by R Mountebank
Chapter 22
The butcher’s skin
The sun was dipping below the horizon when Lonagan dug himself free from his temporary tomb. Though ‘dug’ wasn't really the word. Not by a long a shot. He rose from the ground, loose soil parting like the Red Sea. His bare skin was immaculate, not a smudge of dirt or any hint of the second-degree burns that covered most of his body less than twenty-four hours earlier. Shadow coiled about him like a leashed dog, maw slavering and teeth bared. He spoke to Mary without looking at her.
"Come. We have work to do."
He strode off, with Mary still sitting on a rock, speechless but with a dozen questions racing through her head.
"What are we going to do?" she called to his departing back.
"Fight him on our terms."
Mary chewed her lip. "Um... I lost my weapons."
Lonagan shrugged and kept walking. "You don't need them."
"Then what will I use?" asked Mary, now getting to her feet and trailing after. "My hands?"
"Precisely."
"But I don't know Kung Fu..." said Mary, pouting and walking faster to catch up.
Lonagan stopped in his tracks and, rounding on Mary, jabbed a long elegant finger in her face. "You are stronger than ten men when you want to be, Miss Horn. Now stop whining and start doing. I don't want to hear any more complaints about what you can and can't do. Start trying. Start doing."
Mary nodded her head once. Lonagan sighed and regarded the rooftops surrounding them. He scratched his chin through his leather veil.
"We need to catch him in the open, away from where he can hurt anyone else. It needs to be dark too... plenty of obstacles would be useful... lots of shadow to hide in..."
He looked at Mary with a raised eyebrow. "Bait? As Bell suggested?"
Mary bit her lip and shrugged.
"So be it then. We need to find you something else to wear. Something more provocative."
"More so than a skin-tight leotard?" asked Mary.
"It doesn't exactly cry damsel-about-to-be-in-distress,” said Lonagan, tilting his head as he inspected Mary.
"Okay. Just don't try and force me to wear fishnets and a mini skirt, though. I do have some standards.”
"I'm sure I could fashion something," said the elf. "What colour do you like to wear?"
Mary thought for a second. "Red. I like red."
Lonagan spun a dress from shadow with a wave of his hand. The ghostly fabric appeared out of thin air above her and slowly settled down, forming itself to the contours of her body. Mary shivered when it touched her bare skin, much like she did when Laedwynn transformed her to look like Remy. It was a ball dress of ruby red with long sleeves and zero neck line. It hid her black sneak-suit perfectly underneath.
"How about some heels?" asked Lonagan as he tapped his chin thoughtfully.
"Made of ice and shadow? Go jump in a fire," replied Mary.
"Suit yourself. Are you ready?"
"I suppose."
They walked back towards the centre of Olde London, an assassin armed to the teeth and a teenage treasure-hunter dressed for a ball. The streets were deserted of people. All doors were locked and windows fastened. The city felt dead, hollow, devoid of the sounds and smells of human habitation. Even the street lights were out. The buildings loomed above them, towering spectres with dark windows like gloomy hollow eyes, watching them pass.
Mary was glad she had company as they wound their way towards the river. She thought about last night's dismal fight and the things Lonagan had said about the elements. She wished she was armed with more than just her hands and feet. She wished she could perform magic, not just go berserk at random.
"The elements... how do you make them do what you want?" she asked, breaking the silence.
Lonagan paused before answering.
"First you need to feel them. Inside here and here," he said pointing to his head and heart.
"If you can hear them in your thoughts, feel them in your heart, you may be able to command them. To me, shadow is an extension of my body. I can move shadows just like I can move my fingers. How much depends on how strong I am, how much force I apply. You don't make them do anything. You are that element and it you."
Mary nodded her head. More questions came to mind.
“You said you are the master of everything below ground. Why does that include both shadow and earth elements?”
Lonagan shrugged. “Balance I suppose. The Ljósálfar are masters of the sky and that includes air and light elements. The universe has a sense of humour. Or it did, at least…”
Lonagan laughed at his own joke.
