by David Wood
“Some people believe that a birthmark can be read like a tarot card,” Brown said, sitting forward. He kept his mug clasped between his palms, almost as if praying to it, and Crowley wondered if he should reassess his thoughts on the man’s fanaticism. But Brown continued on, as casually as if he were talking about the price of milk. “In that way, it’s believed a person’s future can be told. But you know what? I don’t buy that.”
Crowley hid his smile behind his mug as he sipped.
“Birthmarks, I believe, are windows to past lives.” Brown downed his remaining tea in one long draught. “This is a more common belief and one I do share.”
Crowley winced at the thought of the tea scalding Brown’s throat, but he just smiled and put his mug on the ground. “How does that work?” Crowley asked. “Does a person have the same birthmark as someone in the past, is that it? We know at least three people now have a mark the same as Rose’s. Does that mark travel back through history? In their family line or something?” He couldn’t believe the questions he was asking, but the investigation had led them this far and it was pointless to shy away from its continued progression, no matter how unnatural that might seem. “Should we be searching for a historical figure who had the same mark as Rose?”
Brown shook his head. “Not so literal. The birthmark tells you the way someone died. The markings match the death wound. Imagine some birthmarks you’ve seen and then think of sword wounds, spears, bullets.”
“There are lots of birthmarks that don’t make sense that way,” Rose said. “I mean, a small mark on an arm isn’t going to be an echo of some ancestral death, is it?”
“Maybe not. Or maybe that tiny wound got infected and did lead to the death of someone.” Brown smiled again. His grin was wide and easy, gave him an open, friendly expression it was hard to ignore.
This guy could sell snowplows to the Bedouin, Crowley thought to himself.
“I’m not suggesting all birthmarks are necessarily death marks,” Brown went on. “Just that some deaths are significant enough that they echo down through the ages, through generations, as marks permanently on the skin from birth.”
Rose frowned, shook her head slowly. “But neither my mother nor father have a mark like mine.”
Brown raised his palms. “So I guess their lives are not intrinsically tied to the life of their ancestor like yours appears to be. Your mark may well connect you with the death of someone back in your genetic history and there’s something here, now, that ties you together.”
Crowley turned to Rose, skepticism rising again despite his attempts to take all this seriously. “So we're looking for someone who was ambushed by an eagle?”
Brown left half a smile on one side of his mouth, but his brow wrinkled in a frown, puzzled.
Rose shot Crowley a glare, and he looked away, let the joke die. “What do you know about the Devil’s Bible?” Rose asked.
Brown’s eyebrows popped up. “Now, there’s an interesting artifact, and an even more interesting story accompanies it, especially with regard to past lives. If the truth is known.”
Crowley stiffened, and shot one finger up to silence them both. Brown and Rose watched him with wide eyes, alert. “Footsteps,” Crowley whispered. A soft tap and scuff in the distance drifted along the stone chambers, drawing nearer. Crowley had noticed them, but the strange acoustics made it impossible for him to determine the direction.
Brown nodded, gestured out the door and right, across the Roman baths.
“We need to go,” Crowley said. “But that’s the only way I know. Is another way out of here?”
Chapter 15
Subterranean London
Brown moved quickly, unhooked the lantern, and pointed to one of his bookcases. “Help me here. Rose, close that door, there’s a lock inside.”
Crowley didn’t question. He slipped his fingers behind the wood where Brown indicated, and pulled. The thing moved far more easily than he had anticipated, and completely silently, as if it ran on oiled runners.
“Rubber wheels underneath.” Brown grinned.
Behind the shelving stood a low wooden door, like a trapdoor in the wall. As Rose locked them in, Brown pressed a hidden trigger in the wood and the trapdoor popped open. “Mind your head,” he said, and ducked inside.
Crowley waved Rose ahead of him and dropped to his knees to crawl in after her as the door behind them rattled. The noise became a vigorous shake. Presumably whoever was on the other side realized they had lost the element of surprise. Booms echoed in the small room as heavy kicks thudded into the wood.
