The table was huge—large enough for twelve figures to be arranged round it. They lay on low metal-framed beds, their feet close to the table and heads angled away from it so that if they were somehow raised up, they would be looking at the black candle.
But they barely moved. Eyes closed, faint breath misting the cold subterranean air and susurrating like a faint winter breeze. Candlelight glinted on the glass vessels upended on metal stands beside each bed, reflections distorted by the clear liquid that dripped down tubes and into the left forearm of each of the sleepers. The right arm of each sleeper was folded across the chest, over the single thin sheet that covered but didn’t disguise the nakedness of the figures. Six male, six female. Several were elderly, one was a boy of about twelve. Most were white, fair-haired, discovered in the ranks of the Hitler Youth and its associated League of German Girls or recruited from the SS itself.
Georg Kruger wore a white coat over his black uniform. As he moved, the candles cast broken shadows of him across the floor and the table. Angular and sharp, like his features—slightly hooked nose, high forehead, thinning gray hair. He went from each bed to the next, checking the drip was properly in place, gently opening an eyelid with his thumb to see if the pupil was dilated, listening to the rhythm of the breathing …
Satisfied, Kruger paused for a last look at the sleepers, then nodded and strode quickly from the room.
Hoffman stood with Himmler at the back of the chamber. The acrid candle smoke caught in Hoffman’s throat, and he struggled not to cough. They watched but took no part in the ceremony. It never failed to astonish Hoffman that these rituals actually worked. He had not been there when they first linked to the original Ubermensch, but he had read the file. He’d seen the film.
No one filmed it this time, but Hoffman suspected the woman who now entered the room had watched the first ceremony several times in the last few hours. The Seer was old and stooped. The robes she wore looked like a witch’s cowl. She shuffled along arthritically, struggling to keep the red velvet cushion she carried level. Making sure the bronze bracelet that rested on it did not slip off.
Behind her, more cloaked figures entered the chamber. They positioned themselves round the outside of the circle of sleepers. The Seer moved slowly from bed to bed, holding the bracelet on its cushion level with her glazed eyes. Mumbling under her breath.
The other figures joined in, quietly at first but louder and louder until the words became a chant that echoed off the stone walls. The words were guttural and harsh, nothing that Hoffman recognized.
“It is interesting, isn’t it?” Himmler said quietly to Hoffman, not taking his eyes off the Seer. “Is the bracelet a charm, to be awoken by the intonation of a spell? Or are we witnessing a technology so advanced it is controlled by voice, and the words of power are no more mystical than the press of a switch or the positioning of a lever?”
The chanting faded. The Seer placed the bracelet on its cushion on the table. She stepped back, intoning one last phrase. The bracelet flickered and shone in the candlelight. As her words died away, the candle flame leaped upward. Hoffman felt the heat of it even across the chamber. Then the flame went out.
A moment later, the rest of the candles snuffed out as if an abrupt wind had gusted from the central table. Sudden darkness. The only light was from the bracelet—still flickering and shining, as if reflecting the light from candle flames that were no longer there.
Harsh white overhead lamps glared on, a sudden contrast to the guttering candles. In an instant the chamber was transformed from shadowy and inchoate to bright and defined. The robed figures now seemed out of place. They bowed and left, the Seer hobbling after them. She paused in the doorway, looking back awkwardly at Hoffman and Himmler. Her face was wizened, the same texture as the weathered stone wall behind her.
Himmler ignored her. The woman’s job was done and he had probably dismissed her from his thoughts already. “Hoffman,” he prompted.
Hoffman clicked his heels in salute, and marched to the table. “Do we know which one?”
The answer came from the old woman still lingering in the doorway. “It could be any of them. Or none of them.” Her voice was as cracked and worn as her features.
Again, Himmler ignored her. Hoffman glanced across to see her shuffle out. The door swung slowly shut behind her.
“Start with the boy,” Himmler instructed.
