The Undying Legion

by Clay Griffith

  Kate took a deep breath. “I don’t know if Imogen and Charlotte are capable of being left alone.”

  Hogarth said, “I will tend Miss Imogen and Miss Charlotte. You go where you are needed.”

  “Thank you, Hogarth.” Kate gave one last admiring glance at the strange bird and headed for the house.

  When the Anstruther carriage pulled up outside the Wonderworks shop on Bond Street in London it was evening and the street was in deep shadow. Simon set the dossier on the Sacred Heart Murders on the seat and peered out. He noted with concern that the shop was dark as if closed.

  As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, Simon lifted his walking stick instinctively, fingering the handle, knowing there was a deadly short sword hidden inside the stick. The door had a shade pulled down to obscure the glass so he tried to peer in around the edges of the drapes pulled across the wide plate glass. He saw a sliver of the darkened front room with its familiar counter and chairs. The high shelves behind the counter were crowded with objects and packages awaiting pickup. He rapped the door with his stick.

  A shape moved in the blackness of the front room and the door handle rattled from inside. Penny’s face appeared when the door pulled back. Her eyes were hooded with unusual distress and her face was drawn tight from strain.

  “Simon, thank God.” Penny took his arm, pulling him into the shop. Her hand was trembling. Then she noticed Kate and gave a gasp, sweeping the sidewalk with worried eyes.

  “It’s only Kate,” Simon said softly. “Malcolm is not with us. As you requested. For some reason.”

  “Oh.” Penny breathed out, and reached for Kate with an apologetic shake of her head. “I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re here, Kate.” She shut the door after they entered the shop. “This is something that Malcolm wouldn’t … understand. I don’t want him involved.”

  Kate put a comforting hand on Penny’s arm. Simon caught another movement in the corner of his eye and spun around, twisting the handle of his stick. It was Charles, Penny’s brother, and he rolled out of the shadows in his remarkable motorized wheeled chair. Simon could see that Charles seemed even more stricken than his sister. He was pale and his jaw was set hard, with muscles bulging along his neck.

  “Good evening, Charles.” Simon lowered the stick. “I’m surprised to see you both sitting here in the darkened anteroom.”

  Charles nodded silently, seeming unable to speak. He glanced at Penny as if asking her to talk. Penny was holding Kate’s hand, breathing nervously through thin lips. Kate tightened her grip to comfort the young engineer. Penny opened her mouth, then paused, trying to gather herself.

  Simon found it disconcerting to see her so flustered. Of all his little band of adventurers, Penny always seemed the least affected by the strange events that cascaded around them. She saw everything as a problem to be solved or an opportunity requiring some clever device or gadget.

  Finally Penny said in a faltering voice, “You may know that Charles and I were raised by our mother.”

  When she paused again, Simon inclined his head toward her, prompting her to continue.

  Penny’s eyes flicked to her brother and down to the floor. “We opened this shop five years ago, and she lived here with us. She took in sewing even though she didn’t need to. The shop was successful and we told her she had done enough; she should relax. She wouldn’t have it. She insisted on contributing. She would sit in her room upstairs and sew. Last year, she died.”

  “I’m sorry,” Simon said.

  Penny raised her gaze with a cold granite chill in her eyes. “Two nights ago, she came home.”

  Charles shuddered and sank back into his chair, glancing toward the rooms upstairs. Penny left Kate and went to her brother’s side, putting an arm around his shoulders.

  “I see.” Simon watched the distraught siblings. “Can you think of any possible reason?”

  Penny actually laughed. “Are there any normal reasons why people come back from the dead?”

  “A few, but let’s put that aside for now.”

  Kate asked, “Penny, where was your mother buried?”

  “At St. George’s Bloomsbury.”

  Simon and Kate exchanged knowing glances and Simon tapped his stick on the floor. “Well done, Kate. There’s our answer then.”

  Penny looked up. “What?”

  “The murder at St. George’s has had a ritual effect.”

  “Someone is raising the dead?” Penny’s voice was outraged in horror fueled by her personal connection. “How? Why?”

