by Jay Barnson
The nobleman’s muscles locked as micro-filaments pierced their way deep into his cerebrum, and a familiar knot blossomed in the back of Jonesburry’s mind. Looking down at Reinleigh’s frozen hand, he was shocked to discover the younger man was clutching a knife merely a fraction of an inch from his chest.
He was going for a weapon, not his wallet . . . just like Shanghai.
He was back near the Opera House again. He didn’t know how, or why, but he knew where.
And he knew he had purpose—a bubbling sense of anticipation driving him into the darker parts of the city. The places where the ghouls dwelt, painting the night with their luscious temptations.
There was something wrong with his stride—it was longer, faster than usual. It was almost as though he were wearing another pair of legs all together.
But his legs didn’t concern him, nor did the fact that his hands did not seem to be his own. No, he was far too excited to concern himself with such trivial matters.
He had more important things to think about, his months of half-dreamt plans and idle thoughts had finally spurred him into action. Tonight, he would finally fulfil his purpose.
From the shadows, thieves and miscreants watched his passing with hungry eyes. They noted his fine clothing, his luxurious coat, and thought him an easy mark, a soft target. But a second glance quickly returned them to their filthy nests; something was holding them back.
He had heard tell of predators being able to sense more dangerous foes; that through some manner of scent, or some other unknown sense entirely, the killers of the jungle could tell when they were hopelessly outmatched and dangerously outclassed.
Perhaps they could smell his own sense of purpose about him. Perhaps his intentions were clinging to him like a heady cloud, an odour which prompted the lesser creatures to slink back into the shadows to wait for easier prey.
This thought brought a smile to his lips and made his pulse beat even faster. The growing anticipation was delicious.
“Hello, lovely,” an aging strumpet called suggestively from a nearby doorway. “Looking for a tumble?”
He eyed the woman without slowing his pace. Her garish makeup was smeared across her face, and she lifted the edges of her stained dress just enough to allow her stockinged leg to show from beneath torn petticoats. No doubt she had already managed to entertain a series of intoxicated dock workers and sailors throughout the evening. And, no doubt, the large man standing in the doorway a few yards away relieved them of their week’s earnings shortly after she was done.
Any other night, he would have given serious thought to this sport, but he had other plans afoot. He had a purpose, and it kept driving him forward, deeper into the night.
“Another time, my dear,” he said without pause. The grocer’s daughter would be closing shortly, and his window of opportunity was also drawing slowly to a close.
She was such a pretty thing, young Emily. He had first spied her weeks ago, with her raven dark hair and alabaster skin.
She had reminded him of his sister; she had been pretty, too . . . once.
He came to a halt beneath a lone street lamp, across the way from the corner storefront from which Emily’s father traded his goods. He would be gone already, spending the night gambling his weekly earnings away in one of the nearby taverns. It would be left to Emily to secure the store’s locks and shutters, protecting her family’s livelihood from the opportunistic scavengers which infested this corner of the city.
He could see her outline through the storefront windows, lithe and graceful. His heart raced now at the thought of what was to come; he envisioned her perfect rosebud mouth curled as it moaned with exquisite agony.
Reaching into his coat, he gingerly fondled the bone handle of his blade, and he thought briefly of his sister. That night had been an awakening, an accidental foray into a much larger world.
That night had been fun, but this night promised so much more. This night promised to reveal his purpose . . .
Jonesburry’s head smacked in the bulkhead above his bunk as he wrenched himself free of his dream. Through the haze of his slumber, he could still taste the metallic tang of hot blood on the tip of his tongue. He had to force himself to look at his hands, just to ensure they were indeed his own, rather than the blood-stained monstrosities they seemed just moments ago.
“Sleep well?” Sir Reinleigh asked from the bunk directly opposite his own.
