“Play for time, keep them occupied!” Rachel screams.
They may not have heard her but they do what she wants. The three spread out and advance on the demon while Edmund sprawls on the floor. Bryce takes aim again and fires five rounds into Baalphegor. The demon rushes forward at his tormentor, then Rachel sees Croft hurl a bag of white powder into the creature's face. Baalphegor screams in agony and raises its paws to its face. Bryce fires again and all three men move in to attack the monster.
Baalphegor lashes out at his tormentors, sending Croft flying to crash against the wall. Bryce dances away from the grasping paws and slashes at one with his dagger, and the demon bellows in frustration then flees, lumbering down the stairs. The man that Rachel hasn't seen before goes to Croft and tries to help the detective to his feet.
“No, no, the ritual!” pleads Edmund, a shriveled hand raised in supplication. Rachel sees the sorcerer's body start to collapse on itself, skin sagging on bones as flesh fades away, then the skin itself starts to tear apart and fall away in patches. Bryce stands over Edmund and raises his pistol. He doesn't fire, turning to leave what's left of the sorcerer to rot away.
“We can't allow that thing to get away!” snaps Bryce.
“What else can we do?” gasps Croft, leaning on the third man.
Rachel feels a sudden jolt of energy and starts to drift back towards the chapel. At the same moment, she hears a rising chorus of wails as she once again senses the great vortex of ghosts whirling around Furniss Manor.
The mechanism's broken without anyone to run it! It's all running down, or out of control, she thinks.
As soon as her spirit leaves the Tower, she sees all the victims of the Haunter circling the house, some already beginning to drift away, a few heading upward, but most milling in apparent confusion. And she sees Baalphegor as he comes crashing out of the front door, still shaking his head and snarling. A handful of meandering phantoms dart towards the demon, who flails at them in impotent fury.
He can't harm the dead, Rachel thinks. But can they hurt him?
Rachel wills herself to rise higher, entering the great swarm of tormented souls so she is soon surrounded by wailing ghosts, all drawn to the Tower over the centuries. She reaches out to grab one, looks into a pale, colorless face with great voids for eyes and mouth.
“There he is!” she says, “Down there! Look, all of you! Your tormentor, the one who made you suffer for so long. He's there, and you're free to make him suffer now!”
Rachel drags the phantom down toward the demon, and others follow. More ghosts join in until a comet-tail of spirits trails behind her. She senses the psychic foulness of Baalphegor once more, but this time it's different. There's a pungent whiff of what might be fear amid the reek.
“Baalphegor! You can't be killed by guns or blades, but how about anger? Hate? Revenge?”
The Haunter grimaces at her and lashes out, but his paw swipes right through her leaving only a vague sensation of heat. Growing more confident she dives at the monster's face and throws a punch. She feels her hand enter Baalphegor's head and strikes out again and again. There's a sensation like maggots crawling on her skin but she ignores it in her anger.
The demon roars, then tries to run away at a crouching lope. But now other spirits are attacking, some clawing and beating at Baalphegor, others hurling themselves straight through his huge body. He lashes out like a man attacked by wasps, slapping and grabbing at the ghosts to no avail as his victims cluster round him. Soon, the demon vanishes in a swarm of assailants. When they finally disperse, there's nothing there but a patch of snow stained by reddish-brown ooze.
***
Rachel and Tony stand with Colonel Bryce, Inspector Croft and Sergeant Armstrong in the churchyard at Furniss Village. The Beaumonts have laid wreaths at six new headstones, each marking the last resting places of the Haunters' final victims.
“You and your good lady won't be living at the Manor, then, sir?” asks Croft, after a few moments of silence.
“No,” replies Tony, “we've decided to sell it.”
“Very wise,” observes Bryce. “How are your friends holding up?”
“Charlotte is making a good recovery, they say, and so is Archie,” says Rachel. “Madam Castanos is still in intensive care. She seems to have lost a lot of her memory and maybe her psychic talents, too.”
