Jarrod and the Dark Cardinal: Jarrod, #2

By P N Burrows

On Jarrod's home planet, members of the Wizard's Council scheme to rein in Jarrod's abilities, going as far as making the use of the Wayfarer's Step illegal, punishable by death.

Jarrod, worried that earth is becoming a cosmic battleground between the forces of good and evil, must convince the Council to allow him to remain on Earth.

Meanwhile, a series of ritualistic murders brings Jarrod's name to the forefront of the constabulary's investigation. Blaming a satanic cult for the murders, Jarrod must once again endeavour to clear his name, whilst fighting tooth and claw with demonic forces to prevent the rise of an ancient evil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: P N Burrows
• Release date: Dec 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223108948

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Jarrod and the Dark Cardinal

Book Two in the Jarrod Series

First published in 2023

Copyright © P N Burrows 2023

The rights of the author have been asserted in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act, 1988.All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced (including photocopying or storing in any medium by electronic means and whether or not transiently or incidentally to some other use of this publication) without the written permission of the copyright holder except in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, design and Patents Act 1988. Applications for the Copyright holder’s written permission to reproduce any part of this publication should be addresses to the publishers.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Mum

Chapter One

Bollocks! Detective Widcombe cursed as her foot passed through the grass and into something squelchy. She stood still for a second, afraid to remove her foot lest the foul smell of dog faeces exploded around her like shrapnel from a landmine.

Oh, for Christ's sake!

Oi! Language! Chief Inspector Walker, the senior investigating officer at the crime scene, admonished. Be mindful where you are walking, he smirked.

Sir, she apologised, wiping the heel of her boot on the grass, the morning dew compounding the situation.

The decaying convent, long since abandoned by the church, had been on and off the property market for decades, to no avail. Local historians mused on the ghosts in the place; rumours abounded of burial pits for illegitimate babies born within the convent grounds and secret tunnels in the nearby monastery. Detective Widcombe ignored the gossip she heard from the ever-youthful looking constables as they maintained a secure perimeter.

Catching up to the chief inspector, Detective Widcombe queried, Sir, I'm not sure why you have called me in?

Since your promotion to Detective Inspector, you have proven yourself adept at solving the unusual cases. The chief inspector turned to look at his officer. The woman's intuition was impeccable; so few of the younger officers used their gut instinct to solve cases, he mused, admiring Widcombe's shapely curves beneath her professional attire.

That's not by choice, sir, Detective Widcombe protested. Those were the cases you assigned to me.

You are getting a name for yourself, Sarala. Your involvement in that grizzly affair last year with the antique dealer has given you a reputation. He smiled at her, lifting the police tape for her to squeeze under. And as the newest member of the team, we have nominated you as our paranormal expert.

Sir? Detective Widcombe's eyes narrowed, brow creased, as she suddenly understood the random items her colleagues placed on her desk.

Our Scully, so to speak.

She was the non-believer, sir. Mulder was the conspiracy nut. Which I am not.

Placing a stabilising hand on her shoulder, Chief Inspector Walker explained, as he struggled with his forensic over-booties, Nonetheless, Sarala, your record for closing cases has been exemplary, and we need this one closing fast before the press gets wind of it.

A slight shudder passed across Sarala as she approached the forensic tent. The hairs on her arms rose, her stomach felt heavy, and she pulled her coat tighter to keep out the non-existent chill.

This way, sir, Detective Attenborough held the flap open for the senior investigating officer; he grimaced at Detective Widcombe, as if to say, It's not a nice one.

Mind the edge of the well, sir, the ground is not that stable. A man in white coveralls said. We haven't touched the scene, as you requested.

The bright illumination from the tripod mounted spotlights dispersed and somehow lost cohesion as they neared the circular pool of blackness at the centre of the tent. The open shaft of the well drew the heat out of the surrounding area; a deep drip filled the silence. Detective Widcombe and Chief Inspector Walker walked around the well, inspecting the area for safe passage to the edge.

Detective Widcombe sidestepped amongst the debris, shining her torch into the hole. The stone sides of the cylindrical shaft appeared from beneath the moss five feet from the surface, the rotting remains of a wooden well-cap protruded from beneath the soil that had piled up from decades of neglect. Changing the angle of her beam, two pale female hands appeared. The rope binding her wrists caught upon the end of an old joist.

