Blackjack

by Tom Becker

  He turned and gave the maid a wry glance. “Well, if you put it like that,” he said, a note of amusement in his voice. “How can I say no?”

  “Good for you,” Marianne said approvingly. “I have a feeling you’ll be rather good at it.” She glanced over at Brick McNally. “Do we have the support of the Bow Street Runners?”

  The golem bowed his head at Harry. “The Runners always obey the will of the Ripper. He should take his rightful place.”

  McNally gestured towards the ebony throne on top of the dais. His face pale, Harry walked slowly up the steps and cautiously settled himself down into the seat.

  “How does it feel up there?” Jonathan asked.

  “I guess I’ll get used to it,” Harry replied. “What now?”

  “First things first,” Brick McNally replied. The golem extended a finger towards Jonathan. “What do you want us to do with him?”

  “What do you mean?” Harry asked, frowning.

  “He destroyed the Crimson Stone. A grievous crime, whether a friend or not.”

  Harry drew himself up in his seat. “No one touches Jonathan. I am the Ripper now – that is a direct order.”

  “As you wish,” the golem said, in a spray of soot. “Do you require anything else from us?”

  “I think you’ve been on the streets for too long,” Harry replied. “Return to the gardens, and let’s hope your rest isn’t disturbed for a long time.”

  McNally nodded. “It is done,” he said simply.

  As one, the platoon of Runners dissolved thunderously into the ground, leaving the walls of the throne room trembling, and the new Ripper alone to face the future.

  28

  For two days a curtain of rain fell upon Darkside, dampening down the smouldering embers of the Grand and submerging the cobbled streets in water. When the deluge finally slackened to a drizzle, the gates to Blackchapel creaked open, and a small procession began walking in the direction of Bleakmoor’s forbidding hills. The mood was one of sombre silence, all eyes fixed on the plain wooden coffin at the head of the cortege.

  As word spread of the mourners’ passage, crowds quickly formed on the pavements. Although funeral processions were an all-too-frequent part of Darkside life, this was different. For one thing, the new Ripper was present – and was even helping to carry the coffin, an unheard-of honour. People pointed and whispered at one another as Harry passed. Despite his young age, they noted his broad shoulders and sober bearing with approval. He was sure to be an improvement on his predecessor.

  The sudden end to Lucien’s regime had surprised the borough’s denizens as much as it had pleased them. Following the announcement of Harry’s accession to the throne, all sorts of wild rumours had flown around Darkside. Some – clearly those among the borough’s more unstable or gullible elements – had whispered that the Crimson Stone had been returned to Blackchapel, only to be destroyed. The regulars in the Rook I’th Vine alehouse had snorted into their mugs of beer hearing that one. They were too long in the tooth to believe in fairy tales.

  On the other side of Carnegie’s coffin from Harry, Jonathan kept his head held high and tried not to think about the wereman’s lifeless body inside. He had spent the previous two days holed up in Blackchapel, wandering the draughty palace in a numb daze as the wind and rain buffeted the walls outside. Over a subdued dinner, Harry had cautiously brought up the issue of Carnegie’s burial, and where it should take place. Jonathan had known the answer immediately.

  “We should bury him on Bleakmoor,” he said. “That’s what he would have wanted.”

  “You think?”

  It was Raquella who nodded. “Elias loved to roam up there. It was the wildest part of Darkside, after all.”

  “Then Bleakmoor it is,” Harry declared.

  Now the procession wound through the foothills, making its way towards a spot on the brow of the hill that provided a sweeping view of Darkside in all its grimy, smog-ridden majesty. The way was steep, the footing treacherous in the long, straggly grass. The winter sun, barely visible for days, was slumping towards the skyline, and the shadows were lengthening across the hillside.

  Despite the creeping gloom, Jonathan took heart from the sight of his mum and dad walking hand in hand nearby. Theresa and Alain had arrived at Blackchapel a couple of hours beforehand, rolling up to the gates in one of Vendetta’s carriages. It turned out that Raquella had sent a messenger back to Lightside to relay the sad tidings, and organized transport for them in time for the funeral. Although at first Jonathan was worried at the sight of Alain returning to the borough so soon after a darkening, looking at their faces he knew that nothing could have kept them away.

  What Vendetta had made of Raquella’s activities remained open to debate. The vampire had vanished again – although reports had filtered back to Blackchapel that the curtains of his mansion were now drawn again during the daytime, and a giant bonfire of Holborn’s possessions had been burned on the back lawn. The Heights was Vendetta’s once more.

