“Eat.” Simon stood there a moment more. “When was the last time you were in bed, Miss Anstruther?”
Kate opened her eyes wide at the boldness of his comment but then realized it was she who had misinterpreted a simple question. Or had she? “Do you ask because I look like hell?” She pushed a wayward lock of hair behind her ear.
“I wasn’t commenting on your appearance. Although apparently exhaustion suits you. Still, a few hours spent between crisp sheets would do you a world of good.”
Kate swallowed consciously, not sure what he had implied, but just the thought brought a round of chills. She picked up the utensils and cut into the meal in an effort to distract herself. But all the while, she followed his straight back to the door. Kate blamed her flush on the lukewarm meal. Then her hand absently reached up to touch her neck, which still pulsed with the heat of his touch.
Chapter Eighteen
Kate felt badly out of place in the Devil’s Loom.
The close, musty scent of sweat and beer mixed with suspicious glances from the locals. Knowing eyes pinned her as a provincial swell with no attachment to the neighborhood. They also stared at Malcolm beside her, but with looks of concern, and even fear.
Simon stood at the bar chatting amiably with a group of rugged workingmen. They all laughed and slapped each other’s shoulders, and Simon bought them ales, and the laughing and slapping commenced anew.
Kate sipped a glass of pedestrian sherry, wishing it were something stronger. “Mr. Archer seems to be getting on.”
Malcolm grunted and shifted. She could hear the telltale rattle of his twin Lancaster pistols beneath his coat.
“It’s remarkable,” she continued. “Everyone likes him. From lords to longshoremen.”
“Yes.” Malcolm grunted again. “Everyone.”
“It’s almost unnatural.”
The hunter downed his scotch with a grimace of whiskey criticism. “It’s because the man has no soul.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say, Mr. MacFarlane.” Kate twisted her head quickly, shocked.
“It’s not meant as a criticism. He is exactly what he needs to be, whenever he needs it. But I can tell you, we’ve never seen the true man.”
Kate regarded Simon, who continued to master his audience with a glib phrase and a direct, manly look in the eye. Perhaps the grim, uncomfortable Malcolm was merely jealous of Simon’s easy nature.
The Scotsman murmured, “I wonder if he’s ever seen it either.”
“Mr. Archer learned how to survive in a society that cared little for him. No different than how you learned to live out in the wild, I imagine. Some may call you uncivilized and uncouth.”
Malcolm shrugged, taking no offense.
“Doesn’t make you any less of a man, does it?”
Malcolm grinned. “No, it doesn’t.”
Kate sat back. “Any more words of wisdom?”
“His friend, Nick Barker, is a coward.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked with surprise. “Because he doesn’t want to stand up to Gretta Aldfather?”
“Among other things. I abhor magicians who prefer the shadows instead of facing someone outright.”
Kate recalled how, after the fight with Lord Oakham, she had seen Simon upbraiding Nick for some distasteful action to bring the battle to an end. And there was no denying Nick’s reluctance to get involved with Imogen’s problems. Still, he had done something to help the wounded and he was Simon’s friend. She was coming to trust Simon’s judgment. “Perhaps there is more to Mr. Barker than we know.”
Malcolm snorted his skepticism. “I’d certainly wager that.”
“Regardless, Simon Archer is one magician who does not stand in the shadows.”
“Perhaps. We’ll see who stands and fights when hell breaks loose.”
“Do you have character assessments of me then?”
Malcolm slowly raised his eyes to her. His hunter’s countenance sent chills along her spine. Gratefully, her attention was drawn to Simon as he shook hands all around his group of chums, signaled to the barman for another round for them, and came smiling back to the table. He sat opposite Kate and Malcolm, glancing curiously at Kate’s penetrating expression.
He drummed his hands on the tabletop. “We’re on for tonight at St. Andrews Holborn.”
Kate leaned close. “Those men you were talking to are body snatchers?”
“Yes and please don’t stare at them. They went on lookout yesterday at several funerals around town. They were going out to St. Andrews tonight.”
Kate pulled her gaze away from the three men at the bar in their heavy twill trousers and cloth caps pulled down over sullen eyes. “But don’t they want the body?”
