

The Infernal Realm

By

Lee Moan

Smashwords Edition

Lee Moan's Steam-Powered Typewriter

Copyright 2015 Lee Moan

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then pleae return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Lee Moan.

Cover art Copyright © Steve Upham

Screaming Dreams

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

COMING SOON: The Demon House – The Darknoll Chronicles Volume II

Afterword

About the Author

Other Titles Available

1

LONDON, 1896

The hansom cab emerged from the mist like a wraith. The horses' hooves clattered on the waterfront cobbles, startling a flock of gulls perched along the tall iron gates. With a sharp tug on the reins, the driver brought the geldings to a halt.

"Here you are, Inspector," he said. "Deptford wharf."

Darknoll opened the cab door and climbed down onto the creaking boards of the jetty. He shivered as the harsh wind penetrated the thick fabric of his overcoat. A fine spray from the water brushed against his cheeks with a tenderness he found unsettling. At the far end of the pier, a group of dark figures moved about in a shifting screen of grey mist.

"Murder, is it, sir?" the driver asked. "Nasty one, I'll wager, judging by all them bobbies."

Darknoll glared up at him. "Thank you, driver," he said.

The young man wilted under Darknoll's gaze and shook the reins, leading the cab away without another word. Darknoll watched the hansom vanish into the swirling fog, the sound of hooves fading to an echo.

A tall figure emerged from the mist. Sergeant Lampshire. His deputy had sent the cab to collect him at his home, just as he was about to set off for dinner with his best friend, Walter. It had been a long time since their last meeting, and Walter would be deeply disappointed at his absence.

"Evening, Inspector. Apologies for sending a taxi to collect you, all the police carriages are out on duty this evening. It's an eventful night I'm afraid to say."

"No matter," Darknoll said. "I only hope this is worth my while."

Lampshire did not answer immediately. He pulled up the collars of his overcoat and looked back the way he had come. "I . . . think you should take a look for yourself, sir."

They walked down the jetty together in silence. Out on the river, obscured by the low-lying mist, a tugboat sounded its horn, a mournful cry in the darkness. At the end of the pier, they found several constables in greatcoats bearing portable lanterns. They peered out of the mist with the gaunt masks of ghosts.

Lying on the boards at their feet was the body of a young woman, her face painted in a manner commonly associated with prostitutes. A quick examination showed no signs of bruising around the face or neck. The victim was fully clothed, her arms and legs splayed, positioned in such a way as to resemble an X. Darknoll found no tethers binding her hands or feet. The handle of a knife protruded from her chest, the blade buried up to the hilt.

"Who discovered the body?" he asked.

"The wharf master's son," Lampshire said.

"He's been taken into custody?"

"No, sir, we sent him home with his father."

Darknoll's eyes flashed. "Why?"

"Because he's eight years old, sir."

"Oh, I see."

"We took statements from father and son," Lampshire said, "but they knew very little."

Darknoll scanned the surrounding area, the edges of the jetty cloaked in seeping mist. On the boards around the body patches of rainwater glistened.

"The boy didn't touch anything did he?"

"He says he didn't. He looked as pale as a nun when we spoke to him, poor lad." Lampshire leaned over, hands on knees, to address the corpse directly. "Well, somebody has done for you, young Henrietta, haven't they? You'll be sleeping with the Devil himself tonight, won't you now?"

"Hold your tongue, Sergeant," Darknoll said. "Have some respect for the dead."

"Respect?" Lampshire said, with a snort. "She was a whore, sir. The only thing she respected was money for you-know-what."

"All the more reason to pity her, Sergeant. Now, let that be the end of it."

Lampshire stared at him, his body tensed, ready for a fight. Darknoll ignored him, indicating the dead girl.

"So, Sergeant, what do we know about the child?"

Lampshire took a long time to answer. "Henrietta Swan," he said eventually. Darknoll noted the tightness in his voice. "Twenty-one years old. She worked the Portland district. Word was she would do anything for any man if the price were right. And she liked the rougher kind."

Darknoll assessed the victim once more in light of this. Studying the girl's painted face, he felt a sudden bolt of empathy, a deep and abiding sorrow. He imagined a mother, a father, an older brother, perhaps, all of them heartbroken and praying, daily, for this young woman's redemption. Perhaps, even near the end, she never suspected this night would be her last . . .

Emotion rose up inside him but he shook it off immediately.

"And what do we make of this?" he asked, indicating a strange diagram drawn around the victim's body—a large circle with twelve branches leading from it, each branch capped with a smaller circle. Darknoll crouched down and examined the fine white powder used to create the image. He dabbed it with his right forefinger, sniffed it, then put a tiny amount on the tip of his tongue.

"Salt," he said. "Sea salt."

Lampshire indicated the diagram. "What do you think, Inspector? Constellation, perhaps?"

"It looks like no constellation I've ever seen." He pulled out his notebook and quickly sketched the image. Approximately five feet away from the body was a second identical diagram. It was much smaller and at its centre was a smoked glass jar with a lid. Darknoll walked over and sketched it, trying to maintain a sense of the ratio, in case the size and distance should prove to be important. "Do we know what's in the jar?" he asked.

"Blood," Lampshire said. "Quite a lot of it. The jar is almost full. I would say three, maybe four pints."

Darknoll walked back over to Miss Swan's body, looking over her face, skin as pale as snow. "Then it's almost certain the blood belongs to our victim."

"Yes," Lampshire said. "I would go along with that."

"Have we examined the murder weapon?" Darknoll said, pulling a leather glove over his right hand.

"No, sir." Lampshire gestured at the circle surrounding the body. "I didn't feel comfortable stepping into that circle. The whole thing reeks of witchcraft to me."

"Do you believe in all that, sergeant?"

"No, but . . . you can never be too careful, sir."

Darknoll tried to suppress a smile. "My, sergeant. Next you'll be telling me you believe in faeries."

Lampshire did not reply, his lips pressed into a thin white line.

Darknoll stepped inside the circle, taking care not to disturb the line of salt. He crouched down at the girl's side, leaning over to get a good look at the handle of the blade.

"Stone," he said.

"What's that, sir?" Lampshire asked.

"The handle is made of stone, which suggests the blade is made of stone also. One solid piece. It looks old, very old, but . . . there's a very fine crosshatch pattern on the handle, and . . . small diagrams carved into it on both sides. A gate, and—" He leaned over to examine the image on the far side "—some kind of creature, hard to identify. Very smooth stone carving, though, very refined. Impossible to tell if this is a genuine ancient blade or if it's been fashioned like an ancient blade." Darknoll sat back. "Beautiful work."

"You sound impressed," Lampshire said.

"Not impressed, sergeant. Curious. The killer has gone to a lot of trouble. Either they have hunted down a very rare type of ancient dagger, or they have employed a modern stone smith to make it. Whichever is the case, it suggests incredible premeditation, an extreme level of obsession, dedication . . ."

He let the thought trail away. Each fragment of evidence helped him to form a clearer picture of the killer and, in particular, the killer's mindset. Already, he did not like the picture that was forming in his head.

"Everything all right, sir?" Lampshire asked.

Darknoll did not reply. He noticed the buttons of the victim's blouse were undone, both sides folded back over each other. Dark splotches of blood were visible through the fabric.

"Was the victim found like this? Buttons undone?"

"Yes, sir," Lampshire said.

Darknoll reached over and gently lifted away the sides of the blouse until her entire chest area was exposed. The stone dagger had pierced her heart, partially mutilating her left breast. Despite the fatal injury, there was only a small amount of blood around the entry wound, now dried to a dark crust. Darknoll leaned in again, noticing another bloody mark just visible beneath the fabric of the open dress. He unfastened some more buttons to reveal a shape cut into the skin just below the sternum, hard to identify in the poor light.

"You," he said to one of the nearby constables. "What's your name?"

"Thacker, sir."

"Hold your lantern above me, Thacker. I need light."

The young constable shuffled forward, holding the lantern directly above the corpse. At the same time, half a dozen other beams of light fell on the area surrounding the body, creating an intense, almost ethereal glow to the scene. The dead girl looked almost angelic.

Darknoll examined the ornate symbol carved into the skin. Three wavy lines crossed through by a single jagged scar.

He unfastened the remaining buttons to reveal more symbols carved across the girl's stomach.

"Dear God," Lampshire said.

Darknoll pored over the other symbols—a cat's head with a solitary eye in the centre, a triangle with a star above it, a crescent moon. There were twelve in total, covering the torso in a rough circular pattern.

Eventually Darknoll sat back on his haunches, staring into the wall of mist. This confirmed his earlier fears, that this was more than just another ordinary murder. He had not seen anything like this since the Whitechapel murders.

He opened his notebook and quickly sketched the symbols.

"I told you this was witchcraft," Lampshire said. "I've seen something like this before, in the East End back in ninety-two. Animals with their organs cut out. Weird symbols painted in blood. Black magic." He backed away slowly, shaking his head. He realised then that everyone was looking at him. "Bloody mumbo-jumbo if you ask me."

The sound of clinking glass filled the silence as the heel of Lampshire's shoe connected with the glass jar resting on the boards. Lampshire froze and looked down. The glass jar tottered for a few frozen moments, before settling back on its base. However, it was than that he noticed the real error. He had inadvertently disturbed the ring around it. The salt line was broken. He looked up at the other men, horror flashing in his eyes.

Before anyone could respond, a loud inhalation shattered the silence, followed by a piercing scream.

Several men cried out in shock, their lanterns swaying wildly back and forth, as they searched for the source in blind panic.

A hand flailed out and grabbed the lapel of Darknoll's coat. It took a moment for him to register that the hand belonged to the girl. Her eyes were open and staring, filled with panic and naked terror. She was trying to pull herself up into a sitting position, but she ended up pulling Darknoll down towards her.

" _Cass-ku nuo-shi!"_ she stammered. " _Barra-nokk! Vestanji!"_

A thousand thoughts rolled through Darknoll's mind, every one of them obscured by his shock and confusion. He was looking at a girl who, until a moment ago, had been stone cold dead at their feet—now that same girl was looking into his eyes and screaming.

_Oh God, her eyes_.

He had never seen such fear.

_She can't be alive_ , he kept hearing himself say. _She has a dagger in her heart. She can't_ —

"Help me," she said, her face an inch from his. Her breath smelled like cold meat. "Please help me. I'm so frightened. I can see them. Dark shapes. Beyond the silver sea. Monsters. Oh God, it's so dark . . . so cold."

"What's happening?" the youngest constable was saying, hysteria rising in his voice. "What's she saying? I thought she was dead! I thought she was dead!"

"Quiet, Thacker!" someone barked.

"Help me, pleeeeeease," the girl screamed. Then her eyes fixed on the handle of the dagger protruding from her chest. "The dagger! Oh God! The dagger . . . is . . . in . . . my . . ." She trailed off, sobbing, choking. Her grip on his collar relaxed.

Darknoll recovered his senses, grabbing the girl's hand. "Henrietta," he said hurriedly. "Henrietta, listen to me. Everything will be . . ."

A horrible gargling sound in her throat. She was slipping away.

What was he going to say to her? Everything will be all right? He couldn't bring himself to say that. The girl was dead.

What could he say?

A moment later her other hand smacked against the boards and her eyes fluttered closed. Darknoll stared at her still form for a long time, his head filled with a dull, muted buzzing.

The sound of waves lapping against the wharf struts filled the silence.

"Sir?"

It was Thacker, the young constable. Darknoll looked up and found tears in the young man's eyes and a pained, questing look on his face. He needed reassurance, answers.

"Sir, what just happened?" he said. "I-I-I don't understand. What just happened?"

Darknoll stared at him for a long time and then looked at Lampshire. The sergeant's features were blank, his eyes fixed on the dead girl's body. He sensed Darknoll's eyes upon him and shook his head, for once at a loss for words.

2

The street lamps were burning bright when the cab finally arrived in Rackham Road. For most of the journey, Darknoll had sat staring at nothing, his senses numbed by the events of just a few hours ago. He knew it was late, but refused to look at his pocket watch. The midnight hour was not far away.

As the cab rolled to a stop, Darknoll glanced out at the Sovereign Restaurant. The lights inside were low. He would not be surprised if his friend had departed a long time ago. He prayed that was not the case. He had not seen dear Walter in many weeks now and he chastised himself for neglecting him so often. In this harsh city, Walter was the only true friend he had.

He stepped down from the cab onto the pavement, paid the elderly driver, who tipped his hat and wished him a good night. As the cab pulled away, Darknoll took a deep breath. He approached the entrance and slipped inside. There was no maitre d' waiting for him, and all the waiters were congregated around the kitchen doors with arms folded and a collective look of exhaustion on their faces. A brief scan of the restaurant showed that the last few patrons were readying to leave. His heart sank.

"Joshua!"

He followed the voice to find his friend seated in a booth behind him. Walter greeted him with a wave and broad smile, no hint of disappointment. Relief flooded through him. The last thing he needed after a troublesome evening was an uptight friend.

Darknoll marched over, Walter greeting him with a firm handshake.

"Walter," he said, "I cannot apologise enough. I was called to a crime scene just as I was preparing to leave the house."

"I suspected as much, Joshua." They both sat down and Walter poured them both a glass of sherry. "I am only sorry that you missed a wonderful meal. Duck a l'orange with the most delightful sauces."

"Sounds glorious."

"It was indeed. If you like, I could ask the waiters if they can bring out some cold meats before the kitchens close."

Darknoll shook his head. "Thank you, Walter, but you needn't worry. The scene I have just left has completely killed what appetite I may have had."

Walter's expression turned solemn. "Oh dear. A nasty case?"

Darknoll drank deeply from his glass. "I'm afraid so."

"Are you at liberty to discuss the details?"

"Walter, I know I have discussed certain aspects of my work with you in the past, matters I would never disclose to others, but I fear that if I told you the details of what happened tonight you might think I am losing my mind."

Walter studied Darknoll's face. "Murder?"

Darknoll nodded. "A young woman. A prostitute. We found her down at Deptford Wharf. But it was the manner of her death, Walter . . ." Darknoll sipped the sherry again. Already the potent drink was making his head fuzzy, a sensation he welcomed.

Walter gripped his arm. "Joshua, if you wish to say no more, I completely understand."

Darknoll stared into the glass, the dark red liquid stirring up unwanted associations. "Walter, I pursued a life in policing because I wanted to understand the world, understand mankind. But after a day like today, I find myself completely and utterly bewildered."

"I don't know how you do it, Joshua. I am only glad that it is your vocation and not mine. I find my career in the law offices harrowing enough." He grinned. "Hats off to you, sir." They clinked glasses and downed their respective drinks.

After placing his glass back on the table, Walter looked around the restaurant, clearly distracted by something.

"Is everything all right?" Darknoll asked.

"Yes, yes. I'm simply . . . waiting for someone to return to the table."

"Someone?"

Walter flashed his biggest smile. "Joshua, I confess I had another motive in arranging to meet you tonight."

"Oh, really?"

Walter shuffled closer, his face aglow with boyish glee. "Joshua, something wonderful has happened. It appears my bachelor days may soon be over."

"What are you saying?"

"Joshua, I'm saying I have met the most wonderful young woman. Remember the last time we spoke and I told you I was seeking a nanny for my niece?"

Darknoll nodded.

"Well, I found more than a nanny in the young woman I appointed. Joshua, she is everything I ever dreamed of. What is more, I am so certain of our suitability . . . I have asked her to marry me!"

Darknoll laughed. This was truly startling news. Both he and Walter had been committed bachelors for years now, and no woman had ever lived up to his friend's unreasonably high expectations. "Walter, I . . . I am so pleased for you. Astonished, but very pleased."

At that moment, a shadow fell across the table. Walter spied the approaching figure first and shot to his feet.

"Joshua," he said, "I would like you to meet my fiancée, Louise Parker."

Darknoll stood up to greet the young woman but as their eyes met, he was struck with a sudden overwhelming bolt of paralysis.

The world around him stopped, as if everything in creation had suddenly blinked out of existence. Even Walter seemed to fade away into the shadows.

The eyes staring back at him were not the eyes of a stranger. They were eyes he had known all his life, eyes now set in an older face—a beautiful woman's face.

"Louise?" he said.

"Joshua?" she replied.

The silence stretched out.

Walter, whose happy grin remained frozen on his face, looked between the two of them with mounting confusion. His smile faltered.

"You . . . you two know each other?" Walter asked.

"Yes," they said together. They both laughed. They continued to stare at each other. Louise blinked several times, looked at Walter for a moment and then looked back.

"I can hardly believe it," she said. "Joshua . . ."

Walter made a strange noise deep in his throat. The silence, and their lack of explanation, was clearly making him uncomfortable.

"Walter," Louise said. "Joshua and I grew up in the same village—"

"Malden," Darknoll said.

Louise smiled. "Yes, Malden," she said. "We were . . . great friends. We haven't seen in each other in . . . how long?"

"Twenty years," Darknoll said.

"Twenty years," Louise echoed, shaking her head.

Walter watched his fiancée's face closely, and when the silence grew too great again, he fixed a smile on his face. "Well, this is wonderful news!" he said, filling three glasses. "A double celebration! Our engagement and a friendship reunited." He raised his glass over the table.

Darknoll managed to break eye contact long enough to find his own glass and pass one to Louise. She took it with a grateful nod.

"This is surely meant to be," Walter said. "To love and friendship!"

Darknoll finished his glass and placed it carefully back on the table. It was hard to determine if the sudden wave of delirium storming through his head was the result of the sherry or this unexpected meeting. Louise sipped her sherry before sitting at the table. Walter and Darknoll resumed their seats.

Walter cleared his throat noisily. "Joshua missed our wonderful dinner because he was attending a crime scene this evening. Joshua is an inspector in our fine police force."

Louise looked at Darknoll with genuine admiration in her eyes. "How wonderful," she said. "You always said you wanted to . . . save the world."

Darknoll smiled at that memory. "I had to start somewhere, I suppose."

"Joshua and I met," Walter went on, pouring another glass of sherry, "at the police training academy. Two young men with fire in our bellies and heads full of idealistic dreams. You had not long arrived in London, am I right, Joshua? You were ready to set the world straight, I was out to prove to my father that I was not the indolent fop he so often accused me of being. However, I decided early on that a life on the force was not my true destiny, but we became firm friends. And remain so to this day."

Walter smiled at Darknoll and raised his glass before taking a long drink.

A tall, gaunt-faced waiter appeared at the table like a lost spirit. "I am sorry to inform you our restaurant will be closing shortly," he announced in a lifeless monotone. "Is there anything more I can serve you with?"

Louise shook her head, as did Darknoll.

"No, thank you, Pierre," Walter said. "Please bring the bill."

The waiter nodded and slipped back into the shadows.

"A shame our evening is at an end," Walter said. "If it was not so late, Joshua, I would invite you back to my humble abode for an evening constitutional."

"Thank you anyway, Walter," Darknoll said, "but I have an early start in the morning. Crime, as they say, never sleeps."

"Of course," Walter said, finishing his sherry in one huge gulp. The waiter appeared again, hovering at Walter's shoulder with the bill.

"Ah, _merci_ , Pierre."

As Walter signed the cheque, Louise once again met Darknoll's gaze with a curious smile wavering on her lips. Her bright blue eyes sparkled as they had in childhood, only now they glowed with surprise, amusement and wonder—and a thousand questions. Darknoll studied her face, a face he had known so long ago, a face he thought he would never see again. Those long eyelashes and the light dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks remained, and these simple observations stirred something inside him long since buried. After a long silence, they broke eye contact. Darknoll's elation gave way to a sudden surge of guilt. Moments ago, they had told Walter they had been childhood friends. It seemed deceitful to omit the reality. They had been much more than childhood friends. Even 'childhood sweethearts' did not fully describe it.

". . . tomorrow night, Joshua?"

He came out of his reverie with a shake of the head. "Sorry, Walter?"

"I asked if you were working tomorrow evening."

"Yes," Darknoll said. "This case is going to require all our manpower for the foreseeable future."

"What a shame. I am indulging Louise's love of music by taking her to the theatre tomorrow night and we even have a spare ticket now that my sister is unable to attend. It would have been lovely if you could have joined us, but I know how busy you are though, what with protecting us citizens from the dark forces at large in our fair city." He smiled, but there was something not quite genuine behind it, perhaps even a pang of irritation, Darknoll thought. Walter sipped his sherry, his gaze drifting. "You two must have a great deal to talk about after all these years. Perhaps another time?"

Darknoll looked at Louise. "Yes," he said. "Another time."

The bright glow in Louise's eyes dimmed slightly, igniting a painful ache in Darknoll's chest. He wanted to add something, a promise of some kind, but Walter spoke first.

"My, my, look at the time," his friend said, rising abruptly. "We really must be going." Walter went to Louise's chair, performing the role of the perfect gentleman, offering her his hand as she got to her feet. Darknoll joined them as they moved towards the exit, Louise pulling on a pair of ivory-coloured silk gloves. She looked stunning in her pale blue frock coat and feathered hat—beautiful, radiant and sophisticated. He wanted to say as much, but he dared not. It took every ounce of mental effort to keep his emotions under control. He had never felt this way before. Not in a long, long time.

They paused at the entrance.

"Good night, old friend," Walter said. The two friends exchanged a firm handshake.

He turned to Louise, wondering how he was going to say good night.

After an awkward silence, Louise suddenly said, "Don't forget we still have that extra ticket if you are able to slip away." Pink roses bloomed in her cheeks, another echo of their childhood. "The show begins at eight. I shall wait outside the foyer on the off-chance you are able to make it."

Darknoll nodded. "I shall try," he said.

Walter made another strange noise, as if he was being strangled from inside. Darknoll sensed his friend was not entirely happy with Louise's offer, especially after Walter had all but written off the idea of Darknoll attending.

Louise looked at him, an expectant expression on her face. Darknoll felt paralysed again. He had no idea how to say goodbye to her. He wanted to embrace her, but he knew that might appear too familiar. A kiss on the back of the hand? Too romantic. And a handshake was far too formal.

Before he could find a suitable solution, Louise stepped forward and gave him a small kiss on the cheek.

"Goodnight, Joshua," she said.

"Goodnight," he said, feeling a clear tingle where her lips had touched his skin.

Walter offered his elbow and Louise slipped her hand through it. In that moment of parting, Darknoll wanted to see his friend's face, to know that he was all right, but Walter turned his face away, looking down the street. Darknoll stood there outside the restaurant and watched them go, putting his hands in his pockets against the chill. He watched them for a long time, his mind, usually so forthright and clear on matters of life and work, now a sea of turbulent thoughts and conflicting emotions. The handsome couple reached the far end of the street and, just before they disappeared round the corner, Louise glanced back over her shoulder in his direction, her eyes shining out of the darkness like tiny blue beacons.

She kept looking back at him until they both vanished out of sight.

***

He walked from the restaurant to his house in Cardin Street, hoping that the half-hour stroll would help clear his head from the effects of both the sherry and the happy delirium, but it was to no avail. Climbing the steps to his modest home, he felt no better, his head no clearer.

He stepped into the hall and carefully locked the door behind him. He went straight to the living room, poured himself a brandy and sat down in his favourite armchair. In the silence, he heard the faint familiar sounds of the city beyond the window frame—his city, the city of a million dreams, the city of as many nightmares.

He closed his eyes and for a moment found peace, a beautiful memory suddenly filling his mind, a memory from a lifetime ago . . .

Sitting on the rock wall surrounding Patterson's field with Louise beside him, their hands at their sides, little fingers touching. They could not have been any older than ten or eleven . . .

The sun is going down on the horizon, washing the village of Malden in its rosy glow. A breeze sweeps over the field, disturbing the tall grass. Louise closes her eyes and turns her face up to the sky, the gentle wind rushing through her golden hair . . .

He holds that moment in his mind's eye for as long as he can, heartened by the simple beauty of that half-forgotten memory . . .

Then the scene changes, darkens. Night is falling, and the rain lashes down. He is standing on the dirt track that leads in and out of their village, wearing only his bedclothes after having escaped from his sickbed, drawn by the commotion outside. An elderly woman drags Louise from her house, followed by a man with a top hat and cane. Louise is crying. When she sees him, she reaches out and calls his name. But when he tries to approach, the man holds him back with his cane. "Is this one sick?" he asks, a cold look in his eyes. "Aye," the old woman says. He watches, helpless, as the man and woman force Louise into the waiting carriage. As it pulls away, Louise's face appears in the tiny rear window, mouthing something to him, words he cannot make out. He gives chase, slipping and sliding in the treacherous sludge. Weak from the illness that has ravaged the village, he collapses on the path, mud and rainwater filling his mouth and nostrils. He looks up and the carriage is nothing more than a blur in the distance.

Louise. Louise. Louise.

Grief consumes him and he closes his eyes, trying to hold onto the memory of her face for as long as he can . . .

. . . before the vision of Henrietta Swan's pale face thrusts itself into his mind. She is screaming at him but no sound comes out of her mouth. And yet, he knows what she is saying.

_Help me . . . Dear God, help me_ . . .

He inhaled sharply and opened his eyes.

The girl had been talking to him, screaming at him, pulling him down, even though she should have been dead.

How?

How could that be?

Somewhere nearby, Big Ben, the great clockwork heartbeat of the city, sang the chimes of midnight.

3

Stepping into the mortuary the following morning, Darknoll found Dr Baxter reclining in a chair, running a lit match over the bowl of his pipe. His unkempt eyebrows lifted on seeing Darknoll, and he exhaled a thick cloud of yellow smoke.

"Joshua, you got my message," he said, picking up a sheaf of papers from the desk. He handed it to Darknoll. Scribbled on the cover in Indian ink was the name 'Henrietta Swan'.

"You completed the autopsy report already?" he asked.

Baxter shook his head. "Not quite. Those are my preliminary notes. I'm not writing up the full report until you've seen this."

"Seen what?" Darknoll asked, fearful.

Baxter stood up with a lurch and beckoned him to follow through the double doors of the autopsy room. Darknoll was prepared for the smell. He'd been in this room more times than he cared to remember, and brought a small scented handkerchief for such occasions. He placed it over his nose and mouth and shadowed the doctor to the large operating table in the centre of the room.

The porcelain features of Henrietta Swan glowed in the dim light of a solitary electric bulb. Her eyes were shut as if in sleep, only the ashen pallor of her skin betraying the reality of her deathly state. He vividly recalled the girl's eyes, wide and staring, her mouth stretched into a scream, ice-cold hands pulling him down towards her . . .

The silver sea . . .

"Joshua?" Baxter said, bringing him out of his reverie. "Are you all right, man?"

Darknoll nodded and gestured at the body.

Baxter removed the cloth covering the upper body and folded it back to the pelvic line. A bolt of revulsion hit Darknoll at the sight of the girl's naked torso. At some point, Baxter had removed the murder weapon. Naturally, no blood oozed from the gaping chest wound, only a thick black crust around the edges. The symbols were now clearer in this light. Most of the blood had been wiped away, leaving only the occasional crimson smear, an echo of the killer's fingers tracing random lines as he carved his handiwork into the poor girls' flesh.

"The killer used a scalpel to make these symbols," Baxter said. "He also used the scalpel to cut the carotid artery here, on the inside of her right thigh. This was done before the dagger pierced her heart. The killer drained the poor girl of almost her entire blood supply, and then pushed the dagger into her heart." Baxter took a long sip of water from his glass before continuing. "But here's the thing—there are no rupture marks in or around her heart. If someone comes at you and stabs you in the heart, your entire body tenses up. This tension, coupled with the sudden rush of adrenalin, puts even more pressure on your heart. This always leads to some of the major arteries rupturing on impact. Miss Swan's heart sustained no such injuries. It was as if the killer pushed the dagger into her chest as easily and as calmly as pushing a knife through butter. I believe the killer drained her of blood first to make it easy. Even if she was conscious, I doubt she would have had any strength at all to defend herself. As you noted in your initial assessment of the scene, the girl's hands and feet were not tied, no bruises sustained from being forcibly held down. In fact, there is no indication that she struggled at all. My first thought was that she had been knocked unconscious, but there are no signs of a physical blow around the head or neck, and no traces of ethanol or any other sedatives in her system."

"So what else could it have been?" Darknoll said. "Hypnosis?"

Baxter arched an eyebrow. "I would say that is a plausible explanation, to a degree. Although, stage mesmerists say it's impossible for someone under hypnosis to harm themselves or to allow themselves to be harmed, so it would have to be a powerful form of hypnosis. Very powerful."

"But why, Leonard? Why would the killer do such a thing?"

Baxter shrugged. "That's your territory, I'm afraid. I'm only interested in the hows, not the whys."

Darknoll stopped by a tray lined with medical instruments. In a silver dish lay the stone dagger. Most of the blood had been cleaned from the blade, but small traces still appeared. Darknoll used a cloth to pick it up, examining the smooth planes of the blade. After a moment, he looked askance at the doctor. "Leonard, what do you know about black magic?"

"Black magic? In my opinion, it's all poppycock."

Darknoll put the stone dagger back in its tray and began circling the body. He thought long and hard before continuing. "Leonard, I know you are a man of faith, and you know I cling to certain beliefs myself . . . but what if I were to tell you that something happened at the jetty after we found young Henrietta in this state? Something I still cannot explain, which we all saw, all of us."

"What happened, Joshua?"

Darknoll stopped pacing at the opposite end of the mortuary table, looking down at the dead body lying between them. "Miss Swan . . . spoke to us," he said. "To me, in particular."

Baxter's expression remained stony, his gaze unflinching.

"At first, she spoke in a strange language I have never heard before. I can barely remember the words. It was nonsense, hard to follow. Then, in English, she begged for help. She said she was cold and frightened. She spoke of something called the silver sea . . . and strange things she could see in it, or beyond it. 'Monsters,' she said. Her outburst lasted no more than a minute, and then she . . . fell asleep again." He shook his head. "Leonard, in all my years, it is the worst thing I have ever experienced. I swear to you now, as God is my witness, it happened."

"And the dagger was in her heart at this point, yes?"

Darknoll nodded.

Baxter considered the cadaver for a moment. "Sometimes it is possible for a body to go through certain convulsive reactions after death. There is a condition called loco-motor ataxia. The brain continues to function for a short time after the heart has stopped beating, but only to allow limited speech or movement. That could have been the case here, especially considering the unusually calm and careful way the dagger was introduced into the heart. The human body does many strange things after the heart receives a fatal injury, but it is only for a short time. I mean, we would be talking about minutes at most. The time between the body being found and you're arrival at the scene is just too great for that to be a possibility." Baxter paused, his features drawing into a heavy frown. "If you want explanations, Joshua, I'm afraid I have nothing else to offer."

Darknoll shook his head and considered the girl's lifeless features. "No, Leonard, this was something . . . something else."

***

With the aid of a table lamp, Superintendent Nightingale studied the artist's sketches of the strange symbols under a looking glass. Darknoll stood at the mantle, observing in silence. Sergeant Lampshire sat in a chair on the other side of the room, staring intently at the Superintendent's table.

The mantel clock chimed seven.

Nightingale looked up, letting the looking glass fall to the table with a thud. He sat back in his chair, making a bridge with his fingers.

"What exactly do we have here, gentlemen?"

Darknoll opened his mouth to reply, but Lampshire spoke first.

"Voodoo, Superintendent. This is a sacrificial slaying, no doubt in my mind. The occult symbols, the arrangement of the victim, everything points to some form of black magic. I believe we should be looking for a group of young men, a double act at least."

"And what's the motive here?" Nightingale asked.

Lampshire shrugged. "Not entirely certain, sir. Most of the black magic I've come across is all to do with curses, lifting curses, initiation ceremonies, that kind of thing. In my experience, this sort of thing always originates in the black community."

Nightingale's frown increased. "Why her?" he said. "Why a prostitute?"

"Bangtails make the easiest targets, sir. They work the streets at night, quite often alone. I'll wager it could have been any one of the Portland Street whores. Henrietta was just in the wrong place last night. I doubt it was any more complicated than that, sir."

Darknoll bowed his head, but Nightingale caught the cynical smirk on his lips.

"You have a different verdict, Joshua?"

"Superintendent, I agree the murder was of an occult nature. That's undeniable. But I believe there is much more to this murder than just a random, solitary act of human sacrifice." He shook his head. "I may be wrong, it's just a hunch."

"Go on, Darknoll."

"Sir, something tells me this is only part of a much larger undertaking. Those symbols, particularly the images drawn in salt around the victim and the jar of blood . . . I don't know, there's a system at work here, a grand plan." He paused. "I also believe this was committed by a man acting alone—"

"What?" Lampshire said. "It has to have been two men. One to hold her down whilst the other performed the ritual."

"Dr Baxter found no evidence of Miss Swan being drugged," Darknoll said, "and no evidence of being restrained in any way. That indicates that she was under some form of . . . influence."

"Influence! What the hell does that mean?"

"Lampshire," Nightingale said with a warning glance.

The young sergeant flounced back into his chair with a hiss of frustration.

Nightingale indicated for Darknoll to continue.

"I've spoken to Dr Baxter and even he cannot offer any explanation for what we witnessed last night." He paused. "You heard about what happened after we found the body, sir?"

Nightingale nodded solemnly. "I find it very hard to believe the girl was still alive after the killer put a dagger in her heart over an hour before. It's . . . insane."

"I know, sir. I don't understand it, not yet. However, one thing's for certain—the person responsible is incredibly dangerous. We're dealing with something I've never come across before. This is something . . . new."

"Dear Lord," Nightingale said. He shook his head. "Gentlemen, do we have any leads? Anything at all?"

"We'll be questioning Miss Swan's colleagues from Portland Street this morning," Darknoll said, "see if any of them remember her last appointment. I also think it will be valuable to take a closer look at these symbols, sir. I believe they may provide us with some very important information."

"And what might that be?" Nightingale asked.

Darknoll approached the table and selected a picture of one of the symbols: an inverted 'V' with a single line through it. He held it up.

"Runes have been around for centuries, some as old as pre-Roman. I'm no expert, but I do know there are different alphabets from different eras."

"Meaning?" Nightingale said.

"Each rune stands for a word or idiom. We have nine symbols set in a circular configuration. If we can translate them, if we can put them in their correct sequence, maybe we can find out which god, or gods, our killer is making his sacrifice to.

4

Above the crumbling houses of Portland Street, the smog hung in the air, bleaching everything of all colour and life, lending the female figures moving about in its embrace an eldritch appearance. Even at this hour, stray men ambled down its broad avenue, lurching and stumbling after a night of heavy drinking, engaging with the women in dull, humourless banter.

At the end of the street, the men of the Southwark Division gathered on the pavement, hugging themselves against the brutal October chill. Darknoll walked up to them, Sergeant Lampshire at his shoulder.

"Gentlemen," he said. "Tread cautiously. Remember, this is not a raid, but an information expedition. Also, let us not forget that the women here worked with young Henrietta. They will be grieving."

Lampshire let out a hiss of spiteful laughter.

Darknoll turned to his deputy. "You have a problem, Lampshire?"

"Yes, Inspector, as a matter of fact I do. I don't see why we aren't carting these whores down to the station for questioning."

"The very fact that you have to ask that question explains why you are still a sergeant, and will always remain so."

Lampshire blanched at this volley. He glanced around his colleagues for support, but no one met his gaze.

"Let's go, gentleman," Darknoll announced.

Lampshire hung back for a long moment, openly seething, before starting down the road after the group.

***

Darknoll entered the room in silence, his eyes sweeping the sultry bedchamber. A woman in a silk dressing gown sat at the dressing table with a cigarillo clamped between her discoloured teeth. She was older than the other women in the house, and everything about her seemed faded—her once-blonde hair was now the colour of old snow, her once-comely features now smothered beneath a layer of face paint; even her clothes appeared washed-out and threadbare. On seeing him, her expression became business-like, and she extinguished the cigarillo in the ashtray with a brutal stabbing motion.

"You the gaffer?" she asked.

Darknoll did not answer immediately. He crossed to the window and looked down over the cobbled street below. His uniformed officers, most of whom had been at the wharf last night, were still questioning the women in the street, and he felt a swell of pride at their steadfastness. He sat down in the chair opposite the woman.

"I am in charge here, yes," he said.

"Do you allow all your boys to molest their witnesses? Is that a perk of the job?"

"One of my officers has acted inappropriately towards you?"

"I don't know," she snapped, "would you call rubbin' yer crotch against a girl's be'ind inappropriate?"

"Who has done this?"

At that moment, a shadow filled the doorframe. Lampshire stood silhouetted against the landing light. The girl's eyebrows lifted, and she thrust a thumb in Lampshire's direction.

"That's 'im," she said.

Lampshire's gaze shifted between Darknoll and the woman. "Is there a problem here, Inspector?" he asked.

"Please wait outside," Darknoll told him.

"Sir, I came to assist—"

"Wait outside, Sergeant," Darknoll snapped.

Lampshire stared at the woman for a long moment, then swept out of sight. Moments later, a door slammed down the hall.

Darknoll bowed his head, letting the aftermath of the altercation pass.

"Just gonna let 'im get away wiv it as usual," the woman said with a contemptuous sneer.

He met her eyes with a steady glare. "That officer will be dealt with, I assure you."

"You assure me?" she said. "Most of the men we gets in here are peelers. You expect me to take you at your word?"

"My good lady," he said, leaning forward. "Things are very different since I took charge of this department. Now, let us move on to the matter at hand."

She folded her arms and turned her face to the side.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Lady Jane."

"Your real name?"

She met his gaze, anger flashing in her eyes for a moment, before she looked away again. "It's Rosie, if you must know. The punters call me Lady Jane."

Darknoll removed his derby and placed it carefully on the small round table beside him.

"Rosie," he said. "I understand you are the madam of this house. I also understand you had a particular affection for Henrietta?"

Her features softened a shade. "I love all my girls, but Henrietta . . . yes, you could say I loved her a little more than the others. I was very fond of her. Reminded me of myself, I suppose."

He nodded. "You told my sergeant you saw Henrietta's last client?"

"Yes. Tall, he was. Elegant. Seemed like a proper gentleman. I saw him in the street, but . . ." Her brow wrinkled.

"What is it?"

She shook her head. "I'm trying to think back, see his face, but . . . it's like I don't want to remember." She looked up, eyes widening as if emerging from a trance. "I saw him, clear as day, but his face . . ."

"All right. When was this?"

"Yesterday before teatime."

"Can you be more specific?"

"It was just getting dark. About half past four."

Half-past four, Darknoll pondered. The body was discovered at the wharf at seven o'clock. The killer had taken his time.

"So, this man, what happened with him?"

"He talked with Hen for a while. She offered to take him up to her room, but he said no. He was adamant he wanted to take her to his own place."

"And she went with him willingly?"

"Yeah, stupid cow," she said, without much venom. "I was always telling her, don't go to their place. You don't know these men from Adam. It's not safe. But she wouldn't listen. Sometimes they pay extra if you go to their place, y'see. He must have offered her a mint, 'cause she was happy going. When I shouted for her to stop she told me to mind me own."

"That's unusual?"

"No," Rosie said, "but she always listened to me when it came to safety. We look out for each other. You have to in this life." She sighed. "This man must have had some hold on her, that's all I'm saying."

Darknoll paused before continuing, recalling briefly Dr Baxter's suggestion of hypnosis as a mode of coercion. Maybe the killer had Miss Swan under his spell right from the beginning.

"Is there anything you can tell me about this man?" Darknoll asked.

"Like what?"

"Describe him to me."

She thought hard for a moment, then shook her head again. "I can't."

"Please try."

"I am trying, but for the life of me, I can't. I tried looking at the face, to size the fella up, but it's like his face was in a cloud. Does that make sense?"

"So you can offer no clear description of this man?"

She shook her head. "Sorry, chief. I would give my right arm to nail the bastard who killed Hen, but this man . . . he's lost on me."

***

Darknoll stood for a long time on the front steps of the brothel, staring out at London's grey skyline. Cathedral bells chimed dolefully in the distance, calling the faithful to mass. He thought of Louise, wondering what she was doing at this very moment. As the morning wore on, he had found it increasingly difficult to focus completely on the matters at hand, as Louise's face continually rose up in his mind. Their serendipitous meeting last night had completely thrown him off track. What did it mean, meeting his childhood sweetheart again after all these years? She had left Malden suddenly at the age of ten and he thought he would never see her again. He remembered lying in the mud as the horse and carriage took her away, bitter tears burning his eyes as his young heart broke.

And yet, here she was again, back in his life . . . what did it mean?

He consoled himself with the knowledge that he would see her again soon. She had extended an invitation for this evening, despite Walter's wishes it seemed, but he doubted he would be able to abandon this investigation tonight. All being well, they would be able to talk another time, to try to make sense of it all together. He forced his mind to return to the maniac who was out there hiding somewhere in the city.

Constable Thacker broke away from the huddle of police officers further down the street and approached Darknoll with a despondent air.

"Anything, Constable?" Darknoll said.

"No, Inspector. The ones who were here yesterday say they didn't see him or just didn't look at him, or they saw him from the back or from far away. It's all very vague and not much help, sir."

Darknoll nodded.

