Free Necroscope 9: The Lost Years by Brian Lumley Page A

last few months a lot of the lustre had disappeared, and the odd strand of grey hair had appeared among the
    Necroscope: The Lost Years - Vol. I
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    Brian Lumley
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    brown in the temples. His eyes too were honey-brown; very wide, very intelligent, and (strange beyond words) very innocent! Even now, for all they’d seen - for all that he’d experienced and learned - they were innocent. Darcy knew it could be argued, however, that certain murderers have the same look. But in Harry the innocence was mainly genuine.
    He hadn’t asked to be what he was, or to be called upon to do the things he’d done - but he had done them.
    His teeth were strong, not quite white, a little uneven; they were set in a mouth that was unusually sensitive but could also be cruel, caustic. He had a high brow, a straight nose, cheeks that seemed just a fraction sunken. Not surprising, that last, for the Necroscope had lost weight. Alec Kyle had been perhaps too well-fleshed - once. With his height it hadn’t mattered much. Not to Alec, whose work in E-Branch had been in large part sedentary. But it mattered to Harry Keogh. It had been bad enough carrying around those extra years, let alone the extra weight! He was trying to find time to get his new body in training, bring it to its best possible condition. He’d be better off, Clarke thought, if he got his mind sorted out first! He suspected Harry’s mind must feel something like a nervous cat in a new house -prowling around and trying to get used to the layout. But it was already more than a year.
    ‘What is it, Darcy?’ the Necroscope asked, his voice listless as his looks - listless, but not lost. The man might be little more than a boy, but still he carried a lot of mileage. And his tone of voice, the depth of his penetrating gaze, his obvious intelligence, carried a whole world of authority.
    But his looks, Harry Keogh’s looks! They were the stumbling block, and not only for Clarke but for every esper in the Branch. The fact that each time they spoke to Harry - or even thought of him - it was on the tip of every tongue to call him Alec, just as Clarke had barely avoided doing a moment ago. And this despite that he’d been deliberately rehearsing to himself, Harry, Harry, Harry, all the way down the corridor.
    Clarke forced himself back to earth. ‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘And, well, one or two of the gang just happened to mention you mightn’t be … you know, feeling too good?’ He came in, closed the door behind him and sat on Harry’s tumbled bed.
    The Necroscope gave a shrug of his shoulders and offered a mirthless, ‘Huh! They just “happened” to mention it, right? I mean, it’s not that these espers of yours have been into my mind or anything. Hell no! But they just kind of
    “suspected” I might be a bit down this morning.’ He frowned and gave a snort of derision. ‘Christ, give it a rest, can’t you, Darcy! I mean, surely you know I’ve been feeling them groping away in my head morning, noon and night every day for well over a year now!’
    Clarke flopped his hands uselessly. ‘But they’re … well, espers,
    Harry!’ he said, making it sound like an apology. ‘And they do manage to keep their talents pretty much to themselves. I mean, we have our code, you know? But we can’t help worrying about you … ” Or thinking about you, and about Alec. Wondering what kind of a freak you are; how you feel about it. And what about that poor girl downstairs; how she feels. Because we told her you were dead! And now you’re alive, but no longer you! And as for Alec, he’s gone forever. We know how it was -you’ve told us how it was, and Ben Trask has corroborated it - but we wonder anyway … The Ben Trask of Clarke’s silent reflections was another Branch operative, a human lie-detector.
    The Necroscope looked at Clarke and he looked back: at a man he’d known as the precog Alec Kyle. Or rather, he looked at the shape of Kyle with Harry’s mind in it.