The Undying Legion

by Clay Griffith

  Everything else seemed serene. The church squatted in the thin moonlight, with an imposing, medieval-style steeple and pepper-pot turrets. Malcolm pulled the rifle from his coat and slipped toward the church.

  The altar lay at the eastern end, so he went to a door on the northern side, the gospel side. It was locked. He drew out a long silver pin and proceeded to unlock it. He quietly entered the darkness and closed the door behind him. There were voices and the dimmest of light. He actually breathed a sigh of relief since Penny would not face the danger.

  Creeping behind a column, he peered toward the altar, where white-and-red-robed figures milled about. On top of the dais was a naked woman. Eleanor. She seemed unafraid and, in fact, almost excited as she stared out at the Barnes cultists. Barnes himself was behind the altar, so he was only visible from the waist up. His red hood was thrown back and he talked calmly to Eleanor, but was still intent and fierce. She listened to him and nodded peacefully. Then she lay back on the cold stone. She couldn’t possibly be so naïve that she wasn’t aware of what was happening, Malcolm thought furiously, urging her to run. The Scotsman put the rifle to his shoulder and adjusted the sight, bringing Barnes into sharp focus in the dim candlelight. The necromancer suddenly smiled at Eleanor with such rancid joy that Malcolm switched his attention back to the woman.

  Eleanor reached down beside her and lifted a knife with both hands. She poised the blade at her chest. Her face was placid, as if she were going to sleep. Then Eleanor plunged the knife deep into herself.

  Malcolm shouted with horror and disbelief. All heads save Eleanor’s turned toward him. He fired. The shot was hurried and the bullet struck Barnes high in the shoulder, spinning him about to the stone floor out of sight. Some of Barnes’s consorts screamed, and some rushed to his side. The robed women surrounded him, placing themselves in harm’s way to protect their master. Shockingly, Barnes struggled to his feet, glaring at Malcolm but keeping a low profile to prevent a clean shot. The bullet had put a hole in the necromancer’s shoulder large enough to shove a croquet ball into, but he was still standing.

  Two robed figures separated themselves from the mob and faced Malcolm. He recognized the faces under the cowls as the necromancer’s brides: Madeleine and Cecilia. The rest of the acolytes who hovered around Barnes appeared to be living women. Like Eleanor, they were ensnared not by undeath but by Barnes’s sickly words. Malcolm recognized some of them from the poetry circle about William Blake.

  Gritting his teeth, the Scotsman fired into Cecilia. The bullet tore through her, but she barely flinched. He took a step back with the rifle ready at his hip, glancing around the church, trying to plan a path of attack. “Come out from behind their skirts, Barnes. Have you not an ounce of man in you?”

  The necromancer seemed to be experiencing surprisingly little pain despite his massive wound. He moved behind Lilith for cover and fished out a thin chain around his neck. A small object dangled on the end of the chain; it was a ring.

  Malcolm took another step back when the two brides inched closer. He raised the rifle to his chest. “All of you clear away from him. This must stop tonight.”

  None of the women, living or dead, moved. If anything, their faces grew harder at the threat. Several joined hands.

  Malcolm stared in disbelief at the enraptured women. “What is wrong with you? You saw what he did to Eleanor. You see these two things here?”

  “No,” Lilith cried out. “He didn’t do anything to Eleanor. She chose. Any of us would have done the same. We must save Britain from villains such as you. We are Jerusalem.”

  Barnes nodded placidly and slid the ring on the middle finger of his left hand. “Well said, Lilith. Would you hand Eleanor’s knife to me, please.”

  The hard-eyed Lilith smiled with pride and yanked the bloody dagger from her friend’s cooling body. Barnes took it and moved closer to the altar.

  “It should be clear by now,” Barnes called out, “that you and Archer are on the wrong side of history. We are saving this land. Our great enemies will be vanquished. But you won’t live to see it because you don’t deserve to do so.”

  Barnes lowered his head and took several deep breaths. From nearby, off to the side of the altar, a door slammed open. The brawny tough from the salon emerged through the dark rectangle. A group of ten or so walking cadavers followed him. They emerged into the dim light of the church, moving purposefully toward Malcolm, dragging their damp shrouds behind them.

