Lifeblood (8 page)

 

 

T
hat night, tossing and turning in his old bed, his feet twitching underneath the covers, Jonathan was stalked through his dreams by a nightmarish creature that was part beast, part fire, and part shadow. He could hear the tramp of its feet as it hunted: slow and purposeful footfalls that never hurried, and never stopped. Jonathan wanted to run, but he felt as if his feet were trapped in mud. In his dream, places from his past merged seamlessly together. With agonizing slowness, he turned off the Grand and came out on to the playground from his old school. On the other side of the tarmac was the glasshouse at Vendetta Heights. Jonathan stumbled past that until he reached the offices of
The Darkside Informer
, where the beast finally came to a halt. A wave of relief passed over Jonathan, until he looked back over his shoulder and saw why it had paused. Theresa was working at her old desk, her back to the beast. The beast growled softly, and padded towards her. . .

Jonathan woke up shouting and drenched in sweat. Later, revelling in the powerful jets of the shower, he resolved to go back to Darkside as soon as possible.

He said his goodbyes that morning. The sky was grim, and heavy with bulging clouds. Jonathan hugged his dad at the end of the driveway, while Mrs Elwood moped gloomily around in the background.

“I'm sorry you have to go so soon,” said Alain.

“Yeah. Me too. But I can't stop until I find out what's going on.”

“At least let us take you back to the crossing point.”

“Nah. I'll be fine. It's a long journey, and you need to build up your strength. And anyway,” Jonathan added with a smile, “I don't want you getting all soppy on me in public.”

Alain grinned. “Fair enough.”

“Make sure you send word to us as often as you can,” Mrs Elwood called out. “We need to know you're OK!”

“I will. Try not worry. I've got Carnegie with me.”

She pulled a face. “That's not much of a reassurance.”

Alain hugged him again, and looked him straight in the eye. “I'm very proud of you,” he said softly. “You know that, don't you, son?”

Jonathan nodded, a lump in his throat, and walked hurriedly away. He didn't look back as he carried on down the street, scared that he might change his mind. There was a part of him that would have liked to have stayed in the house for a while – until Christmas, maybe even beyond that. Maybe he could have forgotten all about Darkside, with its gruesome inhabitants and ever-present danger. After all, Jonathan couldn't say for sure what he was going to do when he got back there. It was clear that his mum had seen something here that had sent her hurrying back to Darkside, but what? He had a gut feeling that it was connected to the Gentlemen and James Arkel's death, but there was no way of proving it.

However, as he headed down into the Underground and boarded a train, there was one thing Jonathan was sure about. He had heard his mum speak for the first time, a lilting voice coloured with an Irish accent, and he had never felt closer to her. School and normality would have to wait. He
had
to find out what had happened to his mum.

 

Elias Carnegie could feel the animal rising within him.

It was late afternoon on Fitwilliam Street. Tension reigned. Gusting winds whisked sheets of an old edition of
The Informer
into spirals high up in the air, while cobblestones echoed to the drumming of horses' hooves. The sun was dipping behind gap-toothed roofs and, as a parting gesture, slanted a weak ray of light across the wereman as he strode across the street, seemingly oblivious to the carriages that hurtled past him, missing him by inches.

Carnegie's senses had sharpened so much he was in danger of being overwhelmed: the scent of horse dung smeared on a washerwoman's skirts; the sound of a coin being tapped absentmindedly against a lamp post far down the street; the outline of a weapon in a gentleman's jacket. But above all that, he was acutely aware of flesh and blood all around him. Carnegie had spent the day in his lodgings going back over the details of the Rafferty case, and had forgotten to eat. Now the raging animal inside him was hungry, and he had to satisfy it before it consumed him.

Every day was a battle between the two sides of his nature. Sometimes Carnegie felt so weary that he wanted to give in, and revel in the power and the simple pleasures of the beast. Life seemed so much easier when he changed form. There were no grey areas: just black and white – and red. He wondered whether Jonathan could ever understand how difficult it was for him. For all his fondness for the boy, there were times when Carnegie looked at him and saw merely fat, muscle and bone. At those moments, Jonathan's life hung by a thread.

Dark thoughts. Carnegie moved swiftly into the butcher's shop and caught the attention of the man behind the counter with a curt gesture. Col's cheery greeting died in his throat. He gestured grimly at Carnegie to go through to the meat locker, then, after he had passed out of sight, tucked a large cleaver into his belt before turning to the next customer.

Though he was aware of his breath steaming in the cold environment of the freezer, Carnegie didn't register the change in temperature. He was focused on the slabs of meat that hung down from the ceiling. He cast an expert eye over them, before selecting the closest to him. Suddenly the shabby private detective was gone, and a ravenous animal was ripping and tearing at the slab with sharp claws and teeth, gobbling down strips of meat without thought or feeling, barely even chewing. Dried flecks of blood stained his face and his hands.