“That won’t hold them for long,” Brown called back. “Hurry.”
They moved single file on hands and knees for several meters and, as Crowley was beginning to wonder how far they could carry on like this, Brown’s lantern illuminated a larger space. He and his light dropped from sight, then the brightness bobbed around somewhere below them.
“The drop’s only a few feet, but don’t twist an ankle,” the hermit called up, waving his light to guide them. As Rose and Crowley joined him on an uneven flagstone floor, he turned and pointed. Two wide tunnels led away from the opposite side of the room. Old pipes and wooden boxes, long since broken down and dilapidated, hung off the walls.
“This is an old maintenance room,” Brown said. “I made my escape tunnel through to here years ago. It’s saved me a few times.”
“Maintenance for what?” Crowley asked.
Brown grinned. “The London Underground. You guys have to go in the dark now.” He pointed to the tunnel on the left. “I’ll go that way, try to draw them away. Then I can lose them in a maze of old, uncharted catacombs. I know my way around, so I’ll have the advantage over them. You take the other passage.”
“We have torches,” Crowley said. “Or I can use the light on my phone.”
Brown shook his head. “It’ll shine back and give you away. That way goes for about a hundred feet, then you’ll hit a door. Feel for the handle, it’s unlocked. Close it behind you, then use your light. You’ll be in a side tunnel of the Central Line. Go right, follow your nose, you’ll pass through another disused maintenance room. Go right through and follow the tunnel again and you’ll find the tracks. Keep your ears open for trains, eh? Don’t get hit. You’ll come out at St. Paul’s station.”
Crowley reached out, shook Brown’s hand. “Thank you. I wish we’d had more time.”
“You’re welcome. Now watch out for the homeless people down there. Be nice to them if you can. They’re broken, not evil.”
“We will. Thanks.”
The sound of splintering wood echoed along to them.
Brown winced. “That’s my front door. Go! Oh, and based on everything you told me, I suggest you find the Devil’s Bible. It won’t be easy, and don’t be confused by urban myths and old legends. Find the real one.”
Without another word he ran across the maintenance room and into the left hand tunnel. His light glowed back in a pale, watery sheen. Rose shot for the other passage and Crowley followed, voices and cursing floating into the room behind them.
Once out of the glow of Brown’s lantern, the darkness was absolute. Crowley caught up to Rose, made them both stumble.
“Sorry, can’t see a thing.”
“Let’s hope they can’t either.” She grunted as Crowley heard her bump into something. “Here’s the door.” The handle creaked and the door scraped as she pushed it open. Crowley crowded through behind, pulled the door closed, and flicked up the flashlight app on his phone. The new corridor was red brick. Old, but far more recent than the large sandstone blocks of the lost Roman rooms. And Brown had mentioned a warren of catacombs. Crowley ached to come back and have time to explore the area. The historian in him was lost in wonder at the possibilities. What might he find? Perhaps he would visit Declan Brown again and request the man’s assistance.
They heard muffled shouting and a crash, then an echoing report.
“That was a gunshot,” Crowley said, no
doubt in his mind that he was correct.
Rose bit her lower lip. “Declan?”
“We have to assume he’s okay, given that we can’t know anything else.” He hoped hard that it was true. For all his strange ways, Declan seemed like a decent guy and Crowley would hate to have brought death or injury down upon him. “Come on.” Not pausing to further consider the situation, Crowley turned right as instructed and hurried away, Rose on his heels.
The passage angled left and right, dusty old electrical boxes on the walls to show they were moving into more recent architecture. Crowley slowed as a soft orange glow appeared ahead. He killed his flashlight app and stalked forward slowly. Murmuring voices drifted to them, guttural and cracked, the conversations of derelicts and winos.
Crowley nodded ahead. “Declan warned us about this. Let’s just go right through, try not to make eye contact, so we can avoid delays.”
