Fallen Angels (7 page)

—«»—«»—«»—

The Fallen Ones met in the shrine built by the Mad Duke who had thought he was God. The shrine was behind the splendid Chateau of Auxigny. The Mad Duke was long dead, gone to meet the God he had failed to be, and his eldest son, the present Duke, was imprisoned with his King in Paris.

One of the Fallen Angels did not sit at the black table, for he was a deaf mute. Lucifer had given him the name Dagon. He was a huge, shambling creature with the face of an idiot. The black and gold robe sat on his shoulders like a royal cloak draped on a dancing bear. His task was to care for the Chateau of Auxigny and its strange shrine, a task he did to the terror of the local children who spoke of strange things in the woods behind the Castle.

When Chemosh had been admitted to the chamber, and the doors had been closed again, Dagon took the body of the girl downstairs. He stroked it, and from his throat came strange noises. Later, when the Fallen Angels had gone, and when Dagon was again alone in the Chateau of Auxigny, he would take the body to the dark woods behind the shrine and he would leave it for the ravens and the night creatures and her body would be flensed and the bones scattered and the remnants covered by the falling pine needles. She was not the first girl to die in this place, for every new Fallen Angel was initiated with death, and Dagon, as he ran his huge hands down her still warm flesh, hoped she would not be the last.

—«»—«»—«»—

Lucifer gestured with a silver-gloved hand at the wine. 'Drink, Chemosh. You need some wine after that nonsense.'

Chemosh smiled. 'Nonsense?'

'Of course. Superstition! Yet we have to know if you believe what you say, that you believe reason is above the law, that you believe a reasonable man can do no evil. So we frighten you a little and give you a trifling test. Now you can forget it.' He shrugged beneath the robes. His face was entirely hidden by the dipping cowl of his hood that made a black shadow from which his voice came so hoarse and low. It seemed to Chemosh to be an old voice, a voice that spoke from long and bitter knowledge. Once only, as the cowl was raised towards Chemosh, did the newcomer see the glitter of eyes that themselves seemed to be like two hard silver lights in the darkness.

Lucifer, his voice as dry as dead leaves in a cold wind, spoke of the purpose of the Fallen Angels.

He spoke of a war that would soon be declared between France and Britain. He spoke of the decision, by the
Illuminati,
to work for Britain's defeat.

His business, he said, was not with armies. France would fight, and France would win, and France would take republicanism and reason to Britain. But first the
illuminate
would rot Britain from within.

He spoke of the British Corresponding Societies that supported the revolution. They would need money, help, and arms.

He spoke of the British journals and their writers, the scribblers who would take any bribe and spread any rumour.

He spoke of that 'mad, fat King' who would be dethroned, of the scandals that would be spread in high places, of the foulness that would be smeared over Britain's leaders and aristocrats, until the people of Britain had no trust in their government and would welcome the cleansing flood of republicanism.

And all this, Lucifer said, would take money. 'More money than you can dream of, Chemosh. The task of the Fallen Angels is to provide the
Illuminati
with that money'

The new silk robe was cold on Chemosh's thighs. He was still shaking from the effort of killing the girl. Her eyes, wide and bulging, still stared in his brain.

Lucifer drank water, then the silvery cowl turned to the newcomer again. Neither of the other two hooded men had spoken yet. Like Chemosh, they listened to their master's voice. 'We are going to take a fortune in Britain, Chemosh, and your task is to help us.' His voice was bitter and dry, soft and sibilant, yet even Lucifer could not hide the pleasure of his next words. 'We are going to take the Lazen fortune.'

Lazen! Chemosh knew of Lazen. Did anyone not know of the richest earldom in England? Lazen, with its sprawling great house and its London property and its estates in every shire, was rumoured to have a greater income than that of most kingdoms. Lazen! He said nothing, but he wondered how, in Reason's name, these few men would take the fortune of Lazen.

Lucifer, his hands gloved in silver, told him how.

The Earl of Lazen was sick. He was dying. It was said he could not live another winter, that, indeed, he had almost died a few weeks before when the stump of his amputated leg began bleeding in the night. He would die, Lucifer said, and when he died the fortune of Lazen, with the title, would pass to his son, Viscount Werlatton. Lucifer turned to his left. 'Moloch?'

The robed man opposite Chemosh pushed back his hood. He smiled at the newcomer.

