The Extraordinaires 2

by Michael Pryor

  ‘Kingsley,’ Evadne said with some heat, ‘you’ve been in a funk for some months now. Since you’ve had trouble dragging yourself out of it, I took matters into my own hands.’

  ‘For purely professional reasons, of course.’

  She glanced at him sharply. ‘If my partner can’t hold his end up, then the Extraordinaires is in trouble.’ She pointed at the deliveries. ‘This is part of my funk-ending enterprise.’

  ‘I’d prefer to call it a brown study rather than a funk.’ Kingsley took the cup of tea and the currant bun that Kipling offered. ‘It sounds rather more stylish.’

  ‘Brown is rarely stylish,’ Evadne said. ‘Practical, perhaps, but rarely stylish.’

  ‘I think this could be for the best,’ Kipling said, slipping himself into the exchange much as a referee would step between two boxers. ‘Your current state suggests a life with much unresolved. You admit you know little of your parents or your upbringing, even your very survival in the wild. With knowledge of these things should come understanding. With understanding comes peace.’

  Kingsley stared at the table with its stacks of letters, its assorted books and ledgers and the mysterious box that had irritated Evadne so. ‘All this is part of your investigation?’

  ‘I’ve been working for months,’ she said, ‘on several fronts, including various regiments and civil service departments, and getting nowhere until I asked Mr Kipling for help.’

  ‘The Indian Civil Service . . .’ Mr Kipling spread his hands. ‘It’s a vast and mysterious thing.’

  Evadne went on. ‘Mr Kipling introduced me to the head of the Indian Forestry Service. Eventually I was able to correspond with the two officers who found you as an infant.’

  ‘These were the men who actually discovered you with the wolf pack. The ones who gave you to Dr Ward as a three-year-old who could run like the wind,’ Kipling said.

  ‘Windy Kingsley,’ Kingsley said faintly. ‘That’s me.’

  ‘They found a box a year after Dr Ward left India with you. In a cave, near the lair of the wolf pack,’ Evadne said. ‘Someone had been living there for some time, maybe half a dozen years ago.’

  ‘And inside this box?’

  ‘A journal.’ She looked at Kingsley seriously. ‘Belonging to your father.’

  She held up a small, leather-bound volume, much worn and battered. Kingsley found it hard to breathe. All he could make out were the stamped letters that spelled ‘Sanderson’.

  While Kingsley gaped, Kipling shot to his feet. ‘Good heavens! You arranged for it to be sent to you? How splendid!’

  ‘That’s the puzzling thing,’ Evadne said. ‘I tried to obtain it but couldn’t. The Forestry men said they’d already given the box to someone from the Army.’ She rapped the mysterious box with a knuckle. ‘And now here it is, an unaccounted-for delivery containing the very item I’ve been seeking.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Kingsley said.

  ‘And nor do I,’ said Evadne. ‘And that vexes me. And when I’m vexed I want to do something about it, and quickly.’

  ‘Oh, I agree.’ Kingsley realised he was grinding his jaw, as if attempting to reduce all this to manageable pieces. As a whole, it was too much to cope with.

  ‘A shipping mix-up, no doubt, but one that has worked to our advantage,’ Kipling suggested. He peered at the shipping marks on the box. ‘It’s from India, but there’s no indication of who sent it. Finding the shipping agent used to get it into the country could be useful. He’d know who sent it in the first place.’

  ‘Shipping agent?’ Kingsley asked.

  ‘The firm that handles shipments in and out of the country, liaising with the steamer companies, warehouse owners and Customs.’

  ‘I’ve used Morton’s in the past,’ Evadne said. ‘And from this manifest it appears the box was handled by the same firm.’

  ‘Indian specialists, no doubt.’ Kipling took out his pocket watch. ‘Ah, my two hours are at an end. I’m afraid I must leave you.’

  ‘Must you, Mr Kipling?’ Evadne said. ‘You’ve been so helpful.’

  The author stood and brushed bun crumbs from his jacket. ‘I’m afraid so. When you invited me to help you today, I told you I could only spare a few hours and I’ve already stayed longer than I should have. I have an appointment that I’d like to pretend is both clandestine and dangerous, but is actually with my bank manager – and it doesn’t do to cross your bank manager. You must promise, however, that after you’ve read Major Sanderson’s journal you’ll tell me everything, or I will expire with curiosity.’