  “We’re not sure of either.” Simon took a deep breath.

  “Can you do something?” she asked simply.

  He gave her a reassuring smile, knowing she referred only to her mother and not the ritual. “Where is she?”

  Charles replied quickly, “Upstairs. Second room on the left. Her old room.”

  “You two wait here.” Simon started for the stairs with Kate on his heels. “We’ll have a look.”

  They went up and found themselves in a dim hallway. The carpet under their feet was worn. The wainscoting was dusty and chipped. Penny’s focus was clearly not household duties, and they likely did not have domestics given the secretive and dangerous nature of the work she did. Simon lifted a guttering oil lamp from a sideboard.

  Kate cleared her throat nervously. “Poor Penny. Can it really be possible that her mother is up here?”

  “Yes. Or at least some other lost soul,” Simon answered, as they stopped outside the second door on the left. Simon listened carefully and his heart beat faster when he thought he could hear faint shuffling from inside. He reached for the doorknob.

  Kate touched his arm. “Why don’t you just look in using your runes?”

  “It’s easier to open the door.”

  Kate took a deeper breath and grimaced. “Do you have any experience with the restless dead? Are we in danger?”

  “It depends. Undead can range from quite polite to unfortunately ravenous.”

  “And if she’s the latter?” Kate pressed anxiously.

  “Likely she would have slaughtered someone by now, but stand back just in case.” Simon opened the door.

  Stench wafted out. Kate covered her nose. They stood in the doorway, and in the faint light they saw a shape moving. It shifted back and forth, closer and farther, closer and farther. A slight squeaking noise accompanied the motion. Someone was rocking in the dark.

  Simon stepped inside and the sickly yellow light from the lamp crawled up a figure on the far side of the room. It had once been a woman. The bony shape was covered in moldering cloth, the remnants of graveclothes. As she rocked forward into the lamplight, Simon saw the toothy grin of a desiccated face still tied with a winding cloth. With her two grey hands, she manipulated a piece of cloth that rested in her lap. She worked bony fingers along the edge of the cloth while the other hand pantomimed pushing a needle and thread. She pulled the imaginary needle up tight, then went back for another stitch along the hem. Sunken eyes followed each of her repetitive mock movements carefully.

  Simon cleared his throat. “Mrs. Carter?”

  The dead thing paused, but after a second, she began to finger the hem of the cloth again.

  Simon glanced back at Kate, who stared in fascinated horror. He slowly crossed the room toward the rocking shape and set the lamp on a small table. The cadaver reached the end of her cloth and stopped, her imaginary needle paused in midair as if lost. Then she straightened out the filthy cloth and pushed the missing needle into the same edge, but now began her imaginary stitching back in the opposite direction.

  “Mrs. Carter,” Simon said more firmly, “can you hear me? Would you stop stitching, please?”

  There was hesitation with her needle held aloft in her rotting hand. The dead thing seemed confused and unsure of her next step.

  Simon reached out and pinched the quivering cloth with two fingers. The cadaver growled wetly in her throat. She stopped rocking and pulled the fabric back. Simon held fast. “Ma’am, yo
ur children have asked me to tell you that your work here is done. You have completed your task admirably.”

  The dead woman’s brow knitted slightly.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Simon continued. “Your daughter would very much like you to return to your rest. She worries about you.”

  Dead fingers loosened the pressure on the fabric, leaving bits of flesh on the cloth as Simon slipped it from her grasp. He set it carefully on the table next to the lamp. The cadaver’s hands dropped flat on her lap and she sat motionless.

  “Will you come with me, ma’am? I will go with you back to your place.”

  The dead thing moaned. Simon tensed. He heard Kate shift behind him, most likely readying a vial. But the cadaver simply rose to her feet like an exhausted old woman. Simon extended his arm toward the door. The corpse gathered the tattered shroud around her and shuffled forward.

  Kate backed out into the hallway ahead of the dead woman. The extent of the decay was clear now and the horrible stains on her graveclothes were obvious.

