Spellshock, page 29
The tunnel in the fog led them to the foot of a stairwell. Gosha stopped and took Eleanor’s hands in her own.
“Stay here, Eleanor,” she said, touching their foreheads together. The tunnel the spell had created was still thick with mist and Gosha needed to be sure Eleanor saw how serious she was. “It’s going to be dangerous up there. I love you dearly, but when you’re like this you’re only going to get in the way. Promise me you’ll stay put?”
“Porcupines,” said Eleanor. “Possibly priapic, but perpetually prosaic.”
“I don’t know what that means. Please stay here. Please.”
She backed away smiling toward the stairs gesturing for Eleanor to stay. Eleanor seemed to get the message, waiting patiently, but when Gosha turned to go up, Eleanor ran to catch up and hugged Gosha’s arm.
“I do so love the museum,” she whispered in Gosha’s ear.
Gosha sighed.
The tunnel through the fog led them up three flights of stairs to what must have been the top floor of the building, pausing them twice on the way so frantic staff could scuttle from one floor to the next without bumping into them. It led them safely out of the stairwell and down a corridor to a pair of swinging doors with frosted glass in the windows, and then it collapsed, encasing them in fog.
Gosha put an ear to the door, careful not to disturb it, and heard muffled voices coming from the other side. In her vision she’d seen Dropnick in there and one other orderly, but Sir Wilfred’s point of view under the bright light over the worktable had left the far reaches of the room in darkness. She had no idea how many people were in there.
She couldn’t risk being incapacitated, even for a second, so casting spells of any kind was out. Thinking back over the time she’d spent in the boxing ring with Alfie over the past three years, she offered a prayer of thanks for all the hard work he’d made her do. Dropnick was the man in charge. His lackeys wouldn’t gas the building without his order, and if she held him hostage, she could use him as a bargaining tool with the Convocation. He’d be concrete evidence that Bishop Worsley was behind the disaster at Paddington. Turning Dropnick over to them would surely convince the Convocation that witches were a valuable asset and not a threat. If not, she might be able to negotiate freedom for the ladies in exchange for turning herself in.
Okay, she thought. Slip in, get the lay of the land, disable whoever’s in there, take Dropnick and get Sir Wilfred and the others out of there. Without Craft. Sure, no problem. All in a night’s work.
“Eleanor,” she whispered. “I’m going in. Please be as quiet as you-"
She turned back to find herself alone in the fog.
“Eleanor?” she hissed, waving her arms through the murk in search of her, but Eleanor was gone.
She sighed and tried to put her worry for the other witch out of her mind along with all the other things she didn’t have time to worry about. If she thought about anything beyond what lay on the other side of the doors, she’d never move forward.
She pushed the door to open it a crack, just enough to feel the strength of the springs tethering the doors and find out how creaky they were. Four spells that might have helped popped into her head, along with three different combinations of cards she might have used to get into the room, none of which she dared cast for fear of blacking out. But she was in luck. Though the springs were surprisingly strong, they were mercifully quiet.
She ducked down and slipped through the smallest gap she could make between the doors. The room beyond was medium-sized, with space enough for several tables and their accompanying chairs, most of which were folded and stacked racks against the wall to her left. One round table stood in the middle of the room, Sir Wilfred, Andrew Mills, and Richard Howell seated around it, still working away on their tiny masterpieces. To her right, with eyes that saw nothing and an expression devoid of emotion, stood the remains of Sister Bernadette, as if caught in a pause between one thought and the next, though the next would never come. Three orderlies, all heavier than she, stood around the room, two with their backs to her, the third facing sideways, though he was fully absorbed by the work of the three men and didn’t see her, as were Dropnick and another man dressed in street clothes who manned a device like a stubby telescope mounted on a tripod with wires and what looked liked precious stones embedded along its length. The wheeled racks housing the stowed chairs and tables hadn’t been pushed flush against the wall, leaving Gosha room to slip behind them and work her way unseen toward the nearest of the orderlies.
