Jack of Ravens (44 page)

He kicked a loose shingle, sending it slithering down the roof to pitch over the edge and shatter in the street far below.

‘Then I started having all these dreams. Not the kind of dreams you might have. Like drug trips. Movies in my head. Every night. Drove me mad. Everyone thought I was bleedin’ nuts.’ He unbuttoned his shirt to reveal the technicoloured tattoos dappling his torso. ‘Only way I could deal with them was to get them drawn up here. Turns out they weren’t dreams. They were my …’ He wrestled to find the right word. ‘Heritage. Who I was. Stuff that was going to happen.’ He traced his finger around the outline of a green dragon. ‘And then my life exploded from nothing into something. A Brother of Dragons. A Champion of Life.’ He laughed. ‘I hooked up with the others and we were going to change everything. Shavi, he was all right. Laura … bitch. And Ruth …’ He fell silent. ‘Sorry, darlin’, but she was something special. I loved her. I bloody loved her. And then that bastard Church came along and ruined it all. We were a team … they were the best friends I ever had. Or so I thought. I’d have done anything for them. We could have done anything. No boundaries. You get it? The sky was the bleedin’ limit. All thrown away. Me, tossed back on the scrapheap. Left for dead. I
was
dead … until I got a second chance. This time I’m using it right. I’m not going to let anybody screw me over again.’

He balanced on the pitch of the roof and stretched. The smog hung so densely all around that it felt as if night was coming in early.

‘You going to help me, darlin’? I can’t do this bit on my own.’ He held out his hand and Etain took it. Together they walked to the roof’s edge, and then over, vertically down the face of the building. Veitch directed Etain to a window through which candlelight glimmered. Veitch leaned back and smashed the glass with his boot, at the same time drawing his sword. Black fire danced around the blade.

Inside, a young man and woman cowered in one corner. They held each other’s hands, for strength; allies, not lovers. ‘Who are you?’ the man said defiantly. He tried to push the woman behind him for safety.

‘I’m your worst fucking nightmare, mate.’ Veitch lifted the sword and stepped towards them.

5

Church dashed through the halls of the Great Exhibition, pushing his way through the genteel crowds. He caught sight of what he thought was Jerzy in the Indian court and then again amongst the agricultural implements of the United States court. It was only ever a fleeting glimpse of white skin or a fixed grin, enough to identify the figure as the Mocker, yet rationally Church couldn’t understand how it could be him: there were no shrieks, no swooning women or angry, shocked men.

Eventually his pursuit led him to the Russian court. There was no sign of Jerzy amidst the malachite doors, vases and ornaments, but as Church searched amongst the browsers he saw something else that put him on edge: a rapid movement, a blur of what looked like brown seal-skin and a sinuous, muscular shape that was definitely not human. It was something he had seen before, near Carn Euny and on the way out of Eboracum.

Before he could investigate further, a hand closed on his sleeve. He looked into the face of a woman of about twenty years old, with heavy Eastern European features, brown hair and dark, penetrating eyes.

‘You are looking for your friend,’ she said in thickly accented English. ‘You will not find him here. He is with the Master now.’

‘I saw him.’

‘No, you did not.’

Church searched for a sign that she was more than she appeared. ‘What do you know?’

‘I know we all have masters who set us on a path to wisdom. My own Master is a Hindu man of imposing appearance who visited me many times when I was a child. I saw him this day and he directed me to you. Jack Churchill. The King Beyond the Water.’

‘And you are?’

‘Helena Petrovna Blavatsky. I was born in the Ukraine, but I am now a child of the world.’

‘So why did this master send you to me?’

‘Because you are at a fork in your life’s path,’ said the woman who would help launch the Victorian era’s occult revival with her Theosophical Society. ‘In the coming days, months, years, you can choose to go one way or another. I am to give you information to help you make your choice.’

Helena led Church away from the crowds to a quiet area under one of the wrought-iron staircases that led to the upper level.

