The Infernal Aether Box Set: All Four Books In The Series

by Peter Oxley

  “Shit!” I said, throwing myself to the side as a demon launched itself at me. I felt red-hot claws rake along my leg as I scrambled away, flailing in the direction of my sword. A door banged open and another pair of demons charged into the room, with no doubt more to follow as they became drawn to the commotion. My heart sank: there was no way that we could make a stand against these numbers, especially not while our weapons remained out of reach.

  Another door slammed open and I groaned as I anticipated yet more adversaries, holding up a chair as a makeshift shield. “A party, and you did not invite me!” bellowed a familiar voice, and Kate and I grinned at each other as N’yotsu threw himself into the room, decapitating one demon and elbowing another through a wall.

  Kate was faster to recover than me, taking advantage of the distraction to scurry across the floor to our weapons. Priming her rifle, she discharged it straight into the face of a snarling creature and then threw my sword to me.

  I caught it one-handed and immediately felt lifted by its reassuring weight. Once again I was whole, taller than a mountain and mightier than any of these flimsy beasts. A dim corner of my mind clung on to the memory of what I could be, that snarling red monster, but that was beaten down by the sheer joy of once again being complete. My bruises and aches forgotten, I rose to my feet and turned to face the nearest demon. I swung my sword in a wide arc and the creature fell to the floor before it had a chance to complete its attack.

  My sword twitched to the right and I twisted, having learnt some time ago to trust its instincts. A clawed hand raked where my head had just been and I responded with a swift cut upwards, slicing clean through a monstrous head. The blade caught in the skull and I wrenched at it desperately as I eyed another attacker charging toward me. At the last minute, I opted for using the body as a shield, thrusting it at the oncoming demon and then kicking it to dislodge the sword. As I spun free I noticed Spencer trying to make his escape and pulled him back by his collar, throwing him hard against the wall. “No you don’t,” I said. “We haven’t finished with you yet.”

  He groaned as I turned back to face the demon which had now managed to extract itself from its fellow and was snarling warily at me. It was a huge beast, well over six feet tall, and had a pair of incredibly sharp horns on its head which it proceeded to point at me and then charge. I laughed at the absurdity of this, a part of me wishing I had a red cape to hand, as I dived out of the way of its advance and raked the blade down its side as it passed.

  My sword missed, swinging into thin air, and I stared at the creature which was clearly nimbler than I had assumed. My hesitation was almost fatal for it was upon me in the blink of an eye, throwing me against a wall with a casual flick of a massive arm. My sword flew from my grip with the impact and I fumbled for it while struggling against the fog of disorientation which clouded my brain. Shaking my head, I threw myself to the ground to narrowly escape a clawed foot to my face. The sword was tantalisingly close but, before I could put my fingers round it, the demon grabbed me by the ankle and swung me like a cricket bat. I crashed into the remains of the table, feeling at least one rib crack, and looked up helplessly as the creature advanced on me.

  It stood over me and raised its fists, before staring down in surprise at the metal spike which appeared in its chest. It fell forwards; thankfully I had the energy and presence of mind to roll out of the way before I was flattened.

  I looked up to see Kate grinning at me as she retrieved my sword from the demon’s back. “You really should stop leaving this lying around,” she said. “Someone could get hurt.”

  I smiled back at her and let her help me to my feet. “Thank you.” I looked around. “So it looks like we won this fight after all.”

  The room was littered with the bodies of demons, in the middle of which stood N’yotsu, holding a shaking Spencer. “We still have to escape St. Giles,” he pointed out. “Are you fit to start moving?”

  “Whether I am or not,” I said, “we should get away as quickly as we can, before more demons arrive.” I peered at him, searching for any sign of the turmoil and deterioration I had witnessed in my vision. “Are you all right?”

  He looked at me curiously before nodding slowly. “I thought as much,” he said softly. “We will discuss later, once we are safe from this place.”

