Paige Simmons

The Angels of Hell Await You

Novel extract

Chapter One

January 15, 1903 – London, England

Despite the dead body not looking like a dead body, the smell emanating from it was the same as any corpse. Rotten eggs mixed with flatulence and mouldy garlic. Covering his nose didn’t help, he still gagged on the air and fought to hold down his breakfast. 

Unfortunately, the smell was the most normal part of the situation. Not that James had spent a particularly lengthy time around corpses but move to London and you’ll learn a thing or two about them. 

There was blood, well what he assumed was blood, but blood wasn’t usually silver, was it? And yet there it was, oozing from the body lying on the ground, shimmering like polished iron that had captured the stars in its reflection. 

It was definitely the last thing he should have been noticing, but there was a unique sort of beauty surrounding the dead man – porcelain skin, fire-red lips and copper hair. To James Calloway, the body looked more like a sleeping beauty – a drunk man with too much wine in his system, eyes closed and face relaxed. 

James’s brain ignored his heart’s fear. It disregarded his need to run, scream, cry – anything. His body was frozen in place by a dangerous blend of shock and curiosity. Inquisitiveness won. Heart racing, blood bumping, he checked his surroundings. If he went any closer, the situation could have been misread. 

Great Portland Street was surrounded in nothing but darkness and an eerie silence. Fitting for the moment. 

James leaned forward, bending, and kneeling until his knee rested centimeters away from the sanguine puddle before him. Up close the body had an almost ethereal glow to him, a crown of light around him that slowly faded the longer he looked. There was a light buzzing sensation that made its way up James’s arms and down his back, almost as if James could feel the man’s life force reaching out to him, begging for a chance to remain rooted to this man’s soul. 

As if a magnet pulled him, a beacon blazing for James’s soul to see, his hand began to move of its own accord. His fingers reached out to him, whoever the poor sod was. The closer James was to this lost cause, the more he leaned forward, his free hand landed on the ground to steady him. His brain didn’t even acknowledge the pool of liquid warmth that coated his hand as he continued to reach out. His mind became focused solely on the task at hand. 

James didn’t know what to expect when his hand finally landed on the man’s shoulder. Cold skin, for one. Corpses usually became quite cold, and yet his skin resembled that of the warmth that coated your skin when you’d been standing in the sun too long. The body was warm, comforting, even though the English, winter air pierces the lungs and eyes. 

All thoughts of rotten eggs, warm blood and cold nights vanished from his mind, as the man’s eyes shot open as fast as a flash of lightning, his bright green orbs full of fear and distress. Large hands moved to seize James’s wrist before he could even blink. The body’s grasp stiff and agonising. 

The feeling of a thousand lightning bolts zapped its way up James’s arm, clawing its way into his skin and burrowing itself into the deepest parts of him. It shocked him every step of the way, planting jolts of electricity in his head, his heart and his stomach. 

It came with a wave of energy that had James releasing a shout so loud, even his own ear drums shook. The pain was something foreign and excruciating. James tried to pull away, trying to use his free hand to pry the man’s fingers off his wrist. 

He was looking at James then, his face no longer holding the same beauty it did moments before. It was a look so intense; James froze. Was he going to kill him? Was he going to hurt James? 

“Run.” His voice was so disturbingly broken, like he had just finished an eternity of screaming. “Run, Slade, please. Run.” 

Just as quickly as he had come to life, he died. His entire life force vanished before James’s eyes, the glow disappearing completely. His grip on James’s wrist was lost, his eyes focused on looking through James’s feet instead of at them. 

The whole moment took less than twenty seconds to come and go, but James’s mind took less time than that to make him stand up and move away. It took another two seconds to decide to take the dead man’s advice, even though the words were not for James, and run as fast as he could – fear in his heart, and stars on his hand. 

January 18, 1903 – London, England

“What’s got into you, then?”

