Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart (33 page)

“My cane?” said Bainbridge, frowning.

“
Your cane
, Charles!” snapped Newbury, and Bainbridge reluctantly handed it over.

Newbury hefted it in his right hand, and then dashed in the direction of the sound, the others following in hot pursuit.

The source of the wail was not difficult to ascertain; a moment later Newbury burst into a darkened room, only to be assaulted by the riotous noise of a hundred clocks, each of them holding their own incongruous time.

He took in the scene as a series of snapshots—images that would be forever emblazoned in his mind.

The walls and surfaces were covered in timepieces of myriad shapes and sizes, every available space littered with them. Decrepit furniture was heaped in the corners of the room, and the stench of rotten meat was nearly overwhelming.

At the heart of this, the dark figure of the Executioner was hunched over the still form of Veronica, who was spread out upon the filthy floor, unmoving. The Executioner’s hands were steeped in dark blood, and in one of them she still clutched the pommel of a curving scimitar. The other was buried deep inside Veronica’s chest.

For a moment Newbury hesitated in the doorway, unable to comprehend the sight he was witnessing. Then, overcome by a rage of a ferocity he had never before encountered, he charged at the hunched figure of the Executioner, swinging Bainbridge’s club violently at her head, bellowing in primal fury.

The Executioner shifted, but not in time, and the heavy silver head of the cane connected with her temple, sending her sprawling across the floor. Newbury pressed his advantage, whipping the cane up and around and striking again, this time shattering a rib as he brought it down upon the right side of her chest. He kicked at her, too, but she recovered and she rolled, avoiding his shoe.

The Executioner flipped up onto her knees, swinging her scimitar above her head to fend off another swipe with the cane. He heard Bainbridge and Angelchrist talking in urgent tones behind him, but shut it out. They would see to Veronica while he took care of this woman, this abomination.

He raised the cane and she reacted with terrifying speed, twisting her arm and stabbing at him with her blade. The move was designed to make him fall back, and he was forced to do just that, providing the Executioner with the opportunity to scramble to her feet.

He swung again, and then kicked, causing her to parry on one side and take a blow to the hip on the other. He stepped in, punching out with his left fist, striking her hard across the jaw, and then following through with his elbow.

She grunted in frustration and brought her knee up, narrowly missing his groin, but driving him back again.

Once again she jabbed at him with her sword, then swung it out in a wide arc, as if about to bring it down upon his head. He raised the cane in defence, but she changed the angle of the attack with a sudden twist of her wrist. He was forced to parry with his wounded left forearm, knocking the blade away but crying out in pain simultaneously as the wound was reopened.

He fell back and they circled, sizing each other up.

The Executioner had a feral look in her eyes, and her face was spattered with blood. Veronica’s blood. Newbury growled in animosity. He would end this here and now.

Newbury grasped the handle of Bainbridge’s cane and gave it a sharp twist.

The four thin panels on its shaft levered open, revealing the reinforced glass chamber within. With a whirr, the mechanism began to revolve and a spark of blue lightning flared inside the glass rod.

The Executioner came at him again, and he raised the device, parrying her attack and hoping that her blade would not damage the mechanism as it spun around the generator core. The weapon sparked and crackled as the charge continued to build. Newbury remained on defensive footing, biding his time. He stepped back, circling again, judging each cut and thrust, sidestepping, parrying, waiting. The Executioner was toying with him, waiting for him to make a move, hoping he would overcommit himself and leave himself open to a fatal reply.

He could use that to his advantage.

The electrical hum reached a feverish crescendo, and Newbury saw his opening. He feinted right as if he was overreaching, leaving his left side open, but then twisted suddenly to the left and jabbed the tip of the cane towards the metal brace on the Executioner’s shoulder.

The Executioner, who had by then committed to an attack on the left, had no chance to alter her momentum, and stepped forward into the thrust.

If the cane had been a sword it would have glanced harmlessly off her shoulder. But Newbury had not been searching for an opportunity to bury the cane in her flesh, but to discharge it into the clockwork mechanism embedded in her shoulder.

