dragging him effortlessly down, he was dimly aware of Anthony’s shadow falling on him, and an echoing, rapidly receding voice that faded away completely almost before it had time to advise him: “Calm yourself, Mike. You’ll wake up soon enough, undead but alive, for we have work for you yet. And it’s a job for which you seem eminently suited…”
V
It was surely one of the strangest of liaisons, one of the most peculiar and even mismatched affairs of the heart. And to Harry Keogh and Bonnie Jean Mirlu alike it had become one of the most puzzling yet simultaneously satisfying adventures.
It had been that way almost from their first meeting—more properly a collision—one night in London, where they had both been hunting the same psychotic killer. On that occasion Bonnie Jean had probably saved Harry’s life, and in return the Necroscope had saved B.J. from a whole lot of trouble; though if they had known who or what they were saving events might easily have proceeded in the opposite direction.
As it was Harry had found her magnetically attractive right from the start and sexually irresistible ever since. It was the animal in her, he thought, without fully appreciating the irony of his appraisal. But it was a fact that Bonnie Jean was a sexy woman and “a real Looker,” as the Necroscope had once heard her described. Tall, slim and slinky—but entirely natural with it—she seemed ageless; she could be anything from twenty-two to thirty-five. As for her roots: possibly Eurasian? She could be, from the shape of her eyes. As oval as almonds, and almost unnoticeably tilted, they were a deep hazel flecked with gold; and when she was angry Harry might even think of them—and of B.J. herself—as feral! And her hair, bouncing on her pale shoulders, seeming black as jet but grey in its sheen, especially at dusk. And those legs of hers that went up forever, or not quite forever, but certainly to that place where Harry’s entire world invariably dissolved into some soul-sweetening essence whenever they made love.
The rest and greater part of her—which from the Necroscope’s point of view included B.J.’s personality, for he wasn’t utterly besotted; it wasn’t simply Bonnie Jean’s body he lusted after—was equally, undeniably attractive. Her ears, large but not obtrusive, flat to her head and elflike, with their pointed tips often as not hidden in the bounce of her shining hair; her nose, tip-tilted but hardly “cute;” her mouth, perhaps a fraction too ample, yet still delicious in the curve of its bow. And last but not least her teeth: Harry couldn’t recall ever having seen teeth so perfect or so white.
“What sharp teeth you have, Bonnie Jean!” some inner voice, perhaps his own, would sometimes begin to advise him. And: “All the better to—” it would continue, until another voice, B.J.’s voice, or his memory of it, would cut in with:
“Ah, no! Don’t go there, mah wee man. For that’s no a verra safe place…no safe at all.”
That was part of how she controlled him, while at the same time giving herself to him, without understanding the fascination that she in turn felt in Harry’s presence. For what was he after all but a mere man? If that’s all he was. Or was it possible he was something more? And looking at him—just thinking of him, the way he looked—she would wonder about that: about the facts in the former life of her mystery man, this stranger who had become her lover.
While Harry’s frame was solid enough he was far from muscular. He wasn’t handsome, or only moderately so, and in fact his features—apart from an occasionally bitter expression and the wry curl of a caustic upper lip—were generally unexceptional; but not entirely. The anomaly lay in Harry’s eyes: those honey-brown eyes that were so obviously, vastly intelligent and knowing while yet, paradoxically, seeming so incredibly innocent.
Or was Harry’s apparent innocence also some kind of facade, a
V
It was surely one of the strangest of liaisons, one of the most peculiar and even mismatched affairs of the heart. And to Harry Keogh and Bonnie Jean Mirlu alike it had become one of the most puzzling yet simultaneously satisfying adventures.
It had been that way almost from their first meeting—more properly a collision—one night in London, where they had both been hunting the same psychotic killer. On that occasion Bonnie Jean had probably saved Harry’s life, and in return the Necroscope had saved B.J. from a whole lot of trouble; though if they had known who or what they were saving events might easily have proceeded in the opposite direction.
As it was Harry had found her magnetically attractive right from the start and sexually irresistible ever since. It was the animal in her, he thought, without fully appreciating the irony of his appraisal. But it was a fact that Bonnie Jean was a sexy woman and “a real Looker,” as the Necroscope had once heard her described. Tall, slim and slinky—but entirely natural with it—she seemed ageless; she could be anything from twenty-two to thirty-five. As for her roots: possibly Eurasian? She could be, from the shape of her eyes. As oval as almonds, and almost unnoticeably tilted, they were a deep hazel flecked with gold; and when she was angry Harry might even think of them—and of B.J. herself—as feral! And her hair, bouncing on her pale shoulders, seeming black as jet but grey in its sheen, especially at dusk. And those legs of hers that went up forever, or not quite forever, but certainly to that place where Harry’s entire world invariably dissolved into some soul-sweetening essence whenever they made love.
The rest and greater part of her—which from the Necroscope’s point of view included B.J.’s personality, for he wasn’t utterly besotted; it wasn’t simply Bonnie Jean’s body he lusted after—was equally, undeniably attractive. Her ears, large but not obtrusive, flat to her head and elflike, with their pointed tips often as not hidden in the bounce of her shining hair; her nose, tip-tilted but hardly “cute;” her mouth, perhaps a fraction too ample, yet still delicious in the curve of its bow. And last but not least her teeth: Harry couldn’t recall ever having seen teeth so perfect or so white.
“What sharp teeth you have, Bonnie Jean!” some inner voice, perhaps his own, would sometimes begin to advise him. And: “All the better to—” it would continue, until another voice, B.J.’s voice, or his memory of it, would cut in with:
“Ah, no! Don’t go there, mah wee man. For that’s no a verra safe place…no safe at all.”
That was part of how she controlled him, while at the same time giving herself to him, without understanding the fascination that she in turn felt in Harry’s presence. For what was he after all but a mere man? If that’s all he was. Or was it possible he was something more? And looking at him—just thinking of him, the way he looked—she would wonder about that: about the facts in the former life of her mystery man, this stranger who had become her lover.
While Harry’s frame was solid enough he was far from muscular. He wasn’t handsome, or only moderately so, and in fact his features—apart from an occasionally bitter expression and the wry curl of a caustic upper lip—were generally unexceptional; but not entirely. The anomaly lay in Harry’s eyes: those honey-brown eyes that were so obviously, vastly intelligent and knowing while yet, paradoxically, seeming so incredibly innocent.
Or was Harry’s apparent innocence also some kind of facade, a
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