Hidden City 1_Lost in the Shadows

by Kyra Wheatley

  “No, it’s nothing. It just looked like—” she stammered.

  Now, she felt it clearly. The City was alive. Nicole sensed it just as she could sense people's true selves. It had an enormous, quirky mind, not evil, although not quite benevolent, either.

  Nicole stood still, listening and looking. She sensed the City's power. Its intellect. The hidden pain. It lay deep, its source far away, somewhere in the maze of mists in one of the City's secret quarters.

  Gumshoe stood behind her and started pointing out different buildings.

  "That’s the square right in front of us," Gumshoe began. "Over there are the remains of the Angel statue. City Hall is on the left. A very peculiar building. I know a woman—you'll probably meet her quite soon—who says that City Hall is the City's mouth. It can suggest a way out when the going gets too tough."

  He was standing so close to her that his breath tickled her neck.

  "How?" Nicole wondered.

  "I don't think I can tell you. There are lots of things here that aren't easy to explain to a newcomer. You can only see through them with time. The river is over there, and—do you see the light in that window, barely a gleam? That’s the Red Rose Cafe. A very peculiar place, too. No one can enter it.” Gumshoe lightly grasped her by the shoulders and turned her toward the cafe.

  “Next to it is the House of Fate. Martha, our Medium, lives there.” He suddenly grabbed her by the hand. “Do you see who’s walking there?”

  Nicole strained her eyes and made out a dark shape sliding away from the Red Rose Cafe. In the light of two streetlamps nearby, it resembled a puddle of darkness shaped like a man. Shadows gathered around him. Leaving their hiding places between the cobblestones, they snaked toward him and merged with his shape, making Nicole think that the ghost was stalked by an overflowing spot of darkness feeding him, filling him.

  "Who is it?" she whispered.

  "A Disciple."

  "Do they come here often?"

  "Not really. They're a rare sight here. At least, near City Hall. You have a much bigger chance of encountering shapeshifters. Yes, shapeshifters. Why does it surprise you?" he added, noticing the astonishment in her face. "If you do see them, just run and hide. Over there, there's a place called the Mansion. To its right, there's a burned-out house, and to its . . . er . . . and to my left stands a beautiful girl of a most delightful green shade. I thought you told me you weren't afraid of heights?"

  Nicole suddenly realized that his fingers were still squeezing her hand. Trying to free them so it would look as natural as possible, she said the first thing that came into her head.

  "I'm hungry. I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday."

  "Say no more." Gumshoe led her away from the roof’s edge and toward a large brick chimney. "Sit down here for a bit. I won't be long."

  He disappeared through the hatch.

  Gumshoe ran down the steps, but once back at the Station, he moved with more caution, constantly glancing around.

  No one there. Apart from the dining car window glowing further on, the large station building loomed dark and empty. The moonlight illuminated the wide arch and the rails disappearing through it.

  He hurried across the tracks toward the car. The girl shouldn't go hungry, but he had his own reasons for leaving her. Gumshoe wanted to make sure she wouldn't try to escape in his absence. There was only one way down, and he kept glancing back to see if Nicole attempted to slip out unnoticed.

  Remembering to reload his gun, Gumshoe took it from his holster and reached for his cartridge belt. He pulled a bullet out and rolled it in his hand. It glistened silver. Although no guarantee against the men in black robes, his bullet had indeed brought one of them down.

  He loaded his weapon and walked on, thinking about the girl still on the roof. There was something in her, something fascinating and alarming at the same time—a foreboding feeling of a dark secret she harbored, big and dangerous. A secret that could affect the fate of the City and its inhabitants.

  Why did the Inquisitor kiss her? At the time, Gumshoe had acted on the spur of the moment, breaking the circle of dark human shapes surrounding the girl. He'd shot one of them and punched another. But later, as the two of them had approached the Station, he'd asked himself what had really happened. The picture still stood before his eyes: those two, surrounded by the guys in dark robes, holding each other tight, kissing. Was he sure he could trust her after that?

