Extraordinaires 1 (21 page)

K
ingsley stretched as they left the inn. ‘Rested? he asked Evadne.

Her face was mournful. ‘I enjoy my sleep. It's going to take more than a few hours to make up for what I've lost.'

‘I'm just glad you found somewhere to take us.'

‘Some inns like catering to the Demimonde.' She fitted a finger behind her spectacles and rubbed her eye. ‘And the silver helped the negotiation.'

‘Sixpence goes a long way here,' Kingsley said. In this case, it had extended to two rooms for the afternoon and a rough meal of what was either a thick vegetable soup or a thin vegetable stew. Regardless, it satisfied what had become a yawning void inside him.

He cast a look back at the inn, tucked away as it was in a street running south from the river. The inn was the epitome of inconspicuousness. He was sure he would have walked past it a dozen times without noticing it if it were not for Evadne.

‘The innkeeper was so grateful for that sixpence that he was happy to answer a few questions,' Evadne said. ‘He confirmed that some of the anti-Immortalists are about here and now and gave me a few suggestions as to where we could find them.' She adjusted the hood of the cloak she'd bought from the innkeeper. It hid her face, something that Kingsley thought a shame, but he understood the good sense behind it. While the panic and tumult of the fire may have allowed Evadne to go relatively unnoticed so far, there was no point in risking someone pointing at her because of her unusual appearance and blaming the whole disaster on her. A crowd was a fickle thing and dangerous when roused.

‘So we're going to collar some of these anti-Immortalists and demand they tell us where these sorcerers are?'

‘Nothing as crude as that. Let me think about it.'

It was barely a moment later, near the Pickle Herring Stairs on the river, that Kingsley saw the Neanderthals. Neanderthals in the open. Neanderthals among normal humans. Neanderthals dressed in garments from 1908.

Kingsley acted quickly and dragged Evadne behind a wall. She was startled, but didn't cry out. Her eyes widened when she followed his gesture and saw the reason for the precipitous action.

‘I still have my dart gun,' Evadne breathed in Kingsley's ear, creating all number of extraordinary sensations.

‘Hold onto it,' he whispered back and wiped his streaming eyes. The air on this side of the river was still abominable.

The Neanderthals were pushing through the crowd on the embankment and probably enjoying the sensation of being taller than those around them. They were also probably enjoying – if that were the word – the fact that their appearance wasn't causing alarm; the ordinary Londoners were no doubt expecting demons to cavort down the street at any moment, so a few broad-browed, thickset people were hardly cause for alarm.

The Neanderthals disappeared through a stone arch. Kingsley watched them go, fully aware that the dangerous surroundings had suddenly become even more dangerous.

On the southern bank of the Thames, with the theatres, bull and bear baiting, riotous taverns and eating houses, there was a general atmosphere of lawlessness that was only made worse by the End of Days scene on the other side of the river. Kingsley thought it was as if a bit of the Demimonde had given up trying to hide and simply lumped itself out in plain sight.

As they pushed through crowds that were both despairing and celebratory, sometimes at the same time, Evadne confirmed his suspicions. Holding tightly to his arm, she had to shout into his ear. ‘The walls are thin here, between the Demimonde and the ordinary world! That's why I'm hoping to find our allies!'

‘You're calling them allies already?' Kingsley danced them both around a man who was sitting the middle of the road, weeping. He held a puppet in his lap.

‘I'm full of hope!' She smiled, and Kingsley was pleased to find no brittleness.

Evadne brought them to a gaunt edifice overlooking the uproar of Southwark and the fire on the other side of the river like a disapproving aunt. The church that would one day be Southwark Cathedral was now filled with worshippers obviously inspired – or frightened to death – by the catastrophe to the north.

Evadne pushed against the flow of worshippers, however, and they made their way to the rear of the church and out to the old priory buildings. Most of these were disused and in desperate need of repair, but Kingsley was intrigued to see people at glassless windows watching the milling crowd and leaning precariously to catch sight of the far bank and the fire.

