“Grab the wheel,” St. Cyprian bellowed. He twisted to the side as Andraste lunged over the back of his seat to grab the wheel, and popped his door open. He swung out onto the running board and unlaced the canvas roof. Wind whipped past him, plastering his coat to his lean frame. “Get the other side,” he shouted to Gallowglass, who hurried to obey. The Ripper slithered towards the front of the Crossley and crouched on the edge of the roof like a grinning, Victorian gargoyle. With a single, superhuman kick, it smashed the open door from its hinges and sent it sailing out across the Thames, nearly knocking St. Cyprian from his place in the process. The Ripper reached its hand through the opening, clawing for Andraste with a delighted cackle.
MINE, it rasped.
“Not quite,” St. Cyprian said, turning about and retrieving the Monas Glyph from his pocket. He hauled himself up onto the front of the Crossley and thrust the glyph into the Ripper’s face. As the sigil made contact with the not-flesh of the Ripper, the latter jerked back with an inhuman howl. At that moment, the canvas roof finally loosed its hold and folded back, pitching the Ripper off of the Crossley. It struck the street and rolled beneath the wheels of an oncoming lorry. St. Cyprian clambered over the windshield and back into his seat, as Gallowglass took her foot off of the accelerator and Andraste released the wheel with a grateful sigh.
He looked at them. “Well, what larks eh? Did I ever tell you I took seventeenth in the French Grand Prix in 1913? Highlight of my school years that was. I was nearly taken out by a rogue patisserie in Amiens.” He glanced over his shoulder and frowned. “Right, I think it’s time we brought this to an end, east, west or otherwise.”
17.
Morris was waiting for them when they arrived at the garret, with a number of men with him. He goggled at the state of the Crossley as it rolled to a stop on the sidewalk, engine rattling. “Morris, you made it, wonderful,” St. Cyprian said, before the other man could speak, as he helped Andraste down out of the car. “This is Miss Andraste, late of this very garret from which our current troublesome tourist sprang.”
“Ah, you’ve brought her, even as you said,” Morris said as he came forward, beaming with self-satisfaction. “Very good, I’ll take her into custody now, if you please.”
Andraste’s eyes widened and St. Cyprian swung himself between her and Morris as they moved towards the door to the garret. “Not just yet, old boy,” he said. Morris tried to peer past him, but St. Cyprian blocked his view and hurried her along.
“What—” Morris began, but St. Cyprian brushed past him, heading for the door. Haddo and Booth reached it before him, one to either side. The latter extended a hand, as if to grab hold of St. Cyprian, but Gallowglass got to him first. She caught Booth’s wrist and stomped down on his instep, eliciting a yelp. With barely a twitch of her limbs, she blocked Haddo’s blow, grabbed his tie and sent him crashing into Booth. Both men fell in a heap, and she stepped past them to kick open the door.
“No time to chat, Morris. The Ripper is on his way, and I’d advise you to see to the disposition of your men and hand out the firearms, if you thought to bring any,” St. Cyprian said, picking his way over the incapacitated men.
Morris followed him, barely glancing at Haddo and Booth as he stepped over them. “Wait a moment, what are you planning? What’s going on?”
“What part of that last sentence didn’t you understand?” St. Cyprian said, whirling about and ushering Gallowglass and Andraste past him. “The Ripper attacked my home, with a bit of help, and pursued us here. I know how to defeat him, but I require time to make my preparations, and I need him delayed.”
“Delayed,” Morris repeated. His already pale features went waxy. He glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t think I brought enough men. Will it be as bad as yesterday, do you think?”
St. Cyprian paused. “I know what I’m asking, Morris. And for all that we do not get along you know I wouldn’t ask it, if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”
Morris licked his lips. “Are you certain that you can do this? If I’m endangering these men for nothing, I’ll have your head on a pike outside Whitehall before the blood is dry.”
“Try not to pull anything climbing up on that high horse of yours, Morris.”
