Wild Boy (21 page)

Another man cried, “Now!”

The rods in the helmet shot down. Over the drone of the machine, Wild Boy heard the tiger wake and roar as the metal spikes drove into its head. Streams of electrical fire shot from the ball of pipes and blasted into the poor cat’s brain. The tiger shook. More and more blue light rushed into its body until the whole animal glowed.

Clarissa shot up and screamed, “Stop! Stop it!”

There was a loud
whoomp
and the light cut out.

The pistons hissed. The wheels ground to a halt. The tiger gave a feeble whimper and slumped back to the table.

The tiger did not move.

The machine stood still.

The hall was silent and dark.

Wild Boy heard Clarissa’s breathing going even faster than his own. He touched her arm and she flinched. “What happened?” she said. “What did they just do?”

Down in the hall, a flash of orange light broke the dark as the men relit the torches. One of them edged closer to the tiger and placed a stethoscope cautiously to its side.

“The cat?” another of the men asked.

“Dead.”

“And the Doctor?”

The man put his stethoscope to the corpse. Then he stepped back.

Wild Boy’s fingers tightened around the edge of the balcony. “Did you see that?” he gasped.

“What?” Clarissa said.

Now she saw it too.

One of the Doctor’s hands moved. His gray fingers strained at the straps, curling like claws.

“His eyes,” Wild Boy said. “Look at his eyes!”

The Doctor’s eyes had opened. Blazing with ferocity, they glared at the men around him. His lips peeled back and he bared his teeth like fangs. A growl rose from his throat — a feral, savage growl that snarled around the hall, causing the men to leap back in fright.

The Doctor slumped back to the table. His legs and arms began to shake.

“The Principal’s not fixed!” one of the men cried. “Secure it! Morphine!”

The others grappled frantically with the convulsing body, but they were too late. The corpse had stopped moving. Its head lolled. Doctor Griffin was dead again.

One of the men removed his spectacles. “Bring another animal,” he said. “Tell Marcus we are not ready for further human trials.”

Clarissa dragged Wild Boy away from the balcony, her face as pale as the corpse. “Doctor Griffin . . .” she said. “That machine brought him back to life. But he sounded like . . . like . . .”

“Like the tiger,” Wild Boy said.

“He
became
the tiger?”

Wild Boy gazed into the hall as a spark of electricity crackled over one of the wheels and then fizzled out. Even though he had seen it with his own eyes, he could barely believe it. The machine didn’t seem to work, but it existed. And the Doctor’s notes said it
had
worked, it
could
work.

He and Clarissa had hoped to save themselves by catching the killer, but Wild Boy couldn’t put the clues together. Instead, wasn’t this machine a better way out — a machine that changes you, transferring your mind into a different body. If he was no longer a freak, he wouldn’t be hunted. He could live a normal life.

His eyes glinted in the machine’s brilliant sparks. “It
is
possible,” he said.

Clarissa’s tongue flicked over her broken tooth. “
What
is possible?”

“The machine. I could use it on myself.”

“What? Are you insane?”

The idea thrilled Wild Boy but scared him too. He closed his eyes, trying to stop his head from spinning. “The Doctor said it could work.”

“But it
doesn’t
!” Clarissa spat. “You saw what just happened. This is dangerous, Wild Boy! These
people
are dangerous. Catching the killer,
that’s
how we’re going to get out of this.”

“But what if they can make the machine work? What if they could
really
make it change people?”

“We don’t need it, though. We can still catch the hooded man. We’re partners, remember?”

Wild Boy was so confused, so tired. Clarissa kept saying they were partners, but it wasn’t that simple. She was normal and he was a freak. But he could change; he could be like everyone else.

“Wild Boy,” Clarissa said, “you seen what that electricity does. It goes into people’s brains. What if you never think the same way again? What if you lose your skill?”

“I don’t care. . . .”

“Yes, you do!” She stepped closer and shoved him furiously in the chest. “I seen how it makes you feel. I seen it in your eyes and your smile when you’re using it. It’s like how I feel when I’m up on the high wire. Nothing else matters, not my mother or my father or nothing in the world. I’m proud of what I am, and you should be too. That skill is what makes you
you.
”

“No!” Wild Boy said. He grabbed the thick hair on his face and pulled it angrily. “
This
is what makes me
me.
”

“You don’t think that,” Clarissa insisted. “Not no more, not after all this.”

Part of him knew she was right. But all that time he’d spent watching people, this was what he’d dreamed of — a chance to be normal.

“I gotta try, Clarissa.”

Clarissa jabbed him again. Her freckles flared with anger. “Well, you use the machine, then. See if it kills you. I’m gonna catch the killer myself. And when I do, I ain’t gonna tell no one that you’re innocent, so they’ll still think you’re a monster.”

“Shut your head!”

“No! And even if the machine does work, it won’t save you, cos you’ll always be mean and a thickhead!”

Before Wild Boy could stop himself, he shoved her back. A sharp crack rang out as her head hit the wall. Clarissa slumped down and clutched the back of her skull. Blood trickled between her fingers.

Wild Boy stepped closer, shaking. What had he done? “I’m sorry,” he said. “Don’t you understand? I don’t wanna be Wild Boy no more.”

She looked up. Tears slid down her cheeks. “I
liked
Wild Boy.”

He thought she was going to scream at him. He
wanted
her to scream at him. But instead she rose and staggered away down the corridor.

