The Gathering, page 1
The Gathering is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by C. J. Tudor
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Ballantine Books & colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Published in the United Kingdom by Penguin Group UK, a Penguin Random House company.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Tudor, C. J., author.
Title: The gathering: a novel / C. J. Tudor.
Description: First U.S. edition. | New York: Ballantine Books, 2024.
Identifiers: LCCN 2024001810 (print) | LCCN 2024001811 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593356593 (hardcover; acid-free paper) | ISBN 9780593356609 (e-book)
Subjects: LCGFT: Detective and mystery fiction. | Vampire fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PR6120.U36 G38 2024 (print) | LCC PR6120.U36 (ebook) | DDC 823/.92—dc23/eng/20240119
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2024001810
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2024001811
Ebook ISBN 9780593356609
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Alexis Flynn, adapted for ebook
Title page photo from stock.adobe.com/Andrei Stepanov
Cover design: Ella Laytham
Cover images: Getty Images
ep_prh_6.3_146677166_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Epilogue
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By C. J. Tudor
About the Author
_146677166_
“Like many indigenous species, vampyrs have been demonized and terrorized by human settlers, to the point where only a few colonies remain in remote areas. Soon, we may live in a world where they are nothing more than a legend.”
—Extract from The True History of the Vampyr by Professor Benjamin Fletcher
“It is actually very rare for a vampyr to attack a human. Most exist happily on animal blood and have done so for many centuries—a way of living which is no more barbaric than that of the average meat eater.”
—Dr. Steven Barker, Head of the Department of Forensic Vampyr Anthropology (DFVA)
“Vampyrs are hereby decreed a protected species on the verge of extinction. Any culls must be authorized by the government and only in the interests of public safety. Culls will be approved when no other more humane option is available. Vampyr trophies are declared illegal.”
—Vampyr Protection Act, 1983
“No one is going to stop us hunting down the spawns of Satan. It’s God’s work. They are an abomination. And we will not rest until every last one of them is returned to the pits of hell.”
—Revd Colleen Grey, Church of the Holy Cross
1
It would be wrong to say that life had passed Beau Grainger by.
Beau Grainger had ambled along steadily, without excitement or drama (for the most part), but also without bitterness or rancor. He had always lived in the small Alaskan town where he had been born and saw no reason to move elsewhere. Most places became familiar after a time, like most people.
He had loved two women and married one of them. They had raised three children and seen them make their way in the world. A fourth they had buried before the infant could take his first breath. Funny how that was the child Beau wondered about the most. We always hanker after what we can’t have. Human nature.
Beau had lost his wife, Patricia, to dementia ten years ago and she had been dead almost three years now. By the time she passed, Beau had finished mourning the woman he loved and buried a stranger.
Now, in his seventy-ninth year, Beau had a few good friends and few regrets. And that is really the best a man can hope for as he starts the final lap of life. That, and a swift and painless death. Beau was content. Or as content as anyone truly can be. But even a man like Beau, not given to introspection or sentimentality, had days when he thought too much.
Today was one of those days.
His joints ached, which they did sometimes in bad weather. His coffee tasted bitter, and not even a shot of whiskey helped. TV held no interest and books failed to distract him. He couldn’t settle.
Beau wandered around his living room. Small and snug, with worn leather armchairs and a large, open fire. Above it hung Beau’s trophies.
Beau was a hunting man. He loved nature, but he also loved the thrill of the kill. To be a good hunter took patience. And Beau had plenty of that. Watching, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. To truly know another beast is to look into its eyes as it dies.
Beau moved closer to the heads. Three of them, mounted on solid wooden stands made for him by Cal Bagshaw (dead almost a year now from throat cancer).
Beau stared into their glassy eyes, ran a finger over their pale, dry skin and around their sharp white teeth.
“Bite me,” Beau whispered, and chuckled. But a whisper of cool ice still drifted across his neck.
Okay, Beau-boy. But remember, the first cut is the deepest.