“There is a bit of cross over here and there with magic. For example, fire needs air to burn. Air has water in it, such as clouds and rain. Water has minerals and runs through the earth.
So on and so forth. I can perform some-water based spells but they are very basic. I would assume that most Ljósálfar can do the same since air is their associated element. It all comes back to the individual and how much control they have.”
Mary bowed her head in thought. Could she feel anything abnormal? Was there something else in her head? She didn't think so.
Lonagan found an empty warehouse on the docks by the river. Inspection showed that had been abandoned for some time. Rusted gantries crisscrossed the ceiling, their hoists broken and twisted. Smashed bottles, broken crates and graffiti lined the concrete floor, the work of time and vandals.
"You are going to need those shoes whether you like it or not," said Lonagan as he kicked at something on the ground. It flipped across the room and landed in a heap of scrap metal. Mary sighed. The elf walked about the warehouse, studying its ceiling and the steel support beams.
"It's perfect."
Mary shivered despite not being cold. It was creepy walking through a deserted city by oneself in the middle of the night, especially when you were bait for a deranged lunatic with a penchant for young girls. Her feet were numb from the shoes Lonagan had made from shadow. They were an unassuming black number with flat soles.
Very utilitarian.
Very Lonagan.
Still it was better than nothing, she supposed – and much better than heels, as the elf had originally suggested. She whistled to pass the time. A jaunty sea shanty or so she hoped, being so close to the docks and all. Her tune echoed through the empty streets, the only sound to accompany the rhythm of her footfalls. She did loops around the block, not wanting to be too far from help when trouble called. After a third circuit without any takers she headed towards the docks themselves to take in the sights. A strange haze seemed to blanket the far side of the river, dampening down the colours and sounds. It was still an impressive sight for a country bumpkin like Mary.
Across the river the city thrummed with life. Neon signs blared their advertisements out in a rainbow of colours, each sign competing for attention. Cars honked and tooted as they threaded their way through the city’s arteries, each destination exotic to a girl who had spent her whole life in one town. Music boomed from a dockside nightclub, its bass fast and heavy, would-be patrons lined in a ragged queue, laughing and chatting. People walked along the waterfront, couples hand in hand and friends in charged packs. That was where she wanted to be. Out in the real world meeting real people. Not relics and monsters from times past. She wondered if she could swim across.
Would she make it?
A queer feeling in her stomach reminded her it was impossible.
She gave the fantastic sights of London one last wistful look before turning away. She belonged to The Old Man now and would belong to him forever unless she could find a way to reverse his spell. She turned away from the London calling her and bumped head first into something soft.
"Boo," it said.
Mary looked up into the broad smile of a psychopath. Spring-heeled Jack looked back, his lunatic eyes catching the light.
"Give Old Jack a cuddle, won't you?" he asked through smiling teeth with arms out
stretched.
Mary stifled a scream and aimed a kick between his legs. Spring-heeled Jack crumpled to the floor, both hands pressed to his agonised groin.
Mary didn't need another cue to run.
Spinning on her heel she ran in the opposite direction. It took a moment to realise that she was running away from the trap. Swearing to herself, she diverted down an alley between two salt encrusted buildings. She leapt over empty crates and crab cages, pulled down a stack of boxes to block her pursuer. She ran on, panic spurring her every motion, bumping into a plethora of hard edges and corners. The alley was dark, the moonlight obscured by the murky shadows of the close buildings.
At the alley’s end she cast a quick glance behind. Jack wasn't in sight. She was torn between waiting and keeping enough distance away from him. A blurred movement on the rooftops caught her attention.
Without a second look she bolted. She was now in a small service road behind the warehouses, its cobble stones slick with dew, small puddles of grime filled water showing the ruts and pot holes.
She darted left down the street, hoping it would take her back to familiar territory. All doors and windows she passed were barred shut with heavy iron banding. There would be no hiding inside a building. Not unless she could force a transformation.
