by Grey Durose
She found a solid looking crate nearby and took it back to the window, climbing up to get a better look. The boarding seemed solid enough and breaking it would wake the whole neighbourhood. She gave it a shove, the board held. Jacqueline took a breath, made sure her feet were well set, then began to apply her uncanny strength to one side of the board. At first nothing happened, but gradually a small space began to develop between the board and the frame. Jacqueline increased the pressure and a few seconds later a pair of nails squeaked clear of the wooden frame. She squeezed her left hand in and around the board, holding it tightly to stop it from flapping as she used the heel of her right hand to firmly bash at the other side. A few strikes is all it took and the board was free, swinging downwards from her left hand.
Jacqueline carefully pulled the board out through the window and propped it up against the outside of the wall. She peered in through the gap at the unlit garage beyond. It was too dark to see much of anything, the windows were small and no light was escaping from the connecting door, which she assumed must be somewhere on the far wall. Jacqueline reached in to her bag and pulled out a torch, poked it in through the tiny window and had a look around. The garage was pretty much as she'd expected: two cars immediately in front of her, a selection of tools at the back and, on the far wall, a solid-looking wooden door.
She slid her head in next to her hand and had a look at the situation below; there was no glass or other hazards, just an odd collection of scrapes and chips in the cement. She dropped her bag gently to the ground inside, pushed her arm in next to her head and squeezed her left shoulder through. Using her strength to pull her other shoulder through, she began to drag her body up and through behind, until the elbow of her other arm passed the frame, allowing her to bend her elbow back and pull her other hand in to the garage. With both arms safely inside the job became a lot easier and only her backside offered any resistance to her efforts. She slid down the inside of the wall and on to her hands, wheeling gymnastically to her side and on to her feet. She was in. Time for the next obstacle, she decided.
Jacqueline crept around the cars, toward the door, optimistically hoping it had been left unlocked. She turned the steel handle slowly and pulled then pushed; to her disappointment the door stayed solidly in place. Knocking gently across the wooden surface of the door she could tell it had been strengthened internally, probably with steel bars. 'Damn it!' She cursed. She was going to have to get in this way but it was going to take a certain amount of brute force. There was only one lock, so that was where the crowbar would have to be applied. She reached in to her bag and pulled out the bar, force meant noise and she'd prefer not to wake the occupant if possible. The flattened end of the bar wouldn't fit between the door and frame, the door had been hung too well and the frame was good and straight. Most wood is reasonably soft and she found once the very tip of the bar had a tiny bit of purchase she could compress the wood of the door by waggling the bar back and forth. Once she could feel the hard metal of the lock bolt was blocking further progress, she began to pull back on the crowbar, not in jerks but slow deliberate pulls, applying her force as evenly as she could. On the third pull the wood began to splinter and, with a little more effort, a crack appeared in the frame. Jacqueline switched tools to some heavy pliers, pulling away the remaining bits of the splintered door frame that covered the box striking plate. She chipped away the wood in front of the securing screws, then tried the handle again. This time, the door opened easily, with the metal box striking plate still covering the lock bolt. The door swung open, revealing a darkened corridor, Jacqueline pulled on a balaclava and stepped through, torch in hand. ‘Great lock, George. Lousy frame.’ She whispered.
Chapter Sixteen
George was in the process of enjoying the most restful night he'd been afforded since he began this investigation. It was not to last. Through the fog of slumber he could hear something calling urgently for his attention, just a niggle at first but as the haze of unconsciousness lifted he jolted back to wakefulness with the realization of what he was hearing and a sudden shot of adrenaline for good measure.
It was his alarm, the kind a skilled practitioner of the mystical arts might set to warn him of an attempt to breach the security of his home. The alarm was silent to everyone but George, so he knew he had a little time to prepare himself before he went to confront the intruder. He looked across at his watch, it was showing half-past two, 'Great.' he muttered, annoyed that once again his sleep had been disturbed. He couldn't help wondering if sleep deprivation would get him before the bad guys. If it weren't for his ongoing conversation with Henry he'd switch to a few hours of meditation and remove the need for sleep, altogether.
He reached over to the bedside cabinet, grasped his blade and sat up, trying not to make any sudden noise which might harm the element of surprise. He wiped his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to shake off any remnants of sleep from his mind and body. George lowered one foot then the other and gradually shifted his weight from the bed to the floor. Once on his feet he paused for a moment and focused all his attention on his ears. Up here, near the top of the house, he was quite a distance from the ground floor and he couldn't hear anything other than the alarm still ringing in his head, it was a sound that resembled the clanging of pots and pans more than a bell, he was starting to regret that decision.
George refocused his attention on the alarm, it had been quite some time since he set it up and when he had he'd used a system similar to the ringtones on a phone. Each alarm was different and, if he could remember how he'd set them it would tell him where the intruder had entered the property. It took a few moments but it gradually came back to him: this particular cacophony was telling him the intruder had broken in via the connecting door to the garage. He made his way calmly to the door and stepped out on to the landing with soft smooth movements. Swiftly but silently he moved along the landing to the top of the stairs. There was slightly more than a half moon tonight and the light was illuminating the white wall opposite the banister, allowing George to see quite clearly down the stairs to the landing on the floor below. There were no figures looming or even a shadow. He confidently began his descent.
