The Royal Occultist Primer

THE ROYAL OCCULTIST PRIMER Page |1
THE QUEENS CONJURER

FOLLOW CHARLES ST. CYPRIAN, ROYAL OCCULTIST AS HE DARES TO
BATTLE THE FORCES OF DARKNESS FOR GOD, KING AND COUNTRY!
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.
In the wake of the Great War, the title and offices have fallen to Charles St.
Cyprian who, accompanied by his apprentice/assistant Ebe Gallowglass defends
the battered and dwindling British Empire against threats occult, otherworldly,
infernal and divine even as the wider world lurches once more on the path to
war...
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction: Who is the Royal Occultist?
1920: Krampusnacht
1921: Sign of the Salamander
1922: The dErlette Configuration
1922: Iron Bells
1923: Wendy-Smythes Worm
1924: Deo Viridio
Preview: The Whitechapel Demon
About the Author
INTRODUCTION: WHO IS THE ROYAL OCCULTIST?

The Royal Occultist is the man--or woman--who stands between the
British Empire and its occult enemies, be they foreign, domestic,
human, demonic or some form of worm of unusual size. If there are
satyrs running amok in Somerset or werewolves in Wolverhampton, the
Royal Occultist will be there to see them off.
The current Royal Occultist is Charles St. Cyprian, who's best described
as Rudolph Valentino by way of Bertie Wooster. In the same vein, his
assistant, Ebe Gallowglass, is Louise Brooks by way of Emma Peel. St.
Cyprian is the brains and Gallowglass is the muscle; he likes to talk
things out, and she likes to shoot things until they die. Together, they
defend the British Empire against a variety of gribbly monsters, secret
societies and eldritch occurrences.
St. Cyprian and Gallowglass made their first appearance in 2010 in the
short story, Krampusnacht. They have since appeared in close to
thirty short stories, in a variety of anthologies and magazines.
The first novel, THE WHITECHAPEL DEMON, was released in 2013 by
Emby Press and is available via Amazon.com and Smashwords. The
Whitechapel Demon sees St. Cyprian and Gallowglass go up against a
secret society of murderists and an other-dimensional doppelgnger of
one of history's most notorious killers. The book serves as an
introduction to the world of the Royal Occultist as well as delivering an
exciting adventure for new readers and old fans alike to enjoy.
The Royal Occultist site: http://royaloccultist.wordpress.com/
You can keep track of the latest Royal Occultist news via the
series' Facebook page. A number of the Royal Occultist stories are also
available in audio format via Bandcamp.
NOTE: "Krampusnacht" was published by Miskatonic River Press in 2011, in HORROR FOR THE
HOLIDAYS, which is available at Amazon.com. It was reprinted in 2013, in the PSYCHOPOMP
CHRISTMAS SPECIAL, also available at Amazon.com.
KRAMPUSNACHT
It was 1920, Christmas was in the air, and Oswald Rawdon was terrified. He huddled in
the large wingback chair, a cup of tea clutched in his trembling fingers. The last of the Rawdons
nervously slopped brandy-laced tea onto the knees of his trousers as he started suddenly at the
sound of wood crackling in the fire.
Nervous are we, Ozzy? Rawdons host said. Try not to ruin the carpets, please.
Im sorry Charles, Rawdon said, swallowing a mouthful of tea. Its just, I hear it
everywhere.
Charles St. Cyprian nodded in sympathy, and took a sip from his own cup. Perfectly
understandable, old boy, considering the kind of life youve led.
Rawdon froze, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at the dark-haired man opposite him.
The two men were a study in contrasts for all that they were of an age. Where Rawdon was a
thin stretch of Teutonic paleness, St. Cyprian was dark and sharp-featured, with a
Mediterranean exoticism to his features. Both men were dressed well, though Rawdons suit
showed distinct signs of hard living.
Whats that supposed to mean? Rawdon said. The kind of life Ive led?
Dont be dense, Ozzy. St. Cyprian put his cup aside and pressed his fingers together.
Youre a bit of a bastard, is all.
How dare you! Rawdon shot to his feet, the cup falling to the floor. Tea immediately
soaked into the Turkish carpet, and St. Cyprian groaned.
Now look what youve done, he said, leaning back in his chair. Do sit down Ozzie.
Your reputation as a complete and utter pillock is well deserved and you know it.
Fine, Rawdon said, flopping back down in his seat. Fine! But you dont have to say it
with such relish.
Hardly relish, chum. St. Cyprian sighed. Granted, youre no Crowley, but you do tend
towards the troublesome.
If Im so much trouble, then why did you even agree to see me? Rawdon spat.
Outside, the sound of church bells gave voice to the late hour.
Hes got a heart made of nutmeg and cinnamon, a new voice interjected. Both men
turned as the speaker, a young woman, walked into the sitting room, dropping an armful of
wooden boards and a hammer onto the floor as she did so. Me? Id have left you to the tender
mercies of the-
Dont say it! Rawdon barked, clapping his hands to his ears.
Tea, Ms. Gallowglass? St. Cyprian said, gesturing to the teapot and the extra cup and
saucer sitting on a low table nearby.
Dont mind if I do, Mr. St. Cyprian. Ebe Gallowglass said. Dressed in a frayed Guernsey
and a mans trousers, she looked less than ladylike, with her short, dark hair, cut into a curledged bob, and slim, straight limbs the colour of cinnamon. A swath of freckles spattered
across her sharp Egyptian features, and her grin was almost feral. Filling a cup, she knocked it
back a moment later. Ive got the windows braced with birch boards and the upstairs chimneys
blocked with sprigs of mistletoe, holly wreaths and holyrood. Oh, and the carollers have finally
wassailed off.
Excellent, St. Cyprian said. See? You can uncoil now, Ozzy. Were safe as houses.
Rawdon lowered his hands. Do you really think you can keep it out? He looked
nervously at the fireplace that dominated one wall of the sitting room, blazing merrily away. It
was the only light in the sitting room save for the odd candle or three resting in the branches of
the Christmas tree that occupied one corner of the room.
Keep it out? No. St. Cyprian stood. Direct its method of ingress, however? He went
to the fireplace and used the poker to shift the cherry-red logs, the three steel rings on the
fingers of his left hand clinking against the metal of the poker. Certainly, he continued, with
all the assurance one expected of the Royal Occultist.
Formed during the reign of Elizabeth the First, the office of Royal Occultist (or the
Queens Conjurer, as it had been known) had passed through a succession of hands, starting
with those of diligent amateur Dr. John Dee. The list was a long one, weaving in and out of the
margins of British history, and culminating, for the moment, in one Charles St. Cyprian.
His position was an open secret, and the rather cluttered house on the Embankment
that served as the hereditary abode of the office was equally open to any who might need a
consultation. It had been that way since the tenure of Sir Edwin Drood in the earliest days of
the late Victorias reign, and St. Cyprian saw no reason to disrupt tradition, no matter how
much he might occasionally wish otherwise.
Thus, Rawdons breathless appearance on his stoop this Christmas Eve was not
surprising so much in and of itself, though the fact that it was Rawdon who was doing the
calling had thrown St. Cyprian for a turn. He hadnt seen Ozzy Rawdon since the end of the War,
though hed kept abreast of his activities via the usual outlets of Society gossip.
Rawdon was a rum one, no two ways about it. He was a gambler, a professional lout and
a war hero.
St. Cyprian stabbed the fire again. A cascade of sparks swirled upwards. Still holding the
poker, he turned. Ebe, be a dear and get me the container on the third shelf of the second
bookcase there.
The one with a cats head or the one shaped like a jolly fat man? she said, sipping on
her second cup of tea.
The one shaped like a fish.
Thats supposed to be a fish? Gallowglass said, peering at the shelf in question.
Get it, please. St. Cyprian turned back to Rawdon. Now, Ozzy, Id like you to spill
those guts of yours in the figurative sense, while we scheme to prevent the literal.
Theres not much to say, Rawdon said, licking his lips.
Thats a lie, Gallowglass said, handing St. Cyprian the container. And I still say that
this looks like a cat.
Possibly a cat-fish, then? St. Cyprian murmured. And Ozzy isnt lying, are you Ozzy?
Ozzy never lies. Ozzy just bends the truth into new and more advantageous shapes. St. Cyprian
opened the container and took out a pinch of powder. Flinging it onto the fire, he looked at
Rawdon. I want the unbent truth, Ozzy.
Fine way to treat a man who saved your life! Rawdon said.
Ozzy, its because you saved my life that I didnt turn you away the minute a certain
word tripped from those bud-like lips of yours. St. Cyprian frowned. In itself, that tells me
everything I need to know, really.
You dont know anything, Rawdon protested.
I know you, Ozzy. And I know whats after you. What I dont know is why its chosen
now to bring you to bay. St. Cyprian stabbed the poker into the fireplace again. Then he pulled
it loose and examined the smouldering tip. Now, I say again, why exactly is the Krampus after
you, Oswald?
The fire gave a pop, and Rawdon jumped in his chair. He visibly fought to control
himself. Its obvious, isnt it? Ive been bad. Rawdon stared down at his hands. Thats why.
Ive always been bad, and its always been after me and now, now, its finally caught me.
It was my gran who first put it on my trail, Im sure of it, Bavarian biddy that she was.
Did you know she was a Kraut, Charles? Rawdon shook his head. Hardly matters now.
Besides, go back far enough, and most of the great families of fair Albion are either Frogs or
Krauts.
Or Punic, in my case, St. Cyprian murmured.
What?
Nothing. Go on.
Rawdon grimaced. Jokes on the block, Charles?
Not our necks getting the chop, now are they? Gallowglass said. As Rawdon shot a
glare at her, she held up the teapot. More tea, Mr. Rawdon?
Rawdon looked at his cup on the floor, and then shook his head. Gran always told me
that the Kra-the gentleman in question-would get me if I didnt mend my ways.
Krampus. You can say it, Ozzy. He already knows where you are, after all. St. Cyprian
stirred the fire again. The word originates from the Old High German word for claw, which is
appropriate given the demeanour and personality of the fellow. He looked at Gallowglass.
Anything to add, apprentice-mine?
Oberstdorf, Gallowglass said, tapping her chin. An ability to store and recall seemingly
trivial facts was just one of the many talents which she had discovered as she assisted St.
Cyprian in his investigations into obscure matters. Theyre supposed to have a similar sort of
chap. Except that he doesnt work for Father Christmas, I dont think.
Neither does this thing, Rawdon said harshly.
Is that experience speaking? St. Cyprian said.
Its been after me since I was eight, Charles. Ive read up on the subject quite a bit.
You mean, when you werent trying to forget about it with opium, heroin or alcohol.
St. Cyprian raised a hand. No judgements intended, Ozzy.
Rawdon made a face. Im sorry that Im not as brave as you, Charles. Not every man
can face his demons head on, he spat.
Got you there, Gallowglass said.
Shouldnt you be making us some more tea? St. Cyprian said. Like a good
apprentice?
Whoever said I was a good apprentice?
Youll be an unemployed apprentice if you dont pipe down, St. Cyprian said, glaring at
her. Gallowglass stuck out her tongue and hefted the teapot.
Theres still a dreg or so in here, milord, she said. If youre thirsty.
Stop talking about tea! Rawdon snapped. I dont want to die, Charles!
Few of us do, Ozzy. St. Cyprian handed the fish-headed container to Gallowglass.
Make yourself useful and put this back. He looked at Rawdon. You said your grandmother
put it on your trail?
Shes the one who first mentioned it to me, at any rate. Rawdon shrugged. Put the
thought in my head. I stole a cookie from the kitchen, and she said the K-Krampus would punish
me. He had to force the word out. His hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly. That I
would know he was coming by the clattering of his bells and the scratching of his-ah-his claws.
And? St. Cyprian said.
And? And what? And I heard it! Rawdon said squeezing his eyes shut. He ground the
heels of his palms into his sockets, as if trying to wipe the images from his mind. I heard it. Just
a whisper of sound. It might have been anything. Bells on a carriage. Leaves on the roof.
As if to emphasize Rawdons statement, from somewhere upstairs there came the
sound of shutters being rattled violently. He started, looking around wildly.
What was that?
St. Cyprian glanced at Gallowglass. Were edging towards midnight. Get the Pentacle.
That old electric thing of Carnackis? Gallowglass said. Think itll be any use?
I wouldnt ask otherwise, St. Cyprian said. Go on, Ozzy.
The scullery maid. Rawdon ran his hands through his hair. I was fourteen. And she
was quite pretty. He looked at them. It wasnt my fault she got pregnant!
Immaculate conceptions occur where you least expect them, Im given to understand,
St. Cyprian said. You heard it again?
Gran was dead by then and good riddance. But I heard it all the same. Louder. He
shook his head. Father put her out, of course. Scandal, you know.
Yes. I know. St. Cyprians face was like stone as he turned to the fireplace and jammed
the poker into the wood again. Soot tumbled down from within the chimney, and St. Cyprians
eyes narrowed.
If Rawdon had noticed St. Cyprians tone, he gave no sign. Do you remember that
Felstead fellow? The Christmas Truce?
Vaguely. I was elsewhere at the time. St. Cyprian said, recalling the whirlwind months
following the death of his predecessor Carnacki at Ypres. He could still see Carnackis bloody
fingers shoving the trio of rings that now decorated his hand through the mud of the trench
towards him. He looked down at them, twisting his wrist so that the nearly invisible characters
engraved on the rings caught the firelight. You heard it then? During the truce? he said.
First Christmas I didnt, Rawdon said. The first Christmas I was free of those damn
bells. His smile was crooked. I didnt hear it much, during the War.
But when you came back?
T H E R O Y A L O C C U L T I S T P R I M E R P a g e | 10
Old habits, Rawdon said, making a loose gesture. A man cant be blamed. Especially
one who went through what we went through.
The bells again, I trust? St. Cyprian said.
And the claws. Scratching over the windows and in the chimneys. Rawdon paused,
head cocked. I say, do you hear that?
Yes. Go on.
But-
Its been seen to, Ozzy. Go on. St. Cyprian tossed another log onto the fire.
Drinking, gambling. The usual. Rawdon wrapped his hands together and squeezed the
air from between them. Harmless fun.
Vice and sin, St. Cyprian said. Gossip as well, if I recall. How much did Lord Pettigrew
pay you to keep silent on his sons doings?
Enough, Rawdon muttered. A man has to earn a wage.
Most men do it honestly.
Youre one to talk Charles! Rawdon said, pushing himself up out of his chair. Youve
never met a lie you didnt embellish!
All in the name of necessity, St. Cyprian said, after a moment, clinking his rings
together gently. It sounded hollow, even to him.
Rawdon grinned mirthlessly. Necessity depends on perspective.
So it was your perspective that the younger Mr. Pettigrew was a threat? St. Cyprian
said. Rawdon jerked, and St. Cyprian nodded. I have contacts at the Yard, you know Ozzy.
He intended to kill me! He said his father had disowned him! Rawdon protested.
So you killed him first?
No! Rawdon shook his head. I mean, I-it was self-defense!
Perhaps the Krampus doesnt see it that way, St, Cyprian said. You know, you could
have solved all of your problems by simply changing your ways, Ozzy. St. Cyprian felt a
momentary surge of pleasure at Rawdons visible flinch. Given up the dirty deeds and
damnable deals and done something with your life.
Easy for you to say.
Easy enough to do, Gallowglass said, returning, a heavy electrical apparatus in tow. St.
Cyprian winced as she drug it across the floor, leaving scratches in the wood. If youve got the
minerals.
Minerals?
Stones. Rocks. Testicular fortitude, Gallowglass said. One electric pentacle, as
requested Capn. She tossed off a lazy salute to St. Cyprian.
At ease, St. Cyprian said. My predecessor created this device for situations such as
this, when contact with an untoward manifestation could result in death. Or worse.
Manifestation? Rawdon said.
Monster. Spectre. Long-legged beastie, Gallowglass said. St. Cyprian frowned and shot
a glare her way. She shrugged in response.
A manifestation of hostile intent, St. Cyprian said as he sank to his haunches and
began to arrange the diverse apparatus of the device, which was composed of a central
generator and five vacuum tubes. He swiftly stripped a section of the rug away from the
floorboards, revealing a dark pentacle scored into the wood.
St. Cyprian set the generator in the center of the pentacle, and arranged the vacuum
tubes at the corresponding points of intersecting triangles. If you-come here Ozzy-if you stay
within the pentacle, you should be safe.
Should be? Rawdon said.
Its not an exact science, Im afraid.
Its not a science at all, Gallowglass said, snapping open the cylinder on a WebleyFosberry revolver and spinning it experimentally. She loaded the pistol with brisk efficiency, and
then flicked her wrist, popping the cylinder back into place.
A good apprentice keeps her comments to herself, St. Cyprian said, situating Rawdon
beside the generator. Dont move, no matter what happens.
I was just pointing out the flaws in your reasoning, Mr. St. Cyprian. Gallowglass rubbed
her cheek with the pistol barrel.
Duly noted, Ms. Gallowglass.
Something banged loudly across the roof. Rawdon started, his eyes widening. Its
here!
Its been here for some time, Ozzy, scampering across my roof and testing the runes on
the windows. St. Cyprian flipped a switch on the generator and the vacuum tubes began to
hum and spark. Stay within the pentacle.
Soot, Gallowglass said, simply.
St. Cyprian turned, loosening his tie and shrugging out of his coat. Soot tumbled down
the chimney, and he could hear metal scraping against the brick. He strode swiftly to the
fireplace and reached up, taking down the short-bladed sword mounted there.
Roughly two feet in length, and wide, the sword was a xiphos-a weapon that had been
in St. Cyprians family for centuries, and had purportedly been carried by an ancestor in the
Peloponnesian Wars. Unsheathing it, St. Cyprian swung it experimentally. It cut the air with a
near-silent hiss and he nodded.
Rag, he said.
Gallowglass plucked a rag out of her back pocket and tossed it to him. The fabric was
smeared with the juice of the holly bush. St. Cyprian rubbed the blade with it until the former
was glistening. He sighted down its length.
The fire coughed and sputtered as chunks of brick and more soot fell into it. He stepped
back, rolling up his sleeves. I trust you took the proper precautions? he said, glancing at
Gallowglass.
The bullets were prepared according to Alpine tradition. Gallowglass cocked the
pistol. They should do the trick right enough.
Should being the operative word. St. Cyprian frowned. We only have to hold it until
midnight. Then, it should depart.
Theres that word again, Gallowglass said. St. Cyprian glanced at her. Should, she
elaborated.
Smoke suddenly billowed out into the room, carrying with it a foul odor, like wet dog
and rotten meat. The trio gagged as the smell swept over them.
And then, with a clatter of rusty bells and a shower of sparks, the Krampus erupted from
the fireplace, howling like a lonely wind coiling through the Bavarian peaks. It was a black
shape, outlined by the flickering dregs of the fire at its back. It was so large that there was no
conceivable way that it could have squeezed down the chimney. Chains draped it, and cowbells
dangled between its oddly-jointed legs and off of its bony shoulders. Curving horns swept up
nearly three feet off of its vulpine skull, and its hair was matted and filthy.
The carpet sizzled beneath its cloven hooves as it stepped forward, jaws working
soundlessly. Eyes like red sparks rolled madly in its sockets as it swung its head back and forth.
Rawdon made something that might have been a hastily strangled whimper. The
Krampus jaw opened, revealing a forest of curved teeth that sprang like iron nails from the
black gums. A long, impossibly red tongue slithered out of from the depths of the beasts gullet
and tasted the air.
The Krampus snorted, and it stamped a hoof. Wood splintered beneath the carpet as it
trotted forward.
Stop right there, St. Cyprian said, stepping in front of the beast, arms spread. The
Krampus reared back, head cocked. It gave an interrogative snarl. The sound might have
contained words, but sounded for all the world like a distant avalanche.
No. No, I think not. St. Cyprian gestured with the sword. In fact, I think youll return
back the way you came, friend. He said it with a bravado he didnt entirely feel. St. Cyprian had
seen worse things than the spectre before him, but none so close, and none so foul.
The Krampus was simply wrong. If Father Christmas, Saint Nicholas or Santa Claus,
however you referred to him, was everything joyous about the season, then the Krampus was
everything that was terrible and tragic and ill-fitting. The bells in his chains were funerary
voices, and his breath was a fog on the air, showing ghostly images of fallen friends and starving
children. Of the unfortunate and the lost, those for whom the season was anything but happy.
A dozen ghosts were caught in the thick links of the Krampus chain, bound to the beast for all
eternity. Sinners all.
That was the Krampus remit, after all. Where Father Christmas rewarded the good, the
Krampus was responsible for punishing the wicked. And at that moment, its eyes were solely
for Oswald Rawdon.
Ignoring St. Cyprian, the beast raised a hairy paw and pointed one filth-encrusted talon
at Rawdon, who shrank back. Then, it howled like a locomotive and leapt!
Straight over St. Cyprians head it bounded, its hooves digging divots in the carpet as it
landed and flung itself at Rawdon. There was a fat pop and crackle and then the hiss of sizzling
meat and the Krampus hit the ground in a rattle of chains, rolling to its feet like a kicked dog.
Carnackis electrical pentacle had held.
I told you that it would work, St. Cyprian said, raising his sword. Now be a dear and
shoot the bugger!
Gloating doesnt become you, Gallowglass said. The Webley bucked in her hands and
the Krampus shrieked as a bullet rubbed in bear fat and mistletoe creased its hip. It staggered,
tongue flailing like a serpents head. Gallowglass fired again, stepping back to stay out of the
beasts reach.
The Krampus lunged for her, but St. Cyprian moved forward, stabbing his sword down
through a link in its chains and on into the floor. The beast yowled as it tried to pull itself free,
and swung a thunderous backhand at the occultist. St. Cyprian hopped awkwardly back, losing
his grip on the sword.
Gallowglass fired a third time, and the Krampus shrieked again as a blossom of blood
burst into existence on its breast. It reached out with an impossibly long arm, swatting the
pistol from her hands, and sending her skidding sideways. Then it spun, eyes blazing like twin
torches. It grabbed the sword and began to jerk it from the floor.
St. Cyprian darted towards it, sweeping up one of the birch boards that Gallowglass had
deposited on the floor. He brought it down on the Krampus arm, eliciting a yelp. Claws tore at
his waistcoat, severing buttons. He swung the birch board again, shattering it against the
Krampus skull. The beast shoved him back and he slid across the floor, only stopping when he
struck the wall.
Shaking its head, the brute yanked the sword free and hurled it aside with a victorious
growl. Then it turned back to the crackling pentacle and Rawdon, who cowered within.
No! No! Not me! I didnt do anything! Rawdon said, twitching like a rabbit in a trap. I
dont deserve this!
The Krampus hissed and slowly trotted around the pentacle, eyes narrowed. Brass claws
trailed across the invisible barrier, leaving a trail of sparks in the air. Rawdon turned with it, his
eyes pits of terror.
Charles! Help me! he shouted, pounding his useless fists against his thighs.
St. Cyprian pushed himself to his feet, head ringing. Ebe? he called out.
Im fine, Gallowglass said, scooping up her pistol. Just knocked the wind out of me.
Buggers not so tough.
Hes not after us. And our precautions dont seem to have been that effective, St.
Cyprian said, stooping to pick up the sword from where the Krampus had hurled it.
The Krampus stopped its pacing and eyed them warily, its red gaze flickering like dying
embers. St. Cyprian stopped moving, and motioned for Gallowglass to do the same.
The Krampus could have killed them both, had it wished. But its prey had to have been
judged and found wanting by whatever celestial court empowered the creature. The chains it
wore were not symbolic, but real shackles, binding what had once been an old, wild nightmare
of Pre-Christian times to the new ethos of this age.
The chains rattled across the floor as the beast crouched, digging its claws into the floor.
Its hulking shoulders hunched and the wood began to give with a series of rending cracks.
And, as the floor gave way, the nearest of the vacuum tubes tilted, and, finally, toppled,
shattering. The Krampus surged to its feet and lunged for the opening in the mystical barrier, its
form twisting and billowing like a thread of smoke.
Get Rawdon out of there! St. Cyprian said, throwing himself towards the closest
bookshelf. A number of containers sat amongst the books. Some held dust, or a variety of foulsmelling pastes. All had proven useful, once or twice.
As St. Cyprian shoved books out of the way and scrabbled for a solution to their
problem, Gallowglass fired the Webley at the curling twist of Krampus-smoke, perforating it
even as she tackled Rawdon out of the pentacle.
The Krampus began to reform, a look of brute hatred on its face as it moved to pursue
them.
Ha! St. Cyprian barked, hanging off of the bookshelf. He hefted something that
resembled a canopic jar and tossed it towards the pentacle. Shoot it!
Gallowglass shoved Rawdon off of her and fired her last shot. The bullet shattered the
urn and a dark substance spattered across the floor, mostly in the spot where the Krampus had
broken the power of the pentacle.
The Krampus turned back towards the opening, and then retreated abruptly with a
howl. It turned in place, spinning so fast that its chains struck the barrier and cast off foulsmelling sparks.
What was in that? Gallowglass said, getting to her feet.
A little concoction from the Tyrol region-rosemary, juniper and fat from a priests
grave. Itll only hold until it dries, but that should be long enough-ah. St. Cyprian dropped
down from the bookcase and held up a hand.
Somewhere, church bells sounded the midnight hour. Christmas Eve had given way to
Christmas Day.
The Krampus gave a long, low mournful howl as it writhed in its makeshift cell. Smoke
and ash drifted from its hairy shape and soon it was completely obscured, save for the hot glow
of its eyes. And then, even that was gone, as if it had never been.
Waving a hand to disperse the smoke, St. Cyprian moved to turn off the electric
pentacle. Gallowglass stepped over Rawdons still-prone form, and grabbed a bottle of sherry
off of the book case. Pouring herself a snifter, she said, Well. A merry Christmas to one and all,
I suppose.
What-what-what- Rawdon said, staring at the space where the Krampus had been.
Its Christmas Day, Ozzy. The Krampus has returned to wherever it goes for another
year. Which means that youre safe, relatively speaking. St. Cyprian stood, and helped Rawdon
to his feet. He pulled the other man close. You have a year, Ozzy. Dont waste it.
Rawdon yanked his arm free. What do you mean?
I mean, I might not be around next year to save your wretched hide. St. Cyprians eyes
narrowed. And even if I am, I may decide not to.
What? Rawdon blinked.
You never really answered my question, you know, St. Cyprian said. About young
Pettigrew.
Its none of your business, Rawdon said. And Ill thank you to stay out of it. He
straightened his coat.
Would that I could, Ozzy, St. Cyprian said.
Rawdon turned, his face a picture of confusion. There was an electric buzz as someone
rang the front bell. Rawdon whipped back around. What was that?
The police, I imagine. St. Cyprian motioned to Gallowglass. Ms. Gallowglass, please
show them in.
The police? What is the meaning of this Charles? Rawdon said. What are you playing
at?
I had Ms. Gallowglass ring the police while she was upstairs seeing to our defences, St.
Cyprian said, pouring himself a glass of sherry. He held it up, and then took a sip. He didnt look
at Rawdon. Was it really self-defense, Ozzy? Or did you murder him because he called you on
your black ways? Either way, the truth will out.
Rawdon didnt reply. A moment later, the police bustled in after Gallowglass, and
Rawdon seemed to slump in their custody. He didnt resist as he was led out and away. St.
Cyprian didnt turn around the entire time.
When Gallowglass had seen them out and returned, he sighed and set his glass down.
She cleared her throat, and he turned.
Are they off?
She nodded. Think hell hang?
No. He has friends yet, and likely it was self-defense. Or itll be seen that way. He
looked up at the ceiling, noting the ash mark right over the pentacle. A reminder of the
Krampus visit.
Think our visitor will be back for him next year, then?
St. Cyprian was silent for a moment. Then, softly, he said, Well, Christmas is a time for
miracles, they say.
And somewhere distant, just at the edges of his hearing, it seemed that he could hear
the clatter of funerary bells, and the tromp of black hooves.
NOTE: "Sign of the Salamander" was published by Pro Se Press in 2011, in issue 3 of FANTASY &
FEAR, which is no longer in print.
SIGN OF THE SALAMANDER

