“Yes, I-hnh. Morlocks?” Gallowglass said, her expression moving from curiosity to incredulity. “Really?”
“Very good. And no, not really.” St. Cyprian opened the handkerchief on his palm and spilled the teeth out onto the sidewalk. It was late enough that were no prying eyes to see as he took out a penknife and pricked his thumb. “But it’s as good an appellation as any. Morlocks, ghouls, mole people, all names for the same phenomena.”
“What are you doing with those?”
“I thought you wanted to hear about ghouls,” St. Cyprian said. He sniffed. “Just a bit of the old black Kush. Bits of the cruelly dead to roust out a murderer.” Blood welled out of the hole in his thumb and he deftly squeezed several drops onto each tooth. “Their presence has been noted in every country in the world and by every people. The Bible references ‘the ghouls that burrow’, as does a number of other holy-not to mention unholy-books. In Persia, in Russia and in China they hunt them with guns, dogs and fire. Here we have solid chaps like Stanhook and the London Tunnel Authority.”
“So those seals you kept mentioning…”
“One of the original duties of this Office was to the crafting and maintaining of certain wards against unannounced visits from our neighbours far below,” St. Cyprian said. Squeezing out another patter of blood, he swiftly smudged a curving sigil on the pavement near the teeth, followed by three more, one at each of the compass points. “When they began the excavation for the Underground, it stirred the devils up something fierce.” He frowned. “They reported most of the deaths as being due to flooding or tunnels collapsing. Drood—no, Beames—was Royal Occultist then. I’ve read his notes from that period.” He shook his head. “Not bedtime reading by any stretch of the definition.”
He sat back on his haunches and looked up at her. “They’re everywhere, you see. They’re crawling and creeping right now beneath every major city on Earth, as well as under every hamlet and every backwoods village. Oh, some places are free of ’em to be sure, but only because something infinitely worse is there instead.” His voice was flat and emotionless. “In the War, they dug up through the trenches and dragged the dead into the depths. That’s where I first saw ’em. Poor old Carnacki pointed them out to me and showed me how to draw the Caudete Loop to warn them off. Likely they’d never seen such a banquet, the beasts. I—” He stopped and shook his head.
“What are they?” she said. “Really, I mean. Are they people? Or something else?”
“What they are is not our problem,” St. Cyprian said. “Not now. Hopefully never.”
“Sounds like our sort of problem to me,” Gallowglass said.
“Not this. I-Hell.” St. Cyprian stood. On the pavement, the teeth were jumping like droplets of grease in a frying pan. Swiftly, he snatched them up and deposited them back in the handkerchief, tying up the ends as he did so. Then he held the parcel out, letting his arm move back and forth. The rattling of the teeth grew louder or quieter depending on the direction and St. Cyprian set off in the direction that caused the loudest noise.
“So we’re listening to teeth now?” Gallowglass said.
“To tell the tooth, I—” St. Cyprian began, and then stopped when he caught Gallowglass’ flat glare. “Not in the mood for puns?”
“No. How is a colony of mole-people living under London not our problem exactly?” she said.
“Since the Romans enacted the Treaty of Pompelo, to keep our race and theirs from going to war,” St. Cyprian said. “The ones the Tunnel Authority deals with are the equivalent to ye auld Scottish Border Reivers. They raid our world and we deal with them accordingly. Anything more could lead to…unpleasantness.”
“You saying it’s not already unpleasant?”
“I’m saying it could be worse!” St. Cyprian rounded on her, teeth bared. “They were here before our ancestors came down out of the trees and we caught ’em by surprise once, just long enough to drive them underground, but they’re ready for us now, don’t think they aren’t! There’s an awful secret wisdom down there in those millennia old catacombs…why else would wizard and shaman alike go down into the earth seeking knowledge?” He made a face. “We can’t win, don’t you see? The best we can do is to hold the line. Once a year I go down with the Tunnel Authority and renew the seals on the walls of the Underground and in the sewers and cellars and we hope-we pray-that there’s no secret incursion in some East End cellar where they’ll gather and breed like rats.”
“And if they do?” Gallowglass said quietly.
“Then Stanhook and his ilk go in with fire and guns and burn them out. They seal the holes with brick and plaster and then I paint a certain marking on the wall and in five or ten or twenty years my successor will do the same again when they’ve worn the seal away or some fool builder has smashed it aside in order to re-do the downstairs.”