“Wait,” Wild Boy called. “Clarissa, it ain’t safe here.”

“Let her go,” a voice said.

Wild Boy whirled around in fright. He recognized that cold steel voice.

The man with the golden eyeball stepped from the shadows. “You are right,” he said. “It is not safe here at all.”

“T
he famous Wild Boy of London. We meet again.”

The man with the golden eyeball limped closer, leaning heavily on his cane. He wore the same shaded spectacles as his colleagues in the hall. The dark lenses gleamed as, beyond the balcony, another crackle of electricity lit the towering wheels of the machine.

He extended a hand. “It is a pleasure.”

The fog in Wild Boy’s head cleared, and his mind came into sharp focus. He considered making a run for it, but he knew the man had a sword in his cane, as well as a pistol in his coat. He wouldn’t be able to escape. He had to fight. He’d go to shake his hand, but instead kick his knee and shove him back.

“No doubt,” the man said, “you are considering an attack. I wonder, have you already established your method of escape? There is a secret door just yards from where you stand. Had you observed?”

“I bloomin’ seen it.”

“Indeed.” The man stepped aside, gesturing with a sweep of his cane. “Then you are free to leave.”

Wild Boy didn’t move.

“It is no trick,” the man said. “You have my word that you will not be harmed.”

“Your word don’t mean nothing to me! Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Marcus Bishop.”

“Never heard of you!”

“But you have been following me.”

The man struck the flint on a lantern. The light made him wince. He lowered the shutter to a dim glow and raised it against the wall. “I wonder,” he said. “Have you also detected which stone triggers the door?”

Even though he had, Wild Boy stayed silent. He knew that if the man had wanted to kill him, he would have done so already. But that didn’t mean he trusted him.

“I imagine that you have many questions,” said the golden-eyed man. He pressed the end of his cane against one of the stones, and a slab of wall scraped away, exposing a dark passage beyond. “I will endeavor to answer as many as I can. In return, I simply ask that you walk with me.”

“I ain’t going nowhere with you.”

“Then farewell, Wild Boy. It really was a pleasure.”

The man’s coat fluttered as he disappeared into the secret passage.

Wild Boy stood alone, stunned. Part of him wanted to turn and run. But still he wanted answers — about the murders and about the machine.

He crept through the narrow entrance and peered down another twisting stairway. The golden-eyed man stood a few steps below, his lantern flooding the passage with light. He knew Wild Boy would follow.

“Be careful,” he said.

He set off again, his silver hair brushing the ceiling of the low passage.

Wild Boy moved faster, catching up. “Where are we?” he demanded.

“You know where we are.”

“The Tower of London.”

“Correct. Specifically we are in the White Tower, the castle’s keep.”

“You can’t just do what you want in the Tower of London.”

“Yes, we can.”

The stairs led to a wider corridor, with swords and shields displayed on the walls. Wild Boy stopped, looked back and forth, then followed again. The golden-eyed man —
Marcus Bishop
— didn’t slow down.

“Who are you?” Wild Boy said. “You and them other blokes?”

“We have no official name. Those aware of our existence simply refer to us as the Gentlemen. We work for the government.”

“What government?”

“Your government.”

“I ain’t got no blasted government. What are you lot? Scientists, like the Professor?”

The man paused for a moment, selecting his words carefully. “Some of us. We are experts in various fields — science, medicine, military, espionage. We study new technologies and assist the police in matters that are beyond their powers and abilities. One might describe us simply as a society of concerned individuals.”

“Concerned about what?”

“Britain. Its security, prosperity, survival. You are a citizen of the largest empire the world has ever known. Such power is not acquired only by good manners.”

“I seen your good manners,” Wild Boy said. “I seen them prisoners you got locked up. You’re gonna use the machine on them once you got it working.”

“Our subjects are all convicted criminals, sentenced to death by the courts. Each has been offered a choice. Should the machine prove successful in transferring them into a new body, they will be granted a stay of execution. If not, a Christian burial. Are those not more generous terms than the hangman offers?”

They came to a door. Marcus Bishop tapped his cane against the iron surface.

“What’s any of this got to do with me?” Wild Boy said.

“Nothing whatsoever. You are the one who involved yourself the moment you stole that letter from Charles Griffin. And I am afraid you are now involved rather deeply indeed.”

The door swung open. Wild Boy followed the man into the vast cavity of the tower’s stone hall.

“I heard what you said to Miss Everett,” Marcus said. “You wish to use the machine upon yourself. That could indeed be an effective way of escaping your predicament. But Miss Everett is correct too. The machine is as likely to destroy you as it is to save you. Almost certainly your mind will never function in the same way again.”

Wild Boy looked up at the colossal wheels of the Gentlemen’s machine. Clarissa’s words kept ringing in his head, but he tried to forget them and remember how badly he wanted to be normal.

The pistons slowly began to pump again, the wheels turned, and steam hissed from the ball of twisting pipes. “How does it work?” he asked.

Marcus Bishop smiled. “First, permit me to ask a question of my own.” A blue spark crackled around the pipes, reflecting off his dark lenses. “What do you know of electricity?”

C
larissa Everett had never been so angry in her life. Wild Boy was a liar and a thug. They were meant to be finding the killer, but all he cared about was that stupid machine. What an idiot he was to think he could change. He’d always be a thickhead!