Then he was falling, legs pulled from under him. His face was level with the cat’s, staring into the image of his own terrified face reflected in its unblinking green eyes. Behind the cat, another of the dark spider-like creatures scuttled through the burned undergrowth towards him.
* * *
Norma Wiles was dozing by the fire when she heard the familiar sound of the truck pulling up outside. She went through to the kitchen to put some coffee on for Davy.
He watched her from the doorway, silhouetted by the low afternoon sun behind him.
‘You’ve been gone a while,’ Norma said. ‘Reckon you’ll be feeling the cold.’
His reply was dry and devoid of inflection. A simple ‘No’.
Norma frowned. It didn’t sound like Davy at all.
A black cat pushed between her husband’s feet and padded into the kitchen, looking up at Norma. Its fur was matted, a thick metal collar gleaming beneath.
‘Where’s Buster?’ she asked. The dog was usually into the kitchen before its master, looking for food and water.
‘We don’t need the dog.’
Davy stepped into the light and Norma gasped. ‘What’s happened to you. Look at your clothes – and you’ve got blood across your face. Are you all right?’
‘Never better.’
‘That’s not how it looks, let me tell you.’
He shook his head. ‘You can’t tell me anything. I already know everything you do. Everything I need to know.’
He reached out for her, and she let him put his hands on her shoulders, drawing her towards him. She felt his familiar callused hand on her cheek, stroking. Down to her throat.
The cat jumped up onto the kitchen table in a single elegant movement, as if to get a better view of them. It tilted its head slightly, watching.
As Davy Wiles held his wife’s neck carefully between his hands. Then twisted.
* * *
She padded across the floor, hands and feet stained red. At the stone table, she paused, then jumped easily up in a single elegant movement, as if she weighed almost nothing, landing on all fours.
* * *
Norma’s body slumped to the floor. The cat closed its eyes and lay down on the table. It understood that it needed to rest. Soon it would start on a long journey.
* * *
Blood was streaked across her face, running down her chin and neck, trickling between her breasts where the sodden fabric clung to her body. The dress was as scarlet as the velvet sheet over the stone table.
Head tilted slightly to one side, she seemed to be watching something. Her bloodied mouth twisted into a cruel smile. Then her eyes blinked rapidly and she toppled sideways in a dead faint. She lay across the table, one arm thrown out over the edge, legs twisted under her. Her chest rose and fell slowly, rhythmically, in peaceful sleep. Bloodstained scarlet across crimson velvet in the dying light of the candles.
CHAPTER 2
February was cold in London, with a hint of snow in the air. Major Guy Pentecross and Colonel Oliver Brinkman walked the short distance from the car through the darkness of the blackout, taking the chance to discuss their imminent meeting. In the months since he had been recruited to Station Z, Guy Pentecross had seen things he never would have imagined. But the prospect of meeting Aleister Crowley again still made his skin crawl.
‘It’s not just the fact that he’s a practising expert in the occult,’ Guy told his commanding officer. ‘I just find him so…’ He struggled to think of a word to describe it.
‘Reptilian?’ Brinkman suggested.
Guy nodded. ‘You can see how he got the reputation of being the most evil man in the world.’
‘That was before Hitler and his cronies came on the scene,’ Brinkman pointed out. ‘And the competition is confined to humans.’
A year ago, even a few months ago, before joining Station Z, Guy would have thought that Brinkman was joking. But now he knew all too well that there were creatures that were far from human which could be described as ‘evil’. Station Z’s mission was to discover all they could about the Vril, as the creatures were called, and formulate a strategy to deal with them.
Fighting a war at the same time made it more complicated. Much more complicated, since they knew Himmler and the SS also had a group dedicated to learning about the Vril. But the Nazis planned to exploit the creatures, using whatever they learned and perhaps even the creatures themselves to their advantage, harnessing Vril knowledge and technology against the Allies.
Though the threat of the Vril was real and serious, Station Z’s resources were limited and their mission kept secret. Seconded from his job at the Foreign Office after being wounded serving in the British Expeditionary Force at Dunkirk, Guy was now second in command at Station Z.
