The Other Side: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  “We have to go in there?” Mortenson looked dubious as she shined her own beam into the black hole. “I’m not sure I’ll fit.”

  Stone wasn’t either. “Look, Edwina. I won’t think any less of you if you don’t want to keep going. It could be dangerous in there. If you like, you can wait here for me, or make your way back on your own. But I’m not stopping now.”

  Her gaze shifted between Stone and the hole in the hillside as she obviously weighed her burning curiosity about what was going on in the mine against her fear of pushing herself into a hidden and potentially hazardous space. Finally her expression hardened into resolve. “I’m going. I’m not waiting out here, and I’m not going back. I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I want to see the end of it. And help, if I can.”

  He had to give her credit for bravery, even if her coming along would make things more difficult for him—both in the short and the long terms. “Right, then.” He handed her the leather bag. “I’ll go in first and make sure at least the first part is safe. Then you pass the bag through and come in yourself. I’ll help you.”

  “All…all right.” She still looked scared.

  Stone wasn’t thrilled about the whole thing himself. Old mines were dangerous places even without the curse—especially with the rain coming down as hard as it was. Who knew how stable the old timbers holding the thing up would be? Even at his best, his magic wouldn’t be anywhere near strong enough to hold back a cave-in. They’d have to be careful, and get in and out as fast as possible.

  He got down on his hands and knees and scrabbled through the muddy opening, pushing the flashlight ahead of him and squinting to keep the worst of the mud from dropping into his eyes. He wasn’t normally claustrophobic, but the overpowering sensation of tons of rock pressing down on him from above was unnerving nonetheless. He forced himself to keep a steady pace and not make any sudden or jerky movements.

  When he got all the way through, covered from head to toe in muck, he rose to a crouch and shined the light around, revealing a passageway similar to the one at the Shangri-La: about four feet wide and six feet high, stretching back until it disappeared into darkness. In here, it was easier to see what had happened: rocks piled up around the opening indicated the presence of a long-ago cave-in. He wondered if the remaining hole had occurred naturally or if the curse had “helped” reopen it by shifting rocks around over the years.

  No time to dwell on it now, though. They had to move. “All right, Edwina—send the bag in, then come on through. It’s larger inside. The entrance is the worst part.”

  It was a tight fit, and it took Mortenson a good deal longer than it had Stone to worm her way through. As soon as her arms were through, Stone took hold of them and pulled, adding a little magic to help things along. After several tense minutes and a few words he’d never heard his prim colleague utter, she popped through and landed splayed on the cave floor. Stone let her lie there for a few moments, panting, then helped her scramble to her feet.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  Stone looked around, shining the beam toward the back part of the passage, then up at the thick wooden beams bracing the top. He didn’t like the look of those at all, but so far at least they appeared secure. “Now, we walk. Duncan said he found the bones about forty feet in.” He kept his voice low and even. “Speak quietly, step lightly, and don’t make any loud or sudden noises.”

  Mortenson’s eyes widened as she, too, directed her gaze upward. “It’s not going to cave in, is it? I mean…it’s been here this long, right?”

  “That’s the plan,” Stone said. “But I don’t fancy helping it along, do you?”

  She shook her head and gripped her flashlight tighter.

  Stone wanted to move fast, to find the source of the curse and get this over with, but he made himself move slowly and deliberately down the tunnel. So far the air seemed all right; it smelled damp and musty, but no headache or lightheaded feeling warned of potential danger. Then again, people brought canaries into mines as early warnings because their tiny systems were more sensitive, right? It was probably safe this close to a source of fresh air, but still, he’d feel a lot better when they’d found what they were looking for, dealt with it, and gotten out safely. He swiped his mud-caked hair off his forehead and kept going, with Mortenson huffing along behind him.

  Magical sight revealed the red energy growing stronger with every step they took. He felt it pressing against him, looking for a way in, and took a moment to reinforce his mental defenses. So far Mortenson’s seemed to be holding, but if they stayed here too much longer he’d need to shore them up as well. “All right, Edwina?” he murmured.

  “I’m all right.” Her voice shook, but she stayed close behind him. “How horrible to be a miner and have to work in conditions like this every day…”

  “Yes, but they were all looking for a big score, so at least they were motivated.” Stone raised the flashlight. “I think I see something up ahead.”

  “Is it what you’re looking for?”

  “Not sure yet. Just a bit further…”

  Up ahead, the passage widened a little, forming a small chamber ten feet wide by twelve deep. More rotting timbers ran across the ceiling and down the sides of the walls, holding back the crush of rock, but Stone barely glanced at any of that.

  This was what he’d been looking for.

  Behind him, Mortenson gasped softly. “Oh, my God.”

  Duncan had been right: there were bones. A lot of bones, and unquestionably human. Most were spread out along the walls, as if the bodies had been haphazardly tossed there to get them out of the way. Stone wasn’t sure how many they were looking at, but it had to be at least four or five. He wondered if they’d found some of the mysteriously missing Brunderville residents, or if the bodies had somehow been part of the curse ritual.

