by Tara Moss
His thick, bushy grey eyebrows rose. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘So it is already starting.’ He looked both ways to see if anyone was listening, affording me a brief but grim glimpse of his passenger. ‘Miss English, this house was built on an entry to the Underworld.’ He pointed to the floor beneath us with one finger.
Now that was not what I was expecting to hear.
I blinked really, really slowly, and when I opened my eyes Dr Edmund Barrett was still hovering before me, footless and with a strange creature fused to his back. And he’d still said that we were at an entrance to the Underworld.
I swallowed. ‘The . . . Underworld,’ I repeated with a long pause between my words.
I’d read about the Underworld of ancient myth, with Minos judging the dead and the nightmarish black Tarturus where the guilty were trapped, starved and tortured. I’d read of the beautiful green pastures of the Elysian Fields, where legend had it the blessed dwelled for a thousand years before their spirits were cleansed with forgetfulness and they happily took on new mortal bodies. Did such places exist literally?
‘It is only one of several entrances, scattered around the four corners of the world,’ he explained.
‘I see,’ I said, though that was an overstatement.
I’d read from time to time about supposed portals to the Underworld. There was a rumoured entry to the Underworld in the mountains of Spain, where hikers sometimes got lost in the fog and returned hours later, remembering nothing and believing only a few minutes had passed. And in caves on the Yucatan Peninsula, a labyrinth filled with stone churches and passageways had been discovered that locals believed led directly to the Underworld. And wasn’t there a place in Scotland, in a hill? A place of Celtic legend?
‘Each is difficult to find, of course. The portals like to remain hidden. That is how it must be. They do not wish to be found, except by the psychopomps who lead the spirits of the dead to their rightful place.’
Psychopomps. Guides for souls. It was such an odd word.
‘You see, Spektor is a place of great significance,’ Barrett explained. ‘When I discovered the portal, I built the mansion here, right on top of it.’
Right. On. Top.
The entrance to the Underworld was what made Spektor invisible to so many. It was not the house, but the place. Or perhaps the two were inseparable now. It had seemed to me at times that the house itself was alive somehow. That it had its own will. My goodness, the sounds beneath the floor were coming from the realm of the dead? That was what was beneath the floor? Beneath those cracked tiles at my feet? Was Spektor some kind of pit stop between the realm of the dead and the realm of the living? Was that why so many spirits congregated here? So many members of the dead and the undead?
My head swam.
Yep. That was some kinda news, I thought. ‘How many people know that this is an entry to the Underworld?’
‘People?’ He shook his head. ‘No, very few of the living have this knowledge.’
And what about the undead, I wondered. Did Deus know? And what about my great-aunt? Had she been told? She’d told me the house had not offered all its secrets to her. Was this what she meant?
‘Can I tell anyone?’
‘Only those who are destined to know.’
What does that mean?
‘And so, young lady, you can see why I had to return to tell you this,’ he explained. ‘The time the prophecy speaks of is approaching. You must prepare yourself.’
I nodded. The revolution of the dead. ‘But how do I prepare myself?’
‘Only the Seventh can know that, I am afraid. But it is vital that you realise the importance of this time, this place, and your role.’
I kept hearing that being the Seventh was important, but no one seemed to be able to tell me how.
Barrett turned his head suddenly and I flinched. Would his passenger wake?
‘For now I must go. My wife needs me,’ he said, and a chill went up my spine. ‘She is the other reason I came. But I should like to speak to you later, if I may,’ he added with a little bow.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Um, I’ll be around.’
He could not come into the penthouse, I figured. Not with that thing on his back. Our protection spell would prevent that thing from entering the space, and although Barrett appeared nice enough, that seemed like an awfully good thing, all things considered.
Dr Barrett turned and ‘walked’ away, moving on footless legs. At his back the passenger’s head slumped forward, sleeping, the wild white hair swinging back and forth, obscuring that terrible face. When he reached the edge of the railing, rather than stop, he floated up over it and disappeared down through the house.
My jaw dropped.