Not that there were many people under his command. The entire staff consisted of Brinkman’s secretary Miss Manners, though she was far more than a mere filing clerk; Segeant Green, who was responsible for liaising with the regular military forces when necessary; Leo Davenport from the Special Operations Executive; and Sarah Diamond, a pilot from the Air Transport Auxiliary, who had joined at the same time as Guy.
There were others too whose expertise Brinkman and his team could call on – like David Alban at MI5, Elizabeth Archer at the British Museum, and Dr Wiles at the top secret code-breaking centre at Bletchley Park.
And Aleister Crowley.
Guy tried to keep his disgust hidden as he sat in Crowley’s office with Colonel Brinkman a few minutes later.
Crowley faced them across his desk, chubby fingers laced together on the blotter. He wore a dark robe, hood pushed back from his craggy, bald head. Behind him the unpleasant figure of Ralph Rutherford leaned against a bookcase, arms folded, watching Guy and Brinkman without disguising his own contempt.
‘The results were rather ambiguous, I’m afraid,’ Crowley said. He unlaced his fingers and opened his hands briefly in an apology that didn’t reach his face. ‘But I shall tell you what I can.’
‘Why?’ Rutherford said. ‘Why tell them anything?’
‘Ralph, Ralph, Ralph,’ Crowley soothed without turning. He pronounced it ‘Rafe’.
‘Any help you can give us will be greatly appreciated, sir,’ Brinkman said. ‘For the war effort.’
Brinkman and Guy had agreed they would focus only on the advantages Crowley’s information might give them against the Germans. There would be no mention of the Vril, since Crowley seemed to regard them with something approaching reverence. He saw them as higher beings, if they existed, that promised power and enlightenment.
But Guy knew from his own experience that what they brought was blood and death. What Station Z lacked most was information about the Vril, knowledge they could turn to their advantage. They tracked the strange wingless aircraft that the Vril used. They had survived attacks by the superhuman Ubermensch creatures into which the Vril could somehow convert ordinary people. But they still didn’t really know where the Vril came from or what they intended. They were hostile, and they had bases of operations hidden below ground around the world.
Some of the Vril’s technology apparently relied on a form of science that humanity did not yet understand – closer to the occult or psychic and paranormal than conventional science. Their communications could be picked up not only by the listening Y Stations around the British Empire where enemy radio signals were intercepted, but also by more arcane means. Which was why they were here, talking to Crowley. Or rather, listening to him.
‘We held a ceremony – a form of séance – as I promised,’ Crowley was saying. ‘A connection was formed, though whether directly with the Vril I cannot say.’
‘Were you able to discern their intentions?’ Guy asked. He didn’t add ‘sir’.
Crowley fixed him with his dark, deep-set eyes. ‘The Vril are the benefactors of humanity. The Coming Race, the bringers of power and enlightenment. If our enemies crave their secrets, then the Vril and we are of one mind, one purpose.’
> Guy was aware of Brinkman’s warning glance. ‘But did you discover anything that might help that purpose?’ he said, careful not to contradict anything Crowley had said.
In answer, Crowley turned slightly to address Rutherford. It was an awkward movement, as Crowley’s neck was almost as thick as his head. ‘See if Miss Roylston has recovered enough to see us, would you, Ralph?’
Rutherford pushed himself away from the bookcase. ‘She should have tidied herself up a bit by now,’ he said as he strode from the room.
‘I’m afraid Ralph is not convinced we should be helping you,’ Crowley said as they waited.
‘We’re very grateful that you are,’ Brinkman said.
Crowley’s lips curled into a thin bloodless smile. ‘We all do what little we can. I imagine life under the Reich would be a rather tedious proposition.’
‘I thought Hitler was a devotee of the occult and all that sort of thing,’ Guy countered.
