Timecurse

by Tom Becker

  “There he is,” Harry said grimly. “Come on.”

  They hurried across the nave and began to fight their way through the crowds, ignoring the cries of protest and retaliatory elbows. Someone pushed Raquella in the back – Harry turned round to deal with her assailant, but the maid shouted at him to ignore it. Above the heads of the throng, he could see La Mort moving past the desk, and through a dark archway beyond. There wasn’t a second to waste.

  Once they had battled past the platforms, the crowds thinned. Harry raced up a set of steps and skidded to a halt in front of the desk. A small nameplate read “Mr Edmund Worsley – Head Clerk”. The heavyset man in question had his head down and was engrossed in stamping a series of documents.

  “Excuse me?” Harry said politely.

  He started as Mr Worsley looked up. Vendetta’s head clerk wasn’t human. His oily, dark-grey skin gleamed in the candlelight, while his eyes were tiny and set far apart. Where a human’s mouth would have been was instead a dripping maw filled with sharp, tiny teeth. Though he was wearing the normal garb of a Victorian clerk, the white cuffs and collar of his shirt were stained with an oozing green liquid. He was – Harry realized suddenly – a leech.

  When Mr Worsley spoke, it was in a supple, squelching tone.

  “Yes? And how may I help you, young sir?”

  “Good question,” Harry said, thinking frantically. “I have recently come into the possession of some family heirlooms and was thinking of storing them in one of your deposit boxes for safekeeping. However, these heirlooms are of great value to me, and first I want to be assured that they would be well-protected here.”

  Mr Worsley gave out a bubbling chuckle. “What a cautious young man you are. Well, I can assure you that we have had no complaints on that score.”

  “Even so,” Harry said. “I’d like to see for myself. Would it be possible to tour the vaults?”

  “Certainly,” Mr Worsley replied. “If you could just show me your deposit box key, you can go straight down.”

  “But I’ve just told you I don’t have one yet!”

  The head clerk inhaled thickly. “Then I would presume our conversation is at an end, young man.”

  He returned to stamping his documents. Harry flashed Raquella a helpless look. The maid stepped forward and delicately cleared her throat.

  “You do understand,” she whispered, trying not to retch as she leaned near the leech’s oozing skin, “the nature of the heirlooms we are talking about? This is the son of James Ripper – his possessions are more than mere trinkets and baubles. I would have thought that Mr Vendetta would welcome his custom.”

  The leech’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Anyone can say they’re a Ripper—”

  “It would be sheer madness to impersonate a Ripper!” Raquella replied. “Do we look insane to you?”

  Letting out a watery sigh, Mr Worsley nodded at the door behind him. “Follow the stairs. I’ll be keeping an eye on you, mind.”

  Raquella smiled, elated, and followed Harry as he hastened through the archway and down a set of spiralling stone steps. It was colder here, cobwebs shuddering in the draughts. They headed deep beneath the earth before coming out in a low-vaulted room that ran underneath the floor of the bank. In the days of the church, it would have been a crypt, the lasting resting place of the faithful. But the remains had long since been removed, and only secrets were buried here now – stored in numbered, wrought-iron boxes that lined the wall like a square honeycomb. In the gloom, Raquella saw the outline of La Mort on the other side of the cellar. He was on his knees, cradling a box in his arms and cooing softly to himself.

  Raquella barely saw Harry move. By the time the doctor had whirled around, it was too late; the boy was upon him. Harry struck a blow across the back of La Mort’s head, sending the contents of his box spilling out over the floor with a silvery tinkle. Crying out in pain, the doctor made a desperate attempt to retrieve one of his items, only for Harry to stamp mercilessly on his hand. The boy fell on La Mort, pinning him to the ground with his knees. He raised his hand to strike the doctor again, only for Raquella to stay his hand. Harry’s eyes flashed with anger.

  “Enough,” she said softly. “It is ended.”

  “The girl is right,” a voice said behind them. They spun round, to see the hulking figure of Mr Worsley slithering down the steps of the crypt. La Mort wailed; whether in pain or fear, Raquella couldn’t tell.

