by James Somers
Within minutes I had stuffed myself and managed to make a thorough mess of the table and my tattered clothing. I happened to catch my reflection in the full length mirror in the corner. The awful image of myself standing there drew me away from the mess I’d made of the food.
I walked over to the mirror and stood before it, examining my reflection. “What a pig you are,” I said to myself. “Your father would certainly be proud of you now, wouldn’t he?”
As I noted each thing about my appearance that disgusted me, the image in the mirror began to change to suit how I wanted to appear. The more it happened the more I concentrated on the details. My hair became clean and combed. The dirt evaporated from my face and hands. I even felt cleaner as these changes took place in the mirror.
My clothes were transformed from tatters to tailored garments in my size. My wrinkled, muddy shoes became fashionable black with a shine I could see myself in. By the time I had finished, I realized that I looked like a completely different person. That couldn’t hurt with Black and Sinister and the Breed hunting for me.
The mirror faded as well as the table behind me, but my new look remained, and my belly still felt full. I could still taste the food I had been eating a moment ago. But wasn’t this all a dream? I certainly had thought so until the room faded. I found myself standing on a busy street during the middle of the afternoon the next day. I was back in the real world again.
Almost immediately, I was set upon by a horde of street vendors, no doubt drawn in by my dressier clothing.
“Pistachios, young master?”
“Roses for your lady, sir?”
“Black your shoes for you, sir?”
“Tell you your future, young sir?”
I backed away cautiously as hands came out feeling the material on my coat, pawing at me for valuables that might be easily taken by quick hands.
“Leave off ‘em!”
A lad, likely my age, had appeared, coming to my aid. He quickly shooed away the worst offenders. The others, finding that they would enjoy no patronage from me, soon gave up as well. The boy’s streetwise confidence immediately reminded me of Tom and the other boys running with Mr. Sinister, though I had never seen this person before. I was grateful to him, but started on my way without speaking to him.
“Pardon me, sir,” he said as I backed away.
“Yes?”
“If you don’t mind my saying, you seem a bit lost to me….Name’s Digby,” he said, offering his soiled hand.
I shook it somewhat reluctantly. Not because he was dirty…I had just come up with this clean look a moment ago. I simply knew better by now than to trust people. Tom had proven his trustworthiness to me, having risked his life in order to deliver me safe from the clutches of Mr. Black. I owed him my life, if I could only find my way back.
“Brody,” I replied. “Now that you mention it, where am I?”
“Whitechapel,” the boy replied. “Where are you going?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” I said. “I was with a friend, but we got separated. I suppose I should head back up river.”
“Who’s this friend you’re trying to get back to?” Digby asked.
“His name is Tom,” I said cautiously. Examining him carefully, I felt like he was what he appeared to be: human. However, he could still be working for Sinister or Black.
“Older fella or young like us?” Digby asked.
“Definitely younger,” I replied.
Digby smiled knowingly. “Sure, I know the bloke you mean,” he said.
“You do?”
“Sure, I can even take you to him,” he said proudly. “Come on!”
Digby started through the crowd ahead of me, waving his hand for me to follow. I glanced around me. Having no other alternative, I decided that Digby seemed honest and sincere enough for my purposes. I just had to find Tom. And it made sense that someone like Digby should know a fellow like Tom who got around.
I kept pace with the boy as we wound ever deeper among the inhabitants of Whitechapel. Most faces followed me with curious looks, no doubt wondering why such a fancy lad was running around down here in their world. No one else on the streets was dressed nearly so good. I worried that those curious looks might turn to disdain if I lingered. Instead, I kept up with my new guide.
Digby paused after we had rounded a corner. “Look,” he said conspiratorially, “I don’t want to offend you or anything, but those clothes make you sort of conspicuous.”
Of course, I’d been afraid of the same thing.
“Here’s my idea,” he continued. “I’ve got a way to get us out of Whitechapel that will keep us off of the main street. I don’t want someone knocking you on the head because they see those clothes and assume you have money.”
“Believe me, I appreciate that,” I said. “And when we get to Tom, I’ll see that you’re rewarded for your help.”
Digby smiled. “Well then, try to keep up,” he said. “I can move pretty fast.”
“No problem,” I countered.
No sooner had I said it than Digby took off through the alley. As promised, I took off after him, staying right on his heels. We shot through the narrow alley then ducked under an overhang and through a doorway with the actual door missing. The lighting was sparse and the air damp, but Digby kept going and I followed.
After several quick turns through the basement of an abandoned building, we emerged on the street again. However, Digby was quick. We were down another alley almost instantly, three more turns and then running through what appeared to be another rundown building.
By this time, I was huffing and puffing but still keeping up. Digby hollered back several times to make sure I was still with him and doing all right.
“I’m fine,” I said, sounding more confident than I felt, but unwilling to let this scrappy little fellow outdo me.
He shot around another corner and I followed right behind. However, this larger room contained at least a dozen young boys loitering within. Digby stopped. I stopped with him. Digby was smiling, but I wasn’t. Something was definitely wrong with this turn of events.
