by Tom Becker
Marianne drew her long sword, the blade making a metallic zinging sound as it was freed from its scabbard. The bounty hunter felt reassured by the balance of the weapon, and the weight of it in her hand. She shifted her feet, adopting a wider, braced stance, and waited for her brother to try to kill her.
“But how did she. . .?” the guard spluttered. “I swear, sir, there’s no way she could have got past us!”
“And yet here she is,” Holborn said darkly. “We’ll discuss this later. What I want to know is – where are Humble and Skeet?”
“Marianne’s men,” Carmichael explained to Wilson in a whisper. “She never travels without them.”
“I don’t want any more surprises,” the Abettor said. “Find them. Now.”
The guard scurried off into the darkness, leaving the three men alone on the gantry. Holborn descended into a moody reverie, while Carmichael stared out at the twinkling lights of the city centre across the Thames, lost in thought. Unwilling to disturb the silence, Wilson watched Marianne calmly wait for Lucien. She stood as still as a statue, sword drawn and levelled. It was an impressive display of self-control. Once again, the young detective had cause to doubt whether he was on the right side.
After ten minutes the guard reappeared, red-faced and out of breath.
“Humble and Skeet aren’t here, sir.”
The Abettor grabbed hold of the guard’s shirt with a large fist. “Are you sure?”
“We’ve scoured the entire area, sir,” the guard replied. “She’s come alone.”
Holborn looked down at the lone woman standing in the centre of the arena, and broke into rich, baritone laughter.
“I don’t believe it!” he said. “She’s playing fair!”
Jonathan disembarked from the tube train at Pimlico and followed the sparse crowd of people to the exit. Dazed from blood loss, on the escalator out of the station, he nearly fell backwards into the man standing behind him. Jonathan smelled alcohol, and heard the man laugh harshly.
“Bit young to be drinking, aren’t you?” he said. “You look like you’ve had more than me.”
Jonathan mumbled a reply and staggered out of the station. He paused on the street, the fresh air clearing his head a little, then made his way down a broad avenue towards the riverfront. Battersea Power Station loomed over the other side of the Thames, the outline of two large cranes standing idly by. Jonathan wasn’t sure how long it took him to cross the bridge and find himself on the desolate road that ran around the back of the power station. In bright sunshine the area would have looked bleak; in the clutches of midnight, it was downright forbidding.
A fence of tall wooden boards ran around the back of the building, beneath signs warning against trespassing. They were too high to scramble over, but at one point they gave way to a slightly lower brick wall that, if he stood on his tiptoes, Jonathan could just about see over. Gritting his teeth, he placed his hands on top of the wall and hauled himself up, ignoring the pain in his damaged wrist. He expended so much energy getting over that he fell down the other side, landing with a thump on the hard ground.
Now Jonathan was inside the grounds, he could see lights flickering inside the power station. There was no sound. For the first time since he had left the cemetery, he felt a twinge of uncertainty. He had reached the site of the Blood Succession – what was he going to do now?
A chill ran down the back of his spine, and Jonathan shivered uncontrollably. Looking up into the sky, he saw something moving through the darkness above the power station. Summoning his last reserves of energy, Jonathan broke into a shambling run across the scraggy wasteland. He was halfway to the power station when a shape reared up in front of him, and his head exploded with pain.
The Black Phoenix flew through the night sky towards the power station, powerful wings propelling it easily through the air. In this form, it felt nothing but hatred – its talons itching for the feel of human skin, its beak for the taste of warm blood. Circling around the power station, its sharp eyes made out the woman standing alone, waiting for it. The Black Phoenix cawed exultantly, plunging down towards the ground in a dizzying arc, and smothered her in darkness.
27
Marianne tensed as the black cloud fell upon her, then sprang into the air to meet the Phoenix’s dive. Screaming a battle cry at the top of her lungs, she blocked the thrust of the bird’s beak, sparks flying from her sword. Absorbing the shuddering impact of the collision in her shoulder, she fell away to the Phoenix’s left, dodging the wicked swipe of its talons. Hitting the ground, she shifted smoothly into a forward roll, and was back on her feet in seconds.
Although the black fog around her was absolute, since she’d fought Lucien before, Marianne was prepared. She had spent the previous week sparring blindfolded with Humble, and had become accustomed to fighting without the power of sight. The bounty hunter fell back on her other senses: heard the sound of beating wings as the bird dived in to attack, smelled the rotting flesh on its beak as it snapped at her. But more than that was an intuition formed from years of combat – an almost logical understanding of the pattern of blows and strikes that made up a fight, the steps that formed this dangerous dance. Parrying another talon assault, Marianne ducked instinctively as one of the Phoenix’s leathery wings passed over her head.
As the bird came at her again, the bounty hunter reached down to the ground and picked up a handful of dirt, flinging it in its face. The Phoenix screeched as the powder stung its eyes. It was a cheap ploy worthy of a barroom brawl, but Marianne didn’t care. Anything to buy her time. For a minute both brother and sister fought blindly, frantically exchanging cuts and blows. Then the bird cawed with a mixture of triumph and blood lust and redoubled its attack.
