Swords of Haven

The God Squad and the two Guards were back in their headquarters’ drawing room, catching up on what they’d all been doing. Tomb in particular seemed very interested in Hawk and Fisher’s reactions to the various Beings they’d seen, and kept pressing them for details. Rowan looked utterly disinterested, and kept rubbing at her forehead as though bothered by a persistent headache. She’d spent most of the day in bed, sleeping. It didn’t seem to have helped her much. Buchan looked calm and completely self-possessed, as always. Hawk’s stomach rumbled. The sooner they got this over with and settled down to a good supper, the better.

“The Hellfire Club is the latest craze among the younger Quality,” said Buchan easily. “They get dressed up in strange costumes, take whatever drugs are fashionable, chant rituals, and try to raise something from the Gulfs so they can sell their souls to it, in return for power and miracles. It’s harmless.”

“They won’t,” said Buchan. “It takes more than a few chants and bad intentions to raise a demon. No, Captain, it’s just playacting, nothing more. A way to let off some steam and upset their parents at the same time. If it even looked like they were succeeding at raising something nasty, they’d either run a mile or faint from shock.”

“Either way, it’s still illegal,” said Hawk flatly. “Any kind of religious rite or ceremony is expressly forbidden outside the Street of Gods. It’s the only way to keep these things under control. Why haven’t you reported the Hellfire Club to the Council?”

“We did,” said Rowan, her voice too tired to hold its usual acid. “We reported it to the Council, they reported it to the Guard, and your superiors filed the report carefully away and ignored it. The Hellfire Club is run by the Quality for the Quality, and the Guard knows better than to try and interfere. The Quality don’t give a damn about the law. They don’t have to. They own it.”

“Come on, Hawk,” said Fisher. “Doesn’t it seem just a little too coincidental to you that soon after the Quality start their rituals, the Beings start dying? There must be a connection, or why would the priest have told us about the Club?”

Nothing unusual in that. The city aristocracy based their lives around parties, politics, and the pursuit of pleasure. Not necessarily in that order. But this one looked to be something rather special, and Hawk and Fisher were determined to be there. According to Buchan, at this particular party the Hellfire Club would be in session.

They made their way through High Tory, that part of Haven exclusively reserved for the Quality. While Hawk and Fisher looked interestedly around them at the magnificent halls and mansions, Charles Buchan kept up a running commentary on the Quality, and how they fitted into Haven life. Hawk and Fisher knew most of it already, but let him talk. There was always the chance they’d learn something new; about Buchan, if not the Quality.

There were exactly one hundred Families in the Quality, never more, and together they formed a separate little state within the city-state of Haven. The only way in was to be born a part of it, or marry into it. Personal wealth wasn’t enough. A man could be poor as a church mouse, and still look down on the wealthiest of merchants, if he had the right blood in his veins. The aristocracy’s wealth was mostly inherited, though some of it still came from rents and the like; between them the Quality owned most of Haven and the surrounding lands. They could have been even richer if some of that wealth had been invested in Haven’s businesses, but that just wasn’t done. Trade was for the lower, merchant classes. Technically, the Quality were subordinate to the elected city Council, which represented King and Parliament, but in reality both sides were careful not to put pressure on the relationship from either direction.

Hawk let Buchan drone on, listening with one ear at most. He had his own problems. The party they were going to gate-crash was being hosted by Lord Louis Hightower, and that might lead to complications. The present Lord Hightower had come to his estate after the tragic deaths of both his father and elder brother. Both men had died violently during the course of enquiries into murders on which Hawk had been the investigating officer. No one blamed him for the deaths. Officially, he’d been cleared of any negligence. It remained to be seen what Lord Louis Hightower felt about the matter. The Quality had its own private ideas on justice and retribution. Officially, the Guard were exempt from the Code Duello, or any other form of vengeance, but that was just officially. In this, as in so many other matters, the Quality went its own way when it suited them.

The cold winter air was brisk and bracing after the artificial summer warmth of the Street of Gods. Hawk kicked moodily at the dirty slush that covered the road and the pavement. The Council was supposed to scatter grit and salt on the road at the first sign of approaching winter, but they always left it too late, with the excuse of not wanting to waste money by acting too soon. So this year, as every year, a gritting that could have been done in an hour or two would now take two or three days, during which business would grind to a halt all over the city. Typical..

Hightower Hall loomed up ahead, dominating the surroundings at the end of Royal Row. It was a long, impressive two-storey building of the best local stone, the great wide windows blazing with light. A high stone wall surrounded the luxurious grounds, topped with iron spikes and broken glass. Four men-at-arms in chain mail manned the tall iron gates. They looked very professional. Hawk slowed his pace, and put a hand on Buchan’s arm to stop his monologue.

