London Underground: An Unofficial Legend of The Secret World (Unofficial Legends of The Secret World Book 2)

by Blodwedd Mallory

  Brigadier Lethe quizzed me for about 15 minutes on the things I’d practiced on the range before deciding that was sufficient training for the day. I didn’t let it show, but I was relieved. My ears were tender from the shotgun retorts, and my left arm and right shoulder were sore, but I felt pleased with my progress. And, since I now knew a little more about shotguns, if I went back in that dream again, I could better help Rose, Mei, and Alex clear out the subway.

  My stomach growled loudly, and I realized it had been a while since I had last eaten.

  “Okay, soldier. Report here on Monday at 0800 to start your blade training,” Brigadier Lethe said, dismissing me. I thanked him, gathered my backpack, and headed up the stairs toward the big red doors.

  “See you later, miss,” called the bartender, still wiping glasses with his white towel as I walked by on the thick red carpet. I waved to him and stepped back out into the main hall.

  I contemplated whether I was supposed to go back to Richard Sonnac’s office yet today, but decided he wouldn’t be ready to see me until my training was concluded. Based on what Brigadier Lethe had said, it hadn’t even really started yet. That was disappointing, but I was resolved to learn what I needed to know to be an effective agent.

  I didn’t know yet what to make of all the experiences I’d had today. Richard Sonnac, Dame Julia, Brigadier Lethe. None of them were quite what I’d expected. I bit my lip. The day had been full and exciting, but it was a far cry from the triumphant pageant of homecoming I’d worked up in my fantasies over the years, and I struggled to control my discouragement.

  Oh, how I missed Ms. Usher, Gypcie, and Carter. I felt a long way from Innsmouth Academy. I needed to buck up if I was going to be successful.

  Stepping out to the large courtroom of the main hall, I could see a variety of uniformed guards stationed near doors or patrolling the floor. Temple Hall looked much the same as when I’d entered earlier today. This was a 24-by-7 operation, and I decided that it probably looked similar regardless of the time of day or night.

  My stomach growled again, so I resolved to head back to my flat and make a plan to get some supper. Maybe I’d get some fish and chips from the shop I saw earlier.

  The front door to The Horned God stood cheerfully open as I walked by after grabbing some fish and chips to go, and I could hear the chatter of patrons inside as they imbibed the local brews. Above the door, a placard read “Horned God Est. 900 AD,” which simultaneously blew my mind and filled me with disbelief. There wasn’t a bar even remotely that old in the U.S.

  I was sorely tempted to go inside, but I decided to look around a little more. I continued on the walk past the south-east side of the pub, passing an old movie theater, a butcher shop, and a bakery on the corner that sold “Cheese: Cheshire, Leicester, proper Cheddar, Wensleydale, and Blue Stilton.”

  What was “proper Cheddar?” In fact, I had no idea what half of those cheeses were, but decided to try them at the first opportunity. An antique shop and a small florist specializing in orchids made up the balance of the nearby shopping attractions. Not a McDonald’s or Old Navy anywhere to be found. I was thrilled. I felt like I’d stepped 50 years into the past. Kingsmouth had been quaint, but this was fabulous!

  A side alley cut back toward May Queen Market, so I headed that way but realized that I had stumbled onto the back patio area of The Horned God in the process. I apologized to the short-haired waitress stationed there for wandering in carrying my own food, but she waved it off and invited me to have a seat and a drink. I ordered a pint of “St. Swithin’s Famous Stout” and sat down to eat my dinner at an empty, nearby wooden picnic table that had a patch of afternoon sunshine.

  This was the life! I took a big bite of the crunchy, deep-fried breaded fish fillet I’d unwrapped. It was a long way from powdered orange drink and fish pies, at any rate. I felt the stress of the day fall away and settled back to look around more closely.

  The back brick wall of the patio area had a giant painted mural of Pan, or some satyr, complete with a bright green beard. Ivy grew up the wall, framing the mural in a pleasing combination of nature and artifice. An oak tree grew in the middle of the flagstone patio, providing more beauty as well as shade on hot days.

