“I am?”
“Well, someone did try and kill you with an enchanted statue not three minutes ago,” St. Cyprian said. “I’d call that something, wouldn’t you?”
“Now that you mention it, I would!” Wendy-Smythe brightened. “Smashing, simply smashing! Someone tried to kill me.” He stuffed his fez back on his head. “Well, we’ll show them won’t we, Chaz?”
“Chaz?” St. Cyprian murmured.
“I say, St. Cyprian and Wendy-Smythe, allied together against the forces of darkness,” Wendy-Smythe said, shoving himself to his feet. “It’ll be a rip-roarer, won’t it? Of course it will. I bet it’s a cult—barmy lot, your average cultists, worshippin’ heathen idols and squamous deities. Bet I angered them somehow—do you think Fleece is tied up in it? Will they send more assassins? Should I retrieve the Webley from the cupboard?”
“I don’t—why do you keep a pistol in the cupboard?”
“I use the butt to crack walnuts,” Wendy-Smythe said, without a hint of embarrassment. “Withers,” he yelled, “fetch me my walnut cracker—I mean, Webley!”
“I think Withers left,” St. Cyprian said, retrieving his cigarette case and extracting one. “And I think you should as well.”
“What?”
“Mr. Wendy-Smythe—Philip—you are clearly in danger. Someone has tried to kill you once, they might well do so again.” St. Cyprian tapped his cigarette on the case and slid it between his lips. As he lit it, he tugged aside the curtain and glanced down at the street. As a rule, statues didn’t get up on their own and try and bump off their owners. They required a helping hand, usually of the mystical sort. He caught sight of a familiar face, hurrying along the street, and frowned. Mr. Shepherd, you do turn up in the damndest places, he thought, puffing on his cigarette. Coincidences were a fact of life, like taxes and tsetse flies, but he didn’t think this was one. He glanced at Wendy-Smythe and said, “I suggest Brighton. Lots of occult doings in Brighton.”
“There are?”
“Oh scads,” St. Cyprian said. “I suggest you pack quickly, however. Who knows when the rest of your furnishings might come to life and try and snuff you, what?”
Limehouse, the East End, London
The ghost led Gallowglass deeper into the cramped labyrinth of alleyways and cul-de-sacs which clung to the docklands like limpets, and more than once she had to vault a wall or shimmy beneath a fence in order to keep it in sight. No one challenged her. It’d have been a shock if someone had—people in Limehouse minded their own business. The air was redolent with the scent of the docks and it throbbed steadily with the sounds of boats, animals and people. Despite the profusion of ghosts, Limehouse was anything but dead.
Soon enough, and only slightly out of breath, she found herself creeping into an alleyway just upwind of the West India Docks. From an open window somewhere nearby, a record-player scratched out Sophie Tucker’s version of ‘I Ain’t Got Nobody’ into the darkening gloom of late afternoon and the notes drifted down over the back-street like rain drops. The walls were plastered with several layers of posters for Smiths Crisps and a number of gaudy adds for hosiery and Malvern Bottled Water, and the boarded-over windows had been draped with empty sugar bags. She could hear the water lapping somewhere close, and the ghost drifted towards a sagging wooden door that had seen better decades. As the apparition vanished, Gallowglass paused.
She knew how gangs worked. She’d been a member of enough of them, in her short life. Rat holes like this made for good meeting places, if only because no copper with any sort of sense would dare go in without plenty of backup. She grinned and crept forward, the fingers of one hand tapping against the butt of the Webley-Fosbery in accompaniment to Sophie Tucker’s voice. Luckily, she wasn’t a copper.
The door made a wet, whining sound as she eased it open. Someone had left a lantern lit. The smell of blood reached out of the darkness and washed over her. She closed the door behind her and stepped towards the light. The warped boards beneath her feet creaked querulously as she placed her weight on them, and the echoes scattered like startled birds, rising up into the cavernous space above. Gallowglass had been in enough warehouses to know one when she was in one, even if she’d come in the back door.
