by Tom Becker
“Perhaps,” Holborn replied. “Perhaps I won’t share power with him. One way or another, it will hardly be of your concern.”
Throwing his hood back over his white hair, the Abettor walked out of the clearing, giving his men a final command as he left.
“Kill them. Now.”
25
As Holborn melted into the trees, time seemed to freeze before Jonathan’s eyes. He watched in torturous slow motion as the gunmen raised their weapons and took aim. Carnegie responded by throwing his head back and roaring as he started to transform, the hackles on his neck rising and bulging, but there was no way the wereman could reach the gunmen in time to stop them firing. Jonathan knew that he should try and run for cover, but he was too tired and weak to feel scared. In the endless second that followed, he simply gave Kate’s hand a squeeze, and waited for shots to ring out.
One of the gunmen screamed.
It was a sound Jonathan would never forget, a high-pitched squeal of agony and terror that he would never have thought a man’s vocal chords capable of making. The gunman on the far left of the line had dropped his weapon and was writhing in the shadows, clutching at his neck. As everyone in the clearing paused, united in shock, Jonathan saw that something had attacked the man from behind. Even as he watched, dumbfounded, a dagger gleamed devilishly in the darkness, and the screams were abruptly silenced.
Regaining their senses, the remaining gunmen whirled round and began blasting away into the trees, but their assailant was already upon them. The knife gleamed again, and another gunman was stopped in his tracks; another was felled by an unseen blow. Jonathan had witnessed several of Darkside’s most brutally effective fighters at work, but had never seen such a deathly quiet, unanswerable killer. He suddenly realized that it could only be one man – dumbfounded, Jonathan watched as Vendetta wove a delicate web of death.
With the gunmen diverted, Carnegie waded howling into the fray, knocking the nearest man unconscious with a shuddering uppercut, and falling on to his neighbour before he had a chance to target his weapon. Beset on both sides, the gunmen panicked: Jonathan pulled Kate down to the ground as bullets began spraying over their heads. When the shooting finally stopped, Jonathan saw the last gunman fleeing away through the trees, Vendetta hot on his heels.
At that moment a resplendent full moon sprang out from behind a cloudbank, bathing the clearing in milky white light. Carnegie barked several times, stretching out his limbs as he felt the moonlight on his fur.
With the danger seemingly over, Jonathan gingerly rose to his feet, helping Kate up with him.
“Be careful,” he warned. “Carnegie’s not safe when’s he like this.”
As Kate nodded stoically, Jonathan wondered whether anything could surprise her again after this night. Though they cautiously backed away from the wereman, Carnegie seemed unaware of their presence. Instead he prowled amongst the bodies littering the grass, his shoulders still taut with violence, a low growl emanating from his throat.
“What’s he doing?” Kate murmured.
“I’m not sure,” Jonathan replied. “But I don’t like the look of it.”
Following the rough direction of Carnegie’s gaze, they peered into the trees. There, picked out in the moonlight, Jonathan saw the silhouette of two figures locked together in a close embrace: the last gunman and Vendetta. Still giddy from blood loss, at first Jonathan thought that they were dancing, but then he saw that the gunman’s legs were shaking violently, and there was a bubbling sound coming from his mouth, as though he were drowning. When the vampire released him, the man collapsed to the floor like a rag doll.
The silhouette paused, drawing an arm across its mouth, and then Vendetta strode back into the clearing. His cool, handsome face had metamorphosed into the angular, hate-filled features of a vampire: dead eyes set into yellowed, leathery skin. Two long fangs protruded from his mouth, which was streaked with blood.
Carnegie snarled, and it was then, in the moonlit graveyard, that Jonathan saw the wereman and the vampire confront one another in their true, bestial forms.
“You ran away,” Carnegie rumbled.
The vampire ran a long, thick tongue over his stained fangs. “It was a trap. I had to turn the odds in my favour. Be thankful I returned at all, wolfman, and that there are others I detest more than you.”
“You missed Holborn.”
