Ghosts of Empire Page 21

  Someone coughed.

  The Ghost spun, searching for the person responsible. There was no one there. The room was empty. He waved the others silent, walking slowly forward into the center of the hallway. Here, he could almost lose any sense of which way was left and which way was right. All he could see was the doors, swimming in the periphery of his vision.

  Another cough, followed by a stream of words in Russian. He turned again, disoriented, thinking it had come from behind him. But again, there was no one there.

  What was going on? Where had the voice originated?

  He turned back, just in time to see two hooded figures emerge from one of the portals in the rear wall. They looked up, surprised, raising their hands defensively, just as two rounds snapped from the stairs, and both men dropped, blood spattering across the tiles behind them.

  The Ghost looked over to see Regina and Donovan, weapons smoking with the recent discharge.

  “We need to get out of here, now!” said Rutherford, hurrying down the stairs. “Those gunshots will bring them in from the street.”

  “Which door?” said the Ghost.

  “The one those men just stepped through seems as good as any,” said Rutherford.

  They hurried to the portal. The symbol on the door was still glowing. “Well, here goes nothing,” said Rutherford, before stepping through.

  With a quick glance at Donovan, the Ghost leapt through behind him.

  TWENTY-ONE

  They emerged from the portal into a cold chamber of frost-limned stone.

  Here, the walls appeared to have been constructed from huge blocks of chiseled granite, polished smooth to form glistening walls, engraved with pictograms that resembled the hieroglyphs in an Ancient Egyptian tomb, but sharper, more angular, and surrounded by circlets of flowing symbols. Ice had encrusted much of the wall on the left, obscuring many of the pictograms from view.

  Icicles dripped from the ceiling, sparkling in the light of three torches, which had been placed around the edges of the chamber in metal brackets, and burned with the same foul light as the weapon Regina had used to purge the Underground of the Koscheis’ blight.

  The floor, too, was rimed with frost, which crunched underfoot as they entered the room. The Ghost noticed his breath was fogging. His extremities were already beginning to react to the deep chill, growing painfully numb, as if icicles were attempting to form inside his fingers and toes.

  The room was divided by a short flight of stone steps, leading to a raised platform against the opposite wall. Here, there were two apparent exits—a banded door of polished ebony in the far wall, and an open archway in the stonework to the right. There were no windows, and little in the way of furnishings, just a faded tapestry hanging to one side of the ebony door, depicting a shirtless man wrestling a polar bear—and a small table, upon which a series of three wooden bowls rested.

  “Well, this wasn’t quite what I was expecting,” said Donovan, stamping his feet to ward off the chill. “Where do you think we are?”

  “Inside a temple,” said the Ghost. “All those pictograms on the walls—they look religious to me, as if they’re setting out some kind of parable. It’s difficult to make out, what with all the frost…” He crossed to the wall on the left, rubbing away some of the ice with his gloved hand, revealing a series of images that appeared to represent a Koschei, opening a portal before him.

  “Actually, it’s more of a tomb,” said a voice from the archway. “But I’ll let you have that one, Mr. Cross.”

  The voice was English, and seemed familiar, although he couldn’t quite place it. Footsteps followed. The Ghost raised his weapon, and the others followed suit, training their guns on the shadowy recess and the outline of the figure within.

  “Oh, put your guns away. I’m quite equipped with the means to deal with such paltry toys.” The figure that emerged from the archway wore the same hooded robes as the others of his order, but carried himself with a confidence that set him apart from his brethren. Perhaps more disturbing, he seemed to know exactly who the Ghost really was.

  He entered the room with his head bowed, his hands clasped before him as if in silent prayer. Behind him, two others followed in single file, both of them sitting astride hulking polar bears, whose sheer bulk seemed impossible in such a confined space. The beasts were adorned with leather saddles, and they growled, low and threatening, as their riders dug heels into their flanks, urging them into position at either side of their master.

  The two guards were female and wore their hoods down. Both were startlingly beautiful—one with dark skin, the other with pale, milky flesh. Both were ritually tattooed like the men he had seen back in England. They carried long staffs, tipped with shining silver blades.

