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  THE INFERNAL EXPRESS

  (Adventures of the Royal Occultist #3)

  By

  Josh Reynolds

  Copyright © 2016 Josh Reynolds

  First Edition

  ISBN: 978-1-940344-99-7

  Kindle Edition

  Published by Emby Press

  All Rights Reserved.

  No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any electronic system, or transmitted in form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the authors. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For Bram Stoker, Marie Nizet, John Polidori, Sheridan Le Fanu, Paul Feval, F.G. Loring and E.F. Benson. With special thanks to Rondo Hatton.

  And thanks to Miles Boothe, Christine Page and Richard Gough-Thomas, for making this look good.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Book IV of The Adventures of the Royal Occultist

  About the Author

  The Adventures Of The

  Royal Occultist

  Book III

  THE INFERNAL EXPRESS

  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…

  PROLOGUE

  New Bond Street, the West End, London

  Charles St. Cyprian looked around the auction hall, his expression one of equal parts wonder and annoyance. Presentation tables seemed to groan beneath objects of the outré and occult. Crude statuary looted from Ponapean dynasties shared space with framed pages ripped from long banned grimoires, and curious oscillating devices were mounted above display cases of dreadful amulets and talismans of rare origin. “Look at these items—that’s an uncorrected proof of Ferguson’s Devils of Xonira.” He gestured. “And there, a chunk of the Screaming Skull of Tavistock, right beside a second edition of Meikle’s Vampyricon ex Albi. And are those the etched finger-bones of Gough-Thomas? This is a ruddy black auction isn’t it?” He blinked. “I say…is that a human jawbone?”

  “That particular remnant is afflicted with a potent curse,” Peveril, a representative of the esteemed brokerage in charge of the auction, said. “When moonlight touches it, it becomes the lower jaw of a wolf. Found in the ruins of a monastery near Clontarf, I believe.” Peveril was a thin, sallow-faced sort, who seemed to vibrate on his own particular nervous wavelength. He’d met them at the front door of the Bond Street firm and escorted them down to the hall, where he now hovered like a mother hen over the gruesome array of items up for auction, his staff bustling about quietly in the background.

  “What’s a black auction?” Ebe Gallowglass asked. She was dark and feral looking, with black hair cut in a razor-edged bob and a battered flat cap resting high on her head. She wore a man’s clothes, hemmed for a woman of her small stature, and a man’s coat, dangling from her finger, over one shoulder. With the coat off, the heavy, unpleasant shape of the Webley-Fosbery revolver she habitually carried holstered under her arm was clearly visible. In contrast, St. Cyprian was tall and rangy with an olive cast to his features and hair just a touch too long to be properly fashionable. He wore a well-tailored suit straight from Gieves and Hawkes, in Savile Row, and wore it well.

  Clothes made the man, in his opinion, and he spared no expense in making sure that everyone knew just what sort of man he was. The sort of man who could announce himself as the Royal Occultist in the Year of Our Lord 1920, and keep a straight face. The sort of man who regarded the investigation, organization and occasional suppression of That Which Man Was Not Meant to Know—including vampires, ghosts, werewolves, ogres, fairies, boojums, boggarts, and barghests—by order of the King (or Queen) for the good of the British Empire, to be not just a profession, but a calling.

  St. Cyprian was the latest in a long line of men to hold the post of the Queen’s Conjurer, since Dr. John Dee had been named Royal Occultist by Good Queen Bess. If she lived long enough, his assistant, Gallowglass, would have his job in her turn, and be welcome to it, given that he’d likely be dead. They had never really talked about it. They had never really talked about a lot of things. And he hoped that they would go on not having to talk about things for some years to come.

  “An auction, obviously,” St. Cyprian said, replying to Gallowglass’ query even as he peered at a framed, hand-drawn map of a region of the Congo. According to the tag, it was the work of one Sir Wade Jermyn. The name was familiar. He shook his head. Poor Arthur, he thought sadly. He and Carnacki had been present for the sad events at Jermyn House in 1913, alongside Professor Challenger and a few others, when Sir Arthur Jermyn had taken his own life and, in the doing, saved all of theirs. He turned to look at Gallowglass. “A black auction, my erstwhile apprentice, is an auction of the outré. A sale of property from the demimonde, as it were.”

  “What’s a demiwhateveritis?”

  “Unpleasant,” St. Cyprian said.

  “So, like our place, then,” Gallowglass said, lifting a bit of silk to examine the painting hidden beneath. She whistled. “Cor, he’s a pretty one, ain’t he?”

  “Ah, yes, the Wotton bequest—from the collection of Lord Henry Wotton, believed to be the remains of the lost masterpiece of the painter, Basil Hallward,” Peveril murmured, plucking the silk from Gallowglass’ hand and shooing her back. He lowered the silk and smoothed it daintily. “Believed to be a portrait of the infamous libertine, Dorian Gray, who went missing a few years prior to the war.”

  “I heard about that,” St. Cyprian said. “Carnacki was asked to investigate Gray’s disappearance, but, well, with the war and all, it got lost in the shuffle. I remember meeting Wotton, briefly. Portly, older chap, liked his brandy a bit much.”

