Ghosts of War E-Book

George Mann

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 455

Beschreibung

New York City is being plagued by a pack of ferocious brass raptors attacking people and carrying them away into the night. The originator of these skeleton-like creations is a deranged military scientist, who is also part of a plot to escalate the cold war with Britain into a full-blown conflict. He is building a weapon - a weapon that will fracture dimensional space and allow the monstrous creatures that live on the other side to spill through -and only the Ghost and his unlikely allies can stop him.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also by George Mann

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Free Sample of A Tale of the Ghost by George Mann

About the Author

Also Available from Titan Books

ALSO BY GEORGE MANN AND AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

THE GHOST

Ghosts of Manhattan

Ghosts of Karnak (October 2015)

Ghosts of Empire (October 2016)

NEWBURY & HOBBES

Newbury & Hobbes: The Affinity Bridge (May 2015)

Newbury & Hobbes: The Osiris Ritual (June 2015)

Newbury & Hobbes: The Immorality Engine (July 2015)

Newbury & Hobbes: The Executioner’s Heart (Available)

Newbury & Hobbes: The Revenant Express (August 2015)

Newbury & Hobbes: The Albion Initiative (August 2016)

The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes

SHERLOCK HOLMES

Sherlock Holmes: The Will of the Dead

Sherlock Holmes: The Spirit Box

Encounters of Sherlock Holmes

Further Encounters of Sherlock Holmes

GHOSTS OF WAR

Print edition ISBN: 9781783294145

E-book edition ISBN: 9781783294152

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: March 2015

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

George Mann asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Copyright © 2011, 2015 George Mann

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

What did you think of this book? We love to hear from our readers. Please email us at: [email protected], or write to us at the above address.

To receive advance information, news, competitions, and exclusive offers online, please sign up for the Titan newsletter on our website:

WWW.TITANBOOKS.COM

For Cavan Scott,a different kind of superhero

PROLOGUE

MANHATTAN GLOBE JANUARY 6, 1927

TERROR FROM THE SKIES

As the rate of disappearances increases to epidemic proportions, New Yorkers look to the skies in fear

“Stay indoors” is the advice from the police department, as the recent spate of missing persons reaches an all-time high. There are now over fifty reported disappearances on Manhattan Island, spanning the entire festive season, and this reporter has been told that the police department is in a state of panic and has already run out of leads.

It is understood that each of the missing people disappeared in what is thought to be identical circumstances—whilst walking the streets of the city—and eyewitness accounts refer to “terrible flying creatures” that pluck their victims indiscriminately from the sidewalk, dragging them away into the sky, never to be seen or heard from again.

These creatures are said to resemble human skeletons with “batlike” wings and glowing red eyes. They swoop silently out from the shadows to abduct the good people of New York and carry them away for nefarious purposes that are not yet clear.

Commissioner Montague, in his statement yesterday, assured people that the police were doing everything they could to discover who was behind the abductions and warned citizens to “stay indoors unless absolutely necessary” until the matter was resolved.

This, however, offers little comfort to the families of the fifty missing people, of whom nothing whatsoever has been heard since their abductions. There have been no ransom notes, no demands, and no bodies. Mothers, fathers, husbands and wives all over the city are holding constant vigil in the hope that news will come soon and that their loved ones will be returned to them safely.

Profilers report that there are no obvious connections between the victims—they appear to have been selected entirely at random, plucked from obscurity, representing all different walks of life. Neither is there an obvious pattern to the locations of the abductions, which have taken place at points all over the city, from Central Park to Hell’s Kitchen, from the Battery to Union Square.

The people of New York are therefore advised to take the Commissioner’s advice and remain in the safety of their homes, especially after nightfall.

It seems that in Manhattan this winter, nowhere, and nobody, is safe.

ONE

He was falling.

Tumbling out of the sky, his arms wheeling as the air rushed past him, his black trench coat billowing open around him like a single black wing.

He gasped for breath, but his lungs failed to respond: the blow that had sent him careening over the lip of the building had knocked the wind out of him, causing his stomach muscles to spasm and leaving him struggling to breathe. His heart was thrumming like a beating drum, pounding in his ears, drowning out the sound of everything else: the roar of the biplanes that soared through the sky on spikes of yellow flame, the coal-powered cars that hissed and sighed as they barreled down the avenues, the chattering of the bizarre mechanical things that had sent him spiraling toward his death. It was as if he had been cocooned inside a bubble, as if the rest of the world had been shut out and all that was left was him and the rush of the sidewalk that was coming up to meet him. Falling had become everything. There was nothing else.

He blinked. Raindrops sparkled in bright flashes of neon light, glimpsed in flickering snapshots as he tumbled over and over, hurtling toward the sidewalk below. He felt unconsciousness tugging at him, threatening to overwhelm him. Blackness swam at the edges of his vision. If he allowed himself to give in to it, to welcome its embrace, then everything would be over. It would only take a second.

For a moment, the Ghost thought that might not be such a bad idea. These days, he didn’t have much to live for, save for the anger—that constant, burning fire in the pit of his stomach—and he wondered whether it might not be better to allow that fire to burn itself out. Better for everyone. Better for him. To surrender to it would be easy.

The Ghost felt the needles of rain lashing his face, felt it sting his eyes, wished it could somehow cleanse him of the things he had seen and done. He wanted it to be over. He wanted peace.