The lack of any tangible description was a puzzle. Darknoll saw only two possible explanations—either the girls were deliberately protecting the identity of the interloper for some unfathomable reason, or, the more sinister idea, they were all under some kind of collective trance, some curious enchantment that made them forget the man in question. Twenty-four hours ago, he would have dismissed that explanation as outlandish, but now he was not so certain about anything.

"Well, they're unlikely to be lying or covering for someone," he told Thacker. "These ladies are fiercely loyal to one another. They would never try and protect someone who has slain one of their own."

"What next, then, sir?"

"Let's finish up here, Constable."

Thacker nodded and marched back up the street to join his colleagues.

It made no sense. The killer had left no signs of his existence, as if he had simply appeared out of nowhere, committed the crime and then vanished from the surface of the earth. Killers always left clues, some trace of their having been there, even if it was merely a scrap of fabric, a solitary hair, a smudge of dirt on a doorknob at the very least. However, this killer was almost supernatural in his stealth, and that was the problem he now faced—how do you catch a ghost?

Footsteps behind him disturbed his train of thought. He knew instinctively without even turning around that it was Lampshire—the way the feet stamped together as if in mock-military salute, the unmistakable bulky shadow falling across the steps before him.

"Sergeant Lampshire," he said, still with his back to the man, "why did you become a police officer?"

Lampshire came round into Darknoll's line of sight. His features were set in a confrontational scowl.

"I joined the force because I wanted to uphold the law."

"Yes, yes, that's a given. That's why we all join the force. I'm asking why you, Albert Lampshire, joined the police force. What special personal reason did you have to discard a normal existence and put your life on the line every day for the sake of others?" He looked over the planes of Lampshire's face. "What was it that made you decide that law enforcement was your calling?"

Lampshire pursed his lips, antipathy leaking from every pore.

"I know what that whore said to you," he whispered. "And I know you would rather believe the word of a bangtail than an officer of the law, so what is the point in my answering your questions?"

"Well, either you explain your actions to me, Sergeant, or we can take this to Superintendent Nightingale. That is the point, Lampshire. Did you molest that woman?"

Lampshire pursed his lips. "If I were your superior—"

"You are not my superior," Darknoll snapped, his anger spilling over, "nor will you ever be. Now answer the question, Sergeant!"

Lampshire blew air through his teeth, a mixture of frustration and anger. "I did nothing of the sort. And even if I did, she couldn't prove it. Neither could you."

Darknoll shook his head. He took a step forward, their faces only inches apart. "It is not necessary for me to prove anything, Lampshire. I know what sort of person you are. You're a chancer. You drift through life, avoiding the important questions, the quandaries that describe you, that make you who you are. You see a profession in the force not as a chance to do good, but as a position of power that will enable you to indulge in the kind of sordid little games you find gratifying. Some people are born to certain professions. Some are born to be policemen. Some are born to be doctors, lawyers, teachers. You, Sergeant Lampshire, are not one of these people." Darknoll took a breath. "In fact, I would go so far as to say that you are only one step removed from the criminals we put away. The difference between you and the filth that tarnishes our city is so very slight, so very tenuous . . . and that makes you a very dangerous man to have around."

They glared at each other for a long time. Darknoll watched Lampshire with an expectant expression. Part of him wanted the man to lash out, to strike him and, in so doing, end his career on the force. Before Lampshire could choose a path, the figure of Constable Thacker distracted them, approaching at great speed. He skidded to a stop at the bottom of the steps and took a moment to catch his breath.

"Inspector?" he managed.

"What is it, Constable?" Darknoll said.

"Sir, we've found another body."

5

The police carriage rolled to a stop at the gates of Burgess Park. Darknoll opened the door and jumped out. The morning air was still, the sun hidden behind a screen of grey cloud. As he marched up the hill, Darknoll felt a horrible sinking sensation in his gut, a sensation which grew heavier with each step. At the brow of the hill, he stopped.

Under the shadow of a solitary elm tree, a ring of officers outlined the scene. Lying on a circular patch of bare earth, legs and arms splayed, was the body of another young woman. Darknoll stepped closer and peered down at the victim's face.

The girl was around the same age as Henrietta Swan. Her hair was a beautiful russet colour; her wide-open eyes a sparkling blue. Her lips were a light shade of purple.

The handle of a stone dagger protruded from her chest, the blade buried deep in the young woman's heart. Her blouse was unbuttoned almost to the waist and he could see flashes of bloody symbols carved into her bare skin. He knew exactly what lay beneath that thin veil of fabric, and he also knew—no, feared—what might happen next. He cast about the scene and found what he had been dreading—the strange symbol drawn in salt around the body, and an identical smaller version several feet away with another glass jar at its centre.

Darknoll closed his eyes for a moment, before addressing the assembled officers.

"Do we know who she is?" he asked.

Sergeant Lampshire stepped forward, holding a small drawstring bag. "No," he said. After a moment, he corrected himself. "No, sir. This was the only thing found on her person," he said. "It was tucked away in a pocket inside her petticoats." He hefted the pouch. "Not much in it. Only three coins, maybe four."

Darknoll took the moneybag. "You have no idea who this woman is?"

"Never seen her before in me life," Lampshire said. "And I'm well acquainted with most of the whores in this vicinity." His eyes flashed, as he recalled the scene at the brothel earlier. "In a professional capacity," he added with a cough.

"Are we certain this woman is a prostitute?"

"Oh yes. You can smell 'em a mile off. All that makeup and talcum can't hide what lies underneath."

"Charming," Darknoll said, untying the drawstring. He emptied the coins into his open palm. They felt extremely light for shillings. The Queen's head was on one side, but on the reverse was a design he had not seen before—oranges on a vine, with the words LITTLE AMSTERDAM, NEW LONDON running around the edge.

Lampshire leaned in close.

"Little Amsterdam mean anything to you, sergeant?"

"Never heard of such a place," Lampshire said. "Not in London, anyway."

"And . . . New London?" Darknoll asked.

Lampshire shrugged. "Nothing new about this old slagheap."

"Quite," Darknoll echoed. A strange sensation flared in his gut, the first spark of a new and irrational fear—the fear that the world he knew and understood was starting to unravel at the edges.

Darknoll drew in a deep breath, replaced the coins in the pouch and studied the scene again. There was a heavy silence.

"We all know what happened last time, gentlemen, down at the wharf." Darknoll looked at each man in turn. "Has anything . . . similar happened?"

The men glanced at one another, shaking their heads.

For some inexplicable reason, he felt foolish for asking the question. Perhaps Baxter was right. What had he called that condition? Loco-motor ataxia? Was it possible that the incident with Henrietta was simply nothing more than an involuntary body spasm after death? A freak occurrence, nothing more? He looked down at the victim, trying to convince himself that the woman was truly dead, beyond their help entirely, but something, perhaps the diffused sunlight flooding the hill with its eerie, uncanny glow, made him doubt himself.

He stepped up to the body, tensed for something, anything out of the ordinary. With great care, he stepped inside the salt circle. He half expected to feel the buzz of something akin to electricity coursing through his body, but there was nothing.

Lampshire moved to join him, but Darknoll stopped him with a raised hand.

"Stay there," he said, recalling his deputy's earlier faux pas. "Stay well away from the scene altogether."

Lampshire bristled, but bit his tongue.

Darknoll crouched down carefully, almost afraid to disturb the victim, and looked into her blue eyes for a moment. Slowly, he reached out his hand to close her eyelids. He rolled them shut.

He waited. Time stretched out.

"Sir?" Lampshire called. "Everything all right?"

Darknoll did not answer, lost in thought. Nothing was happening. At Deptford Wharf, Henrietta's 'episode' had occurred after Lampshire disturbed the smaller circle. Was it a coincidence, or was that act a catalyst for Miss Swan's temporary resuscitation? It was hard for him to accept that it was, without admitting to the idea there was real supernatural power at work here. The thought troubled him deeply. He breathed out heavily, shaking his head.

"Inspector?" one of the constables said, his voice edged with concern. "Is anything happening, sir?"

"Lampshire?" Darknoll called out.

"Yes, sir?"

"I want you to . . ." He hesitated. Was he really going to do this? He cursed himself. "I want you to do what you did last time."

"What, sir?"

"Go over to the glass jar, and . . . disturb the circle. Like before."

"But, sir, you said—"

"I know what I said, sergeant, but I have changed my mind. Now, please . . . do as I say!"

Lampshire walked the short distance to the spot where the glass jar rested. He paused on the edge of the symbol surrounding it. He glanced around. Every one on the hill held their breath.

Lampshire looked down and carefully pushed the toe of his shoe through the line of salt.

The young woman's body jerked into life. She hitched in a breath and let out a long, ululating scream. Her arms flailed upwards, grabbing for anything, like a woman drowning in the ocean. Darknoll was better prepared this time, offering his hand, which she clasped tightly in her cold palm.

"Oh God!" she wailed. "Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! Help me! Please!"

"It's all right," he said. "Hold onto my hand."

She continued to scream the Lord's name.

He tightened his own grip on her hand, trying to get through her wall of panic.

"Listen to me, listen to my voice."

She stopped screaming and her face tightened in a mask of grief. She sobbed, her eyes shut tight.

"What is your name?"

"A-Annie."

"All right, listen to me, Annie. My name is Joshua."

"Are you holding my hand?" she asked. "I can't feel anything. Why can't I feel anything?"

"I am holding your hand, Annie. You can't feel anything because you're . . . you're paralysed, Annie. I'm sorry. I truly am. But there is something you can do. You can help us stop the man who did this to you."

"The man!" she said, opening her eyes. "The dark man!" She paused. "The silver sea," she whispered. "He said he would take me across the silver sea."

"We need to find this man, Annie. Can you help us find him?"

She fell silent, and for a moment, Darknoll thought he'd lost her, but she sobbed again, her eyes rolling in their dark sockets. She was thinking. She was trying to do as he asked.

"He . . . he needs one more." Specks of blood flew from between her lips onto her chin. "I - I can hear his thoughts. 'Follow the lines in the earth. Follow . . . the lines . . .'"

Her upper body convulsed, her head snapping back as a gob of dark blood exploded from her mouth, showering Darknoll's face and neck.

Her grip became weak.

"Annie," he said, stroking the side of her face. "Annie, don't go. Don't—"

Her eyes fixed upon the cloudy sky above and her body fell still. Air escaped from between her lips.

Darknoll continued to grip her hand. Moisture bloomed in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

With the tips of his fingers, he rolled her eyelids shut once more.

A heavy silence followed. Darknoll looked round at the men and every face bore the same horrified expression.

6

The colour of the sky was deepening as the mortician's carriage pulled away. Darknoll and Lampshire faced each other in the still afternoon air.

"Why did you do that?" Lampshire asked.

"What do you mean, sergeant?"

"You know what I'm talking about. Why did you make me disturb the circle? You knew it would . . . bring that poor girl back to life."

"No, I did not know, not for sure. In fact, I dearly hoped I was wrong. But the fact is, for whatever reason, it did work. I knew we had a narrow window in which to communicate with that girl. I had to make a choice."

Lampshire narrowed his eyes. "You used that girl. You brought her back, put her through that torment, just to try and get a lead on the killer." He blew air through his lips. "You're colder than I thought."

Darknoll turned his face away. He was not proud of it. It was a hateful decision, one he wished he had not had to make, but the deed was done, and he was not about to start arguing ethics with a man like Lampshire.

"I want this man stopped. At all costs," he said.

Lampshire nodded.

"This is curious, indeed," Darknoll said, holding up the drawstring pouch. "A bag of coins from a place that doesn't exist." He lowered his hand and peered into the darkening skyline. "Something uncanny is at work here. We know that from the nature of the killings. 'He needs one more', she said. Our killer is going to strike again and very soon. Our main priority now is to try and prevent a third life being lost to this madman."

Darknoll walked away from Lampshire, pointing at the surrounding area with a wild flourish.

"Lampshire, send the word out. I want a man stationed at every known prostitution district within Central London. I want them to alert all the streetwalkers to the possibility of abduction. If this man strikes again I want to know where and when. If we are to have any chance of stopping this man, we must act quickly. Now set to it." He glanced at his fob watch. Three-thirty.

"Where are you going, sir?" Lampshire asked.

"The library," he said without turning round. "Thacker!"

The young constable was standing nearby and spun around, almost tripping over his own feet.

"Inspector?"

"With me," Darknoll said. "I'll need someone who knows his way around the corridors of literature."

"Yes, sir," Thacker said, visibly puffed up with pride. Jumping up into the cab, he completely missed the smirk on Darknoll's face.

7

Darknoll glanced up from _The Cambridge Dictionary of Runes_ to see Thacker struggling down the library aisle with a handful of very large books, each one larger than the complete works of Shakespeare. The young constable's face was a picture of determination. As he hefted the armful of books, his helmet slipped sideways on his head, the strap riding up until it crossed his upper lip in a parody of a moustache. He dropped the heavy load onto Darknoll's desk and doubled over, his face stretched in agony as he struggled to regain his composure.

"There's the other . . . five books you . . . asked for, sir."

Darknoll concentrated on his handwritten notes. "Thank you, Constable."

Thacker drew back a chair to sit down.

"Did you find the pamphlet I needed?" Darknoll asked without looking up.

"Pamphlet, sir?" Thacker asked, despair in his voice.

" _Theories of Rune Interpretation and the Common Errors of Deciphering_?"

"Sir, I thought you didn't need it now."

"Need it, Constable? That pamphlet is the key to all of this."

Thacker took a deep breath, straightened his back and quietly pushed the chair back under the table. "Aye, sir."

Darknoll watched as his assistant vanished back into the aisles of the non-fiction section, muttering under his breath.

A shadow fell over the table and Darknoll looked up to find the library manager standing over his desk.

"Mr Atwill," he said.

Atwill watched the retreating figure of Constable Thacker over his half-moon glasses.

"I could have fetched that publication for you in no time at all, Inspector," he said in a dry monotone.

"I know," Darknoll said, following Atwill's line of sight. "He's a good lad. Good . . . but something of a daydreamer. He'll make a good sergeant one day but he needs to improve his focus, and nothing aids focus better than being tested beyond one's limits."

Atwill shook his head. "Darknoll, I would hate to work for you, I really would."

Darknoll arched an eyebrow. "I fear my sergeant feels the same way." He picked up his notebook and offered it to the manager. "I'm struggling with some of these runes, Frederick. Perhaps you could help me."

Atwill took a seat next to him, studying Darknoll's drawings.

"Well, these are all very clear. Yes, Anglo-Saxon alphabet. Man. Os means God or Mouth. Lagu means Ocean. Daeg is Day. Ethel means Land or Estate."

"But what about this one?" Darknoll said, pointing at a complicated symbol. "It must be Anglo-Saxon, but I cannot find an interpretation for the life of me."

"Let's see." Atwill reached across the table and grabbed one of the books: _Philosophy and the Study of Runes_. He flicked through it, back and forth, finally settling on a page near the middle. He drew a finger down the left-hand column. "It's all about interpretation, Darknoll. You know that. The same as the interpretation of motive in a crime. Man kills wife. Murder. Man kills cheating wife in a jealous rage. Manslaughter. Any fool can write down the meaning of a sequence of runes and come up with an interpretation. It may not be the right one, though. In fact, without the correct primer, it most definitely will not be the right one." He paused, licking his forefinger and turning the page.

"Here," he said, his grey eyes widening. "This particular rune has been bound to another. Anglo-Saxon runes can be combined to make new meanings, and that's when we enter the realms of spell casting, or so the druids believed."

"Spell casting?" Darknoll said.

"Oh, you may scoff, Darknoll, but fifteen centuries ago the druids were very influential people. Whether you believe in the occult side of things, they had considerable power over the general populace."

"Through symbols?" Darknoll said. He scanned the array of scribbled runes in front of him. "Can symbols have power, Frederick?"

"Only the power we ascribe to them, perhaps. Who's to say?" He pointed at the notebook. "This rune you're so concerned about. It's a combination of colour and mineral." Atwill took Darknoll's pencil and sketched two symbols. Then he drew a third, which combined elements of the first two. He held it up to Darknoll.

"What? What does it mean?"

"Silver."

Darknoll felt a burning sensation in his chest. "Silver?" He grabbed the notebook and flicked back to the other symbols. "Ocean. Silver Sea."

"That has some meaning?" Atwill asked.

"If the interpretation is correct, Frederick, yes." He studied the symbols again. "Silver sea," he whispered. "Does that mean anything to you?"

Atwill pressed his lips together. "Shakespeare? 'This precious stone set in the silver sea'?"

Darknoll shook his head. "No. It's not that. What about the remaining runes, Frederick? We have six which are clearly from the Anglo-Saxon alphabet, but what about the other six?"

Atwill looked at them, one at a time, and Darknoll watched his eyes, partially obscured by the reflection of the symbols themselves in his spectacles.

Atwill shook his head and closed the book. "These are not symbols I recognise, Darknoll. I can tell you all about German, Viking or Anglo-Saxon runes, but these . . . these are completely alien to me."

"But that's why I'm looking. Perhaps they're some combination of all those old alphabets."

Atwill continued to shake his head as Darknoll spoke. "Darknoll, they have no basis in any of the rune alphabets we know."

Darknoll opened his mouth to protest, to offer another possible theory but something in the old librarian's expression told him it was pointless. Darknoll looked over the remaining six runes.

"So what does that mean, Frederick? If these runes are a combination of Anglo-Saxon and some other alphabet the perpetrator has invented . . . what then? What does that mean?"

Atwill leaned close, his elbows cracking in the library silence. "Darknoll, if you believe in what we talked about—that symbols can have power—then what you may have here is a power we cannot possibly comprehend. Personally, I don't believe these unknown symbols were simply made up. I believe they have come from a realm or a time we have long forgotten about and do not understand. And if that is the case, these symbols could have incredible power, especially if they have been used in the act of human sacrifice."

Darknoll stared at the old librarian, the hairs on his forearms prickling beneath the heavy wool of his coat.

Thacker appeared at the table and dropped the buff-covered pamphlet in front of Darknoll.

"Inspector, I found it."

"Thank you, Constable," he said. "Unfortunately, we have just discovered it is of no practical use."

Thacker's expression transmuted from pained exhaustion to unbridled misery. He looked at Atwill for confirmation and the librarian nodded.

The clock above their heads chimed quietly. Darknoll glanced up.

Seven o'clock.

Was he supposed to be somewhere?

Louise.

He had all but written off his chances of joining her and Walter at the theatre. Besides, it would only be awkward, especially as Walter had intimated that he didn't really want him there. After all, Louise was his girl now . . . almost.

His chest burned with a sickening heat. What was that? Jealousy? Fear?

"Are you all right, Darknoll?" Atwill asked.

"Frederick, do you believe in fate?"

"Fate? How do you mean?"

"Do you believe that some people are meant to be together?"

Atwill's bushy eyebrows drew together above his wise old eyes. "Elizabeth and I have been together thirty years. I knew she was the one for me from the first moment. It wasn't straightforward, though. I almost lost her once, back at the beginning. Fate doesn't always bring people to us like a gift. Sometimes we have to go after it."

Darknoll looked at his wise old friend and patted his arm. "Thank you, Frederick. Thank you very much."

He stood up, closing his notebook and slipping it inside his overcoat pocket.

"Constable Thacker," he said. "Put all these books back and make sure they are returned to their correct places. I cannot stand people who are sloppy about alphabetisation."

Thacker rolled his eyes.

Atwill smirked.

"Once you have done that," Darknoll continued, "I want you to go directly to the precinct and report to Sergeant Lampshire."

"What about you, sir? Where are you going?"

Darknoll turned and swept away from the table towards the exit. "The Savoy Theatre," he called over his shoulder.

"You're going to the theatre?" Thacker said. "Now?"

Darknoll offered no reply. He had to hurry. He only hoped Louise was still waiting for him when he got there.

8

The Savoy Theatre had been many things down the centuries. In the early sixteenth century it had been a hospital; then, in the eighteenth century, part of the old palace had been turned into a military prison, until everything but its stone walls were destroyed in the fire of 1864. It had remained a burnt-out husk until D'Oyly Carte purchased it in 1880. Now the Savoy was a state-of-the-art theatre, the first public building in the world lit entirely by electricity. At a performance shortly after the theatre opened, Carte stepped on stage and broke a glowing light bulb to demonstrate the safety of the new technology. The world was changing and establishments like the Savoy were leading the way.

Darknoll arrived only minutes before the curtain went up, cursing himself for not setting off sooner. If she and Walter had gone into the auditorium, that would be the end of it.

He stepped down from the omnibus and looked across the busy road. People rushed back and forth along the pavement outside the foyer, but there was no sign of Louise. He bowed his head, an ache growing in his chest like a physical hurt.

If he didn't see her and speak to her tonight, when was he likely to see her again? A week's time? Two weeks? Knowing Walter's unpredictable nature, they might be married by then. Married . . . the thought made his heart ache even more.

He looked up and made one last search. Then, from out of the sea of moving people, he found her—emerging from the foyer and looking up and down the street. The sight of her sent a tremor through him and the ache in his chest evaporated instantly. She had not seen him yet, and he took the opportunity to compose himself and savour the moment.

She wore an olive green dress and matching bonnet, her blonde hair tied up with only a pair of long curls visible, framing each side of her elfin face. She looked even more beautiful than he remembered. He had to contain his emotions once again. Looking at her now, he saw two images transposed on top of one another—the face of the girl he had fallen in love with all those years ago, merged perfectly with the face of this beautiful young woman. In those precious few moments, time had no meaning. This was the face he had always known, the soul he had always adored. He shook his head, terrified and excited by the feelings surging though him.

Keep your nerve, Darknoll. Remember, she is engaged to your best friend.

"Oh God," he said to himself. "Oh . . . dear . . . God."

She found him among the blur of people and a smile spread across her face. She waved enthusiastically.

Where was Walter? For a moment, he wondered if she had come alone. Had something happened since their meeting last night? Had the truth of their childhood love come out and caused a rift between them already?

Just then, Walter emerged from the crowd behind her. He was dressed in a black velvet coat and pinstripe trousers with a voluminous grey cravat. He looked the epitome of the sophisticated London gent. As Darknoll approached across the rain-slicked road, Walter spotted him and his face froze, no sign of the usual smile of acknowledgement.

"Well, well," he said. "You made it." He made a show of studying his fob watch, arching one eyebrow. "And just in time." He looked Darknoll up and down with a critical air. "You might have dressed for the occasion, old chap."

"The investigation is still ongoing," Darknoll said. "It was all I could do just to tear myself away."

"No need to apologise," Walter said. "As you can see, Louise, poor Joshua is married to his job. This is why he has failed to find a woman at this stage of his life. I keep telling him to find a good woman now, before he gets too old, but he simply will not listen. Will you, old friend?"

Darknoll felt a barbed edge to Walter's jibe. The easy humour that they usually enjoyed was notably absent. Darknoll offered no reply, simply smiling at his friend's poor attempt at humour.

"Well, I'm only glad you could make it," Louise said.

Walter checked his fob watch again. "Yes, such a shame that you have lost a precious window in which to reminisce."

"No matter," Louise said. "Hopefully we'll find some time in the interval."

"Yes, I hope so," Darknoll said.

"Come," said Walter, taking Louise's arm. "The curtain will be up in just a minute." The couple turned and headed into the foyer, and the simple sight of them walking together so closely, arms linked, sent a painful arrow of jealousy into Darknoll's heart.

_This is a terrible idea_ , he told himself. _What were you thinking? You should make your excuses and leave NOW._

But he did not. He joined the throng filing through the wide open doors, drawn on by an invisible force.

***

Walter had paid for a box seat, offering them a fine view of the stage. Just as they were finding their places, the lights in the auditorium dimmed and the music began. Of the three seats, Louise chose to sit in the middle seat. Darknoll exchanged a look with his friend. Dutifully, they took their places either side of her.

The orchestra started up, filling the auditorium with its authority. Darknoll tried to focus on the operatic display unfolding below, but the twin distractions of Louise on his right and the troubling details of the murder case made his enjoyment of the show very difficult.

The opera flowed over him like a pleasant but forgettable dream. The music, which he found modish, yet passable, failed to hold his attention and he soon found his mind drifting to the troubling aspects of the case.

Henrietta Swan, the first victim. The killer had led her away from Portland Street without a struggle and without any of her co-workers being able to describe him. Still under this curious spell, Miss Swan had been taken to Deptford Wharf (a strange and unusual place to commit a murder) where she had undergone a horrifying ordeal which culminated in the piercing of her most vital organ—her heart. As Doctor Baxter confirmed, she had not struggled throughout this nightmare. Furthermore, some time after they discovered her body, Miss Swan had become conscious, just for a few fleeting moments. How? And why?

Perhaps the killer's hypnotic power was so intense, enabling her to endure the sacrificial ritual with little or no distress that her mind was still under its incredible influence long after the piercing of her heart. And perhaps she had stirred at that moment because Lampshire had somehow 'broken the circle', disturbing whatever supernatural magic the killer had created around her.

Darknoll shook his head. How could he apply his logical mind to matters of the uncanny? He had looked to Dr Baxter for scientific answers and found none. He had to concentrate on practical matters. His main goal was stopping this lunatic before he struck again.

The second victim, known only as Annie. A mystery of a different kind. A prostitute, that was clear, but one nobody recognised. They only knew her first name because of her momentary resurrection, but it told them very little about her or where she had come from. Of course, it was not impossible that a prostitute working in London could be unknown to them. Women of all ages joined the unfortunate ranks of streetwalkers all the time. Annie could have been new, although judging by his brief study of her physical appearance, she had been working the streets for some time. There was also the possibility that she was not from London, but from somewhere else . . .

Ah yes, the coins.

_Little Amsterdam, New London_ . . .

To all intents and purposes, they looked like genuine coins of the Realm. Just above the Queen's head was the date of production: 1892. And yet, the opposite side made no practical sense. There was only one Amsterdam that he knew of and that was in Holland. If these were Dutch coins, why would they have the visage of Queen Victoria on it? And if these were genuine coins made in England why was the word 'New' ascribed to the nation's Capital?

New London . . .

What did it mean?

The headache that had been slowly building over the last few hours became suddenly acute and he massaged his temples.

What exactly were they dealing with here? Was there anything they could do to stop this madman? Anything at all?

He sighed heavily. Before he could consider the case any further, he felt a pressure against his hand. He looked down to where his hand gripped the armrest. Louise's hand had also found the fabric, her little finger pressed against his. A frisson of excitement raced through him. He looked at her, but she remained in profile, afraid or reluctant to meet his gaze. The physical association was impossible to deny—that golden moment from childhood, both of them sitting together on the wall of Patterson's field, fingers touching . . .

Louise.

_His_ Louise . . .

She was here, right next to him. The love of his life. The girl he had kissed for the first time at the age of seven, a kiss so perfect, so pure and innocent, it had ensnared his heart for life. Outside the theatre, Walter had made a cruel joke about his being married to his work, but the truth was he had never found another girl, or woman, who could fill the colossal void Louise had left in his heart. That terrible moment, as he watched the horse and cart rolling up the single dirt track of Malden village with little Louise, so scared and confused, trapped in the back seat, was a scar in his psyche. He had watched her go, too young and powerless to stop it, as the one person who meant more to him in the world vanished from his life . . .

And yet . . .

The lights of the theatre came up and after the tumultuous applause, the entire audience groaned and strained against the sudden illumination. Comments about the 'overwhelming electric lighting' buzzed around the audience.

"Well, that was . . . mostly enjoyable," Walter said. "Shall we stretch our legs?"

***

They stepped into the corridor where dozens of people passed back and forth, the air filled with gay laughter and forced chatter. The three of them stood in silence. Walter, attempting to fill the void, checked his pocket watch.

"Fifteen minutes until Act Two begins. Shall we indulge in an alcoholic beverage?" He glanced over at the bar area. "Hm, quite a queue I see." He bowed his head a moment, as if making a hugely important decision. Then he puffed out his chest. "I shall fetch us some drinks, and give you two an opportunity to chat. How does that sound?"

Louise smiled. "Thank you, Walter."

Darknoll just nodded. He felt there was something in Walter's behaviour that spoke of fear, doubt, maybe something worse. Maybe his friend already knew there was more to their history than a simple childhood friendship. If so, his offer to give them a few moments together was an act of good grace on his part. Walter was a good man. That was why he had been drawn to him as a friend in the first place.

Before leaving, Walter took Louise's hand and kissed it, his eyes fixed on hers in a meaningful lingering moment. Then he walked briskly away, cane swinging at his side.

Louise watched him go, before turning slowly to meet Darknoll's eyes. Her expression was coloured with sorrow. She tried to force a smile but it faltered. She bowed her head.

"Louise?" he said.

She did not reply.

"After all these years," Darknoll said, "and I don't know what to say."

Louise remained silent. She glanced down the corridor after Walter, a pained expression still on her face. Then, without warning, she grabbed Darknoll's hand and led him away through the crowd, away from the bar and Walter and the entire milling throng. She pushed through a door that led to the stairwell, Darknoll following her without question. His heartbeat filled his head like thunder. A fire burned in his chest.

Together they climbed up three flights of stairs until they reached a door with a chain across it. Louise did not hesitate, unhooking the chain and throwing open the door. Cool evening air rushed in at them. Louise turned round and faced Darknoll. Light danced in her eyes. She carefully placed her other hand over his, and led him out onto the theatre roof.

A pale blue light shone from within the central dome, casting the rooftop in an ethereal glow. They looked up together at the night sky. Without a single cloud in sight, the stars glittered like diamonds in the velvet sea of black. They walked slowly across the roof together, still holding hands, taking everything in. Neither spoke a single word.

Louise stopped by the edge of the roof and Darknoll stood beside her. In silence, they looked down at the city streets below. Seconds passed, perhaps even minutes.

When he looked at her face, he saw tears in her eyes.

"Louise? Look at me."

She turned to face him. "Is this real, Joshua?"

He was about to answer with a definitive 'yes', but he hesitated. "I don't know."

She lowered her face and closed her eyes. A single tear spilled down her cheek.

He put a comforting hand to the side of her face. After a moment, she looked up, took hold of his hand and in a movement that took his breath away, she pressed his palm against her chest, right above her heart.

She looked deep into his eyes, the tears standing in them threatening to spill over. "Do you feel that? Do you feel my heart?"

He nodded. "It's racing."

She extended her other hand and placed her palm over his heart. After a few seconds, she tilted her head slightly. "Yours, too. That's real. Isn't it?"

"Yes," he said. "Yes, it's real."

She let go of his hand and wiped away her tears. "When I saw you last night, I thought I was dreaming. All that time, I had no idea you were even alive, and then suddenly there you were . . . standing in front of me."

"What happened, Louise?" he asked. "Where did you go?"

"After Mum died, my aunt took me to live with her in Hayes. It was . . . horrible. I was so scared and lonely and I just wanted . . . you. My Joshua. I cried for weeks, Joshua. Weeks and weeks . . ."

"That day you left," he said, "the day I watched you go? My heart . . . broke." He took a deep breath, fighting back the emotion. "I thought I would never see you again. I thought you were lost to me forever."

She took hold of his hand again, running her thumb over his fingers. "I went back," she said. "When I turned twenty-one, I went back to Malden to find you, but . . . there was no sign of you, and no one there knew where you had gone."

He studied her face. "You went back to find me?" he said, his voice full of wonder.

She nodded.

"I even searched the graveyard," Louise said. "So many people died that year. I thought . . . you were so ill when I last saw you, I thought you died." Emotion swelled in her eyes. "I found your parents' gravestones, but not yours. I didn't know where else to look." Her face was etched with sorrow.

"Grandma raised me," he told her. "Good old Grandma. When I was old enough, I left the village and headed for London to join the police force. I took Grandma with me, but she was old and frail by then. She died not long after."

"I'm sorry to hear that. She was a great woman. She raised you well."

They smiled together, a new silence falling between them. They both looked out at the lights of the city.

Louise sighed. "What are we going to do, Joshua?"

"What do you mean?"

"This," she said. "What's happening now. This cannot be just . . . a coincidence. Don't you agree?" She leaned close, speaking in a whisper. "We were meant to be together."

Darknoll did not reply. He allowed those words to flow through him, to settle in his heart.

"Do you not feel the same?" Louise said. "Dare I say the words out loud?"

He realised immediately the words she meant, the most important words anyone can say to another human being, and shook his head. "No, you mustn't."

"I want to, Joshua. I want to say those words. I want the universe to hear them. I have spent twenty years thinking I will never get to say them."

"Louise . . . there's Walter. We have to think of Walter."

She paused a moment and nodded. "I will talk to him. I will explain. He's bound to understand."

Darknoll shook his head. "I have never seen him so excited, Louise, overjoyed at the prospect of marrying you. I think . . . I think he will be devastated."

"Of course he'll be hurt, but he will understand . . . eventually."

"Do you love him, Louise?" he asked.

She considered the question for a long time, her brow wrinkling as she played her answer back and forth. She touched the engagement ring on her finger. "I loved him enough to say 'yes'," she said. "But when I said it . . . I didn't know that you were in the world."

Darknoll closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a deep breath. He looked towards the stairwell, considering his friend and his reaction. He suspected his friend already had an inkling of what was to come. Oh Walter. His dearest friend, his only friend.

Louise pressed her hand against his cheek and turned his face. The feel of her fingers on his skin was feather-soft. "Joshua . . ."

Their faces were so close, mere inches apart. Her eyes were big and dazzling. Moonlight glistened on her lips, lips so soft and perfect. The urge, the burning desire to kiss her was immense.

"We can't," he whispered. "Not yet. We've waited twenty years. We can wait a little longer."

After a long pause, she nodded and took a half step back.

She looked down, her fingers still caressing his. "I will talk to him tomorrow, explain everything." She took a deep breath, the thought of that conversation suddenly weighing heavily on her mind. "Meet me here tomorrow night at the front of the theatre. Will you do that? Meet me here tomorrow night at eight o'clock and then . . . then we will know."

"Know what?"

She looked up into his eyes. "That this is meant to be. We are meant to be together, Joshua."

***

"There you are!" Walter said. "I wondered what on earth had happened to you."

They moved carefully through the crowds filling the corridor, Louise in front with Darknoll trailing behind. Walter stood by a side table with a silver tray containing three glasses of champagne. Darknoll found it difficult to meet his friend's gaze.

"Where did you go?" Walter asked.

"I needed some air," Louise said. "I was feeling quite faint with all these people around."

Walter made no reply. He looked at Darknoll, his brow arched, and he thought he saw a shadow pass across Walter's face.

The silence swelled between them, growing heavy.

"Inspector Darknoll! Inspector Darknoll!"

All heads in the corridor turned to the source of the disturbance. The crowds parted to reveal the rotund figure of the theatre's manager, accompanied by Sergeant Lampshire and a uniformed constable.

"Is there an Inspector Darknoll present?" the manager bellowed.

Darknoll raised a hand half-heartedly. "Here," he said.

The manager gestured towards Darknoll.

Lampshire walked up to him, a grave expression on his face. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, "but another prostitute has been reported missing."

"Where?"

"Elephant and Castle."

Darknoll turned and looked at Louise. A silent communication passed between them. Are you going to be all right? he tried to say.

"You go," she said, managing a smile. "Do your duty."

"Walter . . ." Darknoll said. He wanted to shake his friend's hand, but he was on the far side of the table with Louise between them. He looked at his friend, trying to find some suitable parting words. This could be the last time they parted on friendly terms.

"It can't wait," Lampshire said.

Darknoll silently cursed his deputy. With one last glance in Louise's direction, he turned and slipped through the milling crowds.

9

The carriage thundered over the cobbles of Jubilee Road. Darknoll sat opposite Lampshire, his gaze fixed on the shadows of the cab. He was aware of his deputy's discomfort at the silence, but the turmoil in his head and heart was like a physical hurt. Walter suspected something. He wished he could have talked to him first. They had been through a great deal together these past few years. The last thing he wanted was to hurt his only friend.

Then there was Louise . . .

She had dropped back into his life with all the force of a powder keg. He had been unhappy for so long. The gaping hole in his heart, the emptiness that had been at the core of his being all his adult life, was now gone. It was as if he had been sleeping for twenty years, and now he was waking from that unhappy dream to find his life was finally about to begin. There would be pain at first, depending on Walter's reaction to it all, but there was a very real possibility that the life he had always dreamed of, with the one person in all creation he loved more than anything, might actually become a reality.

_Careful, Darknoll. You're getting ahead of yourself. One step at a time_ . . .

He took a deep breath and set his jaw, bringing his attention to the case in hand.

"What time did this woman disappear, sergeant?" he asked.

"About an hour ago."

"Good. We still have a chance of finding her alive. What do we know about her?"

Lampshire opened his notepad. "Her name is Emilia Lloyd. Twenty years old. Works in the Cheapside District. A man was seen leading her away from her patch at about eight o'clock."

"Does that mean we have witnesses?"

"Only one."

"And is it worth asking if this witness is able to provide a description?"

"Better than that, sir," Lampshire said with a half-smile. "Our witness tried to stop him."

***

Minutes later, the carriage turned into the market square. This was the heart of Camberwell, and even at this time of night, the cries of the traders filled the air. The cab made its way through the milling crowds until they reached a squad of uniformed officers standing by a barrow under an archway. A young man sat on the wall beside them, his face streaked with blood.

Darknoll climbed down from the cab and approached them, pulling on his gloves.

"Is this our witness?"

The senior officer stepped forward. "Yes, sir."

The young man was dabbing at his bloody cheek with a cloth. When he looked up at Darknoll, he had tears in his eyes.

"What is your name, young man?" Darknoll asked.

"Elias. Elias Haynes."

"Well then, Elias. Let's hear it. What happened?"

"Well, I noticed this man talking to Emilia—"

"You know the girl?"

Haynes blinked at the interruption, then looked down. "I-I've known Emilia since we was children. We grew up together in the same street. I hate that she's fallen into . . . that way of life. She lost everything, her family, her friends. Except me. I've always tried to look out for her. God knows I've tried to get her out of it, but . . ." His features creased as he fought back tears. "Breaks my heart."

"How touching," Lampshire said. "A man in love with a prostitute."

Darknoll threw him an icy scowl. "All right, Elias. What happened earlier? Did you get a good look at this man?"

Haynes nodded.

"Did he do this to you?"

Haynes removed the bloody cloth and winced at the sight of his own blood. "Yes," he said. "When I saw this man leading Emilia towards the arches I knew something was wrong. I just had a bad feeling, you know? I left my barrow and ran over to ask Emilia if she was all right. She just looked at me as if I was a stranger. Her eyes were like . . . well, it was like she were sleepwalking."

Darknoll nodded. "And the man? What did he look like?"

"He . . ." Haynes stopped abruptly, his forehead creasing. "I can't remember."

Lampshire and Darknoll exchanged a look.

Darknoll said, "A description of this man could help us find Emilia a lot quicker, Elias. You want to save, Emilia, don't you?"

"I . . ." Haynes hung his head, rubbing his scalp vigorously. After a few moments, he looked up, hands raised in surrender. "I swear to you I cannot remember his face. It was a blur, and remains a blur to me now. All I knew was that he was a bad man. He had evil in his eyes. I grabbed Emilia's arm but the man just attacked me, picked me up and slammed me into the wall. He was so strong. I must have fallen unconscious for a bit, 'cause when I came round there was all the market traders standing over me, and the man and Emilia were gone."

Darknoll looked up, his lips pressed into a thin white line. This was good news. It was almost definitely their man, and the abduction of the girl had taken place less than an hour earlier. There was every chance they could stop the murderer this time, but they would have to locate him and quickly.

He turned away from the barrow boy, trying to see the two previous murder sites in comparison to the taking of Emilia Lloyd here in Camberwell. It was a guess, but he was convinced the three sites were almost equidistant. An idea was forming in his brain and he needed to be sure.

"A map!" he shouted. "Someone find me a map! Now!"

***

Minutes later, Darknoll and Lampshire watched as the frantic figure of Constable Thacker raced towards them down the moonlit street. In his hands, he held a large scroll and the look of pride on his face was unmistakable.

Reaching the group, Thacker slammed the scroll onto the rear deck of the police cab and doubled over in a fight for breath. "Local . . . postmaster . . . had to . . . wake him up . . ."

Darknoll barely noticed. He unfurled the map and smoothed it out. It was a detailed map of South London.

"What are you looking for?" Lampshire asked.

"Lines in the earth," Darknoll said.

"Lines?" Lampshire echoed.

"Something the second victim said, and it's been playing on my mind ever since. With the murders of Miss Swan and Annie, the evidence suggests the killer did not just murder these women where they happened to be. He took them to specific spots—the Deptford Wharf, Burgess Park—and carried out an identical ritual at both locations. Annie also said 'he needs one more'. If my hunch is correct, three victims suggest three points on a compass. That gives us triangulation."

"That . . . that hadn't occurred to me, sir," Lampshire said.

"My, you almost sound impressed, Sergeant," he said, with a smile. "Are you aware of the theory that in times past our ancestors built many of our most significant landmarks along lines in the earth? I believe druids followed this line of thinking."

Lampshire leaned over the map. "Druids again, sir?"

