Nameless Cult

by Grey Durose

  George tugged his dagger from the floor and got to his feet. 'Your turn to answer some questions.' George said, calmly circling the writer, droplets of blood falling from the dagger's point and tracing his path.

  'Ask what you want, I won't tell you anything!' Matravers cried through his clenched jaw. His face wrinkled and his eyes scrunched as he sucked in air through his gritted teeth.

  'I only have one question really: where did you learn to do that little trick?' George was intrigued, he hadn't seen it coming.

  'My powers come from my studies! Years of patient research and dedication to the dark arts.' he boasted.

  'What a load of twaddle. Nothing you've ever written has even a grain of truth about it. No great mysteries of the universe, no revelations.' George pointed out, flicking the last of the blood from his dagger. Matravers had the potential to make George lose his temper but he knew he needed to milk him for all he could get first.

  'What would you know? You're nothing but a thug, a thief in the night. Come to steal what I spent a lifetime working for!' Matravers spat with contempt, still gripping his wounded foot with both hands.

  'On the contrary, Mr Matravers. I haven't the slightest interest in any of your work, my interest lies in who you work for, and how they managed to imbue such a feeble, ill-informed pup like you with a power like the one you just exhibited.' The insults helped to ease the urge to kill Matravers on the spot but it was a necessity George would not resist for long.

  'Our Mistress will eviscerate you then feast on what's left of your blood, for this!' The writer's lip curled as he finished speaking and he let out an extended moan of pain.

  'See, now we're getting somewhere, you serve a mistress. Did she somehow grant you this ability?' George pursued the line of questioning, Matravers might turn out to be useful after all.

  'You may as well kill me now, you're going to do it anyway.' he grunted.

  'I haven't finished with you yet. I know a thousand ways to inflict pain on you, without killing you, and I'm guessing you're not the type to have a high threshold for pain.' George explained. This was no brag or bluff, he'd been stabbed, shot, burnt and frozen in his time and he'd been trained to learn from every wound.

  'Don't count on it, I'd rather be tortured for a few hours than spend eternity in agony!' Matravers declared, he sounded as if he meant it.

  George paced around Matravers slapping the flat of his dagger blade against the palm of his other hand. In an instant, he was down on the ground next to Matravers, his lips at his ear and his hand at his throat, pushing his head down to the floor, 'That's a theory we're about to test.' he whispered. George slid the blade of his dagger in under the skin on Matravers side, not deep, just far enough to separate the tissue of his skin from the muscle and bone beneath. Matravers howled with pain again as blood began to trickle down the side of his ribcage and pool under his back.

  George withdrew the blade slowly and the screaming subsided to a low sob. 'How did you get the powers? That's all you have to tell me and all the pain can end.' George said calmly. He wanted him to break quickly, to make this easy for both of them.

  'If I tell you and she finds out... she has ways of punishing people beyond the grave.' Tears welled up in his eyes, tumbled down the sides of his face and in to his hairline.

  'Don't worry about her, I'll be dealing with her soon enough. She won't even have time to find out what you told me.' He assured the writer, pausing to give the broken wretch a chance to reply. George slid the blade back in through the same wound and this time he twisted it slightly, forming a pocket under the skin.

  Matravers screamed again, as the dagger scraped across the surface of his ribs and skimmed the meaty flesh between. 'Okay, okay, I'll tell you what you want to know! Please stop.' he simpered, beating his left hand against the floor.

  'How did she do it? A spell, the pendant you're wearing?' George asked again.

  'No, nothing like that. It was her blood.' he blubbed, the wet-eyed pleading of a condemned man, snot bubbling from his nostrils and drool spilling out as he spoke.

  'What do you mean by: her blood?' George pressed for more, his patience wearing thin. The pain coursing through Matravers's body seemed to have disarmed him but George didn't want to give him time to recover his composure.

  'Her blood is ancient... it has power... she shared it with us all.' Matravers stuttered through his tears.

  'She fed off you?' George grilled.

