Guardians of Albion
Reviving Fear
DCI Weasley was prompt to his time, and was buzzed into the Lyells' labs by a youngish, nervous-looking man called Velvy. A few moments later he was joined by a quietly-spoken Black man who introduced himself as Dr Gabriel Folukoya.
"You brought us quite the puzzle, Detective Chief Inspector!" Gabriel noted.
"Call me Ron." Weasley said as they came to the gallery that overlooked the autopsy room. There was the eviscerated corpse lying on the table. Ron had seen such things before and had a strong stomach, but it was clear something was very wrong here.
"Why is she so white?" He asked. "I've seen dead people with pale skin before. Hypothermia will do that. But not inside!"
"I've never seen anything like it, either!" Nikki said, looking up from a side bench she was working on. "The fact is, Ron, that there's barely a drop of blood left in her body!
"That's not all, either. Go through to the conference room, I'll be with you in a minute."
They settled in the room, Jack came through bringing coffee and tea, then Nikki followed.
"OK." Nikki said. "Cause of death is simple: exsanguination. The victim bled out. Death would have been quick, as the brain shuts down from lack of oxygen in a very short time.
"However, the amount of blood loss in this case was extreme. We'd expect an average-sized human to have around five litres of circulating blood in their body. That takes in veins, arteries, capillaries, venules and the chambers of the heart. The body can survive, just, on three litres, but it depends on where the blood is being lost from. With neck wounds that prevent oxygenated blood getting to the brain, you wouldn't need to actually lose that much.
"In Jennas' case, I could only find about ten millilitres of blood in her body, and it was in her feet.
"Again the only wounds I found on her were the two on her throat. Whatever caused them was curved, had a very sharp point, and a teardrop cross- section going from quite rounded at one edge to very sharp at the other. There were two wounds, 29.8 millimetres apart, both piercing the carotid artery. There is no way that amount of blood could have come out of those wounds under normal circumstances. Left to bleed naturally, the decrease in blood pressure and slowing of the heart, as well as coagulation, would still have left anything up to four litres in the body.
"The blood must have been actively drained or sucked from the wounds, very rapidly."
"How?" Ron asked simply.
Nikki shrugged. "No real idea. I can only tell you what else I found. There were abrasions in the skin of Jennas' back consistent with her being forced or held against something. I found traces in them that I passed on to Jack."
"Brick and mortar dust, with a bit of moss." Jack reported. "Matches the wall where I found the hair traces. The hair did belong to the victim. There were scuffs on the backs of her shoes that contained similar trace. As if she'd been kicking against the wall before they dropped off."
"Kicking, or drumming of the heels, is a common reflex during asphyxiation." Gabriel commented. "It has been noted in hangings, both judicial and suicidal."
Nikki continued. "The lack of blood in the body means that bruising can't develop as normal. However, I did find marks on the upper arms which might indicate that Jenna was held by them. There were no defensive wounds of any kind, no trace under her fingernails to indicate she might have scratched.
"There was no disarrangement of clothing. Her underwear was in place, no evidence of sexual assault. I did a swab and it was clear. Stomach contents indicated a meal earlier in the evening. Fried monkfish, breadcrumbs and potato."
"Scampi and chips, to you!" Jack told Ron. Nikki looked up and grinned at Jack before continuing.
"The stomach also contained approximately one-point-five Imperial pints of beer – lager type – and around 250 millilitres of spring water."
Ron nodded. "Her friends told me she arrived with them about half-eight and that she wasn't a big drinker. Three halves over four hours wouldn't have made much impression on her."
Nikki nodded. "Probably not, but with no blood I couldn't do an alcohol level check. I also can't do a tox panel easily, though I'll be taking sections from the brain, lungs, liver and so on.
"I did find some organic trace around the wounds on her neck. I gave it to Gabriel to analyse."
"It was mostly human saliva." Gabriel said. "I've done DNA and sent the results for a search. But there were other things in there that aren't normally found in humans. I had to search several databases to find anything that matched.
