by Peter Oxley
The Infernal Aether Series
Comprising:
The Infernal Aether
A Christmas Aether
The Demon Inside
Beyond the Aether
Peter Oxley
By Peter Oxley
Edited by: John Harten, D. L. Mackenzie (The Infernal Aether), Ben Way (The Demon Inside, Beyond the Aether)
Cover art: Kristina Pavlovic
This collection copyright © 2017 Peter Oxley
All rights reserved.
Book One – The Infernal Aether
Part One - Beginnings
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part Two - The Whitechapel Incident
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part Three - Ghosts In The Machine
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part Four - Men Of Clay
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part Five - With Friends Like These
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Part Six - Be Careful What You Wish For
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Part Seven - Entombed
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Part Eight – World’s End
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
Acknowledgments
Dedication
A Christmas Aether – An Infernal Aether Novella
A Christmas Aether
The Ballad of William Morley
The Potts Demonology
Epilogue: Maxwell
Book Two – The Demon Inside
Part One – Augustus
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part Two – Kate
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Part Three – Augustus
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Afterword - Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Book Three – Beyond the Aether
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
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Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
About the Author
Book One – The Infernal Aether
The Infernal Aether
Peter Oxley
By Peter Oxley
Edited by: John Harten
Line Editing and Formatting: D. L. Mackenzie
Cover: Kristina Pavlovic
First edition copyright © 2014 Peter Oxley
Second edition copyright © 2015 Peter Oxley
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1503180741
ISBN-10: 1503180743
Part One - Beginnings
Chapter 1
The eerie stillness of Hyde Park on a cold, wintry night in late 1865 was punctuated by a single yell, a terrible cry which shocked my brother and me from our casual stroll.
I looked up to see a movement ahead of us. I had assumed that we were the only ones foolish enough to brave the elements at this hour, but there was someone—or something—else just ahead of us in the deepening gloom; a huddled form which at first put me in mind of some type of large beast. For a moment I was transported back in my mind’s eye to the Indian grasslands at night, a time of serenity but also where danger lurked behind every rock and clump of grass. It felt as though it were only yesterday, the great dirigible The Old Lady to my back whilst I faced the tiger alone and unarmed...
I shook myself back to the present day; this was suburban London, where the worst we would surely encounter was a gang of thugs. My right hand automatically reached for the reassuring weight of the Lancaster revolver in the pocket of my thick, battered greatcoat; it was not for my scientific expertise that my brother had brought me along on this expedition. I wrapped my fingers round the trigger of the gun, keeping my arm sufficiently relaxed so that I could draw the weapon as smoothly as possible if the occasion demanded.
I squinted in the half-light at the form, quickly drawing the conclusion that we were encroaching on a vagrant madman. I put my other hand on my brother’s shoulder and was about to suggest that we back away when I heard a grunt and perceived a flailing of arms from the huddled mass, and realised that we were in fact witnessing an assault. “Wait here,” I said to Maxwell and charged toward the confrontation, gun in hand. “Hey, you!” I shouted as I ran.
The form ahead straightened up to reveal an unnaturally tall man, leering at us with eyes which reflected bright red in the evening light. I could not discern the finer details of his face or body and this, combined with the eerie stillness of the Park, served to inculcate an acute sense of dread in me, an irrational fear of a kind which I had not felt for some time. Having spent so many years learning from one of the most cruelly talented men ever to have stalked the airways, I had developed a reckless sense of bravery which had served me well during countless ill-conceived fights and confrontations. Nevertheless, there was something about the man standing there on that darkened hill which undid all of my paltry pretensions and I stumbled to a dumb halt.
The man stood well over six feet tall, his face shadowed by some form of hat and his body swathed in a dark cloak. Those bright, red eyes bore into my very soul and I felt my breath freeze in my throat. His features were angular, as though carved from some hideous stone on the most forbidding mountain at the ends of the Earth. His clothes rested awkwardly on his huge frame, as though they were straining to escape his malicious touch. I took these details in whilst fighting against the instincts
of my body, every element of which screamed at me to turn and run. I resisted, knowing that to show my back on such a predator could be fatal, and in any case the thought of not having him in sight, of him breathing down my neck, was more terrifying than the assault to which my eyes were being subjected.
