The Guild Chronicles Books 1-3

by J M Bannon

  Preston was in the library at Cambridge standing in front of Rose. Rose was in the garden of her childhood home with Preston since neither had gone to the trouble of building a construct within the gemulet, they would both perceive the space in their own way. Most practitioners craft a room or private space where they would reside during the projection. Both were physically still in Preston’s home standing in tepid bath water, but they had projected into the astral nexus point in the crystal and through the nexus point to another dimension. Now what they discussed would not be available to Azul Hassan.

  Preston spoke. “You delivered the missing piece last night. The Mumbo priest has a ritual to slave a soul to an object. We can use that to help me,”

  "Whoever this person is, they are a murderer and being pursued by me and the metropolitan police,” said Rose.

  "The cops will never find the witch doctor without your help," replied Preston. "Find the hougan and see if a bargain can be struck. You’re a clever girl, Rose. See if you can barter services or pinch the ritual. Then, next time, Ol’ Hasan sneaks out, you can suck him out.”

  "I must get back to London,” said Rose as she thought about how she might find the Voodooist and negotiate a deal to learn a sacred ritual.

  Preston stepped away, reflecting on his plan. “This will mean betrayal of Azul and cost us some of my capacity to decipher and understand the works of Arcana," mused Preston.

  “How is stopping a dead Sufi Mystic from occupying your body treachery? He deceived you, if you have forgotten?” said Rose.

  It was in the library at Cambridge where Preston found the journals of Azul bin Hassan Tazziz Faroq al Jani Djin. He translated the works, captivated by the mystic's accounts of traveling to new planes of reality through astral projection. Preston thought the book to be imagination, a work of fiction, but shortly after reading it, he became conscious of a spirit guide. Azul himself. It began as a thought, then a voice. Preston now had him in his mind. He was certain he was going mad, not that he hallucinated, but he heard the voice. Then there was a trickling in of wisdom from beyond his conscious and vivid dreams of an ancient occultist’s life over six hundred years ago.

  The more time he devoted with the tome, the sharper this other worldly spirit was within him. He could now comprehend ancient tongues dead for centuries. This knowledge led to unlocking more secrets and details of the mystic's adventures. Preston became obsessed and roamed the world, solving Azul’s puzzles. Each riddle revealed more of the mystic's code. What remained was the last of Azul's puzzle, requiring Preston to go to Serapeum, the daughter library to the great library of Alexandria. There he decoded the final chapter of Azul’s tome. It offered an incantation that Preston was deceived into thinking would allow him to project astrally like Azul, but instead, it released Azul’s spirit from the book and bound it to Preston.

  “While he deceived me into sharing my body, he instructed me how to examine other worlds and gave me the awareness of the true nature of the universe. I found a reasonable arrangement in his educating me while he looks for a way to free himself. What I cannot endure is the wreckage he has left behind. My entire family thinks I’m bonkers, and when I'm back, my body is left like a used dish towel. I’ve had enough, and we can use this priest to trap him,” said Preston.

  “What if you perish and become trapped in his prison?"

  “It’s not like that, Rose. I am constantly in here a little, but he shoves me into his maze. That is how it works. Little by little, as I draw on our common pool of learning, he gets stronger until I feel like I am in a dream I can't wake up from,”

  They both knew the field was weakening. It was time to go back.

  "Scarlet cherub,” said Rose.

  "What?" replied Preston.

  “If I learn and can conduct the ritual, that will be my cue to you. When I say it you need to be ready to come back and grab hold of this body.”

  “Agreed. You always make me smile, Rose. I surmise, though, that when the best time comes to extract Azul, I will be too far gone to communicate with. Lost in the darkest recesses of the maze where I dwell during the possessions."

  When the embrace broke, both opened their eyes, and they were back in the United Kingdom, standing in a tub of water.

  Preston stared at her and held her face gently.

  “You two are up to your silly games again,” Preston said in his Arab dialect.

