LATER THAT NIGHT, ADAM HAILED A cab. But no matter how expensive the cab a man hailed, once he arrived at the West End, he would eventually have to endure the foot traffic of the bustling streets. Tonight added more visitors than usual to the thick crowds of Leicester Square: Vesta Tilley was debuting a new show.
It was obvious to Adam as he squeezed his way through the street hordes that this new set from the famous cross-dressing impersonator was highly anticipated by her fans—a delight to the working classes, no doubt, and though most of the middle and upper classes wouldn’t dare be seen braving the chaos of a musical hall, he spotted a few among the already drunk men primed for a night of entertainment. Certainly a few gentlemen in fashionable high-buttoned frock coats wouldn’t seem so out of place in a crowd of giggling women, rowdy sailors, and pickpockets stealing food from windows in the darkening evening—even if two of those men were members of Parliament.
Gladstone lowered his top hat. “On the eve of the vote, no less,” he mumbled. “I don’t know how I let you convince me to leave Downing Street.”
“Oh, come now, William, you can’t stay shut up in Number Ten forever. Might I remind you that you were the one who agreed to go with the boy?” John Poyntz Spencer clapped the prime minister’s bad back a little too hard. A cough escaped Gladstone’s lips as he buckled forward.
Yes, the old man had agreed. Being a Temple came with a number of useful connections that Adam had no qualms about manipulating. “It’s not so bad, is it—seeing a show with the masses every once and again?”
“The very same masses who have followed you for years,” Adam reminded him. Indeed, a portrait of Gladstone adorned the walls of many a working-class home in London.
John Spencer, the fifth Earl Spencer, was twenty-six years the prime minister’s junior, but not a young man by any means. His great brown beard covered his chest like a rug, but what mattered more was his tongue: as sharp as the tips of his drooping mustache. Some of the prime minister’s own party had had to be persuaded by more… creative means. Finding weak points and exploiting them was not so difficult for Adam. Affairs here, embezzlements there. Being a member of the Enlightenment Committee gave one ways to find information on politicians, which could be used to control and ruin them when the occasion called for it. Earl Spencer was one of the few refreshing Liberals who had quickly fallen in line with the changing public sentiment surrounding the war. As one of the prime minister’s closest friends and allies, he was crucial for pushing the old curmudgeon.
“War. War?” Gladstone shook his head. “My government’s already in a weaker position than it once was. Things haven’t been right since Major-General Gordon left for Khartoum.”
Adam nodded, because he had to make a show of commiserating. “Ah, yes. The situation in Northeast Africa has been shaky as of late, hasn’t it? The Mahdists beating back the Egyptians. Major-General Gordon vowing to evacuate the Crown’s troops. It was the talk of the country—why, before the Berlin Conference, that is.”
“Gordon, that bloody stubborn foozler. He’s fast becoming a celebrity for playing ‘hero’ in Sudan.” Earl Spencer rubbed the thin sheet of hair covering his balding head. “You’re generally liked, Gladstone, yes. But the people haven’t forgotten that you abandoned the man in that godforsaken hellhole.”
Earl Spencer would have continued, except he’d bumped into a pedestrian—or rather, the pedestrian had bumped into him deliberately. A pale, willowy young woman in a filthy blue dress stopped and apologized, her back so hunched over, they could barely see her face from behind the straight-cut bangs of her short black hair. In her arms, she held a bundle of dirty white towels. The quivering thing inside must have been a baby.
Surely that was what the earl and the prime minister would assume.
“I’m sorry, my lords,” she apologized again in a rough voice—too rough. She must have been practicing. Good girl.
Gladstone eyed her hungrily for just a moment before he realized he was among fellow gentlemen. Straightening his shoulders, he let out a cough. For all this boasting of ethics, he could never quite control himself when it came to lowborn but pretty girls out in the evening.
But this one you won’t be so interested in for much longer. Adam covered his lips with a white-gloved hand.
When the girl looked up, she caught and held Adam’s blue eyes for only a moment before lurching off again. With a wicked grin, Adam straightened his coat and continued.
“Come now, Earl Spencer, the prime minister has sent troops.” Adam noted the too-rough click of Gladstone’s cane against the cobblestones. “The Egyptian garrison and the civilians should be able to hold on with what little food they’re salvaging among themselves.” Out of the corner of his eyes, Adam watched Gladstone lower his head ever so slightly.
