The Shadow Revolution

by Clay Griffith

  The man in front of them transformed into a menacing, dark shape. His chest broadened to double the width and his clothes rent with an audible tear. Arms lengthened and treacherous claws grew out of his fingertips. His head grew larger, and with a loud cracking, the bones of his jaw displaced and extended. A creature stood large and hunched, snapping two luminous red eyes in their direction.

  Simon rose to his feet and pulled the blade from his stick in a fierce jerk. The beast lunged forward with claws raised to strike. Simon parried the blow, twisted, and stepped in close, forcing the arm down and out. He leaned back and kicked the beast in the chest, staggering it onto its haunches. Pulling the blade back, Simon prepared to thrust, but the werewolf leapt to the side and the blade plunged through empty air.

  The glamour spell dropped from Sir Thomas Wolfolk, and Nick Barker lifted his hands, both engulfed in flames. Twin fiery orbs crashed against the creature, eliciting a howl. Smoke curled around its furry head and long snout. Bony, clawed fingers clenched, then extended in pain as the beast staggered back.

  A butler knocked and entered with a stern face, prepared to lecture the raucous guests. He stopped cold at what he saw. What was once Lord Oakham turned toward him.

  “Run!” shouted Simon, hoping to distract the beast as well as motivate the terrified servant.

  With speed like a striking snake, the beast charged. It grabbed the elderly servant around the throat, lifting him like a rag doll into the air. The man’s gurgling scream was stifled.

  Simon ran forward with a hoarse growl, uttering a dead word, and the sword flared blue. He drove the glowing blade into the werewolf’s side. The beast arched with a screech, throwing a powerful arm at Simon. He ducked, yanking out the blade as he did, and darted back as the creature turned toward him, dropping the servant. The werewolf attacked, but Simon’s blade darted like lightning to parry the wicked blows. A long claw caught the blade flat and sent the weapon skittering across the floor.

  Nick extended his arms out to his side, gathering a wind, and slammed his hands together to blast it toward the monster. The force of the gale hurled the beast against a glass-fronted cabinet.

  Simon uttered another phrase and wrenched the ornate mirror off the wall. It weighed several hundred pounds at least, but he wielded it like it was merely a lady’s vanity glass instead of something twice his height and breadth. He swung it about and slammed it against the hairy back of his opponent with an explosion of glass and dust. He hadn’t expected it to do anything more than to stagger the werewolf momentarily, but to his surprise the creature screamed an unholy sound and flailed in agony. Simon looked at the smashed glittering remnants on the floor.

  “The glass,” Nick shouted, “must have a silver amalgam on it.”

  Simon snatched a large sliver of broken mirror like a dagger, slicing the werewolf. The beast snarled and clutched its chest though the wound was a shallow one. Simon ran for his sword nearby as Nick tossed another fireball over Simon’s shoulder and struck the beast in the face. Blinded by pain and flame, the werewolf spun and bounded out the open door into the hallway. Simon cursed and tore out after it.

  A lone figure stood facing the beast. A slender figure. A woman. It was Kate Anstruther.

  Dread filled his soul at the thought of another death he could not prevent. “Get the bloody hell out of here,” Simon roared at her.

  But she did not. Instead she strode forward, her hand reaching into her bag of all things. The idiot. The monstrous Lord Oakham was no Sir William Titchmarsh.

  Kate’s hand whipped out the bulb filled with the debilitating dust and squeezed it in the werewolf’s face. The creature howled again, staggering backward, and sneezing violently. Instead of bowling through the determined woman toward the stairs, where a few onlookers stood in shock, it blindly fumbled across the hall, smashing through a closed door.

  “Mad dog!” Kate shouted loudly, scattering the guests gathered behind her. They fled back down the way they had come.

  Simon ran at the creature, tackling it. They tumbled into the room. He summoned his strength and grabbed hold of the muscular arms, jerking them back and trying to pin the beast into submission. But the werewolf could not be contained. It flexed and gave a mighty heave, throwing Simon into the path of the onrushing Kate and Nick. They all went down hard.

