The Apollonian Case Files

by Mark A. Latham

  A man leaned against the far wall, trembling, holding his head in his hands. He was thin and pale, large moustaches poking from behind slender hands, scraggy beard covering a square jaw, and greasy dark hair plastered to his forehead. Beside him was a hard cot-bed, upon which lay a moustached man either asleep or dead, John could not tell which.

  ‘Who are you?’ John asked.

  The man took his hands away from his face. He looked vaguely familiar. His eyes were quick and clever, and John was not altogether sure he trusted the look of him.

  ‘My name is Tesla,’ the man said.

  That was how John recognised the man – he had seen an intelligence dossier on him long ago. The noted Serbian scientist, in the real world living in America playing with electricity. On the Otherside, forced to build portals for world powers. John did not know whether this was the real Nikola Tesla, or the Othersider, but either way the mission now took on a new significance. John stepped fully into the room, quickly scanning about for any place where an enemy might hide. Satisfied, he backed towards the window, facing the door at all times. He set down his candlestick and gave the bars a rattle. They held firm.

  ‘It is no use,’ Tesla said hoarsely. ‘They keep us here for… I know not how long. What day is this?’

  John had to pause to think – he had become so disorientated in his short time in the house that he had lost all sense of time. ‘October the fifth,’ he said at last.

  ‘Dear God,’ Tesla muttered. ‘A month.’

  ‘You have been confined in here a month?’

  ‘Most of this time, yes. Sometimes they take me out to work for them, then bring me back here.’

  ‘What kind of work?’

  Tesla looked at John forlornly. ‘You would not believe me if I told you.’

  ‘I very much doubt that, Mr Tesla. Indeed, I believe I know exactly where you came from, if you take my meaning.’

  ‘Ah, now I recognise you!’ Tesla said. ‘You were much younger when last we met, and you had two eyes. Your pretty sister?’

  ‘Do not speak of her,’ John said, and the gleam at once vanished from Tesla’s eyes. ‘We have never met, Mr Tesla, so my suspicion was correct. How did you come here? Did Tsun Pen bring you?’

  Tesla frowned. ‘Who?’

  ‘The Artist, did he bring you from the Otherside?’

  ‘Madam Artist did not bring me, no. I come on my own, through Lazarus’ Gate, in my Munjolovac.’ He declared this proudly, and John hadn’t the foggiest what he meant.

  A faint creaking from outside the room caused John to turn, and both men listened for a moment, until John was sure there was no immediate danger. He needed information from Tesla, but the man’s grasp of English seemed a barrier to comprehensive answers.

  ‘You said “Madam Artist”. You have dealt with a woman?’

  ‘Yes. A pretty lady, but cruel. A Majestic. She has men, and wampyr, and now she has my Munjolovac.’

  ‘I’m sorry, what is that?’

  ‘Ah, she is the finest vessel ever built. It is how I come here. But now, the Artist has her, and I may never see her again.’

  ‘So you were captured? And who is this? A friend of yours?’

  Tesla looked to the man on the cot. ‘No. This is Mr Charrington. This was his house, once.’

  Tesla explained, in a jumbled manner, how he had come to be prisoner on the island, and what he had learned from Charrington. The house at Osea was supposed to be a private retreat for those addicted to drink; Frederick Charrington had funded it as a way to atone for his family’s long history in the beer trade, which had sent many to their ruin. A month prior, men had arrived on the island – mostly Chinese. They had forced Charrington to send away his patients and staff, under some pretence. More men had arrived shortly afterwards. Charrington had been forced to send away for wagons and labourers to help ferry supplies to and from the island.

  ‘A very strange way of gaining wagons,’ John said. ‘Unless they specifically needed the Charrington livery. Oh, good Christ, what a fool I’ve been!’

  ‘A fool?’ Tesla said.

  John said nothing, but he had a very bad feeling about his prospects. Frederick Charrington was not the proprietor of Charrington’s Ales. The only reason to bring the wagons to Osea – to London – would be to connect the Charrington family to the Artist’s operation. The wagons alone wouldn’t have pointed to Osea, but combined with Sir Arthur’s visions of an island – this island – the Order had been led here. It was surely planned, but why?