He stood over the still form of another man; we had clearly surprised the rogue in the act of attacking his victim and hopefully before too much damage could have been done. I heard Maxwell jolt to a halt beside me and cursed him inwardly. I was more than able to defend myself, but my brother was another matter. For all of his keenness to help, he was worse than useless in a fight, and I would be forced to look out for him rather than focus on the task at hand. Nonetheless, as I stared at this stranger, I found myself grateful for the company, whatever form it took.
Maxwell and I stood, frozen in shock, while the attacker glared at us. There was a moment of uncertainty, with neither ourselves nor the mysterious stranger willing or able to make the first move.
This stalemate was broken by the other, who turned and fled, to my considerable relief. The speed of his flight seemed unnaturally fast and he was out of sight in a matter of seconds. For a moment I could have sworn that he leapt over one of the trees on the distant horizon, but I discounted that as a trick of the light, my eyes confusing a bat for the attacker’s retreating form.
Liberated from our fearful immobility, Maxwell and I glanced at each other and then rushed to the aid of the man lying on the ground. From his attire I surmised that he must have been attacked on his way to a formal function: he was dressed in a fine dark coat and trousers, his top hat discarded a few feet away. His features were strong and somewhat swarthy, giving him an aristocratic appearance. A red but bloodless gash to the right hand side of his forehead evidenced his encounter with the rogue.
We bent over him. “He’s breathing,” I confirmed to Maxwell, and then I spoke to the man in a louder voice. “Sir? Are you all right?”
My words stirred a reaction from him and he grunted and rolled slightly. He put his hand to the wound on his head and then, wincing, jerked it away. His eyelids fluttered open and he squinted at us, as though he were a new-born only just discovering the miracle of sight.
“Where... am I?” he gasped.
“Hyde Park,” I said, helping him to sit upright. “Here,” I offered him my hip flask, “drink some of this.”
“I really don’t think alcohol is a good—” began Maxwell, but we both ignored him, the man taking a long draw from the flask and then coughing and shuddering as the restorative effects took hold in his throat and chest.
“Better?” I asked, taking the flask back.
“Thank you,” he croaked. He looked around blankly. “What happened to me?”
“You were attacked by some rogue,” said Maxwell. “He ran away when he saw us. Did he steal anything from you?”
He patted his pockets instinctively. “I... don’t know,” he said. Then, his search complete, he added, “I believe not.”
“Well that is some comfort,” I said. “We must have disturbed your attacker before he could complete his villainous act.”
“No,” said the man, struggling to his feet. He stumbled and I put my arm round him to provide support. “It did not intend to rob me. Not of money, in any case. I owe you my life, sirs.”
“It?” I asked.
“Pardon?”
“You referred to your attacker with the impersonal pronoun. Do you mean to say he... it... was not human?”
He flashed us a smile. “That is exactly what I meant. My name is N’yotsu, and I am in your debt.”
“I am Augustus Merriwether Potts,” I said slowly, mulling over this revelation. “And this is my brother, Maxwell.” I watched as N’yotsu shook hands with Maxwell. The stranger looked sane enough, although there was no telling what damage his attacker had inflicted on him and his senses. A part of me rebelled against the idea of some inhuman creature stalking Hyde Park, of all places. But then again, stranger things had been spoken of around the streets of London. There had been something almost preternatural in the way the man—or thing—had extinguished my spirit with just a glance, delivering a bolt of pure animal fear which had frozen me in my tracks.
My brother—the rational man of science—did not appear afflicted with any such sense of doubt. “Fascinating,” he said. “You are certain that the creature was not human? It had the form and appearance of a man.”
“That is how it chooses to appear, but I can assure you that it is far from human. I have been tracking it for some time.”
“Tracking? To what end?” Maxwell handed the man his top hat. My brother’s usual reticence around anyone outside his very limited circle of friends had been replaced with an attentiveness which made me smirk in spite of the situation.
“It is my profession,” said N’yotsu. “I am an investigator of supernatural phenomena. That beast means to do ill tonight to a family not far from here. I thought that I could head it off but I was clearly not quick-witted enough. I must go—” He stumbled and put his hand to his head. Maxwell and I both reached out to steady him before he fell.
