The O’Rourkes brought two welcome sounds to the house: laughter and an Irish fiddle. But their neighbours in the next room brought only one sound: shouting. Mr. Viney shouted at Mrs. Viney because no one would take him on at the docks again. Mrs. Viney shouted at Mr. Viney because other men could find work if they wanted to. Mr. Viney shouted at the boys (Walter and William) because they were always underfoot. Mrs. Viney shouted at the boys because they were breaking their mother’s heart with their wicked ways. Walter and William shouted at each other because it was the only thing their parents had taught them to do.
The first floor was the noisy floor.
Ben climbed the last set of stairs to the attic room and then paused outside the door. He could hear two sets of snores and entered as quietly as he could. He wasn’t bothered about waking his brother, Nathaniel, but he didn’t want to trouble his father. He crept in and took a position by the window. He needed to know that the Weeping Man wasn’t out there, waiting for his moment to strike.
Outside, the storm had found new strength from somewhere and snow was hurling itself against the cracked window. What they called the curtain, which was actually the remains of an old nightshirt tacked above the glass, billowed in and out with every gust. He strained his eyes to find a figure in the storm and found none, but still did not feel safe.
Jack Frost had begun to trace his long fingers across the inside of the window. The water in the jug on the washstand was frozen solid and so was whatever his family had left in the chamber pot. On their thin mattresses, his father and brother were both unmoving. Ben turned away from the window and watched them, their clouds of breath the only sign that they were alive. I’m keeping my hat on again tonight, he thought and, pulling it down tight, he wrapped his coat around him and prepared to settle down.
He drew up his blanket, which, as always, was slightly damp and smelled vaguely of cabbage. His own sleeping mat was especially lumpy, mainly due to his secret stash of books. He knew what his father, Jonas, would say about him spending money on books when they didn’t have enough to eat.
Ben lay down so that he was facing Jonas and studied him in the ghost light of the moon.
His pa had a good face, Ben thought; a strong face. The lines on it were signs of determination, endurance and courage. Jonas’s arms were big from lifting, his shoulders big from carrying. And his heart was big from giving. There was so much that Benjamin wanted to talk about with his father. About books, yes, and life and the future; all his hopes and dreams.
And he stopped there.
There would be no talking, he knew. Jonas Kingdom had never forgiven his son for the cruellest crime committed against their family.
“Goodnight, Pa,” Ben said quietly. “I love you.”
No one heard his words and no one replied.
Benjamin Kingdom closed his eyes and did not sleep.
At some point, Ben must have drifted off.
The room could hardly have been colder; the curtain had frozen to the window pane, his blanket was as stiff as leather. All Ben wanted to do was to stay asleep a while longer, but something was tugging him back to wakefulness.
There was a noise.
Ben listened intently, straining his ears to pick up the sound. It came again, a scuffling from somewhere above his head. What was it? Rats in the rafters again? He shuddered at the thought. There was something about those fat bodies and naked pink tails that really disturbed him. Nasty beady eyes, teeth made for biting, claws for scratching. Ben felt his body tense at the thought. Anything but rats.
Bolt upright now, he waited for the noise to come again.
Far beneath Benjamin’s feet, two rats were scurrying his way. They were in a secret tunnel, just one of a warren of secret tunnels that was the Legion’s hidden home below the London streets. And behind those rats, moving softly and with purpose, came two young Legionnaires. They went by the names of Mickelwhite and Bedlam, and it would be hard to find a less likely couple. Mickelwhite was tall, lean, pale, aristocratic; Bedlam was short, squat, dark, as rough as a tosher’s dog. The only thing they shared was hate.
They had their various reasons, they had their own stories. But they had made the same choice: join the Legion.
They were two boys who had promised to give their all for the Council of Seven, two soldiers in a war where the prize was more than they could possibly comprehend; two Legionnaires obeying orders, scouting out the enemy. Most nights they did the same. Hunt for Watchers. Look for signs of light.
Snuff them out.
Not so far above Benjamin’s head, Lucy Lambert maintained her silent vigil. The wind tugged at her long coat, trying its best to catch her with her guard down and throw her off the roof to a death of cobblestones and shattered bones.
The Watcher did not flinch. She and her kind lived on the rooftops of London. The high places were their domain. Friends with gargoyles and pigeons, they spent their days amid the chimney pots, turrets and towers, only touching solid ground when their mission demanded it. What was a little wind and snow to her?
Lucy had often wondered what the Hand would be like when he was finally revealed. She found it hard to reconcile the image she had built in her mind with the swaggering boy that she was standing guard over. Ben Kingdom didn’t appear to be special or powerful. He didn’t even come across as especially bright.
Although he is sort of handsome, she supposed...but then she dismissed the idea, angry with herself for even having thought it.
Lucy clenched her quarterstaff more tightly, pumping some fresh blood into her fingers in case she needed to defend the stupid boy in a hurry. Time would tell if he was worth it.
One thing was for certain, a storm was coming. Day after day, the Legion were becoming more powerful, and soon they would make their move. There were even whispers that the last of the lost Coins had been found. Open war was on its way and the Watchers were prepared.