"Exactly." Darknoll drew his finger down the map. "See. Henrietta Swan found at Deptford. That's here." He marked the area with an X. "Then we have Annie in Burgess Park." He drew a line across the map in thick pencil. "That means, if I'm correct, there are two possible locations where our third victim is most likely to have been taken . . ." He ran his finger along the adjacent line until he stopped at a specific point on the map.

"Where?" Lampshire said.

"The first would take us over the Thames to . . . Tower Hill." He retraced the line and found the point on the map that was a mirror image of the first. "Or . . . Nunhead," he said.

Lampshire stared at the map, a light growing in his eyes. "Well, I'll be damned."

"Let's see if we can be a bit more specific, shall we?" He placed his notebook on the map and started retracing the lines with the makeshift rule.

"Well?" Lampshire asked.

Darknoll finished and stabbed the third point of the triangle with his gloved finger.

"Nunhead cemetery," he said. "Just over two miles away. Lampshire, there's no time to lose."

10

The cab approached down Langdon Avenue, the horses travelling at a fast canter. Darknoll spotted the gates of Nunhead Cemetery about half way down the road and leaned out of the cab.

"Driver! Stop here," he said. The driver pulled on the reigns and the geldings slowed to a stop.

Darknoll and Lampshire jumped down from the cab and approached the wrought iron gates. A high wind was picking up, rattling the metal sign above the gates, which read: NUNHEAD CEMETERY. Slipping through the gates, they scanned the dark graveyard, its gently curving horizon punctuated with Celtic crosses, stone angels and monolithic headstones. The wind stirred the trees and bushes around them with a harsh susurrus. Lampshire suddenly gripped Darknoll's arm.

"Inspector, look!"

Darknoll peered into the gloom and made out the glow of a lamp just over the hill, on the far side of the cemetery. Exhilaration burned like a fire in his chest. Here was a very real chance of stopping the murderer. Perhaps their only chance.

"Come along, Sergeant."

They ran at a crouch, shoes whispering through the overgrown grass, until they reached a large mausoleum in the centre of the grounds. Darknoll peered round the edge of the crumbling wall.

In the clearing was a stone slab set into the cemetery floor, and lying upon it, her arms and legs splayed in the familiar X-shape, was a young woman. She was staring straight up at the sky, her lips moving as if in silent prayer. The wind tore at her dress and ruffled her long blonde hair but she remained motionless—as still as the statues surrounding them. She was alive, though. She was still alive.

"Is that her?" Lampshire asked.

Darknoll nodded. "But where is he?" he said. "Where's our man?"

The glow of the lamp emanated from behind a large hawthorn bush. It was impossible to see more from this position.

"We need to get closer," Darknoll said.

They crept along the far side of the mausoleum, then darted into the shadow of a stone angel some ten yards from the circle of lamplight. Both men dropped to their knees in the long grass. The wind increased, and Darknoll had to hold his derby firmly in place to avoid losing it in the growing storm. The last thing they wanted was to alert the suspect to their presence with a stray hat.

The lantern hung on a tree branch, illuminating the figure of a tall man in a long black coat standing at the edge of the clearing. He had his back to them, his attention focused on a number of items laid out on a large wide headstone. Despite the roar of the wind, the clink of metal instruments was very clear.

Lampshire pulled a pistol from the inside pocket of his coat and looked at Darknoll expectantly, his body tensed and ready for action. Darknoll raised a hand, silently appealing for his deputy to keep himself under control. What they did next was critical, and the fear at the back of Darknoll's mind was that Lampshire's overzealous nature might end up letting the suspect get away . . . or worse.

"Put that away," Darknoll whispered. His own pistol remained at home. He had never had cause to use it. The fact that his deputy carried his around at all times made him very nervous.

"But, sir—"

"Absolute last resort."

"But we have him. He's right there."

"Yes, and I want to handle this my way."

Lampshire glared at him. Some secret battle raged in the man's mind, and before Darknoll could say anything else, Lampshire leaped up and stepped out into the clearing, pistol raised.

"Lampshire!"

His sergeant ignored him, marching towards the stranger in long, confident strides. "Stop right there!" he barked. "This is the police! Put your hands in the air where I can see them."

The tall man froze but did not turn around.

Cursing his deputy, Darknoll stepped out from the shadow of the angel and rushed over to the girl, crouching down beside her. "Emilia?" Darknoll said, raising his voice over the howling wind. "Emilia Lloyd?"

He expected the girl to say something, acknowledge him at least, but even when he looked into her eyes she maintained her pose, her brown eyes fixed on the sky.

"I ordered you to raise your hands!" Lampshire said. Darknoll glanced over his shoulder. The suspect took his time in responding. Still with his back to them, he slowly raised both hands. In one of them, he held a large knife with a serrated blade.

Darknoll turned back to the young woman and grabbed her wrist. Her skin was cold, but he felt a definite pulse. Then he noticed the blood on her clothes. Her bodice was partially open and he could see fresh blood where the maniac had carved runic symbols into her skin. Her chest area was untouched, though. No sign of damage to the heart.

"Emilia, my name is Inspector Darknoll. I'm here to help you."

She began muttering under her breath, the words lost in the rampant gale growing around them. Darknoll gripped the sides of her face. Her eyes stared straight up, straight through him, unblinking, glassy.

"Emilia?" he said.

The young woman continued to mumble, the words so faint it was impossible to understand.

"Emilia, can you hear me?"

No response. He passed a hand in front of her face, but there was not even a flicker.

"Emilia, I'm going to get you out of here," he said. He slipped one hand beneath her head and the other under her waist and attempted to lift her, but something, some strange force, kept her pinned to the ground. It was as if she was made of stone.

Behind him, Lampshire addressed the suspect again. "Turn around! Slowly. Don't think I won't put you down like a dog if you try to run."

Darknoll looked over, filled with the sudden need to see the suspect's face, to know the identity of the killer. The man turned around slowly and, for a moment, Darknoll thought his eyes were betraying him. He stared at the man's face, lit with the warm palette of the lantern hanging on the tree branch, but there was a curious lack of definition in the features. He saw a pair of eyes, a nose and a mouth, but they seemed to slip and slide across the planes of the man's face. One moment the features seemed to fix in place and he thought he beheld a true portrait of the man; then they shifted once more, ever so subtly, into a new configuration. The effect was disconcerting and he was unable to stop himself from blinking in frustration.

The man studied the situation in a curiously calm manner, staring at Darknoll and his victim, and then at Lampshire. He showed no signs of fear at the prospect of capture. He looked only irritated, as if a nuisance no more threatening than an insect had interrupted his game.

"Drop the knife," Lampshire said.

The man lowered the hand holding the knife but did not drop the weapon. He looked at it for a long time, as if weighing up another option. Darknoll noticed the large white ring on the wedding finger of his left hand. The ring looked nothing like any wedding band Darknoll had ever seen. It looked like it was made of bone.

"I said . . . drop the knife," Lampshire repeated, anger creeping into his voice.

The stranger shook his head slowly. His eyes fixed on Darknoll, and he found it impossible to look away. The man's eyes narrowed and Darknoll felt an insistent push inside his head as if an unwelcome force were trying to enter his deepest thoughts. He pushed against it, and a mental struggle followed for the supremacy of his mind. Suddenly, the force retreated.

He's trying to control my mind, just like he did with his victims.

The stranger turned to Lampshire.

"Lampshire," Darknoll said, "don't look at him."

"What?"

"He's trying to control you. Don't let him in!"

Lampshire blinked repeatedly, but continued to stare at the stranger. His pistol wavered. He brought up his other hand to support it.

"Sergeant, can you hear me?" Darknoll said.

Lampshire remained frozen.

"Put the gun down, Sergeant. Now! That is an order!"

Lampshire's face sagged, his eyes growing dull.

"Now," the man said. "Take this knife." He offered the vicious blade to Lampshire who reached out and took it willingly. "Take it and put it through the girls' heart."

Lampshire looked down at the knife, nodded, then turned slowly towards the girl.

"Lampshire!" Darknoll bellowed.

"And if your . . . superior tries to stop you," the man said, "shoot him."

Lampshire nodded again, before starting across the clearing. His eyes were wide but empty. With little effort, the killer had turned his deputy into a dangerous vessel, capable of anything. Darknoll felt a knot of terror in his gut.

"Lampshire?" he said, standing up and placing himself in front of the girl. "Albert? Listen to me. Don't do this."

His deputy stopped a few paces away and raised the pistol, aiming it directly at Darknoll's head.

"Albert?" he said, trying to keep the fear out of his voice and sound reasonable, trying to reach the man buried deep down inside. "Albert, you can fight this. I know you can."

Lampshire wavered, the pistol trembling in his hands. He shook his head, trying to fight it, but Darknoll could see his finger tightening on the trigger. Then his deputy's body relaxed. A cruel smile appeared on Lampshire's face, as if he relished what he was being asked to do.

"Lampshire, no!"

Darknoll rushed forward and grabbed Lampshire's wrists, forcing his arms up above his head. The struggle quickly reached a stalemate, both men matching the other's strength. They stumbled back and forth, hissing and grunting with the effort. Darknoll squeezed Lampshire's left wrist and wrenched the hand back and forth, trying to shake the knife loose. Lampshire's eyes bore into his, filled with murderous intent. With a surge of effort, he managed to point the barrel of the pistol downward at Darknoll's head before his arm was forced skyward again. Darknoll roared and pushed Lampshire backwards, sending them both across the clearing until they crashed into the trunk of an ash tree. Lampshire took the brunt of the impact, stunned and fighting for breath. Darknoll seized the opportunity to attack and started slamming his opponent's left hand against the trunk of the tree. With the third attempt, the knife flew from Lampshire's grip and tumbled into the grass near the prostrate girl.

Lampshire pulled his right hand free and grabbed Darknoll's throat. The sudden pressure on his windpipe forced him to lose his footing. He stumbled backward and almost went down on one knee. Lampshire pressed down on him with all his strength, a malicious smile on his lips. Darknoll tried to regain his footing as Lampshire's vice-like grip tightened. His other hand, the one holding the pistol, twisted around and down so that the barrel came dangerously close to Darknoll's head.

Suddenly, without warning, the pistol went off.

The blast shattered Darknoll's hearing and filled his head with a dull, muted hum. The next thing he knew they were both tumbling over each other in the tall grass. Pure instinct told him to keep hold of Lampshire's right hand. He could not risk his sergeant firing off another round. They came out of the roll with Lampshire on top. Darknoll put both hands on his opponent's gun-hand and forced the weapon back toward its owner. They struggled for several seconds, Lampshire pushing down on him with every ounce of his strength.

Darknoll knew he could not hold him off indefinitely. Lampshire had the upper hand and would eventually win this battle. He made a rash decision and relaxed his upward thrust without warning, sending Lampshire falling forward so fast he could not stop himself. At the same time, Darknoll brought his head up, his forehead connecting sharply with Lampshire's nose. There was a thick, crunching sound and blood sprayed from the man's nostrils.

The fight went out of Lampshire and he toppled sideways, rolling into the grass beside him. He lay there on his back, staring up at the night sky, showing no sign of fighting back. His eyes remained dull and distant. Then, slowly and deliberately, he raised the pistol to his own temple. Darknoll grabbed for the weapon but Lampshire's grip was strong, and another wrestling match began, the barrel of the pistol just inches from Lampshire's head. Darknoll realised he had no choice but to incapacitate his sergeant. He drew back his free hand and punched Lampshire in the jaw as hard as he could. Lampshire went limp. Darknoll wrestled the pistol from his hand, watching his sergeant for further movement, but he remained unconscious.

He turned to locate the stranger but before he could, a blinding light filled his vision. The paraffin lamp crossed the space between them at lightning speed, striking a headstone a few feet in front of Darknoll and exploding in a shower of flaming droplets. Darknoll turned away from the explosion, trying to cover both himself and the unconscious Lampshire. He felt drops of burning paraffin spatter across the back of his greatcoat, some of it searing the exposed skin at the back of his neck. When he looked back, he caught the blur of the dark figure running away across the graveyard.

No time to think about that right now, Darknoll. You saved the girl. Take care of her first.

He turned back to the spot where the girl lay, but in a heartbeat his momentary elation turned to despair.

The girl remained in her prostrate position, but she was now holding the knife with both hands—the knife that had dropped into the grass during his struggle with Lampshire—the tip of the blade poised over her heart. Her lips moved in silent prayer.

"Emilia!" he called out, edging towards her.

She did not move, trapped in that terrible trance-like state. How could he bring her out of it? What could he do?

He watched in horror as the young woman lifted the blade a couple of inches, ready to strike. She was too far away. He would never reach her in time. All he had was his voice.

"EMILIA!" he screamed. "NO!"

Her hands remained frozen in the strike position, but she turned her face until she was looking straight at him. Her eyes were glassy, and a single tear spilled down her cheek.

"Too . . . strong," she said.

She brought the knife down hard, the blade disappearing up to the hilt.

"NO!" Darknoll cried.

The girl gasped, her mouth stretched open in agony and shock.

Darknoll dropped to his knees as if the blade had plunged into his own heart.

With her eyes fixed on the stars above, the girl let out a long, slow exhalation and went still.

The buffeting wind and the crackle of burning paraffin filled the silence.

He had failed. He had come so close, and yet he had still failed this young woman. Darknoll cursed himself. They should have had the upper hand. The man had stood there before him, full of arrogance, and hypnotised his deputy whilst he, Darknoll, did nothing, transfixed by the strange effect of the man's changing features. It was just as the witnesses had said . . .

He locked eyes on the dark patch of graveyard where the assailant had disappeared and set his jaw. He glanced at Lampshire's unconscious form and wondered how long it would be before he came round, and whether he would remember what he had done under the killer's influence. Then he recalled the smile on Lampshire's lips, and wondered how hard the stranger had had to push Lampshire to reach that dark precipice.

With a last glance at the dead girl, Darknoll turned and rushed headlong into the darkness.

11

Beyond the high stone wall at the rear of the cemetery, a large area of marshland lay between Nunhead and the lights of Battersea. Hand-painted signs lined the wall at intervals warning people against venturing onto the perilous ground beyond. Such warnings had no effect on Darknoll's quarry. The dark figure approached the cemetery wall and, with one mighty jump, vaulted over it. Some twenty yards behind, Darknoll matched the man's speed as he approached the wall, trying not to stumble on the uneven ground. One fall right now might mean the chase was over before it started. Eventually, he reached the wall and scrambled up it. On top of the wall, he paused and looked out over the marsh.

The suspect's silhouette was already making headway across the treacherous terrain, hopping from one island of sure ground to another. Darknoll clambered down the far side of the wall and immediately felt his booted feet sink up to the ankles in squelching mud. He fought free, choosing his steps more carefully until he was able to press forward at speed.

The dark figure kept up a good pace, glancing round only once to establish Darknoll's position. The man appeared to be heading for an industrial area to the east. Darknoll knew it would be the perfect place for the assailant to lose him in that maze of warehouses. The man made it to the wooden fence marking the boundary of the marsh area and clumsily climbed over it. Darknoll, breathless, pushed himself onward as fast as he could. A vicious gust of wind ripped the derby from his head. He watched his hat tumble wildly over the marshes, travelling some twenty yards until it became stuck in a patch of thick grass.

Too far away, he decided _. Goodbye old hat._

The distance between him and the suspect was now less than thirty yards. He tried to keep his eye on the tall figure whilst doing his best to avoid stumbling into the boggy patches. He was at the fence when his prey reached the mouth of a narrow alleyway.

"Halt!" Darknoll shouted.

The figure rushed on until he reached a sewer grate halfway down the alley. He raised the grill and, with only a momentary glance over his shoulder, descended quickly into the opening. By the time Darknoll reached the open sewer, he could hear the echo of retreating footsteps far below.

***

The stench was worse than he had expected. Using the handkerchief he reserved for visits to the mortuary, Darknoll stepped off the sewer ladder and looked around. The walls of the tunnel were thick with lime, the river of effluent running down its centre topped with a frothy layer of scum.

In the gloom, he could see a silhouette racing along the tunnel, just about to turn into the first bend and disappear out of sight. He knew that these tunnels forked at numerous points. If he lost sight of his quarry now he might lose him for good.

Darknoll started down the tunnel along the narrow path, running as fast as he dared. He soon rounded the bend and the suspect came into view, the mere sight of him spurring him on—but something else in the tunnel distracted him for a moment. There was a bright, dazzling light at the far end of the tunnel, a light so bright it turned the man's figure into a hazy silhouette. It was a well-known fact that London sewers had no lighting system, only the occasional lamps used by sewage workers, certainly nothing as bright as the light up ahead. So what could it be?

That was not a concern right now, though. As the walkway opened out a little, he increased his speed, his eyes and mind fixed on the killer. The distance between them seemed to shorten, but it was hard to tell from the glare up ahead. As he sprinted along, Darknoll raised his hand, shielding his eyes from the intense glare.

The source of the light began to take shape the closer Darknoll came to it. It was an oval-shaped disc of silver water, remaining impossibly upright in the centre of the tunnel, with flashes of electric charge flitting over its surface. His quarry did not slow down as he approached it. In fact, the man seemed to increase his speed as if readying himself for an almighty leap across an impossible chasm. From behind his hand, Darknoll watched the man's silhouette close in on the shimmering oval of light. Twenty yards, fifteen, ten . . .

_He's going to stop. He has to stop. That thing is blocking the entire tunnel. He can't go around it or under it_ . . .

They were both so close now, only seconds apart. Darknoll could almost reach out and touch him. With five yards left to run, the suspect showed no sign of stopping.

"Stop!" Darknoll yelled, stretching out his hand. "What are you doing?"

The man ignored him and raced on. Darknoll watched as the man's silhouette disappeared through the wall of water. More electrical discharges flashed brightly for several seconds before the silver surface of the water settled back again.

Unable to slow his own advance, Darknoll closed his eyes and crossed his arms protectively over his face, waiting for some kind of impact.

But it never came.

***

At first, there was the sensation of falling, but instinct took over and he knew this could not be so. He had been running on solid ground when he ran into that strange cloud, and should have continued onward with his feet planted firmly on something. He opened his eyes to find his instinct was wrong.

He was suspended in a vast grey ocean, but the substance surrounding him was not like seawater—it was thick, mercurial. It was also bitterly cold and so murky he found it almost impossible to see beyond his own hands. Looking down, the sight of his shoes treading water in this strange ocean sent a bolt of panic through him. He tried to scream but thick bubbles escaped from his open mouth, rising like small planets in a silvery void. His lungs tightened and, in a moment of panic, he wondered what would happen if he breathed in this awful liquid. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw a pinpoint of light up ahead. He fixed all his attention on that and, to his astonishment, found the light growing larger in his vision, drawing closer with every heartbeat. He felt a sudden sense of inertia and realised that this was incorrect—he was hurtling towards the light.

It happened very quickly, the light storm filling his vision and overwhelming him. He closed his eyes again, terrified of what would happen next.

***

When he opened his eyes, he was running on solid ground again. He looked down to find his feet passing over the wet brick floor of the sewer, splashing through puddles of effluent. He stopped and looked back.

The bizarre oval of shimmering water was now behind him. He had passed through it and come out the other side. He checked himself over physically but felt nothing at odds. He turned and studied the tunnel ahead, just in time to see a pair of feet disappearing through the sewer grate above. He rushed over to the ladder as his prey dropped the sewer grate over the hole with a deafening clang.

Darknoll hurried up the ladder and, with an almighty shove, opened the grate. When he emerged into the street, he looked up into a dark sky choked with charcoal clouds.

The first thing he noticed was that there was no wind.

Nothing. Not even a breeze.

_What happened to the gale?_ he wondered, but then the moment was lost. Up ahead was a wide avenue. Behind him was—

The marshland was gone. In the place where it should have been were a series of squat buildings. They looked newly built, and his first thought was that they were workers' accommodation for the textile factories nearby.

The factories were gone, too.

He glanced around the street again, trying to find some signs to orient himself.

_This should be Sycamore Road_ , he told himself. _The eastern edge of the warehouse district._

On the gable wall of an end-terraced house, he found the sign: Sycamore Road. However, in place of the vast warehouse complex he discovered a series of tall buildings surrounding a formidable green gas cylinder that towered above him like a kraken.

The weight of this jarring aberration hit him like a tidal wave and he bent over, feeling suddenly light-headed. The world spun around him. His breathing became fast and uneven. When he glanced up again, he found everything remained the same—the green tower stared down at him with imposing authority.

Pull yourself together, Darknoll. You've simply lost your bearings, perhaps had a momentary blackout. Perhaps that sewer tunnel was longer than you thought. The noxious gases down there have temporarily affected your sensibilities. That is all, man. Now pull yourself together.

He remembered his quarry and glanced round, catching a glimpse of the man in black as he disappeared down a nearby alleyway. Darknoll launched into a run. His body ached, every muscle and sinew stiff and resistant to his efforts, but he pushed on, forcing his body through the pain barrier. He flew down the alley, trying to keep his eyes on the cloaked figure as he slipped from the end of the alley and out of sight. Darknoll raced out into the open street without stopping, colliding with a man in a top hat and tails who fell back against the wall with an angry shout. Darknoll had no time to stop and attend to him. His suspect was about to reach the mouth of another alleyway on the other side of the road. Darknoll doubled his efforts, pushing his head back and running as fast as he could. He was gaining.

The dark figure swept into the alleyway and out of sight again. Darknoll focused on that opening and was soon racing down the dark narrow alley. It was much shorter, filled with overflowing crates. The figure in the cloak raced straight out of the alley towards an open square beyond. Darknoll kept his eyes on the fast-moving figure and emerged from the alleyway only seconds behind him.

As he raced out into the open street, the blare of a horn shattered his senses and threw him off-balance. He glanced to his right to find the blurred vision of a machine hurtling towards him, a giant locomotive bigger than any omnibus he had ever seen. Through clouds of steam, he saw the stricken face of the driver behind a pane of glass. The shriek of hastily applied brakes filled the air . . .

It was too late. Darknoll was already committed to his pursuit across the road and despite twisting his body in an attempt to avoid the oncoming threat, his head and upper body struck the far side. He experienced a moment of oblivion, a flash of bright white light and then the sensation of spinning through the air before hitting the cobbles at some speed. He rolled and tumbled down the rain-soaked street, finally coming to rest in a deep puddle. He had a moment to realise his situation before the pain came flooding in, overwhelming him and sending him into the deepest, darkest realms of unconsciousness.

12

"You're not eating," Walter said.

Louise shook herself out of her reverie and looked down at her plate. Her thoughts had been so far away she could barely remember putting food on it. A selection of crackers, ham and cheese sat untouched on the fine china plate.

"I'm sorry, Walter," she said. "My appetite seems to have left me."

He watched her, sipping his tea. "Is everything all right, Louise?"

She forced a smile, placed her hands over her stomach. "Yes, just feeling a little . . . out of sorts."

Walter placed his teacup carefully back on its saucer. "I was thinking of going up to Grimsby to see my parents. I don't think we can keep the good news from them for much longer. How do you feel about a trip up North this weekend?"

The words hit her like a volley of tiny arrows. She stared at him, her face frozen. She was incapable of even faking a smile. She cleared her throat with great effort. "Ah, yes, that would be . . . lovely."

Walter snorted. "Come on, Louise. My parents aren't that terrifying, are they? Well, my father's a bit of an ogre, I admit, but he will adore you, I have no doubt."

She nodded.

Walter stared at her, the humour draining from his face.

Before he could say anything, the tall figure of the butler swept into the room. He approached Walter with a small envelope in his hand.

"Telegram just arrived, sir."

"Ah, thank you, Woodward."

Walter took the envelope, tore it open, and studied the card inside. He threw back his head. "Well, would you believe it? It's from my father. 'Dear Walter, your mother and I have been missing you these past few months. Word has reached us that you have some exciting news. If the rumours are true, we cannot wait a minute longer and so we are travelling down to see you today. Your mother wanted to surprise you by turning up on your doorstep but I felt it wise to give warning to a busy man such as yourself. All being well, we should be in London by this evening. Best wishes, Father'."

Walter lowered the telegram, a smile lighting up his face. "Well, well, well. Isn't that just wonderful?"

Louise stared at the white tablecloth, finding it hard to focus on anything. The chill that had settled around her heart now spread through her chest into her neck and face. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps.

"Louise?" Walter said, voice full of concern.

"Please may I be excused?"

"Of course," Walter said. "But, my love, what . . .?"

She managed to rise up on unsteady legs. "I'm sorry. I . . . I just need the bathroom."

***

She pushed the bathroom door open so hard it slammed against the wall. As it rebounded, she caught hold of the handle and held onto it for balance, before carefully closing it behind her. She turned the key in the lock as quietly as she could.

Her breathing was now so fast she was beginning to feel faint.

_You've just locked yourself in,_ she told herself _. If you pass out now, they'll have to break the door down. Control yourself, Louise. Control_ . . .

She went over to the mirror, holding her sides. It felt as though her dress was constricting, squeezing the air out of her lungs. She studied her own reflection, concentrating on her breathing.

This all seemed so unreal. Just as her life was about to go in one direction, she had found the boy she loved in childhood—no, they had found each other. Fate had brought them back together. It was impossible to deny. And they both had the same feelings for each other, after all this time. Last night, on the roof of the theatre, she had felt so sure of everything, it had all seemed so straightforward. She would tell Walter that they were still in love, Walter would graciously accept, and then they were free to be together. The Universe had kept them apart long enough. It would be cruel to keep them apart any longer.

And yet, now, in the cold light of day . . . the thought of telling Walter made her physically ill. He was a good man, a generous, kind-hearted man. He wanted only the best for her. He had talked about supporting her love of music and singing. When he appointed her as nanny for his sister's children, she had seen from the beginning that he had love in his eyes. Love. She had spent only one day in his nephew's nursery before Walter asked her to go courting with him.

"You are too good for life as a simple nanny," he had said.

"But I must earn my keep," she told him.

"If I had my way," he told her, "you would never have to work another day in your life, Louise."

"Really?"

"Louise, I want to be the one to make you happy."

Sweet words, heartfelt words, words that captured her heart immediately.

Since losing Joshua in childhood, she had not looked for love anywhere else, perhaps believing in her heart that it was nowhere to be found. She certainly had not expected to find it in a man of good standing like Walter, a legal secretary with money and prospects. None of that mattered to her, it never had, but as they courted, she began to open her heart to the idea.

And then, suddenly, there was Joshua again . . .

Joshua . . .

"Louise?" Walter called from outside the door. "Louise, are you all right?"

Her breathing was under control now, and she stood up straight, smoothing down the front of her dress.

"Yes, Walter," she said, her voice still shaky. "I-I will be out in a minute."

He did not reply. She didn't hear him move away from the door, either.

This was insane. She couldn't hide behind this door forever. She had to make a decision now. His parents were on their way to London, on their way to meet her. It would not be fair to Walter to keep up this façade any longer. No, façade was not the right word. If Joshua had not reappeared in her life, if he had been truly lost to her, as she had always thought him to be, then this would have been the natural course for her life to take. Of course, it would never have been as good or as fulfilling as a life with Joshua would have been, but there were far worse avenues in life to go down than this, far worse . . .

"Louise?" Walter said, his voice sounding so far away. "I need to know what is happening."

She tried to block Walter out, to picture Joshua in her mind, the boy she had known all those years ago, the boy with dark brown eyes and long, scruffy hair that was always in his eyes. She remembered that night in the hayloft of Patterson's farm when they had kissed for the first time. That sweet kiss . . .

She closed her eyes at the memory.

Their hearts were entwined. It was as simple and as beautiful as that.

"Louise?"

She looked down at her left hand, at the beautiful diamond engagement ring. "Oh, Walter."

What to do?

What should she do?

Joshua was alive. And as long as he was alive in this world, there was only one answer.

Only one.

***

She opened the bathroom door. Walter stepped back. His face was coloured with a mixture of emotions, but underlying the concern and exasperation there was a sliver of fear in his eyes.

Louise carefully closed the door behind her, turned and took two steps toward him. She looked at him for a long time, trying to keep her emotions in check. His expression transmuted into an imploring, beseeching look. He needed to know. He needed an answer. Slowly, she lifted her right hand, fingers curled over.

Walter looked down, confused.

She unfurled her fingers to reveal the engagement ring.

Walter sucked in a breath and, to her surprise, his eyes suddenly filled with tears. He stared at her, shaking his head repeatedly. "Don't do this to me," he said. "Don't do this to me."

"I'm sorry," she replied, but in the face of Walter's mounting grief, the words sounded pathetic, worthless.

He backed away slowly across the room, still shaking his head.

"Walter? I . . ."

He dropped into his armchair, his face turned away.

She walked over, being careful to keep her footsteps light, as if making a sound might ignite some raging beast within him. The engagement ring was like a block of ice in her hand.

She stood by his chair and held out the ring.

"Walter, I'm sorry—"

"Just go!" he cried, raising his hand. "Just . . . go."

The harshness of his voice and the finality of his words cut into her like a blade. Tears threatened to overwhelm her. But she would not cry. Not in front of him. That would not be fair to him. She fought against them with all her strength.

The grandfather clock chimed dolefully in the hall. It was six o'clock. Or was it seven?

She placed the ring carefully on the small coffee table beside his chair and then crossed the room to the porch. Woodward stood near the front door. His eyes were cold, unfriendly. Her hat rested on the post beside him. He made no move to retrieve it for her. She reached past him and took it down. She could hear the rain lashing down outside.

At any other time, Woodward would have offered her an umbrella, but he remained static, his expression cool. He did not even attempt to open the door for her. With some trouble, she undid the latch and pulled the door wide. The roar of the driving rain filled the silence. There was a muffled sound from the room behind her. For a terrible moment, she thought it was Walter sobbing, but it may have been just the noise of the house, or an echo of the gathering storm.

Louise paused on the doorstep, bracing herself against the elements.

She would head straight for the theatre. By the time she got there, Joshua would be there waiting for her. Dear Joshua.

_Her_ Joshua.

She stepped out into the rain and started to run.

13

Music.

The faint strains of a simple lullaby. Then a voice, a beautiful soprano voice, carrying the soaring melody to him like a soothing balm. Was he still in the theatre? Was he still sitting beside the only girl he had ever loved?

"Louise."

The first attempt to open his eyes sent a bolt of pain through his head and he shut them tight again. Slowly, in increments, he tried again, and the blinding white light gradually softened to a duller shade. He found himself staring up at a white ceiling with a rotary fan spinning slowly at its centre, and for a moment, he recalled the nightmare vision of the steam-driven behemoth bearing down on him, a dragon-like monstrosity spitting fire and spewing smoke into the night air.

He gasped at the memory.

Was it a memory? Or the fragments of a dream?

The answer came to him as he tried to raise himself up—the pain in his shoulder and head overwhelmed him and he gave up the effort, clutching at his temple in a vain attempt at soothing the ache.

When he opened his eyes, a face appeared above him, a round, cherubic female face with auburn hair spilling out in ringlets from beneath a nurse's cap.

"Well, good morning to you, sir," she said with a smile.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"Saint Joseph's," she said.

More carefully this time, he managed to pull himself up into a sitting position and saw a wide ward stretching out on either side of his bed. Young men occupied all the beds. By the nearby open window, a gramophone played the song he had heard on waking. The music was unfamiliar to him.

"St Joseph's? I've never heard of it," he answered in a gruff tone.

There was a sudden flurry of raised voices and he looked to the ward entrance to find a trio of young men in long leather coats entering the ward with a youthful swagger. They approached the bed of a man with his leg in plaster and showered him with gifts. One of the young men glanced over and smiled at Darknoll's nurse. His eyes met Darknoll's for a brief moment before looking away again. Darknoll noticed he was clutching a leather helmet with large goggles attached in his fist.

"St Joseph of Cupertino?" the nurse said, grinning at the young men across the way. "Patron saint of air travellers. And, by God, do they need it."

Darknoll looked at the men through narrowed eyelids. They were all wearing long leather overcoats and on the shoulders of each were silver insignia.

"Who are they?" he asked.

"Skyboys." She looked at him with a quizzical expression. "You've never seen Skyboys before?"

"My dear, I have never heard such a ridiculous expression. What do they do?"

"The Skyboys are the police air division."

"Air division?" he replied. His head was beginning to throb.

She shook her head in disbelief, and crossed over to the heavy drapes covering the large window, throwing them open with great force.

Darknoll stared at the bustling London skyline in disbelief. The horizon was dotted with an assortment of odd forms—cigar-shaped vessels moving slowly across a brooding bank of slate-coloured clouds; traditional hot air balloons drifting up and down across the river; and smaller aircraft no large than canal barges with twin cones and a single basket beneath to carry passengers.

"But that's . . . impossible," he said, slipping out of his bed. He approached the window and pressed his hands against the cold glass. His gaze drifted down to the mass of architecture crammed into the city, and he saw here and there raised platforms on top of wide towers jutting from between the bricks and mortar of London's urban sprawl. He watched as airships the size of ocean liners lifted off and settled on these platforms with an ease and regularity that was breathtaking.

"We . . . we haven't even mastered flight," he muttered to himself.

"Sorry, sir?" the nurse said.

His mind was turning over mad ideas, fantastical notions. There had been experiments several months ago in Bracknell Heath, but they were only with light air balloons. He had never seen vast designs like the aircraft currently prowling the morning sky. Perhaps . . . perhaps he had slept too long.

"What is the date?" he asked.

"The date?"

"Yes, my dear, the date."

"October the fifteenth, sir."

"And the year?"

"The year?" she asked with an amused twinkle in her voice.

"Yes, what year?" Darknoll snapped.

She flinched at his raised voice and her pleasant smile vanished. The group of young men fell silent and glanced over.

After an awkward moment, she said quietly, "Eighteen ninety-six."

"Are you sure?"

"Why would I lie about such a thing?" the girl replied, her own voice beginning to rise.

Darknoll sighed and sat back down on the edge of the bed. He fingered the bandage around his left temple and felt the telltale signs of a deep graze across his left cheek where that thing had struck him the night before. He could not explain the presence of the flying machines, but if this was indeed the day after his pursuit of the murderer, he had to focus on that for the time being.

"Forgive me," he said softly. "I should not have raised my voice. What is your name?"

"Amelia."

"Amelia, why was I brought here? To this hospital, I mean?"

Her expression brightened, and she resumed folding the linen beside his bed. "Well, you had a police badge, although we don't normally get policemen in these halls. It's mostly Skyboys and the Queen's Airmen. I suppose this was simply the nearest hospital."

"What happened to me?" he asked. "My recollection is vague."

She stopped folding and straightened up. "The police said you got hit by a steam coach, and it's only by God's grace that you weren't crushed to death."

He saw the machine again in his mind's eye—a blurred image, obscured by clouds of steam. He remembered the impact and his hand involuntarily went to his right shoulder. He winced.

"Yes," he said. "I remember that."

The girl leaned in close. "The driver said you were running across the road like a man possessed. What were you doing, sir?"

"I was . . . pursuing someone."

"Pursuing?" she repeated with a smile returning to her lips. "That's definitely a copper's turn of phrase."

He looked up at her, unable to hide his irritation. "I'm not a copper, Amelia, I am an inspector. Do you know where my wallet is?" He glanced around, hoping to locate it.

Her cheery expression faltered. "They confiscated it."

"Who did?"

The echo of footsteps disturbed their conversation and the relative quiet of the ward. Darknoll looked up to see a group of police officers approaching down the central aisle.

"I hate to tell you this," she whispered, "but I think you're in a spot of trouble."

"Trouble?" he said. "What trouble?"

Darknoll turned his attention to the squad of men as they arrived at his bedpost. The man in front was clearly a sergeant, Darknoll deduced—the cheap tweed suit, the overcoat, and the overinflated sense of importance. He was stocky, with a thick neck and a ruddy complexion. There was a mean glint in his eye. He ignored Darknoll, his attention on the young nurse.

"Sister," he said, "is our man here fit to leave the hospital?"

Amelia gave him a haughty look. "And who might you be?" she said.

The man rolled his eyes and flashed his police wallet. "Sergeant Davies. Now please answer the question."

She looked Darknoll up and down, clearly relishing her temporary power. "Well, no serious injuries, I suppose, just a few bumps and bruises, but he has had quite severe concussion, so he could really do with more rest."

The sergeant cast a scornful look at Darknoll. "He looks fine to me. Sir, would you be good enough to dress yourself and accompany me to the station?"

"Gladly," Darknoll said through clenched teeth. As he stood up, Amelia passed him his clothes, neatly folded in a pile.

"Sorry," she said. "I did try."

"Thank you," he said. He turned back to the sergeant. "I hope Superintendent Nightingale has an explanation for all this."

Davies frowned. "Superintendent who?"

"Nightingale," Darknoll replied. "Superintendent Nightingale."

The sergeant glanced at the uniformed officers either side of him. "There is no such person in our division, sir."

Darknoll stared at the man for a long time, wanting to yell at him and call him a fool, but he bit down on that swell of anger. He slipped behind the divider and dressed slowly, a small worm of doubt beginning to crawl through his mind.

***

The police station was exactly as he had remembered it—a red brick fortress in the middle of Gower Road, but as he passed along its familiar corridors he began to sense that something was wrong. The place smelled different, there were doors he had never noticed before, and so many of the building's landmarks were in different locations. Most unsettling of all was that he recognised none of the faces, not even one. It was as if an invading army had taken over the country during the night and replaced the entire metropolitan police force with a complete new body of men.

Sergeant Davies offered Darknoll little in the way of reassurance or small talk, and when they entered the incident room he merely motioned to a chair with a grunt. Before sitting down, Darknoll spied the office at the end where Superintendent Nightingale had sat for many years. Sitting behind that desk now was a middle-aged man with a thick moustache. Definitely not Nightingale. The man despised facial hair of any kind. Darknoll thought back to the last meeting he'd had with the old man. Lampshire had been with him. They had argued about the case.

Lampshire . . .

"Wait a minute," Darknoll said, "where's Lampshire?"

Davies stared at him as he removed his jacket and placed it over the back of his chair.

"He's my sergeant," Darknoll said.

Davies sat down and removed a file from the top drawer of his desk.

Darknoll tried to contain his anger. "Albert Lampshire? He was hurt. Incapacitated. Someone must know what happened to him."

Davies glanced up. "Albert Lampshire, your sergeant? Really?"

Darknoll hammered his fist against the arm of his chair. "I want to see the Superintendent. I am not co-operating until I see the man in charge."

The incident room fell silent.

Davies stared at him with one arched eyebrow. A tall uniformed officer stood at the adjacent desk, watching with interest. Davies gave him a nod. "Fetch the guv'nor," he said.

Darknoll sat back in his chair and folded his arms. If they were going to play games with him, he was fully prepared to return the gesture. He watched the constable weave between the desks before disappearing into the office at the far end of the room. A few moments later, he emerged with the moustachioed man.

"At last," Darknoll said for Davies' benefit. "Hopefully, we'll soon have an end to this."

However, when he turned to greet the approaching figure, he could hardly believe his own eyes. Standing before him in a tailored suit and cravat was Albert Lampshire.

14

Darknoll looked at Davies, but Davies only stared back at him with those cold, bloodhound eyes.

"What is this?" Darknoll said. "Is this a prank, Lampshire?"

Lampshire's eyes did not waver. "It's Superintendent Lampshire to you, sir." He turned to Davies. "Well?"

"Superintendent," Davies explained, "this is the man they found last night. Got hit by a steam coach. He had . . . suspect police identification on his person. Impersonating an officer?"

"Impersonating?" Darknoll bellowed, finally losing his composure. "I am an officer of the metropolitan police force! I'm based here in this division." He slammed his open palm on the desk. "I've worked in this building for ten years! And you—" He jabbed a finger in Lampshire's direction. "You're nothing but a sergeant. You want to talk about impersonating an officer of the law!"

Lampshire raised a hand. It was enough to stop Darknoll in his tracks. He took a long steadying breath and then exhaled sharply. He glanced around and saw that the entire roomful of officers was watching.

"Perhaps we can conduct this interview in the more peaceful environs of my office," Lampshire said in a calm and reasonable voice.

Davies' cool façade faltered. "Guv'nor?" he said, sounding like a petulant child.

"It's all right, Davies," Lampshire said. "You have enough work to be getting on with." He gestured for Darknoll to join him.

Darknoll stood up, glaring at Davies. Lampshire held out his hand to the sergeant. After a heavy sigh, Davies slapped the file into his open palm.

Lampshire's office was more like a botanist's garden than a workplace. Tall shelf units covered two of the walls, the first overflowing with a cascade of colourful flowers—petunias, hydrangeas, begonias, peonies and several others he did not recognise. The second shelf contained a number of tin boxes—vascula, Darknoll thought they were called—filled with freshly picked plants, flowers, mosses and ferns. Alongside these were hand lenses, an ornate microscope, a stack of botanical textbooks and sheets of thick paper no doubt used to dry, press and mount the plants. Darknoll started to feel giddy at the sight of it all, and decided it must be a side effect of the heady floral aroma filling the room.

Lampshire closed the door behind him and gestured for Darknoll to sit. He hesitated, studying Lampshire for a moment, before taking his seat. Whatever was happening here, he felt sure that his old enemy was responsible. He just couldn't yet fathom the how or the why.

