The Devil of the Charnel Bridge
âDonât cross the bridge when bells fall still,
Donât whistle where his shadow lies,
For those who tempt the crimson will
Shall wear that color in their eyes.
They say he was not born of man,
But raised from ash where martyrs bled,
And walks the earth since time began
To count the living from the dead.
So mothers rock their babes to sleep
With tales of him who walks the stone:
âSleep soft, my dear, and do not weep
The red Death walks, but walks alone.â
The bridge was called, by those bold enough to name it, the Charnel; and it wound, gaunt and grey as a rib laid bare, from the teeming square to the fringe of that white basilica which watched over the town. What walked upon it, no living soul could say with certainty, for certainty was a luxury the town had long since buried with its dead. But they knew him. They knew him in the marrow, in the sudden hush of birds, in the prickling of skin that has learned, through generation upon generation of dread, to recognise its own doom.
He was called nothing. He was called everything the tongue feared to shape into a name. The Devil of the Charnel Bridge, some murmured, crossing themselves; others, more cautious still, would not murmur even that, only glance toward the bridgeâs black arch and quicken their step homeward. His hatredâfor it was hatred, the villagers agreed, and not any heaven sent benevolenceâfollowed them down the moonless alleys, curling into the corners of their lives, into their marriage beds, into the cradles of their children. When his shadow fell across the cobbles, the sulfur-gleam of his eyes beneath that low red hood was said to be the last mercy a sinner might receive: a single instant in which to repent before the axe.
They said he wandered through the woods, through the empty fields beyond the walls, leaving behind only silence and the terrible knowledge that evil had a face. A reaper.
No one had ever seen the Devilâs face. No one, save the Pope himself and the heavens above, where even the most hidden soul was known.
The people believed that such a creature walking among them was the reason they slept peacefully at night. That a monster guarding their gates was a necessary sacrifice; a bargain struck between heaven and humanity: their safety in exchange for another manâs damnation.Â
Niccolò had begun, of late, to believe this too, though whether from conviction or from the particular exhaustion of a man newly acquainted with his own mortality, he could not have said.
The stitches tugged cruelly at the linen with every step, and he set his teeth against the small violence of it. The limp he no longer needed to feign; the wound had seen to that honestly enough, teaching his body a new and unlovely rhythm of pain. Usually, Niccolò took great care to ensure the servants knew nothing of his movements, as secrets were far more valuable when kept untouched.
This time, however, circumstances had made secrecy impossible.
The carriage drew up before the Howard Boxing Club, that low, smoke-blackened temple where London went to worship violence for an eveningâs amusement. But Niccolò had not come for spectacle, he had come for something rarer than sport: a silence that might be purchased. A fighter, hungry enough for patronage to ask no questions, willing to wear the Devilâs own red, and play at being doom, so that Niccolò might, at last, conduct his revenge beneath another manâs shadow.
After all, what better proof was there that every man was mortal than a wound carved into his flesh?
He stood near the edge of the room, watching the fighters below, studying their movements and their weaknesses, waiting for something more than brute strength. Nearly an hour passed before a familiar figure caught his attention, mister Nalan Das.Â
The name summoned little beyond what rumour and a well-paid investigator had furnished: wealth, a Cambridge education, an ambition sharp enough to cut. What, Niccolò wondered, could such a man be seeking in a boxing club on a night when no fights were held? What does any gentleman seek, in such a place, in such an hour, but something he dare not seek in daylight?
âMister Das, what a felicity to find you here.â Niccolòâs smile showed every tooth it owned. Tag, he thought, youâre it. âI fear we have not been properly acquainted.â He extended a gloved hand. âNiccolò Salvatore, Count of Valmonti.â
His gaze drifted past him, returning to the fighters below. None of them caught his interest. None possessed what he required.
âPerhaps you might assist me with a small predicament?â he continued, tapping his cane lightly against the floor. âYou see, I was attacked some nights ago. Since then, I have decided that a man in my position would be foolish not to seek protection.â
He tilted his head toward the fighters.
âTell me, Mister Das⌠who would you recommend?â
