Fallen (15 page)

By this time, I was huffing and puffing but
still keeping up. Digby hollered back several times to make sure I
was still with him and doing all right.

“I’m fine,” I said, sounding more confident
than I felt, but unwilling to let this scrappy little fellow outdo
me.

He shot around another corner and I followed
right behind. However, this larger room contained at least a dozen
young boys loitering within. Digby stopped. I stopped with him.
Digby was smiling, but I wasn’t. Something was definitely wrong
with this turn of events.

“Maybe we should go, Digby,” I
suggested.

“No, no,” he said. “These blokes are friends
of mine.”

Digby walked away from me as the other boys
walked toward me.

“Dexter,” Digby said as he approached the
oldest boy of the group. Dexter appeared to be at least eighteen.
Digby walked over to him and talked with him. It was all too low
for me to hear.

The other boys had surrounded me. They were
prodding at me and pulling at my clothes, commenting sarcastically
on the quality of the fabric. Several hands had already begun to
probe my pockets looking for money. I now got the feeling that
Digby had been setting me up the entire time. He didn’t know who
Tom was and had no intentions of helping me.

Dexter approached with Digby standing behind
him. He seemed to be avoiding direct eye contact with me now.

“So, where’s your purse, rich boy?” Dexter
goaded me with a thick stick he was carrying.

“I don’t have any money,” I replied. “I’m
just looking for my friend. He runs with Mr. Sinister.”

At this point I was desperately hoping to
avoid trouble with these fellows by dropping names that might
intimidate them into letting me go. Dexter only laughed. This
wasn’t going well.

“I don’t ask twice,” was all he said
further.

A meaty fist smashed across my jaw from the
side. I hadn’t even seen it coming. I staggered, my vision full of
stars, the whole side of my head aching. I reached for the power
that had recently been revealed to reside within me. It was there,
but my grasp felt tenuous.

Before I could mount a defense, I heard
someone yelling, “He’s got a knife?”

I know I
didn’t
have a knife. I still
have no idea what they had spotted, or what movement I had made
that had alerted them to danger. The next thing I saw was Dexter’s
fist plowing into my nose. The pain spiked across my face. At the
time, I had never actually been shot, but it certainly felt that
bad. Hot blood washed down over my mouth. Maybe that had been what
brought her.

I fell backwards, screaming in pain. Hands
and feet and faces filled my blurring vision. My clothes were torn
from my body, leaving me on the cold floor as the boys kicked me
repeatedly. My ribs were broken in the process. My head received
multiple blows as well as my extremities. I tried to keep my body
protected, curling into a painful ball, but the blows kept coming
amid their jeering.

A final kick shattered my jaw. Amazingly, I
had not lost consciousness the entire time. Instead, I was left
feeling every bit of the agony, trying to pull air into my lungs
despite the stabbing pain of my broken ribs. They left me there for
a moment as they rifled through the shredded remnants of my fancy
clothes.

Then someone grabbed me by my ankles and
started to drag me across the floor. I screamed from the pain, but
they only laughed.

I heard Dexter’s deep voice say, “throw out
the trash!”

Suddenly my ankles were released. I heard a
commotion next to me; the gurgled cry of one of my tormenters.
Vaguely I remember hearing alarmed calls between the others.
Something was wrong. They were in dire straits, but my vision was
swimming, the sounds all running together as a roaring in my
ears.

I saw blood streak across the wall to my
right. The sounds of chaos quickly dimmed to nothing. That’s when I
saw her—the beautiful pale girl I had seen during my vision within
the hall of mirrors—the same that had been looking out over London.
Here she was, crouched next to me, concern in her crimson eyes,
staring into mine. I’m not sure, but I think I may have attempted a
smile before darkness overwhelmed me.

Charlotte had waited outside the home of
Oliver James for some time with no sign of the man. The boy moaning
in pain behind her informed her that she could wait no longer. He
was a mess from what Dexter and his boys had done to him. And while
Charlotte knew many ways to kill a man she knew nothing of healing
them.

