The Undying Legion

by Clay Griffith

  Kate smiled. “Well, maybe just a few.” She grabbed up the two girls and hugged them.

  That night, Malcolm unlocked the cellar door and swung it back. In the dim half-light from the short candle he carried, he saw the small shape curled on the bed. Heavy snoring came from the sleeping figure who appeared to be a little girl. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, leaving his hand against the heavy wood and iron for a moment. He set the candle on a small shelf and continued to watch the figure.

  Charlotte.

  They used its name when they talked about it; when they talked to it. Like it was a dog. God help them, like it was a girl. That pathetic pantomime of a tea party Kate staged was ghastly proof of just how deluded she was. The wulfsyl had failed. The thing went berserk out in the garden and could have killed that innocent farm boy. And it could have killed others who would’ve been complicit in their own deaths.

  Malcolm wouldn’t stand by and watch them continue to make such a dreadful mistake. He would do what none of them could.

  He pulled one of his Lancaster pistols, cracking the breech and checking to make sure it was loaded with silver cartridges although he knew it already. He had spent a long time in his room, loading and unloading, before he made the long walk through the silent house. Downstairs. Into the library. Through the door to the cellar. He had stood in front of the door to the cell with the key in his hand for nearly five minutes.

  Malcolm carefully closed the pistol breech, but the snapping sound still echoed through the room. He froze. The werewolf grunted sleepily and kicked its feet. The chain jangled. The little creature rolled onto its back, dropping its blanket on the floor. It lay sprawled on the bed, arms outstretched, breathing through its wide-open mouth in the carefree slumber of youth.

  The Lancaster hung heavy as if it weighed thirty pounds. Malcolm’s finger worked its way around the steel edge of the trigger guard as his arm lifted. He could smell the gun oil. The thing on the bed snorted and moved its little mouth up and down. It sniffed the air unconsciously, then gave a sigh. He watched the gentle rise and fall of the thing’s chest. It was clad in a soft nightgown embroidered with flowers. It pushed its head deep into the pillow and threw an arm over its forehead. The snoring commenced again.

  Malcolm could no longer feel his fingers clutching the pistol. His heart pounded in his ears so loud he thought it would wake the sleeping creature. His arm lowered. He turned away from the bed, his jaw aching from clamping down so tight.

  Imogen stood in the open door. The strange pale figure weaved on her feet. She wore a nightdress and had a bonnet tied tightly on her bald head. The common clothes against her inhuman, bleached skin made her even more disturbingly peculiar. The tendril-like fingers of her right hand dangled from her frilly lace sleeve and was paler than the skull that she clutched in the other. Imogen made no sound and her face had the stillness of rictus. Her glistening whitish eye gazed past him to the sleeping werewolf. The inhuman eye rolled downward to take in the massive pistol in Malcolm’s hand before it whirred up to lock on Malcolm.

  “Imogen.” His voice was rough and hesitant. He held the queer gaze for a long moment, unsure what she could even see with that false eye. “You shouldn’t be down here.”

  She merely stood bobbing slightly back and forth. The mechanical eye remained stationary, independent of the small movements of her head.

  Malcolm looked away. He walked quickly to the door, but when he reached it, Imogen didn’t move aside. Her face was still turned forward as if the little werewolf snorting blissfully in the bed had her full attention. But the mechanical eye continued to make a soft whir as it tracked the Scotsman’s every move.

  Malcolm inched past Imogen with a lowered head, careful to avoid her touch, and he pushed into the corridor. He turned away, oddly embarrassed for her to see the pistol as he holstered it. Then he cleared his throat. “I must lock the door. It isn’t safe to leave you here.”

  Imogen walked into the room. Malcolm tensed as she approached the bed. Imogen bent over and took hold of the blanket with her spindly fingers. She picked it up and laid it over Charlotte, slowly spreading it to cover the werewolf’s bare feet. Then she returned to the door and joined Malcolm in the hall. He closed the door and locked it.

  “Won’t you come with me?” he asked.

  She didn’t move, but when he started off, she followed with shuffling steps. Once back in the library, she gave him a cold, lifeless stare with her mechanical eye as she glided out. Then he heard “My sister has a gold key that our father made. It’s what you want. My sister has a gold key that our father made. It’s what you want” from the whispering skull as Imogen went upstairs and drifted off toward her distant room.

