Solomon's Ring

by Mary Jennifer Payne

  This latest act of barbarism demonstrates that they will use whatever means necessary to destroy this great city. They want us to be consumed by ashes, just like Los Angeles was … and then the abundant, safe water ­supply of our city will be in the hands of those who support ­refugees and criminals …

  “What’s that?” Eva asks, cocking her head to one side and pointing farther along the darkened tracks.

  “What’s what? “ Amara asks, coming up beside Eva. She follows her gaze into the tunnel.

  And that’s when I hear it. There’s a low buzzing sound, and then a series of tiny lights that I’d thought were signals for oncoming trains grow increasingly ­larger. Drones.

  “Grab hands,” I say. “We need to get to the ­Place-in-Between.”

  Everyone secures their poles under their armpits and then links fingers. I make sure I’m hanging on to Jade with my right hand.

  “Anyone who has been there, you need to visualize something you saw when we were there. Anything,” I say, as I close my eyes. “Everyone else, try to clear your mind.”

  Evacuate the station at once. Repeat. This is a Toronto and RCMP police announcement. A complete ­evacuation of all TTC vehicles and stations is in full effect ­immediately.

  I try to push the announcement out of my ­consciousness and focus on my memory of the Thames River instead. An image of the swirling water around our boat as the ferryman guided us toward London Bridge drifts into my mind. I hear the gulls and can ­almost smell the salt water, the fish, and wafts of human feces….

  The buzz of the drones is getting louder. It’s like we’ve angered a field full of wasps. They’re coming toward us. We’re on camera for certain now. Mr. Khan’s not going to be happy about that….

  I need to refocus, to force what’s happening in the here and now, in real time, out of my mind. Pushing the drones out of my mind, I concentrate on my memories of the Place-in-Between, of London….

  A wave of vertigo sweeps over me. I feel like I’m ­falling. It’s that same sensation that sometimes happens just before sleep; just before I slam back awake on the safety net of my mattress.

  Boots on stairs. Yelling. Chaos. It sounds far away. And yet I know it’s happening in Toronto — in the ­station.

  “There they are,” a male voice shouts.

  “You need to step away from each other,” someone else says. There’s a definite threatening tone to his words, but his voice is fading, being replaced by another sound: a sound that is almost soothing. Like tap-dancing, but slower, more rhythmic.

  “What the hell…?” It’s the first male. “Are you guys seeing this? Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

  “Let go of each other, or we shoot!” a different voice chimes in. “Drop your hands! This is your only ­warning.”

  “Back off!” Eva’s shouting now. “Don’t come near us.” She’s let go and stepped away from the circle. Though I wasn’t holding her hand, I know she’s gone because we’ve lost some of our focus, some of our power. Her voice reaches me from somewhere to our right now … I think she’s moved toward the stairs.

  “We need to stay touching,” I say. “Think of London. Do not think of anything else.”

  Like getting shot …

  There’s another shout. The sound is guttural; it’s the cry of a warrior. It’s Eva.

  A sudden pulling sensation makes me feel like a spider caught in the suction of a vacuum cleaner. The rhythmic tapping becomes louder as the air around me changes and shifts. It’s colder, almost wet. I open my eyes, but everything is dark and hazy.

  Slowly, the darkness shifts and my eyes begin to make out the shadowy figures standing with us in the alleyway.

  One thing becomes very certain, very fast. We’re not alone.

  JADE

  We’re in the Place-in-Between. Before even opening my eyes, I know I’m back. It’s the damp that does it. The heavy, moist air closes in around me like a blanket, making my clothes feel clammy. I shiver uncontrollably. My legs are unsteady, even though I’m leaning against ­something solid. I reach behind my back. My fingers touch wet brick. There’s a soft rain falling through the yellow haze of the dimly lit street about twenty feet in front of us.

  Funny how I couldn’t remember much about the Place-in-Between when I returned to Toronto, but as soon as I’m back here, it’s as familiar as my own bed. Almost as if I never left.