Crackling blue light burst from the end of the cane as the metal tip made contact with the shoulder guard. The Executioner shuddered and dropped her weapon as the electricity discharged into her body. She staggered back, but Newbury pressed forward, watching the fizzing light crawl all over her flesh, sparking as it sought out the precious metals inlaid in her cheeks, arcing between her teeth as she opened her mouth to scream.

He held the lightning cane in position, waiting for the woman to die.

*   *   *

She staggered back, her vision swimming. Ethereal light bloomed all around her as the crackling energy crawled over her flesh.

And then she felt it: a lancing, stabbing pain in her chest, so sharp that for a moment she thought he had punctured her chest cavity with the end of his weapon. It blossomed until it consumed her, a white-hot agony that almost made her swoon.

It came again, and then again, and she screamed, clutching at her chest as the electricity coursed through her body. She fell to her knees, wailing, dying.

The detached part of her mind was attempting to establish the nature of the injury that was causing her so much pain. It came relentlessly in waves, drumming in her ears, pounding inside of her. The pressure in her chest made it feel as if she were going to explode.

And then—fascinated and appalled in equal measure—she realised what it was. Despite her agony, she was overcome by a strange sense of calm.

Her heart was beating.

The black, shrivelled remnant of her original organ was shuddering inside of her, thumping like a pounding drum. The electricity was causing the decayed muscle to contract, again and again, over and over.

She was filled with an immense sense of sadness, and joy, and relief—the first things she had felt in nearly a century. This man, this Newbury, had come here not simply to kill her, but to set her free. This, she knew with a sudden clarity, was what she had been searching for all along. All of those long years, wandering the streets of a hundred nations, taking life after petty life … all she had wanted was release.

She slumped forward onto the floor. The pain in her chest was excruciating, and yet beautiful, peaceful. Her lips creased into a smile.

With a gasp, Élodie Séverin died.

*   *   *

“Newbury!” bellowed Bainbridge. “Get over here!”

Newbury dropped the discharged lightning cane atop the body of the Executioner and staggered over to where Bainbridge and Angelchrist crouched over Veronica’s prone form. He couldn’t see her through the jumble of limbs as both men tried desperately to attend to her injuries.

Bainbridge looked up at Newbury, his expression grave. He shook his head, lowered his eyes.

“Let me through!” barked Newbury, pushing them out of the way, dropping to his knees before her. He almost choked at the sight of Veronica, lying there on the filthy floor, her head lolled to one side in the dirt, her chest ripped open, blood gushing from the yawning wound. Bainbridge and Angelchrist were trying to stem the tide with bundles of rags and handkerchiefs, but they were not enough.

“No! No, no, no, no…” He trailed off, unable to find words. He could barely register what he was seeing. Her clothes had been ripped asunder, and he could see the fingers of her rib cage, broken and splintered, jutting out of her pale flesh. The skin was pulled back like a pair of bloody curtains to reveal the precious cavity beneath. Inside of her, her heart was pulsing, glossy and alive.

Angelchrist put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“The Fixer,” said Newbury, his voice cracking. “We have to get her to the Fixer.” He shrugged Angelchrist away, then reached down and scooped Veronica up, cradling her in his arms. Within moments he was covered in her blood. He staggered to his feet.

“It’s too late, Newbury,” said Bainbridge, his voice filled with infinite sadness. “She’s dying.”

“No!” bellowed Newbury. “No! If you won’t help me, Charles, I’ll get her there myself.” He rushed towards the door, his eyes stinging. He would not let her die. He
could not
let her die.

Bainbridge ran after him, the lantern swaying wildly in his hand. “I have a carriage waiting outside, Newbury. We’ll get her there in that.”

Newbury nodded, running as fast as he dared in the dim light.

“Archibald—secure the scene,” he heard Bainbridge call behind them as they rushed out into the rain-soaked morning. The frigid air was like a slap in the face.

“Over here!” cried Bainbridge, struggling for breath. They rounded the corner to find the police carriage waiting for them, the driver looking on in confusion. Bainbridge opened the door and Newbury hastily bundled Veronica inside, clutching her close. “Get us to the Fixer, now!” shouted Bainbridge, hopping up onto the footplate.

