The Haunter (The Sentinels Series Book 2)

by David Longhorn

  The dark energy, the mental reek of Baalphegor, grows even stronger. She feels herself blacking out, then Tony is holding her face in his hands.

  “Rachel? Can you hear me?”

  She manages a smile.

  “Yes, honey, I'm fine, it was just intense.”

  Bill has released Rachel's hands. He sits back while Charlotte puts a hand on his shoulder and asks, “Are you all right, darling?”

  “Yes, Charlie,” he replies, “it's just that Rachel's even more powerful than I thought. I really think we could win this one.”

  “Okay,” says Tony, “the sooner we start, the better. Time to move, Archie.”

  “Remember,” says Bill, “go in on the hour precisely, we'll have started distracting the demon by then.”

  “Gotcha,” replies Tony.

  “Can I go with you?” asks Charlotte, hoisting an impressive meat cleaver. “I'd feel pretty useless just sitting here with Bill and Rachel.”

  Tony and Archie both look hesitant, but Bill doesn't object. Surprised, Rachel says, “I think I'd feel more comfortable if you were here keeping watch. After all, we'll be pretty vulnerable, both sitting here with our eyes open and our minds drifting off who-knows-where.”

  Charlotte looks dubious, but puts the cleaver down and sits at the table by Bill.

  “Fair enough,” she says. “Good luck, Tony, and you too, Archie.”

  “Thanks miss,” says the taxi driver, checking his pistol.

  “Be careful, Major Beaumont,” says Rachel, trying to keep her fear out of her voice.

  “I will, Mrs. Beaumont,” replies Tony, then he and Archie head out for the battle.

  ***

  The snowplow turns off the highway and starts to lumber up the side of the road to Furniss Manor. The windscreen wipers are almost useless against the snow. Jimmy is leaning out of his window while Croft sticks his head out of the other, both trying to keep the vehicle centered. The big diesel engine is struggling audibly as the plow fights its way through nearly three feet of snow. The headlights show the four men little but the blizzard.

  “How much longer?” asks Bryce, looking at his watch.

  “Maybe twenty minutes at this rate, if we're lucky,” replies Jimmy.

  After a couple of minutes, Croft shouts, “I think I can see the gates! We're nearly there!”

  As they draw abreast the stone gate posts of the Furniss estate the engine starts to protest even more loudly and they hear the wheels of the truck spinning in the slush. Jimmy changes down a gear and tries to pass through the open gates, but the snowplow won't budge. Eventually, Jimmy stops spinning the wheels and they sit, listening to the howling blizzard while the engine idles.

  “What's keeping us from moving?” asks Jimmy. “The slope's gotten no steeper.”

  Croft and Bryce exchange a look, then the colonel says, “Some kind of barrier we can't see. Put there by occult means.”

  “Do you mean magic, sir?” asks Armstrong.

  Bryce nods. “If we don't get through quickly, we'll be too late and all hell might literally break loose. Let me get out and try to punch through it. There's something I can try.”

  Croft clambers out of the truck cab and waits while Bryce disembarks and then starts feeling around in front of the vehicle as if testing the strength of an unseen wall. When he puts out his hand just ahead of the snowplow's bumper, he feels an odd sensation.

  Like an invisible rubber wall, Croft thinks. I can't push through, but there's nothing there.

  “Hold this a minute,” snaps Bryce, handing him a large brown paper bag. Croft unthinkingly obeys, at the same time hoping Armstrong hasn't seen him being bossed around.

  “What is it?” asks Croft, lifting the bag. Its contents seem heavy but shapeless.

  “Sea salt,” replies Bryce. “Surprisingly effective for protection, up to a point. Probably won't need it here, but you never know.”

  “Protection against what?” asks Croft.

  Bryce ignores him and takes something else out of his coat, a narrow dagger about five inches long. The weapon looks old and worn; not very impressive. Seeing Croft's expression Bryce says, “Cold iron is traditionally the Devil's enemy, especially if it bears certain symbols.”

  Looking more closely, Croft sees that the blade of the knife is indeed decorated with what might be letters in an alphabet unknown to the detective.