Chemosh was suddenly frightened. He was staring at a face that had been lampooned by half the caricaturists of Europe. He was staring at a heavy, powerful, brooding, knowing face that was the very symbol of the French revolution. Moloch was Bertrand Marchenoir, the ex-priest who now preached his gospel of blood.

Marchenoir leaned forward, lit a cigar from one of the candles, then took up the tale. 'Werlatton was in the British Embassy in Paris. He's an adventurer and up to his bloody neck in spying.' Marchenoir blew smoke over the table. Chemosh saw how his black and gold robe was filthy with wine stains. The Frenchman gave a grim smile. 'He was due to get married; you might remember the fuss the London papers made? We killed his bride and stopped him spawning more heirs. I now hear that he wishes to return to France, seek me out, and take his revenge.' He laughed.

'We shall pray he does,' Lucifer said.

'And when he does,' Marchenoir went on, 'and after his father's death, I shall kill him.'

'After?' Chemosh asked.

The silver cowl of Lucifer looked at him. 'We do not want the Earl to change his will. The father will die, and the son will follow. The son is a fool. He should be rearing a family already, but he cannot resist adventure. So he will die, and the earldom will pass to a cousin. Belial?'

Chemosh knew who Belial was. He was another politician, a member of Britain's House of Commons who was famous for his impassioned speeches against the French and their revolution. Valentine Larke preached war against France in public, while in private he worked for Britain's defeat. Larke had sponsored Chemosh for the Fallen Angels and now he turned his hooded face towards his protégé. The cousin is called Sir Julius Lazender. We have no problems with Sir Julius. Soon all that he will inherit will belong to us.'

'How soon?' Lucifer asked.

'Two months? Maybe three.'

The silver cowl nodded. 'You see, Chemosh, by how slender a thread the fortune hangs? The Earl, his son, and then it is ours. All of it. Except for one problem, a problem that you,' and here a silver gloved finger stabbed at him, 'will solve. Tell him, Belial'

Valentine Larke, MP, leaned back from the table. 'There is a daughter. Her name is Campion.' He said the unusual name slowly and scornfully. 'She is, for a girl, remarkably well educated. At present she has all the responsibility for Lazen. Her father is ill, her brother absent, and she governs. She does it, I am told, well.' He paused to sip wine. 'Our problem, Chemosh, is simple. The Earl knows how slender is the thread. He knows his son has no heir. He knows that Sir Julius might inherit and Sir Julius is a gambler. Lazen is in peril, and we believe that the girl is his answer. One. She might inherit, though I doubt it. Two, she might inherit part of the fortune, though I doubt that the Earl will divide his inheritance. Three, and most likely, is that whoever inherits will find themselves still under her thumb. The estate, in short, will be entailed and she will have the governance of the entail.' He shrugged. 'We can't kill her now, because the Earl will change his will, just as he would if the son died, so we must do something else.'

'You must do something else.' Lucifer spoke, and again his finger stabbed at Chemosh. 'Your task, Chemosh, is to ensure that the Lady Campion Lazender is no threat to us. Specifically she is not to marry.'

Chemosh understood that. If she married, then her husband would take her property and would have the governance of the entail or the estate. Her children, if her brother and cousin died, might inherit. 'I stop her marrying?'

'You stop her marrying by any means short of death. Later she will die, but not until her father is buried.'

Chemosh had his task now, he had earned it, and he was part of a conspiracy that would twist the history of the world into a new, clearer future. He felt privileged to be in this place where decisions were made which, like those which had led in secret council to the fall of France, would now lead to Britain's downfall. He was Chemosh, the name of the Fallen Angel that demanded human sacrifice, and he had escaped death by inflicting death. He understood now why they had made him kill for this initiation, for only a man without pity and who understood that Reason's servants are above man's petty laws was worthy to be a Fallen Angel. Chemosh's elation lasted as Lucifer gave his last instructions. He, Chemosh, was to take his orders from Valentine Larke, while Larke would communicate to France through Marchenoir's messenger. Yet to Chemosh these were mere details that were swamped by his exhilaration at this privilege.

