by Saint,Nic
“But it was his astral body doing all the fricasseeing!”
“Yes, but try explaining that to Darian. Or to a jury, for that matter.”
Jarrett was right, of course. Astral projection wasn’t part of the judicial system. “So he’s going to walk?”
“He might. Unless the police find some way to link him to one of the crimes.”
Her heart sank. “But that’s terrible.”
“Terrible or not, it’s the way the justice system works, unfortunately. You can’t convict a person without evidence, and right now there’s nothing to indicate Jingoist had anything to do with any crime that’s been committed.” He paused. “Master Edwards is also going to walk, of course, and so are his associates. It is not a crime to pay a healer, even one of ill repute.”
“No, I guess it isn’t.”
“It must be very difficult to be in Darian’s shoes these days.”
She pursed her lips censoriously. She wasn’t interested in Darian’s shoes or anything else related to the man. “Serves him right. He shouldn’t have arrested you in the first place. Talk about a gross miscarriage of justice.”
Jarrett shrugged. “He was just doing his job, Harry. And he released me quickly enough. He even apologized.”
She chewed her bottom lip. “Do you think we need to help him?”
“Even if we could, he’d never accept our help. The man is simply too set in his ways. Can you believe he doesn’t even believe in ghosts? I told him all about Peverell Wardop and he simply snorted derisively.”
Harry grinned. “I also told him about Peverell. He didn’t take it well.”
They’d turned a corner and were now walking along a long white corridor, several doors leading off it. Out of curiosity, she tried one and found it locked. “Wonder what’s in here?” she murmured, trying another one.
“Did your mother never teach you about trespassing?” Jarrett asked good-naturedly.
“Yes, she did, but she also taught me the value of a healthy curiosity,” she retorted, trying a third door. This one swung open, and she peered inside curiously. It was a small room with a cot and a cupboard and not much more.
“It’s like a monk’s cell,” she whispered as if fully expecting to be caught.
“Probably the priests’ lodgings,” Jarrett opined unimpressed. Once you’ve stayed at the Ritz-Carlton, no priest’s cell holds much appeal.
“Let’s call it a day,” Harry suggested, suddenly losing interest in the Absinthian Church.
“Yes, let’s,” Jarrett eagerly agreed.
And they quickly set foot for what they thought was the exit. After turning a few more corners, however, they soon found themselves hopelessly lost, the inner workings of the Absinthian Church more complicated than they’d gathered. At one point Harry thought she recognized where they were but then found that she didn’t. And all this time they didn’t meet a soul.
“I think it’s this way,” finally said Jarrett, glancing around a corner.
“Didn’t we come through here already?” Harry asked, exasperated.
Their feet click-clacking on the white marble floor, they hurried along, now getting a little desperate.
And that’s when they heard it.
A muffled cry, coming from somewhere close by.
They immediately halted their progress and turned to the source of the sound. It seemed to come from behind one of the doors leading off the corridor, and they stared at each other for a beat.
“Did you hear that?” Harry asked, pointing in the direction of the sound.
A distinct wailing could be heard as if someone was in the dentist’s chair being subjected to a particularly painful root canal.
Jarrett nodded, his eyes a little wide, and as they approached, suddenly the door swung open, and a man charged out, looking bedraggled and distraught. He was one of the large contingent of homeless people, Harry saw, missing quite a few of his teeth, his face smeared with soot, and his clothes bearing the telltale signs of one living on the streets of London.
Beyond him, she could see a large room, set up like a chapel, with pews and an altar on a small dais. Then two men emerged from the room, dressed in black like the Absinthian priests, and took a firm hold of the man, dragging him back into the chapel. And as they did, they caught sight of Harry and Jarrett. The two men cried something in a language that Harry didn’t understand, and moments later half a dozen more priests came streaming from the room, and surrounded them, attaching themselves to their arms.
“Hey!” Harry cried. “Let go of me!”
