Blood of Angels (Curse of Weyrmouth Series Book 2)

by David Longhorn

  “You're sure?” asked the repairman, looking between Melody and Jeff.

  “Yes,” said Melody. “I fixed it myself. Sorry to drag you out here over nothing.”

  After an awkward pause, Jeff said, “Well, since you're here, why not come in for a coffee or whatever?”

  “I'm sure Gary's too busy for that,” said Melody, with a broad smile.

  She looks drugged, thought Jeff. Not like her usual sharp self at all.

  “Yeah,” said Gary, “I have a couple of other clients, but I kind of prioritized you – well, no harm done.”

  When they were alone in the apartment Jeff asked Melody what the problem was with the computer.

  “Oh, just some really obvious glitch,” she said breezily. “I made a lot of fuss about nothing. Maybe I'm a bit hormonal. Not focusing too well.”

  Melody ran her fingers over her midriff. There was no sign of swelling yet.

  “Right,” said Jeff, dubiously. “So you were doing some work when you were supposed to be taking a break? We talked about this. Or, I thought we did.”

  “I know, honey,” said Melody, taking one of the shopping bags, despite his protests. “I've been a very naughty girl, and you can spank me later. Now, let's get something to eat, eh? And did you remember the anchovies?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  Feels like something's changed, he thought. I just can't put my finger on it.

  Jeff spent the rest of the afternoon telling himself that there was nothing wrong, that the odd incident had merely been a misunderstanding. Melody seemed to return to normal. But later, at dinner, he asked her about the job she had been doing for Carr and Deighton.

  “Oh that,” she said. “I couldn't do anything with the files they supplied. They were corrupted or something. Nothing doing.”

  Again, she gave the broad, rather dopey smile. Jeff felt uneasy again.

  She never gives up on a problem that easily, he thought. Or maybe it is the pregnancy. What do I know?

  He decided not to say anything. The last thing he wanted to do was upset her.

  “More anchovies, dear?” he asked, forcing a smile.

  ***

  “Wings?” asked Louise. “Vestigial wings? That's a bit on the nose, isn't it?”

  “On the back, to be precise,” Erin pointed out. “But yeah, it's more than a little weird.”

  “Well, we knew you had some unusual powers,” Louise said. “You fought Nick in the cathedral and won, somehow.”

  “I think it was more like a draw,” Erin corrected her. “People died, but he didn't get his way. Whatever his plan for that tower is, the big finale was delayed. He's not been around since he failed, but when he comes back I know he'll be mightily pissed at me.”

  “It must be significant that you were drawn to Weyrmouth and that you're, well, sort of an angel in embryo,” said Louise, after a few moments' thought.

  “Hard to believe my dad was an angel,” Erin remarked ruefully. “Calvin Cale was a lot of things, but angelic was not one of them. Not a crook, exactly, but not what you'd call reliable, either.”

  Louise fell silent, then spoke carefully.

  “Now, this is just a theory, but perhaps it's not your dad so much as a more distant ancestor who was a supernatural being. Someone with strong ties to Weyrmouth.”

  It took a second for the implication to sink in.

  “Oh my God.”

  Erin sat gawping at her friend.

  “You mean Nick,” she said, “that murdering bastard is my ancestor?”

  “It would make a kind of twisted sense,” said Louise. “The force that drew you here is a blood tie. A link to the being that began it all. Nick, or Master Nicholas as he called himself in the 1400s.”

  It was Erin's turn to sit in stunned silence.

  “Maybe,” said Louise, “there's some family tradition about all this? Stories passed down the generations?”

  “Mom once told me that dad's grandfather had come from England,” replied Erin. “I'd forgotten. I mean, it was just a throwaway remark. But maybe she knew more than she let on. She didn't talk about dad much, except to call him a no-good liar.”

  “Well, why not get in touch with her?” asked Louise. “She must know more than that.”

  Erin's expression changed to something like horror.

  “Ah, you mentioned you don't get on too well,” Louise went on. “But I didn't realize it was that bad. Sorry.”

