The Shadow Revolution

by Clay Griffith

  “No, you’re not.” Before she could reply, he waved her off. “I understand why you did it, Kate. As I said, there’s no one to judge us except ourselves.”

  Kate leaned forward and buried her head in her hands. Simon placed a firm hand on her shoulder and left it there to comfort her. She swallowed her dismay, clinging tightly to Simon’s resolve.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Despite the wee morning hour, heavy freight wagons creaked along and merchants pushed carts rattling with pots and cutlery. Malcolm reached the river, shoving through gangs of wanderers. The northern side of the river was a bit less busy and some streets were actually deserted, a rare thing in crowded London.

  The Scotsman felt as if chilled fingernails were scraping along the back of his neck. He turned back to the bustling bridge. His trained tracker’s eye saw several men who slipped in and out of sight, moving through the crowd with more purpose than most of the early-hour street folk. They could have been laborers on the way to work; they could have been thieves seeking unwary victims. All the same, Malcolm walked faster.

  He made for the decrepit Devil’s Acre, hoping to lose any pursuit in that warren of ratholes. For several blocks, he walked at a normal clip to prevent any shadowers from increasing their own pace. Suddenly he spun and bolted into an alley. He dodged piles of refuse and leapt over a wall, where he paused to get his bearings. A tremendous chorus of howls rose, singing his death. Sweat broke out on his brow and he started to run again. A scrabble of claws sounded behind him and his legs pumped all the harder. His arms reached around his chest and pulled his pistols.

  A shape loomed on his right and he fired. In the flash of the pistol, Malcolm saw the horrific visage of a werewolf. The ball struck the creature in the face, shoving it back into the wall. Malcolm continued to run. Another werewolf leapt past its dead comrade and gave chase. It virtually climbed the walls, bounding from side to side and exploding forward, landing just beside Malcolm on a pile of crates. Its cruel jaws shut on the sleeve of the Scotsman’s greatcoat, ripping it. Malcolm didn’t stumble but aimed and shot it in the chest.

  The narrow confines of the alley slowed the pursuing pack and kept them from spreading out to encircle him as true wolves would in the wild. Malcolm made a sharp turn into a cross lane. He gained ground as the pack could not slow their frenzied momentum and the two in the lead were bowled over by a third one running madcap behind. The crumbling buildings shook with the impact of the creatures. One poor soul looked out his third-story window at the commotion and wished he hadn’t.

  A werewolf landed in front of Malcolm on all fours, claws digging onto the cobblestones to halt its slide. Malcolm drew a long knife with a blade coated in silver, leaping straight for the beast, bearing it backward to the ground. The knife rose and fell into the creature’s throat. The werewolf thrashed, a massive clawed hand ripped across Malcolm’s back, sending him flying into a brick wall. He scrambled to his feet and ran out into a main street just ahead. He prayed that the pack still craved secrecy and wouldn’t emerge into open view, even at night. He risked a glance back and saw the narrow darkness undulating with a horrifying motion as the pack hesitated.

  Malcolm paused to break his pistols’ breeches and load custom shells. When he glanced up, he spied dark shapes climbing onto the rooftops. He cursed again, this time in Gaelic. Malcolm counted only two in pursuit. Two such creatures were a deadly match, but his guns had four barrels each and silver loads. He wanted to kill them rather than lead them to Penny. The Lancasters required close range, so he needed to lure them to him.

  He slowed, stumbled, and limped deliberately into a dark alley. Within seconds, he heard heavy breathing to match his own. A werewolf dropped off the roof, leaping from wall to wall until it reached the ground in a cloud of dust. Its tongue lolled from the slavering jaws. It sniffed the air for him. Malcolm stepped from the shadows and fired. The shot took the beast in the shoulder, spinning it to the ground. Malcolm dropped on it with the silver dagger as if to scalp it. A deep strike into its heart gave it a wound from which it wouldn’t recover.

  A dark shape appeared farther down the alley and started for him. Before the beast could gain momentum, Malcolm stood and aimed with the utmost calm as if facing a challenger on the field of honor. The werewolf was in midleap when the silver ball struck its heaving chest, and it died in the air. The pistol was spinning its barrels, but hadn’t locked back into place. Malcolm couldn’t dodge the hurtling mass of the dying creature, and it smashed him to the ground with bone-jarring force.

