‘I haven’t battled an ancient god before, and I don’t think London has had an ancient god striding along Pall Mall before – but never mind that. Let’s accept that it’s a time for firsts.’
‘But what makes you think the god will follow you?’
‘He follows his Bacchae, doesn’t he? I’ll just get them to follow me.’
‘What? How?’
‘They followed you, didn’t they?’
‘But I was one of them!’
‘So shall I be. Now, Evadne, Father, pull back, I’ll need some room.’
Dr Ward took Mrs Winter by the arm. She was reluctant, but he was insistent. Together they hurried towards the mouth of the corridor.
Evadne didn’t. She stood there. ‘This is where I should beg you not to, isn’t it?’
Kingsley glanced at the advancing horde. The music was louder, their faces more ecstatic. An enormous vine-leaf wreath had taken solidity and shape in the golden cloud. It hovered nearly twenty feet above the ground, crowning a form that was rapidly becoming solid itself. ‘It’s customary,’ Kingsley said, ‘or so I understand.’
‘You’re going to surrender yourself to your Inner Animal.’
‘In essence, yes, but that really doesn’t make much sense. I’m going to surrender myself to myself.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I do, and here’s where I get to plead that it’s the only way, and you should save yourself and such things.’
‘I’m going to and you’re going to too.’
He parsed it. ‘That actually makes sense.’ He looked at her quizzically. ‘You’re not going to talk me out of it?’
‘No, even though my heart’s in my mouth, and I’m feeling as if this could be the end of my world if you don’t come back.’
Kingsley, on the spur of the moment, surrendered himself in another way and gave in to impulse. He kissed Evadne on the cheek. ‘Let’s have tea at the Savoy again when this is all done.’
She smiled and Kingsley’s heart was hers. ‘That’s starting to become a tradition.’
‘One that I hope to share with you for many years to come.’ He paused. ‘I said that aloud, didn’t I? I didn’t just think it?’
‘I’m glad you didn’t keep it to yourself.’
He kissed her on the lips this time. ‘We’ll invite Mr Kipling, too,’ he said, then he sprinted to the right, away from the madcap women.
As he drew nearer to them, he let himself become wild.
It was as if a long-dormant volcano had decided to make up for lost millennia. He put aside his feeble humanity, purging himself of his frailty, his pathetic scruples and manners, his mealy-mouthed culture. He spat out his civilisation. His whole body was seized by the spirit of the forest. He kicked off his shoes, ripped his jacket away and hurled himself forward in a great bound, rolling and coming to his feet just in front of the Bacchae. He stretched his neck back and howled until his throat was raw.
This was good. This was right. This was how it should be. He snarled a challenge at the women. They stopped their advance, still laughing and pointing and humming fragments of songs that were older than civilisation.
And Kingsley knew the songs. Every wild thing knew the songs of the earth, the songs of the jungles, the songs of the deserts and the mountains and the places untamed and untouched by humans, the places he truly belonged. When he growled, rumbling deep in his chest, it was the sound of contentment rather than anger.
The Bacchae, as one, rushed at him, mad-eyed and trilling, but Kingsley didn’t move. They embraced him, cooing and humming, laughing and singing. They recognised him. He was one of them.
He threw back his head and howled again. The Bacchae cheered. They linked arms and danced around him. He howled once more and smelled the woods, the spray off the waves, the grass of the open plains. He smelled sweat and he smelled blood. He smelled wine and abandon. He smelled pain and food. He saw the night in their eyes, when hunting was good, and the twilight, too, when prey was waking. They hungered, as they always did, and he hungered too. Deep in his belly was a void to be filled, a void that needed flesh, hot and bloody, the flesh of the living.
He shook his head and saw, beyond the Bacchae, that the great god of wine had a companion: a goat-hooved and horned god playing on a pipe the music that enflamed the heart and the soul.
We should be running through the trees, he thought dimly, leaping streams, chasing prey, hunting the tasty!
The goat god pointed. Kingsley whirled to see what he was pointing at.
So weak and helpless, huddled, three of them.
Prey.