Halfway down the alley, she found a locked wooden gate that blocked her path. She added an extra burst of speed and leapt at the wall. Her fingers found purchase on the top edge and she hauled herself over.
Ahead was the street she had been walking up and down all night. She ran out to its centre and stopped to catch her breath. She turned in a circle slowly, her eyes scanning the rooftops for sign of pursuit. Wherever he was, it wasn't up there. Heavy footfalls brought her attention back to the street. Spring-heeled Jack was standing in the middle of the street, hands on hips, his mock grin appearing like a wordless growl.
"I seen you. Walking up and down, parading yourself for Old Jack, waiting for me to return," he said without any trace of humour. "You think you could fool me into walking into that old shack? What's in there?"
Mary brushed the hair out of her eyes. Indecision wracking her mind. "The police," she said meekly.
"There are no police in Olde London. Who's in there? Who wants me?"
"The Old Man," Mary said after a pause.
"More like The Old Man's cronies," shouted Jack, a puff of smoke escaping his nostrils. “You want this for yourselves,” he said pointing to his chest. “Well you can't have it. It's ours.”
He advanced towards her slowly, a sociopath at play. Moonlight danced along the sharp edge of an exposed knife, the only brilliance in the dark night.
"You know we inherited our name? Another time, another Jack?" cooed the deviant.
Mary shivered and her knees began to shake uncontrollably. She backed away as fast as she could, her eyes unable to leave Jack's.
Things were not going to plan at all.
"This is something we haven't done in a long time. It's time to dust off the knives. Put our old talents to use."
Mary screamed. "Lonagan!"
Jack laughed loudly. "Him that we burnt but proper? The elf? I fear not the master of shadow for my fire consumes night’s weak tapestry and makes it day. Watch."
Craning back his vulgar face, he cock-crowed into the night. A torrent of hellish fire erupted from his freakish smile. It bellowed above the buildings, a beacon of heat and glaring light in the still night. The river of fire circled around on itself, collected and grew. With one last gagging cough, Spring-heeled Jack spat the last of his devil fire at the sky, a sun in miniature now aloft in the night sky above Olde London.
Searing heat and bright yellow light beat down upon the street. The night’s dew evaporated in a wash of steam, cloying the air with a stink of dirty pavement, creating a misty fog. Mary shielded her tear filled eyes with her arms, her vision reeling from the sudden shock. She had to do something.
Mary swung a haymaker where she thought Jack was. The maniac dodged it easily.
“Gee! Aren’t you full of spunk?!”
Mary followed the punch with a wild kick at his knees. Spring-heeled Jack jumped high above her head. Mary raised her hands to block an attack. A foot thumped hard her in the chest, however, and she fell to the ground. Blinded and winded she rolled about on the ground. A foot struck her in the back. Mary cried out and pulled herself into a ball.
What am I going to do? I don’t want to die!
"Did you like that? No more shadows for sneaky little elves to hide in now, is there?" asked Jack toying with his knife. He stood above Mary, fist raised to the fireball.
"Any last words?" The knife’s wicked point was aimed at her breast.
Words failed her. Thought had fled altogether. It was fight or flight and somehow she had chosen neither. Mary shuddered in pain as she shrunk an inch. Biting her lip she rode the change, willed it to go further.
Ever smiling, Jack plunged the knife at her heart. Her world closed in around in her, went dark, was nothing more.
"What the heck? Where did you go?"
Spring-heeled Jack was staring at the empty clothes on the ground, his knife scratching his chin. One second she was standing there, eyes pleading and mouth pouting how he liked it, the next there was nothing. Just an empty dress and black garments strewn on the ground. He looked about suspiciously.
"This was all a bleeding trick."
He looked up and down the street, peered into every window, searched every shadow. Something was odd.
The shadows shifted.
There by the barrel! Something definitely moved that time. The shadow grew, coalesced, became a man. He was dressed in black like any shadow, a leather veil shrouding his mouth. Weapons adorned him in an overt display of firepower. He walked with calm step. It was the elf from last night, his flesh healed.
