Lifeblood (2 page)

 

 

T
he torrent of blood came gushing down without warning, hitting Jonathan Starling before he could react. The last thing he had seen was the playing card with the malevolent face of the Jack of Knives grinning up at him from the table, and then a thick red waterfall engulfed him. The force of the blast sent him sprawling from his seat, and into a dazed heap on the floor.

As he looked up, coughing and spluttering, his eyes stinging, a face peered at him over the table. It was the dealer, a huge beast with fierce eyes and off-white tusks protruding from his mouth. He was wearing a black suit with a bloodstained butcher's apron fastened over the top of it. With a shrug, he calmly gathered up the rest of Jonathan's hand of cards.

“The boy is out of the game,” he announced. “Do we have a new player to fill the seat?”

There was a clamour from the small crowd behind Jonathan, and two well-dressed gentlemen leapt over his body to claim the vacant chair. Just as the taller of the two appeared to have won the race, the smaller man punched him viciously in the kidneys. As his competitor crumpled and groaned, the smaller man pushed him aside, chuckled with glee and sat down at the table. The tusked dealer sighed, and began to hand out another round of cards.

Jonathan gingerly picked himself up, and moved away from the roped-off game. His hair was caked with blood, there was a roaring sound in his ears, and his shoes gave out an apologetic squelch every time he took a step. He rubbed his face with his sleeve in a forlorn attempt to clean himself up, a move which only served to smear more red across his cheek.

With hindsight, perhaps playing Gorey had not been his best idea.

 

Late at night in the Casino Sanguino, and the main hall was quiet; it would be another couple of hours before the serious gamblers took their places. Thick purple drapes had been drawn across the window, and cards were drawn and bets laid under the flicker of gaslight. The air was thick with hushed desperation. Sweaty, dishevelled men rolled dice with a manic gleam in their eyes, certain that this time they would be lucky. Hulking brutes with rolled-up sleeves stalked the room, keeping a beady eye out for any gamblers making money. Winning a game was one thing, making it out alive another matter entirely.

Jonathan fished inside his pockets and checked his pocket watch. The man he was expecting should have arrived by now. Threading his way between tables, Jonathan scanned the hall. To his right, a game of Blackjack threatened to degenerate into a brawl as the dealer began clubbing one of the players over the head. On the far side of the room, a frantic group braced themselves as the dealer spun again on the Wheel of Misfortune – perhaps for the last time. From time to time a howl of pain flew over from the Ruelette table, where the balls had a nasty habit of flying off the wheel and into the eyes of unwary punters. In these surroundings, being drenched in blood actually helped Jonathan blend into the background. No one gave him a second glance. If he had tried to walk around like this anywhere else in London, he would have been locked up. Then again, he was in Darkside. Things were different here.

As he passed a raucous game of Hazard, Jonathan caught sight of the man he was looking for. A smartly-dressed man with a gleaming silver cane, he moved with disdain through the hall: Lorcan Bracket, one of Darkside's finest confidence tricksters. The conman was strutting towards the centre of the room, where a spiral staircase rose like a metal finger over a hundred feet up into the air. At first glance, it appeared that the tall structure was unfinished and led nowhere, but in fact it was the only way to reach the most fabled and dangerous game in the Casino Sanguino: Plummet.

Craning his neck until he could see high up into the vaulted ceiling of the hall, Jonathan could just make out a suspended platform moving through the air like a magic carpet. A series of steel cables connected it to a motor that powered along a track cut into the ceiling, propelling the platform onwards. Jonathan knew that a group of gamblers was sitting up there, playing a game where the stakes couldn't possibly be higher. The rules to Plummet were fiendishly complex, but there was one simple factor that tended to occupy the minds of those who played it: if you could knock all your opponents off the platform, then the pot was yours. Cheating and cheap shots were actively encouraged, and the action more often resembled a high-altitude riot than a game.

Bracket began to ascend the staircase, a spring in his step. Jonathan took a deep breath and slipped quietly after him. As they climbed, the gamblers beneath them became smaller and smaller, while the sound of their screams and shouts dimmed. Jonathan hurried to catch up with the conman. There was no point in hiding now. As Jonathan drew closer, he heard Bracket humming a jaunty tune to himself. Unlike Jonathan, he didn't know that one of the Plummet players that evening was waiting for him. Lorcan Bracket was walking straight into a trap.

