Timothy Williams The Infernal Shadow (The Timothy Williams Saga Book 2) Read online

  Timothy Williams

  The Infernal Shadow

  Books by Iestyn Long

  The Timothy Williams Saga

  Book One: Demon Hunter

  Book Two: The Infernal Shadow

  Demon Hunters

  Zen Lee & the Yellow Emperor

  Timothy Williams: Book Two

  The Infernal Shadow

  By Iestyn Long

  Copyright © 2021 Iestyn Long

  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, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  https://demon-hunter.co.uk

  Rebirth

  He floated within eternal blackness, drifting on dark shifting tides like flotsam upon a never-ending sea. For how long, he could not say. A day, a year, a lifetime? But now, as if from an endless dream, he had awoken. Who he was and why he was here, he did not know. Yet now there was a light in the distant vastness ― a pure white light, and it was calling him.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Vengeance

  Lucifer, the Lord of Shadows, Master of the Underworld and Hell Magazine’s ‘Creative torturer of the year’, perched upon his throne of bones gazing into the depths of the fire. The red and orange flames flickering within the hearth reflected their fiery glow upon his pitch-black eyes. Other than the firelight, the chamber was dark. Just how he liked it.

  Lucifer wallowed in a bottomless pit of metaphoric seething. A deep scowl creased his devilishly handsome face. His hands squeezed the throne’s bony armrests until his knuckles turned white. His jaw clenched and unclenched. As his anger swelled, the veins at his temples throbbed, and his face twitched with uncontrollable rage.

  Lucifer relived this irrepressible eruption of emotion each and every night since last Christmas Eve ― a night of infamy. And the only remedy to this debilitating condition: a vigorous abundance of torturing.

  Yet tonight, Lucifer had no desire to calm his anger. Instead, he allowed the sensation to fester unchecked. He wanted to feel the blood boil inside his veins and feel the hatred burn within his black soul. He wanted to enjoy it, savour it, suckle upon its malevolence ― because at last, he was ready to have his vengeance.

  ‘Who does this boy think he is? Without the Morning Star, he is nothing. He’ll know pain. He’ll know pain every day for eternity!’

  Lucifer spent more time than was healthy plotting the demise of Timothy Williams. For long months since that fateful night, the demon king had become but a shadow of his former glory, reduced to a desperate thing, mewling and feeble. The power channelled through the Morning Star on Christmas Eve had very nearly destroyed him. And in those dark times when recovery seemed a distant promise, it was Lucifer’s rage and what he was going to do to Timothy Williams that kept him alive from one day to the next. Now with his strength returned, it was time. Time to take back what was rightfully his. Time to rise from the depths of darkness. Time to take his revenge.

  ‘The boy will come to me, and then I’ll have him and the Morning Star,’ announced Lucifer with a grin. Allowing himself to relax, he leaned back into his throne in triumph. ‘What do you think of that, girl?’ he asked into the darkness.

  There was no reply, only a quiet whimpering from somewhere inside the chamber.

  ‘Oh, yes. How remiss of me. You can’t speak, can you? Well, I do hope you’re going to be a good little girl from now on. At least for your mummy and daddy’s sake, if not your own.’ Lucifer chuckled. ‘Of course you will.’ He watched the fire cast playful shadows that danced upon the walls. He winced. The only problem with a throne entirely constructed of bone was that the thing was so damn uncomfortable. There was no doubting the original concept. Nor, for that matter, the craftsmanship involved. Yet the throne’s functionality simply wasn’t practical. Lucifer finally admitted defeat and pushed himself up from the unforgiving chair.

  At that moment, and to Lucifer’s irritation, the throne room was illuminated. The light sparkled down from four magnificent chandeliers hanging from the throne room’s high vaulted ceilings.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Lord,’ said Astaroth, a vile demon of the first order. ‘I didn’t realise you were in here. My apologies.’

