Blood Red City

by Justin Richards

  Miss Manners had grand plans to station photographers on busy streets taking flash-lit photographs of crowds in the hope of finding any Ubermensch.

  The arguments against were mainly logistic. But also, as Wiles pointed out, unless you knew the identity of everyone in the photograph, seeing an Ubermensch in a crowd was hardly helpful except in confirming its existence. But in fact there was no evidence of any Ubermensch currently in Britain anyway.

  The compromise was that the Ministry of Information, which had access to photographs taken every day all round Britain in other Allied countries, should check them for anything unusual. The two women given the job were told only vaguely what they were looking for, and that it was thought to be an experimental enemy camouflage technique used by spies to avoid showing up properly in photographs.

  When she had time, which was rarely, Miss Manners retired to the Séance Room. Here she closed her eyes and tried to relax into a state where she might hear the voices, see the images. With the Vril becoming more active, the air must be alive with their strange communications. If she could tap into even a tiny fraction of that information it could prove invaluable.

  Success was limited. The strongest signals were from UDTs over Britain. She caught images of the countryside seen from above, flying past at incredible speed. Little else made any sense. She could get stronger impressions, over greater distance if they actually held a séance of sorts. Perhaps the combined effort of several minds enhanced the signals. But still all she saw was the gloomy underground vaults and chambers so reminiscent of the North African base and labyrinthine tunnels that Leo and Guy had described …

  She kept up her work photographing wives and children for the Snapshots from Home project, sending the pictures to the soldiers who were missing their loved ones.

  * * *

  Guy wasn’t really sure what to make of the séances, until his name came up. It had become something of an end-of-day ritual to gather in the Séance Room and spend a few minutes helping Miss Manners settle into the relaxed, semi-trance state where she might glean further information about the Vril. It seemed bizarre, but Guy had to admit he had experienced far stranger things in the last year.

  The frustration was that they seemed to have wrung as much information from the process as they could, and none of it was especially helpful. If they were lucky, Miss Manners might pick up some background detail or the shadowy realm where the Vril were located. She kept meticulous notes of every session. But without knowing the locations of the places she ‘saw’, or the details of the vague things she ‘heard’ it was all of limited value.

  ‘If nothing else,’ Guy joked to Sarah as they entered the room for the latest attempt, ‘I get to hold your hand in the dark.’

  ‘I’m putting you between Leo and Miss Manners,’ she told him.

  ‘Spoilsport.’

  As usual, the four of them sat in the flickering candlelight, fingers touching, silent and still. Miss Manners breathed deeply several times as she settled herself. She murmured words and phrases that Guy couldn’t hear, but which she had told them were to help her relax and put herself into a receptive frame of mind. Techniques she had learned from Crowley, he guessed.

  ‘Glass!’ she exclaimed suddenly. ‘Someone – Leo – get the glass.’

  ‘Of course.’ Davenport got up and went to a side table where a tumbler stood next to a stack of squares of card.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Sarah asked.

  Miss Manners was surprised more than anxious. ‘I can see letters,’ she told them.

  ‘Are you sure it’s the Vril?’ Guy asked. ‘They don’t usually communicate in words.’

  Leo positioned the upturned glass in the centre of the round table, then placed the pieces of card round the edge. Each was marked with a letter or number. ‘Let’s find out, shall we? Forefinger of the left hand on the top of the glass everyone, if you please.’

  ‘Will it be in English?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Possibly, or it could just be gibberish,’ Miss Manners admitted. ‘Now concentrate, everyone. Empty your minds of everything except the glass itself.’

  He shouldn’t really have been surprised, but Guy felt a jolt of astonishment as the glass moved. It slid smoothly and easily across the polished surface of the table, touching the card lettered ‘N’ before moving on to ‘G’.

  Leo had his pen in his free hand and a spare piece of card beside him. He noted down the letters as the glass travelled between them. Guy tried to keep track of the letters in his head, but they seemed to make no sense:

  N G R A D P A V S H I K H B O R T S O V W I

  But gradually something seemed to resolve out of it. ‘W I L L W A I T’ he realised as the glass moved on. There was a pause, and he thought it was finished, but then the glass moved again.

