by Tom Becker
At the back of the mausoleum, Sam lay passed out on the floor, the Crimson Stone lying just out of his grasp. The shock of being reunited with the artefact had overwhelmed the boy’s mind. Lucien laughed as he limped towards him.
“Puny boy,” he sneered. “The Stone is too powerful for children. Only a Ripper can truly wield such a talisman. You will bear witness to this fact only too soon.”
“Leave him alone,” Jonathan called out.
Lucien’s head snapped round. “You!” he hissed, his eyes burning with hatred. “Must you haunt my every step?”
“It’s over, Lucien,” Jonathan said, trying to sound calm even though his pulse was racing. “None of your schemes have worked. Marianne is still alive. My mum survived the Bedlam. Darkside is uprising. And I won’t let you get the Stone.”
The Ripper smiled darkly. “Foolish child. You really think you can stop me? It’s over? It has barely begun.”
With that, Lucien’s body began to tremble. Opening his throat, he let out a piercing, spine-tingling shriek. The Ripper fell to his knees, his skin rippling violently. He gasped in pain, and with the sound of cracking bones, two leathery wings erupted from his body. His face crumpled and twisted as a protruding beak began to grow out of it, whilst a covering of lank feathers swamped his flesh. Where before had stood a frail crippled man, a horribly majestic bird rose into the air. As shadows gathered around the bird, Jonathan felt a familiar shiver of dread run down his spine.
“Step aside, boy.”
Elias Carnegie walked into the mausoleum. His clothes were torn, and his face was a mass of purple bruises. At the sight of the Black Phoenix, a flicker of grim amusement passed across his face.
“Always thought it would come back to you,” he growled up at the bird.
“You know how strong that thing is, Carnegie!” Jonathan protested. “You can’t fight it on your own!”
The wereman shot him a sideways glance. “Want to wager on that, boy?” Pushing his stovepipe hat back on his head and rolling up his sleeves, he continued in a conversational tone: “Before we begin, Lucien, I feel I should warn you: I play rough.”
As the bird crowed with laughter, Carnegie bellowed and charged towards it. Jonathan watched helplessly as the two beasts clashed. The wereman was one of the most brutal fighters in Darkside, a savage hurricane of teeth and claws. But as Carnegie lunged at the Black Phoenix, aiming clubbing blows at his head, Jonathan knew that he didn’t stand a chance. The bird effortlessly soared out of reach, its sinuous movements making Carnegie look clumsy in comparison.
A voice in Jonathan’s head was screaming at him to run past the Phoenix and retrieve the Crimson Stone, but as the shadows around the bird thickened into an inky cloud, fear wrapped a frozen fist around Jonathan’s heart. He drew back behind a pew, trying to fight the urge to burst into tears.
Carnegie fought on, undeterred. A vicious, feral creature with blobs of saliva dripping from his jaws, he had totally given in to the beast within. As the Phoenix dived towards him, Carnegie only just avoided a thrust from its deadly beak. He hit the deck, a stray talon knocking his stovepipe hat from his head and sending it rolling across the floor.
Jonathan had never seen the wereman move so quickly. His claws a blur, Carnegie aimed a slash across one of the bird’s wings, drawing blood as he sliced open a vein. The Phoenix shrieked in pain, turned sharply in the air and nosedived towards the wereman. Forced back on to the defensive, Carnegie tried to block the attack, but the bird was too fast for him: with a caw of triumph, the Black Phoenix plunged all of its talons deep into the wereman’s chest.
Carnegie froze, a shocked expression on his face. As the Black Phoenix withdrew its talons and rose back into the air, the wereman took a single tottering step forward, then collapsed to the floor of the mausoleum.
“No!” Jonathan screamed.
He broke from his cover and slid over to Carnegie, not caring whether the Phoenix attacked him or not. Tears welling in his eyes, he rolled the wereman over. Carnegie’s chest was lacerated with dark, ugly wounds. The beast within him had subsided, leaving his craggy features looking all too human.
