The Lazarus Curse

by Darren Craske

  The Lazarus Curse

  Darren Craske

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  THE STORY SO FAR…

  Chapter I – The Course of Destiny

  Chapter II – The Harbinger

  Chapter III – The Invisible Killer

  Chapter IV – The Other Survivors

  Chapter V – The Uncomfortable Position

  Chapter VI – The Test of Fate

  Chapter VII – The Harebrained Scheme

  Chapter VIII – The Needle in a Haystack

  Chapter IX – The Bitter Pill

  Chapter X – The Impostor in the Palace

  Chapter XI – The Monarch Key

  Chapter XII – The Prophecy of Death

  Chapter XIII – The Pied Piper

  Chapter XIV – The Answered Prayers

  Chapter XV – The Thorny Subject

  Chapter XVI – The Spider’s Web

  Chapter XVII – The Road Untrue

  Chapter XVIII – The Words of Wisdom

  Chapter XIX – The Forced Hand

  Chapter XX – The Trap is Set

  Chapter XXI – The Strength of Numbers

  Chapter XXII – The Mine

  Chapter XXIII – The Real Makoi

  Chapter XXIV – The Disinclined Destiny

  Chapter XXV – The Endless Death

  Chapter XXVI – The Hard Choice

  Chapter XXVII – The Painful Truth

  Chapter XXVIII – The Path of Danger

  Chapter XXVIX – The Doctor of Death

  Chapter XXX – The Conjuror’s Bluff

  Chapter XXXI – The Captive Audience

  Chapter XXXII – The Garden of Life

  Chapter XXXIII – The Lazarus Curse

  Chapter XXXIV – The Mouth of the Mine

  Chapter XXXV – The Burning Bride

  Chapter XXXVI – The Evening of the Odds

  Chapter XXXVII – The Dead Words

  Chapter XXXVIII – The Prophecy Fulfilled

  Chapter XXXIX – The Unfinished Sentence

  Chapter XL – The Dying Day

  Chapter XLI – The Embers of War

  Chapter XLII – The Restless Thoughts

  About the Author

  Copyright

  The Cornelius Quaint Chronicles

  About the Publisher

  Acknowledgements

  I’m a big fan of trilogies, and many years ago, when I was plotting out the Cornelius Quaint Chronicles, I had every intention of rounding off his adventures within the pages of The Lazarus Curse. But then I sat down to actually write it, and very quickly it became apparent that Quaint’s tale was not going to fit comfortably into a trilogy. There was still so much more left to tell; lots more secrets and lies and dark revelations to come – especially considering what happens at the end of this one... but I won’t spoil it for you.

  If you’ve read any of the previous Quaint stories, The Equivoque Principle or The Eleventh Plague, then you might think you know what to expect, but I still hope to surprise you along the way (and there are plenty more of those to come).

  Personally, this is my favourite Quaint story so far, and I hope you enjoy it.

  Thank you to my compass, my little star and my smiley little monkey.

  To Scott Pack and everyone at The Friday Project/HarperCollins.

  To Carol Anderson who, again, did a stellar job.

  To my stalwart friend, Karl Arlow.

  And finally, to every single person that has read any of my books; be they bought, borrowed or downloaded, and has taken the time to write me an email, or leave a review, a very big thanks to you. You rock.

  You (almost certainly) still haven’t seen the last of me.

  Darren Craske, December 2011.

  Dedication

  For the wise owl

  THE STORY SO FAR…

  Cornelius Quaint had thought that by the time he’d reached his mid-fifties his destiny would be set. But for the professional conjuror and circus proprietor, it seemed that life was still capable of surprises. It had been only a matter of months since he had been poisoned, and almost certainly fatally, had he not ingested an elixir that some believed contained the essence of immortal life (some – but not necessarily Cornelius Quaint). True, the elixir had healed his wounds, as many and varied as they were. True also, he felt new vigour in his limbs, and his formerly brown-grey hair had turned silver-white (a matter of great concern to the conjuror). But there was nothing to suppose that he would live for eternity.

