by Amy Cross
Copyright 2015 Amy Cross
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.
Published by ACBT Books
First published: March 2015
This edition: May 2017
“Sometimes scientific discovers are forgotten. Sometimes it's better that way...”
One hundred and fifty years apart, two men are attacked and killed in exactly the same part of exactly the same church. The only thing linking the incidents is the fact that in both cases, eyewitnesses reported seeing an angel.
Although he's familiar with many of London's more bizarre inhabitants, Robinson is certain of one thing: angels aren't real. He's frustrated, then, when he finds he can't disprove multiple sightings of deadly, winged figures across the city. And when one of the creatures attacks an underground train, Robinson realizes that time is running out.
Meanwhile, priceless religious relics are starting to go missing, including several ancient bones that are said to have once belonged to angels. As Robinson, Katie and Quix investigate, along with a semi-sympathetic police detective named John Milhouse, they discover that something dark and powerful is brewing behind the scenes of one of London's most advanced research organizations.
Archangel is the second book in the Ghosts of London series, about a group of investigators who take on the more bizarre cases thrown up by one of the world's oldest cities.
Archangel
(The Ghosts of London 2)
Prologue
London, January 3rd, 1885
“Help me! Father! Somebody!”
Stumbling on one of the crypt's loose flagstones, Dunstable managed a couple more steps before dropping to his knees. As he scrambled to get up, he could already hear the scratching sound coming closer and closer, until it was almost on his shoulder, almost overtaking him.
“Help!”
Getting to his feet, he lunged forward, desperate to get away from the creature that had begun to stalk him through the bowels of the church. Up ahead, a solitary torch burned on the wall, casting vast, flickering shadows across the low-ceilinged stone space. Rushing past the torch, Dunstable saw his own shadow outpacing him, and a fraction of a second later he saw that a second shadow had joined: something close, something relentless.
Reaching the wooden door at the foot of the stairs, he fumbled for the large metal keys around his waist. Slipping one of the keys into the lock, he managed to get the door open despite his increasing panic as he heard the sound of footsteps approaching from behind. For a moment, just one brief moment of weakness, he was tempted to turn around, to look the beast in the eye and warn it to leave. With the power of true faith, he felt that perhaps he could cast such wickedness out of the church, but he didn't dare test that theory.
“Dear Lord,” he whispered, “give me the strength to -”
Hearing a faint growl, he pulled the door open and began to race up the stairs, until finally he burst into the rear of the church's chancel. Turning, he slammed the wooden door shut and slid the bolt across, before taking a step back. His heart racing, he tried to tell himself that the whole thing had been imagined, that somehow he'd begun to hallucinate on a dark, solitary night in the church. He waited, listening for any hint of movement on the other side of the door, and finally he felt the first hint of hope in his soul. Perhaps, he thought, he had merely breathed in a little too much of the incense, and as Father McGill had warned him, he had begun to see all manner of spirits in the shadows.
And then, slowly, he began to realize that something was clawing at the wood on the other side of the door.
“Out!” Dunstable shouted, feeling a little bolder now that he was in the main part of the church and surrounded by flickering candles, rather than down in the dark crypt. “This is a house of the Lord and I command that you leave at once!” Taking a small wooden crucifix from his pocket, he squeezed it tight in his right hand. “There is no place here for trickery,” he continued, “nor for malice. Whatever you think you will achieve, you cannot gain from your -”
Before he could finish, there was a loud bump against the door, following by a crunching sound, and finally the entire door fell from its hinges, crashing to the ground and revealing the dark shape standing on the other side.
“You...” Dunstable whispered, taking an involuntary step back. “No, you can't...”
Frozen with fear, he stared at the figure and the figure stared back at him. Although he knew he should run, Dunstable also felt certain that he was in the company of great evil, and that no amount of running could ever save him. Squeezing the crucifix tighter in his hand, he held it out toward the dark figure, hoping against hope that faith alone would be enough to repel the force. He waited for the figure to recoil, but after a moment he realized that it was instead looking down at the ground, its head twisted a little as blood dripped from several wounds on its face and neck.
“Are you...” Dunstable began to say, before checking himself. “What... What are you?”
He took another step back, while still holding the crucifix up. As candlelight flickered across his terrified face, he tried to focus on his faith, but he could feel dark fingers tugging at the edge of his soul, warning him that there existed in the world a far greater evil than anything he could comprehend. He began to whisper to himself, reciting the words he had spoken so many times, but he could feel a strange sensation in his gut now, as if something was slowly being emptied from his soul, and finally he realized that it was his faith. Opening his mouth, he tried to utter a prayer, but it was too late and he felt as if every ounce of faith and belief was being drained from his body until, after just a few seconds, he was left terrified and helpless.
“Dear Lord,” he whispered, trying desperately to get his faith back, “I beseech you to cast this evil out and...” He paused, with tears in his eyes. “Dear Lord, protect your loyal subject who has devoted his life to your glory...”
