Ghosts of Empire

by George Mann

  Nearly there…

  He could see the creature looking up at him, raising its sword, ready to skewer him on its razor-sharp tip as he came at it.

  Three seconds…

  He had to hold his nerve. Make it think it had him.

  Two seconds…

  The tip of the blade glinted in the moonlight.

  One second…

  He jerked his body, screaming in pain as he pulled up at the last minute, feeling the blade score his left leg even through the protective fabric of his suit.

  Gritting his teeth, he grabbed for the creature’s antlers and hung on, as his momentum dragged the creature off the ground.

  The Ghost’s arms burned with the exertion of holding on, his shoulders straining. He turned, still propelled at an immense speed, and holding his arms out wide, swung the creature bodily into the side of the station building.

  It struck the wall with a loud crack, its sword tumbling from its fist. The Ghost’s onward momentum meant that he couldn’t stop, and he spiralled, spinning out of control, coming down hard on his shoulder just a few feet from where the creature lay slumped and unmoving. His rocket canisters sputtered out, their fuel spent.

  Drawing ragged breaths, bleeding and battered, the Ghost clambered to his feet. The creature lay still, its tame crows now returning to their perch amongst its antlers. He knew it wasn’t dead—if a thing like that could die—but it was the chance he needed to get away.

  Wincing, he staggered toward the road. If he kept to the shadows, he could find a route to the hotel through the back streets.

  He needed that drink more than ever.

  SEVENTEEN

  For the second time in as many days, Gabriel staggered into the lobby of the Clarington Hotel looking beat up and bedraggled. It was late, and there was only a handful of guests still sitting in the foyer bar, sipping cocktails and making idle chitchat.

  He’d removed his hat and goggles, and fastened the front of his trench coat to conceal the rest of his outfit—and the worst of his wounds—and yet still he drew their unwanted attention as he hurriedly crossed the lobby. An overweight man, sitting at the bar sipping gin and wearing a suit that was at least a size too small, gawped at him with open disdain. He glowered back, and the man raised an eyebrow, before turning away, shaking his head. Sometimes, Gabriel had to wonder why he spent so much time trying to save these people.

  He hurried across to the elevator, his heart sinking as he saw that, standing just inside the open doors, was the same attendant who had helped him the previous day.

  “Sixth floor?” said the young man, with a cocky smile.

  “If you don’t mind,” said Gabriel, stepping into the elevator.

  The doors closed.

  “Excuse me for speaking up, sir, but I think you should know that there’s been a few folk around the hotel asking about you today.”

  Inwardly, Gabriel groaned. “Well, how does the saying go? ‘It’s better to be talked about…’”

  The attendant coughed politely into his fist. “That’s not quite what I mean, sir, although now you mention it, there have been a few guests who’ve been a little perturbed by your… choice of attire. But I was referring to the fact there’s been a few folk come to the hotel to enquire as to whether you’re staying here today.”

  “Ah,” said Gabriel. He felt the elevator shudder as it began its ponderous journey to the sixth floor.

  “Yes, sir. I thought it might be of interest.”

  “And did you enlighten them?” said Gabriel.

  “Oh, no, sir. It’s hotel policy that we don’t give away that sort of information. We’re used to having guests of a certain caliber here, sir. We tend to employ discretion in these circumstances.”

  “Well, thank you,” said Gabriel. “Much obliged.”

  So, there’d been people asking about him at the hotel. He wondered if that had anything to do with Rutherford, and the potential traitor operating in the Secret Service. Or maybe it had been Horwood, following up on their meeting yesterday. He supposed he should ask for descriptions, but all he could concern himself with at the moment was getting safely back to his suite.

  “Not at all, sir. Just part of the service. Although if you don’t mind me asking, sir—is there anything we should be worried about? Only, I get the sense that’s something’s afoot. You know, word on the street and all that. And you look to me like a man who knows about that sort of business.”