  Malcolm struggled to wrest his half-cocked pistol free from beneath the leaden carcass. Everything was agony as he twisted. A shadow fell over Malcolm. Another beast loomed above with a ruined face. Rank saliva and blood dripped. The creature tilted up its muzzle and howled, either in mourning or calling to more of the pack.

  Malcolm yanked his pistol free with a hoarse shout. The barrel hissed and fell into place. The gun fired in a flare of light, cutting off the howl. The werewolf grasped its bleeding throat and fell back. Malcolm couldn’t see where it dropped, but he heard its death throes.

  The Scotsman dragged himself from beneath the burden of the dead monster. He was covered in blood, but at least most of it wasn’t his. He staggered to his feet, methodically checking his loads. There were only two silver shells left. He stumbled to the far end of the alley and out into a wide boulevard. A few people watched him pass but left him alone, no doubt seeing the blood on his clothes and the heavy gun in his hand.

  Malcolm now truly limped across St. James’s Park in the direction of Penny’s shop and prayed she was an early riser. Thankfully, he saw no more shadows pursuing him. He removed a flask and poured the liquid out behind him. It smelled horrific and Malcolm placed a sleeve over his lower face to ward off the worst of it. He sprayed as much as he could all about him. The stinking solution would hopefully disrupt the olfactory senses of the werewolves. He didn’t count them as skilled scent trackers, but he couldn’t take any chances. He purposefully trod through the watery sewer filth that ran like blood in the street. He threw the bottle with all his might.

  Malcolm almost missed the turn to Bond Street. Another exhausted glance around him confirmed there was no sign of pursuit. He darted the last few blocks to Penny’s shop. The sign in the front window read closed. He pounded on the door, but no one appeared. He had no choice, so he picked the lock.

  He nearly toppled inside the darkened shop, but there was no time for a respite. He began to scour the shelves for any shot of the Lancaster’s caliber. A large dark shape went past the window and Malcolm ducked behind the counter, yanking out a pistol. He peered around the corner, his heart pounding against his breastbone, hearing the sound of something sniffing just under the door. A huge shape loomed in the doorway. Malcolm aimed his weapon. The door smashed open and a large grey werewolf stood snarling in its frame.

  Malcolm opened fire, the bullet smacked into its chest and shoulder and it staggered backward. It let out a howl that shook the windows. Malcolm stood up and fired again, aiming for its heart, but the ball shattered the doorframe. His vision and arm wavered with fatigue.

  Blast it!

  He was about to toss the empty weapon aside, tightening his grip on the dagger when the door to the back room slammed open behind him.

  “Get down!” came a sharp order.

  Malcolm hit the floor as a thunderous whomp vibrated his ears. A burst of flame lanced over his head. The fiery ball struck the werewolf and blasted the creature into bloody bits. It also took out the rest of the door and the windows.

  Malcolm cautiously raised his head, shaking off dust and shards of glass from his hair. He stared at Penny Carter, who stood over him with a long brass tube casually resting on her shoulder, tendrils of smoke slipping from both ends. She was dressed in leather chaps over tweed pants and a heavy leather apron over a white linen shirt. A thick wad of wool protected her shoulder. His breath came in gasps but no words.

  Penny
raised a soot-streaked eyebrow. “Was that an honest-to-god werewolf I just blew to kingdom come?”

  “Aye.” Malcolm nodded. He gestured weakly at the device on her shoulder. “Bloody hell.”

  “You like it?” She patted the weapon. “I call it my Stovepipe Blunderbuss.”

  “I’m going to call it my best friend.”

  “Charles is going to have a fit.” She set the tube heavily on the floor and regarded her ruined shop. Then she shrugged. “Coffee’s on the stove and you look like you need it.”

  “No time,” he wheezed, staggering to his feet.

  “You’re covered in blood.” Penny’s face hardened as she pulled him toward a chair.

  “You don’t understand,” He slumped against the wall. “There may be more.”

  The engineer paused, wide-eyed, then shrugged. She hurried behind the counter and rummaged a bit. “You stink something awful.”

