Fic, Moonlight Shadow, Chapter 1
Jun. 24th, 2007 11:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fredbassettChapter 1 : Trees that Whisper in the Evening
Author : fredbassett
Genre : Original fiction
Copyright : Mine all mine (Please feel free to slash for private use and non-profit)
1
TREES THAT WHISPER IN THE EVENING
The white dog picked its way down the embankment to stand by the side of the dual carriageway. Cars hurried past, too fast for the conditions, the glare from their headlights reflected back off a dense mist and thrown into the eyes of the drivers. Too many of them seemed oblivious to its presence, either that or they believed headlights on full beam would penetrate it better. They were wrong and it was possible that some would pay a heavy price for their ignorance but that wasn’t something the creature needed to concern itself with.
The dog flicked one red ear and paused for a moment to scratch at it with a hind paw. None of the drivers paid any attention to the huge hound walking alone at the side of the road. The dog was early, it had known that as soon as it had crossed the Veil, it only had one appointment tonight so there was no need to rush. It developed another itch and took the time for a lengthy and enjoyable scratch. There was no collar round its powerful neck to impede the scratching and the glossy white hair showed no sign of ever having felt the presence of one.
A badger, hunting for food in the long grass by the roadside stopped and smelt the air. The sharp tang of ozone told the creature all it needed to know and it moved away to hunt elsewhere. If one thing had made the crossing tonight there was no knowing what else might follow.
The dog reached the bridge supports and sat down, staring into the mist, red ears pricked, waiting.
* * * * * *
The mist was widespread. The church rose out of it, stark and black with a squat, square tower carrying a battlemented top which could have been plucked straight from the pages of a horror comic. Heavy oak doors stood wide open and warm yellow light spilled out across the gravel, almost reaching the first of the gravestones nestling amongst grass that had not been cut for the past month. The evening service had ended over an hour ago and the last car had driven away not long afterwards.
Although there was ample parking inside the gates, the van that drew up on the road outside preferred to remain there, pulling over onto the wide grass verge. The vehicle was covered in mud and grime, the number-plate so heavily encrusted that its content couldn’t be read, especially not obscured by the dark and the mist. Not enough to arise suspicion in itself, but the fact that both of its occupants wore dark woollen hats with scarves pulled up over their mouths and noses was, if anyone had been about to see them. They climbed the wall and dropped over into the churchyard, staying on the grass.
In spite of the care they were obviously taking not to be noticed, both men appeared oblivious to the figure seated on a low branch of the enormous yew tree which dominated the front half of the yard. Pale tendrils of moonlight filtered down through the dark canopy of a tree that had been already old when the first stone of the church had been laid. The light reflected off the blade of a knife being used to pare a broken fingernail. The owner of the knife remained seated and seemed to pay little attention to the two men as they approached the church, jumping lightly over the path, where it narrowed on the east side. The gravel was overgrown with moss in places and it was not difficult for them to get right beside the doorway without making any sound.
They stood and waited, listening for voices inside. One of the men stared straight at the figure on the branch, then the mist swirled again, thick and grey, and he looked away, unconcerned. The only noise from inside the church was a low, tuneful whistling. The sort of sound someone made when they were sure of their own solitude. A few moments later, the whistling changed to song. An even surer indicator that the church was now empty of all but one person. Whether Captain Wedderburn’s Courtship was the sort of song normally sung by a priest didn’t occur to either of them as one man produced a baseball bat from beneath his dark padded jacket and the other slipped on a set of knuckledusters which gleamed maliciously in the moonlight.
The figure on the tree branch finished trimming his nail and studied the result thoughtfully before he replaced the knife in a sheath which hung from a wide leather belt, underneath a jacket the colour of the dark green spines of the yew tree. He watched as the two men slipped noiselessly inside the church.
The priest moved between the long rows of pews, gathering up books as he went and picking up the occasional sweet wrapper, a look of mild amusement flickering across his face. At least he hadn’t found any beer cans or condoms recently. He moved out into the main aisle and halted his song long enough to incline his head towards the alter.
“Good collection tonight?” asked one of the men from behind him.
