Apparently it was some sort of explosion, possibly of methane gas acc.u.mulate d in the cellars; which, if they were as extensive as you say, seems feasibl e. But if Janos's - remains - came through it, who is to say there weren't o ther survivals?

But as I have explained, said Faethor, Janos had made provision. Whatev er else perished when that house went down, he did not. Perhaps his Szgany had taken his ashes from there to some other place, only returning them later when the house lay in ruins, I don't know. Possibly they did it when the castle became the property of another. Again I cannot say.

What other? said Harry.

Faethor sighed, but eventually: There was one other, aye, he finally said.

Listen and I'll tell you about him: During the 15th, 16th and 17th Centuries, and even to the 18th, the sup posed civilized world had grown more aware of so-called 'witches' and the '

Black Arts'. Witches, necromancers, demons, vampires, and all such creature s -real and imagined, guilty or innocent - were harried by relentless witch finders, 'proved' by torture, and destroyed. Now, the true vampire was ever aware of his mortality and of the one Great Enemy of all his kind, called Prominence! And the 16th Century especially was not a good time for a perso n to be found too old or different or reclusive or even noticeable. In shor t, while anonymity among the Wamphyri has ever been a synonym for longevity , it was never more so than in those dark and doomful 16th and 17th Centuri es!

Now, in the middle and to the end of the 17th Century the witchfinders were active in America, and from a place called Salem was driven a man ca lled Edward Hutchinson. He obtained a lease on my old house in the mountai ns and dwelled there . . . far too long! He was a diabolist, a necromancer , and possibly a vampire. Perhaps even Wamphyri! But as I have hinted, he was imprudent; he lived too long in the one place and made himself promine nt.

He studied the history of the house and took for his own several grand p seudonyms: as well as Edward he was wont to call himself 'Baron' or 'Janos'

- aye, and even 'Faethor'! And finally he settled for 'Baron Ferenczy'. Now this, as might well be imagined, was what brought him to my attention. It of fended me; likewise his occupancy of the castle, for I had thought me that o ne day I might return there myself, when things were different and Janos's t aint faded a little with the years. The Wamphyri are territorial, as you kno w. And so I vowed that at a time of my choosing and as chance permitted, the n I'd square these things with this Hutchinson.

But chance never did permit; no, for I had my own existence to look to, and the world was ever abustle and full of change. And so for two hundred ye ars and more this foreign man lived in the castle I had builded, while I in my turn lived alone in my house in Ploiesti.

As I have said, he made himself prominent in some way, perhaps in severa l. Certainly he would soon have been summoned to Bucuresti, to make account of himself, if not for that t.i.tan explosion which finished him and his works forever. But as for Janos: I can only a.s.sume he lay in his jar or urn in a secret place, and waited for his time and a certain three-fingered son of th e Szgany to find and rescue him. Myself... I went back there once - in 1930, I think -do not ask me why. Pe rhaps I desired to see what remained of the place; I might even have lived the re again, if it was habitable. But no, Janos's touch was still on the stone, h is taint in the mortar, his hated memory in the very air of the ruins. Of cour se it was, for Janos himself was still there! But I did not know that.

But do you know, I believe that in the end Janos had been closer to his Wamphyri sources than I might ever have imagined? For however cursory my exp loration of those ruins that time in 1930, nevertheless I found evidence of works which . . . but enough. We are both tired, and you are not giving me y our best attention. Still, nothing will waste; you know the bulk of it; the rest will keep until another time.

You're right, said Harry, / am tired. Nervous exhaustion, I suppose. An d he made himself a promise that between Athens and Rhodes he'd sleep.

And he did ...

. . . But coming awake just before the landing, and as Harry stepped dow n from the plane into the blasting sunlight and made his way with the other pa.s.sengers towards customs, he could feel inside that something was very muc h amiss. And his heart speeded up a little when, beyond the barriers in the arrivals area, he saw Manolis Papastamos and Darcy Clarke waiting for him; f or it was written in their faces, too, that something was wrong. For all the sunshine and warmth, still they looked cold, pale, sick.

