by Ward,Matthew
Pushing the sheeting aside, I ease my way inside. There are boot prints through the thick, grey dust. They halt at several points in what remains of the chamber, always in front of a low, marble shelf. Outlines in the dust betray where items have been removed. That's good news and bad, all in one. There's nothing more to steal, but it looks as though Mason's already taken anything of value. It's not Crossrail's archaeologists – they wouldn't have stripped the tomb and left the remains.
I turn my attention to the casket. London's an old city, each generation building on top of the one that came before, but even with that in mind, we're a long way down. I wonder who he was, and why he deserved such special treatment. I glance at the lettering carved into the remains of the casket lid. It's Latin, or mostly so. It's enough to dispel my assumptions. The skeleton at my feet isn't a he, it's a she. That's one puzzle solved, but it ushers in another. If the tomb's contemporary with the brooch – and I've no reason to believe otherwise – cremation would have been more likely than burial. And why here, beyond the bounds of Roman London?
The sump wraith shifts restlessly behind me. I toss it another caramel, and go to work on the rest of the inscription. I understand the Latin well enough, but it's intermingled with something I don't recognise. Might be Celtic. Might be something else. May as well be Greek, for all I can read of it. There's a city – Verulamium, modern day St Albans – and a name I don't recognise: Morwynnyr. There's also the name of a goddess, Andrasta. A British goddess cited on a Roman casket, during Nero's reign? It doesn't make sense. Unless... Unless the casket's occupant wasn't Roman at all, but British.
I look again at the skeleton, and see something I hadn't noticed before. Even allowing for the disturbance to the tomb, there's something wrong with her positioning. She wasn't laid face-up in the casket, but face-down. I've heard of similar practices being followed in the shadow of the Carpathian Mountains. Whoever interred this woman feared she'd return from the dead. They buried her face-down in the hope she'd dig herself deeper, rather than out. Of course, in the Carpathians, they're guarding against vampires. In Roman Britain...?
Icy fingers dance up and down my spine. I wish Jess were here. More and more, this looks like a warding chamber, if of primitive design. Confronted by something they couldn't fathom, the Romans buried it as deep as they could, and surrounded it with what magics they had to hand: brooches, charms, offerings.
I'll lay good money that one of the missing artefacts was a statuette of Pluto, invoking the keeper of the dead to claim the casket's occupant. And now? Now there's a good chance it's free. Set loose by the modern obsession of shaving a minute off an hour's journey. Yes, there's a corpse, but a body means nothing. The sump wraith's proof that bodies are easy enough to come by.
It's time to leave. It's also time to call in the experts.
With a last glance around the tomb, I step out into the tunnel. The sump wraith bars my path. Apparently it's given up on loyalty in favour of extortion.
I offer up another caramel. "Let me pass, and I'll leave you the rest."
The sump wraith doesn't move. It doesn't even try to take the sweet. It glowers at me from its misshapen eye sockets. Have I done something to offend it?
The sump wraith looms over me, its mockery of my form dissolving into the shapeless mass I first saw. There's a nameless urgency to the motion. It wants me gone.
I back away. With bribery no longer working, there's nothing to stop the creature smothering me as it did the guard. I don't understand what's caused the change in attitude. I'll have to run for it. The sump wraith's blocking the way I came in, so that means taking my chances in the other direction. I don't much like that idea. The Crossrail tunnels are still a mystery to me. Still, knowledge is earned by degrees, and not always when we'd wish it.
The sump wraith howls and surges towards me. The suddenness of the motion takes me by surprise. I scramble backwards, fingertips brushing against the tunnel walls as I fight for balance. There's a piercing screech, the sharp, acrid stench of burning rubber, and a rush of cold, bitter air.
The sump wraith disintegrates. There's no other way to describe what happens. One moment it's flowing towards me. The next, it's gone. Traces of it still dribble from the walls and ceiling, but the bulk of the creature is simply.... gone.
