The Apollonian Case Files

by Mark A. Latham

  Still rats, most likely.

  All the same, the sound of scratching never failed now to set Jim’s teeth on edge.

  The light jerked away, plunging the area ahead back into gloom. A man cried out. A bestial growl preceded a horrid, gurgling croak of pain. Jim whipped around. A lantern rolled across the floor. Beresford’s face was lit in its ghastly light, a mask of terror, glassy eyes bulging from his head in fear, the life almost gone from them. Blood oozed from his mangled throat.

  Something bent over Beresford’s body, something gangrel and foul, long of limb, red in tooth and claw. A face half-shrouded in shadow turned to Jim, eyes shining unnaturally in the half-light.

  Jim fired his pistol twice. The first shot drew a rasping scream from the brute. The second hit thin air.

  One constable stood quailing beside a stack of tethered crates. The other ran towards the stairs, heavy footfalls pounding the boards. Jim could barely see the man for the darkness, but he saw the thing drop from the beams overhead, falling heavily onto the policeman, tearing at him with clawed hands.

  ‘Come on!’ Jim shoved the frozen constable towards his compatriot. They could still save him. The men on deck would have heard the shots; they’d be coming.

  Jim had taken barely three steps when he heard movement off to his right, from behind the ship’s cargo. Crates toppled, the constable cried out and bolted towards the rear of the hold. Even as Jim fired his revolver, the creature barrelled into him, its momentum pushing him to ground. Blazing violet eyes stared into his, set within a snarling, bat-like face. Slavering jaws snapped hungrily. Putrid, maggoty breath assailed his senses.

  Jim pulled the trigger over and over until the gun was empty. The thing screamed, then slumped on top of him, a dead weight. He pushed at it. The other creature was approaching. He heard its claws tapping on the boards. Its shadow drew closer, cautious and predatory. There was something familiar about the way it moved, the way it stalked. Something that reminded Jim of another encounter he’d had not so very long ago, aboard another ship – the Helen B Jackson. And those eyes… violet eyes.

  The sudden memory spurred him to struggle harder against the pressing weight upon him. The thing that approached, whatever it was, limped, dragging one leg behind it. It was the one he’d shot previously. Jim shoved at the corpse on top of him again, with growing desperation.

  It was close enough to smell. Stale sweat, rotting meat. With a final exertion, Jim pushed free. The new aggressor crouched, ready to pounce, uttering a low, guttural croak. Jim scrambled to his feet. The creature launched itself at him. Jim flicked his wrist to spring an Otherside derringer into his right hand, and pulled the trigger. The ship’s hold was bathed in a momentary flash of blue-white light as electrical energy arced from the pocket pistol and wreathed the creature in crackling tendrils of energy. The beast screamed inhumanly, and dropped to the floor in a charred, sparking heap.

  Jim blinked the spots of light from his eyes.

  ‘What… what…’

  The last policeman cowered beside the fallen lantern, muttering the word over and over as he struggled to comprehend what he had just seen. This was why Jim rarely used his secret weapon; and it was why he rarely revealed the nature of his assignments to the common constabulary. The man would have to be debriefed, and possibly paid off – even threatened – in order to keep the details of this encounter secret.

  Jim’s heart drummed in his chest. He picked up the lantern, and shone it about the floor. Two creatures – possibly human, though deformed beyond measure – now lay in the hold. One was charred and blistered. The other was pale and sickly, still twitching as it bled out from its gut. Upon its neck and part of its chest, a puckered red shape was burned into its flesh, like a cattle brand. Numerals – the number nine, and others either torn away or too indistinct in the dark. Two policemen lay nearby also, throats torn out, eyes glassy. Jim looked away, disgusted and angry, at himself as much as the enemy. He shook his head and muttered a curse. He had no idea what he was dealing with, but one thing was certain: it was not of this world.

  He paused as he realised that no reinforcements had come. The silence from up on deck was telling.

  Jim primed the derringer clumsily, with a trembling hand, reloaded his service revolver, and gave the constable a hard shove.

  ‘Pull yourself together, man,’ he said, quietly but sternly, summoning his best military tone. ‘We’re in a fix, but if we’re to get out of here in one piece, I’ll need you. Do you understand?’

  The man turned his eyes upwards, questioningly, towards the deck where just minutes earlier he had seen more than a dozen of his colleagues confidently going about their business.

