by Tom Becker
Harry glanced up to see a skylight above his head, its glass coated in years of grime and neglect. He leapt up towards the ceiling and smashed open the skylight, sending a rush of icy cold air pouring into the Bedlam. Grabbing hold of the ledge, Harry pulled himself through the skylight and on to the moonlit roof.
He rolled to one side, his breath coming in ragged bursts as first Marianne flipped up through the skylight, and then Carnegie did. The wereman had barely climbed to his feet before the wardens came swarming after them like a horde of ants.
Harry backed away towards the edge of the roof. The sloping tiles were coated in snow, making the footing doubly treacherous. As he traded blows with one of the wardens, Harry slipped to the floor. Narrowly avoiding a stamping foot, he kicked out, catching his assailant in the midriff. The warden fell to the ground, clutching its stomach.
Scrambling to his feet, Harry saw Carnegie still thumping away at his opponents; the wereman was showing no signs of tiredness. Marianne had been forced back to the roof’s edge, her toes balanced on the guttering. Busy fending off a pair of wardens, she hadn’t noticed the small figure creeping up behind her back.
“Marianne!” shouted Harry. “Behind you!”
The bounty hunter turned in time to see the Bel Dame rushing towards her, cane raised high in the air. Shifting her weight, Marianne dropped her shoulder, using the woman’s momentum to flip her over. As the Bel Dame’s scream turned from one of triumph to one of despair, the asylum mistress went tumbling over the edge of the Bedlam, and hurtled down towards a painful end on the cobblestones below.
Harry had been prepared for another frenzied onslaught, so he was amazed to see the fighting come to a sudden halt. With their mistress gone, the wardens appeared to lose all direction. They milled about on the roof, unsure what to do next. As Carnegie, Marianne and Harry walked wearily past them and climbed back down through the skylight, they barely seemed to notice. The last Harry saw of them, the wardens had crowded by the spot where the Bel Dame had fallen, and were peering mournfully over the edge.
It seemed impossible.
Even though this was the very reason they had entered the Bedlam, now that he had heard Theresa’s voice, Jonathan couldn’t believe it.
He was dimly aware that Raquella was by his side.
“What is it? Have you found her?”
Jonathan nodded numbly.
Taking a pin out from her flowing red hair, Raquella got down on her knees and slipped it in the lock. Jonathan gave her a startled look.
“I’ve been watching Harry,” she explained, pressing her ear to the door as she jiggled the pin in the lock. “It seems like a handy skill to have.”
There was a loud click, and the maid gave a small sound of satisfaction. She stood up and moved out of Jonathan’s way.
“Take care in there,” she said softly.
Jonathan nodded, and then slowly opened the cell door and walked inside.
The room beyond was a small, dark prison all of its own. A figure was hiding in the depths of the shadows against the far wall of the cell. Suddenly nervous, Jonathan lingered in the doorway.
“Hi,” he said finally. “Are you OK?”
“I’m all right,” the woman replied, in a faltering voice. “Who are you?”
“I’m Jonathan,” he said.
Theresa’s eyes widened. “Not . . . my Jonathan? Jonathan Starling?”
Unable to speak, his eyes brimming with tears, Jonathan nodded. The woman stepped forward, and for all the paleness of her skin and frailness of her frame, there was no doubt that this was the woman he had seen in his father’s photograph, the woman who had cradled him as a child.
“Oh, my boy,” said Theresa Starling. “You found me! It’s been so long. . .”
She held out her arms, and suddenly Jonathan was hugging her, tears running down his cheeks. He wasn’t sure how long they stood there. All he knew was that he didn’t want the hug to end for a very long time.
There was a noise behind them, and Jonathan turned to see that his dad was standing in the doorway. With a choked sob, Alain stumbled into his wife’s cell and enfolded her in his arms, shaking with emotion. Jonathan tried to move away, to allow his parents the moment alone, but Theresa’s arm was clamped around him like a vice, and he too was folded into the hug.