“Looks like they’re expecting trouble,” he said quietly, nodding at the men-at-arms. “The Quality’s security measures aren’t usually so ostentatious. And you can bet that if there are four armed men in clear sight, there are a hell of a lot more patrolling the grounds and scattered throughout the Hall. Are you sure this is the right place, Buchan? I’d hate to fight my way in and then find I was at the wrong address.”

“This is the place,” said Buchan. “I still have a few contacts with High Society. The Hellfire Club meets here tonight. And Captain, please: no violence. The God Squad has its reputation to think of. Besides, we shouldn’t have any trouble getting in; I’ve acquired invitations for all of us.”

“I’m not even sure what we’re doing here,” said Buchan. “The Hellfire Club may be technically illegal, but there isn’t a Court in Haven that would convict a member of the Quality on such a minor charge.”

“You’re probably right,” said Hawk. “Personally, I don’t give much of a damn about the Hellfire Club itself; but there’s got to be a reason why that priest pointed us in their direction. It may just be professional jealousy, but I don’t think so. Somewhere, there’s a connection between the Club and the God murders, and I want to know what it is.”

The men-at-arms at the gate looked suspiciously at Buchan’s engraved invitations, and passed them back and forth amongst themselves before reluctantly opening the gates and standing back. Buchan retrieved the invitations while Hawk and Fisher strolled casually into the grounds as though they owned the place. Buchan smiled politely at the men-at-arms and then hurried after Hawk and Fisher as they strode off up the gravel pathway that led to Hightower Hall.

“Not the front door,” he said quickly. “The men-at-arms might have been fooled by the invitations, but no one else will be. Anyone with real authority will take one look at your Guards’ cloaks and slam the door in our faces. Only the Quality and their personal servants are allowed into a Quality home. Our only chance of crashing this party is to sneak in through the servants’ entrance at the back. Once inside, everyone will just assume you’re wearing costumes in rather bad taste.”

Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, and Buchan’s heart sank as he took in their expressions. “We don’t sneak in through the back door,” said Hawk firmly. “We’re Captains in the city Guard. We go in through the front door. Always. Right, Isobel?”

Hawk pulled the bell rope and knocked firmly on the front door. Fisher kicked it a few times for good measure. After a discreet pause, the massive oak door swung open, revealing a tall and very dignified butler dressed, as tradition demanded, in slightly out-of-date formal wear. He had a thick mane of carefully groomed grey hair, and a pair of impressively bushy eyebrows that descended slowly into an even more impressive scowl as he took in the two Guards standing before him. ,

Buchan quickly held them forward. The butler didn’t even bother to look at them. “There must be some mistake ... sir. This gathering is exclusively for the young gentlemen and ladies of the Quality. You have no business here ... sir.”

Hawk hit him briskly, well below the belt, waited a moment as the butler folded forward, and then punched him out. By the time the two men-at-arms had reacted, Hawk had drawn his axe and Fisher had drawn her sword, and the two Guards had walked over the butler’s unconscious body and into the hallway. The men-at-arms looked at them, and then at Charles Buchan, the most famous duellist in Haven, and quickly sheathed their swords.

A footman in a rather garish frock coat appeared from nowhere, and apparently assuming they were official guests, led them to the main ballroom. Servants, laden with trays of food and wine, swarmed back and forth through the wide corridors. Hawk gradually became aware of a growing clamour up ahead, the sound of hundreds of voices raised in talk and laughter and argument. It grew steadily louder as the footman led them to a pair of huge double doors, and then the sound burst over them like a wave as the footman pushed open the doors. Hawk and Fisher and Buchan stood together in the doorway a moment, taking in the sight and sound of the Quality at their play.

Hundreds of bright young things were packed into the huge ballroom, dressed in their finest. There were all sorts of fashions and costumes, ranging from the ridiculous to the grotesque. Hawk wasn’t surprised. The younger aristocracy always had a taste for the garish. The whole point of elite fashion was to choose clothes that no one but they would be seen dead in. And yet the crowd wasn’t composed of only young people. There were a significant number of older men and women, suggesting that the attractions of the Hellfire Club spread across a larger proportion of the Quality than Hawk had expected. His scowl deepened as he took in some of the more sinister costumes: jaggedly cut leathers and bizarrely dyed furs, metal-studded bracelets and spiked chokers. One striking woman dressed in black rags and tatters carried a live snake wrapped around her bare shoulders.

