The Hanged Man

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Bloody hell!” shouted Brook behind her. He abandoned struggling with his horse, fired, and also missed.

The driver bellowed at them to stop.

Alex ignored him; there was time for one more aimed shot, but she didn’t get the chance. Something blurred at her hand like a striking snake. She cried out as the driver’s whip lashed the Webley from her grasp. The same action upset Brook’s aim and in that instant the tiger leaped at the fleeing rider.

She knew it would be efficient and brutal. Tigers bit down on the neck, strangling their thrashing prey to death.

But that did not happen. In midair, the great cat gracefully swatted the man clean from the saddle with one huge paw, then dropped onto all fours. The horse staggered at the buffeting from the attack, but kept going, ears flat, eyes bulging.

Brook got in front of Alex, sighting down his arm like a duelist, then flinched and cursed when the driver struck again with the whip, accurately plucking the gun away.

“Stand down!” he shouted. “Help with the damned horses!”

He had one by the bit, but the other reared and squealed, trying to break free. The tiger was not twenty feet away, looming over the fallen rider.

Alex’s pistol had fallen under the wagon. She started to retrieve it when the cat roared again. Her knees turned to water, she couldn’t help herself. No one could hear that and not be paralyzed by sheer primitive terror. She gulped it back, bitter and cold, and clawed for the weapon.

She shifted to face the tiger. Brook was next to her, staring in the same direction and feeling about for his dropped gun.

“Stand down, damn you!” The driver’s anger stirred the horses even more; despite the brake being engaged, they began dragging the wagon forward.

The man had to be mad-or knew something they didn’t.

She hesitated. The tiger looked right at her, down at the rider, who lay prone on the muddy cobbles, and back to her again.

It was purring. The sound was not soothing.

Alex put her hand on Brook’s shoulder. “Hold a moment … I … I think it’s on our side.”

Brook forgot himself and cursed softly and urgently.

“It might be”-she struggled for a sane explanation-“trained-as for a circus.”

“Trained?”

“A raja I knew in India kept several as pets. Perhaps-”

Two of the flying squad hurried up, going straight toward the tiger, which obligingly moved out of their way. They checked the stunned rider over, then went to aid the struggling driver. The great cat trotted down the street where others of the squad, unconcerned by its approach, were lining the conscious survivors against the wall.

One of the squad cried out and fell. No sound of a shot, but he looked to have taken a bullet. His prisoner broke free and ran, then unexpectedly dropped as well.

Already chary of snipers, Alex called a sharp warning, pointing toward the rooftop opposite. She saw the movement of something black against a slightly less black background.

Two more men were shot, along with their charges, before the others reacted. One shouted a command and they rushed across the street to press against the building’s front. The sniper would have to lean out and down to get to them.

But he did not do that, and instead fired on the remaining prisoners. Those lying insensible jerked as they were struck, others attempting escape did not succeed. It was a bitter reprise of Colonel Mourne’s defense of the Service offices, but he’d cut down armed men, not helpless captives.

Alex centered her aim on the darkest patch on that roof, fired, and made herself a new target. She heard the smack of a bullet hitting the road almost at her feet, and dashed for cover in a doorway on the same side. If she could pick the lock and get in and up to the roof-damnation, her reticule and tools were in the wagon, which was being led away. The displaced rider had been thrown into the back and the two squad men ran to join their comrades, Brook at their heels.

“Stay there!” he shouted as they passed.

Not likely, she thought, having spied a better vantage across the street. The sharpshooter continued to kill prisoners.

The big squad man who had accompanied Mourne raised the air rifle high and got off a silent shot. There was no way to tell if it struck. He attempted a second shot and failed. The gravity-fed ammunition must have jammed. He swiftly took cover behind the open gate.

She used the moment, hurried to the inset doorway and peered out. The range was bad for a revolver, but she could keep the sniper distracted. She used the building’s corner as a muzzle rest. The resulting flash and recoil prevented her from seeing if she struck anything important.

The tiger roared, seizing everyone’s attention for a few seconds, veered to the right, and leaped up. It gained the top of a protruding entry under the shooter’s vantage, but could go no farther. Even its formidable claws could find no purchase to clamber up a bare wall.

The tall man emerged and ran across with startling speed, gave a jump, and grasped the top edge of the entry. Two of the squad each grabbed a booted foot and boosted him the rest of the way until he stood next to the tiger.

Alex saw movement above again and aimed for it, buying the squad man time for whatever his purpose. When her eyes cleared from the flash, she wasn’t quite ready to believe them. He was flat against the wall, his feet on the tiger’s massive head. Back legs braced, front legs on the building, the animal pushed upward until the man was in reach of a windowsill. One forearm taking his weight, he smashed the glass with his truncheon, knocking enough clear to allow him to climb in.

She stopped gaping and fired again. The tiger quit its perch and stood with the squad under the cover of the entry. They all looked up, as though listening to their friend’s progress through the building.

Dogs continued howling, the only sound she could hear above the blood pounding in her ears. She breathed shallowly through her mouth, straining her eyes, hoping for telltale movement. She had one bullet left.

A blurring of shadows on top of the building, a strangled grunt turning from surprise to rage, she glimpsed two men so caught in their fight that they had no mind for their high surroundings.

