“Hey! Hey! What the fuck is going on?”
No one stopped. Figures. More crashes and shouts echoed in the room and I struggled again, sliding on the cold polished stone I had been placed on. Before I could stop myself, I felt myself falling through the air towards the slate floor.
I landed hard on my side, crying out as my elbow struck the stone stairs at the side of the altar sharply.
I closed my eyes and lay there for a moment, trying to breathe normally as my heart hammered in my chest. Pain radiated from my elbow. It better not be broken. More shouting, more booted feet running through the room, and still no one coming my way. What the hell kind of raid was this? I opened my eyes, furious as my would-be rescuers left the room. How many of them were there anyway?
Oh, god.
I was face to face with the old man in tweed. His open, unseeing eyes stared into mine. His neck was definitely broken, and there was dried blood at the edge of his nostrils. There was sand stuck to his eyeball. As though someone with dirty fingers had reached out and touched them as he’d died. Screams echoed in my ears and it took me a minute to realize that the bloodcurdling sounds I heard were coming from my own mouth.
Strong hands encased in dark gloves pulled me upright and carried me away, but my eyes were fixed on the prone figure on the slate tiles. The linen bindings were cut from my body as I was strapped to a gurney and an oxygen mask was fixed over my face. A paramedic holding a hypodermic needle glared at me as he leaned forward and I tried to pull away, but the straps prevented my escape. The needle plunged into my arm and everything blurred and faded to black.
If you’d asked me yesterday what kept me up at night, I would have mumbled something about my upcoming thesis presentation, or the pile of books on my desk that were all overdue, or the post-it notes that covered my laptop reminding me to renew my student visa.
A year at King’s College had seemed like the perfect boost to my academic career, and when I was accepted to the exchange program, there was nothing that could keep me from jumping on a plane and getting the hell out of Chicago.
I’d spent every last penny of my savings and signed up for a new credit card to keep me afloat overseas… it was kind of working, but in a starving student kind of way. It was a good thing that I had developed a kind of dependence on microwaved rice and saltine crackers. The last time I’d eaten a proper meal had been over Christmas, and that always came with a side dish of ‘what are you going to do with this degree anyway?’ My family wasn’t exactly academically focused, and as the first Cameron to get my shit together enough to scramble through college and into the University of Chicago on the back of grants and scholarships, I only had to work a few days a week at the University book store, which wasn’t totally horrible. At least not all the time.
So, here I was, an American student in London trying her best not to let on that I was completely terrified and about three hours away from a nervous breakdown at any given moment. Pretty normal, right? I had no real friends outside of my study groups, no distant relatives to touch base or spend holidays with, and a roommate that I barely saw.
In short, it was the perfect environment to work on my thesis and really throw myself into my studies. I lived in the library, slept with my face on my books and took the tube late at night to clear my head.
I was a people watcher, and there was nothing better than riding the tube to get the best possible view of what really made London what it was, and what it had been for thousands of years. Plus, I wasn’t much of a drinker, and drunk people were hilarious. College drinking is usually a sport, but here… it was a national pastime. I could have done a thesis on the socio-political importance of pubs and drinking in British society and it would have been the easiest research I’d ever done in my life.
I’d been on one of my midnight tube rides, listening to a group of girls tell me all about their enthusiastic stalking of a certain ginger haired singer. They’d followed him to three different pubs before realizing that he was just some bloke from Manchester whose only claim to fame was this one time that he’d vomited his fish and chips on the shiny boots of a Tower guard.
Everything was normal. Well, normal for a Tuesday night on the Circle Line. People jostled and pushed their way onto the train. Shouting football chants, arguing rugby scores… a colorful, confusing grouping of red-faced hooligans and college co-eds, mixed in with night shift workers, nurses and medical students. I took the jostling with good humor, I’d learned that quickly.
In Chicago I’d been quick to snap at anyone who touched me unexpectedly, but here it was different. I still wasn’t sure why, but it didn’t bother me quite as much. Maybe it was the murmured apologies and the embarrassed eye contact that accompanied each jostle, as though they were surprised to discover that there was another person sharing the space they were using on their commute. It was endearing in a strange way, but it was no way to go through life. Maybe it was just my American sensibilities coming through, but that shit would never fly in New York. Push or be pushed. Move or be moved.
When the train pulled into Liverpool Street I made a last minute decision to jump over to the Metropolitan Line towards Wembly. As I made my way against the flow of traffic, my mind was on the thesis paper sitting on my desk. I was supposed to have a meeting with my academic advisor tomorrow morning, and I was not looking forward to it.
Someone crashed into me, spinning me around as a group of giggling teenagers shouted an apology. I was never going to get the hang of the whole ‘driving on the wrong side of the road’ thing anyway, so it was probably my own fault. But then it happened again, this time hard enough to make me cry out in surprise. I stumbled and almost fell, catching myself against the wall.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, how rude of me!” A woman’s voice, frantic and worried, “here, let me help you—” Hands gripped my arm, helping me to get my balance again. I shook my head, trying to brush them off.
“Really, it’s okay. Just an accident. Don’t worry about it…” I was fine, just a little hazy. Had I really hit the wall that hard? I wasn’t that clumsy. Come to think of it, I wasn’t clumsy at all. The woman held me up, her grip tight on my elbow.
“Oh, no, I insist. It was all my fault, dear,” the woman’s voice was syrupy sweet in my ear and I tried to pull my arm away, but her hand tightened. As I lurched away, I felt a sharp pain in the side of my neck. I slapped my hand over the spot, and then the concrete rushed towards my face.
This is me. Unconscious.
Keeper of the Flame: Twice Cursed
available in April 2018.
About the Author
Meredith Medina is an emerging author of urban fantasy and paranormal thrillers with a twist of ancient magic and mythology. She lives in the Upside Down (New Zealand) in a little witchy cottage by the sea with her husband and three cats, including a little Suki of her own.
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