“Time will tell. It always does. Goodbye, and good luck,” says Bryce curtly, and stalks off towards the gate.
“I hope he got his money back from the charm school,” remarks Armstrong when the colonel is safely out of earshot.
Epilogue: Life in Wartime
It is early May in London and the tiny bedroom is bright with sunlight as Rachel gets ready for work.
“Did you really have to bring that dirty old thing back here?” she asks, looking at her husband in the dressing table mirror.
Tony is tinkering with interior of the 'Celestialle Armamentarium' he found in the junk room at Furniss Manor. It takes up valuable space in a corner of their two-room apartment.
“I think it's important,” he replies. “It's one of the most elaborate pieces of clockwork I've ever seen, amazing workmanship for the time it was made.”
“Okay, so it's amazing,” she says, sitting on the bed to watch him. “But what use is it?”
Tony straightens up, puts down a screwdriver.
“I think it was the machine Isaac Braid used to predict important cosmic alignments. Come and look!”
When she goes to stand next to him, he reaches around the side of the machine and turns a small winding handle. Then he pushes a lever and the device begins to work. Rachel leans forward to look through the glass-top of the box to see the tiny model planets, moon and sun, circling the blue-painted ball at the center representing the Earth.
Tiny worlds dancing, she thinks. So beautiful and clever. All that genius and knowledge squandered for a selfish, brutal man.
“It is pretty, I'll give you that. Maybe you could donate it to the British Museum?”
“It's not just for entertainment, I think,” replies Tony. “There are numbered dials on the side that seem to indicate significant alignments, some cosmic moments more important than others.”
“Ah, so Braid was trying to work out when big events would be influenced by the planets?” she asks.
“Apparently. And I've worked out a few dates from those settings. Some don't mean anything to me, I admit, but the most recent readings are 1914 and 1940, both turning points in history, right?”
“Not bad predictions for someone living in Shakespeare's day,” admits Rachel.
“Well, let's see what comes after 1940,” he says.
Tony adjusts the dials and the machine cycles forward, then stops with the planets in distinct pattern, all clustered in one narrow portion of the clockwork heavens.
“That's a bit close for comfort,” he says, looking at the display.
“Why, what does it say?” Rachel asks, leaning over to follow suit.
The dials read 1952.
“Of course, it doesn't mean something cataclysmic will happen,” says Tony. “Just that conditions will be right for big changes.”
“The end of the world, courtesy of the Order of Eschaton. It wants to destroy civilization and rebuild the world in its image, with them in charge.”
“If the order exists!” protests Tony. “Bill was a massive liar. Well, Edmund, I mean.”
Rachel looks at her watch.
“Look, we both should get to work, honey. If this big, mysterious event's seven years away we can worry about it some other time. Let's focus on our own immediate future. We've got a lot to do.”
He kisses her and she takes his hand and puts it on her belly.
“The doctor said it's still too early to feel her moving,” he reminds her.
“You still believe the foul-smelling demon who said it's a girl?” she asks.
“Okay, can you get us a second opinion from an angel?”
&nb
sp; ***
Later that day, in another part of London, twelve people sit around a circular table listening to the BBC radio news. They are all well-dressed, sober-looking men a casual observer might take for a board of directors or charitable trustees. The room is as neat and prosperous as its occupants, with fine carpets and a drinks cabinet filled with the best liquors. The only incongruous feature is a black five-pointed star within a circle inlaid in the oak table top.
The voice of Winston Churchill comes from the wireless. The prime minister is reaching the end of a speech broadcast from the Cabinet Room at 10 Downing Street. Already the men in the room can hear the sounds of cheering and the hooting of car horns from the street outside. People have been waiting for this moment for a long time.
“We may allow ourselves a brief period of rejoicing; but let us not forget for a moment, the toil and efforts that lie ahead. Japan–”
The man nearest to the radio set switches it off.
