The Two Dragons of the East End

"So you think they's the same bitch?"

Frederick Hawthorne smiled at the fellow seated at his bar. "Your wife and who else, Bruno?"

Bruno's red swollen mouth gave a high wheezing laugh, missing half its teeth. "Me wife! I should be so lucky, or so unlucky."

Frederick played along. "Who then?"

"You know, her... and, well, that other one might be a her. You think it might be the same? Or it's she an' her bully, an' they's in it together. Some say it's just the one, the bitch doin' it, but I don't see how..."

"How a woman could turn a man so inside out? You've been fortunate in your experience of the fairer sex."

"You think the cops'll nab her... or them? I don't mean the angel now, as they call her. I didn't really mean that, you know... I was just --"

"You was just gettin' morbid. I see you ain't had enough." Frederick drew a tall glass from beneath the counter, along with a bottle of rich green liquid and a decanter of water.

"Now Mr. 'Awthorne! You know I ain't got the money for that. And I'd not touch it. I'd grow more morbid, and I'd be out of me head in your establishment!"

"Finish your pint and I'll serve you another." Frederick placed a perforated spoon over the glass and set a sugar cube atop it. He filled the glass, drenching the cube, then lit the cube with a match. It flared and dripped blackening amber into the green. Frederick extinguished the flame with a splash of water, then stirred 'til the liquid grew cloudy. "This is for me."

"Aw, Mr. 'Awthorne! Now you'll grow morbid, sir!"

Frederick took a cloudy green gulp. "Aye, but I'll not trouble you with my dark thoughts. You've only set me thinking. I mean to render my thoughts morbid as I please, so's I can cheerfully puzzle out this mystery."

"Aye, Mr. 'Awthorne," stammered Bruno.

Frederick Hawthorne was tall and very slender, pale as bleached bone, features sharp as the polished pocketknife ever in his trousers. An ice-colored scar ran down one side of his face next to his blazing green eyes. Those eyes could burn through you, commanding you to confess all. Privately he wished to command nothing of anyone, save that they pay for their drinks.

At the least tonight's gossip wasn't of him. Two subjects dominated that gossip. One was of murder, commonplace enough, though a recent spree excited singular interest. Within two months, five corpses had shown up, three in small cheap dosses, two in alleyways. The victims were men, their throats torn open as though by savage teeth or claws. Each victim was found with his trousers about his ankles. The scenes were naturally bloody, though less so than one might expect. Autopsies revealed that far more blood was missing. Along with the sordid surroundings, the physical attitude and partial undress of the corpses suggested the killer had caught them with a whore. In almost every case, witnesses had seen the men in one's company. Yet nowhere was this whore to be found after.

Frederick knew three of the victims, mourned none of them. They'd been brutish sods who'd sent many battered working girls sobbing to The Devil's Draft. Frederick had gone to these men with his fists, urging them to stay away from any girl who frequented his pub. One once pulled a blade, so Frederick drew his own and left the blighter needing many stitches. Last Frederick had heard the blighter's nose had healed into one piece, though he could only breathe or smell with one nostril. Frederick hadn't known the most recent victim. The man had been wealthy, of some social importance. Only now did the police show true interest in the case.

The other gossip was more fanciful. Men -- good men -- staggered in as though already drunk, though Frederick smelled no drink on them. With delirious smiles, they raved of a goddess who lured them, dressed as a common whore. She left their brains afire with pleasure for hours afterwards, then disappeared without taking a cent. Her love left men weakened, needing strong drink to replenish. None could say what she looked like, for she left them in that dazed.

Such was Frederick's luck. Recently he'd entered the first steady courtship he'd attempted in years, with a lady of proper society no less. He faced the ominous possibility of falling in love with her. Frederick was unused to such monogamy, but he'd done better at it than he'd expected. Quite a wonder, considering how those society folks kept a fellow from stealing time alone with his lady for improper behavior, sending him mad like an animal clawing at its cage. So of course this mythic seductress should turn up now.

The mythic seductress wasn't in the papers. She was merely whispered of between East End men. Frederick had already suspected she and the killer were the same. She hadn't been his concern 'til she drew unwanted attention to his neighborhood. Bruno's chatter grew tiresome.

"Suppose the killer and this mystery woman are the same, Bruno. What is she, then? To kind men, she gives unheard of pleasure, delirium, and the need for strong drink. To cruel men, she gives death. Not such a bad lass to have about, eh? The dead blokes misplace a good deal of blood, but no money. Or perhaps it's a pair of deranged medical students, set about some odd experiment requiring the depleted blood and spung of East End men. One of 'em might pose as a whore -- aye, Bruno, there are lady medical students nowadays -- or they're both men, and they want the blood and spung of buggers. Or suppose the killer and this East End Aphrodite are the same. Loss of blood would account for delirium and need for replenishment in those she leaves alive. Suppose she came to you. You're a fine sort, wouldn't mistreat a woman, aye?"

"No, Mr. 'Awthorne. Me dear ol' mum, rest her soul, she taught me better than that, sir."

"Likely she'd show you quite a time, one you needn't trouble your wife over. It'd not be untruthfulness if she's a goddess, as some say this mystery woman is. A goddess's love wouldn't be of this world, wouldn't violate the vows you've taken 'til death do you part. If you met her, would you have a go, knowing she'd drink your blood whilst you was at it?"

"Mr. 'Awthorne, that horrid green drink's makin' you morbid. Beggin' your pardon, sir, I'll hear no more of it!"

"Just so's you pay for your own drinks before you leave."

Bruno slunk to a table with several other men. Frederick heard him whisper, "Mr. 'Awthorne's in one of his strange states. Best steer clear of him." The men grunted grimly and exchanged nods. Frederick smiled and drank more Absinthe.

Next in came a young man with long pointy features beneath a tangled blond mop, taller and thinner and nearly as pale as Frederick. As he crossed the threshold, the girl on his arm pulled free and hung back in the doorway.

"Come on in then," he said, tugging at her. "Don't be shy."

She took his arm again and stepped inside, a sharp-featured woman with dark red hair and calm brown eyes, dressed in ragged gray and black. Between the swell of her breasts, above the low loose cut of her blouse, hung a tiny black cross. Every man present tried not to stare.

"Mickey, what you doing here?" Frederick shouted with a smile. "It's your night off, lad! Get your sweet one away from this dreary place."

Mickey brought his exquisite lady to the bar. "What's the matter, Fred? Can't stand the sight of a mate been havin' what you've forgotten the smell of?" Mickey swayed drunkenly on the girl's arm. She smiled at his vulgarity, perfectly calm.

Frederick smelled no liquor on either of them. They had each other's scent all over themselves, though. The girl smelled of musty flowers and scented dust. "Not at all, mate. Sit right here and introduce us. Your lady drinks free as you do, of course."

"I think I'll try some of that demonic green spirit of yours. It's a wild night, so's it is."

"I ain't thirsty," the lady said, each word a separate clear chime of a polished silver bell.

"Suit yourself." Frederick fixed Mickey's drink. "Y'know, Mickey, you've picked a fine evening to share my taste in drinks."

"Aye?"

"Just I've been in wont of a fine man -- and a fine woman -- with the fortitude to share my ramblings. This drink'll make it easier on you. I already suspect your ladyfriend ain't the sort needs drink to keep up." He smiled at the ladyfriend. Silly ol' Frederick. You'll never cure yourself of flirting, will you? And with your best mate's lass, no less, you sod!

"Don't be out to scare her away already, Fred."

"How should I do that? You ain't even properly introduced us."

"Where'd I place my manners? Oh right, I haven't any. Fred, this is Bethany."

"And this'd be your famous employer." Bethany offered her hand.

"Frederick Hawthorne, if you please." Frederick kissed her fingertips politely. "Please don't call me famous."

"And a gentleman as well!"

"Don't call me that, either. I've been stuck in the company of too many gentlemen lately, so forgive me if I've absorbed a few of their pretensions."

Her eyes narrowed on him. "Yet still you see through those pretensions. I suspect there's a lot else you see through, as I suspected when Mickey talked on and on about you."

"So it was your notion, not Mickey's, to come here tonight."

She sat back and smiled triumphantly. "And there you go proving my point."

"Happy to oblige, Beth."

"Please don't call me Beth. I've always loathed that abbreviation. It sounds like someone dislodging something horrid from their throat." She coughed, "Beth! Beth! Beth!"

"I'm sure I understand." Frederick chuckled. "And please don't refer to me as Mickey's employer. I'm more his older brother, and I don't know how I should get by without him."

"Aye, more than half the time, it's me has to knock him back into line. He'll drive me to drink yet." Mickey picked up his green glass and examined the cloudy fluid. "Oh wait. I already drink. So all's well." He took his first gulp.

As they talked, Mickey and Bethany scooted and snuggled closer. Mickey, much reinvigorated, leaned over and stole a nibble at her neck. She sighed, threw her head back, and drew up his hand, making love to it with her mouth as she might his face or some other part of him. Frederick leaned against the back counter and folded his arms over his chest. Customers at their tables tried not to stare. Bethany pushed back Mickey's sleeve to suck on his upper wrist.

Frederick filled a pot with ale and stepped forward. "Here now, we've nooks and cozies here for that, you know. Or Mickey's room upstairs."

They drew apart and smiled embarrassment. Bethany pulled Mickey's sleeve back into place. "Sorry, mate," Mickey sighed, not sounding sorry at all.

"No worries, mate. You need another drink, though." He slid the ale forward.

"Give me more of the hard stuff, Fred," Mickey growled with a grin. "I'm man enough!"

"Aye, lad. Calm yourself with this first, though." Frederick fixed another ale for himself.

Bethany licked her lips. "What is that hard stuff you two have been drinking?"

"Absinthe," Frederick answered.

"It tasted splendid on my darling's lips." She tickled Mickey's cheek. "I think I'll try it."

"Indeed, love," Frederick said, bringing the fixings back out. "I didn't notice you tasting his lips to find out."

She arched an eyebrow. "Pleased to see you're no longer troubled by gentlemanly pretensions, Fred."

Frederick lit the sugar cube. "It's too late into the evening for 'em anyway. Soon I'll have to close up and kick the rest of these sods out." The flame rose 'til the cube was a crackling bubbly brown lump. He splashed it out and stirred it up. "Mickey, it's still your night off, but will you help with that? Bethany, I don't suppose you'd also lend us a hand there?"

Between the three of them, the place was emptied soon enough. Bethany helped Mickey clean. Frederick counted the night's take and they brought their drinks to a table. Frederick took more ale for now, though he brought the Absinthe along with all three glasses. Bethany had waited to touch her Absinthe. Now she gulped it eagerly, as though it had been years since she'd tasted a proper drink. Frederick did his brotherly duty, which was to tell no end of embarrassing tales of Mickey, so the lady's eyes brightened with growing affection for the lad.

