by Lisa Morton
Netherworld
Book One of the
Chronicles of Diana Furnaval
By
Lisa Morton
JournalStone
San Francisco
Copyright © 2014 by Lisa Morton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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ISBN: 978-1-940161-08-2 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-940161-09-9 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-940161-26-6 (hc)
JournalStone rev. date: January 10, 2014
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013950839
Printed in the United States of America
Cover Design: Rob Grom
Cover Photograph © Shutterstock.com
Edited by: Joel Kirkpatrick
Endorsements
Netherworld is a crazily fun romp, compulsively readable and full of wit, engaging characters, and wonderfully weird supernatural twists. Lisa Morton has created dazzling entertainment that’s a great ystery, historical thriller, spy story, and horror novel all rolled into one. – David Liss, Bestselling author of The Twelfth Enchantment and The Whiskey Rebels
“Disturbing, chilling—and wonderful! Lisa Morton’s Netherworld is a tale that grips you from beginning to end. And it’s the kind of book you pick up again and again—marveling at the wonderful atmosphere created that sweeps you in—and stays and chills with you into the dark of night.” - Heather Graham, New York Times-bestselling author of Blood Red and The Night is Forever
“Hold on to your hats for this one, people. Right from the first page Lisa has you and you will not be able to stop…Lisa has delivered a book that firmly cements her place as one of the best writers working today…in any genre. With Netherworld - Book One of the Chronicles of Diana Furnaval Lisa has created a heroine for the ages that is sure to please any reader that likes grand adventure, intrigue and outright terror.” - Peter Schwotzer, Literary Mayhem
“Action, suspense and deep horror are the hallmarks of Lisa Morton’s ‘Netherworld’. The protagonist Lady Diana Furnaval is the most compelling female adventurer since Evy Carnahan of ‘The Mummy’ franchise, as she travels the world fighting an ancient evil world of monstrous beings lurking just beyond ours. Morton’s cinematic style effortlessly delivers Victorian era England, Canton, Calcutta and Los Angeles, which must mask many fine hours of research; and paces the story so that the book is near impossible to set down. You may recognize a source of your own terrors as you follow Lady Diana and her companions through challenge after terror after revelation. The best fiction is part myth, part cold reality and Netherworld doesn’t fail either of those counts – the first novel in what promises to be a series of what the Victorians would have called ‘rollicking adventures’.” – Rocky Wood, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of STEPHEN KING: A LITERARY COMPANION
Fast-paced and intriguing, Netherworld is the kind of book that you wind up reading into the night because you can’t wait to find out what happens next. It crosses genres over mystery, intrigue, and horror. Netherworld is non-stop action and its plot travels the world, and Morton seamlessly changes cultures as Diana travels. I do recommend that you read this book, especially if you are attracted to 19th Century gothic works with a modern twist. Highly original, I can’t say I have ever read anything quite like Netherworld. - Jeani Rector, The Horror Zine
Netherworld
The Western World
Chapter I
October 31, 1879
Hertfordshire, England
“I’m not entirely comfortable with this,” said Constable Quilby, as he struggled to extract his boot from a particularly noisome patch of grave mould. Even though the lowlying, thick fog hid his feet from view, Quilby grimaced at the feel of the earth pulling at his shoe, and the wet sounds the extraction made.
Lady Diana Furnaval risked opening the lantern by her side just long enough to check the time on the pocket watch she carried in the mens’ waistcoat worn beneath her riding jacket. “It’s twenty minutes until midnight, Constable. We haven’t much longer to wait.” She put the watch away, then bent to stroke the head of a small gray tabby cat that sat at her feet, its head just breaking the surface of the mist.
“That’s not what I meant,” Quilby said, resettling himself into a less damp patch of grass while casting a sideways glance at her. “It’s…well, your clothing, mum. I’ve never seen a lady dressed like—like—”
“A man, Constable, is what you’re trying to say.”
“Well…yes.”
Quilby grumbled something else Diana couldn’t make out. She glanced down at herself in the tiny shred of light coming from the lantern, and was actually rather pleased: She’d chosen suede riding pants, high boots, a cap, and even sported an ascot. With her slender figure and long auburn hair tucked loosely up under the cap, she thought she looked quite dashing. “What about George Sand?” she asked.
The constable’s bushy brows screwed together for a moment before he answered, “Can’t say as I know the chap.”
“The chap was actually a she, a Frenchwoman, died a few years ago; a writer and quite famous for dressing as a man.”
Quilby harrumphed. “Well, French, certainly…but mum, you’re English. And a Lady, at that.”
“It’s simply a matter of practicality, Constable,” she told him. “I assure you I shall return to my skirts and petticoats once we’re done with this graveyard.”
The constable seemed to accept that, if his grunt was approval.