  Simon said, “Kate, go down and warn Penny. She and Charles may not wish to see this.”

  A loud gasp from the top of the stairs showed that Penny was already a witness to her mother’s corpse staggering into the hallway. The young woman’s horrified gaze was locked on the thin figure of her mother. Her hands covered her mouth and tears began to stream down her face.

  Simon called out, “It’s all right, Penny. She’s willing to go back. I’ll ensure she reaches her rest safely.”

  Penny said in a strangled voice, “I’ll go with you.”

  “You need not.”

  The cadaver shuffled to the top of the stairs and reached for the railing with a faltering hand. Penny didn’t cringe; she instinctively took hold of the crumbling arm as the dead woman put an unsteady foot onto the first step.

  “Careful, Mama,” Penny whispered, taking the old woman’s weight. The cadaver stopped and turned slightly toward her daughter. A grey hand lifted and the palm cupped Penny’s cheek. The young woman didn’t flinch and actually pressed her face tighter against the dead hand with closed eyes of comfort.

  Simon smiled at the daughter who helped her mother slowly down the stairs. Kate put her hand to her mouth, her eyes glistening. When they all reached the bottom, a shocked gurgle came from Charles followed by racking sobs. Simon went to the man hunched in his chair with his eyes covered. “Charles, try not to think of her as you see her now. This is merely her earthly form reanimated by sorcery.”

  Charles groaned and pressed his forehead to his knees.

  Penny said from her mother’s side, “I’ll be back shortly, Charles. Please don’t worry. It’s all right now.”

  Simon rejoined Kate a few steps behind Penny, who had an arm around her mother’s waist. Penny opened the door and cold air washed in.

  “Wait!” called Charles.

  They turned to see the man sitting straight, his face locked in despair. But he lifted a trembling hand and pointed to the corner.

  “It’s so chilly out,” Charles said. “Please give her a cloak.”

  “Good man.” Simon nodded. Kate retrieved the heavy woolen cloak from a rack. She draped it over the frail shoulders of the corpse. Penny carefully adjusted the collar as she would when her elderly mother was alive.

  With that, they were off into the night toward an empty grave.

  Chapter 9

  Spitalfields was a decaying section of London. Crowded and ill-used, with no funds for repairs or upkeep. It had once been home to families of wealth and position, but few remained. Much of east London was just like that now. Hawksmoor’s Christ Church was still a notable bastion of the parish though. The church rose up with white columns and a pyramidal steeple that nearly overwhelmed the façade beneath it.

  Simon and Kate exited the carriage. They moved into the church, through the antechamber, and into the main sanctuary. It was a towering space full of straight lines and even angles. Columns and arches marked time along the sides to the altar at the far end. Galleries between the columns overlooked the floor and box pews.

  The aging sexton, who was extinguishing candles at the altar, looked up at the sound of visitors. He started down the aisle. “There are no services this evening, if you please.”

  “Oh yes, we know,” Simon said with easy charm. “My fiancée and I are planning on being married here in the fall.”

  “The fall? You have ample time, sir. You should come back tomorrow and speak to the vicar.”

  “Yes, well, tomorrow I leave for Portsmouth, where my ship is bound for West Africa.” Simon took Kate’s hand and pressed it affectionately to his chest.

  Kate had been staring at Simon in surprise but now fell into character and slumped a dreamy head against his shoulder. He patted her cheek, and she said to the sexton, “Would you mind terribly if we walked around for a moment and dreamed of that day when we will be wed?”

  The old man looked annoyed but then relented to true romance. “Fine. I’ll go tidy up somewhere. Please be as brief as you can. It is quite late and I’ve supper waiting and a wife of my own to get home to.”

  Simon slipped the man a few shillings as he passed them in the aisle. As soon as he trudged out of the sanctuary, Simon and Kate split up and headed for the east and west aisles. There were not true naves in this single massive gallery of a church.

  Kate called, “What sort of flowers do you prefer for the ceremony?”

  “I leave it to you. But I think hyacinth?”

  She popped up from beside a pew. “How did you know I like hyacinth?”