Beau backed away, and then told himself not to be such an old fool. He turned to the window. Black clouds bristled on the horizon. The white snow undulated like a vast frozen sea. A storm was coming, something foul on the air. Beau had smelt that smell and felt that chill before.
They were back.
It was about to begin again.
2
The cab driver was a talker.
Great.
Barbara guessed he didn’t get a lot of business this time of year, so he was hungry for company. He lived alone. Probably always had. His heavy beard and food-stained shirt, plus the odor of BO, suggested long-term “don’t give a shit.” Not that she was suggesting a man needed a woman to take care of him. No, sir. But everyone needed someone to make an effort for. Without that, you got used to your own stench pretty quickly. She should know.
The driver’s name was Alan, according to his license. “Call me Al,” he had grinned. “You know, like the song.”
Barbara had nodded and smiled. “Yeah.”
She hated that song. She wasn’t so hot on the silver cross and rosary beads dangling from “Call Me Al’s” rearview mirror either. But to each their own.
For the next few miles, she batted away the endless questions: First time here? Yes. Sightseeing? Yes. A lie, but it led to him giving her a rundown of the best tourist attractions in the area, which was pretty short yet somehow still kept him occupied for the next thirty miles or so.
The scenery swished by in a breathtaking gust of ice and snow. And it was breathtaking stuff, Barbara supposed. If you liked snow, forests, mountains, more snow, more forests, more mountains. Pretty. Sure. But get lost out there and you’d be a frozen corpse within minutes. Not so pretty.
She fought back a yawn. An early flight from New York to Anchorage, a nerve-shredding air taxi to Talkeetna and now an hour-and-a-half drive along the snowy AK-3 highway to her destination. M an, why had she agreed to this?
“You’re our best forensic detective,” Decker had told her.
“What about Edwards?”
“Family commitments, which you don’t have.”
“So I draw the short straw because I’m single and childless.”
Decker had leaned forward, stubby hands splayed on his desk. He was a short, stocky man with a Friar Tuck ring of black hair around a bald pate and a face that looked like he was permanently in the middle of a minor cardiac event. He’d been Barbara’s boss for over ten years, and she still wasn’t sure he knew her first name.
“You want me to pay you a compliment, Atkins? Tell you you’re better than Edwards? Our foremost expert in the field.”
“That would be nice, sir.”
Decker had glared at her. “Your flight is booked. Don’t forget your garlic.”
He turned back to his computer, indicating that their conversation was over.
Barbara stood. “Great, sir—should I cook them some dinner?”
“Good that you know your place.”
She had smiled. “Sir…with all due respect, you’re a real asshole sometimes.”
And then she had walked out without looking back. On reflection, her sunny, easy-going nature might also be why she was being shipped out to Alaska.
“So.” Al was staring at her in the rearview mirror. “We don’t get so many tourists stopping in Deadhart. I mean, we get a few of them Goth types; they all like to take a picture of the name, you know? But most don’t stay long. Most head on back to Talkeetna. You plan on doing that?”
He had her sussed, Barbara thought. Never underestimate a cab driver, even out here. They saw all of humanity in the back of their cars. They knew how to read people.
“Maybe,” she said. “I’ll play it by ear.”
Al nodded, cleared his throat. “I just thought…you might be heading that way because of the boy.”
Barbara felt herself tense. The local police department had been instructed to keep news of the death quiet for the first forty-eight hours, until she arrived to make an assessment. It didn’t do to stir up trouble too soon.
“What boy?” Barbara asked carefully.
Her eyes met Al’s in the mirror. The silver cross danced and dangled.
“The one that got killed,” he said.
Okay. So word had already got out, and if Al was chatting to his customers about it, that leak was pretty much a flood. Barbara just needed to know how far it had spread. Could she sandbag it? She debated. Best to be up front. Or at least appear to be.
“You got me.” She sighed. “I’m here about the boy. What have you heard?”
She gave Al a little half-smile. He had been smart. Outwitted her. Now, she was giving him a chance to show how much more he knew.
“Look.” He lowered his voice a little, even though it was only the two of them in the cab. “I know you want to keep it quiet. I’m not a gossip, okay?”
