by Joel Jenkins
“What in God’s name are you doing up there?” he hissed.
“Empty flat back here, innit? Came through the door, didn’t I? Is that him?” Gallowglass whispered back, beaming down at him like the Cheshire cat.
“Who else would it be?” he spat. “Here…help me get him over the wall.”
They manhandled Mosley over the garden wall with much muffled cursing on Gallowglass’ part and furtive glances at the door on St. Cyprian’s. As Mosley’s shoes vanished over the top, St. Cyprian grabbed the ivy and heaved himself up, scrambling over with as much dignity as he could muster. Even as he dropped down, he heard the door open, and a voice call out. He shot a warning look at Gallowglass, who mimed slitting her throat. He shook his head urgently. After a moment, they heard the door shut, and St. Cyprian hefted Mosley over his shoulders. He’d carried enough wounded men in the trenches that Mosley’s weight was little bother to him. “Let’s go,” he said.
Gallowglass led him through the abandoned house and out onto the opposite street where the Crossley sat waiting. He deposited Mosley in the back, and then climbed behind the wheel. They were silent as they made their way back towards Kensington. Mosley barely stirred, and Gallowglass watched him, a cosh in one hand. Only when they had drawn within sight of No. 427 again, did she say, “Sure this is smart?”
“Smarter than playing out that particular string any longer. Curzon was right, the Strix Society are a bad lot. Mosley might be a perisher, but there’s worse things to be.” St. Cyprian parked the Crossley and between them, they managed to get Mosley into the house without too much trouble. He dropped him into one of the chairs before the fireplace and sent Gallowglass to fetch a suitable set of restraints. “Get the Glastonbury chains. I have a feeling they’ll be more efficacious than the metal variety. Oh, and a mortar and pestle, and put on some tea.”
“Tea?”
“I would murder for a cuppa. Pick up your heels, assistant mine. The night wears on, and time is not on our side,” St. Cyprian said. Gallowglass hastened to obey.
Kidnapping Mosley had been a spur of the moment decision. He wouldn’t know whether it had been a bad one until it was over and done with, however. He took the white flower out of his pocket and examined it briefly before stuffing it back out of sight. If he was right, they only had an hour at most before Mosley’s comrades tracked them down, in one form or another.
It took a certain degree of concentration to project the immaterial self from the physical, but he had no doubt that at least a few members of the members of the Society had the experience necessary. And they had Mosley’s spiritual scent, if not his own, to lead them to their quarry. He looked down at the former. Mosley was stirring. St. Cyprian considered punching him again. Mosley had the sort of features that begged for a beating. Gallowglass returned before he had to make the decision, carrying the Glastonbury chains.
Despite the name, they weren’t actually chains as such, but rather strips of bark and branches, woven together to make an improvised rope of sorts. The bark and branches had been harvested from the hawthorn trees of Glastonbury, where it was said to have been planted by Joseph of Arimathea. Hawthorn was proof against most malignant sorceries and psychical afflictions, and he’d used the Glastonbury chains to good effect more than once.
Working quickly, he and Gallowglass tied the hawthorn about Mosley. Mosley moaned. He tried to rise, his eyelids fluttering, but the hawthorn prevented him. “Think it’ll hold him?” Gallowglass said.
“It worked on that possessed chappie in Durham last April,” St. Cyprian said as he retrieved a lacquered box of oriental design from the bookshelf and flipped it open. Inside were a number of paper satchets full of dried flowers. Before he could extract one, he heard a thin whine from the direction of the window. Something that might have been a bird’s shadow passed across it. Across the street, the lights on the Embankment went out, one by one, casting the street and the river both into darkness.
“Feel that,” Gallowglass said.
St. Cyprian nodded slowly. There was a pall in the air, and a sour taste on his tongue. He felt as he had on the walk to Seven Dials. Something was watching them, spying on them from the windows and peeping through the keyholes. The glass frosted slightly, as if something were breathing on it. “We have company.”