The larger one seemed to be trying desperately to fling himself from the height, while the other was just as determined to drag him back.

She emerged from cover, checking the other roofs for more shooters.

The fighters bobbed from view. Alex ran to one of the fallen men, a prisoner. He was stone dead and she pulled back to avoid accidentally Reading him. The next man was one of the squad; he bled from his upper side under one arm, caught in an area not covered by the metal breastplate. The bullet might have gouged against his ribs; she couldn’t tell, but he was stunned and in pain.

“See to the wounded!” she shouted.

The squad members remained diverted by the progress of their man on the roof. Only the tiger looked her way, twitching its ears. Blast the beast, men were dying.

This time putting more force into her voice, her language and tone lashed like a master sergeant. She surprised herself at the vehemence. It had the advantage of gaining their notice. Even the damned tiger reacted. The beast gave a strange coughing growl, almost sounding disgusted, then sped from cover, loping across and through the gate.

The others spread out and pulled comrades to cover. So far as she could tell, given the circumstances, the armoring had accomplished its good purpose, sparing its wearers from fatal wounds. But there was plenty of blood and she worried about the tiger’s reaction to it. Just how well trained was it-and how the devil had it come to be here?

A short, savage cry drew her attention back to the sniper’s building. The two men were against the low wall, their rasping breath audible as they slammed fists like pugilists who’d forsaken the rules of the ring.

One gained an advantage unseen in the distance and dark, locked his hands around the other’s throat, and then flung himself backward-over the wall.

The second man was dragged along, but managed to grab the edge, taking the weight of both for two heartbeats before his grasp slipped. They struck the entry roof with a sickening thud, and momentum carried them down to the street. Alex heard the muffled pop of bones breaking.

The flying squad man landed on his much larger adversary, who lay still. The man moved feebly and fell away, struggling for air, having apparently had all his breath knocked out. His clothing was torn from the fight, one sleeve gone from the sweater and the balaclava askew over his face. He groggily pawed at it.

“I’m with Colonel Mourne,” she said, kneeling over him. “Let me help.”

He wheezed and attempted to push her away, but she got past his waving arm and pulled the covering clear … then rocked so far back on her heels as to go completely over.

He tried to drag the covering into place but was too late. She’d seen his face and were that not proof enough, then the tattoos snaking over his bare arm confirmed it.

“Blast and damn,” said Lord Richard Desmond, his pale eyes glaring at her. Then they clouded, and he collapsed, chest heaving as he fought to recover his breath.

Alex scrambled backward, awkwardly getting to her feet. In an instant she understood the appalling fear she’d picked up from Mrs. Woodwake; Alex felt it seize her as well. Impulse struggled with intellect, neither offering enlightenment for the impossibility before her. Hardly aware of the action, she raised her Webley, pointing it at Lord Richard.

He glanced her way and captured enough air to speak. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

She made no move, peripherally aware of the others as they dealt with less extraordinary matters. A man eased next to her and placed his hand over hers to gently persuade her to aim elsewhere.

“I’ll see to him, miss,” he said briskly. “Are you unhurt?”

His touch conveyed his confidence and exhilaration; the emotions engendered by battle were so strong as to sieve right through her shock. She was wretchedly vulnerable, her internal barriers a shambles. Alex pulled away, keeping hold of her pistol, for its anchoring weight was reassuring.

“Explain,” she said distinctly and to no one in particular.

The man ignored her as he checked the body of the sniper.

Richard, able to sit up, muttered, “For God’s sake, not now.”

His comrade made a sound, as though in agreement, but suddenly staggered from a blow. The no-longer-stunned sharpshooter burst into violent movement, flinging the man aside.

Several squad members leaped in, truncheons swinging and slamming with wicked force. Despite the fall and broken bones, he threw off one after another, finally rising to his full height, standing a foot taller than the tallest. He had shoulders like a giant, and there was something wrong with their strange sloping shape.

Moving with unnatural speed, he slipped a massive arm around Richard’s throat, lifting him. He struggled, but had no success breaking free.

The tumult brought the tiger back. It paused, seeming to take in the scene, then launched forward in a smooth, crouching movement, like a housecat sneaking up on an unwary bird. But the shootist turned in time to see, dropped Lord Richard, and foiled the attack by meeting the beast halfway.

Alex could scarce follow the melee as the two rolled and roared, the tiger clawing the shootist’s back to ribbons, the giant strangling the cat with one hand and punching at its belly with the other. A chance reflection revealed the blade of a knife flashing amid the flying blood.

The great cat twisted and clamped its jaws on the knife hand, ending the torment with a savage shake that severed the man’s arm below the elbow-but the giant’s grip on the tiger’s throat continued. Ignoring his own wounds, he raised it high as though it were no more than a kitten. The animal was weakening for lack of air, tongue thrust forward between bared fangs, paws flailing. It suddenly went slack as a dead thing.

The shootist dropped his burden and tore a gladius from a fallen fighter’s belt, rounding on Alex.

At her first clear sight of his face, she froze, unable to accept the exaggerated simian features as anything but a grotesque mask.

