Twincy Quinn and the Eye of Horus Part One (3 page)

With one final
glance down at the creature by my feet, I whirled on my foot.

One down, one
to go.

I pushed into
a sprint. With a final glance over my shoulder at the suitable and
its sword several feet away from its side, I narrowed my eyes, gave
a disgusted shake of my head, and continued forward.

It was a
strange, ugly world that I lived in. When Esquire had first plucked
me from the slums, I had been glad of his help. Now I understood it
for what it was. Manipulation of the worst kind.

Well I knew
precisely how to pay him back.

Ducking
forward, I dipped down low, scooped up my dress, and flung it over
my shoulders. I did not tie it around my middle yet, but simply let
it whisk around like a cape.

Half closing
my eyes as I ran, yet never losing balance or the awareness of my
surroundings, I tuned into the vibrations rattling through the
cobbles.

After several
seconds where I continued to stream forward I finally felt
something.

Far off. Many
hundreds of feet to my left.

I pivoted on
my foot, my boot slamming into the ground as I shunted to the side,
hair flapping over my shoulder.

I opened my
eyes fully.

Raising a
hand, I pushed my hair from my face, secured my dress around my
middle, and sprinted in the direction of the pulsation I had
detected.

The remaining
suitable was ahead of me. Several blocks to my left, and moving
towards the east. Knowing how Doctor Esquire operated, the suitable
would aim for a major road, steal a vehicle, or find one it had
left earlier, and head out of the city as fast as it could. Though
Doctor Esquire had many labs dotted around London, the majority of
his operations occurred outside of the city, far away from prying
eyes and the scrutiny of the legal fraternity. Not that the law
would ever catch up with the doctor. He was too well-connected, too
wealthy, and too well-respected. Londoners saw Elliot Esquire as
their Saviour, not as an insidious, undermining force lying in wait
for an opportunity to strike and rule.

I had to stop
the suitable before it left London. If it reached the open
countryside, though I could give good chase, even I would succumb
after a while. Plus, Esquire had seen me, and he would undoubtedly
send his reinforcements.

Chiding myself
for taking too long, I rounded a corner.

Before me was
a crowd. Though it was not thick, there were still far too many
witnesses. Far too many sailors and dockworkers and coal miners and
factory staff to simply sprint through, in my semi-dressed
state.

Twisting on my
heel immediately, snapping my gaze to the ground as a man close by
gave a curt, challenging glance, I turned on my foot and headed
towards a darker section of road.

There were
many flickering lamps in the open street, and they were too bright
to stand under. Somebody would see me for sure.

‘
Hey,’ a man called out to me.

He followed it
up with some crude, half-drunken statement.

I had no time
for the men of London. They had no time for me. I was an object of
disgust, not of pity, let alone value. A street urchin, poor, and
to their minds uneducated, I was nothing more than a target for
their desires, their anger, and their frustrations.

Hurrying, my
boots clicking on the cobbles, I shifted forward faster as I heard
somebody fall into step behind me.

It was unsafe
for a lady to walk the streets of London on her own, or at least
this area of town.

I had no fear
for my safety, however the man behind me should be far more careful
of his.

Ducking into a
very narrow alley, I heard him hurry up behind me. He had heavy,
percussive breath, and it grated on my nerves to hear it. I smelt
the stench of alcohol thick on his breath, and though he was still
a good 15 feet behind me, it felt as if he were huffing and puffing
right in front of my face.

‘
These streets are dangerous,’ he began with a grating laugh
that shook through the cobbles and up into my legs and
belly.

I stopped.

I didn't stop
because of what the man said, neither did his tone get to me.

I stopped
because I took the opportunity to turn my head up and appraise the
wall beside me. There were two large, sturdy metal signs bolted
into the stone, and they were at such a distance that if I clutched
onto one and swung, I could jump onto the other. From there I could
grab the lip of the windowsill, pull myself up, and leap on to the
roof.

The roofs of
London, though slippery and often treacherous, were my home. I
could sprint across them, I could watch from them, and I would
definitely be left alone.

