Shadows Over London: A Shadow Council Archives Novella

by James Palmer

  “This goes far beyond mere interest,” muttered Challenger. “I guess he finally snapped, eh?”

  “I wish he was mad,” said Burton. “Don’t you remember Miss Marsh’s story? This is exactly like Innsmouth.”

  “I know some of you are shocked to see me here,” said the Baron, removing his robes and tossing everything in a heap in the left wing of the stage. Beneath them he wore a dark, expensive suit befitting his high status. “But my years of searching for ultimate, secret knowledge are over. I have found what I sought in the pages of an ancient text called the Necronomicon. And that knowledge will imbue us with life eternal. Think of it! A world free of disease and want and class. All we have to do is take the first step.”

  “I do not withdraw my original summation,” said Challenger. “He’s blinking mad. He’d give up his humanity for a few trinkets and an empty promise.”

  “So it would appear,” whispered Burton. “But what shall we do about it?”

  “I’ll show you what we’ll do,” said the professor. “We’ll shove these fiends into the light.”

  The huge bear of a man stood and, cupping his hands over his mouth yelled, “Bollocks! Baron Lytton is a scoundrel of the first order! A right treasonous sot that ought to be hanged.”

  Burton shook his head and stood, ready to bolt as things went sour.

  “Who is that?” said Bulwer-Lytton. “Who dares speak such things to me?”

  His eyes squinted up into the darkness.

  “Yes. I know you. From the other night. I know both of you. Stop them! Don’t let them escape again!”

  The audience rose and turned an angry eye toward the last row. Men and women came toward them in a wave.

  “We can’t fight all of them,” said Burton, making his way toward the rear entrance.

  “We don’t have to,” said Challenger, who produced a whistle from his pocket and blew hard into it. The shrill, piercing sound signaled, a moment later, the arrival of more than a dozen police.

  “I alerted Abberline to your plan,” said Challenger. “He let me borrow his police whistle, and had some men stationed at every entrance.”

  “Good man, that Abberline,” said Burton, grinning. He glanced toward the stage. “Bulwer-Lytton is gone!”

  “They’ll find him,” said Challenger.

  The big zoologist socked one fleeing cultist in the mouth as he tried to run past. The police rounded up as many as they could as they headed toward the exits. These were not East End roustabouts, but well-to-do members of London society. Followers of the Baron’s esoteric philosophy.

  “We need to head back to the Tower of London,” said Burton.

  “Good,” said Challenger as they headed for the door. “I’m tired of doing that scoundrel Holmes’ job for him.”

  Abberline greeted them on the other side of the door. “Hallo gents,” he said with a smile.

  Challenger gave him back his whistle.

  “Where’s Bulwer-Lytton?” asked Burton.

  “Who?”

  Burton revealed to Abberline the King in Yellow’s identity.

  “I don’t know. If he didn’t slip out, he’s in our custody.”

  Burton looked at Challenger. “I don’t think we’re lucky enough for him to be in custody.”

  “He’ll plan his attack on the city ahead of schedule,” said Challenger.

  “Tonight,” added Burton. “We must warn Mycroft Holmes.”

  “Attack?” asked Abberline. “What attack?”

  “Just get us to the Tower,” said Burton. “As quickly as you can. I’ll explain, as best I can, on the way.”

  A Shadow Over London

  It was early evening by the time Burton, Challenger and Abberline returned to the Tower of London, and a dense fog rolled in off the Thames, full of black flecks of coal that stung Burton’s eyes and made his nose run. They waited by the Traitor’s Gate for Herbert, who arrived a few minutes later. He held out an oilskin-wrapped bundle for Burton.

  “The control rods,” said the Time Traveler. “As commissioned.”

  “Good. Hang onto them. You’re going to get your Time Machine out of here and get a warning to Captain Nemo.”

  “How on earth are you going to do that?” asked Abberline. “Does your Time Machine float as well?”

