A Guide to the Creatures of the Slum

By Mrs Reginald Slater

27-8 May, Midnight. — Getting in, evidently, is the easy part. Getting out — that'll be more complicated. Not only because of the strange underground room, but because of the appearance of Trotter and Augustus Selling.

"Now what?" I hear Wells hiss, when the two men start talking in low voices.

"This was your idea," Cornelius hisses back. "What's next?"

To my surprise, it's Naomi who takes the lead. "We'll go in there, me and Cornelius and Wells. Incapacitate them and start freeing the creatures. Langdon, Marjorie, you two need to find that vampire's head."

Right. I completely forgot about that head. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" I whisper back.

"It's the only one we have," says Wells from behind me, and I feel him tap me on the shoulder with the backs of his fingers. "Give this to Marjorie."

I take the object from his hand, discovering quickly that it's an ammunition belt, full of shells. I hand it over to her and just as quickly Wells is handing me something else — a shotgun. Probably the same one that I saw her shoot the Drowned Man with.

Naomi does the same thing from the other side, outfitting Marjorie further with a revolver and several silver bullets. "Because you're the best shot" I hear her whisper.

"Now go," Wells whispers in my ear. "While they're distracted."

I feel Marjorie take my hand to pull me up, and I let her. Then we're off again, at a run back down the passageway. We hit the stairs and wind up them, our feet slipping off so often that it hinders our progress numerous times. Marjorie even falls and barks her shin, and as I help her to her feet she hisses in pain.

"Christ, that hurts," she says.

Finally we reach the top and emerge outside again. Marjorie has to stop and rub her shin, wincing so much I see her rucking up her skirts to look at it.

"Cripes," I say when she finally gets to it. There's a deep gash across the bone, just underneath her knee. It's already bled enough to stain the top of her stocking, and is slowly making progress towards her shoe.

"That's why it hurts," she breathes. Then, before I can be a chivalrous gentleman and offer my own bandage, she tears a strip of fabric from one of her many skirts and clumsily attempts to wrap it around her leg. But her fingers shake too much, and they keep slipping.

"Here. Let me." I step forward and gently pry her hands away, then kneel down to wrap it tightly around her shin and double-knot the ends. Even in the dim moonlight I can see spots of blood already seeping through it, but it's the best we can do for now.

"So..." Marjorie takes a deep breath when we've finished. "Where exactly is this slain vampire's head?"

—

28 May, midnight. — I could never understand why, but the Institute has a sort of trophy hall. It's where alumni display something from a hunt they're particularly proud of. On the first day of the first year, the form group instructor will take their students to see it, invite them to wander, and tell them that one day, they might come back here with a trophy.

Father's is a severed vampire's head. The story was that he slayed it when he was my age, thirty-three years ago, without knowing what he was doing. It had broken into the residence hall and had already killed two students by the time he had caught up his rapier, ran downstairs, and staked it straight through the heart. It was only after the vampire was dead that he sliced its head off to preserve as his own trophy.

I still remember where the entrance is, inside the administration building and up the creaking staircase. Then down the corridor hung with portraits of past Headmasters, all but one — the first Headmaster of the Institute — with the last name Wilkes. When we reach the doors, however, I discover that they're locked.

"Bloody hell, now what?" I kick the doors in frustration, the only result a throbbing foot.

"Use this." Marjorie reaches up and pulls out a hair pin. "You've picked locks before, haven't you?"

That's a strange question coming from her, but considering she's wearing two ammunition belts across her body, a shotgun over one shoulder, and a heavy revolver in a holster around her waist, I shouldn't have expected anything less. I hold out my hand and she gives me the pin. Then I edge up to the door and slip it into the keyhole.

It takes a few tries, because it's been recently oiled and the pin keeps sliding out. But eventually, I hear it click and cool air wafts out of the seam.

"Got it," I say redundantly.

"I believed you could from the beginning," Marjorie says, leaning over to kiss my cheek.

