Tom hadn’t heard before, not even in the chase at Stayns. Suddenly he felt very frightened.
From the far end of the room, where crowds of people were spilling out on to the moonlit High Street, a sudden scream arose. Then came another, and a long crash of breaking glass, shrieks, curses, the clatter of chairs and tables falling. Two green lamps bobbed above the crowd like corpse-lanterns.
“That’s no Beefeater!” said Hester.
Tom couldn’t tell if she was frightened, or relieved.
“HESTER SHAW!” screeched a voice like a saw cuttingmetal. Over by the doorway a sudden cloud of vapour bloomed, and out of it stepped a Stalker.
It was seven feet tall, and beneath its coat shone metal armour. The flesh of its long face was pale, glistening with a slug-like film of mucus, and here and there a blue-white jag of bone showed through the skin. Its mouth was a slot full of metal teeth. Its nose and the top of its head were covered by a long metal skull-piece with tubes and flexes trailing down like dreadlocks, their ends plugged into ports on its chest. Its round glass eyes gave it a startled look, as if it had never got over the horrible surprise of what had happened to it.
Because that was the worst thing about the Stalkers: they had been human once, and somewhere beneath that iron cowl a human brain was trapped.
“It’s impossible!” Tom whimpered. “There
aren’t
any Stalkers! They were all destroyed centuries ago!” But the Stalker stood there still, horribly real. Tom tried to back away, but he couldn’t move. Something was trickling down his legs, as hot as spilled tea, and he realized that he had wet himself.
The Stalker came forward slowly, shoving aside the empty chairs and tables. Fallen glasses burst under its feet. From the shadows behind an aviator swung at it with a sword, but the blade rebounded from its armour and it smashed the man aside with a sweeping blow of one huge fist, not even bothering to glance back.
“HESTER SHAW,” it said. “THOMAS NATSWORTHY.”
It knows my name!
he thought.
“I…” began Miss Fang, but even she seemed lost for words. She pulled Tom backwards while Khora and the others drew their swords and stepped between the creature and its prey. But Hester pushed past them. “It’sall right,” she said in a strange, thin voice. “I know him. Let me talk to him.”
The Stalker swung its dead-white face from Tom to Hester, lenses whirring inside mechanical eyes. “HESTER SHAW,” it said, caressing her name with its gas-leak hiss of a voice.
“Hello, Shrike,” said Hester.
The great head tilted to stare down at her. A metal hand rose, hesitated, then touched her face, leaving streaks of oil.
“I’m sorry I never got the chance to say goodbye…”
“ I WORK FOR THE LORD MAYOR OF LONDON NOW ,” said Shrike. “ HE HAS SENT ME TO KILL YOU. ”
Tom whimpered again. Hester gave a brittle little laugh. “But… you won’t do it, will you, Shrike? You wouldn’t kill
me
?”
“ YES, ” said Shrike flatly, still staring down at her.
“No, Shrike!” whispered Hester, and Miss Fang seized her chance. She drew a little fan-shaped sliver of metal from a pocket in the sleeve of her coat and sent it whirling towards the Stalker’s throat. It made an eerie moaning sound as it flew, unfolding into a shimmering, razor-edged disc. “A Nuevo-Mayan Battle Frisbee!” gasped Tom, who had seen such weapons safe in glass cases in the Weapons & Warfare section at the Museum. He knew that they could sever a man’s neck at sixty paces, and he tensed, waiting for the Stalker’s skull to drop from its shoulders – but the frisbee just hit Shrike’s armoured throat with a clang and lodged there, quivering.
The slit of a mouth lengthened into a long smile and the Stalker darted forward, quick as a lizard. Miss Fang sidestepped, jumped past it and swung a high kick, but itwas far too fast for her. “Run!” she shouted at Hester and Tom. “Get back to
From the far end of the room, where crowds of people were spilling out on to the moonlit High Street, a sudden scream arose. Then came another, and a long crash of breaking glass, shrieks, curses, the clatter of chairs and tables falling. Two green lamps bobbed above the crowd like corpse-lanterns.
“That’s no Beefeater!” said Hester.
Tom couldn’t tell if she was frightened, or relieved.
“HESTER SHAW!” screeched a voice like a saw cuttingmetal. Over by the doorway a sudden cloud of vapour bloomed, and out of it stepped a Stalker.
It was seven feet tall, and beneath its coat shone metal armour. The flesh of its long face was pale, glistening with a slug-like film of mucus, and here and there a blue-white jag of bone showed through the skin. Its mouth was a slot full of metal teeth. Its nose and the top of its head were covered by a long metal skull-piece with tubes and flexes trailing down like dreadlocks, their ends plugged into ports on its chest. Its round glass eyes gave it a startled look, as if it had never got over the horrible surprise of what had happened to it.
Because that was the worst thing about the Stalkers: they had been human once, and somewhere beneath that iron cowl a human brain was trapped.
“It’s impossible!” Tom whimpered. “There
aren’t
any Stalkers! They were all destroyed centuries ago!” But the Stalker stood there still, horribly real. Tom tried to back away, but he couldn’t move. Something was trickling down his legs, as hot as spilled tea, and he realized that he had wet himself.
The Stalker came forward slowly, shoving aside the empty chairs and tables. Fallen glasses burst under its feet. From the shadows behind an aviator swung at it with a sword, but the blade rebounded from its armour and it smashed the man aside with a sweeping blow of one huge fist, not even bothering to glance back.
“HESTER SHAW,” it said. “THOMAS NATSWORTHY.”
It knows my name!
he thought.
“I…” began Miss Fang, but even she seemed lost for words. She pulled Tom backwards while Khora and the others drew their swords and stepped between the creature and its prey. But Hester pushed past them. “It’sall right,” she said in a strange, thin voice. “I know him. Let me talk to him.”
The Stalker swung its dead-white face from Tom to Hester, lenses whirring inside mechanical eyes. “HESTER SHAW,” it said, caressing her name with its gas-leak hiss of a voice.
“Hello, Shrike,” said Hester.
The great head tilted to stare down at her. A metal hand rose, hesitated, then touched her face, leaving streaks of oil.
“I’m sorry I never got the chance to say goodbye…”
“ I WORK FOR THE LORD MAYOR OF LONDON NOW ,” said Shrike. “ HE HAS SENT ME TO KILL YOU. ”
Tom whimpered again. Hester gave a brittle little laugh. “But… you won’t do it, will you, Shrike? You wouldn’t kill
me
?”
“ YES, ” said Shrike flatly, still staring down at her.
“No, Shrike!” whispered Hester, and Miss Fang seized her chance. She drew a little fan-shaped sliver of metal from a pocket in the sleeve of her coat and sent it whirling towards the Stalker’s throat. It made an eerie moaning sound as it flew, unfolding into a shimmering, razor-edged disc. “A Nuevo-Mayan Battle Frisbee!” gasped Tom, who had seen such weapons safe in glass cases in the Weapons & Warfare section at the Museum. He knew that they could sever a man’s neck at sixty paces, and he tensed, waiting for the Stalker’s skull to drop from its shoulders – but the frisbee just hit Shrike’s armoured throat with a clang and lodged there, quivering.
The slit of a mouth lengthened into a long smile and the Stalker darted forward, quick as a lizard. Miss Fang sidestepped, jumped past it and swung a high kick, but itwas far too fast for her. “Run!” she shouted at Hester and Tom. “Get back to
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