by Tom Becker
“With that mob on our tail, they won’t be for long,” Carnegie growled. “Move!”
Even as they raced across the plaza, there was a loud creaking noise, and the gates began to swing shut. Carnegie loped ahead of the group, jamming himself into the narrowing gap. Harry followed hot on his heels, diving past the wereman and inside the palace grounds. Slowed by the exhausted Sam, Raquella was struggling to cover the distance. Carnegie roared with effort, sweat pouring down his brow as the gates squashed him.
“Can’t . . . hold . . . much . . . longer. . .”
Seeing Sam struggling, Marianne grabbed the boy and hurled him inside Blackchapel. The bounty hunter ushered Raquella through, then, as Carnegie let the gates go with a howl of pain, rolled through the gap a second before they banged shut.
“That was close,” Harry said, panting.
Carnegie shot him a baleful glance. “You think? You weren’t the one being squashed to a pulp.”
Blackchapel’s courtyard was a bleak open space where no flower or plant could flourish. Snow had been cleared from the grey gravel path that led to the palace. Blackchapel itself was as awesome as it was awful: an enormous Gothic cathedral imbued with a sense of numb horror, as though every stone, every piece of gravel had been witness to an awful crime of one sort or another.
In the silence, the first sounds of the approaching mob could be heard in the distance.
“What now?” asked Harry.
Marianne gestured towards the palace. “Let’s go inside and find my dear brother. I’m sure he’s dying to see us.”
They were halfway up the gravel path when the courtyard erupted. All around them walls shuddered and trembled as hands and feet burst from them, snatching at the air. Suddenly the walls were alive with limbs as an entire platoon of Bow Street Runners pulled themselves free and surrounded the group.
“Damnit!” Carnegie swore. “It’s a trap!”
“And I think these guys can see us,” said Harry.
“Could do with some more of that perfume of yours, Marianne,” Carnegie said, through clenched teeth.
The bounty hunter glanced down at her glass bottle. “Ah. May be a problem there. I used the last of it on my nephew.”
“Then we’re dead men,” the wereman replied.
Marianne, Harry and Carnegie spread out into a triangle, protecting Raquella and Sam. The bounty hunter drew her sword and pulled a crossbow from its strapping on her back. The Runners didn’t respond, scattering the snow with soot as they breathed quietly.
“Why aren’t they attacking?” Harry said, out of the corner of his mouth.
He didn’t have to wait long for an answer. With a crash, the doors to Blackchapel were flung open and a slight figure hobbled out, dressed in a deep-red cloak lined with fur.
Lucien Ripper smiled, his mouth curled with disdain. “Welcome to Blackchapel,” he said. “You’re late.”
25
Goosebumps prickled across Harry’s skin as he was frogmarched through Blackchapel. The Ripper’s Palace was a hymn to desecrated grandeur: its yawning hallways cobblestoned and stained with soot; its delicate chandeliers casting a sullen orange glow; its ceilings so high that fog swirled around the rafters. If it hadn’t been for the malevolent presence of Lucien ahead of him and the ominous guard of the Bow Street Runners, then the journey would have been an occasion for wondrous awe.
The throne room was situated in the heart of the palace, a large circular room with arched windows and a raised platform at its centre, upon which rested a throne carved from smooth ebony. Lucien hobbled up to the dais and took a seat, Brick McNally standing at his side. The rest of the Runners fanned out across the room, blocking all the exits.
“I’m so glad you and your friends could join us, dear sister,” Lucien proclaimed, settling back into his throne. “Having left you buried beneath a building, I was as surprised as I was gladdened to hear that you had survived.”
“I can imagine,” Marianne replied acidly.
“After all, it gave me the chance to show you this.” Lucien gestured around the throne room. “My seat of power. It seems only right that this place shall witness my final triumph over you. This time,” he added menacingly, “you will not rise again.”
“I’d be delighted to carry on from where we left off,” drawled Marianne. “I’ll fight you anywhere you like. But no doubt you’ll rely on others to do your dirty work for you – as always.”
“You mock me, Marianne?” Lucien leaned forward. “You should know better. You have faced me before, and bled at my hands. You know what I can become.”