He held up a hand to hold back the Bacchae. He took a step, a light step, nothing to frighten the prey into running, not sideways, not direct. Then another. Then one more.
He halted and shook his head, which was thick and heavy. Those in front of him weren’t prey. They were his pack, and he knew that he had to protect them.
With that, he was suddenly thinking much more clearly. He needed to do more than protect them. He had a plan he needed to carry out.
His thoughts became clearer still. He could still feel the ecstasy that the gods were bringing with them – wildness both like and unlike his own. It had the exhilaration, the sense of giddy freedom and boundaries unlimited, but it was overlaid with a cruelty he shrank from. No, not cruelty itself, but a delight in cruelty, and he knew he didn’t want to be part of it.
Ahead, forty feet away, were Evadne, Dr Ward and Mrs Winter. They were backed against the wall, a few yards from the entrance to the corridor. Evadne was staring at him aghast, and it hurt.
He wanted to give them a sign to let them know that they were safe, but he couldn’t risk it. He had to work with his wildness to convince the Bacchae he was still one of them.
He let his body relax and lowered his shoulders. The smell of sweat and blood grew sharper. When he loped towards Evadne and his foster parents he knew he could keep up this long, striding gait for days.
The Bacchae behind him followed, whooping and singing, dancing and whirling. They dragged Bacchus and Pan along with them to the feast.
Kingsley was about to attempt another howl when he staggered and went to his knees. Shrieks came from behind him, then a sound like a mountainside falling away. The floor shifted, dizzyingly, and he spread himself face-down, looking for any solidity at all. Behind him, he could feel the world slipping. It pulled at him. The women shrieked and cried with frustration and anger.
He risked a glance over his shoulder. A void had opened in the air, a crack between here and somewhere else. Around him, the world groaned in pain.
The gods were no longer merry, and neither were their followers. They were being pulled towards the rent in the fabric of the world like smoke up a chimney. Fascinated, unable to look away, Kingsley saw their godly substance shredding, whipping away into the void faster and faster, fading and diminishing as their followers whirled away with them.
And he was being drawn there, too.
‘Kingsley!’
Evadne was in front of him, her hand extended. He lunged for her as the void snapped shut behind him.
Kingsley lay in Evadne’s arms. He groaned and looked about. Countless fine cracks ran across the white tiles of the floor, as if it had been hit with an enormous hammer.
The gods and their Bacchae were gone.
‘Another successful escape?’ he asked.
Evadne kissed him. ‘A brilliant performance.’
As it seemed the right thing to do, he kissed her back. When he was able to pull himself away, he gazed at her for a long, still moment, admiring her false freckles, while the smell of wine and ivy lingered in the air around them.
FORTY
Dr Ward held a trembling Mrs Winter and dabbed at her bleeding forearm with a handkerchief. They accompanied Kingsley and Evadne as they picked their way through the already melting bodies of the Spawn to where the Immortals lay, unmoving, in the ruins of their throne.
Perha
ps unusually for someone his age, Kingsley had now faced death a number of times. Many of the situations were self-imposed, as part of practising for his stage performances, but he was well acquainted with the rush of terror that signalled the moment when mortality’s end was only seconds away. Therefore, he also knew the joy that came from defying death, from coming close but stepping away – sometimes with a grin, sometimes with a bowed head.
However, he had no truck with the romantic notion of challenging death making one braver, or wiser, or stronger. He knew death was implacable and cared nothing for challenges, or dares, or even last-minute bargains. Death was the final winner.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Winter said as they took in the sobering sight. Without the animation of their magic, the Immortals were children, free of the vile intelligence that the sorcerers lent them. Mrs Winter had a hand clenched in front of her, as if caught in the process of pushing the scene away. ‘I shouldn’t have asked the god to step through. Even though I needed help, I should have known better.’
‘You were desperate,’ Evadne said. Her voice was low and raw.
