My feet were yanked off the ground as I tried to pull away, doubling up against the dark energy sucking me back. Pain shocked my body. I screamed.
Joe braced himself against the cobbles, his hand thrust out toward me. “Lia!”
I stretched out to reach him. Our hands clasped together. The veins in his neck bulged, his lips drawn tight, as he tried to haul me away from the spinning vortex of dark energy, panic in his eyes.
Then the vortex pulsed.
A rolling wave of energy throbbed through me, shooting down my arm and exploding into Joe.
The blast punched him backwards, cannoning him across the alley. He crashed into the trash cans piled against the opposite wall.
“Joe!”
But it was too late. The vortex swallowed me in darkness.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE VORTEX SPAT ME OUT the other side of the portal like a cowboy spits tobacco. I hit the cobbles hard. Ignoring the pain, I pushed up onto my hands and knees, shaking the last shreds of psychic darkness from my mind. I had a splitting headache.
But I’d materialized back on Old Compton Street. I looked up to see a carriage pulled by two horses thundering toward me. Folding my arms over my head, I rolled to the side. The vehicle clattered past, the iron-rimmed wheels within an inch of my face.
Shoot. I’d lived through some weird before now, but this took the freaking biscuit. I dragged my body out the gutter and threw myself back into the alleyway.
With my back pressed against the dirty brick wall, I breathed hard. Closing my eyes, I willed the throbbing headache to subside. My heart still galloped in rhythm with the horses, but I forced my breathing to steady. You have to keep it together, Lia. You just have to.
My reasons for finding Grandma were piling up like a plate of nachos. Whatever else was going on, one thing I knew for sure: without Grandma’s help, I had no idea how to get back to the 21st century. I had to find her and I had to find her alive.
I poked my head out the alley, just far enough to glimpse both ways.
It was busy. Horse-drawn carriages, hansom cabs, and even a few bicycles, filled the street with traffic. Gentlemen in frock coats and top hats escorted parasol twirling ladies, closely stalked by their chaperones. Old-style British Bobbies patrolled their beats. Guttersnipes, runners, and flower sellers all plied their trades among the crowded tea shops, dining rooms, and concert halls.
I knew enough history to recognize the era. This was Victorian London. Despite the bustle of activity, I was amazed by how quiet it was compared to the London I knew. And it was pretty freaking weird, even for me.
Grandma.
I shifted back into the shadows, intending to creep along the alley back toward the stage door.
Crates and boxes were piled up at the dead end. It was dark, damp, and rats scuttled along the gutter, tails slithering behind them as they vanished into drains. I thought about Joe lying among the trash cans back in the 21st century.
Let’s go Lia, I said to myself. He’ll be fine. He’s a cop.
A door flung open, and a woman staggered onto the cobbles at the other end of the alley, illuminated by a dim red light. Geez, I thought. Some things aren’t set to change much in the next couple hundred years.
I pressed back again, wishing I could dissolve into the brickwork.
Dressed only in petticoats and a corset, her hair fell loose, framing a haggard face. Glazed, bloodshot eyes blinked from a mask of ill-applied make up. She staggered across the alley and leaned against the opposite wall.
She laughed, and then sobbed, and then cursed, launching herself forward, zigzagging toward me, and clutching a half-emptied bottle of gin.
I couldn’t escape onto the street. I’d be seen at once. My appearance, dressed in figure-hugging ripped jeans, studded leather jacket and calf-length boots, would have me stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. Not to mention breach every convention of Victorian propriety.
Maybe she’ll be too drunk to notice me, or even care.
But the gin-sodden prostitute stopped right in front of me, frowning as she leaned in. Her breath turned my stomach.
“’Ello,” she said, looking me up and down. “You with the freak show, love?” She cackled. “Or are you lookin’ for business?”
“I want to be left alone,” I said.
“Left alone, darlin’?” The prostitute snorted and took another swig of gin. “Nothin’ good comes of bein’ alone, sweetheart.”