Gallowglass’ hand dipped for the pistol holstered beneath her arm. St. Cyprian caught her hand. “No,” he said. “They are things of spirit. They must be fought the same way.” He gave the box a shake. “Arbutus Unede, to use the scientific classification. The Romans used its smoke to chase away evil and cleanse dwelling places of noisome spirits,” he said as he tossed a sachet into the fireplace. A thin, pale smoke boiled out, and Mosley’s thrashing stilled. The pall in the room seemed as if it were about to disperse, but then it redoubled. There was a sound like roaches skittering in the corners, and the lights flickered.
“Quickly, mash some of the arbutus up,” he said, gesturing to the pestle and bowl. “We’ll need some to go in the tea. And some powdered emerald as well.”
“Emerald?” Gallowglass asked.
“I knew you hadn’t read the Hermes Trismegitus,” he said, shooting her a glare.
“I was getting ’round to it,” Gallowglass said.
“Getting ’round to it, she says. Emerald draws out spiritual poisons, as well as physical ones. Oh, and some crushed fern frond as well. We’ll need that to expel whatever is in him now. It’s vital that we cleanse him of those foul flowers.”
The windows began to rattle in their frames, as if something quick and heavy were thrashing against them. The door shuddered and the lights flickered again. Then, all at once, everything went quiet. Gallowglass paused, pestle in hand. “Think they’re gone?”
“No.” St. Cyprian stepped quickly to the bookshelf and snatched down a strangely etched clay pot. He wrenched the top off and scooped out a handful of the dust within. He flung the dust out in a wide circle and the air took on a shimmery haze reminiscent of the open desert at midday. “But let’s see what the powder of Ibn Ghazi has to show us.”
Ghostly shapes darted through the settling dust. He had no idea how they’d gotten in; the flat was protected against all but the most powerful of spirits, and these should have remained safely outside, rattling the windows. But they were inside now, and intent on mischief.
They were at once avian, insectile and humanoid, and they made no sound as they sprang for St. Cyprian. He felt something clammy seize him and cried out. They were things of spirit, rather than flesh, but they were as hungry as any earthly predator. As they clutched at him, thin, familiar voices brushed at his ears like the wings of moths and he felt pinpricks of pain up and down his arms and neck. He fell back, slamming into the bookcase. Now look who’s inviting themselves in, something whispered shrilly in his ear. He recognized the voice of the woman in the red dress, and others as well. The whole crew of them were out in force, and he felt them tearing at his Ka with ghostly fangs.
“Oi,” Gallowglass barked, “Catch!”
St. Cyprian felt something smack his chest and he caught it automatically. It was a sachet of arbutus. Clutching it in both hands, he stumbled towards the fireplace and flung it in. Smoke erupted from the fireplace, sweeping over him. He coughed and sank down to one knee. He could feel the hold of the vampire-spirits weakening. They were carried away by the smoke as if it were a strong gale and they were nothing more than leaves. His ears echoed with tinny shrieks and faint wails as the smoke drove their foes from No. 427 and back out into the night.
Wheezing, his stomach churning, he nodded weakly to Gallowglass as she passed him more arbutus. He fed it into the fire, wondering how long it would take him to replace his stock. The front door banged on its hinges, blown open. He could hear the trees on the Embankment rustling as if in a strong wind, and amidst the creak and hiss, he thought he could hear a woman’s voice; the voice of Helen Strix. He heard the screech of an owl, and the snap of wings and then, laughter.
> Mosley began to thrash again, and he made a sound like a dying dog. He bayed and squirmed, but the hawthorn held him in his chair. St. Cyprian, clutching a handful of arbutus, staggered to the door, and stared out at the Embankment. A thin sliver of daylight was creeping across the city, and the night was retreating.
Helen Strix watched him, her face as still and stiff as that of a statue. She still wore her robes, and they flapped and flared in the wind. Her eyes sought his, and then slid past him. He heard a moan, and then a thump and spun about to see that Mosley’s chair had toppled over. Gallowglass rubbed her fist. She joined him at the door. “Silly bugger tried to get up, didn’t he?”
St. Cyprian heard a sound like a bird of prey sighting its next meal, and he turned back in time to see Strix raise a hand. Her shape wavered like a wisp of smoke. She stretched and spread, growing larger and larger as the dark gave way to the light, and then, like a soap bubble grown to its limit, she vanished.
“What is she?” Gallowglass breathed. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn she was frightened.