It was 1921, and the steam-boat Seeley left a trail of white foam behind it as it cruised
down the dark length of the Nile, bound for Cairo. For one poor soul, however, that destination
was forever unreachable.
Sunlight streamed through the slats of the window into the tiny cabin, providing a
shuddering spotlight for the body on the bed.
The man, if it indeed had been a man, had been burned to a blackened crisp of shrunken
meat. The heat that had done the dirty deed had touched only flesh, leaving both the bed
linens and the mans clothing untouched.
Charles St. Cyprian wrinkled his nose as he sank to his haunches beside the bed. He
extracted a handkerchief from his coat pocket and shook it out, then pressed it to his mouth
and nose in a belated attempt to kill the smell.
Well? someone said, brusquely.
St. Cyprian glanced over his shoulder at the speaker. Off hand, Id say hes dead,
Morris.
Morris, the senior man from the Ministry of Esoteric Observation, made a disgusted
sound. He was egg-shaped and dressed in civil servant white in deference to the heat and
clutched a yellowed pith helmet in his sweaty hands. Obviously. What I was inquiring, Charles,
was whether or not you knew the circumstances of said death.
Ah. St. Cyprian turned back to the body, briefly, and then stood, the steel rings which
encircled three fingers on his left hand winking in the sunlight as he ran them through his hair.
In that case, no.
St. Cyprian, in contrast to Morris, was Mediterranean-dark and he was dressed nattily in
a tailored cream-colored suit and waistcoat. The buttons of the latter polished so brightly that
Morriss disapproving reflection was easily visible in them.
No? Morris said. You have no idea how he died?
I didnt say that. St. Cyprian brushed a nonexistent fleck of lint from his sleeve. I said
the circumstances escaped me.
As do so many things, another voice cut in. St. Cyprian turned, lips quirking slightly.
Ambry, old bean, he said, with patently false cheer. The narrow whip of a man who
had entered the room behind Morris flinched slightly at the jocular familiarity.
St. Cyprian. Ambry was only a recent addition to Morris staff, but hed already picked
up on his superiors distaste for St. Cyprian and learned to mimic it. Going to pull a rabbit out
of your
Ambry, Morris chided, though not sternly. Have you seen to the men? he continued,
referring to the troop of British Army regulars theyd brought on board when theyd arrived.
All picketed and accounted for, Ambry said crisply. Like Morris he was dressed in
civilian fashion, though much neater. His helmet fairly gleamed, and the polished butt of a
service-Webley marred the otherwise perfect cut of his coat. No one is getting on or off this
ship without our permission.
Boat, St. Cyprian said.
What? Ambry raised an eyebrow.
Its a boat, not a ship. A ship is an ocean-going vessel.
You have a singular gift for useless information, St. Cyprian.
And you are generally useless, Ambry, me old mucker. We make a good pair. St.
Cyprian clinked his rings together idly. Ambry grinned mirthlessly, his lips writhing back from
too-perfect teeth.
Harsh words from a second-rate Svengali.
Thats enough Ambry, Morris said. Charles
Were those windows always open like that? St. Cyprian interjected, indicating the
wooden blinds.
As far as I know, Morris said, blinking. Why?
No reason. Just curious.
A muscle in Morris jaw had a bit of a merry dance, and St. Cyprian felt a flicker of pity
for the bureaucrat. But only a flicker. He burned to death. Several hours ago, at least.
Twelve, Morris grated. But was it He made a sharp gesture.
Was it what? Painful? St. Cyprian heedlessly stuffed his handkerchief in the pocket of
his coat. I imagine so, yes.
Magic! Morris barked. Was it magic? he said, more quietly. Ambry made a face as
soon as the word escaped Morris lips. St. Cyprian smiled. Ambry was a tight-button man. If it
wasnt Eton-approved, Ambry wasnt a fan.
Morris question was an important one, judging as it did the necessity of St. Cyprians
presence here. As a man whod read more dusty tomes than was good for him and knew how
to draw the Yellow Sign properly, despite an education big on maths and small on occult
practicalities, St. Cyprian was the closest thing to an expert on the subject that Morris had to
hand. Then, he was the Royal Occultist. A certain amount of expertise in otherworldly matters
was a job requirement.
Queens Conjurer, as it had been known at the time) had started with the diligent amateur Dr.
John Dee and passed through a succession of hands since. The list was a long one, weaving in
and out of the margins of British history, and culminating, for the moment, in one Charles St.
Cyprian.
As far as men like Morris and Ambry were concerned, the office was at its nadir. And as
far as St. Cyprian was concerned, the same could be said of the Ministry of Esoteric
Observation. He paused. No, that wasnt fair. Morris was a solid enough man, if unimaginative.
Ambry, on the other hand, was a polished bit of deep-sea political predator. Both, in their way,
were exactly the sort of men the Ministry wanted in charge of the occult.
The Ministry of Esoteric Observation was where magic went to die, in a nondescript
building near Whitehall, with quotas, allocations and stuffy offices filled with moldering
paperwork. It was a model of modern efficiency, and the men who worked for it prided
themselves on their political and scientific acumen. Unfortunately, they had a bad habit of
locking up dreadful tomes and sacred scrolls rather than reading them, thus necessitating the
occasional consultation. They were never happy about it, and never shy about sharing that
unhappiness. It offended them, in their callous little souls to have to rely on a relic of less
enlightened times to get the job done.
Answer the question, St. Cyprian, Ambry said, impatient. Is this one of your
problems?
Oh yes. St. Cyprian tapped the side of his nose. I can practically smell it, old boy.
Cant you two?
Certainly not! Morris sputtered. He looked horrified by the very idea. Ambry frowned,
but said nothing.
No? How unfortunate, St. Cyprian said. You should really look to expanding your
senses, Morris. I know some tantric exercises that might interest you.
Morris snarled inaudibly, waving his pith helmet in a dangerous fashion. St. Cyprian
looked at Ambry, eyebrows raised in innocent query.
My senses are fine at their current limits, I assure you, the latter said, face blank.
Well, a man should know his limits, St. Cyprian said. He looked at Morris. Youll want
me to be looking into this, then?
Why else would I bother with this farce of a conversation? Morris said.
Morris, you wound me.
If only, Morris said, slamming his hat onto his head. Fix this, Charles, he continued,
meaningfully. St. Cyprian winced. Morris only used that tone when he was upset.
It would be helpful if I knew who he was, St. Cyprian said to Morris retreating back.
Need to know, Morris said, without stopping. Two men in khaki uniforms and helmets,
Martini-Enfields in hand, fell in beside him. The Seeley was under official jurisdiction now and
the holiday-makers were all bundled up in the common room. There was something to be said
for bureaucratic efficiency.
But
You heard the man, St, Cyprian, Ambry said, smiling smugly. Now go do whatever
little heathen hoodoo performance youve got cooked up so we can tidy this mess up, eh?
Theres a good chap. Without waiting for a reply, he trooped out after Morris. St. Cyprian was
tempted to make a face at his retreating back, but manfully restrained himself. He settled for
an indignant snort.
Need to know, he muttered, turning in a tight circle, his thumbs hooked into the
pockets of his waistcoat. Well I bloody need to know Morris, you puffed up twit.
Morris being a tosspot again?
St. Cyprian turned back around, smiling slightly. My dear Ms. Gallowglass. Tell me you
have something for me?
Other than a charming disposition and a ready smile, you mean? Ebe Gallowglass said,
leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed and her fingers tapping against the crook of
her elbow. She was dark and slim with short black hair, cut into a curl-edged bob. She wore a
mans linen suit, albeit one specially tailored for a womans frame. A swath of freckles
spattered across her sharp features and her grin was startlingly white.
Gallowglass was, for lack of a more appropriate term, his apprentice. It was a grim
condition of the office of the Royal Occultist that its holders tended to have abrupt, often fatal,
retirements. An apprentice, someone to carry on afterward, was a necessity and he had no
doubt that Gallowglass would make a fine addition to the storied ranks, eventually. Yes, as
nice as those things are, St. Cyprian said, pushing the thought aside.
Then no. She pushed away from the doorframe and shoved her hands into her
pockets. The toffs in the common room want their money back, the crew has forgotten how to
speak the Kings English, and the soldiers are under orders not to talk to anyone.
Gallowglass had the common touch. It was just one of the many talents which she had
discovered as she assisted St. Cyprian in his investigations into obscure matters. She was
coming to learn the tricks and traps that awaited a consulting occultist. Dealing with the locals
in a friendly and efficient manner was one of the more efficient tricks. Gallowglass, for her part,
had a distressing inclination towards shooting first and questioning later. We are adrift in an
enigmatic sea, innit? she said.
Funny, I rather thought it was the Nile. St. Cyprian gestured to the body on the bed.
Opinions, my young apprentice?
Apprentice is it now? Gallowglass said. She gagged softly at the sight of the corpse,
her nostrils flaring. Bloody Nora.
My sentiments exactly. St. Cyprian took in the rest of the cabin at a glance. It was like
every other cabin on the Seeley, brisk in its Spartan efficiency. A bed, a table, two chairs, one of
which had a suit coat thrown over it, and a miniscule closet. He went to the table and ran his
fingers across the mess of papers scattered across it. The pile was composed of maps,
coordinates lists and blacked out dossiers. In other words, need to know, he said quietly.
What? Gallowglass said.
Nothing. Thoughts? He turned to look at her.
Someone set him on fire.
Eyes like a hawk, my dear. St. Cyprian frowned. How?
He fell asleep smoking?
Im beginning to know how Morris feels. Try again, he said. What kind of fire chars
flesh, but leaves the clothing untouched?
It was Gallowglass turn to frown. Spontaneous combustion?
Close, St. Cyprian said, smiling slightly.
Bugger me if I know then.
Exactly, St. Cyprian said, clapping his hands together. Magic, in other words.
No wonder Morris looked like he swallowed a lemon whole, she said, making a face.
Still, if it wasnt, we wouldnt be enjoying this serene trip down the River of Life.
Unfortunate choice of words, St. Cyprian murmured. They had been in Cairo when the
call came, luckily. St. Cyprian had been looking forward to his annual dinner with an old friend
at the Cairo Museum, but duty, not to mention the rather noisy gasoline powered trawler that
had been pressed into Ministry service, had called.
Morris had undoubtedly been hoping that the murder, if it was murder, had been
committed by natural means. Insofar as a premature shortening of a mans span could be
considered natural. Hed probably planned to send St. Cyprian and Gallowglass on their way at
the earliest opportunity.
Poor Morris. I am an eternal disappointment to him, I fear, St. Cyprian said.
Gallowglass pulled a chair, the one with the coat hanging off its back, out from the table
and straddled it, facing him. I dont suppose that he minds. Mans as dull as mud.
Your sensitivity is legendary in its own time.

