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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.

It is now 1920, and 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...

A bestial lycanthrope on the prowl in high societya ghoulish murderer who may be more than he appearsa worm of ever-increasing proportions and savageryall are the terrifying challenges that St. Cyprian and Gallowglass must face in defense of England!

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NOTE: "The Artist as Wolf" was published by Pill Hill Press in the 2011 anthology, Leather, Denim and Silver: Legends of the Monster Hunter which is available via Amazon, and it will bereprinted by Atlantean Publishing in a 2013 issue of Monomyth.

THE ARTIST AS WOLF

It was November of 1920 and the clink of champagne glasses provided bright counterpoint to the tinkling of the piano keys. Charles St. Cyprian moved through the art-gallery crowd, Mediterranean-dark among the pale sea of the English upper-crust, snagging a glass from a passing tray. He took a sip, his eyes alert for a tell-tale flash of black.

Think hes here?

St. Cyprian glanced down. Ebe Gallowglass took a gulp from one of the two champagne flutes she held, her dark eyes wide. She had short, dark hair, cut into a curl-edged bob, and slim, straight limbs the color of cinnamon. The latter were mostly hidden beneath a loose dress and the former beneath a matching cloche hat. He's here, he murmured. Do you really need two of those?

Liquid courage, she said.

Its champagne.

Thats why I need two, Gallowglass said, tossing back the dregs of the first glass. She started on the second. St. Cyprian snorted and went back to his watching.

Hes here, he said again, his tone confident. Then, he was the Royal Occultist. A certain amount of expertise in otherworldly matters was a job requirement. Formed during the reign of Elizabeth the First, the office of Royal Occultist (or the 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, and his assistant-cum-

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apprentice, Ebe Gallowglass.

So you said. Those pictures are horrible," Gallowglass said, looking at the prominently displayed work of the artist for whom the soiree they were attending was being thrown. St. Cyprian followed her gaze. Dark shapes scampered across the canvas, black interspersed with red; the work of Gabriel-Ernest Smythe, the latest thing on the scene. The party was for Smythe by way of his newest patrons, to celebrate his success. St. Cyprian and Gallowglass were here for Smythe as well, though not to celebrate.

"No worse than your average Pickman," St. Cyprian said. Idly, he clinked the steel rings that occupied three of his fingers together. The rings, as well as a rather cluttered house on the Embankment had come with his current position. He drained his champagne glass and deposited it on top of the closest canvas-stand. "Though that's not saying much, I admit." He turned, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"I like that one with all of the dogs playing cards," Gallowglass said, bending so close to another canvas that the tip of her nose almost brushed the snout of the hazy lupine shape that slavered back at her. "That's high art that is."

"Heathen," St. Cyprian said. She blew a raspberry in reply, but he ignored her. "What's the point of all of this? That's what I don't understand." He gestured at the paintings scattered across the room, all of them similar in both execution and subject of rough beasts slouching towards grim tasks. Hints of beast-shapes, scuttling through forced perspective trees, and the odd splash of red on white. "It's like he wants people to know."

Maybe he does. Know what exactly?

St. Cyprian smiled slightly as he glanced at the speaker. His secret passions, I imagine. Hello Bobbie, he said, greeting their hostess. Roberta Wickham was a small woman, petite and red-headed, and dressed like someone who had money but no need to dress accordingly.

Hardly secret, Charley, Bobbie said, grinning and tossing her hair. I do so love it when a man is properly enthusiastic, dont you? she continued, looking at Gallowglass. The latter opened her mouth to reply, but Bobbie overrode her and turned back to St. Cyprian. Im surprised you accepted my invitation, Charley. I would have thought you would have gone into hiding with Bertie and the rest of the Drones.

I dont quite think Ive fallen low enough to accept membership to the Drones, have I? St. Cyprian said.

You tell me, Bobbie said, smirking. She turned to the painting and her smirk faded to a sort of dreamy smile. They are something, arent they?

