The Claws of Evil - By Andrew Beasley Page 0,10

more hours with monkeyshines and skylarks; a matchstick seller, praying for one last sale before bedding down. What there wasn’t, as far as Ben could see, was a man in a long black coat, carrying a sword and looking for him.

He chose to believe that he had imagined the feeling that he was being stalked, but by the time he reached his front door, his nerves felt as frayed as old rope. With one more furtive glance, he turned the key in the lock and he was in, almost tumbling over the doorstep to be swallowed up by the shadows of the hall.

Made it.

Ben enjoyed his triumph for a whole second before he realized he was not alone. A deep voice spoke to him from the darkness of the hallway, and the hairs stood proud on his neck.

“What’s this, Ben Kingdom?”

A red glow on the stairs and the soft crackle of burning tobacco led Ben’s eyes to a filthy old pipe, and behind that, sucking away at its stem, a filthy old man.

To his relief, Ben realized that it wasn’t the Weeping Man waiting to take him away, or Jago Moon with more helpful messages of impending doom; it was only Mr. Wachowski, the ageing Polish sailor who shared their crowded boarding house.

“Made you jump, didn’t I?” said Mr. Wachowski, who clearly thought this was a joke worthy of the finest music hall. By means of an encore he followed it up with a phlegm-rattling cough that was the best laugh he could manage with the lungs he had left.

“No,” Ben lied defiantly. “You didn’t.”

Jago Moon followed Benjamin Kingdom all the way from the Jolly Tar, only content that he was safe when he heard the front door click shut.

Stupid boy, he thought to himself; so wrapped up in his stories and world of make-believe that he didn’t realize he was already part of the greatest adventure of them all. You even need a blind old man to make sure you get home in one piece.

Although his eyes were worthless, showing him a murky world of shadows and ghosts, Jago Moon’s hearing was exceptional. Since his sight had been stolen from him many years ago, he had trained his mind and body every day, learning to detect even the most subtle nuance in the air around him. He was able to pick out one voice in a crowded room and know how far away the talker was. He could picture what they were wearing by the sound of their clothes: silk swished, cotton chafed, linen rasped, crinoline rustled, wool muffled. He knew a spider was crawling up a wall by the drumming of its legs; could tell the difference between more than a dozen different tobaccos just by the sound of their burning.

Moon had also discovered that a man’s footstep was as unique as his face. Length of stride told him everything he needed to know about height; the heaviness of the footfall revealed weight, build, balance and bearing. A nervous man had a hesitant step; a self-assured man walked with a confident stride, his heels striking the ground like the snap of a whip. Soldiers walked differently to sailors, to costermongers, to bankers, to idlers.

Ben had been easy to follow and, from the sound of his gait, some of his usual cockiness had left him, which had to be a good thing. He was wearing the same boots that he always did, the ones that were too big and slopped around the skinny feet inside. He had walked home cautiously, putting more weight on his toes than normal. Three times he had scuffed on the cobbles when he’d tried to hurry; another telltale sign of someone who was scared.

Ben was right to be afraid, thought Moon. If the Watchers knew his name then the Legion wouldn’t be far behind.

Moon smiled with the few teeth he owned. He had jumped out of his skin when he felt the raw power flowing from Ben’s hand. There had always been a sneaky suspicion in the back of Moon’s mind that there was something special about the boy, but he had never thought that Ben Kingdom might be the one to fulfil the prophecy.

Me ears are good, but even I can’t hear hair colour, he thought, his smile widening.

Benjamin Kingdom, who’d have thought it? How might a cocky lad with a smart tongue and a knack for finding trouble be transformed into the Hand of Heaven, the leader whose wisdom and self-sacrifice would