Augustus Baltazar

Neil Bursnoll

Description

Mark. Enforcer. Just plain old Stu. Augustus Baltazar is a Paranormal Investigator with more skeletons than space in the cupboard. He only has best friend Mike to depend on, until beautiful brunette Jenny threatens to rattle his bones. DI Joe Merrick is on his last life with the Police force, caught between a case he is struggling to solve and a DS with a different opinion. Out of all this, what piece of the puzzle does Mike's girlfriend Sera hold? And just what are the sinister shadow and the man on fire that haunt them all? Once the fuse is lit, everything changes. This is the first thrilling volume in an ongoing series from emerging author Neil Bursnoll.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 19 juin 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782348344
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
AUGUSTUS BALTAZAR
Neil Bursnoll



Publisher Information
Published in 2013 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © Neil Bursnoll 2013
The right of Neil Bursnoll to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Web: www.bourbonicafro.co.uk Twitter @NeilBursnoll
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Special thanks to Andy Sparrowhawk from www.ams3d.co.uk for the cover artwork.



Dedication
To Ciann, Alexis, Jack, and those no longer with me.



Chapter One
Murkwood city library is typically quiet this Friday afternoon. At the front desk is a young man in his early twenties, leaning casually on the scratched window of the booth. He wears a long-sleeved gunmetal grey t-shirt, 70s stone wash jeans and black boots worn down to a dull grey. His hair is dark brown and cropped short. His vivid brown orbs have a piercing gaze that isn’t particularly inviting, and he focuses on a random patch of the faded green carpet. He is toned and a little muscular, tall too at just over six foot. He towers over the small, hunched woman slowly scribbling on the paperwork at her desk. She turns back to the driver’s license that quivers in her other hand, lifting her large-rimmed glasses to check the details mere millimetres from her face.
“That’s an interesting name.” she muses, placing the card back on the desk. Her voice resonates in the acoustics of this large, open reception.
He is Augustus Baltazar. In the small photo on his licence he stares back at you almost too seriously, as if to prove a point.
“Yes, it is.” he retorts, tired of being on the receiving end of that same comment.
As she moves over to the pressing machine, his eye is caught by a couple walking across the back of the desk. They are moving towards an open door to the left, closely tailed by an aging man in antiquated clothes, his skin a wizened grey and eyes sunken into their sockets. As his look follows the trio, the old man’s head stutters as it turns, glaring a hole through his watcher. The couple enter through the open door, and the old man disappears through the wall next to it.
“There we go, Mr... Mr...” she squints, trying to attempt some sort of pronunciation of his surname.
“You can call me Stu, thanks.” he responds sharply, happily accepting the freshly laminated renewal card.
The librarian takes her seat again, briefly looking over her shoulder at the open door. “He noticed you, didn’t he?” she adds. “You’re the first one he’s noticed in a while, make of that what you will.” She pauses for a moment, gaining a wry smile. “I worked with him, hmm, must be seventy years or so ago. He was very nice, once you got to know him.” she fondly smiles.
Stu keeps an eye on where the old man vanished, sliding his wallet back into his trouser pocket. “Yep, they know when they’re being watched - that’s for sure. Make of that what you will!” He looks down at her as she pushes her glasses back up her nose. “Is the usual room unlocked, Betty?” She looks blankly back at him. “We are on first name terms now, it seems.” he smiles.
“The Paranormal section is open, you’re the only person that goes down there.” she croaks slowly, nodding at him. “You know where to go?” she mutters.
“Of course. Thank you!” he calls as he walks away, earning a pointed stare from a passing patron.
The cavernous ground floor chamber that he descends is sparsely populated, a grandiose entrance to a long-forgotten theatre. The facade that once housed the stage is at the far end of this slope, long in the distance, the ornate carvings now the border to a vertical wall of books. Opposing doorways pockmark each wall, and towers of perfectly upright shelves march into the distance in perfect formation. The broad, winding staircases that curve up either wall are currently used by just one man, creaking his way up to a hidden floor.
Stu turns into the seventh door on the left that he comes across. It is unusually musty inside the tiny room, but the thick bookcase before him is crammed with leathery bibles relating to everything paranormal that he could ever want. Rarely does he ever see another member of the public in here; in fact there’s only ever been one occasion in the last six years that a librarian has encountered him within here. Even then she found it incredibly odd to find someone in here that didn’t work at the library.
