by A. E. Moorat
'Unfortunately for you, though, Protektor,' it laughed, 'it's not just you and me, is it?'
Maggie came forward, trying to find a way in. The wolf dodged and slashed, catching her on the arm, both of her arms now torn to shreds; at the same time the succubus kicked and she felt a rib go, then was staggering back, losing breath. God, the rib hadn't punctured a lung, had it? Please Lord, no. Her hand went to her chest and she winced at the pain there.
The succubus threw back her head and laughed. She felt strong, Maggie Brown knew, and confident. And what happens when you get confident, Maggie? You make mistakes...
'Which reminds me,' said the wolf, 'it has been most remiss of me not to ask after Mr Brown. It did reach my ears that the once-great Royal Protektor had hung up his boots. That he lost his nerve.' He pulled a mock sad face. 'Say it isn't so...'
Yes, thought Maggie. He lost his nerve. For months he had woken up screaming from the nightmares of his castration at the hands of the Arcadians. Months. He'd started drinking soon after. He'd never really stopped.
The succubus laughed once more. When she did it, Maggie noticed, her eyes closed a little. She relinquished concentration.
And the Arcadian. He was arrogant and sloppy and preening. He was too stupid to be vigilant.
There was a chance.
Maggie was outnumbered and hurt and every second that passed made her slower.
But there was a chance.
'Don't you talk about him,' snarled Maggie. 'Don't you talk about him.'
'Oh, is that a sore point?' said the wolf, who sniggered, 'From what I heard, it would have been a very sore point indeed.'
The succubus threw back her head and laughed; the wolf was grooming itself proudly in the aftermath of its joke.
It was her chance.
Maggie Brown attacked. She stepped forward, swinging down and kicking out, taking the Arcadian's leg from beneath it so that it hit the deck with a yowl of pain while at the same time, Maggie, at full stretch, threw herself out, stabbing with the broadsword and catching the succubus off guard.
Except she did not. She was too slow, her moves telegraphed, and though the wolf hit the deck, the succubus danced out of reach. Now Maggie was hitting the floor even as the succubus put her hands to the stone and kicked back, catching Maggie in the face as she tried to scramble to her feet, sending her rolling back, only just able to raise the broadsword and fend off a second attack.
She pushed herself to her feet, barely able to stand, trying to catch her breath. Blood now flowed freely from her face. The kick had broken her nose, she thought. She tried to raise her sword but found she couldn't-her hand, wet with blood, slipped on the handle. She dropped the dagger, tried to lift the sword two-handed now.
(John had always told her: 'Broadsword's too heavy Maggie, it's a two-handed weapon,' but she'd always laughed it off because she was Maggie Brown and she wielded a broadsword, because she was Maggie Brown.
Stupid...Arrogant...)
She took a grip on her sword, still bent over, her hair hanging over her face, blood and sweat dripping to the stone.
And with a last great effort she managed to raise the sword.
The succubus stepped forward and came to within an inch of Maggie's sword point. Maggie followed her with the sword, needing to wipe the blood from her eyes but unable to do so-until she took a swipe just to try and push the succubus back, so that she could wipe her face, and God she was going to die for want of being able to wipe the blood from her eyes and that was no way to die. No way at all.
Blindly she swung, and the succubus laughed and dodged out of the way. Then Maggie felt claws open her arm and heard the clang of steel upon stone as her sword fell from her bloody fingers and the strength deserted her legs and she sank to her knees. She felt the succubus take hold of her chin and raise her head, tilting it back to expose her throat, and behind the succubus she saw him.
John.
The image of him tinted a hazy red
'You came for me,' she whispered.
'Aye, Maggie,' he said.
The succubus span.
John Brown disembowelled her with a flick of the wrist. The wolf made for the door but John Brown stopped it, thrust the sword into its groin and opened it to the nape of his neck, just as Maggie had once promised to do.
Then, John Brown, grim-faced, sheathed his sword, picked up his unconscious wife and left the workhouse.