“Going to have to find some other idiot to get into trouble with now, boy,” the wereman said faintly. He coughed, a trickle of dark blood running from his mouth.
“No!” sobbed Jonathan. “You can’t leave me.”
As his eyes began to roll up in his head, Carnegie mumbled something.
Jonathan leaned in closer. “What? I can’t hear you.”
“I said MOVE, boy!” Carnegie snarled. Summoning his last ounce of strength, the wereman shoved Jonathan to one side as the Black Phoenix swooped down from the air. Jonathan rolled out of the way on pure instinct, crying out as a talon raked his side.
Overwhelmed by a mixture of pain, sorrow and anger, Jonathan felt the fog of fear lift. His mind suddenly clear, he saw the Crimson Stone on the floor in front of him.
Holborn crouched in the shadows behind the Ripper’s throne, counting the paces to the nearest doorway. He had managed to hide as the golems had been distracted: first by Carnegie’s dramatic exit, and now by Marianne. Even Holborn had to concede that the woman could fight. Shepherding the red-headed girl behind her, Marianne repelled the golems’ shifting attacks, her fluorescent white hair blazing like a beacon as her sword whirled through the air.
Harry Pierce, however, was finished. No matter how bravely he had fought, the golems were too large and too powerful. Even as Holborn watched, a stray fist glanced off Harry’s head, knocking him off his feet. The redhead screamed as the Runner leapt on Harry to finish him off.
“Nephew!” Marianne cried, desperately trying to battle her way towards him.
No, it wouldn’t be long before the battle ended. Seizing his chance, the Abettor slipped out of the throne room and ran for his life.
The Black Phoenix screeched with rage as Jonathan scrabbled over to the Crimson Stone and picked it up. Turning the talisman over in his hands, he was overwhelmed by the urge to destroy the accursed thing. At the same time, images of power flashed through his mind: Jonathan striding the halls of Blackchapel, servants pandering to his every whim; unruly crowds of Darksiders stopping and cheering his name as his carriage travelled through the borough; Jack the Ripper smiling and sweeping off his hat in greeting. . . With the Crimson Stone, he could bring down walls. He could crush his enemies between pillars of granite. He could take the throne for himself.
Instead, Jonathan began to run.
As he hurtled across the mausoleum, the shadow of the Phoenix fell over him, smothering him in nightmares. Jonathan ran through death and loneliness, pursued by bad memories: Alain’s darkenings, when he had courted death time and again; the years Jonathan had spent wandering the streets of London, trying to lose himself in the crowds, riven by a sense that he didn’t belong; the constant fear that his mum was dead. His heart was pounding so hard it was painful, his lungs were burning, and the marrow of his bones had turned to ice. But still Jonathan drove on, his legs moving of their own accord, even though he had no idea where to run. The Phoenix drew nearer, close enough for its foul, hot breath to burn the back of his neck.
Then the statue of Jack the Ripper loomed up in front of Jonathan, and suddenly he knew what to do.
As the Black Phoenix dived in for the kill, its razor-sharp beak arrowing towards his heart, Jonathan leapt into the air, every sinew in his body stretched to breaking point. At the height of his headlong dive, Jonathan drove the Crimson Stone down on to Jack’s dagger. With a joyful singing sound, the obsidian blade sliced through the heart of the Stone, cleaving it in two.
There was a dazzling flash of white light, and a blast of energy that threw Jonathan halfway across the mausoleum. Half-blinded, he watched as the Black Phoenix flew straight into the inferno, and was incinerated in an explosion of pure light. The bird writhed in agony, tortured by the o
nly flames it could not endure. It gave off the high-pitched squeal of an animal in pain, which deepened and swelled until it was Lucien’s ragged screams echoing around the mausoleum.
With a final, mangled screech that was part-bird, part-human, the Black Phoenix tumbled to the ground. Its wings flapped feebly for one last time, and then it was still.
