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AKI
Do you like history?
If anyone else had asked that, I probably would have said, “No, I just love paying a small fortune to memorize shit about people who died before I even existed.” But because he asked, I’ve just spent the last two hours getting the living crap scared out of me while we traipse all over the city on this haunted lantern tour.
Did I mention I hate ghosts? And haunted houses, and pretty much anything else creepy, spooky, or likely to have a jump scare?
Like, seriously, why can’t people enjoy history without it having to be the dark, scary—
What the fuck was that?!
I nearly jump into my dormmate Landon’s arms for the umpteenth time tonight, and he tries his best not to laugh.
“Aki, chill, it’s just someone shutting a car door.”
I want to ask him if this is almost over. But I also don’t want him to think that I hated every minute of this. Even though I really sorta did. Well, not the spending the evening with him part, but—
Ugh ... This is officially the worst first date ever.
I begrudgingly follow him and the rest of our tour group up the steps and into the infamous Moxley Hotel.
“Greetings, fellow lovers of the mysterious and the occult. I welcome you to The Moxley,” the costumed docent greets us as we all file into the grand foyer in an assortment of costumes ranging from Victorian to 1930s gangster.
“On the infamous day of the 1908 earthquake, more than a hundred and fifteen years ago, Perceval Edwyn Moxley was overseeing the preparations for an auction and gala in place of his father, who had been held up by inclement weather.” He gestures to a painting on the wall where a remarkably handsome raven-haired man of twentyish stares back at us from shockingly blue eyes.
I look back at the docent. His are obviously contacts, but I see where they’re going with this, at least.
“... but when Mr. Moxley senior finally made it to the ruins of the hotel and opened the vault, the only thing that remained was the mirror beyond,” the docent says dramatically as he gestures toward a massively decadent golden-framed mirror in the middle of a water feature in The Moxley’s lobby.
“But what of his only child, Perceval, you might be asking? His body was never found.”
People on the tour begin to whisper amongst themselves and I swear someone even gasps.
On the other hand, I have the unnerving feeling of being watched.
“Now, they say if you hold a mirror up to any of the hundreds of mirrors throughout The Moxley, you can catch a glimpse of the Rogue of Russian Hill,” the docent continues as he once again gestures to the portrait.
“So, with that in mind, we’ll be providing you with souvenir hand mirrors.”
* * *
“WHY WOULD THEY CALL him the Rogue of Russian Hill?” I comment as I flip over my commemorative hand mirror. “We’re not even in Russian Hill!”
“That sounds like a perfect question to ask Margret,” Landon counters as he snaps his mirror against his palm.
“Who’s Margret?”
He grins at me crookedly. “The girl I’ve been telling you about all night. The whole reason we’re here, Aki.”
And before I’ve a chance to say anything, my dormmate dashes off into the crowd, wandering The Moxley with their little souvenir hand mirrors.
I just gape at him. I assumed he was talking about a ghost. The whole night, I thought we were on a date, and he was talking about some ghost that was supposedly here in this haunted hotel filled with more mirrors than a fucking home improvement store.
But he wasn’t. He was talking about some girl he actually came here to see, and I was just his unwitting wingman on the worst not-a-date in history.
Oh, you’re a fucking idiot. As if Landon Wakefield would ever be on a date with you.
* * *
I LEAN AGAINST THE dark wooden railing overlooking the lobby from the second floor of The Moxley.
“So ... this is The Moxley?”
Such an unusual design for a Victorian-era hotel to have a water feature in the middle of the lobby. Stranger still to have a Medieval-style golden-framed mirror in the center of it. Gerallt Moxley sure was a unique one.
Two girls dressed in ridiculously inaccurate flapper costumes gossip to each other as they pass by with their hand mirrors.
“They say if you catch a glimpse of the Rogue of Russian Hill, he’ll spirit you into his mirror realm and trap you in this hotel forever.”
“Is that why they’ve got so many mirrors here?”
Hmm ...
I pull the small hand mirror from my pocket, running my thumb over the laser-etched logo of The Moxley.
“Do people seriously believe something so obviously fake?”
I lean back against the railing, turning the mirror over in my hand.
Moxley’s son was pretty hot for an early 1900s guy. I don’t know if I’d mind being stuck anywhere with—
There’s a face in the mirror and it isn’t mine.
“Huh?”
As I catch sight of it again, my foot slips, and I start to fall backward.
“Oh fuck!”
* * *
I SHOULD BE DEAD. OR, at the very least, lying in a fountain pool with a broken back. What I shouldn’t be is peeling my face from the decorative tile floor.
I push back on my hands and heels and freeze. Because lounging decadently on a chaise on the landing just before me like some Grecian god is Perceval Edwyn Moxley.
“Oh fuck! You’re the ghost!” I sputter as I fall back on my ass.
His beautiful face contorts into a scowl. “Rude. I am very much alive, thank you very much.”
“P—prove it.”
He throws something at me. An ... olive?
“Could a specter do that?” he challenges.
“Yes, a poltergeist could,” I counter.
As the ghost of Perceval Moxley rolls his blue eyes and heaves himself up off of the chaise, I start to question my earlier assumptions.
His hair’s black as a raven’s, and his eyes are startlingly blue, and I realize that I can’t see through him at all. And also, why would a ghost need to heave himself to his feet when he can just float?
“Fine, have it your way,” he says, reaching down to yank me up by my shirt.
“Wait! I be—”
The possibly-not-a-ghost presses his mouth to mine, and it’s firm yet soft and so very, very hot.
Oh ... this is awesome. I’d forgotten it could be like this.
He pulls away, just far enough to look me in the eyes.“Satisfied?”
“I ... am most certainly dead. Or dreaming ...” I answer dizzily.
He drops me with an exasperated huff. “You’re completely useless.”
I stare up at him in confused uncertainty. “But you are him ... right? You’re Perceval Edwyn Moxley, aren’t you?”
Sure, it wasn’t in color—the now infamous newspaper article about the auction. But he’s dressed in the same outfit Perceval Moxley was the day he went missing. The day of the 1908 Earthquake. And he’s the spitting image of the portrait they’ve got in the hotel lobby. This lobby ...
I start to notice how new and perfect everything looks and how many auction items seem to be strewn about.
“Percy,” he corrects.
“What?” I turn back to look at him.
There’s a strangeness in his expression I can’t quite seem to place.
“Someone who’s been in such intimate closeness to another shouldn’t refer to them so formally,” he explains.
“But that’s not possible.”
And in the moment I say it, an ugliness that’s almost vicious casts over his face.
“Why? Because it’s simply not done? Because it’s not allowed?” he challenges. “Because everyone in The Moxley died that day? Because Perceval Edwyn Moxley disappeared with the treasures of the vault? Because he and his stepmother were in cahoots and disappeared to the French Alps with the family fortune?”
Percy jabs a finger into my chest. “I hate to ruin your urban fantasy fun times, but everything you’ve ever heard about me is a lie! I’ve spent every moment since that day trapped in this funhouse of mirrors.”
He gestures expansively toward the trove of finery littering the lobby. “Take a good look. You’re standing in what’s left of my family’s fortune.
“And I’ll even impart a secret that’ll never make it to print just because I’m feeling particularly generous. I couldn’t stand my stepmother for more than a meal’s conversation, and I prefer to keep the company of my own sex.”
And with one last indignant huff, he plops himself back down on the luxurious chaise.
I just gape at him, taking it all in.
He didn’t say, was a lie. He said, is a lie. As in he very much believes he’s still alive. And did he just say ...?
“You’re gay?”
He folds his arms across his chest like a pouting child. “I’m miserable.”
“I meant you liked men.”
He huffs at me. “Weren’t you listening? I’ve only ever had a preference for men.”
Oh ... Now a lot of things are starting to make more sense. That kiss, for one. But ...
“But that was ... You’ve been missing for over a hundred years,” I point out.
Percy arches a brow at me. “Your point?”
My hand goes to my mouth. His lips felt so very real. But it’s not possible. He only looks twenty-one, but he’s been missing for a hundred and fifteen years.
“Now he’s getting it,” Percy comments almost mockingly.
I look up into his blue eyes.
Percy gestures dramatically to the lobby surrounding us. “Welcome to the Mirror Realm. You’ve no hope of escape, whoever the hell you are.”
* * *
NOPE, NOT FUCKING HAPPENING. I am not going to be trapped in the plot of a fucking horror flick. No way in—
I trip over a Carrom board and end up taking a decorative vase of calla lilies straight to the face.
I look up from the rug with vengeful indignance. “Who the hell puts a carrom board in the middle of a walkway?” I shout angrily.
“Probably the same psycho whose family owns a cursed mirror,” I grumble, pushing myself back to my feet.
“Ah!” I yelp, realizing the broken shards of vase slit the fleshy part of my palm open.
“Awesome. Now I’m trapped in a haunted hotel and bleeding.”
I clutch my injured hand against my chest. “Now where was that damned door? I’m sure it was this way.”
* * *
SOMETIME EARLIER ...
“What do you mean I’ve no hope of escape? There has to be a way out.”
“There isn’t.”
I just stare at him.
“You think I haven’t tried? You think I wanted to be stuck here for over a hundred years?”
Perceval gestures expansively to the lobby. “You came through the Mirror of Avarice. Welcome to your new life.”
“The Mirror of ... Avarice?” I repeat.
“Yes. Said to have been created in the thirteenth century in the Near East by a magus who wanted a way to store his vast riches,” Perceval explains. “But the Mirror got greedy and began to want things of its own. And then it began to take things.”
“Take things ...” I echo apprehensively.
“The Mirror of Avarice can claim anything that passes before its gaze for too long. A painting. A necklace. A vase. Anything that has no will to resist.”
His brilliant blue eyes flick over me.
“But living things like me and you, it can only take them if it touches them,” he explains, tapping my nose with his finger.
“Bet you’re wondering what’s worse, aren’t you? Falling to your death from that balcony or ending up stuck here?”
I don’t care what he says. I don’t care if he thinks there’s no way out of this place. I’m going to get out of this Mirror Realm. I’m going to find a way back to you, Landon. I will.
Or die trying.
* * *
I STUMBLE INTO A HALLWAY full of mirrors.
Why are there so many mirrors here? It wasn’t a style of the era, so there has to be a reason. And why is there glass on the floor?
I turn and—
It’s Landon! He’s right on the other side of the mirror!
“Landon!” I shout, but he doesn’t turn. “Landon, it’s me! I’m right here!”
He still doesn’t seem to notice me.
I slam my first against the mirror and my blood splatters across it.
“Look! Please! I’m right here!” I scream as I continue to beat my fist against the surface of the mirror.
Landon starts to turn away—to leave me behind once again—and I swing back my other fist to smash it against the glass.
“Don’t leave me, you ass—!”
Someone catches me by the wrist.
“What part of ‘Don’t mess with the mirrors’ wasn’t clear?” Perceval questions. “Do you have a death wish or something?”
“Are you—are you threatening me?”
“What?” he snaps incredulously. “No, I told you ...”
His whole expression changes, not toward anger but into something soft and almost pitying. And that’s when I feel how wet my face is.
He’s caught me crying, and I hate—more than anything—when strangers see me cry.
I yank my wrist free of his grasp with all the strength I possess, but it’s too much, and so I start to fall backward.
“Hey, watch out!” Perceval shouts as he shoves me to the side.
I spring away back down the hall as fast as my legs will carry me, my heart pounding like a jackhammer. It isn’t until I make it to the intersection of another hallway that I realize I’m not being pursued. That there’s no sound of footsteps behind me.
