I’ve decided to take a break from Short Stories, so until I get some more time to write you will receive a chapter of Prayer for a Fallen Angel. This is very much in Beta, so if you have comments please feel free to share in the comments section.
Picture: Public Domain, found on Wikicommons
Chapter Two
Josh stopped off at the porter’s lodge to drop off his backpack. Can’t take all his junk into the chapel.
“Your jacket is dry, Mr Analay. I expect you’ll need it for Chapter.” The porter slipped into his back room and returned with the hoodie: dry, ironed and folded.
With a thank you to the man behind the desk, Josh shrugged on the warm hoodie. There was no point in grumping about the porter not being Josh’s mother because he was right, he would need the jacket.
Across the vast, echoing lobby was a small Saxon-Era oak door. Behind it, the walls of the College changed abruptly from genteel wallpaper over wooden wainscoting to harsh stone. The chill from the stone chapel ate through the warmth of the jacket as they left the warmth from the college behind. Pitt-Keithley wore a suit with a jacket, so he wasn’t shivering. Although, even with the tailored suit, he wore heavy boots—all the better for kicking monster arse. Josh suspected the boots were handmade—Pitt-Keithley’s dad was an earl.
An extra draft blustered down the corridor as the door behind them opened again. Footsteps hurried after them. Glancing over his shoulder, Josh recognised Karl Stempress another of the Inner Circle understudies.
Stempress caught them up and nodded to Pitt-Keithley. “I thought that all the fifth-years and below had gone home?”
Pitt-Keithley shuffled his boots. “I didn’t know if I’d be needed.”
“I can ask if you’ve a got train to catch?” Stempress said.
“It’s all right, my car is parked across the road.”
Josh hunched his shoulders. There was no money for a car in his household. Stempress gave Josh a clip between the shoulders.
“I don’t want any more lectures on the idle rich. We’re all on the same side here.”
Josh gave him a sour look.
Together, they entered the chapel. Down the nave, with the roof curtained by the heraldry of past lordly Witch-Finders, and turn right at the transept and through the next oldest Anglo-Saxon door in the country.
It wasn’t any warmer in the Chapter House. Josh zipped up his jacket and headed North. Stempress crossed the circle to the East, and Pitt-Keithley gracefully lounged next to the vacant seat at the West that had been occupied by Mr Kilbride. Stempress stood chatting to his Master, Mr Marishes, another of the Inner Circle.
The Chair at the South arm stood vacant.
The Chapter House was built on the round. A cross on the mosaic floor partitioned the circular room, pointing to the four cardinal compass points. Four bare wooden chairs stood at each end. With a sigh, Josh hunkered down on the step beneath the chair at the North wall. He followed the College Rule that students sat at their Master’s feet but, even after seven years, he hated the indignity of it.
Most of the College Seniors were already present, but there were too many gaps in the stone seats built into the Chapter House walls. Recruitment to the College was picky and the training harsh, leaving too few Witch-Finders. Especially when they were going through a period of deaths and retirement.
Josh glanced at his watch; where was Mr Dunkley? It was unlike him to be late for the last Chapter of the year held on the Winter Solstice—an unacknowledged hint about the origins of the order. Josh suppressed a grin at the oddity of the Theological College dedicated to Christianity that ran on the pagan solar/lunar calendars.
The door opened again. Josh sagged back down; it wasn’t Mr Dunkley. It was only the retired old boys who comprised the advising Synod for the Church Office for the investigation of misuse of Cræft: Witch-Finders if you wanted to be informal. They processed to their seats ready to hear the annual reports.
Finally, Mr Dunkley walked in, still dressed in his field garb: jeans and a sweater, rather than the suit and tie he wore as a Master of the College. Josh glanced around and frowned. A number of the Witch-Finders wore similar. There must have been a fair few call-outs today. More than usual, even on the Winter Solstice.
Mr Dunkley strolled over to his seat at the pinnacle of the mosaic cross. Josh shuffled his feet over to let his Master—the word stuck in his throat—get to his seat.
This final meeting of the year was the session when the accounts got read out. Josh had studied all the presentations. Hell, he had collated most of them. He hunched up, muttering a prayer for warmth so that his backside didn’t freeze off. Even with the heating on, sitting on the stone of the Chapel or the Chapter House was an open invitation to frostbite in the ‘nads in winter.
Mr Dunkley leaned back in his seat and narrowed his eyes, he appeared to be making the same assessment of supernatural activity today that Josh had just done.
Over on the south wall, the newest two entrants into the final two years of the College sat with eyes wide at the formal presentation: public school boys, both of them. Josh remembered their records—they followed uncles or brothers or something like that into the Cause. This sort of ability ran in families. Except for the jokers, wild cards like him: showing up in the general population—not posh at all. He had been all wide-eyed too his first Winter Solstice session. Josh had been awed at the listings of the number of demons vanquished in that year. Now he stifled a yawn; he’d spent the last week compiling those numbers.
Mr Dunkley listened as if he were genuinely interested—he knew the figures by heart too. He’d been the one to assign the various operatives to each case.
He knew the story behind the seizure of packing cases en route from Haiti last midsummer and when they had to put down a plague of grasshoppers that had infested the South Downs in September. He knew all the tragedy behind the Halloween nightmare incident in Birmingham.
