The Stroke of Eleven

by Kyle Robert Shultz

  “I’m warning you, if you harm him—”

  “He’s not being harmed. So far.” She opened a door at the end of the hall and motioned me through it. Beyond it was a lift, outfitted with a variety of knobs and switches. Levesque and I stepped inside, and she twiddled one of the dials before pulling a lever down with a sharp jerk. The lift shuddered, then began to descend.

  I reflected on the paintings I’d seen in the main hall at Warrengate, as well as the statue in the courtyard. “Why do you even have this prison? I thought you imprisoned your enemies in pictures or turned them to stone.”

  “Only when we have no further use for them. This isn’t merely a prison. It’s a storehouse for some of our most powerful weapons.”

  “Is that what I am to you? A weapon?”

  “Well, you’re not much use in public relations any more, are you? Not after getting yourself turned into precisely the sort of creature whose existence you were meant to help keep secret. Very careless, I must say.”

  I suppressed a shudder. I didn’t like to think about the fact that I’d spent years as an unwitting pawn of the Council, arrogantly laying rumors of magic to rest with my detective work while real magic flourished in the shadows. “So sorry to have let you down.”

  She ignored my sarcasm. “It was quite a disappointment. Secrecy is all-important to the Council, and you were an invaluable part of that. You were so determined that magic wasn’t real, you were able to read fairy languages.”

  I blinked in surprise. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Why do you think Whitlock sought you out to translate the map leading to the Clawthorn Rose? It wasn’t because you were any smarter or better-informed than the scholars working for the Council. Fairy languages are sentient, and determined to thwart translation. It takes someone with a unique gift like you once had to see through their trickery. It was as if you had the opposite of magical powers. Quite fascinating.”

  “How did Whitlock even know I had this…gift?”

  “You were on a list, like all other children. The Council vets everyone for their particular talents. I’m not sure how we overlooked the fact that your brother was a Charmblood…but perhaps it was your anti-magical influence that masked it.”

  The lift ground to a halt, and the door slid open. Levesque marched out into another dark hallway, and I hurried after her. The chamber we walked into at the end was pitch-dark, but I could tell by the way our footsteps echoed that it was big.

  “Lights,” ordered Levesque.

  As lamps blazed to life overhead, I was surprised to discover that we were actually standing in—

  “A cinema?” I looked around in bewilderment. Rows and rows of empty seats surrounded me, all facing a big screen at the front of the chamber. It was a lot more stoic than most cinemas I’d seen—no velvet curtains or colorful posters for coming attractions—but its purpose was obvious.

  “Why would you need to build a cinema miles underground?” I asked her.

  “That rather depends on the type of films being shown.”

  “Nick!”

  My heart leaped at the sound of Cordelia’s voice. She had jumped up from her seat near the front row, and was now running down the aisle toward me. She threw her arms around my waist.

  I hadn’t expected this. “Er…you’re hugging me.”

  “Yes.” Her voice was muffled by my coat.

  “You never hug me. Are you some sort of magical duplicate?”

  “It’s been a long day. Are you all right?”

  “I wasn’t doing too badly until I found out they’d locked up Crispin and Molly. You?”

  “The same.”

  Levesque drummed her fingers on the back of a chair. “If I may interrupt this touching reunion, it’s time we got down to business.”

  I glared at her. “Hush, you.” Turning back to Cordelia, I whispered, “So what’s your plan?”

  She grimaced. “I haven’t got one.”

  “What do you mean, you haven’t got one? You always come up with plans on the spur of the moment!”

  “Not this time, Nick. I’m sorry. There isn’t anything I can do.”

  “You mean this is it? After everything we’ve gone through, the game is up? No more escaping?”

  Levesque coughed loudly to get our attention. “If you’ll let me speak, I may be able to convince you that escaping isn’t necessary.”

  I snorted. “Yeah, right.”

  “All I want,” she continued, “is for you and Cordelia to do one simple job for the Council. That’s all.”

