by Tom Becker
The inky cloud parted, and Jonathan caught sight of a shock of pink hair and the gleam of a blade as it traced a slicing arc through the air. Then the Phoenix was upon Marianne, in a maelstrom of fetid black feathers and razor-sharp talons. The bounty hunter rolled to one side as the bird’s claws scraped against the cobblestones, before drawing a dagger from her boot and hurling it at the shadow. The Phoenix let out an ear-splitting screech of pain, and the cloud wavered once more. As Jonathan felt the fear within him ebb, he looked up to see Carnegie thrusting Bartlemas towards him.
“Get him out of here,” the wereman growled, flexing his claws. “We’ll take care of things up here.”
Jonathan didn’t want to leave Carnegie to fight the Phoenix, but it was pointless – not to mention dangerous – to protest. He bit back an objection and scanned the observatory for a way out. The Black Phoenix was hovering above the main exit, confronted by the combined force of Carnegie, Marianne, Humble and Skeet. Any attempt to run in that direction would end in disaster. Instead, Jonathan turned and looked out over the iron railing. It was a long drop down on to a steep incline dotted with trees.
Bartlemas followed his gaze. “Are you mad? The fall will kill us!”
Jonathan didn’t bother to argue – he simply grabbed the spindly watchmaker and bundled him unceremoniously over the barrier. Within a second, he had leapt after him.
The pair of them hit the ground with a thump and went tumbling down the slope, bouncing painfully through the dirt, roots and branches tearing at their clothes, until a tree trunk brought Jonathan’s progress to an abrupt halt. As he lay there, stunned, the sounds of battle floated down from the observatory: howls and screeches, blades ringing against talons.
And then Marianne’s voice, crying, “Jonathan! He’s coming for you!”
Darkness was sweeping down the hillside towards them like a black avalanche. Jonathan staggered over to where Bartlemas was crouching on his haunches.
“We’ve got to run!” he urged. “Come on!”
The watchmaker took one look at the cloud pursuing them and began haring down the hill. He proved a surprisingly quick runner, his long, skinny legs eating up the ground. Jonathan followed in his wake, his limbs battered and bruised, spurred on by the shadow on his shoulder, and the knowledge that the Phoenix was gaining on them.
At the bottom of the hill, the park levelled out, and the running became easier, even though the grass was still slippery with rain. There was a screech behind them, terribly loud in Jonathan’s ears. The main exit was far away in the left-hand corner of the park; they would be dead before they reached it. In front of them, a low stone wall separated the park from the National Maritime Museum, a series of graceful white buildings linked by a broad colonnaded walkway. Overtaking Bartlemas, Jonathan cried, “Follow me!” and raced towards the museum.
He placed a hand on the low wall and vaulted over the top of it in one smooth motion. As he turned to help Bartlemas, he saw that the Phoenix hovered over them, close enough for Jonathan to see the bird’s bloodstained beak arrowing hungrily towards the watchmaker. Bartlemas was stuck with one leg on either side of the wall – Jonathan pulled him over, so hard that the pair of them fell to the ground. The Phoenix’s talons passed centimetres over their heads, and the thick smell of rotting meat once again turned Jonathan’s stomach.
Bartlemas remained wheezing on the floor as the bird circled to take another pass.
“Get up!” Jonathan shouted. He pointed through the museum’s walkway to the main road beyond, where cars were criss-crossing by, unaware of the drama taking place only a few hundred metres away. “If we can reach the road, we’ll be safe!”
Forcing the watchmaker to his feet, Jonathan dragged him across the colonnaded path, the low ceiling forcing the Phoenix to pull up and fly over the top of the museum. Bursting out the other side of the walkway, Jonathan led Bartlemas down a straight gravel path towards the main road. Although they were close enough to hear the rumbling buses, Jonathan felt the icy shadow of the Phoenix threatening to envelop him once more. From somewhere he found another spurt of energy, even though it felt like his chest was going to explode.
