by Mark Latham
‘My friends, this has been fine indeed!’ Tesla exclaimed. ‘The comforts of a warm fire under a solid roof are more than I have seen in a long time. I am content.’
At the coach, Tesla harangued Selby with questions, pointing out the inefficiency of the horse as a means of transport, and yet appearing impressed both by Selby’s passion for the art of coaching, and his record-beating abilities.
Lillian turned to John and whispered, ‘How did Cherleten—or Father, for that matter—know of Tesla’s encounter with the vampires?’
‘I don’t know,’ John replied, his expression grim. Much as he had disapproved of Lillian’s questioning of their guest, he was also intrigued. ‘More pertinently, how long has Father been planning this operation? How long has he known about the Knights Iscariot?’
Lillian nodded. ‘If I were allowed to gamble, I’d wager Father is doing what he does best.’
‘Oh?’
‘Preparing for war.’
NINE
Night fell. The coach hurtled along remote lanes; tendrils of low mist, sparkling like gold in the faint amber glow of the weak emblazoned firmament, fled from the path of the snorting horses, whose hoofbeats provided staccato accompaniment to the carriage’s monotonous rattle.
Lillian Hardwick looked around the swaying compartment. Her brother entertained the gaunt Serbian with tales of merriment and adventure in far-off lands, the sound of his own voice amusing him perhaps a little too much. The Intuitionist appeared captivated by John’s wit; though a young man, the male heir to the Hardwick name already had ample experience in the field, both in battle and in the varying strata of social dalliance—equally deadly, in their own way.
Lillian pulled back the curtain a little, gazing out into the gloom. Dark trees and hedgerows blurred past them. Then a solitary gaslight passed by, followed by the dark shape of church steeple and, finally, a sign. South Harting. She brought her focus back into the compartment, and studied the Serbian. By the dim glow of the coach’s small lantern, the pale man’s face looked sickly, blue-white veins standing proud at his temples and throat. It would be so easy to reach out, to snap the man’s neck, to feed…
* * *
Lucien de Montfort opened his eyes, breathing in deeply and casting off the vestiges of the Hardwick girl’s mind, until his own thoughts were uncontaminated once again. He had seen everything he needed to see through her eyes; felt everything he needed to feel. It was good to feel, sometimes.
Yes, she would be perfect. His masters would get more than they bargained for with this one. And de Montfort relished the opportunity to take revenge on the girl’s troublesome brother.
He looked about the dark chamber, at dozens of pairs of glittering eyes in the darkness, and smiled. The time was nigh.
* * *
‘I say, sis, are you all right?’ John asked, pausing in his story when he noticed Lillian jump.
‘Oh… I must have been dozing. Do forgive me.’ She rubbed at her shoulder.
‘Wound giving you gyp?’ John turned to Tesla. ‘We’ve both had close shaves with the Knights Iscariot,’ he explained. ‘I’ve seen what their leaders can do first hand, and—’
There came at once a knock on the roof of the coach. John pulled down the window, ignoring the icy blast of wind that caused his eyes to water.
‘What is it, Selby?’ he shouted up to the coachman.
‘Another carriage, sir,’ Selby called back. ‘Half a mile behind us, and keeping pace.’
John leaned further out, and looked back along the dark road. The last village was long gone, and they had entered a long stretch of bumpy track. Sure enough, two pinpricks of dancing green light could be seen a good way back: carriage lights.
‘Keep going!’ John shouted. ‘Stop for no one.’ He pulled his head back inside and closed the window. Lillian was already checking her pistol.
‘It’s probably just a local cabbie on his way back from the last village,’ John said. ‘No need to shoot anyone.’ He cracked a smile, though he wasn’t entirely convinced himself. Lillian looked at him with annoyance; she was not convinced either.
Lillian looked out of her own window. When she next turned to John, her cheeks were ruddy and her hair out of place. ‘I believe they are gaining on us.’
‘They must have extra horses,’ John said. ‘There’s no way they can pass us… we should slow, and let them catch up. Then we’ll know for sure.’