He held up the handkerchief full of chattering teeth and smiled thinly. “But that in the carriage? That we can do something about—that is in our remit, most assuredly. Now, do you want to do something worthwhile or would you like to argue some more?”
Gallowglass pulled her pistol and spun the cylinder. “Toothfully?” she said, grinning slightly, trying to lighten the mood. “I’d like a lie-down and a cuppa. But I’ll settle for shooting something.”
St. Cyprian gave a laugh and turned away. “I rather think that can be arranged.”
“Where are we anyway?”
“Highgate, I believe.” St. Cyprian held up his hand. “This way!” They moved at a quick trot through the darkened streets. Gallowglass kept her pistol down by her side, her thumb on the hammer.
The rattle of the teeth grew louder and louder as they moved through the narrow streets of Highgate village. Finally, the teeth became so loud that St. Cyprian was forced to wrap them tightly and stuff them into his coat pocket. “I do believe we’re here,” he said quietly, gesturing to a house on the cusp of the hill.
“You can see the city from up here,” Gallowglass said, gesturing to the expanse of London visible from the crest of the street.
“Like the top of a termite mound,” St. Cyprian said, turning to the house.
“Unfortunate choice of words,” Gallowglass said quietly. She had holstered her pistol, but her hands clenched nervously. “Considering, I mean.”
“Possibly,” St. Cyprian said. “Care to do the honors?” He gestured to the door.
“Why me?”
“Well, you are my assistant.”
“And that means I knock on doors for you now?”
“No. It means that you stand in front of me when we’re about to enter someplace potentially dangerous.” St. Cyprian grinned at her, his teeth flashing in the darkness. Gallowglass made a disgusted noise and went to the door. She rapped sharply and stepped back, one hand beneath her coat. St. Cyprian stood behind her and to the side, his own pistol out albeit hidden by her form.
The brief echoes of the knock faded. No lights came on. “Maybe no one’s home,” Gallowglass said.
St. Cyprian held up a hand. “Or maybe they’re watching us through the window there. I just saw the curtains twitch.”
“Want me to shoot the lock off?”
“I believe the lock is on the inside of the door. And no, not at the moment.” St. Cyprian pulled his Webley and rapped the butt against the door. The lanyard ring gouged the brightly painted wood. “Open up in the name of the law!”
“And what law are we, exactly?” Gallowglass said.
“Law of the land. Law of the living. Law of the open the bloody door!” St. Cyprian bellowed. Lights came on down the street and somewhere a dog began to bark.
“It would have been quieter to shoot it open,” Gallowglass said, looking around.
“But less satisfying. Hsst.” St. Cyprian stepped back and holstered his pistol. The door opened. A pale, rotund face peered out at them, owlish eyes blinking behind wire-frame spectacles.
“Dear me, yes-ah-Officer…?”
“Good evening sir. Charl
es Morris, with His Majesty’s Ministry. May we come in?” St. Cyprian said, smiling genially.
“We-ah-who—”
“My assistant, Ms. Havisham,” St. Cyprian said, waving a hand in Gallowglass’ general direction.
“Wotcher,” Gallowglass said.
“Havisham?” The round eyes blinked and the cherubic face retreated. “I-yes-of course, dear me, dear me.”
“Havisham?” Gallowglass hissed, glaring sideways at St. Cyprian.
“I only said it because I fully expect you to be left at the altar some day,” St. Cyprian said in a placating tone. He grunted as her knuckles dug into his arm.
They stepped inside and were greeted by the glassy eyes of shelf after shelf of foreign curios and knickknacks. The owner of said curios was of average height but above average bulk, with an egg-shaped body and bent arms that ended in hands that clasped nervously. Slightly bowed legs added to the general impression of obesity and fragility he exuded.
“What-ah-what Ministry did you say you were with?” he said, lips pursed. “Just the Ministry, Mr…” St. Cyprian said.
“Dibny. Dibny Bunter.” A wide tongue made a quick visit, dabbing at the plump lips. “Is there some-ah-problem?”
“Nothing a quick chat won’t clear up I shouldn’t think,” St. Cyprian said, patting Bunter on the arm. “I understand that it’s late, but it is urgent sir, very urgent. A matter of national import, in fact.”
