The Apollonian Case Files

by Mark A. Latham

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He heard a sound, like claws scratching against damp wood. He heard more slapping palms and thudding feet, and knew, in his mind’s eye at least, that something hideous and naked and bestial had dragged itself up onto a workbench, and was now glaring at him hungrily. Slowly, he set the candlestick down on the floor. He stood, gripping the pommel of the cane-sword, listening intently. He heard its wheezing, phlegmy breaths. It moved, gathering pace, barrelling towards John’s back. He held his nerve, waited as long as he dared, until he visualised the thing at the end of the long bench, leaping from it towards him.

  John spun around, drawing the sword from the cane, slashing outwards in a lethal arc. The creature twisted in the air, the blade slicing it across the belly. John leapt sideways to avoid the brute’s momentum, only just keeping to his feet as the ghoul clattered to the floor, toppling his candlestick over, very nearly tearing the sword from John’s hand with its sheer weight.

  It rolled, springing to all fours. Blood dripped from a gaping wound. A pair of bright, gleaming eyes fixed on John; the creature hissed.

  Something pounded on the door at the other end of the kitchen, and the suddenness of it threw off John’s concentration. He afforded a glance in that direction, and in a heartbeat the ghoul had pounced at him. John flung himself sideways, parrying slashing claws with blade and ebony cane. It came on, relentless, until John bumped into the large kitchen table. He dropped low, beneath the talon-like claws, and thrust the sword outwards, beneath the creature’s ribs and out the other side. It screamed, an ear-piercing, equine cry. It began to flail uncontrollably. John twisted the blade, felt blood pump onto his hand, and then grunted as intense pain flared through his shoulder.

  The creature had latched onto him, its claws pushed into his flesh. With all his strength, John thrust the sword upwards, gouging into the beast’s organs until it slackened its grip. He forced himself upright, throwing the ghoul from him. Pain screamed through John’s shoulder, shooting down his arm. It made him sluggish as the beast pounced again, this time clamping onto the same shoulder with its great yellow teeth. He felt a tongue slurping at his blood. John roared with pain and fury, kicking and hacking at the creature until again it relented. He pushed it away, and as it launched yet another attack, John stepped aside and swung his blade in a heavy, diagonal slash.

  For a moment, the creature stopped, and blinked. And then its head began to slide apart – one eye, an ear, half a nose – falling to the ground, the rest of the ghoul’s body collapsing in a heap after it.

  John staggered away, clutching at his shoulder. The only sound he heard beyond his own breathing and heartbeat was the pounding at the far door. The creature could surely break through if it wished; John wondered why it had not. It appeared as though the Artist was willing to kill him after all, if it would send such a creature after him. Or perhaps Tsun Pen had not expected John to make a stand here?

  John’s shoulder throbbed. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him, and he staggered out of the kitchen, away from the stifling darkness. He felt peculiar. His head swam.

  He sheathed his sword and picked up the candlestick again, moving down the corridor. He passed the side-door, and realised it was no longer locked, but slightly ajar. Something whispered to him, words carried on an icy draught.

  We are one.

  John stood, indecisive, until he heard from the room a girlish laugh, playful and yet mocking. A smell of lavender drifted about him, so strong, so poignant to his memories that he was overpowered by it. He knew he should enter, and yet some great fear seized him; he had the strongest sense that whatever was there, in the darkness, was not to be confronted. He knew that, if there was anything there at all, it was likely another ghoul; a flesh-and-blood opponent that he could face. And yet his skull seemed to freeze and crackle at the very thought of entering. He could not explain this sudden fear.

  You swore. You swore to repay a debt of blood.

  John baulked as the whispers caressed him, entered his head, filled his thoughts entirely. They had to be his own memories, haunting him now at the behest of the house’s dreadful master. He had to stand fast; he could not become unmanned. He grabbed the doorknob and slammed the door shut.