“I fear you are not well enough,” said Maxwell. “You should rest a while longer and recover your strength.”
“No,” said N’yotsu. “There is precious little time. The creature already has a lead on me; if I delay longer… who knows what may happen?”
“Then we shall come with you,” said Maxwell. “My brother is rather useful in a fight, and I should relish the opportunity to observe any supernatural happenings.”
They both looked at me and I sighed. I could feel my longed-for tavern and the comfort of a warm ale slipping further away from me with every minute that passed; but then again I could not withdraw like a common coward. “Very well,” I said. “Anything to get us out of this damned chill air.”
Chapter 2
After another drink from my hip flask, N’yotsu was ready to move on. We followed the Serpentine back toward the Southeast and then exited at Hyde Park Corner, heading toward—of all places—the highly exclusive neighbourhood of Belgrave Square.
Whilst Maxwell was keen to accompany the man, for my part I was nervous and on edge. I did not like the idea of wandering blindly into whatever sort of situation this stranger was dragging us toward. At best, N’yotsu was being truthful and we were heading into battle against some form of supernatural beast; at worst, we were being led to an ambush where our new acquaintance and any number of his accomplices would seek to mug us and deprive us of our possessions. Either way, I did not fancy our odds.
I pulled Maxwell back and muttered to him: “I really do think that we should enlist help here, rather than blunder headlong into what could very well be a trap.”
“Help?” he glanced at me, eyes glinting with amusement. “Do you mean to say that you, of all people, are suggesting we call on the police?”
“No, of course not. But I do think you are underestimating the risks which we could be subjecting ourselves to. You spend too much time cloistered in your laboratory: it is a dangerous world out here.”
He shrugged. “You have a gun. And we are both capable of running.”
“Even carrying that dead weight?” I asked, nodding at the pack on his back which clinked and rattled in time with his movements. The pack’s brown leather was forced into unnatural angles by the contents, which were tightly packed so as to test the seams to their limits. As to the contents themselves, I had not seen them before they were stuffed inside but I knew enough of Maxwell and his inventions to deduce that there would be a mess of tubes, dials and glassware within.
“Tell me this,” I said, trying another tack. “What if this man and his accomplices were to steal your contraptions from you?”
He stiffened. “They would not dare,” he hissed, then relaxed and smiled at me. “You are allowing your cynicism of the world to cloud your judgment. This fellow is sound, and in any case he owes us a debt. Above all else, I am intrigued
by the phenomena he speaks of.”
I sighed. Once again, his scientific curiosity had overridden any care for his wellbeing and, once again, I found myself going along for the ride as his bodyguard, ready to pick up the pieces from his blind fancy.
We continued on our way, the light from the gas lamps casting a stark, otherworldly glow over the misty streets. Our only companions were our shadows, the local residents choosing—rather sensibly—to remain indoors rather than join us out in the cold. Whilst these surroundings were not dissimilar to where I grew up, this was a far cry from my adoptive home in the East End, a part of the city which never quite came to rest. Costermongers shouting their wares, householders joking or arguing in the streets, drunkards spilling out from taverns: these were the scenes I was used to. By contrast, the silence of these more exclusive streets felt stifling and oppressive.
“So, what sort of beast are we tracking?” Maxwell asked N’yotsu, a little too merrily for my liking. I glared at him; he appeared to be treating this like some jolly caper.
“I could not quite register,” said N’yotsu, “on account of the beating I received. However, I believe it to be a demon of the lower orders. That is to say, I hope that that is the case.”
“Why so?” I asked.
“The lower orders are rather easier to deal with than those of more advanced castes, not to mention significantly less intelligent. If I am correct, then we should have little trouble in subduing the fiend before it causes too much damage.”
“You seemed to be having rather a lot of trouble just now,” I said.
Maxwell grinned. “But there are three of us now, eh? The creature would not stand a chance against us!” He turned back to N’yotsu as I rolled my eyes to the heavens. “I have always had an interest in the occult, but never had the fortune to observe demons at close quarters.”
“Then this may be your lucky day,” said N’yotsu. “So you are an occultist, then?”
Maxwell’s back stiffened. “I am a scientist. But I do have an interest in the spiritual world as well.”
“Mr. N’yotsu, you do seem to know rather a lot about the subject,” I noted.