It was at that moment, in the unhappy, permanent night of the Bedlam, that the Starling family was finally reunited.
16
Moving very slowly, Jonathan and his parents walked out of Theresa’s cell, their hands clasped tightly together. Raquella was waiting in the corridor, the maid’s face brightening into a cautious smile at the sight of them.
“Is everything OK?” she asked.
“It is now,” Jonathan replied, glancing at his mum.
Hearing a noise at the top of the stairs behind them, Jonathan spun round and saw Elias Carnegie standing staring at them. The wereman’s clothes bore the scars of battle, and there was a jagged cut down the side of his face, but the feral rage that overtook him in the heat of battle had drained away. Instead, there was a look of utter bewilderment on his face.
“I don’t believe it,” Carnegie muttered to himself.
Theresa chuckled softly. “Hello, Elias,” she said. “It’s been a while.”
The wereman stood rooted to the spot at the top of the stairs, his eyes wide with disbelief. It was Theresa who walked slowly forward, kissed him on the cheek and slipped her frail arms around him. Carnegie patted her – awkwardly but gently – on the arm with a hairy hand.
“I tried to find you,” he rumbled.
“I know,” Theresa murmured back. “It’s all right. Everything’s all right now.”
Alain stepped forward, and coughed politely. “Shall we go? I don’t think we want to spend a second longer in this place than we have to.”
The wereman nodded. “I agree. Harry and Marianne have gone looking for a way out that doesn’t involve sewers and octopuses.”
“Where are the wardens?” asked Jonathan.
“We had a run-in with the mistress of the asylum,” Carnegie replied. “She made the mistake of picking a fight with Marianne, and paid the price for it. The wardens sort of lost interest after that. Doesn’t mean we should hang around, though.”
They were turning to walk away when Theresa suddenly cried out. “Wait!” she said, her hand flying up to her mouth. “I nearly forgot. Sam!”
Alain frowned. “Who?”
Theresa pointed back at the closed cell door next to hers. “There’s a little boy next to me. We can’t leave him here!”
Seeing the look in Theresa’s eyes, Carnegie nodded. Raquella hurried back to the cell door and slid her hairpin inside the lock. Within a minute the door was open, and she was peering inside the cell.
The maid gasped. “Sam?”
Jonathan blinked with surprise. The last time he had seen Samuel Northwich, the boy had been a bright young magician’s assistant. That had been barely six months ago. Now Sam was huddled in the corner of the cell, his face smeared with dirt. There was a haunted look in his eyes that spoke of an ageless, nameless pain.
At the sound of his name, Sam flinched and hugged his legs.
“Don’t you remember me, Sam?” Raquella whispered softly, stepping into the cell. “It’s Raquella. We were friends.”
Sam whimpered, shrinking back even further into the darkness.
“There, there,” Raquella said soothingly, slowly outstretching her hand. “I’m not going to hurt you. Take my hand and we can get out of this nasty place. Don’t you want to get out of here?”
Sam nodded.
“Come, then. Take my hand.”
The boy glanced around the cell, and then bolted towards Raquella. The maid hugged him, quietly making low comforting noises.
“Right,” Carnegie barked. “Now i
t’s time to go.”
They headed down through the maze of staircases towards the ground floor, footsteps reverberating around the tortured architecture as the Bedlam silently mourned its dead mistress. It was with great relief that Jonathan realized that they had reached the asylum’s entrance hall, and saw Marianne leaning against the open doorway. The bounty hunter took deep breaths of the freezing air as it swept inside the Bedlam.
“My nephew’s gone looking for some transport,” she reported, wordlessly acknowledging the increased size of their party. “He should be along any minute now.”
Outside, the grounds of the Bedlam were coated in a thick covering of clammy fog. There was a whinny in the gloom, and then a carriage crunched along the driveway and drew up outside the front of the asylum. Harry was in the driving seat, wrestling with the reins.
“Where did you get this?” Jonathan asked incredulously.
“Borrowed it,” Harry replied crisply. “Now get in before anyone starts asking any questions.”