He looked at the two of them where they waited, searched their faces for an answer, and almost s.n.a.t.c.hed back his forged pa.s.sport when it was handed to him. Then he hurried to them, thinking: There's a face missing, Sandra's, but that's only right for she'll be in London now . . . won't she?

'Is it Sandra?' he said, when they were face to face. They looked at him, t hen looked away. And: Tell me about it,' he said, curiously calm now for all th at he felt very, very ill.

And so they told him about it...

Twenty-one hours earlier: Darcy had escorted Sandra to the airport outside Rhodes and stayed with her until she was called forward for her London flight - almost. But at the last moment he had been obliged to answer a call of nature. The toilets were a little distant from the boarding gates, so that coming out he had to run the length of the terminal in order to wave her goodbye. By the time he'd fo und a vantage point, the last of the pa.s.sengers were already climbing the ga ntry steps to the aircraft's door. But he waved anyway, thinking that perhap s she would see him from her window.

After the plane left he drove back to the villa and began packing his th ings, only to be interrupted by a telephone call from Manolis at the police station. It had been Manolis's idea that when Sandra was out of it Darcy sho uldn't stay on his own. The Greek policeman had rooms in an hotel in the centre of town; Darcy would be welcome to stay there. But before driving out to the villa to act as Darcy's guide to his new lodgings, and because it happe ned now and then that flights were late, Manolis had thought to call the air port first and ensure that Sandra was safely away. And he'd discovered that she wasn't away at all but had missed her flight.

'What?' Darcy couldn't believe it. 'But... I was there. I mean, I was in the . .

'Yes?'

's.h.i.t!' Darcy gasped, as the truth hit him.

'You were in the s.h.i.t?'

'No, in the b.l.o.o.d.y toilets,' Darcy groaned, 'which in this case amounts to much the same thing! Manolis, don't you see? It was my talent working for me - or against me. Against that poor girl, anyway.'

'Your talent?'

'My guardian angel, the thing that keeps me out of trouble. It isn't someth ing I can control. It works in different ways. This time it saw danger around t he corner and . . . and I had to go to the d.a.m.ned toilet!'

Now Manolis understood, and knew the worst of it. They've taken her?' he hissed. 'The Lazarides creature and his vampires, they have drawn the first blood?'

'G.o.d, yes!' Darcy answered. 'I can't think of any other explanation.'

In his native Greek, Manolis said a long stream of things then; curses, Da rcy supposed. And: 'Look, stay where you are and I'll be right there.'

'No,' Darcy answered. 'No, meet me at that place where we ate the other ni ght. Christ, I need a drink!'

'Very well,' said Papastamos. 'Fifteen minutes . . .'

Darcy was into his third large Metaxa when Manolis arrived. 'Will you get drunk?' he said. 'It won't help.'

'No,' Darcy answered. 'I just needed a stiffener, that's all. And do you k now what I keep thinking? What will I tell Harry? That's what!'

'It isn't your fault,' Manolis commiserated, 'and you must stop thinkin g about it. Harry is back tomorrow. We must let him take the lead. Meanwhil e, every policeman on the island is looking for Lazarides, his crew and his boat - and Sandra, of course. I made the call and gave the orders before I came here. Also, I should have the complete background information on this . . . this Vrykoulakas pig by morning! Not only from Athens but also Ameri ca. Lazarides's right-hand man, called Armstrong, is an American.'

Darcy looked at Manolis and thought: Christ, I thank you for this man!

Darcy wasn't a secret agent, nor even a policeman. He'd been with E-Bran ch all these years not because his talent was indispensable to them but simp ly because it was a talent, and all such weird and esoteric powers had inter ested them. But he couldn't use it as the telepaths and locators used theirs, and it was useless except in special circ.u.mstances. Indeed, on several occ asions it had seemed to Darcy that his talent used him. Certainly it had cau sed him grief now and then: as during the Bodescu affair, for example, when it had kept him safe and sound only at the expense of another esper. And Dar cy still hadn't forgiven himself for that. Now there was this. Without Papas tamos to take control and actually, physically, do something . . . Darcy did n't know what he would have done.

