The Undying Legion Read online

  “I made sure he left everything else as it was,” came a thick Scottish voice from one of the pews. A figure rose in the shadows a few rows ahead. “You made good time.”

  “Malcolm!” Kate exclaimed. “Good God. What happened to you? Did you stumble on more werewolves?”

  Malcolm’s face was bruised, with dried blood caking his forehead. His normally tied-back hair was undone in spots. “Just a fracas with some fellows keeping watch outside to prevent me walking in on this deed. I … questioned them thoroughly, but they have no idea who paid them, nor what was being done.”

  Simon peered at Malcolm’s forehead. “That looks deep.”

  “Go have a look at the poor lass. See what you can see.”

  Simon went to the draped body and drew the cloth back from the victim’s face. She was a delicate blonde with near-porcelain features. Blood speckled her young face and there remained a look of odd pleasure still in the curve of her lips.

  Simon glanced at Malcolm. “How did you stumble onto this?”

  “Just look at her,” the Scotsman retorted. “Don’t worry about what I do.”

  Simon took a candle and bent to study the dead body. Kate leaned in close with him.

  “Notice the lack of pox scars and the light dusting of powder on her cheeks,” Simon said.

  Kate noted one of the girl’s hands. “And her nails are well cared for.”

  Simon gave the girl a silent apology before pulling the cloth completely off her naked body. Both he and Kate gave quiet gasps. The victim’s chest was cut open. A flap had been sliced around her left breast and the flesh and muscle were peeled back to reveal ribs and organs beneath. Simon swallowed bile at the sight.

  Malcolm stood behind them. “Knife wounds.”

  “Specifics would be nice.”

  “A bloody big knife,” came the terse response.

  “Better.”

  “Serrated knife,” Malcolm added. “About twelve inches long. Four strikes encircling the heart.”

  Simon scowled. “My human anatomy is not strong. That is the heart, yes?”

  “Yes.” Malcolm pushed between Simon and Kate, pointing down at the girl’s exposed insides. “Have a close look.”

  Simon gave the Scotsman a sour glance and leaned closer to the discolored heart. He saw what appeared to be dark marks on the mottled surface of the organ. “What is that? A burn?”

  “Aye. Symbols have been branded onto her heart.”

  “I don’t know that I would’ve even noticed that,” Kate said. “How can you see it?”

  “I’ve butchered plenty of animals,” Malcolm replied. “And I’ve seen bodies butchered by animals.”

  “Can you draw what you see?” Simon offered a small pocket book along with a stub of a pencil that he always carried. The Scotsman knelt over the girl and began to draw. After a moment, he tossed the pad back to Simon, who studied the page along with Kate.

  “Looks like Egyptian hieroglyphs,” Kate said.

  “Agreed,” Simon replied. “Nothing I know. But I bow to your language skills.”

  Kate shook her head. “I can’t make sense of it.”

  The sextant called out from the entrance. “Begging your pardon, but I’ll need to summon the police now. If someone comes and finds you here, and I’ve not summoned a constable, it could mean my head.”

  “Go talk to him,” Simon said to Malcolm. “Buy us another few minutes of solitude.”

  The Scotsman went toward the door, jingling coins his pocket.

  Kate turned away from the body. “Let’s have a look around while we have time.”

  Kate and Simon, with candles in hand, began to comb the premises for anything odd. The church was in good order; certainly no sign of a struggle of any sort. No overturned chairs or broken objects. There was nothing unusual in the church at all except the mutilated body.

  “Simon!” Kate’s voice called out finally.

  Simon spotted her in the northern end of the building, crouched on the floor by the altar. He walked across the church with his steps ringing in the silence. Her fingers were tracing something on the stone flooring. He looked past her long, curling, auburn hair to what she studied.

  A word carved into the stone.

  “What is this?” Kate asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m not familiar with that word either.”

  “Luvah,” Kate whispered, only to feel Simon squeeze her shoulder hard.

  “Don’t,” he warned gently. “It’s always best not to say strange words aloud. Speaking names gives them power.”