Marianne let out a peal of laughter. “The Black Phoenix? You sound so proud, brother. I have faced worse than that overgrown bird of yours – it holds no fear for me.”
“Enough of this,” spat Lucien. He turned to Brick McNally. “Kill them. Now.”
There was the merest flicker of hesitation from the Chief Runner before he turned to his men and said: “You heard the order.”
The brick golems plunged beneath the surface of the room, erupting amidst them in a single fountain of stone. The Runners dived in and out of the walls and the floor, turning the throne room into a writhing mass of stone fists and boots. Harry backflipped over a stone leg as it reached out to trip him up, then dodged out of the way as a hand shot out to grab his throat. Across the throne room, sparks flew from Marianne’s sword as it rang against the Runners’ hardened skin. Moving with a swift precision, she countered each attack as it speared out from the walls and the floor. But although she could block the golems, hurting them was another matter.
Lacking Harry and Marianne’s agility, Carnegie was struggling to cope with the speed of the Runners’ strikes. As he roared with anger, a golem shut up from out of the ground and dealt him a crunching blow in the ribs, sending him crashing into a table. With a howl of pain, the wereman picked up a bench and hurled it back at the Runner, who barely flinched as the wood splintered on its chest. The golem’s hand shuddered, metamorphosing into a hammer. The two creatures raced forward to engage one another in a flurry of fluid bricks and sharp claws.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Raquella usher Sam behind a thick curtain. As a golem bore down upon them, the maid drew him away, running back towards the centre of the room.
“Look out!” she screamed.
Running at full tilt, the maid crashed into Harry, knocking both of them to the ground just as a stone pendulum swung down from the ceiling, whistling through the air where he had been standing. Feeling the earth tremble beneath him, Harry grabbed hold of Raquella and rolled to one side, narrowly avoiding a pillar of brick bursting up from the floor.
“This is hopeless!” he panted. “They’re everywhere, and we can’t even dent them!”
“So what are you going to do?” Raquella shouted back. “Give up?”
She dragged him back to his feet as another golem loomed up in front of them.
“HOLD!” a voice boomed out.
To Harry’s surprise, everyone stopped. Even Carnegie stood back from his opponent, his face bruised and bleeding. Exhausted, Harry looked up to see a man standing in the doorway to the throne room, regally surveying the scene. Lucien stood up from his throne and peered into the gloom.
“Holborn?” he exclaimed sharply. “Where have you been? Why have the Runners stopped?”
“Because I commanded them to,” the Abettor replied. “There is now a stronger power in this room than yours, cripple.”
Holborn stepped forward into the light, revealing a bloodstained piece of rubble in his arms.
“It can’t be!” Lucien gasped. “The Crimson Stone!”
The Abettor nodded. “Indeed. Whilst you have been destroying Darkside, I tracked down your forefather’s most powerful artefact. Proof, if proof be needed, that I deserve to sit on that throne, not you.”
Lucien�
�s eyes narrowed. “You dare to challenge the Ripper?”
“You are no Ripper. Look – Marianne is alive! My claim is no less worthy than yours. Let me give you a demonstration.”
As Holborn began murmuring to himself, behind him the curtain by the window twitched, and Sam ran out into the open.
“That’s mine!” he shouted. “Give it back!”
The room watched dumbfounded as the boy reached up and snatched the Crimson Stone from Holborn. Ducking under the Abettor’s despairing grasp, Sam sprinted for the door.
“Come back, Sam!” Raquella cried desperately. “You can save us! Control the Runners!”
But Sam kept running, disappearing through the archway and away into Blackchapel. As Holborn paled and edged back towards the doorway, the room was filled with the sound of mocking laughter.
“Oh, elegantly done, my loyal Abettor!” sneered Lucien. “Outwitted by a child. Not exactly behaviour becoming of a Ripper. Now both Darkside and the Stone will be mine. You won’t even have the comfort of a quick death.” Lucien snarled at Brick McNally. “What are you waiting for? Don’t leave this room until all my enemies are dead!”
