The Parliament of Blood (19 page)

The only other possibility was the one that George kept rejecting. Despite Blake's assertions about Lord Ruthven.

It haunted him again as he gathered together his things and left his office. How could someone simply not show up in a photograph?

‘We have a special relationship with various elements,' Ruthven said. ‘Light, silver, water.'

‘I have heard as much,' Sir William agreed.

‘Running water is not in and of itself an obstacle. Another fiction,' Ruthven explained. ‘But yes, we can drown. We need blood, and that blood needs air just like yours. More than yours.'

‘And photographs?' Sir William prompted.

‘The new technology. One that might yet force us to act. As photography becomes more popular we cannot hope to remain hidden.' He stood up and walked slowly to the window, pulling back the curtain slightly. The afternoon was drawing into evening, and the air was heavy with grey fog.

‘Sunlight,' Lord Ruthven said quietly. ‘Not just daylight, but the rays of the sun itself. A filter of smog is sufficient for us, but it is helpful that the legends suggest all light is anathema.'

‘You mentioned light, you mentioned silver …' Sir William stood up and joined Ruthven by the window, looking out into the grey. He saw himself in the glass, and beside him – nothing. ‘You cast no reflection,' he said quietly.

‘Not even in a mirror,' Ruthven admitted. ‘That much is true. Light and silver – the principal elements of the photographic process. Like a mirror, the photograph ignores us.' He turned and looked directly at Sir William. ‘We cast no shadows. I sometimes think that, if even the light of the sun can't see me, perhaps God himself is so ashamed he is trying to ignore us.'

‘You think the advance of photography might force your fellows to act?'

‘I fear so. But there are other reasons. Other things that are happening. Other matters that are coming to a head. Unspeakable things.'

She looked so pale and tired, propped up against the pillows on the bed in her hotel room. Marie Cuttler smiled at Liz, but her smile was as frail and thin as she had become.

‘Thank you so much for coming.'

Liz sat on the edge of the bed and took her friend's hand. It was ice cold. ‘Oh Marie, you look so … tired.'

‘It will pass, I am sure. But, if it does not …' Her eyelids flickered over her eyes as she struggled to stay awake. ‘Do something for me?'

‘Of course. Anything.'

‘A story based on truth, remember. Do it justice – our
story.' Marie fell back, exhausted. ‘You will be such a brilliant Marguerite, Miss Oldfield.'

The Coachman paid Eddie barely a glance when he returned, and the coach clattered through the foggy streets with Eddie alone inside.

It stopped outside the Damnation Club for a while, and Eddie shivered at the memories that brought back. Then the Coachman returned and they were off again.

At each of the several stops during the afternoon, Eddie was tempted to escape. But each and every time he decided that if the Coachman had not noticed the substitution then he would soon find out what was going on – where Charlie and the others had been taken, and what had happened to them.

Except, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He was stuck now, just as Charlie and the others had been. Except they had probably been mesmerised like Remick. Eddie still had all his wits about him, and at the first sign of trouble he was out of here.

Even so, he felt suddenly cold and incredibly alone as the coach drew up outside the British Museum. The Coachman climbed down from the carriage, and walked purposefully towards the main entrance. This could be his last chance to escape, Eddie thought. Should he slip away now? Or should he stay and see what more he could discover?

There was a boy standing outside George's house when he got home. He thought at first it was Eddie, but as he approached he saw that the lad was taller and thinner. His dark hair was greased across his head and he was staring into space.

‘Can I help you?' George asked.

‘Help,' the boy echoed, his voice dead and flat.

‘Are you looking for Eddie?' George wondered. Perhaps he was a friend from school.

‘Eddie sent me,' the reply came in the same monotone.

‘If he's not here, I'm afraid I don't know where he is.'

‘Eddie sent me to tell you all about it. About Mr Pearce and the Coachman.'

‘Are you all right?' The lad looked blank-faced and distracted. George unlocked the door and let himself in. The boy followed him.

