Blackjack

by Tom Becker

  Holborn nodded with murderous satisfaction. Smoothing down his robe, he strode out of the gallery and made his way up to the first-floor walkway. Raquella clamped her hand over Sam’s mouth and hastily drew back into a shadowy niche. She held her breath as the Abettor marched past, summoning all her strength to restrain Sam as he reached out longingly towards the Stone. The secret entrance to Jackwalk clicked open, and then Holborn was gone.

  The salamander crept towards Jonathan and Harry, its beady eyes glinting. They backed away down the corridor and into a large exhibition room, their eyes fixed unwaveringly on the creature. Display cases loomed out of the dark around them like large glass obelisks.

  “What do we do now?” Jonathan said, out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Stall it,” Harry whispered back. “I’ll be back in a second.”

  “What?”

  Harry scampered away before he could call him back. Swearing under his breath, Jonathan turned back to face the salamander. How was he supposed to stall it – he couldn’t even touch it!

  The creature had stopped advancing and was eyeing him intently. Jonathan frowned. What was it waiting for?

  There was a hiss at his shoulder.

  Jonathan ducked instinctively as the second salamander lunged at him from the side, jaws snapping. The creature swung a fist through the space where his head had been seconds before, shattering the glass in the display case behind him.

  Rolling to one side before the salamander could pounce on him, Jonathan scurried away between the exhibits on his hands and knees, his heart pounding furiously. In the watchful silence, he could hear the two creatures exhaling, and the soft tread of their feet on the wooden floorboards.

  Jonathan crawled around the corner of a display case – and found himself face to face with the mottled black and orange features of a salamander. It grinned devilishly.

  “Harry!” he shouted. “Help!”

  “I’m coming!” came the reply.

  Harry Pierce came tearing along the main aisle of the exhibition room, a sturdy stick in his hands. Digging the stick into the ground, he vaulted over the display case by Jonathan, landing neatly on two feet with gymnastic precision. Before the salamander could react, Harry swung the stick high above his head and delivered a crushing blow to the creature’s skull. It crumpled lifelessly to the floor.

  Harry wiped the end of the stick matter-of-factly on the ground. “Told you we needed a weapon. I found this on the wall. Now, let’s see where the other one’s hiding.”

  He slipped away, cutting a stealthy path through the exhibits like a big-game hunter on safari. Jonathan stayed close behind him, his mind turning every unusual shadow into a monster.

  The second salamander leapt between them without warning. Harry tumbled backwards in surprise, dropping his stick. The creature ignored him, lunging at Jonathan as he turned on his heel and ran. Jonathan weaved a frantic path through the display cases, aware that the salamander was closing in on him.

  Dodging away from a poisonous swipe, he ducked left down a narrow aisle, only to crash into a metal guard rail. Beyond it lay a steep drop to the courtyard in the centre of the museum. Jonathan had run straight into a dead end.

  The salamander slowed as it followed him around the corner, hissing in triumph. Seeing the creature’s muscles tense, Jonathan waited until the salamander launched itself towards him, then dived to one side. He felt a singe of pain as the creature brushed his side; then the fire salamander tumbled over the rail and hurtled down to the floor below, hitting the ground with a loud squelch.

  Jonathan wearily pulled himself up to the rail and looked down to see the salamander spreadeagled across the museum floor, orange slime oozing from its carcass. Harry appeared at his side, and patted him on the back. “Nice move,” he said approvingly. “Now let’s go get the others.”

  They raced back to the gallery to find Raquella struggling to keep Sam away from the secret door leading back to Jackwalk.

  “Are you all right?” Harry asked urgently. “We heard a scream.”

  The maid looked at Jonathan, her eyes serious. “It was Mrs Elwood. She and Carmichael are dead.”

  Jonathan felt a knife twist in his soul. Even after everything that had happened, he had loved Mrs Elwood for too many years not to feel a sharp pain at her death.

