A moment later, Gallowglass vaulted the crate and landed beside him, her Webley cracked open. “Bullets don’t work,” she said. “Emptied everything the MP18 had in it, and it kept coming.”
“When do bullets ever work?” St. Cyprian snapped.
“They were working pretty well earlier,” Gallowglass snapped back at him. “I didn’t hear you complaining then!”
“I’m not complaining, merely pointing out the obvious,” he said. He shoved a chunk of jade into her hands. “Here, hold this.”
“What do I do with it?”
“You’ll know when you see,” he said, rising smoothly to his feet, the chunk of jade held like a small, stubby spear. “We need to be quick. If this thing gets past us—if it has time to gather its strength…”
“It won’t,” she said.
“That’s the spirit,” he said. “Baphomet hurt it, and badly. It’s weak, disorientated. Which means we have a chance to put it back where it belongs.” He swallowed, wishing he felt half as confident as he sounded, and rose to his feet. “Try and get behind it. I’ll keep its attention fixed firmly to the fore. When your chance comes, go for the heart or the brain.”
“That’ll kill it?”
“No. I don’t think it can be killed. Not with anything we have to hand, at any rate. But the jade held it in its crypt. It’ll stop it long enough for us to figure something out.” Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of cover.
Up close, Zhang Su looked even worse than he’d first thought. It was as if all of those centuries of being sealed in its jade tomb had drained it of every scrap of human vitality, leaving only a withered, feral thing. It tracked him as he moved into sight, its teeth gnashing and its eyes bulging. The white hair was now plastered to its limbs and chest by blood, and its features were hidden behind a mask of the same. There was no mind there, no cunning or cruelty. Only hunger, eternal and unending. For all that he had once been a philosopher, now Zhang Su was nothing more than a destructive impulse made flesh.
As he stepped forward, St. Cyprian felt a twinge of pity for the entity before him. It had been a man once, like himself. More like himself than he’d first suspected, he thought. A hunter of monsters, reduced to the very thing he had fought against. Would his own end come in a similar fashion? Would he be felled by a bite or by preternatural poisons, would he be drawn from his grave, to rend and slay like the beasts he had been forced to put down again and again? He caught sight of Gallowglass, circling around behind the creature. If he were, he hoped Gallowglass would possess the wherewithal to see things put right.
Zhang Su lurched forward, moving swiftly. Ragged claws tore the air where his head had been, even as he ducked. He thrust the length of jade forward, driving it into the werewolf’s chest. It slid in as easily as knife through paper, and a whistling shriek erupted from Zhang Su’s fang-studded mouth. Its claws slammed down, digging into his coat. “Gallowglass—now!”
He felt rather than saw Gallowglass leap onto the creature’s back and ram her own chunk of jade into its skull. A tremor ran through its body and it fell sideways, carrying them with it. Its eyes still blazed with life, but it was paralyzed by the shards of jade. St. Cyprian writhed free of its grip and fell back on his rear. He hadn’t been entirely certain that the jade would work, but it had kept the thing quiescent for centuries. Nonetheless, they had been lucky, and several times over. He stood, breathing heavily. “Ms. Gallowglass, I trust you’re well?”
“Tip-top, Mr. St. Cyprian,” Gallowglass called, from the opposite side of the crumpled shape of Zhang Su. “Getting a bit winded though. Luckily the plods are here, eh?” she asked, as she lurched to her feet, one hand pressed to her side.
“Then let’s put an end to this, shall we?” St. Cyprian said, loudly. Everyone—police officer and Order member alike—had stopped what they were doing to watch their confrontation with the beast. There were more of the latter than the former, but the group in the robes shifted like the herd of nervous sheep they resembled. “Mr. Shepherd and Miss Fleece are both indisposed.” The woolly masks regarded him stonily. He took a breath and continued. “If you’ll direct your gazes above, you’ll note that the vernal equinox has passed.” He waited for any assertions to the contrary, praying that there wasn’t a pedantic astronomer among the hooded assemblage. “Your pet demon has been banished. And you’ll notice that while I’ve been speaking, my doughty assistant has reloaded that dreadful artillery piece she calls a pistol.” He paused long enough to allow Gallowglass to snap the Webley shut for emphasis. “What I’m trying to say, is you’re nicked, gentlemen.”
