‘Hush,’ Evadne said. ‘Please.’
She turned in a full circle, taking in the bales that were stacked almost to the rafters in some places. Kingsley was nonplussed by what it represented. Thousands of shorn heads? Tens of thousands? Hundreds of thousands? And was this all of it or was there more?
‘I have it,’ Evadne announced. ‘I think that this time the Immortals are uniting the most modern of technologies – radio broadcasting – with sympathetic magic, one of the most primitive forms of sorcery.’
Kingsley felt as if he were standing in a sub-Arctic draught. ‘Sympathetic magic? That’s using effigies and the like, isn’t it? Poking in needles?’
‘That’s part of it. Another aspect of sympathetic magic is using things that have once been part of someone to influence their action at a distance.’
The full import struck Kingsley. ‘Hair. The hair of thousands of people.’
‘If the Immortals can use all this in conjunction with phlogiston-powered radio, then they could control every person the hair came from. This way, their phlogiston-powered technology wouldn’t need radio receivers. Their commands could work directly on the person.’
‘They’d have the mind-enslaved army Congreve-Knollys was afraid of.’
‘It could be worse than that. What if some of the hair came from Whitehall barbers? The Immortals could control members of Parliament, even the Prime Minister himself.’
Leetha looked at them anxiously. ‘It is good that the sorcerers are bad. You will be more ready to stop them, yes?’
‘Oh yes,’ Evadne said with an ominous calm. ‘We’ll certainly stop them.’
SIXTEEN
The heavy tramp of booted feet sent them fleeing down a corridor. Leetha pointed at a door, urging them towards it, and then she waited behind. Hurrying, with Evadne right behind, Kingsley wrenched at the doorhandle and barged inside just as he caught the flat smell of corruption that signalled the presence of Spawn.
The room was dark – even darker when Evadne closed the door and stood with her back to it. She went to speak, but Kingsley hushed her. He held his hand in front of him as he peered into the blackness, skin prickling, his Inner Animal struggling to assert itself. This was its realm, after all, darkness and the unknown, with a scent in the air that spelled danger.
An electric light snapped on and Kingsley’s lips drew back in a snarl. A dozen Spawn stood unmoving, clad in bedraggled overalls – and one stood at the rear, in a shabby suit, with a fist around a long cord attached to the electric light.
Spawn in storage! Kingsley couldn’t help seeing the advantages of such a system, while his wild side sought frantically for the best way out.
As one, the dozen overalled Spawn blinked in the light. Then they advanced.
Kingsley took the first of the Spawn on the side of the neck with his cane, then jabbed it in the throat with the next thrust. It fell, but was instantly replaced by another of the dead-faced creatures. Evadne cried out as the door behind them was battered open. She fell into him and her Swingeing Blow flew from her hand.
The Spawn howled and the din hammered at Kingsley’s head, nearly splitting it. Shouts came from behind him as Evadne struggled to hold the door close.
We’re trapped!
The realisation sent his Inner Animal rebelling. It screamed, hot and full-throated, and instantly he forgot all the trappings of civilisation such as weapons and scientific combat. He flung his cane at the nearest Spawn and followed by launching himself at its throat. Together, they went backwards. He wrenched at the creature and then he rolled to all fours to find himself surrounded by more. For an instant, his more civilised self was frozen by the hopelessness of the situation he’d put himself in, then his Inner Animal responded. He attacked.
Bruised and aching, Kingsley was mired in the shame that came from his inability to control his wildness. He tried to distract himself by contemplating the fact that, while the new Hall of the Immortals lacked the grandeur and mystery of their previous premises deep under Greenwich, it had a baroque opulence that was daunting in a traditionally British way. False columns lined the walls and the ceiling was covered with paintings of alarmingly jolly hunters who were spearing deer and boar. The frames were gilt, as were those of half a dozen tall mirrors on the walls. The floor was the very best parquetry, while a long blue carpet marked the way from the door to the foot of the thrones.
