Coughing against the smoke and fumes I sprawled prostrate in Sir Percy’s shrubbery. My new friend was not far behind. I offered her my hand in assistance but she exited the smashed library window under her own steam. It seemed I had not entirely won her trust; she kept her outlandish hand-cannon trained on me the whole while.

‘You seek the book?’ I spluttered.

Despite our predicament she smiled. ‘I’m the one holding the gun, sunshine. That means I get to ask the questions. What is it you are after?’

I judged honesty to be the best policy. ‘I want only the safe return of my master. It is vital I see him right.’

Her grin broadened. ‘Then for the time being we’re dancing the same tango. We need to waylay the cultists to have any hope of seeing either one again. Can I trust you?’

‘Dear lady, I strive to be a gent of unimpeachable repute. In any case, I am unarmed.’ I held up my open hands.

She actually chuckled. ‘Unarmed you say, eh? You’re forgetting I was at the museum the other night — when you Jackie Chan-ed the living shit out of that poor fella. Unarmed, my corseted ass.’

I must confess her speech oft times confused me, but I was fast developing the impression there was scant chance of getting much of significance past this deadly damsel, who was as far from a state of distress as anyone I had ever met. She gestured to the haversack slung across my shoulder.

‘A good start would be returning my bug-out bag.’

I unburdened myself of it gladly, it was heavy. She hoisted it as if as light as a feather, taking the chance to top up her store of shells; commendably professional to the last. Taking a sip of water she appraised me, eyeing me up and down.

‘If you want to run with me I hope you’ve got your best daps on. If we’re intending to mount a rescue we’re going to have to get a proper shift on — our enemy has a head start. Ready to go?’

I nodded the affirmative.

Weapon reloaded she made off round the side of the house — which had started to blaze furiously. It was not easy to keep up; true to her word ‘Wanda Sevastopol’ set a terrific pace. We rounded the eastern corner of the mansion, as far from the carnage in the library as the estate layout would allow. The sound of distant screams and gunfire reached us above the crackling of the flames. Who could still be giving battle? I had no time to speculate. Shortly we arrived at the stable I’d visited earlier. My companion halted and stooped to examine the trampled ground.

‘The buggers have got ahead of us. Maybe thirty of em left, plus their captives, as well as . . .’ she paused, to gaze up at the expanse of black moorland that stretched above us, ‘something else.’

‘Something else?’ I was less than keen on the sound of that. As if in answer a howl, emanating from the throat of no beast birthed of this earth, rolled across the moor. I shuddered against the chilling of my blood. ‘What in God’s name is that?’

Sporadic gunshots crackled ahead of us; was that a yowl of pain? Wanda set her pretty jaw. ‘I don’t know. But if you want your boss back we’re going to have to find out. Come on — they’re making for the gate.’

‘What gate?’ But she was already gone, bounding off into the darkening night.

Before I could follow something in the grass caught my eye, glinting in the firelight. It was the head of a silver cane, set atop a hidden rapier blade. One of our fleeing adversaries had no doubt looted Mr Alex’s possessions, casting it aside in haste as they departed Tiverton Hall. This heirloom of House Faversham sat comfortably in my hand. Heartened by my find I made after my fleet-footed companion.

Exiting the manor grounds we progressed along the course of a small stream, which babbled down from the surrounding higher ground. The stunted trees that crowded its banks offered the only real cover thereabouts. We quickly climbed up the narrow valley into the embrace of the barren moor. Before long we came across the first of the bodies. They wore the black robes of our foe (who the girl referred to as cultists) but these victims had not been shot or shorn by any human blade. These corpses had been torn to pieces.

Our route soon began to resemble some pagan charnel house; an abattoir for my fraying sanity. Tangled entrails, sundered limbs, and worse, littered the low hanging branches like an infernal mockery of yuletide bunting. The rocks along the tumbling stream glistened not from water alone. A twisted rifle barrel poked from the mud. It was obvious we were following the fresh back-trail of some vicious running battle.

Close at hand there came another ferocious howl, followed by a terrified gurgling scream. The gunfire had petered out. It seemed we were catching up; but catching up to what?

Wanda raised a hand to halt our advance. ‘That howling thing — I think it pursues the same quarry we do.’

‘You mean it wants the book? Or not . . . not Mr Alex?’

The girl shook her head. ‘I think it wants Sir Percy Tiverton. More fool our cowl-clad friends for carting off all three.’

