please… He shoved the thought away as he rolled his sleeves back, moved to the head of the bed, and reached for the man’s face.
“You want to touch that?” said Rickaby, with some alarm.
No, he did not. “What’s his name?”
“Alan Hunt. Sergeant Hunt. Of the Cannon Street nick.”
Where, Stephen knew, Rickaby had used to work. Hellfire and damnation. “Sergeant, my name is Stephen. I need you to stay calm. I’m going to try and help you.” He took a very deep breath and put his fingers on the man’s face. If you could call it that.
Hunt’s features were warping and twisting like clay. His nose was a huge, piglike snout. His tongue was split to the root, bloodlessly, into two spongy extrusions that wobbled and flopped helplessly from his mouth. One eye socket was stretched several inches long, a gaping hole extending down into his cheek. The other eye stared at Stephen with a terrified plea.
Stephen had expected a rush of something awful as his fingers touched the flesh, had braced himself for a variety of horrors. What he found was the last thing he expected.
“There’s nothing there.”
“Eh?” said Rickaby.
“There’s no cause for this.” Stephen moved his hands rapidly, sketching over the parody of a face. “No force coming in. None of my sort of thing. Nothing.”
“You’re telling me this is natural ?” said Rickaby, with incredulous fury.
“No, I’m saying I can’t find how it’s being done. Be quiet.” Stephen shut his eyes, poured everything he had into his hands. The ether rang with Hunt’s fear and pain, and the lesser echoes of a lot of terrified people, and thrashed like a maelstrom around the victim’s face, but…
“It’s not going anywhere. No connection.”
It had to be coming from somewhere. But it wasn’t happening inside the room, and nor was it an equivalency, streaming the ether between two points; Stephen was far too good at those to miss any such thing. Could it be coming from within Hunt? He gripped harder, searching desperately. The man grunted and thrashed under his hands, and Rickaby made a stifled noise. Stephen opened his eyes, looked down, said, “Oh my God,” and shut them again.
“You have to make it stop.” Rickaby’s voice rasped.
“Would if I could,” Stephen gritted out.
“What do you mean?”
Stephen jerked his head to bring the inspector over. He didn’t think Hunt could hear him, not with his left ear vanished so that the side of his head was smooth skin, and the right ear disappearing as Stephen watched, but he didn’t want to say this out loud.
Rickaby bent his head to Stephen’s mouth. Stephen said, quietly, “I don’t know what’s happening. I can’t stop it. If whoever’s doing this wants him dead, he’s going to die. Ask him questions while you can.”
“He’s got no ears .” Rickaby’s bewildered horror rang in the last word.
“Write it down.”
Rickaby stared at him for a second, then went to the desk. Stephen kept on, reaching, searching, trying to get a grip on whatever was turning the man into a monster. Why can’t I find it? Where the devil is it?
Rickaby held a piece of paper in front of Hunt’s good eye. It read, in clear print: WHO WANTS YOU DEAD?
Hunt’s eye bulged, and he tried to respond, but his bifurcated tongue wouldn’t work. He cawed helplessly. Rickaby made a disgusted noise, and then gave a cry of alarm as the flesh began to smooth over Hunt’s nostrils.
They were going to block up his nose, Stephen thought, and then his mouth, and then he wouldn’t be able to breathe, and he’d die.
He shoved his fingers into Hunt’s mouth. The man gave a spasm of panic, doubtless feeling the electric shock of Stephen’s fingers. He was well beyond caring. “We need to keep his airway open,” he snapped at Rickaby. “Some kind of tube. Something he can breathe through.”
“Will that work?”
“How the devil should I know?”
Rickaby half-ran to the door, and Stephen heard him
“You want to touch that?” said Rickaby, with some alarm.
No, he did not. “What’s his name?”
“Alan Hunt. Sergeant Hunt. Of the Cannon Street nick.”
Where, Stephen knew, Rickaby had used to work. Hellfire and damnation. “Sergeant, my name is Stephen. I need you to stay calm. I’m going to try and help you.” He took a very deep breath and put his fingers on the man’s face. If you could call it that.
Hunt’s features were warping and twisting like clay. His nose was a huge, piglike snout. His tongue was split to the root, bloodlessly, into two spongy extrusions that wobbled and flopped helplessly from his mouth. One eye socket was stretched several inches long, a gaping hole extending down into his cheek. The other eye stared at Stephen with a terrified plea.
Stephen had expected a rush of something awful as his fingers touched the flesh, had braced himself for a variety of horrors. What he found was the last thing he expected.
“There’s nothing there.”
“Eh?” said Rickaby.
“There’s no cause for this.” Stephen moved his hands rapidly, sketching over the parody of a face. “No force coming in. None of my sort of thing. Nothing.”
“You’re telling me this is natural ?” said Rickaby, with incredulous fury.
“No, I’m saying I can’t find how it’s being done. Be quiet.” Stephen shut his eyes, poured everything he had into his hands. The ether rang with Hunt’s fear and pain, and the lesser echoes of a lot of terrified people, and thrashed like a maelstrom around the victim’s face, but…
“It’s not going anywhere. No connection.”
It had to be coming from somewhere. But it wasn’t happening inside the room, and nor was it an equivalency, streaming the ether between two points; Stephen was far too good at those to miss any such thing. Could it be coming from within Hunt? He gripped harder, searching desperately. The man grunted and thrashed under his hands, and Rickaby made a stifled noise. Stephen opened his eyes, looked down, said, “Oh my God,” and shut them again.
“You have to make it stop.” Rickaby’s voice rasped.
“Would if I could,” Stephen gritted out.
“What do you mean?”
Stephen jerked his head to bring the inspector over. He didn’t think Hunt could hear him, not with his left ear vanished so that the side of his head was smooth skin, and the right ear disappearing as Stephen watched, but he didn’t want to say this out loud.
Rickaby bent his head to Stephen’s mouth. Stephen said, quietly, “I don’t know what’s happening. I can’t stop it. If whoever’s doing this wants him dead, he’s going to die. Ask him questions while you can.”
“He’s got no ears .” Rickaby’s bewildered horror rang in the last word.
“Write it down.”
Rickaby stared at him for a second, then went to the desk. Stephen kept on, reaching, searching, trying to get a grip on whatever was turning the man into a monster. Why can’t I find it? Where the devil is it?
Rickaby held a piece of paper in front of Hunt’s good eye. It read, in clear print: WHO WANTS YOU DEAD?
Hunt’s eye bulged, and he tried to respond, but his bifurcated tongue wouldn’t work. He cawed helplessly. Rickaby made a disgusted noise, and then gave a cry of alarm as the flesh began to smooth over Hunt’s nostrils.
They were going to block up his nose, Stephen thought, and then his mouth, and then he wouldn’t be able to breathe, and he’d die.
He shoved his fingers into Hunt’s mouth. The man gave a spasm of panic, doubtless feeling the electric shock of Stephen’s fingers. He was well beyond caring. “We need to keep his airway open,” he snapped at Rickaby. “Some kind of tube. Something he can breathe through.”
“Will that work?”
“How the devil should I know?”
Rickaby half-ran to the door, and Stephen heard him
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