Armed guards stood with their backs to the walls. They were garbed in a uniform that Kingsley had never seen before. They had dark blue shakoes, each sporting an intricate brass badge, while their tunics were heavily draped with braid. Rows of brightly polished brass buttons studded their fronts. Their breeches were black, as were their knee-length boots. Kingsley thought it all looked foolish, a caricature of a uniform, but the guards’ steady, distant gaze dissuaded him from laughing. The way they held their rifles was not that of make-believe soldiers. They were ready to use them, too: the bayonets were locked in place.
He put a hand to his forehead. His wild side was afraid and angry, a bad combination. It was as if it were scratching inside his skull, whining to be let out.
To do what?
Evadne’s face was set as they were marched towards the canopied dais at the other end of the room, and Kingsley was sure it wasn’t just because they’d been divested of all their weapons before being brought here. A golden throne stood on the dais; the feet of the occupants didn’t reach the ground. Two guards stood on either side of the triumvirate of evil.
The Immortals were pleased. Two were giggling, while the fur-clad one was actually clapping his pudgy hands, ignoring the red-splashed bandages that covered what had been his fingers.
As they neared the sorcerers, Kingsley was saddest about Evadne. As well as the world being poorer without her, any idea he’d had of a future with her was now pointless. Could you miss something you never had? Was that a form of pre-emptive regret?
Pointless though it may be, he scanned the room for possibilities – a friendly face, a convenient trap door, an overlooked cannon. Then he straightened, ignoring the complaints of his abused body. With an effort that came from reason and will, he threw off his resignation as if shrugging off a shawl. Their fate might be inevitable, but he was dashed if he was going to go to it shuffling and spiritless.
I refuse to be cowed.
The five guards marched them until they reached a line on the carpet a few yards away from the steps that led up to the dais. Kingsley glanced over his shoulder – and noticed that Evadne did the same – to find that the guards were extremely professional. They were standing a good distance behind them, far enough to forestall a backward stumble and grapple. Thoughtfully, still sizing up possible escapes, he returned his gaze to the Immortals. Two of them were whispering to each other. The fur-clad one was mumbling to himself, his head bowed.
Kingsley steeled himself to maintain his reserve. Their grotesqueness was one thing, but his insides contracted at the unnaturalness in front of him. The vile way they had taken the innocence of children and used it to sustain their own, foul lives was deeply repugnant. Small and fat, and younger than when Kingsley had seen them last, they lolled on the long bench that was their throne. They were supported by many rich cushions, without which Kingsley suspected they may have had trouble sitting upright. They looked to be about six years old this time, with chubby cheeks and limbs, but their eyes were still ancient. Kingsley could feel the malevolence rolling off them like mist from a glacier.
While his civilised, rational self could cope with the horrors, his wildness whimpered at the sight. They were wrong – stomach-turningly wrong. They smelled wrong, they looked wrong, they didn’t belong in the world and yet here they were.
In the months after the Greenwich destruction, Evadne and he had talked about the Immortals, wondering if they would reappear. Evadne scraped together enough details from her friends in the Demimonde to suggest they would, and that they would certainly seek revenge.
The f
emale, who Evadne had learned was called Jia, was in an embroidered robe. Her hair was black and hung in a short pigtail over one shoulder. She pointed. ‘You! Ghost girl! You thought you had seen the end of us!’
Evadne didn’t flinch. ‘It’s to my great disappointment that I find this not true.’
‘You are not the first to be in this position,’ said Forkbeard, the one wrapped in furs. He was scratching underneath them with a distant, fixed look on his face. ‘You will not be the last.’ He turned to Jia. ‘I don’t see why we’re wasting time on these fools. We have more important things to deal with.’ He held up a hand. ‘I don’t think I can feel my fingers.’
Jia ignored him. ‘We have had many enemies,’ the other male said – Augustus? He had a bowl of grapes in his lap. He examined each fruit before eating it, holding it up to the light. ‘None of them is alive now.’
‘How unexpected to hear such boasting,’ Kingsley said. ‘I thought you’d be more modest.’
