by Tom Becker
The remaining attacker made a futile lunge at Carnegie, who almost absent-mindedly kicked the knife from his hand and sent him sprawling across the carpet.
“Wait round the corner,” he said. “This won’t take long.”
Usually Jonathan would have argued with him, but this time he thought better of it. Not tonight. Instead, he took Harry by the elbow and led him down the corridor. They waited for the sound of screaming, but it never came. After a few seconds, Carnegie came walking calmly around the corner.
“He didn’t wait for me to ask any questions. Took a poison pill instead.”
“Looks like we’re on the right track, though.”
“Maybe. Stay close to me. You’re not really built for this.”
They had barely gone two paces when the quiet was brutally shattered by a cry for help. Jonathan didn’t recognize the owner, but at once Carnegie was sprinting away. Jonathan hared after him, deeper into the building, taking the stairs two at a time, and praying that the wereman’s acute hearing was leading them in the right direction.
He had always prided himself on his speed, and had put it to the test many times down the years, but there was no way he could keep with Carnegie. The wereman ate up the ground with his loping stride, his overcoat flapping behind him. Jonathan was struggling not to lose him. Luckily Harry was with them: a fit young man who was also consumed with rage, he overtook Jonathan and kept the wereman in sight. Just as Jonathan felt his lungs were going to burst like balloons, he crashed through a side door and found himself standing on a first-floor gallery. Carnegie had come to a halt by the railings, while Harry had ducked down out of sight behind the balustrade. Both were looking out over a macabre scene.
The great dining hall of the Cain Club had been witness to some of the loudest and longest revelries in Darkside. Two hundred feet long, it housed two great oaken dining tables than ran the length of the hall. At the far end of the room, beneath a giant relief of the club’s crest, stood a raised platform, where Jonathan guessed the most esteemed members of the club were allowed to sit and lord it over the rest of the diners. Unlike the rest of the Cain Club, there were no photographs or paintings on the walls, which had been painted a deep shade of red. Nor were there were any windows, ensuring that no natural light could seep into the hall. Instead, a phalanx of flaming sconces had been placed along the two tables, providing a fiery guard of honour along the aisle.
William Joubert was standing on the platform. His arms had been bound to the entwined letter “C”s on the club crest, high above his head. Someone had torn the shirt from his back, and his torso was covered in red welts. His head was lolling to one side: it was clear he had been beaten. Arthur was lying slumped at his feet, unconscious.
And then there was the third man in the hall, sitting quietly on the edge of the platform, his hands clasped together. At the sound of the door crashing open, he rose awkwardly to his feet and addressed the balcony, his arms outstretched in welcome.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Lucien. “I’ve been expecting you.”
24
They had searched for him across Darkside; faced down threats in the Midnight and the Cain Club, encountered the very soul of terror in the Panopticon. In Lightside, Jonathan had nearly burned himself alive in order to discover his identity. And all that time, Brother Fleet had been sitting in the offices of The Darkside Informer.
Looking down at him now, Jonathan struggled to match the frail figure with the evil mastermind he had imagined. Lucien had drawn himself into a crooked stance that favoured his good leg, but his gaze was direct and composed, and hardened in a way Jonathan hadn’t seen before.
“Why don’t you come down and join us?” Lucien called up to the balcony in his familiar baritone. “I’m sure Arthur and William would be glad of the company.”
Carnegie licked his lips nervously, sizing up the situation. Apart for the three men down below, the hall looked empty, but the shadows promised all sorts of unpleasant surprises.
“Are they still alive?”
“Oh yes. For now.” Lucien limped over to Arthur’s prone body, and dragged his head up by his hair. “Though I wouldn’t dawdle, if I were you. Who knows what I might do if I’m left alone with them?”
He looked up and grinned, and suddenly Jonathan was left in no doubt as to exactly who he was dealing with. He was Lucien Fox; he was Brother Fleet. He was a Ripper, and he had murdered his own flesh and blood.
