Transmuted

by Karina Cooper

  What I felt at that moment was similar to that of an urge to flee, but worse. Harsher. I couldn’t breathe but for the overwhelming memory of the place.

  I had traversed this very tunnel more than once, but the most recent adventures left my palms stinging with remembered fear.

  Before my time, the tunnel had been used primarily for pedestrians. Cobbles had smoothed the floor, and railings guided them what wanted to stroll from one side of the Thames to the other.

  It had, in the end, fallen into disuse, and then disrepair. What had once been the very gem of engineering—a feat that bore a tunnel below the river without need of bridge or sky ferry— became instead the common haunt of prostitutes, tunnel-thieves and vermin.

  The Metropolitan District Railways now maintained the tunnel only inasmuch as necessary for the trains to pass through on laid track. Lanterns affixed to the wall provided lights to see by at regular, if long, intervals.

  What authorities didn’t know was how the tunnel’s most common—and most secretive— residents preferred the dark.

  My own father had built his laboratory within; a secret I had not been aware of until lured there. I still remembered the path. Opium muddled so much of my past, but this lingered.

  And while much of the terror I’d experienced in that time was softened by the same muddling glow of opium’s caress, even facing the spewing black smoke from the outside of the tunnel was enough to dry my throat, twitch my fingers.

  I could not breathe. It hurt, like a pounding force within my head, numbing my limbs until they felt as lead.

  I wanted that opium again; it was, my senses assured me, the only way that I would emerge unscathed from that what I attempted now.

  Just a bit of the draught, so bitter that even cinnamon wouldn’t soften the sting. Or perhaps a nibble of the tar, sharp and acrid upon the tongue.

  Anything would do.

  I did not know how near I was to folding until a large hand clamped over my eyes. A breath, a shuddered reflex, and that strength my knees lost was suddenly replaced by the bracing prop of a man’s body behind me.

  “Move,” Hawke ordered, a hard sound in my ear. His breath stirred the fine hairs at my temple; it was warm, almost uncomfortably so. His temperature blazed against my skin, even those parts of me covered.

  In the wake of such warmth—neither gentle nor forgiving, but the sort that blistered—my fear dwindled. And with it, the helplessness that had taken the strength from my legs.

  The rational part of my mind understood that among Hawke’s gifts, the art of effortless authority—the will to simply order away one’s demons—counted as his most powerful. A ringmaster did not achieve such agency without the confidence required to ensure it.

  But the part of me that responded to him with such visceral honesty always hoped that it was I and I alone that suffered such sensitivity to his presence.

  Of course, therein was the issue, wasn’t it? I had never been the only fool to fall for the Devil’s tricks.

  “Hurry,” Ashmore called ahead of us. “Our guide won’t wait.”

  A dry, somewhat manic laugh dotted this assertion.

  Hawke said nothing else. He simply uncovered my eyes, stripping away the intimacy achieved by dint of his palm, his breath—his presence.

  Either I would walk the next step under my own power, or I would not.

  My jaw set.

  I took the step that brought me closer to that tunnel. Gooseflesh rippled down my arms.

  Another step, and then another, and soon I was swallowed by that yawning mouth. Although my senses could not paint for me a picture of that time before, the smell that assaulted me reeked of familiarity—and of awful things within. Coal mixed with the humid wash of steam, and the hair-curling stench of sewage, many times stronger than the fragrance attached to the notice I carried.

  The lingering miasma of putrefaction filled the nose, gathered on the tongue and huddled there; a foul rock that could neither be broken nor swallowed.

  Saltlick Sims had produced from somewhere about his shabby person a lantern, and this provided somewhat more guide than the trace of light from lamps lit sporadically between girders.

  That feeling of walking through a dungeon lingered. It was dank and all too humid, and I knew that Ashmore felt it, for he wiped at his forehead with his sleeve often.

  By the time we achieved our end, we’d all but drowned in the muck of sweat and coalsmoke caught on damp heat.