I nudge one of the doors open, and we slip through one at a time. The room is large — probably the size of a ballroom in the average English country manor — and filled with rows and rows of glass display cases. It's like some grotesque museum: some cases contain the oddly-shaped skulls of creatures, while others, different body parts. Claws, hides, bones, long curved fangs. Still more have taxidermied specimens inside — a pair of elephant-like feet here, a grinning water-sprite's small body there. I hear Marjorie let out a shaky breath, and then she's sliding her hand through my elbow.

"Good God, this turns my stomach," she says. "Can we find it quickly and get out?"

"Easier said than done," I say, but I agree with her completely. This room makes me sick to my stomach. It's literally a shrine to death.

We make our way along the rows, squinting at the small plaques in each one on either side of us. I can hear Marjorie breathing fast and sharp, probably out of nervousness. When we reach the end of the second row, I turn to her and take her hand. Immediately it tightens in mine, even as her eyes drop down and then up to mine with mingled surprise and fear.

"We'll find it, I promise," I say, squeezing her hand.

"I'm worried, Langdon," she says softly, and I hear her voice crack. "Your father might punish you if he finds out it was you."

"I don't want you worrying about me, Marjorie." I kiss her knuckles. "If we do this right, Father'll be more distracted by the fact that all of his prisoners escaped."

"Oh, Langdon, I..." She cups my face with one hand, searching it. Then, after a moment, she leans forward and kisses me tenderly, much like our first. It's gentle and tastes sweet, like powdered sugar, and a feeling much like warm milk filling me starts from my feet and works its way up. It's nothing like when I kiss Wells, because that's all mashing and grabbing. But I like this one too, because it's not that. Then she pulls away, her blush deep. "I'm sorry...caught up and carried away in the moment, I suppose..."

"Don't apologise," I say, giving our still-clasped hands a shake. "I liked it."

She smiles shyly and looks away. "So did I."

We stand in the quiet for another moment or two, and it makes me realise that this could work. I could do this. I could love two people at once in different ways.

"Well, I suppose we should...er..." Marjorie gestures vaguely to one of the cases, displaying fangs and claws.

"Yes," I agree. "I suppose we should."

We proceed in the same way, weaving down two more rows with still no success. I find Marcus Trotter's trophy, though — a black, shrivelled hand with long curving claws.

"'Dark fae queen hand,'" Marjorie reads from the plaque, then glances over at me. "Dark fae? What is that?"

I don't know it well myself, because the fae weren't a subject built into the regular Institute curriculum. The students who wanted to learn about them had to ask for permission to take a special track in writing. But I did know, from the book on fae that I'd once nicked from Father's library, that there were Light fae and Dark fae. The Light faeries were the small ones, like sprites and brownies, and were generally harmless or even helpful to humans. The Dark fae were the worrisome ones, the human-sized beings with the pointed ears and strange eyes in odd shapes and colours. They wore armour and rode their ghostly horses across the sky — a phenomenon the book had called the Wild Hunt. They were the faeries capable of stealing spirits of sleeping people, exchanging a healthy human child for a sickly fae child, and abducting humans to join their Hunt. And they lived in near-plain sight, in dwellings only visible during the rising or the setting sun among other human places.

I give Marjorie just the summary, and she shudders. Most people, even hunters, didn't want to think much about the Dark fae. In fact, many people ignored them altogether until something happened.

"I'm not sure I want to know how Trotter got that hand," she says.

"Neither do I," I agree.

We don't find the head on that side of the room, so we hug the walls — which are mercifully clear — to get to the other. Offhandedly I notice we left the door open, letting in a thin column of grey light from outside. I hope that doesn't come back to bite us soon.

It's Marjorie who finds it, halfway along the third row. She gives my hand a squeeze, and when I turn I see her bending to look at it. I join her and peer through the glass to see. It's smaller than I thought, and withered too, the skin pulled taught around the bone. Wisps of pale white hair still cling to it, and even in its wrinkled state I see it wears an expression of agony: narrowed eyes, open mouth, fangs only half-extended.

Vampire head, reads the plaque. "Caligula". Trenton Wilkes, 1857.

"Caligula?" Marjorie says, confused. "Why Caligula?"

"Probably because of the bloodbath," I say, wishing I didn't have to think about it. Even before he met my mother, Father hated vampires.

"Or because—"

"Oi! Who's there?"

