The Jade Suit of Death (The Adventures Of The Royal Occultist Book 2)

by Josh Reynolds

  “Very poetic, Albert. I knew I kept you around for a reason. Do you have the knife?” Sadie asked, not looking at Shepherd.

  “I do,” he said, drawing an ancient athame from within his robes. As he unsheathed it, the blade gleamed darkly in the firelight, and St. Cyprian realized that it was coated with blood. “Is that…?” he asked.

  “My father was always very helpful,” Sadie said softly. “With his blood, I shall bind the beast that was the Heavenly Sage, Zhang Su.” He looked sharply at her, and he heard Baphomet chuckle unpleasantly. The demon had vanished from its perch, and was nowhere in sight. It was probably too much to hope that it was gone.

  “Bloody hell,” he said. “Sadie, you have to see—this is mad!”

  “Not mad; wicked perhaps, unpleasant, even, but not mad,” she said. “When Baphomet whispered to me of what might be accomplished here, with my father’s blood, I knew we must seize the moment. My father intended to merely sacrifice a goat, and shore up the boundaries of our fading kingdom. But tonight we will do far more that.”

  Baphomet giggled from somewhere close by. Its claws clicked together and its chuckles rolled across the air like slugs across a garden path. It suddenly lurched into sight, as if from nowhere and lunged for him. Sadie gestured sharply. The scars on the demon’s body flared like the embers of a stirred campfire and Baphomet shrilled. It whipped around, as if to lunge at Sadie, but settled down a moment later, teeth bared in St. Cyprian’s direction.

  Beads of sweat rolled down Sadie’s face. Controlling the demon was taking a lot out of her, St. Cyprian knew. Baphomet knew it too, if he was any judge of demonic expressions of glee. The only one who didn’t know it was Sadie. Then, she’d always been one to overestimate her stamina.

  “Stop smirking, Charles. It’s not an attractive look on you,” Sadie said, glaring at him. He made his face blank. “I don’t want you dead, not yet. I want you to see my triumph. I want you to be the first to die screaming beneath the claws of Zhang Su; the defender of the old order, falling to the weapon of the new. Baphomet—hold him!”

  The demon sprang forward, claws snapping out to snag his wrists. St. Cyprian barely had time to yelp, before his arms were twisted behind him. He twisted and looked at the goat-thing as it hauled on his arms. It inclined its head slightly, and one of its yellow eyes closed in a wink. He felt a chill, and knew that whatever Sadie and her pack of second-rate Masons were planning, Baphomet had its own schemes. It was in charge now, for all that it was ostensibly a slave. Everything that had happened was part of its plan, though just what the end goal was, he couldn’t say. Nor did he want to know. It was sure to be bad, whatever it was. It sniggered and twisted his arms, causing a flare of pain in his shoulders.

  “Time is slipping away from us and the great ram stirs in his heavenly bower, Albert. Do the deed, and seal the future in blood,” Sadie said. She looked back at him. “I’m not going to pretend that I’m not enjoying this, Charles,” she murmured. “You’ve cost us quite the bit of blood and treasure. I do hope the ghosts of poor Gladstone and my father are nearby. They deserve a taste of your blood.”

  St. Cyprian writhed, pinned by the demon. The devil-box shuddered beneath his foot. Sadie stepped back. Shepherd approached the crate. “You should feel honored, Charles. It is not every man who witnesses the birth of a new world order,” Sadie said. Baphomet leaned over St. Cyprian’s shoulder and leered. Its rank stench filled his nose, and he gagged.

  Sadie turned and shouted, “Open the crate.” St. Cyprian saw several of the robed men use pry bars to lever off the top of the crate, and the crowd moved forward to examine what lay within. There was a communal intake of breath as a smell erupted into the air, flooding through the standing stones. It smelled like rotting jasmine mingled with an animal odor. Robed figures fell back, coughing and gagging, and St. Cyprian felt his psychical senses twitch. His spine felt as if it had been wrapped in damp rags, and his heart began to thud. The smell grew stronger, and he could hear the clatter of jade as the thing in the crate thrashed against the shroud that weighed it down.

  Baphomet craned its neck, staring at the crate. Something about the demon put St. Cyprian in mind of one alley cat watching another saunter through its territory. Given what he knew to be in that box, St. Cyprian didn’t blame the demon for being cautious. Sadie looked at him. “It’s better this way, Charles. God only knows what Melion intended to do with it. God only knows what he would have unleashed. At least this way, it’ll be under control. Albert…finish it. I have a beast to let loose on the world.”