James was pulled back to reality, less so by the question put to him by his brother, but by the slap he delivered to the back of James’s head. It forced James to shove down the feeling of guilt that had plagued him ever since that body in the street. James’s eyes drifted over to yesterday’s paper. They had written that it was a homeless man who had fallen down drunk and hit his head. James knew that to be a lie. There had been no trauma to his head, only the gaping hole in his chest.

Shaking his head, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“You’re sitting there looking like you’re about to have a cow, Jamie.” 

“Glad to know we finally look alike, then.”

“Watch it, James.” Nicholas warned, the ‘big brother voice’ turning itself on. The same one he used whenever he wanted to try and sound intimidating in some way, even though he was as warm as a fireplace on a bitter winter’s night.

“Rest easy, brother, I am merely deflecting.” 

“James.”

“Nicholas.”

Nicholas stood from his position against the rattiest armchair by the fire, watching his younger brother as James stood up and began to walk towards his bedroom. “Don’t walk away when you’ve only given me a half-truth.”

James, who was really hoping the conversation would have been dropped, stayed hovering by the living room door. He turned to face Nicholas once more. “On the contrary,” he said. “It is not a half-truth. A half-truth would imply that I’ve told you a statement which is half a truth and half a lie.”

“And if it’s not that, then what is it?” Nicholas asked, clearly finding James’s evasion tactics humorous.

“A glimpse into my troubles?”

“Well, as your big brother, I would like to know all of your troubles.”

James sighed dramatically, “That’s a big ask, Nicky.”

“You’re impossible, James.” That time his name left Nicky’s mouth as a sigh. 

James walked over and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s nothing to worry yourself with, Nicky. My troubles are not yours to bear, no matter how much my senior you happen to be.”  

“I –” 

“I am fine.” James assured him, enunciating every word so it sank in. “I am simply plagued with the troubles of being four and twenty and still living with my brother and not a wife.” 

Nicholas swiped his brother’s hand off of his shoulder. “Find a wife and then you can live with one. Preferably one with money.” 

“See, this is why you are older, Nicky.” James dramatically began sneaking away to his bedroom. “You have opened my eyes to a truth so obscure, one would never have thought of it with common sense alone.” 

Nicky finally gave up, allowing James the chance to retire to his rooms with a buzz in his veins and guilt in his heart. 

James’s bedroom was just as cold and depressing as it had been when he left it that morning. With no more servants to help with the upkeep of the now antiquated mansion, the boys were no longer welcomed home to freshly made beds. It was far from ideal, but James had never fussed about it too much, no matter how bleak it made his days. Nicky, however, did not take to such positive thinking. His older brother mostly spent his afternoons sleeping since that was the time for the fireplace to be roaring, spreading its warmth around the sitting room with a fierce determination that only the natural elements of the world bowed down to. 

The icy air bit into James’s skin, slowly turning his blood into crimson sleet. He could practically feel it stop moving in his body. Teeth chattering, he moved to the mould-ridden bed in the middle of the room, hoping to wrap himself up and find some warmth within its embrace, but he found the duvet gave nothing but dew and bitter disappointment. 

That disappointment turned to anger. Anger that warmed him and fuelled him. How far the mighty had fallen; he and his brother. Living in what used to be a well-run household that once contained parents, staff and love. James was always enamoured by the hustle and bustle of the house back then, especially when he compared it to their tiny apartment in New York.

How are we able to stay here, papa?

Because I paid the nice man who wanted to sell it to me, son.

But how did you pay for it? Mama always says we aren’t rich.

Because your papa found a way to support this family. Papa will always find a way, Jamie. 

James never went another day questioning how they became so fortunate after his father spoke those words. He had decided to trust him, and right up until the moment his father was murdered in cold blood, it had never wavered.

The darkness that was blanketed over England was a form of depressing that James only ever associated with this particular country. America’s shadows didn’t consume the world in quite the same way. It fired up his anger that much more. In that moment, he seemed to be angry at everything – the situation he and his brother have found themselves in; his parents’ audacity to leave them in this world alone; the man in the street that plagued his every thought.

