Immortal Flame

By Rob Parnell

Immortal Flame is a dark urban fantasy that journeys across time and space to reach (literally) an earth shattering conclusion.

Zack Palmer wants to be a rock star in the music business. Arabella DeGigne is a fifteenth century witch, newly born again, bent on revenge. Can they join forces and both get what they want?

Cornelius Urquhart is a medieval mage who must travel across the unseen cosmic dimensions to prevent the evil Maleus from destroying the universe and gaining control of The Other.

Ben, Zack's long-suffering brother, is on a mission to save the beautiful Ruby, Zack's ex, so she can survive her pregnancy and become a successful sculptor.

See how these fascinating characters go about saving the real and unreal worlds of the universe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R&R Books Film Music
• Release date: Jul 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223472506

Book preview

Prologue

Chelsea House, London - 1531

Finally, the screaming stopped.

The old man on the rack exhaled his last breath with barely a whisper. The hooded torturer laid down his pike and slumped onto the stone floor. A scribe made a note of the time: a little after seven bells, then placed his quill pen on his small wooden desk. Out of deference to their master, the scribe and the torturer made no move, heads bent as they stared silently at the dank blood-stained ground of the basement and waited for the Lord Chancellor to arrive.

A long time passed before, above them, a heavy door opened then closed. Footsteps clacked down stone steps. Pushing aside a thick cloth, Thomas More entered the cellar. The scribe, a young poet by the name of Walter Collins, noted that More was, as always, dressed in his formal regalia, a green velvet cloak. wearing the string of gold chains associated with his rank around his neck. The short man wheezed with the effort of bearing his own weight as he walked. More inspected the dead man’s broken body with casual disinterest. 

'Did the wretch confess his sins?'

'He did, sire,' Walter said, careful not to make direct eye-contact with his master. Instead, he gazed at the anonymous torturer, who, as custom demanded, had not yet removed his hood. 'Though I could barely hear him through his cries. He seemed broken at the end.'

'A tragic waste of a pathetic life to be sure. Did you record his confession, boy?’

'Yes, I kept notes throughout the interrogation.'

'What did the reprobate say about the goods he stole?'

'Only that the lives of his wife and children depended on him to provide food, my Lord. He said he would never have rifled through your miller’s bins if he had known he was going to be caught. And that he thought God might excuse his crime.'

The Lord Chancellor of England moved to his wide desk and sat. Three beeswax candles burned fitfully on the surface, casting unstable shadows about the gloomy space. A hard-backed ledger lay open in front of him.

More sighed. 'Hmm, the Godless will oft call upon Him when all else is lost.'

'Thank you for the opportunity to record this man’s last words, sire.'

'You deserve the privilege, my dear boy. You may leave your post now, son. And you,' More pointed to the torturer. 'Both of you, ask the Dame Alice to provide you with sustenance before we continue.' More consulted the ledger. 'Soon, the King will deliver another miscreant for interrogation. Oh, and could you instruct the undertakers to come down and have this body removed. Before he starts to smell any worse.'

Left alone for a while, Thomas More sat at his inquisitor’s table in the airless cellar of Chelsea House, his chief residence lately, since he’d decided he should be closer to the King’s home in Westminster. He wondered briefly whether the King was still impressed with him. More importantly, whether God was pleased with him. His hairshirt had been chafing more than usual this day, often an omen of bad things to come.

Was he worthy of a fresh challenge? Did he deserve his current status - favoured servant of the King? Was he a good husband and father? A fine ruler of his household? Only God could answer his questions, at a time when He was ready to receive him. Whenever his own death might come to pass.

More was roused from his reverie by the sound of horse’s hooves that clacked outside his house. Nine bells sounded in the distance. As the King had promised: the delivery of a new prisoner for interrogation. His heartbeat quickened at the thought.

The scribe and the torturer dutifully returned to the basement and took up their positions. The scribe at his little desk, the hooded torturer next to his tools: the rack, an iron maiden and a selection of metal braces and leather straps hanging on the wall next to an alcove opposite More’s workspace.

The King’s guards brought in the girl. Four thick metal chains snaked from the leather belt around her waist to her wrists and ankles. Her mouth was gagged with a thick wooden ball held in place by a leather truss. She stood proud, despite her obvious discomfort. Her face was bruised and her otherwise fine clothes were in disarray. No doubt she had been beaten soundly by the King’s men before her arrival at his property. Good. He wouldn’t need to spend hours softening her up for the inquisition he had planned.

He prayed to God that this day would be fruitful.

'Chain her to the rack,' More said as he took a sealed scroll from one of the guardsmen. He placed the scroll next to the ledger.