The lantern was on a table, and in its hazy glow, she could make out tall stacks of cargo boxes, arranged so as to block the table and the lantern light from the front of the warehouse. It was a smart set up, but it hadn’t been enough. The floor around the table was sticky with blood, and there were bodies—and bits of bodies—scattered everywhere.
Gallowglass grimaced. She wasn’t squeamish, but she’d seen entirely too many bodies missing important bits since she’d come to London. Gingerly, she stepped through the carnage, one hand resting on her pistol, ready to draw it should the need arise. Playing cards littered the table and the floor, sticky with still-wet blood. They’d been waiting for someone, before whatever had happened, had happened. She lifted the lantern, and cast its light about. Whatever had occurred, it hadn’t happened all that long ago. She could almost see it in her mind’s eye—the men waiting, playing cards, safe in their rat hole, and then—something horrible. She shivered slightly. Whatever had killed them had done it quickly, and savagely.
As she swung the light about, she caught flashes of pale, swirling movement. More ghosts, clinging to their remains. They wavered and wandered about in a parody of life, quivering silently like vibrating filaments of metal. These were uninterested in her, for which she was thankful. She moved through them, and they wavered like smoke.
Gallowglass stooped and checked one of the bodies. She dug her fingers into the mass of blood-matted hair, and gave a grunt of satisfaction as she found the tattoo. She wiped her fingers on the seat of her trousers. This was the place, no doubt about it. She lifted the lantern and scanned the closest boxes. They were stamped with Chinese characters. She could speak a bit of Mandarin, but reading it was another matter. There was no way of telling if these were Melion’s boxes, and she didn’t particularly care. There were signs that there had been another box, but it was gone now. It had been moved recently, if the marks on the rough wood of the floor were to be believed. She estimated the size of it and whistled softly. “Big crate,” she muttered. The floor was a mess of blood, but she spotted footprints in the tarry wash. Someone had come in after the butchery, hefted the crate, and gone back out.
A flash of color caught her eye, and she stooped. Her fingers found a square of something hard. She held it up to the light. “Jade…” she murmured. There were lines and squiggles etched into the surface of the square, but she couldn’t make heads or tails of them. She stuffed it into her pocket, certain that St. Cyprian would want to see it.
She wondered what was so important that people would kill for it. Melion’s decision to ship it in secret made more sense now. She didn’t trust him. He was too big, too hearty, like a dog that was trying too hard to be friendly. She could smell something on him, and she knew St. Cyprian could as well, though he hadn’t said as much, in so many words. Melion was hiding something. They both knew it. The question was…what?
Boxes toppled over with a sharp crash. Rats squealed in the darkness. Gallowglass whirled, her eyes mere slits as she scanned the dark of the warehouse. The ghosts congregated about her, mouthing dumbly and pawing at her, as if frightened.
A new sound intruded on the background hum of dock noise and distant jazz. A sharp clop-clop-clop of hooves on wood. She twitched a hand, as a swarm of flies rose from the bodies and buzzed softly about her face. The sound of hooves grew closer, and then, abruptly faded into silence. The air stank, not of blood now, but something sulphurous and choking. She remembered what Ghale had told them about the goat-headed thing.
Whatever had killed the thieves was still here.
The thought didn’t frighten her. But it did worry her. Like with the ghosts, there was a proper way to hunt demons, and she wasn’t equipped. Unless it was the sort that was allergic to lead. She flicked her
cigarette aside and looked around. She spotted a ladder leading up to the second storey gantry, and darted towards it, shucking the satchel as she moved. She left the lantern where it was. Light would only make her easier to find. She hit the ladder and shimmied up it swiftly. As she climbed, she saw the ghosts bunch, and then scatter, as if they were a flock of pigeons and something had startled them. They rose upward, bodies stretching like threads of smoke, and they vanished as she reached the gantry and hauled herself up.
