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    The Confessions of Peter Crossman
    The Confessions of Peter Crossman
    The Confessions of Peter Crossman
    Ebook94 pages1 hour

    The Confessions of Peter Crossman

    By James D. Macdonald and Debra Doyle

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    "So cool! Sort of like if the Pope and Aleister Crowley had written James Bond."
    -- Rosemary Edghill

    Contains:
    "Stealing God"
    The Holy Grail has vanished and it's up to Peter Crossman to get it back.

    "Selling the Devil"
    A headless corpse, a holy sword, and a missing girl; Peter Crossman has until dawn to find the common link.

    "Sleeping Kings"
    The Spear of Destiny was supposed to be safely hidden. Why do a bunch of cultists think they have it? Peter Crossman is on the case.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJames D. Macdonald
    Release dateSep 28, 2010
    ISBN9781452326214
    The Confessions of Peter Crossman

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      Book preview

      The Confessions of Peter Crossman - James D. Macdonald

      The Confessions of Peter

      Crossman

      by

      Debra Doyle

      &

      James D. Macdonald

      This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in these stories are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons or events is purely coincidental.

      All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or any portion thereof, in any form.

      * * *

      Stealing God by Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald, copyright 1995 by Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald.

      Selling the Devil by Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald, copyright 1998 by Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald.

      Sleeping Kings by Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald, copyright 2002 by Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald.

      * * *

      Smashwords Edition

      Formatting for electronic version by Brendan Macdonald,

      Cover copyright 2010 by Brendan Macdonald.

      * * *

      License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please go to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

      Table of Contents

      Stealing God

      Selling the Devil

      Sleeping Kings

      About the Authors

      Stealing God

      I was working the security leak at Rennes-le-Château when the word came down. The Rennes flub was over a hundred years old, but the situation needed constant tending to keep people off the scent. That’s the thing about botches. They never go away.

      Now I had new orders. Drop whatever I was doing and get my young ass over to New York mosh-gosh. Roger that, color me gone. I was on the Concorde out of Paris before the hole in the air finished closing behind me in Languedoc.

      With the Temple paying my way, cost wasn’t a worry. I had enough other things to think about. The masters weren’t bringing me across the Atlantic just to chew the fat. We had plenty of secure links. Whatever this was, it required my presence.

      Sherlock Holmes said that it was a capital mistake to theorize before one had information. My old sergeant, back when I was learning the trade, told me to catch some sleep whenever I could. I dozed my way over the Atlantic and didn’t wake up until we hit JFK.

      Customs inspection was smooth and uneventful—I had only one piece of carryon luggage, with nothing in it that the customs people might recognize as a weapon. I took the third cab in the rank outside the terminal and was on my way. First stop was at The Cloisters in Fort Tryon Park, to pay my respects to the Magdalene Chalice. My arrival would be noted there, and the contact would come soon.

      Outside the museum, I got another cab to Central Park West. I made my way to the Rambles, that part where the city can’t be seen and you can almost imagine yourself in the wilderness.

      Sure enough, a man was waiting. He wore the signs, the air, and the majesty. I made a quiet obeisance, just to go by the book, and he responded. But I didn’t need any of the signals in order to recognize one of the two masters.

      There are only three and thirty of us in the inner Temple, plus the masters. We’re the part of the Temple that’s hidden from all the other Knights Templar: the secret from the holders of the secrets, the ace up the sleeve. All of us warriors, all of us priests. We serve, we obey. When needed, we kick ass.

      Hello, he said. It’s been years.

      Sure has, John, I replied. What’s up?

      We spoke in Latin, for the same reason the Church does. No matter where you are or where you’re from, you can communicate.

      There’s a problem, he said. Over on the East Side.

      The Grail. It had to be. Instructions?

      Go in, check it out, report back.

      Anything special I’m looking for?

      No, he said. Just be aware that the last three people who got those same orders haven’t reported in yet.

      We nodded to each other and parted. I walked south. There are a bunch of hotels along Central Park South, and I wanted to hit the bar in one of them and do some thinking. For Prester John to be away from Chatillon meant that things were more serious than I’d suspected.

      I sat in the bar at the Saint Moritz, drinking Laphroaig neat the way God and Scotland made it, while I wondered what in the name of King Amfortas could be going on over at the UN, and how I was going to check. Halfway down the bar another man sat playing with the little puddle of water that had collected around the base of his frosty mug of beer. He was drinking one of those watery American brews with no flavor, no body, and no strength to recommend it, though it had apparently gotten him half plowed regardless. After a minute or two I realized what had drawn my attention: he was tracing designs in the water on the bar.

      Designs I recognized. Runes.

      Did they think I was blind, I wondered, or so ignorant that I wouldn’t notice? But I didn’t perceive any immediate danger, and a sudden departure would tip my hand to whoever was watching. Maybe this guy was just a random drunk who happened to know his mystic symbols.

      Sure, and maybe random drunks had nailed three other knights.

      No, more likely he was a Golden Dawner or a Luciferian. Probably a Luciferian. Lucies have a special relationship with the Grail, or they think they do. I tipped up the last drops of Laphroaig, harsh on my tongue like a slurry of ground glass and peat moss, called for another shot, and drank half of it. The money lying by the shot glass would pay for my drink. I left the bar, left the hotel, turned east, and started walking. Leaving good booze unfinished is a venial sin, but that way it’d look like I’d just stepped over to the men’s room and was coming back soon— good for a head start.

      Halfway down the block I spotted a convenient bunch of construction barriers. I ducked behind them, and as soon as I was out of sight from the street, my left hand darted into my bag. A couple of seconds to work the charm, and I stepped out onto the sidewalk, Tarnkappe fully charged and ready in my hand. My bag remained behind, looking for anyone without True Sight like a rotting sack of garbage.

      There are only three Tarnkappen in the world, and I had one of them. Something like that can come in handy in my line of work, and it was about to come in handy again. I walked slowly until I was sure that anyone following me from the Saint Moritz was on my tail. Then I cruised eastward, window-shopping. Windows make great mirrors to show what’s behind you—and sure enough, here came my runic friend, Mr. Beer.

      I turned a few random corners to make

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