In the Shadow of the Black Serpent: Unveiling the Secrets of the Elusive Cult

By Jimi London

A deadly symbol. A buried truth. A woman pulled back into the shadows.

Former intelligence officer Sarah Miller thought she had left the danger behind. But when a mysterious letter arrives-marked with the symbol of a serpent-she's pulled back into a world she thought she'd escaped.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Jimi London
• Release date: Jun 7, 2025
• ISBN: 9798891703421

Book preview

Prologue

The birdsong was beautiful—too beautiful. Sarah had woken from a dream of screaming.

Seated on a weathered bench outside her cottage, she breathed in the stillness of Wimbleton Hollow. The village’s quiet charm wrapped around her like an old quilt—but something about the morning felt off, as if the world were holding its breath.

Her thoughts wandered beyond the narrow lanes—to the restless pulse of London, and to the memory of a case that had never truly let her go.

She remembered the early days: the crackle of radios, the tension before a door crashed open, the heady rush of pursuit. Her instincts were sharp, her reputation hard-earned. But with every case, the shadows lengthened. The world she thought she understood had opened into something far bigger—and far darker.

Driven by curiosity—and something deeper—Sarah had travelled far. Cairo, ancient and inscrutable, became her favourite. In its winding streets and whispering walls, she peeled back secrets layer by layer. The city had changed her. It reshaped not only her view of the world, but how she hunted truth within it.

When she retired, it was Wimbleton Hollow she returned to—a place where time seemed content to stroll. She traded police radios for birdsong, crime scenes for creeping jasmine. But peace was never the absence of motion. Stillness could be a disguise—a lull between pulses. Something old stirred beneath it, subtle but certain. The thrill of discovery hadn’t faded. It had evolved into hunger. And now, it hummed just beneath her skin.

One quiet morning, the past came knocking—uninvited, unmistakable. A letter, sealed with a serpent, arrived without a return address. No sender. Just mystery. As she turned it in her hands, instinct flared—sharp, primal. It wasn’t curiosity that gripped her. It was recognition. The game was calling again.

Packing was swift. Mechanical. Wimbleton Hollow, once her sanctuary, now felt like a lullaby with a sharp edge. The blooming gardens and cobbled paths pressed in on her, whispering of riddles left unsolved. By the time she reached the train station, her heart had already crossed the border between past and present.

The train’s clatter mimicked a clock winding backward. With each passing station, memories stirred—screams half-remembered, victories earned, failures mourned. Familiar faces haunted the edges of her thoughts, a silent jury from the past. As London rose on the horizon, something within her rose too. The detective hadn’t vanished. She’d been waiting.

London struck like a cymbal crash—sound, scent, and motion folding in at once. The city felt sharper than she remembered, every corner humming with possibility—and threat.

At the station, a man in a dark suit held a sign: MILLER. His movements were crisp, efficient. Jameson, he said simply, then led her wordlessly through the tangle of city streets. Sarah followed, instincts twitching back to life. Each turn tightened the old wiring in her brain—reading angles, noting exits, tracking faces.

They stopped at a squat, unmarked building. Ordinary in every way—except for the weight it carried. The kind of place where truth went to hide—or worse, to be weaponised.

Inside, she met Benedict Wraith. The name had echoed in certain circles—an academic mind with access to things most people pretended didn’t exist. His office was part dossier vault, part war room. What he laid before her wasn’t a case file. It was a map of madness—crimes stitched across continents, every thread marked with the serpent’s seal.

As she studied the photos and notes, something cold slid behind her ribs. The connections were loose, tangled—but they pulsed with pattern. Not random. Not isolated. And far from finished.

When she finally stepped back onto the London pavement, it was with a strange clarity. The city hadn’t changed. She had. The streets felt alien now—buzzing with secrets and watchers.

The hunt hadn’t ended. It had only gone quiet—waiting for her to hear it again. And this time, the prey wasn’t a person. It was an idea. One someone was willing to kill the world to resurrect.

Chapter 1

The Quiet Village

The birdsong was gentle. The breeze, soft. But something about the morning felt wrong.

In Wimbleton Hollow, dawn arrived like a sigh—quiet and practised, as if the world had repeated it too many times. Thatched cottages stood in still reverence, moss-laced and leaning like they knew more than they should. The village breathed to a slower rhythm: seasons, soil, and secrets buried beneath the roses. But for Sarah Miller, quiet never came without cost.

Sarah no longer moved to that rhythm.

Once, she’d matched the tempo of cities—sirens, split-second decisions, coded language exchanged between killers and those who hunted them. Now, even birdsong had edges.

The silence soothed her nerves—but never silenced her mind. The echoes were stubborn. Sirens howled in memory. Crime scenes crept back in the folds of quiet mornings. Some ghosts didn’t knock; they let themselves in and stayed for tea.

Sarah had once pursued sharper questions, conducted justice through alleys slick with shadow — and bartered away more than sleep. Every case she solved cost her something: a thread of ease, a piece of connection, a name on the missed-calls list that never rang again. Laughter she no longer remembered. Friendships that thinned and vanished. Even a sister who stopped calling when Sarah missed their father’s funeral.