XLVII
The Queen stepped through the door that led to the criminal asylum and breathed a sigh of relief. She pulled down the mask that covered her face and breathed in, thankful at last for a lungful of air not contaminated by the fabric, for it was filthy.
And no wonder. Victoria had not, of late, been travelling in the manner to which she was accustomed. After all, she was more used to being transported inside a carriage-rather than underneath one.
Doing battle with the zombies at the House, her eye had been caught by the sight of three men in the Strangers' Gallery, one of whom looked like...a zombie had reached for her and she sprang away, then turned to it, hacking out with the spinsaw, which was already coated with blood. Go for the brain, Maggie had shouted, and Victoria had put her weapons to good use, the saw splitting skin and skull with ease, ripping into the matter beneath and felling revenants. Another came at her from the side and she stabbed out with the short sword, skewering it at the shoulder then slicing, first backhand with the spinsaw, the MP's scalp sliding from his braincase to reveal the white, blood-streaked cranium beneath; then, forehand-the second strike opening the skull and ploughing into the grey jelly of the brain. The zombie's eyes rolled up and it fell.
Moving into space, Victoria glanced up once more and-yes, there he was. He wore a top hat, but his ponytail gave him away. Before she could stop herself she had called out his name.
'Conroy.'
Upon the balcony he had straightened, looking down in the House and seen her. Did he recognise her? Even with the hat and mask? She wasn't sure. And not that it mattered, because Conroy was already making his way out of the gallery, and she knew she couldn't lose him.
She started for the door. Then, in her way, was a man she recognised, Sir Lucius Fulci, the right honourable member for she-wasn't-sure-where, but she had met him once at a gala ball and he had seemed most pleasant and, she recalled, had made a pledge, to always be an ally for her.
Now, however, he wanted to eat her.
'I'm thinking of having you for dinner,' he grinned and lurched forwards, his hands outstretched. Instinctively she ducked beneath his arms, striking up with the shortsword and stabbing him at the sternum. But the move left her beneath his legs and as she tried to pull herself away her boots slipped on the wet floor and she felt her legs go from beneath her, dumping her to the ground.
Sir Lucius Fulci was upon her before she could move, pinning her with his weight, her arms trapped. Then he was on top of her, like an ardent but inexperienced lover, bearing down on her, his face filling her vision. It shone. Saliva dripped from his mouth on to her cheek. With an effort she pulled one of her hands free from beneath him, the one that held the spinsaw, but the blade, trapped beneath their two bodies had ceased spinning. Fulci bearing down on her, she reached and flicked it on his body then with a burst of strength pushed up, giving her just the opening she needed to ram the spinning saw into his forehead, her face spattered with blood and cerebral matter as she performed a makeshift frontal lobotomy upon him.
His limbs were still jerking as she pushed him off, desperate not to lose Conroy, and darted to the pile of bodies blocking the doorway, which reached almost to the top of the frame.
But left a gap just big enough for one person to pass through.
As long as that person was small.
Without breaking stride, the Queen leapt on to the screaming, writhing pile of bodies, reached the top in one bound and was diving forward, arms outflung, the dive taking her through the gap, to the other side where she rolled down the other side of the
carcass mountain to land in the corridor. She didn't stop, dashing straight through the main entrance hall and to the steps outside. There she saw Conroy, hurrying towards his carriage, and she prayed he would not glance behind him as she ran across the gravel in his wake.
He didn't. In a great hurry, he tossed his cane to the driver's plate of his hansom cab, then dashed to untether the horses.
Victoria reached the carriage a moment later. For a second her mind refused to comprehend everything that was taking place: she was the Queen of England; she was standing in Westminster in the early hours of the morning, with her face covered in zombie blood.
And now-now she was dropping to one knee and looking beneath the carriage, studying the axle.
And now she was climbing beneath it.
And hanging on...
The journey was mercifully brief. Any longer and her muscles would simply have given up. Her arms were on fire by the time they reached their destination and when the carriage stopped she literally dropped from the axle, landing face down in a puddle.
