He released the curtain and started to rummage through the objects on the large desk: a paperweight, an inkwell, and a glass jug with a transparent liquid. Gumshoe carefully picked up the jug and sniffed.
“It seems like water.” He swallowed a little of it. “That’s what it is, and it’s even fresh.”
“Time in the City passes in an unusual way—you said that yourself. Why are we here? Everything is ordinary, and there’s nothing that seems strange. Maybe we misunderstood the message and it wasn’t talking about the Angel?”
He pulled out the drawers of the desk, one by one. They were all empty.
“What do we do now?” Nicole added.
She was somewhat disappointed. After all, it had seemed that they were close to solving this mystery. They had followed the path, overcome obstacles, achieved goals, and how did it turn out? The end point was this study—a completely mundane study that wasn’t even particularly cozy despite the expensive objects.
Gumshoe tiredly rubbed his temples and dropped into an armchair. He slumped onto the back.
There was a crack and some movement behind the walls, and then a hitting and knocking sound. Gumshoe jumped up, and Nicole stepped closer to him.
In the empty part of the room, where there was no rug or furniture, the floor separated, opening a square hole. A small, yellow upright piano rose from it. A screen popped out of the piano’s varnished top—it was a bleached canvas stretched across a frame. From the other side, a projector began to rattle, and an image appeared on the screen. At first, there were just empty frames with a dark background flashing, and then, a person’s silhouette appeared—it was a man wearing an apron and long gloves with flares. The piano keys started to move on their own, and music rang out. It was a soft, mechanical march. Robots would have been able to march to such music—but they would have been steam-powered, antique robots.
The silhouette started to move jerkily and sharply. Two bright eyes were cut into its dark head, and a voice poured from the depths of the piano, accompanied by a splutter, like a record turning on a gramophone.
“You have come—otherwise, the projector would not have turned on. I don’t know who you are, but I am surprised. In order to get the Copper Head to talk, or simply to guess where the key is, you need to have a good amount of intuition.”
“Or the talking potion.” Gumshoe couldn’t restrain himself, and Nicole giggled.
“Under these circumstances, few people think to just look under the mat,” the silhouette continued, guardedly gesticulating in time with the words. “But somehow or other, you’re here, and I welcome you to my home. We’re unlikely to see each other again, but anything is possible. Remember that! Link after link—that’s how the chains of fate are forged!”
There was a snap, and with a swish, the screen started to move back to where it came from, the piano music continuing to play all the while. They waited a bit longer, and then Nicole said uncertainly, “Is that it? But . . . how can it be? I thought that now, we’d at least hear or see something useful. Foolish gadget!”
They walked over to the piano. The music had not stopped. Fragments of it kept repeating. They started to get irritated—it was like someone was mocking them. Looking more closely at the piano, Nicole noticed that above the keyboard, where the sheet music usually stood, there was an oval hollow, and then it dawned on her.
“Look!” She poked her finger into the hollow.
Gumshoe answered with a confused glance, and Nicole removed her grandmother’s pendant from her neck. She was sure that she was doing the right thing. She simply knew it. The pendant slid into the hollow with a click, the intrusive music stopped right away, and the cover of the piano moved apart, opening a shallow hole.
Inside, there lay a small black bag with silver sequins. It was really small—the kind women would use when they were going to the theater. Nicole picked it up. She jumped back when the cover moved with a whir, and then the piano crept down, back into the floor.
“This is Grandma’s clutch,” Nicole said in a voice that trembled with emotion. “It’s Grandma’s!”
“How do you know?”
“Mom told me about it. Grandma had one just like it when she disappeared.”
“One like it or this one exactly? What’s inside?”
Nicole opened the purse. Its lining had become shabby over time. Inside, there was an old nickel, a lawn handkerchief with the initials AS, and a sheet of paper rolled up in a small tube. Nicole carefully took it out and smoothed it on the table. The paper seemed fragile and brittle.
“What is it?” she asked. On the paper, there were incomprehensible, intertwined lines, a dotted line, and a bold red dot. A bunch of unknown symbols were inscribed on the surface, like pale watermarks.
She turned the paper around on the table in bewilderment and suggested, “Maybe it’s a map?”
“It looks like one, but why are there such winding streets?” Gumshoe asked. “It’s some kind of strange maze. I’ve never seen places like that in the City. Can I look at your purse?”
Nicole handed it to him reluctantly. It was an object—it would probably be more accurate to call it a Purse—that had pulled her toward it, like the Mascara, like her grandmother’s Pendant, and like the Hairpin in her hair.
Gumshoe turned Grandma’s clutch over in his hands and then laid it on the table. Nicole walked away and sat down on a chair, watching him. Her companion was acting seriously and with concentration—he did everything that way. He slowly rolled a cigarette and started to smoke it, exhaling smoke through his nose. He opened the purse and put his cigarette case inside. He closed it. He waited a moment and then opened the purse, looked inside, scowled, and took out the cigarette case.
Then he picked up the paperweight and made as if to slip it into the clutch.
