Lifeblood (12 page)

 

 

T
he fire-eater toppled to the floor like a felled oak, and lay still. Harry dropped the sculpture and winked at Jonathan.

“Pleased to see me?”

He was no longer wearing the black costume he had sported in the Cain Club and the Panopticon, but was dressed in the usual Darkside fashion. His old-fashioned waistcoat and cloth cap struck a strange note in the upmarket London gallery.

“What are you
doing
here?” asked Jonathan.

“I've been tracking you since you first came into
The Informer
office. When you hurried off this morning, I knew it had to be important, so I tagged along behind you.”

“You crossed over through the Heath?”

“Yes. I've never been to Lightside before. This place is crazy! All these cars racing around, not a horse in sight. . .”

“Forget about Lightside!” Jonathan cried angrily. “We thought you were the murderer! You've been following us around, and fighting us, and now you turn up and save my life! What do you think you're doing?”

The amusement faded from Harry's face. “Ah. Well, that's a longer story. I'll tell you when there's time.”

Sol moaned with fear and tried to lift himself up. Harry jerked a thumb at him. “What's up with granddad?”

“He's a Darksider too,” replied Jonathan. “Though I reckon he wishes he wasn't, right now.”

The art dealer raised a hand to his forehead. “Please get out of here,” he said weakly. “Take what you want, but please just go.”

“I don't want to take anything,” Jonathan said firmly. “I just want to look at the Spines. Then we'll go.”

He moved over to the half-opened crate and peered through the gap. Inside there were four or five paintings, separated by thick layers of plastic packaging. One of them had to hold the key to this mystery. He felt his pulse rate quicken.

“This is all 'cause of Edwin?” Sol called over. “What's he done?”

“That's what I'm hoping to find out. He was murdered last week,” Jonathan replied, trying in vain to lift up the lid. “This thing won't budge. Give us a hand, will you, Harry?”

The two boys were wrestling with the lid when a stirring noise alerted them to trouble. Correlli had clambered to his feet and was backing away from them, his eyes unsteady. Leaning back against a crate for support, he pointed a shaky finger at Jonathan and Harry.

“You're going to regret this. Children playing a man's game. You'll get your fingers burnt,” he said. He pulled a brand from his belt and lit it with the smooth movement he had practised so often that he could do it in his sleep, in the depths of the Midnight – or after a ringing blow to the head.

“NO!” Jonathan screamed, but it was too late. Correlli brought the brand to his lips, and rained fire down on the gallery.

Immediately the crates around them began to char and smoke like tinder. The fire-eater smiled with pleasure. Squealing, Sol ran for the exit. Harry charged at Correlli and hurled himself at the heavyset man, hitting him squarely in the chest with his shoulder. Still groggy, Correlli flew backwards into a stack of crates, the brand flying from his hand and sparking off another fire across the other side of the room.

“Come on!” Harry shouted at Jonathan, waving his arm. “We've got to get out of here!”

In a daze, Jonathan obeyed the older boy, and they ran past the fire-eater and out into the safety of the gallery. It was only when they were halfway through the sculpture room that Jonathan's mind cleared and he stopped in his tracks.

“We have to go back!”

“Are you nuts?” cried Harry. “This place is going to burn to the ground!”

“We have to get Edwin's paintings! It's the only way we'll know what my mum found out!”

Harry pointed at the smoke seeping out underneath the storeroom door. “You'll get yourself killed!”

But it was too late. Jonathan was gone.

 

Flames were already raging at the far end of the storeroom, and the heat him like a brick wall. Correlli was nowhere to be seen. Ducking down to avoid the worst of the smoke, Jonathan put a handkerchief over his mouth and headed over to the Spine crate. To his dismay, he saw that most of the paintings were already on fire. Only the one nearest to him, sandwiched between two layers of smouldering packaging, looked retrievable. Wrapping his sleeves over his hands, Jonathan reached inside and carefully lifted it out. The rest of the paintings were burning ever more fiercely: he was going to have to hope this was the right one. He clasped it underneath his arm and turned to leave the storeroom.

