Extraordinaires 1 (7 page)

‘We've seen horror tonight,' Kingsley said.

‘I gathered as much.' Kipling consulted his notebook, turned a page, and looked up, pencil poised. ‘Our motor car escape was a little too fraught for you to inform me about what you found at your home. Would you mind?'

Kingsley began to explain, but stumbled badly when it came to the scene in the study. It took him a few false starts before he completed his story, and Kingsley was grateful for Evadne's lack of mockery while she listened.

Kipling blanched as the story unfolded but he gamely maintained his jotting. ‘Brutish burglars? I was more worried about those things in the park.'

‘Who were they?' Kingsley asked.

‘They are minions of some depraved individuals I encountered in India, barely escaping with my life.' Kipling eyed them carefully. ‘Sorcerers.'

Kingsley went to scoff at this, but he caught Evadne's expression. She was intently listening to Kipling, tight-lipped and angry. ‘Go on,' she said.

‘I guessed that you were prepared for this, Miss Stephens. Theatre folk often are.'

‘You may have seen things, Mr Kipling, but so have I.'

‘The Demimonde?'

‘Indeed.'

‘The Demimonde,' Kingsley repeated. ‘We're not talking about courtesans and wastrels and people like that, are we?'

Evadne and Kipling exchanged glances. ‘Not exactly.' She touched her lips with her forefinger, then appeared to come to a decision. ‘I'm not sure that you're ready for this, but it seems as if we have little choice.' She took a deep breath. ‘Pay attention. This is a rather abrupt introduction to the Demimonde. Usually we'd watch over you for a year or so before introducing it to you, if we thought you were ready, but sometimes, as all theatre people know, you have to ad lib.'

‘Wait,' Kingsley said. ‘The Demimonde? The half-world?'

‘I knew you had an education behind you.' Evadne pushed up her spectacles. She'd changed them; these were tinted slightly green. ‘Your courtesans and wastrels, as you so coyly describe them, are part of a realm that had been around long before absinthe had been invented.' Evadne put her hands together for a moment, nodding. ‘It's like this. Just as the curtain divides the world of the groundlings from the magic world that is the theatre, so there exists a curtain that divides the rest of the mundane world from the Demimonde.'

‘Ah,' Kingsley said, not in comprehension but more because some sort of response seemed to be expected.
Curtains?

‘It's more a curtain of perception and tradition than a curtain of true magic, but it's powerful nevertheless.'

‘Magic.'

For a moment, she ran an upright finger left and right over her lips. ‘I shouldn't have used that word yet. It only confuses things.' She brightened. ‘What about an example? Everything works better with an example.'

‘Please.'

‘Try this. Sometimes when you see a banker walk straight past a beggar, it isn't because he is making a point. The beggar is truly invisible to him, even though he is only inches away.'

Kingsley frowned. ‘The beggar isn't there?'

‘No. I'm talking about the two worlds, the world of the banker and the world of the beggar. Sometimes they intersect and the banker can see the beggar, but at other times the beggar is truly invisible.'

‘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.'

I
t 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!

Kingsley was half out of his chair when two peculiarly grey-faced constables burst in. One swung a baton and darkness carried him away.

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.