As they reached the main gates of the museum, a limousine with blacked-out windows pulled up in front of them. A rear door opened invitingly; Bartlemas dived inside without a second thought. Jonathan was about to follow suit, when he caught sight of the man in the back seat.
It was Vendetta.
Jonathan stopped in his tracks. This was the man he had been running from, the reason he had been dragged into this mystery. Now he was face to face with him, Jonathan wanted to turn on his heel and run in the opposite direction.
Bartlemas poked his head back out of the limousine, gesturing wildly for Jonathan to get in. Above his head, the Phoenix screeched with jubilation. As the cloud swooped down towards him, Jonathan heard the sounds of footsteps racing across the gravel towards the gate. Transfixed, he stood and stared at the cloud as it hurtled towards him. He wondered what death felt like – how much it would hurt.
He felt strong hands grabbing him.
“What are you waiting for?” Carnegie snarled. He manhandled Jonathan into the limousine and bundled in behind him.
With a squeal of tyres, the car raced away from the kerb, swerving through the lunch-time traffic. Through the rear window, Jonathan saw the black cloud pull up by the gates of the museum. There was an echoing screech of frustration, and then the darkness swept off towards the Thames.
Jonathan sat back in his seat, too exhausted to feel relief. As the adrenaline in his system drained away, his limbs felt like lead weights. Next to him, Carnegie was panting raggedly, his body shaking as the beast within him receded and he returned to human form. Bartlemas’s eyes were alive with shock, his hands clutching at the small wooden box as though his life depended upon it. By contrast, Vendetta eyed his three passengers with open amusement.
“Rough day?”
The vampire was dressed casually in a crisp white shirt and chinos – despite the time of year, a pair of sunglasses were pushed up on to his forehead. He imbued the back of the car with the cold, lifeless smell of a morgue. Jonathan couldn’t believe he was sitting only inches away from the creature who had tried to kill both him and his father. He was too tired to feel rage, though. If his life was going to end, he just hoped it would be quick.
“I’ve had rougher,” Carnegie replied moodily. “Feel free to put that to the test.”
“If you want a scuffle, go elsewhere,” Vendetta shot back. “This is a limousine, not a bar room, Carnegie. You can at least feign civility, can’t you?”
“That’s rich!” Jonathan spluttered. “Coming from you!”
“You would do well to keep your mouth closed,” the vampire said coldly. “I have hardly forgotten our past differences. Be grateful that for once, Starling, I feel less inclined to kill you than usual. Without your intervention, I’m not sure Bartlemas here would have made it.”
“What was that thing?” asked the watchmaker. “I’ve never felt so scared.”
“The Black Phoenix,” Jonathan replied darkly. “It’s a creature Lucien can transform into. It’s utterly lethal.”
“As James Ripper would testify,” Vendetta added. “It seems that Darkside’s first family have managed to get wind of our plan – we need to move quickly. Did you get the Chronos Wheel?”
Bartlemas nodded wearily, placing the wooden box in the vampire’s hands. Vendetta opened the lid and pulled out a small, intricate piece of brass engineering. It looked exactly as it had on the watchmaker’s diagram: three cogs with jagged teeth encircling a small sphere, the entire mechanism housed within a brass cage.
“I don’t know what I was expecting,” Vendetta said thoughtfully. “Something a little more . . . grandiose, perhaps.”
“Don’t be fooled,” Bartlemas wheezed. “It may look like nothing, but it
’s utterly unique. It took my grandfather ten years to make it, you know, tapping into the darkest powers in Darkside.” There was a note of pride in his voice as he went on. “Wilbur took its secret to the grave with him. He knew that no Lightsider could be trusted with its power. When he died, the Chronos Wheel was left to gather dust in the observatory. The only clue to its purpose lay in his coded notes, which remained in Darkside with my family. Only days ago was I able to break the code, and unlock the Chronos Wheel’s secret.”
“With a truly fitting sense of timing,” Vendetta said. He closed the box with a snap, making the watchmaker jump. The vampire pressed a button on the intercom, and spoke crisply to the driver.
“Take us to the flat, Yann.”