He reached me.
He pushed out a hand, grabbing at my arm and forcing me around with
a tug.

His fingers
were calloused, the skin rough against my own smooth arm.

He brought his
face down close, the force of his alcohol-laden breath playing
against the corners of my scrappy fringe.

‘
You should be polite; I'm speaking to you,’ he
began.

Showing no
fright, because I had none, I faced him in full now. One of my
eyebrows angled up in a twitch, and my head ticked down to the
side. I fixed him with the kind of look a lioness might a hyena
yapping at its heels. Dangerous and ready to attack.

I saw the
man's expression waver as he licked at his lips with a fat red
tongue.

Again I smelt
the alcohol thick on his breath. His clothes, dirty and brown,
reeked of it too.

His eyes were
large and red rimmed, and blinked with slow, languid moves.

Yet the look
on his face was unmistakable. Cruel. Perverse. To him he had caught
something weaker than him.

Wrong.

Considering
him with one arched eyebrow for one single second longer, I shook
my head, shrugged my shoulders, and then shoved him off. It was a
forceful move. It was also sudden. As I shifted forward, I
strengthened my stance, shored up my shoulder, and gave it
everything I could.

He didn't have
a chance. He promptly fell right over, his hip, leg, and arm
slamming against the cobbles, and his head following a fraction of
a second later.

There was a
second when he looked at me, wide-eyed and surprised. Then the
alcohol got the better of his common sense and he roared.
Scrabbling up to his feet, his sturdy-looking, scuffed brown boots
kicked out as he stood in a most ungainly move.

I considered
him, shook my head again, took a sharp step back, and turned to the
wall.

Before he
could let out another drunken roar, I jumped up, and I grabbed the
sign. It was a good six feet off the ground. I launched myself at
the wall, planted my feet into it, and reached up. My hand locking
around the rusted metal, it gave a slight groan, but I did not
wait. I kicked forward and up, twirling around the metal pole until
I stood in a handstand. I then snapped forward, jumped up, grabbed
the other sign, and made it to the windowsill above. Without
pausing, not even to listen to that impressed, surprised,
flabbergasted gasp of the drunkard below me, I made it up to the
roof.

I knew the
risks. I knew it was not wise to display my talents before the
ordinary men and women of London. I had to keep my secret for the
good of my mission and myself. If I were ever to defeat Esquire, I
had to conduct a silent, guerrilla-like war. He was too
well-connected for me to assault him head on. Plus, I was an
urchin, who would sympathise with me? Who would believe me? For it
was a fantastic tale. A young, dirty, poor girl who had never known
anything but the slums taken in by a rich, maddeningly intelligent
doctor.

And
changed.

For a single
second as I stood on the roof, I looked down.

The drunkard
kept shifting his head from side to side, trying to peer up the
wall of the building, then taking a step back, rubbing at his eyes,
and gasping again. In a way it was comical, but I did not have time
to laugh. Neither was I that cruel. Whoever the man was, he
obviously could not hold his alcohol. From the look of his clothes,
the lumber of his moves, and his general appearance, I could also
tell he was hardly well off. Uneducated, he likely got through life
on raw instincts alone.

I held no
anger for him, just pity. Because in this town, somebody had to
hold pity towards its inhabitants. While the wealthy swanned around
the city, collecting the resources of the poor, their elitism
prevented them from compassion.

Well I had
compassion.

It would be
the only thing that would stop me from tipping over the edge.

I knew how
powerful I was. I knew what I could be used for. Evil. Immeasurable
evil. That, after all, is what Esquire designed me to do.

Yet I also
knew I was free. I had broken out of his grasp, and I could now do
what I wanted. It was up to me to make those actions good.

Though I hated
Esquire for what he had done and what he continued to do, I thanked
him for one thing. He had educated me. He had introduced me to the
combined intelligence of humanity. History and culture and arts and
literature. Most of all, philosophy. The morals of the Greeks, the
reason of the Romans, I had it all. And I was going to use it.

I turned.