Thats one way of putting it, Gallowglass said, finishing her second glass of champagne. Bobbie gave her a measuring look then said, Shes a bit young for you, Charley.

Shes my assistant, St. Cyprian said.

Is that what you fellows are calling it now?

Catty, Gallowglass said. She smiled and twirled the empty champagne flute. Bobbie

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winced.

Dont do that. You have no idea how much those cost.

Not as much as you bought them for, I bet, Gallowglass said.

So where is the guest of honor, Bobbie? St. Cyprian said, interrupting. Bobbie looked at him and frowned. She fluttered her fingers.

Around. Mingling, hopefully. This is for his benefit, after all. She looked up, her chin lifting.

"Yes. Artists can be a tad ungrateful, I've heard," St. Cyprian said. "Biting the hand that feeds them and all that." He smiled genially. "I've heard that no one has ever seen his studio; surely that can't be true."

Bobbie chuckled and patted St. Cyprian's arm. "Secretive types, your basic artist. Common knowledge, Charley. And why are you so interested anyway? Looking to steal him away for yourself? she said, raising her eyebrows.

"I-" St. Cyprian coughed, momentarily taken aback.

"You can tell me, you know," Bobbie said, grinning. "It'd be a gas if it were true."

"If what were-" St. Cyprian began.

Gallowglass came to his rescue. "Charley wanted to commission a portrait," she said, beaming at the other woman. Bobbie frowned and looked back and forth between them.

"He doesn't do portraits," she said, settling a basilisk glare on Gallowglass. "He's not some petty busker, you know."

"Guarding his reputation or your property?" Gallowglass shot back.

"One in the same, I believe, and I thank you for it Bobbie.

St. Cyprian hesitated a moment before turning, his eyes narrowing. A young man stood behind them, hands clasped behind his back. He had narrow, handsome features and dark, longish hair that curled over the edges of his collar. Eyes like dark, polished stones fastened on them. "Gabriel-Ernest Smythe, at your service," he said, flashing a mouth full of startlingly white teeth. It wasn't a smile. Not quite. "And you are...?"

"St. Cyprian. Charles St. Cyprian," St. Cyprian said. He didn't offer to shake hands.

"Ah," Smythe said. He flashed his teeth again. "How fortuitous. I have so wanted to meet you."

Its all hes been talking about, Bobbie said, taking Smythes arm.

"Have you?" St. Cyprian said.

"Simply ravenous for the opportunity," Smythe said.

Oh Gee, Bobbie said, giggling. He patted her hand.

Bobbie, be a dear and go get me a drink, would you? Im simply parched.

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They watched Bobbie move off through the crowd. Smythe turned back to St. Cyprian. Im quite fond of Bobbie. Its the hair color, I think.

"You can't help it, can you?" St. Cyprian said. "Ravenous? Really?"

Smythe shrugged elegantly. "I am what I am." There was an ever so-slight lilt to his words, a ghost of a memory of an accent. Gaelic perhaps.

"How philosophical," Gallowglass said. While the two men had been talking, she had sidled around behind Smythe and was now pressed close to him. Or, rather, the small pepperbox pistol she had retrieved from her garter was pressed close to him. She cocked it with a thumb and Smythe twitched. "And what are you then?" she asked. "Its loaded with silver shot, by the by. Just so you know."

"An artist," Smythe said, not taking his eyes off of St. Cyprian. The latter snorted.

"Depends on how you define art, I suppose."

"That's a rather narrow view," Smythe said.

"Practically panoramic, actually," St. Cyprian said. "1904, Cavan, Ireland. Thirty sheep were killed by a nocturnal predator, resembling a largish black dog. Five weeks later, near Limerick, a similar occurrence."

"Dogs kill sheep often enough. Beastly creatures," Smythe said, shivering slightly. "Can't stand them myself."

"1905. Near Badminton in Gloucestershire, a large black dog was shot as it worried at the carcasses of two sheep. The dog wasn't found."

