End of the Century (59 page)

The ravens were eerily silent, the only sound the flapping of their wings. There must have been dozens of them, maybe even hundreds or more. Like a
black cloud, like a fog of darkness, they descended from the night sky, diving towards the spectral Gabriel Hounds.

One of the ravens broke off from the others, angling towards the place where Alice and Stillman stood. Raising his Hotspur, reflexively, Stillman almost fired on it, but at the last moment, Alice stayed his hand. “Hold on a second. I've got a feeling.”

Stillman shot her a look that conveyed exactly what he thought about her feelings at this juncture, but didn't voice an objection.

The raven flew in a wide arc around them, approaching from behind. At the last moment, it extended its talons, and flapped its wings, shifting its body weight back. Slowing its descent, its wings flapping even faster, it landed on Alice's shoulder, its talons closing on the tough material of her leather jacket. It folded its black wings and brought its black beak near Alice's ear. Beak opening, it spoke again, its voice high pitched, growly-squeaky.

“Unworld. Waits. Memory. Within. Disk. Save. Alice.”

From within the Glasshouse came the sound of stones tumbling to the floor, and Alice glanced back to see the Huntsman slicing his way out of the stairway, evidently not content with the size of the existing door.

“Come on,” Alice said, as much to the raven on her shoulder as to Stillman, and taking to her heels running. “Let's continue this conversation elsewhere!”

While the rest of the flock of ravens distracted the Gabriel Hounds, dozens of them ending their lives in bloody ruin in the jaws or under the paws of the beasts, the talking raven flew along beside Alice as she and Stillman raced towards the bridge. The Huntsman was only a short distance behind, but he too found himself the focus of the ravens' attention, as dozens of them flapped and clawed around his head, stymieing his progress. He sliced them in half, black feathers and viscera flying in all directions, but still more came.

The puzzle was coming together, but try as she might, Alice couldn't make sense of the image.

Alice and Stillman reached the far side of the bridge, the raven once more perched on her shoulder. The West India Quay Station was just a short distance away.

“Where to now?” Stillman asked, starting to breathe heavily. For the first time, Alice believed he might well be the age he claimed to be. He was looking exhausted.

She was more than a little winded herself.

“I don't know,” she panted. “Let's ask our feathered friend, shall we?” She turned to look at the raven on her shoulder. “Okay, what's this about, anyway? Come on Polly, squawk!”

“Alice. Memory. Within. Disk. Save. Alice. Unworld. Waits.”

Alice shot a glance at Stillman. “That was helpful, wasn't it?” She held the Vanishing Gem up, catching the light from the nearest lampposts, glinting like a milky diamond. “What
is
this thing? What's this all about?”

“Unworld,” the raven said, in its squeaky-growly voice.

“What, is that what this is, or what this mess is about?”

“Unworld,” the raven said, simply.

Alice waved the blue-white sword, menacingly. “Look! I've had enough of all of this. If I've got a goddamned destiny, why doesn't someone just tell me what it is, already, and get it over with?!”

“Unworld. Waits. Alice.”

“I think we should be going now, love,” Stillman plucked at her elbow.

The raven swung its head around and fixed ink black eyes on Stillman. “Alice. Memory. Within. Disk. Save. Alice.”

“Do what now?” Stillman said, cocking an eyebrow. Then his eyes widened, and he pointed across the green-glowing bridge. The Huntsman stood at the far side, the Gabriel Hounds baying at his heels. “Oh, no.” Stillman sighed heavily. “Well, anyone up for a run?”

Alice shook her head and stood her ground. “No!” she snapped. “I'm
tired
of running. Look, this guy is the T-1000, okay?” She took in Stillman's blank expression. “From
Terminator 2?
No? Whatever. Look, he's going to keep coming, right? You shot him full of holes, didn't do any good. I've been
running for, what? Five days now? Longer? And he still found me. He's got a magic sword that can cut through anything.” Stillman's eyes slid to the sword in her hands. “And you know what? So do I. So here's what I'm thinking. Let's go back to the middle of the bridge, right? Stand right over the water. And then if he wants us, he's got to come over the water to get us. You said it weakens him, or something like that, right? In which case, if he comes for us, we've got the home court advantage. Make sense?”

Stillman just looked at her, impressed. He nodded.

“All right, then. Time to stop running. Time to be a little more proactive.” She put her foot on the bridge, the gem in one hand, the sword in the other. “Maybe
then
the puzzle will start to make sense.”

