Kingsley and Evadne lingered just inside the doorway, hidden in the shadows but with a fine view. They were confronted with an immense chamber composed entirely of pentagons. The five-sided ceiling was at least a few hundred feet overhead. Soft light fell from it, filling the entire chamber with a radiance that unsettled Kingsley, for it was a touch too blue for honest sunlight or gaslight. Evadne grimaced and quickly changed her spectacles.

Large, five-sided alcoves were set in each of the walls. Two of the alcoves hosted objects that rotated, as far as Kingsley could tell, while floating a few feet above the floor – a large cube and an equally large tetrahedron. They glowed, each side in turn, but in no rhythm that Kingsley could discern. Both shifted colour through the spectrum, attaining some hues that Kingsley doubted had names at all.

The Neanderthals had preceded them. Their flying wedge formation had been met by a chaotic wave of Spawn. Fifty or more of the soulless creatures were flinging themselves at the intruders, preventing them from reaching the middle of the chamber and a hideously ornate golden sofa.

The golden sofa was divided into three separate seats and it was a wince-inducing contrast to the classical restraint of the chamber. Curlicues ran rampant, unicorns and dolphins cavorted, and enough silk cushions were strewn about to lay waste to a generation of silk worms.

Kingsley allowed himself to gape, and not only at the hideous bad taste of the furniture. The golden sofa throne hovered a foot or so above the floor like a balloon. Three chubby, dwarfish figures sat side by side in it, shrieking and gesticulating while the battle raged in front of them.

He raised an eyebrow at Evadne. She shrugged and put her finger on her lips, somewhat needlessly as Kingsley had about as much wish to bring attention to himself as he had of parading naked down Bond Street.

A solitary figure stood next to the throne. He was dressed well and regarded the brawl uneasily, shifting his weight from foot to foot, with his hands clasped behind his back. Occasionally he mopped his brow with a red handkerchief.

With a mighty shout, two Neanderthals in the vanguard cleared a path. In a mass, the rest of them followed, putting their heads down and pushing the Spawn aside through sheer momentum. Weaponless, the Spawn clawed and grappled but were trodden down or simply smashed aside. The chamber rang to fierce battle cries and howls of sheer bestial triumph as the Neanderthals took to their bludgeoning weapons. Thin, colourless Spawn blood sprayed. Some Neanderthals flung their weapons away and used their mighty fists. One young Neanderthal simply grabbed a gibbering Spawn and, with one hand, tossed him at a knot of other Spawn, while casually bludgeoning another attacker with a huge backhand blow.

The Spawn had abandoned any semblance of humanity. In ragged trousers and tunics, they slavered and leaped at the Neanderthals, clawing and biting, their skins grey and sullen like spoiled lead. As they attempted to bring the Neanderthals down with weight of numbers, Kingsley’s wolfishness responded. The battle called and the smell of blood was exciting but he had to hold on. He watched, eagerly, and his nails dug into his palms. His heart thumped. His muscles quivered as he leaned towards the fray.

Yes! The pack hunts together, to tear and rend, to separate the weak and to wreak havoc on the others! Terror is our friend!

He became aware that Evadne was looking at him – not with horror, but with concern. Angry at himself, he bit his lip and looked away. He couldn’t afford to surrender to his wild side, not now, not in this predicament. He needed all his wits about him, no matter how his blood sang.

The Neanderthals pushed towards the throne, roaring with triumph. The human darted away, disappearing through a five-sided door in the wall near one of the alcoves. The Immortals squeaked and gestured wildly, full of rage and indignation, pointing at the floating cube in the far alcove. It glowed a sickly green, then faded, which appeared to enrage the Immortals even more, but just before the Neanderthals reached the throne all three of them sagged, falling back onto their cushions like rag dolls.

The Neanderthals didn’t hesitate. Kingsley’s civilised self wanted to look away, but his atavistic wild side was excited. In the end, he watched grimly as the Neanderthals tore the tiny bodies apart, howling and brandishing limbs like trophies.

A new surge of Spawn erupted from the direction the human had fled. They screeched as they ran.

The Neanderthals stood back to back as Spawn attacked. In the middle of the ring, half a dozen were using projectile weapons to pick off Spawn at a distance with darts, bullets, bolts, tiny whirring chains and – astonishingly – tiny balls of fire. The noise was punishing. The Neanderthals clustered around these marksmen, smiling grimly or roaring defiantly, according to personal preference. The floor underneath became slippery with Neanderthal blood mixing with the spiritless ichor of the Spawn.

‘Please drop your weapons and turn very slowly.’

The voice was fussy, polite and human. Kingsley swallowed and shifted around.

A middle-aged man – Kingsley recognised him as the same one who had been standing with the Immortals – regarded them over the top of a decidedly ordinary revolver. In spite of it being ordinary compared to the exotic weapons Kingsley had been confronted with in the last few days, he had a healthy respect for the damage it could do. He took out the Incapacitator and dropped it on the floor. Evadne tossed her pistol aside, then the Scorpion and the Life Changer.

‘The satchel, too, young lady. And the . . . what is it? A sabre?’

With his striped trousers, cutaway jacket and topcoat, he looked exactly like a City stockbroker, if a little frayed around the edges and slightly dyspeptic. ‘Keep your hands away from your pockets. I know you probably only want a handkerchief to cry into, but I’d regret it if you took out something and I had to shoot you.’

Kingsley was convinced. He held his hands well away from his sides.

‘Wait.’ The man widened his eyes at Evadne. ‘You are delightful, aren’t you, my dear?’

‘Oh yes,’ Evadne said. ‘And harmless. Put down your revolver and I’ll show you.’

‘You’re game, too. Excellent.’ He glanced at Kingsley, then peered intently at him. ‘Move into the light. Both of you.’

Kingsley and Evadne backed into the chamber. The noise of the battle behind them echoed around the hard angles of the pentagons, blurring and overlapping to become a veritable bedlam.

The man with the revolver stopped smiling briefly, then a broad grin spread across a face that looked unaccustomed so such extremes of emotion. ‘You’re the boy that Kipling is after, aren’t you? Don’t bother to deny it – my question was purely rhetorical.’

‘Why’s that important to you?’ Evadne snapped.

‘It’s a matter of bargaining from a position of strength,’ the man said, his grin widening, if possible. ‘With you in my possession, boy, I’m now very strong indeed.’