“National…? Dear me, dear me. I don’t suppose you’d like a cuppa?”
“Kill for one, Mr. Bunter. Murder a man stone-dead,” Gallowglass said. She was rewarded by a twitch of Bunter’s thick eyebrow. They followed the hobbling figure back through his cramped rat-warren of a home, dodging stacks of newspaper and empty boxes and ill-placed shelves. More ceramic and glass statuary guarded the approach to the kitchen and St. Cyprian caught himself trading stares with a garishly decorated clown for a moment longer than he felt was entirely healthy. The man was a pack rat.
Their host began to rummage around in various cupboards as they took seats at the narrow table. “I’ll put the kettle on, won’t be a minute, no,” Bunter said, waddling back and forth.
“Delightful Mr. Bunter, I’m sure. Now, might I ask whether you were out and about tonight at all?” St. Cyprian said.
“Tonight? Eh? No, dear me, no, I don’t go out, no,” Bunter said, blinking rapidly. “That’s—no, oh no—that’s quite of the question.” He made pushing motions with his hands. Gallowglass glanced at St. Cyprian and they shared a look.
“Mind if I nip to the loo?” Gallowglass said. “Is it upstairs?”
“I-yes, dear me, mind the ah-upstairs, yes,” Bunter said, licking his lips, his eyes flicking back and forth between them. Behind him the kettle began to whistle. “To-ah-to your right? Left.” He turned and plucked the battered old kettle off the hob. “Yes, to your left, top of the stairs.” He looked at St. Cyprian. “Milk, Mr. Morris?”
“No thank you,” St. Cyprian said. “So you say you weren’t out?”
“I don’t go out,” Bunter said, watching St. Cyprian stir the tea to cool it. “It’s the bells, you see. I can’t abide the bells.”
“Bells?”
“The bells. This city is full of bells. Clanging and ringing and groaning. There’s so much… noise. So much noise. Even, dear me, even down-ah-down there,” Bunter said hesitantly, gesturing towards a door on the far wall. St. Cyprian looked at the door and frowned. It was, to all intents and purposes a cellar door like any other. Granted, most cellar doors didn’t have padlocks and strap-locks and pinned hinges. A tingle of the old fear rippled through him. The locks were open and there was a smudge of red on the frame.
“Down there…you mean the tube?” St. Cyprian said. Something scuttled behind the plaster of the wall, though Bunter gave no sign that he’d noticed.
“Runs right under the house, you know. Right under the hill. I can feel it, dear me, I can feel it in the soles of my feet.”
St. Cyprian glanced down. Bunter’s feet were crammed into bedroom slippers. He looked up, watching the other man drop five cubes of sugar into his tea. “The iron bells,” Bunter went on. “Poe, you know.”
“Poe?”
“The American writer? Dear me, dear me, I do love a bit of Poe. Ghastly, grim and-ah—”
“Ghoulish?” St. Cyprian said. Bunter froze, his face becoming waxy and mask-like.
“Ah, ah, ah, yes, dear me,” he said. “Your tea is getting cold, Mr. Morris.”
“Hear the tolling of the bells, the iron bells, what a world of solemn thought their monody compels…that Poe?” St. Cyprian said, stirring his tea.
Bunter’s head bobbed. “How we shiver with affright at the melancholy menace of their tone,” he said idly, his eyes unfocused. He took off his spectacles and rubbed his face. In the dull light of the kitchen, he didn’t look so much cherubic as simian. He blinked and looked up. “Wherever is Ms. Havisham?”
“Satis House?” St. Cyprian said.
“Eh?”
“I said, they that dwell up in the steeple. The bell-ringers, you know.”
“Yes? Dear me, dear me,” Bunter said. “Lovely poem, lovely poem. But he was right, old Poe. Horrid things, bells.” Bunter’s fingers writhed around his cup. “I can hear them when I sleep, tolling up from below. Far below…”
“They are neither man nor woman, brute nor human-they are ghouls,” St. Cyprian said. Gallowglass stood in the kitchen doorway. She held a blood-stained pair of trousers dangling from the barrel of her pistol.
Bunter looked up. “Ghouls? No. Dear me, oh no, I—” He caught sight of Gallowglass and his expression became glassy. “I say, that’s-that’s mine.”
“Ticket stub in the pocket,” Gallowglass said, watching Bunter the way someone might watch a rattlesnake. “He was on the carriage.”