  Barnes placed the knife over Eleanor’s chest, preparing to carve. “My dears, please tear him into pieces.”

  The two brides charged Malcolm with dead hands upraised, mouths agape. He fired. Both undead women were hit, jerking with the impacts, but kept coming with remarkable speed. Madeleine grabbed him, and threw him. Malcolm slammed hard into the wooden pews, his grip on the rifle lost as his arm went numb. He heard a crack and hoped he hadn’t broken a bone. He pulled himself up onto the back of the pew. He yanked his coat out of the grip of one of the ghouls only to slam into the other on the opposite side. Ungodly strong hands were on him, and proceeded to throttle him. He pulled a pistol and fired, blowing a large hole in Cecilia’s chest. The walking corpse staggered back, more disconcerted than in pain. Madeleine dragged him into her arms.

  He struggled, twisting the barrel behind him and fired. Flesh and fluids covered him. He felt the grip ease so he pulled away and scrambled under the pews. The two silent things started climbing over the wooden benches in pursuit. As soon as they passed over top of him, Malcolm stood and ran down an aisle. He stopped suddenly as a gang of cadavers staggered in front of him, reaching out with clawlike fingers. He battered at the moldering things with his heavy pistol.

  The Scotsman holstered one of his guns and drew a long blade. The undead thug rushed him, and Malcolm ducked under a heavy swipe of the man’s solid fist. Malcolm maneuvered behind and clamped his arm around the man’s forehead, tilting the head backward. The dagger made short work of the exposed throat, cutting to the bone. With a jagged wrench, Malcolm pulled back hard. The brute’s head tilted toward the right shoulder. Malcolm released the man and kicked him square in the back into the reaching cadavers. The force was too much for the decaying tendons, and the head snapped off and rolled under a pew. The large body fell heavily to the floor.

  A corpse without lips grabbed hold of Malcolm’s left arm and he shot it. Another quickly grabbed his right. More hands reached for his throat. One clamped onto his shoulder with its teeth, snarling like some animal. They dragged Malcolm down to the flagstones. He couldn’t feel his arms or legs, only the dead pressed on top of his chest and around his throat. He felt cold, clammy hands squeezing the breath from him.

  An echoing howl erupted, rattling the church. It raised the hairs on the back of Malcolm’s neck. Even the undead paused now. A massive hairy figure stalked from the shadows with pounding steps, her narrowing canine eyes sweeping from side to side.

  “Charlotte!” Malcolm gasped.

  The werewolf leapt. Clawed hands seized and tore at the undead that held Malcolm. Where once the sight of such a beast would have chilled him, now it filled him with elation. He was jerked back and forth as the cadavers were plucked off him like ticks. The smell of blood and gore crowded his nostrils. Bodies flew all about him. He heard growling and recognized a furry face that pushed into his blurry view.

  The frightening wolfish countenance appeared to be grinning, and Charlotte actually licked him in exuberant elation. Her massive hairy hand pulled him upright so fast, his head spun. Then she whirled back to the fight. Her great long limbs took hold of a gentleman who looked quite respectable but for his exposed rib cage. She threw him into a faltering group of undead, tumbling them over. Malcolm shook his head to clear it, rubbing at the growing goose egg on the back of his skull. His throat convulsed when he tried to talk, and he swallowed painfully.

  Malcolm glanced at Barnes, who was pressing his left fist into Eleanor’s exposed chest cavity. Even while doing so, the
necromancer was looking up in shock at the terrifying lycanthrope stomping through the remains of the undead. His robed acolytes around the altar were grasping one another in horror, but they crowded closer around Barnes. He pulled his hand away and the ring on his finger glowed and smoked.

  The two brides had moved between Malcolm and the altar. He took the chance to shoot them, staggering them. Charlotte pounced. The brides fought silently, taking hammerblows from the werewolf while swarming her, tearing and biting the huge beast. Charlotte cried out in pain, twisting her gigantic frame, trying to pull Madeleine off her back and shake Cecilia from her arm.

