“A folio of fiends,” St. Cyprian said as he sat back down, the manuscript balanced on his knees. “It’s the Narramore translation of the excised pages of Weyer’s De Praestigiis Daemonum. Seventy-seven demons were left out, for various reasons. Doesn’t tell you why, or what they do, in particular, but it gives you a nice mugshot and a name. Ha!” He clapped his hands together.
“What?”
“Interestingly, or not, I believe I have identified your assailant,” St. Cyprian said. He turned the book around to face her. “Is this the chap in question?” he asked, tapping an illustration. Gallowglass cursed. St. Cyprian nodded and turned the book back around. “As I suspected, given the parties involved in this little farce—that, Ms. Gallowglass, is Baphomet. Also known as the Goat of Mendes, though that is a somewhat erroneous title.”
“What’s a Mendes?”
“About tuppence,” St. Cyprian said. He looked at her. “It’s in Egypt. Or it’s an Egyptian term, rather, for a place which may or may not exist.” He looked down at the illustration. “Nasty looking fellow, and personality matches appearance, or so I’m told by those as know.”
“I’ve met worse,” Gallowglass said, with a shrug.
“I’m sure you have. On the hierarchy of deviltry, Baphomet is a baronet, or possibly a margrave. Foreign-born, donchaknow? A jumped up desert-djinn, or maybe a fallen god, depending on your reading habits and narrative preference.” He tapped the illustration again. “The Knights Templar brought him out of the wilderness, bound in holy chains. They forced him to speak prophecies and seek out treasures. And when he got loose, well, that was the end for them, the silly buggers.” He closed the book. “The Order of the Cosmic Ram have been looking for him for years. I’m given to understand that there’s a cell in a certain monastery somewhere in the Hebrides waiting for him.”
“Why?” Gallowglass asked.
“The Order have always fancied themselves the descendants of the Templars. And there may be some truth to that—the French burned all theirs, but we simply blackmailed ours into obscurity.” He sat back, frowning. “Baphomet is a margrave of secrets and hidden knowledge, and it is he who is invoked to find such things, according to the fifty-fourth page of the seventy-seven which were excised from Weyer’s De Praestigiis Daemonum. Luckily, our copy is the unexpurgated version.”
“Like maybe something having to do with whatever Melion lost?” Gallowglass said. She dug around in her coat and produced the chunk of jade. “Like this? I found it in the warehouse.”
St. Cyprian took the jade and ran his thumb over it. He felt a prickling in his psychical senses and he felt his third eye twitch. He smelled blood, and something else—an animal odor, like the wolf cage at the zoo. He frowned and examined the jade more closely. It had been shaped by human hands, and there was a series of holes punched along one side. He sat back, considering. Then he rose to his feet and went back to the bookshelves. “I’ve seen something like this before. Several years ago—one of Carnacki’s old cases, from just before the War.” He grabbed several books and sat back down.
“So you know what it’s from?” Gallowglass asked around a mouthful of jam.
“I suspect it’s from a particular form of Oriental burial shroud—certain men of means in medieval China would have themselves interred in suits composed of small jade plates, in order to preserve their mortal remains from decay. Jade was and is a main ingredient in a number of folk medicines, especially in regards to driving out evil spirits. It was also thought to have curative properties.”
Gallowglass blinked. “What, like beef tea?”
“Absolutely nothing like beef tea, no. The suits were often held together with a king’s ransom worth of gold wire, and that much jade might be worth a fair amount to the right customer. But I don’t think mere greed is the reason for the theft. Here, look,” St. Cyprian said, opening one of the books. “This is a copy of Jenkins’ Oriental Pestilences. I noticed that Fleece was reading it earlier. There’s an account in here from the time of the Qing Dynasty, about a fellow named Zhang Su, or Su Zhang, depending. He was sealed up in a jade suit after becoming infected with a rather nasty, if vague sickness, and buried in a hidden tomb. There’s a mention of Zhang Su in Crossley’s Dead Man’s Tongue as well, as a ‘necromancer of note’.”
He closed the book with a snap. “Things are adding up, and not in a pleasant way.” He looked at Gallowglass. “Wendy-Smythe mentioned that William accompanied Fleece to Damascus. Damascus, according to our friend Weyer, is the haunt of Baphomet.” He patted the cover of De Praestigiis Daemonum.
