And there I thought this would be the easy part.
“It’s a cave,” Damien said, “How did we get into a cave?”
“Ze Underworld is cavernous. Zat is why it iz called ze Underworld.”
“Makes a change from everything being so figurative,” Frank said.
I reached inside my backpack which, thanks to it being waterproof, had succeeded in keeping the majority of its contents dry, and fished out a number of candles. I handed one to Collette, to Damien, and to Frank. Then, with mine held in my own hands, I whispered the word fire, and a lick of flame grew from the wick of each candle. The light barely caressed the cavernous, but we could at least see each other in the flickering glow.
That’s when I noticed the only opening leading out of this particular cavern. It was a dark tunnel devoid of features and wind, and beyond it I thought I heard someone moan. Or maybe not. It could have just as easily been a trick of the imagination, or it could be that a phantom wind actually was flowing somewhere nearby, whispering through the cracks in the rock.
“That’s where we have to go?” I asked.
Collette nodded.
“Do we have any way of tracking this shadow of yours?” Damien asked.
“We don’t, but I suspect the locals can help us.”
I was almost afraid to venture into the conversation, but I had to. “What locals?” I asked.
“Ze ghosts zat call zis place home.”
Chapter Fourteen
To say that the Underworld was a dark and gloomy place would be like calling the sun dim. I led the group through the dark aided by the light from my candle, but even I couldn’t see more than my hand in front of my face. The total blackness around me swallowed everything; light, sound, heat. It was like a hungry animal, eating itself for lack of having anything else. Although it did have something else, now.
It had us.
And with every step I took—squeezing through narrow, rocky passages where the edges jutted out to clip the skin—it was as if I could feel the animal nibbling away at my extremities. Fingers. Toes. All numb. Collette wasn’t kidding about us only having twelve hours down here. The Underworld was completely inhospitable to the living. But I didn’t think we would even last that long by the rate at which I was starting to shake.
“Damien,” I said, “Any chance you could hit us with that warm magick again?”
“I’m trying,” he said, “But using magick in here is tricky. I can’t feel Helios down here.”
“And you will not,” Collette said. “As I said, ze Underworld takes. It will take your magick, your heat, and zen your life.”
“I bet you’re the kind of kid who didn’t pay attention in class,” Frank said to Damien. He was shaking his head in disapproval; not that I could see him all that well.
“I paid attention plenty.”
“Then why didn’t you pay attention to our French teacher when she warned you about the perils of the Underworld?”
“It isn’t that I wasn’t paying attention, I just thought I’d try anyway. See for myself.”
“Zere is nothing wrong with zat,” Collette said, “You may never set foot in ze Underworld again. I suggest you learn as much as you can before we have to leave again.”
“Guys,” I said, interrupting the conversation with a hushing sound.
In the dark ahead of us, something was stirring. I thought I could hear a bag being dragged across the floor, or maybe it was a thermal vent blowing out warm steam. Heat! But after what Collette just said, it probably wasn’t something nice.
“What is it?” Collette asked. She had come up beside me. The tunnel was wide enough for us to walk in twos, now.
“I heard something,” I said.
“You will hear many things in here,” she said. She took a few steps in front of me and turned. In the pale glow of the candle she seemed almost ghostlike—ashen grey and sunken—but her posture was strong and she didn’t seem weak. “You cannot always trust your senses.”
“So, what can I trust?”
“Instinct.”
Collette turned and walked in the direction of the sound. I followed, mouth dry with anticipation, but the natural tunnel went on and on and on, and we encountered no one along the way. No openings where someone could have hidden, no pitfalls, no cliffs, and no steam vents either. I couldn’t understand any of it.
When the Greeks talked about the Underworld they never made it sound so labyrinthine. I guess I kinda pictured tall torches blazing with grey fire and shadowy figures who we could ask questions of in exchange for trinkets from the outside world. But the Underworld was nothing like I had imagined it, and somehow every bit as much as I thought it would be.
If that made any sense.
But as we dove deeper into the Underworld, I started to notice things that did make sense. Somehow, the jagged tunnel we had been walking through had transformed into a kind of mine shaft without our noticing.
Wooden support beams, crooked and bent at right angles, were propped up against the walls and ceiling. I ran my hand along one piece of wood. It was cold to the touch but smooth and unbroken. I realized then that the rough angles were so by design and not as a result of decay over time. Who put them here? Did they happen on their own? And why did the Underworld need support beams?
“Look at this,” Frank said.
“Frank, I don’t think this is the time to stop and check out the sights,” I said.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Look at where we are, Amber. Take it in for a moment—we probably won’t come here ever again.”
I guessed he had a point, so I approached. There, etched into the wooden support, were the numbers 1776 and the letters D. Randscom.
“D. Randscom,” I said, “Seventeen, seventy six. Date of construction, maybe?”
“Maybe,” Frank said, “But a date of death is more likely.”
“Does the name sound familiar to anyone? The D. could stand for David or Devon.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Damien said, but as we moved along the tunnel paying close attention to the wood on the walls and ceilings we started to notice more names.
