Church of Sin (The Ether Book 1) (31 page)

I can’t read your thoughts but it’s there, you know. A black hole over your heart. It’s a part of you.

“Not a day goes by when I don’t think about her.”

She thought of Charlie. If she hadn’t saved him, hadn’t picked him and hauled him to safety, would he be dead? 

“The boy,” she said. “Charlie. When I touched him...”

You knew his name. You infiltrated his mind, trespassed upon his little thoughts. In a split second. Yes. It is the Essence. The power that harbours within you. In time, you will learn to use it. You are no longer bound by the restrictions of your flesh. You have been given a great gift, Alix. A gift that others cannot even conceive of.

“Fine bloody line between a gift and a curse.”

I agree.

She kicked up more snow and looked about her. The scene sickened her. Nearby, a police patrol bike skidded to a halt and a burley uniform dismounted, removing his helmet, speaking urgently into a radio.

Azrael was speaking but she didn’t take it in.

No choice, really.

Distracted by the blazing tanker, the uniform had his back to her. By the time he had turned round, his bike was already disappearing into the mist.

Chapter 64

And so Grigori learnt that by combining the tree bark with his blood, he was able to open up
a channel to speak directly with the Hollow One. He called it the Demon Tree and before he came to England he removed a large branch which he eventually made into the chair in which he now sat.

He strapped his legs and waist and one hand. He held the last strap in his mouth, slid
his hand into the restraint and pulled his head back. The mechanism clinked and the strap tightened, the teeth locking into place and securing Grigori to the chair. Another click and a whir as a cog at the back of the chair turned three hundred and sixty degrees. It took about thirty seconds before it clicked again and Grigori jolted, the blades sprung from their coils and cut into his arms on both sides, tore through his skin. Another slice and the blades retracted, allowing the blood to run freely, a trickle at first but then more, saturating the arms of the chair and dripping to the floor beneath. Over time, Grigori had learnt that he needed more and more blood to enable the connection through to the Void. At what point, he wondered, would the Master require him to bleed to death for the cause.

He felt the room begi
n to spin as the channel opened, his mind dividing into two. The Master took him quickly today, descending upon him and injecting himself like a cancer into every cell until he had taken everything that was human from Grigori. He struggled, gasped for air, the physical part of him felt like a rag in a storm tied to a post, flapping helplessly in the gale, holding on by a thread.

He did not
hear
the Master’s words. No one
heard
the Hollow One speak. He
felt
them, burning into him, dampening the sound of his own screams. But he did not recognise them. If it was a language, then it was indecipherable. Just a sensation. The sensation of filaments, held up by some invisible force, burrowing into his skin and coiling around his nerves, and then plucked like a harp, each note brought a shock of excruciating pain but the rhythm held an ancient connotation that, if he survived the onslaught, he would carry with him to the Harbinger to decode. 

By the time
the ordeal was over, and Grigori felt as though he could step back tentatively from the edge of death, he was too weak to protest at the cold metal being strapped to his wrists and the hands leading him out into the dusk.

Part V

The
Sixteenth Law of the Ether

Any soul whose body is destroyed by unnatural means becomes the resident of the Inter-World
, his fate thereafter to be determined by Chance

Chapter 6
5

Alix supposed that the principle reason why the receptionist at 42 Essex Square Chambers was ignoring her related to the fact that she looked, and most probably smelt, like a tramp.

The clothes she was wearing were torn and frayed, revealing small patches of blood-stained skin. Her hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in days and resembled a bird’s nest. Her nails were grubby and damaged, her face smeared with earth and other unpleasantness and her Converse shoes looked like she had been playing rugby in them. Nonetheless, she sat patiently cross legged on the plush maroon arm chair waiting for attention, looking for all the world as if a tramp sitting inside one of London’s most prestigious barrister’s chambers was a perfectly ordinary every-day occurrence.

Maloney Morrison had been the receptionist at 42 Essex Square for fourteen years and in that time she had had only two hairstyles.  She regarded the bedraggled creature that had seemingly fallen into her reception area with disdain, not really knowing whether or not it was her job to deal with incoming vagabonds. It was her break in ten minutes and she hoped the visitor might just wonder off or at least remain quiet until someone else took over to deal with her. But out of the corner of her eye she sensed some unrest on the other side of the Plexiglas divider that separated the reception from the clerks room and, realising that the visitor was beginning to attract some attention, it dawned on her that the clerks might be equally as confused by her omission to deal with the visitor as with the visitor’s actual presence.