  But even the bones weren’t what interested him most. A small alcove set into the far side of the chamber lit up his magical sight like a beacon, drawing him over. “Here we go…” he said.

  Mortenson hurried over and stopped just behind him. “Is that…part of a Vodou ritual?”

  “Looks that way.” Stone studied it. A small stone altar had been set up in the alcove, surrounded by various items too rotted at this point to make out their forms. Someone had carved symbols into the stone in a rough circle surrounding it. On top of the altar itself, though, was the main source of the magical energy emanating from the shrine: a cracked leather bag about the size of a wallet. Stained and crusted with dirt, it was festooned with various objects: bits of hair, swatches of fabric, chunks of wood and bits of stone, and smaller cloth bags full of things Stone couldn’t identify without opening them.

  “A gris-gris?” Mortenson asked, clearly fascinated in spite of her nervousness about their surroundings.

  Stone nodded, continuing to study the thing closely with magical sight. “I see what she’s done here, I think. She’s gathered bits representing the essence of the town: the people, the soil, the buildings, the trees…and fashioned this as the focus of the curse. She’s got to have been a practitioner, though—she couldn’t do this with just bad intent.”

  “A practitioner?” Mortenson frowned. “You mean a practitioner of Vodou?”

  “That too. She’s got to have learned some serious magic from whoever taught her in New Orleans. But no, when I say a practitioner, I mean a real one.”

  Her frown deepened. “A…real one? Alastair, I don’t understand. You’re saying Sarah could…actually do magic?”

  “Well, obviously.” He waved toward the altar. “She’s done it, hasn’t she? We’ve seen the end product. Please be quiet for a moment, and hold the light on this…I need to concentrate.”

  She looked as if she had a hundred questions, but took a step back and did as directed.

  Stone focused in close
r to the tattered little bag, though he did not touch it yet. Mortenson was right: it was a gris-gris, a sort of amulet used by Vodou practitioners. Though it was often used as a good-luck talisman, some in the tradition had subverted its purpose, turning it into a bad-luck charm meant to bring vengeance and ruin upon the practitioner’s enemies. Sarah must have been patient and careful when she created it, taking the time to gather a wide sample of items to represent the town of Brunderville. He suspected if he looked inside the bag, he’d find more intimate or valuable items: possibly a tiny gold nugget, or even things like nail-parings and dried blood.

  The thing that troubled him was not the powerful magic swirling around it—the presence of the ley line had clearly amplified whatever magic Sarah had infused it with, so even if her own powers had not been strong, this could explain why the curse had persisted after all these years. But even so, if that were all he faced, he could deal with it easily. All he’d have to do was put up a ward and a circle around the area to be safe, then carefully dismantle the gris-gris and neutralize it with a simple ritual. It would take perhaps half an hour to set everything up.

  But that wasn’t all. When he’d focused in tighter, he’d spotted something else: the little shrine wasn’t the only component to the curse. A thin thread of energy stretched out from it, twisting and writhing upward until it disappeared through the ceiling. The shrine was connected to something else, and he wasn’t sure merely destroying the gris-gris would be enough to break the curse if the other component remained. He’d have to locate it first, so he could track it down and neutralize it as well after they got out of here.

  “Alastair?”

  He’d almost forgotten Mortenson was there. “What? Oh…sorry. Was just…thinking.”

  “What are you going to do? Shouldn’t we destroy that thing, if you think it’s the cause of the curse?”

  “Not yet. There’s more to it.” He stood up and began pacing the small confines of the room, thinking. How was he going to find the other part of the ritual? The only thing he could think of was to leave the cave and try to find the thread once he was outside, then follow it to its source. But that could take longer than they had—assuming he could even pick it out of the swirling, strengthening red cloud. The curse would grow stronger the longer it was allowed to remain, only going dormant again when once again it had taken its fill of destruction and carnage.

  “More? What do you mean? How do you know this?”

  He took a deep breath. “Edwina—I haven’t got time to explain it all to you right now. I promise, I’ll tell you everything when we get done here and everyone’s safe. Short answer: I haven’t been completely honest with you over the years about my skepticism regarding the supernatural.”

  She stared at him. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I really do believe in the supernatural, and magic. I more than believe in it. I practice it.” He patted her shoulder. “And I need to do that right now. There’s another bit of this ritual, and it’s not here. I can dismantle this bit, but if I can’t find the other part, I’m not sure that will be enough to break the curse.”

  “Another bit?” She frowned. “Are you saying that Sarah did something else, somewhere else?”

  “Exactly. I’m sensing a link between them, but I can’t trace it from here. So we’re either going to have to leave here and try to do that, or I’ll need to find a way to locate it from here.” He began pacing in frustration again. “I wish I had some link to Sarah, other than the gris-gris. It’s entirely possible that her echo is still knocking about in Brunderville.”

  “Echo?”