Swallowing hard, I chance a look back.
He’s right back where I left him, just below the blood-stained mirror.
Do I risk going back or ...?
What have you got to lose?
* * *
I COME BACK BUT STOP a cautious distance from Perceval.
“Are you ... okay?” I ask softly.
“Yeah, I’m just peachy, darling. Neither of us broke a mirror, so as soon as my head stops splitting, I’ll be right as a rainbow.”
He peeks up at me from beneath his black waves of hair and sighs. “You didn’t listen to a word I said back there, did you?”
“You mean about the cursed mirror?”
“About being in a Mirror Realm controlled by the Mirror of Avarice.”
“Uh ...”
No, I really didn’t.
He crooks a finger at me. “Come here and look at these shards. But don’t you dare touch them.”
I come closer but stop just out of arm’s reach.
“I don’t bite, you know.” He pauses. “Well, unless it’s on request.” Percy gives me an exasperated sigh. “I’ll be honest and frank with you. I can’t kill you, and you can’t kill me. So just come over here already.”
I take a hesitant step forward. “How do I know that?”
Percy holds up a finger. “Because there’s only one way to die here, and I just stopped you from doing it.”
That brings me up short. “What?”
“The mirrors. Everyone thinks they’re an escape—a way out—but they’re not.”
He points to the fragments of shattered mirror at his feet.“Don’t touch the shards. You won’t die from it, but getting cut’s no pleasure party either.”
I crouch down beside him to look.
“What the fuck?” I nearly topple over as I jerk back, and Percy grabs hold of my shirt to keep me upright.
“What—what are they?”
“They used to be people.”
“Used to be,” I repeat.
“It traps them in the moment they shattered the mirror. Exactly as they were, but in pieces.”
“It kills them?”
Percy shrugs. “It’s not like I’ve got the ability to converse with them to ask.”
I lean away from the shattered fragments of what used to be people and closer to him.
This could have been me. I could be lying broken on this forgotten floor if it wasn’t for—
I fight that sudden violent urge to vomit.
“What’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Aki. Aki Nakamura,” I answer around the hand I’ve pressed tightly over my mouth. He takes my other one before I even realize he has.
“How’d you cut your hand, Aki?”
“I tripped over a Carrom board and cut it on a broken vase.”
His lips quirk up slightly. “You’ll be fine in a bit then.”
“It’s not funny. What jackass plays Carrom in the middle of a hallway?
“One who’s not used to company.”
As he stands, I notice a stain of deep crimson spreading across his waistcoat.
“You’re bleeding.”
“That I am. Have been for a while,” he agrees with a shrug.
“Well, shouldn’t you ... do something?” I counter as I rise.
“There wouldn’t exactly be a point.”
“Huh?”
“Let me reiterate. We are trapped in a realm in which we cannot perish. And some of us have been here a very long time.”
“So what? You’re just giving up?” I question irritably.
Percy gives me a look. “Do I look like a nurse to you?”
* * *
I FIND PERCY LOUNGING on the chaise like he isn’t bleeding to death in a fucked up haunted mirror hotel.
“Alright, you raven-haired playboy: strip,” I order.
He arches a brow at me. “Either I’ve missed something or the medical profession has taken a dramatic turn.”
“Don’t make me tie you down, Percy.”
“Oh? Are we using first names now?” he questions playfully as he shrugs off his suit jacket.
“And where, might I ask, did you find a surgeon’s kit?”
I plunk down on a footstool I dragged over alongside the chaise. “I didn’t. But every hotel of this era employed an on-site seamstress and her kit’ll be good enough.”
He gives me a look as he starts to unbutton his waistcoat.
“And that’s just common knowledge for men of your era?”
I snort. “Hardly. But I study history at the university, so I guess it’s your lucky day.”
“Hmm ... Is it? And what’s it like to have history staring you in the face?”
I look up at him. He’s unfairly gorgeous, tastes delicious, and I can think of a hundred people far worse to be stuck in this horror show of a hotel with.
“Unless you want me to be writing your obituary, I suggest you take off your shirt.”
His lips quirk up slightly. “As you wish.”
* * *
THE WOUND IS GHASTLY. How he’s walking around let alone breathing is a fucking miracle.
“What’s the diagnosis, Doc?”
“Are you sure you’re not a ghoul of some sort?” I ask with a slight grimace.
“Oh, so we’ve moved on from ghosts, have we?”
“If you were a ghost, you wouldn’t have a tangible form I could run my hands over,” I point out.
“Ah.”
“My question still stands.”
“Nope. No particular desire to rob graves and feed on the dead.”
“You sure? Because I can see your rib well enough to know something nicked it.”
“Thus the bleeding.”
“And you didn’t think to stitch it up?”
Percy twists around on the chaise in an attempt to look at me.
“One, this right here is the extent of my medical knowledge as it pertains to wound care. And two, haven’t you noticed something curious about the mirrors here?”
“Uh ...”
“Oh, that’s right. They only show what’s out there, not your reflection,” he says with extreme sarcasm.
I sit up. “How is that relevant?”
Percy flails irritably in the direction of his wound. “How the hell could I be expected to stitch that up, Aki?”
“Oh.”
I go back to stitching the wound, and Percy goes back to downing most of a bottle of champagne I found.
“How did this happen in the first place?”
He pulls the bottle from his lips. “The last person to come through the Mirror before you tried to kill me.”
I drop the needle so it dangles from the thread attached to his flesh. “Excuse me?”
“He was convinced I was the one controlling this whole realm, and the only way to win his freedom was to slay the monster. Me.”
Percy takes another large swig from the bottle before lowering it again.
“I guess he figured I was vulnerable to the shards because I’d warned him not to touch them.” He looks over at me. “The bastard left me in a pool of my own blood with the shard still in and ...” Percy falls quiet for a moment. “Actually, I don’t know. I never found his mirror fragments.”
“So he could have escaped.”
“I told you, Aki, there’s no escaping this place,” Percy says bitterly before downing more of the champagne.
“So, everything in the Mirror Realm is just like the day you ended up here?”
“Correct.”
“So, there was treasure just strewn across the lobby floor—?”
“Auction items,” Percy interjects.
“Or did you move it all here because you have a particular fondness for it?”
As he stares at me, some realization seems to dawn on him.
“What?”
“No ...I didn’t move anything into here. Anything that didn’t appear after me came with me from the vault.”
My brow furrows. “What about the Carrom board?”
“It’s of no particular value, so we just had it in the recreation room.”
“So, you’re saying you and everything new—everything that arrived after 1908—ends up here in the lobby?”
“Correct.”
“So, what’s in the vault, Percy?”
He just stares at me dumbly.
“You’ve never gone to the vault, have you?”
* * *
“GETTING TO THE VAULT won’t be easy,” Percy states after I finish stitching him up.
“And why’s that?”
“You haven’t wondered why I have a particular fondness for this room? Really? A hundred and fifteen years in a hotel my family owned, and you aren’t the slightest bit curious why I’m sleeping on a lady’s settee?” he questions as he gets redressed in his blood-stained clothes.
Percy swirls his finger around the space. “This room is the only one that never moves.”
“What?”
“The Mirror—it moves all other rooms and corridors in any way it sees fit. But this one remains the same. Always.”
“So, then how exactly are we going to get out?”
“With a little help from Ariadne,” he answers while rummaging through a pile of luxuries on the other side of the fountain.
“Huh?”
“Are you familiar with the myth of the labyrinth?” Percy calls over his shoulder.
“I did say I was a history major.”
“Excellent. That’ll save us time.”
He turns around, holding a tapestry across his arms, and I just gape at him.
“Are you proposing we destroy what looks to be a very old tapestry to escape a labyrinth controlled by a sentient evil mirror?”
“I am proposing exactly that.”
I run my hands down my face.
“Have you a better solution?”
“No, but I really wish I did.”
* * *
I’VE LOST TRACK OF how many corridors we’ve traveled down, hit a dead end, backtracked, and started over.
“Are you sure we’re going the right way this time?” I ask.
“Yes. Maybe. Honestly, I don’t—” Percy’s words cuts off in a hiss. “Aki—I need—I need to stop.”
His breathing is labored and ragged as he leans against the wall.
“Alright, just ... let me know when you’re up for moving again.”
He nods in short jerks of his head, his black hair sticking to the sides of his sweat-damp cheeks.
While I wait for him to catch his breath, I wander a short distance ahead.
“Hey, Aki, where did you go?”
“What do you mean? I’m right ... here ...” I start to reply before I realize that wasn’t Percy’s voice. It was Landon’s.
No. Please no. Don’t tell me you’re trapped here too.
I turn slowly, and that’s when I catch sight of Landon just a short distance down another corridor. And I just start running.
“Landon!”
I reach out to touch him—he’s so very close—and at the very last moment, someone snatches me ‘round the middle.
“Hey! Let go!” I demand.
I twist and fight to get free, but they only hold me tighter.
“Landon!”
“Aki, Stop!” Percy shouts. And, for a half second, I do because I’m so surprised it’s him who’s got me.
“What? Why? It’s him! It’s Landon! He’s right there!”
“Aki, will you calm down and look? Really look!” Percy counters as he hugs me tighter, wrapping his arms around me so my own are pinned against my sides.
“He’s not there! It’s only a mirror!”
“But—”
“He can’t see you.”
“How do you know he can’t? I saw you,” I try to argue.
“Because they can glimpse only what the Mirror of Avarice has seen. But we can see anything the mirrors have ever seen. Do you understand, Aki? This could have happened a moment ago or a hundred years in the past. You’ve no way of knowing. That’s the deviousness of its trap.”
“But he’s right there ...” I plead in a choked-off whisper as my head drops.
“I know. I’m sorry. And it’s only going to get worse,” he says as he holds me a little tighter.
I close my eyes to the phantom temptation beyond the mirror’s surface.
“Were you ever tempted by someone back beyond the mirror?”
Percy is quiet for so long that I begin to think he might never answer.
“No, the only person who mattered died in the quake. It had no one to tempt me with.”
* * *
“WELL, WE JUST RAN OUT of cord, so I hope we’re close or we’re going to have to turn—”
“We’re here,” Percy says almost as if he can’t believe it. As if his eyes are lying to him.
“Are you sure?” I ask, looking over at him.
He nods. “It may have been a long time ago, but I could never forget this place.”
I join him beside the door. “It seems to need a key.”
Percy reaches under his shirt and pulls out two keys on a long golden chain.
“What’s the other one for?”
“Safe deposit box,” he answers, then laughs. “You know, I’m not even sure if the bank it was in was left standing after the quake.”
He turns the key in the lock and pushes the door open.
“What. The. Hell ?”
I don’t know what I was expecting to find beyond the vault door, but it wasn’t ... this.
The room beyond isn’t one of steel or even wood, but of flesh pulsing like a—
“The Heart of the Mirror,” Percy says in a voice that is half awe half disgust.
“Yeah ... We’re definitely in some horror flick bullshit right here.”
“What’s a horror flick?” he asks, turning to me.
“Something I’m probably not going to be introducing you to after we escape this hell hotel.”
“Noted.”
The moment Percy crosses the threshold into the vault, he collapses to his knees. “Ugh!”
“What’s wrong?”
He looks up at me in terrified panic as his hand darts to his side.
“Percy, what’s wrong?”
His jaw clenches. “Nothing. Just help me to my feet and let’s go. It has to know we’re here.”
He’s clutching his side exactly where he was stabbed, and sweat’s started to break out across his face.
