On a high iron walkway at the top of Battersea Power Station, Sergeant Charlie Wilson leaned over the rail and stared down into the exposed innards of the building. Disused for decades, the power station was a scarred husk. The roof had been ripped away and the floors knocked through, creating a vast enclosed space: the perfect arena, in fact, for a fight to the death.
The building was situated in the middle of a patch of scruffy wasteland, cordoned off from the public by a high security fence on the south side and the River Thames on the north. Behind Wilson, two railway tracks snaked round the side of the building before coming together at Grosvenor Bridge. He was facing east, high enough not only for a panoramic view of London but also for the biting wind to make the walkway an exposed, precarious place. At each corner of the power station, a giant chimney rose into the sky, its base encased in scaffolding.
Wilson had spent the days following his visit to Blackchapel frantically preparing for the Blood Succession. In a deserted warehouse in south London, he was introduced to a gang of Darksiders Holborn had sent over for support. In his brief career, the young sergeant had never seen such a bunch of criminal lowlifes: petty thieves and pickpockets; battle-scarred humans and grotesque creatures. Half of them were suffering from the after-effects of crossing, and were sprawled out on the warehouse floor, groaning and clutching at their stomachs. When they eventually picked themselves up, Wilson was charged with the unenviable task of introducing the gang to modern weapons, and for two consecutive nights the building had echoed with the sound of cackling laughter and wild gunfire. Watching the Darksiders pepper the walls with bullets, Wilson couldn’t help but wonder whether these were the sort of men a policeman should be training. As ever, Carmichael batted away his questions with enigmatic replies.
The hunchbacked detective had been busy, too – pulling strings to replace the round-the-clock security that protected the power station with some slightly more amenable guards. As Wilson and Carmichael had driven through the gates earlier that evening, two heavyset Darksiders had ushered them through, their porcine eyes scanning the road beyond for unwelcome guests. The two detectives had clambered up a ladder to their lofty position, the hunchback grunting with the effort. Flaming torches had been placed at intervals along the walls, draping the station in a ghostly illumination.
“Isn’t someone going to notice all this?” Wilson puffed.
“They can notice all they want,” the detective replied. “I’ve told the top brass that we’re conducting a training exercise here tonight. No one’s going to bother us.”
Now there came the clank of footsteps on the iron walkway, and Holborn strode purposefully towards them. Carmichael looked up and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. The Abettor nodded.
“It has been taken care of,” he said.
“A pity,” Carmichael mused. “I rather liked the Starling boy.”
“He brought it on himself. There was no alternative.”
Wilson frowned. The name Starling sounded familiar. “You’re not talking about the lad we interviewed for the Kensington robbery, are you? What’s he got to do with this?”
“Nothing. Now,” Holborn said pointedly.
“What do you mean? What did you do to him? You didn’t. . .?”
The Abettor said nothing, merely raised a white eyebrow.
Wilson grabbed Carmichael’s arm. “Listen, boss, I know that keeping Darkside a secret is important, but you can’t go around killing kids! That’s crazy!”
“Not now, Wilson!” Carmichael snapped. It was the first time Wilson had ever heard the hunchback raise his voice. He turned to Holborn. “My apologies, Abettor. Ignore him. Where is Lucien?”
“He is preparing in private. This night will take much out of him. Remember that he can only maintain the form of the Black Phoenix for so long.”
“That’s not going to be a problem,” Carmichael said. “This place is crawling with our men. If Lucien fails to take care of her as the Phoenix, we’ll be ready to step in. Marianne will get shot full of holes before she takes as much as a step towards him.”
“You might as well shoot her in the back now and be done with it,” Wilson said glumly.
“Charlie!” the hunchback replied, in mock surprise. “This is the Blood Succession! There’s got to be at least a semblance of a contest.”
“And then we’ll shoot her,” Holborn added.
A red-faced Darksider came running up towards them, throwing a messy approximation of a salute. “You asked to see me, sir?”
“Is everything secure?” Holborn asked crisply.
“We’ve had men stationed all around the perimeter fence for five hours, sir. They’re reporting anything that moves. As soon as Marianne tries to get into the power station, you’ll know about it.”
“Is that so?” Carmichael said thoughtfully, looking down at the ground. “Then who on Darkside is that?”
Getting in had been easy. Not for first time in her life, Marianne had cause to be grateful for her special perfume’s distracting qualities. With its spicy aroma hanging in the air, it had been a simple matter to slip past the dopey guards on the gate and into the power station. Marianne had no idea what to expect inside, but there was no way she was going to announce her presence.
