The Infernal Express Read online

  “How do we know he’s even coming tonight?” Gallowglass asked, as she began to scrawl the requested progression of Enochian and Atlantean sigils within the circle’s circumference. “Don’t sound like the sort to post a schedule, does he?”

  “The Creeping Man has never failed to head straight for the pearl, in all his misbegotten existence,” St. Cyprian said. “He’s rather like a steam engine, running along a track only he can see. Ah, here we are! The Vathek Incantations.” He pulled out a tiny black book, stamped with gold lettering. “Recorded for posterity by William Beckford, who used them in the writing of his masterpiece, and nearly paid the price.”

  Gallowglass grunted. She’d finished the sigils, and began setting up the braziers that Peveril had brought them. St. Cyprian didn’t bother to ask where he’d found them. Given that they were holding black auctions, it only stood to reason they’d have such paraphernalia, for better or worse. The shallow pan which topped each brazier was filled with a melange of hyssop blossoms, arbutus and powdered herbs, filling the air with a crisp stink when they were set alight. The mixture wouldn’t do much to deter the Creeping Man, but it would guard against those other forces which might try and take advantage of the situation, St. Cyprian hoped. Especially given what he had in mind.

  Besides the braziers, Peveril had procured a facsimile of the Sforza Pearl for them. It was impossible to tell them apart with the naked eye, and St. Cyprian carefully placed the fake in the pocket of his waistcoat. He took out his pocket watch and checked the time. It was just after dusk. He closed the watch and put it away. “Not long now, I think. Molly, I’d feel better if both you and Peveril were elsewhere. Put your men on the doors outside, and Gallowglass and I will handle things in here.”

  “If you’re certain, Charles,” Molly said. She’d been watching his preparations with a mixture of fascination and distaste. Despite all she’d seen in her years as an investigator, first for the Yard, and then for Special Branch, he knew that she was still uncertain around the occult. He smiled.

  “Quite so. Less moving parts, what? Besides, we might need you to pull our fat out of the fire before the night’s over, eh Ms. Gallowglass?” He looked at his assistant, who shrugged. “Or not,” he added. He looked at Molly. “Your men know what to do?”

  “They do,” she said, as she hustled Peveril towards the doors. She stopped, just before she exited and looked back at him. “Do be careful, Charles. I’d hate to think I got you killed. It’d simply ruin my evening.”

  “For the sake of your evening, I shall strive to my utmost to survive,” he said, bowing floridly. She laughed and shut the door behind her, leaving him and Gallowglass alone in the auction-hall. He clapped his hands together. “Well. Now all we have to do is wait.”

  “You still haven’t said what you’re planning to do,” Gallowglass said, as she drifted towards the tables with the items. She lifted the pearl, in its black box and eyed it. “Doesn’t look magical,” she muttered.

  “It’s not, as far as I can tell,” he said, joining her. “It’s just a pearl. Which makes it a mystery.” He took the pearl from her and closed the box with a snap. He dropped it into his trouser pocket. “And one best investigated some other time.” He looked at his pocket watch again. He felt an itch, deep in his brain; a niggling at his psychical senses, like the stirring of curtains in the breeze that precedes the storm. He put the pocket watch away. “He’s here.”

  Gallowglass looked at him. “What? How can you tell?”

  From upstairs, there came the sound of glass shattering and wood splintering. St. Cyprian sniffed and hefted the little black book of the Vathek Incantations. “Because unless I misheard, someone just threw something ungodly heavy through the front of the shop.” He smiled at her expression. “What—did you think he was going to sneak in?”

  Even as the echoes of falling glass faded, it was replaced by the crack of service revolvers, and the shouts of men. The fear in those voices wasn’t feigned. No copper worth his salt could walk the streets without hearing at least one story about the Creeping Man. He’d been Scotland Yard’s nemesis for decades, an unstoppable juggernaut that no gaol could hold, and no gallows could put an end to. The Creeping Man always broke free, or came back, to haunt the streets of London.