A flickering lantern light makes the column on the floor shiver, and I see a shadow appear through the crack in the door. Immediately I drop, catching Marjorie's elbow and pulling her down with me. I hear the door creak open, and rapid footsteps.

"Anything?" says a voice, not the one who first spoke. Blast it, that means there's at least two.

"No," says the first. "Coulda sworn I 'eard voices, though."

Right at that moment Marjorie shifts and the shotgun muzzle bumps the bottom of the nearest display case. Another shuffle from the direction of the door, but since we're too far away and low to the ground, I can't tell what it is.

"Come out!" The first voice barks. I hear the cocking of some kind of gun.

I catch Marjorie's wrist and shake my head, mouthing Don't move as I do. Then I reach into my belt, where I have a couple ghost-flares, and pull one out. Without lighting it I raise myself partway and lob it as hard as I can towards the far wall. As it lands with a clink the man with the gun shoots at it, and I hear glass break.

"Go round that way," says the first voice, but unless we want to risk being seen, we can't look to see which way the second man is going. "Come on out, ye nasties. We won't do ye harm."

Marjorie gives my hand a hard squeeze and mouthes Now what? at me. I can see the panic in her eyes, and her hand's trembling in mine so hard that I can feel all the way up to my shoulder.

Then an idea hits me. I don't know if it'll work, but it's the only one I have. With my free hand I unfasten the cloak from around my neck and nod at the shotgun. Marjorie gives me a quizzical look but hands it over anyway. I drape the cloak over the muzzle, then raise it up far enough for the men to see.

"Oi!" he shouts again, and shoots twice. I see the bullets rip through the fabric and break the glass in the windows behind it. I lower it, then raise it again, and he shoots two more times. Sure enough, one of the bullets hits the glass in the display case holding the vampire head and shatters it, raining glass all over us. I reach in and snatch it out, stand and all. There's no time to figure out how to get it off.

"Run!" I shout, and for a moment, we have the element of surprise as we scuttle along the row, keeping low enough for the display cases to cover us. Then, the men start shooting.

The noise is deafening as the bullets shatter more glass, sending shards and bits of trophies flying everywhere. We hit the wall and crouch low, and over the noise, Marjorie shouts, "Give me the shotgun!"

"What?"

"The shotgun!" She holds out a hand, frantically motioning with the other. "Give it to me!"

I wrestle the cloak off the end of it and thrust it into her hand. Then she loads it, much quicker than I thought her capable of, and waves me up the next row. I see we can't keep to the wall all the way to the door, blocked by a bulky display case that contains an entire werewolf hide.

"Go!" she hisses. "I'll cover you!"

"What? I'm not leaving—"

"Go! No time! Go!"

With that she shoves me up the row, and I take off at a half-hunched run, the vampire head clamped to my chest. Glass flies all around me, and I can hear Marjorie behind me, returning the shots almost as quickly as the men can fire them at her. We reach the end of the row, and now we have a clear way to the door. But the two men have us figured out. One blocks the open door, and the other I see slinking along the wall we now lean against.

"Give up now," says the man at the door, "and we might let ye live."

"Move out of our way," Marjorie says in reply, levelling the shotgun at him. "And I might let you live."

The man raises his gun and pulls the trigger, but it clicks — either jammed or empty. In his second of confusion Marjorie looks at me and jerks her chin in his direction. I push off the wall and run towards him with a Viking howl, catching him completely off-guard. As I do I raise the vampire head, which had been mounted on a heavy wooden block. That's what I ram into his face, rewarded with a crunch and his own yowl of pain. He drops the gun and I kick it away, and before he can recover I rear back and whack him with the block again. This time it breaks off and goes flying, breaking even more glass. He makes a grab for me, but I duck and he misses, arms flying straight over my head as he topples sideways. I vault over his flailing legs and tumble out into the corridor, and just second later Marjorie's there too, nearly stepping on me as she staggers against the wall. She recovers faster than I do, hurrying over and putting out a hand to help me up. I take it, pull myself to my feet, and we take off running.

Somehow the Institute's turned itself all around, because we're lost in less time than it takes for me to realise it. We skid to a halt in a deserted corridor panelled with dark wood and bare hardwood floors, moonlight coming in through the bay window at the very end. It doesn't look at all familiar.