Lampshire stood behind his desk and dropped the file onto its tidy surface. He studied the report for a full minute and then picked up what Darknoll quickly recognised as his warrant card.

"Detective Inspector Joshua Darknoll," he read out. "Southwark Division."

Darknoll said nothing.

Lampshire closed the warrant card with a snap. "What were you doing last night?" he asked, taking his seat.

"I was doing my job," Darknoll said, "which is more than I can say for you."

Lampshire blinked at this implied insult. After tapping his fountain pen on the desk several times, he said, "Why are you pretending to be someone you are not?"

"I could ask you the same question," Darknoll replied.

Lampshire sat forward, eyes narrowing. "I do not know you, sir, and yet you insist on berating me for some imagined transgression of which I have no knowledge. Tell me, did I wrong you in another life?"

The man's stare was level and unflinching, and Darknoll could not help but feel intimidated by his sincerity.

_I do not know you sir_ . . .

When he finally answered, he spoke in a quiet, reserved tone. "Where I come from, the Albert Lampshire I know is merely a sergeant, and a poor one at that."

Lampshire shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I fail to understand your meaning. 'Where you come from?'"

Darknoll looked away, studying the flora and fauna. "I have no clear understanding myself," he said.

"All right, let's talk about you. What is your real name?"

"Joshua Darknoll."

Lampshire glared. "And you reside at . . .?"

"One hundred and seventy-four, Cardin Street."

Lampshire stared for a moment, mulling something over. "Cardin Street?"

"Yes," Darknoll replied.

Lampshire glanced out through the window and made a beckoning gesture. Seconds later, the tall constable stepped into the office. Lampshire scribbled the address down on a sheet of paper, folded it and handed it to the constable. The young man saluted and left the office.

"Shall we try again?" Lampshire said. "How did you come to be in King's Road last night?"

"I was pursuing a suspect, the murderer of several young women."

"And what happened?"

"I have no idea. My pursuit ended rather . . . abruptly." Darknoll gripped his shoulder. "He's still out there. . ."

"What are the names of the victims?"

"Henrietta Swan, Annie . . . well, we don't know the second victim's surname. The last victim was called Emilia . . . Emilia Lloyd."

Lampshire tapped his pen again, lips pressed tight together. "We have no such case in progress," he said.

"Well, there must be some mistake."

"There is no mistake. This is Southwark Division and we have no murder victims going by those names. Moreover, there is no Inspector Joshua Darknoll, not at this police station, nor any other police station. How do you explain that?"

"I cannot. I can't explain any of this. But—"

Lampshire raised his hand. "This game has to stop, man. Right now, you are one step away from being charged with impersonating a police officer. When that happens, I will have no choice but to hand you over to Scotland Yard. And trust me, they will not be as understanding as I am. They'll probably throw you into prison in the Dutch Sector and throw away the key."

Darknoll sat up. "The Dutch Sector? What's that?"

Lampshire threw his arms up in the air. "God's teeth, man! This is intolerable!" He got up and began to walk around the room. "You talk as if you've come from another planet! I don't know whether you're a very good actor or just completely insane!"

Darknoll followed him with a piercing glare. "I'm telling you, I do not understand any of this."

Lampshire turned and glared at Darknoll for a long time. The young constable tapped on the door. After a nod from Lampshire, he came in and gave him another folded up piece of paper. Lampshire snapped it open and read the note. His expression remained stony. He looked at Darknoll and arched an eyebrow.

"Well, whoever you are," he said, "I have something to show you."

15

It was a curious ride from the station into the heart of the city. Darknoll sat opposite Lampshire and stared at the wonders passing by his window. Airships dotted the moody slate sky above, and on the roads around them, strange contraptions—driven not by horses, but by steam—thundered by. Their own carriage was old-fashioned, Lampshire explained. Police vehicles rarely employed horses these days since the steam-powered road carriages came into vogue. Unable to find a suitable reply, Darknoll only shook his head and continued to stare at the endless parade of invention.

Finally, the carriage pulled up at the gates of Barker's Mill. Darknoll knew the old factory well. Cardin Street was only a short walk from here. A fine drizzle fell across the grey landscape.

Lampshire opened the door and gestured for Darknoll to exit first.

"You trust me not to flee?"

Lampshire glanced at the constable seated next to him. "Fletcher, stay here," he said.

He looked back at Darknoll with a raised eyebrow.

Darknoll could not help but feel heartened by this show of trust. He stepped out into the cool afternoon air. Above the horizon lay a line of factory chimneys with twisted columns of thick black smoke drifting up into the sky.

His boots skipped over the cobbled pavements, his eyes scanning every bush, every fence, every crack in the road and every tuft of moss pushing through the spaces in between. So much seemed familiar, and yet, and yet . . .

It was as though two images were forcing themselves on his battered senses—the world he knew, the world he had grown up in, the world he had become accustomed to, and then there was this secondary place, an echo of the world he knew, a facsimile that, in terms of geography, was virtually identical, down to the tiniest detail.

There: a sickle-shaped crack in the wall of the old rectory, which he knew well. There: an archway over the gate of a house he had passed so many times, and, true enough, the third brick from the bottom on the left-hand pillar was crumbling. Exactly the same.

But here: a line of ivy snaking its way down a wall that had not been there in the past week; at least, he had no recollection of seeing it, but then he hadn't been looking. And here was a rundown, grime-encrusted house that he passed every day, and yet he distinctly recalled it being freshly painted a gleaming white only a few days ago. The effect was disorientating, and a small insistent throb began deep inside his head. He felt churning waves of nausea as the familiar constantly gave way to the strange.

_No matter_ , he tried to reassure himself. _We are here in Cardin Street now, and soon I will be at my own front door and_ . . .

As they turned the corner into Cardin Street, Darknoll came to an abrupt stop. Lampshire was hurrying so much to keep up that he almost crashed into him.

"Everything all right?" Lampshire asked.

Darknoll said nothing, staring.

This was the east end of the street, the higher numbers. His house, 174 Cardin Street was not there. The adjacent house, number 172, was also missing. The street ended, on this side of the road, with number 170. In place of the two end houses, there was a small park, lined with a simple black railing fence and rows of evenly spaced poplar trees.

That swell of nausea rose in him once more, threatening to overwhelm him, but it gave way to a sudden flash of grief. A cramp passed over Darknoll's face and he began to breathe fast, tears stinging his eyes.

"This . . . this is insane."

He pushed through the gate of the small park and walked along its neatly trimmed path. Lampshire followed a short distance behind. In the centre of the park was a triangular arrangement of three benches surrounding a large stone monument in the shape of a Celtic cross. Darknoll stepped up to it and studied the small brass plaque in the centre.

THIS MEMORIAL IS IN MEMORY OF

THE DARKNOLL FAMILY WHO DIED

IN THE WAR, AUGUST 1886.

MAY THEY REST IN PEACE.

His trembling fingers followed the intricate stone carving until they touched a second plaque listing the names of the dead.

ANDREW JAMES DARKNOLL, AGED 56

MYFANWY ANNABEL DARKNOLL, AGED 50

JOSHUA JAMES DARKNOLL, AGED 21

Darknoll struggled for breath as emotion overwhelmed him. He dropped to his knees on the grass verge, emitting a short, sharp cry.

What was this? What was happening to him? Was this the beginnings of madness? Had he passed away and this was his purgatory? Seeing the names of his parents, his own name and the date of his death—yes, he had been twenty-one in 1886—made everything he had been holding onto fracture. He had been forging a career in the police force back then, but his parents both died in the cholera outbreak back in Malden village. So how could this be?

Then he recalled the pursuit of the ritual killer and the strange flickering aberration, down there in the sewer system. Something had happened when he passed through that dreadful cloud. He could not quite grasp exactly what, but intuition told him that something uncanny had befallen him, had sent him into this vile echo of his own existence.

"So," Lampshire said, studying the plaque. "Joshua James Darknoll. Records show that his parents moved to New London from the village of Malden when he was an infant. In August 1886, as the War was coming to an end, the Germans made one last desperate attempt to destroy London by air. Joshua Darknoll died in a bomb blast, as did his parents. He was twenty-one. What have you to say about that?"

Darknoll said nothing.

_Germans_.

The War.

He climbed slowly to his feet. Lampshire watched him closely.

"What's going on, man?" Lampshire said, a note of sympathy in his voice. "What's this all about?"

Darknoll looked up at the sky.

"Well?" Lampshire insisted.

Darknoll turned and walked away at a brisk pace.

"Where are you going?" Lampshire called after him, but Darknoll did not answer. The young constable in the carriage opened the door and looked at Lampshire expectantly, but he waved him back.

With a weary sigh, Lampshire followed.

***

Darknoll stood over the grate which led down into the sewer, the grate from which he had emerged into this madness. He stood staring at it, waiting for Lampshire to catch up. My God, the man was unfit, he thought. Something else made him pause there. Below the street was something that made a mockery of the world he knew.

Lampshire arrived, panting and doubling over as he fought for breath.

"Damn it all, man, I nearly ended up under a bloody omnibus back there and you barely slowed down. And now my shoe is soaking wet!"

Darknoll did not acknowledge the man's complaints. He continued to stare at the grate and the sloshing sound of sewage below.

"Lampshire," he said, "how do you deal with the unknown?"

"What?" Lampshire said, straightening up but still clutching his sides.

"You want to know how I am here when I am meant to be dead? You want answers?"

"I would not be here otherwise."

Darknoll said, "I'm going to show you something. Down there."

Lampshire looked at the sewer grate. "You want me to go down there? Good God, man, my patience is wearing thin—"

"You have trusted me this far, trust me a little more and you will have your answers."

They looked at each other for a long time, and the irritation in Lampshire's face slowly melted away. He gestured to the sewer grate. Darknoll crouched down and lifted it away from the opening. The smell was as foul as they expected and both men covered their noses immediately. Darknoll stepped down onto the top of the metal ladder and descended. Lampshire looked around before climbing in after him.

They walked along the narrow path, the grim, foam-topped water lapping at the edges. Dim, early evening light from other grates above reflected off the foul waters, sending strange harlequins of light dancing over the arched walls of the tunnel. Darknoll's heartbeat increased as they neared the point at which he had encountered the aberration.

When they turned the corner, he found the space ahead of them was empty.

No strange light, no anomaly. Nothing.

"No, no, no," he muttered. He rushed forward, almost slipping from the concrete path into the fetid waters. The air was clear; the strange oval of light was gone.

He whirled around and stared at Lampshire whose face was coloured with weary cynicism.

All Darknoll could say was, "It's gone." In the long, echoing tunnel, the words sounded feeble and empty.

Lampshire looked away, straightened his belt. The movement exposed the handle of his police pistol.

"Please tell me what were you expecting to find down here?"

Darknoll shook his head, disappointment transmuting into anger. "Yesterday, there was a - a -" He held his hand out to the space in the air where the anomaly had been.

A wave of fatigue came over him without warning and he felt the sudden urge to fall to the ground. How could he explain his theory without the visual evidence? When he looked back at Lampshire, he realised that the man would have to arrest him now. Lampshire had been avoiding it, putting it off, but only long enough for him to provide answers that would satisfy him. As it was, he had provided Lampshire with nothing—just inanity and emotional crisis. He was surprised the man was still humouring him. The Lampshire he had known would not have been anywhere near as sympathetic or understanding.

"All right," Darknoll said. "All right. I know what happens next. I know you have your duty to perform, but I am begging you. Let me go now."

Lampshire cocked his head. "And why would I do a thing like that?"

Darknoll struggled for an answer. "I need time."

"Time for what?"

Darknoll stared. He studied Lampshire's eyes. They were so different from the other incarnation of Lampshire. There was a brightness, a lack of harsh experience in them.

In that moment, he made a judgement call.

He turned and hurried away down the tunnel path.

"Stop!" Lampshire called out.

Darknoll broke into a run, not daring to look back.

The tunnel path crossed over the grimy waters and he crossed the arching bridge to the other side, glancing back to see Lampshire still standing in the same spot, his weapon still holstered. Darknoll vanished into a side tunnel.

"Darknoll!" Lampshire shouted, and the echo rang in his ears for a long time afterwards.

16

As Darknoll crossed this alien vision of London, the rain fell in an unrelenting downpour and some deep, wounded part of him welcomed it. He walked the streets he knew in a desperate search for the mundane and the familiar, but every path, every avenue revealed a tiny betrayal of the world he thought he knew. He crossed a small footbridge at Friar's Gate that did not exist in his London; a statue of Sir Francis Drake towered over the pavements of Groveport Square—in his London that statue was much smaller and less intimidating.

And that was how he came to think of it over the course of that long, dark night—this was not his London. His London was somewhere else, somewhere on the other side of . . . what? What exactly had happened during that pursuit? What was that strange cloud he had passed through? A doorway? A mirror? Yes, that seemed to make a kind of perverse sense. It was as if he had passed through a mirror and was now experiencing life inside a distorted reflection of his own reality. Fundamentally, things were the same, but so much was different. Lampshire, for instance. The man he had seen today was physically the same Albert Lampshire, but there was something different behind the man's eyes. He imagined Albert Lampshire at some point in his youth, standing before two doors—one door would take him down the path that produced the ignorant, arrogant chancer he had dealt with for the past year and a half; the other door led him to this place, a kinder, wiser interpretation of Albert Lampshire. The endless chain of experiences they would have encountered during their separate journeys altered both versions of the man.

And what of himself, then? In this London, Joshua James Darknoll had been killed at the tender age of twenty-one. He tried to think back to the man he had been at twenty-one, tried to recall his aspirations, his efforts to get on in the world. In this London, it had all come to nought, his dreams rendered impotent by a solitary bomb. Moreover, he realised, if he and his parents had left Malden when he was an infant, he would never have met Louise, and of course, he would never have fallen in love. If that were the case, what had happened to Louise? What fate would have befallen that version of his sweetheart?

He approached the guardrail of Blackfriars Bridge and leaned against the cold stone edifice, looking down over the shimmering, snake-like outline of the Thames. Above it, airships crawled across the night sky, ground lights occasionally catching them in their sweep. Stars glittered, casting silver diamonds on the river's surface.

He let out a heavy sigh and tears of exhaustion sprang into his eyes.

A parallel world. Was that what this was? A deviation from the normal progression of things? If so, was this the only variation, or were there countless permutations of the world he knew?

Questions. So many questions. And the hardest thing to accept was that there was only one person in existence who could provide him with at least some of those answers.

The killer.

A man without a face, a stranger, a malevolent shadow in his psyche. In fact, some part of him was beginning to think he had imagined him completely. Perhaps this was the beginning of madness. Perhaps that pursuit into the lower levels of London, into the stinking tunnels beneath the bustling world, had all taken place inside his head. What if that glowing, impossible doorway embodied some deep psychological rift in his consciousness? Had his mind cracked? How could he tell? How could anyone?

He peered down into the dark waters below and saw his reflection, small but clear in the moonlight. A small handful of lilies lay strewn over the cobbles around him, stalks crushed under the weight of traffic. He picked one up and let it fall to the river's surface below. Gentle ripples drifted outward from the point of impact.

No, he decided. This was real. He was really here. His mind was whole, and that idea was truly frightening.

He looked out at the moonlit city before him. The man he had pursued, the man he needed to find, was out there. But what hope did he have of finding him now? How could he possibly locate someone who was ephemeral? Where did he start? He had no name, no description to go on—no leads whatsoever.

He was truly lost . . .

He turned the corner onto Savoy Street and there before him stood the magnificent façade of the Savoy theatre. He stood in the same place he had stood last night, but there was no sign of Louise. He checked his pocket watch. It was eight-fifteen. He waited for a large steam-driven omnibus to thunder past before crossing the road. The foyer was empty. Whatever show was playing tonight, the audience had already taken their seats. But Louise had said she would wait here for him.

_And then we'll know_ . . .

_That this is meant to be ._ . .

He looked up and down the street, studying the faces of everyone who passed by, hoping, praying that her face would appear amongst the throng . . . but he knew in his heart that it was a hopeless dream.

After five minutes had passed, he walked inside the foyer and approached the elderly female clerk at the ticket desk.

"The show has already started," she said, without looking up. "No admittance now until the interval."

"I . . . I don't wish to see the show. I'm looking for someone. A young woman. I was supposed to meet her here, outside the theatre."

The clerk continued stamping booklets with her cork stamp.

"I wondered if she left a message with you?"

The old woman shook her head. "Not that I know of."

"Are you certain?"

She looked up, fixing him with her steely eyes. "Young man, I've been on this desk for two hours now. I have not received any messages from anyone. I'm afraid I can't help you, sir."

After a moment, he nodded. "No, I don't suppose you can," he said quietly.

_Because this is not my London_ . . .

He walked back out into the rain, staring out into the night but not really seeing anything.

His chest ached, and his eyes misted up. Despair rushed into his heart like a sickness.

The sound of laughter broke his reverie and he turned to see two silhouettes ambling along the bridge towards him. The taller figure was a man dressed in smart eveningwear, with a cravat and top hat. He was holding a large cigar in his hand and swaying slightly as he went. The shorter figure was a woman, dressed in a red satin frock coat and dress with a floral hat. As the couple drew closer, light from the street lamp above fell on the man's features—a world-weary face, puffy, ruddy-cheeked, and framed by enormous sideburns.

He stopped short in front of Darknoll, twiddling the cigar between his fat fingers.

"I say, my good man, would you happen to have a light? I fear I've lost my flint somewhere this evening."

"There's no fear about it," the woman said. "You lost it along with half the contents of your wallet. I told you to stop drinking so much."

"Yes, dear," the man said with a fixed smile.

"I'm afraid I don't smoke," Darknoll said, but making a cursory search of himself in a show of affability. As he did so, his hand passed over a small object in his coat pocket. He pulled it out and found the small pouch of coins procured from the victim in Burgess Park.

He stared at the pouch for a long time.

"Are you all right, sir?" the man said.

"What?" Darknoll said.

"Is there anything we can do to . . . help?"

_Little Amsterdam_ . . .

Such a place did not exist in his London, that was certain . . . but was there a Little Amsterdam here?

The couple observed the moneybag with similar reverence, mesmerised by the interest Darknoll was showing to such an ordinary object.

"Have you ever heard of such a place as Little Amsterdam?" he asked.

Before the man could open his mouth, his wife spoke up in a declamatory tone. "No, sir, we have not, and from the sounds of it I'm certain it is not a place that decent folk would ever patronise. I . . ."

She stopped abruptly and turned to look at her husband. He was looking at Darknoll and nodding slightly, oblivious to his wife's rant. Alerted by the sudden silence, he looked up and his face cracked into a guilty smile.

"Horatio?" the woman said.

Her husband continued to look between Darknoll and his wife with a forced grin, as if his silence would make the moment go away.

"Horatio, please tell me you haven't been to such a place! You promised me those days were over!"

"Now, my dear, don't jump to conclusions. I do know about this place but only through a friend of a friend who's been there."

"Then this place exists?" Darknoll said. "Little Amsterdam actually exists?"

"Well, yes," the man said.

Darknoll felt like kissing the man on both cheeks, feeling unbound elation at the news.

_Steady_ , he told himself. _This is still tenuous, Darknoll, very tenuous._

The woman was saying, "I don't know what's worse, Horatio, the fact that such a place exists or the fact that you know about it."

"Jemima, my dear, I told you I only heard about it from acquaintances. Now, I merely want to help this gentleman find the place. What is wrong with that?"

"Well, Horatio, I can't see that giving anyone directions to such a wretched place is helpful at all!"

"Please!" Darknoll interrupted. Silence fell over the bridge. "Please, I don't wish to appear rude, but I must find this place. It's a matter of great importance."

The woman gave him a puzzled scowl.

"I'm . . . I'm working with the police, and we're looking for a man who may have visited this place in the past." He directed his appeal to Horatio. "Please, sir, can you tell me how to get there?"

"You don't know the way to Little Amsterdam?" the man said, surprise evident in his watery eyes. "What kind of policeman doesn't know about Little Amsterdam?"

"I'm from down south," Darknoll explained.

Ignoring the disapproving frown on his wife's face, the man scratched his head and cleared his throat several times.

"Well, for starters, I'm afraid if you intend on going there now you'll have to walk. No cabbie will go into that district after dark."

"A den of vice and debauchery, it is," the woman said with a curl of the lip.

"Yes, dear," Horatio said. "Anyway, sir, head for Elephant and Castle. At the statue, you'll find an archway opposite. Huge great thing, it is. You can't miss it. Head through the arch and . . . Just keep going. Follow the stench."

"Stench?" Darknoll said, puzzled.

"Oh, trust me, you'll know it," Horatio said, miming the smoking of an oversized pipe.

Darknoll nodded, clasping the man's hand tightly. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you very, very much," and hurried on his way.

17

As he walked the streets, a sea of yellowish-brown smog descended, obscuring everything, making Darknoll's journey more arduous and time consuming. He wanted to hurry, to race to his destination, despite his aching legs and feet; but he forced himself to go steadily, cautious of running into police constables who seemed to be on every street corner. The last thing he wanted right now was to be arrested by some diligent, overzealous bobby and to let this fragile trail go cold.

That was, of course, if Lampshire had put out a bulletin on him. He had to remind himself that he was still a suspect—a police impersonator, no less—and one who had fled from a superintendent. This Lampshire was a different beast, though, and he hoped his reaction would not be the expected one. Still, he had to be sensible and avoid capture. This was not his world, and no one would ever believe the truth of his plight. He was truly on his own in this.

The space opened out ahead of him and, just visible through the dense smog, he saw the tusks of the Elephant statue that marked the centre of the Camberwell district. He hurried over to it and placed a hand on the stone base, taking some welcome reassurance from its solid form.

_At least some things remain the same_ , he told himself.

He put his back to the statue and searched for the archway that the helpful Horatio had mentioned. The smog shifted slowly as coaches and people passed by in all directions. Gradually the smog dissipated enough that he could make out the curves of a huge stone arch.

"Thank you, Horatio," he said.

He started towards the arch, marvelling not just at its architectural design but also at the sheer fact that this structure did not exist in his London. As far as he remembered, the tall Georgian houses either side of the arch were one consecutive terrace. On the other side of them was a school for blind children. But not here.

As he passed under the towering archway, he found a long straight avenue stretching off into the fog with three-storey buildings on either side. There were narrow alleyways at intervals, but because of the obscuring smog, he was unable to tell what lay at the end of them. Figures moved around him like satellites, some hurrying back and forth, but most of them going about their business in a leisurely manner. The smell of opium—the 'stench' Horatio had spoken of—hung heavily in the air.

The smog here was worse than it had ever been in his London—the yellowish-brown colouring made it appear thicker, more substantial. It gave the streets a surreal quality, as if the entire world was trapped in pale amber. Female figures began to emerge—scantily clad, all painted faces and lusty expressions. Curiously, he felt no desire for these women, but then he never had. He could not feel lust for strangers, no matter how wantonly they thrust themselves upon him. Perhaps his childhood love for Louise had something to do with that.

The three-storey houses gave way to shops with glass fronts, the majority of which were brightly lit even at this time of night, and Darknoll quickly realised why. In each of the windows, he found young women displaying themselves in various stages of undress. The girls beckoned to him, stroking the glass, stroking their own bare skin, and mouthing things to him that he could not make out but understood nonetheless. The further he went down the avenue, the greater the degree of immodesty on display, until he found himself looking upon young women half-naked and covered in sensual oils.

Darknoll paused a moment in the middle of the avenue and observed the men who passed by. These were not men wrapped in scarves with their hats pulled down to hide their identities. These were men who walked with their heads held high, brazenly observing the women on display and unabashed about their sexual browsing. There was a different attitude here and he could not think why. These were still prostitutes, this was still a haven of prostitution, but the casual attitude from all concerned astounded him. A group of three middle-aged men passed by, swinging their canes as if out for a stroll along the promenade. They were all smoking pipes and discussing the window girls in a manner similar to a debate about horses at the derby. By the cut of their well-tailored suits, Darknoll deduced these were not poor, desperate men looking for an illicit backstreet liaison. They looked like successful lawyers or bankers, out on the town on a shopping spree. In his world, men in such responsible positions did not frequent such places so openly. Yet another facet of this mirror world that confused and disturbed him.

He turned and continued down the avenue, focusing once more on his goal.

And what exactly is your goal, Darknoll?

A pertinent question. What exactly was he going to do now? He had followed the only lead he had —the bizarre coins stamped LITTLE AMSTERDAM—and now he was here. So . . . what next?

Darknoll stopped in the middle of the avenue. He pulled out the money pouch and stared at it. Could it be that the killer had taken the young woman known as 'Annie' and brought her across that strange divide to his London? If so, why? The killer had plucked the other two victims, Henrietta and Emilia, from the streets of their home turf with incredible ease. Why would the killer need a woman from this realm? Also, why had the killer not bothered to remove items such as this pouch from the second victim? He supposed it did not matter. If he, Darknoll, had not pursued him through that impossible doorway, the police would have just discarded such evidence, filed it away as just an unexplained anomaly. Clearly, the killer never imagined he would be followed back here . . . back here to his own realm.

So . . . how could he use it to his advantage? What was his next step?

He would have to ask around. Despite the aching in his limbs and the hunger pains, he would do it, even if it meant asking every single person in this street. He had no choice. He would not stop his search until he found his killer. Finding the killer was his only chance of returning home.

He passed a woman in furs who was walking in the opposite direction at a brisk pace.

"Excuse me," he said.

The woman stopped abruptly, fluttering her long lashes.

"Hello, _de heer_ ," she said.

Darknoll's heart sank. "You're Dutch?"

She nodded, a broad smile on her face. " _Ja, ben ik Nederlands._ But I also speak English."

"Oh, thank God."

"If it bothers you, we don't need to talk at all," she said. She leaned in close, her perfume filling Darknoll's senses. He coughed politely. Unsure of what to say next, he settled for an awkward smile.

"Right," he said. "Excellent. Listen, what is your name, my dear?"

"Helena."

"Helena, I wonder if you could help me." He opened the money pouch and emptied out the three coins, showing them to her. "What are these?"

The woman laughed, looked at him closely. "You are serious?"

"Yes, very serious. I have never seen them before . . . not where I come from."

She studied him with a half-smile frozen on her face. "And where might you be from, my dear?" she asked.

"Oh, a long way away," he said.

"These coins are for purchasing . . . shall we say, favours from the lovely ladies here in the Avenue. We have our own currency here in Little Amsterdam. The government brought it in when the laws changed."

"Laws changed?" he said, echoing her words.

Darknoll turned and looked around. A wall of mist parted to reveal open-air stalls selling everything from cakes and pastries, continental sausages and alcohol, none of which looked particularly appetising, and much of it appeared inedible. The juxtaposition of prostitution on one side of the avenue and food-sellers on the other jarred with Darknoll's sensibilities. During the lull in their conversation, he noticed that every raised voice he heard sounded Dutch.

"Helena, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"All this." He gestured around. "I had no idea this place even existed, that there was a Dutch community at the heart of London. How come?"

She frowned at him. "Have you been living on the moon? The Dutch have been here since the start of the War."

"I'm sorry, the . . . War?"

Helena laughed openly, then placed her hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry. It's just funny that you are so . . . ignorant. You really know nothing of the War?"

Darknoll offered a tight smile. "What can I say? I've been living in another world."

She shook her head. "In 1839, the Germans tried to take over all of Europe. They conquered Austria, France, Switzerland, many others. We Dutch were the first to fight back." Helena's cherubic face grew solemn. "They destroyed our country. By the 1850s, we had lost over half our population."

"Dear God," Darknoll said.

"The surviving countries of Europe finally went into action," she went on, "but only when they saw their own people were in danger. The only place untouched was England and Ireland, so many of us came here. Finally, the British put an end to the War with the Bomb. Unfortunately, the Bomb laid waste to most of central Europe. The British government were sympathetic to us at first, but after a while they herded us into the Dutch Sector, as they called it. And Little Amsterdam was born."

A young boy bumped into them, knocking DArknoll sideways. Before he could recover, the boy ripped the money pouch from his hands and bolted.

"Hey!" Darknoll cried, rushing after him.

"Wait!" Helena called out. "Come back! Leave it!"

The boy, dressed in a tattered waistcoat and cloth cap, darted between the passing people with incredible speed, but Darknoll kept up with him. Those coins were all he had, his only link between this world and his own.

A dense crowd loomed out of the mist ahead and Darknoll anticipated it by moving right. As the boy plunged into the throng, Darknoll sprinted up, over a series of three barrows lined up together, and came down on the far side of the crowd. The boy plunged out of it, looking over his shoulder, and ran straight into Darknoll's path. He grabbed the boy by the waistcoat.

"Help!" the boy hollered. "Help, he's hurting me!"

"Stop that," Darknoll said, holding on tight to the boy as he wriggled and kicked.

"Help! Help! Somebody!"

"What the 'ell is going on 'ere?"

The gruff Cockney voice came from behind him. Darknoll swivelled around, still holding onto the boy, and saw three burly shapes emerge from the smog. A huge man-mountain stood at the centre, flanked by two men with hardly a complete set of teeth between the three of them. The leader wore a waistcoat with no shirt. A jagged scar ran across his throat with tattoos covering every area of exposed skin from the scar down. He clenched his huge fists and glared at Darknoll.

"He's trying to take my coins!" the boy squealed, still fighting to be free of Darknoll's grip.

"Is he now?" the tattooed man growled.

"Listen, gentlemen," Darknoll said. "That's not true at all. This child stole the money pouch from me and I simply want it back. There are only three coins in it, but they are very important to me. I'm not looking for any trouble."

"Let the boy go," the man said.

"Not without my coins," Darknoll said.

The tattooed man took a step forward. "Let . . . the boy . . . go."

Darknoll saw the very real threat in the man's eyes. Still, he was not giving up just yet. With a shrug, he raised his right leg and stamped down hard on the boy's left foot. The boy howled and the pouch flew up into the air. Darknoll caught it as it came back down.

He released his grip on the boy who hopped over to the burly trio, holding onto his foot and crying like a baby.

"You just hurt my boy," Tattoo Man said.

"He's your boy?" Darknoll said. "Why doesn't that surprise me? Well, you should keep him on a leash."

"You what?" Tattoo Man said with a snarl.

Before Darknoll could walk away, the two other men darted forward, taking their places to his left and right.

Darknoll bowed his head. He knew what was coming. He knew he did not stand a chance against these three, especially as he was so exhausted, not having eaten or slept in such a long time. It was a long time since he had been in a fight, too. He cursed himself for getting into this situation.

Tattoo Man stepped up to him. "Say that again," he said. His breath smelt of tobacco and stale alcohol.

Darknoll sighed. "I said . . ."

Darknoll threw a punch before finishing the sentence, attempting to gain the upper hand. It was a good punch, striking the man on the jaw and sending his head lolling to the side. However, the man showed no sign of being shaken by the blow. He turned back, a big grin spreading across his face. The few teeth he had left were stained bright red.

"I thought that's what you said."

The first blow was an uppercut to his ribcage, lifting Darknoll off the ground. The second blow came from behind, slamming across his neck and shoulders. He saw white for a split second and then everything took on a dreamlike quality. Punches and kicks came from all sides and it felt as though he was being attacked by an army, not just three men.

He went into a defensive pose, curling up onto a ball. However, he knew that once he hit the floor he would be as good as dead. The blows continued, hard and fast, and he felt himself slowly sinking to the ground under the onslaught.

Maybe he had been fooling himself coming here, following a desperate trail that led nowhere. Maybe this was a better way for it all to end. If there was no way of finding his way back, how could he possibly live in this horrible nightmare world without hope, without Louise? In that moment, as the blows and kicks rained down harder, he knew that he would rather die than face that terrible fate.

"STOP!"

The power of the voice shook the entire Avenue.

The kicking and punching ceased immediately. For Darknoll, that was only a partial relief as the sudden halt allowed his body to breathe again and all he could feel was the cumulative effect of all the blows. He wavered in and out of consciousness, only vaguely aware of what was going on around him.

"What in God's name is happening here?" the strong female voice said. The voice, which had a strong Dutch lilt, sounded as if it was coming from the heavens.

"He hurt my boy," Tattoo Man explained. "We was teaching him a lesson."

"Oh, just like the last time you taught someone a lesson?" the woman said in a caustic tone. "I seem to recall you having to dump the body in the Thames. The pigs were all over this place for weeks. That was a very costly lesson for all of us, was it not?"

Tattoo Man offered no reply.

"Go and crawl back into your hole, Marek," she said. "You make me sick."

A friendly, concerned face hove into view. Helena. "It's all right," she said. "Come with me. Can you stand?"

He fought against the pain to find his feet, the young woman supporting him all the way. The crowds watched, silent and passive. Darknoll and Helena approached the woman who had saved him with only her voice and its cool authority. She was as formidable as her voice suggested—tall, physically strong, and with a face that was feminine but with hard edges. A curved scar ran down the left side of her face, like an incomplete question mark. She looked him over with her sharp, mercurial, gaze.

"Are you here to cause trouble, young man?" she asked.

"No, ma'am," he managed.

"Good. Come on then, let's get you cleaned up. I am Madam Constantine." A crooked smile touched the corner of her mouth. "Welcome to Little Amsterdam."

18

They walked together in silence, Darknoll with his arm around Helena's shoulders, Madam Constantine striding ahead of them. Finally, they reached an unremarkable terraced house with a warm orange light glowing in the windows. The houses here were all four storeys tall, the brickwork crumbling so badly the entire terrace seemed to lean over, threatening to fall.

"Here we are," Madam Constantine said, opening the door and standing aside. "In you go," she said, giving Helena a friendly pat on the bottom as she helped Darknoll over the threshold.

His head had cleared slightly since the assault and he was able to take in the surroundings. The wallpaper lining the long hall was a deep red, and the air was thick with the cloying scent of perfume mixed with another odour underlying everything—the smell of lust and decadence.

They entered the wide lounge dominated by three large circular sofas, men of varying ages seated on each one. Everywhere there were young women, half-naked and fawning over the many patrons. The room was hot and filled with cigar smoke, and the atmosphere was more vibrant than he had ever believed it to be. All eyes turned to observe them, and despite his injuries, Darknoll suddenly felt deeply self-conscious and exposed.

"What is your name, my good man?" Madam Constantine asked, shutting the front door.

"Joshua," he said.

"Welcome to my house, Joshua. Helena, bring Mr Joshua to the smaller lounge. It's a little more private there. Then fetch some hot water and towels. Our guest needs some tender loving care, I think."

They walked further down the hall to a second open doorway. Darknoll hobbled across the empty lounge to an L-shaped sofa and Helena carefully lowered him into a sitting position. He groaned as his aching body touched the surprisingly hard seat.

Madam Constantine smiled. "My, my, you are in a state. First things first. A stiff drink will aid your recovery more than any medicine." She crossed to a tall drinks cabinet and brought out two glasses and a bottle. "Jamaican rum should do it. The sailors brought us in a case last weekend."

She poured the drinks with two expert turns of the wrist.

"Here you are," she said, handing him a glass of rum with a warm, alluring smile. In this light, he was able to see her more clearly. Darknoll imagined she had been quite a beauty in her youth. Now, however, numerous wrinkles lined her eyes and mouth, her blonde hair now peppered with more silver than gold. The scar was bright red, a deep river that ran from her left eye to the middle of her cheek. He took the glass gratefully and had a long sip. The liquid burnt his throat and filled him with warmth.

Helena reappeared with a bowl of steaming water and towels. Madam Constantine took the bowl and placed it on the sofa between her and Darknoll. Helena sat down on the other side. The older woman dipped one of the towels in the water and very carefully dabbed at his blood-soaked face. He winced at the first touch, but after that, it became more bearable.

"Are there a lot of girls working here in these brothels?" he asked.

"Brothels?" she said with a sarcastic edge. "Brothels? Is that what you think this is?"

Darknoll froze, looking around. "Well, yes, unless I'm very much mistaken."

Madam Constantine let out an ear-splitting laugh. "You are very much mistaken, my dear. There are no such things as brothels anymore."

Darknoll looked between Madam Constantine and Helena with open confusion.

"I'm sorry?" he said, sipping his drink.

"Joshua, brothels were outlawed when they legalised prostitution."

"They _what_?" Darknoll said, clamping a hand over his mouth to avoid spraying rum on the carpet.

Madam Constantine looked at him with a curious expression. "Where have you been living, sir?" she asked.

"In another world," Helena answered for him. "That's what he told me." She smirked.

Darknoll wiped at the rum on his chin, unable to voice his shock at such a revelation. All he could do was shake his head.

"Prostitution was legalised in 1878, after the war ended. Women have been able to be their own bosses for almost twenty years now. No one profits from a woman who sells herself for money, not anymore. No pimps, no bludgers, no brothels, and no madams."

"But," Darknoll said, "but what about you? I thought you were . . .?"

"You thought I was a madam?" She laughed and shook her head. "Some of us still use the term, but it doesn't mean what it used to. I look after the girls on the Avenue. I cook for them, clean for them, be a mother to them, and they put a roof over my head. It's an arrangement that works out just fine."

Darknoll shook his head again. "This is . . . this is quite remarkable. Please may I have another drink?"

Madam Constantine took his glass and returned to the cabinet.

"So, Joshua," Madam Constantine said. "What was all that business about in the Avenue?"

"That child stole my moneybag. I was trying to get it back."

Helena giggled. "Before that, Miss Constantine, Mr Joshua approached me looking for a place to spend his coins. He only had three coins in that pouch." She patted his hand. "You went to an awful lot of trouble to get them back, I have to say. Three coins wouldn't get you more than a slap and a tickle round here."

"No, that's not what I was after," Darknoll said, trying to contain his frustration and irritation. "I was . . ."

He stopped. He thought of Annie, the young woman to whom the coins belonged. He thought of the impossible divide between his world and this. How could he possibly explain?

Madam Constantine returned to the couch with his drink.

"Those coins," he began again, taking great care, "belonged to a young woman who I believe worked in this district."

Madam Constantine started to dab at his cuts, her brow arching as she listened.

"I wondered if you ladies knew her." He looked between them. "Her name was . . . Annie."

Madam Constantine froze. "Annie? Annie Palfrey?"

"I - I'm not certain of her surname. I only knew that she was called Annie."

"Red hair? Blue eyes."

"Yes," he said.

"Oh dear Lord." Madam Constantine pressed both hands together, fingertips touching her lips. "Annie disappeared three days ago. Where is she? Is she all right?"

Darknoll grimaced. He looked at Helena then back at Madam Constantine. "I . . . I am so sorry. Annie is dead."

Helena gasped and tears filled her eyes. She and Madam Constantine stared at each other for a long time. Helena shook her head slowly from side to side.

"Where was she found?" Madam Constantine asked.

"Very far from here."

She turned her head and fixed him with her cold eyes. "Where?"

"Burgess Park," he replied. He did not need to explain any further, he decided.

Madam Constantine looked down at the towel, folding it into halves, quarters, eighths. Then she put it beside the bowl of water and stood up, crossing to the drinks cabinet.

"Well, at least we know that she's dead. That's some small consolation, I suppose."

She poured herself another drink and downed it in one swallow.

"What do you mean?" Darknoll asked.

She half-turned towards him, studying the bottom of her empty glass. "Annie is not the first girl to disappear from Little Amsterdam. We've lost seven girls before her. Seven girls over the past six months." She paused, her eyes lost in some bitter memory. "Not one of them has ever been found. Not that the police care to look."

Darknoll took a moment to absorb this information. Seven girls had disappeared before Annie. Annie was the eighth. Annie died in his world, on the other side of the mirror . . . Had the same thing happened to the other seven?

"How did she die?" Madam Constantine asked.

Darknoll sat forward, grimacing at the pain. "She was murdered."

"But how?" She met his gaze and once again, he found it hard to resist the command behind those eyes. "How exactly did she die?"

Once more, Darknoll considered his answer very carefully. He spoke slowly, deliberately. "There is a man, a man I've been pursuing further than you could possibly imagine. He . . . is performing rituals, elaborate sacrificial rituals, murdering young women . . . women like Annie . . . in specific places. The killer carves runic symbols into their flesh, before piercing their hearts with a knife. I do not understand it yet. In fact, I wonder if there is anything to understand, or if this is all the actions of an insane mind . . . but I know he must be found . . . and stopped."

Madam Constantine stared straight ahead, her expression impossible to read. "Are you . . . with the police?"

Helena looked round at him, eyes wide.

"No," he said. Another half-truth. But he had no choice.

She eyed him cautiously. "Then why are you here in Little Amsterdam looking for a killer?"

"Because no one else is. Believe me . . . I am the only person who knows this maniac even exists."

They held each other's gaze for a long time, before Madam Constantine drew in a deep breath and returned to the sofa. She sat down and resumed treating his battered face.

"So," she said. "This man you're looking for, does he have a name?"

He shook his head.

"All right, so what does he look like?"

Darknoll hesitated. He managed a short embarrassed laugh. "That's just the problem. No one knows what he looks like. Everyone who runs into him seems incapable of recalling even the slightest thing about him. Including myself."