  Malcolm replaced the key to Charlotte’s cell in the small brass bowl where Kate kept it. He noticed with curious alarm that his hand was shaking. He clenched his fists. He didn’t see anyone else moving about the house as he returned to his room, packed his meager possessions, and went out into the winter night.

  Chapter 8

  “No one saw him leave?” Simon asked.

  “No. He’s just gone.” Kate shoved aside a heavy evergreen branch that then swept back along the side of the red stallion she led, eliciting a nicker from the horse.

  “I’m sure he’ll be back.” Simon gave a despondent sigh, slapping leather reins against his thigh. His grey Arabian mare pulled with annoyance and snatched at branches.

  “He took all his things with him which, granted, wasn’t much.” Kate nestled her head alongside her horse’s powerful jaw. “Apparently he wasn’t happy with our inclusion of Charlotte. So much so that he couldn’t stay.”

  “I must say I didn’t see it coming.”

  “He’s wrong though. About Charlotte.”

  Simon hummed noncommittally as he ducked under a branch.

  Kate looked at him. “Isn’t he?”

  Simon pulled a twig from his horse’s mouth, causing the mare to toss her head. “What we’re trying is unprecedented. The only way of judging right or wrong is whether we survive.”

  They continued silently. The winter forest around them was cold and wet, and little sun penetrated to the spongy floor. There was no wind and the breath from humans and horses lay thick in the air. The brush was thick despite the season.

  A nearby juniper bush rustled and burst open as a huge hairy shape roared into view. A massive beast bore down on Simon. He jerked up an arm to block the bounding Aethelred from trampling him and the wolfhound crashed against him. The dog’s tongue lolled wildly with canine enthusiasm. As he was toppled off balance, Simon caught a glimpse of a grey streak above him. He bobbed his head just in time to avoid the clamping teeth of the wild-eyed mare.

  “Hah!” Simon scrambled to his feet, jerking the reins to snap the horse’s head around. “I knew you were waiting for a chance to strike. Very cunning, this girl.”

  Kate calmly patted her own placid mount, who had barely twitched a muscle. “Yes, she’s a firebrand. She nipped Hogarth quite badly last year.”

  “You might have warned me she’s a biter.”

  Kate huffed and checked a saddle cinch. “You should assume every horse is a biter until you find otherwise.”

  “So now I need to be wary of every filly in the Anstruther stable?” Simon smirked, regarding her as he scratched the great wolfhound’s head.

  “I’m sure we could arrange a mule for you to mount if that’s your riding preference.” Kate offered a wise smile. “You might be hard-pressed to keep up.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Mule or goat, the day you can outride me is a long ways off.”

  Kate’s head snapped up. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Archer?”

  “I was merely saying that I am a finer horseman than you.”

  She worked her jaw from side to side and took hold of her horse’s bridle. “I’m sorry, give me a moment to adjust to the shock of hearing something so outlandish, will you?”

  “Take all the time you need. Which
is precisely what I would say to you should we race to the house.”

  The sound of leather creaking came from Kate tightening her gloved fists. Her green eyes flared with a light that was no longer quite a performance. “Are you trying to goad me, sir?”

  Simon gave a grand laugh and set a foot in the stirrup. He patted the saddle. “Care to put your money where your shapely derriere is?”

  Kate rose onto her horse with her expression set, her back straight and shoulders squared, sitting astride in blatant disregard for the proper fashion for a female rider. Her mount wheeled with his forelegs prancing and steam snorting from his nostrils. “Prepare to see as much of my shapely derriere as you ever shall, and from a great distance.”

  With that, she kicked her mount into action. The huge red blur roared past Simon just as he settled in the leather seat. His mare reared in surprise. He cursed and laughed and gathered the Arabian under control, spinning it around to gain her head. Then he shouted and the little horse exploded gamely in pursuit. The two horses weaved along the forest path, trees flashing by on both sides and branches slapping at them. Simon saw Kate breaking out of the forest and into the open ground.