"So there's Mickey, stretched on the floor of that horrid place, face swollen and pulpy like a bundle of overripe plums, with this hulking beast of a man crouched over him. Now this bully's twice my size, which makes him three times Mickey's, and he's ready to cut Mickey's throat. He'd clouted me down, must've thought me knocked cold. Once I'm up, I press my knife to his throat, tell him to unhand my mate or I'll open him like a trout. But I couldn't outright, for his knife's edge was pressed so cruelly to Mickey's windpipe that the blade might jerk and cut Mickey. So Mickey spits out some horrid dark gob through bloody teeth, smiles up and says, Everyone's got knives but me. One of you gents got a spare so's I could have one too?"

Bethany leaned forward breathlessly. "What happened then?"

"This big nasty bloke stares down at Mickey with such disbelief that he relaxes his knife without noticing."

"So you slit his throat?"

"No, I just flung him away and kicked his head in."

Bethany burst out laughing then covered her mouth guiltily.

"You should have seen Mickey. There he lay with a cracked jaw and Lord knows how many busted ribs... So what's he do? He staggers up -- does a shambling hop to his feet like a brain-damaged frog, more like -- and he helps me stomp the blighter!"

"And after that?"

Frederick sputtered laughter at the memory while Mickey answered, "We went and sat and finished our drinks."

Everyone laughed and went on chatting. Mickey took smaller sips, wiping sweat from his pale brow. "Jus' leh me res' me shcul a momeh... Theh I'll finish tellin' yez, sho's I will..." His forehead bumped the tabletop dully.

"Has he passed out?" Bethany ran her fingers through Mickey's tangled yellow mop, which spread out around his head like a soggy plant.

"I imagine so." Frederick gulped fresh Absinthe. In the morning, no doubt, their skulls would scream and boil horridly. For now he was drunk enough, but still alert as he needed to be. "Now Bethany, I imagine we've licked enough of the green fairy's loins to be quite mad with visions. I look about these walls, and I can't imagine how I've gone all these years without noticing those weird little imps and worms and sprites scuttling about."

Bethany sipped. "I can't imagine how you drink it regularly and remain sane at all."

"That's quite simple. I don't. Remain sane, that is. Often the world's so mad that I must drive myself madder still, just to have a clear sense of it."

"Then that's what you've been up to tonight?"

"Aye. To comprehend the infernal madness you've brought to my pub. And into the life of my best mate there."

She shifted backwards. "Mr. Hawthorne --"

"Don't call me Mr. Hawthorne. I've made a friend tonight, and for now you're still that. But let's feed each other no more shyte. You wouldn't touch the drink I offered 'til Mickey had had quite a bit of it, and you'd favored yourself with that little suck to his wrist. Aye, I saw all that well enough. You ain't taken more than he can manage, which is how you're still in my favor. You can't abide the food and drink of ordinary folk unless it's freshly in the blood you take from 'em, so you can temporarily acclimate yourself. I right so far?"

She shifted and stammered. "How... how could you..."

"Answer the bleeding question."

She settled and her eyes cooled. "So you know something of what I am."

"A blood-sucking fiend of hell." He watched her tense for violence. "No, I don't judge you for it. I try not to judge folks for what they are. We're all of us what we're born as, or what the world makes of us. The only choice a person has, as I see it, is how they make themselves useful as such. Take me, for instance. You'll find folks 'round here what'll tell you I'm some sort of hero. All I am is a brutal scheming East End bastard with more brains than most, with too many demons writhing in them brains to be let out peacefully. So I let them out on them who threaten decent folk, and there's never any shortage of those, is there? So that's how I relieve myself of my demons, so's I might seem pleasant to my dear ones. Now, as to yourself..."

Mickey stirred. Frederick and Bethany looked at him. "Fred, you've a girl for yourself... You ain't after mine, is yez...?"

"Rest easy, mate." Frederick ruffled Mickey's golden mop. "We's only talking. You've found a fine lass for yourself, and a fine friend for me."

"Aye." Bethany also ruffled Mickey's hair. Somewhere in the mop, her fingers touched Frederick's. He slid away uncomfortably. "You've drunk too much, little love. Frederick, should we help Mickey to his room?"

Mickey sat up sharply. "I'll 'ave yez know, I's good for a few hours yet..." His throat convulsed and his cheeks puffed. "Leh me jus'..." He found his ale, sipped it, grimaced. "Ah, there, tha' 'elps..." He convulsed again, hiding it better. "Aye, ye know... Give us a moment in the lot out back... Could do with some open air, so's I could..."

"Need help finding it, mate?"

"Nah, nah, jus'... Jus' a moment..." Mickey rose and shambled towards the back door.

"You sure he don't need help?" Bethany asked, half risen.

"He'll be fine. We've seen each other through plenty nights like this." A draft touched them as the door slammed open. Far away in the night, heavy retching mingled with a thick continuous splash on the stones. "As I've said," Frederick continued, "there've been worse nights. When he's more himself, ask him about my worse displays. It'll help his pride."

Bethany nodded tensely. "I believe you were about to tell me how a blood-sucking fiend of hell, as you've called me, is of use to the world."

"You're that mysterious lass what goes about giving pleasure to good men and death to bad. You do as you must to live, like any whore does to shelter herself or feed her children."

She sighed. "I didn't think folks realized a woman was responsible for the murders."

"They ain't, despite all the evidence. Anyhow, you care more for Mickey than them other fine men you've seen to, enough to let him remember your face and kept his company after."

Mickey staggered back in. "Think I'll... turn in soon. Bethany, love, you needs I should see you home anywhere?"

Bethany smiled. "I'd rather pass the night here, if it's all the same to Fred."

"That'd be fine," Frederick said. "Need help finding your door, Mickey?"

"Nah... nah... Bethany, you'll be up to me when you're ready to turn in?"

"Of course, love." Once Mickey was gone, her eyes lowered. "I do care for Mickey. He's a strong, gentle, good lad. When we first spoke, I thought only to give him what he wanted, take what I needed, then leave him like the others. But he was so bright and charming... He made me remember my life as a normal girl, when I might have really shared a courtship with such a lad. So after we'd... done our business... I stayed 'til he regained his senses. We strolled about town, and I found myself playing the normal girl, fooling myself only a little..."

"How sweet. See that you don't fool Mickey too deeply. If you break his heart, I'll drive a wooden stake through yours. Just so's you know."

"So you've read the fictions..."

"Aye. Speaking of such, that little trinket hanging against your tits... According to them so called fictions, you oughtn't be able to touch it."

"I once read the same fictions. When the fiend came for me -- the one who made a fiend of me -- I knew what he was, and I thought this would protect me." She thumbed the chain of her cross. "What I've become since is stronger than any man or woman you've ever met, Fred. For that threat you've made, I could tear you to pieces with no effort. Thus I sometimes fancy myself invulnerable to danger. But then, I once thought that this little cross would protect me from Satan's power. Now I wear it to remind myself never to be so sure of any safety."

"You're a wise beautiful fiend, then. Likely the men who wrote them fictions invented that business about crosses, so's they could comfort themselves and others, thinking God still gives a toss. This fiend what took you, should we expect him to come knocking?"

"I truly hope not."

"In some trouble with him, are you. That's why you had Mickey introduce us. You'd heard my reputation. Them strange circles I've traveled in, the surrounding rumors, Mr. Green-Eyed Wolf, all that rot. You'd already gone soft for Mickey, but then he started on about his ol' mate Freddie Hawthorne... Very well, what's your story, then?"

"If you've read the fictions, you've an idea. I passed my first fifteen years as a normal human girl."

"An East End girl, you mean, and your master fiend's a swell."

"How could you know all that?"

"It's how you talk, speaking each word clearly, one at a time, like a lady. Except you do it too well, better than I've ever heard any lady actually manage, like someone's beaten it into you. Who'd have bothered beating it into you but your master fiend? All through our talks, your words have gone back and forth from those of a lady and an East End girl. It's clear which comes most natural. When the swells come round here, they're the best at taking what they want, against all objections. Anyone who showed too strong an objection, well, they'd be the ones tangling with the law, for troubling a gentleman so. A gentleman's a man like any other, and I see it's the same with the fiends, just as you're still a woman like any other."

"Am I?"

She was so sad and pleading that Frederick wanted to brush hair from her face and stroke her cheek. "Of course, dear. You feel for Mickey as a woman shall for the right bloke, aye?"

"Aye."

"And when gents come round to take whatever they wish, what do you think they take? Your gent thought it might be fun to have a fellow fiend for a mistress, so that's what he made of you. Then he left you here so's he could visit as he pleased. You've stayed here out of paralysis, 'cause it's all the world you've ever known. So here you've stayed, surviving as you have."

"God help me -- God reclaim me -- I wish it were so simple."

"Do tell."

"I'd like to start at the beginning. But I've told you the beginning, or rather you've figured it out yourself, and I don't know where else to start."

"Start at what brings us to this table here. Your latest victim -- he whose death has set my neighborhood in such panic -- he weren't your customer. The others were caught dead with their pants down, as it were. This gentleman was fully clothed, though the papers don't say it."

"How do you guess it then?"

"I've customers what are privy to knowledge that often interests me. I give 'em free drinks to keep me informed. Go on."

"This gentleman was in the employ of my master fiend, as you've called him. I'm not merely the master's mistress, but his agent in the East End as well. He chose me because I pleased him, but also because he saw how I knew my way around, how crafty I am at street life. I'm good at reading people, see. One learns it, growing up in a violent household, how to spot the mood shifts of those what'll be kind and nurturing one moment, threatening the next."

"Seems I've helped you find your way to the point."

"The master has much business investment in these parts, has for years, centuries, sitting quietly in his nice big house, pulling the strings of enterprise throughout England. He's amassed unimaginable wealth, greater than a mortal man could earn in a lifetime, greater than many powerful families achieve over generations. He has so many little strands of influence that he doesn't use, as though he's building towards something. With time on his side, I shudder to think what will occur when he springs whatever trap he's planned. If I told you how deeply his power ran through the very heart of our empire, you'd not believe me." Her eyes lowered. "You'll not think so well of me, I fear, when I tell you how I've aided him. His businessmen 'round here don't know their master's true nature, but they sometimes grow suspicious, discontent. My job is to keep them afraid. It's all the more horrifying in the form of a pretty girl who appears so harmless, frightening them into silence, convinced they're in some devil's inescapable clutches."

Frederick filled their glasses with fresh Absinthe, didn't bother with sugar. "Quit beating yourself so badly. You've had more than enough bastards do it for you. Them businessmen mightn't have the balls to squirm out of the devil's clutches, but you clearly do."

"Please don't elevate me in your mind! I only found such balls in a moment of desperate madness, because I learned my nights had been numbered. I fancy I ain't the first girl he's so used. The truth is, I failed him. His messenger told me so, not as a warning, but as a taunt."

"Here now! You say your master's on his way to do you in? When you expecting him?"

"There's no knowing, except I know him. He'll find me wherever I go, whenever he wants. For him it's a matter of finding a spare moment, leaving me to sweat, waiting for the ax to fall. When the messenger told me, in my fury and terror I remembered something the master told me of the fiend who made him what he is. That fiend was a mortal man in ancient Rome."