The fluttering wings of corruption were everywhere now, an ethereal plague feeding on the eyes, mouths, and hands of the unsuspecting watchers, nibbling at their auras and growing brighter in the phantom superimposition of her second sight. It took only a moment for the wings to find their way to her. She did her best not to flinch, nor to swat them away as they swarmed around her, but with no aura for them to feed off, they passed her by, uninterested.
“How are we doing, Mr. Devereux?” asked Dropnick standing at the table with hands on hips as he surveyed his captive’s work.
“Nearly there, Doctor,” said the man at the scope without lifting his head. “Power levels are increasing substantially, but the waveform still lacks cohesion.”
“Perhaps if I arrange the cards,” Dropnick said, thinking out loud rather than asking for permission. “My research has shown that relative position can make a significant difference.”
He took from his pocket a pair of latex surgical gloves and snapped them on. It had no effect on the fluttering swarm that continued to nibble at his fingers as he gathered up the cards the men had finished working on and patted them together so he could shuffle through them with ease and select the ones he wanted.
“Let’s try a circle first,” he said, laying out cards face up on the table.
The fluttering wings reacted with the fourth card he placed on the table in the root position of a simple cross layout. She wondered if he understood the significance of the spread he’d chosen, knowledge he must have stolen from poor Auntie Rosamund. The wings swarmed into the center of the room as if sucked there by a vacuum, more and more of them pulled in with each additional card he lay down until his spread numbered a dozen cards.
“It’s making a difference,” said Devereux from behind his device. “The power levels spiked.”
“And the waveform?”
“A little clearer, but still not well defined.”
“Hmm.” Dropnick rubbed his chin as he pondered. “Perhaps a different order.”
He rearranged the cards, trading pairs around the circle and looking to Devereux for confirmation.
“There,” said the technician. “It’s coming together.”
The wings that had been fluttering about within the invisible boundary of the circle of cards in random jostling began to swirl as if someone had stirred them. Whatever effect Dropnick was looking for, Gosha needed to stop it now.
The first two orderlies still had their back to her, but number three would see her the moment she broke cover. Sir Wilfred, Dropnick, and poor Sister Bernadette stood in his way and would hopefully slow him down while she dealt with orderlies one and two. If she could take out all three of them, there’d be nothing to stop her from taking Dropnick hostage. It was a mad plan, but she knew she was fast and strong. She might succeed.
Might.
Taking out her switchblade, she hefted its weight in her hands. She could stab Orderly Number One in the back, but she’d only ever wielded it as a threat, to slice and jab, or used it as a tool. The idea of drawing blood was too much for her. She closed her fingers around the dense heaviness of the haft, the blade stowed securely inside it. It would work just as well as a weight to harden her punches.
Without the space to limber up her stiff and tired body, she took a deep breath and willed her muscles to soften in readiness for the exertions to come, and duck-walked at a crouch from behind the chairs and tables to come up behind Number One. She called up the memory of how to launch herself at him the way Alfie had shown her, allowing muscle memory to prime her. She stood, placed her feet and threw a punch at the back of Number One’s head, hoping she’d judged it right and would only knock the man and not kill him.
Her fist made contact with the crack of bone against bone. Gosha’s hand throbbed sharply from the impact of the blow as Number One went down.
“Oi!” shouted Number Three, seeing his associate crumple, and stepped out from behind the table toward her.
She didn’t wait to see how the room would react, plowing ahead and reaching Number Two as Number Three pushed past the uncooperative form of Sister Bernadette. Number Two turned to see what was going on, the commotion only now beginning to register for Dropnick and Devereux, so engrossed were they by the swirling cloud of corrupted Influence spinning within the ring of cards.