The glow emitted from an old steel barrel, crackling with fire. Rags and bits of construction timber were crammed into it, burning merrily. Sparks leapt and danced like fireflies. Dark smoke roiled up and cascaded over the low ceiling like an inverted ocean. The acrid air made Crowley’s eyes water, his breath catch in his throat. Several people lounged or sat around, their body odor filling the space more than their physical presence, despite the smell of smoke and burning wood. Combined with the filthy fire it made Crowley both disgusted and saddened. Poor lost souls.
“Ey, darlin’!”
Rose yelped as one toothless, stick-thin man in a dirty, ragged coat and oily jeans stepped out of the gloom to paw at her.
“I think you’re in the wrong place, darlin’!”
Crowley stepped up. “We’re just passing through. We don’t want any trouble.”
The man leered, wet lips splitting in a black grin. “Lot more of us than there are of you, mister. Maybe we’ll take a toll from you, eh?”
Laughter and grunts of agreement echoed out, movement sudden and all around as several others moved to join the man and back up his case for a cost of passage.
“You look like you got a lot of money.”
“Any cigarettes?”
“Pleasures of the flesh, I think!”
“Take their phones, worth a mint these days!”
Crowley squinted left and right, taking a moment to assess the situation, but Rose decided to act. She cursed, loud and vibrant, and swung a heavy kick up into the man’s groin. He howled and folded to the floor, gasping huge sobs of pain.
“Anyone else?” Rose yelled. “I have had enough today!”
But Crowley was already moving. He grabbed her arm and towed her through the room, making the most of the stunned moment of shock. Bright, wide eyes in grubby faces followed them, but the people remained where they stood. A short passage led from the other side of the hobo home and he ducked into it. A bright light filled the space ahead, a loud, vibrating noise coming with it. Then air punched into the tunnel in a strong wind, whipped at their hair and clothes as a tube train hurtled past, windows a flicker play of bored commuters and garish tourists. It passed as suddenly as it had come and silence descended in its wake. The murmuring and angry voices behind them rose to fill the quiet, and Crowley and Rose moved quickly on.
They emerged into the train tunnel, the tracks glistening as Crowley tapped on his white torchlight again. Red bricks arched away over their heads, dripping here and there with echoing drops. A smell of electric metal and dampness pervaded their senses, gravel crunched underfoot with a variety of old litter, wrappers and plastic bottles mostly, peppering the dark, sooty stones.
Crowley looked up and down the track. “Which way?”
Rose, eyes wide, breath fast, shrugged. “Brown said it was the Central line. Doesn’t really matter, there’ll be a station either...” She jerked backwards and screamed as an arm appeared around her neck and hauled.
Crowley bit down on the adrenaline that flooded his system and leapt forward, expecting the homeless population from behind them. Hopefully too weak and untrained to be a real threat if he was fast. Rose was already moving to defend herself when a loud clear voice said, “Hold still and no one gets hurt.”
Crowley had a moment to realize this was no hobo before Rose twisted and drove one elbow back into her attacker’s ribs. It was a powerful blow, elicited a bark of pain and surprise, but not enough to make him lose his grip. Though she had made space and she stamped down and back, grinding her heel along his shinbone and down onto the fragile bones on top of his foot.
He swore effusively, hopping back. He tried desperately to keep his hold, but Rose was too quick and too strong. In the face of his various pains, he had to let her go. He had a gun in the other hand and that came up swiftly. “You bloody people,” he said, and Crowley kicked out, his shin connecting under the man’s forearm. The gun went off, deafening in the enclosed space, the muzzle flash a blinding glare, but the bullet whined harmlessly off the brick somewhere above and behind them.
Fury masked Rose’s face in the dancing light of Crowley’s phone as she lifted one knee and drove a front kick into the attacker’s chest. He huffed out his breath again, then his back and head hit the wall behind him and he yelped, staggering slightly as the impact stunned him.