“Victory in Europe, gentlemen. Or, more precisely, defeat for our German allies, despite all our best efforts,” remarks one white-haired man.
“A temporary setback,” rejoins a thick-set man with a black beard.
Suddenly, everyone is talking until the white-haired man raises a hand and they all fall silent. Having exerted his authority their leader speaks again.
“That ghastly fat drunkard did at least make one good point. We, too, have much toil and effort ahead of us. We can still bring about the end that was prophesied, and thus a new beginning, if we remain true to our cause. We must stick to the plan and do nothing to draw attention to ourselves.”
“But we've already lost one of our numbers!” protests the black-bearded man, triggering another outburst from the company.
Again the white-haired man raises his hand for silence.
“Edmund Beaumont was reckless; he seriously underestimated the American woman. We won't make that mistake next time, when we take concerted action.”
There's a murmur of approval.
“After all,” the leader adds, “we have seven years to prepare for the big event.”
* * *
Bonus Scene: Empire Star
“Please?”
Rachel looks up from her ham sandwich to see a small, dark-haired woman with a sad expression.
“Please, madam?”
The woman's accent is not English. Possibly Italian? Rachel figures.
For a moment Rachel thinks the woman might a beggar asking for change.
Ridiculous. Not in England, not in 1945 anyhow!
Rachel looks along the sea front of Whitley Bay. The North Sea resort isn't exactly bustling with holidaymakers, what with so many young men still on active service. But it is still bustling with women, kids, and old folks making the most of the fine August weather. Summer is short in these high latitudes. All of the benches on the promenade are occupied.
Rachel lifts her sunglasses up to look the woman in the eye properly and, smiling, asks, “Hello! Can I help you?”
There's a change in the light, as if a cloud is passing in front of the sun. The woman's face, which reminds Rachel of a Renaissance Madonna, grows even sadder.
When you're six months pregnant, it's hard not think of motherhood and babies all the time, I guess.
“Please, help us!”
Oh god no, not another one!
She's helped a few dozen ghosts move on in the last few weeks, but this is the first one who's found her in Whitley Bay. Rachel pushes away the uncharitable thought, remembering her dad telling her, ‘With great power comes great responsibility, champ’. She stands up carefully, grimacing at her clumsiness, and reaches out to take the woman's hand.
“Don't be scared,” Rachel says, “you can go to them if you want to. Nobody can hurt you now.”
“Darling? I got some ginger beer as well as the ice-cream.”
Rachel looks round to see Tony approaching with two cones and a paper bag with two bottles peeping out of it. He puts the bag down on the sea and offers her a cone.
“Oh, thanks, honey. I was just ...”
Rachel turns to see the woman had gone.
Oh well, maybe she'll try again. We're here all week.
“Are you all right, darling? Did that woman say anything to you?” asks Tony, sitting down and gesturing along the promenade.
It takes her a few seconds to realize what he's just said.
“You saw her, too?” she asks.
“Yes,” he replies, looking around at the dozens of people strolling by. “Where did she go, anyway? Slipped off a bit sharpish. She wasn't pestering you?”
“No, no, I just thought ...”
“Thought what?” asks Tony. “And you're ice cream's melting, by the way.”
Rachel laughs, stops the ice from falling onto her bulging belly.
“Okay, I thought she was a ghost,” she admits.
“Oh, blimey. I suppose this would be an obvious place for them, what with the drownings and all. But if I saw her then she was flesh and blood.”
Rachel nods as Tony finishes his ice-cream and opens a bottle of ginger beer, takes a sip.
“I didn't really get a good look at her, but perhaps she was a little touched, you know?” he suggests. “Millions are bomb-happy or bereaved after five years of this bloody war. It's not just physical scars, it has harmed people in both mind and spirit, too.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” she says, looking both ways along the prom. There are just enough people out for someone to slip away in the crowd if they want to.
“I had to walk miles for these, and there was a hell of a queue,” he goes on, taking a sip from his beer.
