The Claws of Evil

Mickelwhite was gone. Ben couldn’t see him any more. He had either come to a gap he couldn’t cross or fallen to his death; Ben wasn’t much bothered which. John Bedlam was still tearing along with no thought for his own safety and was running a parallel course to Ben. A crossbow bolt struck a chimney next to Bedlam’s head and the pot exploded into a thousand shards; he staggered but didn’t slow.

Gradually, their paths began to converge until Ben and Bedlam both dropped down onto a welcome stretch of flat roof and were running side by side. The Watchers were in sight, Nathaniel in the rear, and both boys dug into their last reserves and started to sprint.

The African Watcher levelled his crossbow pistol again. The bolt sliced through the air towards them and Ben instinctively flicked out with his left hand and batted it away. Another innocent chimney pot was shattered to pieces beside him and peppered his face with splinters. Ben touched his fingers to his cheek and they came away kissed with blood, black in the moonlight.

He took the Coin out of his pocket with his left hand and clenched it so tightly in his fist that his veins stood proud.

Josiah didn’t even slow as he thundered towards the edge of the roof with Molly tucked under his arm. When he reached the dead drop, he leaped high into the air, his feet continuing to pedal furiously until he landed safely on the next flat roof over, fifteen feet away. In a single fluid move he retrieved a Watcher ladder from its hiding place and, anchoring one end against his upraised foot, he lowered the ladder down until it bridged the wide gap.

Lucy crossed the ladder towards him, running over the rungs, her honey-coloured hair like a halo in the cold light of the moon. Then came Ghost, firing his last bolt as a warning across their pursuers’ path.

Nathaniel Kingdom made it as far as the middle of the ladder and then paused, his hand outstretched behind him. Lucy saw something close to desperation on his face.

“Come on,” Nathaniel urged his brother. “Quickly!”

The edge of the building was less than ten feet away from Ben and in mere moments he would be out on the ladder too. Nathaniel was waiting for him there, with his hand still outstretched for the Coin.

Behind Ben was John Bedlam, grinning like a lunatic. They both put on a final spurt.

It was only when he and Bedlam were neck and neck that it occurred to Ben that they were running full tilt towards a four-storey drop and going too fast to stop. His only hope, he realized, was to make the ladder first. He glanced at Bedlam’s mad eyes and knew that they both had the same idea.

Benjamin felt sick.

He could feel each of his footfalls as he thundered towards open air, his legs beginning to buckle. His lungs were made of fire; there was no strength left in him. But he simply could not stop now.

Somehow, he managed to ease himself a hair’s breadth in front of Bedlam and then he dived for the ladder, throwing himself towards it full length. He hit it heavily, awkwardly, the wood slamming against him. For a fraction of a second he found himself lying with his face between the rungs, staring down at the pavement and the death that waited for him there. Then Bedlam landed behind him, half on top of him, and with such force that the vibrations threatened to shake them both off. The wood bowed dangerously and Ben’s stomach clenched.

And then, to Ben’s absolute horror, the ladder slipped from the edge of the roof, leaving him and Bedlam both clutching thin air.

Lucy was convinced that she was about to watch both Kingdom brothers fall.

When Ben and the other Legionnaire had flung themselves onto the flimsy ladder-bridge, they had dislodged their end and so now it was only supported on the Watchers’ side. She and Ghost pushed down on their end with all their might, desperate to keep it suspended, but it was surely only a matter of time. Lucy could feel her arms shuddering with the effort. Ghost’s beautiful eyes met hers, his thick arms bulging beneath his Watcher greatcoat. If the ladder went now, it would drag them both with it. Quickly Josiah stepped in to help take the strain and even Molly added her weight, such as it was.

Stuck in the middle of the ladder, Nathaniel had been cast off balance by the impact and tipped over the side, only managing to grab a hold by some miracle. Now he was hanging precariously underneath, his teeth clenched as he tried to find the strength to drag himself back up.

Lucy gave Josiah and Ghost a nod. “One, two, three,” she breathed, and on the last count they all heaved together and began to haul the ladder to safety; slow inch by slow inch.

She could see Ben swinging from the ladder too, with the other boy hanging desperately from Ben’s legs. Ben looked tortured, Lucy thought. Not cocky or clever. Just a boy in torment.

Hang on, Ben Kingdom!

Ben had never known pain like it. He wouldn’t have been surprised if his arms were ripped from their sockets. His fingers were slick with sweat and his grip was failing.