‘He surrounds himself with people who have some knowledge and vision, but no – the Fuhrer himself believes only in the tangible aspects of power. Only in himself. I gather he is one of those unimaginative people who has to see to believe. What about you, Major Pentecross?’ Crowley asked, smile still fixed in place. ‘Can you believe in things you cannot prove? Are you a churchgoer?’ He made it sound like an insult.
Guy was saved from answering by the return of Rutherford, accompanied by a slim young woman with short, black hair. She wore a simple grey dress that seemed plain and ordinary in contrast to Crowley’s robes. Guy recognised Jane Roylston from a previous meeting.
‘Miss Roylston is our most sensitive colleague,’ Crowley said, gesturing for her to sit.
Jane perched nervously on the edge of an upright chair. Rutherford returned to his position at the bookcase, watching her with ill-disguised loathing as she spoke.
‘I established a connection,’ she said, voice trembling slightly. ‘But what I saw…’
She paused, glancing at Crowley. He nodded for her to go on, but Guy sensed there was more to it than simple encouragement.
‘Just snatches, images, I’m afraid. I don’t think it was anything useful.’
‘Tell us anyway,’ Brinkman said gently. ‘Let us decide.’
‘I had no sense of place,’ she said. ‘A wooded area, but it could have been anywhere. Trees, undergrowth…’ She waved her hand. ‘I’m sorry, does anyone have a cigarette?’
Crowley snapped his fingers impatiently at Rutherford, who scowled and produced a packet of Pall Mall. Jane took one, and Rutherford held his lighter awkwardly for her, so she had to twist uncomfortably to light the cigarette.
She seemed calmer after inhaling the smoke. ‘Sorry. As I said, just images really. A fight – with a dog, I think, But it seemed very big. Then a man, in a car. Or maybe a lorry.’
‘Were you with him, or did he drive past you?’ Guy asked.
‘I was with him. We drove to a house. Hardly more than a wooden shack. We went inside, and there was a woman.’ She blew out a long stream of smoke and looked away. ‘That’s all.’ She glanced again at Crowley. ‘That’s all.’
Crowley nodded. ‘Thank you, Jane. That is most helpful.’
* * *
Guy and Brinkman did not linger. Rutherford showed them out, all but slamming the door of the house in Jermyn Street behind them.
The evening was drawing in, a chill in the late February air. Further down the street, a car flashed its lights, their beams mitigated by dark hoods that allowed only a thin slit of light through.
Sarah Diamond got out of the car to open the door for Brinkman. Even in the gathering darkness, Guy saw that she looked immaculate in her dark suit. She closed the door behind Brinkman and smiled at Guy.
‘You can open your own door.’ Her voice was accented, American. Guy knew her father was English, though he lived in the States, where Sarah had grown up. She and Guy had both started at Station Z at the same time – having worked together to try to find out what Brinkman’s team was up to. They would never have guessed the truth. Guy still found it hard to believe.
He had been working at the Foreign Office, after being wounded at the Dunkirk evacuation and invalided out of the army. But Sarah was a ferry pilot with the Air Transport Auxiliary – technically a civilian, responsible for helping to deliver aircraft where they were needed all round Britain. She drove the staff car on sufferance, and almost as fast as she flew planes.
As soon as they were all in the car, Sarah twisted round in the driver’s seat. ‘You get anything out of the old goat?’
‘Nothing useful,’ Guy confessed.
‘He doesn’t trust us,’ Brinkman said. ‘He thinks the Vril are coming to save the human race, though I’m not sure what from.’
‘Hitler, maybe?’ Sarah suggested.
Brinkman shrugged. ‘Whatever he thinks, Crowley will help us against the Germans, but he won’t do anything to disadvantage the Vril.’
‘The woman – Jane Roylston,’ Guy said. ‘I think she knows more than she was saying.’
‘I think you’re right,’ Brinkman agreed. ‘But perhaps Miss Manners will get more out of her.’
