Timecurse

by Tom Becker

  “I can’t look after both of you,” Carnegie said. “Jonathan, you go in there and keep your head down. I’ll make sure Humble and Skeet follow me, and then I’ll get Alain into a cab. Stay put, and I’ll come and find you.”

  “But what about Dad?”

  “I’ll make sure he’s safe. Move, boy!”

  With a final glance back at his dad, Jonathan jogged across the road and down the passageway. He came out in a genteel covered market, the rain drumming on a corrugated roof that slanted down over his head. The narrow aisles between the stalls were filled with shoppers hunting for early Christmas presents, the air thick with good-natured haggling and the warm smell of scented candles and coffee beans.

  Preoccupied by concern for his dad, Jonathan wandered among the stalls, barely noticing the strange jumble of items for sale: rare books and flowing dresses; old-fashioned board games and intricate silver jewellery. After about ten minutes of aimless meandering, he found himself standing in front of a stall selling handcrafted children’s toys. The stallholder, a shifty-looking young man, watched suspiciously as Jonathan idly picked up a carved wooden box bearing the inscription “Jack-In-The-Box”. He flicked the lid open, but instead of a clown, a cloaked figure brandishing a tiny knife sprang forth. As it bobbed on its spring, the knife came down again and again on its imaginary victims. Jonathan shuddered. Whoever had designed the thing had a sick sense of humour. He turned over the box and searched the base for a maker’s mark. When he found it, everything made a lot more sense:

  Disraeli Toys & Amusements

  14, The Grand

  It seemed as though traces of Darkside were everywhere these days. Jonathan looked up to question the stallholder, but the man had vanished. He put down the jack-in-the-box and made to move away.

  “Boo!” a voice said lightly in his ear.

  He jumped, and then immediately cursed himself. This he should have expected. Summoning all his self-control, Jonathan turned round slowly and said, as evenly as he could manage:

  “Hello, Marianne.”

  The Ripper heir and bounty hunter was standing beside him, inspecting one of the jack-in-the-boxes. Her dyed pink hair had been cut into a bob, held in place with a single black hair clip. By contrast, her alabaster skin was so pale it was almost colourless. There was the faintest smell of her special perfume in the air, which – Jonathan knew from experience – in larger doses could confuse and distract those around her. At his greeting, she put down the toy and graced him with a smile.

  “Hello, Jonathan. Miss me?”

  Which was a difficult question to answer. Jonathan seemed to have spent most of his time in Darkside fighting Marianne in one way or another. She had placed both him and his dad in mortal peril. And yet, maddeningly, he wasn’t entirely unhappy to see her. Not that he was going to admit it.

  “Not really. Why are you here?”

  “What can I say?” Marianne waved an airy hand around the market. “I’m a sucker for a bargain.”

  “Looks like Humble and Skeet are too. I saw them outside.”

  “Yes – I asked them to divert that tiresome mongrel you’re always with.”

  “If they touch either Carnegie or my dad, they’ll regret it,” Jonathan said fiercely.

  “Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,” Marianne drawled. “I said ‘divert’, not ‘maim’. No one’s going to get hurt. I just thought it might be easier to talk to you if we were alone.”

  “Well, here we are. Why do you want to talk to me?”

  “You asked me what I was doing here. I’ve crossed over because a contact of mine has informed me that a foolish watchmaker is meddling in affairs that really don’t concern him. Given the circumstances, I can’t afford to let this happen. The more important question, Jonathan, is what on Darkside are you doing here?”

  “Just browsing,” Jonathan replied flippantly. “I like a bargain too, you know.”

  Marianne’s hand snaked out and seized him by the elbow.

  “Is this a game to you?” she said, her voice now as cold and hard as a blade. “This is the Blood Succession we’re talking about. Within days either my brother or I will be dead. And I can promise you this, Jonathan: meddle in the Rippers’ affairs and you will be too. It might even be me that has to kill you, which would be a shame. I’ve grown rather fond of you.”

  “You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Jonathan said ruefully.

