by Alex Archer
The theatrics of an illusionist conceal a sinister truth...
In late 1700s Paris, a young but promising illusionist dabbles in the arcane art of phantasmagoria. But at his moment of greatest triumph—unveiling a magical lantern said to open a door to the Chinese spirit world—he is violently struck down by a vengeful phantom....
On assignment in London, archaeologist Annja Creed is hunting down a man who claims to have discovered the Jekyll and Hyde potion. On the trail of one curiosity, Annja finds herself pulled toward another mystery...the origin of a strange, old-fashioned projector once used by eighteenth-century illusionists. As Annja delves into its rich history, a dark past begins to emerge. And someone wants to harness the power of this cursed artifact...risking everything for the treasures it promises.
But Annja has a little magic trick of her own. One that she wields with deadly accuracy....
“Ms. Creed. Get in the car, please.”
Annja hesitated, but realized the window of opportunity to run had passed.
“If you attempt to flee, I will shoot you in the legs and pull you into the car.” The speaker was a man of medium height and Asian ancestry. He held the pistol with a steady hand.
“You’ll shoot me with the police just up the street?” Annja asked calmly.
“I will. And I’ll get away with it.” He waved the pistol. “Now, get in before I have you put in. We won’t be gentle.”
She’d escaped many traps in the past. Sometimes it was better to step into them. Annja folded herself into the backseat of the car. Another man, also Asian, sat in the front passenger seat, a pistol in his lap. Once she was seated, the two other men got back in. She was sandwiched.
At a word from the driver, the car pulled into traffic as smoothly as wax running down a candle.
Annja sat quietly between the men on either side of her. “Do you want to tell me what this is about?”
“It’s simple.” The man in the front passenger seat turned to face her. “We want the magic lantern.”
Titles in this series:
Tear of the Gods
The Oracle’s Message
Cradle of Solitude
Labyrinth
Fury’s Goddess
Magic Lantern
Destiny
Solomon’s Jar
The Spider Stone
The Chosen
Forbidden City
The Lost Scrolls
God of Thunder
Secret of the Slaves
Warrior Spirit
Serpent’s Kiss
Provenance
The Soul Stealer
Gabriel’s Horn
The Golden Elephant
Swordsman’s Legacy
Polar Quest
Eternal Journey
Sacrifice
Seeker’s Curse
Footprints
Paradox
The Spirit Banner
Sacred Ground
The Bone Conjurer
Tribal Ways
The Dragon’s Mark
Phantom Prospect
Restless Soul
False Horizon
The Other Crowd
Alex Archer
Magic Lantern
The Legend
...The English commander took Joan’s sword and raised it high.
The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.
Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.
Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are reborn...
Special thanks and acknowledgment to
Mel Odom for his contribution to this work.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Prologue
Les Carrières de Paris
Paris, France
1793
In the darkness of the tunnel, the strong smell of old death struck MicThel Toussaint like a sharp blow to the face. He barely managed to keep from turning and leaving as the hair on the back of his neck rose.
Even the Revolution sweeping through Paris these past four years hadn’t affected him this much. Possible sudden death in the streets at the hands of madmen was not the same as death of an arcane nature.
Gulping back bile, he wrapped his arm over his mouth and nose and breathed through his rough coat sleeve. He peered at the darkness outside the reach of the lantern light. Most of the others in their group—three abreast in this dank passage—complained loudly.
“Where are we?”
“What is this place?”
The sound of their voices echoed and echoed again as it got lost in the long tunnel.
Their young guide raised the lantern above his head. The orange light cascaded over the nearby cave walls, chasing the shadows. The white limestone seemed to warm from the glow, but the chill air rattled Michel. He couldn’t forget that he was now dozens of feet below Paris.
God willing, he would go home again tonight.
A fat man in expensive business attire tried to seize the lantern from the guide. Michel recognized him as one of the wealthy merchants who had convinced Michel’s editor to assign him the task of covering Anton Dutilleaux’s show. As a distraction to the conflict raging throughout the city.
The boy refused to part with the lantern. Michel didn’t know if that was out of ownership or fear of the dark, which steadfastly lay in wait.
“Give me that light, you rancid bit of flotsam,” the fat man snarled. He swung his walking stick with considerable force at the boy’s head.
Outmatched, the dirty-faced street urchin let go the lantern and retreated with one hand raised protectively, scarcely avoiding the stick. Metal gleamed in the boy’s hand, and Michel knew the urchin had drawn a knife. For a moment the reporter thought blood was about to be spilled.
“I hope the ghosts get you, you oozing pox,” the boy called belligerently, backing away. He pocketed his knife and no one except Michel seemed the wiser.
