Jarrod and the Demon's Knight Read online

  Jarrod and the Demon's Knight

  Jarrod and the Demon’s Night

  Book One in the Jarrod Series

  First published in 2022

  P N Burrows

  Copyright © P N Burrows 2022

  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.

  Contents

  DEDICATION

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Author’s Letter

  About the Author

  THE MINERAN BOOK SERIES

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my wife Cath, she endures my madness. She is my world.

  Chapter 1

  Jarrod gripped on to the handle as the harsh Mancunian wind threatened to lift his umbrella into the heavens. The wizard looked at the throng of people rushing below and sighed. He disliked humans: collectively they were destructive, spiteful, deceptive and downright disgusting. There were a few – just a handful – that he did like; those rare humans filled with good intentions whose auras remained relatively untarnished. To Jarrod they were beacons of light, shining brightly amidst the putridness of so-called humanity. His left hand rolled a coin over and under his knuckles. The process was something Jarrod had performed for so many years it was no longer a conscious effort. But this was no ordinary coin; it was one of many magical talismans Jarrod possessed. The coins stored energy for when situations arose that required prompt action, a magical battery for a better analogy. It was one of four that Jarrod carried at all times, and as he was doing now, he would draw in the ambient energy from the universe and imbue into the finely crafted metal disk.

  Another year or so, Jarrod promised himself with a sigh, then I – no — we can go home. Jarrod corrected himself, referring to his long-lost son. Decades earlier, baby Arbon had been smuggled to Earth following an accident that killed Jarrod's wife and almost killed Arbon too. Jarrod could never prove the supposed accident was meant for him, but he had powerful enemies. With the aid of his friend Swalon, Jarrod had hidden Arbon on Earth for his safety. Disaster striking shortly after, Swalon disappeared, taking with him the only way to reach his son. By the time Jarrod had learnt the skills necessary to locate Arbon, he had grown into a man, an adult who had no idea about his heritage or true father.

  'I'm sorry Mr Wentworth, the police won't allow anybody in,’ a uniformed guard said as he joined Jarrod at the top of the building’s steps, startling Jarrod out of his reverie.

  Jarrod turned towards the security guard and sighed. He could see recent events were troubling the man. 'It isn't your fault Barry. Tell me what happened.' He sighed once more at the futility of living on Earth. How do I tell my son that he is not just from another world, but another dimension, one where magic prevails? It wasn't the first time Jarrod had pondered over the problem. Arbon had been raised as a human, flawed and frail.

  'They tasered Martin and then hit him on the head, knocking him unconscious. The ambulance took him away shortly before you arrived, Mr Wentworth.’ Barry's usual pallid face was flushed red, his heart raced at the retelling. 'I was on the third floor working my way down, Martin was checking the ground and we should have met up for a brew in the office. His head’s a mess, Mr Wentworth. There was blood everywhere.’

  Jarrod tried to calm the man, worried for the overweight guard. 'Barry, he'll be ok. Head wounds bleed profusely and always look worse than they are. Now think, what did you see and what have the thieves taken?'

  'They took the gold from the shop, the stuff we sell to the tourists.’ Barry leaned against the wet railings, shielding himself with a faded umbrella. Jarrod did not recognise the motif emblazoned upon it.

  'So, they didn't steal any of the relics upstairs?' Jarrod looked back at the building, the stone facade resembling a museum to entice passing tourists to part with their cash.

  Barry looked downwards, embarrassed.

  'Barry, is my consignment untouched?'

  'I'm sorry. They came in at the back. There's a building being renovated on the far side of the warehouse and they used the scaffolding. The police are saying it's an inside job, Mr Wentworth. They knew when we would start our patrols, where the cameras are, and they bypassed the sensor on the upper window.’

  'They're not professionals if they walked past the relics in the sorting house,' Jarrod snorted, 'not if they stole the rubbish in the shop.'

  'I had to take a detective to the office to look at the camera footage. It was kids, a street gang by the look of it. They wore hoodies and face-scarves. They timed their route to coincide with the start of our patrol, then left through the front door when they'd finished. It was the door that set the alarm off,' the guard muttered, his knuckles white as he gripped the rail.

  'My consignment Barry?' Anger flicked at the back of Jarrod's voice, not at Barry — for Jarrod knew he was an honest man — but at the intrusion.

  'I don't know for sure, they asked me to leave the office once I had shown the detective how to access our system. I'm a suspect, too.' Barry's voice broke a little with the realisation. 'But before they kicked me out, I saw one of the hooded figures look at something on your shelf. A statue, I think.'

