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The Apollonian Case Files

Page 31

by Mark A. Latham

‘The gate has become a self-sustaining circuit,’ Tesla replied. ‘The Artist’s power it provide a greater catalyst than I anticipate. A rare miscalculation on my part, Captain, and one that has costing me dear, no?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t understand,’ John said. ‘Can we not cut these cables?’

  Tesla looked at John as though he were an imbecile. ‘Cut the cables? My dear colonel, my devices are not so easily manipulated.’

  John stared at Tesla agog. ‘We cannot turn off the power? What lunacy is this? Who would design such a thing?’

  Tesla frowned, pulling in his chin indignantly. ‘My design; it is flawless and just as I intend. The power this facility provide allow the gate to reach critical mass, no? And the Artist, she open the conduit to worlds beyond, where energy and matter work as one, with the third element, aether. The electricity, it no longer fuels the gate. This is my life’s work. This is a perfect model of the gravity of directory.’

  ‘What the devil are you talking about?’

  Marie dragged herself over, staying low as broken bodies and scrambling ghouls flew past them. ‘He’s saying,’ she yelled, ‘that the gate powers itself now. We can’t turn it off. Pretty soon it will absorb so much power from the multiverse that anything could come through. Or maybe all of London could get sucked in. Who knows?’

  John exchanged an appalled glance with Jim.

  ‘What if we kill her?’ Jim shouted.

  Tesla shrugged. ‘It is too late for that, Captain. Unfortunately now the only way to close the gate is from the other side, and for that… I am afraid we need her.’

  ‘Then I shall distract her,’ John said. ‘And you, Mr. Tesla, will alter the frequency and rid us of these demons.’

  ‘Here, you’ll need these,’ Jim said. He handed over John’s cane. He beckoned to Miss Furnival, who passed him the Winchester, and Jim handed that over too.

  ‘Where did you get these?’ John asked.

  ‘We came back to look for you, and found them in a storeroom. That is how we knew you had gone into the air ducts, and realised you must have come here.’

  ‘You were foolish to come back for me. You should have flooded the facility.’

  ‘Then you would be dead, and Rosanna with you,’ Jim replied, quietly so that only John could hear.

  ‘Precisely my point.’ John could scarce admit it to himself, but he half wished to have died by Rosanna’s side.

  ‘We’ll cover you,’ Marie said, priming her Tesla pistol.

  ‘On the count of three…’ Jim shouted.

  But John was already gone.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The wind threw debris about the room. John held up a hand to shield his face. Impish claws plucked at him, tearing his skin. His ears rang with the screeches of incorporeal Riftborn. He looked up at the dais. Rosanna floated inches from the ground, staring balefully at John’s approach, purple and green lights flickering behind her, like the aurora borealis.

  Miss Furnival was at John’s back. The American had followed unbidden, blazing away at ghoul and demon alike. John admired her spirit. He hoped it would not get her killed.

  Rosanna descended lightly to her feet. Tendrils of smoke coalesced all about her. Lightning crackled. She looked at those who opposed her with the arrogance that only Tsun Pen could possess.

  ‘To fight me is folly,’ the Artist said. ‘You might as well try to turn back the tides. What are you, compared to one who has cheated death not once, but twice? Look about you! Do you see the power I wield? Even the Riftborn cannot touch me. I can summon them here at will, to bring an end to everyone in London, and create a city of madness. Is that what you want? Lay down your weapons, and I may yet spare you.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Miss Furnival shouted, defiant to the last.

  ‘Hell?’ The Artist tossed back her tousled hair and laughed. ‘How apt. Perhaps it is hell that brought me here. Brought us here. And if it be so, then my name is Legion, for we are many. We are the Artist – Tsun Pen of two worlds. We are Rosanna, of the Romani, as your friend Colonel Hardwick has already discovered. We are reborn.’

  ‘You talk too much,’ Miss Furnival said. John saw that the American was about to fire upon Rosanna. He raised a hand to stop her, but even before she could pull the trigger, a great shadow erupted from the gate, momentarily forming a grasping, clawed hand. It swiped at Marie, passing clean through her; she fell to the floor, screaming. John leapt backwards as the shadow swept in front of him. For a second, he saw a pair of blazing eyes, and the face of a Chinese dragon shimmer in the black smoke, and then the whole thing vanished back into the abyss.