She had for a long time kept a loft nearby
within the building that Dexter and his crew had sometimes taken
refuge. As long as they didn’t bother her, she didn’t bother them.
However, all of the commotion had forced her hand; that and the
intense aroma of blood. The boy’s face and torso were covered in
it, awakening the hunger that cursed the Breed. Still, she had fed
recently. The boy was in no danger from her appetites at the
moment.

Charlotte suspected that this must be the
boy that Tom had been hiding from her brother and Black. Her
suspicion had nothing to do with his age or appearance and
everything to do with what he had attempted to do while Dexter and
his gang brutalized him. It was the last scene she had expected to
find.

The boy had been surrounded by Dexter’s
boys, and one of them had just smashed him across the jaw. The boy
had begun to raise his hand when Charlotte noticed a blossom of
flame hovering over his palm. One of the boys had noticed the
flicker of it and cried out about a weapon. Dexter had quickly
punched the boy, breaking his nose.

Blood had shot out over the lower part of
his face as he collapsed and came under further brutality from all
sides. Charlotte had tried to refrain from interfering. After all,
this hadn’t been the first mark they had tricked into their lair in
order to rob them. However, this boy was a Descendant of the Fallen
like her and someone Tom was trying to protect with his life. She
had been forced to intervene. No one would miss Dexter and his boys
anyway. One less nuisance terrorizing the locals.

She forced the window, breaking the glass
but knowing that Oliver would approve in an emergency like this.
Already it was starting to rain outside and she had nowhere to keep
him besides. Oliver could repair the window with barely a thought
anyway.

Charlotte carried the boy inside, but found
no one within. However, somewhere beyond the walls of the room she
heard the din of many people gathered for entertainment. She even
thought she heard the distant cry of a wolf.

The crowd waited, eagerly anticipating the
arrival of the circus’s star attraction, Horatio the Magnificent, a
magician of the highest caliber and greatly sought after. His
travels had carried him across the British Empire numerous times,
and there were always crowds waiting to see the mysterious wonders
he performed.

Tonight, when his trademark gout of orange
flame and column of crimson smoke delivered Horatio to his
audience, he was in Hong Kong, a colony in China won to the Empire
some years ago. However, ethnicity rarely mattered. Everyone
enjoyed a good show.

Oliver James stood waiting, as was customary
during the beginning of his performance. The moniker of Horatio the
Magnificent had served him well over the years, providing him with
a sensational title with which to ply the wares of his trade while
still maintaining his anonymity. This profession, as well as his
other business interests across the Empire, had allowed him to
accumulate vast wealth including several grand estates in various
places around the world.

The cheering crowd had grown quiet,
anticipating a surprise at any moment that should begin Horatio’s
thrilling act. The lamps were dim throughout the main tent as the
first growls were heard coming from among the crowd. Several people
screamed as a spot light landed on the first wolf to show
itself.

Oliver, as Horatio, remained still with his
eyes closed and hands resting upon the wolf’s head atop his cane.
The beast crouched, approaching with its eyes fixed upon the great
magician at the center of the huge ring within the tent. It stalked
forward cautiously never minding the crowd at all.

Within moments, more screams came from
various places all around the tent among the crowd. The spot lights
found five more wolves creeping from all sides now toward the
powerful Horatio. Suddenly they each sprang forward, as though
signaled by some unseen cue.

Oliver looked up, noticing the deadly
predators for the first time since his arrival. His lucidity
faltered as he desperately searched for a way of escape, but the
wolves were already upon him. The animals lunged for him, his cape
billowing around him, arms flailing. They had him, tearing at his
black cape, his limbs, as he tumbled to the straw-laden ground.

The uninitiated cried out in panic. Surely
the performance had taken a drastic turn for the worse. Why wasn’t
someone rushing to Horatio’s aid? Why were none of the circus
workers climbing into the ring to shoot these brute beasts before
Horatio perished?