I drop down so we’re eye to eye. “Percy. What. Is. Wrong?”
“Ugh!” he huffs out an aggravated breath. Then, seeing my concern, he relents: “Fine. Have it your way,” Percy snaps, yanking apart his clothing to show me the wound.
And it’s as fresh and terrible as if he’d just been stabbed mere moments ago. Blood is leaking down his sides and soaking into the fabric in all directions.
“How? How is this possible—?”
“I told you nothing makes sense in here.”
I yank the cravat off my neck and try my best to wrap it around him.
“Well, then we’ll just have to get you out of here and—”
“Hope I don’t die first?” he finishes.
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s what we’re both thinking.”
“I’m not thinking it. I refuse to think of any possibility in which we both don’t make it out of here. Alive.”
Percy stares at me for an infinitely long time in silence as I finish tying the makeshift bandage. When I look back up, his face is so very close to mine.
“That dormmate doesn’t deserve someone like you.”
I laugh to keep from crying.
“Help me up, Aki. I don’t think I can manage it.”
* * *
AS I ALL BUT CARRY Percy toward the Heart of the Mirror, he rests his head on my shoulder.
“Aki, if I don’t ...”
I cut him off because I don’t want to hear it. “Don’t say it. You’ll be fine.”
“I just want to say ...”
I can already feel his blood soaking through the fabric of my cravat.
Please, please make it.
“I’m glad I wasn’t ...”
Please, let this work.
“ ...alone.”
I push through the Heart of the Mirror to the sound of breaking glass.
* * *
“PLEASE! SOMEONE, ANYONE! He needs help!” I start shouting even before the images around me start to make sense. But my calls only return echoes and then silence.
I’m soaking wet. I’ve got Percy in my arms and—
“You did it, Aki ... We’re free,” Percy says softly as if he almost can’t believe it.
“How do you know?”
Percy’s hand lifts slowly toward the ceiling.
“Because dawn is breaking, and I haven’t seen that in a very long time.”
I look up and, sure enough, sunlight is starting to stream through the glass ceiling above us.
We’re back. We’re home.
“Percy, we’re—”
He grabs my shirt and yanks my mouth to his. And I let him kiss me as the sound of sirens fills the morning air. And I know—I just know—everything will be alright.
Because we escaped the nightmare together.
DEATH HUNG AROUND CORVIC like a shadow clinging to his side. It was all he could think about ever since he was little. The prospect of dying intrigued him. A few times, he tried to glance beyond the veil but was rejected. Death wouldn’t accept him yet. But still it lingered around him, its cold grasp caressing his throat, stealing the breath from his lungs, turning the taste of food to rot. It leeched onto his back, parasitically fixed wherever he went.
Walls and locked doors couldn’t keep it away from him. Nor could a cocktail of prescription drugs. He should’ve been safe within the walls of the pediatric behavioral health unit, but still Death shadowed him.
The unit was on the fourth floor of a hospital, with a view of mountains obscured by thick layers of plexiglass. Corvic was what the staff called a “revolving door patient,” the kind that came and went frequently. He developed bonds with some of the nurses and aids. One, a younger man not much older than Corvic, would sit and talk with Corvic for hours through the night when sleeping was too difficult. So when Corvic turned eighteen, and it was the last time he’d be admitted to the pediatric unit, the aid met him at the door before he could walk out.
“Here. Take this.” He placed in Corvic’s palm a folded note and round, silver coin unlike anything Corvic had seen before. “Getting on your feet can be hard, but having steady work can help.”
Corvic looked at the note. On it was a message for a person named C. Pherimyn. It read: “Mr. Pherimyn, please accept this token as proper verification, and permit Corvic Mitchell to enter Chateau Mortem as an employee under the supervision of Mr. Seker. Signed, Morris Letum.” Corvic held up the coin. Etched around the edges of the coin were the words “Chateau Mortem” and the profile of a face of a woman imprinted in the center. It didn’t look like much. On the other side of the note, Morris had written down the address.
He was now eighteen years old. Going home seemed the safest option, but he would just end up in the same routine. He’d feel better for a few days or weeks but then inevitably begin to feel the chilly fingers of death grasping at him again. He knew he needed a change. The doctors, therapists, psych units weren’t working. Now that he was eighteen, he could go anywhere he wanted, and Morris had given him the first step towards branching out on his own.
Corvic faced a large, iron-wrought gate tipped with fleur-de-lis and locked shut. It was just off the highway, a little used stretch of road cutting through a sea of pine trees in the middle of Maine. Overgrowth swallowed up the two brick columns on either side of the gate. Beyond the gate was a narrow dirt trail running along a trickling brook. It was dark, gloomy, and the trees were too thick to see further than fifty yards. But the most curious thing about the gate was the upside down face welded to the front of it. Once or twice, Corvic thought he saw the face move, its metallic eyes following him.
There wasn’t anyone near the gate, no phone or intercom system with which to call Chateau Mortem, and there was no way he could climb the gate. He looked at the note and began reading it aloud, wondering if he missed something. Then he sat, cross-legged on the ground, near the edge of the deserted highway and doubted his life choices. It was turning out more bleak than the alternative, staying with his parents, returning over and over again to the behavioral health unit.
And then he heard the soft crunch of gravel from behind him. Corvic leapt to his feet and turned around. Emerging from the shade of the trees along the narrow path was a slender, stooped old man dressed in a sleek black suit. He leaned heavily on a thick, wooden cane. Slowly, the old man approached the gate. He had a long, hooked nose and white wisps of hair. Bony fingers clutched the handle of his cane like talons. His eyes were large and round, shining gray as the full moon, and deep set in sunken orbits.
“Can I help you, young man?” The old man’s voice was raspy, shaky.
Corvic walked up to the gate. “Are you Mr. Pherimyn?”
The old man smiled toothily. His cheekbones were sharp and prominent, with shallow cheeks and pointed chin. “I am, indeed.”
“I was told to give you this,” Corvic said as he passed the note over to the old man.
With trembling hands, the old man snatched it and began to read. “Ah, yes, Mr. Letum. Well, young man, I can’t open the door without the token.” He held out his knobby hand through the bars of the gate.
“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Corvic dug into his pocket and pulled out the silver coin, then set it in Mr. Pherimyn’s open palm.
The gate creaked open immediately, swinging outward so that Corvic had to jump back. The old man turned and started to shuffle back down the path, which narrowed even more the further into the trees it went. Corvic followed Mr. Pherimyn, casting one last look back at the gate as it started to close on its own.
“How did you know I was here?” Corvic asked.
“Why, our friend there, hanging from the gate.”
“You mean the upside down face?”
“We call him our Secret Listener, for he hears everything, and we hear all that he hears.”
“You mean like a listening device?”
Mr. Pherimyn nodded. “Precisely.”
Further into the trees, the thick canopy blocked out all sunlight. But to Corvic’s amazement, the handle of Mr. Pherimyn’s cane lit up like a flashlight, casting a steady stream of light onto the path. But the light illuminated nothing else. The darkness on either side of the trail hung like an impenetrable shroud, ready to swallow them up the moment the light turned off.
Next to them, the trickling brook babbled like windchimes. Its crested surface glimmered as Mr. Pherimyn’s light glanced off the water. Corvic thought he saw things in the brook, faint shapes moving near the surface. He approached the bank and crouched low, stretching a finger toward it.
“You don’t want to touch that water, young man,” Mr. Pherimyn said suddenly.
The old man’s voice jolted Corvic out of his stupor. He pulled his hand back and stood up. “Why not?”
“Because it’s deathly cold. So cold, some say it steals their very souls.” The old man winked and kept walking. Afraid of being left behind in the dark, Corvic followed.
Suddenly, the forest vanished, and they stepped out into the daylight. The path widened, and they were now in the midst of a massive cemetery, a colossal necropolis with granite mausoleums, catacombs, and headstones with barely any space to walk between them. Many of which were cracked and crumbling from age. Others were nearly sunken into the soft earth. Every so often, there were gnarly, stout trees with snaking roots and boughs.
“This is the Ennervelt Garden,” Mr. Pherimyn announced. But then he pointed a finger in front of them towards a massive manor, with a hundred windows and circular towers with conical rooftops. Two wings branched off from the main building. Several brick chimneys stuck out from the pitched rooftops and were lazily puffing steady charcoal brumes into the air, despite the warm autumn weather. “And this is Chateau Mortem.”
“What is Chateau Mortem?” Corvic asked, only just now realizing he knew nothing of the place.
“It is a care home. Each of the residents are beings of exceptional stature.”
The path led straight to a set of stone stairs. At the top of the stairs stood a lean man with bronze skin and jet black hair. He was dressed in tan trousers with hems reaching only his calves and showing his bare ankles. His shirt was a flowing white button-up with short sleeves and made from a very soft fabric. When he smiled, he flashed brilliantly white teeth.
“Welcome, Mr. Mitchell. I am Mr. Seker.” His voice was smooth and confident. He turned to Mr. Pherimyn. “I can take it from here, Mr. Pherimyn. Thank you.”
Mr. Pherimyn bowed his head and then walked away.
“Come, Mr. Mitchell. I’ll show you inside. We have much to discuss.” Mr. Seker turned and headed towards the enormous front door. Corvic followed.
Immediately upon entering the manor, they were greeted by a white and brown falcon perched on top of a stand. He flew to Mr. Seker and landed on his shoulder, where it would sit for the entire tour. From time to time it would turn its golden eyes onto Corvic, as if surveying him.
The inside looked even older than outside, with dark wood floors and crowning that creaked with every step. Instead of lights from the ceiling, everything was lit by lanterns hanging from ornate iron brackets jutting out from the walls. They weren’t lit with fire, but rather with lightbulbs that gave off a faint orange light the way a small flame would. The halls were narrow and decorated with drab paintings too dark to really tell what was depicted in them.
Mr. Seker explained in excruciating detail all about the manor, every little flaw, and why certain designs were chosen. After a while, Corvic tuned him out, fixated instead on the brief glances of some of the residents in their rooms through the cracks in their doors. In one room, he spotted the largest and fattest woman he’d ever seen, with glowing ebony skin and thick black braids of hair running down her back. She was cradling something, a bundle of clothes or a baby—Corvic couldn’t tell—but she rocked it back and forth lovingly. She cooed at it, whispering, “Ala loves you.”
Another room revealed a slender man with tan skin sitting in a recliner chair, his hand petting a sleek doberman. The dog sat perfectly still, its pointed ears erect and stiff. In the next room sat a slovenly man with a bushy beard and wild tangles of hair. He was dressed in a bathrobe and was scratching at his back with a stick. Up on his wall was a painting of a creature Corvic had never seen before: a cross between a bear and a snake.
The entire manor was a series of hallways and stairs leading to more hallways. All except for a large sitting room, big enough to seat a hundred people, filled with round tables and chairs, sofas, armchairs, and chaise lounges. It was connected to the kitchen for ease of delivering meals. When they had toured all four floors of the manor, including the wings, Mr. Seker took him outside.
The land rose to a steep hill covered in tall lodgepole pines and crowned with a copse of moss-covered boulders. In the shade of the hill, Mr. Seker pointed out a square barn with a loft. A long balcony stuck out from the loft, like a perch or runway.
“Please stay out of the barn. Our residents keep pets on the premises, and many of them are considered dangerous. We have a specialist who cares for the animals.”
“I saw one man with a dog in his room. Are pets allowed inside?” Corvic asked, recalling the man with his doberman.