Speaking of mud, Ambry is lurking around as well, she said.
Im quite aware of that, thank you. St. Cyprian made a face. Weve already had a
chat.
Bet it was scintillating.
Hardly. St. Cyprian peered at the body. His clothing is untouched.
And?
St. Cyprian gave her a look. He could have some identification on him.
In bed?
We wont know until we check, will we? St. Cyprian motioned towards the bed. After
you.
Me? She pointed at herself.
Experience before enthusiasm, St. Cyprian said.
Age before beauty, she countered.
Whos the apprentice here, I ask you? St. Cyprian pulled a silver cigarette case out of
his coat pocket and flipped it open. He proffered it to Gallowglass, who dipped her head and
flicked one free with her tongue.
Rolling it between her lips, she said, Fine. Sucking on the cigarette, she got up and
went to the bed. Do we know why this is so bloody important yet?
Need to know, and we, unfortunately, fall into another category entirely. St. Cyprian
assumed her seat and tapped one of the cigarettes on the surface of the case. Stuffing it
between his lips, he said, Funny way for his hands to be, wouldnt you say?
Gallowglass looked at the bodys blackened claws, which clutched emptily over its
crumbling chest. He was holding something?
Possibly. Find anything? he said, lighting his cigarette. Puffing, he eyed the match
curiously. The flame seemed to flare momentarily before it went out. He looked down at the
coat.
No. She stepped back. Nothing in his pockets. No valuables, no papers, no nothing.
Did you check his coat? St. Cyprian said, rifling through the pockets of the
aforementioned coat. Ah. He pulled out a battered commonplace book. Thats more like it.
Could have done that in the first place, Gallowglass said sourly. Instead of making me
touch a dead body.
Probably. Consider it a learning experience, St. Cyprian said, flipping through the
notebook. Gallowglass mimicked his words silently as she reached into his coat for his matches.
Here we are.
Here where?
The Nile. What did you call it before?
The River of Life. Gallowglass smiled briefly. Thats what my mother called it.
Wise woman, St. Cyprian said.
Not so wise. She married my father after all. Gallowglass looked at him. Why?
Fiat lux, St. Cyprian said.
That sounds familiar. Eliphas Levi? Gallowglass said. She lit her cigarette, quirking an
eyebrow as the match flared oddly.
At least youve kept up on your studies, St. Cyprian said. The Nile is the spine of the
world-book, and Egypt, its pages.
Definitely Levi, Gallowglass said, shaking the match out. That sounds like his kind of
gibberish.
Harsh words. But he was correct in a waythe land along the Nile is suffused with a
sort of background radiation of a peculiarly strong variety. St. Cyprian continued to flip
through the notebook. In its day, Egypt gave birth to a line of sorcerer-kings unheralded since
the days of lost Mu.
Big on dairy then, were they? Gallowglass said.
St. Cyprian closed the notebook with a snap and looked at her, frowning. Its not a joke.
You recall our pal Nephren-Ka, from that incident in Seven Dialswhat was it?two years ago?
He was of that sort.
We handled him all right.
Did we? St. Cyprian said. A memory of blazing beast-eyes and snapping, withered jaws
filled his minds eye. He shook his head, clearing it of the dreadful images.
Gallowglass held her hands apart. About that big.
What? he said, bemused.
Whatever he was holding.
Obviously, St. Cyprian said, using the notebook to point at a patch on the ceiling just
over the bed. It was blackened, and the wood was warped and blistered in a radius
approximate to that of the distance between Gallowglass palms.
Could have mentioned that, Gallowglass said.
And yet I didnt, St. Cyprian said, standing.
Why did it burn the wood, but nothing else? she said, peering at the ceiling.
Who knows, he said, looking again at the table. Boarding dates. Ticket stubs. Maps.
Pieces to an unpleasant puzzle.
Isnt it always, Gallowglass murmured. Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at the
papers on the table. Hang on a tic. He was coming from London. She pulled one of the maps
towards her. And going towards
Heliopolis. St. Cyprian lit a match.
Heliopolis? Whats in Heliopolis?
St. Cyprian didnt answer. He held up the match, which crackled audibly. The flame on
the end danced and bobbed, far larger than it should have been.
Thats curious, Gallowglass said softly.
Indeed. St. Cyprian blew out the flame. It resisted, for just a moment. Something has
been here. Something which has thrown off the elemental balance in this room.
Something so big? Gallowglass held her hands up.
Almost certainly. St. Cyprian looked at her. You said the guests were in the common
room?
Every moaning mothers son.
Good. St. Cyprian went to the door of the cabin and held it open. After you.
You figure the killer is still on board?
Indubitably, St. Cyprian said. I can guarantee it, in fact. He stepped past her and led
the way. After all, he-or she-still needs to get to civilization.
Cairo, you mean?
Its the most logical spot. From there our murderer can go most anywhere. Or he could
simply lose himself among the teeming masses. St. Cyprian glanced towards the shore and
frowned. Hmm.
I thought I saw something, St. Cyprian said. He shook his head. Never mind. They
continued on towards the front of the boat.
The Seeley was primarily a tourist-vessel, running from Cairo to all the usual spots and
then back again. Week long trips to areas of interest for those with the money to spend. The
dead man, whoever he had been, had booked passage like any other tourist in Cairo. His death
had been reported to the colonial authorities by the captain, and by the usual unusual channels
Morris from the Ministry had come to know of it and had responded with what St. Cyprian had
at first considered unusual alacrity.
Now he knew better. There was magic at work here, and he had an unpleasant suspicion
that he knew the source. Morris had responded too quickly for it to be random. No, there was
something going on. Something political.
That thought brought a frown to his face. Politics and magic didnt mix, but were
mingled all the same by people who saw the latter as simply another weapon in their arsenal. In
truth, that was why Elizabeth had invested Dee with the authority of a royal, if secret, office.
The Game of Nations brought with it constant conflict, and some of that conflict was bound to
be sorcerous in nature.
St. Cyprian himself had participated in the Great Game several times over the course of
his career. As an apprentice to his predecessor in the years before the War, then on his own
afterward. Thoughts of his predecessor made his frown deepen. Thinking of Thomas Carnacki
always brought strong memories to the fore. Carnacki had been a bluff, tough man, with a
scientific pragmatism that had gone a long way to making the supernatural world palatable to a
young St. Cyprian.
But thinking of Carnacki meant thinking of Ypres, and the bullet that had plucked
Carnacki out of this world and sent him into the Realm Invisible, as if he were any normal man.
St. Cyprian remembered Carnackis face, bled white, as he passed his responsibilities and a
rather cluttered house on the Embankment to St. Cyprian.
He looked down at the rings on his fingers. Every Royal Occultist had worn them, though
where Dee had first procured them no record stated. All St. Cyprian knew was that he wasnt
the only person to wear a setthere were others. The American, Warren, for one.
Soldiers had been stationed on both decks of the steam-boat, and keen eyes swept the
shore from beneath helmet brims. St. Cyprian ignored them as he led Gallowglass towards the
common room.
Morris moved fast, Gallowglass said, glancing around as an officer in a tan shako
barked orders to the ships crew. The latter moved swiftly, far more swiftly, perhaps, than they
would have for their own captain.
Im sure he had his reasons.
I did, Morris said, meeting them at the door. He dabbed at his gleaming brow with a
grimy handkerchief.
Care to share them, Morris? St. Cyprian said, a halo of smoke rising from his cigarette
to encircle his head.
No.
Pity.
Have you discovered what happened yet, or were you simply lonely for our company?
Ambry said, following his superior.
Yes, St. Cyprian said, smoke curling out of his nostrils. He burned to death, as I said.
Oh, how unexpected. The charred corpse was burned to death. Your reputation will
remain intact, Ambry said.
Charles, Morris began.
St. Cyprian thrust his hand out over the water, letting the Egyptian sun play over it. He
burned to death, Morris.
Morris hesitated, rubbing his handkerchief over his mouth idly. Ah. I see. Unfortunate.
And?
Well handle it from here, I think. Morris made to gesture to the closest of the soldiers
when St. Cyprians hand flashed out, seizing the other mans wrist. A moment later, Ambry had
the barrel of his service Webley pressed to St. Cyprians head.
Release him! he snapped.
Still my jurisdiction I rather think, what? St. Cyprian said, ignoring the pistol and its
wielder. What have you done, Morris?
Get your hand off of me. Morris jerked free of St. Cyprians grip. The latter inclined his
head.
You know Ill find out eventually, old bean. What have you done? What did you
unleash? Morris twitched as if stung. St. Cyprian plucked his cigarette out of his mouth and
eyed the cherry tip speculatively. No matter. I think I know the answer. Frankly, theres only
one reason I can think of that someone from the Ministry would be going to Heliopolis, Morris.
And its not for the scenery.
After a moment, Morris gestured sharply and the soldiers stationed to either side of the
door to the common room trooped inside, leaving him, Ambry, St. Cyprian and Gallowglass
alone on deck. Ambry still had his weapon out, and was eyeing St. Cyprian speculatively. Sir?
he said.
Holster your pistol, Ambry, Morris said.
What? Ambry looked at him goggle-eyed.
Holster it damn it! Morris snarled, pushing past St. Cyprian. He leaned over the ships
rail, staring hard at the waters of the Nile. The Eye of Atum, he said, after a moment.
The whosis? Gallowglass said.
One of the Crown Jewels, St. Cyprian said, frowning.
Not one Ive ever heard of, Gallowglass said.
One of the other Crown Jewels. St. Cyprian shook his head. One of the dangerous
ones. Like the Seven Stars or the Jade Frog.
Thats a matter of perspective, Morris said, without turning around.
Its a bloody state secret is what it is, Ambry said. Sir, I must protest!
Protest noted and summarily dismissed, St. Cyprian said, pushing past Ambry. Who
was he? Your man. Who was he, Morris?
Phipps. Pipps. Phillips? Something like that, I believe, Morris said. Not really
important at the moment, is it? Not if someone has the Eye. He turned, face beaded with
sweat. Not if someone knows how to use it.
Oh, they do. St. Cyprian sucked on his cigarette, rolling it from one side of his mouth
to the other. Of course, they wouldnt be able to, if someone hadnt brought it back here.
Why not? Gallowglass said.
Its powers are finite if its too long away from the place of itsahbirth, I suppose
youd call it, St. Cyprian said. But when its hot, its hot, as the saying goes.
How much damage can a rock do? Gallowglass said, hopping up onto the rail.
Ask Cain and Abel, St. Cyprian said.
The Moors supposedly gave it to Elizabeth, Ambry said, in a dry, detached voice. She
gave it to John Dee and he turned the Armada to kindling.
Gallowglass looked at St. Cyprian, who nodded. Dee thought it contained a
salamandera fire elemental. He looked at Morris. It flickered and went dull after Dee used
it for God knows how many centuries, until Edwin Drood brought it back to Heliopolis and then
turned around and squeezed it dry in the Tunguska incident.
Drood was a good man. A loyal servant of the Crown, Morris said.
Better than some, Ambry murmured, glancing at St. Cyprian.
It killed him. Carnacki thought it burned Drood to ashes where he sat in a Soho garret,
St. Cyprian said harshly, glaring at Ambry. Just like it did to Dee, albeit more slowly. An all
consuming flame that eventually devours even it wielder, leaving only ashes. The sign of the
salamander.
Balderdash, Morris said, twisting around. He jabbed a finger at St. Cyprian. If we had
used that stone during the War
How many thousands more would have died, burnt to nothing for a few extra miles of
sour earth? St. Cyprian grated. Or would you have turned it on the Bolsheviks, maybe? Kept
the Tsars foolish fundament on his throne by unleashing a fire-devil on starving serfs?
We would have done what was necessary, Ambry interjected, stiffly. He stepped
closer to Morris, as if to bolster the older man. For the good of King and Country.
The rallying cry of the rear echelon, St. Cyprian said, glaring at Ambry, who returned
the expression.
Its a moot point, I fear. Your predecessor refused, as much good as it did him. Poor
stubborn Thomas Morris said, shaking his head. There was real regret in his voice, though
whether for Carnacki or for what might have been, St. Cyprian couldnt say.
Carnacki was a dilettante at best. Its likely just as well that he didnt Ambry began.
Quiet, St. Cyprian said with deceptive mildness. Ambry, with the instincts of a born
civil servant, looked at him warily.
I was simply stating
You were being an ass, Gallowglass said. Do yourself a favor and shut your gob,
yeah?
Ambry shot her a look, but subsided. St. Cyprian said nothing. He remembered
Carnackis refusal, and the bad feelings that had lingered through the months leading up to the
war. While hed been a true son of the Empire, Carnacki had had his limits. Wholesale slaughter
was one of those, as was suicide, both of which you risked when the Eye was open. Running his
hand over his head, St. Cyprian said, finally, Carnacki was right to refuse. Invoking the fires of
Atum is a dangerous thing. An abominable thing. He glared at Morris. Why now?
Need to know, Morris said.
Bollocks to that, Gallowglass said.
Morris shot her a pained look. Regardless, thats the way of it. Decisions are made and
tasks are undertaken and it is up to us to ensure that those tasks are successful.
Hail Britannia, St. Cyprian said. I want to know, Morris. Or Ill be forced to find out.
Youll keep your nose out of it is what youll do, Charles, Morris said. Youll do your
job and nothing more. Just like all of us.
My thoughts exactly, old boy. My thoughts exactly, St. Cyprian said, stepping past him
and wrenching open the door to the common room. Gallowglass watched him and then turned
to look at Morris and Ambry.
Hes really quite nice, when you get to know him, she said, blowing a plume of smoke
into the latters features, eliciting a spate of coughing and wheezing. Then, she flicked her
cigarette into the Nile and followed St. Cyprian.
What are you up to? she murmured, drawing close to him as he entered the common
room and confronted the group of passengers.
Solving the case, St. Cyprian said, without looking at her. Eyes open.
Always.
St. Cyprian was the center of a maelstrom of questions a moment later. They were
shouted in a variety of accents, regional and otherwise. There were a dozen passengers,
besides the unlucky thirteenth, only half of whom were from England. All of them were angry,
though. A motley lot, if there ever was one.
Ladies and gentlemen, please! he said, raising his hands. Please! I assure you, well
be in Cairo before you know it, and youll all be free to continue your trips as you see fit! He
lowered his hands, and his smile became sharp. Well, all of you except the murderer, that is.
That elicited another barrage of questions. Gallowglass sidled towards the bar, keeping
one eye on the crowd. It wasnt likely to turn nasty, but stranger things had happened. This
wouldnt be the first time that St. Cyprians plans had resulted in someone trying to shoot, stab
or otherwise render him extinct.
Yes, you heard correctly. Murder. How about that? Just like an Agatha Christie novel. Is
anyone Belgian by chance? St. Cyprian said, clasping his hands behind his back. No? Well, I
suppose well just have to muddle through as best we can.
What exactly do you think youre doing? Morris hissed, entering the room, soldiers to
either side of him and grabbing St. Cyprians arm.
Fixing things, Morris, St. Cyprian said, looking at Morris hand, then at his face. Morris
hastily released him and stepped back. Even as you ordered. He looked at the gathered
holiday-makers and clapped his hands. Now. To begin, we know the victim died at dusk.
How do we know that then? Ambry said, standing off to the side, looking amused.
Empirical analysis, St. Cyprian said. Something youd know little about. The smile
slipped from Ambrys face. St. Cyprian went on. There were only two moments when the
murder weapon could have been used. Dawn and dusk. Since he was dead by the former, it
must have been the latter. He looked at the crowd of blank faces and smiled.
Careful, Morris said sharply.
St. Cyprian ignored him. Now, Ill need everyone to line up against the far wall, please,
he continued, bouncing a book of matches on his palm. Well just check the aetheric
resonances and see what there is to see, hmmm?
Aetheric resonances, Ambry said. How scientific of you St. Cyprian.
Sarcasm creates negative energy, Ambry, St. Cyprian said, before Morris could
answer. He swiped a match to life, watching it burn. The flame curled and twisted, doubling in
size after a moment. Ah. There.
A match? Thats your plan? Ambry said. He looked at Morris. Is this really
necessary?
Everything I do is necessary, St. Cyprian said, rotating his fingers and letting the flame
ripple. In a way, it was simple. Magic, like firearms, left residue on the wielder. It seeped into
your pores and left its mark on you. And the more powerful the magic, the more residue which
remained.
Sir, I feel I really must protest, Ambry said. There are better ways to conduct an
investigation like this. In Cairo, would be a start.
The murderer is still on this ship, Ambry me old chum, St. Cyprian said as he walked
down the line of scowling passengerspast the irate novelist and her mousey daughter, past
the angry young Socialist, with his carefully chosen laborers clothes, past the portly gadabout
in his fine suit and the physician, mumbling imprecations in Austrian, past the elderly
archaeologist, the bright young thing and her less glamorous cousin and the former colonel
with the bulldog face. Then there was the young heiress and her fianc, the latter of whom had
eyes only for the brunette with the French surname who glared at the heiress.
Parlor tricks are no sure substitution for a proper investigation, Ambry said. Sir? he
continued, looking at Morris. Were only a few hours from Cairo. Surely-
Charles? Morris said. There was a real question there. St. Cyprian decided to answer
it.
In a few hours, our murderer might decide to use the Eye on us. Or on the city in order
to distract us. But here, now, hes got nowhere to go, St. Cyprian said, holding the match up as
he walked back and forth, up and down the row of passengers. Or does that frighten you,
Ambry?
Hardly frightened. I merely wish to conduct a proper investigation, Ambry snapped.
Something youd know nothing about!
I know quite a bit about a lot of things, Ambry. More than a few of which would
surprise even a cynical little bureaucrat like you. The match popped and speared out as St.
Cyprian turned, going back down the line. Ms. Gallowglass, would you be so kind as to get the
windows? he said, not looking at her.
The windows? Morris said.
Sunlight, Morris, St. Cyprian said.
But that will Morris began. St. Cyprian held up a hand and he fell silent. Morris had
worked with two Royal Occultists, and knew better than to press the odder points. His assistant
wasnt as experienced.
This is a waste of time, Ambry said, bluntly. He wouldnt be so foolish as to have it on
him would he?
Who said it was a he? Gallowglass said as she moved to the windows in front of the
group and grabbed the cords to the blinds. None of the passengers moved. One or two looked
contemplative. Most of them just looked confused.
Ambry hesitated. I just assumed
You know what they say about assumptions, Ambry, St. Cyprian said. They make an
ass of you.
And me, Ambry finished automatically.
Exactly, St. Cyprian said. He watched the flame of the match, carefully lighting a
second off of the flame of the first as it burned down to his fingertips. Sunlight, he said again.
The very stuff of Atum. Variously his blood, his breath, his seed or some such. And the Eye
drinks it in the way a motorcar requires petrol. But not just any sunlightno, the Eye requires
the sacred sunlight of Heliopolis.
The passengers began to murmur among themselves and Morris face went through a
variety of interesting expressions. Charles! he said.
Give me some credit, Morris, St. Cyprian said. Undoubtedly the Ministry will be
forcing some form of contract of silence on these good people in regards to the events of this
unfortunate trip. Besides, he went on, bestowing a crooked smile on the socialite, who grinned
and whispered to her cousin. Its not like any of these upstanding citizens will believe what
happens next.
Next? Ambry said.

Patience. Dont you want me to explain what happened to your man? St. Cyprian said.
Get on with it, St. Cyprian, Ambry said, his eyes narrowing to slits.
Of course. The Eye of Atum drinks in sunlight, as I said. Better to say that it gorges on it.
With the proper training, the right frame of mind, a man can use the stone to devilish ends.
Without the proper training however, he is at its mercy. Once the gem has been replenished,
even the softest drizzle of light can render it deadly. He glanced over his shoulder at Morris.
Your man found that out the hard way. No doubt he was under orders to keep it wrapped up,
away from the light. Maybe he couldnt resist unwrapping itIm told that its quite hypnotic, in
its way. Or maybe someone asked to see it.
What are you saying? Morris said.
His blinds were open, Morris. Likely at the exact moment the sun went down last night.
A last flare of light, then, poof. No more civil servant. And no more Eye.
It was destroyed? Morris looked alarmed.
Hardly. Merely plucked from the charred remains of its caretaker after the sun had set
and it was no longer awake. Two steps to the left, please, St. Cyprian said, gesturing to the
socialite, who wriggled aside with a laugh. And to the right, sir, he said, indicating the excolonel.
And you sir, he said, looking at the portly man, who now stood alone. Watch the
flame. He held up the match, and it flared straight at the man, who cried out and flinched
back.
This is outrageous! he blustered. I could have been burned!
Entirely possible, yes. St. Cyprian glanced at Morris, who was frowning. Even the light
of the tiniest fire is drawn to it, no matter how well its protected.
Drawn to what? What are you talking about? the portly man whined. He pushed at
the air with his hands. Whats going on?
Why, I should have thought that would be obviousIm implicating you in murder, sir,
St. Cyprian said, blowing out the match.
What?
Now see here, Ambry began.
You were in the victims cabin when he died. The item he carried has left its residue on
you. Marked you with its scent. St. Cyprian ignored Ambry and tossed the spent match at the
accused.
You cant be serious, the man said. He stepped past St. Cyprian and gestured
pleadingly to Morris and Ambry. What is he saying? Who is he?
Sir, you cant simply Ambry started, turning to Morris.
Charles? Morris said, interrupting them both.

Fire doesnt lie, Morris, St. Cyprian said.
This is preposterous! I didnt kill anyone! the portly man snapped, his face flushed. He
whirled. Your little stage-tricks prove nothing!
Stage tricks? St. Cyprian blinked.
A hit sir, a palpable hit, Gallowglass murmured.
Morris, once we open those windows, well have the proof, St. Cyprian said, ignoring
her. But first
First well take him into custody, is what well do, Ambry said, stepping forward. His
Majestys special service has things well in hand, St. Cyprian. Thank you for your service, but we
can handle this from here.
Wait a moment, Ambry, Morris said, still looking at St. Cyprian. Are you sure,
Charles?
As sure as youre standing here, St. Cyprian said.
Sir, I simply cannot allow this to continue, Ambry said, turning to Morris. St. Cyprian
suddenly lunged forward and dug his fingers into the portly mans ample midsection. There was
the sound of cloth ripping and St. Cyprian tumbled to the floor, clutching a length of folded
material and the front of a fine waistcoat. Ms. Gallowglass! Now!
My pleasure, Gallowglass said, wrenching open the blinds. Let there be light!
And then, there was. The flare was brighter than the sheen of the sun on polished
metal, spiking out and striking the eyes of everyone present.
The man, no longer portly, wrapped his arms around the specially concealed belt
strapped around his muscular midsection. He launched a kick at St. Cyprian, who rolled aside
and bounced to his feet.
Seize him! Morris snapped, pointing. The soldiers had only just moved to obey when
there was a sudden storm of hornet-sounds, and the windows were punctured in a shower of
shattered glass. One of the soldiers pitched forward, choking on his own blood. St. Cyprian
suddenly remembered the movement he thought hed seen earlier on shore, and realized with
chagrin that he hadnt been imagining things.
Were under attack! Morris yelped. Outside, Enfields spoke in response, but it was a
tepid sound compared to the initial barrage. St. Cyprian briefly wondered how many soldiers
really were on this boat-too few, like as not.
Too late! the portly man snarled as he ripped the belt from about his middle and
hefted it like a sack. Too late! He swung the belt, driving them back. He snatched up the dead
soldiers Enfield and swung it back and forth. Stay back, all of you.
Easy does it, my friend, St. Cyprian said, eyeing the dangling belt. It had a heavy
canvas pouch on it, which bulged with a rounded shape. The Eye, obviously.
No friend of yours, Charles! the man spat. Or did you forget that you just tried to kill
me?
I surmised that you had protected yourself, old chap. Brilliant belt, by the by.
Ingenious, even. St. Cyprian stood slowly, arms spread. Now, who are you? Who are you
working for?
You dont recognize me? Im crushed Charles. Simply crushed. An accent had crept
through the mans words, roughening his syllables. He reached up and dug his fingers into the
doughy surface of his second chin, ripping it and most of his face away in a crackle of spirit gum
and morticians plaster. A new face, thin and lupine, glared hatefully at St. Cyprian through the
shredded tangles of false flesh.
Now do you recall me? Count Grigori Petrov, he said. At your service.
Petrov! St. Cyprian said, starting forward, fists clenched. Memories of snow and blood
swirled to the surface of his mind. He could feel the warmth oozing away from him as he ran
through icy street, the dog-like yelps of his pursuers not far behind.
It had been a cold night in Copenhagen the last time hed seen Petrov, just before the
War. Carnacki had been busy trying to contain what the Russian had called up, and that left his
apprentice to the task of catching Petrov before he could escape. The wily Russian had turned
the tables, however. St. Cyprian had barely survived. He made to lunge, but the Enfield came up
and he stopped.
Petrov tossed aside his ruined mask. Pfaugh. Glad to be out of that, you have no idea,
he said grinning. He had a narrow hatchet face beneath a mop of graying hair. Hello again,
Charles. You look well.
I thought the Reds would have hung you by now, Grigori, St. Cyprian said. He cut his
eyes to Gallowglass, who nodded slightly. When the Revolution was won, they disbanded the
Okhrana quite forcibly, he continued, referring to the Russian Imperial secret service. Petrov
had been an Okhrana agent for nearly as long as St. Cyprian had been alive, though his talents
lay in more esoteric territories than simple spy-hunting or rabble-rousing. Petrov was rumored
to be a seer, among other things. He had a gift for hexes and curses, and could read the skeins
of fate in a bowl full of entrails.
Oh no. Not me. It is not my destiny to die in a ditch with a Bolshevik bullet in my head,
Petrov said, baring his teeth in the grin of one who knows. He patted the belt. Especially not
now.
Destinies can change, St. Cyprian said. There are men all over this ship, Grigori.
Theres no escape.
From outside the common room came a high-pitched ululation and another spatter of
rifle-fire, similar to that which had shattered the windows. Petrov laughed. You especially
should know by now, Charles, that there is always an escape! I made arrangements with
someahlocal porters to aid in my disembarkation from this fine vessel. Petrov laughed
again. The Bedouin are always happy to do a favor, especially if it nets them a boat full of fat,
wealthy captives! he said, gesturing to the stunned passengers.
Bedouin? St. Cyprian said. Is that whos out there? He made a surreptitious gesture.
Gallowglass began to creep forward.
A few, a few. Mostly theyre mercenaries. Criminals and desert rats.
Your kind of people, then.
Ha! Oh Charles, Ive missed your wit! Petrov said, but then caught sight of Gallowglass
sidling towards him. He swung the rifle towards her.
Hello, you are new, he said.
Am I? Nice of you to say, she said, checking her movement. Petrov frowned.
Arab?
Sod off, Gallowglass said.
Arab, Petrov grunted, satisfied. Gallowglass quirked an eyebrow. Petrov continued,
You serve him?
Who says he doesnt serve me?
Petrov laughed and looked at St. Cyprian. Oh I like her, Charles. Shes an, ah what do
call it, a pip?
Mostly, shes an annoyance, St. Cyprian said. Youre on a boat, Grigori, and as
annoying as your friends on shore are, youre not getting off.
Tut-tut Charles. Who said all my friends were confined to the shore? Petrov looked at
Morris and Ambry. Isnt that correct, Mr. Ambry?
Ambry suddenly spun and shot the remaining soldier, plugging the man through and
through with a single snapped-off shot. As he folded up, Ambry grabbed Morris, who gave a
squawk of indignation. What the devil are you doing? he said, glaring at his subordinate.
My duty, Ambry said. He extracted a pistol from within Morris coat and stepped back,
holding both weapons. He glanced at Petrov. Five years. Five years working my way into the
Ministry. Ruined, because you couldnt keep your mouth shut, he snarled. Petrov nodded and
chuckled.
Forgive me comrade, but I do so enjoy my little jokes. Petrov gestured with the rifle.
Besides, youve served your purpose. He patted the belt. The Eye belongs to us now. Wont
your masters be pleased?
Forgive you? Ambry said, glaring at the other man. Five years!
Traitor, Morris snarled. You bloody traitor!
Not so, not so, Petrov said. Dear Ambry is a sworn son of your dreary little empire.
Arent you Ambry? Born in London, werent you?
Blackpool, Ambry said.
You told me you were born in Lewisham! Morris said accusingly.
He lied, St. Cyprian said. I always knew you were a bit of a prig, Ambry. This is beyond
the pale, however.
Quiet! Ambry snapped, gesturing with a pistol. One good thing about being outed? I
wont have to listen to your blather any longer!
Eventually, we knew youd bring it out of hiding, Petrov said, clearly relishing the way
the conversation was going. And we made sure that when you did, we would be waiting!
Whos we? Gallowglass said. Your lot went the way of the Dodo when the Tsar got
the chop.
Just because the Tsar is gone, does not mean that I sit idle, Petrov said. I have new
friends now. Men of vision, who seek to turn this mad world back onto the path of sanity. And
with this stone, we will do great things indeed.
Like what? St. Cyprian said.
Thats for me to know, and you to find out, Petrov said, patting the belt.
St. Cyprian hesitated. Petrov was practically begging to gloat. And St. Cyprian needed to
know who he was working for. At least tell me who put you up to this. Who bought your
loyalty?
Petrov grimaced. It is an alliance of convenience, Charles. Tit for tat, as you English are
wont to say. His expression became sly. Have you ever heard of the Order of the Cosmic
Ram, Charles? Because theyve heard of you, and they quite despise you.
St. Cyprian froze. The Order of the Cosmic Ram was as unpleasant as they camea
group of militant occultists, with designs on the throne of Great Britain. He had run afoul of
their schemes several times over the years, since the end of the war, most notably during the
affair of the Maida Vale Mummy, when a rancid little mummy-enthusiast named Gladstone had
employed a rather nasty set of Roman remains to bump off several men whod crossed the
Order. What do they intend to use the Eye for, Grigori?
Petrov tapped the side of his nose. What do you think, Charles?
Quiet! Its none of his concern, Ambry growled. Kill him.
Indeed, Petrov said, smiling. Goodbye, Charles. He looked at Ambry. If you want
him dead, shoot him. No sense in wasting the Eyes energy on him.
Gallowglass, who had been watching the exchange silently, suddenly thrust her hand
into her trousers pocket. It emerged gripping the heavy Webley-Fosbery revolver she habitually
carried. Her thumb caressed the hammer and she pointed it at Petrov, who swung around in
surprise. The Eye, Gallowglass said. Put it down on the floor and raise your hands.
No. No, I think not, Petrov said, hugging the belt close.
Drop it! Ambry barked, turning a pistol on Gallowglass. St. Cyprian tensed.
I wont ask again, Gallowglass said.
Ebe, St. Cyprian began.
Drop it, woman! Ambry said.

