Annoyed, he looked at Melion. “William, I need to know how you bound the demon in the first place. There must be some way of banishing Baphomet permanently.”
“A phylactery,” Melion said.
St. Cyprian blinked. “What?”
“A phylactery, Charles. Something holding a bit of blood. An amulet, perhaps, or a ring. That’s the way it’s done traditionally,” Melion said. The other man pushed himself to his feet. “If she’s controlling the beastie, she’ll have one.”
“And if it’s the other way around?” St. Cyprian said, recalling the locket Sadie had been fiddling with. “What if the demon is controlling her?”
“Who says it isn’t?” Melion shrugged. “Like all demons, it wants nothing more than to perpetrate outrages on whoever holds it captive. It put her on a course she was already heading down, for its own ends. That creature organized the destruction of the Knights Templar, and I have no doubt that it’s doing the same to the Order of the Cosmic Ram. She’ll have a way to control it, otherwise it would have already twisted her head off.”
St. Cyprian nodded slowly. It made sense. “Anything else you’d like to offer?”
“Ghale,” Melion said.
“What?”
“Ghale will go with you,” Melion said quietly. “I insist, Charles,” he continued, not looking at him. “Mr. Ghale is quite good in a scrap.”
“And you want him to make sure you get your property back,” St. Cyprian said.
“That boat has decidedly sailed, I think, judging by your tone. No, Charles, I am a man who pays my debts,” Melion said. He looked at St. Cyprian. “I brought you into this mess, and I want to help. Whatever happens after is up to you.”
St. Cyprian looked at him for a moment, trying to judge whether Melion was being truthful. There were still a number of unanswered questions surrounding this whole matter, but he couldn’t afford to be distracted right now. Sadie had to be stopped. Everything else was secondary. He nodded brusquely and said, “We’ll talk when I get back, William.”
“Oh I have no doubt about that, Charles,” Melion said. “Though I doubt you’ll like what I have to say.”
16.
Wayebury, Wiltshire
Wayebury was only a few hours from London, and they arrived just the sun was beginning to sink towards the horizon. It was a small village, caught fast in time’s clutches, and as sleepy as they came. There had been people in Wayebury since the Iron Age. They had outlasted the Romans and the Saxons, but not the Normans; generations of Britons, sheep-herders mostly, occupying the same ground for hundreds of years, until they’d been moved slightly north by the local lord to what was now Wayebury. The reasons for the move had never been recorded. He thought he could wager a guess.
Gallowglass kept up a running commentary on the merits, or lack thereof, of the countryside as she fiddled with the ugly shape of the MP18 she’d insisted on bringing. The submachine gun was the same type that the German stosstruppen had carried in the War, and he’d been shot at by them often enough to know one when he saw it. The Germans had put the ugly little guns to use clearing trenches. Where Gallowglass had even gotten one, he couldn’t say, but she doted on it as if it were a pet.
Ghale, in contrast, hadn’t said a word the entire drive. He simply sat in the back, resolutely not looking at the devil-box, where it shuddered and shook beside him. St. Cyprian wasn’t entirely certain that they could trust him, but another set of hands would be useful, especially if things went wrong. Which they almost certainly would.
Even as he guided the Crossley through the narrow streets of Wayebury, he wondered what his plan was. They couldn’t simply move in and arrest everyone—that would quickly turn sour, especially with Baphomet flitting about. And then there was Zhang Su. The thing was bound, but for how long? And how was Sadie planning on controlling it?
He’d studied up on the rites and rituals associated with such things. There weren’t many, and all of them involved blood sacrifice of some sort. Someone close to the caster—a sacrifice, not just of flesh, but also of spirit—was needed. A friend, a lover, a child.
A parent, even.
As he guided the Crossley towards a likely parking spot, he wondered if that were the real reason she’d put a bullet in her father’s skull, whatever she’d said. And whether or not, if that were the case, he was allowed to feel some slight relief because of it.
There were more automobiles in evidence in Wayebury than there were local businesses, and St. Cyprian wondered what the locals thought about the influx of foreign vehicles. If anyone in the village noticed the sudden profusion of strangers, no one seemed inclined to mention it. No one seemed inclined to do much of anything, in fact. The lights were off, windows were barred, and every door shut. Even the pub. St. Cyprian thought that was wise, given the circumstances.
