Of course, he thought. That voice was just something on next door's telly, radio, whatever. Somebody is watching one of those crappy horror movies. At this time of day, too! So many slobs and layabouts.
As he took his briefcase out into the living room, Smith's relief turned to annoyance at the music still blasting out downstairs. He thought about banging on the floor but felt it would be vulgar, beneath his dignity. He would send a stiffly-worded email to the building supervisor, he decided, in the hope that the noisy tenants would be silenced.
Smith put his briefcase on the sofa and went into his bedroom to change. He took off his old jogging pants and t-shirt, and opened the closet door to take out a fresh shirt. Something about the clothes hanging on the rack bothered him, though, made him hesitate. The row of white shirts – identical, like his suits, to save time in the morning – looked different.
Smith picked a shirt at random and took it out of the closet. It almost fell to pieces, great ragged swathes of fabric trailing from the hanger. The shirt had been slashed to ribbons.
***
Erin picked her way carefully up the steps of Weyrmouth Museum. The walking stick issued by the hospital was clunky and prone to slip on wet surfaces. Erin's first morning back at work had been marked by a torrential January downpour. She tried to handle an umbrella and the stick. Thanks to several gusts of wind, Erin was pretty well soaked by the time she got under the Victorian portico. Once out of the rain she then turned, backed up, and shoved the main door open with her ass.
“Oh, you're all wet!” said a pretty teenager in jeans and t-shirt, rushing up to do nothing useful as Erin bumped her way into the foyer. The girl wore a small badge with the word STAFF on it.
“You must be Amy, right?” asked Erin, looking down at the girl. “The intern?”
Amy nodded.
“Okay,” Erin went on, “I'm the new deputy director. The one who's been on sick leave?”
Amy gawped.
Where do they find 'em? Erin wondered. Maybe they go into the woods and shake the trees.
“Of this museum, that is,” Erin added, with a smile. “So, maybe you could let Ms. Tarrant know I'm here?”
“Of course,” said Amy breathlessly, and ran back around her desk to use the phone. The phone was on speaker, and when Amy informed the director of Erin's arrival, Louise Tarrant's voice could be heard.
“Tell her to go home!”
“Tell her I'm sick of convalescing,” retorted Erin leaning over to shout into the phone. “So I've come to earn my salary and make a general nuisance of myself.”
“Shall I send her through?” asked Amy, getting more flustered by the second.
“Bloody hell,” said Louise's voice. “Okay, we can't very well send her home again now she's here.”
“Bit of help with all those awkward doors?” asked Erin, hobbling around the reception desk.
“Oh, I'd like to help,” burbled Amy. “It's just I'm not supposed to leave my desk unattended.”
“Where's Mike Smith?” asked Erin. “Isn't it his job to handle reception anyway?”
“He hasn't come in yet,” explained Amy, wringing her hands. “I did call, but he's not picking up!”
“Okay,” said Erin, smiling. “I'll just use my butt to open all the doors. It might be good exercise. Hell, maybe there's a book in it!”
Amy laughed, helped Erin through the first door, then scampered back to her desk in time to greet a couple of visitors.
***
“Jesus Christ!”
With growing anger and confusion, Smith took out shirt after shirt. All had been ruined, as if someone with an old-fashioned straight razor had gone berserk. Smith hurled the last of his shirts onto the floor in disgust. But then he began to ask himself the obvious question.
Who could have done this? They were fine last night, I remember hanging up my suit.
With a sinking feeling, Smith opened the other closet door. His three dark blue work-suits had been ripped apart, too. Gasping in disbelief, he took the nearest suit out, examined it more closely. What he had assumed were cuts from a blade were really more like tears, as if some sharp but uneven object had been shoved hard into the fabric then dragged down it.
And there was a pattern to the cuts. They were not the random slashes he had thought at first.
Five parallel rips. Like fingernails.
