The Devil’s Architect: Book Two of the Dark Horizon Trilogy

by Duncan Simpson

  Dropping the rifle, Hart staggered to his feet as white-hot pain spread across his body. With faltering steps, he edged forwards. Then his feet buckled and he toppled over the edge of the wall. He hit the ground with a bone-crunching smack, sending panicked pedestrians in all directions.

  Milton had watched the scene unfold from his car and was now running in the direction of the church. A lone figure broke from the crowd and ran towards Hart’s moaning body. It was Mary. With tears streaming down her face, she huddled down next to Hart’s crumpled frame and leaned towards his lips. With his strength ebbing away, he whispered something to her. He clenched his teeth and repeated his words. Then a dreadful pain lanced through his chest, and he gasped and fell still.

  By the time Milton arrived at Hart’s lifeless body, Mary had evaporated into the confusion of the crowd. He checked Hart’s pulse but found none. His eyes quickly scanned around the body. Spilled out onto the pavement were the contents of the half-open utility pack still clipped to Hart’s belt.

  Milton quickly examined the items. What he found sent deep wrinkles of concern pinching across his forehead. A phone, a purple stole, a small red bible, medallions of various types, a brass crucifix, and a small bottle labelled ‘holy water’.

  Chapter 62

  A volley of bullets obliterated the large arched windows in the side of the church, and a shower of glass fragments rained down onto the stone floor below. With it came a sudden rush of wind from outside that blasted cold air through the church.

  Ricard jerked his head upwards towards the windows, but in an instant his attention recentred on the face of the blood red moon disappearing in shadow. The wind whipped up the side of the altar cloth, and Ricard’s black eyes turned back to Blake.

  ‘He is coming. Nothing will stop us,’ he hissed venomously.

  Turning back to the altar, he regripped the back of Rosalind’s hair and readied himself for the climax.

  ‘Understand Blake that the guardians have failed and the New Age is about to begin,’ he shouted over his shoulder, his voice crackling with malevolence.

  Blake thrashed in his seat, his arms flailing to get free from the restraint locking his wrist to the pew. His head was spinning, and his veins boiled with anger. In desperation, he screamed up at the sky, but his words were whipped from his mouth by the wind blowing through the centre of the church.

  Suddenly, an idea flashed into his mind. Grabbing into his pocket, Blake yanked out the tablet bottle. He unscrewed the lid and poured out its contents into the palm of his free hand. His fist closed around the cone of white powder that had formed in the well of his hand. Shooting up from his seat, Blake launched the ground remnants of the London Stone into the air towards the altar. Almost instantly the powder was gone, carried forwards in a gust of air.

  Ricard slowly raised the knife, and allowed himself a breath to savour the moment. Soon he would feel the power of his master, coursing through his veins. Everything would come to pass as laid out in the book.

  A shudder ran down Ricard’s body, followed by an airburst of pain all around him. As the fine particles of London Stone stuck to the exposed parts of his body, they began to burn into his skin. He gasped with shock and excruciating pain. After drawing particle-laden gulps of air into his lungs, he felt his chest blaze with agony. He staggered backwards from the altar, and his eyes began twitching erratically. Ricard screamed a vile hideous scream and dropped the knife, sending it clattering to the floor. He fell to his knees and grabbed furiously at his neck.

  The loud crack of a pistol shot reverberated through the church. The bullet from Milton’s service pistol punched a hole straight through Ricard’s temple, blowing out brain and skull from the back of his head. The force of the bullet lifted Ricard’s body backwards, and he landed spine-down onto the stone floor. For a second, Ricard’s hand juddered by his side, as the electrical signals from his brain began to shut down. But moments later, he gave out his final breath.

  With his gun leading the way, Milton sprinted out into the open space of the church. After following Blake’s urgent instructions to check on Rosalind’s condition, Milton made his way back to his friend, his shoes crunching on broken glass.

