Ben Aaronovitch: Moon Over Soho

“Statistically, you’re more likely to survive if you go feetfirst.”

“Why don’t you jump?” he said. “And then we can see.”

I felt it then, the seducere , stronger this time and bringing with it the smell of roast pork, freshly mown grass, the stink of unwashed bodies, and a metallic taste, like iron, in my mouth. I turned to the railings, paused, and then turned back.

“What did you say your name was again?” I asked.

“Jump,” barked Faceless.

He gave me his full attention but seducere never seems to work twice, and while he was using it on me he wasn’t using it on Simone.

“Run,” I yelled.

I saw Simone snap out of it first and pull at Peggy’s arm. They both shot me scared looks and then, thank God, grabbed Cherie and started climbing the parapet where it separated the roof garden from next door. I glanced back at Faceless just in time to see the swing of his shoulders as he threw out his arm in my direction. I recognized the gesture — I’d been practicing it myself for the last six months. This saved my life because I was already diving to the left when something bright and hot zipped past my shoulder and melted a two-foot hole in the railings. About where my stomach would have been if I hadn’t moved.

I flipped a couple of skinny grenades at him even as I was flying through the air, which would have been way more impressive if I hadn’t been trying for a straight fireball. As I skidded along the floor another chunk of railing melted behind me and I saw that one of my skinny mines had popped harmlessly in midair; the other fell out of the air and bounced to a stop at Faceless’s feet. He looked down and through pure luck it chose that moment to explode. The blast staggered him backward and twisted him around. I used the time to scramble to my feet and face him.

“Armed police,” I shouted. “Stand still and put your hands on your head.” This time I knew I had the right spell lined up.

He turned and stared at me. Despite the mask I could tell he was incredulous.

“You’re the police?” he asked.

“Armed police,” I said. “Turn around and put your hands on your head.”

I risked a glance to check that Simone and her sisters were off the roof.

“Oh, don’t worry about them,” said the man. “I’ve found something far more interesting than them. After all, I can always make more people like them.”

“Armed police,” I shouted again. “Turn around and put your hands on your head.” They make this very clear at Hendon: If you’re going to put the boot in, there must be no doubt that you identified yourself and that the suspect heard you.

“If you’re going to shoot,” he said. “Then shoot.”

So I shot him. It was worth it just for the obvious outrage it caused him and I enjoyed it right up until the point where he caught the bloody fireball. Just snatched it out of the air and held it, Yorick-like, in front of his face.

I’d released it as soon as it got near him but it hadn’t exploded. He twisted it this way and that as if examining it like a connoisseur, which perhaps he was — I figured he wanted me to lob another one at him so he could catch it or deflect it or do something else with annoying insouciance. So I didn’t. Besides, the more time he spent taunting me, the farther away Simone could get.

“You know,” he said, “when I first saw you I thought you were with the Thames girls, or a new sort of fae or something really outlandish like a witch doctor or an American.”

The man popped the fireball like a soap bubble and rubbed his thumb and finger under his nose. “Who trained you?” he asked. “Not Jeffers, that’s for certain. Not that he was without skill, but you’ve got spirit. Was it Gripper? He’s just the kind to bleat about what he’s doing. Have you noticed that about journalists — all they really want to talk about is themselves.”

Gripper was obviously Jason Dunlop. Dunlop tires, grip, Gripper — which gives you an indication of the lively wit promoted by our elite educational institutions. And Gripper obviously wasn’t the only one who wanted to talk. It’s no fun looking down on people if you can’t let them know you’re above them.

Come on, you bastard, I thought. Drop a few more names.

“You talk too little,” he said. “I don’t trust you.”

And suddenly the world was flooded with light and the massive downdraft from a helicopter blew dust and rubbish around our faces. He threw a fireball at me. I threw a chimney stack at him — that’s the London way.

I’d been working on loosening the chimney stack with what I call impello vibrato , but Nightingale called will you stop messing about and pay attention , while Faceless had been chatting. When the Nightsun searchlight from the police helicopter hit him in the face I created as pure an impello form as Nightingale could wish for and aimed it straight at the bastard. I knew he’d try to zap me, so I threw myself to the right and his fireball sizzled past my shoulder. I was hoping his gaze would automatically track me and not spot the quarter ton of brick and terra-cotta coming at him from the other direction, but he must have glimpsed it from the corner of his eye because he flung up his hand and the chimney stack disintegrated a foot short of his palm.

I didn’t get much more than a fleeting look as bits of brick, cement dust, and sand flowed around him, as if sliding across an invisible sphere, because I was too busy closing the distance between us. If we stuck to magic it was obvious he was going to bounce me around the rooftops, so I ran at him in the hope of getting close enough to smack him in the face.

I was close too, less than a yard away, but the fucker turned and stuck his palm at me and I ran smack into whatever it was he had used on the chimney. It wasn’t like hitting a Perspex wall. Instead it was slippery, like the wobbly sliding feeling you get when you try to push two magnets together. I went spinning onto my back and he strode toward me. I didn’t wait to find out whether he was planning to gloat or just kill me. Instead I reached out with impello to grab the cheap plastic garden table behind Faceless and slammed it into the back of his legs. He pitched forward and met both of my feet coming the other way.

“Fuck!” he yelled, loud enough to be heard over the helicopter.

I was up now and managed to get in one good punch to the face before something snarling and covered in fur barreled into me from the right. It was Tiger-Boy, who’d evidently kicked his way out through the roof door to reach us. We slammed into the parapet railing and it was only because I got a solid lock on a bar with my right hand that I didn’t go over and fall to my death. I rocked myself back onto the safety of the roof and looked up to see Tiger-Boy drawing back one heavily muscled arm ready to strike. He had claws on the ends of his fingers — what are you supposed to do against somebody with claws?

What with the noise of the helicopter, and my own fear, I didn’t hear the shot. I saw Tiger-Boy’s head jerk backward and behind him a spray of red was caught in the glare of the helicopter searchlight.

The cavalry had arrived, although I couldn’t tell whether it was Caffrey and his ex-paratroopers or a sniper from CO19, the armed wing of the Metropolitan Police. I made a pistol shape with my hand and jabbed it in the direction of Faceless. I hoped that the sniper was one of Caffrey’s mob because a CO19 officer probably wouldn’t shoot an apparently unarmed civilian at my mimed suggestion without proper authorization. Nine times out of ten anyway.

Faceless wasn’t stupid. He could see the odds had shifted. He threw one more fireball and I ducked — but it wasn’t aimed at me. It went up and a moment later the searchlight went out. I made a lunge for Faceless’s last known position but he was no longer there and by the time my eyes readjusted to the gloom I saw he was gone from the roof. Above me, the helicopter made a stuttering, clanking noise. It’s not the sort of sound you want to hear a helicopter making, especially when it’s right over your head.