A band of musicians was playing loudly in the gallery, but no one was dancing. That wasn’t what they’d come for. Hawk tore his gaze away from the Quality and looked around the great ballroom. He’d known smaller parade grounds, and the ceiling was uncomfortably high overhead, much of it lost in shadow. Three huge chandeliers of polished brass and cut glass lit the scene below with hundreds of candles. Hawk looked at them uneasily. They had to weigh half a ton each, and the thick ropes used for lifting and positioning them looked almost fragile by comparison. Hawk decided he’d keep an eye on them. He didn’t trust chandeliers. They always looked unsafe to him.

He noticed that the footman was still with them, waiting to be dismissed. Hawk nodded briskly, at which the footman bowed and left. Buchan watched this thoughtfully. Hawk and Fisher had surprised him with how comfortable they were with servants. As a rule, it was a knack most people didn’t have unless they were born into it. Most people found servants intimidating. Hawk and Fisher didn’t. Of course, there was a simple explanation; Hawk and Fisher weren’t impressed by servants because they weren’t impressed by anything.

Buchan looked out over the ballroom. It was a long time since he’d been welcome here. Almost despite himself, his mind drifted back to his last visit to Hightower Hall. Lord Roderik Hightower had been away on one of his werewolf hunts, and Louis was still in the army then. But Lady Hightower was there, to speak on behalf of the Family. The Hightowers and the Buchans had been friends for generations, but that hadn’t prevented the Lady Hightower from informing him in cool, passionless tones that unless he agreed to end his relationship with the Sisters of Joy, he should consider himself banned from High Society from that moment on. Buchan had said nothing. There was nothing he could say.

You’re a fool, Lady Hightower had said. You have good friends, position and wealth, a promising future in politics, and all the advantages your Family have given you. And you’ve thrown it all away for the sake of those women. You disgust me. Get out.

He had stood there and taken it all in silence, and when she was finished he nodded once, politely, and left. He’d stayed away from High Tory ever since. Now he was back, among familiar sights and sounds once again. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it all. He emerged from his reverie, suddenly aware that Hawk was speaking to him.

“Nothing changes,” said Hawk. “All right, let’s make a start. Each of you choose a direction, and start walking. Be discreet, but don’t be afraid to ask pointed questions. I’m not leaving here without some answers. Oh, and Isobel; let’s try and avoid Lord Hightower. Right?”

She nodded, and Hawk slipped into the milling crowd, letting the ebb and flow of people take him where it would. Everywhere he looked there were flushed faces and over-bright eyes and strained, brittle laughter. The sense of anticipation was almost overwhelming. And yet without Hawk’s foreknowledge of what the Hellfire Club was about, it would have been easy to see this as just another party. Most of the Quality here were young, half of them barely out of their teens. Partying desperately, squeezing what joy they could out of their lives before the inevitable time when they would have to take on their duties as part of the Families. There were only a few options open to the Quality: For the men it was either politics or the army, for women it was marriage and children. Perhaps that was why they’d formed the Hellfire Club, in search of pleasure and power with no price to pay. Or at least, no price they believed in.

He moved deeper into the crowd. Hundreds of people filled the huge ballroom from wall to wall, but Hawk wasn’t impressed. He’d seen grander gatherings in his time. And the more he looked, the more he became aware of the nervous undercurrent in the party’s mood. The laughter was too sudden and too loud, and the general brittle good cheer wasn’t fooling anyone but themselves. Many of the Quality were drinking like fish, but no one seemed to be drunk. Hawk frowned slightly. It was as though the Quality were trying to nerve themselves up to something. Something frightening ... and dangerous.

Buchan wandered aimlessly through the crowd, looking for familiar faces. Most of them here were too young to remember him, and his shame, but clearly there were some who did. They looked the other way, or turned their backs on him. None of them wanted to talk to him. It wouldn’t be safe. Some of his shame might rub off on them. Buchan grabbed a glass of wine from a passing servant’s tray and drank deeply. Not a bad vintage. A damn sight better than the cheap muck he usually drank.

He hadn’t been aware of how lonely he’d been until he came back here, and realised how much he’d had to give up. All the food and wine and comforts. The security of belonging. Hawk and Fisher might be contemptuous of High Society, but they couldn’t know what it meant, to be a part of it. The Quality were Family and friends and lovers, and more than that. They shared your life from the cradle on. On good days and bad days and empty days, they were always there. They seduced and protected you, loved you and hated you, and kept you safe from the outside world; made you feel part of a greater whole. It was comforting and reassuring to have the same faces always around you, people who understood you sometimes better than you knew yourself. He hadn’t realised how much he missed it all, and how much there was to miss.

