The Legacy of Arniston House by T. L. Huchu

Author:T. L. Huchu [Huchu, T. L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan
Published: 2024-09-30T17:00:00+00:00

XIV

I put on my shades and walk away quickly from Lord Samarasinghe. He’s chuckling after me as if my life’s a game to him. It was never my talent he was interested in. I was just a prize – the intern of the Secretary of the Society of Sceptical Enquirers defected to English magic. Now at the slightest hint of scandal he’s shoved me under the bus. I’m seething, but it’s not his fault. Dealing with him was always going to be the scorpion on the toad’s back. He can’t help what he is. More than anything, I’m bricking it ’cause I’ve given up a fair few secrets and been shafted in recompense. That leaves me with ZERO pals in this city – the sort of thing that’s likely to bite me in the arse in due course. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

‘Run, River,’ I say. And she scampers across the road, leaving me.

I’m heading diagonally past the sooty statue on the tall plinth, across from the windows staring down from the headquarters of the Society, when in the corner of my eye I notice the two pigs walking briskly to intercept me. I try to appear casual, though I’ve got my shoulders hunched. If I run, I’ll only bump into loads more of them in town. I’m weighing my options. If this was the Old Town, with its wynds, closes and courtyards, it would be so much easier to slip away. The New Town’s grid construction makes it way harder. This is why most thieves prefer the Old Town to working here. My only chance is to make it to the old bus station over the road, I reckon, as I exit the square, crossing the old tram lines.

‘Excuse me, young man,’ one of the officers shouts.

Fantastic, I look like a boy, which means Rob’s handiwork has helped. Though that makes it more likely I’ll be associated with the rioters now. It’s a Catch-22 situation.

‘Stop right there,’ the officer commands.

I ain’t doing that. I hasten my stride across the road, going past Multrees Walk. The traffic light on that side of the road’s been smashed and dangles off the pole. Don’t turn back. Pounding boots on the pavements mean the two officers are running towards me now. I go past an old poster for one of the designer shops selling fakes on Multrees Walk, and then arrive at the entrance to the bus station.

Slip through the door with cracked glass.

There’s a strong scent of decay and body odour: some of the homeless folks use this place as a base, since there’s no buses running anywhere anymore. If those cops catch up to me, I’m in for another arse-whopping and I’ve had enough of that. I’m incanting a new spell by the time I make it to the broken escalator.

‘Vulcan, father of the angry roiling molten rocks beneath, breathe your sulphur and ash upon this room, as you once did in Santorini.’

There’s an entropic shift, a reordering of particles in the air around me, then a blast of intense heat like a wave.

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