Dark Demon Rising: Whisperings Paranormal Mystery book seven (16 page)

She
opened her mouth to speak, but Royal and Chris came toward us at a fast clip. Chris’
normally urbane tone bore an edge. “You’ll need all the support you can get.”

Royal
spotted Maggie’s phone. He stormed at her furiously. “Who did you call?”

She
gave him a look. “Nobody. I’m talking to Tiff.”

“You
cannot talk to Tiff on—” he began, and stopped. “I see,” he said stiffly.

“Royal
and I are going to have a talk once we’re somewhere private,” I promised
Maggie. “He isn’t usually an ass. He’s a relaxed, fun person to be with.”

She
slowly lifted her eyebrows.

“Honest.
He is. And he has a wicked sense of humor.”

The
eyebrows stayed up under her teal bangs.

“You’ll
see,” I grumbled, “when this is done and everything is back to normal.”

“Maggie,
we are leaving,” Royal said.

I
tried again. “Please, Maggie. Go home.”

She
ignored me, but from her expression I’d planted a seed of uncertainty.

Royal
and Chris must have reached an agreement, for Chris came with us when we
followed the driver through the terminal to the exit and outside to a long, low
black car. Royal and Maggie slid in back, Chris rode shotgun with the driver rather
than share the wide back seat. I released Maggie’s aura and watched Royal.
Sitting between him and Maggie, we were so close. I badly wanted to nestle into
his side.

Royal
gave the driver directions and away we went.

The
car pulled up in a quiet, older part of the city forty-five minutes later. Muted
music and voices issued from a small Italian restaurant and a man came from a
corner store and walked away from us along the street. A few cars snugged in at
the curb as though jostling with the trash cans for parking space. The store
and restaurant were the only public establishments on a street of old brick buildings.

Silent,
everyone exited the car and it drove away.

Chris
gestured at a lane on our right, one of those unnamed passages commonly between
rows of buildings for foot traffic or to provide access for deliveries or
pickups. “This is it?”

“According
to Felipe,” Royal replied.

We
started along the lane. The rear walls of apartment buildings soared five
floors on one side, six on the other, each with a fire escape zigzagging up. It
was just wide enough to allow garbage trucks to drive along and take care of
the dumpsters and trash cans. The walls looked black and sooty and muffled
noise from the city. Voices floated from open windows.

Royal
stopped halfway along at the entrance to a dark, narrow alley. Maggie kept
walking.

“Maggie,
we have arrived,” Royal said in a low voice.

Maggie,
with me attached, went to stand with him and Chris. “Down there?”

I
looked down an alley fading to black maybe thirty feet along. I saw no farther
and the darkness looked sooty, unnatural.

“We’re
going in there?” Maggie hugged her jacket tight to herself.

“I’ll
take a look.” Royal strode toward the darkness.

“Tiff,
what have you got me into?” Maggie whispered.

“You
got yourself into it. You can always return to the plane. I’m sure Chris can
call the driver and he’ll take you back to the airport.”

She
drew herself up. “No. I’m coming with you.”

Drat.

“I’m
prepared.” She felt in her backpack and took out a tiny digital recorder. “And
just in case.” Next, out came a notepad and pen. “I keep them on me, they come
in handy when I’m investigating.”

“Investigating?
Huh! You mean snooping on your clients so you can feed them a bunch of lies.”

She
gave me a filthy look.

“You’re
an investigator?” Chris asked.

Maggie
made a face. “Kind of.”

I
laughed in her ear.

The
alley freaked me out. It was too long. We should be at the rear of a building
or in another street by now. We seemed to walk forever. And the deep shadow at
the end looked solid, as if someone splashed a giant scoop of black ink on a
wall.

But
the nearer we got, it looked less of a shadow and more like thick, black vapor.

Maggie
stopped moving. “I’m not going in there.”

Royal
said, “Nothing will hurt you, Maggie.”

She
drew in a quivering breath. “I think it will.” She backpedalled. “I can’t. I
shouldn’t be here.”

In
a short burst of demon speed, Royal caught up to her. She didn’t notice, her gaze
glued to the dark splotch in the alley.

“Maggie,”
Royal said, but she kept pacing backward.

“Maggie!”
He took her arm above the elbow. “It’s a geas, a compulsion.”

“It
seems great lengths are taken to keep Downside a secret,” Chris said. “This is
a safeguard to stop people entering. I feel it but it’s not threatening. It
must be targeted at the average man on the street.”

I
understood what he meant. “It’s a kind of spell, makes you deeply averse to
going where you shouldn’t.”

“You
agree I shouldn’t?” she said, clutching at the one word to penetrate the
uncanny hold this place had on her.

Darn.
But wait a minute, I didn’t want her near Shan and she would not be if she
obeyed the geas. I shut my mouth.

Royal
drew Maggie back until they neared the mouth of the alley. “You can wait for us.”

“We
can’t leave her in the middle of Manhattan,” Chris said.