Before I could enquire what strange intuition led her to this conclusion there came a splintering of foliage off to our left, followed by a prattle of angry voices. Two unlikely looking gentlemen stumbled into the clearing. Both were clad in tweed. The shorter of the pair sported whiskers, a bowler and a querulous manner. The other, a tall, gaunt fellow, was more outlandishly attired — cape, deer-stalker and over-sized pipe set-off his ensemble. They seemed in some disagreement about which way to proceed. The tall one produced a spy-glass from beneath his cloak and set about examining a large footprint found on the stream bank. That was when the beast attacked.

It was like nothing I had even seen before — bigger than a polar bear, heavily muscled and sharing the temperament of a rabid wolverine. The thing most resembled a giant wolf, though what hellish pack could have sired it I knew not. Bulging veins stood proud amidst clumps of matted fur and eruptions of bony spines. Bloody foam dripped from a gapping maw packed too full of teeth like sabres. It sprung from the bushes further up the valley and set upon the pair of newcomers with ill intent.

Unarmed as he was the caped gent cast aside his spy-glass and made to box the aberration, Queensbury rules style. The creature took one look at him, snarled in fury, then reared up on long hind legs. A mass of writhing tendrils, pale and obscene, sprouted from its hairless pot-belly. The fell-beast grabbed the optimistic pugilist by head and torso, between strangely hand-like paws, and lifted him from the ground screaming. Its talons tightened in a death grip, seeming ready to crush him to a pulp; his cries went up an octave. But instead of squeezing it twisted sharply contrariwise. There was a sickening crunch, before the beast threw its fore-limbs wide, bearing its rippling chest. The unfortunate victim was rent in twain, google eyes cast up at the moon, cranium still affixed to twitching spine. Neatly filleted the limp torso slipped from the monster’s grasp. The head it greedily devoured.

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Meanwhile the companion yelled with fear and made haste to depart the vicinity as best he could, scrambling back up the slippery bank. The beast casually ham-strung him with a flick of one long claw. It pounced upon his crumpled body, to perform acts I was glad its fury bulk hid from view.

I must admit I could do naught but stand and stare as the horror unfolded, all but rooted to the spot. It took a sharp slap about the chops to snap me out of my stupor. My companion’s face pressed against my ear, ‘move it, soldier — this ‘aint our rodeo. Let’s go around while that thing’s preoccupied.’

A good plan, I must admit. Shaken, but still determined, I hastened to follow her around that killing ground. We exited the trees and marched forth upon the open moonlit moor. I prayed the beast would be for a time distracted, busy as it was, noisily ingesting the corpses.

We had not far to go. Cresting a small rise of heather and low scrub we came across a vista of singular eccentricity. In a shallow dip stood a crude stone circle, of the type erected by some lost race of savages when this island was still young. A dozen jagged monoliths thrust from the peat and loam, pointing off-kilter towards the sky. Around the rim the remains of the cultists cowered in abject terror — a score of bloodied figures huddled against the slabs of naked rock. What few weapons they had remaining were aimed outward at the darkness, in feeble defence against the coming of the beast. Two hooded captives, bound hand and foot, completed the troop, clad in garments I chanced to recognise — Sir Percy Tiverton and Mr Alex were alive!

But these were not the strangest sights that met my widening eye. At the centre of the menhirs stood a tall pallid figure, clad in the guise of some long forgotten Egyptian priest. His flawless skin was as pale as alabaster; atop his elongated skull sat a head-dress of outré design. In his hand was Sir Percy’s nameless book. He seemed to be reading from its pages.

In the air in front of him a luminous silver disc was taking shape. Though no bigger than a dinner plate its beauty held me transfixed. Indescribable colours and hues played across its ever changing surface. The lean conjurer waved his free hand in an expansive gesture, and took a step rearwards. The disc grew to the size of a manhole cover. Its pulsating glow was now sufficient to light the entire glade. The battered cultists took note of this wonder and edged closer. Was this to be their means of escape?

My companion grabbed my elbow. ‘We need to act fast. When the singularity grows large enough they’ll all go through proper quick — our chance will be gone. It’s now or never, kiddo.’

She cycled the action on her gun and made ready to attack. Not for the first or last time I made peace with whatever God watches over this wicked world and primed myself to charge. I was not overly confident of our chances.

But Miss Sevastopol was already in motion. Sprinting towards the preoccupied high priest she got off her first shot. The round struck his ornate helmet, pinging off into the night. He went down stunned, but not defeated. Wanda grabbed the book from his faltering grasp and made to escape.