‘Desperate?’ Mrs Winter smiled. Kingsley saw a history of pain and torment in that smile, but he also saw the fortitude born of such ordeals. ‘Oh, facing these Immortals again took me well past desperation. That horrid Gompers man was trying to convince me to become part of the Immortals’ organisation again. He was ill suited to sweet-talking, let me tell you. A hard, unseemly man.’
‘Whose fate we need to decide,’ Kingsley said. ‘We have him prisoner.’
‘Let’s see how he enjoys being on the other side, for once.’ Mrs Winter took a deep breath. ‘And I really must apologise for how I treated both of you when we first met.’
‘You saved us then, too,’ Kingsley said, somewhat uncomfortably.
‘I didn’t think I could trust you. I thought you had the taint of the Immortals on you.’
‘We had encountered them, and fought them,’ Evadne said. ‘As we did here. Perhaps that’s what you were sensing.’
‘I see that now,’ Mrs Winter said. Her voice was small. ‘I was mistaken.’
Dr Ward squeezed her shoulders. ‘After what you’ve been through with them, my dear, no wonder you’re suspicious.’
‘I see them everywhere,’ she whispered. She looked up at him. ‘I knew you’d shift heaven and earth to save me.’
‘Just heaven and earth?’ Dr Ward said. ‘You underestimate me.’
Any lingering notion Kingsley had that this was a marriage of convenience vanished at the look Dr Ward and Mrs Winter shared. To analyse that look was to diminish it, but Kingsley couldn’t help but see respect, admiration, patience and a dozen other emotions wrapped up together in a moment where words were superfluous.
Kingsley crouched and touched the neck of the nearest Immortal, a pathetic figure dressed in white robes like a classical priest – and he reared back. ‘He’s still alive.’
Evadne hissed. She took out her Malefactor’s Lament and trained it on the three tiny forms. ‘What about the others?’
‘They’re barely breathing, but they are alive.’
‘What are we going to do with them?’ Dr Ward asked, shifting slightly so he was between Mrs Winter and the Immortals.
Kingsley looked around. Evadne had her fearsome firearm ready, and she’d caught a corner of her lip in her teeth.
Mrs Winter was grim. ‘We kill them, of course,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have thought there were any question about it.’
Kingsley rose, wiping his hands on his trousers. ‘They’re helpless.’
‘That’s the best time to do it,’ Mrs Winter said. ‘It may be the only time to do it.’
‘We can’t,’ Evadne said in a voice like glass. ‘Part of me wants to, but we can’t. Not if we want to be better than they are.’
Mrs Winter appealed to Dr Ward. ‘Malcolm? You understand, don’t you?’
‘I do, my dear, but I’m afraid I can’t support you on this. Will you forgive me?’
Mrs Winter looked away, but her face and voice were steady. ‘How could I not forgive my rescuer?’
Then she began to sob. Dr Ward put his arm around her and together they walked slowly towards the corridor.
Evadne was breathing hard. Her free hand was clenched. ‘So what do we do with them while we find the missing children?’
‘I’m sure no lair of the Immortals would be complete without a cell or two.’
Voices and the sound of boots echoed from the entrance to the corridor. Uniforms swarmed into the chamber, forcing Dr Ward to push Mrs Winter behind him. Evadne whirled at the commotion and tried to keep the Immortals under the attention of her firearm while taking in this new threat.
‘No need,’ Kingsley said, steadying her with a hand on her arm. ‘I think they’re friends, here at last.’
The leader of the twenty or thirty uniformed troops, a smartly turned out young woman, took one look at Dr Ward and Mrs Winter and ignored them. The troops marched directly to the ruined throne. The leader snapped off a smart salute. ‘Quite a pig’s breakfast you’ve made of this, haven’t you?’
‘Hello Christabel,’ Kingsley said. ‘It’s good to see you. You brought a few extras, too? Excellent.’
‘Arrived just after the nick of time, in true Agency fashion,’ Evadne said with something approaching her normal insouciance. She tucked away her Malefactor’s Lament and Kingsley relaxed, finally.
We might have put a very tense moment behind us, he thought.
‘Sorry,’ Christabel said. ‘Just as we got your message, Congers and Buckers tracked us down. I think they’re close behind us.’
