Chapter Eight

C hapter Eight

W hat had seemed like a bad idea sitting in the office of the Daily Clarion that afternoon felt like a bloody stupid one at eight o’clock in the evening. Nevertheless, Josef, armed with his army hand torch, snuck over the barriers around the sewage repair works and stared down into the deep dark pit.

“Fucking hell.” He directed the thin beam of his torch into the dark, watching it glance off the iron rungs of the ladder and glint dully on what looked like water—or worse—below. He wished he owned galoshes. He wished he was sitting by the fire in his room. He wished bloody Alex had just told him the truth instead of forcing him to resort to this.

But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

Shoving his torch in his jacket pocket, its beam lancing awkwardly upward, Josef began his descent. The rungs of the ladder were rough and damp, cold biting into his fingers, but he moved slowly for fear of slipping. At least nobody was shooting at him, he consoled himself. No mortars were landing, and no machine guns were in range. It was a thin comfort as he descended into the dark.

He counted fifteen rungs before his foot scraped on brick and he found himself at the bottom. Looking up, he could see no light, only a faint square of lesser darkness. The recent air raids meant London was always semi-dark these days, and the fog had returned with nightfall to do the rest. Turning slowly, one hand still on the ladder for balance, Josef fished out his torch and flashed it around. His breath billowed in the thin beam of light, steamy in the dank air.

The first thing he saw were neat piles of bricks where the repairs to the damaged sewer were being made. Tools were left propped up against the wall: spades, a pickaxe, buckets, and trowels. From the dark he could hear the plink-plink of dripping water. The tunnel was narrow with an arched ceiling of pale brick, and it led off in both directions. To his right, the torch light illuminated a large iron door; to the left the tunnel ran at a gentle downward incline until it turned a corner. Beneath his feet, the ground was wet, but there were no puddles and nothing foul, thank God. He glanced back at the ladder, then along the tunnel, getting his bearings. That would be where the dead man had been found, and in all honesty, Josef could see how, if he’d fallen drunk into the hole, he might have been disoriented in the pitch black and wandered in that direction before succumbing to the effects of a blow to the head. No supernatural rat queen was required to explain that. It would be easy to get turned around down here, he realised with a pinch of anxiety. Perhaps he should have brought some breadcrumbs to mark his way.

Suddenly, his breathing sounded loud in the silence of the tunnel, harsh and rasping. Like he’d been running. And his fingers had a death grip on his torch. God, this was a bloody stupid idea, and he should have let May talk him out of it. But he hadn’t, and he was here now. Damned if he was going to scarper. He’d go to the turn in the tunnel, at least; he couldn’t get lost if he went so far and no further.

Keeping the torch aimed at the ground, so he could see where he was putting his feet, Josef started walking. His footsteps echoed loudly. If something sinister did lurk down here, it would certainly hear him coming—and he would hear it. That provided less comfort than anticipated.

Should he grab the pickaxe?

He briefly imagined trying to swing it at a giant rat woman in the confined space of the tunnel and dismissed the idea, of both the weapon and the woman. Easy, in the dark, to let your imagination run away with you.

By the time he reached the turn in the corridor, his heart was thumping louder than his boots. The sewer bent sharply, turning back on itself, and becoming a steep flight of stairs heading down. He flashed the light around, but there were no other turnings, no other ways to go. No way to get lost. If he carried on down, he’d be able to find his way back all right.

Swallowing dryly, breaths still rasping, he started down the stairs.

Down, down, deep down.

The air grew colder, but it wasn’t still—there was movement, drafts of air circulating. And distantly, a long bass rumbling. He stopped dead at the sound, mind darting helplessly back to the front and the devastating mines laid in long tunnels beneath enemy trenches. Sometimes the explosives caught them in the blast. Sometimes the tunnels caved in around the sappers, burying them alive. He caught a panicky breath and dug his fingernails into his palm. “Not there,” he whispered. “Not them.”

The rumbling faded, then returned, and he realised with a giddy sense of relief that it was the sound of trains running through the Underground. The District Line wasn’t far from here after all, and the sense that people and civilisation were so close comforted him. He flashed his torch around and found the bottom of the stairs, which ended in a sharp T-junction.

And that’s when he heard it.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate footsteps echoed through the tunnel, the sound bouncing off the walls and making it difficult to determine direction. They couldn’t be behind him, though—there was nothing back that way.

Except the ladder.

Bloody idiot. His chest tightened as he stood frozen in place, the beam of his torch wavering in his suddenly shaking hand. Fuck. He scrambled to switch it off, plunging himself into impenetrable darkness. Instantly, he was disorientated, panic rising uncontrollably as he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed back against the cold brick.

Think.

Think!

You can’t see them so they can’t see you. With one hand he felt back along the wall the way he’d come, digging the pads of his fingers into the bricks. What was he going to do? Run at the first sign of company? Wasn’t that why he’d come down here in the first place, to find out what the hell was going on? But walking on in the pitch black was beyond foolhardy, and standing there like a lemon, waiting to be discovered, felt just as stupid.