With shocking abruptness, the loud music from downstairs cut out. He heard a door slam, muffled conversation, and footsteps on the stairs. The sudden silence was overwhelming. Smith longed for a noise, any sound to break it. And yet at the same time, he dreaded what that sound might be.
“Bad man.”
This time the speaker was visible, just on the periphery of his vision. He had not seen the small, dark shape move into view. But there it was. He turned his head slowly, dropping the ruined suit to the carpet. The intruder was small, well under five feet tall. It was impossible to tell if it were male or female because of a brown hooded robe that covered all but the feet and hands. It stood between Smith and the window, its face in deep shadow.
The feet were bony, brown and black, with patches of white showing through where rotten flesh exposed the bone. The hands were likewise decayed, much of their skin and flesh gone. But it was the nails that held his attention. Two or three inches long, and jagged, they looked sharp enough to cut cloth.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want?”
Smith was dismayed to hear how high-pitched and uncertain his voice was.
Man up, he told himself. It's just some kid in a Halloween costume. Be firm.
“You will not harm the Intercessor.”
This was a different voice, slightly stronger, older. Smith turned to see another shrouded figure. This one was taller and stood between him and the door.
“Right,” he said, recalling his last assertiveness training course, “you kids need to get out of here now or I'm calling the police. I'm warning you–”
Smith did not finish his threat. Now there were three children, then four. And five. Small, hooded shapes faded into existence until seven were standing around him in a semi-circle.
That's impossible. It's a trick. Or I'm going bonkers.
Smith clutched at the latter explanation, which was unpalatable but at least made some kind of sense. Stress might have led him to destroy his own clothes and not remember doing it.
“You're not real,” he said, trying to sound manly, courageous. “You're a symptom, I need – I need help. I've got problems.”
The tallest intruder inclined its head.
“You have indeed,” it whispered. “You seek to place obstacles in the path of redemption.”
“Obstacles must be removed,” said another voice. Impossible to tell which one had spoken, this time.
All seven beings took a step forward, reaching toward him with taloned hands. They were almost close enough to touch.
“No!” he shouted. “Get away!”
Then Smith began to scream for help. The small figures darted forward and began to slash at his chest, legs, face, and groin. Within a few seconds, he was unable to shout. His last efforts at speech produced a painful gurgle, added another gush of blood to the broad, dark patch on the cream-colored carpet. The last sounds Smith heard were a knocking on the wall, followed by a muffled protest from his neighbor.
“Keep the bloody noise down! Some of us work nights, you know!”
***
“You sure you're okay?” asked Louise Tarrant, helping Erin into a chair.
Erin sat down heavily.
“I feel like I was hit by a bus a couple of times,” Erin admitted, “but apart from that, I'm good!”
“That does not fill me with confidence,” said Louise, in her precise English accent.
“Me neither,” said Erin, with a half-smile. “But I was going stir crazy in that apartment. A gal can only watch so many old episodes of Seinfeld and Doctor Who before her head explodes.”
�
�Good point,” smiled Louise. “And, to be honest, it'll be good to have someone around here who –”
Seeing her boss's hesitation, Erin took a guess.
“Someone you can trust? Unlike charmless Mike?”
Louise nodded.
“When he's here, he's a pain in the arse, always trying to undermine my authority. And today he hasn't bothered to turn up. He's normally very reliable, but this morning he isn't picking up.”
“Sounds serious” said Erin. “Do you think it might be a good idea for someone to go check on him?”
Louise's eyes widened.
“You don't think – it started happening again?”
Erin shrugged.
“We've had a brief hiatus, sure. But nothing was really settled – that's the feeling I get. Things were put on hold after the tower killings. Maybe they're not on hold any more.”
Louise got up, reached for her coat.
“You don't think you should call the cops?” asked Erin. “I mean, in case you just kind of walk into something bad that's happening?”
Louise hesitated, then took out her cell.