  Herbert opened his mouth to explain, but Burton silenced him. “The particulars aren’t important right now. We need to warn Mycroft Holmes of the Dagon cult’s impending attack.”

  “I can help with one of those items,” said Abberline. “The Time Machine is in a storage room on the first level. I spoke with one of my men, who helped transport it here. A dreadfully heavy thing. I think they only put it where they did to save their backs. I can show you once we’re inside.”

  They walked through the gate and up the path toward the large wooden doors they had entered through earlier. Light flickered faintly through the fog from high windows.

  The place was just as busy as it had been earlier, and the four men managed to make their way unmolested as the navigated the veritable maze of corridors.

  Abberline halted them before a set of stairs. “You’ll find it in a room down there,” said the policeman to the Time Traveler. “There’s a set of doors used for loading in supplies. If you’ve got a strong back, you can drag it out that way.”

  “Thank you,” said Herbert, nodding. “Though that is hardly necessary. I intend to travel to a time in which the Tower no longer exists. Then I shall drag it to what is in our time open air. I can be back in a pip.”

  “You must not let Mycroft get his hands on it again, Herbert,” said Burton. “Take it out of here and dismantle it.”

  The Time Traveler looked at him, nodding once. “I wish that I had done so already.”

  “Don’t forget to warn Nemo,” added Challenger.

  Herbert gave the burly zoologist a half-hearted salute. “All taken care of. Good luck, my friends.”

  They watched as the young inventor darted down the narrow stairs and was gone.

  “Captain Burton,” said a loud voice from behind them.

  The three of them turned to see Mycroft Holmes standing there. Beside him stood two black-garbed attendants.

  “Go see about the Time Traveler,” he told one of the men bookending him, and he ran down the stairs.

  “I told you I’d have you all arrested for treason if you showed your faces around here,” said the elder Holmes. “Arrest them. Chief Inspector Abberline too.”

  “Now wait a minute,” said Challenger. “We came to warn you.”

  “Warn me?” said Mycroft Holmes. “Of what?”

  “An attack on the city,” said Burton. “The King in Yellow is Edward Bulwer-Lytton. His cult is planning an attack on the city. Tonight.”

  “We arrested most of his cult earlier this evening,” said Abberline. “With the help of Captain Burton and Professor Challenger. But Baron Lytton escaped.”

  Mycroft nodded appraisingly. “No matter. We know who the scoundrel is now, and we can round him up. But you three are still guilty of treason.”

  “Bismillah!” said Burton. “It is the Baron Lytton who is guilty of treason.”

  The attendant came back up the stairs, panting. “He’s gone, sir.”

  “And your friend the Time Traveler is guilty of stealing government property,” Mycroft added. “Arrest these men at once!”

  Challenger raised his beefy fists as the other attendant got too close, while Burton pulled away from the man who had come from the stairwell.

  There was a resounding boom Burton felt more than heard, shaking the ground as it set his back teeth to vibrating. Plaster dust sifted down onto them like coal dust from the fog.

  “What in blazes was that?” said Mycroft Holmes.

  “I warned you,” said Burton. “Bulwer-Lytton has received esoteric weaponry from the Deep Ones. And now he’s going to use it to destroy the city.”

  Mycroft stammered as another puff of plaster dust rained upon them, hi
s jowls vibrating.

  “You’ve got to help stop them,” he said. “As members of the Shadow Council.”

  “I thought we were no longer in your Shadow Council,” said Burton.

  “I thought we were traitors,” said Challenger.

  “Quite so,” said Burton. “Perhaps we should all just clap ourselves in irons and save you the trouble.”

  “All right, all right,” Mycroft Holmes bellowed. “Have it your way. You are upstanding members of the Shadow Council once more, and you are no longer under arrest for treason. Now do something!”

  Everyone scrambled as the room shook once more, and Burton realized that the Tower of London itself wasn’t under attack, but somewhere nearby.

  “Get somewhere safe,” said Burton. “And contact the army and the London police. You’ll need all of them.”

  “What are you going to do?” inquired Mycroft Holmes.