Reluctantly, Maloney craned her foundation lathered face over the reception desk and addressed the visitor in the sort of slow, monotonous tone that British people use to address waiters abroad.

“Excuse me? Dear? Excuse me?”

Thick cockney accent. Late fifties. Extensive makeup added a few years. Shoulder pads in the green jacket, another five. Alix looked up and gave Maloney a broad smile.

“Oh, yes. Sorry, that chair was so comfortable. It’s so lovely and warm in here too and by gosh you’ve done well with your choice of colour scheme.”

Maloney’s feigned smile faltered slightly as the younger woman approached her. She glanced over nervously to the clerks’ room. Two men in waistcoats had already got out of their seats and were looking over to her, obviously amused by the spectacle.

“Can I help in some way?” Maloney asked tentatively. Alix eyed her shoulder pads with suspicion.

“Er, yes. I’m here to see Amanda Harker.”

Maloney gave a little cough, badly concealing a laugh and began looking around the room, perhaps looking for the hidden cameras. Alix remained unfazed and kept her eyes fixed on the receptionist’s pale, doll-like face.

“You’re here to see the Head of Chambers?” She chuckled and shook her head.

“Yes. Amanda Harker. Head of Chambers.”

“And do you,
madam,
have an appointment?”

“No. But I feel confident that Ms Harker will be pleased to accommodate me at short notice.”

Maloney couldn’t help it and blurted out a screechy laugh that sounded like a fox being shot. Alix winced a little but was otherwise unmoved.

“Have you any idea where you are? Have you any idea
who
you’re asking to see, dear?”

“Yes. I’m at 42 Essex Square Chambers and I’m here to see Amanda Harker, Head of Chambers. That is information that I have already imparted to you.”

“And who might I say is here?”

“Alix Franchot. Doctor Alix Franchot.”

“Doctor no less?” Maloney was openly laughing now, her enjoyment of watching this poor woman make such a fool of herself clearly outweighed the embarrassment of having to deal with her.

“Listen, dear, there’s a Sally Army down the road. Go there and see if they’ll give you a wash. Amanda Harker. Good one!”

Alix frowned, her patience waning.

“Listen, I’m not going to stand here and justify to you why I look like the Artful Dodger’s bitch. Just tell Harker that Alix Franchot is here and that I want to speak to her about Anwick. Now.”

“Now listen here, missy. You can’t just walk in here smelling of sheep demanding to speak with the Head of Chambers without an appointment. This is a respectable establishment. I have no idea which gutter you climbed out of but I strongly suggest you piss off and climb back in it before I call security and have you thrown there.”

“Go ahead. Call security. Call the National Guard. Call a fucking UN Peace Keeping Force. Whatever, I’m not moving until I see Harker. Now we can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s your choice. And that foundation is far too pale for a woman of your advancing years.”

“Advancing years? Advancing years!? I don’t have to take make-up tips from someone who collects plastic bags for a living. Or is it the odd hand job for the council workers that brings in the cash? You get that shit stained ass out of here love or we’ll have a problem on our hands.”

“Damn right they’ll be a problem. Question is: will they be able to retrieve your oversized head from that bin or will it get stuck to the bottom?”

As Maloney gasped and gawked in bemusement, mouth open and hands clenched into fists, a middle aged gentleman – confident gait, Armani suit, strong six o’clock shadow – strode toward Alix.

“Is there a problem, Maloney?” h
e asked.

“Oh, Patrick, this little whore needs taking out of here. I’ve got Citibank coming in in five and I doubt they’ll want to share the waiting room with this trash.”

“Come on, love. Don’t cause a scene.”

Patrick put his arm out. Firmly touched Alix’s arm, touched her hand. Their skin connected.
She felt a warm sensation, like a high rushing through her. Anger and frustration. The feeling of his hand on hers, like tapping into something.

Like tapping into
him
.

She saw him. Broad, naked shoulders, muscles flexed and tight, powerful arms gripping her, holding her down, the noise of his grunts, of his satisfaction, pounding in her ear. She struggles free but he continues to thrust deeper and deeper into her and then she sees her, sees Maloney, head thrown back over the side of the bed, mouth open, gasping and panting, osculating her hips in rhythm with his, calling his name, “Patrick! Patrick! Fuck me! Fuck me harder! Fuck me like your wife!” He quickens his pace, leaning right into her so that every plunge reaches
deeper and deeper. She sees everything. Sees the fire burning in his eyes, the look of rapture on her face as every muscle in her body contracts, her clitoris engorged and swollen, just before the orgasm releases through her body and she screams for more, screams to him, “You’ll leave her for me! You’ll leave her for me!”

