Free dEaDINBURGH: Origins (Din Eidyn Corpus Book 3) by Mark Wilson Page B

relaxed on the pew, I look up at the big man.
    “Aye, I’m good. Thanks for letting us in,” I say.
    He raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t look too keen, to be honest.”
    “No,” I admit. “Our mission is to… be somewhere else.”
    His eyes narrow.
    “You were here for this?” The big priest looks annoyed, suspicious, and jabs a thumb at the door indicating the madness outside hammering at the red wood.
    “No. We were seeing the bells in with him.” I nod over at Spike and look for my man’s reaction. He clocks the famous face fully for the first time and lets a wee snort escape.
      Standing, I appreciate fully for the first time how big this guy really is up close and offer him my hand.
    “Captain Shephard, His Majesty’s escort,” I tell him, a hint of sarcasm in my tone as I nod over at Spike.
    He screws his face up like he’s just smelled shite.
    “Och, I’m sorry to hear that, pal. That’s a tough duty.”
    A warm smile passes over his face and his eyes dance with familiar camaraderie. Clutching my hand in a firm shake, he broadens his grin.
    “Padre Jock Stevenson, Her Majesty’s Royal Marines.

 
     
    Chapter 4
     
     
    James left Cammy and Padre Stevenson discussing how to further secure the building and strolled over to Harry, who was speaking quietly to a group of around fifty people, most of whom sat sprawled across the Kirk’s pews with their heads in their hands. Glancing up to the little balcony above the main doors, James noted the three ornamental windows and considered how beautiful they’d be with the morning sun shining through. If they survived long enough to see the light, it’d be a miracle worthy of such a beautiful church.
    Another group of… survivors, he supposed was the right term, were arranging coats and blankets from the Kirk, spreading the textiles out onto the floor. There was little chance of anyone sleeping with the violence spilling through the dark gothic streets outside, but people tended to do this with and for each other in sieges.
    Grainy, black and white TV images of Londoners sleeping on bunk beds in the city’s underground platforms during the Blitz flashed before James’ mind’s eye.
    The survivors clearly sensed that they might be here for a while.
    Tuning into Harry’s conversation, he listened as his friend’s calm voice drew the survivors on the pews slowly back from their growing despair.
    “We’re safe in here now, folks,” he said softly but firmly. That accent of his conveyed a subconscious authority, ancient and familiar. The casual, innate confidence emitted from him like light wherever he went and bathed – no, infected – people everywhere. James felt that presence spread through the high-ceilinged church hall, soothing and reinvigorating his little captive audience.
    “The armed services will have been dispatched and most likely have already begun the process of containing these people.”
    He made a casual gesture at the door, indicating the feral former-humans currently clawing and banging impotently at the heavy Kirk doors.
    “These men are well-armed and trained to be clinical, compassionate and unstoppable. Your soldiers will do you proud, I promise you that.”
    He moved his eyes over every one of them, forcing his personality, his indomitable strength of character and being into their eyes. Each in turn began to absorb his words and his courage.
     
    James had seen him do this before. People expected Harry to be lazy, feckless and carefree. Captain Wales was none of these things. The man was driven, skilled, utterly charismatic and a gifted leader. With his passion, courage and his humour, leading by example, Harry could and had infused his peers and subordinates with the confidence and vigour that men who risked their own lives for strangers require. Simply, he was an excellent motivator and first-class officer. He lived to serve his country and inspire the same devotion in others.
    Most of the people scattered around the