“In Llanelly, Wales in 1910, a large black animal broke the spines of over a hundred rabbits in every hutch in the village. It was shot, but escaped.”
“I’ve never found rabbits to be more than a mouthful, myself,” Smythe said.
“Derbyshire, one month ago. Just before you arrived in London. Something black in color and of enormous size began killing sheep. It mutilated the remains in a particularly sadistic fashion, and even set upon a shepherd.”
“I trust the poor man wasn’t injured,” Smythe said.
“He’s dead,” St. Cyprian said flatly. “Mauled. As were Sally Floyd and Anna Benson earlier this month.”
“Mm, yes, I believe I heard something about that. The scandal sheets made as if it were Saucy Jack come again,” Smythe said, smiling. “Maybe he has,” St. Cyprian said.
“Ha! Yes,” Smythe said, his features changing abruptly from polite bafflement to cunning amusement. “There’s no need for the peppy, you know. I’m happy to talk.”
“Call it insurance,” Gallowglass said. “Can’t have you getting temperamental, can we?”
Smythe made a face. “As if I would do so here. This is my big night, after all.”
“Yes, your premier showing. You’ve been making quite a ruckus in the scene lately,” St. Cyprian said. “Powerful and vivid are the commonly applied adjectives.”
“You sound as if you don’t share that opinion.”
“Oh they’re vivid, I’ll give you that. Evocative, even.” St. Cyprian turned. “I do happen to like that one there. What is it called?” He gestured to a nearby canvas. On it, two shapes seemed to pulse and push against one another, causing the eye to see first a man, then… something else.
Smythe grinned now, displaying his impressive teeth. “‘The Artist as Wolf’.”
“It is subtlety like that which renders art inaccessible to the common man,” Gallowglass said.
“My thoughts exactly,” St. Cyprian said, turning back. “Why? Is it just a grisly little joke of some kind?”
“Of some kind,” Smythe agreed. “People are funny like that, aren’t they?” He clicked his teeth together and cocked his head. “They never see what’s right in front of them. Not until it’s too late.”
“Except us,” St. Cyprian said.
“Except you.” Smythe sniffed. “You almost caught me in the East End last week.”
“And in Wapping before that.” St. Cyprian frowned. “You knew we were closing in. Why didn’t you leave London? That seems to be your pattern.”
“I don’t have a pattern. I go where I want, when I want. I’ll not be leaving before I decide to go.” Smythe’s lips curled away from his gums in a distressing manner. “Besides, I haven’t sampled all of the local cuisine yet.”
“That was terrible. Do that again and I’ll shoot you right here,” Gallowglass said.
“You won’t shoot me,” Smythe said.
“I will so,” Gallowglass said.
“She will,” St. Cyprian said. “Positively murderous, this one.” He looked at Smythe. “When Van Cheele called me up a few weeks ago, babbling about a murderous wolf-boy, I was inclined to put him off.” He gestured towards a painting that depicted a child-shaped blotch of white strolling hand in-paw?-with a darker shape. “What’s that one called?”
“The Wandering Toop,” Smythe said, grinning widely.
“A child by that name drowned in a mill-pond in Sussex back before the War. Van Cheele remembered the name of the child, and the name of the boy who supposedly drowned to save her.”
Smythe’s grin grew wider still. “He was a stupid man. Not so stupid as his sister, but stupid enough.”
“You shouldn’t have let yourself be photographed at the Fitzallen’s last month,” St. Cyprian said. “Van Cheele saw the picture in the Times. He nearly had a coronary. When he recovered, he called me.” St. Cyprian cocked his head.
“And you found out ever so much, eh?” Smythe murmured. “Where is Bobbie with that drink?”
“I found out enough to make me suspicious. You’ve cut quite a swathe through the local swells. I’d think a person in your position wouldn’t want to attract so much attention.”
“You might be correct. Here we are, after all,” Smythe said, spreading his hands. Long fingers fluttered like ribbons and he clicked his teeth again.
“Did you really think you were going to get away with it?” St. Cyprian said. “With any of it?”
“I assumed I’d get by on a mixture of audacity and cunning, yes.” Smythe examined his nails. “I always have before. So now what?”
