The Cathedral of Lost Souls, page 28
Hecate did not move, not one step. She held her ground, continuing to summon up what she knew the Embodied Spirit feared: the power of the Goddess of the Threshold. The Goddess of Death, of Night, of Witches. Hecate and Hekate would stand together. She would not be moved!
Tiberius swung the weather vane again and she felt it catch the outstretched fingers of her right hand. She gasped, flinched, saw blood bubbling up on the wound, but still she did not stop. Behind her, she sensed the inspector inching forward over the tiles. As Tiberius moved in to swing again, the older man dashed forward, scrambling across the roof in an ungainly but effective maneuver, falling at the feet of his adversary. In a movement born of yearslong habit, he brought his heavy truncheon down against the other man’s shin. A loud crack reverberated around the park.
Tiberius roared.
Even as he shook his head, trying to rid himself of Hecate’s spells, he lunged forward, sweeping the piece of iron in an upward thrust, which caught the inspector in the chest and sent him tumbling backward.
“No!” Hecate screamed at the sight of him rolling toward the edge of the roof.
He managed to stop himself rolling over the gutter, but only by clawing at it as he fell, so that he was left dangling, hanging on to the metal guttering, which creaked beneath the sudden uneven weight.
“Inspector!”
“Continue, Miss Cavendish!” he called back. “With all haste and fervor, if you please.”
She knew he was right, that she should finish her spell casting. Whatever words were coming to her, they were working. Now that she had paused, Tiberius was calmer, stronger again, standing smirking at her predicament. If she did not continue, he would survive, perhaps escape. But the inspector’s grip would not hold. He would fall, and that fall would surely be fatal. She had it within her to finish the last Embodied Spirit, there and then, but at what cost? That was her choice: vanquish Harper or save the inspector. She could not do both.
In truth, there was only one path she could choose. She dropped her arms, turned and scampered down along the roof to where the policeman clung. She knelt at the edge of the lead flashing and reached down.
“Take my hand!” she said.
Inspector Winter was too fatigued to talk more. With enormous effort, he released his grip on the gutter with one hand and grabbed at her, taking hold of her arm. She leaned down and grasped his wrist so that she was holding on to him with both hands, bracing her boots against the guttering. It creaked again and she feared it might break beneath the strain, but it held. She started to haul him up. He would have been too heavy for her to do it unaided, but he still had hold of the metal gutter fixing with his other hand, so was able to assist the effort.
A cool shadow fell over her.
Looking up, she was horrified to see Tiberius looming above her. He had not chosen to escape but instead came to stand menacingly over her.
“Such a tempting opportunity to rid myself of two troublesome persons. Too good to pass up,” he said, raising the weather vane high above his head. It was clear the blow he was about to strike would send them both plummeting.
Hecate screamed words of the goddess at him in one last desperate attempt to stop him. The air around her was filled with noise and chaos. The birds were caught up in the whirling wind whipped up by her magic. Tiberius roared in rage and fury. Hecate’s words filled the night sky with their strange magic. Into it all came the sound of a single shot.
Stunned, the Embodied Spirit halted his action. Across his chest bloomed a flower of deathly crimson. Then, almost gracefully, still holding aloft the weather vane, he toppled backward. Backward off the roof, down not to the garden below, but toward the glass roof of the orangery. The sound of shattering windowpanes joined the cacophony.
Hecate heaved and pulled, using strength she did not know she possessed, as the inspector struggled to pull himself up, until at last he was safely landed on the lead flashing of the roof. The instant he was safe, Hecate sprang to her feet, fighting her instinctive fear so that she could lean over the edge. She saw her father standing in the rose beds, the pistol still smoldering.
She shouted at him, and at the constables in the house, “Your mask! Father, everyone, cover your mouths! Be on your guard!” She pulled up her own scarf and tightened it in place.
She and the inspector scrambled back along the roof to the skylight opening and lowered themselves through it. She found the hound waiting for her, agitated at not being able to follow, the wound on his flank mercifully slight. Together, they raced to the conservatory where they met the maid in the doorway, wailing at the sight of the broken body before her. Hecate grabbed the girl’s hands, turning her to face her, looking at her closely.
“Are you unhurt? What did you see?”
“Oh, miss! Oh, miss! Oh dear!” was all she would say.
There was no sign of a dark mass anywhere, nor evidence on the girl that suggested a struggle. It would take a moment for a Resurgent Spirit to claim a new home. Surely they had arrived too soon for it to have taken up residence in this innocent girl?
Hecate studied her a moment longer, then took a vial of holy water from her belt.
“Drink this,” she said.
“What is it?”
“A tonic. It will calm you. Here.” She helped the girl tip it into her mouth.
The maid nodded, drying her tearstained face with her apron. “Oh yes, that is a little better,” she said.
Hecate turned to the inspector. “She is not a host. I can detect no sign of a Resurgent Spirit on her.”
He stooped over Harper’s body, still holding his scarf across his mouth. Carefully, he reached down and placed his fingers on the neck of the cooling cadaver. The floor all around him was covered with splinters and shards of glass. Blood pooled out from beneath the body of what had once been the host to Tiberius Harper.
