The Forgotten Story

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The Forgotten Story Page 27

by Michelle E Lowe


  “Lord Javan actually saw him?”

  “Indeed, my Queen.”

  Her mood darkened. “Send word to Lord Javan at once! Tell him to come to Buckingham immediately.”

  “Yes, my Queen.” The messenger bowed.

  When she was alone, Victoria first kicked a sleeping rosebush and then began whacking it with her parasol.

  * * *

  Vela’s blood thudded in her ears and the calves of her legs burned. She enjoyed her runs through the forest. The freedom of feeling like a wild animal gave her such pleasure. Out there, amongst the trees, with ancient spirits looming about, Vela was truly herself.

  The dog, Archimedes, ran alongside her.

  When her body could run no farther, she collapsed and rolled over onto her back, panting. Running until she literally fell over with exhaustion was normally how she finished her runs. Archimedes sniffed and licked her cheek. She laughed and pushed him off.

  The blue, cloudless sky shining between the skeletal tree branches was a rarity for this time of year. She welcomed it, for cool, sunny days were rare and, therefore, her favorite.

  She clutched dry leaves and dirt and fell deep into thought.

  It would not be long before her body would no longer be as it was. Some days, she looked forward to the transformation, and others—she dreaded it.

  Her entire life, her mother had been open and honest with her. As a small child, Mother told Vela she had been birthed for the purpose of becoming a supreme being with unlimited powers, and together, they would be a great force that none could conquer. As she grew older, her mother had explained how she was to become this grand being. Later, she told her about the payments required to make it all happen.

  Sometimes, Vela wondered if she really wanted to be something other than herself. She already had a healthy variety of bloodlines that made her strong, fast, quick in the mind, and full of vigor. Few had the blood of an elf, a demon, a nymph, a god, and an enchantress in them. Her advantage could carry her far into the world. Who knew what she could accomplish, given the chance. Yet, if everything went according to her mother’s plan, Vela would be much more.

  Her breathing slowed as she caught her breath. It never took her long to recover. Vela stood and enjoyed the autumn breeze blowing over her as she peeled her hair from her sticky, sweat-drenched skin. She and Archimedes headed for home, catching a hare along the way and breaking its neck.

  When she arrived, a hackney carriage driver that her mother had sent for earlier was loading Mother’s luggage trunk onto it.

  Vela and the dog went inside the house. She carried the dead hare to the kitchen, where she set it on the countertop to skin and gut later. Through the kitchen window, she spied her mother in the garden, speaking to dull old Ron Wakefield—no doubt about the ceremony. She had heard about this ceremony so often throughout her life, she almost felt she could perform it herself.

  Vela returned to the sitting room where the chairs had been pushed aside to make room for two tables. One had leather straps bolted near the top and bottom corners. She took hold of a strap and yanked at it, testing its strength. Vela had done this before, and with her cousin arriving any day now, she tested it a final time.

  The rear door opened, and her mother stepped inside with Mr. Wakefield trailing behind her. She was dressed in a lush green day dress, black gloves, and a wide-brimmed hat with brightly colored feathers.

  “There you are, Vela. I worried that I’d missed you.”

  “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting.”

  Her mother placed loving hands upon her daughter’s cheeks and stared deeply into her violet eyes—eyes that matched her own. “My precious child. The love I have for you spans across the galaxy.”

  Vela truly believed her. She also loved her mother greatly and wanted to see her succeed in what she had worked so hard to manifest. Besides, if her mother did not love her or trust her to go through with the transformation, there would have been bonds on both tables.

  “Is that German dog going to London?” Vela asked.

  Her mother slid her hands off her face and grinned. “He is. I have told him a lie, that I want Queen Victoria dead, and that he must assassinate her.”

  “Will the Queen die?”

  Her mother shrugged. “It depends on the length of the woman’s fate string. What matters is the cause and effect the attack will have.”

  Vela considered her a moment. “I see. So Landcross is going to be in London, as well?”