You first, Gallowglass said.
Id listen to him, Petrov said, chuckling. Ambry is a dead shot.
So am I, Gallowglass said. This, she went on, in a conversational tone, is a WebleyFosbery automatic revolver, produced by Webley and Scott of Birmingham. Its single-action,
centre-fire and has a six-shot capacity, of .455 caliber. The first shot is, due to the recoil
mechanism, quickly followed by the next five. Which means that if you twitch, its going to turn
your noggin into a red mist, innit?
Ebe, if you shoot that blasted cannon, theres a good chance you could damage the
Eye. And if that happens St. Cyprian said. If that happens, we all burn.
Gallowglass hesitated. She glanced at St. Cyprian. Petrov gave a bark and the pistol in
Ambrys hand followed suit. Gallowglass threw herself aside and fired her own weapon,
eliciting a howl from Ambry as he dropped Morris pistol in response to the bullet caressing the
edge of his wrist. The other five shots sent him scrambling for cover.
St. Cyprian leapt forward, crashing into Petrov and slapping his palms into the Enfield,
knocking it spinning from the other mans grip. Petrov howled and swung an awkward punch at
St. Cyprian, who stepped back. Petrov staggered off balance and St. Cyprian grabbed for the
belt. Petrov jerked back, but too late and the belt was sent flying.
It struck the floor with a thump, the flap flying open. A gem the size of a mans palm
rolled out, leaving a scorched trail across the wood. It was all the colors of the sun, vicious and
vibrant and it winked angrily as it rolled towards a patch of sunlight.
No! Petrov shrieked, diving for it. St. Cyprian grabbed Gallowglass and threw her
aside.
Everyone down! he roared, even as the Eye of Atum blinked.
There was the smell of burning pork and an agonized cry spiraled up, momentarily
silencing the gunfire outside. Then, horribly, a laugh.
St. Cyprian got to his feet, his face pale. Petrov stood as well, clutching the jewel to him
as fire swept around him like a snarling, snapping cloak. There was a vague shape to the flame,
something hunched and alien that hurt his eyes to look at.
Hell, St. Cyprian swore.
Shouldnt that have burnt him to a crisp? Gallowglass said as they got to their feet.
Id hoped it would.
It ismore intense than I expected, Petrov said, in a voice like crumbling ashes. So
powerful. It almost hurts. He turned and St. Cyprian stumbled back, raising a hand to his face.
Petrov thrust out an arm and the fire spun down its length, licking out towards the occultist. He
dove one way and Gallowglass the other.
Ha! Petrovs laugh was like logs snapping in a fireplace. Run, Charles! Let me see you
run!
He turned, sweeping the cyclone of fire after St. Cyprian. Heat caressed his back and he
fell with a sharp yelp of pain. He struggled out of his suit-coat, rolling across the floor in a
desperate bid to snuff the flames.
Gallowglass, meanwhile, had scooped up a fallen rifle by the barrel and took a batters
stance. She whistled, and Petrov turned.
Eh?
The rifle smashed across his face and burst into flame. Gallowglass dropped it with a
yelp as Petrov staggered, dazed. St. Cyprian saw his chance, and took it. Rising to his feet, he
lunged, his burnt coat wrapped around his arms like an awkward pair of gauntlets. He crashed
into Petrov and they smashed through the door and out onto the deck.
The flames crashed towards him, close enough to singe his hair, but parted as he
fastened his fingers on the gem. Even through the coat he could feel it pulsing like a sore
wound. Petrov shrieked imprecations, stamping his foot, burning a print into the polished
wood.
Sweat rolling down his face, St. Cyprian took a step forward. Then another. A third,
pushing Petrov back towards the rail. The flames surged forward and fell back, not touching
him, but pressing close. His skin dried and cracked from the heat and he began to feel like an
over-cooked sausage.
What are you doing? Petrov hissed, trying to wrestle the Eye out of St. Cyprians grip.
Flames hunched and roiled around them, like a creature in a trap.
You were never very observant, Grigori, St. Cyprian said through gritted teeth. Fire
clawed at him as the gen seemed to shriek and it folded around his hands. The coat burst into
flames and crumbled off of his arms. More flames lashed out, scorching the deck, and then St.
Cyprian drove his knee up into the space between Petrovs legs and hauled back on the Eye,
drawing the fire around it. Petrov gave a strangled bark and the gem popped free of his fingers.
It was like yanking on a tree root. The flames crisped his shirt-front and caressed St.
Cyprians knuckles as he set his legs and used every bit of strength remaining in him. Grunting
in agony, he twisted and pulled the fiery carapace away from its host.
As it left him, Petrov staggered, then fell, his eyes rolling up into his head. Blisters
bulged on St. Cyprians hand as he raised the stone, drawing the fire around and around like a
streamer, listening to it scream.
In his head was the howl of every fire in the world, from tiny campfires to the mighty
blazes that had leveled Rome and London. It spoke in hissing sibilants, promising him power if
he would but unleash it. Even so, he could feel the raw, naked heat baking his flesh. It
consumed even those who could control it. Such was the nature of the thing that had streaked
down through the atmosphere and punctured the sands of Egypt.
He saw its history in pain-inducing flashes. Scenes of a city being raised over a great
crater. Of a second city and a third as each was burnt hollow by the thing that nestled within. Of
wars fought and an empire founded on a lick of devil-flame.
St. Cyprian stumbled to the rail and lifted the stone. On the shore, men in motley
clothes darted, peppering the Seeley with rifle-fire. They could have been Bedouin, or Russian
or any one of a hundred nationalities. Egypt was full of such men, in the wake of the Great War.
Hands weeping pus from his burns, St. Cyprian commanded the stone, and there was a
vast great sigh, and then a smell like a hot day just before a summers rain. Fire lashed out,
forming in the air even as it struck the shore and scoured it clean. Men screamed and then
vanished, leaving behind only twinkling motes of ash.
The water of the Nile erupted in a great splash, driving him back in a cloud of steam. He
looked, and saw another boat approaching.
That was how Petrov had been planning to get back to Cairo, then. Men clutching
weapons waited on the deck. Bullets plucked at the rail and the deck as an antique bombard
gave a belch, sending up another plume of water. They were trying to drive the Seeley towards
shore. And they would succeed, unless he did something about it.
The jewel seemed to purr in his hands. It wanted to be used. Needed to be used. Was
this what Dee had felt as hed smashed Phillips Armada to flotsam and jetsam? Was this how
Drood had felt at Tunguska?
It was like there was a sun inside his head, burning him up even as it protected him. A
corona of poisonous invincibility. Only the mental training hed received was keeping that
power from turning on him, even as it had turned on Morris man.
A moment of hesitation, a moment of doubt, and he would be just another blackened
skeleton to add to the pile. He only had moments to act as it was. He had to empty the Eye, to
purge it of its newly filled power. That was the only way to be sure.
He raised the Eye but then stopped as a pistol gave a soft click behind him. He glanced
over his shoulder. Ambry flinched back, but kept his revolver trained on St. Cyprians head.
Drop it, St. Cyprian, he said.
You dont have to do this, Ambry, St. Cyprian said.
Oh but I do. And Ill enjoy it, if it comes to that. Ambrys voice was toneless. Put the
Eye down.
I cant do it. You know what someone like Petrov would do with something like this.
And someone like that ponderous clod Morris is any better? Ambry spat. He shook a
bloody fist. Do you know how easy it was to convince him that we needed to re-power that
thing? That we could use it quell the uprising in Egypt?
Quite easy, I should imagine. Morris has always been a bit of a romantic, where magic
is concerned, St. Cyprian said through gritted teeth. The fire hummed and surged inside him,
demanding to be released. It would crisp Ambry like an ant in the sun. But not before the gun
went off. Ambry was fast. Hed seen that for himself.
Hes about as romantic as a potato, Ambry said. But hes no fool. Thatthing is too
powerful not to be used. It can change everything. It can set the British Empire back on its
proper course.
It changes nothing. All it can do is burn, St. Cyprian said flatly. Do you think youre
powerful enough to control it?
Petrov is. Thats why the Order of the Cosmic Ram sought him out, and rousted him
from whatever oriental hellhole our agents discovered him in. He knows the ways of such
things.
Petrov is a lunatic, St. Cyprian said. And so are you, if you think hell honour any
bargain he made with your Order.
Maybe so, Charles, but what are you? Petrov said, pulling himself to his feet with a bit
of help from the deck rail. He looked shaky and weak, but his eyes blazed with hunger. Only
the mad prosper in this world.
The stars are right; the world is wrong, Ambry said. We will shear the fleece of
history and weave a new tomorrow. The Order will set the course of the Empire right. He lifted
his pistol. And you will not stand in our way. Before St. Cyprian could reply, a pistol spoke and
Ambry seemed to leap to the side. He spun, clutching himself and smacked against the rail. He
looked down at his hand, then up at St. Cyprian. Five years, he said.
Then he was gone, over the rail, as if he had never been.
Morris, followed by Gallowglass, smiled victoriously at St. Cyprian and saluted him with
his still-smoking Webley. I never liked the little prig anyway. Give them what for, Charles, he
rasped.
And you stay still, Gallowglass said, pointing her own weapon at Petrov, whod frozen
in a half-crouch.
The Eye snarled in St. Cyprians grip and he turned back to the approaching boat. How
many men were aboard it? A dozen? Two? Thirty or more? Enough to kill everyone aboard the
Seeley certainly.
No! Its mine! Petrov, recovered, howled, crashing against him. Gallowglass fired, and
both men followed Ambry into the Nile a moment later, wreathed in alien fire. The water
bubbled and boiled around them as they sank down, wrestling for possession of the Eye.
The Nile seemed to be trying to spit the abominable thing that had entered it out, and
the water surged and heaved. A monstrous, reptilian shadow seemed to circle them, its tail
lashing in anger. Petrov howled like a sick dog, bubbles bursting from his mouth as his fingertips
scraped along the facets of the jewel.
St. Cyprians grip was strong, however. In truth, he didnt know whether he could have
released the jewel if hed wanted. They rolled over and over through the water, and St.
Cyprians vision began to go black as his lungs began to burn. He forced himself to focus and a
moment later a vast bubble of heat exploded outward and Petrov vanished. St. Cyprian didnt
bother to check whether he was dead. Instead, he focused his attentions on the approaching
boat and thrust the Eye through the dark water.
There was no time left. He had to act.
He screamed and the Eye shuddered in his hands. Something seemed to erupt from it,
freed for the first time in years, fully free to indulge in its most fervent desire. Something made
of flame and heat that tumbled up out of the Nile and skated across the surface of the water,
leaving a boiling trail in its wake.
It was shaped like a blind mans idea of a lizard, all unearthly angles and sputtering
spines of hissing fire. It grew and shrank, like any flame, as it sped towards the boat. Men leapt
overboard with screams of fear as it struck the vessel. There was a shattering flare of noise,
light and heat and then, silence.
The gem lost its terrible brilliance, becoming dull and dark. St. Cyprian floated to the
surface, still clutching the dim jewel. Part of him yearned to drop it to the bottom of the Nile,
but the other part-the sensible part-knew that would be a mistake.
A boat-hook snagged him and he was pulled onboard by sailors and soldiers, who
stepped back as Gallowglass rushed to his side. She gave a hiss as she saw him. His hair had
been burnt to a bristle, and his hands and face had the look of a man who had been lost in the
desert for weeks. His clothes too had been burnt to blackened rags. He smiled wearily at her.
You could have shot Petrov, you know, he said, spitting out a mouthful of river water.
Didnt know if it would work, she said. How do you feel?
How do I look?
Like an overcooked roast thats been dunked in the loo.
Thats how I feel. He looked at the stone, then allowed it to drop from his hand. It
rolled across the deck, coming to rest at Morris feet. Morris frowned and stooped.
Hefting the Eye, he peered at it, then looked at St. Cyprian incredulously. Youve
drained it! You bloody fool! Its useless now!
You could always go back to Heliopolis, Morris, St. Cyprian said. It might do you good
to get your hands dirty.
You Morris began, then shook his head. Why?
It was too dangerous, Morris, and you damn well know it. He sighed. The Egyptians
built an empire on the ashes it left behind, and it burned them from within. Dee knew that,
even if some of his successors didnt. That stone was left inert for good reason. He smiled
slightly. Look at it this way, MorrisI was simply doing my job, just like you ordered me to. St.
Cyprian looked away, his head hanging in exhaustion. Ill defend the Empire to the death from
any threat. Externalor otherwise.
Morris frowned, and then looked away. And in his hand, the Eye of Atum lost the last of
its color as it closed once more.
NOTE: "The dErlette Configuration" was a free Halloween giveaway for 2013.
THE DERLETTE CONFIGURATION