But it was to no avail. And as they were being dragged away, she caught a glimpse of the Clavicule Necroire, perched on the altar, and what she saw shocked her to the core: the book was alive! It had grown in size and was now as big as a Barcalounger, its pages fluttering fiercely around a gaping maw that had opened up at its core, sharp teeth gnashing and snapping ferociously like a vicious dog. And before her very eyes the homeless person was thrown into the yawning cavern, and with a desperate cry of anguish, he disappeared into the blood-red hole! A flash of razor-sharp teeth, a sickening crunching sound and loud chomping and the man was gone, devoured whole!
The Clavicule Necroire wasn’t a Holy Book at all. It was a bloody monster!
Chapter 42
Darian had finally decided to release Jingoist. He could have held him much longer, but it was obvious he was getting nowhere with the guy. He was just sitting in his cell, seemingly completely at ease, and even remarked it was so much cozier than his cell in the Absinthian Mountains of North China and thanked his host for providing such excellent lodgings.
They were still putting pressure on his assistant, Chantelle Chan, and he had high hopes that she eventually might crack, but for now he’d decided the more strategic option was to let the guy walk, and keep tabs on him. See where he might lead them. And if he came anywhere near his intended targets, he would be back in jail so fast he wouldn’t know what hit him.
He personally decided to do the honors for the first shift, and had been trailing the guy for the past hour, first back to Xing Ming, and then the priest had taken a cab across town, to a neighborhood Darian was very familiar with. It was the semi-industrial zone the Absinthian Church now called their London home. He followed Jingoist with a creeping suspicion he should have kept him locked up. What was he doing here? Trying to snag the Clavicule Necroire again? Or perhaps he’d repented and was seeking forgiveness from the Elder? Or, conversely, perhaps he meant him harm?
Jingoist resolutely set foot for the low-slung structure, then disappeared inside. Darian, after haphazardly parking his car, jogged after him with a rising sense of foreboding.
He arrived at the front door, slightly winded, and darted inside. To his surprise, he found dozens of bums and other derelicts milling about, and he saw that a soup kitchen had been set up. He quickly scanned the crowds for a sign of Jingoist. He stood there for a moment, muttering dark curses under his breath, which were quite inappropriate for a house of worship, he knew.
And that’s when he caught a glimpse of Jingoist, moving through a door at the far end of the hall. He trotted over, his long legs making short shift of the distance, and was yanking open the door, glancing into the corridor that lay beyond. Looking left and right, he found that the guy had given him the slip. “Dammit,” he muttered. Behind him, the door opened again, and two priests escorted a bum along the corridor, their feet slapping the marble floor.
“Where are you taking me then, fellas?” the bum asked, but no response was given. “A little dessert for old Norbert, eh? A special treat of some kind?”
On a hunch, he decided to follow the remarkable trio. Perhaps they might lead him to wherever Jingoist was headed.
The priests marched the vagrant around the corner, and he had to hurry to keep up. They were almost speed-walking the old guy along, the man being half dragged, half escorted now, much to the latter’s vocal lament.
When he reached the corner, he saw t
hey’d disappeared from view.
“So now what?” he muttered, scratching his scalp.
To his surprise, he suddenly heard a loud wail, as if from a man at his wit’s end, and he shrugged and decided to find out what was going on. So he jogged in the direction of the sound and came to the end of the corridor, which was white, like everything else in here. White walls, white floors, white ceilings…
And he’d almost reached the end of the corridor when a door was flung open and the same bum came streaking in his direction, eyes wide and fearful, arms flapping like a bird and a long, protracted wail rising from his throat. He almost ran into him, and he steadied the guy.
“Hey, buddy. What the hell’s going on?”
The man didn’t even see him, his eyes desperately fixed on a point in the distance. Then, before Darian could protest, a small posse of black-clad priests had attached themselves to both him and the vagrant, and forcibly started to march them away.
