She broke off as she saw that Whitlock was laughing at her. “Reverse it? Now, why would I want to do that? What Nick Beasley’s done is simply brilliant. It will play into our designs perfectly.”
“But—we—” Levesque faltered.
“I should clarify—jabberwock, jabberwock—ahem, that when I say ‘we’, I’m referring to myself and my new business associates. Not to you, or the Council. Your day is done. Naturally, Nick would never be able to destroy the Council that easily. But for me and my friends, it will be child’s play. Beasley and the rest won’t realize that they’re not the true liberators of the Afterlands until it’s too late.”
“What on earth are you talking about? What business associates?”
“The Order of the White Crown. Also known as the Knights of Wonder. We’re your replacements.”
Levesque fought back her horror in a desperate effort to resume her usual haughty air. “No one can replace the Council.”
“Oh, don’t be tiresome. We already have. There are just a few last—jabberwock, jabberwock—formalities to complete.”
His lopsided smile sent a chill down Levesque’s spine. “Please,” she said, dropping all pretense of superiority. “Whatever you’re doing, I can help you. I can be useful.”
“But you already—jabberwock, jabberwock—have been,” said Whitlock, in a soothing tone. “You’ve had a very important part in this story, I assure you.”
One of his tentacles snaked out and wrapped around Levesque’s throat. Another lashed around her arms, binding them to her sides. She choked and struggled, but to no avail.
“And so,” said Whitlock, as Levesque struggled in vain, “the nasty old witch was defeated by the brave, cursed prince and the plucky, intelligent princess, with the help of a buffoonish-but-useful wizard and a lovely-if-slightly-irritating mermaid.” His tentacle squeezed tighter. “Not to mention an anti-heroic dragon and the usual entourage of comic-relief animal sidekicks.”
“Please,” Levesque choked.
“But what no one realized,” Whitlock continued, “was that the witch had set events in motion which would bring about the rise of the White King—a great and powerful ruler, whose true identity no one could have suspected. And with him ruling the world, everyone would live happily ever after. Except the witch. Because she was dead.”
Whitlock released Levesque’s body, and it cpllapsed onto the cot. He grinned as shadows swirled around him, whisking him out of this world and into another.
“The—jabberwock, jabberwock, jabberwock—End.”
Two
Warrengate, 1876 E.A.
“You say this girl is your grand-daughter?”
The tall man in the shabby top-hat was watching the rain come down in sheets over the Selkie Straits. He spun on his heel at the Headmaster’s question. “Yes, Mr. Blackfire, sir, that she is. By the by, may I say, sir, you’ve got a lovely office.” He cast an approving glance around the room, which was fitted out with plush carpets and mahogany furniture. The fireplace was blazing like the boiler of a steam train.
“Thank you.” Malcolm leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingertips together. “It was furnished by my predecessor. I mean to have it enlarged.” His eyes went back to the young woman sitting in a chair on the other side of the desk. She was wrapped in a thick, hooded cloak, and was shivering despite the warmth of the fire. Her dark eyes were filled with fear and confusion.
“What did you say your name was, again?” Malcolm asked the top-hat man.
“I didn’t,” he replied cheerfully.
“I know,” said Malcolm. “That’s why I pretended you did.”
“Ah.” Top-Hat Man surveyed the room, as if searching for something. “Liddell,” he said at last. “Perceval Liddell.”
Malcolm followed his gaze to a book on a nearby shelf—”The Care and Feeding of Chimeras” by Alexander Liddell.
“What a coincidence,” said Malcolm. “Tell me, aren’t you a little young to be this girl’s grandfather? She looks about twenty-something; I’d say you’re no older than forty.”
Perceval shrugged. “Magic?”
Malcolm looked at the young woman. “Is this man your grandfather, miss?”
“Now, steady on,” said Perceval, looking miffed.
Malcolm held up an index finger. “Quiet.”
“I don’t know,” she replied. Confusion filled her eyes. “He—he found me, after I—”
“Pay no attention,” said Perceval. “She’s a bit muddled, that’s all. Nothing to worry about. I’ll leave you to it.” He headed for the door.
“Hold on.” Malcolm stood up from his desk. “You can’t abandon her here.”
“But I already told you, I can’t care for her,” said Perceval. “Got no money. And I understand you take in penniless orphans with magical abilities.”
“Before my time,” said Malcolm, “Warrengate was in the habit of doing that. But they were also prone to use those orphans for reprehensible purposes. Now that I’m here, we don’t take them in to begin with. This is a school. It’s not a place for barbaric experiments, but it’s also not an asylum for homeless waifs.”
“Guess I heard wrong then. I was under the impression you had a tender heart, even for a dragon. You wouldn’t leave this poor girl out in the cold, would you?”
Malcolm seethed. “For your information, Mr. ‘Liddell,’ there is nothing tender about my heart. And what’s more, there’s something about all this that I simply don’t like. You’re holding back information about your alleged granddaughter. And I’m not going to take the risk of accepting her at Warrengate until I find out the truth about her.”
Perceval gave a long sigh. “I had a feeling you’d be a tough nut to crack.”
Malcolm folded his arms. “Try ‘impossible.’”
The other man chuckled. “You know, the ironic thing is…I really am her grandfather. That’s the one thing I didn’t lie about.”
“Continue,” said Malcolm. “How did she come to be in your care?”
“Her father sent her away to protect her. He meant well, but he underestimated what the trip would do to her. When I found her, she was mad, desperate, and alone. She can barely think straight, poor girl.”
“If you don’t mind,” said Malcolm, “I’d like a full explanation.”
“Wouldn’t we all?” Perceval laid a hand on the doorknob. “But I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more. I’ve completed my errand. You just see to it that she’s kept safe. I’ll call for her again when I need her.”
