The Undying Legion: Crown & Key: Crown & Key Bk 2 - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Clay Griffith and Susan Griffith met at a bookstore thanks to The Uncanny X-Men #201. They had to get married because of a love of adventure stories with heroes who save the day and fall in love. Soon they were writing stories together, including The Shadow Revolution, The Undying Legion, and the Vampire Empire series. After years of comics, short stories, and novels, they remain happily married. When not writing or talking about writing, the couple watch classic movies, play Warcraft, and struggle to entertain their cat. They still have that copy of The Uncanny X-Men #201.

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Chapter 1

Malcolm MacFarlane let the frigid London night swallow him. A cold hard rain had begun to fall. His thick, wool coat had soaked up so much water that it felt like he carried an additional load of ammunition on his broad shoulders. He wiped the excess water from his face, brushing it back over his coal-black hair, which was pulled and tied with a strap of leather. Tonight, he would do what he did best. Hunt. He had spent the last few months tracking down the stragglers from Gretta Aldfather’s werewolf pack and putting silver bullets in their animal brains.

Malcolm had hunted the wild places of the Highlands and beyond all his life, studying the spore of monsters until it was his art form. Here in this city, however, he found it was not so easy. The maze of filthy hovels and wash of humanity made such skills almost worthless.

Malcolm liked to believe it was the prospect of information and not the warm glow and promise of a dry place that led him to the soup kitchen in St. Giles. He was surprised to see it open since it was well past midnight. He had made a habit of haunting the poorhouses and soup kitchens because the people of the street heard and saw a great many things. They were the first to know when something was amiss, or a beast was stirring. This place would make the third one this evening. He stepped inside and the frigid cold lifted. Unlike the other hovels that made him despair over the condition of man, this one made him feel safe and contented.

His eyes found, at the far side of the dingy hall, a mouselike woman who was cleaning up after serving late supper to the unfortunates. Her bonneted head and her small hands focused on gathering dirty utensils and used plates. She was dressed in plain clothes and wore small, round spectacles. Her gaze lifted briefly to Malcolm, but then fell quickly toward the pile of dishes in front of her. Next to her were baskets of extra clothing, and odds and ends for those in need. The woman left her place behind the table and snatched a wool scarf from the basket. She held it out to Malcolm as she approached.

“We have finished serving for the evening,” she said with a smile, “but I can find a bowl of soup for you if you’ll wait.”

“No, thank you. I’m not hungry.” Malcolm dripped water from his sleeve to the floor. Drops glistened on his dark hair and thick eyelashes. “And I am not in need of your scarf.”

“Please.” Her voice had the timbre of a frightened rabbit. “I made it myself, and you will have need of it before this night is through. I can’t have you falling into an ague from the damp.”

He stared at her homely features. “I’ve seen worse weather in Scotland, and me in nothing but a kilt.” She blushed but still she wrapped the soft grey wool around his neck.

She had seemed so unassuming that her sudden boldness took Malcolm aback. He wasn’t one to accept charity, but he wouldn’t offend the young woman. Perhaps he looked like a bedraggled vagrant after so many nights on the streets. He would give the scarf to someone more in need than he but let the woman think she had helped his poor soul.

“Tell me then, miss, have you seen anything strange about? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Aside from yourself?” she asked, obviously judging his accent. “You are far from home, I hear.”

“Aye, that’s for sure.” Malcolm let a little extra lonely brogue pepper his words to stir the tender heart of this woman. “But I’m here to do a job. And it would help me if you could say if you’ve heard talk of unusual events about.”

The woman sized up Malcolm and took on a look of sadness that actually disturbed him a bit. She whispered, “I take your appearance as something of a sign then. Because some of the people here have been sorely frightened.”

“Tell me.”

“Tonight, a man said he saw figures robed in red with a young woman in white.”

Malcolm exhaled in disappointment at the story. Clearly not a sign of Gretta’s old pack. “Is that some local haint?”

“Not to my knowledge, sir. He seemed quite disturbed by it. If you’re here indeed to help, you might look into it.”

“Where was this weird visitation?”

“St. George’s Bloomsbury, sir.” The young woman swallowed hard as if gulping down her terror now that she had spoken it aloud.

“I thank you for your information.”

“Bless you, sir.”

Malcolm opened the frightened woman’s hand and placed coins into her palm. “For the poor.”

She grasped Malcolm’s arm tightly and the gratitude in her eyes moved the hunter. “The Devil has great power.”

“Well I know it. Perhaps after I take a look, I’ll return for some of that soup.”

She bowed her bonneted head shyly. “It will be waiting when you need it, along with a friendly word.”

Malcolm smiled at her, thinking that her face could have been pleasing if not tightened in some permanent grimace of penance. “One can’t have too many friends, eh?”

“No.”

“Thank you for the scarf.” With that, he went back out into the cold, miserable night, where he was more at home.

The great white block of St. George’s Bloomsbury looked serene in the misty lamp glow. Malcolm could barely make out the odd, pyramid-like steeple around which the haunting dark shapes of lions and unicorns clambered while King George I looked down disdainfully in his pagan Roman attire. The church squatted between two tall neighboring edifices, enhancing its resemblance to a classical temple.

In its shadow, Malcolm saw two dim figures lurking under the massive colonnades by the south doors. Not too surprising. The spiritual presence of the church called vagrants and the poor to its doors whether they were open or not. But when Malcolm went round the side, he saw three more shapes in the narrow space between the buildings. There was a flare of a cigar end as well as a faint trace of spicy smoke. Malcolm came closer.

These were no vagrants. They were well fed and muscular, all with beefy shoulders and ham-sized fists. Guards of some sort, apparently meant to make sure no one disturbed whatever was happening inside the church.

That wouldn’t do. Not werewolves, but suspicious enough for Malcolm to work off a bit of frustration. These men were probably paid off in a local pub for a couple hours’ work. There was no need for the use of firearms. Malcolm stepped out of the shadows and strode up to the men. They started, as he was sure he looked like a wraith coming out of the mists in his black garb.

“Waiting for services?” he asked them in a friendly manner.

“None of yer business, Angus,” snarled the man with the cigar, noting Malcolm’s brogue. He was a big man with square shoulders with a noggin to match. “Best you head back where you come from.”

“Nothing interesting happening there.” Malcolm looked past him to the side door. “Seems like something interesting here though.”

The second man...