'What do you suggest we do now?' he said.

'What can we do?' the other answered. 'Until we have word of them - unt il we know where Lazarides and the girl are - we can do nothing. And even t hen I will need authorization to move on this creature. Unless ... I could always claim I had the strong suspicions of the drug-running, and close in on him even without authorization! But it will help when we know all about him, tomorrow morning. And Harry Keogh might have the ideas, too. So for no w - ' he shrugged, but heavily and with obvious frustration,' - nothing.'

'But -'

"There are no buts. We can only wait.' He stood up. 'Come on, let's get you r things.'

They drove to the villa, where Darcy found himself oddly reluctant to get out of the car. 'Do you know,' he said, 'I feel completely done in, "knacker ed", in common parlance! I suppose it's emotional.'

'I suppose it's the Metaxa!' Manolis answered, drily.

But as they approached the door of the place down the garden path, sudd enly Darcy knew that 'it' was neither. He grabbed the Greek's arm and whisp ered hoa.r.s.ely, 'Manolis, someone is in there!'

'What?' Manolis looked at him, glanced back towards the villa. 'But how do you know?'

'I know because I don't want to go in. It's my guardian angel acting up, my talent. Someone's waiting in there for us - for me, anyway. My own fault.

I was in such a state when I came out that I left the door open.'

'And now you're sure someone is in there, right?' Manolis's voice was a mer e breath of air as he brought out his pistol and fitted a silencer to the barre l, then c.o.c.ked it.

'G.o.d, yes!' Darcy in turn breathed. 'I'm sure, all right. It's like someone was trying to turn me around and boot me the h.e.l.l out of it! First I didn't wa nt to get out of the car, and now, with every step I take, it gets stronger. An d believe me, whoever it is in there, he's deadly!'

'Then he's mine,' said Manolis, showing Darcy his gun. 'For this too is quite deadly!' He reached out and touched the door, which swung silently ope n. 'Follow me in.' And he turned sideways, crouched down a very little and s tepped inside.

Darcy's every instinct, each fibre of his being, screamed RUN! . . . but he followed Manolis inside. He wouldn't let it make a coward of him this time. There were two too many people on his conscience already. It was time he showed this f.u.c.king thing who was boss! And- Manolis put on the light.

The main living-room was empty, looked just as Darcy had left it. Manoli s looked at Darcy, c.o.c.ked his head on one side inquiringly and gave a small, questioning shrug. 'Where?' his whisper was so quiet as to be a mere shapin g of the lips.

Darcy looked around the room, at the beds grouped in the centre of the fl oor, the tapestry on the wall, a pair of ornamental oil lamps on a shelf, a s uitcase of Harry's under the bed he'd never used. And the doors, closed, lead ing to the bedrooms, which likewise hadn't been used. Until now . . .

Then his eyes went back to Harry's suitcase, and narrowed.

'Well?' Manolis shaped his mouth again.

Darcy held a finger to his lips, crossed to the beds and slid Harry's suit case fully into view. The lid was open; he lifted it, took out the crossbow an d loaded it, and stood up. Manolis nodded his approval.

Darcy crossed to the bedroom doors and reached out a hand to touch the first one. His trembling fingertips told him nothing except that he was s cared half to death. He commanded his feet to carry him to the second door , and went to touch that, too. But no, that was as brave as his talent wou ld let him be. NO! something screamed at him. FOR f.u.c.k'S SAKE, NO!

Gooseflesh crawled on his arms as he half-turned towards Manolis to say, '

In here!' But he never said it.

The door was hurled open, knocking Darcy aside, and Seth Armstrong stood framed in the opening. Just looking at him, apish, threatening, no one coul d have mistaken his alienness, the fact that he was less, or more, than a me re man. In the subdued lighting of the room, his left eye was yellow, huge, expanded in its...o...b..t, and a black eyepatch hid the right eye from view.

