Second Door to the Right

by Nikki Hyson

  Yes. Lily caught his eye before she began. Please. Know hope. Fight. But there was no fight left in the Count’s eye. He couldn’t even watch. Lifting his eyes to the corridor, a single tear slid down his cheek.

  Doesn’t matter. You will. Words filling her head, Lily wrote, tracing letters into the palm of his hand. They might never be known to another soul, but she knew them. That’s all that mattered. Whispering the words in her head—

  She drew on all her powers as both a writer and a daughter of fiction, writing his bones back into wellness. They mended. They healed. Reminding himself not to straighten though the pain lessened with every step, he wriggled fingers capable of movement.

  She stopped, looking down at his hand. His fingers twitched, moving one after the other in rhythmic succession. She smiled, beginning to trace words into his palm again.

  Now, if she could only free him from the monsters holding his book.

  42

  Crouched in the shadows, James’ gaze passed for a third time over the brick and mortar faces lining the opposite side of the road. Panic started to creep, a cold finger on his nape. He tried clearing his thoughts, to push it aside, even as he dismissed one darkened window after another. I’ll fail. The certainty niggled. I won’t find him in time.

  The storm had passed, rain reduced to drips; the pocket watch in his overcoat ticking loudly. Marking the seconds, he pictured Lily’s winding path to Moriarty’s office. Tick. Her fear, the uncertainty of her father’s fate and her own. Tick. James saw Anne, sitting in her chamber, waiting for the end. Tick.

  Cris’ counsel, offered on a snow covered park bench, echoed against James’ ear: ‘If you don’t find the Watcher, there’s no way to get them out safely. The Professor always has someone watching the front door.’

  Memories swiveled back to James’ first life; where Barrie had been his friend. A life where Anne had already been let go. And they’d walked into a strange little book shop. The clerk, a poised young woman, had offered Barrie a glimpse of something in her back room. Something Barrie never spoke of.

  James remembered the odd look she’d turned his way afterwards. ‘Don’t worry. Your path isn’t back there,’ she’d told him a century ago. ‘It’s in the future. You’ll save them both.’ Then laying her hand over his she’d smiled, reminding James of some long ago queen who bestows a sword on her favorite knight.

  What was her name?

  “Hook, what are you doing here?”

  James flinched, snapping his attention from the black windows to the sharp lines of John Smyth née Silver. John mirrored everything that James had been, a merciless pirate, and everything James had become, a favored assassin. James’ gaze flicked down to the man’s hands, gripping a similar walking stick, and then up to John’s black eyes. “Waiting,” James replied.

  John nodded thoughtfully, absorbing both syllables. “What for?”

  Indeed. James clenched his new hand tight. What now? The throb of stoppered blood burned into his forearm. This was the price of freedom? Gone was Hook’s precise thought, his confidence and…

  In a beat, James remembered the name of the bookshop woman from long ago. Eleanor. She’d squeezed his hand, so informal a gesture in so formal a time, that he’d found himself looking at it and not her. ‘You just have to stand up, James.’

  James stood. Stepping from the shadows, he met Long John Silver’s flinty stare. “I’m looking for the Watcher. Any idea where he might be?”

  The pirate’s eyes dilated, the only tell that James’ bluntness had caught him by surprise. Then, John chuckled softly. “Sink me.” Silver settled back on his heel, grip still tight on the shaft of his cane. “You mean to blow the Professor down, Hook?”

  “I want my freedom. That’s all.”

  “All?” John shook his head. “It’s never just all, is it, Mate?”

  Weight forward on the ball of his foot, James said nothing, ready and waiting.

  “Alright, then.” John Silver gave a quick lift of his chin. “Stop looking for the lamp still on in a window. Look for the deadlight.” John’s cane came up, a salute-like gesture, before he tucked it under his arm and turned in the opposite direction of the Guild. “Luck to you,” he called over a shoulder.

  “You won’t warn them?” James asked the pirate’s back, whose charcoal coattails snapped like a flag.

  Silver’s laughter rolled back to fill the space between them, but he said nothing more.

