Hound of Night (Veil Knights Book 2)

by Rowan Casey

  "And I'll have some guys come round tonight who know how to handle themselves," George said. "Just in case. If you get into bother, give me a call or, failing that, get back here sharpish, and we'll take it from there."

  I smiled and shook his hand.

  "And I'll give you the full story over a wee dram later," I said. "I owe you that."

  "You're paying," he replied, and smiled back. "You owe me that."

  I felt like a million dollars as I drove along Sunset Boulevard with the top off and the wind in my hair. Face sat inside my hat on the passenger seat, and she was less enamoured of the journey.

  "I still don't like this plan," she said, having to shout to be heard over the wind.

  "You should have thought of that before," I replied. "If you hadn't sent me up to the Masonic Lodge after my cousin, we wouldn't be doing this now."

  "I've told you—I didn't know he was your cousin, and I didn’t know he had my sister."

  I still didn't believe her. It was something in her inflection, a whine I'd never heard there. Or maybe it was just gut instinct—I've been learning to trust mine more and more since I left the auld country. Face and I had argued before over the years—about my choice of teenage girlfriends, about my decision to start smoking, about my decision to leave Scotland—she was worse than my father sometimes—but she'd never lied to me before.

  And now that I knew that she had, I wondered if she knew that I knew; it was doing my head in so much I'd decided not to think about it. Besides, I had other things to worry about. I agreed with her on one thing—I didn't like this plan much either. She might have lied to me, but she was still the closest thing I had to a best friend, and I was putting that at risk by heading to meet a man who wanted to take her away from me.

  And not just any man, but one who had enough juice to send a supernatural calling card as casually as if he'd just picked up the phone. The only card I was carrying was that he had no idea I had an ulterior motive in asking to meet him—at least I hoped he had no idea. The fact that the smelly beast had turned up in the bar and not tried to rend me limb from limb gave me some hope that I was right. As for the rest of it, I'd just have to wing it as we went along and hope that Dante was right about me having a destiny—just as long as that destiny wasn't to die horribly in a hillside canyon.

  7

  The address was farther up the canyon than I imagined—way up in the hills past all the film star and musician excesses, farther out than any of the tourist buses would take you. I drove past it and had to do a U-turn farther up the road, but the traffic was so light that nobody saw me do it.

  It was getting dark as I pulled up at the entrance to the driveway. Given the properties I'd passed on the way up from the city, I'd expected something modern and glitzy and Hollywood, all concrete and glass and stainless steel. What I saw in front of me was an eight-foot high dry-stone wall that wouldn't have looked out of place snaking across a hill in the Scottish Highlands, and an intricate ironwork gate, flanked with a pair of tall marble hounds.

  The house itself sat back in shadow against the hill but I could see, even from the where I'd pulled up, that it was more of a squat Scottish baronial than sprawling California film star. It looked to be little more than a rectangular block built of gray stones as regular as a child's building bricks—and it was far too clean to be of the age it purported to be.

  I didn't see anyone at the gate side, and there wasn't any visible intercom, but the ironwork opened up ahead of me, allowing me to drive through—it seemed I was indeed expected. I pulled up at the top of the driveway beside a ‘40s Rolls-Royce that was as clean and shiny as the house itself, the bodywork having been polished to within an inch of its life. Somebody obviously liked their nostalgia clean and untainted by anything as mundane as reality.

  The owner was at the door to greet me as I stepped out of the Jeep—at least, I guessed this was the fellow I'd come to see; I didn't think a place as swanky as this one would employ such a man as a butler.

  I immediately felt both underdressed, and a bit intimidated by all the opulence on show—the nostalgic look wasn't confined to the bricks, mortar and vehicles. He was so fat as to barely fit in the frame of the doorway. Given that we were in Hollywood land, it seemed strangely appropriate that I was being met by an Oliver Hardy or Sydney Greenstreet lookalike. His suit was classic Carnaby Street, three button, double-breasted and with a thick pinstripe. His shoes were black patent leather and the diamond pin in his British, old school tie could have kept me in booze and burgers for the rest of my life. His accent, however, was completely L.A. although somewhat smoothed by what I guessed had been an expensive school in the same place he'd gotten the tie.