Frederick sighed sublimely. In his Absinthe trance, he felt the living memory of the vast sea of time that makes a dust speck of every human life.

"My master has quoted his master as saying, In my day, boy, we sent messages only in writing. You wouldn't let your messengers know a word of it, for if the news was bad, the receivers would put the bearer to death as surely as he were the cause of it."

Frederick chuckled sinisterly. "So when this fop brought bad tidings, you revived a fine old tradition. How did you fail your master?"

"My chief duty of late has been the docks, getting sailors to tell tales in bed of rumors at port. There's another great fiend, an ancient Romanian warlord they say, the master's oldest rival. There've been rumors for years that he plans to immigrate to England and invade my master's territory. I was to learn any rumors concerning this. I found none, but my master somehow got word that the Romanian fiend does form such plans."

"With my luck," Frederick muttered, "that bugger'll make himself my problem, too."

"My master's message was that, since I'd failed to report this, I was clearly not so useful as he'd hoped, and could expect to be removed soon."

"And the messenger spoke this to you, didn't hand you a sealed written warning like one of his Roman ancestors?"

"I heard it from his own trembling lips."

"Lucky you didn't undo his trousers. Likely he'd already shat them several times over."

Bethany nearly sprayed Absinthe from her nose, gulped then coughed out laughter.

"What I can't figure is how you fancy I could aid you. It ain't like I'd stand a chance against him in an honest brawl. Why not fight him yourself?"

"How could I? I'm still young, by your years and his. Our kind don't diminish with age. We grow stronger. I'd stand no more chance than you, in a brawl as you put it. Still, half his power over mortal men is that they'll our kind exist only in fiction. Or if they get some idea, they'll be powerless with terror. You're rare among mortals, for you know full well what lies outside common experience. You don't shrink from it, though you must know it shall sooner or later be your death. But here's how this encounter with the unknown might yet be another victory for you. The fictions are right on one point: our power lies in the night. The sun's light won't destroy us, but we're lesser during its hours, closer to mortal. Thus we take those hours for sleep. If I lead you to where he slumbers, you could kill him. Or if you caught him awake, just perhaps, you would have a chance against him in combat."

"Fiend or no, what sort of fighting man is he?"

"Save with those he safely idly bullies, he's more a creature of manipulation than brute force. I think he spent his mortal years as a pampered gentleman, with no need to prove his fortitude against anyone. I can't see that his supernatural state has done anything to alter this."

"I'll wager that's his greatest cause fear of this Romanian warlord."

"They say this Romanian, he's also a great magician, that he's hidden out in mountainous seclusion over the ages, amassing strange mystical abilities as the master has amassed wealth."

Frederick glanced at the windows. "Anyhow, I see the first murky blue in the sky of your time for sleep. And mine, for that matter. Go snuggle up with Mickey. Don't take any more snacks from his veins. You've involved him in this, so for his sake I'll see it finished quickly as possible. I may have to close the pub for a night, just to give it proper attention, but that's all well. In any event, I wish you sweeter dreams than I'll be having."

Frederick wasn't sure if the hammering came from inside or outside his skull. He opened his eyes and decided both. In the magnesium morning light, his vision pulsed. His door pulsed a little stronger, because someone was banging on it.

"What?" he growled.

"Damnit, Fred, we've a problem!"

Frederick snapped lucid, drawing the pulsing blaze to the center of his brain so his surroundings cleared. He jerked on his trousers and grabbed his knife on the way to the door. Mickey shivered pale, still dressed from the night before. Frederick listened hard. There were no dangerous noises, though you'd not have known it from Mickey's eyes.

"What's about, mate?"

"The girl I brought back last night..."

"Bethany? What of her?"

"By my soul, she's lying dead in my bed."

Frederick went and peered into Mickey's room. Only one narrow shaft of light spilled through the curtain, falling across Bethany's pale ankle. She lay with arms at her sides, perfectly still. Her skirt was pushed partway up, showing her pretty legs. Mickey must have meant to wake her up most pleasantly, then noticed how she didn't move, nor breathe so he could tell. What a splash of cold water that must've been! Mickey moved past Frederick, calmer than before but otherwise no better. He slumped next to Bethany and cradled her limp hand to his face.

Frederick came in and clasped Mickey's shoulder. "There, there, mate. She ain't dead."

"Don't patronize me, damn you! Look at her!"

"I have, and I tell you this is how she gets when she sleeps."

Mickey's eyes shot round. "What now? Why you... She's been yours before! You didn't tell me, because you got to talking, got sentimental for old times, hoped she'd tire of me, and..."

Frederick jerked Mickey upright and looked him in the eye. "That ain't the way of it! Please, Mickey, trust me like always. It'll be harder than usual, but you must." He waited 'til Mickey calmed down. "Now, would I stab you in the back like that? No! Aye it crossed my mind, you want the whole truth. What man'd see her and not think it? But I'm that much your friend, so's I am. If I'd known her before, I'd've said so, either given you my blessing or telling her to get the fuck away from you, depending on what sort of lass she was. What I know of her now, I should have my head looked at for not doing that second thing!"

"I'm sorry, Fred. But... you swear she ain't dead, and yet..."

"I know. Let's down to the pub, have a bit of the wolf what's mauled us. If we keep trying to talk civilly as we are, on what I have to tell you, we're sure to come to blows."

"Aye, let's be out of this blasted room."

They sat downstairs at the table where Frederick had left the Absinthe. It was nearly empty, and he put a splash in his ale and offered the same to Mickey. Mickey shook his head.

"I'm trying to think where to begin. Mickey... You do trust me, aye?"

"Fred, of course I do."

"And I've come back here many a night telling of strange things I've seen."

"You've been a magnet for such, since I've known you."

"Well, this time it's you what drawn it in. You remember that shilling shocker I read you, by that fellow Le Fanu? Your new girl, she's like the lady in that story."

Mickey gulped his beer and cradled his head. "Bloody hell, Fred, what a thing to lay on me poor skull this morning..."

"More like this afternoon, I wouldn't wonder. So you believe me then."

"It makes all too much sense." Mickey looked up with clear eyes. "She's the siren lady, ain't she? The goddess. And she's... that one been doing the murders."

"There's more still." Frederick repeated Bethany's story. "See Mickey, there's a dragon in our fair city, and I must go slay it for your fair maiden."

"My fair maiden... Fred, she's used me, to get to you! Why, she's a dragon herself!"

"Not by choice. Her feelings for you are true. And here's the thing about dragons. Our England has many fine tales of evil beasts slain heroically by brave knights like Saint George. Our English dragons are fat nasty brutes what sit in their caves on piles of gold from ages worth of villages burned in their fiery breath. But there are other tales of dragons, as from the Far East, exquisite creatures of power and ancient wisdom. Good or bad, though, a dragon's still a wild beast with claws what'll tear and devour those who cross it."

"So me new girl's a wild beast with claws. But she's a wise beautiful one."

"There you go judging her."

"I'm thinking of our necks! She's already drunk her fill from mine, it seems." Mickey rubbed at his neck, then at his wrist. "Bloody hell, I thought it was late in the year for bugs."

Frederick smiled morbidly. "Whore or not, a woman always wants something in return for a bit of fun, don't she?"

"Fred, just the once, could you possibly see something as not quite normal?"

Frederick shrugged and sipped his Absinthe-ale concoction. "To me, it's all just variations on the old eternal forms."

"Ain't it a bit early for Socrates?"

"Aristotle, actually."

"Fine, whoever. So you're the East End's form of the shining knights of old, and every wronged whore is your courtly maiden to ride out on a quest for, that it?"

"We all must make sense of things somehow, though the sense is usually made of shyte."

"Aye, and yet... Fred, you say she truly feels for me, yet if that's so, how could she playact with me so? Why not just ask for help from the start?"

Frederick sighed and smiled. "You've some peculiar ideals about the fairer sex. Mickey, when she took up with you, I don't think she thought to ask anyone's help. Put yourself in her place. You was like that, you'd be a bit shy letting a girl know, especially if you really fancied her. Why don't you think she gave more than a tumble to them other blokes? She didn't think she had a right to such joy no more. Then she hears she's at death's door, and along comes this handsome plucky lad who's so sweet to her, he reminds her of them joys, and she thinks she'll share a bit of it with you 'til the end comes. You ought to feel honored. Then, so unexpectedly, you show her the way to something more than a few final joys. You showed her hope."

"Fine. 'Cept I'm the one she wants love from. She wants help from you."

"Aye. Hopefully she'll be awake before sunset, so's she and I can get to this --"

"And me."

"Eh?"

"When you go after this fiend, I want a hand in it."

"You'll not have one," Frederick snarled. "This ain't drunken brutes we're off to brawl with. You needn't prove you can keep up."

"This ain't another of your nutty vendettas. As you said, I brought this one to you. If I just stayed back here, hoping you'd show back up so's I could stitch your wounds, I'd never be able to look at you again."

"But you'd be alive!"

"How's my life's worth more than yours? What Frederick does for Frederick is for Frederick, ain't that always so? What Mickey does for Mickey is for Mickey, got it?"

"How can I refuse such words? I suppose if we went on without you, you'd only follow us and bugger it up at the worst moment."

"I suppose I would."

"Fine. When we're off on this, you'll do as I say and nothing else. Just so's you know, if you get done in, I'll come after you just so's I can stomp your ghost bloody."

With that Frederick rose, snatched a bottle of their vilest whiskey and started upstairs.

"What are you about?" Mickey asked after him.

"We've a few hours of daylight left. I'm off to wake up your pretty lamia."

"Can you... do that?"

Frederick grinned. "I fancy I'll manage."

Mickey followed Frederick to the room. Bethany lay as they'd left her.

Frederick knelt and parted Bethany's lips. "You're right, mate. She does get cold as death." With that he poured a thin amber stream into her mouth.

Bethany bolted to life as though shot through with electric currents. Frederick jumped away as she scrambled and flailed into a crouch, tumbled off the bed, then scuttled left and right like an excited monkey, spitting out the vile fluid. Finally she wiped her mouth and moaned, "You bastards out to kill me?"

"Bethany, dear, no!" Mickey went to her. She pulled him close and buried herself against him.

"Sorry, Bethany," said Frederick. "Mickey thought you was dead. I had to reassure him."

"You might have just shaken me awake," she muttered petulantly.

"Wasn't sure that'd do the trick. And it's time we was about our business."

She looked up from Mickey's chest and stabbed a finger at the bottle Frederick held. "If I'd swallowed more than a few drops of that rot, you'd not have had any use for me. I'd've been sick like you wouldn't believe."

Mickey followed her finger. "The whiskey? But last night, you was --"

"Forget it, mate," said Frederick. "Bethany, you have yourself together?"

"Sober as a judge." She rose shakily. "What's your plan?"