  Tesla went on. He said he was told that the ‘master’ would be here soon, who would see to it that Tesla and Charrington were rewarded for their part in some great plan. ‘But as you can see,’ Tesla said bitterly, ‘here we are, and there is no reward save that we are not dead.’

  ‘So this “master”… he is here?’

  Tesla nodded, and turned his eyes upwards. ‘Upstairs, Madam Artist said.’

  John frowned. ‘If this was a retreat – a clinic? – until a month hence… why is it in such a state of ruin?’

  ‘Ruin? Whatever do you mean?’ Tesla looked confused.

  ‘Look around you, man…’ John stopped, as he himself looked about. The bare floor upon which he had stood was now carpeted. The walls that had been peeling and cracked moments ago were papered and smooth. He turned to the door. The corridor beyond was now lit by the glow of candles in wall-sconces, and its appearance was similarly transformed. Even the prison-cot in which Charrington had lain was now a normal bed. ‘Not possible…’ John muttered.

  ‘What kind of rescue is this?’ Tesla asked.

  ‘It’s not exactly a rescue… What kind of work were you completing for “Madam Artist”?’ John could not understand what game Tsun Pen was playing, but he knew for certain it would be a personal attack. With his mind still reeling, he was not entirely sure he was prepared for it.

  ‘I build things. I build what they always want me to build. Gates between worlds. Weapons of war. My submarine…’

  ‘And where are these other things? The weapons, this submarine? Here on the island?’

  ‘The boathouse. That is where they make me work until I fall. But it is gone, I am sure. Madam Artist told me she take the Munjolovac. I will never see her again.’

  Something occurred to John, and a sense of dread came with the thought. ‘What kind of gate precisely were you building?’

  ‘I have made for her several, my friend.’

  ‘How many?’ John urged. ‘And for what purpose?’

  ‘I give her the knowledge to construct them. I build for her machines to power them. She take them away, I know not where. But what she really want is way to repair Lazarus’ Gate. It should have been called “Tesla’s Gate”, no? She ask me to build device that will power the gate. Generator so powerful it could last for ever.’

  ‘And…’ John hesitated even to ask. ‘Did you do it?’

  ‘Of course!’ Tesla looked proud of himself, in his utter naivety. ‘But it is all theoretical, my friend. There are few places in this world with the electrical power required to make it work. The generator require much power to reach capacity. Only then can it become self-sustaining.’

  ‘And if the Artist were to find somewhere with a large power source. Large enough, I mean?’

  ‘Then… Ah. Then she can open big gate. Like Lazarus.’

  ‘Did you stop to consider the evil that could be wrought with such a device?’

  Tesla looked at John as though he did not understand the question. John had met his like before – men of science who saw neither good nor evil in their work, but only in the hearts of men who might use that work for personal gain. John had a growing suspicion that the components now headed to London were not wreckage from the Lazarus Gate at all, but something else entirely.

  John took a deep breath. ‘Look here, something very strange is happening, and I cannot begin to explain it. I believe I know who this “master” is – he and I have some unfinished business. I
need to find him and put a stop to his plans, whatever they are. But we are not alone in this house. You know of the wampyr, so I presume you know also of these “ghouls”?’

  Tesla only nodded.

  ‘Good, then you should know not to go wandering unarmed about this house. They’re out there. That’s how I got this.’ John pointed to his bound shoulder. ‘When I leave this room, barricade that door with whatever you can. Look after Mr Charrington as best as you’re able. Do not open this door unless I call you, all right? There may be reinforcements on the way, but I cannot count on it. Understand?’

  Tesla nodded again.

  John turned to leave.

  ‘Wait! I almost forget,’ Tesla said. ‘Madam Artist, I think she mention you.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Just that they were waiting for someone, and when he get here, all this will be over.’

  ‘How do you know it was me she meant? Did she give a name?’

  ‘What was it now… yes, she said they wait for “the last honest man in London”. I think it must be you. The Hardwick I know, at least, was honest man.’ He shrugged. ‘She say when this man come, I can go free. I think she mock me.’