For a second she lay there, feeling the cool water on her face and enjoying the sensation, strangely. And briefly she wondered how long she might remain that way before she simply drowned and none of these worries would exist any more. There would just be...peace...
No.
With a cry, she pulled her face from the water, bringing her hands to her face and rubbing her eyes, then splashing more water upon herself to wash the blood from her. She heard the crunch of running feet on gravel and looked to her left, seeing the feet and legs of Conroy as he went towards a large building.
A building that, when she pulled herself from the underside of the carriage and took it all in, she saw was Bedlam.
Another carriage arrived and she hid, listening to the ladies disembark, hearing them chatter and formulating a plan. From one of their carriages she was able to take a cloak. Then, seeing her moment, she joined them, all the time seeking out signs of Conroy.
Then, at the door to the criminal asylum, she had gone with her instinct and detached herself from the group.
Now she walked carefully along the corridor. This led to a second door, which she opened, moving through.
Now she was in a hallway similar to the one in which she had left the Bethnal Green Baptist Ladies' Prayer Association members, lined with cells either side. Except this one was-though it hardly seemed possible-even more fearful and foreboding than the last. Noiselessly she moved to the first cell door and peered through the bars. Inside a woman sat on the floor, dressed in rags, pulling at her hair. In the next cell a man sat on the stone, wide awake and regarded her with cruel unseeing eyes. Down his face coursed droplets of blood from where a barbaric-looking steel device had been bolted onto his head. In the next cell a man whose hair had been shaved sat on a straw-covered bench, restrained by a harness and chained to a pipe, which steamed. His head turned to regard her and for a second she stared at him piteously.
'Bitch,' he hissed, grinning as she recoiled.
In the next a man sat chewing at his own lip, which oozed blood. He looked at her and, with his fingers to his mouth, poked out his tongue in a grotesque, bloody parody of a sexual act.
Then she heard a voice. It was coming from one of the cells halfway down the corridor.
It came from further up the corridor and she hurried past more cells towards it.
'I am the nephew of the great Egyptian God Osiris,' it said, 'and nobody will believe me, either.'
'Yes,' came a reply, in a voice Victoria recognised immediately, 'but I really am Prince Albert.'
'Albert!'
She rushed to the cell door, pressed her face to the bars and there he was. He sat on a bench in the cold, grey cell, his hands secured behind his back, and at the sound of his name, his head jerked to where she stood, though a chain which ran from his hands to a pipe in the cell prevented him from taking more than one step.
'Victoria,' he said. He was wearing the same clothes as he was the night he had been taken; his moustache had been supplemented by stubble. Otherwise, he looked well.
(And her mind flashed back to the wolf on the rack, which had said, 'Oh, they won't be torturing Albert...')
Even so, she asked him, 'Are you all right, my darling? Have they hurt you?'
'I am fine,' he smiled, 'all my scars are from the pain of our separation.'
'Albert,' she blushed, 'I do believe your incarceration has robbed you of none of your charm.' Then, 'Where is he? Where is Conroy?'
The Prince shook his head. 'He will be back soon. He was here with talk of leaving. Presumably he has gone to make preparations and will return.'
'Then there is no time to lose.'
She bent to the padlock, took a step back, drew her sword and brought it down, shearing the lock from the door, which she pulled open, and there was Albert, at last, and she ran to him, clasping him to her. With no time to luxuriate in the reconciliation, though, she pulled away so that she might inspect his manacles.
'I'm going to have to cut it, Albert.'
She stepped behind him and raised the sword.
Then stopped.
'Albert,' she said in a small voice, 'why did they take you?'
'I beg your pardon, my love?'
Louder, she said, 'Why has Conroy brought you here? Is it connected with what you were about to tell me that night?'
'Yes,' he said. His shoulders dropped a little. 'They took me because I was going to tell you.'
'Tell me what?'
'The truth.'