It was as he was licking his fingers clean that Carnegie realized he wasn't alone. The cold had numbed his sense of smell, but he could just make out the sound of shallow breaths coming from somewhere in the room. The wereman grinned viciously.

“I'm not full yet,” he called out. “I can always find room for warm flesh. Why you don't come out from your hiding place, whoever you are, and let's talk about it?”

On the other side of the room, Raquella stepped out from behind a meat rack. She was dressed in a black outfit – thick woollen overcoat, hat, scarf and gloves – that stood out against the stark white backdrop of the freezer. The colour had drained from her face: maybe from cold, maybe from fear. By contrast, blood was galloping through Carnegie's veins. Barely resisting the urge to lunge at the girl, the wereman slowly raised an eyebrow.

“A friendly face. That's a surprise.”

“I'm sorry for disturbing you, Mr Carnegie, but it was an urgent matter.”

“So I can imagine. I must be getting predictable in my old age. I trust you haven't been waiting long for me?”

“An hour, maybe two. Not long.”

Carnegie ran his tongue over his canines. Somewhere within his soul, a voice urged him to stay still, not to kill this one, to ask another question. . .

“How did you get in here?”

“I dodged past the butcher when he wasn't looking. It wasn't difficult.”

“It might sound a bit old-fashioned, but you could have just come up to my lodgings.”

She shook her head. “No one must know I've seen you. It's not just Vendetta – there are other considerations. . .”

Her voice was trembling, but she held herself together, standing upright and looking Carnegie right in the eye.
She works for Vendetta
, he reminded himself.
She has faced death before
. The wereman could feel his pulse rate starting to drop, and the first drops of compassion seep back into his bloodstream.

“You watched me eat?”

She nodded.

“My apologies. My table manners aren't the best.”

Raquella smiled for the first time. “You needn't apologize, Mr Carnegie. I have a small brother. Believe me when I say I've seen worse.”

Carnegie laughed huskily, and with a growl the beast inside him retreated back into a dark corner.

“Come on. We can't talk here. Let's think of a way to smuggle you back to my lodgings.”

 

From his vantage point at the window of Carnegie's lodgings, Jonathan watched the wereman as he left the butcher's shop and crossed the street, carrying a huge hunk of meat wrapped in white cloth in his arms. The journey back from Lightside had been uneventful, but it had taken an age to get back to Fitzwilliam Street from Lone Square. As he moved through Darkside, Jonathan could feel the fetid atmosphere of the borough reclaiming him, sliding underneath his fingernails and nestling in his hair. He didn't want to admit it, but it wasn't an entirely unpleasant sensation.

He drew back from the window as he heard Carnegie stamping up the staircase. The wereman kicked his door open, struggling with the huge bundle of meat in his arms, and noted Jonathan's presence with equanimity.

“Oh. You're back. Close the curtains, boy.”

Jonathan did as he was told, consigning the office to darkness. He went over to the wall and turned on a couple of gas lamps. As Carnegie gave up his struggle with his package and dropped it on the floor, Jonathan noted the flecks of blood dripping from his mouth, and the unfocused, bestial look in his eyes. There was a movement amid the streams of white cloth – a flailing black boot and a familiar shock of flaming red hair.

“Raquella! Are you OK?”

Jonathan glanced at Carnegie – was he eating his acquaintances now? The wereman noted his wide-eyed stare and snorted.

“Don't worry, boy. I'm full.”

“I wasn't . . . it was just. . .” Jonathan guiltily scrabbled around for something to say.

“Don't help me up, then!”

Raquella fought her way out of the cloth and got to her feet, smoothing down her clothes in an attempt to regain her composure. She cast a baleful look at Carnegie, before turning her attention to Jonathan.

“You're a real gentleman,” she said tartly. “I thought you Lightsiders were meant to have manners?”

“I'm just surprised to see you, that's all. What are you doing here? Won't Vendetta kill you if he finds out?”

“He's still recovering. And, as you can see, we took precautions.” She glanced sideways at Carnegie. “Though I find it hard to believe that was the best way.”

The wereman shrugged. “You're here, aren't you? Now, why don't you tell us what's going on?”

Raquella sighed, and sat down. She bowed her head for a few seconds, and when she looked up, Jonathan was shocked to see tears running down her cheek.

“It's my father,” she said desperately. “He's gone missing. Or worse. I don't know. You've got to help me find him!”

 

 

H
umphrey Granville sat back in his chair and licked his lips with anticipation. Tonight promised to be an unforgettable occasion. He had gone to great lengths in preparation, squeezing himself into an immaculately cut dinner jacket that bore the scars of battle with a thousand fine meals. He had dragged a comb through his hair and slicked it down with handfuls of grease. He had donned his finest bone cufflinks – the left one in the shape of a knife, the right a fork. Only the crumbs in his moustache betrayed Humphrey's more dishevelled day-to-day appearance.