Then, suddenly, his lungs were working again and he was sucking at the air, dragging at it in grateful gulps. The sounds of the city permeated his bubble. He had only seconds left in which to act. He moved almost mechanically, his instincts taking over. There were people up there who needed him. He had that much to live for, at least.

The Ghost, still tumbling and spinning as he fell, reached inside the lapel of his trench coat and fought to disentangle a thin cord from among the buckles and straps of his black jacket. He yanked it hard and felt his entire body jerk as the twin canisters strapped to his calves ignited with plumes of bright orange flame and he was propelled sideways into the building.

He slammed against the wall, striking his right elbow hard while cushioning his face in the crook of his arm. He called out in pain—a short, sharp wail—and then forced himself to ignore it, to bury it until later. He rebounded, continuing his plummet toward the ground, arcing away from the building on a streak of flame as his rocket boosters propelled him through the air at a tremendous speed. He was only twenty feet from the ground. If he got the next move wrong, all he’d have succeeded in doing was hastening his own demise.

Mustering all of the strength that he had left, the Ghost angled his body, twisting in midair, forcing his legs down and around so that he was upright once again. He bucked and flailed as the upward momentum of the rocket canisters fought against the momentum of the fall. He slowed in midair, almost lost his balance, and then he was streaming upward again, riding on twin spikes of flames as he shot through the sky toward the two raptors who had forced him off the roof.

He looked up and saw nothing but scintillating raindrops and the top of the building, silhouetted against the moonlit sky. In the distance, the searchlights of numerous police dirigibles played back and forth across the rooftops, monitoring the streets, vigilant for any sign of the brass monsters. As usual, they were too slow and ponderous, and had failed to spot the twin raptors that had descended on Fifth Avenue to pluck two unwary citizens from the street.

The Ghost had been there, however, watching from his favorite vantage point atop his own apartment building, and had opened fire on the mechanical creatures as soon as he’d been able to get a clear shot—the result of which meant he had ended up being knocked over the side of the building during the ensuing tussle as the creatures descended on him, their talons bared.

He only hoped he wasn’t too late. He’d been trying to follow one of the things back to its lair for weeks, but they were simply too fast, and he had yet to discern any obvious weakness. Not only that, but there were also the abductees to consider. If he could prevent the raptors from getting away with two more innocent people, he had no choice but to stand his ground.

The Ghost had lost his hat in the fall, and the rain plastered his sand-colored hair across his face. His goggles were pushed up on his forehead, and he reached up and pulled them down sharply over his eyes, welcoming the protection they offered from the rain and the definition provided by their night vision.

As he came up over the lip of the building he caught sight of one of the civilians, squirming in the grip of a raptor’s talons as it lifted her off the roof once again and pitched forward into the air. The other was nowhere to be seen.

The Ghost leaned into the gusting rain and shot across the rooftop, slewing around a pyramidal skylight to careen into the back of the raptor.

The mechanical creature screeched in fury as it was bowled forward, nearly dropping the woman as it freed one of its talons and twisted around, trying to rake at the Ghost furiously as he grabbed hold of two of its brass ribs and held on with all his might, trying to force the thing back down onto the rooftop. The woman screamed and held on to the raptor’s other talon with both hands, dangling over a hundred-foot drop to the street below.

The raptor beat its batlike wings, trying to shake off the vigilante, who held on despite the claws that raked at his face or scrabbled at his forearms, trying desperately to pry him free.

This was the closest he had come to one of the things, and he was at once appalled and amazed by the artifice on display. It was about the size of a large man, vaguely humanoid in appearance, but with a skeleton constructed out of gleaming brass components. Two large cylinders sprouted from its shoulders, housing spinning propellers—the engines that enabled it to fly. The wings were like those of an enormous bat: taut pink flesh stretched over elegant fingers of brass; there, he supposed, to guide its flight. Its head was a brass skull, reminiscent of that of a large cat, with long, jagged fangs and an absent lower jaw. Somewhere in its belly the power unit hummed and crackled with a powerful electric charge.

Most disturbing of all, however, were the pentagrams and weird occult symbols daubed on its chest plate, which appeared to house a small cavity hidden behind an ornate brass door, and the fragments of what looked like human bone incorporated into its skeletal frame. Its eyes burned a demonic red, as if signifying a fierce intelligence.

The Ghost had no idea where the things had come from, but they had been terrorizing the city for weeks, if not longer. For the last two months people had been reporting dead birds found all over the city, pigeons and gulls shredded midflight, dropping to the pavement like gruesome, feathery bombs. The raptors, the Ghost had discovered, were the cause of it. The birds were being chewed up by the raptor’s propellers, sucked in by the back draft and spat out again as the brass monsters soared through the sky above the city streets. As yet he had no idea of the creatures’ purpose, their numbers, or their origin, nor the reason why they continued to abduct seemingly random members of the populace, but he intended to find out.

The raptor’s talon flashed as it struck out at the Ghost, catching him fully in the chest and forcing him back, straining against his hold. Grimacing as the sharp brass claws punctured the fabric of his jacket, burying themselves in his breast, the Ghost released his grasp on the ribs and clutched for the talon instead, swinging his legs up and round so that the angle of his booster jets was countering the pull of the raptor’s engines.

