Queen Victoria: Demon Hunter

by A. E. Moorat

  Thus, a short time later, Quimby sat, disgusted and disconsolate as Perkins ate his beloved Irish water spaniel, Barmaid, Perkins not even having the decency to look apologetic about the matter.

  The cries of a newsboy from outside in the street drew Quimby to the window and he peered out into the street to find out what the day's big story was, then came back to his chair to muse upon it. Well, at least in all likelihood the missing prostitutes would go unreported, he thought. Instead the papers would be full of the news that the King was dead.

  IX

  Later that morning

  A drawing room, Kensington Palace

  'One of my staff, a very capable man named Nobo, has assembled this for me,' announced the Prime Minister, struggling with a contraption boasting three legs and some form of easel at its head. 'Though not quite as fully as I might have hoped,' he continued, with a self-deprecating smile, 'for I'll be blowed if I can get the accursed thing to stand up straight...Please, if Your Majesty will bear with me, I feel sure that against all evidence to the contrary it will prove a most useful accessory in my presentation, in which I hope to cast some light on the most unfortunate events of last night. Or, to be more precise, earlier this morning...'

  Victoria paid it no mind, the sight of the Prime Minister grappling with his unusual easel being most beguiling. Plus, it allowed her the opportunity to study the famous Lord Melbourne, subject of much rumour and survivor of many a scandal, up close. What had struck her first about him were his eyes. He had amused eyes; his mouth, also, was often pursed, as though he were trying not to break into a broad grin; he wore his sideburns long, his hair was just a little unkempt and the white necktie at his throat somewhat skewwhiff. He lacked a woman's touch, she thought. As for his manner, he was charming, that much was obvious, and handsome, too, though several decades her senior. Certainly on the strength of the time they had so far spent in each other's company-she as his sovereign; he as her Prime Minister and, as he had explained, her private secretary into the bargain-it seemed certain that they were going to be great friends.

  The Prime Minister had started by introducing himself, familiarising the new Queen with the workings of the government and preparing her for the speech she was shortly to make to the Privy Council; in short, easing her, with the very gentlest of guiding hands, into her new role. For her part, she had given all matters her attention, doing her best to ignore the one nagging thought that had plagued her throughout the preliminary stages of their encounter, which was, Is Lord Melbourne aware of the events of last night?

  Presently, she had her answer when he had clasped together his hands and held her gaze.

  'There is something else we need to discuss,' he said, his voice serious and lacking the slightly satirical edge it took when he explained matters of Parliament and the workings of court, 'an issue of the utmost importance, a national secret to which very few are party, which is this: the subject of the war in which we are involved; the war in whose front line you found yourself this morning. The war between man and demon.'

  At this, he had reached for his contraption, which was now, finally, installed. Onto it he placed some large sheets of paper then stood to one side, fixing her with a hard stare and inclining his head slightly, which was something she was to learn he only did when he was addressing particularly serious matters, saying, 'Your Majesty, the creature you met last night, was--'

  'A demon, Prime Minister, yes, we were introduced.' Having kept a multitude of thoughts and questions to herself since the attack in her chamber, Victoria found her thoughts emerging in a rush. 'I also made the acquaintance of a Demon Hunter. I owe her a great debt, of course, but the fact remains that her presence in my chamber came as something of a surprise. For I must admit that prior to the events of a few hours ago I had never considered the threat of demonic activity to be quite so...well, quite so imminent. In fact, I must confess, at the risk of committing blasphemy, that I had wondered whether stories of demons were primarily fictions, aimed at frightening small children and ensuring the continued virtue of ardent churchgoers. Yet now it transpires that not only do demons walk among us, they are predisposed to paying visits to my chamber at night and attempting to kill me. Thank goodness for Mrs Brown, for I would surely be dead otherwise, but her presence leads me to believe that she, and therefore I must infer you, had some notion of this attack and thus could have warned me.'

  Her colour had risen during the speech, as had her voice, and Melbourne had a moment of profound sympathy for this poor young girl, thrust into an unknowable destiny.

