Void: Book Five of the Nightlord series

by Garon Whited

  She held up her hands to be picked up, so I did. I also hummed a little as I held her, gesturing behind her back to make my spellcasting easier. Her hands would be much better by morning.

  “I want Mister Floppy.”

  “Who is Mister Floppy?”

  “He’s a bunny.”

  “Is he still at the Hallsley’s house?” I asked. Jenny nodded into my shoulder.

  Well, crap.

  “I’ll see if I can get him for you. Can you sleep without him just for tonight?”

  She shook her head without lifting it. Double crap. Then I had an idea. I didn’t like it, but it might work.

  “If I let you borrow a friend of mine, will you promise to give him back? I’ll let you sleep with Mister Halar if you promise I can have him back.”

  “I promise.”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t sure I wanted her to promise. I didn’t want to hand over the only stuffed doll in the house. It’s mine, and I’m sentimental about it. Nonetheless, I carried her with me as I went to take him down off the shelf: a rag doll with a face stitched on it.

  I could keep him in Apocalyptica, but he doesn’t look right on a stainless steel shelf. He seems much happier in The Manor.

  It. I meant “it.” Don’t judge.

  “I need you to take very good care of Mister Halar, all right? He’s quite old and very special.”

  She accepted the rag doll and nodded again, clutching it close.

  I carried her through the house, following her scent back to her room; I can do that sort of thing at night. Madeline was asleep in the only bed in the room. It was a big bed, though, with room for both children and wvwn a couple of pets.

  “You’re sleeping with Maddy?” I whispered.

  “Yes. It’s dark,” she explained.

  “All right.”

  I laid her down carefully on the bed and pulled the covers up as she snuggled my doll. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. I left the three of them and closed the bedroom door silently.

  I made the drive into Keswick again to recover the floppy bunny for Jenny. I climbed the side of the Hallsley’s house, unlatched a window with my tendrils, and crept through the place, sniffing and searching. I suppose I could have knocked and simply asked for Maddy and Jenny’s things, but I didn’t like the Hallsleys. Mr. Hallsley was still awake, but he fell asleep in his chair rather suddenly. Exhaustion of one’s vital energies will do that.

  I traced the majority of their things to the garbage cans—the bins. I didn’t mind how the Hallsleys kept the shoes and the gas masks, but they could have at least offered to return things like a family picture, a stuffed rabbit—strongly reminding me of the White Rabbit from “Alice in Wonderland”—and a mostly-filled sketchbook. No pencils, though. The sketches were surprisingly good, mostly of architecture. The one of the clock tower was wonderfully detailed.

  I recovered the items, cleaned everything, and returned to Applewood Hall. I piled the recovered chattels on a table and went back to my quarters.

  I’m so proud of myself. I haven’t killed, maimed, or even wounded anyone—aside from a minor sprain—through any of this.

  Maybe I really am feeling better.

  My toolkit, as I call it, is a long strip of leather. It’s covered with long, narrow pockets suitable for holding individual wands. It folds in the middle, then rolls up for convenient carrying. Each of the wands does something extremely specific, whether it be affecting magical lines of force or manipulating physical objects. I’m probably the only wizard anywhere whose wands have orichalcum BNCs on their back ends for connecting power lines.

  I did experiment with wireless power transmission, but it couldn’t keep up with the demand. Oh, well. Now they have crystal batteries for low-magic zones, but I usually plug them in when I’m working in Apocalyptica.

  I was in the upstairs laboratory of the Manor and had six wands hanging in the air, holding spell modules in place while I altered another one. Of course, that was the moment the Diogephone rang. Well, buzzed. It’s hard to explain why a pocket is ringing, so it stays on vibrate in this universe.

  A seventh wand held the partly-disassembled spell module while I answered the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “Your motorcycle is ready, Professor.”

  “Thank you, Diogenes. How’s the plasma containment vessel coming along?”

  “On schedule. Do you wish me to include a force field?”