Hoffman lifted the bracelet from its cushion, careful to hold it only by the edges. Even in the bright room he could see the inner glow, as if light was filtering through the silver tracery. He expected it to be warm, but it was cold to the touch. He sprung the bracelet open, and turned to the boy in the bed beside the table.
Himmler watched impassively as Hoffman lifted the boy’s right hand, and closed the bracelet over the thin, pale wrist.
Nothing.
Himmler nodded as if he had expected this. He made no comment, so Hoffman moved to the next bed. A young woman lay beneath the white sheet. Her features were soft and delicate, framed by a mass of blonde curls. Hoffman lifted her hand from her chest, exposing the shape of her body beneath, the sheet moving slightly as she breathed, breasts rising and falling. He hoped it wouldn’t be her, holding his own breath as he closed the bracelet round her wrist.
There was a slight stutter in her breathing. But then the rhythm was restored. She slept on, oblivious.
Hoffman repeated the process with the elderly man in the next bed. His wrist was dry and bony, like a brittle stick.
Himmler stepped closer to watch. “He was a farmer, you know.”
No reaction to the bracelet. Hoffman moved to the next bed.
“His wife came to us, or rather to the Gestapo. She said he was a witch because he always knew what the weather would be like the next day, even the next week. The experience of a good farmer, you might say … But someone was alert enough to give him the test. And here he is.”
The woman in the next bed was almost as old. Still nothing.
“Ah now this man is interesting,” Himmler said. He stood at the end of the bed, by the young man’s head. The sleeper’s hair was dark and longer than the other men’s. He was unshaven, a stubbly beard sprouting from his chin. His eyebrows were dark and heavy.
“Not a volunteer,” Hoffman guessed.
“An Italian, I forget where from exactly. But he was reading Tarot cards in the local bar. When his readings started to come true…”
“He was sent here,” Hoffman said. As he spoke, he felt the bracelet tremble slightly in his fingers. He almost dropped it. “It could be him.”
“Let us see.”
Hoffman lifted the man’s wrist. His forearm was tanned, coarse with dark hair. Hoffman closed the bracelet on the man’s wrist, and let it fall back across his chest. His heart leaped in his chest as the man’s eyes snapped open. He stared up at Hoffman, his face filled with confusion and terror. His mouth twisted open, letting out a sudden shriek of pain.
The bracelet glowed brighter, clamping tightly round the man’s wrist. Sharp spines sprang out from inside the bracelet, curving back inward to clamp into the man’s wrist—digging deep into his flesh. Blood oozed out, running from each incision, soaking into the sheet.
Then the man’s eyes glazed over. He sat up, the bloodied sheet peeling away from his chest and pooling round his waist. His right hand jerked and spasmed, moving across the folds of thin cotton, back and forth.
Himmler hurried to an alcove, returning with several sheets of thick cartridge paper and a pencil. He pushed the paper beneath the man’s hand, and thrust the pencil between his fingers.
The hand continued to move across the paper. The man stared into space. Blood congealed round the bracelet, smearing over the paper as the man shaded it black and red.
“Just darkness,” Hoffman said. “No detail. No image. Perhaps the connection hasn’t worked?”
“Perhaps,” Himmler said. He watched transfixed, the light from above a glare on the lenses of his spec
tacles, so that it looked as though his eyes were shining white.
“It might be like a radio wave,” Hoffman went on. “If the bracelet isn’t receiving properly … We had one Viewer who connected to the first Ubermensch without the need for a bracelet.”
“I remember,” Himmler said evenly. “His images were vague … distorted.”
“Could the bracelet be damaged?”
Himmler shook his head. “No. It is working perfectly. He draws what the Ubermensch sees.”
“He draws nothing,” Hoffman said. The paper was almost completely shaded.
“He sees darkness. That is good.”
“It is?”
“It suggests the Ubermensch has not yet awoken.” Himmler smiled thinly. “But it will. Soon.”
