The Iscariot Sanction (45 page)

Lillian tore herself away from scrabbling hands, resisting the urge to fire into the crowd that kept her from her target. An elbow to the throat of the nearest assailant bought her breathing space. Lillian spun the old woman about and shoved her back into the crowd, where she set about her comrades with the wooden plank enthusiastically.

The vampire was far ahead now, cutting through a narrow alleyway on to Minories. Lillian lost the hunter somewhere in the growing shadows. She listened for the sound of distant footsteps, but the assault of the Riftborn upon her senses was unrelenting. And then she remembered what the hunters themselves did. She stopped, back to the wall of the dark alley, and sniffed the air.

Her mind sorted the scents upon the breeze faster than she could believe. Sulphur and smoke, the tang of blood, the stale odour of sweat, mould and urine, igniting gas jets… and dead flesh. The faint smell of a long-cold corpse and mortuary chemicals drifted upon the wind, and Lillian knew the hunt was on once more. She trusted to her senses to guide her, and followed her nose.

She caught sight of the shadowy figure again, darting through the churchyard of Holy Trinity Church, through a crowd of wailing petitioners who clamoured for God’s mercy. She gained on the hunter, saw it tear around the corner of Minories and Aldgate. She afforded herself a smile as she heard at last the clattering of hooves behind her, and picked up the scent of John’s horse upon the air. She did not slow, instead raising her pistol in readiness for the shot, rounding the corner in search of her prey. She saw it, back to the wall, eyes sparkling at her from the darkness. She aimed.

Something struck her hard across the head. She fired the pistol instinctively but hit nothing, and the gun was wrenched from her hand. Claws dug into her shoulders, her legs, her arms. They came from above, naked and scuttling dead things, following the wordless bidding of the hunter. She knew at once that the stench had not been the lone hunter, but a pack of ghouls that had lain in wait for her. She had trusted too fully in the heightened senses that were entirely new to her.

There were too many, their strength too great—Lillian found herself being carried away. Then she heard hoofbeats from somewhere behind her. Shouts, and a gunshot. Several pairs of clawed hands released her. She heard scrabbling on flagstones as the monsters peeled away to face the new threat.

John shouted, but he seemed so very far away.

Another gunshot. A flash of brilliant light and energy that could only be a Tesla pistol. Screams.

Lillian lurched as the creatures dropped her, but was lifted again at once. She heard her brother’s voice, loud and ragged.

‘Lillian! I’m coming. Don’t stop fighting!’

John did not see the hunter, crouching low in the shadows. It burst forth through the crowd of flesh-eaters, marble-white face hanging in darkness for just a moment, before crashing into John with such force that he was swept away from Lillian, out of sight.

There was another flash; more screams. In her daze, she thought she heard Smythe’s voice. Strong arms gripped her once more, sinewy, dead arms. Lillian realised she was being carried downwards—down steep flights of stairs beneath Aldgate Station, into lightless tunnels where warm air hung pregnant with thick, stale smoke. She heard voices calling to her, deep inside her mind.

As Lillian’s eyes closed, she wondered if she were going home.

She wondered where that was.

John looked about futilely. The room was dark, save for a crack of silver moonlight that shone through a narrow, high window above him, dimly illuminating the far wall. He was lying on a cold floor. The smell of moist earth and stagnant water filled his nostrils.

He crawled up onto his knees and a chain rattled at his right ankle. He tested it gingerly—he was manacled to the wall, and the iron clasp dug painfully into his leg. John shivered; his jacket and shoes had been taken, and wherever he was being held was freezing cold.

He did not remember much after the vampires had attacked him in the alley beside Aldgate Station. He had seen Lillian being carried away; he remembered Smythe fighting his way clear from the savage press of ghouls. He had shouted instructions to his fellow agent, which he only hoped had been heeded, if indeed Smythe had survived the attack—his salvation rested upon it, for no one but Smythe would even know where to look for him. Beyond that, John was not sure; he seemed to recall a train journey, sleeping on a hard floor among a pile of slumbering, pale-skinned monsters; salt spray upon his face during a journey by boat…

He could not be certain if these were dreams or memories. His head throbbed, and he touched the back of his skull, withdrawing his fingers when he felt his matted hair, and a flash of pain brought stars before his eyes.

John took a deep breath. He needed to think clearly if he was to escape this cell—and escape he would. He patted his hands across the creases of his trousers, wincing as he touched bruises that he had not realised were there. Eventually he felt the thin lumps of concealed picks and pins, and began to roll up his trouser leg to get at them.

Something moved in the darkness. A soft rustling at first, then a slow, heavy dragging sound of hard skin or leather rasping across rough stone. There came the wet slap of hands and feet, followed by a scrape of claws that set John’s teeth on edge.

He froze and listened as some creature sniffed the air, dreadfully near. John turned slowly, trying not to make any sound, nor even breathe. From the darkest corner of the room, a low, throaty growl rose in pitch, and two beady, violet eyes flashed bright.

* * *

Lillian woke upon a soft mattress, staring up at a white satin canopy. A cool breeze blew through a nearby window, causing several dozen tall candles to flicker, and shadows to dance across lavender-painted walls. The clarity with which she saw every detail of the room was uncanny; the strength in her limbs was prodigious. She did not feel the cold from the open window. She was not the old Lillian Hardwick; Lillian Hardwick was dead.

She rubbed her eyes. The lenses were gone. It felt strangely discomfiting that her mask of humanity had been taken from her.

Lillian swung her legs over the end of the bed, only then realising that she was dressed in a long gown of silk and lace. The thought that someone had changed her clothes repulsed her. As she stood, she saw a chaise beneath the window, upon which was arranged a set of clothes, including an elegant, loose-fitting dress with almost Regency styling. Lillian scowled; it was the type of frock her mother often asked her to wear for parties, but which she almost always refused.

