“Where he’s going?” Penny asked.
“He’s about to kill one of those women.” Malcolm slapped a furious hand against the bricks. “We don’t know which church.”
“We’ll split up,” Penny said. “I’ll go to St. Mary Woolnoth. You go to St. George.”
“All right. Be careful. You’re armed, I take it?”
Penny grinned and slid down the roof to the eaves. She affixed her climbing gizmos to her hands. “Worry about yourself, Malcolm.”
He waved her gone and headed for the window.
Malcolm managed to find a hansom. The rifle was hidden in the folds of his coat and the driver paid him little mind, grateful for the coin on such a cold night. The cab moved onto the Ratcliffe Highway. Malcolm’s grip on the rifle was tight, all the while hoping Penny didn’t do something foolish if she did encounter Barnes.
The hansom made good time to St. George and Malcolm stepped from the cab. He entered the creaking gate and blended in with the dark shadows that permeated the grounds. The air was heavy with moisture, and if the temperature dropped any further, there would be snow. He tripped over something on the ground and stumbled against a gravestone. It was a body, a man in a long coat and cheap hat. His face had frozen in a grimace of pain, and his hands had locked on his chest, clutching at his heart. A lantern lay extinguished on the ground nearby. The watchman, no doubt, paid by Simon’s friend Henry to keep an eye on the church. He had had no time to raise an alarm. He had been no match.
Everything else seemed serene. The church squatted in the thin moonlight, with an imposing, medieval-style steeple and pepper-pot turrets. Malcolm pulled the rifle from his coat and slipped toward the church.
The altar lay at the eastern end, so he went to a door on the northern side, the gospel side. It was locked. He drew out a long silver pin and proceeded to unlock it. He quietly entered the darkness and closed the door behind him. There were voices and the dimmest of light. He actually breathed a sigh of relief since Penny would not face the danger.
Creeping behind a column, he peered toward the altar, where white-and-red-robed figures milled about. On top of the dais was a naked woman. Eleanor. She seemed unafraid and, in fact, almost excited as she stared out at the Barnes cultists. Barnes himself was behind the altar, so he was only visible from the waist up. His red hood was thrown back and he talked calmly to Eleanor, but was still intent and fierce. She listened to him and nodded peacefully. Then she lay back on the cold stone. She couldn’t possibly be so na?ve that she wasn’t aware of what was happening, Malcolm thought furiously, urging her to run. The Scotsman put the rifle to his shoulder and adjusted the sight, bringing Barnes into sharp focus in the dim candlelight. The necromancer suddenly smiled at Eleanor with such rancid joy that Malcolm switched his attention back to the woman.
Eleanor reached down beside her and lifted a knife with both hands. She poised the blade at her chest. Her face was placid, as if she were going to sleep. Then Eleanor plunged the knife deep into herself.
Malcolm shouted with horror and disbelief. All heads save Eleanor’s turned toward him. He fired. The shot was hurried and the bullet struck Barnes high in the shoulder, spinning him about to the stone floor out of sight. Some of Barnes’s consorts screamed, and some rushed to his side. The robed women surrounded him, placing themselves in harm’s way to protect their master. Shockingly, Barnes struggled to his feet, glaring at Malcolm but keeping a low profile to prevent a clean shot. The bullet had put a hole in the necromancer’s shoulder large enough to shove a croquet ball into, but he was still standing.
Two robed figures separated themselves from the mob and faced Malcolm. He recognized the faces under the cowls as the necromancer’s brides: Madeleine and Cecilia. The rest of the acolytes who hovered around Barnes appeared to be living women. Like Eleanor, they were ensnared not by undeath but by Barnes’s sickly words. Malcolm recognized some of them from the poetry circle about William Blake.
Gritting his teeth, the Scotsman fired into Cecilia. The bullet tore through her, but she barely flinched. He took a step back with the rifle ready at his hip, glancing around the church, trying to plan a path of attack. “Come out from behind their skirts, Barnes. Have you not an ounce of man in you?”
The necromancer seemed to be experiencing surprisingly little pain despite his massive wound. He moved behind Lilith for cover and fished out a thin chain around his neck. A small object dangled on the end of the chain; it was a ring.
Malcolm took another step back when the two brides inched closer. He raised the rifle to his chest. “All of you clear away from him. This must stop tonight.”