Chapter Text
The shrill shriek of police whistles cuts through the night, torches casting flickering rivers of light between the gravestones. High in the sky above a full moon lies heavy and idle over the wide spread of an oak, sketching out in gentle detail what the harsh electric light misses.
Somewhere ahead of him, Merkin is racing to find his bolthole before he feels a hand on his collar. Somewhere close behind, a pair of PCs are following, breathing hard and heavy. Somewhere further back still Lott too is following, likely breathing less hard.
Every year there are fewer cities in Britain a lone man would dare to walk alone tonight, or a policeman to chase him. It’s no longer just the wolves or the ghasts, monsters indeed but familiar ones. The war raised a wretched brood of necromancers and blood mages, hungry for power and living in a world ill-equipped to constrain them. This now is their night too, and their wishes are not granted without a price – paid by whom, not many care.
Up ahead is the church, her ancient doors open to grant sanctuary. Thursday storms up the steps and pauses just inside, trying to silence his own furious breathing and the shaking of his hands to hear. The air wafting past him smells of the cold dustiness of a stone building, of beeswax and paper. Thursday takes one cautious step inside, and hears a wooden creak. He’s off like a shot, waving the PCs on behind him; he tears down the aisle, dodges past the altar and through an open door which leads to the bell tower. There are stairs leading up of course, but he ignores them – Merkin wouldn’t trap himself. A trap door is set into the floor and he hauls that open with the help of Reid, the first of the PCs to arrive.
There’s a ladder set into the hatch, the wood cheap and rough and propped at an awkward angle. Thursday more falls down than climbs, and lands on a hard floor of grit and stone in the pitch black. It’s colder here than the church, and the air smells of dankness and earth. In the distance, he can hear the fading thump of footfalls. His torch cuts a long line through the darkness, revealing close stone walls covered in grime. The catacombs.
Behind him Reid tumbles down, followed by Callahan and then Lott, who takes one look at the surroundings and curses.
“The bloody catacombs? Just our luck. Might as well turn back now.”
“I’m not losing him, Arthur. You know what he’s been nicking out of those graves – supplying most of the black rites and blood magic in the county, as likely as not.” Thursday’s already jogging, watching sharply for side tunnels or surface access.
“There’s miles of tunnels down here – they run under half the city, at least; it’s a bleeding labyrinth! We don’t know half of what goes on down here, and we’re not equipped for what we do know about,” calls Lott after him, trailing behind at a reluctant walk.
He’s right. Getting lost in the tunnels, although a real danger, isn’t the truly alarming part. Immeasurably worse than being lost is the possibility of being found. The city police have unofficial permission to stay out of the catacombs, a promise of a blind eye even from Crisp. Occasionally losing a suspect is far preferable to occasionally losing a copper.
Merkin obviously knows this part of the underground network, which means he’s long gone – and may well have left traps behind for them. Thursday slows, a slow seething frustration settling itchingly under his skin. At the end of his torch’s reach the tunnel curves off into darkness, just like this goddamned case.
“Sir?” Reid, sounding thoughtful.
Thursday doesn’t turn, still staring after the lost suspect. “What?”
“There’s a door here, sir.”
Thursday turns and sees by the light of Reid’s flashlight that what he had taken for a boarded-up entrance is in fact a wooden door, much mended with crooked planks, some of which have been nailed to the frame. There’s no knob, just a looped length of twine.
“Merkin never went in there,” protests Lott from a distance. “You heard him, he scarpered like a coney.”
Thursday ignores the sergeant. He does, however, draw the revolver he brought along with him for this evening’s proceedings. It’s loaded with silver-plated bullets, a luxury issued only to DIs, and only on full moons. Thursday nods to the door, and Reid puts his shoulder to it. The ancient slats crumble like balsawood under his twelve odd stone and he disappears in a cloud of dust and dry rot. Thursday steps through after him sharply with the torch, revolver raised to follow along the straight line it slices through the gloom.
The first pass of the torch, soon joined by Lott’s, reveals a large open room with an unusual number of walls – five or six is Thursday’s first impression. The centre of the space is mostly open, the floor intricate stonework, set about with a few tall iron braziers. Around the edges of the room stand stone caskets – tombs, in fact. Each has a dark shadow lying atop it –effigies, presumably. Six tombs, six walls to the room.
“Place is a bleeding crypt,” announces Lott, flatly, standing by the entranceway. Both PCs are standing beside him, eyeing the tombs distrustfully.
“We’re right under the church here.” Thursday glances up as he strides forward, calculating; if he hasn’t lost his bearings entirely, they’re under the main chapel. Holy ground, safe.
