The Apollonian Case Files

by Mark A. Latham

  ‘He is a prisoner of the Crown,’ John said. ‘This man has vital information –’

  ‘This is no man. He is wampyr. And I swore to kill him a long time ago. I will not be denied.’

  ‘Could it be?’ de Montfort mocked. ‘Furnival? The little girl who tracked me across England? Have you followed me across the very veil?’

  ‘Stand down, Miss Furnival,’ Jim said. He stepped in front of her, lowering the barrel of her gun with a firm hand. ‘De Montfort, would you like to explain what you’re doing here? Or would you prefer to be dragged back to London and interrogated… by the Nightwatch, if it pleases you.’

  ‘The Nightwatch?’ de Montfort scoffed. ‘By now, I would guess the Nightwatch are no longer yours to command, little man. Besides, if your imbecile Majestics were to read my thoughts, their tiny minds would be torn asunder. You do not frighten me.’

  ‘Not ours to command?’ John snarled. ‘Explain yourself!’

  De Montfort laughed; a rolling, rasping sound that tailed off into a hacking cough.

  ‘The Artist has played you for fools, as she has done to me,’ de Montfort said. ‘The Nightwatch has never truly been a tool of your pathetic order. The Artist has always shown them what she wanted them to see.’

  John caught Jim’s eye. He, too, looked quizzical at the word ‘she’.

  ‘It is not possible for anyone – even the greatest Majestic – to control all of the Nightwatch,’ Marie Furnival intervened.

  ‘She did not have to control them all, little girl,’ de Montfort crowed. ‘Only the most powerful of them – the girl, Elsbet. With her acting as a conduit for the Artist’s powers, the others were easily led. Without her, you have nothing but weak-minded animals, whose visions are little more than the nightmares of children. The Artist laid the foundation of this plan years ago. Who do you think provided the etherium for Uncle Arthur’s experiments? Where do you suppose it came from?’

  ‘What the hell is he talking about?’ John asked, looking to Miss Furnival, then back to de Montfort.

  ‘I am talking about the harvesting of fluid from the brains of Majestics,’ de Montfort said, ‘to sell to Apollo Lycea. And such an enterprise, rather akin to farming, truth be told, cannot be conducted in this universe on the scale required. An industrial scale – and this girl knows that the wampyr rule industry on the Otherside. Your black marketeers make a pretty penny, true enough, but the real value is in the freshest produce. Only that harvested on my side of the veil is of the greatest efficacy.’

  ‘So the Artist has travelled to the Otherside? Recently?’ John asked. ‘How? Is this the work of Tesla?’

  De Montfort looked annoyed at that.

  ‘Tesla?’ Miss Furnival snapped. ‘What of him?’

  ‘He’s downstairs, a prisoner,’ John replied.

  ‘Oh no… no! If Tesla is here, the possibilities are endless. Don’t you see, Colonel? He built the Lazarus Gate!’

  ‘I know, Miss Furnival.’ John turned angrily to de Montfort. ‘So you have worked with the Artist to bring etherium to our world? To sell to the Order?’

  ‘Not just the Order. Every major power across the globe. And not just etherium, but the raw materials required to make it. Majestics, Colonel Hardwick. Some sold like cattle, others released into your world as fugitives, so the likes of you may hunt them. The unfortunate few are spared death, and taken to the bosom of the Order of Apollo. They now rest in a secret hospital ward in London, ready to power a gate. Do you understand yet?’

  ‘I think I’m beginning to,’ John said. ‘You thought the Artist was leaving you the means to bring supplies to Osea from the Otherside. Machinery. Elsbet. And maybe more than that – an army of ghouls, no doubt. Instead, Tesla’s devices are by now on a train to London, perhaps already being loaded into our facility, where the Artist plans to activate it, using the Nightwatch. Am I close, sir?’

  ‘Close enough.’ De Montfort gave a thin, sly smile, which made John think he had not quite discerned the whole truth.

  ‘I thought I was part of the Artist’s plan,’ de Montfort said. ‘I was ready to take a place in the new world order. To think, I offered her the Iscariot Sanction, the greatest gift my kind could bestow. She would have made a worthy wampyr queen. Yet she spurns me! It appears I have indeed been betrayed. She has not reckoned, however, on my wrath being every bit as swift and violent as her own.’

