by D. B. Green
Fall Remembrance canceled
The air raid siren booms again and the man looks up, clamping his hands to his ears. He turns and runs back up New Row towards Covent Garden.
“Just a little further,” I say as I watch him turn the corner.
We stop outside the familiar but incongruous wooden frontage of the London Antiquarian. Green and gold letters spell out the name above two arched windows. A cold chill runs down my spine, sending goosebumps over my skin as the magic protection around the shop tries to force my eyes away. It feels like I’m inside my worst nightmare.
Hands pressing me down.
I shake away the nightmare vision and focus on the Antiquarian door in-between the windows. The more I concentrate, the more the intense fear fades.
Amber stands in front of me. It’s the first time she’s looked me in the eyes since Longstone Park.
Keys.
“Luther had the keys,” I shout. “His jacket.”
Emma lifts her arm so Amber can get to the pocket again. It doesn’t take her long to bring out the bunch of heavy brass keys.
“But where’s the bookshop?” Emma asks, looking from side to side.
“Right in front of you,” I say. “It’s protected by magic.”
“I can’t see it.”
I reach across and touch her hand. “You won’t. Not until you cross the threshold.”
Amber unlocks the door, and she disappears inside.
“The first time Eddie brought us here, I walked straight past it,” I say. “He said the magic makes you ignore the shop — it forces you away. Even Enchanters can’t see it… at first.
I shake away the remnants of my nightmare vision and guide Emma and Dean into the shop. “The magic’s broken once you cross the threshold.” Goosebumps still tingle over my spine. “Although, the magic doesn’t like to be broken.”
“That explains why I never got memories of this place from Dean,” Emma says, her nose twitching. “They must have been protected by the same magic too.”
“Could be,” I say.
We lower Dean onto the dusty bottom step of the ornate golden staircase that curls through the middle of the shop. Emma sneezes. “We were in such a hurry when Kathy got the call that Dean was in New Bakewell,” I say, running my finger through the dust. “No time to clean.”
“So, this is the Munro big secret,” Emma says, wiping her nose. “It looks… and smells… more like an old library.”
“Yup. That’s what I said when we first came here. It looks like my old University library. I suppose the big secret was that no one knew about it. Well, not the people in power, anyway.”
Amber closes the door, shutting out the sound of the air-raid siren. She flicks the light switch and the huge crystal chandelier flickers to life above us.
“Sanctuary,” Dean says, trying to stand. “Not… much… time.” He looks even older now.
Emma rushes over to him. She turns and shakes her head, tears filling her eyes.
“It’s in the back,” I say.
We help Dean through the shop, snaking between the maze-like bookcases. “How can he be getting worse?” I ask.
Tears stream down Emma’s cheeks. “I don’t know, but I can feel him getting weaker.” She presses a hand to her chest. “He’s dying.”
Another huge chandelier flickers on as we enter the back room — the inner sanctum, as we called it. We sit Dean down in a chair at the large round table in the middle of the room. It’s still covered in Amber’s books, the old fairy tales that she loves to read. Her spare Electro-Larynx Choker pokes out from underneath a leather-bound edition of Cinderella.
I grip the handrail of the spiral staircase next to the table. The brass is cool to the touch.
My flat — my own bed.
I focus my heavy eyes up the staircase, imagining my flat above… my own personal sanctuary.
“Sanctuary,” Dean whispers, as if reading my mind. “The door.”
I turn and point at three book-lined alcoves at the back of the room. The brown, six-paneled, Sanctuary door sits in the middle alcove.
“I thought it would look grander than that,” Emma says, wiping her eyes. “The Static Traverse entrance to the Sanctuary.”
Dean tries to stand, but he stumbles back into the chair. Emma helps him up.
“Yup, that’s what Eddie called it, a Static Traverse…” I move the crowbars leant against the door. “We tried everything to get this open,” I say. “But the Sanctuary will only open for a… dying Enchanter.”