“Very good, sir,” a dutiful voice buzzed back. Vendetta tapped his cheek thoughtfully with an elegant finger, and then turned to Bartlemas.
“And you’re sure you can succeed where everyone has failed? You can make the Chronos Wheel work?”
“Given two, maybe three hours,” the watchmaker replied confidently.
“Good. You can start as soon as we get back.”
“I don’t understand,” Jonathan cut in. “What is the Chronos Wheel? What are you going to do with it?”
“I should have thought that would have been obvious,” the vampire replied matter-of-factly. “We’re going to bring James Ripper back from the dead.”
18
“I hate to say it,” Harry said, chewing thoughtfully on the end of his pencil, “but I’ll be blowed if I know what we’re going to do next.”
Harry was perched on a stool in the back room of the Rook I’th Vine, poring over his notes. It was only early afternoon, but already the public house rang with raucous cries and bitter laughter. Although the Rook had a reputation as one of Darkside’s milder drinking establishments, Raquella felt distinctly uncomfortable: as they waited at the bar for their drinks, men stared at her with open insolence; the bartender had sworn at Harry when he had asked for his change; and they had been pushed and jostled on their way to the table, froths of ale splashing over Raquella’s shawl. Even now that they were safely seated, over Harry’s shoulder the maid could see two footpads arguing violently over the divvying of their loot. Perhaps worst of all, the aroma of cinnamon wafting up from her cup of spiced water couldn’t overcome the stench of sweat, smoke and spilled ale that steeped the walls and floorboards.
For once, however, Raquella kept her reservations to herself. It had been Harry’s idea to come here, and she felt that she owed him something. After all, not only had he saved her from the hobgoblin, but he’d been thoughtful enough to remove the body while Raquella had got dressed. Harry didn’t say exactly where he’d disposed of it, and the maid didn’t press the matter. Instead she had gracefully agreed with his suggestion that they escape the gloomy confines of the Heights and walk down into the heart of Darkside. And then, instead of complaining about the shabbiness of the Rook, she had filled him in on the conversation with Vendetta.
Now Raquella blew on her cup, and took a careful sip of spiced water.
“I’m not sure if there’s anything we can do next,” she admitted, struggling to make herself heard over the din. “Vendetta is in Lightside. Bartlemas is in Lightside. Jonathan and Carnegie are in Lightside. We’re in the wrong place.”
“Perhaps,” Harry said, underlining something in his notes. “There is one thing we could follow up here, though. Vendetta said he thought Holborn was paying Pelham to spy on him. What I want to know is – why?”
“My master and Holborn have never seen eye to eye. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Abettor wanted to plant a spy in his household.”
“In the middle of the Blood Succession?” Harry replied doubtfully. “If Holborn has sided with Lucien, I’d have thought he’d have other things on his mind right now. It doesn’t quite add up for me. You worked with Pelham – what was he like?”
Raquella shrugged. “I never really got to find out. He kept himself to himself. He didn’t seem like a bad person – but then, this is Darkside.”
“Did he mention any friends, family? Someone we could talk to?”
“Not to me. . .” Raquella paused, the hubbub around her fading into the background as a faint memory pushed its way to the front of her mind. “Hold on – when we talked to Dexter Scabble down at Devil’s Wharf, he said that he knew Mr Pelham from the No’penny Poorhouse. He mentioned a niece, Clara. I suppose there’s a chance she might know something.”
Harry raised his glass. “See? Maybe we’re in the right place after all. Cheers!”
From the outside, the No’penny Poorhouse looked like just another factory, a functional, oblong building several storeys high, its walls lined with barred windows. In the early evening, as the clock approached seven, the street would be filled with bedraggled applicants hoping to gain entrance before the poorhouse shut it doors, but for now the road was deserted. Though the poorhouse was located in one of the bleakest parts of the borough, Raquella was simply glad to be outside. After the rank odour of the Rook, the stale breeze whipping across the cobblestones smelled like a fragrant flower.
They came to a halt by the main doors, uncertain of their next move.