  P E N T E C R O S S

  Startled, Guy pulled his hand back from the glass.

  ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, reaching out again. He gave up trying to follow the letters, his mind was numb. His name – how could it have spelled out his name?

  ‘It’s a loop,’ Leo said eventually. ‘We can stop now. It’s the same thing coming round again.’

  ‘But what’s it say?’ Guy demanded. ‘It spelled out my name – who’s doing that?’

  ‘I think I know,’ Leo said. He was smiling as he turned the lights on. ‘I think you will too once I work out where the breaks in the words are in all this jumble. Tell me, does Pavshikh Bortsov mean anything to you?’

  ‘It’s Russian,’ Guy said, looking at where Leo had written the words out on the paper.

  ‘Which would make sense. See.’ He showed them the full message.

  PENTECROSS HAVE AXE MEET ME IN STALINGRAD PAVSHIKH BORTSOV WILL WAIT

  ‘Our friend Hoffman, the Russian German?’ Pentecross said. ‘But how can he be sending us this?’

  ‘He knows what we’re doing, he must be hoping we’ll intercept this.’

  ‘But, how is he transmitting it?’ Sarah said.

  ‘I would guess,’ Miss Manners told them, ‘that he is holding a séance.’

  ‘But what does it mean?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘We’ll need a map of Stalingrad,’ Leo said, ‘but I suspect he is telling Guy where to meet him, and that he will wait until we get there.’

  ‘We?’ Guy echoed.

  ‘Well I’m not letting you go on your own. And if Hoffman has the third axe as he claims then we can’t just ignore this.’

  ‘Pavshikh Bortsov could be a location,’ Guy said. ‘It means “Fallen Heroes” so it might be a monument or something.’

  ‘I’ll find out how you can get to Stalingrad,’ Miss Manners said. ‘Though I have to say I don’t envy you the trip.’

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ Leo told her. ‘It isn’t every day one gets an invitation from the spirits to visit one of the most dangerous places on Earth.’

  * * *

  If she had spoken English, she might have understood the significance of what she saw. The letters flashed through her ancient mind, imprinting themselves one by one. It was a repeating sequence, and she saw it most nights.

  In her chamber – her sanctum – deep below the North Tower of Wewelsburg Castle that housed the Hall of Generals, the Seer sat alone in darkness. From here she saw so much. She could feel so much. The suffering and death from across the world; the aspirations and ambitions of the SS officers within the castle itself; the voices of the spirits that screamed desperately at the mortals who could not hear them; the cold, hard thoughts of Himmler himself.

  And the dark, creeping malignancy of the Vril as they clawed their way through the deepest corners and recesses of their underground realm and of her mind.

  Her thoughts were broken by the light from the door as it swung open. She struggled to her feet, ignoring the pain, and turned to see who it was although she had known he was coming. Her gnarled, crooked hand reached for a walking stick to support her weight.

  The lights came on, gleaming on the high f
orehead and small round glasses of Heinrich Himmler.

  ‘Have you anything to tell me?’ he asked.

  Her answer was scratchy and frail. ‘Nothing that you want to hear.’

  CHAPTER 31

  It was a city full of predators where rats fed on the dead. Most of the predators were human, but not all.

  One was little more than a ghost. The Germans called him ‘The Dark One’ – a living shadow that crept through the ruins and killed them one by one. There were stories that he had been shot and had survived. That he possessed inhuman strength. That he was on a mission to protect the Russian civilians who eked out a meagre existence in the rubble and had made it his goal to kill every last German in the city.

  If you were the last man at the back of a patrol, he might get you. If you were separated from your unit, he could be lurking in the rubble, waiting. If you were a sniper, then as well as focusing your crosshairs on a potential target you might feel the real hairs on the back of your neck alert you to the arrival of death as it crept up on you.