“Oh. I thought we passed an ice-cream parlor a little way back?” she asks.
“Yes, but it's closed. I had to go to the stall near the pier. There are long queues everywhere.”
Later, they stroll arm in arm back along the promenade to their lodgings, a pleasant B&B recommended by Inspector Croft of the Northumberland Police.
It had been Rachel's idea to return to the North East with Tony and make a holiday of selling Furniss Manor. In theory, the house and gardens had been purged of all evil influences. But in practice, everyone that was connected to the horror of the Haunter would have liked the place burned to the ground and the earth sown with salt. When Tony, in his role as the true Lord Furniss, told the local Member of Parliament that he wanted to destroy his ancestral home, he was advised that this would 'never be allowed'. It seemed that something called a 'compulsory purchase order' might be used to stop any 'wanton act of vandalism upon one of our finest stately homes'.
“All right,” Tony had told the politician, “you buy it for the nation at a knock-down price and we'll bank the cash. And by all means, feel free to live in the damn place yourself! I wish you a good day, sir!”
After that encounter, Lord and Lady Furniss had checked in at the Sea View Guest House as Major and Mrs. Beaumont. They are now enjoying a short holiday in a resort that Tony's mother had taken him to as a boy.
Rachel can see why Tony was nostalgic about Whitley Bay; a picturesque resort about a mile north of Newcastle that probably had its heyday between the wars. It's clearly still popular with the families of the local miners, shipbuilders, tradesmen, and factory workers. The problem is that the beautiful golden beaches have yet to be cleared of landmines, barbed wire, and concrete tank traps.
“You see,” he says, “the Nazis occupied Norway, and it's right over there.”
He points out to sea.
“I'm sure it was a very sensible measure at the time, dear,” she replies loyally. “And anyway, there must be lots to do in Whitby Bay.”
“Whitley!” he exclaims. “Whitby's in Yorkshire, it's where Dracula came ashore in the book. Totally different kind of place.”
“So what's Whitley Bay famous for, if not iconic vampires?” she asks.
There's a slightly awkward silence. Eventually Tony responds. “Winkles,” he says, straight-faced, and they both
crease up with laughter to the amusement of some passing teenagers.
Now she drags Tony towards a little news stand. “Come on! I need to buy postcards for the guys at the office, and Charlotte of course, and maybe Dad.”
Out of the sunlight, it takes Rachel a second to see that a woman is standing at the counter. She clearly isn't being served and is looking straight at Rachel. Is that the woman who just talked to me? she thinks. Hard to tell in the relative gloom.
The owner is looking at Rachel, so she looks away and starts looking through the racks of postcards. Most of them are pre-war pictures of people enjoying the beach.
“Maybe we could draw some barbed wire on them to give them a more authentic feel?” suggests Tony.
“Is that the woman,” asks Rachel, nodding toward the counter, “You know, the one who talked to me earlier?”
Tony looks around, peers outside at the people in the sunshine.
“Where?”
“At the counter.”
But when Rachel looks again, the woman has gone.
Eventually, she buys half a dozen cards, one featuring a typical bit of British 'seaside humor' for Charlotte, whose dirty mind has survived her ordeal at Furniss still intact. The card shows a stooped, elderly man buying an ice-cream. 'Crushed nuts, sir?' asks the vendor. 'No, son, just terrible arthritis,' is the reply. They giggle over this, then as Rachel pays the owner she asks, “Did you see a woman in here earlier? Dark complexion, about my height, with a foreign accent?”
The man shakes his head.
“No, ma'am, I'm sure I'd have noticed.”
They're about to leave when Rachel asks, “What happened to that nice-looking ice-cream parlor along the prom? Why is it closed?”
The man stops smiling, looks uncomfortable.
“Notrianny's? Well, they got interned. Some of us didn't feel it was right, of course, but what can you do? It's the government.”
The Haunter (The Sentinels Series Book 2) Page 15