"How did you learn to shoot like that?" I ask, trying to catch my breath.

"Luck, I suppose," she pants. "Before the other night, I'd never even touched a gun...let alone fired one."

"Not a lady's skill, I assume?"

A faint smile flickers across her face. "You assume rightly."

It's hard to believe she hasn't, though — the way she'd handled it so skillfully, almost effortlessly, all grace and power, makes me think she'd make a better hunter than her brother, if given a chance.

We don't speak until we can both breathe normally, and by then Marjorie's wincing again and favouring her good leg.

"It's hurting again," I say when I notice, and she nods. "Do you mind if I take another look?"

Wordlessly she begins to gather up her skirts again, and I lower myself to one knee so she can prop her ankle up on my thigh. The wound's right at my eye level, and it's hard to see at first, because her entire leg, from knee to ankle, is soaked with blood. The makeshift binding is entirely saturated too. It's too dark for me to tell if there's another wound somewhere else, or if the one she has never stopped bleeding.

I take out my handkerchief, fold it into a long strip, and wrap it tightly around the bandage already there. I know it won't do much good, but it'll have to do, just like the first one, until we can get it looked at properly.

"You are such a gentleman, Langdon," she says softly, touching my cheek with two fingers just barely. "Thank you."

"Langdon?"

Another female voice breaks the spell. Both of us glance towards it and I see Naomi standing at the end of the corridor, her hair wild and face covered with dirt, blood, and bruises.

"Naomi?" I manage.

"What are you doing?" She marches towards us, her eyes flashing. Then to Marjorie, she says, "What is he doing?"

"I've an injury," says Marjorie, once again recovering faster than I can. "Langdon was looking at it for me."

For a moment, that distracts Naomi. "Where? How bad is it?"

Marjorie straightens her leg to let Naomi have a look. Not much to see, because it's bound up, but she clearly can get more meaning from it than I can.

"How did you get it?" she asks then.

"I fell. Barked my shin. Harder than I thought, I suppose."

"We ought to get you back to ours, have a better look where there's light," Naomi says, lips pressed thin. Then she turns to me. "And you. What are you doing in that ridiculous position?"

"Oh, I..." It dawns on me what she means, and hurriedly I stand up. From Naomi's viewpoint it must have looked like I was proposing. "Nothing. Just...able to see better."

Naomi huffs out a breath, evidently not appeased by that explanation. "And you have the head?"

I scoop it up from the floor and show her.

"Good." A single nod. "Now let's get out of this place, before it swallows us alive."

—

Later, early morning. — The ride back to the Hudsons' is silent. Naomi sits as far away from me as possible, arms folded and looking straight ahead. Wells is on my other side, rubbing at his bleeding nose and grunting in pain. Across from us, Cornelius and Marjorie sit together but with distance between them. He keeps looking over at her, like he wants to ask if she's all right, but never does. And she doesn't even spare him a glance.

When we finally arrive, it's Cornelius who pays the coachman, in so many shillings I lose count. In the meantime the rest of us straggle up to the front door, where Wells fumbles for a bit as he unlocks it. I can see he's just as battered as Naomi, if not more: there's a bleeding gash on his forehead, one that arcs back into his hair, and there's a sizable bleeding bite out of one of his ears.

Then, once we're inside, Naomi tugs Marjorie off to the kitchen to look at her leg while we wait for Cornelius. He's just as scruffy as the two Hudsons — he looks as if someone or something tore out a couple hanks of his hair, and he has two long bloody scratches on his neck.

"How'd it go?" I ask. "The rescue?"

"As well as you'd bloody expect," says Wells, unbuckling the webbing of his hunting gear quickly and letting it drop heavily to the ground. "We had to fight off bloody Trotter and Selling while breaking the locks on all the cages."

"Some were none too happy to be let out," says Cornelius with a wince. "As you can see."

"At least the werewolves helped," Wells says. "One of them tried to maul Trotter, which got Selling involved, and all of us got to make a break for it. I think they all got out, too."

"Did you find Giff?" I ask. "Was he there?"