Breathing deeply, Alix regained focus and looked up at Patrick and then down to his hand holding her arm. She was still standing in the same spot, her penetration of him lasted for only a second, maybe two, but it was enough.

“How about, Patrick,” she said, gently prizing his hand off her, “we stop messing around and you go and give Harker a shout for me so that we don’t have to tell your wife about your liaisons with the Chamber’s receptionist over there.” He stopped dead. He stared at her, confused, shocked. Said nothing.

She moved in closer and whispered in his ear, “
Oh Patrick, Patrick, fuck me like your wife. You’ll leave her for me
.
You’ll leave her for me
. Now why don’t we see if you actually do, shall we?”

Chapter
66

Ash watched Grigori across the interview room table with interest. He came round a little in the car but didn’t give them any trouble. He’d asked to make his phone call in private and drunk
six glasses of water. He’d refused a lawyer. Now he was sitting perfectly pleasantly admiring the ceiling.

He was a good foot taller than Ash, maybe more. His skin was a grey colour and matched the cheap carpet at the station. The dark rings around his pin-prick eyes reminded Ash of a corpse. They had taken his coat from him. Found a small pair of scissors and a wallet with a bundle of notes in but nothing else. Now he wore brown, stained trousers and a tatty shirt.

Ash had rolled up his sleeves, something that Alix had told him never to do when he wore a waistcoat but it didn’t seem to matter much right now. He’d lost track of the number of times he’d tried to phone her and in the end he’d sent Jeff Eldridge round to her flat to see if he could find her, a blatant misuse of police resources but his concern outweighed his conscious about that. He’d told Jeff to text him as soon as he got there if he found anything.

Keera was sat next to him, giving off an atmosphere. She’d scoffed at the number of times she’d caught him trying to phone Alix and told him that she probably couldn’t hack a real job and gone home. She could be a real bitch sometimes.

Ash leaned across the table, hand on his chin, like he was interested in Grigori. He needed information fast.

“You look worried, Mr
Yefimovich. Something troubling you?”

“No. Grigori is not worried.” Ash was suspicious of the broken English. It sounded put on.

“That’s great. So, you work at our local friendly secret asylum?”

“What?”

“Innsmouth.” Ash narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t tell whether Grigori was looking at him or not. He’d asked for the lights to be dimed and the blinds down, something about not liking the sunlight, what little was left of it by now.

“I cannot talk about
Innsmouth. I sign sheet.”

“Yes, the Official Secrets Act. We’ve all signed it. So that means
you’re amongst friends today, Grigori. So tell me about Innsmouth.”

“I cannot. I sign sheet.”

Ash chewed his tongue but remained leant across the desk. Grigori’s shirt sleeves were stained with dried blood and torn underneath. He’d been checked out by the police doctor and had the wounds patched up and sterilised without a fuss.

“But you do work there?”

“If you’d signed sheet, you would know.”

“But the fact I know about it tells you that you’re okay to talk to me, Grigori.”

“You know that Innsmouth is there. You have no idea why.”

Ash leant back in the chair. He had a point.

“What were you shooting up with?” asked Keera. “Heroine?”

“Shooting up?” said Grigori, puzzled.

“Your little comfy chair with the special blades on the arms,” she prompted. Grigori just stared ahead. His face was impossible to read.

“There’s a lot of blood on that chair,” she said. “We’re taking a lot of samples. Is it just
your
blood we’ll find I wonder?”

“Do you recognise these children, Grigori?”

Ash produced a picture of the Laicey twins and put it in front of him. Their spiritless faces were the only thing that had stopped him giving Keera the interview and going round to Alix’s flat himself. He glanced at his phone. Nothing from Jeff. He should be there by now. Just a weird love poem from Penny. Something about birds and wardrobes.

“This is Katelyn and Megan Laciey,” Ash said when Grigori didn’t answer. He put another picture down of Katelyn, her head twisted unnaturally to one side. Her face as grey as the Russian’s. “This is what Katelyn looks like now. Someone broke her neck. I’m going to find out who that was. Does any of this mean anything to you, Grigori?”

No answer, no reaction.