  “Runes,” says Bryce. “With luck, they'll give us enough power to punch a hole in this barrier. Now, give me a moment's peace, please.”

  The colonel bows his head in apparent prayer, his lips working, saying words Croft can't hear above the blizzard. Then Bryce pushes the dagger into the invisible barrier. At first, Croft sees nothing unusual, but then a ring of light forms around the blade and spreads, producing a glowing sheet of bluish flame. There's a flash, a soundless explosion, and they both take a step back as a wave of heat washes over them in the freezing March night.

  Between the gateposts of Furniss Manor, there is a narrow trench where snow has melted away and the earth beneath has been scorched.

  “Right, I think that's done it. Let's get moving before they recharge it,” says Bryce, heading back to the snowplow. After a moment, Croft follows him, carefully putting the bag of salt into his overcoat pocket.

  ***

  “Okay, this is it.”

  Tony and Archie stand outside the locked and bolted doorway of the Sorcerer's Tower. Dust and cobwebs all around suggest that the Marlows didn't consider their care-taking duties extended to this part of the house.

  Can't really blame them, thinks Tony. There's a distinct feeling of evil about this place. The door seems to radiate it.

  “Okay, Archie, hold the torch up and keep that pistol handy.”

  Tony raises the shotgun and brings the butt down on the lock. A couple of blows smash it off, then undoes the bolts before stepping back.

  “Okay, I'll go first. Be ready to shoot anything you see, human or otherwise.”

  “Understood, sir,” replies Archie.

  Tony kicks the door in and steps back. Nothing emerges from the dark rectangle but more dust. Archie's torch reveals a stone floor and a curved wall, but nothing else.

  If Braid does live in this place, he's certainly not one for home comforts, thinks Tony. “Right, let's do it!”

  The two men enter the Tower, looking around nervously. The torch beam illuminates only a cylinder of gray stone, obviously much older than the Tudor brick of the Manor house proper. More dust, more cobwebs. To one side is the entrance to a spiral staircase leading up. To the other is a similar opening but this one leads down. Tony ponders their options.

  “Okay, Archie, below is more likely to lead to the demon, up probably takes us to the four hundred year old black magician.”

  “Up it is, then, sir.”

  They cross the chamber and begin to climb the cold, stone steps.

  ***

  The snowplow is inching its way through the belt of woodland that surrounds the Manor house garden. The blizzard is finally easing off, so that the wipers are more effective and the cab windows can be closed against the cold. The track through the woods has effectively been erased, so Jimmy is steering by guesswork.

  “Why can't I see them yet?” mutters Bryce.

  “What do you mean?” asks Croft.

  “The spirits, the souls trapped here,” says the colonel. “There must be hundreds, if not thousands.”

  Croft and the others glance at each other, then the two police officers start peering into the night on all sides.

  “The Tower must be even more powerful than I thought,” Bryce goes on. “Drawing in everyone's spiritual power, living or dead. That would explain why I can't sense anything beyond the mundane.”

  Bryce raises a hand to his scar, tracing the line of it down his face. It's the first unconscious gesture Croft has seen the man make. It ought to humanize Bryce, make him seem less cold and imposing. Instead it merely serves to make Croft even more nervou
s about their chances.

  “Nasty scar, that one,” says Croft.

  “I acquired it in a good cause,” replies Bryce. “And it brought certain advantages. Like second sight.”

  Croft decides not to press his new ally further.

  “Left a bit,” says Armstrong. “Left, Jimmy, you're off the track for sure!”

  “Never mind, man, we're out of the woods, look!” replies the little man.

  Croft peers into the gloom ahead. At first, he can see one of the statues, then two of them. They seem oddly close together, though, and one of them is much smaller than the other, and squat, seemingly malformed. Two huge yellow eyes gleam in the headlights.

  Oh my god it's alive, it's moving! thinks Croft. Coming right at us!

  The shape in the headlights is only vaguely human as it plows its own furrow through the snow. Croft glimpses a huge torso and immense arms, a thick neck, and above that, a face with a swinish snout, a wide mouth with tusks, and curved horns protruding from its forehead.

  “What the bloody hell's that?” shouts Jimmy.