  Ignoring her comment, Malcolm straightened off the wall but staggered a bit as the room spun. He quickly righted himself with a hand against the wall. “I’ll take whatever you’ve completed of my last order and be on my way. If anything comes through the hole in the wall, kill it.”

  “Even Mr. Wilhelm, the butter-and-egg man?” Penny hefted a canvas bag that rattled and walked it to him.

  “If he’s large and hairy.” Malcolm looked in the bag at the cache of silver-tipped shells for his Lancasters.

  “You’re badly hurt!” Penny exclaimed to the Scotsman. Blood stained the wall where he had been leaning.

  “Few scratches.” Malcolm shook his head. “I’ll tend to it once I reach Hartley Hall.”

  “You won’t get to Charing Cross like that, much less Surrey.”

  “I’ve lingered too long already.” With that he headed for the door.

  “Just hang on!” Penny insisted. “I’ll take you.”

  “No,” Malcolm snarled.

  She wasn’t listening to him and her voice vanished with her into the back room. “I’ll fetch transport and be back presently.”

  The hunter waited in the darkness and felt isolated in the thin glow of the gas lamps through the smoking storefront. A curious few were already gathering in the street to gawk. He hoped Penny would find a horse or a buggy. And a fast one.

  A roar filled his ears. He turned with both pistols drawn. What emerged from an alley was a one-eyed beast of metal and fire with Penny Carter in the saddle. It resembled a walking machine, a foolish fad used by the indolent to get around garden paths. It had two in-line wheels. The front one was steerable, as Penny was currently demonstrating. The mechanical vehicle glowed with heat and spewed steam from various orifices, including a series of long, extruding pipes in the rear underneath a shimmering grill. It had a heart of flame that flickered when the vehicle shuddered to a halt beside him. The contraption had a strange, wheeled side compartment, perhaps for balance. The stovepipe blunderbuss was strapped to its side.

  “Get in!” Penny wore a dark leather jacket with goggles over her eyes.

  “Get in, what?” Malcolm shouted back over the din of the motor. “What in the hell is that thing?”

  “My spinebreaker steamcycle will get us to Hartley Hall faster than a horse.”

  He caught a glimpse of red eyes blazing in the darkness down the street. “Oh damn.”

  “Get your arse in the sidecarriage!” She pointed to the buggy attached to the side of the two-wheeled vehicle.

  Malcolm had barely placed his feet inside the small space when Penny put the machine into a jerking motion, flinging him back against the leather padding. He was trying to wedge his muscular frame down into the strange contraption as they roared off.

  Penny wheeled the vehicle in a loop to face south and the machine’s heart flared, flames licking through the grill in the rear. The machine shook them like someone standing before the devil himself. They shot forward with an unheard-of speed. Wind whipped Malcolm’s long queue. They sailed toward Piccadilly, and the approaching werewolves.

  “You do see them there, right?” Malcolm shouted, incredulous, as hairy bodies drew closer on both sides.

  “Keep your head down!” Penny bent low over the controls and throttled the machine even higher.

  The werewolves slowed, confused by the smoking terror bearing down on them. The Scotsman attempted to keep his aim steady, and he fired. Hitting a beast in the hip, it tumbled through garbage and slammed into a wall. Penny threw off his next shot by careening the vehicle toward a werewolf on the left. She held out her booted foot and it smashed into the creature’s chest, sending it crashing into an iron lamppost.

  Malcolm tracked over Penny’s lowered head and fired, spinning the stunned werewolf to the pavement. The other two beasts skidded on the street as the vehicle roared between them.

  With a smoking squeal of the rubber tires, Penny leaned left onto Piccadilly. Starlight wanderers and after-hours drunkards stared at the passing metal monster. Penny jerked the contraption over the curb and skirted past St. James’s churchyard, catching a pair of shadowed lovers by surprise. She skidded into the grass and dirt of St. James’s Square, and dodged trees handily. Malcolm gripped the sides of the car, staring back for any sign of pursuing creatures loping on all fours.

  Penny made the motor roar. “Sit down and hold on.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s a drop coming up.”

  Before she finished the sentence, they were airborne. Malcolm felt himself flying up and out of the vehicle. Penny shouted in elation. And just as suddenly, they slammed to the ground, and Malcolm crashed out onto the front of the sidecar. Penny fought to keep the vehicle under control while she used one hand to grab Malcolm’s collar, dragging him up to prevent his slipping under the wheels.

