The Sweet Far Thing (54 page)

“Naw. Tha’s all I know.”

“I want to find this gentleman,” I insist.

“Fowlson reports to ’im. ’E’s the one ’oo knows.”

Footfalls echo in the fog behind us. They’re joined by a jaunty whistle that makes my blood run cold.

Kartik’s eyes narrow. “Toby.”

The filthy boy offers a shrug and a sad smile as he backs away. “Sorry, mate. ’E give me
six
pounds, and m’mum’s dreadful sick.”

“Well, well, well, what ’ave we ’ere? Back from the dead, brother?” A pair of black boots shine under the lamp’s light. Mr. Fowlson emerges from the shadows, flanked by a large man. Coming up the other side of the wharf are two of Fowlson’s hooligans. Behind us is the Thames. They’ve got us cornered.

Kartik pushes me behind him.

Fowlson smirks. “Protecting your lady love?”

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“What lady?” Kartik says.

Fowlson laughs. “She may be done up in trousers and coat, but it’s the eyes. They don’t lie.”

“Give me your word as a brother that you’ll leave her alone,” Kartik says, but I can see the fear pulsing at his throat.

Fowlson’s lips curl with hate. “You left the fold, brother. There’s no honor between us no more. I don’t haf to promise you nuffin’.” Fowlson pulls a knife from his pocket. He flicks it open and the blade gleams in the weak gaslight.

I scour the banks of the Thames, looking for anyone who might hear my screams and offer aid. But the fog is rolling in thicker. And who would come rather than scatter at such a ruckus? Magic. I can conjure it if need be, but then he’ll know for certain that I’ve been lying about no longer having it.

One of the ruffians tosses Fowlson an apple, which he catches neatly in one hand. He plunges the knife into it and separates the skin from the meat in long curls that drop at his feet.

Swallowing hard, I step forward. “I would like for you to leave my brother alone.”

Fowlson gives me a vicious grin. “Would you, now?”

“Yes,” I say, wishing my voice had more steel in it. “Please.”

“Well, then. That depends on you, Miss Doyle. You’ve got sumfin’ wot belongs to us.”

“What is that?” I find my voice despite my fear.

“Awww, coy, are you?” His grin tightens to a grimace. “The magic.”

He moves forward, and Kartik and I step back. We’re close to the Thames.

“I’ve told you—I no longer have it.”

Kartik’s eyes shift left and right, and I hope he’s finding us an escape route.

“You’re lying,” Fowlson snarls.

“How do you know she’s lying?” Kartik asks.

His smile is grim. “She’s talking.”

“The Rakshana is supposed to protect the realms and the magic, not steal it.” I need to stall for time.

“That’s the way it used to be, mate. Things are changing. The witches ’ad their day.”

Fowlson puts his knife into his mouth and pulls off an apple slice with his teeth. We’re trapped here.

There’s nowhere to go but into the Thames.

“The way I see it, I take you bof in, I’m a hero.” He points his knife at Kartik. “You’re a traitor to the
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brotherhood, and you”—he shifts the blade toward me—“you ’ave the answer to all our problems.”

“Can you jump?” Kartik whispers to me. He flicks a glance toward the boat anchored behind us. I nod.

“Wot’re you luvbirds whisp’rin ’bout?” Fowlson asks.

“On three,” Kartik whispers. “One, two—”

I’m too frightened to wait. I leap on the count of two, dragging him down with me, and we fall to the bow of the ship below with a thud that shudders through my entire body.

“I said three.” Kartik gasps as if his lungs are broken.

“S-sorry.” I wheeze.

Fowlson shouts at us from the wharf, and I see him readying to jump.

“Let’s go.” Kartik yanks me up, and we hobble to the stern, where the boat abuts another, smaller vessel behind it. There’s a small gap between them, but in the dark with the Thames lapping below, it seems a mile. The boat shifts, making it even more precarious.

“Jump!” Kartik calls. He leaps across the divide, dragging me along with him. “What the devil!” a surprised sailor shouts as we careen into his boat.

“Surprise inspection!” Kartik calls, and we’re off and running again.