  Once Mr Kipling had left, Evadne took the journal. Kingsley was eager to read it, but he was moved by what Evadne had done for him and so allowed her first perusal. The decision was made easier by a perverse reluctance that had come upon him. He had wanted such a document so badly that now it was in his grasp he was hesitant to confront it squarely, half-afraid at what it might hold.

  Waiting was difficult. In part, he blamed his inner restlessness on his lack of knowledge about his past. It was as if he had a great hole inside him – and the journal Evadne had found for him could fill in that hole.

  When he considered this, he was nearly overcome with gratitude. Evadne had gone to remarkable lengths. He tried to frame an appropriate statement of thanks, something that she would understand was heartfelt and not flippant, but he was distracted by a sound from the basement.

  He peered towards the stairs. ‘Did you hear something from downstairs?’

  ‘No, and you’ve interrupted just as I was beginning to make sense of your father’s complex lines of reporting – but that’s no matter, as we appear to have visitors.’ He turned back to find Evadne crouching and listening to one of her rat-like Myrmidons.

  Kingsley grimaced. He’d never warmed to Evadne’s creatures. No matter how helpful they were as sentries and messengers, they were far too ratty for his liking.

  A familiar scent told Kingsley who the visitors were before he saw his foster father’s limping gait and leonine countenance. The other, though, was a stranger. His wild side, almost automatically, was wary, but his father beamed and waved his walking stick. ‘Kingsley! Evadne! I’m glad you’re here!’

  ‘Father!’ The title was odd on Kingsley’s lips after the recent topic of conversation. He had great affection for Dr Ward, but the recent revelations about his true father left him confused. He owed the old man so much – his upbringing, his education, and a great deal of tolerance, for instance. The ordeal of Dr Ward’s kidnapping had angered Kingsley, but had also renewed his respect for the strength of the man who had raised him as a civilised, rational being.

  Dr Ward looked well recovered from the injuries inflicted upon him by the Neanderthals, but Kingsley had never seen the slim, dark woman on his arm. He took her to be half Dr Ward’s age, but he revised that figure upwards to middle thirties, then down again by several years before giving up in confusion.

  She had eyes like polished coal and Kingsley barely kept himself from staring at the green jewel in the side of her nose – an emerald like a drop of dragon’s blood. She was wearing a dark grey-blue silk dress and she had a black taffeta bag at her side. She sought Kingsley’s gaze and held it with an intensity that nearly made him gasp.

  Dr Ward beamed. ‘Kingsley, I’m proud whenever I hear you call me Father.’ He gestured grandly at the woman on his arm. ‘And now I’d like you to extend it a little.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Kingsley, I’d like you to meet your new mother.’

  THREE

  I’m suddenly suffering a surfeit of family, Kingsley thought, as he weighed up whether he felt as if he’d been hit behind the ear with a sock full of sand or run over by an elephant. He hardly heard Dr Ward’s addendum: ‘Or mother-to-be, more correctly. Getting ahead of myself, there.’

  Kingsley had never known his mother, Alice Sanderson. He’d never known a foster mother, either, as Dr Ward had never married. So he was quite unaccustomed to the entir
e concept of a female parent. Of course he’d seen the mothers of other boys when they visited the school at end of term, so he was aware they existed and that they came in a variety of shapes and sizes. He understood from these experiences that mothers were treated in many ways, from aloof disdain to unashamed affection, and that their duties with their sons mostly entailed dabbing at faces with moistened handkerchiefs.

  Confronted by this exotic woman, however, he had no idea how to behave, so he assumed all the characteristics of a statue while deep inside his wild self bristled with wariness.

  Dr Ward coughed. ‘Now, I might be getting ahead of myself, Kingsley, but introducing Mrs Winter as your mother-to-be didn’t quite have the theatrical impact I thought you’d enjoy.’

  Mrs Winter held out a lace-gloved hand. ‘Kingsley,’ she said in a voice that was lower than he expected. ‘At last.’

  Kingsley regained control of his body enough to decalcify his movements. He took her hand and bowed over it while silent explosions of confusion bounced around inside his skull. Who was this woman? Why had his foster father never even mentioned her before?

