Necropolis

by Wendy Saunders

  ‘Sure,’ Olivia’s gaze softened, ‘I can do that.’

  The snow had finally slowed and then stopped late into the night. The sky was clear and the moon high. The snow-covered streets had cleared, with the rowdy patrons emptying out of the pubs seeking their beds, or someone else's. The snow had settled, a pure white blanket a foot deep, muting the ambient sound and leaving everything calm and still, all except for a lone figure on the corner of an alley beneath the pale light of the streetlamp.

  He stamped his feet trying to keep warm, glancing up and down the silent street as if he were waiting for something… or maybe someone.

  His threadbare jacket bore fresh scorch marks and the palms of his hands were raw and blistered as if he’d tried to beat out flames. The side of his face, likewise, bore a nasty looking burn and part of his thin scraggly hair was singed.

  ‘Benny?’ a smooth polished voice spoke from the shadows of the alley behind him.

  The man turned around and squinted into the darkness.

  ‘Mr Bower?’

  ‘Yes,’ the voice replied, ‘step closer.’

  Benny stalked through the snow to the mouth of the alley and stepped under the brick archway. The light was dimmer and deeply shadowed but he was still able to make out the tall, elegant gentleman standing in front of him. He wore a black cheviot chesterfield overcoat, and a smart bowler hat. In his gloved hand he held a polished cane with a small rounded silver pommel.

  ‘You Mr Abraham Bower?’ Benny’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at the well-groomed man with a neatly trimmed moustache.

  ‘The very same,’ he answered.

  ‘I ‘eard you pay good money for information,’ Benny gave a rather unattractive sniff as he wiped his runny nose on his sleeve, leaving a grotesque smear.

  ‘That depends on the information,’ Mr Bower replied.

  ‘Price is a guinea,’ Benny sniffed again.

  ‘Like I said, it depends on the information.’

  Benny huffed.

  ‘There’s a woman.’

  ‘There usually is,’ Mr Bower raised one tidy brow.

  ‘Not like this one,’ Benny shook his head, his eyes furious. ‘Made fire she did, with ‘er bare ‘ands.’

  ‘Did she now?’ there was a glimmer of interest in his eyes.

  ‘Yeah,’ Benny scowled, ‘and ‘ad ‘erself a dragon too, this big it was.’ He held out his arms.

  ‘A dragon?’ Mr Bower’s mouth curved in amusement. ‘I don’t pay for tall tales Benny.’

  Although it was his first acquaintance with the peddler known as Benny, he was aware of who he was. A low-level thief and peddler, specializing in selling basic magic, small charms and spells, to the commoners of Spitalfields and Whitechapel. The most basic folks who had no idea what real magic was or that they were surrounded by it.

  ‘I ain’t lyin’,’ Benny hissed.

  ‘Tell me,’ Mr Bower replied lazily as he polished the silver knob of his cane with his gloved hand, ‘this fire the woman conjured, was it a strange color?’

  ‘Now that you mention it, yeah, it was.’

  ‘Purple?’ Mr Bower questioned as if he already knew the answer.

  ‘That’s right,’ Benny nodded, ‘and green.’

  ‘What?’ Mr Bower’s voice lost the lazy amusement and his gaze sharpened.

  ‘The fire was all colors, red, yella, blue, black, green and purple.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Mr Bower snapped.

  ‘I’m just tellin’ ya what I saw.’

  Mr Bowers stared, his moustache twitching slightly as his lips thinned thoughtfully. He would have expected purple, he’d encountered it before. Witch-fire, although not common amongst the magical community, would have identified the woman as a witch and of no real interest, but a multi-colored flame? He’d heard of God fire, but it was a myth, a story lost to the ages. No one had ever been able to summon an ancient magic that powerful, let alone wield it.

  ‘This woman,’ he leaned in closer, ‘tell me everything you know.’

  Sensing his interest and knowing he had him, Benny smiled revealing his crooked brown teeth.

  ‘Well, I reckon information like that is worth a bit more, let’s say two guineas.’

  ‘Five,’ Mr Bower replied easily.

  ‘Five?’ Benny’s eyes widened.

  ‘Now tell me everything.’