“Now? Now we walk out onto the balcony and we dispense with the pleasantries,” St. Cyprian said softly. He patted his jacket, where a pistol-shaped bulge was just barely visible. “Bobbie will be upset, of course, but she’ll get over it.”
“You plan to kill me? Here?”
“As I recall, we tried to kill you in Wapping, but you got away. I didn’t choose the ground, Smythe. You did.”
“I can’t die here. What will people think?” Smythe said. His smile was so wide that it nearly split his face in two.
“I’m sure they’ll have tomorrow’s gossip columns to expound at length on their theories,” St. Cyprian said, gesturing to the double doors leading to the balcony. “Let’s take in the night air, shall we?”
Smythe gave a mocking bow and strode towards the doors, throwing them open with a grandiose gesture. St. Cyprian and Gallowglass followed him out. The house overlooked Kensington Gardens and Smythe seemed to gulp in the thin scent of the park. “I intend to buy a house here, I think. No more forests for me. Not until the city gets boring, at least.” He leaned back against the balustrade and folded his arms. “I still don’t see how you’re planning to get away with this.”
“A mixture of audacity and cunning,” St. Cyprian said, throwing Smythe’s words back at him. The other man shrugged.
“Ah. Well then, get on with it.” His eyes seemed to glow softly in the darkness.
St. Cyprian reached into his coat and pulled out a gleaming Webley-Bulldog. He aimed the squat pistol at the artist and cocked it. His eyes narrowed. “I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, but, well—”
“Charley? What are you lot doing out here?” Bobbie said, stepping out onto the balcony. Her eyes widened. “Is that a gun?”
St. Cyprian blinked and looked at the pistol in his hand. “No?” he tried. Bobbie’s eyes narrowed and she stepped forward.
“It is! Are you planning to shoot my guest?”
“No?” St. Cyprian tried again. “Well, possibly. This is a bit awkward, wot?”
“Charley!”
“Enough of this,” Gallowglass snapped, and raised her pepperbox.
“No!” Bobbie lunged, crashing against the other woman. They fell in a tangle, the pepperbox skittering away. St. Cyprian hesitated, then stumbled back as Smythe slid forward and snapped his teeth together inches from the other man’s face. St. Cyprian’s pistol swung up and Smythe’s hand was there to meet it.
Iron fingers wrapped around St. Cyprian’s wrist and squeezed it painfully. The occultist groaned and rammed his free fist into the artist’s kidney. Smythe gasped and released him and St. Cyprian staggered back. Fumblingly, he fired his pistol, but Smythe was already gone, his clothes tumbling to the ground. Something long and dark and horrible arrowed towards St. Cyprian, and he ducked instinctively.
Claws clattered across the stonework of the balcony, and the black wolf glanced over its shoulder, yellow eyes flashing. St. Cyprian scrambled to his feet and fired again, taking a chunk out of the stone as the wolf vanished.
“Damnation!” The occultist turned. Gallowglass had won her own struggle, and now awkwardly straddled Bobbie. The victor had a handful of her defeated opponent’s hair in her hands and was preparing to crack her skull on the stone surface of the balcony. “Ms. Gallowglass! We have a wolf on the loose!”
“Why didn’t you shoot him?” she snapped querulously as she released Bobb
ie and stood.
“I tried!”
“This is why I usually carry the pistol,” Gallowglass said, smoothing her dress.
“I’ll have you know that I’m an excellent marksman,” St. Cyprian said, holstering his weapon. “It’s hard to hit a moving target is all.”
“Charles St. Cyprian! Why in the devil were you trying to kill my artist?” Bobbie hissed, climbing to her feet. “Do you have any idea how much I spent on this party?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it,” St. Cyprian said. “Right now, we have a wolf to catch and not a huntsman in sight.”
“My artist has been carried off by a wolf?” Bobbie barked her eyes wide. “Good God!”
“No, Bobbie, he-forget it. Ms. Gallowglass, let’s go,” St. Cyprian said, striding towards the doors. She hurried to catch up, tugging at her skirt.
“Had to let him scarper, and me in heels and dress?” she said. “I said I was sorry.”