  “Run it down man!”

  As he speaks, Bryce pulls a gun out of his coat.

  Before Jimmy can react, the hulking monstrosity has appeared outside the window and an enormous fist smashes into the cab, grabs the little man from the driver's seat, and pulls him out into the darkness. Bryce lunges across Croft aiming his pistol and fires three quick shots in succession. There's a deep, gurgling roar and Bryce is aiming out of the broken window, fires twice more, then the driver's door is open and the colonel is gone.

  Croft grabs a heavy torch, telling himself, It's better than no weapon at all.

  “Don't just sit there, Armstrong, we've got to go after them!”

  Croft is dismayed, but not surprised to hear his voice is far higher-pitched than normal.

  The two policemen follow two sets of footprints through the snow. Croft notices that one is twice the size of the other, and the larger tracks are of wide, bare, clawed feet. They hear another two shots from Bryce's semi-automatic, but by the time they catch up with him, there is no sign of the creature.

  “I'm sorry, I wasn't fast enough,” says the colonel. He's standing over Jimmy, and at first, Croft can't see what's wrong with the little man's body. Then he realizes that Jimmy should be face down in the snow, but his head has been twisted around one hundred and eighty degrees. As Armstrong crouches over the body, the wind blows the last few flakes of the storm onto Jimmy's sightless eyes. The sergeant closes them.

  “What was that?” asks Croft.

  “The enemy, or at least one of them.”

  “How did you miss it at that range?” asks Armstrong, standing up. His tone is accusatory.

  “I didn't,” replies Bryce, reloading his gun. “And you're lucky I used special iron rounds. Lead wouldn't have had any effect at all.”

  Then something so absurd happens that Croft finds it hard to believe he isn't dreaming. A snowball flies out of the gloom and hits Bryce square between the shoulders. They all spin around to look in the direction it came from and Croft again sees the yellow eyes.

  “One down, three to go!”

  Bryce takes aim at the eyes and fires twice. A kind of belching giggle comes out of the darkness.

  “Ouch! That little popgun of yours is downright unsporting, colonel! Call yourself an officer and a gentleman. But if you want to play hide and seek, I'm game. Catch me if you can!” The yellow eyes vanish.

  Armstrong starts forward, stops, looks shamefaced at his boss.

  “The bastard! What do we do, sir?”

  “It wants us to chase it around the grounds all night,” replies Croft, “picking us off one by one as we exhaust ourselves.”

  “Quite,” says Bryce. “Which means we ignore it and head for the house and see what we can do there. I don't think it enjoyed a few bullets in the face, for all its mockery. If we stay alert, it won't come any closer.”

  The three men set off back to the snowplow, with only Armstrong glancing back at the pathetic corpse lying in the snow.

  ***

  “Here,” says Bill, handing Rachel a mug of tea. “I put some herbs in it to relax you. Believe me, you'll need it for what we're going to attempt.”

  Thanking him, Rachel puts her hands around the mug to warm them. Despite the heat from the kitchen range, the old stones seem to be drawing all the warmth from the room.

  “Here's something I don't understand,” says Charlotte, casually turning over the black cardboard square from the library.

  “Just one thing?” asks Rachel, raising an eyebrow.

  “You're sure you won't have some, Charlie?” asks Bill, holding up the teapot.

  “No, thanks, darling, I've had some brandy to keep me warm,” she replies before going on, “What I don't get is the way this demon behaves. It doesn't make any sense, does it?”

  “What do you mean?” says Bill, leaning against the sink and nursing his steaming mug.

  “Well, isn't it odd the way it treats its victims?” asks Charlotte. “It captures unsuspecting folk, drags them down to its lair to drain their life-force, or whatever, for Braid to use, right? But then it leaves most of the bodies out in plain sight for all to see. Why do that? After all, if it stashed them away somewhere, all we'd have are disappearances. Instead, it leaves corpses all over the place. Why?”

  “Yeah,” says Rachel, “it's almost as if the thing wants to attract attention. But why? Surely Braid doesn't want people investigating his shenanigans?”