‘The first thing you must understand is that the universe is built on a system of harmonious numbers,’ she said.

Five
, Church thought.

‘Numbers that have specific meaning, specific powers. The universe is an
ordered system that contains chaos. Order implies intelligence. Who created it? That is the question. Two is a powerful number, for it lies at the heart of everything. Wherever you look, there is duality. Night and day. Good and evil. Zoroastrianism, which is the root of Gnosticism, believed the world was a battleground for two beings: Ahura Mazda, the god of light, and life, and goodness; and Ahriman, the god of darkness, corruption and death.’

Her mention of Gnosticism triggered Church’s memory of John Dee talking about the same subject in his university rooms in Krakow. Coincidence? Or more of the patterns Helena was talking about?

‘You are meant to tell me about Gnosticism?’ he asked.

‘Gnosis means knowing through observation or experience.’

Another connection: Church recalled what Hal, the spirit in the Blue Fire, had said about not revealing what had happened because Church had to learn it for himself.

‘By the time of Christ’s birth, the fundamentals of Gnosticism were already ancient,’ she continued. ‘The roots stretch back at least six hundred years before that, when adepts used what many perceived to be ‘‘magic’’. You are aware of the Blue Fire?’

He nodded.

‘Simon Magus, Valentinus, Marcion – all of them were attracted to Gnosticism. They understood the meanings of the serpent and the labyrinth. For centuries that knowledge disappeared from public view, but it was protected by the Knights Templar and the Cathars …’

Her words sparked so many links in his mind that it could not be random – this time with the treasure store under London Bridge that had held the crystal skull. Church felt the movement of great forces around him.

‘… who could only avoid persecution over the secrets of Existence by coding the information for others to decipher.’ She gave a teasing smile. ‘Did you know that the ancient Ophites sect worshipped the serpent as the source of forbidden knowledge? Did you know that the Peratae believed Jesus was the soul of the serpent? That the Naasseni worshipped the serpent? All Gnostics.’

‘You’re playing with me now.’

She took his hand. ‘I am simply showing you that there are layers upon layers. Strip away one to find the hidden knowledge beneath. The hidden structure that holds everything together. There are truths and untruths, and the mere act of searching for the mystery is in itself the uncovering of the mystery. In Eastern philosophies there is a technique known as raising kundalini. Kundalini means ‘‘serpent fire’’. This technique involves waking the dormant power of the sleeping serpent, the spiritual and psychic energy we all possess, and then raising the energy through the body to the head. Once it is in the head, anything is possible.’

‘All right … Gnosticism … serpents … secret connections. I hear what you’re saying. I just don’t see how it helps me right now. And, frankly, I’m not wholly sure I should trust you.’

Church looked around the crowds. The glimpses of Jerzy had clearly been designed to lead him to this meeting with Helena Blavatsky, but who had arranged it? Would her information help him, or was there some malign intent behind her words? So many mysteries surrounded his life that he found it increasingly difficult to know who to trust and in which direction to go.

‘The kundalini is symbolised by two entwined snakes, which is also the caduceus, the timeless symbol of healing. The truth is everywhere you look, Jack Churchill,’ she said, as if she could read his thoughts. ‘This may mean nothing to you now, but there may come a time in the labyrinth of your life when you will see this golden thread and follow its sinuous path to enlightenment.’

The whole meeting with Blavatsky was starting to feel like a distraction from his original intention: to find Veitch and prevent him from killing any more Brothers and Sisters of Dragons.

‘One more thing,’ she said, smiling. ‘Look to the Fool, for the Fool is the holder of wisdom. The Fool knows nothing. That is wisdom. Look to the Fool.’

Blavatsky’s cryptic comments were starting to irritate him. He was distracted by laughter echoing around the room; it sounded simultaneously very far away yet close at hand, and it had a quality that was not entirely human. When he looked back, Blavatsky was gone. Church searched for her, and when he returned to the point where she had stood he had a fleeting impression of a darkly mocking grin and searing inhuman eyes, fading like the Cheshire Cat.