“So?” Gallowglass asked, as she hauled the book towards her. She began to go through the pages, slurping jam off of her spoon as she eyed the various etchings.
“So, Baphomet is the very chap one would go to, if one were in the market for the hidden corpse of an ancient Chinese wizard.” He rubbed his chin. “What if it were tit-for-tat? What if Melion helped Fleece, and got help in return? But then Fleece decided to double-cross William and claim the body of the illustrious Zhang Su for himself. The question is, why?” He ran his hand through his hair. “Why bother? What’s the use of a dead wizard? Besides the obvious, I mean.”
“Decoration?”
“I was thinking necromancy, actually.”
“Maybe we should go back and ask your chum Fleece,” Gallowglass said.
“Maybe we should.” He leaned back and interlaced his fingers behind his head.
“Unless you don’t want to, on account of past associations,” she said. She shoved her spoon back in the jam jar and eyed him.
He eyed her right back. They said nothing for long moments, and then St. Cyprian rolled his eyes. “Fine, yes, I was hoping they weren’t involved. An idle whim, and one I trust you’ll allow me.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yes, I had feelings for Sadie once upon a time, but not now, I assure you,” he said stiffly. “I have matured.” He hesitated, and thought of the postcard that was still stuffed in his pocket, decorated with Aife Andraste’s delicate penmanship. He hadn’t read it yet. He didn’t know that he wanted to, particularly. “Not that I fancy anyone else, you understand,” he added quickly.
“Still didn’t say anything, did I?”
St. Cyprian pointed accusingly at her. “Your eyes spoke volumes.”
“Guilty conscience, innit?” Gallowglass said, eating another spoonful of jam.
“At least I have a conscience. And give me that jam—that jam is shared property,” he snapped, snatching the jar from her grip. “Bloody jam-thief,” he muttered, eyeing the jar.
Gallowglass waggled the spoon at him with her lips. Before he could comment, the lights flickered. They both looked up. A sound echoed down from above, like hooves on slate. The windows rattled a moment later. Ash tumbled down into the fire, causing it to crackle loudly. St. Cyprian held a finger to his lips, silencing Gallowglass before she could speak. He held up the jam jar. It had frosted over. The air had gone damp and cold, as if something had sucked the heat out of it all at once.
The flat seemed to hum softly, like a generator newly cranked to life. The defenses he’d enacted after the Ripper debacle were being tested by some malign, unseen presence. The door shuddered and the lights flickered again. The air grew very hot, then cold, and then hung heavy on them. All at once, everything went quiet.
St. Cyprian stepped quickly to the bookshelf and snatched down a brass cylinder, etched with Arabic characters and stoppered with a plug of ivory. He wrenched the plug out and poured out a handful of dust into his hand. He flung the dust out in a wide circle and the air took on a shimmery haze reminiscent of the open desert at midday. The powder of Ibn Ghazi had the power to make visible the invisible.
Even as he scattered it, he saw ghostly, incomprehensible shapes darting through the settling dust. They had no form, as such, but seemed to be all things, all at once. They were spirits of the air and water, he thought, elementals roused from the Thames and the winter win
d and set loose on them.
I’m going to have to improve the flat’s defenses when this was over, he thought. And then there was no more time for thinking, as the elementals swept over him like a living storm. He felt something clammy seize him and cried out, “Get the arbutus! Third shelf, left of the chap with the head of an ibis!” He staggered back, grabbing uselessly at the air. His lungs began to ache, as if something were forcing its way down his throat.
“What’s an ibis?” Gallowglass snarled as she lurched towards the bookshelf, flinging aside the blanket she’d been wearing. The spirits seemed uninterested in her, or perhaps they could only focus on one target at a time. St. Cyprian sank to one knee. He felt as if he were fighting something with too many arms and not enough body. It squirmed and clutched at him, squeezing all of the breath from his lungs, even as it forced itself into his mouth and nose. He tasted foul water and sediment.
“B-bird,” he gurgled.
“This?” Gallowglass cried, as she pulled down a figurine.
