I pointed up the street. “The Strand.”
“Oh! Trafalgar Square, right?”
“It’s that way, but that’s not where we’re going.”
I marched ahead. Carson jogged to keep up. I could’ve slowed down, really, but I liked this pace. Sugar and additives had infused me with an itch to get a shift on. Plus, Carson wasn’t used to the exertion, and it kept him from talking.
“Do you think those guys will come for us again?”
Or not.
“I don’t know.”
“I hope not.”
Me too … I didn’t say. Instead, casually: “At least they’re not the orcs I dealt with earlier.”
“Oh! You said—the purple stuff on your spear earlier, that—that was orc blood, did you say?” he asked with a conversational tone that was not entirely believable.
“Yes.”
Carson hurried so that he was marching alongside me. He clutched the strap of his satchel tight to his chest, as though it might burst free and escape at any moment.
“Real orcs? Like from Mordor?”
Lord of the Rings. Figured. And probably not the films; Carson had read the books, from cover to cover, of that I was sure. A whole bunch of times, probably.
“You realize the concept of orcs comes from way before Tolkien, right? Way before. Anyhow, real orcs are like … a scourge, I guess. They’re invading worlds all the time.” I nudged the umbrella bouncing against my thigh. “I ran into a few while I grabbed this thing.”
“That’s crazy,” Carson breathed. Then, coughing nervously, he added, “They’ve never invaded here, have they?”
“What, London?”
“Earth, I mean. But I guess London, too.”
“Not in modern times. I’ve heard a rumor they’ve been brought through gateways a couple of times, but now we’ve got cars and trains, they get spooked. Dunno if that’s true though.” I shrugged. “Who knows?”
I brought us to a stop outside Tortilla, a burrito and taco place. It wasn’t yet open, and I was thankful; the first of my energy drinks had been a nice pick-me-up, but it had also apparently reminded my stomach of just how hungry I was. Contending with the smells pouring out of the restaurant as the door opened and closed … no thanks.
Carson apparently had the same thought, as he eyed the sign. “But it’s not open.”
“We’re not going in.”
“Oh …”
I glanced up and down the street. People were milling about, but their eyes weren’t on us.
More to the point, none of our black-cloaked friends had shown up.
Confident that we wouldn’t be seen, I gripped my talisman and cut a new gateway in the brick alongside Tortilla’s façade.
“In,” I ordered. “Quick.”
Carson passed through. I shot one last look up and down the street, left then right, and followed.
We dropped into …
“Wow.”
For the first time since his unintended wisecrack at Sourpuss in the station yesterday, I found myself lifting an inadvertent smile at Carson.
The room was grand. A marble-floored library extended, shone to a perfect gleam. The room was almost circular, but angled—some geometric thing with about thirty sides, I guessed. Shelves packed with tomes, so high they required a stepladder to reach their top, were arranged at slight angles all the way around the perimeter, save for the arches broken by doors and a few blank walls. A fireplace burned in the far wall. Even from this distance, I could feel its magical heat licking my face, comforting and homey.
“Figured you would like it,” I told him, stepping past. “This—” I swept open arms around the room “—is my hideout.”
“Just … wow,” Carson breathed. His mouth hung, jaw forgotten.
I snapped my fingers. “Follow.”
He obeyed automatically. His loafers scuffed as he stumbled behind, eyes not remotely on where he was going. They were tracing the shelves, and then up, to the high vaulted ceiling. Long rods reached down from it, terminating in wide bulbs like rugby balls, shining with brilliant white light. So high above us that one of the inhabitants of the fairytale square we’d just passed through wouldn’t have been able to reach one even if they stood atop a bookshelf.
“They don’t burn out,” I said. “Same as the fire. It’s been burning since I found it. Never once had to drop a bit of kindling in.”
Up and down went Carson’s jaw.
I smirked, and turned.
