Day of the Serpent (Ouroboros Book 3)

by David Longhorn

  Crowley yanked the door open, and the sane light of day flooded into the circular room. Catherine saw herself reflected in the shattered glass, a staring pale-faced, young woman, slack-jawed.

  I look like an idiot, she thought, closing her mouth. Crowley grabbed her and this time she allowed him to pull her out into the fresh air. She could hear the magician's quick, shallow breaths. For a few moments, neither of them could talk. Then Crowley took her by the shoulders and said, “You must never speak of this to anyone, Miss Burns.”

  “What was it?” she managed to say.

  “Not an angel, I think that much was apparent,” he replied, with a trace of his old humor. “No, I was grievously in error to come here at all. I have heard rumors of such beings from other adepts, but never really believed that they still existed.”

  “But what was it?” she said, dismayed to hear her voice was high-pitched, like that of a frightened child. “What did I see?”

  “Something even older than the angels, I suspect,” he said, releasing her and walking back into Boleskine House. “Now, let me call you a taxi back to Inverness. In fact, we can share it. Just give me half an hour to pack a few things.”

  “What?” asked Catherine. “What do you mean?”

  “I'm leaving this place,” replied Crowley, tersely. “I have no intention of ever coming back. And if I were you, I'd try to find a job as far away from here as possible.”

  ***

  Jean Brash was making her way back to Boleskine House with milk from a nearby farm when she saw Fergus Mackay running up the road towards her. She set down the milk can and smiled, expecting him to offer to carry her burden. But as he grew closer, her smile faded. Fergus was disheveled, red in the face, and kept looking over his shoulder.

  What on Earth could have possessed the man? He's running as if the Devil himself is chasing him!

  Jean peered past Fergus along the side-road that led to the loch shore. She could see no sign of anything that might have alarmed him. Then she thought of the number of times she had shared some malt whiskey in the kitchen of an evening. Unlike Jean, the man never stopped at just the one. Fergus was notorious for the amount of time he spent in the pub, too. As a good Christian, Jean knew where over-indulgence could lead.

  It's delirium tremens, she thought. He's gone barmy. Perhaps he's seeing pink elephants!

  “Run!” shouted Fergus, finally seeming to recognize her. He was wheezing, barely able to get the words out. “It's coming!”

  Jean glanced along the road again. Fergus was so clearly terrified that she half-expected a rampaging pink elephant to appear. But there was nothing except the familiar expanse of water, shining in the sunlight. Fergus, seeing her confusion, slowed down to a jog.

  “Now you keep your distance, Fergus Mackay!” warned Jean. “This is God's punishment for all that tippling!”

  “Nonsense, woman!” he gasped. But he stopped a few yards away. He was almost bent double with exhaustion before standing up and turning to face the water.

  “Where is it?” she heard him say. “Something that big can't just vanish.”

  A few minutes later, Jean had satisfied herself with the fact that Fergus was not drunk. He insisted that a huge water-beast 'with eyes as big as coach lamps' had emerged from the loch and chased him up the shingle beach. Jean, now suspecting some kind of prank on the old man by local lads, insisted on them going back to the scene of the supposed attack. When Fergus seemed unwilling, she questioned his manly courage. And so he squared his shoulders and led the way.

  “There,” she said, as they crested a low ridge and looked down at the shore. “Nothing to be seen except your fishing gear.”

  They made their way down to the waterline, feet crunching on shingle. As they approached the spot where Fergus always fished, Jean grew uncertain. The fishing rod, instead of being upright on its wooden stand, was smashed. The broken rod lay in a trench that wound across the shingle, leading from the water almost to the edge of the beach.

  Almost, she thought. But it just stops. As if something huge was dragged – or dragged itself – up the beach for ten yards or so, then simply stopped.

  “Don't go near the water!” warned Fergus, taking her arm. He was still wide-eyed, scanning the surface of the loch. His fear was infectious, and Jean laid her hand on his.

  “What was it?” she whispered.

  The caretaker shook his head.