  'Your Majesty,' he said instead, 'if I might just beg a moment I can explain. What transpired was most unfortunate and we owe a great deal to Maggie Brown, but predicting the intentions of the forces of darkness is a difficult enterprise at the best of times. Warning you was quite out of the question, I'm afraid, for this and other operational reasons.'

  She seemed about to protest but left it, saying instead, 'But there are such things as demons, though, and they move among us?'

  'Ah,' said Melbourne, 'here is where my flipping chart shall prove its worth. For I have some illustrations. Tell me, ma'am, what have you read of them in the past?'

  'Very little, Lord Melbourne,' she replied, 'the works of Milton and Dante, of course, but if I'm honest, as a young girl I found it all a little terrifying and probably did not pay as much attention as I should have done...'

  'Very well,' said Lord Melbourne, 'then let us begin with the fall of Satan, expelled from Heaven by God.'

  He lifted the first piece of paper, tucking it behind the easel to reveal an illustration beneath: Satan, with the wings of a bat, falling.

  '"How art thou fallen from Heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning?"' quoted Melbourne.

  'Please, Lord Melbourne, put my mind at rest. You are not about to tell me that Satan himself walks among us.'

  Melbourne laughed. 'Absolutely not, ma'am. This event dates to the time of the creation. We can be sure that Lucifer exists, just as we can be sure that God exists. But God is up there,' he pointed, 'and Satan below, in the ninth and lowest circle of hell, eternally feasting upon the mutilated body of Judas Iscariot. He left earth and took with him the majority of his followers, those angels who were also expelled from Heaven and cast down, but,' Melbourne held up a finger, 'the dark one decreed that a force be left on earth, here to do his work, which was to spread darkness, death and destruction among us, and which for centuries they have done, like a slowly growing cancer, killing us with war, plague and famine, with anger and hatred, ignorance and jealousy.'

  As he had been talking, Melbourne had been flicking back pages, revealing images: a Walpurgis Night procession, an evil female spirit casting a spell on a woodcutter, a goblin bewitching a ploughman, a witch burning at the stake, a man torn asunder by sprites, a nun, her head at a grotesque angle, tongue lolling from her mouth, eyes upturned, habit stained dark with blood...

  The colour had slowly drained from the Queen's face. 'Are you saying that demons are responsible for all of the evil in our world?'

  'Oh good heavens, no. Not even most of it. Think of them more as crusaders, the midwives of our evil. No, they are not responsible for all the evil in the world, but they are at its root. Sometimes I think of them as being our dark mirror image, only instead of being good, with evil buried deep, they are the opposite.'

  'So there is good in them?'

  'Perhaps, Your Majesty, perhaps,' he said doubtfully.

  'How? How do they do they carry out this work?' asked Victoria.

  'Oh, a variety of methods. The abominations are much like us in many ways. Just as in our society, there are different ranks, from the very lowest sprite and hobgoblin to the highest demon, and just as in our society the havoc that they wreak is concordant with their rank, so that at the lowest level, say, a werewolf might spread fear and suspicion among a small rural community; at the summit, a deviant of high birth can insinuate himself into a position of power and wreak a more terribl
e devastation, a war, a massacre, a holocaust.'

  'Of high birth?'

  'Indeed, ma'am. All those centuries ago, the dark lord left high-ranking clans in charge, there to rule over their minions; needless to say it is these that are the most dangerous, who were no doubt responsible for the events of last night; against whom we need to be most vigilant.'

  'Who are they?'

  'Those who concern us most are the descendants of Baal, a demon who was Lucifer's right-hand man, who, it is said, was furious at having been left behind on earth; who wanted his rightful place in hell but was denied it-and with it his immortality-and as a result vents his fury on mankind.'

  'He is their king?'

  'No. He's been dead for centuries, ma'am. With the obvious exception of vampires-the cockroaches in the demon nest-deviants are bound by earthly laws of mortality and will age, just as we do. They do so much more slowly, of course, but eventually they will grow weak and die. Thus, just as we do, they have a need to continue the bloodline, and rank is determined by lineage, so that those master demons we find ourselves at war with today are the descendants of Baal and of his wife, Astharoth. Just as in our society, it is primarily,' he deferred to the Queen as he said this, 'male heirs who lead; indeed, from what we know of them, the male bloodline is far stronger than that of a female.'

