Blood of Angels (Curse of Weyrmouth Series Book 2)

by David Longhorn

  Edward turned and ran back down the beach, past the crowd, some of whom looked on in astonishment. A few people tried to grab him but he dodged them.

  They think I've gone mad, suicidal, he thought. Well, maybe I am.

  He felt cold water washing over his legs, the weight of the wave almost knocking him down. He flung back his arm and then hurled the strange stone straight out into the face of the storm. It vanished instantly into the torrential rain.

  “What are you doing you daft bugger?”

  Getting myself killed, probably, Edward thought.

  A sturdy fisherman grabbed Edward and dragged him up the beach. But even before his feet were on dry land again, he felt a change in the weather. The storm began to diminish. Within a couple of seconds, the rain stopped and the howling of the tempest dwindled to a steady gale.

  Edward looked up to the coastal highway. Nichols' carriage had gone. The expected retribution had not come.

  Perhaps high tide marks the barrier he cannot cross, he speculated. Whatever the reason, he could not come down onto the shingle. He could not do me harm.

  “I've made a powerful enemy,” he said to himself. “But one that can't leave Weyrmouth.”

  “Eh? What's that?” asked the fisherman, wrapping him in a heavy coat.

  “I was just thinking about emigrating,” said Edward, with a smile. “Starting a new life. In America, perhaps.”

  “Bloody madman,” said a woman bystander. “Talking about going to sea again. Don't know what possesses some folk!”

  Chapter 9: Unholy Orders

  “Well,” said Louise, lifting Erin's hand from the sketch-book. “That was quite a long one. Nearly three minutes.”

  Erin could not speak for a moment. She slumped backwards in her chair, trying to make sense of everything she had experienced through Edward's eyes. Louise, becoming concerned, poured Erin some water and fired off a series of questions. Erin waved a hand feebly.

  “Lots to talk about,” she said. “But one thing I need you to tell me. Have you heard of a stone called Lapsit Exillis?”

  Louise looked puzzled.

  “It sounds vaguely familiar. Bad medieval Latin, I assume?”

  Erin nodded, sipped her water, and Louise began to research online journals.

  “Ah, here it is,” she said. “The name of a mystical stone first mentioned by a thirteenth century German writer called Wolfram von Eschenbach.”

  “Crazy name, crazy guy, I'm guessing,” croaked Erin.

  “Quite,” smiled Louise. “Old Wolfram claimed that the Lapsit Exillis was an emerald that fell from Lucifer's crown when he was cast out of Heaven. It supposedly–”

  Louise's expression changed from academic interest to amazement.

  “Don't tell me,” said Erin. “It's a kind of prison for all those neutral angels, right?”

  The Englishwoman looked up from the screen, nodded.

  “Correct, but that's not the best part,” she said quietly. “The Lapsit Exillis is also known as the Holy Grail.”

  ***

  The Reverend Fortescue had tried to put his unpleasant experience out of his mind the last few days. This afternoon, as the English winter night approached, he was enjoying tea in his back room and looking forward to going home. The day had dragged, with long periods of inaction between a couple of guided tours he had been very happy to see.

  Before he could lock up, though, he had to prepare for evening prayers. The final ritual of the day was obligatory so long as one person turned up. For the last few days nobody had come. According to the Church of England's rules, if there was no congregation to lead in prayer, Fortescue could simply go home. But before closing up he always said the Lord's Prayer to the empty building, feeling it wrong to simply abandon such a hallowed tradition.

  After all, he told himself, God is always listening.

  Fortescue sighed, picked up his prayer book, and stood with a cracking of his knee joints. The door into the main body of the cathedral was open, but through it came no sound of voices, no hint of movement. Sighing again, the old priest put on his robes and ambled out of his cozy room and into the huge space under the tower. As he made his way over the rough, ancient stone floor he frowned, remembering the strange American woman and her very unorthodox behavior. He tried to block out the memory of what had happened after that.

