Town’s door was open.
“Don’t come in,” called Stephen from within as Crane strode up. “He’s long gone. I’m trying to ascertain where. Not very good at it, I need Esther’s nose. Can you stay outside? You play hob with everything.”
That, discretion aside, meant that Stephen was interrogating the ether for traces of Town. He had occasionally mentioned that Crane’s etheric presence was extremely strong, pulling the imperceptible currents towards him. Yu Len, a Chinese shaman, had always said Crane had powerful ch’i, but it had never actually caused a problem before.
Feeling that he’d done enough damage for one day, Crane retreated obediently outside and stood, waiting, estimating how long it would take the other justiciars to arrive, wondering what they would do with Leonora. What he really wanted to think about was whether Stephen would agree to move his home to Crane’s rooms in the Strand, but under the circumstances that felt like tempting fate.
He was staring out into the road when a cab pulled up further down and Monk Humphris got out.
Monk seemed fretful and worried, as he had for weeks. He marched up towards Town’s lodgings, brows close. Crane lifted a hand in greeting, and, since that failed to catch the man’s eye, called, “Hoi, Monk!”
Monk looked up and saw him. His whole face changed to a mask of horror as he registered Crane outside Town’s building. Then he turned and fled down the street.
Crane was after him before he had time to think. It wasn’t a rational decision. He saw the running man, and he chased, his mind catching up with his body as he ran.
This was probably stupid. Probably pointless. But Stephen could follow him if he had to, and better he should chase down Monk and find him irrelevant than let another lead go.
And it wasn’t pointless. Why would Monk run if he didn’t have to? The heat thundered on the back of Crane’s neck and beat down on his light grey suit, rapidly getting sweat-soaked. Merrick would murder him. Stephen had told him, long ago, “no Savile Row” when they faced running for their lives; as his expensive shoes slithered on the paving stones, he recalled the truth of that.
Monk was tiring now, shoulders heaving, steps slowing. He cornered desperately into an alley. Crane put on a burst of speed, long legs giving him an advantage as ever, swung round the corner, hurdled a pile of rubbish that Monk had knocked across the way, and grabbed the man by his shoulder.
Monk, gasping, turned. He was trying to fight but he looked exhausted.
“Pack it in,” Crane panted. “What the hell, Monk?”
“Go away,” Monk managed, between heaving breaths. “In God’s name, go, man. Run. Run!”
“Why?”
Monk stared at him, wide eyed. He took a single sucking breath. Then his pupils contracted, vanishing to pinpoints, so that his eyes were blank and staring. Something dreadful, fear and pain, swept across his face and vanished, leaving only a featureless acceptance. He focused his unseeing gaze on Crane, and hissed, “Shaman.”
“What?” said Crane. “I’m not.”
“Shaman,” repeated Monk, sniffing, his nose wriggling with hideous mobility, greed blossoming in his dead eyes.
“No.” Crane took a step back, wanting to run, suddenly realising what a bad mistake this had been. “Monk?”
“Power.” Monk spoke in Shanghainese. “Strength and joy and ch’i. So much. Yes, this will do.”
He reached out a clawed hand. Crane took another step back, then finally obeyed his screaming instincts, turned, and bolted, right into Town Cryer, who grabbed him by the arm.
“You stupid bloody fool,” said Town, and everything went black.
Chapter Fifteen
Crane blinked back to consciousness because of the pain, and wished he hadn’t.
His arms hurt like hell, his shoulders shrieking. This was, he realised, because his wrists were tied to the wall behind him, arms high and wide, crucifixion-style. His unsupported body had lolled forward so that all thirteen stone hung off his shoulder muscles, and his arms were bending backwards.
His ankles were tied, but he got his feet under him, straightened till they took his weight, and felt the agonising fire in his shoulders damp to a mere inferno.
He was in some kind of cavern. A cellar? It was cool, dark, earthy-smelling. A lantern sat on the earth floor and illuminated whitewashed but rough and grubby walls. There was a sturdy table placed in front of him, and on the far side of the room was a door made of dark wood, reinforced with a thick wooden bar that sat across the frame.
Monk was walking around the cellar, muttering, but it wasn’t Monk. Crane didn’t need a practitioner to tell him that. The jerky movement, the hideous facial twitching, the light in the blank eyes, none of those belonged to the body being jerked around like an ungainly puppet.
Is there someone in there?
Town was squatting against the wall, Chinese style, face in hands.