Inquisitor (Orion Chronicles Book 3)

by John Barrowman

  ‘We were getting on each other’s nerves,’ Rémy said.

  Alessandro gave an unamused smile. ‘Ah, well, that’s reasonable.’ He slammed his hand so hard on the armrest that Em and Rémy both jumped. ‘Much better to be captured by a Nephilim than be annoyed by each other.’

  Em exchanged a startled glance with Rémy. ‘You know it was Luca who blew up the Abbey?’

  ‘Yes! And you weren’t meant to be there.’

  That was a strange thing to say, Em thought. Did the Moor know it was going to happen?

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where your brother and the artist are hiding?’ Alessandro inquired. ‘We are still trying to find them.’

  Em’s skin prickled. She hadn’t thought about Matt or Caravaggio for hours. She and Rémy had barely escaped. What if her brother hadn’t been so lucky? She closed her eyes, trying to feel him out.

  ‘Can you sense him?’ Rémy asked her, suddenly alert by her side.

  ‘We’re too far apart for telepathy.’ Nerves made Em bite the side of her thumb. ‘But I’m pretty sure they went to Orion HQ, near Kentigern.’

  Alessandro looked grim. ‘That is gone too,’ he said. ‘Under orders from the Camarilla, the Nephilim hit the Royal Academy, then the Kentigern vault directly before he came here, right after stealing Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights last night from the Prado.’

  Em bit her thumb so hard that she drew blood. Matt, where are you? Are you safe?

  ‘The Kentigern vault imploded,’ Alessandro went on. ‘No bodies were found. That would suggest to me that your brother and the artist are still alive.’

  ‘Sounds like there’s a but coming,’ said Rémy.

  Tension deepened the lines on Alessandro’s face. ‘But Orion found evidence of a violent confrontation in the forest above the compound.’

  The Royal Coastguard helicopter broke through the clouds in a swirl of hot air and whooping blades. Alessandro looked up.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Our carriage is here. We are going back to Glasgow, where you should have been all this time.’

  Em sensed a rush of emotion from Rémy. She even glimpsed images: his mother dying on a small kitchen floor, his aunt lying wounded in his arms. She moved instinctively towards him before he had even opened his mouth.

  ‘I’m not going.’ Rémy’s voice was loud and firm over the sound of the descending helicopter. ‘I mean it. I’m tired of the noises in my head. Tired of the grip the Inquisitor and his Camarilla have on my life, my future. I’m not going to Glasgow.

  ‘I’m going back to Rome. This ends with me.’

  50.

  Taking the Low Road

  It took Matt and Caravaggio twenty minutes to hobble into the Caledonia Rangers Station, one barefoot carrying a dagger in leather trousers and torn shirt with a handful of scratches across his back, the other with long hair loose and curly wearing sunglasses and carrying a sketchpad.

  ‘Well, now,’ said the elderly ranger in surprise. ‘If you two aren’t a sight fer sare eyes.’

  Caravaggio gave his most charming smile. ‘We’re comrades in arms who have got into difficulties on the mountain. Can you assist us with clothing and the like?’

  ‘Aye, right,’ said the ranger, rolling his eyes and stepping to a display case with plaid shirts and Scottish National Trust hoodies for sale. He grabbed a large sweatshirt and tossed it to Caravaggio. ‘Put this on. Ye can pay me later.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Matt, pulling his hair away from his face. ‘But we really need a phone.’

  The ranger eyed them. ‘Yer from that hippy commune in the auld kirk, I bet?’

  ‘It’s not a hippy commune,’ said Matt. ‘It’s an artists’ colony.’

  The ranger snorted. ‘Aye and I’m Bonnie Prince Charlie.’

  ‘I met him once,’ said Caravaggio.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Matt, glaring at Caravaggio. ‘Might we use your phone, sir?’

  The ranger lifted an old-fashioned dial phone and set it on the counter in front of Matt. Matt frowned at it.

  ‘It’s no like it’s a telegraph, son,’ the ranger prompted. ‘It works fine.’

  On a desk at the back of the hut, a shortwave radio crackled.

  ‘HQ to Ranger Station Five. HQ to Ranger Station Five. Geordie, are you there? We’ve got a situation at the auld kirk. I repeat, we have a situation.’