  ‘God, Astaroth, do something about your breath. I could smell your foulness even before you ruined the ambience with your cursed lights.’ Lucifer wasn’t a fan of this new-fangled electricity. Although, on this occasion, it did present him with the opportunity to admire himself in the full-length mirror. It was something he liked to do as often as possible. Impeccably handsome, he declared, despite his once golden hair now turned silver ― a side effect of his near destruction, and no amount of dark magic or overpriced hair dye could change that.

  Modelled on Louis the Great’s lavish throne room within the magnificent Palace of Versailles, Lucifer’s seat of power was more than a match for the extravagance of long-dead French kings. Luxurious velvet carpets covered the floors, and although there were no windows in Hell, plush curtains of rich fabric with tasselled cords hung from gilded rods. An eclectic mix of classical antique furnishings filled the spaces, and all presented in vibrant shades of red, Lucifer’s favourite colour. Competing for space on the thick panelled walls hung portraits, weapons and instruments of torture. Situated at the centre of the chamber was a great hearth where pokers and branding irons waited in their scuttles, ready to be cast into the flames on an evil whim.

  In a shadowy corner of the throne room, suspended from the ceiling on a thick metal chain, hung a human birdcage. It was here Ursula Le Rouge spent her days, broken and beaten, both physically and mentally. She sat cross-legged in her prison, dangling high above the carpets with her head slumped forward and her long dark hair with its faded streak of red spilling across her swollen face.

  Lucifer moved to a chaise longue on the other side of the fire. The sofa was adorned with plump cushions and soft blankets and compared to the bone throne, was simply heaven. Fixed to the opposite wall was an enormous state-of-the-art plasma screen. There were some technologies requiring electricity that Lucifer did like. Watching news channels with their twenty-four hours of doom and gloom was an absolute favourite, and he was partial to the odd soap opera too ― always guaranteed to be gloriously woeful. Post-apocalypse, Lucifer rather fancied hosting his own Saturday night game show. Lucifer’s game shows wouldn’t be like how they are now ― watching boring people win prizes. Instead, they would be watching boring people get tortured if they didn’t win prizes. The thought gave Lucifer a warm, satisfying feeling inside, but then he remembered Astaroth. ‘Turn the damn lights off and get out!’

  Astaroth grovelled. ‘Yes, Lord. Getting out, Lord. But first, might I acknowledge how well you are looking, Lord? Nice to see you up and about and in good health.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes. Now get out! Your stench offends me.’

  ‘Yes, Lord.’

  ‘Astaroth.’

  The demon with dog’s breath stopped and turned, bowing low before his master. ‘Yes, Lord?’

  ‘On the eve of the black spirit dance, when next the moon is full, and the fourth star of the celestial rift aligns with Saturn―’

  ‘Next Tuesday n
ight, Lord?’ interrupted Astaroth.

  Once more, Lucifer’s face twitched with anger. ‘Yes, Astaroth, next Tuesday night!’ Lucifer didn’t appreciate interruptions. ‘I require you to fetch someone to me.’

  ‘Of course, Lord. Which lucky soul do you have in mind?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Knights of the Sky

  Dadadadadadadadada! Blazed the Lewis Gun mounted on the upper wing of A4850: a Royal Aircraft Factory S.E.5 fighter plane. The bullets from the machine gun raked the underside of a German Halberstadt D.II aircraft as the British pilot, Flight Commander Albert Ball, swooped up from below having executed his favoured manoeuvre: the belly shot. Immediately, the German scout plunged from the sky, smoke trailing from its crippled airframe.

  With relief, Timothy Williams eased his aircraft level. Of all his dream battles to date, this one relied on his host’s abilities the most. Flying a First World War fighter plane with zero experience pretty much equated to a death sentence. As it was, the life expectancy of a British fighter pilot at the time was a meagre eleven days, and without Albert Ball inside Timothy’s head, he would have been lucky to last eleven seconds.