  Indignant shouts revealed they were not alone in the room. Simon’s blood went cold. He caught the heady aroma of burning opium. Four men and one woman were slumped over couches and high-backed chairs. Simon stumbled to his feet and lunged at the beast, but the werewolf was faster and leapt atop the mahogany billiard table in the center of the room, then among the languid revelers. They did nothing to protect themselves, merely staring at the horrific apparition in dumb fascination as if it were a product of the drug, as they went down under its fearsome claws and teeth. Simon grabbed the werewolf by the shoulders and flung it across the room.

  Kate ran to one wall with a coat of arms crisscrossed by two swords. She yanked free a gleaming saber and took a stance between the wounded victims and the werewolf. Moans and screams filled the air along with the stench of blood. When Simon shoved her away, she shoved him back and stood her ground. The beast rose yet again to its feet. It was a mass of berserk fury. Simon thought her either foolhardy or bloody brave, but he wasn’t about to let her test her mettle against such unbridled rage.

  Nick charged while the werewolf’s attention was on Simon and Kate. His hand sparked again into flame and he landed a grip on the beast’s muzzle, sending a wash of fire across the creature. It screamed as its skin began to smoke. Kate darted in suddenly and made an expert thrust between the ribs. The werewolf lashed out and caught Nick, flinging him against the wall. Howling, it turned on Kate. She backed away.

  Simon uttered another runic word. He grasped the heavy billiard table. He picked it up as he would a child’s toy and swung it at the werewolf. The billiard table slammed into the creature, sending it careening into the opposite wall hard enough to bring down paintings and leave a large crater in the plaster.

  The werewolf scattered the smashed portraits in its fury, bellowing and trying to rise again to its full height. Simon did not permit this. The mahogany table swung again and caught the monster full in the face, snapping its head around with a spurt of blood and dislodged canines. The beast licked the blood dripping down its snout and fixed fiery eyes on Simon.

  Nick shoved himself to his hands and knees, speaking in a harsh guttural language that was nothing like the fluid and almost poetic words that had passed across Simon’s lips. The air in the room flinched.

  Simon glared at his partner, about to issue a warning, but it was too late. A sickly yellow-green smoke began to build around the beast. The werewolf swatted at it, fear beginning to show in its blazing eyes. The smoke engulfed it and the beast writhed. It staggered and fumbled weakly against an overturned divan.

  “Now!” Nick rasped, collapsing to the floor.

  Simon swung his massive weapon once more. The audible crunch of bones filled the room. Simon battered the helpless creature twice more at full force, smashing off chunks of the billiard table in the process. The beast went limp on the rug under the mahogany wreckage.

  The werewolf was dead.

  Simon staggered back and dropped what was left of the billiard table heavily to the floor. Kate lowered her dripping sword, breathing hard. He stared at her flushed face and victorious gleam.

  “Mad dog?” he intoned with a bemused cock of his head.

  Kate threw the sword to the side. “Well, shouting werewolf seemed pointless.”

  An inebriated laugh bubbled up from his chest as he leaned wearily upon the upturned gaming table turned weapon. She shook her head in confusion and turned to tend the survivors. There were only two, a man and a woman. Thankfully the opium kept them calm, despite their grievous injuries. Kate tore strips from her tattered gown and set about binding their wounds.

  Simon turned to Nick, who still sat on the gr
ound. His tone was harsher than he intended, but he kept his voice to a whisper. “What did you use on him, Nick? It wasn’t vivimancy. It was a curse, wasn’t it?”

  Nick faced Simon with a tired smile. “I needed something with a bit more power to weaken the bloody thing. Necromancy is the overmatched man’s best friend.”

  “You said you’d stick to vivimancy. Necromantic spells have unforeseeable consequences.”

  “So is a werewolf trying to tear my head off. I didn’t use it against the beast in the Rookery, and you griped about how we were almost killed and your whole life was wasted. Now I use it and you’re griping too. Make up your damned mind. Vivimancy was worthless in these circumstances. And, even so, the two disciplines are reverse sides of the same coin.” Nick kept his gaze purposefully away from the unmoving victims.

  “It’s never worth the price,” Simon shot back.

