James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

Mycroft stammered as another puff of plaster dust rained upon them, his jowls vibrating.

“You’ve got to help stop them,” he said. “As members of the Shadow Council.”

“I thought we were no longer in your Shadow Council,” said Burton.

“I thought we were traitors,” said Challenger.

“Quite so,” said Burton. “Perhaps we should all just clap ourselves in irons and save you the trouble.”

“All right, all right,” Mycroft Holmes bellowed. “Have it your way. You are upstanding members of the Shadow Council once more, and you are no longer under arrest for treason. Now do something!”

Everyone scrambled as the room shook once more, and Burton realized that the Tower of London itself wasn’t under attack, but somewhere nearby.

“Get somewhere safe,” said Burton. “And contact the army and the London police. You’ll need all of them.”

“What are you going to do?” inquired Mycroft Holmes.

“Run,” said Burton in answer, and he, Challenger and Abberline jogged down the stairs and through the now open loading doors Abberline had described.

“Blimey,” said Abberline. “I couldn’t have stayed in there another minute! I felt as if the whole place was coming down round my ears.”

“It’s formidable, but ancient,” said Burton. “It might not survive a direct assault from whatever Bulwer-Lytton has pointed at us, but it should hold for now. I just hope we fair better.”

They stood in the fog-shrouded night, with a sound like thunder in their ears. They saw flashes of what looked like lightning, only not coming from the sky, but from the ground.

Burton had that feeling again of someone, something, standing just behind him, over his shoulder. It looked as if it was trying to speak. When he turned, there was no one there.

Burton shivered, but not from cold. Dark, sinister, non-humanoid shapes moved in the fog, chilling him to the bone with fear. The sound of police whistles and human screams filled the night.

The three men ran away from the Tower of London, through the Traitor’s Gate. They heard splashing from the Thames off to their right, as if many large forms were emerging from the dark depths, shaking water from their broad backs. The sound of wet footsteps slapped toward them. They broke into a run, Abberline huffing and puffing behind Burton and Challenger. Burton hoped they could lose their inhuman assailants in the fog.

In the distance there was a flash of yellow that burned through the fog for a moment. A building was on fire. Burton heard the clang of a fireman’s bell. People shouting. Behind them, more gurgling, hopping, slapping sounds, accompanied by the greasy sliding of the shoggoths.

Burton glanced at Abberline, his face pale in the firelight. The poor man looked like he wanted to scream, and Burton wouldn’t blame him one bit if he did. He almost felt like screaming himself, but did not want to give away their position in the fog to those fiends he just knew were behind them in the fog-shrouded dark.

They grew near to the fire now, could feel the heat from it. There was another peel of bone-shaking thunder, another sinister curl of pinkish lightning that stabbed the London skyline like an accusatory finger. Burton smelled burnt things and fish-stink and fear, the latter his own.

There were more people milling about in the dense fog now, most of them running, panicked. The three slowed to a brisk walk, feeling the heat from the flames now. Behind them the Tower of London was little more than a vague outline, gaslights burning in its highest windows like baleful eyes.

Burton was thankful for the fog. For he knew no one in the city of London could stand the full knowledge of what was coming for them. Just a glimpse was enough to drive everyone in the city stark raving mad. It was a small mercy, to be denied the face of death as it descended upon them.

“What are we going to do?” Burton heard himself say, his mouth dry, his tongue like sandpaper. The voice he heard come out of his mouth was not his voice, but that of a sad, frightened madman, and it terrified him.

“I don’t know,” said the shadow that stalked Captain Richard Francis Burton. “I don’t know.”

“We need weapons,” said Professor Challenger, the building’s flames flashing in his dark eyes. “Guns. Ammunition.”

“Follow me,” said Abberline.

Burton glanced quickly behind him, looking for the owner of that strange, ethereal voice he knew to be his own. All he saw were flames and fleeing people. He blinked the burning sting of the flames from his eyes and glanced around, practicing a Sufi meditation to help settle his nerves. He glanced around, getting his bearings before moving east, after Abberline and Challenger and toward the epicenter of the conflict. The sky above the East End was full of strange shadows dancing in a crimson mist, evidence of more fires in the Cauldron itself.

“This way,” said Abberline, and the men threaded their way through the crowd of volunteer firemen, police, and fearful men and women who had stopped in their running to gawk at the flames.

A policeman’s carriage stood unattended, and Abberline wasted no time climbing atop the driver’s box. “Hop in, gents.”

Burton and Challenger climbed inside, and Abberline tugged the reins, spurring the horses into a brisk trot.

“Hey!” a voice shouted from behind them, but they paid it no heed.

The streets were crowded with fleeing horses and frightened onlookers, eyes darting toward the East End, where strange vibrations echoed and blasphemous visions flashed intermittently before being once again obscured by flame and fog.

“Police!” Abberline shouted. “Out of the way!”

Burton dabbed his watery eyes with a handkerchief and stared at Challenger who sat across from him, his face marked by flame and soot, his enormous, blue-black beard melding with the shadows inside the carriage.

“Where are we going?” said Burton.

“To find weapons,” said Challenger, arching a bushy eyebrow. “You all right?”

Burton didn’t know the answer, so instead settled into the carriage cushions and said nothing.

After speeding through several blocks, Abberline at last pulled the carriage to a halt in front of a nondescript building with police milling around out front.

“What is this place?” said Challenger as he and Burton climbed out of the carriage.

“Police storage facility,” said Abberline, hopping to the ground. “Weapons and ammunition, as requested.”

“Good show,” said Burton. “We’ll—”

A movement in the corner of his right eye startled him. He again had the sense that he was being followed, though more intense this time. He watched from the periphery of his vision, knowing that if he spun around, the apparition would be gone.

“What is it?” Challenger asked.

“Is there anyone behind me?” asked Burton. “Following me?”

Challenger examined the section of street directly across from them. “No. No one here but us and the coppers. Why?”

“I’ve had the strangest feeling that I’m being followed,” said Burton. “It’s been happening ever since I recovered from my fever.”

Burton watched the figure from his periphery, getting the impression that it went into the shop across the street.

Burton succumbed to his curiosity and turned his head to the right. No one was there. The shop had a sign hanging above the door depicting a luridly painted eye along with the words Psychic Medium. Tarot. Fortunes.

Burton didn’t know why, but he had the sudden urge to go inside.

“Where the devil are you going?” said Challenger.

Burton turned and looked toward his friends, surprised to discover he was halfway across the street.