  “And, what, you’ll let us go then?”

  “Under certain very reasonable limitations, yes. You certainly won’t have to go hurtling across the Afterlands any more with our people chasing after you. I can’t imagine you’ve enjoyed that.”

  I shrugged. “It’s had its good moments.”

  “Perhaps we should hear her out,” said Cordelia.

  “Why bother? You know it’s a trap.”

  “Very likely, but what other choice is there? She does have leverage, after all.”

  I dug my toes into the carpet and battled the urge to climb the walls in frustration. “All right. Fine. Go ahead, Levesque.”

  “Excellent.” She clapped her hands. “Have a seat.”

  Two chairs suddenly scooted up behind me and Cordelia with such violence that we dropped into them. The screen flickered as a projector in the back of the cinema switched on.

  “Got any popcorn?” I joked.

  Or at least, it was meant to be a joke. To my surprise, a small, nervous-looking female centaur clopped out of the shadows with two large buckets of freshly-popped popcorn slung over her equine back like saddlebags. She handed them to us, bobbed her forelegs in a quick bow to Levesque, then trotted away.

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “I was not expecting that.”

  “I want you to be comfortable.” Levesque retrieved a small metal box from a nearby seat. It was covered in switches and dials, and a green glow emanated through every seam in the casing. She flipped one of the switches, and the lights above us dimmed. At the same moment, an ancient-looking woodcut of a vast, sprawling castle appeared on the screen.

  I moaned. “Not another castle. Nothing good ever happens in castles.”

  “Do you recognize it?” asked Levesque.

  Cordelia squinted at it. “I’m not sure.”

  Oddly enough, I did recognize it. I’d run across it while doing some research to expose a fake spiritualist several years before. “Isn’t that…the Castle of Basile?”

  “Precisely,” said Levesque. “Full marks.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” said Cordelia. “I think it’s supposed to be haunted or something.”

  “Not quite.” Levesque twiddled a dial, and the image on the screen changed. Now it showed a collection of pictures. Some of them were old drawings on tattered parchment. Others were grainy, blurred photographs. They were all in different settings—forests, deserts, mountains, and seashores—but strangely, the same castle from the first slide was in every single one of them.

  “The Castle of Basile is not merely inhabited by ghosts. To be more accurate, it is a ghost.”

  I scooped up some popcorn and spoke with my mouth full. “I don’t follow you.”

  “The Castle of Basile was built in the ninth century Before the End.” Levesque’s tone reminded me of a lecturing college professor. “After which, it remained precisely where it had been constructed.”

  Cordelia swallowed some popcorn. “Er…it would, wouldn’t it?”

  “So one would be disposed to imagine. However, sometime in the fifth century B.E., it mysteriously disappeared, leaving a large crater behind.”

  My eyes widened. “What happened?”

  “So far as we can determine, Cinderella happened. Or rather, her story happened.”

  I peered at the pictures on the screen. “A fairy tale made an entire castle vanish?”

  “Given what we know of fairy tales, that’s
not so hard to believe,” said Cordelia. “And there’s a precedent for it. Ever read Aladdin?”

  Levesque continued. “Subsequently, the castle began cropping up all across the Afterlands, seemingly at random. Every century or so, it would suddenly appear in some empty stretch of countryside, then vanish not long afterward.” She paused for effect. “And each time that happened, people would disappear, never to be heard from again.”

  I rubbed my chin in thought. “So it’s a ghost castle that eats people. Delightful.”

  Levesque pushed a button on her box again. This time, the photo on the screen was sharper and newer. It showed the castle in a wooded area. “The castle appeared again in the middle of the Black Forest of Grimmany a few days ago.”

  “What a coincidence.” I was beginning to get an idea of where this was going.

  “And not twenty-four hours after that,” she went on, “Malcolm Blackfire disappeared.”

  Cordelia looked worried. “Was he trying to investigate the castle?”

