Rings of the Inconquo Trilogy

by A. L. Knorr

  A paranoid voice in my head asked: If they could find you on the open street, why couldn’t they find you here?

  My gaze swung back to the door where it hung slightly ajar, looking like it had been left open for company. ‘Company’ was nearly here. My arms prickled with the dread of it. They were coming for me.

  Somewhere between here and Tottenham Court, I’d put the rings back on, and with a flick of my hand, the door swung shut. Control was still a crude thing, and it slammed. I winced, and the footsteps in the stairwell paused.

  Rushing over, I bolted the door, not trusting myself to bolt it telepathically without tearing the bolt out of the wood.

  Listening, my breathing uneven, my mind raced. The last time — even scared and ambushed — I’d managed to beat them. This time, I knew they were coming. Could I make a stand here?

  Noises from the hallway sent a fresh dose of icy fear into my spine: the sliding click of pistols, chambering a round. It was a sound I’d heard twice before, both times connected with a bad-news-boyfriend from my early teens. Even growing up in East End, guns represented a level of escalation most street toughs balked at. This was London, not New York or LA, where the media made it sound as though firearms grew on trees.

  And it sounded like three of those rare murder devices were cocked, ready and waiting outside my flat.

  I needed to get out. Now.

  Desperately, I mentally pushed all the metal cast about my room and piled it in front of the door, willing it to stay. I hoped it held like the little pot because that, at least, would buy me time. I moved to the bathroom and locked the door before heading to the small window.

  I thought I could hear them coming down the hall as I forced the window open, using my power to get the metal to cooperate. The thick glass sported several jagged cracks as the metal twisted to my will.

  A knock sounded at my door, and my heart jackhammered in response. If they started shooting, the thin interior walls wouldn’t be much protection.

  It was a tight fit, but I managed to get a leg, my head and shoulders out the window when I heard thuds against the door, which could only mean they were trying to break the door down. There were muffled curses. I assumed the magnetised pile of metal was holding.

  Small comfort that was as I looked down from five stories up.

  With one leg dangling, I closed my eyes briefly to calm a wave of vertigo. If I had underestimated my new powers, I wouldn’t have to worry about the guns.

  The pitted concrete exterior of my building didn’t offer any helpful ledge or shelf, but the brick structure across the alleyway was festooned with pipes. Blocking out the sound of a body throwing itself against my barricaded door, I eyed a pipe running from ground level and over the top of the building.

  I bid the aluminium alloy to come to me. There was a squeal of protest from the metal bands that mounted it against the side of the wall, but they came free with little puffs of brick dust. Like a fakir’s trick, the pipe swayed towards me. It spanned the narrow alleyway, but sections of it began to slide and separate as it tilted closer. My consciousness ran the length of the pipe, reinforcing it.

  “Hold together now,” I hissed the words through gritted teeth.

  I heard the thugs in the hallway talking. Then a burst of silenced gunfire tore through my flat. I stifled a scream as a bullet punched through my living room window and struck the brick building opposite.

  Time’s up.

  Grasping the pipe with a trembling hand, I hauled myself out the window, barking my shin on the sill. My stomach swayed sickly as I wrapped myself around the pipe and tried not to look down.

  Guiding the pipe downwards and throwing my whole mind into reinforcing it, I came two storeys closer to the ground before registering pain in my hands. The metal was unpleasantly warm. As the pain intensified, my focus slipped. My body jerked and bounced as the pipe began to buckle.

  Lurching another storey lower, I nearly lost my grip before I managed to reassert control. The pipe bobbed and creaked as my mind gripped it. Breathing hard, I stilled the metal and braved a look down. Just a little lower, and I could drop to the ground without breaking any bones.

  Another burst of gunfire sounded overhead, longer this time and somehow angrier. The mounting pain in my hands and the pistol-fire divided my attention again. The pipe buckled further. My stomach gave a sick lurch. Screaming, I swung towards the bricks.