Bedlam was swinging below him, trying to get a hold on Ben’s belt, but slipping all the time. Ben tried to get a better grip, but their combined weight was too much for him.

He still had the Coin though. He could feel it in his left hand, held there by two fingers, while he tried to save his life with the other three.

“Try not to struggle,” he snarled down at Bedlam, who was kicking out wildly with his legs. “You’ll have us both off, you idiot!”

The ladder jerked again as the Watchers tried desperately to drag it over to their side to rescue their comrade. Ben could see his brother, hanging only a few feet away. Bedlam continued to thrash, his grasp sliding down to Ben’s thighs, his nails digging into Ben’s legs through the rough wool of his trousers. Ben braced himself for the moment when it became too much strain to bear and gravity had her way with the lot of them.

Drop the Coin, said a voice inside his head that was not his own. It will pull you down, the voice warned. Let it go.

Ben knew that his strength was failing. It made sense to drop the stupid thing and use all his might to hold on. But it never felt like a simple choice when it came to the Coin.

Bedlam gave a strangled gasp and fell two more feet until he was hanging from Ben’s ankles. Ben wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold on for: ten seconds? Five?

Perhaps if he could somehow get the Coin into his mouth and hold it there, he could use two hands to save them both? Perhaps if he found the strength, he could help Nathaniel too?

Or perhaps he could shake John Bedlam off and just save himself?





Ben had no idea where that last thought had come from and it revolted him; although not enough for him to let the Coin fall from his fingers.

His muscles were screaming. Beneath him, John Bedlam was screaming. On the other end of the ladder, the Watchers were screaming.

Then another scream rang out, so pure and clear that it silenced the rest of the world. Time slowed down, just as it had the first time that Ben met the Weeping Man. Three seconds passed as slowly as a hundred years.

One.

He saw his brother Nathaniel lose his grip on the ladder and begin his journey to the waiting pavement below. And in that moment, Benjamin realized that he didn’t want Nathaniel to die. He didn’t hate him any more; he wasn’t even cross with him. He wanted to be friends with his brother again and to find their father together. But the cobblestones of London wouldn’t allow that. This is how it would end for Nathaniel. Flesh on rock, bone on stone.

Two.

With Nathaniel’s weight suddenly removed, the ladder made a shuddering lurch that almost wrenched Ben’s arms from their sockets. John Bedlam hung round his legs like an albatross, slowly clawing his way back up.

“Help me,” Bedlam hissed in between groans, but there was nothing that Ben could do.

Three.

In a blur, something rushed past them both. A flash of purest white, accompanied by the beating of two enormous wings.

It was the Weeping Man.

He was an angel.

Ben had no other way to describe what his eyes were seeing.

Beneath that long black coat, he had been hiding a massive pair of wings. Wings the colour of clean linen, that carried the Weeping Man in a soaring arc; first up and then straight down, dropping like a hawk towards the ground.

And before Nathaniel hit the floor, before the cobbles could steal his life away, the Weeping Man swooped in and caught him in his arms. Then, while Ben looked on helplessly, the angel carried his brother skyward, high up above the clouds.

Ben felt numb.

If Nathaniel is fighting on the side of the angels, then whose side was I on?

And now, even though their comrade was safe, the remaining Watchers continued to pull the ladder to the safety of the other side. Ben didn’t understand why they would choose to show mercy on two Legionnaires when it made more sense to let them fall. It didn’t match with their description as the enemy. More lies that Carter had fed him, he realized.

But whatever their reasons, he was glad they were acting the way they were. Every tendon, every fibre of muscle in his arms was in agony. If he could just hang on until the Watchers dragged him to safety...

“Keep still,” Ben snarled, as Bedlam continued to climb up Ben’s body. “We’re nearly safe now.”

“No thanks to you,” Bedlam replied.

The Watchers didn’t speak as they hauled the ladder the last few yards and then dragged Ben and Bedlam up onto the roof. Neither of the boys had the strength to do anything except lie motionless on their backs, glad to be alive.

The Watcher girl came to stand over Ben. She looked down at him with something close to compassion, her expression a strange contrast with her blood-red scar and eyepatch.

“Come with us,” she said, holding out her hand to help him up.

There was something in her voice that meant Ben knew he could trust her, and his fingers stretched out for hers.

