Devil's Kiss Page 2

  Billi knows what she’s doing is wrong, but she must know. Her dad is lying to her.

  Why?

  Why are there half-burnt bandages in the fireplace? Bloodied bandages.

  Where does he go when he thinks she’s asleep?

  And why does she fear that he might never come back?

  Billi opens the door and darts through the narrow gap. She scurries along the short corridor, then crouches at the top of the stairs.

  And listens.

  ‘If the boy is right, we’ve got no choice.’

  It’s her dad; he sounds tired. What boy? It can’t be anyone from school – none of the other parents let their children play with her any more. Maybe it’s that boy Father Balin brought last week. That skinny boy with the huge blue eyes and white hair. What was his name? She remembers.

  Kay.

  ‘A girl? In the Order? That’s not foolishness, that’s heresy.’ The voice is hard and full of rage: Gwaine. Why is he always so angry? He and her father used to be friends.

  ‘Art, at least give her a few more years of freedom – she’s only ten,’ says Percy.

  They’re talking about her! Billi catches her breath. She wants to hear everything. She puts a foot on the step and shifts her weight slowly on to it. She takes another silent step, then another and soon she’s at the bottom, waiting beside the door.

  The tap runs and water rattles inside a kettle.

  ‘You know what the Jesuits say,’ says another, in the slight Welsh-tinged accent of her babysitter, Father Balin. ‘Give me a boy of seven and I’ll give you the man.’

  There’s a snarl from Gwaine. ‘We’re not bloody Jesuits. We’re –’

  ‘Enough. I’ve made my decision,’ says her dad, and everyone shuts up. It’s like they’re afraid of him. Why? He’s not important. He’s just a porter, here at the Middle Temple, like Percy and Gwaine. He fixes things. He tends the gardens and waters the plants in the halls. Doesn’t he?

  Or maybe Billi doesn’t know her father at all.

  ‘D’you think I’m happy with this? With what she’ll have to go through?’

  Why are they talking about her? Is she going to have to move school again?

  Peeking through the narrow gap, she sees Father Balin put the old steel kettle on the electric hob. Percy, Gwaine and her dad sit round the kitchen table. She glimpses something metallic and bright on top of it then Percy, who’s the biggest person Billi knows, shifts his seat and blocks her view. But as he moves she spots something else. Something wrapped up in a black plastic bin bag.

  And dripping blood.

  Gwaine shakes his head. ‘Just because you’re Master doesn’t give you the right to make such decisions, Art.’

  Master? What’s Gwaine talking about? Master of what?

  ‘Actually, Gwaine, being Master gives me exactly those rights.’

  Gwaine jerks forward. ‘For the last nine hundred years the Order has followed the Templar Rules, ever since Bernard de Clairvaux. You can’t just discard them and make up your own.’

  Arthur leans back into his chair, arms folded across his chest.

  ‘I can, and I have.’ He points to the priest. ‘Balin, she’ll study Latin, Ancient Greek and Occult Lore with you.’ He slaps Percy’s massive shoulder. ‘Percival, weapons training.’

  Billi sees a thin smile on Percy’s lips.

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Any preference? Swords, daggers, quarterstaff?’

  ‘Everything,’ replies Arthur. ‘I’ll teach her unarmed combat.’

  ‘Arthur, I’m begging you. Please reconsider.’ Gwaine. He won’t give up. ‘Remember what happened to Jamila.’

  Billi starts as he mentions her mum. The room is silent and she looks towards Arthur. Even now, five years after her mum’s murder, she can see the pain splashed across his face.

  Arthur jabs his finger at Gwaine. ‘History and Arabic.’

  Gwaine leaps to his feet, his face bright red. ‘Your arrogance killed your wife and your arrogance will kill your daughter as well!’

  Billi screams as Arthur’s fist blurs the short distance across the table, smashing Gwaine’s jaw and hurling him off his stool. Gwaine crashes down hard, knocking Balin and sending the tray of mugs into the air and down on to the tiled floor. Billi screams again as the mugs shatter and the tea splashes everywhere.

  But the others ignore the broken crockery.

  They all stare at her.

  Chair legs screech harshly as they slide across the floor and Arthur stands. His face is cool, blank and frightening. He points at a spot in front of him. ‘Here. Now.’

