by Maynard Sims
The hunt is on!
Alice Logan has gone missing, and Harry Bailey and Department 18 have been called to help find her. The main suspect is Anton Markos, a satanic cult leader who has a predilection for young women like Alice. Members of Markos’s cult start turning up dead—shredded by what seems to be a wild animal. Is there a madman within the cult? Or is it something far more horrible?
Can Department 18 discover the impossible truth and end the spree of murder, insanity and carnage? Or will they become the prey?
Mother of Demons
Maynard Sims
Dedication
For our mothers, Dorothy and Rose - neither of them demons.
Chapter One
High above street level in Clerkenwell, she climbed up to the balcony’s railing and rested her naked foot on the ice-cold metal. A brisk wind was coming in from the east, gusting across the balcony and raising goose bumps on the girl’s pasty-white skin. From inside the penthouse, the four boys watched her climb.
“Go, girl,” one of the boys—Finbar Clusky—called out. The other three laughed.
“Where’s Erik?’ another of them—Terry Butler—said. “Shouldn’t he be here? This is for his benefit, isn’t it? Hey, Alice. Don’t jump…not yet. Your main audience isn’t here yet.”
The girl glanced back into the room. “I’m not going to jump, silly. I’m going to fly. I’m going to soar, above the clouds, to the heavens. There I will take my rightful place with the other goddesses.”
“Is that what you are, Alice, a goddess?” Davy Coltrane said.
“I am Artemis, goddess of the moon, goddess of the hunt. And once I’ve taken my rightful place in the heavens, I will hunt you all down and make you kneel before me.”
“Not Artemis, my love, but Hecate, the goddess of sorcery and magic.”
All eyes turned to stare at the speaker: a man, older than any of them, handsome, with a chiseled Mediterranean face and piercing coal-black eyes. They all shrank back in their seats and cast their gazes to the floor. All except the girl who, from her perch on the balcony, looked at the man, her eyes clouded with confusion. “But, Erik, you’re here. I thought you had gone away.”
“I’m here, my love. I would never leave you.”
“Erik, I can fly. I want to show you.”
He smiled at her indulgently. “I know,” he said. “I know you can fly. You can soar, as high as a bird, more graceful than an eagle. You don’t have to prove it to me. One day we will fly together.”
She looked uncertain. “Do you promise?”
“On my life.” Erik Strasser bent low and whispered in Clusky’s ear, “How much did you give her?”
“The usual amount. Nothing excessive.”
“But now she believes she’s a bird,” Strasser said.
“No, a goddess,” Mikey Gibson said, trying to lighten an atmosphere that had suddenly turn to stone.
Strasser silenced him with a look and turned again to the girl. “Come in now, my darling. Come in and get warm. Your skin is turning blue.”
Alice looked at him questioningly for a moment, then down at her naked body. She shrugged, stepped down from the balcony and took a step inside the penthouse. Strasser reached forward and wrapped his arms around her shivering body. Gently he led her through to the bedroom and laid her down on the bed, covered her with a quilt, waited until her shivering had stopped and then watched a tear trickle down her cheek.
“Erik, I want to go home,” she said, in a voice so small that he had to lean forward to hear what she was saying.
“And so you will. Tomorrow you can go back and see your mother, just as we discussed.”
“Promise?”
“Of course. I give you my word.” He reached out and stroked her forehead, smoothing her long blonde hair away from her brow.
“Thank you, Erik. You’re so kind to me.”
Her eyes fluttered shut, and within a moment her breathing had deepened and she was asleep.
He stared down at her, a frown creasing his forehead, and then he stepped away from the bed and went back into the lounge.
“Who was responsible for that?” he demanded, his accent thickening as his anger increased.
“Just a bit of fun,” Butler said.
“No harm in it.” That from Coltrane.
“And that’s what you would have told the police once they’d scooped her body up off the pavement?”
“They didn’t mean anything by it, Erik,” Clusky said. “You’re overreacting.”
Strasser spun around to face him, his brow furrowed, his eyes blacker than ever.
Clusky grabbed his midriff and bent double as an icy hand gripped his intestines and started to twist. “Please,” he gasped. “Don’t.”
“Don’t blame Fin. It wasn’t his fault,” Coltrane said.
“Then whose fault was it? I left Finbar in charge.”
“I was only having a laugh,” Coltrane continued. “I didn’t think the silly bitch would react so badly. I only gave her another shard. How was I to know she would go all goddess on us?”
Strasser turned on him. The skin of his brow had smoothed out, but the eyes burned just as deeply. “Get out,” he said in little more than a whisper. “Get out of here and don’t come back.”
The boy stood up to his full height and thrust out his chin to show he wasn’t going to be intimidated by Strasser. “Suit yourself. I’m going. This was a lousy gig anyway.” He turned to Clusky, who was slowly straightening up, the color gradually returning to his face. “I don’t go much on your choice of friends, Fin. Especially this wanker.”