  I look down at my clothes. I’m in a long, wide skirt that skims the ground. I reach down. The edge of the fabric is wet. I’m also wearing boots that pinch at my feet and wool stockings.

  “’Allo, gells. You all right?”

  I snap my head to the left. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust and take in the figures walking toward us through the evening fog. There’s three of them, the one who just spoke and two following closely behind. Problem is they’re between us and the arched entrance of the alleyway. Behind us lies what looks like a ­closed-in cobblestoned area. If we go that way, we’re trapped.

  There’s no choice. We move together toward the ­figures. It’s clear all six of us are a bit disoriented, and the thick, yellow fingers of fog that wrap themselves around everything here aren’t helping to clear things. I feel like I’ve just been jolted awake from a long nap and am still hovering in that place just between waking and sleeping. A place that’s somewhere between reality and dreaming.

  It’s impossible to see their eyes. Impossible to know if these are lost spirits or demons. I take a deep breath. My nostrils take in a heavy stew of smells: human feces, the rotting carcasses of stray cats and dogs, and the stench of fish mingled with heavy pollution. The smell of death and blood hangs in the air like dirty laundry, but it doesn’t seem to be coming from these men.

  “You’re not leaving us, are you?” the first man asks. “Not without giving us at least a peek at your strawberry creams?” He laughs, revealing a row of badly chipped yellow teeth.

  I sigh with relief. He and his friends might be ­annoying and perhaps even drunk, but they’re definitely not ­demons.

  One of the other men slides in front. Droplets of ­precipitation glisten like tiny fairy lights in the thick, dark curls that frame his head. He winks in Cassandra’s direction as he reaches into the inside pocket of his ­well-worn suit vest and pulls out a silver flask.

  “Have a bit of a tipple with us, won’t you? Then you can be off on your way.” He takes a large swig from the flask, wipes the back of his hand across his lips, and then holds the silver container out toward Cassandra.

  “No thanks,” she replies, taking a couple of steps ­forward and to the side of them.

  Jasmine walks up beside her. “Sorry, guys, but we need to get out of here. Things to do. Places to be, so if you’ll just step aside….”

  The first man sticks out his arm, effectively blocking Jasmine and Cassandra from moving forward.

  “Listen, gell,” he says, leaning in so that his face is only a few centimetres away from Jasmine’s and his eyes level with hers, “you and your pretty mates will be ­giving us a kiss and a bit of a feel before going anywhere. Understand?”

  The rest of us rush forward to stand behind Jasmine and Cassandra just as my sister reaches out, grabs the man’s arm, and with the speed of a gazelle, twists it ­behind his back in one fluid movement.

  “How’s this for a little feel? Do you like that?” Jasmine asks, her eyes narrowing. “And by the way, you stink like a pile of rotting dog shit. Have you ever brushed those yellow stubs you try to pass off as teeth?”

  The man roars in pain, his face contorting into a Halloween mask of fury. Her fingers sink into his flesh. He’s a lost soul, which makes the molecular ­composition of his body much less dense than ours. It also makes Jasmine’s grip on him weaker than it would be on a ­regular person. It’s a bit like holding onto a sausage made of Playdough.

  A look of confusion s
weeps across his face as he struggles against her. The man’s two friends spring into action, each of them grabbing one of Jasmine’s ­shoulders to pull her off.

  Lily and I leap at the men. I push one of them up against the alley wall and pin him against the damp brick while pressing my pole into the thick flesh of his doughy neck.

  “We’ll be leaving without you getting a feel or a peek at anything,” I say, hoping each of my words sound as full of danger as the growl of a rabid animal. “By the way, if you make even the smallest move as we go, my pole will be shoved so far into your body, you’ll be ­gagging on it.”

