by Dyrk Ashton
Suddenly both of them are grabbed up by powerful arms, pulled into another tunnel and carried, feet dangling behind them, faster than they could ever run themselves. The walls fall in around them.
Then they feel fresher air on their faces and are thrown forward to tumble over and over each other, flashlights flying out of their hands as the passage behind them caves in completely, buffeting them with forced air and debris.
* * *
The quakes decrease in magnitude and finally stop. Illuminated by a flashlight lying on the floor nearby, Fi coughs and pushes Zeke off of her. He rolls to lie awkwardly on his backpack like a tipped-over turtle. He realizes he still has the guitar case gripped in one hand and gently sets it down.
Mol hovers close while Fi gets to her knees, shrugs her pack. She puts a hand on Zeke’s chest. “You okay?”
He wipes the grit out of his eyes, breathing heavily. “Yeah. I think so.”
The dust is receding, sucked away by a subterranean breeze. Fi picks up the flashlight, aims it at the clogged tunnel entrance—and is confronted by an extremely familiar but entirely unexpected sight.
“Mrs. Mirskaya?”
Vest, blouse and long skirt soaking wet and covered in dirt, the stocky Russian widow has her hands firmly planted on her hips and a look of harsh disapproval on her face. “Fiona, what did you do?!”
Fi is flabbergasted. “I... What are you doing here?!”
Mrs. Mirskaya points an accusing finger. “I should ask you same thing!” She descends upon Fi, her countenance softening considerably, snatches her up and crushes her in a hug. “I am very happy to see you, moya solnishka (my little sun).”
Fi can’t get her mind wrapped around the fact that Mrs. Mirskaya is here. Mol barks in greeting.
Mrs. Mirskaya releases Fi and gives him a cursory pat on the head, “Da, da. Good Molossus,” then frowns at Zeke, lying there on his back.
“Oh,” says Fi. She helps Zeke to his feet. “Mrs. Mirskaya, this is Zeke.”
He offers a hand. “Very nice to meet you, ma’am.”
Mrs. Mirskaya crosses her arms, eyeing him critically. “I know who is Zeke.”
“What?” Fi asks. “How does everybody know about him?”
Mrs. Mirskaya shrugs. “Edgar tells me.”
Fi jerks suddenly, “Edgar!”
“He was with you?” Mrs. Mirskaya asks.
“Yes!” Fi shouts, frantically sweeping the beam of the flashlight.
They’re in a circular chamber, approximately forty feet across and five stories high. At various intervals between here and the ceiling are walkways that circle the walls and cross the chamber itself, connecting tunnels at other levels with ladders and switchback stairs of various materials and construction. The walls and domed ceiling are reinforced concrete, and from the tunnel entrances look to be several feet thick. Two other passageways lead from the bottom level, where they now stand. One angles sharply off the chamber and upward into the surrounding earth. The other dips downward.
But there’s no sign of Edgar.
Zeke retrieves the other flashlight and finds himself on the edge of a pit in the center of the room. He aims the light to reveal narrow stone steps spiraling down into dark running water twenty feet below. “Oh...”
Fi runs to the blocked passage where they entered. “Uncle?!” Mol barks, echoing her concern. She whirls on Zeke, blinding him with the flashlight. “Did you see him?!”
He shields his eyes. “I didn’t. He wasn’t behind us!”
She spins back to the rubble and screams, “Edgar!!!”
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Flowers & Figs 14
Fi screams again, her voice ringing through the tunnel hub chamber, “Uncle Edgar!!!”
Mol barks at the walkways above. There’s a clank of metal, then “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” being whistled softly. Fi trains the beam of her flashlight on the sound. A weak glow of light appears.
“I’m here, dear,” says Edgar, carrying his electric lantern down a set of iron stairs.
Mrs. Mirskaya breathes with relief and Mol barks. Fi sprints to Edgar. She doesn’t think about it, just catches him in an atypical but enthusiastic hug as he comes off the bottom step.
“Oh God,” she gasps, tears trailing through the grit on her cheeks. “Don’t do that!”
“What’s that, dear?” Edgar asks, patting her awkwardly on the back. “Become separated from you, or come back?”
