heâd gathered about them â a standard procedure that Soames undertook with all his clients â the Immortals had little patience and their displeasure was meted out in spectacular, if dispassionate, ways. Yet he shuffled about his office, assembling his thoughts and sifting through options, until it was early morning, just as the city was rousing from its rest.
Jabez , he thought, with an unaccustomed tremor, perhaps theyâve found out.
It was impossible, but what if the Immortals had divined his plan to usurp them?
Of all his clients, the Immortals were the richest and, if his clandestine research was accurate, by far the most powerful. While dealing with them was lucrative, lately Soames had found his mind turning to something altogether more ambitious. It may have simply been a function of growing older, but he had begun to ask why he should settle for mundane and earthly riches if he could supplant the undying sorcerers. One life, after all, couldnât be enough for Jabez Soames. Not when he could inveigle his way into the Immortalsâ good graces, learn their secrets, betray and replace them. A simple plan, well suited to Soamesâs innumerable talents for duplicity, mendacity and treachery.
In a drawer of his desk â second from the bottom â he found his trusty British Bulldog and slipped it into his jacket pocket, adjusting it so the lines of the jacket werenât spoiled. The little snub-nosed pistol had served him well for years and the thought of using it again made him quite nostalgic.
Fortified, he took his bowler from the hatstand and spent a moment or two settling the brim before he acknowledged to himself that he was procrastinating.
The long mirror beside the door wasnât for procrastinating. It gave Soames a last chance to check an appearance that was important to him. Neat, straight and organised, he stepped through the door to find someone waiting for him in the corridor.
Even though Soames would never permit himself to feel frightened by an underling, the unexpectedness of the appearance of the Spawn took him aback so much that he collided quite painfully with the door frame. âI say,â he exclaimed, rubbing his elbow. âWhy donât you creatures announce yourself like a decent fellow would?â
The Immortals, eternally suspicious as they were, had difficulty trusting underlings unless they were totally under their thrall â like the Thuggees in India, if Soamesâs intelligence was accurate. This would have made their lot impossible if it werenât for the Spawn, their constant, ever-biddable minions. The Immortals kept a few in London while they were in India, attending to the upkeep of their lair and other sundry â and unpleasant â tasks. This one had the appearance of a City banker, right down to the bowler hat, striped trousers and umbrella, but anyone looking closely would soon see that the creature lacked even that animation granted to financial workers.
People loathed Spawn almost instinctively, Soames knew, which made them extremely useful as agents of fear. Heâd studied them as much as he was able. The horror they inspired came from the innumerable ways they were like humans, but lacking. Despite coming in a range of shapes and sizes, whenever they aped humanity, they betrayed their origins in a number of ways. The eyes, for instance, were consistently flat and without lustre; the eyes of the dead. They never blinked and the Spawn had a disconcerting habit of moving their heads to look about them instead of moving their eyes.
Unless they were concentrating, they often forgot to move their arms while they walked. They smelled of something that, if it wasnât corruption, Soames didnât want to know what it was.
What set Soamesâs teeth most on edge, however, was their skin. It, too, lacked vitality. It was dull and lifeless. Grey underneath the nominal pinkness.
âCome with me,â the
Jabez , he thought, with an unaccustomed tremor, perhaps theyâve found out.
It was impossible, but what if the Immortals had divined his plan to usurp them?
Of all his clients, the Immortals were the richest and, if his clandestine research was accurate, by far the most powerful. While dealing with them was lucrative, lately Soames had found his mind turning to something altogether more ambitious. It may have simply been a function of growing older, but he had begun to ask why he should settle for mundane and earthly riches if he could supplant the undying sorcerers. One life, after all, couldnât be enough for Jabez Soames. Not when he could inveigle his way into the Immortalsâ good graces, learn their secrets, betray and replace them. A simple plan, well suited to Soamesâs innumerable talents for duplicity, mendacity and treachery.
In a drawer of his desk â second from the bottom â he found his trusty British Bulldog and slipped it into his jacket pocket, adjusting it so the lines of the jacket werenât spoiled. The little snub-nosed pistol had served him well for years and the thought of using it again made him quite nostalgic.
Fortified, he took his bowler from the hatstand and spent a moment or two settling the brim before he acknowledged to himself that he was procrastinating.
The long mirror beside the door wasnât for procrastinating. It gave Soames a last chance to check an appearance that was important to him. Neat, straight and organised, he stepped through the door to find someone waiting for him in the corridor.
Even though Soames would never permit himself to feel frightened by an underling, the unexpectedness of the appearance of the Spawn took him aback so much that he collided quite painfully with the door frame. âI say,â he exclaimed, rubbing his elbow. âWhy donât you creatures announce yourself like a decent fellow would?â
The Immortals, eternally suspicious as they were, had difficulty trusting underlings unless they were totally under their thrall â like the Thuggees in India, if Soamesâs intelligence was accurate. This would have made their lot impossible if it werenât for the Spawn, their constant, ever-biddable minions. The Immortals kept a few in London while they were in India, attending to the upkeep of their lair and other sundry â and unpleasant â tasks. This one had the appearance of a City banker, right down to the bowler hat, striped trousers and umbrella, but anyone looking closely would soon see that the creature lacked even that animation granted to financial workers.
People loathed Spawn almost instinctively, Soames knew, which made them extremely useful as agents of fear. Heâd studied them as much as he was able. The horror they inspired came from the innumerable ways they were like humans, but lacking. Despite coming in a range of shapes and sizes, whenever they aped humanity, they betrayed their origins in a number of ways. The eyes, for instance, were consistently flat and without lustre; the eyes of the dead. They never blinked and the Spawn had a disconcerting habit of moving their heads to look about them instead of moving their eyes.
Unless they were concentrating, they often forgot to move their arms while they walked. They smelled of something that, if it wasnât corruption, Soames didnât want to know what it was.
What set Soamesâs teeth most on edge, however, was their skin. It, too, lacked vitality. It was dull and lifeless. Grey underneath the nominal pinkness.
âCome with me,â the
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