Ghosts of Empire

by George Mann

They fell out of the portal into the hallway of the house near St. Paul’s, to find the portals all around them were beginning to blink shut, flickering to nothingness as if they had never existed.

  The Ghost was barely conscious, the pain in his shoulder so intense that it was sending waves of dizziness crashing over him, threatening to take him down. He fought it back, desperate to know that Ginny and the others were still alright, to see if they needed his help.

  He staggered toward the main entrance, reaching for the handle.

  “Hold on, Gabriel!” said Donovan, from behind him. “What if there are still Koscheis out there?”

  “Then damn well shoot them,” said the Ghost. He yanked the door open and staggered out into the cold night air.

  Out here, he could see that the battle was nearly over. Above, the two airships burned like twin suns, their gasbags ignited, their biplanes all lost. Vines curled from several holes in the ground, and the corpses of Koscheis littered the street. At the end of the road, British soldiers were still fighting a small pocket of hooded figures, but with nothing to power their portals, they were finished—stranded in London, and facing the might of the armed forces.

  The Ghost took a step toward them. Maybe he could help round up the last of them while he searched for Ginny and Flora. But suddenly the world was spinning, and he was listing, scrabbling for something to grab hold of. He felt someone catch his elbow, and Rutherford was by his side, righting him.

  “I think I might need to pay a visit to your Fixer friend,” said the Ghost, before pitching forward onto the cobbles as the blackness swam up to greet him.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Horwood was running, but no matter how hard he tried, it wasn’t fast enough.

  He pushed himself harder, his feet striking the paving stones until they hurt, until he was sure he was wearing them down to bloody stumps. Yet still he ran, and still he could hear it behind him—the roar of the biplane coming in at a dive, the burr of its propeller, so close that he could feel it stirring his hair.

  He cried out, throwing himself forward, just as the biplane struck the ground behind him, lifting him from his feet…

  He sat bolt upright on the sofa, dripping with sweat. For a moment, he had no idea where he was. He licked his gummy lips, wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. The front of his shirt was damp. He took a deep breath.

  He was in his living room. He was home. It was over.

  He swallowed, but his mouth was dry. He was desperate for a drink. On the floor before him was an overturned bottle of red wine. It was almost empty, but there were still dregs in the bottom, enough to wet his palate. He grabbed for it and gulped it down thirstily, then discarded the bottle. Perhaps he’d be better off fetching some water.

  Slowly, he got to his feet. His back was still agony, and his hand went involuntarily to the wound. He’d have to get the bandages changed soon. The piece of shrapnel he’d had removed at the hospital was the size of his thumb, and he’d been lucky it had missed his vital organs.

  His left eye was still swollen shut too, from the trauma he’d received to his head during the fall. Flora Donovan had told him afterwards he’d been caught full force from behind by a Koschei, tossing him almost ten feet up the road. He’d been knocked unconscious in the fall, and the Koschei had left him for dead. Flora had come to his aid as soon as the coast was clear, dragging him to safety. She’d sat with him for nearly two hours, taking pot shots with her pistol at anyone who came close.

  He’d woken briefly in the ambulance, and again just before surgery, but all he remembered was the stuttering of bright lights and Flora’s worried face.

  Now, he was home. He was supposed to be getting some rest, but every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was the biplane coming tumbling out of the sky, heading directly for him.

  There was a rap at the door. He sighed, massaging his temples. He was in no fit state for visitors. He’d had a stream of telephone calls demanding statements and interviews, from the police, the Secret Service, even a newspaper journalist who’d somehow managed to get hold of his details. He’d told them all they’d have to wait. And now one of them had found out where he lived.

  “I’m not here,” he called. “You’re wasting your time.”

  “Roland? Open the door. It’s Flora. I’ve brought the others to see you.”

  “Flora?” Bemused, he crossed to the door and opened it. There she was, standing on the step. She was smiling. Behind her were Donovan, Gabriel and Ginny. “Why are you here?”

  “We came to see how you were doing,” said Flora.

  He frowned at her for a moment.

  “Well, are you going to show us in?”

  “Oh, yes, sorry,” he said. He turned and wandered back into the living room, leaving the door open behind him. “I wasn’t expecting guests.”

  “And you weren’t expecting to have a biplane dropped on you, either,” said Gabriel. “We just wanted to say thanks, and see if you needed anything.”

  Horwood smiled. “I don’t know… I mean, I haven’t really thought about it. I haven’t thought about anything much, to be honest.” He started for the kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “I’ll see to that,” said Donovan. “You sit down. You’re supposed to be resting.” He disappeared into the kitchen. Moments later, there was a clatter of mugs.

  “What you did,” said Gabriel. “It made a difference.”