As the two of them emerged at the top of the staircase, Bracket glanced at Jonathan, and raised a lofty eyebrow at his bloodstained appearance.

“This is a game for men, you know. I'd run along if I were you.”

“I'll take my chances,” Jonathan replied.

“If you get in my way, you'll be the first going over the edge. Don't expect any sympathy from me.”

As Bracket spoke the platform came into view, steam pumping from the motor as it clattered along the track in the ceiling. It slowed as it moved past the staircase, giving Bracket and Jonathan the chance to jump aboard. The cables gave a slight shudder as they absorbed the extra weight of the two new players.

Judging by the coins stacked up on the playing cloth, this game of Plummet was well underway. Through a haze of cigar smoke, Jonathan could make out a shabby figure at the far end of the table, absentmindedly scratching his cheek with a long nail as he perused his cards. A battered stovepipe hat was rammed far down over his head, bearing the scars of years of maltreatment. His stubbled, craggy face was deep in thought. The other three players had pulled their chairs round to the other side of the table, and were watching the shabby figure fearfully. After a long pause, the dealer cleared his throat delicately.

“Your move,” he said.

Elias Carnegie, private detective, wereman, and Jonathan's ally, yawned. “This is a crucial part of the game, Jak, and I don't like being rushed. Unless you want to end up like Wilson did half an hour ago, I'd give me a little more time. They're still scraping him off the floor.”

The wereman grinned menacingly as he caught sight of the new player sitting stiffly down at the table.

“Well, well, well! Lorcan Bracket! I had a feeling I might see you tonight.”

The conman inclined his neck by way of acknowledgement. “It's no secret that this game is a favourite of mine.”

“Even so. . .” Carnegie leant forward confidentially. “It's a stroke of luck, because I need to talk to you about something.”

“Really?”

“You see, you took something recently that wasn't yours, and the owner asked me to get it back. And now here you are, all alone, with nowhere to hide! I'd call it a coincidence, but I don't believe in them.”

A sneer broke out on Bracket's face. “Neither do I, wolfman. I heard you were looking for me. I thought it might be best to deal with you up here.”

He nodded at the other three players, whose nervous expressions suddenly vanished. They rose as one, drawing coshes from their belts. Bracket pressed a button on his cane, and a sharp blade came shooting out from the tip. Anticipating trouble, the dealer dropped his cards and dived underneath the table. Jonathan gasped. It seemed they hadn't been the only ones setting a trap.

As the men advanced on Carnegie, the detective bowed his head. A low growling sound rumbled from the back of his throat. Jonathan took a fearful step back: he knew what was about to happen. Now everyone on the platform was in deep trouble, including him. Carnegie's entire body began to shake violently, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. Even underneath the crumpled suit, it was possible to make out his muscles rippling and expanding. When he finally looked up, his face was covered in grey hair, his teeth were pointed and canine, and his eyes burned with rage. He was no longer a man, but a beast.

Bracket's men paused momentarily, before mounting a screaming charge. Carnegie bellowed in response, and hurled his chair at the men, hitting one of them dead in the chest and knocking him off his feet. Jonathan felt the platform wobble, and clutched a cable for support. Looking down, he could see the denizens of the Casino Sanguino continuing their infernal dealings, unaware of the drama taking place far above their heads.

If Bracket's plan had been to encircle Carnegie, he hadn't counted on the speed of the detective when in his wolf form. As the men closed in, the beast threw a shuddering body block at one of the henchmen, sending both of them rolling away from the rest of the players. Using the momentum of their tumbling bodies, Carnegie kicked out with his legs and sent the henchman up into the air and off the edge of the platform. Seeing his companion so summarily despatched, the other man paused. It was a fatal error. The beast was up and on him in a flash, teeth bared, his claws slicing through the air. The henchman ducked and weaved, but there was nothing he could do in the face of such an onslaught: a thumping cuff from a paw propelled him, screaming, towards the casino floor.

Bracket swore and backed away from Carnegie, keeping his sword-stick trained on him. As the wereman advanced, Jonathan noticed that the henchman who had been hit by the chair had managed to get back to his feet. Creeping round Carnegie's blindside, the man raised his cosh high above his head and prepared to strike. Almost without thinking, Jonathan lowered his head and charged. The collision took the henchman by complete surprise, knocking the wind out of him and sending him staggering towards the platform edge. There was a look of shock in his eyes as his foot trod down on thin air, and then he was gone. A few seconds later there was an almighty crash from the casino floor, and a howl of pain.

