The Ripper Affair (Bannon and Clare) (24 page)

A
chanting, low and sonorous, a faint brushing against her skin as ætheric force crawled over her. She lay perfectly still, returning to consciousness much as a trickle might fill a teacup.

She was not in her bed.

How odd. I cannot move.
Sorcerous and physical constraints, certainly, and a Prime’s displeasure at being held so would no doubt begin to fray her temper before long. The said fraying would loosen her control in short order, and she would quickly become a frantic struggling thing, robbed of much of her mental acuity.

Unless she resisted.

Do as Clare does. Observe. Deduce. Analyse. I am only temporarily helpless.

It did not help quite as much as she might have wished.
She slowly raised her eyelids, training twisting its sharp hold deeper into her physical frame as her pulse struggled to quicken and her breathing sought to become shallow sips.
None of that now. Look about you
.

Her eyelids were not paralysed, though she could not turn her head. At first there was only an umber glow, but as she blinked, testing the confines of the restraints for any weakness in a purely reflexive unphysical movement, shapes became visible.

There was movement, and the chanting came to a natural end, dying away.

A slight hiss. The movement became a gleam on a knife blade, and Emma studied the tableau before her.

A black-clad back, one shoulder hitched high with a heavy hump upon it, claw-like gloved fingers. He stood before a large, squared chunk of obsidian, the lighting from wicks floating in cuplike oil-lamps instead of proper witch- or gaslight.

The wall she could see was of rough stone, the masonry old enough to be the work of the Pax Latium. The sounds were odd–what reached her through the distortion of shimmering sorcerous restraints echoed as if they were underground. Of course, Londinium’s first burning and rebuilding had been courtesy of the Latiums. Even Britannia had not resisted them completely, or forever.

The shape before the obsidian stone–it looked much like an altar, she realised–turned with a queer lurching motion.

At first she feared the sorcerous restraints were affecting
her vision, or the foul substance he had used upon the rag had lingering aftereffects. But no. Everything else was in its proper, if shabby and worn, dimensions.

She watched his painful movements. Above the black altar–light fell
into
the stone and died, no reflection marred its surface–was a shifting, smoky substance hanging, moving in time to a slow beat very much like a sleeping pulse. She studied it more closely, and caught flashes.

Coal-bright eyes, extra-jointed fingers. Dead-pale flesh peeking through shabby coat and worn, knitted gloves. Neatly coiled atop the obsidian was the whip, the sharp barbs at the end of its long fluid flow pulsing as well with sickly blue-white flashes. The knife, slightly curved by much whetting, stood, quivering upright, balanced on its point. Occasionally, the smokelike suggestion reached down to stroke the rough, leather-wrapped handle, and a bloody flush would slide down the gleaming blade.

Ah. I see.
It was a marvellous thing, to bring a spirit from nothing in this manner. All it took was the will to do so, and enough ætheric and emotional force. The trouble was, most such spirits tended to be malformed things, working only in a very limited way, as a golem or a Huntington’s Chaser or even a
necros vocalis
.

Sorcery’s children were cautioned to never let such a spirit grow too strong, for the trembling border between slave to a sorcerer’s will and sentience could be breached after enough time and force had become the creature’s ally.

And then… well. Better to create a new slave than have one grow too powerful and turn against its Maker.

Yes, she decided. Quite interesting. It was most certainly a Promethean. Difficult to create, a thousand things could go awry during the process. Also, it approached sentience very quickly. Why had she not thought of this possibility?

Because a sorcerer would have to be mad to attempt such a thing. It had to be fed, frequently. When those of Disciplines blacker than the Diabolic, malformed but drawing breath just the same, had achieved the status of gods among some benighted primitive clans, the accepted food for such constructs was the most tender and innocent of all, plucked from grieving mothers’ breasts. Without such regular nourishment, the spirit would turn on its creator and roam free, gathering strength from casual, wanton murder. The æther around it would tangle and grow clotted, and it would eventually collapse under the weight of that curdling. Some whispered that the sorcerer queen of Karthago had created such a spirit to wage her desperate war against the Pax Latium, and that the blight surrounding that fabled lost city was a result of her death before she could bring it to a second, monstrous birth.