“How are we going to get in here?” Raquella asked. “They don’t just let anyone waltz inside, you know.”
Harry scratched his head, sizing up the building. “The usual combination of stealth and subtlety, I’d imagine.”
With that, he turned and began hammering his fists on the front door.
“LET US IN!” he bellowed. “At this rate Granddad’ll be dead before we get to see him!”
There was a startled commotion inside, and then the door opened a crack. A cadaverous porter poked his head outside, blinking suspiciously in the light.
“What on Darkside is all this fuss about?” He stopped, surprised at the sight of the two teenagers. “What do you two want?”
“It’s Granddad’s birthday, and we want to sing happy birthday to him. Let us in, will you?”
“This ain’t the Cain Club, you know,” the porter snapped. “No visitors!”
Before he could withdraw his head and close the door, Harry’s hands flashed out and grabbed hold of both of his ears, pulling him closer. The porter’s face went bright red, and his eyes bulged.
“I don’t think you understand,” Harry said, his voice low with menace. “We’re here to see my granddad and I don’t want to let my sister down. So let us in or you’ll spend the rest of the day searching for your ears in the gutter. Understand?”
Nodding frantically, the porter yanked the door open. As Harry shoved him to one side and strode into the poorhouse, Raquella was suddenly reminded that – for all his casual jokes and easy arrogance – this was a Ripper standing alongside her. She followed him through the doorway, nagged by a sense of foreboding.
Raquella Joubert had grown up in the deprived back alleys of the Lower Fleet, part of a family that had been forced to scrap for every farthing. Yet the main hall of the No’penny Poorhouse presented her with a scene of abject poverty and utter need that she had never before encountered. She looked upon a seething menagerie of destitutes, their bony limbs barely covered by ragged clothing. Children scrabbled in the dirt, fighting over the vegetable remains splattered on the floor.
As Raquella skirted through the crowd, a buzz of excitement struck up: faces pitted with the ravages of smallpox looked up hopefully, praying for a charitable coin; toothless old women gabbled unintelligibly at her, pawing at her clothes; others kept their heads bowed, muttering their woes to themselves. Once Raquella cried out in shock when she stepped on a pile of rags on the floor, only for it to move and reveal a pale face. At her side, even Harry looked shaken by the scene.
They hurried through the main hall, unwilling to stop and speak to any of its inhabitants, only to find themselves in another room displaying precisely
the same sights; and then another, and another. The noise and the smell and the squalor were unremitting. As they emerged from another packed room into a hallway marked by a staircase and a set of double doors, Raquella stopped and sank wearily to the ground.
“This is hopeless!” she groaned. “How are we ever going to find Mr Pelham’s niece? There must be hundreds of people in here!”
“Don’t give up just yet,” urged Harry. “We just need a plan of attack, that’s all.” He pointed towards the double doors. “Look, you go that way, and see if you can get some sense out of anyone. I’ll try upstairs. I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes. If neither of us have any luck, we’ll go back to the main hall together.”
Before Raquella could argue with him, Harry was gone, slipping up the stairs like a shadow. Steeling herself for whatever lay ahead, Raquella pushed open the double doors and went inside the room beyond.
Although it was several seconds before her eyes adjusted to the gloom and she could make out the rows of beds lining the walls, Raquella knew instantly that she was in the infirmary. It was the atmosphere that gave it away: a thick fog of germs, hacking coughs and open sores, messy sneezes and festering wounds. Instinctively, she pressed her shawl over her mouth, fearful of what she might breathe in. The infirmary was still and silent, its patients united in unspoken hopelessness. No one even stirred as Raquella passed by their beds.
On the verge of giving up hope altogether, Raquella called out: “Clara?”
She was rewarded with a movement in a bed on the other side of the room.
“Hello?” a voice replied tentatively.
Moving closer, Raquella saw that a girl had raised her head from the pillow and was peering out into the gloom. Although Clara was several years younger than the maid, a short lifetime of hardship had left her with a frail, skinny frame and a face lined with cares. She shrank back as Raquella approached.