The God Squad was his family now, but they were no substitute for what he’d given up. Tomb was a friendly enough sort, but he had no interest in anything save his magics and his books, and he was too sober by far. The sorcerer meant well, but the God Squad was his life, and nothing else really mattered to him. And Rowan was a pain in the posterior. Spent all her time poring over ancient books and papers, and fllling the house with chemical stinks. He’d tried to talk to her about her theories and beliefs, but most of the time she just answered his questions with grunts and monosyllables. On the few occasions when she condescended to explain something to him, he was damned if he could follow it, for all his expensive education. All he could grasp was that Rowan didn’t believe in anything much but desperately wanted to believe in something. So desperately that there was no room in her life for anything but the search.

Buchan looked slowly around him. It was a long time since he’d considered how much he’d given up for his darling Annette. And though he loved her more than anything else in his life, there were times he hated her too, for what that love had cost him. He pushed the thought firmly aside, and moved on through the crowd of turned backs and averted faces.

Hawk finally spotted a familiar face, and strolled nonchalantly over to join him. Lord Arthur Sinclair was well on his way to being drunk, as usual. The last time Hawk had seen Lord Sinclair, he and Fisher had been clearing up after the Haven elections. Sinclair had stood as a candidate, on the No Tax On Alcohol Party. Also known as the Who’s For A Party Party. He never even looked like winning, but he didn’t let a little thing like that dissuade him from holding a celebration party long before the results came in. It was two days before he sobered up long enough to ask who’d won.

Sinclair was a short, round little man in his mid-thirties, with thinning yellow hair and uncertain blue eyes. He smiled a lot, at nothing in particular, and was rarely without a glass of something in his hand. He was a third son, who’d never expected or been intended to inherit the Family estates. He had no talents, no gifts, no aptitudes, and no interest in anything but parties. His friends thought him a pleasant, harmless little chap. Always ready for a song or a joke or another drink. His Family treated him like dirt for the most part, and tried to pretend he didn’t exist. He had no sense of self-esteem, and no chance to build any. And then his father and both his brothers died in the same battle, and the title and estates fell to him, along with the not inconsiderable Family fortune. His mother died soon after, from a broken heart some said, and he was left all alone. He’d been Lord Sinclair for almost five years, and had spent most of that time trying to drink himself to death, for want of anything better to do.

Hawk approached Sinclair and nodded familiarly to him. Sinclair smiled back. He was used to being treated as a friend by people he didn’t recognise or remember. There’s no one so popular as a drunk with money.

Hawk nodded, and Sinclair poured him a generous glass of pink champagne from one of the bottles in a nearby ice bucket. Hawk sipped at it cautiously, and refrained from pulling a face. Far too sweet for his taste, but that was the Quality for you. With their taste for sugar in everything, it was a wonder they had any teeth left at all.

“Indeed. My one and only good idea. Would you like to hear about it? I do so love to talk about it, and everyone else has heard the story by now. You know about me, of course. Everyone does. My parents’ generation never tire of holding me up as a Bad Example. Not that I care. I never wanted to be head of the Family. I was happy with my parties and my poetry. I used to write poetry, you know. Some of it was quite passable. But I don’t do that anymore. I couldn’t see the point. When they all died and left me alone, I couldn’t see the point in anything anymore. I mean, they weren’t always very nice to me, but they were my Family, and one or other of them was always there, making sure I didn’t hurt myself too badly. I do miss them.

“I don’t believe in anything much anymore, but I keep looking. There has to be something; something real to believe in, apart from just chance. Only sometimes, I think there isn’t. I think that rather a lot, actually, but a few drinks usually helps. I tried religion for a while. I really thought I was on to something there. But there were so many religions, and I couldn’t choose between them. They couldn’t all be right, but they all seemed so sure of themselves. I’ve never been sure of anything. Then I met this fellow on the Street of Gods. Marvelous young sorcerer chappie; Bode, his name was. He gave me the idea for the Hellfire Club. He was very interested in the power you could get from tapping the darkness within you. Of course, the idea seems to have got a bit muddled since all these other people got involved in the Club....

“I liked Bode. He was always good company. Bit too intelligent for his own good, but then, that’s sorcerers for you. Had this very intense girlfriend, all sarcasm and deep insights. I was ever so upset when I heard he died just recently.”