“No life present,” Inspector Winter declared.
“No life present here,” Hecate murmured, crossing quickly to look out of the window. Her father was reloading the pistol. He felt her eyes upon him, looked up, and waved. She waved back.
“Take this,” said the inspector, coming to stand beside her. He handed her his pocket handkerchief and helped her tie it around her injured hand.
Taking the maid with them, they closed the door on the body, and assisted the injured constable down the last flight of stairs, where they found Constable Childs and Lord Brocket, shaken but apparently unharmed, waiting for them in the hallway.
The inspector gave instructions, a slight tremor in his voice the only indication he had recently come within inches of his own demise. “Constable, get yourself to the wagon. Return to the station and send another for the body. I will wait here. Make sure His Lordship is well secured and guarded.” As the policemen turned to leave, one leaning on the other, Lord Brocket in handcuffs going with them meekly, his shock still evident in his manner, he added, “Always in pairs, gentlemen. No one is to guard the prisoner alone, understood?”
Her father came through the front door.
“Daughter, are you hurt?” he asked, replacing the gun in his belt and seeing the makeshift bandage on her hand.
Her immediate thought was to go to him, to throw her arms about him, but something made her hesitate. She noticed the hound was wary of him, but then the animal was wounded, and the air was filled with drama and threat.
“Oh, it is nothing,” she said, holding up her hand, giving a smile. “See, no harm done to your little worker ant.”
Her father looked at her. His expression full of emotion. “Oh, you are much sweeter than that, my little worker bee.”
She ran to him then, letting him take her in his warm embrace, relief flooding her body.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I had to be certain.”
He kissed her wounded hand. “My dear, that you had to contemplate such a thing…”
She looked up at him.
“Tiberius Harper is dead,” she said simply.
Inspector Winter confirmed it. “A fair shot, Mr. Cavendish. Given the angle, given the distance. Yes, a fair shot, indeed.”
“It is done, then?” Edward asked. “That is the end of it?”
Hecate wished she could be more certain. She dropped her hand onto the hound’s head, stroking his rough fur, grateful for his loyalty and his strength.
“Time will tell,” she said quietly. “Time will tell.”
20
That night, at an hour when the city slept, Hecate sat at the small desk in her bedroom. She wore her nightdress, but she had not yet been to bed. Her window was open, and a welcome breeze disturbed the lace curtains, cooling her bare shoulders. Gelert snored peacefully on the Persian rug. She smiled at how content the hound was. How easily he rested. She was fatigued and yet strangely restless at the same time. The combination had brought about a lightness, a slight dizziness, and a burgeoning sense of optimism. She could not be certain Tiberius Harper was gone forever. Indeed, she suspected he had escaped, despite their combined attempts. If that was the case, at least he was running. Running away from the city, away from her, away from the map and the banned book. She and the inspector and her father had agreed on the measures to ensure, should he return, he would never again be able to assemble all he needed for a summoning. As a lone Embodied Spirit, separated from the means to build a following, aware that Hecate had the ability to at least stop his progress, he was no longer the dreadful foe he had once been.
She turned the book of poems over in her hands. It looked so harmless, and yet it contained magic that had terrifying power. She had studied it, realizing the spell to banish tainted souls to the realm of the dead could not be its only secret. Indeed, hidden among some actual poems extolling the merits of nature and a simple life, there were other incantations. Other words that had the potential to summon maelstroms, command wild animals, shield the moon with clouds, place a man in a deep sleep or even steal his reason from him forever. This was a book that must not fall into the wrong hands. It was also Hekate’s magic, and as such, she was determined she would not send it away to be hidden, but keep it close. It was meant for her, for whenever she was called upon to do the goddess’s work. She would keep it safe.
She opened a small compartment in her desk and took out the sealing wax and the seal it housed. At first glance, the space appeared to have nothing more to offer, but this was a desk her father had found for her many years before, and she knew its secrets well. Her left hand pressed firmly down on the floor of the compartment, while she reached underneath the desk with her right hand. Her fingers quickly located a tiny sliver of wood that was smoother than the rest. By applying pressure with a practiced move, this would slide open. Behind it was a metal lever. She clicked it up, and instantly the bottom of the compartment moved down, a spring being released, enabling it to then slide away completely. The space it revealed was just large enough to accommodate the book of poems. She set it in its new home and reversed the process. Standing up from the desk, she closed the writing slope that formed the front of it when not in use. She had already destroyed the key, which used to fit the lock. Now, the only way to open it was to use the golden key on her cameo. The instant she touched the shiny metal to the keyhole it adjusted its size and shape to work perfectly, securing the mechanism with a reassuring clunk.