  A shadow passed across Marianne’s face, and suddenly she looked younger than before. Her grip softened.

  “I am a Ripper, Jonathan. Darkness runs through my veins. There is only so much I can control – only so much I want to control. Can you understand that? I came to you to warn you: leave this place now, and leave the Blood Succession alone. I will not be so gentle again. And you would do well to remember one thing: if I’m here, then my brother will be too.”

  Jonathan suppressed a shiver. Instinctively, he looked around him, half-expecting to see Lucien’s dark, haunted face among the jovial crowds. Instead, he was comforted by the sight of an irate wereman pushing towards him.

  “Carnegie’s back,” Jonathan said, emboldened. “Do you want to warn him, too?”

  There was a second, before she regained her usual demeanour of idle amusement, when Jonathan could have sworn there was a look of sadness on Marianne’s face. Only for a second, though.

  “Regrettably, I have to be somewhere,” she said lightly. “Better be going. Wouldn’t want to be late.”

  And with a flick of brilliant pink hair, the bounty hunter melted into the crowd and was gone.

  16

  The observatory had been built on top of the highest hill in Greenwich Park, secreted away behind a screen of thick evergreen trees. As Jonathan passed through the park gates, he could just make out the tips of the observatory’s turrets poking out above the treeline, one bearing a giant red ball skewed on what looked like a crazed weathervane. His pulse quickened in anticipation. Although Jonathan had no idea what lay in store, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his dad had been right, and that somewhere at the hill’s summit, Josiah Bartlemas was waiting for them.

  He checked his pocket watch again.

  “It’s quarter to one,” he told Carnegie. “We’d better get a move on.”

  The wereman rolled his eyes. “I don’t suppose your dad actually told us why we had to be there for one o’clock?”

  “Not really. But it looks like Marianne’s going to be there too, and I’d rather we got there first.”

  “Guess we’d better hurry up, then. Lead the way, boy.”

  In a city that throbbed to the rhythm of its seven million citizens hurrying from one place to another, Greenwich Park provided a welcome change of pace. A series of leisurely, undulating commons interspersed with snaking pathways, during high summer the park became a patchwork of picnic blankets and bouncing footballs, as Londoners flocked to escape the heat-trapped streets. Even in late November, with the grass soaked by drizzle, there were still people out cycling and walking dogs. A group of tourists were labouring up the steep hill towards the observatory, weighed down by guidebooks and digital cameras. Jonathan and Carnegie hurried past them, ignoring the stares that the wereman’s appearance invited. As they climbed, a landscape of rooftops and tower blocks loomed up through the rain, dominated by the trinity of skyscrapers stretching up into the air on Canary Wharf.

  The path levelled out at the entrance to the observatory, next to a broad avenue that ran along the crest of the hill. Aware that he had no Lightside money in his pockets, Jonathan was relieved to see that admission inside the building was free. Two smartly dressed attendants stood in the doorway, greeting tourists as they entered.

  “I’ll go first, boy,” Carnegie said briskly. “No telling what’s going to happen when we get in there.”

  “It’s only an observatory, Carnegie – how much trouble
can there be?”

  “If your track record is anything to go by, more than enough to go round. Stay behind me.”

  The wereman swept through the entrance and into a large wood-panelled room filled with glass cases displaying old watch mechanisms and navigational devices. Jonathan inspected the labels, looking for the Chronos Wheel, but it was nowhere to be seen. They moved on, out into a cobbled courtyard surrounded by the low buildings that made up the observatory and the old house of the Astronomer Royal. An iron railing marked the place where the ground suddenly fell away, providing visitors with a sweeping view of London. A man was feeding coins into a mounted telescope, taking in the panoramic view of the city.

  To Jonathan’s right, a straight metal line had been sunk into the cobbles, marking the path of the Meridian Line, which signalled the meeting point of the eastern and western hemispheres. A gaggle of dispirited French school children were standing under the trees next to the line, attempting to shelter from the rain. In another corner of the courtyard, a lady dressed in Victorian costume was giving a talk to a group of tourists. They craned their necks as she pointed up at the roof of the observatory, towards the large red sphere Jonathan had seen from the park gates.