"I doubt we'll kill your archfiend today. Probably won't have time to risk it. But we'll go where he lives. Stake the place out, so to speak. Then we get ourselves back here, have a merry old night of business, and I'll be back there in the morning to see to the bugger."

"So's you know, I've never been to his place," said Bethany.

"That presents a problem," said Frederick.

"But I know his address."

"He told you?"

"No. The foreman in one of his factories told me. I..."

"We have the picture. Now let's all to my room." In his bedroom, Frederick opened the bottom of his chest of drawers. "Now, it won't do for a trio of ragged miscreants to be seen snooping about a gentleman's nice big house. We'll --"

"Hold on," said Bethany sharply, "a trio?"

"Aye, like the Three Musketeers," said Mickey.

Bethany stared into Mickey's eyes. "Little love, I'll not have you along."

"Try convincing him of it," said Frederick, rummaging the drawer. "Don't worry, we'll keep him out of trouble between us. Besides, thinking better of it, there ain't a man I'd rather --"

Frederick glanced back. Bethany still stared into Mickey's eyes, which had grown dull. Bethany sat him down on Frederick's bed. "Move only to do what you must for yourself."

Mickey nodded and sat still.

Frederick shuddered then stared at Bethany. "My, ain't you full of tricks."

"You don't approve?"

"You get yourself killed, he gonna stay like that?"

"No. My hold on him would die with me."

Frederick rose and loomed over her. "And if you don't die, your hold lives on with you."

Bethany shrank slightly, but held her ground. "I'd not --"

Frederick settled. "No, of course. I'm sorry. It's just I don't like hypnotists. But if it'll keep Mickey from harm, I'll approve this once. Anyhow, let's have a look." He went back to the drawer and brought out a fine black suit. The coat had a low waist and lapels bordered in gold. With it he took a long brown wig. "Now I've found it's helpful to keep spare clothes for when one don't wish to be recognized." He produced a red satin dress and held it against Bethany's body. "This should about fit you. It might be a bit loose, but you can adjust it. Now let's get ourselves pretty. You can change in Mickey's room if you --"

She was already sliding out of her whore's rags. Frederick stared at her smooth toned nakedness, watching her limbs twist and sway as she shimmied off the last undergarments. He was accustomed enough to the female form to remain respectful, yet she moved with such natural allure so he clenched his jaw and fists for control. He glanced at Mickey, still seated, staring dully forward. The lad must really have been hypnotized!

"Well go on," said Bethany, smiling slyly, "get yourself changed."

"Right."

Bethany fit herself into the dress, began adjusting it. "Would you lace up the back for me, Fred?"

Frederick complied, somehow keeping his hands steady.

"Who's dress was this, anyhow?" she asked.

"Mine," Frederick said.

Something like an hour later, a hansom dropped off a lovely couple, two blocks from their destination. On Frederick's insistence, it was the third cab they'd used. He'd added a small mustache and beard to his costume. Bethany had done her hair up fancier than she did for her street work. They walked arm in arm. Bethany kept her eyes lowered. The day was at that curious late point when all above looks bright and clear as high noon, yet a gloomy shade bleeds slowly through your surroundings.

Frederick glanced at Bethany and muttered, "The sun, it hurting you?"

"No... I just don't like it is all. Ain't accustomed to it, I suppose."

"How many of them powers are at your disposal?"

"Very few. You saw about the extent of them, with poor Mickey. Quick, through here." She yanked him sideways, through a small alley. A large black carriage rolled past.

"You've at least some of that extra strength," he remarked, his arm a bit strained.

"I was always stronger than most girls. At this hour, I'm only a bit better off than that."

"Wish we could speed your powers ahead of the sunset. Who was in that carriage?"

"I don't know. Did you see how several others were parked up ahead?"

"Outside that rather plain mansion?"

"Aye. That's the address."

"Listen," Frederick hissed. "They's all pulling away." Another of the carriages rolled by, blackening the alley's mouth for a moment.

"The carriages ain't our concern yet. It's the man trailing the other side of the street."

"Aye, I saw him. He'd just come to the end of the block as we climbed out, started back the other way soon after. You think he's following us, then?"

"He caught your eye, too, apparently. What do you think?"

"I thought at first he was a gent, by the way he carries himself. All that's missing is a walking stick. Except that's a butler's uniform he wears. Likely he's noticed us, keeps us in mind, but we ain't his present concern. I'd say he's been sent to watch the surrounding streets for anything out of the ordinary."

"We're out of the ordinary."

"Not alongside whatever's going on here," Frederick grumbled. "Who is he?"

"I don't know his name. I've seen him on errands, at the master's businesses. You're right, he does like to present himself as a gent. He once thought, since we both worked for the same devil, that he might have privileges of me. He made the most disgusting propositions you've ever heard."

"I doubt it."

"Anyhow, I set him straight on that, believe you me."

"Perfect! Wait here a moment. Press yourself deep into shadow as you can, so's not even I'd spot you if I didn't know to look. Don't move 'til I give some signal."

With that, Frederick vanished so smoothly that he seemed as preternatural to Bethany as she to him. A moment later he returned arm in arm with the servant. At first there seemed nothing amiss about them, except for how close Frederick stood behind the other man. Frederick's arms were crossed, his right twisting the servant's right cruelly behind his back, the other pressing something to the base of the man's spine. The man's jaw and neck were tense as he tried to hide the terror in his face. Frederick shoved him face first against the brick wall and lifted his left hand. In the darkness, his pocketknife gleamed against the man's throat.

"Who's your master?" Frederick hissed in the man's ear.

"I am my own master! The law shall hear of this, for I --"

Frederick pressed the edge harder. "You was once. How'd he bugger you over, then?"

"I now do the work of the honorable Lord George Ruthford," the servant gasped.

"Honorable my skinny Irish arse. That his place, that gray Grecian mansion with all them fancy carriages trying to drop their cargo off discretely and doing a piss-poor job of it?"

"No," the man moaned.

Frederick leaned closer. "I can always tell when someone's lying. Starting his little party early, is he, so's everyone'll be good and festive when the sun goes down, so he can make his grand entrance!"

"You're from him, aren't you? I'll tell you no more!"

"Eager to die for ol' Ruthy, are you? That makes you good for nothing else, don't it?"

"Kill me then! Then go tell Tepes he'll never --"

"Tepes, aye? So that's the Romanian's name?"

"One of his names... You're not from Tepes?" The man's body loosened with surprise.

"I suppose if this Tepes or Lord Ruthy were to drag their arses out of the coffin before sundown, they'd not be much good to themselves. You think if they woke and had a good, hearty midday meal, it'd give 'em an extra boost, so's they'd be more like themselves?"

"I... I... I..."

"Let's find out."

Frederick flung the man further into the darkness. From it came a lithe red shape that locked its arms around the man with an inhuman growl. The shape obscured the man, and wet ripping mingled with the growl. Frederick might have looked away, given them their privacy and watched the street for more trouble. Had he not known Bethany, he'd not have guessed the pretty girl and the decimating beast was one. The East End had toughened Frederick to the sight and smell of carnage at a young age. In these shadows, he saw very little, only the man's thrashing arms and kicking legs. But the sounds of this new brutality tickled his stomach unpleasantly. Yet he'd not look away. Frederick had shown a man to this fate. He'd make himself see it to the end.

Bethany dropped the body. A dark pool spread around it. She flung herself against the wall, panting and shivering like a woman who'd been shown a fine time in bed. Her eyes drifted lazily to Frederick's, as though he'd been the one to pleasure her, which in a manner he had.

"You could have made that quicker," she finally gasped.

"Because you was eager for it, or because you disapprove?"

"Both," she muttered bashfully.

"Strangest thing..." Frederick drew a revolver from his coat. "Whenever blokes try pointing these at me, I grow so uncharitable."

"He had that on him?"

Frederick nodded. "If there's more like him, that'd be more my concern than yours, aye?"

Bethany nodded.

"That meal you just had make you feel more like your proper nighttime self?"

"A little. I ain't sure yet." She was more composed now. Her mouth was smeared red, but otherwise she'd kept remarkably clean. Still, Frederick was gladder he'd given her a red dress.

"Then wipe your mouth, and let's be on to the party." Frederick pocketed the gun.

"What about him?" She nodded at the corpse.

"Leave him for the next passing constable."

"But if a body's found so near where we're going --"

"It'd play to our advantage. When something disrupts these swells' little parties, they like to keep things seeming tranquil as possible, long as they can manage. If the police come door to door, asking after whoever's seen anything strange, it'd stir up wondrously. We'll stir it to a boil, creating such lovely mayhem that we can be about our own business unnoticed."

"I thought our business was merely to stake the place out."

"It may be yet. But this party may be a chance to spur things quicker. We've a bit more daylight left than I'd counted on. Your Lord Ruthy's clearly got himself a smooth luxuriant evening planned. We throw that off balance, we throw him off balance."

She wiped her mouth and licked cooling residue from her hand, a new animal gleam filling her eyes. "I'm ready if you are."

They walked to the front door as the last carriage drove away. Frederick stiffened.

"What is it?" Bethany whispered.

"I know that last carriage." His voice was suddenly small like a guilty child's.

"Have we more to fear?"

"I may, though not as you think. Nothing that'll make a difference tonight."

The mansion was finer than it had looked from a distance, with its long stone porch lined in Grecian columns, a narrow phallic copula rising above the centered doorway. Amidst the block's other fancy houses, though, it somehow looked dead, even with the warm orange lights hanging from the porch ceiling. As they crossed the yard, Frederick realized why. The surrounding yards were lined in rich manicured foliage that would yield blossoms of shimmering gold and red and blue in the springtime. This yard had no plants, save the grass and a great oak, the latter already naked for winter. Frederick saw no fallen leaves, and wondered how long it had been since the tree had lived at all. None of the men and women from the carriages remained in sight. Frederick and Bethany climbed the front step. Braided strands of dried ivy lined the oak door and low windows. For a house of this design, the door should have been crystal, not solid wood. Frederick knocked. A panel slid back at eye level.

"No one's home," said a set of wrinkled gray eyes.

"Not even the great honorable Lord George Ruthford?" asked Frederick in a stately tone.

"Not without the password," said the eyes.

Frederick glanced sidelong. "Bethany?"

The panel slid shut and the door creaked open. The gray eyes belonged to a grayer servant, all withered and stooped like a corpse dangling and dragging on strings. "Very good, sir and madam. Come along at your leisure."

They hid their surprise and entered a long, dim corridor. The walls were bare save for a line of high red candles on either side. The withered servant lingered by the door.

"Curious password," Frederick whispered. "Your Lord Ruthy has a sense of humor. Or in some odd way fancies himself some gallant poet."

Bethany glared forward. Frederick found her hand and squeezed reassuringly. They turned a corner and saw light at the end. Violin music, late baroque, echoed towards them. They stepped into a large well-lit room and stood aghast at the several dozen guests.

"I suddenly don't know if we've come overdressed or underdressed," was all Frederick found to say.