“You didn’t actually,” Gallowglass said, pulling off her shoes. She tossed them aside and caught up with him. “Lucky thing I brought trousers.”
“Oh yes, by all means, please do take the time to get changed. It’s only a werewolf after all. Nothing to be alarmed about,” St. Cyprian grunted, hurrying out onto the street and looking towards the Gardens. “I hate werewolves. Devious buggers.”
“Met a few of them, then?” Gallowglass said, heading for their car, a black Crossley 20hp, with a well-stocked boot. She pulled a satchel out of the latter.
“No, as a matter of fact,” he said, hopping into the driver’s seat. “Get in.”
“He went into the Garden didn’t he?”
“A wolf can cover that kind of ground surprisingly quickly,” St. Cyprian said, starting the car. “And I’m not chasing the beggar on foot in the dark.”
“Good thing we work for the King,” Gallowglass said as she clambered into the back and began to get changed.
“Yes,” St. Cyprian said, pulling away from the curb. Twisting the wheel, he aimed the Crossley towards Knightsbridge and away from Notting Hill. There was little traffic at that time of night, and a few toots of the horn took care of what little there was.
“Why even bother to change? He could have bluffed his way out of there,” Gallowglass said, kicking her legs up as she pulled on a pair of men’s trousers.
“Well he’s not a subtle fellow, is he?” St. Cyprian said. “He’s in a fine fur and looking to cause trouble.” He tapped his head. “The beast is too close to the surface in him.”
“That explains the paintings, I suppose.”
“I’d say so—”
The wolf hit the hood of the car and scrabbled, its nails cutting grooves in the paint. St. Cyprian cursed and braked and the wolf swayed, yellow eyes pinning him in place as its breath fogged up the window. The tableau held for a moment, until the beast gave a shake and seemed to laugh. Then it was gone, loping along the Embankment. Still cursing, St. Cyprian set the Crossley in pursuit, squeezing the horn for all he was worth.
“Where the devil is he going?” Gallowglass said, clambering into the passenger seat as the car raced down the street.
“We’ll know when we get there,” St. Cyprian said, swerving to avoid an oncoming bus. The horn of the larger vehicle shrilled as the Crossley darted across its path. The wolf stayed just in sight, occasionally leaping sideways into traffic and then back out. After twenty minutes of tense pursuit, St. Cyprian said, “He’s going for Waterloo Bridge!”
“How can you tell?”
“Because it’s the quickest way over the Thames from where we are.” He pounded the steering wheel with a fist. “He’s trying to escape.”
“But to where? If he’s not going into the parks—”
“His studio!” St. Cyprian said, in sudden realization. “A hunted wolf always goes to ground, preferably in his own territory.” He stamped on the accelerator.
The wolf loped down the street alongside the Thames slithering between cars and leaping past pedestrians who inevitably set up a hue and cry. Police whistles sounded as the lean black shape sent a constable rolling into the gutter with the force of its passage. The Crossley kept pace, but only barely.
“Nothing can move that fast,” Gallowglass whispered.
A shop window burst as the creature moved past it like a streak of black lightning. Sparks rode in its wake as it struck the side of a bus and scrambled up and over it without breaking its demonic stride. As the werewolf leapt from vehicle to vehicle along the bridge, it gave vent to a raucous howl. It leapt down into the path of a motor-car and snarled into the glaring headlights, matching them with its own yellow gaze. The car swerved and struck another and the beast was off.
St. Cyprian wrestled with the wheel of the Crossley as he tried to keep up with the beast. The wolf slowed in its run, looking back at them across one shaggy shoulder. Its jaws hung open in doggy laughter as it waited for them to catch up. They left the bridge with a growl of the engine, and the wolf took off, moving at an almost sedate run.
“He wants us to follow him,” Gallowglass said, grabbing St. Cyprian’s shoulder.
“So he does,” St. Cyprian said. “And so we are.”
“It’s likely a trap.”
“Almost certainly.”
“I’d like to discuss an increase in wages,” Gallowglass said.
“I don’t pay you.”
“Exactly. We’ll call it hazard dues, shall we?”
The pursuit became surreal, with the wolf scattering roosting pigeons and bounding across the tops of fences with preternatural agility. It would disappear and reappear suddenly, bounding across the hood or the boot of the Crossley, its howls seemingly echoing from the very brick of the city.
