‘The beggar belongs to the Demimonde.’
‘That’s it. Beggars always do. Anyone who slips to the edge of the mundane world has a chance of accidentally wandering into the Demimonde. Others seek it out, while some are naturally part of it. The Demimonde exists side by side with the mundane world, but is mostly invisible to it. Places ordinary people don’t go, or don’t want to go, or couldn’t find even if they wanted to go.’
Kingsley wasn’t exactly predisposed to accept this. He prided himself on being a rationalist. Like Maskelyne – one of his magical heroes – he had no time for spiritualists and their seances, and even less for the calculating frauds who preyed on the weak and vulnerable using tricks derived from stage magic. This side of him was at war, however, with dim memories from India, memories that made him tremble, memories of people who came out of the darkness, changing shape as they went, disappearing again in a state that was half-human, half-animal. If what Evadne was saying were true, in India the curtain between the real world and the Demimonde might be a slim one indeed.
Nevertheless, he reserved judgement. While he tasted the allure of such a world as Evadne described – especially if it went hand in hand with the world of the theatre – it sounded unseemly, perhaps dangerous. ‘Let’s just say that I’m unconvinced.’
‘Of course. It’s a great deal to take in at once.’ She put her head on one side. Then, with a quick movement, she bridged the gap between the chairs and leaned close, looking into his eyes. ‘Well,’ she declared after a moment that Kingsley found intensely uncomfortable, despite enjoying her scent. He could tell that it was gardenia, with an underlying bed of sandalwood. ‘That’s interesting.’
‘My eyes are interesting?’
She uncoiled back to her chair and addressed Kipling, who had been watching this exchange closely. ‘I do believe he would have found his way into the Demimonde, come what may. There’s something about him.’
‘There’s something about everyone,’ Kingsley said briskly, doing his best to disengage from the intensity of her interest.
‘And you in particular,’ Kipling said. ‘This only confirms my opinion that you are special.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Which is why these sorcerers want you.’
‘Ah. That sort of special.’
‘You’ve heard of the Thuggee cult?’
‘Indian villains and murderers,’ Kingsley said. ‘Everyone knows that.’
‘And everyone knows very little,’ Kipling said. ‘The truth is darker and more ghastly than even the most sensational English newspapers reported.’
‘Death worshippers,’ Evadne breathed. ‘Kali-Durga.’
‘In her aspect of Bhowanee,’ Kipling added.
A chill reached from the past and stroked Kingsley’s neck. He’d have sworn he’d never heard those names before, but he was gripped by them. ‘You’re saying that these sorcerers of yours are mixed up with the Thuggees?’
‘With the worst of them, a sort of inner circle. The Three Immortals controlled them and sent them on their way, wreaking havoc among the British and among the Indians, slaughtering indiscriminately.’
‘What for?’
Kipling grimaced. ‘I don’t know. All my sources, all my investigations cannot divine the reason for the reign of terror they created, nor what the worst of the worst they cultivated were actually doing.’
‘But the Thuggees were wiped out,’ Kingsley said. ‘The authorities made sure of it.’
‘India can hide much,’ Kipling said, ‘but that’s not the point. I have friends still out there, still alert. They’ve recently written to me to let me know that the Three have left India.’
‘The Three?’
‘Three immortal sorcerers dedicated to establishing dominion over humanity. I fear that they are here and looking for you, Mr Ward.’
It was mid-morning when Kipling shepherded them through the door of the Hyde Park police station, the writer having insisted that Kingsley and Evadne catch a few hours’ sleep and eat a proper breakfast before approaching the authorities.
The rain meant that the front desk was lonely apart from a sergeant. As soon as they entered, he goggled at Evadne and put his mug on the bench in front of him. ‘And what can I do for you, young lady?’ he asked as he brushed at the front of his blue serge. Then he noticed Kipling and Kingsley, who was still dressed in his black tie stage costume. ‘And you, sirs?’ he asked in a tone that Kingsley suspected was very useful in interrogations.