  He climbed the steps to the dining car and headed for the bar. Train Attendant was hunched in his seat, snoring, his legs outstretched under the table. Next to him lay a small flask. A wonderful, most amazing flask, or "my precious", as Train Attendant called it. Gumshoe wouldn't mind having one of those.

  But right now, he was most interested in a Victorian-style cabinet decorated with intricate patterns.

  Gumshoe scratched the back of his neck and wondered what a girl like Nicole might like. He had little experience in such matters, so he decided to let the cabinet do the work.

  “You choose,” he said to it.

  He waited a moment and opened the doors. Inside, he found fried potato wedges from a fast food chain, a small plastic tub of ketchup, a slice of cheese pizza, and a can of cheap beer.

  So this is what a Victorian cabinet comes up with!

  “I don’t think so, buddy,” Gumshoe said. “How about something more . . . I don’t know . . . sophisticated?”

  He shut the doors again and banged on the side panel for good measure. The cabinet let out an insulted creak. There was a rustle inside, followed by a clanking noise.

  On the second try, it offered asparagus in sesame sauce, baked duck breast, and a bottle of dry cider. Everything was laid out on a silver tray, complete with a full array of utensils.

  “Good,” Gumshoe said. He pulled the tray out and shut the door again. He muttered, “And now for me,” and opened the door for the third time. Another silver tray stood inside, this one with a plate holding a couple of sandwiches and a glass of beer. Gumshoe nodded approvingly, piled the food from the second tray onto the first one, and set off back the way he had come. Before stepping out of the dining car, he glanced at the sleeping man. Train Attendant was snoring away—he didn’t have a clue about what was going on that night in the Station.

  Nicole wrapped the raincoat around herself and closed her eyes, leaning against the chimney. She listened to the City's wadded silence. She hadn't asked Gumshoe about the boy with the scar, the one who'd kissed her, nor had Gumshoe mentioned him again. Why hadn't he? She couldn't think straight. Too many things had happened. He was rather cute—handsome, had it not been for the scar. And as for the way he'd kissed her . . . .

  "Dinner is served," a voice said.

  With a start, Nicole opened her eyes. Before her stood a tray piled with food.

  "I've borrowed this stuff from Train Attendant," Gumshoe explained. "He wouldn't object. Normally, it's his job to welcome newcomers, even though today, I had this pleasure. I still think it’s strange, you arriving at the square and not at the Station."

  "You need to talk to Martha," he mused. "I don't know if it's her real name. Townspeople also call her the Medium. She knows her stuff." He waved his hand as if trying to explain something ephemeral and non-existent. "You'll see for yourself. Martha will tell you how to get along with the townsfolk. All I can do is give you a couple of tips. Tip one: don't stray too far away from the square. Not alone, anyway. Tip two: if ever you see the building you've been dreaming about, do not, I repeat do not, enter it. It's called the House of Crimson Windows, and . . . well, you just can't enter it, all right? Feeling better?"

  "Yeah." Nicole nodded with her mouth full.

  They went back down the steps. As Gumshoe took her along the lamp-lit streets away from the square, Nicole said, "You seem to know your way around."

  "Wish I did. This is the only part I know really well," Gumshoe admitted. "Nobody can say they know the City. How can I put it . . . it changes? The mist comes and go
es. The streets you think you know become something else. I can't really explain. You'll have to experience it."

  "How many people live here?” Nicole asked. She had started to limp again—her torn tennis shoe was making it hard to walk. “If I can call them people, of course."

  He shrugged. "Nobody knows for sure. People come and go, too. Some of the old ones go missing, while new ones keep coming all the time. There are a few permanent residents, though. Train Attendant is one. Or Martha. Or myself. The City is anything but boring. There's always something going on. When I first came here, I thought my private eye days were over. Boy, was I wrong. There's something nasty going on, and I've been looking into it for quite a while. Want to know what it is?"

  She nodded.

  "They keep finding girls' bodies right in the middle of the square where we met. Dead bodies."

  As Gumshoe spoke, he gave her a piercing look. There was something in his stare that didn't quite agree with his mild manners—something prickly and unkind, making Nicole want to recoil. She sensed that he'd asked the question on purpose, as if all that time, he'd been studying her. He seemed nice and obliging, but he was an ex-detective nevertheless. He was used to solving crimes and suspecting everyone. It went without saying that he'd saved her from the men in black robes . . .

