I looked at them in my mind’s eye. They were enormous, each easily the size of ten men, and the clay they were made of seemed ancient. Their faces had no features, and their hands were closed into fists. Hard diamonds were strewn in a pattern throughout their body, a pattern I had just recognised.
They were imbued with the Tree of Life.
"Enough," Amat said. I returned to myself and stood facing her. On the floor beside me, Manning snored loudly. "Time is running out, and the angel is growing stronger. It will come looking for you. Be prepared."
"I thought you were going to quit the Sibyl role," I said, but her eyes mesmerised me. I was lost in them, seeing the faraway shapes of curious mountains and rivers, clouds that seemed like faces, and giant creatures gliding on the winds... I reached for her, a third and futile time, and felt pain explode in my hand like a grenade.
"Remember me..." she whispered, as the snake’s venom coursed through my blood. I felt a hot, searing pain as if my brain were exploding.
Then I passed out.
I came to on the floor of my living room. My hand throbbed. Two puncture marks were visible on the flesh between my thumb and forefinger. I stood up.Underneath my feet was my chalked Star of David. Around me, furniture and belongings lay in broken heaps.
I moved through the house, feeling weary: room after room had been smashed up and its contents scattered. There were pools of piss in the bedroom and human excrement left on the kitchen’s floor.
I didn’t care about any of that. I went down to the basement, not surprised to find it had also been ransacked. The false brick in the southern wall, however, was undisturbed. I slid it out and helped myself to its mysteries: a bottle of Scottish whisky, a small bag of opium, and a curved wooden pipe, the shape of a wingless bird. There were also some vials I had left there for a day of need, and these I pocketed carefully.
Then I proceeded to have a party.
It went well as far as solitary parties go, and when there was no more whisky and only a little cocaine I curled up into a ball on the floor and went to sleep, figuring a house that had already been broken into might just be the best place to lie low for a little while.
I slept, and in my sleep Amat’s face returned to haunt me, uttering more nonsensical warnings; I saw the dark figure of the Feng-Huang stalking shadows, moving through my dreams, but he never turned back, never turned to look at me. I followed him through dreamscapes of torn memories, returning at last to the boarding-house in Paris, to a self centuries in the past, lying on the floor, choking on vomit, body wracked by drugs.
It occurred to me, then, that my life had not, perhaps, changed as much as I thought it had.
In my dream, the Feng-Huang loomed over me and laughed. Its eyes were burning emeralds, poisonous green, and its laughter was that of the hyena, a mad, deep sound that hurt my skull.
I tried to turn away from it, and in the way of dreams the scene was somehow gone, and I was dancing in the Albert Hall, Billie Carleton in my arms, the band playing music that made us soar together like two birds tied by a string. I could see Manning sitting at a table by the bar, Brilliant Chang opposite him. They were playing cards, their faces grim, and the pot was Billie’s golden snuff box.
Their cards, I noticed, were Tarot cards, and I strained my neck to see who would win the game, but the swirl of dancing partners passed between us and when I looked again they were gone.
"You smell lovely tonight," I said to Billie, and she smiled at me and held me tight, and so we danced until the ballroom was gone and only the two of us remained, dancing in a perfect darkness, our lips touching in one blossoming, perfect kiss.
As I tasted her I felt her move away, become lighter. "Billie, no!" I cried, but her form began to melt in my hands, to ebb away, and I cried and tried to hold her, to keep her, all to myself.
Then somebody kicked me hard in the ribs and I woke up shivering on the basement floor.
"You son of a bitch," I said. Motty put out his hand and helped me to my feet.
"Sorry, boss," he said. "We tried waking you up but you were gone. And time is something we don’t have an abundance of right now."
He motioned for the boys, who were leaning against the walls of the basement. Aviel brought forward a flask of hot tea and a bag full of sandwiches, then retreated and lit himself a cigarette.
"Thanks."