‘I’d like nothing better than to face them head-on,’ said Lillian, ‘but we have Mr. Tesla to consider.’
John thought about that for a moment. ‘You’re right, but we have nowhere to go. To leave the main road would be folly. We could make it to the next safe-house, but if these fellows mean us ill, we would still have to fight.’
‘But at least it would be from a position of strength,’ Lillian argued.
‘Very well.’ John reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small book, in which was printed page after page of coded lists. He found what he was looking for quickly.
‘What is it?’ Lillian asked.
‘The next safe-house is in Liphook.’
‘That’s almost twenty miles.’ Lillian looked to John, to Tesla, and back again. ‘We won’t make it,’ she said. ‘It looks as though we shall have to fight, assuming they’re enemies.’
‘We must assume that,’ said John. He leant out of the coach window again and shouted up to Selby. ‘Mr. Selby—we must try to reach the safe-house in Liphook. Do not let this other coach pass us!’
‘Aye, sir!’ came the reply, lost almost instantly on the wind.
Nikola Tesla was watching the two agents closely, his expression open, expectant.
‘Do not worry, Mr. Tesla,’ John said. ‘We will not allow anything bad to befall you.’
Tesla looked solemnly at Lillian. ‘I fear it is too late for that, Lieutenant,’ he said. John did not have to look at Lillian to guess her reaction.
Selby gave his horses the whip, and the coach sped up, dangerously so for the condition of the road. The three passengers held on as the coach jostled and rocked harder than ever, almost throwing them about the compartment.
‘Apologies for the inclement conditions,’ John said, pulling down the window once again. ‘Good Christ…’ He sat back in his seat again, and immediately drew his own gun.
‘What?’ Lillian asked.
John tried to remain calm, so as not to alarm Tesla. ‘They are gaining on us more quickly that I’d anticipated,’ he said. ‘They’ll be with us in minutes.’
‘You’re sure we’ll not reach Liphook before they catch us?’
John shook his head solemnly.
‘Then we fight,’ Lillian said.
* * *
John had not argued with her, and Lillian had taken his silence as tacit approval. She removed her skirts and bustle—at which Tesla’s eyes had almost bulged out of his head until he had seen the breeches she wore beneath—and braced herself on the opposite bench, drawing down her window and taking up as stable a firing position as she could.
Outside, through the mist and darkness, the other coach thundered towards them. Six great black horses pulled it onwards at a furious pace, a coachman fully shrouded in heavy black clothing urging them on. There was no longer a possibility in Lillian’s mind that the other coach contained a mere traveller in a hurry.
She took aim at the enemy coachman through the carriage window, ignoring the bitter cold. The coach edged ever closer, gaining stride by stride. Lillian’s finger tensed on the trigger, but then she stopped. Inexplicably, she could not take the shot. Her hand began to tremble; her eyes watered, her vision blurred.
Let me in.
It was a voice in her head—or, rather, not a voice, but a queer feeling that quickly became an idea, fully formed. An external influence that was, in an instant, coalesced into Lillian’s own will. An instruction. Something was coming; she had to let it in.
‘Lillian?’ John’s voice was faint, as though it came
from a mile away, carried on the wind.
Lillian blinked, and stared into the darkness, at the coach driver who was now so close she could make out his silhouette clearly. He was like a bundle of dark rags, his face obscured by a black muffler and wide-brimmed hat. Lillian fancied that he had no face at all, but she stared anyhow at the shadows where his eyes should be. Was his the voice she had heard in her mind? Was his the will that opposed her own?
Let me in.
It came again. Stronger this time, and accompanied by a vision, a flash of something like a snatch of memory from long ago. Lillian was a child, staring up at a cloaked man. A man with oiled black hair and a face like alabaster. Was this a memory? Or a premonition?
‘It begins. Your sister is in thrall to the monsters!’
Tesla? Lillian heard the Intuitionist’s voice like an echo in fog.