  The sound of gunshots faded, as Molly’s officers fell back, retreating from the two-legged blitzkrieg that had invaded the auction house. Soon, the only sound was the thud of a heavy tread, which caused the floorboards to shift. In its jar, the chattering Zuni doll fell silent. Gallowglass looked at it, and then at St. Cyprian.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Silence. St. Cyprian opened the book. “Showtime,” he murmured. A moment later, the doors to the auction hall burst inwards, torn from their hinges by a blow of explosive force. The Creeping Man ducked under the frame and stepped into the hall.

  He was bigger than St. Cyprian remembered, a giant clad in a filthy black Mackintosh coat and a wide-brimmed, shapeless hat. He had a chest like an artillery-piece and legs as wide as tree-trunks, with long arms topped by spade-like paws and blunt meat-hook fingers. But his face was the worst. Beneath the brim of his hat was a face akin to that of a wax dummy exposed to the heat. All of his features were too big, too long, and looking to flee his skull. Eyes like twin black pearls gleamed in the shadow of his hat brim, and his lips pulled back in a grimace to reveal teeth reminiscent of chips of obsidian.

  “Well big, isn’t he?” Gallowglass said.

  “Don’t let him get his hands on you, whatever you do. He’ll rip you apart like a Christmas goose if he gets the chance.”

  The Creeping Man took a ponderous step forward. St. Cyprian extended his hand and spoke a single deplorable word. Flames rose and spread about the circle. They leapt and crackled without burning the floor, and the Creeping Man reared back, his face a mask of confusion. He pawed at the flames. He screamed and tore his smoking hand back to cradle it against his chest. “Neat trick,” Gallowglass said. “How long will it hold him back?”

  “Not long, and that’s not the point anyway. We want him in the circle, we just can’t make it too easy for him.” He pulled the pearl in its box out of his pocket and held it up. “Tally-ho! I say, is this what you’re after?” he shouted, shaking the box in order to catch the Creeping Man’s attention. “Well, come and get it, my brutish chum!”

  The Creeping Man bellowed and lunged forward, plunging his arms into the fire. The flames roared up, as if marshalling their strength against the invader, and the Creeping Man staggered. For a moment, the brute shape was wreathed in flame and smoke, and then he stumbled free, arms raised to shield his face. His clothing was charred and smoke trailed from the brim of his hat, but he was otherwise unmarked.

  Gallowglass whistled. “What do we do now?” she asked, as the Creeping Man swatted out the flames that clung to his arms and shoulders.

  “I need to concentrate. Keep him distracted.” St. Cyprian stuffed the pearl back into his pocket and held up the book. He took a breath and began to intone the words written on the yellowed pages before him. The Vathek Incantations were deadly things. One wrong pronunciation and…well. Best not to think about it. As he spoke, the ink on the pages flared and burned away. The rites of Vathek were not meant to be used more than once by one whose soul was still anchored to the light.

  “Distract him? How? Teach him to play whist?” Gallowglass snarled. St. Cyprian didn’t answer, but instead continued to chant. The Creeping Man roared as St. Cyprian’s voice grew in volume. The brute lurched forward, only to stagger back as Gallowglass snatched up one of the braziers and jabbed it at him. She drove him back, scattering flaming embers across the floor in the process. The Creeping Man snarled and swiped at her with his big hands.

  She cursed loudly as he caught hold of the brazier and tore it easily from her grip. She ducked as he sent it sailing towards her like a javelin, and scampered between his legs. The Creeping Man turned, and made to grab her
. Gallowglass scuttled across the floor, narrowly avoiding his grasp. She snatched the Webley-Fosbery from its holster and rolled onto her back, even as the brute loomed over her.

  The pistol bucked, the cylinder emptying with a thunderous staccato roar. The Creeping Man staggered back with a low rumble, his misshapen face twisted into a grimace of consternation. Gallowglass bobbed to her feet and danced back, out of reach. She began to reload. “Hurry it up,” she shouted.

  St. Cyprian didn’t bother to reply. Indeed, he couldn’t, not if he wanted to finish the chant. The sigils chalked on the floor were glowing with a soft radiance now, and he could hear a murmur of many voices. He tried to ignore them. It wouldn’t do to listen to those voices; they were as dangerous in their own way as the Creeping Man was in his. As the last syllable of Arabic tripped over his lips, he swept his hands out in the Sixth Gesture of Solomon, and the air burned in their wake.