  “Yes. And if I play my next card right, he will fall into my trap.”

  A knock came on the front door.

  “Enter,” her mother commanded.

  The door opened and the driver popped his head in. “Begging your pardon, ma’am. The carriage is ready to take you to the station.”

  “I’ll be out momentarily.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the humble driver, closing the door.

  Vela felt her mother’s fingers curling around her chin as she gently turned her head to face her.

  “I must leave, my precious darling.” She kissed her on the forehead. “Farewell, my daughter, for when we are reunited, you will have claimed your birthright.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Gate

  The universe, and the worlds residing within it, all have their secrets. So many that no one could ever uncover all of them. Earth was no different. She, too, held her own untold arcane stories.

  One of which was The Gate.

  While on his treasure hunt, the Trickster, Filip Faix, had found a Chintamani Stone that he cut out of the eye socket of the lion head of the only Chimera left. It was no easy task to find the hybrid beast, for it lived inside the dreams of a young boy in Greenland. Some items were easier to locate, such as the first breath of a newborn child, which Filip Faix had stored inside a jar, and a fossil from an animal that lived during the world’s first cycle.

  He kept his eyes on the prize—the Sudarshana Chakra—as he pushed on in search of his next item. That search had led him to the middle of Bermuda, scouting for the portal that had a tendency to move around the area. After hours of fruitless searching, he finally asked the crew of the Patriot, which had gone missing in 1812, if any of them had seen anything odd in the night sky recently. The captain admitted spotting green and violet lights to the north the night before. The desperate captain then requested a heading to land, for they had been sailing nonstop for years.

  The Trickster had already vanished by then.

  He headed north and soon, found it. It wasn’t only lights, but a dangerous and deadly mist, lit up by white sparks bright enough to blind. It also had winds so loud, it could make someone’s brain bleed. These were the least of Filip Faix’s worries. Handling the mist and overcoming it was the true challenge.

  He readied himself for the fall.

  The mistake most made—even those more powerful than he—was fighting the mist. That only created a cosmic undertow that sucked victims in and gradually tore them apart by pressure alone. The key in making it through was simply letting the power of it take over and carry the traveler through its ever-moving vacuum. It took willpower to act so passively against such an abusive force, but it made sense considering, the mist acted like a threshold within The Gate.

  Once when Filip Faix had traveled through The Gate, he had retrieved a scroll from the Royal Library of Alexandria while the building was still burning to the ground. The time after that, he’d brought a mortal through with him.

  Filip Faix looked at the mist, sucked in a breath, and dropped down. He was immediately thrown about as ruthlessly as a sea lion at the mercy of a killer whale. He twirled in the flashing mist, which hurt him greatly, and the reluctant howling caused him to go deaf. The wind bashed him about with bone-shattering force. He wondered how it was he’d been able to successfully bring the mortal through alive. It certainly brought the Trickster to his breaking point every time he went through the mist. Just when he thought he could take it no longer, ever
ything stopped and became quiet.

  Filip Faix opened one eye, and then the other. He was suspended in the center of a dome the size of the earth’s moon. He had made it to The Gate. The core, where gravity did not exist, drew in all that passed through the mist, even dead things. Body parts from those who’d failed, along with their items, floated about.

  The overwhelmingly large area was merely a junction. To leave, the visitor needed to choose a wormhole from the countless others pocketed away in the foggy circular wall. It took skill, which the Trickster had an abundance of, to read and decode when and where these small passageways went. Some lead to other, parallel universes, such as a planet of great vibrancy and violence where the primary color was yellow, instead of blue like in this universe. Others led to dead ends or endless darkness.

  Some took travelers through time itself.

  He floated over to a wormhole opening where an electrified fog wafted out. His pristine memory helped him locate the tunnel.

  With a shrug, he dove in.

  More white flashes flickered as bright as lightning before he was in the sky once again. He flew through a frigid winter’s night. Snow particles dusted his face. He traveled through the clouds hovering in the darkness. A bead of light appeared and gradually spread into millions of lights.