“Maybe we should go, Digby,” I suggested.
“No, no,” he said. “These blokes are friends of mine.”
Digby walked away from me as the other boys walked toward me.
“Dexter,” Digby said as he approached the oldest boy of the group. Dexter appeared to be at least eighteen. Digby walked over to him and talked with him. It was all too low for me to hear.
The other boys had surrounded me. They were prodding at me and pulling at my clothes, commenting sarcastically on the quality of the fabric. Several hands had already begun to probe my pockets looking for money. I now got the feeling that Digby had been setting me up the entire time. He didn’t know who Tom was and had no intentions of helping me.
Dexter approached with Digby standing behind him. He seemed to be avoiding direct eye contact with me now.
“So, where’s your purse, rich boy?” Dexter goaded me with a thick stick he was carrying.
“I don’t have any money,” I replied. “I’m just looking for my friend. He runs with Mr. Sinister.”
At this point I was desperately hoping to avoid trouble with these fellows by dropping names that might intimidate them into letting me go. Dexter only laughed. This wasn’t going well.
“I don’t ask twice,” was all he said further.
A meaty fist smashed across my jaw from the side. I hadn’t even seen it coming. I staggered, my vision full of stars, the whole side of my head aching. I reached for the power that had recently been revealed to reside within me. It was there, but my grasp felt tenuous.
Before I could mount a defense, I heard someone yelling, “He’s got a knife?”
I know I didn’t have a knife. I still have no idea what they had spotted, or what movement I had made that had alerted them to danger. The next thing I saw was Dexter’s fist plowing into my nose. The pain spiked across my face. At the time, I had nev
er actually been shot, but it certainly felt that bad. Hot blood washed down over my mouth. Maybe that had been what brought her.
I fell backwards, screaming in pain. Hands and feet and faces filled my blurring vision. My clothes were torn from my body, leaving me on the cold floor as the boys kicked me repeatedly. My ribs were broken in the process. My head received multiple blows as well as my extremities. I tried to keep my body protected, curling into a painful ball, but the blows kept coming amid their jeering.
A final kick shattered my jaw. Amazingly, I had not lost consciousness the entire time. Instead, I was left feeling every bit of the agony, trying to pull air into my lungs despite the stabbing pain of my broken ribs. They left me there for a moment as they rifled through the shredded remnants of my fancy clothes.
Then someone grabbed me by my ankles and started to drag me across the floor. I screamed from the pain, but they only laughed.
I heard Dexter’s deep voice say, “throw out the trash!”
Suddenly my ankles were released. I heard a commotion next to me; the gurgled cry of one of my tormenters. Vaguely I remember hearing alarmed calls between the others. Something was wrong. They were in dire straits, but my vision was swimming, the sounds all running together as a roaring in my ears.
I saw blood streak across the wall to my right. The sounds of chaos quickly dimmed to nothing. That’s when I saw her—the beautiful pale girl I had seen during my vision within the hall of mirrors—the same that had been looking out over London. Here she was, crouched next to me, concern in her crimson eyes, staring into mine. I’m not sure, but I think I may have attempted a smile before darkness overwhelmed me.
Sideshow
Charlotte had waited outside the home of Oliver James for some time with no sign of the man. The boy moaning in pain behind her informed her that she could wait no longer. He was a mess from what Dexter and his boys had done to him. And while Charlotte knew many ways to kill a man she knew nothing of healing them.
She had for a long time kept a loft nearby within the building that Dexter and his crew had sometimes taken refuge. As long as they didn’t bother her, she didn’t bother them. However, all of the commotion had forced her hand; that and the intense aroma of blood. The boy’s face and torso were covered in it, awakening the hunger that cursed the Breed. Still, she had fed recently. The boy was in no danger from her appetites at the moment.
Charlotte suspected that this must be the boy that Tom had been hiding from her brother and Black. Her suspicion had nothing to do with his age or appearance and everything to do with what he had attempted to do while Dexter and his gang brutalized him. It was the last scene she had expected to find.
The boy had been surrounded by Dexter’s boys, and one of them had just smashed him across the jaw. The boy had begun to raise his hand when Charlotte noticed a blossom of flame hovering over his palm. One of the boys had noticed the flicker of it and cried out about a weapon. Dexter had quickly punched the boy, breaking his nose.
Blood had shot out over the lower part of his face as he collapsed and came under further brutality from all sides. Charlotte had tried to refrain from interfering. After all, this hadn’t been the first mark they had tricked into their lair in order to rob them. However, this boy was a Descendant of the Fallen like her and someone Tom was trying to protect with his life. She had been forced to intervene. No one would miss Dexter and his boys anyway. One less nuisance terrorizing the locals.
She forced the window, breaking the glass but knowing that Oliver would approve in an emergency like this. Already it was starting to rain outside and she had nowhere to keep him besides. Oliver could repair the window with barely a thought anyway.
Charlotte carried the boy inside, but found no one within. However, somewhere beyond the walls of the room she heard the din of many people gathered for entertainment. She even thought she heard the distant cry of a wolf.