Jack growled, clutched the knife harder, eyed his fire hanging in the sky.
"Where is she?" asked Lonagan.
His eyes went past the lunatic shivering and tapping his feet impatiently to the pile of empty clothes on the ground. He shook his head slightly. It was a sad loss. The girl had potential but she should never have come. He would drink to her memory later.
"I was going to take your suit and let you go," he said unsheathing his long sword. "Luckily I know a great tailor."
"Big words. I see your face healed up good after I melted it some. Fancy some more?" gloated Jack.
Lonagan shrugged. "I'm not afraid of you. You, however, are very afraid of me."
The lunatic gave a forced laugh. "I'm afraid of no-one."
"Then what is that in the sky?"
Jack looked at the sky. "That is Hell’s own fire! Here on Earth!” he shouted with his arms spread wide. “Is no easy feat to command so much!” Jack dropped his arms and glowered at Lonagan. “I did it to prove my strength, my potency. I ain’t afraid of you or nothing! I can do anything I want."
"I think the opposite. I think you did it because you're afraid of me, of my shadow. See? Watch."
Lonagan's shadow stretched out before him until it was full-sized, whole. It stepped away from him and resolved itself out of the thin air. There were two elves in the street now, both identical. They shared a brief look, nodded, then spread apart with swords held before them. Spring-heeled Jack barked a laugh, tested the edge of his blade with a flabby finger. Without any preamble he sprang at what he assumed was the real Lonagan. Lonagan parried the first blow easily. The second and third thrusts came before he could finish his swing. This Jack was fast.
Jack had an advantage over him with his speed, that much was clear. Dark blood seeped from the cuts to Lonagan’s chest.
He ducked as his second swung a scything blow at Jack’s neck. Before the sword could connect, the lunatic rolled sideways, his knife slicing a deep cut in the second’s leg.
The doppelgänger faltered, dark blood jetting from its thigh. It ran a hand over the cut, staunched the flow of blood with
a coil of shadow. Both of the elves looked at each other and shrugged.
Jack laughed and hopped from foot to foot.
"It would take an army of you to stop Jack! Call the general! Sound the horns! Jack cannot be stopped!"
"As you wish," spoke the elves in unison. From the shadow-drenched alleys and crevices sprang a dozen more copies of the dark elf, each identical, each bearing down on their quarry with swords of cold steel.
Jack howled with laughter. "Have at thee, dark elf scum!"
He met them, his shorter blade darting in and out of their ranks. Thick dark blood drenched his arms, spilled in the cobbled streets, painted the walls.
Jack was in his element; a butcher and a fiend at play. He worked himself ragged, a hellish lather of shadowy blood and sweat foaming and frothing all over his ugly body.
The elves were dispatched but for one, their twitching bodies wordlessly beseeching the sky. Jack rounded on the last, body crouched low, knife held before his eyes.
"Not so tough, are you now? Where are your big words of fearing the night?"
The last Lonagan just stared at him, sword held limp and pointing at the ground.
"I am the night!" screamed Jack with arms raised triumphantly.
"I am the big bad ugly! The slayer of heroes and the taker of women! Let Olde London weep a hundred more years. Jack is back!"
He glared at Lonagan, panting with exhaustion.
"Nothing to say, little elf?"
Lonagan bowed his head. After a moment he sheathed his weapon and stood facing Jack, feet spread apart and hands on hips.
"You know the problem with shadows? Too slow, too sluggish. Want to know the advantage? Can't kill a shadow."
A low laugh rose up. Jack turned his head, surprised. The slain shadows were sitting about casually, some pointing at him, some playing with their swords.
Jack growled and turned back to the standing Lonagan. "Tricksy little bastard..."
Lonagan shrugged and pulled a pistol from his belt.
"Just wanted to tire you a bit. Can you catch a bullet?"