Pain shot through Lillian’s shoulder, the wound burning. She cried out and fell back into the compartment.
‘Lillian!’ John’s cry came again, louder this time, and he jumped across to tend to her, his face swimming in and out of her vision.
Through the strange fug, Lillian heard a thud, and gawped dumbly as a large depression appeared in the cabin roof.
John dropped low onto the floor of the compartment and fired two rounds into the roof. The shots were followed by an ear-piercing scream. Lillian felt it as much as heard it, the noise drawing her from her waking dream.
At once, she recognised what was happening. Had she not been through this at the academy countless times? A Majestic was asserting control over her. It was stronger than anything she had ever been tested with, but the pattern was the same: the call; the false memory; the breaking down of her defences. But Lillian Hardwick was stronger than that. She shook her head briskly and focused hard, envisioning nothing but a brick wall through which the probing powers of a Majestic would have to break. She pushed herself up, and again leaned from the window, pistol in hand and determination renewed. She saw the coach almost within touching distance; heard the crack of Selby’s whip behind her. She aimed the pistol, but at once realised that her efforts came too late.
Crawling things moved swiftly from the clattering coach behind them, leaping from the cabin and forwards to the horses like ghastly white spiders, making their way nimbly towards her. She fired, taking one of the beasts in the chest, but it did not relinquish its grip, instead screaming in pain and rage, and hanging on to the carriage’s yoke before recovering all too quickly. She heard a cry, and turned to see John struggling at his window on the other side of the compartment, before firing three shots into the night. When she looked back at her target, it was gone.
From nowhere, a hideous, hairless face confronted her, inches from her own. The creature was scarred and bestial, an arrowhead hole where its nose should have been, its ears large and pointed, eyes glittering in the darkness under their own luminescence. Its huge maw gaped, screaming at Lillian, its breath assailing her like the stench of a thousand corpses. One wickedly clawed hand dug into the side of the carriage, the other grabbed at Lillian’s wrist and tried to yank her through the small window. Lillian pulled back, squeezing the trigger of her gun. As she did, the beast roared louder and with a violent tug wrenched Lillian against the carriage door. The catch gave with the impact and the door flew open. For a stomach-churning moment Lillian thought she would be dashed beneath the wheels of the carriage, but she managed to cling to the door even as the monster held her other wrist. Her heels skittered against the road; briars whipped at her face and pulled her hair, and the pistol fell, a flash of silver vanishing into the night.
For a moment, Lillian’s hand flailed at thin air. The pain in her shoulder flared again as the pale creature yanked her upwards, climbing effortlessly onto the roof of the moving carriage. Her left arm was wrenched away from the door, her feet kicking at it as it flapped about below her. She heard John shouting something, Selby too, but their words were lost on the wind. She was hoisted upwards, face to face with the grotesque gargoyle, a man-beast that resembled a skeleton wrapped in wrinkled parchment. She knew beyond all else that it was controlled by the very voice that had called to her, and that it aimed to take her to him, whomever and wherever he might be.
Monday, 20th October, 8:30 p.m.
KENSINGTON, LONDON
Arthur knocked at the door again, more urgently. A light went on in an upper window next door, and a face glared out; the wealthy inhabitants of the crescent were unused to having their peace disturbed. Arthur turned back to the door when he heard the sound of bolts being withdrawn, and presently he was faced by a stern-looking housekeeper.
‘I must see Sir Toby at once,’ he said.
The housekeeper made some protest, but Arthur did not let her speak before barging into the grand hall of the Georgian townhouse. A butler approached from the next room, and Arthur met his look of disdain simply by handing him his card and declaring, ‘Sir Arthur Furnival to see Sir Toby. It is of the utmost importance.’
The butler was not cowed; clearly he was used to people excusing their rudeness thusly, and was perhaps about to argue the matter when Sir Toby himself appeared at the landing.
‘That will be all, Carter,’ he said. ‘Give us some privacy, will you? I shall ring if I need you.’
The butler bowed curtly and ushered the housekeeper away.
