Carter spoke up. “I can’t believe—surely all of these people aren’t involved in whatever Williams is planning?” He fiddled with his tie nervously. “It’s—I rather hope, I mean, that this won’t be like Innsmouth. I-I don’t think I could stand that.”
“Probably not,” St. Cyprian said. “This celebration is a local tradition, according to my research into the local customs, and has been since Caesar was clashing with blue-arsed chappies north of the border. It’d cause some uproar if it was cancelled, or otherwise impeded.” He reached into his coat and extracted two gilt-edged squares of paper. “He sent out invitations to a private celebration he’s holding this evening, and on the same day he took a letter opener to Northam and his cat, the cheeky bastard. A number of individuals of—ah—an esoteric bent, you might say, were invited to attend.”
“The great and the good,” Warren said.
“More like the mad, bad and dangerous to know. Ms. Gallowglass convinced two of them to relinquish their invitations, for the common good.” St. Cyprian gestured to his assistant, who smiled toothily and patted the pistol holstered under her coat. “It’s being held down in the cellars. We were about to head down, when I caught sight of you snooping about.”
“Warren insisted on looking for that blasted book,” Carter said. He looked at Warren. “Warren, maybe we should go back to London. These...people are obviously quite capable of handling that rascal Williams.”
“Go if you like, Carter. But I came all the way out here for that book, and I don’t intend to leave without it.” Warren’s eyes flashed weirdly. St. Cyprian could sense the steel beneath the jovial expression. He recalled that while Silence had said that Warren wasn’t on the wrong side, he’d never specified just whose side the South Carolina mystic was on.
Carter flinched and looked away. He ran a visibly shaking hand through his hair. “It’s just—I can feel...something, something foul, on the air. I can taste it.” He looked around nervously. “Like a—a sourness.”
St. Cyprian looked at Warren. The latter’s eyes had narrowed to slits, and he had a considering look on his face. From what little he knew of Warren’s activities, he knew it wouldn’t be out of bounds to assume that he used Carter like a canary in a coal mine, if the latter was half as psychically sensitive as he appeared to be. Warren looked at St. Cyprian. “Are you planning on seeing what’s what, Charley?”
“We didn’t drive out for the cider,” Gallowglass said.
“I’d wager you wouldn’t turn down two extra bodies,” Warren said.
“I won’t give you the boot, if you’re willing. Many hands make swift work,” St. Cyprian said warily. There was a glint in Warren’s eye he didn’t like. The mystic wasn’t offering to help out of the kindness of his heart, he knew. It wasn’t like the last time they’d met, when reality itself had been under threat. Warren had his own goals tonight.
“We ain’t much, but I’ve been told we’re good in a fight,” Warren said. He looked at Carter, who made as if to reply, but then simply sighed and nodded. Warren grinned. “Best get them invitations ready then, Charley. Let’s get downstairs.”
They made their way quickly through the crowd that choked the corridors and rooms of the manor. Gallowglass led the way, employing elbows and knees with enthusiasm. The cellar was easy enough to find. The manor had been built around a central core of Roman stone, and in the centre of that core was the circular aperture that housed the flat, roughly hewn stone steps that descended into the depths. They joined a small crowd heading down into the cellar, and when they reached the bottom step, there were two robed and cowled figures waiting. Both wore masks—one, of a sheep, and the other, of a bird. The sheep held out a hand and said, “Invitations, please.”
St. Cyprian handed the two cards over. The sheep looked at the cards, and then at St. Cyprian and the others. St. Cyprian gestured to Warren and Carter and said, “Our plus-ones.” He smiled genially. “We were told costumes would be provided.”
With a grunt, the sheep gestured and the bird handed over robes and masks. They each took a robe and a mask and stepped past the doormen, and into the cellar.
Warren chuckled as he slid on his cat mask. “You’re a cool customer, Charley,” he said, twitching his robes into position. Carter eyed his mask—a zebra’s face—disdainfully, but pulled it on. He’d fallen silent as they entered the cellar, and he was sweating, despite the chill in the air. It was obvious to St. Cyprian that his nerves were stretched to breaking point, and he felt a moment of pity for the other man.
St. Cyprian settled his own mask, a hound’s mournful face, over his head and said, “This isn’t my first esoteric soiree, I’ll have you know.”
