Page 81 of Angel of Vengeance

Proctor spent ten minutes checking the main electrical leads and a few of the more unstable components, satisfying himself that the thing was inert—and would stay that way. Task accomplished, he made a circuit of the room, his flashlight illuminating every corner. He picked up the empty buckshot shells and pocketed them with the others. Then, as he rose in preparation to leave, he noticed three small droplets of blood. They were at the base of the platform where the portal normally appeared. Dipping a hand into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief, knelt, and carefully wiped them away.

“Neatly done, Constance,” he murmured in a low, admiring voice, as he returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “Very neatly done indeed.”

Then he rose, turned off the emergency lighting, stepped over to the door, exited, locked it behind him—and vanished into the gloom of the basement hallway.

EPILOGUE

Five Months Later

(One Hundred and Forty-Five Years Earlier)

THE AFTERNOON SUN SHONE benevolently over the Austrian town of Baden bei Wien, nestled deep in the heart of the Vienna Woods. In the late nineteenth century, a time when people were obsessed with European spas, Baden was distinguished for its long history. The town dated back to the Romans, when it was known as Aquae Cetiæ. For centuries the area’s fourteen hot springs, rich in healing minerals, had drawn people from all over the world. These were pilgrims eager to “take the cure” and bask in the town’s lush gardens and brilliant promenades, seeking a restorative retreat from the bustle of the Gilded Age.

Among the finest of Baden’s establishments was the Grand Hotel Flußblick. It had been built two centuries earlier, sited next to a dramatic waterfall. Over the years, the force of the water had widened and deepened the flume, and the hotel had responded—not by retreating to safer ground, but by reinforcing its granite footings and adding top-floor suites with magnificent views. In some future day the entire construct, foundation and all, might tumble into the spume like the Rhodian Colossus—but at present it was quite safe, if vertiginous, and the presence of the mighty waterfall only added a delicious thrill to the wealthy and privileged who stayed there.

A second-floor balcony, perched alongside the great falls, presented guests with a dramatic view of the rushing water. In the calm of a bright and sunny morning, this L-shaped balcony afforded a direct view over the thundering cataract for breakfast or lunch. But as the sun made its way across the sky, afternoon zephyrs began moving through the gorge—frequently carrying a fine mist toward that section of the balcony—and the staff moved the furniture around the corner, facing the hotel’s front. Everything, naturally, would return to its original place overlooking the waterfall in time for the next morning’s breakfast.

On this particular afternoon, Cedric, Lord Jayeaux, reclined on a chaise lounge placed on this forward-facing balcony, next to his traveling companion, Livia. He was occupied by a languorous admiration of his clothing and its accoutrements: a linen suit the color of faded apricot; bicolored cap-toe oxfords; and his favorite snakewood walking stick, freshly waxed and gleaming. A few minutes earlier he had given it a lazy roll into the sunlight, the better to admire its subtle taper, the rich cloisonné enamel inlaid with Chinese cinnabar that adorned the handle. At last, he glanced at his pocket watch, then raised his eyes to look beyond the topiary, toward the Schwechat River, the Casino dì Baden, and the verdant green bowl of the Vienna Basin beyond.

In such idle moments, Diogenes Pendergast would occasionally reflect on his decision to remain in this nineteenth-century world. As the weeks had passed, he’d come to realize more and more that it had been an excellent, if not brilliant, choice. It was a simpler world than the one he had fled. A compromised world, of course—as dispassionately cruel as it was dispassionately just—but the cruelties were of a more straightforward nature, done with less hypocrisy and self-justification. In places like Dodge City and the Black Hills, men of ugly aspirations were busily killing off the buffalo and forcing Native Americans from their ancestral lands. Black people, although technically freed by the Civil War, remained disenfranchised in the South. Nobel had recently invented dynamite, naively believing that the horror of its destructive power would make war obsolete. Cruel: yes, without a shred of doubt. At the same time, in Menlo Park, New Jersey, Thomas Edison had just created his first high-resistance incandescent bulb—and in Berlin, Robert Koch was doing work leading to the discovery of the tuberculosis bacterium.

A waiter in tails and a starched white shirt approached their balcony table and spoke to Diogenes’s companion. “Möchten Sie noch etwas trinken?” he asked in an unctuous tone.

