by Paul Crilley
The air wooshed out from him and he staggered back against the banister. He threw out an arm to catch himself. As he did so, the sleeve on his left arm rode up and Tweed caught a glimpse of a small tattoo on the underside of his forearm—the Osiris Curse tattoo from Sekhem's ring.
He heard a noise to his left. He looked and saw more masked figures running up the stairs. Tweed swore and slammed the door.
“Nightingale!” he shouted, turning the key in the lock. “Trouble!”
Octavia hurried out of the bedroom just as the window in the lounge exploded inward. Another masked figure landed on the carpet, a rope trailing over his shoulder up to the roof.
Octavia bent down and grabbed a broken table leg, swinging it into the man's temple before he could even rise. He stiffened and slumped to the floor.
Octavia headed for the door, but Tweed caught her arm. “More that way.”
Their eyes settled on the rope dangling outside the window. They hurried over and Tweed leaned out into the cold air, looking up toward the roof. He couldn't see anyone else up there, but there were two more masked figures in the street, standing by the entrance to the gardens across the road.
He ducked back inside. “How are you at climbing?” he asked.
“I don't know. I've never really tried.”
“First time for everything,” he said, standing aside.
There was a heavy bang at the door. Octavia climbed up onto the sill and grabbed the rope. They were only one floor from the roof, so it wasn't far. But in this weather, the rope would be slippery, fingers would be stiff.
“See you up there,” said Octavia. Tweed watched while her head and upper body disappeared past the window frame. There were more bangs at the door. He didn't think it would hold much longer.
Her upper legs vanished, then finally her feet. Tweed grabbed the rope just as the door crashed open. He glanced over his shoulder as five—what were they? Cultists? Considering what Professor Rowe had said, he reckoned that was a pretty safe bet—cultists ran into the room.
Tweed launched himself from the window sill, sailing out from the wall. He kicked his legs frantically, trying to twist around in the air as he swung back again. A cultists was waiting by the window, ready to grab him. Tweed lashed out with his foot, connecting with the man's throat.
He staggered back with a gurgling wheeze. Another tried to push past to grab Tweed, but by this time he had his feet on the wall above the window and he pulled himself up. Octavia was waiting for him on the roof. She helped him over, then quickly reeled the rope up after them.
Tweed got to his feet and looked around while Octavia untied the rope from a chimney. All the houses in Wilton Crescent were joined together, sharing a single roof. If they could get to the end they could use the rope to lower themselves to the ground and get away.
They ran, and had made it across ten houses when a cultist stepped out from behind a chimney and pointed a gun at them.
Tweed and Octavia skidded to a halt. Tweed was just in front of Octavia, blocking her slightly from view. Tweed watched the cultist's finger tighten on the trigger.
“Duck,” said a low voice behind him.
Tweed had learned never to argue when someone says duck. He dropped to the ground just as the cultist fired. His shot cracked loudly in the cold air, whizzing over his head. He didn't get a chance to fire another, because he was suddenly wrapped in electricity. The cultist screamed and dropped to the snow, jerking around in convulsions.
Tweed whirled around. Octavia was inspecting her upper arm, where a small tear could be seen in her jacket. She looked up and smiled nervously.
“Close call.”
Tweed paled, scrambling to his feet. He grabbed her arm and checked it.
“I'm fine,” Octavia protested. “It missed me.”
Tweed stared angrily into her eyes. Octavia frowned back. He wanted to say something, to tell her not to put herself in danger like that.
But he didn't. He clamped his mouth shut, grabbed her hand, and they sprinted the rest of the way to the edge of the roof. Tweed leaned over. The roof dropped down to a second building about halfway to the ground. He quickly tied the rope around the closest chimney and tossed it over the edge. It didn't make it all the way. There was a two meter gap between the end of the rope and the roof.
A gunshot echoed behind them. Tweed whirled around to find seven more cultists running toward them, firing pistols as they came. Snow spat up around them as the bullets hit the roof around their feet. Octavia quickly scrambled over the edge and half climbed, half slid down the rope. Tweed quickly followed after, dropping the final gap and landing on his backside.
Octavia was already climbing down a drainpipe. Tweed followed her, dropping onto the street below. They were on the rear side of Wilton Crescent now, shielded from anyone watching from the main road. A small lane led deeper into the Belgravia area. Octavia grabbed Tweed by the sleeve and they ran as fast as they could, not slowing until they were surrounded by crowds of people.
Tweed's heart hammered in his chest. That was too close.
They returned to Tweed's house on Whitechapel Street. Despite Octavia's protestations to the contrary, it was the safest place to be. Because although many would class Whitechapel as the home of the morally dubious—i. e., murderers, thieves, pickpockets and the like—one thing you could say about the people here was that they looked out for each other. If you were accepted in Whitechapel, you were family. And the people of Whitechapel looked after family. Any unknowns spotted lurking around would have questions to answer, questions asked with cudgels and steel-toed boots.
And anyone spotted wearing those ludicrous Egyptian masks would have a lifespan shorter than a drunk toff who happened to take a wrong turn.