  ‘Well she ain’t from around ‘ere. American I’d say, and she ‘ad another woman with ‘er. A red ‘ead, real looker too. The American bitch set ‘er dragon on us, so’s we ran, but I doubled back and followed ‘em. They went to the Garden.’

  ‘Garden Square?’ he replied, ‘you’re absolutely sure?’

  ‘That’s right, no 34, they went in for a bit, then came back out and headed for Sally Street. They went into The Lotus Flower and came out a couple of hours later wiv a man, one who’d spent a bit too much time sucking down the pipe if you know what I mean.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘They went to Longbone Square, to the Drunken Duck. Couple of hours later ‘e came out, they didn’t. I reckon they’ve probably taken a room for the night.’

  ‘And that’s it?’ Mr Bower asked, ‘that’s everything?’

  ‘I swear on me ma’s grave.’

  Mr Bower stared at him appraisingly. Men like Benny didn’t have mothers, but he was fairly sure the revolting little man had told him as much as he knew.

  ‘You said there were others with you?’ he turned his back to Benny as he paced thoughtfully.

  Benny nodded.

  ‘Big Bill Turner, and Joe ‘an Jack White.’

  ‘You’re sure you and your three companions are the only ones who witnessed the incident?’ Mr Bower asked slowly.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Mr Bower spun back toward Benny, there was a quick flash of silver, glinting in the pale light and Benny collapsed back against the wall. His eyes widened in stunned shock, his mouth opening and closing silently like a fish, as a bright fountain of blood spurted from the deep slash across his throat. He slowly slid down the wall until he came to a stop in a slumped seated position, his wide eyes blank and lifeless, the pristine white snow beneath him stained crimson.

  Mr Bower leaned forward and casually wiped his knife on Benny’s jacket before sliding the concealed blade back into his cane and twisting the silver pommel back into place with a small click.

  He barely spared the dead man a backward glance; his companions would also be disposed of. He stepped to the edge of the alley and peered out across the street to the public house known as the Drunken Duck. His gaze swept up to the frosted and darkened glass of the upstairs window, his mouth curving into an interested smile.

  He was going to find out exactly who the American woman was. It was a while since he’d made an acquisition and he had a feeling she’d be well worth the trouble.

  He lifted his hand and adjusted his hat. His sleeve slid back slightly, revealing a symbol branded into the flesh of his wrist. It was a looped serpent in the shape of an Egyptian ankh, a symbol only known to a select few.

  The mark of the Veritas.

  6

  Elias stumbled through the snow clutching the neck of the bottle with frozen fingers. His feet were already numb as he stumbled down the street pulling his jacket closer against the bitter chill. He crossed into the next street; it was quieter now as the hour grew late. The snow was coming down harder, driving people indoors to their fires and warm beds.

  He staggered on, his boot catching on something buried beneath the snow and he went down, sprawled out like a starfish. He could already feel the wetness beginning to seep through his clothes as he rolled himself onto his back with great effort.

  Lifting the arm that was still clutching the bottle he brought it to his lips, only to find that it was empty. Growling in frustration he tossed it, hearing it hit the snow padded ground with a muted thud.

  He lay there in the darkness of the dimly lit street, his dark hair soaked through and splayed out
like a tarnished halo. His breath puffed from his lips in clouds of mist through which he could see delicate flakes of snow drifting down, catching on his sooty eyelashes and collecting in his beard.

  He could just stay there and sleep. He could just close his eyes and drift away. He wouldn’t die, he knew that for a fact. He’d tried it before, and it hadn’t stuck. He’d tried it again, nope nothing.

  He been stabbed, shot, poisoned… that had been unpleasant, he’d thrown up for days, weeks even, until it felt like his insides had turned out, but he hadn’t died.

  He’d even flung himself off a fucking cliff. Miserably, he’d woken up as his body washed ashore, with a gash in his side which had taken months to fully heal.

  It was ironic, he thought vaguely, that he couldn’t die, but the attempt still hurt like hell.

  He’d been in Russia the first time he’d attempted it. Fueled by Vodka and desperation he’d put a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger. He woke up three days later, on the floor, stiff and covered in his own blood, blood which had also spattered up the wall, along with part of his skull and a good chunk of his hair. By the time he’d come around, the wound had closed, but he’d still had a bald patch and an intense agony in his head for a year after that attempt.