For there was one thing that set a Promethean apart from other created spirits. It could, if certain conditions were met, merge with its creator, and become something…
other
. Emma strained her well-trained memory, for once ignoring her own pulse as it quickened. She had, of course, under careful Collegia tutelage, studied several pages of books those of Disciplines other than the Black could not open. Her own Discipline, deeply of the Black, twitched slightly inside her as it recognised something akin to it.

That is why, when I disturbed its feeding-site, it became attuned to me. How very interesting.

“She’s awake.” There was a harsh, grating laugh, and the hunched figure straightened, stretching. Creaks and crackling, bulging and rippling, and parchment-pale hair fell to his shoulders. A terrible raddled face slowly came forward into a circle of smoking lamplight, and she recognised him afresh. “And so prettily, too.”

She knew him. How could she not? The questions that had nagged at her for so long now had an opportunity to be answered.

Broad shoulders, one hitched much higher than the other. The black-clad chest bulged obscenely on one side, the cloth cut away to show a latticework of Alteration: arched ribs of scrolled, delicate iron and the dull reddish glow of a stone, curved on one side and flat on the other.

She recognised that as well.

For before she had wrenched it free of her flesh and married it to Archibald Clare’s, she had borne one just like it. A Philosopher’s Stone, made from a wyrm’s heart. Wyrms were held outside of Time’s river by their very nature, and a youngling’s heart was powerful proof against most ills.

So he
had
possessed two after all.

Llewellyn Gwynnfud, Lord Sellwyth, returned from the dead, creaked as he bent over her.

Now she could see the thin, fleshy filaments spinning out from the ruins of shattered ribs, the wet gleam of organs
rebuilding themselves under a carapace of Alterative sorcery. His gloved fingers reached down, most of them broken stubs coming to small points as they regrew, and he reached through the blurring of sorcerous restraints to touch Emma’s hair. It was an oddly gentle caress.

Had he ever bothered to remain so tender, he might have had Emma’s loyalty, instead of a young queen who would eventually insult her past bearing.

She sought to speak. Nothing came out–of course, she was gagged and silenced. A trickle of saliva slid from the corner of her cruelly bound mouth, pooling under her cheek. She could feel splintered wood underneath her, a hard surface holding her up from the floor. From the wet sound he made when he moved, she supposed she should be grateful.

“And she recognises me,” he croaked. No wonder he had gone about muffled up to solicit the Coachman’s initial victims. “You should see your expression, darling one.”

Her brain began to race, furiously. The beginning of the Plague affair; she had felt another Prime in Victrix’s receiving room. She had assumed–oh, how Clare would chide her for that!–it was one of Victrix’s creatures, as she herself had been. The sense afterwards she had of being watched, the unseen hand that had aided her in unravelling the whole affair… of course, he would have wanted her safe and whole for his own plans. How he must have laughed. Perhaps he knew she did not possess the
other
Stone at this moment. Did he guess? What could he know?

The most likely solution was that he had bargained
somewhat with Thin Meg. Or found some means to exert some pressure upon that unlovely creature.

What could such a Prime, who had been torn apart by his own sorcery after his erstwhile lover had literally stabbed him from behind, not accomplish, if he possessed the will to rebuild his shattered body?

The pain must have been incredible. She had found only bleached bones scattered about the tower in Wales where he had sought to bring one of the Timeless to the surface. Had some of them been his, twitching towards each other as he gathered strength?

What must he have
felt
?

“I have followed your career with much interest.” His teeth had regrown, straight and pearly. His lips were scarred, but the scars would no doubt recede, given enough time. As his body regrew he would no doubt shed the Alterations. Had he performed them himself? The Transubstantive exercises would surely yield to his patience, if not his skill or Discipline. “You broke my heart, you know.”

