From ‘The Blood Invoked’ (A Novel)

Chapter 20

Chittering, knife sharp claws, coiled powerful limbs entwined; appendages, feathered, twitching, mucus covered dead men’s fingers extending. Slithering, crawling, one on another on another, nesting restless, hungry. Wide circular jaws, too wide, too many teeth, from their throats lazily extending a grey-pink funnel shaped appendage, tasting the air. No eyes. One chatters, loud, louder, drawing out into a baleful hooting as others join in the terrible song. It echoes from the foul pit, out across the sprawling marshland of the Levels. A twisted hand, fingers far too long, reaches over the edge of the ditch. On the old track, running parallel to the tree line in the middle distance, three teenagers stop, pausing their walk, listening. The light of morning stains the horizon, red, illuminating thin mist rising from the damp ground, a Fata Morgana rising to greet the appalling lament.

“Seem to remember it being somewhere around here.”

Ian parks the car on an inset verge off the narrow, quiet road through the forest.

“Fancy a stroll?”

Shutting the door behind him, DI Howard scowls, staring at his city shoes; the earth is damp, muddy.

“Shit. Only brought one pair. Didn’t expect to be hiking.”

“Like I say, it was a while back — months — but the last time we found Thorne he was in here.”

Ian looks into the forest ahead, a faint path winding between the trees. Alex sniffs the air, catches Ariadne’s eye. He raises an eyebrow. Light dapples the leaves through darkening clouds.

“Mystic senses tingling?”

Nick snorts as he passes, catching up with Ian as he strides ahead.

“Actually . . .” Alex mutters under his breath.

“It’s not too far.”

Ian looks over his shoulder, leading them through overgrown branches under the canopy of gently whispering trees: a rising wind. Ariadne catches up to the detectives, Alex taking the rear, wary.

“When we get close . . . slow down. Please. Let us know. OK?”

Ian nods.

“Sure.”

Nick visibly resists commenting, a shadow of concern in his eyes. They walk on in silence. The forest opens out ahead, a vista of moors stretching out into low lying hills, the last morning mist pooling in the lowland as it burns away. Ariadne motions them to stop.

“We haven’t got time to admire the view.” Ian, impatient, looks at his watch.

Ariadne stares ahead, wary.

“Haven’t you noticed?”

DI Howard joins Ariadne.

“What?”

She closes her eyes, concentrating.

“The wind. Its dropped. Should be stronger in the open.”

She reaches a hand behind her back, under her coat, to the hilt of the knife sheathed on her belt. It tingles. She releases her grip.

“Alex . . .”

“I know.”

Nick looks at them both, questioning. Ariadne catches his eye.

“Let’s go.”

Nick nods, scepticism replaced with readiness. They start walking, into the forest. The trees are closer now, oppressive. The wind rises, stronger than before. Ian, at the lead, motions ahead.

“Not far.”

Through the heavy boughs looming, they can see a clearing, a hut. As they approach, the branches scattered in the open space clarify into shapes, patterns. Ariadne and Alex move quietly, quickly, to take the lead, indicating that the detectives fall behind them. They stop. Silence. The growing breeze drops. Stillness. As one, Alex and Ariadne unsheathe their knives in readiness. Ian and Nick look at each other, bemused. Ian raises his voice.

“Look, if he’s there, let’s just try and speak . . .”

A gale, immediate, powerful. Branches, twigs, leaves, gouts of earth squall violently around; nothing strikes them, but they are closely surrounded by a flurry that threatens to engulf them. Knives held out, the two witches shout into the sudden chaos, trying to contain the ferocious tempest. Now, sharp branches, thorned, tug at their clothes, catching as they scud around. Whirling, whirling, the windstorm rages, pushing them back from the clearing. Alex and Ariadne wield their knives, furiously outlining symbols all around. As they are forced away, they see movement at the doorway of the hut: the figure of a man, arms outstretched, head tilted to the sky, steps into the clearing. Joseph Thorne. He lowers his gaze, staring towards them, eyes ablaze, snarling. Alex whirls, swooping his knife in arc at Thorne who steps back, for a moment surprised. The flying detritus redoubles in power, now beginning to scratch at their skin. Thorne seems to grow, and Ariadne and Alex in unison respond, screaming now, the detectives forced to the ground behind them, arms over their heads trying to deflect the wall of branches battering at their bodies.

Joseph Thorne disappears.

Everything stops. The wind breaks, the debris drops to the forest floor.

“Fuck.”

Nick looks up, blood on his cheek.

“You OK?”

DI Howard stands, holding a hand out to Nick.

“Think so. Sore. Ian?”

His partner brushes leaves and twigs from his jacket.

“Yeah. Ow.”