The crowd waited, eagerly anticipating the arrival of the circus’s star attraction, Horatio the Magnificent, a magician of the highest caliber and greatly sought after. His travels had carried him across the British Empire numerous times, and there were always crowds waiting to see the mysterious wonders he performed.
Tonight, when his trademark gout of orange flame and column of crimson smoke delivered Horatio to his audience, he was in Hong Kong, a colony in China won to the Empire some years ago. However, ethnicity rarely mattered. Everyone enjoyed a good show.
Oliver James stood waiting, as was customary during the beginning of his performance. The moniker of Horatio the Magnificent had served him well over the years, providing him with a sensational title with which to ply the wares of his trade while still maintaining his anonymity. This profession, as well as his other business interests across the Empire, had allowed him to accumulate vast wealth including several grand estates in various places around the world.
The cheering crowd had grown quiet, anticipating a surprise at any moment that should begin Horatio’s thrilling act. The lamps were dim throughout the main tent as the first growls were heard coming from among the crowd. Several people screamed as a spot light landed on the first wolf to show itself.
Oliver, as Horatio, remained still with his eyes closed and hands resting upon the wolf’s head atop his cane. The beast crouched, approaching with its eyes fixed upon the great magician at the center of the huge ring within the tent. It stalked forward cautiously never minding the crowd at all.
Within moments, more screams came from various places all around the tent among the crowd. The spot lights found five more wolves creeping from all sides now toward the powerful Horatio. Suddenly they each sprang forward, as though signaled by some unseen cue.
Oliver looked up, noticing the deadly predators for the first time since his arrival. His lucidity faltered as he desperately searched for a way of escape, but the wolves were already upon him. The animals lunged for him, his cape billowing around him, arms flailing. They had him, tearing at his black cape, his limbs, as he tumbled to the straw-laden ground.
The uninitiated cried out in panic. Surely the performance had taken a drastic turn for the worse. Why wasn’t someone rushing to Horatio’s aid? Why were none of the circus workers climbing into the ring to shoot these brute beasts before Horatio perished?
Those who knew better fidgeted expectantly, knowing this was only the beginning of what they had come to see. This sort of thing was no tragedy where Horatio was involved. It was the very meat of his performance; the sort of thing his faithful fans clamored through long lines to witness. Horatio had never disappointed them yet.
The dark mass of torn and tattered cape and clothing was no longer distinguishable as being the form of a man. The wolves seemed to be searching now, having lost interest in the rag doll. Had the magician somehow eluded them? Or were they simply turning upon the crowd now in order to sate their bloodlust?
An explosion from among the wolves threw them away. The mass of torn clothing was engulfed in flame then quickly dissipated, leaving Horatio the Magnificent standing with a whip in his right hand and a large hoop of silver in his left. The crowd cheered wildly even as the wolves regrouped.
Now, the magician was in control as it should be. His fans knew Horatio never lost control. He began to bend the savage beasts to his will, leading them to perform feats for the crowd. At his command the lot of them danced upon their hind legs as waltzing music filtered into the tent, having no discernable origin. The crowd didn’t care. Their attention rested upon the magician. Had he desired, they also would have danced at his command.
Horatio had the wolves to pass before him through his silver hoop. Each time a wolf passed through, its fur changed color from gray to pink, or black to yellow with stripes, as well as many other strange combinations and patterns. Each time the crowd cheered Horatio.
Finally, when each wolf passed through it was transformed into a man, each wearing a tux with tails like the magician himself. Horatio cracked his whip and the men came runn
ing toward him, passing again through the silver hoop which then returned each to wolves of normal color. The crowd applauded almost continuously, gasping at each new conjuring.
The wolves sat upon short fat columns now, seeming far more docile than when they first appeared to stalk the magician. At the last, he cracked his whip again. Lightning shot into the air and bounced across the ground. The wolves, each in turn, left their columns and took one last turn through the hoop. This time, as each wolf passed through, they vanished completely, except for the sixth which had not obeyed.
Horatio bowed. The crowd cheered and clapped for him. Others noticed the demeanor of the last wolf change. Surely this was still a part of the act, but why did Horatio have his back to the beast? Some called to him, just in case he had failed to notice what was happening behind him.
The last wolf leaped from his column, snarling at the magician as foamy saliva dripped from its open mouth, teeth bared. Horatio turned almost too late, catching the wolf in the act of leaping through the air toward him. At the last possible moment, Horatio snapped his fingers. The wolf burst into flames in midair and was utterly consumed.
The crowd came to their feet enraptured and exhilarated. “Horatio the Magnificent has done it again!” many said. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” others proclaimed. Horatio took several low bows, brandishing his whip that now became his wolf’s head cane again. Finally, he raised the silver hoop so that it hovered above him like some giant’s halo. When he released it, the hoop dropped over him, erasing his body from the circus big top as it came to rest upon the ground.
Oliver no longer remained in Hong Kong to hear the raucous applause that followed. In that last moment, he had been delivered again to his estate in London. As quickly as his silver hoop, a mere prop, had erased his form in China he had rematerialized here in the large sitting room outside his bedroom.