  Jim cocked his revolver. ‘Your wrath will just have to wait,’ he said. ‘Men, take him away.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ de Montfort smiled. He clicked his fingers, and at that signal, cries of pain and alarm erupted outside the room.

  A great press of bodies flooded into the attic. Guns discharged. Roars and growls mingled with screams; claws and teeth and pale, muscular limbs flailed in all directions. John tumbled forwards, twisting to keep his feet, fending off blows as best he could. Blood flew in great gushes as the creatures tore into those marines who had not reacted quickly enough. The room filled with ghouls, clambering over each other in their frenzy, climbing up walls and across rafters like scurrying insects.

  John grabbed a chair, and smashed it over the first beast to come near him, keeping hold of the broken fragments to jab and beat the seemingly endless flow of enemies.

  Only once did he look up at the scene of bedlam about him – to see Miss Furnival fighting like the very Devil. She dodged every flailing claw with grace, ducked beneath every clumsy attack, pushing her pistol to the chin of each ghoul and plastering its brains across the ceiling. All the time she moved towards de Montfort, who goaded her, encouraging her every step. She was the only one close enough to kill the wampyr. John sensed that if she succeeded, the ghouls would run, for they were somehow under his unspoken command.

  * * *

  Marie sensed the darkness closing in all around her. She could not look at it, for giving in to her fear of death could only make her falter. Instead, she fixed upon de Montfort. He was not what she had expected; the tall, handsome, aristocratic creature that had so long been described to her was now a shrivelled, scarred, corpse-like revenant. He held sway over the ghouls still, yes, but he was but a shadow of a race long since robbed of nobility.

  Yet he laughed at her.

  Pure instinct guided Marie’s sword-arm. With each stroke, a ghoul fell, or staggered back to be swallowed up by the melee. A beast dropped from the ceiling, claws almost catching her, but Marie dodged away, firing her revolver into its mouth. She squeezed off two more shots, this time at de Montfort. He sneered as he stepped aside each time. The leaded window at his back shattered.

  ‘What spirit!’ the vampire hissed, delightedly. ‘What nerve! I have not seen the like since I fed your uncle to the Hardwick harpy.’

  Marie’s expression must have belied the truth. She flailed wildly, and de Montfort laughed. He mocked her, and it stung.

  ‘You did not know! You thought I was the one who drained your uncle. No, he was a sacrifice that I might create another. And how she repaid me! Now, come, child! Come to me. Yes…’

  All of the years she had hunted de Montfort, all of the hours she had spent training in secret, and now she felt that work being undone as her anger bettered her. Marie’s face burned, her blood raced, her limbs shook from sheer rage. Yet she fought, wilder and faster, until she drew within reach of her target. She swung Colonel Hardwick’s blade at de Montfort’s neck; he stepped aside effortlessly, swatting her hand with a back-hand blow so powerful that she dropped the sword. She tried to raise the pistol, but de Montfort’s hand was on hers at once, forcing her arm downwards. She tried to strike him, but his other hand grabbed her wrist, squeezing so tightly she thought her bones might break. Marie felt tears sting at her eyes now – anger overwhelming her as she looked into the eyes of her uncle’s killer. It was still his fault, no matter what he said, what lies he told, but by God he was strong. Frustration consumed her at the thought that she had failed, right at the last.

  ‘You know, I did your uncle a favou
r,’ de Montfort said, softly, lips so close to her cheek the words felt like a lover’s caress. ‘If I hadn’t taken him, the Other would. At least for me, Arthur Furnival fulfilled a higher purpose.’

  The revolver dropped from Marie’s hand, and de Montfort smiled. He released her hand, and instead gripped her throat.

  ‘Yes, you are a lot like Miss Hardwick. Only… weaker,’ he sneered.

  Her ruse had worked. She slipped a thin blade from her left sleeve. Even as the breath was choked from her, and pinpricks of light sparkled in front of her vision, she focused all the energy she had remaining. She struck flesh, and staggered only a single step before composing herself. She urged her raging senses to calm, as Lillian Hardwick had taught her long ago. De Montfort yowled, groping at his neck. She had been half blind when she’d struck, but had pierced his throat nonetheless. The blade protruded still from the wound. He was hurt. Marie pressed forward, determined to push the blade deeper and end his life once and for all.