  He straightened to find Evadne leaning forward as if she were on the edge of a diving board, every atom of her being demanding an introduction. Dr Ward cheerily performed this duty. ‘Evadne, I’d like you to meet Mrs Selene Winter, my fiancée. My dear, this is Evadne Stephens, my son’s partner.’

  ‘Mrs Winter,’ Evadne said, emphasising the title just enough for Kingsley to add ‘possibly widowed’ to the jigsaw image he’d assembled, right next to his vague stab at her age. He was rather more certain of ‘Anglo-Indian’, thanks to the nose jewel that was prompting unsettlingly vague memories, but he was sure that he was missing many, many pieces. He was impressed, nonetheless, at how she accepted Evadne’s curious appearance with equanimity.

  He wanted to do the right thing – for his foster father’s sake – so he gathered himself and smiled. ‘Congratulations, both of you. And when’s the wedding to be?’

  Dr Ward relaxed minutely, and Kingsley knew then that despite his bonhomie his foster father had been anxious about Kingsley’s reaction. He also took in a tiny nod of approval from Evadne. His cheeks went warm.

  ‘Soon, but we haven’t set a date yet,’ Dr Ward said.

  ‘I’d like our wedding to be in one of your lovely English gardens,’ Mrs Winter said. ‘And I’m not fussy about a date.’

  Dr Ward beamed, then took Kingsley by the arm. ‘Do you mind if I have a word with my son, my dear?’ he said to Mrs Winter. ‘A little business to attend to.’

  Mrs Winter smiled and nodded, then Evadne whisked her away. Kingsley saw that they were immediately deep in conversation and he had the disconcerting feeling they were talking about him.

  ‘Now, Kingsley,’ Dr Ward said, and Kingsley had to turn away from the two vastly different females. ‘I want to reassure you about Mrs Winter.’

  ‘There’s no need, Father. While this is all a little surprising, I wish you every happiness.’

  ‘I’m glad about that, but it’s the stories I’m worried about.’

  ‘Stories?’

  ‘You know how rumours fly in the Demimonde. You must promise me not to believe everything you hear about Mrs Winter.’

  Kingsley was about to point out that his foster father was being needlessly cryptic when a hollow boom resounded from the basement.

  Kingsley looked at Evadne to find her looking at him. He shrugged at the same time as she did, much to the amusement of both Dr Ward and Mrs Winter, but Kingsley had only taken a few paces towards the stairs when the source of the noise became all too apparent.

  ‘Spawn!’ Evadne cried as a long-limbed, roughly human creature mounted the stairs three at a time. Its head was hairless and its skin was dull and greyish. It wore a dark blue suit that Kingsley decided had definitely seen better days and better occupants.

  Kingsley had never overcome the revulsion that the servants of the Immortals invoked. The creatures were made by infernal magic, created from severed parts of the Immortals’ own bodies. Their origins stayed with them, even though they were strong, enduring and totally obedient to the will of their masters. Kingsley thought that they always carried a taint of corruption.

  ‘Kingsley, look out!’ Dr Ward cried, but Kingsley had already seen that more of the horrid creatures were bounding up the stairs behind the first. Kingsley leaped for a length of chain dangling from one of the rafters. He’d been using it in his escaping practice and he knew it was strong and trustworthy. He swung it in a vicious arc. The first Spawn stopped its headlong rush and reeled back, hissing, and fell on its comrades. They tumbled backwards in a tangle but in an instant they were on their feet again and boiling out of the stairwell.

  ‘They’ll not take you, Selene, not again!’ Dr Ward cried out and stood in front of his wife-to-be. Kingsley caught a glimpse of her face and while she was horrified, there was no surprise there at all. He had no time to consider this, for the Spawn were still coming. Kingsley advanced, swinging the chain around his head as if he were a hammer thrower. Without hesitating, the first Spawn leaped. The chain struck and wrapped around its torso. The creature howled, its features contorted with pain, but its companions grabbed the chain and clung to it with ferocious strength; Kingsley was engaged in a furious tug of war. He was unwilling to drop his end of the chain and surrender his weapon, but four or five more of the creatures were already swarming over the tangle at the top of the stairs.