CHAPTER 19
Working far beneath the main building, Elizabeth Archer had no way of knowing what was happening above her, and with no windows she easily lost track of the time. It was not unusual for her to be the last person working at the British Museum. Many of the staff had been shipped out along with the artifacts. Plans had been drawn up for “evacuating” the museum’s contents back in 1934—which Elizabeth thought was rather forward thinking for an institution dedicated to looking into the past.
It was after midnight when she finally finished cataloguing a set of ancient scrolls unearthed in a remote region of India. She made a token effort to tidy her desk before leaving. The electric lights snapped off instantly at the press of a switch plunging the cavernous space beneath the Great Court into darkness. When Elizabeth first came here, it was lit by gas—a softer, less invasive light that gave the whole place a more moody and dangerous atmosphere. There was something about the bright whiteness of the electric lights that dispelled the feeling of history and age. It reduced everything to the more commonplace and mundane.
But she knew from experience that there was little here that was common or usual. As she made her way carefully up the steep steps, holding on to the metal railing set into the brickwork, she remembered how she used to run up and down these stairs. It didn’t seem that long ago. She didn’t feel any older, not really. Just slower. But she looked at young Edward—now in his seventies—and she saw in him a reflection of her own mortality. Saw in him memories of younger, happier times before she was widowed …
As a young woman, Elizabeth Archer had wanted to be an actress. Her father, a clergyman old before his years, would never have countenanced such a thing. Theaters—and anyone connected with them—were Godless in the extreme. A Victorian attitude in every sense. But events had conspired to change the course of Elizabeth’s life and ambitions.
George Archer, the young man she met, fell in love with, and eventually married, worked at the British Museum. Sir William Protheroe was Curator of the Department of Unclassified Artifacts back then. An old man—or so Elizabeth had thought when she met him. He was probably younger than she was now. But together the three of them, along with young Eddie, back when he really was young, had formed a strong friendship and working relationship.
Eddie was a street kid, though you would never guess that now. A pickpocket who was himself picked out of the gutter by George Archer who gave him lodging in his house, Sir William who employed him to help at the Department, and Elizabeth herself who acted as surrogate older sister. It was only now, looking back, that she realized that they were a family. Or had been—just Eddie and herself left now. And memories.
To say they had been through a lot together was an understatement. Some of the artifacts stored under the Great Court bore witness to that. The Egyptian Book of the Undead was a reminder of the events that had claimed her own father’s life. A dinosaur bone fashioned out of iron was all that remained of a nefarious plan to recreate the monsters of prehistory. A signed playing card—the Jack of Knaves—served as a memento of death in and around a Victorian Music Hall, and the concealed tomb that was secreted beneath it …
They had faced so much together, before Sir William’s retirement. Before George was taken from her. Before this latest war and the devilry it brought with it.
The muffled thump of falling bombs and the constant drone of aircraft high above drew Elizabeth back to the present moment. The sound grew louder and more distinct as Elizabeth Archer neared ground level. She had hoped to be away before the bombing started. Now she would have to forget the idea of a taxi and get to the tube. Deep in the cellarage Elizabeth was probably safer than in a shelter, but up here …
As she locked the door to the stairway behind her, Elizabeth became aware of another sound, closer than the bombs. A scraping, banging sound from somewhere nearby—one of the storerooms, probably. It would be just like Eddie to spend the night unpacking the latest acquisitions, keen to see what had arrived. Perhaps it was whatever Davenport had brought in.
A dark figure, barely more than a silhouette, hurried toward her down the corridor.
“Mrs. Archer—is it you making that racket?”
It was one of the night staff. Several of them had a rota to keep watch in case a bomb hit the museum, ready to raise the alarm and act as firemen. His features became clear as he moved under a light—receding, dark hair and a stubby nose. Harry, she thought his name was.
“Not guilty,” she said. “It’s probably Young Eddie.”
Harry shook his head. “Mr. Hopkins left over an hour ago.”
The sound started up again—hammering, and then a splintering of wood.
“It’s coming from down here…”
Harry hurried to one of the doors and threw it open. Moonlight shone in through a skylight. An orange glow lit the lower edges of the glass as tonight’s fires began to take hold.
