Mask of Poison (Fall of Under Book 1)

by Kathryn Ann Kingsley

  Far more felt awry than the fall of the Cathedral of the Ancients. But the question remained—what precisely was wrong?

  It was with a heavy heart that he saw that whatever had jostled the building had also shattered most of the stained-glass windows in the sanctuary of the cathedral. He walked along the pews, straightening up a few as he went, to stand in the center aisle. He looked to the altar, and there at the head stood the many-armed Ancient he served.

  He served all of the Ancients in their slumber in the great pool beneath the building. But the one at the main altar was the one to whom he was joined. For he, as king, was the branch that flowed from that creature’s power and into the world around him.

  As were all the Ancients and their kings and queens. All seven of them stood as an extension of their power so that they might rest.

  An itch that wound up his spine told him the days of peace might be over. Shattered and broken glass lay scattered around the floor, glinting in the light like snowflakes. It would be beautiful, if he didn’t suspect that it represented a warning for the destruction that might have come to their world.

  Something terrible had happened. He could sense it in the air.

  And then…he saw what it was.

  There should have been seven altars stood arranged around the room. The House of Blood in white. The House of Shadows in black. The House of Flames in red. The House of Moons in green. The House of Words in purple. The House of Fate in blue. And the restored House of Dreams in its brilliant shade of turquoise.

  But there were not seven altars standing around him.

  There were eight.

  He walked slowly to the newcomer, to the statue that should not have been there. It was tattered and terrible, like its flesh was rotting from its bones. The decayed and open face that stared back at him seemed to be laughing at his horror. Laughing at his shock.

  An altar stood before it. Clothed in tattered, decayed cotton. Stained in a terrible, fetid shade of yellow.

  There was no house whose color was yellow.

  Or…there shouldn’t be.

  He stood staring into the carved visage of an Ancient, but not one that he knew. Questions flooded his mind. One after another, and each of them he could not answer.

  For the first time in many centuries…Lyon knew fear.

  And while he might not know how this had come to pass—or what had truly happened—he knew one thing for certain.

  The time of peace had come to an end.

  This meant wrack and ruin for them all.

  “My lord?” someone asked breathlessly from beside him.

  Lyon turned to look at the young man. “What is it, William?”

  The young man looked out of breath. And caught in the same fear that Lyon was experiencing, if for different reasons. “There’s—there’s a mortal girl. In the Cathedral. She had a spear, and—”

  Lyon furrowed his brow. “What? Where?”

  “I—I don’t know. I ran to get help, and she must have disappeared.”

  He sighed and rubbed his forehead. William was a sweet boy, and he meant well. But he was a moderate fool. He needed to go to the Great Hall—to speak with Ini, the Queen of Fate. He needed to deal with the fact that there was a new altar in the Cathedral. Not muck about with William and his flights of fancy. “Are you certain you are not mistaken? There are no mortals in Under. We are not due for another alignment with Earth for a few more years.”

  “I know, sir. I’m positive. I—she was dressed strangely, and—and—I promise, she was mortal.” William was tripping over his words in his nervousness.

  “Very well. I will find her.” He let his body take the shape of the white bats that he preferred and swarmed through the building. It would simply make it easier to find someone as a hundred smaller creatures, rather than one bigger one.

  There was no possible way William was correct. A mortal finding their way to Under was impossible.

  But so was a new altar.

  So was the world seemingly dropping out from beneath him.

  It would not stall him for long to do a quick search of his home.

  He caught the scent of blood with a strange tinge to it. Something odd that he couldn’t place. He focused himself in that direction and took shape just outside the room where it was the strongest. Stepping inside, he froze.

  There was a young woman standing by the window, staring out at the city beyond. She was dressed in a collection of tattered, mismatched clothing, with bits and pieces that were stitched together to form full garments. She wore a heavy leather coat with fur that had been added on, and boots that were the wrong size for her and looked as though they had been through hell and back.

  Her hair was half black, half white, split down the middle. A rusty, broken pair of blast goggles sat atop her head. A tattered, stained bag hung from one shoulder. And at her feet was a metal spear, lying amongst the scattered items in the room and the broken glass of the windowpanes.

  Lyon stepped over books from an overturned case, carefully approaching the young woman. When he drew close, he reached out and placed his hand gently on her shoulder. “Excuse me, but—”

  She whirled. Wide, dark eyes looked up at him in shock. A black line was drawn across her face from cheek to cheek in soot. Lyon blinked in surprise, for she had no other marks on her face.

  And he also blinked in surprise, because her hand was wrapped around the handle of a long knife that was now protruding from his stomach.

  Ember had reacted without thinking. She had drawn her long knife and stabbed the man who had snuck up behind her.

  By the Grandfather, he was tall. His all-white clothing stuck out against the darkness of the room and almost seemed to glow purple with the light of the bizarre and terrifying moon outside the window.

  Crimson began to bloom around the blade, turning the white fabric of his vest to red in the process.

  For one second, everything seemed to hang. She expected him to scream. To fall to the ground.

  Instead…he smiled.

  It was a kind and sympathetic expression.

  “Hello.”

