by Nikki Hyson
Haven’t felt this alive since—
The doors behind them began to part.
Barsad trembled against the wall. “H-Hook, it’s you. You’re back. You feel.”
James smiled. “Yes.”
Rochefort’s voice crackled. “Hook. What is the meaning of this?”
Neither gave notice to the musketeer standing behind them.
Barsad searched James’ face, whispering the question every paper soul would be asking. “How?”
A hand dropped heavily to James’ shoulder, to turn him towards a different confrontation. “Hook, you will let him go, or face Hyde.”
James lifted both hands, releasing Barsad but not his gaze. “Aye,” he acknowledged simply. He waited a beat, determining what the price for silence might be. A slight lift of the Frenchman’s chin told him. Barsad craved what every spy hungered for. Knowledge. Information.
“Explain yourselves. Hook?”
Barsad spoke first. “My fault yer Lordship. I questioned his loyalty.”
“And why would you do that?”
“His lateness. I accused him of being out, ‘n about. If ya get my meanin’.”
“I do,” the musketeer said slowly. Rochefort didn’t buy the lame excuse. James could feel it in the frown directed at the back of his head. “Return to your quarters, Barsad. I’ll deal with you later. Hook, your report is wanted. Now.”
The door clanged shut behind James. Cris was already there, waiting before the dais. James winced.
Cris’ focus remained steady, directed upon the one on the throne. Edward Hyde, the Professor’s Counselor. Crouching, Cris drew a rolled black canvas from his bag, spreading it on the cold, marble floor for inspection.
Hyde leaned forward to study the print. “Well, what have we today, Count?”
James stepped nearer for a better look as well. The first time he’d been witness to one of Cris’ reports, James wondered what the Count’s part was in the murders. Cris always refused to say.
Gesturing towards the four by five foot painting, Cris explained. “As you can see, it’s all here. The desk, his work, books, music. Everything.”
Yes. James could see that in a glance. The painting perfectly reflected the way of things as James had left the flat. The man, the writer, crumpled on the floor with all he cared for within arm’s reach. The pages he’d been writing fairly rustled on the dark canvas. James looked to Hyde, Rochefort closing ranks a few paces behind him. If Hyde didn’t know they’d ordered a writer’s death, he surely guessed it now.
Hyde remained impassive, features unmarked by the passing of a mere writer. “As always, Cris, a job well done.”
Rolling the canvas quickly, Cris bowed. Stepping forward only long enough to lay his offering on a pedestal, Cris swiveled on the ball of one foot. Striding past James without a sideways glance, he returned to his position near the back of the room.
Adrenaline spent, feeling sicker by the moment, James stepped forward. Rochefort had claimed his cane at the door and so he stood, hands clasped behind his back, waiting.
Hyde refocused. “Why so late reporting, Hook?”
“I needed to rest. I don’t feel well.”
Silence bit, a look passing between Rochefort and Hyde. James didn’t try to intercept. He trained his gaze at the throne’s gilded base, and kept it there.
At last, Rochefort spoke. “What ails you?”
“My heart pains me.”
“Is this the cause of your actions with Barsad?”
“I don’t know.”
“You cannot be ill. You are not real.”
James struggled, rebellious thoughts burning with hot bile. Swallowing down hard, he said, “I know.”
Hyde slipped silently from his throne, a hint of movement the only warning of his approach. “Do you, James?” His voice rumbled across the room, distant thunder before the lightning strike. “Do you know there’s nothing more to you than a pile of scribblings? You aren’t real.” He thrust each forwards a second time, taking obvious pleasure in the moment. “You aren’t real.” Poniards meant to inflict pain, draw blood, in one who shouldn’t feel.
Not daring to lift his gaze, James clenched a fist, lowering his tone. Keep the lie convincing. “I know.”
“Then say it.” Hyde’s black boots stopped their slow, circular march just under James’ nose. “Make me believe it.”
