by K. H. Pope
THE
DIMENSION WEAVER
(ALICE THE FALLEN MYSTERY)
BOOK 2
WRITTEN BY
K.H. POPE
THE DIMENSION WEAVER
(ALICE THE FALLEN MYSTERY)
BOOK 2
By K.H. Pope
All Rights Reserved.
© 2015 K.H. Pope
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction created by the author. Any person, place, thing, business, and/or incident are the invention of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person dead or alive, place, thing, business and/or incident is purely coincidental.
Cover Art:
Astonished Font © Misprinted Type
FFF Tusj Font © Magnus Cederholm
Quattrocento Roman Font © Pablo Impallari & Igino Marini
Cover Photography © deviantART – Fotolia.com
Third Edition June 2015
For my Charlie puppy.
The cutest and the most chocolatey pudding pop Labrador in the world.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
MEET THE CHARACTERS
MENTIONED CHARACTERS
LETTER FROM AUTHOR
VISIT ME ONLINE
PUBLISHED NOVELS
CHAPTER 1
Tonight is New Year’s Eve, and the countdown has reached the last thirty minutes of 2019. I’ve found solace from the celebration in a jazz club called Sanctuaire. It’s a quaint little spot in Paris, usually filled with connoisseurs of loneliness and the finest of alcohol. I love the vibe. Always a small crowd, and no one asks questions. It’s perfect.
The melody of found love over vibrant horns is almost at its end and so is my cigarette. Smoking has become more of a habit now since most of my time is spent wandering and sightseeing, and I’m about to light up another.
My chosen loneliness is disturbed by a champagne glass and a young wizard with dimples. His smooth skin speaks of his youth. The brown flyaway tresses that crown his head give him a reckless city boy look. Russet colored eyes are full to the brim with life, and they reflect the soft light from the lamps in the club. He reminds me of a newly graduated college student, who is just starting out in the world, trying to look professional while wearing cheap clothes and cheaper cologne. I’m really not in the mood for this guy. He’s too young and thinks he’s cute. Selfishness clings to him like his horrid cologne.
It’s hard to believe he’s by himself. There must be a pretty girl in the club somewhere watching him, jealous that he’s spending time with me instead of with her. I quickly scan the crowded room. No one is looking in our direction. As a matter of fact, everyone is engaged in conversations with someone else or minding their own business.
“Michael Hunter,” he says with an open hand. His name slides off his tongue all at once. “You don’t want to shake my hand?”
“No, I don’t,” I answer.
Unhindered by my refusal, he sits down and places his beer on the table. He looks at me with a glowing smile.
“Your accent,” he remarks. “You’re an American.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Sounds like you’re from America.”
“I’m from nowhere,” I reply.
“Nowhere, huh? Okay, if you say so.” Michael Hunter takes a gulp of his drink and swallows with a loud sigh. “I’m here alone in this gorgeous city to get away from all that madness in the states. What about you? Are you here with anyone?”
“No, I’m not,” I answer.
“All by yourself? I find that hard to believe.”
“Believe it.”
“Well, you don’t have to be alone. We can bring in the New Year together.”
“I don’t want to bring in the New Year with you,” I quickly reply.
“What did you say?” He is totally shocked by my snub.
I put out my cigarette in the already filled ashtray and coldly repeat, “I don’t want to bring in the New Year with you. Good-bye.”
He chuckles in complete disbelief. I bet he’s never been rejected before. Girls must swoon and faint when he says hello. Not this girl.
I don’t know what it is about me, but I hold no interest for one night stands, starting relationships, or falling in love. And this guy isn’t convincing me it’s worth my time or effort.
“Walk away, Michael Hunter.” I push his drink across the table so he knows to take it with him, and I light a new stick. The look he gives me as he rises from his seat could kill a thousand times. Don’t care. Move on, college boy, move on so we can both get back to our normal lives.
After twenty-five minutes, I make a silent exit from Sanctuaire. I take in the fresher air and the cooler temperature. Rue du Dragon, a narrow street too small for parking, is framed with gorgeous ivory buildings, colored front doors, and glass facades at the ground level. Most of the lighting is from overhead apartments and window displays.
With my hotel located on Rue des Canettes, my stroll will be quick. I get to the next corner, and make a left on Rue Bernard Palissy. I’m barely a few feet into the alley when I sense that I’m being followed. The alarm in my head is going off, but I don’t run nor do I turn around. Big mistake. A solid body runs square into my back and pins me against the wall. When I try to push back, the man behind me pushes harder.
“There’s nothing you can do,” he whispers in my ear. “Stop fighting the magic.”
