Undertow (The UnderCity Chronicles)

by S. M. Stelmack

  “Your trust is well-placed,” Jack said dryly.

  Lever kept her hard gray eyes on Monroe. “You, Captain, will receive a substantial increase to your budget in the face of this new danger to the public, but none of your officers are to be briefed on the specific nature of the threat until we’ve had an opportunity to study it further.”

  Jack sat back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “And who’s going to conduct this ‘study’ of yours?” Lindsay expected him to get the cold shoulder. That didn’t happen.

  “We were hoping you would, Dr. Cole. We’re interested in hiring you as a consultant, and I’ve been authorized to negotiate the terms.”

  Lindsay suppressed a gasp of pleasure; Jack looked unimpressed. “I’ll think about it and let you know.”

  Lever nodded quickly as if his answer was par for her course, and placed a business card on the corner of Monroe’s desk. “You’d be a tremendous asset to our investigation, Dr. Cole, though you should know that there’ll be a great deal of travel involved. Your study will not be limited to New York.”

  Jack frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "I'm afraid I'll only be able to discuss those details if you come on board." She gave a tight smile to Lindsay and Monroe, and without so much as a goodbye, left the office.

  Lindsay waited discreetly for a few seconds after the door shut, then turned to Jack. “Not much on charm, is she?”

  Between Lindsay and Janice, they had made it their personal mission to bring the matter to the attention of the authorities, namely the FBI. As Jack had expected, the Bureau had balked at the idea of monsters running around beneath New York. Not a day later, however, the case was taken over by the CIA. To Lever’s credit, she had not only heard them out, but conducted a complete investigation, which made him believe that this wasn't the first time or place the Agency had come across the Moles.

  Reggie, Crabbe and Seline had all been thoroughly questioned and asked to sign secrecy agreements, and at their second meeting, Lever had requested that Jack put together a complete report on the Moles, including everything from his initial suspicions of their existence eighteen years ago to Seline’s rescue. The fact that they now wanted to hire Jack meant they were taking the matter seriously, though she knew from his worry lines, it was little comfort that his enemies still roamed the blackness beneath New York, and probably numerous other cities as well.

  Lindsay placed her hand on his. “It’ll be okay.”

  He smiled at her. Lately when she said things like that, he seemed to believe her. He flipped his hand over and gave hers a hard squeeze. She caught a flick of white from the corner of her eye. Monroe was offering Lever’s card to Jack. “So what are you doing now, Cole?”

  Jack took the card. “I’m teaching a couple of freshman courses at NYU.” He ran his thumb over the CIA logo. “It’s okay for now.”

  Monroe raised a bushy eyebrow. “From sewers to the ivory towers.” His mouth twitched as he took in their joined hands. “Sometimes things work out better than expected. ”

  Don’t they just, Lindsay thought, as she and Jack walked out into the late March sunshine and down the sidewalk. The last of winter’s slush had dissolved into puddles, there was a undercurrent of warmth in the chill air, and people everywhere moved more freely and spoke more lightly. Jack fingered the sunglasses inside his jacket pocket but didn’t put them on.

  Instead he took her hand in his once more. It was now automatic with him, she’d discovered, as inevitable as the sun rising. And she had come to think that other things about them might be inevitable, too.

  “Are you going to accept the job?”

  “Maybe,” he said absently. “It depends.”

  Her shoulder nudged his. “Like where you’ll stay when you’re not traveling?” For several weeks she—and Seline who’d picked up right where she’d left off at age two of her adoration of all things Jack—had laid heavy hints about him moving in with them. Thus far he’d only stayed nights, though nearly every one of them.

  “Don’t you need to pick up Seline from the shrink?” he asked.

  Lindsay allowed him to duck her question. “Soon, and hopefully not too many more times. The psychologist from the Agency is so good she doesn’t need pills to sleep anymore. She’s planning to return to school, in fact. Start with a couple of summer courses. It's going to take time, but she’ll be fine. Not perfect but fine.”

  Jack gazed into the distance. “I guess sometimes there’re happy endings after all.”