  “What happened?” he asked quietly.

  “Holborn double-crossed them,” Raquella replied. “He took the Stone and killed them, then went back to Darkside. He’s going to take on Lucien himself.”

  A spark of anger ignited within Jonathan. “Right. Come on then.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “After Holborn,” replied Jonathan. “This isn’t over yet.”

  Sam eagerly raced back up towards the walkway, leading them through the secret door and back into the vast cavern beyond. They hurried down the spiral staircase to the platform, where the street lamp was burning low. There was no sign of Holborn. Glancing at the passageways sloping off in different directions, Harry scratched his head.

  “How do we know which way he went?”

  Jonathan stopped beneath the archway marked “Blackchapel”. “He’s going after Lucien, isn’t he? He must have gone this way.”

  The tunnel beyond the archway was pitch-black. The four children paused, waiting for their eyes to get accustomed to the light.

  “Jonathan!” Raquella cried suddenly. “He’s right here!”

  Straining his eyes through the darkness, Jonathan made out the outline of the Abettor blocking the passageway in front of them.

  “I heard the sound of rats upon the stairs,” Holborn said. “Thought I’d better stop and deal with them. Horrible things, rats. Wouldn’t want them infesting Blackchapel – especially not when I’m this close to claiming my throne.”

  “It’s not your throne,” Jonathan said fiercely. “Or Lucien’s. It’s Marianne’s. And we’re going to make sure she gets it.”

  The Abettor gave out a booming laugh. “Such bold words! And how do you propose to stop me? Do you not understand the power I now have at my fingertips? Let me give you a demonstration.”

  With that, he pressed the Crimson Stone against the wall. The tunnel entrance shook, and chunks of masonry began to rain down from the ceiling.

  “He’s started a cave-in!” cried Jonathan. “Look out!”

  As Harry grabbed Sam and dived back on to the platform, Jonathan pushed Raquella to safety. Before he could join them, a heavy piece of stone crashed into his left shoulder, knocking him to the floor. The last thing Jonathan saw, through the falling rubble, was the figure of Holborn hurrying away, and then the world collapsed around him in a cloud of dust.

  For a few seconds the Jackwalk platform was enveloped in a shocked silence. Harry stared at the entrance to the Blackchapel tunnel, which was completely blocked by rubble, a choking cloud of dust rising into the air. Then he began scrabbling in the debris, throwing rocks to one side.

  “Jonathan!” he cried out. “Are you there?”

  There was a faint coughing sound, and then a muffled voice said from within the tunnel: “It’s all right.”

  Raquella’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m OK,” Jonathan replied. “I don’t think I’ve broken anything. But there are rocks everywhere – it’s going to take me a while to get free. Go on without me.”

  “We can’t leave you on your own!” Harry protested.

  “There isn’t anything you can do here. I’ll follow Holborn back to Blackchapel this way. You need to get back to Darkside. There’s no time to waste.”

  Harry chewed his lip in consternation. “It’s going to take us ages to get back over the viaduct,” he said. “We’ll never catch up with Holborn in time. We’re stuck.”

  “No, we’re not.”

  Raquella and Harry spun
round and looked at Sam.

  “I know Jackwalk too, remember?” the boy said quietly. “If we take the right path, we can catch up with Holborn.”

  “Which path?” Harry asked urgently.

  Sam pointed to his left, at a crumbling archway beneath a sign time had long since eroded away.

  “Come on,” Harry said grimly. “It’s time to end this.”

  24

  A lthough the Great Riot of Darkside became one of the most celebrated events in the borough’s history, in the years that followed, no one could agree on exactly how it had begun, which spark had started the blaze. Some claimed that it had spiralled from an argument between two urchins over a dead cat; others, rather more grandly, said that a nobleman had started the uprising with the aim of rescuing his beloved from the Blackchapel cells. The only thing people could agree on was that they had all played prominent roles. Decades later, elderly Darksiders enthralled their grandchildren with epic tales of their own involvement, regardless of whether or not they had actually been there – or even been alive at the time.