‘Is Superintendent Norris in yet?’ Kipling gave the sergeant his card. ‘I’d like a word with him.’
The sergeant glanced at the card, then studied it again. ‘He should be here, Mr Kipling. I’ll find him for you.’
‘Norris is an old acquaintance of mine. He’s sure to be able to straighten out the mess you’ve found yourself in, Kingsley,’ Kipling said after the sergeant disappeared past the charge station, where an officer was organising a lumpish fellow who didn’t look at all unhappy at the prospect of being thrown into a cell. ‘When I came back to London, being an old newspaperman I couldn’t help but renew our acquaintance. I always feel better if I know a few of our law enforcement officials.’
‘Professional curiosity,’ Evadne said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Professional curiosity. I see it in many occupations, and writing is one of them.’
Kipling’s moustache twitched. ‘A neat way of putting it, my dear. I am, indeed, inquisitive, and I’ve found that our police officers are often the first to know about anything. Fine storytellers, too, many of them.’
‘They’d have a few stories to tell,’ Kingsley said. He rocked back and forth on his heels impatiently. He hoped that Norris was as understanding as Kipling suggested. The horrible demise of Mrs Walters and the intruders Kingsley had disturbed had certainly made the matter of his foster father’s disappearance even more worrying.
The sergeant returned, looking puzzled. ‘I can’t find the super, sir, but someone from the Yard is here. A Commander Harvey, said he wanted to see you.’
‘Ah.’ Kipling shared a significant look with Kingsley and Evadne. ‘I think we might know what that’s about, but I’d rather wait and see my friend the superintendent.’
‘The commander was insistent, sir, when I told him you were here.’
Kipling protested, but the sergeant showed them to an office towards the rear of the station. A tall, uniformed man stood behind the desk. ‘The boy,’ he said. ‘I want to see the boy.’
Kipling wasn’t happy. ‘I thought we could work things out, the superintendent and I, but now I’m not sure that we shouldn’t have some legal representation.’
‘They can wait,’ the commander said. Kingsley shifted uncomfortably. The man’s gaze hadn’t moved from him. ‘The girl and the man. They can wait.’
‘I say,’ Kipling burst out as the sergeant hustled Evadne and him away. ‘This isn’t what I expected.’
‘Close the door,’ the commander said. Kingsley swallowed. He didn’t like the man’s voice. It had all the warmth of an icicle wrapped in a snow blanket.
‘Sit.’
The commander’s eyes were as flat as his voice. He was gaunt, his cheeks hollow, and his skin had a peculiar greyish quality.
Kingsley shifted on the hard wooden chair as the commander studied him silently, conscious that his animal self was becoming increasingly unhappy. The commander disturbed him – all sides of him. Every detail about the man was deeply unsettling. The way he stood was slightly awkward, the way he held his head wasn’t right, the whole line of his balance was askew.
When Kingsley became aware that the man also smelled wrong, his lips began to curl and the skin at the back of his neck tighten. Flee! his wildness screamed. Leave this place! Get away from him!
When Kingsley woke, he instantly knew where he was: he was in a lightless confined space that smelled of motor exhaust. Since it jolted and rocked, and since the sound of an engine hammered at him, it didn’t take him long to conclude that he was in the back of a lorry. The question of how he’d made the transition from being in a police station to this predicament eluded him, thanks to the waves of nausea that kept him doubled up on the floor of the van. But after the events of the night before, had had to assume he’d been taken by Kipling’s immortal sorcerers. The implications were chilling. If they’d been able to cast a net like this so quickly, their reach was fearsome.
Grimacing with every bump and every lurch, Kingsley crawled to the doors. Panting heavily, with pain swirling inside his skull, he found the lock with a hand. Even in his distress, he managed a chuckle. The locksmith who made this was taking money under false pretences.