With all eyes on this scuffle I took my chance to hurry to Mr Alex and Sir Percy. The cultists had forgotten them as they hastened to defend their leader. I was not half way across the clearing when a roar erupted from the darkness nearby; the hound of the Tivertons had finished its midnight feast and was now intent on seeking desert. The beast sprung into the stone circle with a crash, scattering terrified cultists in all directions. Its burning eyes cast about for a moment, before fixing on Sir Percy’s prostrate form. It took a step towards him, where he lay next to Mr Alex. I knew what I had to do — I leapt into position to defend the captives and readied my blade. The creature padded towards me.

But that was as far as it got. A fountain of gore erupted from its shoulder — someone was shooting explosive rounds into the brute. The hell-hound flinched, as well it might, and with a roar reared on its hind legs to better spot the marksman. More rounds peppered its torso, sadly to little effect. Across the circle Wanda Sevastopol took careful aim. She hadn’t deserted me, but she was running out of shells.

The beast charged her in mounting fury. The last round struck it between its glowing eyes, but even this barely slowed its progress. No bullet seemed able to stop the thing. Out of ammo ‘Wanda’ raised her last means of defence, Sir Percy’s ancient tome. A slashing claw ripped it in half, straight through its leathery spine. The girl threw half at the beast, and dived clear of its second crippling paw. She struck a standing stone and went limp; blood trickled from her brow. The beast chomped noisily on its papery morsel, swallowing with a loud gulp.

Nearby the Egyptian priest had regained his senses. He went scrambling for the second half of the manuscript, which had gone tumbling in the dirt. Reaching it he rose unsteady to his feet and raised a trembling hand to the injured beast. The creature reacted immediately, whimpering it submitted to his will. Meanwhile the silver disc grew to the size of a door. The conjurer pointed in my direction with a flourish. The beast’s massive head turned to look at me and obediently it began trotting in my direction. My blood froze in my veins, as again I made ready to meet its attack.

I backed out to the edge of the stone circle. I think I had in mind to use the stones as cover from those deadly claws. Around me panicked cultists scurried towards the silver disc, no longer fearful of the beast, now that their master had it in his thrall. One of them jumped into the shimmering mirage and disappeared with a flash.

The hound was almost upon me. I could smell its rank breath, which hissed between those cruel fangs. It lunged, and I danced behind a monolith. A paw lashed out, and I stabbed it with my blade. The beast let out a strangely human cry of anguish — at least I had rendered it some small harm. We continued this dance of death about the rock; the gyrations of the damned.

While so occupied the cultists and their leader hastened towards the silvery disc. One by one they dived through; each disappearing with a shower of sparks. Keeping one eye on the beast before me, I watched in horror as two cowled forms man-handle the guvnor nearer the portal. Before I could react the trio were consumed, disappearing with a flash. I let out a cry of anguish, unmindful of my foe.

Sir Percy was shoved through next, followed by the high-priest, cradling his half of the book as one might an infant. When he was gone the disc shrunk to a point of blinding light, before winking from existence. That was when the paw found its mark; I was knocked reeling to the ground.

The beast was soon upon me, laying astride my heaving chest. Foul breath blasted my face, but that was the least of my worries. Slavering jaws snapped towards me — I rolled my head this way, then that, to escape those biting fangs. My end was but seconds away. We were at far too close quarters for my blade to be any use. All that was left was the silver pommel, which I now hammered at the beast’s forehead in a hopeless show of last defiance. I aimed for the dripping wound rendered by my companion’s bullet. The hilt of my weapon sank into the bloody mess and stuck fast. The reaction from my adversary was immediate.

The hound leapt skyward, as if filled by some colossal electric charge. It reared on its hind legs as paroxysms shook its massive frame. Sparks danced along its skin, steam hissed from its ears. There was a smell of burning fur. The cane-sword, hilt first, protruded from its forehead, like the horn of some demented unicorn. Blinding light burst forth from every orifice, including the fresh bullet holes. A sound of tearing flesh filled the air, as the creature detonated from some unnatural explosion originating deep within. The concussion left a ringing in my ears as if from the very bells of hell. Hunks of steaming dog meat peppered the stone circle like bloody shrapnel, to slide languidly down the surface of the rock. Finally all was still.

When the dust settled every other trace of the creature was gone. Same could be said for the cultists, and their high priest, and the portal. And, though it pains me to say it, their bound captives as well. Mr Alex and Sir Percy were gone, Lord knows where.

All that remained to prove my recent travails weren’t some nightmarish fever dream was Miss Wanda Sevastopol, who staggered over to collapse at my side. She had a nasty gash on her head, but seemed otherwise none the worse for wares.

She looked at me approvingly. ‘That was a nice trick you pulled with the silver pommel. How did you know it would work?’

I possessed not the energy to tell a lie. ‘I didn’t,’ I said, and passed out.