Hidden City
By Kyra Wheatley
Lost in the Shadows
Book#1
© 2016 H.S. Happy Star Games Ltd
All rights reserved
Published by G5 Entertainment AB
Other «Hidden City» books by Kyra Wheatley:
Lost in the Shadows (Book#1)
The Shades of Silence (Book #2)
Darkness Outside and In (Book #3)
The Reality of Dreams (Book #4)
Prisoners of the Mist (Book #5)
Are you the one to reveal the secret of Shadow City? Play Hidden City®: Mystery of Shadows to find out! Available on iOS, Google Play, Amazon, Windows, Mac.
Chapter One
Nicole hurried toward an old house shrouded in mist. Its windows glowed crimson in the twilight. A large, round clock hung over the front door, its only remaining hand stuck at a quarter past two under the broken glass.
Quarter past two. Why did it sound so important? There was a wistful memory in those words—a secret, deep and dark.
A bolt of lightning pierced the sky, illuminating the dark shapes of the trees and houses that lined the cobblestone square. Nicole walked faster, drawn to the door below the clock. She reached for a black eye-shaped pendant on her chest. It was warm now, and getting warmer with every step.
The door loomed closer. Nicole reached for the handle, and it squirmed in her hand.
She recoiled, but the shriveled human hand that served as a door handle clutched her fingers in its skeletal grasp. The pendant was glowing orange now, breathing heat, burning her chest. Nicole tried to pull her hand free. With a quiet jingle of bells, the door began to open. Behind it, shadows moved in the deep crimson haze.
The bells rang stronger and louder, forcing her out of her slumber. Nicole lay on her back in her own bed, her hand clutching the pendant. Her smartphone on the bedside table kept jingling, stopping, then jingling again.
Same dream again.
Nicole reached for the phone and saw an incoming message. It had to be yet another job interview appointment.
She turned and sat up, still overwhelmed by the dream she must have had a thousand times already. The dream had left her empty and broken every time she'd woken, and now that she'd lost her old job, thanks to this constant lack of sleep, she had to look for a new one.
There was only one message in her inbox, from the Quarter Past Two cafe chain. It was an appointment form for a waitressing interview.
Oh well. Anything is better than nothing. She was about to close the message when she noticed the company's logo.
An old, round clock, its one remaining hand ornate and frozen under the broken glass at a quarter past two.
The clock from her dream, the one over the front door of that red-windowed house. Nicole sat up, wide awake now, her eyes fixed on her cellphone. How did this cafe chain know about it? Why would they put it on their logo?
The dream had haunted her for many years now—her dream, her obsession, the source of all her grief. Nicole fingered the pendant on her chest—black, eye-shaped and cold, as usual. She'd been wearing it ever since she was thirteen—ever since she'd unearthed it in one of her mom's storage boxes labeled, Useless Junk. According to Mom, the pendant was the only valuable thing left from Grandma. Nicole remembered Grandma surprisingly well, considering she'd last seen her many years ago, just before she'd disappeared. Mom always used to say Nicole reminded her of Grandma a lot in the way she spoke, moved and even looked.
Quarter past two.
Slowly, Nicole stood up. What a weird start to the morning. Mom used to tell her that these had been the exact words Grandma had said before she'd disappeared: I'll leave at a quarter past two. Not I'll be back at a quarter past or something similar, but leave. Then Grandma had taken her favorite black purse with an eye-shaped buckle and stepped outside . . . and no one had seen her since.
The memory of her dream engulfed her like a gust of wind. But this wasn't a dream. This was real. Nicole looked at the tiny, flat phone in her hand, its screen glowing, the job interview message still in the inbox, with the company logo featuring the old clock with one hand missing.
The message listed the company's address and phone number. Nicole paced the narrow room a few times before she sat back down and forced herself to dial it. She wasn't the outgoing type, and talking to strangers gave her that panicky feeling, even on the phone. "Completely nuts," the CD shop manager had remarked the other day when he'd fired her.