  Even though it cost a few minutes, James waited until the pirate rounded a corner, disappearing from view. His attention returned to the buildings across the way. Only now, clear with a passing glance, James could see that one window was darker than the rest. Almost as if shaded with iron rather than cloth blinds. While staring at it alone, the fabric in the next window fluttered, a face returning his gaze for just a moment. A face he knew.

  James sucked in a breath. “Blimey.”

  43

  “We’re here.” Cris coughed, stopping before a door of red oak, inlaid with gold embossed filigree. Gently, he slipped from her hold, reaching for the handle.

  “Wait. I didn’t—” Lily fumbled on her words, uncertain how much Hyde, only two strides behind them, might understand.

  Hand turning the crystal knob, Cris looked over his shoulder, and straight into her eyes. Resignation ran deep in his depths, cutting Lily to the quick. “I know,” he murmured. “Don’t worry about me.”

  The door swung wide with the smallest of nudges, light pouring out from within. Momentarily dazzled, Lily barely felt Cris take her fingertips, guiding her into the Professor’s study.

  She blinked once, twice. Behind her, the door shut with a loud clack of rasping tumblers. A third blink cleared the amber light dancing across her vision, bringing the room and the two men flanking each side of the door, into focus.

  Trying not to let their presence affect her composure, Lily glanced around the oversized office. It could’ve swallowed her flat at least twice over, and then some. Bookcases lined one wall. A mirror stood in the opposite corner. Sparsely furnished, there was little to draw her focus from the mahogany desk at the opposite end or the man sitting there.

  Lily’s stomach clenched, bile rising to wash the unspoken name back down her throat. Moriarty.

  Fingers steepled, Moriarty gestured to the chair opposite him as they approached. A silver tray rested in the middle of the desk. “Hello, Lily.”

  “Where’s my father?”

  He ignored the question completely, gaze flitting from her to Cris and back again. “Won’t you join me?” A finger snap and one of the sentinels came forward to pour tea before melting back into the shadows. Moriarty lifted a refined brow when she stopped just shy of the armchair. “I thought a cup might be in order.”

  Lily tilted her chin, as if she actually possessed some measure of defiance. “Actually, I’m not thirsty.”

  “Shame.” His disappointment remained only a semblance of the truth. “Perhaps a glass of wine? Cris.”

  Cris moved from her side. With practiced dexterity, he broke the seal on a bottle of burgundy, pouring a taste into a glass. Moriarty swirled the contents, held them to the light, and took a taste. He nodded. Cris filled the glass three quarters full.

  Composure cracking at the edges, Lily stifled a giggle.

  All eyes focused on her; Hyde, the sentinels, and even Cris. But she cared only what the Professor thought. Gaze fixed upon her, he appeared relaxed, in control, but not amused. “What is so funny?”

  “Who wrote you?” she asked, feigning ignorance. Where’s my father? If you’re half the villain I know you are, read my face. I hate what you’ve done.

  Moriarty took another sip of wine. “Why do you assume I’m a paper soul?”

  I hate what you’ve done to my father. “Because that, at least, would make sense.” And James. “You’re riddled with clichés,” she explained further when he didn’t respond or react. My friend Ian. “You were written so the hero would have someone to defeat
. Probably from a series, right? New villain every book? Disposable.” Lily swallowed hard. And Cris. My Count. “The only thing you’re lacking is a long moustache to twirl.”

  Moriarty smiled thinly, eyes growing cold even as he favored Cris with a word, “You were right about her.” Flicking a hand in Hyde’s direction, “You may go. I’m done with your failures.”

  Visibly shaken, Hyde, the once and no longer favorite son, remained still. “I’ve always served you. Done as you asked. Kept these wretched souls in line.”

  “You are pathetic. Your thirst for power and vengeance blinded you to the greater good. You kidnapped the Count’s bride. You—”

  Nerves taut, Lily’s heart lurched forward. Aware that the more she saw, the less likely she was to leave, she tried to shift things back to her immediate concern. “My father? Where is he?”