One case haunted her more than most: a boy found too late, a lead she’d dismissed as irrelevant. The mother’s voice still echoed—cracked, raw—asking why no one listened sooner. Sarah hadn’t answered. Couldn’t.

She didn’t regret the choices. But she remembered the prices. And one of them had a name.

Back then, every case was a collision between instinct and evidence—but it was the unsolved ones that still woke her in the dark. She sometimes heard their voices in Wimbleton’s stillness—not accusing, just waiting.

For all its charm, the village lulled her senses but left her exposed to memories she’d buried beneath years of noise. Justice was never clean. But she had chased it anyway.

She sat on the worn wooden bench outside her cottage, a steaming cup of tea nestled between her palms as golden light spilled across the horizon. Her home radiated English countryside charm—roses climbing the trellis, a garden bursting into colour each spring like a painter’s palette gone wild.

The cup warmed her hands, but not her thoughts. Somewhere inside, the embers of who she’d been still smouldered—not just the detective, but the woman who once believed the law could right all wrongs. She missed that certainty, though she’d never admit it aloud. Time had shown her how justice bends, how the innocent fall and the guilty vanish. She’d learnt to survive it. But not to forget.

Yet the beauty sharpened the contrast. She had once walked grey, unyielding streets—chased shadows where others turned away. This peace, though welcome, often felt like a whisper after a lifetime of sirens.

Retirement had promised calm—and, for a while, delivered it. Wimbleton Hollow soothed her body but stirred something else: a restlessness that coiled through silence like smoke with nowhere to drift.

The village was safe. Predictable. Almost too much so. Sarah missed the sharp edge of a real case—the moment instinct snapped into clarity, purpose rising like a blade from its sheath.

Even here—among hedgerows and neighbourly smiles—her mind never stopped. It stayed sharp. Always listening. Always searching for a pattern in the ordinary.

Sarah looked up from her tea, gaze drifting to where the village met the treeline—a boundary both literal and symbolic. Beyond it, no fences. No footpaths. Only the unknown.

Wimbleton Hollow felt like a world apart. A place suspended in time, untouched by the urgency and grit that had once defined her.

She scanned the rows of cottages, their hedges trimmed, chimney smoke curling lazily. She imagined the lives inside—tales passed down, secrets folded into polite conversation. The village breathed in memory.

Children’s laughter sometimes floated across the green. The baker’s morning banter rang out like a ritual. Even the gardener’s muttered war with weeds told its own story. These were the murmurs of a world she’d come to value—even if a part of her remained apart. An observer. Always listening. Always watching.

She appreciated the warmth, the rhythm. But she wore her presence here like a borrowed coat—comfortable, never quite tailored to fit.

The postman, George—a round, cheery man with a permanent grin—strode up the path and tipped his cap with the confidence of routine.

Morning, Sarah! Lovely day, isn’t it? he called, handing her the usual bundle of bills and flyers.

Indeed it is, George. Anything interesting today? she asked, already sifting through the envelopes with practised ease.

Just the usual—oh, except this one, he added, plucking a thick parchment envelope from the bottom. Feels important, that one does.

Sarah’s fingers paused. The seal—an intricate serpent coiled around a staff—shimmered faintly in the morning light. Cold traced her spine. The quiet collapsed inward, replaced by the echo of something old. Unfinished.

Thank you, George. I’ll see you tomorrow, she said, her voice steady—though her thoughts had already splintered away.

As he disappeared down the lane, she turned the envelope over. No return address. Just her name, inked in an elegant hand that stirred something old. Uneasy.

She lingered, fingers brushing the seal, unsure whether to open it—or burn it. The air felt heavier. Charged.

Mrs. Higgins appeared just then, tugged along by Rufus, her excitable terrier. The little dog barked at a drifting butterfly, then launched into chaotic pursuit.

Morning, dear! Mrs. Higgins called, her sunflower-print apron fluttering like a flag in the breeze.

Morning, Mrs. Higgins, Sarah replied, slipping the envelope discreetly into her cardigan pocket.

The older woman slowed, eyes glinting with curiosity. Looks like you’ve got something interesting there.

Just a letter, I think, Sarah said with a practised smile, though the envelope’s weight felt unnatural—less like paper, more like pressure.

Mrs. Higgins raised a brow but didn’t press. Come along, Rufus! she called, already moving on as the terrier vanished in a blur of paws and sunlit grass.

Inside her cottage—its walls lined with relics from distant travels and quieter victories—Sarah carefully slit the envelope. A pair of train tickets fluttered out. Departure: that very afternoon.

The note was penned in an elegant hand, but urgency pulsed beneath every word—barely restrained. This wasn’t a request. It was a reach across time, dragging her back toward a life she thought she’d buried.

The room, once her refuge, now felt claustrophobic. The walls hummed with ghost-voices from old cases, unsolved questions clinging like dust. This wasn’t an invitation. It was a summons.

Dear Ms. Miller,

Your expertise is required once more. A matter most urgent and delicate has arisen within your unique purview to resolve. Enclosed are tickets to London and further instructions. This request cannot be ignored—nor, we suspect, would you want to. The game, as you fondly referred to it, is afoot once again.