“That—that’s a falcon,” St. Cyprian wheezed, sinking down. He couldn’t breathe. It was a dashed silly way to die, and he was going to have words with his Maker, upon arrival.
“A falcon’s a bird,” Gallowglass said.
“The other bird!” St. Cyprian burst out. He toppled over onto his side. He felt as if he were drowning, though the Thames was across the street. His vision blurred and he gagged.
“Oi,” Gallowglass barked, “Catch!”
St. Cyprian felt something smack his face and he caught it automatically. It was a satchel of dried arbutus leaves. Arbutus Unede, to use the scientific classification. The Romans had used its smoke to chase away evil and cleanse dwelling places of noisome spirits. Whatever was trying to kill him likely counted as the latter for purpose.
Clutching the satchel in one hand, he fumbled for his match box. The matches spilled out, rolling away. He grunted in frustration, and, desperate, he squeezed the satchel. A spurt of flame briefly enveloped his hand, and the satchel caught and began to smoke. The trick of conjuring ectoplasmic flames was a useful one, on occasion. Normally he only used it to light cigarettes, for the flame only lasted a moment. He flailed about with the smoking bundle, and he wheezed in relief as the clutching, cloying presence dissipated like water evaporating on a hot square of pavement.
When he could breathe again, he tossed the smoldering clump into the fireplace and sat up. His hand ached, and splotchy blisters marked his palm and his fingers where he’d conjured the fire. Holding his wounded hand to his chest, he accepted Gallowglass’ helping hand. She clutched her side as he came to his feet, and they both half-limped, half-flung themselves onto the chesterfield.
“What was that?” Gallowglass asked, checking on her bandages. A moment later she began to load her pistol with ammunition taken from a box on the mantle. St. Cyprian recognized the cartridges. He’d had them specially made from melted down church bells.
“A warning, I suspect,” St. Cyprian coughed, massaging his throat. “The question is, who sent it?”
“I don’t know, let’s go ask whoever that is out there on the Embankment,” Gallowglass snarled. She pointed towards the window. The gale created by the elementals had torn down the curtains, and through the window, St. Cyprian could see a figure illuminated by moonlight, standing on the Embankment across the street, watching them. He recalled seeing a similar figure hurrying away from Wendy-Smythe’s flat, and thought, Shepherd. Before he could get the word out, Gallowglass was already darting for the door, her reloaded pistol in hand. Wearily, he struggled to his feet and went after her.
Ganju Ghale sat in the driver’s seat of his automobile and shuffled his cards. He watched as the sorcerer began to move away quickly, her task apparently finished. He had watched her arrive and known then that something was wrong. Ghale worked for a sorcerer, and he knew one when he saw one. Melion had been right again, and now Ghale owed him another five years of service.
When the goat-demon had shown up, capering about her, in and out of shadow, his hand had flown reflexively to the hilt of his knife. He’d resisted the urge to move against her there and then. It was too dangerous with the demon there. The creature had almost killed him before, and despite being eager to renew their acquaintance, he knew he’d only survived their earlier encounter by chance.
He’d kept his fingers occupied with his cards, watching as the sorcerer sent spirits to kill St. Cyprian and his cat-eyed woman. He’d been hoping she would send the demon, and leave herself unprotected, but no such luck. He felt little regard for Melion’s friend. One sorcerer was as bad as another, and his woman was worse. She smiled too fiercely, and her eyes made him nervous. He’d been chased by a leopard with eyes like that, once. Besides which, he wasn’t here to protect them; merely to watch. If they were as resourceful as Melion claimed, then they wouldn’t need his help.
Melion had set him to following St. Cyprian all over London, keeping watch on where he went, and making note of who he spoke to. He hadn’t asked why Melion wanted him to do this, but he had his suspicions. St. Cyprian was a stalking horse. He was drawing out Melion’s enemy for him, whether he knew it or not. And now, he had done just that.
Ghale shuffled his cards and watched the woman hurry away. The air shimmered around her, like rain pattering against glass, and Ghale could feel an itch between his shoulder-blades. She either hadn’t been aware that she was being watched, or she hadn’t cared, for which he was grateful. He didn’t recognize her, but he intended to follow her to her lair and have done with her once and for all. Demon or no demon.
