by George Mann
CONTENTS
Cover
Also by George Mann
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Also Available from Titan Books
ALSO BY GEORGE MANN
Wychwood
THE GHOST
Ghosts of Manhattan
Ghosts of War
Ghosts of Karnak
NEWBURY & HOBBES
Newbury & Hobbes: The Affinity Bridge
Newbury & Hobbes: The Osiris Ritual
Newbury & Hobbes: The Immorality Engine
Newbury & Hobbes: The Executioner’s Heart
Newbury & Hobbes: The Revenant Express (2018)
Newbury & Hobbes: The Albion Initiative (2019)
The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes
SHERLOCK HOLMES
Sherlock Holmes: The Will of the Dead
Sherlock Holmes: The Spirit Box
Encounters of Sherlock Holmes
Further Encounters of Sherlock Holmes
Associates of Sherlock Holmes
Further Associates of Sherlock Holmes
TITAN BOOKS
GHOSTS OF EMPIRE
Print edition ISBN: 9781783294183
E-book edition ISBN: 9781783294190
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: October 2017
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
George Mann asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Copyright © 2017 George Mann
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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To the crew at Titan, for all of their recent help and support.
ONE
His heart was thumping in time with the cadence of his pounding feet.
Every step jarred his body. His lungs burned. His head was swimming with the exertion. He’d been running like this for over a mile, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it up much longer.
The air was thick with rain, stinging his eyes, causing his suit to become sodden and clinging. Around him, the city was slowly giving itself over to the encroaching night. Streetlamps blinked on, bright and unreal, making the slick pavements gleam like the glassy surface of a river. The rain had driven all but the most stubborn pedestrians to seek the shelter of their homes, pubs and favorite restaurants, and even the roads were desolate, with only the occasional specter of a car drifting through the spray, surrounded by wisps of phantasmal steam.
He’d considered trying to flag one of them down, to commandeer it, but he knew the best way to lose his pursuers was to head for somewhere crowded, somewhere they might be seen. The man who had sent them would not wish to draw attention.
He risked a glance over his shoulder. They were rounding the bend, running side by side, eyes fierce and intent. Their paws made no sound as they bounded along the pavement, and their ears were pricked, their muzzles drawn back into ferocious snarls. Through their ghostly flanks he could trace the outlines of the nearby buildings, and in their wake they left a mesmerizing trail of swirling particles, dust motes of pure, golden light. He’d never seen anything quite like it; the way the Russian had simply folded them into existence with a gesture of his hands, as if drawing them from the air itself.
They were getting closer. He turned his attention back to the road, forcing his weary muscles to keep moving. If he could just make it a little further, he was sure he could shake them off…
It had all started in a house in Belgravia. He’d been there posing as a “fixer for hire”, offering his services to a conglomerate of Russians who’d put out word in the wrong kind of circles that they were looking for someone to take on a job. He’d been softening them up for weeks, inveigling himself into the fringes of their operation, trying to earn their trust. So far, he’d been unable to establish precisely what they were doing in London, but he’d hoped that, tonight, they would finally reveal their hand.
In the event, they had—just not quite in the manner he’d intended. They’d had another agent waiting for him, a freelancer by the name of Sabine Glogauer, who’d identified him without a moment’s hesitation. It was a typical downturn of luck—he’d been certain he was close to winning the contract and discovering their plans, but instead he’d found himself facing a rival—and worse, a rival whom he’d crossed on more than one occasion, and who’d been only too happy to twist the knife. Now, he supposed that the whole encounter had probably been contrived as a test of her loyalty, rather than his. The Russians must have been on to him from the very start. They’d certainly been prepared to kill him upon Sabine’s confirmation of his true identity.
Thankfully, he’d had a good deal of practice diving through sash windows. So now he was here, barreling down the rain-soaked streets, a pair of spectral hounds in hot pursuit, stinging fragments of glass still buried in the tender flesh of his face and hands.
He skidded around a bend in the road, his feet slipping on the slick paving slabs. He lurched, jarring his back, but carried on, splashing down a narrow alleyway between a dress shop and an abandoned theater. His breath was fogging now, his hair dripping water into his eyes. Every muscle was protesting. His gun was a dead weight in his pocket. He’d already tried loosing off a few shots at the beasts, to no avail; the bullets had passed clean through their intangible bodies, pinging off the brickwork behind them. Somehow, he imagined, their jaws would prove far more corporeal if the creatures were to catch up with him.
He sidestepped a heap of discarded wooden crates, ducking out of the way at the last minute, and winced as his ankle turned over on the wet cobbles. He went down, falling to one knee, clawing at the wall in desperation. His fingertips came away raw and bloody. He forced himself up, roaring with the exertion, breaking into a hobbling run that sent shooting pains up his shin. He could sense the creatures behind him, closing in, and there was absolutely nothing he could do.