"Farmers are notoriously bad shots. Common knowledge," Smythe said.

"I didn't say it was a farmer. A month later, near Hinton, the same again," St. Cyprian continued, his voice pitched low. "Near Windsor Castle a year later, a sentry fired at what he described as a 'lean black shape'. A few days after that, a dozen of the King's sheep were slaughtered in their field. A month after that, further south, fifty-one sheep were ripped apart and scattered the length and breadth of a field. Petulance, perhaps?" St. Cyprian said.

"Maybe the creature was only minding its business," Smythe said. "If I have to guess."

"In Llanelly, Wales in 1910, a large black animal broke the spines of over a hundred rabbits in every hutch in the village. It was shot, but escaped."

"I've never found rabbits to be more than a mouthful, myself," Smythe said.

"Derbyshire, one month ago. Just before you arrived in London. Something black in color and of enormous size began killing sheep. It mutilated the remains in a particularly sadistic fashion, and even set upon a shepherd."

"I trust the poor man wasn't injured," Smythe said.

"He's dead," St. Cyprian said flatly. "Mauled. As were Sally Floyd and Anna Benson earlier this month."

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"Mm, yes, I believe I heard something about that. The scandal sheets made as if it were Saucy Jack come again," Smythe said, smiling.

"Maybe he has," St. Cyprian said.

"Ha! Yes," Smythe said, his features changing abruptly from polite bafflement to cunning amusement."There's no need for the peppy, you know. I'm happy to talk."

"Call it insurance," Gallowglass said. "Can't have you getting temperamental, can we?"

Smythe made a face. "As if I would do so here. This is my big night, after all."

"Yes, your premier showing. You've been making quite a ruckus in the scene lately," St. Cyprian said. "Powerful and vivid are the commonly applied adjectives."

"You sound as if you don't share that opinion."

"Oh they're vivid, I'll give you that. Evocative, even." St. Cyprian turned. "I do happen to like that one there. What is it called?" He gestured to a nearby canvas. On it, two shapes seemed to pulse and push against one another, causing the eye to see first a man, then...something else.

Smythe grinned now, displaying his impressive teeth. "'The Artist as Wolf'."

"It is subtlety like that which renders art inaccessible to the common man," Gallowglass said.

"My thoughts exactly," St. Cyprian said, turning back. "Why? Is it just a grisly little joke of some kind?"

"Of some kind," Smythe agreed. "People are funny like that, aren't they?" He clicked his teeth together and cocked his head. "They never see what's right in front of them. Not until its too late."

"Except us," St. Cyprian said.

"Except you." Smythe sniffed. "You almost caught me in the East End last week."

"And in Wapping before that." St. Cyprian frowned. "You knew we were closing in. Why didn't you leave London? That seems to be your pattern."

"I don't have a pattern. I go where I want, when I want. I'll not be leaving before I decide to go." Smythe's lips curled away from his gums in a distressing manner. "Besides, I haven't sampled all of the local cuisine yet."

"That was terrible. Do that again and I'll shoot you right here," Gallowglass said.

"You won't shoot me," Smythe said.

"I will so," Gallowglass said.

"She will," St. Cyprian said. "Positively murderous, this one." He looked at Smythe. "When Van Cheele called me up a few weeks ago, babbling about a murderous wolf-boy, I was inclined to put him off." He gestured towards a painting that depicted a child-shaped blotch of white strolling hand in-paw?-with a darker shape. "What's that one called?"

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"The Wandering Toop," Smythe said, grinning widely.

"A child by that name drowned in a mill-pond in Sussex back before the War. Van Cheele remembered the name of the child, and the name of the boy who supposedly drowned to save her."

Smythe's grin grew wider still. "He was a stupid man. Not so stupid as his sister, but stupid enough."

"You shouldn't have let yourself be photographed at the Fitzallen's last month," St. Cyprian said. "Van Cheele saw the picture in the Times. He nearly had a coronary. When he recovered, he called me." St. Cyprian cocked his head.