A gash on the back of his hand. He grimaces. DI Howard watches Ariadne and Alex approach.

“The hut. We need to have a look.”

Nick stares at the knives, still in their hands.

“Think I need one of those.”

Alex laughs.

“I’m sure you’ll find one in town.”

Ariadne stares at the hut. Starts to walk towards it.

“Come on.”

They follow, across the clearing. The branches on the forest floor are still in their arcane arrangement, a circle of symbols surrounding the hut. Ariadne steps inside, then Alex.

“Wait here.”

The detectives scan the forest, apprehensive. After less than a minute, Ariadne and Alex emerge.

“Nothing. Blankets. Left over food. Nothing else.”

“It felt . . . similar.” Alex is lost in thought.

Howard, still focussed on the trees, distracted, responds.

“Similar to what?”

“The attack in the tunnel. Same kind of thing. Elemental. So. At least we know. It’s him. And there has to be a connection to the murders. And the bowl.”

Ariadne shakes her head.

“That’s a leap. Maybe the murders. Not sure about the . . .”

“Bowl? What bowl?”

Ian interrupts, looking from Ariadne to Howard and Alex.

“What haven’t you told us?”

John Mayne and Tamsin Norton stand to greet Alex and Ariadne as they enter the hotel reception. Mayne looks them up and down.

“What have you two been up to? Look like you’ve been dragged through a bush.”

Ariadne smiles in greeting.

“Kind of. Good to see you both. Very good. Thank you for coming. It means a lot. And I know it’s not easy after Joyce. What I was, used to be . . . and everything else.”

Close to tears, Ariadne hugs both of them gladly, Alex following.

“Where’s Howard?”

“He’s with his detective mates. Can’t wait for you to meet them.”

Alex grins and pulls a twig from his coat, stares at it.

“This is getting . . . somewhat complicated.”

Ariadne nods.

“We need to talk. Get some sense. All of us — Nick and Ian too. Regroup.”

Tamsin picks up her bag.

“Sounds good. When?”

“I’ll call the others. Later. Need to think. Get a little rest.”

As Tamsin and Mayne check in, Ariadne and Alex take the lift to their rooms.

Tamsin signs the check-in form, passing the pen to Mayne.

“Do you think she’s OK?”

“Ariadne?”

“Yes.”

“Seems fine. Tired.”

“She’s distracted. There’s something she won’t talk about.”

In silence, they wait for the lift.

The detectives are agitated. Restless, they shuffle in their seats, trying to concentrate. The drab grey-brown of the hotel meeting room overwhelms with its mundanity.

“I really had hoped you wouldn’t get caught up in what happened in the forest today. I’m sorry. We should have realised.”

Ariadne stands at the head of the table. On either side, seated, Alex, Tamsin, Mayne, DI Howard, Nick and Ian.

“I really don’t want that to happen again if it can be helped. If it can be forseen. Fortunately, Tamsin and John have joined us. Which will help avoid this happening again. Without at least some extra . . . protection.”

The two detectives nod hello.

“Good to meet you.”

Ian winces, clutching his bandaged hand. Nick glowers, somewhat hostile again.

“More of you lot. Well, at least it’ll help. These two . . .” — he indicates Alex and Ariadne — “. . . couldn’t sort out a moderate breeze apparently ‘conjured’ by a homeless druid or whatever he’s supposed to be.”

“You lot?”

John Mayne twirls a biro around his fingers.

“Witches. Apparently.”

Mayne sits up.

“Not me, pal.”

Annoyed, Ariadne slams a hand on the table.

“Enough. Stop. Nick, just listen. We’re dealing with a number of things. We need to try and at least figure out how, if at all, they’re related. OK?”

They’re all silent, all eyes on Ariadne.

“Right. First, there’s the Bowl. Our main priority is to find this object. We think it’s somewhere in Glastonbury. Why? For one thing, the murders.”

The detectives look from one to the other. Ian starts to speak, but holds back.

“Also . . . there have been signs that correlate with this location. If we discover what’s caused the deaths, we’re likely to get closer to finding the bowl. Then, there’s Alex’s encounter, in London. He thinks that Thorne was responsible, and the incident in the forest today confirms that. Same energy. Is Thorne behind the murders? And does he have the Bowl? Perhaps. I’m not sure. Alex is more . . . convinced.”

She pauses, weighing her words.

“And . . . I haven’t mentioned this. It’s a feeling. I’ve had visions . . . dreams. There’s something else here. The Bowl . . . something has intentions for the Bowl. Someone. We need to be careful. Anything, anything at all that seems out of place. A thought. An image. A feeling. We all should take care and we all need to know if anyone experiences anything. So let’s be clear. Where is the Bowl? Who has it? Who or what caused the deaths? Is Thorne involved? That’s it.”