  She took a step back from him, hitting the jamb of the window. There was nowhere for her to run. Nowhere for her to hide. And he had her knife! She reached down to grab her spear, but he placed a foot atop it.

  “Please, no. I’d rather not be skewered twice in one day.” His voice was quiet and deep. Calm. Nothing that had any business coming from a man who had just been stabbed.

  She scrambled back against the wall again, her heart pounding in terror. The man was handsome, but his pale skin and white hair coupled with his clothing made him resemble a statue more than a man.

  He took a step closer to her. It was then that she noticed the writing on his face—white ink in strange patterns ran down his face from hairline to jawline. His eyes were a pale blue that was almost as snow white as the rest of him.

  “Don’t—” She held out a hand to stop him from coming closer.

  He held his hands up in surrender and retreated the distance he had crossed. “I am not sure how you have come to be here. But I mean you no harm, young one. My name is Lyon. I am the lord of this place. I will not hurt you.”

  She couldn’t help but glance at knife sticking out of his stomach.

  “Ah. Yes.” He grasped the wood handle and pulled. The blade slid out of him without resistance. Crimson dripped to the carpet. She watched as he tugged a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped the knife clean before offering it back to her, handle first.

  She had stabbed him. Stabbed him! And it did nothing! She was shaking now in fear. This was far more than a simple swarm of corpses trying to kill her. This was something else entirely. With a trembling hand, she took the blade from him.

  Even though it had done nothing, she held it in front of her just in case.

  “What is your name?” Lyon was still smiling gently at her.

  “Ember…”

  “Ember. I must ask. How is
it that you are here?”

  “I—I don’t know. I fell asleep, and then I woke up here. It felt like I…I don’t know. It felt like everything—” She broke off nervously. She shouldn’t be talking to him—it—whatever Lyon was. But what else was she going to do?

  “Fell?”

  She nodded.

  “As did we all. I fear I am just as confused as you are.”

  “None of this makes sense. None of this is possible. You’re—I stabbed you.”

  “Yes, you did. And I have had far worse done to me by mortals in a fit of panic, trust me.” He smirked briefly. “One blade to the stomach is hardly notable. You are not armed with guns.”

  Ember wasn’t usually one to consider herself the type to panic. It wasn’t really a helpful emotion. Fear led to adrenaline, which was useful. But panic made for stupid decisions and rash choices. And that almost always led to death.

  She’d never panicked once in her life. She figured she was immune to the emotion.

  But right now?

  Right now, she was really considering changing her mind.

  “I need to ask—I need to ask a really weird and stupid question.” She cleared her throat, trying to sound firm. And not nearly so squeaky and afraid, even if she was.

  “Of course.”

  “This isn’t Gioll, is it?”

  His forehead creased and then smoothed again. “I do not know that name.”

  “My—my world—doesn’t have two moons. Or any city like this. Or people who can get stabbed and be fine—or statues worshipping terrible monsters.” Ember felt her fingers begin to go numb. “This isn’t my world…is it?”

  “No.” He bowed his head. “Welcome…to Under.”

  2

  Ember clutched a mug with shaking hands. It was filled with hot tea. Something she hadn’t had in a long time. Her mouth watered…especially because of the jar of honey on the tray in front of her. But she refused to drink it. She knew she shouldn’t trust the tall, pale statue of a man she had stabbed and who acted as if it were nothing more than a slap on the wrist.

  Could be poisoned. She couldn’t identify the smell. She knew every herb and every root there was on Gioll, and she didn’t recognize whatever was in the tea.

  More proof. Not like I needed more. But here we are.

  It had taken Lyon thirty minutes of quiet coaxing before she put down her knife and agreed to go anywhere with him. But as the minutes had stretched on, her hands were shaking worse, and she felt weaker and more useless. The man in front of her had brushed off a wound that should have killed him without the help of a surgeon. How could she fight someone like that?

  And on the walk away from that room to…wherever else, she learned she was significantly outnumbered. The people in the cathedral, all with strange white marks or masks, had hovered nearby and watched her pass with wide, frightened eyes.

  She had stayed silent, clutching her spear, and followed the strange man in white. Lyon didn’t seem to mean her any harm, but how could she be sure? He had led her through dark hallways. All with the strange candelabras that illuminated as they approached and extinguished themselves as they passed.

  He had brought her to a room with chairs and tables and had asked her to sit. Not knowing what else to do, she obeyed. The only time she had taken her eyes off the man was to study her surroundings. One door in. Two doors out. Two windows. They were on the second floor now, so escaping out that way might not be viable. There was no telling where the two extra doors led.

  Artwork was hung on the walls, some with flaking paint. Some had darkened with time, and the figures were barely visible in the dim lighting. Some of the frames held old documents, their pages stained with age.

  When he had opened the door again, thanked someone quietly, and walked back with a tray of food with a large, steaming teakettle on it, she hadn’t known what to do. He had poured her a mug of tea and handed it to her.

  Only then did he sit down in the chair across from her and make himself his own mug. “Apparently, we’ve had a bit of a crisis with our teacups. They are rather fragile.” He smirked down at the clay mug in his hand. “Not sure they could survive the drop.”