I opened the door of the penthouse and hurried inside. It wasn’t a moment too soon.
Things were pretty uneventful on Wednesday and I was darned grateful for that, I can tell you. Skye DeVille did not show up with her new blood buddies to enact bloodthirsty revenge on all of us at the office, and the grind of the new coffee machine and the workload as Pepper Smith’s assistant seemed to agree with me just fine. I spent the whole day sorting emails and taking calls, thinking about what Dr Barrett had told me.
An entry to the Underworld?
Could such a thing be real? Celia had suspected something like what Barrett had told me, but had not known for sure, she’d said. Yes, there had been clues – the cryptic warnings, the strangeness of Spektor, the way the whole suburb preferred to remain hidden. The sounds under the floor, even the sulphur smell in the stairwell. But how could I have guessed the reason for those things? There were so many questions I wanted to ask Barrett, so many things I wished I’d said. Yet despite his claim that he wanted to speak to me again, the evening came and went without his presence, so I didn’t get the chance.
By the time Thursday night arrived I was champing at the bit, wishing there was some way I could call Dr Barrett as I’d once been able to call Luke, despite my intense dislike of the ‘passenger’ on his back.
I had to know more.
So it’s already starting, he’d said, when I’d told him about the zombielike pair on the street. Had he meant that the revolution of the dead had already started? Or only the ‘agitation’ Celia kept talking about? I’d been so absorbed in Barrett’s other news that I hadn’t thought to ask him.
‘Great-Aunt Celia, what should I do?’ I asked on Thursday night. I sat on Celia’s leather hassock in the lounge room of the penthouse, sipping the soothing tea that I was rapidly becoming addicted to. ‘Dr Barrett said he had more to tell me but I haven’t seen him for a couple of days now. I’m getting worried. There are so many things I wish I’d asked him.’
My great-aunt sat back in her reading chair. ‘Well, you could head downstairs and see if he shows.’
I bit my lip. At the moment the thought of all those smiling Sanguine worried me almost as much as Barrett’s passenger. What if Athanasia still wanted to kill me, despite the order that I not be harmed? What if she’d risen from the grave having finally outgrown her Fledgling OCD?
‘Or you could rest up and conserve your strength,’ Great-Aunt Celia said, in that familiar tone that suggested it was the correct option. ‘As I rather think tomorrow will be more eventful.’
She finished her cup of tea and placed it on the silver tray.
‘Tomorrow? Why?’
‘Tomorrow is Friday the thirteenth,’ she reminded me.
I hadn’t realised. ‘Should I expect some homicidal maniac to burst in on my date with Jay, wearing a hockey mask?’
She did not miss my cynical tone. ‘Darling, friggatriskaidekaphobia is not entirely unfounded. But those silly eighties horror movies are quite another matter.’
‘Frigga-what?’
My great-aunt crossed her ankles and brought one pale, slender hand to her chin. ‘As you well know, Frigga or Frigg is the name of the Norse goddess for whom Friday is named, though some also believe it was named after our friend here, F
reyja.’ She looked down at the namesake of the Norse goddess of love, beauty and death – the one who rides a chariot pulled by felines. In response Freyja meowed and nestled her head into her furry paws again.
I did recall Frigga’s relationship to Friday.
‘Triskaidekaphobia is the fear of the number thirteen,’ Celia explained. ‘Hence friggatriskaidekaphobia – the phobia for this day.’
‘But why are people afraid of Friday the thirteenth? Is it bad luck because of the Knights of the Templar?’
That was one of the popular views on why it was cursed, I’d heard.
‘Because the last Grand Master of the Templars, Jacques de Molay, was arrested and tortured, along with a lot of other Templars?’ Celia replied. ‘Well, no. It was a bad day for them, to be sure, but the idea that it is the cause is a recent invention. Friday the thirteenth has always had a strong magick, since well before the Templars and their Christian army went down in 1307. Fridays have long been considered inauspicious days to begin new journeys or projects, even if few actively believe that now. Even before the “Last Supper”, there has been a superstition that having thirteen people seated around a dinner table will end in the death of one of the diners. Twelve is considered a complete number – a full dozen, the signs in the zodiac, the hours of the day, months in the year, the number of apostles in the bible, twelve days of Christmas, the Twelve Olympians of the Greek pantheon, and so on. Thirteen, on the other hand, is the number of mystery. It has a strange, unpredictable magick. This dates back quite far.’