  “If it hadn’t been for you, the Koscheis might have won,” added Ginny.

  Horwood shrugged. “I couldn’t let them destroy it. Without it… well, I hate to think.”

  “What happened to it?” said Gabriel. “By the time I’d come out of the Fixer’s operating theater, it was gone. We passed by there earlier today, too. They’ve already burned away all evidence of the vines. There’s nothing to say it was ever there, save for the terrified accounts of a few locals.”

  Horwood grinned. “It came home,” he said.

  “Home?”

  He nodded. “Come on, I’ll show you.” He beckoned them down the hall, and out through the rear door into the garden. The cool air felt fresh and welcome, clearing his head of the alcohol fug. He led them to the hollow at the bottom of the garden.

  “Here,” he said, indicating what remained of the avatar, nestled amongst the trees. It had already begun to break apart, its limbs unraveling and turning to mulch. The light had gone out of its eyes, and the rose that had served as its heart had withered and dried, petals flaking. It was returning to the soil, just as it always had; ready to grow anew when it was needed.

  “It was here all along?” said Ginny.

  “Yes. I’m sorry I kept it from you. I didn’t know if I could trust you. Not at first,” said Horwood.

  “And that’s it,” said Flora. “It’s gone? Just like that.”

  “For now,” said Horwood.

  They were silent for a moment.

  “Come on, let’s go and see about that tea,” said Flora. “I don’t trust Felix in a kitchen.” She looped her arm through Ginny’s, and started off, back up toward the house.

  Horwood turned to Gabriel. “You did it. You ended it. I heard about what you did to Rasputin.”

  “Oh, I fear it’s only just beginning,” said Gabriel. “There’ll be reprisals. Your queen won’t allow this to pass. It’s the excuse she’s been looking for. I fear another war is brewing.”

  “Will you stay? Help out when it comes?” said Horwood.

  Gabriel shook his head. “No. I’m needed back in New York. But you should take those calls.” He started up toward the house, following after Flora and Ginny.

  “Calls?” Horwood hurried to keep up.

  “You know which calls I mean,” said Gabriel. “From the Service. They need good men like you. And if you don’t mind me saying—it might give you the sense of purpose you’re clearly looking for.”

  “You mean they want me? To work for them?” Horwood could hardly believe what the American was
saying.

  “I mean you should take their calls,” said Gabriel, pausing in the doorway. “Talk to them. I meant what I said—you made a difference. Maybe you can do it again.” He ducked into the house.

  Horwood stared after him, stunned. “Maybe I could,” he said, quietly. “Maybe I could.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “Where the devil is he?” said Absalom, whiskers twitching in irritation. He took a sip from his brandy, regarding the others around the table with a furrowed brow.

  They were back at the Savoy, having finally rearranged their dinner date with Rutherford, along with a few additional guests. Rutherford, however, was running late… for a second time. They’d been at their table for over an hour, and Donovan was beginning to think he was a no-show. “Perhaps he just doesn’t like goodbyes,” he said, flicking ash from the tip of his cigarette into the cut-glass tray.

  “Nonsense,” said Absalom. “He’s just a bugger for getting waylaid, is all. Never has been able to keep a date. It’s why he has such a terrible love life. He’ll be here, if he knows what’s good for him.”

  Donovan laughed. He turned to Flora. “I’ll be glad to get home,” he said, “but I’ll miss this place, for all its quirks.”

  Flora smiled. “You know, I think what we need is a vacation,” she said. “A proper one. Just you and me.”

  Donovan frowned. “I’m not so sure I’m very good at vacations.”

  She laughed. “No. I don’t suppose you are.”

  Gabriel was sitting across from him, holding Ginny’s hand beneath the table. He’d been through a lot, but he was almost back to his usual self: cocky and talkative, and keen to impress.

  Ginny had been quiet since they’d found her, tired and disheveled, in the shadow of St. Paul’s. She barely remembered what she’d done during the battle, but the rumors amongst the soldiers were that a beautiful, ghostly spirit had come to their aid, smiting scores of Koscheis and saving their lives from the Russians’ devastating elemental attacks.

  Newbury sat beside Gabriel, sipping quietly at his glass of red wine. He’d spoken little since arriving, but Rutherford had hinted that he’d played a significant role during the battle, although to what end, nobody seemed to be clear. It didn’t seem appropriate to ask.

  The last of their guests was Hargreaves, who had sat in sullen silence since arriving. Donovan wondered if perhaps he’d taken umbrage at the fact he’d been excluded from the final stages of the mission, but in truth, he suspected he was simply mourning the death of his colleague. Regina’s death had been a grave loss, to all of them, and in addition, she’d died at the hands of Boyd, her former colleague and friend. It had left something of a sour taste in Donovan’s mouth.

