by Clare Daly
The deeper into the trees she went, the cooler the air, the smell of damp leaves and moss heady after the rain. The truth was that, no matter how well intentioned, she had made things even worse. How could she tell Michael, after he had already warned against it? And what news to bring him today, of all days. But she was at a loss as to a solution. Maybe he’d think of one – when he’d calmed down. Like burning Melmoth Hall to the ground. Destroy his home before he could theirs. And Stockett, trapped, his frock coat alight as he banged on the window for mercy. She paused. This flight of fancy was not unusual for her, but one so dark? Her father called that ‘unholy thought’ and she reckoned that perhaps in dark times, people were forced to think like that – to dream darker.
Her attention turned to the sound of horse’s hooves behind her. Someone approached at great speed. There was no mistaking the rider as Corcoran’s hulking frame came into view. He spotted her, pulling on the reins. His face was a menacing snarl, his eyes demented and she knew that her greatest mistake was not upsetting Stockett, but putting herself in the path of his middleman. She’d gone over his head and worse still she’d done it right in front of him. Had Lord Stockett reprimanded him after she’d gone? Most likely and he wasn’t happy about it. A beating was coming, of that she was sure.
She ducked off the path into the trees. She would never outrun him – he was strong and healthy – so she searched desperately for a place to hide. She dropped down into a patch of dense undergrowth, and peeked out through the leaves. On the path, his horse stood alone. To her right, she heard the crunch of twigs underfoot. Then silence.
‘You can’t hide from me.’ His voice boomed among the trees.
She didn’t dare move. The ground crackled again, louder this time. He was getting closer. A bead of sweat ran down the side of her face, her body a sudden furnace of intense heat. Closer. She could see his coat, just a few feet away. Could he see her? Not yet, but he soon would. Damn it! She burst out from the bushes, running as fast as she could. Within seconds his hands were on her, dragging her down to the sodden leaves, her feet slipping as she tried to escape him. But he was quick. He was on top of her before she had a chance to move, his face so close she could smell the alcohol on his breath.
‘Told you I’d find you.’
She struggled underneath his weight.
‘My brother will come,’ she said.
‘Your brother has no idea you’re here, or you wouldn’t have come alone.’
He chuckled, savouring his position and she hated that she’d given him reassurance of it. No-one would come and he knew it. He leaned back, delivering a powerful blow across her face with the back of his hand. Pain, as the vision in her left eye swam into a blur. As it righted again, she saw a change in his expression. In it was violence, but also desire and she realised that there were worse things than a beating. Much worse.
She screamed as loud as she could. Was there anyone out there to hear it? Please let there be. Someone to intervene and put a stop to it. She screamed again and this time he clasped his hands tightly around her neck, her cries stifled as she gasped for air. But there was uncertainty in his eyes. Either his hands were ice cold or her feverish warmth was more pronounced than she thought, but he had noticed it too. Her insides heaved as it spread through her body, the intensity growing the tighter his grip became. The tingle in her limbs she’d felt in Melmoth Hall returned. Was she ill? Or was it true and she hadn’t been spared her mother’s gift after all?
She fought against him, her hand grabbing his neck as he had hers. She was weak, her grip having no impact but she held on as the heat surged. It rippled through her arm, up to her wrist and into her fingers until it reached the tips, where it shimmered through her skin onto his, growing hotter by the second. Disbelief and panic married in Corcoran’s eyes. He let go of her, forcing her hand away and pinning it to the ground. He was staring at it, his eyes wide. There nestled in her palm, was a golden flame. It danced hypnotically, majestic in the darkness of the wood. And then it disappeared. She clenched her hand but it was gone, the magic lost.