  “I remember Harry,” someone said. “Bit of an ass, and something of a rakehell himself, before he went bust. In his silver years now, and broke as beezer, the old fool.” St. Cyprian turned to see a woman closing the hall doors behind her. He smiled.

  “Ta, Molly,” he said. She held out her hands, and he took them, smiling. She gave him a quick peck on either cheek. “We’re here, as requested.”

  Lady Molly Robertson-Kirk, formerly of Scotland Yard, now seconded to Special Branch, was closing in on the autumn of middle age, and was perhaps twenty years his senior, with hair that was still mostly a lustrous chestnut save for several prominent streaks of silver. She was dressed well, as if for after
noon tea at the Savoy, and carefully arranged her skirts as she took the seat Peveril held out for her. “As I knew you would be, Charles. You have many failings, but tardiness is not one of them,” she said, smiling. “Curiosity, on the other hand…”

  He rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t curiosity that compelled my attendance, Molly. As you oh so subtly pointed out last time we spoke, I owe you a favour.” He spread his hands. “And thus, here I am. Do your worst.”

  “Oh Charles, do hush. Melodrama is not required at this juncture.” Molly picked up a bell jar off of the table beside her, containing a tribal fetish doll. The doll was all eyes and teeth, and as Molly peered at it, it lunged at her, slamming its wooden face against the glass. Startled, she dropped the jar. Peveril made a sound like a dying cat as it tumbled towards the floor. St. Cyprian lunged and caught it before it shattered.

  The doll flung itself savagely at the glass, biting and clawing. St. Cyprian grimaced and set it back on the display table. “Nasty little bugger. Zuni?”

  “Y-yes,” Peveril said, mopping at his brow with a handkerchief. “O-often erroneously identified as African in origin, it is in actuality North American. A-ah-a representation of a spirit of the hunt.” He swallowed. “Please don’t agitate him. If he gets loose, we’ll never get him back in the jar in time for the auction.”

  “Yes, lawks, wouldn’t want anyone to lose out on the opportunity to own a feral bit of statuary, what?” St. Cyprian wiped his hands on his trousers and stepped away from the table. “Molly, are you telling me that you approve of this sort of thing?”

  “Not in the least, Charles. But dealing in devil dolls isn’t illegal these days,” Molly said. She reached out and poked him in the arm. “As youare perfectly aware, one does not need to approve to do one’s duty.” She gestured at the collection. “Besides which, none of this is our concern.”

  “The evil doll isn’t our concern?”

  “No,” Molly said, bluntly. She pointed. “That is the object of our quest today, young Galahad. And the reason I asked you to come.”

  St. Cyprian followed her gesture, and saw a small, black box. It was open, revealing an interior inlaid with velvet, on which rested a single black pearl. It seemed to shimmer wetly in the light, and his psychic senses gave a twitch. “Is that…?”

  “The Sforza Pearl, yes,” Molly said. “Plucked from the skull of the Devil himself by Muzio Attendolo Sforza, the founder of the line, or so the stories say.”

  “They also said it helped him in battle. He could turn defeat into victory with a single word, and his family prospered for as long as the pearl was in their possession.” He scratched his chin as he examined the pearl. “Which was a century, give or take.” He peered at Molly. “If the pearl is here, I assume that means our…mutual friend has returned.”

  Molly nodded grimly. “The gentleman who put the pearl up for auction turned up with a broken back and his head on backwards, a few days ago.”

  “And the pearl itself was almost stolen from our representatives en route to London,” Peveril said. “Luckily, they were armed, and possessed of a fast automobile.” He licked his lips. “The—ah—the thief wrung the neck of one of them, regardless.” He took a breath. “In all my years of organizing black auctions, I have never seen such violence.” He hesitated. “Not until after the bidding is done, at any rate.”

  St. Cyprian was about to reply, when Molly interjected, “It’s definitely the Creeping Man, Charles. He’s been sighted in the city, and he’s likely already on his way here.”

  “The whosits?” Gallowglass said. She had the jar containing the Zuni doll in her hands and was shaking it repeatedly, further aggravating the tiny monstrosity. She chuckled as the doll snapped helplessly at her. St. Cyprian couldn’t say which was more unpleasant—the hideous noises coming from the doll, or the sound of Gallowglass giggling.

  He took the jar from her and set it back down. “The Creeping Man. We don’t know his name, or even if he has one. All we know is that he wants the pearl and he’ll rather messily kill anyone who gets between him and it. Also, he’s roughly the size of an elephant, with arms like an orang-utan and the disposition of a fairly upset badger.”

  “Is he bullet-proof?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do I care what his disposition is?” Gallowglass said.

  “Because, while bullets do not bounce off of him, they also don’t bother him overly much. Nor do blades, garrottes, drowning, fire or collapsing buildings. I have a list somewhere.” He patted his coat, as if looking for said list. “I keep a running tally of failed methods of dispatch. Eventually, we’ll run into one that puts him down for good.”

  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.

  “1887,” St. Cyprian said. “Carnacki’s predecessor, Edwin Drood. Some mad fool had 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 a 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. 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 the 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.