  She stayed silent, watching the man. She knew her eyes were still the size of saucers. She could feel her adrenaline desperately working to build back up, but it had nothing to draw on. She hadn’t eaten in a day. She hadn’t had time to hunt. Her stomach grumbled as if on command.

  “Go ahead.” He motioned to the tray. Next to the pot of honey was a small collection of what looked like…cookies, maybe? She hadn’t seen any in a long, long time. “I promise you, nothing here is poisoned.”

  “How do I know?”

  “Why would I poison you?” He sipped his tea. “I do not mean this to scare you, but if I wished you dead, you would be. I am not human, as you have likely noted.” He gestured to her mug. “Please. Eat. Drink.”

  If she needed to fight, or run, she couldn’t be a useless, shaking leaf. With a long sigh, she nodded and reached forward to put a drop of honey in the tea and snag one of the cookies. They smelled amazing, whatever they were. “Thank you.”

  “You are very welcome.”

  “Why was everyone staring at me?” She glanced at the door. If she tried to escape, she wanted to know what she was up against.

  “We do not often get mortals here in Under. And when we do, it is by very, very different means. I’m afraid they are just as frightened of what has happened as you are.”

  “You keep calling me mortal…”

  “Yes, because I am not. I have not been mortal for nearly twenty-three hundred years.”

  Ember’s eyes went wide again as she shrank back in the chair. She wanted to deny that it could be true. She wanted to tell him he was lying. But something about the look in his eyes—the strange, forlorn sadness that seemed to cling to him—made her believe him. He looked that old. He felt that old.

  It left her with only one question. “How…?”

  He smiled, his expression softening the lines of his face. “You believe me. What a relief. That will save us a great deal of time.”

  “I’m not sure I’m in the position to deny much of anything when there are moons hovering in the sky that I don’t recognize.” Ember shook her head, resisting the urge to glance away from Lyon and out the window to confirm that the impossible was still her reality. “Denying what you’re saying doesn’t fix the fact that I don’t know what’s happened, I don’t know where I am, and I…I think I’m about to have a heart attack.”

  He chuckled. Standing, he put his mug down on the coffee table in front of them and moved toward a table by one wall. Opening a cabinet in the front of it, he reached in and produced a glass decanter. Returning to his chair, he sat and, pulling the glass stopper from the stem, offered it to her.

  She might not recognize the cookies, or the tea…but she recognized the smell of alcohol. She took it without hesitation and poured some into her mug before handing it back. “Thank the old gods.”

  Lyon had a small, amused smile on his face as he took the decanter and added some to his own mug. “I am not usually one for imbibing. But…today is a particularly alarming day.”

  “You’re not the one who was dropped into a strange world.” She took a bite out of the cookie and let out a grunt. She couldn’t help it. It tasted amazing. “What is that?” She pointed at the dark lumps in the cookie.

  “Chocolate.”

  “Never heard of it.” She laughed tiredly. “I guess this world can’t be all bad.”

  “It has a great many benefits.” He sat back in his chair. The man was immensely tall. It made him look thinner than she suspected he probably was, because of the fact that he was so very long. “I fear that yours is not the only one whose day has been…eh…upended, pardon the pun.” He turned his attention to the window, his expression once more growing troubled. “I fear I should be headed to meet my peers this very moment to learn more of what has transpired.”

&n
bsp; “Why aren’t you?”

  Ice-blue eyes flicked back to her. “You are part of the equation. My peers would likely wish to meet you, and I did not think it prudent to drag you there kicking and screaming. Or worse, as my hypnotized thrall.”

  She felt the blood drain from her face. “I appreciate that, thank you…”

  He nodded once. “I will ask you to join me once you have eaten your fill and have gathered your wits.”

  “Go? To...do what, and where?”

  “The ‘what’ is surprisingly easy to answer—I suspect you will answer a great many questions about who you are and the world you mentioned to me. Gioll, was it?”

  She nodded.

  “I have never heard of Under coming into contact with any world by that name. Indeed, any other world besides one called Earth. Do you know that name?”

  “No.”

  Lyon tapped long fingers on the side of the clay mug that rested on his leg. “As to where, we will go see the Orrery at the Great Hall.”

  “I know what those words mean separately, but together they’re nonsense.” She took another bite out of the cookie, and then a third, and with a fourth, it was gone. She reached for another one. I’m pretty sure I’m willing to risk being poisoned for this stuff called chocolate.

  “The Great Hall is the home of the House of Fate.”

  She shot him a look. “Still not helping.”

  “Yes. Right. Forgive me. It’s been a long while since I’ve had to deliver ‘the lecture.’”

  “What lecture?”

  “The fact that you have been brought here from another world is not unique. The exact method and location of departure is what sets you apart. Under…collects souls. Simply put, we cannot increase our ranks by more traditional means. We cannot reproduce. So we take.”

  “You take people?” This conversation was going from bad to worse. Chocolate be damned.

  He raised his hand to try to calm her. “It is not as it sounds. Our gods—the Ancients—mark those who are meant to come with us. We gather them and induct them into our society. They become as we are.” He motioned to the marks on his face. “We are given a link to the power of the Ancients. That is what keeps us immortal.”