  "Mister Seton," he said, full of bonhomie and charm that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Do come in."

  It had been a long time since I'd been so formally addressed—certainly not in this country—but I hadn't forgotten my manners. I put out a hand to shake his. As he put his damp, limp, palm in mine, his shirtsleeve pulled back up his arm and I saw, not skin, but rolled, old, leather, wrapped in a coil around his wrist. He tugged the cuff down again when he noticed I'd seen it, but it was clear enough—I had found the halter at the first attempt. I tried to contain my excitement as he took my hand in both of his—it felt like being wrapped in warm marshmallow—and led me into his palace of wonder.

  I said the outside façade of the house reminded me of Scottish Baronial—the nostalgia continued as we went through the wide doors to an inside that looked like it had been transported wholesale, directly from the Highlands at some point in the not too distant past. The floor of the long hallway was a checkerboard of granite flagstones some four feet each on a side and inlaid in the center with a stunning mineral mosaic—from the doorway I clearly made out it was a huge wolf's head, which didn't really surprise me much.

  A grandfather clock taller than I was—but not as old—stood in a shadowy nook to my left. It chimed eight as I was led inside. All the walls were lined with portraits of strict looking men in Highland dress; they looked too fresh to be original and besides, none of the faces resembled each other. Black had no doubt bought them, wholesale, from the shop I'd been in earlier—probably the same place where he'd gotten the twin suits of armor that guarded the main door on either side.

  A long, plushly carpeted, mahogany staircase stretched up and away to a darkened top floor, but I was led off to our right-I tried to avoid stepping on the wolf's head as we passed—and into a library I would gladly have spent the rest of my days perusing.

  I wasn't given time to check any of the titles on the massed ranks of leather-bound works that were stacked floor to ceiling in oak shelving that was far older than the house in which it had been erected. Several display cases sat on high legs at strategic points around the huge room—some of his collection I guessed, but I figured we'd get to that in time enough. There was a mock fire in the huge stone fireplace—light and flame, but little to no heat—a neat trick, and probably necessary in California.

  My host went to a small table by the fireside, lifted up a decanter that probably cost as much as the pin in his tie, and poured us two glasses—Edinburgh Crystal of course—of golden nectar before handing me one of them.

  "MacCallan—fifty years old," he said. "Slainthe."

  I took a sip—this stuff definitely had Highland Park beat—but I hadn't come to drink his expensive liquor and get nostalgic for the auld country—I'd come to L.A. to get away from the tartan straitjacket, not to get put back into it. There are more than enough wee pretend Highlanders in my own country without needing to meet any in my adopted home. To borrow a phrase from George—it was time to stir the shite.

  "Nice place you have here," I said. "No wrinkled retainers though? Don't you have any old gardeners with dodgy accents—or sarcastic cooks with tales of ghosts on the moors? I imagine you go for all of that Hollywood Scots bollocks."

  His smile slipped a notch—just for a fraction of a second, just long enoug
h for me to notice, then came back full force.

  "You, if anyone, should know the efficacy of the old ways, Mr. Seton. And if it hadn't been for 'Hollywood Scots bollocks,' as you so eloquently put it, I wouldn't have all of this at all."

  He waved his hand expansively, almost spilling his costly Scotch down an even more expensive suit. In truth, I don't think it would have unduly bothered him—he seemed more in love with the image more than the reality.

  "Come, let me show you how the Scots have treated me well," he said, and led me over to the nearest display cabinet. I took my Scotch with me—it was indeed too good to put down.

  I looked down at a book lying on a velvet pillow—an early, illuminated manuscript. It was open at the page about halfway thorough. The left side was text that I couldn’t read without moving closer, the right taken up completely, all the way to the borders, with a painting vividly, if crudely done in gold, purples, reds and blues. It was titled MALAGMA, and showed a fiery red serpent eating the world which was depicted as a shining golden disc.