  De Montfort stumbled as Marie’s hand closed upon the knife. She pushed, and he roared in agony. He knocked her arm aside, shoved her away. From the screams and roars about the attic, she guessed the ghouls had already begun to falter, their master’s control over them ebbing, their discipline with it. De Montfort grasped at the handle of the blade, and Marie sprang forwards, grabbing his hand and struggling against him to push it deeper.

  He crashed back against the window. Marie felt salty air suck at her face, stinging her eyes. De Montfort’s other arm was around her neck now, wrestling her away. She kicked and punched, always working the knife, even as the vampire attempted to pull it free. She hooked her leg about his, and twisted him about, trying to bring him to the ground. He was too strong for that, and although he spun around awkwardly, he kept his feet, and hoisting her up, slammed her into the window-frame. She felt it give beneath the force. She grabbed the ledge with one hand, fragments of jagged glass biting into her flesh, hot blood warming her skin, steaming in cold air. She hooked her legs over the edge to stop herself falling, and de Montfort came with her, hanging out of the window with her in a deadly embrace.

  He tried to speak, but only a gurgling croak emerged from his lips. Marie twisted the blade at his throat, her hand now slick with his pale blood. De Montfort pulled. He was going to pitch them both through the window. She would likely die, and he would not. She had just one chance to kill him, and she cared not if she lived or died in the attempt.

  Marie let go of the window-ledge with her bloodied hand, and flicked her wrist. The Tesla-made derringer – twin of Jim’s weapon – sprang into her hand. Even as she levelled it at de Montfort’s chest, she felt herself slip. De Montfort’s eyes widened. At this range, she would burn them both, but vengeance would be served. Justice, at last.

  Something pulled hard at Marie’s heels. Her eyes turned upwards to a foggy sky. The derringer flared; an arc of electricity lit the night for the briefest moment. She felt de Montfort slip away, the knife tearing his throat. He was sliding across the tiled roof, into the mist. The world spun about. The vampire’s snarling white face shrank into the mist’s embrace. A ghost of a smile on his lips.

  Then a gunshot from the window above. A dark pit opened up between de Montfort’s eyes. Porcelain features cracked. The smile became a look of terror. He vanished into the fog.

  In the next instant Marie was bundled back into the room, away from the cold night, and into Captain Denny’s embrace. The fighting subsided. Jim held her fast, one arm wrapped around her waist. In his other hand, he held a smoking gun.

  She sank into his arms, and consciousness left her.

  * * *

  John smashed the chair-leg against the head of the ghoul again and again, until its skull caved in and it moved no longer. He staggered back, limbs numb from exertion, and saw with surprise that the tide had turned. Several ghouls were slain as they turned tail from the soldiers. Two others leapt from the window, throwing themselves over the huddled forms of Miss Furnival and Jim, who had sunk to the floor in a heap. The last remnants barged from the room, fleeing like wounded animals. The beleaguered soldiers let them go with little resistance. Bodies littered the floor of the attic room – dark-jacketed marines and naked, ape-like ghouls alike.

  John’s ears rang from the tumult of gunfire in such a confined space. The blows he had taken to the head did not help. Men were helping each other to their feet, taking stock of their injuries. More gunshots echoed from downstairs, probably other marines firing at the fleeing ghouls. He became slowly aware of Miss Furnival remonstrating angrily with Jim; of blood dripping from her hand. He limped over to them, picking his sword from the floor as he went.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘Miss Furnival, are you all right?’

  ‘No!’ Miss Furnival replied. She looked as though she’d been through the wars, but the glare she now gave Jim suggested that wasn’t the cause for her vehemence.

  ‘Where is de Montfort?’

  ‘Gone. Out the window.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jim interrupted. ‘I got him.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that.’ Miss Furnival looked crestfallen. John knew how she felt. He’d wanted to take his anger out on Tsun Pen, but had been denied. Miss Furnival had desired revenge on de Montfort for far longer, by all accounts, and Jim had taken that from her.

  ‘We’d better get outside and check,’ John said.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Jim. ‘Straight back to work.’