Bethany stared with him. The inner structure certainly made one forget the dull exterior. The floor and columns were polished marble, the walls bright sandstone draped in purple and golden silk. A short set of stairs led from their doorway into a sunken space, filled with mingling guests who might almost have resembled any other upper class social gathering. Their garments would befit a costume party, for surely they'd be suitable for nothing else. In a steaming bath pool to one corner lounged several men and women wearing no clothes at all. Frederick recognized the pool's design. As a boy, he'd once been taken to an elite place in London modeled after Turkish bath houses. Boys and girls from India, naked save for silk sashes that draped their loins, went to the edge of the pool and handed down long smoky pipes to the people in the water. The pipes were passed around, and the smokers lounged ever nearer each other, eyes dreamy, caring less and less whether those next to them were men or women. Woman servants, dressed little more than the children, went about with trays of wine and whiskey glasses. These women seemed imported from Africa, India and the Far East. The guests appeared to be between thirty and fifty, all seemingly chosen for attendance for their physical beauty as much as their wealth. The air was warm and misty. Many of the ladies and several of the men had stripped to their undergarments. Some of these men pawed at the servants -- both the women and the children. The servants yielded to the molestation with blank eyes.

"Well," Frederick said, "let's not seem unsociable."

Frederick and Bethany walked down amidst the party. All surrounding eyes looked cloudy with drink and drugs. Frederick sniffed. Opium was thick in the air, and he stopped himself from licking his lips. The smell was too sweet to him, and he had to remind himself that a fondness for it had once almost stopped him from escaping his teen years alive. An Asian girl who couldn't have been older than twelve came before them. In one hand she offered a long smoky pipe, on the other a tray of Champagne flutes. She bowed slightly with lowered eyes.

Frederick waved away the pipe, but took a glass. "Thank you."

The girl stared in confusion, then hurried away. Frederick noticed a stiffness in her walk, as though from sore loins. Many of the children moved similarly, hiding it best they could. Frederick's fingers tightened so the glass threatened to break, and his green eyes flared. He wanted to pull his knife and go about slitting men's throats. He sniffed his drink cautiously. Detecting no poison, he sipped it for self-control.

Bethany tugged him along. "I know. Remember why we're here, Fred."

"Oh I know why," he purred malevolently, "now better than ever."

They passed a set of Persian cushions where a gathering of socialites lounged, passing a pipe. At the center, a stout man in his forties, with blond curly hair and bright eyes, paunchy but otherwise handsome, dominated the conversation. He wore a gaudy leopard-skin coat, big high leather boots and a suit of golden silk. "I say, it's a strange thing -- and more's the pity -- that our host, whoever he is, hasn't invited Her Majesty herself!"

"Really, Ian," slurred a woman, "but should our virtuous monarch know of something like this, we'd all be jailed... and worse, scandalized beyond repair!"

Laughter roared. "Our virtuous monarch wouldn't be seen here," said another man, "for look about! There's only the finest of us here, far finer than she!"

"No, no," said the blond man after puffing and passing the pipe, "our virtuous puritan queen is a user herself! Don't you know? Why, I've seen the photos of her private chamber!"

They all laughed, clearly thinking it a jest. Frederick knew better. He'd shown the blond man those photos. He almost hurried along before the speaker could spot him, then he remembered his disguise and paused to listen. He spirited closer, pulling Bethany.

"I dare say Her Majesty may show yet! She's right to hold the masses to such rigid standards, for only we the elite might behave so unrespectable and yet remain respectable."

"Ian, you're a veritable Mr. Wilde!"

"Don't compare me to that bugger! Is he here? This seems his sort of scene."

"Of course not. He's not but an indolent poet. Haven't you seen? This host of ours, whoever he is, wants only people of enterprise."

"Indeed," said Ian through a plume of smoke. "When my invitation came with the morning's mail, with that silly password business and all those odd instructions for how to dress, I thought surely we were being summoned to some queer business meeting. Well if that be so, then our host knows how to soften me up to any proposals."

"Who is our host? Has anyone even met him?"

"All that's known is that he's of an old family in the city, quite powerful," said a woman. "What's the name? Something or rather Ruthford. Strange... I'd never heard of him 'til my husband and I received that strange invitation. I say, where is my husband?"

"That's him over there, pestering that boy. Perhaps you should see to him, Madam."

The lady's eyes flared jealously. This must have required too much energy, so she slumped and shrugged. "'Tis strange. When I first looked upon this scene, I recall being more than a little aghast. Yet the longer I'm here, the more comfy I grow."

"What's the meaning of all this?" Bethany whispered in Frederick's ear.

"Didn't you hear? They're all folks of enterprise. I know that pompous blond bugger. He's part of a powerful international trading company. Now he's let himself be compromised, like the rest of these fools. He'll listen more willingly to whatever Lord Ruthy proposes. For them that hold their ground better, Lord Ruthy has stronger persuasion... as he no doubt used on that puny snack I gave you outside."

Frederick and Bethany started away.

"Here sir!" bellowed the blond man. "And you, lady!" Frederick looked back and stiffened. The blond man had risen and shambled through the center of the group. "Don't I know you, sir? I say, you look little enough like the rest of these guests."

Frederick shook his wig so the strands fell further over his scar. "You're mistaken, sir."

"I must be, and yet..." The man's eyes widened. "Frederick!"

"Keep your voice down!" Frederick yanked the man cruelly towards a corner. The man groaned and Frederick realized he'd grabbed the injured arm. Bethany followed close. "Ian, get out of here. There's to be trouble."

"Of course there is. You're here. How'd you get in? Never mind, I don't wish to know." He looked at Bethany. "Who's she?"

"This ain't as it looks."

"That's reassuring. For it looks to me, Frederick Hawthorne, knowing you as I do, that you're here to make trouble for our host." Ian hissed quieter, "What's he up to?"

"Other than reviving the old Roman orgy and having children buggered? Quite a bit, actually. What I meant was, this lady with me is a friend, nothing more. You'll... not mention her to Clara, giving the wrong idea like."

Ian's slackened jaw twisted stupidly. Frederick had seen much of Ian Beauregarde lately, knew him to dabble in opium, but never to excess. Some time back, around when Frederick had begun his courtship with Ian's niece, Ian had taken a bullet through the shoulder over some trouble they'd shared. He'd regained use of the arm, though the pain drove him to fits. The solution he'd found was here in abundance. Frederick wondered if Lord Ruthford had learned of Ian's addiction, and made a special mention in the invitation.

"I'd not planned to speak to Clara of anything here."

"Good. Now get out of here. You've placed yourself in a world of trouble by coming. I'll not see my girl robbed of her benefactor."

"If there's danger, we must get the others out!"

"Leave 'em. You've a duty in life to she whom I love. If these others come to harm tonight, I'll not sleep worse for it."

Ian blinked with bleary consternation. "If it's as you say, you should leave with me! You've as much responsibility to Clara as I."

"Which is why I must stay. Were I to let this go on, I'd not be worthy of her."

"You must alert the police, then. Surely they are better equipped --"

Frederick clapped Ian on the shoulder. "You are drugged out of your skull."

Before Ian could answer, Frederick felt Bethany nudge him. His eyes went towards the door through which they'd entered. The stooped gray servant stood watching them. The servant nodded, and at first Frederick thought the nod was for him. Then the cold hollow end of a metal tube pressed the base of his spine. The pistol cocked. Frederick went rigid, made his body relax and looked at Bethany. She looked back and forth between him and Ian, apparently unaware of the gunman. The barrel twisted at an angle, nudging Frederick. He looked to the opposite end of the room from the front corridor. The gunman was urging him in that direction. He started that way and nodded sharply at Bethany, trying to twitch his head so she'd look and get the idea without setting off the gunman. Her expression and posture changed only slightly.

"So you have to be going now, Mr. Beauregarde?" Frederick said loudly. "More's the pity. Give my best to Clara... and to Hawkins."

Ian nodded and started towards the corridor. Frederick moved obediently the other way, then stepped quickly forward so his back left the gunbarrel. Bethany, you'll find yourself alone in this in the next instant if you ain't quick.

Her arm shot behind him as though at his arse, almost too fast to see. A high screech sounded, and a gunshot snapped between them. Far off, a chunk of marble splintered and sprayed from the ceiling. Guests screamed beneath a rain of debris, many scrambling and trampling each other. The servants went cooler than ever and moved mechanically. Naked celebrants floundered over each other in the pool, pushing each other under. Frederick flung himself backward into the gunman. The body he collided with was small and soft. Bethany's arm came up holding the gun. Frederick crushed the attacker to the floor, twisted around and saw the girl child who'd served him champagne. She squirmed and panted in terror, a purple silk cloth still fluttering about her wrist. She must have hidden the gun beneath it all along. Frederick held her in place and looked about. Ian ran through the mob, shoving people aside, and scrambled up the stairs to the door. The stooped gray servant stepped into his path and smiled, leveling a revolver at his gut. Frederick drew the gun he'd taken from the man outside and fired. The stooped gray servant bounced off the wall and rolled at Ian's feet. Ian jumped back and stared down aghast.

"Ian," Frederick shouted, "stop ogling that dead bastard and get out of here!"

Ian snapped back to himself, picked up the servant's gun, looked about through the room, and fired. One of the servant women, yards from Bethany and Frederick, spilled to the floor. Another pistol skidded from her hand across the floor. All the servants had guns now, or were taking up guns. They hadn't concealed them on their persons -- which would have been impossible in their nakedness -- but had hidden them at key points throughout the room in case of trouble. They didn't shoot immediately, but kept cool, choosing their targets and moving into position carefully so's not to shoot the guests. Some of them closed in on Frederick and Bethany. Others turned their attention towards Ian, who tried to aim at them through the crowd.

Stop being brave, you bastard, please, Frederick thought. I know you can be cowardly!

Frederick fired two more shots, splintering the wall around Ian's head. Ian saw where the shots came from, got the idea, and vanished into the corridor.

Frederick's looked again to the child pinned beneath him. She'd stopped floundering, but her mouth was open in a silent growl. Within that mouth was a cauterized lump where a tongue should have been. He glanced sideways and saw a naked African woman sighting down on him. He shot her through the shoulder and dragged the child sideways for cover.

Why bother sparing them, he thought as he went for a broad pillar. It'd be kinder to kill them after what they've been through.

A shot zipped over Frederick's head, exploding a nearby chunk of pillar. He shielded his eyes then looked over his shoulder. A boy stood holding a smoking pistol, next to the bath pool. Frederick fired back and grazed the boy's leg. Behind the boy, a naked society woman was halfway out. She screamed and fell back in. Water bubbled red around her as she pumped feebly to keep afloat. The boy gave a grotesque tongueless screech, spilled in after her, and floundered also. Frederick hoped the boy made it out of the pool. More shots crackled, punching the other side of the column. Frederick pressed the girl flat, under the range of fire. She sobbed and whimpered, still in fear of him. He had one shot left. Where the hell was Bethany? Frederick spotted her moving slowly and alertly towards one of them, a teenaged boy. She still held the little girl's gun, low and forgotten at her side. The boy stared and snapped off shot after shot. Bethany's body jerked and convulsed, her red dress darkening. A spray of blood and splintered rib punched out of her back. She neared the boy, who slunk back against a pile of cushions. Bethany knelt over him and swatted away his gun.

