Free The Iscariot Sanction by Mark Latham

expected to, but was instantly grateful for the rush of cooler air that greeted her, and the reassuring ring of hard stone beneath her heels. And yet, she was not in a cellar, but in a larger cavern. It was dark, although her eyes quickly became accustomed to a dim glow from shafts set in the ceiling periodically, along a large, arched tunnel.
    The light from Arthur’s lantern drew closer, dancing on the floor by her feet, dully illuminating the narrow platform, the ballast beyond, and the rails.
    Lillian was about to turn back to the tunnel, to urge Arthur to hurry, when she felt something move towards her from the shadows; an almost imperceptible rush of air, the feeling of imminent danger causing her skin to tingle. She barely had time to meet the threat, her pistol aimed and readied by instinct before she had fully registered what was happening.
    Looming from the darkness, too fast to counter, a hideous face, luminescent, was just inches from her own. It came and went so fast that Lillian’s mind could picture only large, yellowed fangs, an upturned, porcine nose, a bestial snarl on a marble-white face, and those eyes. Bright, violet eyes like amethysts twinkling in lamplight. It was there, next to her, a high-pitched shriek tearing from its ghastly maw like the wail of the banshee, and then it was gone.
    But the pain remained.
    Lillian’s shoulder felt as though it had exploded as the claws had raked it, ripping through her jacket like it were crepe-paper. She felt her own blood against her skin as she wheeled around and fell to the ground, the wind knocked from her. She was vaguely aware of Sir Arthur arriving, shouting something, stooping to her. Her vision swam, but she caught sight of something pale and lithe racing along the tunnel, leaping up at the ceiling and crawling along it like a monstrous bat.
    She squeezed off three shots into the shadows, the noise deafening her. And yet she still heard the darkness reply. A scream of hate and rage; and then nothing. The creature had escaped her.
    As Arthur tried to staunch the bleeding from her shoulder, Lillian struggled against an overwhelming desire to faint. As her vision swam and her head throbbed, all she could think was:
    What will my father say?
    * * *
    They had been briefed for this assignment by Sir Toby Fitzwilliam, commander of the Order of Apollo, with Marcus Hardwick in attendance. Lillian loathed such briefings, in which she was always reminded of her junior status in the Order, and made to feel like a schoolchild before the withering gaze of her father. Afterwards, Lillian had sent Sir Arthur ahead to make the preparations for their mission, whilst she herself loitered outside the famous library of the Apollonian Club, waiting to catch her father before he departed. Several grey-haired old clubmen passed her as they went about their academic business, and some stole disapproving glances at Lillian. It had been three years since Apollo Lycea had changed its rules to allow women into the Order, whose headquarters formed the heart of the grand gentleman’s club, and still Lillian was not accepted by most of the members. They frowned upon her sex having any sort of career or opinion; they frowned upon her unconventional attire, for all its practicality. But most of all, they frowned upon her intrusion into their traditional retreat. Three years—and yet in that time only three women had risen to any sort of prominence in the militant arm of the Apollonian, and Lillian was by far the youngest of them.
    Perhaps it’s not the intrusion that they resent
, mused Lillian,
but the fact that I’m
his
daughter…
    Almost as if he had heard her thoughts, Lord Hardwick appeared at the top of the stairs. He paused when he saw her, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features for a moment, before he marched down to the landing.
    ‘My business is not over yet,’ he said, dismissively. ‘I have an appointment with the police commissioner about the latest Rift