by E. G. Foley
They laughed and cheered him on as he ran past, then helpfully misdirected Constable Flanagan and his bobbies.
The O’Dell boys ignored the black-clad thugs, but surely, Jake thought, the strangers would not dare follow him into the rough rookery neighborhood.
It was a treacherous place to go if you didn’t belong, with many shady characters lurking about. Here the tall apartment buildings crowded together, turning the narrow streets into dim, shadowed canyons.
Jake’s running footfalls echoed off the grimy brick walls. Only a few people were around, but when the rookery folk sensed trouble, they closed their doors and pulled their dirty curtains shut.
“Jacob!” The gentleman’s voice rang into the street behind him. “It is you, isn’t it?”
Blazes, why are they still following me?
“Jacob, please, I only want to talk to you!”
“Leave me alone!” he hollered back in fury. Every wily street instinct in him warned him not to believe the man’s effort to sound friendly. He felt a slight temptation to find out what they wanted, but his better sense told him just to run. And so he did, bolting down the street.
“Get back here, you brat!” the man snarled.
Ha, thought Jake, his head starting to pound after using his strange talent to steal the pie. He tried to blink the throbbing pain away and barreled on, but the dizziness was getting worse.
At the four-way intersection, he ducked into the alley to the right. Just around the corner, he pressed his back against the wall; chest heaving, he glanced around, needing some kind of distraction to shake them off.
He hesitated to use his powers again, knowing it would only add to his sick feeling. But what choice did he have?
He brought up his hand just like he had practiced back at his hideaway. He concentrated on a distant garbage bin and summoned up all his mental focus.
Pah! He suddenly flung his fingers like you might flick water droplets off your hand. At once, the garbage bin clattered onto its side as if someone had kicked it.
A dog began barking at the disturbance.
The ruse worked. His pursuers raced off in the direction of the noise. At once, he pressed away from the wall and continued running down the alley to the right.
Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for the strangers to realize the trail had gone cold.
That chilling, elegant voice echoed off the maze of brick alleyways. “We’re not dealing with any ordinary boy, you fools. Find him!”
No ordinary boy? Jake was starting to feel seriously woozy, but these words drew him up short.
It sounded as if the stranger already knew of his secret abilities. But how? Aside from Dani, he had told no one, and though she was a girl, the carrot-head could keep a secret. Fact was, she didn’t want word of this getting out anymore than he did, for if the local gangs found out what he could do, they’d soon be forcing him to join them.
That was a fate that Jake had been doing his best to avoid. It was probably his destiny to join the criminals, but for now, he held out some small, dwindling hope that life might still have something better in store for him.
“There he is! After him! Go!”
Uttering a choice curse under his breath, Jake raced on. He dashed off down another alley, past a bleak, noisy factory belching steam and smoke into the air, but the piercing headache was growing so strong it was starting to make him downright queasy.
While the pistons and machines inside the factory churned and clamored, he drew on his powers one last time to knock over a pile of barrels, creating a temporary blockade behind him.
The barrels tumbled and rolled, clogging the tight alley; it would not stop his pursuers, but it should slow them down. Then he knew he had to find a place to hide. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep running. The world began to spin, the alley walls closing in on him as he staggered on, pushing off the dirty brick buildings.
He lurched along, zigzagging, his chest heaving. With his head pounding so, his vision grew blurry and distorted; and when the ghost of an old beggar appeared without warning, it startled him so much he nearly shrieked.
“Wait!” it moaned, holding up a bluish-gray, transparent hand to stop him.
Jake ignored the spirit, nearly running through it. Cheese it, he had no time for conversation with the dead right now!
His second odd new ability—seeing ghosts—didn’t give him headaches like the other bit, but he could hardly say he was used to it. It was not exactly normal, after all, seeing spirits of the dead—and in London, they were everywhere. Chatty lot, they were! Always wanting to talk and talk and tell him everything that was none of his business.
