by Mark Anthony
Brixton. The establishment Atwater had been forbidden by the Philosophers to return to was a tavern located in what was now Brixton. It was the same spot where the keystone had been found. And the same spot where Surrender Dorothy would stand nearly four centuries later, where Glinda and Arion and the others with fairy blood in their veins would die at the hands of Duratek.
But what did it mean? The connection couldn’t be random. The Philosophers must have known about the tavern—and the strange nature of the people who inhabited it—for centuries. So why had they kept it a secret all this time? And what did the tavern and the keystone have to do with Linear A and the civilization of ancient Crete?
The phone rang. Deirdre stared as it rang a second time, a third. Then she snatched up the handset.
“Hello?”
A hissing, then a voice spoke. “They’re back.”
Fear jolted through her, and excitement. She had never heard his voice before, but all the same she knew it was him.
“Who are you?” she said, cupping the phone to her ear. “Why did you give me the photo of the tablet?”
“There’s no time for that, Agent Falling Hawk. In a few moments the Seekers will realize I’ve blocked their wiretapping device and they’ll grow suspicious.” The man’s voice was hollow, tinny; it was being digitally altered. “The ones I spoke of are nearly here, and it’s imperative that no one else learns of their arrival. Do you understand?”
She clutched the phone. “Who are you talking about? Who’s nearly here?”
There was a click, and static filled her ear. At the same moment, a knock sounded at the door. Deirdre was so startled she dropped the phone. She scrambled to pick it up and place it back on the base. Another knock. Clutching her robe around her, she hurried to the door and opened it.
A man and a woman stood on the other side. The man was tall and rangy, with green eyes and longish, thinning blond hair. He wore jeans and a dark turtleneck sweater, but it was easier to picture him in chain mail, a sword at his side. The woman was exotically beautiful, her dark hair slicked back, her gold eyes vivid. Her overcoat could not entirely conceal the sleek black leathers she wore beneath.
Before Deirdre could speak, Vani pushed past her into the flat and glanced at Beltan.
“Shut the door. Quickly.”
The blond man stepped inside and closed the door. He eyed Deirdre hopefully. “You don’t have anything to eat, do you?”
“Food is not important now,” Vani said.
The blond man snorted. “Food is always important.”
“Not if you’re dead. We must be certain we were not followed.” Vani moved to the window, peered out, and jerked the curtains shut.
Deirdre finally managed to speak, her voice hoarse with wonder. “How did you get here?”
Beltan’s green eyes shone. “It was the most remarkable thing, Deirdre. We raced through a tunnel beneath this city faster than a horse can run.”
Deirdre shook her head. That wasn’t what she meant. She looked at the knight, then at the golden-eyed woman, both from another world. “What the hell is going on?”
Vani turned from the window, hands on her hips. “We need your help, Seeker.”
Deirdre took a step back and found herself sitting down hard in a chair. “My help? To do what?”
Beltan knelt before her and placed his big, scarred hands over her own. “To find Travis Wilder,” he said.
38.
The shadows slipped away from Travis like dirty rags as he stepped into the orange glow of a streetlight. He tried to speak the rune Alth again, to conceal himself in shadows once more, but the word was a dry whisper, powerless. Magic on Earth was a thin ghost of what it was on Eldh: a primal river drained and choked and polluted until it was no more than a murky trickle. Touching the Great Stones would have helped, but he didn’t dare open the box again.
He leaned against the streetlight, unable to stop trembling. How many blocks had he run since fleeing the television station? It didn’t matter. No distance was great enough. The wraithlings would never stop looking for him. He had to find a place he could hide.
He slipped his hand in his pocket, checking the iron box to make certain it was still tightly shut. As he did, his fingers brushed a scrap of paper. He pulled it out. It was the piece of paper Anna Ferraro had handed him just before driving off; a phone number was scribbled on it. Carefully, he put it back into his pocket.