The engines roared, and the carriage shot away into the night.

CHAPTER

29

“Can’t this damn thing go any faster?” snapped Newbury, as the driver stepped on the brakes to prevent the carriage from rolling over as they took a sharp bend in the road.

He was cradling Veronica in his arms, her head lolling against his chest, mercifully insensible. Her breath was shallow, like the fluttering of a tiny bird, and she felt lighter than he remembered. He felt tears pricking his eyes but fought them back. He needed to be strong now, to see her through it.

“He’s going as fast as he can, Newbury,” said Bainbridge, sullenly. He was pale and he wouldn’t meet Newbury’s eye. He looked as if he were already grieving.

“Don’t you dare give up on her, Charles!” barked Newbury. “Don’t you dare.” Bainbridge looked up, and his eyes were so full of sadness and compassion that Newbury almost faltered. His anger dissipated. “She can’t die, Charles. She simply can’t die,” he said.

Bainbridge nodded, and looked away again, peering out of the window. Newbury could see that his friend understood his desperation, was making allowances for it, and in many ways it made matters worse. Newbury refused to admit that it was too late.

“We’re almost there,” said Bainbridge, after a moment. “This is Bloomsbury.”

Newbury bundled Veronica even tighter in his arms, as if attempting to hold her together himself. She was bleeding profusely, all over the back of the carriage, and Newbury’s jacket and trousers were soaked through to the skin. He felt cold, and he wasn’t sure whether it was the wet blood, or simply a form of terrible numbness creeping over him, threatening to consume him.

He looked down at Veronica. Her pale cheek was spattered with obscene streaks of scarlet and the fingerprints of the woman who had tried to kill her. Newbury wiped them away with his thumb, smearing the blood.

The carriage screeched to a halt, and Newbury planted his feet firmly in the footwell to prevent himself from rocking forward and jolting Veronica. Any sudden movements might worsen her condition or exacerbate her wounds.

Bainbridge was up and at the door before they’d even come properly to rest. “Get her around to the side entrance,” he said. “I’ll get Rothford and the Fixer.” He ducked out into the rain-swept night, and Newbury struggled to his feet, following swiftly behind. Fat raindrops cascaded from the heavens, lashing his upturned face.

So strong was his intent to get Veronica to safety that he didn’t bother to check for passersby. Her life was like sand streaming through an hourglass, and the only man who could stem the tide was the Fixer.

Once before, Newbury had seen the man work miracles, stitching Newbury’s torn shoulder back together and transfusing esoteric compounds into his bloodstream to hasten his recovery. That was some time ago, but Newbury hoped that the Fixer might be able to perform a miracle again.

The house was a three-storey end terrace in an exclusive area of Bloomsbury. Newbury saw Bainbridge running up the steps to the front entrance, where he might alert Rothford, the Fixer’s manservant, to Veronica’s dire circumstances. Newbury, however, would take the side entrance to the cellar, which held the Fixer’s workshop, laboratory, and surgery.

He struggled down the narrow cast-iron steps towards the basement door, careful not to knock Veronica’s head on the iron railings. Once there, he hammered on the wood-panelled door with his foot.

For a moment he heard nothing, no sign of movement from inside the house. He was struck by thoughts that panicked him. The house was dark and silent. What if the Fixer was not at home? What then for Veronica? He moaned in frustration and kicked the door again.

This time he heard a muffled voice from the other side. “I’m coming!”

It was too early yet to feel any sense of relief, but the familiar voice was reassuring.

Bolts slid out of their sockets and the door creaked open, revealing the Fixer, standing in the shadows of his workshop. He was a balding man in his mid-forties, with a neatly trimmed black beard and wire spectacles. He was thinner than Newbury remembered, and free of the bizarre accoutrements with which he’d been adorned during Newbury’s previous visit.

He looked ruffled, as if he’d just pulled on his trousers and shirt. He was rolling up his sleeves as he appraised the situation, and his expression was harried. “Come in, come in!” he said, beckoning Newbury through the door. He rushed over to the wall and flicked a switch. The room, tiled in gleaming white porcelain, was suddenly flooded with harsh illumination that stung Newbury’s eyes.