“I don’t know.” He stepped back and closed the door. “Get the tea ready.” As Gallowglass prepared the tea, he hauled Mosley upright. Working quickly, he mixed the concoction and, with Gallowglass’ help, poured it down the unconscious man’s throat. He massaged Mosley’s throat until he was sure he’d swallowed the tea, and then he waved Gallowglass back. “Wake up,” he snapped. He slapped Mosley’s cheek lightly. The man groaned and stirred. “Wake up, Oswald.”
“What…I…you!” Mosley hissed. He jerked forward, and then slumped back. “I can’t…I can’t feel her anymore,” he said. He sounded bereft, like a child who’d lost his mother. “Why can’t I feel her?”
“You’re welcome,” St. Cyprian said. He snipped the hawthorn strands, and Mosley’s face took on a particular hue as he suddenly toppled out of the chair and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the rug. “Oh really now, must you?” St. Cyprian said as he stepped back. What came out of Mosley’s stomach was tarry and reeking, and undigested bits of white squirmed in its midst like maggots. St. Cyprian took another step back. “Well, yes, in that case, I suppose you rather must, what?”
Mosley shuddered and heaved for several minutes. St. Cyprian wondered how long he’d been under Helen Strix’s spell, and tried not to think about what might have come out of him if Curzon had waited a few more days before coming to see him. When he’d finished, Mosley collapsed on the rug and rolled to the side, panting like a dog.
“What is that stuff?” Gallowglass said, her face wrinkled in disgust.
“Something I’d recommended you not touch with your bare hands when you clean it up,” St. Cyprian said as he dropped to his haunches beside Mosley.
“Me?”
“Yes, and do be quick about it. I rather fear that it’s eating through the rug.” He patted Mosley on the shoulder. “There, there, old thing. Better out than in, as my mother used to say.”
Mosley glared blearily up at him. “What did you do to me?”
“Nothing much. Just kept your soul from the doorstep of eternal damnation,” St. Cyprian said. “Hardly anything at all, really.”
“What…?”
St. Cyprian stood. “You were playing a dangerous game, Mr. Mosley. One you were fated to lose. I merely bought out your stake, as it were. I should stick to politics, if I were you. Less chance of you making a spectacular ass of yourself.”
Mosley closed his eyes and his head thumped the floor in a defeated fashion. Gallowglass looked down at him. “Is he normal again?”
“As normal as he ever was,” St. Cyprian said. “We’ve driven out the things he invited in. We’ll burn the rug, just to be sure.” He looked at her. “It was the flowers, you see. I recognized them right off, though there’s not a proper name for them. I first saw them when I was with Carnacki in Greece. They grow on the graves of vampires, or so the local folklore has it. There’s a book on the shelves, one of my predecessors’ journals, somewhere that has a few of them pressed between the pages. Plucked from the lonely mountain grave of Sir Francis Varney himself.” He pulled the crushed and crumpled flower he’d been given in Seven Dials from his pocket and showed it to her. “If eaten once or twice, the blasted things bring out the worst in a chap, especially if he’s of a psychical persuasion like Oswald there. They don’t become vampires, but something quite close, I fear. If eaten more than that...well. Who can say?”
“Helen Strix,” Gallowglass replied.
St. Cyprian looked at Mosley, moaning on the carpet, and nodded. “I’m afraid so. Whatever she is, she needs to be dealt with. And as soon as possible.” He took a deep breath and nodded. “Right. I’ll see to her. You keep an eye on him. There’s only one way to be sure that he doesn’t relapse, and that’s to cut off his supply.” He went to fireplace and pulled down the xiphos, in its sheath. He looped the cord over his head, and the sword dangled comfortably against his hip. After testing it to make sure that it wouldn’t be too awkward, he unsheathed the blade and laid it atop the mantle. Then, working quickly, he hefted the pestle bowl and smeared the juices of the mashed arbutus along the blade.
When he was satisfied, he sheathed the xiphos and took the small chest down off the mantle. He set it down on the floor and ran his hand over it. The chest was old and ornate, with brass clasps and hinges. Ancient scorch marks marred the treated wood. The Gothic characters inscribed on the lock harkened back to its original owner, Prince Rupert of the Rhine. He opened it carefully, as if something within might leap out to strike him. Which, given what was in the chest, wouldn’t be unexpected.