  I glanced at Kate, remembering that I needed to speak with her, too, about what I had seen. N’yotsu was right, though: the time for such things was later, when we would not be at risk of imminent attack. In any case, we needed to get back to Maxwell as soon as we could.

  N’yotsu swung round to face the door, pulling Spencer with him.

  “You bringing that dead weight with you?” asked Kate. “Won’t he just slow us down?”

  “Not if he wants to live,” said N’yotsu. “Our friend here is about to be given a chance to atone for his sins, by telling us and the police everything he knows about the demon colony here.”

  Spencer stared at us with wide eyes. “But I can’t,” he stammered. “They’d kill me.”

  “Bit of a dilemma for you there,” I said. “Because so will we. Something for you to think about while we make our way out of here.”

  N’yotsu put his hand on the door. “Are you ready?”

  I looked at Kate and she gave me a reassuring grin. “Let’s do it.”

  The Ballad of William Morley

  She stood at the entrance to the hovel and watched as the old woman muttered words which made her skin crawl. She held her hands together in an attempt to quell the shaking, but also to stop herself from giving in to the urge to run away, taking a few quick breaths as she tried to concentrate on the scene before her.

  The room had been cleared, the meagre furniture banished to the outer edges to make space for a pentagram drawn on the floor in a dark substance which flickered alternately black and red in the candle light. Various objects were dotted round the circle: plants, pots, scrolls, pottery heads of various animals. At least, she hoped they were made of pottery, for the alternative did not bear thinking about.

  Her breath steamed as the temperature dropped and she hugged her arms around her body. She squinted in the gloom; was it her imagination or was there a red glow around the old crone’s head?

  With a sound like the breaking of a hundred bones, a sickly wind blew through the room, accompanied by a strange, white mist which clung to the floor like a shifting, animate rug. Somehow all of the candles remained lit in spite of this disturbance but, before the young woman could consider this, the mist congealed in the centre of the pentagram before dropping away to reveal a dark form in its midst.

  The creature which stood there was short and squat, just under five feet in height and around the same in width, with deep red eyes and sharp teeth which reflected blackly in the half-light. Three curved horns were sat atop its head.

  “Who summons me?” asked the creature in a voice which seemed to echo around the young woman’s head.

  The old crone bowed low. “It is I, Sandra, your devoted servant,” she intoned. “This unworthy one behind me requests a service.”

  The demon looked straight at the young girl, eyes burrowing into her soul and making her want to scream silently at the horror before her. “Does she know that there is a price?” asked the demon.

  Sandra turned and the young girl gasped as she caught sight of the old woman’s eyes: twin pits of burning red flame. “She does.”

  ***

  As the day drew to an end the inn filled with workers from the markets and streets of Nottingham, a long stream of red faced and grimy bodies pressing together in their keenness to get out of the cold and sink as many drinks as possible before night time set in. Loud voices echoed round the cavern-like low-ceilinged room, roughly plastered walls and ceiling stained with centuries of smoke, the bar staff rushing around under the watchful eye of the landlord, a squat red faced man with a long grey beard.

  A large man with a long thick nose which had clearly been broken countless tim
es elbowed his way to the bar, leaving a stream of curses in his wake. A tall, thin costermonger grabbed the man’s shoulder and tried to pull him back. “You wait your turn, you!” he bellowed.

  The other man glared at him. “I’ll take no orders from the like of you, Fred Colyer. Take your hand off me or I’ll break it.”

  “You’ll try,” growled the costermonger, leaning forward and head-butting the broken-nosed man.

  Within seconds, the cramped bar was reduced to a mess of fists and feet as others were drawn into the fight, pushing and shoving to escape or, more likely, join in the melee. The landlord stood on the bar and shouted, trying in vain to calm down the fighters.

  The door banged open and a shrill whistle echoed round the small space, causing men to clutch their ears or turn to look at this interruption. A policeman stood in the doorway, truncheon raised and a determined look on his face, casting a tall shadow into the room. “Stand down, all of you,” he shouted. “Now, what’s the meaning of this?”

