shake his wild self free.
He was angry with himself. Twice in a single day his control had slipped and his wild side had run amok. In doing so, heâd forgotten all about his missing foster father and was no doubt still sought for the murder of poor Mrs Walters.
Kingsley found the soap. He grimaced at its lavender fragrance, but stoically lathered up a wash cloth. He set to work on the sweat and grime of the most outrageous twenty-four hours in his life.
K ingsley woke to the sound of a bell ringing. Not a church bell; it was far more insistent. It took his sleep-befuddled brain a moment to realise it was more like a fire bell and then he bolted out of the supremely soft bed Evadne had shepherded him to after his bath the previous day.
For a moment, he was unsure exactly where he was and that disconcerted him. Bath, bed, he remembered, but his whereabouts beyond that eluded him. He liked knowing where he was. Their arrival was only a fuzzy memory, exhausted and mind-battered as he had been, and confused by his ridiculous dream of a boat voyage. He had vague recollections of heavy rain, crowds of people underneath a field of umbrellas, and another stair-enabled descent, but everything else was a jumble.
He was still fumbling with his tie â clean and pressed like the rest of his clothes â when he found Evadne in a round room, twice as tall as it was wide. She was peering at one of a dozen or so oval windows that were set into the wall like a double row of plaques. Underneath them ran a long shelf with an array of switches, knobs and levers. She was wearing a long green leather coat over a dark blue dress that was piped with cream. She had a small hat, quite the opposite of the fashion, something like a top hat much reduced and much less masculine, probably due to the light blue feather stuck in the band.
When he entered, she glanced at him. âStay there!â she ordered. âDonât move!â
She left the bank of glasses, disappeared through a door and emerged a moment later hefting a rifle that was a cousin of the pistol sheâd used on the hapless police constable: black, sleek and deadly.
âWhat is it?â
She ignored him and ran past, disappearing through the door heâd entered by.
A door banged, the bells continued to ring, and all Kingsley was left with was the scent of gardenia in the air.
He went to the door opposite and peered inside. He was confronted by a workshop that looked like a university physics laboratory that had surrounded and taken over a foundry, with power cables strung willy-nilly from roof beams, a brace of workbenches heavily laden with impressive glassware and a row of metal cabinets that looked as if they could take a direct hit from an artillery shell without flinching. For a moment, he hesitated, but the urgency of the bells made him move. He grabbed a bullseye lantern and a shiny metal bar, then set off after Evadne.
Kinsley counted five doors. All of them were open, the last still swinging. He hesitated, reluctant to leave the refuge unprotected, but angry cries echoed down the tunnel in front of him and set him running in that direction.
A stutter of sharp, hard reports came to him, loud enough to hurt his ears. He lurched against the bricks of the tunnel, shivering as the noise of conflict set his wild side on edge. Should he ready to fight, or should he turn tail and run?
Another hammering of gunfire and a chorus of unearthly wails made him bite down on his animal self. His head pounding with the effort, he staggered on, using the metal bar for support and bent over to avoid hitting his head on the roof of the tunnel. He held up the lantern just in time to avoid plunging over the edge where the tunnel gave out onto a shallow, precarious ledge.
Light flashed and a rifle cracked. Echoes swallowed it, tumbled it up with shouts and screeching, a wicked brew of pain and anger. Kingsley swept the lantern and found heâd come to an open
He was angry with himself. Twice in a single day his control had slipped and his wild side had run amok. In doing so, heâd forgotten all about his missing foster father and was no doubt still sought for the murder of poor Mrs Walters.
Kingsley found the soap. He grimaced at its lavender fragrance, but stoically lathered up a wash cloth. He set to work on the sweat and grime of the most outrageous twenty-four hours in his life.
K ingsley woke to the sound of a bell ringing. Not a church bell; it was far more insistent. It took his sleep-befuddled brain a moment to realise it was more like a fire bell and then he bolted out of the supremely soft bed Evadne had shepherded him to after his bath the previous day.
For a moment, he was unsure exactly where he was and that disconcerted him. Bath, bed, he remembered, but his whereabouts beyond that eluded him. He liked knowing where he was. Their arrival was only a fuzzy memory, exhausted and mind-battered as he had been, and confused by his ridiculous dream of a boat voyage. He had vague recollections of heavy rain, crowds of people underneath a field of umbrellas, and another stair-enabled descent, but everything else was a jumble.
He was still fumbling with his tie â clean and pressed like the rest of his clothes â when he found Evadne in a round room, twice as tall as it was wide. She was peering at one of a dozen or so oval windows that were set into the wall like a double row of plaques. Underneath them ran a long shelf with an array of switches, knobs and levers. She was wearing a long green leather coat over a dark blue dress that was piped with cream. She had a small hat, quite the opposite of the fashion, something like a top hat much reduced and much less masculine, probably due to the light blue feather stuck in the band.
When he entered, she glanced at him. âStay there!â she ordered. âDonât move!â
She left the bank of glasses, disappeared through a door and emerged a moment later hefting a rifle that was a cousin of the pistol sheâd used on the hapless police constable: black, sleek and deadly.
âWhat is it?â
She ignored him and ran past, disappearing through the door heâd entered by.
A door banged, the bells continued to ring, and all Kingsley was left with was the scent of gardenia in the air.
He went to the door opposite and peered inside. He was confronted by a workshop that looked like a university physics laboratory that had surrounded and taken over a foundry, with power cables strung willy-nilly from roof beams, a brace of workbenches heavily laden with impressive glassware and a row of metal cabinets that looked as if they could take a direct hit from an artillery shell without flinching. For a moment, he hesitated, but the urgency of the bells made him move. He grabbed a bullseye lantern and a shiny metal bar, then set off after Evadne.
Kinsley counted five doors. All of them were open, the last still swinging. He hesitated, reluctant to leave the refuge unprotected, but angry cries echoed down the tunnel in front of him and set him running in that direction.
A stutter of sharp, hard reports came to him, loud enough to hurt his ears. He lurched against the bricks of the tunnel, shivering as the noise of conflict set his wild side on edge. Should he ready to fight, or should he turn tail and run?
Another hammering of gunfire and a chorus of unearthly wails made him bite down on his animal self. His head pounding with the effort, he staggered on, using the metal bar for support and bent over to avoid hitting his head on the roof of the tunnel. He held up the lantern just in time to avoid plunging over the edge where the tunnel gave out onto a shallow, precarious ledge.
Light flashed and a rifle cracked. Echoes swallowed it, tumbled it up with shouts and screeching, a wicked brew of pain and anger. Kingsley swept the lantern and found heâd come to an open
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