Still, it seemed too much of a coincidence. She simply had to investigate, even at the expense of her waitressing job.
A woman's stern voice answered the phone. Nicole cleared her throat and tried to sound businesslike.
"Hello? This is, er, Kyra . . ." She desperately rummaged through her brain for a name that would sound believable. "Yes, Kyra Wheatley. I work for the municipal newspaper. I—"
She choked and paused, trying to conceal the shaking in her voice.
"I'm researching an article about our local eateries. Just places where one can go for a quick bite. It's not a commercial. We'll write about you for free, and you might get a few new customers for your trouble. Could you please tell me how long your chain has been in business?"
Nicole blurted it all out and stopped, catching her breath. Her heart was pumping hard against her chest.
The woman paused and said hesitantly into the phone, "We . . . well . . . we've been around for quite a while."
"How long, exactly?" demanded Nicole, wishing the earth would swallow her whole. "You do understand that our newspaper's sources have to be objective and verifiable, don't you?"
"We . . . well . . . ." The voice faltered. "We've been around for quite a few years, as far as I know. You'd better talk to Mr. Chuck, our head manager. Or even . . . ."
Talking to their manager didn't figure into Nicole's plans. Surely, the more experienced Mr. Chuck would see right through her. So she licked her dry lips and attempted to sound even more matter-of-fact.
"We'll discuss it at a later date. If you could, please tell me just a few words about your chain's look. In my article, I'm planning to expand on current trends in interior design—especially shop signs. For instance, if I could ask you, who created your logo? And what's the philosophy behind your name, Quarter Past Two? It's a great name, very memorable, but what did you mean by it?"
"Er, well, the idea is that one can drop by for a quick meal at about a quarter past two, I suppose." The woman's voice trailed off. After a long pause, she asked, her tone suspicious, "What paper did you say you worked for?"
Nicole's heart pounded, the phone slippery in her sweaty hands. She wrinkled her forehead, trying to come up with a name, but she couldn't think of anything apart from an admittedly idiotic Happy News. The woman's muted voice spoke to someone in her office. "Mr. Chuck? I've got a phone call for you."
Nicole hung up and clutched at her pendant, breathless. It hadn't worked. What now? She bit her lip, thinking. The only thing left to do, really, was to go to the address indicated in the message and see for herself.
Who knows? She might even get the job for her trouble.
The Quarter Past Two offices were in a small building in the industrial zone. Nicole had half-prepared herself to see all kinds of wonders, but the place turned out to be mundane, to say the least. A mousy, middle-aged secretary sat at the reception desk. A heavy, leather-covered door behind her sported a dull sign that read, Mr. Chuck. Three girls waited by the opposite wall—apparently, job applicants. The chain had to be opening a new outlet. Either that, or they had a suspiciously high staff turnover rate.
The secretary gave Nicole a critical stare. Nicole was wearin
g a cheap pair of blue jeans, old tennis shoes she should have replaced long ago, a long, baggy gray sweater, and a scarf around her neck. Nicole had bought the jeans at a sale, and as for the sweater, she'd found it in the same storage box as the pendant. Later, Mom had told her that Grandma had loved wearing it, right up until she'd disappeared. Thick and heavy, the sweater seemed virtually indestructible.
The secretary pursed her lips, studying her look. "Your name, please?"
She was the woman who'd spoken to Nicole on the phone. If she recognized the weird newspaper girl's voice . . . .
"Stewart," Nicole answered timidly, trying to change her tone. "Nicole Stewart." Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at the secretary's business suit and hair, which was styled in a tight bun. You'd meet her in the street and immediately forget what she looked like.
"You're late." The secretary's words reminded her of her old science teacher. Nicole used to be late for her early-morning science class more often than she'd like to admit. "Mr. Chuck is currently busy. You'll have to wait. You can fill in the form in the meantime."