  “If you make them happen,” Lindsay suggested.

  “Yeah, well, some take a little more work than others. I mean…” he trailed off. Lindsay tugged him to a stop, and stood before him, creating an island of two as passersby banked around them.

  “Go on.”

  Jack steadied his amber eyes on her. “I mean, this isn’t over, Linds. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I want to be with you, but…if I take this job, I’ll have to be away from you and do things, go under again and risk losing….”

  Lindsay waited.

  “I love you, Linds. I love you and I couldn’t bear to lose you. It would destroy me if anything happened to you, and those things know it. They know it would hurt me more than anything else ever could.”

  She felt his pain and his love, and knew which one she’d seek to drive away and which one she’d keep. She looked him straight in the eye. “To hell with them, Jack. I love you too much to be afraid.”

  He reached for her bright hair, tugged her close. “Then, I was wondering if you’d share your home with me.”

  Happiness burst inside her and she broke into a wide smile. “Of course, Jack. My home is your home. ”

  He paused. “How about your life?”

  She flung her arms around him, tilted her face to the sun, and to the world above and below them, shouted for all to hear that yes, yes, and of course, her life was his life.

  Thank You!

  Thank you for reading Undertow. We hope you enjoyed reading it as much as we did writing it.

  The next in the series, Midnight Everlasting, won’t be ready until late fall 2013 but we’ve got a full chapter excerpt ready for you right here, right now. Set in London, it features a tough and tender couple, and rats. We know. What could be more romantic than rats?

  After you’re done with that, read on for a peek at our romantic suspense novel, Fox Hunt. We’ve included the Amazon link to it at the end because the word is once you start, it’s hard to stop.

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  Done, and want to get on with reading? Right then. Below is the opening to Midnight Everlasting.

  Zephanie Sweetly and her client sloshed through the fetid sewer, their features concealed behind full-faced gas masks, the only illumination the halogen lights in their hands. The heavy boots of their waders became pasted to the muck which coated the bottom, making each step seem as if they were escaping an unseen grip, though the sluggish flow was little more than a foot deep.

  “Did you know this was once a river? A beautiful one at that,” Zephanie commented to her companion, her voice overloud to compensate for the mask. As proof, she aimed her light beam at a pair of iron rings set in the crumbling walls, remnants from when the passage had been a canal, boats moored at its edges.

  The arms dealer grumbled in his thick Cockney accent, “Can’t imagine a place ma’re disgusting.”

  Zephanie rolled her eyes. Typical criminal. No appreciation of the past.

  The Tyburn had once sparkled in the sun, running from the spring of Shepherd’s Well through the green, fertile farmlands that surrounded Roman Londinium. Over the centuries, Westminster Abbey had been built upon an island in its flow, Buckingham Palace constructed along its glittering shore. But as London grew into a smoking metropolis, the waterway had gradually been depleted and polluted, until at la
st nothing but a reeking trickle of effluent remained—and then even that had been swallowed by the streets.

  Today the Tyburn was just a forgotten sewer flowing through a crumbling brick tunnel, but to those in the know it had two claims to fame. The first was that it still ran alongside the royal palace, meaning that they were literally wading through the Queen’s shit. The second was their destination: the Tyburn market.

  As they slogged onward, the passage abruptly opened into a series of huge galleries, intricate brickwork curving up into grand arches of multi-hued stone. Zephanie shone her light to the left, onto worn stairs leading up.

  “I’ll go first. Mind your step, though. The way's slippery,” Zephanie cautioned, getting a grunt in response.

  At the top of the flight was an ancient oaken door, and she banged out a distinct rhythm with the butt of her light. Heavy bolts pulled back, and the door swung open enough to reveal a short woman with a gas mask, double-barrelled shotgun in hand. “Password.”

  “I think my client had enough shit in the sewers, Leona,” Zephanie replied, lifting her mask to reveal her face, one eye a startling blue, the other slate grey.

  Her aunt let the two angle in, then slammed the door shut, re-bolting it quickly.

