Divine Knight

by Michelle L. Levigne

  "Should I have let her go through the gates?" He settled down at his doll table with his cup.

  "Indeed not." Asmondius shook his head, sipped, and shook his head again. "You need to go through those gates and banish those shadows and bring the garden back to life, Angela. I could sense that much. The gates are keyed to you. But you should not, must not, go through them except at the time of your choosing. And definitely not alone."

  "Then who must go with me?" she asked.

  "Ah, now that is the puzzle. All I can offer you--and even that is a guess, for me--is that you will know him or her or them, when the time is right."

  Oh, yeah, that's a really big help, Maurice silently grumbled.

  * * * *

  Ethan felt a chill crawl through his office from under the door into the building hallway. He could have sworn the lights dimmed slightly, barely enough to be noticeable. Something rattled, just twice, inside his desk drawer. He opened it slowly, one hand ready to grab whatever moved. He fully expected an enormous bug, like one of the killer cockroaches from that totally hokey movie version of Damnation Alley.

  Instead, he saw the Von Helados' talisman lying on the bottom of the drawer in among the pens and paper clips and chewing gum wrappers, instead of in the coffee mug where he had put it.

  That shiver of warning raced up his back, wearing soccer cleats. He listened to his gut instinct, when common sense said to ignore it. Every time he listened to his sense of danger, of truth and lies, and paid attention to the voice that whispered of what was about to happen, he scraped another layer off that heavy, solid stone wall he had built around his sanity to protect it from otherness.

  But he had to listen.

  Using a pencil, he hooked the chain of the talisman and lifted it to deposit it back into the mug. Then he shoved some wadded up papers and erasers on top of it, and closed the drawer and sat back in his chair, forcing his body into an appearance of relaxation. He was quite proud of himself when the door opened just a few heartbeats later, the Von Helados seeped into the room like a black fog, and he didn't flinch.

  Chapter Nine

  "We have found Annabelle," Mrs. Von Helado announced.

  Ethan wondered for the first time why her sons or grandsons, or whoever they were, didn't speak. Maybe they couldn't speak? Maybe they were drugged or hypnotized. Maybe they weren't even Human at all, but robots or big, nasty guard dogs dressed up to look Human.

  With a force of will, he kept his face calm and shoved his suddenly ludicrous, wild imagination back into the cold, dark closet where he usually kept it chained.

  "Congratulations. I guessed that you had other investigators working in other states. One of them located her for you?" He reached for the drawer pull, glad to think of that talisman being out of his possession once and for all.

  "Not at all. You're the only one with the right, shall we say, qualifications?" Mrs. Von Helado nodded once for punctuation. That gleam that Ethan could only describe as malice flickered once in her eyes. "You helped us narrow down quite a few leads, discarding illusions and lies for us. We're grateful. No, something happened recently, which alerted us to her whereabouts. We want you to come with us to Neighborlee, Ohio, to help us confront her, keep her under control." Her thin smile widened just barely enough to be noticeable.

  Ethan thought of the grin of a shark.

  "Neighborlee?" He knew if he lied, pretended ignorance, they would sense it. Now was not the time to make them panic, make them act too quickly. "I know the town. I've done some work for another P.I. there."

  "What do you think of the place? The atmosphere there?"

  "It's a small college town. Feels like Mayberry, but with computers." He shrugged. "Nothing to write home about."

  That chill raced up his back when Mrs. Von Helado definitely looked pleased with his response.

  What would she have done, what would she have said, if he confessed that the town made the hairs stand up on his arms and prickled his scalp? That he gave himself a headache ignoring the illusions, the lights and movements and sounds that surrounded him from the moment he drove over the border.

  "We're preparing the paperwork to take Annabelle into custody."

  "You're sure she's there?" He thought of the sketch of their alleged Annabelle, and how Angela had grown sick and weak at the sight of it. The sour smell when it burned. How it had resisted when he tried to tear it.

  Had he alerted them to her presence by taking the sketch to Divine's Emporium?

