Alex Archer - Magic Lantern

Slowly, ponderously, the doorway opened within the smoke. On the other side of the doorway, a beautiful land filled with flowers and trees lay waiting.

“Do you see it?” Dutilleaux asked softly. “Do you see the Celestial Heavens?”

“Yes,” a woman said in a strained voice. “I do. I see it. I can’t believe I see it, but it’s there. Right there.”

Dutilleaux basked in the glory of the moment. He turned to the crowd and bowed deeply.

“We must be careful at this point,” he told the audience. “We have to keep a wary eye on the gateway before someone—or something—manages to get through.”

“You brought us here to endanger our lives!” Gervaise shook his walking stick and the cover fell away to reveal a gleaming sword cane.

Dutilleaux raised his hands in a placating manner. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid,” Gervaise insisted. “But I won’t allow you to endanger these women.”

“I’m not endangering them. I can control the ghosts.”

“Listen to him,” another man, this one’s voice harder and more confident, interrupted. “There is nothing to be afraid of—because there’s nothing there.”

“Who’s speaking?” Dutilleaux demanded. The confident smile never left his handsome face.

Another man stepped from the back of the crowd. He peeled back his cloak and revealed saturnine features. “I am.”

For a moment, Dutilleaux seemed at a loss. Then he smiled and said, “Professor Étienne-Gaspard Robert. Welcome to our festivities.”

Michel recognized Robert’s name. The man was Belgian by birth but had recently moved to France to pursue a career in art. He was also reputed to be a professor of physics.

“Not festivities,” Robert stated. “This is merely a parlor show.” He turned to the audience. “What you’re seeing is an illusion. A play of light and shadow. Less substantial than an early-morning fog.”

“Are you so sure, my friend?” Dutilleaux asked in a calm voice. “Perhaps you’d like to be the first to go through the gateway.”

Michel stared at the professor.

“There is no gateway there.” The people nearest Robert stepped back as though afraid of being struck down by any forces that chose to punish him for sacrilege. Robert sneered at the audience. “Superstitious fools. You’re letting this bag of wind with a handful of tricks sway your good judgment.” He locked eyes with Dutilleaux. “Permit me passage, then, charlatan. Show these sheep your power. Or be cursed for your fakery.”

Boldly, Robert strode forward.

An eerie hiss came from within the mystical doorway. Michel tried to remind himself that everything he was witnessing was a trick, but the mood Dutilleaux had established held him firmly in place.

Before the Belgian professor reached Dutilleaux, a garish figure with a horribly white face darted out of the doorway. The figure raised a long-bladed knife in one hand.

Robert stepped back with a curse.

But the figure wasn’t hunting him. The phantom turned on Dutilleaux. The knife flashed down and the flames went out.

Men and women cried and screamed as they stood in the meager pool of light provided by the lantern. None of them were close to where Dutilleaux had stood.

Trembling, Michel scooped up the lantern and carried it toward Robert and Dutilleaux. The light crept across the stone floor with him.

Robert stood against the nearby wall, obviously fearing for his very life. “That thing was here. I felt it. By God, it was real.”

Michel turned the lantern toward Dutilleaux and found the man stretched out on the stone cavern’s floor. Several skulls and bones littered the ground around him.

And the large knife the phantom had carried stuck out of the phantasmagorist’s chest. Dutilleaux’s face was already pale white in death.

1

London, England

Current day

“Couldn’t you have worn something a little more…revealing?”

Annja Creed frowned as she considered the question over the Bluetooth earpiece that linked her with her satellite phone. She stood in the middle of a dank alleyway stinking with rotting garbage and Chinese takeout. Dark rain clouds hung in the sky visible between the buildings. Sporadic smog patches drifted past.

“Doug, I’m way underdressed for a potential mugging as it is.” Annja wore a silver calf-length duster over black pants and a pearl-gray silk tie-waist blouse. Slouchy microsuede boots pushed her five-ten up to something over six feet. The boots were comfortable, stylish, and she could run for her life in them if she had to. She wore her auburn hair clipped back.

“This guy’s not a mugger.” Doug Morrell sounded put out. The producer of Chasing History’s Monsters—the syndicated television show Annja costarred in with Kristie Chatham—was twenty-two, young and driven by all things Twitter.

Despite the fact that he wasn’t really interested in history or archaeology, Annja genuinely liked Doug. He was like the younger brother she’d never had.

“I know he’s not a mugger.” Annja walked through the alley with her hands in her pockets. “He’s killed three women that the Metro police know about.”

“I saw those reports, too, which is why I want you to be careful.”

“Careful, but less dressed.”

Doug hesitated only a moment. “Yeah.”

“Not happening.”

“You could at least get rid of the jacket.”

“And give it to Igor to carry?”

“Don’t make fun of your bodyguard.”

Annja resisted the impulse to look back at Ray Venard, the guy Doug had hired for the shoot tonight. Venard was a large, hulking brute who had played professional rugby before he’d gotten caught shaving points, then was injured by outraged fans. He’d gotten through the court system unscathed, but the fans had left him with a knee that would never be the same.

“I thought he was a cameraman.”

“He is. He’s both. Kind of like a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Bodyguard and photographer.”

“Did I mention to you that when I met him in his office he was taking pictures of women for a skin magazine?”

Doug sighed. “You did.”

“So not only am I not going to take my coat off to be more revealing in this cold, rat-infested alley, I’m also not going to take it off in front of Igor.”

“I only mention the coat because it could help ratings.”

“The ratings are fine. We just got a two-year renewal.”

“So we could work on the next two-year deal.”

Annja kept walking. Working for the television show was sometimes a pain, but mostly it was fun. And there was Doug and a few of the other people she liked who were connected to the production. Not only did she get to travel, but the salary and bonuses were nice and allowed her to follow up on other explorations and digs.

She watched the shadows carefully. Detective Chief Inspector Westcox hadn’t been happy when she’d come to his office to discuss the recent murders that the media was attributing to “Mr. Hyde.” Of course, the reporters were only doing that because “Mr. Hyde” had written in, claiming responsibility for the murders.

Westcox had shown Annja the morgue photos of the victims. The DCI was closemouthed and professional, and he’d thought to frighten her off with the brutality of the killings. The victims had been stomped to death, their faces pulped by size eighteen Rufflander work boots.

What DCI Westcox hadn’t known was how much violence Annja Creed had seen. The police inspector had assumed she was a young woman inquiring into things much too bloody for her.

“I’m keeping my clothes on for the next two years, too.”

Doug whined. He was a good whiner when he wanted to be, but Annja was impervious.