“I suppose we could bother our favorite detectives,” she agreed. “They did say to get in touch if anything odd happened.”
After Louise had made the call, she asked if Erin would be okay on her own.
“I'm twenty-seven years old,” said Erin. “So if I need an adult I can scream real loud.”
After Louise left, Erin heaved herself upright and began to nose around the bookshelves. The museum director's collection of rare books and journals were fascinating, and meticulously arranged.
“Folklore here, art and architecture down there,” she found herself saying. “Some people are just crazy neat. But hey, here's a gap.”
There was a space too wide for one volume on a single shelf marked RELIGION ETC. Erin guessed that Louise had been researching the cathedral and its role in the notorious Curse of Weyrmouth. Interested to see what her boss had found, she looked around, and quickly located the book among a pile on the desk. She sat down in Louise's chair and started to examine the book. The title was not promising.
“'Apocryphal Texts Relating to Heavenly Beings and Other Supernatural Entities',” Erin read, frowning. “Okay, not as catchy as Mission Impossible, but let's not judge it by the cover.”
On impulse, Erin used an old trick to try and find out what Louise had been researching. She closed the book, balanced it on its spine and let it fall open. Of the two pages revealed, one was taken up by a bizarre woodcut. It showed a winged entity with rays of light shooting from its head – presumably an angel, though its expression was anything but angelic.
Smug, she thought, and kind of pervy.
The maybe-angel was looking down at the voluptuous form of a naked woman lying on a bed. A few men were standing around the edge of the picture, apparently enjoying the show. With a grimace, Erin turned to the text on the facing page. It was apparently a translation from some ancient text.
'Celestial beings such as the Nephilim were often said to lust after mortal women, and on occasion impregnate them. The process of copulation was naturally most hazardous for the woman, who was often killed or severely maimed. But the result of a successful union was held to be a child of exceptional qualities, though sources differ as to precisely what virtues were imparted. Some Gnostic thinkers claimed that 'demi-angels' possessed great physical strength and courage, others that they could detach their souls from their bodies for short periods, still others that they possessed the ability to foretell the future. One thing that all agreed upon, though, was that a demi-angel was both beautiful but also disfigured in some way. The most common mark of angelic miscegenation was a superfluity of fingers or toes.'
Erin sat back, stared once more at the illustration.
My God, she thought. Was my dad an angel?
Erin burst out laughing, but had to suppress her mirth. The thought of Calvin Cale playing a harp on the astral plane was hilarious. Then there was the obvious fact that he had died when she was still a little girl.
And yet – what do I really know about dad? About anyone on his side of the family, for that matter? Is there something in my ancestry I should know about?
Erin closed the book, put it back into the pile on Louise's desk. Then she took out her phone. She quickly found the number she needed – it was the last one she had added to the memory. Erin took a deep breath and dialed. Predictably, given the time of day, it went to voice mail.
“Oh, hi, Doctor Black?” she said. “This is Erin Cale. Um, I just wanted to ask you about pain relief, and – well, if you noticed anything unusual when I was in the hospital and you did all those tests? Please call me back when you get a minute.”
***
Detective Sergeant Jen Deighton was just getting out of her squad car when Louise pulled up. The two women greeted each other briefly, and Jen set about getting into Mike Smith's apartment building. The garrulous Polish supervisor showed them up to the second floor apartment, grumbling all the while that it was a 'respectable house, no bloody criminals here'.
“We're grateful for your help,” said Jen patiently. “We're just worried that Mister Smith might have had – had an accident.”
Jen and Louise exchanged a glance as the man unlocked the apartment door, pushed it open, then went straight inside the hallway. All the internal doors were shut.
“Mister Smith?” shouted the supervisor. “Police are here! You okay, Mister Smith? You still in bed, maybe?”
“Sir,” said Jen patiently, “it might be best if I went first–”
But before the detective could finish talking, the man had opened a door, looked, and then emitted a high-pitched shriek.