Fi pulls away and smacks him on the chest, sending up a puff of dust. “Asshole,” she utters, then hugs him again, pressing her face to his jacket.
“I daresay that’s the first time you’ve ever called me such a derogatory epithet. To my face, that is.”
Fi steps back, hanging on to his sleeves. “Sorry.”
“Rubbish. It’s long overdue, if you ask me.” Then he adds tenderly, “I’m just happy to see that you are safe.” He looks over the group—Zeke, Mol, and then his eyes light on Mrs. Mirskaya. “All of you.”
He hands the lantern to Fi, removes the strap of the long bag from his shoulder and sets it on the floor, then shrugs the shield case and leans it against the wall.
“What was that?” Zeke asks. “It couldn’t have been an earthquake, could it?”
“No,” Edgar replies, taking the lantern from Fi. “Explosives. The house, I’d say. Kleron’s doing.”
Fi lowers the shirttail of her scrubs, which she’s been using to clear the wet dirt from her eyes. “They blew up the house?”
“That would be my guess,” Edgar says, lowering himself to sit against the wall.
“What about Peter?” Fi asks. “You think he’s alright?”
Zeke stops shaking dust out of his hair, ashamed of himself. Even though they were mostly destroyed already, the first thought that came to mind was, all those guitars.
Edgar answers, “Milord is always alright.”
Zeke makes a feeble attempt to remove his pack but gives up, leans back against the wall and slides into a sitting position. “Is there another way back? Should we see if he needs help?”
“If he is delayed, there’s nothing we can do to assist him, believe me. Don’t you worry, he’ll turn up.” But his eyes meet Mrs. Mirskaya’s and there’s something in his voice that isn’t entirely encouraging.
* * *
Dust settles in the deep tunnel where Peter fell, revealing a wall of stone and earth, slanting from the ceiling into a foot of water. It is completely silent.
boom... ever so slightly the stones vibrate, dust curling lazily.
boom... a few pebbles are displaced.
boom... the water ripples at the sound. The sound of pounding deep within.
* * *
Zeke has finally squirmed out of his pack and sits leaning against it next to Fi. Arms wrapped around her knees, she’s listening to Edgar and Mrs. Mirskaya converse heatedly in Russian on the other side of the chamber.
Edgar speaks Russian. More she didn’t know about her uncle. And now Mrs. Mirskaya, the eccentric babysitter and friend of the family she’s known forever, is in on it too. Whatever it is. Who are these people? Have they been lying to me my entire life? She doesn’t know what to think or believe. Could my whole life be a lie, too?
Though she understands a little of the language, they’re speaking too fast and hushed for her to make out much. She can tell he’s catching her up on the day’s events. Peter comes up a number of times and she hears the names of Kleron, Maskim Xul, Cù Sìth and Zadkiel, which surprise Mrs. Mirskaya, but nothing compared to her shock at the mention of Mahisha and Tengu-Andrealphus. Now they’re arguing about something and Mrs. Mirskaya appears to be gaining the upper hand—which isn’t at all surprising.
Mol nudges her shoulder. He’s a bloody mess, singed and lacerated, hunks of hair missing, but he isn’t bleeding anymore and doesn’t seem to be in pain. Tough old dog. Fi throws an arm over him and holds him close.
Zeke chews the last of an energy bar and takes a sip of water from a pla
stic canteen, both of which he found in his pack. “So, your uncle speaks Russian,” he says.
“Apparently,” Fi snaps back.
“You didn’t know?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.” He’d feel like the odd man out, even sorry for himself, if it wasn’t for the obvious fact he isn’t the only one having his world turned upside down. Absolutely crazy, impossible shit, all of it, and he still can’t believe most of what’s happened, but it’s got to be even worse for Fi.