“What
was that?” Maggie trembled all over. “I was terrified but I don’t know of
what.”

“Royal
told you, a geas, a compulsion, it made you dread going farther.”

“I
didn’t hear him, or it didn’t register.”

“You
don’t have to come.” Chris produced his cell phone. “The driver hasn’t got far.
Shall I call him?”

“But
I want to.” Her gaze went from Royal to Chris.

“Maybe
you do now but it will hit you again if you try to go in there,” I said.

“Either
you return to the airport, or you forge through it,” Royal said.

“Dammit.”
Her brow creased. “I want to try again.”

“If
it defeats you, Chris will call his car.”

“We’ll
help you.” Chris took her hand. “Come, my sweet,” he crooned as only Chris can
croon.

Her
eyes slid to his face.

“Yes,
that’s it. Look at me.” He smiled into her wide green eyes. “Listen to me,
darling, and I’ll tell you a story.”

Royal
took her other hand and they led her forward. Chris’ tone became musical as if
he sang a lullaby. “Once upon a time there lived a gallant, handsome knight, but
he did not ride a prancing white steed. No, this manly and chivalrous hero rode
a Harley Davidson motorcycle and . . . .”

Oh
good grief.

Maggie
moved stiffly, woodenly, as if her body lacked joints but she kept going,
watching Chris’ face, listening to his preposterous tale.

And
suddenly we walked in darkness. Not a glimmer lifted the leaden air. I saw nothing,
including Maggie who I clung to.

Claustrophobia
overwhelmed me and Chris’ fairy tale no longer distracted Maggie. She shrieked;
so did I.

Her
voice created an echo. “Tiff? Are you there? Royal? Chris? Oh, God. Someone?”

“We’re
with you,” Chris said. “You can feel my hand, can you not?”

“We
can’t see where we’re going!”

Alarm
threatened to unhinge me. Unrelieved darkness has always petrified me. Although
I felt nothing, I experienced the sense of space pressing on me. Understanding I
imagined the pressure didn’t help.

“We
are fine,” Royal said much too calmly. “Felipe told me we cannot get lost.
Whatever direction we walk in, we will arrive at our destination.”

His
words and tone should have steadied me but neither worked. Terrified of
accidentally letting go of Maggie and getting lost in this black nothingness, my
fingers knotted. I dare not relax my hold.

“Look,
a light,” Chris said.

A
tiny orange spot broke the black pall. It blossomed into a comforting glow as
we hurried onward. Did time work differently here, for we reached it faster
than I deemed possible. One moment it waited in the distance, the next we stood
beneath it. Panting, Maggie fixed her gaze on a lightbulb in a metal bracket
which illuminated a small patch of brick and a wood lintel.

We
stood before a door made of old, dark, weathered wood perhaps ten feet high and
five wide, surrounded by a thick frame. The brick also looked old: pocked,
crumbling and stained.

Maggie
trembled perceptibly. I hoped she didn’t chicken out for purely personal
reasons; I didn’t want to go back through the darkness to Manhattan.

“What
now?” Chris breathed.

A
groan of wood on wood and the door ground open. Not outward or inward; it slid
left into the frame. We backed up, Maggie on her toes, poised to run. Surely
she and the men shared my apprehension and braced themselves for what lay
beyond.

Another
door, or gate, made of thick iron bars set vertically a hands-width apart. And
beyond, a large room, or hall, with brown brick walls and brick floor. Long
florescent strip lighting on the walls and ceiling fritzed and made spitting
noises. A man stood behind a counter in a kind of compartment in the facing
wall, the top half protected by glass. And four men in uniform waited between
him and the iron door.

They
looked as if they wore railway worker’s uniforms from the early 1900s. Navy
jackets with round necks, small collars and a pocket each side on the chest, a
row of shiny buttons on the front and one on each pocket. Navy trousers,
polished black shoes; round navy caps with brims. And each held a saber.

Swords?

Royal
took hold of a bar in the door and pushed but it didn’t budge.

One
of the men came nearer. His gaze went from Royal to Chris. “You may enter, but
not the girl. She is human and has no place here.”

“You
are mistaken,” Royal growled. His hand clenched on the bar and he tried to
shake it. His muscles bunched with power, yet the door did not even tremble.

“He’s
not,” Maggie said. “I
am
human. But why can’t I go through?”

What
was going on here?

Chris
beamed at the man. “Come, my dear fellow,” he began.

Royal
reached inside his jacket and pulled his gun.

Appalled,
I again forgot he didn’t hear me. “Royal, what is wrong with you?”

Maggie
didn’t close her eyes as she repeated my words.

“Be
silent, Maggie,” he said in a low, gravel tone.

“But
I’m repeating—”

“I
do not care which of you is speaking. Hold your tongues.”

Eyes
stormy, she pressed her lips together.

“Put
your weapon away,” the same man ordered. “Guns won’t work Downside, more often
than not they blow apart and do more damage to their bearer than to the target.”

