Without A Heartbeat

The Silver-Eyed Man did not want to go out and collect again. All he could think about was the flame-haired girl he had left at the bottom of that putrid well. All he wanted was to go to her side and see that she had survived the crucible. If she had, he doubted she would even be there any longer. It had been far too long. He could only imagine how confused and scared she was, alone in the world without him. It was not right that he had abandoned her at the moment when she needed him most. He had created her and she was his responsibility.

She was his.

As much as it pained him, he’d had no choice but to stay away from Teine and the girl. The Alliance had finally turned its attention to he and Mother’s divine work and with it they had unleashed their best hound to sniff them out. He had been reckless in the face of such danger and Scarlett Reid had almost been his downfall. It had been beyond a major risk to break patrol in order to collect her. It had been a rushed attempt borne through desire rather than logic and as a result he had handled it badly.

Killing the old man had been rash and had created a host of evidence in its wake. That was without the grievous wounds the girl had given him. Had he been caught as he raced back to Belfast by any of the Alliance, he would certainly have been uncovered. However, divine fortune had shone its light down on him and provided a way out of his predicament. He had gone straight to the basement of an abandoned tailor, known as a safe house for Pandemonian drifters. There he had found among others an unwitting Ifrit drifter, barely out of childhood. One fight, a blazing building, and a host of dead Pandemonians later, he had a legitimate excuse for his burn wounds. Mother had been furious at his selfish actions, but had still agreed to take care of the evidence that implicated him…at a cost. He had now been tasked with collecting another.

The Silver-Eyed Man signed off and set down the receiver of the speakergram. He closed the cabinet and locked it with the key he wore around his neck. The cabinet itself was in a tiny alleyway, hidden behind a run of thick vines that clung to the rear wall of a watchmaker shop. It was a perfect location as an open sewer ran right through the centre of it and the smell it produced so noxious that no one would dream of coming anywhere near.

The Silver-Eyed Man stood up and pulled a silver pocket watch from within his cloak. Just under thirty minutes to collect a target. He flicked his cowl over his head and slipped from the alleyway, moving with purpose as he joined the scores of evening revellers.

The lamp-lit streets were bustling with life. Thin dogs sprinted between the legs of shoeless children in grimy hand-me-down suits. Gentry dressed in three-piece finery and top hats walked arm in arm with women in bustle dresses and tight bodices that made them appear as walking hourglasses. Hawkers shouted from the nearby markets, offering everything from tin badges to fresh coffee. The whole town was brimming with scents and smells, most of them utterly foul.

The Silver-Eyed Man slipped through the crowd as if they weren’t there, his movements as graceful as a dancer. No one paid him much attention, not even the policemen on their beat, dressed in their tight navy uniforms and domed hats. People were used to seeing cloaked figures on the streets of Belfast – as they were used to seeing them in most major towns. In a time rife with crime and murder, it did not pay to ask questions of strange men.

He scanned around him, always searching for a suitable target, using both sight and scent. It took him only a few minutes to discover one - it wasn’t hard in a place as full of disease and death as this. He could smell the acrid scent as if it were black tar pouring down his throat. He quickened his steps, following the trail, twisting down side roads and between cramped buildings that leaned against one another as if fatigued. The scent led him to a narrow road filled on either side with a strip of uniform townhouses. They were undoubtedly purpose built for factory workers. There was a textile mill close to this side of the town, its colossal chimneys belching a constant stream of filthy clouds into the air. The source of the scent emanated from the top of one of the houses, pouring through the open window like smoke. The Silver-Eyed Man checked his pocket watch again.

Twenty-five minutes. I have enough time.

He walked to an adjacent street and waited until no one was looking. Then he jumped up and scaled the rear wall of the house with ease. Once he reached the roof, he glanced around once more to ensure the main street was clear. There were several people returning from work, but none were interested in looking up. Most walked with their heads bowed, their energy sapped.

Sliding over the lip of the roof, the Silver-Eyed Man crawled down the wall and carefully peered into the window, his bright eyes flashing in the glare of an oil burner. Inside was a small room filled with rows of mattresses. They were all empty apart from one, where a blonde girl of perhaps twenty years lay naked. Her bare skin was glistening with the sweat of a terrible fever and she moaned in her restless sleep.

The Silver-Eyed Man slipped through the window and rushed to the girl’s side. He brushed a strand of hair from her face and then gently patted her cheek until she opened her eyes.

“Put your clothes on girl, I am here to save you.”

She struggled to focus, blinking at him in the light. “Am I dead?” she croaked.

The Silver-eyed man smiled. “Not yet.”

Some of the girl’s senses returned to her for a moment and her eyes went wide. “Who are ya? What are ya doin’ in here?” He could see she was about to turn hysterical so he placed his hand around her throat. Not hard, but tight enough to show that his intentions were serious. “No sound young one. I am not here to kill you. Quite the opposite. Just please do as I ask.”

The girl nodded and tried to climb out of the bed, but was far too weak. She collapsed to her knees and the Silver-Eyed Man felt pity for the sickly thing. He gathered her clothes that were folded next to her bed and helped her change into them. From the clothes she owned – a worn skirt and shirt, a marked white apron, matching bonnet and a shawl - as well as her red and scarred fingers, he deduced that her occupation was that of a seamstress. He knelt down and laced her boots for her, while she placed a hand on the wall to stop herself toppling over.

When she spoke again, her voice was full of delirium. “Where are ya takin’ me?”

“To be reborn.”

“I want to be reborn as royalty,” she whispered dreamily.

“You will be.”

He hoisted her over his shoulder and peered through the window. The street was a lot busier than it had been a moment before; hordes of workers were heading out to start a night shift. The Silver-Eyed Man shrank back and cursed. He pulled his watch from his cloak and checked the time.

Sixteen minutes. I am running out of time.

He could either put the girl back into bed and return to Mother empty handed once again, or he could take a very dangerous risk. Placing a foot onto the window ledge, he climbed out.

It was then that he heard his own name being shouted from below.

He turned to see a group of figures rushing through the crowd towards him. They were fast and moved like liquid. He recognised the dark cloaks they wore and the weapons they carried.

Guardians.

His luck had run out. He had been taking risks for so long that one of them had finally worked everything out. It was over.

I will not surrender without a fight. I owe it to Mother.

The Silver-Eyed Man climbed, and the chase began.