by George Mann
The Ghost smiled. “I'm still here, aren't I?”
“And besides,” Donovan went on, apparently on a roll, “some of those raptors are still out there, running wild. Someone needs to round them up.”
“Yes, I wondered when that was going to come up. What happened to the two we left in Banks's hotel suite?” said the Ghost. “I saw the newspapers were reporting you'd seized the remains.”
Donovan shook his head. “You should have seen that place, Gabriel. My God…what they did to those people. There was nothing left. Nothing. They'd been completely torn to pieces. And the raptors had gone, straight out the window. They're out there, somewhere.” He gestured toward the open vista of the city. “We checked the hangar, of course, but they'd all fled, too. Mullins is still picking over that place. It was just as bad—worse, even—than what we found at the hotel.”
“I know,” said the Ghost quietly. “I was there. I couldn't stop it.”
“You did stop it, Gabriel. You and Rutherford. You made a difference. It could have been so much worse.”
Both of them were silent for a moment. “What about Rutherford?” asked the Ghost. “Is he safe?”
“Jerry Robertson, the rich socialite from Boston, boarded a steamship for England this morning. He'll be home within a couple of weeks,” Donovan said, taking a long draw on his cigarette and allowing the smoke to plume luxuriously out of his nostrils.
“I wonder if they know what he did for them,” the Ghost said. “I wonder if they realize what was at stake.”
“I don't think any of us realized what was at stake,” said Donovan. “I'm not sure we ever do. We just carry on, don't we? Do what we think is right and hope that's good enough?”
“Don't get all maudlin on me, Felix. Not now. Like you said, we made a difference. That has to be enough, for both of us. It was enough for Ginny.”
Beside him, Donovan nodded.
The Ghost looked up. High above, two bright, shimmering eyes looked down on him, standing there on the rooftop, his trench coat billowing around him in the breeze. The Ghost knew that Donovan couldn't see the shining orbs, but he took comfort in their presence all the same.
The Ghost turned to Donovan, clapping him on the back. “Come on,” he said. “It sounds like you need some help with those reports.”
Donovan flicked the butt of his cigarette over the edge of the building and turned toward the stairs. “You can't come in dressed like that,” he said, a confused expression on his face.
“I know,” said the Ghost, carefully removing his hat. “But Gabriel can.”
Donovan grinned. “I'll have one of the men put the coffee on, then,” he said before disappearing through the door.
The Ghost—Gabriel—took one last look out across the rooftops of the city and then turned and followed quickly behind.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
GEORGE MANN is the author of Ghosts of Manhattan, as well as the popular Newbury & Hobbes steampunk series, beginning with The Affinity Bridge. He has written fiction and audio scripts for BBC TV's Doctor Who, as well as numerous short stories, novellas, and audio dramas. He lives in Grantham, UK, with his wife and children.
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