  “I canna say,” he replied, his Highland accent much broader than usual. “All I know is that my grandma told me stories of strange beasts in the lochs. Things that lay sleeping for ages, so that they're almost forgotten. And then they rise, and–”

  He stopped, shaking his head again.

  “We should go, woman!”

  He quickly gathered up the broken pieces of his rod, along with his crushed haversack, and set off back up to the road. Jean hesitated, then caught up with him. They said nothing while walking back to Boleskine House. As they were nearing the house, a motor taxi from Inverness clattered by.

  “That'll be for the lady reporter,” remarked Jean. “Just think, if she'd been on that beach with you, she'd have got herself a far better story than anything that Englishman could tell her.”

  When they arrived at Boleskine a couple of minutes later, they were surprised to find their employer putting luggage into the taxi. Crowley saw the servants approaching and paused briefly to shout, “Lock up the house. I will return in due course. When I do, I will bring your back pay.”

  They never saw him again.

  Jean Brash and Fergus Mackay married soon after, and enjoyed a happy marriage despite his love of Scotch. When he died, Mrs. Mackay settled into respectable widowhood, and was known to her neighbors as a calm, good-natured woman. Only on one occasion did she show unseemly excitement, and that was over something most locals saw as nonsense.

  In the summer of 1933, Mrs. Mackay was at the corner store and, as usual, along with her groceries, she bought a copy of the Inverness Courier. She was in the middle of a pleasant chat with the assistant who was packing her purchases, when suddenly the widow stopped in mid-sentence. She turned pale and bystanders noticed that the hand holding the newspaper quivered.

  “Are you all right, ma'am?” asked the sales girl.

  “What?” asked Mrs. Mackay, in confusion. Then she put the Courier on the counter.

  “Quite all right,” she went on, “I just don't see the point in newspapers. They'll print any old rubbish.”

  Without another word, she gathered up her bags and left.

  The assistant, who took little interest in the news, looked in puzzlement at the front page of the paper. It was dominated by a blurred photograph of a black object apparently rising from the water of the loch.

  They call it the silly season, the girl thought. I mean, why would anybody be upset by such foolishness? Even the headline is silly.

  The girl folded the paper carefully and put it in the rack next to all the other copies, each repeating the question that had set the whole of Scotland, and the wider world, talking.

  IS THIS THE LOCH NESS MONSTER?

  Chapter 1: Innocent Bystanders

  Brad Steiger arrived at the North London Psychiatric Hospital for the evening visiting hour. It had been two months since he had last seen his friend, Marcus Valentine. Brad's job had made heavy demands upon his time following the incident at Mista Venja in Poland. The clash with dark forces had left Marcus mentally shattered, and Brad demoralized. Without the scholarly Englishman's expertise, Brad felt powerless to pursue Ouroboros, the cult that had brainwashed his daughter, Kelly.

  As Brad got out of his rental car, he saw the British reporter, Denny Pollard, waiting at the entrance to the hospital. She had kept him up to speed about her investigations while he had been busy elsewhere. Unfortunately, as she had admitted in their last Skype session, she had found precious little of use since their return from Eastern Europe.

  “Hi, Denny,” he said, giving her a hug. “How's it go
ing?”

  She gave a grimace of annoyance.

  “I think we've completely lost the trail of Ouroboros,” she said. “I've put out feelers to contacts all over the world. Nothing. They're in hiding, and they're obviously very good at it.”

  “Which means they could be building their own version of the Zamyatin Device,” said Brad. “And we would never know until they fired up the damn thing.”

  Denny nodded.

  “God knows what that would do,” she said. “I wish Marcus was more coherent. You only realize how vital someone is when you lose them. Well, let's see how he's doing. You never know, people have recovered from worse traumas.”

  They went inside and checked with the nurse at the reception.

  “Hello again,” said the nurse brightly. “You're here to see Mister Valentine?”

  Brad remembered her, vaguely, from his last visit. Her name badge read Anita Sharma. He had visited many times in the immediate aftermath of what they had called Marcus's 'accident.' They had claimed that Marcus had almost been killed in the burning castle of Mista Venja, which was true so far as it went.

