Burton & Swinburne 1 - The Strange Affair Of Spring Heeled Jack by Mark Hodder Read Free Book Online Page B

listen!”
    All of a sudden, Burton felt icily sober.
    Fingers dug into his hair and yanked his head up. He felt an agonisingly powerful static charge coursing through his body. His arms and legs twitched spasmodically.
    Red eyes glared into his.
    “I'll not tell you again. Leave me alone!”
    “W-what?” gasped Burton.
    “Just stay out of it! The affair is none of your damned business!”
    “What affair?”
    “Don't play the innocent! I don't want to kill you, but I swear to you, if you don't keep your nose out of it, I'll break your fucking neck!”
    “I have no idea what you're talking about!” protested Burton.
    His head was shaken violently, causing his teeth to clack together.
    “I'm talking about you organising forces against me! It's not what you're meant to be doing! Your destiny lies elsewhere. Do you understand?”
    The creature rammed its forearm into Burton's face.
    “I said, do you understand?”
    “No! ”
    “Then I'll spell it out for you,” growled the stilt-man. Dragging Burton around, it slammed him against the wall, drew back its arm, and sent a fist crashing into the explorer's mouth.
    “Do what-”
    Again. Crack!
    -you're supposed-"
    Crack!
    -to do!"
    Burton sagged back against the bricks. He mumbled through split lips, “How can I possibly know what I'm supposed to do?”
    The fingers in his hair jerked him up until he was looking directly into the thing's eyes, which stared down, inches from his own. They burned redly, and Burton realised that his attacker was completely insane.
    Blue flame leaped from the thing's head and licked at the explorer's brow, scorching his skin.
    “You are supposed to marry Isabel and be sent from one fucking miserable consulship to another. Your career is supposed to peak in three years when you debate the Nile question with Speke and the silly sod shoots himself dead. You are supposed to write books and die.”
    Burton braced his legs against the wall.
    “What the hell are you babbling about?” he demanded, in a stronger voice. “The debate was cancelled. Speke shot himself yesterday-but he's not dead!”
    The creature's eyes widened.
    “No!” it whispered. “No!” It gritted its teeth and snarled, “I'm a historian! I know what happened. It was 1864 not 1861. I know-”
    A look of bemusement passed over its gaunt, horrible features.
    “God damn it! Why does it have to be so complicated?” it whispered to itself. “Maybe if I kill you? But if the death of just one person has already done all this-?”
    Burton, feeling the fingers loosening, took his chance. He jerked his head free, shoved his shoulder into his attacker's stomach, then threw himself sideways.
    The apparition teetered back to the opposite wall. It clutched at it for balance and glared at Burton as he regained his footing. They stood facing each other.
    “Listen to me, you bastard!” snapped the creature. “For your own good, next time you see me, don't come near!”
    “I don't know you!” objected Burton. “And, believe me, if I never see you again, I'll not regret it one iota!”
    Lightning exploded from the apparition's chest and danced across the ground. The stilt-man cried out in agony, almost falling.
    Suddenly, its wild eyes dimmed and Burton saw a brief glimmer of reason in them. It looked down at itself, then at him, and in low tones said, “The irony is that I'm running out of time. You're in my way, and you're making the situation much worse.”
    “What situation? Explain!” snapped the explorer.
    The uncanny, spindly figure stepped forward and the irises of its eyes narrowed to pinpricks.
    “Marry the bitch, Burton. Settle down. Become consul in Fernando Po, Brazil, Damascus, and wherever the fuck else they send you. Write your damned books. But, above all, leave me alone! Do you understand? Leave me the fuck alone!”
    It crouched low, glared at him, and suddenly straightened its legs, shooting vertically into the air.
    Burton twisted his head to look up. His