The Iscariot Sanction

by Mark Latham

‘Agnes? She were in a bad way when last we spoke. How is she?’

  ‘Faring little better, I’m afraid. She was… not entirely the full shilling.’

  ‘No, she wouldn’t be. Them bloody “knights” took both her bairns when it all started, before it calmed down and they took over the running o’ the place, an’ she never got over that. How could she? Her ’usband is a sly one—bloody coward n’all. As good as turned over his own daughter to them monsters; barely fifteen she were.’

  ‘You said “before it calmed down”?’ John asked.

  ‘Oh aye. Heard tell of elections and fancy talk elsewhere, but not ’ere. They come in from the moors one day, monsters, killin’ anyone who stood up—my old man amongst them—and taking the wee ones away to who-knows-where. We’ve seen bad times ’ere, Mr. Hardwick—we’ve all lost someone—which is why it beggars belief that them villagers turn on their own kind to save their own skins. Makes me sick. Only mercy is that I’ll be dead soon, so I won’t have to suffer their cowardice much longer.’

  ‘It is just such traitorous behaviour that has brought us to you, Mrs. Cattermole. Two of our people went missing last night, and we believe that Mr. Galtress was involved in their abduction. He was… unavailable, and so we spoke with his wife. She pointed us to you.’

  ‘Aye, sounds well. Explains a few things an’ all.’

  ‘Such as?’ John asked, eager to get to the point.

  ‘Summat set the dog off last night. ’Ee’s an old sod, so it takes a lot t’ get ’im riled. Saw some lanterns over yon, by the barn. Too far for me t’ walk nowadays, and I learned long ago t’ keep me nose out when queer folk is abroad. Like I said, I keep meself to meself. That’s why I’m still ’ere.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Can’t rightly be sure. Well past midnight in any case. I bolted me door and went back abed. No point worrying about the likes o’ them. If they come, they come. If they leave me be, I’ll see out another day. Makes no mind to me in any case.’

  ‘We would very much like to inspect the barn tonight.’

  ‘Be my guest. You’ll forgive me if I don’t come along. Me legs aren’t what they used t’ be.’

  ‘Of course. Mrs. Cattermole, do you have horses?’

  ‘No, not no more. But I got a saddle you can borrow. Saw you riding bareback like a gypsy. Thought to meself you might have got into a spot o’ bother, had to make off quick, like.’

  ‘Very astute,’ quipped Smythe. ‘Perhaps you missed your vocation, madam.’

  ‘There’s two types o’ people in the north these days, Mr. Smythe—them’s pays attention, an’ them who’s dead.’

  Smythe slurped the last of his broth, and rolled his eyes surreptitiously at John.

  ‘Well, Mrs. Cattermole,’ John said, ‘we will take up no more of your time. If we may take a saddle, we would be for ever grateful. Is there anything else you can think of that might help us in our search?’

  The woman thought for a moment, and then said, ‘Ar. Don’t expect t’see your friends in one piece. If the knights caught ’em, they’d have been dead by dawn.’

  * * *

  John stood outside the barn, struggling to light a cigarette with trembling hands.

  ‘Sir Arthur Furnival was the best Majestic I’ve ever met,’ John said, taking a long draw on his cigarette but feeling no comfort from it. ‘They… bled him dry.’

  ‘Perhaps…’ Smythe’s voice cracked; he cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t the knights. Perhaps the Riftborn finally caught up with him. You know what Cherleten always says about the Nightwatch? About how they have one foot in the afterlife, always waiting for their ghosts to catch up with them?’

  ‘It was no ghost who did that,’ John said. ‘And where is Lillian?’

  Smythe had no answer. John could only think of Mrs. Cattermole’s harsh words. Don’t expect t’see your friends in one piece.

  John looked across the dark fields, stained bruise-purple by the faint glimmer of liquid fire in the night sky. Shadows moved in swirling patterns across moors and fields; and then John realised that something really was moving, further down the hill. Tiny points of light danced about, appearing to flicker as they passed between ink-black trees. Perhaps a dozen lights, less than a mile away—men, carrying lanterns and torches. Were they searching for him and Smythe? Or for something else?

  John felt his nerves settle immediately. His face grew hot as anger took hold of him.