"No sign of him, Wilkes," Cornelius says, shaking his head. "We checked. Well...Naomi did. He's probably being kept somewhere else."

Of course he is. That sounds exactly like Father, and makes me think he may have seen this coming long before Marjorie had even thought of it. He must have known we were going to come and try to rescue Giff, and therefore moved him away from the others.

"So...even though we freed all the subjects, we didn't find what we went there for in the first place." I say it slowly, and that makes it sound worse. "Which was Giff."

"You said the vampires were the ones who were negotiating his freedom," Wells points out. "So maybe they've got some arrangement with your father or the Selling brothers to keep him imprisoned somewhere else."

Cornelius snorts. "Sounds like my family."

I nod. "And it sounds exactly like Father."

"Well, now at least you've got that," Wells says, nodding at the vampire head in my hand. "Now we wait for the vampires to come get it."

That, again, is much easier said than done. Mostly because I'm sick of waiting for things.

—

Later, before dawn. — Two vampires come at around four. None of us have had any sleep, really, although both Cornelius and Naomi dozed off at some point. Marjorie sat in the chair I've seen Septimus Hudson sitting in most times, staring dazedly at a point somewhere in the distance. I leaned on the wall next to the window and gazed out, without seeing. And Wells prowled the house, his steps slow and plodding.

The knock is barely a tap tap. So quiet it's like a noise I might have imagined. But Wells knows it's them, because I hear him go to the door and open it.

"You have our sssssibling'sssss head?" says one.

I pick up the head again, from where I'd set it on the sill, and go to join Wells. The two vampires look like shadow and light rather than real beings, their bodies melting into the darkness and their heads floating in midair.

"Here," I hold it out. "All yours."

"Yesssss, human." One snatches it away in a movement that I nearly miss. "You have pleasssssed us. Our father will be ssssso very happy."

"Your deal isssss ended," says the other. "The babe Gifford sssssshall be free by thissss time tomorrow night."

"You mean...just like that? You'll let him go?"

"Yessss," says the vampire holding its sibling's head like a precious stone. "But be warned, human. A babe on itsssss own isssss much more likely to be ssssslain."

"Where will you release him?" I ask. "Perhaps we can keep him out of harm's way."

"He isssss not oursssss to releasssse," says the other vampire. "That is our father'sssss desssscisssion once he sssspeakssss to the SSSSSellingssss."

"The Sellings? They kept Giff captive?"

"We have ssssssaid far too much," said the vampire holding the skull. "Now we musssst go."

Then they turn and simply melt away into the darkness with a flap of large wings.

"So your father was keeping Giff captive," I say to Cornelius, who seems to have joined us at some point. "Do you have any idea where?"

"Like I told you before, Wilkes, my father tells me nothing," Cornelius says. "I was just as surprised as you were by that information."

I glance over at Wells, but he just shrugs and shakes his head. So now we're back to the beginning again, after all the progress we'd made. That's the most frustrating part of the whole thing.

—

Later, again, after dawn. — None of us feel very much up to talking, and while Wells and Naomi busy themselves in the kitchen to prepare breakfast, I stay in the sitting room with Cornelius and Marjorie, the both of them looking as listless as I feel.

"If you think about it," says Cornelius finally, sounding tired, "at least they're all back where they started too."

"I suppose they are," I agree.

"This was all part of our plan, remember?" Marjorie takes my hand and laces her fingers with mine. "We've bought ourselves time to get ahead of them."

"But how?" I scowl at the floor. "Father keeps himself locked up tighter than a safe."

"But our father doesn't," says Cornelius. "If anything, he overshares."

"How?" I ask, slightly intrigued.

"He brags about everything," Marjorie says. "And I suspect he may be slightly mad."

Cornelius coughs, making a noise that sounds very much like Raving. So he may be easier to pump than I thought.

"Perhaps we ought to use him as our next lead," I say. "Perhaps get him away from your mother and see what he has to say."

"Yes, but you'd also have to get him trolleyed. The only reason Mother doesn't ever let him alone is because she's afraid he'll get himself soused and spill everything." Marjorie sighs.

"He may speak to me, if he thinks I'm drinking as well," I offer. "Perhaps when our families get together again?"