  The great sense of dread subsided. John felt foolish, and cowardly. He half considered investigating the room after all, and running through whatever, whomever, he encountered. But he heard creaking floorboards over his head: footsteps upstairs. Whatever servant of his enemy lurked behind the door, John knew he would only get answers if he played along with this infernal game.

  He went to the stairs, and peered up into the darkness, the candlelight too weak to even illuminate the landing above. He heard the laughter again, though he knew not where it came from. Cautiously, he ascended.

  At the fourth step, the tread gave a mournful creak. With it, a voice like a sigh whispered in his ear, in his mind.

  It is a dark path that you tread.

  At the seventh step, it came again.

  You will bring about their destruction. It is foreseen.

  John faltered. With each step he felt weaker. And the words he heard… did he imagine them? They were too painful to hear. They had to come from within. He could only guess that the Artist was using his own mind against him.

  He climbed further, a landing now paling into view.

  You are a fly, and you have flown into the wrong web.

  Tsun Pen had said that, on the night he died. By the time John reached the top of the stairs, his head was filled with whispers. His own voice, Rosanna’s, others. Each clamoured for his attention.

  Last honest man in London… A fitting tribute… The destroyer of worlds and the healer of worlds… You will burn them…

  …Burn them!

  When John removed his hands from his ears, he did not know how he had come to be on his knees, or when he had closed his eyes, or even how many times he had repeated the words in his head aloud. But now, at last, the whispers faded, until they became nothing more than waves crashing outside, on the Blackwater. At least the unnatural silence had been broken.

  John was in pitch darkness again. He fumbled around on the floor, and found the candlestick, the candle fallen from it. He pushed them together again, and lit the candle.

  The blood from his wounded shoulder had dripped upon the floorboards, where it now glistened in candlelight. It was smeared, forming words traced by fingers upon the floor. John held up the light, and read the message scrawled in his own blood.

  We are one.

  Anger burned. Someone was playing games with him, reaping his memories in a search for his weakness. They would soon discover that John Hardwick’s weaknesses had long since been crushed.

  John wiped the sweat from his brow. He took up his sword and used it to tear strips from his waistcoat, binding up his arm as tightly as he could. Who knew what foul disease that ghoul carried? He determined to find his tormentor quickly, and put an end to this one way or another.

  He dragged himself to his feet, and pushed onwards.

  * * *

  The boat slipped noiselessly through the inky water, oars raised. The jetty was only a few yards away, the fog masking their approach, but Jim held his breath all the same. A guard walked idly along the wooden jetty, lantern shining, cigarette flaring. When he reached the end, he turned and walked back, near enough to hear his boot-heels tapping on the planks. When he was gone, Jim raised a hand.

  As one, the marines dipped their oars, and the boat pushed to the jetty. Nine men hopped from the boat in a silent, practised manoeuvre. Two hunched low, bayonets drawn, and vanished into the mist. A minute later, a whistle, like a bird call, trilled in the night. The lieutenant, who had stayed in the boat, now gave the all-clear, and left the boat himself, extending a hand to Miss Furnival. The two marines returned, dragging the body of the guard with them. Rifles were checked. Another pair of marines went ahead, taking up firing positions. Jim was impressed by their g
rim efficiency.

  Lieutenant Stanbridge made another bird call, different this time, and the second boat appeared behind them, gliding across the water towards their position.

  ‘The jetty is secure, sir,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Awaiting your orders.’

  Jim never ceased to be amazed at the cooperation he received from serving men who would normally have baulked at the thought of assisting an army officer, or a policeman. The Order of Apollo opened doors that normal rank and station could not.

  ‘According to the map,’ Jim said, ‘there should be a path from here leading to the Charrington house. It is little more than half a mile away. We must proceed with caution. If we can reach the house without being discovered, so much the better – we have no idea just how many guards are on this island.’

  The other unit of marines arrived, their ensign saluting Jim and Stanbridge.

