Lamplighter

by Law, Lincoln

  But he was not blind. The boy had been able to see perfectly well.

  He had reacted so quickly, she thought, wondering how much time had passed between her flame extinguishing and the monsters converging. How had he gotten here so fast? She quickly considered the possibilities. Perhaps speed is a part of his Blessing, or maybe he already had the vodka out… She paused, having to fight from laughing at herself. The boy’s probably no older than thirteen. What would he be doing with vodka?

  She sighed. With any luck, she would never see the boy again, never have to worry about being attacked by fiends, and never have to repay him. He seemed the type of boy—what with the markings and the strange eyes—that one would not like to get entangled with. It would probably lead only to pain or heartbreak.

  Poor boy, she mused, as she began to wonder what sort of beast he would become when the Blessing mutated into a Curse, destroying the boy that had once been known as Nataniel.

  Running from Demons

  Every morning I awake from the deepest of slumbers. There are no nightmares to rouse me, yet no dreams either. There is only darkness. It is in this darkness that I find my solace.

  Faulkner had his hand wrapped tightly around the doorknob, his breathing heavy, his heart racing. There was a terror in his body that words could not express and a sadness in his soul that could only be described as brutal. He had tried to run from the Blue’s Headquarters, but he had not the energy, and despite the urgency of his situation he really felt nought but a sense of hopelessness. He could run, he could hide, but he would ultimately be caught. No matter what, he was doomed to fail.

  If he was to have a chance to save his wife, Harriet, however, he would have to act quickly and act soon. There was no escaping the city of Castore—the guards at the only gate out prevented that with an untarnished record—but perhaps there was a chance at retreating away and re-emerging with a new identity.

  “What am I thinking,” he thought, shaking his head. The rain bucketed down over him, soaking him right through to his boots, but he was unaware of it. He was already cold inside. What was a little rain when the rest of his body felt like ice.

  Swallowing his pains and fear and every worry he held, he entered his house.

  “What are you doing?” cried Harriet, rushing to the door. “I’ve watched you out there for the last fifteen minutes, and now you’re tracing water all over the floor. I’ve only just mopped.”

  Harriet would not have been able to see it because of the rain, but there were tears in Faulkner’s eyes.

  “Honey, I have so much to tell you,” he said. “So, so much to tell you.”

  She could hear it in his voice, see it in his face. It was sheer, horrible terror.

  The anger in her face dissipated instantly with the blink of her eyes. It was replaced by worry.

  “Sit down,” she said, “and tell me everything.”

  On his way to the kitchen, Faulkner closed the front curtains to the street. He took a seat in the kitchen, Harriet placing a towel down first across the seat and then on the floor.

  He began with the discussion and the inclusion of the Vindicator, and then of what had apparently been ordered by the Architect. “I have been ordered to take you in, and then when our baby is born,” he explained, “they will destroy it.”

  “What!” she cried, slamming her fist down onto the table. “Why?” she murmured, cradling her belly with her hands as if to ward the child. “They’ll never take ‘em. Never!”

  “Which is where our trouble begins,” he said. “We have to run, and since we can’t escape the city, we have to hide. I think we might have to live in the slums for a while.”

  “What? If we do that then the child is bound to die!”

  “Well I don’t know what else to do?” he cried, desperation clear in his voice. “No matter what, the Vindicators will come, and they will take you away, and chances are that since we’re resisting, they’ll go right ahead and kill me and you along with the child.”

  It suddenly dawned on him that by leaving the Blue’s Headquarters with his plan so obviously stated, that he had doomed him and his wife to one fate. If only I hadn’t resisted. I might’ve kept my life then.

  He paused.

  What am I thinking! Of course I had to resist! This is my child, my wife! I need to protect her.

  “We have to hurry,” he said. “I’ll get us a suitcase and we’ll pack what we can into it. We’ll find somewhere to stay, and hopefully we’ll be safe for a little while longer.”

  Though Castore was an ‘enter only’ city, there were still a number of pubs about the place that had spare rooms for people too drunk to make their way home, or for travellers who did not realise that leaving Castore was not an option. The pair would have to use fake identity, but until there was a more solid plan, it would have to do.

  “If we hurry we’ll be gone before the Vindicators arrive.”

  She nodded and began her way up the stairwell. There has to be more to this, Faulkner thought. None of it makes sense. Before long, they had their suitcase packed and their valuables stored away for safe keeping. Faulkner kept his Blues uniform on, as it would probably provide them some freedom to move about without being stopped or questioned. It might even give them a free room in a pub somewhere. They could save their money for bribes or food.

  “Are you ready?” Harriet asked.

  “Yes,” Faulkner replied, descending the stairwell to his wife, who already had their largest umbrella in hand and a long, woollen coat over her. Outside it was still raining heavily.

  “Let’s go,” Faulkner said, grabbing the suitcase in a firm grip. He turned to the doorway and took the doorknob as a shadow appeared before the frosted glass and knocked. He recognised the shadow in a heartbeat. It was tall and sinuous, its head topped with a tall, pointed, wide-brimmed hat. There was no voice, no breathing. Only silence from the figure.

