That a portal to the underworld existed beneath Manhattan’s most notorious prison made a strange kind of sense, Harry reflected as the carriage raced east on Fulton Street.
She’d read enough local history to know that the Collect Pond had been a focal point of human misery for quite some time. One of the first gallows in New York was erected on an island there by the British before the war for independence. As the city grew, it became a convenient receptacle for waste from factories and tanneries. When the pond (not surprisingly) turned into a breeding ground for disease, it was filled in and transformed into the worst slum in America: The Five Points.
Now she understood why the tenement buildings leaned so drunkenly against each other as they sank into the muddy, uneven streets. Apparently, the underground spring that fed the Collect Pond continued to flow. And something else had emerged there. Something even worse than the cesspool that lay above.
At Broadway, the carriage turned north and passed City Hall Park, where Harry and John had stumbled over the entrance to Brady’s lair in the Beach Transit Tunnel. In fact, most of the key locations of the Hyde case were within walking distance of each other—and of the Tombs prison.
Though full dark had fallen on the city, the unseasonably warm weather was only intensifying. It rained like a monsoon now, utterly cockeyed for the end of December. Water rushed and ran, dripped and drummed. The sewers overflowed, turning the streets into a dirty brown morass. By the time they arrived at the Tombs, water lapped at the bottom steps of the entrance. Connor let them out, then moved the horses down to the corner to wait.
The massive front doors were locked tight and repeated pounding failed to rouse any guards. In fact, there was no one in sight at all, though lights burned in the upper windows of the fortress-like structure.
Alec closed his eyes and pressed a palm against the door. A look of concentration sharpened his features. Heavy tumblers spun. He dropped his arm and pushed. The door silently swung open.
John gave a low whistle. “That’s a neat trick. Another of your special talents, Mr. Lawrence?”
Alec smiled briefly and went inside. A deep, quiet chill greeted them beyond the threshold. The usual rustles and mutters of more than fifty women were completely absent.
“Where are all the guards?” Harry wondered aloud.
“And where are the inmates?” John added.
Alec and Vivienne exchanged a quick glance.
“We’d better find Sister Emily,” Harry said. “She’s the matron in charge of the women’s prison. The offices are on the Centre Street side.”
“It may be too late for that,” Vivienne said. “Where’s Mary’s cell?”
Harry pointed to the left. “That way. The other side is Bummer’s Hall, where they put the vagrants and drunks.”
They started down the long corridor leading to the Leonard Street wing of the Tombs. Water condensed on the stone walls and coursed down like blood from an open wound. The prison had been bad enough during the day, Harry thought, with the smell of unwashed bodies and sounds of soft weeping. But this perfect silence was much worse.
They’d just reached the end of the first tier when Sister Emily strode around the corner. She gave a short gasp of surprise when she saw them, one hand flying to her mouth.
“Miss Pell! However did you get in here?” She glared at Vivienne and Alec. “And who are these people?”
“Lady Vivienne Cumberland and Mr. Alec Lawrence,” Harry said, ignoring the first question. “Mr. Lawrence is with Scotland Yard.”
“Scotland Yard?” The matron blinked in confusion.
“We need to know if anyone’s come to visit Mary Elizabeth Wickes today,” Alec said in the calm but forceful tone he’d heard D.I. Blackwood use on reluctant witnesses. “Someone claiming to be a relative? A grandmother, perhaps?”
“No, and I wouldn’t let her in if she had,” Sister Emily said briskly. “Visiting hours are long past. I can’t imagine who’d be out on a night like this anyway.” She squinted at them with suspicion. “The water’s been rising steadily for the last several hours. All the women have been moved up to the boys’ reformatory on the second tier.” She sighed. “All except Mary. She hissed and spat like a wildcat when anyone tried to get near. I suppose I shouldn’t care, she’ll be dead in six days anyhow and no one will mourn her passing. But I thought I’d check on the girl. Most likely I’ll have to send some guards from the men’s wing to move her by force.”
“Is she still in her cell?” Harry asked.
