by LENOX, KIM
“Do either of you remember anything about the Tantalytes?”
Mark also lowered himself to a seat at the table. He frowned, and after a moment of silence, nodded.
“They were before our time, of course, but yes, I remember reading something about them during my scholarly training at Alexandria. I can’t claim to recall the particulars, but weren’t they a reclusive sect who lived in a remote region of the Haemus Mons, and worshiped Tantalus?”
Archer nodded, “Yes.”
“Tantalus. Nasty fellow. Cannibalism. Human sacrifices.” Selene shuddered, unpinning her flamboyant, ostrich-plumed hat, and setting it beside her on the table. “His name alone gives me the chills, and I don’t chill easily.”
Archer seated himself across from her. “So were his followers. The Tantalyte priests called themselves brotoi, sons of Tantalus, and saw themselves as his servants. They sought to raise Tantalus and his dark minions from the eternal punishment of Tartarus, with the intention they would rule the earth at his side.”
Selene gazed at Archer, her eyes aflame with reverent admiration. “But they never succeeded because you Reclaimed the whole lot of them, and cast them into Tartarus to join those they sought to raise.”
Mark rolled his eyes and scowled. He leaned back from the table. “This all happened before 8000 B.C. What does this have to do with Jack?”
“It appears our boy Jack is a Tantalyte.”
Selene stood, scowling in thought, and walked along the wall of scrolls. She drew a path along the dusty ledge with her fingertip. “How can that be, when their history has been hidden away under lock and key in this secret collection for centuries?”
Archer reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the Ripper’s letter, and the journal. He pushed it across the center of the table, toward Mark. Selene quickly returned to her brother’s side and took up the letter. After scouring the contents, she lifted the parchment and drew her nose across the crease.
“Please don’t eat that,” Archer said.
She made a face and passed it back to him. “Who would want to? It’s rancid.”
Mark swore over the journal. “He’s drawn pictures of me. He knows my name.”
Selene looked over his arm. “What about this picture. Is that what I think it is?”
Mark asked, “A volcano?”
Archer pointed to the center of the page, where a vertical row of letters had been drawn, one beneath the other. “Look here. It’s difficult to read because of the damage, but it spells Krakatoa.”
Selene frowned. “Ah, yes, the one that erupted so fiercely in Indonesia five years ago. Thousands upon thousands were killed. Remember how the resulting ocean waves struck even here, against the shores of England?”
Archer stood up from the table. “It’s exactly those waves I’m concerned about. Not the actual ocean waves, but the reverberations that continue to this day. I believe there’s a pattern to them, and that they were sent up by Tantalus to awaken a sleeping army, of which Jack is only the first.”
Again, impatience tensed Mark’s features. “Why have you called us here, Archer?”
“Simple.” He took the journal into his own hands and flipped a few pages back. “Do you see these numbers?”
Mark squinted. “Barely. The water has damaged them so badly, most are unreadable.”
“What else do you notice about them? The ones you can read?”
A slow smile of realization spread across Mark’s lips. “They are written in ancient Akkadian.”
Selene grinned and thumped her brother on the shoulder. “I told you that would come in handy one day.”
“I don’t even think Jack really understands them. He’s simply recording what he sees inside his mind. But I believe once they are translated, we will be able to align them with a number of events that have taken place since the eruption of Krakatoa. Natural disasters. Pandemics. And various incidents of violence and murder, including those that have happened here in London in recent months.”
Mark’s eyes burned with fervent excitement. “Most importantly, we’ll be able to predict when he’ll return.”
“Precisely.”
Mark shoved himself up from the table, his jaw tight and his eyes flashing fiercely. “Hell, why didn’t I pick up on this?”
“Give me some credit. I’ve been around since the earliest of times. I’ve seen a lot.”
“So, I am to act as your translator? And then what? Do you expect Selene and me to stand back while you claim the glory?”
Archer argued, “It’s not about glory, Mark. It’s about finishing the Reclamation. It’s about protecting the Inner Realm.”