Gallowglass crouched. From her new vantage point, she could see a sea of boxes stretching out before her, towards the front of the warehouse. Through the filthy windows there, she saw the red-orange glow of dusk. The light of the lantern didn’t quite reach her level, but it was enough that she could make out the bodies below. There were more of them than she’d thought, and she wondered if Ghale had been telling the truth about losing them. He could have easily followed them, killed the lot, and taken Melion’s oh-so precious antiquities for his own. She shook her head, irritated. None of that mattered. What mattered was that she wasn’t alone, and whatever or whoever it was, was somewhere below her.
As the thought crossed her mind, the smell of sulphur suddenly increased in strength. The gantry shook slightly, and she tensed. From somewhere above her, a soft growl wafted down. And then, with a shriek, something dropped towards her out of the darkness.
11.
Limehouse, the East End, London
Gallowglass smelled the thing before she heard the scrape of its feet on the wood. By the time it plummeted towards her, she had already swung herself over the gantry rail and dropped onto the heavy cargo boxes below. She landed hard, and an ache crept up her legs through the soles of her feet. She ignored it, and made to rip her revolver from its holster.
Before she’d even gotten the weapon clear, the smell of her attacker engulfed her. Claws tore through the back of her coat, snagging on the material. She jerked her arms clear of the coat sleeves and spun. The Webley-Fosbery barked, puncturing her already shredded coat. A hard, painful blow sent the pistol flying from her hand and it clattered across the top of the crate. A second blow nearly gutted her. She stumbled back, uncertain of where the edge of the crate was in the darkness.
A wet growl echoed all around her as the thing approached. It was an indistinct shape, a blotch of shadow, save for the sickly glow of its eyes. The smell of it made her gag. “Well, come on then, don’t keep me waiting,” she hissed as she slid her hand into her trouser pocket. Her fingers found the hard shape of her balisong, and she whipped it out and flipped the blade open as her attacker charged with a blood-curdling bleat.
The balisong left a silvery trail as she slashed at the shape, and it retreated with a wail that made her teeth ache. “Didn’t like that, did you?” she said. “I thought you wouldn’t.” She’d acquired the knife in the Philippines, from a mananambal for whom she’d done a favor. The blade was blessed and cursed in equal measure and it could draw blood from things which did not, as a rule, bleed. She darted forward, seeking to capitalize on her opponent’s distress.
Gallowglass leapt over a wild blow and crashed into the thing’s head. She grabbed a handful of greasy mane and drove her knee into a slobbering snout. The balisong stabbed down again and again, and the air filled with a smell like rotten eggs. Its hands clutched at her with more than human strength and she was slammed down onto the top of the crate with tooth-rattling force. She rolled aside as its foot came down, and heard wood splinter.
She caught the thin gleam of her revolver, tottering on the edge of the crate, and she scrambled towards it, hand extended. She doubted the gun would help, but you never knew until you tried. The crate shuddered beneath her as she moved, and even as she caught the pistol by its lanyard ring and whipped it around, the stack began to topple. Without thinking, she leapt.
Gallowglass struck the side of nearby crate, as the stack she’d been on smashed into the one beside it. With a titanic roar, the stacks began to slip and tumble like dominoes flicked by an errant finger. Gallowglass hauled herself up and began to run, hoping to get ahead of the avalanche of crates. The wood moved beneath her feet, shifting and sliding and she jammed the balisong down between her feet to anchor herself as she rode the stack to the ground. It struck with a loud crash and she was sent skidding across the floor in a cloud of dust and splinters.
Every bone ached, and she was scraped raw. There was blood in her mouth as she staggered to her feet. She didn’t think anything was broken inside her, but it was all badly battered. She’d managed to hold on to both the pistol and the knife, for which she was grateful. The dark shape loped towards her, springing through the cloud of dust. Claws tore at her as she fired, and the knife bit flesh. The thing sprang away with a shrill cry, leaving her staggering. She coughed, unable to catch her breath. She needed to get outside, in the open, where she could see it coming. She kept her knife to hand. It was the only thing she had that seemed to hurt whatever it was. She didn’t holster her pistol, despite that. She found the weight of it in her hand comforting.