Robertson-Kirk and her constables were waiting on them in the village common. She’d brought a dozen men, none of whom looked as if they spent much time behind desks. They were armed with truncheons and revolvers, and Molly herself had shed her skirts for a man’s hiking trousers and a waistcoat that St. Cyprian suspected had belonged to her husband. She had a shotgun cracked open and hanging over her arm. As he, Gallowglass and Ghale approached, the latter staggering slightly under the weight of the devil-box, she stood, an open pocket watch in one gloved hand.
“Punctual as ever, Charles. Now, shall we go arrest some sheep-botherers?”
“Is this all you’ve brought,” he said, gesturing to her men.
“You’re very welcome, I’m sure,” Robertson-Kirk said. She glanced towards the other side of the common and said, “I tried to roust the local constabulary from their station, but they were having none of it. The Fleeces own everything here, down to the chalk.”
“Not for long. Not if I have anything to say about it.” St. Cyprian smacked his palms together. “Right then, let’s go ruin someone’s vernal equinox, shall we?”
They left the vehicles in the village, and made their south away from the village down a rutted track across the chalk downland. It didn’t take them long to spot Scap Barrow. Someone had lit a welcoming bonfire, which cast long shadows across the rolling hills. It was no wonder the locals were staying out of sight.
Shacks dotted the slope of the gentle hill that rose to the prominent chalk ridge where the barrow sat. Larger shapes clustered around the crown of the hill like crouching beasts. Something about those shapes put a chill down St. Cyprian’s spine when he caught sight of them, and he wondered for what purpose the standing stones had originally been raised. Whatever that reason was, it probably wasn’t all that dissimilar to what was going on within their radius at that moment.
He brought the group to a halt among the broken, ancient shacks. The latter were all haphazardly piled stone. Age had worn through whatever had been used to seal the gaps between the stones long ago, leaving the old walls full of holes. Above them, stars wheeled in the eternal dance overhead and on any other night, St. Cyprian might have paused to wonder at them. An evening chill clung to the walls, making everything feel damp and cold, and he hugged his coat more tightly about him as Robertson-Kirk joined him.
“So Charles, come up with a plan yet?” she asked as she peered through a gap in the walls towards the not-so distant bonfire.
“As a matter of fact, I have.” He rummaged in his coat and extracted the bulky shape of the Verey flare gun that normally occupied the Crossley’s glove compartment. He tossed it to Gallowglass, who tossed it to Ghale. “You’ve arrested your fair share of illicit groupings, I expect,” he said, looking at Robertson-Kirk. “Spread out, and encircle the barrow. They can only escape in one direction, unless they want to take their chances jumping off the ridge. Move in when someone fires the flare.”
“And what’ll you be doing while we’re doing that?”
“Trying to talk them out of doing what they’re preparing to do. We need to interrupt that ritual. That means a distraction, which means me.” He patte
d the devil-box. “Well, us.”
“I told you it’d be a good idea to bring it,” Gallowglass said, with a grin.
“It’s a terrible idea, but what’s one more monster added to the mix?” he said, hefting the box. The hands thumped around inside in agitation. He looked at Gallowglass and Ghale. “You two—follow me. At a distance. Stay out of sight. Thump anyone who tries to stop me. Think you two can handle that?”
Ghale smiled and ran his thumb along the edge of his kukri knife. “I am an experienced thumper, yes,” he said, the first words he’d spoken since they’d left London.
“I expect you are,” St. Cyprian said. He looked at Gallowglass. “Fire the flare when I give the signal.”
“What’s the signal?”
“Well, I’d say the shriek of fear I intend to emit when Sadie tries to kill me. But use your best judgment. Ta, all. Until we meet at the other end, as we used to say in the trenches.” He hefted the devil-box onto one shoulder with a grunt, and began to trudge up the hill.
