Wild Boy Read online

“Never heard of him,” Clarissa said.

  Yes, you have, Wild Boy thought. She just didn’t remember. He opened the Doctor’s notebook and flicked to the page. “Here. This is him. . . .”

  His heart began to beat faster — not fear this time, but excitement. “Let’s check these other graves,” he said.

  They ran through the long grass, inspecting names on the stones under the yew. “Rook,” Clarissa said. “This one says Clarence Rook. That name’s in the Doctor’s book, ain’t it? This stone’s got a G on it an’ all.”

  “And these two,” Wild Boy said. “Doyle and Mayhew.”

  He crouched to examine another grave, but now Clarissa closed the shutter on the lantern. “There’s a carriage,” she whispered.

  Wild Boy followed her gaze toward the street. The carriage was big and black with a golden emblem on the door. Its light rippled a crimson glow across puddles as it rattled closer. It was slowing down.

  “We should hide,” Clarissa said.

  They rushed behind the trunk of the yew and watched the carriage come to a stop outside the gates. Wild Boy could now see the emblem on the door — it was a golden letter G.

  The door opened and four men emerged, dressed in frock coats and stovepipe hats. As the tallest man stepped into the lamplight, a glint of gold shone from under the shadow of his hat.

  “That’s him,” Wild Boy said. “That’s the golden-eyed man.”

  The other men slid a long wooden crate from inside the carriage. Grunting with effort, they carried it toward the gates.

  The golden-eyed man unlocked the gates. “Hurry, Gentlemen,” he said.

  Wild Boy and Clarissa huddled together, barely daring to breathe, as two of the men carried the crate past the yew tree. The golden-eyed man followed — one hand leaning on his cane, the other raising a lantern against the dark. Then he stopped, just yards from the yew tree. His one good eye narrowed as it scanned the graveyard. He gripped the top of his cane and — swish — drew a long steel blade from inside.

  Wild Boy’s hands clenched into fists. He and Clarissa had made it this far, and he wasn’t going to let this man catch them now. Not now.

  The golden-eyed man stepped toward the tree.

  Clarissa gripped Wild Boy’s arm. She was shaking, but he could see in her eyes that she too was ready to fight.

  The golden-eyed man came closer.

  “Sir!” a voice called.

  The third man ran along the path from the gates, clutching something he’d found. He opened his mouth to speak, but the golden-eyed man silenced him with a look.

  “May I remind you, Mr. Beauchamp, that we are a secret organization.”

  “Sir?” the other man said.

  “Perhaps you might lower your voice.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the man whispered. “I found this.”

  Wild Boy could see what the man held — it was the sack that Clarissa had made him as a disguise.

  The golden-eyed man slid his sword back into his cane. He held the sack to his lantern and studied its jack-o’-lantern face and charcoal writing. Just for a second he seemed to wince. Wild Boy remembered the agony he’d seen the man in at the fair, and the relieving liquid he kept in his false eye.

  But the man stopped himself from reaching for it. His jaw clenched, and he handed the sack back to his companion.

  “It is the boy,” he said.

  “Impossible, sir!”

  “It is the boy. And he was not alone.”

  “The circus girl?”

  “Presumably.” The golden-eyed man was silent for a moment. “We have underestimated those two,” he said finally. “Perhaps quite seriously.”

  “Sir, this is grave news. If those two learn about —”

  “I am aware of the gravity of our situation, Mr. Beauchamp. That is why I wish you to stop speaking. There remains a killer on the loose, and I can assure you that it is neither Wild Boy nor Clarissa Everett. Whoever it is, he is after the machine. And that means he is after us. But for now this crate remains our priority.”

  He moved away from the yew, toward the church, where he unlocked the doors and pushed them open. He followed his companions as they carried the crate inside.

  “We shall take care of the children later,” he said.

  The doors closed with a hollow thud.

  Immediately Wild Boy burst from behind the tree and ran for the church, weaving between headstones and tangles of bramble. That man had said he had the machine — Wild Boy had to know if it was real, if there really was a machine that could change how he looked. But as he neared the doors, another thud echoed around the graveyard. It came from the church.

