What Goes Bump In The Night Read online

  "What the...?"

  The drawer is heavy, more so than should be possible considering it's not much larger than a shoebox. Inside, ratting around with all the nescience of that which is completely mundane, are dozens-possibly hundreds-of tiny, eclectic, completely ordinary stones. Smooth and jagged, round and square, and almost every single colour I can think of that I've ever seen a stone.

  I frown. Are they for Magickal purposes, or are they simply here to confuse people? It seems an odd sort of item to store in an antique chest of drawers in one's favorite living room.

  Then again, Illiam seems an odd sort of bloke all-round. Perhaps this discovery shouldn't come as such a massive surprise.

  With a huff of air that deflates my entire chest in one breath, I shove the drawer closed and turn back to the rest of the room. I wonder how much more there is to this quirky home of his that he isn't allowing me access to. I wonder where those stairs lead when he's the one taking them.

  Too few answers for the number of questions I have.

  My feet carry me across the polished hardwood as I try to discern whether or not the world around me could be an illusion. I'm fully lucid, especially without Illiam's powerful presence nearby, more than I reckon it's even possible to be whilst dreaming. If this is a fantasy, it's an absolutely fucking stellar one.

  That still doesn't dissuade me from my skepticism. Not at all.

  "If you're as obsessed with me as I think you are, mate," I mutter as I wander back into the hallway, glancing left and right and feeling annoyingly like Sarah at the beginning of The Labyrinth, "you must've left me a much bigger playground than this to have fun with."

  I snort and shake my head, white-blonde hair falling in my eyes as I do so. "If you're testing my intellect, Doctor Doom, I'll fucking beat you."

  Part of me expects that velvety baritone to respond, even though Illiam is nowhere to be seen.

  If I were a secret door... I muse, wandering slowly down the endlessly curving corridor. Secret doors are my specialty, especially given my abilities to alter matter. I make my own secret doors. It's a useful party trick that almost makes up for my many shortcomings as a capable, responsible adult.

  I approach one of the walls, sweeping one hand over the rich blue panelling. From what I can sense, it's natural hardwood, nothing Magickal about it whatsoever. There's a thin layer of dust on the lip of the trim which sticks to my finger-an interesting element to add if all of this really is an illusion. It says a lot about the creator. Or a lot about what he thinks of my attention to detail, anyway.

  Closing my eyes, I focus on the thrum of my heartbeat in the hollow of my chest. That's where it always starts, the warm tingle that travels from my core to the very tips of my fingers and feet, prickling the skin. Morphing solid wood into paper is a skill I've prioritized when it comes to honing my abilities, and I've found it's a sight less messy than just melting it outright, like I might with a different substance. You only make the mistake of getting pulp and sap under your fingernails once.

  The grain of the wood doesn't transmute into folds of corrugated cardboard as it should beneath my hand. It's either because this is a tightly-controlled illusion, or because it's shielded by a Magick of its own to keep other Anomalies from playing havoc with the laws of physics.

  My money's on the second one.

  I work my way down the hall, my hand never leaving the dyed wood. I don't want to waste too much of my energy and give myself a migraine or worse, so I only check it periodically, moving on once I realize it too won't shift under my influence.

  And then, right as I'm about to reflexively step forward again on the seventh or eighth (and probably last) attempt, it happens. The pads of my fingertips run over one length of trim, and the panel its connected to clicks loudly inward, depressing into the wall. I jump back as the entire wall itself shifts, dragging itself heavily to one side.

  Behind it, a new staircase spirals up into thick, heavy darkness.

  I don't feel the need to wait for any sort of invitation. My combat boots crunch over what appears to be more cobalt glass, pressed into long tiles which line the interior of this hidden space. It makes the entire area feel mystical, and I wonder how deliberate the design choice was.

  At the top of the endlessly winding staircase, both light and oxygen seem to thin out. My head spins as the glass banister rail beneath my hand levels out. How high up does this go, anyway? Twenty stories? Twenty-five? More? I'm dizzy from climbing endlessly in one direction, but I press forward, toward the only source of light emanating from anything at the top of whatever spire I've scaled.

  The other end of a catwalk-esque platform spanning the entire width of the turret is a round pedestal, dark blue glass to match the rest of the structure. The podium itself is the emitting the light, a cool aqua glow that radiates off the thick slabs of glass and casts bizarre shadows across the tile.

  And atop that podium is a sight that makes my heart stand still.

  Oh my god, that... that's the Opus.

  I don't know how I know. I want to say it's instinctual, because I honestly don't want to dwell on it. This Hallowe'en has me seriously creeped out, and I want nothing to do with any logic until I'm safe at home with my boys and my brigade.

  Remember, this could still all be just a bloody dream, I tell myself sternly as I cross the catwalk. Even as my fingertips sweep across the cover of the book, barely grazing its soft leather grain. Even as my hands run down the sides of it, inspecting every crease and corner of both the text block and spine simultaneously. Even as I'm picking it up, taking the incredible and impressive weight of the enormous tome into my arms.

  Remember, this could still all be just a trap...