  Relief flooded into Blake’s face. ‘We nailed that son of bitch,’ he said. ‘One other thing.’ He paused. ‘Can you also call for a locksmith?’ he asked, rattling the handcuff around his wrist.

  Milton stared at Blake for a moment and then looked over at Ricard’s dead body. ‘What the hell has been going on?’ asked Milton, massaging the back of his neck.

  Blake smiled and leant back in the pew. ‘It’s complicated,’ he said.

  Chapter 63

  Another blast of applause erupted from the massive crowd that had assembled around the brand-new Minories Hospital. Captain Lambton, the new mayor of London, couldn’t hide his delight as he leant against the lectern. It had been one hell of a battle. He had fought tirelessly against the establishment, daring to hope that change was possible. His landslide victory represented a massive mandate by the people for a new beginning in London.

  He tried to settle the crowd, but instead his smiling face just set off another burst of applause. Undeterred, he looked out onto the sea of people and began his closing remarks.

  ‘Behind us stands the Minories Hospital. Just last year, this place was derelict land, and now look at it. With vision and hard work, we have transformed this waste ground into a state-of-the-art hospital for all of London. Come join me, and let’s build more new hospitals for our great city.’ A huge cheer swept through the crowd joined by a chorus of shrill whistles. ‘I urge you to bring what you’ve got to the cause. Everyone is welcome. On this historic day, I ask you to join me to build a better London for all. Thank you.’

  A wave of celebration surged through the exuberant crowd. All at once, the revelry hushed and heads started lifting towards the sky. The atmosphere felt charged, and thunder broke overhead with an enormous roar. Murmurs of nervous laughter rose in the audience, followed by a small round of applause that travelled quickly across the assembled crowd.

  An eerie shadow began to travel across the red moon, and it fell dark—very dark. Around and above him, Lambton could feel electrical static. The hairs on his arms and head stood rigid. He looked up towards the moon, but it had completely disappeared, reaching its point of total eclipse. Then a fork of lightning stabbed down from the sky hitting the ground just behind the stage. With it came a terrific clap of thunder, as if the very structure of the sky had been ripped apart.

  Quaking, the figures on the stage looked in the direction of the impact. A smouldering crater several feet across had been punched into the hospital car park behind the stage, as if a meteorite had fallen from the sky and struck the earth.

  In the shadows, a strange black shape emerged from the steaming hole and advanced across the car park. Moments later it surrounded the stage. Lambton gripped the lectern as he felt a bone-chilling presence at his shoulder. A terrible fear spiralled inside him as the black shape enveloped his body like a shroud. He attempted to cry out, but the sound became trapped in his throat. A knot tightened itself around his heart and for an instant his eyes turned pitch black.

  Slowly, Lambton’s fingers slackened their grip on the lectern, and his lips curled into an unnatural smile.

  Chapter 64

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s on DCI Milton,’ said the bartender of Ye Olde Mitre Tavern.

  Returning his wallet to his pocket, Blake thanked the man and watched as he finished off the creamy shamrock design on the second pint of Guinness.

  Blake loaded a small circular tray with the drinks, making room for the packet of pork scratchings that completed his order. He tossed the packet onto the tray and started to zigzag a path across the room to Milton, who was seated in an alcove.

  Blake delivered the tray to the table and fell heavily into his chair. At that moment, rays of dusty light shone out from between the gap in the curtains behind them, illuminating the
back of Blake’s head and shoulders. The feeling of warmth on his neck was immediate and slightly uncomfortable. He shuffled his chair around to get out of the light. ‘Still no new leads on Ricard’s henchmen?’

  ‘Don’t worry we’ll catch up with those bastards soon enough,’ said the DCI sternly.

  ‘So, what did you want to show me?’

  Milton took a large gulp of his Guinness, draining a third of the glass, and then slid a light blue police file across the table.

  ‘These are just some of the things that we found on Ricard’s home computer.’ He drew closer to the table, glancing around to make sure they weren’t being overheard. ‘A word of warning; there are things in there that are quite close to home. I just thought you should know.’

