“Oh, there are dozens of people with ugly mugs like mine,” Lockwood said. He kept his hand locked in the other’s; he coolly held the young man’s gaze.
“Sir Rupert is a good friend of the Fittes Agency,” Penelope Fittes said. “His father helped my grandmother, long ago. He helps train young agents in swordfighting and other martial skills.”
“I’d love to give you a demonstration.” Sir Rupert let go of Lockwood’s hand. “We must have a chat one day—about your business, and mine.”
Lockwood smiled faintly. “Any time you like.”
A horn sounded. Penelope Fittes made her way to the front of the platform; we retreated along the float. Someone pressed hot drinks into our hands. Firecrackers burst above the streets, bathing us in silver and red; the truck gave a jerk and began to move.
“Bit forward of you to ask about the Orpheus Society, George,” I whispered.
George frowned. “No…she was totally chilled about it, wasn’t she? Kind of surprised me. I thought it might be more hush-hush, somehow.”
He took a chair; Holly Munro stood chatting with members of the Rotwell contingent. Lockwood and I remained standing, staring out over the crowds.
Along the Strand the convoy went, carving its way slowly down the center of the road through wreaths of lavender smoke. Tinned music blared from speakers at the corners of the platform: dramatic, patriotic songs. Ms. Fittes and Mr. Rotwell waved. Behind us came the first show float, with actors in old-fashioned costumes hunting ghosts through Styrofoam ruins to the accompaniment of drums. Agents threw candies and other freebies down; the crowd cheered. People leaped and surged to catch them.
Cakes and carnivals, Steve Rotwell had said. Keeps everyone happy.
But did it? It seemed to me that ripples of electric energy were running through the crowd. Not quite the random chaos you’d expect. Subtle waves of movement like wind blowing through the wheat fields close to my childhood home. Behind the cheers rose other noises—hisses and murmurings that lapped against the rumble of the wheels. Pale faces stared up at us beyond the smoke.
Lockwood had sensed it too. “There’s trouble brewing,” he whispered. “Everything’s wrong. The fair I sort of understand, but this parade thing’s weird. I don’t know who it’s going to convince. I feel awkward and exposed up here.”
“It’s dire,” I agreed. “Look at those idiots capering on the float behind. And the worst of it is—we’re going so slowly. The whole thing’s going to take hours.”
But it didn’t. Our journey was very short.
We were halfway down the Strand, not far from Charing Cross Station and Fittes House, when members of the crowd broke through the cordons and surged across the road. The float stopped, its engine idling. One of the agents took a tub of candies and tossed them from the float: I watched them fall, glittering like rain. Then something else shot through the air—large and dully shining. It landed in the float not far from me, striking the middle of the platform with a crack of broken glass. At first I thought it was one of the ghost-lamps strung above us, and that its cable had somehow broken. Then I felt the wave of cold and sudden psychic fear and realized the truth—but I was still standing rooted to the spot when the first Visitor appeared in the air before me.
It was a pale, bent thing, stooped and thin. Yellowed, diaphanous rags coiled around it. Though its outline held firm, its substance bubbled up and over like soup in a pot. Glimpses of a rib cage, of a folding, twisting spine, of flesh and sinew welled up, stretched, and were sucked back in again. The head was lowered, the white arms crossed over the face as if it feared to see us, fingers splayed above like splintered horns.
Those of us young enough—those of us who saw—had our rapiers out before the second ghost-bomb landed. That would be Lockwood, George, and me; Holly Munro, observing us, struggled to pull her rapier free. Some of the younger Fittes agents, the ones not throwing candy, dropped their trays of drinks and reached for their belts. But the adults were blind—even the ones right by the ghost looked straight through it, merely adjusting their coat collars as if they felt a sudden chill.
Another crack of glass; another Visitor unfolding, up by the front of the float. Other ghost-bombs landed in the crowd. Almost at once we heard the screams begin.
Lockwood and I started forward; George, too. Sir Rupert Gale had also reacted. He pulled at his cane, drawing out a silver blade. Above us, Penelope Fittes and Steve Rotwell turned, responding to the outcry of the crowd. A few startled dignitaries began to rise.
The first ghost moved. Its head rotated impossibly; it flowed backward, through the nearest seat, straight through its occupant, a short, fat tweedy woman. Threads of plasm lingered on her contours as it pulled around her and away. Her eyes rolled upward, her arms jerked in rhythmic spasms; she slid soundlessly onto the floor.
“Medics needed!” Lockwood roared. A wave of fear had engulfed the company; people were throwing chairs back, milling back and forth, too stupid to wait and listen to their senses. Old as they were, faint sensations might have alerted them to the ghosts, and so kept them alive.
The Visitor moved with random darts and scurries, hiding its head as if in pain. Two men toppled as it touched them, collapsing against others, redoubling the panic. I was almost on it. I raised my sword.
A Rotwell operative stepped out in front of me, a magnesium flare in his hand.
“No! Not here!” I shouted. “You’ll—”
Too late. He threw it. The flare shot past the ghost, bounced off the back of the nearest seat, and exploded against the side of the platform. Fragments of wood blasted into space; Greek Fire rained down upon the crowds. The platform gave way. A whole section crumbled like a sea cliff, propelling three people, including a screaming Miss Wintergarden, out onto the street below. Sir Rupert Gale, caught by the explosion, was spun to the very edge, left clinging to the broken boards. George escaped unharmed; he reached the ghost and carved the air around it with his rapier, seeking to prevent it from touching the people on either side.
The Visitor had been peppered with burning iron, and the ghost-lamps hanging above the street weren’t doing it much good, either. Plasm steamed from it. As it cringed back from George’s blade, it removed its arms from its face. It had no features, no eyes or nose; nothing but a sagging triangular mouth. At the front of the platform neither Penelope Fittes nor Steve Rotwell had lost their heads. From beneath his coat, Rotwell had drawn a sword—longer, thicker than a normal rapier. Ms. Fittes had taken her hair band off, shaken her dark hair free. The band was a crescent moon—sharp, made of silver. She held it like a knife.
Rotwell jumped down among the seats, swatting a chair aside. He strode toward the second Visitor—a Phantasm—which several of his agents had pinned back. Holly Munro had been shepherding people to the far corner of the platform. She reached the fallen woman, and knelt down at her side.
Lockwood clutched my arm. “Forget the ghosts!” he cried. “The bombs! Where’d the bombs come from?”
A squawking lady in furs and silver collided with me; I cursed, shoved her away. I jumped onto a seat, spun around, looking down into the street. There were Visitors here, too, fracturing swiftly in the glare of the ghost-lamps. Around them the crowd bent and crumpled, then tore itself to tatters as it fled in all directions.
“I can’t see anything,” I said. “It’s carnage.”
Lockwood was beside me. “The bombs weren’t thrown from the crowd. Above us….Check the windows.”
I stared at the buildings all around. Rows of windows, black, blank, identical. I couldn’t make out the details of what was inside. High above us, the Fittes and Rotwell balloons dinked and swayed.