| |
The man Figg showed her last year as his master had been a Roman from ancient times, definitely Caucasian. She believed him to be a mage, so he could be in disguise.
It wouldn’t be the one posted outside that door, not when Liwei treated him so cavalierly. Yet, to Abbie’s eye, neither of the two men with them could be the immortal, either. Both looked too frightened.
Granny Chan, who could have eliminated all three of her captors with one of her fireballs, glanced at Abbie as if waiting for her direction. She was no doubt wondering why Abbie had allowed them to be taken.
Smart woman.
Their argument ended, Liwei paced. The other man stood by the doorway. He kept opening the door and checking to see if their third member was still there.
Abbie glanced around the room, assessing their situation. They were in an abandoned office with the only window boarded. An old-fashioned telephone rested on a sleek but dusty green desk. On it was also a pen set and a tray for paper files and such. A coat rack in one corner. Empty walls with nails here and there suggested they’d once held pictures. A stained, rust-colored carpet covered the floor.
Liwei stopped and snapped, “Names!”
“June Law,” Abbie said.
“Sum Kun,” Granny Chan said without hesitation.
“Mrs. Beck...hoff,” Mrs. Beckwith finished in a fluster.
“We were trying out fireworks, you see,” Abbie explained, with an embarrassed smile and shrug. “We’re planning a Christmas party and wanted to make sure they would work. Sorry if we disturbed you.” She pointed to his weapon. “There’s no need for violence. We’ll leave quietly, we promise. And we won’t set off any more fireworks.”
“Where is Chan Fen?”
“Who?” Abbie asked.
He strode over to point the gun barrel at her chest.
Mrs. Beckwith released a squeak of fright.
“No lying,” Liwei said. “Where is Chan Fen? Speak or you will die.” Liwei then aimed his gun toward the older women. “Then they will speak or die.” He aimed his gun back at Abbie.
“I don’t know who Chan Fen is,” Abbie said, annoyed by his threats. She took hold of the gun and pushed until Liwei retreated in surprise. By the time she released the barrel, his hand trembled. “Why do you want her?”
“She is my girl.”
“You two can’t be that close if you had to drug her.” Granny Chan sounded bitter.
His grin was evil. “We forge the chains we wear in life,” he said. “Charles Dickens.”
The elderly witch stared at him in utter shock.
She’d said that same phrase earlier. Had Liwei taught her that quote during his English lessons? Granny Chan’s expression said she’d forgotten she’d picked it up from Liwei.
“Why kidnap her?” Abbie asked, “if she’s your girl.”
“She our insurance,” the other man snapped. His English was more broken than Liwei’s. He paced in agitation across the closed door and spoke in a flurry of Mandarin.
Liwei shouted at him in kind, but the man shook his head. Pulling open the door, Liwei’s partner-in-crime barreled out past the man stationed outside. His footsteps thumped down the corridor to the right. Then, from a distance, a scream sounded, followed by that agonizing cry being abruptly cut off.
Liwei gazed at his last remaining stooge standing outside the open door, looking terrified. He slammed the door shut and locked it. The man outside thumped on the wood, shouting, Abbie assumed, asking to come in here. Then they all heard his footsteps running down the opposite corridor. He likely wanted to avoid whatever had ended the other man.
The four people inside the room stared toward the closed door in silence, as if awaiting a second scream. The absolute silence was even more terrifying.
“You’re on your own now, chum,” Mrs. Beckwith whispered, sounding as nervous.
Astute woman. Mrs. Beckwith had been surprising Abbie at every turn. What held her attention, though, was wondering who else was in this building and ensuring those two fleeing men didn’t escape. The immortal?
Liwei looked at them over his shoulder and then at the door, as if unsure what to do next. Then he frantically dug into his pocket for something and went over to fiddle with the knob and muttered in Mandarin.
He wasn’t the only one terrified. If the immortal had been out in the corridor when Liwei brought Abbie and her two friends in here, could he have gone after Bran and Judith even as they flew away? Were they still alive? She frantically alerted her cord to contact her brother.
“Bran?” she called.
“Abbie-girl!” Bran’s anxious voice came clearly through her cord. “Is that you? So, cool. You’re in my head. How’s that possible?”
Abbie’s knees almost gave way in relief at hearing her beloved brother’s voice. He was alive. And safe. “My Grimm cord’s a miracle worker. You two all right?”