“Tower Bridge!” Gallowglass said, pointing. The wolf scrambled under a cab with eel-like speed and then was up and climbing the suspension cables with distinctly un-lupine movements.
“I didn’t think wolves could climb,” Gallowglass said faintly, half standing up in her seat as the wolf moved above them.
“I didn’t think wolves could paint,” St. Cyprian snarled. “We learn something new every day!”
The wolf swung around the suspension cables, moving like a snake. In that moment, it seemed less a creature of form and matter than a shadow that lengthened and shrank with their passage.
They left the bridge behind a moment later and sped through the streets of the East End, which became ever more cramped and crooked. The shops and storefronts took on foreign aspects and sputtering lanterns lit the streets. The wolf moved through it all sinuously, scattering drunks and addicts with a snarl.
The Crossley screeched to a stop as the beast darted down an alleyway. “Why are we stopping?” Gallowglass said.
“Car won’t fit,” St. Cyprian said, jumping out of his seat. “We go on foot from here.”
“Wonderful,” Gallowglass said, shrugging into a worn leather shoulder-holster. A moment later she drew a heavy Webley service revolver and cracked it open. Then, with a grunt, she snapped it back.
“The East End. You’d think he’d have better taste, hanging out with the Chelsea crowd.”
“It’s likely because of his particular tastes that he’s denning here,” St. Cyprian said. “People go missing in the East End all the time. Only some of them wind up in the Thames.”
“Cheery,” Gallowglass said. Then, “We are sure that silver hurts them, right?”
“Can’t hurt I should think,” St. Cyprian said, drawing his own revolver. “The sources are all over the map on that score, I’m afraid.” Holding the weapon down by his side, he started into the alleyway. “Still, stiff upper lip and all that. Putting two between ’em should calm him down acceptably, regardless of the base metals.”
“Aren’t you supposed to know these things?” Gallowglass said, following him.
“We live and learn, apprentice-mine.”
“Emphasis on ‘live’, I hope.”
St. Cyprian shot her a look and
they continued in silence. Like most alleys in the old rookeries, it was awash in refuse and smelled foul. Rats squealed at their passage and the wood of the sagging outdoor stairwells that led up to the various rooms above creaked softly. And every so often, just at the edge of their hearing was the sound of deep panting or the click of nails across the surface of the street.
After what seemed like an eternity, there was a sound like glass shattering. “Where—” Gallowglass began, turning. St. Cyprian grabbed her and threw her against the wall as something heavy crashed down where she’d been standing only a moment earlier.
St. Cyprian glanced briefly at the shattered remains of the water barrel, then looked up. The wolf lay on the wooden landing, tongue lolling, its eyes glittering. It gave a coughing growl and stood, padding away through the open door behind it a moment later.
“I think we found his studio,” Gallowglass said. “Won’t your girl Bobbie be ever so jealous?”
“Hardly my girl, thank you. More an acquaintance, really.” St. Cyprian took the stairs carefully. He stopped halfway up. “Are you coming or not?”
“This is definitely a trap,” Gallowglass said, hurrying after him.
“Sometimes there’s nothing for it but to beard the wolf in his den,” St. Cyprian said, easing the door at the top of the stairs open with his foot. Beyond was an attic room like every attic room-slanted roof and moldy windows open to the effluvium of the area. Discarded and unused canvases lay in heaps and piles everywhere, and the room reeked of paint and turpentine.
“It kills the stink, you know.” Smythe’s voice seemed to come from everywhere, all at once. “The paint, I mean. Keeps me from getting distracted by all the wonderful smells out there.”
“I’m sure,” St. Cyprian said, turning in place. The floor creaked loudly beneath him as he moved. He motioned for Gallowglass to stay behind him and she nodded sharply. “Distracted from what, out of curiosity?”
“City life,” Smythe said from somewhere close. Too close. St. Cyprian spun, but saw nothing. “There’s nothing like it. Oh the forests are fine, but there’s just so much to see and do here. So many new scents and tastes. And dogs.”
“Dogs?”
Both Barrels of Monster Hunter Legends (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 1) Page 2