But no mask was capable of changing expression. Wide lips drew back to show inhumanly large teeth. His red eyes seemed to snap with fire and glow with fury, but she felt nothing, absolutely nothing, beating against her internal senses. There was no emotion at all from that huge body, no hint of pain, no shred of anger. It might as well have been a wisp of fog-

A ghost.

Her heart faltered, recovered, catching up with her mind as it hurtled toward an improbable but inevitable conclusion. With no solid evidence, only surmise crossed with emotion, she knew beyond all doubt that this was her father’s killer. However monstrous it appeared, it possessed the wit to creep in and-

The images in her mind’s eye of what had followed in that quiet Harley Street room were fleeting and vicious; she blotted them out, not wanting to see.

Lord Richard began to stir again. He groggily felt for his own weapon, but his belt had been lost in the fight. The giant uttered a short snarl as though dismissing Alex as a threat and turned toward him.

Half an arm gone, bleeding in pulses from the stump, it bore down like a machine, as inexorable and no more conscious of itself than a locomotive. Its fingers were much too long even on that huge knotted hand. Wrapped clumsily around the short sword’s grip, they angled the blade to gut Richard like a fish.

While he was something unknown and inspiring fear, this bestial thing was an abomination.

Raising her Webley, Alex surged forward.

Her own hand was rock steady, a sure and certain extension of her will-and unlike the grotesquery before her, she felt rage. It roared forth from her small form like living flame as she fired point-blank.

Her last bullet crashed through its skull. Blood and brains exploded out the other side. The body spasmed forward, falling heavily across Richard. The blade struck hard, the point ramming between the cobbles an inch from his head. It stayed there, a truncated version of ancient Arthur’s sword in the stone.

A dazed Lord Richard pushed clear of the madly twitching body, gaped at the quivering gladius, and then at Alex standing over him, smoke from her revolver drifting in the still, cold air.

“Explain,” she repeated, this time specifically addressing him.

He tried that pale glare again, but this time she stared him down.

He finally nodded. “My word on it.”

Brook loomed before her. He’d been one of those thrown around by the all-too-corporeal ghost and was the worse for wear with his clothes torn and a swelling, blackening eye.

“Are you all right?” she asked, anticipating the same question from him.

“What about yourself?”

“Alive and standing.”

Her gaze fell toward the tiger, lying on its side on the cobbles. It coughed pitifully, limbs and body shivering, dying in agony from all those knife wounds. The poor beast … she cast about for another gun to put it from its misery.

Limping, Lord Richard got to it first. Instead of keeping a safe distance, he knelt next to the wounded beast, putting a hand on its flank, bending close to one ear.

“Come on, you old fool, wake out of it,” he ordered roughly. “Come on!”

It coughed again, opened its vast green eyes, and gave a long groan.

“I know, but you can do it. I still owe you five shillings. Don’t let me get away with that.”

The animal shuddered and seemed to shrink. Alex could not follow exactly what happened, for it was swift and dark and whatever it was that impressed upon her brain was quickly rejected. One instant there lay before her a dying tiger, the next Colonel Mourne was in its place, shakily sitting up.

“Dickie?” he said in a thin voice.

“You’re back,” Richard assured him.

“Blood, I smell blood.” He gave a start, his hand sweeping across the front of his clothes, which were covered in the stuff.

“Most of it’s yours. Give yourself a minute to remember.”

“That’s the worst, I do. What in God’s name was that thing? All I wanted was to kill it, whatever the cost.”

“I know. We’ll find out later. Catch your breath.” So saying, Richard straightened and followed his own advice, then moved on to check the others.

“Miss Pendlebury…” began Brook, but he seemed unable to finish.

“Indeed. The world’s gotten just a bit madder. But they do seem to be on our side.”

“So far.”

* * *

At some point, Brook led her from the immediate area and indicated that she should stay until his return. She had no objection to standing quietly for the few moments. She wanted to think, but was unable to do so. Nothing, in all her varied experience of the world, had prepared her for such as this.

Brook came back bearing the carpetbag and her reticule, which he had to place in her hands. It felt heavy, then she remembered her lock picks and the box of cartridges.

Reloading her Webley did not require thought. She broke it open, ignoring the blood that had spattered her hands and sleeves when she’d blown that unholy beast into perdition. Clearing the chambers of spent shells, she shoved in fresh ones, noting, with a small portion of astonishment, that her hands did not shake. She thought they ought to, considering.

“You’re rather composed,” Brook observed.

“This is shock. Why aren’t you screaming? I want to.”

“What’s the point? These other chaps … well … there they are. Knocked about a bit, but soldiering on, a whole side of the Service I expect few know about. I doubt we were supposed to see any of that. The question is, what will they do with us?”

A number of possibilities came to her, departing swiftly. “Lord Richard owes me his life. I will use that for all it’s worth.”

The ambulatory members of the flying squad searched the area to make sure it was clear; the Black Maria was brought back. They removed their one surviving prisoner, the squad’s injured were loaded in his stead, and it departed for St. Bart’s, the nearest hospital. The enemy dead, including the monstrosity Alex had killed, were dragged inside the gate and left on the ground. The men moved as though they’d drilled for such macabre work.

She did not participate. Alex lacked their physical strength and had no wish to touch the dead lest she Read their last moments. Her barriers were unsteady and brittle in the aftermath. Brook contributed by taking up the shootist’s air rifle, which had fallen from the roof. The weapon looked much like the others, but she noted differences that begged for closer study.