  He knew he wouldn’t die, he’d probably freeze solid, maybe lose a couple of fingers, some toes, maybe even his nose, but god damn it he wouldn’t die.

  Was this what immortality truly was? Agony, intense and constant agony, being forced to watch as everyone around him aged and died or succumbed to sickness while he walked the earth with no purpose.

  Was this his punishment for what he’d done in Salem? Was God punishing him for the innocent lives he’d taken before he grew a conscience and tried to make amends? Clearly it hadn’t been enough.

  He was damned.

  He closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath, fully prepared to once again cast himself at the whim of fate, the fickle bitch.

  A bitch who was apparently not done torturing him, he thought to himself as he felt two meaty hands grasp him by the collar and haul him to his feet.

  ‘On yer feet son,’ a low voice rumbled.

  Elias blinked, his vision unfocused as he beheld the huge, giant of a man holding him up, but as he let go, his legs simply folded beneath him once again.

  ‘Whoa there,’ the enormous man grabbed hold of him and slung Elias’s arm across his shoulder to keep him upright. ‘Come on son, it’s yer lucky night. I know of a place on Limehouse street. If yer stay out ‘ere yer’ll freeze to death.’

  Elias almost huffed in ironic amusement. The helpful giant kept referring to him as son, when the truth was, Elias was old enough to be his great great grandfather, even if he didn’t look it.

  The kind stranger started moving, stalking through the deep snow drifts with his massive feet. Elias tried to move his legs, but they just didn’t seem to want to obey his brain. In the end he was more or less being dragged, but still he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

  They reached a dark brick building with frosted windows and a heavy black door. The man reached up and banged loudly several times before the door was opened and they were admitted without question.

  Elias barely took in his surroundings as he was helped through to the back of the house and into a massive kitchen. The warmth from the huge brick fireplace hit him instantly, making his frozen cheeks burn, his nose run, and his skin feel two sizes too small.

  There were washing lines strung up over the fire, holding socks and shirts, and lined up along one side of the massive room were rough wooden tables and benches. A couple of men and a younger boy were sitting at one end close to the fire as the giant stranger stalked across the room practically carrying Elias.

  ‘Let the man sit by the fire,’ he told the young boy, ‘there’s a good lad.’

  The boy looked up and nodded before standing and along with his two companions moved further down the room to another table.

  Elias found himself being dropped down onto the bench with his back to the cheery flames and slowly the feeling began to return to his fingers, then his hands and finally his legs, though unfortunately with that came the stinging pain.

  ‘Yer got a name lad?’ the giant asked.

  ‘Elias,’ he grated out roughly, his voice sounding like it had been put through a meat grinder.

  ‘Elias,’ the man nodded, ‘I’m Ulysses,’ he held out his hand, ‘Ulysses Brown.’

  ‘Ulysses?’

  ‘Of all creatures that breathe and move upon the earth, nothing is bred that is weaker than man.’ Ulysses rumbled.

  Elias reached out and when he took the offered hand it almost swallowed his whole, his frame was so large.

  ‘It’s not often I come across someone who can quote Homer,’ Elias remarked.

  Ulysses smiled softly as Elias studied his rescuer. He was at least seven feet if he was an inch, he wasn’t by any means fat but solidly built. He had a slightly rounded clean-shaven face with blue eyes and cheeks rosy from the cold. His bark colored hair was cut neatly and combed to the side and his clothes were worn with age.

  ‘My da was a teacher, until the pox took ‘im and me ma too, god rest their souls, when I were just a boy.’ He reached into his faded jacket and removed a dog-eared copy of the Iliad. The cover had long since broken away, but the pages were still tightly stitched together. He handed over the well-loved copy to Elias who turned it over in his hands and flipped open the page.

  ‘Not the original Greek then,’ he smiled.

  Ulysses grinned in return, ‘not quite that learned,’ he replied. ‘After they was gone, I shifted around, dossing down in the kip shops. They was good to me. I worked ‘ard to get this place.’

  His gaze shifted to the room around them.