  5

  Friday, the 11th of June

  9:00 PM, Albie’s Supper Club

  Dolly loved their payday custom. Keane and Williamson would draw their salary and head to the bathhouse for a proper soaking, then drop off their dirty clothes at the laundry. Freshly bathed Dolly had on a new twill suit, a blue shirt with a rounded collar and a ribbon cravat that the tailor told him was the fashionable trend. From there, the two continued to supper at Albie’s on chops and roast veggies with a brown gravy, washed down with a frothy ale. They talked about life and sometimes shop.

  They were an odd pair; Williamson, a Scot and Protestant, and Keane, an Irishman and ardent Catholic, but they were Metropolitan police detectives first.

  “I received a letter from my brother today,” mentioned Keane.

  “The one in Minnesota?”

  “He is officially now in the United States. Minnesota became a state.”

  “And you’re still planning on moving there?”

  “Fucking right, I am. No little cottage in this wicked city for me. I live light, and I’ve been saving for my stake in a business in America.”

  “Callum, you’re a city dweller, mate. You can’t live out in the wilderness. There are savages and wolves out there.”

  “We don’t have those here? It’s the mathematics of risk and reward, mate. Here I get paid eight pound a week as a detective in the most cosmopolitan city in history, and all I deal with are thieves and murderers. Now James is already there, and see, he’s a geologist and looking through the territory for iron and copper deposits. You see that ship over at the yard? That’s pig iron, mate, or some type of fancy iron alloy, and there will be more and more of that needed. So me and James are going to buy up land in this Minnesota where he finds the minerals. Because over in America, a fella can own land and everything on it and under it. So the risk I see is calculated. Me little brother is smart as a whip, and I have a packet saved up, so I’ll go over there and risk wolves and Indians for an iron mine. That seems a lot easier and less risky than getting eight pound a week to mill through an endless line of murders.”

  As drunk as he was, Keane, made some sense. “I can’t argue with that.”

  “Take your rich fella, who left his big estate in the country to flee back to the city, informing nobody. Then he ends up burnt to a crisp,” said Keane.

  “Ahh, but no traces of a fuel to start a fire and nothing burned," replied Dolly as he polished off his plate of chops.

  "Well, it might be one of those spontaneous combustions I read about," Keane argued back.

  “His clothes were as fresh as yours,” exclaimed Dolly.

  “Will you quit fuckin’ interrupting my presentation to the Bailey? And take off that silly tie. What are you, some plantation owner in America?" replied Keane as he moved to untie Dolly’s tie. "So, I was sayin’. You have the crispy rich dead fella, then twelve hours later, you discover two blokes dead in the very bank vault he owns. Locked up in a Yale combination safe that only six, well now five, of the wealthiest men in the empire have the combination to open," Keane presented. He slammed his meaty fist down on the table, sending plates and silverware dancing.

  Dolly had to lunge forward to catch his pint.

  "Crime solved! Your rich fella was kidnapped to get into the safe. The blokes that grabbed him ran into the guards, blasted them, and took off. Did I miss anything?" Keane said, grinning and droopy-eyed from drink but certain in his inebriated state he had just solved the crime.

  "How is it you have resolved more cases than me?" asked Dolly. Then he leaned forward to
offer what Keane had missed. "The strong boxes had been opened and two of the three emptied before they were slain. Blood spatter inside the boxes shows the course of those events. The guards were in the safe when they were killed. The direction of the shot came from outside the safe, not from inside as you would expect if you surprised robbers. Then the weapon was dropped inside the strong room without further disruption to the other strong boxes—”

  “You also missed the part where a Voodoo priest removed the soul from the rich fella.” It was Rose Caldwell, and she had been listening to the small talk.

  Keane looked up. “Jesus Mary and Joseph—Dolly, could you show respect for my everlasting soul and not bring that witch around me? Her soul is already damned.”