“They are valuable assets and the recent economic upheaval—”
“The war, you mean?” St. Cyprian said. “Never mind, I can do this. Unless you’d like to mobilize the mystic might of the Ministry of Esoteric Observation in order to magically combat our malevolent malefactor in my place?” He waited for a moment, then two, and said, “No? Well, then, I guess it’s down to me. All you have to do is buy me a few minutes. I’ll do all the heavy lifting, never fear.”
Morris made as if to reply, but then fell silent. At his core, Morris was as pragmatic as a fishwife and as ruthless as a Central Asian warlord. He merely nodded and then turned away to bellow orders at his men. St. Cyprian headed up the stairs. He took them two at a time.
When he reached the garret, Gallowglass had already begun dragging the detritus out of the way, so that the pentacle that had been drawn on the floor was fully visible. The bodies had been removed earlier the day before, leaving only red stains on the creaking board to mark where they’d been. Gallowglass kicked aside a section of the shattered table and said, “How long, do you think?”
“Minutes, no more than that,” he said, stripping off his coat, after retrieving the Monas Glyph, and rolling up his sleeves. He looked at Andraste, who stood in the middle of the room, her arms wrapped around her shoulders and her eyes closed. “Morris won’t risk his men, or himself, for any longer than that. At least I hope he won’t. Now would be a singularly inappropriate time for him to go above and beyond.” He moved towards Andraste. “Andraste—Aife,” he said softly. “Can you do this?”
“What did he mean, take me into custody?” she said.
“It’s nothing important. We’ll worry about it later. I need you to concentrate. Can you do this?” he said intently. He glanced around. Gallowglass was scrawling a progression of Enochian sigils on the back of the door and the walls with quick strokes of her chalk, even as he’d instructed her, just prior to their arrival. The sigils would, when the door was closed and the progression unbroken, form a crude, temporary spirit-trap. If the Ripper was as weak as he hoped, the sigils would prevent it from escaping.
Her eyes flickered and she shuddered. “You still haven’t said what it is that I’m doing,” she said. “How are we going to send him—it—back?”
“Ideally, we’d have the electric pentacle or a Faraday cage on hand,” he said. “Instead, we’re going to have to do this the old fashioned way.” He gestured to the chalked sigils. “When Stride made a physical connection with your material manifestation, it allowed him to open a crack between the inner sphere and the outer. He used you as a lever, to force the lid up so that he could peek inside. We’re going to duplicate that feat, and convince the Ripper to leave the same way he came in.”
“And how are we going to do that?”
“Our outsider has taken the form of one of Blighty’s nastiest reprobates. One who plied his foul trade in these very streets and alleyways,” he said. He tapped the side of his head. “London remembers.” He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a flat, worn, amulet. It was silver and tarnished by several centuries’ worth of grime. “I used an amulet very similar to this only a day or so ago, to send something dead back into its long sleep. Now, I’ll use this one to wake the dead, if only for a few moments.” He frowned. “Granted, I might die myself in the doing so. I really do wish we’d brought a Faraday cage. I wish we had a Faraday cage, actually. Ms. Gallowglass, make a note—requisition of Faraday cage, urgent.”
“I’ll get on that right after I make your funeral arrangements, shall I?” Gallowglass said. She cracked open her revolver and began to load it with steady fingers. “If you two are in the pentacle, doing your whatsit, what am I supposed to be doing?”
“Keeping the Ripp
er distracted. He’ll be weaker than before, and all the more vicious for it. Eddowes is about used up, unless I miss my guess, and the harder the Ripper pushes, the more quickly the remaining dribs and drabs are squeezed out. The more it’s hurt, the more pain we inflict on it, the more likely it is to jump ship as soon as it steps foot in this room. And then, unless I’m wildly mistaken, we’ll have it bang to rights.”
“Or it’ll have us,” Andraste said.
St. Cyprian took her hand. He felt a slight jolt as he did so, but pushed the thought aside. “It won’t,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze. “Have some faith. After all, I’m the Royal Occultist. Charged by God and His Majesty to see off threats, be they physical, psychical or phantasmal,” he said. Andraste couldn’t restrain a chuckle, and he smiled. She had a lovely chuckle. He gave her hand another squeeze and met Gallowglass’ knowing gaze. She smirked, and he flushed.