Where the ribs of bookcases again terminated, doorways on the far curving wall led off to either side of the hearth. A kitchen, on one, contents all too meager, alongside a bathroom; and bedrooms, which had conveniently been made up when I first arrived. As was fair and right, I had commandeered the largest as mine.
Carson’s eyes lingered on a blank stretch of wall beside the kitchen. A scrap of paper was tacked into it. “NEW YORK,” it said in some stranger’s neat, flowing script, for it led to an easy path through a forest of purple trees into a crossover at Central Park.
“You can get to New York from here?” he breathed.
“A few places, actually.” I pointed back the way we’d come, and Carson turned to follow. “London’s that way. Then there’s Paris, over there … Hong Kong, just across from it … back behind one of those shelves, you can go to Rome. There are twelve connection paths in this room alone.”
“The possibilities,” Carson muttered.
“A world tour, right from my doorstep.” I shrugged. “Can’t deny it’s useful.”
I wandered into the kitchen, Carson following. The lights came on unbidden, illuminating stark marble surfaces, just as polished as the floor. In the corner was a fridge, like something out of a steampunk novel. An oddly misshapen mass of gears, it hummed away far more loudly than seemed necessary.
I stopped at it, pulled it open. Not a whole lot inside at all. A few vegetables—carrots, mainly, the tops sprouting in yellow-green—plus a single apple. A single-pint carton of milk stood in the door, but it had gone bad a few days ago, and I hadn’t thrown it out yet. My one treat was a Snickers. I prodded it, turned my nose up. Going hard. Wasn’t going to give up on it though. I retrieved it, took a bite … ugh … and then mumbled through chocolate-cake-filled teeth, “Uhm, I don’t really have a lot, so … sorry.”
Carson nodded. Still, his stomach gave a sorry grumble.
“So … how’d you find this place?”
“Flashed up on the compass as I was passing.” I lied, chewing the remaining chunk of Snickers. Not very satisfying, but better than nothing—even if it was a whole lot tougher than I really liked. “Figured I’d cut through, take a look … ended up making it my home base, so to speak.”
“I, err, like what you’ve done with it.”
I filled two glasses with water, handing one to Carson. Mine I downed, not coming up for air until I’d chugged the whole thing. Cool, reinvigorating, and about a million times better than the remaining can of energy drink presently burning a hole in my jeans pocket.
I could do with a shower, or better yet, a long, hot bath, filled with bubbles; the sort that you came out of with a low-grade scald. Even with the burst of caffeine, though, I was likely to fall asleep in it—not good. For now I’d have to skip it, even if I was pretty sure I was starting to stink. Places to go, people to see.
“Right, time to go,” I said once Carson had emptied his glass, and led us back out into the library.
“Where are we going now?”
“I am going after Feruiduin’s Cutlass. But I need to stop off somewhere else first.”
Carson tugged on his satchel nervously. “What about me?”
“You’re coming too.” But only because it would still be too early to shrug out of his clingy embrace. “But only on this one stop. As soon as I’ve got what we need, I’m taking you to Russell Square and seeing you off. Got it?”
He nodded. “Sure.”
Somehow, looking at him, I got the feeling it migh
t not be quite that easy … but I stifled it. Time was evaporating too fast, and every second was another in which Alain Borrick and his gang of green buddies pushed ahead.
Talisman in hand, I cut an opening back onto the Strand under the scrap of paper with “LONDON” written across the top.
“Go,” I instructed.
Carson went.
I followed.
10
London: two blocks north of Kensington High Street Station.
The foot traffic was picking up now. On the one hand, that was good; once we were in and out, Carson would be out of my hair. On the other, the increased presence on the street made me wary. The cloaked men could … okay, not blend in as such, but as least use passers-by as a kind of blockade until they were ready to jump out on us.
I wondered who they were, where they’d come from. Sent by Alain Borrick, perhaps? Maybe, although how on earth he’d have been able to find me, and so quickly, was a mystery.
I silenced the thought. No sense worrying at things I could not produce answers to.