Suddenly, as he watched, her face became a mask of pain. Her hand snatched away from his to clasp her own shoulder. She gazed at her fingers, confused by the blood that she found there. Ben’s eyes looked back to the building opposite. Mickelwhite levelled his crossbow again.

Even then, she hesitated.

Schulman and Dips joined their captain with weapons of their own.

Bedlam staggered to his feet and made a lunge for the girl.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this, beautiful,” Bedlam snarled.

Ben leaped between the Legionnaire and the Watcher. “Go,” he told the girl. “Go!”

She ran, following the other Watchers across the rooftops and away.

Ben grinned; he couldn’t help it.

“What d’you do that for?” growled Bedlam and, before Ben could answer, he swung a punch which caught Ben square on the jaw, slamming his head back.

“Not bad,” Ben confessed, giving his chin a rub and testing his teeth with his tongue to check for any wobblers. “Now, would you like to find out how a boy punches?”

Ruby was fed up with boys and all their stupid games.

She left them to it, making her own way back into the Under, choosing the quiet paths and forgotten tunnels so that she could be alone with her thoughts.

The Legion was the only family that she had ever known, but that didn’t mean that she had to love them, did it? Part of her wanted nothing more to do with them, but she knew that they didn’t take kindly to people leaving. Deserters were hunted down. The lucky ones got to live out the rest of their days as slaves, never seeing the light of day again. The less fortunate ones were given to the Feathered Men – as playthings.

She had failed Claw Carter and now she would have to face the music for that. He was no closer to the Coin, and he wouldn’t take that news kindly.

But far worse was the way that Benjamin had looked at her.

She had seen in his eyes that everything had changed between them. She didn’t blame him, of course; if he had held a knife to her ribs, she would never speak to him again.

Benjamin Kingdom was arrogant, stupid and thoroughly irritating...and so it came as a nasty surprise to Ruby that the thought of never being annoyed by him again was almost enough to put a tear in her big green eyes.

Ben didn’t know where the anger came from.

He had got into scraps before but he had never beaten someone the way he laid into John Bedlam. It was almost as if he had no control over his body. His left hand had a life all of its own, existing solely for the purpose of raining blow upon blow on the other boy.

Then he remembered the Coin nestled safely back in his pocket, and it all clicked into place: Bedlam wanted it for himself, that must be it.

Well, he can’t have it, thought Ben, and he began punching him again.

Bedlam had stopped fighting a few moments ago and was simply lying there, absorbing punches. Part of Ben was screaming for him to stop, although he couldn’t make the message extend to his fist.

When Ben realized that Mickelwhite was standing over him, it actually came as a relief. The decision to stop was taken out of his hands by a swift cudgel blow to the back of his head.

And the darkness that came with it was a welcome escape.





Jago Moon sat silently in the gloom.

He rummaged in his satchel and found a half-smoked cigar, which he chewed for a moment and then lit, inhaling slowly. The leather chair he was sitting in was comfortable and he eased himself back into its embrace. That felt so good that he lifted his booted feet and rested them on the desk in front of him. All that was missing, he thought, was a coal fire and a glass of brandy.

Moon was pleased that he could not see his surroundings. He could imagine what sort of decor Claw Carter would choose for his private sanctum. The professor masqueraded before the world as a man of history and learning, but Moon knew what his real interest was.

Death.

He had prayed long and hard before going against Mother Shepherd’s wishes. Maybe it was because he was so stubborn himself, but he simply couldn’t imagine Benjamin Kingdom leaving the Legion and joining the Watchers just because Nathaniel and the Weeping Man asked him nicely. Moon had been so bullheaded in his own youth that whatever he had been asked to do, he had always done the exact opposite, and Ben had a lot of that in him too. That was why he had come up with another plan. A more direct route to the same destination, he hoped.

When he left the eyrie he hadn’t told anyone where he was going or why; this was his responsibility and his alone. After some fiddling with a set of skeleton keys and a jemmy, he had made his way into the echoing halls of the British Museum. The nightwatchmen were all dim-witted fellows apparently, and they had no idea that they were entertaining guests that night.

Moon had made it his business to familiarize himself with the whole of London: the back lanes and the thoroughfares, the East End and the West. He had tap-tap-tapped his way around all the great public buildings, measuring their spaces by echoes and scents, just in case the day came when the knowledge would be valuable to the Watcher cause. So, feeling his way around the museum earlier, he had quickly found the corridor he was searching for. His hands recognized the length of knotted braid which forbade entry to visitors, and he’d carefully lifted one end from its brass hook and slipped into the private section. Carter’s room was in the basement and there was only one set of stairs leading down. Once in that corridor, the correct door was easy enough to find, his nimble fingers reading the names etched into the brass doorplates.