  The blackened walls had begun to shake. And then a louder noise echoed from inside — rattling chains and a deep, grinding sound, like stone scraping against stone. The glass rattled in the broken windows.

  And then silence.

  “What just happened?” Clarissa said, catching up.

  Wild Boy had no idea, but he was desperate to find out. He looked to a large broken window, about thirty feet high. “Can you get up there to see?”

  Clarissa hesitated, touching the bruise on her face. But she nodded and began to climb. Wild Boy barely saw how she managed it — she was up in seconds, clinging to the window ledge and peeking through one of the remaining stained-glass panels.

  “What can you see?” Wild Boy whispered.

  “Wait there,” she replied.

  She climbed higher, and then — in one quick move — swung feet-first through the empty part of the window.

  “Clarissa!” Wild Boy called.

  He didn’t hear her land. The only sounds were the krekking of a crow high on the tower, and the whistle of wind through the broken window.

  And then the door creaked slowly open.

  Wild Boy staggered back, fists trembling. But it was just Clarissa. The sequins on her dress shone red and gold in the light from inside the church.

  “You won’t believe this,” she said.

  Cautiously, Wild Boy stepped through the door. He brushed hair away from his eyes, and stared.

  A fallen statue of an angel lay shattered across the aisle between rows of wooden pews. Above it, a candle flickered on a stand, its light glimmering off a bronze cross that stood in the center of the altar. But otherwise the church was empty.

  The men had vanished.

  “It don’t make sense,” Clarissa said. “Where did they go?”

  She plucked the candle from its stand and waved the light behind one of the church pews, as if she might find the golden-eyed man and his companions hiding there. Out of ideas, she glared angrily at Wild Boy.

  “They’re getting away!” she said. “You must have seen something.”

  Wild Boy had seen plenty. As he’d watched the men in the graveyard, his eyes had sought out clues on shirt cuffs, trouser knees, and shoe heels. Three of them had served in the army, and one had been in the navy. All of them had walked through a stone tunnel that day; three had played billiards and the golden-eyed man had won. But none of that explained where they had gone. They had locked the church door, lit a candle, and then disappeared.

  “Anyway,” Clarissa said. “This proves the golden-eyed man is the killer. The hooded man disappeared an’ all, remember, in that alley.”

  Wild Boy ignored her, trying to think. There was another door to the side of the altar, but it was bolted from inside. And besides, why would the men have come through the front door just to leave by the back? He remembered the noises — the rattling chains and scraping stone.

  Clarissa muttered something else, but her voice faded into a drone as he turned slowly around. He didn’t know what he was looking for, only that he’d realize when he saw it. Suddenly his eyes were moving with incredible speed, shooting around the church. He saw a tear in a tapestry, a crack in a stone memorial, the worn-down face of a wooden cherub . . .

  And Clarissa’s candle.

  “Don’t move,” he said.

 
Clarissa froze. “What? What is it?”

  “That flame is flicking.”

  “Is that all?” she said, relieved. “Course it is, the window’s broken.”

  “No. It’s flicking the other way.”

  Clarissa considered the light curiously. Wild Boy was right — the flame was rippling gently toward the window. The draft was coming from the other direction.

  Wild Boy rushed up the aisle. His senses were now on high alert, his mind working faster than ever. He rolled up his coat sleeve and held his forearm close to the candle. The long hair on his wrist swayed in a breeze from below. They fluttered harder as he held his arm near the base of the stone altar.

  “Something’s under there,” he said.

  “Another secret entrance,” said Clarissa. “We got ’em now!”

  She stepped back and examined the altar — prodded one side, kicked another impatiently. “There must be a latch or a lever.”

  “The cross,” Wild Boy said.

  “What about it?”

  “Why’s it so shiny? It should be covered in rust like them candlesticks. It’s being used for something.”

  His big eyes sparkled with excitement as they roved around the gleaming bronze ornament, spotting faint finger-smudges on the shaft.