Well, that is certainly a cursed puzzle box, Charles St. Cyprian said. He eyed the small
cube of wood which hovered four feet above the floorboards of Phillip Wendy-Smythes study.
The facets of the box were inlaid with brass and gold and it glowed with an unhealthy radiance
that put St. Cyprian in mind of a wound festering in the air. The air throbbed with a wordless
hymn of subtle banality, caused, perhaps, by some mechanism within the floating lock puzzle.
St. Cyprian sucked meditatively on the cigarette protruding from his lips. He expelled smoke
through his nostrils and then sucked some more, his eyes never leaving the floating box. Yes,
definitely a cursed puzzle box, he reiterated.
I know its cursed, Charles! My question is how do we stop the blasted thing from
inhuming my immortal soul within its dashed facets? Wendy-Smythe said. The plump man
wrung his hands in growing panic. He mopped at his florid features with the sleeve of his
oriental dressing gown, nearly dislodging the stained fez which topped his round head. I can
feel it clawing at my very spirit. Like hooks in my brain, flaying my ectenic self from its earthly
vessel, he wailed.
Right, yes, but my question iswhy did you solve the dratted thing in the first place,
Phillip? In contrast to Wendy-Smythe, St. Cyprian was tall, dark and slim, and dressed in one of
Savile Rows finest sartorial creations. That is a genuine dErlette Configuration after all. I can
tell by the filigreeits not some childs plaything. Unless Im wrong about my cursed puzzle
boxes, which Im not, St. Cyprian continued, with the surety of a professional.
That surety was born of often painful experience gained in the investigation,
organization and occasional suppression of That Which Man Was Not Meant to Know
including vampires, ghosts, werewolves, ogres, fairies, boggarts and the occasional worm of
unusual sizeby order of the King (or Queen), for the good of the British Empire. Formed
during the reign of Elizabeth the First, the office of Royal Occultist had started with the diligent
amateur Dr. John Dee, and passed through a succession of hands, culminating, for the moment,
in the Year of Our Lord 1922, with one Charles St. Cyprian and his erstwhile assistant, Ebe
Gallowglass.
Like you werent wrong about that ghost last week? the latter said, from her perch on
the arm of the chair on the other side of the study. She gently spun the cylinder of the WebleyFosbery revolver she had cracked open on her knee. St. Cyprians assistant wouldnt have
looked out of place in a Soho dive or a smoke-filled betting shop.
Ghosts are tricky, St. Cyprian said, not looking at her. The facets of the box were
beginning to shift and spread into something rather unpleasantly non-Euclidean.
What about that thing in the basement of Great Ormond Street the week before that,
Gallowglass asked.
What about it?
You said it were a rat. Only it werent. It had too many teeth and too few legs,
Gallowglass said, giving the Webleys cylinder a spin.
Yes, thank you Ms. Gallowglass. Your observations, while correct, are not pertinent at
this juncture, St. Cyprian said, glaring at her. She stuck her tongue out at him and went back to
inspecting her pistol. St. Cyprian straightened his necktie and sniffed. Besides which, this is
neither a ghost nor a hairy whatsit. This is a unique artefact of eldritch origin, and one which we
are lucky to see in fullahflower, as it were. He glanced at Wendy-Smythe and said, No
offense meant, old thing. Wendy-Smythe made a noise somewhere between a wail and a
whimper in reply.
St. Cyprian ignored him and clapped his hands together. Right, yes, well, first things
first, well need a pentacle for Phillip here. And then something to deal with whatever decides
to crawl out of that box in He fished a pocket watch out of his waist coat and opened it. He
glanced at Wendy-Smythe. When did you finish fiddling with the cursed artefact of infernal
facets and eldritch design, Phillip? Two-ish or thereabouts, wasnt it? He snapped the watch
closed without waiting for a reply. Approximately twenty minutes, then. Give or take.
Give or take, Wendy-Smythe said in a strangled voice.
This aint an exact science, Phillip, St. Cyprian said, looking back at the box.
And if it were, you still wouldnt know, Gallowglass said. She snapped the revolver
closed and slid it into the shoulder holster beneath her coat. St. Cyprian whirled, mouth open to
protest. Before he could, Gallowglass hopped off of her perch and said, One pentacle coming
right up. Ill go get the kit out of the Crossley.
St. Cyprian studied the box with the air of a billiards player lining up a shot. I did warn
you about playing with this grisly little device, he said.
I couldnt help it, Wendy-Smythe moaned. It called to me, whispered sweet nothings
about the hidden knowledge that would be revealed unto me should I but solve a childs puzzle.
I just wanted to knowto see!
I hate to point this out, old thing, but this is really just the powdered werewolf teeth all
over again, aint it? St. Cyprian gave Wendy-Smythe a stern look. And that dratted business
with those canopic jars two months agoyou remember that?
Yes, Wendy-Smythe said weakly.
Do you? Because I dont think you do. A man who remembered unleashing a phantom
clowder of angry Egyptian cat spirits might not be so eager to play with an obviously demonic
puzzle-box.
I did write a dashed swell letter of apology about the cat-thing, Wendy-Smythe
muttered. And those werewolf teeth werent real anyway.
St. Cyprian patted the other man on the shoulder and turned back to the box. The hum
had grown louder and more piercing. It sounded as if there were a nest of hornets trapped in
the box. The light which emanated from the box had grown stronger, shrouding the room with
a sickly haze, and strange shadows squirmed just out of his eye-line.
Whats in it, Charles? What have I awoken? Wendy-Smythe whispered. He shuddered
where he stood. I can hear it whispering even now, in a voice like the rustle of leaves in a
growing wind. It is a voice of doominsidious and triumphant!
Really...whats it saying? St. Cyprian said. He watched the shadows hump and congeal
about the box like a gauzy halo of smoke. There were shapes in the shadows, like contorted
human figures, writhing and spinning. It was almost hypnotic, in the way a serpents gaze was
said to be. More than that, it was exceedingly disquieting, even for him. The air was charged
with a foul anticipation, as if some great beast were crouched, waiting, just out of sight. Part of
him wanted nothing more than to turn around and walk out, leaving Wendy-Smythe to his fate.
Unfortunately, he had a job to do. Besides which, for all his faults, Wendy-Smythe was a friend,
of sorts.
Its telling me what awaits meits saying that Ill have all of the answers I desire.
Every mystery will be solved, ever crumb of secret knowledge mine to devour after I have been
transfigured by He Who Comes, Wendy-Smythe mumbled.
Yes, it would say something like that wouldnt it. Tearing the whatsit off the face of the
world and all that rot, St. Cyprian said. Before Wendy-Smythe could reply, Gallowglass kicked
open the door of the study and staggered in, swinging an obviously overburdened Gladstone
bag. She dropped it on the floor and gave it a kick.
Brought the kit, she said.
And in one piece, if only just, St. Cyprian said. Whatever would I do without you, Ms.
Gallowglass?
Die, she said simply. She sank to her haunches and opened the bag. She extracted a
mouldering satchel, on which strange sigils were sewn, and plucked a piece of chalk from it.
You want to do the honours, or you want me to do it?
Youre the one with the artists touch. Dont get too close to the box though.
Remember what happened in Myrdstone, what?
That wasnt my fault, Gallowglass said sourly. She extracted several short sections of
polished wood and began to assemble them into something resembling a snooker cue. Once it
was complete, she attached the chalk to the tip and began to scratch out a circle around the
hovering box. She gave no notice to the shadows that clustered about her, and they in return,
shied away. There was something about Gallowglass which put off the more ethereal types, St.
Cyprian had noticed. In the same way dockside roughs would cross to the other side of the
street when they saw her coming towards them, ghosts, spooks and spectres would waft out of
her path with unseemly haste.
As Gallowglass drew the protective pentacle, St. Cyprian went to the bag and withdrew
several more objects. Wendy-Smythe hovered over his shoulder and darted nervous glances at
the floating puzzle box. As to your earlier question, its like this, Phillip, St. Cyprian said, as he
removed a pair of thick, metal gauntlets, with bunched sleeves of chainmail. Strange, jagged
symbols had been scratched into the metal of the gauntlets, and they were dark with age.
Thats less a puzzle box than a door, of sorts. And what youve done is unlocked that door, at
the behest of a glib-tongued prowler on the other side. Now, said prowler is scratching at the
door with his various and sundry limbs, and nudging it open. So what we need to do is wedge
the door shut, get the key back in the lock and bobs your uncle. He held up a small vial
containing an oily liquid and gave a swirl. Not very quick on the draw, your average threshold
lurker. Takes them time to slough off one dimension and enter another, rather like a snake
shedding its skin. Normally, youd have been bally hypnotised or otherwise indisposed, only
able to watch in mounting horror as your doom approached with all the alacrity of a
moderately lazy garden slug. Lucky for you, youve had a bit of experience with the secret
rhythms of the world and all that, and you managed to shake it off and call me.
He anointed the gauntlets and the sleeves with the oil. Old Comte dErlettehe of the
aforementioned dErlette Configurationwas a rum fellow. Wrote that ghastly Cultes des
Goules grimoire back in 1702, and came to bad end soon after, as those fellows often do.
Before he joined the Choir Invisible, however, he paid for the construction of a number of these
nasty little toysword has it a French toymaker of dubious reputation was involved, but thats
neither here nor there, one supposes. I say, how are we coming, Ms. Gallowglass? St. Cyprian
called out, over his shoulder.
Its trying the eat the chalk, came the reply.
Well dont bloody let it; that stuff expensive, St. Cyprian said, without turning around.
The chalk was made from the powdered bones of martyrs, and there werent as many of those
as one might think. Wendy-Smythe gibbered tinnily, his eyes bulging in horror as he watched
Gallowglass at her work. St. Cyprian reached up and gently slapped the other man. Pay
attention, Phillip, this is for your benefit, not mine.
Whatwhatwhat... Wendy-Smythe babbled, looking down at him.
Its just a bit of ectenic distortion, nothing to fear. Think of it as the warning growl of a
predator on the hunt, St. Cyprian said. He finished anointing the gauntlets and set the vial back
in the bag. Now, where was Ioh yes, puzzle boxes. At any rate, dErlette had a number of
these little booby-traps devised, for some insane reason. He was French, so theres really no
telling. Maybe something spoke to him in the dark, or maybe he swore an oath, or maybe he
was just a nihilistic prankster. Regardless, the boxes are bad ju-ju. Theres no telling what sort
of horror is lurking in therea pandimensional sadist perhaps, or some form of tentacle-waving
feaster from the stars. Its a bit like Christmas...you never really know what youre going to get.
Help me get these on, would you Phillip? He gestured to the gauntlets.
Whatwhat are you going to do? Wendy-Smythe whispered. The hum from the box
had grown painfully loud now. There was grinding, screeching quality to it, as if massive gears
were turning somewhere. The box had lost all shape, and become a jumbled mess of facets
which moved and slid about seemingly at random. Eerie squamous shapes flitted between the
facets, and a sound like teeth chattering filled the room. Gallowglass looked as if she were
caught in a hell-born wind, her coat flapping as she finished the last sigil of the pentacle and
stepped back, chalk-stick extended like a spear.
You sure about this? Gallowglass muttered as St. Cyprian stripped off his coat and
stretched like a runner preparing for a marathon.
Not in the least, St. Cyprian said, as Wendy-Smythe helped him pull on the gauntlets.
The chainmail sleeves stretched to his shoulders and were connected behind his neck by a
leather strap. He flexed the fingers of the gauntlets. Wish me luck!
Then, without further hesitation, he stepped towards the outer edge of the pentacle. A
wave of heat caressed his face, and he smelled a foul odour, like an open crypt on a summer
day. Things moved out of the corner of his eye, shapes which were at once vast and miniscule,
but always incomprehensible. They swam about him as the light from the puzzle box became a
harsh, eye-searing violet in hue. The floating box seemed to recede as he reached for it,
shrinking from his touch. Steam rose from the gauntlets as the holy oils did their work. Sweat
rolled down his face, and the smell grew worse as he reached for the jumble of facets that
made up the dErlette Configuration.
It was like pushing his arms into hot treacle, but he succeeded and grabbing hold of
something solid. Whatever it was squirmed and thrashed in his grip as he began to bend and
twist the shimmering facets back into the shape theyd once held. They fought against him, and
soon, his arms were trembling with effort. He caught glimpses of what lay within the facets, an
impossible space full of abominable architecture which folded in on itself again and again, and
a-glow with a violet radiance that caused his stomach to churn. There was a shape there, far
away, but striding closer with every second. He could feel the floorboards beneath his feet
tremble with the phantom tread of the figure. It seemed to fill the audient void, blotting out the
light as it moved, loped, squeezed itself through the grotesque encrustations which blotted the
world beyond.
It spoke as it moved, blighting the air with its voice. It roared and whispered all at once,
and St. Cyprian squinted against the resultant waves of pain that threatened to eclipse his
senses. He fought against the unwilling facets, shuffling them back into place. It was as much an
effort of faith as it was any skill at puzzle solving. Steam billowed from his gauntlets now,
obscuring his vision. The heat pressed against him in invisible coils. His clothes began to char
and smoke in places. The shape had almost reached him. It stretched out towards him, and a
writhing mass of dark things exploded into the world, slithering about his arms and lashing at
him with stinging force. I say, a bit of help wouldnt go amiss, he yelped. The tendrils gripped
him, and his feet began to slide towards the pentacle edge as he was drawn towards horror
that lurked within the facets. They were strong, and he knew that if he resisted, the
Configuration would spring open once more, releasing the thing that now pressed against the
other side. Any time now, chaps!
Gallowglass was suddenly behind him, her revolver balanced on his shoulder. Hold
still, she shouted as she took aim at the thing within the facets. The Webley-Fosbery roared,
and St. Cyprian went momentarily deaf. Gallowglass emptied the cylinder and the tendrils
retreated in confusion. Something that might have been a shriek of frustration reverberated
through the room, and the pressure on the facets lessened. Panic lent him speed, and he
worked quickly, heaving the box back into shape. As it shrank, the violet light faded, and the
throbbing hum grew weaker and weaker. The grinding noises faded, and the monstrous tread
began to retreat.
Finally, as the light became merely a flicker, the box again resembled the simple childs
toy it pretended to be. It spun slowly between his palms, grudgingly shrinking back to its former
proportions. Finally, the dErlette Configuration grudgingly settled in his hands. An unpleasant
smoke rose from it, and his gauntlets had been charred black. Ash flaked away from his arms as
he set the box down carefully in the center of the pentacle and backed away. The leather strap
the held the gauntlets on had burnt to a cinder and he removed them with an exhausted shrug.
They crashed to the floor, and lay smouldering.
Thank you, Ms. Gallowglass, St. Cyprian said, plucking at his ruined shirt. Your
intervention was most timely.
Gallowglass holstered her pistol. I dont think I hurt it.
Probably not. Gave it a shock though, I daresay. Enough to make it retreat. He sniffed
and looked at Wendy-Smythe, who had collapsed into a chair, his expression that of a man who
had taken a flight over hell. Wendy-Smythe looked at him, and then past him at the box. As
they watched, the dErlette Configuration settled into its old shape with a final despondent
click, and sat silently smoking on the floor.
Youre welcome, by the way, St. Cyprian said, after a moment.
NOTE: "Iron Bells" was published by Pill Hill Press in the 2011 anthology, THE TRIGGER REFLEX,
which is available via Amazon.com. It was reprinted in 2013 by Emby Press in the anthology,
BOTH BARRELS, available from Amazon.com.
IRON BELLS
For Robert Barbour Johnson, HP Lovecraft, Robert E. Howard, Arthur Machen, HG Wells and all of the
things that have learned to walk that ought to crawl.
It was 1922 and the Minister of Transport for the London Underground was at a loss.
Sitting in the parlour of a particular house on the Embankment, surrounded by curios from
strange shores and books that smelled of unguents and oriental oils, he tried several times to
begin. Finally, he simply came out with it.
Fifteen dead, the Viscount Peel, the Minister, said as he dabbed his lips with a napkin.
He folded the napkin carefully, placed it on his saucer and looked at his host. Weve called it a
crash and roped off the area, of course.
Of course, Charles St. Cyprian said, sipping his tea. In contrast to Peels long,
quintessentially English face and aristocratic style, St. Cyprian possessed hard olive features and
a Mediterranean exoticism to his dress despite its Savile Row origins.
It wasnt. A crash, I mean, Peel added unnecessarily.
Of course, St. Cyprian repeated. He put his cup down. What does the Tunnel
Authority say?
They assure me that the-ah-the seals are undisturbed, Peel said, looking distinctly
uncomfortable. Is that the correct word? Seals?
Seals, sigils, symbols, if you will. Runes, even, if you prefer, St. Cyprian said. He spoke
with a certainty that one would expect of a man occupying the post of Royal Occultist. Formed
during the reign of Elizabeth the First, the office of Royal Occultist (or the Queens Conjurer, as
it had been known) had started with the diligent amateur Dr. John Dee, and passed through a
succession of hands since. The list was a long one, weaving in and out of the margins of British
history, and culminating, for the moment, in one Charles St. Cyprian. Care for more tea,
Viscount? he continued, making an offhand gesture with the tea pot.
No. Thank you, Mr. St. Cyprian. Theahthe Authority recommended that I contact
you. A Mr. Morris, in the Ministry, spoke quite highly of you and youre particular...talents.
Is that what Morris called them? St. Cyprian said. Talents?
Highly? Us? said the third person sitting in the study. Ebe Gallowglass was, for lack of
a better description, St. Cyprians assistant. Dark-skinned and wielding a startlingly white smile,
she would have been referred to as an apprentice in earlier centuries. In 1922, she was simply
an annoyance of the most vocal kind where men like Peel were concerned, dressed
flamboyantly in mens clothes and bearing a revolver with the smug self-assurance of a
merchant seaman. Thats a laugh and half, she continued, scrubbing a thumb across the
spatter of freckles that occupied the bridge of her nose.
Peel frowned. Unfortunately, he was slightly more vulgar. Still, I have high hopes you
can deal with our little matter.
Fifteen people is a little matter? Gallowglass broke a biscuit between two fingers and
nibbled it insouciantly as she met the Viscounts glare with a bland gaze. Bloody hate to see a
big one.
I apologize, St. Cyprian said, smiling slightly. Ms. Gallowglass is afflicted with terminal
impudence.
Impudence is fatal now? she interjected.
St. Cyprian glanced at her. For you? Quite possibly. He turned back to Peel. Do go on
Viscount.
Hmp. Yes, well. Peel looked at St. Cyprian. Morris said that you would need the area
left as is. The Tunnel Authority have seen to sealing it off for you. One of them-Stanhook, I
believe his name is-will be waiting on you. Solid fellow. Bit queer, but then all those Tunnel
fellows are a bit, you know, eh? Peel made a shaky gesture and shook his head.
Considering what they have to deal with, I do believe theyre allowed a bit of oddity.
St. Cyprian snapped a biscuit in half and swallowed the larger piece almost without chewing.
Worm that gnaws, wot?
Er, yes, rather, Peel said hesitantly. From the unhealthy sheen of his face, St. Cyprian
figured that the Viscount had only recently been filled in on certain pertinent details regarding
Londons Underground. It was a strange world down there, in many ways a funhouse mirror
version of the city above. Right down to the inhabitants.
Have a biscuit, Viscount, St. Cyprian said kindly, pushing the plate towards Peel in
order to hide his shudder. Well have it sorted, never fear. The Office of the Royal Occultist has
long had a working relationship with the honourable gentlemen of the London Tunnel
Authority.
After the biscuits were gone and the tea had been reduced to dregs, St. Cyprian and
Gallowglass found themselves trooping down the stairs into the maw of the Embankment
Underground Station. Two uniformed police constables had been stationed above to turn back
the hoi-polloi, but they stepped aside for the duo, nodding respectfully. One tapped the brim
of his helmet.
So, Gallowglass said as they stepped onto the platform. Colourful posters lined the
curving brick walls, boasting the merits of the zoo or Hampton Court.
So? St. Cyprian said, stepping to the edge of the platform and peering into the tunnel,
his hands in his pockets.
Whats so scary about the Underground then? Gallowglass said, joining him. She lit a
cigarette and handed him the lighter. St. Cyprian popped open his silver cigarette case, selected
one and lit it. The brand was unique; hand-rolled by a Moro woman in Limehouse and
delivered to her customers by armed courier.
Depends who you ask, he said, blowing smoke through his nostrils. The platform was
empty, thanks to the Metropolitans finest above, and eerily quiet. Their voices echoed
strangely, fleeing into the tunnels and cascading away into unseen depths.
Funny. I thought I was asking you, Gallowglass said, snatching the lighter back and
bouncing it on her palm. Ive never heard of the London Tunnel Authority.
Really? Old firm, that lot.
How old?
Their charter goes back before the Great Fire, I should think. St. Cyprian glanced at
her. Before you ask, it was the first Great Fire, when our fair city was Londinium.
Gallowglass whistled. Old firm too right. So who are they?
Canaries in a coal-mine, St. Cyprian said, smiling bitterly. Only slightly more
expendable.
That clears everything up, thank you, she said sourly.
Glad to be of service, assistant mine. St. Cyprian tossed his cigarette onto the platform
and crushed it under his heel. Speaking of assistance...I do believe our ride is here.
The low little shape scooted up the line towards the platform with a loud clackety-clack,
the large spotlights mounted on the front, sides and back railing blazing away despite the
relatively well-lit condition of the platform. It paused in a shower of sparks and a metal
gangplank extended, connecting the platform with what was revealed as a heavy-duty hand-car
with a chugging, chuffling gasoline engine mounted on the rear. Three men rode the car,
dressed all alike in boiler suits and hard-hats with lamps mounted on the brims. Two had
Thompson sub-machine guns clutched in their gloved hands, with extra ammo drums clipped to
the harnesses they wore. The third man had a Mauser pistol holstered on his hip and a Webley
revolver in his hand.
It was the latter who opened the side gate on the hand-car railing and beckoned St.
Cyprian and Gallowglass forward. Mr. St. Cyprian? Ian Stanhook, night-manager for the
Thames Section. Glad to see you sir. Damn glad. Care to come aboard?
After you, Ms. Gallowglass, St. Cyprian said. They boarded quickly and the hand-car
set off with a squeal even before Stanhook had gotten the gate shut.
Glad you could come out sir! Stanhook shouted over the growl of the engine as they
whipped through the tunnels.
How bad is it? St. Cyprian shouted back.
Not as bad as Tunnel 18, but worse than Charing Cross! Stanhook said, holstering his
Webley. Dont know what its all about really though!
How are the seals holding?
Bit of leakage sir, but thats natural! Stanhook said grinning. We can handle the odd
vagrant, no worries!
You dont think this is one of their lot then? St. Cyprian said, ignoring Gallowglass
inquiring look. Youre sure?
Sure as we can be where theyre concerned! Stanhook said. He gestured to the rail.
Hold tight, were heading to the sub-platform now! Abruptly the hand-car took a sharp turn
and then it was hurtling down a slope. Gallowglass repressed a squeal of fright. A moment later
she glared at St. Cyprian who was grinning openly at her.
The hand-car slowed in a burst of sparks and the engines roar died to a grumble. Ahead
of them, a solitary underground carriage sat on the track. More boiler-suit men occupied the
platform, most carrying weapons. Once the plank was extended, Stanhook led St. Cyprian and
Gallowglass up onto the platform. Another man took his place on the hand-car and it reversed
course with a shriek, hurtling back up the tunnel.
Weve still got a few checks to run this evening, Stanhook said by way of explanation.
We cant let anything deter us from our appointed rounds, can we? He took off his helmet
and ran a hand through his sweaty mop of hair. He was a short man and built spare, with a
wilting grin and a long face.
So what exactly is it that you do down here? Gallowglass said.
Stanhook looked at St. Cyprian, who shrugged. Well, we see to the integrity of the
Underground, Stanhook said. Keep the tunnels free of vermin and such. He lit a foul-smelling
cheroot with a match and sucked in a lungful of smoke. We also see to certain sewer lines and
cellars and such.
Vermin, Gallowglass said.
Mostly vermin, Stanhook said, nodding.
Not rats, Gallowglass said, looking at St. Cyprian.
Sometimes rats, he replied.
Of unusual size, Stanhook said, spreading his hands. He dropped his hands and
nodded to the carriage. This wasnt rats of any description though, Im afraid.
No, it wouldnt be, St. Cyprian said, striding towards the carriage with his hands in his
pockets. Gallowglass and Stanhook hurried to catch up. The doors were open and the smell of
carnage was heavy on the recycled air. The guards on the doors steadfastly kept their eyes
turned away. St. Cyprian gingerly stepped inside. Mind the blood, he said tersely.
Gallowglass cursed as she caught sight of the pitiful, mangled scraps of once-human
meat that occupied the length and breadth of the carriage. Instinctively, her fingers found the
butt of the Bulldog revolver holstered beneath her frock coat and she stroked the Seal of
Solomon carved there on the ivory grips. What the devil happened in here?
The devil indeed, St. Cyprian said, hiking up his trouser cuffs and sinking to his
haunches near one of the more intact bodies. His face had gone gray and assumed a pinched
look. Memories of Ypres, never buried too deeply, surged to the surface of his mind like hungry
sharks. He closed his eyes for a minute, trying to push back against the flashes of blood and
wire. Hed taken two bullets, but there were other wounds than just the physical.
When he opened his eyes, he took a breath and began to examine the corpse. Parallel
slashes. No, more like rips than slashes. This wasnt done by claws so much as brute strength.
He glanced over his shoulder at Stanhook. Youre certain there was no leakage around the
tunnel seals?
Yes, Stanhook said, nodding jerkily. Theyve-ah-theyve been quiet lately.
They? Gallowglass said.
Good. St. Cyprian ignored her and looked around, his dark eyes narrowing
thoughtfully. All of the blood is on the inside, did you notice that? He stood and sniffed the
air. And the smell...
It smells like blood, Gallowglass said, tapping her fingers against her pistol. Whos
they?
And only blood. No odour of the unnatural. No musk or must or mildew. The doors
werent forced, the windows are unbroken and the roof hasnt been breached. St. Cyprian
gestured as he spoke. He blithely ignored the glares his assistant tossed his way and turned to
Stanhook.
What are you saying? Stanhook said.
Inside job, Gallowglass said, shaking her head. Someone-something was on here
with them. She looked around, her olive features strained. Christ.
Not even close, St. Cyprian said. He looked at the floor. Footprints, Stanhook, from
bare feet. I assume you followed them?
We tracked them to the stairs going to the street. Then they just...stopped. Stanhook
frowned. They were human enough looking, if a bit big.
So where did he-did it-go then? Gallowglass said.
Home, I assume, St. Cyprian said. He put his shoes on and went home. He turned in
place, patting the air with his hands. Theres something here. Something were not seeing.
Shoes? Stanhook said, blinking.
Yes. Thats why the tracks vanished, you see. He put his shoes back on. St. Cyprian
waved a hand. Thats not important. What is important is that we find this individual.
You think were dealing with a man, then? Stanhook said. And not one of them?
Them, they, those, Gallowglass said. Who are they?
They are not our concern, St. Cyprian said. He cast a look at Gallowglass and her
mouth shut with an audible snap. Double your patrols, Mr. Stanhook. Watch the joins and set
up some unscheduled line work in the deeper sections until we get this sorted.
And him? Stanhook said. What do you think-
Its not one of them. Thats all that matters.
What about this? Stanhook said, indicating the carriage.
A terrible accident. No survivors. St. Cyprian paused, and then said, Destroy the
carriage. No sense in riling them up with something that smells, however faintly, of food.
Stanhook gave another jerky nod. Right. Youll call us in if theres any problem?
Indubitably, St. Cyprian said. Until then...
Double the patrols. As you say, sir. No fears, well see to it, Stanhook said, pulling his
Webley and checking the cylinder. He spun it shut with a slap of his palm. We always see to it,
in the end.
There seemed to be little else to say. Before they left the carriage, St. Cyprian borrowed
a pair of pliers from one of the boiler-men and extracted a handful of teeth from the mess.
Borrowing a canteen next, he washed the teeth clean and dried them with his handkerchief.
Wrapping them up tightly, he bounced the package on his palm and led Gallowglass up the
stairs and away from the platform. More bobbies met them at the exit, looking pale-faced and
full of questions. They said nothing however, merely nodding in recognition.
Good old Metropolitan Section 13, St. Cyprian said, returning the nods. They can be
counted on to see nothing, hear nothing, and do whats required.
Because if they dont, Morris from the Ministry and his lot will have them out of
uniform and on the dole or in the dock faster than they can spit, Gallowglass said. And
speaking of hearing nothing...
St. Cyprian sighed. Im sorry. I was hoping not to have to give you this particular lowdown until farther along in our association. And in better circumstances. They stepped out
onto the street and St. Cyprian took a deep breath, as if seeking to expel the stink of dark places
from his lungs.
Just give it to me straight, if you would, she said, her dark eyes boring into his own.
Straight eh? Fine. Heres straight...there are things in the deep that walk that ought to
crawl. Straight enough?
Crooked as a corkscrew, Gallowglass said, lighting a cigarette. She cast a nervous
glance at the station they had just left. Things?
You grew up in Cairo. Surely you heard stories about ghuls? he said.
I was too busy scrounging to listen to stories, she said tersely.
Ever read any HG Wells then?
Yes, I-hnh. Morlocks? Gallowglass said, her expression moving from curiosity to
incredulity. Really?
Very good. And no, not really. St. Cyprian opened the handkerchief on his palm and
spilled the teeth out onto the sidewalk. It was late enough that were no prying eyes to see as
he took out a pen-knife and pricked his thumb. But its as good an appellation as any.
Morlocks, ghouls, mole people, all names for the same phenomena.
What are you doing with those?
I thought you wanted to hear about ghouls, St. Cyprian said. He sniffed. Just a bit of
the old black Kush. Bits of the cruelly dead to roust out a murderer. Blood welled out of the
hole in his thumb and he deftly squeezed several drops onto each tooth. Their presence has
been noted in every country in the world and by every people. The Bible references the ghouls
that burrow, as does a number of other holy-not to mention unholy-books. In Persia, in Russia
and in China they hunt them with guns, dogs and fire. Here we have solid chaps like Stanhook
and the London Tunnel Authority.
So those seals you kept mentioning...
One of the original duties of this Office was to the crafting and maintaining of certain
wards against unannounced visits from our neighbours far below, St. Cyprian said. Squeezing
out another patter of blood, he swiftly smudged a curving sigil on the pavement near the teeth,
followed by three more, one at each of the compass points. When they began the excavation
for the Underground, it stirred the devils up something fierce. He frowned. They reported
most of the deaths as being due to flooding or tunnels collapsing. Droodno, Beamishwas
Royal Occultist then. Ive read his notes from that period. He shook his head. Not bedtime
reading by any stretch of the definition.
He sat back on his haunches and looked up at her. Theyre everywhere, you see.
Theyre crawling and creeping right now beneath every major city on Earth, as well as under
every hamlet and every backwoods village. Oh, some places are free of em to be sure, but only
because something infinitely worse is there instead. His voice was flat and emotionless. In the
War, they dug up through the trenches and dragged the dead into the depths. Thats where I
first saw em. Poor old Carnacki pointed them out to me and showed me how to draw the
Caudete Loop to warn them off. Likely theyd never seen such a banquet, the beasts. I- He
stopped and shook his head.
What are they? she said. Really, I mean. Are they people? Or something else?
What they are is not our problem, St. Cyprian said. Not now. Hopefully never.
Sounds like our sort of problem to me, Gallowglass said.
Not this. I-Hell. St. Cyprian stood. On the pavement, the teeth were jumping like
droplets of grease in a frying pan. Swiftly, he snatched them up and deposited them back in the
handkerchief, tying up the ends as he did so. Then he held the parcel out, letting his arm move
back and forth. The rattling of the teeth grew louder or quieter depending on the direction and
St. Cyprian set off in the direction that caused the loudest noise.
So were listening to teeth now? Gallowglass said.
To tell the tooth, I- St. Cyprian began, and then stopped when he caught Gallowglass
flat glare. Not in the mood for puns?
No. How is a colony of mole-people living under London not our problem exactly? she
said.
Since the Romans enacted the Treaty of Pompelo, to keep our race and theirs from
going to war, St. Cyprian said. The ones the Tunnel Authority deals with are the equivalent to
ye auld Scottish Border Reivers. They raid our world and we deal with them accordingly.
Anything more could lead to...unpleasantness.
You saying its not already unpleasant?
Im saying it could be worse! St. Cyprian rounded on her, teeth bared. They were
here before our ancestors came down out of the trees and we caught em by surprise once, just
long enough to drive them underground, but theyre ready for us now, dont think they arent!
Theres an awful secret wisdom down there in those millennia old catacombs...why else would
wizard and shaman alike go down into the earth seeking knowledge? He made a face. We
cant win, dont you see? The best we can do is hold the line. Once a year I go down with the
Tunnel Authority and renew the seals on the walls of the Underground and in the sewers and
cellars and we hope-we pray-that theres no secret incursion in some East End cellar where
theyll gather and breed like rats.
And if they do? Gallowglass said quietly.
Then Stanhook and his ilk go in with fire and guns and burn them out. They seal the
holes with brick and plaster and then I paint a certain marking on the wall and in five or ten or
twenty years my successor will do the same again when theyve worn the seal away or some
fool builder has smashed it aside in order to re-do the downstairs.
He held up the handkerchief full of chattering teeth and smiled thinly. But that in the
carriage? That we can do something about. That is in our remit, most assuredly. Now, do you
want to do something worthwhile or would you like to argue some more?
Gallowglass pulled her pistol and spun the cylinder. Toothfully? she said, grinning
slightly, trying to lighten the mood. Id like a lie-down and a cuppa. But Ill settle for shooting
something.
St. Cyprian gave a laugh and turned away. I rather think that can be arranged.
Where are we anyway?