  As a professor of ancient sorcery, Jarrod's official mission on Earth was to discover what magical knowledge the humans had once possessed. Fortunately for him, his in-depth study of Earth's ancient civilisations provided him with enough insight to build the cover persona of a boring purveyor of antiquities. Massaging the tension behind his temples, his left hand over his forehead, Jarrod mentally worked his way through the inventory of his latest consignments. Barry's description of the stolen item didn't narrow down the possibilities; his current shipment from the Far East contained a multitude of figurines and statues.

  'Was there anything important?' Barry asked, knowing that few o
f Jarrod's imports held any personal significance for the old man.

  'There are a couple of items for my studies. You know me, Barry, forever the optimist.' Seeing the worry in the man's eyes, he patted the guard's arm in a friendly manner.

  An attractive woman momentarily stepped out of the doorway behind them, quickly stepping back as the rain lashed at her. 'Mr Wentworth?'

  'Yes,' Jarrod replied. He stared warmly into the woman's hazel eyes. She was strikingly beautiful. Indian origin, no sign of a foreign accent, possibly third generation British, he surmised. Jarrod cast a quick glance over her and took a mental snapshot of her appearance and physique. Examining the image in his head rather than staring at her, he studied the detective. She was dressed in matching jacket and trousers, a dark blouse and sensible boots. She emanated an air of competence — he hoped it was competence and not arrogance. Jarrod unfocused his real vision for a millisecond to visualise her aura with his mind's eye. Underneath the swirling clouds of everyday feelings and health, he could see that she was fundamentally a good person. True she had some dark stains in her aura, but who didn't? She wasn't a shining flame of purity and innocence, but she was a rarity; she was honest. Jarrod smiled.

  'That's the detective that kicked me out of the office,' Barry whispered to Jarrod. 'Detective Constable Widcombe.'

  'Could we have a word inside?' the detective asked.

  'Sure, I'll be there in a minute,' Jarrod replied. Turning to Barry he asked, 'So, how are you getting on with the last book that I lent to you?'

  'Well, slowly. It's in Spanish,' Barry complained. 'Couldn't I just buy the English version?'

  'No! No, no, no...,' Jarrod shook his head chuckling, 'You should always read the original manuscript, unadulterated. So much of the nuance is lost in translation.' Turning away he added, 'Keep at it. The Labyrinth of Solitude or El Laberinto de la Soledad as it's really called, is worth reading. It will help you understand the Mexicans when you go there.'

  'When?' Barry muttered under his breath, an air of regret enshrouding him.

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  Detective Widcombe insisted that Jarrod sit while she stood to take his details. She saw his shoulders sag as he sighed; he recognised it as a power ploy utilised by police forces all over the globe, a way of keeping him submissive. Interesting, he's been interrogated before, she thought. Nothing on his records though.

  'I have told you everything I know Detective, I am not sure how you think I can be of help?' Jarrod questioned.

  Why do I also get the weird ones? Someone up there hates me... she shook her head at the notion. 'They have assigned you a dedicated area in the clearing house, Mr Wentworth. You must be a valuable customer?' She knew exactly how valuable. Archie Randle had let slip how much Jarrod imported through their establishment. The Cambridge toff didn't meet many women in his line of work; he'd babbled inanely in her presence. She may have twiddled her hair a little, to urge him on.

  'Caster and Randle have been very considerate, Detective.'

  'How much would you say you spend here?' She watched him as he answered. People lied all the time, unaware that their body language gave them away.

  'Last year, it must have been close to a million pounds, Detective. Caster and Randle source, purchase and import all kinds of antiquities on my behalf. They have access to lucrative auctions and collections that I do not. I fail to see the relevance of this.'

  Damn it, he told the truth. She was sure this was an insurance scam. Someone had tipped off the crooks and this man, in his retro burgundy suit, was hiding something. She could smell it. He wasn't fazed by her questioning. He was too calm and he’d conveniently turned up after the break-in.

  'I like to know the facts, Mr Wentworth. I observe and I learn. I'm sure you've seen it on TV, it's called police work. It helps to solve cases.'

  'Please, call me Jarrod.' Jarrod smiled up at the detective. 'Close your eyes and describe me.'

  'What?' She stared at the man, wondering if she should ask one of the uniformed officers to join her. Weirdos, I always get the fucking weirdos, she thought.

  'I want you to prove that you are as observant as you claim.'

  'No,' she answered, as a uniformed officer knocked on the open door. The policeman proffered a computer tablet. Should she ask him to join them? 'Thank you, John.' She rolled her eyes at her colleague and dismissed him. She could put this creep down if he got handsy.