  “Run,” said Burton in answer, and he, Challenger and Abberline jogged down the stairs and through the now open loading doors Abberline had described.

  “Blimey,” said Abberline. “I couldn’t have stayed in there another minute! I felt as if the whole place was coming down round my ears.”

  “It’s formidable, but ancient,” said Burton. “It might not survive a direct assault from whatever Bulwer-Lytton has pointed at us, but it should hold for now. I just hope we fair better.”

  They stood in the fog-shrouded night, with a sound like thunder in their ears. They saw flashes of what looked like lightning, only not coming from the sky, but from the ground.

  Burton had that feeling again of someone, something, standing just behind him, over his shoulder. It looked as if it was trying to speak. When he turned, there was no one there.

  Burton shivered, but not from cold. Dark, sinister, non-humanoid shapes moved in the fog, chilling him to the bone with fear. The sound of police whistles and human screams filled the night.

  The three men ran away from the Tower of London, through the Traitor’s Gate. They heard splashing from the Thames off to their right, as if many large forms were emerging from the dark depths, shaking water from their broad backs. The sound of wet footsteps slapped toward them. They broke into a run, Abberline huffing and puffing behind Burton and Challenger. Burton hoped they could lose their inhuman assailants in the fog.

  In the distance there was a flash of yellow that burned through the fog for a moment. A building was on fire. Burton heard the clang of a fireman’s bell. People shouting. Behind them, more gurgling, hopping, slapping sounds, accompanied by the greasy sliding of the shoggoths.

  Burton glanced at Abberline, his face pale in the firelight. The poor man looked like he wanted to scream, and Burton wouldn’t blame him one bit if he did. He almost felt like screaming himself, but did not want to give away their position in the fog to those fiends he just knew were behind them in the fog-shrouded dark.

  They grew near to the fire now, could feel the heat from it. There was another peel of bone-shaking thunder, another sinister curl of pinkish lightning that stabbed the London skyline like an accusatory finger. Burton smelled burnt things and fish-stink and fear, the latter his own.

  There were more people milling about in the dense fog now, most of them running, panicked. The three slowed to a brisk walk, feeling the heat from the flames now. Behind them the Tower of London was little more than a vague outline, gaslights burning in its highest windows like baleful eyes.

  Burton was thankful for the fog. For he knew no one in the city of London could stand the full knowledge of what was coming for them. Just a glimpse was enough to drive everyone in the city stark raving mad. It was a small mercy, to be denied the face of death as it descended upon them.

  “What are we going to do?” Burton heard himself say, his mouth dry, his tongue like sandpaper. The voice he heard come out of his mouth was not his voice, but that of a sad, frightened madman, and it terrified him.

  “I don’t know,” said the shadow that stalked Captain Richard Francis Burton. “I don’t know.”

  The Lady of the Eye

  “We need weapons,” said Professor Challenger, the building’s flames flashing in his dark eyes. “Guns. Ammunition.”

  “Follow me,” said Abberline.

  Burton glanced quickly behind him, looking for the owner of that strange, ethereal voice he knew to be his own. All he saw were flames and fleeing people. He blinked the burning sting of the flames from his eyes and glanced around, practicing a Sufi meditation to help settle his nerves. He glanced around, getting his bearings before moving east, after Abberline and Challenger and toward the epicenter of the conflict. The sky above the East End was full of strange shadows dancing in a crimson mist, evidence of more fires in the Cauldron itself.

  “This way,” said Abberline, and the men threaded their way through the crowd of volunteer firemen, police, and fearful men and women who had stopped in their running to gawk at the flames.

  A policeman’s carriage stood unattended, and Abberline wasted no time climbing atop the driver’s box. “Hop in, gents.”

  Burton and Challenger climbed inside, and Abberline tugged the reins, spurring the horses into a brisk trot.

  “Hey!” a voice shouted from behind them, but they paid it no heed.

