The Last Resort
Yvonne Morrin
The Last Resort
Yvonne Morrin
© 2012 by Yvonne Morrin.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
About the Author
Publishing Information
For Victoria Jane.
Prologue
February 17th, 1990
As the boy ran across the courtyard, desperately fleeing from her pursuit, he stumbled and bit his tongue. The smell of blood erupted into the air, tangy and salty, driving her wild. Spurred on, she bounded on all fours relentlessly after the boy. The human part of her brain told her that this was wrong. It was absurd, hunting down a child who was entrusted to her care. But the human part of her brain was overwhelmed by the animal. With a yelp of triumph she sprang, and her prey came crashing to the ground. Greedily, she sank her teeth into the soft flesh of his calf muscle. Blood welled up into her mouth, hot and sweet and divine. As the boy screamed, she lifted her head, blood dripping from her jaws, and howled to the moon. Listening for an answering call, her ears instead picked up the rapid clack of footfalls against wooden floorboards. A tall figure all in black was pelting out of the junior dormitory, rifle in hand, full dress robes flapping at his heels. The headmaster pulled up short, panting. “Miss Fullmoon?” he said, raising the rifle and drawing a bead on her. “We need to talk…”
November 5th, 1972
The voodoo priestess scratched an image of a snake into the bare red earth. Hazy smoke drifted through the night as the beating of drums grew louder, and louder, and louder still, throbbing into the darkness. Swaying and moaning and sweating, the priestess danced barefoot in a circle around the spread-out jumble of bones, shaking her skirts and chanting an incantation. Her eyes rolled backwards until only the whites showed. The dead bones jittered and jangled, new life seeping into their cracks and pores. Teeth sprang out of the dirt and hopped over to the jawbone like popcorn on a hot skittle. The jawbone hooked itself onto the skull, and the skull connected itself to the vertebrae, which lined up neatly like well-behaved schoolchildren. Tumbling over themselves, the ribs came next, then the shoulder blades, collarbones and pelvis. The fingerbones connected up to the arms, and together they snaked along the ground towards the rest, while the foot and legbones danced a jig. “Arise!” the priestess commanded. And Skully arose.
April 18th, 1932
Slowly, carefully, the treasure seekers removed the last block of stone that barred their way into the Pharaoh’s tomb. As the ancient seal was broken, fresh air poured into the chamber. The air danced about the Pharoah’s golden treasures. It flowed around the engraved canopic jars containing the ancient king’s brain, heart, and lungs. It caressed the hieroglyphs carved into the crumbling walls. And it wormed its way between the cracks in a small, modestly decorated sarcophagus which was positioned in an antechamber off to one side of the main tomb. The occupant of the sarcophagus, Dr. Ankh Ehl Bone, physician to the Pharaoh, breathed for the first time in three thousand years. It felt good.
July 12th, 1958
Flashing a spectacular smile, Blake Lagoon, Hollywood hunk, waved to the collection of teenage girls who stood around the lake admiring the rippling muscles of his bare chest. With a final wink at the prettiest girl, he plunged into the lake, and began to swim with long confident strokes, thinking what a life! Soon he was out in the middle of the lake. Feeling pleased with his efforts, he was about to turn back, when a twinkle of emerald light from below caught his eye. Could it be some sort of exotic phosphorescent fish? Curious, he dived down to investigate, only to discover that the greenish glow was emanating from a half-dozen rusty metal drums lying on the bottom of the lake. As Blake struggled to read the labels, he tasted an acrid tang like burnt garlic at the back of his throat. A strange sensation of stretching in the skin between his fingers and toes began to alarm him, before he was overwhelmingly consumed by a sudden searing pain ripping at the sides of his neck, like the slashing of invisible claws. What was happening to him?
May 7th, 1920
Louise sat in the rocking chair, tipping it wildly back and forth, while Boudica opened and closed the tattered, dust-laden drapes, alternately filling the room with light and darkness. Suzanna cranked the handle on the gramophone, setting a record spinning. A tinny classical waltz filled the sitting room of the rambling old mansion. The young priest stood in the centre of the room, clutching a crucifix, his wildly staring eyes taking in the rocking chair, the gramophone and the drapes as they moved, apparently by themselves. “What manner of evil is this?” he murmured. The sisters watched and smiled, waiting for the priest to run screaming from their house as so many others had before. But he did not run. Instead, he began to mutter in Latin, sprinkling holy water around the room. At once, each sister felt a tingling in the core of her being. The priest pulled fists full of iron nails from his robes next, scattering them about as if sowing seeds. As he continued his ritual, the tingling intensified into a distinct pull, impossible to resist. The final word of Latin passed his lips and at once each sister was flipped upside down and dragged feet-first towards the fireplace and up the chimney. One by one, they popped out on the slate-tiled roof.
“Well, really!” Louise exclaimed, smoothing her wiry grey hair.
“Young people these days!” Suzanna added.
“They’ve no manners!” Boudica huffed.