A squad man by the open gate whistled sharply, motioning that they should hurry. They crossed the road with two other stragglers, entering the paved yard of a sizable building. Dirty snow was piled high in dim corners, shrouding the bones of cast-off machinery, broken crates, and other debris. The tall structure in the middle was cheerless, coated with decades of soot, and its iron barred windows might well have been bricked over for all the light the filthy glass allowed in or out.

One of Colonel Mourne’s riders trotted past, his horse restive and snorting when it came close to the dead shootist. As soon as they cleared the gate, two men locked it and remained on watch.

Alex wanted a closer look at her kill.

She’d shot game before, to protect herself or to provide food, and afterward usually felt a letdown for taking a life, but not this time. Unconnected to any sense of revenge for her father, her heart swelled with a fierce pride of accomplishment. She’d removed something that was wrong, a thing that should not exist.

Though it wore outsize clothing, little about it was human other than its general form. The red eyes were faded and dulling, the large jaw sagged, and there was a flatness to the body she recognized. Call it soul or spirit, when that departed, the physical remains were strangely reduced.

Brook, not concealing his revulsion, said, “Seven foot tall if it’s an inch. How could anything that big, looking as it does, slip around London unnoticed?”

“An excellent question. I would suggest powerful friends.”

“Who could be friends with that?”

“Lord Hollifield. He directed us straight into a trap.”

Brook shook his head. “He found an old address. He couldn’t know what was here.”

“He didn’t have to, just see to it that we were followed or send a message ahead.”

“He’s your friend. Why would he wish you harm?”

She had no answer to that. The idea that Hollifield could be involved in this devilish business was absurd, unthinkable. But not impossible, and if so, then something very nasty is afoot.

“It makes no sense.”

“We will find the sense, Mr. Brook. Obviously more information is required.” She started to reach toward the creature, then hesitated. Her psychical barriers were badly in need of shoring up, but she had no awareness of the thing on that level; what harm could befall by touching it?

None, she discovered as she went through its pockets. All were empty.

“He had a knife.…”

“Over there.” Brook was content to just point at the lower half of the arm the tiger had bitten off. One of the men had placed it in the general area of its original attachment. The unnaturally long fingers still grasped the weapon.

She pried them away with difficulty and examined the blade. Nothing remarkable: a folding clasp knife, and though large, such could be purchased from any number of shops. The maker was British. She would have liked a closer examination with a pocket lens, but such minutia could wait. She put it back and extended a hand toward the rifle Brook carried.

“This,” she said after a moment, “is a conspicuously superior weapon to the one we took to Lord Hollifield. The air reservoir is heavier, so it would hold a more powerful charge, and there’s rifling in the barrel, more accurate, as that creature demonstrated.”

“But shooting its own men?”

“We’ve no proof that they’re linked beyond being in the same spot at the same time.”

“No proof, but possible. You dislike coincidences; so do I. But this thing … I’ve read about gigantic apes running loose in the depths of Africa-could this be one of them?”

“This is no animal. Not in the common definition of the word, anyway.”

“Perhaps a human aberration, then, only this one was not displayed in a circus. It doesn’t look intelligent enough to do what it did, though.”

“This thing is not human. Look at the structure of its hands. Even the apes in zoos have a greater anatomical similarity to us than what we have here. This is neither fish nor fowl. Whatever their outward appearance, people and animals alike have feelings. This…” She removed one glove, stretching her hand forth, along with her internal senses.

Nothing.

“Well?” said Lord Richard, from a few paces behind her.

She’d sensed his approach and didn’t jump.

“Like a hole in the air,” she said. “I should feel something, but cannot. Yet the horse reacted to it.”

“That’ll be the blood, I expect. The smell of it is … not right.”

She lifted her arm to sniff the stains there.

“You won’t catch the difference.”

“What is it, sir?” Unspoken was the thought And what are you?

If he picked up a hint of the second question, he ignored it. Despite his torn clothes and general disarray, he looked as imperious now as he did in the coach on Harley Street with his ramrod posture and frosty manner. “I cannot say. The one fact I know is that the instant I clapped eyes on the thing I wanted to kill it. Instinctive reactions that bypass thought are placed within us for a reason, usually to ensure our survival. You have my congratulations and gratitude for your timely intervention, Miss Pendlebury. I will not forget it.”

“My duty, sir, though…”

“Yes?”

“I felt the same. This thing is wrong.”

“Agreed. Have you studied it sufficiently for the present? Then come.”

He led the way in. The building’s double doors were apparently locked but a smaller one on the side was in use and gaslight dazzled her a moment when it opened.

The interior was bright, indicating that work went on here at all hours of the day and night. If not as tidy as a hospital, it had the same look of controlled efficiency and organization. Long rows of workbenches filled the barnlike space; machining apparatus and other tools she could not identify were everywhere. The smell of oil, hot metal, and sweat hung heavy in the stuffy air. The plank floor glittered with embedded brass filings.

“It’s an air gun manufactory,” she whispered, taking in sturdy bins holding long barrels and other parts.

“There’s hundreds-thousands of them,” said Brook.