James drew a breath. Steady now. The lie he’d believed since the hour they’d hauled him from his pages pressed against the back of his teeth. Lifting his gaze, he declared, “I’m not real.”
“You are nothing. Ash and ink.”
“I’m nothing.” A hard swallow. “Ash and ink.”
“No one cares whether you exist or not.”
Two images passed before his mind’s eye before James could repeat Hyde’s mantra.
They combined, sucking his anger away, drawing vengeance from his heart as one cuts festering tissue from a wound. The puppy, cradled within his coat, her brown eyes fixed upon him. And Lily, her hand upon his forehead and fingertips touching his wrist, concern coloring her cheeks. James swallowed hard, the fuel that made him a feared pirate melting away. By the author, what is she doing to me?
He drew a breath. “No one cares whether I exist or not.”
A single dark brow arched over the emerald green eye. “Then why do you fight my will at every turn?” Gaze hard, questing. “Hmm?” Hyde didn’t wait for a reply. “And who is she? Who is the girl, James? Why seek her out?”
“I didn’t. It was only an accident. Nothing more. She’s an ordinary girl.”
“Nothing? If she’s so ordinary, you would have reported it last night. After the first two encounters.”
“I thought nothing of it.”
Thin lips curled cruelly, the smile a mocking semblance of joy. “If that were true you wouldn’t have lingered with her in the library. If that were true you wouldn’t have seen her safely onto the bus.”
Cris? Damn him. Did they know about the puppy as well? Pain shifted, settling into his wrist bones, the repetitive ache of a saw’s rusty edge with each faltering heartbeat. “What do you want?” James finally asked, the breath it took for utterance pure agony.
“All I ever want from my chosen few. The truth. James, who is she?”
“Her name is Lily. That’s all I know.”
“What is she?”
James struggled, seeking words capable of allaying suspicion. Two heartbeats passed before he opted for ignorance over the truth or a lie. “I don’t understand. She’s not likely thirty and lives alone. Owns a dog. She works in the library. What else am I supposed to know?”
“She writes.”
Behind James, Rochefort sucked in a breath. All three looked at Cris who’d uttered the dread two syllables. He leaned against the wall near the door, arms folded across his chest. Easy smile contrasting a dark promise in his eyes, he matched Hyde’s swift glare.
Hyde stepped from James’ side, interrogation forgotten. “What did you say?”
“She writes.”
Hyde spun back to James, attacking the weaker of the two. Betrayal blazing white hot, his words were almost a growl. “You knew of this and said nothing?”
“Didn’t think it mattered.” James pressed hard against the pain, using it to clear his thoughts. “She writes in a journal. Nothing published.”
Hyde pointed a long finger toward the rolled canvas on the pedestal. “He’d never been published either. It matters. It always matters.” His glare found Cris. “How do you know this? Did she tell you?”
“We’ve never actually spoken.” Untucking hands from arms, Cris spread his fingers innocently. “It’s in the event flyer for the library.” The flick of a wrist and the library pamphlet appeared, pinched between two fingers. “She seems to run quite the writers group.” Stepping forward, he surrendered the flyer.
Hyde’s hands shook slightly as he took it. “This must be stopped. We can’t have it in our own backyard. How many
are there?”
“In her group?” Cris shrugged. “A couple dozen.”
Strategies unspooled across Hyde’s open countenance. Jaw clenching, he considered options, jerking his head as he rejected each. At last, he nodded. “We’ll need a list of names.” Shifting attention, he looked at the only one not full of surprises. “Rochefort, get it done. Take a week if you must.”
Cris continued, as if his pause had been solely to draw breath. “I researched her little group online. There’s about fifteen thousand in the city.”
Hyde’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Wha—”
“—Yes.” Cris clipped Hyde’s surprise short, daring to step closer. Pointing out a name on the flyer’s calendar, his brow lifted a bit. “I’m surprised the Professor has never mentioned them to you. National Novel Writing Month.” Cris enunciated each word with casual pleasure. “They claim to have about a half million members— wrimos? All writers. Around the world.”
