Scenting Hallowed Blood by Storm Constantine

trained to deal with situations like
the one in Little Moor.
    At first, Aninka had hoped to
see more of Lahash once their ‘mission’ was ended, but he didn’t
contact her, and she had no idea where he was. Sometimes she’d
suspected he wasn’t interested in seeing her again, then reassured
herself with the thought that he too did not know her whereabouts.
It was unlikely Enniel would have told him. Taziel, whom she knew
thought little of Lahash, never mentioned their erstwhile
companion. He didn’t seem to want to talk about anything connected
with what had happened to them.
    Taziel had been recalled from
Vienna by Enniel, forced to abandon his life there, in order to
help track down the Anakim, Peverel Othman. Aninka had offered her
services voluntarily, although she and Taziel were linked by a
common experience. Both were ex-lovers, if that term could be used,
of Peverel Othman. Both had witnessed the excesses of his
behaviour. Both were scarred by it. Taziel had maintained a strong
psychic link with Othman, which he had used to pinpoint the
Anakim’s whereabouts. What followed had been a dash to the north,
in the hope of capturing Othman, alive or dead. Lahash Murkaster
had carried a gun: Aninka had seen it. But the climax of their
search had been beyond their imaginations. On a sacred hill in the
middle of a forest, Peverel Othman had performed his last, dark
ritual. He had craved power, or so they supposed, but the outcome
of his rite had been the stripping away of ignorance, presumably
the last thing Othman had wanted or imagined. From the ashes of
Othman had come Shemyaza. It was still hard to believe what they’d
seen.
    Shemyaza had slipped away from
them, and they’d been forced to return to Cornwall and admit their
failing. Taziel said that the Parzupheim, the governing body of the
Grigori families, of which Enniel was a prominent member, had
always known who Othman was. Aninka wasn’t sure. Would the
Parzupheim have sent only three people to the north if they’d
suspected the truth?
    Aninka wondered why Taziel
didn’t return to Vienna now; he had a band waiting there for him,
and, she gathered, a lover. Still, he made no attempt to go home,
and as far as Aninka knew had not even telephoned his people there.
But, as she was out so much more than he was, perhaps he did that
when he was alone. He seemed content to do nothing, just sit
around, although in the evenings he and Aninka went out together to
pubs and clubs, or to the cinema. They got on quite well, which
surprised her. Their common bond of the failed love affair with
Peverel Othman was never alluded to. Far easier to talk about their
shared interest in films and books and music. Their nights out
together were more like workshops than social occasions. They
talked about art, ripped it apart, stuck it back together again,
even made tentative plans. Taziel wanted to write a contemporary
opera, and suggested Aninka could design the sets and the costumes
for it. It gave them something to think about, something on which
to focus their minds, so that uncomfortable memories could not
squeeze in to haunt them. Aninka felt they were living in limbo.
The talk of working together was a fantasy, because their
involvement with Othman, or Shemyaza, was unfinished. The episode
was not over yet, but merely going through a lull. The thought made
her shudder. She felt this strongly and wondered whether Taziel
felt the same. Sometimes she wanted to ask him, because she felt
his decision to remain in England must have something to do with
it, but she sensed he’d just flare up and get angry if the subject
was mentioned.
    Then, on the eighth night of
their occupation of the flat, Lahash had turned up at the door.
He’d seemed edgy but pleased to see them. He’d bought flowers for
Aninka, scentless and unnaturally blue, probably purchased from a
garage on the way to the flat. Still, she appreciated the
gesture.
    ‘How did you find us?’ she
asked. The three of