  ‘Do not test me,’ the Artist snarled, her voice strong over the howling winds. ‘Drop your weapon, Hardwick. Do it!’

  John relented. Marie writhed in agony upon the floor.

  ‘You shall not rob me of simple revenge, John Hardwick. Your end will come at my hands. It is foreseen.’

  John tried to conjure the strength to fight, though he could see no way out. Each time the Artist spoke with Rosanna’s lips, in a voice that was not Rosanna’s, John felt such a wave of sorrow and despair that he could scarce act.

  And then John sensed movement beside him, and for the briefest moment saw a swish of a white dress vanish into the smoke. He felt a familiar chill, like death. This was what Elsbet had been leading him towards. It was always Elsbet who had foreseen the end – not of London, not of John Hardwick, but of her people. John did not know for certain what she was trying to tell him, but some glimmer of hope filled him.

  ‘Perhaps I will spare your friends,’ the Artist was saying. ‘They can tell their master that the balance of power has tilted. But you, John Hardwick, stay with me. This is the price Rosanna insisted upon for letting me in, and I never renege upon a bargain.’

  ‘And did Rosanna also agree to turn her back on her people, forever?’ John said, finally forcing himself to his feet. It was all he could do to stand as the wind buffeted him. He knew strange figures stalked all about him. He dared not look upon them.

  The Artist’s eyes narrowed. ‘Her people are already gone, Colonel Hardwick. You saw to that.’

  ‘That is not true, and if she believes it is so, it is because hatred has clouded her mind. Her people live still. Some travel with Andre – I saw them with my own eyes. The Elsbet of the Otherside travels with them. Some are incarcerated here in London, and will be first in line for destruction when this insane plan comes to fruition. What of them?’

  ‘She knew the price!’ the Artist snapped.

  ‘Did she?’ John took a step closer, the Artist’s anger emboldening him. He felt the eyes of the Riftborn turn upon him hungrily. Was she keeping them at bay? ‘Did she understand that her sisters would die for the price of an imposter, a double? No, I do not think Rosanna would have agreed to that at all. I do not believe for a moment that she understood the consequences.’

  ‘Her… her people…’ the Artist faltered, squinting her eyes as though the words would not come. ‘Our people… some may be sacrificed, yes, but others live on, across the sea. I sent them away. It was the bargain.’

  ‘Again, only a few, and only for the sake of Elsbet’s doppelganger. But where do they go? What safety is there for them once this hell is unleashed? The real Elsbet – her soul, her spirit – remains trapped here in our world, waiting to be consumed by these monsters? Monsters that you will unleash in Rosanna’s name!’

  ‘What do you know of souls and spirits? Are you a Majestic now? Do you seek to counsel me on the afterlife?’

  ‘I have seen her,’ John said, solemnly. ‘She has haunted me for my sins these past three years. I have never known peace, because she has never known peace. And she led me here. Listen to me, Rosanna – Elsbet led me here. For you. To save you.’

  Some change came across the Artist’s countenance. She closed her eyes and shook her head as though on the brink of some momentous decision.

  ‘Rosanna, listen to me,’ John said, daring another step
closer. ‘What passed between us is not reason enough to unleash this terror upon the world. I broke a promise to you – a vow – and I have regretted that ever since, and always shall. Do you think I do not wish to see the Order of Apollo burn? I have thought on it often for what they did. But I urge you now to think of the innocent lives at stake. Tsun Pen cares only for personal gain at the expense of queens and kings and prime ministers. He does not reckon the human tally – but you do. At least, you always did. Your people, my people – they are one! And they all face extinction if the Riftborn come through that gate.’

  ‘I…’ The woman’s eyes opened, and John saw something vulnerable, and human, within. She was there, he knew it – Rosanna. ‘It is too late,’ she said, though her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘It is… foreseen.’

  John cast a glance to the machinery, where Tesla toiled with dials and switches, Jim whispering in his ear.