“What!”
“Classrooms too. Youngsters.” Dipping his gaze, he read from the pamphlet as if he didn’t have it memorized. “Twenty-five hundred classes this year with nearly one hundred thousand students learning the craft.” Cris ran a hand over his clean-shaven chin. “This is apparently their month. Every November they connect to write novels. Kind of a batty concept if you ask me.” Shrugging carelessly, gaze relaxed, he casually considered the repercussions of mass murder. “Still, if two dozen highly connected members suddenly dropped off in the middle of it, people might notice. Might ask questions. People we don’t know the names of. People we can’t touch.”
Hyde raised a hand, silencing the dissection of his perfect plan. “What do you suggest then? Wait until December?”
“January might be better. They seem to have a lot of after parties and revision groups planned.” Cris shrugged a second time. “I don’t know. It’s like they speak a different language. Beta groups, MSs, MCs, and POVs.” Fingers splaying from upraised hands, the words seemed to sift through, falling away between them. “Traveling shovel of death? Some is hard to follow.”
Hyde stared long and hard at Cris. The Count stared back with the grace of an indifferent cat. Hyde frowned. “A code? What do you suggest then?” Hyde repeated.
“She initiated contact in the library, not the other way around. Let it play out. Let them get to know one another. If there is a connection, if she is more than she seems, we’ll uncover it. If she’s just a writer, we’ll know that too.”
Considering the advice, genuine admiration played across Hyde’s face.
Rochefort leaned lightly on James’ cane, making both presence and opinion felt. “Either way he is free to ask questions and we’ll learn all we can about this group before January comes. Information is power, Hyde. Let’s not waste it.”
“As you have said, make it so. Report back every time there is new information.”
Both nodded graciously. “Of course.”
Cris, quirking a brow towards James, added, “What about him?”
The trio refocused on James. He waited, wishing fitfully for the support of a cane he’d never needed before now.
Hyde scraped a look up James and down, directing his questions back to Cris. “You don’t believe this woman, this writer, is the cause for his emotional shift?”
James pressed his flesh and bone hand against the center of his stomach, as if force alone could hold back the pain steadily burning him through.
“I find it,” Cris considered slowly, “unlikely.”
“These emotions are unacceptable, Hook.” Hyde deliberated a second longer. “Will you submit to the Oracle? Let her take them away a second time?”
What choice do I have? “I will.”
“Very well, then. Take him to her, Cris. See what she divines from this oddity. If nothing can be done we’ll have to attempt your plan with you alone. You’ll have to approach—ah?—Lily? Play the part of a grieving friend. Can you do it?”
Cris settled his hat a little further. “I think it would be interesting to try.”
Hyde grunted softly, not entirely pleased but accepting. “Try the Oracle first. No sense borrowing trouble.” Offering a parting shot, he leaned nearer James. “I suggest you be honest with her if you want to live.” Spinning abruptly, he snapped a dismissal to all. “Meeting adjourned.” Rochefort followed in Hyde’s wake, James’ cane still claimed in his grip.
Cris waited only until the door shut behind them. Four swift strides brought him to his friend’s side. Pulling James’ clenched fist around his shoulders, Cris grabbed a handful of waistband to keep the pirate standing.
Sweat blurring James’ vision, each breath a gasp, he gripped his friend’s arm. “Thank you.”
“Easier than carrying you.”
They took a cautious step. Then another. Each one an exercise in stubborn fidelity.
James grunted. “How did you get the pamphlet from my pocket?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Pulling back a booted foot, Cris kicked the door the moment they reached it. “Come on. Open up!”
The sound of a bolt being shot open rasped from the other side. Cris took the second of privacy left to them. “Only bought time. Want to save her? Figure out what ails you with the Oracle.”
James coughed dryly. “Do I look so bad?”
“Like Hell. Let’s go.”
The door creaked open.
