Second Door to the Right

by Nikki Hyson

  Hyde smiled cruelly, giving a little bow. “T’would be my pleasure.”

  “Good. See to the preparations. Rochefort, hold a moment. I’ve a few contracts for you to assign. Shut the door,” he added when just the two of them remained. “Now, tell me what you think.”

  Rochefort squared his shoulders. “Cris is safe as long as she is left alone. I’m not certain about Hook, but if we have Cris then he can manage the pirate.”

  “And what of Edward?”

  Rochefort hesitated.

  “Tell me. I need to know.”

  “There’s danger in him. He’s becoming more impulsive, crueler even. He burned half the last class before I could distract him.”

  The Professor leaned back, leather conforming to comfort and support. Crossing his fingers, he considered this conundrum. Rochefort waited. In the end, a second sigh spilled into the space between them, Moriarty dashing a hand against his thigh.

  “I hate to think I might be entirely wrong about him, but it’s always the same. The beginning shows such promise.” Moriarty drew back, momentary impatience fading swiftly. “Keep an eye on him. I think it might be time for a change.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  “And take these contracts.” He pushed a stack of manila envelopes to the far edge of the blotter, touching the one on top. “Assign Hook this one. Just because he’s watching the girl doesn’t mean he can shirk his other duties.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  “How does he seem to you, Rochefort? Better? No longer ill?”

  “There is still a bit of color in his cheeks, but he moves without pain. He seems better.”

  “Good.” Moriarty considered the next six moves that might occur in this living chess game before deciding on the one that would. “You may go,” he said simply.

  Rochefort bowed at the waist, took a step, and scooped up the pile of envelopes. Without a word, blind obedience understood between them, he pivoted on one foot and left the room.

  The Professor waited until the door clicked after his lackey. Without haste, he withdrew a small hand mirror from a desk drawer. The Oracle’s clear sapphire eye regarded him before he could offer a word of summons. “Ah, my dear. I want to see that lad from before. Has he spoken to you yet?”

  “No. Nothing. I don’t think he’s noticed me.”

  “He will,” Moriarty assured with complete confidence. “Remember your lines when he does.”

  “I will.”

  “Good. Now, let me see him.”

  Her features dissolved into mist, clearing a moment later to reveal brown eyes reflecting a passing trace of anger. The Professor frowned. “What are you looking at?” he wondered.

  There would be no answer to his question. The mirror didn’t work that way. “So, who were you to her?” he asked instead. At least this might be possible to unearth, though exceedingly difficult if it was an unrequited love.

  Moriarty looked past the lad, to the bits of scenery at the mirror’s edges. Buildings, foot traffic, a passing bus, all blended with the grey glow of an overcast day. Could he actually be outside? How powerful was James’ little writer friend that her paper souls could walk unattended and outside their books? Who was she? What might her parentage be? Surely she must come from a long line of writers.

  His attention shifting from the young man to the writer who’d created him, the image in the darkening glass faded. Satisfied with the possibilities, he laid the mirror aside, shutting the drawer softly.

  So much to consider. More pawns to nudge into place.

  He laid a finger to the intercom button near his lamp. “Irene, come here. We have work to do.” Releasing the button, he leaned back again. A thin smile formed.

  Yes, work to do. Information to gather. It would be a pleasant sort of day after all.

  “And you didn’t notice him at all?” James repeated, disbelief thick. They stood waiting for the clerk to finish sorting through Cris’ minimal possessions. His turn next, James emptied his pockets into the silver tray.

  “I told you. No, I didn’t notice anyone glaring at the back of your head.” Cris reclaimed his wallet, sliding it into the inner pocket of his overcoat.

  “You were a bit distracted,” James allowed. The clerk began sifting through the cluttered contents of James’ pockets, both noting the chaotic pile of receipts with some wonderment. How many times did I stop for tea?

  Cris sniffed. “Not enough to go blind. Who is this guardian of Lily’s? A friend?”

  “I don’t know. She never looks at him. He’s just always near. Last night he was inside the café when we said goodnight, and he was there again today. Something’s off.”