“Hey!” he cried. “What the hell?! I’m a cop!”
The priests didn’t seem to mind that he was a cop, for they kept their tongue, and only tightened their grip.
“Look, I’m a police officer, all right? You can’t do this!” he called out, reaching for his badge. But both his gun and badge were quickly taken from him, and then he was bodily being lugged down the corridor, his feet now dragging along the nice white marble, his brogues squeaking and producing black marks. There was a cleaning lady out there who wouldn’t be happy come Monday, he thought fleetingly, even as he fought valiantly to no avail.
Finally, they arrived at a white door set in the white wall and he was unceremoniously thrown inside, then the door was slammed shut behind him. And even as he reached up and pounded the door, shouting, “Let me out! You don’t know who you’re dealing with!” there was a soft cough behind him and he whirled around. The room was cloaked in darkness, but when the person who was in there with him spoke up, he recognized her immediately.
“Darian? Is that you?”
“Harry?”
“Darian!”
“Oh, Christ. Is that Zephyr?”
“Glad to see you too, Darian!”
“Inspector Watley to you, Zephyr.”
“So they caught you too, huh?” Harry asked.
“Yes, they did. But why? What the hell is going on?!”
There was a momentary silence, as Harry seemed to consider her response, then Jarrett said, “It’s the book, Darian. It eats people!”
Even before Darian could respond, a blinding light suddenly fell on the trio, and Harry knew this was the end. Like the homeless people, they would be fed to the book, just like she’d seen in her nightmare. She’d never thought her life would end like this, being eaten alive by some ancient mystical tome, but there it was. This was probably the karma the Elder had talked about. She’d sold the book, and now it was going to eat her. A simple equation.
But instead of the priests she fully expected to find, she found that it was Sir Buckley who had appeared in the doorway, now holding open the door.
“Oh, Buckley!” she cried out, elation making her voice shaky. She streaked forward and then threw herself into the old ghost’s arms.
“There, there,” he said with a chuckle. “Did you miss me, Harry?”
“Yes, I did,” she confirmed.
“What’s going on? Who are you talking to?” Darian wanted to know.
“Oh, he still can’t see me, can he?” Buckley asked, noticing that there were more people in the room.
“No, he can’t.”
“Oh, well. We can’t all be blessed with your unique gift,” Buckley remarked. “Erm, do you mind that I brought some friends?” He gestured behind him, and Harry saw that Peverell had joined them, and so had a raven-haired beauty who was smiling tentatively at her. “This is Lakesha Fenton. Peverell and I had a long talk with her, and she’s decided to help us put an end to this Clavicule Necroire nonsense once and for all.”
“Oh, come on,” cried Darian. “This isn’t funny. What’s going on?”
“It’s just Harry talking to a couple of ghosts,” Jarrett remarked.
“Very funny, Zephyr. Now tell me what’s really going on.”
“The Clavicule Necroire isn’t a real book at all, is it?” Harry asked.
Lakesha shook her head. “No, it’s not. It’s an organism that has taken the form of a book. An ancient organism with the power to give and take life.”
“Well, I hope it has a lot more life to give, for my mother is still not out of the woods,” Jarrett remarked quite selfishly.
“To give life, the Clavicule Necroire must first take life,” Lakesha explained. “For every life that is saved, one is taken, to keep balance.”
“That hardly seems fair,” Harry said.
“It’s the way it functions. The Elders of the Absinthian Church, over the centuries, have taken and given lives, according to their prerogative.”
“What prerogative? Who decides which lives are to be sacrificed?”
Lakesha was visibly repentant. “The undeserving are fed to Necroire, while the deserving receive its bounties. That has always been the Absinthian way.”
“Well, then it’s time to put a stop to it,” Harry said decidedly.
“You can’t destroy the book, Harry,” Buckley interrupted. “It’s an ancient organism that will just as soon destroy you as you it. It has tremendous powers of self-preservation.”