“She’s in there all right. Won’t budge.” Matron shook her head. “You’ll have to go now. Come back tomorrow during visiting hours if you must speak to her.”
“That won’t do,” Alec said. “I’ll give you $500 right now for five minutes with your prisoner.”
He removed a roll of bills from his coat pocket and held it out. Harry wondered if Orpha had given him the cash for precisely this eventuality.
The matron’s mouth dropped open. When she realized she was gaping, she shut it with a click. It was an exorbitant sum, possibly more than she earned in a year. Still, she hesitated. The woman has a decent heart, Harry thought.
“Why would you offer me such?” she demanded. “What do you want with Mary? I’m not defending her crimes, but she was convicted by a jury and the State of New York will carry out the sentence those men handed down. If it’s vigilante justice you’re after, I can’t oblige.”
“We’ve no desire to do Mary any harm,” Vivienne assured her. “Only to ask her a few questions. You can stay outside the cell if you like.”
The matron considered this, her eyes fixed on the money. She licked her lips. “All right. Are the lot of you going?”
“No.” Vivienne cut a look at Harry and John. “Those two will wait in your office.”
Harry bit her tongue. She didn’t like being relegated to the sidelines, but she’d made a promise and Lady Vivienne obviously wasn’t a woman to cross.
“We’d best be about it then,” the matron said, tucking the cash into her dress. “Water’s rising.”
Harry and John took seats on the hard wooden chairs before Sister Emily’s desk and settled in to wait. The room was tiny, with a battered wardrobe occupying the rest of the space. A plain wooden crucifix on the wall completed the décor.
“Do you think it’s a coincidence the weather seems to have gone insane?” she asked.
“I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences.”
“Generally speaking, I don’t.”
“And now?”
She shifted in the chair. “I can feel it, John. Something’s wrong and this place is at the heart of it.”
He studied her. “You’ve changed. I can’t imagine you saying that a week ago.”
“What do you mean?”
“Listening to your gut.”
Harry smiled. “Myrtle despises hunches, intuition—whatever you want to call it. If it can’t be observed, it’s irrelevant.”
“And yet she accepts the existence of ghouls.”
“Yes. She said one of them almost ate Queen Victoria.”
“You’re not serious.”
“It’s a new world, John—to us, at least. I wonder what Myrtle would think of Mr. Lawrence. All this talk of talismans and special abilities. What they really mean is magic.” She sighed. “I’m certain you had a cracked skull, John. I heard it when Araminta bashed you on the head.”
He rubbed a spot above his ear. Blood still stained his collar, though thankfully Sister Emily hadn’t noticed in the dim light of the corridor.
“I just remember the look on her face, Harry. Like she was squashing an insect.”
“The point is you might never have woken up. Mr. Lawrence did something. I’ve no idea how. But did you notice that he and Lady Cumberland wear matching gold bracelets?”
“No. Your eyes were always sharper.”
“I don’t think she can work magic. Only him. She’s deferred to Mr. Lawrence on that score every time. But there’s a connection between them that runs deeper than the S.P.R.”
“Another gut feeling?” John smiled. “No, I get that impression too. You can see it in the way they look at each other. I’m just glad they’re here. They know what they’re about.”
“I wonder what’s happening in Mary’s cell.” Harry shivered in the damp. “Do you think we ought to—”
“My God, this prison is leaky as a sieve,” John exclaimed. “Do you hear that dripping? It’s driving me half-mad.”
Harry cocked her head. “Faintly.”
John paced to the wardrobe and pressed his ear against the wood. He tried the knob but it was locked.
“John.” Harry pointed to the bottom right corner of the wardrobe. A red stain oozed from under the door.
John swore and kicked it hard. Once…twice. On the third try, the door popped open. Harry screamed as the body of the old woman tumbled out. She landed on her back, eyes staring glassily at the ceiling. Though her sagging skin had already turned grey, John pressed a finger against her neck. He waited a moment, then shook his head.