  Hawke stayed close behind me, Ashmore in front. I didn’t need to ask to know they’d done it a’purpose. If ought came at us—footpad or thief, beastman or worse—it would come from before us or behind us.

  The air congealed in my throat. When the cravings I had never truly lost became a pain in my head, echoed in the trudge of my feet, I simply lowered my sight to the broken cobbles and laid track, concentrated on breathing, and walked.

  Remnants of the tunnel’s history lingered. Little had changed since my last excursion. Rubbish discarded along the track line, rotting cloth and the unsightly remains of things I dared not look too closely at. The tunnel had been cleared for the trains over twenty years ago, but that sort of business never stopped the brave, the terminally unintelligent, or the desperate from meandering through.

  Nor did it keep the Underground from utilizing it as a thoroughfare.

  Sims croaked a sound that might have been another one of his odd chuckles merged with the need to clear one’s throat. Even them used to the fog’s sting might find the smoke caught within here all too thick.

  When he stopped, Ashmore did the same.

  Sims loosed a long, near-skeletal hand from his rags to beckon. It flashed like a ghost’s in the flickering light.

  Both Ashmore and I took a step forward. Hawke caught me by the arm.

  I shot him an impatient frown. “One of us will have to see to this.”

  “Let him.” His features were near impossible to read in most circumstances. The shadows concealing them now gave him a torturous cast, drawing his strong nose and the harsh planes of his jaw into a caricature of a mask.

  I shook off Hawke’s grasp. “Enough,” I said sharply, seizing the back of Ashmore’s coat. His step halted. “I refuse to sit back and play beauty to your Le roi Charmant.”

  No sooner had I snapped the rebuke than my tutor cast me a startled look over his shoulder.

  The amusement that flickered to life behind a mask of soot and sweat surprised me.

  While Ashmore was the more approachable of my escorts, with the breeding of a gentleman and the manners of one many more times patient than I, laughter came hard to him. The sound of his chuckles, rare as they ever were, seemed slightly off-balance, as though he was unused to it.

  When he did succumb, often caught by surprise, I did so enjoy it.

  This time, however, we had not the luxury. Farther down the way, Sims watched in puzzlement as my tutor bent over, hands braced upon his knees, and laughed.

  Hawke glowered. “Stuff your mouth, Ashmore. You’ll summon flies.”

  Still chortling, Ashmore straightened. He wiped his sleeve over his eyes. “A beauty, a King Charming, and a Beast.” He sighed, apparently much taken with the idea. “That’s a rich tale for the telling.”

  Eccentric bits of humor appealed to the man; those matters wrapped in eclectic bits from literature and lore, those things that turned we human creatures in a cast of caricatures. My use of French literature to paint either escort as a King Charming prepared to save the poor little girl from her circumstances proved too much for Ashmore to swallow.

  That he called Hawke the Beast in the tale was too apt.

  Never mind that all of us looked the part of the poor wretch covered in soot. Not a one of us was fit for a ball now.

  I glared at them both. “My point stands. I’m not a damsel, if you please.”

  I could all but hear the ferocity with which Hawke ground his teeth. Whether it was for Ashmore’s amusement or what he’d term my stubborn
ness, I didn’t know.

  If he remained true to form, he would either forbid me outright from taking any initiative or graciously cede me his permission.

  I stepped away before he could do either. This was my initiative, not his.“I’ll go first.”

  In my wake, I heard Hawke growl something low and unintelligible.

  Ashmore sobered. “You think so?”

  Whatever Hawke replied, I could not hear it.

  Let them sort it out.

  Sims slanted me a pale stare from under a heavy brow. “Got it?”

  “More than I’d like,” I muttered. At his blank stare, I sighed, fishing in my pocket for the glass chit. “Here. Will this one allow all of us to enter?”

  Sims shrugged. “Mebbe.” He barked out a throttled gasp, then turned and spit something foul to the ground beside his feet. “Mebbe so. See who’s up.”

  “Up?”