Tweed unlocked the door and stepped aside to allow Octavia in. She moved along the hall and into the massive room that took up the whole ground floor of the building.
Tweed followed her. Now that Barnaby had gone all respectable, the house was pretty much Tweed's. Barnaby rarely came home before eleven and he was gone long before Tweed managed to crawl out of bed in the morning.
Tweed actually missed the old days, when he and Barnaby scraped through life by the skin of their teeth. When they would return home after a successful con with a fish supper wrapped in greasy newspaper and they would count the money they'd earned and wonder how long they could make it last.
It wasn't right, what they had done. He knew that. And he'd talked to Barnaby about stopping before the whole Lazarus affair had changed everything. But he still missed it. Simpler times.
And exciting times. Life was never boring. Not like the last few months.
Tweed quickly scanned the room, making sure he hadn't left anything embarrassing lying around. Octavia had once described the room as the workshop of a mad scientist who'd escaped from Bedlam. Tweed had quite liked that description. Oddities scoured from junk shops, street markets—even rubbish heaps—were strewn across the shelves and desks. Among the bric-a-brac were jars of mummified animals, a two-headed snake, a suit of black armor, and a huge paper dragon head that hung from the ceiling, scavenged from the Chinese quarter recently when they celebrated their New Year.
His latest project—a model of the new Big Ben made completely from matchsticks—took pride of place on the table in the center of the room. It had taken him ages to finish it.
“That's new,” said Octavia, bending down to study it.
“I know. Amazing, isn't it?”
“It's certainly…something.”
Tweed lit the lamps, then stoked the fire, adding a few more logs to get the warmth spreading through the room. He looked over his shoulder and saw Octavia inspecting the model with a look of distaste.
“Your problem is that you don't know good art.”
“Oh, so this is art, is it?”
“Indeed it is.”
Octavia straightened up and pointed at the couch where Tweed usually slept. Facing it were four wooden chairs
, and on those chairs were the old ventriloquist dolls that Barnaby collected.
“Have you been talking to these dolls?”
She said it as a joke, but Tweed's face flushed and he quickly moved them away, putting them back on their stools beneath the window.
“You have, haven't you? You've been speaking to the dolls. Oh, Tweed, that's not healthy. You know that, don't you?”
“It's not as if I expect them to talk back,” he said defensively. “It just gets a little…quiet around here. That's all.”
“Have you considered a pet?”
“I…” Tweed frowned. He hadn't, actually. Why hadn't he considered a pet? Nothing too messy. A parrot perhaps. Something like that.
“Thank you for the suggestion. I'll take it on board.”
“I'm glad,” said Octavia, “because, seriously, this is…it's odd, Tweed. Even for you.”
Tweed decided he didn't want to talk about that anymore. Instead, he wheeled a massive blackboard into the middle of the room.
“Are you ready?”
“What are we doing?”
“Discussing what we know. Trying to figure some things out.”
“Oh. I see. Go ahead, sir.”
Tweed looked down at the chalk in his hand and the blackboard behind him. “Funny.”
He turned and wrote on the board.
Tesla killed. Death ray plans stolen.
Tweed tapped the board. “Obviously these plans have been taken for nefarious purposes, agreed?”
“Agreed. But it wasn't just death ray plans. It was blueprints for different weapons.”
“Point noted.” He wrote: Sekhem, circled the name, and drew a long arrow to his first point.
He looked at Octavia. “Yes?”
She nodded.
“And we are thinking Sekhem is part of a secret society, one that uses that Osiris symbol as a means of identification.”
Octavia nodded. “And they are the same people who killed Stackpole. They're linked by the Osiris symbol. They tortured him to find out about this map he had.”
“Agreed. So what's so special about it? It can't just be about money, can it? Selling ancient treasures?”
“Why not? People have done less to get rich. Egyptian artifacts would sell for a pretty penny.”
“But that has absolutely nothing to do with Tesla's blueprints for super weapons.”
Octavia frowned. “True.”
Tweed wrote down: Molock? Then he added another few question marks and underlined them for good measure.
“Thoughts?” he said. “Because it's pretty obvious that Molock and Sekhem were not the best of friends. Did Molock want Tesla and the plans for himself? Is Molock a part of this cult as well?”
“And how does this relate to my mother?”
“Of course! I'd forgotten that!” In response to Octavia's dark look, he added, “Sorry. So—how does this relate to your mother?” Tweed paced in front of the board. “Did she perhaps know something about this secret society?”
“It's possible. I mean, there was no mention of this group when we were looking into the Lazarus affair. But it's obvious there's some link. Molock took my mother out of the Ministry prison using a false name. He turns up here on the night Tesla is killed and the plans for his super weapons stolen.”
“It was Sekhem who brought Molock back to London,” said Tweed. “He said as much himself. Molock found out what he was planning and wanted to stop him. But why?”
Too many question marks and not enough answers, thought Tweed. He drew the symbol of the secret society on the board.
“We need to find out what this is. Who these cultists really are. What they stand for.”
“I agree. Only, not right now. I need to get to The Times. I have a story about some missing scientists that needs to be proofed. “
After Tweed dropped Octavia off, he headed back to Stackpole's flat. He wasn't sure why. It was a hunch, a feeling that they had missed something.