His breathing was less ragged now, and he looked around to get his bearings, only he didn’t recognize the street he was on. It was somewhere on the edge of downtown—tall office buildings loomed against the night sky—but east or west? He had lost all sense of direction as he careened through the city. The street was empty, the brick storefronts dark. He walked half a block to the next intersection, but the street signs were so corroded he couldn’t read them.
His shaking had become shivering. The cold bit at his hands and feet. Whether or not the wraithlings were following him, he had to get off the street and find a place to stay. He was too weak to speak the rune of fire to warm himself, and without it he would never make it through a night outside. But where could he go?
A neon sign sizzled to life in the darkness. It shone across the street, above an arched doorway. The sign was beautiful: a winged dove rendered against the night in iridescent blue and hot pink. Beneath the dove, orange words pulsed on and off in a spastic rhythm. THE HOPE MISSION.
Travis wondered if he was hallucinating. He had never heard of a downtown mission by that name, and surely Jay and Marty would have told him about it. Jay knew every place in Denver that gave handouts to the homeless.
Dread punched him in the gut. Jay and Marty. He had completely forgotten about them.
You can catch up with them tomorrow, Travis. You know Jay—he’ll have figured out someplace for them to stay for the night.
Travis looked both ways, but there were no cars coming in either direction. He stumbled across the street and pushed through the peeling door of the mission. The room beyond was cramped, shabby, and deliciously warm. After the brutal cold, the heat was so intense it knocked Travis silly for a moment, and he could neither think nor move.
“Close the door already,” said a gruff voice. “How do you think we heat this place? With magic?”
Shocked into motion, Travis shut the door, then turned around. The room was set up as a sort of reception area. There were several plastic chairs crammed alongside a battered green sofa, and dog-eared magazines strewed the top of a kidney-shaped coffee table. An antique color TV was mounted on the wall, and a potted ivy dominated one corner, tangling its way up a column, growing luxuriously in the near-tropical heat.
“So what are you looking for tonight?”
Travis’s eyes focused on the man standing behind the counter. He was short and stocky—late twenties, maybe—clad in a Colorado Avalanche sweatshirt, a wool cap on his head. His eyebrows were thick and dark, and his chin was covered by the bleach blond tuft of a goatee. He looked at Travis with saturnine eyes.
Travis cleared his throat. “I need a place to sleep.” He braced himself, expecting to be told there was no more room. After all, it was late. He couldn’t expect to find a bed at the shelter.
“I think we might have a bed left,” the man said. “I’ll have to go check. Can you wait a minute?”
Travis was too astonished to do anything but nod. He hoped the other took his time. If nothing else, he could get warm while he was waiting.
“You can watch the TV while you wait.” The man pressed a button on a remote control, upping the volume, then headed down a hallway. Travis watched him as he went. He walked with an odd, swaying cadence; his legs were bowed inside his jeans, perhaps the result of a childhood disease or a congenital condition.
The other vanished from sight, and Travis sat on the couch. A musty smell rose from it, and he had to shift his rear a few times to find a place where no springs poked up through the cushion, but all the same the act of sitti
ng felt positively decadent. Fear still registered in his chest, but the emotion felt dull and distant through the veil of his weariness. He was safe, if only for the moment.
“And should they come for you, do not fear,” said a voice that was thrilling and majestic despite its tinniness. “For know that you have been chosen to be part of God’s own army.”
Travis craned his neck. On the TV, a man in a white suit strutted back and forth across a stage. His dark hair gleamed, and he moved hands covered with rings in bold gestures as he spoke.
“There’s no need to be ashamed if your heart trembles when they appear to you,” Sage Carson said. Above him soared the crystalline walls of the Steel Cathedral. “You see, my heart did when they came to me. The Angels of Light are terrible to behold, but they’re beautiful as well, so cast aside your fear. Open your arms to the Angels of Light, and know that you are blessed.”
Travis sucked in a breath and sat straight up, all thoughts of rest, of comfort, gone. On the television, the scene cut to a shot of the audience. People wept, holding their arms out as if they could see the Angels of Light before them. Outside the glass walls of the Steel Cathedral, the sky was blue.