  I twisted around the pipe, and with a grunt, took the brunt of the impact on my left shoulder. Pain shot along my collarbone, and I hissed, tightening my poor hands around the pipe. My arms and shoulders quivered with fatigue. My hands were two points of agony, and my whole left side throbbed, but I hadn’t lost my grip.

  Touchdown came a few agonising, seemingly eternal seconds later. Relieved, I released the pipe and crouched on the alley floor. Metal squealed and squeaked as the twisted pipe dangled overhead. Beyond the pipe, I heard a splintery crunch. Bolting down the alley like a sprinter out of the blocks, I careered towards the front of the building.

  I slid to a stop at the corner and pressed against the wall as a thought struck.

  What if they’d left someone outside, waiting to grab me if I tried to escape?

  All of my painful antics with the pipe would have been in vain. Shrinking against the brick and half-expecting gunshots, I peeked around the corner.

  The sidewalk in front of the complex held only the usual traffic. The gunfire from my flat would have been too muffled for anyone to have noticed. People went about their business. The way appeared absent of a lurking ruffian.

  I was about to slip into the street nonchalantly when I spotted something out of the ordinary. Across the road, just out of the way of those walking by, a darkly dressed figure stared at his phone intently.

  He was dressed too nicely for my neighbourhood. His coat and slacks were sleek and expensive looking, and if those rings on his hands were real, they could have paid my rent for a year. More than that, he looked too … too pretty, too put together for the typical blokes in my area. But he was familiar in a way I couldn’t define.

  Then he looked up from his phone.

  There was the perpetual shrug, the dark brow on a startlingly handsome face. Dillon, Jackie’s mon chou, stood watching my building.

  Gaping, I ducked in behind a passing knot of teenagers, who didn’t notice the little hitchhiker who crept in close behind them. My mind spun.

  Why would Dillon be standing outside my flat at the exact time armed thugs were storming in? Why would Jackie’s boyfriend be waiting outside a building in a neighbourhood he clearly didn’t belong in? According to Jackie, he was tied to the university and was plugged in — through one connection or another — to the faculty in the archaeology department.

  A terrible suspicion — blooming into something resembling a conspiracy — took shape in my mind as I pressed as close to my concealing patch of humanity as I dared. The troupe of youths rounded a corner, and I threw a look over my shoulder. Dillon was talking on the phone now. Judging from his body language, he was unhappy, bordering on angry. He looked ready to hurl the phone across the street as he glared up at my building.

  Sirens sounded in the distance, and Dillon’s whole body tightened as he hung up. Sliding his phone into his coat pocket, he put a good deal of effort into casually strolling down the street. I lost sight of him as I rounded the corner.

  Just because I was paranoid didn’t mean I was wrong.

  Regardless, I found myself now not only jobless and futureless but without a home. All I had was what was in my bag, my phone and the rings.

  The police would have questions about why anyone would shoot up my apartment, and I didn’t have answers. Dots would be connected, and I could expect to find the rings confiscated and myself locked in a cell.

  I got out my phone and sent a text to Jackie as fast as my fingers could manage.

  Hey luv, cnt explain, but pls stay away frm Dillon. <3 call soon, be sfe

  If I was
lucky, she’d wait to talk to me before she met with Dillon again.

  In the meantime, I needed answers, and there was only one place I might find them. I fished out the old map and headed for the tube.

  13

  Calling myself insane more than once, I descended into Covent Garden Station. The rush of people eased as the hour grew late. It had been early evening when I’d fled, and it was nearing eight o’clock. Second-guessing myself and dithering resulted in a dawdling pace. I’d grabbed a wrap for dinner and sat chewing and stewing, trying to come up with a better plan than chasing ghosts.

  I was an archaeologist-adjacent after all, not some daft, mumbling spiritualist. Yet, here I was on a foggy London evening, trotting into the underground looking to find a ghost.

  But not the one everyone else was looking for.

