Slow Demons (Hanover and Singh Book 2)

by Chris Paton

  “Yuu?” Hari took a step forward. “Just let me know when you want me to help.”

  “Better you get back in your cell, Singh. Take your lady friend with you,” the prison sergeant sneered. “Lord knows she’s in it up to her neck now. Right lads?”

  “That’s right,” the younger guard snickered.

  “You’ll have to wait for dessert, lads,” the sergeant slipped his hands free of the guards’ arms and stuffed them into the deep pockets of his trousers. Tugging them free of the material, the sergeant flexed his fingers within the brass knuckles adorning each of his hands. “The main course,” he nodded at Yuu, “paltry as it is, has just been served.”

  Yuu sidestepped the sergeant’s opening lunge, slipping the soles of his feet upon the grimy floor. Stepping around and ducking within the sergeant’s massive arms, Yuu jabbed the fingers of his right hand into the sergeant’s windpipe. The big man collapsed, the brass knuckles slipping from his right hand as he clutched at his throat.

  “Truly,” observed Hari, “Yuu is a master.” He followed the brawl in the corridor, looking back as Luise retreated to the wall. “Miss Luise?”

  “I’m not at all sure about this, Mr. Singh.”

  “Don’t worry, Miss Luise,” Hari lifted his hands, palms open. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” He turned back to the fight as Yuu stepped over the sergeant as the younger guard whirled his charged-baton in an arc toward Yuu’s head. Yuu stepped back as the guard tripped over the sergeant, the green light from the baton sparkling in the guard’s eyes as a fire of charged particles lit up the sergeant’s chest.

  Luise jerked forward as Hari skipped half a step closer to the fight. “Hari?”

  “Sorry, Miss Luise,” Hari smoothed his hand upon his chest.

  The two guards rallied, pressing Yuu into a retreat toward the iron gate. Shuffling backward and slipping from one side of the corridor to the other, Yuu dodged strike after strike as the guard’s batons scribed flickering arcs and wheels of green light in the gloomy corridor.

  “Yuu looks like he needs some help, Hari,” Luise pointed toward Yuu and the guards as they neared the gate. “And I...” she shivered.”

  “Yes, Miss Luise?”

  “I find the thought of being locked up,” she glanced at the cell, “unconscionable.”

  Hari turned to face Luise. “Stay here. I’ll only be a minute,” he glanced at the guards as the older of the two tossed his spent baton onto the floor and threw himself at Yuu. “Perhaps three,” Hari tugged at his beard.

  “Go,” Luise looked around Hari at Yuu.

  “Thank you, Miss Luise,” Hari dipped his head and bowed.

  “Go,” Luise urged the mystic along the corridor.

  Hari straightened, winked at Luise and charged toward the guards.

  Yuu fell beneath the weight of the older, heavier guard, the soles of his feet poking out from beneath the man’s body. The second guard drew back his arm and crouched. His charged-baton held like a knife, the guard aimed for Yuu’s ribs. Hari slid his arm inside and around the guard’s elbow, wrenching the man’s arm back, the baton blistering within inches of Hari’s beard. The guard stumbled back as Hari twisted the baton downward and out of the guard’s grasp.

  “Yuu,” Hari shouted.

  “Quickly, Hari,” Yuu gasped beneath the weight of the guard. The two men slapped and clawed at one another as they took turns to aim pointed thumbs at each other’s eyes.

  Hari slipped onto the floor and ducked as the guard clapped his hands together, trapping Hari’s turban within his palms. Hari gripped the guard’s plaid smock within his left fist and threw three rapid punches into the man’s gut. The guard oomphed onto his knees. Hari slapped the man’s forehead with the base of his hand, smiling as the back of the guard’s head thudded into the wall. The man’s eyes rolled back into his head as he slid onto the floor.

  “Hari,” Luise pointed at the guard scrabbling on top of Yuu. “He has got a baton.”

  Hari whirled to see the tip of the baton blister across the floor in the hands of Yuu’s assailant. Gritting his teeth Hari stomped on the guard’s wrist and tugged the baton free of the man’s hand. Green cuffs of light charged around Hari’s hand and lower arm in circles of angry sparks. Hari’s teeth chattered as he spasmed backward, the baton burning the palm of his right hand.