The fat man snarled an oath at the retreating boy, then shined the lantern’s beam farther ahead into the waiting catacombs.
Michel hoped the man’s cruel act didn’t curse them all. Michel believed in ghosts and curses. He never walked across a grave and always went in the opposite direction if a black cat crossed his path.
I am, he thought
miserably, without doubt the last person that should have been assigned to this story. Before he’d left the offices of the newspaper, he had made certain the editor had known that. Shaking just a little, he pulled his cloak more tightly around him.
“Dutilleaux!” the fat man roared. “I demand that you show yourself! I didn’t come all this way to be made to wait!” He paused as the thunder of his voice rolled down the throat of the tunnel. “Dutilleaux!”
“Quiet.” From out of the shadows, a man calmly asked, “What are you trying to do, Gervaise? Wake the dead? We all know that is my job.”
Anton Dutilleaux stepped from the shadows, but they didn’t easily part company with him. Rather, they lingered in his dark hair, his dark gaze and his black evening suit. Black gloves covered his long-fingered hands.
The three women in the crowd drew back with small, frightened cries.
“Pardon me, ladies. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Dutilleaux smiled disarmingly and bowed deeply.
Liar, Michel thought unkindly. You meant to scare them. He was even angrier because Dutilleaux’s appearance had scared him, as well.
“Is that your fancy, then, charlatan?” the fat man named Gervaise demanded. “Spending your nights with the dead so you can scare women and children?”
Dutilleaux smiled a second time, and it was a good smile. Michel had heard that the magician excelled with women. A number of scandalous stories had followed him through Europe.
“I didn’t mean to scare anyone,” Dutilleaux replied innocently. “I merely stayed overlong at my studies. I’ve not lost my keen fascination for the things I’m about to show you. In fact, I’d wager after I reveal them to you that you won’t soon find them far from your mind, either.”
The mocking certainty in Dutilleaux’s voice served to further unnerve Michel. He cursed himself for not having the foresight to bring a handful of candles. They would have been better than nothing should he need to…leave these others behind.
“Well, I hope to see these fascinations of yours before I grow much older,” Gervaise groused. “Otherwise, you won’t see a single franc from me.”
Michel gazed at the other men and women gathered around the fat man. Nearly all of them appeared to be his toadies and hangers-on. Gervaise didn’t attract friends as much as he did dependents. Michel was certain the merchant was paying for everyone.
“Please come this way.” Dutilleaux gestured.
“How much farther?”
“Only a little.” Without another word, Dutilleaux walked into the darkness as if he could see in it.
They all hesitated. Then Gervaise took a fresh grip on his lantern and walking stick and started forward. The crowd seemed to shrink in on itself as everyone began to move.
Swallowing his fear once more, Michel cast a last glance back the way they’d come. The urchin had disappeared. Doubtless he knew his way to the surface, but Michel wasn’t so sure he could find his way back even with the marks on the walls. He turned and followed the light down into the tunnel.
* * *
“AS YOU MAY HAVE HEARD,” Dutilleaux said as they walked, “I’ve recently returned from an extensive stay in the Orient. Shanghai, actually.”
Michel knew that because he’d written the piece on Anton Dutilleaux divulging that information. The reporter had interviewed one of Dutilleaux’s servants the previous week.
“While there, I learned much about the spirit world,” Dutilleaux said. The lantern light revealed him ducking beneath a low arch. “Do watch your heads here, please.” He continued down the steep incline. “The Chinese spirits and ghosts are quite active, you know. Have you heard of the huli jing?”
“No,” one of the women answered. Others echoed her answer.
Michel followed cautiously. His fingers trailed over the rough stone as he passed beneath the arch.
“The huli jing is a fox spirit,” Dutilleaux continued. “It takes the form of a beautiful maiden and seduces men, turning them weak or cruel. There are a number of stories about them.”
“Have you ever met a huli jing?” the woman asked with keen interest.
“No, sadly.”
“Why do you say sadly?”
“Because the amorous nature of the fox spirit is legendary.” Dutilleaux turned and smiled at his small audience. “I’m told it would have been quite the experience. I embrace challenges on the field of ardor.”
A couple of the women laughed.
Gervaise glared them into silence. “Dutilleaux, if I don’t see something soon, I’m going to—”
Dutilleaux clapped his hands. Immediately pale yellow flames jumped from his palms and raced along the walls to outline a small chamber filled with stacks of bones.
“God help us,” one of the men said.
“Witchcraft,” one of the women gasped.