While one guard held the girl still, the other threaded chains through the ankle and wrist slots of her metal cuffs into the corresponding holes in the rack. Within minutes the girl was stretched in an X shape across the contraption, which they then shifted from its upright position to the horizontal.

The whole time, Arabella stared at Thomas More with contempt. Now fifty-three years old, he knew from his reputation that he was an imposing figure - perhaps even terrifying to most people. However, there was no hint of respect nor fear in the gaze of this young female. Her impudence would surely need to be corrected.

At a nod from More, one of the guards removed the gag from Arabella’s mouth.

'Why am I here?' the girl growled. Her voice was low, husky, almost masculine.

The King’s guards retreated and stood to attention against the far wall. More sat back in his large ornate chair. 'My dear girl. You seem to be confused as to who should be asking the questions. Before anything else, we need to deal with a few formalities. State your name, please.'

'Arabella deGigne.'

Thomas nodded though he knew the name already. Arabella had been the talk of the Royal Court for some time now. People said she was real life witch, though More doubted that. More importantly she was officially regarded as an enemy of the King. More feigned indifference as he continued his questioning. 'Your allegiance?'

'I have none on this earth.'

'Hmm.' More made a line in the ledger and pursed his lips.

'Let me help you, dear. Are you Catholic or Protestant?'

'Neither.'

'A heathen then.'

'If you like.'

'I was led to believe you were raised by Carmelite nuns in Northern France for most of your life.'

'All the more reason to reject the entity you call God.'

'Is that how you justify your life? Rejecting your maker? Insulting your redeemer?'

'I have never felt the need to curry favour from a fiction.'

More shook his head slowly and tutted. 'I see your reputation for obstinacy is well deserved. You are charged with heresy. How do you plead?'

'If it is obstinate to protest one’s innocence in the face of errant stupidity, then I am guilty.'

More stood and walked slowly around the table to get closer to Arabella. He leaned over the rack to take in her young face. He was immediately struck by her beauty, the symmetry of her features. Her dark hair was lush. In spite of her injuries, her caramel skin shone and her brown eyes twinkled in the candlelight. He would have liked to have seen a flicker of empathy for him but her gaze was like stone.

'Let me explain, my dear girl. I am a pious man and God is my master. Your torment will be a gift to me from my God. Your cries of pain will fill my soul with the body of Christ, who suffered for our sins and through you, the Lord be praised, will suffer again. I admire your bravery, my dear, but now your suffering must begin.'

Against all expectations, Arabella smiled at him.

'Thank you for your candour, Thomas,' she said. Her use of his first name grated on him. Oddly, her defiance also titillated him. He pushed the thought down, praying that God could excuse this young temptress, glad that his hair shirt had begun to chafe even more. 'But I do wish you’d tell me what I am supposed to have done that offends you.'

Thomas More quickly walked away from Arabella. The scent of her was disarming. 'Your charges have not been relayed to you?'

'Not a word.'

More picked up the scroll that had arrived with his captive. He broke the wax seal and unrolled the parchment.

'The charge is heresy - as I indicated - and that you did conspire with others to subvert the authority of the King of all England and Wales with the use of sorcery, specifically the summoning of demons and witchcraft...'

'That’s all nonsense and I’m sure you know it. Listen, my Lord, have you spoken with my guardian, Cornelius Urquhart? He will surely vouch for me.'

More smiled at this unexpected development. 'Really? For your information it was the honourable German’s complaints that began our investigation of you.' In truth, Urquhart was no friend of the Lord Chancellor. Allegedly the man was a self professed mage, a student of Agrippa, feared by most but, alas strangely, admired by King Henry himself.

Arabella frowned and cast her eyes downwards. Her body deflated. More almost felt sorry for her. In other circumstances he would have liked to spend time in her company, conversed with her intellectually. She reminded him of his own daughter, Margaret, who was twenty-six, just three years older than Arabella. She too was educated and versed in literature and culture as much as any of the people at Court.

Plus he couldn’t get out of his mind how beautiful Arabella was. If, like Margaret, she were presented at court she would be seen as a rare jewel. What had happened to set this innocent girl on the wrong path? Was it too late to bring her back?

More nodded to the torturer to begin his work, then placed a hand on the shoulder of the scribe and said, 'Make sure you capture every word she utters, Walter.'

'Verily, sire.'

The first cries of the girl’s pain began as More sat at his desk and watched the torturer turn the wheel that stretched the girl’s limbs to breaking point. His expression was calm, almost rhapsodic, as he thanked God for this bountiful experience. 

When the rack was tight, the torturer began to lash his victim with a spiked whip. Within minutes the girl’s clothes were in rags and most of her skin was exposed. Soon she was scratched, bloody and bruised over much of her body, from her ankles up to her thighs, stomach, and breasts. Within a few minutes, her face was puffy from the repeated blows to her head. Her lips were enlarged and she could barely see out of her eyes.