Evadne led them down what may have been a narrow lane, but was more like a gap where two of the priory buildings had leaned away from each other. A drain had seized the opportunity, as drains tend to, and ran through the middle of it. Evadne moved nimbly along one side, but Kingsley had to straddle the horrible gutter. The stench made his ears ring.

‘Here.'

Kingsley would have walked straight past the door. Not because it was hard to see, or obscured, or hidden in any way. It was remarkably ordinary, a wooden door set into bricks with no identifying features, but perhaps its ordinariness made the eye skate over it, kept the observer moving, because of its outstanding lack of interest.

Evadne pushed the door open and they were confronted with a grimy room only a few feet square, with no window but a set of stairs leading upward. A stool with only two legs was the sole thing in the neglected place.

The lean of the building became more apparent as they mounted the stairs. Kingsley had to steady himself against the wall as they came to the first floor landing. Two rooms, only one with a door.

‘This is the place?' he asked Evadne. He kept his voice low.

‘So I'm led to believe.' She kept a hand in her pocket. She pushed back her hood, reached out with the other hand and rapped sharply. ‘A Demimonde location for a Demimonde group.'

The door swung back. A woman studied them with no trace of surprise. She was small, with dark eyes, and she wore a coarse smock. Her feet were bare. ‘What do you want?'

‘You are the Retrievers?'

The woman cast a look over her shoulder. Kingsley heard movement. He glanced around him, searching for the best way out, as his wild side threatened to rouse.

Evadne put a hand on the door. ‘Please. We understand you search for lost children.'

‘And find them, when we can.' The woman's voice was thick, her vowels strained. ‘We bring them home.'

‘From the Immortals?'

The woman shivered. ‘Aye. From them, or their agents, when we can.'

‘We want to help.'

The woman swung back the door. As she did, Kingsley's eyes widened.

She was missing her little finger.

Three men and another woman were in the tiny room. A single shuttered window let light through in streaks. A rough table, two benches and a raft of suspicion greeted Kingsley and Evadne when they entered.

‘Who are they?' one of the men whispered. He wore richer clothes than the others – a velvet jacket with lace collar and cuffs. His voice was hoarse. Both his hands were under the table.

‘We're from your future,' Evadne said. ‘We need to find the Immortals' lair to use their magic so we can go home again.'

‘Ah.' The man put his hands on the table. One held a wicked bone-handled knife. The other had only four fingers. ‘So it is help you want?'

‘We can pay,' Evadne said. ‘Silver.'

Kingsley rocked on his heels. ‘I'm sorry, but wait a moment.' He tugged on Evadne's sleeve. ‘You simply came out and told them? Just like that?'

She shrugged. ‘We're in the Demimonde. I'm sure they've heard more outlandish tales.'

The woman closed the door. ‘People from the future? You are strange enough.' She gestured. ‘Your garments. Your talk.'

The hoarse man glanced at the others. ‘Besides, silver overcomes disbelief. Most readily.'

‘Sit.' The woman said. ‘Tell us what you want.'

Kingsley had accepted that his clothes were already a lost cause, with the smoke, cinders and general dirt, so the encrusted bench was hardly an obstacle. He sat next to Evadne, who hesitated not at all. ‘You are few,' she said.

The hoarse man shrugged. ‘We were more. The magicians kill us when they find us.'

‘Yet you continue your work.'

‘How could we not?' the woman said. ‘They take children and they use them most foully. Who would not rise to defend the innocent?'

Evadne's face was hard. ‘Many.'

‘But not you?'

‘No. I want to stop them. If I can find them, I will do them harm.'

Kingsley put his hand on Evadne's. ‘We want their magic to send us home.'

Evadne grimaced. ‘Yes. Of course.' She took a deep breath. ‘They have something in their lair that could help us.'

‘When you go home, you will do them harm?' the woman asked, her eyes on Evadne.

‘Oh yes,' Evadne breathed. ‘Certes.'

The woman looked at Hoarse Voice. He nodded. The others followed, some more slowly than the rest. ‘They are building a lair under Greenwich. Near the palace.'