Corcoran’s hands went back to her throat, not to subdue her but to end it, for he leaned his body forward, adding his weight to the task. White clouds drifted across her sight. She was dizzy – disoriented – unable to breathe. She would soon lose consciousness – that or the sheer force would break her neck. Whichever came first. Her hand grasped the air before finding the sleeve of his coat. The tingle returned to her fingers and she felt the tiny flame ignite once more. Corcoran held fast, determined to finish what he started. The threads in the fabric began to singe, the flame getting to work, growing until it reached its fiery tip to lick his face. He had no choice but to draw back and tear the burning coat from his shoulders. This was it – her only chance. Air struggled to reach her lungs but all she could think of was escape. She only got four or five paces before something heavy struck her on the back of her head and everything plunged into darkness.
***
The world is red. I can taste it.
It fills every part of me.
The world is blood.
And in it I drown.
Evelyn’s eyes opened suddenly. She was no longer in the woods and her mind struggled to connect with her strange new surroundings. Everything seemed slower here and it was only as a lock of her hair drifted in front of her face that her mind caught up. She was in water. Far below the surface. And she couldn’t move. It filled her mouth and she expelled it in a trail of bubbles into the murkiness around her. Pain raged in her head, thanks to Corcoran, and she knew then where she was. Still in the woods but far below the trees. On the riverbed. He had wrapped her in sackcloth and tied her hands and feet. She wriggled, fighting against what she knew to be inevitable. She couldn’t hold her breath forever.
When it did invade, the water was a mix of silt and the taste of her own blood trailing from her head. It found her stomach, her lungs. She had lost. Death was approaching as surely as if it had opened a door to greet her and she was drifting into its embrace. In its midst, she heard a voice whisper in her ear – the tone urgent.
He said only one word.
Fight!
She felt it strike her like a blow, her whole body reacting as her eyes shot open again. An image came into her mind of that flame in her hand. Her flame. She imagined it spreading all over her body, her heart a pulsating orb of fire as it strengthened her. The heat inside her rose again. This time, it erupted from her in a ball of white light. Her bindings and clothing disintegrated, the heat so powerful as to change them to particles that shot out like exploding stars around her. She was free. Her feet brushed the stones on the riverbed and she sprung off them, rising quickly to the surface. When she reached the bank, she coughed up water until there was no more and she lay on her back in the grass, her arms outstretched, air at last in her lungs.
It was nightfall. A bright moon shone in the sky and her thoughts turned to Corcoran. Was he still here? Was he lurking somewhere in case she re-surfaced? How long had she been out for? He probably thought he had done enough. He’d certainly tried.
She looked to the old stone bridge that lay above her. He must have thrown her in from there. Long ago, people used to fish there, her own father included, until Lord Stockett took over Melmoth and outlawed it. The first wisps of mist began to descend on it. And only there, for when she looked around, the night was clear. It cascaded through the air, to slowly unveil the figure of a man. He was finely dressed, his jacket neatly buttoned over a white shirt and neat grey cravat, his dark hair slicked back off his face. He was smiling at her, his brown eyes warm. It was his voice she’d heard. She had no doubt. He bowed his head to her before the mist covered him and when it curled away on the air, the bridge was empty, the night once again clear.
Who was he, this stranger? Or maybe he wasn’t a stranger. She thought of the man she’d seen in the graveyard that day with her fat
her. But she was just a child and she hadn’t seen his face. Was it him? Was she in danger? But he’d saved her – urged her to use her power when it mattered most. If he’d wanted to destroy her, he could simply have left her to drown. She felt the first chill of goose bumps on her skin as she returned to normal. But then she would never be normal again. She was different. She was extraordinary and she would see him again.
7
Far away, the same man opened his eyes to the city skyline, a panorama of rooftops and chimney stacks all the way to the Hudson River. Exhaling, his misty breath clouded the air, a souvenir of his projection to the girl. Manhattan’s nocturnal soundtrack returned. The sound of horses’ hooves in the warren below, human sounds of laughter and cries for help intertwined, the barking of loose dogs that roamed the streets, the distant bells as ships made their way across the bay. And music, far off in the distance from the Five Points. Music for revelry and celebration. Prepare yourself city! Soon you will have a new daughter.