'What is the truth?' she hardly dared ask.
'That I am not all I seem to be,' he said, 'and that neither are you.'
She felt Conroy behind her a second before he spoke...
'Well, every marriage has its secrets.'...and was already wheeling around, bringing up the katana. Steel clashed with such ferocity that Conroy was driven out into the passage, but not enough to daze him and he was able to meet Victoria as she emerged from the cell, immediately raining attacks down on her, stepping forward and pushing her back. Inwardly, she cursed her inexperience. What had John Brown told her? Never lead with your heart, lead with your head-always the head. And what had she done?
Now she'd been driven back and Conroy stood between her and Albert.
She parried, stopping his attack and dancing back a little to gain some space, the two of them now facing each other in the corridor.
Conroy took up position, his rapier out in front of him and his arm behind in a fencing position. He grinned. 'Do I see the dim light of realisation in your eyes at last, Your Majesty?' he said.
She shook her head no-not wanting to believe it.
'It's true,' he said, 'you are the seed of demons. But then, I believe you already knew that, didn't you?'
She shook her head again.
'Oh, I think you did. Your speed. Your instincts. I saw how ruthless you were in battle, Victoria, and these are all the qualities of your demonic side, qualities you should embrace but do not-because like Prince Albert you resist your true nature.'
'No,' she said.
'Oh yes, Victoria. As a mere mortal, I envy you. You're a half-breed. Half-demon, half-mortal. As is your blushing bridegroom. The two of you paired by your loving parents, placed together like dogs, in order to breed a male heir to the Baal. One who will sit on the throne of England.'
She could not take it all in, struggled with her words. 'My father--' she started, attempting to make sense of it.
'Your father was a human,' said Conroy. 'They needed his lineage, Victoria, nothing more. From his loins came you, the half-breed. They required a male heir, of course, but your mother was unable to conceive another. She wears the shame of it still.'
'My mother...inhuman?'
Her sword wavered in front of her and she tried to steady it.
'Yes. As with Albert's father and your Uncle Leopold, she is a descendant of Baal. She was once a very powerful demon, though much reduced now, of course.'
'And you serve them?'
'Yes.'
'For what reason?'
Her voice faltered as she spoke.
'So when the Heir ascends to the throne I will be right at his side, of course.'
'You would have an eighteen-year wait,' said Victoria, her head still reeling.
'The blink of an eye for a demon.'
'But you are--'
'Not for much longer. My services come with a price-and my price is to be granted inhumanity. Not a half-breed like you, but stronger. A demon. As powerful as the Baal. Only, I will have control of the throne, so even more powerful.'
'No,' she sprang, launching an attack. For a moment they fought, his rapier nicking her arm, drawing blood and eliciting from her a yelp of pain. In return she jabbed, wounding him at the flank and he snarled in surprise, his fingers going to the wound and coming away wet with blood.
She smiled.
'You see that, Your Majesty,' said Conroy. He held up his fingers. 'These skills are not your human skills; these are what make you a demon.'
The clash of the steel had been deafening in the corridor, and those prisoners who were able to had come to the bars of their cells, their hands to the bars, rattling the doors, and Victoria saw wide, insane eyes and bared teeth.
'Look how readily they embrace that evil within themselves,' said Conroy over the din. 'If only you could have done the same-your name might have been legendary within the ranks of the Baal. As it is you are merely its sow.'
He swung his rapier from side to side, in one action slicing off padlocks that secured the doors to cells on either side of him. Then took a step forward and did the same with two more.
As he did so, Victoria saw her opening and thrust forward.
'They do not embrace it,' she cried, and there was a great clash of steel as they traded blows, 'it is forced upon them.'
He fended her off then launched his counter attack. She dodged, feinted, tossing the katana from one hand to the other then spinning to come at him from the other side, but he anticipated the attack and was able to sidestep.
They faced off. She heard a creaking sound and saw one of the doors Conroy had unlocked swing open, as though the cell's occupant could not believe the turn of events.