Professor James Carter. It sounded so respectable!

Safely inside, he’d made his way to the desk and sat himself down. He hummed a little tune to himself while he waited for one of the most evil men in Britain to come pay him a visit.

He didn’t have to wait long before his wish was granted.

The door swished open, and he felt the change in the air as a man slipped into the room. Although Carter probably thought that he was moving quietly, Moon followed his every step; the soft squeaks of the leather trench coat, the measured shallow breaths, the slow deliberate way he placed his feet.

Carter was in front of him.

Beside him.

Behind him.

Moon braced himself for what was to come.

“What have we here?” growled Carter, his claw pressing against the flesh of Moon’s throat. “A Watcher spy?”

Jago Moon laughed. Everything was going according to plan.

When Moon came to, he was being dragged down a tunnel, his head throbbing where Carter had coshed him. Admittedly, that wasn’t part of the plan. However, when he reached out with his ears, the sounds that came back to him made him smile. Not that they were pleasant noises to listen to; on the contrary, they were the very sounds of darkness. Moon smiled because he had succeeded where no Watcher had before: he was being taken right into the heart of the Under.

His nostrils tasted the air, rank with bodies and smoke; the grease of sweat, the meaty taint of the slaughterhouse. There were so many voices, echoing around him, pounding inside his skull. Low conversations, heavy with menace. Whispers of evil. Somewhere, a child was sobbing. He heard shouting, swearing, screaming. And other sounds that did not belong on this earth and chilled him to his soul.

He had exaggerated his achievement, he knew that. Pride was one of the many failings that he confessed when he was on his knees in prayer. Watchers had been into the Under before, but previously not one of them had come out again. That was why Moon had been so keen to undertake this mission on his own; any fool could get himself captured, the real skill was in escaping afterwards.

He liked to think that he knew a bit about Benjamin Kingdom. After all, how many conversations had they had down the years, sitting in that smoky corner in the Jolly Tar, talking foolishly about books? There was something special about the boy, he could see that, looking back; submerged beneath Ben’s quick mouth and even quicker fingers, there had always been potential. What Moon hadn’t perceived was that this cheeky mudlark would one day hold the balance between the forces of light and dark.

The Uncreated One definitely has a sense of humour, he thought.

In many ways Moon was proud of Ben, although he would never say it to his face. The boy worked hard and never complained about his lot. He found things to enjoy in a life that was full of hardships. He had a spirit of adventure which survived all the knocks along the way.

Perhaps that was what was needed in the Hand of Heaven. A hope that endures; the courage to believe that life can be better.

Shame about that cocky mouth, though.

A sharp jab in the ribs brought Moon back to the present.

“You can walk on your own now, granddad. I’m sick of doing all the work for you,” snarled his escort, taking his supporting arm from around Moon’s shoulders. “But try anything funny and I’ll gut you right here.”

Moon didn’t doubt it. The man who had been bundling him along was over six feet tall, judging by the direction of the voice, and built like a brick privy, based on the heaviness of his foot. He was wearing a thick apron which brushed against his thighs as he walked and smelled very strongly of fish. That, combined with his accent which put him somewhere between Eastcheap and Cannon Street, all confirmed that he worked at Billingsgate Fish Market. If anyone could gut me, Moon thought grimly, this man certainly could.

The fishmonger underestimated him though, and that was a big mistake. No one ever saw a blind man as a threat. Moon chuckled. He hadn’t been bound and gagged. The poor man hadn’t even confiscated his walking cane.

So it was that once he had fully regained consciousness Moon calmly walked himself into prison, tap-tap-tapping his way through the Under. Listening to the flow of the corridors; hearing his way to escape. Although it had always been a reckless plan, he was beginning to think that it might actually work.

It only relied on Ben to do the one thing he was really good at: open his mouth and get himself into trouble. Surely Benjamin Kingdom could manage that!

At the prison door, Jago Moon froze.

The stench that waited for him on the other side was the foulest thing he had ever breathed. The excrement didn’t bother him; everyone who lived near the Thames was used to that smell. Nor was it the waft of rotting meat and damp straw that came out to greet him. Jago Moon halted because the room stank of despair.