At that moment, however, the van conspired to test Kingsley’s skill. It both jolted and lurched, so much so that his forehead hit the lock sharply enough for his teeth to snap together – right onto the tip of his tongue, which he customarily stuck out while working. He reeled back in time for a second violent lurch to hurl him against the door again. He managed to protect his hands by the novel method of taking the entire force on his nose, thus making his head a veritable explosion of pain.
He lost control. His wolfish state came roaring out to possess him.
Immediately, he howled and backed away from the door. The noise, the smell and his physical distress frightened him. Scrabbling at the metal floor, he levered himself up and threw himself from side to side, furious and afraid of the confines of the moving prison. He growled until his throat was sore and then, finally, he cowered in a corner, shivering. Finally, he took the last refuge of the beast: he slept.
When he awoke, the vestiges of nausea were still with him, enough to make him wince when the doors of the van were dragged open. He put a hand up to shield his eyes. Two uniformed figures were reaching for him and he was reasonably sure they weren’t matadors. As one, they leaped into the back of the van and dragged him out. Kingsley protested, and lashed out with a few aimless punches, but he was weak – both from the energy uselessly expended when his wolfish self was in charge and from the effects of whatever had rendered him unconscious.
He was carried through a lane that smelled of rotting onions. Face down, he could make out shouting nearby and the sounds of traffic, generic enough noises to make them almost useless in identifying his surroundings. He smelled steam and thought he was near a station, but then a wave of fishiness and the sight of water told him that he’d been brought to the Thames. The glimpse was short, for he was hustled into the stony darkness of a warehouse and thrown against a wall.
Billingsgate fish market. Damona wore a wide-brimmed hat and overcoat. Protection, disguise. Rain clearing, she leaned against a lamp post, gazing at the swarming Invaders. She was contemptuous and pitying. Pale, soft creatures. How did they ever become so dominant? Looking harder, she saw their activity, their energy, their enterprise. A hint?
She grunted. Where were the Spalnitz brothers? She’d bought copper from them in the past, needed plenty now. Slippery, like most Invaders, but the Spalnitzes were greedy enough to sell to the True People. Damona could work with that.
Olaf sidled up to her. Large hat, tattered velvet coat. A good scout, Olaf was often abroad in the overworld. He was shorter than most of the True People, smaller. Wrapped in his rags he caused no comment. A beggar, one of many.
Damona admired his fortitude.
Olaf squatted next to her. ‘The boy you’re after. The Spawn have him. Here.’
Damona bared her teeth. Finding the boy was good. She could use him to put pressure on Dr Ward. But the Spawn? She spat on the cobbles. They were a problem.
Damona hated the Spawn even more than she hated their Immortal masters. Spawn turned her stomach. She gave Olaf a coin. In case anyone was wondering why she was talking to a beggar. ‘Where?’
He pointed, a barest twitch of a finger. She tossed him another coin, set off in the direction he indicated. Around her the business of the fish market swirled and roared. She ignored it.
The Invaders had a Golden Rule. Damona had heard of it. Treat others as one would wish to be treated. Stupid. Unworkable.
The True People had a Golden Rule: always repay. Good or bad, always repay. Debts were honoured. Revenge was taken. It was natural.
She was sure that the Golden Rule of the True People was observed more wholly than the Golden Rule of the Invaders. Theirs was too complicated. An Invader had to imagine himself as someone else, for a start. Much too hard for most Invaders, from what she’d seen.
The code of the True People was simpler. It took a natural impulse, made it part of their culture. In the past, when the Invaders burned a village of the True People, the survivors sought revenge. Every time.
It was simple. It was clear. It was inborn. It was satisfying.
Damona had had a long life to consider such things. In her heart, she knew that this custom had helped destroy her people. True People sought revenge even when badly placed, outnumbered, hurt, lost. Each defeat had diminished her people. Hot-blooded revenge could be a disaster. Cold, thoughtful revenge, though. That was different. The Immortals were a different case from the Invaders. More dangerous, less predictable. Damona didn’t care what their motives were. She just knew that the self-proclaimed sorcerers were enemies.