  ‘I fear the worst,’ Jim said. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Butler, sir.’

  ‘Alright, Butler. Bring that lantern, and arm yourself, just in case. Now come on.’

  Jim had no idea what he would be facing. Smugglers, most likely. More of those strange creatures if tonight were destined to get any worse. The former he could stomach – it wouldn’t be the first time he’d negotiated his way out of a tight spot. The latter case… that didn’t really bear thinking about. Jim crept up the stairs, bracing himself for a fight, and the sight of a deck awash with the blood of London’s finest.

  What he saw instead was fifteen police constables, their hands held above their heads, standing in the middle of the deck in silence. On the jetty alongside the ship, ten or so rough-looking men trained rifles on the police. Above them, on the harbour wall, more men stood and watched, lined up beside a trio of beer wagons, painted with faded Charrington’s Ales livery. Jim took a good look at the men. Most had their faces covered with scarves; the ones that did not were unmistakeably Chinese. This wasn’t the first time the Chinese gangs had made a foray into the Otherside black market. Some of the substances the more illicit opium dens were said to add to their wares were as repulsive as they were infamous. But these men were far from their usual territory of Limehouse.

  ‘So pleased that you could join us, Captain Denny.’

  Jim spun around to face the owner of the heavily accented voice. Above him, on the quarterdeck, stood another group of men. At their head stood a stern-faced, yet surprisingly youthful celestial, arms folded behind his back. His eyes were fixed on Jim. His mouth was curved into a self-satisfied smile. At his signal, two of his men pushed a prisoner forwards through their number: a man, hands bound, a hood over his head. The celestial pulled off the hood, and Jim noticed two things simultaneously that made his stomach lurch.

  First, the man had a rope around his neck. A noose.

  Second, Jim knew him. It was Bertrand, the lieutenant of the Sixteenth Lancers who had been assigned to Apollo Lycea at the request of his former commanding officer, John Hardwick. The last Jim heard, Bertrand had been investigating rumours of ‘doppelgangers’ appearing in Belfast. It looked as though he had found more than he’d bargained for.

  ‘Your coming was as clear as the rising of the sun, Captain,’ crowed the celestial. ‘It was foreseen.’ At his nod, two of the men behind him heaved upon a rope, and with alarming rapidity, Lieutenant Bertrand was hoisted up by the neck, high into the rigging of the clipper. Jim cried out, and made to rush forwards, but a rifle report cut through the air, causing splinters of wood to erupt from the deck near Jim’s feet. He slid to a halt, and could only look on in dismay as Bertrand kicked out, dancing the Tyburn jig.

  The Chinamen laughed. Jim’s blood burned hot with anger at the sound.

  ‘His neck did not break,’ the celestial declared with a grin. ‘We will wait.’

  And with mounting horror, they did. It took perhaps three or four minutes for Bertrand to stop kicking, his face purpling, then blackening, eyes bulging from his head, silent splutters escaping blue lips. The rifles of the Chinese stayed trained on Jim and the policemen the whole time. A copper heaved at the sight of it; a sight that burned itself into Jim’s mind. He felt sick, and angry, and utterly helpl
ess.

  When it was over, the celestials’ leader pulled back the sleeve of his tunic, and held out his forearm for Jim to see. It was tattooed with Chinese characters, punctuated by lines of neat dots which were unmistakeable as tong markings. But that was clearly not the significance of the revelation. Jim squinted to see the tattoos more clearly, gritting his teeth as he recognised them.

  ‘You know what this says, yes?’ the celestial said. ‘My master sends his regards. Tell your people that this man was the first, but he will not be the last, unless they start to listen. And you may keep the etherium, for there is plenty more where that came from. The blood price you have paid tonight is sufficient.’ He laughed again, and addressed his men in his own tongue.

  The group proceeded to the gangway, not giving Jim and the constables another look. The gang on the jetty kept their rifles trained on the police, until finally all of the tong climbed the steps to the harbour wall, boarded the wagons, and left.

  Jim breathed a sigh of relief as the sound of the wagons faded into the distance, leaving the night air silent, but for the tolling of buoy bells out on the river.

  ‘You, and you,’ Jim pointed to two constables, who looked about ready to quit the ship and abandon their duty. ‘Get up there, and cut that man down. He deserves better than this.’ The men set to the task reluctantly.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir.’ It was Butler, who had been standing quietly behind Jim through the whole affair. ‘What was that business with the tattoos? What did they say?’