Each name had a first initial and a family name to it, as well as a date. They were roughly written, too, as if someone had carved them in with a Stanley knife. We went with the assumption that the numbers carved into the wood were dates, and with that in mind 1776 was the oldest date we came across. Many years showed up more than once, but there weren’t enough names and dates to imply that every person who had died in the Raven’s Glen area had an entry written into the wood.
It seemed more likely that these were people who ended up in the Underworld, somehow. Though the reason why a soul may end up in such a dark, dank place still escaped me. Were these souls with unfinished business? Were they the victims of sudden deaths, or violent ones? Suicides? Murders? Accidents? Why did some spirits get caught in the gravity of the Underworld while others soared above it?
The questions were relentless. I could sense the conveyer belt starting up again. Any moment now, a torrent of question bags would come flowing at me and I would struggle to find the one I could answer in the moment. The others would drift and return, waiting to be picked up.
At least, in the excitement, I wasn’t so much bothered by the cold anymore.
“Over here,” Collette said. She was ahead of us, now; only a faint glow in the sea of black. “We have arrived.”
I approached Collette and made the turn she was standing by without hesitation, but I wasn’t ready for what I saw beyond it.
The tunnel opened up into a great cavern which wasn’t pitch black and soundless. Here, I could hear voices and sounds. Music? I could see lights, too. Pale gaslights hanging on poles along what I could only describe as a street. On either side of it, buildings stood. Buildings. There I was, marveling at the mineshaft I had just come from, when only yards away an opening to a brand new world stood waiting.
I stepped into the street followed by Damien, Fr
ank and Collette. Ahead of me I could see people moving around, Crossing from one side of the street to the other. They looked busy, too. Some were shoving crates around, others were just idling. One man stood with his back to a building, flipping a coin with one hand and checking a pocket watch chained to his waistcoat with the other. He glanced toward me as I walked past, but then he looked away.
The buildings around us had all seen better days, but they were intact and standing. I thought we had crossed into a western movie, and by the crooked brown and beige buildings surrounding us we would have been excused for believing such. But the inhabitants here seemed to come from all walks of life; and boy if there was life down here.
There were people living in the Underworld.
“Frank?” I asked, “Did you read about anything like this in that book you had?”
“Witch, don’t you think I would be a little more talkative if I had?”
“Missington,” Damien said.
I turned to him. He was reading a plaque stuck to the side of a building. “What’s that?” I asked.
“The name of the town. Missington, population seventy seven.”
“What of it?” said the guy with the pocket watch.
“Nothing,” Damien said.
“New here?”
“Sorta.”
“You look fresh.” The man pushed himself from off the wall and stepped across the wooden porch, boots thumping on the ground as he came. He sniffed the air. “Smell fresh too. Won’t last long in here.”
“We aren’t looking to stay.”
“Jus’ passin’ through?” His voice was hoarse and forced, and he had a scar down his left cheek.
“Yes,” I said, “Actually, maybe you could help. I’m looking for someone.”
“Everyone’s looking for someone down here,” said the man.
“I’m looking for someone who doesn’t belong here.”
The man cocked an eyebrow. “You sure as hell don’t look like you belong here, red.”
The muscles in my throat tensed up. “Is there a sheriff around here, or someone who might know who comes in and out of town?”
The man shook his head. “Last sheriff we saw come through here didn’t last long.” He made a cutthroat gesture with his thumb against his neck. “If you get my meaning. Your best bet is to try the Saloon. Barman is the only one around here who keeps his eyes and ears peeled. Rest of us jus’ mind our own business.”
“Right, well, thank you.”
The man in the waistcoat took a few steps back, rested against the wall, and checked his pocket watch again. He never said another word.
Damien joined us in the middle of the stony street and as the strange world moved around us—watching us with suspicious eyes—we thought, considered, and decided.
“I’m going to the Saloon,” I said, “And I want to go in alone.”
“Alone?” Frank said, “Why in the world would you want to do that?”
“Because we’re attracting attention as a group. We need to split up and spread out.”
“Amber is right,” Collette said, “Ze dead are slow to notice things and react, but they will react eventually. We must be gone before then.”
“Alright,” Frank said, “So we split up. We’ll ask around out here, but when you’re done in there you come right out.”
I nodded. “I will.”
Collette took my hand and said, “Be careful in there, Amber. I sense intelligence in zat Saloon. Zey will know you are living.”
I glanced at the building on the corner of the street. Light was spilling out onto the street from inside and a soft piano tone was playing.
“I can handle it,” I lied.
I didn’t know how hard of a time I would have at using my magick if I got into trouble, but I hadn’t come this far into a dead world to play it safe and I didn’t want to spend one second longer than I had to in it.
It was all or nothing, now.
Chapter Fifteen
I strode across the street and entered the Saloon like I was born to, but as I crossed the threshold of the swinging door I found my composure sapped away in one mighty gasp. I guess I didn’t know what I expected to see, coming in to a place like this. Everyone here was dead. How much of a ruckus could they cause? But when I stepped inside, the ruckus hit me hard in the gut like a hot shot of tequila.