  “This,” the guide proclaimed, in a loud, theatrical voice, “is our famous time ball. At precisely one o’clock every day, the ball drops to the bottom of the pole. You can set your watches by it!”

  Jonathan nudged Carnegie. “Did you hear that? One o’clock!”

  “It would make sense,” the wereman admitted. “If Bartlemas is trying to get his hands on the Chronos Wheel, he could do with a distraction. Maybe that’d do the trick.”

  Jonathan looked up at a signpost pointing out the different attractions and exhibitions. He scratched his head.

  “The Chronos Wheel could be anywhere. Where do we look now?”

  Before Carnegie could reply, there was a flash of pink hair at the entrance to the courtyard, and Marianne strolled into view. She was arm-in-arm with Humble, a guidebook clutched in her hand, glancing about her with the interested air of a tourist. Skeet trailed behind them, jabbering to himself disconsolately as he punched a fist into his palm.

  “Think it’s too late for treasure-hunting, boy,” Carnegie said. “We’re in the right place. Let’s stay here and see what happens.”

  As the clock ticked closer to one, the courtyard swelled with tourists. The air was filled with the click and whirr of cameras, and a sense of vague anticipation. Even the French schoolchildren had come out from under the trees and were looking up expectantly at the time ball, hoping that the spectacle would make up for the rest of the day’s disappointments.

  Jonathan stood on his tiptoes and peered through the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of something out of the ordinary – strange clothing or the glint of a weapon – any hint that a Darksider was present.

  “Bartlemas should be here by now!” Jonathan exclaimed. “Where is he?”

  “He’ll show his face soon enough,” the wereman replied coolly. “What I want to know is: where’s Lucien?”

  There was a loud pop, and a flash of light from the other side of the courtyard. Jonathan whirled round, but it was only Humble, who had produced an old-fashioned camera and was photographing Marianne as she straddled the Meridian Line. The French children giggled, as if the giant and the lady with the dyed hair were merely other eccentric guides. Carnegie shook his head.

  “That woman and her blasted games. She just doesn’t know when to stop.”

  The wereman continued muttering away, but Jonathan was no longer listening. The hairs on the back of his neck were prickling, and he had the feeling that something was terribly wrong. As he looked back towards the iron railing, he saw that the man using the telescope had spun it the wrong way round, so that it was facing back into the courtyard. And he had trained it directly on Jonathan.

  For a couple of seconds neither of them moved, until the man stepped out from behind the telescope and awkwardly down into the crowd, favouring one leg over the other. Before he vanished into the throng, he gave Jonathan a lingering glance, presenting a sallow face haunted by cruelty.

  Jonathan’s blood froze. He grabbed Carnegie’s arm.

  “Lucien!” he breathed.

  “Where?” rapped the wereman.

  “I lost him. He was by the telescope. I swear it, Carnegie, he’s here!”

  There was a ripple of excitement in the crowd, and then the French children suddenly began to count down from ten:

  “Dix! Neuf!”

  His heart pounding, Jonathan frantically scanned the sea of faces for Lucien. Where had he gone?

  “Huit! Sept!”

  By the Meridian Line, Humble put down his camera and moved to the back of the crowd.

  “Six! Cinq!”

  A low growl emanated from Carnegie’s throat, his long fingers twitching hungrily.

  “Quatre! Trois!”

  Marianne reached inside her trench coat, revealing the hilt of a weapon.

  “Deux!”

  The bounty hunter smiled: a thin, cold challenge.

  “Un!”

  The time ball dropped down the pole, to a chorus of cheers and applause. At the same time, there came the sound of breaking glass from inside the building beneath it, and a scream. A spindly man with a hooked nose came scurrying out through the doorway and down the steps, a small wooden box underneath his arm.

  “Bartlemas!” Jonathan cried.

