Alex Archer - Magic Lantern

The theatrics of an illusionist conceal a sinister truth...

In late 1700s Paris, a young but promising illusionist dabbles in the arcane art of phantasmagoria. But at his moment of greatest triumph—unveiling a magical lantern said to open a door to the Chinese spirit world—he is violently struck down by a vengeful phantom....

On assignment in London, archaeologist Annja Creed is hunting down a man who claims to have discovered the Jekyll and Hyde potion. On the trail of one curiosity, Annja finds herself pulled toward another mystery...the origin of a strange, old-fashioned projector once used by eighteenth-century illusionists. As Annja delves into its rich history, a dark past begins to emerge. And someone wants to harness the power of this cursed artifact...risking everything for the treasures it promises.

But Annja has a little magic trick of her own. One that she wields with deadly accuracy....

“Ms. Creed. Get in the car, please.”

Annja hesitated, but realized the window of opportunity to run had passed.

“If you attempt to flee, I will shoot you in the legs and pull you into the car.” The speaker was a man of medium height and Asian ancestry. He held the pistol with a steady hand.

“You’ll shoot me with the police just up the street?” Annja asked calmly.

“I will. And I’ll get away with it.” He waved the pistol. “Now, get in before I have you put in. We won’t be gentle.”

She’d escaped many traps in the past. Sometimes it was better to step into them. Annja folded herself into the backseat of the car. Another man, also Asian, sat in the front passenger seat, a pistol in his lap. Once she was seated, the two other men got back in. She was sandwiched.

At a word from the driver, the car pulled into traffic as smoothly as wax running down a candle.

Annja sat quietly between the men on either side of her. “Do you want to tell me what this is about?”

“It’s simple.” The man in the front passenger seat turned to face her. “We want the magic lantern.”

Magic Lantern

Alex Archer

www.mirabooks.co.uk

The Legend

...The English commander took Joan’s sword and raised it high.

The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.

Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.

Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are reborn...

Special thanks and acknowledgment to

Mel Odom for his contribution to this work.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

Prologue

Les Carrières de Paris

Paris, France

1793

In the darkness of the tunnel, the strong smell of old death struck MicThel Toussaint like a sharp blow to the face. He barely managed to keep from turning and leaving as the hair on the back of his neck rose.

Even the Revolution sweeping through Paris these past four years hadn’t affected him this much. Possible sudden death in the streets at the hands of madmen was not the same as death of an arcane nature.

Gulping back bile, he wrapped his arm over his mouth and nose and breathed through his rough coat sleeve. He peered at the darkness outside the reach of the lantern light. Most of the others in their group—three abreast in this dank passage—complained loudly.

“Where are we?”

“What is this place?”

The sound of their voices echoed and echoed again as it got lost in the long tunnel.

Their young guide raised the lantern above his head. The orange light cascaded over the nearby cave walls, chasing the shadows. The white limestone seemed to warm from the glow, but the chill air rattled Michel. He couldn’t forget that he was now dozens of feet below Paris.

God willing, he would go home again tonight.

A fat man in expensive business attire tried to seize the lantern from the guide. Michel recognized him as one of the wealthy merchants who had convinced Michel’s editor to assign him the task of covering Anton Dutilleaux’s show. As a distraction to the conflict raging throughout the city.

The boy refused to part with the lantern. Michel didn’t know if that was out of ownership or fear of the dark, which steadfastly lay in wait.

“Give me that light, you rancid bit of flotsam,” the fat man snarled. He swung his walking stick with considerable force at the boy’s head.

Outmatched, the dirty-faced street urchin let go the lantern and retreated with one hand raised protectively, scarcely avoiding the stick. Metal gleamed in the boy’s hand, and Michel knew the urchin had drawn a knife. For a moment the reporter thought blood was about to be spilled.

“I hope the ghosts get you, you oozing pox,” the boy called belligerently, backing away. He pocketed his knife and no one except Michel seemed the wiser.

The fat man snarled an oath at the retreating boy, then shined the lantern’s beam farther ahead into the waiting catacombs.

Michel hoped the man’s cruel act didn’t curse them all. Michel believed in ghosts and curses. He never walked across a grave and always went in the opposite direction if a black cat crossed his path.

I am, he thought miserably, without doubt the last person that should have been assigned to this story. Before he’d left the offices of the newspaper, he had made certain the editor had known that. Shaking just a little, he pulled his cloak more tightly around him.

“Dutilleaux!” the fat man roared. “I demand that you show yourself! I didn’t come all this way to be made to wait!” He paused as the thunder of his voice rolled down the throat of the tunnel. “Dutilleaux!”

“Quiet.” From out of the shadows, a man calmly asked, “What are you trying to do, Gervaise? Wake the dead? We all know that is my job.”

Anton Dutilleaux stepped from the shadows, but they didn’t easily part company with him. Rather, they lingered in his dark hair, his dark gaze and his black evening suit. Black gloves covered his long-fingered hands.

The three women in the crowd drew back with small, frightened cries.

“Pardon me, ladies. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Dutilleaux smiled disarmingly and bowed deeply.

Liar, Michel thought unkindly. You meant to scare them. He was even angrier because Dutilleaux’s appearance had scared him, as well.

“Is that your fancy, then, charlatan?” the fat man named Gervaise demanded. “Spending your nights with the dead so you can scare women and children?”

Dutilleaux smiled a second time, and it was a good smile. Michel had heard that the magician excelled with women. A number of scandalous stories had followed him through Europe.