To the left was a partitioned-off area. Wood walls about nine feet high framed it, but it was open at the top. Within were drafting tables covered with papers and other clutter.

In the center, bound tightly to a chair with his arms behind him, was the captured horseman. His back was to the door. His fingers clenched into fists and opened again as he strained against the ropes.

Mourne’s lean form bent close; he spoke quietly to the prisoner, who kept shaking his head. Lord Richard remained without, close enough to listen, but not participate.

Alex spared them a single glance, then attacked a stack of unopened mail on a table outside, having spied something on top. With a rush of satisfaction she showed Brook the card she’d ripped from a familiar cream-colored envelope.

He read, “8:30-Masters Impart. Well, well. It must not be an exclusive gathering if that sort of fellow was invited.” He nodded toward the office.

“If this was addressed to him, and I think it was. Look at his boots.”

“What about them?”

“They do not match the drabness of the rest of his clothes. Those are a gentleman’s boots. As for his hands … he’s no laborer. Does a bit of writing to judge by the ink stains and-oh, bother this minutia; look at these invoices. Does the handwriting seem familiar to you?”

“Mrs. Veltre again-with an order for five thousand tea gowns?”

“We’ve found her dressmaker.”

“What’s this?” asked Richard.

She gave him a truncated report of the coded receipts they’d found at Hill Street.

“How did you know to go there?”

That was somewhat more difficult to report.

He was ill-pleased at the answer. “Why did you not pass this information to Mrs. Woodwake?”

“I discovered it after she interviewed me. She gave no indication that my father’s death and-and yours…” She faltered, voice fading a bit. “… were connected. I wanted to be sure of things before bringing it to her attention.”

“The truth, if you please, Miss Pendlebury. You knew she’d send someone else.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Whatever the outcome, there will be consequences for your ignoring orders.”

“I know, sir.”

“But not right now. Continue with what you’re doing.”

Before she could, Alex caught the word “regret” from Colonel Mourne and the prisoner raised his head and declared, “No, sir. Not one! If you had a shred of true honor you’d see to your duty as I have. England for the English!” he called out in a ringing tone as though it were a triumphant battle cry.

Lord Richard, battered and weary, reacted with a marked straightening of his already straight spine. On an altogether different level, Alex felt such a powerful wave of anger coming from him that she almost staggered from the force.

“Sir-” she began, but cut off when Richard raised a finger.

He left them, had a quiet word with Mourne, and took his place as interrogator.

Richard put one hand under the prisoner’s chin, forcing him to look up. His lordship’s full attention was in play; the man visibly trembled. Alex was glad not to be under the focus of those ice-blue eyes. They were intimidating enough when he was being friendly. Now, well, whatever it was, it looked intense and unpleasant.

However, she had endured and overcome that gaze. She was prepared to wait until he finished and could explain things.

But Colonel Mourne snorted and gestured for them to follow, muttering, “Get along, you two. Over here.”

Flying squad men were busy throughout the place, opening bins and poking at machinery. When Mourne came to one of the long benches, he eased down with a groan of relief, abruptly looking old and tired.

He sniffed. “Lieutenant, any of those mince pies left?”

Brook obligingly opened the carpetbag and Mourne fell on the supplies like a starving man. Alex made use of another bench, pulling it close. A wave of cold fatigue seized her, stifling even her rampant curiosity as countless little aches and bruises began to make themselves felt.

Eyes closed, she slowed her breathing, creating a calm center within until the physical distractions subsided. When she could face things again, she opened her eyes to find both Brook and Mourne staring at her.

“Emma Woodwake teach you that?” asked Mourne.

“It’s what I learned when Father and I were in Hong Kong.…” Treacherously, her control slipped and she gulped to keep from breaking into mortifying sobs. She would not allow it. “The man … the thing I shot-that’s the ghost. That’s what killed my father.”

“You saying or asking, girl?”

“Both. What is it?”

“I’ve never seen the like before, but officially, things have gotten worse.”

“What things, sir? Worse than Father’s murder, worse than an attack on the Service, worse than what we’ve just been through?” She managed to keep her voice from rising, but her throat was tight.

“Yes. I’m deciding how much to tell you. I’ll talk to a calm member of the Service, but not to an excitable outsider. Choose.”

Brook took one of her hands and pressed his flask into it. “Drink,” he ordered. “You’re thirsty.”

Indeed, she was parched, and she wanted water more than anything else, but choked down enough peaty fire to steady herself. The stuff had a more immediate and powerful effect than controlled breathing. She gave back the flask with a nod of thanks.

By then Mourne had finished off the mince pies and produced his own flask to wash down the last morsel.

Even with the rush of alcoholic heat making her head feel heavy, Alex plunged forward. “Lord Richard said he’d explain. He gave his word on it.”

“Of course he would. He’s a sentimental fool when it comes to pretty girls, and he should know better.”

“This very morning he was shot dead right in front of me. Please don’t say I was mistaken.”

“I won’t, though it’s true. He was in a bad way for a bit, but it takes a lot to put a dent in our Dickie. I imagine there’s times when he’d like it to take him away for good, but he wasn’t killed. Not today.”

He paused for another drink.