“But was it too late?” continued Earl Spencer. “The troops haven’t even arrived yet. My lord, I won’t coddle you with sweet words. The hard truth is that public sentiment can change with frustrating speed. Even the Queen was on Gordon’s side. We can’t make the same mistake in this case, not when Europe stands on the brink of war. Military intervention is needed.”
“Military intervention is costly—in lives and money.” Gladstone couldn’t hide his age—not with his conservative words and not with his physical features. His white hair peeked out from the back of his top hat. He frowned with the thin lips of a disapproving old man, the lines creasing his face in deep folds. His little sunken eyes narrowed. “Your father and grandfather were the adventurers, dear Adam. And though they were good friends, close friends indeed, I share little of their zeal for such things.”
“A war isn’t an adventure,” Adam corrected him as he stared up at the teetering tenement buildings bordering the square—and then at the Alhambra Theatre, an intimidating building with twin spiraling white towers, a splendid dome, and fenestration in the style of the Spanish Renaissance. “It’s an investment. One that can help distract from your scandal in Africa—and certain scandals at home.”
When Gladstone crinkled his long, pointed nose, Adam knew he was thinking of the problem that people in London had increasingly begun whispering about. The supernatural. Those accidents of nature, touched by Satan. Rumors and eyewitness accounts were spreading—of giant nutcrackers fighting in the street, and men disappearing and reappearing into thin air, or else transforming into all manner of beast.
And then there was the Basement: the Crown’s dungeon beneath the Crystal Palace, where all manner of experimentation had been conducted against those given powers as a result of the South Kensington fair explosion ten years ago. A place of misery and sickness that had ended in blood, death, and rebellion.
The place was empty now, cleared of the corpses the prisoners had made as they fled the facility. Unfortunately, the Basement escapees had not been entirely subtle as they’d ripped through England, causing situations one could only explain by blaming a lower power. Gladstone, as a top official in the know, had far too much on his hands.
“Yes.” He lowered his voice. “I had hoped the situation at home would have been… contained by now. But starting a war would throw this country into greater turmoil.”
“Or would it galvanize them?” Adam said. “Give them a normal conflict to concentrate on—one of mere flesh and blood that they can understand. You’re still wondering yourself. That’s why I asked you to come out with me, and that’s why you agreed to come.”
“I agreed to come as a favor to your late father, who once convinced me that you would one day make a particularly loyal member of my party.”
Adam’s shoulders rose quickly. He gritted his teeth. His father had always wanted him to go into politics. It was a strong front for what had been planned to be his real work, in continuing his family’s legacy as members of the Enlightenment Committee. Power and prestige. That was what mattered to his father—much more than the adventure. The excitement of getting more of what others didn’t have.
Taking a deep breath, he slapped on his mask and grinned amicably nonetheless. “Prime Minister, I brought you here so that you would relax. But I also wanted you to be among the people. I want you to see this new show. See the support that the British people have for the war effort.”
A noncommittal grunt was all Adam received in response, but even that was according to his plan. Here at the Alhambra, Gladstone would see a show he wouldn’t soon forget.
Once they had entered the theater, the three gentlemen sat in a private box on the upper left of the auditorium’s third circular floor. It was a grand theater indeed, opulent with a heavy velvet curtain separating the stage from the orchestra pit, but the intricate design of the maple floor and the ridge of their box couldn’t compete with the musk of cigarette smoke and body odor, or with the bawdy laughter of the raffish crowd that packed the rows of scarlet floor seats.
Gladstone let out a frustrated sigh, wiping down his coat as if the stench of immorality was clinging to him. Indeed, the theater was an odd mixture of the grandiose and the slovenly. Music halls were never quite considered appropriate for respectable men and women and their families; Adam had very rarely seen so many young men scandalously associating with unaccompanied women, except in taverns on the East End. But this was where the people were.
Rowdy cheers filled the hall when the curtain parted and Vesta Tilley took the stage. Cheers were followed by gasps. The woman was one of the most famous entertainers in Britain. She’d made her bread impersonating men ever since she’d been a child. But how could the crowd not gape, seeing the tiny woman looking dapper in a brown, tightly buttoned British military uniform and trousers?
“Oh, is she supposed to be one of our soldiers?” Earl Spencer’s laughter was deep and rolling as he slapped Adam on his left shoulder.
To Adam’s right, Gladstone reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a gold-rimmed quizzing glass, and placed it up to his eye so he could see better.
With light steps, Tilley began dancing and singing to the jaunty tune of brass instruments.
“Here I am, here I am,
Patted and petted as though I were
A real live lord,
Better than the convalescent ward.