The three figures drifted almost lazily across the rooftop, twisting and turning as the Ghost and the raptor fought for dominance. The creature emitted a chattering howl as it battered the Ghost’s head and arms, scratching and pulling, trying frantically to get away. Below, dangling from the raptor’s other leg, the woman continued to scream in terror.

The Ghost knew the ammunition from his fléchette gun—the projectile weapon he had strapped beneath his right arm on a ratchet—would do nothing to harm the brass creature. Even the explosive rounds he had developed to combat the lumbering moss golems of the Roman would bounce off its metal frame, finding little or no purchase. But he needed to find a way to slow it down.

The raptor beat its wings again, the barbed metal tips and fleshy membranes striking the Ghost full in the face, disorientating him as he hung upside down clutching the raptor’s clawed foot. But it gave him an idea.

Straining to twist himself around, the Ghost released his right arm and flicked his wrist sharply, causing the long steel barrel of the fléchette gun to snap up and around on its ratchet, clicking into place along the length of his forearm. The rubber bulb that served as a pneumatic trigger dropped into his palm. He paused for a moment, took aim, and fired.

A hail of tiny metal blades scattered from the end of the barrel, showering the raptor and causing it to reel, confused by the suddenness of the attack. The blades bounced harmlessly off its metal face and chest, just as the Ghost had anticipated, but where they struck the fleshy membrane of the raptor’s left wing they tore through, opening large rents and causing the mechanical beast to wail in frustration.

Together, the three figures began to spin wildly out of control as the raptor’s wing flapped uselessly at the air, unable to maintain the status quo any longer. It screeched and scrabbled, and then, as if realizing it needed to lose some ballast to remain airborne, casually tossed the woman away as if shedding a dead weight.

Horrified, the Ghost watched her tumble away across the rooftop like a discarded rag doll, striking the paving slabs and rolling, unable to slow herself as she bounced over the low lip of the roofline and went sliding over the edge. The Ghost heard her cry out and strained to see as the raptor spun around crazily in the air, then realized with some relief that she had managed to catch hold of a flagpole and was dangling over the side of the building. Beneath her was a hundred-foot drop, and the rain, still lashing them in a relentless torrent, made it harder to hold on. He didn’t have long before she’d be dashed on the sidewalk below, but there was still time to save her.

Cursing loudly, the Ghost released his grip on the raptor’s leg and peeled away from the creature, bleeding profusely from the scores of scratches that marred his face and arms. Righting himself, he pulled the cord inside his trench coat to cut the fuel line, and the flames at his ankles guttered and died. He dropped quickly to the rooftop, hitting the slabs on his side and rolling to a stop about ten feet away from the baying raptor. The creature landed softly on its clawed feet and cocked its head, regarding him as if trying to work out his next move.

The Ghost cursed again and climbed quickly to his feet. This was his best chance. The thing was damaged, its wing a mess of brass spines and ragged flesh. That would slow it down, and if he followed it now it might lead him to its lair. If he could find out where the things were nesting, who was controlling them, and why, he could save innumerable lives. Perhaps even the lives of those already taken, if they weren’t already dead.

That would mean sacrificing the woman, though, and even though the odds were against her, even though it meant other people might have to die, the Ghost couldn’t simply leave her to fall. He’d never be able to live with himself if he abandoned her there, dangling from the flagpole, preparing to tumble to her death.

Refusing to take his eyes off the raptor, he backed up toward the lip of the building. He saw the creature start forward, as if it were intending to follow him, and for a moment he thought his luck might be in, that it might rush him across the rooftop, leaving him enough time to haul the woman to safety before continuing the fight. But he realized with dismay that it was trying only to get enough momentum to launch itself into the air. It staggered forward, skipped lightly over the flagstones and then came down again. Then, on its second attempt, it got itself airborne once more and dropped over the side of the building, banking sharply as it soared away into the rain-soaked night.

Sighing, the Ghost turned to the woman, whose upturned face was stark and white and scared, gleaming in the silvery moonlight. She was clutching the flagpole with both hands, but he could see that her arms were already growing tired with the strain, her fingers beginning to slip on the wet metal pole.

The Ghost dropped to his knees, bowing his head against the rain so that it sprayed off his upturned collar, and reached down over the side of the building, grabbing the woman by the arms. He hauled her up, slowly and carefully, without saying a word.

She was as light as a feather—thin and pretty—and he could see how absolutely terrified she was by the ordeal. He pulled her over the lip of the building and dragged her to safety.

Then, kneeling on the rooftop in the driving rain, he allowed her to wrap her arms around him and clutch him tight, sobbing on his shoulder as she trembled with fear and relief. She felt as fragile as a bird as he wrapped his arms around her to protect her from the storm.

“Who are you?” she whispered, after a few moments. She looked up at him, studying his face for any clues. Her mascara had run in the rain, streaking her face with tributaries of black ink.

He turned his head, searching the sky for any sign of the raptor. He was too late. It was gone.

“I’m no one,” he replied, his voice low. “No one but a ghost.”

TWO

The blows were coming fast and hard.

Gabriel Cross ducked and sidestepped, blocked and returned. He caught his opponent, Jimmy Carmichael, with a swift jab to the chin; but he failed to get enough power behind it, and it glanced harmlessly off the man’s iron jaw.