  “Welcome to St. Petersburg,” said the hooded man, “or at least, one of the many caverns beneath it. You are most honored to visit the tomb of our master.”

  “I presume you refer to Rasputin?” said the Ghost. “The founder of your order.”

  The man inclined his head. “Quite so. Here, he rests in undeath, presiding over us all, opening our minds to the vagaries of the universe.”

  “Does he teach you how to sound so pompous, too?” said Donovan.

  “You should mind your friend, Mr. Cross,” said the hooded man. “His blasphemy might put one in mind of a far more painful death than we had initially envisioned.”

  “See?” said Donovan, glancing at the Ghost.” Pompous ass.”

  “Show yourself,” demanded Rutherford, still pointing his gun at the man.

  The man laughed. “As you wish.” He reached up and, with a smooth gesture, cast his hood back to reveal his face.

  “Boyd,” said Regina. “Good God. You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “And so are you, Regina. Things are rarely as they first appear. I was plucked from the wreckage of that car by my brothers, and revivified.”

  “You’re the traitor,” hissed Rutherford.

  Boyd inclined his head. “From my perspective, it is you who is in the wrong, Peter.”

  Rutherford was gritting his teeth. The Ghost could see his anger was about to boil over, his finger twitching at his trigger.

  The Ghost tensed, preparing to move. If the polar bears came for them, they couldn’t allow themselves to get pinned. He rocked forward, his trench coat billowing open. A single movement, and he’d be airborne.

  “I can see you want to, Peter. It’s alright. Let it out.” Boyd spread his arms, mocking Rutherford, making a target of himself.

  Rutherford snapped. His finger depressed the trigger. The gunshot sounded like a thunderclap in the small chamber.

  Boyd’s eyes went wide, and he buckled, creasing forward, clutching at his belly and gurgling. Rutherford took a step forward, raising his gun again, preparing to finish him, but then Boyd took a sudden step backwards, and rose, laughing, as if he’d simply been taking a bow. He tossed something at Rutherford, which struck the flagstones by his feet with a metallic ting. The Ghost watched it roll to a stop by Rutherford’s boot. It was a bullet.

  “Well, I must say, this is all rather disappointing,” said Boyd. “But there you are. That’s the caliber of the British Secret Service these days.” He waved a hand casually toward Rutherford. “Ladies, please dispose of the trash.”

  The women grinned as Boyd stepped back, spurring their beasts forward with a sharp jab to their ribs. The bears roared in unison, revealing cavernous jaws lined with deadly, blade-like teeth.

  The Ghost yanked his ignition cord, soaring into the air as the polar bear on the right leapt off the platform toward him. He shot upwards, kicking out and striking the rider in the jaw with a well-placed kick.

  She howled in rage as he twisted, spinning around behind her, spraying her mount with a wave of tiny flechettes. The beast bucked and roared as the blades opened scores of weeping mouths in its rear end, twisting around, gnashing its jaws as it tried to reach him. He moved again, darting sideways, showering the rider with another
round of flechettes. This time, however, she was ready, and waved her arm, throwing up a defensive shield of crackling energy. The Ghost circled around, but the woman was swift in her retaliation, and whipped at him with her stave, slicing him smartly across the shin.

  The Ghost grimaced, scudding quickly out of her reach as he felt the wound pucker, blood streaming down his lower leg, pooling around his ankle. He fired another burst of flechettes, targeting the polar bear’s head, but she was ready for that, too, and slid her shield around, blocking the attack.

  Across the other side of the chamber, Donovan, Regina and Rutherford were unleashing a hail of bullets at the other polar bear, aiming for its head, but its rider was sweeping all the shots aside, striding forward slowly, herding them into the far corner.

  The Ghost fired another volley, this time into the flank of the other bear, and—catching the rider unaware—thudded into her back and side, too. She screamed, and the bear bucked, surging forward.

  Donovan fired, catching it in the chest as it reared up, tossing its wounded rider to the ground, but coming back down on top of Regina, who barely managed to get her arms up in defense.

  She crumpled beneath the creature as it came down, thrashing and rending with its claws. She screamed—a shrill cry of desperation—and then the bear bit down, and the scream was irrevocably cut off.