  Luise darted along the corridor toward Hari. Wrinkling her nose at the smell of charred meat smoking from Hari’s hand, she cast a glance up and down the corridor. Luise spied a wooden chair by the side of the gate. Trampling up and over the guard’s back, she apologised to Yuu as the old man groaned under the extra weight. Grabbing the chair, Luise stepped over the two men sprawling on the floor and swung the wooden chair at Hari’s arm. The baton flew from Hari’s hand, sparking and extinguishing on its short flight along the corridor. Luise let go of the chair, crying out as it broke against the wall.

  “Hari?” Luise knelt by the mystic’s side as he turned his palm to stare at the smoking flesh.

  “I am all right, Miss Luise,” Hari held out his left hand. “Will you help me up?”

  Luise pulled Hari onto his feet and inspected his hand, her fingers tentatively grasping Hari’s. “It is badly burned, Hari.”

  “Truly,” Hari sighed. The scuffle of booted feet and a grunt of pain caught Hari’s attention and he leaned around Luise’s shoulder. “Yuu?”

  “Quickly,” Yuu breathed from beneath the guard.

  Hari stepped over to the broken chair and picked up a free leg from the floor with his left hand. Striding over to the guard wrestling with Yuu, he swung the chair leg into the back of the man’s head. The guard fell still and Hari let the chair leg slip out of his hand onto the floor of the corridor.

  “Yuu?” Hari knelt by the side of the two men. “Can you wriggle free?”

  Luise stepped around Hari and over the guard’s body. Tugging at the man’s arm, she pulled him off Yuu, holding onto the guard until Yuu was clear and on his feet.

  “Thank you,” Yuu bowed to Luise.

  “You are welcome,” Luise stepped over the guard and shook Yuu’s outstretched hand.

  “Luise Hanover,” she smiled.

  “Yuu.”

  “Yes,” Hari tucked his right hand inside his robes. “We must be going, Yuu. Miss Luise.”

  “Now that I am thoroughly involved in this mess,” Luise fell into step alongside Hari as he followed Yuu through the iron gate, “how are we going to get out?”

  “Through the armoury,” Hari winked. “We have a few things to collect.”

  ҉

  The wind whipped at the red, white and blue streamers flapping on the upper deck of The Steamer’s Den. Romney followed Robshaw across the deck to the railing. She curled her arm into the crook of his and pulled him close.

  “You don’t waste time with your affections,” Robshaw wrapped the fingers of his left hand around the railing.

  “I don’t waste time,” Romney leaned back and glanced at Armbrüster as he stepped onto the deck and closed the door.

  “Are you worried about him?” Robshaw nodded in the direction of Bremen’s driver.

  “He is a little intimidating.”

  “You don’t seem quite so enamoured of Bremen anymore.”

  “Not since he fired Dieter, no.”

  “What about his promise to fix your racer and upgrade it?” Robshaw turned to face Romney. “I won’t be able to catch you. You will win the Derby for sure.”

  “But at what price?” Romney’s lips slid into a sad smile.

  At the creaking of the door Armbrüster snapped into motion and opened the door wide for Bremen to step onto the deck. The waiter followed together with three more men dressed in black. Stepping through the doorway, they arranged themselves at strategic points along the railings. Bremen tipped his hat as he approached Romney and Robshaw, his cane grasped beneath the pommel in his right hand.

  “A wonderful view, do you not think?” he stepped to one side and
gestured for the waiter to serve Romney. “Italian coffee – strong and sweet. Not unlike you, my dear.”

  Romney slipped free of Robshaw and crossed her arms over her chest, her hair blazing in contrast to the grey smog of London.

  “If not coffee, then perhaps a pastry?” Bremen picked up a small rolled puff striped with chocolate and strawberry shavings. “Exceedingly good, if not a little small,” he popped the pastry into his mouth and brushed the flakes and crumbs from his beard onto the deck.

  Romney leaned back against the railings, the corners of her eyes creasing as she glared at Bremen.

  “Mr. Robshaw?”

  Robshaw shrugged and turned quickly away from Romney. “Yes, thank you, Herr Bremen.”