Finally, Lucifer stood and the movement shifted the cowl for one second, and Chemosh saw again the glitter of eyes deep in the shadow. It seemed that even Lucifer's eyes were silver, then the hood settled back and the dry, rustling voice spoke again. 'We are done. I shall go, the rest of you will follow in ten minutes. I wish you all a safe journey. I do not need to wish you success, for we are followers of Reason and therefore cannot fail.'

Then, with a shimmer of his robes, he turned and went down the passage at the back of the chamber.

Marchenoir waited till their leader's footsteps had faded to silence, then stood, stretched his massive arms, and went to the painted, curved doors and pulled them apart. Chemosh saw that the body of the girl was gone. The marble floor glistened.

Marchenoir grinned. 'Watch, Chemosh.'

'Watch?'

The Frenchman jerked his head towards the empty, circular chamber.

There was silence. Chemosh gave a puzzled look to Valentine Larke who, now that Lucifer was gone, pushed his hood back from hair that, despite his fifty years, was still glossy black. It was rippled like the hard sand on a creek bed. Beneath the hair was a broad, flat, intelligent face, an impressive face even, a face of such judiciousness that any free-holder would think this man worthy of a vote with or without the election bribe. His eyes stopped his face from being handsome. They were of a blandness so unnatural as to be frightening; dark eyes in flattened sockets. They were the eyes of a quiet, watching man, but they were also eyes of horrid implacability. Valentine Larke did not forget or forgive his enemies. Now, though, he smiled and gestured towards the main room of the shrine. 'Watch!'

Chemosh turned to the brilliantly lit chamber where he had killed the girl.

He saw nothing strange, but then, deep in the building, he heard the rattle of a chain, a creaking sound like the windlass of a well, and to his astonishment he saw that the brightness of the gleaming shrine was dimming. A shadow seemed to flow down the walls like blood, like an artificial twilight, a shadow that flicked over the statuary, became darker and then, with an awesome finality, extinguished the last flicker of candlelight within the huge room. In just seconds the brilliance of the shining room had been dimmed to darkness.

Only the candles on the black stone table stayed lit. The shadow had swallowed the marble chamber.

Marchenoir laughed at the newcomer's expression. The Mad Duke's little palace of tricks!' He gestured towards the dark dome. 'Just an iron shutter that drops in front of the candles. Dagon turned the handle downstairs. It was built so the mad bugger could shout "let there be light" and a dozen peasants would haul on the chain!' He laughed and shook his head. 'Our job was to worship the crazy bastard. There used to be a tunnel under here so he could suddenly appear in our astonished midst. They bricked that up when the bugger died. But I suppose we were impressed by it all.' He tossed his cigar onto the darkened marble floor, then turned his hard, brooding face to the newcomer. 'I envy you, Chemosh.'

'Envy me?'

'I hear that the Lady Campion is a pearl of great price. She is said to be beautiful.' He walked to the black table and lit another cigar. The Gypsy, who was the messenger between Marchenoir and Larke, had told the French politician that the Lady Campion was more beautiful than a dream. Marchenoir blew smoke into the huge, dark chamber. 'Very beautiful indeed.'

'A pity,' Larke said drily.

'Pity?' Marchenoir asked.

'Because the easiest way to stop her marrying,' the Englishman said quietly, 'is to make her unmarriageable. If you scar her face, Chemosh, and scar her body, and scar her mind, who will want her?' He sipped wine. 'Have her raped. Hire a poxed man to rape her and scar her and drive her wits a little mad.' He smiled. 'You see how easy your task will be?'

Marchenoir laughed. 'Send her to me.'

'You'd like that, wouldn't you?' Larke smiled. 'A virgin aristocrat at your mercy.'

Marchenoir laughed. 'I am the killer of aristocrats.' He said it simply, boastfully, then walked to the edge of the dark chamber and stared up at the dome where the iron shutter had dropped over the candles. 'They're different. They have white skins, soft skins, skins like silk. They squeal.' He laughed again, and the sound echoed back in the Mad Duke's chamber. 'I would like her. God, how I would like her.' He turned, and his broad, powerful face stared at the newcomer. 'If it is possible, Chemosh, if in all this wide God-ridden world you find it possible, then bring her to me.' He paused, then the voice that had roused Paris against its King, and France against its civilization, roared in the marble emptiness. 'Scarred or poxed, whole or savaged, Chemosh,' he paused and he shouted his next four words slowly and distinctly, so that the echo of one faded before the next was uttered. 'Bring her to me!'