He tried to pretend he had not seen the ghost and forced himself to keep running toward the turn ahead. The apparition materialized again a few feet ahead of him—an old, homeless beggar with icicles hanging off his nose.
Poor old man must’ve frozen to death some cold winter’s night in one of these back alleys.
“Not that way, boy!” the spirit warned in a thin, quavering voice. But it was too late.
Jake had already stumbled into the nearest turn.
A dead end!
A brick wall too high to climb blocked the garbage-strewn space. He glanced around in panic, looking for his next escape.
The back doors of the tenement houses on each side of the alley were boarded up. Broken windows yawned above, out of reach. There was no way out except the way he had come in, but the strangers were right behind him.
Jake whirled around.
At that moment, the bald giant appeared in the opening. His face was red from the chase. “We got him now, sir!” he panted, calling back over his shoulder as his two helpers joined him.
The first was a little rat-faced weasel of a man with a scrawny mustache; the other, a pale white bruiser with flame-red hair that stuck straight up. They, too, were winded, but they lined up on either side of the big fellow, blocking the mouth of the alley so he could not get out.
Trapped.
Jake swallowed hard, but was puzzled by a whiff of sulfur on the air, probably coming from that factory.
“Well, well. You’re a slippery one, aren’t you, my lad?” The elegant gentleman was the last to arrive on the scene. Slightly out of breath, he strolled up behind his men, blotting the sweat from his face with a handkerchief. “You’ve led us on a merry chase.”
“What do you want with me?” Jake demanded, holding on to his bravado even as he backed away.
The lordly fellow laughed. “Ah, well, call me sentimental, but I suppose I just wanted to have a look at my closest living kin before we kill you, my dear lad.”
Jake’s jaw dropped. He heard the threat against his life, but it did not hold the slightest interest for him compared to the other word the man had used.
Kin?!
The stranger stalked closer. “Impressive display back there. So, you inherited the Fernwirkung, I see.”
“What?”
“The Fernwirkung. The old German name for your gift, of course. But if you prefer the Classical languages, you can call it telekinesis.”
“Tele-ka-what?” he echoed, rather bewildered.
“Tele: Latin, meaning ‘at a distance.’ Kinesis: Greek for ‘motion.’” Then he shook his head with a bit of a sneer. “I should have known you’d get it. You even look like him.”
“Like who?” he exclaimed, all the more bewildered.
“It’s whom,” the toff corrected, but did not answer this question, either. “Tell me, do you have your mother’s gifts, as well, hmm? See any ghosts around, my clever boy?”
Jake floundered, overwhelmed. “You knew my mother?” he asked in amazement. “Who was she? Please!” As a foundling, he knew nothing of his parents.
The director of the orphanage where he had spent most of his childhood had had no information on them, not their names, their situation in life—or, more importantly, why they hadn’t kept him. Had they wanted to get rid of him because they did
n’t love him, or had something terrible happened to them?
Jake wasn’t sure which was worse, but the question chafed like a permanent splinter stuck deep in his heart.
Whoever they were, he had no clue of his origins except the baby bib embroidered with his first name, Jacob, and a necklace, a simple black cord with a small seashell on it. It had been draped around his neck when he’d been found eleven years ago. Some kindly fisherman had spotted him—a baby in a basket, floating down the mighty River Thames, happily gurgling to himself while the giant ships lumbered past.
The basket had been made of willow reeds, which was why the orphanage staff had thought it hilarious to give him the last name “Reed.”
His real last name was anybody’s guess.
“Do you know me?” he cried, hating the plaintive sound of his own voice as the pain slipped out. “Please, sir! Tell me who I am!”
The toff smirked, but took a measure of pity on him. “Only the son of the most arrogant fool I’ve ever known—and a thief, to boot. Like father, like son, I see. Still, it’s nothing personal against you, dear nephew. How could it be? I don’t even know you. You seem a fine, plucky lad and all that, but I’m afraid you’re much too dangerous for me to leave alive. Trust me, it’s better this way.” He glanced at the bald giant while Jake was still marveling. “Carry on.”