  After a brief exchange with the new arrivals, Stanbridge suggested splitting the group into three parts. ‘The two smaller groups spread out either side of the trail, skirmish order,’ he explained. ‘They’re marked good at infiltration. They will subdue any guard they meet, and ensure the coast is clear. We shall take the largest group to the house, and judge the best course of attack.’

  ‘A fine plan, Lieutenant. We are in your hands.’

  Stanbridge doffed his cap to Jim and to Miss Furnival, before forming his men into three groups. Jim recalled how a certain police sergeant had been similarly emboldened by his words recently, before walking to his death. Jim took some solace in the fact that these were hardened men, about to engage in the very type of action they had been trained for. Besides, there was no nebulous prize at the end of this mission: they had a man’s life to save.

  Two groups of eight marines took off, soon disappearing into the foggy night. Jim lit a dark-lantern, using its narrow beam to illuminate the ground beneath his feet as the fog began to thicken.

  ‘We shall be mostly without light,’ he said. ‘But this is to our advantage. If you see lights out there, they belong to an enemy.’

  They moved out, treading a path so muddy as to be almost impassable in places; the men had to spread out either side along broad grass verges. The mist ahead thinned at their advance, although visibility remained poor. At their backs, however, it thickened, rolling inexorably from the estuary, a great steel-grey curtain pushing them onwards. They had barely proceeded for ten minutes when the sound of gunfire cracked dully from the darkness.

  ‘One of yours?’ Jim hissed to Stanbridge.

  ‘Sounds like.’ The lieutenant cocked his head, listening for further reports. When it came, he pointed off to the right, eastwards. ‘One of ours all right. That way, sir.’

  ‘The bloody fools!’

  ‘They are not nervous men, sir. If there’s shooting, it will be for good reason. Should we assist?’

  ‘We must. We cannot risk letting the flanking party become overwhelmed, or we’ll have the enemy at our backs soon after. Come on!’

  The marines dashed to and from what meagre cover the island offered. Those men on the peripheries of the formation were soon engulfed by fog, and Jim could see no more than three or four men to his left or right, and perhaps only ten yards ahead. He bade Miss Furnival remain close by his side.

  Another gunshot, closer now. Then something else, a gurgled cry, the death-rattle of a scream. It was too close for comfort.

  Stanbridge peeled off, rifle readied. Two men formed up beside him unbidden, like clockwork soldiers. Jim reached them in time to see two dark, gangrel shapes charge silently from the fog, eyes blazing with infernal violet light. The marines opened fire as one; the creatures fell, snarling.

  ‘Fire again!’ Miss Furnival called. ‘Aim for the heads.’

  One of the marines backed away. The growls of the creatures on the ground grew louder, and they began to jerk and twitch, dragging themselves upright.

  ‘You heard the lady,’ Stanbridge said. ‘In the head!’

  Rifle bolts clicked back and forth. The men fired again, and this time the creatures stayed down.

  Jim allowed more light to flow from his lantern. He moved to the two creatures, the light reflecting from their pale flesh. A few paces behind them, two marines lay dead in the mud. Stanbridge cursed.

  ‘So much for the element of surprise,’ Jim said. ‘We must find the flanking party and reorganise ourselves. This way.’

  The group moved on, two men short. Soon, they were picking their way through rough ground, from which old headstones jutted at awkward angles. They provided some cover for the marines’ advance, at least. The sounds of the commotion had ceased, and Jim considered that all of the flanking party had been killed, when a man called out from the dark.

  ‘Halt! Who goes there?’

  ‘Friend,’ called Stanbridge.

  ‘Advance, friend, and be seen.’

  A lantern flared up, and Stanbridge shook hands with the young sergeant from the Sparrow. They stood in the thick of the graveyard, in the shadow of a mausoleum, its great doors sealed shut. Jim shuddered as he recalled what Miss Furnival had told him of Sir Arthur’s prophesying.

  ‘What’s the trouble?’ he asked.

  ‘These things, these are the trouble,’ the ensign said, visibly shaken. He waved a hand at the ground, where three ghouls lay dead. ‘Bloody lunatics, running about naked. And damned hard to kill.’ One of them twitched, and Stanbridge took no chances, stepping forth and ramming his bayonet through its skull.

