Blood Rites Read online

  Blood RITES

  Book Two of The Redwing Saga

  By Sharon K. Gilbert

  Blood Rites – Book Two of The Redwing Saga

  By Sharon K. Gilbert

  www.theredwingsaga.com

  Published by Rose Avenue Fiction, LLC

  514 Rose Avenue, Crane, MO 65633

  First Print Edition September 15, 2017

  Kindle Edition September 15, 2017

  All Content and Characters © 2017 Sharon K. Gilbert

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 0-9980967-2-8 • ISBN-13: 978-0-9980967-2-8

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  About the Author

  Other Books by Sharon K. Gilbert

  From the Author

  It’s been such a pleasure, writing this book. If you’re reading this, then it’s quite likely that you’ve already read Blood Lies: Book One of The Redwing Saga, so you’re familiar with the antiquated style of prose used in the series. Just in case you’ve forgotten, I favour British spelling and a more formal, Victorian style of speech and narration, as that is how a 19th century novelist would have constructed his/her work.

  This means that some words may appear quite strange, and even misspelt to American eyes. Yes, ‘misspelt’ is correct in the UK. For instance, the verb is spelt ‘practise’, but the noun is ‘practice’ (spelt the same as the US version of the word). The Brits love to double the ‘l’ in places where we might not in the US. Traveling becomes travelling, and marveling becomes marvelling. In addition to adding a ‘u’ in most words that end in ‘or’ (like ‘colour’), British spelling prefers to use manoeuvre rather than maneuver. Aging is ‘ageing’, and judgment ‘judgement’. Basically, if you see an odd spelling, look it up in the Oxford Dictionary. That’s been my source whilst writing these books, and I’m still learning. If any of you wonderful British readers finds something I have missed, please let me know.

  I say that writing the book is a pleasure, because I’ve come to love and admire so many of the characters within the story arc. As we learn more about each, I hope your curiosity is piqued, and that you find yourselves wanting to know more about Sinclair, Aubrey, and Elizabeth. Charles Sinclair’s memory loss plays a major part of the developing story, and by the end of this installment, you may find yourself beginning to decipher the clues. The pacing of this novel is rather slow, but as we’re heading towards the worst of the canonical Ripper murders, it seemed best to allow Mary Kelly her own, independent appearance in Book Three.

  A special thank you to Linda Traylor for reading the manuscript for me. It’s difficult to catch all the little mistakes, therefore having an experienced set of eyes read it through is more helpful than I can ever express. Also, I wish to thank my handsome husband for taking the time to read and offer his suggestions. I cannot imagine this journey without you, my darling. Kevin G. Summers is a masterful artist when it comes to layout, and Jeffrey Mardis’s covers bring just the right amount of ‘gothic horror’ to the subject matter, don’t you agree?

  I also wish to thank all of you, who’ve been kind enough to write to me, saying how much you love these characters. Admittedly, I often find myself daydreaming about their plotlines, and sometimes, I awaken in the middle of the night and begin to wonder just where their paths will lead. As a result, I’ve already written the basic manuscripts for the next seven novels and outlined a dozen more, so I have an inkling about the future, but as with any truly interesting set of characters, the little duchess and her company of inner circle protectors may have a few surprises in store for me. And, I hope, for you, as well.

  Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy this installment of the series.

  Blessings,

  Sharon K. Gilbert

  August, 2017

  [email protected]

  For my wonderful readers.

  Your encouragement keeps me writing and plotting.

  And they all answered him and said: “Let us all swear an oath, and all bind ourselves by mutual imprecations not to abandon this plan but to do this thing.”

  Then sware they all together and bound themselves by mutual imprecations upon it.

  And they were in all two hundred; who descended in the days of Jared on the summit of Mount Hermon, and they called it Mount Hermon, because they had sworn and bound themselves by mutual imprecations upon it.

  – Book of Enoch VI:4-6

  Prologue

  British Museum, 31, March,1871

  Conroy Smith needed coffee. As senior curator for the British Museum’s Palestine collection, he’d spent over thirty years travelling all across the globe to acquire rare and ancient artefacts, sacred statues, dusty scrolls, and a panoply of pagan idols from the Canaanite, Israelite, Syrian, Amorite, and Phoenician civilisations. In 1841, on his first excursion into the Levant, Smith had located and negotiated the purchase of a magnificent bas relief of ‘Ishtar the Warrior’ in battle dress tiara and armour, standing beside her trusty lion companion. Locals had claimed the remarkably preserved representation had once adorned the walls of the Shakkanakku’s palace in ancient Mari, though Smith had been unable to prove such provenance. A local emir had aided in the politically charged discussions, and the litigants had finally settled upon an agreeable price, allowing Smith and his team to deliver the superb art display to its current resting place in London.

  Smith’s rousing success made the youthful curator an instant celebrity amongst the antiquities set. An academic ‘feather in his cap’ to be sure, for the acquisition of the extraordinary exhibit had garnered Smith a visit by the queen, a promotion to senior staff, and a substantial rise in pay. But it was a career zenith, which he had thus far been unable to match.

