by James Somers
Noticeably absent was any police presence. At this late hour, I might have expected to be accosted by a local bobby, but our contact in this scheme had no doubt eliminated that possibility already. We stood beneath the column, waiting—Uriah patiently, me impatiently. I was worried for Sophia’s safety, trying to stay calm, but my temper was slowly getting the better of me.
Uriah watched as I paced, clenching and unclenching my fists. This betrayal was so outrageous that I could hardly believe it. My eyes constantly scanned the square, looking for her.
“Where is she?” I complained.
“Sir,” Uriah said, “an outburst will not help our desire to have the princess freed unharmed.”
I stopped my pacing. “Unharmed, Uriah?” I asked, raising my voice so that anyone in the square might have heard me. “If Sophia is harmed, I will burn down Greystone and every vampire within it! Where are you?” I called.
“Watching,” came the reply.
We turned toward Nelson’s Column in time to see Charlotte drop from its pinnacle. She landed lightly before us with hardly a sound. “Hello, Brody,” she said.
“Where is she?”
“Safe, for now,” Charlotte said.
I took a step forward, wanting her to know that I wasn’t afraid of her. Uriah tensed behind me. We both knew Charlotte could tear my throat out in a flash, if she wanted to, but I knew my abilities were too valuable to her right now.
“I believed you were my friend,” I said. “I trusted you. You’ve betrayed me.”
Charlotte took a step forward as well, so that our noses almost touched. “You betrayed me, when you refused to use your gifts to help my people,” she retorted.
“As I’ve said before, even if I could get through to Greystone, the risk to London is too great.”
“I don’t care about the risk to mortals anymore,” Charlotte shot back.
“I was so wrong about you,” I said. “Killing Lycean and Helios, kidnapping Sophia…how could I have been so wrong about you, Charlotte?”
“Killing Lycean?” she asked. “I didn’t kill Lycean, or Helios. Why would you say that?”
“Because they’re both dead!” I shouted. “All of it transpiring at the same time you kidnapped Sophia.”
Charlotte searched my face, trying to discern if I was lying to her. She knew me better than that.
“I had nothing to do with Lycean’s death, or Helios,” she said finally. “I take responsibility for the Lycan guards I left inside their munitions depot—weapons that were clearly meant to be used against my people—but I did nothing to their king, or his assassin.”
I studied her for a moment.
“Not me,” she said again.
I decided to believe what she was telling me. After all, this kidnapping and extortion was bad enough. She had no reason to lie about Lycean, if it was the case. Still, I did not discuss that situation any further with her. Whatever plot was in play with the king’s murder, I could not trust Charlotte anymore.
“So, how is this supposed to work?” I asked. “When do I get Sophia back?”
“When you create the portal, I will release her to you,” she said.
“Forgive me, if I don’t trust you,” I said sarcastically. “I’m not going to create anything until I see her. You have her for me in a public place where I can claim her as soon as the deed is done, and I’ll do my best to establish the portal.”
Charlotte considered the matter for a moment. “Why a public place?”
“Because I’m tired of this cloak and dagger game, and I believe those who are helping you would be less likely to cause trouble and expose themselves in a public place,” I said.
“And you will create the portal in this public place also?”
“If I can do it at all, I can open it through the wall if you want,” I said.
“Very well,” she said. “Six o’clock this evening at the Tap Room.” She turned away from me, glancing at Uriah. “Wear something nice.”
She disappeared a moment later among the shadows scattered across Trafalgar Square, while Uriah and I made our way back to my carriage and driver.
“What will happen if the vampires are released?” Uriah asked. “It could be catastrophic to the city.”
“I know, but we can’t allow them to harm Sophia,” I said. “As much as I hate to say this, I’m willing to risk the consequences in order to save her.”
“Sir,” Uriah asked, “can you establish the portal they want?”
“I’m not sure,” I replied. “But just in case, you might want to make arrangements with Redclaw. If I fail to give them what they want, we’re going to take her away from them.”
Kron sat upon Lycean’s throne in the chamber where, earlier, Brody West had been labeled a traitor to the Lycan people. The bodies of Helios and their king had been vacated in order to prepare them for the funeral pyre. The administrators had unanimously sided with Kron, and the army was willing to do whatever he required of them.
“Does Kron now reign as King of the Lycans?” The voice of Grayson Stone resounded throughout the throne room chamber.
Kron searched the cavernous room in the dim light of the oil lamps, but he appeared to still be alone. A human form moved among the large, marble pillars supporting the high stone ceiling. He could not quite make out the features. It vanished behind a column and then immediately walked out from behind a much closer pillar, as though several men were walking in the room.
“Lord Stone?” Kron called.
The man disappeared again, only to reappear again much closer. The shadowy image looked directly at Kron as it spoke again. “Will Kron lead his people to glory?”
The image shimmered then fell apart, a specter dissipating like smoke on the wind. He reappeared farther away among the pillars again. Kron had been puzzled at first, but hearing Grayson Stone’s voice made even the strangest of events seem ordinary and of no concern.
