The Saint and the Sorcerer

by J. C. Hanna

  Dee’s brow furrowed.

  “Or, death dragon?” suggested Dee.

  “Possibly,” conceded Kelley. “In addition to the words that preceded it, I believe the message in its entirety states; he who has fallen has come for the monarch.”

  Dee settled back into his chair for a few moments of deep contemplation.

  The two friends had been exploring communication with angels since the beginning of the year. They had some success in the endeavour. Dee was not entirely convinced that the hazy messages that emerged now and then from the various black mirrors and crystals were anything more than the cruel torments of misanthropic spirits. Some mischievous entities would have them reduced to fools as quick as look at them.

  The very notion of connecting directly to the Divine had at first unsettled Dee—using ancient magic from heathen sources felt to him, at worst, like the exploitation of a dead faith; but direct contact with Angels was more a dangerous intrusion into a place of great and living power—an unmistakable blasphemy. Kelley’s enthusiasm for the endeavour was so infectious, and the results so enticing, that John Dee could not withdraw from the dark venture.

  Dee’s mind returned to Hatfield on the day that Elizabeth became queen. The message from his older self had made mention of a fallen one that meant the queen great harm. The similarities between the two messages could not be dismissed.

  “These are indeed troubling words,” Dee said. “We must take measures to ensure Her Majesty is protected from this demon.”

  Kelley stood up smartly. He removed a small package wrapped in brown vellum from his robes. He handed the package to Dee, who took it from his friend without query.

  “I met a fellow, John Blokely,” Kelley began. “He gave me that powder. He told me that he was led to a certain spot on Northwick Hill by a spirit. Not just any spirit; it was the ghost of the queen’s late mother. The phantom instructed Blokely to pass the powder to me and to instruct me to pass it to you. It will protect the queen from the demon.”

  Dee carefully unfolded the parchment to reveal a fine red powder. He ran a careful finger through the substance; some of which stuck to his skin. He proceeded to examine the red smear on his flesh with the utmost of care. There appeared to be nothing special about the substance, in Dee’s estimation. He had many bottles of similar powders perched on random shelves about his workshop.

  “I must confess,” started Dee. “I do not like this story. I am highly mistrustful of this substance. For something purporting to be special, it appears remarkably ordinary. How is it to be used?”

  “As one would use a protection salt. Scattered across the doorways and windows in the queen’s chambers. With the salt and other diverse methods of protection that you already have in place, one more surety, even if it should prove worthless, will do no harm?”

  “True,” mused Dee. “But I will examine it more closely before installing it anywhere near the queen’s person. Who knows what true motives compel your drinking companion? Or the spirit, if it ever existed?”

  Kelley sighed.

  “As you wish, John. But consider the source.”

  “The dead queen? That part of this tale, I trust least. It is not uncommon for phantoms to adopt the guise of another. A lost love, to lure sailors to their doom. A noble prince, to corrupt the mind of a king. A murdered mother, to bring about misfortune to her child. The minds of men are a mystery; the minds of phantoms, unfathomable.”

  “True John, but…”

  “Why did she not appear to me? Did this phantom fear that I would test it? Reveal its true form and its diabolical intention?”

  Kelley sighed again. There was a deep resignation in the sound.

  “You are every bit correct, John. Forgive my eagerness. You know how excited I get with matters of the other realm. Carry out your tests, and discard the substance if you have any doubt. I am certain that your protections will hold fast against all dragons that mean to do the queen harm—no matter their form. You may also wish to have a look at this.”

  Kelley turned and he lifted a large, leather-bound book, from the table next to him. He passed the book to Dee.

  “The Book of Dunstan?” Dee said. “I have never heard of it. How did this fall into your possession? Hobgoblin on the beach?”

  “From the same source,” Kelley explained, ignoring the jibe.

  Dee began to leaf through the fragile sheets of the antique text. Within moments he was completely enthralled by the words on the pages. Kelley grinned.