That body. James still reeled at the smell of it, the amalgamation of odour and sweetness that still clung to the inside of his nostrils. His heart still clenched at the retrospection. The look of fear in his eyes as he begged James to run. Well, not James, but rather this Slade character. He was looking at James as if he thought Slade was the one touching him instead. 

And what of the reaction that occurred when he touched James? James swore his blood was set ablaze by the connection that formed between them. James couldn’t explain why or how, but he knew what he felt. A bond had formed between them, a wave of something just as spiritual as the corpse had appeared to be. Whatever reaction it had started was still racing up and down James’s body with the power of a million horses. Its sharp-edged hooves beat against the bottommost layer of his skin, vibrating against his bones until there was a sacrificial drum beat constantly in his head. 

He’d been able to function fine with it during the day, but the evening brought on its own problems. Nightmares, cold sweats, marks on his skin that he assumed he put there himself in his sleep. There was a change happening within him, and James’s ego was not too big as to conceal how scared the thought made him. 

His teeth chattered as he sat on the firm bed and wrapped himself in the duvet. He was so intently focused on the million and one thoughts pounding the barriers of his brain that his reaction time was not quite as fast as it should have been when the oil lamps burst to life all at once, filling the room with a bright glow so intense, he needed to shield his eyes. Heat hit his skin like a horse-kick to the chest, thawing his blood and letting it rush around his body once more. 

As he opened his eyes, he could suddenly see every detail of his bedroom, and with it every memory that had embedded itself in the walls since he was a child. Maids cleaning, laughing as he told them joke after joke; nights spent sleeping in the bed with Nicky when he’d had a bad day. 

He could see the chipped, white paint along the walls, the skirting and the architrave, the brown tinge of his bed sheets from the dampness and ink he always dragged in from his job at the printing press. 

“Sorry, is it too bright?” came a soft voice from his bedroom window. “It’s bloody dark in here.”

The brightness lessened, but the heat remained. James stayed rooted to the spot. That buzzing in his veins seemed to shift and squirm until it bundled at his feet, seemingly trying to urge him to stand and remove himself from the situation. It seemed to do that a lot – act as some sort of survival mechanism that had immersed itself into his core being. 

“Aren’t you going to turn around?” the voice laughed – she laughed. 

“I apologise.” He slowly rose from his spot on the bed. “This is my first burglary. I’m not entirely well-versed with the procedures, so you’ll have to forgive me.” 

“I’m not here to burgle you, mortal. Do you even have anything that I would want to burgle? I had to heat up your house, something tells me I would not be finding much here.” 

“I have things!” 

“Things such as what? Pneumonia? Bedding that has absorbed all of the rain in England?” 

“Well, I apologise for my belongings being sub-standard, madam. I’ll be sure to try and have objects of wealth and this rare thing called good health the next time you decide to enter my home uninvited.”

“That is all that I ask.”  

He had to fight to withhold a chuckle at her response. It was quick, with a hint of witty woven within. 

Focus, James. Now is not really the best situation to find humorous, he thought to himself as he turned around to meet his not burglar.  

Before that moment, James had never met a woman who had stunned him with her beauty. That was not to say that he had not met his fair share of beautiful women; however, the lady before him seemed to have no trouble surpassing them all. She was more blinding than the lights in his room, with every inch of her radiating a perfectly balanced form of confidence as she sat on his chipped window-seat. Her chocolate brown locks framed her face and draped down over her until they rested on her waistline (which he could see clear as day underneath her tight, corseted jacket). Big, doe eyes stared up at him, nothing but humour and intrigue swimming in those pools of emerald. Her face screamed elegance and precariousness, especially with that perilous smirk etched into those full lips. James guessed that if she were to stand up, she would come up to his shoulder, and considering James was considered to be unbelievably tall, it made her quite the same. 

James’s attention was captured by the area around her. It had that same glow that the corpse did. That same soft light that emanated from her skin, like smoke from a fire. On the body it had held more of a goldish hue, but with this lady, it was closer to a silver shadow. 

“You’re wearing pants?” It came out of James’s mouth as more of a question than an observation.

“So are you,” she replied.