As Nicole took her place in line, she decided that the office was nothing special or mysterious. Nothing hinted at her dream . . . or Grandma.
She cast a glance at the others. The secretary, unhurried and dignified, was going through some paperwork on her desk. Her sense of self-importance was written all over her. But what did she try to conceal behind it? A lonely existence where your life was nearly over and you were afraid to admit you hadn't gotten anywhere?
Nicole shifted her gaze to the other job seekers. Three girls, perfectly normal. The first in line kept chattering into her phone, her dark hair cropped, her clothes cheap but flashy. Nicole smiled knowingly. She knew the type.
Noticing Nicole's stare, the girl shot her a hostile glance and turned away. Oh well. Girls like her couldn't be interested in the likes of Nicole. Not posh enough for them.
The second job applicant was considerably older, probably more experienced, too. Ungroomed and slightly overweight, her stare was indifferent—one of those women whose motto was Life's over, so let's watch some TV.
The third one was really young, fifteen or sixteen at the most, and very edgy, biting her lip and fingering her skirt. This could be her first interview. The girl kept rereading her application—probably checking it for spelling mistakes.
Nicole could see their life stories so clearly, as if she'd known all three girls for a long while. Finally, she sighed and looked at her own application form, glancing over familiar questions.
As usual, a wide, empty field stared at her in the Education History section. Her education history would fit into one word. Mom cleaned hotel rooms for a living and couldn't really afford to send her to college. Dad had died in a car accident when she was just five, and she didn't remember him at all. Nicole had started working early. You'd think, what could be so interesting about her? And still, she believed herself special.
At first, she'd cleaned hotel rooms with Mom. Then, she had parked cars and waitressed. Most recently, she'd found the CD shop job that she'd now lost.
And all the while, it felt as if she'd been living a life that wasn't her own but somebody else's. Her existence was only a dull, drawn-out dream in anticipation of something big and incredible. If she could only make an effort and wake up.
"Nicole Stewart, you're next." The secretary brought her back to reality.
Without taking her eyes off the application, Nicole nodded and picked up a pen. Name. Age. Special skills. Eh? She frowned, rereading the last section. That's a really weird question to ask a potential waitress. What was she supposed to say? That she could balance a tray full of drinks on her head? What a load of junk.
Still, she didn't want to leave the field empty. Nicole thought and wrote, Good judge of character. You could call it a special skill, couldn't you? Apart from the weird dream that had been haunting her all her life, and the strange sensation of the unreality of it all—the unreality that she would one day shed, like one would shed an old dress they’re fed up with, finding herself in the real, breathing world—Nicole took pride in that sixth sense that had never failed her, getting her out of trouble before it even came. This sixth sense was another reason she considered herself special.
She signed the application just as the secretary called her name, pointing at the manager's door. Walking toward it, Nicole glanced into the mirror by the secretary's desk and stumbled, dumbfounded.
The pendant wasn't black any more—it was orange! Just like in her dream. Mechanically, she clutched it, expecting to feel the warmth, or even heat, the way it had felt in her dream. But the pendant stayed cold.
The secretary gave her a puzzled look. The door opened, as if on cue. It had to be Mr. Chuck who'd pushed it open, Nicole thought, and walked in.
She found herself in a spacious office. A man in a business suit sat at a large desk, studying some papers. He didn't even raise his head to acknowledge her entrance.
Nicole stepped in and looked around—who had pushed the door open for her?—but she didn't see anyone else. Without raising his head, Mr. Chuck pointed at a chair by the desk.
When Nicole perched herself on its edge, the manager asked, "Can I see your application?"
She handed the sheet to Mr. Chuck while studying him. He had a handsome face, but it was kind of weak. His blond hair was perfectly set. His smooth, unnaturally shiny skin looked hard to touch, like a waxed apple at the craft store.