“Yes. Want me to come for you three?”
“No!” she said in a panic. “The immortal might be inside this building. He’s our greater threat. Bran, when you came in here earlier to get Judith, did you see anyone?”
“No,” he said. “Oh, wait, Yes, I did. I passed a cleaner sweeping up on the second floor as I raced upstairs. He had a black and white dog with him.”
Abbie’s heart thudded. “That could have been the immortal. Did you two talk?”
“No, I was in a rush to get to Judith before those three blokes who ran out returned. I went straight to where Comet said Judith was located.”
A decision that had probably saved his life.
“Abbie, she was so motionless, I almost died with fear that I’d lost her. I’ve wasted so much time being an idiot. I should have known she’d never betray me.”
He took a shuddering breath and, taking the scene in through his eyes and his feelings, Abbie shared his horror at coming across Judith in this room.
“Her breathing was shallow,” Bran continued, “but she was alive. Comet transformed into a broom and I rode her, with Judith draped in front. We flew down the corridor and out the back door. She blasted right through it.” Her speed-demon brother chuckled as if Comet had impressed even him. “Everything happened so fast, my head’s still spinning.”
Abbie would never again complain about Comet’s speed-mad ways. The broom had saved two people she loved dearly.
“You did great, Bran,” she said. “You probably acted faster than the immortal expected. Now stay far away from this building. Don’t worry about us. We’ve got this.”
Her left hand was cramping from crossing her fingers while spouting that last blatant lie. But she didn’t want Bran coming anywhere near here again.
Abbie returned her focus to her surroundings and then wondered if her cord had broadcasted her conversation. Since Liwei hadn’t reacted, she supposed not.
Liwei finished whatever he’d been doing with the door and stood to face them. She noted that he’d hung a long piece of paper over the knob by a rope. A Chinese sigil on the paper glowed and vibrated with a distinctive hum, the play of notes sounding more oriental than western to Abbie’s senses.
He’d built a magical barrier to reinforce the lock—to keep out the enemy who had killed his two partners? She hoped it worked.
Liwei spouted something at Mrs. Beckwith that sounded like swear words and moved closer, his shaky gun pressed against the lady’s cheek.
She needed to redirect Liwei’s anger before he killed Mrs. Beckwith.
“What would your brother say if he knew what you were doing?” Abbie asked. “That you drove his brand-new car here to commit a felony and are holding people at gunpoint?”
He hurried over to her. “How do you know about him?”
When he raised his gun, Abbie plucked it out of his nerveless hold and tossed it aside. It slid across the carpet and under the nearby desk.
He shouted in anger, ran over, and knelt to retrieve it.
Abbie whipped out her cord, caught him around his right ankle, and dragged him toward her. “Not so fast.”
He rolled over to untangle the rope and then cried out as if stung. He glanced up, and on spotting the cord holding him coming directly out of her finger, he screamed and thrashed around, trying to get away from her.
“Stay calm!” she said, “and the cord won’t hurt you.”
Past listening to reason, he lunged to get away and tripped over a chair. It was all she could do to hang on to him when he struck the side of the desk and slumped beside it.
Abbie swore and went closer to check on him. No cut, but a lump would form in the back of his head soon.
“Oh, wow,” Mrs. Beckwith said, hurrying over to touch the cord extending out of Abbie’s finger. “What is that?”
“Something that can’t work until he’s awake.” She slapped Liwei’s face. He didn’t move. He was good and out.
“What’s our plan?” Granny Chan asked, coming over to sit cross-legged on the brown carpet beside Liwei. “I don’t want to go out that door.”
Abbie met her concerned gaze. “Before we leave, we must convince your ex-beau here that he should forget about your younger self. Forever.”
“Brilliant.” Mrs. Beckwith pulled over the mustard-colored upholstered chair Liwei had tripped over and sat. “How do we do that?”
Liwei moaned.
Abbie tightened her cord, and he jumped to sit up and lunged for the door as if he was now more afraid of her than the immortal.
“Not so fast,” she said and held him in place.
“What do you want, witch?” he shouted at Abbie.
“Don’t insult my kind,” Granny Chan said.
Liwei’s terrified gaze flew to her, confused.
“She’s the witch,” Mrs. Beckwith said helpfully, pointing to Granny Chan.