  Was I really menaced by phantoms? Perhaps I imagined it, or most of it, he thought, trying to reassure himself.

  Fortescue paused, and looked at the floor more closely.

  Is that a crack in the stone?

  His eyesight was not good, and the light was poor. He might have knelt down to take a closer look if it had not been for his arthritis.

  Well, structural faults are a matter for the Bishop and his repairs committee, he thought. But it was disconcerting to imagine a crack in any part of the tower. Fortescue, like all those who worked at the cathedral, knew the legend of the tower – that it remained intact while the rest of the building suffered normal wear and tear. There were darker legends, too, as to how this apparent miracle had come about.

  Dismissing the matter, Fortescue tried to focus on Evensong, and resumed his walk to the altar. As he came out from under the tower, he scanned the vast interior of the cathedral to see if anyone had turned up. No one was visible.

  Ah well, he thought, a quick prayer and then home in time for the evening news.

  Fortescue climbed the altar steps and opened his prayer book. As he did, he glanced up and was surprised to see several figures emerge from the shadows and move to the front row of the pews. He tried to quell a sense of disappointment. There were about a dozen of them, so he would have to go through the entire ritual.

  “Welcome,” he said, his voice echoing in the immense void of the stone structure. “You are most welcome. Please, take your seats and I will begin with–”

  The priest stopped speaking. The congregation kept walking towards him, and he saw now that they were all men. This was odd, given that the majority of worshipers tended to be women. As the men came closer, Fortescue realized that most of them were also familiar faces. These were all men he had encountered at civic functions, charitable events, and church socials. In the lead was Martin Roker, a prominent businessman and noted philanthropist. The men approached the altar and formed a ring around it.

  “Mister Roker?” asked the priest, uncertainly. “Do you and your – erm, friends wish to attend the service? If you do, it's customary to go and sit, erm, back there while I–”

  Roker shook his head.

  “Not this time, Reverend,” he interrupted. “I'm afraid we have a very different purpose. It concerns the preservation of this fine building.”

  Fortescue blinked in puzzlement.

  Now that's quite a coincidence, he thought. That I should have noticed a fault mere moments ago.

  “Surely there's a proper time and place for discussing such matters?” he asked.

  Roker gave a mirthless smile and stepped up into the pulpit next to Fortescue.

  “I'm sorry, I did not make myself clear,” he said. “I wasn't referring to a discussion. We have to do something about the problem. Right now. And your participation is required.”

  Before the confused old man could say anything else, Roker had taken him firmly by the arm and half-dragged him out of the pulpit. The prayer book fell from Fortescue's hands. Another member of the group took the priest's other arm and he was hustled quickly back into the shadowy space under the tower.

  ***

  “The Holy Grail?” said Erin, incredulous. “Hey, I saw that movie. It's a cup. There were a whole lot of cups. Guy picks the wrong one to drink out of, his face falls off. Or something. I forget that part.”

  “True,” said Louise, “but the Grail legends are a typical medieval tangle of mad ideas. Wolfram held the minority view that the Grail was a mystical, powerful object, but not necessarily a good one. Faces falling off notwithstanding. But what's this got to do with the shipwreck,
and your presumed ancestor, Edward?”

  Erin tried to recount all the significant details of her trip back in time. Louise asked the occasional question to clarify a few points. When Erin had finished she said, “Well, that was an action-packed three minutes.”

  Erin tried to stand up, winced, and slumped back into her chair.

  “Yeah, I feel like I lived all those weeks in condensed form,” she explained. “But we still don't know how Edward avoided some retribution from Nichols.”

  Louise shrugged.

  “He stayed out of Weyrmouth. I'm sure he was right – Nick or Nichols is limited in his, or its, sphere of action. It might literally be a sphere, this barrier surrounding him. Presumably centered on the cathedral.”

  “So we know more about our enemy,” said Erin. “He bred a race of angel-human hybrids so they could travel outside Weyrmouth and find his pals. Regular folks can't touch the stone without going crazy, if that sailor is any example. But Edward survived. So presumably I would be able to handle it.”