  His dependable confidante, the French clairvoyant Madame Destine, disagreed. She was ever the voice of reason, and having also received a dose of the elixir, to her no further proof was needed than faith. Faith that the warm sensation within her blood was a sign that the elixir had renewed her, body and spirit. Faith that this was all part of fate’s plan, and this gift was given for a reason. Faith in her destiny, to be the protector of Cornelius Quaint – a task that she undertook with great zeal (and not to mention frequent worry) – and be by his side for eternity. He was more than a son to her; he was a balance to her soul. Whilst he was a bull in a china shop, Destine was considered and calm. Whilst he preferred to wade into a disagreement with fists flying, Destine was the type to retreat and plan her strategy.

  Being able to see the future was a great source of comfort for the Frenchwoman, but this gift was also a curse, for her clairvoyance often made her party to events that she could neither control nor avoid.

  She had seen Cornelius Quaint’s future – seen where his path was leading him. She could sense his pain – a thunderstorm building in the distance. Except now the distance was diminishing, and soon his fate would be upon him. One by one, events had transpired true to her predictions, seemingly unconnected, yet with one link to them all: the organisation known as the Hades Consortium. It was bound to Quaint’s destiny: to his past, his present, and eventually, his future.

  Although the Consortium had been a part of Quaint’s life for far longer than he was aware, it was his prevention of their plot to poison the River Thames that had fused his fate with theirs. The orchestrator of that plot was a man that enjoyed toying with Quaint: Antoine Renard – not only Quaint’s most hated enemy, but also Destine’s son. Allied to the Hades Consortium, Renard’s soul was blackened, and his hatred of Quaint was as uncontrolled and wild as he was himself. Quaint had watched Renard drown – pulled under the thrashing waters of a weir – but Renard did not go quietly, informing Quaint that the River Nile was the true target for the deadly poison, but it was far too late to stop it.

  Quaint took the challenge on his broad shoulders, and he and Destine journeyed to Egypt. Upon arrival, they found themselves separated, but once again their destinies converged. Destine sought answers to a secret two decades old. Whilst uncovering a past she had intentionally kept veiled from her memory, she unlocked twenty years of knowledge within her mind. She learned of an old friend, an archaeologist named Aloysius Bedford, that had been an unwitting pawn of a Chinese warlord. Bedford had been tricked into unearthing a long-lost tomb containing a deadly bacterium known as the Eleventh Plague. But upon learning of his betrayal, Aloysius took his own life so that others would not become infected, and his tale was lost in the desert, forgotten to time.

  Meanwhile, Quaint had been doing some digging of his own, with characteristic flair and bravado – equal parts of his makeup that frequently got him into trouble. This time had been no different, and Quaint had soon found himself the prisoner of a band of desert thieves called the Clan Scarabs. Also imprisoned was one Professor Pollyanna North, herself an archaeologist fated to occupy the very same dig site as Aloysius Bedford ha
d twenty years before her. Their chosen excavation site was no coincidence (and how Cornelius Quaint despised those). It seemed that the Chinaman that had used Bedford as his pawn had now selected a new player: Professor North.

  Compared to what was to come, allying himself with the Clan Scarabs to put an end to the plot to poison the Nile seemed effortless. But no sooner had Quaint defeated the Hades Consortium, he learned that the professor was now unknowingly infected with the Eleventh Plague, just as Bedford had been.

  Quaint’s race to warn the professor of her threat proved fruitless: she had completed her discoveries in Egypt and bound for England by steamship. Her destination: Buckingham Palace, for a celebration in her honour, hosted by Queen Victoria herself. With the bacterium festering undetected, one touch was all that was needed to transfer the infection and seal the Queen’s fate. Quickly boarding a spice clipper bound for Dover, Cornelius Quaint and Madame Destine set off in pursuit of the steamship, knowing that it would take a miracle to reach England in time.