The box was heavier than it looked, and soon, he was puffing slightly and his face was slick with sweat, despite the cool of the evening. The journey wasn’t made any easier by the increased agitation of the Hairy Hands, which were making a substantial racket now. Despite the noise, he fancied that he could hear muffled curses and the sounds of the occasional scuffle nearby as he walked up the slope. He began to whistle cheerfully. Whatever guards the Order had set to insure that they weren’t interrupted were being well taken care of by Gallowglass and Ghale. He swatted the box, as the Hands punched the inside.
He hadn’t intended to bring the Hands at first, despite Gallowglass’ wheedling. But, then he’d recalled one of Carnacki’s oldest lessons—sorcery depended a lot on everything working correctly, with no unforeseen interruptions or mistakes. One slip-up, one unpredictable element introduced at the wrong time, and there wasn’t a ritual in existence that wouldn’t fizzle out, with varying degrees of collateral damage.
Sadie had, unless she was a complete numpty, made preparations for him. She was probably even expecting him. But she wouldn’t be expecting him to bring his own demon to the party. He patted the box. “One unpredictable element, at your service,” he murmured, as the Hairy Hands continued to claw and smash at the interior of the box.
When he reached the edge of the standing stones, he didn’t stop. Instead, he strolled through them and into the light of the bonfire, and said, loudly, “Is this a private shindig, or can anyone pop in?”
He took in the interior of the antediluvian ring of stones that crowned the hill at a glance. They spread out in a rough, semicircular forecourt. At the opposite end from St. Cyprian was a facade of tall, flat stones that blocked the point where the barrow itself crowded back into the peak of the ridge. In the center of the forecourt was the circular wedge of rock that the locals were said to call Scap’s Foot. It was occupied by a heavy cargo crate. It was badly battered, and marked by dark patches that could only be blood. And crouched on top of the crate was the Devil Himself.
Baphomet, the Goat of Mendes, squatted on the crate, its knuckles resting on its hairy thighs, and it sighed happily as it watched him approach. It looked none the worse for wear for its banishment. It capered and danced, hooves scraping sparks from the rock. Men in robes and masks surrounded the rock and the devilish eidolon that sat on it.
The crowd of robed and hooded shapes turned, as one, their grotesque masks pointed in St. Cyprian’s direction. He carefully set the devil-box down and set his foot on it. He leaned on his knee and fished his cigarette case out of his coat. He stuffed one between his lips and peered at the silent crowd. He raised his finger to the end of the cigarette and tapped it. There was a brief flare of ghostly fire, and the end of the cigarette glowed cherry red. He shook his finger, extinguishing the ectoplasmic flame, and puffed contentedly.
“I apologize for the state of my wardrobe. No one told me this was fancy dress,” he said.
“I don’t recall inviting you,” a familiar voice said. A figure clad in heavy dark robes and a monstrous cowl that resembled the head of a ram, pushed her way through the crowd.
“Sadie, is that you? You have a sheep on your head,” he said.
“A ram, actually,” Sadie said. A broad, heavy shape he guessed was Shepherd moved to stand protectively beside her. The rest of the crowd didn’t seem so inclined. Then, they might have been preoccupied by the shifting and shuddering of the crate, as well as the disturbing noises coming from within.
“I try not to worry about the social classes of livestock,” he said, “Gives me hives, what?” There were close to twenty robed figures present, besides Sadie and Shepherd. Not good odds, but none of them looked to be armed. He had no doubt that a few of them were packing service revolvers or the like, but they were probably counting on the guards. He fought to hide a smile. One for me, he thought.
“Probably wise,” Sadie said. She pulled off her mask and tossed it aside. “It took you long enough to get here, Charles. I was beginning to think it was Wyndham’s all over again.”
“Perish the thought,” St. Cyprian said. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
“Where are those damnable guards of yours, Shepherd?” one of the crowd snapped.
“Likely drunk,” another man barked, fidgeting with his mask. “Can’t count on the lower classes, you know that.”
“They’re not drinkers,” Sadie said, peering away, towards the distant shapes of the stone piles. “I made sure of that. And they should be close.” She looked at Shepherd. “Someone should go check, perhaps.”
“No need for that,” St. Cyprian said. “I’m here now, after all.” He looked towards the crate. “I say chaps, what’s in the box?”