"And you found out ever so much, eh?" Smythe murmured. "Where is Bobbie with that drink?"

I found out enough to make me suspicious. Youve cut quite a swathe through the local swells. Id think a person in your position wouldnt want to attract so much attention.

"You might be correct. Here we are, after all," Smythe said, spreading his hands. Long fingers fluttered like ribbons and he clicked his teeth again.

Did you really think you were going to get away with it? St. Cyprian said. With any of it?

I assumed Id get by on a mixture of audacity and cunning, yes. Smythe examined his nails. "I always have before. So now what?"

"Now? Now we walk out onto the balcony and we dispense with the pleasantries," St. Cyprian said softly. He patted his jacket, where a pistol-shaped bulge was just barely visible. Bobbie will be upset, of course, but shell get over it.

You plan to kill me? Here?

As I recall, we tried to kill you in Wapping, but you got away. I didnt choose the ground, Smythe. You did.

"I can't die here. What will people think?" Smythe said. His smile was so wide that it nearly split his face in two.

"I'm sure they'll have tomorrow's gossip columns to expound at length on their theories," St. Cyprian said, gesturing to the double doors leading to the balcony. "Let's take in the night air, shall we?"

Smythe gave a mocking bow and strode towards the doors, throwing them open with a grandiose gesture. St. Cyprian and Gallowglass followed him out. The house overlooked Kensington Gardens and Smythe seemed to gulp in the thin scent of the park. "I intend to buy a house here, I think. No more forests for me. Not until the city gets boring, at least." He leaned back against the balustrade and folded his arms. I still dont see how youre planning to get away with this.

A mixture of audacity and cunning, St. Cyprian said, throwing Smythes words back at him. The other man shrugged.

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"Ah. Well then, get on with it." His eyes seemed to glow softly in the darkness.

St. Cyprian reached into his coat and pulled out a gleaming Webley-Bulldog. He aimed the squat pistol at the artist and cocked it. His eyes narrowed. "Id like to say its been a pleasure, but, well-

Charley? What are you lot doing out here? Bobbie said, stepping out onto the balcony. Her eyes widened. Is that a gun?

St. Cyprian blinked and looked at the pistol in his hand. No? he tried. Bobbies eyes narrowed and she stepped forward.

It is! Are you planning to shoot my guest?

No? St. Cyprian tried again. Well, possibly. This is a bit awkward, wot?

"Charley!"

Enough of this, Gallowglass snapped, and raised her pepperbox.

No! Bobbie lunged, crashing against the other woman. They fell in a tangle, the pepperbox skittering away. St. Cyprian hesitated, then stumbled back as Smythe slid forward and snapped his teeth together inches from the other mans face. St. Cyprians pistol swung up and Smythes hand was there to meet it.

Iron fingers wrapped around St. Cyprians wrist and squeezed it painfully. The occultist groaned and rammed his free fist into the artists kidney. Smythe gasped and released him and St. Cyprian staggered back. Fumblingly, he fired his pistol, but Smythe was already gone, his clothes tumbling to the ground. Something long and dark and horrible arrowed towards St. Cyprian, and he ducked instinctively.

Claws clattered across the stonework of the balcony, and the black wolf glanced over its shoulder, yellow eyes flashing. St. Cyprian scrambled to his feet and fired again, taking a chunk out of the stone as the wolf vanished.

Damnation! The occultist turned. Gallowglass had won her own struggle, and now awkwardly straddled Bobbie. The victor had a handful of her defeated opponents hair in her hands and was preparing to crack her skull on the stone surface of the balcony. Ms. Gallowglass! We have a wolf on the loose!

Why didnt you shoot him? she snapped querulously as she released Bobbie and stood.

I tried!

This is why I usually carry the pistol, Gallowglass said, smoothing her dress.

Ill have you know that Im an excellent marksman, St. Cyprian said, holstering his weapon. Its hard to hit a moving target is all.