  “Right,” Kate said. “Sorry, but this is probably the name of one of the mason’s dogs.”

  “Perhaps. Still. Let’s have a look at the other apses.”

  Kate went toward the west side and Simon returned to the murdered woman. He made his way around her and knelt. He felt a slight jolt of excitement to see a word carved in the stone floor. Tharmas.

  Kate shouted from across the church, “There is one here!”

  They met in the center and she wrote Urizon in the pocket book. Then they walked quickly to the door where Malcolm stood chatting with the sexton. The men were surprised to see the couple drop to their knees and begin to scour the floor.

  “Here,” Kate cried. “A fourth word.”

  Urthona.

  “Yes, miss,” the sexton said. “Those words have always been here. There are all sorts of odd words and symbols about. We prefer not to talk about it in case it has something to do with the black arts. Wouldn’t do in a house of God.”

  “Why do you think there might be dark arts involved?” Simon asked.

  “Hawksmoor, sir,” the man replied cautiously. “The architect who built the church last century. He was always rumored to dabble in such things.”

  Simon and Kate exchanged glances, and she said with excited realization, “Of course. This is one of Nicholas Hawksmoor’s churches. I’m so stupid. I should’ve known by the design. He was a master of sacred geometry.”

  The sexton looked disturbed. “That’s the very thing we’d like to keep quiet. Pagan symbols and the like don’t play well when you’re asking the parish to contribute to the building fund. Naturally, we don’t like to dwell on the elements that don’t seem strictly Church of England, if you understand.” He pointed toward the ceiling in the center. “Such as those strange marks up there that no one has ever figured.”

  Simon turned but the center archway was lost in darkness. “What marks?”

  “It’s sort of a … line with a … cross. Here, let me see that.” He reached for Simon’s pad and pencil. He flipped it open and said, “Oh. You already saw it then, sir.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You drew it right here.” The sexton held up the pad to the page with Malcolm’s symbol from the dead girl’s heart.

  Malcolm looked into the dark rafters. “Those marks are on the archway above?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. No one knows what they mean.” The sexton handed the pad back to Simon. “But who knows what anything means when it comes down to it.”

  “Wise words.” Simon slipped the pocket book into his coat. “One last thing, sir, then you may summon the police and let them do their duty for this poor woman.” He walked back to the center of the church and knelt on the floor. He removed a piece of chalk from his pocket and began to write on the floor.

  “What’s he about?” Malcolm asked Kate.

  “I’m not sure. I can’t always tell what a scribe is doing.”

  Simon wrote a series of runes on the floor, then placed his hand over them and whispered. The runes glowed green. Simon stood and stared around looking for something. “Kate, would you join me?”

  They walked together back to the east apse where the covered body lay. A faint green glow came from under the murdered woman. Simon dropped to one knee and slowly rolled the bloody form onto her side. Kate looked over his shoulder at a strange aura on the paving stone under the dead woman.

  “What is it?�
�� she asked.

  “It is a scribe’s mark. Every scribe has a unique rune to mark his spells. I have one as well.”

  “Do you recognize that mark?”

  “Yes.” Simon took a deep shuddering breath. “Byron Pendragon.”

  Kate gave a slight gasp. “The founder of the Order of the Oak?”

  “One of the founders, yes, of that ancient guild of magicians. He was the greatest scribe in history, and my father’s mentor. He’s been dead nearly forty years now, but he clearly inscribed this church with a spell of some sort.”

  “Any idea what it could be?”

  “No.” Simon raised a nervous eyebrow at her and gently lowered the woman’s body to the floor. He strode back to the center of the church where he scuffed his chalk runes with his boot, and then returned to the sexton. “Sir, I thank you for your generosity toward us, and your kindness to her.” He handed the man a gold sovereign.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ve got a terrible feeling this killing has some horrible devilish purpose, sir. It must be black magic, sir.”

  Simon nodded thoughtfully.

  The sexton looked frightened. “Don’t you wish to contradict me, sir?”

  “By no means. Good morning to you.” He led Kate and Malcolm out into the cold night where the carriage waited. Simon slid into the seat. “Horrifying ritual. Can’t fathom a meaning though.”