Jonathan hurried across the snow and opened the cab door, gesturing to his companions to enter the carriage. As they filed out of the Bedlam, Carnegie swung up to the driver’s seat and took the reins from Harry’s hands.
“I’ll drive,” he growled.
“Probably for the best,” said Harry. “It’s harder than it looks.”
After the carriage was crammed with passengers, the wereman geed up the horses. As the cab pulled away, Theresa Starling took a final look back at the asylum as it disappeared into the fog. She swallowed, tears forming in her eyes. Alain squeezed her hand.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered softly. “It’s over now.”
They returned to Vendetta’s townhouse before the sun came up, leaving the stolen carriage in a nearby side alley before dashing across the street towards safety. As they ran across the cobblestones, Sam slipped and fell to the ground with a cry. Carnegie reached down and picked up the boy, shaking his head as he carried Sam up the steps.
“I’m turning into a bloody governess,” he muttered, to no one in particular.
Carnegie hauled Sam up to one of the bedrooms and laid the boy down on the bed. Raquella pressed her hand against the boy’s forehead.
“He’s burning up with fever,” she reported.
“What do you think happened to him?” Jonathan whispered. “He seemed fine the last time we saw him, and now. . .”
The maid watched solemnly as Sam’s eyes closed, and he fell muttering into a disturbed sleep.
“I’ve no idea,” she replied. “But whatever it was, it struck to the very core of his soul.”
They sat down to a cold breakfast in the drawing room, a reflective mood descending upon the gathering. Every now and then Jonathan found himself glancing at his mum, worried that she was going to disappear again. In daylight, he could see more of the toll that the Bedlam had taken on Theresa. Her hair had turned a startling shade of white, and her painfully thin frame bore testament to a decade-long diet of asylum food.
His mum wasn’t the only person Jonathan was worried about. Despite the joyous wonder in Alain’s eyes, Jonathan saw the beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. He knew that Darkside’s fetid atmosphere was taking its toll on his father. Looking at both of his parents, Jonathan suddenly came to a decision. He was about to speak up when the townhouse door clicked open, and Vendetta slipped into the drawing room.
The vampire was dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit, a heavy cowled cloak resting over one arm and a copy of the Darkside Informer in his other hand. He tossed the cloak down on to a divan, exposing a large pink smear on the hem: a combination of snow and blood.
“Good meal?” Carnegie barked.
Vendetta drew the back of his hand across his mouth. “It sufficed. Though I am accustomed to a rather higher standard of cuisine.”
“We had an interesting morning as well,” Carnegie remarked in a conversational tone. “We went to the Bedlam. You should have come with us. It was fun.”
If he was expecting a reaction from the vampire, he didn’t get one. Instead Vendetta cast a cool eye over the breakfast table, noting Theresa Starling for the first time.
“You?” Vendetta arched an eyebrow. “I presumed Lucien had killed you off years ago. All in all, you’re a remarkably difficult family to dispose of.” He smiled. “Like cockroaches.”
“Leave her alone,” said Jonathan, through clenched teeth.
Theresa touched his arm lightly. “It’s all right, son.” She turned back to Vendetta. “I remember you too. Vendetta the banker. I see you haven’t changed much, even if your circumstances do appear somewhat reduced. I hope Holborn is taking good care of the Heights in your absence.”
Anger flashed across the vampire’s face, but he swiftly regained his composure. “He can have it for now,” he said, with an elegant shrug. “The Abettor cannot remain so strong for ever, and the passage of time has little effect on the undead.” He passed a critical eye over Theresa’s frail frame. “Though I can hardly say the same of you.”
“You vile—” Alain began, starting out of his chair.
“Please, Alain!” Theresa said, restraining her husband. “You’ve fought enough battles for one day. His words don’t concern me.”
“Well, I’m delighted to hear that you can bear my hospitality. Should my generosity become too much for you, feel free to leave.” Vendetta paused. “Though I fear your son may find the streets of Darkside a rather more perilous place than before.”