“I paid them more to stay away than a body would fetch from the surgeons at St. Barts. In addition, tonight is nearly a full moon; they’d just as soon stay here and get drunk as try to open a grave under the bright eye of Selene.”
Malcolm said quietly, “I’m surprised that men such as these vile resurrectionists are your friends.”
“Friends is a bit strong. Although I don’t begrudge a man a living wage in this day and age.”
The Scotsman muttered, “Wonder if you’d feel the same if it was your carcass they were pulling from the grave?”
“Hopefully I won’t find out for many years.” Simon gave Kate a charming wink.
She raised her glass with relief and changed the subject. “You seem quite at ease. Please tell me you haven’t had cause to sneak into the cemetery before?”
Simon leaned back with a mysterious smile.
“Three o’clock.” Simon snapped his watch shut.
Kate rubbed her gloved hands together. The air was damp and cold, and a stiff wind swirled down Holborn Hill. The gaslights up on the rise flickered cheerfully, but the three companions loitered in the shadows at the base of the hill among ramshackle buildings that crowded the paved sewer that had once been the sparkling Fleet River. No one had passed them in nearly twenty minutes. Even the night cabs had disappeared. The nearly full moon hosted long, silver clouds racing over its face.
“It stinks down here,” Kate pointed out.
“The Fleet ditch is hardly a garden spot. How long does it take the mushrooms to sprout? Do they need more moonlight?” Simon clapped his hands together to warm them, muffled by thick, fingerless gloves.
“They’ll be up by now. We should go on. They won’t stay long.”
Simon pulled his heavy scarf up over his nose.
“That’s not suspicious,” Malcolm said. “You look like a highwayman.”
“Shall we?” Simon extended his arm. She took it and he touched her fingers fleetingly before he led the way uphill They turned off the street through a jumble of buildings, where they found a narrow flight of rickety stairs. They climbed up and slipped into alleys, moving along brick walls and darkened doorways. They made several turns, dodging piles of trash and crawlers huddled in stoops. Simon blazed the trail with authority, banishing any apprehension Kate felt. His confidence was intoxicating. He dove into a narrow passageway that ended in a wrought-iron fence. Through the bars was St. Andrew’s squarish steeple, moon-bathed in a yard full of gravestones and overgrown trees.
Simon bent with his hands laced together. “You first Malcolm, then—”
“Shh.” The hunter held up a finger for silence. He sidled up to the fence, listening hard.
Kate heard nothing but the wind and the flapping of their own clothes. She could almost imagine the tombstones were creaking as if they were growing from the earth. She caught Simon’s eye and he shrugged.
Malcolm stepped back into the alley and motioned them to follow. He whispered, “There’s someone in the churchyard. More than one person. Might be our quarry.”
Kate breathed hard in anticipation, ready to put practice into action. She felt for her father’s pistol in her belt and the short sword at her hip. She also had a leather bandolier over her shoulder. It was designed for la
rge hunting shells, but it now contained vials of potentially useful potions. Her long dress was gone, replaced by a heavy skirt that fell midcalf. She wore boots and a leather jacket over a thick man’s shirt. She felt rather rugged in a way. Excitement rather than dread coursed through her.
She heard a quiet snapping of impatient fingers. Malcolm was already crouching atop the spears of the iron fence, reaching down for her. She stretched up and he dragged her into the air and onto the precarious fence top. She barely kept herself from toppling headfirst to the grass of the churchyard. Simon up came beside her.
Malcolm dropped silent as a cat. He turned and took her as if she were weightless. Simon hit the ground with a grunt that brought a cautionary glance from the Scotsman. Malcolm signaled for them to be silent and follow. He kept along the fence, moving in the shadows of the neighboring buildings, toward the northern yard, which was some twelve feet above the road outside, thanks in part to the natural roll of the land and in part to the centuries of dead, buried layer upon layer under the church’s grounds. Gravestones stood everywhere, many crooked and colored black by time, scattered chaotically through the burying ground.