“Wait!” Carnegie called out. “We’re coming.” As he spoke, the wereman retrieved something from his pocket and passed it surreptitiously down to Harry, who was still crouched down out of sight.
In one swift movement the wereman flipped himself over the balustrade and swooped down from the balcony, landing in an easy crouch on one of the great tables. He turned and looked up expectantly at Jonathan, waiting for him to follow suit. The drop down to the hall was severe, but Jonathan didn’t want to draw any more attention to the balcony and Harry. Swinging his legs over the balustrade, he took a deep breath and dropped down. He landed on the table hard, his knees jarring at the impact. Lucien’s eyes widened.
“Jonathan! I’m surprised to see you! I gave Correlli strict instructions not to let you live.”
“He tried his best,” Jonathan shot back, hoping he sounded more brave than he felt. “Heard from him recently?”
Lucien nodded as if in approval. “A spirited response. I see you take after your mother in that respect. She was full of brave words too . . . at first.”
Without thinking, Jonathan scrambled off the table and headed for Lucien, a combustible mixture of hate and adrenalin in his veins. Until a large paw clapped down on his shoulder, halting his progress.
“What did you do to my mum?” Jonathan roared, trying to break free. “If you hurt her I’ll kill you!”
“Not now, boy,” Carnegie said, his claws digging into Jonathan’s shoulder. “Not now.”
Lucien broke into a mocking peal of laughter. “How very touching. Teaching self-restraint these days, Carnegie?”
“When I can,” the wereman replied coolly. “You teaching running?”
The smile faded from the Ripper’s face. He climbed down from the platform and hobbled painfully towards Carnegie.
“I expected better from you,” he said in a deathly whisper. “I’ve heard all those jokes before. My friends at the Cain Club called me Brother Fleet, remember?” Lucien gestured at his twisted leg. “They thought that was funny. Of course, I would never go anywhere quickly like this. They treated me as a joke, and I was a Ripper. I could have killed them any time I wanted. But instead I bit my tongue and bided my time, waiting until they could be of use to me.
“When I discovered my dear brother’s identity, I knew I could appeal to their vanity and get them to help me. Without their aid, I could never get close enough to the esteemed James Arkel to lure him into a trap. And, predictably, one by one they fell in line. All apart from Brother Steel.” He turned back to the captive William. “How does it feel to be back in the Cain Club? Have the last few years been enjoyable for you, my friend? I’ve had such fun blocking your pathetic attempts to carve a life for yourself. It’s proved much more satisfying than killing you would ever have been.”
William raised his head weakly, and spat a glob of blood on to the platform floor.
“I’ve been happy,” he croaked. “I’ve had my wife, my children . . . but then I wouldn’t expect you to understand that.”
“Well, my family works slightly differently to everyone else’s. As Nicholas and the rest of the Gentlemen knew. They tried to take advantage of that fact. They still thought I was weak. As you’ve seen, they were wrong. I taught them the same lesson I taught James.”
“You?” Carnegie spat mockingly. “You don’t do anything, cripple. You stand back and watch as your creature does your dirty work for you.”
Lucien shot him a look of pure hatred.
“Keep your foul mouth shut. What would you know about the dealings of the Rippers?”
“Enough to know that James would have beaten you to a pulp if you had faced him like a man. I’m amazed you had the guts to attack him while he was awake.”
“Face him like a man?” The Ripper broke into a peal of laughter. “And why on Darkside would I need to do that? I have a Black Phoenix, a creature born of evil and shrouded in the night. What need have I of a man?”
And then the horrifying shriek from the Panopticon was assaulting their ears again. Carnegie whirled around.
“Where’s it coming from?” he shouted above the din.
Jonathan tugged on the wereman’s coat, the blood draining from his face. A low moan escaped from his lips.
The shrieking sound was coming from Lucien’s throat.
“My God,” breathed Carnegie.