  Kate leaned low over the red stallion’s withers. His glossy coat shone in the stark morning sun. His long legs ate up the terrain, flinging clods of dirt into the air behind them as they raced at breakneck speed over the rolling Surrey countryside. Beside them ran the long, graceful form of the Irish wolfhound, keeping even with the horse’s ferocious pace.

  As Simon broke into the open, the wind screamed past his cheek, making his eyes water. He could barely make out Kate and her stallion across the hills. She rode with wild abandon, her sure hands held tight to the reins. The ground was too uneven and too littered with obstacles for the animal to be given its head. A herd of fallow deer gazed at them in the distance over their upturned noses before breaking into a run through the morning mist. The wolfhound swerved to give chase.

  “Aethelred, heel!” Kate commanded so firmly that Simon heard it across the distance, and the hound fell back into stride alongside his master.

  A hedgerow waited in front of them so Kate guided the horse to a high knob. The pounding muscles gathered, then they were flying over the obstacle with plenty of room to spare. Kate leaned forward, her hands and knees steady. They landed with a jolt but she never lost her seat. She slowed the stallion, waiting for Aethelred to find his way through the hedge. The horse reared and danced in annoyance. Then the broad-chested hound broke through, loping toward them, his pink tongue lolling.

  Simon drove the Arabian now, sensing a chance to gain ground. Kate turned back and smiled. She waved her arm and gave the stallion his head. Like a thunderclap, he broke down the open field, his giant strides swallowing up the miles until they were gone from Simon’s view.

  Moments later, as he approached the east wing of Hartley Hall, he saw Kate standing on the patio outside the library. She was pretending to be bored. She looked up at him approaching and began to tap her foot. Simon came on in a leisurely post, reining in before her with a gallant doff of his hat.

  “Glad you could make it,” Kate said quietly.

  Simon patted his horse’s glistening neck. “An uncommon combination in my steed. Savage and slow.”

  “Perhaps you don’t know how to get your mount to respond properly.”

  “No.” He swung out of the saddle. “That can’t be it.”

  The wry smile on Kate’s face was beautiful. Exertion had given her a reddish flush and the beating of her heart was visible in the pulsing of a small patch of bare skin at her collar. All doubt and fret was gone from her sharp-eyed gaze. She was capable and fearless in this moment. He needed that power from her almost like an element in a magic spell.

  Simon handed the reins to a stable boy and before Kate could turn, he took her hand. “Sit with me, Kate.” He was happy that she merely drew a breath as he led her to chairs on the edge of the grass. She gave him a quick glance to show that she was grateful to him for buying her a few more minutes away from her pressures. She leaned back, eyes closed, soaking in a bit of cold-morning sun on her face. They sat together quietly.

  Coffee was brought and Hogarth came too, carrying a large envelope, which he handed to Simon. “This came for you while you were out, sir. Special courier.”

  “Malcolm?” Simon took the package, but when he didn’t recognize the handwriting, he sat back, deflated.

  “The courier said it was from Sir Henry Clatterburgh.”

  Simon unwrapped the string and lifted the flap of the envelope. There was a sheaf of papers inside. He pulled them out and saw notes relating to the murder at St. Georges. There was a smaller envelope sealed with wax clipped to the first page. Simon cracked the seal and removed several sheets of paper.

  He said, “It’s dated yesterday. Simon—Forgive the tardiness of my reply to your last note, as indeed I had no intention of replying—so forgive my stupidity as well. Here is information you may find useful. You perhaps know of the second slaying at Christ Church Spitalfields three days ago.” Simon looked up with alarm. “A second murder?”

  “Christ Church is another of Hawksmoor’s churches.” Kate leaned in now to study the pages.

  “That’s clearly no coincidence.” He continued reading. “Or if the Metropolitan Police have their way, you do not. In any case, as you will see from the enclosed, two women have now been murdered in similar inexplicably brutal fashion at London churches. The police, when they speak of it at all, refer to these two as the Sacred Heart Murders. How clever of them. I know that you have certain particular interests, you and your friend, Mr. Barker—”

  “He knows you’re a magician?” Kate exclaimed.

