by George Mann
The Executioner, who had by then committed to an attack on the left, had no chance to alter her momentum, and stepped forward into the thrust.
If the cane had been a sword it would have glanced harmlessly off her shoulder. But Newbury had not been searching for an opportunity to bury the cane in her flesh, but to discharge it into the clockwork mechanism embedded in her shoulder.
Crackling blue light burst from the end of the cane as the metal tip made contact with the shoulder guard. The Executioner shuddered and dropped her weapon as the electricity discharged into her body. She staggered back, but Newbury pressed forward, watching the fizzing light crawl all over her flesh, sparking as it sought out the precious metals inlaid in her cheeks, arcing between her teeth as she opened her mouth to scream.
He held the lightning cane in position, waiting for the woman to die.
* * *
She staggered back, her vision swimming. Ethereal light bloomed all around her as the crackling energy crawled over her flesh.
And then she felt it: a lancing, stabbing pain in her chest, so sharp that for a moment she thought he had punctured her chest cavity with the end of his weapon. It blossomed until it consumed her, a white-hot agony that almost made her swoon.
It came again, and then again, and she screamed, clutching at her chest as the electricity coursed through her body. She fell to her knees, wailing, dying.
The detached part of her mind was attempting to establish the nature of the injury that was causing her so much pain. It came relentlessly in waves, drumming in her ears, pounding inside of her. The pressure in her chest made it feel as if she were going to explode.
And then-fascinated and appalled in equal measure-she realised what it was. Despite her agony, she was overcome by a strange sense of calm.
Her heart was beating.
The black, shrivelled remnant of her original organ was shuddering inside of her, thumping like a pounding drum. The electricity was causing the decayed muscle to contract, again and again, over and over.
She was filled with an immense sense of sadness, and joy, and relief-the first things she had felt in nearly a century. This man, this Newbury, had come here not simply to kill her, but to set her free. This, she knew with a sudden clarity, was what she had been searching for all along. All of those long years, wandering the streets of a hundred nations, taking life after petty life … all she had wanted was release.
She slumped forward onto the floor. The pain in her chest was excruciating, and yet beautiful, peaceful. Her lips creased into a smile.
With a gasp, Elodie Severin died.
* * *
“Newbury!” bellowed Bainbridge. “Get over here!”
Newbury dropped the discharged lightning cane atop the body of the Executioner and staggered over to where Bainbridge and Angelchrist crouched over Veronica’s prone form. He couldn’t see her through the jumble of limbs as both men tried desperately to attend to her injuries.
Bainbridge looked up at Newbury, his expression grave. He shook his head, lowered his eyes.
“Let me through!” barked Newbury, pushing them out of the way, dropping to his knees before her. He almost choked at the sight of Veronica, lying there on the filthy floor, her head lolled to one side in the dirt, her chest ripped open, blood gushing from the yawning wound. Bainbridge and Angelchrist were trying to stem the tide with bundles of rags and handkerchiefs, but they were not enough.
“No! No, no, no, no…” He trailed off, unable to find words. He could barely register what he was seeing. Her clothes had been ripped asunder, and he could see the fingers of her rib cage, broken and splintered, jutting out of her pale flesh. The skin was pulled back like a pair of bloody curtains to reveal the precious cavity beneath. Inside of her, her heart was pulsing, glossy and alive.
Angelchrist put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“The Fixer,” said Newbury, his voice cracking. “We have to get her to the Fixer.” He shrugged Angelchrist away, then reached down and scooped Veronica up, cradling her in his arms. Within moments he was covered in her blood. He staggered to his feet.
“It’s too late, Newbury,” said Bainbridge, his voice filled with infinite sadness. “She’s dying.”
“No!” bellowed Newbury. “No! If you won’t help me, Charles, I’ll get her there myself.” He rushed towards the door, his eyes stinging. He would not let her die. He could not let her die.
Bainbridge ran after him, the lantern swaying wildly in his hand. “I have a carriage waiting outside, Newbury. We’ll get her there in that.”
Newbury nodded, running as fast as he dared in the dim light.