The fishmonger placed his broad hand in the middle of Moon’s back and propelled him through. “Enjoy your stay,” he jeered, as Moon stumbled and fell to the floor. Behind him, Moon could hear the sound of a key turning and the fishmonger’s harsh laughter.

The cell had been home to so many prisoners in its time, it was as if their fear had seeped into the brickwork. Suddenly Moon felt alone and very afraid.

Please don’t leave me in here alone for too long, Ben, he prayed.





Although Ben’s head was pounding when he regained consciousness, he was glad that Mickelwhite had stepped in to stop him when he did. He didn’t understand what had come over him on the rooftop and felt ashamed of what he had done; even though Bedlam had started it.

Ben had no idea how long he had blacked out for, but he knew that it must have been most of the day. He had never felt more tired and drained. It wasn’t just the result of his physical exertions either. Ben recognized that something unnatural was taking an appalling toll on his mind and spirit. Something small and round and silver. It was as if he had acquired a leech that was slowly and steadily sucking the life from him, leaving a shell that looked like Ben but was completely hollow on the inside.

As he opened one eye it took him a second to recognize that he was back in the Under again, and that they were all there to “greet” him: Captain Mickelwhite; twitchy Jimmy Dips; Alexander Valentine, looking more sickly than before; Hans Schulman, with his square Germanic shoulders; poor crippled Munro; and, last in line, a puffy-faced John Bedlam. Ruby Johnson was there too, standing behind the others, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

Not one of them looked pleased to see him, Ben thought.

That also probably explained why they were all standing up and he was bound at the wrists and lying on the floor.

While the boys glared at him, Ben noticed that Ruby was steadfastly avoiding catching his eye. She looked uncomfortable and obviously felt ashamed, and Ben was pleased; that was the way that traitors should feel. And yet, there was still a part of him that would have found a crumb of comfort in her emerald gaze.

Ben curled up in agony as a really juicy kick in the belly helped him to come completely to his senses. He looked up to see John Bedlam on the end of that boot, grinning wickedly through fat lips and a black eye.

“You kick a bit like a girl, too,” Ben quipped. Same-old, same-old, he thought: laughing on the outside, hurting on the inside. He tensed his stomach muscles, ready for a second visit from Bedlam’s boot.

But for the second time it was Mickelwhite who was his saviour. “Leave it, John,” he said. “We have been summoned to the sanctuary to give an account of last night’s little excursion.” He made a small sound then to prove that this was his idea of a really witty comment. “I will be very interested to see how our new associate talks his way out of this one.”

So will I, thought Ben, as they led him away.

They came to a halt outside a pair of massive bronze doors. They towered above Ben, four times as tall as he was. Like the door of the armoury, they were covered with images of angels and winged beasts with the heads of birds and lions and bulls. Ben looked closer and then recoiled. These angels were savage. They fought with teeth and claws and swords and spears, and other weapons that he couldn’t name, but which would be just as effective at cutting out your heart. They were not at all like the fat-faced cherubs he had seen at Cowpat Cowper’s Sunday school.

Nor were they like the noble angel who flew with the Watchers.

“When we are inside the sanctuary, nobody speak without my say-so,” said Mickelwhite curtly as he led the way.

For the first time ever, Ben felt like doing exactly as he was told. And yet...

“Blow me down,” he said as he stepped inside. He really did want to hold his tongue but he just couldn’t help himself. The sanctuary of the Legion was an architectural miracle. Every Londoner was so in awe of the work of Sir Christopher Wren and the dome of St Paul’s. If only they could see the work of Alasdair Valentine, thought Ben.

The craftsmen of the Legion had laboured underground to build a cathedral of their own; equal, but opposite. It was filled with a thousand candles: on the floor, in niches, in the walls, on pillars, in sconces. And yet they couldn’t create enough light to fill the inky shadows that encircled them. There was movement in those pools of darkness, Ben realized; shapes that were not quite human, whispers and spiteful laughter.

Everywhere that Ben laid his eyes, he found something to be afraid of. The columns that he had seen in the Egyptian’s workshop were dwarfed by the ones here. Each massive pillar took the form of a man or woman with the head of a beast, their faces evil and cruel, their arms arching forward to support the vaulted roof. And as their hideous splendour drew his eyes up to the domed ceiling, Ben was chilled to the marrow by what he discovered there.

