Second Door to the Right

by Nikki Hyson

  Dah. Lily swallowed hard on the lump trying to strangle her. Did Moriarty have her father’s book? Where could it be? Oh, God. If he even whispered a threat.

  Moriarty took a step towards her, hand reaching out; stopping a breath away from touching Lily’s skin. Her gaze fixed upon that offering. Unable to look away, a small squeak passed her lips. “Where’s my father?”

  “Take my hand, and I’ll show you.”

  Lily laid her hand in his. Soft and smooth, it lacked all human warmth. She couldn’t have imagined a snake’s grasp any more clearly than this man’s. Suppressing a shudder, she couldn’t stop the question, “Are you human?”

  He smiled at her disbelief. “Is it so hard to believe?”

  “Yes.”

  They left the room behind, Cris trailing silently after, exiting out a door she hadn’t seen a moment ago. They entered a narrow hall without windows or decorations. No lights, nor torches, lit the way but it wasn’t dark, or even shadowed.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “My favorite place. The Tapestry Room.”

  Terror twisted her sense of humor, raising words to lips when silence might have served her better. “You’re not a writer, are you? That’s a horrible name.”

  “You think so?” The amusement in his tone couldn’t quite mask the disapproval flinting across his eyes. “What would be better?”

  “I hardly know,” she murmured. Dah, where are you? “Forgive the insult.”

  Moriarty chuckled, rounding a corner that hadn’t looked like a corner at all. They stopped before a plain blue door. Lacking a handle of any kind, he laid the flat of his hand against the surface, saying a word in a tongue she didn’t understand. The door did, swinging wide to allow entrance without a moment’s hesitation.

  Moriarty guided her inside. Releasing her hand, he lifted his chin to all that the room held. “Look around.” He took a step from her side. “Enjoy my most prized collection. It means more to me than all the books ever written.”

  Lily stood where he left her for a long moment, trying to decipher the different worlds now surrounding her in a room that would take a man five minutes to stride in either direction. Dozens, if not a few hundred, scenes were propped at opposing angles across the floor or hung on the walls, each garishly painted in colors best reserved for death. No. Taking a step in, she corrected herself. Murder.

  Moriarty on her left, she stepped to the right. A painting stood within arm’s reach, propped upon an easel. A man sat hunched at a desk, head bowed before the sketched drawings and reams of paper. At least that was her first impression. Then she realized he wasn’t hunched, but slumped, head hanging limply like a puppet whose strings are cut. Blood mixed with spilled pages, both thick on the floor around him. Ian. She flinched away.

  Her vision filled with another carefully detailed murder. This one, a man crumpled upon the street. No doubt struck by the carriage painted fleeing the scene. His neck twisted at an odd angle, hope for life after the fated moment quickly snuffed out.

  Lily continued to walk, glancing over some, gazing for several minutes at others. Only halfway across the floor, without even straying to the walls, she said, “They’re all writers.” She looked back at the conductor of this bloody chaos. “Every one of them.”

  Moriarty took a step forward, savoring her realization with obvious relish. Hands thrust deep in his pockets, he adopted a casual stance. “What makes you say that?”

  “I recognize enough to make the assumption.” She pointed at a man dead in a bathtub. “Harris, supposedly a suicide.” Turning, she pointed again. “Davoreaux, trampled by a runaway horse. Corman, murdered in an alley robbery gone bad.” Lily gestured at the first. “My friend. Vanished in the dead of night. No foul play suspected. Why did you start taking the bodies?”

  Holding her eye, Moriarty remained silent.

  She answered her own question. “Ah…” She nodded, understanding clicking into place like a lock’s tumblers finally lining up. “DNA must be a real bitch for you. Forensic science and all.”

  “No one else understood why we needed to change methods.” Moriarty’s look held admiration. “When we started, we simply captured the soul in the paintings. Then we were nearly caught and I knew nothing could be left behind. Everything must be taken, preserved for the protection of the Guild. That’s when I learned Hatter’s true worth. He was a miracle with mirrors. It changed everything. Shame it took so many lessons to prove my point. His shades never lasted long.”

