Twincy Quinn and the Eye of Horus Part One (30 page)

I heard
peoples’ voices, close now. I could even see the shadows of their
bodies as they stood around me.

I had a rule,
that rule was not to reveal my abilities unnecessarily.

Right now, I
had to break it.

I had to break
it, because I had to break the net. And I did.

Closing my
eyes and stilling my body as perfectly as I could, I suddenly
wrenched forward with one arm, in possibly the most powerful,
quickest punch I would ever make.

The net
broke.

Scrabbling
wildly, I pulled it off me, and I could hear as the people around
me stepped back in surprise.

20
seconds.

20 seconds
until Butler rounded the lane way.

I pulled the
remaining scraps of the net off, and threw them to the ground.

15
seconds.

I took a jerky
step back, ignoring the people around me as they stared or gasped
or asked how I was.

10
seconds.

I could hear
him now. The pound of his footfall. It actually shook the
buildings. For Butler, who was tremendously heavy, to run with
witnesses around meant that he did not care what the consequences
would be. And why should he? Doctor Esquire and Lord Ridley were
about to get me back. I had been free from them for years, but
finally they would find me again.

Five
seconds.

I could see
him. At the other end of the lane way.

He had some
kind of weapon, it was in his arm, and I noted it as he toted it to
his shoulder and shot.

I jumped into
the woman beside me, grabbed her around the middle, and hauled her
to the ground, just as the bullet sliced by us and smashed into the
wall.

Chunks of rock
littered down, and the scent of some powerful chemical choked the
air.

People
screamed. The woman in my grasp sunk her elbow into my shoulder,
snapped to her feet, and began to run.

Before any of
the men could feel too brave, Butler fired again, and again the
bullet slammed into one of the walls by my side, and cascades of
brick and stone rained out.

Though the
wall was thick, the bullets punched through to the other side, and
for a brief moment I caught a glimpse of the room beyond. Though I
did not know if anyone was inside, and I doubted they would remain
so for too long, there was a light within, and its glow bled into
the street. In slices, it illuminated sections of the now
rubble-covered lane way, a glimpse of that horrid net in the
corner, and a section of my arm and ankle as I pushed up, my skirts
a mess, covered in dust from the wall, and scrunched and crumpled
from the net.

Butler.

I could see
him in full now.

That bowler
hat still tight on his head, he stared at me with an unblinking
gaze.

Though I know
Lord Ridley forced him to blink in company, Butler did not have to.
He was designed not to need to. He was a weapon, of awesome power,
and you did not want a weapon closing its eyes even for the
briefest second.

He did not
have a sneer on his face, neither did he snarl at me, in fact, he
barely noted me as he toted that gun again.

I pushed
myself up.

‘
One option,’ he finally spoke to me, and though his voice
usually rang out with the perfect accent of an upper class
Englishman, now I heard the mechanical grate of cogs and wheels
from within, giving his tone a hissing, otherworldly, grating
quality.

‘
Come quietly,’ he finished.

He did not add
anything further. That was my single option. Come quietly. And he
was correct, either I would give in, and surrender, or he would
beat me until I could not utter another word. Either way, I would
come quietly.

Up on my feet,
I stared at him warily, my knees locked in place, as one hand
formed a tight fist at my side. I was still wearing my pearly white
gloves, though perhaps they were no longer so pearly. Unlike the
dress, they were not designed to stay clean, and they were covered
in mud, grit, and a few fine droplets of blood.

I could be
injured, after all. It was hard, but if you had enough diligence,
enough firepower, and a man like Butler, you could certainly manage
it.

I watched,
almost in slow motion, as he lowered the gun and pressed the
trigger.

It was not
long and it did not look like a classic rifle or a musket.

It was short,
stout, and had a powerfully large barrel. It also had a row of
shining lights along one side.

It seemed with
every month that mad genius of Doctor Esquire forced him to create
ever more powerful machines.

The gun before
me was beyond anything I had seen. Beyond any simple weapon. It was
leagues and leagues beyond.

So far he had
seemed content to shoot at the walls around me, yet I knew it
wouldn't last. All too soon he would start firing at me. Most
likely the doctor had already calibrated that gun exactly so that
one bullet would take me down, yet not kill me. All he needed was
to injure me sufficiently so that Butler could take me back.

In that moment
I forced my attention to focus so extraordinarily, it was as if the
whole world compounded down to one point: the tip of that gun.

He fired.

I dodged to
the side, and as I did, I deliberately fell to my knees, rolled,
and angled towards the net I had so carelessly thrown on the other
side of the lane way.

I had no
weapons. Other than my fists, and I knew how quickly and solidly
Butler could move. I also knew, unlike an ordinary man, he would be
able to track my movements, and also, unlike an ordinary man, he
would be able to calculate trajectories based on my motion,
velocity, and position, and shoot ahead of me, before I reached any
position.

This was a
battle of wits, a battle of extended abilities, and Butler had the
edge.

Yet I had a
net, and I was going to use it. Grabbing the net, I then pushed off
the lane way, twisted to the side, and ran several steps along the
wall, finally kicking into a high somersault. As soon as I landed,
despite the fact there were large chunks of stone and rubble
underneath my feet, I dropped to my side and rolled, ignoring the
press of the stones as they imprinted into my thigh and side.

Butler
continued to shoot, and explosions rang out, eating into the wall,
sending more rubble cascading over me, as thick, choking, cloying
dust whisked up through the air like fog.

Neither of us
coughed.

For both of us
had been changed.

The one good
thing the fog did, was provide me cover, yet I knew I could not
rely on it. Butler could track me by the sounds of my movements, my
footfall, my breath, the swish and sway of my skirts. And I could
track him by that grating, groaning sound of his metallic muscles
shifting in place. Not to mention the hum, however low and
distinct, of the gun he now forced hard into his shoulder as he
tried to track my frantic movements.

