The World Beneath (The Mira Brand Adventures Book 1)

by Robert J. Crane

  I joined the queue filtering onto the stairs.

  My fingers trailed the rail. The paint was red, but had gone dull, and was full of chips.

  Again, I thought of Burbondrer.

  Midway up, the lad beside me cleared his throat. “Anywhere you can, err, recommend?” His accent was American, although I couldn’t pinpoint where; east coast, west, it was all the same to me. Only the south I recognized, for that stereotypical Texan twang, and I doubted that was remotely as pronounced among its peoples as TV and movies had led me to believe.

  I glanced across, eyebrows knitting. “Me?”

  He nodded, adjusting a thin pair of spectacles that were way out of style; the sort I’d expect to see on someone’s grandparents, maybe parents, but only if they were on the older side.

  “To visit,” he clarified nervously.

  “Uh … it’s London.”

  “Well sure, I know that. Anywhere in particular?”

  I blanched. Eyed the woman in front of me as though she might help out. Just the back of her head answered.

  “Me?” I repeated.

  He laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. It was awkward—like he’d realized what a social klutz he’d lumbered himself with for travel advice.

  “Err … well, I guess there’s the London Eye …” We reached the top of the staircase. Light came from the end of a short walk that rose to another wide set of steps, then exited on the street. I ambled slowly, racking my brains, and finding they didn’t particularly want to be racked. “Tower of London … um … oh, Buckingham Palace, I guess that if you want to see where the Queen lives, or whatever …the British Museum … uh … .”

  Damn it. Why had every place in London utterly deserted me? All I had were a list of clichés—which were probably exactly the same as his own, whoever he was.

  Up the steps, and on the street. Sure enough, clear skies, save the odd streak of cloud. As ever, London was positively heaving with people—most of them coming this way, making for the very station we now stood obstructing.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, edging aside.

  I hoped my friend took it upon himself to make leave … but he came with me, dawdling awkwardly by my side.

  Without stairs or passers-by to contend with, I could take him in fully.

  He was tall-ish, or at least taller than me; maybe an inch shy of six feet, I reckoned. Brown hair, blue eyes—those ghastly frames!—and a round face. His skin was white, maybe a bit paler than most, which meant he fit right into ‘sunny’ England.

  He had a sweater on, this deep green, almost brown number, like the skin of an avocado. A shirt collar stuck out around his neck, perfectly white, folded so tight that he could probably shave with it. Khaki trousers, and at the bottom, a pair of … were those loafers? I thought it was illegal for anyone under forty to chuck a pair of those on in the mornings.

  He also sported a rather unattractive manbag, strap slung over his shoulder, clutched tight and close to his chest.

  Dork. That was the word for him. I bet if he were visiting in winter, he’d have one of those ridiculous Doctor Who scarves—the sort you actually needed a Tardis to store, ‘cos they were about seventy feet long.

  Seriously though, who needs that much scarf?

  Searching again for places, I ran a hand along my left arm—and hissed.

  “Are you—” Then his eyes were on the long red line drawn up my forearm. They bulged, and he took a step back, hands out in front of him like I might try pressing it against his face. “Geez! How—when did you—”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s—geez, that isn’t ‘nothing’!”

  “It’s just a cut.”

  He closed his eyes, and then for good measure turned his entire head. Just in case somehow his eyelids dissolved, I guess. “I think I can see bone.”

  My eyebrows knitted. Bone? Drama queen much? All right, Burbondrer had sliced me pretty much from wrist to elbow, but it wasn’t open or anything. If not for the length, it might be a cat scratch.

  “It’s not that bad.”

  He made a queasy sort of noise. “It’s pretty bad.”

  I huffed. But figuring I’d do him a favor, for no reason other than I was worried he’d faint, head landing right in the path of an oncoming cab, I tugged at my shirtsleeves. The material was way more flexible than I figured this guy’s shirt must be, and they unfurled with little more than a soft tug.

  Buttoning the cuffs, I said, “There. Can’t see it now. Happy?”