  “James said writers have to be dead before their characters can be claimed. So, what is it? Sometimes you just can’t wait?”

  “Something like that.” Moriarty shrugged. “Occasionally, it is simply for pleasure.”

  Lily looked away, trying not to picture herself hanging next to Ian’s painting. She failed. “What do you want with me? To make me a painting as well?” Looking past Moriarty, to where Cris stood, she tried to reestablish a connection. “This is your part? This is what you do? James takes the life and you lock it away under a layer of paint?”

  Cris stared straight back at her, no glimmer of the warmth or humanity that moved her to pity less than a half hour before. “Yes,” he said.

  She nodded. “I see. So, what do you want?”

  Moriarty stepped forward, drawing her focus further into the room. “You are a rare one, Lily. I would never cage you on a canvas, unless it became absolutely necessary. You healed Cris’ shoulder without ink or paper. Only the words in your head. You possess great power. I want you to write for me, pull fiction from the page.”

  “Never.”

  “I think you will.” Triumph lifted the corners of his mouth. “Turn around.”

  Lily already knew what she would see. “No.” She didn’t move, dread coiling up her spine. “It won’t change my mind.”

  “Then turn around,” he challenged, shooting a glance over her shoulder to whatever horror waited. “Tell me no.”

  No way out of this nightmare, she came face to face with her father. Slumped in his chair, head lolled forward as if he slept. Except it was no natural slumber. A splash of crimson on his flannel shirt proclaimed it to have been a violent end, the rip from a blade’s edge naming the murderer.

  A lump rose, nearly strangling her. “James,” she whispered on a breath, longing to feel the anger she knew could sustain her. Anger could keep her on her feet while the rest of her world shattered. “Oh, James.” Only a hollowness remained.

  Why? Her eyes burned dryly. Why? Unable to pull her gaze from the beloved face that would never look on her again. Why?! The question reverberated; no answer other than the truth in its wake. To use me. To turn me. To—

  Her breath hitched, focus finally widening to encompass the whole painting. River was in the painting as well. Alive. Standing on her back legs, forepaws buried in her father’s lap, the pup’s head seemed thrown up. A silent howl. Why would James allow River to be caught? Of course. There were other assassins. James couldn’t be the only one.

  “What on earth makes you think seeing this will change my mind about serving you?” Her voice wavered. She hated the helplessness in its tone, but the determination required to stand cost her everything else.

  “Because together, we have the power to bring him back.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My power put him there. If I release it, you can set him free. Use my pen, my ink, my paper, and he will be released from the painting.”

  “And he will still be dead.”

  “James had orders. Only a strategic strike was made. It would be possible to bring him back given the right conditions.”

  “Bloody unlikely,” she cursed softly, finally looking away from the painting because she couldn’t bear it any longer. Comprehension filtered with the movement, his words grasping fully.

  “James did this.” Looking at Cris, Lily shook her head. “Of course he did. And you were there.” Her body hitched forward an involuntary step. “Damn you both, Dan
tes.”

  A muscle in his cheek twitched.

  Heart hammering, breath ragged, Lily refused to blink. “Tell him for me, will you?”

  Moriarty shifted subtly, drawing her attention back where he needed it. “Lily, I need an answer. What do you say? Together we have the power to bring him back.”

  “No.” Her rage bubbled over. “Dah wouldn’t have wanted it of me. He’d have cursed this day and what it cost. You can all go to Hell.”

  Moriarty’s eyes narrowed, tone losing ambiguity. “Together we can save him. Alone, I can take your mother, your dog, your friends and all your precious writers. Do you understand yet how far I am willing to go? Anyone you might run to. There will be no shoulder you can cry on. No one will be safe.”

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. Lily shook her head, defiance preferable to this horror. She took a step back, shoulder hitting the edge of her father’s painting. It crashed with the finality of Judgment Day.