The scene shifted back to the stage. On it, Sage Carson raised his hands, his splendid words rising toward a crescendo.
“A time of darkness is coming. We see the signs all around us—war, strife, and suffering. Men have forgotten the will of God, and the world is sick and dying. Once before, when evil ruined the world, God knew the only way to save it was to wash it clean and start anew.” Carson’s voice dropped low. “Such a time draws near again.”
An audible gasp rose from the audience, along with wails of fear. Carson swept a hand before him. “No, don’t despair, for sometimes the only way to save something is to destroy it first. Our world has been corrupted beyond redemption by the unholy, the unrighteous, the unbelievers. And so God has decided once again to save it the only way He can: by destroying the world and making it anew in His image.”
Sickness filled Travis. He wanted to get up, to switch off the TV, but he could only watch.
“So rejoice!” Carson’s voice blared out of the television’s speaker. “If the Angels of Light come for you, then you have been chosen to prepare the way for His coming. And while the sinners, the evildoers, and the heathens will perish, you will dwell with Him in the new world to come, serving Him as one of his chosen. Hallelujah and Amen!”
The audience erupted into cheers, their fear gone, their eyes alight with fervent joy. Carson smiled, holding his hands out as if in a blessing. However, as the camera panned out over the Steel Cathedral, it couldn’t quite hide the men in black suits who stood before the stage, pushing back any who tried to ascend toward the preacher.
Carson waved and walked off the stage, and the camera followed after him. As he reached the curtain at the edge of the stage, it was pulled back by an unseen hand. Carson turned to wave one last time, and in that moment the television showed a glimpse of what lay behind the curtain. Travis could see ropes for operating the curtains, and scaffolding for lights. He also saw a pair of uniformed security guards standing just offstage. One was a large man, but the other was a petite woman with short brown hair. She was young, her prettiness marred by a stern expression.
Travis leaped to his feet. On TV, Carson stepped through the opening, and the curtain fell back into place. The camera panned again to the chanting audience as credits rolled across the screen. Travis couldn’t have read them if he wanted to. Instead he stared blindly, his hands twitching at his sides.
Jace. The woman standing backstage was Deputy Jacine Windom. Only she was no longer a sheriff’s deputy in Castle City, and her presence at the Steel Cathedral could only mean one thing.
Travis knew where Duratek had hidden the gate.
“You’re in luck,” the goateed man said as he stepped back behind the counter. “It looks like we do have one bed left. It’s all yours, so come on back.”
Travis nodded, too numb to disagree. He shuffled down the hallway after the bowlegged man. Along the way they passed a willowy young woman with a pierced nose and long hair dyed a verdant green. She carried a stack of folders.
The young woman smiled—a beautiful expression. “Welcome to the Hope Mission,” she said, then headed through a side door. Travis tried to glimpse what was in the room, but the man gestured for him to keep following.
They came to a larger room filled with a haphazard array of folding tables and chairs. The floor was scuffed tile, the walls a yellow too grungy to be cheerful. Fluorescent lights sputtered overhead. Another TV stood in a corner, but thankfully this one was tuned to the inane babble of a late-night talk show.
“This is the commissary,” the young man said. “The men’s dormitory is through there. Yours will be the one bed that isn’t claimed. There’s a bathroom in there if you want to get cleaned up before you go to sleep.”
Travis shook his head. How could he sleep, knowing what he did now?
The young man grinned, his teeth slightly pointed. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to go to sleep hungry. Dinner’s over, but there’s always soup to be had here in the commissary. You can get a bowl there at the counter—it’s self-serve this late. I’ve got to get back to the front desk, but if you need anything, the preacher should be by soon.”
“Preacher?” Travis said, trying not to sound alarmed by the word, though he was.
The young man nodded. “He runs the place, though I suppose he has a little help in the matter. He almost always comes out this time of night to talk to whoever’s here. So I hope you don’t mind a little sermonizing with your soup.”