Police Constable Dagmar was first on the scene, sir. Initially, he thought she was a local cutting through the grounds. An unfortunate collapse caused by her added weight. But upon further study of the body, the ropes— Detective Attenborough coughed. Well, you can see for yourself, sir. The dog walker who discovered the body is in the ambulance; she's in a bit of a state at the moment. She ducked through a hole in the fence, Detective Attenborough pointed vaguely toward the eastern perimeter, searching for her dog. She found it sniffing around the well.

Thank you, Garfield, Chief Inspector Walker replied. Torch? he requested with his hand out.

Detective Widcombe smiled to herself. She might suffer from a bit of hazing, with the odd supernatural item being left on her desk, but Detective Inspector Garfield Attenborough had suffered from years of practical jokes because of his name.

Stepping closer to Detective Widcombe, the chief inspector shone the torch on the woman's forehead. Burnt into her skin was an upside down cross. That's why I asked for you to join this investigation, he explained.

It's the Cross of Saint Peter, sir, Detective Widcombe informed her superior.

Devil’s Cross, Widcombe, everybody knows that.

No, sir. It's the Cross of Saint Peter. The Pope has it on the back of his chair. I agree she probably died in some satanic rite, sir. But, that, Detective Widcombe pointed at the dead woman's head, represents Saint Peter.

She's right, sir, Detective Attenborough proclaimed, holding out his phone. It says here, they crucified Saint Peter upside down as he did not believe himself worthy to be crucified in the manner of his lord.

Well, I never. Precisely why we need you on this case, Widcombe. Retracing his steps, the chief inspector asked, Are you Catholic?

No, sir.

So, are you saying a Catholic priest killed her? The chief inspector looked uncomfortable at the thought.

No, sir. TV has propagated the misconception that the inverted cross is satanic, and every gullible person in the world believes it. Sir, if I may, I would like some time to examine the scene before forensics removes the body. Seeing the chief nod, she added, Alone, sir. I need to reflect on the ramifications of the scene, build a profile of the murderer.

Chapter Two

Liam stared through the bushes as the police searched the convent grounds. Oh shit, shit! I’m so dead! His knuckles whitened, clenching his buttocks together lest he have an accident.

Falling back into the hollow of roots, Liam bumped into Brody. I’ll be joining you soon. They’re going to kill me, he whispered, his head in his hands. Turning to face Brody’s frigid body, he asked the dead man, What am I going to do?

Brody remained silent; his eyes wide. Needle marks ran up his arms, some obscured by his military tattoos. He had been an ex-marine, one of many soldiers sent to war for queen and country, only to return to an unsympathetic, uncaring community. Like the other addicts squatting in the convent, Liam had killed him with an overdose. Under the pretext of having robbed a dealer across town, Liam had come back to share his ill-gotten gains with his friends at the convent. Each had died having injected relatively uncut doses of heroin. So-called accidental deaths that the police wouldn't bother to investigate.

Why the fuck did I come back here? Liam asked, striking his forehead with the heel of his palm. Looking down at the single inflamed prick on his arm, he kicked out at Brody's body. The needle he had taken from the dead man's kit must have been dirty. Liam hadn't cared, he was high on euphoria. After the ceremony, after the girls had bled to death, feeding the needs of Osrapkii, the sect had disbanded, leaving him to throw the bodies down the well and re-cover the sacred altar. Saving the body of the voluptuous girl for last, with her make-up removed for the ceremony, she was a freckled beauty. No one would know of his indiscretion. In the moonlight, her vacant eyes stared at him, her head bobbing in acceptance as he thrust into her cooling corpse.

After sating his perverted desires, much quicker than he would ever admit, Liam rolled her bound body into the well and, in another act of weakness, returned to the marine’s hidey-hole to shoot up.

Liam had been clean of drugs and alcohol for years. Beth, his previous girlfriend, had helped him to get clean and turn his life around. With Beth's guidance, he attended the gym four or five times a week. She taught him how to eat healthy and his muscles bulked. She showed him another way to get high. Ultimately, it was her deviancy that turned his addictions to sexual perversions. Beth died by his hands while he straddled her as one of their sex sessions went too far. It was her strangulation that brought him into the service of Osrapkii's sect. The investigating police officer gave him a choice: join the sect, and the evidence disappears, or go to prison for slaughtering his girlfriend.