  The guy dared a one-eyed look.

  “Better,” he said shakily. He cleared his throat. His glasses had slipped down a fraction, and he pushed them back up with a thumb. “Geez. Didn’t expect to see …”

  “How did you miss it? You were stood right next to it.”

  He looked like I’d just told him I could see some of his bones popping out; his face fell, ashen. “I was?”

  “On the stairs. And up here—”

  He shook his head, held up a hand. “Please. I don’t want to think about it.”

  “It’s just a scratch.”

  “A scratch!” he cried.

  “All right, calm down. No need to get hysterical over this.” I waved my left arm. Thanks to the dark grey of my shirt, he was spared of any growing splotches of blood where fabric and flesh connected. Which hurt, by the way.

  Sweater-geek took a calming breath. Another. A half-dozen, maybe.

  I watched with a lifted eyebrow.

  I could just leave … but this was kind of an experience.

  Finally, steeled, he opened his eyes. Flashing an uncomfortable grin, he bustled aside for passers-by as a new flood poured from the Underground tunnel beside us.

  He cleared his throat. “Sorry about that. Uh, I’m Carson.” And he stuck out a hand.

  “Um. Right. Mira—Mira Brand.” I took his hand and gave a short shake. Weak, both of us. I guess neither of us expected to be shaking.

  “Like James Bond!”

  “Huh?”

  “‘Mira—Mira Brand,’” Carson parroted. He coughed. “Like the way Bond does it.”

  “Err … Bond starts with his surname.”

  “Well, sure, but it’s close.”

  “I don’t think it has anywhere near the same punch if he starts off with ‘James.’” I pictured Daniel Craig introducing himself to some blonde stunner. The name’s James. James Bond.

  Eh. Not sold.

  Anyway. What was I doing here? I’d got swept up with the nerd from out west, and started thinking of all the pop culture I hadn’t missed these few months. Not ten minutes ago, I’d fallen back into the Underground with Decidian’s bloody Spear, damn it. I needed to get back to my hideout with the thing.

  “Right. I hope you have a pleasant trip. Maybe someone else can give you better travel recommendations while you’re here. Or a tourist information board?” I was stepping away already, glancing around vaguely as if one might materialize. Then, back to Carson, widening the gap: “Maybe stop in a pub. You’re over eighteen, right?”

  A befuddled look overtook him. “Nineteen.”

  “Sorted. Bartenders probably get asked places to go by tourists all the time. And speaking of places to go …”

  “Oh, geez.”

  White-faced, Carson lifted his right hand. He stared, horrorstruck—then turned it toward me.

  A thin line of crimson stained his palm.

  I paused. Consulted mine. Darker.

  Then it dawned on me. “Oh yeah …” I’d patted my arm, hadn’t I? D’oh. That was the whole reason he’d almost slammed face-first into pavement, and I’d been distracted enough to get caught here.

  “Sorry,” I said, kicking legs into motion again. “It’ll wash right off. And, uh, I don’t have any blood-borne parasites or infections, or I guess I didn’t last I checked, but … I mean, we’ve got the NHS here, so if I’ve given you something, they’ll treat you.” Ten meters down the street now, almost free—and I still couldn’t
turn myself around.

  Carson passed a baffled look back and forth between me and his palm.

  Then he stepped forward.

  “Hey—hey, wait up, would you?”

  Damn it. Probably the first time Sweater-geek had been given the time of day by a girl. And okay, maybe that girl was bleeding, even shared a bit with him, but it probably didn’t take much for dorks to fall in love. I remembered well enough at secondary school, spotty pox-faced Mira said hello to chubby little Eddie Monkhouse, thinking he was someone else, and he’d dogged me for a year.

  Plus, this whole blood thing. Carson probably figured I’d marked my territory.

  “Look, I’m sorry, I don’t know what you want—”

  Carson was taller, half-jogging, and not walking backward. Distance halved, he opened his mouth to cut over me—then his gaze drifted past my shoulder. His mouth hung, eyebrows sinking low over those dangerously thin little glasses balanced on his nose.

