The Hanged Man (36 page)

“Let's get you out as well, old lad,” said Brook in a kindly tone.

“Douse that light for God's pity!”

Fingate hesitated. “Sir, calm yourself and explain why.”

“You won't believe me. More of them will come and then you'll die.”

“Keep at it,” said Alex, holding steady. The man was terrified, but it wouldn't do to catch it from him.

Fingate bent to the work, not easy when the captive began howling and thrashing against his bonds. “You'll be killed! Take the light away!” Weakness quickly asserted itself, though. He broke off, coughing and gasping.

“Who put you here?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“You're Mr. Benedict?”

“Probably, now please have the courage to kill me and then get out.”

“Why do you want to die?”

“I don't want to, but I
need
to. You bloody stupid girl!
Kill me and get out!
”

Alex made encouraging motions at Fingate to continue, then returned to the walls, pulling the velvet away so she could peer behind one of the mirrors: solid brick, at least in that spot. “Why mirrors in a dark room? Why cage and cover them?”

“They'll see the light. You don't want them to see it.”

“Benedict, are you a Seer?”

“I'm a conduit for hell. Will you
listen
to me? At least get that lantern out of here. They're attracted to the light.”

“Who?”

“Oh, God, too late, too late! Run, you fools! Run while you can!”

“No one in the hall,” reported Brook.

“Not there!” The man's gaze fixed on the mirror in front of him. “
That
one. It's seen this side and will come through. You can't fight, just run.” Tears flowed from his eyes and his voice cracked.
“Run!”

Alex went toward the mirror. Something seemed to be moving
in
it. Gooseflesh raised on her arms until she realized it was simply the kind of deception mediums used to hoodwink willing clients. The silver on the back must have been rubbed away, allowing whatever was behind it to show through the glass. The wall would have an opening and someone in the next room over was playing ghost, probably wrapped up in layers of gauzy muslin yardage.

With caution, she opened her inner senses to whatever might be before her. Just a crack … or the madman's emotions would flood in and overwhelm her.

Benedict shrieked, throwing himself around, hampering Fingate's efforts.

As she got closer, the mirror's surface silently
ripped
.

She shrank away, staring at the opening—

—and instantly recognized the enormous knotted hand with fingers much too long to be human that came questing out of the darkness.

A simian face, eyes alight with malice, appeared on the other side of the cage. Those iron bars now seemed as frail as straw. Without thought, Alex raised her gun and fired, pulling the trigger until she ran out of bullets.

Glass did not shatter. The missiles connected with a solid body, which swayed, but continued to press forward. The hand grasped at her through the bars, talons brushing down the front of her gown, shredding the silk to rags.

She'd gotten a head shot, though. The top of the thing's skull was gone, but the vast body kept coming, emerging from the impossible mirror and slamming hard into the iron, bending it. Two of the upper bolts set into the brick wall jarred loose. The great weight against the cage snapped the next two, and then cage, mirror, and the beast in between tipped and tumbled over.

Alex dodged barely in time. The glass was cushioned by the creature's body, but its own weight cracked it lengthwise in the middle.

She looked to the others. Brook had his pistol ready, but he'd clearly been caught flatfooted. Fingate was in shock, and the madman's head was bowed as though he were praying.

“Kill the light. Kill me,” Benedict whispered. “This must stop. Kill me. Kill me, damn you.”

Light … bloody hell.

She grabbed the lantern and barged past Brook. He followed her, dragging Fingate. They threw the bolt, but with the padlock gone could not secure it.

“You see?” Benedict cried from the darkness. “You
SEE
?”

*   *   *

“We won't leave him there,” Alex pronounced.

“We just did,” said Brook.

“I'll apologize to him about collective panic later.”

Recovery of speech had been tardy in the aftermath of such a horror, but her racing mind made up for it. She'd worked out a plan long before her companions had caught their breath.

“Fingate, you can still crack locks with your eyes shut, yes?”

“My hands aren't steady just now. What in God's name was that?”

“We don't know, but if we keep the lantern away from the mirrors it should be safe enough.”

“
Should
be?”

She broke open the Webley and reloaded. “Mr. Brook, I would be obliged if you would watch from the hall in case our noise has alerted anyone to investigate.”

“I prefer to be in the room.”

“Orders, Lieutenant. It's going to get much noisier and I need to move freely. Sybil gave me orders as well, and I'd rather have our escape clear with someone watching our backs.” Without waiting, Alex worked the bolt and eased the door open. “Mr. Benedict?”

“Fools and blackguards,” he grumbled. “I'm surrounded by fools, blackguards, and monsters from hell's heart.”

“No doubt. Has another of those beasts appeared?”

“If it had, you'd be dead by now.”

“Why not yourself?”

“They need me to be able to come through. None safer from them than I.”

When Brook had removed lantern far enough down the hall, she took Fingate's trembling hand and guided him toward the chair. The room was perilously black, her eyes creating phantom shadows where the mirrors stood. Or were they truly imagined?

“Are there more of those creatures in the mirrors?”

“They're
beyond
them, not
in
them—there's a world of the damned things. They bring them through, but with care. They pick only young ones, train them.”

She kept her voice calm, the same as she would for a Reading interview, but the possibility of more such things running loose made her blood run cold. “Who does? Who might ‘they' be?”

“Who might you be?” he returned.

“My name is Pendlebury and I serve in Her Majesty's Psychic Service. I thought I might break some mirrors. Any objection?”

“Er—not at all. But it will take time, whereas killing me would only take an instant and put an end to the whole issue.”

“I'm going to make noise and there will be flying glass. Keep your eyes closed. You too, Fingate. Ready?”

Alex inched her way around the creature's body, slipping once on what she presumed to be blood, and felt for the mirror next in line on that wall. She put the gun muzzle between the bars and fired, the flash blinding, the sound making her ears ring.