  There was a sound like wood splintering and then a smokeless fire grew from nothing, roiling and forming in the centre of the room above the floor. There were faces of a sort in the fire, and the sound of voices grew louder and harder to ignore. They were awful, quiet voices, murmuring abominable things and the brief snatches he caught were enough to chill his blood. A hot wind, like that which might blow across the Sahara, swept out into the room, carrying the voices with it. It was requiring every iota of his will to keep it in check, to keep it from filling the room and spilling out into the wider world. Sweat beaded on his face, stinging his eyes, and his body ached from the awful pressure beating down on him.

  The Creeping Man whirled, his face twisting into a snarl. His heavy body was starkly outlined by the weird light of the conjured flame. St. Cyprian took a breath, reached into his waistcoat pocket, and held the facsimile of the pearl up so that the Creeping Man could see it. “You want this?” he said, his voice harsh with growing fatigue. He had to shout to be heard over the wind. His clothes flapped, and the wind pushed against him, threatening to scoop him up and pull him into the roiling aleph of flame. Fingers of flame left sooty streaks on his clothes and skin. Hell was hungry, and any morsel would do.

  The Creeping Man lurched forward, one long arm stretching out. “I’ll take that as a yes,” St. Cyprian said. “Come and get it, then.” The brute stumbled forward, the infernal wind whipping his hat off. The hat vanished into the cloud of fire. The Creeping Man reached out and stomped towards St. Cyprian, fighting the pull of the wind with every step. St. Cyprian ducked the brute’s first groping blow, and flung the fake pearl into the fire.

  The Creeping Man shrieked like a steam engine and swatted St. Cyprian aside with bone-rattling force as he lumbered after his prize. The cloud was little larger than the Creeping Man’s head, but somehow, the brute dove into it as smoothly as an otter sliding into the water. His massive frame twisted, wriggled and then vanished into the coruscating sphere of fire. The wind stilled at the same instant as the brute disappeared, and the voices fell silent. The fire grew dull, and the sphere began to shrink.

  St. Cyprian pulled himself to his feet and spat a single word. The word reverberated through the air, echoing strangely for a moment, before it faded, and took the last glimmer of fire with it. Breathing heavily, his clothes damp with sweat, he staggered towards a chair and sat down heavily. He ran a hand through his hair and said, “Well. That worked better than I hoped.” Everything hurt. He flipped through the little black book. Half of it was now empty. Hopefully he wouldn’t ever have to use the other half. Each time he did, the pull of Hell grew a little stronger, a little harder to ignore. He shuddered and stuffed the book in his pocket.

  “Where did he go?” Gallowglass asked.

  “Somewhere considerably harder to escape from than a prison cell,” he said. He pressed a hand to his side and winced. It felt as if the brute had left him a set of cracked ribs as a souvenir. Then, that was a small price to pay. “An oasis of Jahannam, where the rivers boil and the air is filled with smokeless fire.”

  Gallowglass looked at him blankly.

  “I sent him to Hell,” he said. “Or a suburb thereof.” He rubbed his face and smiled tiredly. “Let’s see him get out of that one.”

  1.

  The Tower of London

  The tower had borne silent witness to the best and worst of London’s storied history. Crouched on the northern bank of the Thames, it had seen war, plague, fire, the fall and return of the monarchy, and more besides. It had been home to royalty and wretched refuse alike, and there were more dead people wandering its corridors than living.

  Its roots had been sunk by William the Conqueror, and it had grown over the centuries, changing from palace to prison to fortress, to prison again, before settling comfortably into its current status as curiosity. At its heart was the White Tower—the seed from which the rest of the castle had grown. It was the central tower and old keep, built by the Conqueror as a show of Norman power. It had grown from a timber fortification into a stone monolith, capable of withstanding armies.