He drained his glass, and looked thoughtfully at another bottle in the ice bucket. Hawk’s thoughts were racing furiously. He’d come here looking for a connection between the Hellfire Club and the God murders, but he seemed to have stumbled across a connection to a completely different case. Sinclair must have met Bode while the sorcerer was carrying out his mysterious commission on the Street of Gods. But who was this girlfriend Sinclair met? Hawk frowned as another thought came to him. Given the appearance of the second Dark Man on the Street of Gods, maybe the two cases weren’t separate after all. Maybe everything was connected....

Hawk had just decided he’d better press Sinclair for more details, when someone tapped him hard on the shoulder from behind. He turned round to find himself facing three large and openly menacing members of the Quality. They were all taller than he, and they all looked as though they worked out regularly with heavy weights.

“Can you smell something?” asked the leader of the group loudly. He sniffed at the air and grinned nastily. “I smell a Guard. No mistaking that stench. But what’s a dirty little Guard doing at a private party? A private Quality party?”

“I’m here on official business,” said Hawk, careful to keep his voice calm and unthreatening. It was obvious the three Quality were looking for trouble. Anywhere else he might have obliged them, but not here. The ballroom was full of hundreds of their friends, all of them Quality. They could cripple him or kill him, and nothing would be done. And he daren’t lift a finger to defend himself. You could, under very rare circumstances, arrest a member of the Quality, even put them on trial, but it still had to be kid gloves all the way. The Quality were under no such restrictions. At best, they’d give him a good kicking and put him in hospital, just for the fun of it. He didn’t want to think what they might do to Fisher.

“An official investigation,” said the group’s spokesman. “Did you hear that? Doesn’t it just make you shiver in your boots? I don’t give a damn about your investigation, Captain. No one here does. We don’t have to. This is our place. We don’t allow your sort in here. Is that clear?”

Hawk started to reply, and the leader hit him open-handed across the face. Hawk saw the blow coming and rode most of it, but he took a step backwards despite himself. His cheek flared red from the impact, and a thin trickle of blood ran down his chin from a split lip.

Hawk smiled suddenly, and a fresh rill of blood ran down from his split lip. The leader of the three Quality hesitated, suddenly uncertain. The Guard’s smile was cold and unpleasant, and far too confident for his liking. He glanced quickly about him to check his two friends were still there. His confidence quickly returned. The Guard wouldn’t dare try anything. The first sign of violence, everyone would turn on him. He opened his mouth to say so, and the Guard’s hand shot forward and fastened onto his trouser belt. The Guard took a good hold, and then twisted it suddenly and jerked upwards. The leader’s voice disappeared as his throat clamped shut. Tears sprang to his eyes as his trouser crotch rammed up into his groin. He tried to stand on tip-toe to ease the pain, but it was all he could do to get his breath. He grabbed desperately at the Guard’s arm, but the thick cords of muscle didn’t give an inch. The Guard twisted again, crushing his groin, and a fresh wave of pain welled up through his belly, sickening him.

The leader nodded frantically, and Hawk let him go. He collapsed into the supporting arms of his friends, who looked just as scared and confused as he did. Hawk fixed each of them in turn with his single cold eye.

They nodded quickly, and half led, half carried their friend away. Hawk watched them go. The trick to situations like that was to take out the leader as quickly and as painfully as possible. It’s not a question of what you do, as what you make them think you’re prepared to do. Take control of the situation away from them. Make them sweat. Make them afraid. You learn things like that in Haven. He looked casually around him, but the incident had passed so quickly that no one seemed to have noticed anything. He turned back to Sinclair, who was studying him thoughtfully.

Sinclair smiled. “Like I said, not really me. It’s not important. You see, I don’t matter. Not to anyone. Never have and never will.” He stopped, and looked at Hawk. “Is something wrong, Captain?”

Fisher had found herself to be very popular. Young men gathered around her, plying her with drinks and sweets and smiles, and vying with each other for her attention. The young rakes and blades were always on the lookout for a new pretty face, the more exotic the better. And compared to the carefully groomed and painted flowers of the Quality, the six-foot muscular blonde in the Guard’s cloak seemed very exotic indeed. The female members of the Quality seemed caught between ostentatiously ignoring her and glaring at her when her back was turned.

Fisher didn’t care much for the Quality, singly or en masse. More money than they knew what to do with, and nothing to give their lives meaning except an endless round of love affairs, duels, and Family vendettas. The ones with any guts went into the army; these here at the party were the ones who’d stayed behind. Which was why they joined the Hellfire Club. Their lives were so empty that there was nothing left but to play at being bad in the hopes of shocking each other, or at least their parents.