Vendetta inclined his head. “There will be other opportunities.”
“So what now?”
The wereman was still coiled like a spring. Jonathan was all too aware that under the influence of the full moon, the beast within Carnegie would be straining to attack, regardless of the opponent – that the blood lust running through his veins would always demand more carnage.
Vendetta looked around at the strewn bodies. “Now, I feed.”
“There’s no time!” Jonathan cried out.
Their stand-off interrupted, the creatures turned and glared at him, united in violence and hatred. As Kate took an instinctive step backwards, Jonathan was suddenly acutely aware that the danger hadn’t abated.
“You heard Holborn!” he persisted. “The Blood Succession is happening tonight! We’ve got to go to Battersea and stop Lucien!”
“We won’t be doing anything,” the vampire hissed. “You should just be grateful you have a chance of leaving this clearing alive.”
“Forget about me!” Jonathan cried. “If Marianne dies, Lucien will become the new Ripper. What will you do then?”
“Holborn leaves little to chance, Starling. Marianne was as good as dead the moment her father passed away. You will forgive me if I save my tears. There is bloodshed ahead, and I need to plan my next move. Trying to intervene now would be foolish beyond measure.”
“But. . .!”
“Shut up, boy.” Carnegie’s voice was a guttural rumble. He pointed a long finger at Jonathan. “Save your speeches. You don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you know about Darkside? About the Rippers?” The wereman’s claws glinted in the moonlight as he loomed closer. “About hunger?”
Seeing the complete absence of humanity in Carnegie’s eyes, it took all of Jonathan’s self-control not to turn on his heel and run. Instead, he drew himself up and held the wereman’s gaze.
“You agree with the vampire, then? We sit here and do nothing, give Lucien the throne?”
For a second it looked as though Carnegie was going to lunge at him. Then the wereman broke off, muttering to himself. He sank to his haunches, scratching at his fur as though he were crawling with insects.
Kate clutched at Jonathan. “We should go. He doesn’t look like he wants us here.”
“It’s not Carnegie’s fault,” Jonathan replied edgily. “It’s the full moon. He’s trying to fight it.”
“Get out of here,” the wereman said, through clenched teeth. “I can’t hold back much longer.”
“But what am I going to do?”
“RUN, boy!”
Grabbing Kate’s hand, Jonathan sprinted out of the clearing and back along the winding overgrown path, branches and thorns snagging his clothing and tearing at his skin. As they exploded out of the undergrowth and back on to the broad promenade that led out of the cemetery, an anguished howl echoed around the gravestones behind them.
It wasn’t until they had raced out through the cemetery gates that Jonathan skidded to a breathless halt. Behind him, the graveyard had once more descended into silence – there was no sign of Carnegie. Jonathan swore angrily to himself, a mixture of tiredness and frustration welling up within him. Not only had his closest ally come within an inch of attacking him, but now Jonathan had to try and stop Lucien on his own. It seemed an impossible task.
Determined to put that thought out of his mind, he began walking briskly down the road.
“Jonathan, wait!” Kate called out. “Where are you going?”
<
br /> “Battersea.”
She raced after him, forcing him to pull up. “But that’s crazy! Vendetta said it was hopeless, and he’s a vampire, for heaven’s sake! Even if you hadn’t lost all that blood, what do you think you can do in Battersea, besides get yourself killed?”
“I don’t know,” he replied stubbornly, folding his arms. “I’ll work it out when I get there.”
“I know you want to do something,” Kate said, more softly this time. “But you’re in no state to do anything now. I mean, look at your arm.”
Jonathan glanced down at it. The bandage was soaked with dark red liquid, and his fingers were tingling.
“Come on,” she continued gently, “at least get someone to look at it.”
It was so tempting to give in – part of Jonathan knew that she was right. Even so, he shook his head.
“I can’t. This isn’t just about the Blood Succession for me. Lucien’s the only person who knows what happened to my mum, and if there’s the smallest chance I can find out from him, I have to take it. After tonight I might never get another chance.” He paused. “You could come with me, you know.”