‘Friggatriskaidekaphobia . . . did I say that right? It’s quite a mouthful. So tomorrow really is bad luck?’ I said.
‘Like so many superstitions, there is a grain of truth in it, but the true meaning has been lost. Did you know that so many people avoid doing things on Friday the thirteenth that it is one of the safest days on the calendar? No, Friday the thirteenth is not unlucky, per se, but rather there are certain powers at work on these special days. It can be either a lucky day or an unlucky one, but it is almost certain that it will bring surprises.’
I felt pretty unlucky at the moment, so I worried about which way my luck would fall.
‘No,’ my wise great-aunt said, perhaps again reading my thoughts. ‘Tomorrow will not be unlucky, but my feeling is that it’s sure to be eventful.’
I had a little spring in my step all day at work on Friday. It would be a lucky day, I’d decided.
An influx of beautiful people came and went from the office through the afternoon, hoping to be cast for the upcoming fashion shoot. Some of the models were quite interesting to look at, with incredible Eurasian features, or blue eyes and dark skin, and some had tattoos. I helped Pepper manage it all, and I have to admit she was quite civil to work with. I was pretty hyped on caffeine, having sampled one of my own coffees, but mostly I knew I was just plain excited about what I would be doing after work.
Finally Jay and I would be going on a date. A real date that he would not have erased from his memory. That little thing, a simple date, was something nice and normal to look forward to in a world that felt increasingly dark and strange. Perhaps afterwards I’d have the opportunity to ask Dr Barrett some more questions, just outside the safety of the penthouse (that seemed best, all things considered), but I wouldn’t worry about that yet.
First, I deserved this little slice of normality. And it was only hours away.
I said goodbye to everyone, and at five past five stepped onto the pavement outside the Pandora office. I noted the skeleton next to me, in front of the Evolution store, swaying on its joints, and something about it triggered a ripple of anxiety beneath my veneer of calm optimism. The sale sign in his bony hands caught the wind from time to time, spinning him around to look at me. The spring breeze had a bit of a chill as the sun went down, and I had my long camel-coloured coat from Celia buttoned up to the collar to keep warm. It was time to get going.
What shall I change into?
I had enough time to take the subway home but, sure enough, in seconds Celia’s black car was there on Spring Street. It pulled up next to me smoothly, like a long shadow, and in no time Vlad had the rear passenger door open for me. I’d just known Celia would send him and that he would drop me off at Jay’s place, too, when the time came.
The thought of returning to Jay’s house gave me a little shiver of excitement.
‘Thanks Vlad,’ I said as I slid inside the car and strapped myself in.
The Friday evening traffic was even worse than usual but when we entered the fog down that little road at Central Park, I checked the time on my phone and saw that we were doing just fine. I’d have an hour to get ready, which was probably forty minutes too long, I was so eager. When we emerged from the foggy tunnel onto Addams Avenue I sat forward and gazed out the windows, searching for activity on the street. The lights were on in Harold’s Grocer, as always. Mist clung to the buildings. The streetlamps glowed. All was normal – or Spektor-normal, anyway.
I noticed Vlad did not drive away when I let myself into the mansion. He would be waiting for me when I was ready to head to Park Avenue. Something about that made me feel a bit special, like I was going to a prom or something. (Except that my limo driver didn’t breathe a whole lot.)
‘Please let me in,’ I whispered to the heavy mansion door, and pushed it open. I entered the cool lobby, satchel in hand, and saw that once again I was not alone. ‘Hello Athanasia, Skye . . .’ I said, stopping just inside the lobby. I looked at the third Sanguine. ‘I’m sorry but I never did get your name.’
The heavy door shut behind me.