  “Maybe he works there.”

  The clerk lifted the journal up last of all. “What’s this?” He turned it this way and that, eyeing the gilded edges as if they might be poisoned. Flipping through the pages, he paused trying to read the slim lines of precise script.

  James bristled.

  “It’s alright, Cedric.” Cris laid his hand over the clerk’s, halting further examination. “It’s a tool.” Carefully withdrawing it from the young man’s grasp, he lied convincingly, “It belongs to a writer we’re following.”

  “What’s it do?” Cedric asked. “Track her?”

  Her? James guts twisted at the youth’s phrasing. Common knowledge or an improbable guess? How many knew about Lily? With effort, James didn’t glance at Cris.

  “Something like that,” Cris smiled, handing the journal back to James. “Can we go?”

  “Sure. Sure. Rochefort left word for you to see him. Have a good day.”

  “Thank you, Cedric.” Cris stepped into the hall, James falling into step beside him.

  They made a left at the first junction, and left again at the next. Further and further they wound into the building that should have held no more than a few rooms on three floors. Deep beneath the infinite layers, a scream pierced the floorboards.

  Cris’ lips tightened into a thin line. “Heard there’s a new class.”

  A voice cleared behind them. “Yes. Nothing you need to worry about.”

  Rochefort. They rounded in unison. Hook’s fingers itched for his blade, pulse quickening just a trifle. The relaxed smile on the musketeer’s face always raised a blister. Rochefort had been there the day they called James from his pages. Rochefort didn’t chaff against this life, never rebelled. The musketeer still felt every moment, and he was comfortable with it.

  Rochefort held out a manila envelope. “Repeat customer. Don’t muck it up.”

  Hand outstretched, Cris stepped forward to claim it. “We don’t leave loose ends.”

  “No?” Rochefort’s brows lifted. “What do you call the puppy?”

  Fingers closing on the envelope’s edge furthest from Rochefort, Cris said nothing. He waited.

  Rochefort’s grip tightened. “I vouched for you this morn. They’ll leave her be.” He held the envelope a second longer, letting it go with a slight nod.

  Cris rocked back on his heel. “Why?”

  Rochefort’s gaze flickered with something cool and slick, impossible to hold. Even harder to name. “Thought I was telling the truth.” He smiled. “That’s what you wanted. Yes?”

  “Yes.” Cris’ head turned slightly, like a cat trying to find the right frequency. “What do you want?”

  “Things change every day. Just making sure my allies know who they are.” Rochefort jerked a nod towards the envelope. “Get the job done. Make your report. Raise no ire.”

  Cris hesitated, nodding slowly. “Alright.” Agreement without vow.

  “Good.” Rochefort glanced at James for the barest of breaths, nodding once. Long strides carrying him to the corridor’s end, he rounded a corner and vanished.

  James eyed his friend. “What the bloody hell is that about?”

  “Not sure.” Orders in hand, Cris started walking. Retracing their steps, right and right again before the left. “Come on. We’ve work to do.”

  James fel
l into step a half pace behind.

  Nevertheless, he persisted. “But you know who she is. Tisn’t Lily. Who’s he talking about?”

  “Leave it, Jas.”

  Thoughts tumbling, they drew even with the Oracle’s door. James’ step slowed to a pause, body moving closer of its own volition. Do you trust me? Her soft question played through him. “Who is she, Cris? Which book did the Oracle come from?”

  A glided step and Cris’ fist filled with a fold of James’ coat, his swiftness and strength reminding James that if they ever dueled, there’d be no clear victor. “Are you completely mad?” Cris demanded.

  “Cris—”

  Cris’ grip tightened, breath hissing out questions without waiting for answers. “Trying to get us both burned to ash?” Shoving the envelope at James’ chest, he pushed harder. “Do the job. Stop asking questions you aren’t supposed to care about. Understand?”

  “Is that it?” The reprisal such an attack should have sparked, faded into sorrow. “Survive. Is that all there is for us?”