Mr. Seker nodded. “Some of the pets are permitted inside, but only if approved. The animals in the barn are not appropriate to be kept inside the home.”
“What kinds of animals are there?” Corvic asked, his curiosity now rising to dangerous levels. Did they have tigers or panthers? The residents apparently were once figures of wealth and prestige, the way Mr. Pherimyn explained it.
“There are a variety of very rare and very ancient creatures. It’s best you simply stay away from the barn,” Mr. Seker said, his tone getting noticeably harsher, as if sensing Corvic’s desire to peek inside. “On that note, I should warn you to be careful wandering the Ennervelt Garden after dark.”
Corvic didn’t follow up with any questions. Most people were superstitious about cemeteries after dark. He started to wonder if Mr. Seker was also superstitious.
The falcon on his shoulder suddenly took flight as they meandered the grounds. Mr. Seker looked unconcerned. Every so often, they passed a stone monolith or the remnants of what looked like an altar for worship. It wasn’t until the sky turned charcoal gray that Mr. Seker led him back inside.
“Your duties here will consist of assisting the residents with various tasks. They are, for the most part, capable of caring for themselves. However, there are certain things they need help with. This”—he pulled out a small black pager and handed it over to Corvic—“is how they will contact you. They will send you the room number. We expect you to respond in a timely manner. If there is something you do not know how to do, you may call for me and I will show you how to do it. Now, let me show you to your room.”
Mr. Seker led Corvic up to the fourth floor, down one of the long corridors and into the eastern wing of the manor. At the very end of the hall was a door with a rounded top. Mr. Seker withdrew an old skeleton key and placed it in the lock. It clicked open, and the door groaned as it swung outward. A set of steep, stone steps led upward into a large round room. A stained glass window faced south over the Ennervelt Garden and towards the front gate where he entered. Corvic realized he was in one of the towers.
A large bed was pushed against a wall, and there were dressers for his personal belongings and a small writing desk. Against the opposite wall was a wooden ladder leading up into another room.
“This is where you will stay while you work here. If you need anything please don’t hesitate to ask. The staff eat their meals in the kitchen either before or after the residents have been served. Any questions?” He set the skeleton key on the nearest dresser and looked at Corvic.
Suddenly feeling hot as blood rushed to his face, Corvic looked down at his feet. “I don’t have any other clothing. Well, I don’t really have anything other than what I’m wearing.” He held off on admitting he also had no money to go buy any clothes either.
Mr. Seker smiled sympathetically. “Mr. Letum contacted me beforehand and explained your situation. You’ll find some clothes in the dressers. If anything doesn’t fit, let me know. Now, for the rest of the night, please rest. Please be down in the kitchen by seven tomorrow morning.”
Mr. Seker descended the stairs and closed the door behind him. Corvic immediately walked to the ladder and stared up through the square hole in the ceiling. He climbed up just enough so his head was poking up through the hole and looked around. It was an attic, and it took the shape of the conical rooftop, coming to a sharp point at the highest part of the ceiling. No windows, no lights. It was dark, only lit faintly by the light below coming in through the hole. A thick layer of dust coated the floor. It was otherwise empty. Corvic climbed back down and started settling into his new home.
––––––––
THE NEXT FEW WEEKS consisted of some of the strangest encounters Corvic ever experienced. The residents were all very quirky and sported a variety of clothing, jewelry, body shapes, tattoos, and accessories. A little, shrunken old woman named Peska wandered the halls and carried a broom that looked like it was carved straight from a tree branch. She liked to glare at Corvic and point a knobby finger at him from across the room.
Another woman was always carrying a fishing pole and wearing a colorful Kente smock, who Corvic suspected would fish from the brook running along the path to the front gate. One man snatched Corvic’s wrist as he delivered the man’s meal. Corvic noticed he had only three fingers on each hand, and wore a black hat that always seemed to shroud his face in darkest shadow.
All of the residents would initially give him an odd look, as if trying to figure out if they knew who he was. Corvic chalked it up to their age, something like Alzheimer’s or dementia. Corvic never once met any other employees. It was just him. Whenever he was paged, he rushed to the room, where the resident would ask for help with bizarre rituals requiring altars, straw dolls, candles, and symbols. When the matter was raised with Mr. Seker, he seemed unconcerned and told Corvic to just do as they asked.
From time to time, Corvic believed he saw figures lurking in the Ennervelt Garden that flickered, like video game characters glitching. Corvic figured it was just a trick of the sunlight as clouds passed in front of it. But then there was the moaning at night, just outside Corvic’s window. He ignored it, mostly, attributing it to the wind. But one night, he noticed the moaning was coming from inside. Figuring the window was cracked open, he rose, groggy and dizzy, and moved to shut the window, only to realize it wasn’t open at all. He peered through the colored panes, but the stained glass distorted everything beyond. The moaning continued, and this time, Corvic recognized it was coming from above him. He moved quietly over to the ladder and stared up into the attic. The moaning was definitely coming from up there.
Corvic reached for the rungs, hesitated a moment, but decided to climb. His head peered into the space just enough that his eyes could see over the ledge. On the far side of the room, a woman stood facing the wall. She was ghostly gray, wearing a ragged and torn dress, untidy hair falling down her back. The moaning emanated from her like a distant foghorn announcing the presence of a ship concealed by dense fog.
Without warning, the woman slowly turned. She spun gracefully and faced Corvic. Her eyes were smoky white, and tears were leaking down her face. She held a bouquet of wilted black and white flowers in her hands. The only color in her appearance was a red stripe around her neck. She started forward, the thick layer of dust on the floor undisturbed.
Corvic was too awed to move. He wasn’t scared or worried. His eyes never strayed from the woman standing over him. The temperature in the room plummeted. His breath turned to white puffs in the air.
“Who are you?” The woman demanded, her hair starting to rise and ripple, as if submerged in water. Her voice echoed, traveling a great distance to reach him, from the realm of the dead into the land of the living.
“I-I’m Corvic Mitchell. I’m new here.”
“You aren’t dead,” she said matter-of-factly. Corvic blinked and, suddenly, her face was an inch from his. He expected to smell something like a rotting corpse or at least something stale, but no, she smelled like perfume. “But you aren’t quite living, are you?”
Corvic quirked an eyebrow. “I’m alive. Look at me. Heartbeat, breathing,” he replied with mild indignation.
The woman shook her head. “No, you aren’t alive. You don’t even know where you are.” She turned again and went back to facing the wall. Her resonant moaning resumed.
Corvic climbed back down the ladder, even more confused. He stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what she meant, ignoring the fact that he had just met a ghost. And then, he climbed back up the ladder. “What is this place?”
The woman stopped moaning but didn’t turn around. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
The woman’s voice reverberated in his head for hours. Disturbed and restless, Corvic couldn’t go back to sleep. So, he dressed and left his room, deciding to wander the Ennervelt Garden. The floorboards creaked with every step, and the entire manor groaned as if swaying like an old clipper vessel in the sea. Most of the doors to the resident’s rooms were shut. He descended to the third floor and wandered the hallways. As he meandered aimlessly, he heard noises towards the end of the corridor. They sounded like someone or something breathing heavily. Then a door at the end burst open wide, and a man waddled out of it.
The figure was large, over six feet tall, and very round. His face sat like a sack of potatoes on a beefy neck, and he constantly flushed bright red. His eyes looked swollen shut from his bulbous cheeks. A long, wispy beard grew from a round chin down to his waist. He wore elegant Chinese robes, hemmed in gold, and a little hat on his fat head. In one of his pudgy hands he held a thick, black tome. The colossal man took up the entire width of the hallway.
Corvic was about to turn around and go the other direction, not interested in having another odd encounter, but heard the man shout at him. “You! Come! Kneel before King Yan.” As he said this, the man slapped his round belly and it jiggled.
Corvic approached the man and looked up into his portly, red face. “Good morning, sir. I’m Corvic. I’m one of the new staff members. How can I help you?”
King Yan bent at his waist and put his nose close to Corvic’s face. The slits in his eyes revealed deep black irises. “Hmmm, a curious one.” He straightened up and held the book in front of him. It opened, the spine of it resting in the palm of his hand. The pages moved on their own, flapping erratically until suddenly stopping. King Yan looked down at the text. He muttered to himself in Chinese, by what Corvic could tell.
“Strange one. You exist in two places at once.” He snapped the book shut and started a hearty chuckle. “Good luck.”
Corvic didn’t like the way King Yan wished him luck, but he was becoming used to such weird interactions with the residents. “Thank you,” he said, mildly annoyed. Corvic turned around and hastily walked away from King Yan.
He went down to the second floor, skipped it, and went to the first. He didn’t want to run into any more residents. It was still another couple of hours before he was expected to be in the kitchen. As he approached the front door to the manor, he spotted Mr. Seker’s falcon settled on its perch. Its bright yellow eyes glared at him as Corvic walked outside.
He felt as if he had stepped into a blast chiller. The cold bit his exposed skin. A thick fog hung over the grounds, blanketing the Ennervelt Garden. But as far as Corvic could tell, there was no frost or wind; no snow was falling. Yet, Corvic wondered if he had stepped into the arctic by mistake. He descended the front steps and walked into the cemetery, proceeding slowly so he didn’t accidentally trip over headstones.
His fingers caressed the granite and marble markers, tombs, and mausoleums. Graveyards were tranquil. He felt at ease among the dead, much more than he felt among the living. Life seemed somewhat unnatural, a surreal experience. Death would peel back the veil and reveal everything. Only then would he understand the universe’s secrets.
Every now and again, he saw the fog move, little swirls as something moved through it just beyond his periphery. A low, guttural growl echoed across the garden. Corvic froze. His eyes darted around, trying to see through the mists. He could see only a few feet in front of him. And then the fog parted, revealing a stocky man with a curly black beard. In one hand, the man carried a golden mace with three lions’ heads. The other hand rested on the mane of a large lion, its eyes hungrily staring at Corvic. Sheathed at his hip was a curved scimitar, the hilt adorned with leonine decorations.
“You’re brave to walk the Garden before sunrise.” The man’s voice was smooth and calm.
“I like cemeteries. I visit them regularly,” Corvic answered honestly.
“Yes, but none where the dead walk as well.” As he spoke, the fog suddenly lifted. All around them were gray forms stalking the graveyard. They hovered over the grass, phased through headstones, trees, and statues.
“Why? Why are they here?” Corvic asked, keeping his voice steady despite the horde of ghosts surrounding him and the lion still growling hungrily.
The man smiled. “Does it matter? The only important question is whether you stay or leave.” Every specter in the garden stopped moving and turned their eyes on Corvic.
A cold shiver rippled throughout his body. “I just started. I-I can’t just leave.”
The man smiled. “So, you stay.” The lion next to him growled and slowly stalked forward, lowering itself to the ground, ready to pounce. The spirits closed in around him. As they got closer, Corvic could feel the temperature drop precipitously, crystal frost spread across the ground. The man watched pompously as the ghosts eagerly groped the air, reaching for Corvic’s body.
The first of the spirits plunged their icy hands into his chest. They went straight through him, and his entire body convulsed. Then another, and another, until he fell to his knees and was swallowed by the throng of specters. As they stole away the air from his lungs and began dragging his soul from his body, his mind realized this was it: the moment he would die. There was no preventing it, no escaping Death this time. And that realization triggered a panic, unexpected and explosive.
