Timecurse Read online

  Praise for the series:

  “Enough hellish mystery to have you drooling for the next in the series”

  Observer

  “An exciting romp”

  Daily Telegraph

  “Wild and gripping . . . brilliant”

  Sunday Express

  “Atmospheric”

  Independent

  “Brilliant”

  Times Educational Supplement

  “This is a real cracker! The thrills and chills come thick and fast”

  Gateway Monthly

  “Full of spine-chilling characters and stomach-turning action”

  Herald Express

  “It’s got more terror and thrills than you could get your fangs into”

  Liverpool Echo

  Titles by Tom Becker

  Darkside

  Lifeblood

  Nighttrap

  Timecurse

  Blackjack

  The Traitors

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for the DARKSIDE series

  Titles by Tom Becker

  Title page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Dare to discover more

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Dexter Scabble was having a very bad day.

  As the clock neared midnight, Dexter, a sinuous weasel of a man with a pencil-thin moustache, could be seen hastening along the Grand, Darkside’s main street. Above the coughing chimneys that peppered the skyline, clouds were drifting sullenly across a tar-black sky, and the air was crisp and cold with the promise of a long, deep winter. Typically for the late hour, the pavements were heaving with a surly congress of hustlers and ne’er-do-wells. Usually in such a crowd, the only things Scabble would see were opportunities for profit: deals to be struck, scams to be set up, unwary punters to be conned. But tonight, everywhere he looked, all he could see was the glowering, threatening face of one man: Elias Carnegie.

  Scabble’s problems had begun innocuously enough, with a tip-off that a stack of crates filled with exotic silks had been left unattended in a warehouse on Devil’s Wharf. To Scabble’s mind, this was an act of almost criminal negligence. Indeed, it had proved child’s play to sneak into the warehouse in the middle of the night, remove the crates, and give them a new home in the cramped back office of Scabble Trading, Inc.

  The elegant silks were of the finest quality, and Scabble was hopeful of pocketing a tidy sum from their sale. He was therefore surprised when none of his contacts would touch them – not even Four-Fingered Albert, and he was famed as the least discerning fence in Darkside. The reason for their reluctance soon became clear: the word on the street was that the noblewoman who had ordered the silks had hired the wereman Carnegie to retrieve them for her. With the private detective’s reputation for brutal efficiency known across the rotten borough, Scabble was advised to dump the silks into the river and lie low until the heat wore off.

  Even now, as he cut across the stream of carriages and hansom cabs that rumbled along the Grand, Scabble knew that the wereman was closing in on him. A lifetime spent hustling had given Scabble a sixth sense where danger was concerned, and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing bolt upright. Convinced that someone was watching him, the thief glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Carnegie’s trademark stovepipe hat bobbing up from the crowds.

  Further along the street, a handful of passengers were alighting from an omnibus that had drawn up outside Kinski’s Theatre of the Macabre. Scabble waited until the horses were pulling away from the pavement, and then, at the last moment, threw himself on to the back of the vehicle. Ignoring the angry protests of the conductor, he tossed the man a coin and scanned the pavement behind him, noting with satisfaction that no one had followed him. As the omnibus weaved in and out of the traffic along the Grand, Scabble maintained a constant vigil. Every passenger was a potential threat, from the urchins sizing up which pockets to pick to the old crones swapping stories of revenge in the seats near the driver. Only when Scabble was sure that Carnegie could be nowhere near did he pull the passenger cord to bring the omnibus to a stop, and step down lightly on to the flagstones.

  He found himself on a quieter street towards the south of the borough, where lone passers-by scurried from the safety of one street lamp to another. Devil’s Wharf was within walking distance, meaning that Scabble could get back to the office and dispose of the crates before the clock struck one.

  He was still congratulating himself on his smart getaway when a pair of strong hands reached out from the gloom of an alleyway, grabbed Scabble by the lapels of his jacket, and pinned him up against the nearest wall. The thief found himself looking into a grizzled face and a pair of dark eyes that burned with a bestial hunger.

  “Hello, Dexter,” the man growled. He grinned, revealing a row of sharp incisors jammed with scraps of meat.

  “Carnegie!” Scabble spluttered, attempting to tip his bowler hat in a greeting. “What a surprise! How on Darkside did you find me?”

  “Followed the smell.”

  “Right, yes,” Scabble replied, silently cursing his stupidity. No wonder he had failed to lose Carnegie – it would have been child’s play for the wereman to track his scent. “What can I do for you?”

  “This morning I had a visit from a Lady Crystal della Rosa. I’m sure you’ll know the name. The poor lady was extremely distressed – it seems a consignment of very expensive silks has disappeared. For some reason, when I thought about things mysteriously vanishing down at Devil’s Wharf, your name popped into my head. Now, why do you suppose that might be?”

  “Carnegie – I’m hurt!” Scabble said indignantly. “I’m as honest as the day is long!”