  “I do, do I?” said Gabriel, grinning. He fished around in his pocket for a handful of coins. “Put it this way. You might want to think about taking a short break in the country. Just a couple of days. I’m sure if there’s anything to worry about, it’ll all have blown over by then.”

  The young man turned and smiled at him. “Thank you, sir. I’ve been meaning to pay a visit to my old uncle down in Sussex. Keeps bees.”

  “Very wise,” said Gabriel. The elevator chimed, and ground to a halt. The doors opened. Gabriel handed the attendant his pocketful of change. “Bring me back some honey.”

  “I’ll do that, sir.”

  The doors slid shut, and Gabriel hobbled down the corridor to his suite. His leg was in serious need of attention. He’d only checked it briefly, but the creature’s sword had opened a four-inch wound in his thigh. He was going to have to stitch it.

  He practically fell against the door, which swung open a moment later to reveal Rutherford. He grinned when he saw Gabriel, and helped him in, turning the key in the lock behind him.

  Ginny was asleep on the bed.

  “Felix and Flora are back in their own room,” said Rutherford. “I checked him over. He’s got a few scratches, and some irritation from whatever that slime is, but he’s going to be fine. You, on the other hand…” He eased Gabriel down onto the sofa.

  “My leg,” said Gabriel. “I need to stitch it. There should be bandages and needle and thread in the cupboard over there.”

  Rutherford nodded. “I’ll fetch some water and towels, too.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s really the least I can do. After everything you’ve done for me. You came here for a rest, and now look at you.”

  Gabriel laughed. “I was bored, anyway. At least this way I’ll have something to talk about when I get home.”

  Rutherford laughed. “Cigarette? It’s American… I haven’t been able to stand an English one since New York.”

  Gabriel took the proffered cigarette, pulled the ignition tab, and sank back into the sofa. “You’ll stay the night on the chaise longue? I think it’s best we remain together until this is all over.”

  “Agreed,” said Rutherford. He disappeared into the bathroom, and Gabriel heard him running the tap.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, and then the room spun, and oblivion took hold.

  * * *

  “Look, he told me to ask for him here. Couldn’t you just tell me his room number and I’ll be on my way?”

  Horwood was beginning to feel exasperated. The man on the reception desk wouldn’t even confirm that Gabriel Cross was staying here, despite the fact that Horwood had shown him the card.

  He’d spent a fitful night at home, waking every few minutes to check if the avatar had returned. After cutting himself free of the snaking vines—his grandfather taught him every good gardener carries a penknife at all times—he’d returned to the house and swiftly downed a bottle of wine, just to settle his nerves. He’d half expected a repeat of the avatar’s previous outing, to find it had returned, injured, in the middle of the night—but he knew deep down that there was something fundamentally wrong this time. Somehow, something had corrupted the incorruptible—Albion had been poisoned. It wasn’t coming back.

  Worse, if the Koscheis had the power to infect Albion itself, then whatever they were planning had grave consequences indeed. Albion was the only thing that could properly counter their ancient rites—and now it, too, was lost.

  When the dawn light came streaming through the window, Ho
rwood had washed and changed, and then, with a heavy heart, set out to find Peter Rutherford and his associates. He had to get the warning out. London was doomed.

  And now, here he was, the weight of the world bearing down on him, and the silly little man on the reception desk of the hotel was refusing to listen to him.

  “It’s vital that I speak to him,” said Horwood. “It’s of national significance.”

  The receptionist raised his eyebrows and hid his smile behind his hand. “National importance, sir?”

  “Yes!”

  “Look, I don’t understand what’s taking so long. He told me himself I could find him here.” There’d been something else, too. Something Rutherford had said, but Horwood had only been half listening at the time. Something about a specter… He clicked his fingers. That was it! “He told me to say a ghost had sent me.”

  The receptionist smiled. “Ah, well, if only you’d said, sir.” He opened a folder and ran a finger along a list of names. “You’ll find Mr. Cross in room six-zero-zero-four.”

