The Executioner's Heart

CHAPTER 25

Newbury stirred.

He rubbed his neck and arched his back, realising that he must have drifted off in his armchair in the drawing room once again. His head was thick with the residue of too much brandy quaffed with Bainbridge, as well as the opium cigarettes he had imbibed upon his guests’ departure. His neck and shoulders ached from where he had lolled insensible in the chair.

He opened his eyes. It was dark, but not yet the witching hour. Pale moonlight slanted in through the window, its silvery fingers probing inquisitively into the room. Everything was quiet, other than the distant rumble of traffic through the fog-shrouded streets.

Veronica had not yet returned. He cursed himself for falling asleep. She was probably even now flaunting his advice, electing to sleep in her own bed rather than under the safety of his roof. He’d have to speak with her again in the morning.

Newbury rubbed a hand across his face and leaned forward, blinking blearily. He had the sense that something had disturbed his sleep. He thought he sensed movement by the door and turned to look, but there were only shadows, gloomy and impenetrable. The moonlight and the dying embers of the evening’s fire were not enough to illuminate the far corners of the room.

“Scarbright?” he said, his voice hoarse. It echoed loudly in the empty house. “Are you there?”

There was no response.

Newbury laughed quietly to himself. Perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks on him, another spectre resulting from the drugs he’d consumed. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d imagined people in the room who weren’t really there.

He stood, a little unsteadily, and crossed to the wall-mounted gas lamp to the left of the fireplace. He turned up the tap and the bulb blossomed with a soft, steady glow. Still, he had the sense that he was not alone. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled with unease.

He turned and caught sight of something shifting in the shadows. His heartbeat quickened, sending a sudden rush of blood to his head. He felt his dulled senses sharpen with fear. There was a dark figure standing in the doorway; the silhouette of a woman, her face obscured in the low light.

She was about five foot two, of athletic build, and dressed in a revealing black bodysuit that clung to the shape of her body, accentuating her curves. Her hair was a ragged bob, hacked short around the base of her neck, and in her hands, hanging loosely by her sides, were the curving blades of twin scimitars.

The Executioner. Newbury had no doubt. This was the woman Aldous had told him of. She was the instrument of death, the killer of the Queen’s agents, the stealer of hearts.

She came at him, a sudden, startling whirlwind of motion, her blades scissoring through the air towards him. His reflexes kicked in and his hand shot out, snatching one of the pokers from the coal scuttle on the hearth. He swung it around in a wide arc so that it clattered against the two crossed blades, parrying her attack and sending painful reverberations along his forearm.

She stepped back, lowering her blades. He could see now that her face was set in a hard, unforgiving expression. It might have been beautiful, if it wasn’t for the cold intensity, the emptiness in her dull, blue eyes.

The bleached flesh of her cheeks and forehead were tattooed with an elaborate sequence of patterns, arcane designs that even he did not recognise. Hints of silver and gold glinted in the reflected light, describing whorls and accents where it had been intricately inlaid into her skin. The effect was entrancing, drawing his eyes so compellingly that he was almost caught off guard when she pressed her attack.

The assassin grunted and came at him again, this time thrusting the blade in her right hand forward whilst the one in her left parried his poker as he raised it in defence, leaving him open and exposed. He stepped back, pivoting on one foot, narrowing her target.

He blocked the blade on the left while the one on the right missed skewering his belly by less than an inch. He saw his opportunity and lashed out in response, but the window was narrow and the poker struck her left shoulder and rebounded with the dull clang of metal upon metal. He had struck her sword guard-or, in fact, what he had taken to be a sword guard, but was actually the housing of a form of primitive machine.

As she circled, not taking her eyes from him, he was granted a better view of the porthole in the machine’s surface, and was surprised to realise that the shrivelled black mass at the centre of it was, in fact, the remnant of her heart. This, then, was the machine that was keeping her alive, working in concert with the occult ritual that preserved her flesh. He could hear the mechanism whirring faintly now, the clockwork components inside it turning as it channelled her blood, feeding it through her veins.

The machine had fulfilled this duty for over eighty years. It was remarkable, and utterly fascinating. She looked no older than a twenty-year-old woman: striking and unique.