“I know,” St. Cyprian said as he pulled the teeth out of his pocket and unwrapped them. They hopped and bounced out of the cloth, skidding across the table. Bunter shot back so fast his chair fell over with a bang and he backed up against the cellar door.
“What-what-what—” he stammered.
“A bit of the old whatsit,” St. Cyprian said, rising to his feet. “Necromancy I should say. Bad juju, but efficient enough when it comes to hunting down killers.”
“I-kill? No! Dear me, I—”
“You can’t deny the tooth,” Gallowglass said grimly. The teeth hopped and jumped at the edge of the table like hungry dogs trying to leap over a fence. Bunter’s lips writhed back from surprisingly large teeth and then he was lunging forward, nightshirt flapping. With a bellow, he flipped the table and spun, wrenching open the cellar door.
“The bells! The bells!” he howled, bounding down into the darkness.
“Bells?” Gallowglass said, looking at St. Cyprian after a moment of shock.
“Classical reference,” he said. “I see an electric torch on the icebox there. Grab it and let’s go.”
“Down there? With him?”
“No, upstairs. We’ll lock ourselves in the loo and wait for help.” St. Cyprian kicked the table aside and started for the stairs. He stopped just inside the door, listening. Gallowglass flipped on the torch and lit up the stairway.
“Moved fast for a fat man,” she murmured, following St. Cyprian down the stairs.
“Not so fat and not so much a man,” he said. He stopped on the final step and lifted up the ragged remains of a nightshirt. “Naked, though.”
“Oh good. As if this wasn’t unpleasant enough.” Gallowglass panned the torch’s beam across the walls of the cellar. It was surprisingly empty, considering the state of the house above. Heavy bricks and flat paving stones were all that they could see.
There was a soft scratching sound all around them, like the midnight perambulations of hundreds of mice or rats. Gallowglass swallowed audibly. “Rats?”
“Maybe. I think—” St. Cyprian was interrupted by a sudden rumbling. The floor shifted slightly beneath their
feet, sending vibrations up through their legs.
“What the devil was that?” Gallowglass said, swinging the torch-beam around.
“The ten fifty-five Northern Line, I believe,” St. Cyprian said. “Poor devil was right…it does run right below his house.”
In the darkness, something hissed. St. Cyprian spun, but too slowly. A pale fist thundered across his jaw and he fell, his pistol sliding away in the dark. Gallowglass swung the torch around, catching the edge of a bestial white shape as it swung across the room towards her. Green cat-eyes glowed in the darkness and something snarled. Gallowglass fired twice, both shots lighting up the gloom.
Bunter yelped and tumbled away. “Find my gun,” St. Cyprian said, rising into a crouch.
“How about I find him first, eh?” Gallowglass snapped. A moment later she grunted as something crashed into her and threw her off of her feet. The torch hit the floor and spun. Worm-white feet danced in the light.
“The bells, can you hear them?” Bunter growled, his formerly breathy voice gone guttural. “The iron bells, ringing in the depths, calling me down. Calling us down. But I don’t go far, dear me, no!”
St. Cyprian listened to the pad of inhuman feet circling them. In a spin of the torch, the light caught his pistol’s lanyard ring and he estimated the distance. “Why did you kill them, Mr. Bunter?” he said, hoping to distract the beast. “You don’t seem a bad sort, percussive obsession aside.”
“I-kill? No. No!” There was a horrid slobbering sound. “When the iron bells ring, I go away! They’re ringing now…it’s so hard to think! Dear me, dear me, DEAR ME—”
St. Cyprian lunged for his pistol. His buttons clattered as he slid across the floor and the butt slapped into his palm. He rolled onto his back and leveled the pistol as the white mass that was Bunter hurtled towards him, teeth bared and eyes wide and blazing. St. Cyprian fired and rolled aside. Bunter fell and stumbled past him.
“I-I feel I’ve taken ill,” he coughed. One hairy hand clutched at his abdomen, where a red patch was spreading with swift finality. “Dear me, dear me…” He staggered back against the loose brick of the wall and toppled into it, rupturing it in a quiet explosion of brick dust and mold. Half in and half out of the cellar, Bunter stretched a hand into the darkness.
Both Barrels of Monster Hunter Legends (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 1) Page 42