He blinked. The goat-demon had been loping after her along the Embankment, casting weird shadows along the pavement, but now, only the woman was visible. The devil was gone. Ghale stared out into the dark, trying to find any sign of it.
He sniffed. The canvas roof of his auto rattled. He looked up as he heard the canvas begin to tear. Through a rent in the roof, the goat-demon growled down at him. It pried the canvas roof off of the auto with a single motion and sent it sailing away. Its rank odor filled Ghale’s nostrils. His cards slipped from his grip and he grabbed for his knife. The devil reached down, quicker than thought, and caught his collar. A moment later, Ghale was dragged from his seat and up into the air. The devil seemed to grow and swell as it hauled him into the air.
Ghale gagged and yanked his kukri from its sheath, whipping it out in a wide, glittering arc. The demon shrilled as the tip of the knife kissed its muzzle and released a spurt of noisome, oily ichor. The devil flung him down. Ghale crashed down on the hood of the car and rolled off onto the street. He managed to hold onto his knife, and when the devil swooped down on him, he stabbed at it. His blade bit nothing, and for a moment, he was enveloped in a cloying, wet fog. Then he heard the sharp rap of hooves on pavement, and claws scraped down through the back of his coat.
Ghale was thrown forward by the force of the blow, and he struck the auto and bounced off. He fell onto his back, and his kukri slid from his grip and skidded beneath the auto. A heavy hoof slammed down, nearly pulping his skull. He rolled aside desperately. The devil followed him, tittering. The sound was incongruous, light and childlike. The creature flexed its claws as it paced after him.
Ghale scrambled to his feet with a grunt of pain. His back felt as if it was on fire. The devil’s face split and reformed as it moved slowly towards him, shedding its goatish aspect and becoming more human. Its leer remained, however. It spoke softly, and Ghale clapped his hands to his ears. His stomach lurched as its voice dug into him as it had before. He groaned and staggered back. The devil reached for him.
Ghale felt something touch him, and he turned his head. The barrel of a Webley-Fosbery rested on his shoulder. “Don’t flinch,” a woman’s voice said. The pistol roared a second later, and the devil was flung back, squealing.
Ghale sank to his knees, ears ringing. He saw St. Cyprian’s assistant, Gallowglass stalk past him, her smoking pistol extended before her. She fired again,
and the devil thrashed and scrambled away, wailing. It bounded up onto the top of his auto, and flung itself into the air. Its shape contorted, twisted and was gone in the blink of an eye.
Gallowglass turned to Ghale. “Made the cartridges from melted down church bells,” she said, grinning widely. “I’ve been itching to try those out.” Before Ghale could even attempt to formulate a reply, she raised the pistol and took aim at a point between his eyes. “Don’t move,” she said. Ghale froze.
“I see our tribulations had an audience.” Ghale glanced to the side, and saw St. Cyprian approaching him, looking disheveled and angry.
“Good evening, Mr. St. Cyprian,” Ghale said amiably.
“Did William put you up to this?” St. Cyprian demanded. He waved a hand, cutting off Ghale’s reply. “Never mind, of course he did. That’s it! I have had it.” He gestured curtly. “Get up. And do holster your shooting iron, Ms. Gallowglass. I need Mr. Ghale intact to drive.”
“Where are we going?” Gallowglass asked, holstering her weapon. Ghale let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The woman was small, but terrifying.
“Where do you think?” St. Cyprian said, “To find out what’s really going on.”
13.
Soho, the West End, London
The second trip to Soho was undertaken in silence, just like the first, though they took the Crossley, rather than Ghale’s auto. Ghale refused to answer any questions about what he’d seen, or why he’d been hanging about outside their flat, even with Gallowglass giving him her best eyeball in the backseat. While St. Cyprian could admire a set of tight lips in service to a worthy cause, he was beginning to suspect that Melion was anything but.
He was in a foul mood by the time they arrived, just as the night was pushing in and Soho was waking up. The notorious 43 Club was just opening its doors to eager punters, and the tables were full at the Old Compton Street restaurants. There was music on the air, and a light rain pattering on the pavement.
The Jade Suit of Death (The Adventures Of The Royal Occultist Book 2) Page 12