The priest turned slowly and took in the two masked men lounging against the wooden pews. The expression on his face didn’t change, even when he caught sight of the knuckleduster and the long wooden bat. “It’s by the door, gentlemen, you’re welcome to it.”
“That’s kind of you, father, generous even, you might say, but we’re thinking you have more here than a few quid on the collection plate.”
“Nice church,.” said the other man, in a conversational tone. “Pretty glass in the windows. It’d be a shame to see it in pieces on the floor.”
The priest shrugged narrow shoulders shrouded in black. “Take the silver as well if you want. There’s no reason to cause damage.”
The man with the knuckleduster unzipped the top of a large bag and emptied the contents of the collection plate into it. One quick glance at the underside of the plate itself revealed a hallmark and the plate followed the rest into the bag.
A casual gesture from the baseball bat caused the priest to move to one side into one of the lines of pews, where the narrow space would severely hamper any attempt at flight.
The man with the bag walked slowly and deliberately up the aisle and stated to throw the contents of the alter silver in on top of the rest.
The priest’s dark eyes watched every movement, but his expression remained calm, almost detached. The hand he raised to push curly black hair away from his forehead tested the watchfulness of the thieves and the baseball bat was raised warningly. He let the hand fall back to his side, slowly.
Instead of walking back down the main aisle, the masked man with the bag took a longer route down one side of the church, which would take him past three carved niches in the stone, each of which held a candle stick, with a flickering lighted candle in each. The first stick was sliver plate, and drew a disapproving noise from behind the woollen scarf, but it followed the rest of the haul into the bag anyway. The second was clearly better value and gained a slight nod of approval. It too clanged on top of the others. The candles themselves were discarded onto the worn stone flags of the floor.
The third candlestick was wooden, and for a moment it seemed as though it would escape the attention of the thieves, but then the man with the bag noticed the carved serpent twisting up the dark wood and he stopped to take a closer look. If it was old enough, it might still fetch a decent price. The candle followed the others onto the floor.
The look of quiet detachment vanished from the face of the priest and he stiffened. The man with the bag was behind him, but the noise of the third candle hitting the flags had told him all he needed to know. He started to edge forward towards the middle aisle, reasoning that the man with the knuckleduster would make the easier target. Behind him, the other man ordered him to stop, but the order went unheeded. The long black robes were a hindrance in a fight, but the Church had never designed its vestments with that as a consideration. A failing, in Father Murphy’s opinion. Especially in circumstances like this.
He reached the middle aisle before the man with the bat was able to come close enough to take advantage of the longer reach his weapon gave him. The thief with the metal wrapped around his gloved hand swung his fist at the priest’s jaw, and seemed surprised when he was avoided, with an easy grace that he hadn’t expected. He was even more amazed when one leg was swept from under him with a hard kick.
Two against one is never the best of odds and his calling hindered him in a serious fight, but Father Murphy had no objection to inflicting enough damage to cause second thoughts in the ungodly. He grabbed the back of the man’s neck and propelled him head first into the solid wood of a four hundred year old pew. The man went limp in his hand and dropped onto the cold floor.
One glance told him that the other man wouldn’t be as easily dealt with. Anger glittered in pale grey eyes and the thief dropped the bag onto a bench, using both hands to take a firmer grip on the handle of the bat. He moved fast and swung it with bone shattering force. Father Murphy tried to avoid the blow but was only partially successful as the groaning form of the younger thief got in his way. The wooden bat caught him a glancing blow on his left shoulder, not enough to break a bone but close enough to the nerve point to numb the arm. The word it drew from the priest’s lips would have shocked anyone who didn’t know him. He’d have to start being more careful. This one meant business. The bat swung again and missed. It was the other man’s turn to swear.
Father Murphy stepped backwards over the body on the floor and retreated down the aisle, the man with the bat following warily. Underneath the mask, the thief’s lips were moving as though he was talking to himself. A sudden mental alarm caused his intended victim’s pulse to race uncomfortably.
The black robed priest threw up his arms in the sign of a cross and started to call out, “In the name of the Father, the Son and …………” when the Charm hit him with even greater force than the baseball bat had just done and the words died in his throat, the rest of the Invocation ripped to shreds as his breath was sucked out of his mouth by an invisible wind. He gasped for breath, unable to drag any air into his lungs and staggered back under the force of the Spell.