His breath is hot and smells of alcohol. He grabs my hair and pushes my head against the cold cement wall. With his free hand, he begins roaming to forbidden places.
I close my eyes and silently call on my inner power. Michael Hunter might think he has control as he reaches between my legs, but he’s about to find out his control is purely an illusion. I make his body slide backwards across the alley at lightning speed and up the opposite wall. Hitting the hard cement surface has taken the wind out of him and has caused him to release his magical hold on me.
Before turning around to face him, I brush the dirt off my clothes and straighten my hair. This man has severely misjudged me and has thoroughly pissed me off. It’s a bad way to start a new year, especially for him.
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I slowly walk over, watching him struggle, and calmly remark, “There’s nothing you can do. Stop fighting the magic.”
Michael Hunter gazes hard at me. Those full of life eyes are now burning up with anger. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with. Let me go.”
“No, Michael Hunter, you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“I represent very important people.”
“Don’t care.”
“I’m going to-”
Quickly, I concentrate on his lower right rib bone, crushing and snapping it. His half spoken threat has turned into guttural screaming. I begin to concentrate on the rib above it. Michael Hunter feels and hears the beginning of that bone breaking, and he begs for me to stop. His fear rings true. I believe I’ve made my point.
I turn and start my trek in the original direction I was heading before I was needlessly slammed against the wall. When I reach the end of the short alley, I release him, and he falls to the ground. His screams continue to echo off the walls and travel in all directions.
An inkling of regret hits me, but it soon fades. My conclusion is that I’m not the first female he’s tried to dominate, and since I’ve hurt him in a way he never thought possible, maybe he’ll think twice before attacking another woman again. I’m not holding my breath. Only death stops men like him.
Just as I make it to the next road, the reverberation of his screams is overtaken by the sounds of firecrackers and the celebrations of the Parisian people. What a way to close out the year.
CHAPTER 2
The morning brings a gray overcast and a threat of rain. Despite what could be a treacherous day for weather, I plan on making the most of my visit to Paris. My itinerary includes Les Invalides, Eiffel Tower, Louvre Museum, and the Arc de Triomphe.
Once I’m dressed, I go to the balcony to sip on my morning coffee. My memories of this place are vivid. The last time I was here, I was a guardian angel. Over a century ago from what I can recall, 127 years to be exact. I was in charge of a housewife. She dreamed of being a dancer when she was a child, but those aspirations died after she wedged her ankle in a crop of rocks on her family’s farm. Unable to free herself, she spent an hour out there before her father finally found her. When she became an adult, she married, like all good girls did back then, and had children. She was a wonderful woman, one of my easiest charges. I simply watched her. Smiled when she smiled, laughed when she laughed, and cried when she cried. Never a pretentious person, always a good heart. She adored her family. That’s all that ever mattered to her. Unfortunately in 1893, she died 34 years young, leaving behind a family that never recovered from her early demise. The flu was unforgiving that year.
A knock at the door brings me back to the present. I’m not expecting anyone, and that raises an inner alarm. On my way to the door, I place my coffee cup on the dresser. I peep through the hole and see a smiling bellhop. His long black hair hangs below a cake shaped blue hat, and his blue bowtie is nearly vertical. When I open the door, I see that the kid is holding a white envelope with a symbol written on it. He lifts it in my direction.
“Who is it from?” I ask as I read his nametag. It says Nullité, French for nobody. That can’t be his real name.
He simply smiles.
“What’s inside?” I ask.
The same smile, no answer.
My curiosity is at a high. I take the envelope, and he immediately walks away. Before he reaches the elevator, a portal opens up in front of him to a desert landscape, but it has grass growing on the land. At first, I think it’s not real until he steps through it, and a tumbleweed, hot air, and a barrage of dust with blades of grass fly into the hallway. The hole immediately closes behind him. Confusion sets in instead of answers.
I go back into my room and glance closely at the symbol on the envelope. Black ink, a silhouette shaped like an angel with wings spread out surrounded by a square. There is a dot in each bottom corner. I open the envelope. Inside is a 4 x 6 portrait of a young woman. It is a side profile shot, and there’s a soft white glow that surrounds her. This is not an ordinary picture. I can hear breathing and her heart beating. Whoever this woman is, she’s alive inside the picture. I check the back. It’s blank.
At this point, I want to call the front desk, but I know it’ll be useless. The man left through a portal, and I’m more than positive he arrived that way, also. He’s probably on an entirely different continent. So, finding him is out of the question. Obviously, getting answers to this picture is going to take visiting an old friend.
