OCCULT Detectives Volume 1

by Joel Jenkins

  St. Cyprian cleared his throat. “Keats,” he said. “I met a lady in the meads, full beautiful, a faery’s child, her hair was long, her foot was light, and her eyes were wild.”

  She clapped her hands in delight. “Very good! Of course, my father was no mere faery, but something else entirely,” she said, “A being of divine hungers and deeds.” She smiled. “Both of which I have matched him in, measure for measure down the long red road of years, when I could. Men have gone to war for me, and they will again.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sure he’s proud. However, I’m afraid I must insist that you desist and decamp, post-haste,” St. Cyprian said, following her with his eyes. “Maybe go back to Paris. Or Berlin, perhaps? I’m sure a woman of your...inclinations would enjoy herself there.” He took his cigarette case out of his coat and popped it open, fighting to keep his hands from trembling.

  “Oh, but I only just got back,” Helen said.

  “Yes, and you’ve made quite the impression on the scene, I daresay, but I really must insist,” he said, as she continued to circle him. He was reminded of the way a falcon drew closer and closer to its prey just before it struck.

  “Why? What have I done to offend you so, little magus?”

  “Me? Nothing. The Foreign Minister, on the other hand...”

  She laughed. “Ah. So you are an Odysseus, then, fighting Agamemnon’s war.”

  “Oh, are we back to that?” he said, feigning boredom. “I went to Eton, my good woman. I know Homer and Virgil better than my own family.”

  “I knew them as well,” she said. “Who do you think told them of those long ago warriors and their far away fates? I betrayed the Trojans and the Greeks both. The former I led in Bacchic rites, so that they were in no position to defend themselves when the Greeks came with sword and fire. And the latter I did torment with the voices of their loved ones left behind as they crouched in the stinking belly of their wooden offering.” She licked her lips. “I hated them all, you see. All the petty men who shuddered at me.”

  “I’m sure the feeling was mutual,” he said. “I know you now, Helen Strix. You are that which cries by night, without food or drink, with head below and tips of feet above, a harbinger of war and civil strife for men,” he recited, as his hand dipped for the hilt of the xiphos. One quick thrust and he could have it in her heart.

  Helen laughed again. “Oh it has been ages since I heard that. Boios, isn’t it? Well, you did say you went to Eton.” And then, in the blink of an eye, she was on him. She was faster than he expected, and she had filched the sword and its sheath from inside his coat and flung them aside before he even realized that she was moving. Her fingers were at his throat a moment later and he gurgled as he felt her fingers snap shut like the talons of a hawk. “You came during the day. That means you have some idea of what I am. It’s the wrong idea, of course, but you’re not the first to make that mistake. Aeneas and Megapenthes did as well.” She smiled widely. “I am no empusa or vrykolakas, to be sent wafting away with an iron nail in my heart.” He hammered at her forearm with his fists. It was like pounding on stone. “I am ennoia, and eternal.”

  “You remind me of Aeneas,” she continued, lifting him off of his feet. “Around the jaw, mostly. There’s Trojan blood in you, I’d warrant. Then, there’s a bit of Brutus in every Briton, according to that old fraud, Monmouth.” She smiled. “Did you know that they came here originally to exile me? To bury my lead coffin on this soggy little island? Then, they decided to stay.” Her smiled faded. “They buried me anyway. And built their city over me. I felt it grow. It fed on me, and there is something of me in every street and cul-de-sac in Londinium. This city fed off of me, until a great fire freed me and I escaped on the wind of ash and smoke. And now that I have returned, I will feed off of it.”

  “That...doesn’t explain anything, actually,” St. Cyprian croaked as he tried to pry her fingers from his throat. Her arm, so frail looking, was like a bar of iron, and her fingers like the jaws of a trap.

  “It doesn’t, doesn’t it?” She pulled him close. Her smile was back, and sharp enough to make him bleed. “I could explain so many things to you, if you but let me. I would happily let you join my society for the price of a kiss…a single kiss, Mr. St. Cyprian. Is that so heavy a price to bear?”