Fisher pumped the young men unobtrusively with leading questions, but didn’t get much in the way of answers. The Quality were too busy making fools of themselves trying to impress her. They began to get on her nerves after a while, and when hints that she’d prefer to be left alone fell on deaf ears, she started to wonder if punching out one or two of them might help to get her message across. She’d just selected her first target, when a loud confident voice cut across the young men’s babble, and quickly sent them all packing.

Fisher looked her rescuer over carefully. He was a little taller than she, elegantly slender, and dressed in well-cut, sombre clothes. He was in his late twenties at most, and good-looking in a dark, traditional way, though there was a self-satisfied look to his eyes and mouth that Fisher didn’t like.

“Lord Graham Brunel, at your service,” he said smoothly. “I do hope those boys weren’t bothering you too much. I’m afraid the Club has grown so popular now that we seem to be letting just anyone in. I’ll have to speak to Louis about it. Now, may I know your name, dear lady?”

“Yes, I thought it must be,” said Brunel. “I’m sure I’d have remembered so distinctive a beauty as yourself if we’d met before. That is a Guard’s cloak you’re wearing, isn’t it? Is it the real thing, by any chance?”

“Almost from the beginning, my dear. Arthur Sinclair came up with the idea originally, bless his booze-rotted brain, but it was Louis Hightower and I who brought the Club together and made it what it is.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Brunel. “We’re getting close to something very powerful, Isobel. I can feel it. Something so awful and magnificent it’ll tear this dreary little city apart. But there’s nothing to be worried about, my dear, I promise you. You just stay close to me, and I’ll keep you safe.”

“You haven’t achieved anything, have you, Brunel? In all the time you’ve been running this Club, have you raised a single demon, contacted a Power, or even managed to make the lights flicker a little?” She paused a moment while Brunel went red in the face and struggled for words. “I thought not. The Hellfire Club, when you get right down to it, is just another game. Another excuse to get dressed up, drink too much, and have a good time jumping at shadows. Just a bunch of overgrown kids. I don’t think I’ll be staying.”

Brunel reached out quickly and took her by the arm. “Oh, but I really must insist, my dear. You’ve been asking a lot of questions, but you haven’t told, us anything about yourself. I think it’s time you told me who you really are.”

Brunel’s face was suddenly harsh and ugly, all charm fled. His fingers dug into her arm muscle, trying to hurt her. “A spy. A dirty stinking Council spy. You’re not going anywhere, Captain. We can use you, in the Hellfire Club. Some of us have been wondering if a human sacrifice might not be just what we need, to make the breakthrough we’ve been looking for. We were going to use one of the servants, someone who wouldn’t be missed, but you’ll do nicely. No one’s going to miss you; no one even knows you’re here, right?”

Fisher smiled at him. “I think this has gone far enough.” She reached out with her free hand and clapped him on the shoulder. Her thumb found the exposed nerve behind the collarbone, and pressed down hard. Brunel’s face screwed up as the pain hit him, and his hold on her arm loosened. She shrugged free of him, and pulled his face close to hers. Brunel tried to pull away, but the stabbing pain paralysed him.

“No human sacrifice, Brunel. Not tonight or any other night. The Guard’s going to keep a close watch on you from now on. And if we even suspect you’re thinking about a human sacrifice, we’ll come back here in force and drag each and every one of you out of here in chains. We’ve left you alone because you’re harmless. Stay that way, or I guarantee you’ll spend the rest of your days walking the treadmill under the city gaol. Got it?”

She let him go and he staggered back a pace, clutching at his shoulder. He tried to scowl at her, but couldn’t meet her eyes. He turned and disappeared into the crowd, and was swallowed up in a moment. This is a waste of time, thought Fisher. We’re not going to find our God killer here. She looked around her for Hawk and Buchan.

Buchan wandered through a crowd of averted faces, feeling not unlike the ghost at the feast. Word of his arrival had circulated quickly through the gathering. Backs turned at his approach, and murmurs rose and fell as he passed. The Quality, young or old, liked to think of itself as being above petty moralities and restrictions, but when you got right down to it, their affairs and debaucheries still followed very strict guidelines. For all the freedom that wealth and position brings, there remained things that were simply not done. And when it came to matters of Family and inheritance, the Quality were very conservative. Wives and children were important; they continued and preserved the precious bloodlines, without which there would be no hundred Families, no Quality. So for an only son, the last of his line, to turn his back on marriage and make regular visits to the Sisters of Joy was simply unacceptable.