In its place stands a woman in a London Transport uniform. Her clothes are ragged and filthy, her eyes are red-rimmed, and black as night. It's no consolation at all to know my earlier fears were correct. The tomb's captive found herself a body, all right. For all I know, she's followed me from the upper reaches. Or maybe she sensed an intruder in her tomb. I'm not sure it matters. Not now.
If I squint, I can see the spirit as an outline of hazy red light. It's slightly larger than the woman, and moves as she moves. It's as if the host's body is the skeleton, and the spirit the flesh layered on top. It's more than that. Even in the torchlit gloom, it's obvious how thin and haggard the woman has become. It's feeding on her.
She steps toward me. The red light flares, and the spirit's presence momentarily obscures that of its host. I catch a glimpse of a proud face, more stern than beautiful, braided hair and a flowing, tattered dress. It holds a spear in one hand. The point crackles with light.
Now I know how the sump wraith died.
Was it protecting me? Poor sod.
The light crackles away, leaving the spirit and her host in equilibrium. The spear's barely visible, but I'm damn sure it'll kill me just as easily as it killed the sump wraith. Fighting's not an option. That leaves talk, or run.
I hold up my hands in as non-threatening a gesture as I can manage. "I'm not here to fight. I only..."
She levels the spear. I don't recognise any of the words of her challenge. Like the voice that utters them, they come from a time long before my own. They're not Latin. They're thicker, more guttural, each syllable a ululating descent into the next, like an audio tape played too fast, then played too slow. But there's no mistaking the anger. It shines through every word like a lighthouse through fog.
Then come the visions. They wash over me in waves. I see stone buildings ablaze, and bodies twisting in iron gibbets. There's mud beneath my feet. I smell the rich, choking smoke and the sharper, metallic tang of blood. I hear screams of the dying, the rhythmic thunder of hooves.
Too late, I realise one of the screams is mine.
The visions fade, and I'm clutching at my side, trying to stem the bleeding. The flickering spearhead lunges at me a second time. Somehow, I twist out of its path. Ravaged flesh and bone scream in protest. It's all I can do to stay upright.
Adrenaline kicks in before she can strike again. I throw myself forward. My strength's fading. I'm already falling, but momentum's on my side. I feel a sharp chill as my skin touches that of the spirit, and a dull thump as my shoulder slams into the host's chest.
We crash against the tunnel wall. There's a sharp crack, and the spirit's angry torrent becomes a fading scream. I look up in time to see a swirl of green light vanish down the tunnel – not towards Chancery Lane, but to whatever lies at the other end. The discarded woman lies motionless beneath me, blood matted around the base of her skull. She's not breathing, and her eyes are glassy and white. I know I'll feel guilty for that later, if I have the chance.
My limbs feel like lead. I want to sleep, just for a moment, but I know that if I close my eyes I'll never open them again. I also know I'll never make it back to the scaffold in the lift shaft, let alone climb all the way up to the station. That leaves precisely one option. It'll bring me no end of trouble, but it might keep me alive. There's also the spirit to consider. Even now, it's looking for another host.
Rolling clear of the lifeless body, I crawl over to the dead security guard. Every inch feels like a mile crawled over broken glass, but I make it. After three attempts, I get his radio clear of its pouch. Numb fingers fumble with the keypad, switching the channel to an Airwave frequency I'm not supposed to know.
"Put me through to C
rowe. Tell him it's John Templeton."
I barely hear the acknowledgement at the other end.
Out of the frying pan, into the fire. If I'm lucky, I'll bleed out before he gets here.
Mason
It starts with a knock on the door. It's a little after two in the morning. The last of the auctions ended an hour ago; my remaining guests ambled off into the Pimlico night not more than five minutes back – most of them with a skin full of claret. I didn't partake. I'm not in the mood. But never let it be said I'm not a generous host. Besides, I've a reputation to consider. My trade's exclusive, and clients expect a certain... atmosphere. I'm thinking this'll be one of their number. A misplaced wallet, a lost car key – something like that. Easily resolved. Trivial. My woes belong to a different order of magnitude.
The knock comes again. Louder this time. Impatient.
