A Thousand and One English Nights (Book Three of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Forty Six: All Vengeance

The moment Jack crashed through that window, he left the civilized world of the past four months behind him.

People were shouting, throwing inkstands, scurrying for the doors. Papers were flying everywhere. Without thinking, Jack seized one of the scurriers by his starched collar and smashed him against the wall, where his head cracked a picture-frame.

He had to not kill them. He had to be gentle. But they looked so much like the orange-faced old man that it made his fists itch. And they had framed pictures, antique vases, tasselled lamps and sage-green leather. He couldn't believe how comfortable it all was—how they could sit in here looking at art while they tallied figures that represented human beings!

There was a thud that shook the floorboards up ahead. Two of the clerks had found crossbows and overturned a desk to shelter behind while they shot at him.

That was a good sign. Terrifying as it must have been to see a man crash through your office window and saunter up to you with bits of glass still spangling his coat, they wouldn't have fired on him so quickly unless they had something to hide.

Jack jerked backwards when one of the arrows smashed into his right shoulder. It couldn't pierce his skin, but he still felt the air rush out of his lungs. He reeled for a second, but kept his feet and kept on going.

He walked forwards under the hail of arrows in a state of dreamy awareness. His senses wanted to take in everything—every crunch of broken glass, every grimace, every swear-word the clerks hurled at him.

The sight of him mechanically striding forwards with an arrow sticking out of his coat must have unnerved them even more, because one of the clerks shouted down the stairwell in a harsh, guttural language that could easily have been the one the orange-faced man used to call the gargoyles.

For a moment, everything slowed down. A feeling that was half-dread and half-exhilaration crept down Jack's arms, making all his hairs stand on end.

Would it be a gargoyle who answered the call? He hadn't seen one since the night of Ellini's death. He wasn't sure he could control himself if he saw those eyeless sockets, those filthy claws.

But then, he wouldn't have to control himself, would he? Only Alice could kill them. That was a silver-lining. He would have preferred something he could maim, but at least he wouldn't have to worry about being gentle.

Still, the brief flare of excitement died down almost as soon as it had come. The footfalls on the stairs were too light to belong to gargoyles. When the assassins rushed up, muffled in their black robes, and stood bunched at the top of the stairs like a knot of reluctant school-boys, Jack nearly laughed out loud. Only the memory of the throats they had recently slit could stop him.

There were ten of them--unless there were others lurking on the ground floor, waiting for the stairs to clear. For all the vases and soft furnishings, the office was small, and any well-trained fighter would know that numbers could be a disadvantage in small spaces. 

He beckoned them forwards, but they raised crossbows and revolvers instead—and these men had a much better aim than the clerks.

Jack was driven back by the rain of projectiles, his feet slipping and sliding on the broken glass. Nothing hurt, but if they muscled him back towards the window, they would push him through, and he realised he had no idea if his bones were still capable of breaking. Even those geriatric clerks would get away if he had to limp after them.

He ducked and launched himself forwards, crashing into the assassin at the front of the group. He wanted to make them topple down the stairs like a line of dominoes, but they were too well-trained for that. The ones still on the staircase simply vaulted over the bannisters and got behind him.