costumes worn by plague doctors centuries ago. Masks of death, some of the showmen called them.
Behind the mask, dark eyes glinted. The tip of the porcelain beak tapped the Professor’s spectacles as the hooded man leaned closer.
“Where is it?” he growled.
He struck the Professor around the face, shattering his lenses. With his other hand he lifted the old man clear off the ground. “Where is the machine?”
Blood trickled down the Professor’s forehead. He looked at his attacker through cracked black lenses. But it wasn’t fear that Wild Boy saw in the man’s eyes, it was sadness. Infinite sadness.
“I wish I had never built the thing,” the Professor said. “It is an unholy device. No one should have that power.”
“It is too late for that now, Henry,” replied the hooded man.
The Professor slid a shaky hand into his pocket. “No. Not too late. . . .”
He thrust a knife at his attacker. But he was too drunk, and too weak. The hooded man twisted his hand and rammed the blade into the Professor’s stomach.
Wild Boy reeled back in shock. He bashed against the workbench, and a copper rod rolled from the surface. “No!” he gasped.
The clatter of the rod echoed around the caravan.
Slowly he peered again through the wall.
The hooded man was gone.
He moved to another crack, then another. Where was he?
Where the hell was he?
The door handle turned.
Wild Boy edged back, groping for anything to use as a weapon. His hand landed on one of the jars from the worktable. He held it closer, saw golden liquid bubble inside.
The van door creaked open and moonlight trickled through. The hooded man appeared in the doorway — a ragged silhouette with a white-beaked face. “Is that you, boy?” he said. “Are you in here?”
The jar trembled in Wild Boy’s hands.
Fight,
he urged himself.
Fight while you still can!
He sprung up and hurled the liquid. It splashed over the mask, and the man stepped back in shock. Seizing his chance, Wild Boy burst past him and hurled himself through the door.
He tumbled down the caravan steps and crawled to where Professor Wollstonecraft lay curled in the mud. The old scientist’s shirt was torn and sopping with blood. Sliding even closer, Wild Boy pressed desperately on the wounds. Blood soaked the hair on his hands as he pressed even harder, crying out, “Professor! Wake up! Please!”
But Professor Wollstonecraft was dead.
“Boy,” a voice said.
The hooded man emerged from the caravan.
Wild Boy broke into a staggering run. He had to get help, had to tell someone what had happened. Barely thinking, he pelted past the circus pay box and into the big top. “Murder!” he cried. “There’s been a murder!”
The clowns in the ring stopped tumbling and stared.
The audience in their seats stopped cheering and stared.
High above, Clarissa Everett stood on her tightrope, and stared.
Wild Boy stumbled forward, breathless with fear. Professor Wollstonecraft’s blood dripped from his hands and stained the sawdust. He couldn’t stop shaking. He tried to speak, but the words didn’t come out properly. “There’s . . . Murder . . .”
The tent dissolved into chaos. The scaffold shuddered and screams rang out as the audience fled their seats, terrified by this creature covered in blood.
“It’s a bear!” someone said.
“Is it rabid? It’s rabid!”
“No!” Wild Boy said. “Listen to me. . . .”
Someone shoved him away, and he tripped and fell into the sawdust.
“Everyone get back!” a voice roared.
Mary Everett limped into the tent, one arm leaning on her crutch. In her other arm she held a shotgun, and it was aimed at Wild Boy.
Wild Boy cowered, covering his head. “Don’t shoot!” he yelled. “I ain’t no animal!”
The ringmaster didn’t shoot, but nor did she lower her gun. “It’s no bear,” she said. “It’s a bloody freak.”
“Please . . .” Wild Boy said. He was desperate to explain, but now another voice called from
Behind the mask, dark eyes glinted. The tip of the porcelain beak tapped the Professor’s spectacles as the hooded man leaned closer.
“Where is it?” he growled.
He struck the Professor around the face, shattering his lenses. With his other hand he lifted the old man clear off the ground. “Where is the machine?”
Blood trickled down the Professor’s forehead. He looked at his attacker through cracked black lenses. But it wasn’t fear that Wild Boy saw in the man’s eyes, it was sadness. Infinite sadness.
“I wish I had never built the thing,” the Professor said. “It is an unholy device. No one should have that power.”
“It is too late for that now, Henry,” replied the hooded man.
The Professor slid a shaky hand into his pocket. “No. Not too late. . . .”
He thrust a knife at his attacker. But he was too drunk, and too weak. The hooded man twisted his hand and rammed the blade into the Professor’s stomach.
Wild Boy reeled back in shock. He bashed against the workbench, and a copper rod rolled from the surface. “No!” he gasped.
The clatter of the rod echoed around the caravan.
Slowly he peered again through the wall.
The hooded man was gone.
He moved to another crack, then another. Where was he?
Where the hell was he?
The door handle turned.
Wild Boy edged back, groping for anything to use as a weapon. His hand landed on one of the jars from the worktable. He held it closer, saw golden liquid bubble inside.
The van door creaked open and moonlight trickled through. The hooded man appeared in the doorway — a ragged silhouette with a white-beaked face. “Is that you, boy?” he said. “Are you in here?”
The jar trembled in Wild Boy’s hands.
Fight,
he urged himself.
Fight while you still can!
He sprung up and hurled the liquid. It splashed over the mask, and the man stepped back in shock. Seizing his chance, Wild Boy burst past him and hurled himself through the door.
He tumbled down the caravan steps and crawled to where Professor Wollstonecraft lay curled in the mud. The old scientist’s shirt was torn and sopping with blood. Sliding even closer, Wild Boy pressed desperately on the wounds. Blood soaked the hair on his hands as he pressed even harder, crying out, “Professor! Wake up! Please!”
But Professor Wollstonecraft was dead.
“Boy,” a voice said.
The hooded man emerged from the caravan.
Wild Boy broke into a staggering run. He had to get help, had to tell someone what had happened. Barely thinking, he pelted past the circus pay box and into the big top. “Murder!” he cried. “There’s been a murder!”
The clowns in the ring stopped tumbling and stared.
The audience in their seats stopped cheering and stared.
High above, Clarissa Everett stood on her tightrope, and stared.
Wild Boy stumbled forward, breathless with fear. Professor Wollstonecraft’s blood dripped from his hands and stained the sawdust. He couldn’t stop shaking. He tried to speak, but the words didn’t come out properly. “There’s . . . Murder . . .”
The tent dissolved into chaos. The scaffold shuddered and screams rang out as the audience fled their seats, terrified by this creature covered in blood.
“It’s a bear!” someone said.
“Is it rabid? It’s rabid!”
“No!” Wild Boy said. “Listen to me. . . .”
Someone shoved him away, and he tripped and fell into the sawdust.
“Everyone get back!” a voice roared.
Mary Everett limped into the tent, one arm leaning on her crutch. In her other arm she held a shotgun, and it was aimed at Wild Boy.
Wild Boy cowered, covering his head. “Don’t shoot!” he yelled. “I ain’t no animal!”
The ringmaster didn’t shoot, but nor did she lower her gun. “It’s no bear,” she said. “It’s a bloody freak.”
“Please . . .” Wild Boy said. He was desperate to explain, but now another voice called from
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