  “I will leave you to your deliberations, John.”

  Silently, Dee bid Kelley farewell with a dismissive wave of his hand. The book was two hundred years old. It predicted, with unnerving accuracy, much of what would later unfold to become English history. More than that; there were many predictions on the pages that still lay ahead of England. If it was a hoax, Dee felt inclined to applaud the hoaxer for the time and effort that they had put into the deception.

  When he finally set the book to one side, late in the evening, contentment that the book, and the powder, were indeed genuine, filled his heart. He secured the vellum package of red powder in his robes, uttered an incantation in his mind, and then walked towards the closed door of his workshop. He passed through the unopened door and emerged outside the queen’s chambers. The magical stride from one palace to the other came easily to him.

  He knocked gently on the door. There was no answer. He entered the empty rooms and set about securing the windows with lines of the red powder. He carried out his task with haste; he would never concern Elizabeth with the truth behind the powder, and he preferred not to lie to her—to complete his task before she returned was the desired outcome. As he left the chambers a short time later he ran a line of the powder across the doorway. Another unspoken incantation and he was gone.

  In another part of the palace, the demon waited in perfect stillness. As it felt its dark magic begin to go to work on Dee’s protective enchantments, it began to stir. Soon it would be free to move about the palace without restriction, and right into the very heart of Elizabeth’s most private quarters.

  Chapter Thirty-four: A Deal Sealed

  Hampton Court Palace, 1583

  The queen returned to her chambers late in the evening. She was accompanied by four armed guards, dressed in red and black tunics. She sighed with relief as she arrived at the large doors to her private rooms. The small royal party paused. Eventually, six ladies in waiting joined Elizabeth and her soldiers. Elizabeth had little patience for the silly young women and their incessant chattering. She turned sharply to face the small party of girls. She cast upon them a stern, fixed gaze of disapproval.

  The gaggle of youths finally acknowledged the queen’s dissatisfaction. Once she had their eye, she proceeded to instruct them.

  “That will be all, ladies,” she said, decisively.

  The girls instantly stopped talking. They curtsied and then skipped off smartly. Elizabeth entered her chambers—the two high doors were dutifully opened before her by the leading soldiers. The doors closed behind her as she walked into the room. She sighed.

  As she sat down in front of the large mirror in her bedchamber, a slight melancholy set in. There was a time when powerful, handsome suitors from every corner of the known world sought time in her presence. Her beauty had been legendary. The sun had long since set on her looks, and she deeply mourned the passing. She was beyond the age for bearing children. She simply had nothing left to offer to the great men of Europe, except her kingdom. Robert Dudley would have married her in an instant if she gave him the word, but she feared that the scandal surrounding his wife’s death would be dragged kicking and screaming back into the limelight if she sought a formal union with her one true love—some dreams were best left unfulfilled.

  “Mortality can be so cruel,” said the demon, from behind her.

  Elizabeth continued to gaze stoically into the glass. Her actions, no matter how slight, would not be determined by the malevolent entity—sh
e would turn around, if at all, when it pleased her. She could not see the creature in the glass, but the voice was close. A chill scurried along her spine. The air turned cold and foul.

  “Aging and decay in this life is the price that we must pay for immortality in the next. It is the way of things,” replied the queen. “It is God’s way.”

  “It does not have to be,” said the creature. “I can return to you all that you have lost.”

  Elizabeth turned around briskly in the chair. The demon was standing directly behind her.

  “I will never give up my immortal soul. Not for wealth, not for beauty; not for a life eternal, in this world. Be assured of that,” Elizabeth said.

  “Fine words. As the years pass, and your body declines, you may have a change of heart. Life everlasting in a world that you know; or life everlasting in a place you know not where? That day is charging towards you, and it will gain pace.”

