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

by Josh Reynolds

  Gallowglass blinked. “Silver?” she assayed.

  “Tried it, dear,” Molly said. “And gold, and blessed iron. He was even run through with a sword belonging to St. George, I’m told. That would have been…” she trailed off.

  “1897,” St. Cyprian said. “Carnacki’s predecessor, Edwin Drood, ran the beast through during the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. Some mad fool gifted the Sforza Pearl to Her Majesty, likely hoping the brute would wring her neck. Drood managed to open the Creeping Man’s guts and drop him into the Thames.”

  Gallowglass shook her head. “If you’d mentioned this sooner, I’d have brought something bigger,” she said, dolefully patting the pistol holstered beneath her arm.

  “Heavy artillery isn’t the answer,” St. Cyprian said. “I’ve suspected for some time that the Creeping Man isn’t a living thing as such, but instead some form of elemental. Perhaps even an ifrit, bound to the pearl. Which means we must use more effective methodology to win the day.” He smiled and cracked his knuckles.

  “Don’t say magic,” Gallowglass said.

  “Magic!” St. Cyprian said. “The subtle arts.”

  “We don’t do subtle,” Gallowglass admonished.

  “We do tonight,” St. Cyprian said gleefully. He hesitated and looked at Molly. “With, ah, with your permission of course, Molly. Wouldn’t want to step on any toes, what?” He looked at Peveril. “And you as well, Mr. Peveril.”

  Peveril smiled thinly. “The brokerage has seen fit to follow Special Branch’s lead in this matter. I was tasked with getting you whatever you might require to see to our little—ah—problem.”

  Molly laughed. “And why do you think I asked you to come, Charles? After last time, I’m not wasting any manpower trying to bring that brute to heel. Special Branch lost any number of good men that night, and I thought a different strategy might be in order.”

  “I might have just such a strategy in mind,” St. Cyprian said.

  “Which is?” Gallowglass asked, looking at him doubtfully.

  “Simple. I intend to trap him. And not in a simple prison, like that time in 1913, but someplace a good deal harder to break out of.” He smiled. “If it works, we won’t have to worry about the murderous fiend ever again.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “Then we’ll most likely be dead.”

  “Steady on, Charles,” Molly said. “If it comes to it, just give him the blasted pearl.” She ignored Peveril’s squawk of outrage and continued, “Better to let him win one, than lose your life.”

  “What does he even want the pearl for?” Gallowglass asked, glancing at it.

  “No one knows,” St. Cyprian said. “But many men have given their lives to see that he doesn’t get it, including an entire order of Franciscan monks, and the last true knight of Malta. The Creeping Man is a simple enough brute, but he’s as dangerous as any devil for all that—he’s destruction made manifest. I’d fancy he could give even the legions of Hell a run for their money.” He shook his head. “No, there’s too much red in that fellow’s ledger to leave him running loose.” He looked at Molly. “And as I said, I have a theory, and I think it’ll work, but I’ll need a few things.”

  “Ask, and ye shall receive, Charles,” Molly said.

  “I need men,” he said.

  She frowned. “Charles, I thought I made it clear—?”

  He made a placatory gesture. “I know, dear heart, but that brute is possessed of a certain amount of cunning. If he sees men, he’ll know there’s no trick or trap waiting for him. Else why would you put a guard?” He snapped his fingers. “As soon as they see him coming, they can scatter like quail, the quicker the better.” He looked at Peveril. “I’m given to understand that your brokerage occasionally has use for…realistic fabrications?”

  Peveril made a face. “It is necessary, on rare occasions, to provide the lower classes and criminally inclined with something that they may steal, yes, in order to protect our investment.” He frowned. Then, “The pearl?”

  “That’s the wicket. We’ll keep the real pearl in here, of course. The Creeping Man has some sort of psychical link to it, and he’d spot a fake—even a good one—right off. But I’m hoping, in the heat of the moment, his attentiveness might slip, just a smidge.” St. Cyprian rubbed his hands together. “And then we’ll have him bang to rights.” He looked about. “I’ll need a few other things besides…braziers, some chalk—the latter is in my Gladstone in the boot of my motor-car outside, we’ll need to send someone for it—we’ll need to move these chairs…” He reeled off a list of necessities, and soon, both Molly and Peveril had people scurrying back and forth fulfilling his requests.