  His eyes widen. “I bet you lot are the Ripper,” he says, spittle dropping from his lips into his beard. I can feel him shaking, though I don’t know if it from actual fear or adrenaline-fuelled anger. “I reckon there’s no ­madman — it’s actually you and your deranged mates ’ere ­running amok around here, tearing those poor women to shreds and leaving their steaming insides all over the place. Otherwise you wouldn’t be out here. Though travelling in a pack is safer than alone, that’s for sure.”

  My grip on the man loosens for a moment. “What are you talking about?”

  “See? Feigning ignorance. Makes me all the more suspicious of you. The murders have been all over the papers. As well as Jack the Ripper’s letters to the rozzers.”

  “The rozzers?” Amara asks. “Don’t you speak English in England?”

  The man stares at us in disbelief. “The coppers, the rozzers. There’s not a soul in London that doesn’t know about it.” His eyes narrow. “But no one’s said it has to be a man murdering them women. It could be a woman … a strong woman or two … or six.”

  “Where are we and what is the date?” Lily asks. She’s holding the man she grabbed by the neck. As she ­finishes the question, she tightens her grip on him, causing his eyes to bulge out from his reddened face like a goldfish that’s been tossed from its bowl.

  “Are you mad?” he sputters, his voice hoarse. “You’re just off Miller’s Court, Whitechapel. And this is the evening of November 9, 1888.”

  “London, right?” Lily asks, letting him go. He slides a few centimetres down the wall before regaining his ­balance and righting himself.

  The man spits to the right of him, narrowly missing Jasmine. Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he stares at Lily. “Are you escaped from Bedlam? Made it across the river, did you? Mad as hatters, you lot are. Of course you are in London.”

  Harsh laughter erupts from the other men. “Be on your way. We won’t be touching any of you, lest we catch your madness,” one says, though I can read his mind. In reality, we terrify him. “Be forewarned, though, gells, you’ve just escaped one type of hell and come to another here in the East End.”

  JASMINE

  We emerge from the alleyway and into a busy street. The light is less dim here due to the flames that flicker and dance from within their glass cages. Soft rain continues to fall, covering everything with a layer of sooty moisture.

  I look over at Jade. She’s rubbing her left temple. Her face looks ghostly white in the lamplight. Something’s wrong. A little worm of worry unfurls in my stomach. She’s not well, and something tells me it’s more than just your everyday flu.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, walking up beside her and placing my hand on her arm. The fabric of her dress is heavy with moisture. “You did an amazing job with that lost soul guy back there. He was ready to pee himself. I guess there are sexist idiots literally everywhere.” I throw her a lopsided smile, hoping to get one in return.

  She smiles back weakly. “Thanks. I’m okay. Just a bit of a headache, that’s all. Maybe I’m allergic to this ­hellhole of a place.”

  I want to tell her I know it’s more than a headache. It feels like more than that to me. And I know it does to her as well. The pain is deeper, sharper. It’s more a ­hammer to the thumb than a minor ache. I shouldn’t have let her come.

  “Do you think this might actually be hell?” Amara asks, looking around us, her gaze coming to rest on a pile of rotting garbage infested with rats the size of small dogs. As if understanding her, one of the largest rats rears up onto its hind legs and looks at her, its tiny eyes glistening scarlet in the light.

  “It’s limbo,” I say. “The Place-in-Between. It’s not ­paradise for sure, and I’d definitely say it’s hellish for the lost souls down here who have to keep reliving ­tragedy and suffering, but I’ve never had anyone tell me it’s ­actually hell. Not like the place some religions talk about.”

  Cassandra brushes a wet strand of hair away from her face and turns to look at Uriel. “Now what? Other than Jack the Ripper, this doesn’t seem to be a very ­violent time in London’s history.” She looks around, ­wrinkling her nose in the direction of a group of drunk men. “Though the city stinks and is gross, that’s for sure.”

  “We need to get the ring back to the Roman Wall,” Uriel says. “The danger for us is the demons — they’re sure to know we’re here now. Also, your world and this one are so close together at the moment, they’re almost overlapping. The beginning of time and the end of time are coming together. You’re all able to move between the worlds more easily because of it, but so are the demons.”