  Malcolm stared at the pensive Simon. “Maybe there is none. It could be the work of a lunatic. Maybe you see magic where others don’t.”

  “That murder was certainly the work of a disturbed mind. I don’t want to trouble the police in their mission, but we will offer consultation. I’ll make contact with my friend Sir Henry Clatterburgh at the Home Office.”

  The driver snapped the reins on the backs of the mounts and they were away as Kate said, “There were no ligature marks on the body, nor signs of a struggle. From the amount of blood, the killing obviously took place there.”

  “Drugged perhaps?” offered Simon.

  Kate held up a small vial filled with blood. “I’ll find out.”

  “I’m not as much concerned with the how as I am the why.” Simon stirred from his contemplative pose and looked at Kate. “Didn’t Hawksmoor design several churches around London?”

  “Yes. Five or six. I’m not sure.” Kate then posed the question, “If the killing is ritualistic, why not use the altar?”

  “Who can say with occultists?” was Malcolm’s response. “They’re all a bit insane, aren’t they?”

  Simon offered the Scotsman a withering glance.

  Kate took Simon’s pad and pencil and wrote a few lines. “The names on the floor are peculiar. I’m shocked I don’t recognize them at all.”

  “Let’s have a look.” Malcolm took the pad and regarded it curiously. Then he laughed and tossed the pad back. “Sorry, lass, you’re on a wild-goose chase with those.”

  “What do you mean?” Kate exclaimed. “You recognize them?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, who are they?” Simon urged.

  “Don’t get your cravat all bunched. They’re the mad ravings of a lunatic poet.”

  “A poet?” Simon said.

  “William Blake, ecstatic and rambler. Those names are from his works.”

  “How uncommonly fascinating”—Simon reclined and tapped his lips thoughtfully—“that you know something of poetry.”

  “Do you care to know what I know? Or would you rather be smug?”

  “A difficult choice, but go ahead.”

  “These names are Blake’s four zoas. That’s some sort of bloody spirit. In his unintelligible mythology, the great giant Albion, a first man of sorts, was rendered into these four elements in the ancient past.”

  “I see.” Simon regarded the Scotsman with interest. “And then what?”

  “And then nothing. Then the world happened as it did.”

  Kate asked, “Is this part of the legend that has the giants ruling Britain before Brutus and the Trojans arrived?”

  Malcolm answered, “It’s hard to say. Sometimes Albion seems more like Adam, sometimes like Jesus. Blake was prone to visions and he conjured an entire foundation myth for Britain that lacked the one thing a good mythology needs—coherence.”

  Simon said, “I’ve never heard these names before, so if he took them from some existing mythos or occult tradition, then it must be a very obscure one.”

  “They are from no existing tradition,” the Scotsman scoffed. “He probably saw the names on the floor of that church, promptly forgot about it, then had some fit where he thought angels spoke the names to him.”

  “We need to know which poem in particular contains those—”

  “Jerusalem,” Malcolm stated. “The Four Zoas. And perhaps Milton.”

  Simon’s lips twitched at the corners. “You seem very well versed on this matter.”

  “Why does it surprise you that I can read?”

  “It doesn’t. I just never took you for a poetry lover. Do you prefer the romances, or are the darker epics your cup of tea?”

  Malcolm stifled a growl.

  “I think it’s splendid,” Kate told the Scotsman with a warm smile. “The warrior poet.”

  Simon tried not to notice her enthusiasm and instead focused on Malcolm. “I had no idea, my good man. Do you write a bit of verse too?”

  Malcolm angrily reached for the door of the carriage, but Kate seized his arm.

  “Don’t, Malcolm. We need to learn more about Blake and these four zoas. Won’t you return to Hartley Hall with us?”

  The Scotsman narrowed his eyes at Simon. “Then you’re going to pursue this matter as well? It isn’t enough what you have dished out for us already?”

  Simon shrugged helplessly. “Duty calls when it calls.”

  Malcolm exhaled and shook his head. He settled back against the side of the carriage. “You don’t mind if I sleep on the ride back?”

