The Iscariot Sanction (39 page)

‘None,’ John said. ‘The Knights Iscariot have made no demands as yet. We have no idea if they will make good on their threat to—’

Cherleten coughed. ‘That is enough for now, Lieutenant. No need to tire your poor sister out with all of this talk of business.’

‘He means I cannot be trusted,’ Lillian said. ‘I am one of them now, John. Although I’m not sure they’ll knight a woman. What do you think?’

‘I am sure you do not really wish to find out,’ John replied. Then he added, gently, ‘You will never be one of them.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, brother,’ she said. ‘Lord Cherleten has already told me that I am slowly rotting, and that my humanity is slipping away by the hour.’

John shot an angry look at Cherleten.

‘That is not what I said… not precisely,’ Cherleten said.

‘My flesh is necrotising, because I am dead. Have I not understood correctly?’

‘In a manner,’ said Cherleten, as much to John as to Lillian. ‘You are not dead, strictly speaking. The fluid that flows through your veins is unlike human blood. It is pinkish, it is cold, and it does not nourish the flesh. As a consequence, your flesh will begin to lose pliability and colour, and may slowly come to… decompose.’ He looked awkward as he said it. ‘We can treat it though, have no fear. You do not have to look anything less than your old self, if you wish it. But more than that, you must understand that you are undergoing a transformation—a very long transformation—which may or may not ever reach its final stages.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ John asked, his throat going very dry.

‘He means, brother,’ Lillian interjected, ‘that the Knights Iscariot are not human; that at the end of their very long lives, they become something ugly and monstrous—something that no living soul has ever seen, but that we are assured is terrible indeed. And if I have truly become one of their “purebloods”… then that fate awaits me, one day.’

‘That day is a very long way off, Agent Hardwick,’ said Cherleten. ‘Before then, there is much more we need to do. We have caught you in time—with the help of my doctors and my Nightwatch, you will remain your own woman. You may experience a… loss of empathy, and some physiological changes, but I believe we can keep you on the side of the angels.’

‘I do not understand,’ said John. ‘Are you saying that Lillian may lose control of herself because… because of what they did to her?’

‘He is saying that I may have already lost control,’ Lillian said. ‘That if it were not for this facility, I would be relaying my location to Lord de Montfort even now, and perhaps have killed everyone here while I waited for him to take me away.’

‘That is not quite what I said, Agent Hardwick,’ Cherleten scolded. ‘I merely referred to your loss of memory, and wondered if you might have let… someone… in, during that time.’

‘Memory loss?’ John asked.

‘Your sister remembers nothing after the death of Sir Arthur, save for waking up on a canal barge in your company. We do not know how much the enemy may have gleaned from her unconscious thoughts during that time.’

‘I know only that I owe you a great debt, brother,’ Lillian said. ‘You and Smythe saved me, perhaps from myself. But I tell you this: if I really am to recover, I will use my new-found strength to return to Commondale and exact my revenge.’

‘Revenge?’ John asked.

‘Yes. It is a village of traitors. I remember taking refuge in the post office, but the postmaster was hiding in his cellar. He crept out while we slept and knocked me unconscious, then turned us over to the enemy. He will be the first to feel my wrath.’

‘Galtress?’

‘Was that his name? I forget.’

‘Lillian… he is dead.’

‘Dead? John, have you denied me my rightful vengeance?’ Her tone was inappropriately playful.

John remembered Lillian’s savagery on the edge of the moors; he remembered her eagerness to kill, and the terrible manner in which she had done it. After everything he had seen in his short career as an agent of the Crown, Galtress’s demise stayed with him more vividly than anything else. He wanted to tell Lillian a lie, to do her a kindness, but he hesitated a moment too long, his eyes downcast to his shuffling feet.

‘So, I killed him,’ she sighed. ‘A pity; I would have liked to confront him with my wits about me. But, it is as well—I should rather not return to that godforsaken place.’