“Beautiful,” said Newbury, breathless, as he raised the poker again, battering away her advances. She cocked her head slightly to one side, as if confused by his comment, but did not slow, did not alter the pattern of her attack.

He could not go on like this for long. She was fast and would overbear him, particularly in the semi-coherent state in which she had found him.

“Who sent you?” he said, between thrusts of the poker and ragged, gasping breaths. He fell back, lashed out with his makeshift weapon, and stepped away from the hearth, attempting to give himself some more room to manoeuvre.

Her face remained impassive. She struck out again, but he danced to the side-just a little too slow, so that the edge of the blade slashed his shirt and jacket and opened a thin, painful gash across the side of his belly. He felt warm blood ooze to the surface and grimaced in pain, but knew it was only a flesh wound.

He stared into the woman’s face, and she looked back with cold, dead eyes. She was a strange, mesmerising creature, trapped somewhere in the interstitial space between life and death, an unrelenting, inescapable limbo. She must have witnessed so much of history, so much of life, but seeing her here, now, seeing the coldness and indifference in her eyes, he wondered if she even understood how lucky she was. He could hardly conceive that this was the woman Aldous had described to him: almost a century old, bound by an ancient rite and powered by a clockwork engine devised long before his time.

She feinted to the left, came hard at him from the right. He misread her intention and lurched backwards to avoid the tip of a piercing scimitar. His foot caught on a stack of books and he went down, tumbling onto his back. He threw his hands out to break his fall, sending the poker skidding away across the carpet.

He cursed himself for his ineptitude. He was unprotected now. The Executioner saw her opportunity and her other blade fell, stabbing down towards his chest.

Newbury rolled and the weapon struck the floor. The second blade followed. His scrabbling fingers found purchase, grabbing hold of a thick, leather-bound book. He swung it around, grasping it with both hands and wielding it as if it were a shield.

The Executioner’s blade struck the hefty tome and bit deep, skewering the binding and the precious pages within. The tip erupted from the other side, only inches from Newbury’s face. She fell back, the book still stuck upon the end of her sword, wrenching it from his grasp.

“Be careful with that,” quipped Newbury. “It’s a rare first edition.” He scrambled to his feet as the woman wedged the book between the floor and the sole of her boot and yanked her sword free. “You still haven’t answered my question,” he continued, his flippant tone masking his fear. “I’m most interested to discover who sent you to visit.”

Still the Executioner did not speak, or even show a glimmer of interest in what he had to say. She was relentless, like a machine, intent only upon her goal: to end his life-and, no doubt, to claim his heart for her own. The notion did not appeal to him.

Newbury glanced around for anything he could use as a weapon, making a mental note that-should he survive this encounter-he should make a point of secreting more weapons around his house. His eyes settled on his prize automaton, the owl. There was little else to hand. “Sorry, old chap,” he said, scooping it up off its perch. It trilled mechanically, its brass wings twitching.

The Executioner twisted her lithe body, coiling like a snake about to strike. Newbury hefted the owl in his hand like a rugby ball, and then, turning to face the woman as she launched into a charge across the room towards him, he hurled it into her face.

She tried to duck, to alter her path, but the owl struck her hard in the chest, exploding in a flurry of metallic wings. She stumbled back, dropping one of her swords and sending a chair careening across the room. The owl tumbled to the floor with a heavy thud, and was still.

It didn’t stop her for long, however. She stooped to reclaim her dropped blade, and then leapt forward, planting her foot on the coffee table and launching herself through the air, sending empty glasses and papers careening across the floor.

Her momentum carried her towards him and she brought her right fist down across his face. He didn’t have time to get his hands up in defence, and the pommel of her sword smashed into his nose, causing blood to erupt in a fine spray. He stumbled and coughed, tasting it on the back of his tongue.

She pressed in for the attack, kicking him hard in the stomach and sending him sprawling once more onto the floor. She moved with the grace of a cat: taut, wiry, and powerful. Newbury couldn’t help but be impressed, despite the dire circumstances under which he was being granted this remarkable demonstration of prowess.