“It won’t fit.” Nicole laughed.
“That’s the point,” he answered thoughtfully.
But the paperweight did fit. It shouldn’t have been the case—but it fit. Gumshoe went over to the shelf and started placing the porcelain elephants in the purse, starting with the smallest one. Another. Then another. Then another. The purse didn’t even inflate.
Nicole’s mouth was agape. She had heard a lot of jokes about women’s bottomless purses, but she had never seen such a vivid demonstration of this miracle. Gumshoe walked over to her and showed her the open clutch. It was completely empty.
“Where is everything?” She was dumbfounded.
“There, inside.”
“But I don’t see anything.”
“Feel for yourself.”
She reached her hand in and immediately knocked against an elephant. Nicole started to pull out the things that had been hidden in the purse and lay them on the chair. At last, she pulled out the paperweight with difficulty.
“Oh, you!” was all she could say. “That means that this is really a Purse with a capital P. The All-Seeing Mascara and Bottomless Purse, every woman’s dream. Well, almost every woman. I somehow manage without a purse.”
“This is, of course, very curious,” Gumshoe agreed. “But what now?”
“I think all these things, including the Mascara, are my grandmother’s. Her name was Angelica, and there are initials on the handkerchief: AS. Angelica Stewart. So does that mean that my grandmother knew the Collector and left the second message through him?”
“It’s strange that there’s no message from her—just a map, but it’s not clear what it is exactly. There’s no legend.”
“The Lens!” Nicole pulled it out. “Of course! That’s how my grandmother left the message on the back of the photo—you couldn’t see it without the Lens!”
Gumshoe slapped his forehead.
“That’s right!”
Nicole turned the map over, and looking through the Lens, she slowly read aloud:
“Nicole, you’re amazing. You still need the Chameleon, the Nail Scissors, and the Corset. These are also my beloved feminine objects. You’ll understand when y
ou see. You’ll find Nail Scissors underground. What do you think? How will you get there? The chain of fate will lead you there. Sorry, I need to run!”
“Chameleon, Nail Scissors, Corset . . . your grandmother sure loved riddles,” Gumshoe observed and slowly looked around. “I don’t think there’s anything left for us to do here. Should we leave?”
“Yes, it’s time to go,” Nicole agreed.
“Did you know that the Collector knew how to go out into the world? He left symbols there and then returned,” Lilith said.
From the gap in the wall, there was a good view of the dead-end street, the Collector’s House, and the copper door with the Head. After the Inquisitors walked away, the Head had continued to grimace and mutter, but it was now silent.
“Are you saying that those two might not come out?” Mike shook his head. “They’ll come out. There’s no portal in the House. I can feel it.”
Her raised eyebrow was arched like a sword.
“Oh, Mike, sweetie, you’re so sensitive. And what are you feeling right now?”
“The house is unusual,” he answered thoughtfully. “Inside, it’s like a kaleidoscope. Moving, spotted. There are dips and bulges, and all sorts of strange twists. But there are no holes.”
“Dips and bulges of what?”
“The space-time continuum.”
“You’re so smart, Inquisitor!” she snorted. “You’re so smart that you’re even vile, and I want to kill you. How much longer do we need to wait? I’m sick of this.”
At that moment, the copper door opened.
Gumshoe was supporting the one under her elbow, and Mike felt a stab in his chest. How would he be able to touch her? The girl was captivating, but the Inquisitor couldn’t understand why—after all, Lilith was much more striking and unusual. The one was cute, but completely ordinary. Yet Mike was not simply attracted to her—he was pulled to her, like by a powerful magnet. The thought of some other man touching her was almost unbearable.
Lilith was tormented by completely different feelings. Grinning ravenously, she lifted the crossbow, raised the tight spring that was hidden in the stock, and immediately shot.
Mike didn’t have time to act before she tore herself from her spot and hurled herself after the arrow.
Chapter Six
“The map . . .” Gumshoe was musing as they descended the staircase. “I don’t understand what’s on it. Those crooked lines don’t look like the streets in the City. They don’t look like streets at all. Streets aren’t curved like that—that is, a street might twist, but there are always corners, sharp turns, or outlines of neighborhoods. But there’s nothing like that on this map. Then there are those incomprehensible symbols again on the whole surface.”
He opened the door, letting Nicole pass through first. It was still quiet and sunny on the dead-end street. It was as if this day would never end, as if time had stopped, and the City was stuck in a golden afternoon light.
The door slammed behind her, there was a crack, and Gumshoe stumbled.
A short arrow protruded from his arm. Nicole gasped. His back grazed the wall as he tried to pull out his gun. A spot of blood began to seep along his shoulder.
A shadow was racing toward them along the side street—the only visible thing was a blurred female face, along with hardly distinguishable black hair. The rest was submerged in an oblong cloud of darkness. A second shadow was running behind it. Nicole recognized the man with the scar on his forehead. The Inquisitor! He was surrounded by some sort of shadow camouflage.
“Run!” Gumshoe wheezed.