  “It’s hard to philosophize with teeth at your throat.” Nick walked over to where Kate tended to the two survivors. He put his hands on both of them. There was a slight greenish glow around him. Both victims twitched and took deeper, more comfortable breaths, while Nick slumped even more. “There, satisfied? They’ll probably survive now.”

  Kate looked at Nick with confusion. “What just happened?”

  Simon turned at the sound of alarmed voices coming up the stairs. He motioned to the window. “Best not to be seen here.”

  Nick tipped his head to Kate and opened the window.

  “You’re just going to leave?” Kate was indignant. “How are we going to explain a werewolf?”

  “What werewolf?” Simon asked.

  She pointed at Lord Oakham and saw that he had already reverted back to a battered human form lying bloody on the rug. He was nude but for tatters of his once-lavish clothes, which were draped over him. “Oh.”

  “It’s best none of us was seen here,” he prompted, motioning her to the window. “A bit hard to explain.”

  “I’ll stay. I doubt they will charge me for killing a man with a billiard table.”

  “Thank you for your timely assistance.” Simon smiled, appraising the woman with new eyes. “You are most curious, Miss Anstruther.”

  “The same can be said for you, Mr. Archer.”

  He bowed, then darted out the window after Nick.

  Chapter Six

  It was a lovely autumn day in London, but Simon found it difficult to enjoy, still conflicted and sore from the fracas of the night before. A leisurely coffee at the Lich Gate, his favorite shop near Soho Square, was an attempt to create a sense of calm. He had first come here with Beatrice years ago, and the familiar sounds and smells gave him a discomforting sense of melancholy.

  The gossip among the patrons enlightened him as to the versions of the horrific events at the home of Viscount Gillingham that circulated in the city this morning. The overwhelmingly accepted account of the story was the sudden and unfortunate onset of mental ague by an aristocrat who had a history of unusual behavior and oddly radical politics. There was a whisper of the word “monster,” but it was said either with a smirk or a serious tone, which would be discounted by any but the insane or the few truly informed. Simon would have to attend the various rumors that would certainly circulate later. But rumors were rumors; they meant little.

  He mourned his failure to prevent further loss of life but took some comfort in the fact that it could have been so much worse. Had the werewolf found its way to the main floor of the party, the bloodshed would have been catastrophic. The nation might have been facing the death of the prime minister and his beloved wife, as well as many notable members of Parliament and the court.

  Then an odd smile played over Simon’s lips as he thought of Kate Anstruther standing toe to toe with the hulking creature with nothing more than a bulb of noxious perfume to defend herself. How remarkable.

  Simon watched leaves drift down the street and consulted his watch. He had received a message from Penny Carter to come to her shop in the early afternoon. Apparently the Scottish werewolf hunter was due to pick up his repaired weapon. With a smug smile, Simon could not help but admit he looked forward to relating the demise of the hunter’s kill. It was a matter of pride after all. Werewolves were rare beasts in Britain.

  Carter’s Wonder Repository was busy at this time of the day though none of the browsers seemed the occult sort, just everyday customers attracted by the wonders on display in the window. One man was in need of a watch repair, while an elderly woman was looking for a gift for her niece and was fascinated by an intricate music box that had two articulated figures that danced and pirouetted to a lively tune. Penny worked behind the counter efficiently though clearly she was uncomfortable undertaking the public job her brother usually performed.

  Simon lifted his hat. “Good afternoon, Penny. Where is Charles this fine day?”

  “Hello, Mr. Archer,” the young woman greeted. The smile directed at him was genuine. “Visiting relatives in the east.”

  “Am I in time?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I expect him within the hour.”

  “Excellent.” Simon smiled. “I’ll just have a seat.”

  “He’s not punctual, but my textbooks might help pass the time. You’re a man who appreciates a wide range of learning.” Before Penny could say more, a customer distracted her.

  The shop boasted a pleasant alcove by the front window filled with books, most of them on engineering and steam theory. Simon had a smoke, watching the crowd ebb until he was alone in the shop.