Madam Constantine leaned back on the sofa. "So, you're asking us if we can help you find a man, only you don't know his name and you don't know what he looks like?" She laughed. "I'm beginning to wonder if you're the one who has gone insane. My dear man, why did you come here?" she asked, her brow pinched in wonder.

Darknoll pulled out the coin pouch and looked at it. "I had nothing else to go on, Madam Constantine, only these coins. I was desperate. I thought if he took Annie from Little Amsterdam, someone here might know something. Now it appears he has done this many times before, and still no one knows anything about him. Assuming he is the same man." He shrugged, feeling suddenly defeated. "I knew it was a shot in the dark."

He placed his empty glass on the coffee table and was about to get up.

"Hold your horses," Madam Constantine said. "Show me those coins."

Darknoll handed her the small cloth bag. She weighed it in her hand a moment. "These belonged to Annie, yes?"

He nodded.

Madam Constantine thought for a moment. "One of my girls has the Second Sight."

"Second Sight?" Darknoll said.

"She can see things about a person just by touching something they owned."

"Really?"

"Really. Lots of people have the Sight. I wish I were one of them. I'll have her take a look at these. Helena, would you fetch Lily? Tell her it's important. Tell her it's about Annie."

Helena left the room and skipped up the stairs.

Madam Constantine observed Darknoll with a smirk. "I can see you're sceptical. Most people are. They say it's just mummery, mumbo-jumbo."

Darknoll smiled. "Madam Constantine? Two days ago, I would have agreed with you. Now, however, after all the things I've seen . . . I just don't know what to believe."

Moments later, there were footsteps on the stairs. Helena appeared, followed by a man and a woman. Helena approached the doorway as the two silhouettes behind her continued down the hall.

"Helena, where's Lily going?" Madam Constantine asked with a weary note in her voice.

Helena rolled her eyes. "Just saying her goodbyes, miss. You know Lily."

The sound of loud smooching kisses drifted along the hall. Darknoll shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the commotion ended abruptly with the slamming of the front door.

Darknoll looked up as the girl called Lily entered the room and it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust, to comprehend what he was seeing.

The girl was of medium height, blonde hair falling in ringlets around her face, a light dusting of freckles still visible beneath the layer of powder. She swept a curl of hair away from her face and addressed the room.

"What's all the fuss about, then?" she said. "Where's the fire?"

It was Louise.

19

"Sorry to disturb you, my dear," Madam Constantine said. "But we have some rather sad news."

The girl called Lily was distracted, her head turned towards the hall outside.

"Lily?" Madam Constantine asked.

The girl turned round. "Sorry, ma'am."

She had not looked at Darknoll yet. He knew because he was unable to take his eyes off her. He could not even blink.

"What were you saying? Bad news?" she asked.

"Lily," Madam Constantine said. "It's about Annie."

"Annie?" Lily said, her expression turning grave. "Oh my God, have they found her?"

Madam Constantine nodded slowly. "I'm afraid so, and I'm afraid . . ."

"She's dead, isn't she?" the girl said, looking up at the ceiling. "Stupid girl."

Madam Constantine offered no reply. No one said anything for a long time.

Helena welled up again and crossed the room, sitting down beside Madam Constantine who put her arm around her.

"Anyway," Madam Constantine said, glancing in Darknoll's direction, "this gentleman is looking for the man who did it. He believes it is the same man who took the other girls."

"He's not a copper, is he?" she said.

Madam Constantine said, "No, Lily. He's all right."

"So?" Lily said. Her tone was bitter. "What can I do?"

"These coins belonged to Annie. I wondered if you could . . ."

Lily closed her eyes, twisted her head to the side. "You know I can't always . . . Sometimes, it just doesn't work."

Madam Constantine frowned. "Could you at least try, Lily? Please?"

Lily walked forward, her expression sour. She took the bag between thumb and forefinger, studied it for a moment, and then looked at Darknoll.

The breath flew from his lungs. He had been staring at her all this time, and now she was staring back at him with an enquiring expression on her face. She was so utterly oblivious it was almost comical, but seeing her like this—her blouse unbuttoned to show ample cleavage, her cheeks flushed with colour, dark rings under her pastel-blue eyes—it was like seeing Louise, his Louise, dressed up in costume, playing a part like an actress on the stage. He felt a twist of emotions—longing, lust, fear, all wrapped up in a heavy cloak of melancholy. He had wondered earlier that day what might have become of Louise in this world; now, by some curious twist of fate, he was seeing the glaring truth of it and it shocked him to his core.

"Joshua?" Madam Constantine said, her harsh voice breaking the silence.

Darknoll managed to tear his eyes away from the vision before him, and looked over.

"Are you all right?" Madam Constantine asked with genuine concern.

Darknoll shook his head, then nodded. "Yes, it's just . . ." He was about to say he had seen this girl before, but quickly realised how that might sound, what it suggested in this strange turnabout world. "It's nothing. Nothing at all."

The girl stood up and started to pace around the room, running her fingers over the cloth bag. She stopped by the wall, turned her face up to the ceiling with her eyes closed. A breathless minute passed, all eyes on her still form.

"Lily?" Helena said. "Anything?"

Lily shook her head, her brow knotted. "Hard to focus. There's something blocking . . ." She walked over to the sofa and sat down between Madam Constantine and Darknoll. "Helena, would you douse the lamps?"

Her friend got up and moved around the room, turning down the oil lamps one by one until they sat in near-darkness. She rejoined them on the sofa, once again cuddling up to Madam Constantine like a child.

Lily undid the bag and slipped the coins into her palm. Then, with her eyes closed, she turned her upper body so that she was facing Darknoll. The sound of the coins clinking together was like strange music.

Darknoll studied her features in the dim light. Yes, there was the little wrinkle in her forehead when she concentrated. She had the same hairline, the same cheekbones, the same eyebrows, the same petite earlobes. And those lips, those lips which he had kissed so many times in childhood. His heart raced at the memory of it and the close proximity to the one soul in Creation who made him feel complete. Except . . .

Lily's head jerked slightly. Her brow furrowed, but her eyes remained shut. She stayed still for a moment, then sucked in a sharp breath. "Annie," she whispered. "Shawl. She's wearing her shawl. She's cold, shivering." She tilted her head the other way as if listening intently for some distant sound. "There's a man, I can see his outline in the fog. Tall man. Top hat. His face is black, lost in shadow." She shook her head, then her eyebrows rose. "He is wearing a ring on his left hand. A bone ring."

Darknoll exchanged a look with Madam Constantine. Neither of them had mentioned that to her, not yet.

"The man's eyes are bright," Lily continued. "His voice is soothing, commanding. He takes Annie's hand. She goes with him but she is frightened inside. Walking, crossing the city." She sucked in her breath again. "Bright light. They're walking towards a bright light. So bright, so bright, so . . ."

Lily's eyes snapped open. She stared at Darknoll for a long time, holding her breath. Her eyes grew glassy, tears threatening to fall. Then she relaxed, her shoulders dropping. She wiped at her eyes and took a few steadying breaths.

"The man," Darknoll said. "You said he wore a ring, a bone ring. That's true. I've seen that ring myself. Does it mean anything to you?"

She shook her head, looking past him.

"Did you see the man's face? Was there anything about him you can tell me?"

She shook her head again. "No, nothing." She dropped the coins and the pouch back into his hand. "Could be anyone."

Darknoll stared at her. Whatever he was going to say ran away from him. He could not control the torrent of emotions swelling inside him any longer.

This was Louise. There was no doubt in his mind. This was his childhood sweetheart, only in this version of her adulthood she was somewhat earthier, harder, and rougher around the edges. This was Louise, even though she had a tooth missing on the upper left side, and her hair did not have the lustrous sheen it normally had, it still did not change the fact that this was, in physical form at least, his Louise.

"Mister?" she said, her face clouding with irritation. "Stop staring at me like that."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I . . ."

He shook his head slowly. It was absurd. Everything was absurd. This entire pantomime was nothing more than a big joke. At that moment, all he knew was that the one place in all Creation he wanted to be was by his wife's side—and here he was, sitting on a flea-bitten sofa in a brothel with the woman who should have been his wife sitting only inches away, a complete stranger.

Helena snorted with laughter. "I think he's dumbstruck by your beauty, Lily!"

The girl called Lily, however, did not even smile. She stared at Darknoll with a heated expression.

"Mister, are you going to speak or—"

"I know you," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"I know you," he repeated, louder.

"From where?"

He hesitated. "Another life," he said.

"Another life," Lily repeated, nodding her head. She looked over at Madam Constantine, shaking her head. "Where do you get these fruitcakes, Connie?"

Helena laughed, but Madam Constantine's face clouded with outrage.

"Lily!" she scolded.

Darknoll came out of his reverie, suddenly feeling hot, exhausted and disgusted with himself. What had he hoped to achieve by coming here?

He jumped to his feet. "I am sorry to have wasted so much of your time," he said to Madam Constantine. "Thank you for your hospitality. I bid you good night." He swept past the girl called Lily—the scent of her filling his senses, so rich, so decadent—and bolted from the room.

***

It was raining heavily when he stepped out into the night. The rain was oddly warm, insistent, burning away some of the smog and making the Avenue more visible in these early hours. He pulled up the collars of his greatcoat and strode along the Avenue at speed. Behind him, he heard the front door open and close, followed by footsteps on the cobbles.

"Mister?"

It was her. It was, without a shadow of doubt, Louise's voice. His heart faltered for a second.

"Mister, please stop."

He slowed down, came to a standstill, before turning round to find the girl standing in the middle of the pavement. The driving rain had already flattened her hair against her scalp.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you in front of everyone."

He stared at her hard, not knowing how to reply.

"Did she send you after me?" he asked, nodding at the building they had both come from. "Did Madam Constantine tell you to come and apologise?"

She poised as if to defend her actions, but the façade quickly crumbled.

"Yes," she admitted. "Yes, she did. But that doesn't mean I'm not really sorry." She cocked her head. "You seem like a gentleman. We don't get many of them, if you know what I mean. The truth is I don't know how to act around gentlemen. I get . . . nervous, and I end up showing off just to avoid feeling nervous. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

He nodded, a smile creeping onto his face. "It doesn't matter. Your apology is very welcome, though. Now please, get yourself back indoors. You'll catch a death of cold."

She shrugged. "I'm not worried about that. I had typhoid once, nearly died. It took my parents, but I came through it. I may not look like much, but I'm a tough little bird, really."

"I'm sure you are," he said. He felt heat rising in his chest and realised he was falling in love. Falling in love with a girl he was already in love with.

Her smile faded. "What did you mean about knowing me?"

He hesitated, turned away.

"You said you knew me in another life. What did you mean by that?"

"I can't explain," he said. "Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters," she replied. "Tell me."

He stared at her, admiring her beautiful form in the mist and rain. Her face captivated him. Skin so flawless, those wonderful bright blue eyes eternally filled with interest and wonder. Looking at them now, peering out from such a world-weary façade, made his heart ache.

"Do you recognise me?" he asked. "Does my name mean anything to you?"

"Joshua, isn't it?"

He nodded.

After a pause, she shook her head. "No, I . . ."

"Did you grow up in a tiny village called Malden?"

"Yes," she said. "How did you—"

"Do you not remember a boy there called Joshua?"

She looked down, searching her memory, but even before she shook her head, he knew the answer. Of course she wouldn't remember him. According to Lampshire, the Darknoll family moved to New London when he was an infant . . . In this world, they never met.

"Your name isn't Lily," he said. "Your real name is Louise."

He watched the expression on her face transform from an inquisitive frown to open incredulity. She shook her head slowly from side to side. "My parents couldn't decide what name to give me. Daddy wanted to call me Louise. Mummy wanted Lily. In the end, they always called me Lily-Louise, but . . . how do you know that? How do you know so much about me?"

He realised then that he had hit a wall. He could not proceed any further because explanations would be insufficient. The truth was hard enough for him to believe.

"I have to go," he said.

The girl stared at him, her expression unreadable.

"You lied to Madam Constantine," she said.

"What?"

"You told her you weren't a copper and she believed you. You _are_ a copper, I can see that as plain as day."

A tremor of fear ran through him, that she might alert the others in the Avenue to this fact. He did not think he could survive another round with the Avenue's hard men.

"It's all right," she said. "I won't tell anyone." She lowered her voice and moved a step closer to him.

"Was it your . . . Sight that told you?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No, it's obvious. You have 'copper' written all over you. And why else would you be chasing some madman who's going around murdering the likes of us? A Good Samaritan? I don't think so. But it's all right. I can see you're a good man. Although it is hard to read your aura."

"My what?"

"Everyone's got an aura. I can see them, well, most of the time. But I can't see yours at all. It's like you don't even have one."

He stared at her, at once enchanted and perplexed by her. His Louise had none of these 'gifts'. He wondered what she meant about his lack of aura. Was it something to do with his crossing over into this realm? Was that a sign that he was truly a stranger in a strange land? The melancholy feeling came over him again.

He was about to turn away when the girl stopped him. "I think I might be able to help you," she said.

"Really?"

"It might be nothing, but . . . the man in my vision, he was controlling Annie's mind, and that got me thinking." Her expression darkened. "Something happened to a friend of mine, about six months ago. Pansy went off one night and we didn't see her for days. This was before the other girls started disappearing. Pansy was the sweetest girl, my dearest friend." She drifted off, lost in a melancholy memory. "A week after she went missing, they found her wandering down by the canal. Her mind . . . her mind was gone."

Darknoll took a step towards her. "What happened? After that, I mean?"

She shrugged. "Nothing. The police never did anything about it. No proof, no suspects, nothing. And besides, no one ever got arrested for driving someone mad, did they?"

"Can I speak to her? Is that possible?"

"Pansy's in Highfield Asylum now. I . . . I try to visit when I can. Not often enough, really." Tears bloomed in her eyes, but she brushed them away. "She doesn't talk much when I go to see her anyway. She just sits there staring into space. Sometimes she'll mumble things. It's . . . hard to take sometimes. She used to be such a character . . ."

"When does it open to visitors?"

"Ten o'clock most days."

He nodded slowly, wondering how he might gain access to the girl, alone. He was not family, and Lampshire still had his police warrant card. He glanced up as a wild thought entered his head. "Louise . . . I mean, Lily, would you . . . would you do me the honour of meeting me there tomorrow morning?"

A wry smile lit up her face. "Honour?" she repeated quietly. Then her expression changed, a frown creasing her forehead. "It would be . . . difficult."

"Difficult?"

She glanced back down the smog-enshrouded Avenue. "We . . . we aren't supposed to leave."

"What do you mean?"

Lily hugged herself tightly against the rain and cold. "Society likes us out of the way, out of sight. Contained, you might say. That's not to say we don't venture out into the city, but only when it's absolutely necessary. When we do we make sure to disguise ourselves, but . . . some of us have been discovered whilst in public and, let's say, we have not had a kind reception." She shrugged. "We may have our independence, but it came at a price."

Darknoll shook his head. "I'm sorry. I did not realise."

"I would still like to come with you," she said quickly.

"Are you sure?"

She nodded. "I'll check with Madam Constantine but yes, I would dearly like to accompany you, Mr Joshua."

"It . . . it's Darknoll," he said, the words out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "Joshua Darknoll."

She stared at him for a moment and he still expected some candle of recognition to flutter into life in her eyes but she only nodded.

"Highfield, ten o'clock tomorrow morning," she said, backing away.

He watched her until she turned away, lifting her skirts and breaking into a run.

"Goodnight," he called after her, but she must not have heard him. He felt foolish for saying it, but it did not matter. As she disappeared into the house, he turned away.

"Goodnight, Louise," he said, this time to himself.

20

The following morning, as the sun struggled to burn through the early morning smog, Darknoll sat on a bench outside Highfield Asylum looking through a copy of The Times. He scanned each page and every article for possible news, looking for the slightest clue as to the movements of the man who had led him into this strange new world.

In Camden, a man had lost his legs after falling beneath the steam contraption he was trying to fix. In Muswell Hill, a mother and her seven-year old daughter narrowly escaped death after a suicidal man jumped from a second-storey window to land on the unsuspecting pair, thus miraculously surviving the fall himself. In Market Side, a rabid dog bit three people before an angry mob kicked the wretched animal into the Thames.

"Nothing," he said to himself, casting the newspaper aside.

The killer could have committed all manner of evils in the last thirty-six hours, and Darknoll felt no closer to finding him. In the harsh light of day, his investigations so far seemed even more desperate and tenuous. The bag of coins; Madam Constantine's 'house' (which, despite her liberal remonstrations, was really just a brothel under a different name); now a visit to an asylum to speak with a young woman who had lost her mind . . . but, he told himself, what else could he do? Sit in a corner and go slowly insane himself? No, he must act. It was a compulsion. This would not solve itself.

He glanced at his pocket watch for the umpteenth time.

Quarter past ten.

He sighed and glanced up the street. No sign of her. No sign of . . . the girl.

He felt delirious at his encounter with Louise.

_No, not Louise_ , he told himself. _Well, not exactly_.

This was fate. It had to be. The bag of coins had been his only clue to the whereabouts of the murderer in this alternate world, and yet it had led him not to the murderer—not yet, anyway—but to an alternate version of Louise. That was not mere coincidence. With all of these things on his mind, he had not slept. Since leaving Little Amsterdam, he had wandered the streets until he found Highfield Asylum and curled up on this bench until the sun came up. Despite his exhaustion, his mind refused to rest. So many questions, so many mysteries, and underneath it all, the unwavering desire to find his way home.

He looked through the tall iron gates at the grey mansion known as Highfield House. He wondered what he would do if Lily did not show. Could he find a way of gaining access himself and seeing this poor girl without Louise's help?

Lily! It's Lily. You must call her Lily.

An omnibus rolled around the corner, conductor pipes churning out smoke as the wheels turned, pistons pumping. The carriage came to a stop across the road and a flurry of figures disembarked. Darknoll studied every one, every face, but none were female.

His heart plummeted.

She's not coming, Darknoll. Why would she? If you were a young woman, would you arrange to meet a man you had only just met, unaccompanied, the following morning?

He stood up slowly, staring up at the forbidding facade of the asylum. Very well, he would have to enter alone, or at least try. If they would not allow him access to the girl, Pansy, he would at least scout the location to see if it were possible to come back another time and break in—

"Mr Darknoll!"

He spun around.

"Mr Darknoll!"

It was her—rushing towards him down the broad avenue in a pearl blue day dress, a parasol in one hand, the other holding an ornate wide-brimmed hat firmly on her head. He watched her ungainly approach and could not help but smile. Oh, how could this not be his Louise? It was her, in every sense . . .

She stopped before him, almost crashing into him. She leaned over, clutching her side and gasping for air.

"I'm so sorry," she managed in between breaths. "I tried to get away sooner, but Miss Constantine . . . she's very protective."

"No matter," he said. "I'm only glad you are here now."

"She said I was mad to risk going out in public this morning. I told her it was always worth the risk to see dear Pansy."

"I am entirely grateful that you came. I doubt I would have been able to see her without you. Thank you, Lily."

"It's my pleasure," she said with a smile.

He offered his elbow. "Shall we?"

She looked up at him, took one more breath and then slipped her gloved hand through the crook of his arm. Together they walked through the gates of Highfield House.

***

"Please wait here," the matron said. "The patient is in need of a sanitary change. It won't take a moment."

Darknoll watched the broad-shouldered matron march off down the stark grey corridor, the soles of her shoes squeaking in a steady rhythm. He turned to Lily. There was a long low bench near the reception desk. Darknoll gestured to it. Lily swept her skirt beneath her and sat down. Darknoll sat next to her, wanting to sit as close as possible but remembering to keep a respectful distance.

He cleared his throat to fill the awkward silence. He didn't know what to say.

Thankfully, she turned to him and said, "How did Annie die?"

Darknoll turned and looked into her eyes. His first instinct was to censor his answer, to wrap his reply in cotton wool to protect her, but the blue eyes staring back at him were of a harder, sturdier hue.

"This man," he told her. "He . . . he's performing rituals. Sacrifices, if you like. He murdered Annie and two other women in exactly the same manner."

"These other two women," she said. "Who were they?"

"They were p—"

"Prostitutes? It's all right, you can say it."

He nodded. "They were prostitutes like Annie."

"Would I have known them?"

"No," he said. "Definitely not."

"Why not?"

"They were . . . not from around here."

"Why do you think he's doing it?"

"I don't know. I only know that I have to find him and stop him."

She smiled. "Well, let's hope we can do something about that."

They exchanged a lingering glance. Footsteps in the corridor heralded the return of the matron.

"Come through," she said.

***

The room was chilly and grey, the faded yellow wallpaper curling at every corner to reveal patches of crumbling brickwork beneath. The matron stood in the open doorway with her arms folded, tapping a large bunch of keys against her considerable bicep. She looked at Darknoll and his companion with an air of impatience and, Darknoll thought, a whiff of judgement, as if she could see through Lily's façade to the tainted soul beneath. Darknoll followed Lily into the dank room and watched the matron shut the door behind them. Part of him expected her to lock it from the outside but she did not.

It took a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the dim light, and a few seconds more to find the figure huddled on the cold stone floor beneath a mound of bedclothes.

"Pansy?" Lily said.

The bedclothes shifted and a pale face, obscured by a tangle of unkempt brown hair, appeared above the linen. Red-rimmed eyes stared out from the shadows of her face, but those eyes did not meet theirs. Her eyes were fixed on the hem of Lily's skirts.

"Pansy? It's me, Lily. Thought I'd come to see you."

The girl's hands were cupped together, as if protecting something small and alive inside. She pressed her pale lips against the crack between her palms and whispered something. After a moment, she smiled. Lily sat down on the floor in front of her. As she whispered reassuring words to her friend, Darknoll scanned the wall behind the door. It was almost black with charcoal scribbles, stick men and women, boats, and other strange shapes he did not immediately recognise.

A long wavy line divided the wall halfway up, and beneath the 'surface' a group of strange-looking creatures—the kind of creatures one might encounter in one's deepest, darkest nightmares. The first was shaped with the body of an elephant, but where its trunk should have been there were dozens of many-jointed limbs, reaching out and clutching at the air. The figure of a man was caught in the grip of one. Another figure stood upright on two legs but from the top half of the torso sprouted six tentacles, each with a face at the end, an elongated screaming face.

Darknoll's heart rate quickened. Until now, he had not held much faith that the man who had robbed this girl of her sanity was really the murderer—but seeing these eldritch sketches reminded him of the strange creatures the first two victims had spoken of in their last moments. This was confirmation indeed.

Two words dominated the upper half of the wall, floating above the surface of the 'ocean' like a dark cloud. Two words, scrawled in charcoal:

NO TRUTH

Darknoll shivered. He glanced over at the two women on the floor.

"Pansy, my love," Lily said, "I've brought a gentleman to see you."

He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed which emitted a long, loud creak.

This prompted the first reaction from the girl. She moved her cupped hands away from him, shielding them on the far side of her body. She glowered up at Darknoll.

"Pansy, it's all right. His name is Joshua. He's a good man, I promise. He won't hurt you. He wants to speak to you. Is that all right?"

Pansy looked at Lily and seemed to nod, although it was hard to tell because she trembled constantly. She returned her cupped hands to her mouth and whispered once more into the crack. Her hands dropped into her lap.

Lily nodded to Darknoll. "Go on," she whispered.

"My dear girl," he began. "I am looking for a man, a bad man. I believe he might be the same man who hurt you."

The girl's eyelids fluttered on the word 'hurt'.

"Can you tell me what happened to you?" Joshua asked, keeping his voice soft and low.

The girl chewed her lower lip with her yellowed teeth.

"Pansy," Lily said, "it's all right. You can answer the man."

"'Little Petrushka," she said. Her mouth stretched into a tremulous smile, a smile that seemed at odds on her gaunt face. "'My little Petrushka', he said."

Lily turned to Darknoll. "Petrushka?"

It took him a moment to answer. "Petrushka is a Russian folk tale," Darknoll said, keeping his eyes on Pansy. "It's about a puppet that comes to life."

_Louise would have known that,_ he thought.

"Pansy," Darknoll said, "how did he . . . hurt you? Can you tell me what happened?"

The young woman tilted her head. "He made me look into his eyes and said strange things, strange words . . . and then everything just floated away . . ." Her gaze drifted away along with her thoughts. She began to hum and sway her head from side to side.

Darknoll exchanged a look with Lily.

"How did he hurt you, Pansy?" he asked

The girl did not answer, lost in her reverie.

Lily took Pansy's hands in hers. "Pansy? May I show Joshua your beautiful markings?"

She nodded, still humming and gently swaying. Lily pushed the sleeves up on both arms to reveal an intricate weave of scars. The patterns were random, meaningless, not like the runic symbols seen on the victims in London.

"They're all over her body," Lily whispered. "And he did other things to her. Some of her toes are missing, part of her earlobe." Lily smoothed the hair around Pansy's left ear, revealing the mutilation. Tears bloomed in Lily's eyes. She kissed her friend on the forehead. Pansy continued to rock back and forth.

Lily sat back. "Why?" she said. "Why would he do those things to her?"

"I believe she was an experiment," Darknoll said. "The very fact that he did not kill her or involve her in one of his rituals tells me he was simply using her as a guinea pig. She was in a very real sense his puppet."

"Dear God."

"You said this happened about six months ago?"

Lily nodded.

"I think he was testing his ability—the ability to completely control people and see how much physical pain they could endure under this strange hypnosis."

They watched the girl as she pulled the blankets up around her head, whispering into her hands.

"Does she always do that?" he asked.

"Yes," Lily said.

"What's she holding?"

"I don't know. I don't think it's anything." She sighed. "Just something in her head."

Darknoll leaned toward Pansy.

"No, don't," Lily said.

Darknoll ignored her and crouched down. The girl flinched but did not back away. She raised her clasped hands to the side of her face and glared at Darknoll.

"Pansy? May I see what's in your hands?"

She shook her head, lips pursed like a petulant child.

"Please, I only wish to have a look."

"You can't," she said. "You can't ever look at it."

"Why, Pansy?"

She looked around the room, her bloodshot eyes wide and full of fear. "It's my soul," she said in a harsh whisper. "If you look at it, I will die."

Sudden tears stung his eyes. He studied the girl's face, his heart aching for her.

"Oh, I am so sorry," he said. "So sorry, Pansy."

He stood up slowly and turned to Lily. She stood behind him, her hands joined in front of her mouth as if in prayer. Tears stood in her eyes.

"Pansy," he said, "can you remember where this man lived?"

"Lived," she repeated, but it was more like an echo. He saw no sign of comprehension in her eyes.

"Can you remember this man's house? Anything at all? Was there anything unusual about it?"

The girl began humming a waltz. She tilted her head to one side and her eyes turned glassy.

"Pansy?" Lily said. "Can you hear us?"

Pansy continued to hum.

"Pansy, please try and remember," Darknoll said. "Just one little thing. Anythi—"

"Candlestick," she said, suddenly raising her face to the ceiling. "Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jumped over the candlestick." She lifted her arm, the blanket falling away as it rose, and she pointed across the room at the wall. Darknoll followed her shaky hand. From here, the wall was a mass of scribbles and random words and strange images. Pansy continued to point at something, something hidden amidst the chaos.

Darknoll stood up slowly and approached the wall, looking again, opening his mind to every possibility.

"What is it?" Lily said, looking up into Darknoll's face with a hopeful expression.

"I don't know," he said, searching the wall from floor to ceiling. "Perhaps she left us a message."

Lily looked back at the wall. "Message? What message?"

In the lower half of the wall, about two feet away from the door, he found a cluster of scribbled words.

HOUSE. WALK. SELL.

"Look," he said. "These three words. House . . . walk . . . sell. Mean anything to you?"

Lily studied the words for a moment, shook her head. "Perhaps she was talking about this place? This house, her desire to walk, to escape? 'Sell'? A misspelling of 'cell'? I suppose this is her cell, her prison."

Darknoll shook his head. "No, there's something else . . ." He stepped closer to the wall, so close he could smell the scent of chalk and charcoal. From a distance all three words looked to have been drawn with charcoal, but on closer inspection, the letters forming the word SELL were of a different hue—a deep, dark reddish hue. He sniffed, cocked his head, and then pulled out a small penknife. He scraped at the letters, catching the small reddish-brown flakes in his palm. "This is blood, dried blood. Pansy's blood."

"What does that mean?" Lily said.

He studied the three words again, their exact placement on the wall.

HOUSE

WALK SELL

An idea was forming, his brain working hard to filter out anything that simply could not be, until only one idea was left, the only one that made sense . . .

Then he saw it.

"Oh my God," he whispered,

"What?" Lily said. "What can you see?"

"This is a street sign. She was trying to replicate a street sign. This doesn't say SELL. It's SE11, a postcode . . . and HOUSE? WALK?" He stepped back a few feet. He closed his eyes, searching the inner theatre of his mind to find the map of London streets that he knew so well. His eyes snapped open. "Glasshouse Walk," he said. "Glasshouse Walk, SE11. That was her message."

"My God, how has no one else seen this before?" Lily said. "How did the police not see this? The nurses?"

"Because no one was looking, Lily. No one cared. Pansy was just an insane patient doing what insane people do—scribbling, scratching, pouring out their madness through pencil and crayon and charcoal in random patterns, but if they had cared to look, they would have seen this . . . patterns in the chaos! This was all Pansy had left. When she did this, she must have been clinging onto the last few shreds of sanity to let people know, to leave a signpost. Her final message."

Lily went over and put her arms around her friend, squeezing her tight, foreheads pressed together. "Oh, Pansy. My clever little Pansy." She sniffed back a tear. "We're going to find the man who hurt you, Pansy. I promise."

Pansy shook her head. "No," she said. "No you won't."

Lily moved back an inch. "What, Pansy?"

"He's not real. None of this is real."

Darknoll looked over his shoulder.

"No truth," Pansy whispered into the gap between her hands, as if imparting some terrible secret. "All these worlds . . . nothing is real . . . just a dream. And we are a dream inside a dream."

Darknoll met Lily's eyes and a silent communication passed between them. After a few moments, Darknoll turned back to the wall. He hoped Lily was able to dismiss her friend's comments as insane rambling. But he knew there was some truth in her words, and the thought shook him to his core.

21

They stood on the pavement outside the asylum for a while, neither of them knowing what to say. Darknoll could tell Lily wanted to leave, but he did not want her to go. The time they had spent together, despite its harrowing nature, was like an intoxicant to him. The thought of her going back to that awful life in Little Amsterdam seemed . . . obscene.

"So," Lily said. "Are you going to tell the police?"

Her direct question brought him out of his reverie and back to the matter at hand. Even if he did find the killer, the murders had been committed in another version of London. But how could he explain that to her?

"I need . . . more evidence," he said. "That's what I'm hoping to find at Glasshouse Walk."

"You're going to go there . . . alone?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "I have no choice. It's all I have to go on." He paused, looking at her until she met his gaze. "You . . . could come with me."

She frowned, looking up the street. "I . . . I wish there was more I could do, but I really need to get back."

He stared at her profile, the softness of her cheek, the curls of hair around her ear.

"Please don't," he said.

She turned back to him with a faint smile.

"Don't go back."

They looked at each other and, in the silence which followed, her smile faded and Darknoll saw what he thought was an underlying sadness; the unspoken grief of a life lived in quiet despair and the slow erosion of one's self-respect and spirit. He thought of Pansy, her trembling hands cupped around her soul, trying to protect the last thing left that was truly her own.

"Madam Constantine will kill me if I don't go back now. I'm sorry."

She managed a small smile, then turned and began to make her way along the road.

Darknoll watched her go, the ache in his chest growing with each heartbeat.

"Lily, are you happy?" he called out before he could stop himself.

She stopped and looked back. "Happy?" She let out a short bitter laugh. "Who in this life is truly happy?"

"But you could be," he said.

"What do you mean?"

He looked away for a moment, trying to find the right words. "This life you lead. It doesn't have to be this way."

Her expression darkened. "I didn't choose this life, Mr Darknoll."

Anger and irritation were creeping into her voice. He was losing her.

"But, Lily, you are worth so much more than . . ."

"A whore?"

He held his hand up in a placatory gesture. "Lily, you have humoured me so far. Would you believe me if I told you I have seen a world where . . . where you are happy, a world where you do not have to sell yourself for anything?"

She stared at him, her expression unreadable. After a long pause she said, "Well, it must have been in your dreams."

He nodded. "Another life."

An empty, swollen silence followed.

Then, just as she was about to turn away again, he said, "Lily? Don't you want to find the man who hurt Pansy?"

"Of course I do."

"Then come with me."

She closed her eyes, shook her head. "I think you're tilting at windmills."

He laughed. "I am following a trail of breadcrumbs here, that I grant you, but I have every reason to believe I am on the right path. Don't you want to be there if . . . when I find this man?"

"Yes," she said, nodding. "Yes I do. And when I find him I'm going to look him in the eye . . . and I'm going to stab him in the heart."

Her honest, brutal answer rattled him, but he tried not to let it show. His Louise would never have harboured such violent intentions towards any living creature, even toward the worst murderer in the world.

"Come with me, Lily," he said. "Just a little further. I cannot do this without you."

Lily stared at him for a long moment, tapping her thigh repeatedly as she considered his request. Finally, she smiled, walked back towards him and this time offered up her elbow.

"Come on, then, Mr Darknoll," she said. "I'm all yours."

22

They walked together slowly down the middle of Glasshouse Walk, stunned into silence by the strange vision surrounding them. The entire street was deserted. A row of crumbling terraced houses comprised the eastern end of the street, all of them with the windows and doors either bricked up or smashed. Garbage and pieces of old furniture littered the pavements. The only signs of life were a pack of mangy dogs, sniffing dolefully around the scattered remnants of ancient discarded litter. One of the dogs, a bulldog with a nasty scar running along its left flank, turned its head to look at them as they walked by, its old grey eyes tired and uninterested. After a few moments, it resumed its pitiful search.

At the opposite end, in the direction they were heading, lay a row of small factories and businesses, all of them in a similar state of abandonment. As well as a pie shop and a butchers, there were a number of textile houses and the renowned (well, renowned in _his_ London) glass factory. There was one other small factory building nestled at the far end, one that immediately caught their interest—the small, disused candle factory directly ahead.

They stopped before it and perused the broken sign above the wide oak doors.

"Jenkins Candle Works," Lily read.

Darknoll turned to her. "'Jack be nimble, Jack be quick?'" he said, echoing Pansy's cryptic outburst. "Jack jumped over the . . .?"

Lily smiled. "Trail of breadcrumbs?" she finished.

"Absolutely."

Lily turned and looked up at the building opposite, a large Georgian house, and her smile vanished. Her eyelids fluttered. In that same moment, a gust of wind swept up the street, disturbing the litter and leaves and threatening to pull Lily's hat from her head. She held it in place until the wind subsided.

"What is it?" Darknoll said.

"There's something in there," she said. She shivered violently. "In that house . . ."

"What do you mean?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. Something dark. Something . . . evil."

A chill ran up Darknoll's spine. He studied the broken down façade, at once fearful and thrilled at the possibility that they had, against all odds, found what they were looking for. The windows were all boarded up, and the front doors were padlocked. There was still no guarantee this was the right place but his heart beat a little faster at the prospect that it might be. Only twelve hours earlier he had been in the grip of despair, wondering how on earth he could possibly track down a stranger in this strange, alien land—and now, here he was, standing in a deserted street, studying what could well be his quarry's lair . . . and wondering what exactly he was going to do next.

"What now?" Lily whispered.

He rubbed the side of his face, surprised at how heavy his beard had become. "We need to get inside."

"You're not suggesting breaking and entering?" Lily said with a playful show of disbelief.

Darknoll winked.

He took Lily's hand and, with a quick glance around the street, they approached the heavy oak doors. Looped through the handles of both doors was a large padlock and chain. Darknoll hefted the heavy padlock in his hand. "It's a Leigh-Joseph," he muttered. "I've dealt with these many times before."

"You break into a lot of buildings, do you?" Lily asked.

He flashed his most enigmatic smile. "May I trouble you for a hairpin?" he asked.

"Of course." She removed her hat and searched for a pin. Her blonde hair, just a few shades darker than Louise's, looked more lustrous in the afternoon light.

"Impress me, then," she said, offering him the pin.

"Gladly."

He knelt down, pulled the pin in half, and pushed one end into the padlock's keyhole. He started twisting the pin back and forth, up and down, one eye closed as he listened intently for the click.

Lily hugged herself against the cold. She started at the sound of a barking dog at the far end of the street.

"Would you mind impressing me a mite quicker?" she said.

"Doing my best," he said, groaning with the effort.

The padlock suddenly sprang open with a loud and satisfying click. Darknoll ripped it from the chain and held it up as his prize.

"How clever of you," Lily said, genuine amazement in her voice. "Where did you learn such a trick?"

"Once a policeman . . . remember?" He raised his right foot and, with two well-aimed kicks, smashed the doors wide. He gestured to the opening. "After you."

As Lily stepped through the doorway, Darknoll paused on the threshold, glancing up and down the street before ducking inside himself.

Once inside the entrance hall, Darknoll stopped to review their situation. A large open porch stretched out before them, half cast in deep shadow. White dustsheets covered the few pieces of furniture. A thick layer of dust covered the floor and several sets of shoe prints marked a path from the front door to the staircase on the right-hand side. Darknoll crouched down to examine them.

"All made by the same shoe," he whispered. "Someone's been coming here often."

Approaching the staircase, a sudden noise and flurry of activity filled the air, causing both he and Lily to jump. It was a pair of pigeons, rising out from under the long low benches to the broken windows high above.

Darknoll and Lily exchanged a smile of relief.

Lily walked up to his side and peered into the darkness. Then, ever so slowly, she raised her face, her eyes fixed on the silent floor above.

"It's up there," she whispered.

Her hand slipped into his and he gripped it happily, thrilled by the simple intimacy of the act. She kept her eyes on the darkness above, but he sensed how much she needed his reassurance.

They climbed the stairs together. Guano caked each step and the smell was overwhelming. Darknoll sensed the flutter and coo of many birds far above their heads. The building was a dead carcass, but there was a great deal of life within its tumbledown walls. Darknoll wondered exactly what awaited them upstairs, what form this 'evil' which Lily sensed might take. He had no weapon with which to defend them. He had no idea what he would do should they come face to face with the killer. He had no plan whatsoever.

"Joshua." Lily gripped his arm as they arrived on the first floor landing. He looked at her, her face thrown into chiaroscuro by the bright white light streaming in through the broken shutters above. Her eyes were wide, pupils tiny from the glare. She pointed to a closed door to their right.

"Is that it?" he asked.

She shook her head, frowning. "No, there's something else. Something about that room . . ."

Darknoll studied the door. Brown paint flaked and curled from top to bottom, revealing the plain wood beneath. A map of finger-smears dappled the brass plate around the handle.

"Wait here," Darknoll whispered. He crept forward, placing each footstep with great care. He was aware of his increased heart rate, every muscle in his body tensed against an unknown threat.

He twisted the door handle and, after a quick glance back at Lily, pushed the door wide. It rattled open with an eerie elongated _creeeeeaaaak_. In the room beyond was a single bed topped with a filthy mattress, nothing more. Darknoll paused on the threshold, checking the room was unoccupied, free of potential threat. Someone had nailed misshapen pieces of wood over the solitary window, obscuring all light from the room. Only a small triangle of light sneaked through a gap at the bottom left-hand corner. Darknoll approached the bed. Two pieces of oily rope, the kind used to tether boats down at the docks, were snaked around both bedposts. A patchwork of human stains, blood, tears and urine, dotted the mattress. He stared down at the bed, imagining the suffering that had taken place here in this dark, airless room in this musty abandoned house.

"Pansy was here."

He swivelled round to find Lily framed in the doorway. She had wrapped her arms tightly across her chest; shoulders rising up to almost touch her ears. Her eyes, glassy and haunted, fixated on the bed.

"This is where he kept her. This is where she—" Her voice faltered, emotion stealing away her words.

Darknoll glanced around the room, then at the window. He stepped up to the near side of the bed, turned around so that his back was to it, and crouched down. His head was at the same height of a person lying on the mattress. He squinted against the bright light until his vision adjusted. He couldn't help but grin at what he found.

"What?" Lily said. "What can you see?"

He beckoned her over and took her hand in his. She crouched down at his side and followed his line of sight.

When her eyes had grown accustomed to the daylight, they grew wide. "Oh my God," she whispered.

Beyond the window was the brick façade of a crumbling wall. And visible within the triangle of light was part of a street sign. Glasshouse Walk. From this position, the upper left-hand portion of the sign was just out of sight.

HOUSE

WALK SE11

Darknoll looked into Lily's eyes and they both communicated the same thought.

How long had poor Pansy lay here, alone and terrified, with nothing to occupy her sensation-starved mind? This miniscule, paltry view of the outside world was all she had had to hold onto, all she had to focus on, as her sanity slipped away.

Misery fell over Lily's face, but Darknoll squeezed her hand.

"Listen, we are on the right track," he said in a reassuring whisper. "We are in the right place, Lily."

She nodded.

They both rose to their feet and backed out of the room. Lily kept looking at the bed, her grip on Darknoll's hand tight.

They stepped out onto the landing and renewed their search for the thing that had brought them here.