He cried out, begged it to stop, tried fighting against the swarm of ghosts, but his struggle was in vain. He couldn’t touch them. So many times before he sought death, yet was always denied. But now, literally in Death’s embrace, he wanted to live. He wasn’t even sure why. He didn’t even know for what he wanted to live. All he knew is he wanted to live. Dying now was ironic ... and cruel.
The assault continued to ravage him, and little by little he felt his soul become untethered from his body, despite how much he willed it to stay. His consciousness slipped away, and the world was dimming to black.
“Release him!” a raspy voice pierced through the hungry groans of the spirits. Immediately, the ghostly mob retreated, leaving Corvic lying semi-unconscious on the frosted grass. Even the man with his lion took a wary step back. Corvic looked around for the source of the voice.
A black-cloaked figure stood near the path. In one skeletal hand it held a large, menacing scythe, which gave off a high-pitched and eerie whistle. The blade was long and curved. The figure’s cloak was tattered, ripped and fraying along the hems, with a hood pulled up over the head, shadowing its face. Though concealed from him, Corvic felt an undeniable familiarity with the figure. An overwhelming sense of nostalgia washed over him.
“He isn’t yours to claim, Nergal,” the high voice whispered malevolently.
The bearded man swallowed. “Yes, of course. Just testing him.” Nergal backed up slowly. The lion was now cowed, looking less like a lion and more like a tabby cat. The pair vanished into the wall of fog.
And then the figure’s face turned to Corvic. “You want to live?” it asked. Its voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper, yet it filled Corvic with heavy dread.
Corvic was still trying to get his bearings about him. “Yes,” he replied.
“Why now?”
“I don’t know.”
The figure approached him, gliding across the grass and between headstones. Corvic clambered to his feet, dizzy and nauseous.
“Do you know where you are?” the figure asked.
Corvic wasn’t sure, but he guessed anyway. “The afterlife.”
The figure started wheezing, which Corvic assumed was a laugh. “Not quite. You aren’t dead ... yet.”
“Then where am I?”
“You stand at the gate to the afterlife, at the precipice of the dead.”
“Why haven’t I been here before?” Corvic asked. “I’ve nearly died several times.”
“No, Corvic Mitchell. You’ve never touched death before. You’ve stood in cemeteries, dreamed about death, familiarized yourself with it, and even tried to breach the veil. But you have never felt its caress, never seen beyond. Now you have, and so now you know. And now you want to live. Tell me why?”
Corvic shook his head. “I don’t know.”
The figure was now a foot from Corvic. He could smell its putrid odor, the reek of rotting corpses. “Until you know, you will stay here. You will serve the Chateau Mortem.” The figure turned and started to leave.
“Who are you?” Corvic asked. “Who are the residents of Chateau Mortem?”
“You already know.”
As the figure walked away, Corvic felt a piece of him being torn away, like his shadow was being severed from his body. Death no longer followed him.
“YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO me.”
“It’s done, Jones.”
“But—”
“Enough! Every agent has a partner. Deal with it.”
I stamped my way out of my boss’s office. It wasn’t professional or mature, but it made me feel better. I slumped into my chair and tapped at the computer screen. I wasn’t against people—although what I’d seen of human nature didn’t put them in my top ten species—I just couldn’t risk exposure. A partner might get too close, and if I shifted in front of them ... then my whole life could disintegrate.
What I needed was a new case to distract me. A ping in my inbox answered my internal plea.
“I could help you turn off the sound on your alert.”
I snapped my head up to find the source of the poshest voice I’d ever heard blinking down at me with owlish blue eyes. My gaze wandered up to the huge fluff of hair that sprouted from his round head, giving him a mad professor aura that didn’t go with his boyish face.
“Who are you?”
He held out his hand. “Maximillian Baskerville. Everyone calls me Maxi. The boss said to report to you.”
I shook his hand. My lips twitched up as he winced at my strength. It was petty, but I gave an extra squeeze before releasing him.
“So, what are your combat skills like?”
He guffawed. I had never heard someone make a sound so accurate for that word before. “Er, not really my forte, what!”
I raised one eyebrow and levelled a stare at him. Things could get ugly in the field when you worked for the Magical Liaison Office and all agents had basic combat training as well as crossbow proficiency—the weapon of choice for our organisation, given it could so easily combine wood and silver in one arrow that would cause most supernaturals to stop in their tracks.
An obvious question rang around my mind, so I spoke it aloud: “Why would they assign me a new partner who doesn’t have basic combat training?”
He fidgeted. “Oh, yah, I’ve been asked to assist; tech support, yah. And ... I’ve got some knowledge about this case.”
I narrowed my eyes at him and turned back to my emails, reading the one marked urgent at the top of my inbox. When I was done, I looked up.
“You have specialist knowledge about an oversized dog that attacked a toff at the Baskerville Hall ... wait.” A piece of the puzzle clicked into place. “You’re a Baskerville.”
“Yah. Ever since the civil war, there have been rumours of a large black dog roaming the estate ... I’ve done some research, and the boss thought you should have an expert on local legends with you so ... ta-dah! It’ll be a jolly lark, what!”
I tuned out his public school boy nonsense. “You ready to go?”
“Er, yah.” He pointed to a pristine leather carry all.
I grabbed my handbag and grinned at his puzzled look. My mock crocodile skin handbag didn’t look like much, but I’d had it enchanted, and it could hold anything while weighing no more than a regular bag. It contained everything I needed for a mission.
I rooted around inside and withdrew my crossbow to make a point.
Maxi gave a low whistle. “Nice handbag of holding.” He held up his fist for me to bump it. I ignored him and led the way to the garage under the London headquarters.
As we took the lift downstairs, I decided to find out more about my new partner.
“Have you got any field experience?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Been here for a year, but no field missions over in tech.”
The lift lurched to a halt, and I strode over to my standard issue grey Volvo. I climbed in and programmed the sat nav to take us to Dartmoor. A four-hour drive. I groaned and set off. At least it was mostly motorway and main roads.
As soon as we were outside the horrors of the M25 motorway that ringed London in a multi-laned circle with incomprehensible exit signs, I asked Maxi what he knew about Baskerville Hall and the hellhound.
“Yah, well, it’s quite a story. Sir Hugo Baskerville was an occultist at the outset of the civil war. He thought he could tip the balance to favour our side—”
“Which side was your family on?” I asked.
“The royalists.” Of course, the posh boy’s family were royalists. I kept my eyes on the road as he continued. “So, he started experimenting. According to legend, he managed to open a gate to another realm and a ruddy huge black dog comes through. But, instead of helping, it killed Hugo and set a curse on our family.”
“Hang on. He opened a gate to another realm? How did he close it if he was dead? Why didn’t more creatures get through?”
“The story goes that his faithful servant stopped the ritual and closed the gate, but he was too late to save his master. Totally sad.” His voice lowered into what he must have thought was an approximation of Christopher Lee, but in reality, sounded like he had got a frog in his throat. “Ever since then, the hound has roamed the moors ready to kill anyone who gets in its way.”
“Alright, knock the voice on the head,” I said. “The file doesn’t have any confirmed killings. Sounds like it was a local legend to scare children.”
“Oh, it scared the pants off me for sure. I must have been the only child glad to go to boarding school.” He shuddered.
I sighed and turned on the radio, tuning it into some cheerful nineties pop music that I bopped along to, tapping the steering wheel with my fingers. Poor little rich brat, sent away to boarding school with his chums, trained up on the classics and how to rule the world. So privileged that he wanted to leave home. Not like me. Forced to live in hiding and then run to survive, I spent my childhood wishing I could have my dad back and looking over my shoulder. Until I could run away and live in plain sight in London.
I shook my head to get away from those thoughts. We weren’t going anywhere near my family home in Wales; we were going to rural Devon.
Four and a half hours and one pit stop at a crummy service station later, and we made it to Baskerville Hall. I turned the car through towering stone gates with large dog statues peering down at us as we drove along the gravelled drive. Spears pierced their stony flanks but didn’t affect their menacing leers.
Trees lined the drive. Maybe they would give a cheery feel in the summer, but in late autumn with the branches half bare, they looked like they could reach out and touch us through the low hanging mist that clung to the ground.
We rounded a corner, and I stared.
“This is where you grew up?”
“Yah, welcome to the old homestead.” He got out of the car and stood looking up at the mansion before us. I gaped up at the huge house before joining Maxi at the foot of the stone steps leading to the huge front door, easily wide enough to fit three people through at the same time. Above the door, a carved black hound glared down at us, a spear through its side as well. Looks like the Baskervilles embraced their gothic past.
The building itself was a red brick mansion with two floors and ten windows spaced neatly along the top floor. More stone dogs watched us from the stone crenelation around its roof. The weak afternoon sun did nothing to dispel the creepiness. A pang of sympathy stuck in my chest; no wonder Maxi was anxious to leave this place. At least I always felt welcome back at home, even if Mum and me had our disagreements.
A howl sounded close by. I unholstered my crossbow and whirled round, aiming in the direction the mounting howls came from. It sounded like there were more than one of the hellish creatures.
Maxi stepped forward just as a pack of six hounds raced around the corner. He disappeared under a mound of dog flesh that yipped and licked at his face. I replaced my crossbow. If these were hellhounds, I was a house cat.
“Just the hunting pack out for an afternoon run. Nothing to worry about!”
I watched Maxi roll around with the dogs. Maybe this was the only affection he’d had growing up. I shook off the sentimentality and headed up the steps to ring the doorbell. It was one of those old-fashioned bell pull contraptions and I yanked it down, hearing the bell reverberate through the hall on the other side of the door.
An elderly gentleman opened the door and stood to one side so we could enter. “We expected you half an hour ago,” he sniffed. He wore a black waistcoat over a pressed shirt and grey trousers. I stared for a moment, wondering if I had conjured him; he looked exactly like the butler I expected to answer the door.
“Sorry Watkins. Traffic on the motorway and I needed a bathroom break around Bristol, bladder of a five-year-old, what. Old man in the lounge, is he?” Maxi had shaken off the dogs, and they now followed him, jumping around his feet. One of them sniffed me and I let it lick my hand.
“The study, sir.” A flicker of concern passed over the butler’s face, but it went so fast that I might have mistaken it.
“Right-o.” Maximillian walked into the house and set off down a green carpeted hall, dogs at his heels.
The butler called the hounds to him. “Sir Baskerville doesn’t like animals in his study. I will return these dogs to their kennels.”
“Right you are,” Maxi said, took a deep breath, and entered the study.
I resisted the urge to smooth down my suit jacket as I walked past the weapons on display in the hall. I didn’t need to impress anyone. I was the Magical Liaison Office expert here. The panelled door to the study was open, so I strode in without knocking.
An uncomfortable sensation tingled down my skin, making my hairs prick on end. It was powerful magic. I wouldn’t put it past the privileged family to have invested in powerful enchantments for a safe. I couldn’t pinpoint the source, so I ignored it and took in the scene.
Maxi stood with his head down, staring at his scuffed shoes while an older man sat at a desk that in an ordinary room would have been called oversized. But here, surrounded by walls of bookshelves and enough floor space to fit my entire London flat, it looked like it belonged.
The older man turned the page in a file with deliberate slowness. I knew a power play when I saw it. I strode across the pricey carpet, placed both hands on the desk, and leaned over.
“Are you the owner of the house or the steward?”
The man flushed and looked up. His blue eyes were the same shape as Maxi’s, but without the innocent arrogance. He appraised me and smiled.
“You must be the Magical Liaison Office agent. I am Sir William Baskerville, and yes, I own this house and the surrounding lands.”