The hot tea washed away memories and dreams alike; I ate quickly, while Motty and the boys waited. Then, "What’s going on?"
"We’ve been trying to find you since yesterday," Motty said. "Zenovia came to the shop screaming murder. Said that you and Manning had been attacked by tongs, then disappeared. We came to your house, but it was already broken into. I left Daniel outside to watch if you came back, but being the useless boy that he is it took him until now to let me know."
The boy foremost left shook his head. "It wasn’t my fault, boss. This whole area is crawling with police."
"Why police?" I said. I had a feeling I would not like the answer.
Motty coughed. It wasn’t a gentle cough, but the cough of a smoker who had pursued tobacco with a passion. "You’re wanted for the murder of Saturday Beauregard."
I opened my mouth. Then I closed it. Then I said, "Fuck."
The boys all nodded.
"According to the papers," Motty said, ploughing on as if determined to unburden himself of the bad news as quickly as he could, "Beauregard escaped prison the night after Manning was released. And according to eyewitnesses, he was seen in Limehouse, and later again he was seen having a fight with a man matching your description. Also--" the cough stopped him again, but only briefly "--his body was found last night, downriver from the place we saw him. You’re wanted for questioning."
"Very convenient," I said. I thought about the situation. The Metropolitan Police were not known for moving very fast, so their quick mobilisation must have had an external agent of some sort. It didn’t take long to work out who – or what – was behind it.
"Any word of Manning?"
"No," Motty said, a faint note of surprise in his voice. "We thought he was with you."
"Clearly," I said, "he isn’t."
There was a noise from upstairs, and Alfy Benjamin came rushing down the stairs.
"Looks like we were spotted," he announced. "There’re pigs and tongs all over this area and they seem to be heading this way. Separately, of course, but this looks like trouble."
I motioned the boys, and they followed me as I climbed back up to street level. The time for running around and being pursued was over, or so I tried to tell myself.
Through the window a dull afternoon light cast a tired haze over Smithfields market. I had lost twenty-four hours according to Motty, though I suspected my time in the sewers and my time in the dream were somehow longer than that. There were plainclothes policemen milling about in the street, trying unsuccessfully not to look like policemen. There was also a large contingent of Chinese men, sticking to the shadows in the entryways of buildings. It almost made me want to find a way back to the sewers. But not quite.
"Where one sees only a problem," I said, "another sees opportunity."
"What are you going to do?" Motty asked.
I turned to him and grinned. "I’m going to magic us away," I said.
"Oh. Good," he said. He didn’t look reassured.
We left through the front door. Me in the middle, surrounded closely by the boys. Alfy and Motty strode ahead, shouting for the crowd to make way, that a dangerous criminal was caught. The policemen were close, and were approaching us now, but we continued to move, directly toward the tongs.
It was a dangerous game to play, with me as bait and the boys with the very real chance of getting hurt. But it was a game worth playing.
I could almost see it in their eyes, the moment the decision was made. The tongs wanted me. And they hated cops. On the other hand, the cops wanted me. And they really hated the tongs.
I heard the shot go off as planned. Mott
y, soon followed by another, this one from a policeman. The tongs returned fire.
I watched the riot begin.
"Since when do the police have firearms?" I shouted and felt exhilaration grip me like a vice. "Watch out, boys – it’s magic time!"
I took out the two large vials from my pocket and broke them with a flourish against the ground. Rancid smoke enveloped us.
I hit out, as a man – I couldn’t tell which faction he belonged to – charged at me, and then we ran, me and the boys, while behind us smoke billowed and guns sounded and the whole of the street descended into a manic, wild brawl.
A guy came through the door with a gun.
He put the gun into his belt as he came in and took off his hat. The face – leathery and tough and wrinkled and as pockmarked as the face of the moon – curved into a smile.
"Shalom, boys," he said cheerfully. His voice was American, soft, well-articulated. I could see Alfy and Motty tense beside me.