  The ranger gaped at the radio, then whirled around.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he squeaked, fumbling for the radio at his side. ‘Either of ye. Or I’ll have yer brains for mince!’

  ‘Lovely sentiment,’ said Caravaggio, leaning on the counter. ‘Leave the heavy lifting to me, Matt.’

  The artist picked up the heavy phone and heaved it at the ranger. It hit the man on the head and sent him sprawling to the ground.

  ‘But I hadn’t called Em,’ Matt protested as Caravaggio seized his arm.

  ‘That’s gratitude,’ the artist grumbled. ‘I just saved us from the noose. You twenty-first century boys don’t have a clue when trouble comes knocking.’

  ‘They don’t hang people in the twenty-first century.’

  ‘Shut up and move,’ instructed Caravaggio, pushing Matt out of the ranger’s hut. ‘His compatriots will be here at any moment when the old fool doesn’t call in.’

  They climbed to the top of the hill as swiftly as they could, and hid behind a row of thick pines and fir trees, checking the way was clear.

  When they stepped out onto the gravel road, Matt was already drawing, his fingers flying across the page. He put one or two finishing touches to his animation, then he turned his attention to drawing another pair of boots for Caravaggio.

  ‘Do you know how to ride this mechanized beast?’ said Caravaggio, walking with some trepidation around the motorcycle Matt had animated.

  ‘Vaughn taught all of us to drive one before we were old enough to drive anything else,’ Matt explained as Caravaggio ran his hands over the double seat. ‘Put these on.’ He tossed over a leather jacket, chaps, and a helmet from the pile he’d animated.

  ‘I’d rather watch you,’ said Caravaggio, holding up the chaps and grinning.

  ‘Glad you’re back to your usual self.’

  Matt grabbed the chaps and tugged them over his jeans, zipped the leather jacket, and fastened his helmet, tucking his curly hair underneath. He straddled the motorcycle and started its engine, which coughed a couple of times before it caught. Caravaggio fastened his helmet too and climbed behind Matt, wrapping his arms round his waist.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Caravaggio shouted over the roar of the engine, as Matt guided the motorcycle cautiously along the single file lane towards the main junction and the road to Perth.

  ‘To find Em and Rémy!’

  51.

  Protect and Serve

  ‘The last time the Camarilla orchestrated something world-changing was during the Inquisition in the sixteenth century,’ said Alessandro shifting expertly up the Haylie Brae and away from Largs. ‘They then made two serious attempts during both World Wars.’

  Rémy’s eyes were closed and despite the low thrumming in his head, his mind was tuned to every word. Em was listening too.

  ‘Their grip is stronger now than it has ever been and their reach is far. Too many strange and unsettling events are occurring in the world lately to ignore.’ The Moor cut out in front of a lorry and flew past it, pulling back in and speeding up over ninety.

  ‘When did you learn to drive so well?’ asked Em.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ said Alessandro. ‘My memory fragments sometimes. I lose whole loops of time the longer I stay out of my portrait and in the world.’

  ‘Why did you decide to send the helicopter away?’ asked Rémy.

  ‘You already know of my oath to protect Conjurors, Rémy,’ said the Moor. His mouth twisted. ‘Part of the arrangement includes following their whims, however dangerous.’ He glanced in the rear-view mirror. ‘I do not wish to control you. Merely protect.’

&
nbsp; He shifted down as they slowed through a small village where they stopped to go to the bathroom, get petrol and grab some crisps and chocolate. They were back on the A737 in less than fifteen minutes, with Rémy scarfing down a large bag of Thai-flavoured crisps and Em a Galaxy bar.

  ‘How many Animare and Guardians are working with the Camarilla here in Britain?’ asked Em, popping a square of chocolate in her mouth.

  ‘Too many,’ said Alessandro. ‘They have extended their reach into every profession, but into politics especially, nurturing dictatorships and democracies alike. What exactly were you hoping to find in the Abbey’s library that was worth risking your lives?’

  ‘We were trying to find out more about the prophecy depicted in the frieze in Luca’s tomb, the Tomb of the Martyrs,’ Rémy said. ‘You know, the wall where I’m being crowned with laurels. I want to go back in time, to see when it was carved. Matt can…’ He paused, wondering how much to tell Alessandro of Matt’s historical vision abilities.