  “The sun went down hours ago, and I’ve got better things to do than listen to you lie. Either tell me where you’ve stashed Lady Crystal’s silks, or my good mood is going to evaporate.”

  “I don’t know anything, I swear!”

  “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

  The wereman threw his head back and howled, his claws digging into Scabble’s skin. The trader shut his eyes, whimpering with fear, and prepared for the worst. But before a blow could land, there came a sound from high above their heads – the slow, sonorous tolling of a bell.

  Scabble cautiously opened one eye, and saw that the wereman had frozen. There was a look of complete misery on his face.

  “I don’t believe it!” he growled.

  Neither could Scabble. By decree, only one bell was allowed in Darkside, and it had only rung twice before in more than a century. The bell was located in a tower far away over the rooftops towards the west of the borough, at Blackchapel, the sprawling palace that served as the seat of power for the Rippers – the ruling family of Darkside.

  “The Blackchapel Bell!” Scabble squeaked with relief.

  “Well, obviously. Thomas Ripper must have died.”

 
“And in the nick of time,” the trader added quickly. “Bless his dear departed soul.”

  The wereman released Scabble from his grasp and took a step back. As the bell continued to echo around the surrounding houses, curtains were drawn swiftly across windows, and keys turned firmly in locks. Scabble looked up at the sound of running footsteps to see a hawker haring down the street, wares spilling from the suitcase stashed underneath his arm.

  “Looks like everyone’s running for cover,” Scabble said, with a mock sigh. “I guess it’s not so surprising. With the Ripper dead, the Bow Street Runners will be out on the streets. And if they’re as mean as I’ve heard they are, people are best off indoors.”

  “Their reputation is well earned,” Carnegie said meaningfully. “I was here the last time they were about.”

  “Then you’ll know how keen they are to maintain order while there’s no Ripper on the throne. Probably not the best time to be manhandling innocent citizens, then, wouldn’t you say?”

  Carnegie gave him a baleful look. “You must have been born under a lucky sign, Dexter.”

  His composure returning, Scabble smoothed down his jacket and casually brushed off some animal hairs. The wereman looked as though he was about to take a swing at the thief, but then thought better of it.

  “My, my,” Scabble tutted. “Your temper will be your downfall, Elias, mark my words. I’m willing to let this unfortunate incident pass, but next time it’ll be my moral duty to have a word with the Runners. I won’t be so understanding again.”

  “Me neither.” The wereman grinned suddenly. “The Blood Succession doesn’t last for ever. I can wait.”

  With that final threat, Carnegie patted Scabble on the face with a clawed hand and loped away into the night. The thief puffed out his cheeks. He knew how fortunate he had been. The death of Darkside’s ruler heralded the beginning of the Blood Succession – a period when the Ripper’s heirs would prepare for a battle to the death, in order to determine who would take up the throne. Until Thomas’s successor was crowned, order in the borough was maintained by the Bow Street Runners. Usually confined within Blackchapel, these fearsome creatures only took to the streets in the most severe of emergencies. With the Runners looking unfavourably upon such everyday Darkside activities as brawling, stealing and murder, even Elias Carnegie had to watch his step. At a stroke, Scabble had dodged a beating from the wereman, and bought himself enough time to get rid of those cursed silks. Even with the Runners about, he could probably still sell them piecemeal on the street. Perhaps this affair could have a happy and profitable ending after all.

  Buoyed by his narrow escape, Scabble set off for his dock-front office with a spring in his step. He strode through the darkness along the wooden decking, whistling a jaunty tune to himself. A dilapidated sign advertising the office of Scabble Trading, Inc, creaked in the salty breeze as Scabble fumbled with the key to the front door. He was just about to enter the building when the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention for the second time that night.

  Scabble peered out towards the end of the pier, where the shadows congregated beyond the reach of a fog lamp. A tall figure was silently watching him, his cloak billowing out over the water’s edge.

  “Who’s there?” Scabble called out.

  “Do I really need to introduce myself?” the man said, stepping into the light.

  Scabble gasped. He was confronted by a pale, handsome man who leaned on an expensive ivory cane, a blood-red velvet waistcoat visible through the opening in his cloak. Although the man was smiling, his expression held all the warmth of an arctic wind. His heart sinking, Scabble wondered what higher power he had offended to deserve this run of luck.

  “Mr Vendetta, sir!” he cried out. “It seems to be my day for meeting dignitaries. First Carnegie, and now you!”

  “I would hardly classify that mongrel as a dignitary,” Vendetta said sharply.

  What on earth was Vendetta doing here? The richest man in Darkside moved in privileged circles of which Scabble could only dream. But Vendetta was more than just a businessman; he had long maintained a reputation as one of the most feared men in the borough. Rumours abounded that he possessed dark powers – there were whispers of bodies found face down in the grounds of Vendetta Heights, puncture marks in their necks. Vampire or not, Scabble knew one thing: if Vendetta was here, he was in serious trouble.

