Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

He started down the aisle, walking a measured pace with his head down, as if deep in contemplation. He walked silently, keeping his footsteps as light as the shadows and pleading with the darkness to hide him. To his right, niches held the tombs of wealthy merchants and celebrated knights, faithful dogs at their feet and marble ruffs framing pale faces, their hands folded in eternal prayer. To his left, pillars screened the aisle from the pews, their delicate fluting giving the illusion of a divide. High above, the pillars burst into fan vaults, like the exotic palms from a South Seas island enchanted into stone. Dead ahead, there was a double door. In two other large churches he knew, that spot led down to the crypt. Nick prayed this one held true to form. If nothing else, it was a reasonable place to hide.

But a pair of guards was coming directly toward him, one the same man who had removed his chains. Nick’s hands instinctively fisted, as if refusing to be shackled again. As the guard lifted his eyes, Nick turned to his right, drawing farther into the shadows beside a sleeping crusader. Every muscle tensed as the guards walked right behind him, their feet loud in the vaulted hush. And then they stopped.

Nick was already in motion, hurtling toward the double doors. He was close now, only a dozen yards away, but he wasn’t used to running anymore. He could hear their feet behind him as he banged through the door, desperation making his feet fast on the steps.

“Damnation! There’s no light down here,” one of them snapped.

Nick stumbled but leapt, landing clear of the steps. He crouched in the moldy, damp silence, hoping for the best. The other guard stopped, fumbling in his clothes. Nick could just see them in the light from the door above—a pair of backlit shapes patting their pockets for matches. He took the opportunity to creep into deeper shadow.

Then the second guard—Nick’s special friend—drew out a chemical lantern, shook it, and twisted the shutter open. A lurid green glow surrounded the two men.

“Ugh, smells foul down here,” said one. “Like something died.”

“It’s a crypt, you buffoon,” grumbled the other.

“Do you suppose there are rats?”

“Only if they like very old leftovers.”

Nick backed away, leaving them to bumble about at the foot of the stairs. They inched forward, looking from side to side at the sarcophagi arranged in haphazard rows across the floor. There were vaulted arches here, too, but they were plain, the only ornament leering faces at the top of the pillars. It was clear from the tight shoulders and stiff walk of the guards that they didn’t enjoy hunting through the graves. That was good. Jumpy men made mistakes.

Nick crouched behind a marble tomb, peering around the corner to watch his pursuers. As he had hoped, they were going deeper into the crypt, leaving the safety of the stairs behind. Nick looked around for weapons. There were plenty of stone swords and even a few real ones resting atop the graves, but nothing that looked like a match for a rifle. He was good with knives, but his pen knife was hardly up to the job. So instead Nick found a piece of fallen masonry the size of his fist. This was a back-to-basics moment. Then he rose and glided along the ancient marble floor, quiet as the dust.

He waited until they came to a narrow passage, where one fell behind the other. Nick came up behind the shorter of the two men, clipping him behind the ear with the rock. He dropped like a sack of laundry. By the time the other one turned, Nick had vanished again.

From where he was crouching behind a pillar, he heard the low cursing of the guard. There was a note of fear in the mumbled words that Nick understood all too well. His own fingers were shaking, nerves wound to a screaming pitch of desperation. Nick clutched his weapon, the sharp edges digging into his fingers. He heard the awkward footfall as the guard stepped around his friend, and then hurried back toward the stairs—no doubt going for help.

Nick was up in a flash, and in three steps he was behind his foe. But this time the guard turned, drawing a pistol, not even bothering with the more awkward rifle. In half a second, the muzzle was in Nick’s face. “You’ll need more than a rock, you bastard.”

Nick let his eyes go wide with fear. At the same time, he planted a kick in the man’s kneecap, just a little to the side to do maximum damage. The shock of it let Nick sweep the pistol aside and bash the man’s temple, knocking him to the ground. The man fell against the edge of a sarcophagus, the force of it sending the weapon spinning away. Nick pounced on the man, grabbing his jacket and slamming him into the stone floor once, twice with all the ferocity of his pent-up fury.

The guard sagged, face slack. Nick’s breath was coming in ragged gasps, each inhalation a tearing wheeze that was almost a sob. Slowly, painfully, he made himself let go before he reduced the man’s skull to pulp.

Priorities. Nick grabbed the lantern, the pistol, and then searched both men for more weapons and ready cash. To his joy, he found a knife and almost a pound in coin between them. And then he stripped off the ridiculous robe and took the taller man’s jacket. He ripped off the prison insignia and dropped it to the floor. Finally, he began hunting for a way out.

Nick found the tunnel to the ruined monastery almost at once, and bolted toward freedom.

September 27, 1889

SOUTHBOUND TRAIN, GREEN LINE

2:20 p.m. Friday

NICK PRAYED THAT NO ONE WOULD NOTICE ONE MORE DIRTY, desperate stowaway hiding on the rusting boxcars. He had spent the night lying in wait for a southbound train, but now he was finally near his destination. He was by no means the only one who’d jumped aboard without paying, but he’d kept to himself. Guards wearing the green uniforms of Spicer Industries—the Green Queen’s men—came through regularly, swinging batons like they were cricket bats. Two of the unwanted passengers had been tossed to the rails.

Nick had crammed himself between the piles of crates of foodstuffs and the steel walls, smelling the vile mix of ash, grease, and the cloying scent of honey. Somewhere a container had broken, and the rail car was thick with flies. He was desperately hungry, but wouldn’t risk giving himself away by breaking into the crates in search of dinner. After all, the trip wouldn’t take more than half a day.

At least he had time to think—a good thing when one’s life had been blown to pieces, and the retrieval of even one shard was bound to be a complex affair. But there were things he needed first—starting with a good place to hide. For that, London had no equal. He made his move when the train began to slow, making its way into Paddington Station at a rolling wheeze. Nick hit the ground, rolled, and vanished into the crowds. The first thing he wondered as he slipped through the familiar alleys was who among his associates was still there, and whether or not they could be trusted. He’d been gone almost a year, and that was a long time in the game of survival.

Instinct told him to avoid any of his old haunts. The Saracen’s Head tavern had already proven to be the target of the Gold King’s spies, and any of the rooms he had rented had probably been taken over by others. After a moment’s hesitation, he turned east, working his way toward Russell Square. There was a small handful of men he trusted enough to ask for help, but only one he knew who was even better at hiding than himself. Not even Nick knew the Schoolmaster’s real name, but they’d shared risks in their short acquaintance. It was a mark of trust that the man had given Nick an address to use in case of emergency. Nick was reluctant to put himself in debt to the rebel, but if this wasn’t an emergency, what was? And he had a delivery to make to the man anyway.