‘Look, I told you, Eddie's not here,' George said irritably. He wasn't sure what to do – he couldn't throw the boy out. And the lad was just standing in the living room, eyes unfocused. He had lapsed into silence. In the better light George could see he was lean but well built. His hands were bunched into fists at his sides.

‘Yes,' George said uneasily. ‘Well, perhaps you'd like to wait?'

The boy did not answer, but stared blankly into the distance. George was not sure quite what to do with him, but before long he heard a coach pulling up outside. Moments later, there was a knock at the door.

It was Sir Harrison Judd. ‘Mr Archer, I bring good news. Your application has been accepted.'

George blinked. ‘Accepted? Already?' He had been meaning to talk to Sir William about the strange masked ball and his night at the Damnation Club. But a suitable moment had not come. When George left the Museum, Sir William's door had been shut, the sound of voices coming from within. Now it seemed it was too late to ask for advice.

‘We would very much like to have you as a member,' Judd said. ‘Congratulations.'

George was surprised. He had imagined there would be an interview or meeting or some such formality at least. ‘Thank you, sir.'

Sir Harrison turned to go. Then he stopped as he realised that George was not following. ‘Well, come on then, man. Can't keep them waiting. This evening you will be initiated as a full member of the Damnation Club.'

George glanced nervously back towards the living room door. Could he safely leave the strange friend of Eddie's here? And where was Eddie, confound the boy?

The door slammed shut behind George and Sir Harrison. At the sound, John Remick shuddered and rocked back on his heels. As he regained his balance, he looked round in surprise. His mind was a fog every bit as thick as the air outside. But slowly his memory of the last few hours returned. He remembered Pearce's betrayal, the Coachman. And Eddie. He remembered George – how he had been supposed to tell him everything but his mind had blanked out.

He slumped down into an armchair, his head in his hands.

They talked about the myths and the legends, the fiction and the fact.

‘Oh, it's true that we have some affinity for our home soil,' Lord Ruthven said. ‘For the land where we last lived a full and proper existence. Perhaps it is just homesickness and all in the mind, or perhaps there is indeed something stronger that binds us to that soil.'

‘Literally binds you to it?' Sir William wondered.

By way of answer, Lord Ruthven undid his shoelaces. He slipped off first one then the other shoe. ‘I was in Scotland when I was initiated. It's almost like joining an exclusive club.' He held out one of his shoes for Sir William to see the thin layer of soil sprinkled inside. ‘A constant reminder. With every step of my life I can feel where I used to belong, who I used to be. Perhaps the others find that liberating and rejoice in the transition.' He put his shoes back on and retied the laces slowly and deftly. ‘But I find I long for the things I no longer have.'

‘Such as sunlight?'

‘And love … And death.'

‘Which is why you have come to see me, I imagine.' Sir William leaned forward across his desk, elbows on the blotter as he tapped his fingers against his chin. ‘An exclusive club,' he said quietly. Then louder as he realised: ‘Of course, the Damnation Club!'

Lord Ruthven was nodding. ‘We have an initiation there this evening. A very special candidate, I'm afraid.'

‘Who?' Sir William demanded.

Before Lord Ruthven could answer, the door to the office was hurled open. Sir William jumped to his feet, staring angrily at the cloaked figure standing in the doorway.

The man's voice was dry and cracked. ‘I hope you have not been telling Sir William
all
our secrets.
All
our lies.' He pushed back the hood of his cloak.

Sir William backed away, staring in horrified disbelief at the skull where the man's head should have been. Somewhere deep inside the empty eye sockets there might have been a flicker of life. Or death.

‘I have not drunk blood since our Lord was taken from us,' the Coachman said as he advanced on Sir William. ‘Not for over four thousand years. My sister Belamis and I abstained from blood until his return. Have you any idea how I ache for it? How I hunger for it?' His bony fingers reached out for Sir William. ‘But soon, he will walk among us once more, and so will she. Then – only then – will I allow myself to feed.'