A moment later the bat caught him hard in the face, breaking his nose with a sickening crack of breaking cartilage. The next blow was to his stomach and he doubled over, blood spraying onto the grey flagged floor. The spell broke and the priest coughed and retched. A booted foot slammed into his side and a second kick broke at least one rib. Father Murphy tried to roll away and stagger to his feet, but the bat smashed down hard on the hand that he had on the back of the pew in an attempt to drag himself upright. A finger snapped and the priest swore violently.
“Mind your language, father,” said the thief. “That’s what you get for ramming a lad’s head into a pew. You’d better start praying he’s all right or I’m going to break every bone you’ve got.”
“That’s no way to treat a holy man,” said a voice from the doorway. “Don’t they teach any respect in your schools these days?”
The man in the green jacket leant casually against the frame of the oak door, surveying the scene in the church with watchful dark eyes. If the thief has been close enough he would have seen that the man’s pupils were narrowed to thin vertical slits, like the eyes of a cat. He was not as tall as the thief and less heavily built, but the smooth grace with which he pushed himself away from the door and strolled down the aisle was enough to make the bigger man hesitate. He gave one quick look at his companion, who by now was coming to his knees, shaking his head and swearing, and muttered something behind his mask.
“Faster than he looked,” muttered the other man said by way of excuse. He clambered to his feet, and without warning, swung a vicious kick at Father Murphy, pitching him forward across the pew, his chin hitting the wood with a force that was likely to have broken some teeth.
At the same time, his companion started to mutter again into his mask.
The man in the green jacket stood still and watched the older thief with an expression of polite interest on his face. His dark brown eyes held an expression of calm confidence and he stood motionless, waiting and watching.
The Charm was completed and the thief waited in vain for it to take effect.
Green Jacket smiled, “Oh dear, it doesn’t seem to be working. Would you like to try another Spell? I’m not in any hurry.”
The thief started to look uneasy. His mouth moved again behind the woollen scarf.
“You really ought to practice this sort of thing without moving your lips. It’s such a give away when you can be seen spellcasting. It really isn’t that difficult. Let me demonstrate.”
The younger thief started to back down the aisle, limping, hoping he would not attract attention. He didn’t succeed. A second later a scream of fear and pain was ripped from his lips and he collapsed writhing on the floor, clawing at his throat as though trying to tear invisible fingers away from his flesh.
“Let him be!” yelled the older man. “What business is this of yours? Why do you care about a priest?”
“I don’t,” said Green Jacket dropping both the Glamour and the Spell at the same moment, leaving the younger thief gasping on the floor like a dying fish and letting the older man see that his baseball bat was firmly outclassed by bow, sword and knife.
With a speed no mortal reactions could hope to match, two arrows were fitted to the bowstring in quick succession and fired. Each man received an arrow in the fleshy part of the upper thigh.
Their screams of shock and pain almost drowned out the next words. “But the yew tree cares and the tree and I go back a long way.” The expression on his sharply handsome face was thoughtful and the look in the inhuman dark eyes was faraway. He added in a voice as hard as the grey flags of the floor and as cold as the mist in the churchyard, “And for a priest, he’s less annoying than most, so go and do not come back. If you so much as set foot past the outer wall again, I will know and you will suffer. Believe me, you will suffer. I only allow my prey one chance of life and this is yours.” His expression didn’t change, but malice glittered in his eyes and both men felt a jolt of pain through their bodies like the stab of an electric shock. The younger man fell against a pew and drove the arrow further into his own leg, the point grinding against his thigh bone. He reached down to the wooden shaft and tried to pull it out, just as his attacker remarked, “The points are barbed, by the way.”
He stood to one side as the two men limped down the aisle, their faces white and afraid, the baseball bat lying forgotten on the floor beside the body of Father Murphy. They didn’t even give the bag a second glance in their haste to get away from the unblinking stare of the man in the green jacket. When they were just on the other side of the door it slammed behind them, sending both of them stumbling forward onto the gravel. The thickness of the oak prevented their yells of pain disturbing the silence of the church.