  'The opposite... we fed from her. She opened a gash on her arm and fed us her blood and it gave us powers... different powers but also made us unable to resist her will. Never felt such euphoria as I did that night.' He forced the words through gritted teeth, gasping for air between pathetic sobs and whimpers.

  'What else can you tell me? Where is she?' George interrogated, he was already better informed than he thought he'd be, anything more would be a bonus now.

  'I can't tell you any more. Please, just finish the job.' Matravers begged, bursting in to a fit of uncontrollable trembling.

  George twisted the blade again, Matravers struggled and kicked, trying to pull away as he cried out. 'Tell me!' George demanded, the adrenaline was wearing off and he was starting to pity Matravers.

  'Don't you understand? I couldn't tell you even if I wanted to.' the writer muttered through the pain and tears.

  George realised what he meant, the poor wretch couldn't disobey his mistress and she must have specifically ordered them to never reveal the location of her lair. There was no point in torturing Matravers any longer. He pulled the blade out carefully, raised it up, held Matravers' head back with his other arm then plunged the dagger swiftly and deeply in to Matravers' shoulder, close to the neck. The blade sank in to his body until its tip found his heart, piercing it and ending his life seconds later.

  George got up from the struggling corpse, wiped and sheathed his blade. He briefly looked around to make sure he wasn't leaving anything behind, then turned and left the house the way he came.

  Outside in the fresh air, George's head began to spin. It wasn't the first time he'd had to torture another human being, and it wouldn't be the last, but he couldn't help feeling that each time he did, he became less human and more like the creatures he hunted. He gathered his thoughts and made his way back to the car, winding down the window and waiting until he could hear no more sounds of approaching traffic. He started the car and backed out on to the road, driving away at a calm pace that wouldn't attract attention. He arrived home about an hour later, via a route that was excessively winding. Getting out of the car, George suddenly felt himself engulfed by a wave of nausea, he rushed over to some nearby bushes and vomited on the damp soil, his stomach convulsed and relaxed, over and again, filling his sinuses with bitter bile and tears streaming from his eyes until there was nothing left. He stood up, wiped his mouth and spat, 'Pull yourself together man!' He demanded.

  Chapter Twelve

  Colin Champion slid his square jaw to one side and considered his machine. She was perfect. The lines were sleeker and the engine more powerful than anything seen before, she was a thing of beauty.

  'Is this damned contraption ready yet, Champion?'

  Colin swivelled round on his heals to find Lord August Barridge standing in the doorway, still wearing a dinner suit and his bushy moustache bristling. 'She is, Lawd Barridge.' Colin replied, his face sporting a huge grin and not a small amount of engine grease.

  'Good. Shall I send for the others?'

  'When you’re ready, sir.' Colin said, wiping his hands on a grey rag.

  'Mmn.' August uttered, turning in the doorway and closing the door behind him.

  Colin looked back at his baby and walked over to give her brass nose one last rub before the field test began. 'I shall call you Daphne, maybe 'er Ladyship'll like that.'

  The door opened again and a trail of servants stumbled through in to the Port room carrying a ridiculous amount of baggage. Parcels, packages, cases and trunks, boxes, bundles and chests. C
olin rushed over to the rear of the machine and tried to organise the parade of man-servants as they began to load the belongings of his passengers. There were only four of them and Colin wondered how four people could possibly require so much equipment for what was to be a three day trip. He himself, had only packed a spare pair of breeches, his smarter jacket (no grease), two shirts, some socks and his tools.

  He pressed his palm to his forehead and swept it back over his mouse-brown locks, his eyes bulging as he stuttered out orders to the staff. He wasn't used to dealing with servants, his own parents had been servants and he found it hard to treat them in the way they were accustomed to being addressed. The words seemed to stick in his throat, not wanting to come out and offend anyone, but he had to do it, he was a gentleman now and his Lordship insisted he behave like one.

  The servants trailed out again and the first of the passengers appeared at the door. A woman, about forty years old, dressed in black satin from head to toe and tinkling with beads of jade. Her hair was tied back in a tight bun and tumbling streaks of grey and black framed her pinched face.