Three years of devoted service later, Liam was no higher in the ranks than when he started. He worked for, no, was owned by the sect. To them, he was not a genuine member; he was property, no better than a slave. The satanic collective of solicitors, police, and government officials was too prim to dirty their hands with menial work. They used a lot of disposable muscle, like Liam.

He never believed in the mumbo jumbo they shouted at the meetings. He paid lip service, drank the vile fluids, and offered homage in order to partake in the ceremonies, the sacrifices, and the orgies. The women and men desired his toned muscular body on such occasions, preferring his physique to the flabby slack forms of fellow white-collar workers. People who would not speak to Liam in the real world clamoured for sexual release with him. No perversion was too much. The only rule he had to obey was no marks, no welts, or bruises. These people were respectable. Even when he smothered them to orgasm, taking them past the point of safety and forcing them to black out, their eyes stared through him. He was a tool to them, nothing more than a walking dildo.

His failure tonight ensured they would sacrifice him at a future event. Their clamouring for his body would be less perverse and more sinister. His blood would sate their thirst, his flesh fill their bellies, they would sacrifice him to their fictitious Osrapkii. Their mumbo jumbo would get him killed.

Liam watched with wide, frightened eyes as the police erected tents. He pulled Brody's camouflaged poncho over them as more uniforms searched the grounds.

They'll kill me! He grabbed the lapels on Brody's coat and shook him, They'll fucking kill me! Tears of fright ran down his face as he ran from the hide, away from the clamour of the police and into the night.

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The members of the Historical Appreciation Society, a front for the Manchester sect of Osrapkii, congratulated themselves on the success of the previous night’s ceremony. Osrapkii’s Dark Cardinal had selected their branch to perform the final ceremony. Their high priest would arrive soon to oversee the preparation for the Cardinal. Sacrificial candidates had to be scrutinised and shortlisted before her arrival. They would sacrifice the souls of those specifically chosen for Osrapkii. The culmination of decades of toil would bring Osrapkii in his true bestial form into their dark church — eternally, not as a mere spirit inhabiting a fragile human host. Sect members from all over the world would receive their rewards, a dark blessing granting them all untold wealth and power.

A glass chimed, calming the clamour for their leader to speak. A tall, familiar man stood up, well versed in public speaking. The member of Parliament smiled at his cohorts.

We have performed our duties well; we have pleased Osrapkii and we will soon feel his gratitude. Holding a glass of white wine for all to see, the man poured a small amount of blood from a heavy-set crystal decanter. The crimson cloud swirled amidst the wine, eventually turning the liquid blurry. He nodded and waited while the members of the sect filled their glasses. With the blood of youth, I ask that you honour our dark lord. His strength will fill you, making you younger, stronger, and powerful.

Members of the sect downed their drinks and threw their glasses into the fireplace. The flames roared high in the chimney breast, as if fed with gasoline. Donning his majestic robe, the member of Parliament led the sect to the cellars to prepare for the high priest's arrival.

Chapter Three

Detective Widcombe's eyes moved from left to right, her gaze settling on the blackness of the well, using her peripheral vision as she watched and waited for her colleagues to vacate the tent. Nodding at each officer, she smiled, ignoring their looks of incredulity at being asked to leave their crime scene.

Yes, that means you as well, Johnson, she said, giving the man in paper white overalls her best smile.

The detective’s stomach churned. In the six months since her enlightenment, as Jarrod would put it, she had become more sensitive when evil was present or the stain it left behind.