“What do you want with Chan Fen?” Abbie asked.
“I told you,” Liwei said. “She’s my girl.”
“That’s a lie,” Granny Chan spat. “You never loved her. You’ve lied for months to gain her trust. Why?” She grabbed Abbie’s cord and yanked at it until Liwei flew across the floor and landed in front of where she sat on the floor.
“Ah!” Liwei screamed.
“Answer me!” Granny Chan ordered.
“He made me.” Liwei then slammed his hand over his mouth, looking dumbstruck.
Abbie and Granny Chan both leaned over Liwei.
“Who?” Abbie asked, this time sending the question to her prisoner through her cord.
Liwei shook his head, keeping his mouth shut. Despite his obstinance, her cord showed a man speaking to Liwei inside this room. A Caucasian fellow with dark hair and eyes, tall and slender. Abbie instantly recognized him. He filled out his 1950s outfit of dark jacket, high waist tapered trousers, a white shirt, and dark red tie with the same poise as he had his Roman toga.
He held Liwei by his throat and spoke in measured tones. What turned that alpha-masculine scene into a horror flick was the four contorted bodies littering the brown carpet.
If Abbie had any doubts left about who the man holding Liwei was, Figg’s presence by the door, his teeth bared and bloody, eliminated all doubts. She shivered, thinking how close Bran had come to being the one held like that!
She lost all interest in meeting the immortal.
“Time to go.” Her words were a whisper. Once the immortal broke in here with his vicious pet, she wouldn’t be able to count on the Figg from this timeline to help her.
Her anxious glance involuntarily flew to the door, and she retracted her cord from Liwei.
He instantly leapt away and ran for the door. He must have forgotten the protection he’d placed on it because the moment he touched that knob, it zapped him and he reeled back, shaking, and then fell to the floor unconscious.
“That takes care of that problem.” Mrs. Beckwith said as she and Abbie helped Granny Chan rise from the floor.
None of them stepped anywhere near the door. Not because of the protection on it, but because of who might wait to greet them on the other side.
“We need to find another means of exit,” Abbie said.
A frantic hunt took them to the boarded window, the only other opening in this room.
“Leave this to me,” Granny Chan said.
“Quietly,” Abbie warned.
Granny Chan nodded and then touched the board. The entire structure, boards, glass frame, and all vanished. A cool night wind blew in. Another building stood directly across a narrow alleyway. They were three floors up, with no way to get down.
“Crikey.” Mrs. Beckwith gazed down. “I can’t see the ground. I bet it’s far.”
Granny Chan asked them to move back. Standing with her back to the open window, she touched her hands together before drawing them apart, similar to the way Abbie had seen Judith do in Granny Chan’s secret study.
As the elderly witch’s hands spread apart, a light spanned between them, too. She tilted her hands, palms down and, instead of forming a frame as Judith had, this light formed a cream carpet patterned with a luscious lotus flower.
“Oh, how gorgeous,” Mrs. Beckwith said. “That would look so lovely in my parlor.”
As Granny Chan released her spell, the carpet sank to the floor. “Step on it.”
Abbie and Mrs. Beckwith hurried over. Though the carpet rose with them, it felt as solid as the floor as it took them out of the wall opening.
“Could you return the board across the window?” Abbie said. “To avoid leaving clues about how we left.”
Once Granny Chan restored the boards, the carpet dropped straight down like an elevator.
Stepping off the carpet, Granny Chan rolled it up, shrank it to palm length, and gave it to Mrs. Beckwith with a bow. “Accept this as my thanks for helping to rescue my granddaughter.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Beckwith clutched the tiny rolled carpet. “I will treasure this all of my life.”
“Once you are home, simply unroll it,” Granny Chan said as they hurried around the corner onto the main street, “and it will be exactly the length and width you need it to be.”
The street had cleared of smoke and the folks who had gathered to watch the fireworks spectacle were long gone.
A red Austin pulled out of its parked position down the road and drove up to them. The back doors flew open.
“Get in,” Bran called.
All three hurried into the back seat and the vehicle sped off, leaving the street in their rearview before all the car doors had closed. On the front seat, Judith lay slumped beside Bran.
“How is my granddaughter?” Granny Chan asked, leaning forward.
“She’s been moaning for a while,” Bran said and connected with his sister’s gaze through the mirror. “How long is she likely to stay unconscious, Abbie-girl?”
