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Hot, moist air washed over Zak as he opened the door to the main greenhouse of the Royal Botanical Gardens. The giant, glass house contained the type of climate that turns skin waxy and hair into a slick tangle of damp vines. It took a moment to adjust after leaving the frigid entrance room.
‘Which way did he go?’ Clara asked at his side.
Zak shrugged, peering at a handful of paths that slithered into what resembled giant asparagus.
He could be anywhere, he thought.
Hundreds of fresh footprints were pressed into the sandy paths, distorted by deep, gaslight shadows. All except one were from tourists. Peering into the gloom, he listened.
‘There!’ he said as a black shape rushed through a knot of waxy plants. The guard was already far ahead, stomping across a wooden bridge.