  The gate changed hue, flashing briefly back to amber, then flame-red. The resonance squealed so loud that everyone who still lived within the chamber doubled over in pain, clutching at their ears, and none more so than Rosanna. As John struggled against the noise and the whipping gale, he saw Rosanna crouch to the floor. She screamed in agony. John reached out to her, though it was a struggle to do so. Now he knew she was in there still, and he could not bear to see her harmed, in spite of everything. But he stopped, as he saw something more.

  The Riftborn were sucked back into the portal, howling. A few smoke-like wraiths grabbed at John as they went, trying to drag him with them. But the worst of their attentions focused on the Artist. John leapt to her side, and tried to pull her away from the shadows that engulfed her, then dissipated, then came again, pulsing in time with the portal’s endless thrumming. She pushed John away, and thrashed at the shadows, which John could now barely see.

  ‘Rosanna!’ John cried. ‘Let me help you.’

  She looked up at John, face full of anguish. Shadowy fingers pulled at her hair, at her clothes. Blue veins bulged at the side of her head as the psychical assault took its toll. She held out a hand, finally beseeching John silently for aid, lips moving wordlessly. But something held John back from her, some invisible force would not allow him to intervene.

  Then abruptly, something in Rosanna’s eyes changed. She at once pushed upright, throwing off the wraith-like forms that assailed her like a robe.

  ‘I need no help! Only I bear the will of two worlds in one form, and only I can control this gate!’

  With that, the Artist held her hands out as though performing a conjuring trick, and the gate changed colour to a deep orange, flecked with crimson spume. The surface became agitated, the ripples growing stronger, until the liquid energy of the portal lapped over the sides of the gate, casting weird lights across the room. From behind the portal, something screeched; tortured faces pushed against the rippling veil, like tortured souls fleeing the fires of hell. The Artist held up a hand, and the things beyond screamed louder, and then were gone.

  ‘“Much have I seen and known; cities of men, and manners, climates, councils, governments, myself not least, but honour’d of them all,”’ the Artist gloated.

  Tesla was wrestling frantically with his controls. He shouted to Jim. John made out ‘Too strong!’ and ‘She’ll kill us!’

  ‘This was once the Lazarus Gate,’ the Artist said, as John stepped away from her, ‘but now it dances to my tune. I can summon forth the denizens of infinite worlds, or travel between them with impunity. And on the Otherside, treasures lie forgotten in the streets as the world’s powers descend into madness. Now, time is fleeting, and these games have run their course. Can you hear that? Can you hear the resonance of the gate? That is the sound of the world changing for ever.’

  ‘Stop this!’ John shouted.

  The noise of the gate reached fever pitch. Lights danced all about the room, lightning flashed in long tendrils to every corner of the chamber. Rosanna basked in a supernatural gale, like some Gothic heroine glaring at her foes from a rugged clifftop. The wind whipped at her yellow dress, and before John’s eyes Rosanna levitated once more, now laughing as intangible forces lifted her into their embrace. The shadows that slid about the room formed great clawed fingers, or strange, scuttling forms. They yanked at John’s clothes, his hair. They buffeted him like a ship in a storm. Warm air thickened about him. He felt himself caught in the warping veil, his stomach lurching as though he were falling endlessly. He had felt this before. He knew what came next.

  John shook the clouds from his mind. He clutched a hand to his bloody shoulder, using the pain to focus his thoughts. Miss Furnival was hoisted into the air, her eyes rolled back into her head. Jim was curled up on the floor near Tesla’s machinery, clutching his head, raving like a man in a fever-dream. Was Rosanna in his mind? Or was it the things at the gate, scratching and pushing at the veil?

  Tesla reached for a lever; a great shadowy tendril whipped towards him, directed by the Artist. It coiled about the Serbian’s arm, snapping it audibly. The scientist cried out and fell beside Jim as the shadow retreated.

  ‘Stop this madness!’ John shouted again, perhaps as much at the storm of psychical turbulence about him as at Rosanna. ‘You have the gate, your revenge is here for the taking. Kill me if you must, but release them.’

  ‘I am surprised to find someone you care about, John Hardwick,’ Rosanna said. ‘Do you care more for them than your precious honour, I wonder?’ A high-pitched squeal came from the gate, setting John’s teeth on edge. He gasped as the sound sliced through his thoughts. Rosanna only laughed. ‘What chaos. What power. Is it not wonderful?’