After his exploits on the rooftop the previous evening, Gabriel was in no fit state for a boxing match, and too many of his opponent’s punches were striking home. His elbow was excruciating where he’d slammed into the side of the building, and his chest wounds kept opening every time he flexed or punched. It felt as if someone were digging hot daggers into his flesh. He’d been forced to wear a vest to hide the brace of bandages he’d had to wrap around his chest to stanch the seeping blood from the wounds.

Then, of course, there was the webwork of scratches and gouges on his face, which he’d had a harder time explaining away to everyone, from his butler Henry to Jimmy and the others at the gym. In the end, he’d fabricated a story about a mugger who’d pushed his face into a wire fence, but he could tell that none of them had bought it in the slightest.

He was beginning to get a reputation as a brawler, he knew, and he understood that many of his acquaintances thought he had developed a penchant for barroom scrapping. It could have been worse, he supposed, and at least it provided him with an explanation for his long absences. He’d heard them muttering at his parties, whispering to one another in scandalized tones that their host, a bored playboy and former soldier, had developed a taste for speakeasies, for getting roaringly drunk and starting fights. It wasn’t the most salubrious of reputations, but better that than the truth.

Of course, upon hearing his story Henry had insisted he talk to the police, and so Gabriel had been forced to call his friend at the precinct, Inspector Felix Donovan, to arrange a meeting. The fact that he really did want to speak with Donovan regarding the matter was by the by—the web of lies he’d been forced to weave was as extensive as the web of scars on his unshaven face. At least Donovan knew the truth about his alter ego, and with him Gabriel would be able to speak openly and frankly.

Gabriel had decided it was time for them to compare notes. His investigations into the raptor abductions were getting him nowhere fast, and while he knew the police were even further behind, there could be something—anything—that he had missed.

Donovan, of course, was as anxious as Gabriel to bring things to a swift conclusion, and had readily agreed to meet, but had put him off until that evening, saying the Commissioner was hauling him in on an urgent matter that afternoon. He hadn’t alluded to the nature of the emergency, but Gabriel suspected it was also to do with the raptor abductions.

The newspapers had been going to town in recent weeks, and the Commissioner had been forced to issue a statement declaring his intention to take a personal interest in the case, trying to win back public confidence in the police department. The newspapers continued to erode that confidence, however, and the numbers spoke for themselves—fifty people reported missing since the start of the festive season, and many more, Gabriel suspected, who hadn’t even been noticed yet. Homeless people, waifs, strays, people who hadn’t yet returned from their holidays, tourists and foreigners—just some of the people who might not have been noticed as missing. He suspected the number was at least double that being reported in the press, and he knew Donovan thought the same.

For a while the police had been able to keep a lid on the affair, playing down the near-identical circumstances in which the victims had been abducted. Soon, though, eyewitness reports began to filter out regarding the raptors, and it was clear the police and politicians were not going to be able to keep the matter buried for long. All the while they were waiting for the perpetrator to make his demands, or for one of the many pressure groups of terrorist regimes to assume responsibility for the kidnappings. No one had come forward, however, and all the attempts to talk to those who might be responsible had been met by a wall of silence. Even now, appealing to the people of the city through the media, no one had come forward, and the police were just as in the dark as Gabriel as to who—or what—was responsible.

Of course, given the current political climate, it hadn’t been long before extremists were publishing pamphlets blaming the British, denouncing them as murderers who came in the night to steal away your loved ones. Gabriel knew this was only so much garbage, but was surprised by the strength of feeling and support that had swelled among the population of the city. There had been rallies calling for the president to declare war on the British Empire, with those desperate people who had lost their loved ones to the raptors held up as figureheads and martyrs for the cause. Anxious to feel like they were doing something to bring their missing loved ones back, many of them had been swept up in the waves of anti-British feeling, adding their names to the petitions and the calls for action.

The president, of course, was avoiding the issue, and Gabriel suspected he saw the demonstrations for what they really were—the last attempt by a scared population to rationalize what was happening to them, to find an enemy they could blame for the abduction of the people they loved.

The sooner the real power behind the threat was uncovered, the better.

Gabriel ducked left to avoid a swinging fist, but misread the feint and took a glancing blow to the face from Carmichael’s other fist. He staggered back, shaking his head from side to side in an attempt to clear the dancing lights before his eyes. Carmichael wasn’t waiting for him, however, and came on again, striking him twice more before Gabriel was able to get his arms up in defense and the referee stepped in to break them up.

Gabriel flexed his neck and shoulder muscles. He was desperate for a cigarette. He looked up to see Jimmy smiling at him from across the ring, leaning on the ropes, catching his breath. He was clearly enjoying himself. Rather too much, Gabriel thought, wryly.

The gym was a downtown establishment, out of the way, a place where he could escape without fear of being accosted by the press or harangued by any of his usual gang of followers. He’d been spending more and more time there of late, and he wondered for a moment if there was actually some glimmer of truth in all the rumors—if he had, indeed, developed a taste for brawling. Just not in the sense that people thought. He much preferred his brawling to be refereed, with padded gloves.

Nevertheless, he’d certainly been spending less and less time at his Long Island mansion, where the scent of Celeste still clung resolutely to the bedclothes, and where the memories were still all too raw.

In the darkness, when he closed his eyes, unable to sleep and unwilling to drink himself into another stupor, he could still see her there at the house. He remembered the feel of her lithe, sensuous body curled around him with her feline grace; the sight of her auburn hair a bright splash on the stark white pillow; the touch of her red, full lips as she leaned in and gently kissed his neck. He was haunted by her memory, unable to shake her from his dreams.

