“Now, I want you to take a deep breath and brace yourself.
I’m going to remove your soul.”
“My what? My What?”
“Now, I don’t want to alarm you but, it’s in there.”
“In where?”
The Necromancer jabbed the curved tool towards the captive’s abdomen.
“Deep down in there. In amongst the flesh and bone.”
“Don’t.”
“Hard to tell where though, it can move about a bit, like a slippery eel. I know this from bitter experience. When that little fella gets away from you, it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
The Necromancer moved closer and spoke in a genuinely calm, caring bedside manner, like a kindly surgeon.
“I won’t say the process is smooth or entirely without risk. We are after all bending the natural laws of this Universe and infusing the human body with material from another understanding of reality completely. Like a transplanted organ, your body will most likely try to reject it. This could prove traumatic for you. We’ve tried this stuff for centuries, it’s like oil and water, the nature of reality from our two different places, just don’t want to mix. But, I want you to know that you are in extremely safe hands. I’ve been doing this since long, long before you were born.”
The bound man began one last frantic struggle against the leather straps then collapsed in a fit of exhausted tears.
The thing that terrified him most about the clearly insane monster that had kidnapped him was that there seemed to be no real malice in him. He did not gloat, or shout, or glean any sadistic pleasure from his actions. He either had a genuine belief that his actions were pure and noble, which was the worst kind of evil, or he simply did not regard his captive as a human being with thoughts and feelings. Either way, the bound man knew he was fucked.
“I don’t want your gift. I don’t want to see it, any of it.”
The Necromancer sighed sadly.
“You see, that’s always been the problem with your kind. People want magic, they want power, they want to see God, whichever, but they simply aren’t willing to do what is necessary to attain it. Your saints understood, allowing themselves to be boiled in oil by the Sultan to catch a glimpse of the God they loved so much. Imagine the ecstasy your Jeanne de Arc felt as the flames licked up her pale reddening teenage thighs? If you want to see magic, then there is always a price, and the currency is usually blood.”
The bound man was hyperventilating now, sweat lashing off his face. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and the adrenaline surged through his veins.
He looked hopelessly around the room, his eyes rolling to every corner looking for a way out that did not exist. Then he slumped in resignation. He hung there for at least twenty seconds, slowing down his breathing.
When he looked up, his face was calm, his eyes still full of fear yet lucid and in control. When his spoke his voice was measured and held with dignity.
“I am George St Clair of the Black Star. I have sworn to observe and document all the comings and goings of your kind into our world. We take no stand. We are not soldiers. We are finders and keepers of knowledge. Knowledge is power, and we protect it. You will make me talk, either through pain or through the theft of my soul. That I already regret. But even with the key you will not take the Bones.”
The Necromancer stepped fully out of the shadows now and into the harsh light of the swinging naked bulb that hung from the low basement ceiling.
“Finally, we can end the charade. And get on with our work. I will not lie to you, you won’t live through the night, but if you tell me where in Paris you have hidden the key, your demise will be swift and relatively painless.”
George St Clair knew that his strength would give out soon enough. The task of protecting the Bones was in the hands of others now. In the hands of one man in particular.
“The key you want is in the BNP Paribas bank here in Paris. In a safety deposit box number zero zero six three. But only I can collect it. In the box are details of the resting place of the Bones. A small town in the Canadian wilderness called Carnival.”
The Necromancer almost laughed.
“Really? They entrusted such an important responsibility to the Debruler family? Well that’s helpful. Thank you George.”
“You can’t get in without me. You need to keep me alive.”
“Do I?”
The figure behind the Necromancer slowly stepped forward to stand under the dim overhead light. George St Clair stared at the thing in horror. It was clad in a white dress shirt and black suit trousers, but the material was soaked through with blood and mucous. The creature seemed to have no skin or definite facial features, just a wet mess of worming muscle.
It stepped up to St Clair and looked at him with milky eyes. Then it reached out and with a gooey finger touched him on the forehead. St Clair held his breath, awaiting the pain but none came. Instead, a layer of skin began to form along the creature’s finger. It spread up his hand and vanished up his cuff line, before appearing at the collar again and sliding up over his head.
Then to his despair George St Clair was staring into a slowly settling replica of his own face, smiling back at him. The Necromancer showed his brown teeth.
“Doppelganger. Can look like anyone he touches. For quite some time if he kills them. Another of my little undead creations. So as you see I don’t actually need you at all.”
St Clair felt the last chance of survival slipping from his heart. His only hope now was that the magical defences he installed at the bank would still work and the alarms would be set off. Perhaps someone would notice, someone who could stop them.
“I don’t want to die. Not by your hand. But I am prepared.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know who you are, I haven’t figured out exactly what you are yet. But I know where you’re from. Unclean creature. Impure. Corrupt. Unseelie!”
The Necromancer opened his hands wide in supplication.
“You got me. So, shall we begin? Let’s see how long you can last.”