  As they did so, St. Cyprian and Gallowglass prepared the area. He stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves as Gallowglass took a small hyssop broom from the Gladstone bag that one of Peveril’s underlings had retrieved from their motor-car, and began to carefully sweep the floor. As she did so, he took up a piece of chalk, made from the compressed powder of a saint’s bones, and began to draw out a wide circle on the floor. When it was finished, he tossed the chalk to Gallowglass. “Signs of protection, warding and containment, if you please, apprentice-mine,” he said. He went to the Gladstone and began to rummage through its contents.

  “How do we know he’s even coming tonight?” Gallowglass asked, as she began to scrawl the requested progression of Enochian and Atlantean sigils within the circle’s circumference. “Don’t sound like the sort to post a schedule, does he?”

  “The Creeping Man has never failed to head straight for the pearl, in all his misbegotten existence,” St. Cyprian said. “He’s rather like a steam engine, running along a track only he can see. Ah, here we are! The Vathek Incantations.” He pulled out a tiny black book, stamped with gold lettering. “Recorded for posterity by William Beckford, who used them in the writing of his masterpiece, and nearly paid the price.”

  Gallowglass grunted. She’d finished the sigils, and began setting up the braziers that Peveril had brought them. St. Cyprian didn’t bother to ask where he’d found them. Given that they were holding black auctions, it only stood to reason they’d have such paraphernalia, for better or worse. The shallow pan which topped each brazier was filled with a melange of hyssop blossoms, arbutus and powdered herbs, filling the air with a crisp stink when they were set alight. The mixture wouldn’t do much to deter the Creeping Man, but it would guard against those other forces which might try and take advantage of the situation, St. Cyprian hoped. Especially given what he had in mind.

  Besides the braziers, Peveril had procured a facsimile of the Sforza Pearl for them. It was impossible to tell them apart with the naked eye, and St. Cyprian carefully placed the fake in the pocket of his waistcoat. He took out his pocket watch and checked the time. It was just after dusk. He closed the watch and put it away. “Not long now, I think. Molly, I’d feel better if both you and Peveril here were elsewhere. Put your men on the doors outside, and Gallowglass and I will handle things in here.”

  “If you’re certain, Charles,” Molly said. She’d been watching his preparations with a mixture of fascination and distaste. Despite all she’d seen in her years as an investigator, first for the Yard, and then for Special Branch, he knew that she was still uncertain around the occult. He smiled.

  “Quite so. Less moving parts, what? Besides, we might need you to pull our fat out of the fire before the night’s over, eh Ms. Gallowglass?” He looked at his assistant, who shrugged. “Or not,” he added. He looked at Molly. “Your men know what to do?”

  “They do,” she said, as she hustled Peveril towards the doors. She stopped, just before she exited and looked back at him. “Do be careful, Charles. I’d hate to think I got you killed. It’d simply ruin my evening.”

  “For the sake of your evening, I shall strive to my utmost to survive,” he said, bowing floridly. She laughed and shut the door behind her, leaving he and Gallowglass alone in the auction-hall. He clapped his hands together. “W
ell. Now all we have to do is wait.”

  “You still haven’t said what you’re planning to do,” Gallowglass said, as she drifted towards the tables with the items. She lifted the pearl, in its black box and eyed it. “Doesn’t look magical,” she muttered.

  “It’s not, as far as I can tell,” he said, joining her. “It’s just a pearl. Which makes it a mystery.” He took the pearl from her and closed the box with a snap. He dropped it into his trouser pocket. “And one best investigated some other time.” He looked at his pocket watch again. He felt an itch, deep in his brain; a niggling at his psychical senses, like the stirring of curtains in the breeze that proceeds the storm. He put the pocket watch away. “He’s here.”

  Gallowglass looked at him. “What? How can you tell?”

  From upstairs, there came the sound of glass shattering and wood shattering. St. Cyprian sniffed and hefted the little black book of the Vathek Incantations. “Because unless I misheard, someone just threw something ungodly heavy through the front of the shop.” He smiled at her expression. “What—did you think he was going to sneak in?”

