City of Shadows Read online

  Worst of all, the streets were full of shadows.

  We ran throughout the city, dodging cars. We followed the instructions on the street—look left, look right, look diagonal, look up, look down, don’t look, there’s a bus coming, and you can’t avoid it—and still nearly got hit a few times. After a few minutes of fighting the car and pedestrian traffic, I tried levitating… and it didn’t work. I frowned. When we got to the corner, and a strong cross breeze, I experimented with a little hop. The wind increased. I think it even shifted me.

  The wind is so strong, levitation may carry me away. Yay.

  We pushed forward. The shadows warped and shifted, but they hadn’t become corporeal yet. They were straining in their natural confines, slithering and writhing in place. Along sidewalks, and up the sides of buildings. The street lamps were of minimal use, as though the light bulbs were trying to fight the darkness. I drifted too close to the side of a building and felt the whisper of fingers clawing along my cheek. I jerked away and ran faster.

  What are they waiting for? I wondered.

  We came to a crosswalk and found a couple huddled over a cardboard sign asking for money. I took Pearson by the shoulders, pressed him into a doorway so he wouldn’t get blown away. I loomed over the two of them and called out, “Get out of the street. It’s only going to get worse.”

  The two homeless—who were teenagers, really—looked up at me like they were confused. “Was there a weather report?”

  “I saw the storm front moving in,” I answered honestly. I reached down to offer both of them a hand. I helped them both up and led them both to a nearby cafe. I pulled out a handful of coins, stared at it in confusion, and just handed it to both of them. Their eyes lit up.

  We charged towards the Museum and struggled up the stairs. The craters in the street and grass were now pools of water, and the sidewalk was thick with water. The area must have had a serious rain storm while we were underground.

  I pushed into the Museum.

  Standing around the lobby like a committee meeting on its feet were Inspector Aaron Shaw and forty of his fellow cops from the Met.

  Shaw turned to us and grinned. He held up his hand in a fist, making them all stand still. “Thank you for coming,” he rumbled in his harsh, raspy voice. “It saves us time hunting you down later. Thomas Nolan, you are under arrest.”

  12

  Fury of the Storm

  I didn’t say anything for a moment. I looked from one side to the other. He had a lot of cops. I didn’t know what they were doing here in the first place.

  “On what charge?” I asked calmly.

  Shaw smiled. “Lord and Lady Fowler swore out a complaint against you. They’ve stated that you two stole explosives from the Fowler munitions company.”

  I blinked and looked at Pearson. “Can you imagine what we would do with explosives? I don’t think I want to blow up anything in London yet.”

  Pearson leaned over and said, “The A0406. It’s terrible. Unless you prefer highways. Then it’s the M25.”

  I nodded sagely, rolling with the joke.

  Shaw wasn’t laughing. “We figure that you two are here to start a false flag terrorist attack to start a war. Again. Because that’s what you Americans do, don’t you? Investigating a lead about a threat to New York is just a cover, isn’t it? What are you really? CIA?”

  All humor drained out of the situation. Given his supposition and reinforcements, this wasn’t the way he would go after a terrorist suspect.

  Funny, if he was going to arrest us, you’d think he’d have had his men encircle us first so we couldn’t run.

  Then I realized that he wanted us to run. Half of his men were carrying guns, specially rolled out and issued just for us.

  We were apparently so inconvenient to the city of London, someone wanted us dead…or maybe just me. It took me a moment to process this. Shaw must have read my face because he smiled. While I couldn’t read his mind, I had the strong impression that if we went quietly, there would be an accident for at least one of us in holding.

  If he wants us to run, let’s give it to him. God, any ideas what I should be doing now? I’m figuring levitation would get us out the door, at least. Bi-location for a distraction?

  Time slowed for me. Reality warped a little as my vision began to split. I was going to bi-locate.

  Time to put on a show. “Are you sure that I’m here? Are you sure that I’m not over there?”

  That’s when two duplicates appeared behind the gathering of police officers.

