by Mark Latham
Ahead of her, watching her laboured progress through the hellish streets, were three dark figures. She knew them for what they were. Even had the faint corona of amber light not shone from them, their violet eyes glimmered like stars as they fixed her with malevolent intent.
Come with us.
It was a whisper, it sounded somewhere deep in her head. In her blood.
Lillian ejected the unused etheric cartridge from her pistol, and cranked the generator handle.
The central figure remained stock-still, but the two that flanked it swept forward. They were single-minded in their approach, moving swiftly, low to the ground, like hunting hounds. Lillian stopped dead; she would only have time for one shot with the Tesla pistol, but it was not the only weapon she had taken from the stores.
They arrived almost simultaneously. Lillian was still until the last possible moment, for the creatures were as capable as she of dodging bullets. Only when they were almost upon her did she throw herself sideways, beneath the grasping, clawed hands of the first hunter, and away from the second. She slid across the broken ground, her jodhpurs tearing, but she managed to spin around to face her attackers, who were already converging upon her. Now they were together, lined up for the shot. She pulled the trigger.
As the blue light flared from the pistol, and the air fizzed hot and bright, the first hunter leapt away, shielding its eyes from the blinding flash. The second, its view impaired by its fellow, was struck with the full force of the lightning. A gargled, inhuman scream carried over the sound of crackling energy, and the creature’s charred, twitching form was thrown backwards, falling into a chasm that had split the road in twain. The first hunter recovered and pounced before Lillian had gotten to her feet, while she was still fumbling at her belt for another weapon. She felt hands close around her arms for but a moment, and then was thrown bodily towards the yawning crevasse. She hit the cobblestones hard, and with dismay saw the Tesla pistol slide into the dark abyss.
From the corner of her eye, Lillian saw the ragged, crow-black form of the hunter leap towards her. Her hand gripped the hilt of the large knife she had procured, and she paused as though injured, masking the blade. She felt the change in the air as the hunter drew near, smelled its deathly odour. It landed lightly, silently, beside her, and rough, clawed hands grabbed at her. A gargling, avian click came from its throat, was answered in kind by the third hunter, who had maintained its aloof distance.
The creature’s arms, sinewy and strong, lifted her up as though she weighed nothing, and in that instant Lillian swept the knife outwards, towards its throat. It was a large blade, a Bowie knife from the Confederate States, and its gleaming edge flashed towards the target. The hunter’s reactions were startlingly quick, and it flinched back, although the knife must have been longer than it expected, for the tip of the blade still cut a furrow in its pale, wasted flesh. Pink blood oozed thickly from the wound. The vampire did not falter, but clawed at her wrist in an attempt to rip the knife from her hand. Lillian was ready, her own strength formidable, her academy combat training telling. She parried its flailing claws and it lunged forwards, but Lillian sidestepped nimbly, slashing across its ribs. Strike, parry, riposte; the hunter’s attacks were lightning-fast, but it was savage, its style crude. Lillian doubted it had ever fought an opponent who was not only its rival in strength and speed, but also clinical and well drilled.
The hunter was strong. Perhaps, as Cherleten had intimated, it had lived for an extraordinarily long time, and grown more powerful with age. In any case, when its blows did land, they jarred Lillian to the bone. A clubbing right hand had her seeing stars, but again she recovered and spun about on her heel, throwing the hunter off-balance and sending it flailing. This time, she drove straight with the knife, thrusting it between the hunter’s shoulder blades. It thrashed and spun so wildly that the knife was wrenched from Lillian’s grasp. It reached futilely for the handle, but it was buried too deep.
Lillian rushed at the creature and pushed it with all her might towards the yawning precipice that ran across Upper East Smithfield, and was already now breaching the formidable brown-brick walls of the Royal Mint.
The hunter did not fall. It teetered upon the brink, balancing precariously with supernatural grace, and then turned, grabbing Lillian by the hair and pulling her with it.
For a moment Lillian felt weightless, hanging in space, gazing down into an abyss. Below them, the crack in the earth seemed to extend impossibly far, into a black void punctuated by starlight. But those points of light were not stars; they were eyes. Riftborn, in their thousands, climbing upwards from the bowels of the earth, from Hell itself.
Lillian reached out in desperation, her hand finding purchase upon a cobblestone, her body slamming hard into the ground. She cried out as the hunter’s weight yanked her hair so hard she thought her neck might break. She felt the claws scrabble at her jacket as it pulled itself up. The guttural cry of its leader rose in pitch and volume. It was angry; its fellow-creature was risking the life of their prize. Lillian understood, and even as she felt the hard fingernails digging into her back, she knew that she was not expendable, that these creatures had been sent to kidnap her. The thing scrabbling at her, hanging from her as a dead weight, was trying to save itself at her expense, and that clearly was not part of the plan. So the hunters were not, after all, mindless fiends, but could fear for their lives. She could use that.