“What’s in yours?” Sadie said, moving towards him. “I’d have thought you’d know better, Charles. Coming here, tonight, to this, our place of power.”
“According to the survey maps, this is on a public footpath,” St. Cyprian said. He flicked ash onto the hard ground. “Anyway, you knew I’d come, you just said as much. I can’t let you do what you’re planning to do, Sadie. The thing in that box needs to stay inhumed, for the good of the British public.” He straightened, and raised his voice. “By order of the King, and by the powers vested in me as Occultist Royal of the British Empire and all dominions, realms and territories so claimed, by the grace of God, I command you to cease this unlawful gathering and disperse any and all spirits, sprites, elementals or revenants you have conjured.”
The crowd began to shift with communal discomfort, and he could hear mutters and hushed voices. Sadie did as well. She glanced over her shoulder, face contorted in frustration. Then she turned back, reached beneath her robes, and drew her revolver. “You have no authority here, Charles. The Order of the Cosmic Ram has remit as old as that of your paltry offices, and what we do here, we do for the good of the British Empire.”
“Really? Unleashing a ravenous lycanthrope from its centuries old captivity is a good thing, then?” he said. His words echoed from the stones.
“I am unleashing nothing.” Sadie cocked her weapon. “I am merely adding to the Order’s armory. That beast is nothing more than a tool, to be employed by us.”
“Employed doing what? Stevedore? Butler? Oh, I know…pest removal,” St. Cyprian said. The weight of his Webley, sitting in his pocket, wasn’t as comforting as he’d thought it’d be. He wasn’t fast enough to grab it, or to free the Hairy Hands before Sadie put a shot somewhere sensitive. He considered calling for help, but dismissed the idea. There’d be a bullet in his wheeze box before he got a word out.
Sadie smiled. “In a sense, yes. It will be the method by which I—by which we—cleanse this empire of milk and soft mewling, which sheds its limbs and squirms through the dust of lesser nations. It is here, now, that the empire will be shorn of its weaknesses; here, at the place of the Ram, beneath the gaze of the Starry Wisdom, in this place of old power, the stars will be made right, and they will shine on
a new British Empire; an empire overseen by the Order of the Cosmic Ram.” She smiled thinly. “Here, the future will be set on its proper course.”
“You mean your course,” St. Cyprian said.
“That’s what I said. Do keep up, Charles.” Her smile faded. “This is where the story of you ends, I’m afraid. It must be something of a relief, I’d wager.”
“I didn’t come alone,” he said quickly. “The police have already taken custody of your father’s residence in Mayfair, and they’ll be knocking on doors as we speak. Any Order member in London will soon be receiving a visit from Scotland Yard. This barrow is surrounded. Give up now, and the crown may show leniency.” He looked past Sadie, towards the others. The mutters rose in volume. The Order had lived so long, and gotten away with so much, that it had grown complacent. And complacent men didn’t like to hear that sort of thing.
“The police will be as wheat before the scythe, when the beast is mine,” Sadie said, loudly. “All of those who stand against the Order will fall to its claws.”
“Shoot him, Sadie,” Shepherd said, spreading his arms. Golden torcs and bands encircled his thick, bare arms beneath his robes. “The vernal equinox is upon us, and Aries is in the House of Mars. The skein of stars grows loose and it is to us to repair the weft and way of it.” Shepherd spun about so that his robes flared melodramatically. “The stars are right; the world is wrong. It is not as it should be. We have lost a generation, snuffed beneath the tread of bloated corpse-empires, tramped into the mud of Flanders. Many of us survived that maelstrom, only to return home to…what? A stagnant kingdom, rotting on its vine; fruit must be plucked to ensure the health of the plant even as a sheep must be sheared to ensure new growth. We will shear the fleece of history and weave a new tomorrow!”
The speech sounded dreadfully rehearsed. The robed congregation applauded lustily nonetheless, all previous misgivings forgotten. That was the way it went, usually. A bit of the Bard and a good set of lungs and you could set up a fairly decent religion on the cheap.
The Jade Suit of Death (The Adventures Of The Royal Occultist Book 2) Page 16