  “I know this is the understatement of the year, but that really doesn’t sound like a particularly good thing,” I say. “So, let’s just find this wall, put the ring there, and get out of here — ASAP. We need to get back to help Eva.” I don’t want to mention that it feels very different down here this time, more dangerous, and that I think we need to get my sister out of here as soon as possible.

  The others nod. “I wonder what those bastards are doing to her,” Lily says, her voice soft.

  I can only imagine what is happening to Eva, if Smith needs to cover her ass. For all I know, she might try to make it seem like her little demonic crew is ­actually under the influence of the CCT while they feast on ­random Torontonians. Because now that I have the ring, there’s going to be no one to stop them.

  It also worries me that her terrorism goon squad saw us in transition. I have no idea what we looked like as we flip from our Toronto to the Place-in-Between, but I can guess it’s pretty damn funky. Likely we fade like ghosts or something. Or maybe we become dancing molecules. Whatever happens, the drones were right there. Which means it’s all on camera….

  I’m not letting my mind go there. I need to focus on the here and now and not give in to any negative ­emotions. Especially fear. I know that will make the demons more powerful.

  “You’re right that it’s not a good thing. And it seems that the dark powers, those of the Archons, are ­dominant down here because of it….” Uriel trails off, looking troubled. “We need to head down Commercial Street to Aldgate East to place the ring back in the Wall — as close to where Queen Boudicca put it as possible when she took her life. There’s a church called Christ Church on Commercial Street. We can go use it to get back to your world after we put the ring in its proper spot.”

  Commercial Street is crowded and loud. Scattered amongst the boisterous drunken men and women are ragged beggar children. A few offer a shoeshine with cloths stiffened by layers of crusty dirt or try to sell other worthless trinkets. I bet most of them can pick pockets faster than a lightning strike.

  Despite my walking quickly, the damp continues to chill me to my bones. I wish I had a warm jacket ­rather than the thin cloak that’s wrapped around my head and upper shoulders. The entire place feels like a grave, like death.

  “’Ello, gells,” an older woman whispers as we pass by, her voice as raspy as a cheese grater. She’s sitting on a wooden crate in front of a pub. The sound of smashing glass and off-key singing floats out of the pub windows.

  Lily gives a half-hearted wave.

  “Want a bit of a tipple?” the woman asks, holding a green glass bottle toward us with a shaky hand. “Fancy a bit of gin?”


  There are a few men standing around her, leaning against the brick wall of the building. Most of them look completely drunk. One catches my eye. He’s a lot younger than the rest, is slouched against the wall, and is so thin, his toothpick body looks like it could ­topple over in a strong breeze. A bridge of freckles covers his narrow nose and spills across his cheeks. The thing I notice immediately is the way he’s watching Jade. Intensely. It’s like she’s the only person in the world. And it’s creepy.

  Lily, who’s standing closest to the woman, wrinkles her nose. The woman reeks of alcohol. She better hope no one lights a match around her, or we’ll be watching an instant human fireball.

  “No thanks,” Amara says, pulling Lily backward by the elbow.

  “Too posh, are you?” the woman hisses, lifting the bottle to her shrivelled lips. Liquid spills down the sides of her chin as she swallows mouthful after mouthful of gin or whatever cheap liquor is in the bottle.

  “Let’s go,” I say, turning on my heel.

  “Jasmine,” the woman says, her voice crackling like a campfire. “They’re coming for you. We’re all coming for you.”

  The words hit me like a fist to the gut. I gulp at the damp air, my chest tightening with fear. Though the ­intensity of the feeling lasts only a few moments, I know it’s enough — especially since it’s me feeling it and sending the vibes of terror and shock into the Place-in-Between.

  The woman begins to laugh. Her laughter crackles like a campfire, fracturing the night air.