I had no idea
and no care as to whether our battle was drawing attention.
Hopefully anybody in the immediate vicinity would have been scared
off by the explosions, and I imagined that if anyone had been
within the house Butler was taking pot shots at, they had now well
and truly vacated it.

Yet our peace
would not last. Eventually the authorities would come, and even if
they would be useless, they would be more eyes to see what was
going on here.

I couldn't
allow it.

Though Butler
had no morals and no compunctions when it came to injuring innocent
bystanders, I did.

Which in this
situation meant I had yet another weakness. I was providing another
side for Butler to shoot at.

He had the
edge. I did not, yet I also did not give up.

Launching
myself at the opposite wall again, I took several steps across it,
my high heels somehow gathering enough grip until I pushed off,
flicked into a flip, rolled, and suddenly furled out with the net.
At the same time I did, my skirts whirled around me in a great
arc.

No matter how
desperately I moved, no matter what fell on top of me, and no
matter how dusty and sweaty I became, my hair remained perfect, or
at least my wig did.

Still in
place, not even a strand of my fringe dashed before my eyes.

It would have
been quite a sight.

A woman in
fine garments fighting a man with a razor sharp nose and a bowler
hat.

As I furled
out with the net, I let go, throwing it exactly where I knew Butler
would be.

Then I did not
wait.

When I heard
that net slam against his arm, and quite possibly the edge of the
gun, I rushed forward. Though the rubble and dust were there, I
could still see, and I locked my eyes on his form as he took a
single step back.

I rammed into
him with my shoulder, as hard as I could. Leaping off the ground as
I did, I tried to get as close to his throat and the base of his
chin as I could.

The majority
of Butler was a machine, nothing but metal and cogs and wheels and
bolts. The head, the throat, however, were real. Soft flesh.

I knew how to
fight him.

My move
connected, and I heard him gurgle and splutter, and take several
more jerky steps backwards.

I had not
achieved a victory yet, for as he did, he managed to get off a
blast of his gun, and it absolutely tore through the net
surrounding him, forcing an enormous hole through the rope, and
making the remains of it burn as it still touched his arms and
hands.

With a growl,
he moved forward, though I was pleased to hear there was a croak to
his throat as he did so.

I pivoted on
my foot, dropping down low to my ankles, and kicking out with one
leg, attempting to catch him by the ankle and pull him off his
feet.

It didn't
work; he shored up his foot, and I moved just before he could bring
his gun down and shoot at my leg.

The bullet
sunk into the cobbles, and exploded up as if a child were throwing
pebbles in a stream.

I rolled to
the side, several stones striking my back, and dust trailing over
my cheeks, even making its way into my eyes as I blinked back
quickly.

I had no idea
how many bullets his gun had, how many it could hold, and whether
he had more in his pockets.

It didn't
matter; I could not simply run around and wait for him to run out
of ammunition.

I had to act,
quickly.

Because I
could hear it now. Footfall, heavy and quick, coming this way.

The police, or
some interested and organised community force. It didn't matter.
Witnesses, and more than that, warm-blooded, warm-hearted
individuals that Butler would think nothing of murdering
on-site.

That
realisation sinking into me, I tried something desperate.

I flung myself
at him.

It was half a
mistake, and half an act of genius.

For he managed
to get off a shot, and I did not manage to dodge it.

It flew right
past my arm, ripping off a chunk of the flesh. Blood splattered
over my dress, my bodice, along my throat, onto my cheek, and all
over Butler and that dammed neat bowler hat of his.

Not even
screaming, I reached Butler, and I thrust out with my hand,
clapping him hard on the temple.

He stumbled
back.

I pushed into
him, locking my hands down, grabbing the fingers that clutched onto
the gun, and shifting them to the side so he could not get off
another shot.

I was
bleeding, readily, the blood not just trickling down my arm, but
practically gushing.

I was still
steady on my feet though, and I still had to use the advantage that
had cost me so dearly.

Locking an arm
back into him in a powerful thrust, I brought my fist up, and
connected it to his chin.

There was a
crack, a particularly satisfying one, and again he stumbled back,
though this time he gasped and choked too.

I had to get
the gun off him.

Yet I could
hardly wrench it free from his fingers. He had them locked over it
so tight, that I would get into a tug of war, one where I would be
on the wrong side of the barrel.

I tried
punching again, but just as I did, with his freehand he thrust
towards my face in a powerful punch. Though he hardly had the room
to manoeuvre, it didn't matter. He did not need to wind his arm
backwards in order to get enough momentum to make a punch stick.
His fist, his arm, his torso, his legs, were nothing but reinforced
steel. And I felt it.

My head
momentarily snapped to the side, and I felt his knuckles, under
that falsely soft fabric of his gloves, grate over my cheeks.

They were
sharp, and they cut. My head jerked wildly, impacting on his
shoulder, and more blood splattered over my cheek and bodice.

Pain ripped
through me. Not just from the wound in my arms, but now down from
my face.

I had to get
the gun off him.

Fast.

Then the very
last thing I wanted to see rounded the top of the lane way.

People.

Just shapes. I
didn't have the attention or the time to narrow in and ascertain
who they were. Women and men, children; it didn't matter.

People.

I watched in
horror as Butler raised his gun directly at them.

I crumpled
over it.

I gave up my
advantage, and just locked my body over that arm, and shoved it to
the side.

As I did, a
part of my side came in contact with the barrel.

He shot.

Me.

. . . .

I was thrown
clear.

Twisting on my
foot, I fell to the ground, more blood spluttering over my dress
and bodice.

It had not
been a direct hit. He had not squared off and managed to get me in
the heart or the face, but the pain I felt rushing up my side was
immeasurable.