A hand snaked across the floor, grabbing Jonathan's ankle. Correlli was sprawled on his belly between two stacks of crates like a waiting predator, his snarling face looming up through the smoke. Yelling with surprise, Jonathan instinctively swung the painting and smacked the fire-eater in the face with the edge of the frame. Correlli grunted, but refused to let go. Jonathan could feel the smoke building up in his lungs; it was getting harder to breathe. He tried to jerk his leg free, but the fire-eater was incredibly strong.

“Let go!” Jonathan shouted, coughing. “Let go or we're both going to die!”

Correlli said nothing, only tightened his grip on Jonathan's ankle. The boy looked around for something he could use as a weapon. He reached over to the closest stack of crates and tried to push the top one. It was incredibly heavy, and the task was only made more difficult by the disorientating effect of the heat and the smoke. One thing was clear, though: if he didn't move it, he was dead. His muscles straining, Jonathan redoubled his efforts and was rewarded with the sight of the crate shifting slowly towards the edge of the stack. Then, with a crash, it fell on top on Correlli, who bellowed with pain. The fire-eater released his grip, and Jonathan was free.

He stumbled towards the exit, tears streaming down his face. His skin felt like it was going to melt. Then he exploded through the door and back into the gallery, where he broke down into a violent coughing fit. Harry swore, and dragged him out of the shop and into the fresh air beyond.

On the pavement outside, Jonathan bent double, trying to reclaim his breath. Passers-by shot the pair startled looks. For now, the blaze was contained within the depths of the gallery, but it wouldn't be long before the elegant gold lettering on the shopfront would be melting into twisted, meaningless shapes.

“Sit down for a minute,” Harry urged.

Jonathan shook his head. “No time. We have to get out of here. The fire brigade will be here soon.”

Harry nodded back at the gallery “What about the other guy? He still in there?”

“Guess so. I don't want to be here if he gets out. Come on.”

Still coughing, he led Harry quickly down the street, as far away the sound of wailing sirens started up.

 

If Alain Starling was surprised to see his son appear at the door with a blackened face and a strangely dressed companion by his side, he hid it well.

“Hello. I had a feeling I'd be seeing you again before too long. Are you OK?”

Jonathan nodded. “Yeah, I'm all right. At least you don't have to worry about me starting smoking. Can we come in?”

They inspected the painting in the safety of the kitchen. Given that he had risked his life to retrieve it, Jonathan was entitled to feel a little disappointed with his prize. Suffering from years of neglect, the painting was caked with grime, which obscured whatever had been originally daubed on the canvas.

Alain wet his thumb and softly rubbed at one corner. “I think this'll come off,” he said. “You go upstairs and tidy yourself up and I'll give this a clean in the meantime.”

“Don't worry about that. I'll give you a hand.”

Alain gave him a stern look. “No, you won't. You'll do what I say. Go on. Hop it.”

This hardly seemed like the time to stop for a wash, but there wasn't anything else he could do. Reluctantly, Jonathan trudged upstairs, feeling younger than he had done in years. When he returned, cleaner, and in a fresh change of clothes, Alain and Harry were sitting in the lounge. The painting had been propped up on the table, and a cloth had been draped over it.

“You took your time,” Harry complained. “Your dad wouldn't let us look at it until you were here.”

“Ready for the grand unveiling?” Alain said.

“Hang on a minute. Before we look at anything,” Jonathan said, turning to Harry, “I want to know why we should trust you. I want to know why you're here, and why you've been following me.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose that's fair enough. Look, I'm not trying to find out who killed Edwin or Nicholas or any of these guys from the Cain Club. And I'm not trying to find out what happened to your mum, either.”

“So what
are
you after?”

“I want to know who killed James Ripper,” Harry said fiercely. “I'm going to find out who it was, and then I'm going to kill them.”

The stark words echoed uncomfortably around the homely surroundings.

“I don't understand,” Jonathan confessed. “He was killed years ago. Why should it matter to you?”

“Because he was my father. He was my father and someone killed him and I will avenge his death.”

Jonathan stood there, stunned by the bald statement. Harry was a Ripper. He had thought the reporter to be nothing more than a preening idiot. But now, with the arrogant façade stripped away, he saw Harry in a new light. He saw an angry, hurt youth hell-bent on revenge, who was more dangerous than any one of them could have guessed. And yet, at this moment, he was an ally.

As silence descended on the room, Harry stared at Jonathan. There were tears in his eyes.

“Is that a good enough reason for you?” he said bitterly.