He felt the thud of one of them against his back, and he was carried forward under the weight of it, sprawling to the ground, striking his chin against the cobbles. He rolled, bringing his arms up to try to fend it off, but the other one was on top of him too
, its jaws snapping at his forearms, tearing fabric and flesh. He felt warm blood mingling with the rain, running down the inside his shirtsleeves. He kicked, but his boots could find no purchase upon the spectral creatures, eliciting only a spray of golden particles with each intended blow. They dispersed in the rain, before coalescing again a moment later.
This can’t be it. Not here. Not like this.
He fought frantically to protect his throat as one of the hounds sank its teeth into his shoulder, but he was impotent, with no way of fighting back against these strange, nightmarish beasts.
As unconsciousness descended, he thought he sensed another presence in the alleyway—a looming, shadowy figure, standing over him—and the scent of fresh dew and tree sap filled his nostrils. Then blackness overcame him, and the last thing he felt was the fangs of one of the creatures biting deep into the flesh and muscle of his thigh.
* * *
“Oh, this really isn’t good enough. Can you imagine what they’d say in New York if someone served this?” Gabriel Cross lifted his spoon and allowed a trickle of pale soup to drain back into the bowl before him. He dropped the spoon with a clatter, and craned his neck, looking for a waiter. “I mean, I can’t even tell what it’s supposed to be.”
Donovan sighed, and pointedly took another sip from his spoon. Gabriel was growing bored. He’d adopted his most asinine persona—the errant playboy—and was making flippant pronouncements in order to stir up some distraction. The two elderly ladies at the neighbouring table were already pulling faces and muttering behind their serviettes—it wouldn’t be long before one of the other diners complained, and then things would escalate, and an indignant Gabriel would end up bickering with the waitstaff. Donovan had seen it all before.
It was, he knew, a result of the time they’d spent cooped up inside the airship during their long transatlantic voyage, and the relative sobriety of London. Gabriel was having a difficult time relaxing. He’d confessed as much in the hotel bar, late the previous evening—he missed scudding about over the rooftops of New York; missed the freedom of donning his hat and coat and transforming himself into the Ghost. That other persona—that solitary figure of vengeance—was the real Gabriel, Donovan had decided, and being forced to bury that part of him for so long was beginning to have repercussions.
London, it seemed, was as sleepy a city as a holidaymaker could wish for, certainly amongst the society circles in which Gabriel—ostensibly a rich bachelor—seemed to move. Take the Savoy, for example: opulent, unnecessary, and completely boring in every way.
There’d simply been no call for Gabriel’s particular breed of vigilantism, either during the crossing, or in the three days since their arrival. If there was clandestine activity going on throughout the city, it was being comported in that peculiarly British way—politely, and without causing any disagreement or upset to others.
Even Ginny, whom Gabriel had brought here for a period of convalescence following her recent trauma in Cairo, had little need of his attention—she was recovering well, and enjoying the sightseeing; as resilient a woman as Donovan had ever known.
Consequently, Gabriel was making his own entertainment—and doing so at the price of his dining companions’ embarrassment.
“Oh, let it go, Gabriel. It’s not worth causing a fuss,” said Ginny. She put a dissuading hand on his arm, and her pretty face, framed by her fashionable bob of blonde hair, creased in an expression that was more annoyance than concern.
“It’s the Savoy, Ginny. Of course it’s worth making a fuss.” Gabriel leaned back in his chair and regarded them each in turn, from Ginny, to Flora, to Donovan. There was a questioning look in his eyes, as if he were searching for an ally, or else daring someone to tell him to behave.
“Well I like it,” said Donovan, “but then I don’t have quite as refined a taste as you.” He set his spoon down. “Except when it comes to women,” he added hastily, with a quick sideways glance at Flora. She was sitting on his left at the round table, her expression unreadable. He decided he’d probably got away with it. He pushed his empty bowl away from him. He was dying for a cigarette.
“Well, let’s hope the main course is palatable, at least,” said Gabriel. He rubbed his chin distractedly, and Donovan saw Ginny heave a sigh of relief. “Afterwards we can take a stroll along the embankment, if you like? Assuming the rain has let up.”
“I’d like that,” said Ginny. She, too, pushed the remains of her soup across the table, and Donovan realized she’d hardly touched it. Perhaps that was Gabriel’s game. He realized he must have missed something; that Gabriel had evidently been making such a fuss about the soup because he’d seen that Ginny wasn’t eating it, and was trying to save her the embarrassment. So it had been a small act of chivalry, rather than contrived rebellion. Perhaps England suited Gabriel better than he realized.