‘But it would suit you so well.’

Lillian started, spinning to confront the voice, which she recognised at once. De Montfort stepped from the shadows by the door. He must have been standing there the whole time, but Lillian had not noticed him, for all her heightened senses.

‘Where am I?’ Lillian asked.

‘Never have I met a young woman so forthright,’ de Montfort said, his features blank.

‘Answer me,’ she demanded. De Montfort was a fool if he had come to face her alone.

He smiled the small, polite, infuriating smile, which she now knew he used to hide his ill intent. ‘I told you that you would come to us eventually. You are home.’

‘I did not come to you. I was abducted.’

‘A minor detail. Events were set in motion somewhat faster than I had anticipated. I had to act. I had to save you.’

‘Save me?’ Lillian laughed in disbelief. ‘Even now you think you have done me a service?’

‘Especially now,’ he said. ‘The Riftborn have broken through the veil in unprecedented numbers. London falls, one soul at a time. When they finish devouring the weak, they will turn to greater sport—and our kind represent a threat too great to ignore for ever. Alone in London you would certainly have perished eventually. As I said, I had to act.’

Lillian blinked at de Montfort in disbelief. She surprised herself by not lashing out at him, wondering if her restraint was born of a lack of emotion within herself, or from the Majestic’s insidious influence. ‘The bombs were your doing,’ she said at last. It was accusation, question and explanation all in one.

‘Not just mine. In a way, they were
our
doing.’

‘What? How dare y—’

‘Oh, do not be censorious. My experiment went better than anyone could have dreamt. The Iscariot Sanction worked like a charm, and our plans had to be brought forward. I had not expected the King to support the attack on London so wholeheartedly, but once he learned that you had already found a way back there, and that you were indeed one of us, he decided it was time for action. The Queen is dead, long live the King, and so on.’

Lillian slapped de Montfort hard across the face. His smirk remained. She tried to slap him again, but this time he caught her arm and twisted it hard.

‘That is quite enough of that. Do not think for a moment that I have come here without due insurance.’

Lillian relaxed her arm, and eyed de Montfort with growing suspicion. ‘Insurance?’

‘I am afraid one of my hunters rather disobeyed orders, and brought your brother along with you.’

‘John? Where is he?’

‘Calm yourself, dear girl. His situation is precarious, though I can help him… presuming, that is, that I can rely on your cooperation.’

‘What have you done with him?’ Lillian asked through gritted teeth.

‘Me? Why, nothing. I have long since forgiven your foolhardy brother for his transgressions against me, for I am not the sort to hold a grudge. But his sort are not exactly welcome at Scarrowfall, and so he has been consigned to the dungeon for the time being, while those of the Blood Royal decide what is to be done with him.’

‘I suppose there is something I must do to secure John’s release?’

‘Only hear me out. Once you have done so, I trust that you will act according to your conscience. And I am confident you will find our causes better aligned than you may presently imagine.’

Lillian scoffed, but nodded acquiescence regardless. De Montfort’s smile grew into a parody of warmth.

‘Then, madam, I shall leave you to dress and then we shall talk. I will have a maid come to attend you in… shall we say, twenty minutes?’

‘If it please you,’ Lillian said, in mock servitude.

‘Very good,’ said de Montfort, opening the bedroom door a fraction. ‘Oh, and I am sure I need not say it, but just so that there is no misunderstanding—you will find that your quarters, although comfortable, are most secure, and that Scarrowfall is very remote. I trust you will not feel the need to verify either assertion.’

Lillian glared at the odious creature as he bowed, slipped through the door and closed it behind him. She heard a key turn in the lock.

She set about disobeying de Montfort at once. Lillian moved to the door, and heard muffled footsteps moving away. A shadow passed the crack of light beneath the door; a guard, she assumed. She went next to the window, throwing open the curtains to find iron bars set deep into the frame. Lillian squinted into the darkness, and saw a rugged coastline stretching out before her, upon which Scarrowfall sat precariously close to the edge. Moonlight gleamed off a rough, inky black sea. Beyond that she could see little—she was on perhaps a third floor, but her view was obscured by parapets and buttresses of aged stone, giving her prison the appearance of an abbey or castle rather than the country pile she had expected.

She shook the bars out of frustration, but they were solid and did not so much as rattle. Lillian took a deep breath and tried to compose herself, to ask herself what John would do. Or, indeed, what John was doing right at that moment.

Lillian closed her eyes, and exhaled slowly. What John would do, she felt sure, was dress for dinner and reveal some cunning plan later. If only she had such a plan.

* * *

John worked the small metal tools within the manacle lock, his hands shaking as much from tiredness as from fear. He wished he was as deft as Lillian when it came to lockpicking. John felt the thing in the shadows watching him; he smelt its foul breath and heard its shuffling paces upon the cellar floor.

The mechanism clicked, and John took heart, redoubling his efforts. If the creature were to pounce, he doubted he would stand much of a chance unarmed and weakened as he was, but he would rather die fighting than chained to the wall. Why it had not attacked already was beyond him.

Another click; he was getting closer to freedom. But then he stopped.

He heard a different sound, from further off in the darkness. A groan at first, and then a low moan. It was not one of the creatures—or, at least, he did not think so. Indeed, it sounded like a woman.

Lillian? Had they brought her here too?

The thought lent urgency to his hands, and he began again in earnest, forgetting the numbness in his fingers for a moment and twisting the pins within the lock’s mechanism. The woman’s pained murmurs grew louder, more fearful. Even before the final click of the lock, the scraping of clawed feet on stone became frenetic, and louder.