  “It’s Morley,” whispered a dozen voices, and the crowd parted to allow the policeman through. He looked around as he made his way toward the bar and the customers averted their eyes from his steely gaze, shrinking away from the neat, broad shouldered man.

  He came to a halt in front of the two original fighters, one clutching his nose and the other his side. “Fred Colyer and Mike Scully. I might have known,” he said in a quiet voice which stretched to all corners of the room in the hush. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t lock you both in gaol for the night.”

  “Look, Constable Morley,” said the landlord, “there’s no harm done. It’s all calm now; I don’t want no trouble.”

  “You’ll be quiet, John Milward,” replied Morley, not looking up. “I’ve half a mind to lock you away too for not controlling your customers. Again.”

  Before anyone could respond, another policeman stepped into the room, a shorter man with a red face and an eager grin. “So what’s all this then?” asked Constable Smith. “I’d been told there was fighting in here.” He saw the constable at the bar. “Morley, what are you doing here? Your shift ended hours ago.”

  “I was taking a walk and heard the noise,” said Morley, his eyes still fixed to the brawlers. “Couldn’t just pass by.”

  Smith grabbed him by the arm. “A word?” he asked. Morley nodded reluctantly and they retreated to the door.

  “Taking a walk in full uniform? Have you even been home?” he asked softly.

  Morley shrugged. “Just winding down.”

  Smith sighed. “William, this has to stop: you’re going to work yourself into the grave if you don’t. Now go home to Abigail; she needs you.”

  Morley regarded him for a long moment and the room held its breath, their battles now forgotten as they watched this exchange with interest. The landlord shifted round the bar, nervous as to how he would intervene if the two Bobbies started fighting as well.

  Then Morley seemed to collapse in on himself, his shoulders slumping so that he appeared to be a completely different person. The other policeman put a hand on his shoulder. “Go home,” he said. “I’ll deal with this.”

  Morley walked back to the bar and addressed the two brawlers. “If I see either of you in trouble again, you will suffer. Understand?” They nodded mutely.

  The landlord cleared his throat. “Constable,” he said. “A drink on the house? To show there’s no hard feelings, eh?”

  Morley stared at him and then turned and walked out, pausing only to nod briefly to his colleague.

  The customers held their breath as they turned to look at the other policeman. “Well, I’ll take his then,” Smith said to the landlord. “Make it a large one!”

  Conversation returned to the room in a slow wave as Smith made his way to the bar. He put an arm round the shoulders of the two brawlers, ignoring their protests as he pulled them closely together. “You’ll both go home, separate ways, and be nice and polite to each other in future. If I hear any more trouble from either of you, then I promise you won’t see the light of day for a long time. Now go, and be grateful Constable Morley’s not here anymore, as he wouldn’t be half as lenient as I’m being.”

  He watched as they ran out and then turned back to the bar, accepting a large mug of ale with a nod.

  “We’ll knock that off the weekly sum, eh?” said the landlord with a sly grin.

  “You’ll give me this free, in grateful acceptance of me making sure you keep open,” replied Smith. “If I hadn’t sent Morley away, you’d be staring at the inside of a cell, especially after you offered him a drink. What were you thinking?”

  “What? He’s not teetotal.”

  “No. But he’s never drunk a drink he didn’t pay for, and he’d never put himself in debt to you, or any other. You should know that by now.”

  The landlord blushed. “I just thought it were a nice gesture: given that stuff with his kid and all. What kind of a man doesn’t take a free drink?”

  “You leave him be: he’s a good ‘un. Just be grateful there’s only one of him; one honest man in this town’s more than enough, eh?”

  A fat man next to him barked a laugh lubricated with far too much ale. “If that’s what honesty gets you, I’ll stay bent!” He howled with pain as Smith punched him in the stomach.