  Closing the office door, Detective Widcombe could feel the old man staring at her. A shiver went down her spine. Ew, he's creeping me out. Still facing the door, she took a deep breath and said, 'Male, five foot eight in bare feet, mid-fifties, short, cropped beard matching the greying hair, you still have the odd brown hair amidst the grey. Your clothes belie the fact that you are more athletic than your appearance suggests. The two flights of steps to this office didn't even cause you to miss a beat in our conversation. You suffer from arthritis as you wear a copper bracelet. Your clothes are tailor made, expensive … burgundy is not a colour I would have chosen for you. You appear to be right-handed, but the dexterity in your left indicates that you could be ambidextrous.' She turned and stared at Jarrod. 'You play with a sobriety token when you are nervous.'

  Jarrod stopped rolling the coin from knuckle to knuckle and flicked it towards Detective Widcombe. She caught it, unsure if the speed of the toss was a test of her reflexes or aggression.

  'It's heavier than I expected. Warmer too, you must have hot hands.' She turned the coin over unsure of what she could perceive about the metal. It felt odd... it was steel, but heavy like lead or gold and the warmth from Jarrod's hands didn't fade as she examined it. As she rotated the coin, the delicate leaf pattern seemed to draw her in; she found herself mesmerised by it.

  'It's meteoric iron. I had them commissioned years ago,' Jarrod informed her as she ran her finger around the edge, tracing the vegetative vines.

  'The leaf pattern is an old family emblem from many generations ago.' He answered her unspoken question as he plucked the coin from her hand.

  Startled, she stepped back; she had not heard the man rise from the chair let alone move towards her. Her hand felt empty without the coin, it was oddly comforting. Shaking her head to snap out of her stupor, she thrust the iPad into Jarrod's hand. 'They stole an item from your last assignment.' She scrolled through images of his consignment. 'I'd like you to tell me what's missing.'

  'It would be easier if I could see my items in person, Detective.'

  'I'm sorry, we're waiting for forensics to arrive.'

  Jarrod studied the image, zooming in and panning across the width. From his old-fashioned appearance, Detective Widcombe was surprised that the old toff was computer literate.

  'It all seems to be here, Detective,' he said.

  Detective Widcombe tilted the screen towards her and scrolled to an image of a youth lifting a foot-long artefact from one of Jarrod's boxes. The miscreant’s face was hidden by a hoodie and face-scarf. 'Really?' This has got to be an insurance fraud, she thought. The old boys club banding together. He probably went to Cambridge with the insurance appraiser. Idiots!

  Chapter 2

  'It's been over twenty-four hours. I was told my items would have been processed and cleared by now,' Jarrod snapped at Johnathan Caster, one of the proprietors of Caster and Randle.

  'I'm sorry Jarrod, we haven't been told anything,' Johnathan complained. 'The police have made as much of a mess as the thieves.' Nodding to his secretary he continued, 'Jane will call Detective Widcombe and ask if your items can be released.'

  'Thank you.'

  'Let's go into my office old boy, I could do with a cup of tea. I've just received some bad news from our Malaysia office.'

  'I'd prefer to watch the CCTV footage of the theft if that's okay?' Jarrod ignored Johnathan, not feeling the desire for small talk. Jarrod was grateful that Caster and Randle had persuaded the police to call in a specialist to
perform the forensics. Even so, he was still concerned that the fingerprint powder may have left stains on his consignment.

  'Yes, of course, I don't see any problem in that. We can access the system from my office.' Johnathan held up two fingers for his secretary to see and mouthed: two teas and biscuits.

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  'There you go Jarrod. It's a fairly straightforward system.' Johnathan Caster handed Jarrod the wireless mouse and turned the large monitor. 'I've set the date parameters. You can enlarge the thumbnails by clicking on the camera you require. The system saves all the camera feeds for three months; if there was any movement on a camera it shows it on the timeline bar at the bottom.'

  Jarrod watched the grid of thirty cameras. At ten minutes past midnight the two security guards left their office to perform their assigned routes. Barry walked up to the third floor and swiped his ID card on a sensor to inform the system that he had arrived. Martin — the less fortunate guard — did the same at the ground floor.

  'They have to swipe at key points around the building. Their patrol is timed and if they miss a scheduled swipe, the other guard is notified that there might be something wrong,' Johnathan explained.

  Jarrod sped up the footage to sixteen times, making the guards look comical as they whizzed around the building.

  'The break-in first occurred at ten past five. May I?' Johnathan gestured for the mouse. 'See here, this camera just about shows the buggers on the scaffolding at the back.'

  Jarrod watched as the gang of youths swung planks from the scaffolding to a window ledge on the antiquities warehouse. One of the hooded figures ran across and could be seen waiting, looking at his watch.

  'They knew Barry's routine?'

  'Which is why the police said it was an inside job. We've put Barry on paid leave until the police clear him,' Johnathan confirmed.