What a treat, lots to eat.
Who was it said we were short of meat?
I feel a bit queer,
But there’s nothing to fear
With the Liberals here.
I might as well stay in bed.
‘The war is too frightening,’ the prime minister said.”
And when a “frightened” Tilley knocked her knees together, the crowd burst out laughing. The three gentlemen exchanged glances as Gladstone sat up, his back pin straight.
“No complaints, no complaints.
The Liberals are satisfied, no complaints.
You could ask my French chums,
And if they were alive,
You’d hear them all say, ‘Thumbs!’
But I left them to die on the front,
And bought some chocolates. Oh, I say!
Such lovely chocs!
The boys and I, we guzzle those sweets till our faces turn white,
While the continental boys fight,
While their wives cry all night,
Because ‘the war is too frightening,’ the prime minister said.”
“What in the blazes is this?” Gladstone shouted, glaring at Adam and Earl Spencer, his cheeks bright red. “Is this a joke?”
He looked down at the jeering crowd and pressed his lips shut, just as an oafish-looking caricature of Gladstone himself stumbled onto the stage with a bottle of whiskey in one hand, swinging his cane in the other.
“Gordon cried. ‘Help me,’ he said.
Well, I’d rather they lifted me in my little bed,
To hell with England; let the countries go on ahead,
I’d rather a saucy little nursie
Tuck me in and call me Percy….”
As Tilley’s British soldier and “Gladstone” clasped hands and began fighting over the bottle of whiskey, Gladstone shook with anger. And of course he did. What self-respecting man of status would enjoy seeing himself lampooned in front of his constituents? The stage hadn’t taken so long to prepare, but Adam had paid extra to make sure the material would be particularly degrading. He did quite have a flair for the dramatic.
Tilley stopped and glanced up at their box. For Earl Spencer and Gladstone, they would likely think it was their imagination, an accident, or a bit of coincidence. But there was no such thing for Adam. Resisting the temptation to give her a little wink, Adam lifted his head and she continued.
“This is ridiculous,” Gladstone said, finally shooting to his feet.
“This is reality.” Adam shook his head sadly. “Look at the crowd. My God, man. This is what they truly think of you. It’s in the papers. Right here in the theater.”
Gladstone’s hands trembled atop his cane. He sneered at Adam as if he wanted to accuse him of something but didn’t know how to make it sound sane. Finally he pried open his liver-spotted lips. “You brought me here because you knew about this show. You wanted to see me humiliated.”
“He wants you to see reason.” Earl Spencer stood and grabbed his friend’s arm. “You can’t hide in your home, afraid to hear what the people are saying about you. Don’t gamble away the goodwill you have left. Don’t give the Tories any more ammunition against you.”
“While the continental boys fight,
While their wives cry all night—”
“Enough!” With an angry wave of his hand, Gladstone turned and began to leave the box.
It was because they’d spent so much time bickering, perhaps, that they didn’t notice a young woman rush onto the stage and collapse next to Tilley. The crowd’s jeers and laughter had already turned into gasps and confused chatter.
Gladstone stopped when the black-haired woman screamed bloody murder.
The music died. Earl Spencer raised a monocle to his face and squinted as he peered through it. “What?” He leaned in. “Why, that’s—”
“The woman from earlier.” Adam stood against the ledge and stared over the box. “The one you bumped into.”
Still dirty from head to toe. Still in her filthy blue dress, and with the stained white towels covering what looked like her little bundle of joy.
“Gladstone! Gladstone,” she cried like a ghoul in the night. “My husband is dead because of you! Oh, the horrors of the siege! The plight of Khartoum! How many of them have been slaughtered because of the prime minister’s inaction?”
The child was crying too, but only because the boy genius Henry Whittle, grandson of London’s premier toymaker, had programmed it to. As it turned out Mary, his maid, was a delightful little actress. Not as good as the flamboyant Lucille, but the shape-shifter had her own mission to complete for Adam. They’d each had their marching orders—Adam had given it to them personally while he caged them inside a decrepit shack in Devil’s Acre by Westminster. A dirtied face, a black wig, and a toy babe were more than enough of a disguise for the Whittles’ mousy little servant girl. Mary White, Lucille Bouffant, and Henry Whittle—with Cortez dead, his old tournament team was now under Adam’s employ.
Vesta gritted her teeth, maddened. Adam hadn’t told her about this part of the plan, because while money could pay for certain things—like a brand-new show tearing the prime minister to shreds—it couldn’t soften the ego of an interrupted entertainer.