Evadne stood and distributed the silver. The woman rose, went to the door and opened it. She saw the direction of Kingsley's gaze. ‘We do it to ourselves,' she said, holding up her hand, ‘to remind us of the foulness of the magicians.'

Hoarse Voice rapped on the table and held up his four-fingered hand as well. ‘They do it to themselves for their magic. We do it so we will never forget.'

At the doorway, Evadne paused. ‘You have all lost a child to them, have you not?'

The woman cast her gaze down. ‘My daughter. Only eleven years, she had, but she was bonny.'

Hoarse Voice stood. ‘We all have. Harm them for us. We will watch, do what we can.'

‘And we will remember,' the woman said.

The door closed.

J
ust as evening exchanged places with night, the Neanderthals ambushed them in Deptford.

Kingsley was eying the inn on one side of the square. He could smell food and decided another tub of turnips and beans would hit the spot nicely.

Much to the consternation of the few passers-by, Evadne was up on the market cross, ignoring the rain and trying to spy out the surroundings, her satchel over her shoulder, her sabre on her hip. ‘Everything looks different,' she called to Kingsley at the base of the monument, where he stood hands in pocket, his thoughts full of turnips and beans.

‘A few hundred years of urban development will change a city,' he pointed out.

Evadne rolled her eyes and leaned to the east, but cried out just as Kingsley was admiring her agility. ‘Kingsley! Neanderthals!'

Half a dozen of the brutish figures tumbled through a gap between the half-timbered buildings. They were led by one taller and even broader shouldered than his comrades – and with a bristling black beard to boot – while more were bowling out of a lane on the other side of the square.

Immediately and instinctively, Kingsley looked for avenues of escape around the muddy and puddle-strewn square, but they came too fast – and Evadne was trapped on the market cross.

Traps come in many sizes and shapes
, he thought. The brutes pounded towards them and he had to admit they were all in the ‘big and muscular' category. No weaklings here, no candidates for Professor Blumenthal's Physical Academy, which was a pity.

He bounced on his toes. He licked lips that were suddenly dry.
They must have a weakness
, he thought while his heart accelerated its beating.
It's just a matter of finding it.

The first and most eager of the Neanderthals lunged. Kingsley caught him on the side of the jaw with a right hook that had all of his strength behind it – and immediately regretted it. It was like punching leather-covered stone. He let out a sharp oath and backed away rapidly, each step an adventure on the uneven, muddy cobbles.

The brute growled and pawed at him again.

Noted
, Kingsley thought as he tried to stay upright,
the left side of the jaw isn't their weak spot
. He wasn't pinning much hope on the right side of the jaw either.

Kingsley had automatically thrust his throbbing fist under his armpit, but he dragged it out and jabbed at the Neanderthal as he advanced – not with any hope of doing damage, and with some hope of not connecting, but just to keep the blackguard at bay. The last thing Kingsley wanted to do was to wrestle with the barrel-chested brute. Grappling was a shortcut to being torn apart; nimbleness was the only answer.
Keep moving
, he told himself,
don't get caught
.

A
twang
came from behind him. His attacker blinked. He fumbled at his shoulder, then staggered and fell. ‘To your right!' Evadne cried. Kingsley twisted just in time to avoid a shoulder charge that would have knocked him right over the dockyards and into the river, but was quick enough to launch a kick at the ham-like buttocks sailing past. The extra padding there meant that his foot didn't suffer the same fate as his fist, but it knew it had done a good day's work, nonetheless. The extra impetus sent the Neanderthal crashing into a pile of muck that released an odour not unlike hell. Undignified, but not seriously inconveniencing.

Another
twang
and a second Neanderthal fell. Kingsley saw then that his job was to keep the Neanderthals at bay while Evadne used her dart gun to dispatch as many as possible. The trouble was that the Neanderthals had come to the same conclusion and were swarming up the steps of the market cross. Two smaller brutes circled him, with a certain level of amusement at his more and more frantic glances to where Evadne was calmly shooting, reloading and shooting again.

