The Eyre Affair (Thursday Next 1)

Bowden moved across to where Victor was standing.

“Quite a girl,” murmured Victor.

“We’re going to be married,” answered Bowden matter-of-factly.

Victor frowned and looked at him.

“Love is like oxygen, Bowden. When’s the happy day?”

“Oh, she doesn’t know yet,” replied Bowden, sighing. “She is everything a woman should be. Strong and resourceful, loyal and intelligent.”

Victor raised an eyebrow.

“When do you suppose you’ll ask her?”

Bowden was staring after the taillights of the car.

“I don’t know. If Spike is in the sort of trouble that I think he is, perhaps never.”

17.

SpecOps-17: Suckers & Biters

. . . I made the assistance calls as a matter of course; had done since Chesney was pulled to the shadows. Never expected anyone to come; was just my way of saying “Ho, guys! I’m still out here!” Nope, never expected it. Never expected it at all . . .

OFFICER “SPIKE” STOKER

—interview in Van Helsing’s Gazette

WHERE ARE you, Spike?”

There was a pause and then:

“Thursday, think hard before you do this—”

“I have, Spike. Give me your location.”

He told me and after a quarter of an hour I pulled up outside the senior school at Haydon.

“I’m here, Spike. What do you need?”

His voice came back on the wireless, but this time slightly strained.

“Lecture room four, and hurry; in the glove box of my black & white you’ll find a medical kit—”

There was a yell and he stopped transmitting.

I ran across to where Spike’s squad car stood in the dark entrance of the old college. The moon passed behind a cloud and blackness descended; I felt an oppressive hand fall across my heart. I opened the car door and rummaged in the glove box. I found what I was looking for: a small zippered leather case with STOKER embossed on the front in faded gold lettering. I grabbed it and ran up the front steps of the old school. The interior was gloomily lit by emergency lighting; I flicked a panel of switches but the power was out. In the meager light I found a signboard and followed the arrows toward lecture room four. As I ran down the corridor I was aware of a strong odor; it matched the sullen smell of death I had detected in the boot of Spike’s car when we had first met. I stopped suddenly, the nape of my neck twitching as a gust of cold wind caught me. I turned around abruptly and froze as I noticed the figure of a man silhouetted against the dim glow of an exit light.

“Spike?” I murmured, my throat dry and my voice cracking.

“I’m afraid not,” said the figure, walking softly toward me and playing a torch on my face. “It’s Frampton; I’m the janitor. What are you doing here?”

“Thursday Next, SpecOps. There’s an officer in need of assistance in lecture room four.”

“Really?” said the janitor. “Probably followed some kids in. Well, you’d better come with me.”

I looked at him carefully; a glint from one of the exit lights caught the metallic gold of a crucifix around his throat. I breathed a sigh of relief.