  It was nearing eight, and the sun had long since set upon the Bloomsbury district of west London. Smith had one final task to perform before locking his cramped office and heading home to his wife of fourteen years, Eliza Riley Smith, mother of three and wonder of the modern world. Tonight, they’d enjoy mutton stew and a game of whist with their eldest son Caspar and his wife Rhonda, followed by an hour talking politics and exchanging recipes before a cheerful fire—their usual Friday night entertainments. Life in the Smith household was indeed a good one.

  Conroy, however, would never make it home that night, for in just a few short minutes, the ageing academic would be dead.

  Holding a heavy iron jemmy in his left hand, the scholar squinted at three lines of fine writing on an identification tag attached to a very large, cedar crate. According to the invoice, the box held an artefact discovered in September, 1869 in the Anti-Lebanon mountain range by an archaeological team sponsored by the Palestine Exploration Fund. The intake date and item code, handwritten in black ink upon the paper
tag, indicated that the crate had arrived at the museum the previous summer, but no one had yet examined the contents, for the thick wax seals upon the corners and along the front remained unbroken.

  “Evenin’, Dr. Smith,” a disheveled student called as he appeared in the narrow doorway of the confined space. “You ‘bout ready to leave, sir? I could share a hansom with you, if you like.”

  Smith stood over top of the curious container, his thin back bent as he traced its rough contours, prise bar in hand. He looked up at the lad, a pair of half-moon spectacles sliding down his thin nose. “Wilson, I didn’t hear you come in. Hansom? Oh, yes, I see. Ride home. That would be quite nice,” he muttered as he pushed the spectacles up higher against the bridge of his nose. “It’s this box, you see. I’m wondering why no one’s opened it. Did any of you chaps in receiving ever see it?”

  “Sir?” the lad asked. “I’m not sure. When did it arrive?”

  “The tag and invoice say last year. June. Something this large must be important, and it’s certainly heavy! It took six men to hoist it onto a trolley and convey it over here from storage. I’m trying to add a bit of zest to the Levantine collection, you see,” he explained, standing up and cracking his aching back with his free hand. “The public’s had enough of the tried and true, Wilson, so I thought I’d take a walk through the basement archives to see if I might find a new star, and I chanced upon this. Extraordinary, really. The contents seemed to shift strangely as we loaded it, and I could have sworn I heard breathing. Like there was some animal inside, but... Well, it’s my imagination, I suppose. Has to be, right? As you’re here, I wonder if you might lend a hand?”

  The twenty-four year old set down his painted tin, dinner bucket and removed the woolen coat. “Happy to help, sir. Shall I prise it open for you?”

  Smith had celebrated his sixty-third birthday three weeks earlier, and he welcomed the suggestion. “That would be very nice, William. Thank you. These old arms aren’t what they once were.”

  Bill Wilson took the heavy bar and set the forked end against the first nail. “Funny,” he said, laughing slightly as he pushed down, “this seems buried quite deep. Like someone was trying to make sure your new exhibit didn’t get out. Not sure it’s gonna budge, sir... No, wait. Here we go.”

  The long, iron nail screamed sharply as it slid uneasily through the cedar, complaining to be removed from its resting place. Soon, its companions also abandoned their sentry duty, no longer guardians of the box; free to find a new home in an old drawer or melted down as scrap—reborn as delicately wrought gatework or cast into animal-shaped bakeware. Thirty-three nails lay upon the floor by the time Wilson finished his labour, and the newlywed’s striped cotton shirt had dampened beneath his waistcoat. “I reckon that’s done it,” he said, triumphantly, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Shall we see what’s inside, Dr. Smith?”

  Conroy Smith remained silent for a moment, his large ears trained on the strangely compelling crate. “Do you hear anything?”

  Bill Wilson stared at his mentor. “Sir? I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Ssh! Listen! Like it’s...I don’t know... Breathing. Perhaps whispering. Not English, though.”

  “Probably just me you hear, sir. I’m a bit winded.”

  “No, it’s not you,” Smith insisted, his face a clammy white. “More like the faint cry of a desert bird, echoing against the night sky. I’ve not heard that sound since my last trip to Syria. Oh, never mind, William,” he muttered, seeing the concern in his student’s eyes. “Just my half-starved brain in need of a bit of supper, I imagine. Grab that end, will you? Let’s see what Warren’s crew put in here back in ’69, eh?”

  The two men lifted the top of the cedar box and set it to one side. Mounds of pale, yellow straw met their eyes, and upon the top lay a leather envelope, tied with waxed cotton string. “This might be a detailed description,” Wilson said. “Shall I, sir? I can read whilst you take a peek at your new treasure.”

  “Capital idea!” Smith agreed, and he began to comb through the straw with his ageing hands, making sure no small items were concealed within. The box was over four feet in length, and as the curator reached the last of the packing, Smith’s knobby, arthritic fingers touched a hard surface. “Oh, now, this explains the weight. Feels like limestone, though strangely warm. I can perceive several lines of carved writing. Why hasn’t this been exhibited already?” he wondered aloud.