“Yeah,” Jonathan replied, thinking about his mum. “Yeah, that's good enough for me. So, do you want to see what this painting's about?”

Harry brushed the tears from his eyes, and nodded.

They crowded round the table. Jonathan took hold of the cloth and pulled it away.

There was a pause, and then:

“I know this man,” Alain said, blinking with surprise.

“Yes. I thought it was him,” said Harry.

Jonathan just stared, speechless.

The frame was blackened and the corners of the painting singed, but it was still possible to make out the portrait of a young man, sitting idly in a large armchair. A mask was resting on top of his forehead, and his exposed face carried an expression of thoughtful uncertainty. A brass plate on the bottom of the frame named the painting as
Brother Fleet Comes to a Decision (DY106)
. It was the portrait of a Ripper and a murderer.

It was also, clearly and unmistakably, a portrait of the editor of
The Darkside Informer
, Lucien Fox.

 

 

T
he manicured calmness of Savage Row was a source of great pride for its inhabitants. The quiet informed passers-by that the inhabitants here had acquired enough wealth to avoid the burly comings-and-goings of the Grand, and the everyday scuffling other Darksiders had to endure to make ends meet. Even the storm that was currently ravaging the rest of the borough appeared to be giving Savage Row a respectfully wide berth. Only the rustling of the leaves and the faint shimmering of the streetlamps gave evidence of any sort of life at all.

Until intruders from a much cheaper part of town had the temerity to disturb the silence, that is. Two sets of footsteps echoed underneath the trees: one long and measured, one heavy and laboured. As they progressed down the avenue, Vendetta Heights rose in front of them like a black dragon. As if by some unspoken agreement, the two men came to a halt by a streetlamp, and Savage Row was silent once more.

Arthur Blake licked his lips nervously. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he murmured.

Beside him, Carnegie snorted. “This is a dreadful idea. But you saw Raquella's note, didn't you? If William really is hiding out here, then we haven't got any choice. Anyway, I don't see what you've got to be nervous about. You didn't help the boy and his father nearly kill Vendetta.”

“Nooooo. . .” replied Arthur slowly. “But I
did
write an article about the way his household staff tend to disappear, and suggested there was something fishy going on. By all accounts, he wasn't best pleased. Ever since then I've made staying out of his way a priority.”

“You journalists are all the same. I see that your heroic editor's staying out of harm's way in the carriage back there.” Carnegie jerked a thumb back up the road. “Hope he's warm enough.”

Arthur sighed. “Don't be too hard on Lucien. He's barely well enough to leave the office, let alone creep round a mansion dodging homicidal maniacs.”

“Call me an optimist, but I'm hoping that bit's not going to be too difficult. Vendetta's still recovering, and I doubt he'll be roaming the halls. Now, come on. We're standing out like sore thumbs here.”

Though he was trying to sound confident, Carnegie was on edge. The encounter in the Panopticon had deeply unsettled him. In his mind, he kept replaying the moment the beast had come hurtling down from the watchtower towards him, shrouded in a dark cloud. And now, to make matters worse, he was back at Vendetta Heights. Having helped Jonathan defeat the vampire, Carnegie knew that one day he would be brought to account. He hadn't thought that he would be waltzing back through his front gates only a couple of months later. Not for the first time, Carnegie cursed the fact that he had ever met Jonathan.

As they neared the ivy-strewn stone gates, Arthur dipped into his black burglary bag and pulled out the grappling hook. He was about to start swinging when Carnegie caught his arm.

“I don't think that'll be necessary.”

The wereman pushed against the left-hand gate, which swung smoothly open. He grinned wolfishly at the reporter.

“I know how fond you are of climbing, but seeing as the girl's unlocked the gates for us. . .”

“Are we going to knock on the front door too?” asked Arthur, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Of course not. We're going round to the servants' entrance. Now hush!”

“This is madness,” muttered the reporter, but under his breath.

Careful to avoid crunching up the gravel driveway, the two men padded across the lawn. In front of the mansion, the fountain was bathed in orange light, making the ornate sculpture of a crying child visible in the darkness. A solitary light burned in a window in the tower atop the east wing, like the eye of an evil beast. Aware that on his previous visit here he had been attacked by a swarm of vampire bats, Carnegie anxiously scanned the night sky for activity, but everything was still.