  No, that was weeks ago. They would have acted right away, wouldn't they, if the sketch and its Dorian Gray reversal trick had been the trigger, the alarm?

  "We're very sure. Not entirely one hundred percent." She let out a dry whisper of a laugh. "Would you be so kind as to go ahead of us, to simply look at her, perhaps talk to her? Do a little preliminary work for us? Lawyers take so much time completing what should be simple tasks. It would be comforting to me to have a little more assurance while we're being delayed by tiresome legal matters."

  "Yeah, sure. Might save you some trouble, in the long run. I mean, what if she isn't your Annabelle? Wouldn't that be kind of embarrassing if you showed up with custody papers, and it wasn't her?"

  "Highly embarrassing. Mortally so." Those eyes sparked malice again, and amusement. "We need you to gather a little evidence that she is indeed in need of caretakers, someone to take responsibility for her. Why don't you take that sketch we gave you, and compare it to her?"

  That answered that question. The destruction of the sketch hadn't alerted them.

  "Even better, see if she remembers the bauble we gave you." She inhaled sharply and licked her lips, once, a movement more reminiscent of a lizard than a cat. "You do still have it, don't you?"

  "Close and safe." Ethan opened the drawer and cleared the impromptu plug out of the top of the mug without them seeing. His skin suddenly crawled at the thought of touching the chain, so he picked up the mug and upended it onto his cluttered blotter.

  "Just show it to her. Perhaps you should wear it around your neck, so it seems very casual when you encounter her, perhaps on the streets of the town. Let her notice it naturally. See where it leads."

  "What if she recognizes it and calls for the cops, claiming I stole it? What if she goes into hysterics over it?"

  "She won't. Annabelle was never the hysterical type, despite her flaws, her mental problems." Again that lizard-like flick of the tongue.

  Ethan made a note to himself never to wear that talisman. With all the things the lab had found coating the chain and the coin, and Angela's reaction to the sketch, nothing in the world could convince him to let it touch his bare skin. Poison or mind-altering drugs or something else, something beyond his imagination, he wasn't taking any chances.

  "It stops now," he whispered when he was alone. He had made arrangements with the Von Helados to meet here in his office in five days to report, and plan the next step in the campaign to retrieve poor, demented, helpless Anabelle.

  If there was anyone in the world who was the polar opposite of the woman the Von Helados described to him, it was Angela of Divine's Emporium.

  He stuck to the plan, the timetable he had made with them, stayed in his office clearing up loose ends, making arrangements to be away for a few days, and then went home at the end of the day. There were only a few times in his career that Ethan hadn't trusted his clients. All the other incidents combined didn't add up to the wrongness, the certainty of lies and ulterior motives and threat that he sensed from the Von Helados.

  He had learned it was wise to always overestimate his enemy's capabilities. As in having him watched, followed, his phone bugged. He stopped at a drug store on his way home and used a pay phone to call Stanzer. Less than five minutes later, he hung up and continued on his way, feeling a little better with the knowledge that the other investigator had been warned, and he would warn Angela in turn.

  * * * *

  "Mr. Jarrod." Angela was standing in front of the counter in the
main room of the shop when Ethan walked in that early morning, before Divine's Emporium opened for the day. He would have thought she would have stayed behind it, putting the heavy marble barrier between them, like a shield.

  "I don't suppose you'd be willing to call me by my first name?"

  "Not quite yet. Yes, you are acting as a friend and ally, and John trusts you. But--"

  "But you don't." He shrugged. "Fair enough. I guess it has to be earned. Especially after what happened last time."

  "You say these people are preparing legal documents to take control over me?" She lifted one hand and rested it on a dark, rainbow-shimmering globe sitting on the counter. Ethan flinched when tendrils of multi-colored, pearly mist rose from the globe and wrapped around her fingers. Angela lifted one elegant eyebrow. "Do you see that?"

  "I don't know what I see." He coughed to clear his throat of whatever made his voice turn into a rasp.

  "You don't want to see. You're very good at not seeing," she half-whispered. "But this--everything that's happening--is pulling down all the barriers you've erected in your mind."