  John felt sick to his stomach. He did not want any of this. He felt in no state to face Tsun Pen, or this mysterious woman, or more ghouls. But there was no one else. Someone had to make a stand. He knew that attitude had earned him the ridiculous moniker that now haunted him, and he smiled ruefully at that. He thought all of these things, yet said simply, ‘Good luck, Mr Tesla.’

  John left the Serbian and the sick man in the room, and entered the long corridor which was now completely changed. What had been derelict and mouldy was now restored, a tranquil retreat, with tasteful décor and soft, flickering lanterns. John took a deep breath to steady himself. His mind, so long a fortified gate, bolted and barred, had been compromised from the minute he had set foot in this house. No… from the minute that creature downstairs had wounded him. He felt the intrusion into his mind even now. The Artist was within him, like a disease; in his body, in his thoughts.

  The door to Tesla’s room closed behind him, and John snapped to attention. John heard furniture being dragged in place, and then silence.

  John went to the narrow attic stair, now cast into light by further sconces. At the top was a door, open just a crack, allowing light to flood out.

  Red in tooth… red in claw… the Red Lord knocking at your door…

  A strong scent of lavender flowers drifted from the room, and John forced aside the painful memories that it instilled. He set down his candle, drew his sword and ascended the stairs.

  John pushed the door open, slowly. Chinese lanterns hung from skeletal rafters, casting flickering orange light into a large room. Opulent furnishings stuffed the attic. Oriental silk curtains framed a large leaded window, by which a thin shaft of light strained to enter, dissipating upon drifting smoke.

  Opium smoke.

  John already felt groggy as the whiff of the hateful pipe assailed his senses. It pulled at his very blood, inexorably as the moon at the tides. A tremor went through his body. He felt it more keenly than any other man might; it had been a long time since he had chased the dragon, but the body never forgets the lure.

  He girded himself. Across the room, a man sat at a desk, his back to the door. He wore a fine suit. Dark, lustrous hair fell past his shoulders, poker straight. John had not thought he would really see his enemy. He had not thought it possible that Tsun Pen could have survived. Tesla had assured him that the Artist’s mantle had been taken up by a woman. And yet here he sat. The spider himself.

  TWENTY

  ‘“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the spider to the fly; “’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.”’ The voice was more cultured than John remembered, somewhat pained and rasping. Perhaps a sword through the chest could do that to a man, even one such as the Artist. ‘“The way into my parlour is up a winding stair, and I’ve a many curious things to show when you are there.”’

  John trod cautiously, silently, around the edge of the room. He peered out of the window, seeing nothing but the grey radiance of drifting fog, and turned his gaze once more to his opponent, circling stealthily, sword readied.

  ‘“O no, no,” said the little fly, “to ask me is in vain, for who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”’

  There was something very wrong about the man at the desk. He did not sound like the Artist. He resembled the Artist less and less the closer John drew. He was tall, yes, but not tall enough for that monster. The cut of his suit was perfectly regular; John did not think it could hide those dreadful, vestigial arms. Every instinct told John that he had been played for a fool from the moment he had set foot in this house. Or from the moment he had left his home and gone to London.

  John was within a few yards of the man now. He took a step forwards, held the sword out straight, so that its point was inches from his target’s neck.

  ‘You are not Tsun Pen,’ John said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Ah, you always were a clever little fly.’

  Before John could react, the man was on his feet, sidestepping the blade with astonishing speed. He held John firmly – one hand on the wrist of his sword arm, and one at his throat. The man was deathly pale, features cadaverous, eyes sunken but shining like amethysts. His breath was rank, like meat long turned. He was whip-thin and hunched, a haunted look about his corpse-like features, the tell-tale look of a man who has spent too long a fugitive. A dangerous man. ‘You are a fly in a web,’ he hissed, ‘and I am the spider, come to feast.’

