Blood Royal

by Jonathan Green

  PAX BRITANNIA

  BLOOD ROYAL

  By Jonathan Green

  Pax Britannia

  The Ulysses Quicksilver Books, by Jonathan Green

  Unnatural History

  Leviathan Rising

  Human Nature

  Evolution Expects

  Blood Royal

  Dark Side

  Anno Frankenstein

  Time's Arrow

  The El Sombra Books, by Al Ewing

  El Sombra

  Gods of Manhattan

  Pax Omega

  An Abaddon Books™ Publication

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  abaddonsolaris@rebellion.co.uk

  First published in 2010 by Abaddon Books™, Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK.

  Editors: Jonathan Oliver & David Moore

  Cover: Mark Harrison

  Design: Sam Gretton & Oz Osborne

  Marketing and PR: Rob Power

  Head of Comics and Book Publishing: Ben Smith

  Creative Director and CEO: Jason Kingsley

  Chief Technical Officer: Chris Kingsley

  Pax Britannia™ created by Jonathan Green

  Copyright ©2010 Rebellion Publishing Ltd.

  All rights reserved.

  Pax Britannia™, Abaddon Books and Abaddon Books logo are trademarks owned or used exclusively by Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited. The trademarks have been registered or protection sought in all member states of the European Union and other countries around the world. All right reserved.

  ISBN (EPUB): 978-1-84997-261-1

  ISBN (MOBI): 978-1-84997-262-8

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  For Sam and Nick

  And

  For Lisa and Tony

  Act One

  Insect Nation

  March 1998

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Handover

  FOUR HOURS AFTER curfew – in the shadow of the St Paul’s Cathedral – an unmarked hansom cab rattled to a halt. The door opened and Dr Victor Gallowglass stepped down onto the street. His heart beat a nervous tattoo against his ribs, although he was concentrating hard so that his nerves and his fear did not show in his face.

  A gang of five men, skulking in the shadows, watched him from the other side of the street, their dark clothing making them almost invisible. Except for the debonair gent who stood slightly apart from the others.

  “Good evening, Doctor,” the man said.

  He was immaculately turned out, wearing a fine green frock coat, charcoal grey trousers, spats and a silver-embroidered waistcoat. A gold silk cravat finished off the ensemble, held in place with a ruby-tipped pin. In one hand he swung an ebony cane as if keeping time, like a metronome. His face was as sharp, his brown hair – greying at the temples and slicked back from a pronounced widow’s peak – glistened with a copious helping of hair oil.

  He looked from the grim face of the doctor to the pall of Smog that hung over the city like a shroud, the glowing yellow streetlamps turning its clammy mantle a sallow tinge. The hazy white disc of the moon struggled through the banks of pollutant cloud that still plagued the city, despite former Prime Minister Valentine’s best efforts. Its milky luminescence added an eerie, unsettling quality to the night’s illicit proceedings.

  “A fine evening, is it not?” the man continued, as if they were all there for no other reason than to pass the time of day.

  “Where is she?”

  The man raised an eyebrow. “Do not worry, Dr Gallowglass, your daughter is safe.”

  “I want to see her.”

  The debonair gent regarded Gallowglass for a moment, an incalculable expression in his eyes.

  He turned and nodded to one of the suspicious-looking characters waiting in the darkness behind him.

  The darkly dressed ruffian took a step forward. He was of burly build but weighed down by the large sack he was carrying over his shoulder. Carefully, he set the sack down and fumbled with the rope tying it shut. He pulled the sack down around the body of the small girl bound inside.

  The girl looked terrified and, on seeing her father, fresh tears began to stream from her eyes, but she said nothing. She couldn’t – the gag prevented her from doing so.

  “Oh, Miranda, my poor darling,” Gallowglass gasped. Tears welled in his eyes too. “It’s alright now. It’s going to be alright, my darling. This will all be over very soon, I promise.” Blinking the tears away he fixed the kidnappers’ spokesman with a look of black, unadulterated hatred. “If you have harmed a single hair on her head...” He did not need to say any more.

  “I can assure you that she has been as well looked after as Her Majesty might expect to be,” the other said, his voice oozing charm and charisma despite the direness of the situation.

  Gallowglass reached out his arms to the frightened child but didn’t dare take a step towards her.

  “I doubt that distinctly,” he growled. “Now let her go.” His tone was more pleading than he would have liked.

  “All in good time, doctor. All in good time.” The debonair gentleman slapped the shaft of his cane into his hand. “But before we hand her over to your care you must give us certain assurances.”

  “What is it you want from me?”

  “Your continued, faithful, patriotic service. That is all, Doctor Gallowglass. All that we ask is that you see your vital work through to completion.”

  Gallowglass’s expression didn’t change.

  “I will continue with my research until my labours bear fruit,” Gallowglass conceded.

  “And we have your word on that?”

  “You have my word.”