Meanwhile, the footsteps continued their slow progress. Were they getting closer? It was impossible to tell. But now he listened, he could hear that the footsteps were accompanied by a sibilant whisper. A voice. No, voices . More than one, he realised with a jolt, straining to listen over the rasp of his own breathing. He couldn’t make out a word, and the rhythm of the language sounded off, too. Not English, perhaps.

Not human, a panicked part of his mind whispered.

He dismissed that thought irritably and opened his eyes. It made no difference in the suffocating dark, and he felt his chest cramp in claustrophobic panic.

Plenty of air. There was plenty of air.

His heaving lungs didn’t believe it, though, and he found himself gasping. And just like that, he had to get out. He couldn’t stay in the dark a moment longer. Groping along the wall, he stumbled back up the stairs. Fuck, how long were they? He was half running, his chest too tight with panic and his breaths short, making him dizzy. At last, thank fuck, he found the top and felt his way around the corner. But still the voices and slow, steady steps persisted. Were they following him? Could they see him? He should have grabbed that pickaxe. He still could. One hand on the wall, he felt the tunnel sloping upward beneath his feet and finally felt a blessed breath of air against his face.

His relief was immense and lasted less than half a second.

Because the breeze carried with it a dreadful stench. A dreadful, familiar stench of rotting flesh. And up ahead he heard someone breathing, a wet sucking sound like air through a punctured lung.

Josef froze, clamping his jaw. His fingers clenched around his dark torch, too stiff to move. Petrified as stone. The breathing moved closer, the stench overpowering. Josef’s stomach rolled, rose into his throat.

I’m going to die here.

Never in all his months in Flanders had he been so certain, but alone in this black tunnel he knew death approached. It stalked him in the dark. And out of that breathing darkness two points of eerie iridescence appeared not six feet ahead of him. Eyes. Pale blue eyes, like ice.

Crying out, Josef stumbled back. There was nowhere to go but down and no time to run because, with a hiss, those eyes were rushing at him. Josef flung up his arm, shouting in horror and fear as a heavy weight crashed into him and knocked him back against the wall.

He could see nothing but those unnatural eyes, but Josef had grown up on rough streets and knew how to scrap. Hands, knees, feet—he punched and kicked and tore at his attacker, using his torch as a club. He drove it off, but not for long. It was circling him; Josef could hear the laboured hiss of its breath.

Dear God, what was it? A man. A fucking rat queen?

“Fuck off!” he yelled in fury and fear. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

Whatever it was, his shouting didn’t intimidate. With a wordless snarl it launched itself at him again, pushing him back against the wall, its hot breath horrifyingly close to his neck. He brought one knee up, rolled them both, and slammed the thing sideways into the tunnel wall. But it didn’t let go. Strong, biting hands clenched on his arms, bearing him backwards. Josef’s feet skidded on the steps, and suddenly, there was nothing behind him, the weight of his assailant pushing him back.

He fell. Hard. His head cracked on the steps, back jarring painfully, breath exploding from his lungs. And the fucking creature was on top of him. Slavering. Light sparked behind Josef’s blind eyes, his ears rang, but he fought with all he had left. Shouting, punching, kicking. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

This was the end. All of it over, and for nothing. For nothing . He screamed his fear and fury and—

Suddenly, there was light. Bright, blazing light dazzling his eyes. He caught a glimpse of a monstrous face above him—snarling, ravaged, human —before it twisted away to face its new enemy.

Someone shouted in a language Josef didn’t understand, but he recognised the shout as a challenge. Struggling to move his rubbery limbs, he hauled himself up to rest his back against the wall, still sprawled halfway down the steps. His head spun viciously, vision blurring and ears ringing. His grip on consciousness slipped, and he sank helplessly down into the dark.

When he opened his eyes again, a shape crouched over him, tearing at the collar of his shirt and coat. Bright light shone in his eyes, and he lashed out wildly against the attack, forearm connecting with a firm shoulder.

“Stop!”

A warm hand gripped his wrist, and he found himself blinking up into a pair of very familiar, very pissed-off eyes.

“Did it bite you?” Alex said.

Josef stared. “What…?”

The fingers on his wrist hardened. “Were you bitten?”

“There’s no time,” said another voice, and Josef looked up into the hard gaze of another man. He stood over them with a lamp held aloft, its light casting shadows over his brown skin and scarlet turban. “It didn’t go far. We should just leave—”

“No,” Alex said sharply. “Absolutely not.”

The other man suppressed a sigh. “What then?”

To Josef, Alex said, “Can you walk?”

God only knew the answer to that, but he was bloody well going to try. He pushed himself up, stomach roiling and head pounding. He put his hand to the back of his skull, and it came away wet. “Shit,” he said, staring stupidly at his bloody fingers.

“Dutta, take his other arm,” Alex ordered.

“Saint’s going to love this.”

“Then don’t tell him.”

Dutta grunted but did as Alex asked, and between them—barely fitting in the narrow tunnel—they frog-marched Josef back towards the ladder. His head throbbed, his vision swung violently, although that might just be the wildly dancing lantern light, and his whole body felt… Well, it felt like he’d just fallen down a flight of stone stairs with a monster riding him. Which he had. All of that, plus a stomach in revolt, kept his jaw locked and voice silent.