“From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night, good lord, deliver us,” he murmured softly as he examined what lay inside. There were oddly colored stones of many types, the fangs of beasts as yet unidentified by science and tangled knots of amulets of varying ages and degrees of effectiveness. And beneath them all was the odd shape of the Monas Glyph.
Created by Dr. John Dee in the rein of Elizabeth the First, the esoteric sigil was a composite of various astrological and religious symbols, combining ankh, cruciform and crescent. It was a potent artefact, but one he only rarely employed, and only when faced with something worse than the run of the mill nightmares. He had seen Carnacki use it to exorcise visitors from the Outer Spheres more than once, and Dee was said to have employed it in putting paid to the last English dragon.
He extracted the Glyph and held it up. The weak streamers of sunlight that came through the window ran across the swoops and curves of it in odd ways. He blinked and looked away. In its own way, it was almost as disturbing as what he intended to employ it against. It sapped the vitality of its user and put the senses on a knife edge for days afterward.
He pulled on his greatcoat and stuffed the Glyph in a pocket. Outside, a new day was dawning. Weak sunlight drifted through the windows and crawled across the floor. Mosley shuddered and rolled away from it. Gallowglass looked at St. Cyprian. “Are you sure you want to go alone?”
“Someone has to watch our guest. And it is my lot, what? Responsibilities of the office and all that.” He took her hand and patted it. “Never you fear, Miss Gallowglass. I shall be back directly.”
“Leave off,” she muttered, jerking her hand out of his. He smiled and left her standing there. Outside, the day was crisp and cool, and sad, gray clouds rolled across the sky. He hoped the inevitable rain would hold off long enough for him to do what needed to be done, but he couldn’t count on it. He would have to be quick.
The drive to Seven Dials took less time than he would’ve liked, and more than he hoped. The red door hadn’t vanished, as he’d half-suspected it might. No, Helen Strix was waiting for him, that much he was certain of. He sat in the Crossley and eyed the door, considering. Then, with a sigh, he got out and went to the door. It wasn’t locked. It opened with barely a whisper. No one seemed to be at home.
He stepped inside. The floor creaked beneath the
carpet, and he heard something scurrying about somewhere above him. A draft caused the door to thump shut, startling him. He felt as if he were walking into a lion’s den. He made his way to the back room. It was empty. Wherever the Strix Society was now, they weren’t here. Perhaps they’d fled with the dawn, counting on their president and high priestess to deal with him.
As if that thought had been a signal, laughter suddenly echoed from everywhere and nowhere, springing from wall to wall and floor to ceiling, growing in volume until it threatened to deafen him. St. Cyprian clapped his hands to his ears. The room seemed to tilt and heave and his eyes strayed to the floor.
The owl painted on the floorboards was gone. Instead, Helen Strix’s face leered up at him. Her smile was wickedness itself, and her eyes, two dimensional as they were, gazed up at him with a malignant gleam, as if she could see into the darkest, nastiest corners of his soul. Her eyes grew brighter and brighter, and he felt her talons pry at his mind. He’d been a fool to come alone; he’d been a fool to challenge her at all. He couldn’t tell whether those were his thoughts or hers.
He felt a wash of heat, and though there was no fire, he felt flames lick his flesh. He heard screams, and the roar of crumbling brick. Strange shadows danced on the walls, and his ears throbbed with the grinding hum of aircraft engines. He heard the clash of swords and the bark of rifles, as a city, London perhaps, or something older and far away, fell to invaders. And then, a woman’s voice, “Blood ran in torrents, drenched was all of the earth. As apt now as it was then, and will be, don’t you think?”
St. Cyprian opened his eyes. Helen Strix stood before him, an amused smile on her face. “I wondered if you’d come,” she said. “It’s rare you find such a delightful blend of courage and utter stupidity in these sad, gray times.”
“Who are you?” he croaked.
She ignored the question. Her robes rustled softly as she circled him. He was reminded of a panther he’d seen in the zoo, all smooth rolling muscle and predatory grace. “I smell magics on you. I thought I caught a whiff of sorcery last night, when we met. A little magus, come to pit his goetia against la belle dame sans merci, eh?” She smiled and held out a hand. “Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering?”