  Shepherd raised his knife, ready to plunge it down through the jade plates.

  St. Cyprian tensed. The dagger hissed as it cut the air.

  All at once, St. Cyprian went limp. The demon grunted as he dragged it off balance. As its grip momentarily loosened, St. Cyprian twisted and jerked himself out of his coat, leaving the creature gripping empty sleeves. He hit the ground and flailed towards the devil-box. Even as Baphomet stooped to snatch him up, he unlocked the devil-box and yanked it open.

  The Hairy Hands of Dartmoor sprang out into the firelight like a pair of humongous spiders, seeking throats to crush and faces to smother. The devilish appendages scrambled and flopped through the crowd, making a malevolent nuisance of themselves. Men were tripped, punched, poked and tweaked as the Hands instinctively shot towards the place where they could cause the most trouble.

  “Albert,” Sadie shouted. Shepherd whirled, knife still raised, as the Hairy Hands sought his throat. His scream was cut short as fingers dug into his throat. He staggered back, clawing at the hands. He crashed against the altar, falling backwards into the open crate, and dislodging a section of the jade suit.

  Time seemed to stand still. The moment stretched. Baphomet sighed happily in St. Cyprian’s ear as the sound of meat tearing filled the air. Blood geysered up over the crate as Shepherd began to shriek and thrash. He tried to heave himself out of the clutches of the thing that tore at him, but it held him tight. Then, at last, what was left of him slumped away with a wet thump. The crate’s occupant sat up, covered in blood and gore.

  The suit of jade slid from Zhang Su, revealing what the shroud of green stone and golden wire had hidden. The first thing St. Cyprian noticed from his position was the profusion of sickly white hair which hung in matted tangles from the creature’s head and naked torso. The second thing he noticed were the eyes which were, far from being dulled by death, alight with a hideous hunger. The third and final feature which caught his attention were the teeth—a hideous thicket of crooked fangs the color of freshly brewed tea which began to gnash with inarticulate eagerness. Shepherd had not been enough to fill its gullet, not after several centuries of privation. It was hungry, and only the world would assuage that hunger. Sadie summed up his swelling horror nicely, a moment later. “Oh bugger.”

  Zhang Su howled.

  17.

  The sound of the ancient werewolf’s howl echoed and re-echoed through the stone circle, and the members of the Order began to edge back. Sadie flung out her hand, and Baphomet gave a screaming bleat. The demon sprang towards the newly freed monstrosity, leaving St. Cyprian where he lay.

  Zhang Su’s jaws opened with a sound like wooden struts popping, and it moaned hungrily. Robed men stumbled back and scrambled away as the creature rose to its feet in a single, almost liquid motion and bounded from the crate. Its clawed hands caught Baphomet as the demon crashed into it. The two creatures tore at one another and whirled about, smashing aside the robed bodies of those members of the Order too slow to get out of the way.

  Neither had the advantage, as far as St. Cyprian could see. Baphomet was a vicious bugger, but Zhang Su had several centuries’ worth of pent-up savagery to vent. Withered flesh was torn by infernal talons, and a hairy, scarred skin was ripped wide by age-blackened claws.

  Sadie glanced at him, her eyes wide as the battle raged on. “Well, this quite the how do you do, eh Charles?” she said, moments before she staggered and c
lutched at her head. Her face twisted in a grimace. It was Baphomet, he knew. The link between Sadie and her demon was being tested by the heat of its battle. As the fight grew wilder, so too did the participants, and the harder Baphomet became to control. “I wonder if old Melion will be so vigorous come the day, eh? I should ask him, after all of this is done,” she spat. She raised her pistol. “Never mind, I’ll do it for you, seeing as you’ll be dead.”

  There was a thin roar and Sadie stumbled back as the ground near her feet was chewed by a fusillade. St. Cyprian looked up. From her perch atop one of the standing stones above him, Gallowglass waved. She held her MP18 in one hand, a query mark of smoke rising from the barrel. “Well,” she called down, “Here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten into.”

  “This one wasn’t my fault!” St. Cyprian protested.

  “You always say that,” Gallowglass said.