Lucy spun her staff from hand to hand, practising the lunge, slash and jab that would have any Legionnaire who faced her begging for mercy.
She was ready.
The lintel creaked and a fine shower of plaster rained down on Benjamin. No, not rats, he decided. These feet were far too heavy, too slow. But if not rats, then what?
Benjamin shot out of bed. There was someone on the roof. He dismissed the thought as impossible and yet, as he listened, there it was again: the definite sound of a human foot on the tiles.
Careful so as not to disturb his father, Ben made his way to the window which jutted out of the sloping roof of their attic room. He rubbed the glass but he couldn’t see anything through the spider’s web of ice and his lip curled back in frustration. Above him the roof groaned again as a body adjusted its balance, shifting weight from one foot to another. It couldn’t be a burglar, he reasoned; they had less than nothing and none of that was worth stealing. There was only one answer: the Weeping Man had found him already.
Ben’s first instinct was to run. To wake Pa and Nathaniel and then all of them could leg it. But then he remembered Molly Marbank and his sense of shame came back to haunt him. His hands began to rage within, throbbing with the same invisible power that had nearly shot Jago Moon out of his chair.
A sudden anger took hold of him, bigger than his fear, bigger than the danger. He had unfinished business with the Weeping Man. And if he couldn’t handle him on his own, then there were two more Kingdoms in the room – surely they could manage him together?
The sash window was frozen shut, and Ben began to hammer against it with his palms, desperately trying to force it upwards.
Come on then!
A terrible banging was coming from below Lucy’s feet. For some reason best known to himself, Ben Kingdom was trying to open a window that had been frozen shut. The noise echoed across the street and Lucy winced. She had been sent here to watch over him and make s
ure that he didn’t draw attention to himself. He might just as well shout “Here I am, come and get me!” she thought. He really doesn’t have a clue what he’s facing.
Whether Ben Kingdom was the Hand or not, it was vital that the Legion didn’t get their claws into him. They feared the Hand of Heaven more than they feared the might of the British Army, and if they even suspected that this scruffy East End kid might be the one who would bring about their downfall, they would stamp out his life without a second thought.
Lucy glanced down into the street and saw Jago Moon signalling to her. She read his hand gestures: Two Legionnaires, advancing fast from the river end of the street.
Shut up, Ben! she thought with increasing annoyance, as in the room beneath her the last hope for the Watchers continued to struggle with the simple task of opening a window. Quickly, Lucy skidded down the slope of tiles until she was balanced on the guttering, where she could get a better look at her enemy. Moon was right; she could see the disturbance in the snow around the manhole cover where they had emerged from the sewers like the rats they were. Two sets of tracks leading into the shadows.
Lucy liked Mr. Moon. He was fierce. He was strict. He terrified the younger ones and he enjoyed nothing better than a good fight. In many ways, he reminded Lucy of herself.
She stood poised, the wind tossing her long blonde hair around her slender face, waiting for the order from Moon to either hold her ground or move forward to engage.
Attack! signalled Moon and Lucy felt the rush of adrenaline as she sprinted across the rooftop; as nimble as a cat, and more than happy to use her claws.
Ben’s pounding became more insistent, his hands throbbing with inner fire.
His brother Nathaniel started to stir.
His father was rousing.
The window gave way to a final push, and Arctic wind filled the room, bringing with it a swarm of snowflakes like angry wasps. Benjamin ignored their icy stings as he scrambled his way up onto the windowsill.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Jonas Kingdom mumbled, groggy with sleep.
Ben didn’t have time to answer; he had his feet on the window ledge, his arms bracing himself in the frame. He had to see.
Craning his neck, he caught a flurry of movement behind and above him. For a fraction of a second, Ben made out a figure standing beside the chimney pot. Then it was gone, running along the ridge of the roof with remarkable agility, before dropping down onto a lower roof and out of sight.
Inside the room his father and brother were both grumbling at him.
Ben sighed in resignation. As always he had some explaining to do.
The Legion scouts realized they had been spotted.
As soon as Jago Moon started to tap tap tap down the Lane towards them with his cane, Captain Mickelwhite knew it was their signal to leave. At his side, John Bedlam cracked his knuckles and made to rush the old man, but Mickelwhite reined him in with a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Steady, John,” said Mickelwhite, dragging him back under cover. “We choose our fights, remember? Strike when we are ready, hit hard when we know we can win,” he reasoned at a whisper.
“Yeah, well I’m ready now,” snarled Bedlam. “It’s about time that annoying old geezer got what was comin’ to him.”
Mickelwhite controlled his own emotions, since his partner was clearly incapable of controlling his. He pointed upwards and Bedlam followed his gaze. The other Watcher was on the move as well, almost dancing across the roof towards them.
“It’s Scarface,” hissed Bedlam, catching sight of the livid wound that split the girl’s face in two.
“Come on,” urged Mickelwhite, heading back towards the manhole and the safety of the sewers. “We need to report in.”