  Thankfully, miracles were Quaint’s stock in trade.

  Chapter I

  The Course of Destiny

  The English Channel

  January 1854

  The spice clipper Horus surged through the sea in the dead of night. Hearing the sound of activity above her head, Madame Destine’s spirits were instantly lifted, for it signalled their imminent arrival in Dover, and the Frenchwoman was most relieved about that. Just a fraction into her seventies, her recent adventures in Egypt suited someone far younger – not that she would ever admit that to her conjuring companion.

  Her clairvoyant gifts had not given her no warning of how much her life would entwine with Cornelius Quaint’s. She had been his guardian since he was eight years old, but as they had both recently been endowed with immortality, it did not look as if she would be relinquishing her post any time soon. Quaint fondly labelled her his ‘compass’, but in truth she was more like his conscience, and in that regard she had been very busy of late. Whilst in Egypt, her clairvoyant visions had warned her that a storm was heading in Quaint’s direction, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Only she knew what was coming, and only she knew that he was wholly unprepared for it.

  There was a sharp rap against her cabin door and it opened to reveal an unmistakable silhouette – a six-foot-plus frame, broad shoulders and a nest of silver-white curls restrained by a top hat.

  ‘I hope you’re packed and ready, Madame,’ said Cornelius Quaint.

  ‘I am packed, my sweet… although I am far from ready,’ replied Destine, arranging her silver hair into a loose bun. ‘We are pursuing a steamship that set sail from Egypt with a full day’s head start on us. How can we possibly hope to beat her back to England?’

  ‘Pessimism, Destine? From you?’ smiled Quaint. ‘There’s always hope. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?’

  ‘Cornelius, you and I both know there is a very big difference between hope and foolish hope… but thank you for trying to lighten my mood.’

  ‘Always a pleasure, Madame.’ The shadows of the cabin darkened the lines on Quaint’s worn face. Although immortal, the telltale signs of his fifty-plus years could not be hidden. The conjuror’s frequent mask of worry had increased even more so considering his recent adventures.

  ‘Is something wrong, Cornelius?’ asked Destine. ‘I can sense your apprehension.’

  ‘I never could hide my thoughts from you, could I, Madame?’

  ‘You certainly have tried over the years, my sweet,’ replied Destine. ‘But this one is particularly evident from the dour look on your face. Do you wish to share it?’

  Quaint slumped himself down on the bunk next to her. ‘Professor North is on board the Silver Swan, infected with a deadly bacterium and en route to Buckingham Palace, right? And if she’s allowed to get within spitting distance of Queen Victoria… well, you don’t need to be clairvoyant to know how that will turn out. I just thought that if the Silver Swan passed through these waters, maybe you can pick up on the trail?’

  ‘So I am your pet bloodhound now?’ asked Destine.

  ‘You know I wouldn’t normally ask, but… ’

  ‘Oui, my sweet, I know… lives are at stake,’ said Madame Destine. ‘You realise my connection to the empathic spectrum is not solely one-way. I feel the pain of others as if it were my own. Back in Egypt, when I experienced the massacre at the Umkaza dig site, my mind shut itself down to protect me. It erased the memories completely from my head. What if all I sense is death and once again, it becomes too much for me?’

  Quaint took her hands in his. ‘I know it’s a risk, but we need to know whether we’re sailing into calm waters or rough seas… if you’ll excuse the nautical analogy. If by some miracle the Silver Swan hasn’t made it back to Dover yet, it gives us time to make sure it never gets there. You know that I value your counsel more than any other on the face of this earth, Destine. If only you can—’

  ‘Shush, Cornelius. You are on the verge of simpering, and you know how I hate to hear you demean yourself.’ Madame Destine touched her fingertips to her forehead, reaching out with her mind. Ripples of unseen energy pulsed from it, sending out beacons seeking the feelings of anyone close by. Usually she was able to sense emotion as easily as a shark senses blood in the water, negative emotions even more so – but on this occasion, ‘I sense nothing. I am sorry, Cornelius, but if the Silver Swan has sailed through these waters, she has left no emotional resonance that I can perceive.’