Highgate, I believe. St. Cyprian held up his hand. This way! They moved at a quick
trot through the darkened streets. Gallowglass kept her pistol down by her side, her thumb on
the hammer.
The rattle of the teeth grew louder and louder as they moved through the narrow
streets of Highgate village. Finally, the teeth became so loud that St. Cyprian was forced to
wrap them tightly and stuff them into his coat pocket. I do believe were here, he said
quietly, gesturing to a house on the cusp of the hill.
You can see the city from up here, Gallowglass said, gesturing to the expanse of
London visible from the crest of the street.
Like the top of a termite mound, St. Cyprian said, turning to the house.
Unfortunate choice of words, Gallowglass said quietly. She had holstered her pistol,
but her hands clenched nervously. Considering, I mean.
Possibly, St. Cyprian said. Care to do the honours? He gestured to the door.
Why me?
Well, you are my assistant.
And that means I knock on doors for you now?
No. It means that you stand in front of me when were about to enter someplace
potentially dangerous. St. Cyprian grinned at her, his teeth flashing in the darkness.
Gallowglass made a disgusted noise and went to the door. She rapped sharply and stepped
back, one hand beneath her coat. St. Cyprian stood behind her and to the side, his own pistol
out albeit hidden by her form.
The brief echoes of the knock faded. No lights came on. Maybe no ones home,
Gallowglass said.
St. Cyprian held up a hand. Or maybe theyre watching us through the window there. I
just saw the curtains twitch.
Want me to shoot the lock off?
I believe the lock is on the inside of the door. And no, not at the moment. St. Cyprian
pulled his Webley and rapped the butt against the door. The lanyard ring gouged the brightly
painted wood. Open up in the name of the law!
And what law are we, exactly? Gallowglass said.
Law of the land. Law of the living. Law of the open the bloody door! St. Cyprian
bellowed. Lights came on down the street and somewhere a dog began to bark.
It would have been quieter to shoot it open, Gallowglass said, looking around.
But less satisfying. Hsst. St. Cyprian stepped back and holstered his pistol. The door
opened. A pale, rotund face peered out at them, owlish eyes blinking behind wire-frame
spectacles.
Dear me, yes-ah-Officer...?
Good evening sir. Charles Morris, with His Majestys Ministry. May we come in? St.
Cyprian said, smiling genially.
We-ah-who-
My assistant, Ms. Havisham, St. Cyprian said, waving a hand in Gallowglass general
direction.
Wotcher, Gallowglass said.
Havisham? The round eyes blinked and the cherubic face retreated. I-yes-of course,
dear me, dear me.
Havisham? Gallowglass hissed, glaring sideways at St. Cyprian.
I only said it because I fully expect you to be left at the altar some day, St. Cyprian said
in a placating tone. He grunted as her knuckles dug into his arm.
They stepped inside and were greeted by the glassy eyes of shelf after shelf of foreign
curios and knickknacks. The owner of said curios was of average height but above average bulk,
with an egg-shaped body and bent arms that ended in hands that clasped nervously. Slightly
bowed legs added to the general impression of obesity and fragility he exuded.
What-ah-what Ministry did you say you were with? he said, lips pursed.
Just the Ministry, Mr... St. Cyprian said.
Dibny. Dibny Bunter. A wide tongue made a quick visit, dabbing at the plump lips. Is
there some-ah-problem?
Nothing a quick chat wont clear up I shouldnt think, St. Cyprian said, patting Bunter
on the arm. I understand that its late, but it is urgent sir, very urgent. A matter of national
import, in fact.
National...? Dear me, dear me. I dont suppose youd like a cuppa?
Kill for one, Mr. Bunter. Murder a man stone-dead, Gallowglass said. She was
rewarded by a twitch of Bunters thick eyebrow. They followed the hobbling figure back
through his cramped rat-warren of a home, dodging stacks of newspaper and empty boxes and
ill-placed shelves. More ceramic and glass statuary guarded the approach to the kitchen and St.
Cyprian caught himself trading stares with a garishly decorated clown for a moment longer than
he felt was entirely healthy. The man was a pack rat.
Their host began to rummage around in various cupboards as they took seats at the
narrow table. Ill put the kettle on, wont be a minute, no, Bunter said, waddling back and
forth.
Delightful Mr. Bunter, Im sure. Now, might I ask whether you were out and about
tonight at all? St. Cyprian said.
Tonight? Eh? No, dear me, no, I dont go out, no, Bunter said, blinking rapidly. Thatsno, oh no-thats quite of the question. He made pushing motions with his hands. Gallowglass
glanced at St. Cyprian and they shared a look.
Mind if I nip to the loo? Gallowglass said. Is it upstairs?
I-yes, dear me, mind the ah-upstairs, yes, Bunter said, licking his lips, his eyes flicking
back and forth between them. Behind him the kettle began to whistle. To-ah-to your right?
Left. He turned and plucked the battered old kettle off the hob. Yes, to your left, top of the
stairs. He looked at St. Cyprian. Milk, Mr. Morris?
No thank you, St. Cyprian said. So you say you werent out?
I dont go out, Bunter said, watching St. Cyprian stir the tea to cool it. Its the bells,
you see. I cant abide the bells.
Bells?
The bells. This city is full of bells. Clanging and ringing and groaning. Theres so
much...noise. So much noise. Even, dear me, even down-ah-down there, Bunter said
hesitantly, gesturing towards a door on the far wall. St. Cyprian looked at the door and
frowned. It was, to all intents and purposes a cellar door like any other. Granted, most cellar
doors didnt have padlocks and strap-locks and pinned hinges. A tingle of the old fear rippled
through him. The locks were open and there was a smudge of red on the frame.
Down there...you mean the tube? St. Cyprian said. Something scuttled behind the
plaster of the wall, though Bunter gave no sign that hed noticed.
Runs right under the house, you know. Right under the hill. I can feel it, dear me, I can
feel it in the soles of my feet.
St. Cyprian glanced down. Bunters feet were crammed into bedroom slippers. He
looked up, watching the other man drop five cubes of sugar into his tea. The iron bells,
Bunter went on. Poe, you know.
Poe?
The American writer? Dear me, dear me, I do love a bit of Poe. Ghastly, grim and-ah-
Ghoulish? St. Cyprian said. Bunter froze, his face becoming waxy and mask-like.
Ah, ah, ah, yes, dear me, he said. Your tea is getting cold, Mr. Morris.
Hear the tolling of the bells, the iron bells, what a world of solemn thought their
monody compels...that Poe? St. Cyprian said, stirring his tea.
Bunters head bobbed. How we shiver with affright at the melancholy menace of their
tone, he said idly, his eyes unfocused. He took off his spectacles and rubbed his face. In the
dull light of the kitchen, he didnt look so much cherubic as simian. He blinked and looked up.
Wherever is Ms. Havisham?
Satis House? St. Cyprian said.
Eh?
I said, they that dwell up in the steeple. The bell-ringers, you know.
Yes? Dear me, dear me, Bunter said. Lovely poem, lovely poem. But he was right, old
Poe. Horrid things, bells. Bunters fingers writhed around his cup. I can hear them when I
sleep, tolling up from below. Far below...
They are neither man nor woman, brute nor human-they are ghouls, St. Cyprian said.
Gallowglass stood in the kitchen doorway. She held a blood-stained pair of trousers dangling
from the barrel of her pistol.
Bunter looked up. Ghouls? No. Dear me, oh no, I- He caught sight of Gallowglass and
his expression became glassy. I say, thats-thats mine.
Ticket stub in the pocket, Gallowglass said, watching Bunter the way someone might
watch a rattlesnake. He was on the carriage.
I know, St. Cyprian said as he pulled the teeth out of his pocket and unwrapped them.
They hopped and bounced out of the cloth, skidding across the table. Bunter shot back so fast
his chair fell over with a bang and he backed up against the cellar door.
What-what-what- he stammered.
A bit of the old whatsit, St. Cyprian said, rising to his feet. Necromancy I should say.
Bad juju, but efficient enough when it comes to hunting down killers.
I-kill? No! Dear me, I-
You cant deny the tooth, Gallowglass said grimly. The teeth hopped and jumped at
the edge of the table like hungry dogs trying to leap over a fence. Bunters lips writhed back
from surprisingly large teeth and then he was lunging forward, nightshirt flapping. With a
bellow, he flipped the table and spun, wrenching open the cellar door.
The bells! The bells! he howled, bounding down into the darkness.
Bells? Gallowglass said, looking at St. Cyprian after a moment of shock.
Classical reference, he said. I see an electric torch on the icebox there. Grab it and
lets go.
Down there? With him?
No, upstairs. Well lock ourselves in the loo and wait for help. St. Cyprian kicked the
table aside and started for the stairs. He stopped just inside the door, listening. Gallowglass
flipped on the torch and lit up the stairway.
Moved fast for a fat man, she murmured, following St. Cyprian down the stairs.
Not so fat and not so much a man, he said. He stopped on the final step and lifted up
the ragged remains of a night-shirt. Naked, though.
Oh good. As if this wasnt unpleasant enough. Gallowglass panned the torchs beam
across the walls of the cellar. It was surprisingly empty, considering the state of the house
above. Heavy bricks and flat paving stones were all that they could see.
There was a soft scratching sound all around them, like the midnight perambulations of
hundreds of mice or rats. Gallowglass swallowed audibly. Rats?
Maybe. I think- St. Cyprian was interrupted by a sudden rumbling. The floor shifted
slightly beneath their feet, sending vibrations up through their legs.
What the devil was that? Gallowglass said, swinging the torch-beam around.
The ten fifty-five Northern Line, I believe, St. Cyprian said. Poor devil was right...it
does run right below his house.
In the darkness, something hissed. St. Cyprian spun, but too slowly. A pale fist
thundered across his jaw and he fell, his pistol sliding away in the dark. Gallowglass swung the
torch around, catching the edge of a bestial white shape as it swung across the room towards
her. Green cat-eyes glowed in the darkness and something snarled. Gallowglass fired twice,
each shot lighting up the gloom.
Bunter yelped and tumbled away. Find my gun, St. Cyprian said, rising into a crouch.
How about I find him first, eh? Gallowglass snapped. A moment later she grunted as
something crashed into her and threw her off of her feet. The torch hit the floor and spun.
Worm-white feet danced in the light.
The bells, can you hear them? Bunter growled, his formerly breathy voice gone
guttural. The iron bells, ringing in the depths, calling me down. Calling us down. But I dont go
far, dear me, no!
St. Cyprian listened to the pad of inhuman feet circling them. In a spin of the torch, the
light caught his pistols lanyard ring and he estimated the distance. Why did you kill them, Mr.
Bunter? he said, hoping to distract the beast. You dont seem a bad sort, percussive obsession
aside.
I-kill? No. No! There was a horrid slobbering sound. When the iron bells ring, I go
away! Theyre ringing now...its so hard to think! Dear me, dear me, DEAR ME-
St. Cyprian lunged for his pistol. His buttons clattered as he slid across the floor and the
butt slapped into his palm. He rolled onto his back and leveled the pistol as the white mass that
was Bunter hurtled towards him, teeth bared and eyes wide and blazing. St. Cyprian fired and
rolled aside. Bunter fell and stumbled past him.
I-I feel Ive taken ill, he coughed. One hairy hand clutched at his abdomen, where a
red patch was spreading with swift finality. Dear me, dear me... He staggered back against the
loose brick of the wall and toppled into it, rupturing it in a quiet explosion of brick dust and
mould. Half in and half out of the cellar, Bunter stretched a hand into the darkness.
I think Im dying, he said, his rough voice pitifully small in the oppressive quiet of the
cellar. I can hear- His thick fingers twitched and then, with a sigh, he was gone.
Is he- Gallowglass began.
God I hope so. With the back of his hand pressed to his mouth to stifle a coughing fit,
St. Cyprian stepped towards the stunted body. His Webley was extended at the ready, and his
eyes were narrowed. Light, please, he said quietly.

I think hes dead, Gallowglass said, raising the torch. In the light, more than just
Bunters shame was revealed. Wiry white hair clung to his body in thick patches. His feet were
filthy and malformed, with oddly curled toes and wide soles. Even his face, now caught full in
the light and freed of spectacles and shadow, was odd in a distasteful way. The jaw was shaped
wrong and the neck was too thick.
Ugly bugger. No wonder he didnt go out much, Gallowglass said.
Hes not human, St. Cyprian said. Not fully anyway.
So what is he?
A changeling. They do that sometimes. He swallowed. They leave one of their own
and snatch a child for a...a snack.
So hes-?
Yes.
He killed all those people, she said. He killed them, and he didnt even know why, did
he?
No he didnt, St. Cyprian said, resting on his haunches. Poor fellow was mad from the
start. Trying to fit in, but never quite managing it until...what? He made a face. Something set
him off. Re-ignited those atavistic impulses. Who knows, maybe they- St. Cyprian stopped, his
eyes widening. The scratching they had heard earlier had become louder now that the wall was
down, but it was obvious now that it wasnt rats of unusual size or otherwise, unfortunately.
What is it? Gallowglass said. She ignored St. Cyprians frantic gestures to step back
and drew closer to the wall.
Not rats, St. Cyprian said harshly. In the light of the torch, something gleamed in the
darkness behind the wall. Several somethings. The scratching grew louder and there was a flash
of worm-pale flesh as something that might have been a hand reached through and tangled
stubby fingers in Bunters blood-stained flesh. Almost gently, his body was drawn into the
darkness where more hands waited. No, not rats, St. Cyprian repeated, taking aim with the
Webley.
Gallowglass grabbed his wrist. Youve got four shots left, she said softly. She played
the torch over the hole. The light reflected on the surface of more than four pair of eyes. Claws
scratched on stone and eager panting filled the cellar as the rumble of a passing tube-train
caused dust to drift down on their heads. From within the hole came the sound of meat being
pulled from the bone and the slurping of marrow.
Why are they here? Gallowglass said.
To take him back maybe. I dont know. What I do know is that if they get out of there,
theyll kill us... Slowly, carefully, St. Cyprian sank to his haunches and, with his pistol still aimed
at the things beyond the wall, began to draw his finger through the dirt. Swiftly he cut the
shape of a sigil in the dirt. From the hole came what might have been a disgruntled sigh.
Licking his lips nervously, St. Cyprian scraped another symbol, and then a third. The sigh
rose to a growl. That should do it. Back towards the stairs; keep the light on them, he said,
rising to his feet.
Whatever that was you drew, I think you made them mad, Gallowglass said.
As long as they stay mad in there, Ill live with it, St. Cyprian said. Keep going. Hop to
it.
I dont hop, Gallowglass said tersely.
Do you want to be eaten?
Look at that! Im hopping! Gallowglass scrambled up the stone steps. St. Cyprian
followed more sedately, his thumb on the Webleys hammer and his finger trembling on the
trigger. As he stepped through the door, he caught a last glimpse of them, watching him from
the darkness, their eyes alight with cool, alien intelligence. Maybe they had been human once,
but now...now they were something else entirely. Something malign and hungry.
He had a brief image of termite mound cities, stretching down, down into the depths
like a reflection of the city whose underbelly they clustered about. Of dim white ape-shapes
bounding through filthy sewer pipes and through jungles of human waste and crouching on the
platforms of forgotten ghost-stations. Of pale fingers prying at sewer grates and toilet pipes.
We are here. We have always been here. And we always will be, those eyes seemed to
say. Our children are among you already. And we will have back all that you have stolen. Then,
one by one, they winked out, leaving him alone save for his fear and the stink of blood on the
musty cellar air.
Once they were upstairs, St. Cyprian replaced Bunters bolts and locks, his pistol close to
hand. Gallowglass watched him, with her own recovered pistol cocked and ready. Well call in
Stanhook and the Tunnel Authority. Let them seal it up. Should have probably let them handle
it in the first place, he said. He turned to her, his face pale and sweating.
Was that them then? she asked in a low voice, her eyes on the floor.
Yes. St. Cyprian collapsed into a chair. His eyes were locked on the door, though his
pistol was pointed at the floor. He wondered if they were down there looking up at him. Yes,
that was them. Our delightful neighbours to the far south.
What was that he was going on about? Bells? She looked at him, her eyes wide. Was
that them, do you think? Was that what he was talking about?
I dont know, St. Cyprian said. He closed his eyes wearily. But I wonder how many
more poor buggers hear the same bells Bunter did...or will?
NOTE: "Wendy-Smythe's Worm" was first published on the Royal Occultist site in 2012.
WENDY-SMYTHES WORM
This fearful worm would often feed
On calves and lambs and sheep
And swallow little children alive
When they lay down to sleep
-The Lambton Worm,
Folk song, County Durham
The egg hatched at midnight.