Josh looked up as that case was listed. Mr Dunkley’s expression was sober, but Josh remembered the amount of whisky drunk to drown out the loss of another of Mr Dunkley’s old friends—Mr Kilbride.
“…who paid the ultimate tribute to our work to keep the British Isles safe from the Natural and Preternatural worlds. Brothers, give a minute’s silence for our fallen friend.”
Heads bowed as each one of them remembered Edward Kilbride. Josh remembered one of Mr Kilbride’s conversations with Mr Dunkley: Kilbride had been planning his life after his work at the College ended. His plans included marrying his long-term girlfriend and giving his three kids a proper father.
And now he was dead.
Mr Dunkley lifted the plain, silver cross that hung around his neck and kissed it lightly with a haunted look in his eyes. Finally, it was over. That horrible minute.
The Factor called out for any other business. Josh stretched his legs ready to run up to the office to work out the kinks from sitting hunched up so long, and then Mr Dunkley stood.
Josh nearly groaned out loud.
“I would like to request the Synod’s indulgence for my friend Nathaniel Trewithick—once a brother here.”
“Speak on, Dunkley,” the Factor said.
Dunkley nodded. “The therapists at the Recovery Centre believe it would be an advantage to Trewithick if he could have a leave of absence from the Recovery Centre for Christmas, allowing him to finally meet the daughter who was born while he has made the long journey back from the abyss.”
The Synod muttered among their group. Then one of them called for a vote. It came down nine to three in favour.
Mr Dunkley bowed slightly. “I would like to thank the Synod for their wisdom in this matter.”
He sat down and slid a hand in his pocket. He slipped out his phone and sent a prepared text. Then, under cover of the Factor asking for other business, he leaned down to Josh. “Here, take this letter to the post. I wrote it earlier in anticipation of success. They’ll need written confirmation.”
Josh slid it into his pocket as another of the other men stood with more business.
“I have one more matter that I would like to raise with the Synod,” Toller said. “It continues on from both the matter of Kilbride and Trewithick. All other members of the clergy in the Church of England are allowed to marry, yet we are expected to lead the life of monks while travelling in the world. Few of our brothers retain this pure ideal. I would like to request the Synod reconsider this matter.”
Dunkley leaned back in his cloister seat. “Make yourself comfortable Josh, this will go on forever,” he said, sotto voice.
“Can’t I be excused to post your letter?” Josh murmured without moving his lips. Why hadn’t Toller’s call-out taken longer?
Dunkley gave him a slight kick, not enough to hurt, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “It comes up periodically. I can recite the arguments of both sides from heart.” His eyelids drooped until he watched the pageant in front of him through slits for eyes.
Josh listened.
“…We would get more recruits…”
“…jobs are too dangerous…”
“…even a prisoner is guaranteed a home life…”
“Well, what do you think, Dunkley?” Toller said. “After all, you’re the one who has to inform our girlfriends when something happens.”
Dunkley’s eyes jerked open, but he remained in his comfortable posture. “I have nothing to say here.”
The Chairman of the Synod spoke. “Indeed Dunkley, I would be interested to hear your opinion. In fact, I require you to speak.”
Dunkley drew in his feet. He scratched at his beard. “If you require me to speak then so be it.” He stood and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “As Toller mentioned, I am the one who keeps track of all the relationships of all our brothers in case I need to take bad news to their homes. All men seek companionship and understanding, that’s why I feel that many of us seek our partners in the witch community.”
Josh nearly gasped. He was the first to catch the implication of that remark. He looked around. Only Carside and Karl Stempress were not surprised by Dunkley’s revelation.
“You too?” the Synod member demanded. “But you…”
Dunkley’s eyebrows rose. “Why would you make me out to be any different in my needs from any other man here? I would advocate Marriage, simply because if a man has a wife he is less likely to be seduced by the evil that surrounds us every day. Personally, I would reinstate all the brothers who have left to marry. Many of them still aid us in our duty, with no recognition for their efforts. I see that they are at least paid as consultants for the work they do, but a thank you from our Synod would be appreciated.
“It is a shame we need to find our closest friends among the very people we are required to investigate. It would be a good idea to have women within our ranks-”
“Stop right there, Dunkley, before you let any more heresy out of your mouth. We may have been required to accept women priests in the Church of England, but no woman will be a Witch-Finder while I have breath.”
Dunkley shrugged. “You asked for my opinion. I have given it.”
“And do you teach women our holy skills?”
Dunkley affected ease, but the set of his shoulders revealed his tension to Josh. “On occasion, I have taken female trainees, in an attempt to prevent the sisters of our members from turning to the darkness, driven by jealousy. I should mention Kilbride’s sister at this point, who remains in our custody. There are others.”
Josh cast a glance at Karl Stempress, who clenched his hands around his staff. Karl’s half-sister was one of the leading lights in the Nocturn Seminary case.
The Synod rose as one. “You believe this!”
Dunkley took his hands from his pockets. He wasn’t a tall man, 5’10” at most, but he looked down his nose at the whole Synod. “I speak the truth, as I see it.”
“Then you have no place among us.” The Synod member looked around and saw the agreement among the others of his cadre.
Dunkley blinked.
“Factor! Escort Dunkley from the premises.”
Josh’s mouth dropped open as the Factor reluctantly moved to escort Dunkley. The most important thing Josh saw was the relief on Dunkley’s face.
Oh Shit! Josh thought. It’s my job now!
Ends
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