  Gwaine struggles to stand, ignoring Percy’s offer of help.

  ‘Little sneak. How long has she been listening –’

  ‘Shut it, Gwaine,’ says Percy.

  Billi and Gwaine’s eyes meet and red anger wells up in her chest. He’s wrong. Her mum’s death was not her father’s fault; he’d loved her. He’d never have hurt her. And he’d never hurt Billi. She knows what they whisper at the school gates, but it’s not true. Her dad was found innocent. The judge said so.

  It takes forever for her to cross the room. She looks up at Percy for reassurance – nothing bad will happen to her if he’s here – but the West African’s usually friendly face is gone. Instead it is hard, emotionless rock.

  She stops before her dad and forces herself to meet his stern gaze. When she does she can’t control her legs from shaking.

  ‘Why were you spying?’ he asks. It’s strange how when her dad is angry his voice becomes quiet and flat.

  ‘I… just wanted to know.’

  ‘What?’

  Billi takes a deep breath. Everything. She wants to know everything. But where to begin? Why did Gwaine say that? Why are they talking about her like this? That’s where she’ll begin – with him.

  ‘Where you go. What you do.’

  Arthur gazes silently at her for the longest time. It’s as though he’s searching her eyes for something. Finally he gives a curt nod.

  ‘Then look,’ he says, ‘at what I do,’ and steps away from the table.

  Billi gasps. Lying across the dark oak table is a sword. It’s huge. The blade is wider than her hand, and the whole thing’s as tall as her. The pommel is nearest, and she can see its face is engraved with an image: two knights astride a single horse. Though the blade has been wiped, traces of blood smear the polished steel.

  Next to the sword is a large, long-barrelled revolver. There are three bullets lined up. Made of silver.

  She stares at the weapons. Then turns to her dad.

  ‘You’re not… bank robbers are you?’

  Arthur looks scornful, but says nothing. He unwraps the black-plastic package.

  Billi barely holds in the scream when she sees the severed limb within.

  It’s a dog’s forepaw. Thickly muscled and grey-furred, with savage yellow claws as long as her fingers, the dog must have been the size of a lion!

  ‘You killed a dog?’

  ‘A wolf,’ says Arthur. ‘Show her, Balin.’

  Balin gently lifts the silver crucifix off his neck and with it clenched tightly in his right fist he touches the paw with his left palm.

  ‘Exorcizo te,’ he whispers, then stands back.

  Billi watches the paw. Nothing happens.

  Is this some joke? Did they know she was spying? She half expects them all to burst out laughing at how they’ve managed to scare her.

  The paw curls. The thick nails retreat into the flesh and the wiry grey hairs thin and sink into the skin. The limb twists and mutates, changing form and colour. The hairs have now all but gone, leaving pallid white skin. The paw is now a five-fingered hand, and the limb no longer the front leg of a giant wolf, but the forearm of a man. Billi’s entire body trembles and her skin is coated in a chill sweat. She wants to run away and bury her head under her pillows, but she can’t take her eyes off the severed arm.

  ‘Touch it,’ says Arthur.

  ‘No!’


  ‘Touch it.’

  Billi looks at it. It’s stopped changing now. She can see the fingernails, though overgrown and encrusted with dirt, are normal nails, not claws. The arm, the same. She stretches out her hand, wary that it might spring to life and grab her.

  But it doesn’t. She lowers her hand and rests it on the skin. It feels dead… like meat. Not so different from the chicken fresh from the butcher’s. Cold, a bit hard, but now not an arm, just dead material. Her heartbeat, running at a hundred miles an hour seconds ago, slows down and the shivering gradually stops.

  Just dead meat.

  She moves back and Arthur wraps it up. He rests his hand on her shoulder, and looks deep into her eyes.

  ‘Fear makes the wolf seem bigger,’ he says.

  The pre-dawn chill nibbled the back of Billi’s neck and dragged her out of her dream. No, not a dream, but an old memory. Five years ago and still crystal sharp. She remembered Gwaine glowering at Arthur afterwards, and the half-hearted apology for the accusation he’d made. But the bad blood between them lingered, even now. She didn’t remember much else before then; it was like that night had been the beginning of her life. She groaned and curled up on the seat, trying to block off the draught coming through the open door.