  “This is my third or fourth time on the upper decks. I do so enjoy the view of the great British establishment,” Bremen winked at Robshaw. “By that I mean London, of course.”

  “Yes, of course,” Robshaw finished his pastry and took a cup of coffee. He nodded at the waiter as the man withdrew to the door where he waited by the side of Armbrüster.

  “However, London is not what it was, and perhaps never will be, since your navy fell into disgrace. Wouldn’t you say so, Mr. Robshaw?”

  “Well,” Robshaw hesitated, the cup of coffee at his lips. “We still have a navy.”

  “I am not talking about the East India Company. They hardly answer to the crown, not anymore. No, I am thinking of the British Navy. Losing Trafalgar was quite a turnaround of events when one thinks of the consequences in Europe,” Bremen paused, “and the opportunities it presents. No, the British Empire is not what it once was.”

  “Herr Bremen,” Robshaw lowered the cup onto the saucer with a heavy chink of porcelain. “With respect, you have already irritated our mutual friend, Miss Wallendorf, is it to be my turn now?”

  “What?” Bremen’s eyes widened. “No, no. Gosh no. My apologies, Mr. Robshaw. Fräulein Wallendorf. Come, allow me to make it up to you both, to show you just how generous the German Confederation can be,” he led them to the railing opposite the Thames. “See there,” Bremen pointed at a stream of eight large freight carriages steaming into position alongside The Steamer’s Den, grey clouds puffing from the smokestack’s as the carriages manoeuvred into position. The trailer behind each carriage unfolded into upraised wings as the carriages stopped and a horde of men dressed in black trousers, black smocks and grey woollen caps jumped out of the carriages and began unloading. “Behold,” Bremen smiled, “a fleet of steamracers – four to be exact – and all the spare parts one’s heart might desire.” Bremen turned to Romney. “I was perhaps a little brash in my dismissal of your mechanic. What do you think he would make of this?”

  Romney’s eyes widened. “He...” Shook her head, fighting back a smile. “He would love it.”

  “Then he must stay, of course. I merely meant that his duties as a mechanic would be superfluous. Dieter is welcome to stay with the team as an honoured guest. What do you say to that?”

  “Yes,” Romney leaned out over the railing.

  “Careful, dear,” Bremen reached out and gripped Romney’s upper arm. “I don’t want to have to explain any unfortunate incidents to your father.”

  “No, of course not,” Romney beamed at Bremen. “When can we take them for a test run?”

  “Later this very afternoon,” Bremen let go of Romney. “You and your competitor,” he smiled at Robshaw.

  “What are you doing, Herr Bremen? What exactly are you doing with all these steamracers?” Robshaw narrowed his eyes. “Four? That’s half the field already.”

  “What I am doing, Mr. Robshaw, is securing a place for the Derby in the history of steamracing. Just imagine it,” Bremen guided Robshaw closer to the railing. “A level field of highly-tuned steamracers. The roar of maple-injected engines. The steam, the smoke, the crowds,” Bremen opened his arms wide. “This represents a new dawn in the world of racing, and the two of you,” he turned to embrace them, “are the poster boy and girl for the next generation of steamracers.” Bremen turned the steamracers within his arms. He smiled as a photographer stepped onto the deck and set up his tripod in front of them.

  “Hold still now, if you please,” the photographer slipped under the blanket secured at the rear of the billows camera.

  “One for the papers, and one for the wall,” Bremen squeezed Romney and Robshaw around the shoulders.

  Beyond the photographer, Romney watched as Bremen’s men took turns to talk to Armbrüster before slipping through the door and leaving the deck. The wind teased the corners of the camera blanket and twisted Romney’s hair into banshee tails.

  ҉

  The guardroom at the end of the corridor contained nothing more than a bench and a message tube, the empty message containers arranged in tubular shelves on the wall. Yuu locked the gate as Hari and Luise stepped past it and into the guardroom.

  “This way,” Hari led Luise to the door just a few strides from the gate. Peeping around the door, Hari opened it wide and gestured for Luise to go first. “It’s quiet, and...”

  “And?” Luise hesitated.

  “They are expecting you. If anyone is waiting out there, they won’t react at the sight of a visitor returning.” Hari smiled.

