“Hello? Is anyone there?”
You have got to be joking…
“Faustus?”
He stuck his head around the door, hands up. “You haven’t got a sword or anything? It’s just I don’t fancy being skewered so early in the night.”
“What are you doing here?”
He lowered his hands and joined her. “You invited me, remember?”
“And I remember you telling me to piss off.”
Faustus brushed aside a few dangling cobwebs in a futile attempt to keep his jacket clean. “I did some more research on the FitzRoys. It… piqued my interest.”
“Oh?” she asked. “You find a ghost?”
“Not yet. No guarantee there even is one. But you still owe me dinner, agreed?”
“What did you find out?”
“This house was bought by Colonel Reginald FitzRoy in 1919, right after World War I. It’s been in the family ever since.” He tapped the basement. “Reggie was a most remarkable man. The colonel was particularly fascinated by the history of Mesopotamia, the cradle of civilization.”
Now she had time, Billi took a closer look at the design on the banister. It was a winged bull with the head of a bearded man.
“Lammasu. Guardian spirits from the ancient Mesopotamian religion.” Faustus gestured to the first door on their left. “Shall we retreat to the study?”
The door handle was made of brass and designed as some sort of bearded merman. “By all means do continue your fascinating history lesson.”
Faustus drew out his kerchief. “Heading down the hereditary line we get to Simon FitzRoy, former major of the Royal Scots. He and his tanks took part in the Iraq War and earned himself a few shiny medals. But medals don’t pay for houses like this. He needed another income stream.”
“Stealing priceless historical artefacts. We’re on the same page, Faustus.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Using the kerchief, Faustus turned the merman handle.
The study would have been grand, once. The lofty ceiling arched in a subtle dome and a rusty chandelier chain still dangled from its apex. The tall, slim bay windows were boarded up but there were enough gaps to allow the moonlight to lay thin strips of ghostly illumination across the room and the bare, high shelves.
Books, now turned to mulch, lay across the huge, faded and moth-eaten, Persian carpet. The black scars of a fire marked the monolithic oak desk, but the rest of the furniture had been destroyed, by time, the elements and by vandals. The sofa had been cut up and mould sprouted upon the tattered curtains.
Yet there was more than just dereliction. The desktop was a stone slab, an elaborate frieze of winged men with the same beards, horned helmets and long kirtles. The ragged velvet curtains were embroidered.
“You came by yourself?” asked Faustus. “I thought you and Ivan did all the hero stuff together. The dynamic duo.”
“He was tired of cosplaying Robin.”
Faustus grinned. “I’m sure he looks beautiful in tights.”
“He looks beautiful no matter what.” She pulled the chain from her satchel. “I’ve got this.”
Faustus did not look impressed. “The Nicaen Fetters? Why aren’t I surprised? You Templars are all the same. It’s all about the Bataille Tenebreuse.”
“We’re dealing with the Unholy, Faustus. You can’t take unnecessary risks. This is the only way to get the spirit to obey us.”
“Through more pain? You don’t think it’s suffering enough? I thought you were better than your dad. Guess I was wrong.” He shook his head. “I was never going to be a Templar. You’ve lost the point, the very reason you do what you do.”
“Oh, and what’s that? Man-splain it to me. After all I’m just a silly girl who’s only spent her entire life in the order.”
“Why do you always turn everything into a fight?”
“Because everything is a fight.” She shook the chain gently to loosen out the links so they wouldn’t lock into each other. The silver was fine enough for a necklace, so fragile that it would snap with one hard pull. But it wasn’t made to bind physical bodies. “Can we just —”
Faustus grabbed her wrist. “No.”
Billi was so shocked she almost laughed. What would be best? Just pull free? Reverse the lock? A snap? So many options ranging from surprising to crippling. She met his gaze and there was no backing down from him.
“I thought you were here to help,” said Billi.
“Yeah, but not to help you. To help Simon.” Faustus met her gaze, she’d forgotten how much emotion was in his eyes. “You think they’re the Unholy, monsters to be fought. That’s how you Templars solve all your problems, through violence. But a ghost is something to be pitied, Billi. They need our help. There are ways to make them move on without adding to their pain. We do this my way.”
“Your way? Is that tea and biscuits? Remember what happened last time we tried it your way?”
“It almost worked.”
That was how he remembered it? She remembered lots of screaming and lots of blood. The dead had rampaged through the tunnels of the underground and a ghost train had rattled through Baker Street. “Almost doesn’t count for anything.”
He still didn’t let her go.
Remember what you told yourself when you visited today? Don’t let him get to you. Take a deep breath, unclench those fists and don’t punch him in the face. Not until later.
So Billi forced her whole body to relax. “Fine. Your way, Faustus.”
And he let go. “Thanks. You got to have faith.”
“I’m a Templar. Faith is what I do.”
He stretched out his fingers and gave them a savage shake. He was nervous. Then he pressed the centre of his chest with his thumb, the spot of the Hamsa tattoo.
The atmosphere changed. It seemed to centre in around Faustus, he became the heart of his surroundings and she could feel him reaching out by the rising of the hairs on the back of her neck.
A parched, warm wind blew through the ragged remains of the curtains. Minute flakes of ash floated across the room. “Do you think —”
Faustus put his finger