  Even as the echoes of falling glass faded, it was replaced by the crack of service revolvers, and the shouts of men. The fear in those voices wasn’t feigned. No copper worth his salt could walk the streets without hearing at least one story about the Creeping Man. He’d been Scotland Yard’s nemesis for decades, an unstoppable juggernaut that no gaol could hold, and no gallows could put an end to. The Creeping Man always broke free, or came back, to haunt the streets of London.

  The sound of gunshots faded, as Molly’s officers fell back, retreating from the two-legged blitzkrieg that had invaded the auction house. Soon, the only sound was the thud of a heavy tread, which caused the floorboards to shift. In its jar, the chattering Zuni doll fell silent. Gallowglass looked at it, and then at St. Cyprian.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Silence. St. Cyprian opened the book. “Showtime,” he murmured. A moment later, the doors to the auction hall burst inwards, torn from their hinges by a blow of explosive force. The Creeping Man ducked under the frame and stepped into the hall.

  He was bigger than St. Cyprian remembered, a giant clad in a filthy black Mackintosh coat and a wide-brimmed, shapeless hat. He had a chest like an artillery-piece and legs like tree-trunks, with long arms topped by spade-like paws and fingers like blunt meat-hooks. But his face was the worst. Beneath the brim of his hat was a face like that of a wax dummy exposed to the heat. All of his features were too big, too long, and seemed as if they were seeking to flee his skull. Eyes like twin black pearls gleamed in the shadow of his hat brim, and his lips pulled back in a grimace to reveal teeth like chips of obsidian.

  “Well big, isn’t he?” Gallowglass said.

  “Don’t let him get his hands on you, whatever you do. He’ll rip you apart like a Christmas goose if he gets the chance.”

  The Creeping Man took a ponderous step forward. St. Cyprian extended his hand and spoke a single deplorable word. Flames rose and spread about the circle. They leapt and crackled without burning the floor, and the Creeping Man reared back, his face a mask of confusion. He pawed at the flames. He screamed and tore his smoking hand back to cradle it against his chest. “Neat trick,” Gallowglass said. “How long will it hold him back?”

  “Not long, and that’s not the point anyway. We want him in the circle, we just can’t make it too easy for him.” He pulled the pearl in its box out of his pocket and held it up. “Tally-ho! I say, is this what you’re after?” he shouted, shaking the box in order to catch the Creeping Man’s attention. “Well, come and get it, my brutish chum!”

  The Creeping Man bellowed and lunged forward, plunging his arms into the fire. The flames roared up, as if marshalling its strength against the invader, and the Creeping Man staggered. For a moment, the brute shape was wreathed in flame and smoke, and then he stumbled free, arms raised to shield his face. His clothing was charred and smoke trailed from the brim of his hat, but he was otherwise unmarked.

  Gallowglass whistled. “What do we do now?” she asked, as the Creeping Man swatted out the flames that clung to his arms and shoulders.

  “I need to concentrate. Keep him distracted.” St. Cyprian stuffed the pearl back into his pocket and held up the book. He took a breath and began to intone the words written on the yellowed pages before him.

  “Distract him? How? Teach him to play whist?” Gallowglass snarled. St. Cyprian didn’t answer, but instead continued to chant. The Creeping Man roared as St. Cyprian’s voice grew in volume. The brute lurched forward, only to stagger back as Gallowglass snatched up one of the braziers and jabbed it at him. She drove him back, scattering flaming embers across the floor in the process. The Creeping Man snarled and swiped at her with his big hands.

  She cursed loudly as he caught hold of the brazier and tore it easily from her grip. She ducked as he sent it sailing towards her like a javelin, and scampered between his legs. The Creeping Man turned, and made to grab her. Gallowglass scuttled across the floor, narrowly avoiding his grasp. She snatched the Webley-Fosbery from its holster and rolled onto her back, even as the brute loomed over her.

  The pistol bucked as the cylinder emptied with a thunderous staccato roar. The Creeping Man staggered back with a low rumble, his misshapen face twisted into a grimace of consternation. Gallowglass bobbed to her feet and danced back, out of reach. She began to reload. “Hurry it up,” she shouted.