“Noch ein Campari und Limonade, danke,” said Livia. Diogenes glanced at her; she looked resplendent in her pale-lime gown, with its plunge neck and half a dozen ruffled tiers.

“Das gleiche,” Diogenes told the man, who bowed and disappeared. His musings interrupted, he kept his face toward Livia. “My dear, I believe you’re picking up German even faster than Italian.”

“When the subject turns to such things as ordering dresses, dinner, or diamonds—at least—I do appear something of a savant.”

Livia, to his good fortune, was turning out to be the perfect traveling companion for a grand world tour. A literary upbringing had endowed her with a curious mind and charming turn of phrase. A nasty change in the family’s fortunes as a child had acquainted her with self-reliance and self-preservation. And she displayed an in-the-moment philosophy that could best be described as cultured hedonism. Diogenes, who previously had been forced to play tutor to his affaires de coeur, was astonished to find Livia teaching him things—not only in the elegant halls of art museums, but in the boudoir as well.

“I’m glad to see you enjoying your Campari,” he told her. “It’s rather an acquired taste.”

“One of many highlights of Italy, thanks to you. Along with the Pietà, the chiffon peignoir you gave me… and the bout of amoebiasis from those mussels you insisted I dine on in Napoli.”

“Shigellosis. My apologies.”

Livia shrugged it off with a laugh. “It’s always a gamble, isn’t it? Eating in the most expensive restaurant isn’t necessarily safer than a Sullivan Street watering hole.”

This was a perfect example of what secretly pleased him most: her insouciance at his offering the medical term for her discomfort… despite the fact shigella would not be discovered for another decade or two. He knew that Livia, nothing if not observant, understood there was something absolutely unusual about him, but she was also clever enough not to question or become too curious.

“As to the Campari,” he went on, “do you suppose the crushed cochineals add flavor to the liqueur or simply give the drink its carmine hue?” He was referring to the soft-bodied insects that endowed the drink with its distinctive color.

“I assume that observation was intended to disgust me?” She smiled, then took a sip, pretending to consider. “Since you ask, I suspect the bugs’ only contribution is to the hue. But I must admit each time I take a sip, I expect to find a tiny, hairy leg on my tongue: like a burdock on some cowboy’s chaps.”

Diogenes allowed himself a laugh. “Touché!” The fresh drinks arrived and they raised glasses; then Diogenes sat back again, sipping his drink and enjoying the warm air.

Earlier, he’d toyed with the idea of using his knowledge to gain power and prestige, but he quickly realized this would be a terrible mistake. Hubris like that always led to a downfall, usually a fatal one. He now saw himself as someone more like Charles Swann—though Proust would not create this literary character for another thirty years—a man of taste, erudition, and wealth, who could move easily in circles beneath or above his own without bringing attention to himself.

After he’d satisfied himself that the portal was well and permanently closed—thus severing all connection with his former world—he had Bloom and his men quickly deconstruct and clear the alley. He paid them off handsomely and sent them on their way. In their absence, Enoch Leng, poisoned by Constance, had taken up residence in the alley almost immediately, waiting for the portal to reopen, and Diogenes had taken advantage of this opportunity to brand the dying man’s face… a suitable parting gift, all things considered.

He quickly got rid of the Right Reverend Considine—called back to England by an urgent summons—although to quell any inquiries, Diogenes made sure Considine donated a most handsome sum to the local Methodist elders, ensuring the House of Industry and the Mission would be well provided for… and serve the purpose their founders had intended.

That left him with one more duty to perform before he and Livia could begin the grand tour he envisioned. He went up to the wreckage of the Riverside Drive mansion and explored the debris for incriminating details. He was satisfied to see that the basement and its collections and labs were thoroughly destroyed, and the pirate lair now hidden under rubble. When the Aloysius of this timeline ultimately made his way north from New Orleans to New York, Diogenes mused, his brother would simply have to make do with the Dakota. And, of course, there would be no Leng for him to deal with in that timeline. But having settled these matters, such thoughts were no longer Diogenes’s concern—he’d brought along enough medicine, and other useful items, in his valise when he’d leapt through that portal to keep himself and Livia relatively insulated from the problems of the day—and he was now embarking on a new life.

His musings were again interrupted, this time by movement: a man, approaching in the distance. “Livia,” he said, “princess of my violet-scented dreams—would you mind raising your lorgnette and directing it toward the main stairway for just a moment?”

His companion did as requested.

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