George St Clair, keeper of the Key and secretary of the Paris branch of the Black Star, took a deep shaking breath and gathered his courage.
“Yes. Let’s.”
“O hollow wraith of dying fame, Fade wholly, while the soul exults.”
Tennyson? Thought St Clair, as the hooked blade came closer to his eye.
3.
Usher sat bolt upright in the bed, screaming through gritted teeth. His bloodshot eyes stared wildly around the room. For a few moments he was unsure where he was and just sat there chasing his breath. The grey military issue t-shirt he wore was soaked in sweat. Usher realized that he was shaking and desperately thirsty, so he reached over and grabbed the bottle of water from the bedside cabinet. He glugged down half a litre in a few parched gulps and then swung his legs around onto the floor. Slowly his mind began to centre and he sat there with his head in his hands, trying to blow the last gossamer threads of nightmare from his mind.
A brisk officious knock came at the door.
Usher’s glistening head snapped up and for a split second his eyes flashed with violence, a night-time thing ready to defend itself. Then he blinked and they flicked open as the pale cold blue he was born with.
Small traces of a supernatural toxin still coursed deep within Usher’s blood. It was something called the Feral that he had taken for a mission a year before, polluting himself with magic for Queen and country. Just another scar, one he wore in his soul to match the livid map across his body.
The knock came again. Then a clean Home Counties accent called through the door.
“Major Usher are you alright? I heard a shout.”
Usher tried to speak but his voice was a hoarse mucosal whisper.
“Yes I…” he cleared his throat. “Yes I’m fine.
“Alright sir. It’s just that the briefing is in twenty minutes. I knew you wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.”
“I’ll be there. Just need to smarten up.”
“Very good sir.”
Usher heard the footsteps click regimentally off down the corridor. He sighed and stood up, stretching out his limbs and rolling his neck. His skin was curriculum vitae of a life lived in combat. He was streaked with scars from knife fights, puncture wounds from fangs, bundled scar tissue from bullet wounds, and even burn marks from sorcery. Seven years of fighting monsters that ought not to even exist.
The real scars Usher carried were hidden from other people, even those closest to him on his assault team.
Usher woke many night soaked in such sweats, reliving the horrors he had fought on behalf of the government. But it was the dreams of his family that disturbed him the most.
He often tried to dream of the good times, birthdays and holidays away, but sooner or later the scenery started to melt and he was once again back in the moment when they were taken from him.
Usher turned on the bathroom faucet and splashed his face with cold water. He brushed his teeth then ran an electric razor across his stubble and within a few minutes was looking close to human again. Only those looking closely would see the dark circles beneath his eyes and the deepening lines of stress in his face.
Usher took his perfectly pressed uniform from the hanger and his aquamarine beret from a shelf. Within a few minutes he looked like a seasoned and disciplined soldier again.
Usher rebuilt himself from scratch like this every morning. As a leader of an Empire Team, he was responsible for a group of soldiers fighting a war unlike any other. He was expected to lead by example, inspire confidence, uphold standards and push his men to do things they had never imagined.
Sometimes he felt that his job was all that kept him from cracking.
Usher’s way of coping with his own pain was to ensure that not one other family ever had to suffer a similar fate. The best way to do that was to utterly destroy every stinking fang filled monster he ever saw. Even if he couldn’t sleep properly at night, he could afford that luxury to the innocents out there who didn’t know what waited for them in the dark.
Usher marched briskly down the corridor, past busy offices where army clerks were typing up reports, communications rooms filled with smart boards and satellite monitoring stations, and many more rooms with locked doors displaying authorized personal only signs.
Usher was about as authorized as it got, but there were still things he wasn’t cleared for.
He walked past a busy laboratory-cum-workshop where the real boffins worked, creating state of the art ballistics and weaponry to fight the Unseelie. Often a strange mixture of magic and technology, Usher often wished he had possessed some of the STG’s unusual bullets the night his family had been taken. How silly it felt now looking back, that he had tried to take out a ‘Napper sorcerer with a conventional 9mm round. He might as well have thrown his pistol at it.
Usher was saluted and greeted with respect by many of the administrative staff and junior officers as he moved along the corridors of the base.
He reached the command centre, swiped his hand across the biometric reader and entered.
The room was filled with high security clearance staff, a mixture of field operators like Usher, comms experts, Tech-boffins, Thaumaturgy consultants, high ranking policy makers and a couple of civilians in the corner that Usher did not recognize wearing expensive grey suits.
Colonel Greystone, Usher’s commanding officer, stepped forward and Usher snapped him a salute. Greystone was solid and fair, often striding the difficult balance between politics and real soldiering. Usher respected him because he knew exactly when to break the rules and think like a soldier. They were on friendly terms outside of work but this control room looked serious so they maintained formality. Greystone glanced around to make sure the rest of the staff were out of earshot.
“Major Usher. Always a sight for sore eyes. Especially after dealing with these stuffed suits. You’ve walked into a breakfast cluster fuck as usual I’m afraid.”