  Or had he?

  The thought caught her unawares. What had happened on the square? The individuals in black robes had surrounded her, but maybe they just wanted to make sure she didn't run away in fright? The olive-skinned young man had kissed her—why? It just didn't make sense. Maybe he just liked her? Kind of a crush at first sight . . . .? Whatever. It had only been a kiss, and it could hardly be considered a threat. On the contrary. And what happened next? The guys in black robes had drawn their knives. Now that had been a threat, pure and simple.

  But could they have done so because they'd seen Gumshoe aiming his gun at them?

  The pause dragged on. Gumshoe waited for her to answer.

  "I know nothing about girls' bodies in the square." Nicole tried to speak nonchalantly, but her voice cracked, betraying her emotions. "I've told you everything I could."

  But her inner voice whispered in her ear, Everything? You sure? You didn't tell him about the pendant you'd inherited from Grandma, nor about Grandma herself. If you have secrets from him, why can't he have his own secrets from you?

  "Very well, then," Gumshoe said.

  As he led the way along the streets, Nicole studied him out of the corner of her eye. Gumshoe was shorter and stockier than the olive-skinned stranger. His features were regular, but far from delicate. He had a broad chin and a large nose. She'd heard someone call this type of face "roughly hewn.” She couldn't tell his hair color under the hat. His arms were powerful, with broad hands and strong fingers. He stood and walked straight, the way only self-confident men did.

  Her torn shoe was slowing her down. She stopped and suddenly caught sight of a small, shining spot on the pavement a bit ahead of her. One, two, three . . . yes, they were footprints! The smooth arc they created led to the side, behind the corner of a building. They were like footstep-shaped puddles of soft light. Nicole’s mouth widened. What a surprising place this City was! She set off alongside the footprints, stretching her neck out with curiosity and peering behind the corner.

  “What’s up?” Gumshoe asked. “Wait, it could be dangerous. Come back!”

  She didn’t obey—she didn’t feel threatened. Nothing about these footprints was dangerous. They were unusual, strange, inexplicable, and maybe even magical, but not dangerous.

  Around the corner, she spotted a large stall. In it was a pile of every kind of shoe imaginable. The footprints stopped at the stall. It was hard to see well in the semidarkness, but Nicole could see that in front of the stall, there lay . . . but what wasn’t lying there! Shoes, sturdy rubber boots, huge work boots, wooden sandals, felt sandals, high fur boots . . . and more shoes—an entire pile of every kind of shoe, from suede shoes with sumptuous bands instead of laces to tiny, smooth pumps.

  “What is it?” Nicole whispered to Gumshoe when she heard him breathing next to her.

  “How do I explain this?” he stammered, examining the stall. “It’s the City with all of its stuff. There was no shoe stand here before.”

  “And does the City often throw things like this at you?”

  “As far as I can see, tonight, it’s getting strange ideas,” Gumshoe answered thoughtfully. “Let’s go.”

  “No. Wait a second.”

  Nicole caught sight of a pair of beige shoes. Knitting her brow, she ran her fingers through her hair and felt for the hairpin she had found at the Station. The same feeling as before went through her again. Something about those shoes pulled her toward them. They immediately stood out from the other objects. Nicole knew she needed the shoes. They were meant for her! Mechanically grabbing Gumshoe’s shoulder, she pulled off her torn tennis shoe, took a shoe from the stall, and put it on. It was made of very soft leather. Her foot slid in easily, as if into someone’s caressing palm. Nicole lowered her foot, putting all her weight on it. It was as though the shoe were stitched especially for her. She put on the other shoe, took a few steps beside the stall, and jumped up and down a couple of times, reveling in the feeling.

  “I’m going to keep going in these,” she said, turning to Gumshoe.

  “So I gathered,” he said, looking at her seriously.

  “It’s just, don’t we need to pay somehow?”

  Her companion shook his head.

  “There’s no money in the City. You can just leave your tennis shoes in the stall. But actually, I think it’s—” He looked at her new acquisitions. “It’s a gift from the City to you, as a new guest.”