She recognized the kind of hesitation that preludes a difficult task. He’d speak in his own time, but perhaps a topic change and some small prompting would help. “I’ve seen tigers in India-but never ones with green eyes.”

“How long were you in India?” he asked, giving her a sharp look.

“Several months.”

“Get to see some of the stranger things their fakirs got up to? Listen to any of their stories? Doesn’t matter if you did or didn’t, what those johnnies flog to the crowds for begging bowl money ain’t the real show. There’s hardly a handful in the whole damnable country able to do it … and they keep it to themselves lest some raja wants ’em dead or chained up as a slave.”

“Sir, of what are you speaking?” asked Brook.

“Nightmares, Lieutenant. Legends that are real and shouldn’t be.”

“Like the ghost?” suggested Alex.

“No, missy. Like myself and Dickie over there. You’ve got your ability to Read. Is it a gift or a curse?”

“Equal parts of both, sir,” she said drily.

“I’ve heard the same from all of those with psychical talent. Some are born this way, others come to it late, and others acquire it. Dickie and I are in the last lot. He volunteered God knows how long ago; mine was against my will but I’ve made the most of it since. We serve queen and country, which is all that matters. Before you say you don’t understand, don’t bother. It’ll come with time.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Brook. “Conjuring tricks. Magic lanterns. You can’t ask me to be a part of such flummery.”

“Too late for that, Lieutenant. You’re square in the middle, like it or not. There is the psychical and then there is the supernatural, and for that there’s no proof but your own eyes, but don’t expect me to go the whole tramp. I’m all in.”

With that, Mourne closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Alex held her own, not knowing what to expect. Brook froze.

Mourne’s features, his whole body, seemed to ripple like air over a hot oven. For an instant his form stretched in a wholly impossible manner, skin and clothes melding, changing color and texture. She glimpsed the supple, dangerous beauty of black and yellow stripes, deadly grasping teeth, and arresting green eyes set in a wide, flat skull.

Then it ceased and he was as solid as before, a savage-faced old hunter showing dour regard, as though expecting the worst.

“Rakshasa,” Alex whispered.

“Close enough,” he grumbled. He looked at Brook, who remained frozen. “Shape-shifting demon to you, Lieutenant, but leave off the ‘demon’ nonsense. I’m a man, same as you. Most of the time.”

“Impossible.”

“Believe your eyes or not, I’m too tired to do a full shift. Makes me hungry and we’re out of mince pies. The tiger would be ravenous. He’s fond of raw meat and sometimes not too particular where it comes from.”

Brook glanced helplessly at Alex. “Shape-shifting demon?”

“It’s from Indian folklore, a myth,” she said, recalling what she’d read as a child. “Rakshasas are supposed to take any form and haunt graveyards looking for human flesh.”

“That’s the myth part, at least so far as I’m concerned,” the colonel added. “Thank your lucky stars.”

“How is it possible?”

“Any number of nasty things can happen to a soldier when he’s off in a strange place. He might bring home a case of malaria to haunt him for life-or worse. This is what I brought back. There’ve been times when I’d have gladly traded.”

“How did it happen?”

“I’m not giving my life story. Suffice that when I was much younger and more foolish I was in the wrong place at the right time and you don’t need details. I’m all for females having an even footing with men on most things, but the rest of the tale ain’t fit for a lady’s ears.”

Alex considered arguing the point, for she had read a number of books that were outside of what was thought to be “fit” for her sex. But it would be useless to press. Once a man got it into his head that he was being protective, there was no shaking him.

“Very well.”

“Sensible girl.” Mourne lifted his flask again, seemed to think better of it, and put it away. “I came back changed, we’ll leave it at that. So what is it? Gift or curse? I’ll say along with you that it’s both. What matters is we’re on the same side.”

She glanced toward the office. Lord Richard must have been making progress, for the prisoner appeared to respond to questions. That was a good sign, though his lordship did not seem pleased with the replies.

“Does … does the queen know?” asked Brook.

Mourne gaped with naked disbelief for a moment, then barked a short laugh. “That’s your first question?”

“A reasonable one, I think.”

“Of course she knows, though it’s the Lord Consort who usually deals with us. He and Dickie’s family have a long history. They haven’t always gotten on, but times have changed. There’s too many dangers afoot to be choosy about one’s allies, but Lord Richard’s always been bound to defend the throne, and I mean that in a literal sense.”

“Is he also … a rakshasa?”

“No.”

“What is he?”

“The official title is Queen’s Champion, though you won’t find it written down anywhere. As for how that came about, he’ll tell you himself if he’s so inclined. He’s older than he looks, stronger than any half dozen of my men together, and it’d take more than a few rounds from some pop-gun toy to remove him from this life, the poor devil.”

Alex could not imagine Lord Richard as an object of pity, though the memory of his bloody body on her cousin’s floor was yet fresh. How had he survived that? She repeated the question aloud.

“Once upon a time, they called it magic,” said the colonel. “Now young squibs like Crookes and Sexton are trying to explain us with science. Good luck to them.”

Brook shook his head, a thread of helplessness in his tone. “Sir, this is impossible!”

Mourne was nettled, but he kept his voice low and even. “Raise your voice to me again, soldier, and I’ll have you transferred to the Hebrides. I know this is hard, but at least pretend a respect for what I’ve said.”