  No matter how it started, by midnight the Grand was engulfed by a writhing sea of people: men and women, the old and the young, engaged in a mass brawl that ran the length of Darkside’s main street. After days of pent-up frustration and nights trapped behind closed doors, there was a joyful edge to the anarchy. Punches were traded with relish, whoops of delight intermingling with shouts of agony in the violent pandemonium. From time to time the sound of shattering glass elicited a throaty roar from the crowd: looters broke into shops and returned, arms laden with goods, only to be mugged on the pavement outside. The telltale glow of fire was visible within one or two of the buildings, flames clawing at the woodwork.

  At the top of the Grand, two figures stood on the side of an upturned carriage, calmly looking down upon the chaos. Carnegie and Marianne had returned from the Wayward Orphanage to find the townhouse completely empty. Unsure if they should cross over to Lightside in search of Jonathan, they had been arguing over their next move when the first sounds of disturbance reached them. Without a word, they changed out of their disguises and into their normal clothes: Carnegie smiled with satisfaction as he adjusted the towering stovepipe hat on his head, while Marianne tied her freshly dyed white hair back into a ponytail and methodically checked the array of weapons concealed within her clothing.

  As they watched, there was a loud boom. Several streets away, a grimy mushroom cloud rose into the air. The wereman jumped.

  “What on Darkside was that?”

  Marianne peered into the night. “I think some idiot’s torched Chang’s Wonders of the Orient.”

  “Then that’s the last mistake they’ll ever make,” Carnegie growled. “There’s enough gunpowder in the fireworks in that shop to take out half the street.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” Marianne said, frowning as she surveyed the carnage. “Where are the Runners?”

  “There’s only two options,” replied Carnegie. “Either Lucien’s decided out of the kindness of his heart to take the Runners off the streets . . .”

  “Somewhat unlikely.”

  “. . . or there’s a greater threat to the Ripper that demands the Runners’ attention.”

  “Greater threat than the whole of the borough rioting?” Marianne asked. “This I have to see. I think a quick trip to Blackchapel is in order.”

  Carnegie swept off his stovepipe hat, bowing as he gestured towards the battle-strewn street. “Shall we?”

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” Marianne said lightly.

  They jumped down from the carriage and strode down the Grand. Carnegie cracked his knuckles and rotated his neck muscles, while Marianne drew her sword from her sheath. Heads turned at their approach – all about them, the fighting came to an abrupt halt.

  “It’s the Marianne imposter!” a voice cried out. “She’s mine!”

  “Stay away from her!” a gruff voice replied. “She’s mine!”

  As a ring of Darksiders tightened menacingly around them, Marianne sighed. “I’d forgotten all about that blasted reward. This promises to be quite a tiresome journey.”

  Carnegie gave her a wolfish grin. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said.

  With a snarl, he hurled himself at two burly stevedores, raking their faces with his claws and forcing them backwards. At such close quarters, there was no room for finesse: as a tusked creature grabbed at Marianne, she poked him in the eye and thumped him on the head with the hilt of her sword, before swivelling round and taking a cut-throat’s legs out from under him with a sweeping kick.

  Carnegie and Marianne inched their way along the Grand, held up by the sheer weight of numbers. Every time an assailant was downed, two sprang forward to take their place, spurred on by their desire to claim the vast reward on Marianne’s head.

  “As fun as this is,” Carnegie growled, punching a hoodlum in the face almost absent-mindedly, “it’s going to slow us down a bit.”

  Marianne ducked out of the way of a clumsy haymaker, then sharply kneed her attacker in the groin. The man collapsed in a heap, his face turning a sickly green colour.

  “I agree,” she shouted back. “Let’s take a short cut.”

