by Tom Becker
Harry had been fighting for several minutes before he realized that he was enjoying himself. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been so surprising. After all, he was a Ripper, heir to a tainted bloodline that trickled down from Jack himself. But ever since his father’s death, Harry had fought to suppress the thirst for violence that dwelled within his soul. Now, trapped within this crazed hellhole, he was free to unleash it. The very fact that his life was in the balance gave him a thrill, as though a deep need was being answered.
Initially, the three of them had fallen back, protecting the staircase up which Jonathan had fled. Urged on by the Bel Dame, the wardens rained down upon them, elbowing each other out of the way in their desire to kill. But if they thought that they had stumbled across easy prey, they quickly learned otherwise. Blessed with a preternatural speed and agility that even the wardens couldn’t match, Harry dodged their flailing attacks, striking back when they were off-balance. Alongside him, Marianne and Carnegie displayed their contrasting fighting styles: the bounty hunter a study in deadly elegance, her sword swooping in and out of the darkness; the wereman all brute force, a raging maelstrom of teeth and fists. Though they fought in different ways, the results were the same – the staircases were now littered with the bodies of wardens. Undeterred by the carnage, wave after wave still came after them, razor-sharp nails reaching out longingly for flesh and eyeballs.
As one of the creatures darted towards him, Harry leapt up in the air, delivering a shuddering kick to the warden’s skull that sent it flying over the edge of the staircase. With Jonathan safely out of sight, they had begun battling up through the Bedlam, navigating the treacherous flights. Fighting back-to-back with Marianne, Harry came out on to an exposed platform in the very centre of the hall. There was no protection at the edge – one misstep would send them plunging to their doom.
Overwhelmed by the beast within him, Carnegie was fighting in a blind rage. With a savage bellow, he picked up one of the wardens and hurled him towards the platform edge, not caring that it was straight in Harry’s direction. The creature knocked into Harry just as the boy was about to leap into the air, catching him off-balance and sending him staggering backwards, until suddenly there was nothing beneath his feet and he was falling.
Harry flung out a desperate hand, his fingers latching on to the edge of the platform. He dangled in the air, the muscles in his arm burning with the strain of clinging on. The Bedlam stretched out below him, a dizzying drop to its floor.
“Finish off the boy!” screamed the Bel Dame.
A skeletal head loomed over the platform’s edge above Harry. He was done for.
14
At that same moment, in the skies above Darkside the moon peered out from behind a veil of sooty clouds, casting a pale sheen of light over Pell Mell, the broad approach to Blackchapel. It illuminated a long, elevated passageway that ran across the borough’s rooftops, linking one of the main towers of the palace with a set of luxurious private gardens a half a mile away.
For over a hundred years, the Ripper’s Corridor had allowed the first family of Darkside to cross the borough without having to endure the stench of the sewers, muddy their feet in puddles, or sully themselves with the stares of their subjects. Since its construction during the early years of Jack’s reign, only a handful of people had ever had the privilege of using it. Now a lone figure was striding down the tiled hallway.
Aurelius Holborn pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head, cursing the moon. Drenched in its light, his outline would be visible through the corridor’s windows to anyone happening to look up from the pavements of Pell Mell. Tonight, the last thing he wanted was to be seen. He had even forgone his customary armed escort, aware that the clank of weaponry and heavy tread of boots would draw attention to his journey. Whatever happened tonight, he was on his own.
In all the years that he had served Lucien’s father, Thomas, effectively running the borough as the once-proud ruler withered into old age, Holborn had never before presumed to use the Ripper’s Corridor – though he had had the foresight to make a copy of Thomas’s keys. Had his mission been less urgent, the Abettor would have lit the dormant torches on the wall and inspected the hanging portraits, or lingered at the windows to enjoy a view of Darkside so few had seen. Instead he hurried along the passageway with barely a glance around him, before descending a steep flight of steps and unlocking the heavy iron door at the end.
