Ordo Lupus and the Temple Gate - Second Edition: An Ex Secret Agent Paranormal Investigator Thriller (Ordo Lupus and the Blood Moon Prophecy Book 2)

by Lazlo Ferran

  “Henry.”

  “Yes?”

  I reminded him who I was.

  “Have you seen that article in Le Monde? About the girl who was found dead in Lyon? You must have heard of it?”

  “Yes. Of course. How could I not. It’s been all over the papers. Strange isn’t it?”

  “Strange? Well no. I didn’t think so. It sounds just like what happened to Annie!”

  “Ah yes. I thought you would say that. You shouldn’t get too excited dear boy but I admit, it has potential.”

  “Listen. Can we possibly get together some time? I really need your confidence and I have a lot of stuff to show you.”

  “Well certainly. I would love to see you.”

  “When is good for you?”

  “Well anytime. My social calendar is hardly full you know.”

  “Tomorrow? Midday?”

  “Um. Yes I think so. I will have to get my cleaner to brush the house down a bit.”

  He gave me directions and the following morning I stuffed all the books, artifacts and documents I needed into my white Citroën DS and, after calling home to freshen up a bit, drove the 200 km down to Lyon.

  I parked in the only space available, a few blocks down from a narrow four-story town house in the inner suburbs, painted in a pale shade of pink, with sky-blue awnings over the tall and narrow windows. I pulled on the antiquated bell-pull outside the paneled front door and a voice echoed in the narrow street from above.

  “Push the door when you hear the buzz! Come up to the second floor.”

  On the second floor landing Henry was waiting for me, leaning on a silver-topped walking stick and wearing a cream-coloured suit.

  His pointed white beard jerked up and down as he welcomed me. “Come in! Come in dear boy.”

  He followed me in to his flat but I noticed he moved very slowly and seemed in some discomfort. He was even breathless before he lowered himself onto a Windsor back chair next to a lovely oak dining table against the wall by the window.

  “Angina dear boy. Too much good-living in the Army.”

  I chuckled politely. “Where were you based?”

  “India until the War. Then a spell in Burma.”

  He didn’t look at me as he spoke. I knew the fighting in Burma had been some of the most intense in the War. I also knew typhoid and malaria were rife.

  “So good to meet you at last dear boy. I hope you don’t mind if I don’t stand. Sherry? Or something else?” His brown eyes danced and glinted behind a delicate pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez glasses as he spoke.

  There was a small silver platter with a cut-glass sherry decanter in the centre and three clean glasses upturned next to it.

  “Sherry is fine.”

  He reached painfully over the table and poured a glass for me.

  “Now what wonders have you brought me to look at?”

  The first thing I showed him was the book by Edgar de Boulon. I had inserted white cards to mark pages of interest and he read slowly, affirming what he read with quiet ‘um hms’ while I slowly slipped the sherry. It felt very pleasant with a nice cool breeze whispering though the window in the early summer heat. I watched his face closely as he read the section about flying snakes and how they were supposed to constrict space. His eyes looked up at me just once for an instant. He finished reading and sat back in his chair. I knew him well enough from his letters to know that he formed opinions slowly, and gave them seldom, so I didn’t expect an immediate response. He still seemed to be waiting.

  “That last passage interests me the most,” I said grinning inanely at him. “I … Do you think I could possibly trouble you for another glass of sherry? Dutch courage!”

  “Of course dear boy. Help yourself!”

  “You know I was with Annie when she was… murdered? Well I told The Gendarmes that I had not got a good look at the killer but actually I did. My wife thinks I am insane but what I saw most resembled a … snake.” I hadn’t told Henry the details of what I had seen – about the snake – before. A bead of sweat started rolling down my forehead. I knew I could lose a friend now, or gain an ally, if he believed me. “Annie’s body was squeezed … crushed as if by a giant fist or perhaps a large constrictor snake.” I immediately felt the absurdity of what I was saying and felt powerless to back up my description.

  “Tell me more about what you saw!” I looked up and Henry was leaning towards me, eagerly waiting to hear more.

  I smiled, grateful and relieved at last to find a willing ear. “Well it was huge! It towered over us but you know… I couldn’t see anything clearly. It was as if it were in a dream. Everything shimmered. In fact the air had seemed to be like water when it appeared.”

  “Yes. That would be so.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t mind me. We will discuss it later. Just tell me all you can about what you saw.”

  “Well. Obviously, once I could feel it take a hold of Annie I wasn’t so interested in what it was. I just wanted to hold on to her but it was immensely strong. It was like pulling against a pick-up truck. There was no way I could stop it.”

  “But it was a snake you say? How did it take hold?”

  “Yes sorry. Annie was behind me, against a wall but it seemed to have some kind of appendage, arms maybe. In fact in moments I felt it was more like a man than a snake. If it had eyes I could not look at them. It also seemed to be burning somehow, and I thought I could smell the stench of burning flesh. I am sure it must have made a sound like a scream or roar but I was shouting too and Annie was screaming so I cannot clearly remember that. I could not tell you about colours or even if it had wings. It was dark. That is about it really.”