  “Doesn’t that kind of negate our plan to keep it technologically simple?”

  “Not entirely. Force-field generators work best in extremely small areas. It could prove useful in shielding the gate from the solar environment.”

  “No, I don’t think we’ll use a force field. We haven’t tested it with wormholes and it’s a variable we don’t need to add. Remind me to try it next time I’m in and not busy.”

  “Noted, Professor. Since the manor does not have a shift-room for cargo, how do you want delivery of the motorcycle?”

  “I’ll come get it—or, wait. Is Mary there?”

  “She is.”

  “Ask her to drive it for me. I’ll set up an arrival gate.”

  “Of course, Professor. Please give Trixie my regards.”

  “I will.”

  I brought Trixie with me by accident, once, when I went through the shift-booth to Apocalyptica. She zipped inside as I was closing the door. As long as she was there, though, I introduced her to Mary and Diogenes. She didn’t care much for Mary, but she found Diogenes fascinating. I think it was his ability to talk to her through multiple different robots and drones at the same time. No matter where she went, he was always right there to carry on the conversation, unlike us slower protein-based life forms. She didn’t stay long, though. Too much iron and steel around the place for her tastes.

  As for my arrival gate, I selected a wand, picked up a spool of stranded iridium-orichalcum wire, and headed out to the carriage-house. The coach was neatly parked beside the Vauxhall, but the building still had plenty of room. I’d call it a four-car garage, but I don’t know if there’s a special nomenclature for carriage-houses. It’s separate from the stable, however, so my activities wouldn’t disturb Lazy and Loafer.

  I gestured with the wand, levitating the wire and unwinding it. It writhed out and formed a large, arched opening. Diogenes and I transferred the communications gate from the phones to the larger gates at each end. The image rippled madly, settled, grew still, and Mary gunned the bike through the gateway. Once through, the spell ended and I wound wire onto the spool again.

  “Welcome to the Manor,” I offered. “Like my new bike?”

  “Quite a lot, actually. I’m surprised you didn’t order one sooner.”

  “I didn’t need to go roaming around much over here.”

  “And now you do?”

  “It’s become inconvenient to suffer the travel whims of the Gillespies.”

  “I understand.” She shut off the engine and dismounted. “Be careful with it. The brakes grab, and it’ll backflip if you gun it too hard, even with the sidecar.”

  “With me riding it, it’ll need power. What’s it run on?”

  “Considering where you are, Diogenes thought it best to stick to straight gasoline. Just don’t let anyone take it apart for you. It’s anachronistic on the inside.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” I told her, eyeing the bike. “I should probably take it out for a drive.”

  Mary lifted several items from the sidecar.

  “Can I interest you in riding gear and a helmet?”

  “Are these period-specific?” I asked, examining the jacket.

  “Diogenes says they’ll pass. Go on. Spin it around the countryside a few times.”

  I strapped my helmet on, shouldered into the jacket, and mounted up.

  I think I’ll stick to cars.

  Oh, it’s an excellent motorcycle. It’s fast, it’s powerful, and it rides as smoothly as a penguin sliding across ice. Mary was right about the brakes, bu
t I think the problem will clear itself after some breaking-in. I did accidentally lift the front wheel with the acceleration a couple of times, even with my weight to hold it down. The thing is a joy to ride if you enjoy seeing countryside suddenly turn into a blur. Diogenes may have overdone it a bit, but that’s fair; he gets it from me.

  Sadly, it’s a lot like riding a horse, if the horse can hit a hundred miles an hour and gives off a whiff of fire and smoke. At least, it’s sad to me.

  Mary and Diogenes went to great effort to genetically engineer the Black series of cyborg horses, and that’s one thing. I ride them when exploring new worlds. I’m still not happy about them.

  But the motorcycle… the way it leaps forward, the burning smell, the speeds it can achieve…

  I guess some wounds never heal.

  I parked it in the carriage-house and threw a tarp over it.