  “What are they doing?”

  I followed his glance.

  Men in black cloaks stormed up the street. There were three of them, tall and imposing, faces masked.

  Like Moses parting the Red Sea, the crowd shifted aside for them.

  My mouth dropped to match Carson’s.

  “Who—?”

  As the distance closed, one of the men’s cloaks shifted. Sunlight glinted—

  My breath caught, chest constricted.

  A dagger. And not one like any I’d ever seen. Eighteen inches long or thereabouts, it was wide at the hilt and narrowed to a slightly rounded point. Fullers were carved in its concave surface, troughs that made it looks as if long metal fingers extended along the blade.

  “What are—?”

  “Cinquedeas,” Carson muttered. “They’re, um, Italian, and, uh …”

  The cloaked men stopped—right in front of us.

  I gawped. They were so tall!

  Carson began, “Um … can we help y—?”

  Metal flashed again, from the man on the right—Carson’s side. He raised the blade over his head, quick as a flash—

  Carson flinched, nowhere near fast enough—

  I sprang. Hands tight around his sweater, I shoved—

  A strangled noise burst from Carson’s mouth. He stumbled—

  The blade sailed down—

  I ducked low—still carried by momentum—I felt a whoosh behind my neck, and twisted away from it—

  “RUN!” I bellowed at Carson.

  And I dragged, pulling him into motion—he locked up for just a moment before following—and together we sprinted down the street.

  Behind us, heavy footfalls followed, matching pace. Cries from people came, most from behind as the cloaked men shoved through in their pursuit. But there were others around us too, as I pushed, carving an opening of my own, Carson sprinting along behind—

  “Oh geez!” he cried. “Oh geez!”

  “Move those feet! They’re gaining!”

  Just ahead, another flood of people came from the entrance to the Underground. And beyond—

  “I’ve got an idea!” I tossed at Carson, who seemed dragged along with me like debris to a gravity well.

  “Who were those people?”

  I pushed through the throng heaving onto the street, ignoring the inconvenient question as my mind raced to deal with the problem at hand. Someone yelled a particularly offensive string of words, but I was past, Carson alongside me—and the crowd reformed, like sponges coming back together.

  Blocked from sight—for a moment. But how long that would last, I didn’t know.

  At the corner, a building was decked in scaffolding. Had been for an age, and I didn’t often see builders climbing it. Which was good, because I needed to borrow their construction project for a little while.

  I ducked into the scaffold.

  Open windows, masked by plastic.

  Good enough.

  “In here,” I breathed.

  “What if it’s not safe?” Carson grunted through gasps for air. “The structure might not be sound—”

  “I like our chances better here than on the street, against the cloaked men with the knives.”

  “Cinquedeas,” he corrected me. The git.

  Taking a glance backward—no sign of the cloaked men yet—I pushed against the plastic sheeting with all my might. It gave, but only a little, and for a moment I had the panicked thought that it had been stapled or nailed in—then something ripped—tape—and I fell inside.

  “In!” I whispered to Carson.

  He followed, ducking below the ledge.

  “Help me with this.”

  Together we pushed the plastic back against the window. The tape remained stuck to three of its edges. With it aligned, I rubbed the tape against the wall on the left side of the empty window, hoping it would hold.

  Carson, above me, gasped, “It’s not sticking!”

  “Well, make it!”

  “I—I can’t! It’s just—”

  He let go, and the weight of it sent the entire square to the floor, undoing my work—and opening a perfect hole.

  Carson squawked, “They’re coming!”

  I lifted my head just over the sill—and sure enough, they there were, three men in cloaks and cowls, cinquedeas drawn as they hurtled down the street, to this building—and us.

  5

  “You idiot!” I shouted.

  “I didn’t mean to!”

  No. But he could be at least a little more useful when men with knives were coming for me—well, us, now, apparently.