Crowley grabbed for the gun arm before the man could gather himself to shoot again and, as he slammed that arm against the wall, Rose stepped in and dropped a brutal elbow strike into the attacker’s temple. He folded up like dirty laundry and collapsed silent to the filthy ground. Rose threw one more kick in for good measure, panting rapidly, fury still etched on her features.
“I. Have. Had. Enough!”
Crowley looked at her, grinned. “You’re hardcore!”
She looked up, the veil of panic and self-defense lifting. She managed a shaky smile. “We make a good team.”
Crowley crouched, picked up the man’s gun and pocketed it. “Just in case. Come on, there’s probably more coming and we weren’t exactly quiet just then. Not to mention everyone back in that room.”
They ran side by side along the tracks, listening hard for approaching trains. It was only a few hundred meters before a bright light glowed up ahead. They emerged into a crowded Underground station, St. Paul’s according to the sign, as Brown had said they would. Dozens of people on the platform looked at them in surprise, two filthy and wild-eyed strangers emerging from the darkness. Crowley nodded like it was no big thing, threw smiles to anyone looking too long. They clambered up onto the platform and he took Rose’s hand and led her through the people.
“Don’t talk to anyone and keep your head down,” he whispered.
They took advantage of the English default position of politeness, sure no one would challenge them, especially if they made no eye contact. Crowley hurried up the stairs and headed for an escalator, desperate for the fresh air and daylight of the city. He’d had enough too, especially of being subterranean.
Chapter 16
National Library of Sweden, Stockholm
“It was a good idea to get out of London,” Crowley said as they walked across well-manicured green lawns. “Not only to learn more, but I feel better with some distance between us and those goons.”
Rose nodded, eyes scanning the impressive pale building before them. “As long as they didn’t track us and follow. I’ve always wanted to visit Sweden, but didn’t really expect to do it under circumstances like this. You’re not going to lose your job, are you?”
“No, I pulled the sudden death of a family member card to make sure I wasn’t expected back any time soon. As far as work knows I’ve taken a red-eye to New York.”
“Thank you.”
Crowley put a hand on her shoulder. “I told you I wouldn’t leave you alone in this. Whatever it takes. What about you and work? Didn’t you call in sick? How long can that last?”
Rose twisted a contrite expression. “Actually, I called Dr. Phelps before we left London. He’s my boss at the museum. I told him that the virus I claimed to have was a little
white lie and I’m actually going through some really difficult personal stuff right now. I didn’t want to tell him everything, but said I needed to get away for a week or two, have some space.”
“And he didn’t push you for details?”
“No, Charles is a decent guy. He told me he’d put through the form to give me two weeks’ vacation leave. Told me to actually take a holiday, look after myself.”
Crowley nodded. “He does sound like a decent guy.”
“There’s a few of you about.”
The National Library of Sweden loomed over them, bright in the sunlight. Two stories of pale yellow frontage, regular, intricately framed rectangular leadlight windows filled the majority of the flat façade, with the central section set slightly forward of the rest. An extra level stood above the two stories of the central block, KONGL. BIBLIOTEKET carved into an orange-hued panel of stone between two large gray coats of arms.
Crowley frowned. “Kongle..?”
Rose laughed. “It’s short for Kungliga Biblioteket. Means the Royal Library. But it’s known as the National Library as it houses everything of importance to Sweden.”
“Impressive building.”
Rose pulled out her phone, tapped up a page she’d found earlier. “Royal book collections had been held at Tre Konor, the castle of the Three Crowns, since around the 1660s. There was a fire in 1697 and stuff was stored in various places until Gustaf Dahl was commissioned to build this place. It was started in 1871 and completed seven years later. It’s a cast iron construction if you can believe that. The two wings were added in 1926 and 1927.”
“I wonder why Declan and Danny were both talking about finding the Devil’s Bible when it’s common knowledge that the thing is kept here?” Crowley pointed at the huge building. “Hardly secret.”
Rose shrugged, put her phone away. “Declan also said something about not believing in myths and fakes. About finding the real one, whatever that means. Let’s find out.”