  Both of my duplicates grabbed the sidearms out of the holsters. I crashed both of them into the crowd, holding the stolen guns up into the air and firing repeatedly into the domed glass ceiling overhead. They emptied their magazines into the air. Then the duplicates faded out of existence, making everyone in the crowd of cops to whirl around for two people who technically never existed.

  Shaw turned his head towards the gunshots and reached for his gun. Too late, he realized he was in trouble. He turned back to me, but too late. My left hand clamped down on his gun arm. My right drove a cross into his face. Shaw’s head snapped back. As he fell, I came back with his 9mm Glock 26. I took the ten rounds and ran with it.

  Mostly, I just ran.

  Pearson and I ran for the front door.

  We took two steps outside, and the rain started. It came down in sheets—and I mean sheet metal, not loose leaf. The first blast of rain felt like a cold, wet slap in the face. The individual raindrops felt like being pelted with pebbles. They even stung where they hit. You can imagine that a face full of rain felt more like landing face first in a cactus patch.

  Pearson grabbed my arm. “Just follow me. I used to be a London cabby before … before.”

  I didn’t say anything, just followed the shiny bald head. My overcoat was soaked through before I reached the bottom of the steps. I was happy I could even see Pearson just a few feet in front of me. Even with my arm blocking the rain from my face, our push forward was as fast as a brisk walk. If this pace kept up, the cops would shoot us in the back before we could get to the curb.

  I only had one prayer to hand that mentioned weather. Technically, it was more about artillery.

  St Barbara, you are stronger than the tower of a fortress and the fury of hurricanes. Do not let lightning hit me, thunder frighten me or the roar of canons jolt my courage or bravery. Stay always by my side so that I may confront all the storms and battles of my life with my head held high and a serene countenance. Winning all the struggles, may I, aware of doing my duty, be grateful to you, my protector, and render thanks to God, the Creator of heaven, earth and nature who has the power to dominate the fury of the storm and to mitigate the cruelty of war.

  The rain suddenly lessened. All around us, the downpour continued. As we ran, Pearson and I got droplets splashed in our direction by the wind, but that felt like a normal rain in comparison. We shot down the side street, then broke off into another side street that deviated by a sharp angle. The streets zigged, and we zagged.

  Pearson charged along a street that was designed more like an alley. He crashed into a gathering of men at the end of the block. I got there in time for him to pick himself off the ground.

  Then I noticed that these men were not being rained on, not even a little.

  One pointed at me, eyes wide, and spewed out a string of Arabic. I heard two words clearly: “Nolan” and “Kozbar.” I didn’t think I needed a translation. I spun, smashing a hammer fist into the nearest young man. His homemade knife skittered out of his hand and into the street. I twisted back, plowing an uppercut into the stomach of the next nearest man, forcing him to double over.

  The other three pulled out weapons. We had no time for such things. I grabbed the man I just decked and shoved him into the other three. I took Pearson by the arm and started running.

  I got half a block before I tripped. I had the fainted glimpse when I fell of a thin line of shadow catching my toe in mid-stride. I hit the ground an
d rolled to my feet.

  “Father! Watch out! The shadows are moving!”

  Pearson skidded to a stop as a shadow leaped out from an alley. It tore the front of his shirt and slammed into a parked car, crumbling the side and knocking it out into a street, as though it had been T-boned by a truck. It whirled on Pearson and reared back. It had taken a shape of a large cat—a tiger. It made no sound as it came down and stalked towards Pearson.

  I didn’t stop running as I delivered a windmill punch screaming, “Ad maiorem Dei gloriam.”

  I punched the shadow in the head. It recoiled. I pushed on, and Pearson charged after me. The armed thugs were closing. I decided they could deal with the shadow.

  Then, shooting out into the street at a right-angle, was a police car, lights flashing.

  The doors opened, and I poured on more speed. The driver only had one leg out of the car when he saw me coming. I slammed the door on his thigh. He screamed. I pulled out the Glock 26 from my pocket and jammed it in the driver’s face. I looked to his passenger and said, “I really like your gun control laws here, where you’re not even allowed to carry a gun. Get out.”