“No,” Harry said as Elizabeth reached for the light switch. “Blackout, remember.”
There was enough light streaming in from the moon and the bombings for them to see that the room was empty. Or rather, it was full—of boxes and crates, shelves weighed down by papers and books and artifacts. But there was no one there.
Harry walked over to a wooden packing crate that stood in the middle of the floor. It was about ten feet long, a yard wide and just as high. Large enough for someone to be hiding behind it. Warily, Harry walked round it. He shook his head—no one.
“This wasn’t here last night. It’s come from Lisbon according to the stamp.”
“Delivered this afternoon,” Elizabeth told him. It was evidently Davenport’s artifact.
She made to follow Harry from the room when there was another loud thump from behind her. They both turned back. The crate was shuddering, shaking as something knocked hard against the inside. The wood of the lid splintered.
“What the hell?” Harry put his arm out to stop Elizabeth going closer. “Better keep well back, miss.”
Another massive blow raised the lid several inches, nails squealing as they pulled from the wood.
“Must be an animal,” Harry said.
“I don’t think so,” Elizabeth told him. “We should get out of here. Lock the door.”
Her words were drowned out by the crash of the wooden lid shattering. Splinters of wood flew across the room. Harry cried out and threw his hands up in front of his face. Elizabeth felt something sharp scrape past her cheek.
Without the lid to hold the crate together, the sides fell away, revealing the plain dark stone of the rough-hewn sarcophagus inside. The heavy lid juddered and scraped. The weight and force of it lifting had been sufficient to shatter the crate—what the hell was inside, Elizabeth wondered.
As she watched, transfixed, the lid moved again, pushed up from the inside, revealing a strip of darkness.
* * *
The Italian was designated Number Nine. He sat at a plain stone table in the crypt-like room lit only by the guttering oil lamps deep below Wewelsburg Castle. He hadn’t moved since he was brought here, which Kruger knew meant that what he saw had not changed.
Kruger stifled a yawn. There was no point in him staying. He would send one of the junior technici
ans to check every half hour or so. He turned to leave.
And as he turned, he heard the familiar scratch of pencil on paper.
Number Nine was drawing. Again, the image was of darkness. But now there was a strip of light.
* * *
The lid of the coffin crashed to the floor. The solid stone split across under the impact. But Elizabeth barely noticed. Her attention was focused on the coffin itself. On the hands that had hurled the heavy lid aside.
Beside her, Harry crossed himself. “Sweet Jesus.”
“Hardly,” she murmured in reply.
Flashes of light blazed across the skylight. A plane crashed past, engulfed in flames.
In the flickering orange glow, a figure was hauling itself out of the casket. Withered, wrinkled hands gripped the rim of the coffin. Ancient, translucent skin stretched tight across the bones as the fingers scrabbled to get a grip.
Then the face, rising out of the sarcophagus and staring at Elizabeth.
* * *
Number Nine’s hand worked rapidly across the paper. The next picture showed the moon, almost full, shining down through a casement. It was shoved aside as the Italian started on another sheet.
Hoffman arrived in time to see this next picture.
“The Reichsfuhrer has been alerted,” Kruger told him.
Hoffman nodded, staring down at the picture taking form in front of them. Two figures stared out of the image, their sketched expressions a mixture of fear and disbelief. A man with receding dark hair and a stubby nose, and an elderly woman.
* * *
The ancient robes had rotted to rags, barely covering the figure’s withered, emaciated body. The ridges of ribs thrust through. Bony fingers clutched the air. The remains of leather sandals fell away as it climbed out of the sarcophagus.
But its face was the worst. A sudden burst of flame right above the skylight lit up the room, drenching the nightmare figure in blood red lightning. Flesh the texture of rotten fruit, empty eyes sunken into a head that was little more than a skull. Wisps of gray hair clung to the scalp. Blackened, broken teeth were visible through the cracked, drawn lips.
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