Jack tensed.
Lonagan squeezed the trigger, firing off a salvo of bullets on full auto. Jack spun left and right dodging the bullets with unearthly speed. Lonagan spent a whole magazine, reloaded and let off another burst.
The mad man leapt high overhead, spun in the air and cart-wheeled down the street, bullets chasing after him. Below the fake sun he lurched mid-leap, crimson blood blossoming from a wound below his ribs. He landed on the ground like a rag doll, lifeless and broken.
Lonagan released the trigger, lowered his aim, walked over to take a closer look.
Wheezing horribly, the madman rolled on to his back. He looked to the night sky and the fire it held.
"Come back to Daddy, little one. We need you," he croaked as blood leaked down his chin.
The fireball roared, shifted, became a funnel. It spiralled down into the eager grin of its maker. He drank down the fiery brew in one enormous gulp. Spring-heeled Jack bounded to his feet, the bullet hole leaking flaming blood like molten steel. He glowed from within, a faintly green luminous light in the now dark night.
"Jack is back!" he chortled, his voice strained and lacking the previous bravado. "Let us see how your shadows hold up to Hell’s own fire, eh?"
Jack doubled over and vomited a plume of flame at the lounging shadows. They unravelled in a wash of searing heat, leaving not a trace behind.
Eyes wide open in fear and alarm, Lonagan raised his arms before him. The cobblestone road beneath him quivered at his call. Tearing itself free from its earthly hold, it curled up in front him like a wave made of stone. Lonagan took shelter behind it as the onslaught of fire swept his way.
Jack puffed harder, increasing the volley of fire to a raging tempest. The glass of the surrounding buildings reflected the uncanny fire; the diorama unfolding in miniature on dozens of windows. Smoke rose from Jack as his clothes began to smoulder.
Fire threatened to curl around Lonagan’s earthen defence. He crouched down low and thought of his options.
Mary was sitting on a crest of fabric overlooking a cavern of dark gullies and crevices. She was entirely naked and more than a little upset. It had taken her a moment to realise where she was. When it dawned on her that she had shrunk to the size of bug and was lost inside of her own clothing she had a small nervous breakdown.
How am I going to fix this? What have I done to myself?
Mary sobbed and clawed at her hair. Now was not the time to lose control of her abilities.
Outside she could hear the sounds of battle raging on; swords striking, bodies taking blows and the laughter of Jack. She felt small and impotent. It was a stupid decision to join Kyron Bell’s group of adventurers. It was even stupider to think she could survive without any training. Now here she was, in danger of being crushed to death by some careless passer-by. It was frustrating to think that her emotions had so much control over her. If only she could separate body and heart, divorce her emotions from her physical reality, she could be in full possession of her own abilities.
She lay down. There was nothing else to do. She thought of the things Lonagan had told her. Look inside your mind. Feel what is in your heart.
She relaxed. Breathed deeply. She sought inside and out. She imagined she was growing taller. She spoke magic words. Nothing. She tried to remember the fear and the anger which triggered her changes. There was something in the back of her mind. Something she reached for, out of reflex. She pushed at it mentally.
It expanded.
Grew.
When she opened her eyes she was staring at the sky. Orange and yellow light danced along the faces of the tired and dirty buildings above her. Mary raised both hands to her face, and ran them over her body. She was whole, and more, she was dressed in her black sneak-suit. She could hear a wheezing, windy current. Getting to her feet, she saw Spring-heeled Jack only several feet away, his back to her, fire streaming from his mouth in a continuous rush. The flames were battering a curled section of road, the cobblestones glowing red and melting. Jack was on fire himself. His clothes had all but burnt up to reveal his saggy pale skin beneath.
Shadows darted behind the chest-high partition of stone, fleeting and dying in the torrent of light. With a gasp, Mary realised Lonagan was trapped behind.
Mary started forward, but stopped herself. What was she going to do? Ask nicely?