Donovan smiled, and took a gulp of water. Even that tasted different from the water in New York. Maybe it was something to do with all the rain.
Gabriel was looking to the door, his brow furrowed. There was an empty place set between him and Donovan—supposedly reserved for their guest, who had yet to show his face.
“I really think we should have waited for your friend,” said Flora, touching Donovan’s arm. Her fingers felt cold through his shirtsleeve. She nodded in Gabriel’s direction.
“We waited an hour,” said Donovan. “They wouldn’t have been able to hold the table much longer. I guess something must have come up. Work, most likely.”
“I thought you said he worked for the British government?” said Flora.
Donovan nodded. “Yes, but he doesn’t keep regular hours.”
“Like someone else I know.” She awarded him a knowing smile.
Donovan reached for his cigarettes, pulling one from the crumpled packet and offering them around. Gabriel took one and pulled the ignition tab, causing its tip to spark in the low light. Donovan dropped the packet on the table. He was nearly out. Soon he’d have to buy some English cigarettes, and resort to lighting them by hand. He couldn’t understand why the people here had such a fondness for outmoded technology, like matches. Perhaps it was something to do with the ritual. Or the fact that many of them still seemed to smoke pipes.
“Strange that he hasn’t sent word,” said Gabriel, through a pall of smoke. “He seemed so effusive on the phone.”
“You know what it’s like,” said Donovan. “He’s probably lost track of the time. There’ll be an apologetic note at the hotel in the morning, and we’ll make alternative plans. It’s not like we’re in a hurry.”
Gabriel nodded in agreement, but Donovan could sense his disquiet.
“Tomorrow, then,” said Donovan, to the table at large. “What do you say to the Tower of London?”
“I think that’s a splendid idea,” said Ginny. “I’ll brush up on all the grisly details in my guidebook this evening.”
Donovan laughed.
“Then you can be our tour guide,” said Flora. “I want to hear about all the kings and queens who lost their heads. All the scandal and gossip.”
There was a commotion by the door, a collective intake of breath from the circling wait staff and nearest diners. Donovan, frowning, peered over Ginny’s shoulder as she twisted in her seat, trying to see what was going on. “If it’s gossip you’re after, it seems we’re in the right place,” he said.
People were getting out of their seats, their faces creased in appalled concern. They began to migrate to the entrance, forming a small crowd around the dining-room door and obscuring his view. He guessed someone unexpected must have arrived, given the response—perhaps a celebrity or minor dignitary. That would certainly make the most sense… and yet the looks on people’s faces told a different story.
Donovan glanced at Gabriel, who was slowly rising from his seat, his cigarette abandoned and smoldering in the ashtray.
“Gabriel? What is it?”
“I think…” he muttered, but the rest of the sentence was lost
when a figure lurched through the gathered throng, taking a series of juddering steps toward their table.
Donovan got to his feet, circling around protectively before Flora.
The shambolic figure took another step toward them, and Donovan could see now why the ripple of shocked incomprehension had passed through the other diners. The man was steeped in blood, which soaked what remained of his shredded suit, staining the front of his shirt a deep, wine red. He had suffered what appeared to be a terrible mauling, as if from a dog or big cat. Puncture marks from thumb-sized teeth still glistened with dribbling blood, spilling more of the stuff down his chest and arm with every thumping beat of his heart. His hair was dripping from the rain, and blood had been smeared across his left cheek.
“What the…” started Donovan, stopping short as the man came to a jolting halt before them. He looked woozily from Donovan to Gabriel, and the hint of a delirious smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.
Donovan’s eyes widened in horrified recognition—he knew this person. “Rutherford?”
“Sorry I’m late,” croaked Peter Rutherford. “Hope I didn’t spoil dinner.” He raised his hand, as if to mop his brow, and then his eyes seemed to lose focus, his legs went from under him, and he collapsed onto the carpet in a bloody, trembling heap.
TWO
“Give me room! Get all these people back. And fetch me something I can use to bind his wounds.”
Gabriel was on his knees beside the prone Rutherford, while Donovan was trying to clear a space, urging the crowd of gawking diners to keep back. They seemed reluctant to comply, either through shock, or because they were simply unwilling to relinquish their view of unfolding events. He supposed it was hard to blame them—it wasn’t every day that a man staggered into a society restaurant dowsed in his own blood.
While Donovan stood guard, Ginny rushed over to one of the unoccupied tables and yanked the white tablecloth from it, sending cutlery and empty wine glasses clattering to the floor. Flora hurried to help her, and together they began tearing the tablecloth into long strips. Another woman from the crowd came forward to assist, and soon they’d fashioned a series of makeshift bandages, which they passed to Gabriel, who set about binding Rutherford’s wounds.