The bridge rested on pontoons, mostly submerged in the waters below. On either side of them were balustrades of stainless steel cables. Behind them was the north side of the waterway and the refurbished Victorian warehouses of the West India Quay. Facing Alice and Stillman on the opposite side, with the towering Glasshouse behind them, were the Huntsman and his Gabriel Hounds.

“Still not sure how you were able to draw that sword, love.” Stillman gestured to the blue-white blade in Alice's hands while checking the action of his Hotspur.

Alice shrugged. “Makes about as much sense as anything else, the last few days.”

“Mmm.” Stillman nodded. “You
did
say your grandmother was in Iceland once upon a time, didn't…?”

“Look!” Alice said, cutting him off. “Here they come!”

She pointed with the point of the sword at the Canary Wharf side of the waterway, where the Huntsman had just stepped onto the footbridge.

“They'll be slow in coming,” Stillman said, thumbing off the safety on his fletcher pistol, “but now it's just a matter of time.”

“Yeah, but moving as slow as he is, maybe we can get some answers from him.” The Huntsman was taking slow, tentative steps, like an old lady walking on ice.

“I'm not sure he can talk, love, at that.”

Alice opened her mouth to answer, but the raven perched on her shoulder beat her to it.

“Unworld. Alice. Unworld.” Its squeaky-growly voice seemed fainter, as though coming from farther away.

“I guess the dogs must have made short work of the rest of the flock.”

“Maybe not,” Alice said. From the direction of the Glasshouse, a few black shapes fluttered, feathers rustling, and came to rest on the railings to either side of them, perching atop the balustrade. There were three on either side of them, six in all. With the one on Alice's shoulder, that made seven. “Looks like a few of them made it out in one piece, more or less.”

Stillman hummed, thoughtfully.

The raven turned its black eyes to Stillman, and opened its beak. “Alice. Memory. Disk. Within. Save. Alice. Save.”

“An intent little bugger, isn't it?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

Slowly, so gradually that at first she didn't notice it, Alice's hand began to grow warmer, the one holding the gem. She raised it up in front of her face and found that the Vanishing Gem had begun to glow.

“Um, Stillman?” she half turned to him, keeping her eyes on the gem.

The Huntsman was almost halfway to the bridge's midpoint where they stood, his thin sword glowing red in the dim light, while the Gabriel Hounds at the shore were baying, like the sound of wild geese in flight.

It felt as if the gem had grown more heavy, a hundredfold. Alice was forced to set the sword down on the deck of the bridge at her feet, careful to keep the blade flat so the edge didn't cut into the deck, and hold the gem in both hands.

“Stillman, what's it
doing?
”

“I-I'm not sure, love.”

“Unworld. Alice.” The raven's growly-squeaky voice rasped in her ear, while it tightened its talons on her shoulder. “Unworld. Waits.”

Suddenly, the light from the gem flared up, flooding Alice's field of vision with whiteness. It felt very familiar.

Then, Alice fell.

M
ISS
B
ONAVENTURE WAS FOR ALERTING THE AUTHORITIES
, but Blank was afraid that even a moment's delay in getting to Fawkes might make all the difference. Taylor, for his part, insisted on accompanying them to the bitter end, intent on seeing the Jubilee Killer brought to justice.

A hansom cab carried them at breakneck speeds from New Bond Street to Victoria Station, the driver paid handsomely to pay no mind to safety or courtesy, and in short order the trio were on board the Crystal Palace Railway, headed south. It was midday on Friday, and assuming that he had not abandoned his post, Mervyn Fawkes would be found at this hour at work.

As they rattled along the track, Taylor with his hands gripped white-knuckled on his knees, Blank and Miss Bonaventure compared notes. Fawkes certainly fitted the role of culprit in most regards, at least in terms of opportunity, but there still remained the questions of motive and method. What did Fawkes gain from these senseless and gruesome killings? And just how were they accomplished?

Too, there remained the question of the man in the smoked-glass spectacles, and his strange dogs, dyed and groomed to resemble the Gabriel Hounds of the Wild Hunt. What was his connection to all of this? And what of the crystal object retrieved from Glastonbury Tor by Professor Bonaventure and Jules Dulac, which seemed to lie at the center of all this madness? If Fawkes
were
the Jubilee Killer, then he doubtless was behind the theft of the report
from the Somerset Archaeological and Natural History Society, which perhaps had led him to find the crystal chalice in Professor Bonaventure's storage in Earl's Court. Just what was the significance of the ancient artifact to Fawkes, worth the life of at least two men and five women to him, and possibly more? And, finally, there remained the vexing question of method? What manner of tool or implement had Fawkes found that allowed him to slice iron and steel, flesh and bone, as easily as an oar cutting through water? Was it something he brought back with him from his extended stay in Iceland?