  “Ho there, Blodwedd,” Miss Plimmswood called from my right, as she approached from the May Queen market side, her eyes twinkling. “I see you’ve found one of the very best features of your new flat. Can I join you for a cup of tea?”

  I motioned her over gladly, and she flagged down the waitress to bring her drink. I ordered another pint at the same time.

  “So, tell me,” Miss Plimmswood inquired, sitting with me at the table and taking off her hat with a flourish, her short gray curls bouncing, “how was your first day in Ealdwic?”

  Glad for someone to share my experiences with, I launched into the tale, regaling her with my encounter with the Fallen King and his puppet, although I didn’t tell her that I’d fainted, or about my dream, for fear she’d be concerned, or worse, think I was crazy.

  “He is such an oddball duck with his cloth friend,” she tutted, shaking her head. “He’s an outlandish puppet, and the little doll is peculiar too. You get all sorts around here. All sorts.”

  I wasn’t sure what to make of her reply, so I asked her how long she’d been in the area.

  “Oh, most of my life, dear. My work brought me here from Wiltshire as a young woman, and I suppose that was so many years ago now that this is home.”

  The afternoon light was beginning to wane by the time the waitress brought Miss Plimmswood her “tea”—that was a mug of whiskey if I’d ever seen one, but since I was about to start on my second pint of stout and was feeling a little blurry from the first, I was in no position to judge.

  Miss Plimmswood asked me about my life on Solomon Island, and I told her about my time at Innsmouth Academy. That made me immediately homesick, and I vowed to write Gypcie a letter just as soon as I had the chance.

  I also wanted to find out if Miss Plimmswood knew anything about the Templars, but I was reluctant until I knew more about what was proper to share with members of the public, so I bit my tongue and asked instead about what work she’d done that brought her to Ealdwic.

  “Oh, I’m long retired, dear,” she said, with a wave of her hand. “And you must call me ‘Plimmy.’ All my good friends do.”

  Tears welled up in my eyes without warning. I dashed them away quickly with the back of my finger. I was overcome by her kindness and a little embarrassed at my emotional reaction.

  “And you are homesick, I see.” She clucked her tongue in sympathy. “You’re a long way from home. It’s to be expected. Things will get better once you’re settled into the flat. I’ll lend you some sheets for your bed until you can buy some, and, when you have a free hour, you can pick up fresh food from the Haitian Market stalls and canned goods from Annapurna. It’s a grocery shop just around the corner. You can’t just live on fish and chips, you know. What would your mother say?”

  What would my mother say? Miss Plimmswood’s gentle concern reminded me of her and was just what I needed to right my worldview. It was nice to know I wasn’t completely alone in a strange new city. We finished up our drinks shortly thereafter and left The Horned God. True to her word, she lent me a set of sheets and a blanket from her own supply—she lived in the ground flat of the building next to mine.

  I trudged up the stairs to my new apartment, bedding in hand, unlocked the door with the old skeleton key, and set about getting settled in. That included dashing off a letter to Gypcie about my adventures so far. I wondered how things were going for her in New York.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Londinium

  June 16, 2012

  Sunlight crept in my flat windows the next morning, waking me. The weekend was here and with it a chance to do a little shopping and some more exploring around Ealdwic. I hopped out of bed and realized with despair that I didn’t yet have a means of making coffee or even some English breakfast tea.


  Time to get up and get out, I thought. I could take Miss Plimmswood’s—Plimmy’s!—advice and head down to the Haitian Market she’d mentioned yesterday. I didn’t have a lot of money, but enough to buy a few staples.

  I jumped into the shower in the tiny bathroom of my flat and then completed my morning ritual, selecting jeans and sneakers with one of my favorite tops. It was red with a cool Asian-looking print and was cut out in the center front to show my middle. I emptied out my backpack of everything but my wallet, my ritual knife—known to magic users as an athame—and my spell foci, then pulled it over my shoulder and headed out the door. I didn’t think I’d be doing any chaos or blood magic today but better safe than sorry in a new place.

  Plimmy said that the market was over behind Aethelburga Row on the street called Pagan Hill, so I stepped out on the May Queen Market and flipped around the front of the pub. Just past Burnt Offerings, the bakery I’d seen last night, was the street I was looking for.