  ‘What things?’ Blake reached over and started flicking through the file.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, his frown deepening. ‘Sarah’s hospital records. How did he get hold of these?’

  ‘If you go on, you’ll see that your sister’s medical files from her rehabilitation clinic in the States are also in there.’

  Blake skimmed the pages and absorbed the details. ‘So that bastard knew about Roz’s problems all along. She was vulnerable, and he preyed on her,’ he said, his indignation rising. He felt his heart skip a beat. ‘Shit, this is the employment record of Sarah’s previous physiotherapist. She was involved in some sort of car accident. I remember Sarah’s hospital consultant mentioning it. That’s why Alina replaced her.’ He paused.

  Milton saw the instant of comprehension in his eyes.

  ‘You don’t think?’ Blake asked.

  ‘It’s not beyond imagination to think Ricard was involved,’ said the DCI as he rubbed his hard-set jaw. ‘We’re looking at it right now.’ Milton took a drink from his glass. ‘From what we can piece together, it looks like you’ve been on Ricard’s radar for quite a while. All the time he was making preparations, just in case you got too close.’

  Blake’s eyes flicked over Milton’s face as he tried to process the information. He dropped the file back onto the table. ‘So when I turned up at Ricard’s office and explained my theory about which of the churches would complete the Hawksmoor pattern, he decided to come after me?’

  ‘That’s what it looks like. I guess Alina got caught in the crossfire.’

  Blake sank his head in his hands for a moment. The two men drank their drinks, each lost in their own thoughts.

  Remembering he hadn’t eaten anything since the previous night, Blake reached over for the pork scratchings. With a blank and impassive expression, he opened the packet with his teeth and started munching.

  ‘So we were wrong about Hart from the beginning,’ said Blake, feeling the alcohol begin to unstiffen his muscles.

  Milton nodded. ‘I was convinced he was our man. It was obvious: a trained killer, obsessed with angels and demons,’ said the DCI, his words laced with regret. ‘He was some piece of work though. Almost a one-man army.’

  Blake glanced down to the dark mark circling his index finger. He quickly flushed the thought away with another gulp of Guinness.

  ‘You found Mary yet?’ asked Blake, half-teasing his friend.

  Milton smiled a little and flared his nostrils.

  ‘That bloody tramp has disappeared again, along with her dog. Hell knows where she’s gone.’

  Blake chuckled as he picked at the scratchings. ‘She’s outrun you again.’

  The policeman ignored the dig. ‘Those things are going to kill your sorry ass,’ said Milton at the sight of Blake finishing the packet.

  ‘I’ll take my chances,’ snorted Blake with laughter. He stared back at his friend, whose stern expression had cracked into a smile. A moment later, Milton’s shoulders were trembling as he tried to contain his amusement. Eventually he couldn’t hold it any longer. The DCI threw back his head and gave out a tremendous belly laugh. The sound of Milton’s booming baritone voice filled Ye Olde Mitre Tavern.

  Chapter 65

  The afternoon sun began its downward arc over the London skyline. With her eyes narrowing against the sun, Mary smiled up at the whispering tree that marked the corner of Redcross Way. She pulled her coat close around her shoulders and rubbed the neck of the black dog by her side. The animal nuzzled into her leg and then barked back up at the rustling leaves.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘It’s time.’

  As they approached the memorial gates of Crossbones Graveyard, Mary began to loosen the white handkerchief around her neck. As the knot fell away in her hands, her thoughts turned to Enoch Hart, the man who had delivered her from darkness. He had risked everything and had paid the ultimate price. With her eyes gleaming with tears, she tied the material onto the metal gate. It joined the countless other ribbons and trinkets that had been fixed there as a memorial shrine to London’s forgotten dead.

  The black dog lay down at Mary’s feet and rested his muzzle on one paw. She knelt by his side and laid her hand on the dog’s head. ‘It’s up to us now, my friend,’ she said in a hushed whisper.

  The dog cocked his head sideways, his black shiny eyes blinking up to Mary.