The Executioner swung her swords around in a flurry, and he swept out with his leg, trying to catch her by surprise, to unbalance her. She anticipated his movement, however, and pirouetted out of the way, slicing down with her left scimitar.

He flicked his wrist out in defence and deflected the thrust, but opened a painful gash in his forearm as a result. She shifted, raising one foot and slamming her heel down hard into his shoulder, pinning him to the ground.

She was standing over him now, looking down upon him, her swords poised. There was no gleam of triumph in her eyes, however; no wicked smile. Her face remained cold and impassive, as if she were simply going through the well-trod motions of another kill, untouched by the enormity of what she was doing.

The realisation of this terrified Newbury. He’d faced death before, on numerous occasions. Each and every time, without fail, the person or beast he had stood against had showed some measure of emotion-anger, hunger, some level of investment in the kill. There was always a reason. The Executioner, however, demonstrated none of this. She might well have been an automaton, inhuman and unfeeling.

She brought her fists together, her twin blades side by side, and raised her hands above her head. The tips of her blades were pointed at his chest. Panicked, he tried walking back on his hands, dragging himself away from her. But she simply pressed down harder with her foot, crushing his shoulder, keeping him pinned to the ground. Besides, he was close to the wall, and there was nowhere left to go. He raised his arms in desperation, as if he might fend off the weapons for a moment longer-and then he heard the thud of running footsteps. He saw the Executioner hesitate. His eyes flicked to the door. And then Scarbright was there, slamming into the woman with his shoulder and sending them both crashing to the floor.

She cried out in frustration as she careened into the coffee table, causing an eruption of loose papers to billow into the air all around her. Scarbright thudded to the floor at Newbury’s feet, but sprang up again instantly, snatching up the poker that Newbury had dropped a few moments earlier and circling the woman.

Newbury leapt to his feet. The Executioner was backing away, her swords raised. Clearly, she wasn’t keen on the change of odds. Scarbright thrust forward with the poker and she battered it away with the end of a sword.

Newbury saw her eyes flick to the door. He started towards it, intent on slamming it shut, but she made her decision and bolted, throwing herself towards the opening before Newbury could make it there himself.

She disappeared into the darkened hallway.

“No! Stop her. Don’t let her get away!” bellowed Newbury, stumbling as he lurched towards the door. He swung himself around the door frame, almost losing his footing in the hall, and charged after her, Scarbright at his heels. He hurtled for the front door, which was swinging back and forth on its hinges in the darkness.

He burst out into the freezing night, skidding to a halt on the top step, glancing both ways along the street as he tried to establish which way she had run. He heard her footsteps and turned to follow, but when he finally caught sight of her, he knew he was too late. He’d never catch her. Not now. She was too fast and he was injured and weary.

He hung his head, panting for breath. Blood was streaming freely from his burst nose, soaking into his collar and down the front of his torn shirt. His hand was sticky where the gash in his forearm was weeping in time with the rapid beating of his heart.

Newbury watched as the Executioner charged into the foggy, frozen night. All he could see was the back of her head receding into the distance. It was somehow familiar, dragging at a memory somewhere in the back of his mind.

And then it struck him where he’d seen it before. “It’s the Prince!” he exclaimed, suddenly.

“The Prince?” echoed Scarbright from behind him, confused, concerned. “He’s here?”

Newbury turned, hanging onto the door for support. “No. He’s not here. But he sent her,” he said, solemnly. “He sent her to kill me.”

The look on Scarbright’s face was a mix of incredulity and horror. “No. I can’t believe it. It can’t be…”

Newbury shook his head and spat blood into the flowerbed. “There’s no time to explain now,” he said, firmly. He clapped Scarbright on the shoulder, inadvertently smearing blood on the man’s dressing gown. “I owe you my life, Scarbright. If it wasn’t for your timely intervention.…” He trailed off.

“Think nothing of it, Sir Maurice. Anyone would have done the same,” said Scarbright, drawing himself up, perhaps a little uncomfortable with the praise, and with Newbury’s assertion of who was behind the attack.

“No, they wouldn’t,” said Newbury, quietly. He coughed on the blood that was still streaming down his throat. “Come on,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Help me clean up this mess. I need to speak to Charles as a matter of urgency.”