  “I truly, from the law of that Majesty, command thee to go away now most calmly to your place, without murmur and commotion, and without harm to us and the circle of other men. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen,” St. Cyprian rasped, slashing the air before her eyes with two fingers in a curious motion. It was a long shot, but it was better than nothing.

  Helen’s laugh was like the peal of a bell. She shook him slightly, and her thumbnail traced the hollow of his throat. “I am older than your desert god, little sorcerer. And I shall cause a commotion if I wish.”

  “That makes two of us,” Gallowglass said. Exactly where she had come from, St. Cyprian couldn’t say, but he felt a thrill of relief as the barrel of her Webley-Fosbery tapped the back of Helen’s head. Before the smaller woman could pull the trigger, however, Helen whirled with inhuman speed, swinging St. Cyprian around like a sackcloth. Gallowglass ducked and fired. Helen shrieked as the bullet grazed her cheek. She staggered back, clutching at her face.

  “Where?” he croaked.

  “Followed you, didn’t I? Can’t let you out alone, can I?” Gallowglass said, braced and ready for whatever Helen decided to do next. She glanced at him. “You paid for the cab, by the way.” Shaking his head, St. Cyprian fumbled in his coat pocket for the Monas Glyph. He hadn’t come unprepared, but Helen was quicker than he’d anticipated. Then, if she was who she claimed to be, she’d had more time than most to learn how to fight.

  “I am ennoia, and eternal.”

  Helen’s screams rose to an ear-splitting pitch and then broke off into a flurry of cursing. She lowered her hands. St. Cyprian saw that Gallowglass’ bullet had torn open her cheek, and something like tar dripped down the line of her jaw. “My face,” she hissed. The sound was guttural, and savage.

  “Try launching a thousand ships now,” Gallowglass chortled nastily. She extended her pistol. Helen went for her, moving like a leopardess. She sprang forward, her hands extended like claws. Gallowglass fired. The revolver bucked in her hand as the cylinder emptied. Helen twisted in mid-lunge, moving with boneless grace. Bullets skidded across her bare flesh, leaving black marks. To St. Cyprian, they looked like cracks in marble.

  His fingers found the hard, metal disk of bronze they’d been searching for even as Helen crashed into Gallowglass, catapulting them backwards, across the room and out of through the back door in an explosion of wood. St. Cyprian snatched his fallen sword up and tore it from its sheath as he raced after the two women. He had no idea what Helen was, exactly, but he hoped the sword could stop her.

  As he reached the door, he saw that they had broken apart, and now faced each other in the garden. Gallowglass had dropped her pistol in the tussle and Helen’s pale fingers were crooked like claws and her lips peeled back from long, even teeth.

  “I saw the towers of Ilium burned, you little wretch, and the crude hovels of this pestilential pile as well,” Helen snarled as she advanced on Gallowglass, sidling around the thin shafts of sunlight which pierced the ivy overhead. “And I’ll see it burn again, before I’m done.”

  She lunged, the shredded remnants of her robes spreading around her like wings. Gallowglass’ hand dipped into her coat and reappeared with a balisong, which she expertly flicked open. The silvery blade danced across Helen’s hand as she clawed for Gallowglass. Her other hand caught the smaller woman a blow that sent her flying backwards into the ivy along the back wall.

  Sword in one hand, St. Cyprian scooped up a chunk of the broken door frame in the other even as Helen turned. She hissed and he smashed the hunk of wood across her face. It exploded into fragments, and she staggered. St. Cyprian thrust the sword towards her, but her hands snapped up, catching the
blade between her palms.

  He didn’t hesitate, but instead threw all of his weight against the pommel of the sword. Helen barely budged. “No, I think not,” she hissed. She made to wrench it out of his hands, but her eyes widened suddenly and she released the blade with a wail. Smoke rose from her hands and she staggered. More crack-like lines spread up her arms.

  “The juice of the arbutus leaf,” St. Cyprian said. “Burnt, it drives away unclean spirits, as your followers found out last night. Mashed, it does much the same.” He advanced on her, and she backed away, eyes blazing and teeth bared. “I don’t know what you are, exactly, but I can hurt you even so.” He stretched his sword up and slashed at the ivy overhead, allowing in the sunlight.

