Beyond the Blue Light

by V. Anh Perigaea

  The man was already inside and being attended to by Mrs. Ackworth. Never a sincerely gracious host, Ackworth exuded a sense of detached annoyance at the arrival of any visitor. She saw him dutifully into one of the main parlors to wait while uncle Morton was informed of his presence. Annabelle watched the back of the man’s fur coat as he followed Ackworth into the sitting room. The door was closed swiftly behind. Before long, Uncle Morton stepped into the foyer, boots clacking loudly against the marble floors.

  “He is here,” Ackworth said, motioning gracelessly toward the parlor.

  “What kind of man comes at such a late hour?” Uncle Morton murmured in a tone that implied indifference, seasoned with a touch of suspicion.

  They shared a conspiratorial look.

  “A man of means,” Ackworth replied plainly, her tone and eyelids low. “Claims to be some sort of prince. Must desire to do some sort of business with yourself, sir.”

  “Is that so,” he mumbled skeptically, allowing the speculation. “And what business would he propose at half past eight in the evening?”

  “He claims to be lately arrived from abroad,” she said distastefully. “His card sir. It says... Oh, I don’t know.”

  She half-heartedly attempted pronunciation of a word found there, but only managed to roll a few syllables abhorrently over her tongue, then handed the card over to Uncle Morton.

  “Hmm,” he mumbled, turning the card over in his hand.

  His manner perked up as he studied it, his face turning toward the parlor. Curiosity peaked, he directed Ackworth to send a bottle of good sherry to his study. Then he went to meet the strange man. Annabelle listened to their muffled voices behind the sitting room door as they exchanged muted tones of introduction. And before long, Uncle Morton entered the foyer with the man in tow. It was then that she got a good look at him.

  He was tall, dark and very peculiar-looking. He’d pale skin and long, dark-gray hair cascading from under a top hat. He wore a long coat with rich fur around the collar that looked like it must’ve been vanquished from a very mighty creature. His cane’s handle was carved into the image of some multi-headed beast and his fingers, which draped over it gracefully, were covered with rings. Necklaces hung down over his chest. Gold and silver, from what she could see. It wasn’t so much what he wore, but the cut of the garments that was strange. They were made of dark, neutral tones and fine cloth; but something at the edges seemed to blur and confuse the eye. They seemed to have been made in a strange, foreign place with very different practices to those of London tailors. But for all the strange feeling it inspired, he looked quite fine. He carried himself elegantly, with a sense of subtlety and intelligence, despite his garish garments. He followed Uncle Morton in a quiet, purposeful way, with the air of a man who holds a secret just beneath the surface.

  She was dazzled by the man. But not solely from his appearance. She felt strange in his presence, dizzy; like she was on unsteady ground. A ringing sounded in her ears as she watched him, which didn’t lessen when she covered her ears. The closer he came to her position on the landing, the more intense it became.

  Uncle Morton’s manner had changed. He poured over the man enthusiastically, with a keenness she’d never seen before. The stranger hadn’t looked in her direction, but she had the strangest feeling that he was conscious of her, as if watching her out of the corner of his eye. And the ringing was growing even louder now, so intense that her hands shook.

  Just before the two men entered the study, the stranger glanced towards her. His eyes locked on hers, without having to search, and she froze; every muscle in her body seeming to stiffen and contract. She couldn’t look away. She seemed to be locked into his gaze, paralyzed and convulsing all at once. The ringing resounded through her body, forcing it’s will upon every muscle. She couldn’t breathe, but her chest continued to expand and contract of it’s own accord.

  Finally, the man turned his glance away and she was released from it’s hold. And she realized that what’d felt like an age had been a mere second - a fleeting glance in her direction before he disappeared behind the study door, which closed behind him with a gentle click. She lay on the landing aghast, her heart pounding. A panicked urge to run welled up within her. But the urge to stay and observe him like a carnival horror or a wrecked carriage burned even brighter, morbid as it may be. She was terrified and strangely fascinated by what’d just happened.

  She replayed the event in her mind as the men spoke behind the door in muffled tones. Who was this stranger? Did he intend good or evil? Was he a servant of Blackall and that wretched underworld? She knew she must stay, watch and find out; caution be damned. It was better to be vigilant and gain any knowledge she could. For, it would likely be the only advantage she would ever get. She shook off her remaining disorientation and strained her ears in hopes of hearing something of consequence.

  Ten minutes passed. Twenty. An hour without event. Then finally, as she felt herself dozing, the study door burst open. Her uncle exited jovially, animated and gay. Such a display of sanguine temperament made his face unrecognizable. He’d never shown gratitude or affection to a soul as long as she’d drawn breath. She had to rub her eyes to make sure it wasn’t a dream. How had this stranger inspired such sentiments from a frigid man like Tiberius Morton?

  He puffed a cigar as his hand rested on the stranger’s shoulder. But as her uncle lavished uncharacteristic friendliness upon the stranger, the man remained detached. He looked bored, as if suffering through Uncle Morton’s attentions while considering something foreign to the conversation; acting out the expected social niceties in a manner just civil enough to avoid comment.

  Perhaps it is merely the detached superiority common to princes, she thought.

