And presently I will select a second, alcohol-swabbed needle to pick out the ram on your friend.”

At the mention of his friend, Riley craned his neck, trying to look back toward the boxing circle without moving his shoulder. From his seat he couldn’t see so much as the top of Chevie’s head, just a throng of Rams who had set up a chant.

“Golgoth, Golgoth,” intoned the criminal coterie, and again, “Golgoth, Golgoth.”

“Ah, me,” said Farley sadly. “Just the one needle, then.”

Chevie was not yet accustomed to the sheer pungency of Victorian London. Even the air seemed to have a sepia tinge to it, and mystery flakes landed on her head and shoulders, mottling her skin.

That can’t be good, she thought. I don’t even want to think about where those flakes come from.

The Rams had formed a loose human cordon around her and seemed to have developed a certain prudence in approaching the Injun maid, probably due to the large club dangling from her dainty fist and the blood dripping from its howjadoo end.

And now the men were chanting the word Golgoth, which Chevie suspected would turn out to be some particularly vicious incarnation of Battering Ram.

Battering Rams. If these guys got any more macho, they could have their own show on cable TV fixing motorcycles and pumping iron.

The ocean of men parted and a malevolent hulk strutted into the circle like he was the world’s best at something violent.

So this is Golgoth, thought Chevie. It’s probably going to take two wallops to knock out this guy.

Golgoth reached up a delicate forefinger and thumb, pinching his crown and removing his hair, which apparently was some kind of hairpiece.

“Hold Marvin for me, would you, Gilhooley?” said Golgoth, dropping the hairpiece into the hand of his much smaller friend, who did what his far larger friend requested of him, which was probably the basis upon which their relationship was built.

Two things about Golgoth surprised Chevie.

One: his creepy hairpiece had a name.

And two: no one besides her seemed to find the word Gilhooley hilarious. It sounded a little bit rude, but she wasn’t sure why.

“Okay, Golgoth,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “I will try to hurt you humanely.”

“I ain’t no Golgoth,” said the giant. “I is his little bruvver.”

Which was the last thing she heard before something the size of a cement block hit her square in the chest with the speed of a freight train.

•••

Chevie may have been strong and quick, but she was also small and light. The blow from her mystery attacker knocked the FBI agent over and set her skidding across the floorboards, picking up dozens of splinters in the process.

The pain was so huge that Chevie wondered if her lungs had been crushed, and she was relieved when her breathing started up again.