The unconscious poet was returned to the bay beside Burton’s. A few minutes later, the Enochians locked Darwin and Lister into another before gathering at the tunnel mouth and filing out through it. They didn’t appear to notice Raghavendra’s absence.

Aleister Crowley approached Burton and with a cruel smile said, “I forgot to tell you, Isabel was perfectly delicious. How are you bearing up without her?”

Burton stared at him silently for a moment, then said, “She and I once talked about how we’d like to be laid to rest. We settled on a mausoleum. I now realise my post-mortem circumstances will be quite different.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I shall spend eternity in hell with my hands clamped around your throat.”

Crowley laughed. “After what I intend for you, that is quite probable. I’m going to work my way through all those you hold dear, Burton. Swinburne first, then Monckton Milnes, Thomas Bendyshe, Charles Bradlaugh, Edward Brabrooke—oh, I know them all. You’ll watch them die slowly and painfully until your life is desolate.” He clapped his hands. “But such amusements are for tomorrow. First I have a couple of parliaments and royal families to kill. Wait here. I’ll return for you. Perhaps we can lunch together.”

He turned away and walked toward the tunnel.

“Why, Crowley?” Burton shouted after him. “Why me?”

The Trans-Temporal Man looked back, blinked his unnerving eyes, and deliberated for a moment before answering. “In truth? Because you’re the only person I fear.”

He departed.

Burton slammed his hands against the gate. “Damn him! Damn him!”

He heard a crash from Krishnamurthy and Bhatti’s cell.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to kick my way out,” Bhatti called. “Unsuccessfully. All I’ve managed to do is hurt my blasted foot. For the love of God, do we have to remain here with no idea of what’s happening?”

Burton signalled to Honesty and they put their shoulders to the gate. The heavy wrought iron didn’t budge. The explorer spat an oath and began to examine every inch of the cell. He looked for loose bricks, for a removable flagstone, for a means to lever the barrier from its hinges; he found nothing.

Swinburne groaned.

A voice hissed, “Are they all gone?”

“Trounce!” Burton exclaimed. “Is that you? Yes, we’re alone. How did you find us?”

Detective Inspector Trounce stepped into view, a revolver in his hand. Eliphas Levi and Montague Penniforth followed behind him.

“We waited at the power station,” the policeman said. “When you didn’t return, we came looking for you. We’d just descended into the other catacomb when Sister Raghavendra appeared. She’s gone on to warn Brunel. Is it true? There’s a bomb?”

“It’s true. Get us out of here.”

“Here, let me, guv’nor,” Penniforth rumbled. He stepped forward, gripped the gate near its hinges, put a foot against the wall, and heaved. While he pulled, Burton and Honesty pushed, and after a few seconds of straining, the gate suddenly gave, its hinges breaking free of the brickwork in an explosion of red dust.

The giant cabbie applied himself to the other cells, and in short order all the prisoners were liberated.

“Mon Dieu!” Levi cried out upon seeing Swinburne, who emerged a ragged and bloody mess.

“It’s all right, monsieur,” the poet said. “I’m stinging all over, but it’s perfectly delicious.” He reached up and gingerly felt a large lump on his head. “Apart from this.”

“And you, Monsieur Honesty?” the Frenchman asked. “Comment allez-vous?”

“Regaining some strength,” Honesty answered.

“Très bon! Your weakness is to be expected, but Perdurabo, he possess you only for a few days. You will soon recover, I think.”

“We have to get to the power station at once,” Burton said.

Krishnamurthy addressed Trounce and Levi, “If you don’t mind loaning Bhatti and me your revolvers, sirs, we’ll set off back along the Effra. While you attack the Enochians from the front, we’ll surprise them from the rear.”

The police officer and occultist handed over their weapons and ammunition. Krishnamurthy and Bhatti saluted, said, “Good luck all,” and departed.

“We’ll leave Darwin and Lister,” Burton said, looking at the scientist and surgeon, who were sitting blank-eyed in a cell. “They’re still under Crowley’s mesmeric spell but have obviously played their part for the moment, else he wouldn’t have left them here. We’ll send someone to pick them up.”

He led the remaining group to the secret passage and through to the other catacomb. As they proceeded, Trounce explained, “The violence and hysteria in the Cauldron are out of hand. We managed to prevent the rioters from marching westward but they won’t be contained for another night. The whole city is threatened. As for the less infuriated residents, we’ve evacuated thousands. They’re all scared to death.”

“There are many strigoi morti,” Levi added. “You are correct about Vincent Sneed, who destroy Big Ben. He is one. I stake and behead him. But your boy, Bram, he have nearly a hundred more reports of un-dead. At night, the East End is their place of hunting. In day, they sleep in the cellars and dark places. How we destroy them all, je ne sais pas. It seem impossible.”

They emerged into the vaults, passed Solomon, who was lying handcuffed on the floor—“I’ll send a constable for you,” Trounce promised—climbed the stairs to the church, and ran out into the morning rain, which was falling steadily from a leaden sky.

“Our rotorchairs are at the cemetery entrance,” the detective stated. “I told Sister Raghavendra to take one. There’s not enough left for all of us.”

“I’ll find one o’ me mates what’s in the business of cabbyin’,” Penniforth said. “I’ll get to the station in a jiffy. Anyways, I much prefers wheels to wings.” He touched the brim of his cloth cap and raced away.

“We have our machines parked nearby,” Burton said. “Mr. Honesty, you come with us. You and Algy are slightly built. His rotorchair will bear you both.”

The party split in two, and ten minutes later four rotorchairs soared above the rainclouds and sped northward.

It was early and cold and Burton had no recollection of his last full night’s sleep. Every part of him hurt: bones aching; flesh bruised; emotions savagely suppressed. He still hadn’t properly grieved. Isabel’s death was like a knife that couldn’t be removed lest the blood start flowing. It stabbed him through the heart but he would not—must not—acknowledge the damage. Not yet.

Don’t think of Isabel.

Don’t think of William Stroyan.

Don’t think of John Steinhaueser.

Think only of Aleister Crowley—of killing him.

Ahead, the tips of the four towers of Battersea Power Station poked out of the clouds. Burton sent his flying machine down into the wet shroud. The rain drummed against him. He plunged out of the vapour. To his left, the bulk of the Sagittarius humped up from the airfield. Visibility was poor, but as far as he could make out, there weren’t many people around it. If Crowley had an army of a hundred, he could hijack the battleship with ease.

Drawing to a halt above the power station’s quadrangle, the explorer eased his machine to the ground. As its rotors slowed to a stop, the other chairs descended, Swinburne’s slamming down heavily thanks to its additional weight.

The men ran to the entrance and were met by Daniel Gooch.

“Sister Raghavendra has told us what’s what,” he said. “We’ve gathered our forces—about fifty men. Come and arm yourselves.”

“El Yezdi?” Burton asked as they stepped into the immense workshop.

“Fading fast. I’m afraid these are his final hours, Sir Richard. Do you want to see him?”

The explorer hesitated then said, “There’s no time.”

A technician approached and handed him a Beaumont–Adams revolver and box of bullets. Trounce, Levi, Swinburne, and Honesty received the same.