Diana eased the lantern shade down again, and the night went black. They squatted in the damp graveyard twenty or so yards from the entrance to the church itself, Diana’s bag between them. The night was cold, of course, and because of the fog the chill clung to them like a funeral shroud. The moon had not yet risen, and the only light came from the stars overhead and a few candles left burning inside the church, spilling a weak glow out into the surroundings. All Diana could make out was the bulk of the church in front of them, the darker outlines of bare branches guarding the graveyard, and a few of the larger markers. During the day it was probably quite charming place. But at night, especially a dank Hallowe’en…well, Diana put those thoughts aside. Her nerves were quite steeled, thank you, and she had no intention of letting them weaken now.
Diana was leaning against a headstone indicating that one Abner Lindley had expired in 1793. Through even her leather gloves the stone was so cold it almost burned, and she was thankful for the one small patch of warmth provided by the cat, Mina, who crouched atop her feet. She knew Mina was scanning the darkness anxiously, perhaps already sensing the gateway they sought.
Quilby cleared his throat nervously and pulled his collar closed. “Tell me again what to expect,” he asked, even though they’d already discussed it at least a dozen times. Diana was slightly irritated to have to answer his query yet again, but she reminded herself to be grateful for Quilby’s presence; she’d needed someone from the village to act as her guide and an assistant, and stout Quilby was
the only one who’d offered his aid. His wife had initially objected (“to be out at that hour on Hallow’s Eve, Henry Quilby, and on a devil’s errand with a woman, no less!”), but apparently Quilby regarded closing a gateway to the world beyond as part of his constabulary duties.
The five pounds Diana had paid him hadn’t hurt his decision, either.
Still, Diana was growing tired of repeating herself. She stifled a sigh, pulled at her gloves to warm her fingers, then told him (sounding for all the world like a patronizing school teacher): “At exactly midnight the gateway will open and we’ll see a procession come forth from the church entrance, made up of the spirits of all those from the parish who will die during the coming year. Remember, Constable, no matter what you see during that procession you are not to move or cry out. Once it’s complete, Mina will lead us to the exact location of the gateway, which I suspect is inside the church itself. At that time I will close the gateway, and then we will return to the inn where you may indulge in ale while I shall enjoy a hot buttered rum.”
“I still don’t understand why we need—” Quilby gestured at the cat, who ignored him, “—that animal.”
Mina looked up at Quilby, her eyes flashing green even in the darkness, and she gave him one look of pure disdain before returning her attention to the church.
“Cats,” Diana answered, “are the only animals which have a connection to evil even though they remain basically good. Although I know there is a gateway in this area, I don’t know its exact location. Gateways to the netherworld are invisible, unless you’re lucky enough to actually see something coming through it. Mina will show us the exact location of the gateway after it opens.”
Quilby shivered. “I wouldn’t call anything about this lucky, mum. Take that church, for instance: I don’t fancy going in there on this night. You know who they say we’ll see preaching there—Satan himself, dressed as a monk.”
“Rubbish,” said Diana.
“But Mary Edwards, she claims to have seen him herself, she did.”
“If Mary Edwards did indeed see anything, it wasn’t Satan, but some lesser demon.”
“Oh, well, that’s reassuring,” Quilby answered with considerable sarcasm. “What if he sees us?”
“I shall handle him.”
The constable clutched at himself tightly, then asked, “You’ve done this before, haven’t you, mum? Closed one of these gateways, I mean?”
“Six already, Constable.”
“Six? Criminy. How many of these things are there?”
“There were eighty-one to begin with; now there are only seventy-five left open.”
Quilby pulled his coat tighter and stamped on the ground, trying to inject some warmth into his feet. “And you mean to seal them all, do you?”
Diana’s jaw tightened as she answered, “As many as I can. Some are more difficult than others; there’s one in China, for example, which will be quite arduous to travel to. There’s one in the middle of a Scottish loch, which may even be under water. Some—like this one—open only one night a year. But I have made it my life’s purpose to seal as many as I can, yes.”
Quilby gulped, then asked, “What happened with the ones you sealed? Did you see…things?”
Diana smiled grimly. “Oh, indeed I did, Constable.” As she remembered, she unconsciously ran the fingers of her right hand up her left wrist, caressing the skin beneath the coat and shirt. “The second one I closed, for example, was located in the woods near Little Chester. For many years it had been the site of various incidents, of hauntings and murders. Many of the people of Chester Green claimed to have seen the spirit of a young child with snow-white hair, or heard a child crying in the night.”
“Blimey,” murmured Quilby. “So what did you see, when you closed it?”
“An eight-foot tall horned demon,” replied Diana.
Quilby’s jaw dropped beneath his thick moustache. “A horned—oh, come now, Lady Furnaval, you surely can’t expect me to believe that.”
“You believe Satan appears in a monk’s frock in this church at midnight every Hallowe’en, but not that I’ve seen a horned demon?”
Quilby could only shrug, slightly abashed.
Diana said, “Believe it or not, Constable; it makes no difference to me. But I would remind you that the horned man is not unknown in these parts….”