  'And you say these are the demons who orchestrated the attack of last night?'

  'We think the Baal were behind it, yes.'

  'The succubus. Was she of the Baal?'

  'No. A follower. Not as high-ranking as Baal.'

  'She was quite beautiful. Do they always appear as humans?'

  'How they manifest themselves varies according to the individual demon, but it seems they very, very rarely show themselves as they really are, for they are so disgusting to look at. Obviously if they are moving among us, it is best that they adopt the guise of--'

  'Human beings,' finished Victoria.

  'Exactly,' said Melbourne, 'even ladies-in-waiting.'

  'Was it really her aim to kill me, Lord Melbourne?'

  'We believe so, ma'am.'

  'To what purpose?'

  'We believe that what we witnessed last night was nothing less than an unsuccessful demonic coup, with the attempt on your life at its very epicentre.'

  'Then is it likely to happen again?'

  'Almost certainly. We believe not for some time, though.'

  'What makes you say this?'

  'We gain our information in a number of ways, Your Majesty. From the experiences of our forefathers in the struggle; from intelligence gathered in the field, from closely observing patterns of behaviour, and from prophecies handed down to us through the ages. We have academics at the major universities-their identities a closely guarded secret-who pore over these manuscripts night and day; who observe and analyse demonic activity. They tell us that these prophecies speak of the Baal bringing untold sorrow to earth in our time; that there will be a great calm followed by a storm. Last night certainly marked the end of a period of great calm: Maggie Brown tells me that there were supernatural beings abroad last night-indeed she was very nearly their victim; plus, we have had reports of, and I hesitate to tell you this so fantastic does it seem, of vermin boasting two heads attacking members of the public; of dogs turning on their owners, mothers killing babies and husbands killing wives. Definitely, Your Majesty, evil was active last night. Yet even so, it was not quite the offensive our experts predict. They feel there will be another gathering of the forces; they speak of a building impatience within the Baal, that they grow tired of their place in the world-that they wish to rule over us.'

  'So what do we do now, Lord Melbourne?'

  'We wait, we watch, we remain vigilant.'

  'We?'

  'The Protektorate, ma'am.'

  'Ah yes,' she said, 'the Protektorate. Perhaps you could tell me about Maggie Brown.'

  So he did, and she learned about her and the Protektorate, the tiny force of Demon Hunters led by the redoubtable Maggie Brown. The Queen was told that only a handful of people were even aware of the threat, such as it was, though it had repercussions for many hundreds of thousands.

  'These demons,' she said, 'if they are able to maintain human form, could they be among us, talking to us, behaving like those we know, but in fact with hidden motives?'

  'Most certainly, Your Majesty,' said Melbourne, more guarded all of a sudden.

  'Sir John?' she said.

  'Ah.' He paused. 'Your Majesty, you must understand there is only a certain amount I can afford to tell you about these matters--'

  'He is my mother's private secretary, Lord Melbourne. If you have information regarding Sir John Conroy I must insist you tell me at once.'

  'In that case, ma'am, no, we have no evidence nor even any suspicion that Sir John is in any way employed against Your Majesty.'

  'How would we know?' she asked. 'How would we know whether or not he was a demon?'

  Melbourne took on a pained expression. 'The truth, Your Majesty, is that we wouldn't. There is no unique feature we know of; no test we can perform. Unfortunately, we have to rely on our wits, our intuition and our intelligence sources. The sad fact of the matter ma'am, is you must trust no one.'

  'Thank you, Lord Melbourne,' she said, and with that she summoned her ladies, ready to repair to her chamber in preparation for the speech she was due to give to the Privy Council. Once they were assembled, they departed, their skirts swishing. Melbourne stood and watched her leave, admiring her grace, in awe of how well she seemed to have adapted to her role.