  ‘That’s good news,’ said Quaint. ‘Maybe there’s still time, although we’ve got precious little of that. The infection raging through the Professor’s body kills its host within thirty days, and the Silver Swan’s voyage from Egypt has taken almost that long, which means that we’ve got a day or two at the most.’

  ‘Unless she has already succumbed,’ suggested Destine.

  Quaint grinned. ‘You haven’t met her. Polly wouldn’t succumb to anything without a fight, trust me. Of course, our other problem is the passengers on the Silver Swan. Polly doesn’t even know that she’s infected. Who knows how many other people she might have come into contact with on that ship? We have to make sure that no one is allowed to set foot on dry land!’

  ‘Which brings me to my next question,’ said Destine. ‘Even if we manage to arrive in Dover before the Professor, how are you going to convince the authorities to impound the Silver Swan?’

  ‘By employing my own brand of authority, of course!’

  Madame Destine rolled her eyes. ‘I know you so well, yet still I ask.’

  ‘Am I that predictable?’

  ‘As the weather, my sweet.’

  The white-chalk cliffs of Dover loomed into view through the early morning mist. On the top deck of the Horus, Madame Destine wrapped her arms around herself to keep warm. The white lace veil that covered her face shimmered in the breeze.

  ‘This cold chills me to my bones,’ she said to Quaint, as he scoured the docks through a spyglass.

  ‘It’s January, Madame, what did you expect?’ Quaint took off his overcoat and placed it around her shoulders. Immediately, her eyes were drawn to the finery of the garment.

  ‘This coat was fashioned by your friend Alexandria, was it not?’

  Quaint nodded, allowing himself to think briefly of the Egyptian seamstress, a ghost from a past that he’d thought was far behind him. ‘Alexandria is extremely gifted, Madame. Ironically, the order for that coat came from Cho-zen Li himself, the man responsible for infecting Professor North. Once I’m done here I might just pay him a visit.’

  ‘Perhaps someone is trying to tell you something, hmm?’ asked Destine.

  ‘As usual, Madame, the only person trying to tell me something is you,’ grumbled Quaint. ‘Don’t tell me you’re still on about that nonsense! That everything that’s happened to me since I swallowed that elixir is written in the stars? You know I don’t believe a word of it!’

  ‘Despite current events trying to prove yo
u wrong?’ teased the Frenchwoman. ‘Cornelius: you became involved in a plot to poison the River Thames that just happened to infuse the both of us with immortality, and your pursuit of those responsible took us to Egypt where you just happened to meet an old flame; a seamstress who just happened to have fashioned this garment for the Chinaman who knowingly infected Professor North, and she just happened to know exactly where he lives! If fate is not plotting the course of your life, then what is?’

  ‘Coincidence,’ snorted Quaint.

  ‘Poppycock!’ snapped Destine. ‘You disbelieve in coincidence even more than you do fate!’

  ‘Maybe it’s just a particularly long run of bad luck then.’

  Catcalls and yells from the Horus crew filled the air as they hurried about on deck preparing to berth. The buildings on the docks were painted ghost-white by the mist and all was still. The silence was numbing. All that could be heard was the lapping of the sea against the ship’s hull, a clanging bell on a nearby buoy, and the screeches of hungry seagulls eager to pilfer what scraps the arriving vessel might offer.

  ‘It seems to be as quiet as a grave, mon cher,’ said Destine.

  ‘Don’t tempt fate, Madame,’ said Quaint. ‘And before you say anything, that was a figure of speech.’

  Destine smiled to herself. ‘Or a slip of the tongue. So, now that we are here, what are you going to do? You have still not explained how we are going to stop the Silver Swan from making port.’