  The passenger got out of the car. I swung the door open, grabbed the driver, and tossed him out. “Father, you drive.”

  The driver scrambled backwards. Pearson kept an eye on him, I kept my eye on the passenger as I waved him over to join his friend.

  The passenger’s eyes widened in terror, and I whirled around, dropping to a knee.

  The shadow had caught up to us, leading a pack of young Muslim men—ten of them. They apparently got some friends, I thought.

  I didn’t think it would do any good but zipped through a prayer in my head and leveled the gun at the shadow beast.

  Lord, you gave Saint Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows a special privilege of entering into the passion of Your Son and into the compassion of his Virgin Mother, Mary. Teach us to contemplate with his eyes the very mystery of salvation and to grow in love in the spirit of joy. Amen.

  I fired. The shadow flinched at the strike. The bullet went through it and into one of the hoodlums leading the pack chasing us.

  I leaped into the car, and Pearson peeled off.

  “Nice shot,” Pearson complimented me.

  I shrugged as I kept an eye on the world around us. The rain still kept coming down, though not as heavily on the car or the windshield.

  “I don’t think it was me. I said a quick one to Saint Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows.”

  Pearson took a moment and laughed. The story goes that Francesco Possenti was a monk who once faced down a collection of over twenty of Garibaldi’s Red Shirts in 1860. The soldiers invaded Isola, Italy, and promptly started to rob, rape, and pillage. Possenti walked into the center of town to face the terrorists. Possenti yanked the gun out of the belt of a would-be rapist and told the Red Shirt to release the girl. As another Red Shirt came by, Possenti grabbed his revolver, too.

  During the commotion, the other Red Shirts charged the position.

  At that moment, a lizard ran between Possenti and the Red Shirts. Possenti struck the lizard with one shot. Dual-wielding, Possenti commanded the Red Shirts to drop their weapons. The soldiers complied rather than test his aim. Possenti marched them out of town.

  “The story about Possenti might be apocryphal, but I didn’t have anything else to go with.”

  Six police cars shot out into the street in front of us. I immediately looked out my window, to the left.

  The street lamps were out, and what little I could see of the homes down the street were being consumed by a wave of utter darkness.

  13

  Eye of the Storm

  “Turn right,” I called.

  Pearson did so without a problem.

  Down that street was an angry mob. I’ll take it, I thought. I reached over and grabbed the wheel, then reached over and stomped down on the accelerator. The mob disbursed, scrambling out of our way. I knew that, when faced with a police car that wouldn’t stop for them, they would not call my bluff.

  Then again, I wasn’t bluffing—I had my eyes closed.

  “Give me that!” Pearson snapped.

  I let go and looked behind us. The wave of darkness raced forward, running over the mob. I didn’t see if they were consumed, or just hidden by the lack of light, but either way, I wasn’t going to worry about it.

  Pearson took the wheel back, made a sharp turn up Drury Lane (coming off of Parker Street, which went one way the wrong way—oops) and a left on Short’s Garden.

  We circled around through multiple back streets, and parked the car near Saint Anne’s Church (“Church of England,” Pearson said. “Serves them right if they get raided.”) and walked three blocks to Saint Patrick’s Church in Soho Square. It was a nice, simple, red brick building, one of the first Catholic churches built after Henry VIII made his own church for his own ends.

  After we dried out and the pastor gave us a quick bite to eat, we met in the rectory. Outside, the rain continued, unabated. I honestly expected windows to crack with every gust of wind.

  Pearson clapped his hands together and smiled. “That was brisk. Wasn’t it?”

  I sat at the table in the corner. “How about we start with you?”

  The smile dimmed only a little. The eyes went from wide, bright and shiny to narrow and cynical. They were cat’s eyes. “Oh really?”

  I smiled at him. “Yes. Really. What are you? And if you say combat exorcist and former cabby, I’m going to start making my way home, even if I have to swim.”