  ‘This?’ Elias replied, ‘this is your place?’

  Ulysses nodded.

  ‘Best Doss House this side of the river,’ he replied proudly as he nodded to a man standing by the fire.

  Elias glanced around as a thin man with an apron tied around his waist ambled over. His right foot was twisted inward ninety degrees, making his limp pronounced. He dropped a crumpled sheet of newspaper in front of Elias and nestled inside was a plain baked potato. Beside it, he set a steaming tea in a tin cup.

  ‘Eat up,’ Ulysses nodded, ‘yer must be frozen.’

  Elias’s stomach lurched rebelliously; he couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. He wasn’t even sure what day it was. He felt sick and his throat burned raw. Although whether it was from the drugs or the drink, he wasn’t sure. He would rather have not eaten anything and would have been just as happy with a fresh bottle but one look at the kindness in Ulysses’ eyes and his own damn conscience surfaced.

  ‘Thank you,’ he muttered rummaging in his pockets for a couple of loose pennies which he set down on the table in payment.

  ‘Well I couldn’t very well leave yer out there to freeze to death, could I?’

  ‘If only,’ Elias thought to himself as he picked up the battered fork and stabbed the potato, letting loose a rising column of fragrant steam.

  His mouth started to water and as he began to shovel the food into his mouth in earnest, he found that actually, he was famished. He barely paused for breath until the whole potato was gone and he was draining the tea.

  He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth smearing a bit of leftover potato into his unkempt beard.

  ‘Ere,’ Ulysses handed him a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Yer need some work?’

  ‘Um…’ Elias frowned as he took the clean handkerchief and wiped his mouth properly.

  ‘Well,’ Ulysses nodded, ‘if yer do, come find me in the morning. Yer done?’

  Elias nodded.

  ‘Come on then, I’ll show yer where yer can get some kip.’ Ulysses rose from the bench where he’d been sitting opposite Elias. ‘Thanks Eben,’ he nodded to the lame man tending the fire as he watched several other potatoes cooking despite the l
ate hour.

  Elias rose and found that even though he stumbled a little the feeling had more or less returned to his legs.

  ‘Do you rescue many strangers in the middle of the night?’ Elias nodded to the large pot of tea and the baking potatoes.

  Ulysses let out a low laugh.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he headed out of the kitchen with Elias following behind him. ‘Some of our regulars work all kinds of hours. They’re usually cold and ‘ungry by the time they get ‘ere. Eben works through the night and Tom during the day.’

  His voice dropped as he led Elias into a huge room, each wall lined with metal sleeping cots. They walked silently down the path in the center of the room. The cots each side were filled with blanket covered forms, some tossed and turned, some snored but most slept like the dead.

  When they finally reached the farthest corner, Ulysses stopped in front of a low metal cot, neatly made up with a pillow and a thick gray blanket and sheet.

  ‘Ere yer go,’ he indicated in a hushed voice, ‘get some rest, yer safe ‘ere.’

  He turned and began to walk slowly back between the beds.

  ‘Ulysses?’ Elias whispered loudly.

  He turned back his eyes bright in the darkness.

  ‘Thank you,’ Elias told him and found, rather surprisingly, that he sincerely meant it.

  Ulysses nodded and disappeared from the room, his heavy footsteps fading away into the darkness.

  Sitting down on the edge of the bed, the springs creaked beneath him as he unlaced his boots and set them neatly beside the bed. He pulled off his jacket, although his hair and most of his clothes had more or less dried out while he’d been sitting in front of the fire, the jacket was still damp, so he folded it up and set it on top of his boots.

  Pulling back the bedding he climbed in and yanked the blanket up to his chin as his body began to shiver.

  Although his body was deeply exhausted his mind was wide awake as he lay there in the darkness, the unwitting recipient of a stranger’s kindness. It shouldn’t have affected him as it did, but there was something about Ulysses, the gentle giant of a man, who gave so selflessly that shamed Elias. He’d tried to be that man once, back home in Salem, when he’d founded the Veritas. He’d tried to make a difference. To help those who couldn’t help themselves, to protect the innocent and vulnerable, but all that had changed the moment Stephen had slid a knife into his back.