“Superficial bullet wound on the arm,” he said, quickly examining the body. “You did graze her, Harry. But cause of death is a stab wound to the back. A long, tapered wound, just like Julius Sabelline.”
“So she did come to the Tombs and someone murdered her,” Harry said in puzzlement. “But why?”
“Perhaps because the daemon didn’t want that body anymore,” John replied slowly. “It shed her like a snake sheds its skin.”
Harry’s eyes widened. “And moved on—”
“To Sister Emily.”
They stared at each other.
“Ah, Christ,” John said.
Vivienne followed the matron down the long, empty corridor. Alec limped at her side, the familiar sound of his cane clacking on the stone. The gate had to be here somewhere. Even if it was still warded, it would be visible. She knew what to look for. And yet the signs weren’t there.
“Is there a lower level to the prison?” she asked Sister Emily, who strode purposefully ahead, her black skirts swishing against the slick floor.
“Oh no, the water table is much too high. It was built on top of marshland, you know. They drained it to lay the foundation, but the damp tends to seep back in, especially in weather like this. The city’s forever sending in masons and carpenters to shore it up.” She glanced at them over her shoulder. “The prison itself sits on a platform of hemlock logs. It’s been sinking into the muck since a few months after they built it, which was nigh on fifty years ago.”
Vivienne nodded, only half listening. She would have guessed the gate lay somewhere beneath their feet. Mary would know exactly where it was. But if she didn’t….
“What if we’re wrong?” she whispered to Alec. “What if this daemon is on the other side of the city, in some other location, opening the gate right now?”
“We’re not wrong.” His eyes glowed green like a cat’s in the semi-darkness. “Can’t you feel it? Power is gathering in this place.”
Vivienne couldn’t sense such things the way Alec did, but if he said they were in the vicinity of a Greater Gate, she believed him. And she could feel the temperature dropping as they made their way deeper into the prison. At first, it was perceptible only as a growing chill in her bones. But then Vivienne realized she could see her breath, pluming like white fog. And the gas jets illuminated not condensation on the stone walls, but a thin veneer of ice.
“Here we are.” Sister Emily stopped before a cell door. “Ask your questions quickly.” She shivered and rubbed her arms. “It’s colder’n the bottom of the sea down here and I have a nice cup of hot onion soup waiting for me upstairs.”
She unlocked the cell and opened the door. Alec and Vivienne stood still, startled into silence by what they saw inside.
Glacial blue ice coated every surface. It stabbed down from the ceiling in sharp fangs and formed thick ridges along the walls that gleamed like glass. Vivienne let out a foggy breath and half-expected the moisture to tinkle into ice shards on the ground. The corridor was cold, but the air in the cell had to be thirty degrees colder.
Mary sat on a cot, knees drawn up to her chest. The sheet and blanket lay in a tangle beneath her, drooping down over the sides of the rusty frame. She wore only a thin nightgown. Her hair had come unpinned and hung across her face in a stringy, ice-coated curtain. She seemed oblivious to their presence.
“You see?” Sister Emily said, a hint of exasperation in her voice. “I told you she was having one of her spells. I doubt you’ll get much from her that makes any sense.” She squinted into the cell. “Goodness, it’s like the frozen wastes of the far north in there. We’ll have to move her upstairs straight away once you’re done.”
Vivienne took a step inside, watching Mary the way one might a viper drowsing on a flat rock.
“Let me speak to her first,” she told Alec quietly, one hand slipping into the fold of her dress where she kept a six-inch iron blade. The memory of Dr. William Clarence luring the guard at Greymoor into his cell by pretending to be catatonic—or harmless, at least—was still fresh in Vivienne’s mind.
“The boy didn’t want to take his medicine,” Mary muttered in a rapid monotone, the words running together without pause. “Said it gave him hot needles in his bowels. How he cried. She had to hide it in the porridge. She promised him extra sugar and he finally ate it, the greedy thing.” She shook her head, dark hair whipping around her face in stiff pieces. “Puked it up, he did. She had to clean the bedclothes before the mother came back. Mary takes care of them, the dirty little angels. She holds them tight as they go.”