“Please,” I said. “Just leave me alone.”
The woman belched, wiping spittle on the back of her hand, and swaying slightly. “Done me over bad, the last one did. You think they just want a bit of comfort from a lady, but some of ‘em, they don’t ‘old back the punches, neither.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it. Imagining her life was enough to break a gargoyle’s heart.
“All right, love,” she said, her voice quiet now and tears welling in her eyes. “I’ll let you be.”
She lurched forward again, heading for the street. But she tripped on a cobblestone. To save herself, she snatched at me, both hands clutching my arm.
I hit the ground first. The prostitute slammed on top of me, her head hitting the cobbles with an audible crack! Blood pooled around her face.
Pity and horror struggled for supremacy within me as I realized what had just happened.
She’s dead.
We’d fallen out into the street. “Disgusting!” someone said. “It’s murder!” shouted another. “Call the constable!” A policeman’s whistle sounded.
Desperate, I wriggled out from beneath the woman’s limp body and jumped to my feet.
“Good Lord! Is it a man or a woman?” exclaimed a gentleman, popping his monocle, and brandishing his walking cane like a sword. “Arrest the fiend!”
A strong hand closed around my wrist, twisting my arm behind my back.
“Somebody run for a doctor!”
“I don’t know what your lark is,” the policeman said, as he lifted a pair of handcuffs from his belt, “but you’re under arrest. And by the looks of it, you’ll hang.”
Panicked, I yanked my arm free, span round and crunched my knee full-force into the constable’s groin. I didn’t hang around to taste the flavor of his language as he crumpled up on the cobbles.
My legs burned and my lungs pumped, sucking in cold London smog, as I ran for my life.
I figured I had only a few seconds before more policemen gave chase. In those few seconds, I figured they’d expect me to run fast and run far. So I dodged down the next alley on the other side of the same block.
From the main street, I heard police whistles, shouts, and thumping boots.
The alley was open both ends. Which freaking way?
I looked up.
Drain pipe.
By the time anyone thought to look down the alley, I was on the roof, scuttling like a rat along the wide Victorian guttering. When I judged I was above the Harcourt Theater, I stopped. Between the gables, a flat area lined with lead housed a vent and a skylight.
The roof smelled of rain, mortar and the hot, human odor pumped out through the ventilator. Too exhausted to use any more than the usual five senses, I steadied my pounding heart, lay down on the warm, wet lead, and listened.
I don’t know exactly how long I waited, but I needed to be sure I’d escaped my pursuers. I stayed like that until I’d got my breath back.
Then I crawled across the roof to the skylight, peering down through thick glass. A dull, yellow light smudged the interior of the room beneath, leaking in through the grimy windows on the upper story. The glass was green and thick and distorted everything, but I figured it was a storeroom.
I hope I can open this thing. That glass looks practically bullet-proof.
Pulling up into a crouch I fingered around the edges of the skylight. The glass pane was embedded in a steel frame, but it was hinged, which meant it could be opened.
But of course the catch is on the inside.
I could
see the brass handle jutting out below.
Looks like a simple twist thing.
I was still tired, but a little stronger after resting.
Try or die, Lia.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the handle beyond the glass, where I rested my hands. Concentrating was hard enough and summoning the power was even harder.
C’mon, Lia. It’s simple telekinesis. Your mom taught you this while you were still in grade school.
At last the energy surged up within me, streaming down through my hands. The brass handle nudged an inch. Encouraged I continued to focus, visualizing the handle moving.
It nudged again, and again, and at last it swiveled free of the frame.
It was all I could do to push my fingers into the crack between the frame and its housing and lift the heavy glass back on its hinges, but I did it.
I swung my legs round and sat on the edge, listening, sensing. I was sure there was no-one there. Lifting myself on my arms, I dangled a moment, and then dropped through the skylight to the room below.
I was in.