  “Not at all.” Kate pulled out a coach blanket and draped it over the Scotsman. He must’ve been exhausted because he didn’t even object to the mothering act. “By the way, there’s been a development at Hartley Hall just in the last day or two.”

  Malcolm slitted one eye open in underplayed alarm.

  “Do you remember that young werewolf who helped us at Bedlam? Charlotte?”

  He merely waited in silence, continuing to stare at Kate.

  “Well, she showed up at Hartley Hall,” she said, “thinking she could find wulfsyl there.”

  Malcolm gave a savage smirk. “And you killed it?”

  Kate tilted her head. “No. Actually we gave her a room and some warm milk laced with laudanum.” She smiled and tightened the blanket around his shoulders with a hard dig of her hand. “There we are, all snug now.”

  Simon looked at Malcolm’s eyes, which were wide with shock. “We’ll wake you when we arrive. I’m sure she’d like to meet you. Enjoy your nap.”

  Chapter 3

  Charlotte sat in the center of the simple bed. She was a girl of around thirteen years old. Kate had provided her with one of Imogen’s older dresses, a pretty frock with pastel flowers of pink and yellow, with only the barest hint of lace at the cuffs. Charlotte’s left knee was up against her chest while her right leg was tucked beneath her, nearly hiding the bandages that covered her leg. Around the young girl’s slender left ankle was a heavy steel cuff linked to an iron chain bolted to the stone wall. Charlotte’s blue eyes were wide and fearful. They darted between the imposing forms of Simon, who checked the heavy bracket in the wall to make sure the mortar around it was solid, and Malcolm, who leaned against the wall near the door, lost in shadow. Then the girl locked on Kate, who approached fearlessly with a tray of bandages.

  Kate set the tray on a small table by the bedside. “My, you’re a mess. Just look at your hair.”

  The child’s hands pulled at the knotted, honey-shaded strands with embarrassment. “I lost my hairbrush.” Her voice was a delicate thing, a pleasing sound with
a hint of melody.

  “Good thing I have an extra.” Kate produced an ivory-handled brush from under a cloth on the tray.

  “Are you going to kill me?” Charlotte asked with disturbing simplicity.

  “Heavens no!” Kate gasped at such a question coming from the frightened child.

  The girl’s gaze slipped accusingly to Malcolm.

  “Oh, don’t mind him. He’s just surly.” Kate’s voice was reassuring.

  The girl’s fingers touched the fine handle of the brush. “Are you going to help me?”

  “We’re going to try, but first, I want to look at that burn on your leg. May I see it?”

  “It will hurt, won’t it?” Charlotte slowly dragged her right leg out from under her with a small grunt of pain. A red gash showed along the calf and the skin was now yellowish purple and swollen, but it was no longer burned black. “It feels better.” Though she cried out when Kate touched it.

  Kate kept an eye fixed on Charlotte as she soothed. “It’s a sight, all right. You’re lucky. You grazed a magical ward. If you had caught it full on, it would’ve been much worse for you. The wound is healing. From the swelling, I gather it hurts a great deal now, but I expect you’ll be running around in no time. You just need a few days’ rest.” With Simon’s silent help, Kate cleaned and bandaged the leg.

  Charlotte gave an occasional gasp and fought back sniffles. “I don’t mean to hurt anyone. I just don’t know where else to go.”

  “I’m glad you came to us,” Kate assured the child.

  The child shuddered and reached out desperately to Kate, her fingers digging so deep into her muscle that she grimaced. “I need wulfsyl.”

  “Get it from your master,” snarled Malcolm.

  Kate was admirably calm despite the girl’s painful grip. “Why come to us, Charlotte?”

  “You … you poisoned the wulfsyl at Bedlam. Dr. White said only an alchemist could do what you did. Do you have any wulfsyl?” There was desperate hope in the girl’s voice.

  “I’m afraid not at the moment.” When Charlotte’s face fell into despair, Kate patted her arm. “Not to worry, child. We’ll get some. I don’t suppose you know how to make it?”