The air hung crisp and cold above the tangled expanses of the gardens. Protected from view behind high stone walls, Holborn relaxed a little. Footsteps crunching in the snow, he kept to the path, mindful of the toxic caress of the belladonna and poison ivy in the flower beds. Stone plinths had been set into the earth – bases for the Bow Street Runners, they stood empty, waiting for the brick golems to return to the gardens. Here their skin would harden and they would revert to statues, untouched by the passage of years.
The path curved, revealing the tower that formed the garden’s macabre centrepiece. Whereas the Rippers had their mausoleum – where their bodies would lie in ceremony for immortality – the remains of their enemies were condemned to this place, the Charnel House, carted in wheelbarrows by ghouls and tipped into the bone depository inside. For years the Rippers had come to this tower and gazed with satisfaction on the crumbling skeletons and dismembered corpses of those foolish enough to cross them.
Glancing around him to check that there was no one watching, Holborn hastened up the steps towards the Charnel House. The key turned in the lock with a clunk, and as the door opened, a draught of air steeped in decay assailed the Abettor. Ignoring the smell, he slipped inside the building and locked the door behind him.
Moonlight was seeping in through the grilled windows, bathing the Charnel House in a sea of white. Everywhere Holborn looked he saw bones: shelves groaning under the weight of skulls, pits overflowing with skeletal remains coated in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. Thigh bones were scattered forlornly across the floor, while skeletal hands reached out almost imploringly at the Abettor, as though begging for a proper burial.
Holborn waited, shivering in the draughts. He had taken a risk coming here, he knew, but the message he had intercepted – meant for Lucien’s ears alone – had spoken of a matter of utmost urgency. The Abettor was beginning to wonder whether he had made a mistake when the foundations of the Charnel House began to tremble, and Brick McNally erupted through the stone floor.
Despite the many occasions Holborn had seen the Bow Street Runners enter in this fashion, the sight still sent an awed thrill down his spine. McNally slowly scanned the vault, the bricks in his neck grating against one another as he looked around the tower.
“I sent word that I was to speak with the Ripper,” he said finally, sending a cloud of soot spewing into the air. “Where is he?”
“Otherwise engaged,” Holborn replied curtly. “One of the Night Hunters made the mistake of trying to leave the borough. A decision I imagine they’re regretting, if they’re still alive. Until Lucien returns, you can report to me.”
The Runner stood motionless, an inscrutable expression on his rocky face. There was something about McNally that set him apart from the rest of the golems – an ability to calculate that Holborn distrusted as much as he respected it. Eventually McNally nodded and continued.
“We have made progress. Today we tracked down two of Marianne’s henchmen – the ones known as Humble and Skeet.”
Holborn smiled, his teeth glinting in the darkness. “Excellent, McNally. Where did you find them?”
“They were hiding out in a public house down at Devil’s Wharf. A drunk steamer captain fell foul of them in a brawl, and informed us of their whereabouts as revenge.”
“Did they come quietly?”
“There was a brief struggle,” McNally replied, a dismissive note in his voice. “A host of Runners are transporting the prisoners back to Blackchapel as we speak.”
&nbs
p; “Have they given us any clues as to Marianne’s whereabouts?”
“They say they haven’t seen her since Lucien’s succession. We’ll see whether a spell in the cells changes their minds.”
Holborn picked up a skull and gazed at it thoughtfully. “And the mood on the streets?” he asked casually.
“Fear, mostly,” McNally replied. “And anger.”
“Anger?”
“The new Ripper has not endeared himself to the people. His tax hits the pockets of those who can least afford it. Already the cells beneath Blackchapel are filling up with non-payers. There have been slogans scrawled on walls; rumours of plots and conspiracies building against him.”
Holborn was glad that the moon had disappeared behind a cloud, so that darkness obscured the gleeful expression on his face. Lucien’s plummeting popularity only increased the chances for revolt. And if Holborn were to manoeuvre himself to the head of the people, who would be better placed to assume the throne?
