by Peter Oxley
“Capital!” said N’yotsu. “But I wonder whether perhaps we should pay this friend of yours a visit? If the demon is stalking us, then it would be prudent to lead it away from such a densely populated area as London.”
“And a break from The Smoke would do us good,” I said. “I was thinking earlier how much I missed travelling.”
Part Five - With Friends Like These
Chapter 19
I ran through endless oak-panelled corridors, past row after row of ornately framed portraits, the subjects of which observed my panicked progress through long-dead eyes.
My lungs ached but I dared not pause, lest my pursuers catch me. From behind came the sounds of their relentless progress, and that infernal tick-tock which seemed to fill my whole world...
* * *
Just a few days previously I had been seated in the latest of a long line of carriages seemingly designed with the express purpose of conveying passengers as uncomfortably as possible. Apart from transporting us from one part of the country to the other, the succession of horse- and steam-powered coaches had primarily served to increase my nostalgia for airships; in spite of what I might have said in the past, it seemed that I truly was a child of the skies. I allowed myself a brief grin. If Freddie knew how I felt at that moment, I would never have heard the end of it. But then again, such knowledge would be an impossibility; our last meeting was as final a parting as was possible to manage.
Kate intruded on my ruminations by laughing at one of N’yotsu’s comments, reminding me of the presence of my travelling companions and my plight. I had hoped that our break from London would allow my shredded nerves to recuperate, picturing an endless stream of elegant balls and late night parties. Instead, I had been forced to endure uncomfortable carriages and bracing walks.
“Stop glaring at us,” said Kate. “You’ve been a miserable so-and-so ever since we left London. If you’re hating it so much you could’ve gone on your own tour without us.”
“But then he would have spent the whole time walking and sleeping in hedgerows,” Maxwell observed from behind one of his books. “My brother conveniently forgets that without me he would be without funds for this entire endeavour.”
“Correction,” I said, folding my arms. “I have not forgotten. How could I with your constant reminders?”
Kate regarded me with raised eyebrows and a slight smile. I remained at a loss as to why Maxwell and N’yotsu had insisted on bringing her along, given that they seemed to have precious little need for a domestic at home, let alone on the road. Her role as far as I could tell consisted of being a combination of nursemaid and bodyguard, which was frankly ridiculous given that they were both thoroughly able grown men, albeit men with a mulish refusal to be involved in anything not revolving around either science or books.
Maxwell’s reading had been the source of much of the early tension on our trip, as a careless porter in London had mislaid a number of cases containing his precious books and equipment. It was only that morning that the cases had caught up with us at our hotel in York. No sooner had they arrived than Maxwell had immersed himself in them, with a gusto similar to how I approached my blessed beverages each evening. At least it had put an end to his quite insulting reviews of my loaned copies of All the Year Round.
“Aha,” he said from behind one of his newly recovered tomes. “I believe I have the answer to the mystery of our foe.”
N’yotsu leant forwards. “Which book is that?” he asked.
“The Lesser Key of Solomon,” said Maxwell. “The Ars Goetia, to be precise.”
“Solomon?” said Kate. “Isn’t that some sort of Bible thing?”
“No, not quite,” said Maxwell. “This edition is a grimoire from the seventeenth century, which lists various demons invoked by King Solomon during his lifetime.”
“Hmmm,” said N’yotsu, examining the cover of the book. “A bit derivative, but I suppose you work with the tools you have.”
“What do you mean?” asked Maxwell.
“I prefer the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum.”
“What, the one written by that charlatan Johann Weyer? This is a much truer reflection of the facts.”
N’yotsu grinned, clearly enjoying the debate. “If you believe that the book in your hands was truly written by King Solomon then I must revise my opinion of your intellectual capabilities severely downwards.”
“I have studied this text for many years,” said Maxwell. “And found it to be a useful reference point. Do not forget that your beloved Pseudomonarchia was itself drawn from various mediaeval sources...”
I held up my hand. “Before you bore Kate and me to death with your intellectual snobbery, would you at least treat us to the point of all this, assuming there is one?”
“There is a point,” said Maxwell. “The name which the demon gave to itself: Andras. I recognised it from somewhere but I could not quite recall where.” He showed us a page, annotated heavily in the margins in Maxwell’s scruffy handwriting. “Here it is. Andras, or Marquis Andras to give him his full title, is listed as one of the demons summoned by King Solomon. Number sixty-three out of seventy-two, to be precise.”
“So not one of the important ones,” said Kate.
“Unfortunately, the numbers are no indication as to their hierarchy,” said N’yotsu, leaning over to look at the page. “It is merely the order in which the author recorded them. One could argue that the later they appeared, the more important and powerful they were, by virtue of them requiring more effort to summon than the earlier ones.”
“So what does it say about Andras?” I asked.
“He is described as the Grand Marquis of Hell,” said Maxwell. Kate and I glanced at each other and shivered as he continued. “He has the body of an angel and the head of a wood owl.”
“Doesn’t sound much like our demon,” I said. “Unless these things can change their appearance at will.”