Frederick saw how much blood she'd lost, and knew what she intended. He let go of the girl and ran from cover. "No, Bethany!"

But her eyes were as they'd been in the alley. Off to one side, Frederick spotted another servant sighting down on him. He fired sidelong, saw the figure drop, then yanked Bethany back by the shoulders. She flailed and almost attacked before recognizing him.

"Bethany, no! Not... not these ones."

"Why not?" The voice didn't sound like hers.

In answer, Frederick grabbed a nearby trampled guest, a broken middle-aged man, and thrust him into Bethany's arms. This time Frederick did look away. Well, there was plenty else to keep an eye on now! He crouched as the sounds of feasting rose. There wasn't much for cover, but the human commotion made it difficult for anyone to single out a target. No one presently had a clear shot at them. The boy Bethany had nearly taken had curled into a sobbing ball. Frederick saw only one other servant looming close. He fired his last shot into that servant's collarbone, dropped the empty gun, and picked up the one Bethany had swatted from the boy.

"What now?" he heard Bethany growl as she shoved the corpse aside.

Frederick looked to the dark passage towards which the child had urged him. "That way. Follow me and shoot as we run."

Bethany's eyes cleared, suddenly lost and frightened. "Where are we?" She sniffed. "There's blood everywhere! So much blood, flowing freely, all through this room, drowning..."

"Now," Frederick snapped.

He grabbed her hand and ran for it, heard her gun snap off shot after shot. Enemy fire zipped past them. They'd be easier targets now, but her cover fire must have been well placed enough. Bits of splintered stone and marble sprayed around them, leaving little cuts on their faces and hands. They made the far doorway and entered a narrow dark corridor. They dashed blindly 'til the ground dropped off and they tumbled over each other down a long flight of stairs.

Bethany scrambled off Frederick, stood and peered forward. She gave no word of fresh alarm, so he didn't turn to look yet. He could tell the dim yellow light came from torches hanging on the walls. The ground beneath him was bare hard earth. He felt around and touched stone. The second thing he found was a heavy oak door. From far above came the sounds of frenzy. Frederick picked out a uniformed gathering of footsteps, making its way into the hall. He pulled himself up, slammed the door and threw down the bar across it. He tore off his wig and waistcoat, both of which had been ruined in the scuffle, then looked at the damp sweltering subterranean antechamber. They stood in a short hovel of a hallway, leading out into a wide square room with a high ceiling. Each wall sported another, similar sunken doorway.

"Ian had better make it out, damn him." Frederick placed a hand on Bethany's shoulder. "How you holding up?"

She turned and looked startled. "What? Why?"

Through the torn cloth, her wounds still looked raw and wicked, but they pulsed weakly if at all, like the wounds of a body that's been bled nearly dry. When Frederick looked at her face, though, even the torches told him that she was flushed and vital. "I recently watched a tongueless brat pop you full of holes."

"Tell me, did you learn from Mickey to put things so delicately, or he from you?"

"We've picked up this and that from each other. You did well up there."

She hugged herself. "I... I killed someone up there..."

"Aye."

"I... I nearly killed a little boy. But I didn't... I didn't harm the child, did I, Fred?"

"No. It was a grown man, already likely to die."

"I didn't even know him! I nearly murdered a child, then I murdered someone who'd not even tried to injure us. How can I..."

"Hush. Dwell on it when you're out of danger. Seems your Lord Ruthy's had his place built on very secretive, unique specifications. Up there's his playground. Down here, then, would be the crawling rat's natural habitat, where he likely sleeps."

"So here you mean to flush out and stamp out the rat."

"Not now I don't! How you feeling?"

She licked her lips. "More... like myself..."

"Aye, so I feared. The sun'll be down soon. Let's find another way out, quick!"

She looked around. "We've our options, it seems. Which way?"

"Left."

"Why?"

"If I remember the outside right, there's the most of it that way. Those other doors more likely lead to dead ends, or worse, further down."

Through the doorway, a single step led up into the next room, same size and shape as the last. Instead of bare earth, the floor was covered in ornately patterned tiles, the smallest of which bordered the walls, which were curtained in green and gold. Along all four walls ran low built-in benches, on which lounged an assortment of life sized dolls, made up and partially clothed as women, like department store mannequins. The limbs seemed carved from the same painted wood as mannequins, but with segmented joints like a marionette's puppets. The heads -- and what could be seen of the torsos -- were of an eerily lifelike wax. Their glass eyes of green and blue and brown stared all over the room. Some lay on their sides, or draped over each other. Others sat upright, some slouched with drooping heads, others leaning back, slid forward on their arses, wooden limbs splayed. Frederick counted twenty all in all.

At the opposite end, another door stood open, showing stairs that led up. Frederick thought how at any moment, a crew of naked tongueless servants might rush down those stairs guns blazing. No such sounds came. Here they heard nothing from upstairs, as though they'd gone much deeper into the earth than they'd thought. Bethany wandered among the figures, staring with widening eyes.

"Bethany, get your wits about you... What is it?"

"Fred, look at them."

"Bloody unnerving, aye."

"They... they're all me."

Frederick scanned the faces. No, none of them looked like Bethany exactly. But they all had her hair, her shape and general facial cast. They were clad in everything from scant undergarments to whorish rags to immaculate dresses such as she now wore.

Bethany drew close to one, looked into its glassy eyes, and jolted back. "We have to get out of here!"

"Aye."

As they started towards the door, one doll cocked its head and parted its lips. "Pretty children, wander, wander, through the darkness of the wood... Pretty children never wonder if they wander where they should... Do the children run to hide, where they feel they may abide, safely, soundly in their bed, playing games within their bed, like their parents grown and wed ... Little child doesn't see, playing games within his bed, like his parents grown and wed, folly, folly, doesn't see, his little playmate, she is dead..."

The voice was high and clear and flat. The melody it sang had a nursery rhyme's rhythm. It was the most scantily clad doll, and Frederick looked closer at its body. The head, smooth neck, and narrow torso weren't wax as he'd thought, and the lush red hair was no wig. The eyes weren't glass, though they still may as well have been. The limbs were made of segmented wood as he'd thought, though. They were bolted to the body through metal bands that hid where real limbs had been cut or torn off.

"Don't lean to close to her, Fred. I imagine she's hungry."

"Do the children run to hide," the doll sang on, "to where they feel they may abide, safely, soundly in their bed, playing games within their bed, like their parents grown and wed..."

Bethany stared at the singing thing, backing slowly, unconsciously away. A few more paces and she'd stumble into another doll, one of these dolls that had once been real women. Frederick met her eyes then cocked his head past her shoulder so she remembered herself.

"Little child doesn't see, playing games within his bed, like his parents grown and wed, folly, folly, doesn't see, his little playmate, she is dead..."

Bethany still held the gun she'd taken from the servant. Frederick didn't know if there were any shots left, but he snatched it from her, pointed at the singer's head, and with a cry of agonized disgust squeezed the trigger. The shot snapped and echoed and rolled through the close space, punching a neat black hole in the singer's forehead. The head snapped back and made a dull thud. A thick dark smear splattered across the green and gold. The body slid and slumped lower and the glassy eyes rolled up into its head. The mouth kept trying to sing, its gurgling mumble fading quickly to a whisper.

"Pretty children, wander, wander, through the darkness of the wood... Pretty children never wonder if they wander where they should..."

Frederick and Bethany spun on their heels. Another of the things had started singing. Not knowing what else to do, just wanting -- needing -- to make it stop, Frederick pointed and squeezed the trigger again. The gun snapped emptily.

Another doll joined in, "Do the children run to hide, to where they feel they may abide, safely, soundly in their bed, playing games within their bed, like their parents grown and wed..."

Others joined the grotesquely droning harmony. "Folly, folly, doesn't see, his little playmate, she is dead..."

The little rhyme went on over and over, the rhythm hopping along faster and faster, like children with a jumping rope. Something in the rhythm made the room tilt and swim around Frederick. Bethany's hand squeezed and tugged at his.

"Fred, we must get out quickly!"

They were nearly to the door when a set of light easy feet sounded down towards them. In stepped a tall slight young man with soft blond hair, bright eyes, and extremely delicate features. Frederick would have placed his age at nineteen or twenty. His pale gray suit was reserved, and he walked with his hands behind his back like a sensible, earnest student. He smiled dreamily to the song, then frowned at the ruined curtain. Bethany stared in frozen terror. Frederick at first felt only bewilderment. He didn't know what he'd expected of Lord George Ruthford, certainly not this innocuous dandy. He looked at Bethany, then back at the dandy, trying to gage how fully the night's powers had settled through them.

I haven't the faintest idea what to do. Blast, I'm a bloody weakling among colossal fiends, and the one on my side's too frozen with horror to do any good with her own abilities.

"Bethany love," Lord Ruthford scolded, "you've gone and gained invitation to one of the public houses, haven't you? Did I not strictly instruct you otherwise? Why, upstairs even now I hear the pandemonium I feared would result."

Frederick shot Bethany a look as Ruthford's eyes trailed the ceiling. How much could the bastard hear up there?

Bethany's eyes met Frederick's, then she glimpsed his fingers curl upward and forward ever so slightly. She shouted so Ruthford's eyes were drawn back to her: "Well what did you expect, eh? For me to sit pleasantly awaiting my death? Did you think I loved you so selflessly?"

Bloody hell, the pair spoke like earnestly spurned lovers! Frederick wondered if he'd entered a whole new form of danger. Still he prayed Bethany's voice drowned the rustling of cloth to her master's preternaturally sharp ears. His hand slid in and out of his trouser pocket, now clutching his closed pocketknife between his thumb and his otherwise open palm. There seemed little way out, so he'd die leaving the fiend in need of much replenishment at the very least. But he'd not charge stupidly to his death.

Ruthford stalked towards Bethany. "I suppose not. But to invade my abode and kill my guests and my servants as they await me. It's beyond indignation! And you bring this petty ruffian as your champion." He flung an arm abjectly sideways at Frederick. "What did you think he might do? Kill me in my sleep like a common assassin?"

Frederick pried open his blade beneath the raised voices, but still handled it only with palm and thumb. The rest of his frame hung easy. "Aye, mate, that was about the way of it."

Ruthford whirled and stared indignantly at Frederick, seemed ready to roar, then said with lofty haughtiness, "What gives you the right to speak?"

"Well, I've been invited into this mix. That's the decorum with your sort, I've gathered?"

"'Tis a degradation that you should know so much. I'd thought to let Bethany live on, as one of my chorus, to replace what you've destroyed. Now I shall --"

"So why ain't you just gone and settled things?" Frederick of course knew the answer. Ruthford thought himself a cat with wounded birds to toy with. Frederick smiled, having successfully snared the cat on new curiosity. "Ought to be easy enough, for a creature so timelessly powerful."