He opened the fingers of his right hand, and the crucifix dropped down to the floor.
A moment later, the dark figure stepped through the doorway and into the chancel, before raising its bloodied face to look around the vastness of the church. It seemed shocked for a moment, as if it had never seen such a place, before finally a smile cracked across its burned features.
“What are you?” Dunstable asked, before reaching down with a trembling hand and picking up the crucifix, which now felt like nothing more than a pathetic trinket. He remembered what it had been like to have faith before, but no matter how hard he tried, he could no longer find such feelings in his soul.
The figure took a step forward, a little unsteady on its feet as it reached out and steadied itself against the altar.
“I have faith,” Dunstable stammered, still feeling as if his legs were freezing him to the spot. “I... I am a man of God, I... I...”
He paused, realizing how empty those words sounded suddenly. For years, he had carried faith in his heart, and now it was gone. He could feel where his belief in God had been scooped out, with nothing left except a yawning chasm in his soul.
For a moment, the dark figure continued to look around the church, as if it was awed by the scene, before finally it turned its gaze to Dunstable, fixing him with two dark, watery eyes filled with ash and blood.
“I am a man of God,” Dunstable said firmly, hoping that by saying the words, he might yet rediscover the truth behind them. He held the crucifix out again, determined to force the creature back. Closing his ey
es, he began to whisper every word of scripture he could remember, even as those very words seemed to slip from his mind. Trying to ignore the sound of footsteps shuffling closer, he spoke the words he had been taught all those years ago when he'd first entered the seminary, and he searched desperately in his own heart for the faintest flickering sign that his faith had returned.
Finally, he opened his eyes and found himself face-to-face with the dark creature, staring into its wide-open, staring eyes.
“Father,” Dunstable whispered, his voice tense with fear, “deliver us from evil.”
The creature stared at him for a moment and tilted its head a little, as if it was trying to understand the words coming from his lips. And then, after a few seconds' pause, it unfurled its vast burned wings and began to scream.
Chapter One
Today
“So this is where they found him,” Inspector John Milhouse said as the three of them stood around the crumpled body. “Soon as I saw him, I could tell straight away he was one of yours.”
“One of mine?”
“Well, you know... One for you to get involved with. I mean, it's got you written all over it, hasn't it? What with it being a bit weird, and all. And a bit, like...” He paused, trying to find the right words. “Well, a bit off.”
Staring down at the bloodied corpse, which was badly burned and partially sliced open, with glistening red meat exposed beneath blackened flesh, Robinson frowned for a moment. He was holding a stick in one hand, which he began to use to poke the body.
“Do you have to do that?” Milhouse asked, before turning to Katie. “Does he have to do that?”
“One of mine,” Robinson said finally, with a faraway, lost-in-thought tone to his voice. “Well, I suppose I'd better take that as a compliment.”
“Oh God...” Katie whispered, taking a step back and putting a hand over her mouth.
“Are you going to be sick?” Robinson asked, turning to her. “If you're going to be sick, that's fine, but do it somewhere discreet. And try not to make that horrible noise you made the last time. It sounded like you'd been possessed, I thought I'd have to call a priest.”
“I'm not going to be sick,” she replied.
“And maybe don't do it in the actual church,” Milhouse suggested with a faint grimace. “Someone'd probably find it disrespectful. Go do it outside or something.”
“I'm not going to be sick,” she said again, even as she began to look a little pale.
“Are you sure?” Robinson continued. “It wouldn't be the first time and you do look extremely pale. It's as if all the color has completely drained from your face.”
She shook her head.
“Is that a yes or a no? Please, Katie, make up your mind.”
“It's a -” She paused, before swallowing hard. “I'm fine. I'm not going to be sick.”
“She's been sick before,” Robinson continued, turning to Milhouse. “One of the more unfortunate aspects of taking on a new full-time apprentice. You never know their threshold when it comes to such things.”
“I'm not going to be sick,” Katie said again. “I've seen a dead body before, remember?”
“Huh.” Robinson stared at her for a moment, before looking back down at the body and, after a moment's pause, using his stick to poke the shoulder. “Do we have a name for this poor individual?”
“Colin David Morecombe,” Milhouse replied, snatching the stick away before checking his notebook again. “Forty-five years old, worked as a general dogsbody for the local parish since retiring a few years back. He had a key to the place and let himself in early this morning to move some junk from the office to the alcove behind the chancel. Apparently he was a bit of a loner, preferred coming in early to get stuff done before anyone else showed up. The cleaner found him like this when she came about two hours ago.”
“They store things behind the chancel?” Robinson asked, glancing over and seeing several packing crates piled behind a small panel, mostly hidden from the view of the pews. “That seems rather inconvenient.”
“I guess they ran out of cupboards,” Milhouse muttered.
“In a church? You can't just go piling things up willy-nilly in a church.”
“Maybe there was -”
“It's messy,” Robinson continued, with a frown. “For God's sake, this place is eight hundred years old, have they still not figured out how to store things?”