  The procession came to a halt by a simple hole on the edge of the hillside, the pallbearers placing the coffin gently down on to the ground. Looking around the assembled crowd, Jonathan was amazed by how many familiar faces he saw. At the head of the mourners stood Arthur Blake, the newly reinstated editor of the Darkside Informer. The portly man was accompanied by his ward Clara, an orphan Harry and Raquella had rescued from the No’Penny Poorhouse. Beside the editor, Jonathan recognized the Queenpin, the beautiful, dark-skinned mistress of Slattern Gardens, who had shared a mysterious history with Carnegie. Tears glistened in her eyes like jewels. Even Darkside’s finest burglars, the Troupe, had come to pay their respects. Jonathan couldn’t help but notice that they were dressed smartly, their expensive clothes dappled with diamonds and other gems. Business was clearly good. The leader of the Troupe, Antonio Correlli, nodded solemnly at Jonathan as their eyes met.

  Happily, Samuel Northwich was also present. On waking up a day after the battle in Blackchapel, it quickly became clear that the destruction of the Crimson Stone had cleared the boy’s mind. Now clean and well-dressed, Sam looked like the bright magician’s assistant Jonathan and Raquella had first encountered.

  A respectful hush settled over the crowd as Carnegie’s remains were lowered into the ground, and a pair of gravediggers began piling earth over the wereman’s coffin. For a few seconds the only sound was the thud of shovelled soil, and then a piercing howl rang out over Bleakmoor: a lone cry suddenly joined by another, and then another, until the hills echoed to a chorus of baying.

  “Wolves,” Jonathan whispered, shivering at the sound.

  The howling continued until the last of the soil had been patted down on Carnegie’s grave – then it came to an abrupt halt, as though an invisible conductor had lain down his baton. As Jonathan bowed his head and said a silent farewell to his friend, he was suddenly aware of Raquella and Harry standing next to him. The red-headed maid was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, while the new Ripper had a protective arm around her shoulder.

  Raquella stepped forward and squeezed Jonathan tightly. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Thank you,” Jonathan whispered back. “We did all right in the end, didn’t we?”

  She nodded quickly.

  “I was amazed to see your master didn’t show up,” Jonathan said wryly.

  “No,” replied Raquella. “That is not Vendetta’s way.” She paused. “And he is no longer my master.”

  “You’ve finally left him?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I’m leaving the Heights. Vendetta has offered me a position at his bank.”

  “You must be joking!” Jonathan said incredulously. “You’re going to keep working for him?”

  “I think he has realized that I can help him with more than laundering and polishing silver. It is in his interest to take care of me.”

  “Yo
u can say that again,” Harry said darkly. “I’ll be keeping a very close eye on that vampire.” The Ripper took Jonathan’s hand and shook it warmly. “Any time you come back to Darkside, you’ll be welcome at Blackchapel. An honoured guest of the Ripper.”

  “Thanks. Good luck with, you know, being in charge.”

  “I’m going to need it,” laughed Harry. “Sure you don’t fancy being my Abettor?”

  Jonathan gave him a rueful smile. “I think I’ve had enough trouble for the time being.”

  “Well, it’s an open offer. Take care, my friend.”

  After a final embrace they parted company, the rotten borough’s new ruler leaving hand-in-hand with the Bank of Darkside’s new clerk. The sky had darkened, and the air was filling with raindrops again. Eager to escape the threatening storm clouds, the mourners began to make their way back towards Darkside. Jonathan was about to follow suit when he had the sudden sensation that he was being watched. He turned and scanned Bleakmoor through the rain.

  Along the brow of the hill, removed from all the other mourners, a figure was standing beneath the twisted boughs of a tree. Dressed in all black, she sheltered beneath a large umbrella that spread out above her head like the wings of a giant bat. As he stared at the figure, Jonathan caught a sudden glimpse of flourescent-pink hair. He smiled.

  “Are you coming, Jonathan?” he heard Alain call over to him.

  “In a minute,” he replied. “I’ll catch you up.”

  Leaving the rest of the crowd behind him, Jonathan fought through the tangled grass to the brow of the hill, where Marianne Ripper stood waiting for him. She still bore the scars of battle, her pale face bruised and cut. A half-smile danced over her lips as Jonathan approached.

  “Looked like a nice service,” she called out.