  “If true, it’s surprising. I never gave Henry much credit for noticing anything. I did mention the ritualistic nature of the murder in my letter to him. He likely thinks I’m some sort of cabalist or Rosicrucian. A poseur dilettante who toys with occultism, like the chaps at the Mercury Club.”

  “And you’re not?” Kate asked with bland sarcasm.

  Simon offered her a cool glance. “Perhaps you’re forgetting I pulled a hedgehog from a hat.”

  “I had indeed forgotten that particular miracle. Forgive me.”

  “If I may? Where was I … I know that you have particular interests, you and your friend, Mr. Barker, which may lend themselves to a unique angle on these blasphemous crimes. I fear there is little likelihood of a solution coming from official sources. There are no authorities currently looking for the author of these murders. I only have the enclosed documents because they were handed to me in a collection of refuse with instructions from superiors in the Home Office to destroy them.”

  Simon tapped a finger against his chin. “Well, good for you, Henry. I see we won’t be helping the authorities on this matter. We’ll be the authorities.”

  When Kate didn’t reply, he glanced at her to see she was distracted, surprisingly. She stared into the bright blue sky, half lifting from her seat. Simon followed her gaze, but only noticed a few wispy clouds and a single distant bird.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “That bird.” She stood and started for the library, keeping her attention skyward. After a minute, she returned with a brass spyglass. She put it to her eye and twisted the lens. “It doesn’t look right.”

  “In what way?” He thought the small black shape seemed to be a normal bird wheeling in the air. It dropped and spiraled downward.

  Hogarth returned to the patio carrying a long rifle. He put the butt to his shoulder and waited.

  Simon laughed. “With everything you’ve seen here at Hartley Hall, this seems a bit extreme for a sparrow.” The little creature rolled for another pass around Hartley Hall.

  Kate continued to track it with the telescope until it vanished from sight beyond the roof. “It appears to be a common swift, but they’re almost never here in winter. It’s alone, and it isn’t making any noise. Hogarth, stand ready. I don’t
like it.”

  The manservant put his cheek against the rifle and aimed where he expected the bird’s path would reveal itself next. Simon didn’t say anything else. He had little doubt the bird was a normal swift, but if it disturbed Kate, so be it. It was a little distressing, however, to see her so fixated on something so undisturbing just when they had received such momentous news from Henry.

  He reached for the spyglass and without seeming impatient, starting scanning for the offending avian intruder. A small shape flitted from behind the cover of a chimney at rooftop level. He brought the bird into clear sight through the glass. In an instant, Simon saw that Kate was right; it was not normal.

  Simon swung the spyglass against the barrel of Hogarth’s rifle just as it went off with a smoky boom. The lead bullet ripped through a line of shrubs and cracked off a dormant fountain in the garden.

  “Simon!” Kate stared at him in shock, then looked back at the strange bird that glided toward them. The swift’s eyes glowed unnatural blue. Kate also reached into her high boot for a thin dagger.

  “Stop.” Simon seized her arm. “It’s from Penny. It’s one of her mechanical creatures.”

  Kate still held the knife ready but hesitated as the little bird landed on the bricks and hopped a few paces. It stopped at Simon’s feet, looking up with a turn of its head. The brass and metal of its body glinted in the sunlight, showing off miniscule gears and tight seams of segmented copper. One could hear the faint sounds of ratcheting and tight springs winding down. It hopped to the door of the library and began to peck on the glass. When its beak parted Penny’s voice came out, “Simon Archer, please.”

  Simon stared at the bird with bemusement. “Um. This is Simon Archer.”

  The mechanical swift chirped and whistled, then twisted its head about. It fluttered into the air and landed nimbly on Simon’s shoulder. He heard the faint whisper of Penny, “Simon, please come to my shop. Quickly. Don’t bring Malcolm.”

  Kate watched in amazement. “Penny. What goes on in your mind?”

  Simon handed Hogarth the spyglass with a sheepish smile of apology for spoiling his shot as the automatic swift sprang onto the ground. He took up the bundle of papers from Henry. “We need to go to London and visit Christ Church Spitalfields. But we’ll stop by Penny’s shop first. And we’ll let her know she needs to study her ornithology a bit more or her birds may be blasted out of the skies.”