“Er, technically, Grandpa owns it,” Maxi piped up. His father gave him a ferocious stare, and he returned to staring at his feet with a mumbled apology.
“In that case, I’d better speak to the real Sir Baskerville.”
“That would be Lord Baskerville,” Maxi said. I hid the smirk that threatened to cross my face as his father’s face reddened.
“He’s not well.” William regained his composure. “As I believe you know. You are here to investigate the attack on him, after all.”
“All the more reason to see him.”
Sir William made to stand. I cut him off. “But first, why don’t you tell us what you know?”
He sat down again, his mouth tight at my power tactics. “Stories of hell hounds have plagued my family—”
“Maybe because of your choice of décor,” I suggested, eyeing the hell hound carved above the fireplace in the study. The stone mason had added rubies for eyes that caught the dim light from the green shaded banker style lamp on the desk.
Sir William gave a small smile, his polite façade back in place. “Perhaps. Regardless, it has always been nothing more than a harmless story told to make children behave. A ghost story to cause chills in superstitious locals on a long winter’s evening.”
Maxi swallowed hard. Another pang of sympathy washed through me. I could imagine the stories poured in his young ears by his uncaring father.
“But last night ...” He tapped a pen against the desk. “My father was out taking his evening walk—he likes to watch the sun set over the woods—and there was a howl, like nothing I’d ever heard. I dismissed it as a trick of the moors; sometimes the geographical layout causes distortions in light or sound, confusing unwary travellers. But pater didn’t come back. I sent out a search party, naturally.”
“Naturally.” Sending a search party for an elderly man after dark was the least he could do.
“We found him injured. A huge bite mark gouged out of his shoulder. I called for the doctor—”
“Not an ambulance?”
Sir William gave me a look like I had said a dirty word. “My father is not in the best of health; we have a private medical service on call for him. He prefers to be treated at home. The doctor confirmed he was well enough to stay, and we have set up his room to accommodate his wishes.”
“OK. But why call the MLO?”
“One of my men saw a creature in the dark. An enormous dog or wolf, larger than he’d ever seen. He claimed it was a hell hound, but we both know there are many kinds of supernaturals and that seems to me a more logical explanation than a mythical dog.”
He gave me a half smile and I stiffened. Did he know what I was? How could he tell?
“Right. I want to speak to the witness and your father.” I covered my discomfort with curtness.
Sir William nodded. “As you wish.” He stood and pressed a brass button on the wall. Seconds later, the elderly butler appeared. “Watkins, take these people to see my father, then Jackson.”
“Yes, sir.”
We left the room, but Maxi hung back.
I frowned. “Come on Maxi. You’re with me.”
He gave me a small smile of relief and trailed after me like a puppy I’d rescued from a kicking.
The butler led the way upstairs with surprising speed. Portraits of the Baskerville family lined the stairwell and the hallway. I spotted Maxi’s eyes staring back at me from many of his ancestors’ pictures. I shivered; it was creepy. I frowned at a darker face painted into the background of a renaissance man with Maxi’s frizzy hairstyle—a clear hierarchy between people who looked like him and people who looked like me.
Watkins paused and knocked on one of the identical wooden doors that we passed.
“Come in, what!” barked a voice from the other side.
“Guests to see you, my lord.”
“Well, don’t keep them waiting. Come in, come in. Don’t get many guests nowadays. Maxi! Didn’t know you were back from the city. Come in, I said!”
The butler stood by the door as we walked in. My first impression was that Santa had gone on a diet and decided to get some serious bed rest. Most of the old man was covered by a thick, embroidered quilt that looked Victorian, and the rest of him was covered with hair. A bushy white beard sprouted from his cheeks and chin, hanging down to his chest and his head was topped with a mass of hair that stood out in all directions, much like his grandson’s, only longer. His eyebrows were determined not to be outdone and bushed up and outwards, so the only parts of his face I could see were a red nose and those Baskerville blue eyes.
Maxi perched on the large double bed and patted the old man’s hand as we introduced ourselves.
“Watkins!” Lord Baskerville shouted, making me jump.
“Yes, sir?”
“Didn’t see you there. Bring refreshments for our guests. The good kind.”
Watkins bowed and left to get whatever the good kind of refreshments were. I shuffled forward, not wanting to be next to the sickbed. It brought back too many memories of my mother’s last days. True to his word, the Earl’s bedroom had been transformed into a medical centre. A drip connected into one of his stick thin arms and a heart monitor beeped on the other side of the bed.
“Lord Baskerville?”
“Come forward, gel, and speak up. Can’t hear as well as I used to, what.”
I coughed and tried again. “Lord Baskerville, what can you tell us about the attack?”
“Not much. Sorry to say, not much at all.” He shook his head and his beard swung in time with his movements. It was almost hypnotic. “I was taking my evening constitutional. I like to keep these old bones moving—makes it harder for the reaper to catch me, what! There was a howl, so I decided to cut my walk short. Can’t be too careful this close to the moors. Next thing I know, I’m on the ground being shaken like I was a chew toy.”
“So, you didn’t get a good look at it?” I asked.
“’Fraid not, gel. But you’re not here to listen to me prattle on. I know why you’re really here.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You do?”
“The family curse.”
Watkins entered the room smoothly, carrying a tray with a teapot, delicate cups, and a plate of the “good refreshments”. He set the tray on the edge of the crowded bedside table and poured us each a cup of tea before handing round the biscuits. I took a couple for form’s sake, even though sugary snacks didn’t really appeal to me. It might have been the lynx side of me, but I preferred a good steak over sweets any day of the week.
The butler coughed and gave Lord Baskerville a meaningful look. “Your son asked me to remind you not to overexert yourself in your delicate state.”
The old man guffawed and shifted in his bed, exposing the large white bandage that wrapped around his shoulder. “You can tell my son that he’ll have to do more than send visitors up to get rid of me!”
“Very good, sir.” Watkins left, and I listened to make sure his padded footsteps disappeared down the hall and didn’t stop outside the door.
“The curse?” I prompted.
“Yes! The curse. Pass me one of those Bournevilles, Maxi m’boy. Can’t beat ’em, what!” he stuffed the dark chocolate biscuit in his mouth and spoke around the crumbs. “We’re cursed.”
I waited, but that seemed to be it. “Can you be any more specific?”
“Hmm? No, not really. But everyone round here’ll tell you the Baskervilles are cursed. Maxi made a study of it. Caused quite the stir at the local primary school. Got a few letters home about that. Ever since old Hugo—that’s the first Earl of Baskerville—decided to raise an army of damned hell hounds and got himself killed, we’ve been cursed.
“I can see you don’t believe me, but we’ve got the spear that killed the blighter in the armoury. Of course, some say that it escaped and that it haunts the Baskervilles still. Any unexplained death in the family is caused by that hound.”
Maxi nodded along. “The last one was Great-Grampy Baskerville. He died from an unknown illness that struck with no warning when he was eighty-six.”
“O ... K ... So, no dog bites?”
“Not until me. I think one of the Earls died from a lion bite over in Africa, but no dogs after Hugo.”
“Right.” I moved on. “But someone saw a dog?”
“Ask Watkins. He fussed around in here so much last night. He was the one who insisted we call your office, even though William hates getting the authorities involved in anything.” He yawned.
“Thank you for your time, Lord Baskerville.”
“Would you like me to stay with you, Grampy?”
“Just like your mother. But I’ll be alright. Feeling a bit tired, anyway. Catch up later, yah.” The old man closed his eyes, and we took that as our cue to exit.
Maxi led the way back past the oil paintings until Watkins met us at the bottom of the stairs.
“If you’ll follow me, I have Jackson waiting in the kitchen.”
A strange whirring made me tilt my head. “Can you hear that?”
The others exchanged glances. Sometimes I forgot how sensitive my hearing was. The whirring got closer as we kept going, and then Maxi tripped over a low robotic vacuum cleaner. It looked out of place in the gothic hall.
“Forgive me, sir. It’s meant to come on after dark.”
“Can’t believe Daddy actually got one. I never thought he’d go for it.”
“I believe it was the cost saving that convinced him.” Watkins sniffed. “I am fortunate that there is not yet a butler robot.”
“No one could replace you, Watkins.”
“Let’s get a move on,” I said. “Jackson’s waiting.”
We left the Roomba in the main part of the house and stepped through an unassuming door built into a tapestry. On this side of the door, the walls were plain, and the floor was tiled rather than carpeted. Servants’ stairs. Watkins showed us down to the kitchen where a tall man paced, worrying his flat cap between his hands. Mud stained the cuffs of his trousers and there was a large, neatly sewn patch above one knee.
“Mr Jackson? I’m Agent Jones and you know Baskerville. Magical Liaison Office. We hear that you saw something last night?”
“That I did, ma’am. Summat right strange.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“ ’Twas a dog, like none I ever seen before. Huge, the size of a pony and with great slobbering jaws and eyes that shone like coals. The hellhound.”
“When did you see it?”
“I was first there, must have been about half hour after sundown. Sir William asked for volunteers for the search party. I knew the Earl’s route—see, we often crossed paths when I was searching the woods for poachers and the like. The hellish creature was on him. Gave me chills. I froze to the spot I did before I shouted, and it let go. Must have heard t’others coming cos it ran off then, soon as it saw me.”
“Can you show us where this was?”
“Aye.”
“Lead on, then.”
“Wait, I’ve got something in the car that can help,” Maxi said.
“Just come on, yah.” He sprinted off. I shrugged and followed after. Jackson was uncomfortable walking through the main part of the house; his shoulders were tight, and he glanced around in swift bursts like he expected someone to tell him to leave at any minute.
I walked with purpose and hoped it would rub off on him. I considered saying something like, “They’re not better than you, they just have money,” but that felt condescending, and we needed his help.
At the car, Maxi dug something out of a backpack with a school logo on it. I squinted but couldn’t make out what animal it was. Maybe a lion or a pig?
He pulled out a boxy contraption and smiled at us as he extended the silver aerial. “Detection device to pick up magical signatures. This will help us figure out if what we’re after is supernatural.” He pointed it at Jackson, and the machine stayed silent. “Jackson doesn’t give off enough magic for this machine to read, but if I had the bigger version at the lab ...”
He turned it in my direction. I stepped out of the way. “Alright, we get the picture. Let’s get a move on before it gets dark.” That was close. I didn’t need anyone knowing that I was a supernatural. I’d worked hard to keep my true nature a secret, knowing how bad it could get when people found out that a shifter walked among them. Bad was an understatement. Murderous was more accurate.
I clenched my fists as my mind wandered into places that I normally had tamped down so tight I could ignore them. My stride lengthened as my brain whirred. Supernaturals and humans were an uneasy mix. As a lynx shifter, I could pass for human most of the time, and mundanes hated it when you weren’t the monster they expected.
I kicked at a clump of grass and looked back. Maxi and Jackson puffed as they tried to keep up with me. Maxi still had that dzraking machine out. I waited halfway up a small hill before telling Jackson to take the lead.
“Not scared are you?” Maxi said with a laugh.
“Scared? I’m not dzraking scared,” I lashed out before I could stop myself, hating Maxi’s puppy dog eyes.
My mind was still in the past, reliving the last time I saw dad, as the mob took him. I had to spend my life in rural Wales without a dad because humans were too dzraking narrow minded to accept others. And now I protect mundanes from magical beings who actually want to do them harm, knowing that they took away my dad. I forced the grief into anger like I always did. “Let’s find this dog.”
He bounded on ahead, scanning the path, ignoring my outburst.