Another jump and we’re on the embankment. We race over the slick ground at breakneck speed, trying not to tumble. Fowlson and his thugs are close behind. There’s an opening under the street. A sewer.

“This way!” Kartik shouts, and his words echo. The sewer is so malodorous I want to vomit. I press the back of my hand to my nose.

“I don’t think I can,” I say, gagging.

“It’s a way out.”

We creep into the foul, stinking hole. The walls trickle with moisture. A wash of filth floods the bottom of the tunnel. It seeps into my boots and coats my stockings and I have to fight the bile rising in my throat.

The tunnel is alive with movement. Fat black rats scurry on their tiny legs, squeezing suddenly out of small breaks in the walls. Their squeaking cries raise gooseflesh on my arms. My very skin crawls. One bold fellow pokes a nose out near my face and I scream. Kartik clamps a hand over my mouth.

“Shhh,” he whispers, and even that echoes in the fetid sewer.

We stand, huddled together in the moist, foul tunnel, listening. There are a constant drip and the hideous scuttle of the rats’ claws. And something else.

“’Ello, mates. We know you’re in there.”

Kartik keeps moving, but up ahead, the sewer darkens, and it fills me with dread. I can’t go on.

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“Just close your eyes. I’ll lead you,” he whispers. He comes beside me and wraps his arm around my waist.

I stand firm. “No. I can’t. I’m—”

“Gotcha!” Quick as a wink, Fowlson’s men are on us. They grab Kartik, bending his arm behind his back till he grimaces in pain.

“Now I’m quite put out,” Fowlson says, walking slowly toward us.

“I gave it to the Order,” I blurt out. “You’re right—I lied to you before. But just this morning I met with Miss McCleethy. She prevailed upon me to see her wisdom. I joined hands with her in the realms. The Order truly does have the power now. I swear it!”

Fowlson’s expression softens. He looks worried, confused. “This mornin’?”

“Yes,” I lie.

Fowlson’s so close I can smell the apple on him, see his jaw tighten with new anger. “If that’s true, there’s nuffin’ to keep me from cuttin’ Kartik here and now.” He presses the blade to Kartik’s throat.

“Poor Brother Kartik. Shall I tell you wha’ ’appened to ’im, miss?”

Kartik struggles against the knife. “We pulled ’im in. Do you know ’ow long a man can last under our scrutiny?” Fowlson puts his mouth so close to my ear I can feel the heat of his breath. “I’ve broken souls in less than a day. But our Kartik, ’e wouldn’t bend. Wouldn’t tell us wot ’e knows about you and the realms. ’Ow long was it, Kartik? Five days? Six? I lost count. But in the end, ’e broke like I knew ’e would.”

“I’ll kill you,” Kartik gasps, the knife to his throat.

Fowlson laughs. “Is that your achin’ heel, mate? Don’t want ’er to know?” Fowlson has caught the scent of Kartik’s fear and he wants blood. He presses the knife hard to Kartik’s throat, but his words to me are harder. “’E went bloomin’ mad in the end. Started seein’ Amar in ’is ’ead. Old Amar ’ad a message for him: ‘You’ll be the death of ’er, brother.’ An’ whatever ’e saw next must ’ave been awful indeed, because ’e screamed and screamed till ’e didn’t ’ave no screams left and there weren’t nuffin’ but air comin’. And that’s when I knew I’d broken ’im after all.” Fowlson’s angry grin spreads. “But I can see why ’e wouldn’t want to tell you that story.”

Kartik’s eyes are moist. He seems broken again, and I should like to kill Fowlson for what he did. I won’t let Kartik be hurt again. Not while, I can stop it.

“It’s Achilles’,” I say.

Fowlson’s knife falters for a moment. “Wot?”

“Achilles’ heel, not aching heel, you bloody stupid fool.”

His eyes go wide as he laughs. “Oh, that’s a pretty mouf you’ve got, luv. When I finish wif ’im, I’ll cut it wide open.”