  Rose took a chair from another table, twirled it backwards, and sat down, resting her arms on the back of the chair. “My researcher identified the totem as a spirit siphon. The object functions as a conduit for the spiritual ritual called Pwen Hanan, where the soul is transferred to another vessel. My guess is that Chilton crossed a Voodoo priest, and now revenge has been exacted.”

  "Let me ask you something, Sister. When you burned down that rectory, did a Voodoo priest make you do that?” asked Keane.

  "If you would like, I could exorcise the mongoloid demon that controls your mouth?" retorted Sister Rose.

  Keane put on his serious face and reached across the table, grabbing Dolly’s wrists. “Mate, we’ve known each other a long time. You're the smart one here. You have the chance to move up the ranks, but you got to get rid of this heretic. You make us all look bad, Fredrick."

  Dolly knew Keane was saying what he felt. He embraced Keane's wrists. “Callum, you have seen what people do to each other. Do you believe all that evil is manmade? I don’t, and neither does Rose. Just as you and I have seen horrors together, I have seen worse with her.”

  “Well, you both can fucking burn in hell. I am sure there is room for one more heretic and Protestant, but there will be no guilt by association for Detective Callum Keane.” Keane pushed back from the table and walked out of the pub.

  Dolly moved to go after Keane but needed to find out what Rose had learned. “Could this be fabricated to cover up for a heist?” asked Dolly.

  “You mean the soul stealing? No. Your fat drunk colleague may have it right, but Chilton was under the direction of another through Pwen Hanan, not a kidnapping.”

  Dolly shot her a baffled look.

  She continued. “I am just learning about this arcana. It is primordial and works along the courses of necronist seance and spirit manipulation. From the condition of the body, I think Chilton was tortured spiritually until he succumbed to the wishes of the persecutor. Maybe he was tortured to get the combination, or he could have been enslaved and made to open the safe himself only to be killed later.”

  Rose reached into her handbag and pulled something out. Without showing it to him, she shifted it across the dinner table and into his hand. “Fredrick, place that charm on your watch fob.”

  “What is it?” He studied the weird talisman of silver. In its center was a glass vial with a brilliant blue gas circulating about. He slid it on to the ring that held a small pen knife at the end of his silver watch chain, then stuffed it into his waistcoat pocket.

  “That is something I crafted. An apotropaic amulet.” She pointed to the stone on the choker she wore around her neck. It had a comparable stone. “It’s a ward. If we are hunting for a Voodooist that can control life force, that trinket will provide a defense. If a Mumbo were to beguile you, the enchantment will be limited as it confuses the ward for your spirit energy,” said Rose.

  “A decoy for my soul?”

  Rose continued. “Yes, the Voodoo call the spirit energy Ju Ju. The manipulation of Ju Ju is where the power of the Mumbo lies. They have a primal knowledge and have learned to tap into and exploit this spiritual energy. There are descriptions of the capability to direct the living and the dead. While you still seek the motive and the identity of the fugitive, what I know is that this individual understands and controls the necromantic arts differently than how the necronists tap into the spirit worlds. If this person could control Chilton while alive or dead, they are a dangerous adversary. I don’t want you or I to get close and become enthralled. That eldritch talisman is my best attempt at a shield.”

  6

  Sunday, the 13th June

  8:00 AM The Carlton Hotel

  Dolly was called to the Carlton Hotel. A request for a sergeant in the detective branch meant either a serious crime or a matter of discretion with someone in high social circles. In the past, his superiors requested his skillful touch to deal with the affairs of the rich and powerful, always considerate of station and reputation while making certain that the Crown’s law applied to all. Too bad it wasn’t something simple like a lord getting held up by a tramp and her pimp. Instead, it was another homicide, and from the sound of it, Dolly now had a repeat murderer to capture. The constable who had summoned him mentioned on the ride over that it was another burned up person with no sign of fire. While never one to jump to conclusions, Dolly could not help but assume it was the same person.