The staircase was old and George had deliberately left it so. Old wooden staircases creak but if you know them well you can approach the steps as quietly as if they were made from solid stone, and George knew exactly where to place his feet. At the bottom of the first flight of stairs he paused again and scanned the shadow-drenched area around him. There were a couple of rooms ahead of him and he took a few well-placed steps forward, nudging each of the doors to take a look inside. The rooms were empty but at that moment he heard a noise behind him; someone was coming up the stairs. George turned slowly, trying to remain in the deep shadows afforded by the short corridor he was in. There was a little amber light seeping in from a street light but from this angle it was mostly directed at the ceiling. He held his breath and waited for the intruder's head to appear above the level of the top step. The intruder was using a torch, its beam was moving around the walls and stairs, the yellow light contrasting with the pure silver of the moonlight. The interloper was slow moving and he could hear the soft stroke of a foot brushing across the steps, seeking the firmest footfall. This was an accomplished burglar, no teenage tear away.
George bent his knees and braced himself, in case he needed to charge his foe down or receive an assault from them. His visitor was taking their sweet time and he found himself growing impatient. At last, the crown of a covered head began to rise above the level of the landing, slightly silhouetted by the moonlight. George took a small step sideways, closer to the wall on his left. The dark figure continued to rise and now he was looking at the upper half of the intruder's body, he seemed quite slender, probably about average height but, given the lighting, George was unable to make out anything else of his foe's appearance. He could, however, see a large knife being held in readiness in the figure's left hand, the edge of steel glinted as a ray of moonlig
ht caught it. George held his breath, wondering if he'd been illuminated by it.
The intruder reached the top of the stairs and paused, they examined the corridor ahead, carefully. George froze, holding his breath again. After a few moments the figure began to move forward again, more quickly than on the stairs but still with painstaking caution. George knew this was the moment, if he waited any longer he'd surely be seen. Just as he thought this the torch in the figure's right hand flicked up and to the right; George was standing there, lit up like a Christmas tree.
The sight of George had clearly taken a moment to register in the mind of his uninvited guest and while they stood there processing the information, George leapt forward brandishing his dagger. The figure sprang in to action, catching George's blade with his own and pushing it to one side. As his momentum carried him past the figure, he felt a sharp blow to the back of the head as the intruder struck him with the torch. George stumbled clumsily forward a couple of steps, then span on the toes of his left foot to face his opponent for a second joust. The two of them faced each other, neither eager to make the first move. George took a breath and sent the command to his legs to go. Just as he began to move, the figure rushed to meet him, cartwheeling down the corridor and bringing down their knife in a two handed strike. George halted his forward impulse and threw his feet out from under him, instead. To his opponent, George appeared to vanish but his position became clear again when George kicked out with his right leg and struck his foe on the left shin, taking their leading leg out from under them.
George expected the figure to fall but instead he dropped forward over him in a whirling horizontal spin, all the more impressive in the moonlight. The spin came to a sudden halt with the tip of the figure's knife bearing down on George's throat. He just had time to bring up his dagger and drive the knife away with the flat of his blade and the assistance of his off hand. The intruder's knife embedded itself deep in the floorboard above George's left shoulder as the back of his opponent's body landed across his own. To George's surprise, his foe let out a rather feminine involuntary gasp as they landed. A woman, he realised.
They were both a little winded by the impact but there was no opportunity for a time out. He brought back his right elbow striking her in the side of the head, she rolled gracefully away from the blow leaving her knife still stuck in the floor. George threw out his legs and used the momentum to spring back on to his feet. He landed heavily, no more than usual but he'd forgotten the injuries he'd received earlier that day and the deep, sharp pain in his wounded foot shot up his leg and caused him to fall back down on to his knees with an anguished cry.
Seeing his stumble the figure took her opportunity to cut her losses and make a dash for it. She ran past George and his flailing blade and jumped clean down the flight of stairs, tossing her tool-laden bag through the window ahead of her. The glass smashed and without pausing, she leapt through the window and down on to the small courtyard below. George got up on to one foot and hopped down the stairs as quickly as he could manage but by the time he reached the window he was only in time to hear the slap of her shoes on the paving stones and watch the mist of her breath rise and dissipate, as she made her rapid escape. A dog started barking angrily somewhere down the street and one of the neighbours shouted something about having to get up in the morning.
George grabbed the banister and carefully made his way back up to his bedroom, the repairs would have to wait until morning; he was too tired and in pain to even think about it for now. He reached his bedroom, hobbled across the floor and collapsed on to the bed, taking a few seconds to gather his thoughts.