“The Runners serve the will of the Ripper,” McNally continued, “but the Blood Succession is over. We should be back here in the garden where we belong, not on the streets. We are not tax collectors.”
“Perhaps,” Holborn replied delicately. “But you know as well as I do that the Runners can be called upon in times of great danger. It is clear that there is a powerful conspiracy against Lucien. You must stay until it is defeated.”
McNally shrugged, sending a powerful ripple across his brick shoulders. “Even so. Thomas Ripper would not have disturbed us for this. Neither would any of his predecessors.”
“Thomas Ripper is dead,” Holborn shot back, tossing the skull back on to the pile. “Just another pile of dusty bones and withering skin. Lucien sits upon the throne, and you will do his bidding.”
The Runner inclined his head. “As he orders.”
“Is that it, McNally? I was informed that you had vital information to bring before the Ripper.”
“There is one more thing.”
“What? Tell me and I shall pass it on to Lucien.”
McNally dived back beneath the surface of the floor before exploding upwards again, the eruption sending a human figure flying into the air. The man crashed face down on to the flagstones with a sickening thud. Holborn flipped the man over with his foot and inspected his face. The Abettor grimaced. Doused in a heavy musk of body odour and alcohol, the man was bruised and unshaven, his clothes little more than rags.
Holborn wrinkled his nose with distaste. “Why have you brought this . . . thing here?”
McNally inclined his head towards the unkempt man. “We found him wandering around on the edge of the borough. He was trying to cross over to Lightside.”
“And?” The Abettor’s voice struck an imperious note. “I can’t be expected to take an interest in every vagrant and down-and-out you pull off the streets.”
“He says he was following the Crimson Stone.”
“The Crimson Stone?” Holborn chuckled sonorously. “The fellow’s unhinged!”
“He is – but that doesn’t mean he’s wrong. Just like the Crimson Stone, the Runners are made from Darkside’s bricks and mortar. We share a kinship with it. The Stone was taken across to Lightside several hours ago – I felt it myself.”
Holborn leaned forward. “The Stone exists? I had always thought it a myth!”
“It is all too real,” said McNally. “The Stone is both part of Darkside’s fabric and its master – it can reduce the mightiest of buildings to a heap of pebbles in the blink of an eye.”
“And how the devil was this man hoping to find it in Lightside?”
“Once the Stone has touched your mind, it will never let you go. He will be able to track it.”
“Let me get this clear,” Holborn said slowly. “Are you telling me that this man can lead me straight to the Crimson Stone?”
“It can lead Lucien,” McNally corrected. “The Stone belongs to the Ripper, and him alone.”
“Of course, of course,” Holborn said soothingly, inwardly cursing his slip. “But as I said, Lucien is currently indisposed. I don’t want to disturb him until I can be sure that we can trust the guidance of this tramp.”
The man stirred at Holborn’s feet, looking up with filmy, bloodshot eyes.
“Where’s the Stone?” he mumbled. “It’s mine – give it back to me.”
“What’s your name, my friend?” the Abettor asked, adopting a friendly manner.
“Magpie,” the man slurred back.
“Well, Magpie, I don’t have the Stone. But I can help you look for it. Can you walk?”
Still dazed from his subterranean transportation, the man didn’t reply. Holborn slowly helped Magpie to his feet, trying not to breathe in his fetid stench. He brushed down the man’s tattered clothes in a kindly gesture.
“Are you intending to cross tonight?” McNally asked.
“There is no time to waste,” replied the Abettor. “If the Stone fell into the wrong hands, there is no telling the threat that could pose to Lucien. As you said, McNally, the mood on the streets is turning ugly.”
The Runner extended a stone arm towards a trapdoor set into the floor of the Charnel House.
“The quickest way is through there.”
“There is a crossing point right here?” Holborn breathed.
