London, 1810
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Father Yates ended the prayer, judging them sufficiently blessed for the night’s activities. Looking around, he saw various weapons being sheathed, holstered or slung over someone’s back. They couldn’t afford to fail tonight.
Cardinal Jonathan Gatwick, a Church official who had recently been stationed in London to advise the King, was overseeing the operation. He’d come to their diocese with urgent information that the Grand Grimoire was in the city, and instructions to commandeer any resources necessary to ensure its capture. The archbishops were either too far away or out of the country, so it fell to ordinary Inquisitors like Father Yates to secure the cursed book. The cardinal, while not usually a martial position, was there in case things got out of hand.
The sun was setting over the city, filtering through the smog and smoke of industry to paint the brickwork a muted red. The Thames stunk, as was usual.
The ritual was meant to take place during the witching hour, between 3 and 4am. Which was why they were attacking now, at sunset. No reason to give them even a little time to prepare.
As the group got ready to leave, a few stablehands grooming the horses, Cardinal Gatwick approached Yates.
“Inquisitor Yates?”
“Yes, your Eminence?”
“I was told you have the most intimate knowledge of the coven in question. I only arrived here a week ago and haven’t had the time to acquaint myself with the local malefactors.”
He had, in fact, arrived two weeks prior and had been sent a document profiling every suspected occultist or witch the Church had under surveillance. Yates knew better than to correct him, however.
“Of course, your Eminence. The Radiant Sun are an occultist group that we’ve been aware of for quite a while. Their members dabble in alchemy, astrology and various other low magicks. They’ve been silent and out of the way for their entire existence, a fact which is now seeming like a long-planned ruse. If your intel is accurate, this is leagues beyond anything they’ve ever tried before. No group can go from basic hedge-witchery to attempting to summon Lucifer himself without some sign of expansion. Just gathering the resources for something like this would require an international reach. We’re working under the theory that they are being sponsored by a much more powerful coven, using them to confirm that the ritual in the book works.”
The cardinal just gaped at Yates.
“They’ve never done any high magick? And they want to start off with the most powerful archdemon? This could get out of control.”
“Very easily. This is why we requested your presence, Eminence. No doubt whoever is really behind this has provided adequate defences to ensure the ritual’s success. We’ll need the power of your Covenant behind us if things deteriorate.”
Cardinal Gatwick paled, trying to look serious but only succeeding in looking sick.
Quite the introduction to your new post, eh?
With Napoleon running rampant on the European mainland, the continent had become the centre of political power broking. It was a time when ambitious men could make their fortunes but also lose everything. Essentially paradise for a man like Gatwick. Which is why he had been posted here, away from the action. As punishment. Yates’ source hadn’t been able to get into the sealed Church records, but apparently the man had embarrassed himself on some business in the colonies. Yates wasn’t surprised. Nothing good went on down there.
Unfortunately, he was a cardinal, and had a lot of power at his disposal, which insulated him from any real consequences. Just another symptom of the Church’s moral decline. At least he could advance the Church’s interests in the Royal Court. Everyone knew King George was losing it.
Horses groomed and carriages ready, the group set off in a tense silence, in three different carriages taking different routes to reduce the risk of ambushes. They’d assembled a strike force of everyone they had on hand when they received the intel. Three Inquisitors, five adepts and the cardinal, who’d insisted on riding with Yates. Not enough for an operation of this importance, but it would have to suffice.
The steady staccato of the horses’ hooves against the cobblestone droned in Yates’ ears, almost a form of meditation. Closing his eyes, he centred himself for the confrontation as the carriage trundled down the London streets.
“Inquisitor Yates?”
Sighing, he opened his eyes. He preferred “Father” to “Inquisitor”, being one of the few Inquisitors who’d started off in the general clergy before joining the Inquisition.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“Your Eminence?”
“I must confess, I read your file. You are a very impressive man.”
“I simply do what I can, and the Lord ensures that it is enough.”
“Your modesty was in there too. Being new to the city, I’d been meaning to meet with you eventually. You seem like the right kind of person to know.”
And here it is. He really cannot help himself.
“I am at your disposal, Eminence.”
“You’re aiming to become the Inquisition’s next Judge, eh? You consistently go above and beyond in your duties, but you have yet to put your name in the running.”
“I would never replace Zerachiel, Eminence. He has saved my life countless times, and my unique bond with him allows me to be as effective as my file no doubt says I am.”
Gatwick gave him a calculated look.
“Protective of your Covenant, I see. Yes, I suppose that is an admirable quality in an Inquisitor. It’s a shame, however. The things you could do with a cherub behind you…”
You mean the favour you’d get with a friendly Judge on your side? Please.