  John looked at Jim for a second. Did he want thanks? An explanation? ‘Is there something more important you need to do?’ he asked.

  Only when he pushed through the group of marines, and heard Jim’s footsteps on the stairs behind him, did John allow himself a wry smile.

  * * *

  ‘I should have done it. He was mine.’ Miss Furnival kicked gravel across the path.

  ‘I suppose you’d rather I let you tumble from the window with him?’ Jim asked. ‘You’d have been burned alive, or at least broken your ruddy neck.’ Jim could not understand her. Her manner was one of remorse, and regret, yet here lay her enemy, dead.

  ‘We’d have gone together. Do you know what it’s like to dedicate your life to a cause, Captain, only to never realise your goal?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Jim said. ‘I’ve never had a cause worth dying for, and I’m not sure I want one if this is what it does. De Montfort is dead, Miss Furnival, and you are not. I’d say that was a fine result. I thought you’d be happy.’

  Miss Furnival looked down at de Montfort’s broken body, spread-eagled upon the gravel drive. ‘So did I,’ she said.

  More marines filed out of the house, supporting the walking wounded. Tesla limped behind, his arm around Stanbridge’s shoulders. Fred Charrington was carried on a makeshift stretcher.

  ‘Colonel Hardwick,’ Tesla said, hobbling over. ‘We must get to the boathouse. I must know what she has taken.’

  ‘No time, Mr Tesla,’ Hardwick replied. ‘We must return to London post-haste. Whatever is left on this island will have to wait.’

  ‘No, no, Colonel, it cannot. She already have the Munjolovac, and the generator. If I can visit my workshop, maybe I can find what I need to help you stop her, no? It is the least I can do. You rescue me, after all.’

  ‘So it’s true,’ Marie said, her temper flaring again. ‘Your fabled submarine. It was you who brought de Montfort to this universe.’

  ‘Not by choice, dear lady, I swear. We do not all possess the ability to fight, like you. Some of us have other talents.’

  ‘To the boathouse then,’ John said, ‘but we’d best be quick about it.’

  As they marched along the path, John took hold of Marie’s arm. She glared at him for the indelicacy.

  ‘You and I need to talk,’ John said. ‘You knew an awful lot about this de Montfort fellow, not to mention Tesla. And if my ears did not deceive me, there was some mention of your Uncle Arthur being killed once before. Is there anything yo
u would care to tell me, Miss Furnival?’

  ‘There’s no time for that now,’ she said angrily.

  ‘John, old boy,’ Jim said, placing his hand on John’s arm, coaxing him to release his grip on Miss Furnival. ‘She’s right. And… I should have mentioned it earlier. But trust me when I say that none of that matters right at this moment. She’s with me, and I vouch for her.’

  Both John and Marie looked at Jim with raised eyebrows, then at each other. John nodded grimly. Miss Furnival shrugged her arm away from John and strode off down the path, muttering, ‘Men…’

  * * *

  They had barely made it halfway to the boathouse when they had seen the great orange glow, a hazy sun in the gauzy fog. As they drew closer, acrid oil-smoke thickened the salty air, creating a miasma to rival a London particular. The boathouse was in flames. One final order from Tsun Pen, John guessed, executed by some agent skulking about the island.

  As the wooden frame of the structure fell away, great struts of some outlandish machinery were revealed; thick cables sparked with crackling electricity as their integrity diminished. Huge gouts of flame spiralled into the night air as oil ignited, plumes of crimson and orange spiralling upwards, roaring against the sea wind.

  Attracted by the blaze, the Daphne had come about to the north-east side of the island, its lights visible through the murk. Captain Abrams would not be aware that he should be looking out for a submarine. If such a vessel truly had existed here, it was gone.

  Tesla sank theatrically to his knees. ‘My work… my designs. All gone,’ he whimpered.

  ‘Mr Tesla, compose yourself,’ John said. ‘We must away. The Artist has escaped us, and we’ve played into her hands. It is time to end this game.’

  ‘What’s all this about “her”, anyway?’ Jim asked. ‘What has happened to Tsun Pen?’

  ‘Tsun Pen is dead,’ said John. ‘Some woman has taken up his work where he left off; the same woman you encountered at that hospital, I’d wager.’