Carnegie whirled round at the commotion, and stared down at Jonathan. For a second there was no recognition in the beast's eyes, only blank hatred, then he spun back towards Bracket. The conman aimed a nervous swipe with his sword-stick, which the wereman coolly knocked aside. He seized Bracket by the waistcoat, lifted him up, and held him out over the edge of the platform.

“Please . . . don't let me fall!” stuttered the man.

“You know what I want. Give me the ring.”

Bracket blanched. Carnegie sighed, and held him further out over the hall. “You're a heavy man. Can't hold you for ever.”

“Wait!” His hands scrabbling desperately through his pockets, Bracket pulled out a small diamond ring and tossed it in Jonathan's direction.

“That the one, boy?”

“Looks like it.”

“Good.”

The private detective gave Bracket a final wolfish grin, and then let go of his waistcoat. With a scream the man hurtled towards the ground, legs and arms flailing like a drowning swimmer, before crash-landing on to the Ruelette table. The danger over, the beast in Carnegie began to recede. He dusted his hands off, and turned back to Jonathan.

“Thanks for the helping hand there, boy.” He cast an appraising eye over Jonathan's blood-soaked appearance. “Been having fun?”

“Loads. Can we go now, please?”

The platform had completed a circuit of the hall's ceiling, and was trundling back towards the spiral staircase. A relieved Jonathan hopped back on to the top step and relative safety. He turned to see the wereman grinning.

“Hang on a minute.”

Carnegie stooped down and lifted up the tablecloth, revealing the quivering form of the dealer.

“Looks like there's only one player left, Jak. Where's my winnings?”

 

 

E
dwin Rafferty trudged up the steps leading out of the Midnight, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sunlight on the Grand. The wan Darkside morning was brilliant compared to the interior of the Midnight, where patrons downed mysterious drinks in complete darkness. Edwin had lost track of how much time he had spent there; it might have been hours, it might have been days. It was a surprise to discover that he was still unscathed, his meagre valuables untouched. Many visitors to the Midnight discovered to their cost that a pitch-black bar was the perfect hunting ground for pickpockets and cut-throats.

As his eyes slowly came to terms with the light, Edwin took in the filthy majesty of Darkside's main street. In his younger days, he had courted violence by standing out on the pavement while dashing off sketches of the surrounding buildings, and he was familiar with every smashed window and rusty railing. Generally the Grand was quiet in the mornings, catching its breath in between the eruptions of violence that marked the night. The crowds that converged in darkness had thinned to a smattering of passers-by and the occasional clip-clopping of a horse-drawn cab. High up over the street, smoke drifted listlessly from tall chimneys.

This wasn't to say the Grand was necessarily safe. The air was still heavy with sullen menace. Darksiders flung suspicious glances and threatening glares at one another and kept their hands free at all times, in case they had to defend themselves. Men huddled together in doorways, sharing grudges and plots in urgent whispers. Across the street, a couple of urchins scuffled in the gutter.

Edwin ran a calloused fingertip over the scarred remains of his left ear, a familiar, comforting action. Deep down he knew that he shouldn't have been drinking, and he felt the familiar aftertaste of guilt in his mouth. He had hurried to the Midnight as soon as he had navigated the barge back from Lightside. In truth, he should have returned to his house and started work on another painting, but as Edwin found himself descending the familiar steps, he reassured himself that it had been a stressful journey. It was only natural that he would want to unwind afterwards. One drink wouldn't hurt.

That had been many, many days ago.

The truth – something that Edwin could now admit to himself – was that he was scared out of his wits. He had always been the weakest of his friends:
Brother Spine
they called him, with heavy irony. And now he had been dragged into a dangerous plot that pitted him against the most dangerous people in Darkside. In an ideal world Edwin would have told the others to go away and would have had nothing to do with their scheme, but in this world he was flat broke and the potential rewards were almost beyond comprehension. If everything worked out he wouldn't have to worry about money ever again. He could move to a better house, buy himself a fine new wardrobe, regain the trust and respect of his family. For years they had treated him with scorn and contempt. They could never understand why he was happier in an artist's studio than on the deck of a ship, or why he felt more comfortable with a pencil in his hand than the tiller of a boat. But if he was rich again, they would have to accept him. Maybe he could even buy the Midnight.

