commotion next door. Wild Boy heard cheering and stamping, and the slap of a fist against a face. It sounded like a boxing match.
“Where am I?” he groaned.
His coat was wet from the snow in Lady Bentick’s maze, and the back of his head throbbed where the killer had struck. Another pain there was sharper and more vicious, like a bird pecking the wound. Something tugged at his skull, causing his head to twitch.
He tried to rise, but a hand held him down. Its skin was pasty and wrinkled. Its nails were encrusted with blood.
“Don’t move,” Gideon grunted.
Wild Boy saw him now in a mirror on a wall. He saw, too, what tugged at his head: a needle and thread.
Gideon made a final stitch above Wild Boy’s ear, sealing the wound. Leaning closer, he bit the end of the thread. There was at least a bottle of gin in his breath.
“That should hold it,” he said.
He gave the end of the thread an unnecessary tug, causing Wild Boy to gasp with pain, and then sat beside the remains of a fire. He lit a clay pipe from the pulsing embers.
“Who done it?” he said.
Wild Boy sat up, an effort that exhausted most of the energy left in his arms. He touched the wound, feeling stitches that were tight and precise. It was an impressive job, even though it felt as a nail had been hammered into his skull.
“Where’s Clarissa?” he asked.
“She’s fine. Outside. I said, who done that to Marcus?”
Gideon’s face screwed up even tighter as he drew on his pipe, as if he was sucking in needles. Wild Boy realized that he must have seen Marcus in that state, too. Black-veined, tormented by his own mind. What had the killer called it?
The terror
.
“What happened to him?’ he asked.
“Lucien and his Black Hats showed up,” Gideon said. “They took him away. To a hospital maybe, or an asylum. He was still alive. If you can call that living.”
“I gotta see Clarissa.”
Suddenly Gideon bolted up, grabbed Wild Boy and pinned him against the wall. “You think this is all about you, don’t you? You’re Wild Boy! The great detective genius! You think this is all your story and don’t mean nothing to no one else.”
His eyes were red and blurred. Veins bulged beneath his neck cloth.
“I’ve served Marcus for sixteen years,” he said. “I owe that man everything. He saved me once. You’ve known him for, what, four months? You think it was hard for
you
, seeing him like that? So I am asking you again:
who done that to him?
”
He pressed Wild Boy harder against the wall. Instinctively Wild Boy lashed out, head butting him and sending him tumbling back beside the fire.
Sparks crackled up the chimney.
Gideon clutched his nose, but blood leaked between his fingers. He scrabbled towards Wild Boy, about to attack, but stopped, seeming to realize that fighting wouldn’t help Marcus. Instead, he turned and neatened the cloth around his neck.
“None of the Gentlemen wanted you,” he said. “They said you were trouble. But Marcus stood up for you. He said you and Clarissa could do amazing things. Said you would be great one day. He protected you, defended you. Saved you over and over, and you had no idea.”
The pain grew sharper in Wild Boy’s head. “You said he saved you too?”
“That ain’t none of your business. Your business now is saving him back. So you better be amazing, like he said. Do you find a way to save him.”
Gideon leaned closer to the fire, breathing in the smoke. “Do you remember what the killer said to you?”
Wild Boy did, every word. The killer offered a deal, a cure to save Marcus in exchange for the next black diamond. He’d even given him a clue to find the diamond. A single word.
Oberstein
.
He suspected Gideon might know what it meant; the man had spent years with Marcus, and Marcus knew everything. But could he really help the killer? Marcus wouldn’t want that, not for anything.
He watched Gideon place a cooking pot over the fire, only just realizing something about this
“Where am I?” he groaned.
His coat was wet from the snow in Lady Bentick’s maze, and the back of his head throbbed where the killer had struck. Another pain there was sharper and more vicious, like a bird pecking the wound. Something tugged at his skull, causing his head to twitch.
He tried to rise, but a hand held him down. Its skin was pasty and wrinkled. Its nails were encrusted with blood.
“Don’t move,” Gideon grunted.
Wild Boy saw him now in a mirror on a wall. He saw, too, what tugged at his head: a needle and thread.
Gideon made a final stitch above Wild Boy’s ear, sealing the wound. Leaning closer, he bit the end of the thread. There was at least a bottle of gin in his breath.
“That should hold it,” he said.
He gave the end of the thread an unnecessary tug, causing Wild Boy to gasp with pain, and then sat beside the remains of a fire. He lit a clay pipe from the pulsing embers.
“Who done it?” he said.
Wild Boy sat up, an effort that exhausted most of the energy left in his arms. He touched the wound, feeling stitches that were tight and precise. It was an impressive job, even though it felt as a nail had been hammered into his skull.
“Where’s Clarissa?” he asked.
“She’s fine. Outside. I said, who done that to Marcus?”
Gideon’s face screwed up even tighter as he drew on his pipe, as if he was sucking in needles. Wild Boy realized that he must have seen Marcus in that state, too. Black-veined, tormented by his own mind. What had the killer called it?
The terror
.
“What happened to him?’ he asked.
“Lucien and his Black Hats showed up,” Gideon said. “They took him away. To a hospital maybe, or an asylum. He was still alive. If you can call that living.”
“I gotta see Clarissa.”
Suddenly Gideon bolted up, grabbed Wild Boy and pinned him against the wall. “You think this is all about you, don’t you? You’re Wild Boy! The great detective genius! You think this is all your story and don’t mean nothing to no one else.”
His eyes were red and blurred. Veins bulged beneath his neck cloth.
“I’ve served Marcus for sixteen years,” he said. “I owe that man everything. He saved me once. You’ve known him for, what, four months? You think it was hard for
you
, seeing him like that? So I am asking you again:
who done that to him?
”
He pressed Wild Boy harder against the wall. Instinctively Wild Boy lashed out, head butting him and sending him tumbling back beside the fire.
Sparks crackled up the chimney.
Gideon clutched his nose, but blood leaked between his fingers. He scrabbled towards Wild Boy, about to attack, but stopped, seeming to realize that fighting wouldn’t help Marcus. Instead, he turned and neatened the cloth around his neck.
“None of the Gentlemen wanted you,” he said. “They said you were trouble. But Marcus stood up for you. He said you and Clarissa could do amazing things. Said you would be great one day. He protected you, defended you. Saved you over and over, and you had no idea.”
The pain grew sharper in Wild Boy’s head. “You said he saved you too?”
“That ain’t none of your business. Your business now is saving him back. So you better be amazing, like he said. Do you find a way to save him.”
Gideon leaned closer to the fire, breathing in the smoke. “Do you remember what the killer said to you?”
Wild Boy did, every word. The killer offered a deal, a cure to save Marcus in exchange for the next black diamond. He’d even given him a clue to find the diamond. A single word.
Oberstein
.
He suspected Gideon might know what it meant; the man had spent years with Marcus, and Marcus knew everything. But could he really help the killer? Marcus wouldn’t want that, not for anything.
He watched Gideon place a cooking pot over the fire, only just realizing something about this
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