Charles St. Cyprian! Why in the devil were you trying to kill my artist? Bobbie hissed, climbing to her feet. Do you have any idea how much I spent on this party?

Im sure youll tell me all about it, St. Cyprian said. Right now, we have a wolf to catch

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and not a huntsman in sight.

My artist has been carried off by a wolf? Bobbie barked her eyes wide. Good God!

No, Bobbie, he-forget it. Ms. Gallowglass, lets go, St. Cyprian said, striding towards the doors. She hurried to catch up, tugging at her skirt.

Had to let him scarper, and me in heels and dress? she said.

I said I was sorry.

You didnt actually, Gallowglass said, pulling off her shoes. She tossed them aside and caught up with him. Lucky thing I brought trousers.

Oh yes, by all means, please do take the time to get changed. Its only a werewolf after all. Nothing to be alarmed about, St. Cyprian grunted, hurrying out onto the street and looking towards the Gardens. I hate werewolves. Devious buggers.

Met a few of them, then? Gallowglass said, heading for their car, a black Crossley 20hp, with a well-stocked boot. She pulled a satchel out of the latter.

No, as a matter of fact, he said, hopping into the drivers seat. Get in.

He went into the Garden didnt he?

A wolf can cover that kind of ground surprisingly quickly, St. Cyprian said, starting the car. And Im not chasing the beggar on foot in the dark.

Good thing we work for the King, Gallowglass said as she clambered into the back and began to get changed.

Yes, St. Cyprian said, pulling away from the curb. Twisting the wheel, he aimed the Crossley towards Knightsbridge and away from Notting Hill. There was little traffic at that time of night, and a few toots of the horn took care of what little there was.

Why even bother to change? He could have bluffed his way out of there, Gallowglass said, kicking her legs up as she pulled on a pair of mens trousers.

Well hes not a subtle fellow, is he? St. Cyprian said. Hes in a fine fur and looking to cause trouble. He tapped his head. "The beast is too close to the surface in him."

"That explains the paintings, I suppose."

"I'd say so-"

The wolf hit the hood of the car and scrabbled, its nails cutting grooves in the paint. St. Cyprian cursed and braked and the wolf swayed, yellow eyes pinning him in place as its breath fogged up the window. The tableau held for a moment, until the beast gave a shake and seemed to laugh. Then it was gone, loping along the Embankment. Still cursing, St. Cyprian set the Crossley in pursuit, squeezing the horn for all he was worth.

Where the devil is he going? Gallowglass said, clambering into the passenger seat as the car raced down the street.

Well know when we get there, St. Cyprian said, swerving to avoid an oncoming bus.

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The horn of the larger vehicle shrilled as the Crossley darted across its path. The wolf stayed just in sight, occasionally leaping sideways into traffic and then back out. After twenty minutes of tense pursuit, St. Cyprian said, Hes going for Waterloo Bridge!

How can you tell?

Because its the quickest way over the Thames from where we are. He pounded the steering wheel with a fist. Hes trying to escape.

But to where? If hes not going into the parks-"

"His studio! St. Cyprian said, in sudden realization. A hunted wolf always goes to ground, preferably in his own territory." He stamped on the accelerator.

The wolf loped down the street alongside the Thames slithering between cars and leaping past pedestrians who inevitably set up a hue and cry. Police whistles sounded as the lean black shape sent a constable rolling into the gutter with the force of its passage. The Crossley kept pace, but only barely.

"Nothing can move that fast," Gallowglass whispered.

A shop window burst as the creature moved past it like a streak of black lightning. Sparks rode in its wake as it struck the side of a bus and scrambled up and over it without breaking its demonic stride. As the werewolf leapt from vehicle to vehicle along the bridge, it gave vent to a raucous howl. It leapt down into the path of a motor-car and snarled into the glaring headlights, matching them with its own yellow gaze. The car swerved and struck another and the beast was off.