  The Professor ignored her. He continued his cataloging. “You would’ve had her killed a month ago if Cris hadn’t been wise enough to dissuade you.” Berating Hyde for each failure, laying bare faults running deep. “Twice you have failed to see the entire scope of things. Twice you would have done us the greatest ill if Cris had not thwarted you.”

  Hyde shifted from one foot to the other, gaze smoldering under a hooded brow. “What is to become of me?”

  “There is a new class forming. Examples must be made.” Moriarty snapped his fingers. Both agents stepped forward even as Cris slid a little to the side, shifting Lily with him.

  Lily peered around Cris’ arm, terrified and mesmerized all in the same instant. The agents stepped towards Hyde.

  Moriarty huffed a little sigh, disappointment heavy. “Go now. It will be quick.”

  “I don’t deserve this.” Momentary fear kindled to rage in the blink of an eye. “I won’t accept this. You will not dismiss me like a common scrap from the slush pile.” Gentleman’s guise falling away, Hyde’s mouth twisted grotesquely. “If you’re going to burn me, do it yourself. For once in your miserable life, don’t hire it out for some other to do. Burn me.” Hyde beat his chest harshly, eyes blazing with hatred. “Burn me!”

  “As you wish.” Moriarty laid a book on the desk before him; put the tip of one finger to its cover. He lifted his eyes to Hyde, never blinking during the following few moments. He traced a symbol on the leather. It glowed.

  The agents stepped back, giving a wide berth to the last Hyde ever be called up. They all watched, unable to look away. Hot white light radiated from every pore, screams tearing up from the depths of Hyde’s paper soul. Ripping free of overcoat and pretentions he shrieked a vow. Leaping at Moriarty’s desk, hands outstretched for a neck he would never touch.

  Professor Moriarty didn’t move, didn’t flinch or show even a hint of fear. He remained seated as the third stride brought Hyde nearly half way to his desk. The book smoldered on the table before him, smoke wreathing around it. The first flame licked at the pages. He smiled.

  The fourth stride caught Hyde in a bloom of green flames. Heat washed over the room in a wave; shattering remnants of flesh, dropping what lingered on the other side of the desk.

  Moriarty cocked his head, as if curious, engaged by the events that had just transpired. Regarding the charred remains of the book before him, he leaned forward, blowing softly.

  The book disintegrated into ash, his breath stirring the dust surrounding it. The carcass dissolved in like fashion, settling into a pile of memories on the carpet. Moriarty stood, poked his finger among the remains, and withdrew a solid gold ring with a large garnet set in the center. He held it out to Cris on the flat of his palm. “All hail the Count, Lord of the paper souls,” he said.

  Cris accepted the ring, kissed the gem’s facets, and slid it onto his forefinger. “I live to serve you.”

  Moriarty nodded satisfaction. “Good.” Not waiting further for oath or promise, he looked soberly at Lily. “Now.” He dragged his gaze up and down, quite slowly before frowning thoughtfully. “Whatever are we to do with you?”

  44

  James took the steps up to the third floor flat two at a time, hand and shoulder meeting the door in unison. Not that it was needed. The handle turned easily in his hand, the Watcher on the other side of the door eager for this meeting.

  Momentum carrying him forward a step or two, James stood on the bare hardwood. Hands gripped his cane, ready to unsheathe the blade, his heart pounded up into his throat. Staring at a reflection of himself, the only words he found were the most obvious. “Who are you?”

  Hand still raised to blunt an attack that never came, his copy, this other James, slowly exhaled. His hand lowered, and then lifted again to push brown framed glasses back into place. “James Alexander Brooks, at your service.” As if as an afterthought, he extended out his hand in greeting. “You can call me Xander, if you like.”

  James, ignoring the offered hand, couldn’t stop a frown overtaking his features. His name. So familiar. “Who are you?”

  “Anne, the Oracle, was pulled from a book. My book.”

  “You’re her James.”

  Xander nodded.

  “Do you remember before the book? Do you remember everything?”

  “No, but I know there was more. I feel it.”

  James, grip still tight on the cane, twisted the handle. “Why are you here?” The blade slide an inch from its sheath. “Why help keep her a slave?”

  “We’re all prisoners. Why does the Count do as he is told?”