"We have two weeks left," Cornelius says. "And then we'll have the end-of-term fête. Perhaps if you could think of something by then?"

"That seems like enough time," I say with a nod. Although a voice in the back of my head tells me that maybe it isn't.

—

29 May, late morning. — I see the bats when I emerge from the practise arena, two of them, hanging upside-down from the archway outside the door. They're staring right at me, their red eyes wide and unblinking. I know I heard Wells mention it to Marjorie the other night, and this only confirms it.

"What're you staring at, then?" Isham, coming out behind me, nearly knocks me over when he runs into me.

"Do you see the bats?" I point upward.

"There's loads of bats around this place, Wilkes. I don't understand why they're so special."

"Not these bats," I say. I've seen the Institute's bats, small brown ones with black button eyes. These aren't Institute bats — for one thing, they're pitch-black, and have red eyes, and for another, their ears are large and pointed, and curve like horns. Much like an old vampire's ears. "They're vampire bats."

"Are you joking, Wilkes?" Isham sounds like he's trying very hard not to laugh. "I've never heard you joke before, but—"

"He's not joking," says Cornelius's voice from behind us. We both spin around to face him. His training tunic hangs open, and underneath his white shirt is dark with sweat. "The vampires are getting restless."

"That's no surprise," Isham says. "The bloodsuckers are always unhappy about something—"

"Richard," Cornelius growls. "Sod off."

Isham looks so surprised he doesn't respond. He just spins on the ball of his foot and scuttles off.

"Why'd you—"

"Shh." Cornelius motions me around the corner of the arena. "Come here."

I follow him, puzzled. He keeps glancing up at the bats, like he knows they might hear us.

"I know where they're going to release your friend Gifford tonight," he says, dropping the heavy satchel full of hunting gear on the ground. "Father was running his mouth this morning. Bragging about the vampires submitting to him."

"Where?" I know I sound a little too eager.

"At the Wapping High Street. There's another vampire Family there, and Father's hoping they'll snap him up."

"What? But they said—"

"Bleeding Christ, Wilkes, will you just shut your gob for a second, and let me finish?" Cornelius snaps. Then, in a tone that sounds like forced calm, he says, "Father's burned most of his bridges with the vampires anyway. They only did this because Father had made a deal with them he can't repay. Now that he's broken it, they won't help him."

"So...are you saying the vampires want to help us?"

"They won't, without something in return," Cornelius says. "But at least now they know you're not going to try and kill them all."

"Then Father's plan backfired," I say, and when I see confusion cross Cornelius's face, I elaborate. "Father wanted to make me into a vampire hunter like him, because of how Mother was killed. He wanted to get revenge on all of them. But now that we've actually helped the vampires, they've all turned against him and not me."

"He wanted you to kill all vampires?" Cornelius's brow furrows. "There's bloody millions of them."

"Just until I found the ones that murdered my mother," I say. "Then...I don't know. I'd just...be like him, I suppose."

"So Gifford..." Something seems to dawn on him. "He was made into a vampire on purpose?"

I nod. "Father's doing. Again."

"He wanted to turn you against them that way," he says. "If you thought they killed your mother and your friend."

"Yes." I know I shouldn't have underestimated Cornelius. He's smarter than I thought. "And if I slayed enough of them, I'd kill Giff without realising it. Which would in turn feed the guilt I might have from killing him. And...I guess...make me kill more of them? Father didn't seem clear on that part."

"He doesn't think that far ahead?" One of Cornelius's eyebrows goes up.

"I suppose not."

The bats' wings flapping above us alerts us to their presence again. We both look up, and see them flying around the vaulted ceiling, letting out hoarse screeches.

"What do you suppose they're thinking?" I ask, watching as one bat swoops low to look at us. I wonder if Giff can do that yet.

"If they heard everything we said, hopefully that we mean them no harm," says Cornelius.

"I think I may have a plan," I say, on the subject of the bats. "And I think it might require your cooperation."

Cornelius rolls his eyes, but he doesn't seem as irritated about it as before. "I don't know why I agree, Wilkes, but fine. What's this plan of yours?"