  “Quite a surprise seeing you in these humble surroundings, sir.”

  Vendetta inclined his head, an amused expression on his face.

  “Did you hear the bells, sir?” Scabble tried again, a little desperately. “Thomas Ripper’s died. I’ll wager the Bow Street Runners are already on the streets.”

  Vendetta chuckled mirthlessly. “Come, come, Scabble, there’s no need to be afraid. You won’t be needing their protection. If I wanted you dead, you’d already be so. As it happens, I want you to help me.”

  “Help you, sir? Me?”

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures. And they don’t get more desperate than you, Scabble. As it happens, Thomas’s death has greater implications than you could possibly imagine. It means time is running out on a long-term plan of mine, and I find myself in need of a man with your particular . . . talents.”

  “Of course, sir,” Scabble said, trembling as Vendetta drew near, “if there’s anything I can do to help you, I’d be honoured.”

  “I rather thought you might be. Now, listen closely. . .”

  With that, Vendetta whipped his cloak around Scabble’s shoulders, and enveloped him in darkness.

  1

  No matter how long she thought about it afterwards, Kate Riley could never quite explain why, on a chilly November morning, she decided to follow Jonathan Starling. At the time, it seemed such an insignificant act; Kate could never have imagined how it would turn her world upside down.

  The very fact that she had noticed him in the first place was unusual – after all, Jonathan excelled at being forgettable. Kate had first caught sight of him on the games field three years earlier. He was standing apart from the others near the touchline, shivering in the cold, hands bunched up in the long sleeves of his shirt. His hair made frantic distress signals in the breeze. Though the game was in full progress, no one seemed aware that Jonathan was there – the PE teacher nearly trod on his foot as he ran past to blow up for a foul. Half a field away, waiting for her hockey game to start, Kate felt as though she was the only person who was aware of the boy’s existence. On the way back to the changing rooms, she pointed Jonathan out to her friends and asked if any of them knew him. They shrugged and shook their heads, then changed the subject.

  From that moment on, however, Kate maintained a secret surveillance on Jonathan. Why she was so interested, she couldn’t say: it wasn’t as though he was good-looking. He drifted around the school grounds like a ghost, rarely talking to anyone. Sometimes he was in lessons, sometimes he wasn’t. Sometimes Kate would see him walk out through the school gates in the middle of the day, right under the noses of teachers. Sometimes a tiny woman would pull up in a car by the front entrance and drive him away. It seemed that no matter what he did, no one took any notice.

  And then, one day, he vanished completely.

  Normally, the school would have been in uproar over such an occurrence, but the reaction to Jonathan’s disappearance was muted. The police came to school to interview the pupils, only to learn that most of them had never even heard of the missing boy. Kate kept her mouth shut, and pretended she didn’t know him either. Before long Jonathan’s name had been removed from the registers, and he had become little more than a quiz question: “Remember that weird lad who went missing? Did they ever find him? What was his name again . . . something Johnson, wasn’t it?”

  It would be nearly a year until she saw him again, twelve months of Kate’s life which had gone by depressingly slowly. Her mum and dad seemed to be fightin
g all the time. Kate wasn’t sure what they were even arguing about – something to do with her dad going out late at night. At first she thought he was having an affair, until one night he returned home bleeding and covered in bruises. Kate’s mum angrily accused him of breaking old promises; he snapped back that it was something in his nature, and that she could never understand. As the shouting got louder, Kate closed her bedroom door and turned up her stereo.

  One morning she woke up to discover that her parents had been too busy arguing to do the ironing, and by the time Kate had sorted out her uniform she was late. She reached school to find the hallways and corridors already deserted, her footsteps echoing loudly in the hush. Nearing her form room, Kate raced through a set of double doors and rounded the corner only to crash headlong into another person. The impact sent her sprawling to the floor. Before she could react, a hand pulled her up firmly, and she found herself face to face with Jonathan Starling.

  Kate stared at him, open-mouthed. To her mounting amazement, his face broke into a grin. She had never seen him smile before.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, a trace of amusement in his voice. “I tried to get out of the way, but you were a bit too quick for me. You OK?”

  “Fine,” Kate managed, her cheeks flushed. “My fault. It’s just, I’m really late. . .”

  “Yeah. Me too,” Jonathan replied, looking unconcerned. “It’s my first day back, and I’ve kind of forgotten where everything is.”

  “You were away for a while.” She phrased it as a statement, not a question.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good to be back?”

  Jonathan shrugged. “I guess.” He looked around, sizing up his surroundings. “We should go. After all, you’re only getting later.”

  He turned to leave.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Jonathan,” Kate blurted out.

  At the mention of his name, he stopped and looked back at her, the smile replaced by a look of curiosity.