  “But if I walked them out, you wouldn’t stop us.”

  “Not my job to stop you. I only watch.”

  Behind Xander the floor creaked. James saw his other self flinch, watched the cerulean blue darken to gray. That was me. Before Lily.

  “Been a long time, Hook.”

  James pulled his attention from Xander, a momentary glance confirming what his ears had already told him. “Moran,” he greeted curtly. “A very long time.” Not since the night after James’ first murder. “Been here? For three years?”

  “Something like it.” Moran leaned his shoulder into the doorframe between rooms. “Been interesting. I’ve seen a lot.”

  James nodded. Foreplay. That’s all this is. He looked at Xander again. His copy stood, gaze fixed on the hardwood, shoulders square as if waiting for the ax. What does he know? Finally, the hard knot that had been slowly winding in James’ gut, began to untwist. No more waiting. “What does the Professor want?”

  “Her.” Moran’s grin revealed a row of stained teeth. He spat a thin stream of dark juice, hitting a nearby metal bucket with an expert ting.

  James lifted a brow. “Not both of us?”

  Moran shrugged. “Not going to lie. He wanted to try, but the Count convinced him otherwise. Said she was the better choice.”

  James waited, saying nothing.

  Moran’s grin widened. “Two choices then. Let him have the girl. No fight. No fuss. You get to walk away with the Oracle.”

  “Or?”

  Moran’s hand fell companionable to a pistol snug in his waistband. “See who’s left standing.”

  James felt the heat of Xander’s gaze on his cheek, could almost hear him whisper. Take Anne and go. Please. “That what you want, Moran?” James asked. “Seems like you’d be the first to fall.”

  Moran smirked. “Try it, if you like.”

  James felt an itch on the back of his hand. Not the new one, tissue and tendons still unsure how to act, but the old one. The hand that knew how to heft a sword and slide it home. Truth be told, James felt as if he would like to try it. Some part of Hook was still singing through his veins, pumping steel through his blood. Something of Barrie’s old friend was still in there too, standing before Anne’s brothers and demanding he be allowed to see her. And James Crawford, assassin, sized up Moran in a long look.

  Moran shifted stance, eyes widening as if he could read the cards James held. “Think you’ve got nothing to lose? Why not risk it?” He held up a phone. “If I don’t give a ring to let them know you’re coming…” He
let the rest of the threat go slack. Point made.

  Factors, variables, and the inevitable outcome unspooled across the blackboard of his mind. He was good, but James knew he couldn’t get all of them before someone got Lily or Anne. He looked down at the fist he hadn’t realized he’d made. So close.

  “What about him?” he asked, giving a slight nod in the direction of his doppelganger.

  “What do you care?”

  “Cause she’s his Anne, not mine. My Anne died a long time ago.”

  Moran’s lip curled. “What she doesn’t know.”

  Conjecture confirmed, James met Xander’s eyes again. He knew how Moran liked to toy with his prey before finishing them off. “I’m sorry.”

  “Take care of her.”

  “I’ll make sure she’s safe,” James vowed, taking a step as if to, finally, shake his hand.

  Xander didn’t flinch. Reaching out he grasped the wrist now holding a naked blade, and stepped into James’ sword. “See that you do,” he whispered a moment before James’ twisted the steel, slicing Xander’s heart in two.

  Black, inky blood stained the brown cardigan. Gently, James lowered him to the floor.

  “You’ll pay for that, Hook. He wasn’t your kill.”

  Straightening, James considered the distance between them versus the pistol now leveled between his eyes. Despite the odds, the temptation was still very real. “Just the same, I’m not yours to kill either. Professor wants to see me.”

  “One day,” Moran promised, letting James leave the flat without an ounce of lead in his back.

  45

  Lily didn’t know what to say or where to look. She couldn’t even be certain she remembered how to swallow. Hearing it from James had been one thing. Seeing, proved to be something else altogether.

  A minute ago she’d purposefully baited Moriarty, hoping to show strength instead of fear. Now she only wished James would stay far away. She didn’t want this man, this villain, to use James against her. She knew she’d do anything to spare him the fate Edward Hyde had just borne.