“What do you mean?” Carnegie barked.
“Whilst I was on the streets I noticed a commotion taking place involving a newspaper boy. It appears that the new management of the Informer decided to put out a special edition. I took the liberty of purchasing a copy, and it made for interesting reading.”
Vendetta unfolded his copy of the Informer and tossed it down on the table in front of Jonathan.
“Your notoriety is spreading,” the vampire said, with elegant malice.
As Jonathan smoothed down the yellowed, crackling pages of the newspaper, he saw that the front page was dominated by a drawing of a young man that looked remarkably like him. His heart sinking, he began to read the accompanying story.
Secret documents discovered in the desk of the disgraced former editor of the Informer, Arthur Blake, have revealed a foul plot aimed at the very heart of Darkside: Lucien Ripper. This conspiracy, concocted in the despised halls of power in Lightside, involves an attempt to pass off an imposter as the Ripper’s slain sister, Marianne. Though such an attempt to deceive Darksiders would usually be considered laughable, the unprecedented scale of the conspiracy demands decisive action. Already the plotters have been stirring up trouble on the streets, leading more gullible citizens into extremely unwise protests against the Ripper’s vital conspiracy tax.
On hearing the Informer’s warning of this grave threat to Darkside, Lucien Ripper immediately took bold steps, ordering the Bow Street Runners to remain on the streets to protect the populace. A ten o’clock curfew has been introduced, and will remain in place until the plotters have been rounded up. Anyone caught on the streets between the hours of ten and six o’clock in the morning will be adjudged to be part of the Lightside conspiracy, and will be dealt with accordingly.
The ringleader of this vile plot is thought to be a young man named Jonathan Starling (pictured inset). Any information leading to his capture will be rewarded with £500, the production of his corpse with double that. The Informer exhorts its readers to remain watchful in these dangerous times, and to help extinguish this dire threat to the borough.
Carnegie whistled over Jonathan’s shoulder. “Five hundred pounds? You know that’s a small fortune here, don’t you?”
“If anyone sees you out on the street, you’re done for,” Harry added. “I’ve half a mind to turn you in myself.”
The wereman gave J
onathan a searching look. “You don’t seem that concerned, boy.”
Jonathan pushed the newspaper away. “I’m not. It doesn’t matter now, anyway. I’m leaving Darkside today, and I’m not coming back.”
17
A shocked silence descended upon the drawing room.
“You’re doing what?” Carnegie growled.
“I’m taking Mum and Dad back to Lightside,” said Jonathan steadfastly. “And I’m staying there.”
“What about Darkside?” the wereman shot back. “We may have got Theresa back, but it’s not over, boy. Lucien’s still on the throne. He was the one responsible for putting your mum in the Bedlam in the first place, or have you forgotten that?”
Jonathan looked down. “Of course I haven’t forgotten that. And I don’t want to leave things like this. But we have to go.”
“So that’s it?”
“Really, Carnegie, do stop being so tiresome.”
As one they turned and looked towards the window seat, where Marianne was sitting with her feet up, staring out over the snowy street. The bounty hunter hadn’t spoken for hours – Jonathan had almost forgotten she was there.
“This doesn’t concern you, Ripper,” the wereman snarled.
Marianne fixed Carnegie with a cold stare. “Believe me, I’d much prefer not to have to listen to your endless tiffs, but someone’s got to point out the obvious. Jonathan doesn’t want to leave our merry gang, but, unlike you, he’s noticed that his father can’t cope here.”
“Now wait a minute—” protested Alain.
“Please, spare me the heroics,” Marianne said, with a weary gesture of her hand. “You can’t hide pain from me. I see every wince, every bead of sweat on your forehead. You spend much longer here, you’re going to end up like that boy upstairs.” She turned to the wereman. “Alain has to go back to Lightside, Carnegie, and of course Theresa and Jonathan are going with him. They’ve been apart for a decade – are you really going to begrudge them that?”