All of these questions and more plagued the trio as they rode south towards the Crystal Palace. Perhaps, Blank thought, the answers might be waiting for them at the end of the line.

When they reached the Crystal Palace, they worried that it might be difficult to locate Fawkes. As it happened, they needn't have bothered.

Mounting the steps that led to the grand front entrance, the trio passed fleeing visitors and employees alike. Men, women, and children ran in wide-eyed terror, shouting something about madmen with swords battling inside.

They entered the airy pavilion, the midday sun streaming through the glass panels which covered the walls and the roof high overhead, and found an unlikely scene already in progress.

It was Mervyn Fawkes, inexpertly wielding a long sword, the blade a brilliant shade of red, so thin that when turned on edge it seemed to disappear entirely from view, a scabbard on the ground at his feet. Facing him, a Sam Browne belt under his frock coat, a long scabbard hanging from it, was Jules Dulac, in his hands a sword with an equally whisper-thin blade, but glowing faintly bluish white instead.

It was clear that, of the two, Dulac was the accomplished swordsman, and Fawkes the uneasy amateur. Time and again Fawkes lashed out with his blade, snarling with rage, only to have its point turned aside easily by Dulac's own sword. Dulac, for his part, continued to shout the same question over and again, a repeated refrain.

“Where is it?”

So intent where the dueling pair that they failed to note the arrival of Blank, Miss Bonaventure, and Taylor, much less the mayhem they had engendered amongst the patrons and employees of the Crystal Palace. The trio stopped a short distance off, wary of the long thin blades the two swung, one with such mad abandon, one with clinical precision.

“Where is it?!”

Dulac's mouth was drawn into a tight bloodless line, his newly clean-shaven jaw set. There was nothing of the slightly dissolute celebrant Blank and Miss Bonaventure had met the night before to him now, only the steely gazed warrior that Blank had glimpsed beneath. The theft of the crystal chalice, which evidently he felt himself pledged to protect, had spurred him to renewed vigor.

“
Where is it
?!”

Still Fawkes refused to answer, only howled wordless screams of rage as he lay about him on all sides with the red blade. Finally, his lack of skill caught him wrong-footed. Dulac smacked Fawkes's red sword to one side with his own blue blade, and then surged forward, planting a kick directly in Fawkes's midsection, knocking the wind from him.

Fawkes crumpled over with a groan, and though he retained his grip on his red sword's hilt, the blade was driven by the force of his fall
into
the very concrete of the floor beneath their feet, halfway to the hilt. Before Fawkes could regain his feet and draw his sword back out of the stone, Dulac stepped forward and smacked his arm with the flat of his blue blade, dislodging his hands from the hilt. Then with another well-placed kick Dulac drove Fawkes back and away from the sword, which still protruded halfway from the hard floor as if it had always been there.

Suddenly, the dynamic of the duel had changed. Fawkes was on his knees, clutching his bruised chest and struggling to catch his breath, while Dulac stood over him, menacing him with the point of his whisper-thin blue blade.

“Now, talk!” Dulac shouted. “Or I'll cut you in two, just like you did all of those poor women and men!”

Tentatively, Blank and the others approached the pair, careful not to startle them.

Fawkes looked up, a clever gleam in his eye. “You won't do it,” he sneered at Dulac. “If you want the chalice so badly, you won't kill me before finding out where it is, or you'll never see it again.”

“Don't test me,” Dulac snarled, but Blank could see that Fawkes's words had found their mark.

“I do hate to intrude,” Blank said gently, “but my friends and I would like very much to know just what the devil is going on.”

Dulac had evidently noted their approach but paid them little mind. Now, as Taylor stepped closer to the red sword protruding from the concrete, reaching out to touch the impossibly thin blade, Dulac snapped, “Don't touch that!” Then he turned to Blank, his expression grim but weary. “This man has stolen something I have spent a great many years protecting, and I need it back.”

“What?” Fawkes said. “
You
protect the Grail? Absurd!”

“The
Grail
?” Taylor repeated, eyebrow cocked.

“Of course, you stupid fool,” Fawkes spat. “What
else
did you think this was all about?”

Dulac looked to Blank and his companions, and sighed. “All right, ask your questions, as you seem better able than I to get this pile of dung to speak. But find out for me where he's hidden it, or you'll all answer to me.”

Blank nodded and turned to the kneeling Fawkes. “Well, let's have it man. First, it's clear that something in your experiences in Colney Hatch suggested to you this obsession with the Grail. What was it?”