They crouched behind a stone sarcophagus. Kate heard noises now. Not voices, but shuffling steps and the light crunch of clothing. She crept upward, her fingers feeling the cold marble even through her gloves. Eyes topped the mossy vault and she saw three figures walking among the graves, all wearing long coats with hoods. They moved slowly and awkwardly toward a long, low mound of freshly turned earth, where she noticed several small shapes shining white in the dark dirt. Tall, high-capped mushrooms sprouted from the grave.
Simon whispered from the corner of the oblong tomb where he peered out. “Get down.”
One of the figures turned in their direction and Kate saw a ghostly pale face. It was gruesome, flat, and misshapen, with large, bulbous eyes.
She gasped and dropped quickly. “It’s a homunculus.”
Simon hissed, “Did they see you?”
Kate raised an acerbic eyebrow. “Just after they heard you, yes.”
Growling with annoyance, Malcolm pulled his pistols as he rose to his feet. A ropy white object flew at him with a solid wet thud. He was spun around hard, losing one of his pistols.
Simon grabbed the Scotsman to keep him from falling. “Malcolm, don’t kill them.”
“Don’t kill them?” Malcolm exclaimed, wide-eyed, recovering his bearings.
“We have to follow the—” Simon’s whisper was cut off by another tentacle whipping around his throat. His scarf began to smoke.
Kate drew her weapons and swung the broad-bladed sword, crushing the taut tendril against the marble. She heard the crunch of mechanicals and fluid spurted out, hissing over the lichen.
“Acid!” Simon shouted roughly, pushing Kate back. He took hold of the tentacle while whispering a word. He pulled once and snapped the appendage where Kate had cut it. The white creature stumbled back onto the ground several yards away.
Malcolm vaulted the tomb, while Simon frantically stripped off his sizzling gloves. The white man-thing fought to push itself up on the ends of one of its sleeves. Where its hands should have been there were white tendons that whipped along the ground like angry snakes. Malcolm stepped up to the creature and the other tentacle slapped around his ankle with a hiss. The Scotsman didn’t react, but calmly placed the barrel of the pistol against the pale face.
Simon came around the vault, tossing his scarf aside. “Careful! He’s full of acid.”
Malcolm blasted the creature’s head into pulp. “What did you say?” He turned, wiping chunks of brain matter from his face. The Lancaster pistol let out a whisper of steam as the quad-barrel assembly rotated the smoking barrel away from the breech and clicked a fresh, loaded one into place.
Kate saw a second homunculus staggering forward. She aimed and fired her pistol with a spark and a massive whoom. The homunculus flew off its feet and slammed to the grassy ground. It rolled from side to side, moaning in pain, scrabbling at the wound in its chest.
Simon looked back at her in surprise. “Nice shot.”
Malcolm strode forward, aiming down for the coup de grace. He fired, but the white creature leapt up with the grace of an acrobat. The ball gouged the dirt. Cursing, the Scotsman spun away, pulling a long dagger. The thing brought a fist down on Malcolm’s shoulder with an impact that could be heard across the churchyard. The blow pummeled the Scotsman to the ground. The white creature clamped a large, muscular hand around Malcolm’s throat. The man gagged and rolled his eyes up in his head.
“It’s going to break his neck.” Simon seized the white thing’s arm, the one that held Malcolm. The white face turned slowly and regarded Simon with no emotion.
Kate saw Malcolm’s other pistol on the ground near her. She hefted the weapon and rushed forward to where the two men struggled with the creature. She pushed the Lancaster pistol against the thing’s gut and pulled the trigger. The blast wrenched Kate’s arm and she thought her elbow was broken. The shot shook the creature, but it didn’t lessen its hold on Malcolm. She heard the Scotsman gurgling. Kate pulled the trigger again and a second ball exploded into the thing, opening a huge, gaping wound in its stomach. Steaming black gore spilled out, glistening in the moonlight. At least this one’s blood was not laced with acid.
Simon gave an odd throaty laugh and grunted with a great effort. He tore the thing’s arm from its socket, sending a spray of liquid from the ragged shoulder. Malcolm tumbled to the ground. Simon lifted the creature by the neck and threw it nearly twenty feet, where it slammed with a crack against a tree. Malcolm continued to struggle with the disembodied arm whose fingers were embedded in his throat. His face was turning blue.