  Sadie whipped her revolver around with a curse and fired at Gallowglass. Gallowglass leapt from one stone to another, firing back at Sadie as she cleared the gap, her weapon’s bark stinging St. Cyprian’s ears. Sadie scrambled away. He took the opportunity to roll to his feet. Sadie whirled as she reached one of the standing stones and fired. St. Cyprian scuttled for cover, hands over his head. “Somebody fire the bloody flare gun,” he shouted.

  “Helpful,” Gallowglass said. St. Cyprian looked up. His apprentice crouched on the slab above him. She had one hand pressed to her side, and he knew all that leaping about wasn’t doing her wound any good. “Ghale, now” she shouted.

  The dark of the night sky was punctured by the sudden light of a popped flare. For a moment, everything was silent. The tableau held for a brief moment—men frozen in the act of fleeing or moving towards Ghale, who’d tossed aside the flare gun and drawn his knife; the Hairy Hands throttling an unlucky member of the Order; and of Zhang Su, who seemed intent on butchering Baphomet, despite the horrendous wounds the demon had already dealt him.

  And then, like a note from the horn of Gabriel, the sound of a police whistle.

  Robertson-Kirk’s constables boiled through the outer ring of standing stones and set about putting the boot in to the shocked and uncomprehending ranks of the Order of the Cosmic Ram. Clubs thumped down on cowls, and blows were exchanged as a proper brawl ensued. Those Order members who were armed and weren’t busy shooting at Zhang Su sought cover amongst the stones and began to rattle off shots at the newcomers.

  In the center of the stone circle, Baphomet still fought with Zhang Su. The demon tore great furrows in the beast-thing’s flesh, and as he watched, Zhang Su sank his fangs in into the demon’s shoulder. The two creatures seemed utterly unconcerned with the melee that now swirled about them, which was all that had prevented the gathering from becoming a massacre.

  Baphomet drove its clawed hands into Zhang Su’s gut, shredding leathery intestines as its talon-tips sought the werewolf’s spine. Zhang Su whipsawed forward, quick as a snake, and bit chunks of muscle from Baphomet’s back and arm. St. Cyprian was no expert, but he could tell that Zhang Su was slowing down, growing weaker. Whatever fire filled the beast needed fuel, and it wasn’t getting it from the steaming lumps of putrescence which it was snaffling from Baphomet. Soon, the werewolf would falter, and fall, not dead, but weak enough to be imprisoned again. And if Baphomet were still around when that happened, the game might be up for them all. He needed to get rid of the demon, preferably while it was distracted.

  Even as the thought crossed his mind, he caught sight of the Hairy Hands scuttling across the ground, through the feet of the onlookers. As he watched, the Hands flung themselves at an inobservant member of the Order. Its fingers dug into the man’s windpipe, squeezing and digging, and its victim staggered, trying to wrestle free of its grip. The man’s face turned purple and he dropped to the ground. The Hands released their prey, and the quivering fingers of one of the pair oscillated like the antenna of some vile insect. The finger stiffened as it came to point in his direction, and St. Cyprian hesitated. “Oh bother,” he muttered, backing away as the Hands began to scuttle towards him.

  Bullets plucking flinders from the antediluvian stones, prompting him to rethink his retreat. The Hands weren’t the only ones after his scalp. He heard a revolver click empty. He caught hold of the stone and swung around it towards Sadie, who gaped at him in shock. He caught hold of her, and got a knee in a sensitive area for his troubles. He wheezed and tried to pull her down. She struck him in the head with the side of her pistol, screaming a string of unladylike obscenities. Bleary-eyed, mind spinning, St. Cyprian caught the flash of her locket and snatched at it, yanking it away from her, even as she cried out, “Baphomet!”

  The demon was on him a moment later, steam rising from the numerous, seeping wounds in its flesh. Claws tore through his sleeves as Baphomet slammed him down against the ground. Its hooves dug into his abdomen and the weight of it drove all of the air from his lungs. He heard screams as Zhang Su, now unoccupied by its supernatural opponent, turned its unnatural hunger on the Order of the Cosmic Ram and the police.

  Baphomet glowered down at him, and it murmured something that caused his head to ache and his eyes to water. Its claws found his throat, but as it rocked forward to sink its teeth into his face, hairy fingers snapped shut about its muzzle. It appeared that, as far as the Hairy Hands were concerned, they had first claim.