Vivienne swallowed her distaste for the creature on the cot. “Mary,” she said. “Look at me.”
“A miracle, it’s a God-blessed miracle, how Mary nurses them back to health.” Her voice took on an edge of childish glee. “How they adore her. She has all the power, doesn’t she? They’re too stupid to see the truth. Just like Mother.”
Vivienne could hear the subtle change in emphasis immediately. Not the mother, but Mother.
“Too stupid to see what Father does while she’s dreaming her laudanum dreams. Too weak to care. So Mary bakes them a nice apple cake. Such a good, thoughtful daughter.”
Dear God, Vivienne thought. “Where’s your master, Mary?”
The girl hugged her knees tighter, as if trying to fold in on herself. “When he came through, she smelled the blood of the gate. Sharp, like a woman’s womb.”
“Where is the gate?” Vivienne’s temper snapped. She leaned down and shook her. “Where?”
Mary’s hair flew out of her face. Vivienne recoiled at the hollow eyes that stared up like bruises. Blank and yet shiny with terror.
“The devil is real. The devil is real. The devil is—”
“This is getting us nowhere.” Alec laid a hand on Vivienne’s arm and drew her back. “We’ll have to search the prison top to bottom.”
“I hope we’re not too late. I think—”
Urgent shouts rang out in the corridor. Vivienne spun around just in time to register a blur aimed at her head. She ducked and it whistled past. Sister Emily bared her teeth in a savage grin. She slashed again and Vivienne felt a stinging pain across her forearm. Something jutted from the matron’s fist. It almost looked like it had grown horns….
The madu. Vivienne had one in her own collection. Metal-tipped blackbuck antlers designed for goring an opponent. Nasty, but no match for a skilled swordsman like Alec.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the New York agents splashing toward her down the corridor. Icy water surged around her shoes as the flood surpassed the top step of the entrance and poured into the prison. Vivienne could no longer deny the magic of the Dominion at work, pushing outward like a bubble of darkness. The gas jets flickered.
She whipped her knife out, the weight reassuring in her palm. Alec stepped smoothly between her and Sister Emily, who crouched against the opposite cell, wearing that fixed grin. Vivienne held his power tight through the bond. He couldn’t work the elements—it was too dangerous—but he would still have his strength and speed.
Vivienne almost smiled. The daemon was cornered now. It had been foolish to show itself. She didn’t know how Miss Pell and Mr. Weston had figured out it was hiding inside the matron, but she and Alec would banish it back to where it came from. When they fought together, it was like one mind in two bodies. Nothing from the shadowlands could stand before them.
Alec flicked the catch on his cane and bared his sword. Vivienne knew he meant to take its head, and she felt a moment’s pity for Sister Emily. When Vivienne was young, she’d faced similar creatures called wights. Once they entered a person, there was no saving them.
Alec tossed the cane-sheath aside. Then he spoke to the daemon in some old, musty dialect of Tuscany.
“I’ vegno per menarvi a l’altra riva ne le tenebre etterne, in caldo e ’n gelo.”
I come to carry you to the other shore.
Into the eternal darkness. Into fire and into ice.
Vivienne thought it might have been a line by Dante Alighieri. She didn’t read many books, but she’d always enjoyed The Divine Comedy.
The daemon’s lip curled. Its voice was the rasp of steel on leather.
“I’ve been waiting for you, daēva.”
Miss Pell and Mr. Weston had stopped a short way down the corridor. Vivienne flung out an arm to signal they shouldn’t come any closer. Before her eyes, the ice crept outward from Mary’s cell, coating the door and walls. She moved cautiously to the right, flanking the daemon so it couldn’t escape.
The next events happened both terribly fast and with the inertia of nightmare. Alec raised his sword, poised on the balls of his feet. Sister Emily feinted an attack, but he was ready, sweeping it in a lateral stroke that grazed her collarbone. Alec was bringing the sword back around when her left hand shot out and grabbed the blade, heedless of how it bit into the flesh of her palms. Then she threw herself on the sword, forcing her way toward the hilt. Too late, Vivienne had an inkling of what it intended.