Mary needed something to stop this fight and quickly, a weakness to exploit. She looked at Jack, the blood leaking between his clutching fingers, the stains on his back and shoulders, the remnants of his burning clothes, the stitching that ran from the back of his head to his tail – were those laces?
Casting about she saw a knife on the ground, its steel sticky with inky liquid. Mary clutched the knife and crept towards Jack. The lunatic seemed to doubling over in pain as he held his wound with both hands. He looked ragged, feverish. His whole attention was fixed in front of him on the wall of fire.
Mary closed the distance. The heat was unbearable. Her eyes watered and her hair singed but she moved forward, one slow step at a time. She was almost there. Jack, so focused on his flame, didn’t notice her creeping behind him. With one swift movement, she lunged at his back and plunged the knife into the knot of lace on Jack’s head and slashed it down. The sharp knife parted the laces easily. Jack’s fire died in a spluttering gout of smoke and sparks.
He coughed. Once, then again. And now in a flood of sputtering noise. Thin tendrils of smoke followed by thick globules of dark matter flew from his smiling mouth.
Mary dropped the knife and, reaching up to grab the two floppy horns atop Jack’s head, tore the suit down. What she saw underneath was frightening: skin marred by puss-filled sores and raw red wounds, tattoos once covering his back and arms now reduced to unrecognisable blotches. Jack’s head was bald except for some wispy hair which clung desperately to a patch behind one of his ears. The man collapsed to th
e ground in a feeble tangle. Mary tore the suit free from Jack roughly. He moaned pitifully, his hands seeking his precious suit.
Mary held the floppy suit at arm's length and stepped back several paces. Holding it in her hands, she could feel its strange power lurking within, the promise of mischief and ruin. And the texture; with one groan of disgust she realised the suit wasn't made of material. It was made of something much worse. It was skin.
"Where did you come from?" asked Lonagan as he crawled out from behind the smoking section of road.
"I was hiding in plain sight, waiting for my time to strike," she replied through a smile.
Lonagan tilted his head and studied her. He shrugged and wiped the sweat from his brow.
"Well... Good work on the hiding and everything."
"Thank you," beamed Mary. "That means a lot coming from you."
Lonagan’s eyes narrowed to points but he didn't comment. Instead he walked over to the grovelling man crawling towards Mary. He put at boot on his throat and pinned him to the floor.
“We’ve done a good thing today, Mary. Do you know how much trouble he has caused? How many people he has harmed?”
Mary shook her head.
“Too many,” answered Lonagan.
“Why didn’t we do something sooner then?” asked Mary.
“That’s a good question,” said Lonagan. “But I suppose it always comes down to money. Nobody topside had the skill to take him down. We only got involved when a half-decent contract was offered.”
Mary frowned. “That makes me feel sick. I never wanted to be a mercenary.”
“Money talks, Mary. But until then, trash like this walks,” said Lonagan, kicking Jack.
Jack moaned and pleaded wordlessly at their feet.
"What are you going to do with him?" asked Mary.
"I won't do anything. It's not my say."
"Who says then?"
"Them," said Lonagan jerking his head in the direction of the buildings surrounding them. People were appearing at windows and doors, clubs and garden tools held uncertainly.
He turned to face them and bellowed, "Here is Spring-heeled Jack. The Jack! Do with him what you will!"
He gave the disfigured man one last shove with his boot. The man coughed and rolled onto his side, stretched his grotesque arm towards Mary in a pitiful, pleading gesture.
"Come,” said Lonagan abruptly. “I want to be back in the shop before daybreak."
Lonagan turned and walked back down the street. Mary glanced at the disgusting skin suit she was still holding in her arms and sighed. She trotted to keep up.
"You know your clothes are on back to front?" Lonagan called back to her.
“Huh. Thought they felt weird,” said Mary. “That reminds me, can we stop by a shop? There’s something I need to buy.”
“What?” snapped Lonagan.
“Uh… some magazines for the tailor,” replied Mary meekly.
“Follow me,” grunted Lonagan.