  “Yes.” Henry seemed to consider the information for a moment. “Yes I have heard of these, these Warg before. Actually I don’t think of them as Warg at all but it will do as a term for now. The book of your grandfather’s is very famous you know. In fact it is very rare and very valuable. I believe only five were ever printed. Actually the author is not Edgar de Boulon. That is just an alias for a Count, whose name escapes me right now, but what really interests me is this reference here.” He turned the book to face me, open on another marked page and pointed to a book title mentioned in the text. “This is a book I have been seeking for years and I believe it is a book you really need to get hold of too. I have heard that two leaves of this book, of which only one copy is thought to have survived, is available on the black-market, for a very high price. I wonder if perhaps you might be interested in obtaining such a thing?”

  I read the title – ‘De Secretis Scientia Occultis’.

  “Why is it of such great interest to us?”

  “Well, dear boy. What I have heard is that this particular document has some secret information about the snake-demons, as most of us in-the-know call them. Of course the whole book is probably of huge importance to us but I only know of the two leaves that are available for now. Who knows why? Perhaps it’s a copy. Perhaps the owner of the book needs to raise cash. Perhaps it’s a fake. There is only one way to know for sure and that is to get a look at it. Of course it’s way out of my price-range.”

  “Well how much would you need?”

  “Well I think the bidding will start at perhaps 8,000 Guineas.”

  “Whew! For just one page?”

  “Well four actually unless one is an end-leaf or we are very unlucky. There should be something on both sides!” He laughed at his little joke.

  I pondered the amount, could I really justify spending that amount to Rose?

  “I could raise it, possibly. My antiques business is very successful now. Let me think about it.”

  “Well alright. But don’t think too long. These things have a habit of vanishing just as quickly as they appear.” The wit of this comment was not lost on me. “Now is there something else you want to tell me?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure? What about any special abilities of your own?”

  I
looked at him suddenly amazed. “How did you know about that?”

  “Ah ha! Well?”

  “Well I am so used to my wife scoffing at everything lately I had begun to doubt it myself but you know during the War M.I.6 was very interested in my talents. In fact I think that’s why they recruited me.”

  “Did they now?”

  “It seems that I can sense the approach or presence of evil. Or at least bad spirits and usually I can avoid them myself although, unfortunately, that doeS noT extend to my friends or close family. I wish it did. It seems pointless being the only one protected sometimes.”

  “Now, now. Don’t get bitter old boy.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Anyway that’s what I thought you might say. You see I know a lot more about you than you think, or than I thought until today.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No. I am not sure either and until I am I would prefer to make a few enquiries but I can tell you one thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “This death in Lyon is not the first of its type recently.”

  “No?”

  “No. I noticed a previous one five days before in Avignon and another a few days before that in Montpellier. Are you seeing a pattern here?”

  “Well apart from the fact that each is a little further North than the last, no.”

  “That is it. The murderer, whatever or whoever it is, must be traveling north. Each murder victim is described as being badly mangled in a similar way to Seline.”

  “Why is it travelling north then?”

  “Well I don’t know. Perhaps it is looking for something?”

  “Um. Maybe.”

  After showing Henry the rest of my documents and a sample of Romanian wolf statues I had brought with me, including the large one of snake and wolf man fighting, he in turn showed me some manuscripts and maps that he had. They were fascinating and I took my time looking through them and taking notes. By the time we had finished it was mid-afternoon and after a sandwich, I rose to leave.

  “Henry. It has been a pleasure and very enlightening to meet you. I am going to seriously consider bidding for this book. I will call you tomorrow or the next day.” Henry started to struggle to his feet. “Don’t get up. I can see myself out.”

  “Such a pleasure dear boy. Such a very great pleasure for me. You are welcome any time.”

  As I left the room I noticed for perhaps the third time a very large crucifix on the wall above the ornate fireplace. I became conscious now of just how strange it was. Seemingly bolted together from two very misshapen cross pieces of some hard wood like oak, it was burned around the edges and carved loosely into some kind of relief design which I couldn’t quite make out because of the damage. It seemed a very odd thing to be hanging in Henry’s lounge. My instinct was to ask about it but my intuition was that it was too early to ask such intimate questions so I left with just a call over my shoulder. “See you soon Henry. Take care!”

  I opened the door to his flat and stepped out onto the landing. Facing the stairs, I wondered how on earth he managed them. I walked down the corridor on the landing towards the back of the building and saw one of those old lifts in a wrought-iron cage.

  As I walked back to the car, I had a very uncomfortable feeling that I was being watched or followed. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck and for a moment I felt sick.

  It didn’t take me long to reach a decision on ‘De Secretis Scientia Occultis’. I was seriously wealthy by now although most of the money was wrapped up in the antiques business but it was my business and there was no reason I should not start to enjoy what I had worked so hard to build up. Also, getting involved in the intriguing world of black-market deals for rare arcane books was too much to resist. A few days after our meeting I telephoned Henry.