They looped round to the side of the mansion, being careful to stay under the trees near the boundaries of the estate. The servants' entrance was well of out of view from the driveway, down a flight of steps that led into the kitchen. To reach it, they were going to have to have break from the cover of the trees. Refusing to hunch over or run, Carnegie walked boldly across the lawn and straight up to the building, where he descended the steps and found himself in a long, dark room. Arthur followed hot upon his heels, with a look on his face that suggested he'd rather be playing Plummet in the Casino Sanguino than walking through this particular kitchen.

“Mr Carnegie?”

Both men started as Raquella swished out of the gloom like a ghost.

“I'm sorry to startle you.”

“That's all right, my dear. We're a bit nervy tonight.”

“I'm not surprised. The atmosphere in this place tends to put people on edge. My father is waiting for you. Follow me.”

“Where's Vendetta?”

“In bed; asleep, I hope. I don't expect to see him until tomorrow afternoon.”

“I hope you're right,” said Arthur fervently.

The maid led them out of the kitchen, and up a narrow flight of stairs that came out on the ground floor. As they progressed along a corridor, they passed a door that stood slightly ajar. Arthur peered inside, and then whimpered softly. Carnegie glanced over his shoulder, and caught sight of large dark stains across the walls before Raquella closed the door. The beast within him stirred at the familiar scent of blood.

“I wouldn't go wandering around, if I were you,” Raquella said firmly. “I wouldn't want you to get lost, or see anything you're not supposed to.”

Sensing her guests' unease, she ushered them towards a staircase and headed up past the first, second and third floors, and into the tower where they had seen the light burning. Here the stairs began to spiral and the maid's heels clicked on the wooden steps. Carnegie could hear Arthur panting as the paunchy reporter struggled to keep up.

Thankfully, it wasn't long before they spotted light spilling out from underneath a door. Raquella went through it, and gestured for everyone else to follow. A pleasant contrast to the cold confines of the staircase, the room was warm, bright, and simply but elegantly furnished. A small fire crackled merrily in the hearth. And there, in a high-backed chair, idly flicking through a book, was Vendetta.

Raquella gasped.

“Master. . . What are you doing up? I thought you were asleep.”

The vampire gave her an amused, calculating stare. “So I see.” He closed his book with a snap. “I don't mind you inviting friends round, Raquella, but your taste leaves a little to be desired. What do we have here?” Vendetta cast an eye over his maid's companions. “A fat man and a pet mongrel. What a combination! Will they be dining with us?”

“It is late to be eating, sir, but if you are hungry I could. . .”

“I am always hungry, Raquella,” he interrupted. “You of all people should know that.”

Carnegie stepped in front of the maid. “Leave the girl alone. I forced her to let us in. Not her fault.”

The vampire let out a scornful laugh. “Of course you did! It wasn't as if she wrote you a letter telling you her father was here, and you came racing straight over.”

Carnegie glanced at Raquella, who blanched.

“I don't know how he knows,” she protested. “I didn't tell him anything!”

“You didn't need to. Your disloyalty is so predictable. Why do you think I told you about your father in the first place? I knew that you'd run off to Carnegie. I'm only surprised the Starling child isn't here.”

“Well, we're here,” said the wereman gruffly. “What do you want? Where's William?”

“William is fine. He's in a safe place, under lock and key. With a knife to his throat, just in case you get the urge to become all hairy and throttle me.”

“I'll do what I can. My self-control stretches only so far.”

“As does mine,” Vendetta replied, his voice as low and cold as a grave. “If you touch me, the girl's father will have his throat slit. Continue to annoy me, and I might have him killed anyway.”

“I'll ask again: what do you want?”

The room temperature dropped a couple of degrees as the wereman and the vampire stared at each other. Then Vendetta relaxed back into his chair with a smile.

“I was chatting to an old friend of mine from the Cain Club,” he said, inspecting his nails, “and he told me you'd been blundering around there, causing trouble. And now the Gentlemen are being extinguished one by one. (Except for our mutual friend Brother Steel, who's been enjoying my hospitality.) All in all, I have the distinct impression you're in over your head again, Carnegie.”

“It's you, isn't it?” Arthur's voice rang with shock. “You're Brother Fleet!”

