Free Lifeblood by Tom Becker Page B

frustration.
    â€œI give in. What are we missing?”
    â€œBet you the boy spots it.”
    Arthur handed the note to Jonathan, who stared at it intently. Beneath the small, crabby handwriting, he could just about make out a faint pattern that was part of the paper itself.
    â€œIt’s some kind of design. . .” he said. “Two letter Cs wrapped around each other.”
    â€œOf course! A watermark!” cried Arthur.
    â€œAnd which Darkside institution uses that particular design?”
    The reporter thought for a second.
    â€œOh. Toffs,” he said glumly.
    Â 
    They headed west, towards the far end of the Grand. The locals were in a particularly hostile mood that evening, and Jonathan was glad of Carnegie’s baleful presence beside him as they moved along the pavement. Arthur and Lucien followed a pace behind. Though ostensibly in conversation, they paid little attention to one another. Instead their eyes flitted restlessly this way and that, on a permanent lookout for new scoops and exclusives.
    As they passed Kinski’s Theatre of the Macabre, a scream ripped through the night. Jonathan turned to see a man being dragged by his heels through the doorway of the Aurora Borealis Exotic Candle Shop. Scrabbling frantically around for something to cling on to, the man’s hands fastened themselves around a lamp post. He didn’t scream for help; he must have known there was no point. The tug-of-war lasted for a few seconds, until the unseen creature from inside the Aurora Borealis gave a final wrench, and the man flew into the dark recesses of the shop. All that remained was his top hat, rolling forlornly around the pavement.
    â€œThey must really want to sell him candles,” Jonathan said.
    â€œThat’s one way of looking at it,” Carnegie conceded. “Either that, or they really want to make him into candles.”
    A look of horror flashed across Jonathan’s face, making the wereman guffaw loudly.
    â€œDarkside still shocks you, doesn’t it? I’d have thought you’d have got used to it by now.”
    â€œThere’s a fair bit to get used to!” Jonathan replied indignantly. “It might help if everyone in this place wasn’t so damn crazy!”
    â€œWhere would the fun be then? Come on, this way.”
    Beckoning, he turned off the Grand and down a wide, secluded road. The crescent moon was low in the sky, and it shone down on a row of large white Victorian-style townhouses. Carnegie headed towards the largest of the buildings, smugly enthroned at the end of the street. A terrace of semicircular steps flowed up to the ornate front door, which was flanked by a pair of enormous marble pillars. A coat of arms had been set above the doorway, with the Latin inscription Ego sum messor fratris mei . Curtains prevented the prying eyes of the poor and the unworthy from seeing what was happening inside the building. Two hulking men had been squeezed into doormen’s liveries, the tassels and braids perching uncomfortably on two bodies built for – and sustained by – violence.
    â€œThere it is,” said the wereman. “The Cain Club. The most exclusive private members’ club in Darkside. Only the filthy rich can get in.”
    Lucien coughed meaningfully. “On that point, now that we’re here . . . how do you intend for us to get in? I’m guessing you’re not a member?”
    Carnegie eyed him narrowly. “My subscription lapsed.”
    â€œOf course. It’s just that the guards here aren’t renowned for their amicable nature, and perhaps it would be wise to come up with a plan before we go any further.”
    â€œOK. How about you shut up for a second and let me get on with it? You journalists talk too much.”
    The editor blanched.
    Jonathan looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Carnegie’s not renowned for his amicable nature either. If I were you, I’d follow his lead on this