Warren chuckled.
Gallowglass’ mask looked like a falcon, and she poked at the beak. “Why the masks? Think they’re ashamed to be seen here?”
“It’s likely to keep everything civil. Williams has invited members from half a dozen esoteric societies, brotherhoods, cabals and conspiracies, most of whom get along like cats and dogs, don’chaknow,” St. Cyprian said. “If everyone’s anonymous, old grudges are less likely to interrupt the proceedings.”
“Must be a bit like a murderer’s row for you, Charley,” Warren said, as they followed the sounds of voices through the cellar.
“Hardly,” St. Cyprian said. “Who’s here matters less than what they are here to see.” Unlike the structure above, the cellar was a vast multi-room labyrinth. Walls of brick and quarried rock were punctuated by archways crafted from ancient wood and chiseled stone. The smell of the sea was stronger down here, and the air was cold and damp. They could hear the crash of waves, though only distantly.
“Don’t sound much like bells to me,” Gallowglass said.
“That’s undoubtedly a good thing, don’t you think?” Carter said.
They stepped into a vaulted, spacious chamber which appeared to have been constructed from the rock of the cliff on which the manor sat. The shaped walls gave way to living rock. Torches had been lit and mounted in stone stanchions that lined the chamber, and the breeze that hissed through the numerous natural boreholes that marred the surface of the rock wall caused the flames to flicker and snap.
“The sea must be right on the other side of the far wall,” Warren murmured. At the base of the rock wall was a crudely chiseled semi-circular aperture, in which flat steps, worn smooth by centuries of use, were visible.
The centre of the room was occupied by a flat, knee-high loaf of stone. St. Cyprian immediately recognized it for what it was—an altar stone. In and of itself, the altar wasn’t a shocking addition to the cellar. More than one fine old English manor had one, stained black with the blood of sacrifices in its cellar somewhere back behind the wine-rack. It was like the requisite Norman long-sword over the mantle or a skull in the servant’s pantry. But St. Cyprian thought it’d be fair to say that most of them didn’t have a blocky lead coffin sitting on them.
“The scallop shell motif is definitely Romano-Celtic, if I know my funerary box decorations,” he said. “Not familiar with those other signs, though. They could be druidic.”
“The Sign of Koth,” Carter breathed. “The sigil which dreamers see fixed above the archway of the black tower which stands alone in twilight.”
“It’s used in magics of binding in certain Arabic and Egyptian manuscripts,” Warren muttered, “mostly when you got something you want to keep out...or in.”
“So, not druidic then,” St. Cyprian said. He looked around. They stood amongst a crowd of similarly masked and robed revellers. There were close to two dozen people spread out through the chamber. “I wonder how many familiar faces we’d see, if we started ripping off masks,” he whispered to Gallowglass.
“What I wouldn’t give for a Vickers gun,” Gallowglass muttered. St. Cyprian snorted. Before he could reply, a murmur ran through the crowd, which shifted, allowing a single figure to move towards the altar and the coffin upon it. Warren grabbed his arm.
“It’s W
illiams,” Warren hissed.
Williams looked much as he had the last time St. Cyprian had seen him. He had slicked-back hair and an entitled smirk on his pouting face, was thin as a weasel and his robes looked as if he’d fallen in a hedge and been rescued by a stiff breeze. He glad-handed for a moment, speaking to several of the crowd before ambling towards the coffin, a thin, square book in one hand. He seemed in no hurry. As he reached the altar and the coffin, he reached down and gave the latter a fond pat. “Hallo old boy, how’s tricks, what?” he said loudly. A wave of chuckles greeted him and he beamed at his guests. “I must say, I’m quite surprised at the turn out; not as many as I hoped, but more than I expected.”
He circled behind the coffin, hefting his burden. “You might be wondering what this is I’m carrying. Some of you have probably already guessed, given our surroundings and the date and—well—this whole scene. Without further ado, I present to you Taqi al-Din’s unexpurgated Incorruptibles, or rather the best version available to a man of my limited means.” He held up the book. “I had it from a certain old gentleman, of whom, I’m sure, most of you are—or were—familiar.” More laughter followed this. Williams chuckled and stroked the book as if it were a cat. He gestured to the coffin. “This, however, took a bit more digging to scrounge up.”
