Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

‘The twelfth. Friday.’

‘Okay. So, in two months, February twelfth, start opening the portal every day at five o’clock a.m. and five o’clock p.m. – for fifteen minutes only – you must be sure to close it at five fifteen without fail. Time is a bit different over there. I thought it was moving more quickly, but perhaps it isn’t. Either way, I’ll have this-’ he held up Howard’s watch. ‘It’ll keep the time here perfectly, even while I’m over there.’

‘Five o’clock in the morning? Every morning?’

He laughed. ‘Sorry, that is unreasonable, isn’t it? How about seven o’clock – would that work? Seven in the evening and seven in the morning… but just fifteen minutes, absolutely no more. I’ll have to make sure the others know…’

Jennifer still looked worried. ‘What if the watch doesn’t keep perfect time?’

‘If it doesn’t, then my already miserable day is about to deteriorate further. Mark and Garec are using my old watch to time my return right now, so I’ll be testing my theory in seventeen minutes.’

He checked her wristwatch. ‘Close enough. Now, promise me you will close the portal each time. You don’t want Nerak coming through to find you, or if by naked, pastry-chef luck he gets stuck on this side, tracking you down. So you must swear you’ll shut it down.’ Steven didn’t mean to scare her, but she had to understand how vital this was. ‘One of those days, Hannah will appear. You cannot lose hope, Ms Sorenson, and you cannot miss a day, not ever.’

She looked determined. ‘Absolutely. Seven o’clock, a.m. and p.m., every day, starting on February twelfth.’

‘Thank you,’ Steven smiled. ‘She’ll be back. I promise.’

Fifteen minutes later, as Steven checked Lessek’s key was firmly secured in the front pocket of Howard’s backpack, his hand closed around the second roast beef sandwich he’d stuffed in. He pulled it out and laughed. ‘Mark will love this,’ he said.

Jennifer gaped and, as if remembering her manners for the first time all day, burst forth, ‘Oh my goodness, I’m a miserable hostess. I’m so embarrassed. Steven, what do they eat there? Do you want something before you go?’

‘I only have two minutes, so no thanks, don’t worry-’

‘Wait. I have plenty of food. What can I-?’ Her voice trailed off in embarrassment.

‘Don’t worry about it, we’ve managed just fine,’ Steven said, patting her on the arm. ‘More importantly, you remember what you have to do?’

‘No problem. Seven o’clock, every twelve hours. I will be dead before I miss a turn – and I will not lose hope again, Steven.’ She started to cry, reaching for him. ‘Bring her back home, Steven.’

‘I will,’ he promised, and reached for the fire-shovel. His heart raced as he unfolded the far portal and the Larion magic swirled about the room. ‘Don’t forget: fold this up as soon as I’m gone, then take it and get out of here, as quickly as you possibly can.’

Her face still damp with tears, Hannah’s mother repeated her promise. ‘I will.’

Steven took hold of the backpack straps, checked Howard’s watch, which read 5.04 p.m. and stepped onto the Larion far portal and out of Jennifer Sorenson’s living room.

Jennifer crouched, watching tiny flecks of coloured light shimmer in the air above the tapestry like a cloud of Technicolor fireflies. Her tears had turned to stunned amazement; Steven Taylor had disappeared before her eyes. He had said he would, and the book had vanished, but until it actually happened, she had not realised how scary it would be. He had been telling the truth, the whole truth: Hannah was out there – Jennifer looked down at the ornate, if filthy, rug lying askew across her floor – in there somewhere. ‘Bring her back, Steven,’ she begged again, though she had no idea if he could still hear her. She was distracted by the sound of an accident outside – there were pile-ups on Lincoln or Broadway periodically, and Hannah invariably dashed the two blocks west so see if she could help until an ambulance arrived. But this was more than just the regular slam and shatter of a rush-hour crash: this was awesome, the musical tinkling of broken glass followed by the groan of tired steel and the whump, whump, kablam! of an exploding gas tank.

The sound slapped her back to reality; she heard Steven’s voice again. Nerak is the most powerful and destructive force any world has ever seen, and he is on his way to this spot right now – because we opened the portal.

‘Oh shit, Steven, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!’ She stared at the portal, then whispered, ‘Close the goddamned thing. Move!’ She used the fire-shovel Steven had taken from the fireplace to fold one corner over and as she did so, the waves of energy in the room subsided. Jennifer guessed that with the disappearance of the mystical fireflies, it was safe for her to move the tapestry by hand, then escape to wherever it was she was going. She reached out her fingers, then stopped and retreated to the relative safety of the couch. She didn’t consider herself a brave woman – her behaviour earlier in the day had truly shocked and appalled her – and she was glad no one was there now to watch as she scurried back and forth across her living room like a frightened rabbit.

‘Enough,’ she finally told herself, and steeled herself to touch the tapestry. Once she’d started it was easier than she’d expected, and she folded it into a surprisingly small lump, which she stuffed into a canvas bag. Then she rushed about her house, not really certain what essentials she would require. She grabbed her wallet and collected together a pile of clean underwear and socks and her favourite sweater. She unearthed the small fireproof strongbox she kept hidden in the space above the electric fuse panel. Now she could smell the pungent aroma of burning oil and melting plastic; people were crying for help and someone – or two, she couldn’t tell – was screaming in agony.

He was here; he – it – whatever, Nerak was out there, less than two blocks away.

Jennifer rushed through the foyer, slipped one set of keys into her pocket, then without even a final look around her house stepped outside, locked the door behind her and hustled down the steps towards her car.

Nerak drove like a madman, with the window rolled down so he could drink in the bellow of the Mustang’s racing engine. These automobiles are fascinating, he thought, picturing himself careening through the streets of Pellia – or, even better, Orindale or Estrad – maybe even in one of the colourful giants, one of those trucks, Myrna’s memory supplied. Moving a plug of Confederate Son from one side of Myrna’s mouth to the other, Nerak tried to spit brown juice out the window, but his current mouth was not yet trained and instead it dribbled down the inside of the door.

Traffic had been light, and the raging forest fire still flickering at the edges of the highway had discouraged all but the most intrepid of travellers from risking the journey east, but Nerak was becoming angry. The girl’s memories told him that progress would be slower, but he had no idea how congested the road would be. There were hundreds – thousands – of clumsy, colourful roaring monsters lining the road, an endless caravan. Where were all these people going? He growled.

Home. Myrna’s mind answered him. They are going home.

‘Well, they are in the way,’ Nerak said, and considered his options. He had used most of the bullets on his trip across the country – and a few more in Idaho Springs, just when people had tried to keep him from climbing the concrete ramp to the highway. But it hadn’t taken many bullets to clear that path; Nerak had become quite a skilled marksman. He leaned out the window and spat another mouthful of tobacco juice onto the highway. This was too much; the gun was just a toy, anyway, nothing powerful enough to move all these people. He needed something more, another fire perhaps, or maybe a sand storm – just killing them all as he had in Port Denis wouldn’t get their cars out of his way.