Oh, I doubt that. You were dallying with that French tart and later with Rudyard, while you amused yourself with me. Had you been honest, we might have made an agreement. And had you not accused me of a hand in said tart’s death, I may have forgiven you.
She calmed her pulse, drew in what air she could slowly and deeply. Thankfully the sorcerous restraints kept her nose clear; he did not wish her to suffocate.

Yet
, she reminded herself.

“Do you wonder why I have not simply killed you outright?” His chin bobbed as he nodded, fat snakes of his matted hair brushing his shoulders with avid little whispers. “You have been well guarded for a very long time. That thing you keep as a Shield, oh, my dear. Quite resourceful, and quite dangerous.” He smiled fully, a tear in his cheek widening before sealing itself with a wet sound. “But that is
not
the reason. I have plans for you, my love. Wonderful plans. I am going to give you a gift.” The smile widened. “And then,” Llewellyn Gwynnfud continued, “you will give me the
world
.”

T
he tiny little court growing from Dorsitt Street was crammed with bluecoated bobbies and others, jostling and elbowing. It was better than the crush outside, where it seemed every criminal, unfortunate, or poor tradesman in Londinium had come to gawk. Aberline’s authority carried them to a hacked-apart door guarded by a very pale young man in bluecloth. There was a large wet stain to one side of the door, and a broken window.

Clare’s heart sank. He shook off sentiment, steeled himself, and peered into the darkness.

Beside him, Pico made a strangled noise. The lad turned, fumbled past the bobby, and heaved just where a similar viewer of the scene had, right onto the wet reeking splash that should have been covered by Scab.

The lad’s eyes had been better than his. He took two
uncertain steps, lifting the lanthorn one of the Yard men outside had surrendered to Aberline.

There was a low punky glow from the fireplace. The kettle on the hob had melted, warped by unimaginable heat.

Beside him, Aberline cursed softly. There was a rancid burp rising in Clare’s throat, he denied it.

Behind them, Mikal’s step was soundless, but his presence pushed against Clare’s back, along with prickles of gooseflesh.

The glimmers described…

Long dark curling hair, knocked free of its womanly confinement. Nakedness, indecent enough, but the gaping hole and shredded flesh… flayed thighs, the white gleaming of bone, the marks where a dexterous knife had dug in and the thing had feasted… feasted upon…

Control yourself, Clare.
He realised, quite calmly, that he had handed the lanthorn to Aberline. Crazy shadows danced over the rotting walls. There was a hole in one corner of the room, the floorboard wrenched up.

He found his busy fingers working his left glove off.

There was very little that could shock or disgust a mentath. He realised, foggily, that he had perhaps found one way to do so. His faculties shivered under the assault, and he was very, very close to becoming a useless, porridge-brained idiot.

He brought his left hand to his mouth and bit in, savagely.

The pain of teeth in flesh was a bright arrow, striking the centre of his brain. It shocked him into some manner
of rationality, and he found himself with a mouthful of bloody saliva, staring at the battered body on the bed.

Aberline had said something. Mikal’s reply was a short, grating curse. The Shield had approached the bed, his shoulders rigid, and bent closer. How he could stand to have his face so near the…

Clare bit down again. It worked, but only just. He blinked, furiously, shutterclicks of dim, roseate light striking him as fists. The face had been stabbed, cheeks laid open, the teeth…

Wait
.

Mikal’s gaze met his. The Shield had turned from the bed, and the colourless sizzle around him was rage.

The teeth. They were not pearly little perfect white soldiers standing on their curved, rosebud-pink hills. They were discoloured, one or two under the opened flaps of cheekflesh decayed. The shape of the ear he could see was wrong as well, and it bore no hurtful little mark of piercing for bright earrings to dangle from.

The relief threatened to do what the sight of the body had not, and drive him to his knees. He swayed, the lanthorn swinging crazily again as Aberline caught his arm.

The hand that lay curiously unmarked to one side was small and delicate, but it was not soft, nor did it bear the indentation of rings. Chapped and reddened, it was a hand that had seen much weather and some measure of hard work.

His faculties, shocked, began functioning again. “Ah.” He cleared his throat, again, and the smell struck him. The
bowels had been opened… had the creature eaten them, too, and whatever offal they contained?