St. Cyprian wrestled with the wheel of the Crossley as he tried to keep up with the beast. The wolf slowed in its run, looking back at them across one shaggy shoulder. Its jaws hung open in doggy laughter as it waited for them to catch up. They left the bridge with a growl of the engine, and the wolf took off, moving at an almost sedate run.

"He wants us to follow him," Gallowglass said, grabbing St. Cyprian's shoulder.

"So he does," St. Cyprian said. "And so we are."

"It's likely a trap."

"Almost certainly."

"I'd like to discuss an increase in wages," Gallowglass said.

"I don't pay you."

"Exactly. We'll call it hazard dues, shall we?"

The pursuit became surreal, with the wolf scattering roosting pigeons and bounding across the tops of fences with preternatural agility. It would disappear and reappear suddenly, bounding across the hood or the boot of the Crossley, its howls seemingly echoing from the very brick of the city.

Tower Bridge! Gallowglass said, pointing. The wolf scrambled under a cab with eel-like speed and then was up and climbing the suspension cables with distinctly un-lupine

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movements.

I didnt think wolves could climb, Gallowglass said faintly, half standing up in her seat as the wolf moved above them.

I didnt think wolves could paint, St. Cyprian snarled. We learn something new every day!

The wolf swung around the suspension cables, moving like a snake. In that moment, it seemed less a creature of form and matter than a shadow that lengthened and shrank with their passage.

They left the bridge behind a moment later and sped through the streets of the East End, which became ever more cramped and crooked. The shops and storefronts took on foreign aspects and sputtering lanterns lit the streets. The wolf moved through it all sinuously, scattering drunks and addicts with a snarl.

The Crossley screeched to a stop as the beast darted down an alleyway. "Why are we stopping?" Gallowglass said.

"Car won't fit," St. Cyprian said, jumping out of his seat. "We go on foot from here."

"Wonderful," Gallowglass said, shrugging into a worn leather shoulder-holster. A moment later she drew a heavy Webley service revolver and cracked it open. Then, with a grunt, she snapped it back.

The East End. Youd think hed have better taste, hanging out with the Chelsea crowd.

Its likely because of his particular tastes that hes denning here, St. Cyprian said. People go missing in the East End all the time. Only some of them wind up in the Thames.

Cheery, Gallowglass said. Then, "We are sure that silver hurts them, right?"

"Can't hurt I should think," St. Cyprian said, drawing his own revolver. "The sources are all over the map on that score, I'm afraid." Holding the weapon down by his side, he started into the alleyway. "Still, stiff upper lip and all that. Putting two between 'em should calm him down acceptably, regardless of the base metals."

"Aren't you supposed to know these things?" Gallowglass said, following him.

"We live and learn, apprentice-mine."

"Emphasis on 'live', I hope."

St. Cyprian shot her a look and they continued in silence. Like most alleys in the old rookeries, it was awash in refuse and smelled foul. Rats squealed at their passage and the wood of the sagging outdoor stairwells that led up to the various rooms above creaked softly. And every so often, just at the edge of their hearing was the sound of deep panting or the click of nails across the surface of the street.

After what seemed like an eternity, there was a sound like glass shattering. "Where-" Gallowglass began, turning. St. Cyprian grabbed her and threw her against the wall as something heavy crashed down where she'd been standing only a moment earlier.

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St. Cyprian glanced briefly at the shattered remains of the water barrel, then looked up. The wolf lay on the wooden landing, tongue lolling, its eyes glittering. It gave a coughing growl and stood, padding away through the open door behind it a moment later.

"I think we found his studio," Gallowglass said. "Won't your girl Bobbie be ever so jealous?"

"Hardly my girl, thank you. More an acquaintance, really." St. Cyprian took the stairs carefully. He stopped halfway up. "Are you coming or not?"

"This is definitely a trap," Gallowglass said, hurrying after him.