"Adam," I said. "How are you?"
He laughed. "It’s good to see you too, Tzaddik. I hear you’ve landed yourself in trouble again."
I made a sign, and the boys got up and filed out of the door. When we were alone, I motioned for him to sit down and poured him a glass of brandy from the crystal decanter. We were in a safe house in Hampstead. At least, I hoped it was safe. In any case, I did not intend to stay long.
Adam Worth regarded me with a smile. He brought out a small silver case, opened it, offered me a cigar. When I declined he took one out, returned the case into the hidden pocket in his coat, and took great care in trimming and lighting it. Fumes rose in the room like an ill wind.
I watched him in silence and waited for him to speak. Adam Worth, the man Sir Robert Anderson, the head of Scotland Yard, once called “the Napoleon of crime”; the man who inspired Doyle to create his fictional Moriarty.
"I thought you were dead," I said.
"Did you?" he shrugged. "I am under that name. The Civil War – though why for God’s sake they call it that I have no idea – ended some time ago. It was time to assume a new rôle."
"What do you want?" I didn’t need this complication. And I didn’t want anything to do with Worth, regardless of what he was calling himself in these more enlightened times.
"Do you know," he said, puffing on the cigar and looking at me keenly, like an interested father, "Pinkerton once said that ‘in the death of Adam Worth there probably departed the most inventive and daring criminal in modern times’? He said that of all the men he had known in his lifetime, I was ‘the most remarkable criminal of them all.’" He smiled and shook his head as if remembering better times and better days.
"Did he?" I said. Then I had to smile. "You were always a great thief."
Worth waved his hand in false modesty. "You’re not so bad yourself, when you put your mind to it."
"So what do you want?" I said again. He shook his head at me, admonishing. "You fucked up, boy," he said. "There’s a ghost and an angel on the loose in your city, and you seem to think hiding here and drinking brandy is the answer to all your problems. Look how long it took me to find you. If you’re trying to hide, you’re not doing a very good job of it."
"I’m not trying to hide," I said, annoyed. "I’m trying to think. I don’t understand what’s going on."
"Don’t you?" We were indulging in the Jewish Dialogue: trading a question for a question for a question. He dropped his ash carefully into the ashtray. "Or is it because, for you, the ghost is more than a ghost and you are reluctant to face her? No, don’t answer that," he said. "I understand no-one knows exactly what happened on the night Billie Carleton died, and I’m sure that’s only right. I also know a small gold-plated snuffbox that she habitually carried on her person could not be found when the police got to her room, though I’ve heard it’s been seen recently around town."
I watched him, this fat, immortal Jew, who sat like a contented spider in his web of information. I should have been flattered he was here at all, but I remembered Genoa, and the murder there. I was not the only one to be expelled from the Thirty-Six over the long, long years.
"The heart of the mystery," Worth said, "is at the heart. Cherchez la femme, ah?" He winked at me and blew a smoke ring that turned into Billie Carleton’s face before ebbing away.
"Impressive trick," I said, but I was rattled. Worth had come here to tell me something. Time was running out, and I had to act.
"What do you mean?"
He stood up, drew out his gun, twirled it on his finger; raised it to his lips and blew smoke from the barrel. "I’ll be seeing you," he said. "Or not. As the case may be."
He walked out of the room, putting the gun into his belt as he did so, leaving me alone to think of a woman, and her grave.
Cherchez la femme, Worth said, and so I had come at last to find her: the night was moonless and the skies patterned in stars, and the tombstones projected, ghostly and grotesque, over the lengthening fog that lay like a thick residue on Highgate Cemetery.
I had taken some coke beside the gate to the cemetery, afraid of what I might find inside. Dubious of Chang’s story of the desecrated grave and yet apprehensive. I felt my consciousness grow as the drugs took hold of me and knew the ways between the Sephirot were wide open tonight. The Feng-Huang might not be the only thing to walk Assiah on this night.