They haven’t learned much more about what the hell is going on, or who or what Peter and those other—things—are, but Mrs. Mirskaya (whom Zeke doesn’t think likes him very much), told them she was also attacked. Edgar had called her at the store to let her know that something terrible had happened at the hospital, but before she could leave to meet him a bunch of wampyr and werewolves (which she called vampiry and oborotni—“Chort demony! Otvratitel’nyye sushchestva!” she’d literally spat. Fi translated, something like “Damn little demons, revolting creatures!”), stormed the place with the Cerberus brothers (‘Cerberus brothers,’ if that isn’t insane all by itself). She said she put up a hell of a fight and the store was completely demolished (something about the north wind and a flood, which Zeke didn’t quite understand), but they finally overpowered her and threw her in a van. As they were driving over a bridge, she’d busted out a door, jumped to the river below and swam all the way here. There’s evidently an underground waterway that runs through the hills here to the river and she’d followed it to the well in the center of the chamber. She’d just come out and was headed to the house when the explosions started.
Zeke would think her story was incredibly ridiculous—which it is—to swim upstream in frigid autumn water, all the way from downtown, then underwater from the river to here, wearing a long skirt, no less. But that, and the fact she knows about this place, and therefore obviously knows Peter, brings him to the conclusion that Mrs. Mirskaya is one of them. He doesn’t have any idea what they are, but whatever it is, it isn’t human.
And he can tell Fi’s grappling with the same idea.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
She offers a weak smile. “Hey.”
“Looks like you really are stuck with me for awhile.” He runs a hand through his grimy hair. “Sorry.”
Fi doesn’t know if she should laugh or cry, but there’s a tiny flutter in her stomach and her heart lightens a bit. “That’s okay, I guess.” She can’t help but smile a little more. “At least you’re not too hard to look at.”
“Thanks. I think.” He manages a smile himself. “But if I look at all like I feel right now, I’m pretty sure it’s like shit.”
“Mmm, not really.” She takes in the sight of her own filthy arms and hospital scrubs, runs a hand over her head. “Me, on the other hand. Ugh.” She proceeds to redo her ponytail, shaking the grit out of her hair as she does so.
Zeke wiggles a pinky finger in his injured ear.
“How is it?” she asks.
“Annoying is all, really. And it itches.”
She offers a sympathetic smile.
“Thanks again,” he says. “If I ever thanked you in the first place. For helping me when I was trying to be Wall Man after doing that slipping thing.”
“Don’t mention it. We’d all still be there if it hadn’t worked.”
“Well, yeah, there’s that, I guess.” He pauses, takes a breath. “And, I just want to say again how sorry I am about last night.”
Fi’s surprised he’s bringing that up now—though it is very sweet. Still, she’d rather not talk about it.
“I just—it isn’t that I—”
“It’s okay, really,” Fi cuts in, trying to ease his anxiety, and hers. “I think I’m over it now.” His face falls. “I mean, I guess it isn’t all that important, you know? Considering everything that’s happened...” She indicates around the room. “...Is still happening.”
Zeke thinks for a moment. “Or maybe it’s the most important thing.” They gaze at each other for what seems like an age. A soft white glow rises on their faces.
* * *
The shuffle of hard shoes on stone and Edgar is standing over them with his lantern, next to Mrs. Mirskaya. He looks troubled.
“Uncle,” says Fi, “are you alright?” Edgar doesn’t answer. “Should we be worried about Peter?”
“No, dear,” he replies. “Peter is quite self-sufficient, to say the least.”
Zeke saw what Peter can do, especially how he survived the swarm of locusts. Still, he said he’d be here, and if he isn’t...
Edgar pulls up his long bag and sits on it, but remains silent. Zeke and Fi exchange glances. There’s obviously something on Edgar’s mind. Mrs. Mirskaya takes a seat next to him and clears her throat with dramatic impatience, urging him to speak.
Edgar studies his hands and begins, “I deeply regret that you two have been drawn into this. Perhaps I could have been more vigilant, better prepared.” He sighs, looks up. “But there’s nothing for it now. Zeke, you’ll have to stay with us for as long as necessary to ensure your safety. As dangerous as that may be in itself, if we were to simply let you go home, or even hide you the best we could, they’d eventually find you and interrogate you for what you might know. It wouldn’t be pleasant, and you would not survive.”
As weird and frightening as that sounds, Zeke appreciates Edgar’s candor. The truth is, if given the choice, he doesn’t think he’d want to go back. Except for a crappy apartment filled with dusty old books, what do I really have to go back to? And the only person he really cares about in the whole world is right here.
“Looks like you’re not going to make your conference,” Fi says apologetically. “I know how much the assistantship meant to you.”