"Sometimes there's nothing for it but to beard the wolf in his den," St. Cyprian said, easing the door at the top of the stairs open with his foot. Beyond was an attic room like every attic room-slanted roof and moldy windows open to the effluvium of the area. Discarded and unused canvases lay in heaps and piles everywhere, and the room reeked of paint and turpentine.

"It kills the stink, you know." Smythe's voice seemed to come from everywhere, all at once. "The paint, I mean. Keeps me from getting distracted by all the wonderful smells out there."

"I'm sure," St. Cyprian said, turning in place. The floor creaked loudly beneath him as he moved. He motioned for Gallowglass to stay behind him and she nodded sharply. "Distracted from what, out of curiosity?"

"City life," Smythe said from somewhere close. Too close. St. Cyprian spun, but saw nothing. "There's nothing like it. Oh the forests are fine, but there's just so much to see and do here. So many new scents and tastes. And dogs."

"Dogs?"

"Stray dogs. Hundreds, even. All skulking and wailing. I despise dogs, but they do make things so easy." Smythe gave a low and wicked laugh. "What is a big black wolf to the average city-dweller but just another dog? In the country, there'd be pitchforks and shotguns at the first flurry of bloody feathers in a chicken-coop. Ireland was particularly bad. I got away from there as soon as I learned about boats. But here-ah. Dog eat dog, as they say. Dog eat man, too. Heh." Smythe clapped his hands together sharply. "They say people come to the city to find a better life. Or an easier one."

"Some people find neither," St. Cyprian said, peering into the darkness.

A sigh. "Too true." Smythe's pale face appeared out of the darkness. He was nude, and his flesh gleamed like marble in what little light there was. "I quite liked being an artist. I wonder whatever I shall be next?"

"Depends on your karma," St. Cyprian said, firing. Glass shattered as the bullet struck the mirror where Smythe's gloating face had been reflected. St. Cyprian whirled as Gallowglass gave a cry and the great black wolf lunged for them, jaws wide. A moment later, the floor gave a groan and the wooden boards beneath St. Cyprian's feet snapped and splintered, causing him to tumble headlong!

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Gallowglass grabbed his wrist as he fell and he struck the wall with a bone-rattling thump. He looked down and immediately wished he hadn't. Beneath him was a swirling sea of snapping jaws and hunger-maddened gazes. Dogs. Dozens of them. Every breed of street mongrel possible, scrambling out from under eaves and through doorways. And all of them baying now, and leaping for him.

"Jesus Christ!" Gallowglass said, trying to haul him back up while keeping a grip on her Webley. St. Cyprian tried to help her, but there was nowhere to dig his fingers in, or even to brace himself.

"I built the deadfall myself. I was a carpenter, once, before I was an artist," Smythe said, slinking into view on the opposite side of the hole. He squatted at the edge of the pit and looked down. If it was possible, the dogs seemed to make an even greater racket. "Filthy beasts," he murmured. "The first night I was here, they attacked me. Dozens of mongrels, coming at me from everywhere. They seem to understand instinctively that I'm their enemy. Moreso than people at any rate. Then, animals don't see the shape, do they? They only see the smell." He tapped his nose.

St. Cyprian ignored him and tried to gain some purchase on the wooden walls of the improvised pit. Unfortunately, all he got for his efforts were splinters. Gallowglass slid slightly, and gritted her teeth as she tried to keep hold of him.

Smythe went on, oblivious. "After I secured this place for myself, I began to lead them here. To trap them down there. I blocked off the door and the windows. Made it a proper wolf-pit, you might say." He stood and began to sidle around the edge of the hole."I hoped they'd starve, but instead the stronger ones ate the weaker ones! So I lured more of them in, but they just wouldn't die. As a game, I fed them the leftovers of my own meals, but it doesn't quite satisfy them." He peered down and smiled. "Sometimes I paint them." He looked at Gallowglass. "If you let him fall, you might make it to the door."