It happened many, many years ago, when she was young. A small clan of True People wanted to start their own stronghold. The plan had caused much heartache, families divided, arguing, friend against friend. In the end the self-determination of the True People prevailed.
A year passed with no news. Then a sole survivor of the clan dragged herself back to London. She brought news that the clan had been abducted by the Immortals, and died.
The outrage created anger that had not been seen for an age. Damona was in the troop that went to rescue the missing clan. They found only bones, so their mission became one of revenge. They destroyed scores of the Spawn but weren’t able to find the Immortals themselves.
The Immortals disappeared soon after this disaster. Vanished. No word of them in the Demimonde.
Then news came of them from India. They were ensconced in the shadow world there, breeding horrors.
Damona had spent time learning about the Immortals. Many whispers, few facts. Everyone she spoke to agreed that they were magicians. This meant little to Damona. The Demimonde was full of those who called themselves heirs to Pharaohs, Speakers to the Dead and travellers from other worlds. Claims were easy to make in the Demimonde and hard to disprove.
The Immortals were like a squeaky gear to Damona. Hard to ignore, but not that important. They were in India, the True People were under London.
A smile spread on her broad face. Taking the boy would be of benefit to the True People. It would also upset the Immortals. Two good outcomes, one action. Efficient and pleasing.
Damona went to the rear of the warehouse. Crates stacked high, smelling of fish. She pushed her way through them. Cats scattered, glared at her.
An iron ladder led to the roof. Skylight, easy entrance. A catwalk and she was in a loft with a fine view below.
She peered down. Smiled.
Cobwebs, dust, broken crates. Two Spawn were dressed as police constables. Damona sniffed. No mistaking their smell. Not alive, not dead. Stronger than they looked, she knew.
They were tying the hands of their victim. The boy was tall, well built, curly haired, unhappy. He kicked, struggled. Uselessly. The Spawn had already thrown back a steel hatch in the floor. A Demimonde entrance.
Damona could move quietly w
hen she chose, like all True People. Her bulk was deceptive. She ignored the ache in her hip. Crept along the catwalk to the other end of the warehouse. She found a ladder. It creaked under her weight. Her heart caught a beat until it steadied. Then she was on the cobbled floor.
Damona smiled again. A few steps, a slide around a pillar, and she’d be on them.
She paused for a moment. Hesitated. Was she too old for such nonsense?
Of course I am. But it’s not going to stop me.
She roared and charged straight at them. Stiff-armed the Spawn on the right. He flew backward, squawking. The one on the left stopped blindfolding the lad. Damona swung a fist. He didn’t have time to move. His head snapped back. His police helmet flew off. He toppled, senseless.
Damona pushed the Invader lad aside. She crouched to meet the first Spawn. He hissed, launched himself at her, eyes mad.
She drew her head in to protect her throat. She clasped both hands together, brought them up with all her True People strength. She caught him right under his chin. His jaw crunched. His eyes rolled up. He collapsed at her feet.
Damona bent. She grasped her knees and panted. She definitely wasn’t as young as she once was.
The boy. She lifted her head, found him on the floor, bound and angry.
He growled at her from behind his gag.
She almost laughed, then she saw his eyes. Wild eyes. The eyes of a hunter. She backed away a step or two. The boy had no restraint left in him. He was about to attack.
‘Don’t,’ she said. She kept her voice calm, her movements slow. She reached across the body of the Spawn, grasped a steel rung. She grunted, wrenched it from its mountings. She swung it in front of her. Two feet of solid metal whistled, slicing through the air. ‘I’ll hurt you,’ she said to the wild boy.
He swarmed up and out of the ropes. She gaped. How did he do that? He leaned one way, then the other, looking for the range of the metal bar. He didn’t back away.
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