She was dressed in simple soldier’s garb: trousers and boots, a shirt. Her hair was dyed blood red, save for one black lock. She pushed it behind her ear as she examined her surroundings with a calculating, military eye. Peering up into the night sky, she picked out the figures standing on the highest walkway. It didn’t matter who they were – tonight, Marianne was treating everyone as a potential threat. Mentally marking their position, she continued her surveillance, noting the lower walkways running along the wall that could provide shelter from the attacks of the Black Phoenix. Lucien would come at her from the air, hoping to kill her quickly before he reverted back to his fragile human form. If she stayed out in the open, she’d play right into his hands. However, if Marianne could survive the initial onslaught, finishing him off would be a simple matter.
It was a big if, she knew. Her previous encounters with the Phoenix at Greenwich and in the Cain Club had been enough to convince Marianne that she faced an awesomely powerful creature. After all, it had ended James’s life, and all of Darkside knew of his reputation as a fighter. There was a good chance she would die here tonight. Perhaps she should have been scared, but then, Marianne couldn’t remember the last time she had felt fear. Even as a child, she had never cried or wailed. Now the only thing she felt was a tidal wave of adrenaline and the icy excitement of an impending battle.
Marianne drew her long sword, the blade making a metallic zinging sound as it was freed from its scabbard. The bounty hunter felt reassured by the balance of the weapon, and the weight of it in her hand. She shifted her feet, adopting a wider, braced stance, and waited for her brother to try to kill her.
“But how did she. . .?” the guard spluttered. “I swear, sir, there’s no way she could have got past us!”
“And yet here she is,” Holborn said darkly. “We’ll discuss this later. What I want to know is – where are Humble and Skeet?”
“Marianne’s men,” Carmichael explained to Wilson in a whisper. “She never travels without them.”
“I don’t want any more surprises,” the Abettor said. “Find them. Now.”
The guard scurried off into the darkness, leaving the three men alone on the gantry. Holborn descended into a moody reverie, while Carmichael stared out at the twinkling lights of the city centre across the Thames, lost in thought. Unwilling to disturb the silence, Wilson watched Marianne calmly wait for Lucien. She stood as still as a statue, sword drawn and levelled. It was an impressive display of self-control. Once again, the young detective had cause to doubt whether he was on the right side.
After ten minutes the guard reappeared, red-faced and out of breath.
“Humble and Skeet aren’t here, sir.”
The Abettor grabbed hold of the guard’s shirt with a large fist. “Are you sure?”
“We’ve scoured the entire area, sir,” the guard replied. “She’s come alone.”
Holborn looked down at the lone woman standing in the centre of the arena, and broke into rich, baritone laughter.
“I don’t believe it!” he said. “She’s playing fair!”
Jonathan disembarked from the tube train at Pimlico and followed the sparse crowd of people to the exit. Dazed from blood loss, on the escalator out of the station, he nearly fell backwards into the man standing behind him. Jonathan smelled alcohol, and heard the man laugh harshly.
“Bit young to be drinking, aren’t you?” he said. “You look like you’ve had more than me.”
Jonathan mumbled a reply and staggered out of the station. He paused on the street, the fresh air clearing his head a little, then made his way down a broad avenue towards the riverfront. Battersea Power Station loomed over the other side of the Thames, the outline of two large cranes standing idly by. Jonathan wasn’t sure how long it took him to cross the bridge and find himself on the desolate road that ran around the back of the power station. In bright sunshine the area would have looked bleak; in the clutches of midnight, it was downright forbidding.
A fence of tall wooden boards ran around the back of the building, beneath signs warning against trespassing. They were too high to scramble over, but at one point they gave way to a slightly lower brick wall that, if he stood on his tiptoes, Jonathan could just about see over. Gritting his teeth, he placed his hands on top of the wall and hauled himself up, ignoring the pain in his damaged wrist. He expended so much energy getting over that he fell down the other side, landing with a thump on the hard ground.
Now Jonathan was inside the grounds, he could see lights flickering inside the power station. There was no sound. For the first time since he had left the cemetery, he felt a twinge of uncertainty. He had reached the site of the Blood Succession – what was he going to do now?
A chill ran down the back of his spine, and Jonathan shivered uncontrollably. Looking up into the sky, he saw something moving through the darkness above the power station. Summoning his last reserves of energy, Jonathan broke into a shambling run across the scraggy wasteland. He was halfway to the power station when a shape reared up in front of him, and his head exploded with pain.
The Black Phoenix flew through the night sky towards the power station, powerful wings propelling it easily through the air. In this form, it felt nothing but hatred – its talons itching for the feel of human skin, its beak for the taste of warm blood. Circling around the power station, its sharp eyes made out the woman standing alone, waiting for it. The Black Phoenix cawed exultantly, plunging down towards the ground in a dizzying arc, and smothered her in darkness.