“Archibald-secure the scene,” he heard Bainbridge call behind them as they rushed out into the rain-soaked morning. The frigid air was like a slap in the face.
“Over here!” cried Bainbridge, struggling for breath. They rounded the corner to find the police carriage waiting for them, the driver looking on in confusion. Bainbridge opened the door and Newbury hastily bundled Veronica inside, clutching her close. “Get us to the Fixer, now!” shouted Bainbridge, hopping up onto the footplate.
The engines roared, and the carriage shot away into the night.
CHAPTER 29
“Can’t this damn thing go any faster?” snapped Newbury, as the driver stepped on the brakes to prevent the carriage from rolling over as they took a sharp bend in the road.
He was cradling Veronica in his arms, her head lolling against his chest, mercifully insensible. Her breath was shallow, like the fluttering of a tiny bird, and she felt lighter than he remembered. He felt tears pricking his eyes but fought them back. He needed to be strong now, to see her through it.
“He’s going as fast as he can, Newbury,” said Bainbridge, sullenly. He was pale and he wouldn’t meet Newbury’s eye. He looked as if he were already grieving.
“Don’t you dare give up on her, Charles!” barked Newbury. “Don’t you dare.” Bainbridge looked up, and his eyes were so full of sadness and compassion that Newbury almost faltered. His anger dissipated. “She can’t die, Charles. She simply can’t die,” he said.
Bainbridge nodded, and looked away again, peering out of the window. Newbury could see that his friend understood his desperation, was making allowances for it, and in many ways it made matters worse. Newbury refused to admit that it was too late.
“We’re almost there,” said Bainbridge, after a moment. “This is Bloomsbury.”
Newbury bundled Veronica even tighter in his arms, as if attempting to hold her together himself. She was bleeding profusely, all over the back of the carriage, and Newbury’s jacket and trousers were soaked through to the skin. He felt cold, and he wasn’t sure whether it was the wet blood, or simply a form of terrible numbness creeping over him, threatening to consume him.
He looked down at Veronica. Her pale cheek was spattered with obscene streaks of scarlet and the fingerprints of the woman who had tried to kill her. Newbury wiped them away with his thumb, smearing the blood.
The carriage screeched to a halt, and Newbury planted his feet firmly in the footwell to prevent himself from rocking forward and jolting Veronica. Any sudden movements might worsen her condition or exacerbate her wounds.
Bainbridge was up and at the door before they’d even come properly to rest. “Get her around to the side entrance,” he said. “I’ll get Rothford and the Fixer.” He ducked out into the rain-swept night, and Newbury struggled to his feet, following swiftly behind. Fat raindrops cascaded from the heavens, lashing his upturned face.
So strong was his intent to get Veronica to safety that he didn’t bother to check for passersby. Her life was like sand streaming through an hourglass, and the only man who could stem the tide was the Fixer.
Once before, Newbury had seen the man work miracles, stitching Newbury’s torn shoulder back together and transfusing esoteric compounds into his bloodstream to hasten his recovery. That was some time ago, but Newbury hoped that the Fixer might be able
to perform a miracle again.
The house was a three-storey end terrace in an exclusive area of Bloomsbury. Newbury saw Bainbridge running up the steps to the front entrance, where he might alert Rothford, the Fixer’s manservant, to Veronica’s dire circumstances. Newbury, however, would take the side entrance to the cellar, which held the Fixer’s workshop, laboratory, and surgery.
He struggled down the narrow cast-iron steps towards the basement door, careful not to knock Veronica’s head on the iron railings. Once there, he hammered on the wood-panelled door with his foot.
For a moment he heard nothing, no sign of movement from inside the house. He was struck by thoughts that panicked him. The house was dark and silent. What if the Fixer was not at home? What then for Veronica? He moaned in frustration and kicked the door again.
This time he heard a muffled voice from the other side. “I’m coming!”
It was too early yet to feel any sense of relief, but the familiar voice was reassuring.