  The Scotsman struggled his way back toward his compartment and saw two large figures launch themselves into the night air from the top of the uncompleted terrace they had just sailed off. The werewolves landed and charged in pursuit as Penny skirted the edge of the park, driving toward the river.

  “Damn it!” Malcolm tumbled headfirst into the sidecarriage. “Go! They’re still coming.”

  Penny pointed at a rucksack on the floor of the little car. The hunter scrambled for the bag, his body vibrating as if an earthquake were striking Britain. Cursing, he grabbed the sack and yanked it open.

  “The round ones are grenades,” she shouted. “I built them for you.”

  Malcolm’s eyes went wide and he bit off a scathing retort. He was surprised none had gone off with the bone-shaking ride. Explosives weren’t something you wanted bouncing around, but he should have realized that anything the Carters made was durable and manufactured with the utmost care and deliberation. The grenades were small, dark grey metal globes with a small cylinder protruding from the casing.

  “You press that button for a ten-second fuse,” Penny instructed. “Oh. And be sure to throw it.”

  Malcolm timed the beasts’ pursuit, then he pressed the switch. He counted five before lobbing one of the bombs behind them. It bounced and rolled toward the creatures, and exploded in a sharp blast. White slivers glinted in the moonlight. The lead werewolf screamed and fell instantly, but the other veered away from the fight.

  Malcolm gaped at Penny.

  “Silver shrapnels,” she told him. “First test in the field. How did they do?”

  “Bloody brilliant!” he exclaimed, pulling another grenade from the bag. “I’ll take all that you have!”

  “I only made a few and they’re all in there. Don’t waste them because they’re going to cost you a fortune.” Penny threw him a pleased grin and caught sight of the last werewolf closing the gap, running like mad. Penny lost speed.

  “What the hell are you doing, woman?” Malcolm bellowed. “Are we running out of power?”

  “Trust me,” she replied. “They don’t like fire either, right?”

  “Nothing likes fire.”

  Her grin turned wicked. “Good.”

  The werewolf
howled its victory as its jaw snapped just shy of the rear wheel. Malcolm half stood in the tiny seat and faced backward, pulling reloaded pistols and aiming. The werewolf bit the wheel and the velocipede swerved dangerously. Malcolm felt himself lifted up and realized in alarm his cart was airborne. They were going to flip over. Penny cursed loudly and struggled to right the careening vehicle while Malcolm threw his weight to the opposite side. His sidecarriage slammed back down to earth.

  “Whatever you’re going to do, do it now!” he shouted.

  Penny obliged, slapping at another lever. The rear pipes belched tongues of brilliant white fire. Flames engulfed the werewolf in midleap and it flailed, its fur burning. The motor sputtered and the steamcycle bucked, threatening to stall. Penny shouted. The smoldering beast climbed onto the back of the sidecarriage. The Scotsman didn’t flinch but instead grabbed the creature by the throat, much to its surprise, and shoved the muzzle of his pistol under its snout. He pulled the trigger and the creature’s face disintegrated. Malcolm threw the hairy thing off and it somersaulted into a dark lane.

  Penny gunned the engine back to life and they roared past a few stunned people onto Westminster Bridge. Penny skillfully maneuvered her smoking terror through the flowing chaos of shouting people and rearing horses.

  Something caught Malcolm’s eye. A shape moved quickly in the spaces between wagons and horses. Then he realized that a werewolf was loping along the bridge railing with uncanny grace.

  Malcolm grabbed one of the handles controlling the front wheel and swung the vehicle hard left. The boiling steamcycle nearly crashed against a brace of already skittish horses that shied with wide, white eyes. The terrified pair dragged their heavy wagon piled high with barrels against the rail. Pedestrians screamed and scattered.

  Suddenly the werewolf landed high atop the barrels. The creature snarled down and Penny struggled desperately to keep steady with the runaway cart without being stomped by panicked horses. Malcolm teetered out of the sidecarriage, seizing one of the heavy ropes restraining the mountain of barrels. He brought his large dagger against the cord and with two swipes, the razor-sharp blade sliced clean through the rough cable.