“Quiet,” Jonesburry snapped, as the rhythmic clatter of the train’s wheels brought him sharply back to the present. If his reckoning was correct, they were now less than two full days’ travel from the marquis’ estate. Two more days and he would be rid of Sir Oliver Reinleigh. Rid of the man whose vile deeds were known only to the world as the workings of the infamous Blackdown Ripper.
If only they’d taken an airship—he would have been rid of him already.
“Yes, pray tell,” Sir Reinleigh asked with a sickly smile. “Why didn’t we take the airship?”
“How did you—”
“Oh, that’s right. What was the phrasing again? ‘Nothing but a giant, flammable death trap.’ Really, Mr. Jonesburry, when you force a door open into someone’s mind, you shouldn’t be surprised when it opens both ways.”
“I said, be quiet!” Jonesburry sent waves of compulsion crashing across the knot at the back of his mind. The knot wavered, pulsing almost as though it were resisting the directions being forced upon it, and Sir Reinleigh smiled again.
“Manners, Mr. Jonesburry. They are the cornerstone of polite society after all.”
Jonesburry tensed. He’d had problems forcing compliance before, but usually only when the binding was new and the command potentially life-threatening. A charge’s sense of self-preservation was usually far stronger than any newly formed bond. Reinleigh’s bond, however, was already days old, and the command was hardly any threat to his immediate safety.
Swallowing hard, Jonseburry repeated “I said to be quiet.” This time, when he sent the waves of compulsion forth, he tried to push past the resistance he knew the young marquis was offering. The knot pulsed again, but the binding held and Reinleigh shot him a caustic look as the command took hold. Tired, Jonesburry thought. I’m probably just tired.
At least he hoped that was the case.
“I’m heading to the lavatory. You are to remain here. You are not to move, nor to speak until my return.” There was no resistance within the knot this time, and thankfully the compulsion took an instant hold. As he slid the door to their private cabin closed, with Reinleigh left immobile inside, Jonesburry let out an explosive breath. He knew three days was too brief a time between charges and that he should never have agreed to this latest binding.
Surely that was it; he was just tired and needed a much longer break between contracts. When he severed this latest bond, he would tell Horace that he needed at least three months before he agreed to any new binding.
And if he didn’t jolly well like it, he could just stick one of his damn contraptions into his own head and do it himself.
Jonesburry had no real need to relieve himself—he just needed some distance from the young noble. Over the years, he had often found himself neck deep in the thoughts of some of the most deranged minds imaginable. However, Reinleigh was proving to be an entirely different creature than most.
It was hard to believe that someone so young was capable of such base depravities. It was harder still to imagine that he was so careful in his manner of execution that he had somehow managed to evade all manner of notice and capture.
Until now, that was.
Jonesburry wondered if the client even knew the full truth of the man he had contracted him to escort, or whether the young nobleman had somehow fallen afoul of the client’s notice for some far smaller trespass. Either way, as soon as Jonesburry was done with the man, he was sure he would be meeting a well-justified fate.
An unexpected jolt against his shoulder, followed by the heavy crash of luggage, quickly broug
ht Jonesburry’s mind back to the present. Without noticing, he had nearly managed to traverse half the train’s length into one of the common carriages, and had unwittingly dislodged the precariously balanced luggage of a nearby traveller in the process.
“I’m sorry,” Jonesburry said, as he attempted to scoop the fallen bags back into their overhead storage.
The hands of a young woman came to his assistance. “It’s my fault,” she apologised. “I shouldn’t have left them half-hanging into the aisle.”
Jonesburry looked up to reply when his breath left him. The young woman’s dark, raven hair was a strong contrast to her flawless, alabaster skin. He could feel his hunger rising, and he suddenly yearned to see her rosebud mouth moaning in agony. His hand reached idly into his jacket, searching for the hilt of the knife he had liberated from Sir Reinleigh.
As his fingers gently traced the bone handle, the knot at the back of his mind began to stir. Realising he was unwittingly channeling Reinleigh’s thoughts, the blood suddenly drained from his face.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled again as he hastily shoved the last of the fallen luggage back into the overhead shelf. I’m just tired, he kept saying to himself as he quickly retreated to the cabin, nearly knocking passing travellers over in his haste.