Bolts slid out of their sockets and the door creaked open, revealing the Fixer, standing in the shadows of his workshop. He was a balding man in his mid-forties, with a neatly trimmed black beard and wire spectacles. He was thinner than Newbury remembered, and free of the bizarre accoutrements with which he’d been adorned during Newbury’s previous visit.
He looked ruffled, as if he’d just pulled on his trousers and shirt. He was rolling up his sleeves as he appraised the situation, and his expression was harried. “Come in, come in!” he said, beckoning Newbury through the door. He rushed over to the wall and flicked a switch. The room, tiled in gleaming white porcelain, was suddenly flooded with harsh illumination that stung Newbury’s eyes.
“She’s in a bad way,” said Newbury, brandishing Veronica’s limp form.
“I can see that, Newbury,” said the Fixer. “Bring her over here; put her on this table.”
Newbury staggered over to a large trestle table topped with a white marble slab. It reminded him of the operating tables in the morgue so much that he almost hesitated to lay Veronica down upon it. He didn’t want to let her go. What if it was the last time he would hold her? He felt short of breath, his heart hammering in his chest. He realised he was being irrational, so he placed her gently down upon the table, brushing her hair from her face.
“Hurry, man!” said the Fixer. He was scrabbling about amongst his surgical tools. He turned to Newbury, brandishing a small pair of scissors, then crossed to where Veronica lay on the slab and set about cutting away the remains of her clothes. His face told a thousand tales as he exposed the extent of the wound between her breasts. He glanced over his shoulder at Newbury. “I’ll do what I can,” he said. “Now go.”
“I won’t leave her,” countered Newbury.
The Fixer glared at him. “Let me work. I can’t have you harrying me. Go.”
Newbury sensed movement behind him and turned to see Rothford standing on the other side of the room. He smiled warmly. He looked immaculate in his black suit, with grey, receding hair and a hooked, equine nose. “This way, sir,” he said, extending his arm to indicate the way. “We have a waiting room upstairs. You may sit with Sir Charles while the master does his work.”
Newbury glanced at Veronica. The Fixer was standing over her now, donning his worn leather smock and gloves. Her milky-white torso was exposed, and the gaping wound where the Executioner had cracked her chest yawned open like a sickly, smiling mouth. Inside, he could see her labouring heart, straining to maintain its rhythm. He felt as if he was going to swoon. “Yes,” he said, faintly. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”
He felt Rothford take his arm, and realised the man had crossed the room to steady him. He allowed himself to be led away.
* * *
The waiting room was sterile and immaculate. The floor was the same gleaming white marble as the operating table in the basement, and the walls were hung with gilt-framed paintings by many of the old masters of Europe. Strangely, the room smelled of freshly cut flowers, even at this time of night.
Bainbridge perched on the edge of a Chesterfield by the crackling open fire, hunched over a large glass of brandy, his expression fixed and unreadable. Newbury paced back and forth before the bay window, jittery with nervous energy.
An hour had passed with no word. Newbury had lost track of time, but knew it must be the early hours of the morning. Rothford had appeared once to offer them tea, but both men had shaken their heads dully, preferring to take comfort from the decanter of brandy he had provided them with earlier.
Neither of them had spoken a word. Newbury kept replaying the events at the abandoned hotel, thinking that if only he’d done something differently he might have gotten to her in time.
If only she hadn’t gone to that place alone. If only he’d been able to stop her, to make her listen. He knew the attack was coming. He’d seen it in his opium-fuelled dreams. Why hadn’t she listened? Why hadn’t he made her? Surely he could have prevented this if he’d been stronger.
He realised he was shaking in anguish. He moved to stare out of the window, but then turned at the sound of footsteps approaching in the hall.
The Fixer appeared in the open doorway. He was wiping blood from his forearms with a damp towel, and Newbury saw that it was spattered over his clothes and soaked into his white shirt, despite the smock he had worn. His jaw was set firm, his eyes dull and unrevealing.
Newbury didn’t want to hear what the man had to say. He couldn’t bear it if she were dead. He’d almost prefer to be trapped in this perpetual twilight of uncertainty, to stretch this moment out indefinitely. At least here, now, there was hope.
