‘You see?’ Quill laughed. ‘You can’t. You’re nothing but a coward. A perverted, ponce of a coward who chooses a boy over…’
‘He is not a boy!’ Archer yelled, and his words were echoed by the scream of an unseen victim. ‘He is a man, and more of one than you ever were, or will be again. Silas? Prepare yourself. Crispin…’ Archer looked into Crispin’s eyes, but it was Danylo who nodded his head and closed them. ‘I am sorry it has come to this. Give my regards to Father.’
With Quill screaming in horror and stumbling helplessly forward to prevent it, Archer drove his sword into Danylo’s chest.
Twenty-Six
Thomas felt the body for injury. ‘He’s breathing. Head wound.’ Leaning closer, his face to Fecker’s ear, he whispered his name. ‘Andrej, can you hear me.’
James shook him, and the Ukrainian mumbled.
‘He’s coming ’round.’ Thomas continued to rouse the man, while James kept his eye nervously on the way ahead.
‘We need to get after Silas, or…’
Archer’s voice cut through the stillness, but Quill’s was muffled, and it was hard to hear what they were debating. Some words carried, and he heard Silas shout, ‘Feck off, Quill,’ as if he was being threatened, and his heart lurched.
‘We’ve got to be quick, Tom.’
‘Andrej?’
Another urgent hiss from Thomas, and Fecker groaned as he stirred into life.
‘He’s alright,’ Thomas whispered. ‘Andrej, stay still, are you badly hurt?’
‘Nyet,’ Fecker grunted, and displayed his annoyance at being taken by surprise in a string of angry Russian.
Hearing it gave James hope, but the invisible voices were becoming raised, and he expected to hear Silas’ gunshot at any moment. If he missed…
‘Look out!’
A weight landed on James’ back, winding him. He stumbled over Fecker, dropped his revolver, and his head smashed into the brickwork. White lights flashed before his eyes. Instinctively spinning onto his back, his arms raised, a steel blade caught a flicker of light. It was raised above the head of a shadow that could only be Smith, and it was swiping at Thomas.
James pushed himself from the wall and leapt at Smith’s legs, unbalancing him and sending him falling. The blade swished helplessly in the air as he clung, trying to roll Smith to the ground. Fecker writhed beneath, throwing James’ legs from his chest to break free. Growling like a wounded beast, the Ukrainian stumbled to his feet, but the sword slashed, forcing him to leap aside.
Smith’s boot sent James reeling. Fecker launched a kick to the assassin’s stomach, doubling him over and allowing Fecker the chance to grapple his arm, the sword thrashing violently between them. Ducking it, James leapt on the man from his other side, disabling his left arm, but was thrown free as Smith butted Fecker in the face, before landing a punch in his gut.
If there was ever a good time to release years of frustration and turn it into anger against the bullies of his past, now was the moment.
James charged headlong into Smith, yelling obscenities and punching at whatever part of the man’s body he could find. Smith’s fist landed on his temple hard enough to shake his legs, and he staggered sideways. A flash of metal and he was pinned against the wall, a powerful arm across his throat, pressing hard, blocking his breathing. The assassin’s sword kept Fecker at bay, as James struggled against suffocation, but Fecker was not intimidated. As angry as James, and with equal disregard for his own safety, he struck the sword with his forearm, forcing it aside as he moved in, his fist raised.
James was suddenly free, and he gasped for breath, but it was only a momentary respite. Smith’s hand was at his throat in a blink, strangling him while Fecker struggled for the sword.
The world began to fade. Grunts and gnarls of the fight twisted and morphed in his ears, and picked up a rhythm like the pounding of hooves as pain swelled in his head. Unconsciousness neared, and came faster as his lungs burned. Through the twisting lamplight, he pictured Thomas’ face bearing down from above, and losing his battle, the image gave him strength to face death. Tom’s fading voice was calm and reassuring. Restrained as always, it was telling him to be patient. They would be together again one day.
Except it wasn’t any of those things, and it wasn’t telling him to wait. It was bellowing and urgent, imploring him to fight back.