Sometimes he sat listlessly in the drawing room and played the holograph recorder on a constant loop, watching her flickering blue image as she swayed her hips on the stage at the Sensation Club, listening as she softly sang her lament for lost love.

Gabriel didn’t know what to feel anymore. He didn’t feel anything. He was numb. The only thing that came close to sensation was the beating of another man’s fists against his face, or the rending of a raptor’s claws, or falling…

A bell rang out, and the referee motioned them both forward.

Gabriel was feeling tired now, weary to the bones. He hadn’t slept last night after he’d escorted the woman home. He’d left her with Donovan’s name and told her to call the precinct in the morning. He’d check with Donovan later to make sure she’d done as he’d suggested.

Carmichael—a thin but wiry man in his mid-thirties, with dark chestnut-colored hair and a thin mustache—came at Gabriel in a frenzy. Something had stirred him—whether it was the scent of victory, or perhaps an overeagerness to impress, Gabriel couldn’t be sure, but he was experienced enough and wise enough to take advantage of it.

Gabriel went on the defensive, channeling all of his energy into dodging and blocking, pushing Carmichael on to tire him out. The blows rained down and Gabriel kept it up, pacing around the ring, even allowing a few of the jabs to hit home, urging Carmichael on with little glimmers of success.

It was a well-proven strategy, and it wasn’t long before Gabriel could see the other man beginning to slow. Carmichael’s punches were becoming appreciably less frantic, and less powerful, too; and almost sighing with the inanity of it all, Gabriel took a step forward, feinted to the left, and finally took Carmichael down with a swift, sharp hook with his right fist.

The man, utterly dazed by the blow, spun around slowly and collapsed onto the mat, semiconscious and momentarily unable to move.

The referee rang the bell and Gabriel slumped back against the ropes, still panting with the exertion. He turned when he heard the sound of someone clapping enthusiastically from behind him.

The gym was nearly empty, save for a couple of other men sparring in the far corner, but there, framed in the doorway, was a face he hadn’t seen for over three years.

“Ginny?” he said, as if he didn’t quite believe his own eyes. “Ginny Gray?”

The woman smiled, and her blue eyes flashed in amusement. “It’s been a long time, Gabriel.” Her voice was exactly how he remembered it: sugary and sweet. She was young, in her mid-twenties, with stunning blonde hair and the most perfect cheekbones he had ever seen. She was tall and slender, with shapely legs and a slim waist. Her skin was pale and unblemished, as if she’d been sculpted by a fine Renaissance artist, presented in alabaster like some immaculate vision of a woman, rendered in life according to a secret blueprint of perfection. She was wearing a red felt cloche hat and a knee-length dress, and she looked just as stunning as she had when she’d walked out on him all those years ago.

Gabriel wiped his face on the crook of his arm. “What…?” he trailed off, unable to give any shape to his thoughts. His mind was racing.

Ginny laughed. “You look terrible, Gabriel.” She approached the ring, her heels clicking loudly on the tiles. She reached for a towel that was draped over the back of a ringside chair and tossed it to him. He caught it awkwardly with his gloved hands, and smiled.

“I thought about coming along to one of your parties,” she said, watching him intently as he mopped his brow with the towel, “but Henry said you hadn’t been home for a while. Not since Christmas, in fact. He said I might find you here.”

Gabriel sighed. Ginny was right; he hadn’t thrown one of his famous parties for weeks. He’d grown tired of the interlopers, the occasional friends, the strangers who invaded his house every night searching for distraction from their own mundane existence. There was a time when he’d needed the bustle, the sense of not being alone. A time he’d thought he collected those people like others collected butterflies, or stamps, or cars. But lately he’d found their presence nothing but a drain, found the constant background noise a burden rather than a reassurance, and so he’d packed up and moved into town to get away from them all for a while.

He’d enjoyed the solitude while it lasted, enjoyed being himself, with no pretense, no need to adopt his playboy persona, to become Gabriel Cross. If he was truthful with himself, though, he knew it wouldn’t last. Soon enough he would drift back into his old life, his old patterns, finding comfort in their familiarity, like a favorite jacket or scarf. The people would return, and they would laugh and cajole and drink and fuck and whisper and bicker and leave their tired, careworn lives behind for a short while as they threw off their shackles and revealed themselves in all of their human glory.

He’d been waiting for that. He knew it was coming. With the inevitability that he knew that someday he was going to die, Gabriel knew that something would happen to drag him back to his old life, to Long Island, to the world he’d tried so hard to forget.

And now, here was Ginny.

But Ginny was different. Ginny had broken his heart. Ginny was the girl who got away, the girl he hadn’t been honest with, the girl who had known only Gabriel, and not him. Not really him. Ginny had been everything, and he had lost her.

The question was, what was she doing here now? Why had she walked back into his life after all these years?

Gabriel folded the towel around the back of his neck and parted the ropes, ducking his head to step through. He glanced back at Carmichael, who was slowly pulling himself up into a sitting position, still looking dazed by the blow that had felled him. He met Gabriel’s gaze and grinned at him appreciatively, as if admiring Gabriel for the quality of his blow.