  “They’ve found us,” he whispered. In that moment, more shadows appeared, and suddenly there were three of them. This was an important task if three of the five had come. “Quick, through the back alley. If we run, we might avoid capture.”

  The pair tiptoed quickly through the house to the back door, which they flung open, silent on its hinges. Faulkner took Harriet in his free hand and began his way down the alley. Behind them, he could hear glass smashing as the Vindicators burst into their house. Further behind them were also night fiends, crawling about in the shadows, but they seemed preoccupied with something else.

  “Hurry,” Faulkner muttered, pulling his wife through the rain, uncaring that he was out in the wet, so long as she wasn’t.

  “If we can find an inn, we should be safe,” he cried as they burst out of the alley onto one of the streets. They both gasped in shock as a horse-led hansom came to a sudden stop before them, the horse rearing in surprise. They spun away from it, though, and rushed up the almost empty street, keeping between the lamp-posts and their light.

  “I can’t run,” he heard Harriet whisper, her breathing ragged. Her face was red and contorted into an expression of sheer agony.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, pausing to lift her into his already laden arms. He groaned. She was not heavy, but rather cumbersome, what with the suitcase already in one hand. She held the umbrella above them though and caught her breath as Faulkner continued through the streets.

  He was pleased with himself for being a fit man, else running with his wife in his arms and his luggage in his grasp would’ve been impossible.

  Everything seemed to slow for a moment as Faulkner ran along the cobbles, fighting against the slippery stones and through the biting, cold rain. How have I gotten here? He thought, as there was an explosion behind him. He turned for only a moment to see the hansom cab topple over as the three Vindicators exploded onto the street, their sinuous bodies moving like sentient smoke, their cloaks clinging about their thin frames.

  “In here,” he cried, ducking into an alley, hiding behind a set of metal bins. He
crouched down, keeping Harriet close to him. He closed up the umbrella and placed it between his feet. He felt her warm breath against his neck, and it sent ripples up his spine. He could not see her face, but he could sense the terror she was expressing in her voice.

  “I’m scared,” she murmured.

  “Me too,” he whispered back. “Let’s stay quiet,” he continued almost silently, Harriet’s heavy breaths coming to a sudden stop.

  Faulkner held onto his wife tightly, terrified. He kept his eyes and head downcast behind the bins, and despite the pain that appeared suddenly in his calves from the weight he was putting on them, the muscles shuddering, he kept himself upright, for his and his wife’s safety.

  He leaned his body to one side, looking out from behind the bin, catching sight of the nearest Vindicator’s pointed hat and the metallic charms that hung around its neck, retreating back into the darkness. For a time, he cared little of what fiends could now be hiding behind him, ready to attack, or for the rain that now soaked into his coat and down his back. Everything paled in comparison to the figures that walked slowly, deliberately across the entryway into the alley.

  “Can you see them?” said a voice like liquid magma.

  “No,” replied another.

  Don’t look behind the bins, he prayed.

  “Do you think they could be hiding?”

  For a moment, Faulkner’s heart stopped beating, fear rising into his throat.

  “There is no way you could hide two people side-by-side there,” replied the second voice. “They must’ve run down the alley. Come.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then loud, heavy footsteps as the vindicators ran down the alley, past the bins, not noticing the pair hidden. Within moments, the creatures were airbourne and blustering down the lane, their strangely white hair flowing out behind them like tendrils of smoke.

  “What have we done to deserve this?” Harriet whispered, as she finally allowed her emotions to get the better of her. Kept safe and warm in Faulkner’s arms, she began to cry. He attempted to soothe her, stroking her back softly, but it did little.

  “I do not know,” he replied, knowing that the statement would give little comfort. Their once perfect life had been suddenly shattered in the matter of a few hours. Before long their faces would be put on ‘Wanted’ posters, and their names called out by town criers. They stayed in place for a short minute, silent in the rain, before Faulkner rose up once more.

  “Come,” he said, carrying her in spite of his tire, “we have to find shelter.”

  They emerged from the lane and began their way down the street towards the nearest pub they could find. Perhaps near the warmth of the fireplace, or in the comfort of a bed they would find the safety they searched so longingly for.

  Faulkner and Harriet found an inn quickly, the first one they came to being The Key and Coin inn. They entered out of the rain in a dark, smoke-filled pub. The rooms for rent would be on the second floor of the building.

  A few people looked up from their mugs of ale to see the couple enter, very out of place here, but they quickly returned to their alcohol. Faulkner and Harriet brought the rain in with them, dripping water onto the floor, but the barman did not seem to mind. It was quiet in here, and warm as a fire burned brightly in the hearth nearby, and strangely welcome given the dark, brooding clientele.

  “Hello,” he said, “I need a room for the night, please.”

  “A room to share, I’m guessing,” said the barman, cleaning out a cup with a tea towel.

  “Yes,” Faulkner said.

  “Seems strange to have a Blue here,” said the barman, looking up and down at his uniform.

  “What? Oh, no! I’m not a Blue. I’m visiting. These are just my best clothes.”

  “Oh?” said the barman, appearing very interested. “Visitors, are we?”