"Can you still feel it?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "It comes in waves, but I know it's ahead of us. I—"

Lily suddenly sucked in her breath, pulling back on his grip.

"Lily? Lily, what's wrong?"

She stood frozen to the spot, staring up at the shadows above their heads. Her face had drained of all colour, her eyes wide, unblinking. She looked like a woman in a trance.

"Lily?" he asked softly. "Lily, what's the matter?"

She shook her head slowly from side to side, eyes transfixed on the double doors ahead. "We mustn't go in there," she said. "Mustn't go in there."

"Why not, Lily?"

She took a faltering step back. A strong gust of wind rose up from the floor below, disturbing the pigeons nesting in the hidden places. The birds rose up in a swirl of motion all around them.

Lily's eyes were filled with terror.

Darknoll followed her gaze, looking more closely at the set of doors before them. They were heavy, oak doors. There, on the architrave above the double doors, were three markings daubed in a dark red material he strongly suspected to be blood. A crescent with an eye in the centre. A scythe with three small circles surrounding it. Three lines with a circle at the centre.

"I - I'm sorry, Joshua," Lily said. "I just . . . I can't."

"Don't be sorry," he said, giving her a reassuring hug. "You have just helped me more than you could ever know." He clutched her shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. "I have to go in there. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

"Will you be all right out here?"

She nodded again.

"Shout if you need me," he explained.

He turned and faced the doors.

This was it. The occult symbols, the street name, the account of poor, catatonic Pansy. Everything came together and pointed to this being the place. He had no idea what he expected to find inside this room, but he was close now, close to finding the only man in creation who could help him get back home.

He approached the double doors, noting instantly that there were no locks, no padlocks on them. He glanced back at Lily's trembling figure. He had seen how the killer controlled people, not just the victims he sacrificed in his insane rituals, but the people around them—even Lampshire back in Nunhead cemetery. This man harnessed some incredible power over people's minds. The killer had tried to control him back in the cemetery, but for some reason, he had failed. Did that mean his mind was protected in some way? It seemed unfair to label those who had come under this madman's influence as 'weak-minded'. Was Lampshire weak-minded? Or was there simply something different about his brain, something he did not yet understand?

He gripped the brass handles of the double doors and after a brief pause, pushed them open. The doors rolled inward with a low moan. A wave of stale air rushed out like a giant exhalation. Darknoll stepped into the open space and surveyed the scene. The room was cloaked in shadow apart from an ellipsis of light surrounding a long table in the centre. A candelabrum with seven lit candles burned silently in the dark. Was someone here? He scanned the shadows, listened closely to the silence. His senses were finely tuned, able to pick up the presence of another human being in any given space from the tiniest telltale signs. As physical entities, humans could not avoid influencing the environment around them. Their weight, even when standing still, affected the floor on which they stood. They had no choice but to breathe, and no matter how quietly they inhaled and exhaled the most sensitive ears could pick up this basic process. After a long pause, Darknoll decided the room was currently unoccupied, but the lit candles told him the owner of this property had been here very recently and was likely to return soon.

He looked out through the open doors. "Lily?"

"Yes?"

"Keep a close eye out. Let me know the instant you see anyone coming."

She nodded. "Please hurry."

Darknoll gave her a reassuring smile, but her expression remained fretful. Leaving the doors open, he slipped back inside the room, approaching the table in the centre. This room had once been a library, but now it was little more than a makeshift laboratory. Bell jars, chemical bottles and all manner of complicated tubing spread out across the trestle tables. On a small side table lay a number of instruments—a compass, a set of callipers and some other devices Darknoll had never seen before.

On a second table, he found the remnants of a meal—a dirty plate and a half-full glass of wine. Darknoll ran a fingertip through the gravy smears and decided it was recent, perhaps as recent as that morning. The thought somehow made him shiver—the idea that the man he was pursuing had, after a long sleep, sat at this table and taken a hearty meal. Darknoll had not touched a single morsel of food since crossing over into this realm. At that thought his stomach suddenly complained, a low growl coming from his abdomen.

Even now, the thought of food was abhorrent to him. It was almost as if eating here in this realm would confirm his acceptance of staying here.

A noise from behind startled him, but it was just one of the heavy oak doors creaking in the wind. He turned back to the central table. Two particular objects caught his eye amongst the clutter—one was a domed object covered in a thick velvet cloth. The second was a leather-bound journal.

He removed the cloth from the central object, unveiling an egg-shaped glass contraption standing on its own tripod. Green crystals glowed softly within the glass chamber. He had never seen anything like it and he could not even formulate a theory as to what its purpose might be. Nevertheless, something told him this object was important. He turned his attention to the journal. Perhaps this would give him some answers. Etched into the front cover was a simple but curious image: a large circle with nine branches leading from it, each branch capped with a smaller circle:

Excitement blazed in his chest at the sight of it. This was the crude image drawn in salt at the murder scenes. The excitement turned to giddiness and he realised he was holding his breath. He inhaled deeply, steadily, and exhaled, unable to stop a smile spreading across his features.

He had done it.

Somehow, some way, he had crossed worlds in pursuit of nothing more than a ghost, a shadow, and by providence or destiny or sheer blind luck, he had found the villain's lair. This simple drawing, more than anything else, was proof that he had found the man he was after. He glanced once more at the door. He could see Lily through the gap, hugging herself tightly. He had time, time to investigate further.

Darknoll quickly snapped open the leather binding to look inside.

The journal contained numerous dated entries, the first being August 1895, over a year ago. There were design sketches for machinery he had never seen before. There was an entire section devoted to the egg-shaped device on the table, a device referred to as a 'Parallax Engine'. He flicked quickly through the rest of the journal, reading lines at random but finding only the general impression of a mind lost in the heat of obsession. None of the entries mentioned people such as friends or loved ones. It was all the ramblings of a lonely mind.

He skipped to the last diary entry, dated October 12th 1896, four days ago.

Efforts to locate Realm Ustiris have finally

proven successful. Shall attempt crossing

tomorrow a.m.

P. Engine indicates some instability in cicatrix

opening. May be forced to reschedule activity

if too perilous.

There was a gap in the text, denoted by a star-shape. Then the last line:

_So close to the end now. Soon my children shall be free_ . . .

***

Another strong gust of wind rushed through the house, sending the pigeons into another flurry. Lily hugged herself tighter against the cold. She looked from the staircase to the double doors and then back again. The fear of being caught was lessened by the thrill of discovery. Until now, she had believed this Darknoll to be, at best, a good-hearted but deluded fool who was searching for something he had no hope of finding. Now, however, she was beginning to wonder if he was actually someone quite special. He was still something of an enigma and she didn't understand half of what he said, but in a strange way that was what made being in his company so exciting. She only hoped that her initial judgement—that he was indeed a deluded fool—did not turn out to be true. She had very little faith left in men as it was, she did not need her faith knocked any further.

A noise from the room beyond distracted her. It might have just been the door banging against the wall, but she could not be certain.

"Darknoll?" she called. "Is everything all right?"

After a long silence, she moved a few steps closer.

"Darknoll?"

A high wind rose up around her, stronger than ever before. She looked back down the hall towards the stairwell, and for a moment, she thought she saw a shadow. She stared, not daring to blink. Nothing. She glanced back into the dark room, trying to find Darknoll's silhouette, then looked back down the hall.

Her heart froze as she found herself staring into the eyes of a stranger, his tall figure framed against the broken window at the top of the stairs. His eyes shone out of the gloom like bright flames, fixing on hers, paralysing her with their intensity.

How could he have appeared so quickly? She had only looked away for three, maybe four, seconds. That could not have been enough time for this stranger to climb the stairs . . . could it?

She went to call out to Darknoll, but when she attempted to speak, she found her tongue heavy and unresponsive in her mouth. When she tried to move, to turn away from this stranger's piercing gaze, she found her limbs frozen, her entire body as lifeless as stone.

***

Darknoll read the entire entry again, barely able to breathe, his eyes roving over each word without blinking.

_Realm Ustiris . . . cicatrix opening . . . soon my children will be free_ . . .

He looked down at the glowing device and became mesmerised by its phosphorescent glow. Out of nowhere, he felt the burning desire to touch the glass, to place his hand on it and connect with it. He could not explain it, this sudden need. He watched his own right hand moving towards it, as if driven by an outside force. His heart rate doubled as his open hand steadily closed over the top of the glass chamber.

As soon as his skin made contact with the device, he felt a sudden searing heat . . .

His mind filled with a blinding vision, a blur of images.

The tall man in a blasted landscape, a terrible light filling his eyes as he screams and screams and screams . . .

The tall man plunging through a series of glowing doorways in different parts of the city, passing through the vast silver ocean again and again . . .

The faces of so many victims, all of them sacrificed in the exact same fashion, their lips moving in unison as they mumbled their desperate prayers, their eyes filled with naked terror as the tall man completed his insane rituals . . .

_So much pain, so much suffering_ . . .

The vision ended abruptly. Darknoll's consciousness snapped back into the present moment.

His hand remained on the device, but the green glow died suddenly. The glass chamber turned black and the soft, insistent hum vanished. Darknoll took his hand away and studied his palm, but there were no signs of any discharge or burn marks.

The device was dead.

Before he could begin to analyse it, there was a noise—the sound of footsteps from the hallway outside. Lily remained frozen in the doorway, looking down the corridor toward the staircase. Even in profile, he could see she was in terror. Why had she not called for him?

He rushed out to join her.

"Lily, what's wrong?"

He followed her wide unblinking gaze and found his answer.

Standing at the top of the stairs was a tall figure in a black cloak and top hat, the same figure he had confronted in the cemetery.

"Lily?" he said, grabbing her hand, but she remained rooted to the spot. "Lily? Can you hear me Lily?"

She said nothing, staring at the ominous figure down the hall.

Of course, how could he have been so foolish? Had his experience with this man not taught him that anyone could be susceptible to his mind controlling abilities?

Silently the two men appraised each other. The man was tall, over six feet in height, made even more intimidating by the top hat. On the wedding finger of his left hand, a ring made of bone—the final confirmation that this was the man he had been looking for. His features were plain and, most importantly, easy to see: if this was the same man he had encountered in the graveyard back in his London, the man whose face had been a strange shifting mass, then something fundamental had altered between their encounters. The face staring back at him now was that of a middle-aged man with a sallow complexion. His eyes were grey, his gaze sharp and penetrating. His hair, what little there was visible beneath the brim of his hat, was of a salt and pepper hue. He was unshaven, perhaps as much as two or three days' growth.

He stared back at Darknoll with a knowing look in his eyes.

"So," the man said, "you found me. I don't know how, but you found me. I tried to kill you once before, and failed." He bowed his head, glowering at him. "I will not make that mistake again."

Three squat figures appeared behind the man. It was the dogs they had seen foraging in the street outside. Their previous indolence and disinterest was gone, their eyes glowing with an eerie blue light. They growled and bared their teeth, slaver dripping from their fangs.

The dark figure kept his gaze upon Darknoll as the dogs slowly, calmly, made their way towards them.

23

"Lily, run!"

Darknoll grabbed her hand and started backing away down the hall. Her body was slow and unresponsive, resisting the motion all the way. She tripped over her own feet and he had to put his arm around her to stop her from falling to the floor. The dogs advanced, gathering pace. The corridor split off in two directions at the end, a closed door on one side, an ascending staircase on the other. Darknoll tried the door.

Locked.

"Up," he commanded.

Lily was still staring back down the hall, not at the advancing threat, but at the dark figure at the opposite end. She refused to move. The bulldog lunged at them. Darknoll grabbed Lily and pulled her onto the stairs. The scarred bulldog missed them by inches, smashing headfirst into the wall. Darknoll didn't wait to see how stunned or injured it was, slipping both arms around Lily's waist and forcing her up the dark stairwell. The sound of the dogs filled his senses, the fear of imminent attack obscuring all rational thought. Just as they reached the top of the stairs, a sharp pain pierced his lower leg. He slipped down a few steps, then rolled over to find one of the dogs had sunk its teeth into his ankle. He cried out. Thankfully, the high boots he wore stopped the dog from gaining too much purchase on his flesh. He kicked at the dog with his other boot, until it released his ankle, but it was snapping at him again as he scrambled up the last few steps.

They emerged onto a narrow landing on the top floor. Three doors lined the right wall. Dragging Lily with him, Darknoll tried all three but every one was locked. The dogs leapt onto the landing behind them, advancing together, side by side.

Darknoll scanned the shadowy landing for another escape route. Nothing—except a boarded up window at the far end. He dragged Lily by the hand down the corridor, grabbing a solitary stool which lay on its side halfway down. He stopped before the window and shoved the legs of the stool into the glass panes, shattering them all in a matter of seconds. Then he attacked the wooden boards beyond with his feet, kicking at them with blind fury until they splintered and broke away. He glanced round to find the dogs advancing, so close now. Lily stared at them, like a lamb awaiting its slaughter. He kicked the last board free and looked out. Beneath the window was a side garden, a decaying sycamore tree reaching up towards the side of the house. Beneath the tree, lay a pile of household rubbish, pieces of old carpet, cloth sacks and broken furniture.

He turned and grabbed Lily's hand.

"Lily we're going to have to jump."

"I can't, I can't." Her eyes were fixed on the dogs.

"It's not that much of a drop. The tree will help break our fall."

"No," she shouted. "I can't! He won't let me!"

"Lily? You're going to have to trust me." He put both hands to the side of her face, forced her to look into his eyes. "We're going to get through this."

He picked her up around the waist and rushed towards the open window.

"No!" she screamed.

"Forgive me, Lily."

He threw her out through the window with every pounce of strength, trying to make sure she cleared the open space and reached the tree. Holding his breath, he watched as she tumbled down, down, down, striking the branches of the sycamore with a terrible cracking noise. As she dropped through the branches, her body spun one way, then the other, before falling through the lower branches into the pile of debris beneath.

He had no time to see if she survived the fall, the dogs were upon him. As he stepped up onto the sill, all three hounds rushed forward. Heart in his throat, Darknoll jumped. As he fell, he heard the snap of the dogs' jaws at his back, followed by the impact of one of them crashing into him, sending him spiralling a different way. He hit the tree branches upside down, felt a sharp slicing pain in his shoulder, then he was upright and falling, crashing through the fragile branches which gave way beneath him like tinder.

Seconds later, he hit the ground, the impact knocking the breath out of him. His vision darkened for a moment, swimming into the shallows of unconsciousness for several prolonged moments.

Then he heard a bell, faint at first, growing louder with each second.

A police bell.

He lifted his head and searched for Lily. She lay on her back, a small rivulet of blood running down the side of her face. The third dog hit the floor just a few feet away with a sickening crunch of bones. It howled and whimpered, then fell still. Just then, a steam-driven Black Maria rolled up, clouds of steam billowing across his vision, and a squad of uniformed bobbies leapt out of the back.

Darknoll put his hand on Lily's cheek.

"Lily?" he whispered. "Can you hear me? Lily!"

Two constables dragged him up onto his feet, before forcing cuffs on him. "Please," he said. "She needs medical attention. She needs help."

They led him away without a word. He was too tired, too disoriented from the fall to resist. As they forced him into the back of the Black Maria, he glanced back at the front of the house.

The tall man stood outside, leaning on his cane, watching him. His eyes burned with a terrible blue fire.

24

Darknoll sat on the floor of the dark cell, staring into the inky darkness beyond the bars. His mind was numb, and his eyelids were heavy from exhaustion. The blood around his neck had dried, the sharp ache in his head persisted, and his right ankle burned where the dog had savaged him. He attempted to raise his right hand to rub his eyes but the heavy handcuffs thwarted him.

He thought of Lily, praying that she was all right after the fall. The memory of her lying unconscious on the ground with blood running down her face haunted him. If she had survived, he hoped the police were treating her well. He had not seen a single soul since they threw him in here and that was several hours ago.

The sound of a key in a lock echoed down the long, shadowy hall. A door screeched open followed by slow, deliberate footsteps approaching down the walkway.

Moments later, the figure of Albert Lampshire stepped into view. He stood in front of Darknoll's cell in profile, head bowed and hands on hips.

Darknoll recalled the last time he had seen Lampshire—down in the sewers, when he had run away . . .

Lampshire took in a deep breath through the nostrils and, without looking at Darknoll, said in a weary tone, "Would you like to explain to me what you were doing in Glasshouse Walk?"

"Looking for evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

"Evidence to prove that that man who confronted us in the house is the killer, the one I told you about. The one I've been looking for."

Lampshire said nothing for a long time, drumming his fingers on his hip. Then he stopped abruptly and looked up.

"That man, as you so eloquently put it, is Reuben Farrier, an upstanding member of this community. He is a Lord, for heaven's sake! Served his country as a surgeon during the War."

"Surgeon?" Darknoll said.

"Yes, a surgeon. A bloody hero, in fact. No history of trouble with the law, no suspicious behaviour, nothing. What possible reason do you have to suspect him of these crimes?"

Darknoll felt the urge to explain, to try to win the man round, but something hard set in his gut, and he kept his mouth shut. He looked away.

"Well, it doesn't matter," Lampshire said, "you've gone too far. Scotland Yard are on their way to see you right now."

"Scotland Yard?"

"Yes, that's right. What do you expect when you break into the property of a Lord?"

"How? I don't understand how the police arrived so quickly . . ."

"The police were alerted after two strangers were spotted breaking into a property on Glasshouse Walk."

"Property?" Darknoll asked.

"Farrier owns Glasshouse Walk!" Lampshire said, his voice rising. "He owns the entire area. He bought it up for renovation after it was devastated during the War. And that's another thing. The prostitute? What in God's name were you doing with a prostitute?"

"She . . . she was helping me."

"Helping you? In what way?"

"She knows things. We went to visit . . ." Darknoll trailed off. It was all so tenuous, so vague. He knew in his heart he was on the right track, but it would be impossible to convince a court of law. "It doesn't matter."

Lampshire drew in a deep breath. "Darknoll, my patience has limits and you have exceeded them already."

"I don't expect you to understand what I'm doing," Darknoll said. "I don't really understand it myself. I just . . . know."

Lampshire shook his head. "Trespassing, breaking and entering—that's three months in prison to begin with. Associating with a prostitute outside of the designated red light districts—another four to six months. This . . . insane crusade you're on, whatever it is you think you have to do, it's going to be very difficult to do it from the inside of a prison cell, is it not?"

Darknoll looked up, Lampshire's words running through his head for a time. Just like before in the sewer, he studied the man's features and found a glimmer of compassion, perhaps even concern. The hard knot of antipathy he felt towards Lampshire took another knock. The man may not completely understand why he was doing it, but in his own way, Lampshire was trying to help.

The door at the end of the hall rolled open again. Slow, deliberate footsteps echoed down the hall, accompanied by the rhythmic click-clack of a cane. Lampshire turned to face the newcomer, his back straightening as if having seen something alarming. Moments later, two tall figures stood in front of the cell, one impossibly thin, the other bulky with a wrestler's build. Both were dressed in long black overcoats and bowler hats. The thin man offered Lampshire a bony hand.

"Good evening, Superintendent," he said.

"Chief Superintendent Staber," Lampshire said.

The man's piercing gaze flickered to meet Darknoll's. He wanted to look away, felt he should look away, but found he could not. The gaze was mesmerising.

Staber studied Darknoll for a long time, his head turning slowly on his neck as if he was encountering a new breed of animal for the very first time.

"Who . . . are you?" Staber asked.

Darknoll stared back, unsure of the man's meaning.

"He says his name is Joshua Darknoll," Lampshire began. "He also claims to be—"

Staber's left hand came up, inches from Lampshire's face. Lampshire fell silent.

"I would like to speak with him," Staber said. "Face to face. Open the cell."

"Of course," Lampshire said, and whistled down the corridor. "Jones? Open cell number four."

The elderly guard trotted down the hallway and unlocked Darknoll's cell. Staber nodded his appreciation before gliding through the opening.

"Fetch me a chair, would you, Mr Fray?" he said.

His stocky aide retrieved a chair from the corridor and placed it in the centre of the cell, facing the bed where Darknoll sat. Lampshire, his face creased with concern, slipped into the cell behind Staber. The stocky man took up a position in the far corner. The cell door remained open.

Staber lowered himself into the chair, studying Darknoll with his protruding eyes. His face was gaunt—the skin of his cheeks sunken, his eyes ringed with black circles. His front teeth protruded shockingly, with clear gaps between every tooth. It was like looking at a skull. He sat with a graceful posture, his hands on top of his cane. Darknoll noticed the man's fingertips were blue—both the nail plate and the cuticle. He also had a bone ring, just like Farrier's on the wedding finger of his left hand.

"You are an oddity, sir," Staber said, and Darknoll sensed a strange gravity in his voice.

"What do you mean?" Darknoll asked.

"You are unlike anyone I have ever seen. There is something about you. Something . . ." The man's eyes studied Darknoll's outline. "Something . . . _other_."

"Other?" Lampshire interjected, letting out a small, nervous laugh.

There was a long silence, a strange charge filling the air. Staber did not acknowledge Lampshire's comment, his eyes fixed on Darknoll.

Finally, Staber said, "I sense that you truly do not belong in this world, Mr Darknoll."

Darknoll felt the hairs rise up on his arms. When he tried to respond, he found his mouth was dry.

"I . . . don't understand your meaning."

A smile touched the corners of Staber's pale lips. "I think you do."

Darknoll did not reply. He tried desperately to keep calm, focused, but the man was unnerving him more and more with each passing second.

"Why are you pursuing Lord Farrier?" Staber asked. "What do you . . . think he's done?"

Darknoll had to wet his lips before he answered. He felt a sudden chill in the centre of his chest. "The man I'm after has committed unspeakable acts, murder, ritual sacrifices."

Staber's eyes narrowed and then widened as he processed this information. "I have known Lord Farrier for a very . . . very long time. I find that hard to believe."

Darknoll glanced at the ring on Staber's finger. "That ring? Farrier has the same ring."

Staber looked at it, flexing his long, skeletal fingers for a moment. "Lord Farrier and I belong to a . . . society, shall we say? This society is committed to protecting the world we know from all manner of . . . evils. That is why I find it so hard to believe your accusations."

"If you are such good acquaintances," Darknoll said, "why don't you ask him what he's been doing for the past year."

Staber arched one pale eyebrow. "To be fair, I have not seen him for quite some time, not since . . . the tragedy."

"Tragedy?" Darknoll said. "What tragedy?"

Staber gave another crooked smile. "Now, if you were truly of this world, you would know all about that."

There was a commotion out in the corridor. All eyes turned to the open cell door. Sergeant Davies appeared, slightly out of breath. He paused in front of Darknoll's cell, then approached Lampshire and whispered in his ear.

Darknoll watched Lampshire's features closely, trying to ascertain what the guarded message might be. Lampshire nodded, flicked his eyebrows, but otherwise gave nothing away.

Davies stepped back, glowering at Darknoll as he disappeared back out of sight.

Lampshire said nothing for a while, stroking the left side of his moustache with his index finger. "You, sir, are one very fortunate man."

"What is it?" Darknoll asked, unable to hide the desperation in his voice.

"In an act of incredible good grace, Lord Farrier has decided not to press any charges against you."

Darknoll could only stare, a deep groove appearing in his forehead as he tried to assimilate this new information.

Staber looked back at Darknoll, a hint of surprise on his gaunt face. "Well, well, well."

"Why would he do a thing like that, I wonder?" said Lampshire.

_Because he has something to hide,_ Darknoll thought.

"Well," Staber said, "that still leaves us with our little problem, Darknoll."

"Problem?"

"I see many things, Darknoll. Things that most men would miss. That's why I'm in the position I'm in. I watch . . . and I can see things that don't fit, and more often than not, these things turn out be a threat. You, my friend, do not belong here, but . . . are you a threat?" Staber leaned forward. "Tell me . . . what are your intentions here? Are they good or otherwise?"

"My intentions are good."

They searched each others' faces for a long moment.

"I believe you," Staber said, a note of surprise in his voice. He moved even closer, his pale face inches from Darknoll's own. "But understand this. I will be watching you very closely, Darknoll. Very closely, indeed."

Lampshire interrupted: "I'm sorry, Chief Superintendent, does that mean Darknoll is free to go?"

Still maintaining eye contact with Darknoll, he said, "Oh, yes, Lampshire. He is free to go. He has important business to attend to, isn't that right, Mr Darknoll?"

Darknoll wanted to stand up and shout at the man, demand for him to explain that last comment, to stop this mysterious double-talk. But he remained in his chair, trying hard to control his emotions.

"Mr Fray," Staber announced, standing up abruptly. The burly man joined Staber as they passed through the open cell door. The two men exchanged a nod before slipping wordlessly out of sight.

Lampshire stepped up to the bars and watched them go. "What the hell was all that about?"

Darknoll offered no reply. He barely understood half of what just happened.

Darknoll raised his manacled hands, rattling the chain. "Would you mind?" he said.

Lampshire glared at him for a moment, then gestured to the warden who came over and unlock the cuffs.

Rubbing his wrists, Darknoll rose up on unsteady legs, grimacing from the pain that seemed to have invaded every part of his body. He walked slowly over to the open cell door.

Lampshire held up his hand and he stopped.

"Listen to me very carefully, Darknoll. If you go anywhere near Lord Farrier, if you so much as pass him in the street, I will arrest you for being a public nuisance and for breach of the peace. Do you understand?"

Darknoll looked into Lampshire's eyes and saw that the man meant what he said. He recalled Lampshire's warning of being unable to act from inside a prison cell and the fire in his belly dimmed.

"Have I made myself clear, Darknoll?"

Darknoll nodded.

Lampshire stepped aside. Darknoll went to walk past him but a wave of dizziness came over him and he fell back against the bars. He grabbed Lampshire's arm with his other hand, holding on until the world stopped spinning.

"When was the last time you ate something, man? When was the last time you slept?"

"I'm all right," Darknoll said.

He let go of the bars and straightened up.

"Where are you going?" Lampshire asked. "Do you have a place to stay?"

Darknoll paused, shook his head.

Lampshire sighed. "I finish my duty in half an hour. You can come home with me. I have a spare room."

Darknoll turned and stared at Lampshire, the man he had so despised in his own realm, and felt a strange pang of emotion. Perhaps it was exhaustion, perhaps relief or something else, but he felt a sudden and overwhelming affection for the man. He nodded.

"Thank you."

He was exhausted, and he had to admit that a good night's sleep would be of great benefit in the trials to come.

"What about Lily?" Darknoll asked.

"The prostitute? Now that the charges have been dropped she will be released, free to return to her world."

"I want to see her. I need to make sure she's all right."

"Absolutely not," Lampshire said.

"What are you talking about?" Darknoll said.

"She will be sent her on her way and you will have nothing more to do with her."

Darknoll shook his head. "No, I cannot—"

"Darknoll!" It was the first time he had heard Lampshire raise his voice in anger and it was enough to make him freeze. The echo lasted a long time. "She is a prostitute, and I could still charge you for consorting with her."

"Damn it, man, I was not consorting with her. I told you she was helping me—"

"Associating with her outside of a red light district is still a crime. Now, you will have no more associations with her, is that understood?"

Darknoll held the man's gaze. It was a battle he would fight another time. He was too exhausted to challenge this world's strange new rules, and besides, he did not wish to upset Lampshire any further, especially after his extraordinary offer of kindness. He gave a small nod to show his understanding, if not exactly his acceptance.

"I am sure," Lampshire said, "that young woman will find her own way back to her world in no time at all. And may God go with her."

***

Lily opened her eyes. She was lying on her back with a trio of female faces hovering above her. One of the women was dabbing at Lily's forehead with a piece of white cloth. The cloth was stained red.

"She's awake, thank God," the woman said.

"Where am I?" Lily asked.

"Gower Street police station."

"Police station?" She tried to sit up too quickly, and a bolt of pain exploded in her head.

"Careful, hun," the woman said. "You've had quite a bump to the head."

Lily reached up and touched her temple, feeling the open cut and the tracks of dried blood.

"Do you remember how it happened?"

"Jumping off a building."

"That sounds like a silly thing to do."

"Yes, that's what I thought," Lily replied.

Slower this time, she rose up into a sitting position, the three women helping her. They were in a holding cell.

"You from Little Amsterdam?" the older woman asked.

Lily paused, realised she was in similar company, and then nodded.

"We're from Tower Bridge. Got picked up during a visit to a stately house. Bloody nightmare."

Loud footsteps heralded the arrival of a uniformed officer. He stood at the bars for a moment, searching the four faces within. Then he unlocked the door and pointed at Lily.

"You," he said. "You're one lucky little strumpet. The superintendent says you're free to go."

Lily failed to hide her surprise. "Really? How come?"

The officer shrugged. "I don't know and I don't care. Neither should you." He beckoned her forth with an impatient wave. "Come on, I'll show you the way out."

"Take care, hun," the older woman said. "And get that head of yours checked out."

"Thank you," Lily said.

As soon as she was out of the cell, the officer grabbed her arm and began to lead her roughly down the corridor.

"Oi," she said, "there's no need for rough treatment."

"Really? I would've thought that's what you're used to."

She stared at the young man's profile. "You hate it, don't you? You just hate the fact that we're legal."

"Not round 'ere, you're not."

"I want to see someone. The man who came in with me. Where is he?"

"Don't know."

"But I really need to see him."

"Don't push your luck, wench."

They stopped by a set of double doors. Outside she could see a courtyard and the busy high street beyond. A small crowd of people were gathered in the square.

The officer pushed the doors open and thrust Lily out into the courtyard.

"Whore coming through!" he shouted.

Lily steadied herself and looked back. The young officer stood in the doorway with a malicious smile on his face. When she turned to face the crowd, she saw only a wall of unfriendly eyes.

Head down, Lily began to make her way towards the high street. The first few people stepped out of her way. Then somebody pushed into her, knocking her off balance for a moment. She continued on, picking up speed. Another shoulder barged into her; then a middle-aged woman pushed her hard with both hands. Lily clattered into a trio of men who half-caught her before she fell to the pavement.

"Get off, you filthy slut!" one of them shouted. They shoved her back in the opposite direction. Just as Lily was about to run, an old woman knocked her hat off and then, with a horrible sneer, spat in her face.

"Clear off!" the woman said. "Go on! Back to your own world!"

Someone applauded. Tears bloomed in Lily's eyes. She barged past the woman and ran for the street, the jeers and insults following her like a veil of black smoke.

25

As the elevated train thundered across the skyline of New London, Darknoll sat in the carriage and watched the blur of motion outside the windows. The exhaustion of the last few days gave everything a dream-like quality. He felt he was not just floating above the ground, he was floating outside of his body. He glanced at Lampshire who was reading a newspaper, completely unfazed by the marvel of this transport.

"What happened to the Tube?" Darknoll asked.

Lampshire looked up, eyebrow cocked. "The Tube? Destroyed in the War. Like most of London." He studied Darknoll for a long moment. "You really are from somewhere else, aren't you? Staber saw it." He shook his head. "Staber sees everything."

Darknoll looked back out at the strange skyline. "Not everything," he said.

***

Lampshire's house was a terraced two-storey building in Cheam. The neighbourhood appeared quiet, respectable. The few people they passed on the fog-shrouded street acknowledged Lampshire with a tip of the hat and a few kind words. Lampshire was clearly well thought of.

They climbed the steps to the front door and entered the lobby.

"I would ask that you try and be quiet. I don't wish to wake them."

"Wake who?"

"My wife and daughter."

Lampshire unlocked the inner door and went in.

Darknoll stood outside for a few moments, stunned by this simple admission. The idea of Lampshire, that repugnant boor, being married and having a child to nurture seemed so alien, so odd—but perhaps that difference was what made this version of Lampshire so much more agreeable. With a small smile, Darknoll followed him in.

Warm yellow light from the kitchen flooded the hall. A female figure moved about in the lamplight like a fairy dancing in the ether. She spotted them immediately, dropped what she was doing and swept out into the hall.

"Albert," she said warmly, planting a warm kiss on his cheek before she noticed Darknoll in the shadows behind him. She stiffened a little and looked into her husband's eyes for an explanation.

"Ah, Ellen, this . . ." Even Lampshire seemed stumped for a moment as to an explanation for the ragged man he had brought home. "His name is Joshua Darknoll. He's, um, a colleague."

Ellen Lampshire looked first at Darknoll then back to her husband with an open expression. "Well, dear, that's not true at all, now is it?"

Lampshire looked at his wife, his mouth hanging open in hurt pride. "Ellen . . ."

"I've met all your work colleagues, Albert, and never set eyes on this gentlemen, and," she looked at Darknoll, "no offence, sir, but you look like something the cat's dragged in."

Lampshire exchanged glances with Darknoll.

"Now, perhaps you'd like to start again, dear," Ellen Lampshire said, patting her husband on the chest.

After a long, awkward moment in which Darknoll did not know where to put himself, Lampshire leaned close to his wife and whispered, "It's complicated, my love. I will explain it to you in detail later."

"No, you will explain it to me now." Her voice was growing louder. "I won't have strangers in my house."

"Ellen," Lampshire said. "Let's not make a scene in front of—"

"Mummy?"

The tension evaporated in an instant. Everyone looked up at the small figure on the stairs, a blonde-haired girl in a white nightdress. Darknoll deduced she must have been about six or seven years old.

Mrs Lampshire went to the bottom of the stairs. "It's all right, my love."

The girl's expression remained concerned. "Who is that?" she asked, pointing at Darknoll.

Ellen glared at her husband. Lampshire appeared lost for words.

Darknoll took a step forward, addressing the girl directly.

"Hello, my dear. My name is Joshua, Joshua Darknoll. I am a police inspector, but your mother was quite right in pointing out that I don't work in your father's police station. I come from a place much farther away. I have experienced some grave difficulties whilst pursuing a criminal and as a result, I find myself without a place to stay. Your father was kind enough to extend the hand of friendship. I assure you I am of good character."

The girl cocked her head to one side.

"Joshua Dark . . . knot?"

"Darknoll," he corrected.

"That's a funny name."

"Christie!" her mother scolded.

"That's all right, ma'am. She's right, it is unusual."

"All right, now, Christie," Ellen said. "Back to bed, my love."

"I can't sleep now," the girl replied. "Can I have a glass of milk?"

Ellen looked at Lampshire and rolled her eyes. "A quick one, I suppose. But your father can get it, seeing as he woke you up."

The girl's face lit up with the biggest smile. She flew down the last few stairs and jumped into Lampshire's arms.

"Come on, my sweet," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "Only a small glass, though. We don't want you wetting the bed." Darknoll followed them down the hall as they headed towards the kitchen, shaking his head at the fatherly figure in front of him. It was becoming impossible to compare this Lampshire to the one he had known. They were, truly, completely different men.

***

In the dim light of a gas lamp, Darknoll sat with the Lampshires and enjoyed a freshly made pot of tea. The girl, Christie, drank her milk in small, languorous sips, extending her time with the adults.

Mrs Lampshire refused to sit down with them, insisting she had a million things to do before bed, and flitting around the kitchen like a human whirlwind.

"Mr Darknoll," the girl began, her brow furrowed as she had clearly been pondering the question for some time, "did the man you were chasing get away?"

"Christie," Ellen said, spinning round with a bread knife in her hand. "No questions about your father's line of work. You'll give yourself nightmares."

Darknoll exchanged a look with Lampshire. He smiled to himself. Albert Lampshire may have risen to the rank of Superintendent at work, commanding an entire division of the Metropolitan Police Force, but it was very clear who was in charge inside the Lampshire household.

Darknoll leaned across the table, and whispered to her. "Your father and I, we don't stop until we catch the bad men. That's our job, you see."

"I want to be a detective when I grow up," Christie said.

Lampshire rolled his eyes.

Darknoll smiled. "I'm sure you'll make a great detective."

Christie leaned against her father's side, closing her eyes and snuggling into his chest. The two men exchanged a smile.

Stroking his daughter's hair, Lampshire whispered, "What were you trying to show me in the sewer, Darknoll?"

Darknoll paused, sipped his tea. "A doorway."

"A doorway? You said something about travelling between worlds. What did you mean?"

Darknoll laughed. "You are a rational man. You already must think I am a lunatic. If I were to tell you the truth I think you would be utterly convinced of it."

"I am rational," Lampshire said softly, "but open-minded, too."

Darknoll could see the honesty in the man's eyes. "Lampshire," he began, but Lampshire stopped him.

"Please," he said, raising his right hand. "I would really rather you called me Albert. You say my surname with such . . . _disdain_."

Darknoll stared for a moment, then, with a smile, he continued. "All right. Albert it is. Albert . . . this is not my world."

He paused, waiting for some reaction, a snigger, a laugh, a cry of incredulity, but Lampshire only stared back. "Go on," he said.

"I am a visitor here. My world is very different to yours, the same in many respects, but with many, many differences. Imagine two different artists producing two different paintings of the same subject."

Lampshire shook his head. "I'm afraid the analogy is not helpful to me."

"All right. I live in a world that is a plainer version of this one. In my world, our technology has not advanced as far as it has here. In my world there are no airships, no steam-driven machines on the road, and certainly no elevated trains." He paused for a moment. "Two days ago, Albert, while pursuing a murderer, I believe I crossed through a doorway from my world into this one. That doorway was in the sewer. I cannot explain it, but that is what happened. I stepped through that doorway and entered this world. Everything here is different. In my world Albert Lampshire is an arrogant upstart, whereas in this world Albert Lampshire is an upstanding Superintendent and a gentleman."

Lampshire blew air through his teeth.

"In my world, I am a police inspector with ten years' experience on the force, but here Joshua Darknoll died in his youth. In my world there is a girl . . ." He stopped, his thoughts of Louise immediately clashing with a vision of Lily.

"You're married?" Lampshire asked.

Darknoll shook his head. "No, but she means the world to me. We were sweethearts growing up, but we were separated. I . . . I only discovered she was alive two days ago. She's beautiful. And I love her."

"What's her name?"

"Louise."

"And have you met her counterpart here? In this world?"

Darknoll dropped his gaze. "Yes, as a matter of fact I have."

"Who? Who is it?"

Darknoll looked up. Lampshire read the pain in his eyes and gasped. He lowered his voice. "The prostitute?"

"Yes," Darknoll whispered.

"My God." Lampshire shook his head. "How? How did you find each other?"

Darknoll sat back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. "I have no idea, Albert. I don't understand any of this." He looked at Lampshire again. "Albert, what would you do if you were in my shoes? What would you do if you met your Ellen in another life and she was . . ." Darknoll's eyes flickered to the sleeping child and back to Lampshire. "What would you do," he whispered, "if you discovered she was selling her body for money?"

Lampshire blinked several times, then said, "I think . . . I think my heart would break."

Darknoll inhaled deeply, fighting back a sudden rise of emotion. "But what would you do? Even if she wasn't actually your Ellen, what would you do?"

"I . . ." Lampshire sighed. He shook his head. "That is not a dilemma I could ever have imagined, nor is it one I would wish upon any man. All I can say is that if the woman had my Ellen's face and her heart, I would do everything in my power to save her from that existence."

Darknoll absorbed the words, running a hand over his unshaven chin. Staring into the deep blue square of night visible through the kitchen window, he nodded.

***

Despite his exhaustion, Darknoll lay in bed but could not sleep.

At first, the smell of clean sheets and the comfort of the mattress lulled him into a stupor, but as soon as he closed his eyes, the dark thoughts began.

Louise . . . but not Louise.

Albert Lampshire, a kind, considerate, caring family man—the antithesis of everything Albert Lampshire had been.

_And of course, Reuben Farrier. Lord Farrier_ . . .

With his eyes closed, he kept seeing the man's face—the pinched features, the cold, grey eyes, that arrogant, crooked smile. A man who had crossed into his realm, and possibly many others, murdering, sacrificing, again and again, for some insane cause—but what was it? What was he trying to achieve? He had hoped the journal would give him answers but the pages he had seen left him with even more questions than before.

Darknoll sat up and swung his legs off the bed. He rubbed his hands over his face.

The more he tried to understand this situation the more he began to feel he was living inside an absurd dream.

Parallel worlds, alternate realities, split realms. Duplicate people. Even in the wildest fictions, he had never heard of such nonsense. Was it not universally accepted that there was one world, one universe, one reality?

And yet . . .

And yet here he was. Down in the sewers, he had run into the heart of that strange anomaly and passed through some form of mercurial liquid—

the silver sea

—to appear here, on the other side, in a world where man had mastered flight and built vast aerostats to roam the skies above New London; and where a girl he loved could turn to prostitution because her life took a different turn.

He closed his eyes tight, trying to blank it all out, but now the only face he could see was hers.

Louise.

And yet the face he saw now was not the crystal clear image he had always seen before; it was a blurred, ghosting image, two images of the same face placed one on top of the other.

Louise . . .

Lily . . .

She would be back in Little Amsterdam now. He imagined her back in Madam Constantine's 'house', lying on a filthy bed, giving herself to some strange man—any man who would pay. At first, he felt a sharp ache at the idea she was cheating on him, but that was the insanity in all of this—the young woman he knew as Lily would have no such thoughts or feelings for him . . . would she?

Not in this world.

He said those words again inside his head. _In . . . this . . . world_.

