your pistol loaded?"
Doyle checked the chambers. "No, I'd completely forgotten."
The sound of banging on doors, and the startled cries of the floor's other occupants, was moving toward them down the hall.
"I suggest you hurry, old man," the man said coolly, kicking the sandals off his feet and pulling on a pair of soft leather boots. "We'll have to take the roof."
Rummaging through his bag for the box of ammunition, Doyle heard a creak and looked up to see one of the gray hoods opening the window above the bed. Grabbing the first solid object he could find, he reared back and hurled it at the
creature, hitting it dead square in the center of the hood, knocking it away from the window. They heard a clatter of roof shingle, then a heavy impact below.
The man picked up the projectile from beneath the window.
"Good old Blavatsky," he said, with a brief admiring glance, handing the edition of Psychic Self-Defense back to Doyle. "Off we go then."
Pocketing the veil he'd worn earlier, the false Sacker climbed through the window. Doyle finished loading the pistol, hoisted out his bag, accepted the man's offered hand, and joined him on the roof.
"You have a great deal of explaining to do," Doyle said to him.
"Right with you, Doyle," he said. "What say we first put some distance between ourselves and these bloodless fiends, fair enough?"
Doyle nodded. The man started away, straddling the roof's spine, Doyle following closely, each step on the rain-soaked shingles perilously slick. The storm howled around them.
"What do I call you?" Doyle asked.
"Sorry? Frightfully hard to hear out here."
"I said, what's your name?"
"Call me Jack."
They made their way to the rear edge of the roof. The street twenty feet below was empty. Jack put two fingers into his mouth and whistled loudly enough to pierce the wind.
"I say, Jack ..."
"Yes, Doyle."
"Your whistling like that, is that such a good idea?"
"Yes."
"But I mean, their hearing seems awfully acute by my reckoning."
"Acute doesn't quite cover it."
They waited. Jack unfolded the veil from his pocket, which Doyle noticed was nearly ten feet long and heavily weighted at either end. Doyle heard movement behind them; another gray hood appeared, loping down toward them over the crown of the roof.
"Shoot that one, will you?" Jack asked.
"I'll wait till it's a bit closer, if you don't mind," Doyle said, raising the pistol and drawing a bead on the figure.
"I wouldn't wait too long."
"I'd be happy to let you try—"
"No, no—"
"Because if you think you can do better-—"
"I'm brimming with confidence in you, old boy—"
The hood was no more than ten feet away. Doyle fired. The creature, incredibly, dodged the bullet and continued to slowly advance.
"Not trying to be critical, you understand. It's just," Jack said, beginning to twirl the scarf above his head in a tight circle, "they're a good deal quicker than they first appear. Better to lay down a dense field of fire and hope they dodge into it."
Doyle fired again; the creature slipped left, the bullet ripped through its shoulder, it staggered, righted itself, and still came on. Wiping the rain from his eyes, Doyle aimed down the sight of the gun.
"These things," Doyle said, "they're not quite alive, are they? In the traditional sense."
"Something like that," Jack said, and let fly the scarf. It whistled through the air and caught the creature at the throat. Both weighted ends whirled out and stemmed around the neck, gaining speed until the weights thwacked its skull with the sound of a melon being crushed by a wagon wheel.
"Now, Doyle!"
Doyle fired point-blank into the face of the hood. The thing toppled over, skidded down the slates, and fell from sight.
"Damn," Jack said.
"Thought it went rather well."
"I was going to use that scarf to get us off the roof."
"Handy little item."
"South American, actually, although they've been using a variation in the Punjab for centuries."
"If you don't mind my asking, how
Doyle checked the chambers. "No, I'd completely forgotten."
The sound of banging on doors, and the startled cries of the floor's other occupants, was moving toward them down the hall.
"I suggest you hurry, old man," the man said coolly, kicking the sandals off his feet and pulling on a pair of soft leather boots. "We'll have to take the roof."
Rummaging through his bag for the box of ammunition, Doyle heard a creak and looked up to see one of the gray hoods opening the window above the bed. Grabbing the first solid object he could find, he reared back and hurled it at the
creature, hitting it dead square in the center of the hood, knocking it away from the window. They heard a clatter of roof shingle, then a heavy impact below.
The man picked up the projectile from beneath the window.
"Good old Blavatsky," he said, with a brief admiring glance, handing the edition of Psychic Self-Defense back to Doyle. "Off we go then."
Pocketing the veil he'd worn earlier, the false Sacker climbed through the window. Doyle finished loading the pistol, hoisted out his bag, accepted the man's offered hand, and joined him on the roof.
"You have a great deal of explaining to do," Doyle said to him.
"Right with you, Doyle," he said. "What say we first put some distance between ourselves and these bloodless fiends, fair enough?"
Doyle nodded. The man started away, straddling the roof's spine, Doyle following closely, each step on the rain-soaked shingles perilously slick. The storm howled around them.
"What do I call you?" Doyle asked.
"Sorry? Frightfully hard to hear out here."
"I said, what's your name?"
"Call me Jack."
They made their way to the rear edge of the roof. The street twenty feet below was empty. Jack put two fingers into his mouth and whistled loudly enough to pierce the wind.
"I say, Jack ..."
"Yes, Doyle."
"Your whistling like that, is that such a good idea?"
"Yes."
"But I mean, their hearing seems awfully acute by my reckoning."
"Acute doesn't quite cover it."
They waited. Jack unfolded the veil from his pocket, which Doyle noticed was nearly ten feet long and heavily weighted at either end. Doyle heard movement behind them; another gray hood appeared, loping down toward them over the crown of the roof.
"Shoot that one, will you?" Jack asked.
"I'll wait till it's a bit closer, if you don't mind," Doyle said, raising the pistol and drawing a bead on the figure.
"I wouldn't wait too long."
"I'd be happy to let you try—"
"No, no—"
"Because if you think you can do better-—"
"I'm brimming with confidence in you, old boy—"
The hood was no more than ten feet away. Doyle fired. The creature, incredibly, dodged the bullet and continued to slowly advance.
"Not trying to be critical, you understand. It's just," Jack said, beginning to twirl the scarf above his head in a tight circle, "they're a good deal quicker than they first appear. Better to lay down a dense field of fire and hope they dodge into it."
Doyle fired again; the creature slipped left, the bullet ripped through its shoulder, it staggered, righted itself, and still came on. Wiping the rain from his eyes, Doyle aimed down the sight of the gun.
"These things," Doyle said, "they're not quite alive, are they? In the traditional sense."
"Something like that," Jack said, and let fly the scarf. It whistled through the air and caught the creature at the throat. Both weighted ends whirled out and stemmed around the neck, gaining speed until the weights thwacked its skull with the sound of a melon being crushed by a wagon wheel.
"Now, Doyle!"
Doyle fired point-blank into the face of the hood. The thing toppled over, skidded down the slates, and fell from sight.
"Damn," Jack said.
"Thought it went rather well."
"I was going to use that scarf to get us off the roof."
"Handy little item."
"South American, actually, although they've been using a variation in the Punjab for centuries."
"If you don't mind my asking, how
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