"There was an anticoagulant, similar to salivary secretions found in vampire bats and leeches, which would prevent blood clotting in the usual manner.
"The other chemical seems to be a rather powerful euphoric. Even a little of it in the bloodstream would produce sensations of intense pleasure. The last few moments of Jennas' life would, ironically, have been almost ecstatic. Interestingly, it is probable that this chemical is also highly addictive."
"Wait." Ron said. "Saliva round the wound?"
Gabriel nodded. "I could establish that it was male, probably Caucasian and not related to Jenna. Obviously, we'll have to see if it pops up on the system."
"If I didn't know better, I'd say somebody bit her!" Ron stated.
"Well," Nikki said, "no bruising, of course, but the distance between the two wounds is a fairly typical intercanine measurement for an adult man."
Ron stared at her. "Are you telling me she was killed by a vampire?"
Jack shook his head. "Not as such. But somebody seems to want us to think so!"
XXXXX
Remember, Evelyn old horse, you are dealing with a snake here! Mr Cream reminded himself as he was ushered into the office. One as quick and deadly as a black mamba!
The office was windowless, far inside the building. There were built-in cupboards, into one of which Creams' taciturn escort put his overcoat. There was a modern desk and workstation combination against one wall, under a Lowry print. On the other side was area with two sofas and a coffee table between them. A small side unit held apparatus and crockery for making and serving hot drinks. The snake Mr Cream was so cautious of had risen from behind the desk and was now coming across the carpet, hand extended.
"Mr Cream!" Mr Palfrey said genially. "It's been quite some time. How have you been?"
Palfrey was a wiry, tallish man who might have been anywhere between fifty and sixty-five. His close-cropped hair was iron grey and he had a thin face dominated by dark, steady eyes.
You know perfectly well. Cream thought, but said "Well enough, Mr Palfrey. Moderately busy."
"Do have a seat." Palfrey said, gesturing to the sofas. "Tea? Earl Grey, isn't it? Dennis, would you?"
Creams' escort nodded and went over to the side unit. Mr Creams' memory popped up the necessary information. Major Dennis Behan, former juvenile delinquent who had led his teenage gang in an extremely emphatic and successful campaign against the drug dealers targeting his schoolmates and neighbours. Entered military service at eighteen in the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. Three years later accepted for and transferred into the elite 22nd Special Air Services Regiment, where he reached the rank of Major and was awarded the Military Cross. Resigned his commission when the Norsefire Party came into power and left the UK. Was recruited into the Blackhawks PMC. Returned to the UK after Norsefire fell and entered the Civil Service. Lifelong nickname, 'the Menace'.
"It must be almost lunchtime, are you hungry , Mr Cream?" Palfrey noted, sitting down opposite. "Dennis, do you think they have any of those smoked salmon sandwiches left?"
"I'll go and see, Mr Palfrey." Behan placed two cups of Earl Grey on the coffee-table and quietly left the office.
"Good man, Dennis, and quite my favourite plumber." Palfrey remarked. "Now, Mr Cream, what brings you here? I understand you to be a freelance, these days."
"Indeed, Mr Palfrey." Cream replied. "I am in a position to be choosy about the commissions I undertake. They are fewer these days, but usually more remunerative.
"However, I was recently offered, and accepted, a commission from a Lady Morgian Lottesville, that I have some doubts about. May I?"
At Palfreys' nod, Cream opened his briefcase and produced three folders, which he passed to Palfrey.
"I have been requested to remove these three people, and to deal with their remains in a very specific way. It seems the matter is one of some urgency and importance to my client. But I find myself unable to determine why. My client will not say, and I can find no links between these three or between them and the clients' business. As you will be aware from our past association, Mr Palfrey, I am not comfortable doing work if I do not know the reasons for it. I will never undertake commissions which are motivated by revenge or vendetta, nor work for terrorists. Such matters are never simple and if one becomes involved in them it seldom ends well.
"So you wanted to see if any of these people were connected to Security or Intelligence?" Palfrey said.