How very interesting
.

Mikal read his expression, and the Shield actually staggered as well. When he regained his equilibrium, he strode across the room. He brushed past Clare like a burning wind, sparing Aberline only the briefest of glances, and halted in the doorway.

“Mentath?”

Clare found his voice. “It is… it is not. Her. It is not her.”

Mikal nodded, once. “Work quickly.” He stepped outside, and Clare wondered if he would lose whatever dinner he had partaken of as well. There was a murmur–Pico, and Mikal’s toneless reply.

What work is to be done here?
But he knew. There had to be some clew, some small detail that would lead them in the proper direction. Miss Bannon evidently had faith in his abilities, and was trusting her life to him.

Unfortunately, a mentath suffering irrational waves of Feeling would have even more difficulty untangling a sorcerous crime than one who was not so burdened by… relief? Hope? What
was
the dashed word for it?

It did not matter.

“Are you certain?” Aberline, curiously hushed. “Or did you tell him so because…”

“I am quite certain.” Clare drew in a deep breath, wished he had not. He examined the kettle on the hob, melted and scarred. Scraps of charred cloth–had he burned her dress
to give himself light? Or was it sorcerous in nature? “What do you make of this?”

Aberline drew the lanthorn closer. He cast an uneasy glance at the bed, with its hideous cargo. “Perhaps to delay her identification? Or some sorcerous reason… or perhaps he needed light to work by.”

“The creature preferred darkness before. What sorcerous reason?”

“See the rings in the metal, there? And there? Chrysfire. Untraceable, unlike witchflame.” Aberline dug in his pocket, wiped his forehead with a wilting handkerchief. “It bears little stamp of the kindler’s personality. Sorcery is a distinctly
personal
art.”

“Miss Bannon often remarked as much.” Clare crouched, Aberline holding the lanthorn higher to shed some gleams upon the charred mess. “Quite a bit of cloth. None of it the quality that a lady might wear.”

Aberline glanced back at the bed, struck by a thought. “Her teeth. Of course. It cannot be her. I am a fool. Well, what do we do now? I confess I am at a loss.”

“You will not like the direction my thoughts are tending.”

“I fancy I won’t.”

“Most poppy users reserve a small amount, rather in the manner of a talisman against want of the substance.”
As do most users of coja.
Perhaps a fraction of that sweet white powder would help. Clare shut the thought away. “Do you?”

“You are correct.” Aberline had gone pale. “You wish me to…”

A gleam caught Clare’s eye. He leaned forward.
How odd
. “A button,” he murmured. “A very familiar one, at that.”

“What?” Mystified, Aberline nevertheless lowered the lanthorn a touch.

“Why on earth would the creature burn its own coat, too?” He settled on his heels. “Mikal. He might know.” The ashes were still warm, but Clare’s fingers had lost none of their deftness. He tossed the button from palm to palm, rather like a baked potato, and saw with some satisfaction that he was correct. It had the faint impress of a ship’s anchor upon its false-brass face, and though deformed by heat it was indubitably the same button the Coachman-thing had worn upon its coat.

“In any case,” he continued, “this is an item from the creature’s coat. I believe a physical object can be of use in finding a certain person’s location?”

“Sympathy? I have none of the power for such an operation.” Aberline had gone quite pale.

“Let us hope Mikal does.” Clare straightened, rising. “For he may compel you to attempt, power or no.”

A few questions elicited the most likely name of the unfortunate upon the bed–Marie-Jinnete, surnamed Kelly, also called Black Mary. She had retired to her room after dark with a customer, and not been discovered until one of her other suitors or customers returned to batter at her door and make quite a scene, thinking her unfaithful.

Which of course she was, and had paid harshly for it.
She had been many shillings behind on the rent for the sad little corner she inhabited, which no doubt led to the decision to peer through the broken window, and consequently force the door.

The missing sorceress had most likely been nowhere near this corner of Whitchapel during the night.