  I drag my fingers across the embossed wording, so stark and bold against the old brown leather. While I may not be the most spiritual or religious of folk, there's something about the gargantuan book that definitely emits a presence. Just holding it, I feel...

  I feel edgy.

  I don't like this. This doesn't feel right.

  I'm not a fan of premonitions. Typically because while I have zero phenomenal abilities in the area of clairvoyance, I've a lot of experience with bad juju heralding all hell breaking loose. I clutch the big volume to my chest for as long as it takes me to cast a quick, paranoid glance around myself, before returning my attention to its cover. My fingers tease one ornate metal corner.

  The Opus Veritas , I think breathlessly, hardly able to even entertain the idea of opening it on the spot. The entire thesis behind the Sovereignty's apparent 'new religion'. Am I seriously holding it in my hands?

  But my curiosity is less easy to ignore than one might hope.

  My index and middle fingers curl beneath the corner of the front cover, and my stomach rolls itself fully over in my gut. I daren't take a breath. The rumours that have flown about via underground chatter have pointed to the possibility of everything from extortionately high taxes to dietary and medicinal control to ritualized rape contained within its pages. It terrifies me to think what I may be about to lay my eyes upon, what the people of my country may have to endure someday soon as their new reality.

  Read it , says the voice in my head, the one I usually tell to pay rent or get bent. Read it now. In case you don't have it much longer.

  It isn't often that particular voice talks any sense. So I decide to take advantage of the occasion.

  Open it. Read what I can. Retain it all.

  But, before I can even draw open the heavy leather cover, my center of gravity is gone. So is the floor. A rough scream rips itself from the very back of my throat as I'm flung across the bridge, motion's captive, something cold and solid wrapped
snugly around my neck.

  I slam against the glass wall with the grunt; the force drives me heavily into it. I can't see what has me, it all happens too fast. An icy hand wraps all the way around my head, bicep keeping my the back of it from slamming into the glass, and covers my mouth. Another snags my wrist, fingers digging into pressure points that cause my own to spring open, releasing the last of my grip on the Opus.

  Bollocks - no!

  It's no shock to me when I open my eyes and find myself glaring up into the dark, inky gaze of my mysterious host, Illiam.

  "I had a hunch I would eventually find you here."

  I squirm in his grip, which is like fighting iron or concrete. Except I could manipulate iron or concrete in order to free myself, and Illiam's clutches are something I have no control over. His body is so powerful as it's pressed into mine, so robust. The relaxed look on his pale, handsome face speaks volumes on how little effort he's having to put into restraining me entirely.

  The sharp point of his elbow pins my wrist to the glass. His hand holds the tome up high, as if it weighs nothing. He chuckles, glancing between it and me, shaking his head like a step-parent readying himself to scold a rebellious teen.

  "My, my. What am I going to do with you, little bird?" He clicks his tongue patronizingly against the roof of his mouth several times, and I struggle anew beneath his stoic, stony gaze. "I give you the most beautiful cage to enjoy, and still you feel the need to fly beyond your boundaries. I must say, I am disappointed in you, Penelope. Or is Pandora perhaps more fitting?"

  I lash out with one leg, jabbing the steel toe of my boot at the inside of his shin. He evades it with celerity that's in no way human, then darts to counter, pinning my thigh with his knee. I growl into his palm, and he chuckles cruelly in my face. The position he has us in holds us uncomfortably close, every single breath grazing my cheeks above his hand. I can't help the way I shudder at how helplessly he has me trapped. Especially once I realize neither one of my boots is currently touching the floor.

  "Be still," he purrs, and I swear his lips brush the shell of my ear as he does so. "Now is not your time to be a hero. Not all the while you continue to make these foolish and immature mistakes, mistakes that wind up with you at the mercy of a man... or a monster."

  I swallow a pathetic whimper as he withdraws his hand, releasing my mouth and unraveling himself from around my neck. Somehow, it doesn't serve to lessen the distance between us any. His robust thighs crush mine to the cold glass, his now free hand sliding up the nape of my neck into my hair. My knees buckle, and his smirk widens as he realizes for a brief moment he was the only thing holding me upright.

  "You're gonna want to put me down, son, before you start to offend my senses," I do my best to snarl in his face, determined not to show in any way how much power he has over me. Any part of me. "And by the way, how the fuck can you lecture me on being immature and silly when you've got pebbles and shit stashed all over the fucking gaff!?"

  "I like to collect things." Illiam is still smirking as he strokes those tender fingers through my short hair, scraping sharp nails that may as well be talons against my scalp. It takes every ounce of effort not to crane my neck into the tantalizing touch. "Pretty things, things that form a set. Things that remind me of specific times and places, specific people and events."

  One fingernail scrapes over a nerve, and this time, I'm incapable of catching the whimper before it slips out of my mouth. Illiam's anticipated chuckle echoes it in the dimness of the top of the tower. The cool light from the pedestal catches the sharp angles of his face, throwing shadows into the valleys, deepening them in a way that's oddly fitting of the current holiday season.

  "Things that are special to me. Things I don't want others to touch..."