“I couldn’t presume to make Covenant with one of the cherubim, Eminence. I am happy in my current position, so it would be selfish to take up the mantle and obstruct someone just as deserving but more willing.”
The cardinal chuckled.
“Ever the wordsmith when it comes to deflecting praise. No need to worry though, I’ll ensure you get every bit of credit due to you.”
So that’s the ploy. Shit.
It hadn’t happened often, but there was precedent for the pope to directly appoint a Judge in times of crisis. Yates had no illusions about his value. If Gatwick somehow managed to bring the pope’s attention here, he was the most eligible candidate. Yates wouldn’t be able to refuse and the cardinal would have a place within the Vatican once more.
Yates started to respond, when the carriage jerked to a halt.
Sensing something off, Yates held up a finger, making sure Gatwick kept his mouth shut. The carriage shook slightly, then went still.
Yates took a peek out the window. Just one of the many workhouses dotted around London. Trusting his instincts, Yates held his hand out to the side, his signature gilded maul materialising in his grip. The cardinal, nervously glancing around, readied a pistol he’d hidden in his robe. Yates flashed his eyes down at it. A Harpers Ferry flintlock. Gatwick cocked the hammer back, his palms shining with sweat.
Suddenly, it hit Yates. There were no people on the streets.
Grabbing Gatwick by his collar, Yates exploded through the carriage roof in a burst of wood fragments, just as a volley of lead tore through the walls. The smell of gunpowder filled the air as they rose and got a good look at their assailants. A group of six hooded men, each reloading a rifle. Having no leverage in the air and beginning to fall, Yates pulled Gatwick right up to his face.
“I apologise in advance, Eminence.”
Drawing up his knees, Yates pushed off Gatwick with both feet, launching the cardinal through the wall of a nearby building and sending Yates flying towards the gunmen. Gripping his maul in both hands, he loaded up like a spring as the assassins were frantically refilling their priming pans.
Too late.
Yates unleashed his swing like a cannon, completely pulverising one man’s torso and blowing a football sized hole in another. Unable to stop, he crashed through the wall of the workhouse behind them, landing hard in the exercise yard and rolling a few times before jumping up to his feet. A few boys were playing in the yard and they took in Yates’ blood spattered face, and the viscera still falling in chunks from his maul. Then they looked at the hole in the wall and pointed.
Turning to the hole, Yates saw three of the remaining assassins aiming at him.
Zerachiel will never let me hear the end of it if these guys actually force me to summon him.
The rifles banged, releasing a puff of smoke and sending three balls of lead whizzing his way. One missed, thumping into the ground behind him. Two hit his chest, drilling holes in his cassock and bruising the skin underneath.
Ouch, fuck!
The rifle shots thankfully weren’t cursed, but still carried a lot of force behind them. Unfortunately, Yates’ maul carried a lot more behind it, as he launched himself towards them. Swinging wide, he blasted through one assassin’s head in a shower of gore, then he was among them. The two men left standing pulled out knives. Yates’ large two-handed maul shrunk with a thought, becoming a one-handed war hammer that he drew back and buried in the chest of one assailant, caving his ribcage in. Feeling the point of the other man’s knife scrape ineffectually against his skin, he turned, grabbing the man by the neck and lifting him off his feet.
“Where did your friend go?”
The hooded man spat on Yates’ cheek.
“You fool. You and your brothers are already too late. The cambions have no doubt dealt with the other carriages by now and they’re coming here next.”
Yates frowned. Unauthorised cambions in the city along with the Grand Grimoire. This was bigger than they’d initially thought. He had to reach the cardinal and find reinforcements. But first, he needed information.
Resigned, Yates opened his mouth. All sounds immediately vanished. The crumbling brickwork, the curious onlookers talking out their windows, the various sounds of industry, all muted as the Celestial Speech flowed from the Inquisitor. The man in his grip started struggling as he realised why everything had gone silent. A floating spark appeared behind Yates’ right shoulder, a spark that grew in size and brightness, casting a pure white light against the grimy, twilit facades of the street. The assassin brought his knife up to stab himself, but Yates grabbed his wrist and crushed it in his grip, forcing the man to drop the blade.
The light resolved into the familiar winged form of Zerachiel, Yates’ angel, carrying his rose, as the sounds of the city faded back in.
Oh Yates, you brought me a gift.
The assassin was squeezing his eyes shut, unable to look directly at the shining angel for fear of blindness. He murmured a prayer to Lucifer under his breath. Wrong choice.
“Zerachiel, compel him.”
With pleasure.
The angel’s arm shot forward passing into the man’s chest, his flesh rippling like water. He started screaming, howling his throat raw, squirming and kicking ineffectively in Yates hand. The angel had a sadistic smile on his face from the man’s frantic shrieks. Zerachiel held it for a moment, then twisted his arm and pulled the man’s soul out.