  “For someone in Vendetta’s service, you must think your master rather a stupid man,” the head clerk continued as he approached. “We knew that something like this might happen. It is lucky for you that Vendetta made us aware of Miss Joubert’s position. Do not think that you would have made it this far otherwise. We do not let any Tom, Dick or . . . Harry down to the vault.”

  Harry nodded at the prone form of La Mort. “What happens to him?”

  “One cannot try to cross Vendetta and escape punishment,” the leech replied slowly, slime dripping from his maw on to the crypt floor. “We will take the appropriate steps. There are other, deeper vaults in the bank – vaults where we will not be disturbed.”

  “Non!” La Mort gasped. “But you cannot mean. . .” He grabbed at Harry imploringly as Mr Worsley hauled him to his feet. “You cannot let them do this to me – you must help me, mon ami!”

  “I’m no friend of yours,” Harry shot back. “Frederick Longbourne sent me.”

  And with that, Harry turned his back on the doctor as he was dragged away, his screams echoing horribly around the vault. Harry bent over and picked up one of the silver items that had fallen from La Mort’s deposit box.

  A scalpel gleamed in the gloom.

  “Surgical tools?” Harry said, his voice ringing with disbelief. “He went through all that just for this?”

  “I suppose for La Mort, his instruments were the most important thing he owned,” Raquella replied gently. “He told Jonathan that they were the finest set in Darkside. No wonder he’d try anything to get them back. Is there nothing else with them?”

  The deposit box was still lying where it had fallen from La Mort’s grasp. Peering into the bottom, Raquella saw that it was lined with official-looking documents. As Harry tossed the scalpel away with a sigh, she sat down on the floor and began leafing through them.

  “What have you got there?” asked Harry, peering over her shoulder. “Anything interesting?”

  “Not really,” Raquella reported, lips pursed with concentration. “Prescriptions, committals, charges—” She gasped suddenly. “Oh, Harry, no!”

  “Raquella? What is it?”

  The maid’s face had turned a ghastly shade of pale. Her hands were trembling as she put down the document she was reading.

  “We have to find Jonathan,” she said. “Now.”

  24

  A chill breeze sliced through the clearing, unsettling the trees that surrounded the grave of James Ripper and nagging at the clothes of the five figures congregated around it. Were it not for the late hour, the locked cemetery gates, and the atmosphere of fearful anticipation, they could have passed for mourners paying their last respects. As it was, they looked more like gravediggers – which was perhaps closer to the truth.

  This wasn’t at all what Jonathan had expected. He had imagined that a member of Darkside’s first family would have been buried in an ornate tomb or a grand mausoleum, not this simple, almost apologetic mound of earth hidden away at the back of a north London cemetery. There wasn’t even a headstone above the grave, no clue to the identity of the man who lay here.

  “James died before the Succession,” Vendetta said, answering the unspoken question hanging in the air. “There is a certain amount of shame involved in that.”

  “It wasn’t his fault!” Jonathan protested. “He was ambushed by his own brother!”

  “Even so,” the vampire replied. “He was a Ripper. They have their
own code.”

  Compared to everyone else in the clearing, Vendetta was a study in icy calm. Josiah Bartlemas was hopping from one foot to the other, barely able to contain his excitement, while Kate looked pale and shell-shocked – although, given her recent traumas, Jonathan was amazed she was still standing upright. But it was Carnegie’s demeanour that troubled him. Usually Jonathan knew exactly what to expect from his ally, but the wereman had been a strangely compliant figure all evening. Knowing Vendetta’s plan – and the blood he needed to drain for James’s resurrection – Jonathan had expected Carnegie to explode at any second. Yet the wereman had kept a subdued distance, not once threatening trouble.

  The more Jonathan thought about it, the more he wondered whether Carnegie actually wanted Vendetta to succeed. Although the wereman had saved Jonathan’s life time and time again, each occasion had brought him into conflict with both Lucien and Marianne. Whichever of the living Rippers won the Succession, what sort of life lay in store for Elias Carnegie afterwards? Would James’s return offer him a priceless second chance? This time, would Carnegie stand by and leave Jonathan at Vendetta’s mercy?