CHAPTER SIX
I LANDED WITH A SOFT thud. The room was gloomy and filled with boxes, scenery boards, and props, all enveloped in dusty silence.
Moving as quietly as I could, I lifted an upturned dining chair from a pile in the corner and set it down below the open skylight. Testing its stability first, I climbed up and heaved the skylight closed, bracing myself against the weight to stop it falling shut with a bang, and twisting the brass catch back into place.
I stepped down again and replaced the chair. Creeping over to the door, I tried the handle. It turned easily, and the door clicked open. I peered through the crack and, seeing no-one and hearing nothing, I pushed the door open a little wider and leaned out into a narrow corridor, looking both ways.
Wood paneling lined the walls, with two other doors on either side of the room I was in. One end resolved in an alcove with a plant stand supporting a dead aspidistra beneath a narrow, leaded window of green-colored glass. The other opened downwards into a stairwell.
Must be the attic rooms, I figured. By the feel of it, no-one comes up here.
I retreated back into the storeroom and closed the door.
I guess I’ll have to go down into the main building. But chances are I’ll be seen by someone. And dressed like this, there’s no hope of bluffing my way out of a situation.
Then the penny dropped.
I’m in a freaking theater! My eyes scanned the boxes, scenery and props. There must be costumes here some place.
A few minutes later and I’d uncovered a clothing rail which had been concealed by a dust sheet. Like a bargain hunter at a thrift store, I riffled through a choice of old dresses.
Judging by the excruciatingly small waist sizes, I figured most of them needed corsets. I knew just how hard putting a corset on could be. Besides, they don’t do your high kick any favors. In the end I settled for something plainer and a bit more practical. I guess it was a servant’s outfit, and it looked Victorian to me.
I found button-up boots, a bonnet and a handful of hair pins. Half an hour later, with my own clothes hidden behind a tea chest loaded with wigs, I emerged from the room looking a lot less out of place.
The only things might give me away were my long, black-varnished nails, but there was nothing I could do about that. At least if I was found out, I could play dumb, keep my hands behind my back, and mumble something about having lost my way on an errand for my mistress.
Aside from my underwear, the only thing of mine I’d kept on was the moon-crystal. Grandma wore an identical stone, and now I was in the same place and time, the stones would resonate together. All I had to do was tune in to the frequency and follow where it led.
Easy, right?
I crept along the corridor to the head of the stairs and with one hand on the dusty rail, peered down into the stairwell.
Everything was quiet and still. The dress was long, covering my ankles, and I had to lift it to avoid tripping as I started downward. I winced and froze, listening, my pulse throbbing at my temples every time one of the uncarpeted boards creaked or groaned under my step.
At the foot of the stairs were a tiny vestibule and another door. My crystal emitted a faint glow.
I’m really close to Grandma. And if it’s picking up her signal, that means she’s still alive.
My mouth was dry now and my skin prickled with anxiety.
Holy crap, Lia. If there’s someone in there you’ll have to face them.
I rehearsed my lost servant story one final time and turned the handle of the vestibule door. Pausing only a moment, I stepped into the room.
There was no-one there. I let out a long sigh of relief.
Along the adjacent wall stretched a bench table. Gas lamps illuminated a series of mirrors fixed to the wall above it. Pots of greasepaint, face cream, rags, wigs, and other accoutrements of the Victorian theater cluttered the surface.
There was only one other door. At least having no choices makes decisions easier to make, I thought.
I walked quickly across the room. My senses were buzzing. I pushed the door open and stepped into another corridor. Muffled by layers of brick and velvet, but recognizable, came the sounds of voices, laughter, and applause.
The crystal glowed brighter, and I felt its warmth even through the fabric of my dress.
Getting closer.
Pushing away the distractions of anxiety, I tried hard to tune my senses, extending feelers from my mind into the psychic atmosphere.