  Albert Ball was a hero. From his host’s memories, Timothy learned how the young pilot was a leading Allied fighter ace. He was Flight Commander of No. 56 Squadron. A newly formed elite fighter group packed full of experienced aviators handpicked to fly the latest Royal Flying Corps fighter: the S.E.5. Astonishingly, Albert Ball was only twenty years of age.

  Timothy could see the British Army advancing. Initially, they’d managed to overrun the German trenches, but now the enemy fought back. Like an army of ants, he spotted infantry weave their way through the blasted landscape made bleaker by the miserable iron-grey skies. From up above, Timothy thought the war looked like a grim affair. Yet as Albert Ball and 56 Squadron flew overhead, the soldiers on the ground stopped to cheer and wave their passing. To the common Tommy ― who endured a life of mud, trench foot and bully beef ― the young men in their flying machines were heroes. There was honour amongst the clouds. Men respected one another, even those on opposite sides.

  Below raged the Battle of Arras. Explosions flared and gunfire crackled. Mingling with the grey clouds that swept across the skies, plumes of smoke from uncountable fires drifted forlornly into the air.

  The offensive was a joint Allied operation designed to break through the German lines along the Western Front and win the war. The British Army pushed from near the French town of Arras and the French from further south at the Aisne River. Of course, Timothy knew that the offensive didn’t win the war. The British gained some useful ground, but as with many of the previous set-piece battles of the First World War, the fighting floundered into a bloody and costly stalemate. Yet within the pages of Timothy’s favourite book, The History of War, he’d discovered how the Battle of Arras wasn’t only notable for what took place on the ground but for what happened above it too.

  General Trenchard, the future Marshal of the Royal Air Force, unleashed a then-unprecedented twenty-five squadrons into battle during the engagement. Many of the aircraft were ordered to fly air support operations to aid the ground forces ― artillery spotting, photographic reconnaissance, bombing raids and trench strafing ― while others, the fighter squadrons, patrolled the skies against enemy aircraft. Trenchard’s deployment of airpower during the spring of 1917 was the largest since the discovery of flight.

  Timothy was caught off guard. He hadn’t expected a dream battle so soon. Not when he’d yet to return to school after the summer break. Gabriel, archangel of Heaven and Timothy’s friend, had yet to make contact, and already it seemed the great game had begun again. Timothy had spent New Year’s Eve fighting Germans and now he would do so once more.

  Here we go, thought Timothy leading the pilots of 56 Squadron over enemy lines. Now, where are Rupert and George? Timothy had no way of communicating with his friends. Inflight radio was in early development but not yet operational and making hand gestures from inside the cockpit proved ineffective, and quite frankly, made you look like a complete arse. But perhaps there is a way?

  It was then that Timothy spotted them in the distance. At first, they appeared as nothing more than black dots on the horizon, but soon they took shape, quickly forming into biplane fighter aircraft flying straight toward him. Albert Ball knew who they were: Jasta 11 of the German Luftstreitkräfte. The most feared German fighter squadron to grace the skies above the Western Front. There was a good reason why in 1917, the month of April became known as Bloody April. This was Manfred von Richthofen’s squadron. The infamous Red Baron. The greatest First World War fighter pilot of all time. The ace of aces and scourge of the British.

  Jasta 11 flew the deadly Albatros D.III. Richthofen’s aircraft was painted blood-red ― a visual challenge to all who flew against him. At least I’ll be able to see her coming, thought Timothy. He’d already worked out that the Red Baron was Ursula Le Rouge, Lucifer’s chosen one. Timothy shrugged. It was apt, really. She even had a suitable surname. Richthofen was known to the French as Diable Rouge: the Red Devil.

  Okay, thought Timothy. Let’s see if my idea works. To call his friends into a dream battle, he simply pictured their faces inside his mind. It was easy. If their dreams were linked, perhaps so were their thoughts? Rupert’s uninspiring face, with its higgledy-piggledy arrangement of insignificant features, popped into Timothy’s head. He focused hard on the image. It was difficult not to picture his friend without a ridiculous expression plastered across his freckled face. ‘Rup, it’s Tim. If you can hear me, I’m flying the Flight Commander’s plane out in front. The one with the red nose.’