  Anne Boleyn was said to wander the White Tower, her head clasped beneath her arm. She was not alone in her nocturnal perambulations. Some said that there was a ghost for every stone in the Tower, and as the man who called himself Morris sat in the dark and listened out for his soon-to-be-arriving appointment, he found himself wondering which of that spectral legion were abroad at that moment. Ghosts of a certain vintage, he’d found, were a bit like clockwork. They ran back and forth, to a schedule, never deviating, never altering the pattern.

  Morris found the predictability of the long-dead to be a source of comfort. He liked when things did what they were supposed to. Egg-shaped and dressed in civil servant greys and browns, colors that made his doughy features look even more so, Morris liked to think of himself as an example of new and better species of civil servant. He was a bureaucrat, and good at it. He was also not afraid to get down in the muck with the proles, when necessary. Dirty fingernails and mud on the cuffs and all that. It looked good on a report. And the Ministry was all about reports.

  The Ministry of Esoteric Observation was a nondescript building near Whitehall, with quotas, allocations and stuffy offices filled with mouldering paperwork. It was a model of modern efficiency, and the men who worked for it prided themselves on their political and scientific acumen. Some said that it was where magic went to die, and in his quieter moments, Morris thought that it couldn’t do so soon enough.

  Magic was nasty. It was disorderly and foul and vicious. It upended the sky and threw the earth to the stars, crumbling foundations and traditions which had protected England and its ancillaries for centuries. Magic needed to die, so that mankind might flourish, free of its slippery shadows and benighted superstitions. Napoleon had known that. Morris liked to think of himself as a Napoleon for a new age, only English rather than Corsican and not in the habit of invading Russia on a belligerent whim.

  Granted, perhaps that was hubris talking. Nonetheless, occasionally one was forced to bolster one’s reputation as an able man and invade Egypt. Or, as in this case, act quickly and decisively on information given through back-channels, in order to thwart a dangerous, and not to mention potentially embarrassing, plot.

  He leaned back in his chair and fished out his pocket watch. He opened it and squinted, trying to make out the time in the torchlight reflected on the face. There was only torch, and it was across the cell he sat in, mounted near the door.

  The cell was small; the better to be hidden from prying eyes. There were a number like it, scattered throughout the Tower’s length, each with its own unique occupant, and each specifically designed to hold said occupant. The doors to these cells were accessible only to those who had the wit to see them, and their warders never slept. But that did not make them impenetrable, sadly.

  Morris shifted his weight, as he sat in the dark, trying to get comfortable. It would have been nigh-impossible, even under better circumstances. This cell in particular was unpleasant, and its occupant more so. He glanced at the fla
t, slightly raised stone that marked the oubliette in the cell’s centre. Signs both strange and familiar had been chiselled onto its surface—crosses, pentacles, and other, more esoteric things. All to keep the bones within safely at rest. There were other sigils marked on the walls and floor and ceiling…wards and sigils meant to keep things out, and one thing in particular in.

  He heard a rustle of cloth and shivered. He was not alone in the cell. He took his Webley out of his coat pocket and checked it over with brisk efficiency. It was more to keep himself occupied, than out of any fear that the weapon might misfire. “Are you certain that it’s to be tonight?” he asked softly.

  There was no answer. He shook his head. “This is highly irregular. Surely the warders will see to any intrusive elements…”

  “Which warders did you mean? The living men…or the other ones?” It was a woman’s voice, silky, but lacking in warmth. He could not see her in the dark of the cell, but that wasn’t a surprise given her unique talents.

  “Either,” he said.

  “Neither will serve tonight. This time, they know what to expect.”

  They, Morris thought, wondering who ‘they’ was. What he said was, “Knowing and being able to do anything about it are two different things.”

  “Tell me, Morris, do you honestly think that your lot are alone in their capacity to understand and use the black arts for banal purposes?”

  Morris grimaced. “We do not use the black arts.”

  “Then what would you call this cell, with its hastily scrawled adornments?” Another rustle of cloth. He twitched as something that might have been a finger traced itself along the back of his scalp. He didn’t turn around. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

  “A precaution,” he said. “A prison cell, designed to hold a very special prisoner.” He glanced at the oubliette again, and then hurriedly looked away. “Using tried and tested methods, honed and perfected according to scientific process.”