  “You mentioned it once. Here! Found it. It’s partially hidden by a plaque that was added later, but one of the names is clearly here.” Simon started for the altar.

  Kate called out too. “One here as well.” She walked back toward the door.

  Soon it was clear all four of the mystical names were present, carved onto the floor or the walls. A quick inscription spell also told them that Pendragon’s hieroglyphics were also present. It had been a short night after the affair at Penny’s shop, and a long day of scouting the major churches of the London area. They had concentrated on those designed by Nicholas Hawksmoor, but they had also stopped at other churches as well, including the important St. Mary-le-bow and St. Paul’s Cathedral. The mystical names and symbols had been found only in four specific locations: St. George’s Bloomsbury, of course, and here in Christ Church Spitalfields. Two other Hawksmoor churches hosted the names: St. George in the East and St. Mary Woolnoth. All others were devoid of those specific occult influences.

  “Obviously not a coincidence,” Simon said. “Two Hawksmoor churches with Pendragon runes. Two murders. And those four names.”

  “From what I’ve heard of Pendragon, it’s surprising that he would delve into blood magic. He was the one of the Great Trio who was sane and decent.”

  Simon ran a finger over a pillar where one of Pendragon’s hidden runes was carved. “That’s what I’ve heard too. He and Gaios and Ash created the Order of the Oak centuries ago. All of them so powerful in their magic that they lived through centuries. Gaios was the oldest, an earth elemental who went mad from power and perhaps just from the weight of living so long. Ash was a vivimancer who turned to necromancy to ensure her survival. Pendragon was a scribe, and he understood the balance of magic. And he understood the danger from those who practice the arts.”

  “That’s why he designed the Bastille in Paris to act as a prison for sorcerers or monsters who were threats to mankind, like Dr. White and Gretta.”

  “He even imprisoned his old friend Gaios because the elemental was prone to uncontrollable rages, and Pendragon couldn’t allow him to walk free any longer. But then the Bastille was stormed during the French Revolution and Gaios and the other prisoners were turned loose on the world. In the chaos, Pendragon was murdered, and without him to lead the Order of the Oak, the magical world became a capsized ship that pitched its crew into the water. Gaios and Ash are now two greatest shark
s circling, and no one knows if they’ll attack one another or simply combine to pick off the helpless swimmers in the water until they are the only food left.” Simon looked up to a dim, stained-glass face of Christ high above him. “Pendragon was a hard man, but I don’t believe he would require blood magic to enact one of his spells. I’m convinced someone is trying to break his original spell, like a thief using a pry bar to force a lock for which he has no key.”

  “Do you have any idea what Pendragon’s spell is?”

  “No. I can’t read his inscriptions. He uses scripts from many languages, including ancient Egyptian. It’s incredibly complex, but I do get a sense of how powerful it must be.” Simon glanced around the shadowy white space. “The aether is thick here. Hawksmoor built these edifices to be mystical dams, it seems. I notice the aether here, as I did at St. George’s Bloomsbury.”

  “What do you mean you notice aether?”

  Simon looked down at her thoughtfully. “I’d like to show you something. Will you step outside?”

  “What is it? Can’t you show me here?”

  “I’d rather not. Not here where a murder has recently occurred. Outside?”

  Kate tilted her head in acceptance and motioned for Simon to lead. He pulled a flickering candle from its ornate stand by the door and carried it out into the cold. She followed him into the burying ground beside Christ Church. The temperature had dropped and their breath misted into the air. Kate pulled up the collar of her coat.

  Simon set his walking stick against a gravestone and blew out the candle. He crushed the black wick between thumb and forefinger. He held the blackened finger to her face and said, “May I?”

  She nodded and he touched her forehead. He moved his callused fingertip along her face, studying his actions intensely. He finally stopped, considered whatever he had written on her forehead for a second, then placed his warm palm against her cheek. She heard him whisper and it sounded like the voices of a choir sweeping through a church. Her knees grew weak. Kate’s vision flared. Her heart leapt with alarm as tendrils of green appeared between her and Simon.