The main dining room of The Last Supper, Darkside's most exclusive restaurant, hummed with contentment. Because there were only five tables in the restaurant – arranged in a pentagram – it was notoriously difficult to get a booking. Those diners fortunate enough to make a reservation kept silent about the fact for fear of having their identity stolen. Humphrey had been on the waiting list for five long years. He had been taking tea at the Savoy Hotel when word came through that he had finally got a table. It was all he could do to stop himself doing a jig with glee. Immediately, Humphrey had set about organizing the trip back to Darkside.

He looked at the menu again. Choosing had not been easy, and it was impossible not to have second thoughts. Perhaps the seared raven might have been a better choice, or the renowned weasel risotto. Gaston La Guerre, the head chef of The Last Supper, was a foul-tempered ogre of a man, whose short fuse was matched only by his culinary perfectionism. There were many tales of unfortunate kitchen hands whose mistakes had led to their fingernails garnishing the soup of the day. Humphrey hoped that Gaston was on particularly fine form that evening.

Although everything should have been perfect, Humphrey had to admit that he was feeling troubled. The whole business with Nicholas was getting under his skin. He should never have listened to him. The problem was, ever since the Gentlemen had first come together in the Cain Club, Humphrey had desperately sought Nicholas de Quincy's approval. Though they moved in the same refined circles, the Granvilles were gatecrashers who had stumbled into money through the deeply unglamorous business of pawnbroking. The aristocratic de Quincy – heir to a long-established blackmail fortune – never managed to disguise his contempt for Humphrey. He sneered constantly about his weight, his low connections and his rudimentary manners. Humphrey was a jovial man, but in his darker moments even he had considered trying to bump Nicholas off.

After the murder of James Arkel, and the discovery that he was a Ripper, Darkside descended into anarchy. The Bow Street Runners, Thomas Ripper's feared henchmen, stalked the streets, arresting anyone who crossed their path. Panicking, the Gentlemen had fled their separate ways. While Humphrey raced over to Lightside, Edwin descended down the steps of the Midnight. Brother Steel – the one Gentleman Humphrey could genuinely say he liked, and the one Gentleman who had refused to take part in the plot – was ostracized by the rest of the group. Humphrey had neither seen nor heard from him again.

Only Nicholas – Brother Heart – had kept calm, and kept the counsel of Brother Fleet. It was he who found out that Fleet was James's brother, a Ripper also. And it was Nicholas who reappeared in Humphrey's life ten years later, with a typically underhand blackmail plot. A de Quincy asking a Granville for assistance! Humphrey's chest swelled with pride as he accepted. However, as things turned out, it was a decision he had begun to regret even before Edwin was murdered.

Not that the same could happen to him – Humphrey had taken precautions. He checked over his shoulder, and was reassured to see the gigantic form of Jol standing impassively in the shadows. Jol was the most expensive bodyguard in Darkside, and was renowned for never letting one of his clients come to harm. Humphrey snorted. These were dangerous times, but Humphrey Granville knew what he was doing. There was no way that he was going to let anyone ruin his life, or stop him from enjoying his meal.

When the first course arrived, he knew that he wasn't going to be disappointed. The shark pâté smelled divine, and tasted even better. As he let it settle on his tongue, Humphrey detected a sharp flavouring that even he – the greatest gourmand in Darkside – couldn't identify. Gaston was indeed a master of his craft. He took a sip of wine and lingered over each mouthful.

The next two hours drifted languidly by in a glorious procession of tastes and sensations. Humphrey almost felt he was dreaming. He forgot all about Edwin and Jol, his attention consumed by the dishes that passed in front of him. The waiters were shadows that flitted in and out of the lights, clearing away dishes before the diners had even noticed them. With the arrival of each course came titters of excitement and gasps of surprise from the four tables around Humphrey. They chattered ceaselessly. Humphrey could never understand why anyone would want to disturb the enjoyment of their food by having company: he preferred to dine alone.

The sixth course was delivered with the lights turned low, to highlight the spectacle of the flambéed jellyfish. As he stared into the flickering flames, Humphrey reluctantly admitted that all this rich food was taking its toll. He was beginning to feel woozy. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow. Perhaps eating a second hyena steak had been a bad idea. Humphrey steeled himself and took a large gulp of water. This was ridiculous! The meal of a lifetime, and he was flagging by the sixth course! He picked up his knife, and attacked the jellyfish with renewed gusto.