On the opposite side of the enchanted glass, Hyde joined the Professor. Unseen by the friends, they watched Cris help James from the room. Rochefort maintained a discreet three paces back, his hand still claiming the handle of James’ cane. Door resealing after the pair, Hyde ventured his opinion.
“That went well.”
The Professor didn’t turn, features flat and expressionless. “Did it?”
“Well, yes, I thought—”
“Did you?”
Hyde visibly bristled, but dared nothing more. He waited, weight shifting subtly from one heel to another. Patience hadn’t been a virtue he carried in his world. He’d no wish to learn it now.
Professor Moriarty continued staring into the empty room. “Whatever comes of his visit, do nothing to Hook. He’s for me to deal with.”
“Hook is nothing but a pirate. Would’ve thought the Count held more interest for you.”
The Professor didn’t respond, his words hanging between them like fog. Cold. Clinging. Ominous.
Hyde’s gaze dipped downward. “As you wish.”
“And Edward,” the Professor stayed his departure with a warning, “take care what you start. The writers have an army. I’ve no wish to war with them.”
“They have no idea we exist. Now—”
Moriarty held up a hand. “Let’s keep it that way.”
12
Using Cris’ strength, James made his way through the labyrinth of passages and double-ended rooms. A maze of this breadth and width should have been impossible in a building that appeared no more than ordinary from the outside. Swallowing a fatigued grunt, James smiled to himself. If Lily’s ordinariness ran measure for measure with this house, then they were right to worry.
Finally, they stopped before an intricately carved cedar door. The door. The Oracle’s domain.
Cris lifted a hand to knock, motion stayed when the door swung open silently. Buried among shadows, a voice beckoned softly.
“Enter.”
Cris took a step.
“No,” she ammended. “Just Hook.”
Cris obeyed, but offered protest. “He can barely walk. Can you help us?”
Remaining within, the Oracle stepped forward to the threshold. Silk gown shimmering against her domain’s half-light, it shifted between sapphire and silver. She laid a slender hand to the doorframe. As close to freedom as she ever dared.
Gaze passing curiously over Cris, her lips pursed in a smile as she reached out to James. “Us?”
“He is my friend,” James rasped roughly before a fit of coughing claimed his breath.
“That may be,” she said. “Time will tell. For now, come with me.”
James gathered strength from fingertips so slender he feared breaking them. She drew him into her chamber, the door shutting of its own accord. Locking Cris out.
A circle of mirrors awaited them at the center. As they had twice before.
“You know why you are here?” a hint of question lifted the uncommon lilt of her voice. “This time?” Slowly, the flickering light grew.
“Yes.” He tried hard not to look at it. “I feel again.” God, I hate that memory. Adding needlessly to fill the void, he muttered, “Something’s wrong.”
“And yet that is impossible for a paper soul.” Two mirrors parted before her, making a path to the circle’s heart. She led James across the onyx floor, passing over runes carved deep into the surface. Stopping over one symbol he knew well. “Once you are emptied of emotions, there is no one to write them in again.” Fingertips still clasping his hand, she laid the flat of her empty palm against his heart. “There is no recovering from it.”
He’d stood here the last time, when searing pain made him cry out for death. Thoughts not far from her questing words, James had no answers. He stared down at the rune between his feet, trying to suppress a shudder. “Just do it.”
“Is that what you want?”
There’d been no question, no choice, the last time.
He drew an unsteady breath, gaze lifting to fill with her beauty. Hair the color of pirate’s gold curled gently. Flowing over shoulders, and down her back, it half concealed a scar crossing an otherwise flawless cheek.
Mesmerized, he lifted a hand to brush the strand away, wanting nothing more than to touch her soft, ivory hued skin. If only he could, he knew everything he didn’t understand would come into crystal focus.
“Please.” She flinched before he could touch her. “Don’t.”
Her eyes, blue as the oceans surrounding Neverland. James wished to drown in their depths. Her lips moved. James followed them, aware of each word before she spoke it.
“James, is that what you want?”