“Another time then, beautiful,” Bedlam whispered to himself with a final lingering look at the Watcher girl. Then he dragged the metal cover back into place over their heads, locked it tight, and they both descended the ladder into the hidden world of the Legion; down into the Under.
“Benjamin!” Jonas Kingdom barked, slamming the window and shutting out the storm. “What the hell are you playing at, boy? Some of us have got to work in a few hours.”
Nathaniel gave him a look that was part smile, part pity, and then rolled over, his back to him. Jonas returned to his own bed and in minutes the pair of them were snoring again.
Ben stayed awake. He listened for footfalls on the roof. He listened for noises in the street. But the only thing that he could hear was the echo of his father’s words.
Although he loved his father, there were times when he could almost hate him too; hate the injustice of it. All his life, he had felt as if he were being punished for a crime that he didn’t commit.
It had never been spoken out loud, but Ben saw it in his father’s eyes, felt it in the tone of his voice. You murdered her, Ben. We’d be a happy family if it wasn’t for you.
He missed her too, didn’t they understand that?
He hadn’t killed her. It wasn’t his fault.
How did they think he felt? Knowing that his mother gave her life to bring him into the world.
The Feathered Men were restless. Their screeching echoed through the tunnels of the Under, a shrill and angry conversation in a language no human ear should hear.
Claw Carter watched them cautiously. He had stalked tigers and the rules were much the same: move slowly, move silently. Try not to reek of fear.
There were hundreds of hidden chambers in the subterranean world of the Under, the secret realm of tunnels and catacombs that the Legion called home, but none were as dreaded as the nesting pens where the Feathered Men took their rest. Few dared to approach unless they were under strict orders, and then only reluctantly. Claw Carter, however, was not like other men.
The Feathered Men were remarkable creatures: part man, part bird; all evil. Carter admired them, admired their simplicity. They were killing machines, nothing more. Looking at them, it was hard to imagine that once they had been angelic beings, members of the high order of the Seraphim, whose sole purpose was to sing the praises of their Creator. But that had been a long time ago, before the rebellion in Heaven, Carter reminded himself. A lot had happened since then. The uprising had failed and the once majestic Feathered Men had been cast out with all the other rebel angels; hurled down into the depths of the Pit. Far, far away from Heaven’s light.
In a way, the Feathered Men had never stopped falling, Carter thought, as he watched them. It was as if their hearts were set on descending lower and lower into depravity and greed. One at a time, they had been summoned by the Legion down the centuries, through sacrifice, ritual and blood. Lots of blood. And now they did the Legion’s bidding, if it suited them. The relationship between the Feathered Men and the Legion was not an easy one, Carter knew, neither side having much to offer in the way of trust. But it worked because of a shared vision: they both wanted revenge on the One who had rejected them.
Carter observed the Feathered Men as they roosted in the eaves, squatting on the beams high overhead, gripping tight with their strangely elongated hands and feet. They did not require much in the way of comfort: a vaulted ceiling where they could take their rest, straw to defecate in, fresh meat to eat. A sconce of tallow candles flickered in the corner nearest to the stout oak doors, providing just enough light to cast the nesting chamber into shadows. These ageless, immortal creatures disliked the light; perhaps it reminded them too much of the life they had left behind, Carter mused.
Every now and then a squabble would erupt and they lashed out spitefully, snapping with their beaks and raking their talons across each other’s flesh until the dispute was resolved. They were kindred spirits, Carter thought; they did what they wanted, took what they desired. Much like myself.
And although they were monstrous in appearance, like Carter with his claw,
the Feathered Men were spiritual beings too; they understood the invisible things of this world. They understood the nature of the Coin. That was why he was here now.
Although he was not in the habit of explaining his plans to anyone, he continued to be amazed that even someone as intelligent as Ruby Johnson failed to grasp the significance of the Coins. Thirty pieces of silver; wasn’t it obvious? Didn’t everyone know the story of Judas, the man who betrayed Jesus for a purse of Roman coins?
The Coins of Blood.
For nearly two thousand years they had brought out the worst in men, whispering to them in the secret hours of the night, enticing them to yield to the evil lurking inside their own hearts. The Watchers had tried to hide them, of course, scattering them around the world and locking them away. Tried and failed. Carter smiled; such naivety. The Watchers would never understand that greed would always win in the end.
As far as he understood, the great power of the Coins was that they freed a man to do the unthinkable. To hold just one of the Coins in your hand was to break the last chains of morality that kept you bound. They encouraged you to give in to your darkest urges, to do whatever you desired without a care for the consequences. To become totally free.
Free to kill Mr. Sweet, for example. Free to wipe out the Council of Seven and install yourself as supreme ruler of the Legion.
Carter had grown to despise the Seven. They were weak, insipid. They had amassed twenty-nine of the Judas Coins but they lacked the courage or the imagination to do anything with them except to shut them away in the dark. True, they might be working on some grand plan from which he was excluded, but whatever their scheme was, it was taking far too long for Carter’s liking; he was a man of action. No, he was decided. When the last Coin was his, he would make his move.
The Claws of Evil Page 4