  ‘Use his eyes to see into the past?’

  Em and Rémy exchanged glances. Of course, he knew.

  Alessandro crossed over the M8 and followed the signs for airport rental parking. ‘If you could see this happen,’ he said, ‘you think you could understand the prophecy? You think you could change the destiny etched in that stone that suggests you are a king?’

  ‘Dumb idea, I guess,’ said Rémy, slumping back in his seat.

  ‘Dumb indeed,’ said Alessandro. ‘The last place you should be is Rome, Rémy. Trust me.’

  52.

  Eyes on the Past

  Hours after passing through Perth, Matt drove the motorbike on to the grassy verge among a copse of trees at the top of the Haylie Brae and shut off the engine.

  ‘Are we there yet?’ said the artist, pulling off his helmet, his hair sticking out of his ponytail in stiff clumps.

  ‘No.’

  He jogged across the field bordering the A90 at the peak of the Brae. The long grass was still damp from the storm earlier in the day, and Matt’s trousers and chaps were soaked by the time he reached the peak and gazed out over the isle of Auchinmurn and its smaller sister island: two puzzle pieces floating in Largs Bay. He swore under his breath.

  ‘What in God’s name is that?’ said Caravaggio, catching up, breathless and staring.

  The entire southern edge of Auchinmurn was glowing with a helix of blues, pinks, and oranges spinning up from a palpitating black vortex. The 3D shape reminded Matt of a design from a Spirograph.

  In the middle of the bay, the returning Caledonian ferry had a fire engine and an emergency responder’s Jeep on the parking deck. Matt could see the glint of cameras filming the strange borealis effect. He pulled his sketchpad from his inside pocket, animating binoculars in swift strokes of light. Then he yanked Caravaggio behind the cover of a border of gorse bushes and focused the binoculars. He groaned, dropped the binoculars and dipped his head to rest between his knees. Caravaggio squeezed his shoulder.

  Em! Where are you? he called, from deep in his mind.

  There was no response. Just a dull echo, as if Em had faded somewhere out of his reach. He sympathized. It’s what he would have done, given the choice.

  ‘I am sure they’re fine,’ said Caravaggio.

  Matt glanced at him. ‘Are you?’

  Caravaggio shrugged. ‘No.’

  Matt rubbed his eyes, trying to think. ‘Give me a second.’

  He stood up, cracked his knuckles and rolled his neck muscles, blinking rapidly until his eyes began to water and his hands started fading from his vision. He took up the binoculars again, concentrating on the island, letting time rewind. It only worked when significant events in the past had left distinct traces on a particular place. But God knows, the two islands and this part of Scotland had seen their share of significance and the supernatural.

  At first all Matt could see were the colours in the gyre brightening. Then his eyes began to absorb the light. The helix spun faster, the colours blending. Matt’s body temperature was dropping as his energy shifted in his imagination.

  The present rewound in front of Matt’s eyes – Luca in his flawless form launching a fiery projectile at the abbey’s tower, Em forcing her bloody hand into the earth, the majestic peryton dropping from a shimmer in the sky. He watched until he saw Em and Rémy’s escape. Only then did he close his eyes.

  Glasgow

  53.

  White Wedding

  In the empty car park behind the Kelvingrove Art Gallery in Glasgow, the sky was a deep purple and there was a chill in the wind. Matt parked the bike in the shadows of a shed at the edge of the walking path. He wouldn’t get rid of it just yet.

  Caravaggio stared up at the red sandstone building with wide eyes. With its multiple spires and austere detailing, it stood on the border of Kelvingrove Park looking down on Glasgow’s west-end like a prim aunt. ‘It looks like a Dutch palace,’ he said in admiration. ‘So this is the place where you and Em first hid me from Orion?’

  Matt nodded while he punched in the security code. The smaller of the two doors on the dock clicked open. ‘Orion uses it as a base in the city, so we have security clearance. Plus it’s encrypted. The log won’t show us having come through here.’

  At the doors into the main gallery, Matt tapped in another code. Caravaggio was about to push through when Matt held him back.

  ‘Wait.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a rolling key. The door first, then the alarms in the galleries.’