He stretches on tip toes to grab at the worn spine of a thick red tome on the highest shelf. He can never push it back fully each time he returns it, and has enough room to clutch the edges with finger and thumb to pull it clear. It never seems any lighter, catching him off balance as he plucks it from the air and hugs it tight. As he places it on the small table by the door, he takes his seat and twiddles his fingers in anticipation.
The skin of the vast volume wears a network of veins that zigzag like forked lightning. The title, Mannicus, Hilfrich & Arrington’s Archives of Demonology, First Edition is embossed in chunky silver letters that shimmer under the artificial light. The worn, dogged corners of the cover are grubby through age, the book in general poorly maintained. Stu carefully lifts the deep red leather-bound cover and casts his eye over the handwritten contents, scrawled in thin black ink by the hands of three different men. He gently skips past the first few pages, each page thick and crinkled. When he has time to peruse, this is always the first volume he comes to. He consistently finds something new within, and normal browsing is always helpful for brushing up on his knowledge.
The various entries, in chronological order of their original inclusion, are illustrated with lurid tales and ‘genuine’ eyewitness accounts. The text is either in English, German or Latin, depending on which of the authors added the entry. Although English is his native language, Stu knows the odd word in the other tongues, and can pick up on a few more of them.
Some of the names, and maybe the odd description, stand out to him, his gaze lingering over particular words. Grazzlebam - a short snouted beast with thick brown fur and glowing red eyes, indigenous to northern Scandanavia. Verquenimus - a Roman deity no longer listed in modern texts, who took delight in boiling newborn babes alive in his own hot piss. And Nornstas - an invisible parasite that this book wholly blames for spreading the mysterious sweating sickness of the 15 th and 16 th century. Ironically, the accompanying image is of a period farmer running away... from nothing.
The next section he comes across, shoehorned in at a strange place, relates to elementals and beasts that incessantly drip blood, whether it be their own or that of their victims. Perhaps the authors tried to collate as many of these particular entities as possible, before resorting back to a standard single entry system.
It’s then that he feels the phone buried within his jeans pocket vibrate twice in immediate succession. Grabbing the smooth black pebble-shaped phone, he flicks the touch screen and sees a text message from MIKE.
Alright mate! How does a few bevvies in town tonight float your boat? The missus is working late so let me know if you fancy it, you defiler of toasters!
Stu smirks and ponders over an equally amusing retort.
***
A thin man in his late thirties, adorned in his finest suit, sits on a bench in the midst of the police station, deliberating the outcome of his meeting. His hands wring repeatedly, sliding and feeding into one another like tangling serpents. His ring finger has the faint impression of gold long-removed. His deep eyes stare off into the distance, his black skin topped by a greying crop of short hair. Detective Inspector Joe Merrick has just taken the worst kicking of his professional career, and is surprised to still be employed, albeit with severe restrictions.
“How did it go?” an approaching man asks. Merrick looks up, sighing as he does.
“Nowhere near as bad as I was expecting, Jeff.” he replies. “Live to fight another day. You’re stuck with me.” he adds, resigned with having to accept his fate.
“Good to hear. How about a game of squash later to take your mind off things?”
“Yea, maybe. No... I don’t know, perhaps another night?”
“Alright, let me know another time when you’re up for it. Actually, come with me - I want your advice on something. If they let you, of course.” Jeff nods, directing his aim at the door beyond. Merrick chuckles a little, getting up to pat him on the arm. DI Robinson leads him down the hall, Merrick averting his eyes from passing colleagues. He’ll handle conversations when his head is somewhat clearer.
Merrick follows Robinson to his office round the corner, where a TV setup in here is currently showing paused video. “What do you have?”
“Just watch.”
The video starts, CCTV footage of a desolate car park, looking to be outside a convenience shop or small supermarket. A streetlight close to the camera is the only illumination. Robinson points towards the back of the image, highlighting a figure clad entirely in black casually walking into view. Then the picture flickers