  ‘Just before Enoch passed away, he told me things about the rod and the Logos.’

  The wind blew past their faces, flapping the long lines of ragged ribbons tied to the gate. In the swirling breeze, the dog barked up at Mary.

  As Mary drew closer to answer the dog, her words were carried up into the bright London sky.

  Chapter 66

  Sarah repositioned the cap on her head and dipped the roller into the paint tray, loading it liberally with blue emulsion. As her face broke out into a wide grin, she glanced up at her dad.

  ‘Go on, but don’t make a mess,’ said Blake while struggling to hold his deadpan expression.

  ‘Okay, let’s do this thing,’ said Sarah.

  With her tongue pointing skywards, Sarah swept the roller over the living room wall. With each arc of her hand, a little more of Blake’s hand-crafted map disappeared under the fresh paint.

  He took one last look at the four Hawksmoor churches marked out on the wall before the configuration was lost under a coat of blue. His thoughts briefly returned to the Hawksmoor diary that the police had recovered from Ricard’s wall safe. Reading it in full after the shootout at St Mary Woolnoth had sent an icy tremor shuddering down his spine. It had almost felt like Nicholas Hawksmoor had reached out to touch him. He wrestled with the thought for a moment and then blinked it away.

  ‘Dad, when are we going to visit Auntie Rosalind?’ asked Sarah as she accidentally wiped paint on her nose.

  ‘I’m at the clinic again tomorrow while you’re at school and then, all being well, we’ll both go next weekend. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Rosalind had been making good progress at a modern drug rehab facility on the south coast. Blake had arranged the place with the help of DCI Milton. It was a safe and caring environment, and Blake visited her whenever he could. Things between the two of them were the best they had been in years. It felt as if she had started to pull her life around.

  Sarah stopped painting, seemingly pleased with herself. ‘Time for you to take over and do the top bits,’ she said.

  ‘Okay, boss,’ he said, his eyes crinkling with amusement at the sight of Sarah’s blue nose.

  A thumping noise came from the front door. Blake glanced at his watch.

  ‘They’re an hour early aren’t they?’ Blake had promised to take the Desais out to lunch as a thank you for all their help looking after Sarah. Had he mixed the time up?

  Brushing himself off as he approached the door, he opened it with an expectant smile.

  ‘Dr Blake?’ said the man on the doorstep holding a clipboard and wearing a bright-red polo shirt.

  ‘Yes?’ said Blake.

  ‘I’m from the garage,’ said the man. ‘The guys in the workshop have done a fantastic job on your car, I hope you don’t mind me saying. I saw the state of it when it came in. Looked like it had been
through a war.’

  Sarah arrived at Blake’s side, rubbing at her nose.

  ‘Just need you to sign a few papers.’

  Blake signed the forms, and tapped his foot impatiently on the ground as he did so.

  ‘Dad, I can see it,’ said Sarah, pointing excitedly to a red car parked half-way down the street. Blake’s beloved Alfa Romeo 155 sparkled in the midday sun. It looked as good as new. As the keys were dropped into his hand, Blake’s eyes flashed with excitement.

  ‘Have a great day, Dr Blake,’ said the man, turning to leave.

  ‘We will,’ said Blake, pulling down Sarah’s cap over her eyes.

  Afterword

  The Four Blood Moon Prophecy

  The Four Blood Moon Prophecy postulates that the occurrence of blood moon tetrads (a series of four consecutive lunar eclipses, coinciding on Jewish feast days, with six full moons in between and no intervening partial lunar eclipses) have historically coincided with globally significant events for Israel and the Jewish people. There have been a total of eight Blood Red Moon Tetrads since the time of Christ.

  * * *

  Nicholas Hawksmoor (1661 – 1736)

  Nicholas Hawksmoor was an English architect of extraordinary vision. He worked alongside the principal architects of the day, Christopher Wren and John Vanbrugh, and yet his legacy is like no other. His London churches are mysterious and strange places and often use pagan rather than Christian references for their inspiration.