  They walked past the early Impressionists, heading towards the gallery displaying art from the Glasgow Boys. Suddenly, Caravaggio took off in the opposite direction.

  ‘Wait!’ Matt chased behind the artist down the hallway. ‘We need to leave Glasgow, we don’t have time for sightseeing.’

  He caught up with Caravaggio in an exhibit titled, ‘Brueghel and the Art of the Crowd’. Pieter Brueghel the Elder’s The Peasant Wedding was the featured painting. It showed the inside of a cottage, wedding guests sitting at a crowded banquet table while beer was poured in abundance. Two pipers accompanied the celebration.

  The artist’s hand was whipping across a blank page in his sketchbook while he kept his eye on the painting in front of him.

  ‘Please tell me you have a good reason for this,’ said Matt, crossly.

  A thin skein of light ballooned out from Caravaggio’s page. ‘We will leave Glasgow shortly,’ Caravaggio murmured as he drew. ‘But first, we will replenish our bodies and our souls.’

  Matt sighed. He’d spent enough time around the artist to know his chances of convincing him to change his mind were slim. Besides, he was hungry and exhausted by his efforts at Auchinmurn. If he’d heeded one lesson from his grandfather over the years, it was that fading from one painting to another is dangerous if your imagination is depleted.

  He took a deep breath, stepped inside the mushrooming light and put his hand on Caravaggio’s hip. Together, they crashed a wedding.

  54.

  Trouble from Your Kind

  The father of the bride glared from beneath his black skull cap while two of the wedding guests mumbled to each other across the corner of the table. The piper in the foreground had spotted them as they faded, and had a wary eye on them as he played his jig. But for the most part, the peasants in the painting ignored the two interlopers.

  Caravaggio lifted a jug from a basket in the foreground of the canvas and held it in front of a ginger-haired man pouring the beer. The man looked doubtfully at him.

  ‘Will you be staying?’

  ‘We’ll stay long enough to get drunk and eat our fill,’ said Caravaggio cheerfully. ‘Then we’ll be off.’

  The man gave him an icy stare. ‘Had enough trouble from your kind already. Drink up and be gone with you.’

  The heat from the revellers, the low drone of the bagpipes and Matt’s exhaustion were conspiring against him. He yawned and took a slug of beer. The drink was sweet and rich, tasting more like a
full-bodied cider than an ale or beer, and he felt a little better for it. His brain caught up with what the barman had said.

  ‘Animare have been through here before,’ he said slowly.

  ‘And who can blame them?’ said Caravaggio, taking a hearty draught of beer. ‘We are all entitled to ale, sex and song when we travel.’

  ‘But this isn’t a travel painting,’ Matt pointed out. ‘There’s no art we can use inside here. You and I are not going anywhere but back to the Kelvingrove gallery. Why would another Animare visit this place?’

  ‘For ale, sex and song,’ Caravaggio said patiently. ‘Why else?’

  Matt scratched behind the ears of a white dog scavenging for scraps under the table. He gently nudged the dog away from the legs and the sword of the wealthy merchant nearby.

  ‘Goedenavond,’ said Matt courteously to the merchant as he helped himself to a bowl of soup. It tasted of wet brown paper. ‘Have you had trouble from other travellers like us recently?’

  ‘We rarely see your kind,’ said the merchant, regarding him a little fearfully. ‘Bezelien. But that one,’ he nodded towards Caravaggio, ‘he’s been here before. He likes the ale, and the company. Last time he brought a present for the bride and groom.’

  ‘What did he bring?’

  ‘A violin.’

  ‘Really,’ said Matt thoughtfully. He set his plate of broth on the ground for the dog and looked around for Caravaggio. The artist was making his way back towards him. He looked pleased with himself.

  ‘Fetch the next round of ale, Matt, my darling.’

  Matt grabbed Caravaggio by the collar. ‘Listen, you smug Italian bastard. The smell of piss and pig shit are suffocating in here. Stop lying and tell me why you presented a violin of all things to the bride and groom last time you were here.’

  With a dark look in his eyes Caravaggio gulped the last of his ale. ‘Brueghel’s are a favourite of mine. When you left me here a while back, I got bored. I did some bar hopping.’ The artist detached himself irritably from Matt’s grip and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.