  Suddenly a sickly green light filled the cavernous church. It convulsed within the confines of the walls and fell like a blanket to cover the floor, hovering like a dead fog before the tendrils seeped into the earth and out under the cracks in the door. Whatever magic Barnes was conjuring, he had succeeded.

  Malcolm staggered forward as Charlotte took a firm grip on Madeleine, her huge hand covering the undead face. She lifted the cadaver high over her head and slammed it down onto its sister, driving them both off their feet. The werewolf snarled and stamped onto the writhing pair, crushing them hard to the floor.

  “Charlotte, hold still.” Malcolm struggled to keep his pistol leveled at the head of one of the undead. Madeleine’s eyes swiveled toward the open bore of the barrel. He pulled the trigger four times, emptying the weapon into her.

  Charlotte reached down and grabbed the second bride by the shoulder. Without taking her foot off the thing’s abdomen, the werewolf pulled up with all her unnatural might. There was a moment when Charlotte growled with effort, and then Cecilia’s frame tore neatly in two, leaving the beast holding the upper torso over her head. She then threw it across the church. The remnants of the two brides stopped writhing although they were likely not yet truly dead. They simply had run out of reason to fight.

  Even though Malcolm was watching a large werewolf, he couldn’t help but see the little girl with blood on her hands and a decapitated corpse under her foot. He took involuntary steps back.

  Charlotte looked up, regarding him with curious eyes. Her nearly unintelligible voice ground out, “Don’t be scared.”

  “I’m not scared. Just surprised.” Malcolm spun around, remembering the point of the entire bloody event and intent on dealing with Barnes. However, the necromancer was gone, departed with his living followers. Only Eleanor remained behind, dead on the altar.

  “Damn it.” He limped up the aisle where he saw the familiar desecration wrought on the young poet. He found an altar cloth on the floor and draped it over her naked body.

  “Chase?” Charlotte prowled about the altar on all fours, sniffing the air.

  “No. Barnes is done for tonight and I don’t want to invite him to wreak any further damage on his followers or on innocent bystanders.” Malcolm leaned on the altar for support and shook his head at how much that sounded like Simon. “I had a shot and didn’t take it. I could have prevented all this.”

  The beast pressed her head against Malcolm’s shoulder affectionately. He patted her gently, then froze in horror, realizing what he was doing. He couldn’t tell if she was smiling or snarling at him the way her lips curled back.

  Her chest chuffed deeply, almost like a laugh. She squatted on the ground and stared up at him. “Are you happy to see me?”

  Malcolm let out an exasperated breath, not wanting to tell her the truth. The child would insist on coming with him everywhere on every assignment. He shook his head in frustration, but then replied quietly, “Yes, lass. I’m happy to see you.”

  She giggled though it sounded nothing like the little girl he knew.

  “We’d best go,” Malcolm said, staggering slightly.

  Charlotte grabbed Malcolm and threw him over her muscled shoulder.

  “Blast it, girl! I can walk.” Malcolm pushed himself out of the werewolf’s disturbingly gentle grasp back onto the floor. He brushed himself off. Then he slowly made for the heavy wooden doors on the west end and shoved them open, allowing the brisk air to sweep inside the church. It revived him.

  Charlotte could have easily outdistanced him but instead she bounded around him on all fours like Kate’s overexcited wolfhound. Across the cemetery, dark shadows dotted the ground covered with a light dusting of snow. At first Malcolm thought more dead were rising now that Barnes had completed his ritual, but they were only the lonely shapes of the numerous tombstones.

  “I told you not to follow me,” Malcolm scolded in a less-than-convincing voice.

  Charlotte’s massive head tilted and she laughed, or at least he hoped the sound she was making was laughter. It was hard to tell.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The next morning, just after sunrise, there was a great uproar at the front of Hartley Hall. The front door was open and several footmen either escorted or fought Malcolm inside. The servants seemed to want to support the Scotsman, but he cursed and tried his best to shove them away. Simon and Kate rushed from the Blue Parlor, where coffee had been served.

  “Malcolm!” Simon exclaimed. “What’s happened? Is it Barnes?”

