Twincy Quinn and the Eye of Horus Part One (5 page)

The pipe
tumbled from their hand and struck the cobbles.

An old man
with a grey beard, he stuttered, and took a jerky step forward.

Realising I
had done something unbelievably stupid by jumping off a roof,
landing, and cracking some cobbles right in front of a witness, I
didn't wait.

Twisting on my
heel, I ducked to my left and ran full tilt.

Realising I had to get out of here as quickly as I could, I
sprinted off down a second alleyway. In my moment of indiscretion,
I hadn’t bothered to check this alleyway to ensure there was an
easy way to get back up onto the roof. And as I sprinted forward
now, turning my head frantically to the left and right, I noticed
the walls were all but smooth. Though I could employ a system
somewhat like the
suitables
and clamber up the walls with nothing but the
magnetism of the bones within my hands, to do so would raise the
suspicions of the man behind me until he would doubtless fall over
from a heart attack. Young women, no matter how dirty and covered
in mud, did not walk up walls with their bare hands.

Plus, the move
was costly. I did not have adhesive pads on my skin, and I doubted
there would be enough metal embedded within the walls of the brick
either side of me to muster enough magnetism to let me walk up
them. No, my only option was to run away. Fast. Which was something
I was exceedingly good at.

Though I could
not appreciate it at the time, I should have been careful where I
was running. Still, not thinking, I lurched forward, heading as far
away from the man as I could manage.

Reaching the
end of the alleyway, I grabbed the side of the wall, turned around
it, and intended to streak off down the street until I could make
my way up onto the safety of the roofs again.

I didn't get
the chance.

Coming
slamming around the corner of the alleyway as fast as I could, I
hit somebody. To their credit, they did not immediately fall over,
thud onto the cobbles, and break their back. I, after all, was
stronger than your average dirty street urchin. I was also
incredibly solid. The devices the doctor had grafted onto my bones
gave me immeasurable resilience.

Yet the man I
had struck did not fall. He certainly stumbled though. A wide-eyed
look of surprise on his face, he took several steps back.

Then he took a
sharp one forward.

His eyes
narrowed. Yet for a second, a fleeting, far-too-quick second, I
fancied they flickered with concern.

Then they
narrowed again in suspicion. ‘What is going on here?’ He growled.
He had a deep, low, baritone voice, and the accent embedded in it
suggested he came from the far North. With the thick brogue of a
Scotsman, it made his voice rumble all the more.

Tall and
handsome by modern standards, he had a well-kept sandy brown
moustache, startlingly pale brown eyes, and a thick jaw. He was in
a sturdy jacket, and visible below were well-pressed pants and
well-shined shoes.

In other
words, he didn't belong in this section of town. He was too clean,
too smart, and from the look in his eyes, it was clear he knew
that.

He took a
sharp step forward.

It broke me
out of whatever reverie I had entered, and I turned on my foot, my
black hair furling out behind me like a cape in the wind.

‘
Stop,’ he roared, his voice ringing out sharply with
authority.

I didn't
stop.

I pushed
myself across the street. Slow at first, I soon reached a sprint,
not bothering to pick up my skirt. Just concentrating on getting
away.

I made it over
to the other end of the street, then turned down an alleyway that
was usually abandoned. Today it wasn't. Cursing to myself under my
breath, I simultaneously scanned the four or five men milling
around and looked for a way up.

However he was
hot on my heels. The man with the pale brown eyes was right behind
me. For whatever reason, he was following, and unfortunately he was
fast. I could hear his measured, controlled breath coming out in
pants. I could also hear the sound of his footfall, neat and even,
his steps were quick and his movements snapped.

‘
Stop her,’ he said again.

Yet this time
he had added one little word. Her.

As I had
passed the men milling about in the alleyway, I had assessed them
all. It was a habit. A skill Doctor Esquire had taught me. I
instinctively knew how much they weighed, how tall they were, if
they had any weaknesses in the way they moved and would therefore
fight. If it came to it, I could dispatch them easily, quietly, and
without getting up a sweat.