As the black cloud bore down upon her, Marianne decided on a new tactic, standing firm until the last second, when she sidestepped like a matador. Although the bird shot past her, she hadn’t moved far enough to prevent a long talon raking down her back. Grimacing with pain, Marianne reversed the grip on her sword and aimed a backhanded slice at the Phoenix’s ribcage as it flew past. With grim satisfaction she heard the bird shriek in pain, and the cloud around it shuddered.
It was time for the real fighting to begin.
“Here,” Carmichael said, passing Wilson a pair of high-tech goggles. “You’ll need these.”
The young sergeant said nothing as he strapped the night-vision goggles over his eyes. He hadn’t seen the Black Phoenix as it arrowed past them, but the torches beneath them had been suddenly extinguished, and an icy draught of fear struck Wilson’s very core. Deluged by feelings of loss and loneliness, he suddenly felt very young.
Wilson flicked on the goggles, and his world descended into a fuzzy green, as though he were at the bottom of a deep swamp. Now he could see the battle taking place beneath him. Wilson shivered at the sight of the Phoenix – it was a giant black bird, so large that it seemed to have flown straight from the pages of mythology. Sleek and powerful, it should have been beautiful, but its wings were leathery like a bat, with thick veins pulsing along their length, and there was an all-pervasive atmosphere of malevolence around it, more powerful than any darkness. As it hovered above its opponent, unleashing a rain of vicious swipes on her, Wilson wondered how on earth anyone could hope to match it.
And yet, impossibly, Marianne was matching it. The bounty hunter moved with a deadly elegance, her sword weaving elaborate traces as she parried and thrusted with a speed that defied belief. Wilson’s experience of armed combat had been limited to martial arts and action films; seeing this woman fight now, he realized how little he understood. Even as he watched, Marianne launched a counter-attack against the Phoenix, hurling a dagger from a sheath on her back and following it up with a flurry of sword strokes.
But for all Marianne’s skill and bravery, even Wilson could see that the woman was suffering. She was hobbling on her left leg, and the back of her sh
irt was in tatters where a long claw had raked it. It was only a matter of time. Wasn’t it?
“It’s closer than I thought it would be,” Carmichael remarked in a neutral tone of voice as he adjusted his goggles. “Do you think we should intervene?”
The Abettor was engrossed in the battle, a slight smile playing across his lips. He shook his head.
“Let them play a while longer,” he said.
Wilson saw his superior glance quickly at Holborn, but his expression was hidden behind the large goggles. Carmichael looked like he was going to say something, but then turned back to watch the battle.
Marianne could feel the fight slipping away from her. The Phoenix attacked without remorse, apparently unaffected by the two deep cuts across its ribcage and the blood gushing from a vein on its right wing. How long could this monstrosity maintain its form? Marianne had badly twisted her left knee, hampering her movement, and her wounds were beginning to take their toll. Her cheek was bleeding; she wasn’t even sure how she had picked up the wound.
She desperately needed time to regroup. Once more her eyes flicked up to the walkways running along the east and west sides of the power station. Marianne began to back away from the Black Phoenix towards the east wall, maintaining a shield of defensive strokes. Then, feinting a counter-attack in one direction, the bounty hunter leapt backwards in the other, seeking the shelter of the lowest walkway.
The Black Phoenix hadn’t been fooled. There was a rush of air, and a vast wing hit Marianne in mid-leap, knocking the sword from her grasp and sending her into a crumpled heap on to the floor of the power station.
The first thing Jonathan was aware of was a crashing pain in his temple. He opened his eyes to see a man standing over him, raising a rifle butt over his head.
“Lucky you took me by surprise,” the man said conversationally. “Otherwise I’d have filled you full of holes.”
“Don’t . . . shoot,” Jonathan muttered.
“Didn’t you see the sign, sonny? No trespassers. Especially not tonight.”
There was movement to Jonathan’s left, and then another man appeared, casually balancing a gun over his shoulder as though it were a fishing rod. He peered at the boy on the ground.
“What’ve you got here, Ignatius?”
“A mouse,” Ignatius replied. “I caught it scampering off towards the power station.”
“Well, you know what to do with vermin,” the new man said. “Shoot it.”
“It’s only a little mouse, Casper. Is it worth a bullet?”
“One, perhaps. Just make sure you don’t miss.”
“From this distance?” Ignatius scoffed. “Watch how a real marksman does it.”
As the Darksider took aim, Jonathan snaked out a leg and kicked Ignatius hard in the kneecap. Caught off guard, the man fell over. Casper howled with laughter.
“You’ve got guts, lad, I’ll give you that.” He cast a pitying glance at Ignatius, who was trying to pick himself up in a dignified fashion. “However, you’re still in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Casper brought his gun down from his shoulder and readied to fire. Jonathan was preparing for the end when there came an enraged howl from behind him, and then a familiar figure crashed into the fray.
Carmichael’s head snapped upwards at the sound of the beast’s cry. He looked out over the south wall to the wasteland behind the power station. Through his night-vision goggles, Wilson could just make out a group of figures wrestling on the ground.