“Aye, milord.”
“What of his powers, sir?” the rat-faced one asked nervously.
“Oh, he’s out of steam. Look at him. Rather green about the gills, eh, Jacob? Oh, yes, I know all about it. Pity you won’t live long enough to learn how to control it.”
“Wait, please!” Jake cried, at a loss. “Y-you called me nephew. Is that true? Are you my uncle?”
“Do I look like the sort of fellow who’d lie to a doomed soul?” he countered in pleasant sarcasm.
Anger flashed through him at the man’s cruelty. “Fine, then! Be like that! I don’t believe you, anyway! I don’t even want to be related to you, you glocky bloomin’ mumper!”
The toff furrowed his brow at the street-language insult, but smiled in curious amusement. “You have some spirit, lad. I’ll give you that. Almost remind me of myself when I was your age. But it doesn’t change my mind. Adieu.” He continued strolling away.
“Hey!” Jake yelled, growing increasingly nervous. “Hey, Uncle! Runnin’ away, you nancy? Where are ye going?” he demanded, trying to stall and hopefully, delay his doom.
“Where am I going?” His supposed uncle laughed again in his haughty, annoying way. He turned around, his jaw clenched, a brief flash of fire in his eyes. “Do you really want to know?”
“Aye! I asked you, didn’t I?”
“I am going back—urchin—to enjoying my life as the sixth Earl of Griffon, actually. You didn’t think I’d give up all that power and privilege just because you somehow managed to survive all those years ago, now did you? Terribly sorry, m’boy, but there can only be one Lord Griffon at a time, and that distinction belongs at present to my more-worthy self. Cheerio, then! Give my regards to your parents, Jacob. You’ll be seeing them soon.”
Jake stared at him. My parents?
Turning to his men, the Earl of Griffon added in a lower, harder tone, “Be quick about it. And quiet. I’m getting out of here. It won’t do for me to be seen, just in case. Report to me later, after it’s done.”
“Aye, milord, don’t you worry about that,” the bald one said. “We’ll get the job done, lickety-split.”
“See that you do.” Lord Griffon cast Jake one final glance, cold but pitying, then he pivoted on his heel and marched out of the alley.
When he had gone, his three henchmen drew out large, gleaming knives.
Then they started closing in on Jake.
CHAPTER THREE
A Knight of the Order
Jake continued backing away. Unfortunately, the Earl of Griffon was right: His powers were out of steam.
Frankly, after all these years of being an orphan without any kin, he was in shock that he had an uncle at all—an earl, no less! He had never dreamed he might be related to such lofty stock. Of course, it figured that his one living relative would want to kill him upon making his acquaintance. He’d had the same effect on his apprentice masters, strangely.
At any rate, despite feeling weak and sick enough to puke from using his powers, the threat of impending doom rather helped to clear a person’s head.
Heart pounding, Jake took a quick glance around, scanning the alley for any sort of weapon. At once, he reached down and grabbed the smooth end of a broken bottle, threatening his approaching attackers with the jagged end.
They just laughed.
Suddenly furious, Jake hurled the bottle at the bald giant. The big man ducked and it flew past him.
Jake took two, three steps backwards, then out of the corner of his eye, spotted another possible weapon. He dove to retrieve it, bringing it up in both hands—a sturdy board with a big rusty nail sticking out of the end.
“Come on, baldy, I ain’t afraid o’ you!” he yelled.
Rough laughter followed. “Aye, he’s a right plum goer, ain’t he? Have at it, little master.”
“Ho!” the flame-haired fellow cried, mocking him as Jake swung the board again like a cricket bat, trying to warn them back.
The old beggar ghost materialized again behind the earl’s henchmen. He shook his head, looking on in worry. “You’re small enough—try to dodge past them!”