His reverie was interrupted by a chilling scream from the kitchen. Humphrey looked up fearfully at Jol. The hulking bodyguard lumbered forward to investigate, crashing through the swing doors that led into the kitchen. Humphrey's earlier mood of defiance was ebbing away, unease growing like his feeling of indigestion. For all his bullishness, the fact remained that Edwin had been brutally murdered in an alleyway, and there was no way of knowing whether that would be the end of the matter. Though they had known Brother Fleet for years, he was still a Ripper, and therefore capable of anything. Humphrey dabbed at his face with a napkin. The floor felt like it was tilting, as the tables revolved around him like some sort of carnival ride.

Jol returned from the kitchen with a blank expression on his face.

“What's going on in there?” asked Humphrey nervously.

“Turned out one of the golden eagles they're going to fry wasn't as dead as everyone thought it was. It attacked one of the sous chefs.”

“Is everything all right now?”

“I guess so. They're both dead.” Jol passed a critical eye over his client. “You OK? You don't look so good.”

“Yes, yes. I'll be fine. Just make sure there's no one watching me.”

“How's the food?”

Humphrey glared at him irritably. “You'll never know. Now go away and leave me in peace.”

As Jol retreated Humphrey placed his head in his hands. The bodyguard was right – he was feeling unwell, and increasingly rattled. There was no need to snap at his only protection. The room was beginning to spin faster and faster, making him feel disorientated. His stomach was bubbling furiously, and the sharp flavour he had detected in the shark pâté had reclaimed his mouth.

“Jol?” he groaned.

The bodyguard was by his side in a flash. “What's up?”

“I don't feel well.” He groaned again, clutching his stomach. “I think someone might have put something in the food.”

“Right. Let's get out of here.”

Jol wrapped an arm around the portly man, hauled him to his feet, and led him towards the swing doors at the back of the restaurant.

“Where are we going?” asked Humphrey weakly.

“Too many people out front. We're leaving through the service exit.”

The bodyguard manoeuvred the pair of them through the doors and into the kitchen of The Last Supper. The room was in a state of bedlam. Chefs in long, greasy aprons ran up and down the narrow gangways, shouting and threatening each other with kitchen knives. Rows of ovens churned out heat like a blacksmith's forge. Clouds of steam billowed from pots rattling on the oven tops, while jets of flame shot from blackened frying pans. In the chaos, no one seemed to notice the interlopers.

Jol pushed Humphrey on through the kitchen, and into the cavernous pantry at the back of the building. The size of a small barn, the gloomy pantry was home to stockpiles of raw ingredients and tethered wild animals. The floor was splattered with grain and rotten vegetables. Glancing around to make sure the area was safe, Jol sat Humphrey down on a sack of potatoes.

“Sit tight. Going back in to check something.”

“Don't leave me!” Humphrey quivered, but it was too late. Jol had slipped away, closing the door behind him. Humphrey shivered violently. The draughty pantry was worse than the boiling kitchen. He was definitely coming down with some sort of fever. Sweat was running down his face in rivulets.

There was a rustling sound from behind a grain mountain.

“Hello?” Humphrey called out. “Who's there?”

There was a cawing sound in reply. He relaxed a little. Just one of the birds. It must have been one of the exotic items on the menu, for he didn't recognize the sound of its call.

The bird cawed again, more insistently this time. The thought occurred to Humphrey that, if someone was after him, the noise might attract their attention.

“Ssh!” he hissed. “Nice birdie! Sssh!”

The bird cawed again, as if it were playing some sort of game.

“If you don't shut up I'll eat you raw!”

A piercing shriek filled the pantry, battering Humphrey's eardrums. There was the sound of flapping wings, and then to his horror he saw a wave of darkness rolling through the air towards him. Frozen with fear, Humphrey barely had time to shield himself before the cloud enveloped him. The smell of rotting meat filled his nostrils, and he felt a slicing pain down the side of his face. Humphrey fell to his knees, blood streaming down his cheek. From somewhere within the cloud, the creature shrieked again, in triumph this time.

Overcome with panic, Humphrey looked up to see the black shape swooping up into the rafters, banking round to come at him again. He staggered to the pantry door and turned the handle. It was locked. He rattled the door violently, screaming at the top of his lungs, but no one came running to help him, and he was too weak to break it down. Humphrey slumped sobbing on to the floor, defenceless in the face of whatever nightmare was hidden in the darkness. The last thing that ran through his mind before the creature descended on him was: where had his bodyguard gone?

 

Jol turned the key in the lock, and walked away from the pantry door. He had no intention of listening to the carnage. It was enough to put a man off his dinner. He returned to Granville's table and settled back in the chair, which creaked as it struggled to deal with the bodyguard's vast weight. In an unlikely display of refinement, he unfolded a napkin and tucked it into his collar.

A waiter emerged from out of the kitchen and swept up to the table.

“Has sir's companion left?” he asked politely.

“I'm afraid so,” Jol replied. “And he won't be returning. How many courses are left?”

“Still seven to go.”

“Good. How's the food?”

The waiter smiled. “Haven't you heard, sir? They say it's good enough to die for.”