“So give up now, and we won’t kick your heads in,” Gallowglass added.
18.
“Well Charles, you do know how to show a lady a good time,” Robertson-Kirk said, stepping into the firelight as her men set about rounding up the remaining members of the Order. An honor guard of plainclothes constables surrounded her, bristling with facial hair and firearms. She stepped over to St. Cyprian and Gallowglass, followed discreetly by Ghale.
“I do try my best,” St. Cyprian said. “I’m happy to see you made it through without a scratch. And you as well, Mr. Ghale.” He nodded to the latter, who inclined his head.
“Charles, I do believe this beast is still alive,” Robertson-Kirk said, in a hushed voice, as she stared down at the twitching shape of Zhang Su. “When you insisted on this outing, I assumed there was something nefarious afoot but this…what is it?”
“Something old, but nonetheless incredibly dangerous,” St. Cyprian said. He signaled to Gallowglass. “Help me get him wrapped up back in that jade shroud of his. We’ll fix the suit as best we can, until we can figure out a more permanent arrangement.”
“Why don’t we just burn him?” she said, as Ghale helped them drag the inert mass of the ancient werewolf back to the crate.
“Because whoever buried him didn’t,” St. Cyprian said. “I don’t want to take the chance that they knew something we didn’t. There are spells—rituals of containment—which I can perform, once we’re done.”
“Like you did with that mummy in Maida Vale,” Gallowglass said.
“Happy to see you paying attention, assistant-mine. Now let’s get him covered.” They quickly set about sliding the monster back into confinement. Though it didn’t move, it was aware of everything, and it stared hatefully at them, its eyes alight with uncomprehending fury. But the jade seemed to drain it of strength. Already, the beast was losing what vitality its slaughter had bought it.
Still, it was something of a relief when they pulled the cowl of the burial suit over its contorted, blood-smeared features. There were gaps, where he’d torn loose his improvised weapons, but it would do. As he’d said, there were any number of rituals which might prove of use in laying Zhang Su to rest once more.
When they’d finished, Zhang Su lay quiet and stiff, no different than the bodies which now lay scattered about. Robertson-Kirk, who’d watched the whole affair, shook her head. “I don’t suppose you can tell me how I’m supposed to write this up, then?”
“You could simply call it a comedy of errors and let it go at that,” St. Cyprian said, as he dropped the discarded lid of the crate back into place. Using the butt of his Webley, he hammered the nails back in. Then, using a splinter, he drew blood from his thumb and smeared a sigil on the top of the crate. “By the sign of Koth, which guards the Black Tower, and seals the vaults of Pnath, I beseech thee, be still,” he murmured. The sign of Koth had many uses, only one of which was the sealing of doors, apertures and boxes against those who might try to get in, or, as in this case, out. It would serve to restrain the creature, until more permanent arrangements could be made.
“Charles, while I appreciate your need for levity, I lost several good men tonight apprehending this—this thing,” Robertson-Kirk said. “What happened here? What sort of madness did we interrupt?”
“Not madness,” he said. “It was a good deal more intricate than that. More layers than an onion,
if you’ll forgive the culinary metaphor. I didn’t figure it all out until just now, truthfully. Then, I’ve never been very much of a detective.” He sat down on the crate and rifled in his pocket for his cigarette case. As he extracted one from the case and set it between his lips, he said, “It was the demon, you see. If not for it, Sadie and her pal Shepherd would have gotten away with it. But demons are tricky, and it muddled everything up.”
“What do you mean?” Gallowglass said, as she reached for the cigarette case. He pulled it away from her, but then relented and allowed her to take one.