Quilby thought for a moment. “The old sculptures, from the pagan days….”
“Yes,” Diana said, nodding, “the ancient Celts worshipped a horned entity called Cernunnos. I believe the demon I fought may have been the inspiration for the Celts’ deity.”
“You fought?” Quilby considered for a moment, then asked, “How did you…fight this thing? It sounds like it could easily tear a man apart. Oh, begging your pardon, mum—or a woman.”
“Oh, it certainly tried. It had me by one wrist and three feet off the ground at one point.”
Quilby’s eyes widened. “Sweet mercy! So how did you…?”
Diana reached into her satchel and retrieved a large, ancient-leatherbound book; brass reinforced the corners, and the volume was so weighty that Diana had to reposition it carefully to display it to Quilby. “This is The Book of Gateways, Conjurations and Banishments by Dr. Martyn Fox. It reveals the approximate location of all the netherworld gateways, and contains spells for the banishment of dark things that may come forth through them. In the case of the horned man, for instance, I discovered it was vulnerable to rowan wood, and used that to drive it back. Then I closed the gateway it had been using, so it could no longer return to our world.”
“Then, mum,” Quilby asked nervously, eyeing the cat, “are you a witch?”
Diana burst into laughter. “No, Constable, so please don’t have me burned at the stake any time soon.”
“Mum, we haven’t burned a witch in these parts in centuries!”
Quilby was quiet after that, and Diana opened the lantern to check the time again.
Two minutes until twelve.
She sealed the lantern, then felt Mina stir at her feet. The cat bristled, and Diana could just make out the hair along Mina’s back and tail; it stood straight up, stiff with tension. The little feline’s back was arched, and she made a low growling in her throat as she faced the brooding entrance to the church. Diana followed the direction of Mina’s glance, and felt her own hackles rise.
The weak flicker of the candles had given way to a distinctive blue glow now emanating from the windows of the church. It grew in radiance, outlining the headstones and tree branches, spilling over onto the slimy stones of the church walls.
Quilby stirred uncomfortably beside Diana, and uttered a low moan. “Quiet!” she whispered.
And then the spirits appeared.
They floated through the closed door of the church entrance, transparent yet solid enough to make out facial features and details of clothing. The first wore the garb of a baker; he was a man of late middle age, with portly build. He hung motionless in the air as he floated forward, his passage leaving the fog beneath him motionless. He soundlessly levitated towards them, along the path that led from the church porch through the graveyard and then out through the surrounding fence to the road.
Quilby gasped when he saw the apparition, then blurted out, “Fowles, the baker!”
Lady Furnaval made no attempt to silence him this time, since his outburst had gone unnoticed by the spirits that now included a wizened old crone, an elderly man in dressing gown, and a well-dressed woman in her forties. The silent, phosphorescent spirits proceeded down the pathway, and simply faded away into the night once they passed the gate and drifted beyond the grounds of the church. Behind them, the blue glow from the church continued, painting the grounds with unearthly luminescence.
Diana had glanced down at Mina when Quilby convulsed beside her, uttering a strangled, “No!”
She looked up, and immediately saw what had caused his distress.
The latest spirit to issue from the church was a man in a cons
table’s uniform. A man with bushy brows, a thick mustache, and a hefty midsection.
There was no question it was Quilby.
“No, it can’t—that can’t be me—!” He jumped to his feet and started forward, but Diana grabbed his arm to hold him back.
“You can’t interrupt the procession, Quilby! Just wait—”
He was panting, but held his ground, his eyes riveted to the ghostly vision of himself not five yards away now. Diana had to admit it was startling, to see the living, wide-eyed, trembling man next to her, while his bluish, transparent spirit-self floated serenely past, almost close enough to wave a hand through.
Suddenly the spirit constable stopped. A small look of confusion seemed to cross its face, and it wavered while other wraiths moved past.
“What’s it waiting for?” whispered the living Quilby.
“I believe this might be good…hold on,” counseled Diana.
After a moment, the spirit Quilby turned and, moving right through the other spirits, made its way back to the church. Quilby and Diana watched it disappear through the doorway.
“What happened?” asked Quilby. “Why did I—I mean, why did it—do that?”
“According to legend,” said Diana, “any spirit that leaves the procession and returns to the church means its owner will suffer a significant illness but recover that year. You’re not going to die, Constable.”
Quilby sagged in relief, falling nervelessly to the ground. “I won’t die…I won’t die….” he mumbled over and over.
But Diana’s attention was away from Quilby now, and centered on the church. The last of the spirits (a grotesquely fat man in his fifties) had now passed through the graveyard, and the blue glow emanating from the windows had changed, replaced by a red color, casting the surrounding graveyard into a hellish light. There was sound, now, as well—a strong voice reciting something that might have been scripture.
At Diana’s feet, Mina suddenly yowled and then darted forward. She ran to the closed church door and scratched at it, the crimson glow from beneath painting her paws red.