But there was nowhere for her to run. Nor was there time. Nicole saw the unknown woman unscrew a short tube as she ran, pull out a weightless piece of darkness, and throw it at them. In the air, the darkness dissipated and turned into a glossy black fabric.
A shot rang out over her ear. She screamed in surprise. Gumshoe was shooting. The barrel of the gun was pointed at the flying clump of darkness, but the bullet passed through and seemed to vanish into a lake of ink. Gumshoe pushed Nicole hard with his shoulder.
She staggered and nearly lost her balance. The cloth fell onto her companion and stuck with a dry, ghostly rustle. Gumshoe’s silhouette lost its color and turned gray. He collapsed onto his knees and then fell down—only the swirl of the shadows turned for a few moments on the same spot, and then it, too, disappeared, and nothing remained.
The black-haired stranger who was running over clutched Nicole’s shoulder with a deathly grip.
“What have you done with him?” Nicole shrieked, and surprising even herself, she slapped the olive-complexioned face.
The stranger’s head bobbed, but the triumphant, small-toothed smirk did not leave her face.
“So the girl likes to fight?” she sneered. “No problem. I also like to hurt people!”
“Lilith! Wait!” admonished the man with the scar, who was on her heels.
The woman named Lilith quickly aimed a blow and struck Nicole on the cheekbone. Nicole hit the back of her head on the copper door and slid onto the pavement. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard a satisfied voice say, “That lout was sucked into the Wrong Side by my Cloth. Should we go after him and finish him off?”
“Not before. We’re going back.”
A thunderstruck Nicole felt someone lifting her by the arms. The last thing she saw before losing consciousness was the face of the person whom the man with the scar called Lilith. The olive-skinned face looked into the eyes of the captive and purred, grinning wildly, “The one! Today, the Shadow will have a glorious trophy!”
A glow filled the world. Gumshoe slowly got up from his knees and looked around.
Outlines of buildings, the pavement—everything looked like an old, color-drained, yellow-gray photograph. Although he did not feel the movement of the air, he was nagged by the sense that in this place, a highly charged wind blew constantly with a poisonous energy.
There was no one nearby. The dead-end street was completely empty. Looking up, Gumshoe saw in place of the sky a gray shroud on which shadows quickly slipped by, changing shape. He finally understood: he was on the Wrong Side. Damn it—the Wrong Side! He had never been here. He had only heard Martha’s stories. It was the other side of the City, its shadowy copy, a dead reflection inside itself. It sucked the strength from living people. You couldn’t stay there long—you would just dissolve, like a piece of plastic in acid.
But how would he get out of here?
Bent over, he moved toward the square, powering through the resistance of the wind. His left shoulder burned where a short bolt from a crossbow stuck out. Plumes of darkness and light burst from his forearm and flew behind him, twisting in the wind. Step after step, Gumshoe trudged farther away from the Collector’s House. Once he was halfway down the dead-end street, he looked around. The wind tore dark chips from his body and carried them away, and then they flew off quickly, faded, and disappeared.
Yes, it would dissolve him like that. He urgently needed to get out of here. But how?
And what about Nicole? Had the Inquisitors captured her? Apparently, the strange thing that had flung him into the Wrong Side was meant for her. Did they plan to kill her? Maybe they had already killed her. He needed to get himself out of here faster.
Although the poisonous wind had not died down, Gumshoe kept slogging toward the street. He knew how to be persistent. Persistent and firm. He had the will—but did he have enough strength? And would his body be solid enough? He could feel himself getting thinner and lighter.
Finally, he emerged from the side street onto the main street and looked around, squinting. All around him, it was gray. The buildings rose in silent silhouettes, and shadows reached for the sky. The world was simultaneously filled with movement and death, like a clay tree branch in the water.
In the haze far to the left, a spot of light flickered. What could it be? A strange, bewitching light . . . Gumshoe turned and made his feet move toward it. His legs were failing. He covered his face wit
h his hand, but his skin was still drying out and his eyes were tearing. At least the pain in his shoulder had nearly disappeared. In the Wrong Side, there was no place for real pain—or real feelings, for that matter.
He had gotten far away from the side street when he suddenly figured out what had been drawn on that piece of paper. Of course! It was simple—he should have guessed it sooner. But now, what was the use of figuring it out if Nicole had disappeared? Gumshoe walked on toward his goal, not stopping, but feeling that the Wrong Side, like a hungry snake, would draw his life force out of him. In front of him, in the dead darkness of the poisonous world, the spot of quivering light was getting brighter, and in its outlines, he finally recognized the House of Fate.
(To be continued)
Gumshoe is injured, and Nicole is being held prisoner. The Inquisitors, the Shadow's henchmen, have taken her to the dungeons beneath the City. How can she escape? And who will help Gumshoe heal from his terrifying injury? Needless to say, these two will meet again, but under what circumstances? Read the third novella, Hidden City: Darkness Outside.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Hidden City: The Shades of Silence (Book 2) Page 7