  Uncle Morton talked on and on, making a fool of himself. It seemed he would never shut up. But finally, goodnights were said, with bountiful promises of meetings on the morrow, dinners, games and trips to Uncle Morton’s club. Just as Uncle Morton started in on the virtues of his club, the stranger mumbled something in a low voice. It was so low that Annabelle couldn’t distinguish it. But she saw the gesture he made with his hand, flicking his fingers as if drawing a symbol in the air. And then, with another small gesture, the stranger seemed to push Uncle Morton away, shooing him back to his study.

  Shockingly, Uncle Morton obeyed. He excused himself cordially as if taken upon by a sudden change of mood and turned back to his study, closing the door with a syrupy nod and a wave.

  Annabelle’s eyes popped wide with surprise. Not only was a man of mysterious power within the walls of Orenn House, he’d rendered her guardian defenseless with the tiniest flick of his fingers, and was left standing alone in the foyer, except for a few straggling maids who strove to catch a glimpse of the odd visitor.

  The ringing had returned. Frightened, she held her breath, hoping the man wouldn’t realize her presence. But after fiddling with a ring on his left hand, the man looked straight up at her again, his gaze electric. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t have to. The crushing paralysis overtook her again, followed by a ringing that crushed her through and through, shaking and overtaking the rhythm of her heartbeat. She fought it as long as she could, but it broke over her in waves, breaking her means of resistance; washing through body and mind. So, as her strength crumbled beneath the pressure, she surrendered. She had no choice. It took possession of every thought and limb, convulsing and contracting each muscle. But as it moved, it also changed. It seemed to be strengthening her, empowering her somehow; as if it had pushed her through some strange, unseen threshold of the mind. It’s volume and resonance had cleared the debris away, had changed her. She could now see more clearly than ever before. Everything was different, even the very room she sat in. It looked brighter, sharper. She marveled under the strange sensation as the man’s gaze held fast, boring into her.

  Then, he lifted his hand and made a another waving gesture, tracing a symbol in the air. At that, time slowed like a creaking lever. It seeme
d to resist his power, pulling and grinding against the effort. But soon, every second had ground to a complete stop. She felt it compress her chest, as if her lungs were contracting in upon themselves, imploding until no room remained for air. The feeling frightened her, pushing her past the point of physical redemption, to the place where one perceives death as imminent, encroaching; and the body is in the act of failing. She felt her heart must’ve come to a stop as well. Perhaps it had. When she looked about her, she’d landed in a strange place; where a strange blue light was cast over everything. It was as if the foyer was lit by a pale blue sun hovering just above their heads.

  The stranger spoke, but the sound came faintly, as if through water. She strained her senses, squinting to hear him clearly. Was there something in the air between them, or was the problem with her ears? She couldn’t tell, so she read his lips until it became clear.

  “Ana,” he said several times.

  His face was mystifying in the harsh blue light, his features cast in deep contrast. It showed the wrinkles of a man in mid life. But something about him seemed much older. As she studied him, her mind racing over all that was happening, she noticed a terrifying fact that made her blood run cold. His eyes, striking as they were, flickered violet.

  “We meet again,” he said through a thick accent. It sounded Slavic, but she couldn’t quite place it.

  “Wh-who are you?” She asked, her voice a shallow gasp from within an aching chest, disappearing in water. A smile broke out across the man’s face, stretching his mouth wide, showing white teeth.

  “It is you who called me,” he said. “You who came to my reliquary. True, it is little more than an outpost now. An age has passed since it was touched.”

  She stared at the stranger in utter bewilderment, her eyes wide.

  “I trust you enjoyed the portraits,” he said. “One in particular, I should expect.”

  His expression turned impish at this, as if holding a secret.

  “Do you mean,” she asked fearfully, her voice thick and heavy in her ears. “That place in the forbidden wing of this house? With the ledgers and paintings?”

  The stranger’s head nodded gently as he smirked.

  “Yes,” he said. “But the place of which I speak is not within this house.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, wasting no time. “How could I have got there if that is so?”

  The man’s brow lifted subtly, amused.

  “On the wings of your own fear and longing, I should expect.”

  She paused in bewilderment, then forced herself to ask the question that was haunting her.

  “Was it you,” she asked numbly. “Did you kidnap me? Did you take me down into those... caverns?”

  The stranger’s eyes softened, but his smile remained impish. When he didn’t answer, she pressed him

  “Was it you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But, why?” she asked, fear burning through her chest at his admonition.

  He didn’t answer. So she stood tongue-tied and terrified before this man of such strange and potent power. She glanced subtly to her left and right, searching for an escape route, anticipating an attack at any time.

  He took a step in her direction, as if to climb the great staircase to where she crouched. Seeing this, her eyes flew wide with panic and her body prepared for flight. The man’s expression changed then, recognizing her fear. Instead of moving closer, he turned and made a small, careful gesture over a side table top, and a small box appeared there. He then made another gesture above it, and the box disappeared, leaving nothing but small floating lights that flickered like fireflies.

  “Such places,” he said. “As my reliquary, are vulnerable to the penetrating eye. Once there, you were naked as a babe. Those caverns, as you call them, are a place I took you for your own protection. Everything that goes there and is lost, nothing is ever found.”