Manolis shouted, 'Stay where you are! Stand still!' But Armstrong mere ly smiled grimly and came loping towards him.

'Shoot him!' Darcy shouted, scrabbling on his hands and knees. 'For Chris t's sake shoot him!'

Manolis had no choice for Armstrong was almost upon him - and he'd ope ned his mouth to display teeth and jaws which the Greek simply didn't beli eve! He fired twice, almost point-blank; the first into Armstrong's should er, which served to snap the big American upright, and the second into his belly, which bent him down again and pushed him back a little. But that w as all. Then he came on again, grasped Manolis by the shoulder and hurled him against the wall. And Manolis knew where he'd felt such strength befor e, but knowing it didn't help him now. His gun had been sent flying, and A rmstrong -and Armstrong's teeth - were coming for him again! 'Hey, you!' Darcy shouted. 'f.u.c.king vampire!'

Armstrong was dragging Manolis to his feet, lowering his awful face towa rds him; he turned to face Darcy; and Darcy, aiming at his heart, pulled the trigger of his crossbow.

That did it. As the bolt went in the American released Manolis and smash ed back against the wall. Gagging and choking, he sought to grasp the bolt a nd draw it out. But he couldn't. It was too close to his heart, that most vi tal of organs. His heart pumped his vampire blood, and that was the source o f his hideous strength. He gurgled, coughed, staggered to and fro and spat b lood. And his left eye glared like a blob of sulphur seared into his face!

Manolis was on his feet again. As Darcy fumbled frantically to reload his crossbow, so the Greek tried a second time and pumped four carefully a imed shots into the stricken vampire. But now the bullets had more effect.

Each one drove Armstrong like a pile-driver backwards across the floor, a nd the last one hurled him against a window which shattered outwards, show ering gla.s.s, broken louvre boards and Armstrong himself into the night garden.

Darcy had loaded up. He stumbled out into the garden, with Manolis rig ht behind him. Armstrong lay flat on his back in the remains of the window , alternating between flailing his arms and tugging at the hardwood bolt w here it transfixed his chest. But he saw Darcy approaching and somehow sat up!

Darcy took no chances; from no more than four feet away he sent the sec ond bolt crashing through the vampire's heart, which not only served to str etch him out again but pinned him down and kept him still.

Manolis, his mouth hanging open, came forward. 'Is he ... is he finished?'

'Look at him,' Darcy panted. 'Does he look finished? You may believe in them, Manolis, but you don't know them like I do. He's not finished - yet!'

Armstrong was mainly still but his fingers twitched, his jaws chomped , and his burning yellow eye followed them where they moved about him. Hi s eyepatch had been dislodged and an empty socket gaped black in the ligh t from the wrecked window.

Darcy said: 'Watch him!' and hurried back inside. A moment later he was back with a heavy, razor-honed, long-bladed cleaver, also from Harry's sui tcase. Manolis saw its silvery gleam and said: 'What?' His upper lip at the left drew back from his teeth in a nervous gri mace.

'The stake, the sword, and the fire!' Darcy answered.

'Decapitation?'

'And right now. His vampire is already healing him. See, no blood. In an ordinary man your bullets - any one of them - might have killed him with shoc k, let alone damage. But he's taken six and he isn't even bleeding! Two bolts in him, one right through the heart, and his hands are still working. His eyes, too . . . and his ears!'

He was right: Armstrong had heard their conversation, and the loathsome orb of his left eye had swivelled to gaze upon the cleaver in Darcy's hand.

He began gurgling anew, his body vibrating against the earth, the heel of hi s right foot hammering robotically into the dry soil of the garden.

Darcy got down on one knee beside him and Armstrong tried to take hold of him with a spastic right hand. But he couldn't reach him, couldn't make his limbs work properly. Froth, phlegm and blood welled up in the vampire's throa t. His right hand scuttled a little way towards Darcy like a spider, until th e arm it dragged got too heavy for it. He tried a third time, then abruptly f ell back and lay still.