“It was plucking strings from the beginning. Demons have a way of finding what you want, and then offering it to you. More would-be demonologists die that way. They call up something, bind it, and then it turns into a shapely set of gams and bob’s your uncle, over the magic circle your would-be necromancer skips and gets his ticker ripped out.” He tapped his chest for emphasis. “Sadie bound it, and set it to finding her a weapon she could use in whatever it was she was planning, and it found it. A weapon which happened to belong to the man who’d imprisoned it, and who would, undoubtedly, attempt to get it back. In that attempt, the demon saw its chance for freedom. And if our friend Zhang Su got loose, uncontrolled and ravenous, well, so much the better, because the only thing a demon likes more than hurting the one who bound it, is hurting everyone else.” He knocked his knuckle against the crate. “And Zhang Su escaping would, in fact, most certainly have hurt everyone in Wiltshire, and likely England. I can only imagine the sort of plague that would sweep the country. Werewolfery is not the sort of illness one fixes with a hot toddy and a week of bed rest.” As he said the latter, he met Ghale’s eyes. The other man frowned, but said nothing.
“What’ll we do with it? I can’t exactly confiscate it as evidence,” Robertson-Kirk said.
“We’ll call in Morris and his lot. The Ministry of Esoteric Observation and I don’t see eye-to-eye on many things, but in this case, I think it’s best we let them handle the particulars. They’ll stuff the poor beast in a hole so deep, he’ll never see the light of the moon again.”
“What about the other one? Where do you think it went?” Robertson-Kirk asked softly. “The demon, I mean.”
“Somewhere far from here, one can but hope.” He clapped his hands and began to fish around for a match. “Still, it could have been worse. With this lot bagged and put away, the Order will have no choice but to keep a low profile for the foreseeable future. Looks bad, practicin’ human sacrifice and summonin’ demons and what not, donchaknow?”
“So was that what all this was about then?” Gallowglass looked around.
“Just a bit of magic is all,” St. Cyprian said. “The right blood, the right place, the right time, and you can do a fair bit, if you know what you’re doing. And if the stars are right.”
“Were they?” She thumbed back the brim of her hat and looked up curiously.
“No,” St. Cyprian said. He located a match and lit his cigarette. “Not quite.” He puffed contentedly for a moment before he blinked and looked around.
“Hang on a tick—did anyone see where the Hairy Hands of Dartmoor went?”
Sadie Fleece staggered towards the door, out of breath and out of time. She had driven like a madwoman to get back to her family estate, on the opposite end of Wayebury from the standing stones. She entered the house and shut the door behind her, breathing heavily. She hunched forward and sank to the floor, her arms wrapped around her chest. Her pistol fell, momentarily forgotten. Charles had shot her. He’d shot her. He’d actually shot her! She couldn’t believe it. If she hadn’t twisted aside at the last moment, she’d have been dead. Charles probably thought she was. She wondered if he would cry. He’d always been terribly sentimental. She thrust the heels of her hands into her eyes, wiping away the tears that sprang to life unbidden. “Bastard,” she gulped. She forced herself to remain calm.
She had time. Not much, but enough. It would take hours for the police to round everyone up and count the dead. She had to think. Charles wouldn’t realize that she hadn’t been killed, that she was gone until it was too late. With luck, the thing they’d awoken would kill him. But her luck hadn’t been the best, of late.
Baphomet had escaped her control, but all was not lost. What had been found once, could be found again, even if Melion wasn’t helping this time. Demons had their paths and they stuck to them. She would find the beast and bind it again. And this time, she would not listen to it. She would not let it talk her into making foolish mistakes. She would bind it, and leave it in that Hebridean crypt as her father had desired, only visiting when she wanted to know something specific. Let it talk all it wished, safely unheard.
“You were right, father,” she muttered as she pushed herself upright. “I was a fool. But I know better now. I will rebuild the Order, and I will return.” Her face twisted. “Charles won’t know what hit him.”
She had to move quickly. There was a car, in the garage. She had money, she would go to the continent—Marseille, perhaps, or Florence. Charles wouldn’t follow her, she was sure of that. He had always been a maudlin fool, and he would pay for that foolishness when she returned. The Order of the Cosmic Ram would grow strong on his blood, and a new British Empire would be birthed at the moment of his death, with her as its Regina Gloriana. The thought gave her strength.