“It is considered quite normal for me to wear pants, miss…”

She shrugged. “I move around a lot. A dress would certainly get in the way when I need to carry out certain activities,” she said, completely ignoring James’s attempt to garner a name. 

“Activities such as?” 

“Such as climbing into windows and robbing poor, unsuspecting men who wear pants.”

The moment surpassed inappropriate. James was aware that being in a bedroom alone with a woman was the height of impropriety. He knew he should have done something, but within this field of strange conversation and inappropriate circumstances, there seemed to be something…familiar woven within. Like a single red thread entwined within the blue. 

That new liquor within him seemed to reach for her, as if like was attracting like. But what did they have in common other than a sense of humour?  

“Why do you say pants?” she asked suddenly. 

“Excuse me?”

“You keep calling them pants, but they are trousers. Why do you call them this?”

James answered despite being confused by the topic change. “I’m American. That’s what we call them.”

“I know that.” She laughed. “I mean why do you Americans call them pants?” 

“If I answer –” James took a tentative step forward. He had no clue why. “Will you answer a question of mine in return?”

She seemed to ponder on it for a moment. Eventually, she shrugged. “Why not?”

He took another step. “It’s a shortened form of the word pantaloons.”

She ran a finger up and down her pants as if this knowledge somehow gave them new meaning. “Okay, ask away.”

“You’ll have to excuse my language, but we seem to be finding ourselves in the height of impropriety at the moment anyway, so…how the fuck did you do this?” He gestured towards the lights that were still blaring away.

She shrugged once more. “I am not too sure of the science behind it. It’s just something I can do. It’s something all of us can do.” 

“All of whom?”

“Tut, tut, tut, Mr Calloway. Have we forgotten our manners? A question for a question demands that one takes it in turns to do the asking. How rude of you to skip my turn.” She spun around, flinging her legs off of the seat until they hit the floor. Her feet were clad in black boots.

“My apologies, Miss…”

Again, his attempt was ignored. “Did you touch it?”

His expression contorted into confusion, and hers morphed into one of seriousness, all humour abolished and only gravity in its place. 

“Did I touch what?” he asked, already knowing what she was asking. 

“The body you found three days ago. Did you touch it?”

He stumbled backwards as if she had hit him. James was well aware of what she was asking, but hearing the words spoken out loud added a realness to it that James was not ready for. How did she know about it? He’d been careful, told nobody. Hell, he hadn’t even told Nicholas. The whole ordeal felt unsafe, life-threatening, so he had erred on the side of caution.

“How do you know about that?” His usually deep and mellow voice came out raspy and forced. He took another step back, inching towards the door like he should have done as soon as she broke in. 

Her eyes flicked down to his feet, noting his movements, and he stopped. Her gaze slid back to his face. “Everyone in my world knows about Corren’s body. That’s the problem. Not everyone should know, which is why I ask…did you touch it?”

James delayed answering. He held no trust for this woman. Right?

And yet…

“Yes.” Is what he ended up telling her. 

She nodded once, as if taking it in, analysing what it meant. He had no clue why he could tell that by the look on her face, he just could. 

After a moment of thought on her part – as well as an extra two steps back on his – she abruptly stood up and hopped onto the seat. “I’ve taken the liberty of extending the same…warm kindness…to your brother’s bedroom, as well as the rest of the house.”

Nicholas’s shout of surprise validated her response. James could hear him rushing around the house, calling for him like a madman. The woman continued to speak as if his brother was not confused out of his mind. “For now, this is the safest place for you, Mr Calloway. You have absolutely no reason to believe me or trust me in any way, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to anyway. There are dangerous people after you because of what you found. You may find you feel slightly odd over the past few days. You’ve activated something inside you that has been sleeping for many years. The most you can do is let it happen.” 

She stepped onto the window ledge and James let out a shout, hands flying out in front of him to try and stop her. “Please believe me when I tell you that you’re lucky I’m the one who found you first.”

“I don’t understand.” James inched closer and closer.

“You will,” she said. “In time.”

She jumped.

Nicholas stormed in.And James stayed in the house.