Would that light and the noise bring more of the beasts?

The curtains must have been closed for a reason; she methodically made a full circuit and draped the things back again. Then one by one she returned the same way, shooting through the velvet. She reloaded twice, and a third time when the work was done. Her ears hurt and the pale pungent smoke clogged the air, making her cough.

Alex had a sudden urge to see the destruction, but held it in check. She felt her way toward the door.

“All done, Mr. Brook.”

He did not reply.

The lantern was well down the hall, and Brook wasn't with it. His walking stick was propped against the bricks.

Not good.

She hurried forward, calling his name. Loudly. If the row in the mirror room hadn't brought anyone, then neither would shouting.

What had drawn him away?

Had another of those beasts taken him silently from behind?

She opened her senses again. Brook's emotional spoor hung lightly in the area by the lantern. He'd been alert and worried, but nothing problematic lingered. She'd have to trust that he'd left for a good reason and would catch them up. Her responsibility now was to get Benedict and Fingate to safety. She took the lantern.

Fingate had defeated the last lock and was helping the prisoner from the chair. The man was stiff and unsteady, but willing. This time he had no objections to light.

“Brave girl, taking on eighty-four years of bad luck,” said Benedict. He staggered and Fingate supported him. Their reflections wavered in the glittering glass shards scattered wide over the floor.

She took a quick look at the dead beast. It was different from the one she'd killed earlier, far larger and naked, its rough flesh gray in the faint light. However, it was identical in regard to being a hole in the air. She sensed no emotional or psychical trace from it.

Her one instinct had been to kill the thing on sight. Granted, when faced with something so monstrous that was a normal reaction, but was it not more normal to flee in terror? That hadn't happened earlier with the flying squad. They'd gone after it like a pack of hounds trying to bring down a bear. None had hesitated.

“Can more of those creatures come through?” she asked.

“This gate's closed for now,” said Benedict. “It will set them back; they won't be pleased with you. If you'd just shoot me it would end things for them.”

“I'd rather shoot
them
.”

Benedict paused his progress, smiling. “Oh! I
like
you! What an excellent idea.”

His manner was all too similar to Sybil's. Would he start babbling strange predictions, too?

She helped get him into the hall, going back the way they'd come. “Who are
they,
Benedict? The men behind this? Have you names?”

“Only what I call 'em, which is not fit for a lady's ears. You think a carpenter gives his name away to his box of tools? I'm an instrument they use.” His legs were stiff and dragged. “Ohhh, pins and needles, needles and pins, 'tis a happy man that grins.”

“They've not taken good care of you.” She took the walking stick as they passed and gave it to Benedict. Had Brook known they'd need it? Where the devil was he?

“The level of service in this establishment has dropped considerably in the last month. Maybe they found another me.”

“Another Seer?”

“I'm not a Seer. I'm a Conduit.”

“Conduit, then.”
Whatever that might be
. “Like you?”

“No, silly girl, another
me
. There must be dozens of us out there. Poor fellows.”

Fingate glanced uneasily at the man, then asked, “Where's Mr. Brook?”

“I don't know. We're on our own. Let's go back to the opium room. I've an idea. Benedict, what are those beasts? How many are there?”

“That's a good question. A positively gargantuan question. If there's dozens of me running about then there could be hundreds of them.”

Dealing with mad people was not a topic covered in her Service training. It seemed to call for constant improvisation for half-understood subjects. “How many have been brought through in that room?”

“I couldn't say. They'd render me asleep for it. Otherwise I'd scream a lot and they didn't like that.”

“The beasts or your captors?”

“Both, I expect.”

“How many times were you rendered asleep?”

“Every night, of course. A man needs his rest. Whether they put me in the chair every night, I don't know. Whether they brought small ones through every time, I don't know. It's a bit like fishing, but you want a tiddler, not a monster.”

“What are they called?”

“Ask me something I
do
know! And ask later, I'm bloody tired. I should be in bed. A lovely dreamless bed. With a nice cup of cocoa. Hallo, there's an odd smell. Who's burning rope?”

The inhabitants of the opium chamber were not disturbed by their second intrusion. A man smoking from a water pipe seemed amused, but only in a distant way.

Just as well
.

“That one, Fingate.” She marked out a likely fellow who'd fully succumbed to the narcotic. He'd slipped from a bench to the floor, eyes closed, mouth slack.

“What about him, my lady?”

“Get his clothes off. Mr. Benedict can't go about in just a robe and slippers.”

Undressing an unconscious man proved to be a two-person job. She attacked the buttons; Fingate did the lifting and pulling. Benedict balked at removing his dressing gown in front of a female, and she had to promise not to look while he changed.

Though evening clothes often had the extraordinary effect of improving the looks of any man whatever his state or station, Benedict's transformation was not entirely convincing. His tangled hair and untrimmed beard set him apart from the mob. Fingate found a discarded hat that almost fit, and Alex filched a white silk scarf from its oblivious owner along with a half mask. When they'd finished, Benedict was as anonymous as they could make him, given the circumstances.

She was wobbly-headed from the hemp smoke and glad to quit the place, but halted short in the hall: the drumming had stopped. It seemed unlikely the revelry had ended. Out east, once such festivals got under way, it could be days before the celebrants yielded to exhausted satiation.

Alex held the reticule close, her other hand on the Webley inside. Benedict was steadier on his feet, but winded from the unaccustomed exertion, leaning on Fingate.

A troupe of servants with their arms full of empty wine bottles blocked the way out. Alex and the others were obliged to wedge against the wall to avoid them. As the men pushed past, a sudden brutal scrambling took place. Her reticule was torn from her hands, and two men seized her arms.