She was losing purchase on the cobblestones. The creature’s arm was around her throat now as it climbed, pushing down on her as it dragged itself up. And then a shadow stood over them both: the third hunter. It grabbed Lillian’s hand, lifting her out of the pit with the other hunter still holding onto her. With its other hand, the lead hunter swatted aside its subordinate, causing it to relinquish its grip on Lillian. Lillian snatched the hilt of the Bowie knife, which slid from the vampire’s back as it fell screaming into the abyss.
Lillian struck at her rescuer before the monster had time to restrain her. The blade bit into necrotic flesh, between the ribs. The hunter snarled and twisted away with such force that the blade snapped, leaving Lillian holding the hilt. She threw it down, ducking forwards to avoid flailing claws, drawing a .22 pistol from her boot-holster in one fluid motion.
She fired twice without aiming, hitting only shadows. The hunter fled, its wound not slowing it one jot. Lillian felt her heart beating hard for the first time since her transformation.
‘Lillian!’
She looked up to see a horse, and upon it her brother, and Smythe. They had pulled up on the other side of another great crack in the road, and even now demonic eyes turned to behold them hungrily.
‘Do not let that creature escape!’ she shouted.
‘Leave it, Lillian, we have to—’
She saw the shadowy figure of the hunter leap a great height through the breached wall of the Royal Mint, and at once gave chase. Her brother would help her or not as he saw fit, but the hunter represented her best chance of tracking down de Montfort, of taking the fight to the enemy, of revenge.
She smiled to herself as she heard the whinny of the horse, and the sound of hooves upon cobblestones as John tried to find another way around. If she were any judge, he would help her regardless of his own agenda, as he always had.
She followed the hunter through the elegant courtyard of the Royal Mint, now awash with blood and filled with panicked screams, and out into the next street. Its footfalls were almost silent, but it moved with unerring speed and unwavering energy. Lillian pursued as fast as she could, surprised that her limbs still did not tire. As she passed through the gate she was forced to dodge aside as a manhole cover exploded upwards from the road ahead upon a jet of incandescent flame. As she turned, she stumbled headlong into a mob of wretched lunatics. A man with jagged shards of glass protruding from his face yanked violently at Lillian’s hair; an old woman, an eye hanging from its socket and pendulous breasts exposed, cackled maniacally as she swung a plank of charred wood with
glee. Behind them, the press of the mob came on like a tide, invisible Riftborn cavorting amidst their number.
Lillian tore herself away from scrabbling hands, resisting the urge to fire into the crowd that kept her from her target. An elbow to the throat of the nearest assailant bought her breathing space. Lillian spun the old woman about and shoved her back into the crowd, where she set about her comrades with the wooden plank enthusiastically.
The vampire was far ahead now, cutting through a narrow alleyway on to Minories. Lillian lost the hunter somewhere in the growing shadows. She listened for the sound of distant footsteps, but the assault of the Riftborn upon her senses was unrelenting. And then she remembered what the hunters themselves did. She stopped, back to the wall of the dark alley, and sniffed the air.
Her mind sorted the scents upon the breeze faster than she could believe. Sulphur and smoke, the tang of blood, the stale odour of sweat, mould and urine, igniting gas jets… and dead flesh. The faint smell of a long-cold corpse and mortuary chemicals drifted upon the wind, and Lillian knew the hunt was on once more. She trusted to her senses to guide her, and followed her nose.
She caught sight of the shadowy figure again, darting through the churchyard of Holy Trinity Church, through a crowd of wailing petitioners who clamoured for God’s mercy. She gained on the hunter, saw it tear around the corner of Minories and Aldgate. She afforded herself a smile as she heard at last the clattering of hooves behind her, and picked up the scent of John’s horse upon the air. She did not slow, instead raising her pistol in readiness for the shot, rounding the corner in search of her prey. She saw it, back to the wall, eyes sparkling at her from the darkness. She aimed.
Something struck her hard across the head. She fired the pistol instinctively but hit nothing, and the gun was wrenched from her hand. Claws dug into her shoulders, her legs, her arms. They came from above, naked and scuttling dead things, following the wordless bidding of the hunter. She knew at once that the stench had not been the lone hunter, but a pack of ghouls that had lain in wait for her. She had trusted too fully in the heightened senses that were entirely new to her.
There were too many, their strength too great—Lillian found herself being carried away. Then she heard hoofbeats from somewhere behind her. Shouts, and a gunshot. Several pairs of clawed hands released her. She heard scrabbling on flagstones as the monsters peeled away to face the new threat.
John shouted, but he seemed so very far away.
Another gunshot. A flash of brilliant light and energy that could only be a Tesla pistol. Screams.
Lillian lurched as the creatures dropped her, but was lifted again at once. She heard her brother’s voice, loud and ragged.
‘Lillian! I’m coming. Don’t stop fighting!’
John did not see the hunter, crouching low in the shadows. It burst forth through the crowd of flesh-eaters, marble-white face hanging in darkness for just a moment, before crashing into John with such force that he was swept away from Lillian, out of sight.
There was another flash; more screams. In her daze, she thought she heard Smythe’s voice. Strong arms gripped her once more, sinewy, dead arms. Lillian realised she was being carried downwards—down steep flights of stairs beneath Aldgate Station, into lightless tunnels where warm air hung pregnant with thick, stale smoke. She heard voices calling to her, deep inside her mind.