Fawkes shrugged. “A book of ancient poems was the first clue, I suppose. Then I happened to speak with another patient who had become obsessed with the work of the pre-Raphaelites. My experiences on the floating island had made it plain to me that there was more to the world than what presented itself to our eyes, and if one myth were true, why not another? And what myth made reality could be more powerful than that of the holy cup, the Grail, capable of curing any wound or of raising the dead back to life. I thought for a time, wrongly, that the Grail itself was only a metaphor, an encoded formula such as those later used by the alchemists, and upon my release from Colney Hatch I attempted a few…experiments…to rediscover the formula from first principles, using as my guide all of the repeated
references in the myths and legends to heads on platters and severed hands and arms. But my experiments failed to produce the desired result, and so I continued to research.”

Fawkes rubbed his bruised ribs gingerly, clearly relishing the memories.

“In the British Museum,” he went on, “I found a handwritten note in the margin of Thorkelin's transcription of Beowulf, which mentioned an episode in a fragmentary thirteenth-century manuscript of Snorri's edda. A Geat adventurer, perhaps an original of Beowulf, traveled to Britain and battled against a warrior who later traveled to find a magic tower or chalice that could restore the dead and heal wounds. The note mentioned that the final resting place of the chalice's guardian was believed to be in Iceland. Naturally, I shortly thereafter journeyed to Iceland, and spent the next years hunting for the guardian's tomb. Along the way I met and married an Icelandic woman, who was warm beneath the sheets and skilled in the kitchen if perhaps not as handsome as she might have been, and she later gave me a son, Hiram. For a time, it seemed that I would settle down and raise my family there in Iceland, my hunt for the Grail abandoned in failure, but then just before all hope was lost I managed to find it. The tomb of the Grail guardian! And within, even more amazing, the body of the guardian himself, in a remarkable state of preservation. At his side lay a strange sword, which no one but I was able to draw from its scabbard, the blade so thin it could only be viewed from the side, glowing with the red fires of the pit. The red blade could slice through any material, no matter how dense or strong, and so I brought it with me on my return to civilization.”

“What of your family?” Miss Bonaventure asked, meaningfully. “Your wife and son?”

Fawkes shrugged. “Still in Iceland, I suppose. You see, when I returned to the home I shared with my wife and child, the strange sword in hand, I was no closer to finding the Grail than I'd ever been. I had found the resting place of the guardian, it was true, and salvaged his supernatural sword, but while I'd established the veracity of the Grail legends, I had not found the Grail. I had hoped in the guardian's tomb to find some clue to the location of the chalice itself, but had found only frozen stones, a lifeless body, and a sword.” A smile tugged up the corners of Fawkes's mouth, and a crazed gleam
lit his eyes. “A short while later, though, that all was to change. In an English-language newspaper, I happened to read a brief article about an archaeological expedition by my old ‘friend' Peter Bonaventure, in conjunction with the Somerset Archaeological and Natural History Society, in which a crystal
chalice
-like object had been unearthed. And unearthed from Glastonbury Tor, which in ancient times, the Somerset Levels flooded, had been an
island
, just as in the fragmentary poem Thorkelin cites.”

Fawkes's chest rose and fell as he swelled with pride.

“Only I had the vision to put the pieces together. Only I recognized just what it was Bonaventure had found. The next day, I left my wife and son behind and boarded the next ship to England. When I arrived, I journeyed at once to Taunton, sure that Bonaventure's ‘chalice' could be found in the offices of the Somerset society. But instead, I found only the report the fool had filed and that he had taken the treasure back with him to London.”

“And you killed the custodian to learn this,” Blank said, matter-of-factly.

“What of it?” Fawkes shrugged. “He interrupted my research and got only what he deserved. In any event, I took the next train to London, found Bonaventure's home, and then with the irresistible edge of my magic sword cut my way into his storage, there to find the Grail itself.”

“Damn your eyes,” Dulac hissed. “And damn me, as well.”

Fawkes pursed his lips, shooting the sword bearer an annoyed look. “Yes, I had the Grail, for all the good it did me. I couldn't seem to make it work. I tried a few more experiments, as I had done ten years before, but simply couldn't make it function.”

The pieces of the puzzle slotted together in Blank's mind. Fawkes had mentioned ‘experiments' he had performed after leaving Colney Hatch in 1887, inspired by the Grail legends of heads on platters and severed limbs. Ten years later, he had duplicated those experiments, this time with the crystal object he believed in his madness to be the Grail itself.