She did not bat an eyelid. If anything, her eyes glimmered brighter for a moment, and the corners of her pale lips were upturned. She seemed pleased with herself, but quickly—deliberately—hid her glee. She assumed instead an uninterested posture.

‘Lillian, I—’

‘Lieutenant,’ Cherleten interrupted, ‘I must ask you to bring your visit to a close. Our patient needs time to recover from her ordeal.’

John nodded. He felt sick.

‘A kiss, for your sister,’ Lillian said, her voice taking on a strange, musical lilt.

John felt some unkind emotion rise within him. Not revulsion, he hoped, but something akin to it. The longer he stood in Lillian’s presence, the less he felt that he had brought anything of his sister back from Yorkshire. Dutifully, however, he stooped to kiss her cheek. And she whispered in his ear, so quietly that he almost felt her voice rather than heard it.

‘Help me, John. I cannot abide it here.’ It sounded heartfelt. Her mask slipped, almost imperceptibly.

‘Lillian… I shall return as soon as they allow it. You will not be alone.’

Her face became impassive, but her eyes moistened. John knew in that moment that his sister was herself still, somewhere within this marble-white form.

‘I… I cannot feel,’ she whispered.

John saw in Lillian’s face confusion and helplessness. It instilled in him such anguish that he could barely keep from shaking.

The vase smashed against the tiled wall, sending fragments of glass tinkling across the floor of the hospital ward. Beauchamp Smythe stepped back to what he thought was a safe distance. Lord Cherleten stood firm.

‘Three days!’ Lillian shouted. ‘Have you not ascertained all you need by now? Or am I to remain a prisoner here for ever?’

Lillian had become more prone to fits of rage as time had progressed—in fact, she gave in to them willingly, for it was the only way she could feel anything at all. Anger, it seemed, was a powerful force. Since John’s visit she had been alone on the ward, examined hourly by Cherleten’s endless army of medical personnel. She had tried to leave several times, and had been greeted by barred doors, behind which stood armed guards. In the rare moments she was alone and not sedated, it was all she could do not to take her own life. She spent those moments ignoring the books that Cherleten brought for her, and instead hugged her knees, rocking back and forth in the darkness, praying that de Montfort could not hear her thoughts; praying that the Knights Iscariot would not come for her and make her a bride for their lifeless, Nameless King.

‘You are not a prisoner, my dear, you are a patient.’ Cherleten’s voice was steady, even though the nurses quailed at Lillian’s anger. When had he started to call her ‘my dear’ rather than ‘Agent Hardwick’? That irked her more than her confinement.

‘Your only patient,’ Lillian said. ‘And one who is kept under guard.’

‘For your protection, not ours.’

Lillian looked to Smythe, whose face belied Cherleten’s assertions. ‘And why is Agent Smythe really here?’ Lillian asked. ‘He purports to be my visitor and brings me flowers, and yet he carries his surgical bag.’

Smythe’s eyes moved to the flowers that were now strewn across the floor. He looked rueful. Lillian almost felt sorry for him.

‘We thought you might like to see a friendly face,’ Cherleten said, maintaining the charade. ‘And I confess that Agent Smythe’s singular expertise may be useful in the coming days and weeks.’

‘By “singular expertise”, you do of course mean his knowledge of cadavers.’

‘I would not put it so indelicately.’

‘Naturally.’ Lillian held Cherleten’s gaze with an impudence she had never previously dared. She had nothing to lose any more. ‘And will you have Agent Smythe prod and poke and slice at me, like the rest of your lackeys?’

‘In a manner, although I think Agent Smythe’s treatment will be of far greater benefit to you. And it is not as though you truly feel discomfort, is it, my dear?’

Lillian scowled. ‘Only from the indignity. If I am to take up residence here, might I at least have my clothes?’ She looked down at her linen hospital gown disapprovingly.

‘It has already been arranged. There are not very many tests remaining, and then we can assess your… situation.’

Lillian thought about this for a moment, and then turned to Smythe.