Those who knew better fidgeted expectantly,
knowing this was only the beginning of what they had come to see.
This sort of thing was no tragedy where Horatio was involved. It
was the very meat of his performance; the sort of thing his
faithful fans clamored through long lines to witness. Horatio had
never disappointed them yet.

The dark mass of torn and tattered cape and
clothing was no longer distinguishable as being the form of a man.
The wolves seemed to be searching now, having lost interest in the
rag doll. Had the magician somehow eluded them? Or were they simply
turning upon the crowd now in order to sate their bloodlust?

An explosion from among the wolves threw
them away. The mass of torn clothing was engulfed in flame then
quickly dissipated, leaving Horatio the Magnificent standing with a
whip in his right hand and a large hoop of silver in his left. The
crowd cheered wildly even as the wolves regrouped.

Now, the magician was in control as it
should be. His fans knew Horatio never lost control. He began to
bend the savage beasts to his will, leading them to perform feats
for the crowd. At his command the lot of them danced upon their
hind legs as waltzing music filtered into the tent, having no
discernable origin. The crowd didn’t care. Their attention rested
upon the magician. Had he desired, they also would have danced at
his command.

Horatio had the wolves to pass before him
through his silver hoop. Each time a wolf passed through, its fur
changed color from gray to pink, or black to yellow with stripes,
as well as many other strange combinations and patterns. Each time
the crowd cheered Horatio.

Finally, when each wolf passed through it
was transformed into a man, each wearing a tux with tails like the
magician himself. Horatio cracked his whip and the men came running
toward him, passing again through the silver hoop which then
returned each to wolves of normal color. The crowd applauded almost
continuously, gasping at each new conjuring.

The wolves sat upon short fat columns now,
seeming far more docile than when they first appeared to stalk the
magician. At the last, he cracked his whip again. Lightning shot
into the air and bounced across the ground. The wolves, each in
turn, left their columns and took one last turn through the hoop.
This time, as each wolf passed through, they vanished completely,
except for the sixth which had not obeyed.

Horatio bowed. The crowd cheered and clapped
for him. Others noticed the demeanor of the last wolf change.
Surely this was still a part of the act, but why did Horatio have
his back to the beast? Some called to him, just in case he had
failed to notice what was happening behind him.

The last wolf leaped from his column,
snarling at the magician as foamy saliva dripped from its open
mouth, teeth bared. Horatio turned almost too late, catching the
wolf in the act of leaping through the air toward him. At the last
possible moment, Horatio snapped his fingers. The wolf burst into
flames in midair and was utterly consumed.

The crowd came to their feet enraptured and
exhilarated. “Horatio the Magnificent has done it again!” many
said. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” others proclaimed.
Horatio took several low bows, brandishing his whip that now became
his wolf’s head cane again. Finally, he raised the silver hoop so
that it hovered above him like some giant’s halo. When he released
it, the hoop dropped over him, erasing his body from the circus big
top as it came to rest upon the ground.

Oliver no longer remained in Hong Kong to
hear the raucous applause that followed. In that last moment, he
had been delivered again to his estate in London. As quickly as his
silver hoop, a mere prop, had erased his form in China he had
rematerialized here in the large sitting room outside his
bedroom.

To his great surprise, he found Charlotte in
the room and she was not alone. In her arms she held the
unconscious body of a boy nearly her age. He was covered in blood,
though far too messy to be one of Charlotte’s feedings. His clothes
hung like rags from his thin frame. He was someone else’s victim,
and the fact that Charlotte had bothered to rescue him and bring
him here spoke volumes about his importance.

“I did not know what else to do,” she said,
dripping rain water onto his expensive oriental rug.

Oliver simply nodded. Questions would have
to wait for now. The boy needed his attention.

It was not the dawning of a new day, or the
sound of birds singing, or even the chime of clock bells that awoke
me. Rather, it was the excruciating pain of having my nose twisted
back into proper position upon my face. Had I not known better, I
might have surmised that I was in Hell itself. But my returning
vision showed me a well kept room and two people standing over me
intent upon their grisly work—namely me.