—

Later, evening. — I manage to evade Father's questioning by slipping out the back door when he disappears into the library. He's been spending much more time in there lately, but I'm not sure if it's genuine grief on his part or if he's playing with my mind. I stop thinking about it as I run down the snicket behind our house and emerge on the street around the corner, where I easily hail a hackney.

"Where to, sir?" the driver asks as I swing myself in.

"Wapping High Street, please," I say, sticking my head out again. "And quickly."

He hides his surprise just as quickly, flicking the reins and clicking his tongue at his horse. I bob both my knees up and down as the hackney bumps towards Wapping, wondering how exactly we're going to get Giff away from two vampire families and Solomon Selling.

"Wapping High Street, sir," says the driver, suddenly rapping on the top of the hackney. I hadn't even realised we'd stopped.

I pay him twice the fare to keep him quiet, then climb out. At this time of the evening, this is hardly the place for someone of my station to be frequenting. Now it's mostly dockworkers, dressed in heavy canvas jackets and steel-toed boots. Many are plodding towards the Town of Ramsgate, the public house further down the road. A few of them give me bleary-eyed looks, but they don't approach nor speak to me.

"Wilkes!"

I spin around, and see Cornelius's head poking out from behind a tree in the churchyard of St John's. He's looking round us as warily as I am, and when I join him he emerges cautiously. The both of us are hardly dressed to blend in — morning-coats, silk waistcoats and cravats, well-tailored trousers.

"Your father's supervision slipped for a moment too?" I ask.

He tugs at his cravat in a nervous manner. "I told Marjorie to start an argument."

"About what?"

"She figured it out," he says with a shrug. "I hope."

"And how long is this...argument supposed to last?"

"Long as it takes, I suppose."

We begin to walk, towards the Wapping Rose Gardens. Although our alliance is seemingly temporary, he's not that bad once he's alone. I still resent that he called Wells a queer, but I also understand that it was probably his father who told him that.

Then, suddenly, at the corner of Wapping Lane, Cornelius stops and throws an arm out, across my stomach.

"Look," he says, then points. "See them?"

I follow his finger, and my blood runs cold. Vampires, at least twenty of them, stand on the roof of the building just across the street. I can't see their eyes, but I can feel them looking at us. At precisely the wrong moment I realise I didn't bring anything to ward them off — no garlic, no crucifixes, no iron.

"If we don't pose a threat to them, they won't hurt us," he says.

"Are you sure about that?"

At that second I see two figures emerge from Clave Street, behind the vampires. One holds a large bulky object, and I can tell it's a vampire just by the faint light glinting off its hairless white head. Behind the vampire, in a heavy overcoat and top hat, is someone much shorter — but very clearly male.

"It's Father," says Cornelius hoarsely. "And the father of the King's Bench Street vampire family."

"What's the vampire holding?" I whisper back. I hadn't been able to account for what form Giff would actually be in, so I'd had to leave that part up to improvisation.

Before Cornelius can answer, the King's Bench vampire whips off what appears to be a cloth from a cage. Inside it is a bat, beating its wings against the bars of the cage and letting out high-pitched screeches.

"That's Giff," I say, as the realisation hits.

"What does your brilliant improvisational plan say we do now?" Cornelius asks.

"We have to wait. Just a moment." My mind races, trying to think of something that won't get us killed. We're completely outnumbered and defenseless, except for the obvious one: running. We could easily outrun Solomon, but not the vampires. They have heightened senses, enhanced speed, and can fly.

I see my chance when one of the pubs on our side of the street opens and spits out a large crowd of drunken men. We can lose them in the confusion, with so much warm blood around here. They won't be able to find us.

"Now!" I hiss.

We both dash forward, passing right under the first few vampires perched on the roof seconds before a brawl breaks out, two men beginning to pound each other in the middle of the street.

It's Solomon who sees me first, his eyes widening as he recognises me.

"You...?" he starts, before I curl my fist and swing it straight at his face. I make contact, and it sends a vibrating pain all the way up into my shoulder. He staggers backwards, and I have to break stride to kick him in the chest before he can recover. I hear Giff screeching, and Cornelius grunting, and the clatter of the cage, but I can't tell what's going on. It's too dark to see anything.