It was minutes before anyone stirred. Groggily raising his head, Jonathan stared at the bodies strewn across the mausoleum floor around him: the sizzling carcass of the Black Phoenix, Sam’s slumped form and, worst of all, Carnegie’s unmoving corpse. Jonathan’s arms were numb and there was a terrible pain in his side, and at that moment in time he didn’t want to be awake any more. Slumping back to the floor, he slipped gratefully into the arms of unconsciousness.
As he waited for the Runner to deliver the final blow, Harry threw his hands up in a futile attempt to shield his face. An image of his dead father appeared before his eyes. The thought of James waiting for him in the afterlife comforted him as a wall of bricks swung down towards him. He tensed in anticipation.
And then nothing happened.
Cautiously opening one eye, Harry looked up to see a giant fist paused inches from his face. There was a look of utter confusion etched on Brick McNally’s features. Everywhere in the throne room, the Runners had stopped in their tracks, including the three looming over Marianne, who had been forced down on to one knee as she covered Raquella’s shrinking form.
“They’ve stopped!” cried Harry. “What’s happened?”
McNally frowned. “Someone has destroyed the Crimson Stone. The Ripper is no more.” The Runner withdrew his fist and rumbled back into an upright pose. “We have no leader, no orders to follow any more. Our quarrel with you has ended.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Marianne, sheathing her sword with a merry zing. “Good old Jonathan!”
27
Aurelius Holborn raced along the Ripper’s Corridor, his gold chains of office jangling against his chest. Even as he fled, his mind was still furiously calculating. Everything had gone wrong, his plans reduced to tatters. Whoever triumphed, either Lucien or Marianne, without the Crimson Stone there was no way Holborn could claim the throne. And if either of the Rippers got their hands on him, he was a dead man. There was no other option – he had to get out of Darkside.
Behind him, the sounds of fighting in Blackchapel had died away. It wouldn’t be long before someone came looking for the Abettor. Maybe the Bow Street Runners had already been ordered after him. Spurred on by that thought, Holborn reached the end of the corridor and burst out into the gardens, his lungs on fire. It had been many years since the Abettor had been forced to run anywhere.
Bursting out into the deserted gardens, Holborn raced along the path, only to slip in the snowy mush and tumble to the ground. He dragged himself back to his feet, cursing as he brushed his ermine-lined cloak. As he staggered on, the Charnel House appeared out of the night, the tower set against the sky like a single stone finger. Holborn unlocked the door and peered cautiously inside. His heart leapt to see that the bone depository was empty. The trapdoor was only a few feet away, and beyond it the crossing point to Lightside. No one would find him there.
Holborn smiled. He wasn’t finished yet.
“I was wondering when you’d get here.”
The Abettor whirled round to see Vendetta emerging from the darkness.
“You!” Holborn hissed in horror. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been keeping an eye on proceedings. There are certain scores I have to settle. Accounts that require closing.”
“Then you will know that the battle has ended,” Holborn said, stalling. “More than likely, Lucien is back on the throne. You would be wise to leave Blackchapel before he finds you.”
Vendetta didn’t appear to be listening. “Do you know how many bodies I have drained?” he asked softly. “How many gallons of warm blood I have drunk? I have been dead for so many years. I have killed lords and ladies. Beggars and barrow boys. Enemies and associates alike. I have killed so often that it no longer gives me pleasure, only serves to quench my bloodthirst for a few more hours.”
Reaching into his waistcoat, the vampire drew out a small dagger. The Abettor began to back away.
“Think, Vendetta!” he cried desperately. “Think what we could achieve if we joined forces. Together, we could rule Darkside!”
Vendetta ignored him. “But killing you, Holborn, ah . . . now that would bring me a joy so pure that I will be desolate when it is eventually over.”
As the vampire advanced, Holborn’s feet went out from beneath him, and he toppled over backwards. He landed with a loud rattle on his back, on top of a pile of musty bones. He had fallen into one of the Charnel House pits.
Vendetta appeared at the edge, and looked down at him with icy amusement.
“How very helpful of you.”
“Please,” the Abettor cried, holding his hands out. “Spare me – I beg you!”
His fangs flashing in the darkness, Vendetta fell upon Holborn like the night, and the Charnel House echoed to the sound of lingering screams.