  Although, maybe it was a little my fault too. Whoever these blokes were, whatever they wanted—although I had a good idea the what was presently attached to my belt, pretending to await rain—how likely was it really that they knew London? One open window in a building under construction wouldn’t scream, Hiding place! It would just say, Sloppy builders. And how far out of the bounds of reality was that? Not remotely.

  I gripped Carson’s arm. No time to shout at him for screwing up the tape. We needed to move—and now.

  “Get away from the window. Come on.”

  He moved, footsteps stumbling. “Where—?”

  The room was large. I figured that maybe this was going to be a pub; it was so open and awkwardly shaped. The bar wasn’t in yet, but it was marked out, a squashed but exceptionally wide U. The floor wasn’t stained either. A snow of dust had fallen from sanding, I guessed, gone everywhere.

  I glanced behind. Footprints?

  Not that I could see; the dusty coating wasn’t thick enough for imprints to be obvious, and the off-white of the floorboards underneath matched it.

  If someone cared to take the time, though …

  I stepped over a discarded pile of tools set up beside a makeshift table. A doorway in the back—maybe to kitchens, or the staff room if this place was finished before the universe succumbed to heat death.

  I prayed for stairs.

  “This way. Quick. Move!”

  Carson obeyed.

  A normal square room, this, and no windows to duck out. Damn it.

  From where we’d come in drifted the sound of a heavy body landing on plastic. A momentary scuffle—he’d stumbled, I guessed—and another thump; a hand landing on the sill to steady himself?

  “Move!” I whispered.

  We jogged through to the next room. Footsteps echoed on the floor—so much for a silent escape.

  Three pairs came from behind us, loud and stomping.

  “They’re coming!” Carson cried.

  “You don’t say. Move it!”

  Into the next—

  There were stairs.

  I dragged Carson to them.

  Dusty, like the rest, a barricade was erected partway up. I could see, in my mind’s eye, Carson panicking—It could mean the floor isn’t safe!—but I’d underestimated him, because he shoved it aside.

  It clattered into my knee. Jarring pain shot through me, hot and white.

  “Hey!” />
  “Sorry!” he called, already close to the top.

  I grunted.

  Behind me, the three cloaked men had caught up.

  I twisted, panicked.

  “I don’t want to fight,” I called as the first hit the stairs—

  I gripped the barricade Carson had shoved so unceremoniously into me. Lifted it—

  “—but I can Home Alone this thing!”

  I lobbed the barricade down—

  CRACK!

  It slammed the first cloaked man in the face. He grunted, flailed backward, like the first domino in a chain—

  I didn’t hang around. Sprinting up the stairs, I crested the top—damn, this knee!—and hurtled through the next doorway.

  “Carson!” I called.

  From the next room: “There are more stairs!”

  To his credit, he’d stopped at the bottom.

  To rescind it, it didn’t look as though he’d stopped for me. He gripped the banister, sucking in breaths like he’d run a marathon without preparing for it. His shirt collar had gone askew, one side sticking up by his ear. He retained his grip on his manbag strap, one-handed, knuckles white.

  I moved past, grabbing him by the shoulder. “Up.”

  “To where? How long do we run?”

  “Until we’re not in imminent danger of being skewered.”

  “To the roof?”

  “If we have to!”

  “And then where do we go?!”

  “I don’t know! Down the scaffolding, maybe?”

  “It’s not all the way up!”

  “Well, there must be a fire escape!”

  “I thought we’d just go out a window into a back alley!” Carson heaved—and like Burbondrer before him, was he sobbing?

  Well, of course he’d be sobbing. He shows up in London to sightsee, and ends up getting a knife pulled on him by some guys out of Zorro.

  Third floor now. We could pluck another window covering clear and duck out onto the scaffold, make our way back to the street that way. But what then? Even supposing we made good time down the game of Jenga that the scaffolding undoubtedly presented, what would we do? Run forever? I didn’t have the energy in me, not after Lara Crofting my way to Decidian’s Spear and back. And the way Carson was going, he’d collapse of a coronary before we got back to the Underground.