by David Wood
Blood Codex- A Jake Crowley Adventure
By David Wood and Alan Baxter
Table of Contents
Title Page
Blood Codex- A John Crowley Adventure (John Crowley Adventures, #1)
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Books by David Wood
Books by Alan Baxter
About the Authors
An ancient order.
A deadly conspiracy.
A race against time.
When Jake Crowley rescues Rose Black from assailants on the streets of London, the two find themselves embroiled in a mystery that could cost them their lives. People are dying, and all the victims have one thing in common with Rose: a birthmark in the shape of an eagle.
From beneath the streets of London, to castle dungeons, to the heart of Christendom and beyond, Jake and Rose must race to stay alive as they seek to unlock the secrets of the Blood Codex.
Praise for David Wood and Alan Baxter
“Blood Codex is a genuine up all night got to see what happens next thriller that grabs you from the first page and doesn't let go until the last.” Steven Savile
“Rip roaring action from start to finish. Wit and humor throughout. Just one question - how soon until the next one? Because I can't wait.” Graham Brown
“A page-turning yarn. Indiana Jones better watch his back!”Jeremy Robinson
“A a story that thrills and makes one think beyond the boundaries of mere fiction and enter the world of 'why not'?” David Lynn Golemon,
“A twisty tale of adventure and intrigue that never lets up and never lets go!” Robert Masello
“A fast-paced storyline that holds the reader right from the start,. and a no-nonsense story-telling approach that lets the unfolding action speak for itself.” Van Ikin
“With mysterious rituals, macabre rites and superb supernatural action scenes, Wood and Baxter deliver a fast-paced horror thriller.” J.F.Penn
“Wood and Baxter have taken on the classic black magic/cult conspiracy subgenre, chucked in a toxic mix of weirdness, creepshow chills and action, and created a tale that reads like a latter-day Hammer Horror thriller. Nice, dark fun.” Robert Hood
Blood Codex- A Jake Crowley Adventure
Copyright 2016 by David Wood
All rights reserved
Published by Adrenaline Press
www.adrenaline.press
Adrenaline Press is an imprint of Gryphonwood Press
www.gryphonwoodpress.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.
Prologue
Near the City of York
Kingdom of Northumbria, England
October, 867 CE
Leather-armored men with bloodstained hands forced Aella to his knees, raised his arms wide and high, and tied his hands to posts of weathered wood. They used knives to strip away his remaining clothes, and left him shivering and naked, kneeling on the wet grass. Aella lifted his head to stare into the face of Ivar the Boneless as the huge, muscled son of Ragnar Lodbrok approached, and poured all his hate out through that steely blue gaze. Fear knotted Aella’s stomach, made his veins run with ice, but he would be damned before he would let Ivar see that terror.
“I am a king!” he roared.
Ivar bared his straight, white teeth and shook his head slowly. His long braid hissed against his leather armor with the movement, audible despite the crackling fires all around. “Not for much longer.”
The Northman’s breath steamed in the cold autumn air, the night sky a vault of glittering stars without a single cloud to mask them. Sparks and smoke spiraled up into the night, twisting in the frozen breeze, the fire-glow competing with silvery moonlight that bathed the grass all around.
Aella’s hair hung unbound, disheveled and filthy as it lay draped around his bruised face, his beard matted with blood and dirt from the beating he had sustained. But his pride remained intact.
Men and women stood scattered about. Aella’s own people were on their knees, in the custody of Ivar’s men, or dead at the hands of those same warriors. Aella smiled crookedly, proud of his own forces, who had stood and fought and died, and now stood before the gates of heaven, their sins washed in the blood of their noble sacrifice against the pagan invaders. But he was beaten, he knew that, his land wrested from his grasp. His people would be released soon enough, to carry on serving under a new king, but Aella himself would not live to see it. All that remained for him was how he died. And he would die a warrior’s death—strong and defiant.
“You have two choices, Highness.” Ivar, his voice strident to draw the attention of all, twisted the honorific into mockery.
The crowd of warriors closed in, leather and mail glistening with blood and sweat in the firelight, blades of swords and axes glinting. Their mutterings and conversations faded to silence, enthralled now to watch a king beg for his life.
Aella’s smile deepened, despite the terror twisting his heart and gut. He would not give them that pleasure.
Ivar tipped his head back and laughed. “You face your death stoically, I’ll give you that. But it can be swift.”
“Make it as slow as you like,” Aella growled. “I. Am. A. King!” He gritted his teeth, against the fear more than the cold, hoping his trembling could not be seen.
Ivar’s face twisted in rage. “You murdered my father!” he roared. “You threw the mighty Ragnar Lodbrok into a pit of snakes to die in writhing agony, denying him the glory of a death in battle. You will die slower and be equally denied! While you’ve squabbled with Osberht over this land, my Great Heathen Army, as you call us, has only grown stronger. While you’ve lounged in that great city of York, growing fat and lazy with the blood of Ragnar Lodbrok on your hands, I have marched. My father’s revenge will finally be found. You are no longer a king, Aella.”
