The Claws of Evil - By Andrew Beasley Page 0,19

that would carry him, not caring which shore it was headed for. He paid the captain too much and, as soon as the deal was struck, he wasted no time in getting below decks. His only plan was to stay hidden in his cabin with the door locked until an ocean separated him from that merciless piece of silver.

Nazir turned the key in the lock and then sank to the floor, with his back against the door. It was cool and dark in his cramped cabin and a wooden shutter across the single porthole easily held back the feeble daylight. Perhaps if he could survive the voyage, endure the ceaseless pull of the Coin until he was totally beyond its reach, then he might have a chance to live again. Not that he deserved it, his conscience told him.

It was only then that he realized he was not alone. There were other shapes in the darkness.

His eyes strained against the dim light until they rested on a huddle of lean bodies in the far corner. Hashshashin, he thought; assassins come too late to steal the Coin. But the more he looked, the more he knew these were not mere men sent to kill him. Their limbs were disturbingly disproportionate; slightly too narrow, slightly too long. Fingers with nails as sharp and hard as bone. He could see their strong, wiry frames and naked skin which looked as if it had been stretched too tight over elongated muscles.

Things with the forms of men but with the heads and wings of eagles.

His religion taught him that demons were real. And Nazir el Hussain understood instantly why these ones had come for him.

“The Coin,” one of them hissed at him, its voice an ugly croak. “Where is the Coin?”

Nazir spread his arms and showed them his empty palms.

Another of the creatures opened its beak and issued a harsh shriek. They observed Nazir for one more second and then fell on him as one; a sudden rush of talons and feathers as black as the night.

“The Coin!” they screamed. “Where is the Coin?”

Nazir el Hussain did not resist the embrace of the Feathered Men, not even as they ripped his flesh and began to feast on his body. For a minute he lay twitching on the floor as his soft innards gave way to the rampage of their beaks.

“Kingdom,” he said at last. Then he twitched no more.

Perhaps death would bring him the peace that he longed for.

“Anyone about?” asked Jonas Kingdom.

“Not that I can see, Pa,” Ben replied from his lookout post in their bedroom doorway. He was watching the landing to make sure that Mrs. Mac or any of the other residents didn’t come upstairs to pay them an unexpected call.

Satisfied that they were alone, Jonas rolled back his mattress and set about gently loosening a short piece of floorboard, rocking it back and forth until it quietly came free in his hand. This was where the Kingdoms hid their wealth, such as it was, amid the dust and the mouse droppings. At the last count, their combined savings amounted to two shillings and eleven pence: the price of a new pair of boots, although none of them imagined that the money would be squandered on such a luxury.

This Coin would turn their fortunes around, his father was right about that.

Although he was meant to be watching the stairs, Ben’s eyes never left the Coin. Not for a second. He had never seen anything so fascinating before.

And it was then that he decided he would take it to Professor Carter anyway.

Where was the harm in that?

The Feathered Men were always at their most passive when they had finished gorging. Now Carter spoke with them, if not as their friend, then at least not as their prey.

Carter had accumulated a great many languages in his travels; he was fluent in Mongolian, Russian, Swahili, Mandarin, Gujarati and many obscure tribal dialects, as well as the French, Spanish, German and Portuguese of the less adventurous traveller. Often he found that his claw could speak louder than words, but sometimes a more subtle message needed to be conveyed.

The language of the Feathered Men was ugly on the tongue, all clicks and soft palette noises, interspersed with shrill shrieks. It was not a rich idiom, it lacked beauty and rhythm; although it did contain forty-five different words for killing, Carter noted. Most importantly, by learning it, Carter had made himself the only one who could communicate with