  Hoffman neither knew nor cared what the Germans thought of him. To his mind, they were the predators, intruders feeding on the last gasps of the ruined city. But they were a secondary consideration. He killed them when the opportunity arose, but he didn’t go looking.

  Every day he went to Pavshikh Bortsov – the Square of Fallen Heroes. What was left of it. Of all the city it was one of the most open spaces, which he hoped meant he would see Pentecross if the Englishman got his message and came. The openness made it dangerous too, but Hoffman kept to the sides, hiding in the empty shells of the buildings that surrounded the square.

  When the watching was done, he sat down in the near-darkness somewhere secluded and hidden. He set out the ragged paper and the chipped tea cup, and he concentrated his thoughts as he moved the cup back and forth, always spelling out the same message. Never knowing if it went any further than the edges of his own imagination. Life became routine. Like everyone else in the city he looked no further than the present moment, harboured no ambition beyond his own survival.

  * * *

  Hoffman’s constant movement was how he survived. The Germans sought to avoid him, most doubting he really existed and assuming that ‘The Dark One’ was an amalgamation of Red Army soldiers and snipers, a bogeyman conjured out of the terrors of the debris.

  But something was hunting Hoffman. Slowly, meticulously, tracking the stone axe that he kept either in his pocket or consigned to the safest of hiding places in the ruins. Its movement confused the Vril creatures, slowed them down. The death and destruction in the city didn’t worry them. The Vril were at home clambering through narrow spaces and dark crevices, hiding beneath the ground and emerging only when night fell. But they were cautious. The humans were killing each other in the city, and the creatures were as vulnerable to bullets as any German or Russian. They moved slowly, warily, stealthily through the rubble.

  One night one of the creatures almost died, caught in the open. It scuttled across what was left of a street, darting between the shadows. Two humans were picking their way along the same street, also hugging the shadows, holding hands, helping each other through the debris. One tall, the other shorter.

  One of them slipped, foot almost colliding with the Vril as it tensed. It reached out with a brittle limb, ready to stab in self-defence. But the humans moved on. They had taken only another few steps when there was a crack of gunfire. The larger of the humans was hurled back as a bullet took her in the chest. The other dived for cover, close to the Vril.

  The creature pressed itself into the darkness, aware of the danger. Soldiers were coming, hurrying down the street as the Germans pressed on through the city. There was a confidence in their movement, a renewed sense of victory. German forces had closed round the city, reaching the river Volga to the north. Surely it was only a matter of time now before they owned these death-trap ruins.

  A rattle of gunfire hammered into the fallen human. The body, already dead, danced and juddered under the onslaught. The second human whimpered, pressed closer into the rubble. The Vril scratched at the ground, gouging out enough space to squeeze itself beneath a fallen wall. It stared out from its cover, eye glinting in the pale light of the impassive moon.

  The soldier moved on, oblivious to the creature, not noticing the surviving human. The Vril could see the human’s face pressed into the dusty ground nearby, wet with tears, pale with fright. The creature wasn’t used to seeing its enemy so close. Usually they were so afraid their senses were heightened. They fled at the first sign of movement, the first unnatural sound, the merest hint that they were not alone.

  But frightened or not, humans were an unpleasant distraction. Out of instinct as much as choice, the grotesque creature reached out a limb, turned it so the razor-sharp spines on the underside were exposed. Lashed out.

  The soldiers were too far away now to hear the scream.

  * * *

  Crowley had finally admitted that Jane Roylston was back at Jermyn Street. But having had no contact with her friend, Miss Manners was sure that there was something wrong. Jane was often out of touch for a while, but never for this long. She knew that Brinkman wouldn’t want to make waves with Crowley. He would tell her to bide her time, not to cause trouble.

  But Miss Manners wasn’t convinced Crowley was helping as much as he claimed. If she had managed to pick up the message from Hoffman, surely Crowley would have tuned into it at one of his séances or ceremonies. But he had never mentioned it … What else was he keeping to himself?