‘I will brook no more delays. Agent Smythe, if you have tests or treatments, then you will kindly administer them at once.’

‘I…’ Smythe glanced at Cherleten, who nodded assent. ‘Of course, Lillian.’ He reddened at the use of her Christian name. Lillian sighed and looked again at Cherleten.

‘Lord Cherleten, may we have some privacy? I really am tired of all this.’ She waved a hand at the staff.

In the room at present, there were three nurses, a junior physician, an alienist, and the Nightwatch. The wasted Majestics were hidden from view; from all but Lillian. Their psychic emanations prevented most people from noticing they were there—one tended to look past them, or ignore them altogether. Lillian had had training to see through the Majestics’ tricks. Smythe had received that training too, though he pretended not to notice the presence of the two unsettling youths in the shadowed corner of the room. But it was not training that revealed the presence of the Nightwatch to Lillian. The previous day she had begun to experience strange visual phenomena. They began with coronas of violet light flashing before her eyes, and at first she had complained of the sensation to the doctors, who exacerbated the situation by shining lights into her eyes. Eventually, the sensation became more muted, and Lillian saw that she was not only able to see well enough in darkness—a talent that had manifested itself immediately after her transformation—but could also see strange coronas and ghost-like manifestations around the people who visited her bedside. They collected like cobwebs around certain people; skeletal blue-white phantoms or orange-hued balls of light that followed doctors and nurses hungrily. Around the Nightwatch was an incandescent dull amber glow, which flickered outwards periodically, twisting into plumes of indigo smoke, from which leering faces and flashing eyes flickered occasionally, so rapidly that Lillian thought she had imagined them. It was only after two days of observing these phenomena secretly, saying nothing about what she saw, that she came to realise that the stench of the Riftborn hung around the Nightwatch at all times. She wondered if these were the ‘transmissions’ that Tesla had spoken of, and whether, if Sir Arthur had lived still, she would have seen the same manifestations around him.

What was worse, and what made her wonder if she were simply going mad, was that a faint amber glow shone around her. She saw it when she looked into the mirror, pulsing about her head. She would have assumed it was some insight into the unique nature of the vampire, but for Lord Cherleten. She saw it upon him, too, and she knew not why. But to speak of it to him or anyone else would only prompt more tests and delay her release. She held on to hope that she would be discharged eventually, no matter how unlikely that seemed at present.

Now, however, Cherleten relented. He had a nurse unlock a private examination room, allowing Lillian and Smythe to enter alone. Lillian noted with some dismay that Smythe looked the unhappiest of all about the arrangement.

* * *

Beauchamp Smythe’s hands trembled as he laid out his medical apparatus.

‘I hope you are not planning to operate on me with such unsteady hands.’

‘I… it’s just that…’

‘It is just that I am no longer the Lillian Hardwick you know. You have seen me kill in most unsavoury ways, and were even tempted yourself to end my life.’

‘Your memory…’ Smythe stuttered.

‘It is returning, slowly, in fragments. I am having trouble piecing those fragments back together, but I remember your willingness to shoot me well enough.’

‘I—’

‘Do not worry, Beauchamp,’ Lillian said, gently. ‘I do not hold it against you. I might have pulled the trigger sooner—you know me.’

‘Not entirely,’ he said, avoiding her gaze.

‘Have you spoken to John?’ Lillian said, changing tack.

‘Yes.’

‘Did he say anything about me? Did he send any message?’

‘I am not supposed to speak of matters outside with you, Lillian. I am sorry.’

‘Beauchamp, please.’ Lillian hopped down from the gurney. As she stepped towards Smythe, he turned his back to the wall and edged away, nervously. She was a head shorter than Smythe, and slight of frame, but even before her transformation she had been more dangerous than he, certainly in Mrs. Ito’s dojo. ‘For pity’s sake, I have no intention of hurting you, Beauchamp. We have known each other for a long time. Have I not suffered enough without losing my friends also?’

He beheld her for a moment, and then sighed, the tension draining from his shoulders. He looked ashamed.