  Malcolm shrugged off the final young footman and strode forward. There was a noticeable limp in his gait. His clothes were covered in blood and mud. He carried his holsters in his hand. Penny came after him with her gigantic rucksack over her shoulder. She was not injured or dirty.

  “Malcolm, what happened to you?” Kate still held a letter she had been reading when the tumult began. Then the servants moved aside and she saw Charlotte coming in the door, draped in Malcolm’s greatcoat that trailed behind her like a queen’s mantle. Her feet were bare and her hair a tangled horror. Hogarth brought up the rear, with a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Charlotte!”

  Kate ran forward as if to put herself between the girl and the hunter. She took Charlotte by the shoulders and looked intensely at her. “What happened, dear? Did you change? Are you all right? Imogen told me you were asleep in your room. When did you leave the house?”

  “I’m fine, Miss Kate.” Charlotte was smiling as if she was returning from a picnic. “I changed but I remember everything. The wulfsyl works.”

  Kate turned to Malcolm. Her voice was growing frantic. “Explain this. Were you tracking her? What happened?”

  “Calm yourself,” Malcolm retorted irritably. “She went to London.”

  “What!” Kate shouted, now rounding angrily on Charlotte. “You went to London? I told you to say in the house at all times unless I was with you.”

  “But I wanted—” the girl began.

  “She was with me,” Malcolm interrupted. He tossed his holsters over his shoulder, staring Kate in the eye. “I took her to London with me.”

  “You did what?” Kate hissed. “Don’t you know how dangerous that could be?”

  “More than anyone,” the Scotsman retorted. “It’s done now. She’s saved my life. We’re back.” He dropped his eyes from Kate’s strong glare and walked toward the stairs.

  Simon asked as he passed, “Did you get Barnes?”

  Malcolm shook his head. “No. I failed at the church.”

  “Did he murder the third woman?”

  “Her name was Eleanor.” The Scotsman continued to the stairs and started up, one foot dragging slightly.

  Kate stared silently at the retreating Malcolm for a long moment, then she put a hand to Charlotte’s back, and said quietly, “Come, dear. Let’s get you cleaned up and some breakfast in you. You must be exhausted.”

  “No,” Charlotte said cheerfully.

  Kate smiled and pushed her on. “Up to your room now. I’ll be along.”

  The girl skipped past Simon. “Good morning, Mr. Simon.”

  “Good morning, Charlotte. Lovely frock.”

  “It’s heavy. And smells like Mr. Malcolm.” Charlotte giggled and ran for the stairs, catching up with Malcolm, and the two of them trudged off together.

  Kate joined Simon as Hogarth urged the serv
ants to go about their business. She said, “Do you think Malcolm took Charlotte to London with him?”

  “No, of course not. I think she followed him there against everyone’s wishes.”

  “So he lied for her?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t seem very worried about that.”

  “I’m not.” Simon began to twirl the key on its chain. “Oddly enough, I’m rather pleased by it.”

  Kate handed him the letter she carried. “Here’s a bit of good news. It came yesterday. Thomas Clover claims to have information for us about the hieroglyphs.”

  “Ah. Excellent.” Simon read the simple note requesting Kate to call on Mr. Clover at her convenience, and sending his best wishes to Imogen. “We’ll talk to Malcolm about the killing, then go to London. Fortunately, there’s a portal that appears to open somewhere near Waterloo Bridge so at least we can travel there in an instant. I want to stop at the church to inscribe it to hopefully prevent or delay undead from rising. And we’ll stop by the museum to see Mr. Clover.”

  “Barnes requires only one more sacrifice to complete his ritual. And he will summon whatever thing he’s trying to raise in the center of London.”

  “I know.” Simon gripped the key. “I know all too well.”

  The portal opened in an unused cellar in what turned out to be the sprawling magnificence of Somerset House. Kate noted that it was the home of the Royal Society, of which her father had been a powerful member. It made perfect sense that he would maintain an entry spot there. After Simon and Kate recovered their senses, a quick cab ride to St. George in the East allowed Simon to inscribe temporary runes around the burying ground and in the doorways to the crypt. Simon’s bribe to a groundskeeper got them inside despite the still-obvious damage from what must have been a terrible fight with Barnes’s forces.