  He sent the policeman to fetch Sister Rose to the crime scene after he dropped Dolly at the fashionable hotel. He was greeted by the hotel manager, a portly Frenchman nervously moving around the hotel lobby and agitated by the law enforcement presence. A lobby and hallways with cops drew unwanted attention. He brought Dolly to the suites on the eighth floor via the verticulator. Dolly doubted the chubby Franc ever took the stairs. At the double doors of the apartment stood a patrolman. This was standard practice for protecting crime scenes until a detective attended to the scene.

  The spacious saloon included a sitting area, a work desk and a large table for dining. The table, unused for dining, was instead buried in packages and bags from the emporiums of Saville Row. Adjoining was the bedchamber and the scene of the crime.

  The body lay near the center of the disheveled bed. The man’s dressing gown was open, exposing his bare body, the back arched, pelvis thrust upward and arms sprawled out. What was stranger than the agonized contortion his shape was frozen in was the state of the body. It was another desiccated, gray and wrinkled corpse, looking like it was stolen from a crypt. While shocking to the others, Dolly was less shocked by the dead man’s condition and far more concerned that his occult killer was on a spree of murder.

  The manager stood to the right of Dolly and stared at the scene as he spoke. “The accommodations are rented by Señor Emilio Moya. He has leased this suite for the last four months.”

  Detective Williamson began his investigation. While inspecting the room, he asked questions of the manager.

  “Who discovered the body?”

  “The valet,” replied the manager.

  “I will need to speak with him,” said Dolly.

  “Of course. He is down the hall in the staff room,” replied the manager.

  “What can you tell me about your guest?” asked Dolly. He assumed the body was Moya but still had drawn no conclusions.

  The French manager spoke in a pompous tone about the patron as if it were an advertisement of his hotel. “Señor Emilio Moya can trace his lineage to the most serene house of Braganza, a distant cousin to the King of Portugal. He was not involved in affairs of state but rather was living here in London as a gentleman.”

  “Is he a man of means or inheritance?” asked Dolly. Any guest of this hotel had access to a fortune. It was where it came from that might help shed light on the case.

  “His family had shipping interests then moved into land and sugar cane in the colonies,” replied the manager, with hands folded. Dolly thought, I wager you have more to tell.

  “Was he seen returning last night with any other persons?” asked Dolly.

  “I wouldn’t know. I came in at eight in the morning. The night staff had left,” responded the manager.

  “Can you get me a list of the staff on duty?” asked the detec
tive as he continued surveying the bedroom before stepping in. He paid attention to the floor to ensure there was no evidence he could disturb by entering the chamber.

  “Yes,” the manager replied. Dolly stepped in and moved toward the body. “I will need to interview them. When do they start shift?”

  The manager did not follow Dolly into the bedroom. He stood outside as if he would be infected by whatever killed the man. “The night staff starts at eleven p.m. and finishes at seven the next morning.”

  At closer scrutiny of the body, the right fist of the corpse was distorted and clenched, as if it had suffered a hundred years of debilitating arthritis. On the ring finger was the signet ring of the Moya Family. Dolly assumed the body was Señor Moya but would need further confirmation.

  The suite had no signs of a struggle, no blood stains or any of the common signs of foul play. Although Williamson knew the item was occult, he used his handkerchief to shield himself from residual poison or magic that may have laced the totem. Dolly pulled slowly to ascertain the depth it penetrated the body. It held fast and required effort to dislodge. Dolly and the manager were given a shock as the corpse expired a moan and lost all rigor when the object was removed from the wound. It startled the detective so much he dropped the spirit siphon. After Dolly gained his composure, he pulled out a small mirror and held it over the mouth of the deceased to confirm that the subject was expired.

  Putting the mirror away, the detective walked to the writing desk to get an envelope for the totem. On the blotter was a note on the hotel stationary. It was a man’s handwriting.

  Those that profited have paid.

  E.M.