‘What, only two of you?' Kingsley tried. He bobbed and then drew back, retreating until he came up against the remains of a cart that had been left there. A huge fist whistled past and the Neanderthal laughed. ‘Stand still, grub!'

‘So you can break all the bones in my body? Of course!' Kingsley dropped his hands and came to attention, smiling.

Both Neanderthals frowned at this display, but obviously thought it too good an opportunity to argue with. They advanced, arms spread wide.

That's right
,
just a few more steps.

The puddle wasn't deep, but it was wet enough for both Neanderthals to look down at what they'd trodden in – which gave Kingsley time to produce the solid length of wood he'd been working at behind his back, thankful that the derelict nature of the cart meant quick and easy disassembly.

Kingsley wound up, spared a hope that he wasn't simply about to irritate his foes, and then swung.

He almost lifted himself off his feet with the effort, but the length of wood caught the first Neanderthal on the side of the head – the left, again – with a sound like a giant coconut shy. The blow toppled him against his comrade. They struck heads. The result was a double coconut sound and they both went to their knees, sprawling in the mud and water.

When they looked up, they'd stopped smiling. The first had blood dripping down his scalp and into his straggly, sandy beard. He wiped it away. ‘I'll eat your heart for that, grub.'

Kingsley was shoved in his back, propelled towards the grub-hating brute who had thrown his arms out, ready for a spine-cracking hug. Desperately, Kingsley allowed his momentum to carry him forward. Ignoring a basic rule of hand-to-hand combat (
Don't go to ground!
) he threw himself to one side of the Neanderthal's grasp, hoping that he could roll to his feet in time to meet any new attacker.

A heavy-gutted Neanderthal loomed over him for an instant, but his eyes rolled up and he crumpled, going to his knees and then falling. Kingsley managed to avoid being crushed, but when he bounced to his feet he was surrounded. A ring of four foes faced him. Three others were climbing the market cross and were reaching for Evadne, who had scrambled up as high as she could go. She had a leg hooked around the top of the cross. One hand held the dart gun and the other slashed with her sabre. In the middle of all the mayhem, Kingsley found a split-second to admire her swordplay, her aim and the quality of her taunting – her descriptions of her attackers' physical failings and her estimations of their family origins made them even more determined to drag her from her perch. She'd thrown back her hood and her hair flashed silver as she swivelled, keeping her attackers at bay with such elan that it was worthy of applause.

Despite this, Kingsley was under no illusions about their predicament.
Things could be going better
, he thought as he feinted right, then sprinted through the gap that caused, barely avoiding clutching hands. He leaped over another pile of muck that his pursuer opted to plough through.

Three Neanderthals were stretched out, slumbering, but they still had seven to contend with.

Kingsley reached the wall of the inn. He whirled. Kingsley essayed a jab at one of them, who instinctively pulled away, then advanced. Kingsley lunged one way, then the other, but they'd learned. They closed, flanking him to cut off any avenue of escape.

Kingsley swallowed. His teeth buried themselves in his lower lip. He knew, then, that he was standing on the precipice, in one of those moments that would determine the course of his life. If the Neanderthals took him, he would end up dead or worse – and he'd be unable to help Evadne. He could surrender and make sure of this fate, or he could continue to fight and end up the same.

His life's possibilities had narrowed to two equally unpalatable choices. He was trapped.

He blinked. Trapped? No answers? It was back to the Basic Principles. He remembered one of his favourites:
Take advantage of whatever is available in order to free yourself.

What was available to him? Backed against a well-made stone wall with his only source of help under siege herself, he had little at his command.

Except surrendering to his wild self.

It burst free as if it had been waiting for this opportunity, and he threw back his head and howled. It had the unexpected effect of momentarily stopping the advance of the Neanderthals.

Suddenly, in the heat of the fight, Kingsley's world was richer. Sounds were more thrilling, smells were manifold and each told its own story. Removing the strictures of civilisation had allowed him to see what needed to be done. Decency, honour, mercy: none of them had any place here.

He was fighting for his life.