  With a grand flourish, Bartlemas produced the Chronos Wheel from his pocket. The mechanism had been coated in moonstone, the white mineral glowing with a pale luminescence. As the watchmaker hunched down by the graveside, making final adjustments to the Wheel’s settings, Vendetta glanced from Kate to Jonathan, thoughtfully tapping his cheek with the barrel of his pistol.

  “So, I did promise to choose which one of you will be assisting Bartlemas tonight. It’s not an easy decision, I must confess. Hmm. . .”

  One glance at Kate’s wan features was enough for Jonathan. He stepped forward.

  “Enough. Use my blood.”

  Vendetta arched an eyebrow. “Volunteering, Jonathan? How very heroic of you.”

  “Step back, boy,” Carnegie barked. “You’re not doing this.”

  Jonathan turned and gave the wereman a resolute look. “Yes, I am. It’s either me or Kate, and she’s been through enough.”

  “I’m not just going to stand here and watch them kill you.”

  “The boy may not necessarily die,” Bartlemas murmured, glancing up at the stars. “If the resurrection progresses smoothly, there is a small chance he could be left with enough blood to survive.”

  “But feel free to step in at any time,” Vendetta said, pointedly holding up his pistol.

  “You think that pop-gun will stop me?” Carnegie growled.

  “Perhaps not.” In a smooth movement Vendetta turned away from the wereman and trained the weapon on Jonathan. “But then, I won’t be firing it at you. Make one move,” the vampire continued, “and I’ll shoot the boy through the heart. And then he’ll most certainly die.”

  “If he does,” the wereman rumbled back, “you won’t leave this clearing alive.”

  There was a tense pause, and then Jonathan said finally: “It’s all right, Carnegie, really. There’s no other way.”

  He patted the wereman on the arm and nodded at Kate, who gave him a trembling smile in return. Though he was trying to appear bullish, Jonathan couldn’t ignore the thundering of his heart and the tightness in his chest as he took his place beside Bartlemas. With one hand the watchmaker rolled up Jonathan’s sleeve, whilst placing the Chronos Wheel beneath the boy’s arm with the other.

  “You should be honoured!” he whispered. “You get to complete my family’s great work – your name will become legend!”

  Looking into Bartlemas’s wild eyes, Jonathan saw that the last grains of sanity were falling away – the watchmaker had become totally consumed by his quest. Before he could raise a protest, Bartlemas gripped him tightly by the arm, and slashed a knife across his skin. Jonathan felt a sharp pain, and then blood came spurting out from his vein. Unable to watch as the life streamed out of him down on to the Wheel, Jonathan gazed defiantly at Vendetta, willing the vampire to make a sharp comment. Vendetta stared coolly back, but said nothing, his gun still pointedly levelled.

  There was a soft whirring sound as the mechanism clicked into life, and the cogs of the Chronos Wheel began to revolve around the tiny metal sphere.

  “It has begun,” Bartlemas hissed in his ear.

  At the sound of a regular ticking noise, the wind picked up in the clearing, sending dead leaves skittering across the ground in a vast spiral around James’s grave.

  “It is working!” Vendetta proclaimed excitedly. “It is working!”

  The cogs began to turn faster and faster, until the clicks formed one continuous humming sound. Triumphantly crying out his grandfather’s name, Bartlemas exhorted the Wheel to spin faster and faster. The watchmaker was keeping tight hold of Jonathan, who was already feeling woozy from blood loss. As the boy swayed, Carnegie took a step forward, only for Vendetta to halt him with a wave of his pistol.

  There was a deep rumbling sound from beneath the ground, and then suddenly a jet of earth erupted from James’s grave and into the air like lava from a volcano, covering Jonathan and Bartlemas in soil. As his blood continued to run over the Wheel, Jonathan cried out in agony, but the sound was swallowed up by the howling wind. His legs were going numb, and were it not for Bartlemas’s iron grip he would have been buffeted to the ground. The earth in James’s grave began to spin in a giant whirlpool, circling with such ferocity that it threatened to drag them all into its clutches. Through the churning soil, Jonathan saw a hand break through the surface, fingers yearning for the night air.

