The Parliament of Blood (24 page)

George stared at it. ‘You are joking.'

‘You got a better plan? Give us a bunk up.'

‘But where's it go? There's no light coming in – no way out.'

‘We've got to dig.'

‘What?'

There was no time for argument or explanation. George stooped down and made a cradle for Eddie's foot by lacing his fingers together. As soon as Eddie stepped into it, George hoisted him up.

Eddie managed to get his arms into the hole above. His head was in cloying, earthy darkness – inside the grave. He got his elbows over the edge, pulling himself up further.

A slab of stone broke away from the roof as Eddie put his weight of it. The stone crumbled and fell. It shattered on the ground ten feet below.

‘Come on!' George yelled.

The carriage was almost on him. In a moment it would run down George, and crash into Eddie's flailing legs.

Finally, Eddie managed to get a good grip and hauled himself up into the hole in the roof, feeling the earth crumbling at the edges. The Coachman's whip cracked past Eddie's legs as he pulled them clear, thwacking into the side of the hole. Eddie could see George hurling himself to one side as the carriage almost caught him.

The horses were turning already, coming back.

George was on his feet, arms raised, leaping for the hole in the roof. But it was too high. Eddie braced himself and leaned out of the grave. George's fingers brushed against Eddie's hands.

‘Higher!' he called.

The carriage was coming back.

George backed away – where was he going?

Then, with the carriage racing towards him once more, George ran towards Eddie. He took off, leaping high into the air. His hands smacked into Eddie's and like a trapeze artist George was swaying beneath the roof. Eddie struggled to take the weight, to pull him up. He could feel the ground – the roof – giving way under his knees.

Clods of earth showered down from the ceiling and scattered across the top of the carriage as it came to a halt beneath the hole. The Coachman was climbing back along the carriage roof towards George and Eddie.

But with the carriage there, George was able to brace his legs on its top and force himself upwards to join Eddie.

‘What is this?'

‘Your mate's grave,' Eddie told him. ‘Get digging!'

They thrust their hands up into the soil above them, forcing a way through the hard-packed earth. Beneath them the cavern roof was giving way under their weight. The Coachman's bone hands reached into the grave, scrabbling round as he grabbed for them.

Eddie braced himself against the crumbling stone slabs and forced himself upright. His head sank into the ground above, but he kept pushing. Not yet shored up by an engraved slab of stone for Kingsley, the earth was held in place only by its own weight. It fell away as Eddie forced his way through. How far up did he need to go? How deep was the grave? Soil and dirt clogged his nostrils and worked into his mouth. He was choking, gasping, drowning in dust.

Then suddenly he could taste fresh air. He opened his eyes, and found his head was poking up into the night. Mist swirled round the nearby gravestones. And a hand grabbed his leg.

With a yelp, Eddie forced his hands and arms upwards and heaved himself out. The hand was still tight on his ankle. An arm followed. And then – George.

‘Oh, thank God it's you.'

‘He's got me,' George gasped. ‘Pull, for goodness' sake.' Even as he said it, he started to disappear into the ground, hauled back by the Coachman below.

Eddie heaved at George's arms, but it did no good. Slowly but surely George was being pulled into the collapsing earth.

Then suddenly there was a rasping, muffled cry from below the ground. The sound of a heavy stone shattering on the roof of the carriage as it fell. The earth round the grave collapsed, leaving a dark hole. George shot forward out of the ground and he and Eddie rolled across the damp grass.

‘I think the whole area of roof gave way,' George said. ‘There's just the turf keeping it together up here.'

‘That won't stop him for long,' Eddie said.

Together they ran through the gathering fog, away from the empty grave.

Orabis, Lord of the Undead, looked down at the silent assembly. Before him stood the Coachman and Christopher Kingsley, their heads bowed in penitence.

‘They have escaped, my Lord.'

‘Nothing will deter us from the great task,' Orabis declared. ‘Soon we will rise and feed, and rule this Empire.' He raised his dark eyes towards the roof.

The whole assembly also looked upwards. All except one. The tall, gaunt man held by Clarissa and Sir Harrison Judd.

Lord Ruthven was pushed forwards. He stumbled in front of Orabis, standing between the Coachman and Kingsley.

‘We have been betrayed,' the Coachman said. ‘What should we do with those who do not share your vision, my Lord?'