  In moments, Filip Faix landed on the tip of a torch held by the Statue of Liberty. He looked out toward the New World city. A metropolis of groundbreaking engineering that was consuming the land in order to grow like an adolescent beast.

  The city sky was also populated. Dozens of zeppelins slowly floated by the dozens of spotlights that had helped guide him there. The aircrafts, with their large propellers chopping through the air, made wide, slow circles over tall buildings. Some of the airships were leftovers from the First World War that had ended five years earlier, according to this time period. They had dropped bombs upon the enemy and had carried soldiers to battle, but now their function consisted of police air control, tour rides, and advertisement.

  Filip Faix crossed over the body of water between Liberty Island and New York City. The moment his foot touched the wintery concrete, his clothing changed into a sharp black and red striped zoot suit.

  He walked over the snow-powdered streets toward West Village, where the streets were adorned with Christmas decoration. Garland was wrapped around lamp posts. Children gathered in front of store windows, ogling the toys. A group of carolers sang on a street corner. Filip Faix passed a theater house showing Maciste in Hell. It was the same cinema where he’d seen the matinee of Peter Pan on his previous visit.

  He continued down the road to an antique store called The Village Antique and entered through the rear. He didn’t have to knock at the backroom door and then manifest an admission card to hand over to the doorman behind it, but he decided to play along. The doorman allowed him in after taking the card through the slot.

  “Enjoy, sir.”

  Filip Flax went upstairs to the abandoned second floor and then climbed the stairs to the third floor where a doorman, wearing a navy-blue suit with a pistol hidden under his jacket, stood.

  “Welcome to the Attic,” the thug greeted, opening the door for him.

  The upstairs tavern was a long stretch of a room equipped with a bar running down the place and tables packed with people across the way from it. A sizable skylight loomed overhead, offering a view of the city sky. The drapes were drawn over the windows, hiding the lawbreakers from the outside world—as if the thick cigarette smoke wasn’t already doing that.

  Filip Faix took a seat under a brass light fixture and pushed away a bowl of peanuts.

  “What will it be, fella?” asked the bartender behind the bar.

  The man wore a classy green vest and a clean, pressed shirt. His hand was robotic. Filip Faix sensed his whole arm was, too. The bartender had war nightmares in his eyes. He’d seen too much during his months as a soldier. Witnessed too many friends die. The experience left him sobbing alone in the dark some nights.

  Suicide was in this man’s future.

  “A cocktail,” he told him.

  “Coming right up.”

  As the bartender fetched his order, the Trickster eyed the Prohibition posters. The posters served as both a decoration and a mockery of a failing law.

  Filip Faix needed to find his next item, which was a forbidden bottle from another era. When he had read it on the list, the Trickster’s mind instantly went to this place.

  Once he’d drunk his drink, he’d order a bottle to take with him. Then he would be off to the next and final challenge.

  On the bar was a miniature Christmas tree constructed of shiny tin. Filip Faix had always found amusement in mortal celebrations—even before the age of the ancient druids. Over time, a few of those sacred annual celebrations and traditions had transformed into other customs. Filip Faix often wondered what these holidays would be converted into next.

  He picked the tree up and wound it. He set it on the bar and watched it slowly rotate in a circle.

  “Fuckin’ hell,” came a voice off to his side. “Lookee who it is, eh?”

  Filip Faix glanced over at the young, handsome man approaching him. He leaned against the bar and stared at him intently.

  “Pierce Landcross,” Filip Faix beamed. “Small world.”

  “Small world? We’re not bloody far from where you left me, bruised and hurting, remember?”

  Filip Faix did remember. Although he had protected the boy while traveling through the mist, Pierce still sustained injuries to his ribs, which Filip Faix had repaired. In his opinion, the damage could have been far more severe.

  “I do. And you remember the reason why I brought you here. Until the threat is taken care of, I can’t bring you back to your rightful time.”

