from his severed neck. The head was still spinning in the air and Ashoka stared at the wide, surprised expression on his face, his mouth a perfect ‘O’.
A moment later another figure appeared to the left, a long triangular blade of bright, sharp steel shining in its right fist. The rat-face who still had a head dropped Ashoka and drew out a pistol. It wasn’t some cool Desert Eagle or Walther PPK, it was an ancient gunpowder thing from a hundred years ago. But the barrel was huge, and in the narrow alleyway he couldn’t miss. The flint burst a bright flash of powder, and then thunder exploded from the barrel opening, filling the entire alleyway with acrid gun smoke.
The bullet sparked on the steel blade as the figure swatted it aside, the lead ball rebounding to tear a chunk of brick off the wall.
He swatted a bullet, thought Ashoka. That’s not possible.
The rat-face stared as the shadow rammed his right fist, and the steel triangular blade, into his chest so hard that he came off his feet. A second fountain of blood sprayed out as the tip of gore-coated metal tore through the rat-face’s back. He scrabbled, and screamed a scream that should have shattered all the glass nearby, and almost did the same to Ashoka’s eardrums. Then the figure, a boy in a hoodie, tossed the dead rat-face aside and stepped past Ashoka, his attention on Jackie alone. The boy’s fingers tightened around the steel dagger in his fist.
A katar. An Indian punch dagger. Ashoka hadn’t seen one since—
“Jackie,” said the boy in the hoodie.
“It’s true. You’re here,” Jackie snarled, edging away. She looked from Ashoka to the boy and back again. Then she threw back her head and screamed with demonic laughter and with two bounds vanished into the night.
“Are you all right?” asked the boy, turning to Ashoka.
Ashoka blinked and tried to wipe away the blood that covered his face. He thought he’d swallowed some. He swayed, his legs suddenly as solid as jelly.
“He’s going to fall,” said the boy.
Someone helped to support Ashoka: a girl of about fifteen or sixteen, dressed in a close-fitting suit of black-green. “I’ve got you,” she said. Despite the darkness she wore shades, so all Ashoka could see was the reflection of his own petrified face.
“Let’s get away from here,” said the boy. “And bring him.”
“I only live—”
“I know where you live,” the boy snapped. “Now come on.”
The girl steadied Ashoka. Then she picked up a long steel coil off the ground. The weapon had a sword hilt, but instead of a single blade there were four razor-sharp steel strips.
“An urumi,” said Ashoka. “The serpent sword. That’s … cool.”
He looked down at the now headless corpse of the first rat-face. She’d done it with the urumi. He could see the open arteries and the spine and neatly sliced muscle of the neck stump.
“Oh, God.” Ashoka tried to hold it down, but bile flooded to the top of his throat. Then came straight out over the ground and his shoes. His stomach spasmed and bitter vomit poured out again and again.
The boy in the hoodie sighed. “Pathetic.”
The girl was patting Ashoka’s back. “Oh, please. You were just the same when I first met you.”
“Was not.” The boy sounded petulant. “Have you quite finished?”
“Yes. Yes, I have.” Then Ashoka saw the second rat-face, torso slick with black blood and white bone jutting from the gaping hole where his chest must once have been.
“No. No, I haven’t.” He vomited some more.
Once the vomiting was all done and he’d downed a bottle of water, Ashoka was eventually able to walk again, and he followed the boy and girl out of the estate. I could run, he thought, but something told him he wouldn’t get very far.
“What’s going on?” Ashoka demanded. “Has the world gone bat-loony? Why were those people trying to kill me? Who were those people?”
The boy hurried Ashoka across the road, his face still hidden in the deep shadow of his hood. “Last question first. Those aren’t people. They’re rakshasas.”
Ashoka scoffed. “Indian demons? Yeah, right.”
“You don’t have to believe me.”
“Thanks. I won’t.”
“But you should.”
Ashoka paused. “You were at the woods today, weren’t you? Have you been following me?”
“That’s right. I knew Jackie would make her move sooner or later.”
“Who are you?” Ashoka said, suddenly filled with a dreadful anticipation. A small part of his subconscious didn’t want to know. There was something terrible and familiar about the boy.
The girl nodded. “Tell him.”
The boy took off his hood. A pair of dark eyes gazed back at Ashoka. Eyes he knew. The boy’s face was gaunt, but smooth and brown like his and his hair was the same as Ashoka’s, maybe longer than he wore his and more dishevelled than his mum would allow. The boy smiled, and it was a smile Ashoka could mirror, perfectly. He struggled to breathe. “Who are you?” he whispered, even though he knew.
The boy’s smile softened. “I am Ash Mistry.”
“Sit down,” said the girl.
Ashoka took a seat in his kitchen, his back against the wall, staring at the other boy.
The other Ash Mistry.
Weird did not begin to describe what it felt like to be face to face with himself. The boy had all his mannerisms – the way he pulled his hair from his forehead, the way he stood and tilted his head as he thought. But there were differences. The most obvious was that this other Ash was as sleek as a dagger and the way he moved was almost scary. He had a confidence that Ashoka lacked. Ashoka shuffled through life, a bit wary, a bit timid. This guy wasn’t just in charge of the situation – he owned it.
“This is too weird,” he said, and not for the first time. “How can you be me?”
“Check the house, Parvati,” ordered Ash, “and get him some clean clothes.” The girl nodded and left the two of them alone.
“There’s no one here,” said Ashoka. “Mum and Dad have taken Lucky to a gymnastics competition.” But he glanced at the clock. They should have been back by now.
“As soon as they return we all leave.”
“Leave?”
Ash