  Cris released the coat. “There is no vengeance in death.” Taking a moment to smooth the rumple his fist had made, his exhale echoed regret. “That’s all I know.” Nearly smiling, he thumped James’ chest twice. “Let’s go.”

  James held the look for a second longer, trying to unriddle truth from deception. His gaze plumbed unexpected depths. Cris had been written to lie, deceive, and manipulate. All traits playing into the Guild’s favor. He’d also been written to exact revenge on those who wronged him; no matter the cost or the years spent waiting.

  As Cris strode away, James wondered if the Guild had considered those ramifications when they pulled the Count of Monte Cristo free of his pages.

  A muffle of voices from behind diverted his attention, and James glanced back. Cris, finished with the conversation, kept walking.

  Hyde led a procession, an armload of books cradled close, ash flaking from his clothes. A line of eight men shuffled slowly down the hall behind him. Differing from downy teen to white whiskered, their clothing ran in equal variety with the emotions flickering across their faces. A couple marked James as a potential threat, gazing on him with open hostility. Some didn’t look up at all. The rest were terrified, unable to hide the whites of their eyes in the dim hallway. One wept quietly, worn carpet catching the drips from the end of his nose.

  James felt pity for each. Their lives, ordinary, heroic or otherwise, would never be the same again. There’s no going back to Oz.

  Hyde stopped at the Oracle’s door, hand lifting to the crystal handle. James’ eyes still upon him, Hyde paused. Casting an angry glare, he snapped a curt, “What is it, Hook?”

  The recruit just behind Hyde gasped softly, head lifting to study the infamous pirate.

  Answering the question, James’ attention shifted to the recruit. “Nothing,” he said slowly. “Just here for orders.”

  “You have them?”

  James studied the too familiar face a moment longer. “Yes.”

  “Then move on.”

  James knew the young man from somewhere. He’d stared into those near black eyes before, noted the way the hair colicked to the left over his brow. Who is he? Surely not a Lost Boy.

  “Hook,” Hyde warned.

  Never wise to tweak the tiger’s tail when others would pay. James dipped his head obediently. “Aye, Sir.”

  Behind him, the door to the Oracle’s chamber opened with a gentle creak. Hyde’s voice growled out commands to the new recruits, but James heard only her voice.

  “Come. One at a time. Don’t be afraid.”

  James’ brain hammered with the familiar words, heart squeezing with the caress of her voice. An insane, unreasonable desire to turn and take her in his arms swelled his chest, nearly causing him to break stride. Feeling her gaze upon him, James fled Who are you? pounded with every breath.

  The Count waited until a block of cobblestone passed under their feet. James relished the silence.

  Finally, Cris asked, “What are you thinking?”

  Picking the least damning of two swirling questions, James offered only a fragment. “I know that recruit from somewhere.”

  “Your book?”

  “No.”

  “There’s nowhere else for us, Jas.”

  James pulled his coat a little closer. “I know.”

  “You’ve been losing your way ever since you met that girl.” Cris sniffed out a dismissal. “She’s a writer, Jas. Nothing good ever came from them.”

  “You would’ve had a happy ending.”

  “If I’d lived it. Didn’t get the chance though, did I?” Sudden anger bloomed briefly. “No. Wrote that damned letter, explaining everything, when another writer ripped me out. Landed me here.”

  Finally understanding the truth behind his friend’s need to survive, James’ tone softened considerably. “They have Mercedes?”

  “Leave it, Jas. Never wanted you involved.”

  “Haydee, then?”

  Cris said nothing, silence an admission of the truth.

  “I’m so sorry.” No wonder you play the game according to the rules. “I didn’t know.”

  “Just shut it.” Cris flicked the collar of his coat up. “Damned cold. What did you and Lily talk of this morning? Any more information about the writing group?”

  Raise no ire. James understood now. “She mentioned they started summer sessions a few years back and it’s starting to grow.” James stopped, hand dropping to Cris’ arm. The inkling from minutes before collided solidly with an image from a few nights ago. “I know who he is.”

  “Lily’s guardian?”