  Honestly, if Filip Faix weren’t extremely curious about what Freya was doing, and didn’t still carry feelings for the nymph she used to be, he’d never have bothered with this whole thing. Regardless, in his thousands of years of existence, he had never protected a family member before. It was kind of fun, having a relative to watch over—even a mouthy one like Pierce.

  “How are your injuries now?” the Trickster asked.

  Pierce rubbed his side. “A bit sore. Hurts to laugh.” To the barkeep, Pierce hollered out in an American accent, “Hey, Tin Man, a glass of Benton’s Old Fashioned, eh?”

  “Don’t call me that, Isaac,” the barkeep seethed.

  “Just joshing you, George.”

  “Good,” Filip Faix praised. “You took my advice and changed your name. Even your accent, too, huh?”

  “Only around certain folk,” Pierce admitted, reverting to his normal drawl. “I’m used to living under assumed names, anyway.”

  Pierce had adapted to the transition well enough and had settled into his temporary situation. He was dressed in a black suit with a dark red necktie and vest. He wore pinstriped britches with spats over two-toned black and white shoes. His hair was cut short and was neatly shaven in the back.

  “Listen, there’s something I want to ask you,” Pierce said.

  Filip Faix ignored him. He did not want to listen to any more of his requests. “Order a bottle of whiskey. We’ll drink together.”

  “What makes you think I want to drink with you?”

  Pierce made it very hard for Filip Faix to not want to slap him. The Pierce Landcross that Filip Faix had brought to the twentieth century was a twenty-four-year-old, arrogant little crybaby.

  “Stop acting like being dropped off here is the end of the world,” the Trickster scoffed. “I could have plopped you into the middle of the Amazon Jungle and let you deal with headhunters.”

  Pierce carefully considered him. “Right. Georgey,” he said, raising his hand. “A bottle of whiskey, yeah?”

  When he lifted his arm up, Filip Faix noticed the 38. caliber revolver strapped to his side. “You seem to have done well in the short period you’ve been here.”

  “S’pose. But I’ve endured the
most confusing days of my life.” He looked up at the skylight as a zeppelin leisurely flew by. He smiled as if recalling a pleasant memory. “Motion pictures, automobiles, zeppelins. Bloody hell—airplanes? The bleedin’ planet has gone and gotten cluttered up with machines. I honestly thought I was about to go mad in those first few days.”

  “Could have been worse,” Filip Faix reminded him.

  The bartender returned with the cocktail, the bottle of whiskey, and two glasses.

  “I fell into some trouble that got me mixed up in a smuggling racket,” Pierce explained. “I helped sneak in booze to this speakeasy. My experience in this sort of thing has earned me a rather quick promotion.” Pierce lightly slapped himself on the forehead. “What sort of free nation bans alcohol, eh?”

  Filip Faix snorted. “It won’t last. It never does. It’s simply a piss poor way to try to make mankind more civilized.”

  “Aye, well, the meaning of the word, ‘civilized,’ has no meaning, in my opinion.”

  “Exactly. What does it mean to be civilized?” He raised his glass. “To a pair of civilized gents like us.”

  Pierce shook his head with a tut. “Right. To us, then.”

  They clinked glasses and took a swig.

  “If you haven’t come to bring me back, why are you here?”

  “I’m on a treasure hunt.”

  Pierce stared at him a long moment before breaking out in laughter. “A treasure hunt, eh? What game are you playing at?”

  “A treasure hunt game. Like I said. I’ve been challenged to find certain items.”

  Pierce’s interests were piqued. “What sort of items?”

  It wasn’t that Filip Faix didn’t want to continue their conversation, but time had run out. “Take a drink, boy. They’re coming.”

  Pierce knitted his eyebrows together. “Who?”

  Yelling from the floor below, followed by the pounding of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, alerted everyone.

  “It’s the coppers!” called the bartender.

  “Shite,” Pierce cursed, rushing to join the others trying to escape.

 

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