The Shield’s face was as white as Aberline’s, and just as set. The Yard men in the small court–named after a miller, though there had likely never been one of that persuasion plying his trade here–were at the other end, doing their best to hold back the crowd. Mikal’s long coppery fingers turned the small lump of metal over, thoughtfully. “He does not have the power,” he said, finally, jutting his chin at Aberline. “And I may only use such a Sympathy in close proximity to my Prima.”

“How close?” Clare all but hopped from foot to foot.

Mikal shrugged. “Within her very presence. I do not understand, though–if she is alive, I should
feel
her…” His pause was matched by a curious change in expression. “Unless…”

“Unless?” Clare prompted.

Was it hope, dawning on the Shield’s features? Weary, disbelieving hope, perhaps. “Unless she is far underground, or behind certain defences. Hothin’s water-wall, for example, or a muirglass.”

“Underground?” A little colour had come back to Aberline’s face. “Hm.”

The silence that grew about them had all the crackling urgency of the breath before a storm’s breaking.

Clare let them cogitate. Beside him, the lad Pico had tensed too, as a bloodhound scenting prey.

“Scare’s Row.” Pico sported feverish spots on both cheeks, and kept wiping his mouth nervously. His shoulder touched Aberline’s, and neither moved away from the contact. The situation was rather beginning to paper over their personal differences, and it was high time, too. “Fan End, too.”

“Crithen’s Church.” Aberline nodded. “That’s where I’d go.”

“
Do
speak clearly, sirs.” Clare eyed the crowd at the end of the court. There was an air of carnivorous festival about the whole scene he did not quite like, even if he was heartened to find all four men upon whom Miss Bannon was now depending finally behaving reasonably

“Tunnels. From the Pax Latium, it’s said. Sometimes they’re rumoured to have beasts living in them, like near the Tower.” Pico made as if to spit, reconsidered. “Bad business, all of them.”

“Dark holes. Worst sinks in Whitchapel. Some of them host ginhouses; if the drink does not blind you, a knife may.” A fey light was slowly dawning on the inspector’s features. “Why did I not think on it before? A mad sorcerer, hiding there… sending his creature forth… using the tunnels as a means to move undetected… hm. Yes, Crithen’s Church is where I would start. The deeper holes are all about that location, the ones even the flashboys and Thin Meg’s starvelings don’t venture into.”

Clare jammed his hat more firmly upon his head. “Then
there we shall go. Mr Mikal, once we are underground, will you be able to sense Miss Bannon?”

“Perhaps.” His hand flicked, and the button disappeared. “This may be useful, if we draw close enough.”

Clare struggled with himself, and lost. “Can Inspector Aberline’s powers, such as they are, be magnified in some manner?”

Mikal stilled, and so did Aberline. “There are ways,” the Shield admitted, and viewed the inspector afresh. “Blood, for one.”

“None of that.” Aberline backed up two steps, his steps loud on the Scabless ground.

“We have other methods,” Clare said, hastily. “You have a small amount of poppy, Aberline.”

The man’s reply was unrepeatable, but it satisfied Clare that he did, in fact, possess a small lump of said substance. Not that it mattered–any apothecary could be induced to part with enough laudanum to replicate the effect, should it come to such a thing.

Finding Miss Bannon outweighs any injury to his pride
, Clare told himself. He did not care to think further upon the chain of logic–what else did it outweigh? His life? Clare’s? Or, it could not, for Clare was made proof against such things.

Sacrificing another was so easy, was it not? Once the temptation was large enough. Once the Feeling outweighed pure logic. How did Emma bear such storms of emotion, without a mentath’s skills to shield her? How had she borne his accusations? And Valentinelli’s death–how could he have thought her unmoved?

Concentrate, Clare.
“Very well. To the carriage. Pico, climb up with Harthell and direct him to this church. Mikal, do bring Inspector Aberline, and make certain no harm comes to him.”

He set off for the mouth of the court, and his face crumpled for a moment before resmoothing itself. For he had realised something.

First, that he had sounded
exactly
like Miss Bannon. And second, he had no particular qualm about shedding the good inspector’s blood.

Should it become necessary.