Whoever this woman was, she certainly knew how to fight. It would normally take a number of normal opponents or a single foe of some supernatural ability to give him a run for his money, even allowing for his injuries. She couldn't be one of the Parisian or London cultists as they were all accounted for, only one cultist had escaped his attention so far and he or she was surely still back in Iraq. There was no way they could have traced him to this address, could they? From the look of the knife she was carrying, she either intended him harm or was prepared for trouble, either way she didn't hesitate to go for the throat when confronted.
George pulled his aching foot up and unwound the bandages to inspect the damage. The wounds had begun to close before his exertions but the impact of his acrobatics had ripped them wide open again. He opened the top draw of his bedside cabinet and turned on a spot lamp. He pulled out an old, metal, tobacco tin; inside was a small but comprehensive sewing kit. He selected a thick needle and threaded it with some strong twine, this was going to hurt. He grimaced and pushed the point of the needle in to the skin on one side of the largest wound on the sole of his foot and slowly pushed it further in, until he had enough needle showing to line it up on the far side of the hole. George clenched his teeth, took in a sharp breath and pushed hard, he suppressed a cry and pulled the needle out the far side, quickly. He repeated the process over and again, his foot throbbed with pain already but now he was inflicting additional, agonisingly sharp stabs of it on himself. He closed the wound with the twine and tied it off before applying the needle to the next hole in his foot. The soles of his feet were particularly sensitive and that made for an excruciatingly unpleasant experience. Once he'd finished closing all the wounds, on both top and bottom of his foot, he bound them tightly with a bandage, lay back and gently dozed off.
George woke with a start, his feet were freezing. He sat up and gave them a rub, then quickly hunted out some thick socks. Rome was still beckoning but before he could turn his attention to that, he'd have to affect some repairs to the house. At least two windows would need replacing and probably a door too, even though he hadn't had a chance to look at the damage. He went through his morning routine with considerably more clothing, to ward off the icy breeze blowing through from downstairs, he was leaning heavily on his cane as he walked.
The repairs were easy enough, he just put some heavy boarding up across the windows, using screws rather than nails to hold it in place this time. The door was still in one piece, to his relief, so all he needed to do there was replace a bit of frame, leaving the more permanent repair work for another day. George did, however, see the need to further protect the property. He took his knife and carved warding sigils on the woodwork around the doors and windows on the lower floors and stained them with a few drops of blood to imbue them with power. Ritual and symbolic magic often required sacrifice, it was to offer form to the thought but it was also to focus the intent. The wards were particularly strong and would offer a nasty shock for anyone trying to break in while he was away.
By afternoon his chores were done and he took the time to arrange a ticket on the sleeper train to Rome. All that remained now, was a little careful packing and he could relax before his short taxi ride to the station.
Chapter Seventeen
Colin had not expected the World of Savage Demons to be quite as savage as it had turned out to be. As soon as the Oliphant had breached the port a heavy spear had struck the frame of the view window. Colin’s heart had leapt in to his mouth, partly due the sudden shock of the unexpected attack and partly due to the fear that months of work in his beloved machine were about to be undone.
‘Sorry about that, old chap.’ Barridge had noticed the concern Colin’s face. ‘They’re not usually this eager to attack. I wonder why they were camped out there.’ He said, referring back to the incident at the Port. Every other time Barridge had visited this world they’d been troubled by the flame-haired locals, but on all those occasions the locals had been in a village or hunting camp far from the Port and Barridge had been on foot or horseback and had made for a much easier target.
‘I don’t think they’ve done any serious ‘arm, sir… August.’ Colin made a mental note to give the Oliphant a thorough inspection as soon as they could land.
They had headed south as soon as they were clear of the Port and gained altitude until they were out of range of ev
en the most determined spears. The view had opened out in front of them as they climbed and even Hain had gasped at the sight of the great ice sheets and glaciers that covered the northern half of this version of their Britannia. The island was still connected to the continent in this World, and the coastlines were expanded due to the lower sea levels, but Colin had been slaving over maps in the weeks leading up to departure and was able to work out where they were from the basic resemblance between the landmasses.
‘I think we should land before nightfall and get a proper night’s rest, tonight.’ Barridge suggested.
‘I’m much in agreement, August.’ Colin replied, silently releasing a huge breath that felt like he’d been holding it for days.
Just then, Hain entered the pilot station. He slapped the back of their seats; ‘What are you chaps up to? Eh?’
Colin’s skin retreated across his flesh every time he was in the presence of Hain. The other gentry had been extremely kind and Shabani had been so quiet he’d scarcely noticed he was there – a remarkable feat for such a huge man – but Hain could not be missed. Everything Hain said had to be said as loudly as possible, every story had to be told in such a way as to paint Hain a hero and his contempt for the lower classes was obvious. ‘I was just goin’ to take a break, Seb.’ Colin replied, deliberately using a familiar form of Hain’s name.
Hain made a strange noise, as if he was about explode in to a tirade then thought better of it. ‘Well. So be it. Just as well, I could do with some practice dragging this old bucket through the sky.’