  “So, you’re heading back to New York tomorrow,” said Newbury. “Are you feeling rested?” He cocked a knowing half smile.

  “Hardly!” said Gabriel. “In fact, I’ve been considering demanding a refund. London isn’t at all like they said in the brochure.”

  Newbury laughed. “No, I don’t suppose it is.”

  They lapsed into silence, looking to the door.

  “What do you think will happen now?” said Ginny. “Will there be reprisals? Are we looking at another war?”

  Absalom shrugged. “I fear so. The Tsarina has already issued a formal apology to the nation, claiming it was the work of a rogue element in her military, that they’re being weeded out for trial and summary execution. She’s also offered to pay for all the repairs to the city, but it won’t be enough. Rumor has it Alberta is already hatching plans for a retaliatory strike.” Absalom sighed. “No doubt my agents are going to be busy. Eh, Hargreaves?”

  Hargreaves nodded, but didn’t answer. Absalom had told them earlier that Hargreaves had led a search of the Underground tunnels used by the Russians. He’d found scores of bodies down there in various states of decomposition. It seemed the Koscheis had been using them as a gruesome repository for some months. At least it went some way to explaining the bodies they’d encountered beneath City Road.

  “And besides, there’s a few of the blighters still loose in the city. Someone’ll have to hunt them down, and I can’t see the boys at the Met being up to it, what?” Absalom glanced at Gabriel. “Which reminds me, if any of you—and I mean any of you—would like to stay on, my agency is always on the lookout for good people. There’d be no problem with paperwork. I can see to all that. You just need to say the word.”

  Gabriel grinned. “Thank you, Major. It’s a tempting offer, but my home is in New York. I find myself pining for the place when I’m not there.”

  “Ah, well,” said Absalom. “Can’t blame a man for trying, now can you?”

  “What’s this? Not trying to replace me already, are you? I’m only, what, ten minutes late?”

  They all turned to regard Rutherford, who stood huffing beside the table as he fought to regain his breath.

  “Ten minutes!” roared Absalom. “See! I told you!”

  Sheepishly, Rutherford pulled up a chair beside Ginny. Behind him, the waiters—who’d been patiently awaiting the cue to serve—moved in, hastily placing bowls of soup before each of them, now that the last of them had finally arrived.

  Rutherford took a swig of water. “Look, I’m sorry I’m late. You should have started without me. It’s just, there’s this albino count I’ve been tracking for weeks, and one of my informants had word, and well… you know how it is.”

  Gabriel smiled. “We know how it is. But it’s good to see you, Peter.” He raised his glass. “And now you’re here, I’d like to propose a toast,” he said. The others reached for their glasses. “To Regina, for giving her life in the pursuit of what she believed in.”

  “To Regina,” came the echoing reply.

  “Now, what’s this,” said Gabriel, taking his spoon and running it through the soup. His face fell. “Oh, no. This won’t do at all. What is it about this place and the soup. Waiter? Waiter! Over here!”

  Donovan glanced at Flora, and sighed. It was going to be a long journey home.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  George Mann was born in Darlington and has written numerous books, short stories, novellas and original audio scripts. The Affinity Bridge, the first novel in his Newbury and Hobbes Victorian fantasy series, was published in 2008. Other titles in the series include The Osiris Ritual, The Immorality Engine, The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes, and the forthcoming The Revenant Express and The Albion Initiative.

  His other novels include Ghosts of Manhattan, Ghosts of War, and Ghosts of Karnak, mystery novels about a vigilante set against the backdrop of a post-steampunk 1920s New York; Wychwood, the chilling first novel in a new thriller series; and an original Doctor Who novel, Paradox Lost, featuring the Eleventh Doctor alongside his companions, Amy and Rory.

  He has edited a number of anthologies, including Encounters of Sherlock Holmes, Further Encounters of Sherlock Holmes, Associates of Sherlock Holmes and Further Associates of Sherlock Holmes, The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction and The Solaris Book of New Fantasy, and has written two Sherlock Holmes novels for Titan Books, Sherlock Homes: The Will of the Dead and Sherlock Holmes: The Spirit Box.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The usual round of thanks go out to Cavan Scott, for enduring friendship and support—and for kicking around ideas for this one between panels at San Diego Comic Con; to Miranda Jewess, Cat Camacho and Gary Budden for superb editorial support; to my agent Jane Willis; and most of all, to my family, in all its many guises.

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  Contributors include: James Lovegrove, Sam Stone, Jonathan Green, Andrew Lane, Michelle Ruda, Stuart Douglas and many more…

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