A piano was playing in the corner of the room by itself; a little southern ditty I didn’t recognize but one which had many of the patrons dancing. A poker game, wreathed in a mantle of cigar smoke, was taking place in the darkest corner of the Saloon; all hard faces, hats and cards. On the first floor banister a number of women in colorful dresses waved and whistled at the drunks downstairs; and they all wanted a moment or two alone with them—any of them.
I had seen student bars gloomier than this on a Friday night.
I made my way through the tangle of tables and chairs, careful not to bump into anyone, not to make eye contact, not to—
“Psst! Red!” A voice caught my attention. I stopped, turned, looked. The man was drunk off his face, was rocking weeks’ worth of untrimmed beard, a wife-beater, and stank of… Gods, I didn’t know what he stank of, but it made me want to cry. “Yeah, you,” he said, drooling over his denim jeans. “Why don’t you come on over here and give ol’ Huntley a kiss?”
“No thanks,” I said.
“C’mon. Pretty girl like you could make any man’s day. You’re prettier than any of the girls in here, you know that?”
“I’m not interested.”
“I’ll pay!” he said, wiping the spittle from his mouth with the back of his hairy hand. “I’ve got silver!”
“Again, no.”
Huntley scowled and reached for my hand. I went to twist away from him but was too slow! He grabbed me and pulled me closer to his reeking body. “Huntley don’t like being refused,” he said.
My heart jump started and kicked into high gear. My body trembled, but not out of fear. It was the Power. I stared Huntley down and his face changed color, if that was at all possible. He released me and backed away, as did two of his friends who had been watching the whole thing.
“You’re… you’re—”
A pulse of magick shot out of my chest and into his, sending him sprawling to the ground on his ass. The music and the chatter stopped. His friends looked on, wide-eyed, but neither of them said a word. Then the piano resumed, and the chatter slowly came back into being. I turned away from the men and headed toward the bar, content, but now more alert than ever.
The bar was clean and clear of filth and drunks so I found a spot and sat down. Looking over my shoulder I could see that the specter of cigar and cigarette smoke was hovering and casting a hazy mantle about the Saloon, but it was only a curtain of smoke, it seemed to have a nucleus; a central, moving wisp floating around with a kind of intelligence I couldn’t comprehend. Was the cloud a ghost too, or was it something else? The nucleus weaved in and out of the spaces between people and things, encircling them, caressing them—claiming them.
Come in, it would have said if it had a mouth to speak with, Join the party.
If that was a ghost, it was the creepiest thing I had ever laid eyes on. If it wasn’t a ghost, well, that opened up a whole other can of worms. And somehow I didn’t think I could exactly walk up to it and ask it what it was. I didn’t exactly know the etiquette around here and I didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself on account of my status as one of the living.
“What can I getcha?” said the barman.
I shook my head and turned to face him. He was tall, muscular at the chest and arms, and he had a handlebar moustache. But his attire wasn’t altogether old fashioned. It was faded to hell, sure, but he was wearing a Metallica shirt and a pair of dark Levis. And I was pretty sure he was packing a revolver in the holster by his right hip.
“Me? Uh, what is there to drink?”
The barman turned and gestured to the wall at his back. It was covered
in bottles with no tags on them, only liquids in various shades of brown and grey. “Take your pick, though for you I’d recommend a little fire water to take the edge off.”
“Fire water?” Alcohol. “I, no thanks, actually I’m here looking for someone.”
“Everyone’s looking for someone here.”
Second time someone had said that. “Yeah, I’ve heard. Anyway, I—”
“Listen, you either order something or you can see yourself out. I don’t give stuff away for free.”
I tapped my back pocket, hoping, slipped my hand into it and fished out a still wet ten dollar bill. On the one hand I was buzzing to have found money in a pair of jeans I hadn’t worn in a long time. On the other, the note was ruined–and I didn’t think to bring my wallet with me into the Underworld.
The barman eyed up the ten dollar bill from the other side of the bar and sighed deeply.
“This is all I’ve got,” I said.
“Doesn’t look legit to me.”
“It’s real.”
“Lemme see here,” said the barman, and he snatched the sloshy paper from my fingers. “Who is this, on the bill?”
“Hamilton.”
“Who?”
“Alexander Hamilton. This is a current ten dollar bill.”
The barman slapped the bill on the counter and slid it my way again. “Living currency is no good here,” he said, “I’m lookin’ for dead currency, old notes. Or, failing that, a day of your life.”
“A day?”
I was starting to learn that the dead had a kind of sixth sense. They could tell I was alive just by looking at me. It couldn’t have been a physical thing given that I was about as pale as anyone else in the bar. It had to be mystical.
“That’s how much a drink down here is worth,” the barman said, leaning over the bar. “That’s how much my time is worth.”
The Amber Lee Boxed Set Page 58