  Looking down, her vision filled with River. Little River, trapped for all time with her father. Her tears blurred the puppy before her, falling harder and faster until it became difficult to breath. River. River! James would have never let the puppy get trapped in the painting. Despite everything, she knew this one thing to be true.

  Her eyes jerked to Cris. Eyes wide, her heart pleaded with the man he had been. Please. Save me. Standing behind Moriarty, Cris nodded once. Hysterical laughter rose up her throat. Silently, she begged for one more sign. This madman’s puppet is not who you were written to be. This isn’t you. I know you. I’ve known you forever. Edmond.

  Cris Wilmore. Edmond Dantes. The Count of Monte Cristo, nodded once more.

  Lily dropped her gaze. There was a chance. A hope. What did Cris want her to do? What if he lied? No, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. She glanced back to the painting. Dah. If she could save him. If there might be a way to end this. Lily swallowed hard. “Alright,” she submitted softly. Lifting her eyes, she met Moriarty’s gaze. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Good. Tonight you will rest. Recover. Tomorrow our new life begins. I look forward to the adventures we will share.”

  She said nothing, looked at nothing except her shoes as she walked slowly from the room. At the door, Cris took her hand, kissed it, and released her.

  “You chose wisely, Lady,” he said, snapping his fingers to a waiting sentinel. “He will look after you. See to her every need.”

  Lily nodded, gaze questing. Cris offered no answers. He walked back into the room, words filtering out to her before the door shut completely.

  “A good beginning, but we have much to discuss my dear Dantes.”

  “Cris, if you don’t mind.”

  The door clicked shut.

  46

  “I almost didn’t think you’d do it.” The Professor watched Cris pick up the Pan’s picture, returning it gently to the easel. “For just a moment I thought you had feelings for the chit.”

  Cris said nothing, settling the tripod until it held steady once again.

  “Well? Where is he? You said he’d come for her. You said he’d never let me claim her. I’ve done it. And Hook is nowhere to be seen. He left her to her fate. Didn’t even come for the Oracle.”

  Cris remained silent, gaze shifting to the door as it creaked open.

  Face white, Rochefort stepped across the threshold. A small blossom of black blooming across his chest with every unsteady step he took. “He’s here,” he said, dropping to a knee.

  Behind him James straightened, sliding his sword from the musketeer’s back. With one smooth motion, he wiped the blade clean on Rochefort’s shirt, sliding it home in the scabbard he’d worn during another life. He’d been wearing it when they’d pulled him over across the threshold of Neverland.

  It had fairly sung with joy when he touched it anew. Sitting comfortably on his hip, one hand dropped easily to the hilt. Lily had saved him tonight, but so had Barrie all those years ago. Hook had fit James like a glove. It’d only taken the complete separation of Jas Hook and James Crawford for him to fully understand it.

  James smiled. “Hello, Moriarty.”

  The Professor looked at Rochefort. “Such a waste. I’ll have to get Lily to bring up another for me.”

  Stepping over the dead Musketeer, James ignored the jab. “You’ll need a few more than him.”

  “How many did you slay to get here?”

  “Only as many as I needed.”

  “Unnecessary waste. I told them to let you come.”

  “I know.”

  Moriarty chuckled softly. “So, Hook is back then? Shame I can no longer trust you. You were one of the best. I did enjoy watching you those first two years. Never a coward. Never shirking your duty.”

  “I lived a coward’s life once.” James paused, studying the cold calculations behind his enemy’s eyes. “Never again.” Gaze shifting to the painting of Peter and River. “Goes without saying, but that was unnecessary.”

  “I thought it drove the point home nicely. She’s with us now. She’s with me.”

  James nodded, as if he could accept that. “Moran made me an offer. Does it still stand?”

  Moriarty dropped his gaze to Rochefort’s corpse. “Didn’t quite live up to the terms, did you?”

  “I could end this now, if you like.” James’ hand fell comfortably to his hilt. “Damn the consequences.”

  Moriarty smiled. “Alright then. Walk away now, never come back, and you can take the Oracle with you.”