  It was more than an hour later when the doorbell tinkled and in walked the dark Scotsman. The man was tall and rugged and draped in a black woolen, double-breasted greatcoat. His long hair was pulled back tight and tied up in twine. His face was harsh and lean in the stark light though he was probably no more than thirty years of age.

  Simon raised an eyebrow as he set aside a mechanical sparrow. “We meet again.”

  The Scotsman stared at Simon as if trying to place him. Then recognition seeped in. “Ach, it’s you.” He leaned against the counter, placing the thundering great pistol with four odd barrels onto it. There was a leather harness under the man’s greatcoat that held twin holsters and at least one dagger.

  Penny’s head poked out from the back and she waved a hand. “Be right with you, Malcolm.”

  First-name basis, Simon noted. The Scotsman came here a great deal then, and it wasn’t for the fanciful toys either.

  “Glad to see you well,” Simon said. “I have news about our friend from the other night.”

  “Have you?” came the clipped retort.

  “Yes. If you’ve lost the trail, don’t dismay.”

  The Scotsman practically growled. “What do you mean by that, sir?”

  “He won’t trouble us again. As of last night, he is no more.”

  The man’s eyes bored into Simon. “I doubt that. I had sign of it along the river all night.”

  “Then I must question your tracking skills.” Simon’s lips held a light smile.

  The Scotsman wasn’t amused. “Maybe you merely think you killed the beastie. And in fact merely dispatched a stray dog in the dark.”

  Simon chuckled at the man’s strained wit but shook his head. “Stray dogs don’t have canines as long as my hand, nor need to be beaten to death with a billiard table.”

  Malcolm frowned, about to make a retort, when Penny emerged from the back. She picked up the four-barreled Lancaster pistol, which promptly fell into several pieces. She turned red with anger. “Bloody hell! Do you know how long it took me to craft this beauty? This is a precision firearm, not a club! If you don’t treat it properly, it won’t save your life when you need it!”

  “I’m not hunting pheasant,” Malcolm retorted. “It gets a bit rough. If my other pistol is ready, I’ll take that one and I’ll keep the spare you gave me for a while longer.”

  Penny grumbled but then grinned dangerously back at Malcolm and Simon. “My two best customers. Have you been introduced?”


  Simon thrust out a hand toward the Scotsman. “Simon Archer of Warden Abbey.”

  Malcolm took Simon’s outstretched hand. “Malcolm MacFarlane of Rowardennan.”

  At the mention of the name, however, Simon’s eyes went suddenly dark. Malcolm pulled his hand back instantly.

  “Rowardennan?” Simon asked slowly. “Did you know a John MacFarlane who hailed from that area? Twenty years or so your senior.”

  “I did.” Malcolm stiffened. “My father’s name was John MacFarlane. What business is that of your—”

  Malcolm never finished the sentence. Simon slammed him against the wall with shocking force.

  “My father,” Simon growled, “was Edward Cavendish. Your father killed him.”

  Malcolm’s fist crashed into Simon’s cheek and rocked his head back. Simon countered with a backhand across the Scotsman’s temple. Simon’s chest exploded as Malcolm drove an elbow into his breastbone and his breath rushed out of his lungs so fast it drew spots in his vision. He went to his hands and knees, dizzy as hell and disoriented. He noticed a leg beside him. He grabbed it and yanked, bringing Malcolm down to the ground with him.

  The Scotsman’s thick hands fell on Simon’s shoulders and tried to gain leverage over him. Simon rolled and brought Malcolm with him, slamming into the table and chair and scattering books. Twisting quickly, Simon jerked aside and scrambled to his feet.

  “Here now. Not in my shop!” Penny was shouting, but when Simon stood and turned, he met the meaty fist of the Scotsman. It snapped his head to the side, a spray of blood erupting from his split lip. He stumbled but managed to keep his feet. He spun around and drove a punch into the man’s unprotected middle. It doubled Malcolm over, just so he could meet the knee that Simon brought up with ferocious force.

  The Scotsman went flying back. Simon staggered forward, leaning on the counter and trying to catch his breath. Malcolm stepped into his field of vision. Hard, angry, and wiping blood from the corner of his eye.

  “Your father was a gutless bastard,” Simon snarled.