She heard a floorboard creak. She snatched her pistol up, from where she’d dropped it. “Who’s there?” she spat. “If you’ve come to rob me, you’ve picked a bad night for it.” Her bravado was tempered by a thread of fear. Baphomet might not have fled as far as she’d assumed. The demon might have decided to take what it was owed out of her. She had certain tools in the upstairs library which might be of use, if that was the case. If she could get upstairs. She took a step away from the door, towards the stairs.
A shape detached itself from the shadows which clung to the doorways to either side of the foyer. It wasn’t Baphomet. It was a man, or had been, at some point. Dressed in black, with appeared to be a hangman’s hood hiding his features, and a length of tightly braided rope stretched between his pale fists. “Evening, Miss,” a strangled, hoarse voice wheezed.
“I don’t know who you are, but I’m in no mood,” Sadie snarled. Her pistol bobbed up and she fired. The man staggered, but continued moving stiffly towards her. He walked like a broken thing only recently repaired, with a peculiar gait that put her in mind of a crippled leopard. She fired again and again, and then the pistol clicked dry. All three shots had found their target, but other than a bit of a pause, said target didn’t seem unduly bothered.
“Now Miss, don’t get yourself in a fluster. Gentlewoman like yourself, it ain’t proper,” the apparition croaked, as he raised his cord and gave it a tug. “Soon be over, Miss. A quick drop, as ’twas said. That’s what old Ketch is good at.”
Sadie flung the pistol, and made to dart past. But the man was too quick, and the rope looped about her throat before she had a chance to scream. As it was pulled tight, she felt her feet leave the floor. She clawed at her attacker’s hands, trying to force him to let go. But his grip never wavered. She thrashed and kicked as her vision began to cloud. As everything went black, and as Sadie Fleece passed out of one world and on into what awaited her in the next, she heard a hoarse voice say, “Mr. Dorr sends his regards.”
EPILOGUE
“A fire, you say,” Melion said, not looking at St. Cyprian.
“Quite a big one. We could see it from the barrow, in fact. The local fire brigade is still sifting the ashes for any sign of her,” St. Cyprian said. He set his tea cup aside. Melion sipped from his own, and tried not to meet the other man’s gaze. He couldn’t stand to see the look in them. His stomach churned queasily and he took a steadying breath. The tea tasted bitter in his mouth, as always, and the thing inside him thrashed in disgust.
The tea kept it at bay, kept it weak, especially on those night when it might otherwise tear its way out of him, and seek out the hot red
blood it so desired. It was an old Tibetan recipe, for persons of his ilk, but it wasn’t foolproof. The curse could only be held at bay for so long, and every night, the beast within grew stronger.
“Poor Sadie,” Melion said, finally. Then, “And poor Hermes too, I suppose. They were never a lot for half measures, the Fleeces.” He glanced at the window. It was an ugly day, but birds sang despite the mist and drizzle. “Do you think it was—ah—the demon?”
“Possibly,” St. Cyprian said noncommittally.
Melion looked at him. “If I’d known…” he began.
“Spare me, William,” St. Cyprian said. “I’m only glad the creature you so foolishly brought into Blighty was contained before it could do too much damage. What could have possessed you to seek out something like that?” he demanded, leaning forward.
“I told you Charles, I’m ill.” Melion hesitated. “I thought…” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. I was wrong, obviously.” He looked at his guest. “I did send Ghale to help, you know. I think I’m owed a bit of thanks, rather than accusations.”
“A bit of thanks,” St. Cyprian said. “For nearly getting me sacrificed by a bunch of barmy livestock worshippers? For nearly getting me eaten by a bloody Chinese werewolf?”
“Well it sounds bad when you put it that way, I admit,” Melion said. “Speaking of which—what about the rest of them? Arrested?”
“Those who survived Zhang Su’s rampage, and didn’t manage to slip the net,” St. Cyprian said. He sighed and rubbed his face. “The Order will recover. It always does. Most of those arrested will be released with a caution, and those that aren’t, well, they’ll vanish into the prisons to be released quietly at some later date.” He shook his head. “We’ll need to watch our backs for a few months I think, just in case some overeager junior member of the Order decides to avenge the Fleeces.”
The Jade Suit of Death (The Adventures Of The Royal Occultist Book 2) Page 18