She threw a punch at Number Two, but the man was quick and sturdy. A meaty arm blocked her blow and knocked the switchblade from her hand. Alfie had taught her a lot about the sweet science of boxing, but he’d also taught her how to fight dirty. She spun with the momentum from Number Two’s block and lashed out with a donkey-kick to his right knee. As he folded over with a grunt of pain, she brought her own knee up sharply and struck him between the eyes. He went down heavy.
By now, Number Three had made it past Dropnick, drawing the full attention of the doctor and his technician. He grabbed Gosha from behind and tried to slip an arm up under hers to immobilize her in a half-nelson, but she stamped down hard on his foot, wrapped her leg around his and threw him off balance, rolling him across the floor to crash against the worktable. The table scraped across the floor, the jolt breaking Dropnick’s careful arrangement of cards. The invisible container around the wings broke and they scattered chaotically about the room.
“Blasted woman!” shouted Dropnick, arms above his head in outrage. “Look what you’ve done!”
Gosha retrieved her switchblade and thumbed it open, the blade deploying with a satisfying click.
“Idiots!” shouted Dropnick, eyes wide at the sight of the blade, and stepped back, away from her. “Stop her this instant.”
Number Three sprung up off the floor and stepped between her, Dropnick, and the table. The blade was purely for intimidation’s sake, but she couldn’t let him know that. She lunged out at him, slashing the air in front of her in a cheap imitation of a Musketeer, but he pulled back beyond her reach. As they lunged and feinted at each other, behind Number Three Dropnick hurriedly rearranged the cards.
“The waveform’s collapsing,” said Devereux, his eye back against the scope.
To Dropnick’s right, Eleanor appeared out of thin air standing next to Sister Bernadette, distracting Gosha and allowing Number Three to slip under her guard. He knocked the blade from her hand and barreled forward, slamming his forearm into her throat and driving her back against the wall, the force of it knocking the wind out of her.
“You poor dear,” said Eleanor to Sister Bernadette. “What have they done to you?”
“Rick,” shouted Number Three, “Jake. Fucking help me out.”
Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Number One wasn’t moving, but Number Two pushed himself up off the floor and limped toward her. Dropnick finished rearranging the cards and the fluttering wings were drawn back to swirl in their containment. Gosha tried kneeing Number Three in the gut, but she didn’t have good leverage.
“I’m so sorry about this,” said Eleanor, and whispered in Sister Bernadette’s ear.
The woman’s vacant eyes lit up with purpose. She hurled herself across the room, a screeching cloud of flowing black, and launched herself at the unsuspecting orderly, wrapping herself around him, clawing at his eyes and digging her fingers into his cheeks. He released his grip on Gosha as he struggled to fend off Sister Bernadette’s feral attack.
“And you’ve been very clever and very naughty,” said Eleanor to Dropnick as he watched the commotion with fascinated horror.
She placed a hand on the table. With a concussive crack that reverberated about the room, the table shattered into splinters of plastic and metal. Art supplies and cards tumbled to the floor, the fluttering wings bursting from their containment once more. Sir Wilfred and the other two men sat back in their chairs, hands still, and stared into space, entranced.
“My God!” shouted Dropnick as he backed away from her, knocking into Devereux and the scope.
Orderly Number Two-Rick or Jake, she didn’t know which-loomed over her as she reached for the switchblade, a giant bruise darkening across his face. She came up underneath his reach with an uppercut to his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. A one-two punch to the head and he crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
Beyond the tangle of struggling limbs that were Sister Bernadette and Number Three, Eleanor stepped between the three seated men into the remains of the table and grimaced at the mess spread across the floor and the clouds of fluttering wings.
“What are these monstrosities?” With a gesture, she made the cards float up from where they’d fallen. “You’re playing with forces you don’t remotely understand,” she said to Dropnick. “You’re about to create a very dangerous mess.”