September 29th, 1814
The baying of hounds, the smell of burning straw, the yelling of angry villagers, the crackle of the fire, the searing heat of the flames – it was all too familiar. Once again, Norm knew he had to escape. He leapt down from the hayloft, landing in a crouch. There was a roar from the gathered mob as he was spotted. Wheeling around, he lowered his head and charged towards the back wall of the barn. The boards shattered as he crashed through them like a battering ram. Shaking off the loose splinters, he lumbered away into the sanctuary of the woods, one thought occupying his undersized brain. When will they leave me alone?
Chapter One
The day the letter arrived seemed no different to any other. As the dinghy headed towards the mainland, Harriet Fullmoon shivered and pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders. She turned her back to the wind, looking instead at the castle on the island, her home for the past nineteen years. Its empty windows stared back at her like sightless eyes. Their stained glass was smeared with grime after centuries of neglect and the wooden shutters were warped and swollen with seawater. Once covered with a gleaming white wash of lime, the massive stones forming the walls and turrets were now cracked and dingy grey. Today, wind howled around the ramparts, sending the tattered flags flapping. In the green rolling hills behind the castle, tiny white specks roamed abo
ut. The castle’s faded grandeur did not concern the sheep at all.
As the bottom of the dinghy slapped rhythmically against the waves, Harriet ran a finger over her upper lip. Already she could feel coarse bristles beginning to sprout. She’d only just shaved that morning. At this rate, by the time the monthly shopping was done and errands run, her moustache would have grown halfway back. Harriet sighed, and dropped her hand. She should have waxed instead of shaving, but it was so much trouble, and it was not as if she had much contact with the Mortavian villagers anyway. The avoided her just as they did all residents of the castle.
The dinghy bumped to a stop against the moorings, and Harriet climbed out. “Thanks, Blake,” she called to her friend, the aquatic mutant who had towed the dinghy across the channel, grasping the rope between his teeth as he swam.
“My pleasure,” Blake Lagoon replied, giving her a winning grin. As she looked at his dazzling teeth, set in pale blue rubbery flesh, Harriet wondered, not for the first time, what the former heart-throb had looked like before his mutation. She knew he had been handsome – the rugged outdoors type – and she knew also that the loss of his good looks had been tough on him. Yeah, well, we’ve all got our cross to bear, Harriet thought, rubbing the stubble on her chin.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” she said, looking down at him as he bobbed under the pier. “Will you wait here?”
Blake nodded, and waggled a webbed hand at her. Under the surface of the water, his gills puffed in and out like a bellows as he worked to catch his breath. Towing the dinghy across the channel was exhausting, but Blake liked to make himself useful. Everyone at the castle felt the same way. Each of them had found peace there, and they were universally grateful.
Warily, Harriet regarded the village streets. From the dinghy, she had seen the usual collection of fishermen tending their nets, women standing about gossiping, and children running and playing. As they had got closer, people began to notice the little boat, and when they realized Harriet was coming ashore, they’d made themselves scarce. It was the same every month.
The metal sign above the door of a fish shop squeaked on rusty hinges as it blew in the wind. A rumpled paper bag tumbled down the cobbled street. Harriet sighed, and started forward, her list of errands clutched tightly in her hand, lest the wind snatch it away. Suddenly, a mangy dog, little more than a bag of bones covered in wiry tan fur, sprang out of the doorway of the fish shop, barking and snapping at Harriet. Harriet looked left and right, narrowed her eyes, curled back her lip, and snarled at the dog. It froze, its eyes widening in fright, and then it cowered, tail between its legs and whined.
“Nippet! Come away in!” a voice called out from the fish shop doorway. Harriet couldn’t see whether it was a man or a woman. The person was hiding in the shadows. Nippet didn’t need to be told twice. He turned and pelted for the shelter of the shop, away from this strange being, who looked like a woman but smelled like a wild thing and growled like the ancestor of all canine-kind. As soon as the dog passed the threshold, the door banged shut.
“You should feed your dog properly!” Harriet yelled in the direction of the shop. There was no need for her to keep a low profile at that particular establishment, she reasoned. Fish was never on her shopping list since Blake could catch all the fish they needed, fresh out of the ocean.
There were plenty of other things they needed though, so she had better get on with it. Each shop keeper had a different way of dealing with her. At the butchery, she left a list of items on the counter of the apparently empty shop, and when she returned in half an hour, they would be ready for her, along with a bill. The bill was always very reasonable – much less than the meat was worth. Originally, the butcher had nervously offered her the meat for free, but Harriet had insisted on paying some amount. She didn’t want anyone to accuse her of intimidation. So she would take the parcels, wrapped in brown paper, and leave a coin in their place. Nineteen years ago, when Harriet had first come to the castle, its treasury had been full of coins. Now there was only a small pile. In a few more years, she might have to take the meat for free after all. She grimaced at the thought.
