by N. M. Brown
The High Priestess
THE DARKEST DESIRES SERIES
Dedicated to me.
Live with it.
‘THE HIGH PRIESTESS’ Copyright © 2017 by N. M. Brown. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover designed by @CelinGraphics
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
N. M. Brown
Visit my website at www.nmbrown2017.wixsite.com/nmbrown2017
Printed in the United Kingdom
First Printing: Aug 2017
Kindle Direct Publishing’s
ISBN-13 978-1-7179982-4-8
CONTENTS
The High Priestess
THREE OF SWORDS
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
WANDS OF SIX
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
ACE OF CUPS
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
Epilogue
THREE OF SWORDS
I
Soft pink tears dribbled down the frozen faces. Slacked jawed, empty gazes; they looked out across the dusky grounds. Sweet morning dew glistened on the grass, in the reeds, and on the dead men’s hair. The birds chirped in the distance, their songs high and sharp, and their bellies fully of the dead men’s eyes. Even the sun was rising to say hello, burning the chill in the autumn air and highlighting the gruesome scene before Detective McQueen. It could have almost been peaceful, if it wasn’t for the ugly red and blue flashing lights that were casting everything in an ugly hue. Officers all around were stamping their feet fighting the cold that had yet to be chased away, while the coroners’ team struggled with wading boots and strode out to meet their bodies. McQueen took in the scene again, holding onto the gold cross that hung around his neck. It was already starting to leave an imprint in his hand
Two dead, both male, swayed in the chilly breeze that tunnelled through the bridge they hung from, naked as the day they were born. This was a fact brought to the forefront of McQueen’s mind as a camera flashed to the side of him, illuminating the bodies. The twisted strips of floppy flesh that peeled off their legs shone in the darkness and imprinted themselves onto his eyelids. Bones gleamed in the contrast of dark and light as the rivulets of shins and knee caps peeked from behind shredded muscle and loose tendons. The skin had long turned pale and mottled with purple bruises making it a wash of monochrome colours. Any blood left in their bodies had collected along the coarse ropes looped around their necks creating permanent blooming, red wreaths of their final moments.
McQueen felt he should at least be slightly numb to this kind of sight, but instead he felt the same revulsion he always did. It was a slight comfort however, that he wasn’t numb to their death. Numb to death would mean he was ok with it and even though they would be in a better place, no one deserved early entrance into God’s pearly gates. Brushing off his revulsion, McQueeninstead took in the land around him, using his training to see what was often missed.
“A whole lot of feck all.” He grumbled softly.
The bodies had been hanging out for a few hours from what Doctor Cassidy said. Tissue decomposing, eyes gone and putrid smell that twisted up your nose if you stood downwind in the wrong place. They were long dead. A rough rope hung around each of their necks which had been looped into thestone railings. The bridge itself was beautiful. Late eighteen-hundreds, it was a smooth, gentle slope, all hand carved out of creamy white stone. The vision was marred by the bodies though. Yet, either side were great expanse of green, lush grass, with dark green pine trees towering either side. It was the idyllic scene of the English country side with miles of land to travel, all leading back to one grand Hall. You couldn’t see the Hall from here, but there were lightson the horizon and two officers had been sent to find the land owners, as well as the two previous Officers who’d failed to return.
“All right!” A strong, feminine voice called out, “Be gentle with him.” Looking back to the bridge, McQueen saw Doctor Cassidy guiding one of the bodies down towards the gently flowing water. The sound of bone clanking made McQueen flinch, and he couldn’t help it. He’d seen death before: gunshot wounds, stab wounds, strangulation, but he’d never seen shredded skin and muscle. Never had he seen a staging such as this one. Staged suicides in other cases, yes, but these poor men of God, they’d been hung, and that wasn’t the worse of it. Muscles shredded, tendons snapped, the entire lower half of the two bodies had been chewed up by a wood-chipped, or something to that effect. Bones gleamed through the red carnage, all the way up to where loops of intestine hung out. Probably not a wood chipper, but something had stripped flesh from bone.
“Hear me Father… Hear my prayers.” McQueen muttered as he watched the young teen drop the last three feet limply into awaiting arms. “Be with God, our Father, Your power brings us to birth, Your providence guides our lives, and by Your command we return to dust.” McQueen rushed, his cross in one hand, while he kept his eyes on the deceased. It would be disrespectful otherwise.
Nevertheless, the boy’s eyes haunted him, the bright blue orbs gazing out in pain as he was passed to shore. They were the eyes a supermodel might wish for, as was his jaw line and chiselled chin. He was beautiful like an angel: delicate and soft, light and petite. Such brutality hurt McQueen's soul; he wasn’t used to it.