At that moment, Behan arrived with a plate of sandwiches and put them on the table. "Will you need me here, Mr Palfrey?" He asked.
"Not until my meeting is finished, Dennis." Palfrey said. "Go and have your own lunch. I'll call for you when I need you.
"Do help yourself, Mr Cream. I'll just skim through these files to make sure."
So he's taking me seriously. Cream was relieved. Palfrey was not the kind of man whose time you wanted to waste! Seemingly omniscient, moving people like chess pieces in accordance with a strategy no-one else could fathom, he ran a small department mostly dedicated to the discovery of enemy agents and traitors. Hence the nickname of his field agents – 'plumbers', because they fixed leaks. But there were also rumours that Palfrey was involved with counter-intelligence and that he ran several agents of his own in various places. Little was known about the man himself, but rumour had it that he was the successor to and protégé of the legendary George Smiley. It was also said that Mr Palfrey had resigned his post under Norsefire and spent his time in a cottage on the South Downs, secure in the knowledge that he had enough on various powerful officials to put them behind bars for a very long time. It was also whispered that Palfrey had been the brains behind the enigmatic V, but it was Mr Creams' opinion that Palfrey would not have used such a relatively blunt instrument. The man was entirely apolitical, motivated merely by a determination to protect his country; Norsefire would have insisted he become political, which was why he had stepped down.
"So," Palfrey said finally, "a respected academic, a high-flying Civil Servant and a well-regarded police officer. No social or family connections, not aware of or following each other on social media. Hobbies? Dr Potter is a climber; Ms Granger runs; DCI Weasley plays… WarHammer 40K? What on Earth is that, I wonder?"
"Tabletop wargaming in a science-fiction rather than an historical setting, as I understand the matter." Mr Cream told him. "These sandwiches are excellent."
"Ah! My colleague Mr Callan plays Napoleonic wargames." Palfrey said. "I must ask him about it, he may know something we don't. Dr Potter specialises in the Tudor and Reformation periods; Ms Grangers' skills are organisational and administrative; DCI Weasley is a licensed shot and an expert in Krav Maga, but his main strengths are an analytical mind and sheer determination.
"The only things they all have in common are apparently absolute integrity, a capacity for hard work and a relatively rapid rise in their particular fields. Ms Granger did not enter the Civil Service during the Norsefire government, but was headhunted from the private sector by Prime Minister Hammond. The only thing that smacks of politics is that DCI Weasley, then a mere DS, declined a transfer from the Nose to the Finger."
"That could have ended his career." Cream pointed out.
"But it did not." Palfrey noted. "When the occasion demanded it, Chief of Investigations Finch was more than capable of putting Party Leader Creedy in his place. Clearly he valued Weasleys' skills enough to protect him.
"You said there was a stipulation with regard to the bodies?"
"Yes," Cream replied, "the client was insistent that, whatever the cause of death, the bodies should be decapitated. She made no other requests as regarding disposal of the bodies and did not ask for the heads to be treated in any other way apart from their detachment. As you may imagine, Mr Palfrey, that in itself was enough to arouse caution. Especially since enquiries into the past of this Lady Morgian seem to hit the proverbial brick wall at some five years ago. I am by no means a gullible man, Mr Palfrey, but one hears things…"
"Quite so." Palfrey said. "I understand what you mean. But in order to benefit from what is called the 'Quickening', one Immortal must behead another in person.
"But tell me, Mr Cream, under these circumstances, why did you accept the commission, then immediately come here?"
"I wished to leave the building alive." Cream said simply. "My background checks on the client unearthed information I found…disturbing. I believe you can ensure that I will not be 'disturbed'. I am aware that this will involve a quid pro quo, but I am sure we can reach a mutually satisfactory arrangement. Regarding the commission itself, not only are the subjects worthy people, but there are hints of murkier waters here into which I am reluctant to wade."
"Understandably so." Palfrey agreed. "We will discuss details another time, Mr Cream, but for now let's see to your immediate comfort."