  The more she thought about it, the more she convinced herself that a visit to Jane – to Crowley – was in the best interests not just of her own conscience but of Station Z as well.

  It was impossible to tell if Crowley was pleased to see her. She knew from experience that his expression was likely to be as false as his words. But he made a show of welcoming her into the house like the friend she had once thought she was.

  ‘What an opportune visit,’ he said, smiling like a predatory animal. ‘We were just about to hold a ceremony in the cellar. There was a time when you’d have been welcome to join us.’

  It was clear she was not invited now.

  ‘I wanted to see Jane. Just for a few moments.’ She almost added ‘if that’s all right’, but she wasn’t going to ask his permission.

  Crowley’s face fell. ‘Oh, but that is such a shame. Jane is preparing for the ceremony. I really don’t think she can be disturbed just now.’

  ‘Then perhaps I can wait. And see her afterwards.’

  His expression darkened, just for an unguarded instant. Then he was all smiles again. ‘But of course. We might be quite a while, and I have no idea how tired she may be afterwards. You know how exhausting these sessions can be. But please, wait in the drawing room. Help yourself to a drink, if you like.’

  She left the door open enough to be able to see Crowley and his people heading towards the cellar. He had made it clear that Miss Manners was not welcome. She wondered why that was – she’d seen it all before. And worse. She waited until she could hear the faint intonation of the chanting coming from below, then made her way to the door down to the cellar.

  There was no way of knowing if everyone was down there, so she went carefully and quietly, easing the heavy door open. The sound of the chanting immediately increased in volume. She knew that because of the way the stairway turned as it descended she could not be seen from below until she was halfway down the steps. She went as far as she dared and listened for a few moments. Crowley was holding forth – reciting words of power in a guttural, indecipherable tone.

  The scene below when she peered cautiously round the corner of the stairway was everything she had expected. The candles arranged round the edge of the chamber. The robed acolytes gathered in a semicircle before the altar stone. Crowley standing on the dais before the altar. And Jane, wearing a white robe so thin and so tight that it hid nothing of her body’s form, stretched out on the altar, star
ing up at the ceiling.

  Except … there was something different. It took her a few moments to notice, but something about the way Jane moved her head, the way her shoulders flexed drew Miss Manners’ eye – and she saw that her friend was manacled to the altar, thick chains holding her down.

  Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps it was just another of Crowley’s sadistic games. But it unsettled her. Miss Manners crept back up the steps and returned to the drawing room, where she waited. Soon she would know. If Crowley let her see Jane, then she could ask if everything was all right. If he didn’t let her see the woman …

  He still wore his robes when he returned, all apologies. ‘I am so sorry. Jane really is very tired. I’m sure you understand.’

  She forced a smile as false as Crowley’s. ‘Absolutely. I’ll come back another day. But do please tell her I called.’

  He almost managed to hide his relief. ‘I will, yes, of course. Let me see you out.’

  ‘There’s no need. I know the way.’

  He watched her to the front door. She glanced back as she went out, and saw that Crowley had turned and was heading back into the house. Hearing the door shut, he would know she was gone.

  She waited in the hall, forcing herself to stand still, counting slowly to ten, before she slipped back along the hallway and down to the cellar.

  The candles were still burning, casting an uncertain light across everything. Jane was still there, lying on the altar just as before, wrists and ankles enclosed in bands of dull metal.

  ‘My God, Jane – are you all right?’

  Jane struggled to raise her head slightly. ‘Penelope? What are you doing here?’ Her voice was flat, uninflected.

  ‘I came to see you. Why’s he keeping you like this?’ She tested the chains, but they were too firmly secured for her to see a way of breaking or removing them.

  ‘I tried to leave. I had … something to do.’

  ‘And he’s keeping you here? Like this?’

  ‘For the moment.’

  Miss Manners leaned over her, stroked her forehead and was surprised how cool Jane felt. ‘I’ll get help. I’ll come back for you, I promise.’