As Lillian’s eyes closed, she wondered if she were going home.
She wondered where that was.
TWENTY
Saturday, 1st November 1879
SCARROWFALL, YORKSHIRE
John looked about futilely. The room was dark, save for a crack of silver moonlight that shone through a narrow, high window above him, dimly illuminating the far wall. He was lying on a cold floor. The smell of moist earth and stagnant water filled his nostrils.
He crawled up onto his knees and a chain rattled at his right ankle. He tested it gingerly—he was manacled to the wall, and the iron clasp dug painfully into his leg. John shivered; his jacket and shoes had been taken, and wherever he was being held was freezing cold.
He did not remember much after the vampires had attacked him in the alley beside Aldgate Station. He had seen Lillian being carried away; he remembered Smythe fighting his way clear from the savage press of ghouls. He had shouted instructions to his fellow agent, which he only hoped had been heeded, if indeed Smythe had survived the attack—his salvation rested upon it, for no one but Smythe would even know where to look for him. Beyond that, John was not sure; he seemed to recall a train journey, sleeping on a hard floor among a pile of slumbering, pale-skinned monsters; salt spray upon his face during a journey by boat…
He could not be certain if these were dreams or memories. His head throbbed, and he touched the back of his skull, withdrawing his fingers when he felt his matted hair, and a flash of pain brought stars before his eyes.
John took a deep breath. He needed to think clearly if he was to escape this cell—and escape he would. He patted his hands across the creases of his trousers, wincing as he touched bruises that he had not realised were there. Eventually he felt the thin lumps of concealed picks and pins, and began to roll up his trouser leg to get at them.
Something moved in the darkness. A soft rustling at first, then a slow, heavy dragging sound of hard skin or leather rasping across rough stone. There came the wet slap of hands and feet, followed by a scrape of claws that set John’s teeth on edge.
He froze and listened as some creature sniffed the air, dreadfully near. John turned slowly, trying not to make any sound, nor even breathe. From the darkest corner of the room, a low, throaty growl rose in pitch, and two beady, violet eyes flashed bright.
* * *
Lillian woke upon a soft mattress, staring up at a white satin canopy. A cool breeze blew through a nearby window, causing several dozen tall candles to flicker, and shadows to dance across lavender-painted walls. The clarity with which she saw every detail of the room was uncanny; the strength in her limbs was prodigious. She did not feel the cold from the open window. She was not the old Lillian Hardwick; Lillian Hardwick was dead.
She rubbed her eyes. The lenses were gone. It felt strangely discomfiting that her mask of humanity had been taken from her.
Lillian swung her legs over the end of the bed, only then realising that she was dressed in a long gown of silk and lace. The thought that someone had changed her clothes repulsed her. As she stood, she saw a chaise beneath the window, upon which was arranged a set of clothes, including an elegant, loose-fitting dress with almost Regency styling. Lillian scowled; it was the type of frock her mother often asked her to wear for parties, but which she almost always refused.
‘But it would suit you so well.’
Lillian started, spinning to confront the voice, which she recognised at once. De Montfort stepped from the shadows by the door. He must have been standing there the whole time, but Lillian had not noticed him, for all her heightened senses.
‘Where am I?’ Lillian asked.
‘Never have I met a young woman so forthright,’ de Montfort said, his features blank.
‘Answer me,’ she demanded. De Montfort was a fool if he had come to face her alone.
He smiled the small, polite, infuriating smile, which she now knew he used to hide his ill intent. ‘I told you that you would come to us eventually. You are home.’
‘I did not come to you. I was abducted.’
‘A minor detail. Events were set in motion somewhat faster than I had anticipated. I had to act. I had to save you.’
‘Save me?’ Lillian laughed in disbelief. ‘Even now you think you have done me a service?’
‘Especially now,’ he said. ‘The Riftborn have broken through the veil in unprecedented numbers. London falls, one soul at a time. When they finish devouring the weak, they will turn to greater sport—and our kind represent a threat too great to ignore for ever. Alone in London you would certainly have perished eventually. As I said, I had to act.’
‘Not just mine. In a way, they were our doing.’
‘What? How dare y—’
‘Oh, do not be censorious. My experiment went better than anyone could have dreamt. The Iscariot Sanction worked like a charm, and our plans had to be brought forward. I had not expected the King to support the attack on London so wholeheartedly, but once he learned that you had already found a way back there, and that you were indeed one of us, he decided it was time for action. The Queen is dead, long live the King, and so on.’
Lillian slapped de Montfort hard across the face. His smirk remained. She tried to slap him again, but this time he caught her arm and twisted it hard.
‘That is quite enough of that. Do not think for a moment that I have come here without due insurance.’
Lillian relaxed her arm, and eyed de Montfort with growing suspicion. ‘Insurance?’
‘I am afraid one of my hunters rather disobeyed orders, and brought your brother along with you.’
‘John? Where is he?’
‘Calm yourself, dear girl. His situation is precarious, though I can help him… presuming, that is, that I can rely on your cooperation.’