“But there must be something we can do,” she said desperately.
“Do something about what?” Darian asked. “What’s going on, people?”
“Well,” Jarrett explained under his breath, “right now Harry is talking to Peverell, Buckley, and Lakesha, and the consensus is that the Clavicule Necroire cannot be destroyed.” He sounded like a BBC Wimbledon commentator now.
“What?!” Darian demanded, his voice rising precipitously.
“Oh, do try and keep up, will you?” Jarrett said.
They’d left their prison and were now walking along the corridor, Lakesha leading the way.
“So what do you suggest?” Harry asked the former page turner.
“As far as I know the only solution is to return the book to its original hiding place,” the woman responded. “Which is high up in the Absinthian Mountains, where the first Elder discovered the organism over a thousand years ago. Of course at that time it wasn’t a book but merely a minor organism inhabiting the cave the Elder happened upon. The story goes that initially it was more like a mossy growth, and fed on small animals and insects. The Elder was mortally wounded after falling down a steep incline and barely made it into the cave to escape a raging snowstorm. When he tried to feed on the moss, it transferred some of its healing powers to him.
“He walked from the cave with Clavicule Necroire and built the first church around its worship. Over the course of the centuries, it took on the shape of a book at the suggestion of the Elders, to hide its true nature. It’s easier to worship a book than it is to worship a carnivorous killer moss, you see. Or at least that’s what the Elders discovered.” She stared at the floor. “The only reason the priests refuse to handle the book is because they’re afraid it will devour them. Many page turners have died when Clavicule Necroire grew hungry and impatient. It needs to be fed consistently, its appetite voracious.”
“I thought priests couldn’t touch the book because they would lose their immortality?” Harry asked.
Buckley said, “That’s what I was told, but apparently it’s only a ruse. The real reason is that priests don’t like to be eaten alive.”
“Who does?” Jarrett murmured.
“So what was Jingoist going to do with the book?” Harry asked. “He must have known about this.”
“Oh, yes, he did,” Buckley responded. “He was going to do the same thing the Elder is doing now: find London’s homeless and use them as fodder.”
“This is why the Absinthian Church prefers to build its branches in the metropolises of the world
,” Peverell added. “They offer a steady supply of vagrants that are hardly missed. The book travels from country to country and city to city, gobbling up as many people as the Absinthians can find.”
“Harry? I demand to know what’s going on!” Darian called out.
Harry turned to him. “Hello? Oh, hi! I keep forgetting you’re not on speaking terms with ghosts, Darian. Well, we have to find the book and destroy it. It eats people, you see. For every life it gives, it takes one, and we simply can’t let that happen now, can we? It’s not a very nice thing to do no matter how you slice it—oh, I probably shouldn’t use the word slice. That’s probably politically incorrect under the circumstances. Anyway, Lakesha says it can’t be done. She says the only way is to return Clavicule Necroire to the Absinthian Mountains in North China, where it was born. Although I’m not sure a moss can actually be born,” she added thoughtfully. “Because it is a moss, you see? A killer moss under the guise of a Holy Book. Which happens to feed on the homeless. So what do you think we should do?”
Darian stared at her dumbly. “You lost me at hello, Harry.”
“Oh, Darian, Darian,” Jarrett chuckled. “You are such a hoot.”
“There might be another way,” Peverell said. “But it’s a little tricky.”
Chapter 43
Darian was completely befuddled and not a little frustrated. He could hear Harry talking to someone, but as far as he could ascertain there simply wasn’t anybody there! He decided that she was simply talking to herself, perhaps as a way of making sense of a dangerous situation, and figured that since he was the only policeman present, he needed to take the lead. Pity his GSM had been taken, or else he’d have had legions of cops laying siege to the place already. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but it was fishy.
“Let’s get you guys out of here,” he now said, taking charge. “This might get very ugly very soon, and I don’t want any civilians present when it does.”