“There’s always next year.” He thinks about where they are and what’s happening. I hope. “That paper I was working on seems silly now anyway, writing about myths as if that’s all they really are, just made up old stories.” He gives her a small smile, then replies to Edgar, “It’s okay, I understand.”
Mrs. Mirskaya crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow at Edgar, who clears his throat uncomfortably.
“You say you understand, lad,” says Edgar, “but therein lies the rub. Neither of you do.” He folds his arms on his knees. “What would you like to know?”
Zeke is stunned. There have been a bazillion questions buzzing in his head since this whole thing started, but now, with Edgar offering to tell them anything they want to hear, it’s like he’s walked into a super-mega store with unlimited cash and is faced with row after row of endless aisles packed with cool stuff. He knows there are a ton of things he needs, but his mind is suddenly blank.
“What about your oath?” Fi asks Edgar with a touch of sarcasm.
“Technically,” he replies, “my vow of secrecy was to be kept until Peter’s recovery and return, or an event occurred of sufficient magnitude to warrant its dissolution. Mrs. Mirskaya, who took the very same vow, has convinced me both criteria have been met.”
“Oh,” says Fi. “Okay.” She’s excited by the idea of hearing the truth, but scared too. Her understanding of the world, her entire belief system, everything she’s ever known or thought she knew has been slowly crumbling away all day—her whole reality, like a protective eggshell she’s lived in her entire life, cracking around her, leaving her feeling more and more raw, naked and afraid. Maybe I don’t want to know... about Peter, and Edgar and his sword and Mrs. Mirskaya and all those creatures and what they want—but she has to.
Maybe if she starts with something easier—well, maybe not easier—but something that’s been haunting her, a ghostly specter lurking in the dark corridors of her mind—a specter named Kleron. She can still see his eyes, looking at her, into her, through her.
Zeke opens his mouth to speak, but she beats him to it. “I saw something, when we were playing that song.”
“’Brian Boru’s March?’” Zeke asks.
“Y
eah.”
He looks to Edgar. “Peter told me he wrote ‘Greensleeves.’ Is that true?
“Aye, lad, he did.”
Okay, that’s crazy, but, “Did he write ‘Brian Boru’s March’ as well?”
“No,” Fi answers for Edgar, to the surprise of all. “Kleron did.” She shoves stray hair back over ear. “But Peter was there.”
Edgar and Mrs. Mirskaya stare at her, stupefied.
Earlier, when Edgar told Mrs. Mirskaya about Fi’s visions of the baby, she’d looked at Fi in wonder and said nothing. Now she asks, “How do you know this?”
“While we were playing, Kleron was looking at me with those horrible eyes and it’s like I was suddenly there. It was so real. Sometimes I was myself, just watching, but sometimes it was like I was someone else, seeing things through their eyes, thinking what they were thinking, feeling everything they did.” She shudders.
Mrs. Mirskaya leans closer, an almost manic interest in her eyes. She takes Fi’s hands in hers. “Fiona, what did you see?”
Fi’s focus becomes distant and she speaks softly. “Monsters. Fighting with men in the rain, on the Field of Clontarf. That Kleron—guy—and an old king, Bóruma mac Cennétig—Brian Boru. Then Kleron stabbed him in a tent and there was a funeral and they played that song. Peter was there watching, some of the time, in the end. He wore a robe with a hood, and he had a beard. He wasn’t very happy.”
Mrs. Mirskaya is beaming—which is making Fi nervous. Edgar doesn’t seem quite so enthused.
Zeke speaks up, “I just saw what the guys in the room really look like, I guess.”
“You saw their Trueface,” says Edgar, though still preoccupied by Fi. “The song distracted them, relaxed their attention to cloaking themselves as human.
“Cloaking?”
Mrs. Mirskaya claps herself on the knees and grins at Edgar. She exclaims something in Russian Fi doesn’t catch.
Edgar harrumphs, “Mirskaya! Fiona may be a seer, and an empath as well, but she is not a witch!”
Fi’s mortified. “What?!”
Mrs. Mirskaya retorts to Edgar, “Not bad witch, durak (fool)!” Then to Fi she says, “Good kind! Very much good!”