But this part was crucial.
“You! Prime Minister Gladstone!” And Mary pointed at their box. The crowd gaped, shocked at the three gentlemen—two of them members of Parliament—standing around in the gallery like lost children. “Prime Minister Gladstone! Oh, Prime Minister! Why did you abandon my husband in Sudan? Why are you abandoning us again?”
“Wh-what?” Gladstone rubbed his sunken eyes in disbelief. “What are you—?”
“You abandoned our men. The Egyptians. The civilians. My husband. Now you’ll abandon Europe? England? Your people?” The “baby’s” cries pierced through her own sobbing shrieks. “For shame!”
Even if Gladstone had answered, Adam wouldn’t have been able to hear it among the jeers. It was when people began throwing things that Earl Spencer grabbed Gladstone’s arm.
“We need to go. Now,” the earl hissed, dodging a mud-covered shoe.
“I’ve… I’ve never in my l-life…” the old man stuttered as if he were half-traumatized.
Good. The vote should go smoothly tomorrow.
A flair for the dramatic indeed. Adam tried not to pat himself on the back. He looked back at Mary, who continued to weep on the floor before letting herself be dragged behind the curtain by stagehands.
“Come quickly.” Adam had just grabbed Gladstone and begun to help him hobble out of the box—
When the crowd’s jeers turned to shrieks of agony.
Dropping Gladstone’s arm, Adam whipped around. Tilley and her performers were running for their lives. The musicians were not so lucky.
One moment they were there. The next, the orchestra pit was filled with lonely instruments in piles of ashes.
Men and women of the crowd were scrambling on top of one another to escape, pulling on one another’s vests, bowler hats flying.
So did heads, when bodies began to disintegrate.
“Wh-what is this?” What little lingering flush in Gladstone’s face disappeared in an instant. “What’s happening?”
“We’re under attack!” Earl Spencer cried, gripping his head with both hands, his eyes bulging. “We’re under attack!”
“We’re under attack…,” Adam whispered. Unlike the other two men, he slowly moved closer to the wooden railing separating their box from the mayhem below. People were disappearing. No, they were being turned to dust. Burned from the inside out.
He recognized this method of murder.
“Iris?” A sudden flower of hope blossomed inside of him, and his heart beat against his rib cage. It couldn’t be. But who else could end lives with such grace? With not a single drop of blood? He peered through the auditorium, which was growing increasingly dark due to the ashes rising into the air. But he couldn’t see her. He couldn’t see his Iris.
Iris. The goddess of death sent to earth to judge humanity guilty and lay waste to civilizations. Adam’s goddess of justice. Hiva.
Sparking the fire that lit the matches of war at the Berlin Conference. Pushing England and its colonies to join the bloody fray. It had all been to draw her out—to convince her of mankind’s true nature. To drive her to bring this corrupt and worthless civilization to an end.
Had he finally succeeded?
“Iris!” he cried, leaning over the ledge, gritting his teeth in anger as Earl Spencer tried to tug him away. “Iris?”
“What are you doing, boy? We need to get out of here!”
Just when Adam shrugged him off, he caught a glimpse of someone standing behind a gap in the stage curtains. He held his breath as beautiful scenarios of reunion and reconciliation captured him, freezing him to the spot.
Then his shoulders dropped. He slowly narrowed his eyes, peering through the thick fog of ashes. It couldn’t be. The boy’s curly brown hair fluttered out of sight just as Earl Spencer succeeded in dragging him away. Of course he did—Adam hadn’t the strength to deny him.
The boy’s face was a scourge. But it was unmistakable.
“Maximo…?”
Maximo Morales. That couldn’t be. That duplicitous guttersnipe was dead. He had fallen with Club Uriel the day the building had burned down and most of the club’s members had been torn to shreds. Adam hadn’t seen or heard of him since. But his brown face and stubby nose were unmistakable. Adam would remember the face of the young man he’d once blackmailed into his service. The difference was that back then, during the Tournament of Freaks that had pitted London’s secret monsters against one another in battle, Maximo had always hidden his self-hatred and shame behind that ridiculous lopsided smile of his.
But this time, his mouth had been agape and his brown eyes wide in horror before he disappeared behind the smoke and curtains.
A torrent of questions colonized Adam’s thoughts as Earl Spencer pulled him down the stairs and out into the streets. Adam’s brilliant mind could usually handle many questions at once. But there was only one he desperately wanted an answer to. The one that had been haunting his dreams for months.
Where are you, Iris?