  Kingsley snarled. He yanked at the chain with such force that it was torn from the grasp of his foes, then he cracked it like a whip, sending the foremost of the creatures backwards. Its comrades hesitated. Kingsley was congratulating himself for presenting a fearsome picture, Horatio at the bridge, but then he became aware of a presence at his side. A sabre was extended, point and edge held unwavering by a slim, snowy-white wrist.

  ‘Where did you find a blade so quickly?’ he said without taking his eyes from the Spawn, who were again massing at the head of the stairs.

  Evadne wove the point of the sabre in an elegant figure of eight. ‘Really, Kingsley. Keeping weapons nearby is just common sense when in the Demimonde.’

  The Spawn chattered, and a dozen more pushed up from below, groaning in their eagerness to join battle. Kingsley risked a glance behind him and saw that his foster father had taken Mrs Winter to the far end of the room and was brandishing a broom. Kingsley was startled to see, however, that she was struggling and arguing vehemently with him. He had no further time to wonder at this, for the vanguard of the Spawn, reassured by the reinforcements, charged out of the stairwell.

  The workshop became a melee. As the creatures closed, Kingsley’s chain became useless and he had to resort to his fists. He drove a jab at the face of the quickest of the Spawn and as its head snapped back he advanced and crashed a round-arm blow into its ear. The Spawn slammed against its comrade, as Kingsley had hoped. It kept them both from attacking Evadne from the side while she herded two more back with her flashing blade, her booted foot stamping a rhythm that signalled peril for those in front of her.

  Kingsley heard Dr Ward shouting, and he hoped his foster father was either fleeing with his intended or calling for help, although the good citizens in the district were more likely to take the chance to nip in and make off with anything not nailed down than they were to lend aid. No likelihood of police, either, as police only entered the Demimonde on important missions, and then only reluctantly.

  More Spawn pushed up the stairs and they yammered wordless cries as they came. Kingsley waded into the press, trying to stop them spreading and surrounding Evadne and him. He used shoulders and elbows as much as his fists, and he was also happy to employ knees and boots. Gradually, though, both Evadne and he were forced back until Kingsley felt the table behind him. He grabbed a clawing arm and dragged its owner sideways. This tripped the Spawn and gave Kingsley a little room to work in. He turned and grabbed a chair, which he immediately used to batter his assailants
while giving thanks for the solid woodwork and good craftsmanship – thanks that were just a little too early, as the chair splintered on the head of a particularly red-eyed Spawn who was making a dive under Evadne’s blade.

  ‘Remind me to buy better furniture next time!’ he shouted.

  ‘I’ll get you to read “A Guide to Furniture as Weaponry” before you do!’ Evadne cried. She lunged, and disengaged. A Spawn spun away, screeching.

  Three Spawn tackled Kingsley at once and rammed him back against the table. It toppled, and Kingsley threw himself into a back somersault but slipped and sprawled upon landing. They leaped on him. He grappled on hands and knees, doing his best to keep fingers from his eyes and teeth from his throat as the hideous creatures pounced. His fists were raw and bloody and he was pretending that the rib low down on his left side wasn’t cracked at all. Evadne was nearby, still taunting the creatures, which he took as a good sign – not for them, but as an indication of her relative safety.

  A stone-like fist took him on the temple. While a vast, cosmic ringing seized him, all the strength left his muscles and black curtains began to draw across his vision. He heard his name, dimly, as if the speaker were miles away on a foggy day in a world made of smoke.

  Kingsley struggled to hold onto the last vestiges of consciousness and his wild side panicked, whimpering to find a safe place, a cave, a lair to hide in. He tried to keep his fists up, but they felt as if they weighed a hundredweight apiece, and he understood, then, that he was actually on his back, on the floor, and he had three or four Spawn on top of him who were doing their best to tear him apart.

  At that moment, he had a curious sensation. Stirrings. Pluckings. Shiftings around and about, as if thousands of tiny fingers were pinching him. It began in the parts of his body touching the floor, but soon the rustling swarmed all over him. While not gentle, the sensation wasn’t painful. The Spawn, however, reacted differently. They began to shriek – not with triumph, but with dismay. Those on top of Kingsley ceased their clawing and scrambled away, careless of where they put their hands and feet.