As the Ripper hobbled out of the throne room after Sam, the Runners turned back to face the rest of the group. It seemed there would be no escape after all. Harry squeezed Raquella’s hand, and readied himself for the end.
Jonathan stumbled through the darkness after Holborn, feeling the tunnel wall with his hands as he went. His ribs were aching and his hands cut from where he had shifted the rubble from his body, but he was alive, a surge of hatred for the Abettor driving him onwards.
After what felt like miles of blind stumbling, Jonathan saw a shaft of pale light arcing down through a hole in the ceiling, illuminating a rickety wooden ladder. He stopped by the bottom rung, and cautiously scaled the ladder up into a draughty stone tower. With a shiver, he saw that he was surrounded by skeletal remains: rows of skulls and anguished piles of bones. It looked like the lair of some mythical monster that had been feasting on unwary travellers for centuries.
A trail of footprints was visible on the dusty floor, leading from the ladder to the door – Holborn’s, Jonathan guessed. Unnerved by the lingering odour of death in the room, he hurried out of the building and into a melancholy garden, where the knotted undergrowth was coated in a deep layer of snow. A row of weeping willows swayed mournfully in the breeze. Holborn’s footprints continued through the snow, skirting round the flower beds before coming to a halt at a door built into the high garden wall. The door was wide open: either the Abettor thought he had killed Jonathan in the cave-in, or he was in too much of a hurry to worry about him following.
Jonathan walked inside, heading up a narrow staircase and along the corridor beyond. Through the window, the broad thoroughfare of Pell Mell stretched out beneath him. The street was alive with an angry mob, Darksiders arguing and brawling with one another even as they swarmed up towards the dark outline of Blackchapel.
In the distance bright flames were flickering above the Grand, setting the night sky alight. The orange glow of the fires cast a fitful illumination over a series of grim portraits on the corridor wall, a gallery of cruel male faces sneering and glaring at any visitors who dared to go by. As Jonathan walked past them, he saw that each painting had a name written beneath it: Thomas, then George and Albert. The final portrait was larger than the others, and encased in an ornate wooden frame – beneath it, a note said simply “Jack”.
A chill ran down Jonathan’s spine. He was looking at Jack the Ripper: the founder of Darkside; Lightside’s most notorious killer. He stared at the portrait, searching for traces of evil. A bespectacled face stared mildly back at him. Compared to the other grizzled Rippers, Jack looked more like a clerk than a murderer. It was only when Jonathan looked more closely and saw the cruel twist to the Ripper’s mouth, and the soulless black pits of his eyes, that he could believe who this man was.
A thunderous explosion went off on Pell Mell, flooding the corridor with bright light. Jonathan turned to see three figures shuffling towards him, dragging their feet across the tiles. They were shirtless, exposing blackened masses of bruises and seeping pustules on their flesh. Drool dripped down from their slack mouths. Jonathan had spent enough time in Darkside to recognize ghouls when he saw them. Mindless undead cannibals, they roamed graveyards in search of food. No wonder Holborn hadn’t been worried whether Jonathan had followed him or not.
With an angry groan, the ghouls lumbered towards him. What they lacked in speed, they more than made up for in strength. They could tear him apart with their bare hands. Jonathan turned to run in the opposite direction, only to see two more of the creatures walking up the steps from the garden.
Another explosion erupted outside, this one louder than the first. Even though the ghouls were slow, there wasn’t enough room in the corridor to dodge round them. A tide of panic rose up within Jonathan. As he looked around frantically for a weapon, a black shape fluttered across his eye line, emitting a high-pitched squeaking noise. As he looked back the way it had come, he saw a churning black wave pouring down the corridor from the direction of the gardens, the shrill squeaking swelling to a roar.
Jonathan dropped to his knees and put his hands over his head.
The cloud of bats hit them like a hammer blow, submerging Jonathan and the ghouls in a blizzard of wings and claws. The ghouls groaned in confusion, their arms flailing as they were battered by the sheer mass of creatures. As he peered out between his fingers, Jonathan’s heart sank at the sight of Vendetta striding through the storm. The vampire was carrying an épée in his hand, and on engaging the disoriented ghouls, the slender blade flashed again and again as he cut them down with a mixture of contempt and a deadly grace.