There was a stir in the crowd to his left, and Buchan looked round in mild surprise to find someone approaching him. His first thought was that he was about to be asked to leave, but as the crowd fell away he saw that it was the party’s host, Lord Louis Hightower. Buchan winced mentally though his face remained impassive.

The Lord Hightower was of average height and stockily built, much like his late father. As a second son, he had been spending a quiet and not unsuccessful life in the army when his father and mother died in the same night, victims of a werewolf’s curse. His elder brother had been murdered some months previously. So he resigned his commission and came home, and now he was the Lord Hightower, one of the leading lights in the Quality and chief organizer of the Hellfire Club. He and Buchan were the same age, and had been friends, once. Buchan waited for Hightower to come to him, and then bowed politely. He was ready for almost anything except the sad, exasperated sigh with which Hightower greeted him.

“It isn’t,” said Buchan. “But it may have a connection with a case I’m working on for the Squad. And what do you mean by calling it nonsense? I thought you were one of the people running the Club.”

Hightower shrugged. “It’s amusing. And interesting, sometimes. But I don’t get carried away with it, like some people I could mention. I might have known it would take something like this to bring you back here.” Hightower looked at him steadily. “It’s been a long time, Charles. Too long.”

“You have a position to maintain now,” said Buchan firmly. “You’re not just a second son any longer. You’re the Hightower, the head of the Family. You have responsibilities to them now, as well as yourself. And to whatever poor woman you eventually decide to marry. You shouldn’t even be talking to me, really.”

“As head of the Family, I do have some authority. People may mutter, but they won’t say anything. Not in public. It’s good to see you again, Charles. I saw your mother last week. She’s looking well. Are they still not talking to you?”

“They’ll destroy you, Charles. They destroy all their victims, in the end.” Hightower took in Buchan’s face, and raised a hand defensively. “All right, I know. You don’t want to talk about it. And I can’t ask you about the case you’re working on, because you never talk about that, either. Is there anything you do feel free to discuss?”

“Yes, it was. The funny thing is, I’d been expecting my father’s death for some time. He’d been looking old and tired ever since Paul was murdered. You never knew my brother, did you? He was a good sort, and always too brave for his own good. Father thought the world of him. He took Paul’s death hard.

“He hated being retired, too. Didn’t know what to do with himself after he left the army. Dabbled in politics for a while, but ... I was out of town when he and mother died, on manoeuvres. I miss them, you know. Every day there’s something that makes me think I’d better ask Dad about that, or I wonder what Mother would say... and then I remember, and the day seems a little colder. I miss them, Charles. I really miss them.”

“You ought to get married,” said Buchan firmly. “It’s not sensible, you and the servants rattling around in this huge old place by yourself. Get yourself a wife and fill the place with children. Do you a world of good.”

Hightower laughed. “Just like the rest of my Family. Can’t wait to see me safely married and settled down. I always said I’d only marry for love, Charles; never just for duty. You can understand that, can’t you?”

They stood together a moment, wanting to say more, but not sure how. They’d pretty much exhausted the few things they still had in common, and what remained of their lives now was separated by a gulf neither of them could cross.

“I don’t see how,” said Hightower. “It’s all a lark, nothing more. Just another excuse for a party. The rituals are fun, but no one seriously expects anything to come of them. Well, most of us don’t, anyway. There are always a few idiots. But most of the Club are only here to annoy their Families. A sign of rebellion, without having to risk anything that matters.”

The Dark Man stood in the doorway. Blood splashed his shapeless furs and dripped thickly from both ends of the long wooden staff in his hands. He was grinning broadly, and his eyes were fixed and wild. He looked slowly round the crowded ballroom, and the Quality fell back before his unwavering gaze. Death and violence hung around him like a shroud. In the silence that greeted his arrival they could hear voices moaning and crying out in pain from the corridor outside. Hawk and Fisher pushed their way through the crowd toward him, blades at the ready.

A man-at-arms appeared behind the Dark Man. Bruised and bleeding heavily, he nevertheless flung himself at the Dark Man and tried to get a choke hold on him. They staggered back and forth for a moment, and then the Dark Man twisted suddenly and threw the man-at-arms over his shoulder. He hit the floor hard and lay still, groaning quietly. The Dark Man raised his staff and brought it sweeping down with vicious force, striking his victim again and again and again. Blood flew and bones shattered. The limp body jumped and jerked under the rain of blows, even after the man was clearly dead.

There were stifled screams and moans of horror from the Quality, and a few of the braver men moved forward. Hawk yelled for them to stay back. The Dark Man slowly raised his head and grinned at those advancing on him. There was blood on his face, none of it his. The handful of men slowed to a halt and looked at each other uncertainly.