  “Until that day, I would thank you to keep your diabolical bargains to yourself, sir. And by my reckoning, the thirty years of our pact have not yet expired? Why come to me now? Or do you mean to expose yourself as a liar?”

  “Indeed, Highness. The allotted time has not yet come.”

  “Then why have you troubled me at such a late hour as this?”

  “I have worked tirelessly in the shadows to ensure the success of your reign. Your people have called it a golden age. England can once again stand head high with the mightiest of kingdoms. Elevated beyond anything that your father could have dreamed of.”

  “And you would take credit for all of that?” she said, derisively.

  “I would take credit for keeping your enemies in place. Without my protection, none of your great achievements would have flowered.”

  “If that is true, and I only have your word on the matter as testimony, then you merely fulfilled your side of the agreement. So again, I say; state your business.”

  The demon moved closer.

  “I have seen off every threat to your kingdom, and to your life. But there is a force gathering in Spain that I fear above all other dangers. An invasion fleet is gathering. More ships are under construction. Spain means to right the wrong done to their princess by your mother and father. All talk of quelling your ambitions of empire is merely a diplomatic falsehood. This is personal. England will return to the Church of Rome, and a slaughter much greater than that overseen by your sister will burn through this land.”

  Elizabeth snorted nervously.

  “I believe you not, sir.”

  “Your belief matters little. The Spanish are on the way.”

  “And you alone can foretell all this?”

  “If your implication is to compare me to your pet, Dee, then I would put this to you. Did he foretell the death of Amy Dudley?”

  Elizabeth struggled for a reply.

  “Stuck for words, Majesty?”

  “More curious, than stuck. What do you know of the unfortunate lady’s demise? And what could have been foretold regarding the same? And if you did know what was about to pass, why didn’t you warn me?”

  “I promised to protect your realm. Even if that meant protecting it against your foolish heart. I let it pass. To have acted otherwise would have meant ruin, for you, and for England.”

  There was no reasoning to be done. Elizabeth knew that to continue on that theme would increase her anger, and dull her wits. She needed her faculties to remain unclouded if she was to stand any chance of success against the powerful mind before her.

  “No matter, sir. It is the past. If you cannot protect me from the current Spanish threat, then our agreement is at an end.”

  “That is why I have come here. To protect you. Your body is frail. You need the strength of a king, and a king of England, too.”

  “You would you have me married off? A political alliance, perchance?”

  “You know that is not what I propose.”

  “Then what you propose is unacceptable.”

  The demon turned.

  “Then the matter is settled. Enjoy the last year of your reign, madam.”

  As the demon walked across the room, Elizabeth called out after it.

  “Wait!”

  The creature stopped. It slowly half-turned towards her. It glared over its shoulder at the queen.

  “Will it hurt?” she asked, meekly.

  She stroked her neck.

  “For a time,” replied the demon. “Once your mortal body is transformed, the pain will be gone. You will be strong again. You will look as you did when I first kissed your hand. You will be unstoppable.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes drilled into the demon. The proposal was sinful. It struck at the very heart of everything that she believed in as sacred. In it lay damnation; without it, lay ruin. She had no other choice.

  “Proceed,” she said, timidly.

  The demon flashed across the room. He took her by the shoulders and bit hard into her neck. Elizabeth moaned quietly.

  Chapter Thirty-five: Twenty-five Days Until Amy’s Death—Part One

  Amy turned the key in the lock to her apartment as midnight rolled over. She was dazed, shaken, and spattered in blood. She carefully closed and locked the door behind her. Absently, she crossed the living room and sat in the chair in front of the television. She stared at the blank display. The dark glass of the television screen threw back a reflection that was shapeless and barely human; a perfect depiction of how she felt.

  As she warily studied the spray of blood on her left hand, she felt cold. It was not her blood. Her friend was dead. The witch had lied to her. The witch was responsible.