Dropnick pulled from his pocket a metal and leather cylinder about the width of a large flashlight covered with circular dials and sliders wrapped around its circumference. He turned the controls to a particular combination and pressed a large button on the end. The ambient Influence immediately changed from torpid sludge to thick, writhing tentacles that lashed around like angry snakes coiling around Gosha’s limbs, battering at her with physical impact and wrenching her to and fro. She’d had gentler experiences in the mosh pit at punk gigs at the Marquee Club. The fluttering wings frayed and shredded to nothing by the turbulence.
“These women,” said Dropnick to his technician, watching intently as Gosha and Eleanor were flailed about, “are susceptible to the psychospiritual force like the activated patients. After Mr. Barber and Mr. Hobbs escaped their confinement, I developed this device to ensure it didn’t happen again.”
He turned knobs and rings, and clicked the button once more. The tentacles merged into a labyrinth of moving walls that pressed into Gosha, sandwiching her between them.
“Oh, dear boy, no,” said Eleanor, and waved a hand as if saying a reluctant goodbye across the platform of a crowded station.
A slow and implacable wavefront of Influence moved away from her toward Dropnick and Devereux, pushing them against the wall. Dropnick changed his settings once more and clicked the button. The Influence transmuted, thick walls becoming an angry mist of static that buzzed and burrowed into Gosha’s bones and brain, immobilizing her body and making it impossible to string together coherent thought.
Eleanor was affected, too, her body rigid as a look of shock crossed her face. The suspended cards dropped. On the floor, Sister Bernadette continued to struggle with Number Three, but he soon put a stop to it with a swift kick to her temple.
Dropnick moaned as he stepped into the pool of bright overhead light.
“This is a disaster! Devereux, quick. Tell me what’s going on?”
Devereux reset the scope, turned a few dials and put his eye to the viewfinder.
“The waveform’s completely collapsed,” was his verdict.
Dropnick’s fair cheeks flushed.
“Blasted women! Bishop Worsley was right about witches. So much trouble!”
He stooped to retrieve the fallen cards as Number Three helped up his fallen comrades. Both Rick and Jake, whichever was which, looked very much the worse for wear.
“Keep an eye on them,” said Dropnick. “I don’t want them creating any more mess. Devereux, help me out here.”
Dropnick fiddled with his device, found a new setting, and pressed the button. The aggressive buzzing haze smoothed out into static thickness. Gosha felt as if she’d been encased in amber, her body as rigid as before, but now, at least, she could think clearly.
The technician got out from behind his device and followed Dropnick to the back wall to retrieve another table and set it up between the three catatonic men, but Eleanor stood paralyzed in the way. Number Three moved to help, hooking his arms underneath Eleanor’s armpits and dragging her, stiff as a board, out of the pool of light so Dropnick and Devereux could set up the table.
Satisfied, Dropnick reset the cards in their circle, the fluttering wings beginning to reform within their confines.
“We have confluence,” said Devereux, at his post behind the scope.
Dropnick stood back to look at his arrangement.
“I think I have it, now,” he said and shifted the positions of four of the cards.
A slow change worked its way through the fluttering wings, the random chaos of their beating organizing itself into waves.
“The waveform’s stabilizing,” said Devereux.
The fluttering waves slowed until the wings all beat in unison.
“Excellent.” Dropnick beamed. He turned to Number Three. “Hold off on the final evacuation. We’re so close to finishing. I don’t want to waste the subjects we already have prepared for the next phase.”
“What do you want done with the women?” asked Number Three.
“That one’s useless,” said Dropnick, nodding toward the fallen lump of limbs, black fabric, and silver jewelry that were the remains of Sister Bernadette. “But I want these two for further study. Wait a moment.”
He went to the edge of the room and picked up an old-fashioned leather medical bag that he placed on the table and clicked open, revealing a series of small drawers and other containers. He opened one of the drawers and took out what looked to Gosha like a crown made of copper wire with small copper washers welded about the circumference. Handling it with great care, he carried it to Eleanor and placed it on her head. She began to scream, a loud and high-pitched shriek that curdled Gosha’s blood. When she ran out of breath, Eleanor screamed again.