  Baphomet stumbled back, clawing at the Hands, which, having gotten a grip, refused to be budged. St. Cyprian took advantage of the distraction and, whispering a silent prayer, he smashed Sadie’s locket on the ground. The scars on Baphomet’s hide suddenly pulsed with a hellish light and the creature rolled off of him, squealing and snarling as it clutched at itself. The Hairy Hands fell from it, fingers twitching and smoking. Sadie screamed and clutched at her head. St. Cyprian scrambled to his feet.

  The demon pushed itself up, its eyes glowing with a terrible radiance. It seemed to swell in size and power, growing from the crouched, gargoyle thing it had been into something far greater and more horrifying. It continued to expand, like smoke from a growing fire, and then with a last burst of maniacal laughter, it was gone.

  Sadie moaned, still holding her head. “What did you do?”

  “Something which, in retrospect, I will likely regret. I freed it,” he said.

  “Where did it go?”

  “Somewhere other than here,” he said. He found his coat laying where Baphomet had tossed it and pulled his Webley from his pocket. Without pause, he snapped off a shot at a man taking a bead on Ghale. The man pitched backwards and Ghale whirled. He caught St. Cyprian’s eye and nodded tersely. Then he turned back to the fray, bellowing a battle-cry. St. Cyprian took aim at another Order member.

  “No you don’t,” Sadie said. There was a trickle of blood leaking from her nose, and she looked pale. Freeing the demon had taken some of the wind out of her sails. But she’d recovered her pistol while he was distracted, and had it aimed at him.

  He looked at her. “Man was not meant to unravel the skein of stars, Sadie.”

  “Man wasn’t meant to do a lot of things. Last I’d heard, we’d done most of them anyway,” Sadie said, “Time to cross the Styx, Charles. Hope you brought some pennies.”

  “Rather not, all the same,” St. Cyprian said. “Bit crowded there, with Zhang Su and all. Too bad Baphomet couldn’t put him down before I let him go. Why the demon, eh? Was it just the symbolism of the thing? Horns and all that rot?”

  “Are you trying to distract me?”

  “Is it working?”

  “No,” Sadie said. She lifted her weapon. St. Cyprian shoved away from the stone, the revolver barking. Sadie gave a cry and lurched around. She fell onto her face and rolled down the slope of the barrow. St. Cyprian winced and pushed a finger through the hole in his coat; Sadie’s last bullet had come close. Then, relief was swept aside by nausea as he realized what he had done. He fought back the urge to retch. There would be time for that later. He heard a man scream, and turned.


  Zhang Su lifted a policeman over his head and twisted him like a barman wringing out a rag. Blood splashed down on the dead thing’s face and chest and into its too-wide maw. There was a horrible gulping sound and it tossed the body aside. It caught hold of a robe and yanked a shrieking man into its embrace, fastening its jaws onto him with obvious hunger. Zhang Su had only been free for a matter of minutes, and already a widening gyre of carnage surrounded it as it loped to and fro around the stone circle. The beast had grown hungry in its confinement. And wounded as it was, it needed refreshment.

  Remedies for the disposal of such a creature ran through his mind. A length of sharpened peach wood, blood from a black dog smeared on a copper club, certain ritual prayers, none of which he had to hand. Another scream, cut short, as the werewolf backhanded a bobby braver than the rest, sending him flying into a standing stone hard enough to leave a dark stain. Zhang Su pounced on a fleeing Order member and bit down on the back of the man’s neck, like a cat killing a mouse.

  It wasn’t going to stop. It would kill until there was nothing left in reach, and then it would go to find more victims. And those unfortunate few that survived its slaughter would change in time to become as Zhang Su had become. Britain had survived the influenza, but it wouldn’t survive a plague of ravenous lycanthropes.

  St. Cyprian shoved the thought away as he sprinted towards the crate the creature had risen from. He skidded aside as a body tumbled past him, trailing blood. People were running, fleeing the stone circle. He hurtled the crate and snatched up the remains of the jade burial suit. Moving swiftly, he tore a large chunk of jade loose and bashed it against a stone, chipping it to a point. It took him longer than he’d hoped, and he heard the scrape of the dead thing’s feet as it hopped towards him. Gunshots punctuated the sound of its approach, and he heard a sibilant wheeze as the creature was hit.