  “You should have joined us,” Jonathan replied.

  Marianne made a face. “I’m not a fan of funerals. Thank goodness I won’t be around to see mine.”

  The wind picked up, sending a lock of pink hair whipping across her face. She tucked it back behind her ear. Jonathan was aware of the faint smell of perfume hanging between them – although he was fairly certain that this time it wasn’t the one with the hypnotic powers, it was still vaguely distracting.

  “So what are you going to do now?” Marianne asked.

  “I’m leaving with my mum and dad. Going back home to try to live as a normal family – if that’s possible. I guess they’ll make me finish school as well.”

  “Back to Lightside for good, then?”

  Jonathan nodded. “My mum can cope with the atmosphere there, at least for now, and my dad can’t take living on Darkside any more. What about you – what are you going to do? I thought you’d be back with Humble and Skeet.”

  Marianne shook her head. “I’m thinking about a change of career. I’m bored of bounty hunting.” She grinned mischievously. “Actually, I was thinking about becoming a private detective.”

  “You’re kidding me!”

  “It makes perfect sense to me. This place is always going to need private detectives, and given that it’s just lost its finest. . .” She paused. “What do you think Carnegie would say?”

  Jonathan laughed. “Honestly? I think he’d go nuts.”

  “I think you’re probably right.” She paused delicately. “I could do with a partner, you know. Someone with relevant experience of the profession.”

  “Oh.” Jonathan tapped his foot, pretending to think. “Not many of them around, I’d guess.”

  “Not really.”

  “I suppose . . . well, if you did need a partner, I’ll be coming back here one day. You’d have to wait for a while, though. Would you?”

  An odd look passed over Marianne’s face. She looked away, over Bleakmoor’s wild expanse.

  “For you, Jonathan Starling? I suppose I could wait.”

  Before he could say anything else, Marianne nodded briskly at the trail of people disappearing out of sight over the brow of the hill.

  “I’d go after them if I were you,” she said. “It’s starting to get dark, and you wouldn’t want to be up here on your own after nightfall. There are some dangerous things about.”

  “What about you – are you going to be OK?”

  Marianne gave out a silvery laugh. “I’m hurt, Jonathan! I am one of those dangerous things.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him softly on the cheek. For a brief second Jonathan found himself enveloped in her perfume, and he was less sure than ever that it didn’t have special powers. By the time he had come out of his daze, Marianne was already striding away across the moor, her umbrella resting upon her shoulder.

  “See you around some time!” she called out.

  Jonathan watched Marianne walk away along the hill’s ridge, until the last shock of fluorescent hair had been swallowed up by the gloom. “I guess you will,” he murmured.

  Far away below him, the street lamps of Darkside were beginning to wink into life. It wouldn’t be long before the denizens of the rotten borough would emerge from their houses on to the streets, lured out by the promise of shady deals and secret plots; jingling pockets that were ripe for picking; gullible minds begging to be sweet-talked and swindled. Thieves and murderers; criminals to the last man and woman.

  Turning on his heel, Jonathan began striding through the tangled grass back towards the black heart of Darkside.

  In the writing of this series I’ve racked up some fairly hefty personal debts, so I’d better settle my accounts here, before my creditors turn ugly and start reaching for their weapons. . .

  Heartfelt thanks to everyone at Scholastic – past and present – for supporting the series and turning my tatty manuscripts into something resembling proper books: in particular, Elv and Zöe for their frankly brutal reigns of editorial terror; Laura and Jess for their razor-sharp copy-edits; and all the publicity staff who’ve had the misfortune of dealing with me over the years. Also, a special mention to Studio Spooky for five fantastically creepy covers.

  Beyond the ramparts of Scholastic Towers, I’d like to express my deep gratitude to Reg and Richard for being crazy enough to back both me and Darkside, and to Ben for his timely and frequent offerings of inspiration.

  Finally, love to all my family and friends, who have endured countless rambling monologues about vampires and plot crises, added children’s books to already groaning shelves, and generally helped to stave off the madness for another year. The final word – perhaps inevitably – goes to Lieven, Belgium’s finest zoo buddy.

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  First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd., 2010

  This electronic edition published by Scholastic Ltd., 2012

  Text copyright © CPI Publishing Solutions, 2010

  The right of Tom Becker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him.

  Cover illustration @ Studio Spooky

  eISBN 978 1407 13226 6

  A CIP catalogue record for this work is available from the British Library.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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