Arabella whispered, 'Save me, Maleus. Save me.'

'Stop,' More commanded. The eerie silence seemed charged.

More asked the scribe to pass him his notes. More read the words that had been recorded.

'Who is the demon you mention called Maleus?'

Arabella didn’t speak for a while until, with considerable more energy than he would have expected, she murmured, 'An old friend.'

'You admit a demon is a regular consort?'

'No.'

'Then where is this Maleus? Tell us his whereabouts and we will have him brought to us for questioning.'

'He’s not here.'

'Then where is he?'

More’s heart skipped. Could there be a slight smile on this disobedient girl’s face? 'He’s - abroad.'

'How convenient for you. Torturer, please, whomever you are, take her down and despoil her. Perhaps that final indignity may move her to confess.'

The man in the black leather hood tipped up the rack to a vertical position and undid the clasps around Arabella’s limbs. Blood seeped from her wrists and ankles. As the hooded man laid the girl on to the ground, More noticed a bracelet of some kind that was wrapped around her left wrist, so tight it was embedded in her flesh, making the item almost invisible. He couldn’t be sure but the bracelet seemed to glow with its own light.

The hooded man knelt between Arabella’s legs and unfastened his heavy pants. He brought out a sizeable erection. To clear his path, the man swept aside the last remnants of clothing that shielded her belly. Behind his mask, he grunted in anticipation.

Arabella’s left hand moved quickly as she grasped the man’s penis. He let out a loud squeal, like a trapped pig, and tried to pull himself away, scrabbling without success.

As More, the scribe and the two guards watched, a flash of bright orange light dazzled them, emanating from the man’s crotch region: quick, like a tiny fire, a mini-explosion. Then the man slumped down, seemingly lifeless.

'Help him,' More shouted to the King’s guards.

Too late, the men went to the torturer’s aid. Arabella slithered out from under the body of the dead man and stood. The wrist bracelet now burned with a fierce white heat. Squinting against the unholy glare, More saw that Arabella was transformed. Strong again, standing tall. Also, More noticed, she was somehow translucent. For reasons he could not understand, he could actually see through her to the wall behind.

Arabella struck one of the guards with a wide backhanded slap. He flew through the air and his spine snapped against the wall. He slumped to the floor, his neck broken.

'Detain the demon! Kill her! Kill her!' 

The other guard ducked down and swung his sword at Arabella’s side. He missed. She grabbed the blade with her hands and pulled the guard with superhuman strength. He toppled forward and let go of the handle. Too fast to see, she flipped the sword around and drove the sharp edge through the shoulder of the guard. He let out a gasp of pain before the blade travelled through the neck, almost severing his head.

'Dear God,' More cried out. 'Save me! Begone, Satan’s familiar!'

The Lord Chancellor headed for the stairs. He had to get away. He was more frightened than he’d ever been in his life. How could God allow this monstrosity to exist? At the steps, More looked back. Arabella was bathed in a blazing pool of her own light. Her expression was serene, otherworldly. She stared at More, challenging him with her eyes. Then, through her, More could see a shadow approaching. Then, a sword appeared out of the centre of Arabella’s body. The blade had punctured her heart. Aortic blood spurted along the tip of the weapon, out into the room in a crimson arc.

Arabella crashed to her knees as her hands sought out the instrument of her demise. Her hands clutched the sharp metal, cutting her fingers as she tried to remove the blade. The light around her body faded, the bracelet dimmed. As Arabella fell forward More saw the person who had delivered the fatal blow. The scribe, Walter, still held the hilt of the sword as his victim collapsed. With a look of shock on his face at his own behaviour, Walter let go and the girl called Arabella deGigne fell forward and hit the ground with a dull thud and a clack of metal.

The two men stood over the body as blood poured across the ground. Finally, the young man moved. More’s breath was ragged. 'Is she dead, Walter?'

The scribe kneeled next to Arabella’s inert body. He didn’t know much about anatomy but he did know that humans had a rhythmic blood movement that one could find on the victim’s wrist. He took the girl’s pulse but could find nothing. Her skin was cold too, clammy to the touch. He leaned further over to her face, gingerly, to see if he could feel her breath upon his cheek. Nothing there. 'I can find no signs of life, sire.'

Timid, More approached the body. He kicked the torso then bent down to shake her shoulder. No movement. Even the blood had begun to coagulate but...the thought struck him, for how long?

'We have God’s work to do, Walter.'

For the first time in his life, Walter gazed into the eyes of his master. 'Of course, sire. What should we do?'