CHAPTER 3
After putting my phone, my cigarettes, and the picture in my jacket pocket, I consider what I truly have. Most people have a family, friends, a house, and two cars. Me? Well, I can put everything I own in a single pocket, and that pocket isn’t very big. I’m not sure if I should be angry, sad, or happy. Maybe, I’ll spend more time on that thought after I figure out what to do with this living portrait.
I take hold of the doorknob to the bathroom door and call for the transfer chamber. It’s an easy and quick way to travel. The room is square and white with four silver doors, and any of them can be used to go anywhere on the Earth, as long as there’s a structure with another door to exit out of. It doesn’t allow access to open areas or any place outrageous, like in the ocean.
Once I say the spell, I open the bathroom door and enter the transfer chamber. After closing the door back again, I say Ammon’s name and enter his parlor room in Hamburg, Germany.
The opulent space is breathtaking. A chandelier hangs in the center of the vaulted ceiling. There is minimal furniture, but it’s all placed to make the room appear airy and large. The floor is marble, and the windows reach from floor to ceiling on one wall with heavy red velvet curtains hanging in between.
An unusually tall woman is standing right where I enter, and she’s reading a document on a tablet. She has jet black hair and pale skin. I haven’t seen her before, but she smiles at me like she knows me. Instantly, I’m on guard. She’s a witch.
“Is Ammon here?” I ask, trying to look around her.
She moves out of the way and points to the back of the room where Ammon is at his desk, packing items away in a brown satchel. He’s so engulfed in what he’s doing that he hasn’t noticed me.
“Ammon, you have a visitor,” she says with a heavy German accent.
He smiles and walks over to me. “Alice, what a pleasant surprise! How long has it been?”
“A month, I believe.”
“Yes, indeed. It’s good to see you again.”
“It’s good to see you,” I reply.
“Alice, I don’t believe you’ve met Priscilla Oliver. She is my new executive assistant.”
She remarks, “It’s very nice to meet you, Alice.”
“Thanks.” I turn to Ammon awkwardly, hoping she doesn’t think I’m being rude. “I need to speak to you…alone.”
Ammon replies, “Can it wait? I have to be going-”
“No, it can’t.”
“Alright,” he says uncomfortably. “Priscilla, will you give us a minute? We’ll leave for the headquarters after I speak with Alice.”
“Of course, Ammon,” she says with a gracious nod. She leaves out of the entrance leading to the hallway.
“Where have you been?” Ammon asks.
“I just came here from Paris.”
“Ah, a lovely place. How was your visit?”
“It’s been nice so far,” I answer. “I was planning on touring the Louvre Museum today, but I was sidetracked.”
“Why is that?”
“Because of this.” I hand him the envelope.
Ammon looks at the symbol, frowns in confusion, and opens it. The moment he sees the picture, a stressed look appears on his face. He knows exactly what it is.
“Where did you get this from?” he says. “And what is this symbol on the envelope?”
“I think the symbol is me, but I’m not sure. It was delivered to my hotel room by a bellhop
name Nullité.”
“Nullité,” Ammon says. “What kind of name is that?”
“I have no idea.”
He studies the picture for a moment, and then places it back in the envelope. He hands it back to me and says, “It’s a dimension trap.”
“How did she get in there?”
“A dimension weaver.”
“What is that? Or rather, who is that?”
“Dimension weavers are very powerful witches or warlocks that can create dimension traps. It is a skill that is taught, but it’s very difficult to learn. It takes years to perfect. Only the most powerful of witches and warlocks can do it.”
“Do you know of any that might be responsible for this?” I ask.
“No,” Ammon firmly replies. “I haven’t seen or heard of anyone in recent past years that can successfully make dimension traps. Honestly, I think the art is dead.”
“Obviously not,” I say, holding up the envelope. “Can this girl break free of the trap?”
“Not on her own.”
“Ammon, why would that bellhop give this to me? What did he think I could do?”
“That is a question for the bellhop.”
“Well, he ain’t around for me to ask. He disappeared into a portal of some kind, and I don’t know where he went.” I slump down on a bright red divan. “What else do you know about this thing?”
“Well, that woman is no longer aware of who she is or where she comes from. She doesn’t remember her past. She doesn’t remember family or friends. She doesn’t even know her name or that she’s a human being. The moment she entered that dimension trap, every piece of knowledge she gained in her life was stripped away.”
“Can she see us?”
“If she could, she’d go mad. She’d scratch and claw wanting to get out. That’s also the reason why she can’t remember anything. The magic doesn’t want her to recall what she left behind. It wants her to stay.”
“This is very cruel, Ammon.”
“I don’t disagree.”
“Can you do anything to get her out?”