He hastily released Andraste and gestured for Gallowglass to follow him to the door. “Casanova, too right,” Gallowglass said. “I knew you fancied her.”
“I fancy a lot of women. I’m a serial fancier. Shut up,” he said irritably. He closed his eyes, marshalling his thoughts. “If the worst happens, if it looks as if we are to be defeated, if it looks as if it’ll take her or me for that matter…” he trailed off.
Gallowglass nodded. “I’ll do what needs doing,” she said. For once, there was no mockery in her tone. Her gaze was placid and certain, but he could hear the edge in her voice. She shifted uncomfortably, her fingers tracing the Seal of Solomon on her Webley. “I won’t like it though.”
“I should hope not,” he said. “I’d hate to be the first incumbent successfully done in by his apprentice.”
“Assistant,” she corrected.
From downstairs, they heard a flurry of shots. Morris had handed out the firearms, as advised. Men yelled, calling for someone to halt, demanding he put the blade down. Screams followed, threading through the yells, and the butcher-sound of a blade chopping through muscle, meat and bone. The Ripper had arrived.
Gallowglass jerked her head. “In the circle with you,” she said. “I’ll make sure he gets up here, right on schedule.”
“Whatever would I do without you,” St. Cyprian said, loosening his necktie.
“Die horribly,” Gallowglass said.
St. Cyprian took up his position in the circle. Andraste sat before him, in a chair. “What if I can’t do it?” she said. “What if I can’t bring it up anymore? What if it took too much from me?”
“Now is not the time for self-doubt,” he said. Then, more comfortingly, he gripped her shoulder. “Stay calm, focus. Deep breaths,” he said.
The sounds from the street were growing louder, and the yells fewer. Morris blundered up the stairs, Haddo on his heels. Booth was nowhere in sight, but St. Cyprian could guess his current disposition from the splashes of red which marred the suits of both men. “Charles,” Morris gasped, his pasty features florid with exertion. “He’s coming. He tore through them like a wild animal.”
“Thank you for the update, Morris,” St. Cyprian said. “If you’d be so kind, please keep back from the circle.” He leaned over Andraste and murmured, “This is it. You’ll be fine. He’ll have to get through me to get to you.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” she said as she grabbed his hand.
Haddo, still on the stairs, fired down at something just out of sight. His eyes widened and he turned to enter the room, but he froze just in the doorway. A dark stain formed on the front of his coat, and he looked down in shock. The tip of the athame slowly emerged from the folds of his coat, shedding buttons as it surfaced. Haddo gasped like a fish flopping about on the bottom of a boat, and reached for Morris, who shied back, mouth working soundlessly. The athame slid upwards with agonizing slowness, opening him from chest to jugular.
The Ripper stepped into the room, and let Haddo fall to the floor. I HAVE YOU, it said. Its voice sounded odd, at once deep and weak, like a roar echoing up through a narrow tube. The edges of its cloak were frayed and insubstantial, as was the crown of its top-hat, all curling away into a thin fog.
“Aren’t you clever,” Gallowglass said. She stood beside the door. She levelled her Webley and fired. The Ripper’s top-hat was plucked from its head in a splash of ectoplasmic fluid, and it spun, gnashing stick-pin teeth in a parody of fury. Gallowglass emptied the cylinder, punching the creature back, tearing divots from its almost insubstantial form with a sound like rocks falling into a bucket of water. The Ripper stumbled and fell, but righted itself almost immediately, rising with a roar. Morris, too close, was caught by a flailing hand and was sent flying into the wall. He crashed down, his useless pistol bouncing from his grip.
“Now,” St. Cyprian said. Andraste closed her eyes. Her mouth sagged open and sweat began to collect on her face and neck. A pale mist issued from her open mouth, and her cheeks became hollow. Her cheekbones stood out in sharp relief as her eyes rolled back in her head. The ectoplasm drifted upwards, rising from her mouth and nostrils and pores. It spilled upwards like smoke from a chimney flue. St. Cyprian gritted his teeth and raised the Monas Glyph. Then, without ceremony, he thrust his hand, glyph and all, into the cloud forming over Andraste’s head. As he did so, he opened his third eye, and let his ectoplasmic energies mingle with those of Andraste, solidifying the link between them. The garret began to soften and spin about him, walls, ceiling and floor dissolving into a storm of tints and hues. “Hold him, Gallowglass—just for a few more moments!” he shouted.