“That’s not enough,” Mark concluded in a low voice. “The Ripper was my assignment. What of my record? What of my repute?”
“I have communicated my sworn testimony to the Primordials, detailing Jack’s uncommon deterioration and your blamelessness in the occurrence of his Transcension.”
“Excellent,” breathed Selene, grasping her brother’s shoulder in celebration. “Back together!”
Archer shook his head. “Do not misunderstand. We cooperate on this Reclamation only.”
Selene frowned in disappointment.
Mark crossed his arms over his chest. “Whatever. Let’s get things under way.”
“I agree,” his twin added sharply.”
Archer interjected, “You’ve your own Reclamation to pursue, Selene.”
“Yes, I do.” She scowled. “And have you heard the latest? A headless torso, deposited at Whitehall on the very grounds of the New Scotland Yard. Can you believe his audacity? But I assure you, I’ll manage both hunts to successful completion. I refuse to be excluded from this thing with Jack. We’re making history here, gentlemen.”
“Good.” Archer rested both hands against the table. “Unfortunately, any translation will take longer than I’d hoped.”
“Why is that?”
“The original tablet we need is missing.”
“Missing? How can that be?” Selene went to the open box, and after scrutinizing the catalogue, came to the same conclusion as Archer. “Who would have the keys to gain entrance to this room?”
Mark glowered. “And who would have managed to steal something so cumbersome from the grounds of the museum, unnoticed?”
They all stared at one another silently.
“That’s right,” Archer said. “Either Jack’s been here, or he convinced someone on the staff to steal the tablet for him.”
Mark searched the walls. “The tablet would have been copied by a scribe, centuries later, at the library at Alexandria. Many of the scrolls are here. Is it possible the copy might be here on these walls?”
“I’ve already found it.” Archer went to the shelf and selected a sleeve. “Here’s our problem.”
Prying off the seal, he tilted the sleeve to the table. Two ivory scroll rods and a thousand disintegrated bits of papyrus slid out.
“Bloody hell,” muttered Mark.
“Exactly.”
Bloody hell, because Mr. Matthews was about to walk through the door.
There came the sound of muted voices and a key rattling inside the lock. The door swung inward.
“Your lordship?” Mr. Matthews pushed in, his eyes wide and searching. After a moment, he raised a lantern high. “Anyone?”
Elena appeared beside him, squinting toward the table. “Why are you all sitting here in the dark?”
Archer gritted his teeth. Reclaimers required no light to see, so there had been no need for a lantern.
“Ah!” Selene leapt up, and quickly grabbed an unlit lamp from the peg on the wall. “Our flame flickered out when the two of you walked in. There must be a draft. Fortunately for us you have brought another, and we shall not have the bother of relighting this one.”
Mr. Matthews appeared uncertain. “I hope it’s all right that I showed Miss Whitney down.”
“Of course.” Archer went to stand beside Elena.
Her gaze, however, had settle
d on Mark, who had pushed himself up from his chair as well, and now stood smiling at her.
Archer threw Mark a warning glance, while saying, “Mr. Matthews, one question before you leave us. Who, besides me, has copies of the keys for this interior room?”
“The principal librarian himself. In his absence, of course, the privilege of their custody has fallen to me. One of our language scholars, Mr. Limpett, also has a copy.”
He had already scoured Mr. Matthews for any trace of abnormal deterioration and found nothing of concern. Archer’s eyes narrowed. “Is Mr. Limpett available for me to speak with this afternoon?”
“Mr. Limpett has been on holiday for the past week. I can certainly relay a message to him for you.”
“No message.”
“Very well. Miss Whitney, it was truly a pleasure.”
“Thank you for your kind attention, Mr. Matthews.”
“Your lordship, is there anything further I can do to make your visit all it should be?”
“I’ve everything I need here.”
Everything but an original tablet, and Mr. Limpett.
Mr. Matthews quietly pulled the door shut behind him.