Aella swallowed the rising bile of terror. He had no fear of death, but was not ready to go yet. Life became suddenly the most precious thing in the world and he despised this Ivar who stood about to take i
t from him. Not to mention the method, which was truly frightening. “Your father knew the risks of his actions. Ragnar Lodbrok was twice the man you’ll ever be.”
“And yet here you are on your knees before me.” Ivar smiled again, controlling his anger. “But like I said, this can go one of two ways. You know the blood eagle torture, Aella? I will open your back with knives and lay aside the flesh. I will use an ax to separate your ribs from your spine and pull your lungs out to lie upon your shoulders like an eagle’s wings. And you will live through it all to die in slow agony and suffocation. I would warn you that if you cry out even once you will be denied entry to Valhalla, but you are no Northman. Your Christian god died his own pitiful death, so perhaps your screams will be pleasing to him.” Ivar leaned in close, his sour, ale-soaked breath hot on Aella’s cheek. “And you will scream, Aella. You will scream.”
Aella met the other man’s gaze and bared his teeth in a wordless snarl, not trusting his voice to be strong if he spoke.
Ivar stood straight again. “But there is another option. Just tell me where it is and your death will be swift. Valhalla’s doors will stand open for you, welcoming.”
Temptation rippled through Aella, the thought that all this could be over with one swift stroke of an ax and his soul set free. But he could never possibly let Ivar find what he sought. He only hoped God would forgive him for being tempted by the power. In the end, he had given it up. That had to count for something, didn’t it? He found his voice and was pleased it came out strong. “You can do your worst, Ivar, you fetid dog. I will never tell you where it is and I will never scream.”
Ivar’s eyebrows rose. “Truly, little king? You really think so?” He leaned forward again. “Tell me where it is!”
Aella gathered saliva and blood in his mouth and drew all his breath to spit it full into Ivar’s face. Ivar roared again and dragged the back of his hand across his nose and mouth. He pulled a long, gleaming knife from his belt and strode around behind Aella.
The deposed king gritted his teeth as cold steel bit into the flesh of his back. Hot fire lanced down his spine and the pagan horde inched closer, eager to watch the bloody spectacle.
“Tell me where it is and this ends quickly.” This time, a touch of urgency tinged Ivar’s words—one final chance to get the information he wanted.
Aella forced a laugh. “Take your sorry time, son of Lodbrok!”
With a hiss of rage, Ivar drew the knife point down. Aella ground his teeth together and promised himself he would not scream.
Chapter 1
London, England
Danny Bedford walked with Alice In Chains blaring in one earbud. He’d kept the other ear free of interference since a close call with a speeding taxi some months before. It didn’t pay to cut off one of his most important senses, even on a quiet night when a person might expect to have the city to himself. He wore a black woolen cap pulled down tightly over his shoulder-length coppery red, curly hair, and kept his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his puffy green jacket.
Tiredness clawed at him, hung heavy off his eyelids. He appreciated the extra income from double shifts at Great Ormond Street Hospital, but the work of an orderly was physically demanding, and wearing him down. Still, he had two full days off coming up and he planned to spend them on the couch mainlining seasons of television shows he’d got stacking up on the hard drive.
He turned off the main street into an alleyway that stank of stale urine and rotting garbage. A streetlamp at the far end illuminated the wet cobblestones underfoot, made them glisten like eyes staring up from the dark road. Clouds had closed over the night and Danny smelled more rain in the air. He didn’t mind that; the city of London needed to be washed regularly, in his opinion.
The thought brought to mind his tub and the idea of a hot bath. His aching muscles would appreciate that. Footsteps echoed off the building walls either side of him. Danny stopped, glanced back. No one there. It was late, the streets mostly deserted on his walk home as they often were when he finished a late shift in the early hours of the morning. He pulled the ear bud free to listen with all his hearing, looked up and down the alley again. Nothing. With a shake of his head he continued on, but his ears were alert, the tiredness pushed away by a slight surge of adrenaline that made him suddenly jittery. He had nearly reached the end of the alley when the footsteps came again, perfectly matching his own tread.
Danny spun quickly around, mouth already opening to issue a challenge. No one. He swallowed, licked strangely dry lips, looked up and down the narrow gap between the tall buildings. He was completely alone.
“Hello?” His voice sounded childish, fearful. He felt five years old and that in turn made him angry. “Who’s there?”
Of course no answer came, and Danny huffed a short grunt of annoyance and carried on along his way home, walking at a determined pace. He stepped out of the claustrophobic alley and turned left along Southampton Row, heading for the bus stop and the night bus that would take him slowly through the brightly lit city toward his home in Shepherd’s Bush. Traffic moved along the busier road, the comforting signs of life altogether more obvious, and the quiet pursuit in the alley became an instant memory, some strange dream moment trapped between the waking hours of Danny’s life.