"Alright, alright. I'm coming." I draw back the bolts, release the lock and step outside. There's no one in sight. Just an empty street. Strange. I decide the phantom knocker's found his keys and head inside.
The door crashes back on its hinges, propelled by the impact of a heavy, black shoe. I follow on tiptoes. It's not through choice. There's a gloved fist around the knot of my tie, and another locked around my wrist.
I open my mouth to call for help, and close it again when my eyes focus on the face in front of me. This is bad. This is very, very bad.
It's really not my week.
The door slams shut. My back slams into the banister post.
"Reuben? Everything okay?" Mariette's voice drifts down the stairs. She sounds half-asleep.
I glance at my uninvited guest before replying. He nods, shifting his grip from my tie to my throat.
"It's nothing, love. Go back to sleep. I'll be up soon."
There's a sleepy grunt, followed by the dull thud of a closing door. "Leave Mariette out of this, okay? It's nothing to do with her."
The dark face contorts into a snarl, and I'm on the move again, propelled through the drawing room door with enough force to shudder the Chesterfield sofa when I hit it.
As I pick myself up, my uninvited guest enters more sedately, setting the door gently to behind him. He leans back against the door, thrusts his hands in his pockets and waits expectantly. His jacket falls open, giving me a glimpse of his underarm holster. I wonder when the day started for him. The suit looks like it's been slept in. Perhaps it has.
I straighten myself up, holding onto the remains of my dignity with both hands. "What can I do for you, Marcus?"
"My friends call me Marcus. Do I look like your friend, Mason?"
He doesn't. Point of fact, he looks like he'd like to rip my head off my shoulders. Then again, I'm not sure Marcus Crowe has any friends. "Just being civil."
"Tell me about Chancery Lane."
"I don't know what you're talking…"
Crowe's on me before I finish. His hands close on my lapels. "I'm asking nicely. You want me to stay nice, don't you?" He reels me in, gives me the full benefit of his bloodshot stare. Even by his standards, he's running on a short fuse. Perhaps I'd better cooperate. Not much. Just enough to get him out of my hair. "I won't ask again. Chancery Lane."
"I've a contact on one of the Crossrail drill teams. She sells, I buy. Nothing more. "
"I want her name."
"I can't do that." I attempt a shrug. No easy thing under the circumstances. "Honour amongst thieves. You know how it is."
I force a smile, hoping a bit of humour will lighten the mood. The thump of my head against the wall and the dull spike of pain tell me otherwise.
"I'm not laughing. People are dying."
That grabs my attention, though I'm careful not to show it. How much does he know? "What are you talking about?"
"That brooch you sold up on Edgware Road. Told the woman it was a healing charm. Her old nanna got possessed, killed and ate three of her neighbours."
So he doesn't know. Good. That's not to say his news makes me happy. "Louisa Parkin?"
Crowe grunts. "A confession? That's not like you."
"I didn't sell her anything. She couldn't meet my price, so we parted ways. It wasn't 'til I got home that I realised she'd picked my pocket."
"You expect me to believe that?"
I don't. After all, it's not true. Miss Parkin paid, and paid handsomely. But that's not the point. I want Crowe to feel like he's in control of the conversation. Feeding him a few obvious lies is as good a way to do that as any. He's expecting me to be defensive. "Sounds like she did me a favour."
"Yeah, well that favour almost cost me a friend tonight. He followed your trail, nearly got himself gutted."
So I was wrong. Crowe does have a friend. Only just, by the sound of it. "That's not my fault. It's dangerous down there. I'd expect any friend of yours to know that."
Crowe leans close. His breath's bitter with coffee. "We had an arrangement, you and me. I keep you off the boss's radar, provided you give us first pass on everything – everything – that comes your way. Can you think of a reason why I shouldn't hand you over to Blackwood? She'd love to meet you."