Usher peered around the busy command centre. Satellite footage, CCTV feeds and news coverage was all blaring out at once.
“Looks that way sir. Take it we have some Whitehall overseers breathing down our necks today? How can I help?”
Greystone poured a cup of black coffee from a cafetiere and offered one to Usher.
“How quickly can you get your team together?”
Usher calculated inwardly for a few moments. “Stromberg and Charlie are on a surveillance job in Germany, Brock is on leave doing some strongman comp in Iceland but he’s contactable, Dr Speedman is training the Special Forces Support Group in Thaumaturgic security over at Hereford. Isaac we will probably find in one of three possible strip clubs. Jeter is probably just in his room bulling his boots and polishing his gun. Santiago is here on base, I was sparring with him last night. About seven hours I can get everyone together and up to speed. But the other Empire teams are already here and can mobilize far quicker, sir. ”
Greystone sighed and nodded.
“We’d rather it was your boys. You have experience in this matter. You know Santiago’s going to end up breaking your neck one of these days? He’s got ten years on you Thom. Lad does that Jujitsu stuff like a python.”
“I can still pull out a few tricks, sir.”
Usher could see the hesitation in his commanding officer’s eyes. It was not like him to digress into small talk during a mission briefing. Something was wrong
“What aren’t you telling me sir?”
“We’ve had another spontaneous incident. Media leakage, we are trying to seal that up.”
The British Government still officially denied that the STG existed, but after the Canary Wharf terrorist attack the previous year by a group that were hardly passable as human the internet was now abound with rumour. Thanks to Youtube and other social networking sites and almost everyone in the western world owning a cameraphone, it was getting harder to keep a lid on spontaneous incidents.
“Thom, it’s probably easier for you to just come and look at the footage yourself. We need your verification anyway.”
Usher frowned and the hairs on his arms prickled.
“Verification?”
Greystone led Usher over to a smart screen. He gestured to a nervous young female intelligence officer and she brought some footage up on the screen. Greystone shuffled uncomfortable on his polished shoes.
Helicopter news footage of a city street came up on the screen. There were people running for cover from elegant buildings onto wide boulevards. Suddenly several windows were blown out and an explosion of smoke and debris issued forth from the building. The helicopter footage was a little shaky but Usher could make out the signage on the front of one grand façade.
“BNP Paribas. I know that street, it’s in Paris isn’t it?”
Greystone nodded. “It’s the headquarters of the French bank on Boulevard Des Italiens. And as of two hours ago when this footage was taken, it’s being robbed.”
Usher’s eyes widened in disbelief at the footage.
“Unseelie? We have ogres and werewolves robbing banks now? I thought the daylight attacks had stopped after the Canary wharf incident last year.”
As they watched the footage, several masked figures could be seen running from the triple arches of the bank. They threw smoke bombs down in their wake and carried shotguns. They rushed to a waiting van and dove inside.”
Usher grunted. “Well they look human enough. Out in sunlight, they move normal, they’re using firearms. Most Unseelie wouldn’t know which end of a gun to hold. Human cultists worshipping Unseelie?”
Greystone nodded.
“We think so. The cult cells have been growing in number in Europe since the footage of the Wharf attack found its way onto Youtube last year. There were unseen magical alarms and protection in that bank that were set off which is why this robbery turned into the Wild West. But it’s not them I want you to see, Thom.”
Usher fr
owned and looked at the screen. Another figure emerged, walking almost casually between the spouting smoke grenades. It stopped at the top of the steps as if to admire the view. Usher instantly felt something different about this one. From its shape and gait it was female, but his instinct told him it wasn’t entirely human. Some closed place in Usher’s mind twitched. There was something familiar about this figure.
“Well that one’s exuding confidence, considering that GIGN are probably about to storm the building.”
Greystone glanced at Usher and nodded at the screen. “We believe it’s some kind of stealther. They were obviously intending to get in undiscovered but the sigils disrupted whatever magic they were using. One of the guards said that the thing trying to rob the bank changed its face. Then they went straight to plan B and shot their way out.”
“Changed its face?”
“Keep watching.”
The figure in the footage removed its balaclava and stood wide armed at the top of the steps, almost as if welcoming the inevitable police assault. The young intelligence officer next to them paused the feed. The image flickered with lines of blurred static for a few moments before the operator used software to enhance it. She zoomed in and the face became clear.
Usher’s mouth opened in disbelief.
Greystone put a hand on his elbow to steady him. “I looked into your file to check for myself Thom, once the facial recognition software came up with a match. But I wanted you to see it for yourself and tell me. Is it her?”
Usher felt a million thoughts running through his head. He put a hand out and leaned on the desk. It took all his willpower to prevent himself hyperventilating.
“It’s not possible.”
“Once I’d have agreed, but after what we’ve both seen, our parameters of possibility need to expand. Is it her, Thom?”
The Last Line Series One Page 36