  ‘We’re home,’ said Arthur. ‘Grab some breakfast. It’ll be matins in an hour.’

  Billi glanced at her watch: 5.33. The birds weren’t even up and he wanted her at dawn prayers? Wasn’t it enough she’d spent the night fighting a ghost? She watched him open the boot and lift out the Templar sword. He half drew it from the scabbard, then slammed it back.

  ‘Can’t I get special dispensation? Y’know, after the Ordeal?’

  Arthur shook his head.

  ‘All the more reason you should be at prayer, giving thanks.’

  Thanks? Thanks for nearly being possessed? Thanks for what she’d done? She tried to remind herself that she hadn’t killed a six-year-old boy, tried to believe it had been a bitter, malevolent spirit in the guise of a child, but it was hard. Billi slid off the seat and on to her feet, arms wrapped round her chest. It was still dark and the cold breeze carried the hint of winter. She shivered.

  ‘Stop that,’ Arthur said. ‘A Templar does not tremble.’ Their eyes met. He couldn’t look down on her the way he used to: she was too tall. Maybe he wasn’t really her dad. It would explain a lot – they couldn’t be more different. She was like her Pakistani mum, tall, skinny and dark-eyed. He was broad with a pale, craggy face made hard from years of fighting, dominated by those psycho blue eyes. His hair wasn’t as black as it used to be, but heavily spiked with grey. He gave the slightest shake of his head then turned and walked off.

  Billi fought the urge to give him the finger. ‘Coming,’ she muttered.

  She crossed the cobbled courtyard of King’s Bench Walk, weaving through the few cars still parked there and chased after her dad, towards their house in Middle Temple Lane. The Templars still owned a few dwellings in the Temple district, and the narrow Edwardian house was one of them. The paint of the window frames was peeling, the brickwork needed repointing and the roof tiles were uneven and patchy. Above the red-painted door was a small alcove. In it sat a carving of St George slaying a dragon. Arthur unlocked the door and Billi hopped in behind.

  Her dad flicked on the hallway light. The soft golden glow lit the dark wooden floor and warmed the faded carpet that led to the wrought-iron spiral stairs at the far end.

  ‘What, no balloons?’ Billi asked drily.

  ‘You want balloons, join the circus.’

  Typical. This was what he had wanted. But not a word of praise. All the other Templars had been recruited as adults, only she and Kay had joined as children. Kay, the one friend she’d had. But even he was gone now, sent away by her father.

  Billi walked along the dimly lit hallway, passing portraits of the ancient Grand Masters of the Order and scenes of famous battles. She paused by Jacques de Molay, the last Templar Grand Master, and hung up her coat on the nearby hook. There he stood, splendid in his armour and white mantle, the bright red cross upon his white tabard, hand resting on a sword.

  What would he make of the Order now? A handful of warriors, near destitute, living in secret and led by her dad, an ex-criminal and altogether rubbish parent? She shook her head. He’d make nothing of them. The original Order was long gone, with Jacques de Molay dying a heretic and devil-worshipper, burned at the stake by the Inquisition.

  Arthur disappeared into the kitchen on the first floor, but Billi continued upwards to the second and kicked off her boots before wandering into the bathroom. The pipes rattled as she spun the hot tap of the bath fully on.

  As the steam rose she inspected tonight’s bruises. The one on her cheek was a fluorescent purple; there was no way she’d hide that with make-up.

  Damn. The school welfare officer was suspicious enough.

  The cut across her knee, from Monday’s sword practice, had almost closed – she was lucky she hadn’t needed stitches – but there was a fierce red welt across her ribs, courtesy of Percy and his quarterstaff. She twisted slowly, wincing as her muscles slid under her glowing dusky skin.

  At least there are no broken ribs. Billi stared at herself until she vanished into the hot fog. Then she turned and, bone-weary, climbed into the bath.

  Dressed and fed, Billi set off for matins. She’d found a box of chocolates from Percy in her bedroom, a ‘congratulations on surviving the Ordeal and not being dead’ present. Nothing from Dad – quelle surprise.

  She’d hoped there’d be something from Kay. She hadn’t heard from him in over a year, but she thought he’d try to get in touch for this, at least. But not even a card or a text. Some friend. Billi kicked a can across the courtyard. Friends, she didn’t need them.

