It came again, and then again, and she screamed, clutching at her chest as the electricity coursed through her body. She fell to her knees, wailing, dying.
The detached part of her mind was attempting to establish the nature of the injury that was causing her so much pain. It came relentlessly in waves, drumming in her ears, pounding inside of her. The pressure in her chest made it feel as if she were going to explode.
And then-fascinated and appalled in equal measure-she realised what it was. Despite her agony, she was overcome by a strange sense of calm.
Her heart was beating.
The black, shrivelled remnant of her original organ was shuddering inside of her, thumping like a pounding drum. The electricity was causing the decayed muscle to contract, again and again, over and over.
She was filled with an immense sense of sadness, and joy, and relief-the first things she had felt in nearly a century. This man, this Newbury, had come here not simply to kill her, but to set her free. This, she knew with a sudden clarity, was what she had been searching for all along. All of those long years, wandering the streets of a hundred nations, taking life after petty life … all she had wanted was release.
She slumped forward onto the floor. The pain in her chest was excruciating, and yet beautiful, peaceful. Her lips creased into a smile.
With a gasp, Elodie Severin died.
* * *
“Newbury!” bellowed Bainbridge. “Get over here!”
Newbury dropped the discharged lightning cane atop the body of the Executioner and staggered over to where Bainbridge and Angelchrist crouched over Veronica’s prone form. He couldn’t see her through the jumble of limbs as both men tried desperately to attend to her injuries.
Bainbridge looked up at Newbury, his expression grave. He shook his head, lowered his eyes.
“Let me through!” barked Newbury, pushing them out of the way, dropping to his knees before her. He almost choked at the sight of Veronica, lying there on the filthy floor, her head lolled to one side in the dirt, her chest ripped open, blood gushing from the yawning wound. Bainbridge and Angelchrist were trying to stem the tide with bundles of rags and handkerchiefs, but they were not enough.
“No! No, no, no, no…” He trailed off, unable to find words. He could barely register what he was seeing. Her clothes had been ripped asunder, and he could see the fingers of her rib cage, broken and splintered, jutting out of her pale flesh. The skin was pulled back like a pair of bloody curtains to reveal the precious cavity beneath. Inside of her, her heart was pulsing, glossy and alive.
Angelchrist put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“The Fixer,” said Newbury, his voice cracking. “We have to get her to the Fixer.” He shrugged Angelchrist away, then reached down and scooped Veronica up, cradling her in his arms. Within moments he was covered in her blood. He staggered to his feet.
“It’s too late, Newbury,” said Bainbridge, his voice filled with infinite sadness. “She’s dying.”
“No!” bellowed Newbury. “No! If you won’t help me, Charles, I’ll get her there myself.” He rushed towards the door, his eyes stinging. He would not let her die. He could not let her die.
Bainbridge ran after him, the lantern swaying wildly in his hand. “I have a carriage waiting outside, Newbury. We’ll get her there in that.”
Newbury nodded, running as fast as he dared in the dim light.
“Archibald-secure the scene,” he heard Bainbridge call behind them as they rushed out into the rain-soaked morning. The frigid air was like a slap in the face.
“Over here!” cried Bainbridge, struggling for breath. They rounded the corner to find the police carriage waiting for them, the driver looking on in confusion. Bainbridge opened the door and Newbury hastily bundled Veronica inside, clutching her close. “Get us to the Fixer, now!” shouted Bainbridge, hopping up onto the footplate.
The engines roared, and the carriage shot away into the night.
CHAPTER 29
“Can’t this damn thing go any faster?” snapped Newbury, as the driver stepped on the brakes to prevent the carriage from rolling over as they took a sharp bend in the road.
He was cradling Veronica in his arms, her head lolling against his chest, mercifully insensible. Her breath was shallow, like the fluttering of a tiny bird, and she felt lighter than he remembered. He felt tears pricking his eyes but fought them back. He needed to be strong now, to see her through it.
“He’s going as fast as he can, Newbury,” said Bainbridge, sullenly. He was pale and he wouldn’t meet Newbury’s eye. He looked as if he were already grieving.
“Don’t you dare give up on her, Charles!” barked Newbury. “Don’t you dare.” Bainbridge looked up, and his eyes were so full of sadness and compassion that Newbury almost faltered. His anger dissipated. “She can’t die, Charles. She simply can’t die,” he said.
Bainbridge nodded, and looked away again, peering out of the window. Newbury could see that his friend understood his desperation, was making allowances for it, and in many ways it made matters worse. Newbury refused to admit that it was too late.
“We’re almost there,” said Bainbridge, after a moment. “This is Bloomsbury.”
Newbury bundled Veronica even tighter in his arms, as if attempting to hold her together himself. She was bleeding profusely, all over the back of the carriage, and Newbury’s jacket and trousers were soaked through to the skin. He felt cold, and he wasn’t sure whether it was the wet blood, or simply a form of terrible numbness creeping over him, threatening to consume him.
He looked down at Veronica. Her pale cheek was spattered with obscene streaks of scarlet and the fingerprints of the woman who had tried to kill her. Newbury wiped them away with his thumb, smearing the blood.
The carriage screeched to a halt, and Newbury planted his feet firmly in the footwell to prevent himself from rocking forward and jolting Veronica. Any sudden movements might worsen her condition or exacerbate her wounds.
Bainbridge was up and at the door before they’d even come properly to rest. “Get her around to the side entrance,” he said. “I’ll get Rothford and the Fixer.” He ducked out into the rain-swept night, and Newbury struggled to his feet, following swiftly behind. Fat raindrops cascaded from the heavens, lashing his upturned face.
So strong was his intent to get Veronica to safety that he didn’t bother to check for passersby. Her life was like sand streaming through an hourglass, and the only man who could stem the tide was the Fixer.
Once before, Newbury had seen the man work miracles, stitching Newbury’s torn shoulder back together and transfusing esoteric compounds into his bloodstream to hasten his recovery. That was some time ago, but Newbury hoped that the Fixer might be able to perform a miracle again.
The house was a three-storey end terrace in an exclusive area of Bloomsbury. Newbury saw Bainbridge running up the steps to the front entrance, where he might alert Rothford, the Fixer’s manservant, to Veronica’s dire circumstances. Newbury, however, would take the side entrance to the cellar, which held the Fixer’s workshop, laboratory, and surgery.
He struggled down the narrow cast-iron steps towards the basement door, careful not to knock Veronica’s head on the iron railings. Once there, he hammered on the wood-panelled door with his foot.
For a moment he heard nothing, no sign of movement from inside the house. He was struck by thoughts that panicked him. The house was dark and silent. What if the Fixer was not at home? What then for Veronica? He moaned in frustration and kicked the door again.