“The suspicion,” he continued, “is that Katelyn was murdered by Professor Eugene Anwick, a resident in your fancy secret prison, but the odd thing is that a couple of days ago someone broke into the mortuary and took Katelyn’s body. Again, any little bells ringing in that
very high head of yours?”

Still nothing. Keera shuffled in her seat.

“Then Megan goes missing, Grigori, can you believe that? Taken from a safe house miles from here and our friend Professor Anwick is snugly locked up at the time. Oh, did I mention that whoever took Megan also crucified the guy looking after her? Did I mention that, Grigori? And here’s the best bit: we can put you at the entrance to the mortuary in Bristol City Hospital just moments before Katelyn’s body went missing. Now what on earth were you doing there because I don’t think you were picking up your jaundice prescription, were you?”

Ash noticed some movement in his eyes, a tiny flicker of something. He got the impression that Grigori was now looking at him for the first time.

“I sign sheet,” he said.

Ash’s phone bleeped. He pi
cked it up. Penny again. Just a series of x’s.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Grigori,” said Ash dangerously. “My investigation overrides any duty you might have to your employers, whoever the Hell they are.
And you can quit with the English-is-my-second-language bollocks, too.” He tapped the picture of Katelyn’s dead face. “Look at her, Grigori. She’s nine.
Was
nine. Do you have kids? Do they look like this?”

He sat back again.
His
kids probably
did
look like this, if he had any. There had to be an angle. He looked over at Keera. She was surprisingly quiet, an indication maybe that even she wasn’t quite sure how to handle this.

He was about to speak when the door opened. Not the cautious way that young DC’s opened interview doors to interrupt, but opened fully and quickly. Eyes turned. Baron filed the door frame. Then another man, someone Ash vaguely recognised but he couldn’t quite place. Mid-fifties, well built, perfectly groomed hair with a hint of sil
ver running through the sides. Expensive suit.

“Sorry, Ash,” said Baron. “This interview’s over.”

“Wha-”

“You’re Walter Cargil,” said Keera. Ash looked at her gone out. “The Home Secretary?” she said to him.

Ash looked back and he realised she was right. He’d didn’t care much for politics. Democracy was more like a game show nowadays but he had at least seen this man on the TV before spouting off about longer sentences for burglars and upping the classification of cannabis. In short, everything that Alix disagreed with. What the Hell was he doing here?

“Detective Fielding?” Cargil stepped forward and smiled broadly, that winning smile that drove the house-wives mad. “I’m Walter Cargil.”

Ash got up robotically and took his firm handshake but couldn’t manage a word. He looked at Baron who stood slightly aback. He looked almost sheepish.

“Now there is no discourtesy intended,
Inspector,” said Cargil pleasantly. “You’re doing a fine job but the situation is complicated by the involvement of the Innsmouth Institute.” Cargil waited for the words to sink in. Ash suddenly became aware that his mouth was open. A screech of a chair and Keera got up. Grigori didn’t flinch.

“The problem here,” the Home Secretary explained, “is that, whilst we were happy for you to have
some
knowledge of the Innsmouth Institute provided you signed the Official Secrets Act – a copy of which I have here – we’re not overly keen on you delving any further into one of our most important operations. So, if it’s ok with you, we’re going to take things from here.”

“You can’t just... you can’t just take over my operation.” Ash was incensed.

“I’m afraid we can, Inspector. Again, it’s no reflection on you and your team. It’s, well, it’s just one of those things you’ll have to put down to experience. Superintendant,” he turned to Baron who returned the smile with nothing but disdain, “would you mind bringing Mr Yefimovich to my car. He is free to go.”

“Free to go?” Ash gasped.
“This man is the
only
suspect in a double, maybe triple, murder and a kidnapping. There’s a nine year old girl out there somewhere.
He
could have vital information-”

“I’m sorry,
Inspector,” Cargil raised his hands diplomatically, “it’s done and my hands are tied. Innsmouth employees enjoy a special privilege as part of their-”

“And does that privilege extend to immunity from
murder
?!” Ash felt the blood rushing to his head as he felt control of the situation slipping away. “Boss, surely..?” He looked at Baron.

“Sorry, kid.
This is well above my pay grade, too.”

Cargil took Grigori by the arm and lead hi
m out. They stopped at the door. Cargil said something inaudible to Baron, Grigori turned back. Out of Cargil and Baron’s sight he smiled at Ash and Keera.

“Until next time,
Inspector Fielding,” he said in perfect English.