* * *
The room was small, but there was just enough space for a narrow upright chair between the tiny dressing table and the door. This was where Jane Roylston found Miss Manners sitting when she returned to the room. As well as being Brinkman’s secretary at Station Z, Miss Manners was well versed in the occult practices of Crowley and his colleagues. For a time, she had been one of his acolytes – which was where she had met Jane. But that life was behind her now, and she never regretted escaping from it.
‘Penny,’ Jane exclaimed in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’ She glanced nervously over her shoulder before shutting the door quickly behind her. ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ she hissed.
‘You shouldn’t stay,’ Miss Manners countered, peering at her friend over the top of her severe spectacles. ‘We can look after you. Keep you safe.’
‘No one can keep me safe. You know that. Not even Colonel Brinkman or your friend Pentecross. Of course,’ she realised, ‘you came with them.’
‘And they’re waiting for me outside now. You could come too. You can get away from him, you know. I did.’
Jane sat on the narrow bed, hands clasped in front of her. ‘Perhaps you’re braver than me. But no, I have to stay. Anyway, while I’m here I can help you. Crowley won’t help, you know. Oh, he says he will. I’m sure he seems very cooperative. But he won’t help unless he thinks he’s getting something in return.’
‘He told us about the ceremony.’
‘Keeping you sweet.’
‘He let you talk to Brinkman.’
‘He told me not to say anything. Or as little as possible. I probably told them more than Crowley wanted. That bastard Ralph would rather I said nothing at all. I’ll pay for it later, I’m sure.’ She looked away, eyes glistening.
‘All the more reason to come with me now.’
Jane shook her head. ‘I was seeing through the eyes of a cat, but Crowley told me not to tell Brinkman that. And there was an image. I didn’t tell Crowley about that, though. It was in my mind when I was … connected. That was the overriding impression – a shape.’
‘What shape?’
‘A bit like a figure of eight on its side, but flattened rather than rounded. Two inward facing triangles, with their tips overlapping. Symmetrical.’
Jane looked round for inspiration. ‘Here, I’ll show you.’
The room was so small that the bed itself served as a stool for the dressing table. Leaning forward, she could reach the mirror. She breathed heavily on it, misting the glass, then drew the shape she had described with her finger.
Miss Manners turned in the chair to see. ‘What is it?’
Jane shrugged, wiping her hand across the mirror and smearing away the image. ‘A shape. I don’t know. It’s tangible, though, not symbolic. Not a letter or a drawing. An actual thing.
And whatever it is, it’s important to them. Very important. They want it.’ She frowned, struggling to remember. ‘No, more than that – they need it.’
‘Do you know why?’
Jane shook her head. ‘I could see details, symbols engraved on it, whatever it is. I’ll make a drawing and send it to you.’ She glanced nervously at the door. ‘You should go. It’s not safe here.’
Miss Manners stood up. ‘I know.’ Her voice was tinged with sadness. She reached out and took Jane’s hands between her own. ‘Last chance.’
Jane smiled weakly. ‘I’ve had so many last chances. But I have to stay. And one day I’ll get even with Rutherford, even if I never get away from Crowley.’
Miss Manners sighed. ‘You know where to find me.’
* * *
He watched her leave from the shadows of a doorway across the landing. Rutherford knew Penelope Manners, of course. The one that got away – that thought fuelled his anger.
He gave her time to get down the stairs. So quiet, so certain she had not been seen. Rutherford doubted that Jane had told her anything. He doubted she had anything useful to tell. But she’d pay for it even so. Without really thinking about it, he had unbuckled his belt. He slid it out of the loops and wrapped it several times round his fist, gripping the buckle and letting the length of leather hang free.
* * *
Nearly five and half thousand miles away, a black cat melted into the shadows beside the highway. It paused for a moment, an image fixed firmly in its mind – the thing it was hunting for. It could feel it, getting closer, stronger with every step.
But the cat still had a long way to go. The heavy metal collar round its neck glinted in the sunlight as it emerged from the shadows. It had a long way to go, but it would get there. Soon the hunt would be over.
It stopped for a moment to stretch in the weak winter sunlight, reached out its front paws and scraped at the hard ground beside the road.
* * *
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