The vampire shot the reporter a look of utter disdain.

“‘Brother Fleet?'” he said contemptuously. “Secret societies . . . symbols and special handshakes . . . nothing more than schoolboy games. I have more pressing concerns. No, I am not Brother Fleet.”

“That's a relief,” Carnegie replied. “For a minute there I thought we were in trouble.”

Vendetta chuckled. “In that, at least, we are in total agreement. By my reckoning, it's a matter of hours before you die very painfully. In a strange way, that's what stopped me from having you killed the minute you entered my house. Do you really think we're alone?”

Carnegie pushed his hat up and scratched his forehead. “It appears you have the advantage of us.”

“It does rather. I am looking forward to finding out exactly how much you're going to suffer: it might almost make my recent illness worthwhile.”

“Yes. I heard that you hadn't been feeling well. I do hope life hasn't been
too
hard for you.”

Vendetta bared his fangs and hissed at Carnegie. Arthur edged back towards the door.

“Enough!” spat the vampire. “I would deal with you myself, had I the strength. Get out of here, and take William with you: he is no longer welcome in the house. No matter where you go, it will not take long for Brother Fleet to catch up with you. I am glad you will spend your remaining few hours fleeing like rats.”

“Where is William?”

Vendetta rang a small bell, and a door opened in the wall. A greasy-haired man frog-marched William into the room, one hand wrapped in his hair, the other holding a knife to his throat. Carnegie saw another flash of movement, and noted a third hand poking out from the henchman's waistcoat, holding a small pistol that was trained on the wereman.

“Father!” Raquella shouted.

“I'm all right, child,” William said, with difficulty. “Stay calm.”

“You can let him go now, Yann.”

The greasy man nodded, and stepped away from William. He kept the pistol firmly trained on Carnegie. William Joubert hugged his daughter tightly, then nodded at Vendetta with a familiarity that surprised the wereman.

“Time to leave,” he said briskly. “Raquella will come to no harm?”

“No promises,” Vendetta replied. “I'll see what I can do.”

William looked at his daughter tenderly. “Stay here. Believe it or not, this is the safest place for you right now.”

And with that, he spun on his heel and headed down the stairs.

 

The three men hurried down the driveway of Vendetta Heights and out on to Savage Row. Even as they strode along the broad avenue Carnegie didn't feel any safer for having left the vampire's lair behind. He could smell violence in the air. It was only a matter of time, now. The wereman could feel an invisible net tightening around them all.

Their carriage was waiting for them at the bottom of Savage Row. Lucien was sat up in the driver's seat, his skeletal body muffled against the cold in a thick black overcoat with the collar turned up. As William and Arthur climbed into the carriage, Carnegie went round to speak to the editor.

“You know what you're doing up there?”

Lucien picked up the reins and nodded. “
The Informer's
got a safe house on Puck Avenue, the other side of town. We've used it in the past to interview sources and hide reporters. William should be safe there, for a few days at least.”

“Sounds like a good plan. You'll have to go ahead without me, though. The boy should be back at my office by now. I have a feeling things are going to get very nasty very quickly, and I don't want him on his own.”

“Why don't we just go via Fitzwilliam Street?”

Carnegie shook his head. “No time. William's the priority. I'll catch you up as soon as I can. Don't stop for anything.”

The editor nodded, and tightened his cloak around himself. William called Carnegie over from the carriage window.

“I'm sorry you have been dragged into this. I never helped them, you know . . . killing James. They ostracized me because of it, did everything they could to make my life a misery afterwards. It seems now I will have to pay the ultimate price.”

Carnegie shook his head. “You'll be all right, William. I promise.”

The wereman banged on the side of the carriage, and watched as it sailed off into the night.

 

The storm over the Grand had eased off by the time Carnegie arrived back at Fitzwilliam Street, but pools of brown water were still eddying in the gutters. The wereman splashed across the cobblestones and up the stairs to his lodgings. His night had been so full of surprises that he barely registered the fact that Jonathan was deep in conversation with Harry. At the sight of Carnegie, Jonathan leapt to his feet.

“Where's William?” he asked.

“He's fine. Lucien and Arthur are taking him to a safe house across town. I came here to pick you up and—”

“Oh no!” Jonathan cried, and his face crumpled.

“What is it now?”

It was Harry who responded.