Ordo Lupus and the Temple Gate - Second Edition: An Ex Secret Agent Paranormal Investigator Thriller (Ordo Lupus and the Blood Moon Prophecy Book 2)

by Lazlo Ferran

  “Me? No. I know who it was.” I pointed to Pastor Michel. “He was garroted and I can tell you that this man, Pastor Michel, kills frequently, by garroting.”

  “Absurd.” Pastor Michel had a sickly smile on his face as he denied it.

  “Check his waistcoat pocket. You will find a blood stained rosary in it.”

  Pastor Michel laughed but I could see Parcaud was interested.

  “If he has nothing to hide, let him show you.” I said

  “Monsieur. Just to assure our capteeve, please show your waist-jacket pocketser,” said Parcaud.

  “Don’t be absurd. Is this a joke?”

  “Please.”

  “No. I am leaving now. I have to leave.” He took a small step towards the door, but Parcaud pointed the gun at him for a moment.

  “Please,” said Parcaud to Pastor Michel, pointing the gun back at me.

  Pastor Michel seemed rooted to the spot, but as Parcaud slowly pulled aside his jacket lapel, revealing the dark stain, his hand was brushed away viciously and the gun pointed away from me for a moment. I moved towards the door and Parcaud shouted “Stop.” I guessed that he wouldn’t shoot me now and I ran out through the door, and back to the stairs.

  “Wait!” I heard Parcaud shout. Then there were muffled shouts as I guess the two men started a scuffle.

  As I rushed down the stairs I heard the sound of the Pastor’s acid voice, one last time. “You have no powers! You cannot fight the Serpent! Despair! Heretic! Heathen!”

  As I reached the door at the bottom of the stairs I slowed to a walk and calmed myself. A plain-clothes Gendarme would probably be outside the door. I opened the door and stepped out, but there was nobody there. I couldn’t understand it. Looking for Ayshea I walked towards the little canteen, and was surprised to see hundreds of people on their knees, even in the canteen, praying. Half of Beauvais seemed to be there. There was a deep rumble from somewhere and the Cathedral shook. I nearly lost my footing. People screamed, perhaps fearing the building would collapse, perhaps fearing for their souls. I couldn’t see Ayshea anywhere, but then I felt something brush the back of my hand lightly. I turned and it was her.

  “You took so long! Did you find it?”

  “No. Where were you?” I almost had to shout to make her hear me, over the praying and moans which followed the screams.

  “I was hiding, behind a drape. What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I saw the roof-space. There is nothing up there! It’s empty. The Crypt must be somewhere else. Let’s try again. Just look for anything that might be relevant, a painting or statue maybe.” I took her hand and we started down one of the aisles. I knew it would be only a matter of a few minutes, at most, before we were caught. I decided to take off my wig. Maybe now Parcaud had seen me they would be looking for someone with long hair. It itched anyway.

  We searched desperately for something, a sign that would trigger some memory, or recognition in some other way. I looked up at the old religious painting here and there, but nothing struck a chord. I found myself looking at a small relief-painting, just above head height, a painting on wood that is carved or shaped to suggest the scene. Very common as religious works in the middle-ages, survivors are very rare now. This one had two panels bordered in gold, one above the other, with layers of wood to suggest the shape of two eyes. Suddenly I squeezed Ayshea’s hand tight. “This is it! Look!”

  The top eye, with a blue background, had a man crucified inside it and the bottom eye, largely in red had a man being dipped in cauldron of boiling oil, with flames all around, suggesting that he was in Hell.

  “Oh yes! Yes! You are right.”

  Immediately I started feeling with my fingers for a catch or lever. The wood was thick with many layers of varnish, and smooth to the touch. I had to stretch to reach the top edge but I could find nothing there. Then out of sheer frustration I pushed on the upper eye. It was a terrible act of desecration but it gave. The background of the eye, a flat panel of wood hinged by its top edge, opened, and I could see a lever inside. I pushed it and heard a click. A large panel near the floor moved outwards slightly. I peered in, but the door cut off the light to the space beyond. “Are we being watched?”

  “No. Everyone is panicking.”

  The Gendarmes had their hands full now, controlling the crowds, which were beginning to make movement difficult in the main part of the Cathedral. I pushed the panel, which was really a small door, about chest high, and peered inside. I could see nothing.