  “Up,” Sims repeated, then laughed alarmingly quick; a sharp scrape and then silence. He reached up to the flickering light of a lantern bolted to the wall. When he grasped it, I thought I knew his intent.

  It would dip, on a swivel of some kind, and a door should open.

  Or perhaps, I thought on reflection, that would be too easy for the Underground.

  With remarkable strength and wiry ability, Sims pulled himself full off the floor. Bits of black crumbled off his clothing, and ends unraveling flapped every which way. I half expected his clothing to knock the lantern askew.

  The glass surrounding the flame seemed sturdier than that. A small relief. I wasn’t certain what I would do if my guide to the Underground caught fire.

  The shadows cast from Sims’ agile climb cavorted in demonic fury. Whatever he did above that lantern, lost in the darkness that did not ease, it resulted in a series of groans and creaks. The mechanisms by which the Underground entries were concealed were always secret, but this particular mechanism was new enough that I’d not seen it done before.

  Had they minds of engineering skill with which to manufacture such secrets? They must have. Or perhaps the means to employ such skill.

  As our guide fell back to the broken cobble beside me, a crack formed in the wall. It widened in increments. I suspected there were wheels cranked by a series of pulleys, each triggered by whatever lever my guide had pulled.

  Although each of the three Underground guides I had known had been unusual types— even fundamentally flawed as a member of the species—I had never made the mistake of underestimating them. To guard the Underground’s secrets was no small thing.

  That was why we paid Saltlick Sims well for his time.

  Also, that he did not insist I go first into that black hole so formed in the otherwise filthy stone wall was a mark in his favor.

  He held up a long-nailed finger by his face, so close to his own eye that I worried such filth might congeal in the sensitive organ. “Keep th’chit ready,” he ordered, grinning his blackened grin. “Foll’it.”

  That meant follow. Or near enough to it that it would suffice.

  I looked back at Hawke and Ashmore, giving them my best stern stare. “Behave,” I said flatly.

  A useless command, really. The set nature of Ashmore’s expression assured me that when it came to it, he would be no problem. Hawke, always ruthless in approach, might be rather more ready than the lot of us.

  Though I ducked low and entered the door first, both men remained close to my heels.

  I had been through such passages before, though only ever in pursuit of a bounty. When a collector—who did not fear the underground, anyway—had need to enter in such a fashion, the notice torn from the wall served in place of a chit. That generally allowed collectors enough time in the vast Underground to achieve their goals.

  Those caught lingering or straying too far from the notice’s demands were severely handled.

  Collectors weren’t so confident that we were willing to forsake our lives for a bit of mucking about Underground business. Frankly, as long as we were paid our due, it didn’t really matter where our coin came from.

  Some rare collections stemmed from the Underground. Most did not. While it made no difference to me, most of my bounties had been Menagerie fare. Some fled to the Underground in misguided attempt at sanctuary.

  It was the poor intellect of a quarry who assumed the Underground was a safer haven than the arms of whatever collector was on his tail. There was precious little honor among thieves.

  Whatever compass guided the morals of this place, it wasn’t one that I particularly understood. The gist was something along the lines of “eye for an eye”, similar to Menagerie justice. The notable difference was that a sentence delivered by an Underground executioner could be bent by the frame of coin, favor, or service.

  Still, I was sure I had all my sources covered. With Sims to lead the way, and a chit to smooth any concerns with them what protected the border, there would be no reason to make any more of a fuss than usual.

  I was not surprised by the dark tunnel on the other side of the entry. This would go on for some time, providing another bottleneck by which intruders might be dissuaded. If my head seemed rather too heavy in the dark, I expected it to be so. The Underground was not a welcoming environment.

  Sims shuffled ahead, his lantern half-shielded by the filthy wrappings loosely bunched around it. Grit and broken stone crunched underfoot.

  Ashmore stepped up his pace, reaching my side. “How long since you last set foot here?” he asked, low enough that the tunnel did not make of it an echoed refrain.

