A Thousand and One English Nights (Book Three of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Twenty Nine: Afterlife

He had expected something mystical to happen when they crossed the threshold into Pandemonium. He had even half-hoped that the air would solidify around Henry and push him out again, since he didn't have a trace of demon blood in his veins.

But it was just a gate with a melodramatic sign to warn off intruders. If the sinister inhabitants of Pandemonium knew that two strangers had just entered their territory, there was no indication of it. The grassy hills on the other side of the railings were deserted. Now and then you could hear a sheep-bell, but there was no sign of a human, or even a part-human, anywhere.

He had no plan for getting out of this. Henry was walking behind him, occasionally jabbing one of the pistols into his back. And, even if Jack managed to knock him over the head and run away, he would come back. Once Henry got a noble ideal into his head, there was no dislodging it. He had to kill Henry or be killed.

And, at the moment, he wasn't sure which of those ideas he preferred. Henry was infuriating – and it would be nice to hurt the spoilt brat who'd had all his mother's love and affection while he'd had to manage with William's fists.

But it wouldn't work. He had always told himself there was a line between avenging his mother and disgusting her. He had always told himself that she would understand him burning the houses and destroying the reputations of her tormentors, provided he didn't actually kill.

But he'd killed already, hadn't he? Jane was dead. It had gone too far now. He would never be able to look his mother in the face. There was no point trying for redemption. And the only thing he wanted, other than redemption, was the dark-haired girl from St Michael's Church. He had been so close to finding her. Why in God's name hadn't Henry been able to wait until he'd found her?

Henry grabbed his shoulder, still pressing the pistol into his back, and pulled him to a halt when they reached the level ground at the top of the hill. Beneath them, the Edinburgh streets stretched away in spirals – so dark and mysterious and reminiscent of the black-haired girl that Jack could have cried.

"Now you take this and walk twenty paces away from me," said Henry, pressing one of the pistols into his hand. "I'll tell you when to turn."

"I thought we were both supposed to turn our backs and walk away from each other."

"Well, of the two of us, I'm the only one who has a sense of honour, so I'm the one who will not be turning my back."

Jack didn't argue. It was literally unthinkable that Henry would shoot him in the back. He took the pistol and turned around, but he didn't start walking.

"Henry, I never meant for this to happen..."

"Twenty paces," said Henry, his voice hard.

"And Jane left my mother to marry the devil," he murmured. It was easier to say this with his back turned, although he wasn't sure he could keep the wobble out of his voice. "He was literally the devil. She would have lived through the childbirth without him knocking her around – I know it. We could have been together." He tightened his hand around the pistol. "Jane didn't even tell you she'd asked for help. Aren't you the tiniest bit angry with her?"

"That's my own affair," Henry snapped. "Besides, from what I understand tonight, Jane did her a favour. Imagine that bright, lovely, idealistic woman having to raise a child like you."

Jack ran his tongue over his teeth, trying to pretend that hadn't stung. "Twenty paces?" he said at last.

"Start walking."

Jack moved forward slowly, wondering if some kind of plan was going to occur to him at the last moment.

At least he wasn't pained by the thought of what he might be leaving behind. He didn't want anything anymore – not his adoring fans, not his piano, not even a final drink. And perhaps the dark-haired girl was dead anyway. The cat-faced man didn't seem like the most stable of protectors.