by Nikki Hyson
Second Door to the Right
Paper Souls Books 1
Nikki Hyson
Second Door to the Right is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Nikki Hyson
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without express written permission from the author/publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editor: EJ Runyon, Bridge to Story
Cover Design: Victorine Lieske
Contents
Classical Characters and Their Original Books
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
COMING SOON
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To Amy Marshall-
Who created literary mayhem,
and rocked my world.
And to Grant Faulkner-
Who picked up the torch,
and kayaks with whales- sort of.
It is no accident that James Crawford
invited me into his world during
NaNoWriMo 2012.
I am grateful to you both.
Classical Characters and Their Original Books
James Crawford- Captain JAS Hook from “Peter Pan” by J.M. Barrie
Cris Wilmore- Edmond Dantes from “The Count of Monte Cristo” by Alexandre Dumas
Professor Moriarty- Moriarty from “The Final Problem” by Arthur Conan Doyle
Peter Westfell- Peter Pan from “Peter Pan” by J.M. Barrie
Roquefort- Roquefort from “The Three Musketeers” by Alexandre Dumas
Edward Hyde- Mr. Hyde from “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” by Robert Louis Stevenson
John Silver- Long John Silver from “Treasure Island” by Robert Louis Stevenson
Moran- Sebastian Moran from “The Empty House” by Arthur Conan Doyle
Barsad- Barsad from “A Tale of Two Cities” by Charles Dickens
1
James Crawford gave a wide berth to the alleyway where he’d murdered a man. Not that there was anything to see. No police tape or chalk remnants. Such things only existed when a crime was known to have happened.
He lengthened his stride, emphasizing the limp the Guild had added to his profile. Someone was always watching. If not Cris, then someone else James would never see.
Tap. Tap. Tap. His cane struck the pavement with typewriter precision; a futile SOS. No one could save a man who wasn’t supposed to exist.
He paused at a scarlet-lit crosswalk, pedestrians already crowding at the edge. A red double decker slid smoothly to the curb one shop down, its doors creaking open. The throng doubled, jostling him from every side. Too many people. James’ grip tightened on the silver handle of his cane, the double-edged blade hidden within its black sheath offering only marginal comfort.
The light flicked to green. A sudden gust of damp, November air swirled around them, inspiring a quicker pace across the street. James shuddered within his heavy duster, three years of London weather not long enough to make him like it.
I miss Neverland. At least, that’s what he thought the dull saw under his breastbone was all about. Homesickness. But who could tell? The Guild had stripped his emotions away the same hour they ripped James from his book.
The screams. Ash under the boots of his captors. “Join us or burn.” The choice had seemed so simple then.
A flash of the familiar caught his attention, tugging his thoughts away from the futile. James slowed his step, pausing in front of a used bookshop. Snug between a bakery and a chocolatier, the shop boasted a solitary window display. James stepped up to the glass, eyeing a first edition propped on an easel: Peter Pan.
“Mr. Barrie.” His low chuckle a menacing rumble, iced the question that followed. “Whatever did I do to deserve you?”
There was no one to answer, only the nudge of the crowd as the next wave passed. He let their energy shift him forward, his shoulder almost brushing the glass. Inside his overcoat, a pocket watch ticked a reminder that he had somewhere to be. Not chasing Lost Boys on a whim.
He turned away from the window, to duties he had no part in mapping out, but his gaze caught on a sticker clinging to the windowpane. Studying the black circle, the white lettering, unconscious words slipped slowly from his lips.
“National Novel Writing Month. Write your novel here.” Unable to comprehend, he continued to stare for a long moment. A month, dedicated to writing? James frowned. But writers were a dying breed.
Hyde’s unvarnished sneer echoed through his memories. “Forget the myths. No writer can set you free.”
James let his thoughts linger only a moment longer before he turned his back on that sticker. Didn’t matter anyway. His cane struck the concrete with force, more than one pedestrian giving him a wide berth. What writer would trust a villain?
2
The sharp corners of a three-day-old rejection jabbed through the satin lining of Lily Westfell’s too large overcoat. The words, pristine in their white envelope, sprang unbidden to mind.
“Dear Subscriber,” she quoted mockingly, embracing the sting of the spoken words. “Thank you for submitting your short story Wandrin’ Star to our magazine. At this time, we find it not quite fitting with our style. Sincerely, Et cetera, Et cetera.”