The Quality moved quickly to get out of the Guards’ way. The Dark Man grinned bloodily and threw himself at those still between him and his intended victims. He struck out furiously with his staff, not caring who he hit, and men and women alike fell to the polished floor with broken heads and stove-in ribs. The Quality began screaming again, and fought each other in their panic to get out of the Dark Man’s way as he headed toward Hawk and Fisher. A handful of men threw themselves at the killer, but he shrugged them off easily, not even feeling their fists. One of them grabbed at the Dark Man’s leg from the floor. Without looking down, the Dark Man kicked the man free, and then stamped viciously on his chest. The man lay still, and the Dark Man moved on. The rest of the Quality hung back. It would have been different if they’d had weapons, but wearing weapons in a friend’s house wasn’t done. So they’d all left their swords at the door.

And then finally Hawk and Fisher reached the Dark Man, and his grin widened. He threw himself forward, swinging his staff in a powerful horizontal arc. Fisher ducked under it and ran the Dark Man through, her sword blade grating between his ribs. His grin never wavered, and he struck at her arm with his staff. Fisher’s hand went numb and she had to jump back, leaving her sword wedged in the Dark Man’s ribs. Blood ran thickly down his sides, but he took no notice of it, his eyes following Fisher as she backed away.

Hawk stepped in and swung his axe from the killer’s blind side. The Dark Man spun round at the last moment and parried the blow with his staff. The impact almost wrenched the axe from Hawk’s hand. The two men circled each other warily, searching for an opening. Hawk felt a sudden chill rush through him, as he realised the Dark Man was a better fighter now than he had been the first few times they’d met. It was as though he was learning with each new fight, each new death ... as though each new Dark Man was the same man....

He misjudged a blow with his axe, and the end of the staff clipped him just above the ear in passing. The world rocked around him for an instant, and the Dark Man pressed forward. Hawk backed away quickly, holding onto his axe more by instinct than anything else. The Dark Man swung his staff, and Hawk ducked at the last moment. He stumbled, off balance, and looked up just in time to see the staff coming round on the backswing for a blow that would crack his skull like an eggshell. There wasn’t even time to close his eye.

And then Fisher darted in from behind, and cut at both the Dark Man’s legs with her knife, hamstringing him. He fell forward onto his hands and knees as his legs gave out, the muscles half severed. He didn’t make a sound, even when Fisher took hold of her sword and jerked it out of his ribs. Instead, he slowly got his feet under him, one at a time, and stood up, still clinging to his staff. Fisher backed away. Hawk gaped at him blankly. It just wasn’t possible with wounds like that ... the leg muscles had to be tearing themselves apart. The pain must, be hideous....

The Dark Man moved toward Fisher, one step at a time. Blood coursed down his legs. He was still grinning. Hawk looked about for inspiration. His gaze fell upon a heavy rope tied to a wall bracket. He followed the rope upward, and realised it was supporting one of the huge chandeliers. It took him only a moment to see that the Dark Man was standing almost directly underneath the chandelier. Just a few more steps ...

Fisher shot him a quick glance and then took up a defensive stance where she was, favouring her bruised arm as best she could. There had better be a bloody good reason for this, Hawk, because I don’t think I can stop him on my own. He’s not human.

The Dark Man shuffled slowly forward, leaving a trail of blood behind him. The Quality were hushed and silent, watching with widened eyes. It was one thing to join the Hellfire Club for a few easy thrills, but quite another to come face to face with blood and death and suffering at such close quarters. The Dark Man shuffled forward, his grin widening. Fisher braced herself, and Hawk cut the rope with his axe.

The Dark Man just had time to see a shadow gathering around him and look up, and then half a ton of polished brass and cut glass hammered him to the floor. The sound of the crash echoed on and on. He lay still, and for a long moment no one said anything. And then the Dark Man slowly got his hands underneath him and tried to lever himself up. The chandelier lifted an inch or two, and then settled itself more firmly. Blood burst from the Dark Man’s mouth, and he fell forward and lay still again. Hawk stepped in, raised his axe, and struck down with all his strength. There were a few shocked cries from the Quality as blood spurted and the Dark Man’s head rolled free, but Hawk paid them no heed. He wasn’t taking any chances.

Hawk nodded, and let Buchan lead him and Fisher out of the ballroom. Behind them, the Quality had closed in around the Dark Man’s body and were kicking it viciously. Hawk looked back once, and then looked away. Buchan smiled grimly.