“Drop your blade!” she screamed, rushing forward.
Alec tried, but he was pinned against the stone wall. The daemon grasped the sides of his head, thumbs pressed against his eyelids to hold them open. A foot of iron jutted from Sister Emily’s back, but still she wormed her way forward until they were close enough to kiss. Vivienne saw something flash between them, dark as midnight. It all took seconds. Alec’s eyes rolled back in his head, mouth falling open in a silent scream.
As Vivienne reached them, both Alec and Sister Emily collapsed to the ground.
“Dear God.” Miss Pell ran up. “Is he hurt?”
She moved to crouch down beside Alec but Vivienne grabbed her arm.
“Don’t touch him.” Her voice nearly broke.
They stood over Alec and Sister Emily, limbs twined together in a macabre embrace. Red water swirled around the two motionless figures. Sister Emily lay on her side, still impaled on Alec’s sword. The falcon hilt pressed against her black dress just above the navel. Alec’s face looked peaceful, as if he had simply fallen asleep, but Vivienne imagined she felt something. Clammy fingers brushing their bond.
She pointed to the sword and John Weston nodded gravely. She would try to pull it out. Her mind wanted to spin in circles. One thing at a time. Get his sword. Cut off that thing’s head. She would deal with the rest afterwards.
Vivienne knelt down, water soaking her skirts. Sister Emily still gripped the madu in one hand. If the New York agents hadn’t shouted a warning, it would be embedded in her throat.
Vivienne reached for the weapon, her mouth dry as dust. She pried Sister Emily’s fingers loose from the crossbar and tossed it away. The matron’s eyes were open and glassy, her pupils dilated so far the irises appeared black. The current tugged at her hair. Vivienne placed her right hand on the hilt of Alec’s sword. She began to slide it free. Blood flowed from the wound and Miss Pell made a muffled choking sound, one hand clamped over her mouth.
“Is it dead?” Mr. Weston whispered.
“No,” Vivienne replied. “We’d know. A lesser gate would open to claim it.”
Alec lay on his side, right arm pinned beneath the shoulder. His left hand was curled into a loose fist, the fingers perfectly still. Vivienne could feel his heart beating. He faced Sister Emily, their foreheads only inches apart. Vivienne slid the blade past his hip. It was halfway out now.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said to her fellow agents. “It’s too dangerous. I don’t know—”
She frowned as the sword caught on bone. Vivienne tugged harder.
Alec’s eyes flew open.
Before she could draw a breath, he sprang to his feet. His left leg buckled slightly, then jerked straight. Vivienne backed away, scanning his face for any sign. All the shared sensations she normally felt through the bond vanished.
“Go, my lovely,” he said.
For a moment, Vivienne thought he was talking to her. Then she realized the words had been directed over her shoulder.
Mary. She’d kept so quiet, they’d forgotten all about her.
Quick as a ferret, the girl darted through the open door of her cell. A pale hand delved into the neck of Sister Emily’s dress and fished out a gold object on a chain. Mary gave a hard yank and the chain snapped.
“She’s got the amulet!” Vivienne cried, unwilling to take her eyes from Alec for more than a second.
The New York agents dashed after Mary, faces grim. Vivienne expected the girl to make a run down the corridor, but she retreated back to her cot. Mary dragged it aside, revealing a wide crevice beneath that had been concealed by the nest of blankets. Water poured into the lightless crack. Mary dropped to hands and knees. A moment later she was gone.
John crossed the tiny cell in two strides. Without hesitation, he turned sideways and lowered himself into the hole.
“Mr. Weston!”
He looked back over his shoulder.
“Take this.”
Vivienne threw one of her iron blades down and kicked it across the floor. John’s hand shot out and grasped it by the hilt. He gave her a terse nod, then dropped into the crevice.
With a heartfelt curse, Miss Pell followed.