  “What you’d call a ghost. If I had something to connect to her, I might be able to call her up and ask her about it.”

  She was staring at him as if he’d gone insane—or as if everything she thought she knew about him had suddenly been tossed out the window. “Contact…her spirit?”

  “Yes,” he said impatiently. “Edwina, I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t have time to explain things to you right now. You claim to believe. I need you to give me a little of that belief right now, all right? And any ideas you might have for ways to contact Sarah’s echo. Something connected to her…” He turned away, pacing again and scanning the little chamber for anything he could use. Perhaps he could risk taking a small part of the gris-gris…

  “What about this?” She’d opened her purse and pulled out the little leatherbound diary. “Sarah didn’t write it, but it’s from the same time period, and its writer was close to the events. Would it—”

  Stone crossed the room to her in two long strides. “Edwina, you’re brilliant!” He grinned, almost forgetting to keep his voice down as he snatched the diary from her. “I’d kiss you, but poor Denise would be terribly jealous.”

  “Thank God for small favors,” she said dryly. She still looked like she was trying hard to get her mind around this new facet of her skeptical colleague. “Will it work?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to try. Hand me my bag, will you?”

  She retrieved it from where he’d tossed it and passed it to him. “What have you got in here, anyway?”

  “Hold the light.” He unzipped it and began laying out candles, crystals, incense, chalk, sand bags, and other ritual components. “I need to set up a circle here, so please stand back.”

  “A circle? Do you mean a ritual circle? Alastair, what on earth—”

  Stone was already using a bag of sand to sketch out a crude circle on the dirt floor. “I’m a mage, Edwina. I do magic. Real magic. I told you—I’ll explain later. Let me do this.”

  She looked as if she was about to say something else, but decided not to. Instead, she watched silently, eyes wide, from near the altar alcove.

  Stone worked as fast as he could. It wasn’t a great circle, and it should have been more intricate, but he didn’t have time for elegance. “Right,” he said. “That’s done. I really need you to stay quiet for this bit, all right? And please don’t come near the circle, no matter what happens.”

  “What—what’s going to happen?” she asked.

  “Not sure yet. Hopefully nothing horrible. If it does, though, get yourself out of here. Got it?”

  She nodded slowly, looking stunned.

  “All right. This shouldn’t take long.” He stepped into the circle, still gripping the little diary. He turned slowly around, lighting each of the candles at its four points with magic, ignoring Mortenson’s shocked gasps.

  He closed his eyes, blocking out the real world, and concentrated on opening his mind to the world contained in the diary. Sarah Brunder…I know you’re still here. Show me your world. Show me what you’ve done.

  It took a few moments, but eventually something poked tentatively at the edges of his awareness. He didn’t open his eyes, but instead reached out to it, projecting an aura of power, but also of acceptance and welcoming. Sarah, I’m not your enemy. None of these people are your enemies. Those who wronged you and Zeke are long dead. Please help me end this…

  He sensed stubbornness. Anger. Grief. Rage.

  Resistance.

  Gripping the diary more tightly, he focused harder. Sarah. Please. I mean you no harm. I don’t blame you for what you did. I don’t blame you for wanting revenge. But you’ve had your revenge. This can’t be what you want. Show me what I must do to bring an end to this so you can rest.

  Images flooded his mind then, almost too fast for him to process them, lighting his head up with bright pain. Angry images. Grief-stricken images. One after another after another they came:

  A smiling, handsome young man in rough miner’s clothes.

  A larger, older man in a fine suit: looming, angry, vengeful.

  Chaos. Death. Slaughter. Terrified faces, people running. Blood.

  The handsome young man—now battered, beaten—swing
ing on the end of a rope. Pale. Lifeless…

  A woman’s scream.

  Anger. Hatred. Rage.

  The alcove in the cave. Crouching before the altar. Singing. Chanting. Other faces behind her. Feeling the power grow. Feeling the power move through her as the song’s cadence thrums.

  In a room. Locked in. A prisoner. Life flutters in her belly. Must escape.

  Frantic packing. Sneaking. Run. Get out. Get away.

  Betrayal. Capture. Screams. Yelling. The man in the fine suit, screaming. Too much screaming. Too much rage. Raises his hands—

  Nothing. Blackness. Swirling void.

  No. No. Floating. Big man, shirtsleeves, no fine suit now. Alone. Digging. Bloody, sheet-wrapped form.

  No. No.

  Try to run. Try to escape the house. Get away!

  No!

  Nothing.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The mall, which didn’t even appear to have a name, had one entrance at the far end of the tourist part of Fremont Street, and another on the block one street over. Jason and Verity had walked past it a few times while hunting for the Forgotten, but they hadn’t gone inside. They didn’t go in now, choosing to cruise by on both sides and get a good look. The boring gray sedan Nakamura had lent them had tinted windows, so unless someone peered straight in at them through the windshield, it was unlikely they’d be spotted. Still, both of them kept a close eye out for signs of the Hard Eights.