Clusky gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head, but Coltrane, nostrils flaring in anger, ignored it. “I’m outa here,” he said, stalked to the door and yanked it open, slamming it shut behind him.
“Indeed you are,” Strasser said softly.
Minutes later Davy Coltrane was on the platform of Farringdon Underground Station, listening to the steady rumble of the approaching train.
The train’s headlamps pierced the gloom as it appeared from around a bend in the track. As the train pulled into the station, Coltrane took a step forward…and then another.
The train hit him before he could fall from the edge of the platform. It carried his body along for a few yards until it slipped down the cold metal and disappeared under the grinding wheels.
Chapter Two
Jason West pushed open the door to the library and stepped into the cavernous book-lined room.
Violet Bulmer sat in the corner, the desk lamp catching the gray flecks in her copper hair. She looked sixty but he knew her age to be thirty-nine. The last few years had not been kind to her.
“Hello, Vi.”
She looked up, peering at him over her half-rimmed glasses, and pushed a stray lock of her wild hair away from her face. “I didn’t expect you to show,” she said. “Not after the last time.”
“You called, I came. That was the deal.”
“I wouldn’t have blamed you…”
“How long were you in hospital?” he said.
“Three weeks. You?”
“Six. I was pretty beaten up. What have you got?”
There was an empty seat beside her. She patted the cushion. “Come and see.”
He sat down next to her at the desk and stared down at the file she had open in front of her. He picked up an eight-by-ten, black-and-white photograph of a smartly dressed young man exiting a famous eatery in Piccadilly.
“Who is he?”
“Erik Strasser, former CEO of Hematite Software and high priest of on
e of the fastest growing covens in the country.”
“Why haven’t I heard of him?”
“Up until a year ago he was based at Hematite’s head office in Dusseldorf, and then, for reasons that were never made clear, he was relieved of his post. So he upped sticks, relocated to London and continued to spread his vile philosophy here in our backyard.”
“Where’s he living?”
“He has a penthouse apartment in Clerkenwell and a country pile in the Cotswolds.”
“And the coven?”
“He also owns a converted warehouse in Docklands. As far as I understand it, they hold regular meetings there.”
He dropped the photograph back onto the desk. “And your interest is? Apart from the obvious.”
She drew in a deep breath and let it out through pursed lips. “Strasser is pure evil. The reason his coven has grown so rapidly is because he targets young people, mid to late teens, early twenties—vulnerable people disaffected by modern society and the teachings of the church.”
“I would have said that accounts for the majority of the youth of today.”
Violet gave him a withering look. “Cynic.”
“Just an observation.”
She shook her head. “I suppose I can’t expect you to change, Jason.”
He smiled. “How long have you known me?”
“Too long,” she said, allowing her own smile to flit across her lips. “Strasser’s like a disease, spreading his poison and infecting anyone who crosses his path.”
He listened to the vitriol in her words. “This is personal,” he said. “Isn’t it?”
Violet looked at him long and hard, as if assessing whether or not to tell him. Finally, she looked away and stared down at the file. “I have a niece, Alice, my sister’s girl. Bright, pretty little thing…at least, she was.”
“And now?”
“I barely recognize her. My sister has her in a clinic in Hampshire.”
“What happened to her?”
“Strasser happened to her. She met him during her final year at Oxford. She thought the lifestyle Strasser was offering would be fun and exciting. Within three months, Alice was heavily addicted to methamphetamine and was very quickly going downhill.”
“How did your sister get her away from him?”
“The silly girl came home, to touch Stephanie for money. Said she needed it to further her studies. My sister may be many things, Jason, but she’s not a fool. She could see from Alice’s appearance that something was badly wrong. She promised to help Alice financially, and insisted she stay the night, with the promise that the next day they’d go to the bank together and make a withdrawal for the amount Alice was looking for. Instead she locked Alice in her bedroom and sought help from a friend of hers, a doctor with a private practice. Of course he was risking his career by helping her, but Stephanie can be very persuasive. Alice was committed to the clinic a few days later.”
“And Strasser?”
“He came looking for Alice. He turned up at the house, as bold as brass, and demanded that my sister release her into his care. Said they had a deep, loving relationship and that he would take responsibility for her rehabilitation.”
“But Stephanie wasn’t taken in by him?”
“As I said, Stephanie may be many things, but she’s not a fool. George, my brother-in-law, called the police to see Strasser off the premises, and then Stephanie rang me to see what I could find out about him.”
Jason pointed to the file in front of her. “And that’s what you found out?”
“So far,” Violet said. “But I have a feeling I’ve only just scratched the surface.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
“Well, we’re not going to go up against him alone. We played that game last time, and we didn’t do very well, did we?”
“So what do you suggest?”
“We ask the professionals to get involved.”
“The police?”
She made a sound of contempt in the back of her throat. “They wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Then who?”
“I want you to go and see a man I know, Harry Bailey. I helped him with something he was investigating a few years ago.”
“Who’s this Harry Bailey?”