  “Maybe,” said Louise, dubiously. “But it's lost, isn't it?”

  “Things get washed up all the time,” Erin pointed out. “But, yeah, probably it's off the coast somewhere. Could have been carried hundreds of miles.”

  She stretched, tried to stand up again, and managed it by leaning against Louise's bookcase.

  “I declare myself officially bushed,” she said. “Boss, I'm gonna go home early. Dock my pay.”

  Louise laughed. “You have my permission to go home and crash, as I believe you colonials put it.”

  “You having an early night, too?” asked Erin, putting on her coat.

  “Oh yes,” said Louise. “I need to think about all this. With luck it could even help us save lives, ward off the curse. You never know!”

  ***

  “I must protest!” cried Fortescue. “Please, gentlemen, this is an outrage.”

  “I know,” replied Roker impatiently. “But we are only obeying orders. You might as well co-operate, Reverend.”

  “Orders? Whose orders?” demanded the priest. “I demand to speak to this person!”

  Nobody replied. Fortescue looked from face to face. Some seemed ashamed and refused to meet his eye, but others appeared grimly determined. Roker was staring at the walls, pillars and floor, apparently searching for something.

  “Look for it, you fools!” he snapped, coming to a halt. “Don't just stand there gawping! There must be a crack, a gap, the flaw that needs correcting.”

  Crack? The thought came to Fortescue with the power of revelation. These men are searching for the crack I saw earlier.

  “There's a crack in a flagstone, just there,” he said, nodding as his arms were still pinioned. “You could just have asked. Really, this behavior is disgraceful! Will you please let me go?”

  Roker, ignoring Fortescue's protests, studied the floor. Then, releasing the priest, he squatted down to examine the defect. He began to reach out to feel the crack in the stone, but then pulled his hand away as if he'd been stung.

  “This is it,” he concluded, standing up. “Prepare him.”

  Two of the group grabbed Fortescue and forced him, struggling, to the floor. Two other men grabbed the priest's legs and began removing his shoes and socks. The bizarre nature of the assault confused as much as frightened him.

  It's like being back at my prep school, he thought, frantically. But these bullies are grown men!

  “What are you doing?” he demanded. “I will have to report this!”

  “No you won't,” muttered Roker. “Right, stand him on the spot.”

  Strong hands lifted Fortescue and stood him upright, then dragged him towards the crack in the stone floor. The old man flinched as the cold stones touched his bare feet. He felt frightened and confused, and wondered if those assaulting him had somehow gone insane.

  They can't all be mad! This must have a purpose. And it can only be an evil one.

  The men holding him stopped, held him still.

  “With luck it won't take long,” said Roker. “And I'm sorry. It's nothing personal.”

  “What in God's name are you–” Fortescue began. But then he cried out in pain. A burning sensation shot through the soles of his feet and began to spread through his body. The pain, bad at first, quickly became unbearable. He screamed, writhed, begged to be set free. The men holding him were deaf to his pleas.

  Looking down through tears of agony, Fortescue could just make out the flesh of his feet beginning to melt away. The liquefied tissue ran into the crack in the stone. The pain became too great, and he started to lose consciousness. He could just make out, before oblivion freed him from his suffering, Roker's voice.

  “It's working! You can actually see the stone healing itself!”

  ***

  After they had locked up the museum, Louise offered Erin a lift home.

  “No thanks,” said Erin. “I need to exercise more, and it's not raining. I'm feeling much better now. So I'll walk home, take in what passes for fresh air.”

  “But you were totally exhausted a few minutes ago,” Louise objected. “You don't want to overdo it. You're not an actual superhero, you know!”

  “I am too!” Erin said, straight faced. “I could fly home if I wanted, but I prefer to mingle with the humble folk of Gotham City.”

  “Did you take your meds?” demanded Louise, trying to keep a straight face. “Because if not you should.”

  “Yes, mom, I took them at the prescribed time, like a good girl!” laughed Erin. “It’s like a fifteen minutes walk, tops. I'll be okay.”