  “You don’t get to talk like that,” the constable said in a low voice. “What happened to that child is no laughing matter.”

  ***

  Morley approached his house slowly, trying to make as little sound as possible as he scanned the windows, noting with relief that all of the lights were out. He opened the door and winced as it creaked, thinking once again that he needed to grease the hinges. As soon as he stepped inside he felt his shoulders drop under the weight of the darkness within.

  He removed his jacket and hat, placing them neatly on the small table next to the door before lighting a candle, shielding the glow with his hand. He turned slowly, trying to keep the light away from the bedroom door, and then started as he saw the figure sitting at the table.

  “Abigail,” he said, fighting to control his racing heart. “What are you doing?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said in a flat voice. He lifted the candle to cast light on her. She was even more dishevelled than usual, her hair lank and greasy and still wearing the same nightclothes she had worn for as long as he could remember. She stared at the table with dull eyes.

  He forced himself to go round the table and sit beside her, pushing his chair closer and putting an arm round her shoulder. Where once she would have melted into his arms, she now sit as still and unyielding as rock. After a few moments, he gave up and leaned an elbow against the table, trying to force himself into her line of sight.

  “Abigail,” he said gently, “you need to get some rest. You can’t carry on like this.”

  “Don’t want to sleep. The dreams...”

  He sighed. “They’re not real, you know that. Maybe if you went out the house during the day...”

  She barked a hollow laugh. “And let them all stare at me, talk about me? No, William, I won’t. You might be able to, but I can’t.”

  Morley rubbed his forehead. “We need to get on with our lives.”

  “Why? Why should we? Why do we have the right, when poor Polly can’t? When she... She...” Her voice built to a shrieking crescendo before collapsing into sobs. Morley tried to put a comforting arm round her again but was batted away. “Don’t touch me,” she managed through the tears.

  He sat there for minutes which stretched out into eternity as he watched her, wanting to do something but with no idea what. It had been this way ever since Polly had passed, his wife reduced from a vibrant and loving woman to this husk, refusing to engage with him or anyone else. His whole body itched with the helplessness of everything, not knowing what he could do to make everything better, if there was such a thing at all.

  Out there was different, on the streets; he knew the rules and what to do to fix any situatio
n, whether it was a street brawl, a thief or a murderer. His work had become his release, his way of getting away from the limbo that was now his life.

  She had stopped crying now and just sat with her head bowed, limp hairs covering her face. He put a hand out to touch her and smooth away the strands, and for a moment he fancied that if he did he would see her impish grin beneath. The fancy was fleeting and his fingers stopped short, before he balled them into a fist and slammed it into his thigh. The pain brought welcome release and he stood, pushing the chair gently backwards.

  “That’s right, you go,” she said as he made his way to the bedroom. “Run away like you always do.”

  He paused with a tense back and clenched jaw, arms rigid at his sides. Time was, he would have bit back at this, but he had learnt from the past weeks that it was pointless. He walked into the bedroom and pushed the door to.

  ***

  The next morning he dressed with a rigid efficiency as always, wincing as his cut and bruised knuckles protested at the effort of buttoning and pulling and tightening. As always, he ignored the marks on the wall, fresh ones still glistening with blood. If Abigail had noticed them, she had not mentioned although she surely could not fail to hear the noise each night, the sound of his penance, the only way he could exhaust himself to sleep.

  She was still seated at the table and showed no sign of acknowledging his presence as he walked through the room. “I’m off to work now,” he said, addressing the walls and furniture. “I’ll bring back fruit and meat at lunch. And fresh water.” He left without waiting for a response, not that one would have been forthcoming.

  ***

  Constables Morley and Smith walked through the streets, hands thrust deep in the pockets of their greatcoats as they nodded greetings to the stallholders battling to set up shop in the icy air. Morley stopped and glared at a group of children, some as young as five years’ old, who were gathered at the corner of a street.