There was only the harsh, fading light of dusk streaming in through the windows behind her to see by, and she backed away carefully. Sounds pursued her—harsh, liquid noises that set her skin to crawling. She heard someone speaking. The warehouse echoed with the hum of their words. Whether it was a man’s voice or a woman’s, she couldn’t say, but something answered her in a voice like rocks being pounded together in a damp sack.
When the first of the dead men appeared, crawling across the floor, she knew what they had been saying. The bodies, or the pieces of bodies, dragged themselves towards her, moving far more swiftly than they should have been able, given their state. Bodiless arms tottered towards her on swiftly scrabbling fingers and torsos squirmed after them, leaving dark, glistening trails to mark their path.
There was a smell on the air, worse than the rotten egg smell of the hoofed thing. It was like spoiled blood and boiling tar, and her eyes watered. She took aim at a lurching limb and fired. Her bullet caught it and sent it sliding away, but it returned to its pursuit, dragging its bulk behind it. She fired again and again, until the cylinder clicked empty, and she holstered the weapon as she turned to run.
Corpses more intact than the rest lumbered towards her out of the darkness, moving on stiff legs, arms reaching out. She sprinted away from them, towards the front of the warehouse. The corpses broke into an awkward run as they pursued her. The goat-thing was there as well, keeping pace with her, but not getting close. It was afraid of the knife. She grinned and ducked her head.
The smile was wiped from her features a moment later as someone stepped out of the gloom ahead of her and lifted a pistol. The revolver barked, and Gallowglass felt the heat of the bullet as it passed her cheek. She surged forward and crashed into the gun’s wielder, taking them off of their feet and bounding past them.
This wasn’t fun anymore. Corpses and demons were one thing, but guns were something else. She arrowed towards the doors, running flat out now, leaping over crates and vaulting barrels. The sun was setting, leaving only the barest slash of light to see by as she struck the doors and found them locked. Frustrated, she spat a string of curses and hit the door with her shoulder.
The smell of the goat-thing washed over her, and she ducked. A heavy bulk struck the doors, smashing them open. The beast hit the ground and rolled away as Gallowglass stumbled after it. A corpse lunged through the door after her, and she ducked aside, letting it crash into the demon.
She took in her surroundings at a glance. The wharf wasn’t occupied, and the Thames was at her back. The second corpse staggered towards her. She darted aside, kicking it over as she avoided its pawing. There was no sign of whoever was controlling them.
The goat-thing backhanded the corpse that had crashed into it with a bleat of frustration and pushed itself upright. It was as ugly as Ghale had described it, all waste and bloat at the same time, with rank, patchy hair covering its more goatish bits, and a bestial
head topped by long, savage looking horns. The pale flesh of its more human extremities were covered in strange curls of scarification. It flexed long, powerful looking fingers, and she took in the cruel, curved claws warily. Those claws had nearly torn her open more than once already, and she wasn’t eager to chance it a third time. Its hooves were sharp and curved, and they made an ugly sound as it took a step towards her.
It grunted. Its muzzle swung away from her, and its eyes scanned the doorway they’d emerged from. Then it smiled, its lips wrinkling back from a thicket of teeth. It turned back towards her and gave a gurgling laugh. It spoke, and she flinched back as her head was suddenly filled with a stabbing pain. It moved towards her, chortling and speaking, and with every gabble of sound she felt as if someone were driving nails into her brain.
When it lunged, she wasn’t ready for it. It caught her up and sent her rolling, her shirt and trousers torn by its claws. The balisong skidded from her grip, towards the edge of the wharf. She threw herself towards the blade, snatching the hilt even as the demon tackled her. They rolled over the edge of the wharf and into the chill waters of the Thames. Gallowglass screamed as claws tore into her side and she responded in kind, stabbing her opponent again and again as the water closed over them.
The goat-thing immediately began to thrash. She could hear its squeals even under water. She whipped the knife around, trying to gut it. A vise-like grip caught her wrist and they tumbled down, still sinking. There was a strange excrescence rising from the creature and making the murky water even more opaque, and it shivered and trembled, even as it tried to throttle the life from her with its free hand.
The Jade Suit of Death (The Adventures Of The Royal Occultist Book 2) Page 10