  Pearson sat, leaned back in his chair, and said, “MI-6. Happy now?”

  I nodded slowly. It at least explained how he got us into MI-5 without a problem. Also how he knew how to play the Metropolitan police bureaucracy.

  “When did you drive a cab?”

  “A few years while I was at the seminary.”

  I nodded slowly. “Then, as an MI-6 officer, give me your assessment of what we just went through out there.”

  “I won’t even speculate on the shadows,” Pearson said. “We can only presume they’re connected to the Soul Stone. The police … I don’t think I need to mention that Fowler and Toynbee are behind this somehow?”

  I shook my head. There was no reason for them to make a fake police report against us for stealing explosives unless they were up to no good. It was theoretically possible that the Lord and Lady were up to some unrelated nefarious scheme that they thought I might trip over during my investigation, but that was unlikely.

  “And Kozbar?”

  Pearson frowned. “That’s more of a tough one. He could be tied in with all this, it might just be good timing on his part. Who knows? The Soul Stone might be able to influence susceptible people into unleashing their natural anger, and Kozbar had just hidden it well up to this point.” Pearson slid off his glasses and pinched his nose. “You know one of the reasons I haven’t been part of the ‘ship back all of them’ crowd? There are too many miracles among the refugees from the Middle East. There are scores of Marian visions among them. Too many refugees have been unleashed from their prison and allowed out into the light. We’ve had a rash of baptisms. There have been hundreds of thousands of them across Europe, and the UK.

  “But on the other hand, those are hidden among millions of people. Unfortunately, this is only 10% of them. I would dearly love for the race riots, the sharia, the terrorism to stop. But I do fear tossing the baby out with the bathwater. But you know how Europe works. It’s either trying for a socialist utopia, or strapping up their jackboots. They have no concept of what a ‘middle’ looks like. They have less idea of what Libertarians are.”

  I smiled. “The Warlock who tried to destroy me and everyone around me was a Libertarian. They’re not necessarily all that they’re cracked up to be. At least not by that name. I suspect a European Libertarian would be the wrong kind.”

  “What kind is that?”

  “The kind that says ‘Believe and act as you will, as long as you ag
ree with me.’”

  “And you?”

  “I’m of the ‘leave me alone, I’ll leave you alone unless you need help’ school.”

  Pearson nodded and studied me a moment. Once he seemed satisfied, he said, “If we’re done with me?”

  I nodded, my curiosity sated. “Fowler and Toynbee.”

  Pearson sighed, relieved. “Yes. “Well, obviously the Fowlers are bad guys.”

  I nodded. “Yes, they were the only people that knew I was at the Cathedral for the rioters to show up this morning. That’s on top of the false police report.”

  “Any idea of what their goal is?” Pearson asked.

  I thought back to my conversation with them. Atheists or not, I couldn’t imagine a good reason for them to be involved in a plot with a mystical artifact utilizing magic that could annihilate the city they lived in. “No idea. But we’ll just have to stop them. Who cares what their problem is.”

  Pearson laughed. He shook his head, entertained. “Okay, fine then, mister American, answer this one at least—Where would the best place for the soul stone be? If they were going to absorb all of the misery and assaults in the city?”

  I shrugged. It was obvious to me, at least. “I don’t know why you’re asking me. You’re the expert. But I’d figure the easy place would be the center of town.”

  Pearson blinked, tilted his head, and frowned. “According to Legend, the Soul Stone just needs to be within the city. Not anywhere specific.”

  I scoffed. “Yeah? And? You told me Saddam had it in the torture chambers of a palace. Human beings like physical proximity, just in case. Humor me. What’s the center of London?”

  “Technically, it’s in a church. However, that church overlooks Trafalgar Square.”

  I stood. “Let’s go out and get it then.”

  Pearson held up a hand. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. He played with it for a few minutes. “The weather’s bad.” He played with it for a few more minutes. “Traffic is a pain in the arse. Flash flood warnings. Warnings to stay out of the underground.”