  We could hardly tell professional psychiatrists that he was attacked by a deranged snake-woman created by a mad Soviet experiment, he thought. That would just get us checked into the same wing as Marcus.

  “That's right,” replied Denny. “How has he been?”

  “He's been quite chipper,” replied the nurse. “Such a nice gentleman! Always very polite. But he was a little agitated this morning after his daughter dropped in.”

  “Oh, I didn't know–” Brad began, but Denny touched him lightly on the arm, and he realized he should shut up. Then Denny asked, “Oh, his daughter visited? I didn't know.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Anita. “She's been here a few times lately, always in the mornings. She's very nice, but I think seeing her upsets him a bit.”

  “I've never met Debbie Valentine,” Denny went on. “I think he said she was living in America. Or was it Canada?”

  The nurse frowned.

  “No, her name's not Debbie, it's Lisa, and her accent was more like Russian or something,” she said. “She certainly didn't sound American. I assume she grew up abroad with her mother.”

  As Anita was speaking, her previously cheerful expression faded, and she started to look confused.

  “Ah, yes, that's right,” said Denny, still improvising. “I'm thinking of someone totally different! Duh! Did Lisa leave any contact details? Only because we couldn't get in touch with her when Marcus fell ill. What with her living abroad.”

  “I'll just check.”

  Anita took her computer mouse and clicked a few times, then looked up from the screen with a puzzled expression.

  “That's weird,” she said, “I've only got yourself and Mister Steiger registered as visitors for Mister Valentine. That can't be right.”

  “Maybe it's a glitch in the system,” said Denny gently. “You know how computers are.”

  “Yes,” said the nurse, vaguely, “that must be it.”

  But the young woman still looked confused.

  “We'll just sign in,” said Brad, impatient to talk to Denny in private.

  Nurse Sharma produced the visitor's book. As he signed, Brad checked the other visitors' names for that morning. He noticed a printed LISA VALENTINE next to a scrawl that might have passed for a signature. The handwriting seemed unformed, as if it was the work of a small child.

  Or an adult who's learning to write? Or who's almost forgotten how?

  They thanked the nurse, and were buzzed through to the long-term care wing of the hospital. As soon as nobody could overhear them, they stopped and had a hasty discussion.

  “Who the hell is this Lisa?” asked Brad. “One of the Ouroboros gang?”

  Denny shrugged.

  “Might be,” she said, “but as far as we know, they consist of just four people. Cleo, the lamia, Clay the founder of the cult, plus Kelly of course, and that young German, Andreas. I suppose Kelly might have put on a fake accent, but why?”

  Brad thought for a moment, then said, “Do you think that accent she mentioned might be Polish? We never found out what happened to Lenka, that treasure hunter's girlfriend.”

  “Perhaps,” admitted Denny, “but there's something niggling at the back of my mind. A Russian link. Professor Zamyatin was Russian, so was his whole team at Mista Venja. Maybe the Russians want their psychic gizmo back.”

  “After decades of not giving a damn?” asked Brad. “They just left the thing in a derelict building. No, I don't buy it. Let's keep it simple and just ask Marcus who she is. Hell, maybe he does have a grown-up daughter in Russia. When he was young he might have, how do you say it? Put himself out a bit?”

  “True,” conceded Denny, “he never talked much about his private life. And I can quite see this young Marcus as a bit of a Romeo. The intellectual ones, in my experience, are the ones to watch out for.”

  They carried on to their friend's room and found him, as usual, sitting at a desk by the window. The room was lit by the evening sun. The Englishman looked up as they came in then gave a hesitant smile.

  A good sign, thought Brad. Sometimes he doesn't notice we're there at all.

  “Hey, Marcus!” said Denny, “look who's here! The man himself!”

  Fake cheerful, thought Brad. God, we all sound the same when we visit someone in a hospital. Hearty and bogus.

  “Brad,” said Marcus. “Good to see you. How's Kelly?”

  “You always ask me that,” said Brad, ruefully.

  Marcus frowned.

  “Do I? I'm so sorry, old chap. I think my memory isn't what it was.”