  “Henry, I have the money and I want to bid for this page. What do we do now?”

  “Excellent dear boy. How much?”

  “I have 100,000 Francs – just over 9,000 Guineas but I don’t want to bid above 8,000 to start with.”

  “No. We will start at 7,000 but I am sure it will end up more. Leave it with me!”

  We drove towards Paris in my Citroën. In the driving rain around Troyes the radio reception became so bad I turned it off and listened to Henry talking – when he wasn’t rustling the map.

  “Typical French car, this Citroën; strange looking, but when all is said, it is well made.” He tapped the dash with the head of his stick which he insisted on keeping between his legs as we drove.

  I was feeling cramp in my legs as we had driven all morning and into the early afternoon. We hadn’t even stopped for food, Henry passing me egg and ham or cheese sandwiches as I drove.

  Shortly after passing through a little village called Vatry Henry called out, “Right at the next turning.”

  “Are you sure? We are in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Not nowhere dear boy; near to a beautiful rare manuscript!” His eyes shone as I glanced at him. The wipers were working overtime and I peered out into the watery gloom for the turning.

  “There! I see it.” We slowed and I turned the car onto a gravel track and stopped. “The instructions said to wait here, didn’t they?”

  “Um hm.”

  Just at that moment through a break in the clouds, the sun burst forth and the rain slowed revealing a beautiful rainbow arching across the gentle landscape before us. France had never looked more beautiful to me. We were in the Marne region of France, East of Paris and a major wine-growing region. Many of the fields we had passed had been vineyards but the fields here were green and fallow.

  A figure in raincoat and galoshes appeared ahead of us and pointed behind him. I started the car and passed him, the car steadily crunching the loose stoned beneath its wheels.

  “Wind down the window, Henry.”

  “Do you want a lift?” I called to the man.

  “No, sir. It is only one hundred metres.” The man spoke in English but with a heavy German accent, I thought.

  “This looks dodgy Henry. What do you think?”

  “Not what I was expecting. This dealer has a good reputation though. I wouldn’t worry too much. Probably just wants privacy.”

  Roughly one hundred yards on, I saw a sky-blue caravan beside the track and since there was no other possible meeting place I stopped the car there. I helped Henry out. The clouds were already scurrying away leaving blue sky in their place and colours and smells that seemed even more vivid in the afterglow of the rain.

  Parked next to the caravan was a beautiful silver Rolls Royce Silver Cloud. A splash of mud on its gleaming wing was an affront, like a smudge of lipstick on a fashionably decadent model in a photo shoot.

  The door to the caravan swung open and a black-jacketed arm with black leather gloves held it open while we climbed the three mini-steps to enter.

  “Velcome Gentlemen! Sit down! Sit down!” This voice also sounded German but I couldn’t yet make out the shape of its owner as there were no lights on. I could make out a small, thin table supported by one spindly leg with a briefcase on it and then, against the window behind it I started to make out the dealer. He had something like a trilby hat on and dark glasses. His pin-striped suit, although very expensive and probably Saville Row, struggled to contain any part of his massive frame, which I guessed to be all of twenty five stones. He also wore black kid-leather gloves and a white cane rested against the seat, to his right. He seemed to be blind.

  “Champagne, Gentlemen?”

  “That would be very nice,” said Henry, lowering himself very carefully onto the stool indicated for him in front of the table. I sat on mine, next to him. I thought, and I guessed Henry thought too, that we must look quite comical perched on such fragile stools at such a fragile table.

  “André. Pour please.” said the large man.

  The black-suited and gloved André, who must really have been a bodyguard, produced a silver tray from somewhere. The tray had three filled flutes o
f Champagne Bollinger, nestled beside the opened bottle on it. The champagne was delicious. André’s piercing blue eyes looked bored but he was polite.

  Suddenly the whole caravan started rocking from side to side gently and a might roar and whistle filled the air. A train rushed by somewhere nearby and I knew we must be right alongside a railway line.

  “Now, Gentlemen. Let me show you something.” A mantle of thick, silver hair flowed from under the hat of our host as he opened the case. I still could not clearly see his face. “Please use the gloves.”

  Two pairs of white archivist’s gloves lay on top of the document and Henry and I both put on a pair each. Henry then lifted up the single, brownish top leaf with cursive Latin script on it. He held it close to his glasses. To my surprise the document had not be torn or even carefully cut from a book but unstitched, and it consisted of four, full pages of a book, with the stitch holes clearly showing down the middle seam. I managed to conceal my delight and surprise, and noticed that Henry did the same.

  “Oh yes. It’s beautiful.”

  “You read Latin Sir?”

  “Yes. But the buyer does not.”

  “Ah.” I think he smiled at me, judging by the curling of his lips. “Please, if you can read it, do not talk to each other from now on about the content. Once you have approved it, Monsieur de Silva, your friend will propose a price.”

  I guessed he was nervous; we were simply after the content and once we had deduced this we wouldn’t want to buy. I kept quiet with difficulty until, I guessed, Henry must have read at least one paragraph. “Well? Henry. Is it what we are looking for?”