  "Look, these people who claim to be your relatives sent me here to get evidence that you're crazy." He tried to laugh. It caught in his throat. "Don't give me that evidence."

  "I'm not insane, but you could well be if you don't learn to believe. Or learn not to see all those things that dance at the edges of your sight and your imagination. I believe I feel sorry for you, Mr. Jarrod."

  "That's a start at friendship, huh?" He looked around the shop, caught in wonder for a moment at the wonderful hodge-podge of treasures and junk. He even enjoyed the sensation that there was far more here than what he could see, as if a slight turn, a different angle of view, would reveal multiple doorways and stairs where no stairs or doors belonged, and upside-down rooms, like in an Escher drawing.

  He dug his hands into his pockets just to have something to do. Something sticky and hot bit his fingertips. Ethan cursed and yanked his hand out. The talisman came with his hand and clattered to the ground.

  It shouldn't have been in his pocket. He had left it in the coffee mug in his office. The plan was to tell the Von Helados that she didn't react to it, and be able to tell the truth--just not the whole truth.

  Angela gasped and sagged against the counter. The light coming from the globe darkened and the tendrils thinned.

  "I did not bring that with me. I swear. I left it in my office. I don't know how it got--" Ethan clamped his mouth shut when he realized he was babbling.

  "More proof that there are outside forces acting on us, using you in the first campaign." Angela shuddered and her eyes got bigger as she stared at the talisman.

  Ethan took a step closer, positive she was going to pass out on him. He stopped with one foot in the air.

  The talisman lying on the floor in front of him glowed with a weird, black light effect. Misty rainbow streaks trailed along the floor, floating toward the coin as if it sucked all the light into it.

  "That's not good," he muttered. Images and ideas crashed through his head. Pictures of himself in a dozen different costumes and times and settings collided in his mind.

  "Pick it up," Angela whispered.

  "Are you crazy? The lab says there's something on it. I'm ready to believe it's some new drug."

  "Ready to believe--but not quite? As long as you don't believe, you're safe."

  "Believe in what?"

  "I can't tell you. You might believe. Please!" Angela half-stumbled to a display rack on the other side of the counter, picked up a thickly embroidered scarf, and tossed it to him.

  "I want some answers, lady." He wadded up the scarf and bent. Clashing images tore through him, warning him not to touch the talisman--and begging him to destroy it. But how?

  "You'll have more answers than you'll ever need if you'll just do--what--I--say!"

  "Baby, you're beautiful when you snarl." He took a deep breath and reached down to pick up the necklace before he lost his nerve.

  "Hey, Angela? What's going on? The whole top of the house is twisting like it wants to pull all the nails loose." A little man with gaudy, shining wings flew into the room and hovered in the air midway between Ethan and Angela.

  Ethan froze, staring at the little man. He was close enough to make out the details of his clothes--a polo shirt in lavender, and khakis. The little man stared back, his face twisting in fury.

  "What are you doing back here?" he growled, and despite his size, his voice made the room vibrate.

  No, Ethan realized a moment later. The shaking, the vibrations, came from the coin, as the streaks of light spilling into it--sucked into it--grew thicker, darker.

  "We have to get that out of here," Angela said. She stumbled away from the counter, reaching for the talisman, holding another scarf in her hand.

  One thing crystallized for Ethan in that moment. No matter what happened, Angela must not touch that coin. Not even with the insulation of the scarf. The world would shatter and crumble to dust if she did. So he dove, reaching for the talisman, to get to it first.

  The little man was closer. He went into a tailspin, light trailing from his wings and getting sucked into the talisman, and scooped up the talisman by the chain.

  Darkness erupted out of the coin and black light flared from the chain. It lifted up in the air, pulling the little man with it.

  "Maurice, where are you taking it?" Angela shouted.

  "Heck if I know. It's taking me!" the little man shouted, his wings beating so furiously they were nearly invisible as he fought the pull of the chain and talisman. He was losing the tug-war as the talisman neared the doorway into the room.

  "Let go!"

  "I can't!"

