Extraordinaires 1 by Michael Pryor Page B

skull, he found the lock with a hand. Even in his distress, he managed a chuckle. The locksmith who made this was taking money under false pretences.
    At that moment, however, the van conspired to test Kingsley’s skill. It both jolted and lurched, so much so that his forehead hit the lock sharply enough for his teeth to snap together – right onto the tip of his tongue, which he customarily stuck out while working. He reeled back in time for a second violent lurch to hurl him against the door again. He managed to protect his hands by the novel method of taking the entire force on his nose, thus making his head a veritable explosion of pain.
    He lost control. His wolfish state came roaring out to possess him.
    Immediately, he howled and backed away from the door. The noise, the smell and his physical distress frightened him. Scrabbling at the metal floor, he levered himself up and threw himself from side to side, furious and afraid of the confines of the moving prison. He growled until his throat was sore and then, finally, he cowered in a corner, shivering. Finally, he took the last refuge of the beast: he slept.
    When he awoke, the vestiges of nausea were still with him, enough to make him wince when the doors of the van were dragged open. He put a hand up to shield his eyes. Two uniformed figures were reaching for him and he was reasonably sure they weren’t matadors. As one, they leaped into the back of the van and dragged him out. Kingsley protested, and lashed out with a few aimless punches, but he was weak – both from the energy uselessly expended when his wolfish self was in charge and from the effects of whatever had rendered him unconscious.
    He was carried through a lane that smelled of rotting onions. Face down, he could make out shouting nearby and the sounds of traffic, generic enough noises to make them almost useless in identifying his surroundings. He smelled steam and thought he was near a station, but then a wave of fishiness and the sight of water told him that he’d been brought to the Thames. The glimpse was short, for he was hustled into the stony darkness of a warehouse and thrown against a wall.

B illingsgate fish market. Damona wore a wide-brimmed hat and overcoat. Protection, disguise. Rain clearing, she leaned against a lamp post, gazing at the swarming Invaders. She was contemptuous and pitying. Pale, soft creatures. How did they ever become so dominant? Looking harder, she saw their activity, their energy, their enterprise. A hint?
    She grunted. Where were the Spalnitz brothers? She’d bought copper from them in the past, needed plenty now. Slippery, like most Invaders, but the Spalnitzes were greedy enough to sell to the True People. Damona could work with that.
    Olaf sidled up to her. Large hat, tattered velvet coat. A good scout, Olaf was often abroad in the overworld. He was shorter than most of the True People, smaller. Wrapped in his rags he caused no comment. A beggar, one of many.
    Damona admired his fortitude.
    Olaf squatted next to her. ‘The boy you’re after. The Spawn have him. Here.’
    Damona bared her teeth. Finding the boy was good. She could use him to put pressure on Dr Ward. But the Spawn? She spat on the cobbles. They were a problem.
    Damona hated the Spawn even more than she hated their Immortal masters. Spawn turned her stomach. She gave Olaf a coin. In case anyone was wondering why she was talking to a beggar. ‘Where?’
    He pointed, a barest twitch of a finger. She tossed him another coin, set off in the direction he indicated. Around her the business of the fish market swirled and roared. She ignored it.
    The Invaders had a Golden Rule. Damona had heard of it. Treat others as one would wish to be treated. Stupid. Unworkable.
    The True People had a Golden Rule: always repay. Good or bad, always repay. Debts were honoured. Revenge was taken. It was natural.
    She was sure that the Golden Rule of the True People was observed more