  She gazed up at Temple Church and, like always, paused. It stood wrapped in the dawn mist, the pale yellow and orange walls glowing like eggshell in the weak autumn dawn. The flagstones glistened with frost and the tall vaulted stained-glass windows along the high walls seemed like portals to the underworld, gates of polished black marble.

  ‘This way! Quickly, Mrs Higgins.’ Billi glimpsed a dash of scarlet from beyond the columns of the cloisters off Church Court. Suddenly a dozen figures spewed out, led by a tall woman wearing a bright red mackintosh. She headed for the Templar column, a ten-metre-high stone post bearing the Order’s emblem.

  Half past six. It must be a Monarch Tour. Only they started this early.

  The tour guide did a quick head count, then clapped her hands as if she was addressing a bunch of school kids instead of a group of white-haired tourists. She cleared her throat.

  ‘The building behind you is Temple Church and was once the heart of the London Preceptory: the English headquarters of the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Jesus Christ of the Temple of Solomon, better known as the Knights Templar. Founded by Hugues de Payens in 1119, they took their name from their base on Temple Mount in Jerusalem, believed to be the ruins of the original Temple of Solomon. They were warrior monks sworn to protect pilgrims in the Holy Land. Originally comprising only nine men, the order soon grew to become one of the most powerful organizations in Europe.’

  Hands began to wave frantically. One woman, hair a pale blue, with silver-framed glasses, pushed her way to the front of the crowd, arms flapping.

  ‘We’ll find you a loo in a minute, Mrs Higgins,’ said the guide. ‘This church was consecrated in 1185, but has been extensively modified since, not least of all by the Luftwaffe, who bombed it in 1941. But it was from places such as this that the Order declared its crusades and holy wars. Yes, Mrs Higgins?’

  The woman pushed her chin up.

  ‘They say they found treasures in the Holy Land. Is that true?’

  The guide snorted.

  ‘There are hundreds of conspiracies and legends regarding the Templars, but the truth is very mundane. They were a highly trained, fanatical military force that grew very rich and very envied.’

  Bill
i suppressed a laugh. Fanatical wasn’t half of it. A Templar wouldn’t retreat until outnumbered three to one. He would accept no ransom nor allow himself to be captured alive.

  ‘What happened to them?’ shouted someone from the crowd.

  The guide looked up at the two iron knights on top of the column. ‘Rumours regarding the Templars had been rife from the very beginning. Some said they were black magicians, others said they had made pacts with devils and other supernatural beings. How else explain their meteoric rise?’

  Oh God, that rubbish. Billi couldn’t believe people still thought that. The Templars were sworn to fight all the Unholy, not to ally themselves with them.

  The guide pointed at the church. ‘But it’s clear the Templars had heretical leanings. This was to be their undoing.’ She turned back to the crowd. ‘On Friday the thirteenth of October 1307, the entire Order was arrested. Its Grand Master was brought before the Inquisition and the Templars were tried and found guilty of heresy and devil-worship. The Templars were exterminated.’

  ‘But I thought some of them escaped,’ continued Mrs Higgins as she gazed around the courtyard. Billi’s ears pricked up at the question. Was it her imagination or did the old woman look at her?

  ‘Rumours. Only rumours. The Knights Templar are ancient history now.’ The guide clapped her hands again and moved through the crowd back towards the cloisters. ‘Quick now. We’ve got to be at Buckingham Palace in thirty minutes.’

  How many times had she heard that story? A hundred? A thousand?

  Some of it was true, of course. The Order had been formed to defend the Holy Land, but that battle had been lost, long ago. Their war wasn’t for Jerusalem, not any more, but for mankind’s soul. Their war was against the supernatural evil that preyed on humanity. A war they called the Dark Conflict.

  The Bataille Ténébreuse.

  Billi watched the party head back up towards Fleet Street and their waiting coach. All safe in their cocoon of ignorance, unaware of the shadow war being fought around them. A cold wind carried twisting ribbons of mist across the flagstones, like restless ghosts. She stood alone in the courtyard, but the presence of the old knights lingered in their great preceptory. Who but her, her father and a few others now remembered the reasons they’d died for, or the sacrifices they’d made? Billi pulled her coat tightly around her. Would her own spirit one day haunt these stones?