With these attempts to comfort himself revolving round his head, Edwin turned down the brim of his hat and prepared himself for the long stagger home. Ramming his hands deep into his pockets, he felt his fingers brush against a piece of paper. He pulled it out and unfolded it. His bleary eyes struggled to decipher the handwriting, but eventually Edwin was able to make out the note. It read simply:

 

You will be my answer.

 

The hairs on the back of Edwin's neck began to tingle, and his mouth ran dry. He read the note a second time, and then a third. It still stubbornly said the same thing. Edwin glanced up and down the street, trying to see if anyone was watching. There were suspicious characters at every turn, but none who appeared to be taking a special interest in him.

He stuffed the note back in his pocket and began walking cautiously down the Grand, his mind in a daze. Edwin certainly hadn't written the note, and he couldn't remember seeing it before. Someone must have slipped it into his pocket in the Midnight. But why would anyone want to do that? Unless. . .

His brain offered him one distinctly unpleasant answer. Edwin picked up his pace, walking in quick, shuffling steps. As if to acknowledge the new threat, a sharp, cold wind picked up, while the sun dipped behind a grey cloud.

There was a sudden shout from behind Edwin. He whirled round, only to see a newspaper boy trying to hawk a copy of
The Darkside Informer
.

“'Ere, you want one, mister? It's my last one.”

“No!” Edwin cried, his eyes wild. “Stay away from me!”

The boy shrugged. “Suit yourself.
Nutter
,” he added under his breath.

Feeling exposed, Edwin turned off the Grand and headed down a narrow street called Rotten Row. He had walked this route a thousand times, knew every loose paving stone and curve in the wall, knew it was the fastest way back to his home. He could walk it after a week in the Midnight and never miss a step. If anyone did try to follow him, he would lose them in the dense warren of backstreets.

Despite these comforting thoughts, Edwin was still ill at ease. A shout from across the street sent him scurrying into an alleyway that ran between two rows of houses, where he broke into a shambling run. His tatty shoes splashed through dirty puddles, and his knuckles scraped against the walls as he went. If he was being chased, his pursuers were running in silence – the only noise Edwin could hear was the ragged gasps of his own breath. Dimly he thought that he should look over his shoulder and check, but he was too frightened.

Edwin stumbled on, dodging washing lines and dogs, heading deeper into the maze-like heart of Darkside. The alleys became narrower and narrower, until the houses loomed so closely together that they blocked out what little sunlight there was. His lungs screamed in protest and he could feel a stitch developing in his stomach. He was already beginning to tire. Even as a young man, Edwin had never been an athlete, and he was in dreadful shape these days. Only the adrenalin racing through his system was keeping him on his feet.

He was nearly there, though, he noted with satisfaction. His home was now only three streets away. There he would be safe. Edwin risked a glance over his shoulder, and saw nothing except a back gate flapping open and shut in the breeze. Unable to run any further, he staggered to a standstill, nearly falling to the ground with exhaustion. He bent double, desperately searching for his breath. After wheezing for a few minutes, Edwin hauled himself upright and carried on walking.

He was in perhaps the dingiest alleyway in Darkside. The surrounding houses all appeared to be empty; their windows smashed and doors hanging off their hinges. Streaks of blood ran down the walls, and there was a smell of rotten meat in the air. Probably a dead dog or a rat, Edwin thought glumly. The pain in his side was excruciating.

It was at that moment that a silhouette moved out from one of the derelict houses and blocked the path. In the half-light, it was difficult to make out who the figure was. Then it spoke, and it suddenly became horribly easy.

“Brother Spine?”

Edwin gasped.

“Brother Fleet! I-it has been . . . too long, my friend.”

“Dear Brother Spine,” the voice continued mockingly. “Still so weak. So predictable. Did you not even
think
of going another way home?”

“It's the quickest way . . . I'm very tired. . .”

“Of course it is. Try not to worry. You'll be able to rest very soon.”

Edwin began to back away from the silhouette, his arms outstretched in a pleading gesture.

“B-Brother,” he stammered. “Surely you wouldn't hurt
me
. It wasn't my idea. I tried to stop them, but they wouldn't listen to me. . .”

“I'm sure you did,” the figure replied soothingly. “No one ever listened to poor Brother Spine, did they? And now no one ever will again.”

Whimpering, Edwin stumbled backwards over a dustbin, and landed hard on the wet cobblestones. He looked up, and for the first time realized the true horror of his fate. The air was ripped asunder by a deafening, inhuman shriek, followed by a high-pitched scream. And then there was only silence.