A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(89)
A wild, fierce wind dropped down out of the dark sky, nearly sucking the breath from her lungs. She heard Selim gasp, but had no time to think about what might have made him utter that sound. The whirlwind buffeted them and came close to knocking them down—but that was nothing to what it was doing to the monsters.
As the little sun hung serene and unchanged above John’s head, not moving an inch from its position, the brilliant illumination showed that outside their huddled group, braced against the tempest, the wind roared around them in a clockwise circle, and two feet outside their group it was ten times stronger. It picked up the spiders and carried them up into the starless sky as they shrieked in terror; it sent the rest of the creatures tumbling about head over heels as they tried in vain to hold on to the rubble or the more solid bits of wreckage standing up in the rubble. Neville tried to bury himself in her armpit as the circle of wind expanded and howled with a voice like a great, thundering church organ. As it grew, the area in which they stood grew calm, an “eye” of uncannily still air, like that of a typhoon. And once the wind had established that “eye,” it strengthened yet again, and Nan could scarcely believe her eyes as she watched it sending monsters smashing into the rubble and the sides of buildings. The vortex kept expanding until it was hundreds of yards wide. Nan stared at the whirlwind surrounding them in utter fascination—and as she looked up at the top of it, she thought for a moment that she saw a huge, fierce eye made of wisps of cloud and light and darkness looking down at her out of it. Fierce—but somehow, she was not afraid of it. Then it vanished, and she wondered if it had just been a trick of the light or of her imagination.
The last of the monsters was scoured from the rubble, and the moment that happened, as quickly as it had spun up, the tempest stopped. The wind dropped to nothing; a few bits of debris, mostly sticks ripped from the dead trees, or possibly detached spider legs, fell straight down out of the air, clattering onto the piles of scattered bricks and stones. The profound silence that followed made her ears ring.
“Run,” said Sherlock, sounding uncannily calm. “Now.”
They ran. Karamjit supported Selim, who seemed to have fared the worst in the fight. They stumbled from weariness. Nan’s breath burned in her lungs. Her side was on fire, and her numb fingers could barely keep hold of her sword, but they ran. And they kept as tightly together as they had been during the fight. Now fear flooded over her, giving her a last reserve of strength to keep running. There was only room in her mind for watching the road lest she fall over something. They ran toward that wonderful green glow, and just as Nan was sure she couldn’t run any more, she looked up to see the portal a mere ten yards away, with Puck still holding it open. They flung themselves through; Nan and John were the last through; she landed on her knees on the carpet of the blessedly warm and familiar study, and Puck pulled himself and his staff back.
As soon as he did that, the Celtic Warrior faded, and she was only Nan again. Her sword vanished. Her clothing reverted to her jacket and skirt, in somewhat battered and torn condition. Neville squirmed out of her jacket, jumped down to the floor, and sneezed.
The portal closed with an audible snap. She felt blood trickling down the side of her face from a wound in her scalp she hadn’t felt, and suddenly turned in panic to the others. Were they all right?
Just as she turned, “Selim!” cried Memsa’b rolling a prone Selim over on his back, and there was blood all over the front of his coat, soaking through it. John went to his knees beside Selim, tearing open his coat and shirt to show a gash in his stomach that was pumping out blood so fast—too fast—
Nan uttered a cry of despair.
“Move, Doctor,” Puck snapped, and shoved Watson aside without waiting for him to obey. Kneeling beside Selim, his eyes closed in concentration, he held his staff crosswise over the wound, stretching the length of Selim’s body.
A brilliant burst of green light erupted from the staff. Half-blinded, Nan looked away and shielded her eyes for a moment. The light was so intense she could see it right through her eyelids! But her panic cut off as if someone had blown out a lamp; for a moment she smelled flowers and thought she heard birdsong, and the cut on her head—all her aches and pains—faded away.
The light died, and she opened her eyes, and when she looked back at Puck and Selim—
Puck stood up at that moment, and stepped back, grounding his staff on the carpet, expression both stern and exalted. Like a . . . a defending angel, Nan thought, a little dazed. Like St. George, or the Archangel Michael. And there was no sign of Selim’s wound, except for the blood caking his clothing.
“Great Scott,” Watson breathed.
“I am the Oldest Old One in all England,” Puck said. “And I will not let a fellow warrior fall to those—things. Not while there is life in me. But—” he continued, with a lifted brow. “He will still need you, Doctor. I cannot replace the blood he lost, and you must tend him for fever and watch him for infection.”
Memsa’b looked up at him with Selim’s hand in hers, and tears coursing down her face. “You have saved the life of our dear friend. I can never repay—”
“Fiddlesticks,” Puck interrupted, looking like the old Puck again, losing that exalted look. “Let there be no talk of repayment. Get him to his bed and return, for what there must be talk of is what happened, and what must happen next.”