I don't laugh. I don't smile. I don't do anything to betray the exultation mingling with adrenaline. Crowe's overplayed his hand. I'm the enemy. Well, not the enemy, but close enough for Crowe to be in a world of trouble for aiding and abetting – even if it's for sound reasons. There's always a black market, especially for the items Coldharbour takes an interest in. Crowe's a big believer in the principle of 'the devil you know'. Blackwood isn't. She puts her devils behind bars, or sends them into the hereafter. If he gives me up now, Blackwood'll put him in the next cell along. That's why he's come here alone. He can't afford for anyone to know what he's been up to.
I've already won. But I can do better. What began as a disaster is fast turning into opportunity.
"Neither of us wants that." I'm careful to put just the right amount of subservience into my voice. Crowe likes to play the brute, but he's no fool. He wouldn't have risen so far if he was. "I'll cooperate."
He eyeballs me a moment longer, looking for the truth. Good luck to him. After what seems like forever, he lets me go. "I want everything from Chancery Lane. Hand it over, and maybe I won't throw you in a deep, dark hole. I won't even tell your girlfriend what happened to her predecessor. She's still out there, somewhere, isn't she? Her body, anyway."
I close my eyes. I don't like to be reminded of Carrie, much less the... thing... that replaced her. In hindsight, Carrie and I should never have gone digging beneath Blackfriars, but we're all clever after the fact, aren't we? I'm more careful now. "Ten thousand. It's all yours for ten thousand." He'll expect me to bargain. "I've expenses to meet."
Crowe thrusts his hands into his pockets and props himself up against the back of the sofa. "I don't give a crap about your expenses. You hand everything over, or you watch as I tear this place – and you – apart. And that's just for starters."
Now that threat, I believe. It doesn't matter. I've won this round. I sigh to make it look good. "You win. But it's not here. I've a warehouse…"
"On Ossory Road. I know it."
He's not supposed to. He's keeping closer tabs on me than I thought. I've made the right choice. "I'll take you there."
Crowe lurches upright without taking his hands from his pockets. "You can drive. Means your hands'll be where I can see them."
*******
"Doesn't look like much."
Crowe sounds disappointed. The warehouse is practically empty, the bare brick walls and high windows unimpeded by the towers of packing crates he doubtless expected. Then again, that's not unusual. The Ossory Road site isn't my main stockroom. It's more of a holding area for items of unknown – or disputed – provenance. Most of my business – that performed at the gallery in Bloomsbury – is as above-board as it comes. This is my secret place, where I keep… unusual… items out of sight and out of mind, until the clamour surrounding their acquisition dies down, and I can arrange a private auction. O
rdinarily, it's the last place I'd want to bring Crowe. But this isn't an ordinary situation.
There's only one crate here at the moment, propped up beside the office door. Its lead-lined timber conceals an original Karanov. It's a beautiful work, vibrant and detailed beyond the ability of most modern artists. The city's golden spires, the alabaster banners, the winged defenders swooping on the thermals. It's like something from the Arabian Nights – except I know it isn't. Someone once told me that art offers windows into another world. Karanov's work goes further. It opens doors. In this particular instance, the case remains sealed not for the painting's protection, but for mine.
I should never have bought it. I've enough troubles as it is.
Crowe follows me to the office door, his attention split between me and the shadowed recesses of the room. As ever, it's a methodical appraisal. I've always suspected him of having a military background, though I've never been able to prove it. As far as my sources are concerned, Marcus Crowe doesn't exist.
"This really isn't worth bothering with."
Crowe grunts. "Tell that to Louisa Parkin and her nanna."
There's not much I can say to that. I feel for the victims, of course, but it's not as if it's my fault. I'm always careful to warn my clients of the possible consequences. If they choose not to take the proper precautions, that's on them. I don't waste my time explaining this to Crowe. He wouldn't understand. I don't know why I even brought it up. Some spark of conscience, fighting its way to the surface? I hope not. That kind of thing gets in the way. Especially today. Especially with what I need to do next.
The key slides into the lock. I hesitate before turning it. "Promise me you'll be careful. I don't need any breakages."
"Just open the damn door."
I shrug to conceal my nervousness, and turn the key. There's no way I'm going in there first. "Help yourself."