“Simon,” Kate called. “It’s still strangling him.”
Simon spat out, “Kate, go for the third. Don’t let it leave.”
As Simon began to pry the rigored fingers from Malcolm’s raw flesh, Kate ran for the last creature. The thing was standing up from the fresh grave with a cloth bag in its hand. The mushrooms were gone from the dirt. She reached for her bandolier, but her arm was almost numb from the shock of the pistol. She fumbled a vial out and hurled it. The glass container bounced in the grass without breaking. She cursed and scrabbled for another. The white creature looked at her, then loped toward a low wall, high above Holborn. Kate threw the next vial and it hit the thing squarely and shattered. A bluish mist spread, causing the figure to stagger and jerk spastically. It was no more than a tranquilizer, but she only needed to delay it for a moment. The thing knelt, gasping in the fumes. It began to slip free of its coat.
Kate ran up behind the thing, ready to grab the homunculus if necessary. The creature spun around on its knee and a mass of wormlike appendages burst out of its stomach. The glistening fingers slapped around Kate’s head, sticking like paste. She was pulled down onto her knees and the sword flew from her hands. The wriggling tendrils dragged her forward, scratching as they slithered across her skin. Between the morass of colorless things sliding over her face, she saw a slit opening in the center of the pasty monster’s stomach, stretching into a toothed maw. She struggled harder, wrenching her head back and to the side. The wriggling flagella slid off Kate’s head, clutching instead her shoulders and upper arms. It allowed her a gasping breath. She fought against it, but the tendrils drew her toward the champing orifice. She kicked a booted foot against its groin and shoved back.
“Well done, Kate!” Simon shouted. “Don’t let it get away yet.” He slapped his hand against the creature’s back and whispered. There was a brief flare of light around his hand and the thing’s white skin.
A mechanical clanking sound rang out and two stalks rose above the homunculus’s shoulders. Then the stalks split as if on a hinge on the far end, and extended like a thin telescope to a length of nearly ten feet. Strange fibers began to drop from the long rods, spreading as if unseen spiders were spinning a web that flapped in the wind.
Kate felt Simon
’s fingers digging into her shoulders. His strength must have been failing him because she could still hear the wet sounds of the grotesque mouth getting closer. The magician was exhausted and barely standing. He locked eyes with her. He was both fearful and angry. With a last wrench he freed one of her arms.
The long, bony extensions from the creature’s shoulders flapped with a thunderous push of wind. The silky drape thickened into an opaque, fibrous sheet.
“Wings!” Malcolm shouted, and Kate saw a flash of steel just beyond her nose as a blade sliced down into the mass of worms.
She managed to pull her head a few inches away from the slurping maw in the creature’s abdomen, but that was as far as she got. Incredibly Malcolm’s long knife was quickly obscured in squirming tendrils. The hunter tried to pull the weapon free, cursing in Gaelic.
Kate frantically dug into her jacket pocket and felt a hard glass vial. She pulled it out and fumbled with the cap, trying to struggle against the tendrils. The vial popped up out of her hand and she flailed quickly, catching it in midair. She thumbed out the stopper and stuck her hand with the vial into the pulsing fleshy hole in the creature’s stomach. She quickly turned up the bottle and pulled her hand out, feeling a burning sensation even from that brief touch.
The homunculus jerked and made a gruesome noise. The colony of worms around Kate’s shoulders pulled loose and withdrew. She breathed in a free, cold breath of relief. Suddenly a flood of green ichor roared from of the pulsing gash. The warm goo washed over her face, leaving a metallic stench.
Kate fell back onto the ground, crying out in alarm. Strong hands grabbed her and pulled her away. She felt thick cloths wiping her face and hair, and heard both Simon and Malcolm saying something over top of one another. It was probably meant to be calming, but it sounded like a cacophony of panic.
She realized she wasn’t burning; nor was she in pain. She was merely covered in wet, disgusting ichor. She tried to shove away the men’s frantic ministrations. She grabbed the cloths they were using to scrub her raw, and shouted, “I’m fine! Stop it!”
The Shadow Revolution Page 16