Cotton-mouthed, Michel stared at the flames. For the first time in his life, he felt he was in the presence of something truly arcane.
As if entertaining in a well-appointed drawing room instead of beneath the city, Dutilleaux turned to face his audience and spread his arms wide. “Come. Don’t be afraid. I won’t let anything you see here harm you in any way.”
“Where—?” Gervaise raised the lantern and walking stick before him. “Where did you get all these skeletons?”
“He’s brought us down here to kill us,” a woman whispered. “Those are the bones of his previous victims.”
“I should think I would have been quite busy, if that were true.” Dutilleaux smiled and shook his head. “These poor souls aren’t here through any doing of mine.” He gazed at the stacks of skulls and long bones. Rib cages lay in another pile. “The church is responsible for their presence with us. Everyone interred at Saint-Nicolas-des-Champs is being moved here.” He shrugged. “The church takes care to work at night. It wouldn’t be seemly for people to see them trundling around wheelbarrows filled with skeletons, would it?”
“Dutilleaux is telling the truth,” an older man said. “I’ve talked to some of the priests. They’re emptying the graveyards so Paris can grow.”
The flames in the room continued to burn. Upon closer inspection, Michel noted that gutters had been cut into the wall for oil. Dutilleaux had simply—through some sort of sleight of hand—lit the oil.
“Did you want to talk about real-estate possibilities, gentlemen?” Dutilleaux asked. “Or did you want to talk about what I discovered in my travels?”
“Show us,” Gervaise ordered. “I’ve not got all night.”
“Don’t be so demanding,” Dutilleaux cautioned. “The spirits of China can be quite vengeful. I thought I’d already apprised you of that.”
The fat man scowled at him and his jowls quivered as he restrained what was no doubt a sharp retort.
For a time, Dutilleaux talked about his journey to the old empires of China. He mentioned the people he’d met and the places he’d seen. As he spoke, the flames depleted the oil in the gutters and the room grew gradually darker.
* * *
IT WASN’T UNTIL FULL DARK had almost returned that Michel wished Dutilleaux would hurry up his presentation. Dutilleaux was an excellent storyteller, though, and his trained orator’s voice filled the cavernous space with excitement.
“Though I saw all these things,” Dutilleaux concluded, “I saw nothing as stupendous as that which I’m about to show you.” He paced the room like a wild animal, and the darkness settled about him like a favorite cloak. “I found a way to open a gate to the Celestial Heavens. I can visit the Oriental afterlife. Tonight, I can take you with me.”
Michel leaned against the cold stone wall and waited. The room seemed colder, and he didn’t think it was his imagination.
“I don’t see a gate,” Gervaise grumbled.
“That’s because your eyes aren’t finely attuned to the spirit world. But perhaps I can help you to bring the spirit world into better focus.”
Michel’s heart thudded in his chest and blood roared in his ears.
It’s just a trick, Michel reminded himself. It’s nothing you haven’t seen in theaters.
But the unsettling sensation within him grew stronger. The smoke continued to swell till it nearly filled the room.
Then a glowing shape appeared in the haze. Indistinct at first, the image gradually grew sharper, till it revealed itself as a beautiful young Oriental woman. Dressed in a long flowing red gown and with her black hair pulled up, she hovered there in the smoke.
“My lady,” Dutilleaux greeted warmly. “I bid you welcome to the earthly realm.”
The apparition nodded slightly but did not speak.
“I crave a favor,” Dutilleaux said. “I have friends with me tonight. They wish to look upon the Celestial Heavens.”
Just a trick, Michel thought. It’s all done with lights and painted glass. No one is there.
But the woman in the smoke moved and pointed to her right. A moment later, a doorway appeared and hung in midair.
The crowd sat silently. Michel didn’t know if they were even breathing.
Slowly, ponderously, the doorway opened within the smoke. On the other side of the doorway, a beautiful land filled with flowers and trees lay waiting.
“Do you see it?” Dutilleaux asked softly. “Do you see the Celestial Heavens?”
“Yes,” a woman said in a strained voice. “I do. I see it. I can’t believe I see it, but it’s there. Right there.”
Dutilleaux basked in the glory of the moment. He turned to the crowd and bowed deeply.
“We must be careful at this point,” he told the audience. “We have to keep a wary eye on the gateway before someone—or something—manages to get through.”
“You brought us here to endanger our lives!” Gervaise shook his walking stick and the cover fell away to reveal a gleaming sword cane.
Dutilleaux raised his hands in a placating manner. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid,” Gervaise insisted. “But I won’t allow you to endanger these women.”
“I’m not endangering them. I can control the ghosts.”