That was not his Louise.

This was not his world.

And yet, they had been brought together despite incredible odds. They had spent most of the day together in the pursuit of a common goal—finding a madman whose actions had impacted on both their lives in different worlds. Surely, this was more than an incredible coincidence?

What was it Louise had said on the roof of the theatre?

We were meant to be together . . .

He looked over at the window. Raindrops ran down the pane in random rivulets, joining, separating—forming random patterns as they rolled down the glass. He wondered if it was raining in his London. What was Louise doing without him? Was she in trouble? If she was, there was nothing he could do. Not yet. Not until he found a way back . . .

_Darknoll_ . . .

A man's voice, echoing inside his head.

His entire body tensed.

_Darknoll_ . . .

"Farrier?" he said aloud.

_Speak with me_.

He climbed out of bed and rushed to the window, searching the rainy street.

There, on the steps of the church, a lone figure. Tall, thin, with a top hat and cane. Even from this distance, even through the fog and the rain, he could see the man's blazing eyes fixed on his own.

He thought of waking Lampshire, but knew that was futile. Lampshire had warned him to stay away from Lord Farrier, but Farrier had come to him.

_Speak with me now_ . . .

The figure turned and walked through the open doors of the church.

Darknoll reached for his overcoat.

26

It was a Catholic church. The church of St Francis. A statue of the great saint stood in the porch, looking out at the night with a sorrowful, plaintive expression.

Darknoll paused at the top of the steps and looked in through the open doors, the warm glow of candles the only illumination within. His heart raced. He glanced back down the street at Lampshire's house. It was almost three o'clock in the morning and the entire household was asleep. And here he was . . .

He stepped through the open doors and walked slowly down the centre aisle. Farrier was sitting in a pew near the front. He had removed his top hat and placed it on the seat beside him. He was staring up at the large crucifix suspended above the altar.

As Darknoll approached, Farrier did not turn to greet him or even acknowledge him. He waited patiently, like a man at prayer, a vision of calm.

Darknoll slipped into the pew behind Farrier. He sat down and, for the first time, took his eyes off Farrier, looking at the crucifix that so captivated the man's attention.

"Do you believe in destiny, Darknoll?" Farrier said.

It was not what he was expecting to hear. He waited for Farrier to continue.

"When Jesus Christ realised his fate, he broke down and wept, asked his Father for the burden to pass him by. In the end, he understood that it was unavoidable. It was his destiny to die at the hands of the pathetic mortals he was sent to save. It had to be done."

"What," Darknoll said slowly, "are you talking about?"

"My goal," Farrier said.

"Your goal," Darknoll echoed. "And what is your goal?"

Farrier twirled his cane. "God created all of this—Mankind, the world, the Universe. I intend to destroy it."

"Why?"

"Because it is an _abomination_." The word echoed around the church. "Before the Universe was created, there was nothing. Nothing. And it was beautiful. This . . . all of this, is an absurd pantomime. Don't you agree?"

Darknoll stared back at him, studying his profile.

"My goal," Farrier said, "what I have set out to do, nothing, _nothing_ has stood in my way . . . until now. I have travelled to all nine realms, crossed the silver sea again and again, performing my work without hindrance or obstacle." He turned his head slowly, finally meeting Darknoll's eyes. "Until I crossed paths with you."

Darknoll held the man's gaze, but it took great effort and will. They were not ordinary human eyes. They were strangely dull. Light did not reflect upon the lenses and deep down, beyond the physical matter of each eye, there was a darkness, a terrible emptiness, an absence of all light.

Farrier smiled at Darknoll's lack of response. Even the smile was haunting. "I am still amazed that you found me. You crossed the gulf between these realms and tracked me down in a world that was not your own. I am very impressed."

"Don't be," Darknoll said.

"How? How did you do it?"

Darknoll stared at him, anger and irritation rising like a beast in his chest. He forced it down, using all his strength to keep his head.

Farrier raised a hand. "No matter. You do not have to tell me how you did it any more than I have to tell you what I am trying to do. But I am beginning to wonder if destiny played a part in it. Your route to me."

"And why do you say that?"

Farrier's eyes narrowed. "You touched my machine, didn't you? You did something to it. It has simply stopped working, and I have no idea why. The only solution I can come up with . . . is you."

Darknoll recalled that strange moment, that sudden overwhelming urge to touch the strange device, something so ominous, and so alien. . .

And Farrier was talking about destiny. . .

"Without that machine, I cannot complete my task. And I am so close. So very close."

"So that is why you dropped the charges." He couldn't help but smile. "You need me."

"Unfortunately, yes. I do. I have a feeling that whatever strange power you possess, your touch will bring the machine back to life."

"Really?" Darknoll said. "How interesting."

Farrier gave an amiable shrug. "I cannot force you, Darknoll. That much I have learned. The power I possess to control and influence weak minds has no effect on you, another interesting element to add to your mystery. That power was essential for me to pass unnoticed in the alternate realms, to carry out my task. But you . . . your mind is too strong. I cannot make you do anything. So, I wanted to meet with you first, talk to you face to face. I have to say, I was more than a little intrigued." He turned his body to face Darknoll across the back of the pew. He cocked his head to one side. "Who are you, Joshua Darknoll? Who are you, and why have you become this thorn in my side?"

"I am just a man, no more, no less. A man who wants to find his way home. Believe me, the only thing stopping me from breaking your neck right now is the fact that you're the only person who can help me get back."

Farrier smiled. "Well, that leaves us in a very interesting position, does it not? A stalemate, one might say. Are you not curious, then, to know my plan? Are you not interested in why I have been doing all these terrible things?"

Darknoll shook his head. "I only knew you were a madman and that I had to stop you."

"Please, Darknoll, that is a little disingenuous. You try to put forward this persona of the uncompromising, hard-nosed detective who will stop at nothing to stop the murderers and monsters of the world, but deep down, we both know you have a romantic soul. That you do care. That young woman you were with? She is a prostitute, am I right?"

Darknoll did not reply, but Farrier continued without pause.

"I read her thoughts, back at the house. Read them, absorbed them, pulled them apart. She believes she reminds you of someone you know, someone you care about deeply. She thinks you want to save her." Farrier leaned closer. "And I think that's true. Tell me you don't have a romantic heart. Tell me you don't want to know, that you don't care why I am doing this?"

Darknoll stared, poised, and suddenly unsure of himself in every way. "When I touched that machine," he said, "I saw a . . . a vision. I don't know what else to call it. I saw the world, all worlds . . . nine different versions. And there was one . . . it was like a vision of hell. And there was you—Lord Farrier, to be precise. Your eyes were on fire. Your mind was screaming, screaming for help, but there was no help coming, not in that place." Darknoll stared hard, searching the man's empty eyes, searching for something, some glimmer of a human soul. "You are not Lord Farrier. If what I saw in that vision was true, if it actually happened, then Lord Farrier was emptied out of this body a long time ago. My question is . . . who . . . or what . . . is controlling you now?" He moved closer, their faces only inches apart. "You asked me who I am? Who . . . are you?"

A smile crept slowly across Farrier's face, his unblinking eyes dancing with something close to amusement. "I am known as Barragoth, but my children and I have many names. The druids called us The Skelleks, or The Barra-Nok—the Dark Gods of Oblivion. A cult of druids called the Druiss-Hai imprisoned us centuries ago in that infernal realm. They used all their knowledge and power to create an unbreakable prison, which would seal us away from humanity for all eternity. Unfortunately, in so doing they splintered the universe, creating the nine realms, nine versions of the world that once was. It was then that the Druiss-Hai set about sealing the entrance to each realm, performing rituals so powerful that we could not even cross the silver sea, the fluid between realms, making doubly sure that we, The Barra-Nok, could never ever escape.

"And it worked . . . until Lord Farrier stepped through a tear in reality, into our prison. When we saw him, we seized the opportunity to enslave him to our cause. As you so eloquently put it, I emptied him out and took possession of his body."

"What was he doing there?" Darknoll asked. "I met another man today with a ring like yours. He said he and Farrier were part of some secret society."

Farrier nodded. "They are the last descendants of the Druiss-Hai. This ring is their emblem of membership, passed down through the centuries, each new generation responsible for keeping an eye on the darkness, making sure the Gods of Oblivion are kept in their place." He smiled—a cold, humourless grin. "As a member of that society, Farrier was, as far as I can tell, a good man . . . until he lost his family. The tragedy ruined him—broke his heart and his spirit. In his grief, he began searching the other realms trying to find his loved ones, to replace them, as it were. But he made one fatal error and ended up in our realm. He barely had time to realise his mistake. We were upon him in an instant." Farrier looked almost sorrowful. "He didn't stand a chance."

Darknoll imagined the scene, the terror, and closed his eyes.

Farrier continued. "Once inside his mortal shell I was free to travel to the other realms using the machine he built. In each realm, I performed the rituals that would unlock each of the druid's gates. The rituals were complex, requiring two sacrifices from each realm and a third from the central domain—this one."

"That's why so many prostitutes went missing from Little Amsterdam," Darknoll said.

"Correct. The Druiss-Hai performed identical rituals all those centuries ago, like sewing shut a tear in the fabric of each world. I have simply reversed the process."

Darknoll stared at the crucifix above the altar, trying to let this information settle in his exhausted brain. "You called this the central realm," he said. "Are you saying this was the . . . original world? This was the world before it became . . . splintered?"

Farrier nodded. "It would appear so. The rituals carried out in your world were the final set. Your world was the ninth realm. Now all that is left is to open the final gate, the gate to our prison. But," he said, with a frown, "I cannot do that without the machine. The parallax engine creates gateways between realms, tears a hole through the fabric of reality, allowing me to pass through. Without that, I am unable to finish my work."

Darknoll shook his head. "You're asking me to help you unlock the gates of hell."

"Hell?" Farrier said. "How quaint. The infernal realm is many things, but not hell. Not the hell you humans imagine. Men make their own hell here on earth, wouldn't you agree? In here." He touched his temple, then placed a hand over his heart. "And in here."

"So, let me understand this, if I did help you, if I somehow made your machine start working again, what happens after that? What happens when you unlock the final seal?"

Farrier's face grew dark. "My children and I will come through into this, the central domain, and from this world set forth through all nine realms, bringing chaos and darkness to every corner of existence. In time, all life will be exterminated, the very fabric of existence erased . . . until there is only beautiful . . . perfect . . . oblivion."

Darknoll nodded slowly. "Then that . . . is all I need to know." He stood up and edged his way along the pew.

"We could, of course, make a deal."

Darknoll stopped. He turned back, intrigued by the note of desperation in Farrier's voice.

"Deal?" Darknoll said. "Since when do . . . gods make deals with men?"

Farrier pursed his lips. "Oh, it's been known to happen." He twirled his cane for a moment. "What if I spared your world, Darknoll?"

Darknoll watched Farrier closely.

"What if I let you go home and my children and I never set foot in that realm? You would be . . . oblivious to the annihilation of the other realms, left alone to live out your life in peace." Farrier met his eyes. "What do you say?"

Darknoll took his time answering. The idea was tempting. All he wanted was to get back home to Louise and the comfort of his own world. Until two days ago, he had known nothing of other realms, alternate realities. But how could he make a deal with this man? He wasn't a man anyway. The being before him was evil. Pure evil. How could he possibly trust such a creature? If Farrier wanted to erase everything in existence, he wouldn't spare one world. That would negate the idea of pure oblivion . . .

In the end, there was only one thing on his mind, one question that required an answer. "The young woman I was with today? The . . . prostitute? In my world, that young woman is the girl I love. So, tell me, does that woman, that person, exist in all realms?"

Farrier arched an eyebrow. "Of course," he said.

Darknoll nodded. "Then my answer is no."

He turned and started down the aisle, pulling up the collars of his coat in preparation for the heavy rain outside.

"Oblivion is coming, Darknoll," Farrier called out, his voice echoing around the empty church. "There's nothing you can do to stop it."

Darknoll fixed his eyes on the rectangle of light ahead and kept walking.

"She must be quite something," Farrier said. "Quite something, indeed. She must mean . . . everything to you."

Darknoll paused at the door but did not turn back. A cold lance of fear suddenly pierced his heart.

Lily . . .

He slipped out into the rain-soaked night and started running and he didn't stop running until he reached the outskirts of Little Amsterdam.

27

"Calm yourself, my dear," Miss Constantine said. She placed a towel around Lily's shoulders and sat down beside her on the bed. "Come on, big girls don't cry, remember? Let me fix that cut for you."

Madam Constantine brought over a bowl of warm water and soaked a clean towel in it. Gently, she began to wipe away the dried blood from the side of her face.

Lily sat staring straight ahead, unable to stop the tears running down her cheeks. Despite Madam Constantine's advice and her own best efforts, she kept reliving the scene in the police forecourt—the hatred, the naked fury in those people's eyes. She truly believed, had she not been able to find her feet again, that they would have kicked her to death. Why? Because she was a prostitute.

"Why did you go, girl?" Madam Constantine said. "You know the risks of going out into society. I'm always telling you, aren't I?"

"Please, Madam Connie," Lily said, "please don't say you told me so."

She winced as Madam Constantine dabbed the wet cloth against the cut. "Lily, you know I do it because I care for you. I care for all of you girls. The world outside of Little Amsterdam does not understand us. And people always attack the things they don't understand."

"But why?" Lily sobbed. "Why do they hate us so much?"

Madam Constantine shrugged. "Who knows, girl? Who knows?"

"Even murderers received better treatment."

Madam Constantine put down the bloodstained cloth and stroked Lily's hair for a time. "You didn't answer my question. Why did you go off with that man? You didn't know him from Adam, and with all our girls disappearing this past few months, I was so afraid for you."

"I . . . I trusted him, Connie, I don't know why, I just felt . . ." She fought a new wave of tears. "I felt as though I knew him. Haven't you ever felt that about someone you just met? Like you've known them all your life?"

Madam Constantine shrugged. "Once, when I was very young," she said. "Tommy Larkin. Irish lad, as soon as our eyes met in church one day, I thought, Hello old friend." Her wistful expression turned sour. "If only he hadn't died in the War . . ." She let the thought float away into silence.

Lily pursed her lips and let out an emotional sigh. "He thinks he can save me from this life."

Madam Constantine put her arm around her and hugged her tight. "They all do, Lily, my love. They all do."

They sat in silence for a while. The door chime sounded from the floor below.

Constantine gave her one more squeeze and then, cupping the girl's chin, she turned her face to look into her eyes.

"Listen, there's someone at the door. I have to attend to them. You take as much time as you need up here, all right?"

Lily nodded.

Madam Constantine stood up and walked to the bedroom door.

"Connie?" Lily said.

"Yes, dear?"

"I don't want any men," she said. "Not tonight."

Madam Constantine nodded and slipped out of the room.

Lily wiped at the tears on her face and fell back across the bed. She tried to close her eyes, but all she could see was his face.

Darknoll.

Since meeting him for the first time in the lounge downstairs, she had immediately sensed there was something about him, something she had never felt with any of the men who came here with their simple, lustful desires. This man had a light in his eyes that spoke directly to her heart, and she had felt the first stirrings of something quite special. There was a connection there, a connection she failed to understand, but which was there nonetheless.

_I know you_. That's what he said. _Another life_ . . .

What did that mean? Was it just a gentleman's poetic overstatement? Was he trying to win her heart with fancy words and romantic notions? Well, if he was, it had worked. As much as she had learned to harden her heart to the silly romantic inclinations of some men, she was unable to resist this. And after their adventures today she had begun to have fanciful notions herself, had dared to imagine what it would be like to allow this man into her heart, and into her life.

Yes, he wanted to save her and part of her was flattered that such a man would take an interest in her wellbeing. But she had seen such cases with friends before and they always ended in tragedy. The men came, experienced the carnal joys of these young women and then promised them the world. The few who had been naïve enough to accept the offer of help had ended up becoming trapped in a different sense, subjected to a life of sexual demands far worse than the life they endured here on the streets, becoming a sexual slave to their supposed saviours, and being forced to either endure this cold new compromised existence or to rebel and end up being dropped back on the street in a worse situation than before. She understood the reality of her situation and the situation all her friends were in. Once a whore, always a whore. Being saved by a man was a fantasy. There was no fairy tale ending.

"Lily?" Madam Constantine called from the door of her room.

Lilly sat up, surprised that she had returned so quickly, despite her request for privacy. The shadow of a man stood just behind her in the hallway.

"Madam Connie," she began, unable to hide her annoyance. "I thought I . . ."

Before she could say any more, Madam Constantine stepped aside and the man who filled the frame took her breath away.

"J-Joshua?"

"Hello, Lily," he said, taking a couple of uncertain steps into the room.

A swollen silence followed. Lily looked from him to Connie and back again.

Madam Constantine leaned in and grabbed the door handle. "I'll leave you two in peace," she said, shutting the door.

Lily remained seated on the bed. Her heart raced, thudding in her chest like an out of control piston.

"What . . . what are you doing here?" she asked.

"I was worried about you," he said.

Tears sprang into her eyes and she looked away.

"I'm sorry," he said. "If you want me to leave, I . . ."

"Why is this happening?" she said, meeting his eyes again.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know you. I've never seen you before last night. Then why do I . . . feel . . . this way?"

He took a step forward. "What way?"

"I've had men say they care about me, tell me they love me but I knew they never meant it. It was just words. But you . . . ?"

They studied each other's eyes for a long moment. A single tear spilled down her cheek.

Darknoll sat down on the bed beside her. He took her hand in his and held it for a moment. Gently, he raised it to his lips and kissed it.

"You have no idea how special you are, Lily Parker." He looked into her eyes, the same blue eyes he had looked into a hundred thousand times back in his world. The same, but different. "You will never know how much you mean to me."

She stared back at him, her face creasing as she tried desperately to understand his words and the nuances behind them. Her heart raced, breath quickened and her head felt light, as if she was intoxicated.

A heartbeat later, she leaned forward and kissed him. Although he accepted the kiss, she felt his body tense just a little, a momentary hesitation. She grabbed both sides of his head as the kiss became more passionate. She felt the ache in her groin, a natural ache she had not felt in such a long time, the ache of longing, the ache of lust that was far, far removed from the mechanical acts she was used to.

He fell back on the bed under the weight of her embrace, his hand slipping behind her head. The kissed lingered, growing ever more intense. It felt so right, as if this was the one thing that had been missing all her life—this moment, this feeling, this kiss.

Then she broke away. She pushed herself up off the bed and began pacing the carpet, trying to regain control of her breathing.

Darknoll sat up slowly on the bed, his face flushed and his hair ruffled.

Lily glanced at him a couple of times as she walked back and forth, running her hands through her hair.

Then she stopped, leaned on the dresser and started undoing the buttons on her dress.

"Lily," he said.

She did not reply. The dress came off and she let it tumble to the floor. She slipped off her petticoats and draped them over the back of the chair.

"Lily, wait," he said. His voice was soft, but she could hear a hint of sadness in it. "I can't. I can't do this."

She paused, standing before him in her slip, exposed, fragile, and confused. So confused. The tears threatened to come again, but she bit down hard on her lip, trying to keep them back.

"We don't have to do this," he said, shaking his head.

"I don't know what else to do," she said. The tears came then, her shoulders shuddering as she descended into a fit of sobs. "I don't know what else to do!"

He went to her, slipped his arms around her. Big, strong arms. He buried his face in her hair and stroked her back with his fingers.

"I don't want this life," she said. "I don't . . . I don't want any of it."

"Shhh," he whispered. "It's all right. Everything is going to be all right."

He led her over to the bed and they lay down beside each other. Somewhere outside in the avenue, someone was playing an accordion, the lilting melody filling the night air and falling on them both like a soothing balm. Her sobs faded, and her sore, tired eyes closed. She fell asleep holding his hand and for the first time in her life, she felt safe.

Completely and utterly safe.

***

That night, she dreamed of another life. She dreamed she was living in a beautiful house, and the man was there, the only man who mattered. He was always in another room, just out of sight, but the sheer fact that he was there, in the house with her, was all she needed.

Sometimes, she would press her ear to the wall and she could hear his heart beating in the next room.

"Joshua," she said.

" _Louiiiiiise_ ," came the reply.

28

THOOOOOOOOOM

Darknoll snapped awake. The walls of the house shuddered. Screams rose up from the street below.

Lily woke up, her hand gripping his tight. "What was that?"

He ran to the window and shoved it open. At the eastern end of the Avenue a huge cloud of smoke filled the street from the ground up. Flashes of flame and small electrical explosions. The few people still prowling the Avenue in these small hours were running away from the cloud.

There was a blinding white flash from within the cloud and a second explosion rocked the houses. Lily ran up behind him, leaning over his shoulder to see.

"What's going on? What's happening?"

A cold hand gripped his heart. If this was what he feared . . .

"Lily," he said, "I want you to stay here." He went to the door.

She followed him.

"Stay up here, will you please? I want you safe."

"But, Joshua . . ."

He raised his hand, gave her a warning glare. He slipped out of the room and down the stairs. Madam Constantine was already at the front door. She ripped it open and together they rushed out into the Avenue.

Darknoll studied the churning wall of smoke. There, at street level, he could see dark shapes forming, solidifying into the silhouettes of men.

Farrier broke out of the cloud first. He marched forward with a confident stride, four men on one side and five on the other. Each of the men held a variety of weapons. Guns, knives, rifles, and dynamite. One of the men threw one of the lighted sticks in through a ground floor window. The explosion was smaller than the previous ones but no less deadly. Glass and masonry flew across the street, showering innocent people. Some of the flying glass even struck the man who threw the dynamite but he barely flinched.

Farrier's eyes found Darknoll's through the haze, and a broad, devilish grin split his features. In one hand, he held his cane, in the other, the Machine.

"Madam Constantine," Darknoll said. "I think you should get to safety. Take your girls and go inside."

She did not move.

He turned and studied her face. She watched Farrier's advance with the same mesmerised expression as his army of followers.

One of the street workers rushed past Darknoll, attacking Farrier with a claw hammer raised above his head. Before he was within ten feet of him, the man to his right shot him down with a rifle. Blood sprayed across the cobbles. Farrier stepped over the man's body and approached Darknoll with a casual air.

"Well, Darknoll," he said, "I may not be able to control your mind but it appears I can control your heart. One hint from me as to my next move and here you are, right . . . where . . . I want you."

Darknoll surveyed the scene. The nine men under his control stood at the ready, weapons poised, docile but dangerous at the same time. He glanced round at the girls from Madam Constantine's house. They, too, appeared mesmerised, watching the events through vacant eyes. More people joined them, rushing up from the western end of the Avenue.

"No one else needs to get hurt," Farrier said. He held out the strange contraption before him. The chambers, which had once glowed with that unearthly green colour, remained a dull, lifeless shade of gray. Farrier shook the machine and three small tripod legs snapped out straight. He placed it on the cobbles between them. "All I want you to do is put your hand on the machine. Then all of this will be over."

Darknoll shook his head. "That's the point, though, isn't it? If I do touch your infernal machine, all of this _will_ be over— _everything_. The end for everyone."

"So . . . you still refuse?"

Darknoll set his jaw, fists clenched.

"Still playing the part, are we? The cold, unfeeling copper?" he shrugged. "What a shame." He tilted his head to the man beside him. "Kill one of the women," he said. "I don't care which."

Before anyone could move, the man raised his pistol and fired. The shot was so loud and the flash so bright it took several moments to adjust and to realise what had happened. Darknoll turned to his left just as Madam Constantine sank to her knees. Her hands were clasped together over her stomach. She looked up at Darknoll with wide, startled eyes, as blood began to ooze between her fingers. He reached for her as she toppled sideways and helped lower her carefully to the floor. None of the other girls came to her aid, frozen as they were like pale statues.

"You bastard!" Darknoll hissed.

Madam Constantine's eyes fluttered closed and he wondered if she even knew what had happened to her, if Farrier's controlling powers lifted after death.

He flew at the man who had fired the weapon. He was big and bovine in his reactions, allowing Darknoll to overpower him easily. He smashed his fist into the man's right cheek, then brought up his knee to knock the wind out of him. As the man dropped to the ground, Darknoll snatched the gun from him.

Just as the women failed to go to Madam Constantine's aid, none of Farrier's other disciples moved to protect their fallen 'comrade'.

Darknoll stepped up to Farrier and put the pistol to his left temple. His entire body shook with rage. Farrier, on the other hand, remained completely calm. A small smile touched his lips.

"I do like this game," he said.

"You think this is a game?" Darknoll said. "If I put a bullet in your brain, the game ends. Am I right?"

Farrier made a face, a pantomime version of pity. "I'm sorry, but no, it won't change a thing. If you did put a bullet in my brain, and I do sincerely doubt you could, but if you did, if you destroyed this body, my consciousness will simply move into another host." His eyes flickered to the men at his sides. "One of these fine men, perhaps?" Then he looked to the assembled prostitutes. "Or one of your lady friends?" He looked directly into Darknoll's eyes. "It's entirely up to you. Your choice."

Darknoll's heart sank. He gripped the handle of the pistol tighter, flexing his finger against the trigger. His anger was so overwhelming now it was hard to think straight. Maybe Farrier, or the consciousness controlling him, was bluffing. What if killing him right here in the street _did_ end all this?

"Go on," Farrier whispered. "Do it. Let's see what happens."

Darknoll's nostrils flared, his breathing grew ragged. It had to be the exhaustion addling his brain, making him lose sight, lose focus. He was the only one with the power to stop this madman. All he had to do was pull the trigger.

Time seemed to slow down. Darknoll couldn't even feel his own heart beating anymore. He saw a vision of himself firing the pistol, Farrier's head snapping back as the bullet ripped through his brain . . .

But that was all it was. A vision.

The gun wavered and sank slowly until it rested at his side.

Farrier kept eye contact the whole time. He said nothing, just gave a knowing nod.

"Grab him," Farrier said, and all at once, the men behind him pounced on Darknoll, rough hands all over him, forcing him to his knees before the machine. He struggled, but the power of eight men was too much. Two men grabbed his right wrist and pushed his hand out. He resisted every inch of the way, but in the end, he could not stop.

His open palm pressed down on the machine's cold surface . . .

. . . and nothing happened.

They held his hand there for a few seconds.

Farrier frowned. "Again," he said.

Darknoll's hand came away, and they forced it back onto the machine.

Still nothing.

Farrier's head tilted to one side. He looked away, open confusion and disappointment on his face. He shook his head slowly. "Maybe I was wrong," he said. "Or, maybe . . . maybe you need a little more . . . motivation."

He looked Darknoll in the eye.

"Where is she?"

Darknoll stared back.

"Where is . . . the _woman_? You know who I mean."

Farrier looked up at the house, Madam Constantine's place, his eyes narrowing, searching. He closed his eyes.

"Come to me," he said.

"No," Darknoll said, fighting against the men. "No! Lily! Get away!"

He looked over as the door of the house creaked open and Lily stepped out. Her face was wet with tears, but she moved like a sleepwalker, her eyes fixed on Farrier.

Darknoll hung his head, spitting onto the cobbles.

Lily walked right up to Farrier who gripped her arm. "Hello, my dear," he said into her ear. "It appears you are a very important young woman. Let's see just how important, shall we?" He stretched out his hand. "Gun," he said.

One of the men broke away from Darknoll and handed him his pistol. Farrier forced Lily to her knees, the pistol pointed at her cheek.

Lily stared into Darknoll's eyes. Tears welled like bright glass bulbs. He could see she was fighting it, fighting Farrier, but he knew how hard that could be. It was hard to tell if she was still aware, if she could hear him.

"Gentlemen," Farrier said. "I've been doing this all wrong. Let him go."

One by one, the men released their grip on Darknoll until he was alone, kneeling before the machine and staring at Lily, only at Lily.

"You're going to be all right," he told her.

She trembled, the tears threatening to spill over.

"Don't worry," he said. "You'll be all right,"

"Now," Farrier said. "I am going to count to three. One . . . two . . ."

Darknoll reached out and placed his hand on the machine. There was a vibration deep down inside the contraption, and a moment later, the entire object came alive. The metal casing rattled and the eerie green glow flared up brighter than ever before. Darknoll fell back as a huge cloud appeared above the engine and within the cloud appeared an image of the London skyline. A bright star-shaped light blossomed above the chimney pots. Nearby, Darknoll could see the dome of St Paul's Cathedral.

"There she is," Farrier said, breathless with awe. "In the sky this time. That makes things a little more complicated."

He looked at Darknoll.

"Thank you for your . . . cooperation. I no longer need your services, although I do need someone to complete my final task." He helped Lily to her feet. "Come, my dear. You seem like the perfect choice."

Farrier stooped to pick up the parallax device. He snapped its legs together and slipped it into the large inside pocket of his long coat.

"Oh," he said, almost as an afterthought, "If you were thinking of following us . . ."

He fired the pistol. The bullet ripped into Darknoll's chest. The impact sent him flailing onto his back.

Farrier and Lily marched hurriedly down the alleyway, before disappearing quickly into the cloud of smoke. Through the pain, Darknoll watched them go, feeling impotent and full of fury at his own failure.

29

Lily stumbled across the treacherous rooftops, dragged along by her kidnapper, and unable to find an outlet for the grief churning inside her. Madam Constantine was dead. She was the closest thing she had to a friend in this miserable world and she had watched her die in the street. Dear, dear Connie . . .

And, as far as she knew, Darknoll was dead, too.

Darknoll . . .

_You're going to be all right_ , he had said.

They had slept together last night, but there had been no lovemaking. Had there? Her memory was a broken thing, that part of the brain which enabled her to recall things now dull and uncooperative. She had only the vaguest notion of him trying to save her from her life.

Was it really such a bad thing for him to want?

"Come along, Lily," the stranger said, yanking hard on her arm so that her shoulder burned. She grunted with pain as he dragged her over a small wall and down a tiled sloping roof. Up ahead, two rooftops away, she could see a landing platform. Several airships rested on the large open area, steam rising from their idling engines. Several uniformed airmen moved to and fro between the ships.

_Police_. Her heart lifted momentarily, but then she remembered how they had treated her at the station.

Her kidnapper slowed his pace as he approached the platform. He leaned in close, like a lover, and said, "Hush now, Lily. Let me do all the talking."

She tried to open her mouth to respond, but her tongue was a lifeless lump of flesh in her mouth. They climbed through the guide ropes surrounding the platform and approached the nearest airship. The large silver turbines churned the air, plumes of steam rising up to engulf the deck. A young man in a Skyboy uniform emerged on the gangplank. Hearing their approach, he greeted them with an expectant, surprised look on his face.

"My good man," Farrier said. "We are in urgent need of your assistance. A maniac is on the loose, and he is heading this way."

The young Skyboy stepped aside, and another figure appeared behind him on the gangplank. Tall, thin, with a face like a skull.

"Farrier," Chief Superintendent Staber said. "You must stop this madness. Stop it now."

***

Darknoll forced his body upright, ignoring the searing pain in his chest. He peeled back the blood-soaked shirt just above his heart and studied the entry wound. The bullet had missed his heart, but had not come out the other side. As he flexed the muscles between his shoulder blades, he felt the shattered bullet deep inside.

"Oh God," he said through clenched teeth.

If he didn't get treatment soon, he would surely die.

He glanced around the Avenue. Madam Connie's lifeless body lay on the cobbles just a few feet away, with over a dozen others all lying around him unconscious. Everyone else ran frantically back and forth carrying buckets of water in a desperate attempt at putting out the raging fires.

No one was coming to his aid.

And no one here knew the danger they all faced. If Farrier completed his task, if he achieved his goal, then all of this, everything would be lost.

Darknoll took several long, deep breaths, breathing as deeply as he could, then climbed to his feet. The pain was blinding, sending waves of nausea through him.

He had to stop Farrier. He had no choice now.

He had to save Lily.

And Farrier had the device. The device was his only chance of getting home.

He started down the Avenue at a slow trot, fighting against the pain, ignoring the blood running down his chest.

He would stop Farrier, or he would die trying.

***

Lily watched as the two men studied each other. The tall man in the bowler hat held a gun on Farrier. She noticed they wore the same strange ring. A ring made of bone.

"What are you doing, Farrier? What is this madness?"

Farrier cocked his head to one side. "And you must be . . . Staber?"

"Farrier?" Staber said, taking a step down the gangplank. His eyes narrowed as he studied him in the moonlight. He shook his head. "Oh . . . you are not Farrier. Not any more." Staber's air of confidence faltered. "What happened? What happened to Reuben Farrier?"

"He is long gone," Farrier said. "Nothing more than a memory."

"Then who are you? _What_ . . . are you?" Staber's eyes grew wide. "Oh," he said. "Oh . . . I understand. _You_. What are you trying to do?"

"Opening the infernal realm, Staber. There's nothing you or your pathetic brethren can do to stop it."

"A bullet in your brain might." He raised the gun. "Put your hands up!"

Farrier grinned, raising his arms halfway.

"Young lady," Staber said, beckoning to Lily "Come over to me."

She expected her limbs to remain frozen, but to her surprise, she found herself able to walk forward. She glanced back at Farrier in shock.

"Go on, my dear," Farrier said. "Go to him."

She climbed the gangplank until she was at Staber's side. He put a protective arm in front of her, keeping his eyes and his aim on the figure below.

"Maybe I should kill you now," Staber said. "If you are who you say you are."

"You know this body only contains my conscience," Farrier said. "You may kill the body, but my essence will move on. That's why you can't stop me, Staber."

Staber drew in a sharp breath, watching Farrier with a piercing gaze.

Farrier lowered his head, focussing his thoughts.

"I hope you're not trying to control my mind," Staber said. "You know I'm impervious to such tricks."

"You are," Farrier said. "But she isn't."

Before Staber fully realised the threat, Farrier sent a mental shove into Lily's mind. She lunged forward, shoving Staber with all her strength. He was already close to the edge of the gangplank, so despite his superior strength, it took only a minor push to send him off balance.

Staber managed to squeeze off a single shot before plummeting over the side of the building.

Lily cried out in shock and despair as the man disappeared out of sight.

Farrier marched up the gangplank, a guttural chuckle sounding deep in his throat.

"Well done, my dear," he said. "Well done."

***

Darknoll landed on the sloping roof and lost his footing, his momentum carrying him downward into a short wall. He hit it hard, jarring his hip. Blinded by the white heat of pain which exploded in his chest, he screamed up into the sky, but there was an equal amount of anger in it, too. After a few moments, the pain began to ebb. Darknoll grabbed the brickwork and pulled himself up. There was a landing platform just ahead. A single airship rose steadily into the sky, smoke churning from its twin engines.

Please, God, don't let that be Farrier.

Darknoll climbed over the wall and hobbled along the remaining roof until he was at the guide ropes surrounding the platform. As soon as he was through them, a swarm of young men in goggles and leather jackets surrounded him, guns drawn and pointed directly at him.

"Don't take another step!" one of them said. Darknoll recognised him from the hospital. Jet-black hair and a boyish face. His name badge read SAMSON. "Put your hands in the air. Now!"

Darknoll raised one arm, trying to appear cooperative but unable to disguise the pain in his chest. He glanced at the airship still rising into the moonlit sky above them. He could see three figures in the pod. Farrier, Lily and a pilot? Dear God, had he hypnotised one of these Skyboys into taking him to his destination? If so, what else had he told these men?

"Listen," Darknoll said, speaking slowly and carefully against the biting pain, trying to sound sane and reasonable. "Listen to me, I implore you. That man you've just let go in that airship, he is a murderer."

"That's funny," Samson said, "he said the exact same thing about you."

"Of course he did. But I assure you he is a madman and the young woman with him is being held against her will."

"She didn't look that way to me. Pilot Anders is taking them somewhere safe for the time being."

"No," Darknoll said, "no, he isn't. Your pilot is in danger, too. You have to let me follow him. I have to stop him."

"You're not going anywhere, sir," Samson said, cocking his pistol. "Anders can take care of himself, I assure you. We've just heard there's been a series of explosions in Little Amsterdam. We're trying to raise Superintendent Lampshire on the wireless. I'd be interested to see what he has to say about all this."

Darknoll felt his heart plunge. He had no time to debate his actions.

He lunged forward into Samson, sending him crashing into the other Skyboys. As the young pilot fell backwards, Darknoll relieved him of his revolver. The other men didn't realise at first what he had done and came at him, fists clenched and ready for a fight. Darknoll raised the gun and pointed it at Samson.

"Don't!" he said.

The men halted a few feet from him.

Samson straightened up, his face clouded with anger. "You're making a big mistake," he said. He took a deep breath, held out a steady hand. "We can help you. Just give me the gun—"

"No!" Darknoll shouted. "No! No! You've got everything wrong, you idiot! I am not the one you need to fear!" He could see the determination in the men's faces. They weren't going to back down. Darknoll glanced at the retreating airship, now no bigger than a guinea in the night sky. "I'm afraid there's no time to explain."

He grabbed Samson by the arm. "I need you. Come with me."

They backed away from the crowd together; the Skyboys watching them go with piercing stares. Darknoll approached the nearest airship with its engine running and dragged Samson up the gangplank. The name LUXOR was painted in large letters on the hull of the pod. Once the ramp had been withdrawn, Darknoll dragged the young pilot with him to the control station.

"Get us in the air, Samson. As fast as you can."

Samson looked at him with a defiant glare. Darknoll raised the gun so that it touched the young man's temple.

"Please?"

Reluctantly, Samson pulled a lever that released the mooring blocks. The engine growled into life.

"What are you trying to do, sir?" Samson asked.

"Just get us in the air and I'll tell you."

Samson pumped the gas stoker, sending the Luxor rising up into the night sky at an alarming speed. Darknoll clutched the guide wire and watched the landing platform fall away until the crowd of pilots were nothing more than dark smudges on the platform below.

"You won't get away, sir," Samson said. "You know that, don't you?"

"Yes," Darknoll replied. "But getting away is not my concern right now."

"Then what is?"

"Would you believe me if I told you I was trying to save the world?"

***

The Luxor was soon sailing high above the rooftops, a huge bank of cloud about thirty feet above them. The engines purred in the still night air.

"Are you going to tell me where we're headed, or are we just going to waste all our fuel flying in circles and crash into the Thames?"

Darknoll stood at the rear of the open cab, trying not to look over the side too often. The gun he was pointing at the young pilot wavered up and down.

"Just continue east," he snapped, fighting the nausea that threatened to overtake him.

The young man looked over at him for a moment, considering something. "You know, if you let me in on your plan I might be able to help you."

"Please, young man, don't start. I'm well aware of the procedure of trying to win over your kidnapper. Trust me, I hated having to do this as I imagine you hate being here with me now. But I have to do this. I don't expect anyone to understand."

"You seem convinced that no one is going to believe you."

Darknoll managed a smile. "If I told you what I know, you would laugh in my face."

"Try me," Samson said, turning and facing him.

They watched each other for a time, the hum of the engines filling the silence.

"The events which have led me to this moment, to this rather desperate state of affairs, they are . . . how can I describe it? Well . . . not even a madman would believe it."

"I'm not a child, sir. I've seen things, strange things." He looked out across the rooftops of London. "From time to time outlandish things happen, events which no one can explain. I've heard people talk about strange, secret doorways out there . . . out there, where things leak through into our world."

The lad's reverie intrigued Darknoll, but he remembered his task and scanned the geography around them.

"Head sou'west," he said.

Without argument, Samson adjusted his trajectory instruments and the fabric of the pod's wings snapped noisily in the night wind as they altered their configuration. The Luxor tilted slightly then straightened out on its course.

Samson continued, "Once, when I was a rookie flyer, I was sent on a mission to find a criminal, a petty thief who'd been terrorising the Cheapside neighbourhood. He had struck again that night, so we flew over the area where he'd last been sighted, scouting the neighbourhood like we were told to do.

"At about midnight, we spotted something moving across the rooftops. Moving fast. I had the chief pilot drop me on one of the roofs, and I gave chase on foot. I ran as fast as I could but whatever I was chasing was too fast, too agile. Eventually it came to a gap in the roofs that must have been twenty feet, maybe more. This thing, whatever it was, jumped it without so much as a pause and came down gracefully, like a panther. It stopped, turned back and grinned at me like a man, but in its mouth I saw teeth the size of kitchen knives."

"What happened?"

"I told my chief exactly what I saw and . . . he laughed at me. The rest of that night I was the butt of everyone's jokes. But I knew what I had seen. It was not my imagination. The next morning, events proved me right. They found the thief who had supposedly done the robberies hanging from a meat hook in a cold cellar next door to the burgled property. His throat had been ripped out."

Darknoll nodded solemnly. "So what do you think it was? That thing you chased on the rooftops?"

Samson shook his head. "I have no idea, but . . . all I'm saying is there are things out there in the dark. Things that should not be find a way in. I don't know how or why, but they do."

He looked into Darknoll's eyes.

"If you think you're the only one who's going mad, the good news is you're in good company."

Darknoll nodded. "St Paul's Cathedral," he said. "That's where we're headed."

Samson's young features broke into a smile and he turned to the coordinates dial and turned a small flywheel.

