Fidget tugged at his leash.
They turned westward and followed the river as far as Southwark Bridge before then turning inland. With his nose close to the ground, Fidget pulled the king's agent into a bystreet and from there into the depths of the borough.
Burton could see that the route the basset hound was following would probably be quiet at night but now it was past midday and the streets were thronged with citizens going about their business. Pushing their way through the crowds, the man and the dog passed through alley after alley, out of the borough and into Lambeth, through Lambeth and on to Vauxhall, until they finally emerged on Nine Elms Road. Here, the scent trail veered off the highway and through a hole in a wooden fence. It continued ahead, running parallel to the thoroughfare, and already Burton had an idea of the destination, for the sky in front of him was broken by four tall chimneylike structures.
Swinburne couldn't stop laughing.
His entire body hurt. He was bruised and lacerated and every injury was sending a thrill of pleasure coursing through his nerves.
Laurence Oliphant was being driven to a blind fury. He'd thrown down his sword cane, removed and dropped his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and was now setting about the poet with unrestrained viciousness.
Oh yes, he was going to kill the little man, but he'd be damned if he'd make it easy for the redheaded pipsqueak! No, a long, slow, terrifying death, that's what Swinburne was going to get.
So again and again he allowed his prey to reach that temptingly open door, and again and again he pounced on him at the last second and hurled him back into the courtyard.
And Swinburne laughed.
Oliphant circled the poet, grinned diabolically, swooped in, and struck. Swinburne spun into the air and thudded onto the ground, his clothes shredded, the skin beneath ripped.
He dragged himself along, a ragged, bloodied mess, his eyes wild, his giggle becoming a gurgle as blood streamed from his nose and split lips.
In four long strides, Oliphant was at his side.
"What are you?" gasped Swinburne. "One of Nurse Nightingale's foul experiments?"
"Shut your mouth!"
"What did she do to you, Oliphant?"
"She saved me."
"From what?"
"Death, Swinburne, death. I overindulged in opium, became an addict, and slipped into a coma in a Limehouse drug den. Miss Nightingale rescued the functioning parts of my brain and fused them with a humanised animal."
"What animal?"
"My white panther."
"Ah, that explains it!"
"Explains what?"
"The lingering odour of cat piss I smell every time you come close."
Oliphant emitted a ferocious hiss, grabbed the poet-one hand clutching the back of his neck, the other his right thigh-lifted him, whirled around, and flung him high into the air. Swinburne smashed into the base of a wall, dropped, rolled loosely, and lay still, his green eyes level with the ground, watching the albino's feet approaching.
Through bubbling blood, he croaked:
"Thou hast conquered, 0 pale Galilean;
The world has grown grey f -om thy breath;
We have drunken from things Lethean,
And fed on the fullness of death."
Oliphant bent over him. "Run, little man," he whispered. "Run for the door."
Swinburne rolled onto his back and looked up into the wicked pink eyes.
"Thank you," he mumbled. "But I have it in mind to lie here and compose a poem or two, if you don't mind."
"I mind," answered Oliphant. He grabbed the poet's throat and yanked him up. Then he lifted him off his feet, fingers tight around the skinny neck, and watched with interest as his victim's face began to darken.
Swinburne kicked and struggled, clutching at his assailant's wrists, but couldn't break free.
He caught sight of something over Oliphant's shoulder and suddenly relaxed, hanging limply.
Somehow, he managed to smile.
Oliphant looked at him in wonder.
A deep, commanding voice rang out: "Drop him!"
The albino whirled.
Sir Richard Francis Burton stood just inside the gate. He had picked Oliphant's swordstick up and held it, unsheathed, in his hand. At the adven turer's feet, a small dog backed toward the door, stepped through, and hid behind it, peeking out at Oliphant.
"Burton," breathed the albino.
He let go of Swinburne, who slumped to the ground and lay still, quietly chuckling.
"Come here, you bastard," snapped the king's agent.
"I'm unarmed," revealed Oliphant, walking forward with his arms spread wide.
"I don't care."
"That's not very gentlemanly."
"There are many who claim I am not a gentleman," noted Burton. "They call me Ruffian Dick. At this particular moment in time, it's a title I intend to live down to."
He suddenly sprang at Oliphant and thrust at his heart. The feline man twisted and jumped back, the point of the rapier catching and slicing his shirtsleeve.
"I'm too quick for you, Burton!" he panted, then, lightning fast, ducked down, pounced in, and swiped at the adventurer's thigh with his sharp talons.
Burton predicted the move and caught the albino's hand in his own.
"My reactions aren't bad either," he said.
His grip tightened and bones crunched.
Oliphant screamed.
Burton dropped the rapier and sent his fist crashing into the albino's jaw.
"And I think you'll find that I'm stronger."
With his left hand mercilessly breaking the bones in Oliphant's right, Burton set about pounding his opponent's face to a pulp. Blood spurted as the panther-man's nose snapped and flattened. Canine teeth broke. Skin tore.
Burton was thoroughly scientific about it. He revived the boxing skills of his youth, choosing where to strike with a cold detachment, timing his blows to perfection, measuring the damage to ensure that the albino suffered every crunching blow without slipping into unconsciousness.
It was more than punishment; it was torture, and Burton had no qualms about it.
As the beating continued, Fidget cautiously stepped back in through the door and began to skirt the wall toward Swinburne. Glancing repeatedly at his master, he padded around the edge of the big rectangular space then crept in until he reached Swinburne's feet. He sniffed at the blood-spattered boots, pushed his nose into the too-short trouser leg, then bit the skinny ankle.
"Yaargh!" screeched the poet.
Burton turned, and in that unguarded second, Laurence Oliphant ripped his mangled hand from the explorer's grasp and, with a sudden thrust of his legs, propelled himself away. He rolled, leaped to his feet, and sprinted to the huge doors of the power station. Perfectly balanced, they swung open at his touch and slammed shut behind him.
The king's agent, who'd instantly thrown himself after the albino, crashed into the doors, pushed them, pulled them, and realised that his enemy had escaped.
He hurried over to Swinburne and shoved Fidget away.
"Are you all right, Algy?"
"Bloody ecstatic, Richard."
"Can you walk?"
"I thought I could, then that blasted dog bit me!"
"Idiot. It was just a nip. Come on, up with you."
He slipped his arm beneath the poet's shoulders and heaved him upright. There was barely an inch of his friend that wasn't smeared with blood.
"I have to get you seen to as quickly as possible," he said. "We need to get this bleeding stopped."
"It was marvellous," gasped Swinburne. "I took everything he dished out! Was that courage, Richard?"
"Yes, Algy; that was courage."
"Splendid! Absolutely splendid! Oh, by the way, John Speke is in there."
Before Burton could reply, a howl echoed from the other end of the courtyard.
"Werewolves!" breathed the king's agent. "We've got to get out of here!"