  "You know the feature women find most unattractive in a man is dishonesty," I snipe, deciding to run my mouth in place of my fists where I'm incapable of physically defending myself.

  "I doubt very much you believed me when I said this treatise didn't actually exist. You're far too bright for that."

  "That's the crappiest excuse for emotional abuse I've ever heard."

  Illiam smirks darkly. "You should meet the nice gentlemen I spend my Friday evenings with."

  Either he deliberately ignores the look of pointed disgust I fix him with, or he's too distracted to notice it. His lightless, colorless eyes are on the huge tome in his hand, turning it so that the embossed lettering and detail catches the matching turquoise light.

  "There is nothing in here for you, little hero," he muses, smiling to himself with knowledge that infuriates me. The Opus Veritas, another key to exposing the true perversion of the Sovereignty on our terms and not theirs, is inches from my fingertips, and there's nothing I can do about it.

  "No, you need not know at all about the Chasms of the Abyss," he continues. His black eyes are almost glowing in the cool light; it's beyond eerie, and even more entrancing than before. So much so, I don't even care that the cold claws of his hand are crawling their way across my throat. I notice it, perceive it and the threat it presents-I purely don't fucking care.

  "Nor do you need know of Vetrnætr," he continues smoothly, "nor the thinning of the veil. In fact, I honestly think that when it comes to the war that is brewing, the clashing of forces between Our Lady Nova and The Great Hunger... well, perhaps it's better you linger in the darkness of the dream a little longer, my dear."

  Gripping my chin firmly between his fingers, Illiam forces it upward, fully baring me to him. Once more, I'm indefensible in his arms. His teeth scrape the full length of my throat, tracing the path of my jugular vein, and I'm powerless to stop the snarling whimper that jerks out from underneath them.

  I sound like an animal. A cornered animal, about to be devoured in some form or another. Prey, in the hands of a predator.

  The final chuckle that I hear, I'm also able to feel, right against my skin.

  "No, your time has yet to come, Miss Starling. Your time has yet to come."

  Resistance is legitimately futile. The more I squirm, the harder I fight, the tighter he seems to wrap himself around me. Our arms and legs are tangled, his easily overpowering my own. The floor seems to open up underneath me. Again, I wonder if this really is all just a dream.

  Well, looks like this turned out to be a fantastic fucking idea… is the last conscious stream of thought I'm able to form, before limbs contract around my body, teeth sink deeply into my skin, and my scream of is lost in the deafening hum of pleasure that drowns out whatever's still left of my sanity.

  "Four days!?"

  Oliver's features are gripped tight with worry as he stares at me. He's been holding both of my wrists since I stumbled back into the Switchboard this morning tightly in his skinny hands, as if terrified I'll disappear if he lets me go. B.L.A.Z.E.'s underground base was eerily empty when I arrived home, having woken up behind the same dumpster I've found Alfie passed out around on several occasions. How I got back up to Manchester from Old London, I have no idea.

  Well, I have some idea. But I want to wait until I've had a shower, a coffee, and possibly even a hot meal before I have to think about it.

  Oliver is nodding, his shaggy brown hair falling in his wide eyes. "Penny, you've been missing since the Hallowe'en mission, since you guys went down there to snag the Opus. We've got active teams out all over the country looking for you."

  "We do?" My stomach wrings itself into a second knot.

  "Yeah." The geek bites his lower lip, avoiding my eyes. "I, I need to get ahold of them, to let them know. Penny, they're going to lose their crap when they realize you're okay!"

  I'm numb as my friend retrieves his laptop from the
den area, narrowly avoiding tripping over two chairs on the way there and one more on the way back. My body may be safely home, but my mind is elsewhere.

  Four days? How in the name of Nova could I have been missing for four sodding days?

  "Do you remember anything?" presses Oliver, even as he's inputting commands faster than I could ever hope to learn to type. "Anything at all? The Captain's going to want to talk to you so we can figure out where you've been, so anything you've got that can help us, we should probably start writing it down or something so you don't forget any-"

  "I got nothing."

  Oliver's head snaps toward me, but the naive sweet innocence in his eyes only affirms my decision.

  Your time has yet to come, Miss Starling.

  "I'm sorry, mate. I'm serious." I shrug my shoulders, doing my best to feign nonchalance as my insides are screaming. No matter how many times I inspect the skin of my throat, it's still the same. Smooth, unscarred, unscratched.

  I'm not sure, but I think it's more unnerving than if I'd have found fang marks.

  "I lost time while I was gone. Wherever I was, apparently I wasn't with anyone who wanted to hurt me." My smile is shaky, and not by choice. "Not yet, anyway."

  Your time has yet to come…

  Watcha, loves! Enjoy this wee sneak peek of a prequel? Check out the first book in the #RenegadeArchives series by C.J. Strange, BLAZE OF CHAOS, available for free in K.U. on Amazon now:

  http://amazon.com/author/cjstrange

  Hyde With Me

  by Stacy Jones and K.B. Everly

  Edited by Chelsea Lenau

  Cover by K.B. Everly

  Copyright 2018 © Stacy Jones and K.B. Everly

  All rights reserved.