Gabriel nodded in acknowledgment and turned to face Ginny, who was watching him intently. “So, here I am,” he said, holding out his gloved hands for her to undo the straps. She took a step closer to him and he caught her scent, drinking it in. It reminded him… well, it reminded him of her. Of time spent lounging in the sun by the pool, or their trip to the New Jersey shore, or holding her in a clammy embrace as they made passionate, violent love.

Ginny pulled his left glove free and set to work unlacing his right.

“What are you doing here, Ginny?” he finally said, his voice quavering slightly as he tried not to stumble over the words. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see her, but more that he wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with all of the emotions she was stirring inside him with her presence. It had been three years. A lot of water had passed under the bridge.

Ginny paused. She looked up from his gloved hand, catching his eye. He remembered gazing into those icy blue eyes. Now, they looked glassy, shining in the electric light of the gym. “Oh, Gabriel,” she said dramatically. “Don’t be like that. I thought you might like to go for a drink. Shall we go for a drink?” She still had her hand on his wrist. He looked down at her painted red nails, like talons.

“Now?” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s not even eleven o’clock.”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I’m thirsty. And I’m here, and you’re here, and there’s a place I know just around the corner.” She grabbed the remaining boxing glove and slid it carefully off his wrist, dropping it nonchalantly to the floor. She took another step closer. He could feel her breath on his cheek. “Say you will, Gabriel. Say you’ll have a drink with me.”

Gabriel smiled. She always had been able to wrap him around her little finger. It was one of the most infuriating things about her—and one of the things he’d loved most, too. This time, however, he didn’t mind being manipulated. She had him intrigued. He wanted to know the reason for her sudden disconcerting appearance at the gym. “Can you wait while I take a shower?”

Ginny batted her eyelids and smiled. “As long as it’s quick.”

Gabriel laughed like he hadn’t laughed in some time. “You always were an impatient sort, Ginny.”

She gave him a sly grin. “I told you, I’m thirsty!”

Gabriel pulled the towel from around his neck and dropped it over the back of the chair. “Wait here. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

Ginny folded herself neatly onto the chair and produced a packet of cigarettes from her handbag. “Ten minutes!” she echoed, as, still laughing, Gabriel made his way to the locker room.

THREE

Felix Donovan slid a thin cigarette from the packet on his desk, placed it between his lips and pulled the ignition tab, watching the tip flare briefly before sucking appreciatively at the thick, nicotine-tainted smoke. He slumped back in his chair and glowered at the clock. It was still morning. The day was dragging, and his belly was already growling, ready for lunch. He’d been in the office since before six o’clock that morning, and the late nights and early starts were beginning to take their toll.

Donovan was dog tired. He’d barely been home these last two weeks, and although he knew Flora understood—wonderful woman that she was—he couldn’t help noticing the forced smiles and sideways looks as he rolled in at some ungodly hour and climbed out of bed while it was still dark.

It was not that she suspected him of anything untoward—he’d always been faithful and wouldn’t have time for dallying with other women even if he’d wanted to—but just that he could see she was being slowly eroded by his constant absences, by his tiredness and frustration.

That was his most palpable fear, the slow rending apart of his marriage because of the job; the long periods of time spent apart, the awkwardness that prevailed whenever they did manage to spend any time together. He’d seen it happen to so many others over the years, and he had sworn to Flora that it would never happen to them.

The worst thing was that she probably didn’t even see it herself. She was so ready to offer her support, so willing and understanding, that she couldn’t even see what it was doing to them. If he’d been a banker, or a plumber, or some other such tradesman, then perhaps things would have been different, but he was a policeman—an inspector, no less—and he had a duty to the public to keep them safe.

And now fifty people—probably more—were missing, presumed kidnapped, and it was Donovan’s job to get to the bottom of what was going on and prevent any further disappearances.

Only… he had nothing. He knew about the brass raptors, of course—he’d even caught a glimpse of one himself—but their strikes were executed with such speed and surgical precision that even the Ghost had been unable to capture one of them, or even follow one back to its lair.

It didn’t help that whoever was perpetrating the abductions was doing so for obscure reasons. Donovan could establish no motive. Typically in these cases people were motivated either by revenge or greed, and they would make their demands and have done with it. But this time, the abductions just kept coming, without warning.

He’d tried looking for a pattern in the abductions, the profiles of those taken, and could find nothing that might help him to establish a motive. He’d fingered all of the manufacturers who might have been supplying components—whether unwittingly or not—to the people responsible for the raptors, but again, he had been able to uncover nothing of use. Either the people behind the abductions were exceedingly clever, or else they had friends in high places, looking out for them from above.

Donovan feared that in this case, perhaps both were true. And now the Commissioner wanted to see him. Montague had taken a personal interest in the matter, and while Donovan found it reassuring to know he wasn’t working in isolation, he wasn’t really sure what the Commissioner could bring to the investigation, other than to bawl at him on a daily basis for the lack of progress they were making.

Donovan took another long pull on his cigarette, relishing the sound of the crackling paper as the tip glowed a bright crimson. He allowed the smoke to plume luxuriously from his nostrils, wreathing his head in rings of ethereal blue.

He turned at the sound of footsteps approaching his desk. Mullins was there, brandishing a mug of steaming coffee.