  'Your Ladyship, I hoped you'd be the first.' Colin reached up for the cap he wasn't wearing and ended up tugging his forelock.

  'Daphne. I've told you before not to stand on ceremony with me, Colin. I trust you're well?' She stepped down in to the Port room with a swagger of her hips, holding out a hand for the engineer.

  'Quite well, your La... Daphne,' Lady Daphne nodded with approval, 'just a tad nervous about the launch.' He took her hand from below and pressed his forehead to it, like he'd seen the gentlemen do.

  'Nervous? That's not like you Colin. You always seemed a most competent engineer and rightly proud of your work.' Daphne said, running her gaze over the machine.

  'It's not 'er I'm worried about, it's them.' He gestured at the door, where the rest of the passengers would shortly be arriving.

  Lady Daphne raised an eyebrow and glanced back at the doorway, she leant in to Colin and whispered, 'Frankly, I don't blame you. I'll do my best to keep them in good order.' She reached out and touched his shoulder lightly.

  'I'd be very grateful... Daphne.' He grinned. Most people thought of Lady Daphne as a stuffy old bird but Colin had always had a soft spot for her.

  'So, what do we call this beautiful young lady of yours?' Daphne said, straightening up and raising her voice to a less conspiratorial tone.

  Colin's expression flicked momentarily to puzzlement, before realisation dawned. 'Well, Daphne, I rather 'oped to name 'er after you. If that would meet with your approval?'

  Daphne tutted and shook her head. 'That won't do at all. No, Daphne is such a girlish name. She strikes me as a bit of a tomboy, she needs a name with some, oomph.'

  Colin was disappointed at the refusal but he wasn't going to press the matter. 'What would you suggest, Daphne?'

  'I think, if you must name her after me, you should take my married name, in honour of my late husband; Mithras rest his soul.'

  'The Oliphant?' Colin tried his best to bury his horror. It sounded like a big, ugly, grey cumbersome thing.

  'Yes. She looks like a sturdy girl. I think it would suit her quite handsomely.' Daphne gazed up at the machine and smiled broadly, she approved of sturdy, honest things.

  That was it, there was no way he could offend Lady Daphne by disagreeing. The Oliphant she was.

  Just then, another voice began to resound through the doorway and bombard their ears. Colin groaned, audibly, which caused Lady Daphne to chuckle and offer a hand of comfort to his forearm. It was His Grace, Sebastian Hain, Duke of Paris. Hain was the hero of Paris: a colonel in the infantry during the Gallic war, who took command when General Boothby was fatally wounded by French cannon in the middle of the battle of Paris. Things had looked bad for the Britannic army that day; Boothby's tactics had seen half the force squandered or misplaced and the French had begun to make advances on the lines. Hain's brilliance in command had somehow turned the battle and won the day, and the war. Hain retired four years later and now spent his days seeking out big-game in darkest Africa, beyond the colonies.

  'Daphne! How wonderful to see you again.' Sebastian declared from the door, with his hands on his hips.

  'Lady Daphne.' She corrected him. Hain was a braggart, and a known womaniser, and Daphne had little time for him.

  Hain strode across the floor and swept up Daphne's hand, planting a kiss on its back, French style. With his lips still firmly planted, he looked up from below his eyebrows and grinned. 'Lady Daphne.'

  Daphne felt a flush wash over her from below and did her best to suppress the involuntary betrayal of her body. 'That will quite do.' She yanked her hand free. 'This is Mr Colin Champion, the finest engineer in all the empire.'

  Hain straightened and looked to Colin as if he hadn't noticed his existence before. He swiped his narrow moustache with the back of two fingers then offered his hand. 'Sorry, old chap. Thought you were staff.'

  Colin took the hand and shook it firmly. 'Quite all right, sir.'

  'Your Grace.' Hain corrected.

  'Sorry?' Colin could feel embarrassment creep across his reddening face as he realised he'd made some sort of faux pas.

  'When I took Paris, they made me a Duke. One should address a Duke as, Your Grace.' Hain raised both eyebrows, as if he was astonished by Colin's ignorance.