  ‘They said “zhi ming”,’ Jim replied. ‘Or, as some would have it, Zhengming.’ Jim turned to Butler, who looked confused. ‘Best that you don’t understand it, old boy; not if you want to sleep well at night.’

  ‘No danger of that, sir,’ Butler replied ruefully. ‘Not any more…’

  * * *

  Saturday, 30th September 1893, 3.15 a.m.

  GEORGE STREET, LONDON

  ‘Jane!’

  Jim jumped awake with such violence he almost fell out of bed. The room was dark; a cold draught from the window chilled his sweat-slick skin and gave him gooseflesh. He shivered, though not entirely from the cold. For a moment he swore he saw the shadows of rigging and ratlines on the wall, of a hanged man kicking the air. They were gone as quickly as Jim imagined them.

  He could still hear the scratching though, always, inside his head. It came at night, to remind him of what lay beyond the veil, hungering. The Other; the Riftborn. And something more. Ragged breaths, quiet sobs, fading away only gradually as wakefulness replaced painful memory.

  Jim closed his eyes, but wished that he had not, for he could still see the images of the familiar nightmare, as though they were etched forever in his mind’s eye. The pale girl on her deathbed. The judgmental glares of mourners at her funeral. His Jane, lost.

  For a moment, Jim swore he was not alone. He swore he heard Jane, sobbing in the dark, begging Jim to be with her, even as she breathed her last.

  Then she was gone, and Jim was alone, save for a faint odour of funerary wreaths.

  And the scratching in his head.

  TWO

  Friday, 29th September 1893, 4.30 p.m.

  THE APOLLONIAN CLUB, LONDON

  Jim placed the phial carefully on Sir Toby Fitzwilliam’s desk, and backed away as though it were a bomb. A satisfied smirk crossed Lord Cherleten’s lips. Sir Arthur Furnival, by contrast, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Sir Toby himself frowned, silver brows coming together to shade his piercing eyes.

  The only person present who did not react at all was the young woman, Marie Furnival. Some agents, in less guarded moments, said there was more to her than met the eye. They said she was an authority on creatures from beyond the veil – creatures that few living men had ever seen. They said more outlandish things, to which Jim paid no mind, and he had not asked why Sir Arthur had brought his American niece along – he had learned that, in Apollo Lycea, if one was not given information freely, one was not meant to know it.

  ‘Your report says that this is one of a hundred and eighty-eight identical bottles,’ Sir Toby said.

  It was not a question, but Jim felt the need to reply anyway. ‘Yes, Sir Toby. But there was nothing else of interest aboard the Glarus.’

  ‘I would not say that, Captain Denny,’ the old man replied. ‘The dead creatures you brought back for study are of singular importance to the Order. More than that, an agent of the Crown was killed aboard that vessel, and his killers are on the loose.’

  ‘And two policemen, too. I only meant that –’

  Sir Toby held up a hand to silence Jim, and then shuffled the papers before him, which comprised Jim’s report, plus various memoranda from Lord Cherleten and Sir Arthur. Jim had never felt that Sir Toby had particularly warmed to him. The fact that he had been brought into the club by Cherleten had a lot to do with that. He was, like it or not, ‘Cherleten’s man’, at least in the eyes of other agents. That came with advantages of its own, especially when requisitioning equipment from the armoury. But around the card tables and bars, where Jim would prefer to spend his time, he sometimes found himself a man apart from his fellows.

  ‘You are certain that Bertrand’s killer was from the Zhengming gang?’ Sir Toby asked.

  ‘I am,’ Jim replied.

  ‘And they specifically mentioned the etherium, making no effort to recover it?’

  ‘That’s right, Sir Toby. They said there was more where that came from. And they correctly used the word “etherium”, too, which rather sets them apart from the average smuggler.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘The night’s events cannot be viewed in isolation, sir,’ Jim said. ‘Someone has been moving contraband around in increasingly large quantities. I have apprehended more Otherside fugitives these past three weeks than in the last six months combined. The numbers simply make no sense – how could such quantities possibly be on the streets? Where are they coming from? In my view, this was a display of power. Someone knows we are tracking them. They wanted to send us a message.’