Carson, of course, was talking.
“… so do you just go through other worlds with that thing? Or can you kind of, I don’t know, open a hole from your bedroom to your bathroom?”
My eyebrows twitched. “Why would you do that?”
“You could … I dunno … like, pee through it, or something.”
“You can’t see what’s on the other side.”
A pause. “Oh yeah.”
“Gross, man.”
“Okay, so not that, then. How about from your room to the fridge?”
“No. Our world doesn’t intersect other physical locations on itself, only other worlds. Why are you asking this? Do you just want to give up with the whole leg thing entirely and ride a mobility scooter everywhere?”
Carson flinched like the barbs in my words caused physical pain. “I was just wondering.”
I made a “mrm” sort of noise.
Now he’d gone quiet again, I was safe to retract into my thoughts once more, no interruptions babbling away in my left ear like a radio host whose library had gone down and who had no choice but to fill air.
Feruiduin’s Cutlass. Silently, my tongue traced the syllables.
I was certain that acquiring it would be just as much trouble as obtaining Decidian’s Spear had been. But I knew how to get there, which made life infinitely easier.
Carson finally piped up again, “So what are we here for?”
“We are not here for anything. I am here because I need a spell.”
“Like magic?” he asked, voice rising in surprise. “Magic is real?”
“Yes.”
“So, does that mean … was Harry Potter true?”
I closed my eyes. “No.”
“There’s no Voldemort?”
“No Hogwarts either.” That, or my invitation to attend had gotten lost somewhere en route.
“But orcs …”
“Dude.” I snapped my fingers in front of his face. “Potter is fiction. Okay? End of story.”
Carson quieted.
I sighed. “Magic is real, yes. But it’s not easy to produce. For instance.” I looked at him sidelong. “You couldn’t produce magic if you tried.”
“Could you?” he asked.
“No. Almost no one can anymore.”
“So … where we’re going … is it to see a person who can …?”
My lips pressed into a thin line. “Apparently.”
I hated the very thought of it. Alone all these months, and suddenly needing to ask for help? I’d gotten by just fine, thank you very much.
But needs must, and all that, so I could only grin and bear it.
I read off numbers as we passed gargantuan apartment buildings; they were huge, red-brick affairs, six floors apiece. London property prices what they were, I doubted any single apartment went for a penny less than a million pounds apiece. To inherit one of these buildings would set a person up for life. More, even; probably could coast about sixteen lifetimes on that kind of dough.
At number 36, I said, “This is it.”
Carson looked up. The building towered, so tall the morning sun couldn’t find its way to us here.
“Nice,” he said stupidly.
I climbed the steps, and rapped with a heavy iron knocker.
Barely before my arm had returned to my side, the door opened—
“Salutations, visitor! Pop in, yes?”
—and we were greeted by a clockwork butler.
“Uh …”
Carson reacted with a slightly more strangled sort of noise.
Happily, it said, “In you come, what-what?” And it stepped back, clanking away, to wave us through.
I obliged it, eyes raking it as I passed. It was a cheery thing, at least according to the smile that had been carved in its bronze-colored face. The mask did not cover it entirely, and gears were visible to either side, spinning frantically as it moved. A top hat, also made of metal, adorned its head. A slightly darker jacket formed the shell of its torso, the end of a long, spindly arm protruding from each inflexible sleeve. It tapered below that, a mass of gears and beams, to a pair of heavy-duty wheels.
Carson dawdled on the doorstep. Wide, wary eyes took in the mechanical butler.
“Please enter, visitor,” the butler called to him, very Victorian-sounding and tinny. “I promise I shan’t bite!”
Carson came, awkward and slow. “He can’t bite, can he?” he asked me, skirting a wide berth around the contraption.
I shrugged. “Dunno. Probably wouldn’t tell us if he could.”