As cabin’s door slid closed, Sir Reinleigh met Jonesburry’s return with a wolf-like grin. “So tell me about this woman you just met,” he said. “She seems fascinating.”
Jonesburry quietly rejoiced as the train pulled into its final stop with a triumphant humph of steam. Pulling the small curtain aside, he watched with tired eyes as his fellow passengers disembarked. The last day of his journey had been far from restful, despite the fact he had resorted to compelling Reinleigh to sleep for the entirety of the remaining leg.
In hindsight, he probably would have been better off allowing the young noble to remain awake. At least then he wouldn’t have been privy to the sensations of him dreaming. Whilst he didn’t dare to probe the knot for specifics of his slumbering thoughts, it was easy enough to judge their content from the potent wash of emotions echoing through his skull.
Three times in the last day, while he left his charge asleep in their cabin, he had found himself sneaking back to the common carriages. Without his knowledge or conscious awareness, he would find himself at the other end of the train, seeking out stolen glimpses of the dark-haired woman.
Each time it happened, he felt his appetite for her growing, and his gaze lingered just a little bit longer. He would caress the handle of Reinleigh’s knife as he did so and picture that perfect rosebud mouth as it curled.
But each time it happened, he eventually managed to realise that his thoughts were no longer his own. Damn you Horace, he would silently curse as he stalked back to the cabin. You’re taking this cursed thing out of me after this. I’m done with this whole business.
Even now, as the crowd of disembarking travellers filled the station platform, he knew that some part of him was searching for the woman. Tearing himself away from the window, he cast his gaze back to the sleeping Reinleigh. He was dreaming even now, and from the sensations oozing through the knot, Jonesburry could tell that he seemed to be enjoying whatever it was he may have been doing. Revulsion rose in Jonesburry’s throat, and, before he knew it, his spring loaded revolver was in his palm, cocked and pointed straight at his charge’s forehead.
It would be so easy, just a simple squeeze of the trigger and he would be done with the man once and for all. The binding would unravel, and his disgusting little knot would disappear forever. It’s not as though the client had much differently planned for the man anyway. One small bullet and the world would be rid of Sir Oliver Reinleigh, Marquis of Montherma, and the Blackdown Ripper.
Surely there would be few to mourn his loss.
An unexpected knock at the cabin door stopped Jonesburry’s finger a mere fraction away from releasing a live round. Flicking his wrist, the revolver disappeared just before the door slid open.
“I’m sorry sir,” the uniformed steward said from the doorway. “This is the last stop.”
“Indeed it is,” Jonesburry muttered. “I will wake my companion here and be on our way.”
The station’s only platform was all but deserted by the time Jonesburry had managed to wake his charge and collect their meagre belongings. Strangely, Sir Reinleigh didn’t seem even slightly concerned about the eminent conclusion to their journey, and moreover, what that would mean for his own personal safety.
Rather, he stretched in a decidedly feline manner as he said, “It was a shame you woke me—I was having such a pleasant dream.”
“I’m not interested,” Jonesburry retorted.
Reinleigh merely smiled before continuing, “You were in it, and you were most certainly not having an agreeable time.”
“I told you . . .” Jonesburry had begun before being caught short by the unexpected sight of the raven-haired woman. She was seated alone, her stockinged feet surrounded by a pile of weathered and mismatched luggage on one of the station benches. She was such a pretty young thing, and his pulse quickened at the thought of her porcelain skin.
At first, Jonesburry thought his reaction was merely an extension of Reinleigh’s own, but further probing revealed the Marquis’s knot radiated nothing but a decidedly amused sense of curiosity.
“You have impeccable taste, Mr. Jonesburry,” Sir Reinleigh said appreciatively. “I never would have thought you were one who had an eye for the finer things in life.”