He went over to his desk and activated the intercom. "Caroline, Mr Cream will be our guest for a while, please ask Dennis to arrange suitable accommodation, will you? Also, could you get in touch with Mr Callan and ask him to come over as soon as convenient? Thank you.
"That should do it, Mr Cream. Dennis is very efficient, so he won't be long. Would you care for more tea?"
XXXXX
"Tell me, Herne," Union Jack was asking, "Do you know what a 'superhero' is?"
"Only very vaguely." Herne replied. "When I invited Rob to become the host for my son, he commented about becoming a superhero and stipulated that I was not to require him to wear his underpants outside his trousers!"
Mike laughed at that, then became serious again.
"Look, there always have been, and always will be, exceptional people in every generation. But they are just that, exceptional people. Then in 1795, something happened. As best as our scientists can tell, two large meteors, or small asteroids, crashed into each other above Earth. The impact pretty much pulverised both, but the remains were caught in Earths' gravity well, and so fell into our atmosphere over the course of the next several months.
"Now most of them disintegrated in the upper atmosphere. Only one piece actually reached the surface, it's known as the Wold Newton meteorite and it's supposed to be in the Natural History Museum, a lump of kaolin, iron, silicon, nickel and a scattering of other elements. That's a fake, made on Earth. The real meteorite was studied and found to contain large amounts of an unknown element, one which vapourised quickly in Earths' atmosphere. Animals were exposed to the vapour to see if it was toxic. Ninety-five percent of the animals tested showed no reaction beyond slight discomfort. But the remaining five percent did react. More than half of them developed horrific and fatal deformities or tumours. The rest, around two percent of the whole, developed a range of physical and behavioural changes that were actually positive. Some became larger and stronger, others showed increased intelligence or sharpened senses, a few developed all of these traits.
"The scientists were considering human experiments, but one morning they came into the lab and found all the stored samples gone! Who took them, how and why, nobody knows to this day. The scientists had all their notes and so forth, they called the element 'terrigen', but nobodys' ever been able to reproduce it, even with modern equipment! One man, a Henry Jekyll, tried to reproduce it in the Nineteenth Century, with horrific results!
"But what nobody knew then was that the other fragments of the asteroids, the ones that burned up, released terrigen into the atmosphere. It got into the food chain eventually, and decades, or generations, down the line, it had effects. Individuals and families with extraordinary abilities began to turn up. Abilities that could be classed as superhuman. There was the Holmes family, for instance. Their four children, Sherrinford, Mycroft, Sherlock and Sigrina, all had enhanced physical, mental and sensory skills. Then there was Prince Dakkar, known as Captain Nemo, who designed and built a submarine long before anyone else did. John Clayton, Lord Greystoke, lost as an infant in Africa, managed to survive among the apes found there, becoming one of them for many years and almost equalling their physical abilities. Above all, of course, were and are the Savage family, whose abilities grew over the generations. They say the greatest of them all, Clark Savage Junior, is still alive, though he fought in the First World War.
"Then there were other events. An alien ship crashed on Earth many years ago, and human scientists used the technology they found there to try and create superhumans. My body is the only one of those left, I hope!
"But the increasing proliferation of nuclear power stations and weapons has increased the amount of radiation in the world, and the result has been the appearance of what are called Mutants. Some are just pathetic, deformed little things who die in infancy. But some grow up and develop unusual abilities.
"The Unit, the organisation we work for, has a cadre of such people undergoing training as we speak. Eventually, they may join the Excalibur team or form others. In America, there's an outfit called Spectre that has a number of…unusual…agents working for it.
"Might these Mutants and enhanced humans be the New Men your Prophecy talks about?"
XXXXX
DCI Ron Weasley was not a creature of habit. In fact, he made a point of avoiding habits. "They narrow your thinking." He would say. So the walks he took to help him think things through did not follow a fixed route. His sense of direction was excellent, and anyway these new smartphones (which, under Norsefire, had been banned in the UK) all had satellite navigation systems.