They had decided that her father would travel to London, to the British Museum, the banned book in his briefcase. He would request access to the archive again, expressing an interest in material pertaining to mead and its many recipes and uses. If the librarian thought this an odd request, he was not likely to say so, but would take Edward to the relevant section of the archive storage and lock him in for security. He would move along the rows of shelving until he came to meerschaum pipes. He owned one himself, among his collection, and had a fondness for the things. Beyond that, he was not associated with them and had never requested access to material concerning them. He was to select a box file containing a pipe of no particular significance and hide the banned book within it. Thereafter, he would go to sit at a table and enjoy a little time reading up on the mead of Buckfast Abbey, so that he would be found doing so when the librarian returned. Only himself, Hecate, and Inspector Winter knew of this hiding place.
She yawned, stretching her tired limbs, wincing as the wound on her hand smarted. She stood at the window, breathing in the night air, listening, waiting. She could detect no menacing presence, no sense of being watched. Just the gentle night sounds of the garden of a family home, and the fainter noises of the sleeping city. Nothing more. She closed the window, stepped over the slumbering hound, curled up on her soft bed, and fell into a deep, dreamless, profound sleep.
* * *
The following morning, Hecate had the opportunity to speak with Brother Michael as all the Vicars Choral were busy preparing for the dean’s funeral. As they began their conversation she looked at the cabinet of banned books to where she would return the little brown book with the accessing spell. She felt happier knowing it was separate from the ensorcelled book with the summoning rites. It gave one more step of protection, one more layer of puzzle for anyone who should not have access to them to break through. It was fitting, she thought, that it stay near the map.
The monk had wanted to hear details of her confrontation with Tiberius, and she found herself glad to be able to share the story with him. He himself became increasingly alarmed the more he heard.
“My child, such violence! Such risks you took!” he said, clasping his hands, unintentionally appearing and fading away again repeatedly in his agitation. “What would we have done were you to have been lost?”
“Your concern is heartwarming, dear Brother Michael,” she told him, wishing, not for the first time, that she could give him the reassurance of a touch on the shoulder, a gentle hug, a squeeze of his hand. It was important to her that all the lost souls who inhabited the cathedral knew how much she cared about them, and how much she valued their friendship. “I will always do my utmost to be here for you all,” she said, reaching up to stroke the impossibly soft feathers of the little griffin.
“Who can say what would have been the fate of the cathedral, of all of us, indeed of the city itself, had you not succeeded in your task. Even so, I am not alone in wishing such dangerous challenges were not asked of you.”
“I believe the greatest danger has passed. We will see no more Resurgent Spirits here.” She moved to stand before the map, Brother Michael drifting along beside her. “Mappa Mundi seems to agree with me,” she said, looking up at the image of Hereford Cathedral. “See? It no longer glows or shimmers. And the River Wye has stopped pulsating with bright blue water. The angels no longer beat their wings or utter shrill song. Even the Essedenes themselves are motionless.”
The monk leaned forward to examine the tribe members more closely.
“Such wickedness!”
“I don’t think the original people were wicked. They were merely following the beliefs handed down to them through generations. They knew no better. But later, at some point, they lost their way. Lost sight of what is right and what is wrong.”
“I have seen it before,” said Brother Michael. “A vanquished people may remain beaten, or they may turn to any means available to regain their position in the world. Mercifully, not many have access to dark magic and violent rituals.”
“Perhaps their cannibalism warped their minds. I’ve heard it said that people who are shipwrecked and eat their dead companions to survive lose their reason in the process.”
The monk folded his arms, pushing his hands into his long sleeves. “What is truly astonishing is the length of time such behavior, such compulsions, can persist. Tiberius Harper has, in one body or another, walked this earth for centuries yet his hunger for power and position remained undimmed.”
From her pocket, Hecate took the small, humble book that was itself a key; a key for opening and using the banned book. “And it is against such determination that we have made sure no one can access the summoning spells again,” she said, walking over to the cabinet of forbidden books. Now that she knew how to use her own magic, drawing on Hekate’s gifts to her, she had no need of a set of keys to fit specific locks. It was still wondrous to her that, after all she had gone through obtaining keys, she would never have to rely on one again. The golden key on her brooch worked for smaller locks and drew less on her own abilities. The plain key, the final gift from Mr. Sadiki, would fit larger mechanisms, though it required more from her. She did not yet understand exactly how her own magic worked. She wielded it instinctively, calling on the goddess to guide her and strengthen her talents. Each time she achieved a new level of proficiency she was delighted, awestruck, and grateful. With ease, she used the gray metal key for most of the locks on the cabinet, and the gold one for the final two. The doors clicked open without protest. She set the little book on the shelf inside, happy to see it safe, secure, and nearby. Should she ever have need of it again, it was within her reach. Should anyone else try to obtain it, she would be there to stop them. She closed and relocked the cabinet, running her hand over the glorious inlay and detail.
She turned to find Brother Michael watching her closely. It was clear there was something still causing him anxiety.
“What is it?” she asked. “I can see you are concerned. What do you fear still?”
“I cannot shake from my mind the notion that he is not yet vanquished. You have quelled the Essedenes in their plans, taken from them their followers and the means to raise more, and yet … Tiberius Harper … He escaped the Fosse. He may live yet.”
“I wish I could tell you otherwise, Brother Michael. What I can promise you is that, should he ever return, he will not be able to cause such havoc and suffering. I will be ready for him. I will be here.”