  The streets were crowded with fleeing horses and frightened onlookers, eyes darting toward the East End, where strange vibrations echoed and blasphemous visions flashed intermittently before being once again obscured by flame and fog.

  “Police!” Abberline shouted. “Out of the way!”

  Burton dabbed his watery eyes with a handkerchief and stared at Challenger who sat across from him, his face marked by flame and soot, his enormous, blue-black beard melding with the shadows inside the carriage.

  “Where are we going?” said Burton.

  “To find weapons,” said Challenger, arching a bushy eyebrow. “You all right?”

  Burton didn’t know the answer, so instead settled into the carriage cushions and said nothing.

  After speeding through several blocks, Abberline at last pulled the carriage to a halt in front of a nondescript building with police milling around out front.

  “What is this place?” said Challenger as he and Burton climbed out of the carriage.

  “Police storage facility,” said Abberline, hopping to the ground. “Weapons and ammunition, as requested.”

  “Good show,” said Burton. “We’ll—”

  A movement in the corner of his right eye startled him. He again had the sense that he was being followed, though more intense this time. He watched from the periphery of his vision, knowing that if he spun around, the apparition would be gone.

  “What is it?” Challenger asked.

  “Is there anyone behind me?” asked Burton. “Following me?”

  Challenger examined the section of street directly across from them. “No. No one here but us and the coppers. Why?”

  “I’ve had the strangest feeling that I’m being followed,” said Burton. “It’s been happening ever since I recovered from my fever.”

  Burton watched the figure from his periphery, getting the impression that it went into the shop across the street.

  Burton succumbed to his curiosity and turned his head to the right. No one was there. The shop had a sign hanging above the door depicting a luridly painted eye along with the words Psychic Medium. Tarot. Fortunes.

  Burton didn’t know why, but he had the sudden urge to go inside.

  “Where the devil are you going?” said Challenger.

  Burton turned and looked toward his friends, surprised to discover he was halfway across the street.

  “Humor me, please,” he said. “I think this is important.”

  Abberline and Challenger exchanged glances before joining Burton at the door of the shop.

  Burton raised his fist to knock, but the door opened before he could do so.

  An old woman stood looking at him, wearing Gypsy garb. She gave him a thin smile.


  “Come in,” she said, stepping away from the door. Burton stepped through the portal, followed by Abberline and Challenger.

  The place was lit only by hundreds of candles. The smell of incense filled the air, sandalwood and something more exotic Burton couldn’t quite place.

  “Go,” said the woman. “Sit. Rest yourselves. This is no night to be running about. I am Lady Helena.”

  “Uh, thank you,” said Burton. “I don’t really know what I’m doing here. I don’t believe in this…” He waved his hands about, at a loss for words. Lady Helena fixed him with a thin smile.

  “You are not the first to say that. Have a seat. Let’s see if we can figure it out together.”

  The three men sat around a small oval table in the center of the room. Atop it sat a deck of ancient, yellowed Tarot cards and other accoutrements of Lady Helena’s questionable trade. The incense made Burton woozy.

  “This is a dark night,” said Lady Helena, taking a seat opposite Burton. “You are running toward the trouble, not away from it.”

  “You don’t have to be psychic to know that,” Challenger barked.

  “Yes,” said Burton, ignoring him. “We are. We seek a way to stop it. But…” His voice trailed off, seeking the words he needed to continue.

  “Someone has been following me.”

  Lady Helena grabbed Burton’s hands and flipped them over, examining his palms. Then she let them go and stared into his eyes.

  “Yes,” she said. “You have been haunted.”

  “Haunted?” said Abberline.

  “Yes. Places can be haunted, of course, but so can people, from time to time. This is the Dweller on the Threshold.”

  “What in hell’s name is that?” said Challenger. “Are you honestly humoring this, Captain?”

  “What choice do I have?” asked Burton. To Lady Helena, he said, “Tell me, what is this Dweller on the Threshold?”

  “A thing of the spirit realm that attaches itself to a human being,” said Lady Helena. “A discarded astral double of a person from a previous life.”