  “We had a cat that left dead birds all over the house, when I was a lad,” says Bill. “Maybe it's something like that? There's a lot we still don't know about the lower beings.”

  I can't believe we're all being so matter of fact about demons, thinks Rachel. Anyone overhearing us would think we're insane.

  “Oh, what a bloody fool!” exclaims Charlotte, looking at the black card again. “Of course!”

  Rachel looks up from her tea and asks, “Who's a bloody fool?”

  “Me, that's who! I should have seen this straight away.”

  Charlotte waves the black card at Rachel, then turns to Bill.

  “You see, darling, these faded initials on the back might be I.B., at first glance, but they lo0k much more like E.B. And that makes more sense, I reckon.”

  “What do you mean, darling?” asks Bill.

  “E.B.? Edmund Beaumont?” says Charlotte. “Don't you see? The first Lord Furniss built this place, employed Braid, put up the statues, the chapel, and paid for the tunnels to be dug. Edmund was a ruthless mercenary, a man with a bad reputation, while all we know about Braid is that he was an alchemist who got hounded out of Scotland and sought refuge here. Braid may have provided the occult knowledge, but isn't Beaumont the more likely villain of the piece? To grab for long life by any means is what you'd expect from a border warlord, not some scholarly mystic!”

  “But they found Edmund Beaumont's body, in the grounds,” protests Rachel.

  Charlotte shakes her head, smiling.

  “They actually just found a body; one, so disfigured that they could only identify it from Edmund Beaumont's rings and clothing. No fingerprints in those days, remember! I bet that body was Isaac Braid, killed, to stop him from divulging the secret of the garden and the Tower. He was probably one of the first victims of Beaumont, in fact, the teacher consumed by the pupil!”

  Charlotte is clearly delighted by her reasoning. Rachel looks at Bill, whose face is impassive.

  Wouldn't the amazing secret Order of Eschaton know all this stuff already? Maybe, Rachel thinks, maybe not. Some secrets are very well-kept.

  “And for good measure, I've just remembered how we can look at the secret portrait, it's easy. Darling, will you bring me that beer bottle?” says Charlotte to Bill, pointing at it.

  Without a word, Bill picks up the brown-glass bottle from the draining board beside the sink, lifts it for a second, and then hits Charlotte hard on the side of her head.

&n
bsp; ***

  “There's nobody here, sir!”

  Thanks, Archie, I can see that for myself, Tony thinks as he feels his remaining self-confidence ebbing.

  The upper chamber of the Tower is as empty as the ground floor. The only feature is a circular platform in the center. It bears an engraved pattern that seems to replicate the layout of the garden.

  “Braid must stand in the middle of this to be regenerated, somehow,” Tony murmurs.

  Archie almost steps into the center of the circle but Tony stops him.

  “We've no idea how dangerous it is.”

  The older man pauses, then says, “What do we do next, sir? I mean, didn't the other gent say this Braid fellow must be here?”

  “Yes,” says Tony, “he did. I think we'd better go back and ask Bill a few questions.”

  He leads the way to the stairs but as they reach the opening, they stop to listen.

  “Is that footsteps, sir?”

  Tony isn't sure. Surely that's the sound of bare feet on stone. But there's a clicking noise, too.

  It's only when the vile stench reaches them that they realize what is coming up the spiral staircase.

  ***

  Rachel hears a sickening crack as the beer bottle connects with her friend's skull. Charlotte slumps sideways and Bill catches her under the arms. He then drags her over to the wall and leans her back against it.

  “Sorry, Charlie, but you're a bit too clever for my liking and I can't have you interfering at this vital stage,” he says. Then, standing over her, he shakes his head. “If only you'd been a bit less brave, you'd be giving up all that passion and vitality to me, as I originally had planned.”

  Rachel takes a few moments to realize what's happened, then tries to stand up. She manages to half-rise then falls back onto her chair.

  “What . . . what the hell are you doing?” she says, finding it hard to speak.

  “Ah, you were a good girl and drank your tea, Rachel!” says Bill cheerily, coming to stand over her. “You've done a splendid job of adapting to British culture. Saved me a lot of trouble. Now, we can finally get on with the last phase!”