  “Well, we can’t ask for more than that, can we? After all, an Englishman’s word is his bond, is it not?”

  At another nod from their leader, the ruffian freed the girl from her bonds.

  An expectant hush hung over the street, the shadowy silhouette of the cathedral on the other side of the barricade a threatening presence nonetheless. It was a silence disturbed only by the Smog-muffled clatter of Overground trains – although there were a lot fewer of them running on the elevated tracks now at this time of night – and the sudden clatter of roof tiles above.

  Anxious glances shot to the rooftops of the burnt out buildings on the other side of the wall.

  “What was that?” the debonair gent demanded.

  “Don’t know, boss,” one of his unshaven lackeys replied.

  The man put a steadying hand to the shoulder of the one still struggling to free the girl and turned cold, black eyes on the equally anxious-looking doctor. “You were told to come alone!”

  The debonair dandy took a step back towards the wall, eyes fixed on the rooftops on the other side of the road. His companion took a step back too, pulling the girl after him.

  “I did!” Gallowglass screamed.

  The unshaven lackey suddenly shot an anxious glance up at the wall behind them. “Here, boss, you don’t think it could be –”

  “Silence!” the other snapped, never once taking his eyes from the buildings on the other side of the street. “I thought I heard...” The dandy’s words trailed off into silence and then: “Look! Up there!”

  All eyes followed his trembling finger.

  At first Gallowglass could see nothing amongst the shadows shrouding the rooftops, not until one of those shadows detached itself from the dar
kness and unfurled bat-like wings.

  Like some animated gargoyle it leapt from the guttering at the edge of the roof.

  Gallowglass gasped and a number of the kidnappers began to whimper. All of them recognising the night stalker for who he was.

  The skin of its leathery wings rippling as it dropped from the parapet, the figure swooped towards them.

  “Get out of here!” the dandy shouted and took off down the street, keeping close to the wall as he ran. His burly comrade was close on his heels, dragging the terrified girl after him.

  As the bat-winged terror came within a few feet of the ground, his legs swung forwards and he planted the soles of two heavy boots squarely in the chest of one of the panicking rogues. The man was hurled onto his back and a solid kick to the head made sure that he stayed there.

  Two remained. The crack of gunfire shattered the night.

  Gallowglass watched, his jaw slack with shock, as the armoured bat-man bore down on the kidnappers. Their shots must have missed, Gallowglass decided, for the figure did not even break his stride as he closed on them.

  But their second volley of shots certainly didn’t miss. How could they? The vigilante was right on top of them now. Gallowglass heard the pang of metal on metal and the advancing colossus wavered.

  But his hesitation was only momentary. One last bounding stride and he was on top of them. Dully gleaming claws sliced through the night. Blood sprayed black in the darkness.

  Another threat neutralized.

  The masked vigilante – the one the press had dubbed Spring-Heeled Jack – was the only man who dared stalk the streets of London once the curfew sirens had been sounded. During the hours of darkness he delivered his own brand of justice to those who had taken advantage of the fact that, in the aftermath of the Wormwood Catastrophe, the capital had become a more lawless place than ever. The authorities’ resources had been stretched to breaking point and were no longer able to cope with the rise in opportunistic crime and gang-related warfare.

  With three down and two to go, the vigilante didn’t hesitate for a moment but, leaving the motionless bodies of his victims behind, launched himself after the gang’s leader, his burly companion and the still captive child.

  The first any of them – doctor, vigilante and kidnapper – knew of the locusts’ arrival was the zinging buzz of chitinous wings, as the gigantic insects rose over the west wall and descended on the fleeing felons.

  For the first time since taking on the kidnappers, Spring-Heeled Jack faltered, stumbling and losing his balance as he tried to arrest his forward charge. There were two of the things – their bodies as long as a man was tall, their huge wings a blur of movement.

  They paused for a moment, hovering several feet above the cobbled street, their mantis-like heads jerking from side to side as they regarded Gallowglass and the vigilante with compound eyes the size of footballs.

  As if at some unspoken command, one of the locusts moved towards the vigilante; the second targeted the dumbstruck, paralysed doctor. Regaining his feet, the vigilante put a gauntleted hand to a dispenser on his belt. A second later, he tossed something small and metallic towards the insects. The object hit the road as the giant insects passed overhead.

  There was a soft click and then with a great whooshing noise, like air escaping from a punctured dirigible, a thick jet of smoke erupted from the device.

  It was as if the locusts had hit a wall. The two insects, buzzing angrily, withdrew, turning away from the expanding gas cloud. Repelled by the smoke bomb they left the vigilante and the doctor, and set off after easier prey.

  Even through the smoky haze, Gallowglass saw what followed clearly enough.

  “No!” he screamed, his paralysis suddenly gone, his legs carrying him after the insects. But he was too late.