Mark strode forward. “Miss Whitney, I’ve not had the pleasure. I am Marcus Helios, Lord Alexander. The Countess Pavlenco is my sister.”
Elena smiled, looking back and forth between the two tall, slender immortals. “Don’t tell me you are twins.”
“Indeed we are.”
“Helios and Selene.” She gasped. “I have just come from the Egyptian Saloon, and suppose the two of you were named after Alexander Helios and Cleopatra Selene, Queen Cleopatra’s twins with Mark An-tony.”
Selene drew closer. Her eyes held a provocative gleam. “Our mother was, indeed, fanatical about all things Egyptian.”
Elena’s brows went up in question. “And you are both associates of Lord Black? The three of you are involved in the acquisition and preservation of antiquities?”
Mark rolled his eyes and muttered, “Hell, I suppose that’s it.”
When they left the museum, evening shadows claimed the streets. A thin haze hovered about, wisping around Elena’s skirts as they waited for the driver to bring the Victoria around from the stables. The other two had already left in a hansom, the fragmented scroll concealed in its sleeve and wrapped in packaging paper under Mark’s arm.
Soon, Lord Black’s spotless carriage clattered to a stop before them. Just as Archer assisted Elena up, the gas lamps lining the avenue blazed to life.
Elena shivered as he seated himself beside her.
“You’re cold.”
“A little,” she confessed, rubbing her gloved hands together.
He sensed the tension within her and knew, like him, she revisited their passionate embrace in the exhibit room.
“Then sit closer to me.”
With a shy smile she nestled closer against him.
The carriage traveled down the avenue and rolled to a stop behind a number of other vehicles, all waiting to proceed through the intersection. Shouts of impatience came from all around.
Lord Black’s coachman called to another wagon driver whose vehicle clattered past. “What’s the problem up there?”
“Everyone’s trying to get home for the evening, and there’s no officer to direct the traffic. They’ve all been called to Whitechapel for extra patrols.”
The driver nodded and tipped his hat in thanks.
“Sirrah! Sirrah! And milady!”
Elena glanced out the side of the vehicle, to find a man in a red velvet top hat calling to them, and anyone else in hearing distance.
“No need to go to Tussaud’s, not when we’ve got the best wax on two legs right here. Jack the Ripper an’ ’is ladies. Come see their awful faces for yerselves.”
Behind him, a curtain had been set up, formed of heavy, gray canvas. The material furled up at the corner, to snap in the wind, offering her a teasing glimpse of a woman’s garment dressed onto a rigid, humanlike shape.
A sign on the breast said EDDOWES.
The wind lulled, and the canvas fell straight, blocking her view.
She jerked up to twist the door handle.
“Elena?” Archer called.
She jumped down to the street, and grasping up her skirts, rushed over the curb and across the walk.
The man in the hat pivoted as she ran by. “Say, miss. Y’ got to pay first.”
She brushed past the canvas, and gasped.
There, in the shadows stood a woman made of wax, with horrid, false brown hair, her face sculpted into a garish expression of terror. Wrapped round her neck was a kerchief, splattered with fake blood. Pinned to her apron was a crudely painted wooden sign: KATE KELLY, and below that, CATHERINE EDDOWES. Just beside her loomed another figure, this one tall and costumed in a shabby cloak and a top hat. His sign read JACK THE RIPPER.
She heard heavy footfalls. Boots running on the walk behind her. Archer’s voice.
“Elena? What is it?”
She whispered, “Doesn’t look anything like her.”
And slumped against him.
Elena lay on her bed, propped up on two stacked pillows, her eyes and nose red from crying.
“Really, I’m fine. Just shocked. I did not know her well. It’s just very disconcerting to realize someone you have spent any amount of time with has subsequently died a horrible death at the hands of a monster such as Jack the Ripper.”
Archer faced her on the edge of the bed, his leg bent at the knee. He hated that this news made her feel so wretched. He looked down at the newspapers. “That day you were looking for Lizzy and another woman. The other woman was Catherine Eddowes?”