  Covent Garden is one of the most famous haunted stations in London. Supposedly, the ghost of an actor might be seen moving about the station at night, standing on the platforms and looking a proper English ghost. As such, there were sometimes teams of amateur ghost hunters, bored youngsters and the occasional meandering herd of spook tourists following a guide in garish attire.

  I skirted past a group of teens taking selfies and making ghastly faces. I realised with a jar it had only been a few years since I was their age. I stifled a surge of jealousy.

  What right did they have to be so happy, so carefree? One look told me they knew nothing of hardship. They were equipped with the latest phones and clothing that cost as much as the security deposit on my flat. Speaking of which, I wasn’t getting it back.

  They were born into an affluence I would never have.

  The answering voice sent a chill down my spine: Make it better by being better.

  I went further down the platform, away from the teens, towards the quiet end … and a maintenance door. Drawing out the map, I checked the way the lines intersected. Covent Garden was a straight shot to Museum Station. The only way of getting to the defunct station would be through the maintenance corridors.

  I steeled myself to pop the door open, looking out for station staff or anyone watching me. I’d have to use my power.

  The approaching rumble of a train made me smile and put a hand on the door. The arrival of the train would provide the perfect cover as I broke the lock.

  Then I heard a steam engine whistle.

  I straightened, confused. The subways hadn’t run steam engines since WWI. It had to be a gimmick. Maybe the station was celebrating some … anniversary …

  My eyes widened as a vintage train rolled to a stop beside me. The doors slid open.

  Painted wood panelling framed an entry into an empty carriage. The seats were forward-facing benches complete with elegant legs. There was a faint air of tobacco smoke and old grease, but it looked like an Edwardian sitting room, not a modern tube cabin. No slick plastics, no bright primary colours or tacky upholstery.

  A tourist attraction cabin then. A historic piece meant to give a scenic tour of the underground.

  I looked down the platform to check my hypothesis, expecting to see a tour mob rushing for the door. What I saw instead was far worse.

  I was alone.

  There was no one else here, or if they were here, I couldn’t see them. It was as though the crowds had simply seeped away, into another realm. My jaw went slack, and my mouth dried as my gaze slid from the abandoned platform to the patiently waiting carriage.

  Ghost carriage.

  Was I really going to trust this phantom train? How did I know I wouldn’t pitch headfirst onto the rails when I took a step? I turned to my new sense and felt the metals of the carriage, the bolts in the floor, the ribbed girders giving it shape. It was what I needed to finally take that fateful step.

  I walked into the carriage and took a deep breath as the doors closed behind me. Sinking onto the nearest bench, my hands braced the edge, feeling its sturdiness.

  With a great hiss and some heavy chugging, the train lurched into the darkness of the underground.

  There were no glaring overhead lights, only a smattering of softly glowing lamps, inviting me to relax. The ambience of the carriage, the steady rocking, the absence of the usual crowds. Exhaustion settled over me. My feet throbbed and eyes burned. I let my eyelids droop shut. Despair threatened to swamp me.

  “Miss Bashir?”

  I’d fallen asleep … was dreaming …

  “I’m terribly sorry, madame.”

  My eyes flew open, and I sprang to my feet, dazed.

  “I wish I could let you sleep, but I am afraid we are rather pressed for time.”

  Standing at the open carriage door, his silver head poking in, was Professor Lowe.

  “What are you?”

  The words came out a brusque question, perhaps more abrupt than I had intended, and I was surprised when Lowe looked at me with apparent hurt.

  “Madame, I think you mean who am I. Asking what I am, besides being quite rude, implies we are not peers or even the same species. Still, I would ask that you disembark, and we can discuss this further.”

  I shook my head. “You’re either a one-hundred-and-fifty year old man who faked his death, or you’re a ghost.”

  Lowe frowned, anxious for me to get out of the car but hesitant to come and get me. He looked up and down the length of the train, then steepled his fingers.