  He gripped it and tried to lift it from the altar, but it seemed to be fastened to the surface. He yanked harder, and this time the cross tilted on a hinge in its base, triggering some sort of catch.

  At first nothing happened. Then, gently, the altar began to tremble. Then it shook harder. Behind them, the church pews clattered together. The last shards of glass fell from the windows and shattered to the stone floor.

  Wild Boy stepped back as the altar scraped to the side, revealing a dark hole in the ground.

  Clarissa lowered her candle. Its light spilled down a stone ramp that led underground. “Wild Boy,” she said, “that’s amazing.”

  He turned and looked at her. No one had ever spoken to him like that before. Again he felt a glow of pride. But this time, he felt guilty too. Clarissa thought they were after the killer. But now, more and more, Wild Boy wanted the machine.

  “Come on,” he said.

  They crept down the ramp until they reached a vaulted tunnel deep beneath the church. Coffins lay on stone shelves up and down the dry walls. A broken passage through some cobwebs showed where the golden-eyed man and his companions had passed. Ahead, the dim glow of their lantern lit the spider’s silk an eerie orange.

  Dust sprinkled from the tunnel roof as the secret entrance began to scrape shut. Wild Boy looked up the ramp, watching the rectangle of moonlight at the top get smaller as the altar slid across the gap. Then, just before it sealed, something moved through the light. . . .

  Cold fear ran down Wild Boy’s spine. What had he seen? It could have been a shadow from the church, or a crow again. Or . . . had someone else just come into this tunnel?

  Clarissa’s candle fizzled out, leaving the passage completely dark. “Great,” she said. “How are we going to catch the killer if we can’t even see him? Wild Boy? Where are you?”

  Reaching through the dark, Wild Boy took her hand and placed it on his arm. He didn’t want to scare Clarissa by telling her what he’d seen behind them. There was enough to worry about with the golden-eyed man and his companions up ahead. But if there was someone else in this tunnel, they needed to get away fast.

  “Come on,” he said. “We gotta follow that crate.”

  “You mean the killer.”

  “Yeah, the killer.”

  They huddled closer and crept through the cobwebbed passage. For several minutes the only sound was their feet splashing in puddles that dotted the rough stone floor. They could still just see the golden-eyed man’s light up ahead. But Wild Boy kept glancing back too. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being followed.

  The tunnel grew colder, and so narrow that they could reach out and touch both walls. Wild Boy heard a rattle of carriages, like distant thunder, on a street somewhere above. Water dripped from the ceiling, and broken chunks of stone littered the ground.

  Clarissa’s hand tightened on Wild Boy’s arm. “I know what we should do,” she whispered.

  “Eh?”

  “After we catch the killer, I know what we should do. We should be partners. We could find anything, you and me. Crooks, lost dogs . . . People would pay us a fortune. But I’ll look after the money.”

  Wild Boy stopped. For a second he forgot all about the men ahead, and the danger behind. “Partners?” he said.

  “Yeah.” Suddenly Clarissa sounded less certain. “I mean, if you wanted. But fine if you don’t. I don’t care neither way. In fact, forget it, will you?”

  “No,” Wild Boy said. “I —”

  He was too stunned to speak. For so long he’d thought the only life he could ever have was alone and in a freak show. But now, maybe, there was another choice. . . .

  Just then he heard something splash in a puddle behind them. He turned and stared into the darkness. His heart began to beat harder, pounding against his rib cage.

  “We gotta go faster,” he breathed.

  Side by side, silent, they kept going. The path began to climb again. Ahead, they saw another light in the tunnel. But it wasn’t the golden-eyed man’s lantern. As they crept closer, it began to take shape.

  “A door,” Clarissa said. “They must’ve gone through.”

  This was the end of the tunnel — an iron slab set into the rough stone wall.

  Wild Boy couldn’t see a handle or lock — just a tiny curling crack, no bigger than the curve of a penny, right in the center of the door.

  “There’s no keyhole nowhere,” Clarissa said. “I can’t open it.”