  “Hey,” said Brad, sitting on the bed, “none of us is getting any younger. And in answer to your question, I haven't seen Kelly for a couple of months now.”

  “Not since Poland,” put in Denny. “Not since the fire at the castle.”

  Marcus looked even more puzzled, then his face cleared.

  “Ah yes, the Place of the Serpent! They tell me I was hurt. I can't really remember much. Except I seemed to have a very long, involved conversation with a very strange person–”

  Marcus stopped, clearly struggling with errant memories.

  “Hey,” said Brad, “the nurse on duty said your daughter came over. You never said you had kids.”

  “Oh yes,” said Marcus, nodding seriously, “she's my only child. Rather late in life, I must admit. But all the more precious, I feel.”

  Brad and Denny exchanged a glance, then waited for Marcus to continue. But he said nothing more.

  “So tell us more about Lisa,” prompted Denny, sitting next to Brad.

  “Well,” said Marcus, “she's not had an easy time. A bit like Kelly, in fact. She got into dangerous company and had all sorts of problems. I'm afraid she did a few bad things, too. But she's good at heart, I know. I like to feel everyone is essentially good, or at least that most of us are. Don't you agree?”

  Brad didn't, but he gave a sympathetic nod before asking, “So where does she live? Does she have a job?”

  Marcus looked as if he were struggling to recall something, and gave a hesitant smile.

  “I don't think she has either, Brad,” he said, hesitantly. “She's been struggling to come to terms with life. It's not given to many of us to be born three times.”

  Brad and Denny exchanged a glance, then Brad asked, “Three times? What does that mean?”

  “I mean she was born three times!” exclaimed Marcus. “First, she was born in the usual way, then she was reborn against her will, and finally she became my daughter, my only child. Isn't that wonderful? Thrice born, a miracle of sorts!”

  The Englishman's voice had risen, and his eyes were shining with a fanatical glee. Denny put her hand on Brad's arm.

  “Hey, this isn't an interrogation,” she turned to Marcus. “I think we both want to know, when do we get to meet Lisa?”

  “I'm sure she'd love to meet you,” Marcus replied, calming down
noticeably at the commonplace question. “But my Lisa is rather secretive, and she goes her own way. She's been traveling, you know. Like a student on a gap year. Only–”

  The Englishman paused again, inclined his head as if listening to some noise Brad could not hear.

  “She says there's something she needs to do. A problem that needs solving. And you two will play a big part in her plans!”

  Marcus smiled.

  “Isn't that nice?”

  Oh yeah, thought Brad. Nice as pie.

  ***

  The dining room of the Rabbie Burns Hotel in Fort Augustus offered a splendid view up the length of Loch Ness. As Paul Meroney had grumpily remarked, they probably added fifty pounds to the bill as a result. But Paul's wife, Julie, loved dining at the table by the picture window. The only downside was that the sight of the loch prompted their daughter Cressida to chatter incessantly. With the obsessiveness of a five-year-old, she had had just one topic of conversation during the entire holiday.

  “I saw a mermaid today,” said Cressida, a spoonful of pasta poised halfway to her mouth.

  The news did not surprise Julie, given that Cressida had mermaid plush toys, mermaid pajamas, a mermaid duvet cover, a mermaid night-light, and mermaid socks.

  “No, you didn't,” said her brother Will, a nine-year-old rationalist. “There's no such thing as mermaids.”

  “I did see a mermaid!” retorted Cressida, with a hint of outrage. The girl's tone set off alarm bells in Julie's brain. Cressida turned to her mother and went on, “The mermaid said ‘hello’ to me and asked me to come into the lake for a swim, but I said ‘no,’ because I know you should never go with strangers.”

  “Well, that was very sensible of you, darling,” said Julie. “Now, eat your dinner before it gets cold.”

  “Anyway, if there were mermaids, they'd live in the sea, not a lake in Scotland,” grumbled Will, before shoving a forkful of ravioli into his mouth.

  “It's a loch, not a lake,” said Paul wearily. “Loch Ness. It's famous. But for big long-necked monsters, not mermaids.”