“Now, see here, you can’t…”
Perceval tipped his hat. “Goodbye, Mr. Blackfire.”
The gas lamps were instantly snuffed out. The sole light in the room now came from Perceval’s eyes—bright, yellow, and crazed. He gave a loud laugh that echoed through the room and chilled Malcolm’s blood.
“The Hatter,” he whispered.
Then, a second later, the lights were back on and Perceval had vanished.
Malcolm hurried to the girl’s side. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Can you tell me what you remember?” he asked. “Where did you come from?”
She fidgeted with the folds of her cloak. “I don’t know.”
“Try to think,” Malcolm urged. “Can you recall anything?”
“I…I fell down a rabbit hole. That’s the only thing I’m sure of. There were so many strange people and creatures…and then I fell, and the Hatter found me.”
Malcolm decided not to push for more details of this story just yet. Best to keep things simple for now. “What’s your name?” he asked.
The girl closed her eyes for a moment, thinking. Then, finally, she spoke.
“Alice.”
Three
The Kingdom of Vetri, 384 B.E.
Helen pushed open the door of her barn, and cringed as it gave a loud creak. She knew there was someone in here, lurking. She’d been looking out through her kitchen window when she’d s
een the man steal inside. A thief after her horse again, no doubt. She reached out and snatched a pitchfork from beside the door. Helen wasn’t fond of fighting, but she would do it if she had to in order to save her horse. Her whole livelihood depended on it.
She saw movement from a stall near the other end of the barn—a stall that currently had no living creatures in it. Or at least, it wasn’t supposed to.
“Show yourself,” she warned, brandishing the pitchfork. “Or better yet, just leave. I really don’t want to stab you with this.” Her stomach turned at the mental image of attacking somebody with the barbaric weapon.
A man slowly rose to his feet and stepped out of the stall. He was around Helen’s age, somewhere in his mid-sixties. He had dark skin, and his long, greying hair was pulled back in a pony tail. A huge broadsword hung in a scabbard at his side, and a leather satchel was slung over his back. He sighed and held up his hands in surrender.
Helen was relieved. If he’d wanted to, he certainly could have killed her. That blade of his could make quick work of her stupid pitchfork—and her as well. All the same, she decided to err on the side of caution. “Take the sword off and throw it down over there in the straw, then,” she said, motioning with the pitchfork.
The man groaned. “Must I? I don’t want to give you Beryl.”
“Er…Beryl?”
“My sword.”
“You named your sword?”
“I name all my weapons.”
“That—” Helen broke off, trying to catch a fleeting memory before it vanished again. “That reminds me of someone.”
The man didn’t seem interested. “Look, if you don’t want me here, I’ll go. It looks like rain, and I wanted some shelter for the night. I wasn’t going to take anything, I promise.”
“What’s your name?” asked Helen.
“Lucas.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He snorted. “Well then, I don’t believe your name’s Helen.”
“You look familiar.” She narrowed her eyes at him.
“I used to be rather famous.” A puzzled expression came over Lucas’ face. “But come to think of it, you look sort of familiar.”
“I’m nobody,” said Helen. “Just the old mad woman in the woods. I escaped from an asylum a long time ago, you see.”
“I escaped from an enemy prison camp during the war, after I nearly died of a battle wound. Been doing mercenary work here and there ever since then.” He rubbed his grizzled chin. “I swear I’ve seen you before. Perhaps…” He stared at Helen in silence. “No, it couldn’t be.”
“Are you going to take the sword off, or aren’t you?” Helen demanded.
“Wait a moment,” said Lucas. He swung the satchel off his back and started rummaging through it.
“Don’t try anything,” said Helen.
“I’m not.” Lucas withdrew a tiny bundle wrapped in blue cloth and unwrapped it. Soon, a strange object lay on his palm.
“Is that…a shoe?” Helen exclaimed. “Made of glass?”
“Yes. I’ve been carrying it with me for many years…though I’m not entirely sure why. My memories of where it came from are foggy at best. But still…” He moved closer to Helen, ignoring her pitchfork. “This is going to sound like an odd request, but…would you please let me try it on your foot?”
Helen drew back a little. “You’re right. That does sound very, very odd.”
“I know. But for some reason…I feel like that’s what I’m supposed to do.”
Helen studied him for a long moment. Then, surprising even herself, she lifted her skirt a few inches, kicked off her left shoe, and held out her foot. “Go ahead.”
Lucas knelt in front of her and slid the glass slipper onto her foot. As he did, the village clock began to strike in the distance. One, two, three…
The slipper fit perfectly.
Four, five, six…
Memories came flooding back into Helen and Lucas’ minds. Rapid-fire glimpses of the past that made them both want to laugh and cry and cling to each other all at the same time.
Seven, eight, nine…
They gazed into each other’s eyes. Now, neither of them saw a stranger.
Ten.
“Matteo?”
Eleven.
“Ella?”
Twelve.
Author’s Note
Thanks for reading The Stroke of Eleven! This story marks the end of the first trilogy of Beaumont and Beasley books. There are plenty of other adventures to come; both sequels and spinoffs. For more information about further stories in the Afterverse, visit my website at www.kylerobertshultz.com.
About the Author
Kyle Robert Shultz began writing in his early teens after being bitten by a radioactive book. As a Christian, he strives to write fiction that is entertaining and wholesome, but devoid of overt “messages” or agendas. He lives in the wilds of southern Idaho, removed far enough from civilization to keep humanity safe should any of his rough drafts break through the electric fence. Aside from writing, his other passions are worship music, digital art, horseback riding, and caring for a small flock of miniature sheep.
The Stroke of Eleven Page 20