  “Oddly enough, no. It appears that he simply disappeared into thin air while in his office. In fact, a student saw it happen—though his accounts of the event quickly became incoherent.”

  My brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

  “The first time we interrogated him, he was in good command of the facts. But in subsequent interviews, his memories were clouded. It was as if he were having difficulty remembering that Malcolm had ever existed.”

  My jaw dropped. “What?”

  “You think his memory was affected by a spell?” asked Cordelia.

  “I’m afraid the situation is more serious than that,” said Levesque. “The student’s memories weren’t the only thing affected. We’ve discovered that our records on Malcolm have changed as well.”

  I didn’t follow her. “What are you talking about?”

  “Our files on him over the past century have begun vanishing, one by one. And a new report has suddenly materialized out of thin air, dated 1816.” She switched the slide. This time the screen showed a pencil sketch of Malcolm—a much younger Malcolm, walking down the main thoroughfare of a small country village. There was a slender, dark-haired young woman beside him. Malcolm wore a long leather jacket, while the woman was dressed in a man’s velvet coat and trousers—an unusual costume for women in Camelot’s Regency period.

  “How can it be ‘new’ if it’s dated over a hundred years ago?” asked Cordelia.

  “It simply appeared in our files, and looked as if it had always been there—yet we know that’s not the case. Whatever magical force we’re dealing with, it seems to have little regard for chronology. The report is from one of our agents, whom the Council tasked with tracing Malcolm’s movements at that time. It describes Malcolm investigating the sudden appearance of a great castle in a field outside Galashire. He and his female companion—a Miss Melody Nightingale—went inside the castle, and were never seen again.”

  “But that’s not what happened,” said Cordelia, bewildered. “We were just with Malcolm a few weeks ago. He can’t have disappeared in 1816.”

  “With time, I imagine you may forget you ever met him.” Levesque tapped her chin. “I wonder if that means your beloved Thomas Croft will come back from the dead? Causality is such a puzzle.”

  Cordelia’s eyes flashed. “Oh, I’m sure you would have found someone else to murder him.”

  “This is impossible,” I said. “I mean, I know a lot of weird things are possible, thanks to magic, but this—this defies all logic.”

  “It’s par for the course when it comes to the Castle of Basile,” said Levesque. “Similar fluctuations in the historical record have been detected over the centuries. Sometimes people only vanish at the time when Basile appears. But in other cases, the castle’s visits alter established history. It’s as if the building is completely disconnected from linear time and space.”

  I have a pretty quick mind—and, after everything I’ve experienced, an open one. But all this was taxing the limits of my reason and credulity. “So you’ve never been able to figure out what’s going on? Even with all the Council’s power and resources?”

  “We’ve lost a great many of our best agents to the castle,” said Levesque. “We’ve learned the hard way that it’s best to devote more…expendable resources to the task.”

  I gave a bitter laugh. “I see. That explains why we’re here, then.”

  “You’re not the first candidates we’ve selected for this particular assignment. After Malcolm vanished, we called upon a group of students from Warrengate to look into the affair. He had taken them under his wing—no pun intended—so they had a vested interest in finding him. We sent them into the Castle three days ago. There’s been no sign of them since.”

  I had a sudden, horrible suspicion. “Who were they?”

  Levesque’s mouth twitched into a cruel smile. “I believe you referred to them as ‘the Mythfits.’”

  I jumped up from my seat, scattering popcorn across the floor. “You witch!” The Mythfits were four magical creatures I’d befriended during my last visit to Warrengate. Alan the centaur, Bryn the pooka, Gareth the faun, and Sylvia the dryad. They were good kids. I couldn’t stand to think of them abandoned to some horrible fate.

  Levesque sneered. “Calm yourself. I’m giving you the chance to rescue your precious students—and absolve your crimes against the Council at the same time.”

  “We’ve done nothing to the Council!” Cordelia spat. “My father was insane, and we stopped him! Why come after us?”

  “It’s a matter of principle. You murdered a high-ranking member of our organization. You also created a dangerous monster and failed to have it properly licensed.”