  ‘I can hear you, Tim,’ answered Rupert. His voice sounding directly into Timothy’s head. ‘I’m right beside you.’

  Timothy jerked his head to the right. He saw the pilot alongside grinning like a naughty schoolboy while making obscene hand gestures from the open cockpit of his S.E.5. Hand gestures that had no place in 1917 or, for that matter, any other time period in history.

  Timothy shook his head. ‘Idiot.’ Now it was time to find George. As with Rupert, Timothy conjured George’s smiling round face. Disturbingly, the image promptly filled every available space within his head. Timothy reached out to his friend, but an aeroplane flying ahead of the German pack distracted him.

  Twisting and turning like crazy, the fleeing fighter was headed straight for Timothy and 56 Squadron. With help from Albert Ball, he identified the onrushing fighter as a French-built Nieuport 17, complete with blue nose.

  It’s good old Bish come to play from 60 Squadron! came Albert’s voice inside Timothy’s head. Billy Bishop was an esteemed Canadian pilot who, like Albert, was very much a lone wolf. He liked nothing better than flying dangerous solo missions behind enemy lines.

  If Billy Bishop is so good, why is he about to crash into me? mused Timothy watching the Nieuport 17 weave its way on a collision course. Timothy knew why. ‘Pull up, George!’

  George panicked. ‘Pull what up?’

  ‘Pull your nose up. Use the joystick in front of you.’

  By this time, Billy Bishop’s fighter plane was so close that Timothy could see the whites of George’s bulging eyes through his friend’s aviator goggles. And then, when it seemed too late and impact inevitable, George plunged beneath 56 Squadron, very nearly taking Timothy’s wheels off in the process. George had pushed forward on the control stick, not back.

  Rupert swerved right to avoid the diving Billy Bishop. ‘What’s he doing?’ moaned Rupert. ‘Muppet!’

  George’s rapid descent was accompanied by a high-pitched squealing ― much like that of a tortured piglet ― which, when amplified directly inside Timothy and Rupert’s minds, was unbearable.

  ‘Concentrate, George,’ pleaded Timothy, wincing from the shrill wailing inside his head. ‘Become one with your host.’

  ‘Yeah, before you become one with the ground!’ added Rupert unhelpfully.

  ‘How can I concentrate on be
coming one with my host when I’m plummeting to my death!’ squealed George in terror. All he found himself concentrating on was the speed at which the ground was rushing toward him and the sudden and desperate need to empty his dangerously full bladder.

  Now he knows how I feel when I can’t focus on the pendant, thought Timothy. It was difficult to take control of your mind when it was screaming at you to panic.

  ‘Holy fudge!’ cried George.

  ‘Calm down,’ urged Timothy. ‘You’re no longer George Apples. You’re fighter ace Billy Bishop. Pull up!’

  There was no response.

  ‘Well, George wasn’t much use, was he,’ commented Rupert. ‘At least he’s finally got to grips with his stuttering.’

  Indeed, over the last year, poor George had been subjected to more episodes of blind terror than his body knew what to do with. As a result, George’s subconscious had seemingly taken control of matters and abandoned George’s need to stammer in despairing situations. There really wasn’t any point.

  ‘Woohoo!’ hollered George in wonder. ‘This is incredible. I feel just like Biggles!’ George’s unscathed Nieuport 17 swooped from below to re-join his friends and 56 Squadron.

  ‘Glad you could join us, George,’ said Timothy with a sigh of relief.

  ‘Pillock,’ declared Rupert.

  But there was no time for reunions or congratulations. Ursula Le Rouge and Jasta 11 were on them.

  ‘Break! Break! Break!’ cried Timothy. He felt like the flight leader of the Red Arrows display team. 56 Squadron burst apart from their formation, scattering into the sky in all directions. Not quite the Infinity Break ― the Red’s signature move ― but to Timothy, it felt close enough.