“The moaning suggests she’s recovering,” she said. “The effects of chloroform don’t last longer than about twenty minutes.”
“Oh, good.” Bran breathed a relieved sigh.
“Well, we won’t have to worry about Liwei,” Granny Chan said, sounding a little sad.
“No,” Abbie said. “Once he awakens, his magical door won’t be enough to save him.” She stretched a hand past Mrs. Beckwith toward the elderly witch. “I’m sorry.”
Granny Chan took her hand and squeezed. “If one lies with bedbugs, one should expect to get bitten.”
“Did Confucius say that?” Mrs. Beckwith asked.
Granny Chan released Abbie’s hand and crossed her arms. “If he didn’t, he should have.”
“Granny Chan would know,” Judith said from the front seat, sitting up, “they both belong to the same school of thought.”
“Cheeky,” Mrs. Beckwith said, with a laugh. “Glad to see you back with us, love.”
Judith glanced from Bran to the ladies. “Good to see you four survived my kidnapping.”
“Bran rescued you,” Mrs. Beckwith said, patting his shoulder. “He’s a hero.”
“He did?” Judith sounded cross instead of pleased. “You two have infinite powers and you sent him to get me?”
“Was it our fault you gave Comet into his keeping?” Granny Chan asked, but her voice was soft and loving.
“I did?” Judith asked.
“We forge the chains-” she cut herself off. “Never mind, I won’t ever use that phrase again.”
Judith gave her gran a surprised glance and then said, “Gran, you know that I’ve accepted your gift. I’m sorry we ever fought over Comet. She’s been amazingly helpful.”
“I know,” Granny Chan said, with a contented smile. “I never resented you taking up Taoism, Jude. It’s part of our ancestry. We grow stronger not only when we try out new ideas but when we embrace the old.”
“I get that,” Judith said. “By the way, where is Comet?”
“You’re inside her,” Abbie said, thrilled her friend and her gran reconciling.
“Comet’s a car?” Judith said and gave Bran one of her scathing glares. “Typical. Give a boy a flying broom and he turns her into a car.”
Bran simply grinned at his ex without replying. He reached over and squeeze her hand.
Judith didn’t pull away.
Abbie sat back with a smile as big as Mrs. Beckwith’s, her body bubbling with joy.
Granny Chan flashed Abbie and Mrs. Beckwith a satisfied grin. This war between Grimms and witches might finally be over.
“We’re on our way to Hythe, Bran?” Abbie asked.
“Correct,” he replied.
“It’s where our gran lived,” she explained to the others. “At our present speed, it should be early morning when we arrive. Hopefully, she’s there.”
“Comet’s GPS says she is.” Bran turned on the radio. It took a few tries to find a clear channel but soon Paul Anka crooned a lovely rendition of, Put Your Head on my Shoulder.
Since motorways didn’t exist yet, Bran took the A2 south to Dover, and from there, the A259 to Hythe. The whole way, it was difficult to see ahead. Worse, it was stinky. The air didn’t grow clearer or smell better until they left the outskirts of London and the morning sun sent golden shafts spearing through the hazy morning.
“Why is the fog yellow?” Mrs. Beckwith asked.
“That’s not fog,” Judith said, wrinkling her nose. “It’s smog. People resisted the Clean Air Act’s intent to reduce the use of coal. So, this state of affairs didn’t improve for years.”
“My husband opposes the current push to expand on that act,” Mrs. Beckwith said in a thoughtful tone. “We will have to chat about that once I’m home.”
Abbie glanced at her in surprise. The lady’s earlier assertion had been that she and her husband had agreed to disagree on most positions. Could her journey into the past have changed Mrs. Beckwith’s views on that stance? Possible.
As another low-lying bit of smog engulfed them, Bran slowed even more and moaned, “I’m gutted!”
Unfortunately for Bran’s thirst for speed, the signs only permitted him to travel between thirty to forty km per hour. Still, Abbie had to keep reminding him they couldn’t afford the time if they got pulled over.
She empathized with her brother’s frustration. If she’d brought her mobile, she’d have been checking the time every few minutes. If the hourglass had been intact, she’d have been counting the grains left to fall. Since she had neither, she estimated the time by when a clock last chimed the hour. They had less than four hours left before the window to return home would shut. Permanently.