  “Yes,” he replied, hugging Harriet closer. “First night here,” he said hastily. If they were going to make a fresh start, they might as well have started completely anew.

  “Names?” he asked, pulling out a thick logbook and a nib to dip in the ink well.

  “Oh, um…My name is Christopher Fowl and this is my wife…Joanne.”

  “Please write your names and sign here,” the barman said, holding out the thick tome and the pen. The two signed, improvising signatures, and the barman nodded, taking back to tome with a heave.

  “Your room is the second door on the left. You may get dinner any hour between four and six and breakfast is served at five. Enjoy your stay,” he finished, as he dropped the key into Faulkner’s hand.

  “Thanks,” he replied, nodding. He helped Harriet up the stairwell and then into the room, where they both fell onto the bed, exhausted after locking the door shut.

  “What do we do from here?” asked Harriet.

  “We’ll stay here while we can, and move on once it gets too dangerous,” he replied, sighing loudly. “But thank goodness. For now, we are safe.”

  “Yes,” Harriet replied. “For now.”

  *

  Rueben spent many of his nights (and days, for that matter) at the Key and Coin Inn, drinking. It was generally a quiet place, where the patrons kept to themselves, and he was allowed his privacy and peace as he waited for whatever the night would bring.

  He had already finished work for the day, so as it poured with rain, the outside world completely grey and drab, he had a mug of ale by the fire in the Key and Coin. The walls in the inn were dark and unadorned, the windows streaked from where someone had attempted to scrub the grime from them. It was a dark place, but one where someone could find a certain serenity.

  It was in the shadows cast by the golden flames in the hearth that Rueben had to stifle a gasp as Faulkner entered, followed by his wife, Harriet, soaked to the skin and rather out of sorts. Was that worry both held in their expressions? Fear?

  He sunk into his seat, turning away from the pair, gazing into the fire as an insect is drawn to light, feigning a deep and unbreakable interest. As he breathed silently, he could smell smoke from the cigars and pipes about the room, and he struggled not to cough.

  He hoped the pair would not see him. First of all, the Key and Coin was not the most respectable place to be found. But secondly (and perhaps most importantly), he was afraid of being recognised by his secret visit he had given them the night before, during which he had almost been caught. His leg was still aching from slipping from the second floor onto the cobbles below. He listened as the two were given a key to a room, and as the pair made their way wearily up the stairwell.

  For a moment, Rueben sat in absolute stillness, suddenly finding himself quite torn. He had two options, neither of which seemed particularly inviting. Both would be exciting—if in a bad way—but both were also very, very difficult to decide upon.

  He had been ordered to check on Faulkner the night before, to ensure that Harriet’s pregnancy had been going well, on orders passed through Robert from the Architect Castoro himself. It was there he had been told of the plan to destroy the child after birth, without any reason. Rueben, being a devoted Blue, had followed his orders unquestioningly, though not without some marring to his conscience. It seemed strange to spy on someone he had come to trust and call friend. So with his friendship in mind, Rueben wondered what he ought to do about the fact that the pair he knew were probably on the run were now in his pub. He had a duty to remain honest and faithful to his guard brethren, but conversely, this was an unborn child being forced away from a life, long before its time.

  It played on his mind for a number of minutes as he sat in stillness, percolating his options and thought. Would he do what was probably right and hand the pair over to the Vindicators, or would he let the softer part of his nature get the better of him?

  Seems strange to just want the child dead,he thought in the silence of the room, his thoughts somewhat mellow as he realised that someone nearby was smoking opium, the pungent smell mixing with that of the tobacco.

  Outside, abov
e the rain-swept skyline, the sky flashed brilliantly as a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky. Rueben was not normally a superstitious man, but today was not a normal day. Today he had a choice to make, and the universe had provided him with a presentiment.

  He rose from his chair quickly and headed over to the barman, who appeared to be in the middle of dialling a number into the telephone mounted on the wall. Clearing his throat, Rueben beckoned the man’s attention in his direction.

  “Excuse me,” he said, as the barman put the handset back onto hook.

  “Mmmm?” the barman asked.

  “Forgive me for interrupting, but I am of the City Guard, and I was curious to know who that couple were.”

  The reputation of the Blues was enough motivation the man needed to respond truthfully.

  “They were outsiders, visiting as I understand it. I thought it was strange that the man was wearing a Blues—I mean, City Guard’s—uniform, but he told me it was just his clothes. Besides, no person would be idiotic enough to pretend that they were outsiders. It would be too risky.”

  “Mmm,” Rueben nodded in response. Very brash and foolish as well, Faulkner. It hurt him to do what he was about to do—really, it did—but it was his duty to do so. “So you were about to call the Guard, were you? You do know what your duty with newcomers is, am I right?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the telephone.

  “Yes, in fact I was just in the middle of dialing. But they will wait until later to come, won’t they. I mean, I don’t want to lose any patronage because of this.”

  “Of course they’ll wait,” Rueben laughed as he turned away, pausing one last time. “Oh, and can I get another ale, please?” This way Faulkner will see it as his own fault, and it won’t be traced back to me. I’d hate to be seen as a betrayer. It wasn’t cowardice. It was good, honest citizenship.