‘We shall release them from that vision. And from this earthly life.' Orabis twisted in the grotesque framework of pipes until he was staring down at Lord Ruthven. ‘My powers have been sapped by the long sleep, and without the casket I can never be whole.' His face twisted into a mixture of snarl and smile. ‘But taste what power I have. You betrayed us – you betrayed me. And you will pay for that.'

The Lord of the Undead's eyes seemed to shine, glittering in the lamplight. Lord Ruthven gasped and shuddered, held immobile in the gaze of Orabis. Clarissa and Harrison Judd let go of their captive and stepped away, watching in fascination.

Ruthven's whole body was shaking. His hair thinned and his cheeks sagged. He was crumpling up, collapsing to his knees as the life was drawn from him. His scream was a thin, pitiful sound as he finally fell forwards.

For a moment there was silence. Clarissa drew the toe of her shoe slowly through the pile of grey dust that had been Lord Ruthven, scattering it across the cavern floor as the chanting began again.

‘Those pumps must feed blood into his body from storage tanks somewhere,' George said.

They were nearing the British Museum, both quickening their step as they approached.

‘I can guess where they get the blood,' Eddie said. ‘Lucky we didn't get ours added to the brew.'

‘But why do they need so many engines, so many pumps?' George wondered. ‘Perhaps they really do pump out river water if the tunnels flood.'

‘Or perhaps they need blood for something else too,' Eddie suggested.

George grimaced. ‘They're like great steam hearts, pumping the lifeblood round the system.' He shivered. ‘Maybe they ventilate the tunnels. I guess even vampires need to breathe.'

‘You reckon?'

‘They don't need pumps like that though. You know,' George said as they started down the corridor towards the Department of Unclassified Artefacts, ‘to ventilate the Houses of Parliament they just light a fire.'

‘How's that help?'

‘Hot air rises through the chimney in the middle and that draws in fresher colder air through the clock tower
and the other towers. It's a terrific system. There are vents and shafts all through the Palace of Westminster to make it work. All planned in when it was rebuilt.'

Eddie stifled a yawn. ‘Fancy.'

The door to Sir William's office was standing open. George and Eddie looked at each other, both suddenly anxious. George carefully, slowly, pushed the door fully open.

The body lay motionless behind the desk.

‘Sir William?' George exclaimed. ‘Get some water,' he told Eddie.

‘Might be too late for that. Look at him.'

The old man's white shirt was a spattered red mess. Sir William's white hair was tangled and soaked in sweat. A dark scar was burned across the blood-slick wound in his neck – the shape of a cross.

As George watched, the pale old man's eyelids flickered. His lips parted slightly in a weak smile. Revealing his strong, white teeth.

‘He's all right,' Eddie said with relief. ‘Isn't he?' he added anxiously as Sir William struggled to sit up.

‘I hope so.' George was backing away warily.

‘Of course I'm all right,' Sir William protested. He touched the wound at his neck gingerly and winced with the pain. ‘Though I could do with a glass of water. And perhaps I could impose upon one or both of you to help me bathe this and examine the damage.'

‘You were bitten,' George said.

‘Yes.'

‘By a vampire thing,' Eddie added.

‘Indeed.'

‘Is that … dangerous?' George asked.

‘Extremely. But a good splash of holy water and a makeshift silver cross work wonders. Miracles even. Now stop fussing about, we have a lot to do.'

Sir William's strength quickly returned and he was soon
back to his usual self. The wound seemed to have healed over, cauterised by the silver and holy water. By the time Eddie had finished recounting his adventures at the work-house, the cross-shaped scar just above his collar was the only sign that Sir William had been attacked.

‘They take the unfortunate children, and others, who will not be missed,' Sir William summarised. ‘The police are discouraged from investigating when the bodies are found.
If
the bodies are found. But I imagine it doesn't take much to persuade them to focus their attentions on more worthy causes.' He shook his head sadly.

‘This John Remick might be able to tell us more. If he's still at my house,' George said.

‘Too risky. I imagine your house is being watched.'

‘And Remick will have legged it off out of there if he knows what's good for him,' Eddie said. ‘He won't go back to Pearce at the workhouse, neither.'

It was George's turn to tell them his story. He described his visit to the Damnation Club and the masked ball. ‘I didn't realise you were there too, Eddie.'

‘You'd have told me off for being out late.'

‘Perhaps we could confine ourselves to the relevant narrative?' Sir William suggested. ‘Time may be of the essence, but leave nothing out, any small thing may be a clue.'