“How is she?” asked Bainbridge, quietly.
“She’ll live,” said the Fixer. “For now.”
The tension, which until that point had been nearly unbearable, seemed to snap. Newbury exhaled for what felt like the first time since he’d found Veronica at the hotel. His shoulders dropped, and relief washed over him.
“Her heart, however, was damaged beyond repair,” continued the Fixer, his expression unaltered. “I was forced to remove it.”
“Remove it!” said Newbury, realising his relief had come too soon.
“She would have died,” said the Fixer. “The organ was lacerated during her attacker’s attempt to extract it.”
“But … with no heart? Surely…?” stammered Bainbridge.
“There’s a machine,” said the Fixer. “A machine that will circulate her blood for her, developed many years ago by Dr. Fabian as a prototype for the one that now supports the Queen. It is temperamental and will not serve our purpose indefinitely. We have a few weeks at most to find a more permanent solution, otherwise she will be lost.”
Newbury felt his heart sinking once again. “But you healed me! You brought me back from the brink of death. Can you not find a means?”
“I stitched up your shoulder, Newbury. I cannot repair an organ as complex and fragile as a heart,” said the Fixer, with resignation.
“Show me,” said Newbury. “Let me see her.”
The Fixer nodded. “Very well. Follow me.” He led them through the house to a small door beneath the grand staircase in the main entrance hall. Behind the door, another flight of steps led down to the basement. “Down there,” said the Fixer. “But I’ll warn you, it’s not a sight for those of a weak disposition.”
“Is she awake?” asked Newbury, hesitantly, as he led the way down the steps.
“No. I’ve kept her under. The pain would be excruciating. She will remain unconscious until we find a solution, one way or another,” replied the Fixer.
At the bottom of the stairs, the room suddenly opened up into a vast space, familiar to Newbury from his own brief stay. This massive chamber was adjacent to the one in which he had deposited Veronica earlier, but at least three times the size. It was brightly lit by another electric arc light that spanned the vaulted ceiling, flooding everything in its clinical gleam. An array of strange and unusual machinery lined the wall
s: whirring clockwork engines that pumped bubbling pink fluid through glass valves and coiling tubes; devices that resembled multi-bladed weapons but were, in fact, surgical tools; an automaton assistant that scuttled around at waist height, bearing trays of spatulas and scalpels. Empty beds stood like sentries, posted at intervals amongst the machines. The room stank of carbolic and blood.
In the far right corner, a series of bellows attached to a large brass box were wheezing as they slowly inflated and deflated, over and over, as regular as the ticking of a metronome or a clock. Newbury could see more tubing snaking out of the brass box, disappearing into the chest of what looked like a pale wax dummy laid upon a bed beside it. He felt his own heart breaking at the sight. “My God,” he whispered, as he drifted mechanically across the basement towards her. He had no words with which to adequately describe his thoughts.
Veronica lay there, unconscious and unmoving, much like a corpse. The place where her chest wound had been now erupted with a bundle of fat tubes, filled with dark, red blood. The flesh around them was puckered and purple.
Her head had fallen to one side on the pillow and her lips were slightly parted, as if in a wry smile. Her hands were folded over her stomach, and a white gown-the front of which had been hastily modified to provide access to the tubing in her chest-protected her modesty. She was pale, and her skin had taken on a damp sheen. Beside her, the brass contraption gurgled as it fed hungrily on her blood, cycling it through her veins.
“She would not have wanted this,” said Bainbridge, clearly appalled. “She would not want to live like this.”
Newbury turned on him, but there was little fight left in him. “I’ll find a way, Charles. There must be a way.” He glanced at the Fixer.
“She needs a new heart,” said the Fixer. “A replacement for her original organ. With Fabian dead, however…” He trailed off, but Newbury caught his meaning. He didn’t know of anyone capable of such a precise feat of engineering and invention. The irony was not lost on Newbury: If he and Veronica had not allowed the Bastion Society’s attack on the Grayling Institute to go ahead, Fabian would still be alive.