  ‘There,’ he said to Smythe, pointing down the hill and across the field.

  ‘The mob?’ Smythe asked.

  ‘Come on. We have some unfinished business with the men of Commondale.’

  ‘John, I…’

  ‘We still hang traitors, don’t we?’

  With that, John started down the hill with nothing more in his mind than violent revenge.

  * * *

  The sight of the first slaughtered cow had barely thrown John off his stride; he was numb to the activities of the Knights Iscariot now, and full of rage. The second, however, gave him pause. Its throat had been torn out as if by a wild animal, and its blood had turned the rough grass thereabout into foul-smelling sludge. The third made him stop, as did the alarmed shouts that carried towards the two agents upon the freezing wind.

  Ahead, through a cluster of bushes and brambles, where lanterns and torches swayed, men cried out. Some jeered, others sounded alarmed. John crept forwards, Smythe by his side, and soon it became apparent that a dozen or so men had formed a loose circle, and were in turn dashing back and forth into its centre, as if they had trapped some wild beast. Their shouts were garbled, hurried, indistinct.

  ‘Get in there, lad…’

  ‘No, no, not to me, bloody ’ell!’

  ‘Bring the rope. Now—now, you fool!’

  Something moved in the circle of firelight—darting and stooped, lithe and bestial. John would have believed, after the briefest glimpse of the thing in shadow, that it was a wolf, cornered and snarling. And then he heard the creature cry out.

  A snarl became a high wail, which in turn became a scream of fury and hate and frustration. It was barely human, and yet all too human, all too familiar.

  Lillian.

  John felt Smythe snatch at his arm to restrain him, but he shrugged his partner away and raced forward, leaping over an irrigation ditch, through a hedgerow that snagged at his clothes, and into the midst of the Commondale mob.

  He saw the men’s leering faces, some angry, some hateful, others fearful, more than one lascivious. Galtress, tall and spindly, barked instructions while hopping about on his good leg. They circled a dead horse, its innards spilled out onto the scrub, its neck opened much like the cows’. Beside the horse was Lillian, half naked and caked in gore, fingers curved like talons, legs bent, carrying her body low to the ground, ready to strike; her face was turned upwards to the bobbing lights carried by the men, making her eyes shine bright. Violet eyes, sparkling like diamonds, and filled with hate. Her lips were turned back, revealing bloodstained teeth in a bestial snarl.

  The shock of it made John pause, and two men turned to face him, overcoming their surprise quickly and lunging for him. In a trice, Smythe was by his side, barrelling his full weight into the nearest man. John ducked beneath the flailing arm of the second and delivered a brutal uppercut that felled his would-be assailant at once. The others turned. John had his pistol in hand, and discharged it into the air, causing the men to scatter to the four winds. All but one: Galtress had been so intent on directing the hunting party that he had been caught in two minds. As he turned awkwardly on his wounded leg, Lillian leapt at him and, to John’s horror, caught the man’s prominent Adam’s apple between her teeth, tearing it out in one fluid movement. Her screams were guttural and animalistic, inflected with emptiness, sorrow and endless hunger.

  By the time Galtress had ceased twitching, only Smythe and John remained to bear witness, the grotesque scene illuminated by fallen lanterns.

&nbs
p; ‘By God,’ Smythe said, ‘she has become one of them! How is it possible?’

  John had no answer. He could only look upon the ruin of his sister, who even now slurped greedily upon the blood of the postmaster, though God knew how she had not already drunk her fill from the slain beasts that littered the fields. John rubbed at his face, refusing to believe the evidence of his own eyes. Finally, he stepped forward, and picked up a lantern from the ground.

  ‘Lillian?’ His voice sounded weak to his own ears. The lantern shook in his hand. His sister did not respond.

  John took another step. ‘Lillian.’

  The horrid wet sucking sound stopped at once, and the violet eyes flicked upwards towards John. Lillian remained crouched low, arms outstretched, supporting herself on all fours. Galtress’s blood dripped from her mouth. Her body, naked but for a black cloak fastened at her breast, was slick with gore. Her hands were black from clawed earth and dried blood. She did not look human.

  ‘John, I would step away if I were you,’ Smythe warned.