“What is it?” asked Louise, as the supervisor rushed past her. She heard him retching in the corridor. She walked a few paces, but Jen reached back and stopped her.
“Probably not your thing,” said Jen. “Wait here a minute. I have to make sure he's dead.”
Louise watched as Jen pushed the door fully open and saw a bedroom with a pale, bland theme. It had been livened up by dark-red streaks and splashes almost everywhere. There was writing on the wall, the letters huge and poorly-formed, almost impossible to read.
Jen was crouched next to a heap of bloodied rags on the floor, talking into her radio. The officer was saying something about crime scene units, forensic teams. It was hard for Louise to concentrate as her mind struggled to process the scene.
No, Louise thought, not rags. Most of that is torn flesh.
Jen got up, came over to the door, and gently moved Louise back into the corridor. The supervisor was leaning against the wall, pale-faced, gasping.
“You, sir,” said Jen, “please lock it up, and make sure nobody goes in there until my colleagues arrive. Nothing's to be touched, right?”
The man nodded, took out his bunch of keys.
“What happened?” asked Louise as Jen drew her away from Smith's flat and down the stairs towards the end of the corridor.
“If this was any other town,” said Jen, pushing open a fire door, “I'd say we had a Grade A psychopath on a killing spree. But this being Weyrmouth …”
She shrugged.
“What did it say?” asked Louise, taking a breath of fresh air. “I couldn't make it out.”
“On the wall?” Jen frowned. “Yeah, that's weird. It might almost be a regular crime, given that message. I reckon the senior boys will claim it's a crime of passion. Always reach for the easy explanation.”
“Jen,” demanded Louise. “What did it bloody well say?”
The detective looked out over Weyrmouth, towards the hulking shape of the cathedral. The morning's storm had passed over and the tower was now glistening in the sun.
“It said, Leave Her Alone.”
Chapter 2: Messages in Light and Blood
After pondering the implications of her discovery for a few minutes, Erin got bored.
I have to be up and doing, she though
t, struggling upright. This damn stick won't stop me from doing this goddamn job.
It then occurred to Erin that, though she had spent many hours talking to Louise since her injury, she had little idea what her duties involved.
“Okay,” she muttered. “I'll make it up as I go along.”
She made her way back along the labyrinth of museum corridors until she reached the front desk. Her feet were throbbing inside their surgical dressings. Erin had not walked so far since before the cathedral incident. She reached the foyer to find Amy struggling to help half a dozen people.
“Maybe I can help?” said Erin brightly, hobbling around behind the desk. “I am the deputy director.”
First time I've said that to anyone other than my bathroom mirror, she thought. It sounds reasonably convincing.
“Did you know that the lighthouse diorama is faulty?” asked an old man who was leaning over the desk. “There's something wrong with the wiring. It's very shoddy and unprofessional.”
“It's been a bit wonky for ages,” began Amy.
“All the more reason to fix it then, my girl!” snapped the visitor. Then, turning his bloodshot eyes on Erin, he added, “What kind of amateurish establishment are you people running here?”
If I can just get this old pain in the ass out of Amy's way, thought Erin, the others seem fairly innocuous.
“Sir,” she said in her most silky-smooth voice, “I am pleased to inform you that among my many talents is a reasonable grasp of things electrical. Show me this pernicious lighthouse, and I will endeavor to fix it.”
“Upstairs, in the maritime gallery,” the old man said. “You do know what a diorama is?”
“We do have them in the colonies, sir,” she replied, with a bright smile.
Someone behind the old man giggled.
“Now, Amy,” Erin went on, “where would I find something resembling a tool kit?”
It took half an hour of searching, with the old man shadowing her offering a background of grumbling. But eventually Erin unearthed a battered metal toolbox in the janitor's cupboard. As she was purloining it, the janitor himself turned up, mug of tea in hand.
Blood of Angels (Curse of Weyrmouth Series Book 2) Page 3