The Ripper shrieked, and its form began to writhe like a patch of oil spreading on water. The only thing that retained any substantiality was the athame, which hissed as it sliced through the air. Gallowglass tossed her pistol aside and plucked her balisong from her coat, flipping it open. “Well,” she said, with an expression which almost mimicked the Ripper’s own, unwavering grin, “Come on and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.”
The Ripper did. The boiling, squirming shape shot across the floor, staggering slightly as it went. Gallowglass ducked under the lunge and pivoted, driving her own blade in and out repeatedly, with a speed that defied sight. The Ripper twisted, and Gallowglass crashed to the floor. She rolled aside as the athame shot down, ripping through floorboards.
The blade came up again and she readied herself to leap aside. But even as she moved, the Ripper’s hand shot out, catching hold of her throat. Gallowglass was hoisted into the air. The Ripper had lost all human seeming, save for its outline. It was all wrong angles and coiling excrescences and champing jaws, a slice of darkest nightmare bubbling out into the waking world. Gallowglass kicked futilely at the Ripper and was rewarded with bloody furrows in her legs for her troubles. Its body split, like the petals of a carnivorous flower, and Gallowglass found herself dangling helplessly over a threshing maw.
18.
Gallowglass thrust upwards with her knife, jamming it into the limb that held her. It released her and she dropped onto all fours. She sprang aside as something that had been a fist smashed down, splintering floorboards. The shadow-stuff of the Ripper dripped upwards to congeal on the walls and ceiling, and it splattered bits of itself about the room, like a dog shaking water from its coat. The room was filled with a haze, as if a fire had been lit somewhere near, and the smoke and bite of it had been blown through the open window. Strange shapes swam through the haze and there was a sound like carriage wheels and whistles.
“I think that’s enough of that,” St. Cyprian said. His voice was hoarse. He moved out from behind Andraste, the Monas Glyph held over his head. It shone with a weird light that served to illuminate his now-cadaverous features. He moved carefully, like a man just up out of his sick-bed. Ectoplasmic shapes moved about him, half-formed and spreading across the walls and floor, stretching towards the Ripper’s own diseased effluvium. “I think, in fact, we have reached the final chapter of this penny dreadful.” He extended his other hand, and the silver amulet dangled from his fingers.
“You know what this is. Even if you don’t, the man you’re riding probably does. Gallowglass, get the door.”
Gallowglass shot to her feet and slammed the door. The sigils chalked on the walls and door began to glow with a similar intensity to the glyph St. Cyprian held. The floor was covered by a roiling carpet of ectoplasmic mist. Faces formed in it, surfacing like the souls which eternally drowned in the Styx, and wraith-like hands reached upwards.
The Ripper hissed. It whipped around, lashing out at the hands that grabbed for it. WHAT IS THIS?
“My last trick,” St. Cyprian said. “In the name of Dis Pater, I summon thee; in the name of Pluto, I bring thee; in the name of Orcus, I raise thee,” he intoned, stepping forward, the amulet thrust out before him. “In the name of Kate Eddowes, Elizabeth Stride, Polly Nichols, Annie Chapman and Mary Kelly, I break thee.”
The Ripper roared and made to reach for him, but the light of the Monas Glyph caused it to shrink back. It spun on its heel and went for the door. Gallowglass stepped into its path, her recovered and reloaded pistol in her hand. The Ripper didn’t slow.
As it advanced towards Gallowglass, the pale foggy stuff of Andraste’s ectoplasm coiled about its writhing limbs. The Ripper screamed, as if its limbs had been dipped in boiling water. More of the pale ectoplasm sought it out, ensnaring it. For a moment, the tableau resembled two knots of snakes fighting, and then the Ripper thrashed free and staggered for the door. Gallowglass made to fire, but the Ripper was on her in a moment, driving her back against the door. She struck out at it, cursing.
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