Lily snorted, November air frosting before her. “Et cetera. I’m filing you,” she promised, patting the bulging pocket. The assortment of pens loitering in the bottom jostled about, allowing the envelope to slip all the way to the bottom. “Just as soon as I get home.”
Home. The word snagged on her heart. Three years on and Lily still couldn’t accept the notion; this was her life now. What else to call the carefully lined nest she lighted in after a too busy day? This world that existed without him. Without his laughter, his warmth, his words.
Words. All I have left now. And they were failing her.
The wind stirred, swirling a cloud of exhaust in the wake of a red double decker creaking to its next stop. Coughing, Lily’s gaze flicked towards it, noting the lack of riders waiting for the 88 t
owards Clapham Common. Nearly eight o’clock, the after work traffic was thinning.
Flipping the collar of her coat up, guilt panged over her tardiness. Amos. The beagle’s patient, brown eyes claimed her thoughts.
A siren wailed. Lily glanced back, a police car’s red and blue lights dazzling her vision. It sped by, the yellow blur of an ambulance following in its wake. Her heart twisted a little, at the need for both. Who isn’t going to make it home tonight? How long will supper be kept warm? Still watching as they rounded a corner, Lily took a step.
And collided squarely with six feet of solid man, her tote bag squashing between them. With a yelp, Lily stumbled back, prevented from falling by a hand clamped briefly at her elbow.
The barest trace of quality ink rose from the man’s duster, iron gall tickling her nose and imagination. Apology poised, Lily lifted her eyes and sucked in a tiny breath. Stifled by the cerulean blue of his gaze, no words followed the exhale. Cheeks blazing like a student before an amused professor, she tried again.
“I’m sorry,” Lily offered. Her gaze flicked downward, silently cursing half-inch heels that never should’ve been on sale. What I wouldn’t give for a pair of sneakers.
“My fault.” His hand lingered at her elbow a moment longer. “I thought you’d stopped just now.”
She laughed. “No. Just looking where I wasn’t going.” She paused, noticing gray mixed with sable at his temples and chin. He must be fifty. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
His lips twitched. Lily could almost read his thoughts in that smile, under the trimmed beard and moustache. Not by a little thing like you. “No.” Shaking his head, he said, “I’m fine. You?”
“Yes. I think so.”
His hand returned to the wrought iron gate.
“I…” A metallic click transferred her glance to the building for just a moment, her words trailing softly to silence.
Oh, that house. An ordinary brownstone, except for the cobalt blue door. It’d caught her attention the first time Lily ever passed this way. A thousand imaginary tales spun around it on her solitary walks home, yet she’d never seen a soul come or go from it. Until now.
Shifting his walking stick to a hand, he leaned into it. “Something troubling you?”
Was that danger in his tone? A warning? She heard both. Instinct kicked in, lips forming a smile as if all was perfectly well. Dealing with her Dad’s panic attacks had taught her how to lie. It’d become somewhere between first and second nature to remain calm, even upbeat, when things seemed more than a trifle off. “It’s just a beautiful color,” she said, waving carelessly at it. “The door.”
He looked at the offending door, considering it as if for the first time. “Yes,” he admitted slowly, gaze returning to her. “I suppose it is.” His nod dismissed them both. “Have a good evening, Miss.”
“Lily.”
Again, his smile twitched to life, shoulders rounding into an almost formal bow. “Good evening then, Lily.”
“Good—”
He was gone before she could finish.
“—evening.”
A slight hitch marring an otherwise long stride carried him away. The only one headed upstream, pedestrians parted reflexively before him, none daring to make him course correct. Curiosity piqued, she couldn’t stop watching until he rounded the corner, slipping from sight.
Above the cobalt blue door, the curtains of a second floor window parted a little wider.
“Have you ever seen her before?” Hyde asked, watching Lily disappear down the street.
Cris shook his head. “They’ve shared no words before now.”
“Is that what I asked?”
Cris dared no more than a brief hesitation. “She must live somewhere nearby.”
Hyde waited, the curve of his jaw clenched with the rage that came so easily.
Cris swallowed. “I’ve seen her pass nearly every Monday and Thursday.” Enough?
Clearly not. Hyde didn’t turn to face him, only waited for every scrap of information.
Why hesitate? She’s no one. “For the past three years.” Recalling the death screams of the last handler who failed to report, Cris surrendered every tidbit. “Four months and sixteen days.”
“Always at this hour?”
“Usually earlier.”