Fiercely, teeth bared, he lashed out and clawed at the eyes of the nearest of the advancing Neanderthals – not to do serious damage, but merely to distract. While that one snarled and staggered, Kingsley snapped a kick right at the groin of the fellow who was about to seize him from his left. He didn't take any time to revel in the agonised yelp that signalled a successful strike, or to marvel that the Neanderthals shared a classic weak spot with their cousins. He stooped and dragged up a handful of mud that he planted in the open mouth of his more wary third assailant, then raked his hand upward to plug the enormous nostrils. He clawed them into the bargain. The Neanderthal tried to shriek, but the intake of breath only meant he sucked the mud straight down his throat. Choking, he staggered away, eyes bulging, grasping at his own neck.

One left.

Kingsley moved on his toes, snarling, looking for an opportunity. The blood roared in his veins as he circled, the suddenly careful Neanderthal circling in the opposite direction, one hand extended. Hardly thinking, noticing details at a level beneath the conscious, Kingsley saw the sweat on the brute's brow and knew that his grip would be slippery. He saw the pulse beating in the bull neck and instantly knew the vein would be well protected. The boots on his foe's feet were solid –
stay away from a kick!
– but were extremely heavy. He'd be slow to move.

Kingsley danced to his right. As expected, the Neanderthal followed, but Kingsley had judged nicely. The pair of raised cobbles caught his foe's heavy boot. The brute went to shift his weight and Kingsley flicked his fingers at him. Not much mud was left, but the Neanderthal flinched as the patter struck his face.

It was enough. Kingsley crouched, took up a loose cobble, leaped and brought the stone down. Not on the Neanderthal's head, but on his neck where the pulse had fluttered.

The lout fell like a tree. Panting with effort and wild exhilaration, Kingsley danced around him, growling deep in his chest. He wanted to take to him with his teeth, to rip at his throat, to feel blood on lips.

Kingsley took a step, then reeled away. He crouched against the wall of the inn, trembling, staring at his fallen foe, his breath coming in ragged gasps. There, in the mud and rain, he had a moment of clarity. He understood, at least in part, the allure of the wild, most especially in circumstances such as these. Throwing aside the conventions of civilisation was liberating. More than that, it was, thrilling!

Exactly like escaping from a trap.

Fighting for one's life was existence brought to its fundamentals. There was no time for niceties, no time for hesitation. Survival was a matter of split-second opportunities. A chance to defeat one's foe came in a heartbeat and had to be taken then, there, with all the force that could be summoned.

The trappings of civilisation were an impediment in a fight such as he'd just been through. It was like wearing a lead overcoat – an unnecessary, constricting burden. Civilisation was a countermanding voice, insisting that one couldn't claw at the eyes, that a foe should be given respect, that cunning was unworthy.

In such circumstances, civilisation was a shortcut to death. The pack who raised Kingsley, who saved him from death, had no need for civilisation. They were wild. They were free.

Kingsley heard its call and wanted to run with it. With the license granted to the wild, without the restraining influences of civilisation, ruthlessness wasn't just acceptable, it was laudable!

Still crouched, still panting, still with the heavy cobblestone in his hand, he felt the rain begin to fall. It washed away the sweat on his brow. He tasted salt on his lips.

He was sceptical. He always had trouble with simple answers to complex situations. Life was rarely as straightforward as his wild self would like it to be. The wild might be the natural state of humanity but, like it or not, Kingsley Ward lived in a civilised world. Besides, some of these layers that civilisation brought – some of these useless trappings, according to his wild self – were worthwhile. In a fight, the wild world had no time for compassion, or for mercy, but Kingsley knew that the world, and he, would be worse off without them.

Sometimes we can be better than our natures.

He dropped the cobblestone. He stepped over the Neanderthal and looked for Evadne, only to find her serenely descending from the market cross, the last of the comatose Neanderthals scattered around her like pagan worshippers prostrate in the face of the arrival of a goddess. The sight was so bizarre and so civilised – so
unwild
– that Kingsley was cheered.