Page 74 of Angel of Vengeance

She raised her machete to distract Constance just as the figure, whom she recognized as Trotter, used a broken board to slam Constance across the back of her head. The young woman was knocked to one side, yet somehow managed to slash Trotter across the neck as she recovered her balance. But it was just the opening Decla needed and she lunged forward, thrusting the blade deep into the bitch’s vitals.

Constance’s eyes went wide and she fell onto the debris-strewn floor, clutching her abdomen and trying to stem the flow of blood from the wound. Decla stepped back and gave a whoop of triumph, raising her arms. Her opponent was a goner, gut cut like that—but there would be time and pain before the end came.

Giving a second victory cry, she glanced over to where Constance had stood a moment earlier and saw Trotter. The hand that had held the board was now pressed against his neck where the knife had cut him.

Suddenly, as she stared, Trotter’s head vanished into a pinkish mass of blood, brains, and fluid. It was as if someone had taken a baseball bat to a balloon filled with butcher’s offal—while a deafening report boomed through the room.

She whirled around and saw a pale highwayman emerge from the dust like a ghost, gun pointed; a great explosion of white light was followed immediately by a devastating blow to her head—and then, sudden darkness.

65

D’AGOSTA HEARD THE TWO shots and, waving away the clouds of dust, saw Pendergast kneeling over someone on the floor—Constance, gasping, lying in a pool of blood. Nearby were two figures, their heads mostly gone. Muffled cries, moans, and calls for help came from scattered spots under the collapsed ceiling, primarily from the far end of the room.

“The children,” Constance said in a whisper. “The children got out.”

“We’re going to get you out, too,” Pendergast told her.

He eased Constance onto her back. Pulling off his coat, he tore it into strips, balled up one of them, and pressed it hard against her abdomen; Constance cried out once, then fainted. He then tied the remaining strips around her midriff in an improvised tourniquet.

“Go first and clear the way!” he called to D’Agosta, heaving Constance up and draping her over his shoulders. “Keep an eye out for any resistance!”

D’Agosta stumbled forward, Pendergast calling out directions through the wrecked house. They had to negotiate fallen beams and push aside sections of plaster and lath. The fire above was now working its way down with frightening speed, filling the corridors with smoke. They ran into a couple of Milk Drinkers, but they were disoriented and terrified, trying to find their own way out; the two groups ignored each other.

Finally they reached the central staircase and descended to the main floor. A tremendous amount of destruction in the reception area blocked the front door. Turning, Pendergast directed them through the salon instead.

“Take that battle-axe,” he said as they passed a suit of armor.

D’Agosta wrenched it from the knight’s hand with a rattle of steel. He’d always wondered if these suits of armor on display were real or not—he wondered no more; the axe weighed at least twenty pounds. They continued around to the side of the house to an oaken door. D’Agosta tried it, found it locked.

“Use the axe!” Pendergast said.

With a mighty swing, D’Agosta split the door down the middle; two more strikes opened it wide.

Pendergast carried Constance outside. They paused, coughing from the smoke and sucking in the fresh air. D’Agosta peered into the fading light; they had exited on the northern side of the mansion.

“Vincent,” Pendergast said, “go around to the mews and get the carriage.”

But just as D’Agosta was turning to run, wondering how the hell he was going to drive a carriage—assuming its horses were even hitched—there came a clatter of hooves… and then Leng’s barouche came flying out from behind the house and onto the drive. Murphy, sitting in the coachman’s seat, pulled on the reins and halted the stamping animals.

“Oh, my dear Lord!” Murphy cried, seeing Pendergast holding Constance, the two of them covered in blood.

“Who’s driving the clarence?” D’Agosta asked.

“Gosnold, sir. He insisted on coming along. Shall we follow them back to the mansion, guv?”

“No!” Pendergast said as he eased Constance’s body into the coach. He leapt in behind as D’Agosta climbed up next to Murphy.

“Longacre Square!” cried Pendergast. Then he murmured, to himself rather than the unconscious Constance: “That signal from Diogenes is our only chance.”

“Hyaa!” Murphy shook the reins and the horses took off at a gallop.

66

TWENTY MINUTES AFTER LEAVING the chaos at the Grand Circle, Diogenes pulled up at the fortified entrance to the alleyway. Bloom must have been waiting just inside, because now he pushed his way past a couple of burly roustabouts and stepped onto the pavement.

“Milord!” he said, looking Diogenes up and down. “What’s happened? Have you been accosted?”

Diogenes realized the man was referring to his once-resplendent outfit, now bereft of its ruffles and lace. He was also covered with soot and ash. Above the tops of the buildings on the north side of the avenue, the conflagration was still visible: the tower of fire had subsided, but black smoke was belching upward as thickly as ever.

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