Yours in anticipation,

A Friend from the Past

Her thoughts spun. Who was this ‘friend’? What could be so urgent—so dangerous—that it demanded her return without hesitation?

A chill wrapped around her chest. This wasn’t duty. It was descent. And still, no hesitation. The mystery called too clearly, too personally. The voice she’d silenced for years now rang loud—and undeniable.

She had barely an hour to pack. Moving on instinct, Sarah filled her worn leather bag—knife, notepad, magnifying glass, and pens. Artefacts from a life she’d shelved but never truly left.

Her clothes remained unchanged: practical, muted tones meant to vanish into London’s blur. Packing was muscle memory—precise, unflinching—even as her mind surged ahead into the unknown.

She paused, fingers brushing the letter again. The weight of her decision settled in her chest like fog before a storm. Wimbleton Hollow—with its clipped gardens and winding lanes—was no longer a retreat. It was the pause before something inevitable.

Her hand trembled as she set the letter aside. The eyes that once pierced lies now shimmered with doubt—and anticipation. The game was calling again.

The village had sheltered her. But the letter made one thing painfully clear: she had never truly left the shadows behind.

Friend from the Past. The phrase lingered—part invitation, part veiled threat. In a village where everyone knew everyone else’s secrets, she suddenly felt exposed. Too visible.

Her gaze drifted to the mantel, to a worn brass frame. A younger Sarah stood beside Detective Inspector Harold Jenkins—his expression stern, grounding. Even in a photograph, his presence steadied her.

Trust your instincts, he would’ve said. With a nod to the memory, she tucked the photo into her bag. It was more than a keepsake. It was legacy.

The village clock struck the hour. The chimes cut through the quiet like a verdict—marking not just time, but a turning.

With the letter in her coat and the photo in her bag, Sarah stepped back into the life she’d tried to forget—a world of shifting light and shadow, where truth was earned by resolve.

The house, once alive with the echo of her footsteps, now held a silence that felt anticipatory. Like it had been waiting.

She moved room to room, pausing at familiar corners. Her gaze lingered on the mantel where a single service award rested. It wasn’t the accolades she missed—it was the clarity of purpose. The thrill of peeling back layers until truth emerged, raw and undeniable.

With her bag slung over her shoulder, she locked the door behind her. The walk to the station was short, but with every step, she felt the space between who she’d become and who she used to be stretch thinner.

Villagers waved and greeted her with cheerful ease, unaware of the quiet storm beneath her composed exterior. She returned their smiles—automatic, warm—even as her thoughts spun elsewhere.

The station—an old Victorian structure softened by time—waited like a threshold. Sarah paused outside the café and bought a tea, grounding herself in routine even as the past surged forward.

Mrs. Bramley, the café’s owner, raised her eyebrows in silent inquiry when she spotted the travel bag at Sarah’s side.

Off to London, Sarah? she asked, her voice a careful blend of curiosity and concern.

Just a brief trip, Sarah replied, even-toned, offering no more than necessary.

Mrs. Bramley nodded, though her eyes sparkled with that gentle, persistent nosiness small towns bred so well.

Somewhere exciting, then? she asked—casual in tone, unmistakably fishing. In Wimbleton Hollow, private business had a way of becoming community folklore: shared over fences and baked into scones. 

Sarah, long accustomed to such enquiries, returned a polite smile. Just some personal matters to attend to, she said—vague by design. Even a hint of detail could seed weeks of speculation here.

Sensing the line Sarah had drawn, Mrs. Bramley offered a knowing nod. But the sparkle in her eyes remained—curiosity wrapped in warmth and far from quenched.

Safe travels, dear, she said kindly, though the unspoken promise was clear: the village grapevine would stay busy in Sarah’s absence.

Sarah appreciated the balance the village struck—concern never far from gossip, affection tangled with intrusion. Lives overlapped here, sometimes too closely, but always with care.

And despite herself, a small part of her would miss it.

The train arrived with a hiss and a clatter, slicing through the afternoon quiet like a blade. Sarah boarded and found a window seat, tea in hand, her eyes fixed on the fading outline of Wimbleton Hollow.

As the countryside blurred into green and gold streaks, her thoughts drifted to the cases etched into her life. Victories, yes—but also losses. Faces she couldn’t forget. Mysteries that slipped through her fingers, no matter how tightly she grasped.

She exhaled slowly, pressing a palm to the cool windowpane. Every solved case had come at a cost. Not just to others—but to her.

The village’s soft cadence gave way to the rising hum of London’s edge. Steel and stone overtook hedgerows. Brick replaced bloom. And within her, something shifted.

The detective was no longer dormant. She was awake, alert, and listening.

The platform was a mosaic of motion and noise—voices overlapping, announcements echoing, the scent of oil and coffee tangled in the air. Sarah stepped into it smoothly, her body moving before her thoughts could catch up.

She wove through the crowd with quiet precision, eyes scanning faces with that old, automatic rhythm. Was her contact already here? Or someone else—someone watching?

The city had a pulse, and it quickened hers. A hum beneath her skin. A tension that hadn’t visited her in years—but returned now as if it had never left.

Then she saw him—a