He smells fresh dust as he moves deeper in; there’s a thick layer of it on the floor, and on all the tombs and ironwork. Cobwebs hang from the ceilings; looking down, he finds he’s already got a heavy layer of them on his coat – Win will be pleased with him.
Lott remains by the door, wary and impatient. “Guv’nor, we shouldn’t be hanging ‘round. A man can get into all kinds of trouble, poking his head into crypts at midnight. Some of them involving getting that head removed.”
There’s a faint smell of something richer, darker under the dust. Incense, maybe, although St. Giles isn’t very high church – and lamp oil. Thursday’s torch skims over the first of the effigies, grey and rough with dust. Lott’s warning hasn’t gone totally unheeded, and he’s moving quickly now, taking in the bare facts as he circles the room hastily. There’s thick lines of melted wax on the floor, black and red, and something else, too long dried to make out clearly. He sweeps on to the next tomb, and stops.
The statue here is a pile of rubble, loosely heaped on the stone surface of the coffin. It hasn’t retained any of its former shape, no immediately apparent hands, elbows, pleats of clothing. Thursday frowns, and turns more slowly to run the torch over the other tombs.
“Guv’nor,” calls Lott, more insistently.
Four of the five other statues seem to be in similar states of disrepair, now that he looks more carefully. Thursday turns back to the nearest one, and reaches out to clean the stone. Beneath his fingers, the dust brushes gently away. So too does ash, thick and dark. Beneath it is left behind not hard granite but darkened, charred bone.
“Sir,” barks Lott.
“Quiet,” snaps Thursday, violently. He turns on his heel and returns to the first tomb. “Get over here. Now.” He waits for Lott to arrive, sullen and silent, and motions for him to hold a torch on the dusty figure. Thursday pockets his own torch and, gun in his right hand, uses his left to brush the dust from the still face.
“Jesus,” hisses Lott. He drops the torch, and fumbles to pull his own weapon. Thursday reaches out and grabs his wrist before he is halfway through drawing it.
“You put that away, Arthur. I think one’s quite enough between the two of us.”
In the harsh torch-light, the grey skin and fine fair eyelashes seem nearly translucent. Under the thick layer of dust Thursday can see that while the fine bones of the young man’s face would probably have made him a more likely model than many for a sculptor, this is no piece of stonework.
Lott twists away, actually kicking Thursday’s ankle in his panic. “Are you mad? Get out of it! He’s – ”
“He’s what, Arthur? A vampire? Children of the night, aren’t they? What’s he’s about at the moment then, mid-afternoon nap?” He holds his hand up, streaked with a greasy grey line. “Got about two years’ worth of dust on him. That door was boarded up from the outside, and doesn’t look like there’re any other exits in here. Way I see it, someone locked this lad in here. Him, and the rest of them.” He kneels and picks up Lott’s torch, holds it out with a black look until the sergeant takes it. While Lott directs it, he pointedly raises the lad’s upper lip to expose perfectly normal teeth – no fangs.
“Could be any manner of other monster. Probably moon touched,” mutters Lott. “Is he breathing?”
Thursday’s already pressing two fingers against the cold neck. “No. No pulse, no breath.”
Thursday looks up and catches the eye of the two PCs, watching from a few feet away, and nods them towards the second body; they skulk across the room reluctantly. At the same time, he’s pulling his fingers away from the lifeless throat – they catch on something, and he looks down to see a flash of silver. A long, thin chain slips out from under the lapels of the suit. Shimmering bright at one end is a medallion the size of a shilling. Lifting it, Thursday can see that in fact it isn’t a solid piece, but rather a series of tightly-fitting concentric circles, engraved with runes too small to make out in the poor light.
Thursday glances at his DS. “Looks like silver. Not moon-touched, then.”
Lott shrugs loose shoulders. “’S not against his skin.”
“She’s clean, Inspector,” says Callahan, from across the room, interrupting Thursday’s reply. “She’s got a necklace like that, though.” He nods at the one Thursday has raised. Before Thursday can make a move to stop him, he slips the chain over her head.
Thursday hears himself and Lott shout at the same time, but their cries are nothing compared to the roar of the flames. They rip up on the tomb in front of Callahan, violent and vociferous, streams of fire twining with each other as they race towards the ceiling. The dark form in their core is distorted by the strength and heat of the blaze in the first few instants, then crumples and is still. By then the PCs have regained their feet and their wits, and joined by Thursday and Lott beat down the flames with their coats. The fire dies fast under their combined onslaught, as though resigned to defeat.