“I fear that they probably can,” said N’yotsu. “A Grand Marquis of Hell could make you believe he was the Queen, or the Pope, or—”
“Or even your own mother?” I asked.
“Indeed,” said N’yotsu, looking up at me with a flash of understanding. A few weeks had passed, but the encounter with the creature which had claimed to be my long-dead mother—and nearly caused me to commit suicide—was still very raw to me.
“He sows discord amongst people and is quite lethal,” continued Maxwell. “That certainly does sound like the creature we encountered.” He went silent and glanced at N’yotsu, pointing at a further piece of text.
“What?” asked Kate.
“It says he commands thirty legions of Hell,” said Maxwell. “Of course, that could be metaphorical...”
“A metaphor for what, exactly?” I asked. The looks from the two of them was answer enough; it was probably not a metaphor. “Excellent,” I said, throwing myself back in my seat. “So we not only have a demon pursuing us, but it is one of high social standing within Hell and has thirty legions waiting in the wings.”
“How many’s in a legion?” asked Kate.
“A Roman Legion typically comprised 5,400 soldiers,” said Maxwell. “Of course, the biblical sense is a lot less specific, and it is more likely that that is the true source of the term.”
“And how does the Bible define it?” asked Kate.
“Legio mihi nomen est,” muttered N’yotsu. “Quia multi sumus.”
“My name is Legion, for we are many,” I translated automatically, the Latin bringing back memories of musty schoolrooms and overzealous teachers.
“So it’s somewhere between 5,400 and ‘many’?” said Kate. “And there’s thirty lots of that? That doesn’t sound good.”
“I think we will be needing that weaponry you have been developing,” I said. Maxwell frowned at me; thus far he had allowed me to view but not handle the pistols and swords which he had created. Whilst I appreciated my brother’s caution and acknowledged that there was a fair amount of basis for it, his r
efusal to allow me to play with his new inventions was frustrating to say the least.
“Indeed,” said N’yotsu. “I fear that we will need all of the help that we can get. I should rather defeat the demon on our own terms, before it has had the chance or the inclination to unleash whatever reserves it has at its disposal. Let us hope that your friend will be able to assist us in our quest.” He nodded out of the window, at the scene unfolding before us.
A grand country house loomed out from behind immaculate rows of trees; at its centre was one of the largest front doors I had ever seen, flanked by pure white columns which put me in mind of the finest in Ancient Greek or Roman architecture. The house was nothing short of magnificent, with row after row of windows reflecting the sunshine spotlessly back at us, hinting at the wealth of the occupiers and their disregard for the old Window Tax. The whole thing was an enormous but perfectly formed testament to prosperity and achievement.
“Wow,” said Kate.
* * *
I sat in an incredibly comfortable chair with a fine glass of whisky in front of me, listening to the rhythmic ticking of at least a dozen clocks dotted round the room. We had found ourselves in a residence from my wildest dreams, the home I should have had if I had but been a bit luckier with life or wiser with money. Just the sitting room alone was the same size as the whole of my lodgings back in London. The floor was covered with the finest Persian rug I had ever seen, a work of art which I scarcely dared to stand on. Elegant artwork and engravings covered every wall, whilst the broad windows looked out on a sweeping garden leading down to a lake which glistened in the afternoon sun.
“Richard has done well for himself,” I noted to Maxwell. “I still remember him as that shy, spotty kid who used to run after you in the playground.”
“Family money,” Maxwell explained to N’yotsu. “His parents both died a few years ago. Richard was the sole heir to the estate; I had no idea that the estate was quite so lavish, though.”
“Indeed,” I said. “I never thought such wonders existed up here in Yorkshire. My assumption had always been that it was full of mills and illiterate farmworkers.”
N’yotsu smiled. “I thought you had travelled widely. Did you not take in the northern counties?”
“No. I mainly prefer to travel overseas. England is just so dull. Or at least I always thought so.” I looked around. “Of course, it appears that I may have to revise my opinions on that score.”
A maid arrived with a tray of tea and cakes, followed by the butler, a tall old man who, in spite of his officious manner, constantly seemed to be on the verge of grinning at some hysterical joke. “Mr. Fitzsimmons is currently indisposed,” he said. “In the meantime, he has asked that you make yourselves at home.”
“How long will he be?” asked Maxwell.
“A little while,” said the butler.
“And how long precisely is that?”
“A little while,” repeated the butler.
Maxwell stood. “Could we perhaps visit his laboratory while we wait? Your master has been writing to me about a number of interesting experiments that he has been undertaking, and I am keen to view them.”
“I am afraid that would not be possible,” said the butler, an immovable barrier in the doorway. “Mr. Fitzsimmons is very particular about his laboratory. He does not care for people entering it unaccompanied.”
“Or maybe some of his texts?” Maxwell was nothing if not persistent.
“There are plenty of books in the library,” said the butler.
“You know what I mean,” said Maxwell. “He is an old friend of mine. He would not begrudge me a little peek.”
“That may be true, sir, but I have my instructions. Do ring the bell if you need assistance.” With this, the butler walked out of the room.