  Erin gave a rueful smile.

  “Seriously, going up against killer angels and murderous ghosts are nothing compared to the dread I feel whenever I think my mom might have tracked me down. Marybeth Cale didn't just have religion, she suffered from it.”

  And it seems like she made sure you suffered, too, thought Louise as she worked on her office PC.

  “Okay, with that option closed, maybe you could just tell me all the family names you can remember? Then we'll see what we can unearth.”

  Within a few minutes, she had established a possible link between the Edward Kayll of Victorian Weyrmouth and Erin's father. An Edward Kayll had certainly married one Molly Dearden in London in 1864. Shortly after, the couple had immigrated to the US. Unfortunately, there was a gap in the early twentieth century. The transition from the English ‘Kaylls’ to American ‘Cales’ was still shrouded in mystery.

  “Seems like the records we need aren't online,” sighed Louise. “We'll have to take your descent from Edward on faith for now. It does make sense.”

  “And how does that link me to the tower?” asked Erin. “It always seems to come back to that.”

  Louise made a helpless gesture, indicating her extensive collection of books and journals on folklore and local history.

  “I'm sorry,” she said, “I've not been much use in that department. There's nothing in the history or the folklore of Weyrmouth that gives a purpose to the tower. And yet building it and preserving it is clearly part of Nick's grand design.”

  Erin pondered the bookshelves.

  “Maybe what we need was never written down, never revealed to anyone,” she said. “After all, a big secret is something you keep to yourself. The being called Nick, or Nichols, might be the only one who knows.”

  “Well, I'll keep researching,” sighed Louise. “You never know, some other places might have similar–”

  She was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “It's nearly five,” said Amy. “Is it okay if I go now?”

  “Of course,” Louise replied, and started to resume her conversation with Erin. Then she stopped.

  “Oh damn! I was going to talk to her about something. I suppose it'll wait.”

  Louise explained about Amy's mysterious problem. Erin thought for a moment, and then said, “The Shadow Council is watching you.”

  “What?” asked Louise.

  “It was something one of the Seven whispered to me, the morning after I got here. I had no idea what it meant, of course. Could this be the group Amy's dad is involved with?”

  Louise went to the door, opened it to check nobody was outside, then sat back down.

  “There are rumors,” she said slowly, “that a secretive group controls Weyrmouth. They're supposed to meet at the Masonic Hall. That's all anybody really knows. Any outsiders, that is.”

  “Was Park part of this group?” asked Erin.

  “I wouldn't be surprised,” conceded Louise. “From what you said he turned against Nick but was working for him before that. But if Amy's father is involved, it's a more serious matter than I thought. I'll try and persuade her to tell me more tomorrow.”

  They returned to the topic of the tower, the Seven, and Nick.

  “When I first encountered the Seven they said something about the One Foretold, someone who lives many lives, or touches many lives,” said Erin. “That must be me, right? This psychic time-travel thing. But they didn't tell me what I was supposed to do. I promised to free them, but I still have no idea how.”

  “Perhaps,” said
Louise, “it's connected to the SOS message from the diorama. Save Our Souls. We know a lot of souls have been absorbed by the tower to keep it standing.”

  Louise paused, struck by a worrying thought.

  “What if you did free the Seven, and all the others?”

  Erin smiled.

  “Yeah, I've thought of that. If I free the captive souls, the whole tower collapses, right?”

  “Not something you'd want to do lightly,” mused Louise. “And we could hardly run around the heart of the city beforehand, telling people to clear the area.”

  “I could ask the kids for more information, I guess,” suggested Erin. “But I get the feeling they don't really know that much. They're trapped; they believe someone will deliver them. That's about it. Perhaps if I went back?”

  “How about going back in a different way?” asked Louise.

  “What do you mean?”

  In reply, Louise opened the drawer of her desk and produced Edward Kayll's sketch-book.

  “No way!” protested Erin, holding out her hands as if to ward off the book. “I can't risk monkeying around with history. You felt it yourself, how dangerous the most trivial change can be.”

  Louise laid the book down on her desk.