  “This is it. I’m sure this is it! I have to go Ayshea. You cannot come with me. Stay here.” I squeezed her hand and tried to let go, but she held on.

  She looked as if she really wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

  “The Serpent is here. Up there! It was on the roof. Whatever that thing is I have to face it.”

  “I am scared. I am scared for me and for you.” She squeezed my hand harder.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not scared.”

  She hesitated, but then let go of my hand after one last squeeze. “Good luck!” she said.

  I closed the door behind me. It clicked shut and I was in darkness.

  I felt for a switch but could find none. The cool stone on both walls, shoulder-width apart, was pleasant to touch, given that I was sweating profusely. I still had on my long jacket, and although it was an exceptionally cool day for August, the exertions of the last hour had taken it out of me. I sorely regretted shutting the door now, as I couldn’t even see my nose in front of me. The corridor smelled damp and uncared for. I took a hesitant step forward, expecting steps leading downwards, ran my hands over the cool stone, and then I took another step. My foot hit something hard and raised. I lifted my foot to feel for the edge. It was there, and another flat surface on top had a similarly raised shape at the back. The stairs led upwards! Just like the other steps up to the Gallery, these turned through ninety degrees. The door had been much further down the aisle though and perhaps half as far from the altar. This flight went on and on, turning back on itself twice so that at the end, I was facing towards the altar. If I had been claustrophobic, I couldn’t have gone on, and it seemed an eternity before I my feet finally hit something wooden; a door. I felt for a handle and there was a loop of iron which, when twisted, lifted a lever to open the door. I stepped into a large space, dimly lit by thin spikes of light between the leads of the roof, just as in the other space. As before, there was a light switch in a panel next to me and I flicked it on.

  The sight that met my eyes was beyond my wildest dreams. It was like a church within a church. There were the familiar rafters, and the height and width looked the same as the previous roof-space I had seen. But I was only a few feet from the western end. It stretched in one great concave arc around to the other side of the Cathedral roof. Immediately I knew what it was, and smiled. An optical illusion! I had seen the trick so many times but hadn’t imagined it could be used by early Gothic builders. The true eastern end of the Cathedral was curved, over the great stained-glass windows designed by Engrand Le Prince. This curved wall was false and because it was a smaller diameter, I guessed that on the other side of the wall was the roof space I had been in previously. The sides which I had looked at in the other roof-space, must converge slightly to give the illusion of the whole length of the Cathedral when in fact they only stretched about two-thirds of the distance. This space made up the rest, perhaps seventy feet long. The space was brightly, although sparsely ornamented with gold paint, and a long red carpet ran down the middle, with many coats of arms woven in to it, again in gold. Large, ancient iron chandeliers, empty of candles, hung in two rows either side of the carpet. At the far end, directly over the main altar in the Cathedral below, was another altar. This one had a very large version of the statue I had bought, of a wolf-angel fighting a snake-demon, both supporting a round disk, upon which was the figure of Christ. At first glance, I took this to symbolise the struggle which Ordo Lupus undertook in the name of God. Ju
st to the left of the altar, beyond the furthest sarcophagus was a jagged hole in the roof. Leads lay in a pile below it on the floor. Around the space, hanging from the beams, and in places the sides of the roof, which sloped in to the point perhaps forty-five feet above me, were all sorts of paraphernalia of war; shields, spears, swords and parts, or whole suits, of armour. What fascinated me the most was a row of seven stone sarcophagi down each side of the chamber, lain at right angles to the sloping roof beams. On plinths perhaps four feet high, they formed alcoves, within which were many coffins of wood. Almost everything in the chamber was covered lightly with dust, some of it by many, many years of dust, replete with cobwebs. I walked hesitantly down central walkway, along the red carpet, reading names on the stone sarcophagi, none of which were familiar.

  So this must be The Crypt.