  Rutherford roared, slamming the muzzle of his gun against the side of the creature’s head. He pulled the trigger, once, twice, three times, and the creature bucked, and then rolled to the side, slumping across the flagstones. Rutherford and Donovan went immediately to Regina’s side.

  The Ghost didn’t have time to see what had become of her, however, as the other rider was swinging her stave once again, trying to cut him down as he circled above her.

  He needed a different tactic. He ducked low, swinging his feet around, dangerously close to the polar bear’s jaws. He kicked out, and twisted, raking the bottom of his boot across its snout, searing its eyes with the flame from his boosters. It pulled back, screeching in pain, its eyeballs bubbling to jelly, as the Ghost pulled away again, rising into the air.

  As he did, however, the woman swiped with her stave, catching the back of his left leg and bursting the fuel canister. Flame shot out in a hot stream, and the Ghost, caught off balance and unable to control his trajectory, went spinning toward the wall. He slammed into the granite at full speed, jarring his shoulder and causing his chest to light up in pain. He slid down the wall, grasping at the iron torch holder, but succeeding only in pulling it free, causing the torch, the bracket, and himself to tumble to the ground.

  The woman on the polar bear was grinning. She knew she had him now. The wounded bear, too, was at its most dangerous, swinging its head from side to side in abject pain, guided forward by its rider. It wrinkled its nose, panting. It could smell him. He shuffled back, against the wall, trying to figure out what he could do, to find a way out of it.

  The bear surged forward, rearing up, and the Ghost threw himself to the left, scrabbling for the guttering torch he’d torn from the wall, still burning with its strange, unnatural fire. He twisted, swinging the torch around, and as the bear came down upon him, he jabbed it in the creature’s mouth.

  The flame took instantly, igniting the roof of the polar bear’s mouth. The flesh around its nose began to blacken, and then suddenly wither, as if struck instantaneously by a thousand years’ worth of decay. As the flames engulfed it, the head dissolved entirely, the skull folding in on itself, fluttering away like dust.

  The remains of the creature collapsed under its own weight, tumbling sideways, sending the rider spinning to the ground, trapping her leg beneath its still-burning bulk.

  The Ghost rose, still holding the torch. He considered sparing the woman, but then thought of Regina, and stalked forward, presenting the torch to her like a bunch of deadly flowers. She screamed as he jabbed it against her chest, and within seconds she was dead, her chest collapsing, her heart withered and decayed.

  He dropped the torch, running over to join Rutherford and Donovan.

  Rutherford was on his knees beside Regina. She was drenched in blood, with huge gouges ripped out of her side, and blood was still running freely down the side of her face and neck. Her shirt had been ripped open, and there were furrows right across her chest, where the polar bear’s claws had raked her.

  Donovan caught his eye, and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

  “Boyd,” said Rutherford, through gritted teeth. He turned slowly, rising to his feet. He had his gun in his hand.

  Boyd was strolling casually down the steps toward them, amidst the carnage of his dead followers. “Well, I must say, that was highly amusing,” he said. “And here I was thinking they’d shred you apart in no time at all.”

  Rutherford rounded on him, emptying the chamber of his gun with a roar. Boyd laughed, waving a hand before him, brushing the bullets aside with a flash of fizzing energy. “You’ll pay for this, Boyd. She was one of us. You were one of us!”

  “I was never one of you,” snapped Boyd. “Only you were too blind to see it. And now you’ve paid the price.” He grinned. “Oh, I don’t mean her. I mean London. Even now, the master is opening more portals. He sustains them with his power. Soon, the city will be awash with our followers. And you, Peter? You’ll be dead.” He waved his hand, and Rutherford clutched his throat, gasping for breath.

  He was still walking toward them, so close now that he could almost sneer directly in Rutherford’s face as he sucked the very air from his lungs.

  The Ghost stepped back, whipping his arm around, squeezing the trigger of his flechette gun, but Boyd had anticipated such a move, and the shards bounced harmlessly off another floating shield. He pointed at the Ghost, and a stream of electrical light shot from his finger, encasing the Ghost in its crackling strands. The Ghost fell back, unable to move, unable to do anything but watch in exquisite pain as Boyd choked the life out of his friend.