The sergeant was red-faced and his small beady eyes darted back and forth as he stood nervously looking down at the inspector. He was a large man, in his late thirties, and always looked as if he had dressed in a hurry. Today, his brown suit was crumpled and his shirt clearly hadn’t been ironed. Donovan knew the man’s domestic situation was unenviable—his wife had left him recently and he was sharing an apartment with one of the constables—so he’d cut him some slack. Mullins’s was yet another example of a marriage pulled to pieces by the force. He was a good man, and an even better sergeant. He’d sacrificed a lot for the good of the department. More, perhaps, than any one man should be expected to.

“I brought you a coffee, sir. You looked like you needed it.”

Donovan smiled and accepted the mug gratefully. “You know, Mullins, that’s exactly the sort of thing that’ll help you go far in this department.”

Mullins frowned. “Bringing you coffee, sir?”

Donovan laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mullins. Reading people. That’s what I was talking about. You seem to have a remarkable knack for seeing to the heart of a matter, for understanding what a person wants. It’ll stand you in good stead.” Donovan took a swig of the coffee. “See? You were right. I did need that.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Donovan sighed heavily. “I don’t suppose there have been any new developments?”

Mullins shrugged. “One of the men did take a call from a woman this morning while you were out. She asked for you by name. Said one of the brass things had tried to abduct her last night but some man in a black suit had saved her. I figured it must have been that Ghost chap again, sir.”

Donovan nodded slowly. So this was what the Ghost had wanted to meet with him about. “Call her back, Mullins. Have her come to the precinct. You can take her statement while I’m in with the Commissioner. She might have gotten a good look at the thing. It could be our best lead yet.”

Mullins gave a curt nod. “Right away, sir.” He paused for a moment, as if weighing up his next words.

“Spit it out, Mullins.”

“What about the Ghost, sir? Do you think he’s tied up in all this?”

The Ghost had been an ongoing cause of contention in the department during the Christmas season. The Commissioner was still as keen as ever to have the vigilante caught and brought to justice, but Donovan had tried to play the matter down, ensuring as far as he could that his friend’s activities were kept under the radar.

As he’d tried to point out to Montague on numerous occasions, the Ghost was a useful tool. His methods might be brutal, but they were effective, and despite what the newspapers decried at every available opportunity, the evidence only demonstrated that the Ghost had the best interests of the city at heart.

Of course, Donovan had stopped far short of revealing the true nature of his relationship with the vigilante, or the Ghost’s involvement in the matter of the Roman and the affair at the museum. Nevertheless, the Commissioner—and as far as Donovan could tell, many others in the department—felt the Ghost was a menace who should be strung up for his crimes. Donovan suspected that, really, they were more concerned with the manner in which he showed up the police department for what they really were—a law-enforcement agency that spent more time pandering to the whims of the Senate than getting on with their jobs.

Donovan shook his head. “You just worry about getting a statement from that girl, Mullins. Leave the Ghost to me.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mullins, and he clumped away to his desk on the other side of the office to make the call.

Donovan stubbed the still-smoldering end of his cigarette in the ashtray beside his notebook and grinned. Perhaps they were getting somewhere, after all.

* * *

Two hours later, Donovan was ushered into the Commissioner’s office by a desk sergeant who bore an expression of forced jollity and calm.

The Commissioner’s office was situated on the floor above the main precinct, and compared to the sparse, economical circumstances in which the rest of the department worked, the room was palatial. In fact, Donovan mused as he climbed the stairs to the second floor, puffing slightly with the exertion, it would be more accurate to describe the Commissioner’s lair as a suite of rooms.

Decked out with furniture and fittings that Donovan always felt were more suited to a domestic dwelling—armchairs, coffee tables, portraits in gilded frames—the three connected rooms were more like those one might find in a top-end hotel like the Gramercy Park than anything one expected to find in a police station. He couldn’t see how they were in any way conducive to getting any police work done—but then, that assumed the Commissioner was still interested in doing any work. Realistically, Donovan knew the Commissioner was far more concerned with schmoozing politicians and showing off his pretty young wife around town.

Still, someone had to talk to the politicians, and he’d rather it was Montague than him. At least this way, Donovan could keep out of their way while he got on with the real police work.

At least, that was what Donovan had thought until he crossed the threshold into the Commissioner’s office and heard the desk sergeant pull the door shut behind him.

Donovan’s heart sank as he saw who was sitting with the Commissioner, reclining in one of the armchairs, puffing on a fat cigar. He’d never met the man, but he recognized him from the photographs he had seen in the newspapers: Senator Isambard Banks.

The man was balding, in his mid-to-late fifties, and wore a pinstriped suit and white shirt, open at the collar. He was clean-shaven and full-faced and his forehead was glistening with perspiration. Pungent cigar smoke hovered in the still air around him, as if concealing him behind a semitranslucent veil.

Donovan sighed. So, now the Senate was leaning on them again, no doubt instructing them to bring a swift conclusion to the matter of the abductions. Well, it wasn’t as if he wasn’t trying…

“Ah, there you are, Felix. Come in, take a seat. Can I fix you a drink?”

Donovan gave the Commissioner a sideways glance. Why the sudden geniality? It wasn’t like the old fool to behave in such a fashion. Usually when Donovan was hauled into the Commissioner’s office it was to be faced with a series of curt commands and sage advice on how he should really be conducting his investigation. He’d never been offered a drink before. Perhaps the Commissioner was showing off, attempting to impress the senator. Or perhaps Donovan was being welcomed into some sort of secret clique, and from now on he’d be expected to associate with these people and attend their drink parties and sell his soul to the devil just to keep his job. Well, he supposed he’d faced that problem before.