Kingsley shrugged. ‘Well, it’s too late for them to get in the way.’
Evadne bit her lip. ‘You’d be interested in taking these horrors away, though, wouldn’t you? Please?’
‘These are the Immortals? Rather.’
‘You’ll be able to keep them restrained?’ Kingsley asked.
‘We have some very special places at HQ, just for types like these.’ Christabel signalled to her unit. Three operatives broke ranks and scooped up an Immortal apiece. ‘This might make Congers and Buckers overlook this unapproved jaunt.’
‘I’d say there’s a medal in this for you,’ Kingsley said. He frowned. ‘I smell burning.’
He sprinted for the corridor mouth. No smoke hung in the air there, but the smell was strong. He pounded along the white tiles until he reached the stairs. The smell was stronger. He leaped up the stairs two at a time and burst out of the kitchen.
Outside, in the pale light of dawn, the outbuildings were on fire. The Trojans were swarming towards the conflagration, summoned by the smoke.
Evadne hurried out of the farmhouse and stood with him, aghast, shielding her eyes from the heat and the smoke. ‘The children!’ she cried.
Kingsley had to hold her back. No-one could have survived in the inferno that was gleefully consuming each building. He was sickened, not just for the children, but for Leetha’s people. The significance didn’t escape him, either, that in titanic struggles, it was the little people who always suffered most.
‘I’ve failed,’ Evadne said. ‘Again.’ Tears hung on her cheeks.
‘I’m sorry.’ Kingsley was aware how weak that sounded, but he needed to say something before events overtook them. ‘We have the Immortals,’ he said and immediately knew how inadequate it was to point this out.
‘I don’t care about them,’ Evadne cried. ‘I had to save the innocents.’
Kingsley took her into his arms. She sobbed and he didn’t speak, for no words were good enough. Evadne’s burden was a self-appointed one and it was almost crushing her.
He vowed to do what he could to spare her from it.
Christabel and the other Agency officers were trooping out of the farmhouse with three inert bundles, heading for a line of black Daimlers parked on the driveway. The Trojans were nearing. Troilus and Lavinia were hailing. In the distance, through the darkness and
the smoke, Kingsley could make out the headlights of an approaching motor car. He realised that the villagers must have noticed the smoke of the fire.
‘Let’s see what we can find before everyone makes it impossible,’ Kingsley suggested. ‘Maybe the children escaped before the fire.’
Evadne struck away her tears with a fist. ‘I appreciate that, Kingsley, even though it’s a forlorn hope. Let’s do it for thoroughness rather than with any expectation of a cheery outcome.’
The lapel of his jacket was wet with her tears. She dabbed at it, but he didn’t mind.
The wind was coming from the north-west, driving the fire towards the field where the Trojans had set up camp. The barn was the only one of the outbuildings to have escaped the fire, but it wouldn’t last long unless something was done.
The roar of the flames was deafening as they picked their way around the west side of the new buildings. The roof of the northernmost building crashed as they neared and it sent up a fountain of sparks.
Kingsley held his tongue. Any comment about nothing being able to survive was superfluous. Evadne stood with her back to the wind, her hands in the pockets of her skirt, and surveyed the scene miserably. He stood next to her. No matter how much he wanted to put his arm around her he sensed that this was not the time. She was confronted with what she saw as proof of her failure as a protector of children, a failure that harked back to the loss of her sister on her watch. This was where he wished he had a special kind of magic: the sort that could convince Evadne that it wasn’t her fault and that the burden of guilt she carried could be laid down.
We all have our burdens, he thought, but I wish I could take Evadne’s away from her. He blinked, then, and wiped his eyes. It’s the smoke. That’s all. It’s just the smoke.
Then, just to let him know that his Inner Animal was still with him, he felt a prickle at the back of his neck. Someone was watching them.
He turned slowly but saw nothing. A few yards away were some straggling bushy roses, some daisies, the remnants of a garden in sunnier days.
He squinted. Then looked harder. A face was peering out from behind one of the roses. A small face. ‘Leetha!’ he cried.
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