  The last bits of straw had been piled upon the floor, and Conroy Smith felt like a child at Christmas. The five-and-a-half-foot-tall archaeologist knelt gingerly upon the wooden floorboards, praying his bony knees would hold up, and he gazed giddily at the stone.

  “It’s a stela!” he exclaimed, a broad grin pasted across his wrinkled face. “Magnificent! Oh, this is a prize, indeed! What does the description say, William? Does it give the stone’s provenance?”

  “That’s hard to say, sir. It’s written in a dialect of Arabic I’m not familiar with. I can make out parts of it, but not all.”

  “No matter. I’ll translate it later. Oh, this is beautiful! The patina indicates a very old origin, but it appears someone’s cleaned it recently. Warren’s team, I imagine. It’s broken horizontally across the midsection, but I can still perceive the writing. Some form of ancient Greek, I think. I’ll require stronger light to read it, though. Would you hand me that small lamp, there on the right side of my desk? Ignore the clutter. I’ve been conducting an inventory all week.”

  The younger man found a brass oil lamp, lit it, and handed it to his friend. Smith held it close to the enigmatic stone. The buttery light danced upon the thick lenses of his spectacles, whilst illuminating the roadmap of sagging lines in the old man’s eager face. “Such a beautiful stone,” the curator muttered to himself. “You know, it feels as if it’s vibrating.”

  “Vibrating, sir? Most likely just the passing of a train outside.”

  “Ah, yes. Surely.”

  Wilson held the Arabic enclosure up to a wall sconce. “I can read some of these characters, Dr. Conroy,” he said as he puzzled through the complex description. “It’s from the PEF, all right. Warren’s group that explored the Levant in the late ‘60s. The same crew that surveyed Jerusalem. There are several words here that mention a temple. I wonder if that might be the ruins of the Herodian temple of the Hebrews? No wait, perhaps not,” he continued, holding the paper closer to the flickering sconce. “Not the Hebrew temple at all. This section says something about Mount Hermon and a place Warren names as Qasr Antar, I believe. I’m not familiar with such a site. Hermon, though. That’s in the Anti-Lebanon range, isn’t it?”

  Smith looked up, his rheumy, grey eyes rounding above the flat rims of the spectacles. “Did you say Mount Hermon? Really? Now, that is curious. Do you know the Book of Enoch, William?”

  “Enoch? As in the Old Testament prophet?”

  “The very same. An Irish colleague of mine, Robert Charles, has been studying and translating the Book of Enoch into English, and he’s given me several copies in various ancient languages. Charles believes the book is essential to understanding the mindset and mythologies of the ancient tribes, and I agree. The contents tell of a singular event that occurred upon that very peak! Mount Hermon, I mean. It’s the real reason that Warren’s team was sent there, you know.”

  Wilson scratched at a fly, buzzing about his face. “But I thought they were sent to survey the land in preparation for building a road, sir.”

  Wiping his lenses with a paisley print handkerchief, the older man explained patiently. “You’re not alone in that misconception, William. Road-building is ever on the minds of the British government, of course, particularly in Palestine, but the unstated purpose for the Warren expedition was to settle a bet ‘twixt Reverend Stanley and Sir George Grove. Strange reason for mounting such a costly expedition, but Stanley is convinced that the Enochian text is a true telling of an
actual, historical event. Sir George, on the other hand, believes it mere allegory, if not complete fiction.”

  The senior curator held the lamp beside the limestone stela, and to his eyes, it seemed that an ethereal, blue luminescence glowed from within the ragged crack.

  “I say, Wilson! Did you see that?” he asked the younger man sharply. “I think there’s something inside!” the curator gasped, his excited breaths shallow and rapid. The strange blue glow disappeared just as Smith raised his lamp. “Never mind. Must be my imagination, or else a trick of the poor lighting in here,” he concluded, wiping his spectacles.

  Wilson’s only response was guttural, as if he’d cleared his throat rather than risk a remark that might sound disrespectful.

  Smith ran the creased palm of his left hand along the deep carving and peered into the horizontal fissure, but the light refused to reappear. “Perhaps, I’m just tired. Strange, though. This inscription. It’s an archaic form of Greek, I think, William. I’m a bit rusty, but I believe it says, ‘By the order of the great god most holy; those who take the oath, proceed from here’. This cannot be coincidence! I’ve seen this same statement before! It is precisely what the Book of Enoch describes as the oath taken by the two hundred sons of God—those whom Enoch called the Watchers—when they entered our world from atop that very mount! Incredible. Absolutely incredible! Wilson, this stone proves the story is true! All true! I say, William, do you realise what this means?”

  There was no answer, and the room grew inexplicably cold. The coal fire still burnt brightly, but Smith could see his own breath, clouding the air with silvery mist as if the carbon dioxide vapour froze the moment it emerged from his lungs.

  “William? Bill? You all right?” he called again.

  The only response was a strange, staccato breathing—like the panting of an animal. Only this time, louder, closer.

  Right next to him.

  Smith turned, his grey eyes rounding into startled saucers. A long shadow crossed his face, and for the briefest of seconds, the half-moon spectacles reflected a creature of immense proportion.