Behind the desk, next to a tall figurine of a rampant wolf, she saw another door totally out of keeping with the rest of the office. It was elaborately carved with prickly vines, its handle thin and gray against wood so darkly red it was almost black.
"If what it says here is correct, then I have every reason to believe you answer our purposes," the manager said in a level, emotionless voice. "Is all the information you've communicated true to fact?"
Mr. Chuck spoke like a machine. And the phrases he used, have every reason, true to fact . . . no one that Nicole knew spoke like that. And then there was this polished skin of his and dull, unmoving stare.
Nicole suddenly realized that she was clutching the pendant while staring at Mr. Chuck as if she'd seen a ghost. He was patiently waiting for her to answer.
"Sorry," she hurriedly offered. "Yes, sure. What it says is all true."
Her answer sounded so stupid that Nicole blushed and looked up at him. The manager's unblinking stare sent shivers down her spine. His eyes were cold and lifeless, like those of a lizard's—no, even a lizard's gaze was more human. This was like a shop mannequin staring at you.
But strangely, despite her ability to tune in to people's inner selves, Nicole just couldn't work this one out. She had no idea what he was about. Just some automaton sitting at a desk, bossing everyone around . . .
Finally, Mr. Chuck said in the same emotionless voice, "Very well. I need to consult my superiors now. You will have to wait while we deliberate. If you will please proceed through this door . . . ."
He didn't even move, but Nicole immediately knew which door he'd meant—the carved wooden one. She rose, not knowing what to say, but Mr. Chuck had already stuck his head back into his paperwork.
Glancing at the wolf figurine—its bronze eyes fixed on her—Nicole stepped to the door. She reached for the handle and sensed the familiar grasp.
The skeleton's hand was clutching hers. Nicole gasped, recoiling. The memory of her dream engulfed her like a gust of wind. She must be asleep in her bed, and that's what was causing all these weird things—the broken clock on the logo and the machine-like Mr. Chuck. She thought she heard a voice, a whisper.
It was all a dream, yes. You'll wake up now.
The next moment, the shriveled fingers grasped her hand tighter, pulling and dragging her along. The door opened wide, and then the world disappeared. Nicole collapsed into a bottomless void.
Chapter Two
His name was Sam, but everyone in the City called him Gumshoe.
Most of the City's residents chose to go by some kind of moniker—most, but not everyone. The woman from the House of Fate didn't really care whether people called her Martha or the Medium. Juliet had decided to remain Juliet. And as for Valerie, Gumshoe had a funny feeling she'd only come up with her name when she'd first arrived in the City. She'd probably been called something totally different in the past.
He stood on the edge of the cobblestone square. Mist wreathed the surrounding houses, shrouding them in the twilight. This was the City mist, almost alive at times, unlike anything else you'd seen. Sometimes, it would reach into a void, bringing back strange artifacts or just simple objects that nevertheless acted strangely. At other times, it came back with dummies—various objects that had long ago lost their power. Martha insisted that the mist was the City's blood—but then again, she often spoke in riddles.
Gumshoe adjusted his fedora and squinted at the pavestones.
An unstable pyramid of decaying old casks was heaped up in the center of the square. This was where the recent bodies had appeared. Young girls. Always dead. About the same age and appearance. None of them had been noticed in the City before.
Train Attendant had assured him that none of them had been seen at the Station, although this was where most newcomers would normally arrive. As far as Gumshoe was concerned, the girls must have materialized, already dead, right there by the casks.
He'd failed to determine the cause of death. Their faces were blue, their cheeks were sunken, and panic showed in their glazed-over eyes. There were no apparent wounds, no signs of injections or bites, nothing. Could they have been poisoned?
Gumshoe had been on the case for several days now. Still, he didn't have the slightest lead. He had no idea where the bodies had come from.
He leaned against a dilapidated house wall, watching the square. Most houses had been deserted, apart from City Hall (if ghosts could count as lodgers), the cafe (long story and rather confusing) and a couple more buildings.
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