“I will lead them as their king,” Kron replied proudly, straightening upon the throne.
“Ah, but are there yet any threats to this new administration?” the ghostly form of Grayson asked, walking here and there among the marble columns.
Kron’s brow furrowed as he considered who might stand against his reign as the Lycan king. “Only our old enemy, the vampires,” he said, thinking aloud. “But they are trapped in Greystone where they can do no harm.”
“But the boy,” Grayson’s specter argued. “He might free the Breed from Greystone, given the chance. And what if he proves his innocence regarding these recent tragedies? Kron might be implicated as a murderer. Instead of a coronation, his people would tear him asunder and drag his ragged body through the streets of Tidus.”
Kron awoke to this argument, suddenly aware of his precarious situation. He thought of a plan quickly, as though it had been waiting for him to suddenly see what was already obvious.
“I will take my men into the mortal world and stalk the boy. If he has evidence, or appears to be on the verge of reopening Greystone, I will order my men to kill him.”
“You might say this was an investigation?” Grayson’s ghost asked, still meandering about the throne room.
“Yes,” Kron confirmed. “We are going after the boy to prove his guilt in the king’s death and the abduction of his daughter. “My men will see for themselves and know that my words were true.”
“Yes, but the timing is key to success,” Grayson argued. “Wouldn’t it be perfect if the boy should be found in the company of a vampire?”
Kron considered how ideal that would be. He smiled as the epiphany came to him. “The woman? She is still in London somewhere. She has been his friend. I should strike when he sees her again.”
“Then you will have all the evidence you need to convince your army of his guilt,” Grayson said. “But they must all die. Your army will be ready when they see what must be seen.”
The phantom Lord Stone disappeared completely. Only the voice remained, echoing from the chamber wa
lls. “Go quickly, before your opportunity passes. Be ready to strike down your enemies when the time is right.”
“I will,” Kron said. He waited a moment. “Lord Stone?”
There was no reply.
Demoralized
“Such a repulsive form you’ve taken, Father,” Grayson said.
He stood in the northeast Speaker’s Corner of Hyde Park in central London awaiting dawn to illuminate the city once again. Fog was light on this night, and the air quite cool. However, none of these elements disturbed Lord Stone. The cold was of little concern, he enjoyed the dark more than the light and he was on the verge of real power in the mortal world.
“Better this physical body than one of the dogs,” Lucifer said, though his voice was now that of his host. His tall form overshadowed the young man from the light of a nearby gas lamp.
“Very true,” Grayson replied.
“What news?”
“I have done as you desired,” Grayson reported. “The dog usurper is convinced of his need to destroy the boy. He will assemble his best soldiers for the task and strike at the time we have chosen.”
“Well.”
Grayson looked around as the light began to reveal aspects of the city hidden for hours by the night. “I will miss London,” he said.
“A waning power in the world,” Lucifer said. “The country where you will establish yourself is still young and ripe for our influence. We will shape it, as I have many others. But it will be more powerful than them all.”
Grayson bowed himself in deference to his father.
“Go now and rest your mortal form,” Lucifer instructed. “This evening’s events will set in motion the destruction of this wretched city and culminate in the downfall of her empire. With Britain left in chaotic ruin, our new empire will rise to take possession of this mortal world.”
“And you?” Grayson asked.
He smiled down at the young man, scenting the air for human prey. “I will take advantage of the pleasures of this mortal form and feed.”
I sat at my desk in the spacious library of my home. The most recent volume of Oliver’s journals sat on the desktop before me, its cover still closed. A complete volume had filled itself, since I last read of Oliver’s situation in Tartarus. This latest had been without title the night before. Now it bore the next numeral in the sequence.
I dreaded to look within, but I had not been able to sleep for worrying about Sophia’s predicament and all that had recently transpired with the attack upon Tidus and the resulting blame placed upon me. I missed Oliver more than ever, and looking in the journals was as close as I could come to fellowship with the man now. Nevertheless, it was only misery that I should find there in the prison where Oliver had confined himself indefinitely trying to save the citizens of London from Mr. Black.
Deciding I should risk what I might find, I waved the edge of my left hand over the volume, as though turning an invisible page. The book responded by opening itself to the very place where the script was currently in progress, written upon the new page by an unseen hand. I peered down, following the flowing script, and was drawn within where I should experience what predicament Oliver was now in.
I appeared upon a desolate road that wound its way through a shanty town. The smell of feces and sweat immediately assaulted me, as my shoes pressed into the muddy thoroughfare. The air was stiflingly humid, to the point of seeming foggy. Any sunlight remained hidden behind an oppressive blanket of gray cloud cover overhead.
Oliver was immediately visible, staggering down the road, wearing rags that hung like moss from his lanky frame. I gasped when I saw my friend. I slogged through the mire to get to him, but, as always, Oliver never regarded my presence.
Looking into the eyes of my friend and benefactor, I found Oliver’s expression full of despair. He looked as though he had been weeping for hours, until tears would no longer come. He reeked of body odor.
“What has happened to you, my friend?” I said, more to myself than Oliver.