Kate stared up into the night sky, gazing at the full moon. Then it was her turn to shake her head. “I’m sorry. I want to help you, I do, but . . . it’s just that my mum’s sitting at home with my dad and they’ll be going mad with worry. I’ve got to let them know I’m all right. And maybe now I know about Darkside, I can get them to stop arguing all the time. I can’t miss that chance either. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.” Jonathan nodded. “I do.”
He gave her a quick hug, and then jokingly wagged a finger at her. “Whatever happens, remember you’re a half-Darksider now. Don’t go giving us a bad name.”
“No, Jonathan,” Kate replied with a smile. “You’re a half-Darksider. I’m a half-Lightsider. That’s the difference between me and you.”
He grinned wryly. “I guess so. Good luck.”
Kate gave him a serious smile, and then reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Keep it,” she whispered. “You’re going to need it more than me.”
They parted by the steps that led down to Archway tube station. As he watched Kate climb wearily aboard her bus home, Jonathan nearly called out after her, knowing that there was more he wanted to say to her. But he knew Kate was right – she needed to go back to her family and let them know she was alive. Jonathan watched silently as the bus drove out of sight before he turned and hastened down the station steps.
By now it was late evening, and the Underground was quiet. Jonathan sat in the carriage at the back of the train, his sleeve rolled over the bloodstained bandage. Still weakened from the blood loss, he lolled in his seat like a drunkard, drifting in and out of consciousness. Needing to change lines at Euston, he sleepwalked through the station, barely in control of his own footsteps, grateful that his Lightside anonymity shielded him from the inspection of other passengers.
It was getting harder to be sure where he was. As the train clattered through the tunnels to a rhythmic beat, Jonathan felt cobblestones beneath him, heard horses whinnying as he raced a carriage through the streets of Darkside. When a group of loud teenagers got on his carriage, shouting and playing music on their mobile phones, he imagined himself at a lavish party in the Cain Club, where masked revellers draped an arm across his shoulder and toasted his health.
But throughout these dreams, there was one constant, shadowy presence: Lucien. Even as Jonathan was engulfed by the urge for revenge, he could almost feel the Ripper’s anticipation. After all, there was the promise of death in the air tonight.
26
On a high iron walkway at the top of Battersea Power Station, Sergeant Charlie Wilson leaned over the rail and stared down into the exposed innards of the building. Disused for decades, the power station was a scarred husk. The roof had been ripped away and the floors knocked through, creating a vast enclosed space: the perfect arena, in fact, for a fight to the death.
The building was situated in the middle of a patch of scruffy wasteland, cordoned off from the public by a high security fence on the south side and the River Thames on the north. Behind Wilson, two railway tracks snaked round the side of the building before coming together at Grosvenor Bridge. He was facing east, high enough not only for a panoramic view of London but also for the biting wind to make the walkway an exposed, precarious place. At each corner of the power station, a giant chimney rose into the sky, its base encased in scaffolding.
Wilson had spent the days following his visit to Blackchapel frantically preparing for the Blood Succession. In a deserted warehouse in south London, he was introduced to a gang of Darksiders Holborn had sent over for support. In his brief career, the young sergeant had never seen such a bunch of criminal lowlifes: petty thieves and pickpockets; battle-scarred humans and grotesque creatures. Half of them were suffering from the after-effects of crossing, and were sprawled out on the warehouse floor, groaning and clutching at their stomachs. When they eventually picked themselves up, Wilson was charged with the unenviable task of introducing the gang to modern weapons, and for two consecutive nights the building had echoed with the sound of cackling laughter and wild gunfire. Watching the Darksiders pepper the walls with bullets, Wilson couldn’t help but wonder whether these were the sort of men a policeman should be training. As ever, Carmichael batted away his questions with enigmatic replies.