  Sir Toby looked at Jim from beneath his flinty eyebrows, as if to question why Captain Denny had offered an opinion at all. ‘A message to whom, I wonder?’ he asked. ‘The Order? Or a certain John Hardwick? It was he, after all, who killed the Artist. It says here that the celestial stated “my master sends his regards”. A message of revenge from beyond the grave?’

  ‘Perhaps the Artist used his… gifts… to make further predictions that we never discovered. Perhaps his men still follow his instructions even after his passing.’ Jim was uncomfortable even discussing the possibility of the Artist’s supernatural return; that monster, fused from the twin bodies of a criminal mastermind in both worlds. The man who had tortured John Hardwick, took his eye, and had later been assassinated by his would-be victim. Jim had never really understood if John had been acting under orders on that fateful night. He wouldn’t have blamed Hardwick if not.

  ‘Arrangements must be made to contact Colonel Hardwick,’ Sir Toby said. ‘Bertrand’s death will be of singular interest to him; we cannot rule out the possibility that similar “revenge”, or whatever this is, will be sought against him.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll come in, sir? Hardwick, I mean?’ Jim did not believe for a moment that even the killing of a confidant would encourage John Hardwick back to the Apollonian.

  ‘It remains to be seen whether he will have a choice in the matter,’ Cherleten interrupted.

  ‘And who would force him?’ Sir Toby asked. ‘He has more confirmed kills to his name than any agent in our history. A lighter touch is required, perhaps?’

  ‘Hmmph.’ Cherleten settled back into his chair.

  ‘If he learns about the… Artist,’ Jim offered, still incredulous, ‘he may return of his own accord.’

  ‘Nothing is certain with Hardwick,’ Sir Toby said. Jim thought he detected a rueful tone.

  ‘Perhaps these “tong” simply have a new master,’ Lord Cherleten interrupted. ‘One
who wishes to take up where his predecessor left off.’

  ‘That is, unfortunately, the more desirable of the possibilities,’ Sir Toby said. ‘Pending further intelligence, we have no way to be sure what we are facing.’

  ‘With all due respect, Sir Toby, might I ask what intelligence sent us to the Glarus in the first place?’ Jim had no idea what Sir Toby and Cherleten were driving at. He was, however, eager to return to the field, though not if his superiors were to insist on keeping him in the dark.

  ‘You might not.’

  ‘I could have been killed,’ Jim said.

  ‘That is the risk all of our agents take daily,’ Sir Toby said, matter-of-factly.

  ‘And I accept that risk every time I take to the field,’ Jim said, his colour rising. ‘But what of my men? The common constabulary sent to support me do not expect to sell their lives in my service.’

  ‘That’s enough, Captain,’ Lord Cherleten chided.

  ‘You began by saying “with all due respect”,’ said Sir Toby. ‘In my experience, those words are usually followed with a distinct lack of respect. It seems this occasion is no different.’

  Jim stiffened. His eyes scanned the room quickly. Everyone was stony-faced, except for Marie Furnival. The ghost of a smirk vanished from her lips as his eyes met hers. That annoyed him further, though he would be damned if he’d let it show now.

  ‘You are correct, however, in some respects,’ said Sir Toby. ‘You have served us well for three years, Captain Denny. You have rarely questioned your orders, and you have brought in more Otherside fugitives than any of your fellows. Your record is exemplary. And that is why you are here today. Lord Cherleten thinks you are ready for some answers, and I am inclined to agree with him.’

  Jim stopped himself just in time from raising an incredulous eyebrow. Seeing Old Toby agree with Cherleten was like finding a dozen hen’s teeth in his pocket.

  ‘Our information network gathers hundreds of pieces of vital intelligence daily,’ Sir Toby went on. ‘Much of it is conflicting; some of it is outright false. Traditionally, we have had trusted clerks and intelligencers working around the clock to decipher codes and correlate obtuse leads into practical guidance for our agents in the field. As a result, Apollo Lycea has often been accused of being slow to act – a great old wooden warship in an age of steam frigates. Since the Lazarus Gate opened in the heart of London, the world has changed at a rate far beyond that which anyone can keep up with. This is why the Order is exploring new methods of intelligence-gathering. Sir Arthur here is at the forefront of these methods. We thought he had hit upon great progress, given our recent run of fine results in the field, but it rather seems that we have suffered a minor setback.’