  James drew his last free breath, tasting sweetness across the back of his throat. He let it go with a nod. “How much for her? How much to set her free?”

  Moriarty’s easy smile twisted, victory darkening his gaze. Crossing both arms on his chest, he regarded James thoughtfully. “What makes you think you have anything I want?”

  James held fast. “I have myself.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “My life before Hook. I wrote it down. Lily changed my ending. I’m no longer bound to you. Haven’t been for the past ninety minutes.”

  Moriarty couldn’t quite stop an eager half step forward. “And what, exactly, are you offering me? Spell it out precisely.”

  “Myself. Freely and without reservation. You know what I am. Child born of two worlds. You know what my freedom is worth. I could be the most powerful Oracle who ever was.”

  “You’d do that? For the girl?”

  “I would.”

  A frown puckered the Professor’s brow. “Why? You murdered so many for me. Slew so many before me. Why her?”

  Eleanor.

  ‘You can save them both.’

  James exhaled a chuckle on a sigh. “Guess it was my destiny all along.”

  “I would imagine you want me to let the Oracle go too?”

  “Yes. Give Lily the Oracle’s book.”

  Moriarty arched a brow, more amused than irritated. “Anything else?”

  James widened his gaze for a beat, including Cris before shaking his head slowly. “No. Nothing.”

  Moriarty considered for a long while. As if he hadn’t made up his mind within the first moment. “Both women go free, and you serve me all your days. Is that it, James?”

  “Those are my terms.”

  “Very well.” A slow nod. “Let it be as you say. Done.”

  But James wasn’t finished. “Wait. Seal it in blood, so I know you’ll keep your word.”

  “James. You don’t trust me?”

  “Not a whit.” James drew his sword. “Cris. A sheet of parchment.” Closing his hand around the blade, he slid his palm down upon it. Scarlet blood flowed across the steel. “Your turn.”

  Cris bound Moriarty’s hand with a silk handkerchief, the black ink of his blood starting to stain through it. The room stood empty except for the two of them, the signed parchment already sealed and in Cris’ pocket. He would be the oath keeper, as promised to both men.

  “Nicely done, Cris.” Moriarty chuckled softly, a thin smile partin
g his lips with rarely offered praise. “It all went according to your plan. You have vision. I am pleased with you. I didn’t think old Hook could care for anyone that much; but you saw the possibilities.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  Gaze lingering on the death of Peter Pan, he sighed contentedly. “Best let the women go. The sun will be rising soon, and those were the terms.” His smile widened, touching cold, dead eyes. Shark eyes. “Give her that as a memento. I want her to remember this day.”

  “Yes, Sir. As you wish.”

  “You know the ceremony to bind Hook to the mirrors? You know how to create an Oracle?”

  “I have read everything you wrote three times over.”

  “You’ll do fine. It’s easy enough.” Moriarty paused. Looking back, he watched Cris remove Peter Pan from his frame. “I see great things in our future, Cris. Great things indeed.”

  Lily watched the first streaks of dawn shift the darkling sky. “Breathe in.” Sucking in a sob, her throat bobbed on the hard knot of defeat. Failure. “Breathe out.” Coward. She murmured the mantra over and over in an effort to keep her thoughts at bay.

  “Why didn’t you fight?” she chided herself.

  Lily closed her eyes, letting her lungs burn on a held breath. Letting it go slowly, she tried again. “Breathe in.” Touching a bit of charred wood to the stone tiles before an empty hearth, her hand shook. “Breathe out.” Eyes opening, she ignored the salt droplet splashed near her hand. “Be specific.” Scratching words onto the stone tiles:

  Dantes’ noble heart stirred within him, making the task at hand impossible to complete. He could not, would not, allow Moriarty’s plans to reach fruition. He looked about for a weapon. Anything to end this—

  The door’s lock clicked. She didn’t look up. Large teardrops baptizing the soot words, she tried to continue.

  Three strides brought Cris to her side. One beat closed his hand over hers. Shushing gently, he removed the cinder. “That won’t help,” he said, breath warm against her cheek. “Look there.”