  First to be plucked from the ground was the unshaven ruffian, the girl stumbling to her hands and knees as the startled man lost his grip on her. The locust lifted the kidnapper, kicking and screaming, into the air. It took off back over the wall, holding the wailing man fast in its pincer-grip, labouring its way towards the black dome of St Paul’s.

  Just for a moment Victor Gallowglass thought that perhaps his daughter might escape from her ordeal unscathed. But his moment of desperate hope was short-lived.

  The second locust dropped onto her back before he could reach her. With the child clutched in its chitinous embrace, it rose again into the Smoggy air.

  Gallowglass was sprinting now, arms outstretched towards his daughter, as if he might somehow still be able to pluck her out of the sky and to safety, but against the airborne assailant, he was utterly helpless.

  As the locust rose over the wall after the other, the girl’s gag came free and he heard her cry.

  ”Daddy!”

  Hearing her scream his name only made the already desperate situation infinitely worse.

  But then his faltering steps found purpose again and, within a few strides, he was at the wall. He had already managed to scramble a good six feet up the barricade when the vigilante grabbed him.

  “Stop!” the vigilante’s voice boomed from the speaker grille in the front of his goggle-eyed mask.

  With one strong tug, Spring-Heeled Jack pulled him off the wall.

  “You cannot go in there. The whole area is contaminated!”

  With a snarl born of rage and frustration, Gallowglass pulled himself free of Jack’s grasp and then, turning, began to pummel the vigilante’s bullet-proof breastplate with his fists, until at last, realising that that too was futile, he gave up and fell to his knees. The soul-wrenching sobs came freely now in an outpouring of agonised grief.

  “There must be a way!” he wailed through the tears. “And if you can’t do it, then we must get help!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  A Friend in Need

  “HAVE YOU SEEN this?” Ulysses Quicksilver said, as he and his brother – Bartholomew Quicksilver – enjoyed cigars and a glass of brandy in the library after supper. They had dined late that evening on beef en croute, prepared, as ever, by their inestimable housekeeper Mrs Prufrock. The poor woman had only just left for her own home across town, but not before Ulysses made sure that Nimrod – his manservant, valet, butler and general all round dogsbody – had called her a cab first. Travelling by foot after curfew was a dangerous business.

  Barty grunted and looked up from his copy of The Racing Post. “What?”

  “Have you seen this piece in The Times?” Ulysses waved the newspaper he had been perusing at his brother.

  “Always got your head in the paper, haven’t you?” the younger man said without any hint of actual interest. “If you’re not making the news, you’re reading it.”

  “It pays to keep up with what’s going on in the world, Barty, old chap. Anyway, this item.”

  Ulysses thrust the paper, folded open at the appropriate page, under his brother’s nose.

  “There’s been another murder.” He stabbed a finger at the article buried among the column inches at the bottom of the page. Barty followed his brother’s probing digit.

  “In Whitechapel?”

  “In Whitechapel.”

  “Another prostitute?”

  “Another prostitute. Jointed like a Sunday roast.”

  “How many’s that now?”

  “Four by my reckoning,” Ulysses said, having already totted up the total in his head.

  “Jack the Ripper up to his old tricks again, is he?”

  “I doubt it very much,” Ulysses laughed dismissively, “but it remains a mystery nonetheless. I should contact Eliza, just to make sure she’s alright.”

  “Would that be your friend Eliza Do-Alot?” Barty smirked.

  Ulysses shot him a look that soon wiped the ribald smile from his face.

  “So, who do you think is behind it then?” Barty pressed, quickly changing the subject. He was intrigued now, much to his annoyance.

  “I’d hardly like to hazard a guess without having all the facts at my dis
posal,” Ulysses said. “I would be making a complete stab in the dark.”

  “Like this strumpet slasher.” Bartholomew Quicksilver knew his elder brother better than that. “But you have an inkling, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. Well, one or two ideas have sprung to mind, as it happens.”

  “Go on,” Barty encouraged, although he knew that he didn’t really have to draw the information out of Ulysses. He was just playing along.

  “Well, I’ve often found myself wondering what happened to Gabriel Wraith’s lost boys, the ones who ended up at his House of Monkeys. And it’s always possible that the police never actually managed to round up all of the escaped inmates from the Tower following Wormwood’s intervention at the Queen’s jubilee last year. And then again...”

  “Hmm?” Barty grunted. “Then again what?”

  “The fact that someone’s cutting up street-walkers in the East End, one hundred and ten years after that fiend the Ripper did the self-same thing...” Ulysses left the thought hanging.

  “So you think it’s a copycat.”

  “It doesn’t look like it. The murders themselves don’t appear to be actual copies of those killings ascribed to the Ripper.”

  “It’s just that the modus operandi’s the same.”

  “Indeed.”

  “So who would be the likely killer?”

  “Well – and I realise that this is going to sound ridiculous – but if I were a gambling man, which I am not,” he added, giving his younger brother a look heavy with meaning, “I would say that it looked as though it was the self-same killer getting back into the swing of things, having had the last century and a bit off.”