  I stood staring at the altar for a few minutes. A large table in front of it draped in green, held a very large bronze basin which was empty, and two candelabras on either side. Within panels on the green cloth, were embroidered symbols and scenes. I couldn’t decipher the bowl’s purpose and after looking at, not understanding any of the symbols and images on the green cloth, I turned and walked back down the carpet, reading the names on the stone sarcophagi on my left. At the third last sarcophagus I stopped, stunned. The name on it was very familiar to me and very precious. It was my grandfather’s name. So here he was. I looked closely at the sarcophagus. It was perhaps seven feet by three and four feet high, with each side divided into quadrants by large crosses in relief. Between the arms of the crosses were carved scenes involving battles with Serpents. A sword was in the hand of my grandfather. Around the base were carved strange masks, some of which were interwoven with what looked like ivy, or leaves of other plants. Around the top, just under the stone lid, was a simple pattern of orbs. The lid held an effigy of my grandfather lying flat, fully suited in armour, with hands clasped, as if praying, and under them, a long sword. In my sudden grief at finding his interred remains, as I was sure they were, I was still somehow delighted at the image of him as a Knight. This fitted my memory of him. I placed my hand gently on the sarcophagus.

  “Grandfather. I miss you. Now I know just what you were up to all those years. I really wish you were here to advise me.”

  An answer came back to me but I was sure it was my own subconscious speaking. “Where is the sword?” Yes, where was the sword? I reluctantly turned away from grandfather’s tomb and walked back down the aisle to the altar, without even glancing at the last two sarcophagi in the row. I looked closely at every sword I could see, some I rubbed the dust off, but none were silver, or special looking in any way. Behind the last sarcophagus to the right of the altar, and behind the dusty rack of wooden coffins, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before, a builder’s hoist. Perhaps ten feet square, the rafters there were formed into a frame, surrounding a platform. The hoist platform itself was suspended from four heavy ropes at each corner, which were themselves joined above to one lifting rope, perhaps an inch thick. Also at each corner of the platform was a wooden post, with a thin rope chord passing through eyelets at the top of each, to act as a safety rope at about waist height if you were to stand on the platform. This was suspended by a system of pulleys, from a tie-beam above, and a loop of the rope was knotted around an oblique beam, leaving a large coil of rope on the floor boards. I sat, leaning against the cool stone of the sarcophagus, took off the sweat-stained jacket and lay it beside me. My fingers absently played with the end of the rope, feeling how supple it was although its roughness prickled. I thought it was probably hemp. I remembered the cassette recorder, took it out and turned it on. That was when I found the divorce papers, half out of my jacket pocket, and reread the note from Rose. I took a long time reading the paper before I moved again.

  I walked nervously around the great Secret Chapel, for I felt a presence now. Not much time left.

  In my wandering I finally arrived at the last two sarcophagi nearest the entrance doorway, which I hadn’t even glanced at before. Stopping at the penultimate one, I glanced casually at the name carved there. Astonished, I had to bend down and run my hands over the stonework to confirm the name. To my astonished chagrin, I recognised my own name. I laughed a stone-cold laugh. “Who knows of my death here?” I shouted to the sloping roof above me. My head hurt, not at the thought of my own death but that I myself, must be a wolf-angel.

  Like my grandfather. And not like my father.

  The fact that it was only alternate generations that inherited the gift, was borne out by my own sarcophagus, next to that of my grandfather. I did not understand, however, why my grandfather had not inducted me into the Brotherhood. There had been no ceremony, no private talk, no mention of it even.

  I heard a deep, unearthly moan somewhere behind me and swung to face it but I could see nothing. I guessed that the Serpent was here now but I still had to find the silver Sword. I was almost at the end of the aisle and noticed a Latin inscription on the lintel above the door through which I had come. It read, “Is quisnam est Bonus est pinned ut is crux crucis ut is vultus lumen leptos, is quisnam est damno sentio sui emersed in lebes Abyssus,” but of course I couldn’t translate it. I looked down at the last sarcophagus but at that moment I heard or felt an ungodly roar from somewhere near the altar. It was followed by a long drawn out and blood-curdling hiss.

  I crept around my own sarcophagus, and crouched behind that of my grandfather. I searched desperately across roof timbers and wall-hangings with my eyes for the silver Sword, symbol of my Brotherhood and the only means to kill the Serpent, possibly.

  This is it. This is my end.