It wasn’t easy. I was tired and hadn’t slept or eaten for too long. Fear and uncertainty threatened any mental clarity I was striving for. What did I think I was hoping to achieve, uninitiated and alone in another time, and up against hell only knew what forces of darkness?
Added to that, the actors, and the audience generated an intense emotional energy which permeated the very stones from which the theater was built.
Halfway along the corridor was an opening to another, narrower staircase. Built of stone this time and reeking of damp and mold, it wound away into darkness. Looks like it leads to some kind of cellar. But what would a theater be doing with a cellar?
As I focused on the staircase, something shifted. A sickness twisted in my gut, the air fractured. A disorientating frequency buzzed in my ears. At the foot of the stairwell the darkness itself intensified. Whatever was down there emitted an intense hatred. The sensation was one of the purest evil.
Every part of me screamed: Get out! Do not go down there!
My palms were damp with sweat, resting against the walls either side of the opening. The crystal turned from a milky white glow to a burning blood-red.
Get out! Get out! Abandon this! Leave!
My legs trembled. The darkness had begun to swirl and reform like a living thing.
No. Grandma is down there.
Struggling against the psychic attack, I muttered the words of the banishing ritual, visualizing a psychic shield of blazing light infusing my aura.
With my heart threatening to break free of my ribcage, drenched in sweat and shuddering with anxiety and effort, I steadied myself against the walls of the narrow staircase, and started down into the dark.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE JOURNEY TO THE FOOT of the staircase seemed to take forever, every step a deep struggle against fear. The psychic barrier reached a maximum intensity as I approached the door. I thought my legs would buckle beneath me. My lips trembled and tears pricked at my eyes, my breathing raw and fast.
But then it was over. The darkness was just the absence of light. My vision cleared as I wiped the tears from my eyes. My breathing calmed. I rested against the damp wall and let out a long sigh. I was through.
Wiping the sweat from my hands on my dress, I reached out for the door knob. I was surprised to find it unlocked. Whoever was behind this wasn’t afraid of unwanted visitors. That kind of confidence from the bad guys is not reassuring. But I’d come too far to turn b
ack.
Beyond the door hung heavy, velvet drapes. I slipped my fingers through the split and pulled the two sides apart. The sense of evil had vanished. What I saw beyond the curtain caused me literally to gasp aloud.
No way was this another storeroom or a cellar.
The room was built on the scale of a mediaeval church. Cryptic symbols and occult designs were carved into the stone walls. Flaming torches blazed in iron brackets. The dancing light cast eerie shadows around the room. A pungent fog of incense thickened the air. Black-and-white marble tiles checkered the floor. An occult temple!
Slipping through the curtain and sliding among the shadows along the wall, I strained to see the rest of the unholy place.
My crystal burned with gentle, milky light. Grandma is here, I realized. Right here in this place – and she’s alive.
I edged away from the wall, further into the room, to get a better view. A long, rectangular space stretched ahead of me. To the left and right, just before the opposite wall, two huge pillars soared up from the marble floor, and vanished into the darkness of the vaulted ceiling.
Beyond the pillars three steps climbed to an altar on a plinth. Black silk draped the altar, and on that a purple velvet cushion bore a grisly sight: a human skull. I didn’t have any doubts it was the real thing, either.
I listened again and risked closing my eyes to concentrate harder and focus on building a psychic link with Grandma. I was confused. This was clearly some kind of occult temple. What it was doing under the theater was anyone’s guess, but it should have been thickly layered in supernatural resonances. It wasn’t.
What worried me was that I’d been drawn here by the psychic link with Grandma, and the place was powerfully protected by psychic barriers – the staircase was a mess of evil vibrations – but there was no one here. No one I could sense. My crystal was cool and clear. Only seconds ago it had resonated powerfully.
Was I too late? Was she… already dead?
Dragon Moon: Lia Stone: Demon Hunter - Episode One (Dragon-born Guardians Series Book 1) Page 3