  I growled at her. “It?”

  “We can’t simply sweep that sort of thing under the rug. An example must be made.”

  Cordelia gripped the arms of her chair in fury. “I’m all too familiar with your ‘examples.’”

  “But—if you two will agree to go to Basile before it vanishes again, investigate the phenomena, and find a way to stop the disappearances once and for all, I see no reason why the Council need bother with you any further. On the contrary, you’ll be welcomed back as heroes once the assignment is complete.”

  I scoffed. “Oh, I’ll bet. And if we can’t complete it? Most likely, we won’t come back. We’ll just vanish ourselves.”

  “That’s a risk I’m willing to take. I assure you, we will mold Crispin and Molly into model agents of the Council in fond memory of you. Consider it your legacy.”

  I bared my fangs. “I ought to—”

  “On the other hand,” she interrupted, “if you succeed in your mission, then Crispin and Molly will be free to join you once more.”

  “We’ll need them with us in Basile,” said Cordelia. “They have essential skills.”

  Levesque shook her head. “No, no. I’m sure you two will be perfectly fine without them. And the desire to see them again will be an excellent incentive for you to succeed.” She flipped a switch, and the screen went dark. The lights overhead brightened in response. “I’ll need your answer quickly. We can’t afford to wait long; the castle could vanish again at any moment. We need to drop you in right away.”

  I looked up at the darkened screen, then at Cordelia. “One last time…are you sure you haven’t got any ideas for how we could get out of this?”

  She closed her eyes. “I wish I did, Nick, but I don’t think there’s anything we can do.”

  “We might not ever come back.”

  “Or, we might be able to stop whatever this is. We’ve been up against seemingly impossible odds before.”

  “And failed. I’m still a Beast, remember?”

  “I’m waiting,” said Levesque.

  “All right!” I said. “All right. We’ll do it.”

  “But we’re going to need all the information you have,” said Cordelia. “You’re not going to throw us in there completely blind so we’re sure to fall into the sam
e trap that everyone else did.”

  Levesque feigned surprise. “Why, Cordelia, don’t be ridiculous. The thought never crossed my mind.”

  “You mentioned a fairy godmother earlier,” I said. “What did you mean? How does the Cinderella tale factor into this? I don’t remember that being a ghost story.”

  “Many of the popular plot points were actually embellishments,” said Levesque. “They were made up so that the story would be more complete. Folklore abhors loose ends. We know Cinderella existed, and that a fairy godmother helped her go to a ball at the Castle of Basile. Beyond that, nothing is certain. Sometime around midnight, as the ball was about to draw to a close, the castle vanished. Given the vast powers normally associated with fairy godmothers, we can assume that Cinderella’s was responsible for this event.”

  “But what are fairy godmothers?” I asked. “Sounds like they’re not quite the benevolent creatures that the stories make them out to be.”

  “Fairies of any sort are rarely benevolent,” said Levesque. “But the godmothers aren’t fairies in the technical sense—more like corrupted versions of them. The correct term for a fairy godmother is ‘marraine.’ Marraines are incarnations of pure narrative force.”

  “Living stories,” Cordelia interpreted.

  Levesque nodded. “Exactly.”

  It was a testament to my changed outlook on the world that I didn’t immediately dismiss this as nonsense. Instead, I merely asked, “Why would a living story want to turn a castle into some kind of people-eating ghost? For that matter, why would it want to help some girl go to a dance in the first place?”

  “Marraines are both extremely powerful and deeply enigmatic,” said Levesque. “We know they can warp the very structure of reality, but we can’t always determine why they do it. They’re notoriously capricious. In the past, they’ve altered the whole future of the human race over seemingly trivial matters.”

  “They’re only one species of living stories,” said Cordelia. “They belong to the legendarium family of magical creatures. The different types deal with different kinds of stories. Monomyths attach themselves to heroes. Dullahans are drawn to fear, and thus become living horror stories.”