The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(110)
“We’re trapped in here with that thing!” Wells muttered, utterly defeated by the situation.
Just then Wells felt the air stir beside him, and before he could grasp what it meant, a sharp rap on his knuckles made him let go of his sword. Nervously, he watched it slide across the floor even as he felt Jane being wrenched from his side with the force of a punch that would break a jaw.
“Jane!” he yelled, stepping toward her.
“Stay where you are or I’ll kill her, George!” commanded the voice, coming now from behind Jane. “And you,” he added, addressing Murray and Doyle, “don’t move an inch or I’ll snap her scrawny neck before you can count to two!”
Uttering a cry of despair, Wells remained motionless. Murray and Doyle also froze, and for a long moment the three men watched helplessly as Jane, on tiptoes, remained almost suspended in the air, her face turning an ever darker shade of red. A tapestry engulfed in flames slipped off the wall with a quiet crackle, like rain falling on the ocean.
“Good, that’s better. Now hand over the book, George, or your little wife will die,” said the voice.
“Please don’t hurt her!” Wells implored. Then he swallowed hard and, with a calm that belied his anguish, added: “Listen: I don’t have a book called The Map of Chaos, but I’ll give you whatever you ask for, I swear. I’ll give you anything. Anything . . .”
The creature grew impatient. “I don’t want anything from you, only my book!”
“Please, let her go, she can’t breathe, please . . . I tell you, she can’t breathe!” Wells cried, his voice cracking before it turned into a crazed howl: “Damn you, don’t you dare hurt her, or else . . .”
“Or else what?” the voice gloated.
Wells shook his head, his eyes blurry with tears, overwhelmed by the senselessness of it all. The fire had started spreading to the ceiling, and tiny red-hot splinters rained from above, scores of burning lights gently rocking as they floated down before dying out when they touched the floor. Sensing Wells’s helplessness, Murray began to edge his way around the table, but the voice brought him up short.
“Stop right there! I said nobody move or I’ll kill her!”
To prove this was no empty threat, he hoisted Jane another inch from the floor. Her toes were scarcely touching the ground now, and Wells, the tears streaming down his face, watched Jane’s hands claw at her neck as her face began to go purple. He saw her raise her arm, desperately groping the air with her fingers, as though fumbling for something behind her, but she only managed to loosen her hair.
But while Wells impotently contemplated Jane thrashing around, Doyle, his neck and shoulder drenched in blood, had focused his attention elsewhere: unbeknownst to the others, the handle of the door leading out into the hall had slowly started to turn. Murray’s coachman was coming to the rescue, possibly alerted by their cries; but this was of little comfort to Doyle, not just because of the old man’s lack of physical prowess, but because when he opened the door and looked inside, he would be unable to see any enemy, or to understand what was going on, and if Doyle tried to alert him, the creature would certainly kill Jane. Giddy from the fumes, Doyle struggled to think of a solution, but he was too late. The door swung open and the coachman’s head appeared. Seeing the flames, he declared: “Good heavens!” And that sufficed. Jane’s body jerked round like a rag doll, revealing that the creature had heard him, too. But then something unexpected happened: Jane, who seemed to be clasping something in her hand, thrust one arm back over her head, and the creature let out a terrible cry of pain and dropped her on the floor.
“My eye!” the voice howled as one of the long hairpins Jane used to fasten her bun shook violently from side to side, hanging in midair. “My eye!”
Wells rushed over to Jane, who was on her knees, retching and gasping for breath while her hairpin flailed around a few feet above their heads. All of a sudden, it swooped to the floor, then rose again, together with the sword Wells had dropped. Both floated toward the hallway door.
“Baskerville, get away from the door!” screamed Murray, realizing what was about to happen.
He leapt onto the table, tossing a sword to Doyle, who caught it in mid-flight as he, too, clambered onto the table. The two men bounded across it, brandishing their swords and spurring themselves on with simultaneous unintelligible cries. But the invisible creature reached the door before them, and the befuddled old man watched, paralyzed with shock, as the sword floated through the air toward him. The blade plunged effortlessly into his stomach like a knife through butter. The old man opened his eyes wide as he felt the sword slice open his guts, but he didn’t utter a single cry. His body, still pierced by the sword, was sent flying at Doyle and Murray as they sprinted toward him, and the three men collapsed in a heap of flesh and metal.
Doyle rose to his feet quickly and ran out into the hallway while Murray held Baskerville in his arms. Narrowing his eyes, Doyle was able to make out Jane’s hairpin floating up the stairs before it was flung violently to the ground, as if the Invisible Man had yanked it out in a desperate gesture. Doyle turned round and went back into the dining room, where the heat was by now unbearable.
“He’s on his way upstairs!” he declared, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve to protect himself from the fumes. There’s no escape up there! Let’s go after him, Gilmore!” Then, glancing at Wells, who was helping Jane to her feet, he commanded, “You two, carry the wounded out to the carriage! Take them to the hospital and then inform the police!”