There were...creatures... What else could he call them? Horrible things, that roosted in the eaves, holding tight to the stonework with strange elongated hands and feet, and nails like talons. Their bodies might once have been human, but their heads and wings belonged to a nightmare.

The bird-men, Ben realized with a gasp. No wonder poor Mr. Smutts had been scared half to death.

Mickelwhite brought them to a halt in front of a vast golden throne and then kneeled before it, his head bowed. Ben followed suit, but not before he had taken a good look at who he was bowing to.

Claw Carter sat upon the throne.

Ben knew then that he had been terribly wrong to compare this man to his father. Jonas Kingdom was decent and honest and down to earth. Not full of selfish ambition and vanity like the man seated before him.

How could I ever have wanted to be like Claw Carter? he wondered.

Although his hands were still tied behind his back, Ben could feel the ache of the Legion mark. He wished that he could scrub it off. Perhaps he could put his hand into a fire and burn it away?

He thought of the Coin in his pocket and wanted to be rid of that too.

“I have been informed of your failure,” Claw Carter intoned in a sonorous voice. “I am...disappointed.” Ben guessed that something far worse than a dressing-down was coming their way. “You all know the Legion law...” Ben didn’t, but he couldn’t put his hand up to ask. “You must decide amongst yourselves,” Carter continued. “You must choose which one of you shall carry the punishment, or all face the wrath of the Feathered Men.”

Carter observed them with a sardonic smile: Ruby Johnson buttoned down tight, while the Legion boys shuffled anxiously.

And Benjamin Kingdom, looking on with absolute contempt.

The more chance Carter had to study Ben, the more he could see the possibility that he could be the Hand of Hell. He was an angry boy, strong willed, defiant. Those were all great qualities in a general of the Legion. Provided, of course, that he could be trained to do as he was told. What was the point in having a fighting dog, if it didn’t come to heel when its master snapped his fingers?

If Ben Kingdom could be made to obey him, then Carter would definitely be able to make a place for him in his future plans. And fortunately, two more bargaining chips had fallen into his lap that night. Both were languishing in the cells. Both were men that were dear to Ben Kingdom.

Carter wondered how much pressure he would have to put on his captives before Ben capitulated. Was the boy so pig-headed that one of them would have to die first? One of them knew where the Coin was, that was certain. Just as it was certain that they would hand it over to him in the end, beg him to take it from them. Every man had his breaking point.

In the depths of the dark cathedral of the Legion, at the far end of the long nave, was what Carter considered to be its greatest wonder: the steeple. On the surface, a steeple always stretched upwards, a finger pointing the way to Heaven. Here in the Under, it stretched down towards the centre of the earth. A huge black pit, that even the candlelight could not penetrate, descending through solid rock. Rumours said that there were beings that lived at the bottom that had never seen daylight at all.

What would it take to break Ben Kingdom? thought Carter. Would it be sufficient to dangle him over the edge? Or would he have to be thrown in and left in the darkness for a while?

There was only one way to find out.

Ben said nothing in his own defence. Mickelwhite and Bedlam could hardly wait to point the finger at him and the others fell quickly into line. All except for Ruby, who folded her arms and refused to take part. Instead, Ben took the opportunity to wriggle his wrists free while they were busy settling his fate, letting the rope drop silently to the floor.

The more time he spent with the Legion, the more he recognized that these people were not his friends. He was more alone here than he had ever been in Old Gravel Lane.

His mother’s Bible was still in his pocket and his right hand reached for it then. His heart always ached for her at Christmas. He had known her for one day, and he had missed her every day since. He missed Nathaniel as well, he realized. Looking back, they should never have allowed imaginary walls to be built between them; grief should have brought them together, not pushed them apart.

Ben thought of his father too. His dear, beloved pa.

Stuff the Legion, stuff the Coin! What was he hanging around here for? He had a family to rescue.

“Come on then!” Ben shouted. “You’ve picked me, so let’s get on with it!”

Overhead, one of the Feathered Men shrieked and Ben felt a shiver run the length of his spine as the creature detached itself from its resting place and took to the air. It dived down, its taloned feet reaching out towards him, like a kestrel seizing a hare. The creature screeched as it descended and Ben could see its thin yellow tongue inside the black maw of its mouth.

A moment of panic flooded Ben’s chest and he realized that he hadn’t returned the Coin to its hiding place in his hat. Could the Feathered Man smell it on him? he wondered. Did he stink of Roman silver?