So he was unsurprised to be on an unfamiliar street when the red gleam caught his eye. It came from a shop window. The shop was called, according to the old and faded sign above the window, Temptations Ltd. It looked a little old-fashioned, the front windows being small panes set into a wooden frame. Ron went up to the window and looked in. At the very front a card in a holder stated "Items of Interest and Value Bought, Sold or Exchanged. Enquire Within.".
From the assortment of items in the window, it looked like a cross between an antique dealers and a junk shop. There was pottery and glass in all shapes and sizes, as well as an old, dark wood washstand. In the centre of the display, on a stand, was a tray of jewellery. Most of it struck Ron as being old-fashioned costume stuff, except for one item. A heavy gold ring set with a large, red stone. The stone seemed to glow with a fiery light of its' own, and drew Rons' attention like a magnet.
He shook his head. Why? Wait, there had been a burglary in the suburbs last week. One of those big houses. Lot of jewellery taken. He'd glanced over the inventory, like everyone else, but it wasn't his manor or his case. Could this ring be part of the haul? He wouldn't be popular if he reported it and it turned out not to be. On the other hand, there was no harm in going in and making an enquiry, was there? If whoever owned this place was a fence, that in itself would be worth knowing!
The door itself opened with the ease of well-oiled hinges, but the old-fashioned bell shrilled out like a banshee! After the echoes died away, Ron could hear voices from further inside. Low, intense voices that woke every instinct in him. Despite his size, Ron moved like a cat through the maze of display cabinets and large items. The shop seemed to be very deep, much deeper than it should be, but the voices grew closer until he saw a space open in front of him. More brightly-lit than the rest of the shop, it contained a wooden counter with an old-fashioned cash register. In front of the counter stood a small, elderly-looking man in a tweed jacket and trousers, wearing a flat cap. His thin, lined face was impassive as he peered over half-moon spectacles at the two men confronting him.
Both of them were young, wearing jeans, heavy boots and dark hoodies. One was big, almost as big as Ron. He stood behind and to one side of the other, a crowbar hanging from one large fist. The other one was medium-sized and wiry, vibrating with nervous energy. Except that the gun he held never wavered from its aim at the shopkeeper.
"Look, you stupid old git!" He was saying. "This isn't fucking rocket science, is it? Either you hand over the stuff -the good stuff you keep in the back, not the shit you have on show -or I put a hole in your head and Dave here wrecks the place until we find what we want!"
"There's no need for all that, sir." The old man replied mildly. "You just need to look around. If you find something you want, and I'm sure you will, we can agree on terms. I'm afraid taking anything from here without paying for it will have consequences. Threatening me can't change that, except perhaps to make matters worse for you."
"What, you work for the fucking Mafia do you?" The youngster scoffed. "Think the Kingpin's gonna come all the way from fucking Gotham City 'cause a junk shop got trashed over here?
"Look, mate, this is my territory! Consequences are what happen to people who fuck about with me!"
Ron had heard enough. Dave never heard him coming. There was a slight choking sound, the crowbar dropped to the floor with a clatter and Dave followed it with a thud.
The other lad turned round, and the shopkeeper immediately began to advance on him with a determined tread. The young man turned again and fired. Once, twice, three times. At point-blank range he could not possibly have missed, but the old man kept on coming, showing no sign of being hit, not even blinking at the muzzle-flash. The kid looked down, puzzled, at his weapon, then the shopkeeper caught him by the throat and belt, lifting him bodily off the floor and carrying him over to a large cabin trunk that stood nearby. The trunk opened of its own accord and the old man shoved the young crook into it. Completely into it, even though the trunk could not reasonably have contained all of him.
The old man straightened and turned to Ron. "I'll be with you in a moment, sir." He said. Then went over to where Dave still lay unconscious, picked him up without apparent effort and carried him over to the trunk, dumping him into it as he had the other. Then he closed the trunk and sat down on the lid.
"Dear me!" He said. "What a nuisance! There are always some, aren't there?" He got to his feet again and came over to Ron.