Jia rounded on him. Her eyes were not the eyes of a child. Kingsley could see years of depravity in them, and not a single tinge of mercy. ‘Brave words, wild boy, for one who has been stupid like you. Caught when you were blundering about in the home of your enemies? To think, we do not have to hunt – you come to us to find a book to read.’
Two of them found this hilarious. They giggled, while the fur-clad one scowled. The giggling was chilling.
They lured us here. Kingsley wanted to kick himself. They used my father’s journal as bait.
‘The Sanderson man,’ Jia said when she had recovered from her laughter. ‘He interfered with us, in India, setting back our plans. We saw to him, you know.’
Kingsley’s lips pulled back from his teeth with anger. His father had crossed swords with the Immortals? Now, as well as wanting to know more about the man, Kingsley wanted to shake his hand. Anyone who went up against the Immortals was brave enough to do the right thing even when it was dangerous. In short, a man that Kingsley would like.
‘I know,’ he lied. ‘And I’m glad he set back your plans. Remind me – how long have you been trying to achieve your ends? A thousand years? More?’
‘We are patient,’ Augustus said, ‘and our prize shall be the sweeter because of our waiting.’
‘You know,’ Evadne said, ‘that sounds frightfully as if you’re trying to convince yourself of something.’
‘Your taunts are as nothing to us,’ Augustus said, but Kingsley heard more than a hint of irritation in his voice, squeaky though it was. ‘We’re so glad you brought your head with you. We want to look inside it. To settle a wager, if for no other reason.’
This set them off again. Jia and Augustus laughed until their plump faces were red. Jia gripped the arm of her throne until she regained her breath. ‘It’s his brain we want, not him. His brain!’
Forkbeard muttered and studied his hands.
‘It’s a pity,’ Evadne said to Kingsley. She went to reach out to him, but one of the guards behind them growled. ‘You’ve had so little use of it.’
‘It should be in good shape then,’ Kingsley added. ‘Nice and fresh.’
‘Do not play lightly with us!’ snapped Forkbeard, looking up. ‘Guards, take them away.’
Kingsley saw his tactic as clearly as if he’d written it down. He’d wait for a guard to come close. He’d wait to be nudged, then he’d twist to the left and while the guard was off-balance he’d bring him down with an elbow behind the ear . . .
Then one of the guards reached out and grabbed Evadne by the hair, laughing.
Kingsley’s wild self exploded again.
The cell was makeshift. The smell of furniture polish, soap and methylated spirits told Kingsley that it had once been a cleaner’s cupboard, hastily but securely converted.
He gathered this slowly. It took him some further time to realise that the reason his wrists were aching so much was that he was manacled to the wall and dangling from them. One knee was throbbing, too, and he found it difficult to open his right eye. His back felt as if he’d been dropped onto a bag of cricket balls and his ribs were hurting all over again. The inside of his mouth was raw and – as he discovered when he probed with his tongue – still bleeding in places.
Evadne was sitting on the floor opposite, her back to the wall. Her head was bowed. She was sobbing.
‘Evadne?’
She lifted her head. Her hand went to her mouth. ‘Kingsley? Oh!’
In an instant, she’d thrown her arms around his neck. Her tears were wet on his skin.
He gasped and when he spoke it was through gritted teeth: ‘As much as I’ve dreamed of such a display, would you mind stepping back for a moment? It feels as if these shackles are sawing through my wrists.’
Evadne tottered backwards, dashing tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Oh, Kingsley, I’m so sorry.’
‘Why? Was it you who beat me?’
‘No . . . I . . .What?’
‘Never mind.’ Kingsley had never seen Evadne befuddled before. ‘Before we explore things any further, could you get me a pick or two from inside my collar?’
Evadne straightened and, with a visible effort, composed herself. ‘That’s what I was trying to do when you interrupted me.’
‘It felt like an embrace to me.’
One of her nails was suddenly intensely interesting. ‘I’m not responsible for what you feel.’
And that’s a statement so jam-packed that it could take me a year to sort through. ‘My lock picks, please?’