The image of Tom turned to the image of Eddie Lovemount as he shut young Jimmy Wright in a locker, to leave him there until he pissed himself, and the anger which had lain dormant since then exploded. Rage sprung from his chest. Gathering momentum, it shot to his legs and exploded with the jerk of a knee hard into Smith’s groin.
Released, he choked for breath, the shapes and sounds around him falling apart like a fifteen puzzle, smashed on the floor, shards flying in a frenzy. Through the madness and in perfect focus came the tip of the sword as Smith took aim, and his arm drew back, ready to pierce James’ throat.
Suddenly, there was no Fecker, there was no Thomas, just a crazy light that danced, and the thumping gallop of his heart.
James had failed, and that would be his last thought.
But, it wasn’t his heart galloping, it was a horse, and he hadn’t imagined Thomas’ voice. It was real, and it was still screaming.
A blinding flash of light, a rush of heat, and James was thrown to the ground.
Danylo’s eyes were wide with horror as he slipped from Archer’s blade, blood draining from his heart. It spluttered from beneath his mask as he turned, as if performing a macabre dance, clutching his chest and appealing helplessly to Quill as he staggered away from the pit head and collapsed.
Hysterical, Quill’s arms flailed in horror, his gun firing wildly and sending Silas spinning. Throwing himself on Crispin, he called his name and fumbled to remove the mask. His weeping and helpless mumbling were pathetic to witness, but Archer had no time for pity.
Dropping his sword, he landed on Quill, riding his back and twisting an arm around his putrid neck. Controlling the madman, he forced his face close to the dying man’s mask.
‘Look at him,’ he spat, yanking Quill’s head and making him yelp. ‘Your work, Quill. Destroyed. All of it gone in my insane brother’s last breath. You’ve lost.’
Quill’s struggle abated and was replaced by the shudders of a man laughing.
‘As have you,’ he said, his revolver again aimed at Silas, hunched and clutching his shoulder as he fought his way to his feet.
Archer released his grip, smashed his fist into Quill’s outstretched hand and knocked the gun to the ground. Pulling Quill’s arm behind his back, he forced the man to his feet and ignoring the painful screams, dragged him towards the mineshaft.
‘Silas lives,’ he said. ‘And he will live on long after we are gone, Quill. Think of it, a street rat gets what you covet. My lover inherits, along with true friends who you call molly boys and queers, and you’ve only yourself to blame.’
‘Throw me in that pit, and you will hang, Clearwater,’ Quill gasped as Archer turned him to face the gaping hole.
‘Oh, I will hang, Quill,’ Archer promised. ‘I’m counting on it.’
The world spinning, Archer shuffled towards the mineshaft. His feet dislodged bricks from the crumbling wall. They tumbled, bouncing from wood to rock until the sound was overtaken by Quill’s maniacal wailing, begging one moment and shrieking the next.
With a desperate burst of effort, Archer swung Quill around by his collar, and tipped him forward to stare at his death.
‘But as I hang, I will see your evil body fall to its end.’
‘Archer!’
Other desperate shouts grew nearer, but Archer blocked them, intent on dropping Quill, and having no thought for his own safety. Quill pressed back in panic, but determined, Archer held his ground. One
push and he would be rid of the man for good.
‘I’m sorry we couldn’t remain friends,’ he said, and part of him was sincere. ‘But you sealed your fate when you aimed your spite at those I love. You sealed mine with it, I will give you that, but how ironic is this, Quill? The two of us meeting death together?’
‘You’re insane…’
‘I shall die knowing I removed the Ripper from the world,’ Archer roared, his foot feeling for the brink. ‘Your hopes have died with my brother, Quill, but my legacy will not die with me.’
‘You won’t do it,’ Quill sobbed, his hands grasping at nothing but air. ‘You’re a coward.’
‘I’m sending my soul into the invisible.’ Archer laughed as madly as Quill had ever done. ‘Some letter of that afterlife to spell, and by and by my soul will live on in my friends, while yours will rot in hell.’
Another savage jolt and he had Quill at the tipping point, the gaping hole daring him to let go.