“How am I supposed to do that?” Jake retorted.
“Do what?” the rat-face echoed. “Who’s he talkin’ to?”
“I dunno. Kid’s loony,” said the redhead.
“Mind your own business!” Jake spat.
“Our business is killin’ you, little lordling,” said the big one. “So come on and be a good lad. Let’s get it over with, like your uncle said.”
“Don’t worry, Master Jacob,” the rat-face chimed in, brandishing his knife. “We’ll make it nice and quick for you. You won’t feel a thing, hardly.”
Gulp.
They laughed.
I’m going to die.
“Get him,” the big one muttered.
Jake gasped as his back suddenly came up flat against the brick wall. He had retreated as far as he could go, and there was no way out.
He braced himself to meet his Maker, briefly wishing that he had behaved himself just a wee bit better in his short, unlucky life.
But just before he squeezed his eyes shut for the death-blow, a flutter of motion overhead made him glance up.
His eyes widened as a large, fierce-looking man leaped out of an open window above and came hurtling down, landing with a lion-like pounce atop the brick wall behind Jake’s back.
From there, he leaped again, his long hair flying free of his dark hood, his black duster coat billowing behind him. He slammed down squarely into the alley between Jake and his uncle’s henchmen. With one smooth motion, he reached under his coat with both hands clad in fingerless gloves, and pulled out a pair of large, murderous knives.
Before the thugs could recover from their shock, he let out a roar and attacked them.
They fell into chaos before this one-man army. The stranger whirled like a bladed top; he thrust, he leaped; he ran a few steps up the side of the brick wall, vaulted into a spin, and kicked the rat-faced henchman in the head.
Jake watched him with his mouth hanging open.
“What are you still doing here, you fool?” The warrior sent Jake an impatient glance over his shoulder. “Don’t just stand there. Run!”
Jake jerked to attention, ready to obey—possibly for the first time in his life.
This was not the sort of man whose orders you ignored.
Unfortunately, while the fight raged, three against one, Jake couldn’t manage to slip away. The space was too narrow. He glanced around for another exit from the alley.
Spotting another garbage can nearby, he dragged it over to the wall, turned it upside-down, and c
limbed on it.
Clutching the top of the brick wall, he started to pull himself up, but the old beggar ghost suddenly pointed, behind him, yelling, “Look out!”
Jake glanced over his shoulder just as the bald giant, Oxley, hurled a knife at him. But the warrior also saw.
He grabbed his nearest opponent, the rat-faced man, and swung him around to block the flying blade. It shuddered to a halt in the rat-man’s back; he let out a garbled squeak.
The warrior threw him aside. “Keep going, Everton!” he ordered as he stalked toward the bald giant.
“Everton?” Jake whispered with a tingle down his spine. “Why does everyone keep calling me that?”
It was the same name the watery woman had called him when he had gone mudlarking a few days ago…
After promising Dani that he’d try not to steal, he had hoped to find a little something he could pawn in order to buy food. Taking off his old, holey boots, he had rolled up his trouser legs and waded into the Thames at low tide, hunting for any valuables people might have dropped into the river. You never knew what might wash up in the mud.
Coins, watches, brooches, jeweled cravat pins. These were the holy grail. You could eat for a month if you found some such lost trinket. Just bring it to the pawnshop and collect your reward.
Of course, all the starving mudlark children ever really found was trash. Hope sprang eternal, but instead of gold coins, they usually found dead fish heads, old broken bottles, and bits of rotting rope from passing ships.
But that day, Jake had found more than what he had bargained for—which was why he was not going anywhere near the Thames ever again. For, as he had learned from shocking firsthand experience, there were weird ladies living in the river.
Underneath the water.
No one else seemed aware of this. He wouldn’t have believed it himself if he had not come face to face with one while peering down into the lazy brown current trying to make his fortune.
He had blinked and there she was—a strange lady floating underneath the waves, sort of treading water.