“Yes,” she sniffled, and pushed herself up. Her hair, fallen free of its chignon, fell over her shoulders. “And so when I originally read in the newspapers that the name of the second victim was Kate Kelly, I thought nothing of it besides what a horrible, horrible thing to happen to that poor woman. But apparently she lived with a fellow by the name of Kelly, and considered herself married to him. She used both names. Many women from that part of the city do.”
“I’m sorry, Elena.”
He really was sorry. And unsettled, realizing she’d come into direct contact with one of the Ripper’s victims—the very same one he had spoken to, and who had been left as a “gift” for him by the murderer. That day at the Ten Bells, he’d heard the names Catherine and Kate bandied about, but hell, it seemed half the city’s female population boasted those names. He’d had no reason to believe the two women were one and the same.
Was there any significance?
“How am I going to break the news to Lizzy? I don’t believe she’s heard. She considered Catherine to be a sort of mother figure.”
“We’ll do it in the morning, together if you like.”
He saw the appreciation in her eyes, awash in a new surge of tears, but she shook her head. “Actually, I think it would be better if you weren’t there. She’s quite in awe of you, you know. Perhaps too much so for such a private moment.”
“Whatever you wish.”
She clasped his hand, and with a tilt of her head, whispered, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not pushing me away.”
Her words stole his breath, more than her tears.
“Elena—”
“I know you can’t stay. I don’t even want to know why. It’s all right.” She smiled bravely, her eyes wide and hiding nothing. “I have my own plans, my own dreams, and I will be fine without you. In fact, my admission to the medical college will arrive within days. Perhaps it will be I who must say my good-byes first. Whatever happens, I’m glad to have had this time with you.”
Slowly, he pulled her against his chest, bewildered at how she seemed to belong in his arms. No matter how he tried to keep her at a distance, he couldn’t. His mind absolutely balked at the whole idea of good-byes, although he knew that time would come, and soon.
He remembered th
e woman she mourned in vivid detail, torn, bleeding and far worse than dead on the filthy London sidewalk. Elena’s talk of medical school made his blood go cold, because he knew her ambitions would return her to the East End, and all the madness and death to be found there. Elena’s spirit thrived on optimism—but he knew those she sought to save would eventually swallow her whole and destroy the young woman he had come to care so deeply for.
He wouldn’t allow that to happen.
Eventually, her breathing slowed, and he knew she slept. He eased her to the pillow, and darkened into shadow. He twined himself about her, leaving only when dawn pinked the sky.
Six days later, Archer moved in shadow along the spacious corridor of the as-of-yet unopened Savoy Hotel. Though scaffolding still covered the outer walls of the structure, and on the lower floors workmen hurried to paint trim and install artwork, here there were only silence and polished luxury. Without announcing himself, he slipped beneath the door of room 712.
“Fancy,” he said, taking shape to stride across the lush pile carpet.
Mark sat in a chair beside the window, pondering a sketchbook, pencil in hand.
“Greetings.” Selene looked up from where she bent over a mahogany table, her long hair draped over one shoulder. At the sight of him, color arose in her cheeks. “How was France?”
“Jack wasn’t there. Nor was he in Belfast or Dublin. I suspect he’s still here, in London, watching and waiting.”
Selene worked over a large piece of canvas. Atop it lay the reassembled scroll. She employed narrow silver tongs to place a miniscule fragment. “I am almost finished here.”
Archer perused the luxurious furnishings, the richly detailed mantel piece and Japanese wall hangings. Selene’s fur-trimmed coat lay draped over the high back of a wing chair. “Almost like your own miniature mansion. But how can you suffer being surrounded so closely on all sides by this many people?”
Outside on the busy street, and even here to some extent, he’d experienced a sensation similar in some ways to that of the Thrawl Street boardinghouse—except here the thoughts, rather than reflecting misery and madness, centered almost exclusively upon a whole different type of insanity: Bond Street and shopping.