Her grave lay undisturbed and modest beside two larger graves, one sporting an angel with wings unfurling, the other a curious figure: an innocent, androgynous child with eyes of stone that caught the distant light of stars. As I approached it, the feeling of dread at the back of my head intensified.
I turned - and found him. A piece of darkness detached from the night.
The Feng-Huang laughed.
It was a deceptive sound, full of the warmth of a spring day and the lucidity of lake water, and yet it made my skin go cold as if a skeletal hand had laid bony fingers on my wrist.
We stood facing each other without movement, without sound. He was tall and dressed in a black, flowing robe that formed a closed circle on the ground. His face was hidden in shadows: only the green eyes burned within the darkness.
The eyes found me and held. Finally, he spoke.
"You are like a ferret, set on a scent and left to run and run in circles until you reach its source," he said. "You are no longer dangerous, but you may be useful."
"Fuck you," I said.
The Feng-Huang laughed again. "I don’t think so," he said. The fire in his eyes intensified.
Burning pain burst in the back of my head, and I fell to the ground.
Hands grabbed me. Hauled me to my feet. I felt my hands being tied behind my back.
"Your rivals for the affections of the delightful Ms Carleton," the Feng-Huang said. As he did, two figures materialised in front of me.
"Hello, Tzaddik," Chang said. "You took your time getting here." He was dressed in flowing, vaguely oriental robes, his dark hair tied back in a ponytail. In his hand he held what seemed to be a very sharp knife.
But the man I was watching was standing next to Chang. Edgar Manning wore a calm expression, but the pupils in his eyes were abnormally large. In his hand, too, was a knife. I was getting a bad feeling.
"To bring the dead back to life," the Feng-Huang said, "can only be done at a perilous exchange. A normal human life would not do, as that exchange is only equal. You understand?"
Chang and Manning nodded, the motion mechanical like that of automatons.
"To give the dead life," said the Feng-Huang, "an immortal life must be sacrificed."
"You didn’t think I came here alone, did you?" I said, trying for a bravado I didn’t quite feel.
"That is exactly what I think," said the Feng-Huang. "Like I said, you were like a ferret, led on a leash. You believed Manning when he lied to you. You believed Chang when he, in turn, fed you the rest. And you believed them because each was telling you some of the truth, and you were too weakened by your drug habit to comprehend the whol
e."
"I’ve had a perfectly healthy drug habit for many years," I said. The Feng-Huang laughed. "Manning was the fool who asked Saturday Beauregard for help in raising Billie’s spirit. And Beauregard was a fool for consenting, and for trying to take on powers far beyond his control. But we are all pawns in somebody else’s game, Tzaddik. Even you and I. For Manning, there was another man who moved the pieces on the board."
"Chang."
The Feng-Huang moved the darkness that was his hooded head in assent. "Chang wished to have his mistress back. And so he used one of his men, a man by the name of Uncle Lee, to impress upon Manning the idea of the summoning. But he was useful, too: for all his bravado he is mine, now."
"And so," I said, "all the actions of mortal men led only to bring forth a creature like you onto this earth. Compelling stuff, I’m sure, but I do not play games with either mortals or angels. You will not be allowed to remain."
As I spoke my fingers moved, analysing the knot. The Feng-Huang had wanted me out of his way, wanted me chasing reflections in the fog as he waited for this night, the night when the spheres were aligned and the spirits of the dead – as well as those of the living – could travel across the Sephirot with relative ease. He set me on a goose chase, planting the seeds that would lead me here at last, to this lonely grave in this place of the dead.
"She meant a lot to you, didn’t she?" he said. "Would you like to see her again?"
I didn’t answer.
"No? A pity."
The Feng-Huang’s eyes rose in flame. He extended his arms as if in an embrace – and into the darkness of the night materialised the face of the woman I once loved, and lost.
"Billie..." The word was drawn from our collective throats. Chang and Manning and I, together, under her power still.
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