Thinking on his feet, Ben thrust his hand into his pocket and whipped out the battered Bible, holding it out in front of him like a shield. In the stories that he loved, vampires were repelled by garlic and werewolves by the touch of silver; perhaps this might have the same effect on these nightmare creatures? Ben fancied that he saw fear in its cold avian eyes and it shrieked all the louder as it recognized the holy book. The Feathered Man pulled out of its dive at the last instant, but not before it had ripped the Bible from Ben’s fingers and scattered its pages across the floor.

So this is it then, thought Ben. Whichever way he counted them, the odds of getting out alive were just too great. He was trapped beneath the ground, surrounded on all sides. Alone and unarmed.

Mickelwhite was laughing. The Feathered Men were screaming.

Claw Carter was clapping, his hand slapping against his claw in great amusement. “Bravo!” he said. “I like a boy with spirit.”

“Oh really?” said Ben, Carter’s arrogance proving the spur he needed to keep on fighting. “Well you’ll love this then.”

Looking round for inspiration, Ben grabbed one of the metal sconces, ripping off the fat candle to reveal the sharp iron spike beneath. Then, holding it in two hands like a spear, he began to edge his way towards the door.

Carter continued to applaud.

Schulman made a lunge for Ben but only succeeded in colliding with Mickelwhite, sending them both sprawling when Ben jabbed with his makeshift weapon. Valentine tried to work his way behind Ben but, swinging the heavy sconce like a club, Ben brought him down.

Carter snapped his fingers then and made an ugly rasping sound, which the Feathered Men clearly understood to be an order. Ben watched as they responded. Three more Feathered Men dropped down from the roof and began to circle him in the air, like vultures waiting for the moment to fall on their prey. Meanwhile, Bedlam began to close in, grinning manically. Ben spun, managing to keep him out of arm’s reach with the sconce, but he was getting tired and they all knew it.

Without warning, one of the Feathered Men swooped down and grabbed hold of Ben’s weapon with its clawed feet and then, with a single beat of its wings, yanked it out of his grasp, leaving him defenceless. The other two foul creatures didn’t waste their opportunity, diving down and knocking him to the ground, their talons piercing Ben’s flesh as they half-carried, half-dragged him back before the throne.

One of the Feathered Men hopped onto Ben’s chest, punching all the air from his lungs, and pinning his arms to the ground. It studied Ben with its huge eyes; unblinking, unfeeling. It opened its beak and rasped a shrill cry in Ben’s face. It was like looking into the face of a nightmare, thought Ben. Everything that was dark and evil had come to visit him.

The sanctuary fell silent.

“Where were we?” said Carter with fake forgetfulness. “Oh yes, I remember. You have chosen the victim to pay the price for your failure.”

The Feathered Men handed Ben over to Bedlam and Mickelwhite, and they bundled him across the stone floor until he was standing on the edge of a precipice. Although Ben resisted and dug in his heels every inch of the way, there wasn’t much he could do against their kicks and shoves. Bedlam pressed his bruised and swollen face against Ben’s and rasped in his ear: “Got anything clever to say this time, mate?”

Ben’s feet dangled half on and half off the lip of a hole so deep that no light could reach the bottom. The slightest push from behind would send him tumbling. Above his head, the Feathered Men squawked their approval, their shrieks as sharp as a razor’s edge. Ben was right out of witty comebacks.

Carter could see the fear in Ben’s eyes as he gazed into the pit. It was a delicious moment, and Carter savoured it. If Ben Kingdom was to become the Left Hand, then his rebirth was destined to be a painful one; the ancient texts were clear on this. Betrayal, suffering and torment would all be required if Ben was to be stripped of every last shred of goodness that might remain within him. The Left Hand would be a creature governed by hate, bitterness, and spite. This young man, who rolled with the punches and came back smiling, would have to be put to death, and replaced by a new Benjamin Kingdom, who looked at the world with resentment, not excitement.

Carter allowed his own eyes to explore the depths of the pit and he shuddered. There was no question that Ben would come out a different man.

Carter glanced at his pocket watch. “It is now almost eleven,” he declared. “We shall meet again at midnight and make good this act of contrition by casting your sacrificial offering into the pit.”

That would be me then, thought Ben soberly.

He gazed down into the endless black until he began to feel dizzy. Was it his imagination or could he hear scurrying and whispering in the depths?

Apparently, when the clock struck twelve he would be finding out.