“Never mind, Max,” I said, leaning back in my seat. “Looks like you’ll have to just relax with the rest of us.” I grinned at N’yotsu. Kate, as befitted her station, had been despatched below stairs as soon as we had arrived.
“You may be happy,” said Maxwell, jumping to his feet and pacing the room. “But we came here specifically to see Richard. I do not wish to waste time lounging around.” He glared out of the window for a few moments and then charged over to the door.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Up to my room. If we are forced to wait then I shall occupy my time with my own books. I have not had a chance to catalogue them yet, to check that they have all been returned complete.” He stormed out of the room.
I chuckled and raised the glass to my lips, smelling the drink’s harsh sweetness. “What about you, N’yotsu? Will you throw yourself into your reading also?”
He leant forward and poured himself a glass of whisky. “I rather fancy joining you in a bit of decadent relaxation,” he said. “If you will permit me.”
“I do so permit,” I said, raising my glass in a toast.
He took a swig and then pulled a face. “Not to your taste?” I asked.
“A bit... strong,” he coughed, but to his credit persevered with another mouthful.
“The thought occurs,” I said. “I have rarely seen you drink, and by your reaction I’d say it’s not something to which you’re accustomed.”
“That is correct. It is not something I have been recently tempted by, given that I lodge with your teetotal brother. Indeed, alcohol is a luxury in which I only indulge sparingly. I do not appreciate the impact it has on my faculties.”
I turned my glass in my hand. “For some of us, the impact alcohol has on our faculties is a veritable boon.”
N’yotsu looked at me, clearly divining my barely concealed angst. “The communication with the creature which claimed to be your mother still weighs on your mind,” he noted.
“Among other things,” I said, taking a swift gulp of the liquid and allowing myself to be consumed by its warmth for a moment. More and more I found my thoughts swaying back to Rachel, my lost love from so long ago, whom I had let down so terribly. ‘Time heals all wounds,’ they say; clearly those who spouted such nonsense had never had real wounds with which to contend.
Seeking to change the subject away from painful personal thoughts, I said: “So, this Andras creature. It could just be something which has chosen a name which happens to accord with a high level demon from Hell, do you not think?”
“It is possible,” said N’yotsu slowly. “Although whatever it is, it is certainly powerful. And dangerous. Not to mention the fact that it has proven itself to be anything but benign.”
“Yes, but—” I took a further deep swig and refilled our glasses. “—in any case, we could be worrying about nothing. After all, both of our encounters with it arose from us seeking it out, and not the other way round.”
“Can you really be so sure about that? How many demonic encounters did you have before you first came upon Andras?”
“Well, none, granted,” I said and then clapped my hands as another thought occurred to me. “The man Silas, when we first encountered him with his golems, mentioned that Andras had told him to expect you. Specifically you. Why would that be?”
“I have no idea,” he shrugged. “I had been hunting the demon for some time, although did not know who—or what—it was. Until we met in Hyde Park I had not managed to get close enough but perhaps the act of my pursuit drew attention to me. Or maybe we have all been stalked by the beast for some time, and it is only now that we have noticed it.” He shot me a sly grin from behind his whisky glass.
I scowled at him. “If this is your idea of decadent relaxation then I would hate to see you being serious and depressing. You are not making me feel any better.”
He held up a hand in apology. “We do need to face facts, though. Even if Andras’s wrath is not aimed at us, should thirty legions from Hell descend on England then it is not really going to matter whom they are targeted at. We have no choice but to stop Andras.”
We sat for a moment, the silence between us textured by the eve
r-present tick-tock of the clocks. “The four of us against the might of Beelzebub and his minions,” I said with a dry chuckle. “If Max were here, he would probably suggest that we get the police or army involved.”
“He already has,” said N’yotsu. “And I think you know the answer to that one.”
I grunted. “I scarcely believe it myself, so we can be sure that those hidebound drones would not give a moment’s thought before having us committed. Mind you, maybe a lunatic asylum’s the best place for us.” I raised my glass with a smile which did not quite reflect my state of mind.
Chapter 20
It was another few hours before Richard Fitzsimmons finally arrived, looking dishevelled and almost surprised to see us. With very little ceremony we were bustled to a fine and lavish dinner, which simply served to increase my appreciation and envy of our old friend and the position in which he had found himself.
“So tell me,” said Maxwell. “What have you been working on recently?”
“Oh, various things,” he said. “But what of you? I understand that you were recently in front of the Royal Society?”
“Mmm, yes. That did not end quite as well as I had hoped,” Maxwell said, staring intently at his soup. “But I really am interested in what you are engaged in and in particular how you might be able to assist us with a particular problem we—”
“And what about you, Augustus?” Richard said to me. “I have heard nothing from you since you left for Venice. What was that—seven, eight years ago?”
I coughed. “Yes, that didn’t end up quite as well as I had hoped either. Let us just say I am now back in London.”
“You boys never could stay away from London, eh? Hah hah!”
“Quite,” I said, taken aback by the sudden loud, nervous laugh. His manner put me in mind of a felon awaiting a jury’s verdict. I watched as he poured himself another drink with shaking hands while the cutlery rattled in time to his knees jiggling against the table leg.