The priest coughed and spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. With his unbroken left hand he poked at the mess and lifted up a tooth, offering it to the other man.
“I’ve never been mistaken for the Tooth Faery,” said Green Jacket, grinning down at the battered priest. “Caught napping by a couple of amateur thugs, Nathan? I’m tempted to say you deserve all you got from them. Do you want me to fetch a Healer?”
“And get another lecture from the Bishop? You’ve got to be kidding. You know his views on my relationship with you at the best of times. Let’s not make it worse.” The words came indistinctly from the ruin of a mouth was already beginning to blacken and swell.
“And what sort of relationship does he think we have?” asked the other man, undisguised amusement in his voice. “You really need to explain to the pompous moron that faery has more than one meaning. Anyway, what he doesn’t know, he can’t grumble about.” And with that, Green Jacket clicked his fingers and settled a Charm around the priest’s shoulders to staunch the flow of blood from his broken nose and reduce the pain.
Nathan Murphy sighed but didn’t argue. He held out his unbroken hand again and was hauled to his feet with no apparent effort and then helped, with surprising gentleness, into one of the pews. “Do what you can without bringing anyone else through the Veil. The Bishop has a contract with the Guild to monitor any Otherworld activity around here. He’s used to bollocking me for seeing you but if he picks up a report of any more of your lot around here, he might jump to the wrong conclusions and decide to send the Staff to
“If we wanted to steal it doesn’t the fool think we would have done it by now? We’ve known its whereabouts for several hundred of your years.”
The priest sighed and blood bubbled nastily though his crushed nose, “Don’t push it, Hal. This one’s as skittish as a mare on heat.
“Lying is a sin, so your lot say,” remarked the faery as he held his hand out and added, “I’ll take the tooth you offered as payment. We never help mortals for free, you ought to know that by now.”
The priest flipped the bloodstained tooth in the air and watched as it vanished. A moment later he felt a long fingered hand cup one side of his battered face and the pain started to ebb away. He closed his eyes in relief and tried not to dwell on what his superiors in the Church would have to say about yet another forbidden dealing with this particular member of the
a sword-calloused hand stroked his forehead and ran lightly over the smashed ruin of his nose and mouth. The pain dulled even further and a feeling of warmth started to flush into his cheeks. Nathan Murphy shivered suddenly, which made his chest hurt even more.
“Reaction setting in,” commented Green Jacket. “Come on, let’s get you into the back before you start throwing up. Can you walk now?”
The priest nodded but he was still glad of the other man’s arm looped under his shoulders, even if it did cause pain from his broken ribs to lance through him almost unbearably. In a private room at the back of the Church he leant over a deep porcelain sink and was copiously sick. Only the faery’s strong hands gripping both shoulders kept him upright. A few moments later he caught sight of his own refection in the mirror on the wall and was mildly surprised to discover that the nose under the coating of blood on his face was whole again and the swollen lips were no longer split, although there was still a hole where one tooth had been. But the others on that side no longer felt loose.
A wet cloth helped remove most of the blood.
In the absence of any bandages, his cassock was cut into strips and used to bind his ribs tightly. The two broken fingers of his right hand received similar treatment. Half an hour later the faery stood back and admired his handiwork. The priest’s curly black hair was plastered to his forehead with water and sweat and he looked exhausted. He was no more than thirty, but pain and the remaining streaks of blood made him look older. Green eyes stared out of a pale face at his rescuer and he commented, “I thought you said you didn’t care, Haleth?”
The faery known in the mortal world as Green Jacket raised one eyebrow, but before his thin lips could deliver what the priest confidently expected would be a sarcastic reply, a look of surprise flickered in his eyes and he tilted his head, listening for something. A second later he turned on his heel and strode towards the door.
Nathan Murphy struggled to his feet and started to follow him. “What is it?”
“A death,” said the faery. “And this time it is one I cannot prevent, I fear.”
And with that he ran, knowing that even his power wouldn’t take him through the Veil while he remained within the confines of the Church.
But outside was another matter. No more than two metres from the doorway he advanced into the mist which wreathed the gravestones and stepped away from the sight of any mortal.