Then the vampires are swooping all around us, the wind they stir up threatening to knock us off our feet. I cover my head and drop to the ground, and then a hand seizes me by the back of my collar and pulls me up again.

"Come on, Wilkes!" Cornelius shouts in my ear. "We've got to go!"

I don't hesitate. I let him pull me along until I can stand up properly, and we pelt headlong away from the chaos breaking out behind us, Giff's bat-screeches accompanying us.

—

We turn corners at random, not even glancing at the street names. In fact, I'm not even sure anyone's after us, but since I just stuck one on Solomon Selling and we now have a stolen vampire babe with us, it's probably only a matter of time before someone figures out we're guilty.

"All right, all right..." Cornelius skids to a halt, right before he steps into a deep puddle that I've just avoided. We're somewhere deep in one of the slums, Whitechapel or Spitalfields or even Shoreditch. It certainly feels like we've run that far. "I can't run any further."

He sets Giff's cage on the ground and bends double, hands on his knees as he tries to catch his breath. Even at this hour I can see numerous pairs of eyes peeking at us through windows, cracks, and the dark crooked alleyways. Tenements loom above us, leaning on each other like the drunks we'd just left behind. A scrawny dog with its ribs showing and hair falling out in patches emerges from the alley nearest us, its glinting eyes staring right at Giff. The bat-Giff flaps his wings and lets out a squeak.

"I think they can tell we're not from around here," I say, stepping around the puddle again to join Cornelius. Rustlings are coming from all sides now, even though I can't see them.

"Oh, really?" Cornelius pants. "What gave you that impression, Wilkes?"

I can't believe it. He's actually using sarcasm on me.

"Hoi, guv'," says a raspy voice from the stoop near us, and a ragged, toothless man unfolds himself from it. "They's some fine threads yer wearin'."

"They's gennelmen," says a second voice, a woman's, undoubtedly made rough by drink and smoking. "See how clean they is?"

I feel the woman's hand on my shoulder immediately after, and I can smell her breath — definitely alcohol.

"Say, 'e's a bonny 'un," says the man, pointing at me. "Look at 'is face, Eartha."

The woman's hand seizes my chin and turns me to look at her. She's younger than I thought, probably my age — although the makeup caked on her face ages her. She isn't dressed like a harlot, instead wearing a man's baggy overcoat and a thin ragged dress. But her face gives her away.

"'E's bonny, right," says Eartha, letting go of me and sidling up to Cornelius. He tries to shy away, but she latches onto his arm and runs a grubby finger down his cheek. "But this 'un's a strappin' bloke. Real strong 'ere, like."

At that I see her squeeze Cornelius's upper arm, and his mouth tightens.

It's when my focus slips that I see it: their human features, both Eartha's and the man's, flicker. Underneath is a horror of rolling eyes, withered black skin, and grinning teeth not hidden by lips, if they had any.

I know what these creatures are: banshees. I've never seen a male one before, although I know they exist. But they, like the vampires, werewolves, and the other creatures we've been trained to hunt, have been pushed to the fringes of society, forced to live in poverty and grub about in the mud. Unlike those creatures, however, they don't live in organised groups — like vampire families or werewolf packs — and will only band together if they see mutual benefit. Like right now, for instance.

"Hoi, then I get this 'un," says the man, coming up to me and seizing my elbow. "Fresh li'l yuman babe, even more 'n that 'un."

"Tha's a'right," Eartha says with a cackle. "I like 'em big n' strong."

Giff, in the cage, screeches and beats his wings so hard it tips on one edge. He sounds scared and his movements are frantic, his body bouncing around the inside and making the cage rock from side to side.

"Wha's wrong wit' 'im?" Eartha pauses, still with a tight hold on Cornelius, glancing from the cage to the man holding on to me.

"Why don't'cha ask yer pup?"

Suddenly, with a whoosh of air, the man next to me is suddenly headless. His body crumples to the ground. A second beheads Eartha, cutting her scream off before it turns dangerous. A hand, human this time, seizes the front of my morning-coat and yanks me around behind a figure dressed in a swirling black cape.

"Are you trying to get yourselves killed?" hisses a very familiar voice, making a wave of relief wash over me.

It's Wells. Which means we're safe now.