“No, I think not.” Quickly as a hare, I’ve got my hand on his arm. Power rushes through me like the
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Thames itself. Fierce light fills the tunnel, catching the look of frightened surprise on Fowlson’s face as we’re joined, his thoughts pulsing through mine.

His bully rage and cruelty run through my veins for only a second. They are replaced by a fleeting memory—a small boy, a dark kitchen, a pot of water, and a large scowling woman, her lips tight in a sneer. I don’t know what it means, but I feel the child’s dread. Indeed, my stomach tightens in fear. It is gone in an instant, and now the magic is fully alive in me.

“Yes,” I say. “I lied. And now, I shall have to ask you to remain here, Mr. Fowlson.”

I harness the magic to shape what’s in his mind and in the goons’ minds as well.
You cannot follow.
I don’t say it, but the effect is the same. Mr. Fowlson is surprised to find that his legs will not obey his commands. They are frozen in place. The knife falls from his fingers; his hands hang limply at his sides, and Kartik is freed. Fowlson’s hooligans can only look to each other as if they might discover an explanation. Try as they might, they cannot move.

“Wot are you doing to me, you witch!” Fowlson screeches.

“You brought this on yourself, Mr. Fowlson,” I reply. “You are to leave my brother alone.”

Fowlson strains to free himself. “Turn me loose, or I’ll tear you apart!”

“That’s quite enough. Promise me.”

He grins, and his defiance infuriates me. “The only thing I’ll promise you is this: I don’t care about any of it now. It’s you and me. I’ll come for you, you little witch. You’ll beg for mercy.”

The magic sours inside me. I can’t quite feel myself anymore. I feel only a rage so fierce it blinds. I want to hurt him, to bend him to my will. I want him to know who has the power here.
You’ll be sorry….

Fowlson’s eyes open wide with a new fear. Slowly, he falls, his face lowering ever closer to the watery muck on the floor of the sewer. He cannot speak; my rage won’t allow it. My eyelids flutter. Kartik speaks reason to me but I do not want to hear it; I want only to bathe in retribution.

Something darts across my soul. The boy in the kitchen. The angry woman rolls up her sleeves. The little boy cringes before her terrible rage.
You miserable bastard,
she curses,
I’ll show you respect. I’ll tear
you apart.
She plunges his head into the pot of water and holds it while the boy thrashes.
You’ll beg for
mercy!
The boy comes up gasping and she plunges him under once more. I feel his fear as he comes up, again and again. He is near to collapsing, and for a moment, he considers it, considers flooding his lungs with that water to make her happy, to make her right. But he cannot do it. He fails. She pulls his head up an inch, and he manages to sputter one word:
mercy.
She hits him hard and her ring cuts his cheek. He curls up in the corner, pressing his hand to the deep cut, but he doesn’t dare call out. Tomorrow he will try harder. Tomorrow she will love him. Tomorrow he will not hate her so very much.

It’s as if I’ve been hit. The magic wavers; I stumble, slamming my palms against the wet wall to stop my fall. Fowlson’s face is an inch from the filthy water.
Stop,
I tell myself.
Stop.
The magic settles inside me, dogs circling down to sleep. My head aches and my hands shake.

Fowlson springs up, gasping and trembling.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice raw. “Your mother…she hurt you. She gave you that scar.”

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Fowlson struggles to speak. “You shut it about my mother! She were a saint!”

“No,” I whisper. “She was a monster. She hated you.”

“You shut it!” he screams, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth.

“I didn’t mean to do it,” I protest. “Believe me.”

“You’ll be sorry for that, luv.” He turns to Kartik. “I ’ope you learned a lot during your days wif us, brother. You’ll be needin’ it.”

Fowlson swings at me, though I am out of reach. He needs to do it; it’s all he has left. “I’ll crush you, you bitch!”

I should slap him for it, but I won’t. I can see only that little boy in the corner of the kitchen.

“The magic won’t last long. An hour, maybe two at most. And once you’re free, you’re not to come after us, Mr. Fowlson, or I shall unleash my powers again.”

Kartik takes my hand and leads me out of the sewer. We leave Fowlson, swinging and cursing at the dark, behind us.