  He opened his mouth to speak again, but before he could do so, a loud banging slammed the front door. It crashed through the air like an earthquake, resounding over the scene of servants frozen in mid-movement. It sounded like a giant had come calling. The stranger with violet eyes turned in it’s direction, alarmed, and the noise came again, only louder, shaking the walls. Bang bang bang bang bang bang bang. The stranger looked up at her once more, his expression one of alarm and regret. Then, he made another symbol in the air with his hand, and the blue light faded. The tight contraction in her chest released. And the dim, warm glow of candles filled the room once more. Time resumed, the movements around them easing into play until all was as before. Maids scurried by as if nothing had happened, their boots clacking on marble. The loud banging had stopped. The man remained where he was, his eyes averted, then turned and disappeared into the night without a word.

  CHAPTER 18

  The Red Haze

  In a dark chamber deep beneath the ground, a fire burned. It cracked lazily in a stone fireplace with engravings marked all about. Blackall sat before it in a grand, bedraggled armchair; the light reflecting in his eyes. The room was marked with dilapidated grandeur, the ragged corpse of a formerly-fine dwelling. The ceilings were high, the molding was intricate and the furniture fine - for the time in which they’d been made. But they were also tattered and decayed from long years dwelling underground, being used by brigands and runaways who cared nothing for maintaining furnishings.

  There were miles of streets down here. The structures that marked them were too great in number for the thieves to even know. None even attempted it. This was just another of the forgotten corners, buried deep. But it was safe that way. None dared venture near his dwelling. Any sign of a visitor could be quickly detected in the deep silence. This room was part of Blackall’s apartment, located at the culmination of an avenue so black, silent and forgotten that it felt like a tomb. All life shunned it. The buildings lay empty, the air still and thick. Their windows stared like dead eyes, with nothing to light them but the chance reflection of a traveler’s flame.

  With his head leaned back, Blackall studied the cracks and stains in the ceiling. His mind played over recent events, weighing the array of options before him. With his senses, he reached out into the darkness. But Orenn House was a dead zone to him, blocked. He could see nothing. It’s walls couldn’t be penetrated by unnatural means. And once he realized this, he chastised himself for not sensing it before. He’d just never cared to look.

  Such resistance to his power was deeply worrying. The psychic barrier, this blurred vacancy, filled his heart with an anxious premonition. Nothing else in London provided such a challenge to him - not in the highest halls of power, nor in the homes of it’s most prominent men. In truth, the entire city was his to take; to ravage and steal, to bewitch the minds of it’s occupants to forget their loss altogether. He was their silent lord, hiding deep beneath their feet, keeping watch over their secrets; for his power attracted otherworldly threats, and he couldn’t risk a vivacious life in the light.

  He’d have to break in to Orenn by physical means or wait patiently for the girl to step outside it’s protection. He could overthrow such a place with the flick of a finger, yes. But there were elements at play of which he knew little. Tiberius Morton was clearly something more than he’d previously realized - more than just a staunch, greedy old banker. Attacking such a man could cause great uproar among the city, his men and trade. He would not break into the man’s home and simply steal his niece. The consequences (of which he knew) could be dire to his men. And those (of which he didn’t) could be catastrophic.

  It was clear now that others were watching. If he made too much of a fuss over the girl, it would only provoke their interest and bring them circling. For now, his sentinels would keep their watch, and he would watch from his own dark perch. But he must remain as calm as possible, distant, or their waiting eyes would see. They’d sense his desire like a creature of the water feels ripples on cold skin.

  Footsteps up the hall woke him from his thoughts. Their thuds stop
ped abruptly at the door to the room.

  “Kenward,” Blackall called to the silhouetted form in the doorway.

  A straw-haired man moved into the light and bowed.

  “Sir.”

  Kenward was an officer and magistrate among the thieves, appointed by Blackall. He was lanky and coarse. He’d the hunched posture and leering, dirty appearance common to the degenerates of the dark city. But his voice came out clear and true - a genuine tone that caused it’s hearers to look up in surprise, for it sounded of transcendence; of another life gone, an innocent trapped within the ragged corpse of a criminal. Blackall gestured limply with his hand, giving permission to enter.

  “Sir, I am come to give report.”

  He motioned for Kenward to sit, and the man took up position on an old divan.

  “Then give it.”

  Typically a relaxed man, Kenward seemed hesitant and out of sorts. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Sir,” Kenward said. “The men dispatched to follow the girl...Have... Have all disappeared.”

  “What?” Blackall growled, sitting up sharply.

  Kenward swallowed hard, clearly frightened.

  “None have returned,” he answered, his voice panting. “Nor’ve the sentries come with word of their progress. ‘Tis feared they’ve all come to... The same end, sir.”

  Blackall reeled, his senses aflame. He hadn’t seen this coming, which alarmed and angered him even more. Rage crawled over his skin like millions of hungry ants. Dozens of his men were dead. His system of command was collapsing. All without warning. Was he blind? Had he lost his sight? Truly, the eyes that watched were cunning, swift and perhaps more discerning than he.