Ariadne looks down at the desk. She is tired. Still hasn’t fully recovered from the encounter in the forest. She drops into a chair, looking around the room.

Ian coughs. He’s drawn, pale. Speaks quietly.

“There’s been more murders. This morning. Three teenagers. On the edge of the marshes. Same thing as before.”

Ariadne slumps. Alex stares, open mouthed. The room is somber, the ghastly news leeching any clarity or sense of momentum. Tamsin sits forward.

“Ariadne. Alex. We know what we need to do. Yes?”

After a moment, they both nod at her.

“Tonight. We need to move.”

Tamsin turns to Ian.

“We need the location of these last murders. Can you take us there?”

Ian nods.

“Good. We need to collect some things. Drop us off, and leave us. One of us will call when we’re ready to come back.”

“OK. Got it.”

John Mayne stands.

“Anything I can do?”

Tamsin nods.

“Take Nick and Howard to the bar. You might not have another chance for a while.”

She smiles. Looks at Ariadne and Alex.

“Ready?”

Without hesitation, they nod.

In the distance, across the marshland, behind a line of trees, the sun sets behind the high hill. The light outlines the tower at the summit, flaring as it descends into night. Ian drives into the lowering twilight as the enrobed trio of sorcerers approach the taped cordon around a shallow, waterlogged ditch.

In silence, Ariadne, Alex and Tamsin spread out around the cordon, equidistant. Each of them carries a six foot staff, topped with oiled cloth wound about with rope. As one, they light the torches and push them into the damp ground, calling out a single word as they move to stand before their own flaming staff, facing the ditch. Ariadne and Alex draw their knives, Tamsin a plain white wand. They begin to chant in unison, holding their magical tools to the sky. The words ring out over the marshes, the only sound under a cloudless, darkening sky. The water pooled all around shines silver under the rising moon. The chant grows in intensity, faster, louder, oscillating, rippling the chill air, higher and higher until they stop.

Complete silence.

Ariadne, Alex and Tamsin stand tall, arms still upright.

Seconds crawl by. Into a minute, two, more . . .

Something slides through water. Another, and another. All around them. They lower their arms and turn outwards from the ditch, each stepping in front of their torch. A repulsive slithering, crawling murmur surrounds them, growing closer, closer.

It stops.

The sorcerers shift stance, poised.

Rising savage from the marshland, an appalling pale flurry of raw flesh, scabrous and scaled, all around them, rushing, reaching out with cracked and blighted claws. Multitudes of rank teeth snap with moist, funnel-like tongues snaking the air. The things have no eyes.

Unhesitating, the trio discharge immense, brutal power, an unstoppable pulse of force rolling out in a circle over the onrushing wave of abomination.

The horrors from out of the marsh disappear.

Alex, in surprise, shouts.

“What?”

They look out across the landscape, wary.

Ariadne drops to one knee, calling in agony. She clutches at her chest.

“It burns . . . “

Tamsin turns, seeing Ariadne pull something violently from under her robe.

Their torches flicker.

A voice, female, old. Familiar, but echoing unrecognisable on the air, incorporeal.

“Let me show you . . .”

The water in the ditch glows. The light rises, a portal widening before them.

Faint, almost beautiful, the faces of Elizabeth Caine, Brigid Morrigan and Baptiste LaVeau, as if in sleep, or perhaps death, appear one after another. They float gently on the night then drift away, enfolded into the portal again. It diminishes into a pinpoint, then gone.

The voice, again.

“Did you see? Did you see them? So beautiful . . .”

Ariadne stands, staring at the amulet, whispering.

“What are you? Who are you?”

“Soon. Soon. I’ve found it. It’s nearby. And you will share. All of you, in your own way, but especially you, Ariadne. You will see. But wait. Stay away. Next time I won’t be so careful controlling my children. They do like to . . . eat.”

As one, they sense the presence depart.

Tamsin approaches Ariadne while Alex scans the marshes.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes. A bit of a burn.” She touches her chest gently, wincing.

“From what? What is that?”

Tamsin looks at Ariadne’s hand, clenched around the amulet.

“It’s for protection. And power.”

Ariadne hesitates. Looks over to Alex. He’s on his phone. Calling Ian to collect them.

Tamsin stares at Ariadne, confused.

Alex joins them.

“So . . . that was something. We’re fucked, aren’t we. Aren’t we fucked? What’s going on?”

Tamsin studies both of them carefully.

“You can’t see it, can you? It’s that thing. It’s not protection. It’s bewilderment. Misdirection. Lies. And it’s a tracker.? And that voice? And the visions?”

In the distance, the lights of a car. Ian.

The three sorcerers stand in silence, appalled.

Ariadne begins to weep.