“We’re getting answers,” Alex whispered. “Even if they are impossible. No more so than Miss Sybil, and you believe what she tells you.”

“That’s different.”

“How?” demanded Mourne. “She pulls her prophecies out of thin air and you accept ’em over what you’ve seen firsthand? What you fought out there in the street? You laid fists on that creature. It was real enough to do injury.”

Brook seemed about to speak, then shook his head. He tipped his flask and finished it off.

“Hold strong, lad. You might get used to the impossible. Right, let’s move on to what’s in front of us. We’ve been lucky. Miss Sybil foiled one attack and Miss Pendlebury saved us here thanks to a well-placed shot, but be certain the enemy will regroup once they know they’ve failed.” He jerked his head toward the courtyard. “What do you make of that thing, missy?”

“It looks ape-ish,” she began, then considered that Mourne would be after a useful summation, not a statement of the obvious. “But its actions indicate that it must have possessed human intelligence. It murdered my father, invading his home and attempting to make murder look like suicide. It invaded my home, perhaps to serve me the same way, but for some reason abandoned that task. I believe it abducted Mrs. Veltre and God knows whether she’s alive or not. After Mr. Brook and I left Lord Hollifield it turned up on a roof here, ably handling an air gun. Mr. Brook does not like the suggestion of a connection between this business and his lordship, but I cannot ignore that he sent us to this address. However, the creature shot prisoners along with your men. Considering its apparent intelligence, I would suggest its goal was to prevent them from being questioned, rather than an inability to tell one side from another.”

“Your two cousins were at Hollifield House,” said Brook. “One or the other could have asked about our destination. His lordship would have seen no harm in informing either of them.”

“I’ll allow that James or Teddy could be involved, however unlikely that might be. But is it not more logical to consider that Lord Hollifield might be a member of the Ætheric Society?”

“The Ætherics?”

“Many members are of the upper classes. Whether they’re there to hear lectures on metaphysical and theosophical topics or to enjoy a more prurient entertainment-”

“But he’s your friend, Miss Pendlebury, and … and the queen’s relation by marriage.”

“All the more reason to keep his membership a secret and to silence a spy in their midst. That could explain my father’s removal. Mrs. Veltre had some association with him, so she also had to be removed.”

“Peace, missy,” said the colonel. “You’re making guesses. It’ll be easy enough to determine if Lord Danny’s mixed up in this.”

“How?”

“We ask him. Our Dickie boy will do the honors. He has a way of getting the truth from people whether they like it or not. Try not to look too appalled, Lieutenant. Lord Richard may get his general orders from the Lord Consort, but he’s bound by oath and honor to serve the queen. If her brother-in-law is up to no good it has to be sussed out for the safety of the realm. Wouldn’t be the first time that royal relatives made a mess of things. Whatever you do, don’t mention the Wars of the Roses-oh, there you are. About time. You look how I feel. Sit.”

Lord Richard, accurately described by the colonel, found a bench and surrendered to its limited comfort. He was paler than before and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was … not pleasant,” he said.

“The lad has a stubborn eye.”

“I’ve had better cooperation from dead mules.”

“Was he drunk?”

“Not on spirits. He’s a fanatic. It’s typical for religion and politics and a few other vices. Their extreme views are without reason, like a fever sickness. Took an effort to get past that.”

“What did you learn?”

“Nothing good. He’s heart and soul with the England for the English mob, but confirmed that there’s a group behind them directing business.”

“The Ætherics?” asked Alex.

“They’re also just a curtain covering deeper and darker things, a tool and a source of funding from fools who should know better.” Richard turned his tired gaze on Mourne. “It’s as you thought: the Order of the Black Dawn.”

The colonel’s chronic scowl deepened. “I wish I’d been in error.”

The name was not familiar to Alex, but something about it instantly nagged her.

Brook shifted and muttered, “Those pamphlets we found.”

“Ah,” she said, catching the meaning.

“What do you know of the Black Dawn?” Mourne demanded sharply.

Brook continued, “Mrs. Veltre had Ætheric Society literature with the motif of a black sun on it. They’re connected, are they not?”

He made a noise of disgust. “There’s brass for you. Hiding in plain sight.”

“What is this order, sir?”

“The nobs directing things, so far as can be told. The Black Dawn’s worse than the Ætherics or the E. for E. louts playing at politics. Some hint of ’em started up about the same time young Drina took the throne. There were those who didn’t want her marrying any German prince, must have been a dozen plots afoot to assassinate any man with royal blood daring to cross the Channel. Busy times. But she showed them all. Can’t get more English than the Godalming tribe.”

“The next time they surfaced,” said Lord Richard, “was during the furor prior to the passage of the Equal Franchise Bill. Some thought it bad enough the queen wanted to give a vote to every man in her realm, propertied or not, but she insisted women have a vote as well. Predictions of chaos, revolution, God punishing us all for disrupting the natural order of things-it was a mad time. The Service had a different Seer then, a bit more focused, and he kept having a vision of a black dawn. Took us a while to sort out the meaning.”

“Did some good,” said Mourne. “Because of that we were able to foil another gunpowder plot.”

“Another one?” said Alex.