My fanged nemesis, my former boss and the one I knew as Blonde were all gathered, posed elegantly around the mezzanine area, smiling at me once more. Athanasia had scrubbed up well. Her raven hair was glossy, now without dirt or twigs, and she was dressed in a stunning, skin-tight black corset and skirt, unsoiled. Blonde had evidently gone for contrast, swathed in not-so-virginal white. My ex-boss had raided their wardrobe and chosen something quite over the top to suit her new lifestyle – a fire engine red, lace shift dress with wide bell sleeves. Very 1960s Dracula’s bride.
‘Hi, Pandora. Gee, you look just great tonight,’ Athanasia said in a particularly insipid voice.
Hmmm. ‘Uh, thanks,’ I replied. ‘I have to be somewhere, so . . . Well, you gals have a good night.’
All three of them nodded in unison. ‘Bye,’ they said.
I walked briskly to the old lift and pressed the call button. It was on the ground level and opened right away. The door squeaked shut once I was inside, and I pressed the button for the penthouse, noticing my new ‘friends’ wave at me as the elevator ascended. The sight disturbed me to the core.
Ugh, I thought. I almost liked Athanasia better when she was bitchy. It seemed more honest, at least.
The old lift rattled as it went up, and I absent-mindedly watched the landings pass, once again focused on the exciting evening to come. Where would Jay take me? Was it near the restaurant we dined in last time? What would our conversation be like? Had he thought I was joking when I’d asked if he came to Rockwell Mansion often? I’d have thought that was a deal breaker, right there.
It wasn’t until I neared the top floor of the mansion that my guts told me something was very wrong. My stomach grew as cold as ice and the lift lurched, stopping just before opening on the penthouse level. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted the fourth member of Athanasia’s vicious little gang – Redhead. I hadn’t thought about it before but, yes, I should have noticed she wasn’t with the rest of them. They usually moved in their nasty little pack, but here Redhead was, just a few feet away from me, leaning on the railing and grinning at me through the iron lacework of the lift. There was something in her hand: a piece of something mechanical, or a tool of some kind. Her fangs hung way out over her lower lip and there was something very, very wrong with her expression.
Oh no.
The lift lurched beneath me again and something above me snapped, loud
as a gunshot. The elevator plummeted.
My hair went up, my stomach in my throat, as the elevator hurtled down to its destruction, taking me with it. The floors of the house whipped past in a blur. My feet rose off the lift floor and I reached up with both hands to keep the roof from collecting me.
‘Stop!’ I screamed at the top of my lungs, and a flash of heat radiated through me.
And everything stopped.
Suddenly, I was no longer falling. The elevator had paused just above the lobby floor and it hovered there as if I’d hit the brakes. And I was hovering, too. Though the lift had stopped falling my feet had not touched down on the floor again.
‘Holy moly!’ I cried, realising what I’d done, and suddenly the spell I’d cast was broken and the lift fell the final two feet to the ground, taking me with it. I crashed sideways in the iron cage, and grabbed the lacework of the sliding door to keep myself from slamming down onto my knees, scraping my arms. A thick cloud of debris blew up, cables and ironwork crunching above me. Dust spat out into the lobby.
Thank goddess the elevator didn’t connect lower, to the basement level. Still gripping the door, I lowered myself to my knees and closed my eyes.
Okay. So that just happened.
With some considerable effort, I yanked open the lift doors and stepped unsteadily onto the lobby tiles with scrapes up my forearms and knees that wobbled. The Sanguine audience was still there by the mezzanine, gaping, all having turned a whiter shade of undead.
Athanasia, in particular, looked positively aghast. ‘She is the Seventh,’ I thought I heard her say under her breath, and she brought a hand to her pretty, deadly mouth.
‘Pandora!’
We all looked up. It was my great-aunt, calling from the penthouse landing. She’d doubtless heard the crash. In fact, it wouldn’t have surprised me if all of upper Manhattan had heard it. At the sound of the mistress of the house, the three Sanguine snapped out of their shock and scrambled out the door of the mansion and into the night, scurrying like rats.