  “Oh,” Luise bit her top lip and stepped through the doorway. “There’s no one here,” she stopped a few yards along the corridor beyond the door and waited for Hari and Yuu to join her.

  “The armoury is this way,” Hari brushed past Luise and pointed to a small door recessed into the left hand wall of the corridor. What little light crept in through the window slits high above them illuminated a path in the dust of the stone floor beyond the door. Hari led the way with Luise and Yuu following. “This is it,” he pointed at the door in front of him. “Just beyond here is the armoury. Inside the armoury is a ventilation shaft with a broken window at one end,” he glanced at Luise’s dress. “It should be big enough for all of us to crawl through, although, Miss Luise, you might have to remove your dress.” Hari stared at the floor and clasped his hands in front of him. “It might get caught on something.”

  “Hari?”

  “Yes, Miss Luise,” Hari’s lips twitched at the corners of his mouth.

  “Before or after we go through the door?”

  “Before is probably best,” Hari looked down at the floor again. “We might have to run.”

  “Yes,” Luise shook her head slightly. “I understand.”

  “Quickly,” whispered Yuu.

  “Well,” Luise stepped out of the weak light filtering down from the high ceilinged window slats. Luise unbuttoned her figure-hugging dark green corseted jacket. Letting it hang open at her waist she untied her skirt strings and let the copper chiffon and leather pleated skirt fall to her feet. Luise’s underwear clung apologetically to her thighs like ruffled shorts. She stepped out of the skirt, bent down, and bundled it into a roll. Placing her skirt on the floor she buttoned her jacket and looked down at her legs. The leather and lace tool garter pressed into her skin beneath her left knee. Luise sighed, picked up her skirt and walked over to Hari and Yuu.

  “Thank you, Miss Luise,” Hari swallowed as he looked Luise in the eye.

  “I have known you but a short time, Mr. Singh,” Luise held the skirt in front of her like a small towel, “and already I have experienced two fights...”

  “Two?” Hari wrinkled his brow.

  “The first guard outside your cell.”

  “Ah,” Hari nodded. He looked at Yuu. “Two,” he nodded.

  “And am now in the process of escaping from Her Majesty’s Prison...”

  “Yes,” Hari nodded.

  “Wearing much less than a woman of my position is used to wearing in public.”

  “Truly,” Hari dipped his head and bowed. “I am not worthy of your company and...”

  “Please do look up, Mr. Singh,” Luise fiddled with her skirt. “I do not think it is appropriate that you should bow so low...”

  “No ti
me,” Yuu pushed between Hari and Luise and opened the door.

  Luise opened her mouth to speak, stopping only at the look on Hari’s face.

  “After you, Miss Luise,” Hari held the door with his left hand.

  “A window, Mr. Singh?” Luise paused as she passed him.

  “A very small one, Miss Luise,” Hari smiled.

  Chapter 5

  The Royal Geographical Society

  London, England

  May, 1851

  Admiral Egmont stirred at the sound of knocking on his office door. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and peered at Smith slumped in the armchair opposite him. Smith cracked open an eye and stared back.

  “Did we both fall asleep?” Egmont pushed himself out of the armchair. His steam-powered leg hissed empty. “So much for urgency.”

  “A sign of old age, my friend,” Smith turned in the chair to look through the French doors into Egmont’s office. “Is that someone knocking?”

  “Yes,” Egmont flicked open the door to the tiny wood-burning stove in the base of his brass leg. “Damned yard arm.” He slumped back into the armchair. “Can you see who it is?”

  Smith stretched his legs and stood up. “Only too happy to, my old friend.”

  “Not so old,” Egmont fiddled a brick of pressed wood pulp out of his pocket, lit the taper with a match and pushed it inside his leg. He secured the door with a twist of the tiny dial on the front. “Just running out of steam,” Egmont smiled as he reached for the teapot. Unscrewing the spout of the boiler inside his brass leg, Egmont poured in a generous measure.

  Opening the French doors, Smith stepped into Egmont’s office and crossed the floor to the door. Grasping the bronze handle in the shape of a lion’s paw, he opened the door and regarded the seaman, knuckles poised to knock, standing in the hallway.

  “Admiral Egmont?” the seaman looked over and around Smith’s tiny shoulders.