Ruthford looked on disbelievingly, struggling ever more for his lofty composure. He took a few steps forward, studying Frederick. "You are barely worth my effort. I shall take my time with you once I've dealt with Bethany."

Bethany for her part stared on petrified. "Fred, please, shut your trap!"

Frederick's grin widened. "Why? Look at him! He's enjoying his little game so. As we're dead anyhow, let's us play it with him."

"You don't know what he can do!"

"Sure I do. Tear me to pieces with no effort at all. Ain't that what you idly offered me, dear, just last night?" He held Ruthford's gaze. "So's I keep hearing about your kind, yet I ain't seen any of it, 'cept against broken swells. I dare say Bethany's spoken unjustly of herself."

Bethany shouted "Fred, stop it!"

"Why Ruthy, I wager you'd offer her no challenge at all in an honest brawl."

Ruthford quivered with rising rage, eyes growing unearthly feral. "I'll offer you no challenge! I'll merely crush your skull like a grape!"

Frederick allowed himself a deep gulp, then held his defiance. "If you meant to do that, mate, you'd have done so already."

"No... You'll not die so swiftly... I'll merely break you so you can't move, and you shall watch me break Bethany!"

So why are you posturing like you do mean us to fight like men? "I suppose that'd be wisest of you. After all, you need me alive so's you can get what I know of Mr. Tepes."

Ruthford's face instantly bled paler than Bethany's, filling with such fear likely as only mortals showed him before the end. He stormed towards her, stabbing at her with his finger. "You! Minx! You couldn't have told him that! You never heard that name, I saw to it! You couldn't have learned it from those ignorant dockers. How does he know that name?"

Bethany, who'd caught wise to Frederick's gamble, barely held her composure. "Ask him yourself, milord."

"I shan't lower myself to parley with his sort! You tell me! You will tell me all! You will tell me why you've failed me so, why you've broken faith with your lord!" He grabbed her and shook her with such violence as would rattle apart the bones of a normal woman.

Frederick now saw all the inhuman strength of so much hubbub. His heart and temples thundered as he launched towards Ruthford's back, certain he was flinging himself at his death. A curious light-headedness filled him and the world seemed to float. Still hiding his blade, he looped his free arm around Ruthford's and yanked. Ruthford let go of Bethany in surprise. Through their sleeves, Frederick felt a limb no thicker than his own, but many times sturdier. In an instant Ruthford would spin and free himself. But Bethany's eyes had changed as when she'd fed. She sprang snarling, kicking up her haunches and planting her feet on Ruthford's shins as she bit and clawed at his chest and neck. So off balance, all Ruthford's strength did little against her. Frederick felt Ruthford's joints twist against him... and aye, those joints were still the weaker points. Before the limb could buck, he cocked his forearm and dropped his shoulder, heaving from the core of his body. Ruthford's elbow snapped loudly and bent unnaturally.

Ruthford howled. The dolls that had been women howled with him in their ghostly harmony. He planted his feet and his splayed palm pistoned forward, sending Bethany flying. He then spun at Frederick, his broken arm dangling. Frederick glimpsed the remaining arm start towards him. Time for the knife! He stabbed low, driving the blade into Ruthford's inner thigh. Cloth and meat yielded as on any other body, painting his hand in hot pulsing splashes. Ruthford's hand closed on Frederick's throat and thrust him backwards. Frederick's grip tightened on the knife, ripping the wound wide as Ruthford flung him backwards.

The world floated again as Frederick sailed through the air. Then his back collided with another human body, or what was left of one. The doll woman smacked the wall, absorbing most of the impact, then teetered as Frederick slid half onto the floor, half into her lap. She bobbed forward, and Frederick found himself staring into mindless hungry eyes and a gaping drooling mouth. The head bobbed lower and the jaws snapped open and shut above his windpipe. He rolled away onto the cold smooth floor, tried to rise, but his throat still felt squeezed shut. He sucked breath after breath, felt air enter and leave him, but his throat still felt locked. The entire back of his body felt like a single massive throbbing bruise from neck to heels.

The doll woman had slid from her perch and landed on her side less than two feet away, her mindless eyes still staring at him. Her shoulder flexed and shifted, as though to will movement through her wooden limbs. The shape squirmed and twisted closer. Hot breath puffed onto Frederick's face. With a great heave, he rolled away onto his stomach and pressed himself up on hands and knees. All around, the other doll women went on wailing, their harmony sounding like shrieking winds of an enraged sea. The tapestries rippled as though such a sea pulsed behind the walls, soon to spill in and drown them.

Frederick crawled, willing sensation back through his agonized limbs. His vision cleared and drifted to the center of the room. Ruthford had made it a few feet towards him, likely to finish things, but he now swayed and stumbled. His right trouser leg was wet and dark, and a crimson lake spread around his feet. One arm dangled uselessly while the other palm clamped the wound, stemming the spurt as much as possible, holding himself upright with the will of ancient ages. The sight sent a cleansing fire through Frederick's brain, giving him ever more strength. Yes! He'd figured things right! These fiends sustained themselves on drinking blood, so surely they depended on keeping it inside themselves like any other creature. And indeed they bled best from the same spots. Ruthford bled from a vein that could empty a body in less than a minute. The throat would have fixed things finer, but blokes always expected the lower shot less. Ruthford's face had shrunk pale around the bones, eyes bulging from shriveling sockets. Those eyes were bleary but no less hateful.

"Get up and finish him, Fred," came a weak choking gasp through the cacophony.

Bethany had staggered to her feet. For a moment Frederick thought his vision was still wrong, for her shape looked distorted. Her chest was crushed partially inward, and something gleamed like ivory in the side of the darkening red dress. Frederick realized it was a shattered rib poking out of her skin. She tried to speak again and coughed red splashes onto her pale chest.

Ruthford swayed and slurred, "Silly little bitch. I see that rib! I see its angle... It's punctured your heart! Leave it in and die slow, or pull it so you bleed out quick!"

All Frederick could think was A punctured heart. They can live with punctured hearts.

Bethany was stumbling worse than Ruthford, and she nearly went spilling into one of the doll women at her back. She set herself forward, then held her ground midway to Ruthford, and met Frederick's eyes again. "Finish... him..."

Ruthford curled forward like a malformed dwarf, still clutching his wound, no longer the cat with its prey but a broken rat in a trap, still snapping and clawing with diseased teeth. "Yes, finish me, Fred! Get close enough and I'll have you! I'll drink myself back to health, and then I'll take Bethany one last time as she dies. As I spend, I'll pluck that rib from her heart and suckle the last of her life practically right from her breast!"

Frederick willed himself up and found his footing. Ruthford had no arms to fight with, but he had teeth. Much of his strength had bled out, but Frederick saw that there might be enough for the promised work. Still he might chance it... but where was his knife? He looked about frantically, and saw the doll woman still on the floor. Her wooden limbs splayed every which way, and from one of the legs jutted the pocketknife, the tip embedded deeply in the calf. It must have been driven in when Frederick had landed on her. As Frederick reached and gingerly plucked it free, he again met those horrid empty eyes and saw that champing, frothing mouth. He hopped away and again met Ruthford's eyes, which had grown nearly as mindless.

Deadly or utterly dead, there's no midpoint with these fiends.

Frederick was ready for a go at it, then he spotted Bethany. She kept her feet, but was fading fast. Without replenishment, she'd die soon. "Go on, Fred," she pleaded.

Frederick lowered his knife. "No, Bethany. You finish him. Take what's left of him for yourself."

She twitched forward as though contemplating it, then Ruthford spat, "Yes, go ahead... You shall replenish me, my dear, and the end shall be the same!"

The words came to Frederick on the long continuous wail of the doll women, shrilly musical even now. It seemed they threw off his brain's patterns, rendering the scene unreal. His eyes fell again on the pruned woman at his feet, and he wondered how Ruthford went about feeding them so they could sing for him. With that he bent and snatched the toppled doll woman by the shoulders and hafted her like a mewling infant. Her neck lashed forward like a striking snake, very close to his face. He turned her around as he spun towards Ruthford, the wooden feet dragging on the marble. The neck stretched and the jaws snapped, as eager for Ruthford as they'd been for Frederick... perhaps more so, even now with some lingering malicious recognition. Frederick shoved her spilling at Ruthford. In his utter surprise, Ruthford's hand slid from his wounded leg. It gushed freely as the doll woman landed on her wooden knees, swayed forward like a toppling tree, and locked her mouth on it. Ruthford's eyes bugged out wider and he squealed through his teeth, stumbling and hopping backwards as he clawed and swatted. Two more of the doll women stopped singing as Ruthford backed into the wall between them. In the same unison with which they'd sung, they shifted their rumps and spilled sidewise onto him. Ruthford thrashed then squirmed then twitched as the last of his life was drawn out. The remaining singers fell into what sounded like an actual melody for a moment -- a triumphantly hateful melody, like a tyrannical conqueror's war song -- then faded out completely.

Frederick growled his own conqueror's declaration: "Romanian warlords my arse! You ought've feared to bugger with the East End!"

Now Frederick wanted to sit or fall, but he watched the feasters finish. This time he enjoyed the sight utterly. Soon the body was a bone-dry husk, though the feasters still gnawed and sucked for any remaining drops. Frederick took the body by the feet and dragged it from them. They clung on irritably 'til Frederick tore it free. Ashen morsels dangled from their lips like brittle paper. Frederick sawed through what remained of the neck, then twisted 'til the bone snapped. He rose and tossed the head back amongst them, closed and pocketed his knife, then looked back at Bethany. She shuffled towards him. The worst pity, he couldn't help think, was that she'd been unable to fully enjoy the sight of her master's demise.

"Come on," he whispered, slipping an arm about her, "lean on me."

She draped her arm around him, squeezed his shoulder, and coughed more red onto her chin. "Fred... Can't... Lost so much... Must drink..." Her voice was husky with the need.

"Aye, we'll find you some somewhere, somehow." He got her better situated and moved along faster. "That's it, easy now. We'll find a way to get you patched. Mickey's a fine amateur surgeon, you'll find. He's had plenty of practice with me."

"My sweet Mickey, aye," she breathed dreamily. "I'd so love to see him one last..."

"None of that," Frederick growled, edging her towards the stairs that doubtless led up into the late unlamented Lord Ruthford's private chambers.

As they neared the steps, Frederick heard some of the commotion they'd left upstairs, still faint and far away. Cries of fresh alarm mingled with scattered crackles of gunfire.

"All of you as you are," shouted a familiar voice. "You're all under arrest!"

"Good ol' Inspector Hawkins," Frederick muttered grinning. They were through the doorway, nearly to the stairs. Frederick saw the dimly lit ceiling of a room above, thankfully with no shadows of movement. "Sir Ian's of use yet -- OW! Bethany, don't squeeze so hard!"

Her grip tightened, her breathing more belabored. "Must have... Must drink..."