  The Manor, Friday, September 29th, 1939

  Mary stayed the night and joined us all for breakfast. I already informed her of my good deed or my folly—they’re often synonymous—and she wanted to meet the kids. Mrs. Gillespie, of course, was overjoyed at the prospect of a formal breakfast.

  There were more places set than I anticipated. According to Jenny, Mister Floppy and Mister Halar had to have their own places. It didn’t appear to matter that they couldn’t even see over the edge of the table. Mary didn’t say anything, but only by biting her lips and not looking at me.

  Other than this minor bobble, breakfast was an entirely happy occasion. Smiles were in evidence all around the table, with the possible exception of Mister Floppy. He remained inscrutable, but I think he approved. Mister Halar always smiles. The fangs give him away.

  Afterward, Jenny solemnly presented Mister Halar to me. She kissed the top of his head and handed him over. I accepted custody and kissed the top of her head. Maddy thanked me for the return of their things. No one seemed to question their mysterious reappearance and I was pleased to not bring it up.

  The children went away, presumably to explore or play or whatever it is children do on a rainy morning in a huge, strange house. I had vague hopes they might look through the library, but I recognize the lure of long-forgotten rooms is a strong one.

  Then the phone rang. It rang all morning, every time I hung it up.

  “What’s going on?” Mary asked, when I completed the third call and didn’t hang up.

  “I think I’ve made a minor miscalculation,” I admitted, covering the mouthpiece of the old-fashioned, candlestick phone.

  “Mushroom cloud miscalculation, or minor annoyance miscalculation?”

  “I said it was minor.”

  “You said the same thing about the solar power tap,” she countered. “I still don’t see why you don’t simply make a matter-conversion spell if you’re so concerned about power.”

  “The solar power tap is self-limiting. If it goes kerflooie, it destroys the immediate area and shuts itself off. If a matter-conversion reaction goes wrong… well, the fuel it burns is basically everything—rocks, dirt, air, clouds, rivers, lakes, oceans, continental plates, magma, nickel-iron core… you know, little stuff, like atoms. It’s like trying to stay warm around a campfire on a wooden raft in a lake of kerosene.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought of it in those terms.”

  “I did. I always try to see the disaster.”

  “So what’s the current disaster?”

  “I placed an ad in a couple of papers for child-minding people. A governess and/or a governor. Preference for married couples with teaching credentials. Room, board, reasonable expenses, regular pay. Apparently, with children being shoved out of the cities and into the countryside, schoolteachers in the cities are looking for work.”

  “That would follow.”

  “Mister Kearne?” came from the earpiece of the phone. “Are you still on the line, Mister Kearne?”

  “Yes, operator? Alice, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Mister Kearne. I have more calls for you.”

  “Please put the next one through, and thank you.”

  “Connecting you now.”

  Mary brought me paper and a pen before quietly vanishing. I appreciated her helpfulness, if not her smirking. Later, she also brought in the mail—or the “post”—along with several telegrams. All the telegrams were from people interested in an appointment to discuss employment.

  Well, at least I’d have choices. Then I could hand it all over to the professionals and go back to being a recluse.

  Since I was busy, I didn’t answer the doorbells. Mr. Gillespie seldom hears it, and I don’t know what arrangements Mrs. Gillespie and Mary have between themselves. Mary is officially my mistress—which is, apparently, an actual station or title or position or whatever—and isn’t around enough to garner much disapproval from Mrs. Gillespie. Mary still counts as the “lady of the house,” I think, or close enough for our purposes.

  At any rate, Mary showed a gentleman into the office-like room where we keep the phone. He was a tall, dapper man in his early forties, clean-shaven and wearing wire-rimmed spectacles. The lines on his forehead told me someone already took his hat. Judging by his dry condition and lack of any sort of horse-smell, he probably arrived in an automobile.

  He sat down at her urging and waited. I held up a finger to beg a moment, finished talking to someone on the hunt for a job, and held the line for the operator. By now, we were well acquainted. Alice agreed to tell people I wasn’t taking calls at the moment and I thanked her for her patience.