  As the door closed behind the Queen's party there came a disembodied voice in the room.

  'Somewhat economical with the truth there, Prime Minister.'

  As always, though he knew full well she was present, Melbourne jumped.

  'Maggie,' he said, looking around him as he usually did, wondering where in the room she was. She was another who seemed to have adapted swiftly to the new system. 'Shouldn't you be recovering in bed?'

  'Aye, no doubt, but I'm needed more than ever. More to the point, I wanted to hear you initiate the lassie-if you can call it that.'

  'You think I should have told her everything?'

  The silence spoke volumes. Confound the woman!

  'Maggie,' he said at last, 'it is our job to guide this young woman through the early days of her reign, to see that she blossoms into the ruler this country needs and deserves. I don't think the most expeditious means of achieving that is to scare the poor thing to death with talk of the Antichrist now, do you?'

  Part Two

  'I do'

  X

  Greek Street, Soho

  McKenzie stood outside the Pillars of Hercules awaiting his contact, a man he knew only as Egg. His top hat was pulled down low over his face so that his eyes were only just visible below the brim; his cloak was done up almost to his whiskers against the chill and, as he watched his icy breath plume in the air before him and stamped his feet, he cursed the man for being late. He tapped his cane impatiently against the cobbles and stared about him, making unsuccessful attempts to peer through a mist that seemed to hang permanently in the air, curtains of it, floating like ghosts.

  Each drunk that passed, he scrutinised carefully, at one point even saying, 'Egg? Is that Egg?' in an exploratory manner, to which the fellow had just laughed and coughed, doing both with such force that he was compelled to hold on to a wall for support (and McKenzie wondered briefly if the man might simply die there in the street, and what a bloody funny thing that would be: killing somebody with the word 'egg') then finally wiping his mouth and moving on.

  More people passed. McKenzie spat. A carriage drew up and the driver, his face hidden by a three-cornered hat and a scarf about his mouth so that he resembled a highwayman, stared down at him, eyes like granite. McKenzie stared back before a movement caught his eye and he glanced at the body of the carriage just in time to see a curtain drop back into place. There was the knock-knock of a sign
al. The driver shook the reins. The carriage moved on.

  McKenzie watched it go, frowning, then returned his thoughts to the late arrival. Where was he? The damn, infernal man-this...Egg?

  McKenzie was no stranger to Soho. For a man of his profession it was a rich source of material, but he very much disliked being kept waiting. He swept aside his cloak, took his pocket watch from his waistcoat and resolved to give Egg another five minutes then move on, whatever it was the bugger had to say, he could--

  'Psst,' came a sound and he looked around expecting yet another nightwalker leering sloppily at him and inviting him into an alley, a request he would have to most regretfully decline as he was happy to avail himself of this pleasure whenever he could-those ailments affecting his genitalia allowing. But there was nobody there.

  'Psst,' it came again. By now McKenzie was looking left and right, furiously.

  'Don't look up, sor, but I'm above you,' came the voice, the accent not of town, but of the country.

  McKenzie looked up.

  'Don't look, I did say, sor,' whispered the voice, urgently.

  'Well then, what am I to do, my friend?' growled McKenzie peevishly, 'stand here as though I'm talking to myself on the street like an escapee from Bedlam?'

  'You can start by identifying yourself that you're the gentaman I'm s'posed to be seeing,' rejoined the voice.

  'You contacted me, if I recall?' sighed McKenzie.

  'That's my first question answered correctly, sor.'

  McKenzie placed both hands to the top of his cane and leaned forward, resting his weight upon it. Bloody Nora. He had a right one here. And he looked upwards to where the buildings met the sky, looking for a sign of his contact.

  'Don't look, I said,' whispered the voice from above.

  'Oh for the love of God, can't we get on with this?' snapped McKenzie. 'Do I look like I've got all night?'

  'No, sor, first I need to know...'

  'No, "sor", you don't,' snapped McKenzie, 'I've had enough of you wasting my bloody time. Good day to you, my friend,' and he turned and started walking along Greek Street in the direction of Old Compton Street.