  “Very well, if I answer your question, will you step out? The train will be leaving soon, and I’m not certain I can join you.”

  Interesting. “Depends on your answer.” I crossed my arms.

  Lowe’s pale eyes darted the length of the carriage again, but he nodded. “Yes, my corporeal existence ended some time ago. Laxity and the passage of time can dull the intellect and obfuscate memories, but I have been waiting for a very long time.”

  “What for?”

  Lowe met my gaze. Potent emotions warred in his typically mild expression. Pride, sadness and even paternal affection.

  “Why, for you, my dear.” He lifted a hand, palm up.

  Slowly, I put my hand in his and stepped onto the platform.

  “I’m glad to see my warning had the desired effect.” Lowe smiled, eyeing the rings on my hands.

  The statement filled me with a tremor of trepidation as the doors closed behind me and the train rolled off into the dark.

  “Welcome to Museum Station,” Lowe said warmly as he led me from the spiral staircase we’d taken up from the platform below.

  I’d seen photographs of the old British Museum Station, and this was nothing like that crumbling deathtrap. The real Museum Station had been shut down in 1933, then slowly picked apart. Stripped down and demolished over the decades until only the bones were left.

  Where we stood now was a turn of the century underground station, but with antique decorations in a pseudo-Egyptian motif. The posts flanking the stairwell were shaped like smooth stone columns, and the tiled walls were painted to resemble the reed-lined Nile.

  “Sorry, but where am I?”

  “Ms Bashir,” Lowe said patiently, templing his fingers in that way he had. “As the pamphlet states, you are at the British Museum Station.”

  “Except, not,” I said, looking around at the softly lit sconces shaped like pyramids. “I looked it up. The real station was demolished. This can’t be it.”

  Lowe stretched his arms wide. “You can see me, can even touch me and yet the ‘real’ me is a pile of ash and bone fragments sitting in an urn somewhere. The station — like myself — has left behind its corporeal existence and now operates in a different reality.”

  We crossed a wide lobby-like space as he said this.

  Two broad stairwells in opposite corners boasted signage proclaiming they led up to the museum exhibit floors.

  “A ghost station …” I murmured, gazing around. We’d stopped in the large waiting area with benches around a central courtyard, flanked by concrete pillars with an understated connection to Ancient Egypt. In the centre was an obelisk, whose dark surf
ace was etched in hieroglyphics inlaid with gilt paint.

  “I prefer the poetry of alliteration,” Lowe said, slightly flamboyantly, “so I would call it a spectral station, but I am not opposed to you calling it whatever takes your fancy.”

  Lowe gestured to the benches, and we crossed the polished floor.

  “That really doesn’t tell me where I am, at least spatially,” I said, sinking onto a padded bench. “Are we under the station, alongside the station in some alternate reality? In the same place just in a different realm? Or, am I hallucinating?”

  The possibility this was a figment of my stressed imagination didn’t bother me anymore. A wave of weariness fell over me. My shoulder and neck ached from where I’d struck the wall, and my hands were still sensitive from the hot pipe. I wondered if Lowe would mind if I lay down on the bench. I was past being picky about where I dozed.

  Lowe looked as perky as I was exhausted. He sat beside me, spine ramrod straight. “You are familiar with the theory called the Law of Conservation of Matter, yes?”

  I nodded.

  “Very good. It states that because my body — my matter — is otherwise occupied in that ghastly urn, I should not be here interacting with you. After all, matter is neither created nor destroyed, yet I am here and just as solid as ever I was. Even able to take your hand. But it is not always so. Thus, I am a manifestation of a kind of energy, psychic perhaps, able to interact with the material world along structures I barely understand. I believe this station manifests in a similar way.”

  Lowe’s eyes sank to the floor, and his posture wilted. His next words were soft.

  “Despite all the time spent being deceased, there is a great deal about my current condition that I understand only by intuition.”

  “Why didn’t you just come out and tell me?” I asked. “Why go through this charade?”