Darcy gritted his teeth, raised the cleaver -- And the membrane in the ba ck of the cavity of Armstrong's right eye bulged and erupted, and a finger, b lue-grey and pulsating, wriggled out onto his cheek!

'Jesus!' Darcy fell back, almost fainted, and Manolis took over. He fire d at Armstrong's face, pulling the trigger of his silenced gun until the nig htmare finger and face both were so much pulp. And when his magazine was emp ty, then he took the cleaver from Darcy's rigid fingers, and took Armstrong'

s head, too.

Darcy had turned away and was throwing up, but between each bout he gas ped, 'Now we ... we have to burn the ... the ugly b.a.s.t.a.r.d!'

Manolis was up to that, too. The lamps in the villa weren't just ornamen tal after all. They contained oil, and there was a spare can of fuel in the kitchen. By the time Darcy could take control of his heaving stomach, the re mains of Armstrong were burning. Manolis stood watching, until Darcy got hol d of his arm and took him off to a safe distance.

'You can never tell,' he said, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. 'Ther e might be a lot more in him than just that G.o.dawful finger!'

But there wasn't...

'I hope you didn't leave it like that,' said Harry. 'The oil couldn't have bur ned all of him.'

'Manolis got a body-bag,' Darcy explained. 'We took him to an incinerator in the industrial part of town. Said he was a mangy dog that crawled into th e garden to die.'

'The heat of that incinerator would calcine his bones down to powder,' M anolis added.

'So, we took second blood!' Harry growled, but with such uncharacteristi c savagery that the others glanced at him in surprise. He saw their looks an d turned his face away. But not before Darcy noted that his eyes were more s oulful - or soulless - than ever. And of course he knew why.

'Harry, about Sandra,' he started to explain yet again.

But Harry cut him off. 'It wasn't your fault,' he said. 'If anyone's it was my fault. I should have made sure personally that she was out of this. But w e can't think about her now, and I mustn't think about her - not if I want to be able to think about anything else. Manolis, did the information you were wa iting for come in?'

'A great deal of information,' said the other. 'Almost everything, except t hat which is the most important.'

Manolis was driving his car, with Harry and Darcy in the back seat. The y were approaching the centre of Rhodes New Town where Manolis was quartere d. It wasn't yet 6:00 p.m. but already some tourists were out in their even ing finery. 'Look at them,' said Harry, his voice cold. "They're happy; the y laugh and dress up; they've had a blue sky all day and a blue sea to swim in, and the world looks fine. They don't know there are scarlet threads am ong all that blue. And they wouldn't believe it if you told them.' And to M anolis, abruptly: 'Tell me everything you've learned.'

'Lazarides is a very successful archaeologist,' Manolis began. 'He came into prominence, oh, four years ago, with several important finds on Crete, Lesbos and Skiros. Before that... we don't have much on him. But he does hav e Greek nationality, and Romanian! This is very odd, if not unique. The auth orities in Athens are looking into it, but -' he shrugged,' - this is Greece . Everything takes time. And this Lazarides, he has the friends in high plac es. Perhaps he purchased his nationality, eh? Certainly he would have the mo nies for it if the rumours are correct. Rumours? They abound! It is said tha t he keeps - or sells to unscrupulous collectors - at least half of the trea sures he excavates; also that he is the - how do you say? - the Midas! Every thing he touches turns to gold. He only has to look at an island to know if any treasure is hidden there. Why, even now men of his are digging in an old Crusader castle on Halki!'

Harry nodded. 'I understand all of that, and I'll tell you about it later. Go o n.'

Manolis turned left off a busy street into an alley, then left again into a ti ny private car park behind his hotel. 'We'll talk inside,' he said.

He had good s.p.a.cious rooms; apparently the proprietor owed the local p olice a few favours, and Manolis was collecting; as he talked he prepared cool drinks, but low in alcohol. For a Greek he was sweating profusely. Da rcy mentioned it and again Manolis shrugged.

'I am the criminals,' he explained. 'Pardon: a criminal. I am a murderer, a nd it concerns me.'