The hunchbacked detective had been busy, too – pulling strings to replace the round-the-clock security that protected the power station with some slightly more amenable guards. As Wilson and Carmichael had driven through the gates earlier that evening, two heavyset Darksiders had ushered them through, their porcine eyes scanning the road beyond for unwelcome guests. The two detectives had clambered up a ladder to their lofty position, the hunchback grunting with the effort. Flaming torches had been placed at intervals along the walls, draping the station in a ghostly illumination.
“Isn’t someone going to notice all this?” Wilson puffed.
“They can notice all they want,” the detective replied. “I’ve told the top brass that we’re conducting a training exercise here tonight. No one’s going to bother us.”
Now there came the clank of footsteps on the iron walkway, and Holborn strode purposefully towards them. Carmichael looked up and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. The Abettor nodded.
“It has been taken care of,” he said.
“A pity,” Carmichael mused. “I rather liked the Starling boy.”
“He brought it on himself. There was no alternative.”
Wilson frowned. The name Starling sounded familiar. “You’re not talking about the lad we interviewed for the Kensington robbery, are you? What’s he got to do with this?”
“Nothing. Now,” Holborn said pointedly.
“What do you mean? What did you do to him? You didn’t. . .?”
The Abettor said nothing, merely raised a white eyebrow.
Wilson grabbed Carmichael’s arm. “Listen, boss, I know that keeping Darkside a secret is important, but you can’t go around killing kids! That’s crazy!”
“Not now, Wilson!” Carmichael snapped. It was the first time Wilson had ever heard the hunchback raise his voice. He turned to Holborn. “My apologies, Abettor. Ignore him. Where is Lucien?”
“He is preparing in private. This night will take much out of him. Remember that he can only maintain the form of the Black Phoenix for so long.”
“That’s not going to be a problem,” Carmichael said. “This place is crawling with our men. If Lucien fails to take care of her as the Phoenix, we’ll be ready to step in. Marianne will get shot full of holes before she takes as much as a step towards him.”
“You might as well shoot her in the back now and be done with it,” Wilson said glumly.
“Charlie!” the hunchback replied, in mock surprise. “This is the Blood
Succession! There’s got to be at least a semblance of a contest.”
“And then we’ll shoot her,” Holborn added.
A red-faced Darksider came running up towards them, throwing a messy approximation of a salute. “You asked to see me, sir?”
“Is everything secure?” Holborn asked crisply.
“We’ve had men stationed all around the perimeter fence for five hours, sir. They’re reporting anything that moves. As soon as Marianne tries to get into the power station, you’ll know about it.”
“Is that so?” Carmichael said thoughtfully, looking down at the ground. “Then who on Darkside is that?”
Getting in had been easy. Not for first time in her life, Marianne had cause to be grateful for her special perfume’s distracting qualities. With its spicy aroma hanging in the air, it had been a simple matter to slip past the dopey guards on the gate and into the power station. Marianne had no idea what to expect inside, but there was no way she was going to announce her presence.
She was dressed in simple soldier’s garb: trousers and boots, a shirt. Her hair was dyed blood red, save for one black lock. She pushed it behind her ear as she examined her surroundings with a calculating, military eye. Peering up into the night sky, she picked out the figures standing on the highest walkway. It didn’t matter who they were – tonight, Marianne was treating everyone as a potential threat. Mentally marking their position, she continued her surveillance, noting the lower walkways running along the wall that could provide shelter from the attacks of the Black Phoenix. Lucien would come at her from the air, hoping to kill her quickly before he reverted back to his fragile human form. If she stayed out in the open, she’d play right into his hands. However, if Marianne could survive the initial onslaught, finishing him off would be a simple matter.
It was a big if, she knew. Her previous encounters with the Phoenix at Greenwich and in the Cain Club had been enough to convince Marianne that she faced an awesomely powerful creature. After all, it had ended James’s life, and all of Darkside knew of his reputation as a fighter. There was a good chance she would die here tonight. Perhaps she should have been scared, but then, Marianne couldn’t remember the last time she had felt fear. Even as a child, she had never cried or wailed. Now the only thing she felt was a tidal wave of adrenaline and the icy excitement of an impending battle.