The last thing Kingsley wanted to do was to embarrass Evadne, but he was beginning to suspect that she was also feeling the confusion he was. Her customary assurance had vanished. He wasn’t about to draw attention to it, nor describe her as being flustered, but that was the distinct impression he had as she stood on tiptoes and fumbled behind his neck.
He lowered his face to her cheek. She still smelled of violets.
She skipped backwards, brandishing two lengths of wire. ‘Here we are,’ she said brightly. ‘Can I do anything to help?’
‘If you could put them both in the fingers of my right hand, that would be most useful.’
It took Kingsley nearly a minute to free himself, but he blamed that on the battering he’d apparently taken at the hands of the guards. He rubbed his wrists and eyed the manacles balefully. ‘This has all gone outstandingly wrong, hasn’t it? I’m sorry for messing up like that.’
‘Ah. Your outburst was unfortunate.’
‘Unfortunate? It was shameful.’
‘Don’t berate yourself. You couldn’t help it.’
‘Couldn’t I? Then that’s a sad story. It’s happening too often. I’m worried where it will lead.’
‘And don’t wallow in self-pity, either.’
Evadne was right, and Kingsley knew it. He’d always held that self-pity – while seductive – was singularly pointless.
‘I’m not wanting to be horribly trite, but do you know where we are?’
Evadne gestured at the small window, which was grimy and barred. ‘I can see the dome of Bethlem Hospital. We must still be near Lambeth Road.’
Gingerly, Kingsley went to the door. It was reinforced with steel bands. The lock was a heavy-duty four-tumbler model with a hand-driven bolt for extra effect. ‘We’ll be out of here before you know it, and probably before Christabel gets back to the Agency.’
Kingsley heard an ominous thud some distance away. He blinked, then wrapped an arm around Evadne’s waist, pressed her against the door, seized the top of the doorframe with one hand, pressed his back against one side and grabbed the other side with his free hand.
Muffled by his body, Evadne said, ‘What on earth are you . . .’
The whole world roared and the floor bucked, shattered, then fell away.
SEVENTEEN
Leetha crouched in her cell, smelling smoke. She cried out, seized by the shivering that came through fear. She was afraid that the Immortals would know that she was the one who had cause
d the disaster. Then she was afraid that her people would be left behind to die in the fire she had caused by setting the gas free and setting rags to smoulder.
Just when she had given up hope, one of the guards flung open her cell door. She was herded, along with the rest of her people, to a room where the smoke was not as dense as in the corridor. She was relieved to see them all. Mannor, Calli, Ubbo and the others were all there, red-eyed and coughing, but together. It was a moment of happiness just to be close with them, but it wasn’t long before they were shouted at and driven into darkness, finding stairs to take them down and down and down.
Ahead, Leetha was sure she could hear the crying of children, but the noise was faint and distant. Her heart ached for them.
The guards had lanterns that shone like stars, and they used their sparky sticks to move her people along a narrow metal walkway. The tunnel echoed with their passage. A ladder took them down to where a dozen more guards were waiting. They were nervous, strutting about and shouting when there was no need. Leetha watched as, one by one, her people were pushed into what looked like small metal canoes. Each of her kin was forced to lie down in their shiny little pod, then a door slid over the hole in the rock. The pod disappeared with a whoosh and a blast of air. This was just the sort of mystery to set all her kin chattering, making guesses as to the construction and purpose.
Leetha’s turn came soon enough. She lingered, but when a guard brandished his sparky stick she saw he was afraid. She sniffed, smelled smoke, and understood why.
Leetha felt the draught. A breeze was sucking smoke from above. She sought for the source of the draught and found it when the guard raised the alcove door again. Then Leetha had it. The pods were being sucked along the tube that enclosed them, like water through a reed.
The guard helped her into the pod. As soon as she lay down, sweating and trembling at the strangeness, a cover slid over her face. When the pod started to move, the jerk made her stomach turn over. The motion was frightening in the darkness, but she tried to imagine being swept along a river in a strong current, a ride full of laughter.
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