The young man walked with his odd gait back down the hallway to the front. Instinct told Travis to bolt. After what he had just seen on TV, talking to a preacher was the last thing he wanted. However this place was anything but the Steel Cathedral, and the scent of chicken soup was thick on the air, making his stomach growl.
Travis looked around. There were a dozen people in the commissary. A few spoke in low voices, some watched the TV, and others just stared. Most were men, though there were a couple of women. One—a sharp-faced woman in her thirties—seemed out of place in her smart jacket and slacks. She sat alone in a corner, staring at her clasped hands.
Maybe this shelter isn’t only for the homeless, Travis, but for anyone who needs to escape a bad situation.
He moved to the counter and ladled a bowl of soup from a warming pot. A few of the men waved at him, looking for company, but Travis sat at one of the empty tables. He stirred his soup with his spoon, watching as noodles bubbled up to the surface and sank back into yellowish liquid. Jace Windom’s presence in the Steel Cathedral could only mean one thing: Sage Carson was no mere televangelist.
Travis shut his eyes. He knew Jace blamed him for the death of Max Bayfield—his business partner and her fiancé. Travis couldn’t blame her; in a way it was his fault. The runelord Mindroth had come to Castle City last summer looking for Jack Graystone. Instead he had found Travis, recognizing him as the heir to Jack’s power as a runelord. Only Max had gotten in the way. Mindroth had touched him, and he had been burned.
That was when Duratek showed up. They gave Max the drug Electria, using it to ease his pain—and to control him, trying to use him to get to Travis. Only in the end, Max had sacrificed himself to help Travis escape.
Max’s death had eaten at Jace, and she had cast her lot with Duratek. Last fall, after she learned from Davis and Mitchell Burke-Favor that Travis had called, she had tipped Duratek off that Travis and Grace had returned to Denver. That act had nearly cost Travis and Grace their lives, and it had almost caused them to lose Beltan. In Travis’s mind, whatever pain he had caused Jace was more than repaid. She was Duratek; she was the enemy now. And so was Sage Carson.
“Well, hello there, son,” said a slick, rasping voice.
Travis was beyond shock. He only sighed as he looked up into Brother Cy’s black eyes. “So you’re the preac
her that runs this mission.”
Brother Cy bared his dingy ivory teeth in a grin. “I have a little help in the matter.”
“That’s what he said.” Travis looked over his shoulder, but the young man with the goatee was nowhere in sight. He remembered the man’s crooked legs and wool cap, and the woman’s leaf green hair. Yes, Brother Cy had help indeed.
“They’re Little People, aren’t they?” he said, looking back at the preacher. “He’s one of those goat-men, and she’s a tree lady.”
Cy only smiled. He was clad in the same dusty black coffin suit he always wore, and his visage was more gaunt than ever. All the same, there was something solid and comforting about him.
Travis drew in a breath. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Then eat your soup,” Brother Cy said.
Travis stared at the bowl, then brought a spoonful of the liquid to his lips. It was hot and salty. He ate another spoonful, and another. Warmth spread through him, as well as renewed strength.
“I know what’s happening,” Travis said when the bowl was empty, setting down the spoon. “I know where people are disappearing to. It’s the Steel Cathedral. That’s where Professor Sparkman was going before he disappeared, along with that other woman who vanished, Myra. I bet if we could check, that’s where every one of them was going.”
Brother Cy only nodded. Travis gripped the edge of the table. What had he done? He had sent Jay and Marty to the Steel Cathedral; they were in terrible danger. Only he couldn’t think about that, not until he had told Cy everything.
“Jace Windom was there, I saw her on TV, and I know she’s working for Duratek. That means Sage Carson has to be working for them, too.” He shook his head. “Or working with them—I’m not sure which. And that’s not all. We learned on Eldh that Duratek is in league with Mohg and the Pale King. So the Angels of Light are really wraithlings. They’re the ones who have been abducting people.” He sat back in his chair. “Only why?”