  I tucked into the bakery first and bought some baguettes and Stilton at the suggestion of the shopkeeper—“Just chop up a nice onion to put on the loaf with it, dear”—then, after putting my purchases in my pack, I stepped out of the shop and turned left on the cobblestone road and went under a rounded brick overhang.

  A staircase with stone steps led down to an area filled with exotic sounds and smells. In front of me, I could see some shop fronts, including the one Plimmy had recommended, but on the left was what looked to be an open-air market filled with stalls. That must be the Haitian Market area.

  I was unresolved about buying from the stalls before I knew a little more about the area so I turned around and headed back up the stairs to the landing with the storefronts and entered a local grocery store called Annapurna that had displays of fresh fruits and flowers out front. The signboard above the store indicated they offered everything from incense to phone cards, which just about matched the variety of my needs.

  Grabbing a small basket, I selected the items to fill my pantry: fruits, veggies, a few cans of vegetables and soups, and, of course, ground coffee. I even picked up a tin of Earl Gray tea. I hadn’t really drunk much tea back in Maine, but when in Rome...

  The shopkeeper rang up my purchases, and I filled up my backpack until there wasn’t room for much more. I headed back out to the landing and looked at the Haitian restaurant at the south end. I could smell fried food, and my stomach rumbled. I hadn’t had any breakfast yet.

  I stepped inside to the counter and ordered myself a black coffee. I was contemplating the rest of the menu, particularly the “Kanaval Kabrit” until I realized that was prepared goat meat. I chickened out and went for the twice-fried plantains to go with my coffee, instead. I sat down at a table near the window to enjoy my ad-hoc breakfast and congratulated myself on trying new things. The fried plantains were crunchy, like a thick potato chip, and came with dipping sauce. The kabrit and the head cheese would have to wait for another day when I was feeling more adventurous.

  While I ate my plantain chips, I watched the passers-by. This was a vibrant neighborhood with folks from all walks of life, but it was weird not knowing anyone. I searched the faces for some familiar aspect, but to no end. At one point, I could have sworn I saw a pair of bunny ears—I would have even been glad to see my erstwhile escort among the strangers—but I lost sight of them too quickly to be sure.

  I drank the last gulp of my coffee and briskly headed out the front door of the restaurant thinking I’d head back to my flat when a high-pitched coughing sound caught my attention.

  “Slow down, child. Why you rush so sharp-sharp? Delay yourself.”

  I whirled around to see an older Haitian woman in a green and red smock dress and green flip-flops sitting in a white, wicker wheelchair with a red and white striped umbrella trying to get my attention. She had a crucifix around her neck, a red turban on her head, and was smoking a cigarette. She waved me over.

  I raised my chin and stepped over to where she was seated in the corner between the Haitian restaurant and the House of Chalk Voodoo shop.

  “Temple Hall has been here for a thousand years,” she said, exhaling a plume of smoke from her nose. “It will perhaps stand a little longer, while you take time to breathe in the magics.”

  Introducing myself, I learned her name was Mama Abena, the proprietress of the Voodoo shop. My eyes darted over to the shop’s signage. I wondered if this was what my friend Renee had practiced in New Orleans. In addition to various religious supplies, the shop offered readings, rituals, and Voodoo spells for sale, with the caveat to the latter: “Use at your own risk!’

  Right. Those wouldn’t be on my shopping list this week.

  “What part of London is this?” I asked her, gesturing around me. “This area seems to be beneath the city itself.”

  She spread her arms wide. “This is the Darkside, not the London you are learning, the London of brick and mortar. This is her heart, her soul. Let her speak to you through the wind in the trees, the smoke on the air...and the prophets on street corners,” Mama Abena punctuated her words with a wave of the cigarette, smoke following her gesture. “All you need to do is listen.”

  I winced. I’d had my fill of the prophets on the street corners recently, as I thought back on my experience with the Fallen King. Of course, I considered further, maybe she meant herself. She no doubt had knowledge of the city, including its history and secrets.