He shook his head, put the earbud back in and began nodding to the opening strains of “Heaven Beside You”. As he passed Catton Street on his left an arm shot out of the shadows and grabbed him. The man hauled hard and Danny staggered, unable to prevent the motion, and stumbled into the shadows under a stand of unhealthy city trees. Cars crawled by not ten feet away, their drivers and passengers oblivious as four angry-looking men thrust Danny up against the worn, grubby trunk of a tree. They wore blacks and grays, faces partially concealed by hooded jackets casting deep shadows.
“What do you want?” Danny asked loudly, his voice high with panic.
“Just stay calm,” one man said. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Danny drew breath to scream, to yell for help, but the cry stuck in his throat. Who would hear him anyway? Who would help if they heard?
The man stepped forward, his fingers digging painfully into Danny’s arm, and another man took hold of the other side. They spun him around, pressed his face up against rough bark. A series of rapid, terrifying thoughts rushed through his mind, horrible possibilities of what they might be about to do to him. He thrashed, desperation breaking through the bonds of fear, and yelled out. “Get off me! Leave me alone! Help!”
Someone cuffed Danny across the temple. Dizziness swept his brain. His knees buckled and he probably would have gone down if the two men weren’t holding him up. A third set of hands grabbed at the back of his jacket and hauled it up, along with his shirt tail. Cold night air swept across the bare skin of his back. Despite his giddiness, Danny thrashed again and drew breath to scream, when the man said, “Yep, he’s the one.” He let the jacket drop back down.
Confusion killed Danny’s cry before it even began. “What is this?” Something cold and wet slapped over his face, covered his nose and mouth. His eyes went wide, real panic setting in as a sharp, cloying chemical odor flooded his senses and then everything closed to a dark tunnel and went black.
Chapter 2
Natural History Museum, London
“As you can imagine, many mythologies and superstitions have arisen around birthmarks over the centuries, from the comedic to the malevolent. They have been considered marks of luck and of evil, of witches and of prophets. As with many things slightly to the left of what most would consider ‘normal’, there are almost as many varying stories surrounding them as there are people to tell those stories.
“Take this human skin, for example, preserved in the permafrost of Siberia and recently on loan to this special exhibition. That birthmark is unusually dark and some consider that it might be the reason why the body was interred in such an extravagant grave, that perhaps the mark gave the person special standing in their ancient society.”
Jake Crowley zoned out while the museum guide continued her monologue to his class of fourteen-year-old history students. He let his gaze roam the “Blue Zone”, the Human Biology section of the Natural History Museum. A giant model of a human cell, a journey through reproduction, birth and growth, all kinds of interactive displays. He loved this place, had since he was a kid. The building itself mesmerized him, a mixture of Gothic Revival and twelfth-century Romanesque-style architecture, in line with Museum founder Sir Richard Owen’s vision of creating a ‘cathedral to nature’. Inside, the exhibition spaces were wonderfully high, serried arches and vaulted windows, bright skylights, wide staircases and shining marble floors. And the museum’s contents were truly mind-expanding. Taking his classes on field trips here was probably the most satisfying part of his often thankless job.
The group shuffled forward and Crowley’s eyes returned to the museum guide as she continued her guided lecture. He drank in her shining black hair in a neat bob, her smooth, lightly ochre-tanned skin. She was clearly of East Asian extraction, but Crowley thought maybe half-Chinese and half-white European. He enjoyed guessing the heritage of people and was right more often than not. She stood a little taller than he considered most Chinese, though several inches short of Crowley’s firmly muscled six-foot frame. And she looked fit and strong, lines of muscle clear on well-formed arms, hard calves showing beneath a straight skirt. She was quite a stunner, and clearly as smart as any university lecturer. Her delivery was alive and passionate, far from the rehearsed speeches so many guides went through in robotic fashion day after day. Then again, this woman wasn’t just a guide, but an employed historian at the museum, taking time out from a busy research program now and then to talk to interested groups. Crowley was pleased his students might benefit, perhaps absorb some of her enthusiasm for the subject. Then again, maybe not. Teenagers had a strange resistance to things they might learn from unless it was something they chose to investigate. History rarely fell into that category.
Crowley permitted himself a moment’s fantasy, imagined walking arm-in-arm with the beautiful historian, a fine contrast to his perpetually pale skin and slightly angular features. As the thought drifted through his mind, her eyes locked with his for a moment and he had the strange sensation she could hear his inappropriate desires. His cheeks flushed hot and he thought he saw the slight twitch of a smile on her mouth as she looked away, not breaking stride with her lecture for a moment. She was saying something about fertility rites and one of his less focused students, Maxwell Jenkins, made some ribald remark about the rites he was planning to take out on some poor hapless female classmate. She snapped a justified obscenity at him and Maxwell’s perpetually obsequious friend barked a dutiful laugh. Neither lad realized Crowley stood directly behind them until he clamped a hand to each of their shoulders and steered them away from group.