Jonesburry tore his eyes away and began making for the station exit. “It’s time to go,” he said brusquely.
Reinleigh chuckled and stood his ground. “Do you know what separates the truly powerful from the weak and feeble? They are the ones which have the courage to take what they desire. They are the ones that have the courage to recognise and fulfill their purpose, rather than scamper away from it with their tails between their legs.”
“Be quiet and follow me.”
“Do you think that mechanised contraption you’ve buried in my skull makes you powerful, Mr. Jonesburry? It does not; it’s little more than a trumped up tinker’s toy, a pitiful leash for the weak-minded.”
“It’s proved a suitable enough leash for yourself.”
“Do you think you’ve ever truly forced me to do anything I desperately wanted to avoid? Don’t delude yourself—you don’t possess the strength of will to overpower my own.”
“I’ve had enough. Be quiet!” Jonesburry commanded, pushing the waves of compulsion crashing across the surface of the knot.
The knot hardened, resisting his compulsion with frightening ease. His command may have well been a child’s slingshot fired at an ancient stone wall for all the effect it had.
Reinleigh laughed again, before grabbing hold of Jonesburry’s lapel and leaning in to whisper in his ear. “If you want her,” he said, “take her.”
This time, his words were not a suggestion, they were a command backed by the full weight of compulsion. Jonesburry could feel the waves spreading forth from Reinleigh’s knot, binding his mind with alien thoughts which kept echoing throughout his skull.
‘Take her,’ the thoughts commanded.
III Crescendo
The manor house which dominated Sir Reinleigh’s estate was sorely neglected. Once it would have been a proud residence, an impressive home which presided over beautifully maintained grounds, the envy of every common and high-born man alike for miles to come.
But it had been brought painfully low, spoiled by broken windows and flaking paintwork. The gardens which led into the main entrance were thickly choked with weeds, dour and twisted things which had to fight one another for space and their own continued existence. It was clear that the only living creatures to inhabit the building in recent years were the vermin infesting its walls.
However, the knot in Jonesburry’s mind radiated memories of another time—of a time when a pretty, young girl played amongst the perfectly manicured lawns.
Reinleigh’s father, lord of the manor, had been greatly displeased when he discovered what he had done back then. Shaking with fury at the sight of her broken body, he had been ready to choke the life from young Oliver. The young noble hadn’t planned on taking his father’s life with the very same knife he had used on his sister, but he was thrilled to see the life leave his eyes when it did.
He gained much that day, the title of Marquis of Montherma least amongst them.
“Your client must have a flair for the dramatic, Mr. Jonesburry,” Reinleigh said. “Deciding to have you bring me back here, of all places.”
Jonesburry didn’t answer; instead, he merely rapped the door’s knocker with a hand which was no longer his own. With the things he had just seen it do, he wished he could just cut the blasted thing from his own arm.
“Still sullen?” Reinleigh asked. “Come now, you’ve already done so well and learned so much. Now it’s time for you to complete your education.”
Jonesburry shot him a pained look. Were he capable of acting of his own accord, he would gladly plunge the knife’s blade into Reinleigh’s chest. Instead, he was commanded to have it prepared for whosoever would be the one fated to open the door.
“Took your blasted time,” came the gruff voice of the man who finally did. Jonesburry despaired at realisation that the voice belonged to Horace. “You would have been here days ago if you’d taken the airship.”
Jonesburry tried to fight the compulsion’s binding, but could only manage the words I’m sorry before he struck. He muffled the cries of his friend with one hand and struck with Reinleigh’s blade gripped in the other. Cradling his head, he lifted him gently down to the floor so as not to cause the men waiting further inside to notice. Jonesburry hoped his friend could recognise the truth of his actions, but his eyes showed nothing but surprise and betrayal.
“Next time,” Sir Reinleigh said, pulling the knife free, “be sure to target the heart. I have no problems leaving one to die slowly, Mr. Jonesburry, but the need for stealth often makes it an unaffordable luxury.”