3. Wild Hunt

3. Wild Hunt

Nox smiled, revving his Harley-Davison V-Rod. They had good prey today. The lad was cunning. Brave, too. But the end was near now. They had him trapped on a footbridge that arched over the motorway, both ends blocked by Nox's men. No escape. So often they ended up hunting some low-life waster who barely knew what was going on. It was too easy then, the fun all over in a couple of minutes. But this was more like it. They'd flushed him out of a Salford doorway two hours ago, waking him from his slumber amid stinking blankets. He'd given them good sport ever since.

Nox turned to look at the phalanx of bodyguards waiting patiently behind him. His glance told them to be ready. Their motorcycles gleamed silver in the bright sun. Each wore a helmet so it was impossible to see their face, but they all nodded, awaiting his command. Nox rode with no helmet, preferring to feel the wind in his hair, hear the shouts and screams. He loved everything about this. The throb and roar of the bikes. The sweet smell of burning fuel. The thrill of the chase. The kill.

He pulled the baton from its holster on the bike: a long, elegant bar of brushed steel, its tip decorated with a spiral pattern of conical spikes. It felt good to hold it in his hand. He practised a few strokes. It was an intimate weapon, preferable to the sleek little gun he carried strapped to his thigh. The gun was reliable; its intelligent sighting and ballistic control system meant he couldn't really miss his target. But that made it too easy. The baton gave the prey a fighting chance.

He climbed off his bike and walked forward. The lad backed away, panic clear on his filthy face. Nox practised a few more strokes. He would take this slowly. Savour it. There was no hurry.

“You've done well,” called Nox. “Really, you have. But now it's over.”

The lad froze, wild eyes darting. Then, once again, he did something unexpected. He clambered over the fencing that lined the walkway to perch with shaking legs on the footbridge's struts, thirty feet above the motorway. The traffic thundered beneath him, the roar and rush filling the air. He stopped there, grasping the rail behind him, looking down in terror. He had only to let go to plunge to his death.

Nox charged. He wouldn't be denied now. One blow at least, that was all he asked. The prey glanced up, looking Nox straight in the eye. Then back at the traffic. He let go even as Nox swung.

The baton caught empty air. Cursing, Nox peered over the rail. He expected to see the prey's mangled body on the carriageway. Cars swerving to avoid it. But there was nothing. How could that be? He turned to the other side of the bridge. A container lorry thundered away up the road. And there, perching on top, sat the prey.

The lad waved. He actually waved.

Nox struck the railing with his hand in frustration. Then he ran to his bike. The chase was still on. He'd been away from the office too long, but he pushed the thought aside. He wasn't going to give up now. And when they did finally catch this one it would be all the sweeter.

As he mounted his bike he barked out orders to his men, arranging them into a pursuit pattern.

They caught up with the prey an hour later. They'd followed him all across the city as he hopped from vehicle to vehicle. But they had him now. Nowhere left to run. The side-street upon which they waited was a narrow, dusty dead-end. On one side was the gable end of a house, a triangle on top of a square, everything made from red bricks the colour of dried blood. On the other side lay a rectangle of derelict land, as if the house there had simply disappeared one night. Scrubby, stunted bushes grew in the space, decorated with rustling plastic bags, the toxic fruit of this small urban orchard.

Nox turned his attention to the dots on his military-grade GPS, each representing one of his men as they moved through the maze of streets. Here in the badlands of Longsight it was impossible to track any other way. Row after row of the same houses, thousands of them packed together in bland, ugly estates. How did people even manage to find their own homes? Really, it was remarkable. Caution was essential. There were too many dead-ends and cul-de-sacs. Ginnels too narrow for a bike to get down. Walls a desperate man could scale. They weren't going to lose him again.

The dots formed a circle around the prey. Nox watched as they followed the pattern he'd dictated. So much of his life was spent doing this. Directing things from afar. Manipulating figures on screens. Subtly influencing events. Which he was very good at. Still, he often resented the remoteness of it. Another reason he loved the hunt. It was good to get your hands dirty from time to time.

The circle shrank, a noose tightening around the prey. Excellent. Not long now. He readied his gun. No time to use the baton. He'd already been away far too long. He resisted the temptation to check in with Central Control, make sure everything was running smoothly. Of course it was. He was just nervous because of the imminent arrival of their visitor.

He tried to put that out of his mind, too. Everything was in place. It wasn't unknown for such visits to happen. There'd been several over the centuries. And there could be many reasons for one now. Certainly his performance couldn't be called into question. Genera had met and surpassed all its targets. Profits were vast, for all that mattered. Raw tonnage was high and rising. And the refinery piped huge amounts of Spirit. Attention to detail, that was what he brought to the table. He'd given them reliability. No. There could be no possible problem.

The more he thought about it, the more likely reason for the visit was a reward. Recognition. Perhaps he would be offered the promotion, the

ascension

he so craved. At long last. It would explain the personal visit. His masters had to be careful, of course. Had to protect themselves. He would be grilled to ensure this was what he really wanted, that he was ready, that he was right. There was no doubt in his mind he was.

A call interrupted these delicious thoughts, the bike relaying it to the tiny transceiver he wore as a silver stud in his ear. This would be it; the men had spotted the prey. He revved his engine, savouring the great growl of the machine through his body like the deep laughter of a demon. Behind him, one of his men's horns blared, a hunting call over the rush of the cars on the nearby main road.

“Do you have him?” he asked.

But it was Central Control, not one of his men.

“I have a message for you, Mr. Nox.”

He scowled. It had better be something important. He'd left strict instructions. “What is it? Has our visitor arrived early?”

“No, sir. But one of the monitors has detected an electromagnetic anomaly.”

“Where?”

“In Manchester. The Central Library.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes, sir. The readings are quite clear. Something came through 30 seconds ago.”

Damn. He couldn't ignore this. He'd prepared too long for this. Those old fragments of paper had hinted there was an

archive

of some sort at both ends of the pathway between the worlds. He'd always suspected it would be a library. They watched them the world over, of course, but Manchester especially, after everything that had happened here.

“How many came through?”

“Just one.”

Nox calculated, gunning his engine again in frustration. They'd have to abandon the hunt, that was clear. And he

hated

to be beaten. But there was no choice. And this could work out very well. Their visitor due in a few days, and now this. Yes. It could work out very well indeed.

“Very well. Make sure you capture CCTV. And send soldiers. A lot of them. I'll go there myself.”

Without looking back he dropped his bike into gear and roared off toward the city centre, moving through traffic as if it wasn't there, his bodyguards filing in around him.

Somewhere behind them, at the end of an alley, a young man crouched in a wheelie-bin rank with the smell of old milk and rotting vegetables. Shaking, eyes wide, breathing panicky, he listened to the sound of engines as they faded into the distance.