Something brushed his temple and he fell into unconsciousness.

6

Veitch wiped the blood from his blade on the bedclothes. Etain stood nearby, staring out of the window into the smog-created gloom in a manner that Veitch pretended was yearning for the green, rolling landscape of her former life.

‘Three down,’ he hummed. ‘Two to go. Wish I’d been keeping a running total. I stopped at a hundred and forty-five.’

He sheathed the blade and turned back to the room. The man’s head, which had been sitting in the centre of the room, was somehow back on his neck. The lips had been pulled into a mocking grin.

Veitch kept his hand on the sword. ‘Who did that?’ he said incredulously
to Etain. He’d only been wiping his blade for a second; no time at all for someone to steal in behind him and adjust the body. Then he noticed that the woman’s head was missing.

Cursing, he rushed to the door. It was locked. He shattered it with his boot and stormed into a dark corridor that smelled of coal and damp and cabbage water. At the end, by the stairs, the woman’s head hung by the hair like a Hallowe’en lantern, but he could not see who was holding it.

Veitch raced along the corridor. By the time he reached the end he could hear footsteps rapidly descending the stairs, and then the banging of the front door. Sprinting into the street, he coughed and choked in the smog, looking up and down. The head bobbed along, just disappearing in the haze.

Veitch hadn’t got far when hands grabbed him roughly and hauled him into an alley. It was the Libertarian.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Veitch raged. He threw himself back into the street, but he had lost sight of the head.

The Libertarian pulled him back. ‘What are
you
doing?’ His red eyes blazed in the gloom. ‘You may well hold a position of some authority because of your peculiar abilities, though why you were given them remains beyond me. But you are still weak and pathetic, easily distracted and, I might add, none too bright. We cannot risk upsetting the delicate balance at this crucial stage.’ The Libertarian’s sneer became a snarl.

Veitch threw him off and drew his sword. ‘Who cares what you think, you parasite?’

The Libertarian stared at the sword, then drew himself up and smiled menacingly.

Veitch was distracted by a shapeless mass in the alley, which he realised were two bodies, butchered so brutally they were almost unrecognisable. Scattered nearby were pieces of clothing – a shawl, worn but cared for lovingly, and a man’s flat cap.

‘What did you do that for?’ Veitch said, disgusted. ‘They couldn’t have hurt you.’

‘I did it because I could.’

Veitch stared deeply into the Libertarian’s eyes but couldn’t fathom what he saw there. ‘You and me are going to have it out one day,’ he said.

‘I relish the moment.’

Sickened, Veitch sheathed his blade and ran back into the street. Candles and lamps were alight in the windows he passed. They revealed families, sometimes eight to a room, old men hunched over tiny fires, women old before their time, sobbing at a table or getting drunk on cheap spirits, children worn out from work, men in the act of robbery or violence. It was dark and it smelled sour.

Just when he was about to give up and return to Etain, the head dropped
from above him and splattered at his feet before rolling into the gutter. On the edge of the roof, Spring-heeled Jack rocked on his haunches, his staring eyes seething. With a flourish, his cloak rose up around him and he was away across the rooftops once more.

‘Right, you bastard,’ Veitch hissed. ‘I’m in a bad bleedin’ mood and it’s all coming down on your head.’

Sometimes it was difficult to see the figure skittering across the rooftops, for the streets were narrow and the buildings high. But once they moved out of the East End it became easier. Past the Tower and St Paul’s Veitch raced, determined Spring-heeled Jack would not outpace him. Finally, the West End rose up around him. There were carriages and people in fine clothes on their way to the theatre or stretching their legs after dinner. Veitch hitched a ride on the back of a carriage, keeping one eye on the roofs.

It was only when the buildings ran out that Spring-heeled Jack came down to ground level, and by then they were in Hyde Park. Ahead, the gleaming majesty of the Crystal Palace stood like a beacon in the night.