  Donovan rose too, but before he could even fire a shot, Boyd flicked his wrist and sent him careening to the other side of the chamber, where he struck the stone steps and slumped to the ground.

  Rutherford was beginning to turn blue, raking at his throat with his fingertips. He dropped to his knees, and Boyd stood over him, grinning with grim satisfaction. “It’s hard to watch a city die, Rutherford. Consider this a mercy.”

  “Consider this revenge,” said a voice, choked with blood. Boyd’s head detonated, blood spraying in a wide arc as the bullet exited his skull. His body buckled, suddenly losing all coordination, and his knees gave out, his corpse crumpling to the floor. “That’s the caliber of the British Secret Service,” said Regina, before tottering over into a bloodstained heap.

  Rutherford wheezed, gasping at the air, gulping noisily as the color slowly began to return to his oxygen-starved face. The Ghost sat up, the wards on his back burning fiercely. He climbed to his knees, and then forced himself up, staggering over to where Regina lay, her eyelids fluttering as she fought to remain conscious.

  “Regina…” he said, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.

  “He always did talk too much,” she croaked, her lips twitching in an attempt at a smile.

  “We’ll get you back to the Fixer,” he said. “We can use their doors.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. Her voice was faint now, as if she was struggling to draw enough breath to talk. “You heard Boyd. He said the master was opening more portals. He controls the doors. He’s the source of their power. You need to see it through.” She coughed, and blood welled out of her mouth. She looked up at him, panic in her eyes, and then suddenly she was still. Her final breath burbled from her lungs, bubbles forming on her bloodied lips. The Ghost reached down and closed her eyes.

  Rutherford was standing behind him, looking down, still breathing erratically.

  “I’m sorry,” said the Ghost.

  “So am I,” said Rutherford.

  They b
oth looked round at a groan from the other side of the room. Donovan was stirring, sitting up, rubbing the back of his head and wearing a pained expression. His eyes widened as he saw the scene before him. “It’s over?”

  The Ghost stood, shaking his head. “Not yet. Not until we put a stop to the thing controlling the doors.”

  “Rasputin?” said Rutherford, his voice dry and cracked.

  “Rasputin,” said the Ghost. He walked over to the steps, and then looked back at Rutherford. “You coming?”

  Rutherford’s only answer was a grim smile.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Horwood could hardly breathe.

  His chest burned, his vision was swimming, and all he could think about was getting back to his house, locking the door, and hiding away until all of this was over. Maybe a drink would help to settle his nerves, too. Something strong. Something very strong.

  All around him, the world seemed to be falling to pieces. He couldn’t hear himself think for the roar of the biplanes overhead, the chatter of machine guns, the crash of crumbling masonry. He watched as a nearby telephone box exploded in a shower of twisted metal and shattered glass, torn asunder by a stream of bullets. Closer by, a vine had shot from the ground, splintering the paving slabs, to grasp at a Koschei. It snaked around the man’s legs, dragging him to his knees, before bursting through his chest, spreading his ribs like bony fingers. The flickering light of his spell died on his fingertips as the vine withdrew, and his broken corpse pitched heavily to the ground, blood pooling in the gutter.

  Horwood sensed movement to his left, and ducked behind the corner of a building, pressing his back against the wall. A Koschei hurried past, blue light flickering as he summoned a portal, disappearing through it as if simply folding himself out of existence. There were more of them, too, sliding in and out of reality all around, sending streaming fistfuls of ethereal light in the direction of the Albion avatar. One of them was likely to spot him at any moment.

  Horwood had no idea what to do. He’d never been able to hold his own in a fight. Even back in his school days, he’d taken regular beatings from the older boys, and had found his only solace in the library, whiling away all his free time amongst the dusty stacks, avoiding interaction with the other children. Even during the war he’d been given a desk job, deployed to a secret facility in Lincolnshire and tasked with investigating ways to counter the occult designs of the Kaiser. If he took on a Koschei—even just one of them—he’d be dead in seconds.