Hyde considered for a moment. “She reminds me of someone.” Letting the curtains flutter shut, he studied Cris before prodding, “Do you see it?”
“No.”
Cris waited. The time it took to receive orders remained the least of his concerns. The orders would come. He would follow them. Such was the lot of a paper soul bound to the Guild. They obeyed, or they burned to ash with their book.
It didn’t take long. Hyde’s thoughtfulness ended with the clearing of his throat. “You’ve both received your assignments for tonight?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Carry on then. Just let James choose the route you take. Tell me if anything happens.”
Cris didn’t move. Hyde’s words might’ve bordered on dismissal, but he knew better.
“You may go.”
Bowing his head, Cris pivoted. One of the two suits guarding the door opened it, heads dipping in deference as he passed.
Pausing at the front door checkpoint, Cris’ possessions were cleared without words; actions rote after years of repetition.
“Good night then, Sir,” the guard murmured, eyes downcast.
Accepting the slim leather wallet, Cris spied Rochefort. The former musketeer, who never deigned to guard the entrance, stood waiting with key in hand.
Lingering on the threshold, Cris lifted his eyes to a cloudless black sky. “Storm is coming,” he noted.
“I’ll let the Professor know.”
Flipping up the collar on his overcoat, Cris nodded. Tosser. Whistling a nonsense tune, he stepped into the night.
3
Shuddering with the accumulated chill, Lily kicked off her accursed heels the minute she stepped into her flat. Wriggling toes into nearby red and black sneakers, she ignored her growling stomach. “Ready for a walk-a-bout?” she asked, dropping her tote bag into a chair.
A white muzzle pressed itself into her shin, whimpering grunts. Fingers sliding under the velvet fold of a tan ear, she sighed. “Hi, Sweetie.”
Tail wagging, his faithful heart leaned into her welcome. Lily forced a laugh. “Okay. Love you too. Now take it easy, Amos.” He backed off with several growly a-roos, but offered no real protest.
Sliding out of her coat, Lily reached for the sweatshirt of her favorite writing club. The fleecy warmth did a bit to erase the lingering gooseflesh from what should have been a forgettable encounter. The man from the blue door. Where do I know him from? Still trying to shake that off, she pulled her coat back on.
Grabbing Amos’ collar and leather lead created a wriggling puppy, something he hadn’t been for eight years. Finally, she felt the smile she’d been forcing all day. “Come on.”
The wriggling stilled, doggy breath held while she clipped on the lead. Cupping his precious muzzle between both hands, Lily stooped a little lower. “Let’s go.”
They paused on the pavement, weighing both directions while the beagle lifted a leg to reclaim a waste bin. Just a few streets over, and to the right, was their park. To the left—
But it wasn’t Monday. “How about pizza?” Tonight, she just didn’t care.
Ears perked and head cocked at the beloved word. She nodded agreement. “Pizza it is.”
Five streets later, in front of Carmichael’s pizzeria, they stopped. Amos wriggled, nose straining towards the door. “Yeah, I know,” she said, tethering him to a street lamp. “Yum. Now, behave, or you get nothing.” A useless threat, and they both knew it.
A blast of heat and yeast-spiced tomatoes washed over her, thawing rose-tinged cheeks the instant she opened the pizzeria’s door. She glanced over the dining room, still reasonably full for a weeknight after eight. The arcade a street up might’ve stolen som
e of Marco’s business, but he was a man on a mission; it took a lot of pizza to buy two college degrees.
As if on cue, the owner stepped from kitchen to counter. He caught sight of her before she crossed half the distance and grinned. “Lily! Amos outside?”
“Of course.”
He set a large pizza box on the emerald-veined marble between them. “Mushroom and black olive, extra cheese.”
“How’d you know I’d be by?”
His high forehead furrowed, red and shiny. “Had a feeling.”
Their gazes remained locked, the memory of the one who’d introduced them lingering somewhere in between.
Marco shrugged, shoulders muscle-bound from decades of kneading.
Lily swallowed hard on a lump threatening to strangle. This was why she found it easier to remember alone.
“I never order a large.” Garlic-laced red sauce called to her under the cardboard lid.
Marco pulled a container from under the counter. “For leftovers.”
How well you know me. Marco’s smile registered her defeat. She pulled a twenty from her pocket. How well you knew us.
“On the house, Lily.”
She pushed the bill closer before letting it go. “I don’t have twin daughters at Durham,” she countered, claiming her dinner.