Oliver examined his own appearance. Disgusted by what he found, he attempted to transform his rags into something more suitable. For a moment, he was dressed in brown trousers and a light button-down shirt. He became neatly groomed, and yet he waited to seem happy about the change.
Within seconds, while I observed, Oliver’s condition reverted back to the sad state it had been before. His countenance fell, though he seemed to have anticipated this would be the case. He began his trek down the road again, weary, perplexed, crying out in prayer.
“Father in Heaven,” he said, “please do not forsake me in this place.”
He carried on, as drizzling rain began to fall. The temperature fell, taking conditions from this extreme of unpleasantness to one contrary at the other end of the spectrum. Oliver, sweaty and laboring to breathe in the humidity before, now shivered in the gloomy cold rain that fell everywhere.
From the distant reaches of this realm, I heard the cackling laughter of the angel, Mr. Black. He had pursued Oliver relentlessly when last I visited my friend’s journal experiences. Now, the angel resorted to torment of a different nature—one that seemed more likely to tear him apart through discouragement, discomfort and hopelessness.
I backed away from my anchor in Tartarus, allowing Oliver to wander out of my sight. I was drawn out of the pages of the journal and left sitting in my chair at my desk. Tears escaped down my cheeks, as pity for my friend overwhelmed me.
“I must learn how I can save you from that place, Oliver,” I said. “Father in Heaven, please show me a way to rescue him.”
I closed the journal and stared out the window as the dawning sun broke over Hampstead Heath. Only the ticking of a wall clock invaded the quiet, reminding me that my troubles would continue to come—it was only a matter of time. There was no turning back from the course the Lord had set me upon.
Tom paused at the crack in the wall, examining the room ahead cautiously. Ample light filtered into the spacious storage room from a single skylight window above. The contents of the room were only partially visible because of a stack of wooden crates situated in front of the crack in the stone. To get into the room, Tom would have to crawl on his belly.
Instead, he reduced his size with a transformation, becoming a squirrel. He was still invisible when he bounded through into the storage room beyond. Tom bounced from the side of the crate back to the wall then back higher to sit upon the crate. From this vantage point, he surveyed the room.
Giants were generally twice the size of humans, thick-headed often and unwashed always. Tom tried not to scent the air too often. The reek that came back to him made him desire the frigid outside, wandering through the wilderness with nothing to eat.
The room was large by his standards, though the giants likely did not consider it so. A number of very large crates lined the walls on all four sides. Shelves and smaller boxes sat interspersed among the rest. A clear path, large enough for two giants, ran throughout the room, allowing ample access to all of the supplies.
Tom paused, waiting for something to happen, anything. Nothing did. He became visible in order to signal the others that it was safe to come through. Thorn peered out from the crack. He acknowledged Tom’s signal and then led the others through—all of them crawling low in their human forms. As the brawniest Lycan, Thorn had the most difficulty. However, he seemed well-practiced, managing to squeeze through despite his muscular frame.
“The dried meats are kept at the far end,” Thorn said, as he walked past Tom the squirrel. “What you can carry is what you will eat, so you might want to change form again.”
The other Lycans, all of them muscular, wiry men, followed Thorn into the room. Tom bounded to the floor and then changed back to himself. The odor of giant was so pungent, even in human form, that it made breathing an awful experience. Tom began to breathe through his mouth instead, finding this the only way to get any relief.
Thorn paused ahead of the group, listening. Everyone else stopped in the
ir tracks, adding their senses to Thorn’s. He and Tom looked at one another—Tom wondering what was wrong, while Thorn seemed puzzled.
The Lycan’s eyes went wide suddenly. “Turn back!”
But it was too late.
Giants sprang forth from the big crates lining the sides of the room. With clubs in hand, they went immediately to swinging them at Thorn’s group. Lycans transformed and lunged at their huge attackers. Some were able to get through, while others were knocked to the ground by the giant clubs.
Tom turned back to the crack, only to find a giant smashing through the crate he had just been sitting upon in his squirrel form. He had no time for thinking up strategies. He waved his hand at the lumbering Goliath, showering flashes of light before his eyes while closing his own. The giant stumbled past him into a shelf full of goods.
The shelf came crashing down upon Tom, as he realized too late how his maneuver had backfired. Heavy boxes of dried goods, meant to be carried by giants, fell upon him, driving him into the floor beneath their weight. He cursed his own stupidity, before something hit him in the head and stole consciousness away.
Waking
I could not remember when sleep finally took me. However, I retained a vague memory of Uriah rousing me enough to see me to my bedchamber. My dreams were fitful at times and, strangely, seemed to fix upon events totally unrelated to the problems I was currently facing.
My father had been working in his office at the church where he had served as the pastor since before I was born. I was present also, watching him search the scriptures with wire-rimmed spectacles perched near the end of his nose. He absently moved them back onto the bridge of his nose, only to have them slide back down a moment later.
For as long as I could remember, I had wanted to be like my father. He had always been kind to those around him, even if that kindness was not always appreciated. He made me laugh often and my mother smile.