THE OLD JAGO
'There are people in this world of whom even vampires are afraid,' he said as they walked up Brick Lane.
'That, I know,' she admitted.
The elder was out in the fog waiting for his tongue to grow back. When ready, he would come for her again.
'I'm familiar with all the devils in all the hells, Genevieve,' Charles said. 'This is just a matter of invoking the correct demonic personage.'
She did not know what he was talking about.
He led her into one of the narrow, unpleasant-smelling streets that constituted the worst slum in London. Walls leaned together, dropping the occasional brick to the cobbles. Evil-looking new-borns congregated at every corner.
'Charles,' she said. 'This is the Old Jago.'
He allowed that it was.
She wondered if he had gone mad. Dressed as they were - which was to say, not in rags - they were practically parading with a sandwich board marked 'ROB AND KILL ME'. Red eyes glittered behind broken windows. Rat-whiskered children sat on doorsteps, waiting to fight for the leavings of larger predators. The further they penetrated into the rookery, the thicker the gathering crowds were. She was reminded of vultures. This was not England, this was a jungle. Places, she told herself, were not evil: they were what people made of them. In the dark, something laughed and Genevieve jumped. Charles calmed her and looked about, leaning on his cane as if taking the air at Hampton Court.
Hunched, shambling creatures lurked in courtyards. Hate came off them in waves. The Jago was where the worst cases ended up, new-borns shape-shifted beyond any resemblance to humanity, criminals so vile other criminals would not tolerate their society. A Christian Crusade flag, the cross dyed in what probably was not blood, hung from one window. John Jago's mission was hereabouts, where few policemen dared venture. No one knew the clergyman's real name.
'What do we seek?' Genevieve asked, under her breath.
'A Chinaman.'
Her heart sank again.
'No,' he reassured, 'not that Chinaman. In this district, I imagine any Chinaman will serve.'
A burly new-born, bare-chested under his braces, detached himself from the shadows of a wall and stood before them, looking down on Charles. He smiled, showing yellow fangs. His arms were tattooed with skulls and bats. Having seen Charles save the day with Liz Stride, Genevieve thought he could best the vampire with silver blade or bullet. But he would not last long if a dozen of the rough's friends joined in. At least a dozen were scattered about, picking their teeth with grimy thumbnails.
'I say,' Charles began, drawling like a Mayfair ass, 'direct me to the nearest opium den, there's a good fellow. The viler, the better, if you catch my drift.'
Something shone in Charles's hand. A coin. It disappeared into the rough's fist, and then his mouth. He bit the shilling in two and spat the halves out. They hardly had time to clatter before a tangle of children were fighting over them. The rough looked into Charles's face, trying to exert his new-won vampire powers of fascination. After a minute or two, during which Genevieve was increasingly uncomfortable, he grunted and turned away. Charles had passed a test. The rough nodded towards an archway and slouched off.
The arch led to an enclosed square, and was covered with a greasy grey blanket on a string. The makeshift curtain was swept aside by a slender hand and a cloud of scented smoke drifted out. The glow-worms of opium pipes lit up wizened faces. A warm sailor, with scabs on his neck and nothing in his eyes, tottered out, his pay burned away in dream-smoke. He would be lucky to get out of the Jago with his sea-boots.
'Just the thing,' Charles said.
'What are we doing?' she asked him.
'Rattling a web to attract a spider's attention.'
'Wonderful.'
A young Chinese, new-born and delicate, emerged from the courtyard. The roughs all deferred to her, which said much. She wore blue pyjamas and trod upon filthy cobbles with silk slippers. Her skin shone like fine porcelain. A tightly-bound rope of glossy black hair hung to her knees. Charles bowed to her, and she responded, arms outspread in welcome.
'Charles Beauregard of the Diogenes Club sends his regards to your master, the Lord of Strange Deaths.'
The girl said nothing. Genevieve imagined some of the loiterers had slipped away and found something else to interest them.
'I wish it known that this woman, Genevieve Dieudonne, is under my protection. I request that no further action be taken against her lest the bond of friendship between your master and myself be broken.'
The girl considered a moment and gave one sharp nod. She bowed once more and retreated behind the curtain. Through the thin blanket, Genevieve still saw the wavering red dots of the pipes.
'That should do it, I think,' Charles said.
Genevieve shook her head. She did not quite understand what had passed between Charles and the oriental new-born.
'I have friends in strange places,' he admitted.
They were alone. Even the children had disappeared. By invoking this 'Lord of Strange Deaths', Charles had cleared the street.
'So Charles, I am under your protection?'
He looked almost amused. 'Yes.'
She did not know what to think. Somehow she did feel safer, but also a touch irritated. 'I suppose I should thank you.'
'It might be an idea.'
She sighed. 'So that was it, then? No battle of titanic forces, no magic destruction of the enemy, no heroic last stand?'
'Just a little diplomacy. Always the best way.'
'And your "friend" can really call off the elder, as a huntsman calls a dog to heel?'
'Indubitably.'
They were walking out of the Jago, back towards the safer - safer!? - waters of Whitechapel. The slum was lit only by braziers of infernal embers in the courtyards, which gave the dark a reddish underglow. Now there were at least the usual hissing streetlights. By comparison, the fog here was almost friendly.
'The Chinese believe that if you save a person from death, you're responsible for the rest of their lives. Charles, are you prepared to take that burden? I've lived a long time and intend to live a great while longer.'
'Genevieve, I think you unlikely to place too great a strain on my conscience.'
They stopped and she looked at him. He was barely able to conceal his smug amusement.
'You only know me as I am now,' she said. 'I'm not the person I was, or the one I will be. Over the years, we don't change on the outside but inside... that's another thing.'
'I'll undertake the risk.'
With morning only an hour or so away, she was tired. She was still weak and should not have ventured out. The ache in her neck was worse than it had been. Amworth said that meant she was healing properly.
'I have heard the expression before,' she said.
'The expression?'
'"Lord of Strange Deaths". One who goes by that title is mentioned, if very infrequently, in connection with a criminal tong. His reputation is not of the best.'
'As I said, he is a devil from hell. But he is a devil of his word; he takes obligations seriously.'
'He has an obligation to you?'
'Indeed.'
'Then you've an obligation to him?'
Charles said nothing. His mind was also a blank, except for a railway station sign.
'You're doing that deliberately, are you not?'
'What?'
'Thinking of Basingstoke.'
Charles laughed. And, after a moment, she did too.