He paused and let his bland, pale gaze sweep across the crowd. St. Cyprian was suddenly very aware of the weight of the Webley Bulldog that rested in his coat pocket. He’d been forced to clean up after Williams more than once. The man was a menace, not to mention a Svengali, a forger, a thief and a Cambridge graduate.
Williams continued. “In this coffin is something as precious and as ill-used as this battered little book I hold in my hand.” He smiled widely, showing his teeth. “His name is Lunaeus Gabinius Capito.”
He paused, waiting for the crowd to settle before he continued. “In his time, Lunaeus Gabinius Capito was the greatest sorcerer to ever walk this misty isle. To his banner, he bound the tribes of the dark, and the worms of the earth. Wherever strange folk met together and made the Elder Sign in the dark, the Sorcerer-Tribune of Lindum would hold court. He bound the souls of giants to the Guildhall in London, and drove out the charnel-hounds from their burrows on the banks of the Thames. It was he who founded this fine house we find ourselves in today, and laid the foundations for the Northam. He was a power, old Lunaeus.” Williams paused. “It was said that the sea—the bells of Northam—signaled his rise.”
His smile faded. “And when he was laid low, and trapped by his enemies in this coffin, sealed away by sigils of power, the bells fell silent. His servants found him and brought him down into these caves, which had ever been his bastion, to slumber until he could be released. It has taken me a decade to find him, and to find the spot of his renewal, but I have done so.” Williams hefted the book. “And now, on this night, when the veil between worlds is thin, and the bells sound once again, I shall call forth his wandering soul and he shall walk among us again. He shall lead us in the forbidden rites, and show us new ways to shout and revel and kill!” He smiled. “Won’t that be grand? It’s dashed lucky I found this book, frankly, before anyone else got to it.” He let loose a horsey laugh. The crowd murmured appreciatively. Warren made a strangled sound beneath his mask, and St. Cyprian saw his hands clench into fists.
Williams smirked and gestured for silence. “So, to reiterate—ancient sorcerer, founding of a new kingdom, and you, my fine friends, can get in on the ground floor. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, and one that won’t be repeated. The stars are right and if you’re not with the Tribune, well...” Williams shrugged. “Best not to think about that.” His pale gaze swept across the crowd of masked faces.
“Is—is he extorting them?” Carter whispered, in shock. “Is that what this is about?”
“It’s Williams. What were you expecting?” Gallowglass muttered. She glanced at St. Cyprian and tapped her holstered pistol meaningfully. He shook his head. There was no telling how the crowd would react if Williams were killed.
“I know, I know, this isn’t what you were expecting,” Williams said, waving aside the rising mutters of the crowd. “You all know me. We move in the same circles, sometimes side by side, sometimes at cross-purposes. We scrabble over bits of lost wisdom, and in service to sleeping gods and—well—honestly chaps, we get in each other’s way more often than not. What I’m offering you is a chance to do away with all of that. Think of it as a bit of a union.”“Like the Bolsheviks?” someone shouted.
“Not like the Bolshies, no,” Williams said. “Something efficient.” Laughter greeted this, and Williams motioned for silence again. “Think of it lads, we all want the same thing, don’t we? We all want secret wisdom, the return of the old gods, a bit of dosh on the side. And under the Tribune, here, we can do it. And all we have to do is wake the old boy up, bring him up to speed, and swear to serve him. It’ll be spiffing.”
Masked heads nodded in agreement. St. Cyprian gestured to Gallowglass and she nodded, moving off through the crowd. If they timed it right, they might be able to bring things to an end well before it became dangerous. He looked around. Despite the masks, the crowd looked attentive. That was troubling. Williams wasn’t the first to try such a trick, but he had something that egotistical would-be power-brokers like Crowley and Karswell hadn’t—namely, a figurehead. “And a dashed unpleasant one, at that,” he muttered to himself. He’d heard of Lunaeus; few British occultists hadn’t. And what he’d heard hadn’t been pleasant.
He looked for Warren, and saw him conferring tersely with Carter. He had the thin man’s arm in a tight grip, and was speaking to him in low, urgent tones. St. Cyprian wondered what they were discussing. Whatever it was, he could tell that Carter was plainly agitated, even if he couldn’t see his face. The sound of Williams’ voice caught his attention.