There was no sign of any cultists around Wilton Crescent, which was something of a relief. Tweed entered the house and climbed the stairs to Stackpole's flat. The door was closed, but when Tweed gave it a little shove it swung open.
Tweed slipped inside and pulled the door closed behind him. He did his best to ignore the body to his right and moved to the center of the room. The curtains were billowing in the cold breeze. Glass crunched underfoot. Tweed slowly turned in a circle, letting his eyes unfocus, just letting them fall wherever they would.
He stopped.
There was something different. On the floor behind the door was an expensive-looking yellow envelope. That hadn't been there earlier on! Tweed hurried over and picked it up. Stackpole's name and address were written on the envelope in elaborate handwriting.
But something about the handwriting made him pause. He'd seen it somewhere before.
Tweed headed to the desk. He picked a random sheet of paper and held it next to the envelope.
It was the same handwriting.
Stackpole was sending himself letters. Why?
Tweed ripped the envelope open. Inside were two pieces of thick card. The first was gold-trimmed and had a lot of official looking stamps on it, plus the words:
The airship Albion awaits the pleasure of your company.
Stackpole. H. Mr.
Room 56.
Tweed frowned. He turned the card over, then read it again. A ticket for the maiden voyage of the airship Albion? This just got odder and odder. Why would Stackpole want to travel on the Albion?
Well, besides the fact that it really was the most sought-after ticket of the season. But Stackpole was an archeologist. What interest would he have in that kind of thing?
Look around, Tweed.
True, Stackpole did seem to like living a first-class lifestyle. Tweed thought back to the newspaper report Octavia had written. Wasn't the Albion stopping in Egypt? Perhaps Stackpole planned on disembarking there, to find his mysterious archeological dig.
But then, why had Stackpole sent himself the ticket? Was he really that paranoid?
It's not paranoia when they're really out to get you, though, is it?
Stackpole had a sense he was in danger. He posted the ticket to himself so that if anyone searched his flat they wouldn't know he was heading back to Egypt.
Quite clever, really.
Had he done the same thing with this mysterious map?
Tweed searched the floor but there were no more letters. He checked around the desk as well, but he was out of luck.
He did find a whole stack of the same yellow envelopes, though.
Tweed pulled out the second piece of card from the envelope. It was a sort of introduction and welcome to those who had just mortgaged off their firstborn children in order to buy their tickets.
A voyage of discovery awaits you!
Join us for the maiden launch of the airship Albion, a true miracle
of science, designed by Nikola Tesla himself.
Prepare to be filled with admiration…
Struck down with stupefaction…
You will be speechless with wonderment, and that's a promise. A
thrilling adventure is yours for the taking, where the world will
unfold beneath you and your life will never be the same again!
Launch date:
10th of February.
Time of departure:
12:00 p.m.
Tweed stared at the card. Something about the words tickled the back of his brain. Like he'd seen them somewhere before…
His eyes widened and he fumbled inside his pockets until he found what he was looking for. The piece of burned paper he had picked up back in Tesla's factory. He held it up next to Stackpole's card, lining up the words.
…ate:
…uary.
…ture:
…m.
Launch date:
The 10th of January.
Time of departure:
12:00 p.m.
The
y matched. The piece of burned card Molock had dropped was the same one that came with a ticket for the Albion. Which meant Molock also had a ticket for the airship's maiden voyage.
Tweed's mind worked furiously. Why? Did he want to talk to Stackpole? Did he want to kill Stackpole?
Or was it just a coincidence?
With a rush of excitement, Tweed realized it didn't matter. Molock was going to be on the Albion and Molock was the one who knew where Octavia's mother was. It was as simple as that.
When did the airship launch? He checked the ticket again. The 10th of February.
Tomorrow.
Tweed's mind raced. He had a lot to do tonight. A lot of preparations to make.
One thing was for sure, though. Boredom certainly wasn't going to be an issue anymore.
He and Octavia were going on a trip.
For the second day running, Octavia was rudely yanked from her sleep by someone knocking at the door. She grunted in irritation and tried to block the sounds out by burying her head beneath the pillow.
It didn't work. A few seconds later a voice was shouting below her window.
“Nightingale! Get up!”
Octavia groaned. Was she never to get a proper sleep? What time was it anyway? She rolled over and looked at the clock. 6:30! What was the idiot thinking? And on a Saturday!
You are going to pay for this, Mr. Tweed, she thought, throwing back the covers. She was going to let him know exactly what she thought about having her sleep disturbed.
She stomped out of bed, pausing only to pull on her dressing gown. She clumped down the stairs and yanked open the door.
“What do you want?” she snapped. “It's six thirty in the bloody morning.”
“I know,” said Tweed, utterly oblivious to her anger. He pushed past her and entered the house. “We don't have much time.”
Octavia stared out at the snow blanketing the pavement, slowly counting to ten. She then closed the door and turned to face him. She frowned. He was still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Admittedly, that didn't really mean much when it came to Tweed, but his eyes were shadowed and had a feverish glint to them.
“Have you slept?”
“What? No. No time.”