  “Yes,” she said, “tinkering with the past is a bad idea. But how about just observing? Finding out why the wreck of that ship seems so significant. Because, let's be honest, we're getting nowhere fast due to a drastic lack of information.”

  Erin could not argue with that viewpoint.

  But what if I'm tempted to interfere? Will I be able to resist?

  “Just observe,” said Louise, emphatically, “and in short bursts. Find out what was so significant about the Charlotte Clore.”

  “Okay,” she said, “suppose I put my fingers on the book, you let me keep 'em there for a second or two, then pull it away?”

  “I promise,” said Louise. She came round the desk and perched on its edge, holding the book out. Erin looked at her own portrait, drawn well over a hundred years before she'd been born. She took a breath, and tried to smile at her friend.

  “Here goes,” she said, and laid her fingertips on the yellowed paper.

  Chapter 8: The Wreck of the Charlotte Clore

  “Good morning, Mister Kayll,” said Mister Nichols, falling into step beside Edward.

  “Oh, good morning, sir!” replied Edward. “You startled me, somewhat.”

  The stranger had seemingly popped out of nowhere.

  “I have a way of coming and going quietly,” said Nichols, with a smile. “Let me help you with your bag, it looks very heavy.”

  Before Edward could respond, the fair-haired young man had taken the over-stuffed carpet bag, hefting it as easily as if it had been empty.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Edward, gesturing to the street winding ahead. “Most kind. What brings you to the docks so early in the morning? If I may ask?”

  “You may! I am here to wish you well on your journey,” replied Nichols as they reached the gates of the bustling harbor area. A watchman on duty touched the peak of his cap to Nichols and waved them through without a glance at Edward. But a dark-haired woman selling trinkets reacted rather differently. She was dark, perhaps a gypsy, with a little girl in tow. When the woman saw Nichols, she pushed her child behind her and made a strange gesture, pointing two fingers downwards.

  Superstition, he thought, uneasily. Common among the lower classes. Belief in the evil eye, that sort of nonsense.

  “You have invested heavily in the voyage, then, sir?” asked Edward, tentatively.

  “You could say that,” said Nichols, with his knowing smile. “A great deal depends upon its success. More than you can imagine at this moment.”

  “I imagine,” said Edward, tentatively, “that the weapons being shipped might make a small difference to the course of the war, but–”

  He stopped. Nichols was shaking his head.

  “It's not the outbound voyage that concerns me. Let Clore sell his weapons and make his grubby profit. No, what I require is an item that must be brought back to England. Something that will be put in your care. A small but precious – relic, let us call it. It was discovered in America quite recently after being lost for uncounted centuries. Its loss was felt most grievously in certain quarters.”

  “Why send me, sir?” asked Edward. “Why not someone more qualified? Indeed, sir, if it’s not an impertinent question – why not simply go yourself?”

  Nichols looked Edward in the eye, his face expressionless.

  “Sadly, I am unable to voyage abroad,” he said. “In fact, I cannot leave this town. My – my investments here are far too demanding. That is why I need a trustworthy chap like yourself to safeguard my venture. And why did I choose you? Suffice to say that we have more in common than you might think. You are well equipped to handle this item I mentioned. Others – let us say that a more common sort of man would not manage so well, believe me.”

  Nichols touched Edward on his arm, then put Edward's carpetbag down on the cobblestones.

  “I sense doubt, uncertainty, young man,” he said. “You do not wish to go, I fear.”

  He calls me young, thought Edward, but he seems younger than myself, if anything. Except for his eyes. They have a timeless look about them. Disturbing.

  “I – I do not like the idea of supporting the Southern cause,” Edward admitted. “Like most people in England, I feel that President Lincoln is a great man, fighting to free millions from terrible servitude.”

  Edward braced himself for an angry response, but Nichols gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

  “Never mind politics! Let's get you to your ship, bold voyager!” he said, with apparent heartiness.