At the grocers, Harriet was allowed to make her own selections, and she always hummed as she moved from aisle to aisle, filling her baskets with cleaning products, bottles of wine and toilet paper. When she was ready to leave, a small dirty-faced child would be pushed out of the back room to take her money. Harriet always smiled and tried to make conversation with the little tyke, but the child would simply stare back, stony faced, and say nothing. At first, Harriet had been touched by the level of trust shown by the owners of the grocery shop, actually letting a child have face to face contact with her. On her third visit, however, Harriet had caught a glimpse of movement reflected high up in the store windows and had realized that the shop owner was sprawled on his belly in the rafters, a shotgun trained on her, the whole time she was in the shop. No doubt loaded with silver bullets, she figured. So as much as Harriet wanted to hug the miserable-looking child to her, she resisted, knowing that all she would get for her trouble would be a bullet in the back. The child had grown up over the years, of course, and Harriet wasn’t surprised when one day a different small, grubby-faced child was sent out to take her money. When she looked up into the rafters, the stony gaze of the original boy, now a teen, was sighting along the barrel.
Visiting the grocers was probably the worst of the errands, because it was the only time she was physically close to a child, and so she couldn’t help but be reminded of her time as the matron of a boarding school in the Scottish highlands she once called home. They had once been happy times, never to be repeated.
The library was the best part of her monthly trip, simply because she got to talk to another human being. The librarian, a small woman in her fifties, Harriet’s own age, was prepared to make small talk in order to practise her English, chattering about the weather, or the tides. She never mentioned the castle, never talked about the residents there, never so much as whispered a word about Harriet’s “condition”. Nevertheless, she conducted her conversation from behind a thick toughened-glass panel, which she had had installed at the front of her office by the time of Harriet’s second visit. Harriet would feed books one at a time through a slot in the panel, and the librarian would issue them and push them back through to Harriet, all the while commenting on how frosty it was for the time of year.
Today was a little different, however. Today, the librarian said, “There’s a letter for you. It came a couple of weeks ago. The postman brought it to me, because he knows that I’m the only one prepared to… I mean… that we…” she trailed off.
Harriet’s brow wrinkled, her hackles lifted, and a small growl of concern escaped her lips. The librarian jumped about a foot backwards, and Harriet forced herself to relax and smile. “Here it is,” the librarian said, pushing an envelope gingerly through the slot. Harriet took it and stared at it as if it might bite. Mail never came for the castle. Never. Harriet glanced at the return address. It was the office of some London solicitors. She looked at the front. It was addressed to “Uncle Viktor”. This looked bad.
Harriet decided to forget about her other errands. She could always come back in a week or so. Thanking the librarian, she stuffed the library books into her already bulging backpack, hoisted the bag onto her muscular shoulders and headed back to the pier, hoping Blake was still around. Oh well, if he wasn’t, she’d just have to row herself back. Somehow, she felt it was important that Viktor get this letter right away.
#
Viktor held the single sheet of paper out at arm’s length, pinched between thumb and forefinger, dangling it as if it were a cockroach he’d caught scuttling out of the pantry. He regarded the letter for a moment with distaste, curling a lip ever so slightly, and arching one exquisitely coiffured eyebrow. This was the most emotion the residents of the castle had ever seen Viktor express, and it had them worried. A ripple of anxiety passed through the group gathered around
the polished oak banqueting table. Usually the residents were free to come and go about the castle as they pleased, with no sense of direction nor duty to fulfil. What could have caused Viktor to call a meeting in the grand hall? The residents began to speculate.
Viktor smoothed his dark black hair back from his forehead. Pomade glued it neatly to his scalp. He then attended to his slanted eyebrows and pencil moustache, aligning the hairs precisely into place with a stroke. It wouldn’t do to look ruffled. He delicately cleared his throat, and the hubbub ceased at once. All eyes turned to him expectantly. He returned each resident’s gaze with his own measured look, nodding to them in turn.
Dr. Ankh Ehl Bone was standing at the far end of the table, pipe clamped between his teeth, pince-nez spectacles wedged on his nose, small beady eyes brimming with intelligence and curiosity. The eyes were of course the only part of the doctor which were visible, given that he was wrapped from head to toe in bandages.
Next to him stood Harriet, frowning, arms crossed over her barrel-like chest, her bushy eyebrows pulled low, coarse blonde hair barely tamed in a ponytail, a bundle of energy in a tweed suit. She really is a trooper, that woman, Viktor thought. Capable of just about anything, and fiercely loyal. What did the English say? A good egg.
Skully was seated next to her, taking the weight off his bones, grinning. Viktor’s moustache twitched, and he suppressed a smile. Skully’s grin was infectious. It was also permanent, as he didn’t have any lips, nor skin, nor flesh, for that matter. Skully was a skeleton. He did have hair, however – eyebrows, and a thick thatch of black dreadlocks which he had somehow attached to his skull. Superglue, perhaps. Skully was forever rigging up ways to attach things to his thin frame – usually to compensate for the lack of tendons and muscles. His bones were wired together.
Callista Spitofido was on Skully’s left. She rested her perfectly manicured hands on the table, crossed her long alabaster legs at the ankles and regally lifted her chin. Her poise was perfect. Then a small snake popped out from under her turban and flopped onto her forehead. Hissing at it in its own language, Callie pushed it back out of sight. Viktor suppressed another smile.
Opposite Callie, Norm loomed, standing stock still and looking completely lifeless. His massive jaw was slack and his arms dangled. Viktor knew the brain inside that misshapen head was working, but that the processing speed was slow.