  ‘Is anyone hurt?’ Miss Furnival asked.

  The men looked at her oddly, as though the idea of a woman – and an American at that – questioning them in the field was unthinkable.

  ‘Well?’ Jim asked, supportively.

  ‘Mackay was bitten,’ the ensign said, indicating a man who they now saw sat beside a headstone, nursing his thigh.

  ‘Then he goes back to the boat, immediately,’ Miss Furnival said.

  Protestations rose up from the men, revealing great resistance to this suggestion.

  ‘Immediately!’ Miss Furnival snapped, brooking no argument. She turned to look at Jim. ‘Send him away,’ she whispered. ‘Trust me, if he comes with us, the enemy may see our every move, through his eyes.’

  Jim furrowed his brow in disbelief, but in the end complied. He had been urged by Sir Arthur to trust in the woman’s expertise, and against these creatures he was out of his depth. ‘Do as she says, Lieutenant,’ Jim said. ‘Send a man with him if you wish, but we can spare no more than one.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Miss Furnival smiled at Jim. He thought it was the first time she had looked upon him with real favour since they’d met.

  Another man was nominated to help Mackay back to the boats. They had barely begun to hobble away when a great pounding came from the mausoleum, causing the marines to drop at once into firing positions. The doors swelled back and forth, accompanied by frenzied growls and snarls. Jim noticed for the first time that the mausoleum doors were thrice-chained, and padlocked. An unusual measure, and one he was thankful for.

  ‘Trust me when I say we do not need to investigate this place,’ Marie said in a low voice. ‘I’ve seen its like before, and we should be thankful for the chains.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me twice,’ Jim said. ‘We have delayed long enough. Every guard on this island will be heading our way after that ruckus.’

  ‘Why are they not here already?’ Miss Furnival asked. ‘The island isn’t that big.’

  ‘The lady is right,’ Stanbridge said. ‘Perhaps Osea is not as well guarded as we thought.’

  ‘The wagons…’ Jim mused. ‘Could they have known we were coming? Have they abandoned this headquarters?’

  ‘What if Colonel Hardwick isn’t even here?’ Marie asked. ‘What if this entire operation is a wild goose chase? Or a trap.’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out. Lieutenant, we go directly to the house. No more sneaking about for us. If anyone gets in our way, shoot first
and ask questions later.’

  NINETEEN

  ‘Get out of my head!’

  John closed his good eye tight, and pounded his fist on the wall. Plaster crumbled away beneath the blow.

  The voices stopped. John opened his eye and looked around, unimaginably grateful for this brief respite, breathing just a little easier. He was still on the landing, at the end of a narrow corridor, where a tight, dark stair led upwards unevenly to an attic.

  ‘Is… is someone there?’ A thin voice, foreign, muffled. It came from behind a door John had just passed before becoming overwhelmed by intrusive whispers and visions of past misdeeds. ‘Is someone there? Please… answer me.’

  John was certain he did not imagine it – or as certain as he could be, given the circumstances. He stepped backwards. He had tried every door on this level – at least a dozen of them – and found them locked.

  ‘Who’s in there?’ he asked, not daring to call too loudly.

  ‘Oh, thank God. I am prisoner. There is man here, sick, who need help. Are you here to rescue us?’

  ‘Not exactly… I’m rather a prisoner myself.’ Silence. ‘Look, I can get you out. I don’t intend to stay trapped in this house.’

  ‘Thank you!’ The voice was tremulous, desperate.

  ‘Stand away from the door. I’m going to break it down.’

  John paused for a moment to give the man a chance to comply, and then kicked hard at the lock. It cracked, and the door buckled, but it required a second attempt before finally it succumbed to force and flew open.

  The room beyond was small and sparsely furnished. Moonlight cast everything in grey relief; it was the first uncovered window John had seen since entering the house. It was barred.