  John aimed a stiff kick to the man’s crotch, which barely drew a wince. He punched his assailant hard in the kidneys, grunting in pain at the exertion from his own injured shoulder. The man rocked, but his grip was firm. John felt himself turning purple, his throat contracting under the man’s cold, vice-like fingers. In desperation, John jumped from the floor, kicking both feet at the dark-haired man, propelling himself backwards and bringing his enemy with him. John hit the floor, landing on his back, the air evacuating his lungs as his opponent finally let go of his throat.

  The man laughed, thinly, wheezing. He still had John’s wrist in his grasp, and stood quickly, hoisting John up by the arm. John swung his other arm, punching the man in the face once, twice. A great crack opened up in the pallid, dry flesh of the man’s cheek, and a pinkish ooze dribbled whence blood should have flowed. John’s fourth strike was batted aside, and the man hit him hard in the stomach, lifting him into the air with the force of the blow, sending sharp ripples of pain through John’s body. John felt himself drift weightless, registering only when he collided with the far wall that he had been tossed through the air like a rag doll. He could only think that he had dropped his sword. It was the least of his worries. He tried to drag himself to his feet, but only managed to crawl a short distance when he heard footsteps approach, accompanied by cruel laughter.

  ‘Do you know how long I have waited to take my revenge on you, Hardwick?’

  John was dazed. ‘I… I don’t even know you,’ he spluttered.

  ‘Not you, exactly. The other you. Your counterpart and his sister cost me everything. Everything! You thought you had killed me, but here I am.’

  He was mad. ‘Not… me,’ John said.

  ‘Oh, did I confuse you again? An easy mistake to make. It does not matter. He is you, you are him. He is dead, and you will follow. I am going to gorge myself on your blood, Hardwick. I am going to leave you a shrivelled husk, like a fly in a web.’ He hoisted John up again by his lapels, so that they were eye-to-eye.

  ‘Where is Tsun Pen?’ John gasped.

  The man laughed. ‘What good will that do you? I am lord of Osea now. A new domain, all mine. A fine house, servants, guards… the girl, Elsbet, to warn me of my enemy’s plans. My pet intuitionist to build me whatever device I can dream of. The final part of our bargain was you. The Artist wanted you for herself, but
I set my price. I want you dead just as much as she. And now, Tsun Pen has gone, and I am master.’

  She? John thought of the woman with the strange accent. This creature had passed himself off as Tsun Pen. Who was really pulling the strings? But he thought hard on this man’s words – something was not right, and it was something John hoped he could exploit.

  ‘Elsbet?’ John asked. His thoughts began to clear; he felt sure the man – the creature – before him was exerting some strange influence over him. He fought. ‘If Elsbet is so important, why send her away?’

  ‘What?’ The man shook John until his teeth rattled. ‘She is mine. The queen of your Nightwatch is now mine.’

  ‘She is gone. The gypsies took her.’

  John fell unceremoniously to the floor. The man strode to the window, touching a hand to his temple as if in great concentration.

  ‘My guards…’ he muttered.

  ‘Xiang’s Chinamen? They left on the wagons,’ John said, seizing the moment to rattle his enemy.

  ‘Preposterous!’

  ‘Have you been betrayed? Has Tsun Pen double-crossed you also?’

  ‘She would not dare! Not while I have –’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Oh, she is clever. She has masked her plans from even my power.’ He paced, agitated. John saw that the man walked with a slight limp, his foot twisted. ‘There is only one thing for it,’ the man said. ‘Now I shall have to kill you, and find her. It pains me to do it, Hardwick, truly it does. I wanted to make you suffer, as you and your blasted sister made me suffer. But needs must when the Devil drives.’

  ‘And you’d know all about the Devil, de Montfort.’ Both John and the man looked to the door, where Marie Furnival now stood. She had John’s sword in hand, a pistol in the other. Jim entered the room, revolver trained on the man, de Montfort. There were soldiers outside the door. John took Jim’s hand and laughed with sheer relief.

  ‘Take this… creature… away,’ John said. The marines stepped forward, but Miss Furnival bade them halt.

  ‘No! Believe me when I say I have more reason for revenge than any man here present. Lord de Montfort is mine.’