"I do apologise for that little inconvenience, sir. Now you've come for your ring, haven't you? Wait here a moment." He went off, returning shortly with the ring Ron had been curious about. "Here we are, sir!"
Ron took the ring, then reached for his wallet. "How much…?" He began, but the shopkeeper shook his head.
"All taken care of, sir. I was given it for safe-keeping a long time ago, but was told you'd be coming for it today, so I put it out so you'd know where to come. Just pop it on and go through there," he indicated a door Ron hadn't noticed before, "they're expecting you."
As if from a distance, Ron watched himself put on the ring and walk through the door.
Rons' walk had cleared his head, but there were still questions. With any luck, Gabriel would have the DNA results in a couple of days. Maybe that would give him something to work on.
XXXXX
Herne and Mick were still talking when the rest of the team came in, in something of a rush with Rob tailing behind them, looking bemused.
"Gaffer?" Will said. "We've got problems!"
"What kind of problems?" Mick asked.
"Murder and mayhem!" Jenny told him. "Five dead, which is a lot even for a Friday night in this town!"
"It is less the numbers than the manner of the deaths which is disturbing." The Commando said.
"Right, OK, start from the beginning!" Mick said.
"Well, Jenny and I were just finishing breakfast when Rusty here walks in saying he's picking up bad news. So we put the telly on and got the news channel up. Apparently while we were dealing with that gang – nothing about that, by the way – five people were killed in very weird ways! We knew you were meeting with Herne, so we scooped Rob up and came here, because it sounds like it might be connected with what we talked about last night."
"Ops." Mick said.
The Operations Room was as big as the dining room, but seemed less spacious because of the screens and workstations around the walls, as well as the large, glass-topped table in the centre. As the team and their 'guests' filed in. Rob was asking the Commando:
"How did you pick up what was going on?"
"I have built in wi-fi." The robot said. "If something beyond the usual turns up, I get a push notification. It can be annoying, but is more often useful."
"Ultra," Mick said, "bring up the unusual crime reports from last night!"
"Displaying flagged files." Herne looked round for the source of the androgynous voice.
"Ultra is our VI assistant," Mick told him, "I'll explain later."
Three of the five large screens had lit up. Each displayed a crime scene photograph alongside several bullet points giving key information.
"Right!" Mick said. "Three lads on their way home from the pub, apparently mauled to death by some kind of large dogs or wolves. No reports of any escaped wolves of feral dogs in the area, but apparently the whole scene reeks of rotten meat and sulphur. Also there's first-degree burns on the victims as well as bites!"
"Hot dogs, anyone?" The Commando remarked.
"Fucks' sake, mate!" Will complained, laughing despite himself.
"Shut it, will you?" Mick growled. "We've got another male, torn apart and eviscerated. Heart, liver, stomach and kidneys gone. Bite and claw marks but no idea what kind of animal was involved. Best suggestion is, apparently, a Polar or Kodiak bear, but again, no sightings.
"Finally, a young woman found in an alley opposite a night-club. No immediate cause of death on that one, but the SIO called in the Lyell Institute. Commando?"
"I will connect to the Lyell." Was the reply. "The autopsy is under way as we speak and is being recorded. I will update Ultra when it is complete."
"Ideas, anyone?" Mick asked.
"Well, the man who was torn apart," Jenny hazarded, "there's a Mutant, a feral, they call him Wolverine? He has claws."
Mick shook his head. "I know that one. He's a pro, trained Special Forces, like me. He wouldn't have left a mess like that. But my former boss was trying to capture a man-eating creature called the Wendigo who might have done this."
Herne shook his head. "No." He said. "The Wendigo can no more leave his Northern woods than I can leave this Island of the Mighty. Besides, the Shepherds of the Trees have him in their care.
"But I have seen and heard of this kind of killing before. Men torn apart and the pluck taken. This is the work of a Troll! I had thought them all banished to the Faelands, but it seems that someone has managed to open the Veil enough to bring one through."