  "Strictly speaking," Black said. "This isn’t part of the process at all, rather, this picture is a symbolic representation of the whole process. Malagma is Latin, meaning Amalgamation. The whole process, the quest if you like, is to amalgamate the soul, the microcosm, with the universe, the macrocosm and to pierce the veil that covers creation."

  "Sorry," I said. "You’ve lost me already." Actually, he hadn't—I had a pretty good idea what this was all about—but it never hurts to keep a mark thinking he is smarter than you are.

  Black laughed.

  "I thought I might have. Fourteenth century symbolism was obscure even then."

  He thought about it for a short while.

  "Do you know anything about Zen?"

  More than him, I was willing to bet—but I wasn't the mark here, he was, and it was my turn to laugh.

  "Only from reruns of Kung Fu."

  "Well, Grasshopper," Blake said. "Everything is one, and one is everything."

  "I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together?" I replied.

  "Yes," Black said. "We are the egg men. All together in one huge womb that is the Universe, the macrocosm. Alchemists were convinced that mercury, as symbolized by Ourobouros, transcended both states, both above and below, both life and death. It came to symbolize the transformation required to reach illumination and eternal life."

  "Illumination?"

  "Let's not get too far ahead. I showed you this because its importance to you is not in the quest itself, but in the person who inscribed the book—an ancestor of yours, I think. Alexander Seton was first to ascribe The Concordances of the Red Serpent, in 1328 if the story is true. It is said he spent his life looking for the Grail—and in a way, I think he found it, or at least a way to reach it. That is what we have here in this book—this is what the Scots will give me. This is one of only twelve copies in existence."

  Coincidences were flying along faster than I could count them. I was coming to believe that my finding this man, in this place, at this time, was more his doing than it was mine.

  "It was from this book I got my first indication that there might be something beyond the veil, something more than these putrid meat suits we wear," the big man said. "The Concordances showed me how to use that knowledge to prosper, and they also put me on the path of collection. For the past thirty years I have been trying to find a way to pierce the Veil completely—and I am closer now than I have ever been. Do you see?"

  "It's as clear as fog," I replied. I saw more—much more—than I was letting on, but none of it was anything I was about to relate to this man.

  "Fog? Yes—Scotch mist is certainly something you Setons seem to understand. If the book does not impress you, perhaps my newest exhibit will do the trick?"

  I put my Scotch down on the glass above the book and gave Face a tap in my pocket. From the tone of his voice I guessed that we were getting to the business end of the meeting and I needed her to be ready.

  I stepped over to look down at the next display case…

  …and discovered where my cousin's hand had gone to.

  It lay, palm up, on a bed of gleaming ice, as if requesting a coin to be placed there. Someone, I was guessing Black had a flunky for the task, had washed it of blood and gore, but cleaning it couldn't disguise the force by which it had been wrenched from its body. Wrist bones showed, too white, protruding from a ragged rim of already graying flesh. The mirror embedded in the palm had been polished to a shine, and as I bent over it, the surface went misty, a fine, gossamer, fog rolling across it.

  "Ah, it seems you are known, even in death," the big man said. "I believe what we see here is the Veil itself, the wall between the microcosm and macrocosm. And you are here because I think you can help me to break it."

  I thought I might indeed be able to help him. As I said, I knew a bit more than I’d been letting on to him. I also knew, just by having spoken to him for this short time, that I could take money off him as easily as getting him to open his wallet and give it to me. But I wasn't sure I was prepared to take anything he wanted to offer. A man who would display another man's torn-off hand as a trophy wasn't anyone I wanted to be around. A street grifter like I was had some principles, even when it came to an offer of a big bundle of cash.

  "But first, to business, Black said. "You have brought something to sell me, have you not? I hear it is a twin to the one I already have here?"

  I looked down again at the torn hand, hearing in my head the screams that had accompanied its removal from my kinsman's body.

