The river was chill that night and the rain pitched down in slashes. Soames had managed to position himself in the wheelhouse because the captain was a hireling of his, one usually given to smuggling and illicit deliveries up and down the Thames, a time-honoured Demimonde trade. If the captain were asked, and if paid for his response, Soames was sure that he’d divulge that this was one of the stranger deliveries he’d ever made. The more he were paid, the more he’d expound on the various strangenesses, including the time of day (near midnight), the destination (just past Greenwich) and the passengers (brawny men – very brawny men – muffled, swaddled and hooded as if on a polar expedition and prepared to sit cross-legged on the open deck despite the rain and despite a perfectly good hold they could settle themselves in).

Soames had no intention of dispelling any of this. He’d found that a reputation for the mysterious was almost as helpful as a reputation for violence. A combination of both, naturally, was the way to comport oneself in the Demimonde, if one wanted to maintain a level of pride.

It would do no good, for instance, to reveal to the skipper that his passengers hated the thought of river travel. Enclosing themselves in the hold – perhaps even below the level of the water – was the stuff of nightmare for them. Huddling on the deck was their way of coping with what they saw as the unnaturalness of this mode of transport.

Soames was proud of his capacity to work with the Neanderthals. Sporadic though his commissions from these most private of Demimonde denizens had been, he was confident that he could deal with them again and perhaps make them good, steady customers. He knew they hated humanity with a passion beyond words, which limited their interactions with outsiders. Many years ago, after tense and guarded negotiations, he had convinced the Neanderthals that he could be the trusted intermediary they needed. He had made the most of this opportunity. It had been much to his profit, even if he still had trouble with the way they looked at him, as if wondering how stringy he’d be.

There was no doubting, though, that they prepared well for any excursions beyond their secret lair. Underneath their heavy coats, each of the Neanderthals carried firearms of their own construction, each different from the one his comrades bore. They also had heavy hand-to-hand weapons. Most were clearly derived from clubs, but a few were more medieval – giant-sized axes and maces. They hefted these with ease, single-handed, even though Soames was sure he couldn’t have lifted them with both hands.

Soames had been delighted that the frivolities at the White City had acted like a huge plughole, drawing people from across London towards Shepherd’s Bush. It meant that the river was quiet and the Greenwich area empty. All the craft tied up were dark. Soames had the warm feeling that signalled that things were falling into place.

The boat pulled in. The Neanderthals nearest the bow made her fast just in time to get out of the way of their comrades, who lost no time vaulting over the gunwales. For such bulky people, Soames noted, they moved quietly, landing softly and in a crouch, ready and alert.

In a show of her seniority and courage, Damona waited for him before she disembarked. ‘Your captain,’ she said to Soames, ‘he won’t leave without us?’

Soames looked back at the wheelhouse. The captain was relighting his pipe. The flare of the match threw light over his deep-set eyes and grey beard. ‘Not if he knows what’s good for him. And for his bank balance.’

‘Greed.’ Damona eyed the wheelhouse. ‘Your people are different from mine.’

‘Your people aren’t greedy?’

‘Not for gold.’

Soames let the matter drop.

The Neanderthal woman had gathered twenty of her kin for the attack and had looked askance at Soames when he asked if they’d be enough, and her disdain made him uneasy. Matters hadn’t been helped when he overheard two of the brawnier youngsters mutter, ‘Say what you like about Invaders – at least they’re tasty.’

Business is business, Jabez, he reminded himself, and the thought comforted him. Business always did.

As the rain tumbled, he joined the Neanderthals on the jetty. They looked to him, eyes deep in their hoods catching the light. He was dressed sensibly in a mackintosh, but his top hat was suffering so he thrust up his umbrella and marched off towards the old Naval College.

The edifice was dark, with its Christopher Wren facade affording many places for shadows to flock and cling. Soames strode through the central courtyard, striving to give the appearance of someone who had every right to be there. Damona’s band crept close to the sides of the building. Soames decided that if challenged, he would simply evince horror at being pursued by a horde of monsters and run for his life.

They skirted the Palladian elegance of the Queen’s House and then it was the open expanse of Greenwich Park. This prospect had concerned Soames, but in the end the rain was of such tumultuous proportions that he was sure a battleship could have sailed across the sward without being seen.

The Royal Observatory loomed over the park. A few lights were on, but Soames wasn’t concerned. His goal, after all, wasn’t what lay on top of the hill, but what lay under it.

Long ago, the Immortals had extended some of the underground chambers that were part of the old tower standing there, a haunt of Henry VIII. They constructed a lair directly underneath, and made use of the many conduits, drains and tunnels criss-crossing the park, some of which originally joined the tower to old Greenwich Castle on the riverbank.

Whenever facing a customer, client or potential foe, Soames made it his duty to find out as much as he could about them. This meant that he knew entirely too much about bizarre practices, ceremonies and rites. He was also aware of at least twenty-seven currently operational plans to rule the world and fourteen to end it. This only included plans coming from the Demimonde, of course. Soames kept apprised of the politics of the mundane world, even though they were largely irrelevant to the true running of the globe.

Soames led his clients to the Conduit House. Damona stood aside while two younger Neanderthals busied themselves. The lock was circumvented. Directly, they were confronted by the trap door in the floor.

‘Wait for five minutes, then follow me,’ Soames said to Damona, enjoying her discomfort and inventing a few details to further disquiet her. ‘You’ll be faced with a corridor of about twenty or thirty yards. Do not look to either side, at neither the niches nor the intersecting corridors. Definitely do not look into any mirrors. The double doors come from an Egyptian temple and should open with a push. The chamber beyond has the throne of the Immortals, but they will be guarded by Spawn.’

‘How many?’ Damona demanded.

‘I have no idea. They shouldn’t be expecting anything. A handful.’

Damona eyed him for an uncomfortable, wet time before she relayed the information to the others.

A trickle of water fell from Soames’s collar and went straight down his neck. He grimaced. He didn’t like this place and he didn’t care if it was a site of power. Once he determined the extent of the Immortals’ organisation and asserted his control, he’d move the base much closer to the city. He had his eye on an office block in Westminster. He was sure that the Immortals’ organisation could use some modernising. Premises would be a start, but Soames relished the thought of what else he could do with the Immortals’ Spawn and their riches.

He shook himself and snapped out his reverie. Daydreaming at night, Jabez? What next?

First things first. Soames tugged on his gloves, settled his hat, furled his umbrella, and climbed into the darkness.

At the end of the tunnel he saluted to the statues of Seth and Anubis towering on either side, then he pushed open the door.

The piping voice of Jia hailed him. ‘Soames! What are you doing here?’

Soames removed his hat and bowed. ‘It’s the Neanderthals. They’re on the rampage.’