  “Thank you,” said Horwood, heaving a sigh of relief. He turned away from the desk and took a step toward the elevators. A woman was coming toward him. He looked her up and down—a black jacket over a white blouse, black culottes, calf-high boots, and a figure to die for. He went left, making way for her, but she followed him, stepping out directly in front of him to block his path.

  “Um, sorry,” he said. He took another step to the left, and she did the same, this time catching him by the arm.

  “Room six-zero-zero-four, is it?” she said. “I think you should come with me.”

  “What? Who are you?”

  “That doesn’t matter,” she said, leading him toward the elevators. “Now smile nicely for the attendant.”

  Horwood beamed at the young man in uniform standing by the bank of buttons.

  “Sixth floor, please,” said the woman.

  “Yes, miss,” replied the attendant, before hitting the button.

  The elevator doors shut, and Horwood swallowed. The woman was still gripping his arm.

  * * *

  Gabriel woke to the sound of someone taking a shower in the other room. He sat up, bleary-eyed, feeling the wound in his leg pull sharply, testing the strength of the stitches. Rutherford had done a good job with the needle and thread, after cleaning the wound with a bottle of rather good vodka, much to Gabriel’s annoyance.

  He glanced over at Ginny’s side of the bed, only to realize it must have been her in the shower. Sure enough, Rutherford was still asleep on the chaise longue across the other side of the room. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, testing his movement. He was sore, but he could still fight. He’d put his body through worse.

  He pulled on a shirt and pants, and looked out the menu for room service. He was about to call down with an order when there was a sharp rap at the door. He guessed that Ginny must have called them already, before taking her shower.

  He crossed to the door and peered out through the eyehole. Then, having seen who was waiting on the other side, he yanked the door open and bundled the two visitors inside.

  “Rutherford,” he called. “We’ve got visitors.”

  “Hello again,” said Regina. “I found this one making a fuss at reception. I think he must be yours?”

  Horwood shrugged sheepishly. “Can I have my arm back now, please?”

  * * *

  After gathering the others—waking Donovan and Flora in the adjoining suite—the seven of them assembled for a conference in Gabriel’s suite, to compare notes on everything they had learned.

  Regina spoke first, outlining what had happened after she and Hargreaves had followed up Rutherford’s lead in Belgravia, finding the marked doors, learning how to operate them, and everything that had followed, including the meeting of Koscheis they’d witnessed at the old church, the extensive maps of the Underground system they’d been discussing, and the ensuing battle for survival.

  “Where’s Hargreaves now?” said Rutherford. There was no hint of suspicion in his voice, but Gabriel knew he was thinking it. Was Hargreaves the one who’d betrayed him in the first place?

  “We split up,” said Regina. “After we found the house near St. Paul’s. I told him to report back to Absalom, while I tried to find you. I figured we needed to compare notes.”

  Rutherford nodded. “Any word from Absalom?”

  “Not yet,” said Regina. “But then I’ve not called in. You’re a difficult man to find, Peter.”

  “When I want to be,” he said.

  “How did you find us?” said Gabriel. He was standing by the window, smoking another of Rutherford’s cigarettes. Donovan, meanwhile, was listening intently from the comfort of a nearby armchair, while Ginny had taken her now customary perch of the edge of the bed. Rutherford was pacing, and Horwood was standing over by the drinks cabinet, looking longingly at the brandy.

  “A relatively simple matter, really,” said Regina. “I started at the Savoy, and worked my way around all of the expensive hotels in London, until I hit upon the Clarington. Your friend here was making quite a fuss at reception, demanding to see you, and so I loitered until I overheard your room number, and the rest…”

  Gabriel’s eyes flicked to Horwood, who’d finally given in and poured himself a large brandy. He gulped it down as Gabriel watched, as if he were a parched man in the desert who’d just happened upon an oasis. “You’re right about the Underground,” he said, returning his attention to Regina. “We’ve been down there. We found the Glogauer woman, got her to answer a few questions. She pointed us to an abandoned station called City Road.”

