Alex Grecian - Devil's Workshop

“He was dangerous enough,” Hammersmith said. “He just wasn’t very smart.”

J ack heard footsteps coming in the dark, wet shoes slapping the ground, someone moving quickly. It wasn’t the doctor; the doctor hadn’t visited him in days. And it wasn’t the policeman. This was someone new, a gait he didn’t recognize. Whoever it was, he was alone. Jack kept his muscles loose, his breath hot and steady under the canvas hood, and he listened. The footsteps slowed and then stopped as the stranger neared the opening of Jack’s cell.

“Isn’t this exciting?” Jack raised his voice so that the stranger would hear him. “I haven’t had a new visitor in quite some time.”

“What. .” The stranger stopped, then started again, nervous. “What is this? Who are you?”

Oh, the stranger didn’t know! He had stumbled upon Jack by accident. Under the hood, Jack smiled. His cracked lips broke and he tasted copper.

“Come closer, little fly,” he said.

“I need to. . There’s no time.”

“Someone is following you,” Jack said.

“I don’t know. I mean, yes, they’re looking for me.”

“And where will you hide?”

“Here. Down here.”

“But this is my home. You may only hide here if I allow it.”

“Why are you chained like that?”

“Come closer.”

He heard the stranger shuffle in place, undecided.

“It’s all right,” Jack said. “I can’t hurt you, can I? You can see that. So where’s the harm?” Every word scorched his dry throat. He savored the pain. “Come and take this off my head so that we might see each other and converse like the gentlemen we surely are.”

The stranger didn’t move.

“What’s your name, little fly?”

“Cinder. . My name is Cinderhouse, but I fail to see how that matters.” The stranger, Cinderhouse, feeling brave now after his initial confusion, feeling like Jack couldn’t hurt him, chained and hooded in the dark as he was. Jack smiled again. Such a perfect little fly, a tender morsel already caught in Jack’s web, but still unaware of the danger.

“Oh, it matters to me, Mr Cinderhouse. Do you mind if I call you Peter?”

“But that’s not my name.”

“It’s not meant to be a name. It’s a title.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Tell me, do you understand this: Exitus probatur ?”

“What?”

“Never mind. They’re not close. The men following you. They’re far away, aren’t they?”

“I don’t know where they are. I think I killed one.”

“We have time before they follow you here. You’re quite safe with me, Peter. I can protect you.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“But why not? I should think you’d be honored.”

Cinderhouse shuffled closer, the soles of his shoes dragging grit from the floor.

“Take the hood from my head and face me,” Jack said.

There was a long moment of silence, and then Jack could feel the presence of the other man, hovering close, and suddenly the canvas was lifted and dull orange light sliced through Jack’s eyes and stabbed into his brain. He hadn’t even known that his eyes were open; there was no difference in the darkness either way and he had long ago lost track. Now his eyelids slammed shut and he gradually lifted them again, a fraction of an inch, letting them grow used to the idea of something besides their accustomed blackness. He let his eyes deal with the light, droplets of color filtering through his lashes, and concentrated on listening to Cinderhouse. The other man had stepped back from him, was loitering at the mouth of the cell, no doubt planning to run.

Frightened little fly.

“If you leave, you will never fulfill your destiny.” Jack’s voice was little more than a whisper, filling the space, echoing from stone to stone. “If you leave now, you will always be lost and afraid, running here and there like a rabbit until you are caught.”

“Who did that to you?”

“I did.”

“I meant the chains. Who chained you here?”

“I told you. I did.”

“You didn’t chain yourself.”

“Of course I did.”

“How?”

Such a stupid little fly.

“You’ve heard of a man, lived centuries ago, who worked miracles? A man who walked on the surface of the sea, laid his healing hands on the sick, and turned water into blood?”

“It was wine. You’re talking about. . He turned water into wine.”

“Did he? Perhaps we read different accounts.”

“What does that have to do with. .?”

“Oh, it has everything to do. The man I speak of, when he had done what he needed to do to establish his power, he allowed lesser beings to take him, to tear his flesh and spill his blood on the thirsty ground.”

“He died.”

“Do you think so? I don’t. No, he had gone too far to die, taken too much power into himself. He allowed them to think he was gone and then he showed them that power. But only when he was ready and only after he had prepared his disciples.”

The light didn’t hurt so badly anymore and Jack’s eyes were fully open, drinking in the sight of the cell, really a cave, the tall gaunt man in prison dress standing at the edge of the darkness beyond. Cinderhouse was holding a lantern and the light from it reflected on his bald scalp, pink and vulnerable. Jack took a deep breath of cool, fresh-smelling air. He glanced down and saw that his own blood and sweat and shit and piss had turned the ground at his feet black, had soaked into the earth so deeply that it would never wash away, even if these tunnels flooded. He closed his eyes and smiled again.

“How many have you killed?” he said. “Aside from the man who followed you. Anyone might have done that. How many did you put your hands on simply because you could?”

“How did you know?”

“More than one, am I right?”

With his eyes still closed, he heard a rustle of fabric as the bald man moved, and he guessed that Cinderhouse had nodded.

“You are an infernal machine,” Jack said. “I knew that you were. But you were simply reacting, not following any sort of plan, am I right?” Jack said. Another nod from the bald man. “Wouldn’t you like to finally understand the importance of what you do?”

“Importance?”

“There is a plan, you know.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know. But you will.”

Jack licked the blood from his lips. It was time. He had performed his miracles, had allowed himself to be tortured, and had taken root in the soil. London grew up through him now, and he had spread out into the city, into the world, completely. He had achieved immortality. He was deathless.

He was death.

He was London.

“There is still work to do,” he said. “Come, Peter, come closer and let me whisper in your ear. You are no longer alone. You are mine now, and I call you my rock.”

Cinderhouse’s left foot moved as if he weren’t in control, as if he had become a puppet. He took a step toward Jack, and then his shoulders set and he raised his lantern and he moved fully into the little cell.

“Tell me what to do,” the bald man said.