  “Nervous about something?” Zephanie asked as she stood on a large iron grate, motioning for her client to do likewise.

  “Rawheads have been seen again. This time at Stoop’s Limit.” Leona took hold of a pressure washer and opened up on them. She operated it like a berserker, the concentrated stream drilling like pellets into Zephanie and her visitor, washing away the filth.

  “Yeah, sure,” Zephanie said, hopping free of the stinging spray, her client quick to follow. He took her lead as she set down her light and stripped off her mask and thick rubber gloves. “Like anyone even goes there. I swear people tell you stories to get a rise out of you.”

  Leona switched off the hose and pushed her mask atop her head, her thin, pale features set in disapproval, her mismatching eyes mirroring Zephanie’s. “Believe what you want, girl. They’re real. Seen them when I was your age, and not likely to ever forget.”

  The client’s ruddy face was flushed and streaked with sweat. “Dere a problem?”

  Zephanie wished her aunt had kept her gob shut. It was one thing to spout her tales around the supper table, another to trouble a client. They had a business to run. “Only if you believe in the bogeyman, sir," Zephanie answered, shooting her aunt a squelching glare. "Local ghost stories is all. Now if you take off the rest of your gear and give it to Leona here, we can get to the market proper.”

  Zephanie escorted her client into the underbelly of a nameless cathedral. The portion above ground had been abandoned mid-construction thanks to fire or war or pestilence, but its once hallowed vaults had endured—and long since been converted to a den of thieves. Bright bulbs strung across the arched ceiling illuminated rows of tables, each situated a discreet distance apart, the eyes of forgotten saints and angels looking down from faded murals upon the iniquities of the gathering.

  Her client spotted his party, and without so much as a nod, walked off to join them. Just as well. Every time his mouth opened it was to belch out a complaint. Time for her to relax and enjoy a well-earned pint.

  She wove her way between the tables, her keen ears picking up snippets of conversation. The place was neutral ground for traffickers in cocaine and heroin, smugglers of prostitutes and blood diamonds, cyber criminals and counterfeiters. All came to cut face-to-face deals at the Tyber market, the one place in London the police could never find, let alone infiltrate.

  Having crossed the chamber, she swung a leg onto a padded stool at a granite-top bar, as fancy as anything topside. It was a reflection of its bartender, everything top drawer or not at all. “All right, Matt?”

  He looked up from the drink he was mixing and flashed her a smile. “All right. Saw you coming, Zeph. Drink’s almost ready. You haven't been about for awhile . How’s uni?”

  “Grades aren’t the best,” she confessed.

  “I’m surprised,” he said. “Every moment you weren't exploring London with your mum you used to have your head in a book. What’s the problem?”

  “No problem. Have some papers I need to hand in is all,” she replied. “Really only care about grades enough to stay in the course. Teacher helped build two tube expansions and reworked the sewers near Fleet Falls. Don’t think anyone knows the story of London's underbelly better than him.”

  Matt gave her a lopsided grin. “What? Even better than a rat princess?”

  He knew she hated the term, which was exactly why he used it every chance he got. She scowled at him. “I’m sure I’ve heard a few stories he hasn't, of course, but when it comes to the big picture he’s probably forgotten more than I’ll ever know. Hoping they lead me to some new finds.”

  He slid over her drink. It was green and had an umbrella. Not the beer she'd had in mind. "St. Paddy’s Day special.”

  She took an experimental sip, rolled in her mouth, swallowed and waited. “Vodka, green crème de menthe, green Chartreuse and a bitter.”

  Matt looked defeated, then brightened. “Name the bitter.”

  “Easy. Angostura. The lemon taste gives it away.”

  Matt dropped back to looking glum.. “You and that nose of yours. You should be the one behind the bar.”

  “I can make them but I can’t move them. Need a pretty face for that.”

  “You’re pretty enough. Just need to lose the mean look and the black clothes. You’re nearly thirty. Too old to be goth, anymore.”

  Her cousin seemed to think she was lonely and in need of a man. “How about we talk about something else?”