“Look here! These readings are off the chart!” Maxi’s shout spurred me on to jog the final section.
My muscles responded with ease, and I enjoyed the slight burn from the exercise, but it ended far too quickly.
Maxi spun round and pointed to the screen. A wavy green line spiked across it.
“What does it mean?”
“A strong magical signature was here. My guess is this is what attacked Grampy. Normally any residue is much weaker than this, so, either it came back, or it’s something from another realm—one of pure magic. Or ...”
“Or?”
“Or it’s hiding close by.” He gulped.
I turned in a slow circle, using my enhanced senses to pick out the slightest sound in the trees that surrounded us. The sun hung low on the horizon, a lazy orb finished for the day. The forest loomed on either side, impenetrable to sight. Anything could hide a few feet back and we’d never see it. But my ears picked up nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary: just birds, a small animal scurrying in the undergrowth. I sniffed the air. There was a faint tang of bad eggs.
“What is that smell?”
Maxi gave an exaggerated inhale that made me want to punch him.
I followed the scent and found a huge pawprint pressed into the earth. “Here.” Schiztz. This thing was massive. I stretched my hand over the print. My fingers didn’t touch the sides.
Maxi got down on all fours and shoved his face into the dirt. “Yah! There is a whiff of brimstone around here, isn’t there? Great sense of smell! I’d say this is a clear indication of a creature from another realm. Gah, it’s almost as bad as Toffy. He could clear the entire dorm on chilli night!”
A low howl sounded across the moors, interrupting his schoolboy story. It was haunting, with echoes of death singing through the call. My hackles went up, and I snarled. My inner lynx was not happy.
Maxi swallowed.
“It came from the same direction as the house,” I said.
“Grampy!” Maxi exclaimed at the same time as I said, “Lord Baskerville.”
We ran.
***
MY GAIT WAS SMOOTH, practised after years of working out in the gym and five mile runs every day, but my lynx longed to break free, knowing I could cover the ground faster in my animal form. I quashed that feeling. I didn’t have time to deal with Maxi freaking out at my transformation or anyone at the house mistaking me for the hellhound. Bullet wounds are not fun to recover from.
I pounded on the door, shaking it on its hinges.
Watkins opened the door a fraction of an inch at her frantic banging.
“Let us in!”
“Did you hear it?” His thin voice shook with fear.
I barged past, flinging the door open. “Watkins, we need to barricade the house and I need eyes on the grounds.”
“The upper floor, ma’am.”
I nodded and took one step towards the stairs when Maxi’s father arrived. “What is the meaning of this?”
“You heard the howl?”
“Of course, I did. But you cannot tell me that you believe this balderdash?”
“We found strong magical residue at the attack site and evidence of a large canine. We believe something entered from another realm.”
“Another realm? Poppycock!”
“It’s true, Papa,” Maxi panted from the doorway. “The machine doesn’t lie.” He waved the black box at his dad and then blinked. He looked like a confused owl.
I stepped back, but Maxi wasn’t interested in my magical signature. “Pater, why do you have a magical signature?”
“I’m not magical, you fool,” Sir Baskerville sneered.
I believed him. He didn’t smell like a supernatural. There was a slim possibility that he was a species I hadn’t encountered, but after four years in the London branch of the Magical Liaison Office, I’d come across pretty much everything the supernatural world had to offer.
Maxi’s jaw hung slack, and he stared from his father to the machine then back again.
“Is there another way that your machine could pick up a magical signature from a human?” I asked.
“I suppose if there was sufficient exposure ...”
“Where have you spent a lot of time recently?”
“This is preposterous! I work in my study, tour the grounds, visit my tenants. I haven’t been anywhere magical. This whole thing is ridiculous.”
The hound bayed again.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and made my decision.
“Right, Maxi, you and I are going to the study with Sir Baskerville. Watkins and Jackson, barricade the downstairs.”
I marched to the study and the scrape of furniture rang in my ears as the two humans moved a table in front of the heavy front door.
Inside the study, I almost trod on the stupid robotic vacuum cleaner, and I bent to press its off switch. Close to the floor, the unsettling tingle of magic I had felt the first time I’d entered the room squeezed my chest.
“The readings are stronger here. This is the source, for sure. Oh Papa, what did you do?”
So, Sir Baskerville had played with magic.
“I didn’t do anything, you imbecile. I cannot believe the idiocy of my own offspring. I thought some time in the city would do you good, but it’s time you came back and started living up to your responsibilities. You are heir—”
Anger built inside me. We didn’t have time. My teeth lengthened, and I shoved the old man against one of the bookcases that lined the room.
“Tell us what you did.”
His mouth opened and closed in his red face. I loosened the pressure of my forearm against his throat.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he croaked.
I let out a growl of warning. My patience had come to an end.
Something flashed in the corner of my eye. The corner of an occult symbol shone red in the stone floor where I’d scuffed up the carpet ramming Maxi’s father into a bookcase.
I released Sir Baskerville.
“You haven’t heard the last of this!”
“Shut up!” I said, bending down to pull back more of the carpet.
“I’ll ... I’ll report you! When I’m through, you’ll never work again!”
“Pack it in, pater.”
“How dare you!”
Maxi stood and squared up to his father. “Look! Your study is the source of all of this. Do you expect me to believe you didn’t summon the creature? That you didn’t know?”
“I ... I ... It wasn’t me!”
I yanked back more of the double layered carpet with a satisfying rip of the thick material.
Carved symbols and runes covered the stone floor. It looked like dangerous magic, but I wasn’t an expert.
“Maxi, how do these symbols work?”
“Fascinating ...” Maxi switched from anger to wonder in an instant. “It looks like they create a gate to another realm but in a separate location ... It’s complicated magic, but once it’s set up, it can be activated by anyone if they pass over the symbols in the right order ...”
My gaze landed on the innocuous round vacuum cleaner and a thought crystallised. “Does it have to be a living person?”
Maxi tilted his head and ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stick up further. “No, I suppose not ...”
He trailed off as he noticed my gaze.
“You don’t think ...”
I nodded. “I think that the Roomba summoned the hellhound.”
“Sorry, Papa. I can’t believe I thought you might have opened a portal to another dimension.” Maxi held his arms out for a hug.
Sir Baskerville looked between us. “You’re all bloody mad!” He swept out of the room.
Maxi pulled a face. “Well, Christmas is going to be more awkward this year.”
I let out a snort of laughter despite myself. “Right, so how do we reverse this?”
Maxi toed a couple of runes with his shoe. “No idea. This is specific magic. We’re probably looking at the original spell the first Earl commissioned to raise the hell-spawn army in the civil war. I could search the records ...”
“Start there.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Kill a hellhound. You make sure the gate closes and nothing else gets through.”
I left Maxi pulling books off the shelves and hurried back to the others. A glint of metal caught my eye. Weapons. I clambered up a lacquered cabinet that had avoided becoming part of the barricade and grabbed the long spear tipped with black blood that had “Killer of the Hellhound” inscribed on its long shaft.
It stuck fast in its mountings, but after I applied my supernatural strength, it came free. I tested the weight of it. A slight tilt towards the front. But this could tip things in our favour.
A howl came from the back of the house.
I sprinted towards it.
***
MAXI’S DESCRIPTION of a “ruddy huge black dog” paled in comparison to the beast that stood before us. It was enormous, the size of my car from nose to tail, and it stood as tall as a van. Its coat was coal black with flecks of orange that paid tribute to its hellish roots. Its face was wolf like but with a blunter snout filled with serrated teeth that glinted in the half light of the moon. It glared down at us with eyes that sparked fire as drool dripped from its maw.
I swore.
The creature prowled towards the house, its head close to the ground, sniffing. It sat back on its haunches and howled before leaping at the wall, its clawed feet scrabbling at the brickwork.
I did some mental mapping. It was after the old man.
I made my way to the back door and opened it without a sound. It was set under a staircase to the main house, so I inched forward and used the stairs as cover to assess the situation.
The hellhound flung itself at the wall, shaking the house. Glass shattered under the force of its body.
I gripped the spear, took up a javelin pose I remembered from PE lessons, and launched it at the slavering creature.
My aim was true, but the hellhound’s feet slipped on gravel and the spear skimmed its back instead of impaling it. The beast spun round and glared at me.
I whipped my crossbow from its holster and shot it. The small bolt disappeared into its shaggy fur. It growled with pain and crouched.
A shot rang out, deafening my keen ears. Jackson poked a gun out of a downstairs window.
The hellhound leapt with a growl. Jackson pulled at the shutter. He wasn’t quick enough. It crunched down with its jaws, shook his limp body like he was a chew toy, and dropped him on the ground.
I sprinted forwards, yelling to get its attention. It turned its glowing eyes on me. I fired off another bolt then ran around the house, leading it away from the civilian.
Hot breath panted behind me as it pursued. It was fast, but its gigantic size made it clumsy. I took the corners tight, staying close to the wall as I completed the lap and ducked into the servants’ entrance as it skidded around the corner.
“Jones! There you are!”
“Maxi?” I leaned over my knees, trying to get my breath back.
“Great news! I’ve disconnected the portal. Nothing else can come through.”
I nodded, still out of breath.
“But the curse is real. I found an account. The first Earl tried to bring over a demon. He wasn’t strong enough to bind it to him, and the demon sent through a hellhound to kill the Earl. Before he died, the Earl shut the gate and banished the demon, but the demon vowed that if they ever reopened the portal, it would hunt down the Baskerville heirs.”
I stared at him. This was a lot of information to take in while a huge hellhound sniffed outside.
“It won’t stop until it’s killed Grampy, then Papa, then me.”
“Good work,” I managed to say. “You stay here. I’ll deal with the dog.”
I checked my crossbow and gathered up all my bolts into my handbag.
“How will you stop it?” Maxi asked.
“They killed it with a spear a couple of hundred years ago. I just need a clear shot.” I didn’t tell him that I had a few supernatural skills that would help too.
“Be safe.”
I nodded and headed for the door.
***
THE HELLHOUND HAD GIVEN up on chasing me and was back to snarling at the upper windows of Baskerville Hall. A shout sounded from inside. Someone threw a vase from an open window.
“Not the Ming!” came Sir Baskerville’s voice as the priceless porcelain shattered against the hellhound’s thick skull.
“Gotcha! Attaboy. Now what else have we got?” Maxi’s grandfather threw another vase out of the window.
I shook my head. Someone was going to get hurt. And if I had anything to do with it, it would be the hellhound.
I left my hiding place under the stairs, prepped my bolts, and fired as fast as I could. Bolt after bolt thudded into the creature’s side. It growled, a low rumble that shook the ground and it turned back to me.
I squared my feet, ready to dodge its attack, and reloaded my crossbow. Just one shot in its fiery eyes should do it. I aimed.
The hellhound dipped its head, bared its teeth, and charged.
“I’ve come to help—”
Maxi appeared at the doorway. I motioned for him to get back and turned my attention back to the beast. This was my chance.
I loosed off the bolt. It sank deep into the creature’s eye but didn’t stop it. I jumped to the side. Too slow. It caught me with the edge of its muzzle, dagger sharp teeth grazing my side.
I crashed to the ground, crossbow raised.
Behind the hellhound, Maxi gaped.
I rolled, avoiding snapping teeth and getting in a kick against the hell hound’s wet nose. As it lifted its head in anger and pain, I saw Maxi sidling up to the discarded spear by the house.
“Maxi! No!”
He hefted the spear and threw it. His aim was poor, but the hell hound was a big target, and the tip bit into its flank.