‘Now, Sir Arthur, what is the meaning of this intrusion? You know as well as I do that my home is off-limits to club business.’
‘And I would respect that for any other matter, Sir Toby, truly I would. But I have… I have received a premonition.’
Sir Toby raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’
‘It regards Lil— the Hardwick siblings.’
‘And this is not a matter that should be presented to Lord Hardwick?’
‘I… that is to say… I thought it best I should report directly to you, sir. You are our commander, after all.’
‘You mean you feel unable to call on Lord Hardwick. That is quite understandable; he is my friend, true enough, but he is hardly the most approachable of men. Come, step into my study; you had best tell me what is so urgent that it could not wait until morning.’
They entered the small ground-floor study, and Sir Toby lit an oil lamp, eschewing modern electrical lighting, just as he did at his club office. The room was cold, the fire having died out hours ago.
‘Whiskey?’ Sir Toby asked.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Mind if I do?’ The Lord Justice took out the glass and decanter.
‘Not at all.’
‘So, you’d best spit it out—what has you so agitated, Sir Arthur?’
‘I have received a premonition. A fearful one. I believe that something is amiss with the Hardwicks. Particularly, Lillian is in danger. I can sense it most keenly.’
‘She is in particular danger? Or she is the only one you can sense?’
Had he spoken with Lord Hardwick? Or was he simply every bit as astute as his reputation suggested? ‘I… I do not know for sure. The former, I believe.’
Sir Toby Fitzwilliam looked thoughtful, his craggy face crumpling as he pondered something, though his thoughts were unfathomable, even to one such as Sir Arthur Furnival. In the end he exhaled deeply, and seemed to come to some decision. He pointed to the corner of the room.
‘Within the parcel over there is a painting. It arrived this afternoon.’
At first, Sir Arthur did not take the judge’s meaning, but then it became clear. ‘A painting… from him?’
‘I’ve been expecting as much. That cabman you sent to the Nightwatch… Dresden? It transpires that he did take our suspect to one more destination the night Molly Goodheart was killed.’
‘The House of Zhengming?’
Sir Toby nodded. He set down his whiskey and strode to the parcel. He removed the paper from the two-foot-high canvas, and held the revealed painting to the light. Sir Arthur did not move—he would not touch an object created by the Artist. The celestia
l had a damnable power, and given Arthur’s unique skills in psychometry, nothing good could come of it. His eyes widened as he took in the painting; its complexity and detail astonishing, its mood resonating through the room as though it were painted in pure emotion rather than merely oils.
‘I am afraid your powers are slipping, Sir Arthur,’ the commander of Apollo Lycea said. ‘I already know of the dangers ahead. The appropriate authorities have been notified, and the Nightwatch stands ready. But there is little else to be done.’
‘Send me. If I leave now I could find them, and—’
‘You will do no such thing. Lieutenant and Agent Hardwick will survive this night; of that I am certain. I will not risk the life of another agent to confirm what our psychic intelligence has already divined.’
‘How can you be so sure? Even the Nightwatch cannot—’
Sir Toby held up a hand. ‘This is not the only painting dispatched by the Artist today. Lord Hardwick has one, as does the Home Secretary. And we intercepted two others. They form pieces of a puzzle—one that the Artist, for reasons of his own choosing, wishes us to solve.’
‘What would you have me do, Sir Toby?’ Sir Arthur asked.
‘Nothing. Go home and try to get a good night’s sleep. I will see you at the club bright and early tomorrow, because if what we have learned is correct, something portentous is about to happen. I am sure you would not have the events depicted here come to pass?’
As Sir Arthur made his way home, his thoughts were crowded by the ominous painting. A castle on a high cliff, burning, the flames spiralled high into the dark sky, forming great tendrils, around which winged Riftborn swooped. The landscape stretching out before the castle was made entirely of corpses. And over it all, standing at the forefront of the chaos, with a face so impassive it might as well have been sculpted of marble, was Lillian Hardwick.
Monday 20th October, 8:30 p.m.