'First we will move the demon’s body into this alcove.' More pointed to the recess in the basement wall. They hauled Arabella across the floor. The knife blade scraped and scored the ground. More placed his hands beneath the dead girl’s armpits and propped her in the darkest corner of the indent. 'Now. Go to the groundsmen’s quarters and retrieve men and tools to help us. We need bricks, stones and a pitcher of fresh mud. We must seal this monstrosity away for eternity.' 

Chapter One

Chelsea, London - 1986

Ben Palmer crossed the Thames at Battersea Bridge. The river water was a dirty brown colour that flowed dully in the drab afternoon light. At the end of Beaufort Street, he turned his Audi left onto King’s Road. Overhead, as was normal for England in January, colourless clouds threatened to unleash their contents onto The World’s End at any moment.

The five o’ clock news came on the radio and Zack, Ben’s younger brother, tried to change channel.

'Hey, leave it,' Ben said. 'I want to listen to that.'

'Okay, okay,' Zack held up his hands in mock submission.

The radio continued. 'NASA has confirmed that all seven astronauts are lost. A full scale search for wreckage has begun over the coast of Cape Canaveral but the crew’s chances of survival are thought to be slim...'

In the back seat, Ruby said, 'Wow, that’s awful.'

Tim, smoking a joint beside her, nodded in agreement. 'Makes this a day to remember, for sure.'

Ben turned left into Milman’s Street and pulled up into a parking space opposite a house that had seen better days.

'Here we are,' Ben said. 'Your new home.'

'Nice area,' Tim said as he left the car. 'Very chic.'

'Not bad,' Zack said. 'From here I can see two pubs and an off-license so all good so far.'

Ruby stood on the pavement gazing across at the house. A two-storey residence, cream coloured, the windows were mock-Georgian but she knew from talking to Ben that the house had originally been part of Thomas More’s estate. Probably the baker’s quarters once upon a time in the sixteenth century, hence the name: Milman’s Street.

Ben said, 'Behind the house is an old burial ground. Sorry about that.'

Ruby smiled, 'Don’t be sorry, Ben. Finding this place for us so quickly was a wonderful thing for you to do.' She put a hand on his arm. He flinched and wished he hadn’t. 'And actually, I saw the view from the upstairs window when I came to see the place. It’s a really pretty church grounds, dating from the middle-ages. I love it - and it’s nice not having another big building there.'

Zack was already banging at the front door while Ben unlocked the trailer mesh. He handed Tim a couple of cases he assumed were musical instruments. He picked up a suitcase for himself and gave a small holdall to Ruby. 'Ever the gentleman,' she said.

As they crossed the street. Zack called out. 'There’s no one home!'

'We’ve got a key, Zack.'

'Well, hurry up then, I’ve got some cans that are getting warm.'

Ben frowned. 'Isn’t it a bit early, Zack?'

'Why? You going back to work?'

'No, I suppose not. But as soon as you’re settled. I’m off.'

'It’s our new place, mate. Cause for a celebration in my book.'

Ruby pulled out a key and unlocked the front door, which was stiff, didn’t move at first. She pushed the door hard with her shoulder and the wood came unstuck. A waft of stale air hit them.

Zack sidled into the tight corridor. 'Jeez, Ben, how long has this place been empty? Smells like someone died in here.' 

'Maybe someone did, mate,' Tim said. 'Statistically it’s actually quite likely. London’s an old place, at least a couple of thousand years, you know?'

'Duh,’ Zack mocked. ‘I just hope no one’s died here recently.'

They went single-file down the thin corridor until the space opened out into a wide coffin shaped room. Its walls sported maroon flock wallpaper from a bygone age. Probably Victorian. There was little light coming in. On the floor a patchy carpet barely covered wood floors that had not been polished or sanded for decades. Second or third hand chairs and tables filled the rest of the gloomy space.

'It’ll be fine with a bit of TLC,' Ruby said. 'Trust me. I’ll make it look nice.'

They spent time moving in the bags and boxes from the trailer to the house. The musty smell of damp and death only slowly began to dispel as they worked. Perhaps they were just getting used to it, Ben thought.

They brought in the rest of the bags and suitcases, placing them upstairs in the bedrooms - there were two, a master and a guest, plus a grubby bathroom.  There was no furniture to bring in - the place was allegedly furnished - and neither Zack nor Ruby had any household items to show for their relationship so far.

Finally, Ruby said, 'I’ll make tea.'

Ben followed Ruby into the kitchen area, a cosy room barely big enough for two. Again the shape was odd, not symmetrical, more pentagonal. There were makeshift wooden cupboards built in to the walls that looked ancient, paint peeling, perhaps a few decades old. A door that perhaps used to lead out the back, was now sealed, its hinges and jambs painted over long ago. At least there was natural light. A sash window above the sink looked over the churchyard below. There was no chapel, nor any gravestones