“But, before we get to the festivities, I feel it only right to warn you that I have it on good authority that our little shindig has been infiltrated,” Williams said. St. Cyprian tensed. “Yes, I’m afraid that there is an interloper amongst us, my friends.” Williams flung out a hand in Carter’s direction, and the thin man froze in the act of jerking his arm out of Warren’s grip. “Grab him chaps, and on the hop, if you please!”
Hands reached for him, clawing at him, and Carter gave a yelp of fright as he was unceremoniously hoisted into the air by a half-dozen masked and robed revelers and passed hand over hand towards Williams, who was grinning widely. Warren did nothing to help as Carter was dropped to the ground before Williams. Williams drove a swift kick into his belly. Carter wheezed and rolled over. Williams’ hand darted out to snatch aside the zebra mask.
“Well, is that Randy Carter I see before me? That means the King of the Cats is here somewhere, I’ll bet. Isn’t that so, Harley? Are you slinking through the faithful somewhere, intent on pissing in the punch the way you seem to do?” Williams drew an automatic from within his costume and aimed it at Carter, who glared up at him, whey-faced. “Come out, come out wherever you are, or I’ll shoot your friend.”
“Now, now, Williams, you should know by now, I ain’t got no friends,” Warren said. The crowd parted to reveal Warren, examining his fingernails. He’d removed his mask, and smiled genially at Williams as the latter raised his weapon. “Not a blessed one. Even so, I’d rather you not shoot Carter. He’s got some use left in him.”
“Ha!” Williams barked. “You used to say that about me, I’d wager.” He licked his lips and glanced down at Carter, whose expression betrayed his shock. “Oh, didn’t he tell you? Me and Harley, we were fair chums, back in our University days. He had that same breath of cosmic wind as old Northam. He’d seen things—things I wanted to see! And then he went to Tibet, and I went to Exham, and well, our roads diverged, as they say.”
“I’d say you’ve done well enough for yourself,” Warren said. “How’d you know we’d be here?” As he spoke, St. Cyprian silently signaled Gallowglass. She nodded tersely and began to thread he
r way through the crowd of celebrants towards the front. St. Cyprian did the same. If they could get close, they could prevent any harm from coming to Carter. And if Warren kept Williams distracted, they might be able to thwart whatever plan he had for that obscene casket.
“I knew you were in London, sniffing around Northam,” Williams said. “And I knew you’d have a hard time keeping yourself from crashing my party, once you found about it. So I had eyes on the look-out for you.”
“I’d say I was flattered, but that big head of yours might get even more swollen and just burst,” Warren said.
“Ah, Harley, I have missed your snide tone and veiled insults, I truly have.” Williams gestured with his pistol. He looked down at Carter. “Harley once insulted me seven times in a single sentence. Didn’t even stop to draw breath.”
“It’s not my fault you’re a bit of a twit,” Warren said. He took a step towards them. The pistol bobbed up, and Williams shook his head. St. Cyprian froze, though he knew he hadn’t been seen. He had no idea what he could do, if Williams decided to just shoot Warren out of hand. He slowly pulled his Webley from his coat pocket. At the very least, he’d send Williams to join Warren.
“Not another shuffle or skip, old pal,” he hissed. “I want you to see this with those damn cat-eyes of yours, since you went to the trouble to invite yourself to this shindig.” Williams’ smile was a stretched parody of human expression, and in the flickering torchlight, it looked sickly. “I want you to see me accomplish what you were never able to, Harley. I convinced Northam to tell me what he always refused to tell you. I’m going to wake the dead, and you’re going to watch me. Get up,” he snarled, shoving the pistol towards Carter. “Up, Carter. Stop gaping like a fish and get over here.”
“Williams,” Warren said warningly.
“Shut up, Harley,” Williams said cheerfully. “You always were an ass, and I’m going to enjoy this.” He prodded Carter in the kidney with the barrel of his revolver. “Go on, over to the casket, please. The bells have almost reached their crescendo, and the time draws near. I was going to use old Northam’s blood, for the ceremony of the thing, but yours will do just as well, Carter.”
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