"We can't linger! Hold yourself together 'til --"

He glanced at her and saw the girl he'd known fading from her eyes. What replaced her was all too like what he'd seen in the faces of the doll women, like Ruthford at the end. She stared back at him with lips drawn back, and he remembered how deeply she'd forgotten herself while drinking from the man in the alley, how she'd looked on the child upstairs before he'd tossed her the trampled man. She'd not have known them from him in those moments. Nor did she now. Or she was swiftly forgetting. He recalled the guilt that had agonized her over a man she'd never seen... When she was herself again, what agonies would she feel over him?

He eased her sidewise from himself. "No! You ain't yourself. You'll take too much. C'mon, keep yourself together 'til we --"

"No! Must have... Must drink..."

Her fingers dug at his shoulders, and her head lashed at his throat like the doll woman's had. He thrust her out at arm's length and she kept snapping. He tried to plant his feet but only stumbled worse. Only her weakened state let him hold her off at all, and he was quickly losing to that. They stumbled in circles together as though dancing, and she drove him back towards the room. Bloody hell, he'd have to dodge the doll women again! He shifted so his back struck the doorframe and he let go her shoulders. One hand locked on her throat, his arm pistoning her back, while his other hand darted for the rib that jutted from her side. Her fingers locked on his wrist and pinned it to the wall above his head, while her other started prying his fingers from her neck. He held fast, but felt his elbow straining. Soon it would snap and she'd be on him. The tiny cross she wore fell out and dangled between them on its chain.

Feet thundered down the stairs and glistening glass sailed towards the back of her head. Frederick knew it for an oil lamp someone had thrown, a moment before it shattered against her back and ignited her hair. As flames engulfed her, she shrieked louder than the things in the room had. Frederick grabbed her shoulders, fire scorching his fingertips 'til he thrust her blazing form into the room. He saw her back into one of the tapestries that covered the wall, saw it ignite. Then he slammed the door and slumped against it, head falling so his chin touched his chest. He hadn't even thought to look up at his sudden savior.

Now they'll all be out of their misery. The thought tasted cheap while the screams of the dying mingled with the roar of flames. Something thudded several times on the door, sending pained ripples through Frederick's body, but he only squeezed his eyes shut. Finally the bludgeoner thudded on the floor within. The door heated up against his back and smoke leaked from beneath it. The smell was curiously familiar. Later he'd realize it reminded him of the ham he'd burnt last time he'd tried cooking a Christmas dinner. For now he half-consciously scooted away. A hand tugged his shoulder.

"Get up, Fred, now!"

"Mickey! How'd you --"

"Picked up your trail. Weren't hard. Saw the police swarming in, knew this must be the place. Figured I'd best not try getting in same way's them, so I got around back and found a window." Mickey tugged Frederick's sore arm. "No time to wonder over it."

"But you... Mickey, she..."

In the gloom, Mickey's face strained to comprehend a fading dream, waking to too many warring feelings. "Strangest thing... I recall her voice, telling me I mustn't move save for what I must do for myself. Well, seems not letting you go alone to your fate counts towards that!"

Fresh strength ignited Frederick and he pulled himself up, still clasping Mickey's arm. "And I couldn't be gladder for that!"

They hurried up into a bedroom that was furnished ordinary enough, except there was no bed. And no door.

"Aye, strange ain't it?" Mickey said as though reading Frederick's mind. "Well, we're the better for it, with the police and all. Quick, the window!"

Smoke was already leaking up into the room as they climbed out. They made it across the backyard, over an iron fence and through a neighboring garden. Finally they found themselves on a quiet street in the fine posh neighborhood, beneath the starless night sky.

The pub opened the next afternoon to a swarm of regulars, curious as to why their favorite watering hole had been closed the night before. Frederick told them he and Mickey had needed to see to an emergency, on behalf of a ladyfriend of Mickey's.

"Aye," Mickey added bitterly, "stupid wee bitch brought it on us, though. We're all fools to ever trust 'em."

When business eased for a stretch, Frederick noticed Mickey absent and found the lad in the back room, sitting slumped on a crate. He put a hand on the lad's shoulder. "You oughtn't think so ill of her, mate."

Mickey looked up, fighting to keep his eyes dry. "But Fred, I saw her try to kill you! Bloody hell, it was you convinced me she deserved help, and look how she repaid you."

"I've said how it was. She weren't herself in the end. When she was, her heart and mind were the truest to ever fight at my side." He squeezed Mickey's shoulder. "Aye, well, almost."

Mickey smiled faintly. "Perhaps in time I'll see it clearer, remember her face and see the lovely lass with whom I shared a fine evening."

It was the oddest thing to remember someone so full of life and to know they were dead. It seemed the girl they'd known hadn't died at all, just gone somewhere else, leaving a thirsty beast in her place. Mickey had incinerated the beast. Bethany was still off wherever she'd wandered, might drop in this very evening. Weren't herself in the end... Frederick had spoken those words as optimistic encouragement, but it wasn't how he felt them. Who would be themselves, gripped by such desperate hunger? He remembered struggling with her, how quickly he'd been able to forget the friend she'd been, so he might kill her and save himself, as utterly and instinctively as she'd forgotten him.

Frederick went back out to the pub and found Bruno awaiting a drink. The night before Bruno had accused him of growing too morbid. Oh, what morbid thoughts Frederick might share now! Here he served men and women who knew life at its most bestial, yet could only think themselves better than beasts by calling certain realities too morbid for their taste. How easily any of them might be pushed past such thoughts, might become whatever he and Bethany had been in their final moment together. And here Frederick served cheer to chase off troubled thoughts, he the greatest nexus of trouble there was! Folks never ran out of lies to tell themselves, to endure truths they knew too well.

All evening, Frederick loathed the sight of humanity. Once they'd gone and he'd locked up, he went to his room and slept. His dreams smelled like burning pork and were full of strange discordant siren songs. He woke and imagined Lord George Ruthford coming home to his dolls, teaching them however he'd taught them to sing and sooth him, so he could bask in a prettier world than the one he created nightly.

The next evening Inspector Francis Hawkins of Scotland Yard visited the Devil's Draft off duty, eager to tell his old publican friend Frederick Hawthorne of his recent adventures. The night before last he'd been sent to deal with some foul business that had gotten out of hand at a fine social gathering. The horrors he and his men found there eclipsed those of the East End's worst thieves' dens. A young constable had just found the corpse in the alley when a shrieking dandy dressed most curiously came running as though the devil were at his heels, pleading to the constable that Hawkins specifically be summoned. Imagine Hawkins's surprise when he learned the dandy was none other than he and Frederick's old chum Sir Ian Beauregarde.

Frederick remembered the foreign servants, remembered the gunfire he'd heard from the cellars, recalled tales Hawkins had told him of India. Likely the inspector felt his own lot rather surreal of late.

No charges stood against Sir Ian, though he and his fellow socialites were harshly questioned. While the police had been there, a fire had broken out and seemed to engulf the entire house out of nowhere. Later they learned that it had burned through a wall, from a secret room that did not join the rest of the building, but led down into a curious subterranean network where the fire had apparently started. The police were still exploring the passages. They'd made nothing of the charred skeletons they'd found, many of which seemed curiously mutilated.

Hawkins told the tale with a knowing gleam of eye, then asked about Frederick's own recent activities. Frederick grumbled something about troublesome whores, then asked what Hawkins knew of the recent murders. Surely the body found in the alley matched the pattern. Hawkins said absently that he wasn't on that case, then changed the subject.

Over the next two weeks, Frederick left the pub little as possible. He made inquiries regarding Lord Ruthford's servants, but had little luck. Most of them were in police custody, and the police figured little of where they'd come from or what to do with them. Frederick prayed he'd set them towards brighter fates, but doubted it. Mickey offered to run most of the errands, and Frederick let him. Mickey's heart and mind seemed to recover much swifter, and he was the only soul Frederick could look on with some trace of light he'd once taken for granted.

I recall her voice, telling me I mustn't move, save for what I must do for myself. Well, seems not letting you go alone to your fate counts towards that!

Frederick reminded himself of these words, climbing towards their truth as to a beacon.

Clara sent letters of concern for Frederick's absence. He wrote back simply that he was ill. When he next visited the Beauregarde home, he and Sir Ian only eyed one another pensively. Frederick observed the upper class decorum more pliantly, though with fresh contempt... the same shuddering contempt with which he'd looked on Bruno and the other customers after Lord Ruthford's party. The latter animosity faded, and life at The Devil's Draft went as normal.

Frederick's final visits with Clara did not go well. It was late afternoon when he received her letter ending their courtship. He had less than an hour to wallow in what grief remained in him. There was a pub to open and customers to see to. He flung himself with ravenous joy into that night's business, feeling for the first time in months that he could live comfortably as one with his fellow creatures. Strange how grief over the death of a romance helped him to see it.

A month passed and another letter came, postmarked from Romania.

My Friend Frederick Hawthorne,

I understand you shall have heard of me, by a name I have not used in so long that it is strange to recall. You shall also have learned my plans to visit your London. As my own affairs progress, this shall not be for some time by what I imagine is your reckoning. I look forward to meeting you, for you have done me a great service in the vanquishing of my enemy. You have done your own countrymen an even greater service, greater than you could know. Perhaps you believe you would do them further service by making me your enemy. I hope you come to see otherwise, and accept my hand in friendship.

Yours with all gratitude and respect,

V.T.

Frederick showed the letter to Mickey, who rolled his eyes after finishing it.

"We can't seem to be rid of these blasted fiends, eh?"

"Seems not."

"So which sort of dragon you figure this one'll be?"

"Romania, aye? That's Eastern Europe, ain't it, a bit of a no man's land betwixt the two. So perhaps he's a bit of both."

"You'd have read more on that sort of thing than I. Seems we'll learn in time."

Frederick placed the letter among his papers. "Who knows? Likely he's not but another chap doing the best he can according to his nature, for better or worse as concerns others, which is the most one can say of any man. I wager only this about him: when all's said and done, those who speak of his deeds shall understand him no better than they did the murderous phantom angel we knew as a sweet bright girl named Bethany... or than they do Frederick Hawthorne."

THE END

Bio: Matt Spencer is the author of the well-selling novel THE DRIFTING SOUL, illustrated by award-winning artist Stephen R. Bissette. His short fiction has appeared in Aphelion, Back Roads, Demon Minds, Gallery of Snuff, InfinityPlus, Lilith's Lair, Hardluck Storis, and NVF Print, as well as the anthology FRIGHT FLASHES, and the upcoming anthologies CRIMSON SCREAMS and NEW VOICES OF HORROR Vol. 2. Mr. Spencer has worked as a film critic, film script editor, adult film star, factory worker, and professional chef. He now lives in Kansas, where he functions as the caring voice of reason and council - and occasionally "enforcer" - for family and friends.

E-mail: Matt Spencer
Website: The Official Matt Spencer Space

Comment on this story in the Aphelion Forum

Return to Aphelion's Index page.