  “I know it,” said Regina. “It’s been disused for years.”

  “Well, the Koscheis have got a use for it now,” said Donovan. “They’re growing something down there. Something unnatural, covering the walls. And it’s spreading, too. Soon it’ll have infected any connected stations through the tunnel system.”

  “That’s it!” exclaimed Horwood, excited. He hopped from foot to foot, almost sloshing his drink out of his glass. “That’s what they’re up to.”

  “What do you mean?” said Ginny.

  “The Koscheis. They’re infecting the Underground.”

  “Well, yes, we’d established that,” said Rutherford.

  “No, no, no! But you don’t understand why.”

  “Then you’d better tell us,” said Gabriel.

  “Oh, it’s clever,” said Horwood. “Very, very clever. Don’t you see, that tunnel system, it runs beneath much of Central London, and more specifically, the site of the old Anglo-Saxon town of Lundenwic. Covent Garden, Charing Cross, the Embankment… the sheer amount of people, the density of the population… it’s the perfect delivery system for an attack such as this.”

  “Go on,” said Rutherford.

  “City Road is just the origin point, the site of the initial infection. They’re planning to infect all of Central London, to weaken us and leave us defenseless, ready for attack.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” said Donovan. “You think if this stuff spreads throughout the Underground, it’ll bring the transport system to a halt?”

  “No, it’s not about the transport system,” said Horwood. He was getting animated now. He took another slug of brandy. “It’s about people’s hearts and minds. The Underground is just a convenient means by which they’re deploying their magic. Whatever that stuff you found in the tunnels is, it’s not a literal poison, but an elemental one. It’s there to corrupt people’s souls, to erode their spirits, to turn their thoughts against each other. It’s like they’ve introduced a drug into the system, one that affects people’s minds, sapping their will.”

  “You’ve lost me,” said Donovan.

  “No, I think I get it,” said Gabriel. He’d always had a sense of New York as a living city. The people flowing through its streets were its lifeblood, the thrumming of the traffic its pulse. When he stood upon the rooftops in the quiet hours before dawn an
d truly listened, he could hear its heartbeat, pounding in his ears. It wasn’t about the fabric of the place. It was more elemental that that, more profound.

  More, though, he’d felt that malign influence himself in the tunnel—the way the mulch had affected his mood, leaving him momentarily uncertain and heavy-hearted when he’d first entered the station. He’d fought the feeling off, but he could see now what Horwood was driving at. Prolonged exposure to such an influence would certainly have a devastating effect.

  “They’re targeting Lundenwic. They must know about the Albion avatar, and they’re trying to manipulate it. Remember what I said—that the avatar draws its strength, its direction, from the will of the people of Lundenwic. But what if the will of those people was corrupted? If their faith in one another was undermined, their sense of community lost. That stuff in the tunnels must already be altering people’s moods, their perception. And it’s already affecting Albion, too. That’s why I’m here, you see?” Horwood gasped for breath. “I woke Albion. The avatar, I brought it to life, just like I promised. But something was wrong. Something had corrupted it, poisoned its spirit. It’s out there, somewhere, the only thing that can help us, but somehow, the Koscheis have turned it against us.”

  “Let me guess,” said Gabriel. “This avatar—it’s about eight feet tall, made of wood, carries a big sword…”

  “Yes!” said Horwood. “Have you seen it?”

  “Let’s just say that it definitely isn’t batting for our team,” said Gabriel.

  “It’s the sickness,” said Horwood. “It’s affecting it. It’s affecting everything.”

  “Well, this is all well and good,” said Regina, “but what the hell are we going to do about it?”

  Horwood had starting pacing the room, tapping his fingernail against the side of his glass. “We have to clear the tunnels. Kill the infection, and we free the avatar. It’s the only thing that can help us defeat the Koscheis.”

  “And how do we do that?” said Rutherford. “I’ve seen that stuff. It’s virtually indestructible. And it’s everywhere down there.”