  “He is rising!” Vendetta shouted above the clamour.

  There came a sharp report from somewhere in the trees, and Bartlemas screamed. The watchmaker staggered forward clutching his chest, his cherished creation slipping from his hands. There was another report, and Vendetta threw himself to one side. With the link between himself and the Chronos Wheel brutally severed, Jonathan felt his legs give way beneath him, and heard Kate scream. As he fell to the ground, his mind spiralling into a deep black hole, Jonathan heard gunfire.

  Jonathan reeled in and out of consciousness, unsure where his dreams ended and reality began. Men were shouting; they were voices he didn’t recognize. Carnegie roared back a challenge. The sound of gunshots echoed around the clearing. A face appeared in Jonathan’s mind: a young, handsome face with blond hair and cold eyes. The expression on his face was indecipherable as he mouthed the word “farewell”.

  Suddenly everything went quiet.

  “Jonathan?” a voice asked urgently near his ear.

  Stirring, he realized that Kate was kneeling beside him. The girl had torn off a strip of material from somewhere, and was tying a tourniquet around his bloodstained arm.

  “Are you OK?” she whispered, her eyes alive with fright.

  Jonathan laughed weakly, nodding. “Just great,” he said, slurring slightly.

  “You have to get up now,” she said.

  “’M tired,” Jonathan replied. “Gonna lie here.”

  “You’ll get up now,” a voice boomed.

  Jonathan looked up.

  The clearing looked as though a tornado had ripped through it. James’s grave had exploded, scattering dark earth across the grass, but there was no sign of the corpse that had lain there. Next to Jonathan, Bartlemas’s body was sprawled out over the ground. The Chronos Wheel lay on the ground near him, just beyond the watchmaker’s outstretched hand. It had shattered in a thousand pieces. At the edge of the clearing, men were training guns at Jonathan, arranged in a row like a firing squad. Although they were dressed in Darkside suits and top hats, they were carrying some very modern-looking weaponry. In between them stood Elias Carnegie. Pinned down by the guns, the wereman was twitching with frustration.

  As Kate helped Jonathan climb woozily to his feet, he realized that there was another man in the clearing, standing just behind the row of gunmen. A long cloak failed to mask his broad shoulders. He thre
w back the cowl of his hood, revealing a shock of white hair. It was the man Jonathan had seen outside Bartlemas’s shop: Holborn, the Abettor of Darkside. A look of utter contempt was slashed across his features.

  “I must congratulate you on your efforts,” he said sonorously, making a sweeping gesture across the battered remains of the clearing. “The watchmaker is dead. Vendetta has fled like a coward into the night. James Ripper’s rest has been brutally disturbed. And all for nothing.”

  “Where did the body go?” Jonathan asked, looking at the empty grave in a daze.

  “That is a question beyond the comprehension of us all,” Holborn replied. “A lesson to you, perhaps, not to meddle with powers you cannot possibly understand.”

  “You were watching us,” Carnegie said flatly. “You’d been waiting for us all along.”

  “Well, obviously,” Holborn snorted. “Vendetta is losing his touch. Did he think that Thomas could make all those payments to Bartlemas without my knowledge? I knew of their little scheme, their foolish dreams of bringing James back. A half-wit could have anticipated Vendetta’s appearance here. Now he has been stopped, the Blood Succession will take place tonight. Lucien is travelling to Battersea Power Station as we speak, where he will face his sister. Sadly, you will not be there to see it. It will be a glorious victory, I guarantee.”

  “You surprise me, Holborn,” Carnegie said. “Rumour had it that you’d do anything for power, but I never thought you’d align yourself with such lowlife. I wonder what Thomas would have made of you siding with James’s killer.”

  Holborn’s face broke into a sneer. “I care little for what that decrepit old fool thought. While he curled up in his bed and wasted away, I ran Darkside.” His voice swept majestically through the clearing. “I was more than an Abettor – I was the Ripper myself!”

  “You’re a fool,” the wereman said, bluntly breaking the spell of Holborn’s oratory. “Do you think Lucien’s going to share the throne with you? Once he’s in power you’ll be thrown in the deepest dungeon in Blackchapel.”