Five weeks ago, he’d been certified as a Homicide Police Detective, passing all his exams and physicals with flying colours. Yet, despite being top of his class and clearing the street of Dublin day in, day out, he’d been passed over for the London departments, all one-hundred and eighty of them. Instead he found himself, freezing his toes off in the middle of England, far out in the country side. He imagined the Yorkshire Dales were somewhere North, and London was South - where else would it be - but otherwise he wasn’t sure. He’d been so tired from his inner city-rush hour drive, then the ferry and then the twisty drive over, he barely knew which way was what. Arriving in the dead of night, he’d crashed in his B&B called The Spindle &Thread and didn’t see anything else until morning. McQueen felt misplaced here and had always dreamed of the Capital. He knew he could do some good there; he was ready for there, but God must have had other plans. So, McQueen strategized. He would be the best of the best here; prove himself to be scrupulous, unflappable and with a stomach of iron. One way or another, he’d work himself up to what London needed. What London wanted… however for now, he would lose his toes one at a time in the English country side.
Detective Jackson Hale had been his assigned partner when he’d arrived. Squinting through the morning light, McQueen saw him speaking
with Doctor Cassidy. No doubt Hale was getting the full in-depth report now, instead of waiting for the paper report like anyone else. Poor Cassi always seemed so flustered when Hale bore down on her. She flushed beetroot red and twisted her fingers together like she was crafting a tiny, invisible paper crane. McQueen had been trying to get Hale to step back, give her room, but the last time he’d asked Cassi if she needed a minute, Hale had glared him six feet under.
“Hale. Doctor Cassidy.” He nodded to them as he approached. They were stood on the bridge, Cassi splitting her attention between her team and Hale whileshe was grilled. Hale was intimidating to look at and he had a nasty edge to go with his bulking size. Over six foot and made of solid muscle, McQueen had thought Hale was a wrestler, not a cop. His skin was dark mahogany with light brown eyes which, more often than not, were half closed looking at the world suspiciously. He had a defining chiselled jaw and large lips, while also being completely clean shaven; chin upper-lip and head. His voice held the distinct London twang that could pick any Brit from a crowd, though he tended to glare more than use his words. On arrival to the station, McQueen had quickly picked up on Detective Hale’s reputation, though no one went into detail. He was a hard-ass, followed the law to the letter and worked harder than anyone else at the station.
“McQueen. So nice to see you.” Cassi smiled as she waved her arms like she was directing a plane. “To the left dear.” She yelled. Doctor Cassidy Leitch, or Cassi as she was known, was a short, plump woman who had a fierce work ethic that was rumoured to overshadow Hale's. Stood in her plastic onesie with a pink parker over the top, she looked like some kids cartoon character. Her bottle end glasses continued to slip to the end of her nose and her short blonde hair was stuck to her face which only emphasized her childish looks.
Looking over the edge, McQueen saw the larger, fatter man swing precariously close to one technicians face; an area of the dead man’s body that mutilated or not, McQueen would have cringed had it gotten so close. However, the Tech gripped the man’s hips like a pro to stop the inevitable pendulum effect and moved the skeletal legs into a better position.
“That’s better dear.” Cassi smiled. “Now what was your question Jackson?”
Hale, unlike McQueen, wasn’t watching the bodies, as if he’d seen it all beforeand flipped through his notes with his pen clenched between his teeth. Popping it from his lips, he tapped his pad twice before focusing back on Cassi, who as always, flushed a little bit deeper, and averted her eyes back too below the bridge. “You said time of death was at least over twelve hours ago…?”
“Yes, -,” Cassi coughed and cleared her throat, “Yes, that’s what I said Jackson. During the post-mortem interval, the bodies have lost their rigamortis. When I get them back to the lab and examine them a little closer, I’ll be able to narrow the time down.” Suddenly it was like a switched had been flipped and Doctor Cassi flowed into a methodical scientist. As soon as her lips spoke techno-mumbo-gargin, she was in a whole other zone. “The ropes are tied in a simple enough fashion.” Cassi informed him. “We don’t have an experienced sailor or ‘des pawson’ here, but the killer did cut the end of the rope making getting them down... difficult and without damage, even harder.” Cassi slid her glasses back up her nose while perceiving the scene. “You start to wonder in this line of work if there’s a limit to human sin.” She said under a hushed breath. McQueen silently nodded.
“Any indication of how…?” Hale trailed off as the large, dead man was slowly lowered to the gurney by the riverside. Leg bones clanked together, and McQueen's stomach rolled.
“No.” Cassi spoke softly back as the man was slowly zipped into a body bag. The man, even un-suspended, looked just as horrific. His mottled pale skin wet with dew made him looked like a gruesome Greek statue. “The legs and lower extremities are obviously damaged, and I couldn’t say for certain yet, but there looks to be some knife wounds amongst the other shredded skin. I’ll need a closer look to see what the cuts look like and whether it was done pre or post-mortem.” McQueen thanked the Lord again for not allowing him time to eat this morning.