Dean reaches out and grasps the brass handle. He turns it and the tiny triangle at the top of the door glows read like someone just turned on the power button. With a heavy creak, the door creaks open and bright sunshine floods in.
“Holy shit!” I say, unable to believe what I see through the Traverse… Before my eyes a mountain path winds its way down through a field of wildflowers. Snow-capped mountains line the horizon under a clear blue sky — a glistening stream weaves through a forest of trees. This looks like paradise — the fresh, flowery smell is exhilarating, like every summer morning rolled into one.
I grab Amber’s arm and run forward into the enticing light of safety. But I crash into something hard and fall back on the unforgiving, wooden Antiquarian floor. It’s like an invisible wall blocks my way.
Amber tries to go through the Traverse on her own. She presses her hands against the invisible barrier, but her knuckles go white, unable to pass through. To rub it in, bright sunshine streams between her fingers, taunting us.
Dean reaches out for the light as Emma guides him to the Traverse. He passes through with no problem — no invisible barrier for him. Still holding hands, Emma follows him across too. They stand facing us from the other side on the mountain path, safely in the Sanctuary.
“But you’re not dying,” I say, pressing my hands to the impenetrable opening.
Emma did die.
“I can’t get back through,” Emma says, pressing her hands to the Traverse. “It’s blocking us from this side.” Her voice reverberates. It’s out of sync with her lips. She moves her hand to mine, but I can’t feel her skin.
A bell rings in the distance and the Sanctuary door starts to close.
“Amber, the journal,” I shout. She passes it to me. I stand back and throw the it at the open doorway, expecting it to bounce off the invisible barrier. But it flies through, landing on the flowers next to Emma. “Might be useful,” I shout. “Everything else you need is in Luther’s jacket.” She slides her hand into the pocket. “You’ll figure it out.”
Emma presses herself to the closing Traverse. “Jam the door,” she shouts. “So it can’t close all the way.”
Shit.
I grab a crowbar and force it into the doorway, but it won’t penetrate the opening. It just scrapes down the edge of the invisible wall. Emma looks on, her eyes full of panic.
The journal made it through, maybe…
I grab a thick book from the table, one of Ambers fairy tale books. I slide it against the door frame. Part of the book crosses the opening. The door crunches into it, leaving a thin crack of Sanctuary light.
UNKNOWN TIME
EMMA BROWN
THE SANCTUARY
I tuck the journal under my arm and run my hand through the soft and silky wildflowers. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. The aroma is sweet and calming.
Something tickles my skin. A silver-winged butterfly stands proud on the back of my hand. It turns and looks straight at me. But, it’s not a butterfly… it’s a fairy.
“Dean, look at this.” I bring my hand close to my eyes. “It’s a fairy. A real-life fairy.” A tiny silver dress compliments her sparkling silver wings. Her pretty face leans in close and she presses her tiny nose to mine. Then her wings flutter and she lifts away from my hand, hovering in front of my eyes. She blinks and then smiles. Several more fairies fly out of the flowers, in different colored dresses, matching the petals they were hiding under. A green one,
a purple, an orange…
Amber.
I look over my shoulder. The thin line of the Antiquarian Traverse is only visible from a certain angle. But it’s still there. Nicci did it, she managed to jam the opening.
“Where’s Nicci and Amber?” Dean asks, his voice a little stronger.
“They couldn’t cross over the threshold,” I say. “They’re trapped in the Antiquarian.” I reach for his hand. “Are you feeling any better?”
“A little,” he says, taking a deep breath. “This fresh air helps.” He takes a step, reaching his hand out to where the door was. “What will happen to them?” He turns and wraps his arms around me. “We need to save them… save them all.”
His gray hair flutters in the sweet-scented breeze. I pull him tight. “It only seems like yesterday we were getting ready to go out the night before our… wedding.”
“It was yesterday… for us.” Dean whispers in my ear. He spins around, holding my hand tight. “Look at this place. It’s beautiful.” His voice makes me tingle all over.