  Daphne produced a parasol from nowhere and stabbed Hain in the leg with the tip. 'There are to be no titular observances on this expedition. I shan't have it.'

  Hain turned back to Daphne with a sweeping bow. 'As you wish, my Lady.' reminding her of her own insistence a few moments earlier.

  Daphne was thrown off her stride by being bested by Hain, and chose to hastily change the subject. 'And where might that hulking companion of yours be?'

  'Shabani!' Hain cried, noticing Daphne's fluster.

  The door darkened and a huge man, of at least six feet and six inches, ambled in to the room. His skin was as dark as either Daphne or Colin had ever seen, and his body was covered with heavy muscle, made quite evident by his scant clothing.

  Colin shrank at the sight of this man, he'd never seen his like before. Nobody said anything about taking wild men with us, he thought. Daphne's reaction could easily have been mistaken for shock but her sudden gasp was of another kind, oh my, was all that passed through her mind.

  Shabani approached them and acknowledged them with a nod.

  Hain took him by the arm, 'This is machine. Shabani go inside, make comfortable. Wait there.' Shabani sighed and did as he'd been instructed. 'Saved him from slavers, been following me around like a lost pup ever since.'

  'Yes, he looks like the lost pup sort.' Daphne remarked.

  'Looks like a wild man, to me.' Colin added.

  'Colin!' Daphne cried, a look of shock on her face.

  'Sorry, your La... Daphne.' Colin looked down at his oily hands, shamed again.

  'He's quite right, shameless savage. Damned useful in a fight though.' Hain pointed out with a chuckle.

  Lord Barridge returned to the Port room and the party was complete. 'Shall we get this show on the road?' August asked, cheerily; uncomfortably so.

  'Right you are, August.' Colin said, slipping in to the new classless regime.

  Lord Barridge snorted and eyed him suspiciously but let it slide, probably for the best, he thought. 'Daphne, if you'd care to accompany me in to the vessel?' He offered his arm to her and once she took it he escorted her in to the Oliphant. Hain went next and Colin followed up the rear, mumbling something about contrary aristos.

  Colin took up his place as pilot and August sat next to him as navigator. August was the only one who could open the Port and as such, would need to be near the front of the craft whenever they needed to slip through.

  'To the World of Savage Demons it is.' August mumbled. 'Start her up, Mr Champion.'

  Colin pulled the levers and pressed buttons, he'd already built up plenty of steam and, as the golden light of the portal began t
o glow before them, he opened up the engine and let the Oliphant do her stuff.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Inside the house George felt secure again and the tension and sickness he'd been feeling subsided. He found himself able to think about what he had to do next. Killing Matravers had been a means to an end and now he had to follow through before he missed his chance. The next part of the job was to go and find Sir Edward Jameson, it was a weekday and it was getting late and, from what George had discovered about him, Jameson would be at his family residence in Westminster. All Jameson had to do was lead him to the area where the lair of the London branch of the cult was located, once he was close enough he could use his compass to complete the job.

  This time he took his new improvised flame thrower with him, as well as a couple of silenced handguns, a Taser and his dagger. He also took a length of silk rope, lock picks, a torch something to eat and a flask of coffee. He might have to wait all night before Matravers’s body was discovered but when it was, Jameson would hear about it almost immediately through the police contacts at his sect.

  George set off, he didn't live far from central London but driving in the capital could be an arduous affair and he didn't want to rush. He drove through the suburban sprawl of Surrey and onwards in to the increasingly dense forest of concrete, glass, brick and tarmac. It had started to rain and the wipers swept across the glass in front of him, blurring then focusing the lights of his fellow travellers. The radio was set to a news channel, just in case Matravers was discovered early, making his evening venture pointless.

  He reached the street where Jameson lived and cruised by, making sure he was familiar with the exact location. George circled around the streets until he was approaching Jameson's home again. He parked up several houses short, hoping he wouldn't be noticed by a passing police car. It was now the middle of the night, so the chances of being noticed by a suspicious resident were minimal and only the street lights offered any illumination.