She’d seen him – a feat indeed! He stretched his arms out like a bird flexing its wings before flight. He liked to come up on the roof alone at night to survey his city, to watch it pulsate below. Nothing happened here that he did not know about. If it involved an act of darkness, he knew of it and who was responsible. He controlled the subterranean tide of this great city, the one that sat silently heaving with the human world beneath heaven and above hell, a darkness within the mortal world where creatures roamed and evil seethed. Without his control, it would spill over into theirs and there would be chaos. He kept order and if he did not allow your entry to this great island you went away with your pointy tail between your legs. Object and you might find yourself visiting hell a little quicker than you thought.
She was coming to him at an interesting time. He removed his jacket and loosened his tie. He did hate such restrictive clothing but he wanted to make a good impression should his suspicions of the girl prove true, and he was glad now that they had at last made a connection. She would recoil if she were to see his true self, the one he kept hidden, buried deep. Anyone would.
8
Rako awoke to the shrill sound of a bell ringing. He heard it clearly as if the ringer were close to his ear and then it stopped. He listened for a moment. Nothing. The castle was quiet, the sun only beginning to rise in the sky. He often dreamt in sounds as much as images and knowing there was no bell to be found within its walls, he knew his mind was already signalling a busy day. There would be a sacrifice tonight and a prisoner to prepare. Dragomir Letski, prisoner 5382. Trouble. No other inmate could match his strength and size and as men do, in challenging others, he had left a wake of beaten men in his path, some who died instantly, others weeks later from their injuries. The creature was welcome to him, for with him here, the list of good candidates was getting thin.
He sat up and rubbed his face. His fingers touched something wet on his forehead and he drew them back. In the half-light, they looked black but he knew blood in any light. He pushed off his blanket and went to the small mirror on the wall. Streaks of it smeared his face, tiny droplets dry on his nose. His bed was the same, covered in drops of blood. His heart leapt. He had been here. In this room. He shuddered and peered into the darkened corners to see if his eyes would meet the monster’s gaze, but the sun was rising and he knew that with any luck the creature would have returned to its lair, for he had never encountered him in daylight.
A fresh drop of blood landed on his shoulder and he looked up. It was coming from the ceiling. He lit a candle and climbed up on the bed, his arm extended as far as he could reach. There, in the shadows, written in blood with a childlike abandon to form and size, were a row of numbers.
Rako looked closer. It was a prisoner number. It had to be. They could have no other meaning. Hurriedly he washed his face and pulled his uniform on, his fingers fumbling over the buttons on his shirt. The creature had never asked for anyone before. He left it to Rako and Rako had already chosen. In his office, he thumped down the heavy book of records and though he suspected he knew its owner already, he ran his finger down the list of inmates. When he found it, he sat back in his chair to ponder it. The creature had chosen this man? Why?
***
The Great Hall was its usual state of organised chaos as prisoners queued for their morning gruel. Rako stood on the balcony watching them, when he spotted the Dermatov brothers standing in line. When they reached the large cauldron, they each received a ladleful from its smaller cousin behind, the steam from its heat leaving a trail after them as they found a seat. Most of the prisoners were used to some getting preferential treatment. You got what you paid for and if you had no money than cold gruel was the best you could hope for.
He watched as Vladimir walked towards Dragomir Letski’s table, a no-go for any man not in his circle. What was he doing? The mountain of a man sat with his back to him, eating his own gruel – grey and running off his spoon. He could have demanded a hot breakfast from the guards, but why bother when he could simply take it from another? He would surely take the Dermatovs’.
Vladimir sat at the empty bench beside his, where he proceeded to eat his breakfast, loudly savouring each spoonful. When Letski looked at him, he winked. His brother Sasha had stopped in the middle of the room, unsure whether to follow him, when his brother shouted to him.