  And a heartbeat later, it pulled him out and around the corner.

  "It's going up the stairs." Angela staggered past Ethan.

  He followed her, holding onto the scarf with a vague idea of grabbing the talisman and pulling the little man free. They raced up the stairs, with the talisman and its prisoner getting a step further ahead of them with every one they took.

  "The painting room," Angela gasped, when muffled thuds reverberated down to them from the fourth floor, just as they reached the third floor landing. "Thank goodness, it's locked."

  "Angela!" The shout came from above. "It's getting ready to blast--"

  Black light erupted down the stairs as they reached the landing between the third and fourth floors. Angela leaped two stairs. Ethan twisted sideways and got ahead of her and reached the fourth floor in time to see a blackened door swing open and the talisman, pulling the little man, streak into the room.

  "No, he can't go through," Angela said, as she stumbled onto the landing. "The paintings are spelled to block him. It's part of his exile. If it tries to pull him through--"

  The panic on her face moved Ethan more than her words, which didn't make any conscious sense. What frightened him, though, was that on the gut level, he knew exactly what she feared, what she meant. He dove into the darkened room, taking a swing at the wall where he expected a light switch to be. It didn't come on.

  But the lack of light didn't matter. Black light lit the room in bursts every time the talisman slammed into the frame of a painting, like splatters from a triple-sized paint ball shot at the highest velocity possible. It ricocheted around the room, slamming against painting frames, knocking them out of their racks and off the walls and off the crates where they were propped up, leaving a trail of black light behind it, and slapping the poor little man against twice as many surfaces, still caught on the end of the chain trailing behind it.

  Ethan lunged, barely remembering to reach with the scarf to insulate his hand, and tried to grab the chain. It led him on a merry dance around the room, banging into crates and dislodging paintings from their resting places.

  He stumbled over a stack of paintings, knocking one out from behind another. Angela cried out warning as the talisman arched up to the ceiling and dove, slapping its captive against the high
surface before dragging him down with it. The painting finished falling as if in slow motion, landing painted side facing up. The surface flared with blood-tinted light and the talisman penetrated with a splash as if it were water.

  Ethan fell backwards against a crate, staring, stunned to realize the canvas hadn't broken. The painting absorbed the talisman, and then the chain.

  The little man let out a yelp as he hit the surface and a geyser of silver and gold and poisonous green sparkles hid him from view. His yelp turned into a howl of pain, and the sparkles grew thicker, higher, and took on an orange cast, as if the painting would burst into flames at any moment.

  Angela went to her knees on the frame of the painting and reached into the eruption of light. Ethan had a flash of an image of her falling into the painting. He flung himself down on the other side of the painting and reached into that stinging, cold, fizzling power.

  A noise like a sonic boom deafened him and blinding light erupted, flinging him and Angela against the walls of the room, knocking over every painting that hadn't been toppled. Frames cracked and warped and clouds of multi-colored dust gushed upwards from several.

  Ethan rubbed his eyes, trying to clear them, and dimly watched as several paintings went completely black, and then turned to empty, pristine canvas inside their broken frames.

  He was surrounded with silence. He spent a few seconds checking himself. Nothing broken, nothing torn. No blood. No burns. Then he caught a dim thrumming, and realized he was hearing his pulse in his ears. When he turned over and got to his knees, he saw Angela kneeling over a man's body sprawled across the painting on the floor. The canvas on this one hadn't turned white. It was shredded and blackened.

  The talisman lay glowing softly in a menacing purple hue among the ashes.

  "Maurice. Maurice, wake up," Angela sobbed, her voice growing stronger as Ethan's hearing returned.

  He knelt next to her, shaking all over, feeling scorched and oxygen-deprived and aching. And he stared at Maurice, now over six feet tall, bruised and pale, with his clothes scorched and burned in some spots, torn in others, and a faint haze of smoke rising up from his flesh. The soles of his sneakers were completely melted away, just the scorched uppers remaining on his feet. Somehow, the pointed ears revealed by his scorched, smoking hair were the least of all the impossibilities and surprises.