It yelped in pain and spun, its fiery eyes focused on Maxi. I pushed myself up and sprinted towards it. Too late. It swatted him to one side with a huge paw and he lay still on the ground.
Enough.
With a scream of frustration, I shifted into my lynx form, my clothes disappearing into the magic. I leapt at the enormous dog, sinking my claws into its black hide. It growled and whipped round, shaking me from its back.
I flipped in the air and landed on my feet. Thank you cat reflexes. I hissed at the creature. We circled each other, waiting for a gap.
I feinted to the side. It pounced, jaws open and sulphuric breath filling the air. I dived in the other direction, used the wall as a springboard and ended up on its back again.
This time, I dug my claws in, raking along its side. Hot blood covered my feet. It yowled and spun in a circle, snapping at me. I curled my short tail up and sank low against its greasy fur as I clung on. It couldn’t get me.
It snarled in frustration and fell to the ground. I leapt to avoid being crushed as it rolled on its back. One of my legs caught under its enormous body and I let out a shriek of pain as bone crunched. I pulled myself free.
My leg burned with pain. I put it on the ground and the pain ramped up from burning to blazing. Time to end this.
Using my uninjured legs, I launched myself at its exposed belly, scratching deep gashes into its speckled skin. It squirmed under me and tried to right itself. I moved forward and bit down on its neck. Warm blood hissed into my mouth tasting of sulphur. My stomach roiled in disgust, but I clung on as it twisted and finally got back onto its feet.
I dangled from its neck, refusing to let go as its life blood poured over me. It snarled and took a shaky step forward before it collapsed to the ground. I hung on for a few more seconds as the flow of blood stalled, then released my jaws.
Instinct took over, and I retched out the blood that I’d swallowed along with the rest of my stomach contents. After I was finished, I shifted back into my human form and limped over to Maxi’s prone body.
I looked down at Maxi, sprawled on the floor. He had risked his life for me, and I had done nothing to deserve it. I had written him off as a useless rich boy and he’d saved my life. He was a better person than I was.
I sat on the ground, damp seeping into my suit trousers, and cradled his head. Rummaging in my handbag, I found a bottle of Cure All and uncorked it. The herbal spell of aniseed mixed with alcohol stung my nostrils. I dripped it into his mouth until he spluttered.
“That is awful. Reminds me of this time in France when we had a bad bottle of vino ...”
I smiled as he rambled on about his adventures and took my own swig of the disgusting liquid. He would be fine.
***
A WEEK LATER, I STRODE into my boss’s office. I had given this a lot of thought.
“Jones?”
“I want a new partner.”
He leaned back on his desk and considered me. “Really? Just the other week you wanted to work alone.”
I shrugged. “Things change.”
“Alright.” He clicked his mouse a couple of times. “It looks like there’s a couple of agents available ...”
“I want Maxi.”
“The tech guy?”
I nodded. He had laid down his life for me. He might be annoying and green as a grasshopper, but I could trust him.
My boss frowned. “He’ll have to pass basic training ...”
“He will.” I would coach him.
“OK then, you have yourself a partner.”
Eerie Publisher House, Lundin
Mr Brian Sage, Editor
November 22nd, 1902
MY DEAREST FRIEND,
You are probably wondering where the rest of this correspondence is, likely urging your assistant to look for the pages I owe you, the final draft of the interview that would make our careers—mine as the first journalist to have ever interviewed a Fairy, and yours as the brilliant publisher who was brave enough to grant me this chance. But within this light, wrinkled envelope, you will find no such thing. The papers have not been lost in the railway lines, nor has the postal coach misplaced them. You needn’t yell at your assistant; the boy’s nerves shall be spared. The lack of weight to this correspondence is entirely my fault.
You believed in me, and I failed you. All those days we spent preparing for this—the research, the drafts, the hopes and dreams we shared in the darkest hours of night, while indulging with your most expensive brandy—were but for naught. Although I have managed to find and indeed speak to the fairy—and will recount what I heard and saw—I fear we won’t be able to publish it. I do not wish to risk you, my dear friend, being ridiculed for my incompetence. My hope is that, as I narrate the mishaps of my journey, you will come to understand.
However, I should also warn you that I do have an ulterior motive for writing to you today. There is something I must tell you, something I have discovered and that is, perhaps, even more valuable—or at least that is my hope. I won’t know until my return. But I beg that you endure my clumsy ramblings before I can manage the words out and onto this parchment.
I do hope you understand.
It took me weeks to locate the brook of trees marked on the map. I travelled from village to village, collecting stories from innkeepers, bakers, blacksmiths, butchers, maids, until I finally found the path into Fae: a narrow stone lane between an Ash tree and a Blackthorn at the top of an ancient barrow in the country. I was very lonely walking the enchanted trails of the woods, with only the trees and the flowers and the knowledge that you were waiting eagerly for my return keeping me company. When thirsty, I found a bubbling brook which got me on the right track. Then I sat by the waterfall and waited.
I don’t know what I had expected, but surely it was not what I found. As dusk fell over the forest, casting the sky in purple light, the fairy approached me with suspicion. I held my breath under their scrutiny. Skin as black as the midnight sky, eyes as bright as the most radiant star. The fairy was tall—not like the pixies drawings we had dug up in that old library—and watched me through slit pupils, like a snake. He wore a frock coat and a cravat, and I felt quite inadequate in my light lounge suit. His dark indigo vest reminded me of the one you wore when we said our goodbyes. I could go on, his appearance was rather striking, but suffice to say he dressed as fashionable as us gentlemen would dress at the Queen’s Yule Ball—that is if I, a modest journalist(!) were ever invited. But upon further observation, I noticed the garments were not made of fabric or wool, but were woven from leaves, and twigs, and flowers, and precious gemstones. He greeted me in a language I did not understand.
I introduced myself nevertheless and disclaimed my intentions. His thin lips parted in a snarl, pointy teeth bared. I feared for my life then—feared never seeing you again—but as you wisely advised me before, I quickly offered him a trinket, a gold teaspoon, as a gift and token of my good intentions.
Good morrow, he said upon accepting the present, his accent foreign but clear to my frightened ears.
Master Lore was his name, and he agreed to answer the questions you and I had prepared together: what his occupation was, where he lived, what was magic like to him, where his wings were (for I could not see the set). But for each question, I got a slightly different response, and never the one I was hoping for. Even though his grammar was perfect by all standards—even yours, the best editor of the kingdom; the man behind the first and most successful occultism bulletin—his answers barely made sense. You will see what I mean.
He said his occupation was fairying, a full-time position he did with pride. What did he mean by fairying? He meant being, and breathing, and living. What about those deals we so often hear about? Could he offer me the world in exchange for something as trivial as my soul? What would he do with my soul? he asked, and then offered me his instead. Did he have a soul at all? He couldn’t recall, but if so, he had no use for one. He would very much like another trinket though.
Lore lived in that very forest, under the bubbling brook I had stopped earlier for a drink. Was it damp and cold and lonely? Yes, he said, the loveliest place indeed. His family often visited; they had parties that lasted centuries under the starry endless night. Centuries? I gasped. Oh yes, indeed, he assured me, he and I had been talking for years already, as time slips by fast when one is having fun. I shuddered then, dreading that I might find you, my dear friend, an old man upon my return. I know now that is not the case. I came back to the Inn but a week after my departure. Master Lore seemed to have a different understanding of time than we do.
To my astonishment, the word “magic” was foreign to him. His tongue stumbled over the syllables, drawing giggles from his throat—giggles that sounded eerily like bells. What did magic mean? I told him about the spells, the rituals, the potions, the abracadabra incantations we so often see in tales of his kind. He still didn’t understand. I breathe, he said, and the realm breathes with me. That was the most coherent sentence he could manage about the topic.
What about his wings? Wasn’t he supposed to have them? Birds had wings, he said, and he was not a bird. Insects had wings too, he continued, and bats and sometimes fish. He was none of that. What was he, then? His answer was simple: Well, I am, of course! Did he fly? Yes, he said, always; I am flying right now. He was not, as his bare feet were rooted on the grainy ground, but he didn’t seem to grasp the difference.
You can imagine my frustration, dear friend. Speaking to him was like speaking to a mad butterfly, and not realising the one mad was me for speaking to a foolish bug. He seemed to enjoy my grievance, noting how beautiful my cheeks and ears had become with all that red smeared over them.
I offered him another trinket, a porcelain doll which belonged to my late mother.
Please tell me about yourself, I finally pleaded, and let him speak freely. He relished the sound of his voice, and I did my very best to follow the winding paths his story took.
He was Master Lore, but that was not his real name. He kept his name in a locked box, lest someone steal it. Lore was a name given by one of our kind, a pretty thing he had for dinner one night, who tasted of apples and heartache. I kept my face straight as he laughed upon remembering he had indeed struck a deal with the little thing—a kiss in exchange for a secret. He could not remember what the secret was, but she left with his kiss and a wholesome heart. I breathed out, relieved that the girl had survived this eerie encounter, but now that I think about it, I am not entirely sure. Did I misinterpret his story? Was he in fact saying he ate the poor little thing? Perhaps he had her over for dinner, but what did he mean about her tasting like heartache? Alas, I guess I will never know.
His family enjoyed bathing in the sun, he went on, fancied stretching their branches towards the heavens, dancing with the wind, and also running along the shore, wetting the grounds and playing inside animals’ stomachs. They were wicked things, he promised, filled with mischief and murk. He much preferred the umbra, collected them into his skin.
That was when he asked me a question. Why had I summoned him there? I told him about our project, my life’s work! I told him about our deadline and about you, dear friend. I said you would be waiting for my return.
He asked then if I loved you. The question caught me entirely off guard. What did he know about love? He said he knew it all. Ignoring all my following questions, he played with the trinkets I had offered. The interview would be over, I understood, unless I answered his question truthfully.
We have now reached the part where I tell you what I promised I would. What I hinted at in this letter, what I have struggled to keep hidden inside my heart.
The part where I tell you that I said yes, indeed, I loved you.
Please forgive me if my words bring you sorrow, but I love you, dear friend. I have loved you for a while now, though I cannot say precisely when these feelings began afflicting my troubled heart. But I do. I love you.
He asked if I had ever told you that, and I said no, indeed I hadn’t. He asked why. I didn’t know why.
Was it because I was afraid, because I feared your rejection? Am I the coward I have always believed I was not? Indeed, I think I am.
As I write to you, my dear, dear friend, I consider throwing this letter in the fire, setting this clumsy declaration ablaze, and scribbling an awkward excuse about how I failed to locate the fairy, how I failed you.
But Lore’s words upon our departure still burn in my mind and chest—what is the point of love if one is doomed to love alone?
And that is why instead of a manuscript, an interview that would set our careers into a shooting success, you are receiving this ... love letter. I won’t burn it. I won’t rewrite it. I will fold this wrinkled piece of parchment and have the boy that serves this Inn send it back to you.
I hope you won’t hate me for disclosing my affection, but I will understand if you do. I have but a penny to my name and nothing to offer you but my heart. I hope that is enough.
I shall arrive in a month, perhaps shortly after this letter reaches you, perhaps without giving you enough time to make up your mind about me. But I won’t come to you. I shall wait for you instead, at the park, on the winter solstice day at noon. If you choose to come, you will find me below the Rowan tree, where we had that pleasant picnic lunch and came up with the idea for this never-to-be interview.
You needn’t come, but I shall wait for you, nevertheless.
Yours truly,
Oliver Quill