A bell rings again — it’s like a church bell you hear on Sunday mornings, drifting on the wind while you’re having a lie in. There’s a tall wooden structure to the left. It looks like a water well, but a golden bell hangs from the top instead of a bucket. It rings again.
Dean points to the opposite side of the path. A small log cabin covered in thick green moss sits at the end of cobbled path. A door opens and a man and a woman walk out. They run across to us.
Dean stands in front of me. His arm feels stronger and less frail as he holds my shoulder. “Stay behind me,” he whispers.
The man saunters down the path, carrying a long wooden rifle with a strange funnel shaped end. He’s dressed in an old-fashioned green military jacket, adorned with buckles and shiny gold buttons. Dark trousers hang over thick brown boots. Several wooden bangles chime together on his wrist, like a xylophone, as he walks.
The woman follows behind. She’s taller than him. A deep red leather jacket hangs over her shoulders. Matching trousers slot into knee length buckled boots. Dark leather gloves cover her hands.
“Who’s that? Friend or foe?!” the man shouts, aiming his rifle. His voice has a French slur.
The woman knocks the rifle down. “Stop it, René.” She smiles. “I’m sorry about him.”
A grin spreads across his bearded face. He holds his hands up. “Forgive me, mon cher. But you don’t look like a dying Enchanter.” He glances at Dean. “But this poor soul looks to have the reaper pulling at his strings.” He hands the strange rifle to the woman. She winces, like it’s a sharp piece of glass. Brass tubing runs down the shaft of the gun, sparkling in the sunshine, dazzling my eyes. “You admire my blunderbuss. She’s a devil killer.” A wide grin spreads across his face. He winks. “And I like to kill the devils.”
The woman rolls her eyes at her companion. Her skin is pasty white, almost unhealthy looking, but her pretty face lights up when she smiles. “Forgive my Cajun friend. He’s in love with the theatrics of our position.”
René takes Dean’s arm. He’s tall and muscular, more than able to support Dean’s weight.
I hold out my hand. “I’m Emma, and that’s Dean.”
The woman slips the blunderbuss over her shoulder and takes off a glove. She shakes my hand. Her skin is cold, like ice. “I’m Elisabeth. This, as you may have gathered, is René. We are Gate Keepers for the Seventh Door.”
I look over my shoulder. “The Seventh Door?”
“Yes, the Seventh Door to the Sanctuary. The one you came through,” she says. “The Seventh Bell heralded your arrival.”
“Can you help us?” I ask. “We need to find a man called John Munro.”
“The boss man,” René says.
Elisabeth slaps him in the side. “Don’t call him that.”
René laughs. “I’m sorry, mon chérie.”
“You’re in luck,” Elisabeth says as she slides her hand back into her glove. “Mr. Munro lives in the cabin at the bottom of this trail.” She points down the mountain. “We will take you to him.”
“We better go now,” René says. “The bell will attract the Badawons.”
The path winds down the mountain to a forest full of different shades of green. Thick trees dominate the horizon as the snow-capped mountains disappear behind them. Flickering yellow dots dance through the flowers as we walk down the path. More fairies. They leave a magical glowing fairy dust trail behind them.
Dad.
The aroma is magical, reminding me of the nature walks with Dad when I was a kid. He always used to say there might be a fairy hiding around the next corner. I wish he could see this place.
An impressive log cabin looms in the distance at the bottom of the path. It’s grander than the one Elisabeth and René came from. A shirtless, gray-haired man stands next to a pile of logs. He swings an axe, adding more wood to the pile.
“Boss man.” René laughs, pointing his finger. Elisabeth hits him in the side again.
The mountain path levels off as we approach the cabin. The trees provide shade from the warm but pleasant sun. I focus on the man chopping logs. He leans back, holding his side. It is John Munro. Aged, like Dean is now.
John looks up as we approach. “What do we have here?” He drops the axe and walks over, taking a sip from a wooden cup on the way.
