Nemo. Isabel. Elizabeth. All had fallen to the Deep Ones. The surface world was under attack as well, but all Burton could do was try and reduce their numbers before they marched onto the land. That, and help ships that ventured too near one of their underwater cities.
“We’re coming round again,” said the navigator, a big burly Sikh who reminded Burton of the submarine’s previous commander.
“Fire!” said Burton.
Burton awoke suddenly, nearly falling out of his chair. Bismillah, he thought. What a strange dream. I wonder what brought that on?
He realized he had tears in his eyes and wiped them away before standing. Swinburne was nowhere to be seen, but he heard a familiar and excited voice coming from the guest bedroom, and went to investigate.
Swinburne was tucked in bed, grinning while Monckton Milnes read to him from a book of erotic poetry. “I hope you don’t mind,” said Monckton Milnes. “Your housekeeper let me in. She didn’t want to wake you again after the other night.”
“That’s quite all right,” said Burton. “What’s going on here?”
“I’ve taught young Swinburne to read again,” said the older man with a smile.
“Don’t let Miss Angell see that book, said Burton, “or hear a word of it.”
Monckton Milnes grinned and closed the book. “He has been speaking as well. Mostly parroting what I say, but he understands basic concepts. Who am I, Algy?”
Swinburne looked at Monckton Milnes and said, “Richard Monckton Milnes.”
“Wonderful!” said Burton.
Swinburne pointed at Burton. “Richard Francis Burton.”
“Right again!” said Monckton Milnes. “And where are you?”
Swinburne thought about this for a moment, then said, “Gloucester Place.”
“This is a bloody breakthrough!” said Burton.
“Bloody breakthrough,” Swinburne repeated. “Richard Francis Gloucester Place Burton. Richard bloody Monckton breakthrough Milnes.”
The two men laughed despite themselves, which Swinburne seemed to take for encouragement. He pointed to himself. “Algernon Charles Swinburne.”
“Algy,” said Burton.
Swinburne turned his attention from the window. “Yes, Richard?”
“Are you back now?”
Swinburne fixed him with a grin. “Yes, Richard.”
“It’s a bloody miracle,” said Monckton Milnes. “His singular physiology must have stood him in good stead.”
“Perhaps,” murmured the explorer, looking deeply into Swinburne’s eyes. What he saw there was not Swinburne. What he saw there was something else, something black and inhuman that flitted away from Burton’s scrutiny as Swinburne returned his attention toward the window.
“Algy, look at me please.”
The poet returned his gaze, a playful look on his face. Burton reached up and touched the sides of Swinburne’s face, his fingers tapping gently against the temples and jawline.
“I want you to look at me. Concentrate on me. Look deeply into my eyes.”
Swinburne did as instructed.
“Take slow, deep breaths. Your whole body is relaxed.”
Swinburne’s body went limp. Burton increased the speed of his taps on the poet’s face.
“Listen to me closely. I want to talk to Algy. Talk to me, Algy.”
At first, there was no reaction; then Swinburne convulsed. His cheeks puffed outward as if he were about to blow out a candle, then a familiar voice said, “Richard?” The word came out as if unbidden by the speaker, as involuntary as a burp.
“Algy!”
“Richard? Is that you? My hat, everything is ghastly!”
Swinburne collapsed backward, pulling away from him. He fell back onto the bed and shook his head before snapping back upright and staring at Burton with a look of puzzlement. Then he rose from the bed and went to the window to stare out at the fog-shrouded city.
“Gloucester Place,” Swinburne said again. He stared out the window like a child seeing the world for the first time.
“Mesmeric touching,” said Monckton Milnes. “I’ve read about the practice but never witnessed it until now. And Algy’s reaction!”
“We’ll be right back, Algy,” Burton told him. The poet turned and smiled before going back to staring out the window at the street below.
Burton tugged Monckton Milnes out into the hallway.
“What’s wrong, Richard? What was that about just now?”
“I don’t think that is Algy,” said the explorer.
“Well, he’s not back to full strength yet, that is true. But of course, it’s our Algy. Who else would it be?”
“I don’t know. But that’s exactly what I want to find out.”
Monckton Milnes glared at Burton, a look of worry painting his face. “You’re frightening me, old friend.”
“I know I must sound demented,” said Burton. “But look at him. Can you honestly tell me that’s Algernon Swinburne? He’s not only completely different, but I think he’s hiding something. I made real contact with him just then, but there’s something else in there too. I don’t know how to explain it.”
Monckton Milnes nodded. “I suppose you might have a slight point, though I don’t know about him hiding something. James Hunt said it would take some time for his wits to return completely.”
“James Hunt has never seen anything like this before,” Burton added. “No one has. We are treading through wholly unknown territory here. And I’m telling you, there is something bloody off with him!”
“All right, Richard. I’ll humor you. I’ve learned to trust your instincts. What do you want me to do?”
“Help me keep an eye on him. I may require your expertise in parapsychological matters. You are still a member of the Society for Psychical Research?”
Monckton Milnes arched an eyebrow. “Yes, of course. But what does that have to do with poor Algy?”
Burton shrugged. “Nothing, I hope. I must go take care of something. Will you stay here? Watch him close?”
Monckton Milnes patted Burton on the shoulder. “Of course. It is my duty to both of you, as your friend and fellow Cannibal.”
“Good man,” said Burton as he headed downstairs. Donning his coat and topper, he disappeared out the front door.
Burton moved through the fog-shrouded gloom up Gloucester Place toward Baker Street. It was afternoon, though one couldn’t tell by the amount of coal smoke in the sky. The sun was almost completely obscured, existing only as a ruddy disk high over Burton’s shoulder as he moved up the crowded sidewalk.
Burton winced at inhuman shapes in the fog and had the terrible sensation that his fellow Londoners had transmogrified into physically abhorrent entities. There a tall, chitinous and many-segmented creature in a long black coat and top hat. There a street vendor with bulbous, watery eyes and a wide, gaping, toothless mouth. Burton shuddered and looked again, but the apparitions were just regular folks going about their business. But something lingered on the periphery of his vision, a feeling there was more to what he was seeing. As if the people he saw were merely facades concealing bizarre shapes beneath coats and corsets. It seemed as if the people he saw contained a vast multitude of different people. “Bismillah,” Burton murmured, shaking this feeling away and hailing a hansom. A carriage pulled up, and Burton climbed inside, trying to ignore the driver’s wave. For it wasn’t a hand that made the gesture, but a black, insect-like feeler.