  After she had agreed to flee to Ireland with Branna, she set out to say a one-sided goodbye, from a cautious distance to all those people that meant something to her. She watched her parents as they left their townhouse from the cover of a side alley across the street. They did not look troubled. Her father was wearing a light summer suit and he was carrying a black briefcase—the one she had got him for his birthday some three years past. Her mother was wearing a short, black dress, and she had a dark grey rain jacket hanging from an arm—even when rain was not likely, she liked to be prepared. It was clear to Amy that they either didn’t know what had happened in Central Park or that they did not suspect that she had been caught up in it.

  Her next stop was work. Trisha Coen was on the day shift. Trisha was the co-worker that Amy liked best. She was fun-loving and easy to talk to. She watched Trisha through the window of the shop for almost ten minutes. The girl sat hunched behind the counter, chewing gum, and playing with her phone. Trisha hadn’t looked at the to-do list sitting next to the cash register, and she was unlikely to do so at any point during the shift.

  Amy pulled back from the glass as Trisha lifted her eyes up from the phone and flicked her gaze towards the window. After a few moments, Amy cautiously moved forward once more. Trisha had returned her attention to the phone. Amy moved on.

  She spent a large part of the day visiting those places in the city that held special memories. It was a simple tour of her favourite landmarks—few of which would have made it onto the itinerary of a visitor to the city. As she approached Trinity Church, in downtown, a wrenching thought occurred to her—she didn’t have that many close friends. Lots of acquaintances, but not that many people that she would be broken hearted over never seeing again.

  In the evening, she headed back to her parent’s home and she waited for them to return from work. Shortly after six o’clock, her father’s car pulled up at the front of the building. Her parents shared a joke as they got out of the car. They still didn’t know about her involvement in the Central Park incident. At first, their happiness annoyed Amy, but after careful consideration, she decided that if this was to be her last memory of them, then smiling and content was not at all bad.

  She couldn’t recall who was on the schedule to take over from Trisha. It didn’t matter. The Dark Angel meant so much to her that she was determined to swing by one last time before meeting with
Branna at the apartment. Amy’s co-workers and Amy herself were not the best timekeepers—the precise timing of a shift-change was often a little fuzzy. Amy did not want to risk bumping into someone who was running late, so she watched the shop from behind the bus shelter on the opposite side of the street. After a short time, a young man wearing a black hooded top walked up the street towards the shop. He was tall and thin, and not one of her co-workers. He pulled back the hood as he entered the store. Amy carefully observed as Trisha walked up to the young man. The pair began to chat.

  A breath of cold air slipped past Amy’s neck. She turned around to find Branna standing behind her.

  “I thought that we were meeting at the apartment?” Amy asked, with genuine confusion.

  Branna smiled.

  “I have been with you all day,” Branna replied.

  Amy screwed up her face.

  “Creepy, much?” Amy accused. “So, what’s with the sudden, hiya?”

  “Your friend is about to get her throat ripped out and I thought that I might try to stop that from happening,” Branna said, dispassionately.

  Amy whipped her head around in the direction of the shop. The young man and Trisha were locked in a struggle. Amy sprinted across the street. She pulled the door open and entered the boutique.

  The combatants were oblivious to Amy’s arrival. She dashed across the shop floor and grabbed the man’s top. She pulled back sharply, using the momentum to free the hold that he had on Trisha. The man whipped around and flung Amy to the floor. From where she landed, Amy helplessly watched as he rushed back towards Trisha. As he grabbed her by the shoulders, Trisha flicked her head forwards smartly and butted her attacker in the face with the top of her head. The man released her. He quickly shook off the blow. As he moved in again his face contorted into its vampire form. Trisha took the change calmly. She issued a small, prickly scream when Branna’s sword sliced cleanly through the vampire’s neck. A second, grunt-like scream, burst from Trisha when the body and head fell to the floor with weighty thuds—the head rolled clear of the body. Trisha turned to Branna, and then to Amy, in search of answers. Amy stood up and walked across to the others.