The method
behind my design.

As the man
behind me bellowed out, the men turned.

There were
still two in front of me, and they now lurched forward.

I did not have
time for this. As one made a grab for me, I pirouetted lightly on
my feet, jumping past him in an elegant move that saw my skirts
flare. I also turned, just as I landed, lifting up my heel, my leg
appearing from under the volume of my skirt, and I kicked at a
rubbish bin. The lid scooted off, clanging against the wall, and
the bin itself fell over, the contents quickly piling up over the
road.

I didn't
stop.

Somebody said
something, another man grunted, and yet another one lunged my
way.

‘
Stop her,’ the man with the pale eyes and the Scottish brogue
hollered again.

It was a
testament to this city that he was after me. He did not know me. I
had never clapped eyes on him before. Yet he had seen me sprint
from an alleyway, run from him, and he took that as sufficient
reason to pursue me.

If he caught
me, he would take me kicking and screaming to the police. It didn't
matter that I had committed no crime, I knew what he would do. One
look into those pale eyes had told me all I needed to know of the
man. Well-to-do, a toff, I offended him by merely existing.

‘
Stop her,’ he yelled again.

No matter how
loud he shouted, and no matter how often he compelled the men
around to catch me, it wasn't going to work. As another one put on
a burst of speed, his broad shoulders pumping from underneath his
simple white, hand woven cotton shirt, I planted a foot into the
wall, used it as traction, and forced myself into a dive roll over
yet another bin. This section of town was littered with them,
because this section of town was littered with trash, both of the
non-corporeal and corporeal kind.

I had to ditch
these men as soon as I could, I had to get away from old pale eyes
back there, and I had to get back to the true focus of my
mission.

Leaping up
from my roll, I realised there was a recess in the wall several
feet in front of me. There was an open door just inside. I could
see a warm glow cascading out.

I had to make
a quick decision. Unfortunately there didn't appear to be any safe
way onto the roof. Yet if I made my way up through the building, I
could eventually make it to a window, open it, clamber out, and
from there haul myself up to my sanctum—the roofs.

But for all I
knew, the door would lead to a pub chock full of angry, drunk men,
just itching for the chance to chase around a poor bedraggled
woman.

Decision
time.

Doing just as
Doctor Esquire had taught me, I quickly weighed up every variable I
could assess. From the speed and the exact build of the men behind
me, to the sounds filtering out from the open door.

I took a
single second. Then I whirled on my foot and angled towards the
door.

I did not,
however, run through it. I was not that stupid. Instead I ducked
forward, thrust out a hand, and slammed the door closed.

There was
precious little light filtering into this alleyway, and I had just
cut it by half. While I had no problem with my night vision, and
could see fine even at the darkest hour, the men behind me were not
the same.

I heard one
stumble.

Twisting
forward, keeping low to the ground at first, I now pushed into an
intense sprint. Fast. As fast as my heels could carry me without my
boots falling apart.

Somebody said
something. Somebody gasped. I paid no attention to it. Now that I
had reduced the light in the alleyway, I was confident they would
not be able to see me properly, and if they could not see me well,
their minds could start playing tricks on them. Or at least that
would be what they thought as I finally found a windowsill low
enough to grab hold of and to clamber up. It was on the corner of
the building, and without thinking of it, I lurched to the side,
scrabbled around the edge of the building and latched hold of a
handy piece of jutting metal. Desperation pounding in my ears, I
flipped up, hooked my arm onto the gutter, and finally pulled
myself up and out of sight.

This time I
did not pause. I did not lean over the side of the building to
stare down at the men as they searched around in confusion. I did
not stop because I would likely not like what I would see.

Though I had
barely clapped eyes on the man, old pale eyes appeared smart. Canny
even. And as I now ran forward over the rooftop, his image haunted
my mind. So did his shout.

