloor.Andinamomentasm...

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