  Something shimmered on one of the timbers high above the altar. I stared hard and at first could only see the air disrupted, like the heat haze above the desert, which reveals a mirage to the unwary. Then, slowly, I could make out something. It seemed like a large snake, and yet perhaps a very large man at the same time. It moved with the intelligence and dexterity of a man and yet the reptilian smoothness of a snake. It was moving along a beam towards me. I gradually became aware too of a deep rumbling murmur, as of countless thousands lost souls, lamenting. It was a terribly disturbing sound, and the temptation to close my eyes and give in to the strangely hypnotic song was great. But I focused hard on the approaching shimmering form. Then it was gone. I couldn’t see it anymore! I turned this way and that but I couldn’t see it. Fear was rising in my knotted throat now with an intensity I had never felt before. I had certainly feared death before but never for the loss of my soul, for that was what this creature or monster could perhaps take from me. Eternal damnation in Hell suddenly seemed a possible end for me. Then I felt that familiar sense of foreboding, my gift, as of something bad approaching, only from behind me. I knew it was about to strike, and I waited until the last moment before leaping aside. Something huge and heavy crashed into the tomb and its lid cracked. Pieces of white stone went clattering across the floor boards and a dust cloud filled the air. Highlighted by the dust cloud I could distinctly see the shape of a large serpent with wings. It also appeared to have arms. It turned to face me, but I didn’t wait. I ran as fast as I could towards the altar. Where was this damned Sword? I swore to myself and then crossed myself for swearing in a holy place. Then into my mind came clearly the words from Rose, ‘I still know this about you, however, that you loved Annie deeply and would never harm her. I also know that you have a greater capacity for getting to the truth than anybody else I have ever met.’ For a moment my mind was completely clear and I heard the voice of Henry spelling the initials ‘sk’ on the bottom of the statues. We never had figured out who that was. Perhaps he was a Knight who lived shortly after Guillaume de Grez and was involved in the manufacture of the statues. It seemed suddenly important somehow and I ran back to the first Sarcophagus furthest back on the right from the altar and opposite the door. I felt as if I was moving in treacle, as if the Serpent would be upon me at any moment. I wiped the dust from the name plate of the
stone tomb. To my great relief it fitted, sort of. ‘Simon de Cleves’. I knew ‘C’ in old Latin as spoken by French was pronounced ‘K’, so it would make sense that, if the tomb had been made much later, they may have used a ‘K’ to represent the old family name. It was close enough for me. I wiped more dust from the side of the stone tomb, and found a large inscription upon a quartered shield, on the side facing the altar. It read ‘My brother is buried with he who wielded him. Wake him not unless you have the strength to fight.’ I didn’t know who the brother of Simon was! Panic made the knot in my throat tighten still more. I swallowed and forced myself to think clearly, and then understood how beautifully simple the clue was.

  I knew that the brother of a shield would be a sword. So the Sword must be entombed with the last person who wielded it, my grandfather. What was more, the Serpent had just cracked open the tomb for me.

  Perhaps I’m not completely alone!

  I remembered that the whole purpose of the Serpent had been to use me to find the Sword so that it could be destroyed. Therefore I had to keep the location of the Sword secret until the very last moment. My terror subsided slightly for a moment as a plan presented itself in my mind. I would lure the Serpent away from the sarcophagus, and then circle around, get the sword and stab it. Now I had hope in my heart at last. I would kill this Serpent and prove to the world, and Rose that I wasn’t mad, or a killer. I would prove that this beast was the killer of Annie and all the other victims across France. Perhaps it wasn’t even too late to save my marriage!

  Again I was drawn back to the altar but this time I was calm. I feigned curiosity about the design of the altar; my examination would give my enemy plenty of time to attack. I had to trust that my gift would warn me at the last moment. I didn’t think in any case the Serpent would kill me before discovering the Sword. The large statue of the Wolf-angel fighting the Snake-demon looked as if it was made of bronze. I tapped it and it sounded metallic. The bottom half of the statue was perhaps four feet high. Balanced on the head of the snake, and held up in one of the hands of the wolf-angel or warg, was a dais. In the warg’s other hand was a long sword, pointing at the heart of the Snake. It reminded me of George and the Dragon. It was upon the dais that the figure of Christ stood, again about four feet high, so the whole rose in total to some eight feet above the altar cloth. Christ’s head was adorned by a halo, sculpted cleverly to look separate from his head, but no doubt attached at the back. His arms were spread wide with hands palm-up, forefingers and thumbs touching, in a gesture of benefaction. The bowl in front of the statue had figures intertwined with foliage around its sides and looked vaguely pagan. I picked the bowl up and tapped it. This surely was bronze. Its age was hard to determine.