London Eye: 1 (Toxic City)(41)

“Really want to get hurt?” she asked sweetly.

“Yes!” Jack spat. “For my sister, yes, and I don't need some shitty truth-witch to make me say that!” Scryer actually looked taken aback, and Jack felt a brief stab of delight.

Emily rose higher. Her head was almost touching the ceiling now, and her hands clawed at her throat. Her eyes were half-shut, and as she looked down at Jack a tear ran down her cheek.

“Please!” he said, trying to see past what Puppeteer had become to the humanity that must lie beneath.

But the man was enjoying this. He looked around the room, revelling in being the centre of things, not even needing to look at Emily to keep her suspended.

“Puppeteer, that's Reaper's daughter,” Rosemary said quietly.

For the first time, doubt clouded Puppeteer's eyes. He tried to hide it—turned away, looked at Emily, glanced across at the wide view of the Toxic City—but Jack saw something touch Puppeteer then, and it looked very much like fear.

“Reaper,” the man said.

Scryer's smile slipped for the first time.

“Who's Reaper?” Jack asked, confused.

Puppeteer dropped his hands and turned away, and Emily crashed to the floor. She gasped, a terrible, hoarse sound as she sucked in breath across her dry throat, and then she started crying.

“Bastard!” Jack shouted. Right then, if he'd had a gun he'd have fired it, if he'd had a knife he'd have thrown it. But he had neither, so he went to his sister and gathered her in his arms, nurturing the hate and letting it settle somewhere deep inside.

“Reaper,” the man said again. He looked at them, shaking his head slowly. “Does he know?”

“Of course not,” Rosemary said.

“We have to take them to him,” Scryer said. “A gift. An honour!”

The tall man nodded.

“Who the bloody hell is Reaper?” Jack asked again.

Rosemary turned to him, glanced at Emily.

“Shit,” Gordon said. “Shit, shit, now we're in even bigger trouble.” He had moved across to the window, face raised as he sniffed at the air flowing through the fanlights.

“What is it?” Scryer asked.

“Choppers. Lots of them. And they've got a mobile lab wagon with them.”

The scene in the posh hotel suite froze. The surreality of what was happening struck Jack, but he accepted it all. The Superiors, their strange powers, the old woman who could heal, Emily's harsh breathing, Sparky's anger still burning red in his cheeks. He accepted it because the world had changed so much. He'd known that since soon after Doomsday. Being here only crystallised that knowledge in his mind, and everything that happened now he would view through that altered perception.

“How do they know we're here?” Puppeteer asked.

“I don't know,” Gordon said. He nodded at Scryer. “Why don't you get her to ask?”

Rosemary dashed to Emily's side, touching her throat and chest to see whether any healing was needed. The girl's eyes were open, her breathing becoming less harsh, and she groaned as she tried to talk.

“Okay…I'm okay…”

Jack hugged her tightly and kissed the top of her head. “Who's Reaper?” he asked Rosemary quietly, and she sighed.

“They're coming!” Scryer said. She was crouched at the window, and in the brief silence following her warning they could hear the sounds of engines.

Puppeteer looked at Jack and Emily, then stood up straight and smoothed down his suit. “They're everyone's enemy,” he said, “so if you all listen to me, and do as I say, we may yet be able to escape.”

“That's nice of you,” Sparky said.

Puppeteer pointed at him, and Jack held his breath. Smash him against the wall? Launch him from the window? But as he held Sparky's full attention, the man spoke.

“If they catch you, they'll examine you to see why you have no trace of anything new. No powers, other than a big mouth. Got that, boy? They'll interrogate you first, then if they don't hear what they want to hear, they'll start cutting you up. Dissect your eyes and ears looking for any signs of mutation, your fingers and sexual organs, your heart. And then your brain. You do have a brain?”

Sparky glowered but said nothing.

“Good.” Puppeteer nodded. “They'll come in the front way, slow and careful, because they don't know exactly who's in here. So we go back down the service staircase and out through the basement refuse doors.”