  Reaching inside her jacket, she pulled out a small glass bottle and sprayed a fine mist over herself. Before the wereman could argue, she turned and squirted him with the perfume as well. Carnegie bayed with displeasure, rubbing his eyes.

  “Oh, do stop whining,” Marianne said. “No point in me being invisible if you still have to battle your way up the Grand.”

  The wereman gave himself a suspicious sniff. “I smell like a duchess,” he muttered.

  Marianne smoothly sheathed her sword – masked by her special perfume, there was no need to fight any more. A clear path opened up along the centre of the Grand as combatants unconsciously stepped aside for them. They walked through the middle of the riot as if it were nothing more than a Sunday park stroll. From time to time Carnegie would see someone gasp with surprise and raise a club or a cosh to attack them, but they would stop mid-swing, a puzzled expression on their face, then turn to attack someone else.

  The further they went along the Grand, the higher the flames rose into the night sky; the thicker the clouds of smoke billowed. No building was safe: not Kinski’s Theatre of the Macabre, engulfed in a crackling cremation; nor the Aurora Borealis Candle Shop, dying a pungent, beautiful death as a thousand coloured tallows caught fire; not even the Psychosis Club, where smoke swirled out of the front door and inside a lone violin played a funereal lament.

  Marianne shook her head. “At this rate, the fools are going to burn Darkside down to the ground.”

  “They don’t care any more,” said Carnegie. “Better no Darkside than Lucien’s Darkside.”

  The fighting was getting more frenzied as the fury of the mob boiled over. Still there was no sign of the Bow Street Runners. At the crossroads near the top of the Grand, Carnegie and Marianne turned right on to Pell Mell. The bounty hunter suddenly stopped and pointed.

  “Look!” she cried out. “It’s my nephew!”

  Harry Pierce was standing at the entrance to a side alley, shielding Raquella and Sam from two leering hobgoblins with a metal pole. Striding through the crowd, Carnegie grabbed the hobgoblins by their lank hair, cracking their heads together with a sickening thud. They slumped to the ground, blood trickling from their ears. Harry looked startled, as though he had been saved by a ghost.

  “What happened?” Raquella shouted, looking straight through Carnegie.

  “I don’t know!” Harry shouted back.

  Marianne stepped forward and sprayed them with her perfume bottle. Harry blinked, then broke into a broad grin.

  “Marianne!” he said. “Am I glad to see you!”

  “Likewise,” she replied. “What on Darkside are you doing here?”

  “I
t’s a long story,” Harry replied. “We went to Lightside to try and get the Crimson Stone, but we failed. Holborn’s got it now, and he’s going to Blackchapel to take on Lucien. Jonathan’s gone after him – we got separated by a cave-in.”

  “Cave-in?” Carnegie barked. “Is the boy all right?”

  Harry nodded. “I think so. But we need to get to Blackchapel as quickly as possible – we can’t leave him on his own there.”

  “Well, let’s go and give him a hand then,” said Carnegie. “Come on.”

  Pell Mell was quieter than the Grand, the vast shadow of Blackchapel deterring the locals from joining the riot. The Ripper’s palace stood unmoved at the end of the road, its soaring walls dominating the horizon. Behind them, the rioters had stopped fighting amongst themselves, rallying to cries of “Down with Lucien!” and “Three cheers for conspiracies!” A dishevelled order fell over them as they lit torches and armed themselves with makeshift weapons.

  “They’ve lost it,” Carnegie muttered. “They’re going to try and storm Blackchapel.”

  “Then we’d better hurry up,” Marianne replied. “My perfume doesn’t last for ever, and I don’t want to get caught in between that lot and Lucien.”

  They hurried up Pell Mell and out on to the broad plaza in front of the palace. Save for the nooses swinging ominously in the breeze beneath the Tyburn Tree, everything was suddenly very still. The atmosphere crackled with impending violence.

  To her surprise, Raquella saw that the iron gates leading into Blackchapel were resting open.

  “Look!” she called out. “The gates are open!”