‘Alexander, here.’
With unsure steps, he followed him and sat down.
Letski was already on his feet, filling the space around him as he stood up, his own men giving him room to manoeuvre.
‘It’s good, huh?’ Vladimir said to him, his mouth full. ‘Nice and creamy today.’
Does he want to die? No-one goaded Letski. It didn’t take much to get most of the men going. They were hungry most of the time and hunger is great fuel for an argument.
‘Did you want some? Vladimir asked, holding out his bowl to him, before tipping its contents out onto the floor.
For a big man, Letski was fast. A fist the size of a boulder came at his head but Vladimir was quick too. He dropped the bowl as he swerved to avoid him, sinking a punch into the man’s lower back. Letski faltered as Vladimir grabbed onto him, one foot on the bench as he climbed up the man, using all his weight to knock his balance until he crashed to the ground. Letski clasped his hands around the smaller man’s skull but Vladimir took a blade from his pocket and drove it upwards into Letski’s jaw. His grip released as his head fell back, blood pooling on the flagstones.
The room fell into silence. Somewhere in the kitchens, pots clanged. All eyes were on Vladimir. The guards rushed in, forcing him to the ground, but he didn’t fight back. He lay there grinning as they shackled him. His brother was staring at the dead man and back to Vladimir, dumbfounded. He was a man of constant surprise it seemed, even to his own family. Slowly the prisoners returned to their seats, Letski’s gang silently eating their gruel, eyes cast deep into their bowls.
***
‘You can’t kill the inmates,’ Rako said as Vladimir was led to the same chair in his office. The bloodied knife lay casually on the desk between them.
‘You allow me to carry protection. Did you think I wouldn’t need it?’
‘For protection. Not ambush…and Letski of all people.’
Vladimir wiped his bloody hands on his trousers.
‘You’d chosen him to go out there. The man was a thug. Not worthy of the honour.’
‘How do you know that?’
When the list wasn’t with him, it was locked in a drawer in his office.
‘Letski was a bit obvious don’t you think? I told you I wouldn’t give up. With Letski dead, now you can send me.’
The man had hidden resources, he had to admit. A shame. He might have been a good candidate after all.
‘You murdered Letski for nothing,’ he said. ‘You were right, for years, it’s been up to me. Who I saw fit and I had put Letski to the top of the list.
But your intervention will have no effect. He’s making the decisions now.’
He let his words sink in, for a moment even pitying the man before him. All that he had done, only for his great adventure to misfire.
‘He has decided who he wants next and it’s not you.’
Rako ran his finger down the page, checking the number again, though he’d already done it dozens of times. There was no error.
‘He wants your brother.’
The words hung in silence as Rako waited patiently for his reaction. When he spoke, Vladimir’s voice was no more than a whisper.
‘There must be some mistake.’
‘Tonight.’
‘Why would he want him? How does he even know about him?’
‘It is not for us to reason,’ Rako said.
‘He can’t have him before me. I won’t allow it.’
‘I will. Make no mistake who is in charge here. Me over you and the creature over all of us. It’s my job only to give him what he wants, not what he doesn’t.’
‘But he doesn’t know what I know.’
‘Then I suggest you tell him.’
‘He won’t understand.’
Rako sighed. ‘They never do.’
***
Sasha was pacing back and forth in their cell when Vladimir returned. Though he waited for news, he was surprised to see him. He expected him to be deep in one of Rako’s solitary chambers, as punishment for murdering Letski. He’d never seen his brother move like that – didn’t know he could and he wondered what other talents he kept hidden. There was no warning from him, no citation of the day’s plan for bloodshed and so he couldn’t work out why he would even do such a thing. Had he cracked at last? Gone mad? He shuffled in, sitting down so that the guards could remove his shackles. All while he stared at Letski’s dried blood on his hands. When the guards left, he rose to the basin of water and sunk his hands to the bottom.