Lucien’s head was flung back, and his eyes bunched tightly shut. As they watched, he spread his arms out in an ecstatic gesture, and his body began to twitch and writhe, like a puppet whose strings had been shaken. Waves churned across the Ripper’s chest, and with horror Jonathan saw his ribs straining to break through his flesh. Lucien screamed with pain – an unexpectedly human sound – and fell to his knees. His skin darkened and bubbled as it changed form. Then the man was gone, and there was a creature where he had been.
At first glance, the Black Phoenix might have been mistaken for a majestic bird: a huge, sleek creature cloaked in jet-black feathers. But a closer look revealed it to be an abomination. Its feathers were lank and greasy, and reeked of rotting meat. Its wings were leathery, and criss-crossed by sickly red veins. Its beak and talons were the colour of curdled milk, and stained with blood.
The Phoenix raised its head and inspected them, two beady eyes gleaming with malice.
Carnegie didn’t wait. He pulled out two pistols and started firing. The hall was filled with the sound of gunshots and the smell of cordite. The Black Phoenix screeched with anger and wrapped its thick wings around itself. Carnegie didn’t stop until he had unloaded the chambers of both weapons. As the last echo died away, Jonathan saw the bullets strewn at the Phoenix’s feet. The creature unfurled its wings, and cawed with pleasure.
Carnegie turned to Jonathan. “Worth a try,” he said defensively.
“What are we going to do now?”
The wereman shrugged. “What can we do? You got anything stronger than bullets? I told you not to come with me, boy. You really are an irritating little flea, you know that?”
Jonathan realized too late that that was Carnegie’s way of saying goodbye. Before he could stop him, the wereman roared and charged across the hall. The creature lifted itself off the ground and prepared to meet him, the first tendrils of black cloud rolling out from beneath its flapping wings. Jonathan’s blood ran cold.
Having failed to wound the Phoenix using pistols, Carnegie attacked it in the way he knew best: at close-quarters, with fists and claws flying. He moved with fearsome speed and power, but even as he disappeared into the thickening fog Jonathan knew that he was doomed. Carnegie was a being of flesh and blood, and the Black Phoenix a thing of pure evil. As the wereman’s agonized shouts drowned out the sounds of combat, Jonathan desperately wanted to rush in and help his friend, but his muscles had locked with fear.
A lung-bursting yell from the balcony broke the spell. Jonathan looked up to see Harry Pierce throwing himself from the balcony, reaching up for one of the great chandeliers suspended from the ceiling. It looked like a suicidal leap, but somehow Harry kept rising through the air like a rocket, until his hand fastened on to the chandelier. There was a shriek of annoyance from within the cloud, and suddenly the Phoenix began arrowing towards the boy. Harry waited until the creature was almost upon him before, with his free hand, hurling a bottle into the shifting black cloud and then letting go of the chandelier. He fell like a stone, hitting the floor with a loud crunch.
Where the cloud had lifted, Jonathan was able to see the prone form of Carnegie. The wereman’s body was crumpled, and lying in a pool of blood. Limply, the detective summoned the strength to raise a hand and pointed at one of the torches. Of course! Carnegie had given Harry a bottle of something before getting off the balcony – his Special Recipe!
Up by the chandelier, the black cloud had temporarily paused with surprise. Stung into action, Jonathan grabbed the nearest torch and raced across the hall. He stood over Harry’s body, brandishing the flame. Through the shifting waves of the cloud, he caught a glimpse of the Phoenix shrieking with anticipation, its neck muscles twisting and its beak snapping. Then it was hurtling towards him. Jonathan threw the torch as hard as he could, and dived on top of Harry.
There was a huge roaring sound, like a waterfall, and the creature was coated in a sheet of flames. It flapped its wings frantically, sending wave after wave of darkness out into the hall. But the flames still kept burning, and the Phoenix’s screeches were becoming more desperate. Jonathan pressed his hands over his ears as it fell to the floor with a thunderous crash, and lay still.
Then, silence. Light began to tiptoe back into the hall, revealing bodies scattered across the floor: Carnegie bleeding, Harry motionless, the hulking form of the Black Phoenix, smoke plumes rising from its feathers. Jonathan picked himself up and walked slowly over to the creature. He heard a soft cawing, more like a crooning than anything else, and realized that the Black Phoenix was still clinging on to life.