As a blast of
wind took the edge of my skirt and furled it around my boots, I
angled my head forward, staring out at the cityscape of London.
Undulating roofs, slate and wood and brick and stone, I saw the
lights flickering below. Lamps and even new electronic lights that
Esquire himself had invented and introduced to the population at
large.

It was a
beautiful sight.

Up here you
could forget what occurred down there. There was no mud, there were
no slums, there was no death. Just the open night sky above
you.

I did not
pause.

I pushed
myself forward.

I was
somebody's last hope, and I was not going to give up.

Michael F.
Stanford

‘
Detective,’ the man before me nodded his head low, offering me
a blunt smile from underneath his enormous, bristly moustache.
‘Michael F. Stanford, I presume?’

I nodded.
‘Inspector, how can I help you?’ I took a step forward, wiping my
hands on my long jacket, annoyed when I found a spot of mud halfway
down. It had been an arduous and busy day. Not only had I
investigated a new kidnapping, but I had also chased several
thieves through the slums.

Which was
unfortunate, because I did not have the time or the opportunity to
go home, change clothes, and fix my appearance before going on my
date tonight.

‘
I wish to enquire how the latest investigation is coming
along. Do you have any news? Anything I can tell the grieving
family?’

It was a good
question. It was also, unfortunately, an uncomfortable one.

After a short
pause, making eye contact with the man, I shook my head. ‘No
news.’

The Inspector
sighed. Clapping his hands behind his back, his white, extended
knuckles brushing against the coat tails of his perfectly tailored
jacket, he shook his head. ‘This is a sudden and worrying
phenomenon, whatever resources you require, whatever help you need,
I will give you everything you desire so we can finally put a stop
to this. The Walters are a respected family. For them to lose their
daughter, so young,’ the inspector shook his head, emotion
obvious.

I say obvious.
I am not entirely sure what the emotion was. I'd encountered men
like the inspector many times before. They knew how to put on a
good show, especially when someone rich was watching.

Status. Class.
It ruled my world, and I was usually careful enough to work my way
around it. Yet sometimes I found it jarring.

I gave a
little cough. Perhaps I shouldn't have, but I was feeling in a
querulous mood. From the marks on my jacket to the fact I was
already late, I wanted to close a fist at the world and shake it.
‘You mean several months,’ I corrected, my expression bland, ‘these
kidnappings have been going on for several months.’

The Inspector
narrowed his eyes, looking for a moment confused. ‘Several weeks,
my good man, you must be overworked. The first child to be
kidnapped occurred only 22 days ago. The daughter of Governor
Fletcher. Why I remember it perfectly, I was the first on the
scene.’ As the inspector spoke, he punched his chest out a little,
clutching his hands tighter behind his back.

I brought my
glass up, sipping at the wine distractedly.

I did not
understand the point of this silly affair. If the inspector truly
wanted me to solve this case, he shouldn't have invited me to this
tedious, time consuming, pointless soiree. It was a useless event
too. What did he hope it would achieve? Mingling with the upper
crust, putting on a good show would ensure his funding and status,
but would make my work no easier.

Harder in
fact.

Because I
would always have to deal with moments like these. Moments of
blindness.

Taking another
sip, I eventually shook my head. ‘Approximately 23 urchins and
orphans have gone missing, according to reports. The patterns of
those kidnappings appear to be the same as these. They began
several months ago,’ I brought my glass down and stared over the
top.

It wasn't a
challenging look, yet I hoped from the sheer nonchalance I
possessed, it would rattle the inspector.

He coughed,
that bristly moustache of his shifting over his top lip, twitching
like a cat's tail. ‘Urchins,’ he said dismissively.

He left it at
that.

I knew enough
of how to keep my job not to challenge him further.

Yes, urchins.
Regardless of the fact they had no money and class and certainly
could not ensure the inspector remained wealthy and popular, they
were people. And in this case, they were also victims. They were a
fact of this crime, an important clue into these ongoing
kidnappings, and one that should not be ignored just because the
inspector could not see past his nose long enough to stare down
into the mud that covered his shoes and the rest of the city.