For it still
rang out. In that thick, unmistakable brogue, he bellowed at the
cramped alleyway: ‘where did she go? Did you see her? Where did she
go?’

I indulged in
a smile. He could shout all he wanted, but he would not find me. I
was above him, where I would stay. He may be wealthy, he may be
well to do, he may be dressed in the finest shoes and jacket, yet I
was still above him.

I turned
sharply on my heel and made it to the side of the building, leaping
confidently over to the next gutter, pulling myself up without a
breath, rolling to my feet and continuing my sprint.

As I ran into
the darkness, the flickering lights still below, my brow crumpled
itself in bitter disappointment. It reached into my gut, like a
tight fist curling around my stomach.

I had lost the
child.

I had run out
of time. Though I half closed my eyes and searched out with my
mind, pressing the special senses Doctor Esquire had given me into
the task, it was for nought. I could pick up nothing. No technology
whispered in my mind, other than that which was grafted within my
own body.

Yet I did not
stop running. I made it off the roofs, and onto the wide road I
knew the suitable would have taken. There was still a trace of it.
Like a tantalising scent being pushed along by the breeze, the city
around me hinted at the suitable's presence. Yet that hint was
rapidly disappearing.

I had failed.
Distractions or not, drunkards and men with pale brown eyes aside,
I had failed to reach the child.

Now that child
would be Doctor Esquire's.

Yet I would
not give up. Though the chances were slim, I would hunt out that
suitable. I would follow the vestige of its technology, I owed this
city, the child, and myself that much.

Slowing into a
dignified, sensible walk that would not bring undue suspicion, I
strolled past the horses and carts, feeling strangely stilled by
the vibrations of their wheels and shoes as they picked up through
my feet and legs. Narrowing my eyes, I focused in on the street. I
followed it. I would continue to follow it all night.

For I would
not give up. I, Twincy Quinn, was not built to surrender.

Michael F.
Stanford

I paused for a
brief moment on the doorstep, letting my eyes flutter half closed.
I even pressed my thumb and forefinger into them, pushing down
lightly until I saw the beginning of stars.

Then I took a
step forward. I had polished my shoes that morning, as I did every
morning, and as I walked over the threshold of the house, the sun
streaming in behind me glinted across the shiny, black leather.

I cleared my
throat. A habit of mine. I also reached my hands behind me,
clutching them as I straightened up with a nod. I was facing a man,
probably in his mid-40s, with an ashen, deadened look to his
face.

‘
Detective Inspector,’ the man said as he barely glanced my
way. His gaze was fixed on some section of the carpet several
inches away from my right shoe.

I cleared my
throat. Again. Something I did when I was nervous or just plain put
out. ‘It’s just Detective, actually.’

The man gave a
bare nod. ‘You have leave of my house. If you need to ask me any
questions, I will be in the drawing room.’

No doubt with
a sherry glass in his hand, I concluded from the scent of alcohol
which wafted after his words.

Who could
blame the man? Last night, if reports were correct, he had returned
home from an evening with his wife, only to find his governess
unconscious from an expert blow to the back of the head and his
young daughter gone.

I cleared my
throat. Yet again. It was a nervous tic of mine that I really had
to get under control. Offering the man a low, careful nod, I turned
on my foot and headed for the stairs. ‘I may have some questions
for you later.’

When I reached
the stairs, I placed a hand on the banister as I walked up them. I
let the reassuring sound of my footfall against the plush carpet
and wood distract me.

Another
kidnapping. I had gone to sleep last night after a pleasant dinner
with Elizabeth Stanton, only to be woken up at 4 AM sharp with a
summons to the Yard.

A summons to
this. The 33rd kidnapping in several months.

Placing a hand
on my jaw, running my knuckles over my smooth, and freshly shaven
chin, I locked my eyes on the intricate floral pattern on the
carpet as I ascended all the way to the third floor.