"I hardly dare ask," Jenny said, "but what do Trolls do with the…bits.. they take?"
"They make a pudding similar to haggis, and eat it." Herne replied. "They do this with any creature they kill, such is their geas. They prefer human to animal, and Fae to both."
"Alert!" Ultra interrupted. "New data on one of the incidents. Screen One."
It was security camera footage. Not Government cameras -data from those needed to be requested – but from a private camera overlooking a shop entrance. The field of view was limited, but the image was crystal clear. A creature running along the street, past the camera.
"Wind back ten seconds, freeze and enhance!" Mick ordered.
The creature looked like a wolf or a dog, but by comparison with the lamp post it was running past, they could see it was much larger than any other such creature, perhaps a metre high at the shoulder and almost two metres long. It was covered in coarse, oily-looking black fur, had powerful-looking jaws full of yellowish fangs, and glowing red eyes.
"Werewolf?" Will queried.
"There was no full moon last night." The Commando pointed out.
"True for you, Metal Man." Herne replied. "Also, a werewolf would be loath to come into your cities. Your artificial light weakens or entirely overcomes the Moon, and your paved roads block off contact with the earth. The werewolf draws its power from both of these, and in a city or town it would grow steadily weaker until it died
"This creature is a Hellhound, a ravenous spirit born of fear and darkness. Easy to summon, but hard to control."
"Sound nasty!" Jenny allowed. "Got anything from the Lyell yet, Rusty?"
"Cause of death seems to be exsanguination." The Commando said. "The body has been almost entirely drained of blood. But there were only a few drops at the scene and the only wounds are two small punctures over the carotid artery. My database informs me that such killings were once held to be the work of Vampires."
"Again, you are correct!" Herne said. "You begin to interest me, Metal Man!."
"So Trolls, Hellhounds and Vampires." Mick shook his head. "Did I just wake up in a horror film? It'll be mummies next!"
"The Night Terrors." Rob said in the voice of the Hooded Man. "I never thought to see them return!"
"My Son speaks truth." Herne said. "It has been forgotten, perhaps, but during much of their history. Men would not stir abroad after sunset unless in large numbers or armed companies. The night was the domain of the Dark Ones. Every town and village had its curfew, when men sought their homes and firesides. Anyone alone and outside after dark was in mortal danger.
"Even inside, they were not always safe, and an armed Watch, as well as priests, patrolled the streets while men nailed iron above their doors and hung herbs and charms at their windows.
"These great, well-lit cities with your horseless carriages passing to and fro, your docks and manufactoria working through the night and the great metal air-chariots that come and go would be a great wonder to the men I first knew. They would be an offence to the Lords of the Night, a trespass on their domain.
"If one such has awoken, as I fear to be the case, then we must look for more of this! Unless a curfew be put in place and your cities cease working through the night, there will be more killing. But then men will once again fear the night, and the Dark Ones will draw power from that fear. Either way, there was no winning long ago, and unless much has changed, it will be the same again."
"Much has changed!" Mick said. "There were years of curfew under Norsefire, and there's no way the Government will re-impose one. Apart from that, people don't scare so easy these days. Tell 'em there are Vampires about, and they'll start carrying crucifixes, garlic and stakes around. If they think there's dangerous animals about, they'll be going out in groups with two-by-fours, jack handles, pickaxe handles and pepper sprays. It'll be a mess!"
"I'm going to get in touch with the Director, and she'll get onto the PM and Home Secretary. About two-thirds of the old Norsefire surveillance network is switched off but it's never been uninstalled. The police and security services – not to mention the public – like the idea that we can keep an eye on troublemakers or monito emergencies in real time if we need to. We can have the entire system on and monitored before this evening. We can also have increased foot patrols, squad cars and ARUs on the streets tonight. There's enough barracks around London that we can have troops at the ready if we need 'em, too. Also, we'll have our people out, and we'll be out there, too.
"Are you up for joining us?"
"That is why we are here!" Herne said.
"Right!" Union Jack said. "Let's see just who ends up being scared to go out at night!"