Even though the white canvas glowed from the sun outside, the interior of the forensic tent became dark and oppressive as Detective Widcombe turned off the spotlights. Drawing in a deep, calming breath, she examined the decaying body with the aid of her pocket torch, illuminating and inspecting small sections at a time. Shadows moved on the exterior of the tent as the officers milled around, their grumbles audible through the thin canvas. Following Jarrod's instructions, she began opening her inner eye. A shiver shook her body. Fumbling, she almost dropped the torch. Detective Widcombe gasped as she looked at the corpse dangling from the strand of rope. The deceased woman had no aura; auras were for the living, the visible part of one's soul. Peeking over her shoulder to ensure the tent flap was still closed, she removed the leaf covered coin that Jarrod had given her from her pocket. Holding it up to her eye, she peered at the scene through the olivine crystal lens embedded in the centre. The properties of the crystal altering the contrast of the dead woman's features, Jarrod's spells imbued into the talisman illuminated the invisible runes written on the woman's body. Viewed through the lens, the corpse glowed red; the after-effects of malignant magic lingered. Coloured tendrils of evil stirred in the air currents from the well. The circular depths were lit by the glow from a multitude of bodies beneath the water. The blood red emanation loomed up at Detective Widcombe, the evil leaching out of the sacrificed corpses. Doubt and self-loathing coursed through her as a red ethereal filament stroked at her leg, the urge to plunge into the depths overwhelming. The malicious feeling faded as she removed Jarrod's coin from her eye. Bloody fool never warned me about that, the stupid bastard, she cursed under her breath.

Sarala, are you okay? Detective Attenborough asked, peering through the flap in the tent. Concern was on his face. You swore.

Take that light out of my eyes, Garfield. Detective Widcombe snapped.

What's that? Detective Attenborough asked, pointing at the coin in her hand, pulling an evidence bag from his pocket.

No, it's mine, she waved a hand, dismissing the proffered bag. A coloured lens, for contrast. Like the yellow driving glasses you can buy. I find it helps.

Weirdo, Detective Attenborough teased her. Well, don't keep me in suspense. You cursed at something.

Shining her torch down the well, the powerful beam of light dissipated before it reached the water far below. There are more bodies in the water, Garfield, a lot more.

You sure? Detective Attenborough returned his gaze from the void to Detective Widcombe and back. I can't see anything.

Yeah, I'm afraid so, she sighed.

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The lifeless face of a young woman disappeared behind the zipper. The chief inspector sighed as he pulled the fastener to close the body bag. In his career, he had seen thousands of murders and this case had all the signs of being the most bizarre. Christ, I should have retired last year, he murmured, patting the girl beneath the plastic. I'm too old for this shit. Ambling back to the group of waiting detectives, he nodded for the coroner to take the deceased girl.

The divers are still bringing up bodies from the well, sir, a portly police sergeant said. Sir, if you don't mind me asking, how did she know there were more down there? You couldn't see a thing, and they had weighed the bodies down.

Holding his hand to his face, the chief inspector concentrating on taking slow, deep breaths through his mouth. Trying to lessen the impact of the smell of the cadaver. That's why she is a detective inspector, sergeant, he replied in a gruff tone.

The coroner walked past with another body from the tent and laid it on an awaiting stretcher.

Jesus Christ! How many are there? a uniformed officer gasped.

They can see four bodies below the surface of the water. There could be more, the chief replied. The bodies have only been in the well for a couple of hours. The coroner says they probably died at the same time as the girl we found at the top. We’ll know more once they have completed the autopsies.

Cause of death, sir? Detective Attenborough asked.

Throats cut, left to right. Besides the branding on their foreheads, there is no other trauma visible.

A member of the retrieval team paused behind the chief, waiting for him to finish. Sir, I thought you ought to know. They're all kids, teenagers.

Voices raised in the forensics tent, they had found another body from in the shaft.Sorry, I have to get back.

The chief nodded solemnly, turning back to his men as he said, Uniforms are scouring the convent grounds, and I suggest you all join them. Garfield, you're in charge of the surrounding area. Canvas the nearby buildings, see if anyone saw anything suspicious. I want the footage from any cameras, you know the drill.

Sir, Detective Attenborough confirmed.

Sir, Detective Widcombe interrupted, are the marks on the foreheads all the same?

Chief Inspector Walker looked at the only female officer in the group for a second, the squint in his eyes asking, How did you know Widcombe? No, he replied.

Chief Inspector! A uniformed man burst from the bushes.

Sergeant, what is it?

Vagrants, sir, in the convent, about twenty. The sergeant puffed, leaning his hands on his knees after his short run.

Question them and move them out, Sergeant, the chief inspector barked. "We don't want them contaminating the