  John looked up. Everything was distorted as though viewed through aged glass. Behind Rosanna, something moved. A girl, dark of hair, wearing a soaking wet dress of white linen. She stood, silently, and John felt his blood run cold. Rosanna seemed unaware of the ghostly presence at her back.

  ‘Perhaps you are right,’ Rosanna said at last, with a laugh.

  John dropped to one knee as the resistance of the fierce wind ceased without warning. Miss Furnival fell to the floor with a sickening thud.

  The Artist raised her arms, and at her gesture the portal calmed, glowing amber once more. The strange sensations subsided, and the lightning became little more than a blue arc sporadically circling the gate. Rosanna waved a hand, and Jim ceased his convulsions.

  ‘I have seen the future many times,’ Rosanna said. ‘The art of foretelling is never exact, but it has steered me here, for what end I do not know. And yet that is half the fun, is it not? I have seen you three many times. I have painted your futures. Captain James Denny, who must watch for the coming storm. He is a man out of time – his fate is woven so completely in the dark events to come that I could not stop it if I wanted to. And then there is Miss Furnival, who has already seen more than you and Denny combined. She does not belong to this world, and if she stays she will know only betrayal from those for whom she cares. That sounds familiar, don’t you think?

  ‘I will leave here, John Hardwick, as you suggest. But I will let this portal ravage your world. I will leave you alive to see it, and know that I am out there, and that I hate you. This is revenge enough, I see that now. Your future is foretold. It is written in stone. Everything you touch will wither and die. You shall not know peace for the rest of your days, knowing that somewhere, in some world, I live. And one day, I shall return to destroy everything you hold dear. You should have killed me when you had the chance, but you are weak.’

  She turned to the portal, tracing a luminous hand across its shimmering surface. She bowed her head solemnly. For all her words of vengeance, John sensed that Rosanna – or maybe even Tsun Pen – was filled with regret. The ruination of her plan to arm the Russians, perhaps? Or something more?

  The destroyer of worlds and the healer of worlds. A fitting tribute.

  The whisper forced its way into John’s thoughts, an icy draught finding ingress through a casement. Words spoken long ago at a séan
ce in a gypsy camp, where five sisters had shown John what lay beyond the veil.

  The wraith was at his side. Everything was still, and cold, and grey, as though all warmth and colour had been sucked from the world. John knew, somehow, that this was the moment Elsbet had prepared him for. He stepped forward.

  ‘Rosanna, I know you can hear me,’ John said.

  She turned but slightly, to look at John over her shoulder from the corner of her eye. Even so, John saw her sneer, so reminiscent of Tsun Pen.

  ‘Part of you exists still,’ John persisted. ‘I saw it earlier, and that is why I could not kill you. It was not weakness – you know what I have done these past years. You know that I would never shy from killing without good reason. It was love stayed my hand, Rosanna. It is love that stays my hand still.’

  Rosanna spun about fully, anger in her face. Passionate, Romani anger. ‘Then it is love that shall kill you!’

  ‘Your prophecy is wrong,’ John said. ‘I do not have to spend the rest of my days alone. And neither do you. We can all change our destiny.’

  Rosanna began to speak, but the words did not form. Instead, she froze. Her expression changed to one of surprise, and then grief. Perhaps even fear. ‘Impossible,’ she whispered.

  The shade that was Elsbet approached her, incorporeal hands outstretched, which Rosanna tried to take in her own. Elsbet was on the dais now, speaking to her sister without words. Rosanna nodded, understanding whatever psychic message passed between them, and trembled. Soon, the ghost faded, vanishing completely, and Rosanna was left alone on the plinth, tears dripping from her cheeks.

  John had never truly felt alone these past three years; he had felt watched, always. Now, a great weight was lifted from his shoulders. Elsbet had gone, perhaps for ever. John looked to Marie, only now starting to move weakly. He looked to Jim, dragging himself to all fours, blinking in utter confusion. Tesla alone was lucid, one hand on the machinery, pulling himself to the control panel, looking to John for some signal, some order. Had any of them seen Elsbet? John did not know, and it did not matter.

 

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