“And I thank you for that, sir.”
“I only mentioned it because my sister, Carol, she lives in Deadhart, see.”
“I see.”
“And she told me about the boy—and that some specialist detective was flying in.”
“Right.”
“You’re obviously from out of town, I don’t take many folks to Deadhart and, no offense, but you look like law.”
Did she? Barbara knew she was no beauty queen. Short with a barrel waist, thick legs and a nose that could sniff out a good steak from fifty paces. Solid. That was how people often described her. Good old solid Barbara. And getting solider by the day since she turned fifty. Age might bring wisdom, but it also brought indigestion and elasticated pants.
“Well, yessir. Well spotted. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to anyone else.”
“Oh, absolutely. You think you’ll be here long?”
They were climbing now. To her right, steep hills bristling with dark spruce and spindly birch. To her left, the ground dropped further and further away. She could see the glint of water in the distance. The Susitna River. Barbara swallowed. She didn’t like heights. Or water.
“Well, I guess it depends on what I find,” she said.
She glanced up and saw Al frown. “No offense,” he said. “But seems like it’s pretty clear what happened.”
“Is that so?” She couldn’t help the slight edge that had crept into her voice.
“Yes, ma’am. I get why you’re here. You gotta tick the right boxes. But everyone in town knows one of them Colony killed the boy. Not saying they did it malicious. I mean, they can’t help themselves, but it doesn’t change the facts. A young boy is dead.”
She forced a smile. “Well, I’m not much of a box-ticker, Al. I just want to find the person responsible.”
He carried on as if he hadn’t heard her. “Look, I’m no ’phobe or nothing. Live and let live and all that. But it’s like an animal. I love my dog, but if she bit a kid I’d shoot her, no second thoughts. Once they get a taste of blood, they’re gonna come back for more. Same thing.”
“And would you also kill that dog’s pups and any other dogs in its pack?” Barbara asked.
“If I didn’t know which dog done the biting, yes, ma’am.”
The cross swung to and fro. The land slipped further away. The road was precarious now. Barbara was suddenly very conscious of the icy snow beneath Al’s tires. They were heavy-duty snow tires, and his cab was more of a 4x4, but still. One small slip and they’d be rolling down into the river’s icy depths. She didn’t want to distract Al, so she swallowed her retort and nodded. “Well, I’m sure you’re right. But I’m booked in here for a week, so if I find I’ve got some time to kill, what else do you reckon I should do?”
Al smiled, and he was off again. Barbara decided she preferred Al the tour guide. She sat back in her seat as the road started to descend. The car rolled along the highway, then turned on to a narrower track. The dark expanse of forest hugged the blacktop either side. Above them the sky had begun to ditch into darkness. Barbara checked her watch. Just after 3:15 p.m. A lot of darkness in Alaska at this time of year. Further north, it would soon be the start of the polar night: twenty-four-hour darkness for a little over two months. Even here, in the central region, she’d be lucky to see five hours of daylight. That was why the colonies settled here. In summer, they spent more time hibernating. Sun wouldn’t kill them, but it wasn’t comfortable. Central still offered a decent amount of night, although some colonies moved in the summer, to areas with less midnight sun.
Up ahead, the cab’s lights illuminated a makeshift wooden sign at the side of the road: Deadhart. Population 673. Underneath, some bright spark had added: Living.
Nice. Of course, the population was now 672, Barbara thought.
The car rounded another wide bend, the trees thinned, and the town came into view.
“What the—”
Although it was only early November, the town was lit up like a Christmas wonderland. Lights. Lots of lights. Every building along the small main street was adorned with row upon row of twinkling fairy lights. Windows glowed with shimmering stars and crosses. Trees had been strung with multicolored bulbs. Some residents had gone for broke with sparkling reindeer and flashing “Merry Christmas” signs. Incongruously, these were mixed with Halloween lanterns and more traditional mounted antlers and animal skulls. Atop the roof of the general store a huge illuminated Santa waved his hand up and down, except some of the lights were busted so it looked like he was rubbing something else, closer to his bulging sack.