  At the sound of his name, the old man faltered. He glanced over towards them with wide, fearful eyes, and then broke into a scuttling run towards the exit – a doorway leading back through the observatory. With a snarl, Carnegie began pushing his way after the watchmaker, but Jonathan could see that he wouldn’t get there in time. With his long stride, Humble had eased around the back of the crowd and was now standing in front of the exit, blocking off Bartlemas’s escape route. As the giant took a menacing step towards him, the watchmaker drew a small pistol from his belt with a trembling hand and fired off a shot.

  “Humble!” Marianne shouted.

  At the sound of the gunshot, the tourists scattered like leaves. Through a blizzard of screaming children, Jonathan saw Marianne battling her way towards the giant mute, a large axe grasped in her left hand. Humble was still standing, disbelief on his face as he looked at the bullet in the door frame beside him, only inches from his head. In front of him, the watchmaker remained rooted to the spot, shaking with fright.

  Jonathan watched as Carnegie neared Humble, unaware that Marianne’s other henchman was bounding up behind him. Without thinking, Jonathan raced across the courtyard and threw himself into Skeet, in a rugby tackle that sent the pair of them crashing to the wet cobblestones. Jonathan felt a sharp pain course up his right elbow. Clenching his teeth, he hung on for dear life as Skeet howled and thrashed his legs, trying to break free. The creature twisted suddenly and caught Jonathan with a kick in the ribs, causing the boy to roll away in pain.

  As he clutched at his side, Jonathan heard a bellowing roar echo around the courtyard. Carnegie was bent double, his body shaking violently as his muscles spasmed and his veins bulged. When the wereman looked up again, his face was matted with hair, and his eyes were pitiless black holes. The beast stalked towards the quivering Bartlemas, swatting the pistol from his hand and dragging the watchmaker away from Humble. The mute looked on thoughtfully, apparently unsure whether or not to tackle the beast on his own.

  A stillness had descended on the courtyard. There were only the six of them left now, although the sound of crying schoolchildren could still be heard on the breeze. There was no sign of Lucien anywhere. With Marianne and her henchmen blocking the exit, Carnegie retreated towards the iron railing, his jaws snapping threateningly in their direction. The wereman’s arm was locked around Bartlemas’s neck, as though he was taking the watchmaker hostage. Bartlemas was
whimpering softly, his hands still clutching the wooden box.

  Jonathan picked himself up and moved cautiously alongside Carnegie. The beast dismissed him with one feral glance, and turned his attention back towards their assailants. Side by side, they backed away, as Marianne and her henchmen closed in on them. Wiping a damp strand of pink hair away from her cheek, the bounty hunter pointed at Bartlemas with her axe.

  “I warned you, Jonathan,” she called out. “Give me the watchmaker, or you’ll die right here.”

  Before he could reply, there was a ghastly, inhuman screech, and then the world went black.

  17

  It was as though some evil power had doused the sun. Jonathan was suddenly and shockingly blind. The darkness was absolute: he could no longer make out the observatory buildings, nor the London skyline, or even the figures standing around him.

  Yet far worse than the blindness was the fear. As the unnatural night fell, a coldness struck at the very marrow of Jonathan’s bones. He suddenly felt helplessly young and alone, as if he were the only person on the planet. As the smell of decayed flesh infected his nostrils, Jonathan knew that Lucien had trapped them. The Ripper could transform himself into the Black Phoenix, a vicious bird of prey that hunted under a cloak of darkness. Jonathan and Carnegie had fought the Phoenix before – that they were still alive at all was due to a combination of luck and Marianne’s intervention. They couldn’t hope to be so fortunate again.

  As Jonathan stood there, gulping with terror, sounds reached him through the blackness: the choked cries of the watchmaker; a mournful howl – whether from Carnegie or Skeet, he couldn’t be sure; from somewhere overhead, the beating of leathery wings, and a chill screech of triumph as the Phoenix swooped down towards them; and then, finally, a woman’s shrill battle cry.