  Louise gave up and went to her car. Despite Erin's refusal to accept a lift, she felt that their friendship was back to normal.

  She's just too bloody stubborn, though, she thought. But maybe that's what an actual hero is. Single-minded beyond all reason.

  Louise was just starting up her car when a figure appeared out of the darkness and banged on her window. It was Amy Roker. For a moment, Louise hesitated, thinking of the warning sent by the model lighthouse.

  But it's not as if she could overpower me here and now. She's even smaller than I am, after all.

  Louise lowered the window. Amy was apologetic and as agitated as before.

  “I'm sorry, but I just had to talk to you!” she said. “I think they're going to do something! Tonight!”

  “Shouldn't you call the police?” asked Louise. “I know some members of the local force–”

  “Some of them might be the police!” pointed out Amy. “I don't know what to do! I wondered if you could help?”

  Louise thought for a moment, then smiled.

  “Look, get in, and we can go somewhere and discuss this.”

  Amy ran round the car and tumbled in, looking disheveled and cold.

  “Have you been waiting for me long?” asked Louise. “Never mind. I'll turn the heater up.”

  “Can't we go back to your flat?” asked Amy, as Louise drove out into the evening traffic.

  “I think we'd be safer in a public place,” Louise replied, keeping her tone friendly. “Where there are lots of people around, nobody will try anything.”

  Louise glanced across to see if Amy's expression had changed. But the girl just nodded.

  “I suppose so. Yes,” she said, “you're probably right. Can we go to a pub? I could do with a stiff drink, to be honest.”

  “Fine,” said Louise. “But I won't join you. I never drink and drive.”

  “Safety first,” said Amy, attempting a smile.

  ***

  Erin pondered her options as she walked home through the city center. It was a Friday evening and the streets were full of throngs of young people on their way to Weyrmouth's numerous bars. Erin envied the groups of girls dressed up for a night out.

  In about three hours, most of them will be hammered, she thought. Throwing up, losing their shoes, having wildly irresponsible sex – let's not romanticize, Erin.

  After a few minutes, Erin started to regret
her decision to walk. The exhaustion she had felt earlier was returning. In addition, her feet were still sore and the pain meds she had been taking did not alleviate the discomfort. Deciding to order a cab, she sat down in a bus shelter and took out her phone. It soon became clear that Weyrmouth's limited taxi service was fully booked.

  Okay, I'll sit here and wait until a cab is available, she thought.

  A silver Mercedes pulled up and the driver honked the horn. As the window lowered, Erin peered into the darkness, trying to make out who was at the wheel.

  “Hey, want a lift?” shouted Doctor Black. “You look very forlorn sitting there.”

  “Thanks!”

  Erin hobbled over to the car and got in. It was only as she buckled up and they pulled away from the curb that a thought struck her.

  Don't go, it's a trap!

  “Lucky I happened to come along,” remarked Black, glancing over at her. “What are the odds of that happening?”

  “Yeah,” said Erin. “What are the odds?”

  Probably just a coincidence, she thought. But I'd better be on my guard.

  “About our last conversation,” said Doctor Black. “All that weird stuff.”

  “What about it?” asked Erin. “You think I should see a shrink?”

  No, not at all!” protested the doctor. “Rather the opposite. When I'm at work I have to be careful what I say. I can't give credence to – unorthodox ideas.”

  “I get that,” she said. “You don't want all the crazies rolling up to share their conspiracy theories.”

  “Quite,” he said. “But you don't work in a town like this for a couple of years without seeing some very strange things.”

  There was a pause, and Erin looked over at Black. He was staring ahead into the evening traffic.

  “I know people die in strange ways, here,” he said. “The spate of unexplained deaths we've had – it's enough to make anyone suspicious. And you were right; I can't explain your injuries in conventional terms. Throw in those two mysterious growths on your back, and your extraordinary powers of recuperation – well, I didn't learn any of this stuff at medical school.”