  “No. The recruit,” he clarified. “The last job. The writer. The one with the puppy. He had drawings all over the walls above his desk.” James swallowed hard. “One of them was that recruit back there. Did I kill him just so they could use his characters?”

  Cris briefly considered the possibilities, stopping himself with a jerk of his head. “Not our concern, and not our call. We have a job to do. Come on.”

  James’ feet remained rooted to the spot, unwilling to go forward but never able to go back. Not now. “What’s his endgame? What’s the purpose in all of this?”

  “That isn’t the question you should be asking.” Cris gave a little nod, indicating the direction they should be walking. “What’s the most important thing to you? Figure that out; protect that one thing, and maybe you can live with the rest. Understand?”’

  James didn’t believe his friend. He knew Cris had a mental cabinet filled with truths regarding the Guild.

  However, he couldn’t deny the bare honesty in the Count’s statement either. Could he live with himself if he never unriddled the Guild? With difficulty, but yes it would be possible. What if they destroyed Lily?

  James took a step forward. “Aye.”

  21

  The long road unspooled before them under the late afternoon sun. Amos, after fifteen miles of hyperactivity, rested quietly on his fleece blanket in the backseat.

  James, following her glance to the back seat, chuckled. “You weren’t kidding. He’s wound like a top. Kind of impressive actually.”

  She smiled, never taking her eyes off the road. “Wait till we get closer to home. You’ll be less impressed and more likely to throttle him.”

  She felt his eyes on the side of her face before he asked curiously, “You don’t like to drive, do you?”

  Heat rising up her cheeks, she cocked a brow. “How can you tell?”

  “I’ve never seen anyone sit so stiffly behind the wheel before. Doesn’t your neck hurt?”

  Lily rocked her head from side to side, trying to loosen things up, but she didn’t deny it. “Yes. My shoulders will be burning before we get there. Probably a headache too.” Emphasizing, she pulled a wide grin. “Mass transit. One of the joys of city living. How’s your story coming?”

  “Good. I’m remembering all sorts of things I didn’t know I’d forgotten.” Pressing himself a little dee
per into the cracked vinyl seat, James stretched his legs. “Amazing how time flies when I’m writing. An hour goes by like a blink. The night’s gone in the time it takes me to drink two pots of tea. I love it.”

  Lily favored him with a brief look. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not yet. How’s yours coming? Only five days left after today.”

  “I know. I’m not quite to forty thousand words, but the scenes are all there. They’re just begging for a few hours to get it all down.”

  “If things go well between me and your Dah…” He have a little shrug. “Perhaps you could steal away into a corner for a bit.”

  Lily felt the flush deepen to her hairline, which only made her embarrassment worse.

  He chuckled again. “It wasn’t hard to tell. This supper has you ten ways from anxious.” He arched a brow, using her own words. “Care to talk about it?”

  “Not really,” she dismissed. Digging deeper, she admitted, “I just hope you like him.”

  “I’m sure I will. You and I get along tolerably well. You must take after him at least a little.”

  “Mum will tell you it’s a bit more than a little.”

  “Well then.” He took a sip of the tea she’d offered in a NaNoWriMo travel mug. Swallowing twice, he shifted topics. “Do you know how your novel will end? Has it been planned out for months?”

  Lily smiled, words flowing casually between them. “No. Not at all. A lot of writers do plot and plan and outline. I’ve never been able to. I don’t know a plot twist until after I’ve written it. The end is scarce a wisp of light at the end of a long tunnel. I know my direction, but the path’s unclear.”

  “You don’t make it easy on your characters, do you?”

  Her brows drew close, gaze lifting briefly to check the mirror. “What do you mean?”

  “The first draft you just blindside them. They never see it coming. You must put in the trail of breadcrumbs on the second draft.”

  “Breadcrumbs?”

  “The ones for the reader to follow without ever realizing they’re on a trail. The little clues that cause the, ‘Of course! I should have seen that coming’ moment at the end. If you don’t lay it out your characters can’t read the tea leaves, if you will.”