Jonathan awoke to see Marianne’s pale face looking down at him. For a few seconds he wasn’t sure where he was; then the memory of Carnegie’s death flooded back and he began to cry.
“Oh, Jonathan,” Marianne said quietly. “I am sorry. What happened?”
“The Black Phoenix was going to kill me,” he replied miserably. “Carnegie saved me.”
“That makes sense. He always was too brave for his own good. And stubborn with it.”
Jonathan glanced over at the wereman’s body. “I just can’t believe he’s gone.”
“I’ve seen friends die in battle,” said Marianne sympathetically. “Those wounds take the longest to heal. But remember one thing: it took Darkside’s very worst to kill him. If Carnegie could have chosen a way to go, it would have been like this. Saving you. Of that you can be sure.”
“Maybe you’re right,” sniffed Jonathan. “I don’t know. . . I can’t think straight right now. Could you leave me with him – just for a bit?”
Marianne squeezed him gently on the shoulder, and left him to grieve.
Jonathan stayed by Carnegie for the rest of the night, nurturing an impossible hope of seeing a muscle twitch or a breath disturb the ribcage. Then, as the day began to dawn, in his head he heard a voice growling at him: Enough tears, boy. Everyone moves on in the end. Carnegie would be embarrassed to see him like this, Jonathan knew. He owed it to the wereman to move, no matter how heavy his heart.
Wiping his eyes on his sleeve, Jonathan stood up. He walked over to Jack’s statue and retrieved Carnegie’s stovepipe hat from where it had fallen, before placing it carefully on the wereman’s chest.
“Goodbye, Carnegie,” he said, and walked out of the mausoleum.
The day dawned grimly, beneath grey skies filled with leaden clouds. In the throne room, the aftermath of battle hung heavily in the air. Marianne paced thoughtfully up and down the room, past an impassive platoon of Bow Street Runners. She had carried the unconscious Sam back from the mausoleum, laying the boy down on a bench to recover as she solemnly announced Carnegie’s death.
Raquella’s face had streaked with tears as she’d tried to come to terms with the news. Harry had wrapped a comforting arm around her and was staring moodily out of the window.
“It’s started to rain,” he said.
“Good.” Marianne pointed to the thick plumes of smoke visible above the palace walls. “The Grand is still burning. The rain should help put it out.”
“Are they still rioting on the streets?”
There was a rumble of rubble from behind Harry. “Not any more,” said Brick McNally. “Didn’t you hear the Blackchapel Bell tolling? The people know that Lucien is dead. They are concentrating on putting out the fires.”
As Jonathan slowly entered the throne room, a respectful silence descended upon the room. Raquella stood up and gave him a fierce hug.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Not really,” replied Jonathan. “But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that Carnegie wouldn’t want us to fall apart because of him. So what do we do now?”
It was McNally who answered, in a grating voice. “Darkside needs a Ripper. You must choose one.” He turned and fixed his gaze on Marianne. “You are the rightful heir, are you not? You must take the throne.”
There was an expectant pause. The bounty hunter smiled.
“Charming offer,” she said mildly. “But one I’ll have to turn down, I’m afraid.”
Surprise rippled across McNally’s face. “You don’t want to be the next Ripper?”
“It’s rather lost its appeal,” Marianne replied breezily. “The thought of spending my days rattling around this dreary place with only the ghosts of my murderous ancestors for company is not a happy one. Life’s too short, don’t you think?”
“Marianne!” protested Harry. “You can’t turn it down! If you don’t become the Ripper, who will?”
“That’s the silliest question you’ve asked, nephew,” said Marianne, with a chime of laughter. “You, of course.”
Harry blinked. “Me?”
“Who else? If Lucien hadn’t murdered your father, he would probably have won the Blood Succession, and you would have been next in line anyway. This rights an old wrong. So how about it, Harry?”
The young man didn’t reply, biting his lip in hesitation.
“Oh for goodness’ sake, Harry!” Raquella said briskly. “What are you waiting for? Of course you should do it. It’s your birthright!”