  ‘We must help her.’

  ‘I have seen this, in Hyde. It is bloodlust—she will not know us, John, not in this state. Perhaps not ever again.’

  John flushed at the thought, and anger burned at him again, and pushed him to rashness. He stepped forward more firmly, and held out a hand to Lillian.

  ‘Lillian. Sister. It’s all right. We’ve come for you… we’ve come to take you home.’

  Lillian’s head tilted, her expression utterly void of emotion. She regarded John like potential prey.

  John was about to move closer still, when he saw the sudden flex of Lillian’s limbs, the tautening of her body, and he had no time to recoil before she leapt at him with incredible speed. He dropped the lantern in his haste to protect himself; Lillian barged into him with the force of a wild animal. Even as John fell, he pushed at her desperately, the vision of Galtress with his throat being torn out foremost in his mind.

  He rolled across the cold earth, Lillian’s weight upon him. Fingernails scratched at the back of his neck; teeth snapped near his face. She was strong, far stronger than he remembered—her legs braced them both, and then a knee was driven into his midriff, pinning him to the floor. He looked up and saw those sparkling eyes level with his own, triumph crossing blood-smeared features.

  Smythe charged into her, knocking her clear of John before she could strike. As John scrambled to his feet he saw Lillian leap up and crouch low again ready to pounce.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lillian,’ Smythe said, with such sorrow in his voice that John did not at first understand the meaning. And then he saw the gun.

  Smythe’s arm was outstretched, the pistol aimed at Lillian. And she knew what the gun was, or at least what it was for, for she flinched back, eyes trained upon it. John was still checking himself for wounds when he saw Lillian leap at Smythe. The gun fired, Lillian darted sideways into shadow, and then lunged once more into the circle of light cast by John’s lantern. She shrieked with fury. Smythe knocked her aside, and she rolled across the ground, again crouching to all fours at once and facing her opponent. Her prey.

  Smythe, hand shaking, pulled the trigger again. This time, John was already upon him, pushing his arm upwards so that the shot thundered into the night sky.

  ‘No!’ John cried.

  Smythe pulled his arm away. ‘She’s one of them, John! She’ll kill us both if she can.’

  ‘She’s my sister!’

  As they argued, Lillian circled about, and was closing on Smythe. When she pounced, the surgeon was blindsided, and barely fended her off. Smythe was dragged away from John in a split second, with John racing to catch up while his fellow agent was pulled into the shadows as though he weighed nothing.

  John sprinted into the darkness, grabbing Lillian by the arm and heaving her away from Smythe. Smythe crawled away, and John saw he was already searching for the gun.

  Lillian struggled against John, her strength prodigious, her arms and legs flailing like a dying insect, every impact making him wince with pain. This was not the Lillian from the dojo; there was no deft movement, no subterfuge or grace. She was not a subtle knife, but a hammer, and John was the anvil.

  An elbow cracked into John’s injured ribs, bringing water to his eyes and driving him back. He kept hold of her wrist, but still she swung her other arm at him, her blow so powerful he dropped to his knee and was forced to let her go. Lillian’s teeth snapped at John’s face. In that moment, Smythe returned, cracking the butt of a pistol over Lillian’s head, which served only to enrage her further. Lillian leapt shoulder-first into Smythe, knocking him down, pummelling him with her fists. John saw Smythe grab for the pistol and raise it to Lillian’s stomach, his face a grimace as he prepared to shoot.

  John jumped forward and caught Lillian’s wrist again, this time twisting it as Mrs. Ito had taught him at the academy. Lillian turned, momentarily under John’s control, and he seized the opportunity, wrapping himself bodily around her, locking his arms and legs into position, and hoisting her to the ground with him. Even with her new-found strength, she could not escape—the manoeuvre was too well executed, his grip on her too fierce. She resisted with every ounce of her being, wailed, gnashed her teeth, but to no avail.

  ‘Lillian!’ John shouted.

  John caught sight of Smythe staggering away, rubbing his face, shaking his head ruefully.

  ‘Lillian! It’s John. It’s your brother.’ He felt certain that this time her struggles abated, just a little.

  ‘I… shall… kill you!’ she cried. She meant it, but John did not lose heart, for it meant that she still had some sense within her, some vestige of humanity.