The worm emerged, its still-soft scales rasping against the leathery edges of the egg, and
dropped off of the display table to the floor of the study with a dull thump. It was the color of
dried blood and already as long as a mans arm. Eyes the color of rotting pears fastened first on
the window, which looked out at the quiet Chelsea evening. Then, hunger prodding it, its eyes
fixed on the softly snoring shape of the man in the chair near the crackling fire place and with
an eager hiss the worm began to slither across the floor, its scales leaving gouges in the wood.
As it undulated, its body began to stretch, growing longer and longer, until it was big
enough to rear up behind the chair and curl around it. It opened its jaws, preparing to swallow
the mans head whole. The soft click of a pistol being cocked caused it to pause, however.
The man in the chair opened his eyes and smiled. Well, arent you the lovely beast?
Charles St. Cyprian was a lean man with striking olive features and hair the color of spilled ink.
Dressed in an expensively tailored suit, he was the very model of the society set. He locked eyes
with the worm and, almost gently, he brought together the strangely inscribed steel rings that
encircled three fingers of his left hand in a quiet clink! And big as well, he said softly. Bigger
than I hoped, at least. Still, all part of the job, I suppose.
The job being the investigation, organization and occasional suppression of That Which
Man Was Not Meant to Know, including vampires, ghosts, werewolves, ogres, goblins,
hobgoblins, bogles, barguests, boojums and other assorted unclassifiable entities, including
worms of unusual size. All such creatures were the purview of the Royal Occultist, as were
sorcerers, both foreign and domestic, and the occasional dragon.
Queens Conjurer, as it had then been known) had started with the diligent amateur Dr. John
Dee, and the holders of the office had ranged from the heroic to the villainous, with a number
of stops at marginal and ineffective along the way, culminating, for the moment, in one Charles
St. Cyprian.
The worm lunged. St. Cyprian dove out of the chair a moment before it struck and the
Webley Bulldog revolver in his hand banged as he slid across the floor. The chair toppled
backwards, and the worm with it, its coils squirming. It righted itself instantly and struck again,
swifter than the snake it resembled. Fangs like knives sank into the floorboards as he rolled
desperately aside.
Quick as well! he said hurriedly. Scrambling to his feet, he fired his pistol again and
again, neither shot having any more effect than the first, the bullets flattening themselves
against the beasts scales. The worm bunched and lunged, making a horrid whistling hiss that
threatened his eardrums. He stumbled aside and then it was coiling around him in one sinuous
motion, its eyes wide with animal hunger. Oh bugger, its prey grunted as the coils tightened.
Then, more loudly, The bullets arent working!
I told you so! Bullets cast from church bells or not, a revolver isnt going to bloody well
cut it! a womans voice replied. A figure which had before now been crouched atop one of the
large bookcases which occupied the study, rose and hefted a Moore & Harris double-barreled
rifle. Dark and slim, Ebe Gallowglass was, as usual, dressed like some hybrid of a cinematic
street urchin and a Parisian street-apache, with dashes of color in unusual places, and a
battered newsboy cap on her head.
The young woman sighted down the barrel, the tip of her tongue poking slightly out of
one corner of her mouth. This beauty, on the other hand she said, her finger brushing the
trigger.
Still trapped in the coils of the newly-hatched worm, St. Cyprians eyes widened. Dont
shoot! Dont shoot!
The worm struck, releasing its prey in the process. It arrowed across the room, smashing
into the bookshelf hard enough to cause the ancient wood to crack and causing an avalanche of
books to tumbled down, momentarily trapping the aggravated serpent. As it struggled to free
itself, the bookcase shuddered and wobbled. Gallowglass jumped even as it fell on top of the
worm. She hit the floor, the rifle going off with a thunderous roar.
Whoops, she said, looking up, and then back at the bookcase. It wobbled, then, with a
crack of splitting wood, the worm tore through the back of the bookshelf and reared up, twice
as long now as it had been. Its eyes blazed with bestial fury as it pulled more and more of itself
out from within the fallen bookcase.

She crawled backwards, reaching for the rifle where it had fallen. St. Cyprian fired his
useless revolver at the creature, trying to grab its attention. On your feet, Ms. Gallowglass, he
said. And be sharpish about it!
No need to tell me twice, Mr. St. Cyprian, she said, snatching up the rifle and cracking
it open. She fumbled in the pockets of her trousers for new shells. I cant help but notice that
the bastard is still growing, however.
Worms grow, St. Cyprian said, backing towards her as he emptied the spent shells out
of his revolver. Thats what they do.
I see your knowledge of the occult is as helpful as ever, Gallowglass said.
Folklore, actually, St. Cyprian said, slapping the Webley shut. Youre only an assistant,
so Ill forgive you not knowing the difference.
Ta for that, Gallowglass said, snapping the shotgun shut.
The creature eyed them warily for a moment, a pinkish bifurcated tongue flickering out
to taste the air and then, with a kettle-whistle shriek, darted towards them, jaws gaping.
Down, please! St. Cyprian shoved Gallowglass to the floor as the worm snapped at them. Its
ever-expanding coils toppled bookshelves and upended the writing desk near the window.
Ha! Gallowglass barked, bringing the rifle to bear as she sat up. Both barrels gave a
roar and the worm thrashed in agony as one of its bulbous eyes popped like a blister. It
shrieked and the windows creaked in sympathy. Then, with a rumbling sigh, it flopped
backwards, sinking into its quivering coils.
Good show! St. Cyprian said.
The church bells thing was a good idea, I must admit. Gallowglass watched the
twitching form of the worm grow still. Did for him though, right enough, she said.
Of course it did, St. Cyprian said, straightening his tie. I am the Royal Occultist, after
all. Its part of my job to know such things.
Gallowglass snorted. Our job, you mean.
Fine, our job, St. Cyprian said, looking at his erstwhile assistant and apprentice. If she
lived long enough, shed have his job, and be welcome to it. Frankly however, St. Cyprian found
the contemplation of his almost certain demise to be ghoulish at best and depressing at worst,
so he was willing to avoid it as long as ethically possible. Gallowglass seemed only too happy to
oblige. Idly, he wondered how his tenure would be remembered, after the fact. Brief, but
glorious in all likelihood, he muttered.
Nothing, he grunted as he looked down at the worm. Such creatures were thankfully
rare these days. The whole of Albion had once been riddled with them, and it had taken a bevy
of saints from George to Patrick to put an end to them. Lambton, Brinsop, Sockburn, lochs,
bowers and ruined churches had all played host to worms of various sizes, and more than one
Royal Occultist had ended his days in a snaky gullet. Thered never been one within the walls of
Londinium though, to his knowledge.
Bet Carnacki never forgot to include you in the hurrahs, Gallowglass murmured.
Seeing as I didnt meet Carnacki until the War, there werent many hurrahs to be had in
our time together, St. Cyprian said, as thoughts of blood and mud and Ypres caressed the
underside of his mind. Pushing the fog of bad memories aside, he said, Worms arent too
dangerous, if you catch them early and young. Its when they get to be the size of barns that
you start having to lock up virgins. They both turned as the doors to the study were opened
and a number of figures stepped hesitantly inside.
Is-is it over? the one in the lead said. He was a plump man, wearing an oriental
dressing gown and a sweat-stained fez, and he carried an Enfield army revolver in one
trembling hand.
Take a look and tell us, guv, Gallowglass said, eyeing the plump man with irritation.
Be polite, St. Cyprian murmured sotto voice as he stepped past her. More loudly, he
said, Safe as houses, Phillip, old thing. Phillip Wendy-Smythe was an avowed orientalists and
amateur occultist; he amassed dangerous things the way a child might gather sweets, and
shuffled nervously at the edges of the secret set, joining and being expelled from secret
societies at an impressive rate. He also had a tendency to spend his money unwisely on
dangerous things, like worm eggs pillaged from some dark bower by unscrupulous sorts. Of
course, if you hadnt noticed that there was something moving in there when you did, youd be
sliding down its gullet even now, like a fat little mouse.
What happened to polite? Gallowglass murmured.
I swear to you Chaz, it wasnt supposed to hatch! Wendy-Smythe said, pushing at the
air with his free hand, as if to ward off unsaid accusations. The gentleman I purchased it from
said it was quite dead.
Yes, and we both know that what aint dead can quite happily eternal lie, Philip, St.
Cyprian said. Or, in this case, hatch at midnight on the dot, first of November, 1923 Anno
Domini. He extracted a silver cigarette case from his coat and pulled one free. Tapping it on
the case he stuffed it between his lips and held up a finger. A flicker of flame suddenly danced
on his fingertip, causing Wendy-Smythes eyes to bulge. Even the most minor of magics tended
to have that effect on the uninitiated.
Toss-pot, Gallowglass said, snagging the case and making to grab a cigarette of her
own. St. Cyprian snatched it back before she could and stuffed the case back into his jacket.
Language, Ms. Gallowglass, he said. Puffing on his cigarette, he eyed Wendy-Smythe.
Who was it who sold you the egg, Phillip?
I-well, I didnt catch his name, Wendy-Smythe began, licking his lips.
Gallowglass clicked her rifle shut loudly, causing Wendy-Smythe to jump. St. Cyprian
glanced at her and then back at Wendy-Smythe. He leaned forward, smoke curling from his lips
and nose. Are you sure, Phillip? Are you quite certain that you did not catch his nom? Because,
where theres one worm, theres bound to be more, and its my duty to see to the culling of
such thingsas well as those who threaten our shores by setting them loose, what?
I-I didnt know! Wendy-Smythe squeaked.
Just like you didnt know about the cockatrice that time, or that business with the
essential salts, or the incident with that Karnstein girl? St. Cyprian said mildly.
Wendy-Smythe swallowed. I-he said he got it from the ruins of Castra Regis, in Lesser
Hill, he said in a rush. He said there were hundreds! Then, almost as an afterthought, he
said, I say, are you certain its dead?
Quite certain, St. Cyprian said impatiently. Why?
A-are you sure? Wendy-Smythe said. Only its eye is open.
St. Cyprian blinked and turned back to the worm. Its eye was indeed open, and filled
with all the malice a wounded serpent could muster. The creature rose slowly, balancing on
bloody coils as the gathered group could only watch, stunned. It lunged suddenly and St.
Cyprian spat out his cigarette and grabbed Wendy-Smythe, hauling him out of its path. The
worms jaws snapped shut on the arm of one of the portly mans unlucky servants and the
wretch was ripped into the air and flung high, his scream trailing after him.
Gallowglass, St. Cyprian bawled, snatching the Enfield revolver from Wendy-Smythes
unresisting hand and leveling both it and his Webley at the beast. He fired, trying to catch the
creatures attention as it went after the other servants, who were pushing and shoving, trying
to flee the study. The worm whipped towards him, following the sound of his voice. He
scrambled away as it slithered rapidly after him. Shoot it again! Shoot it again!
Now he wants me to shoot, Gallowglass murmured, hurriedly reloading. She was
forced to jump back as the worms tail swept towards her, nearly catching her behind the
knees. How much bigger is this thing going to get? she shouted, climbing up onto the
overturned desk.
St. Cyprian didnt reply. He was too busy climbing up one of the remaining bookcases,
the worm snapping at his heels. He turned as he reached the top and saw the studys light
fixture-an old fashioned gas-lit chandelier, now modified for electricity-hanging crookedly by a
broken pendulum. Gallowglasss first shot earlier had hit something after all.
The worm hissed like a steam engine and its scales tore splinters out of the bookcase as
it slithered towards him. St. Cyprian jumped, tossing his pistols aside, reaching desperately for
the chandelier. The worm dropped from the bookcase and sped beneath him. It rose up
beneath him, its maw opening wide as if it intended to scoop him out of the air.
St. Cyprian grabbed the chandelier and it broke loose from the ceiling in a shower of
plaster. Man and fixture crashed down, the latter smashing into the worms open mouth and
driving the beast flat against the floor with a thunderous cracking of floorboards.
Gallowglass rifle echoed the crash a moment later and the worms thrashing coils gave
a frenzied spasm. The worm shrieked again and hurled itself towards the large picture window.
It smashed through the glass like a scaly lightning bolt and vanished into the night beyond. As
broken glass pattered to the floor, St. Cyprian rolled over and pushed himself up with a heartfelt groan. Ow, he grunted. Ow, ow, ow
Daft monger, Gallowglass said, nudging him with her foot. That was a dumb stunt if
Ive ever seen one.
Dont sell me short; Im sure Ill do something infinitely more stupid, given time, St.
Cyprian said, getting slowly to his feet. He rubbed his shoulder with a wince. That said, ow.
Serves you right, Gallowglass said. She looked at the window. Hes a quick one, Ill
give him that.
My worm, Wendy-Smythe bawled, fez askew. He thrust his head out the window. Its
escaped!
Good, Gallowglass snarled.
Not good, St. Cyprian groaned, grabbing his Webley from the floor. If it gets away, no
one in London will be safe.
How is that different from normal, exactly?
Well, itll be our fault, for one, St. Cyprian said, heading for the door at a quick trot.
The game is a-foot, Ms. Gallowglass!
A-crawl, more like, she said, hurrying after him.
As they reached the front door, he spun and pointed a finger at Wendy-Smythe, who
had been following them. You, Phillip, will dredge that memory of yours until you find the
name of the fellow who sold you that egg, and have it on your lips the very minute we return.
I-
Do they still put people in the Tower? Gallowglass said. Or do we just execute
them?
Wendy-Smythe went pale and began to babble as they stepped outside, closing the
door in his face. That was unkind, St. Cyprian said.
Yeah, Gallowglass said, smirking. Fun though.
The familiar shape of St. Cyprians black Crossley hp 20/25 was waiting for them on the
street. The car was the same make and model used by the Flying Squad of the London
Metropolitan Police, a fact which its owner found amusing. After all, the Royal Occultist was a
policeman of sorts, at least these days. They climbed in hurriedly, and the Crossley growled as
lurched into motion, its headlamps pointed towards the northern bank of the Thames.
The worms trail wasnt hard to follow, thankfully. It slithered through the mostly dark
streets, its scales flashing beneath the soft gazes of street lamps. Late evening party-goers,
Bright Young Things dressed for masquerades and pajama parties screamed and scattered or
simply stood and stared as the monstrous serpent swept past down Shawfield Street, its eyes
blazing with a hellish light. The Crossley fairly flew in its wake, bumping over the sidewalk in
places as St. Cyprian spun the wheel, taking the corner and hopping onto Flood Street in pursuit
with more enthusiasm than skill.
Do you have any idea where its heading? Gallowglass said.
Where everything eventually goes in this cityto the Thames, St. Cyprian said.
Is that more folklore?
What of it? St. Cyprian said.
Just pointing out that the church bells didnt work, Gallowglass said.
Thank you. Your attention to detail is noted, St. Cyprian grated. Like any injured
animal, its seeking someplace to hole up and lick its wounds, the darker the better.
And what happens if we dont catch it?
Then the Chelsea set better start rounding up virgin sacrifices, because once it reaches
its full growth itll take more than a rifle to send it slithering, St. Cyprian said, squeezing the
horn and sending late-night revelers reeling drunkenly from the Crossleys path.
Lovely, Gallowglass said. Do you have any idea how were going to stop it then?
Because shooting it only seems to make it angry.
Im thinking, St. Cyprian said.
Think faster, Gallowglass said, pointing. There it is!
The worm lunged across the Crossleys path even as the car reached the Chelsea
Embankment. It reared up, though whether in surprise or hostility, St. Cyprian couldnt say. Its
coils rolled over the Crossley, shattering a headlamp and bursting the windshield, peppering St.
Cyprian and Gallowglass with glass. The Crossley groaned and skidded, its front bumper striking
the side of a building as the worm slithered away. Swiping glass out of his face, St. Cyprian put
the Crossley into reverse. Steam boiled from beneath the hood, mingling with oily smoke.
Coughing, he stomped on the accelerator and hurled the car after the worm.
The creature sped across the Embankment towards the welcoming embrace of the
Thames. The Crossley bumped after it, and St. Cyprian jerked the wheel and let it spin, sending
the automobile cutting across the worms path, too sharply for the beast to avoid them. Metal
struck scales and the creature screamed again as it convulsively coiled about the Crossley.
Metal buckled and the rest of the windows cracked as the creatures thrashing carried the car
up into the air. This? This was what you came up with? Gallowglass yelped, hanging on for
dear life.
I panicked! St. Cyprian said. Get the jerry can out of the boot, quick!
As the Crossley bent and buckled beneath the strain, Gallowglass heaved herself into
the back. Flipping around, she kicked her way through the ragged remnants of the roof and
dropped onto the boot. The worm thrashed wildly and she was nearly thrown to the street.
Meanwhile, St. Cyprian kicked his own door open, wincing as it was flung wide, snapping
off of its hinges as the worm tightened its grip on the auto. One hand on the roof, he jerked his
Webley from his pocket and fired. The worm ducked its head towards him, blade-like fangs
clashing together as he swung himself out of its reach.
Do take your time, Ms. Gallowglass, he shouted over his shoulder.
Got it, Gallowglass crowed, from the rear of the auto. She grabbed the side of the
Crossley and swung the can, which sloshed with petrol, towards St. Cyprian.
Swap, St. Cyprian barked, twisting around and tossing the Webley towards her.
Gallowglass sent the jerry can wobbling and he barely caught it, nearly losing his grip in the
process. The worm lunged, its fangs tearing through the canvas roof of the Crossley. St. Cyprian
cursed and slammed the jerry can into its head. The worm turned, jaws gaping, and struck. St.
Cyprian interposed the jerry can and the creatures fangs bit into the metal, puncturing it.
Petrol slopped everywhere, across the creatures scales and down its gullet. It swung about,
sending St. Cyprian spinning from his perch like a rag doll.
Gallowglass fired the Webley.
Fire blossomed as the bullet struck the can and sparked, and worm was wrapped in
flames within moments. It let loose an ear-piercing shrill and whipped about wildly. Burning
inside and out, the pain-maddened creature tried to hurl itself towards the Thames, but could
not free itself from the wreck of the Crossley. It thrashed and squirmed, burning steadily and
gradually, its wriggling became less pronounced. Its screams faded, disappearing into the soft
snapping and crackling of the fire.
Gallowglass picked herself up from where shed been thrown and limped towards
where St. Cyprian sat on the sidewalk. She sat down beside him and extended the Webley.
Good plan, she said.
Thank you, he said, pulling his cigarette case out of his coat. He opened it and
proffered it to her. She took one and he lit it, then his own. He glanced at Gallowglass. Feel like
a day trip? Say to Castra Regis?
Only if we take along a few more jerry cans, Gallowglass said.
I think that can be arranged, he said and snapped the cigarette case shut. Across the
street, the worm gave one last convulsive heave and then, there was only the sound of the fire.
NOTE: "Deo Viridio was serialized on the Royal Occultist site in 2014.
DEO VIRIDIO
For the god Viridius, Charles St. Cyprian said, peering up at the crumbled and ancient
archway, a lantern in his hand. The words had been inscribed when the stones that made up
the archway had been set, and time had worn them almost to invisibility in September of 1924.
What? Ebe Gallowglass said, flicking a cigarette butt into the briars that tangled
around the base of a weather-beaten wall. The briars were not the only plant-life to have
burrowed through the seemingly solid stones and the old stone behind the briars had been
rendered black by some long ago fire. That fire, a result of an unlucky lightning strike according
to the historical records, had gutted what had once been the house of a proud Lincolnshire
family of note, leaving it a cracked and crippled ruin.
The inscription, St. Cyprian said, pointing. It says, for the god Viridius.
Is that a clue? Gallowglass said, peering up past the ruptured ceiling of the cellar and
up through the skeletal remnants of the roof at the orange sky. The sun was setting and an
evening breeze slithered through the ruin, causing the greenery to rustle and shift. What man
had abandoned, in the wake of the fire, nature had reclaimed. Gallowglass, sitting on the
blackened stone steps that led down into the cellar from above, shivered slightly and pulled her
coat tight about her. She had dressed with her usual flairlike some hybrid of a cinematic
street-urchin and a Parisian street-apache, with a flat cap on her head, and her sharp, dark
features wreathed in smoke from her second cigarette.
Yes, and rather an obvious one, what, St. Cyprian said as he reached out to touch the
stone. At the last moment he pulled his hand back, thinking better of it. The ancient carvings on
the stones of the walls seemed to grin and grimace at him in sinister humour. Moss and
brambles poured from their gaping mouths, creating curtains of green on the fire-darkened
walls. But obvious dangers are still dangerous, he continued. In contrast to Gallowglass, St.
Cyprian was dressed like an advertisement for Gieves & Hawkes, Savile Row, from his polished
tie-pin to his equally polished Old Etonian intonation. And obvious or not, it definitely falls
within my remit, Id say.
Gallowglass made a rude noise. Our remit, you mean.
Fine, our remit, St. Cyprian said.
That remit, such as it was, being the investigation, organization and occasional
suppression of That Which Man Was Not Meant to Know, including vampires, ghosts,
werewolves, ogres, goblins, hobgoblins, bogles, barguests, boojums and other assorted
unclassifiable entities which were the purview of the Royal Occultist. Formed during the reign
of Elizabeth the First, the office of Royal Occultist (or the Queens Conjurer, as it had been
known) had started with the diligent amateur Dr. John Dee, and passed through a succession of
hands since. The list was a long one, weaving in and out of the margins of British history, and
culminating, for the moment, in one Charles St. Cyprian and his erstwhile assistant-cumapprentice, Ebe Gallowglass.
Thats better, Gallowglass said. Sure those will be enough? She gestured with her
cigarette towards the petrol canisters lined up like attentive soldiers near the stairs. Each one
was full and the cellar stank of petrol fumes where it didnt stink of damp, growing things.
Before St. Cyprian could answer, she glanced over her shoulder and sucked meditatively on her
cigarette. Company... Wood creaked somewhere above and a shadow spread across the wall
of the cellar.
Youre losing your touch. I heard them five minutes ago, St. Cyprian said.
Hard not to, the noise theyre making, Gallowglass said. She smirked. And I heard
them when their car pulled up ten minutes ago.
Oi, what are you doing down there? It was a womans voice, at parade ground
volume.
That doesnt sound like a local, St. Cyprian said, looking at Gallowglass.
And we were expecting more than one, Gallowglass agreed.
I believe I asked a question. Shall I find a constable? A young woman, with hair like the
inside of a lit coal-furnace and a face like a thundercloud, glared down at them from the edge of
the hole. She was dressed for outdoor labour and she presented a fairly intimidating figure, like
Hera glaring from on high. The duo looked up at her without apparent concern.
"Good God, I didn't know they grew gingers that big," Gallowglass murmured.
St. Cyprian shushed her. "And who might you be?" he called up to the newcomer.
"Bella Mae Jobson! And who are you? Because as certain as sin you don't work for the
Yorkshire Archaeological Society!"
"And how did you come to that conclusion, Ms.ahJobson, was it?" St. Cyprian
asked, mouthing the words Yorkshire Archaeological Society? to Gallowglass, who shrugged in
silent reply.
"Because I do, and this is my site and youre not one of mine," she snapped. "I insist you
tell me what you were doing down here."
Ah, St. Cyprian said. Well this is a bit of a rum do, and no mistake.
Frankly, Im happy to see her, Gallowglass said cheerfully.
Were not using her as bait, St. Cyprian said sharply.
WellIm still not doing it, Gallowglass said.
Are you going to answer my question, or shall I fetch a constable? Jobson shouted,
hands on her hips.
No, no constables are necessary Ms. Jobson, St. Cyprian said, Unless, of course, youd
like them to escort you off these premises?
Oh here it comes, Gallowglass said, pulling the brim of her cap down over her eyes.
What? Jobson bellowed, her voice causing the birds nesting in the upper reaches of
the ruin to burst into panicked flight. The greenery seemed to shift and hiss in a breeze.
Casanova, too right, Gallowglass said, making pistols with her fingers and pointing at
St. Cyprian, who made a face.
Quiet you, he said.
What did you say to me? Jobson bellowed again.
Not you, her, St. Cyprian said, rubbing an ear. I say, would you mind lowering the
volume a bit, what?
Jobson spluttered and started down the ancient stone steps, shoving past Gallowglass,
who grinned nastily at St. Cyprian as he was forced to take a step back by the approaching
archaeologist. Really, Ms. Jobson, were I you, Id leave right now and forget you saw
anything, he said hurriedly as she stomped towards him.
Don't be preposterous, Jobson said, coming to a halt in front of St. Cyprian, her arms
folded across her bosom. Just who do you think you are?
Charles St. Cyprian, St. Cyprian said. Ill be the fellow wholl be cleaning up your
mess.
Mess, is it? Jobson snapped. What the devil are you talking about? Are you one of
those potty druids that have been scampering around my site for the last week?
Druids, St. Cyprian said.
Poxy robes, bloody masks, off-key chanting, Jobson said. Showed them Mothers
Helper and they scarpered quick enough, she continued, slapping a hand to her coat pocket
where the shape of a small pistol nestled. Gallowglass perked up and bounced silently to her
feet. I'll not be carted off my site. Who knows what could happen without the proper
supervision," Jobson said, unaware of the other womans approach. This site is invaluable!
Good to know, St. Cyprian said. I wasnt planning to take anything, however; in fact,
quite the opposite. The look on Jobsons face said quite clearly what she thought of that.
Before she could reply, Gallowglass hand darted into the other womans coat pocket and
snatched the pistol there, plucking it out and stepping back quickly as Jobson spun.
Tiny, Gallowglass said, popping the small revolvers cylinder loose and emptying the
shells into her hand. Belgian, aint it? Yeaheight millimeter with a safety on the left, thirty
years old, or thereaboutsdefinitely Belgian, she continued. She tossed the safely emptied
pistol back to its owner and pocketed the shells. As Jobson gaped at her, Gallowglass twitched
aside the edge of her coat, revealing the shoulder holster and the heavy shape of the WebleyFosberry revolver resting snug within it. A Seal of Solomon had been picked out in ivory on the
butt. I prefer something larger, me.
Are we finished comparing artillery? St. Cyprian said. Wonderful. Back to the
druidshow many days would you say?
Whatwhowhy do you want to know? Who are you? Jobson said.
I thought wed covered thatCharles St. Cyprian, and this is my assistant, Ebe
Gallowglass.
Youre not here to steal anything, are you? Jobson said.
No, nor are we here to worship, enable or otherwise indulge, St. Cyprian said. Were
here to help. He looked around at the green and black cellar and hesitated. The briars clicked
together and something might have moved behind them.
For a given value of help, Gallowglass added. She looked around and added, Getting
dark.
And whiffy, St. Cyprian said, waving his hand in front of his face.
Jobson sniffed, and said, What is that?
Freshly cut corn stalks, St. Cyprian murmured, looking around, The forest floor after a
rain and moldy hay. He looked at Gallowglass and said, Looks like we picked the right night
for it.
Right night for what; why are you here? Jobson demanded.
As I said, were here to help, St. Cyprian said. And by help, I mean well be finishing
what God, in his infinite wisdom, started with that long ago lightning strike.
Jobson blinked. Her eyes widened as she saw the petrol canisters. You cant do that!
she shouted.
Can and will, actually, St. Cyprian said. Ms. Gallowglass, if you would?
A pleasure, Mr. St. Cyprian, Gallowglass said, hefting the first of the canisters and
unscrewing the cap. She splattered the stones with more enthusiasm than coordination, the
cigarette bobbing between her lips. Jobson and St. Cyprian couldnt help flinching every time
the red, glowing end of the cigarette dipped towards the sloshing petrol.
This is a historical site, Jobson said. You cant just burn it down. She fingered her
emptied pistol ruefully. I wont let you.