  “I’ll pluck out your heart and eat it,” she snarled, cringing back from the light that spilled down into the dark garden.

  “Charming,” he said, hoping she couldn’t hear the tremor in his voice. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the Monas Glyph. “In the name of Thanatos, I command thee; in the name of Cthonios, I bind thee; in the name of Hades, I blind thee,” he intoned, stepping forward. The Glyph began to grow warm in his hand. The sunlight reflected off of its strangely swirling surface. Helen cast up a hand, as if to block out the sight of it.

  “Death has no claim on me, nor the gloomy god,” she snarled.

  “No? Seems like it’s doing the trick to me,” he said, pursuing her. “On your feet, Miss Gallowglass,” he called. “No malingering on duty, if you please.”

  Gallowglass thrust her face through the ivy. Her cap was askew and her jaw was purpling on one side, but her eyes were bright. “Got a punch like a stevedore,” she said. She clambered out of the ivy and snatched up her pistol. As she began to reload, St. Cyprian drove Helen back towards the open sunlight with the Glyph.

  Helen made a low sound in her throat as she entered the light, and faint curlicues of smoke rose from the black marks on her flesh. She slapped at her skin, like a woman beset by stinging insects, and her face contorted into an animalistic snarl. The Glyph grew hot in his hand, and he knew that somehow, in some way, she was fighting its power. His heart sank. Whatever she was, she was more powerful than he had feared.

  “What do we do now?” Gallowglass asked as she snapped her Webley shut.

  “Something clever,” St. Cyprian said. He cut his eyes upwards. The sun was already vanishing behind the clouds. Gallowglass’ bullets would be of no help. And his talisman wasn’t doing any obvious good, either. That left the sword.

  “That’d be a first,” Gallowglass muttered and took aim. Helen hissed as she heard the Webley being cocked. St. Cyprian readied himself. His heart thudded against his ribs. He would only get one chance.

  Helen sprang.

  St. Cyprian lunged smoothly, with a fencer’s grace, and the tip of the xiphos caught her in the breast. Black fluid and smoke burst from her mouth as she fell, pulling the sword from his hands. There was a sound like crockery striking stone, and her white flesh came apart all at once. Something large and feathery sprang upwards, passing through the ivy before he could catch clear sight of it. He heard the snap of wings and then it was gone, leaving only a raw, harsh smell, like spoiled blood, and a few spiralling crimson feathers to mark its passage.

  Gallowglass raised her pistol, and then lowered it. She looked at St. Cyprian. “You call that clever?”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  She shook her head and sank to her haunches beside what was left of Helen Strix. She used the barrel of her pistol to prod the hard, white pieces that, to St. Cyprian’s eyes, looked like the pieces of an egg shell. “What was she?”

  “Something old,” he said as he retrieved his sword. He looked at Gallowglass. “Thank you, by the way.”

  She shrugged and stood. “Like I said, somebody has to watch out for you.”

  “And who’s watching out for Mosley?”

  “The tinned sprouts,” she said as she holstered her pistol. At his quizzical look, she clarified, “I locked him in the pantry. Stuffed some of those arbutus blossoms down his trousers, just in case.” She looked up. “Think she’s buggered off for good?”

  St. Cyprian was silent for a moment, thinking of the fire he’d felt, and what he’d seen. Had she been showing him the past, or the future? He shook his head. “God, I hope so.” He heard the faint cry of bird, what kind he couldn’t say, and he shivered.

  “But somehow, I doubt it.”

  THE END

  SO…WHO IS THE ROYAL OCCULTIST?

  Formed during the reign of Elizabeth I, the post of the Royal Occultist, or ‘the Queen’s Conjurer’ as it was known, was created for and first held by the diligent amateur, Dr. John Dee, in recognition for an unrecorded service to the Crown.

  The title has passed through a succession of hands since, some good, some bad; the list is a long one, weaving in and out of the margins of British history and including such luminaries as the 1st Earl of Holderness and Thomas Carnacki.