Donovan suppressed a laugh at his own expense. He could tell he’d just about reached his limit—he was getting cranky and paranoid and needed a good night’s sleep.

Groaning inwardly, Donovan did as the Commissioner instructed. “A scotch, thank you, Commissioner.” Donovan nodded to the seated senator and pulled up an armchair opposite the man. He reached for his packet of cigarettes and realized, with a stifled curse, that he’d left them downstairs on his desk.

Banks, grinning wolfishly, leaned forward and pulled a large walnut cigar case from inside the folds of his jacket. He offered it to Donovan, who thanked him and took one gratefully. He didn’t much like cigars, but he supposed it was better than nothing. He pulled the ignition patch and watched it flare.

Montague talked as he set about fixing Donovan’s drink, taking a decanter from a small mahogany dresser that stood against the far wall. “You don’t know Senator Banks, Donovan?”

Donovan smiled at the senator. “Only by reputation, I’m afraid.” He was careful to make it sound like a compliment. Donovan did only know the senator because of his reputation, but it was because his name had cropped up more than once during the investigation into the Roman’s crime syndicate, connected to the cabal of corrupt individuals who had funded the crime boss’s power station project down in the Battery.

There hadn’t been enough evidence to haul him in on a charge, however, and unlike the other members of that small group, Banks hadn’t gone and gotten himself murdered by the Roman’s goons. Whether that was because he really hadn’t been involved or because he’d been so significantly involved that the Roman had chosen to keep him alive, Donovan couldn’t be sure.

Commissioner Montague, of course, had dismissed all notion of conspiracy, preferring to believe Banks was clean and that it was only to be expected that the condemned men would have had dealings with other, innocent members of the Senate. “Some of them had probably even met the president,” he had said loftily, “and we’re not about to bring him in for questioning, are we?”

Donovan had wanted to respond that yes, if the president had been implicated in a plot to unleash a dangerous interdimensional beast on the city, he would have absolutely considered it his duty to bring the man in for questioning. Wisely, however, he had bitten his tongue.

And now Banks was here, in the Commissioner’s office, and Donovan had to wonder what the hell Montague was getting them involved in.

The Commissioner crossed the room, handed Donovan his drink, and then took a seat beside the senator. Donovan felt like he was about to be interviewed for a job. Perhaps he was.

“Well, here’s to your health, gentlemen.” He saluted both men with his glass and then took a long slug, enjoying the sharp hit of alcohol, the long fingers of warmth that spread throughout his chest.

The Commissioner cleared his throat. “Felix, Senator Banks is here to discuss some urgent business with us, and I hope that you will listen carefully and give him your full attention.” Montague leaned forward in his chair, his gray mustache bristling. “It’s a matter of national security.”

Donovan blanched at the Commissioner’s patronizing tone but nodded heartily, sliding his drink onto the coffee table and meeting Banks’s gaze. “Of course. How can I be of service, Senator?”

Here it comes, he thought. About these abductions… They’re making our figures look terrible…

“We have a spy in our midst, Inspector,” said Banks, his tone ominous. “A British spy. We have reason to believe he is in possession of information that could threaten our national security.” He leaned forward, chewing thoughtfully on the end of his cigar. “We’re talking about the safety of the entire country here, Inspector. We’re talking about war with the British Empire.” He sat back, allowing his words to sink in.

Donovan didn’t know what to say. He took a long draw on his cigar. It tasted stale. “A spy? You mean here, in the police department?”

Banks shook his head. He glanced at Montague, who nodded, urging him on. “No, Inspector. But here in the city. He’s been posing as a young philanthropist from Boston. Quite successfully, I might add. He was able to insinuate his way into various political circles here in New York, and over the course of the last year became quite influential in certain quarters.” The senator pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his brow. “Even had him over to dinner at my own home,” he said wistfully, as if embarrassed to admit he’d ever been taken in by such a dangerous scoundrel.

“So he’s still at large?” Donovan asked, furrowing his brow. He wasn’t quite sure where this was going.

“Quite so, Inspector. Quite so. Yesterday, it seems, he came into possession of certain… facts that could prove very damaging indeed if they were to fall into enemy hands. But he made a mistake, blew his cover. Now he’s somewhere in the city, and I imagine by now he knows that we’re on to him.”

Donovan nodded. “What are these… facts, Senator?”

Banks frowned. “Suffice to say, Inspector, that they would leave this country very exposed if they were to come into the possession of a hostile nation.”

“And you think the British mean to use them to that end?” Donovan tried to hide the incredulity in his voice. Did they really think the British were likely to invade?

Banks inclined his head, just a fraction. “I think anything that puts this nation at risk, Inspector, should be taken very seriously indeed.”

“Felix, what I believe the senator is getting at is that he would like the help of this department in locating and containing the British spy.” The Commissioner beamed at him, as if the very thought of such patriotic work filled him with pride.

Donovan turned to face the Commissioner. “But surely, sir, there’s some sort of counterespionage unit who’d be much better placed to deal with something as significant as this? We’re a local police force, and we have our hands full with this plague of abductions. I’m not really sure how we can help.”