  "I've decided you can't afford it," I said softly. "Okay, Face, I'll have it now."

  I felt the quarter-staff rise into my hand as I drew it out.

  The big man looked at the staff and laughed.

  "What do you intend to do—pummel me to death?"

  "No," I said. "I intend to give my cousin a proper burial. All of him."

  I brought the staff down, hard, on the display case and it shattered beneath the blow, sending ice and glass skittering across the hardwood floor. Black had clenched fingers at his mouth in a theatrical expression of dismay. I saw the coils of old leather at his wrist again, even as I reached for my kinsman's hand.

  "Forget that—get the leash," Face shouted from my pocket.

  "But your sister…"

  "Fuck her—get the bloody leash."

  The big man heard that clearly enough; it had been shouted with the full force of her not inconsiderable fury. He laughed and pulled up his shirtsleeve.

  "You heard the lady. By all means—take the leash—if you can take it."

  I reached toward him.

  "And don't even think about setting that hound on me," I said.

  He laughed again. That's when I knew I'd made a mistake somewhere along the line.

  "My dear boy, you really are as dim as I thought you were."

  The strips of rolled leather seemed to squirm of their own volition, tightening on the chubby arm until the fat was squeezed between the coils and the man's hand when white. But if he was in any discomfort, he didn’t show it—the smile never left his face. He thought he'd gotten the better of me. He was probably right.

  As if from a great distance I heard it—a howl that chilled my blood. There was plenty of ice on the floor—but still more in my veins as the halter—leash—whatever the hell it was—slowly uncoiled from the man's arm, slithered down onto the floor and immediately started to spread and grow. First there was one snake, two snakes, then a whole nest of snakes of leather, squirming and roiling and becoming. What they were becoming was yet to come clear, but I had a pretty good idea.

  The howl came again—nearer now—much nearer, and I smelled wet dog, felt hot breath on my face as something pushed itself upright out of what was now a pile of coiling, writhing, leather almost as tall as one of the display cases. A great head, wider than my shoulders, raised up out of the mess of old leather, a massive, muscular torso coming up behind it. Eyes, big as
fists, green as emeralds, stared at me with naked hunger.

  Black laughed, harsh and cold.

  "There's your leash, Mr. Seton. Do you still want it?"

  I slid the staff back into my pocket, feeling Face grab it hard from the other side and pull it through. Bending quickly, I grabbed my cousin's hand from the mess on the floor and fled for the door, kicking glass and ice everywhere all the way to the hall.

  The fat man's laughter followed me out to the driveway. By the time I reached the Jeep it had been joined by a wild howl that echoed the length and breadth of the canyon, loud even above the noise of the Jeep's engine as I gunned her towards the road.

  8

  We skidded onto the canyon road as I put my foot down through the turn, taking some of the driveway's gravel along with us, the back end almost getting away from me until I got her straightened up.

  I made sure I was on the right side of the road, going in a straight line, before I chanced a look in the rearview mirror. The hound was right there, its bulk filling the view, less than ten yards behind, green eyes blazing. It was gaining on us, although I was already doing 70 and accelerating.

  I floored the pedal, the engine screamed, and the beast howled in the glee of the hunt as we careened down the canyon road. I hit a straight, had a clear view ahead and chanced another look back. Now that I was at full throttle I was making some headway; the hound fell behind us, slowly at first—ten, twenty, thirty yards, until I could no longer see the green eyes, and only barely heard the howl above the roar of the engine.

  Then I couldn't see or hear it at all, and somehow that was much worse.

  There was little to no traffic on the canyon road, at least not headed back into the city, and I was glad of that, for I was going almost too fast to be safe on the corners. I backed off the pace a bit, not wanting to go off the road or get pulled over for a violation. I don't think the thing that was after me gave a shit about a highway cop's authority. I kept a close eye on the mirror, and tried to strain to hear any sound of pursuit, but there was only the darkness of the canyon at my back, black and looming. I sped away from it, hoping the hound might give up the chase as we approached the shimmering lights of the city.