The bird lifted its head groggily as it sensed the boy approaching. And then, with its left eye, winked at Jonathan.
He barely had time to gasp before the bird brought back one of its huge wings and swatted him in the body. Jonathan went flying across the floor, crashing into the side of one of the great tables. He lay there, groaning. There was a sharp pain in his chest, and he wondered if he had broken a rib. It felt like he had been hit by a car.
His heart sinking, Jonathan realized they had made a foolish error. Of course the Special Recipe hadn’t hurt the creature. Phoenixes were fire-loving. After the initial shock of the impact, the bird had simply lapped up the flames.
He heard the sound of talons clicking on the wooden floor of the hall, and the smell of rotting meat grew stronger than ever. The Black Phoenix pressed a sharp talon down on Jonathan’s chest. He cried out with pain. Ever so gently, the bird began to increase the pressure on the boy’s lungs. Jonathan closed his eyes, and hoped that the end would be swift.
“I think that’s enough,” said a familiar voice from the back of the hall.
25
Marianne leaned lazily against the doorframe, her face creased with arch amusement. Her hair was dyed a startling shade of neon green and tied back in a ponytail. She was dressed in a full undertaker’s suit, right down to the long black ribbons hanging down from her top hat. A large crossbow was cradled easily in her arms. Behind her, Humble and Skeet stood in solemn attendance.
“Leave the boy alone.”
The Phoenix cocked its head with surprise, and let out one of its unholy screeches. Marianne stepped away from the doorway and raised her crossbow.
“I mean it, Lucien. Get away from the boy and change back into your normal form.”
Jonathan felt the pressure ease on his chest, and lifted his head to see the Phoenix advance threateningly on the bounty hunter. Marianne smiled faintly.
“I think Lucien wants to play, boys. Shall we oblige?”
The mute nodded and raised a heavy axe in the air. Jabbering and bounding on the spot, Skeet drew a sword. With practised ease, the three slipped into fighting formation.
“You may have bested Carnegie and a couple of children,” Marianne called out. “But you’ll find that Humble, Skeet and I are a slightly tougher proposition. I wonder just how long you can maintain that form for. . .”
Even as she spoke, there was a s
himmering where the Black Phoenix was standing. To the sound of tearing and cracking, it began to fold in on itself, writhing wings shrinking back into the damaged shell that was Lucien Fox’s body. The shrieks died away, to be replaced by human cries of pain. Then there was only the shape of a small, thin man sprawled on the floor, coughing.
Marianne cast a critical eye over his dishevelled form.
“So – you would be my brother. I have to say, I’d rather hoped for more.”
On the other side of the room, the final jigsaw pieces fitted together in Jonathan’s mind. Marianne was a Ripper. She had been the recipient of the other blackmail letter from Nicholas. That was why she had shown such an interest in their investigation! They had done her dirty work for her, and led her straight to the very man she wanted.
Lucien glared up at her.
“It’s you?” he spat. “What are you doing here?”
Marianne smiled sweetly.
“I wanted to see what the inside of the Cain Club looked like. The members get so nervous about the thought of a lady passing through the doors.” She looked around, and wrinkled her nose. “Although, now I’m here, I’m not sure it was worth it. It’s a bit gothic for my tastes.”
Jonathan started as a bloodied hand touched his shoulder. He looked around to see Carnegie’s face, a mass of purple bruises and matted hair. One of the wereman’s eyes was swollen shut, and he was clutching his right arm.
“Bleeding hell!”
“S’all right, boy,” he slurred. “Had worse. Come on.”
Slipping an arm over the wereman’s shoulder, Jonathan pulled himself to his feet, biting back a cry of pain. Harry lay immobile on the floor nearby, his ribcage shifting slightly with each shallow breath. The boy and the wereman made their way slowly over to the entrance of the hall, where Lucien had been forced into an upright position. He winced as Skeet prodded him with his sword.