“What’s going on down there, sir?”
“Not sure,” Carmichael replied. “But we need to find out. I’m not sure how much I trust our ‘guards’.”
“Shouldn’t we stay here?”
The detective glanced down at Marianne’s prostrate body. “It’s over. Come on.”
Strangely unwilling to leave, Wilson allowed himself to be led away along the walkway. Holborn didn’t move a muscle as they passed by; the Abettor’s eyes remained gleefully transfixed on the scene below him as he awaited the killing blow.
Chaos reigned in the grounds of Battersea Power Station. Shouts of alarm and confusion rang out into the night. Ignatius and Casper were now sprawled at Jonathan’s feet, and by his side Elias Carnegie was flexing his claws.
“Carnegie!” Jonathan cried with relief. “What are you doing here?”
The wereman was looking in all directions, sizing up the situation. There were men racing at them from all sides of the wasteland, the first wild spray of bullets flying hopelessly into the air.
“No time to explain,” Carnegie barked. “I’ll distract the guards – you go and help Marianne.”
The ring was tightening around them: ten, maybe twenty guards.
“There’s too many!” Jonathan shouted. “And they’ve got guns! They’ll kill you!”
“If Lucien wins, it doesn’t matter,” the wereman retorted. “We’re all dead. You were right, boy. Now go!”
“I’m not going to leave you!”
“Go!” Carnegie snarled, pushing Jonathan away. He bayed one final time at the moon, and then bounded towards the nearest group of guards, avoiding their scattergun fire. The guards took the bait, ignoring the boy as they veered in on the wereman. As Jonathan hared towards the power station, he saw two figures hastening past him in the opposite direction. He heard a commanding voice shout out, “Take him alive! That’s an order!”
Although part of Jonathan couldn’t bear to look, he couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder as he ran. Carnegie had downed at least three men, and was holding another by the throat, daring the other guards to try and shoot him. As the circle tightened around him, Jonathan saw someone hurl a giant net over the wereman, who raged and howled with anger. The guards closed in warily, and then brought down a hail of rifle butts on Carnegie until he sank to his knees and collapsed.
“NO!” Jonathan screamed.
He stopped, his heart torn. Although desperate to save his old friend, deep down Jonathan knew it was hopeless – he was too far away, facing too many guards. Remembering Carnegie’s last words, Jonathan turned his back on the wereman and ran towards the power station, his eyes blinded by tears. But by then it was far too late.
As the Black Phoenix rose into the sky for its final, triumphant pass, Marianne knew that she was going to die. Her breath was coming in paltry wheezes, and her left arm was broken. Her sword lay far beyond her reach, snapped into two pieces by the sheer power of the Phoenix. She was bleeding from innumerable scratches and cuts. In many ways, it was a miracle she had avoided the killing blow for this long. Lucien – and, although he had assumed the form of this foul creature, she had never forgotten that it was her brother who had injured her in this way – cawed loudly, seemingly stronger than ever.
Even now, she felt no fear. She had heard that people facing death saw their life flash before their eyes, but Marianne indulged no such memories. Although her body was broken, her mind was still racing, calculating. She had one last card to play: a plan she had drawn up days before, which combined the best of Darkside thinking with Lightside technology. It would spell the end for her, but at least it would give her the eternal satisfaction of taking her accursed brother with her.
It was time. The Phoenix spread its wings and the cloak of darkness vanished – Lucien wanted Marianne to see her killer as the bird swooped down towards her, its beak twitching hungrily for the kill. Lying flat on her back, the bounty hunter began to laugh, a full-throated chuckle that burned her lungs.
“My dear brother,” she murmured. “What a family we are.”
And with that, she fished out the remote control from her shirt, the one connected to the battery of explosives she had planted along the east wall on her arrival. Marianne waited until the bird was almost upon her, and then pressed the button. There was a deep rumbling sound, a bright flash of light, and her world was engulfed
in bricks and dust.
28
Jonathan was only a hundred yards away when the charges went off. There was a deep rumble like an earthquake, and the east wall gave a mighty shudder. For one second, and then another, nothing happened, and it looked as if the building had managed to withstand the blow. But then bricks came tumbling down like a waterfall, and the entire eastern wall of the power station collapsed as swiftly and decisively as a curtain on a stage.
The noise was deafening – the ground trembled underfoot. Jonathan hit the deck, covering his head with his hands.
“What the hell was that?” Carmichael screamed. The detective had been supervising the capture of the intruder when the explosion went off. Frustrated by the order to take him alive, the Darkside guards were roughly manhandling their hostage, muttering darkly about shooting him.
As the wall came down with a thunderous crash, Wilson watched with his mouth agape.
“Take the prisoner and bring the cars round!” Carmichael bellowed. “We need to get out of here. Come on, Charlie!”
The hunchback grabbed the stunned sergeant and ushered him back towards the power station, which now had only three sides to it. Clouds of dust were rising from the remnants of the east wall. On the west wall, Wilson saw the broad figure of Holborn hurry down the ladder towards them.
“I don’t believe it!” he shouted. “The wall just came down!”