  “Yes?” I asked, turning to face him directly. “I’m sorry for the delay. It’s been a busy morning.”

  “Attempting to hire more help, I take it?”

  “Teacher, governess, tutor, that sort of thing. Excuse me again for not making introductions. I’m Duncan Kearne.”

  “Councilman Elias Fillmore,” he replied, extending his hand. We stood and shook, seated ourselves again.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Councilman. You’ll forgive me if I want to get right to the point, I hope?”

  “Of course, of course. I am given to understand from the events of yesterday that it is your intention to participate in Operation Pied Piper?”

  “Councilman Fillmore, I’m not sure what the details are of this operation. I rarely leave the house except to leave the country. I’ve been through Keswick several times, but stopped exactly twice. One of those was yesterday to collect children and shop for their needs. No one bothered to tell me anything about the operation—but let me add I am not at all offended. I prefer to be left alone to conduct my researches into electricity and electronics without distraction. But my intention is to provide decent living to children who are…” I paused, searching for the right phrase. “Who are, perhaps, not as cherished in their adoptive households as they should be.”

  “I see, I see,” he nodded. “I’ve heard it rumored you can afford such extravagance? Not to pry, of course, but the welfare of His Majesty’s more youthful subjects is a matter for considerable concern.”

  “No, I’m not offended. I know a number of large estates have wonderful appearances over shaky financial foundations. It’s not a concern, here. I can afford it.”

  “I do apologize, Mister Kearne. I would happily take your word for it and leave it at that. However…”

  “However. Yes. All right.” I rang for Mrs. Gillespie as I asked, “Could you wait here a moment? I’ll fetch back some evidence.”

  “Evidence?”

  “Just one moment, please.”

  “Very well.”

  Mrs. Gillespie came in, somewhat puzzled. I almost never ring. She was delighted to provide tea and scones for the councilman.

  I strolled off to my private quarters while they entertained each other. After a brief rummage through the miscellaneous stuff in my closet, I found the leather satchel with the reserve cash supply. You never know when you’re going to need local cash. Emergencies have a way of being unexpected. These were local money, too, not Diogenes’ forgeri
es. Mary had me exchange the gold in London, so I ought to know.

  Once Mr. Fillmore and Mrs. Gillespie finished with their tea, I closed the door and handed the councilman the satchel.

  “It’s what I have on hand,” I explained. “When I travel abroad, it’s sometimes hard to write a draft on one’s bank, which means carrying cash. However, I don’t expect you to be impressed by a mere five or six thousand pounds. It merely means I have money on hand, not necessarily that I am in a good financial position.” I scribbled for a moment while he was still staring into the satchel on his lap.

  “These are my banker, broker, and lawyer—excuse me, ‘solicitor’,” I prompted, trying to hand him the paper. He looked up and accepted it. “I’ll have a word with my solicitor and he can intervene with my broker and banker to provide you with any reasonable request regarding evidence of my financial stability.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that won’t be necessary!”

  “Oh, but it is,” I countered. “I want you to do your due diligence. You dump children on any random family willing to take them in, but they’re citizens of the United Kingdom. I’m a foreigner from those ungrateful colonies across the pond.” I smiled as I said it to assure him it was a joke. “It’s perfectly all right, councilman. You have a duty to your youngsters and I approve completely. I will be unoffended by anything needful in assuring their well-being.”

  Mr. Fillmore shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Mister Kearne… there is… a matter of some delicacy.”

  “If it’s about the safety of two girls in a man’s house, I would like to point out the Gillespies also live here and I’m hiring additional staff as quickly as is practical.”

  “What? No! No, sir, not a bit of it! The thought never crossed my mind!”

  “Oh. Good. I was worried how it might look to others. I’ve no real reputation that I know of, but I’d hate to get a bad one, all undeserved. You understand, I’m sure.”