Emily gasps.
The corpse has no shoes on its feet and is being pulled along like a rag doll, as if it weighs no more than a few stone. Once the bird man is closer to his cart, he lifts it up and throws it into the back of the wagon, then slaps his hands together and climbs back into his seat. With a flick of the reins, the mules continue down the street.
And the wagon is coming our way.
Gabriel touches my elbow. “Back,” he says, but I do not move.
I shudder as it draws closer.
“Jess!” Balthazar shouts.
A blast of foul air rushes up my nostrils. I don’t want to look, but it is too late. I have already seen what is within.
More bodies.
A jumbled pile of bodies stuffed into the bed of the cart, and all bearing the same red and purple bruises, like the boy in the alley.
I gag.
Crooked arms and legs stick up at odd angles. Stiff black fingers grasp at the empty air. I feel something vile in the back of my throat. They are all dead. Dead from the sickness.
I look on in horror as a child’s hand, dangling from the cart, twitches and then goes still.
Balthazar reaches for my arm to pull me away.
“No!” I tell him. “Wait.”
I breathe in and out slowly. A thought comes to me, unbidden. I feel the familiar itch at the center of my forehead, and when I reach up to touch it, red mist swirls from the bird man’s head.
Ash and smoke cloud my vision. Overhead, swirling, bruised clouds pulse with lightning. Rats are everywhere, as if the whole of London has been overrun. They skitter on the cobblestones, their long nails scrabbling over the bricks. They speed down alleys and even climb walls. I feel something stir around my feet. A creeping fog slides along the ground and wreathes around my ankles. I hold my breath. If I breathe it in, I know I will die. I just know it.
My face grows warm. Out of the fog comes another face, not the bird man’s, but something . . . unknown. It is a cold white face, framed by locks of dark hair. The eyes are two pinpoints of red, and they blaze with an unnatural light. I hear raspy breathing and then: “Come to me, darkling. Come to me, Jessamine.”
“No!” I shout, clamping my hands over my ears. “No! No! No!”
“Jess!”
It is Emily, grasping my shoulders. “Wake up, Jess!”
I desperately come to and peer around. My breath is short, and I loosen my scarf, for I feel as if I will suffocate.
“What did you see?” asks Balthazar.
“London,” I say breathlessly. “With rats. Everywhere.”
“And what else?”
“The same voice. The one in the cave. ‘Darkling,’ it called.” My heart begins to race, beating so fast, I feel as if it will jump out of my chest. “I saw the man with flames for eyes! He was calling me! No! No!”
I crumple into Balthazar’s arms.
A note rings in the air. It is pure and bright and surrounds me with peace. I close my eyes. The filth of the city is washed away for a moment. I feel as if I am lying in a bed of lavender. A cool breeze caresses my cheek. My breath steadies. Another note chimes, and I open my eyes.
Gabriel slides his small harp back into his coat.
I ease away from Balthazar to look at Gabriel. “Thank you,” I tell him.
“Come,” Balthazar says. “We must get Jessamine home.”
Balthazar takes my arm as we head back to 17 Wadsworth Place. All my energy is spent, and I lean on him for support.
As we walk, we find to our horror that more red Xs have appeared, scrawled on wooden doors and shop windows.
The dripping red paint makes me think of blood.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Night of Breaking Glass
Balthazar opens the door to 17 Wadsworth Place.
“Blimey,” Emily whispers.
The whole front room has been torn apart. Broken furniture has been tossed about, books are shredded and scattered on the floor, and, most frightening of all, long claw marks have ripped through the drab wallpaper. There is a smell in the air like sulfur.
I think back to my encounter with the spirit board. Soon, my lovely, the voice had taunted me. Very soon.
This is all my fault. They are coming for me.
Balthazar steps farther into the room and surveys the wreckage.
It is then that it hits me.
“Darby!” I shout.
I rush up the steps, gathering my skirts, almost tripping as I do so. I push open the door to her room. “Darby!” I cry, whipping my head from left to right. And then I see it, on the wall behind her bed: a lone letter, written in blood:
M
“I am going to find her,” I tell Balthazar, adjusting my satchel over my shoulder. “Mephisto killed my mother and father, and now they have taken Darby. I will not wait any longer!”
Balthazar stands amidst the rubble of the front room and looks around, as if seeing it for the first time. “For all I have done for her, I could not keep her safe,” he says absently.
“We have to get her back,” Emily says.