“He works for Department 18. A government agency set up to investigate psychic phenomena, the paranormal.”
‘”The government uses taxpayers’ money to investigate ghoulies and ghosties?” Jason said incredulously. “I’m surprised the Daily Mail hasn’t tried to expose them and bring them down.”
“They operate below the radar of the popular press, and believe me, they’ve saved the country’s bacon on more than one occasion.”
“Seriously?”
“Jason, I’m deadly serious. I never joke about such things.”
Jason saw the steely look in her eyes and backed off
“We’re not the only ones who see the evil in the souls of men and others.”
“Okay, Vi, where do I find this Harry Bailey?”
“You’re meeting with him in the morning in a café on the Euston Road. I called him earlier. He’ll meet with you at nine. Miguel’s. It’s almost opposite King’s Cross Station.”
“How will I know him?”
“He’ll know you. He’s heard of you and knows what you look like.”
“How?”
She looked at him and a slight smile played on her lips. “You’re quite famous, Jason. Your beating made the front page of the Evening Standard, although they fudged the details somewhat. Put it down as a mugging. If they only knew.”
“Best they don’t. But I had no idea I’d made the press.” He looked unhappy. “Why don’t you meet with him yourself?”
“I will, eventually, but at the moment he thinks I’m more use here, digging up as much information on Strasser as I can find. He’ll do the same at his end. He has access to some top-class researchers. I’ll meet up with him soon, but for now you take this file, read it, digest it, meet with Harry, give it to him and see if he plans to do anything about it.”
“You think he might not?”
She closed the file and handed it across the desk to him. “He’ll take it on. He wouldn’t be Harry Bailey if he didn’t. Report back to me once you’ve met with him.”
With the file tucked under his arm, Jason left the library, walked the length of Violet’s vast Chelsea home and stepped out into the evening air.
Chapter Three
Miguel’s was a place out of time and soon to be swallowed up and consigned to oblivion by the King’s Cross redevelopment program. The current owner, a Cypriot called Theo, had enjoyed twenty years in the area, but was resigned to the reality of his situation. His café was an anachronism now, as much as Eddie the barber’s three doors down. Soon they would be no more. In the months to come, Miguel’s would be replaced by a Starbucks or a Costa, and another facet of London’s rich heritage would cease to shine.
Jason West stepped in out of the drizzling rain and wiped the moisture droplets from his raincoat.
“What can I get you?” Theo asked him in heavily accented English.
“Just tea, please,” Jason said.
“I’ll bring it over. Take a seat…if you can find one.”
Jason looked around the deserted café and admired the man’s stoic irony. “You’re very quiet,” he said.
“You missed the breakfast rush. It will be dead in here until twelve. Then all hell breaks loose as the secretaries start to come in for their lunch. I can cope. My staff will arrive soon.”
Jason wandered over to a table in the window, sat and opened the newspaper he was carrying. Theo brought his tea in a cup that resembled a soup bowl with a handle and set it down it on the table in front of him. A few moments later the door swung inward and a large
man with graying hair and a beaten-up-looking face stepped into the café and went through the ritual of wiping raindrops from his raincoat.
“Harry!” Theo called from behind the counter. “Your usual?”
The big man finished wiping himself down. “Just tea and toast, Theo. I’m in a bit of a rush this morning.” He looked across to Jason, who was folding his newspaper and laying it on the seat beside him. “May I join you?” he said.
Jason looked up at him. “Feel free.”
The man pulled a chair from under the table and sat down opposite him. “Harry Bailey,” he said.
Jason stuck out a hand. “West. Jason West.”
“Yeah, I know,” Harry said, taking his hand and shaking it. “How’s Vi?”
“Fine. Fully recovered now.”
“You were lucky—you both were.”
“Yes, I realize that.”
Theo brought across another bowl of tea and a plate holding two slices of thickly buttered toast. Harry nodded his thanks, picked up a slice of toast and bit into it, wiping his chin with the back of his hand as melted butter ran down from the corners of his mouth. He spoke as he chewed. “Vi told me what you’re here for, and, I’m afraid to say, I don’t think the department can help you.”
Jason sipped his tea. “Then it was a bit of a waste of time meeting up with you. Vi was convinced you’d help her,” he said, an edge of irritation in his voice.
Harry took another bite of toast, wiped his chin again. “Don’t get chippy. I said I don’t think Department 18 can help you. I didn’t say I wouldn’t. I’ve known Violet Bulmer for a long time. She’s a friend. I’ve always got time to help out my friends.”
“So why won’t the department get involved?”
Harry washed down the toast with a mouthful of tea. “My boss won’t sanction it.”
Jason pulled a manila folder from the inside pocket of his coat. “Erik Strasser is a dangerous man.” He offered the file to Harry.
Harry took it, laid it down on the table next to his plate but didn’t open it. “I’m sure he is. But my boss would say that this—” he tapped the file, “—falls into the category of cranks and weirdos, not a paranormal threat as such.”