  I considered this. “At least two years. Last I was through,” I added, “there was something of a uniform presented among the guards, but it was mostly old wrappings and bits of colored wood and metal by way of badges. I suspected some rise of organization.”

  “Mm.” A thoughtful sound, but one that would not be followed with explanation. “Are you well?”

  I dismissed this with the disdain it deserved.

  To be honest, I wondered as to Ashmore’s previous experience with the Underground. If it was more than six years ago, much had likely changed.

  Then again, it might have been even longer than that. The term “since before you came” covered a great deal of time.

  The tunnel eventually came to an end, barred at the mouth by a large wooden door. Metal facings bolted into it made for a sturdy portico. Sims kicked it hard. It thudded.

  A metal slat slipped aside. Sims lifted his lantern. “S’me!”

  The bit snapped back into place, and tumblers unlocked. The door groaned as it eased open.

  “A’righ’,” Sims declared, smiling so wide that what I saw of his face was one part rictus and one part crinkle eyed mischief. “In an’ show’m y’chit.”

  “Thank you,” I told him, earning a jittery shrug and awkward laugh. As the door opened into a wider cavern—wide enough that the lanternlight at the front couldn’t reach the walls on either side—Sims rounded the lot of us and shuffled quickly back into the gloom.

  I prepared to step inside, but this time, it was Ashmore who caught my shoulder. When I shot him a quick glare of reproach, his gaze flicked behind us.

  I glanced at Hawke. He had gone still, chin high as though he scented a fragrance upon the air that I could not. I had not yet ascertained the limits of his senses, nor what exactly it was he could do with them, but if he could smell something other than rot on this thick and clouded air, I was most impressed.

  Hawke lifted a finger to his lips. A glint of lantern caught in his eyes; a blue snapped into a focus so sharp that it seemed made of knives. He stared at the portico yawning wide.

  Ashmore nodded. The message was clear. I would not win any arguments, so I simply allowed my tutor to precede me. He stepped over the threshold first.

  Chapter Nine

  The wiser recourse, and Hawke had obviously sensed the intent. The instant Ashmore passed through, men seized him by the arms, held him still and thrust a lantern into his face. His hair blazed li
ke an orange halo, and he flinched from the closeness of the glare, but he did not fight.

  Hawke slid his body before mine, one arm half-lifted as though prepared to catch me were I to attempt to push him aside. It was such an effortlessly protective gesture that I had little choice but to let it be. Wrestling here with him would only do our position harm.

  That my heart and mind agreed the action to be sweet —a word not often attributed to Micajah Hawke—was something I kept to myself.

  Truth be told, had those men laid hands on me in such a fashion, Hawke would surely have pounced like the tiger he was reputed to be. To enter the Underground was dangerous enough, but to mark the occasion with blood was as good a death sentence as any royal writ.

  Instead, as the rigid length of his body hid much of me, I could only grasp the back of his coat and call,“Collector’s business!”

  The term was one long held in esteem by any with the misfortune to hear it. Generally, scrapping with a collector was not the wiser choice, and by announcing one’s business, a collector gave those unwilling to risk death or dismemberment opportunity to retreat from the area.

  In the Underground, matters were slightly less in my favor. Still, it was important they understood that I and my crew were here for legitimate business. Quarries running from the surface did not often bring with them coin nor service. They were a liability to most, and often a subject of wagers.

  “So you say,” jeered a man whom I couldn’t see. The hands pulled Ashmore to the side, clearing the way. “Come out, or we burn his eyes out!”

  My tutor remained calm. He did not, I noted with relief, speak.

  To do so would like as not mark him as a toff right off, and end our charade. Wealthy patrons did not brave the Underground. They sent people—them what wouldn’t find themselves marked for the toffs they served and returned in bits.

  Hawke moved before I. With the same confidence he exhibited everywhere, agile as a cat and so obviously marked by menace that even I would think long and hard before assaulting his person, he stepped through the door.