  “If that’s the case, thank you!” Nicole shouted to the dark buildings that surrounded them.

  Nicole placed her tennis shoes on the stall and set off with Gumshoe. After a short while, he said, “Here we are.”

  They stood in front of a yellow brick building, heavy curtains concealing its bay windows.

  "This is where Martha lives. The place itself is called the House of Fate. I could be wrong, of course, but I have a funny feeling Martha's expecting you. She's a very powerful medium, too powerful to be caught unawares. Go in now."

  "Aren't you coming?" Nicole asked, surprised.

  Gumshoe shook his head. "It's better you go in on your own. Martha never tells fortunes in public. In the meantime, I need to go back to the square and study the crime scene. I might find some evidence if I'm lucky."

  "Thanks a lot for your coat. I'm nice and warm now." Nicole removed the raincoat, handed it back to Gumshoe, and blurted out, "Will I see you again?"

  Gumshoe's prickly stare softened. A smile touched his lips.

  "Depend upon it," he answered.

  He threw his raincoat across his arm and hurried away without looking back. Within a few seconds, he'd disappeared into the mist.

  When Mike, accompanied by two of his men, entered the dark lane where he'd seen the lights of the House of Crimson Windows, a two-wheeled buggy emerged from the dark.

  The buggy was drawn by two soulless zombies. Unlike the real undead ones, soulless zombies were still alive—if, of course, their existence devoid of all will and emotion could count for a life.

  One of the Shadow's servants sat in the coachman's seat, lashing them with his whip. Behind him, a tall cage was mounted on the buggy floor, its bars strong and thick. Inside sat a white-haired werewolf. Much larger than a normal wolf, it stood a head taller than Mike when it reared up. Its eyes gleamed crimson, as if filled with blood. Mike’s eyes went straight to the werewolf’s hairy neck. He saw a cord braided from wolfsbane and closed in place with the rune of obedience. Good. That meant that Albino would stay under control. As strong and ferocious as the werewolf was, he could neither pull the cord off nor withstand the magic of the rune—in other words, the will of whoever imposed this magic.

  The buggy stopped. The men opened the
cage. They shrank back as Albino sprang out, sending one of them sprawling to the ground with a casual swing of his paw. Albino was one of those werewolves who'd stayed in the wolf's body for so long, they'd all but given up their human nature. He growled, rearing up and baring his teeth, each a finger long.

  Mike shoved the girl's scarf into his face. The werewolf sniffed it deep and long. He growled again, dropped on all fours, looked to his right and left, and trotted along the street past the recoiling men, sniffing the air.

  Mike's men started an agitated conversation with the coachman. Mechanically, Mike rubbed his scar as he watched the werewolf disappear from under his half-closed eyelids.

  Now the hunt for the one had truly begun.

  Chapter Five

  Nicole paused on the doorstep, plucking up courage. Then she knocked on the door.

  "Come in, girl," a deep, hoarse voice said inside the House of Fate.

  How would someone look if they had a voice like that? Nicole timidly pushed the door, imagining a monstrous red-faced woman with a broom.

  A half-open door at the end of the hallway emitted a beam of muffled light. It illuminated the carved back of a long bench, an empty coat rack, an umbrella with an ornate handle, and several pairs of boots under the bench.

  Nobody here. But someone had spoken, surely? The voice had seemed to come right from behind the front door, not from some far-off nook or cranny.

  Nicole cleared her throat and stepped inside. She closed the door behind herself and turned her head, sensing a movement on the bench.

  She nearly choked on a scream. A snake lay on the bench—a python, judging by the size of it. She hadn't noticed it earlier because it had only just moved, slithering along the bench, its head facing her, its narrow eyes studying Nicole.

  She froze in place, unable to breathe. Discovering a huge snake in someone's hallway was bad enough, but—wait—had the python actually asked her in?

  She shook her head, trying to overcome her confusion. Snakes couldn't speak, period. Even in a spooky place like this City. Their lungs, their larynx, their entire body —none of it was meant for talking. Only for hissing. Just look at a snake's tongue—try to have a conversation using something like that!