“I think possibly you're focusing on the wrong thing here,” Milhouse suggested dourly.
Looking back down at the dead body, Robinson paused for a moment. “Inspector, this man has been barbecued. He was subjected to a very strong, very brief heat source that burned his skin but left most of the underlying meat uncooked. For your information, that is why I've been poking him. Give me my stick back.”
“No.”
Grabbing a large, ornate gold candlestick from the altar, Robinson turned it around and used the base to poke at the corpse's shoulder.
“See? Overdone on the outside and completely rare on the inside. If I was served Mr. Morecombe in a restaurant, I'd send him back.” Reaching down, he touched the blackened skin with the tip of one finger. “Still warm,” he added, before dipping the same finger into the bloodied meat, “but cool underneath.” He turned to Katie. “Do you want to poke him too?”
She shook her head.
“You can,” he whispered. “Just pretend it's for science.”
“A sudden, strong heat source, then,” Milhouse replied, glancing around the church for a moment. “Well you've got me, I don't see anything that could do that.”
Robinson looked over at a wooden door, set into the stone wall a little further back from the altar. He seemed lost in thought for a moment, as if his mind was churning with the possibilities. “What's in there?”
“Dunno, I think maybe it's -”
“The crypt,” Robinson continued, turning to Katie. “We need to – My God, you're almost completely white, are you sure you're not going to be sick? You look awful!”
“I'm fine,” she said firmly. “Can you stop asking me?”
“I wouldn't blame you,” he added. “You're still not used to these things, and it takes a while to steel yourself against the sight of burn victims. I find they're second only to bloated corpses pulled from rivers in terms of their ability to shock and disgust. The bloated ones are definitely worse, though, because of the way gases tend to build up and then cause the body to burst, and of course different people have different weak spots in their flesh so you never know where the pop'll come from. And then there are the maggots; with a fresh burn victim you never get maggots, although if they've been left for a while I suppose it's possible...”
“Lovely,” Milhouse said, clearly disgusted, “but can we maybe try to focus on the -”
“Oh, but once I saw a body that had been burned and then dumped into a river,” Robinson continued, clearly warming to his subject, “and it was like the worst of both worlds. The poor man was charred but also bloated, and there were seven parasites living in the corpse! Can you imagine that? Seven!” He reached into his pocket. “I have a photo somewhere, you won't believe the -”
“I'm fine,” Katie replied uncertainly, looking over at the wooden door. “Do you want me to take a look down there?”
“By yourself? Of course not, it's far too dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Milhouse said, clearly concerned. “Why's it dangerous? My lads have had a good shufty around, there's no-one here.”
“It's dangerous,” Robinson replied, “because whatever cooked this priest, clearly came from down in that crypt.” Making his way over to the door, he examined the bolt for a moment before reaching out to slide it open, only to pull his hand away. “See? The metal's hot. There are little tell-tale signs here and there, including on the stone floor. The heat trail moved from the door over to Mr. Morecombe.”
“I don't think there's anything much in the crypt,” Milhouse told him. “I mean, a crypt's a crypt, isn't
it?” He looked over at Katie for a moment. “You know, love, you do look kinda pale. Do you wanna sit down? One of my men can get you a cup of tea, if you like.”
“I'm not going to be sick,” she said firmly, while making sure not to look at the body again.
Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, Robinson used it to cover his hand as he slid the bolt across, and then he pulled the door open to reveal a set of stone steps leading down into the dark crypt below.
“The wood's not burned,” he said after a moment, turning to the others. “That means something.”
“Like what?” Milhouse asked.
“I don't know yet.” He turned to Katie. “We need to go down here.”
“I thought you said it was dangerous?”
“It is. If you'd rather not come with me, you can always go and look in the office.”
“What's in the office?”
“Absolutely nothing of interest, but at least it's not dangerous, if that's your primary consideration. I mean, I fully understand if you want to avoid taking any risks. That would be very safe.” He smiled. “Very sensible.”
She paused, trying to resist the temptation to take the easy way out. “No,” she said finally, “I'll... I'll come with you.”
“That's the spirit,” Robinson replied, before turning to Milhouse. “Tell your men it's okay to move the body. I don't need it anymore.”
“I've got to get the scene-of-crime photographer in first,” Milhouse replied.
“Don't bother.”
“He has a photographic memory,” Katie explained.
“Well, I still might get some photos done,” Milhouse muttered. “You know, just in case someone about from you wants to take a look.”
Katie offered a sympathetic smile before following Robinson through the doorway and then stopping at the top of the steps. Peering down into the darkness for a moment, she opened her mouth to ask if it was safe, before realizing that such questions weren't really appropriate. She was determined to prove to Robinson that she was capable of being his assistant, and although the precise nature of her apprenticeship hadn't really been discussed, she figured that fearlessness was probably an important quality. Along with curiosity, patience and a strong stomach.