  Edward was treated with great respect by the crew of the Charlotte Clore. He sensed this was entirely down to the presence of Nichols, who made it clear he was Edward's patron. But he still felt daunted by the size of the ship. A new steam vessel displacing over fifteen hundred tons, it had a rakish look and Edward could well believe that it was the fastest vessel afloat.

  “Take care,” said Nichols, as a sailor took Edward’s bag. He reached out and gripped Edward by the hand, adding, “This is in the nature of a test. I hope you pass. Many like you have ventured forth before. All failed, sad to say.”

  Edward was about to ask what Nichols meant by the last remark when he felt a surge of warmth flowing into his hand and up his arm. He tried to pull away but the stranger's grip was far too strong. Edward had a sudden vision of a rocky shore, a lighthouse. The impression was so intense he could hear roaring waves, a gale, timbers breaking, and the cries of frightened sailors.

  “Don't doubt me, Edward,” said Nicholas, letting go, ending the vision as abruptly as it had begun. “I will always hear you if you call.”

  Edward stared at Nichols as the man walked back down the gangplank onto the dock.

  “Clear the deck, there!” shouted an officer. A steam-powered crane was lowering a huge, cast iron gun directly towards Edward. He scuttled aside, gawping at the size of the cannon. Sailors laughed, then began heaving on ropes to guide the weapon into the hold.

  “I said clear the deck, dammit!” shouted the officer. Edward hurried to a hatchway, in pursuit of the sailor with his luggage.

  The next half hour saw him coming to terms with a tiny cabin that made his attic room in Weyrmouth seem specious and luxurious. He added a personal touch by tacking his drawing of the mystery woman above his bunk. Again, he read the bizarre message he did not recall writing.

  Nichols not human, he thought. Certainly there was something odd about the man. That would explain my odd reaction to his handshake. But no, such ideas are absurd!

  Edward continued unpacking, setting out his few items of decent clothing on the bunk. Then he paused, puzzled. A narrow manila envelope lay on the bottom of his carpetbag, beside his shaving kit. He could not remember putting it in there. Picking it up he took it to the small porthole to examine it more cl
osely. On the outside was his name penned in black ink and a single sentence.

  OPEN ON ARRIVAL IN CHARLESTON

  It felt light.

  A single sheet of paper? Instructions of some sort? An introduction to Nichols' contact or contacts in America?

  For a moment, Edward contemplated ripping open the envelope and reading the contents. But he had a sudden conviction that if he did so Nichols would know. He shuddered, placed the envelope back in his bag under some socks. As he began to fold his shirts away, a cabin boy knocked at his door and shouted through it.

  “Captain's compliments, sir, and would you care to join him for breakfast?”

  He found Garrett in what he recalled was the ship's saloon, a kind of dining room and general purpose space. Breakfast was under way, with Garrett and his officers tucking into eggs and bacon. A white-coated steward poured out steaming coffee.

  “Enjoy fresh food while you can, young man,” said the captain, gesturing at an empty chair. “You'll get very bored with the ship's biscuit and tinned meat in the days to come.”

  A young officer offered Edward some coffee and introduced himself as Harcourt Fielding, second in command of the Charlotte Clore on her maiden voyage. He, too, had the distinctive Southern accent.

  “We've just cast off, Mister Kayll,” Garrett explained. “No going back now. We're on our way to Charleston. Where we will deliver a cargo of arms and ammunition for the army of the greatest living general, Robert E. Lee. You have heard of him, I take it?”

  “I have read of his victories in popular periodicals,” admitted Edward. “His fame rivals even that of Mister Lincoln.”

  There was an awkward silence. Fielding and the other young officers suddenly became very interested in their plates.

  “I would rather not have that name mentioned aboard my ship, young man,” said Garrett, in a low voice. “I understand that your British press has presented you with a most biased view of our struggle for independence. But believe me, things are not so simple as you have been led to believe.”

  Edward stifled his resentment at being talked down to and the meal continued with little talk of anything other than technical matters. Afterwards, Edward went to stand at the rail looking back at Weyrmouth. Ahead of the Charlotte Clore, a steam tug lashed the water of the harbor with its paddlewheels. They were picking up speed.