  St. Cyprian didn’t bother to reply. Indeed, he couldn’t, not if he wanted to finish the chant. The sigils chalked on the floor were glowing with a soft radiance now, and he could hear a murmur of many voices. He tried to ignore them. It wouldn’t do to listen to those voices; they were as dangerous in their own way as the Creeping Man was in his. As the last syllable of Arabic tripped over his lips, he swept his hands out in the Sixth Gesture of Solomon, and the air burned in their wake.

  There was a sound like wood splintering and then a smokeless fire grew from nothing, roiling and forming in the centre of the room above the floor. There were faces of a sort in the fire, and the sound of voices grew louder and consequently harder to ignore. They were awful, quiet voices, murmuring abominable things and the brief snatches he caught were enough to chill his blood. A hot wind, like that which might blow across the Sahara, swept out into the room, carrying with it the voices.

  The Creeping Man whirled, his face twisting into a snarl, and his heavy body was starkly outlined by the weird light of the conjured flame. St. Cyprian took a breath, reached into his waistcoat pocket, and held the facsimile of the pearl up so that the Creeping Man could see it. “You want this?” he said. He had to shout to be heard over the wind. His clothes flapped, and the wind pushed against him, as if it were seeking to scoop him up and pull him into the roiling aleph of flame.

  The Creeping Man lurched forward, one long arm stretching out. “I’ll take that as a yes,” St. Cyprian said. “Come and get it, then.” The brute stumbled forward, the infernal wind whipping his hat off. The hat vanished into the cloud of fire. The Creeping Man reached out and stomped towards St. Cyprian, fighting the pull of the wind with every step. St. Cyprian ducked the brute’s first groping blow, and flung the fake pearl into the fire.

  The Creeping Man shrieked like a steam engine and swatted St. Cyprian aside with bone-rattling force as he lumbered after his prize. The cloud was little larger than the Creeping Man’s head, but somehow, the brute dove into it as smoothly as an otter sliding into the water. His massive frame twisted, wriggled and then vanished into the coruscating sphere of fire. The wind stilled at the same instant as the brute disappeared, and the voices fell silent. The fire grew dull, and the sphere began to shrink.

  St. Cyprian pulled himself to his feet and spat a single word. The word reverberated through the air, echoing strangely for a moment, before it faded, and took the last glimmer of fire with it. Breathing heavily, his clothes damp with sweat, he staggered towards a chair an
d sat down heavily. He ran a hand through his hair and said, “Well. That worked better than I hoped.”

  “Where did he go?” Gallowglass asked.

  “Somewhere considerably harder to escape from than a prison cell,” he said. He pressed a hand to his side and winced. It felt as if the brute had left him a set of cracked ribs as a souvenir. Then, that was a small price to pay. “An oasis of Jahannam, where the rivers boil and the air is filled with smokeless fire.”

  Gallowglass looked at him blankly.

  “I sent him to Hell,” he said. “Or a suburb, thereof.” He rubbed his face and smiled triumphantly. “Let’s see him get out of that one.”

  1.

  The Tower of London

  The tower had borne silent witness to the best and worst of London’s storied history. Crouched on the northern bank of the Thames, it had seen war, plague, fire, the fall and return of the monarchy, and more besides. It had been home to royalty and wretched refuse alike, and there were more dead people wandering its corridors than living.

  Its roots had been sunk by William the Conqueror, and it had grown over the centuries, changing from palace to prison to fortress, to prison again, before settling comfortably into its current status as curiosity. At its heart was the White Tower—the seed from which the rest of the castle had grown. It was the central tower and old keep, built by the Conqueror as a show of Norman power. It had grown from a timber fortification into a stone monolith, capable of withstanding armies.

  Anne Boleyn was said to wander the White Tower, her head clasped beneath her arm. She was not alone in her nocturnal perambulations. Some said that there was a ghost for every stone in the Tower, and as the man who called himself Morris sat in the dark, and listened out for his soon-to-be-arriving appointment, he found himself wondering which of that spectral legion were abroad at that moments. Ghosts of a certain vintage, he’d found, were a bit like clockwork. They ran back and forth, to a schedule, never deviating, never altering the pattern.