Archer was suddenly calm as if the inevitability of what was about to happen was reassuring. Silas’ hand was outstretched towards him, his eyes wringing with tears. He would understand in time. Archer couldn’t save Simon, but he could still save Silas. Not only from Quill’s deadly game, but from life on the streets; from the grime and filth of the East End, the carnal lusts of men, and from a destitute future. That was done. Silas was taken care of along with Tom and James, Andrej and the others. They would be safe. That was all that mattered.
‘Amore salvat, Silas,’ Archer said, as calmly as if nothing was happening. ‘Thank you for loving me.’
‘Archie!’
Archer turned away. ‘Goodbye, Benji,’ he whispered, resigned and ready. ‘I’m sorry…’
‘Archie, look out!’
Archer instinctively turned back to Silas’ voice and was immediately swamped by confusion.
A man in flames staggered blindly towards him, its arms flinging fire. Wild screams poured from a throat that dripped burning flesh, and hands beat helplessly against the inferno, desperately tearing at clothes and skin.
The vision was on him in a second, and stumbling, it dragged Archer and Quill over the edge and into the abyss.
Twenty-Seven
Flames leapt before Archer’s eyes as the burning man tumbled, and the ground gave way. Quill clawed his arm, silhouetted by the falling blaze that crashed from wall to wall, until the screams stopped abruptly as the fire smashed apart and continued its descent in pieces.
Archer too was falling. He had been falling since Silas walked into his life in his ragged trousers and his weather-worn jacket, his black hair long and chaotic about his angel face, and his sea-blue eyes wary and searching. Since then he had fallen further, every day deeper into a love he had never imagined possible.
In the split second it took to tumble from the edge, he had pictured Silas, but now, he only saw Quill and the void beneath.
Quill thrashed, horrified, his fingers digging into Archer’s flesh as the air rushed past them until a fierce wrench knocked the breath from Archer’s body. Pain shot from his shoulder blades to his groin, and Quill’s hand slipped to his wrist.
Archer’s will would rescue Silas from an impoverished future, but what was a future without love?
Hanging a thousand feet above certain death, suspended in mid-air, Archer saw his past embodied in the man swinging from his hand. Distorted, damaged and writhing, Quill hung helpless. All Archer had to do was let him go, and it would be over, but the pigskin and the deformity hid a man who was once a friend. His ripped mask hung like flaps of loose skin, and his pleading despair was so pitiful, Archer reached for a firmer hold. He couldn’t let the man die, he was a part of Archer’s past, they had shared too many years for it to end like this. Benji Quill had saved Archer’s life; it was wrong to let the man fall, and he strained to catch Quill’s other arm, touching slick and glistening fingers.
The blood on Quill’s hand changed Archer’s mind.
‘You might have once saved my life, Benji,’ he gasped as leather straps cut into his flesh. ‘But you took so many others.’ Finding Quill’s fingers, he began to prise them free. ‘No-one will ever know the identity of the Ripper. Your reputation will remain intact. That, I promise, but I’m sorry, our game must end.’
‘No, Archie, please,’ Quill begged. ‘This is not who you are.’
Three of Quill’s fingers came free, leaving him crushing only one of Archer’s, clamping it in a vicelike grip, his weight held by the ring that once belonged to Simon Harrington.
‘It is who you have made me become.’
Archer said the words with vehemence, but hesitated. Quill was right. If he let go, he would be no better than the monster, no better than Crispin or his father, and again, he grabbed to secure Quill’s other arm.
‘Amore Salvat, you bastard!’
Silas was always the answer.
A gunshot rang out with deafening force, Quill’s head shot back, and his hand slipped from Archer’s finger, dragging the ring free as the body fell. Archer clawed pointlessly at the air, but Quill was consumed by the blackness, nothing more than a fading scream.
Archer waited for the echo of death, but the pit was too deep, and it never came.
It was over.
‘No move.’ Fecker’s voice from above was accompanied by a tug on Archer’s shoulders.
His body swung towards the wall, and he thrashed for the boards, scraping at the wooden frame. Another tug and he rose a couple of feet to the sound of a creaking winch before securing a better hold.