  Wild Boy ran a finger over the crack, studying it curiously. There were tiny scratches around the edges, as if something metal had knocked against it. “I think . . . I think this is the keyhole,” he said.

  “Don’t look like none I’ve ever seen.”

  “No. It looks like a letter. . . .”

  He brought out Doctor Griffin’s ring and ran a fingertip over its raised letter G. Was it possible?

  Clarissa turned, staring down the tunnel. “What was that?” she hissed.

  “What?”

  “I heard something behind us.”

  There it was again — footsteps splashing closer. A dark shape cut through the cobwebs.

  “Wild Boy!” Clarissa said. “It’s him, the hooded man!”

  “Throw them rocks!”

  “What?”

  “Slow him down!”

  Clarissa grabbed a rock from the ground and hurled it into the dark, then another and another. “He’s still coming!”

  Wild Boy didn’t look back. He had to concentrate. He hoped he’d gotten this right. . . . He slid the ring over his finger and pressed it against the crack in the door. The raised letter G slotted perfectly into the thin groove. “It fits!” he said.

  “Open it, then!”

  Behind, the footsteps quickened into a run.

  Wild Boy turned the ring. Immediately the iron door began to tremble. He heard the whir of cogs turning inside, and then the clunk, thunk of a lock sliding.

  “Got it!” he cried.

  He shoved the door open and they tumbled through.

  Just as they slammed it shut again, something thumped against its other side. Wild Boy and Clarissa heaved against the iron slab, struggling to keep it closed. But slowly, the door began to open.

  “Push!”

  “I am pushing!”

  A gloved hand reached through and grasped Clarissa’s hair. She screamed, and Wild Boy leaped up and bit hard into the hand’s thumb. It shot back, but the door opened wider.

  Wild Boy looked over his shoulder, searching for anything to use as a weapon. He saw a torch crackling on a wall. “Hold the door!” he cried.

  Leaving Clarissa, he ran to the wall and snatched the torch from its bracket. Its iron handle scorched the hair on h
is wrist, but he held on tight as he rushed back to the door. He braced himself to stab the fire at whoever was on the other side. . . .

  But whoever it was, was gone.

  Clarissa finally closed the door and turned her pick in the lock. “It’s sealed.”

  They leaned against it, their breaths coming in ragged gasps.

  “That was him,” Clarissa said. “That must have been the hooded man. But the golden-eyed man was ahead of us.”

  Wild Boy nodded, still struggling to breathe.

  “That means he’s not the killer. So who is?” She took the torch and raised it against the dark. “And where are we now?”

  Wild Boy turned, taking in their new surroundings. They were in another passage, but it was very different to the rough stone tunnel they’d just passed through. The arched walls were smooth and carved at the top with faces of angels. Suits of armor stood along their sides, shimmering in the glare of fire torches that burned in iron brackets. In one direction was another metal door. In the other, a stone staircase spiraled up into the dark.

  “Maybe we should get the police,” Clarissa said. “Tell them that the killer’s in that tunnel. They could catch him.”

  There was no way Wild Boy was going to the police. He didn’t think they’d believe him even if he turned up with the hooded man wrapped in ribbons. “No,” he said. “The golden-eyed man will help us. He was after the killer an’ all. It’s him we gotta find.”

  But that wasn’t the only reason he wanted to find that man. The golden-eyed man was clearly in charge of the Gentlemen, and the Gentlemen had the machine. It was close, Wild Boy was sure.

  “So which way did he go?” Clarissa said.

  Wild Boy took another torch from the wall and swept the light around the ground. The Gentlemen carrying the crate had left heavy footprints in the dust near the iron door. But he couldn’t see any marks from the golden-eyed man’s cane.

  He turned. At the bottom of the stairs, another torch was missing from its bracket. He moved toward it, his eyes raking the floor for fresh clues.

  “This way,” he said.

  Clarissa followed him up the corkscrew passage. Their torches flickered, and shadows writhed on the walls. Distant noises drifted down the twisting staircase — the murmur of voices, and a buzzing like a swarm of bees.