In the quiet following its wake, there’s the low crackle of stone cooling, and the sound of coats being folded, and of Callahan being sick in the corner. And, in the empty space behind them, someone gasping asthmatically.
Thursday hasn’t survived the War, and London, as well as the softer streets of Oxford by hesitating. He turns around fast, dropping his coat but keeping a firm grip on the revolver.
The young man is lying on his side, shedding dust in sheets as he struggles to breathe. His eyes as they catch Thursday’s are wide, blue, and horrified. Then another fit of coughing catches him and he folds up, legs scrabbling for purchase against the tomb, white fingers grasping the stone rim. Thursday has seen men struggling to live, and men waiting to kill. This one isn’t hard to place.
Thursday crosses the room alone, pulling out his kerchief as he walks, and draws it over the lad’s face and hair. He tries to shy away, but hasn’t the breath to make a proper go of it. Thursday shushes him with partial attention, more concerned with cleaning dust away from his nose and mouth. “You’re alright. You’re alright, now. You’ll do.”
Thursday catches his wrist in a firm grip – the skin there is cool but already warmer than it was, and there’s a pulse skipping towards a steady rhythm. He makes a few more passes with the handkerchief, but the cotton is saturated with grime after the first couple, thick and limp in his hand.
The coughing tapers off after the initial few bursts, and as Thursday shoves the useless kerchief in his pocket he finds the young man watching him, wary and fearful. “We’re the police – you’re safe now.” That garners no immediate reaction. The lad is starting to shiver, though, and with his face cleaner Thursday can see there’s a bluish hue to his lips. His skin is still cool, heart still skipping beats.
“Someone fetch my coat, would you?” he asks without breaking eye contact, hearing the others crowding in behind. It’s handed to him and he lays it over the lad, boldly refusing to think of Win’s face. Despite it, the young man’s already shivering harder, eyes sliding closed.
“What’s your name. Here – stay awake. What’s your name?” Thursday shakes his shoulder, just this side of forcefully.
“Morse.” It’s barely audible, just a whisper lighting the lad’s path to unconsciousness.
For a moment there’s just silence, and the thick smell of smoke – and worse. Thursday stares blackly down at the lad in front of him, the sole remaining witness they have – and for how long? He pinches the bridge of his nose, and turns around.
“Alright. Callahan, you get back to the nick. Put the word out on Merkin. Make sure to mention he’s got a sack full of goods. Could be he’ll already be looking for buyers.” Callahan nods shakily, his face white and his shoulders hunched. He’s holding his tunic tight in his arms like a child with a doll, rubbing the hem nervously. Through the thin sleeves of his white cotton shirt Thursday can make out the usual tats – half mysticism, half bravado, they’re the one protection no copper is ever without.
He turns to Lott, watching with crossed arms, and nods to Morse. “Arthur, you and Reid best take him up to the hospital – it’ll be an age to get the ambulance men down here tonight. Then get on the phone – I want the pathologist down here ASAP. After that, get onto the colleges. Someone from Rites and Rituals – with half a brain, for preference.”
Lott raises an eyebrow. “Them blue bloods won’t be down here ‘til well past sun up, sir. Like as not the pathologist neither. Ain’t no rush anyhow – not for some stiffs in a den of devil worship. Let ‘em lie – they got what they paid for.” He spits at Morse’s feet.
Thursday feels the anger rolling in, quick and heavy as summer lightning. The hairs rise on his arms and at the back of his neck first, sensing the storm coming. It lights along his skin, a running wave of rage that leaves him burning red. He can’t remember the last time he was this furious, the last time the cowardice, the indifference got so deep under his skin.
But he’s still on the clock, and there are still PCs in the room. So he looks Lott straight in the eye, and speaks evenly. “You know that them as dance with the devil don’t lay down on their own pyres, Arthur – they find some other poor sod to throw on them. These aren’t the puppeteers, they’re the puppets. Only they aren’t, because they were living, breathing people once, and now they’re nothing but burnt bones. So you get this lad here up to the Radcliffe, then put in the damn calls just as you would any other. Then send out some uniforms to keep the perimeter – have them bring the phosphorous lamps, if it makes them feel easier.”
Lott gives him a look of indifference as Callahan and Reid pick the lad up between them and start on their way out. “You staying?” he asks, following with the torch.
“Until relief arrives.” Thursday closes the door after them and wedges it shut. Then, chafing his hands together, he sits down to wait on the now-uncovered tomb.
“What a bloody mess.”