  ‘No, Lillian, listen to me. You are my sister. You are my best friend. I have come for you, Lillian! I’ve come to take you home.’

  ‘You’re too late,’ she hissed. ‘I shall kill you and drain you! Just as I did him!’

  John’s heart sank. He knew she must be speaking of Sir Arthur. He remembered the shrunken features of the corpse back at the barn, the papery flesh…

  ‘Lillian, none of that matters. Please, I beg you, let us help you.’

  ‘You can’t!’ she cried, and with a mighty effort, unbelievably, wrenched herself free. She skidded to a halt when Smythe stepped in front of her, pistol aimed at her head. Her shoulders heaved as she panted with exhaustion, and she turned her back to Smythe and faced John.

  ‘Tell Smythe to do it,’ she said, coldly. ‘I am Lillian no more. I might as well be dead.’

  Smythe cocked the pistol, but John shook his head at the surgeon. He stepped towards his sister and, with no fear, placed a hand upon her bloodstained cheek.

  ‘No, sister,’ he whispered. ‘I once told you that, one day, even you would be unable to stand alone. And on that day…’

  ‘You would stand with me,’ she finished. She looked down as John pressed an object into her hand. A large silver locket that had once been a watch. A locket that contained portraits of their parents.

  Tears streamed down Lillian’s cheeks, making pale tracks in the blood.

  ‘Whatever they’ve done to you, we shall make it right. Together, we are stronger than the Knights Iscariot. Let me take you home; if there is terror to face, we shall face it together. If there is revenge to be had, I shall help you exact it.’

  She finally fell into John’s arms. ‘I have no home, brother, and never shall again.’

  * * *

  ‘This is unexpected; most unexpected.’

  The Artist stepped away from the canvas, set down his brushes, and took up his lamp, shining it close to the glistening oils to better see what he had wrought. It was always this way—he painted the future in a frenzy, barely stopping to look at his work, his hands guided by some unseen force. He often said that he might as well be blind.

  He had placed the finishing touches upon a golden crown, which glistened in the light of the red sky. The scene he had painted beyond the crown, however, was most interesting.


  Satisfied, he stepped away from the painting, and took a moment to admire his reflection in the full-length mirror that he kept next to his easel. He was handsome, and knew it. From his Chinese father he had inherited a smooth complexion and lean body; from his English mother, imposing height. He had angular, aquiline features, and eyes black as coals. His dark hair hung loose about his shoulders, framing the dragon tattoo that twisted around his naked torso. He smiled at his reflection, and then took up his cane and rapped on the floor of the attic studio.

  He heard footsteps at once, answering his summons and clomping through the warren of his opium den, the House of Zhengming. An affectation, that name; the ‘House of the Dead’, the exact spelling bastardised so that his English patrons could pronounce it. Once, it had been a warning to his enemies when he had first arrived after his ill-fated sojourn in Burma. His first task had been to subjugate the Chinese crime bosses of the East End. Now it was merely a fitting tribute, for who else but Tsun Pen, the Artist, had such mastery over the lives of others?

  There came a rap at the door, and it opened immediately. The Artist’s most trusted servant, Hu, entered, bowing low to await his master’s instruction.

  ‘It would seem, Hu, that Lord de Montfort is braver than any of us expected. He has had the courage of his convictions, and the repercussions will be far reaching indeed.’

  Hu inclined his head. He was a man of few words, but that did not matter. The Artist waved a hand at the painting, and smiled. The meaning was doubtless lost on Hu, but in terms of both the clarity of the premonition and the artistry of the painting, it was a triumph.

  ‘It could be said that I influenced him—unintentionally, of course. De Montfort is cleverer than I perhaps gave him credit for, and he has somehow masked his true purpose from me. He has upset the apple cart, as the English say, that much is certain. I would wager that he will return to us before long, for his masters shall want his head for this. Were he not a vampire, I would have foreseen this and capitalised earlier… for now, I shall just have to make do.

  ‘As soon as this paint is dry, see that this is delivered to Lord Hardwick. It will cost him three times the normal price. Make sure he understands that there has never been a portent of greater significance, nor of greater urgency.’