“You go first,” Alex ordered when they reached the foot of the ladder, sounding every inch Captain Winchester. He didn’t look at Josef but turned his back to keep watch along the tunnel. Dutta did the same, facing the other direction. Soldiers, Josef thought. No doubt about that.

Josef didn’t object to leaving first; frankly he couldn’t wait to get out. Besides, he had no energy to argue. All his effort went into gripping the cold, gritty rungs of the ladder and climbing. Excruciatingly slowly. The pain in the back of his skull was unbearable, and he focused on that instead of on the wild pounding of his heart, his fear and utter disbelief.

He couldn’t begin to process what had just happened to him and so he concentrated on the physical sensations of his body, on the climb, and at last on the sweet, sweet smell of London’s fog.

Crawling out on wobbly arms and legs, he celebrated his escape by vomiting. From the pain and shock. He’d seen soldiers do the same, and now he knew why. Had he been alone he might have cried with the sudden, abject misery of it all, kneeling there shaking and shivering in the cold night.

A warm hand landed on his shoulder, and he looked up to find Alex crouching next to him. His usually slick black hair was dishevelled, falling forward over his forehead in a way that tarnished his aristocratic polish, the scant city light turning his elegant features monochrome. He wore a Norfolk jacket and held a Webley revolver in the hand that wasn’t squeezing Josef’s shoulder. “Come on, old boy. Let’s get you home.”

Josef felt a powerful desire to lean into that warm touch, to feel the man’s strong arms around him. Pathetic, and aggravating as hell.

“We need to make sure he wasn’t bitten anywhere.” Dutta appeared at the head of the ladder as if he’d hopped up in one elegant bound.

An irritated expression crossed Alex’s face. “I know. I’ll check.”

“Yes.” A lift of one eyebrow, not quite a smile. “I’m sure you will.”

The two men exchanged a speaking look. “You’ll fill him in?”

“He’ll want to talk to you, too.”

“Tomorrow.”

“He’ll expect you tonight.”

“ Tomorrow .” Alex put a hand under Josef’s arm. “Can you stand? We shouldn’t stay here.”

“To get away from that thing, I can fucking run,” Josef said, letting Alex help him to his feet. After heaving his guts up, he felt marginally better and was highly motivated to get the hell away from the dark maw of the sewer. “But I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what the bloody hell is going on.”

Dutta cocked his head, looking at Alex with an expression that said, I told you so.

Alex’s face darkened. “I warned you to stay away,” he told Josef. “You know I can’t tell you—”

“Bollocks.” Surprising how fury could sweep away all your aches and pains. “I nearly got fucking eaten by your little experiment down there. Now, you either start talking or I’m going straight to the Clarion and—”

“I told you we should have…” Dutta made a throat-slitting gesture.

Josef jolted in shock. “ What ?”

“He’s joking.” Alex’s glare didn’t leave Josef, his eyes dark shadows. “Although, right now, I’m reevaluating.”

“Are you serious?” Josef stared between the two men in disbelief. “Who the bloody hell are you people?”

Dutta smiled. “The people who just saved your life, Mr Shepel.”

“And who put it in danger in the first place! Don’t try to pretend you were just taking an evening stroll through the fucking sewer. Whatever happened to that…that poor sod down there, you did it to him. And if you think I’m not going to tell the world about what this bloody government is doing to men—"

“Stop!” Alex barked.

Josef jumped. And he didn’t miss the way Alex had lifted his pistol. It wasn’t exactly pointed at Josef but was very clearly in play between them.

Grimly, Alex said, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist you come with us.”

“Or what?”

Their eyes met, and Josef was surprised to see a flash of real discomfort in Alex’s shadowed gaze, something pleading. “I asked you to trust me once—can you do so again?”

“Last time I trusted you, you stole my camera.”

A pause. “That’s not all that happened.”

True, and Josef’s treacherous heart gave an unwarranted flutter at the memory of Alex’s soft lips on his skin, his smile, their cosy supper before the fire. The warm weight of his sleeping hand on Josef’s back. But Alex’s betrayal clouded the pleasure of all those memories, chilling them. He glanced at Dutta instead, dressed like Alex in a Norfolk jacket and boots, as if off to hunt grouse in the Highlands. His expression was studiously blank, a skill they clearly taught in the Intelligence Corps.

He didn’t want to go with them.

However, it occurred to him that, from a journalistic point of view, he had no choice. Despite Alex’s firm grip on the Webley, Josef doubted he was planning to off him. If he’d wanted him dead, why rescue him from … from whatever Frankenstein creature lived in the sewer? Either way, he’d find out more by going with them than by nursing his bruises at home. Besides, he had a strong suspicion that, if he refused, Alex would order him into the car at the point of the gun. He realised he didn’t want to put either of them in that position.

Swallowing, heart jumping about in his chest, he said, “Alright, I’ll go with you.”

It felt rather like strolling into the lion’s den.