Thats why I took the bullets, Gallowglass called out, not looking at them.
Stone doesnt burn at the temperatures well be igniting, St. Cyprian said. Im simply
looking to ensure that certain matters stay snug in their holes.
What are you talking about? Jobson demanded.
Gallowglass grunted and turned towards the stairs. Cars, she said, fingers toying with
the pistol beneath her arm. She stopped on the top stair and cursed. More company, Mr. St.
Cyprian.
The infamous potty druids, St. Cyprian said.
Robes and Mayday masks, Gallowglass said, crouching on the stairs. She drew her
pistol. Should I show them the colors?
No, St. Cyprian said, sinking to his haunches and placing a palm on the floor. Though I
daresay you might want to give Ms. Jobson her bullets back, what?
Gallowglass dug into her pockets without looking and held out a hand towards Jobson.
Jobson looked at her blankly and then at St. Cyprian. What are you talking about? Whats
going on?
Why did you come down here, Ms. Jobson? St. Cyprian asked.
I was checking on the site, Jobson said defensively. She climbed the stairs and
snatched the handful of ammunition from Gallowglass. As she reloaded, she peered out over
the edge of the ruined floor and cursed. They could hear murmuring voices, carried on the
night breeze. Its them. What are they doing here?
Theyve been coming here for generations. Before this place burned, before it was
even built, Id wager. St. Cyprian looked up at her. And I meant, why did you come out here,
to this site?
Jobson frowned. Well it should be obvious, she said, gesturing towards the stone arch
and the grimacing faces. The Romans left a fair few stone footprints in Lincolnshire. I was on a
dig in South Yorkshire when I heard about it. There could be whats left of a whole temple
beneath this drafty pile. More, maybe; a settlement even She hesitated. Of course, its a
good deal more overgrown than Id been led to believe.
More indeed, St. Cyprian said as he rose to his feet, frowning. The smell is getting
stronger and there is a definite vibration. Did we bring the journal, Ms. Gallowglass?
Left it in the Crossley, Gallowglass said.
Pity, St. Cyprian said. Id like to keep an accurate record of the manifestations time
to occurrence and dispersal.
What manifestation? What are you blathering about? Jobson said loudly.
Deo Viridio, St. Cyprian said. Viridius Due. He looked at her. Thatd be you, I
assume. Tell me, who alerted you to the presence of this site? Lincolnshire is a bit out of the
way for the Yorkshire Archaeological Society, by my reckoning.

A local man, sort of the town historian I gathered. He keeps up with the Societys
journal, mentioned some similarities between this site and the one in Hovingham. Ive done a
fair bit of work up there, so I came down. Jobson frowned. What do you mean, thatd be
you?
Asked for you by name, did they? Gallowglass called down, Bloody cheek.
Bold, yes, but not unknown, with these sorts, St. Cyprian said, Killing black cockerels
at midnight and fingers in the entrails, that sort of rot. Probably saw her face in a basin of blood
or something. Did you disturb anything? He directed the last at Jobson.
It was already disturbed, Jobson said. Id just started taking notes and making
sketches.
The murmuring had grown louder. Not-so distant lights washed across the lightningscarred walls and arches of the gutted house. Theyre coming, Gallowglass said.
They wont come close, St. Cyprian said. Not until after
After what; look, whats going on? Jobson said.
Before either of the others could reply, a soft, insistent sound rose in the cellar, drifting
through the arch and winding upwards. It had always been there, but now it was louder and
more noticeable. St. Cyprian turned. Enter the King, stage left, he muttered. How much do
you know about Viridius?
It means green, fresh, or verdant, Jobson said automatically, Probably a RomanoCelt variation on Jupiter; a minor fertility deity. The sounds from below grew louder still as the
words left her lips. The briars rustled, as if something invisible moved between them and the
wall.
One who, by all accounts, was only worshipped here, St. Cyprian said. He picked up a
canister and continued splashing petrol over the stones. The fumes were strong, and Jobsons
eyes were watering.
The frontier did strange things to the Romans, Jobson said. Her eyes were wide, and
the sounds grew louder as she spoke, as if whatever was making them was growing excited.
Sounds like its still doing strange things, Gallowglass said from the top of the stairs.
Theyve stopped.
Theyre just here to make sure weyoustay put, St. Cyprian said, pointing at Jobson
as he grabbed up the last canister.
Why? Jobson said, raising her voice to be heard over the noise. She had her revolver
extended. The sound seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere, persistent and
unceasing.
Id wager the War threw off the normal routine, St. Cyprian said. Threw it off for
everyone else, I dont see why theyd be any different. No young people, you see. Theyre very
big on young sacrifices, these agricultural Johnnies. Young kings and queens, given up to corn-
wolves and harvest-lords; young blood makes the best fertilizer, I suppose. So they sent away
for some. A soft sigh went up from the moss and in the light of the lantern, the faces on the
walls seemed to assume expressions of relief and welcome and eagerness.
One what, Jobson said.
I told youViridius due. St. Cyprian looked at her as he tossed aside the empty
canister. Its September, Ms. Jobson, the Harvest Season, and time to give the god of the
harvest what hes owed for seeing to the land. Theyve done it twice before since the Wars end
by my reckoning, but therell not be a third. Hence our presence, with petrol, he said. Fires
usually the best bet in these matters. No disappearances or unexplained deaths between 1911,
when the lightning struck, and 1919. Like a fire sweeping a field, Viridius was crippled; but now
hes back, and, Id imagine, quite hungry after his long recuperation.
Jobson stared at him, as if trying to figure out whether or not he was mad. St. Cyprian,
used to such reactions, simply snatched up his lantern and held it high to reveal the source of
the persistent noise that had been clogging the air.
Shoots and vines crept through the cracks in the floor, rising through the spreading
petrol and entwining in a soft susurrus as they had been doing for the last few minutes. Clumps
of moss and mould joined briars and flowering plants, bulking out the scarecrow thin shape,
giving it form and mass. Seedpod eyes fluttered and a mouth filled with nettles opened and
voice like barley in a breeze caused the stones to tremble. For a moment, the petrol stink was
washed away by the smell of raw, tilled earth and rotting fruit.
Whatwhat is that? Jobson whispered, frozen in place.
Viridius, St. Cyprian said grimly.
The name struck the air like a gong and the thing shifted attentively, shaggy head
turning, its mane of sheaves and husks rustling as it fixed them with an inhuman gaze. More
barley words thrummed through the stones, carrying the scent of onions and sugar beets. A
hand made of wheat sheaves and flowers stretched out in a gesture of command. It was used
to command, for had not men always served it?
Get back, St. Cyprian said, grabbing Jobson by the shoulders. Ms. Gallowglass, three
rounds rapid, the walking cornucopia if you please!
Gallowglass, crouched on the stairs, cocked and fired her Webley. The heavy bullet
punched through the things chest, showering the air with seed pods and wheat hulls. It barely
staggered. It started forward and where it walked, things grew, spilling up through the stones
like a living carpet of greenery. It spoke again, and the words, unintelligible, held the sound of a
field of growing things in a storm.
It wasnt speaking in Latin, or even some ancient Briton dialect. Instead, it spoke seasons
and smells and memories. Ancient images of the land as it was and as it could be. Of long
crumbled temples and the ancient standing stones they had been built over. History, one layer
of soil on top of another and the folk of the land spilling blood one year after the next down the
long winding road of centuries, quenching Viridius thirst. The god had made the crops grow
and made the land prosper and all it asked in return was a bit of blood, a bit of companionship,
a harvest-Persephone given up to the Hades who walked behind the rows.
Flowers sprouted in the cracks in the walls and floors, and from above, the prayers of
the faithful fell down like rain. Wheat stalks punctured the few patches of black soil, and the
scent of harvest time hung thick and rank on the air, mingling with the petrol fumes and
creating a dizzying haze.
Jobson yelped as the fingers of wheat closed gently on her wrist. Her revolver growled
and the nettle-mouth creased in what might have been a smile as the bullets vanished into the
torso. If the swords of the Romans had not harmed the god, what use hornets of lead, the voice
seemed to say. A sound like the buzzing of insects and the soft rush of stalks bending in a wind
caressed their ears and tugged at the deep, atavistic wells in their souls. There were bones in
the stuff that made up Viridius form. Shattered and brown, they rode the undulating mass of
briars and moss like grisly treasures turned up by a trowel. There were hundreds of fragments,
thousands, each all that was left of a sacrifice, each the only marker they would receive.
St. Cyprian swung the lantern against the shaggy head, hard. Glass burst and the thing
shrugged him aside with one long arm. The lantern fell, rolling away, splashing oil across the
giant. Viridius pulled Jobson close, its shape enveloping her. Gallowglass fired again, and her
bullet struck the stones near Viridius leg-stalk, scratching a spark and lighting the oil that
dripped from the limb.
The wheat and brittle briars caught instantly and the sudden rush of heat was followed
by a deep, rolling moan that caused the house above to groan in sympathy. The stones shifted
and were shoved aside by more briars and nettles that struck out at St. Cyprian and Jobson,
stinging them. Viridius staggered, tearing at its burning matter. Jobson wrenched her free and
fired again, as St. Cyprian jerked her back, away from the wash of flames. Up the stairs, he
barked.
Viridius screamed. The sound was like a green tree popping in a forest fire. Briars
scuttled up the stairs, seeking to snag their legs and arms. St. Cyprian grunted as they bit into
him and he fell onto all fours on the steps. The fire crawling across Viridius had reached the
petrol. Flames crawled across the stones, obscuring the faces and shapes that grimaced there.
St. Cyprian pulled at the briars, his fingers and palms being cut to ribbons in the process. Jobson
bent to help him. Gallowglass stood at the top of the stairs, the Webley bucking in her grip as
she put another round through the burning, roaring mass of Viridius.
The roars grew fainter as the thing retreated back through the archway, stumbling
blindly through the flames that pursued it. Its groans were echoed from above. The briars
trembled and released St. Cyprian as the intelligence that had guided them fell back from the
conflagration. Bleeding, the occultist shoved Jobson up the stairs ahead of him. Gallowglass was
already above, her re-loaded Webley swinging about to cover the circle of robed and masked
shapes that stood scattered throughout the ruins of the house.
Faces masked behind sheaves of wheat and stiffened vines watched them as they
moved slowly away from the smoke boiling out of the cellar. Already the floor was growing hot
as the flames began to hungrily seek out new sources of fuel. None of the gathered
worshippers made a move to stop them. Instead, they simply watched and then, as if theyd
been given a signal, they departed, trotting out of the ruins and making their way towards the
vehicles that had brought them.
As they made their way into the clear air, Jobson watched Viridius worshippers depart.
A bit anticlimactic, she said, coughing as the smoke coiled about them.
What makes you think this was any sort of climax? St. Cyprian said, limping towards
the Crossley. When he reached the car, he leaned against it wearily. Gallowglass began to
rummage through the boot for a first aid kit. Jobson looked at St. Cyprian.
What do you mean? You burned thatthat thing, whatever it was, up. Its gone!
St. Cyprian winced as Gallowglass daubed at his hands with ointment. What happens
when lightning strikes a field or a forest, Ms. Jobson?
Jobson frowned. It burns.
And then what?
Jobsons frown deepened. Then her eyes widened and she looked back at the column of
smoke boiling out from the ruins innards. It grows back, she said softly.
Yes. It grows back, strongerhungrierthan before. Lets hope it takes more than nine
years this time, eh? St. Cyprian said.
THE WHITECHAPEL DEMON

Formed during the reign of Elizabeth I, the post of the Royal Occultist
was created to safeguard the British Empire against threats occult,
otherworldly, infernal and divine.
It is now 1920, and the title and offices have fallen to Charles St.
Cyprian. Accompanied by his apprentice Ebe Gallowglass, they defend
the battered empire from the forces of darkness.
In the wake of a sance gone wrong, a monstrous killer is summoned
from the depths of nightmare by a deadly murder-cult. The entity hunts
its prey with inhuman tenacity even as its worshippers stop at nothing
to bring the entity into its full power.
Its up to St. Cyprian and Gallowglass to stop the bloodthirsty horror
before another notch is added to its gory tally, but will they become the
next victims of the horror disguised as Londons most famous killer?
The Whitechapel Demon, the first book in 'The Adventures of the Royal Occultist', was
published in 2013 by Emby Press. It is available both in trade paperback and electronic format
from Amazon.com, Smashwords, Barnesandnoble.com and other online retailers. For a free
PDF preview of the first three chapters, click HERE.
The Whitechapel Demon is the first entry in an ongoing series, featuring Charles St. Cyprian, the
Royal Occultist, and his assistant, Ebe Gallowglass, as they battle the forces of evil on behalf of
the British Empire.
The book serves as an introduction to the world of the Royal Occultist as well as delivering an
exciting adventure for new readers and old fans alike to enjoy. For an overview of the Royal
Occultist series, visit HERE. If you've read the book, and are interested in discussing it, or the
world of the Royal Occultist, there's a dedicated forum at the Emby Press site HERE.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Josh Reynolds has been a professional author since 2007 and has
written and sold a number of novels in that time, some relating to
media tie-in franchises, including Gold Eagles Executioner line and
Games Workshops Warhammer Fantasy and Warhammer 40,000
lines. He has also written and sold a number of shorter fiction pieces,
including short stories and novellas. An up-to-date list of his published
work can be found at http://joshuamreynolds.wordpress.com/works/
Should you wish to contact him for whatever reason, he can be reached
via the usual social media outlets.

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Who is the Royal Occultist and what is their role?

Who is the Royal Occultist and what is their role?

What threats do the Royal Occultist and their assistant defend the British Empire against?

What threats do the Royal Occultist and their assistant defend the British Empire against?

THE ROYAL OCCULTIST PRIMER Page |1

THE ROYAL OCCULTIST PRIMER Page |2

THE QUEENS CONJURER

THE ROYAL OCCULTIST PRIMER Page |3

THE ROYAL OCCULTIST PRIMER Page |4

INTRODUCTION: WHO IS THE ROYAL OCCULTIST?

THE ROYAL OCCULTIST PRIMER Page |5

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THE ROYAL OCCULTIST PRIMER Page |7

THE ROYAL OCCULTIST PRIMER Page |8

THE ROYAL OCCULTIST PRIMER Page |9

SIGN OF THE SALAMANDER

Your sensitivity is legendary in its own time.

Next? Ambry said.

Charles? Morris said, interrupting them both.

Drop it, woman! Ambry said.

THE DERLETTE CONFIGURATION

Where are we anyway?

eyes were narrowed. Light, please, he said quietly.

The egg hatched at midnight.

out from within the fallen bookcase.

emptied pistol ruefully. I wont let you.

way for the Yorkshire Archaeological Society, by my reckoning.

THE WHITECHAPEL DEMON

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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