McNally nodded. “The first Ripper created it himself, tapping into the power of the Crimson Stone. Jack used to travel back to Lightside this way when he wished to . . . amuse himself. Over the years, it has fallen into disuse.”
Holborn couldn’t believe his luck. It was as though some dark gods were smiling upon him. The Abettor lifted up the trapdoor and then, slipping a supporting arm beneath Magpie, half pulled, half carried the stunned tramp towards the hatch. As the mismatched pair disappeared down through the opening, Brick McNally watched them leave, his face an impassive wall.
15
As the warden looked down at Harry, the faintest hint of a smile ghosted across the creature’s face. With a deliberate slowness, it placed its foot on the boy’s hand and began to push. Harry gritted his teeth, aware of the sound of his knuckles cracking. It was all he could do to hang on.
There was an ear-splitting roar, and suddenly the warden went flying past Harry towards the asylum floor. As the boy felt his grip faltering, a shaggy hand reached down and grabbed his shirt, hauling him back up on to the platform. Harry found himself face to face with Carnegie – the private detective’s face covered in a hairy, feral mask.
“Thanks,” Harry panted. “That was a close one.”
There was no sign of recognition in the wereman’s eyes, only malevolent craving. Fearful that Carnegie might attack him, Harry tensed. The wereman barked dismissively, then turned and loped away across the platform, diving headlong into a melee of wardens.
As he caught his breath, Harry inspected his wounded hand. It was covered in an ugly purple bruise, but it didn’t appear to be broken. To his right, Marianne buried a punch in a warden’s stomach, then ran the creature through on her sword. She strode over to Harry.
“You all right?” she asked crisply. Her blue hair was flecked with blood – as far as Harry could tell, none of it hers. He nodded.
“Then back to it, nephew,” she said, gesturing at another wave of wardens charging up the staircase. “We’re far from finished yet.”
Elsewhere in the Bedlam – it could have been far away, or just around the corner – Jonathan was giving up hope of ever finding his mum. The search was taking for ever, and given the rambling architecture of the asylum, there was no way to be sure which cells they had checked. It was a struggle not to be overwhelmed by the sheer desolation of the place, and the voices running through their heads. The whispers were unceasing, pricking like a needle at Jonathan’s deepest and most private insecurities. Under their influence, warm childhood memories sudde
nly twisted, the loving faces of his parents morphing into sneers.
Jonathan wasn’t the only one suffering. They were halfway up a staircase when Raquella suddenly cried out.
“What is it?”
A distressed look crossed the maid’s face. “It’s the voices. They said. . .” She trailed off. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Now Raquella had disappeared around the corner with Alain, leaving Jonathan standing alone on a platform, in front of two side-by-side cells. He almost didn’t have the heart to check them.
You’ll never find her. She never loved you – neither does your father. . .
“Shut up!” Jonathan shouted. “Leave me alone!”
“Hello?”
Someone had spoken from behind the cell door, only this time there was no mockery in the voice, and even though Jonathan hadn’t heard the soft Irish lilt since he was a toddler, there wasn’t a single doubt in his soul who it could be.
“Mum?” said Jonathan, in a very small voice.
His heart sinking, Harry realized that the battle was turning against them.
Although man for man, the wardens were no match for Carnegie, Marianne and Harry, the sheer weight of numbers and their seemingly inexhaustible stamina was beginning to tell. Taking up a position at the back of her men, the Bel Dame waved her cane and screamed exhortations at the wardens, spittle spraying from her mouth.
Harry had battled his way to the highest level of the asylum, leaping over breaks in the staircases as the wardens spread up the walls like a plague. Now he, Carnegie and Marianne were fighting at close quarters along a cramped corridor, wave upon wave of wardens funnelling after them. Harry could feel his muscles beginning to ache, and his reflexes dulling. A clumsy low blow from one of the wardens nearly caught him; at this rate, it wouldn’t be long before one did.
“Nephew!” shouted Marianne above the din. “Above you!”