Could this really have been done whilst alive? The feet and knees, minus any that were missing, were there in the most part, but the fleshy thighs and calves had been mutilated. Shredded muscles and tendons draped off the bones and blood had congealed in clumps. When the bodies had danced over the water, even in the low light you could see both groin areas where damaged. Carved up, sliced off, or minced… any version of events was brutal. McQueen couldn’t help but imagine both men screaming in agony as he was ripped apart.
“Alright…” Hale muttered to himself and he jotted down Cassi’s words, “I’ll need my report pronto Cassi.” Hale said.
“Do I ever give it to you late?” Cassi asked, with a tittle of a laugh, before she was back directing from above again, arms flying this way and that.
Then, the tall dark and stony Detective turned his eyes to McQueen. “And…?” He growled out.
“I-… um, Sir?” McQueen was embarrassed to say he bumbled out.
“I asked you to follow up on the witness who found the bodies?” It was as if someone was pouring molten iron into Hales eyes because that was the level of disgust that dripped from his lips. “Don’t tell me you were too busy praying to your invisible man upstairs to do your actual job?”
Ah, McQueen thought. The grouch caught that. From the day they arrived, and McQueen’s gold cross swung out from his shirt, Hale had made it clear: he could believe in any God, Deity, or fluffy, mushroom sitting Fairy’s for all her cared. The minute his beliefs got in the way of McQueen’s work, Hale would make sure he was out on his ass. An’t no time to wish for miracles when the criminal was about to run you over with a stolen car.
“The man said his name was Jacob Smith.”
“Jacob Smith?” Hale asked in a dead pan voice.
“Yes Sir. I pressed but he said he’d walk if I didn’t move on with my questions.” McQueen had actually pushed a little hard, appealing to the man’s good nature in hope he would want to be available for further questioning and help put the culprit behind bars. Least to say it hadn’t worked. “He works at a place called Cardinal House, up over the hill,” McQueen informed his boss, pointing over his shoulder in the general direction. “He said the staff wander the grounds sometimes, he does himself when-… and I quote, ‘senses something, like a rat’. However, on this occasion, one of the barmaids found the bodies and came hysterically crying into the house around three in the morning.” McQueen allowed himself to quickly glance up at Hale, who was staring into nothing with unfocused eyes, before continuing.
“He stayed with the bodies until the officers of scene arrived, then he waited for us. He’s now currently back at the house. He says he doesn’t know the victims, doesn’t remember ever seeing them in or around the house and no, he wouldn’t wait for further questions.” The guy truthfully had been a piece of work, and McQueen always found the best in everyone. When he’d been questioning Jacob Smith, which if it was his real name, McQueen would eat his cross, the guy had seemed more interested in the underside of his nails than the fact bodies had been staged on the property. “I did however, get out of him that the land we are now on belongs to a Mr. Archer Hellion, who we can find at the residence of Cardinal House. He also, cryptically said a price for admittance would be paid at the door. He didn’t however, say how much.”
Hale was silent for a beat or two before letting out a sharp ‘humph’. “Well, let’s go see what this Hellion fellow has to say.” Turning on the spot, he started to trudge up the hill, but not before McQueen heard the muttered words; ‘Not completely useless’ leave the Detectives mouth.
McQueen let out a sigh.
“Don’t worry about it.” A light-hearted voice said beside him. Surprised, McQueen turned quickly, expecting to find Cassi still there, but was instead greeted by a shorter guy, with tangled black locks that looked half slept on. A chunky digital camera was clutched between hi
s shaking fingers and as McQueen took in his paper-onesie, he snapped a shot of the ground.
“I’m sorry,” McQueen said, polite as ever. “Who are you?” Hunching in his coat, McQueen watched the boy take another photo, this time of the river bank. “Who gave you authorization to be with-in this crime scene?” Because that as all he needed; Hale breathing down his neck over a civilian on an active crime scene.
The boy chuckled. “It’s ok, I know you’re new and I look pretty young. I’m Two.”
“Two as in… the number?”
“Yep, that’s me.” The lad, Two, smiled and turned to face him. Now with a better angle, McQueen could see him fully. Dark rings encircled his eyes, while he was at complete ease as a body bag was wheeled passed; a sure indication of the horror’s he’d seen, and time clocked at crime scenes. “Everyone calls me Two. I work in the Forensics department. Photographer.” He smiled again, lifting his camera as if McQueen hadn’t seen it. “And really, don’t think too much on Detective Hale’s words.”
“He this mean to everyone?” McQueen joked, though he knew it was half-hearted. Somehow, the seasoned Detective had it out for him.
“Well, I mean, not everyone…,” Two teased, drawing a small laugh from McQueen. “But really, he’s an… well, ok he’s not an OK guy. He’s grumpy and mean and gruff. Never says thank you, always expects more, but what can you expect? They guy hates the world.”