It was over in seconds. When the final ghoul dropped to the floor, Vendetta raised his hands in the air, and the bats drained back to the gardens as quickly as they had arrived. With the deafening squeaking abruptly gone, the silence throbbed in Jonathan’s ears. He glanced up at the vampire, waiting for his blade to rise and fall one last time.
“Well, get up, then,” Vendetta said irritably.
“What?” Jonathan replied, in disbelief.
“I’m not going to kill you,” the vampire replied. “Yet. You’re going to cause Lucien more problems alive than dead, so I’m going to have to forgo that particular pleasure for the time being.”
Jonathan rose cautiously to his feet. “I guess I should say thank you,” he said.
“Don’t mention it.” Vendetta pointed down the corridor. “Blackchapel is through there. Given the scenes of chaos outside, I suspect that the Bow Street Runners are protecting Lucien within the palace. Go cautiously.”
“You’re not coming with me?”
“Hardly. There are things I need to attend to here.”
Jonathan looked down at the corpses littering the floor. “You’re not going to stay and feed on those things, are you?”
Vendetta grimaced. “What a repulsive notion. Ghouls don’t bleed, not that I would touch their infested fluids even if they did. No, I have other priorities, Starling. Remember that we are only travelling in the same direction for a short time. If our paths should cross again, I won’t show such restraint a second time.”
The vampire spun on his heel and strode back towards the gardens. Jonathan watched him go, amazed that he was still alive. Taking a deep breath, he stepped over the ghoul corpses and carried on towards Blackchapel. After passing through a connecting door, he came out on to a landing at the top of a broad flight of stairs. Somewhere downstairs and to his left, a battle was raging: he could hear the ringing of blades and the rumbling of the Runners.
At the sound of footsteps, Jonathan pressed himself against the wall. He bit back an oath as Lucien limped quickly down the hallway and out through the doors, into the palace grounds. Wherever the Ripper was going, he was in a hurry.
<
br /> Jonathan crept down the stairs, unsure of what to do. He could either head left, towards whoever or whatever was fighting, or head right in pursuit of Lucien. Torn, he glanced one way and then the other, then ran after the Ripper, praying to God that he had made the right choice.
26
Even as he repelled the latest strike from the Bow Street Runner, Elias Carnegie knew that he was doomed. The golem with the hammer hand had sought him out again – it showed no sign of pain; no weariness slowed its limbs. By contrast, each ragged breath hurt the wereman’s bruised ribcage, and it was getting harder to dodge the blows.
As he pressed back against the wall, through the window Carnegie caught a glimpse of Lucien struggling through the snow in the palace grounds, chasing after Sam as the boy ran towards a small building by the perimeter wall. Several metres further back, the wereman saw Jonathan Starling ploughing resolutely after the Ripper.
“The boy’s here!” Carnegie barked. “And he’s gone after Lucien!”
Marianne had engaged two Runners, swaying out of harm’s reach in time to the flow and ebb of their attacks. “Go and help him!” she shouted back.
“What? I’m not leaving you here!”
“We can’t win this fight anyway!” Marianne cried. “Our only hope is the Crimson Stone. Go!”
There was a note of steely authority in the bounty hunter’s voice that brooked no argument. As the Runner brought its hammer down, Carnegie stepped inside the swing and used the golem’s momentum to throw it over his shoulder. The Runner disintegrated into pebbles as it hit the ground, re-forming almost immediately. Before it could come at him again, the wereman ran towards the window and hurled himself through it, shattering the glass into a thousand pieces. Landing on all fours in the snow, Carnegie howled with desire and began loping across the palace grounds.
Racing into the mausoleum behind Lucien, Jonathan found himself in a gloomy room, an army of lit candles casting a ghostly glow over the red marble walls. Above Jonathan’s head, friezes depicted the final death throes of murder victims with a gory beauty. Beyond rows of pews, a statue of Jack the Ripper bestrode the room, black obsidian gleaming in the flickering candlelight.