“Emma Brown, is that really you?” he asks, slipping a gray T-shirt over his head. He comes closer and flicks a finger at my jacket. “Nice jacket.”
“They came out of the Seventh Door,” Elisabeth says. “Just now.”
“Any Badawons?”
“Not yet, mon ami,” René says. “We got to them while the bell was still ringing.”
John helps René with Dean. “Dean.” He stands back, shocked, and glances at his own aged hands. He turns and looks me in the eyes. “This wasn’t Eva’s doing, was it?”
“No.” I glance at the cabin. “Can we go inside? The world has turned to shit and I need to sit down.”
John holds out his arm to the open door. “Be my guest.”
I follow Elisabeth inside while John helps Dean. The layout is luxurious, like a cabin I stayed in as a kid with Dad. Thick beams separate four rooms. A kitchen, lounge, bedroom, and a dining room. It’s sparsely decorated.
Elisabeth lights a thick candle at the center of the large round oak table, dominating the dining area. It flickers over a map like carving on the surface.
“Dean needs to rest,” John says. “Elisabeth, can you help René take him to the bedroom?”
“No, I’ll do it,” I say, running over to Dean.
John pulls out a chair from a table, indicating for me to sit. “No, Emma. We need to talk.”
“Don’t worry.” Elisabeth smiles. “We’ll take care of him.” I watch them guide Dean to the bedroom. They lay him down on a bed.
“So, what happened, and how the hell did you get here?” John asks, looking me up and down. He drops into the chair across from me. “You look pretty good for a dying Enchanter.”
“I died.” I look over my shoulder to the bedroom. “Then he did something stupid. Somehow, he brought me back to life — then the world turned to shit.”
John reaches across the table, grabbing my hand. His skin is rough. “Start at the beginning.”
13:38 GMT
NICCI BELL
THE LONDON ANTIQUARIAN | LONDON
The chandelier crystals clink together, like a rousing toast at a wedding. Amber grips the table as another low rumble gathers momentum. The floor vibrates, shaking our chairs as a puff of dust escapes from between the creaking floorboards. Then the pile of books on the table topples over, knocking Amber’s tablet over the edge. Instinctively, she sticks out a hand to catch it.
“What the hell was that?” My knuckles go white from gripping the edge of the table so tightly.
Amber restacks the books and leans her tablet against them. Her eyes open wide as she points at the emergency news broadcast flicke
ring on the screen. The video shows an aerial view of London, shot from a helicopter. A huge crater where Big Ben should be spews out a torrent of ash and lava into the River Thames. The video suddenly cuts to a man — a worried looking scientist. His talks, but there’s no sound — no audio at all. As if in response, subtitles begin to roll across the bottom of the screen.
These eruptions are a threat of global proportions — an extinction level event. These super-volcanoes will trigger another ice age. The effects are increasing at an unimaginable rate. There is no escape for any of us.
A computer animation shows a tide of flickering flames washing over the entire planet. The broadcast cuts back to the aerial view as a huge fiery ravine opens next to the Thames. Buildings collapse into it like falling dominoes.
Twickenham, Epsom, and Croydon have all fallen into the canyon.
Amber taps out a message on the tablet screen. I reach for her spare Electro-Larynx Choker, tugging it out from under the Cinderella book. There’s still charge left in the battery. I hold it out for her.
She sighs and swaps purple chokers, tossing the dead one onto the table. Then she returns to the news report on the tablet. “Mum’s hospital was in Epsom.” Tears stream down her face, betraying the lack of emotion in the angelic voice of her ELC.
“She’s not your real Mum!”
Amber stands, knocking over her chair. She backs away, pressing herself against a bookcase.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. This is all just too much to take in.” I point at the tablet. “There’s twenty-seven volcanoes now.” Twenty-fricking-seven. Appearing from nowhere. What did Dean do?
Amber grabs a book from the table. She hugs it right to her chest. “Are we going to die?”
The video on the tablet stops. It freezes, flickers for a second, and then fades into static. A message flashes on the screen.