  “Right then,” he said, starting a round of martinis. Well, that was easy. Zephanie eyed him as she drank from her special. Too easy. Matt picked out straws, fiddled with them. “Say, your teacher talk about the Rawheads?”

  There, she knew it. Zephanie gave him a withering look. “Please tell me you’re not the one feeding your mum all that rubbish. You know how she gets.”

  “It isn’t me, I swear,” he replied, hand to heart. “She likes to talk with the old tunnel tramps. They're the ones spreading the stories.”

  “Shock and horror. What better source of information than drunks and addicts? I can see why she’s so worried.”

  Matt began placing the completed martinis on a tray, as cautiously and precisely as his next words. “Some of those people go back years, Zeph. Sure they're nutters, but my mum can tell truth from gin goblins. I'm not saying there're monsters, but something's up. Be right back.” He took up the tray and headed over to a nearby table where a pair of sleazy heroin dealers were busy socializing with their big-knockered money launderer.

  The world assumed that criminals were all about guns and bloodshed, but their business dealings were typically no different than the legitimate kind. Terms were negotiated, agreements reached, and nine out of ten times nothing went wrong. When they did, the Tyburn market served as neutral ground where settlements could be made, Zephanie’s family acting as impartial arbiters when required.

  The arrangement kept violence between the factions to a minimum, and since war was expensive, the various bosses were willing to pay toshers like her handsomely for the service. The ethics of her family might be warped, but their methods worked.

  She was lifting her drink to her lips when the lights spasmed and went black. A faint stannic smell wisped around her.

  Angry protests rang out, then she heard Matt’s voice calling for calm. “Our apologies, gentlemen. Generator must have quit. We’ll have it back in a minute.”

  Several people flicked on lighters and smart phones, creating little pools of brightness in the chamber, and Zephanie rounded the bar to fetch the heavy lights stored there. Her keen vision had adjusted to the gloom, and as the odd metallic scent sharpened, she saw something from the corner of her eye.

  She turned, squinting, sure that it must be just some t
rick of shadows, but then she saw them. Dozens of them. Inhuman things that crawled from the darkness like panthers creeping up on a kill.

  Crying out a warning, she snatched up a light, igniting its powerful beam just as the screams began, the monsters leaping and slashing and biting, swarming over the shocked outlaws.

  “Matt!” she screamed as she saw her cousin bowled over by the panicked men he’d just served, then something heavy landed square on her back, slamming her to the stone floor as a barrage of bullets erupted, their roar and echoes deafening her even as the wind was squeezed from her lungs.

  Something pulled away her light and smashed it against the floor, still pinning her down as flashes of gunfire pulsed. But loud as they were, the shots couldn’t drown out the horrific cries of panic, nor the wet crunch of what sounded like a thousand hungry jaws.

  Desperately Zephanie tried to wiggle free, but whatever was sitting on her placed its claws on the back of her head, gently but firmly pressing her chin to the floor as the chaos unfolded. She couldn’t breathe with it on her, and she grasped uselessly at the ancient stone floor as spots clustered before her eyes.

  This couldn’t be happening. And yet it was.

  The Rat Queen had returned.

  * * *

  Coyle kept his breathing steady as he ran the athletic track at Ladywell arena, pounding through the drizzle that dimmed the sky. Nine laps down, one more to go, and his four kilometre morning run would be complete. Then home to begin his weight routine.

  By any standards he was in incredible shape. Every ounce of fat stripped from his once tubby body, his formerly weak muscles now hard and fluid, his heart and lungs like machines from ten years of relentless running. But neither health nor vanity fuelled his efforts. Everything he did, from his 5 a.m. workouts to his strict diet and endless martial arts classes, were due to only one thing.

  Pain.

  His pale green eyes narrowed as he came around the far bend in the track, a woman having materialized from the gray film of rain. She was all in black from her hoodie down to her jeans, even her wellies, which was a bit overmuch given it was barely raining. He didn’t slow as he approached, intending to pass her, but then she stepped onto the track.