Doctor Who_ The City of the Dead - Lloyd Rose [52]
Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. The Doctor stepped cautiously through the debris to clear ground. 'Hear that? People are coming to take care of you. I'm going to have to leave -' the boy clung more tightly, 'No, it's all right, really. I'm going to leave you right here where they can't help finding you. We'll sit down. I'll stay as long as I can.'
He sat in the mud, the boy in his lap. The siren grew louder. Headlights appeared, and a flashing red light. The Doctor wanted to leave his jacket, but since it was made of an alien synthetic, he thought he had better take it away with him. He ruffled the boy's hair, then gently set him aside, unwrapped the jacket, and, as the headlights flared closer, ran for the TARDIS.
Once inside, he threw the dematerialisation switch, walked squishily to his room, stripped, threw his filthy clothes into the corner of the wardrobe, and stood in a steaming shower for half an hour, thinking hard.
Forty-five minutes later, dry, dressed and sitting in the TARDIS kitchen with a cup of tea, he still hadn't come to any conclusions. He hadn't actually learned much that was new. It was nice to be confirmed in his theory that Delesormes/«>re had been practising - more accurately, attempting to practise - magic, but he'd been pretty certain of that already. He hadn't altered anything by pulling the son out of the wreckage since the boy was only trapped, not injured. He'd already presumed that the summoning had resulted in disaster, and clearly it had
The Doctor gazed thoughtfully out of the window at the artificial view of the unknown English landscape. Disaster was not necessarily the same thing as failure. It was entirely possible that Something had in fact come through. And if that were so, what had become of it? Where was it now?
Not for the first time, the runes drawn on concrete in nail polish rose before his mind's eye. He let them stay, like a little vision, and stared at them for a long time.
Chapter Eleven
Flood Tide
'Isn't this pleasant?' said the Doctor enthusiastically.
Fitz and Anji looked around. The TARDIS stood among slender trees full of brilliant gold-yellow leaves. The air was crisp and cool. Bright sunlight filtered through the branches.
'So far, so good,' Fitz allowed.
'And we're where we're supposed to be,' said Anji wonderingly. 'How'd you do that?'
'It has to work sometimes,' the Doctor responded in that brisk tone that meant he had no idea. 'Law of averages. Come along.' He bounded into the woods.
In less than a minute, they came out of the trees at the edge of a neat, picture-postcard village, complete with a narrow central strip of grass, obviously the green, and a white, columned inn. On the marble pavement, an elderly woman was walking a small fluffy dog, and in front of a shop a grizzled Labrador retriever dozed in the sun.
'Looks a bit dead to me,' said Fitz. 'No clubs or bars.'
'There's a larger town a few miles down the road, but I thought you'd like something picturesque.'
'It is very pretty,' Anji conceded. She was almost ashamed to admit it, but the peacefulness appealed to her: a couple of days in a quaint New England inn, a bit of quiet research in dusty old libraries and municipal records halls .
'And look,' said the Doctor, 'there's the local historical society building.
Just what you need.' He beamed, as if he were somehow responsible for this happy arrangement.
'Was Delesormes Junior in foster care here? said Fitz dubiously. 'It looks awfully posh.'
'Go up in the hills a mile, and you'll find people living in school buses.
Technically, the address of the family that took him is over the mountain in West Dorset, but there's no inn there. Well -' the Doctor shook their hands -
'best of luck. This shouldn't take you long. Just ring me