"You-" she began, trying to shift her increasingly slippery grip so that she could use her pistol. It was no use however. Smythe tossed back his head and laughed.

"Maybe I'll even paint this. I'll bet dear old Bobbie will just love it," he snarled, snapping his teeth together. "It'll be my farewell masterpiece, I think." He hunched forward, curling his fingers. "I hear America is nice. Full of cities and great wide swathes of nothing. Maybe I'll go there next. Last chance my dear. Run." Those last words were drawn out into a rasping growl as pale flesh was seemingly swept beneath a tide of black, coarse hair. Like water going down a drain, Gabriel-Ernest Smythe gave way to the black wolf as Gallowglass watched in horrified fascination.

The wolf shook itself and tensed, hindquarters quivering as it prepared to leap the gap separating it from its prey. St. Cyprian twisted desperately. "Drop the pistol!" he bawled.

Gallowglass blinked and did as he bade. The Webley dropped like a stone and he pulled away from her, snatching it even as he fell. The wolf leapt, snarling triumphantly. The pistol barked, St. Cyprian firing as he crashed to the floor below. The wolf twisted in the air, snapping at its hindquarters as if it had been stung by a wasp. Its leap interrupted, it too fell with a

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piteous cry, crashing down a few feet from the dazed St. Cyprian.

The dogs surrounded them both, the harsh sound of their panting filling the air. The wolf staggered up and gave a growl that shook the timbers. The dogs ignored it, their gazes hungry. The stink of blood filled the room. The wolf favored its left hind-leg and it wobbled as it turned, trying to keep all of the dogs in view.

St. Cyprian rose, breathing heavily, his insides burning. He'd hurt something coming down, and he'd lost the pistol. Luckily, the dogs didn't seem to be very interested in him. What was it Smythe had said-they understood instinctively that the wolf was their enemy. Had, in fact, always been their enemy, for as long as man and dog had been partners.

Their eyes met. Smythe's yellow orbs no longer held mocking amusement. Now they held only the berserk terror of the wolf in a trap. The wolf howled, and the dogs lunged as one,yapping and snarling. St. Cyprian threw himself backwards as four-legged, half-starved bodies blundered past him. He turned towards the boarded over windows and began to run as best he was able. His last sight of Gabriel-Ernest Smythe was as a struggling, screaming shape buried beneath a hairy avalanche.

St. Cyprian hit the closest window with a force born of desperation and crashed out onto the street in a cloud of wood splinters and dusty glass. He lay for a moment, trying to breath, and then forced himself to remain still as a number of dogs, their muzzles dripping red, burst out of the broken window and scattered into the East End.

The next thing he saw was Gallowglass hurrying towards him. She helped him to his feet.

"Is he-" he coughed.

"There's not enough left of him to cause any trouble if he's not," she said."What happened down there?" St. Cyprian was silent for a moment and they sat and watched as a lanky mongrel squirm out of the broken window and trot away, a hank of something black and red dangling from its jaws.

"I learned what kills werewolves," he said finally.

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NOTE: "Iron Bells" was published by Pill Hill Press in the 2011 anthology, The Trigger Reflex: Legends of the Monster Hunter II which is available via Amazon, and it will be reprinted by Static Movement Press in the 2013 anthology, Ghoul Saloon.

IRON BELLSFor 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

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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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 low-down 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.

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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?

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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.

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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

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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.

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Tonight? Eh? No, dear me, no, I dont go out, no, Bunter said, blinking rapidly. Thats-no, 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?

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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.

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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 towardsher. 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 thatwas 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

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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 sethim 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.

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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?

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NOTE: "Wendy-Smythe's Worm" was first published on the Royal Occultist site in 2012.

WENDY-SMYTHES WORMThis fearful worm would often feed

On calves and lambs and sheepAnd swallow little children aliveWhen 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.

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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.

Formed during the reign of Elizabeth the First, the office of Royal Occultist (or the 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

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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.

What? Gallowglass said.

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

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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,

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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. Cy