‘Nearly there, Archie.’
Thomas spoke confidently, and a moment later, a firm hand on Archer’s collar confirmed his safety.
As soon as Fecker and Thomas pulled him from the shaft, Archer crawled over the lip and kept crawling, searching for Silas through tears that suddenly overwhelmed his vision. He had no idea how long he had been sobbing like a lost child. All that mattered was reaching Silas.
‘Stay, Geroy.’
Fecker again, so commanding and so assured that Archer obeyed, and lay still on the misty earth trembling and weeping. Fecker rolled him onto his back, revealing Thomas lit by lantern glow, calm and assured.
‘Silas?’ Archer croaked, broken and helpless.
‘It’s just a nick,’ Thomas said, helping Fecker to remove Archer’s jacket. ‘Jimmy’s with him.’
‘Is hook at the back.’ Fecker directed Thomas’ hands behind Archer’s neck. ‘You find?’
‘Yes, I have it.’
As Thomas unbuckled the shoulder straps, the pressure on Archer’s torso lessened, and he was able to breathe freely. Sucking in air, he allowed Fecker to help him sit as Thomas released the harness.
‘Danny?’
‘Here, Sir. Drink this.’
Danylo knelt beside him, pushing a canteen into Archer’s hand. He no longer wore the mask, but his chin was stained with blood.
‘Did I hurt you?’
‘I didn’t feel anything, Sir,’ Danylo said, showing Archer his blood-soaked shirt. ‘I hope I did right.’
‘Perfect,’ Archer replied and took a slug of water. His mouth burned, and he coughed it straight out again.
‘Oh, sorry,’ Danylo muttered, taking back the canteen. ‘That’s Andrej’s vodka. Here…’
Danylo was passing another water bottle when Archer was suddenly enveloped by warmth. Silas clung to him, holding his head against his own, their tears mingling as he repeated Archer’s name over again, until Archer had to prise him free, and keep him at arm’s length.
‘That has restored me,’ he said, because it was true. His lover’s embrace had quelled his shock. Silas was always the answer.
‘You big fecking eejit,’ Silas sniffed. Brushing Archer’s fringe from his face, he covered
his forehead with short, frantic pecks. When he broke away to dry Archer’s tears with his shirtsleeve, he swore again, but this time through a grin. ‘He’s gone,’ he said, as if he couldn’t believe it. ‘Quill is gone.’
‘And the not so irrepressible Mr Smith,’ Thomas added dryly. ‘Now, Archer, I want to examine your chest.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘To see how many ribs you’ve broken,’ Thomas tutted, fiddling with his buttons. ‘I’ve not yet worked out how you got into this contraption, nor where you found it, but Fecker told me it was likely to crack at least a couple of bones.’
‘I’ve rather had it with doctors for one night, Tom.’
‘Good, because I am a butler.’
Archer let Thomas remove his shirt. ‘Where’s Jimmy?’
‘Right here,’ James brought another lantern, and behind him, a horse snorted.
‘I knew you’d come,’ Archer said. ‘But I didn’t expect you to walk straight into Quill’s trap.’
‘Neither did he,’ James said.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘Not as much as Fecks, and not as much as I would have been if Tom hadn’t been so bloody dramatic.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Ouch,’ Archer winced as Thomas pressed against a rib. ‘Dramatic?’
‘Yeah.’ James sat crossed legged so Danylo could attend to his wounds. ‘Fecks and I were trying to beat Smith away, and I was making a lousy job of it. Fecks had been knocked out and had only just come round, but he was giving him hell. Suddenly there’s this bloody great horse rearing up over us, and there’s Tom with an oil lamp lit and swinging, and he brings it crashing down on Smith’s head. I’m so dazed I don’t know what’s going on, but then Tom’s charging his horse at Smith who’s staggering backwards…’
‘Unfortunately, I was unable to stop him,’ Thomas picked up the story. ‘Silas tried to get in the way because Smith was running straight at you. Danylo did the same, but there was nothing we could do.’
Artful Deception (The Clearwater Mysteries Book 6) Page 30