“Along with assassination attempts on the queen and any number of politicians supporting the bill. The vote went through fair and square as it should and passed by a cat’s whisker. Let’s hope you appreciate the effort that went into it, missy.”

“Indeed I do,” she said, “but what is the Black Dawn?”

“From the little we know they’re a pack of johnnies who don’t want change of any kind. It can be bad for business unless it’s a change that suits them. If you’re a fella who makes his pile selling guns, then a war every few years is just the thing to keep you in country estates. But the queen’s a great one for using diplomacy over force to defend her interests in the wide world. There’s some as think women having the vote has to do with that. Pure nonsense. Females are just as bloodthirsty as men, given the right circumstances. The obvious answer is that our queen’s brilliant at picking ambassadors.”

“And consulting Miss Sybil?”

“There’s that. Keep her name to yourselves from now on. There’s a war on and the less said about our assets the better.”

“The Black Dawn knows about her, since they appear to have a means of blocking her Sight,” said Richard.

“Mirrors,” said Alex.

“What about them?”

“She spoke of them to me.”

“When did you get in to see her?” he demanded.

“Put your bull pup away, Dickie,” said Mourne. “Miss Sybil slipped her keepers. Woodwake found her in the dining hall frightening everyone out of their appetites. Sexton had the wit to write down everything she babbled, but I didn’t get a chance to read it. Tell his lordship the rest, missy, before he bursts a blood vessel.”

Lord Richard snorted, but pulled himself back, looking a bit less terrifying.

“She…” Alex cleared her throat; it had gone tight. “She mentioned red curtains, mirrors, a blackness behind them, and that I should break them and damn the bad luck.”

“That’s all?”

She nodded.

“Well,” he said, after a long moment. “It would seem that you do have orders. Good of you to share them with us.”

“There’s more, Dickie. These two have been…” Mourne then rapidly conveyed what he’d learned from Alex during the trip from Hollifield House.

To her chagrin, a now stone-faced Lord Richard ordered-but so politely that it sounded like an invitation that might be declined-Alex and Brook out of earshot.

“Whether one wears a uniform or not, a soldier’s lot is not a happy one,” said Brook.

“That depends on the trust one has in one’s senior officers.”

“Do you trust them?”

“I am conflicted on that point, Mr. Brook.”

Alex could not determine which man had the higher ranking in the chain of command. Probably Richard, but the colonel argued with him like an equal, and his lordship listened. They kept their voices down but it was a forceful and rapid exchange.

While this went on, new people came in. A glance through the open door showed two coaches in the courtyard, each overflowing with Service members. Some were obviously there to augment the flying squad men, others she recognized as clerks and record keepers. Doubtless they would take the place apart down to the nails and sort through every scrap of paper looking for names. Alex opened the carpetbag and gave the senior clerk the now mince-smeared invoices collected from Veltre’s home, explaining their code. He nodded and swept away to the office, calling orders to his staff.

“That was quick,” Brook murmured. “The rider who shot past us must have found another telegraph station. A direct line to Service headquarters in this part of town?”

Just how many of those had Lord Richard set up? Alex recalled a story in The Times where a financier boasted of the extraordinary amount he’d spent on a single line running from his West End home to the Royal Exchange. He disliked venturing out in inclement weather and had paid dearly to avoid it. Richard’s expenditure must have been a hundred times that. The outlay indicated tremendous personal resources. An intense curiosity about the man belatedly seized her. Who-and what-the devil was he?

As though sensing her regard, he looked her way just then and indicated that she and Brook should return.

“If the Veltre baggage kept the accounts for the Black Dawn,” Mourne was saying, “no wonder they’ve been on the move. She’d know as much of their plans as any of ’em. If they thought she’d been spilling to Gerard-someone might have panicked, sent that beastie to deal with him. That doesn’t explain why it was after the missy here unless there’s another Pendlebury involved who didn’t want to be rumbled by a Reader.”

“Absolutely not,” said Alex, before Lord Richard could reply. It was speaking out of turn, but she was already struggling to keep her annoyance in check. “We’ve been over this and I gave good reasons to exclude them. However, it has been years since I lived at Pendlebury House. Perhaps a belowstairs spy is within the household and feared discovery. Servants come and go. My aunt can be difficult. I should like a chance to Read any staff that-”

“Now she wants to go home,” Richard put in.

“That place is not my home, but I’ll do whatever is necessary to find who’s behind this.”

“I expect you will do what you please-we’ve had ample demonstration of that-but will you follow orders?”

She felt herself flushing red. They were never going to let her forget her lapse.

Mourne snorted. “Oh, turn her loose, Dickie. She’ll do more damage.”

“And possibly get damaged herself in the proceedings. If you hadn’t stopped them, these two would have walked right into this place or been shot dead at the gates by that monstrosity in the courtyard. I think it was sent to kill her and Brook and instead began eliminating witnesses to the goings-on.”

“That puts Lord Danny in the thick of things, y’know.”

“I am inclined to think he’s nothing more than a cat’s-paw. I’ll determine that later. For now, we must take action before the Order learns of this setback and either decamps or mounts a fresh attack.”

“I’m all for it, what do you suggest?”

His lordship favored Alex with a wintry smile. “Ask Miss Pendlebury.”