Table Of ContentContents
About the Book
About the Author
Title Page
Foreword by Brian Clemens
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
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Copyright
About the Book
‘What manner of monster can wreak such damage? I only hope you know how it
can be stopped.’
The peace of an English village is shattered when a young girl withers before her
friend’s eyes, becoming but dust and bones. Witnessing this terrifying
transformation, local physician Dr Marcus fears the village has been cursed by
the presence of evil. He immediately summons his old army friend, the
mysterious but powerful vampire hunter, Kronos.
Together with the help of his assistant Professor Grost, Kronos has dedicated his
whole life to destroying vampires. He knows that there is nothing so varied and
deadly. With a vampire nothing is certain, especially how one might be able to
kill it.
As more and more villagers fall prey to this deadly curse, time is against him.
And when it comes dangerously close to home, Kronos is faced with a terrible
choice…
About the Author
‘Guy Adams is either barking mad or a genius, I haven’t decided.’ Mark
Chadbourn The author of the novels The World House and its sequel
Restoration, Guy Adams gave up acting five years ago to become a full-time
writer. This was silly, but thankfully he’s kept busy, writing bestselling humour
titles based on TV show Life on Mars or Torchwood novels The House That
Jack Built and The Men Who Sold The World.
He has also written a pair of original Sherlock Holmes novels, The Breath of
God and The Army of Doctor Moreau as well as a biography of actor Leonard
Rossiter and an updated version of Neil Gaiman’s Don’t Panic: Douglas Adams
& The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
His website is: www.guyadamsauthor.com
Foreword by Brian Clemens
BACK IN THE 1970s I had just finished writing and producing Dr Jekyll & Sister
Hyde for Hammer, who then asked me to write and direct a vampire movie. Not
a great fan of the genre, I immediately ran several of their previous films on the
subject and came to the conclusion that the villain was the most compelling
character, there was a lack of humour and, worst of all, they all seemed to have
the same storyline – always ending up with poor Christopher Lee being staked
through the heart. It really needed some fresh air and hence I created Kronos,
which is Greek for ‘time’, because anticipating a series of movies, I left myself
free to move through different time eras if necessary. I also created a whole new
vampire lore, again giving myself room to vary the format and introduce some
variety – plus humour here and there.
Kronos was a kind of Marvel comics hero, with some touches that made him
hip in younger eyes. I had some grandiose ideas that budget prevented me using,
such as I wanted Kronos to travel in a golden coffin – on the basis that to fight
your enemy you have to think, feel and know him.
The movie was barely promoted but, I am happy to say, has since become a
cult, and a recent celebration screening in London saw a full house and others
queuing around the block to obtain autographs … and now, at last, in the capable
hands of Guy Adams, Kronos is back! The novel is exciting, remains true to the
original concept and, who knows, may herald another movie? I hope so.
I guess that if enough of you fans (and your friends) buy enough copies of
this book, you will have done your bit to make it happen. Thanks.
August 2011
One
Petra Is Dying
I’M DYING. IT may not look like it as I sit here amongst the late cover of campion
flowers, but I am dying. We all are.
Dearest Ann is combing my hair and the sunshine throws flashes in the small
mirror that I’m holding. I can see my face in the mirror. It is a good face, a
beautiful face. That sounds horribly conceited but it would be pointless to lie.
I’m lucky: I was born with a face that makes others do what I want. That’s the
greatest gift God can give.
Despite its beauty, the face is what makes me realise I’m dying. Looking at
it, I can remember when it was smaller, chubbier, covered in freckles. I hated
those freckles. It seems no time at all since Ann and I were running through
these woods. Chasing, laughing, climbing trees. Now we sit and obsess on each
other’s beauty and the only thing we chase are boys (and they’re only too happy
to be caught). When did those freckles vanish? When did I? Our lives are like
summers, that’s what I think – they burn hot and become winter before you
know it. I’m dying. We all are.
Ann runs off into the trees to find flowers for my hair. I watch her go. Sweet
Ann: if only she knew she was just as pretty as me. She is always the quiet one,
the one who hangs back a few steps, the one who thinks she could never quite
stand shoulder to shoulder with me. Would I want it any other way? Oh God, I
hope so – am I that vain?
A light breeze passes through the trees, the ghost of winter come to visit. It
won’t be a ghost much longer. Just a few short weeks and the cold will come, the
flowers will die, the leaves will fall and the mornings will start in darkness.
We’ll be breaking the ice on the water troughs so that the cows can drink.
I lean back against the tree, feeling the rough bark pressing red brands into
my skin. The sunlight falls in thin shards, like a broken mirror, through the
branches around me. I feel dreamy. I press back against the bark harder still,
wanting to keep focused on the here and now as my mind threatens to wander
away on the newfound chill in the air.
There are footsteps behind me, a crunch of leaves and a crack of twigs. I
decide that I will tell Ann how beautiful she is, maybe even curl the flowers she
has picked into her own hair rather than mine. I turn and smile at her but it’s not
Ann, it’s someone just as beautiful, someone with a face that makes me do what
it wants.
I lift my head and the hair that Ann has so carefully brushed catches in the
wind and makes a grab for freedom even as that beautiful mouth descends on
mine. I sink into a dream of dead summers from which I’ll never wake.