"St Paul's it is," he said. He slammed his boot against a floor pedal which sent the wind turbines either side of the cab into a high-pitched whine. The steam cylinders pumped faster and the aerostat lurched forwards and upwards. They climbed steadily until they were above the clouds and, with a thunderous roar, the steam-driven engines pushed them south with great speed.

Darknoll clutched the rail and peered over the side. The sheets of cloud below them raced by in a snowy-white blur. With the sudden realisation they were flying two-hundred feet above the ground came a sharp lurching sensation in his stomach.

"Don't worry, sir," Samson said. "We'll catch him. We have one advantage. Anders is a novice pilot. I know how to get the most out of this girl."

They sailed in silence for a while. Darknoll glanced over the side and instantly regretted it. He thought about Lily, how terrified she must be at this moment, even beneath her trance-like state. Farrier had said he needed to make one more sacrifice, and Lily must know it had to be her. He realised with sudden clarity that if he didn't stop Farrier and save Lily, then Louise— _his_ Louise—would be lost to him, too; if he failed to obtain the parallax engine, the doorway which led back to her would be closed forever. It was a strange circumstance that saving Lily also meant saving his chances of seeing Louise again.

"Sir, look!"

Darknoll stumbled towards the front of the cab. Samson was pointing straight ahead. Just visible above the spires of London was an airship identical to theirs.

"That's him," Darknoll said.

"Let me raise Anders on the radio," Samson said, flicking a switch on the control board. "Anders, do you receive me? This is Samson aboard the Luxor. Please respond?"

The receiver speaker crackled and hissed for several seconds, then a voice appeared, distorted by the poor reception, but undoubtedly belonging to Farrier. "I'm afraid . . . Anders is no longer with us."

Samson stared at the other airship, his boyish eyes clouding over. His lips pressed together. "You'll pay for this," Samson said.

"No, I don't think so, young man. Is Darknoll with you?"

"I'm here," Darknoll said.

"You can't do anything to stop me, Darknoll. Why are you even trying?"

"Because I have to."

"But if you do anything to alter my plans, Lily here will suffer, you know that."

"I don't believe you. You need her."

Farrier fell silent. "We shall see." Seconds later, the channel closed with an audible pop.

Darknoll looked at Samson. "Can you catch him?"

"Just watch me."

Samson kicked a floor-level lever and spun a large wheel, causing the pistons above their heads to increase their speed. The engine whine grew louder as the aerostat surged forward. As they raced ahead through sheets of fleeting cloud, Darknoll's eyes focused on the silhouette of their prey, trying to pick out the two forms on board—Farrier, and most importantly, Lily.

Then something flashed in the distance.

"What was that?" Darknoll said.

He peered closer and found a ball of fiery orange light speeding towards them.

"Fireball!" Samson said, reaching across the dashboard and thumping a button with the heel of his hand. "Hold onto something!"

"What are you doing?" Darknoll yelled.

"Taking evasive action."

Without warning the Luxor's nose pitched forward and the entire craft plunged down into the carpet of clouds beneath them. The fireball thundered by overhead, narrowly missing the right-hand envelope. Darknoll's feet lost their purchase and he found himself on his knees, crushed up against the control column. Samson was still steering the craft towards the ground whilst buckling himself into a harness in the standing position. He pulled back on the steering levers and the aerostat began to level out. As it did so, Darknoll saw a clock tower rushing to meet them. He pointed frantically at it, unable to voice his terror.

"I've got it!" Samson yelled, fighting the controls. He pulled hard left and the Luxor banked sideways for a few breathless moments, sending Darknoll sliding across to the far side of the cab. He collided with a gas canister and fell flat on his back. He decided that was the safest position to be in for the foreseeable future.

The Luxor began climbing back up through the clouds, its engines churning noisily in the night air. Darknoll raised a trembling hand to the rigging and pulled himself upright to peer over the edge. When they emerged above the plateau of clouds, he found the craft they were pursuing only fifty or so feet ahead of them. He watched the young pilot as he grappled valiantly with the controls and felt a spike of admiration.

"How much further?" Darknoll asked.

Samson shook his head. "He's almost on top of it," he said.

Darknoll peered ahead into the deep blue sky and saw the St Etienne taking a wide sweep to the left, circling a large domed building. It was St Paul's Cathedral.

Just above the ball and lantern section of the great cathedral, Darknoll saw the gleaming rift in the sky—a shimmering rectangular section of silver water, floating in the air. It seemed to beckon them forward, sucking all light into its black heart.

The St Etienne turned in a graceful arc, disappearing momentarily behind the great dome, before plunging into the heart of the doorway without slowing. There was a flash of brilliant white light which forced Darknoll to shield his eyes. When he looked back there was no sign of the other craft in the sky. The glimmering opening in the night air twinkled like a newborn star.

Their craft continued on its course, heading straight for the dome.

Samson looked at Darknoll and shook his head. "What?" he said, his face coloured with disbelief. "What do we do now? Do we follow?"

"No," Darknoll ordered. "Slow down."

"Slow down?"

"Yes, can you moor up beside the dome?"

Samson nodded. "No problem."

The aerostat drifted close, sideways-on, the sandbags attached to its starboard bow touching the slates of the dome with a gentle scraping sound. Samson ran to the rear and unravelled a mooring rope, tossing it expertly up and around the great spire before securing it against the starboard rail.

Darknoll held onto the guide ropes, staring up into the gleaming doorway and then back along the length of the deck area.

"What are you doing?" Samson asked.

"What does it look like, young man?" he replied, backing up across the deck.

"You can't just jump!" Samson yelled.

Darknoll looked up at the scar again, then down at the streets some three hundred and sixty feet below, just visible through shreds of fleeting cloud. His heart sat in his throat at the thought of what he was about to do.

"I have to do this," he said.

"Let me come with you," Samson said.

Darknoll raised his hand. "No, please. You have helped me enough. You must stay here, in case I should return. I don't expect to, but if there is a chance . . ."

Samson shook his head. "No. The Luxor is fine here on its own. We can—"

"No, officer!" Darknoll said. "You will remain here. That is an order."

There was a long silence, after which Samson nodded.

"I'll be right here, sir."

Darknoll clapped him on the shoulder. Then he turned and looked up into the glare of the doorway's silver surface. This one was much the same as the last one he had seen, the one that had brought him to this awful place. He took a deep steadying breath, held it, preparing himself for another trip through the silver sea.

Darknoll ran at full speed along the deck, leaped from the bow of the Luxor and prayed.

30

The sensation of plunging into water was no less shocking the second time around. In fact, the anticipation of the submerging effect only heightened the shock to his system. He tried to hold onto his breath but the pressure on his lungs was immense, forcing the air from him after only a few seconds. A stream of bubbles floated out into the strange silver liquid surrounding him. He felt no current in this vast sea and yet he continued to move forward, as if propelled by nothing more than his own willpower.

After some time, he spotted a light up ahead. It seemed so far away, the distance too great. He wondered what would happen if he failed to reach the doorway in time, if he was unable to hold his breath any longer. The thought of taking another breath, of letting that mercurial liquid into his lungs, filled him with terror.

He shook his head, trying to rid his mind of the horrible images that surfaced. He clawed at the silver sea around him, trying to pull himself towards his destination, trying to speed his passage through it, but he continued at the same steady pace.

His lungs ached for air. Panicked thoughts began to race through his mind. The light came towards him in a slow arc. He closed his eyes, concentrating on forming an inner peace; anything to help him get through this dreadful crossing . . .

Then, without warning, the mercurial water surrounding him fell away in a sudden rush, like a tide escaping from the beach, and he was thrust forward into a world of intense heat and whirling sand.

He hit the ground heavily, plunging shoulder-first into a steep sandbank. He coughed into the hot sand, trying desperately to recover his breath. He rolled onto his back and inhaled deeply, but the air around him was blazing hot and scorched his throat. He looked up into a sky choked with black clouds; twisting columns of volcanic ash drifted across the horizon; bitter winds whipped across the open plain, hot sand and sulphur burning his skin.

Shielding his eyes from the devastating wind, he forced his body upright. The plain appeared empty. Large dunes of rich amber sand fell away to the horizon on all sides. The only object that broke up the grim landscape was the bulk of an airship, lying on its side in the dunes some fifty yards away. The sight of it, and the knowledge that it had to be the St Etienne, propelled him to his feet. Breathing in shallow gasps, he staggered forward, his eyes trying to fix on the battered wreck of the aerostat. As he drew closer he heard the sound of its tattered, deflated envelope snapping in the wind. The left-hand turbine still turned uselessly, spewing out a steady stream of hot sand behind it. Even as he approached Darknoll fully expected to find the bodies of its two occupants lying somewhere in the wreckage, but all he found was an empty cabin. He stumbled around the broken airship, searching through the tattered sheets of canvas in the hope of finding Lily, or at the very least, Farrier.

But they were gone.

He stood still against the storm and peered into the blistering wind, casting his eyes over the bleak landscape.

A range of mountains lay straight ahead, a series of huge caverns set into the rock face. But where were the two people he was after? They had only passed into this realm two, maybe three minutes earlier; they could not have gotten far.

He searched the sand around the wreckage of the St Etienne but found no footprints. The wind was so aggressive that it obliterated all footprints almost instantly.

Intent on finding some sign of their passage, he scoured the landscape again, both hands raised against the blasting sandstorm.

Then he saw it. A stone structure standing alone in the middle distance—a series of upright columns in a rough circle, with a T-shaped altar at the centre. And, if his eyes did not deceive him, two figures moving slowly towards it.

He broke into a run, trying to ignore the burning pain in his lungs, the flaying of his skin.

He closed on them with amazing speed, but before he could reach hailing distance, a tremor shook the ground all around him. He stumbled sideways, falling into a bank of dark sand. He turned and looked to his right where the movement had come from, eyes growing wide despite the vicious winds.

Several hideous forms moved against the bleak, sand-scorched horizon, massive creatures emerging from the caverns to the north. They approached the standing sculpture with a steady, languorous gait, each one over fifty feet tall, six legged with dull, slate grey skin, wrinkled like the hide of an ancient elephant. In the place where their mouths should have been tentacles writhed, not dictated to by gravity, but floating in the air the way things do in the density of water. As the nearest creature emerged from the dense clouds of ash, Darknoll saw its body in more detail. Clinging to its hide were swarms of large mosquito-like creatures the size of vultures. Worst of all, the torso of the monstrous beast was a nightmare made flesh. The skin of its underbelly was wafer thin in comparison to the rest of its hide, and inside there burned a terrible furnace. Within the prison of its ribcage, figures writhed in hellish torment, burning in the impossible fire, clawing and pressing their faces against the leathery skin but to no avail.

And there, lying in the sand about a hundred yards from the temple, lay another of the great beasts. The dunes partially covered its monstrous hide. It was impossible to tell if the beast was sleeping, hibernating or dead.

A low, mournful sound filled the air, the baying of the great beasts as they crossed the desert. The sound filled Darknoll with terror, ice water rushing into his veins. He focused on the two human figures moving ahead of him and resumed the pursuit.

He was close enough now to see that Farrier had removed most of his clothes. He stood in a vest and trousers, the rest of his garb lying in tatters around the podium. He dragged Lily up onto the raised dais.

Darknoll hurried on, despite the battering his body was taking. He wanted to reach them before Farrier did whatever it was he had planned with his prisoner. Then, just as he was mere yards from the lower steps of the structure, a cluster of shadows fell upon him.

He glanced up in time to see a dozen or more of the mosquito-like creatures gliding across the plains in his direction, approaching at great speed. More of the eldritch shapes lifted away from the hide of the enormous beast like limpets fleeing their host.

The flock of creatures descended upon him in a dizzying blur.

Two of the beasts landed on his shoulders, their combined weight forcing him headfirst into the dunes. His mouth filled with hot sand. He tried to roll over, but the creatures forced him down. Tentacles slick with mucus slithered around his wrists and ankles. He cried out but the sound was lost in the sand. He felt the _thud-thud-thud_ of more creatures landing all around him; heard the click-click-click sounds of their alien speech as they clambered toward him. With all his strength, he pushed his upper body backwards, ignoring the ghastly creatures surrounding him, and looked up to see . . .

. . . Farrier standing over Lily with a long stone dagger in his hand.

"Lily!" he cried out.

She turned and looked at him, but there was no recognition in her expression. She looked back up at the man in black standing over her.

He arched his back, arms outstretched towards the behemoths approaching across the dunes.

"The time is at hand, my children," he bellowed. "Finally, we will be free. This is my last act, my final sacrifice."

Then, without warning, Farrier surrendered the knife, offering the stone blade to Lily. She looked back at him, expressionless.

Darknoll held his breath.

Lily took the knife and hefted it in her palm. Farrier tore away his vest to reveal his torso. He had carved runes into his flesh, just as he had done with the previous victims.

Farrier was the final sacrifice, not Lily.

Farrier offered her his exposed chest.

"Do it, my child," he said. "Do it! I command you!"

Darknoll strained against the monstrous tethers that bound him, and in the end, all he could do was scream.

"No! Lily, don't!"

She looked down at the blade, as if mesmerised by it, then up at Farrier.

Gripping it in both hands, she raised the blade high above her head and then plunged it deep into his chest.

Farrier's body jerked.

He teetered in the air, his back arched, mouth stretched open in a silent scream. Then his head snapped back and a pale light drifted out of his mouth. The light curled up into the air, swirling around until finally drifting over towards the lifeless creature lying half-buried in the dunes.

Seconds later, Farrier's body collapsed to the floor, the knife protruding from his chest. Lily remained standing, staring at the fresh blood on her hands.

The wind grew in intensity, sending Lily stumbling into one of the pillars. Without warning, the creatures surrounding Darknoll took to the air. The slick tentacles holding him down released their grip. He looked up to see the mosquito-things heading across the plains towards the sleeping giant. Darknoll did not wait to ponder why they had released him or what was happening next. He got up on trembling legs and staggered towards the altar.

Lily clutched the pillar, eyes closed against the blistering winds. He took hold of her arm. She flinched and cried out in fear.

"Lily," he said, shouting to be heard above the maelstrom. "Lily, it's me."

She slowly opened her eyes and looked round.

"Where am I?" she yelled. Her eyes scanned the blistering landscape. "What is this place?"

"A place we do not want to be," he told her.

Darknoll pulled her close to him, trying to reassure her. She looked up at him and he saw the candle of recognition in them; but the sight of him, the odd stranger who had become obsessed with saving her these past few days, was only one more anomaly in a world of chaos and confusion.

"Am I dead?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No, you're not dead. But we need to get out of here right now."

He peered into the distance and picked out the glowing octagonal shape of the scar. Two-hundred yards away, maybe more. He glanced over at the enormous creature lying in the sand. The flying creatures had settled on its hide, their attention fixed on the lifeless hulk.

"Come along," he said, gripping Lily's hand and leading her across the stone platform. He stopped at the edge, remembering the machine that had torn open the door in the sky—the parallax engine, Farrier called it. He cast around the temple floor and found Farrier's discarded jacket. The machine was inside, unbroken, still alive and glowing. He stood up again, slipped the machine into his own pocket and grabbed Lily's hand again.

"Let's hurry," he said, pulling her after him.

Before they could step from the altar, the ground shook once more. Darknoll turned and looked at the behemoth resting in the sand and his heart lurched as he saw its giant head rising up. The eyes glowed with bright silvery light. The beast pulled its gargantuan frame up into a standing position, sheets of sand falling away from its hide, the earth shaking with each lurching movement of its elephantine legs. The beast reared up and then stepped forwards slowly, its maw of tentacles reaching out towards to them.

Lily pressed herself against Darknoll's back. "My God, what is it?" she cried. Then her eyes found the other huge figures approaching across the plain. "What are they?"

The creature studied them for a long moment. Darknoll stared up into the beast's eyes, cloudy pupils swimming in a mercurial liquid. The tentacles writhed and danced with a deep creaking sound, the sound of wet tree branches come to life.

"Oh my God," Lily said. "What do we do?"

The truth was he had no idea.

He had done everything he could to try and stop Farrier's plans, and in the end he had failed. The gates were now open, and the beasts . . . these Gods of Oblivion, were free to escape their prison. The doorway that led back to the skies above New London remained open. There was nothing stopping them. Nothing at all.

Darknoll turned and looked at Lily, momentarily lost in her simple beauty—her pale skin, her pastel-blue eyes. In that frozen moment, he thought about his Louise, and wondered what had become of her these past few days without him. But here, standing in front of him was another version of his love, one who needed him just as much. He gripped her hand tight.

"Lily? Hold my hand, do you hear? Hold my hand and don't let go."

She nodded.

Darknoll fixed his gaze on the rectangle of light, the doorway out of this place. Together, they ran to the edge of the platform and jumped down into the sand. They landed clumsily, but they were back on their feet in a heartbeat, running for all their worth. Behind them, the Skelleks horde moved in their direction. Barragoth, the one which had possessed Farrier, closed on Darknoll and Lily with great ease. For every twenty yards they covered, the beast crossed it in a single step.

31

They passed the wreckage of the St Etienne, but there was still a hundred yards to go. Then a terrible sound reached Darknoll's ears—the ear-piercing buzz of the airborne creatures swarming around them. Darknoll gripped Lily's arm tighter, pulling her closer to him as he tried his best to bat them away. A double-sided attack sent him reeling. He feel forward into the sand, momentarily losing his grip on Lily. One of the creatures pounced on her, snaking its tentacles around her neck and shoulders. When she screamed, the beast tried to insert one of its tentacles into her mouth. Darknoll grappled with it, fully aware that Barragoth was almost on top of them. With a scream of fury, he punched the creature with all his strength, puncturing its eyeball and causing it to emit a pig-like squeal. The tentacles slithered free and the beast dropped into the sand, squirming in agony.

Darknoll and Lily stumbled on. The doorway glittered like a beacon out of the shifting screen of sand. He had only a moment to wonder what would happen to them on the other side after they jumped through the opening. The doorway in the other realm was three-hundred and sixty feet in the air. Young Samson had moored his airship at the dome of St Paul's cathedral, but would that be enough to prevent them from plummeting to the ground?

He took one look behind him, at the nightmare horde advancing in their wake, and decided that even death was a better alternative to the horrors of this place.

Mere feet away from the opening, Darknoll prepared himself to leap. He would pull Lily with him, hopefully with enough inertia to carry them through the silver sea and across to the other side.

"Hold on tight to me, Lily!" he shouted. "Hold on tight and don't let go!"

Ten feet . . .

Five feet . . .

Three . . .

As they jumped, he heard a sound like a whip unfurling somewhere behind them. Something thick, grey and powerful snaked around Lily's leg.

It was too late. They were already committed to the leap. A moment later and they were in the embrace of the silver waters. They floated in silence for a time, before Darknoll felt the rush of movement in the silver water. Lily was struggling. He spun round and saw that the grey limb coiled around her leg belonged to Barragoth. The beast's gigantic head emerged through the opening behind them, its silver eyes filled with blinding rage.

Darknoll gripped the tentacle, trying to wrestle Lily free, but it coiled even tighter. A moment later, Darknoll exploded from the door in the sky. The night air above St Paul's cathedral filled his senses and he sucked in a deep lungful of air. He was still holding hands with Lily and as he fell he pulled her through the opening . . . but only partway.

Her body protruded through the opening at the waist; the rest of her body held fast by the beast's powerful limb. Darknoll dangled helplessly in the air, gripping onto Lily's arm not to save himself from falling, but because it was her lifeline, too. If he let go, Barragoth would pull her back into the silver waters, and God alone knew what would happen to her then.

"Help me," she sobbed. The tentacle had increased its grip on her body, snaking around her waist now.

"Lily!" he yelled. "Don't let go. Hold on."

He felt the rush of engines below and looked down to see that Samson had released the Luxor from its mooring and the airship was climbing slowly and steadily towards where Darknoll was standing.

His heart lifted, and he managed a smile.

"It's all right, Lily," he said. "We're going to be all right."

Before the airship reached them, Darknoll felt a massive lurch as the creature dragged them both back into the opening. As Lily disappeared completely into the silver sea, Samson leapt up and grabbed hold of Darknoll's legs.

Darknoll's upper body slipped into the opening and he found himself staring across the murky sea again. Lily held onto his arm with all her strength and behind her Barragoth was now adrift in the void. Lily struggled to free herself from its terrible grip but the effort forced her breath to escape in a ragged stream of silver bubbles. Her eyelids fluttered.

_Oh no, she's losing strength_ , Darknoll told himself.

He mouthed the words: _Hold on_.

Her fingers slipped on his arm.

He mouthed: _I will save you_.

Behind her, he saw the shadow of the behemoth, now travelling towards this opening—its vast bulk was gathering momentum. As a result of the creature's advance, Darknoll found himself and Lily plunging back through the opening and into the night air above St Paul's once more. Gradually, they descended towards the airship, but the creature's tentacles followed, coiled tightly around Lily's waist. Darknoll knew that in seconds, the head of the beast would start to come through, and then its body. Yes, on its arrival there would be a three-hundred-foot drop awaiting it, but whilst Darknoll knew he and Lily would not survive such a fall, the plunge would not be so life-threatening for a beast of such incredible size. And then there were those things, the giant mosquito-like creatures attached to its hide . . .

As if spurred into action by his thoughts, the opening above him flashed brightly—once, twice, as two of the winged creatures flew through the opening, dripping with silver fluid. They circled above the dome of St Paul's, filling the night with an appalling noise, a cry halfway between the caw of a rook and the gargling screech of a pelican. Then they descended in a purposeful dive to attack Samson. The young pilot released his grip on Darknoll and raised his arms in protection as the creatures pecked viciously at his upper body. He stumbled back, grappling with one of the beasts.

Darknoll looked up in time to see the front of Barragoth's huge skull coming through the opening. Small bursts of electricity popped and crackled and arcs of amethyst energy exploded all around the opening as it was forced wider by this uncanny birth. The creature forced its way through, slowly but steadily.

Lily screamed, her face stretched in terror.

With sudden clarity, Darknoll knew what he had to do. It was the only way. The solution, he realised, was in his possession.

He had witnessed the parallax engine at work, had seen that it opened these gateways to parallel realms. Surely, it must also close them.

With his free hand, he reached into his coat and removed the machine. But a sudden downward lurch sent the engine tumbling out of his grip. He watched, breathlessly, as it fell. By a stroke of luck, the parallax engine dropped into the airship's gondola, landing against a pile of sandbags and rolling onto the deck.

Samson was unaware of it, battling with the flying creatures. He rolled across the cabin, punching and kicking the larger of the two beasts.

Darknoll quickly realised that the young pilot was his only hope.

"Samson!" he yelled. "Samson! The glass chamber! You have to destroy it."

Samson, his hands around the scaly throat of his assailant, looked up with a weary expression.

"I'm a little engaged, sir," he managed.

"Samson, you must do it. Do it now!"

Samson continued to struggle with the creature, at the same time ducking to avoid the swooping attacks of the second beast. With a well-placed kick to the creature's abdomen, he managed to roll away from it and secure the parallax engine in his grasp. He looked at the strange object with utter bafflement.

"You have to smash it!" Darknoll cried.

Samson raised it above his head, just as the winged beast climbed onto its talon feet and stalked after the pilot.

"Samson! Look out!"

Samson whirled around. He pulled his pistol from his belt and fired twice into the creature's chest. It screeched and stumbled back. Dark green liquid poured from the wounds in its chest. The liquid hit the deck and steam rose up. The creature shook its head as if recovering from a simple knock. It came towards Samson again, wings spread wide like a vampire bat.

Darknoll looked up. Barragoth's entire head was now through the opening, its vast shoulders beginning to push through. Lily's eyes were fluttering. The grip of the tentacles was choking her, pushing her to the verge of unconsciousness.

"Samson!" Darknoll yelled.

The pilot looked up.

"Destroy it!"

The winged creature bore down on him.

"Destroy it, Samson! Do it now! Before it's too late!"

The young pilot heaved with all his strength, pushing the beast away for a vital few seconds, long enough for him to lunge to the edge of the gondola and throw the glass machine over the side.

Darknoll watched as the parallax engine tumbled down towards the streets below. The parallax engine, his only chance to return home. There was no choice. No other choice.

Soon the machine was lost to sight and he knew within the next few seconds it would hit the pavements below and shatter. He glanced up, his grip on Lily now little more than fingertips and willpower.

Then, suddenly, the great beast above her reared its head and emitted a roar that shook the air around them.

The engine was destroyed.

Something was happening.

The wall of silver water framing Barragoth's head glowed brightly for a moment. The harlequins of light, reflections of moonlight dancing on its silver surface, twinkled intensely for a few seconds, then the portal began to collapse. The beast retreated into the portal, retracting its vast head back into the silver sea. The collapsing portal must have been causing the creature immense pain. Stuck between the choice of trying to go forward or back, the beast had obviously decided its body was too big to get through. It continued its retreat into the opening as the edges of the portal shrank and shrank. Lily and Darknoll rose with it, pulled towards the rapidly shrinking opening.

One of the flying beasts, seeing its host creature vanishing into the gap, circled round once and plunged back into the portal with a bright flash of white light.

Lily screamed as she was dragged back into the silver sea, her body pulled inexorably through the opening. Her legs, her waist, her chest, then her head disappeared into the portal's shimmering surface. Before Darknoll could follow her, the portal tightened in a corkscrew motion and shrank rapidly into nothingness. Darknoll could only watch it happen helplessly, knowing that his arm was still in the opening.

He still feel Lily's fingers . . .

With a flash of pure white light, the portal vanished and Darknoll, released, fell.

He plunged through the air for an unknown time, certain that he was falling to the streets below. He closed his eyes and waited for the rush of wind, the terrible prelude to death. Time had no meaning. He saw the events of his life in the theatre of his mind, images flashing before him . . .

And then he landed, but it was not the feel of hard London pavements at his back but the steel deck of the airship. The landing knocked the breath from his lungs. Then the pain in his lower right arm filled his senses. He looked down to find that his arm was a black and withered branch, the skin and muscles smouldering, bubbling, blood oozing. He screamed in agony, howling up into the empty blue sky, but after a few moments, his pain turned to another loss, a loss greater than that of his hand.

Samson gripped him about the shoulders, trying to comfort him in his torment. But in the end, the grief consumed him, body and soul.

32

Night into day; day into night.

Alone in his hospital bed, Darknoll felt the days drift past in a timeless, relentless flow. Most of the time he was under the stultifying effects of morphine; surfacing occasionally to find a face staring down at him. Sometimes he found only the blank white walls of St Joseph's ward for company.

The intense pain that had overwhelmed him was gone now, replaced by a new kind of pain. He knew that he had undergone surgery but he knew not how many times or what the surgery had entailed. In the rare moments of consciousness, he couldn't even lift his head from the pillow.

When he dreamt, which was rare, he saw only visions of Louise. Or was it Lily? There was no logic to the dreams. They were fragmented, momentary flashes of images which jarred him out of his slumber. When awake, all attempts to contemplate Lily's fate came to nothing, almost as if her fate was so horrible to comprehend that his mind protected itself by switching off.

Then one morning he woke up. His eyes adjusted to the bright glare of sunlight reflecting off the ward walls. For a moment Darknoll believed he was home. Perhaps it had all been an experience of the mind, not a dream—he felt too physically and mentally traumatised for it to have been something as trivial as a dream—but some psychological experience that had seemed so real, so intense. A mental episode, as the doctors called it.

Then he sensed someone sitting beside him and turned his head a fraction.

Blurred at first, but when he concentrated, the face came into focus.

It was Albert Lampshire. He smiled.

"Ah, the sleeper awakes," he said, trying to sound cheerful.

He tried to imagine it was the old Albert Lampshire sat in the chair, the one from his own realm, but he knew all too well that the bastard wouldn't care enough to visit him in hospital.

Lampshire sat forward and put a reassuring hand on Darknoll's good arm. "Your operations have been incredibly successful. The doctors are very happy with how it has turned out." Darknoll studied the man's kind eyes and finally knew for certain where he was. "They saved your arm. Only just, mind you. Only just."

"Lily?" Darknoll said. It came out involuntarily, a result of his collective thoughts during the unknown time he had slept here.

Lampshire's smile faltered and he looked down for a moment, before looking into Darknoll's eyes with a sincere stare.

"You need to get better old chap," he said, gripping Darknoll's shoulder. "We can talk later."

***

The afternoon sky above Aspen Park was a rich pastel blue peppered with fleecy tufts of cloud. A strong wind blew in from the east, keeping the dark clouds on the horizon at bay.

Darknoll sat on the bench in the middle of the park, leaning on the cane given to him for his recovery. He closed his eyes momentarily to listen to the wind, to focus on the sounds of children laughing as they played nearby. Everything was as real as anything he had ever experienced.

He looked down at the heavily-bandaged arm. He still felt the tingle of the closing portal and the sensation of Lily's fingers slipping from his own . . .

_Oh, Lily_ . . .

He saw a police steam-carriage approaching down Cardin Street. The vehicle slowed and came to a stop outside the park entrance. Lampshire stepped out onto the pavement, the two men meeting each others' gaze. Lampshire asked the driver to wait. He entered the park through the swinging gate and approached the bench. They smiled at each other, their smiles touched by melancholy.

Lampshire sat down beside him.

"The hospital said you discharged yourself this morning without consent. They said they had no idea where you might have gone." Lampshire looked around the park. "I had a feeling you might come here, and I was right."

Darknoll inhaled deeply as if tasting the crisp, clean air. "This is where my house should be," he said. "In my world, I would be sitting in my living room right now."

"Your world?" Lampshire shook his head. "Even now I'm still struggling with the concept."

The silence stretched out.

"The girl, Lily Parker," Darknoll said, "the girl I was trying to save? She was the exact image of my wife, Lampshire. To the smallest detail. And now . . . now she's dead. Or worse." He glanced skyward. "I can barely comprehend what her fate is, Albert. Lost somewhere . . . somewhere in that dreadful space between worlds. And it's all my fault." His words choked off as emotion overcame him. He looked down.

"You mustn't blame yourself, Darknoll. Samson has filed his report. He hasn't shied away from the more . . . outlandish aspects. But I trust Samson. He's a good man. He told me what you tried to do, what you risked."

"And what about her? How is her disappearance to be explained?"

"Miss Parker will simply be listed as missing, presumed dead. Lord Farrier, too."

"Sounds like a cover-up to me, Albert. I don't understand why would the police cover this up?"

"Cover up?"

"Staber knew something. He knew more than he was letting on."

"Yes, he probably did," Lampshire said. "It's a pity he fell from that landing platform."

"He's dead?"

Lampshire shrugged. "Hard to say, for certain. He looked like a corpse even at the best of times."

They laughed together. It felt good to laugh.

"What happened up there, Darknoll? What did you see?"

Darknoll searched for the words to describe it, but all words failed him.

Lampshire pursed his lips, his eyes quickly scanning the horizon. "When you were in the hospital," he said, "you said strange things in your sleep. Something about . . . hell? Is that what you found up there?"

Darknoll studied the sky for a moment. He shook his head. "Not being with someone you love . . . that's hell, Albert. True hell."

Lampshire's expression became pinched, as if recalling a particularly painful memory. "I've seen the body," he said.

"Body? What body?"

"The . . . _creature_. The thing Samson killed in the airship." He shook his head. "The medical examiners have never seen anything like it. Hideous thing. Monstrous."

Darknoll recalled the flying beasts which had attacked him in that infernal realm. They had inflicted dreadful injuries upon him, injuries still only partially healed. He shuddered at the memory.

Lampshire said, "These doorways you speak of. Will you ever be able to get back to your own world?"

Darknoll looked up, studying the horizon. "I don't know. I think the only way to control the doorways was with Farrier's machine, and . . . I destroyed it."

Lampshire frowned. "So you're stuck here?"

"It would appear so."

Lampshire hesitated, turning over something that had been on his mind since he sat down. "Come and work for us."

Darknoll stared. "Work for you?"

"You need a wage, and you cannot survive on charity, not in this world. Not in any world. And my department can always use a good detective."

Darknoll shook his head. "But I don't belong here," he said. "This is not . . . not my reality."

"That's as maybe, Darknoll, but the truth is you _are_ here. _That's_ the reality."

"But I have no history here. Joshua Darknoll died in his youth. How can you employ a man who doesn't exist?"

"You could be my . . . private consultant," Lampshire said.

Darknoll smiled. He took a steadying breath.

"So, what do you say, Darknoll?"

"Albert, if I accept your offer, it's like I'm giving up on the chance of ever returning home." He looked at Lampshire. "I can't do that, Albert. I can't."

Lampshire nodded and then stood up. "That's your choice to make, Darknoll," he said. "You know where I'll be if you need me."

Lampshire started along the well-tended path and Darknoll watched him go, a mixture of feelings turning over inside him.

He leaned on the cane and closed his eyes, listening again to the ambient sounds around him, listening for something that would convince him this entire world was not real. In the end he realised he was simply fooling himself, and in the bright light of that winter afternoon Darknoll bowed his head and made a promise.

"I won't give up, my love," he whispered. "I'll never give up."

Epilogue

She stands alone in the rain. She has been here for so long that time has lost all meaning. Her clothes stick to her skin, blonde curls plastered to the sides of her face. Her tears are lost in the relentless downpour.

How much longer should she wait here? She could have left long before now. How many kind-faced strangers had offered her transport? She had turned them all down, so certain that he would be here to take her home. She told her fiancée she could not marry him, that her heart belonged to another, but now . . . now she feels foolish and angry and filled with despair.

She knows she should go home, but a small, insistent voice in her head tells her that is a terrible idea. The thought of sitting alone in her cramped one-roomed apartment on this night is like a poisoned dream. No, she tells herself. Not tonight of all nights. This was supposed to be the night her life changed, changed for the better.

She starts walking, hugging herself against the strong winds, half-blinded by the driving rain. She walks through dark streets, passing gaunt, unfriendly figures huddled in shop doorways. A man utters a filthy curse as she passes by, but she cares not. After a while, she sees the bright lantern of the police station shining out of the darkness and her heart lifts, but only a little.

She climbs the steps and pushes open the heavy front door. The lobby is deserted except for a tiny man in uniform propped up on the front desk. She approaches, her sopping dress leaving a trail of rainwater as she crosses the tiled floor.

The man looks up. "Hello, my dear. What are you doing out so late in this awful weather?"

She glances around the lobby, the sudden silence making her head feel light and empty, as if this is all a dream.

" _I'm looking for Joshua . . . Joshua Darknoll."_

The constable straightens up, his face growing stern. "Oh," he says. "Inspector Darknoll?"

She nods.

" _Would you . . . would you excuse me, one moment, miss?"_

" _Yes," she says._

The tiny constable scuttles off to a door behind his desk, opens it and mutters something unintelligible to an unseen person. Seconds later, a man in a brown derby emerges from the back room. His clothes are dishevelled, his face covered in burns and minor cuts. His skin is ruddy, his heavily lidded eyes lost in shadow. He steps up to her with a pronounced limp and removes his hat.

" _Evening, miss," he says. "You're looking for Inspector Darknoll?"_

" _Yes," she says. "Is there something wrong?"_

The man in the overcoat glances at the constable, then turns back with a grave expression.

" _What relation are you to Inspector Darknoll?"_

" _I'm his . . ." She stops, unable to finish the sentence. She doesn't know. She had thought she knew, had been on her way to being his . . . something. But now . . . "Please," she says, panic and anger rising in her voice, "just tell me where Joshua is?"_

" _Miss, I'm sorry to have to inform you," he says, "but Inspector Darknoll fell in the line of duty. He was pursuing a criminal across the marshlands, and . . . We haven't found his body. Not yet." He swallows with some difficulty. "We hold little hope. I'm sorry."_

The explosion of grief inside her is almost too much to bear. Her head suddenly feels empty, impossibly light. Before she realises, she is falling forward. The man catches her, holds her upright. After taking several deep breaths, she feels able to stand again, but fresh tears are coming now and she thinks they might never stop.

She turns around slowly and heads towards the exit.

" _Miss?" the policeman says. "Can I help you get home?"_

She does not answer.

" _You . . . you never told me who you are."_

A moment later, she is gone, slipping out into the bleak, unfriendly night.

Coming Soon: The Demon House

Darknoll's journey continues . . .

EVIL IS EVERYWHERE...

New London is under attack. Anarchists calling themselves The November Tide are wreaking havoc in the capital. Darknoll, heartbroken and struggling to adjust to this strange new world, must find his resolve to stop this evil menace.

But he soon discovers another dark side to this reality - a hidden underworld where sinister forces bargain for people's deepest, darkest desires. Before long, Darknoll faces another impossible choice - if he ever wants to return home, he must enter . . . the Demon House.

The thrilling second volume to The Darknoll Chronicles is available very soon. Check out the author's website to keep updated: The Steam-Powered Typewriter
AFTERWORD

This story, which continues with The Demon House and concludes in the final volume, The Oblivion Gate, has become a true labour of love. What started as a reasonably straight-forward detective thriller with science fiction elements grew in the telling, with Darknoll's journey mirroring more and more of my own personal experiences as my life took some unexpected and difficult turns. Of course, this is to be expected of any work of fiction; if writers didn't write about what happens to them they're not likely to write much at all. However, Darknoll's journey and the themes and philosophy behind the emerging tale became so intertwined with questions I was asking about my own journey in life that it became . . . 'something else'.

After a time, I realised I wasn't just telling a story anymore. The tale had taken on a peculiar life of its own. This is the most personal story I've ever written, and it's also the closest I've ever come to writing a 'love story'. Sure, it's got monsters, parallel worlds, murder and mayhem in abundance, but at its heart it's a tale of unrequited love and all the pain and heartache that goes with it, played out against the threat of all reality being annihilated. I mean, I couldn't just write a normal love story, right?

It's been truly emotional, and we've only just begun. I hope you can join me for the rest of the ride.

***

As always, I've had help during this book's long and difficult journey, so I'd like to thank those who helped make it possible: Natalie and James Tanner; Frank and Louise Moan; Steve Upham; and Faye Lawlor. I'd also like to thank all those who continue to support my efforts and encourage me to carry on. You know who you are, you lovely people.

\- LM 22nd April 2014
About the Author

Lee Moan lives on the south coast of England. His stories have appeared in numerous print and online publications including Niteblade, Dark Recesses, Hub Magazine, Murky Depths, Jupiter SF, as well as contributions in the Permuted Press anthology Best Tales of the Apocalypse and Anything But Zombies from Atria Books.

Other Titles Available

LAZARUS ISLAND

WELCOME TO SCALASAY

For mystery writer Sam Thorne, moving to the island was supposed to be a fresh start—an idyllic refuge for his young family, and an escape from his past indiscretions. Things he wanted dead and buried.

But on Scalasay, the past has a way of catching up with you . . .

The horror which tore the island apart ten years earlier is returning. Ben Garrett, the convicted rapist and murderer, is coming back to the island to visit his dying mother. But no one could have foreseen the shocking turn of events which are about to unfold.

A storm is coming . . .

And on this terrifying night even the dead will not stay dead . . .

WELCOME TO LAZARUS ISLAND

THE MIDNIGHT MEN AND OTHER STORIES

Men in black calling at your door on the stroke of midnight . . .

Three pieces of human flesh with the power to kill . . .

A devoted wife who just won't die . . .

A bag of bones that should never EVER be touched . . .

These are just some of the tales in this gripping collection, taking the reader from supernatural suburban terror to the far future where the fate of mankind rests in the hands of an innocent.

SYMBIOSIS

Light years from home.

Bonded to an alien for survival.

A dark secret is about to be revealed . . .

The planet Verdana was supposed to be their new home, their new Eden. But shortly after arriving the human colonists were faced with a dilemma - join with the alaahi or perish. In the end, they chose the process of symbiosis, a physical conjoining with the native alaahi.

But now there are whispers amongst the colonists. The alaahi are not the benevolent beings they made themselves out to be. Before long a dark secret is about to be revealed, and young Jena must make a terrible choice . . .

FOREVER

All David Scarsdale wanted was to leave his wife. But she had other ideas . . .

This ebook contains two stories about marriages affected by supernatural forces. In the title story, FOREVER, David Scarsdale finds himself trapped in an endless void with his wife. Who is controlling it? And will he ever escape?

In TWELVE MINUTES Jude must make a painful decision about the fate of his marriage - a marriage in which his wife is conscious for only twelve minutes each day . . .

If you are a fan of The Twilight Zone these stories could be for you.

THE VANISHED RACE

VISIT THE AWESOME TEMPLE OF TOBRIOSUS

SOLVE THE GREAT MYSTERY OF THE VANISHED TOBRII RACE

For retired sleuth Barclay Heath, it was a mystery too great to resist. But as night falls on the deserted alien world, his fellow passengers begin to vanish one by one . . .

Heath must unravel an age-old mystery before time runs out, before he, too, suffers the same fate as the Tobrii . . .

The Barclay Heath Mysteries are set in a whimsical alternate-1920s, where humanity has ventured out into the stars but Twenties values and attitudes prevail. Barclay Heath is a gentleman detective enjoying semi-retirement from Earth's Secret Service. Unfortunately for Heath, murder and subterfuge are never far away. As he travels the cosmos, he comes up against fiendish plots involving mysterious lost races, strange alien artefacts and, of course, a generous sprinkling of devious humans.