“Right you are,” the butler said, perfectly cheerfully. Wheeling around, he extended his arms, whirring away as his joints flexed. When he stilled, a lower whirring continued as mechanisms inside turned and turned endlessly. “I presume you’re here to see the Lady of the house?”
“This is a house?” I blurted before I could stop myself.
“Of course! Lady Hauk owns this entire building. It is most extravagant.”
Damn. Six floors, all to herself. All right for some.
“Yes,” I told the butler, “we’re here to see Ang—Lady Hauk,” I corrected. Best to be on most respectable behavior, even if we were only dealing with the rough (and somewhat outdated) approximation of human intelligence. “Please take us to her.”
“Right this way!” And off the butler wheeled down the corridor.
Crimson walls, floors a deep mahogany … I could not help but take in its opulence. My library was one thing, but this … this was something else. “Majesty” would not do it, nor the scores of beautiful artwork on the walls, justice.
And supposing it did—well, it would immediately fall short at the things occupying the pedestals erected in this long, forking hall, or glimpsed through an open door.
Magical objects upon magical objects, one after another. Upon a fine silken cushion stood a golden cup, jewels encrusted in its surface. Hovering twelve inches above it was another, tilted on its side—and from it poured an endless stream of water. The cup below never overflowed.
Then there was a globe. Carved from wood, at first glance its oak surface was perfectly ordinary—until, that was, the Earth’s continents flashed, replaced by the alien shorelines of another far-off world. A couple of seconds later it flashed again, and another set replaced it. Another flash, and the shorelines almost entirely vanished, save for a small ocean occupying less than a quarter-hemisphere. A mountain grew from the smooth surface, surely unimaginably massive given the size of the new blemish on this sphere. I longed to reach out and touch it, but I didn’t dare lest the clockwork butler chastise me. In any case, it had vanished from the surface in another flash by the time I was close enough to do so.
Just where the corridor forked was a gear, turning slowly in the air, affixed to nothing. I wondered if this had come from the same realm as our escort.
Carson’s mouth hung as his eyes hungrily devoured each object. It was hard not to do the
same. Still, I did what I could to restrain my sensibilities. Hearts didn’t belong on sleeves. Especially not mine: they were a mess of creases, and one was stained with blood to boot.
At the stairs, the butler ceased. Wheeling to face us, he extended one arm. “I must leave you—but my companion will join you at the top, and guide you to Lady Hauk. Pleasant visit, friends!”
I climbed, Carson followed, and as promised, a near-identical butler awaited us at the summit, the only difference being the slightly redder color of its faceplate.
“Salutations! To Lady Hauk, I understand. Let us be off!”
We climbed three sets of stairs like this. By the fourth, I was ready to ask if it would be considered impolite to crack open a can of liquid caffeine to see me through.
Fortunately, our last butler, faceplate almost black, finally directed us away from forking corridors and into a side room. “I shall pass you into the company of Lady Hauk, and will see you on the other side. Until then!”
I hesitated. The door the butler indicated was closed.
“Do we just go in?”
“Yes!” he chirped.
I exchanged a look with Carson and twisted the knob.
The room we stepped into was just as grand as I’d expected, going by the rest of the place. Bedecked in crimson and mahogany, a fireplace crackled on one wall below a mantel, a painting hanging above it depicting a quay filled with boats. An enormous grand piano filled one entire side of the room, and it played itself, melody slow and sweet.
Stood ahead of the fire, looking every bit as imposing as I’d expected her to be, in her wide-skirted black dress, a fat-petaled rose pinned in dark, swept-up hair above a thin and stern face—
“Well, well, well.”
—was Lady Angelica Hauk.
“Who do we have here?”
11
She was an imperious sort of woman, and fit her title perfectly. Had I been born a Victorian girl, and brought before her for some indiscretion, I would certainly have cowed away from her unflinching gaze.
It was difficult not to do so even now, in twenty-first century London, when being a “lady” meant little more to me than having some land and a bit too much cash.
The World Beneath (The Mira Brand Adventures Book 1) Page 8