  She inhaled deeply and blew out another cloud of smoke. “The Templars, they tell you about the power, the magic, and the glory. That is why you're here.”

  How on Earth did she know that?

  I nodded minutely in acknowledgment. “That’s right.”

  She scooted forward in her chair, her face serious, and stood up, closing the space between us. “The bees, they are anxious. They feel the storm coming.”

  I looked at her in alarm. Did she mean bees or…Bees? And what storm was she talking about? My mind flew unbidden to my dreams of the Tokyo subway and the Filth-infected people there.

  Mama Abena chuckled at my reaction and pointed at my face. “I see by the scar on your nose that you wants to be a hero. To go fight all the bad things. But no one is born a hero, child. They gots to learn, and the teaching, it come from all places. Not just the Templars. Not even the blessing of the bees.”

  Now she had my full attention. “What do you know about the blessing of the bees?” I asked warily.

  Standing up from her chair, Mama Abena looked across the cobblestone courtyard for a moment before turning back to me, her eyes piercing mine. “I know the truth. And, the truth, it does not come with a fancy office or a tailored suit.”

  Looking down quickly at my own clothing, I was pretty confident that she wasn’t accusing me of wearing a tailored suit. I felt my face flush red with embarrassment and a little anger at her words, as I visualized Richard Sonnac in his brown pin-striped suit in his lavish office. She waved a hand in front of my face, drawing my attention back to the courtyard in front of her shop.

  “The Fallen King, now he has neither, but appearances deceive. His words hold deep truth,” she said, touching the area over my heart with her hand. “Remember this well.”

  She turned around and sat back in her chair, her body plopping onto the cushion as she held tightly to its arms. She seemed tired out by the brief time she spent standing. She looked up at me gravely.

  “As for me, I tell you a little truth. It is not about glory or power. Do not run blindly into this war,” Mama Abena urged me. “Open your eyes, and you will find what you search for. Just like the powers of the Earth found you.”

  Then she leaned back against the wicker chair and closed her eyes, offering a final benediction. “Ibi so, ibi so.”

  I thanked Mama Abena and stepped away, considering what she’d said. I knew I was a little drunk on the Templar nectar, but what she said made sense. My powers didn’t come from the Templars. They came from Gaia. Maybe I could prove my worth by doing a little inves
tigating of the mysteries on my own. I decided to follow her guidance and go visit the Fallen King again. Maybe this time instead of freaking me out, he could illuminate her strange words and London’s secrets.

  I stopped briefly by my flat on the way to put away my purchases, then swung my backpack on my shoulder, headed out the door of my flat, down the stairs, and back out on the street toward Ealdwic station and the Fallen King’s domain.

  As I rounded the corner past the station, I stood for a moment, watching the prophet entertain the gathered crowd. This guy did seem to have a following. The square was full of a half-dozen or so people listening to his end-of-the-world shtick.

  Gathering my courage, I approached him once again.

  “Knock knock!” he called to the crowd. “No takers? Ah, fair enough, I'm not convinced I can remember how the rest of this one goes.”

  He looked at his puppet then back to his gathered audience. “Ah. The gist of it is that the planet doesn't like you. Ha-ha! Don't expect to be on her recycled Christmas card list.”

  Oh, boy. More of this. I put my hands on my hips and scowled at him.

  “Oh, I know,” he said, acknowledging me. “Snap judgments are hurtful. She's only had a few millennia to get to know us. It takes time for a person's true personality to come out.”

  He gestured broadly to the square we were standing in and then at Via Antiqua behind us. “Ask the Romans, they had a good run. Laid this pretty paint-by-numbers under your feet, and that road too. Ask the stones. Lot of blood and sick and kebab sauce split on those stones.”

  Gross. He was no doubt right, but I didn’t want to think about what might be spilled on the stones.

  “They turn up in the strangest places, these Romans. So ask their stones, lay your head down on them and go the whole milia pasuum. Not right now, you'd look crazy, and I'd be done for inciting mass hysteria. Again,” he finished wryly.

  Whatever. I wasn’t laying my head on the stones for anything. I didn’t care what secrets they held. I scowled up at the Fallen King.