  Now, in the wake of the Great War, the title and offices have fallen to Charles St. Cyprian who, accompanied by his apprentice Ebe Gallowglass, defends the British Empire against threats occult, otherworldly, infernal and divine even as the wider world lurches once more on the path to war…

  The Royal Occultist is the man—or woman—who stands between the British Empire and its occult enemies, be they foreign, domestic, human, demonic or some form of worm of unusual size. If there are satyrs running amok in Somerset or werewolves in Wolverhampton, the Royal Occultist will be there to see them off.

  The current Royal Occultist is Charles St. Cyprian, who’s best described as Rudolph Valentino by way of Bertie Wooster. In the same vein, his assistant, Ebe Gallowglass, is Louise Brooks by way of Emma Peel. St. Cyprian is the brains and Gallowglass is the muscle; he likes to talk things out, and she likes to shoot things until they die. Together, they defend the British Empire against a variety of gribbly monsters, secret societies and eldritch occurrences.

  St. Cyprian and Gallowglass made their first appearance in 2010 in the short story, “Krampusnacht”. They have since appeared in close to thirty short stories, in a variety of anthologies and magazines, all of which are still currently available. Some of them are even available for free!

  The first novel to feature the duo, THE WHITECHAPEL DEMON, was released in 2013 by Emby Press and is available via Amazon.com and Smashwords. The Whitechapel Demon sees St. Cyprian and Gallowglass go up against a secret society of murderists and an other-dimensional doppelgänger of one of history’s most notorious killers. The book serves as an introduction to the world of the Royal Occultist as well as delivering an exciting adventure for new readers and old fans alike to enjoy. The next novel in the series, THE JADE SUIT OF DEATH, will be available sometime in 2014.

  To visit the Royal Occultist site, set your browser for: http://royaloccultist.wordpress.com/

  You can also keep track of the latest Royal Occultist news via the series’ Facebook page at: https://www.facebook.com/RoyalOccultist

  A number of the Royal Occultist stories are available in audio format via Bandcamp at: https://royaloccultist.bandcamp.com/

  JOSH REYNOLDS - is a freelance writer of moderate skill and exceptional confidence. He has written a bit, and some of it was even published. His work has appeared in anthologies such as Miskatonic River Press’ Horror for the Holidays, and in periodicals such as Innsmouth Magazine and Lovecraft eZine. In addition to his own work, a full list of which can be found at http://joshuamreynolds.wordpress.com/ Josh has written for several tie-in franchises, including Gold Eagle’s Executioner line as well as Black Library’s Warhammer Fantasy line.

  And if, after finishing “The Strix Society”, you’re interested in reading more about Charles St. Cyprian and the Royal Occultist, make sure to check out http://royaloccultist.wordpress.com/ for links to other stories, as well as free fiction and contests!

  The Lost Wife of

  Thomas Tan

  A Sgt. Ja
nus Tale

  by Jim Beard

  Looking out at the falling snow from underneath the Raynham Road Bridge, the nub of a pencil in my barely-sensate fingers, I am scribbling this on bits of crumpled paper found in my pockets. There is a curious pain in my arm and in my chest. My head is swimming. We thought this was finished. The Sergeant thought this was finished. Apparently, that is not the case.

  Perhaps this will be the last thing I ever write, which is a shame because I always liked to write. But I will endeavor to begin it and to finish it, and hope that it will find its way into someone’s hands who will welcome its record of the events of the past few days.

  I first met Roman Janus last May, during the flooding. Of course I knew of him; we all know of him in town, and in the city, too. He is of average height and build, with sandy hair and strange eyes, enormous presence, and calm demeanor. He dresses like a military man, though his uniform exhibits no signs of rank or decoration. There is a scent about him of books, though his hands are those of a worker.

  Little thought I gave him before the day when I found myself shoulder-to-shoulder with the man, lifting heavy bags of sand to bolster a wall that threatened to give way from the weight of the water behind it. Throughout that long, arduous day we worked together well, albeit silently, for the most part. We made quite a team, if I do say so myself. Then, having been relieved by incoming hands, Janus and I introduced ourselves to each other and he told me the strangest thing. I will never forget it as long as I shall, well, for whatever time I may have left.