“But
I am not in Downside. Yet,” Royal pointed out. He lifted his Glock so it aimed
between two bars.

His
cold, passionless tone scared me.

He
could shoot through the bars. Was he crazy? The men were more or less helpless,
their swords no defense against a bullet.

The
door inched open, sliding into the wall with the wooden one.

Royal
lowered his pistol but didn’t holster it.

The
men inside backed away and stood nearer the far wall. One said, “That was not
necessary, Sir.”

The
man behind the glass moved out of sight and came through a door to the right of
the cubicle. Tall, his hair hidden under a top hat, his uniform sported red and
gold epaulets and gold buttons. He must be the man in charge. “Stand down, men.
I did not open the door.”

Despite
Royal and his gun, the men jerked to face the other guy, without exception
their faces slack with astonishment. “If you didn’t. . . .” one began, and left
anything more unspoken.

Hands
clasped behind his back, the man paced toward us and stopped several feet away.
“I am the Station Master and this is The Station. Welcome to Downside and
Gettaholt City.” I heard capital letters.

Royal
stepped inside The Station. Chris followed, towing Maggie through the door. She
freed her hand from his and spun as the gate-like iron door began to shut
behind her.

The
Station Master eyed Royal’s Glock. “You can put your weapon away.”

Royal
holstered the gun but kept his hand near where his coat fell open.

The
place might be an old-style railway station waiting room, with columns
supporting the roof, hard benches surrounding the perimeter and the Station
Master’s cubicle. Colored floor bricks in the middle formed a square mosaic.
Noise came through an open door on our right, and through it and the arched
windows I glimpsed a street, tall buildings and people passing by.

“You
are free to go,” the Station Master said.

Go
where? We didn’t know where to look for Shan.

“Will
we be free to leave again?” Chris asked.

“I
don’t see why not,” said the Station Master.

So
we tootled across the room, through the door and into Downside.

“What
happened back there?” Chris asked as we stepped outside.

Royal
said, “From what the guards and Station Master said, I think the Station
Master’s refusal to open the second door was overridden.”

“I
wonder by whom?”

We
stood on the first of four steps leading to a sidewalk of concrete slabs and a
narrow cobbled street. Wall to wall, tall buildings rose all around us:
weathered brick, carved sandstone, cut stone, plaster. At first glance the architecture
was an odd conglomerate of 1940s European and something from the Arabian
Nights, many-windowed, dotted with wrought-iron or stone balconies, lacy
fretwork on eaves, on doors and below windows. Tall as skyscrapers, they seemed
to curve at the top. I knew it for an optical illusion but I instantly felt a
touch claustrophobic again. And what I saw of the sky. . . .

“Oh
my fricking god,” Maggie breathed out.

Crimson.
Not the red of sunset, a garish crimson.

It
couldn’t be a sky, any more than the buildings grew at an angle, but despite
the absence of sun or clouds it looked like an endlessly reaching sky.

Where
were we? When we walked along the alley to Downside I expected to descend steps,
or ladders, or go through a manhole to sewers. But as I recall we walked a
level path, it didn’t slope at all. If this was a construction, it must be
huge. How did it hide in the middle of Manhattan?

Maggie
fumbled in her backpack without looking until she found her mini recorder. Eyes
still on the sky, she lifted it to her mouth and pressed a button. “Testing,
testing.”

She
stopped the tape and played it back. I heard a soft whirr, nothing else.

“What
the. . . ?” Maggie hit the button again and spoke slowly. “This is a test. I am
recording.” She played it back.

Nothing.

“I
don’t believe this!” she ground through her teeth. She dropped the recorder in
her backpack and slung it over her shoulder by one strap.

Did
the same thing happen to Felipe’s recorder?

The
street in front of us curved around The Station and continued a winding path to
left and right. The sidewalk and street glistened with water. Although I didn’t
see any autos, I heard them in the distance, perhaps in the next street.

And
the lights . . . sulfurous orange or red street lamps, and every building at
street level and on most floors sported neon in white or varying colors. They
blazed and glared, making me want to squint.

I
looked at the flat, unnatural color overhead and as I stared, in seconds, it
darkened to puce and tiny wet missiles pelted from above.

Rain,
coming down like bullets.

I
squeaked and ducked my head, but felt nothing.
Tiff, you idiot.
Seeing
huge raindrops smack through me and hit Maggie was disconcerting.

We
scuttled under The Station’s narrow porch.

My
gaze dropped to the street. The red from above tinted the shadows where the
lights did not penetrate.

“Did
you see?” Maggie gasped. “The color changed and
poof
, down came the
rain.”

People
surged along the sidewalks in an endless tide and thronged the street. Some pedestrians
moved nearer the buildings to escape the rain or took shelter beneath awnings.
Others went on their way as if they didn’t notice the downpour. Stalls dotted
the sidewalks, forcing people to skirt them and step into the street. A small car
drove toward us and a path opened as everyone moved aside, then closed in again
behind it.