Mike stood in front of the portrait of Auguste and gripped a pair of keys in the palm of his hand.
One was the key he'd just now foraged from Lily's dresser, and the other was a key he'd discovered weeks ago under a floorboard in the hallway where Auguste's body had been found. After the body was taken away, Mike noticed a loose one-foot section of board, and not wanting it to worsen and become a tripping hazard, he set about repairing it straight away. He retrieved his tools, removed the piece, and startled to find a golden key lying in the gap.
The first thing he'd done was tried it in the warden lock of the trunk in the attic.
But it didn't fit and he was terribly frustrated; for the entire time he'd been working for Auguste as a handy man, he'd been searching for the key to that trunk. Many nights over the years, Auguste went up to the attic and stayed there for hours at a time; or stranger still, even several days at a time. Mike had investigated only to find nothing of interest but the locked trunk. His curiosity was not to be appeased until he'd finally taken a look in the trunk himself.
He had a hunch that the key in Lily's room that morning—which she'd claimed to be for her diary—might just be the key he'd been searching for. It was physically identical to the other, but the cut was different.
When Lily had tripped over the flat stone that ended up being the lid to a manhole leading down into a vat room, Mike was certain he'd found the mother lode: Auguste's hidden treasure troves. He returned to the room this very morning, on his own, and spent two full hours trying to open them. He was experienced with reprogramming codes in gated communities and hoped he'd have the same success here. The keypads were a product by a manufacturer he'd dealt with several times before and he knew how to access and change the master codes; that is, if they hadn't been changed by Auguste. He began experimenting and found that five of the vats had indeed been changed; but the sixth vat, in the middle of a row of three, had beeped—letting him know the master code hadn't been altered. He reprogrammed the code and punched it in.
There was a moment of great anticipation as the light on the digital keypad switched from red to green. But as the lid slid open like elevator doors, he found the vat to be empty.
Aggravated to tears and running out of time, he left the vat room, determined to return later when he had more time to crack the codes of the other five vats. He then went to town to run some errands and picked up the bouquet of flowers for Lily.
He could not believe his luck when he'd found that key on her bedroom floor, and feigned indifference when she picked it up and said it was hers.
There were many delays with the rain and the power outage and having to clean up the mess in the workroom, but now that he was alone, his priority was to open the trunk.
Mike stuffed the keys into his back pocket and reached out for the painting, intending to press down on the bottom right hand corner: but something jolted within him and pecked at his insides.
He paused and waited for the indigestion to pass—but the pain intensified and radiated outward from his stomach—his face flushing with fever.
Suddenly parched and desperate for water, Mike reached for and gripped the railing and descended the staircase, rushing down the corridor toward the dining room and kitchen. The little sparks of pain had turned to red-hot flames—consuming him from within.
With a cry, he fell to his knees and rolled across the floor, clawing at his belly.
The fiery fingers in his midsection found their way to his spinal cord and climbed up to his brain. Convulsions seized him and he foamed at the mouth, eyes rolling back in his head. A numbing coldness started in his fingertips and toes and spread up his arms and legs into his back—extinguishing the fire and leaving his body devoid of any sensation at all. The cold crept into his brain and choked out the last bit of fire.
He lay flat on his back in the middle of the corridor with eyes shut, basking in the numbness as his wits returned.
What had happened? Was it a heart attack? at his age?
Deciding he'd better call an ambulance, he tried to open his eyes.
They didn't move.
Mike swallowed down a surge of panic and mentally willed his body to obey. He tried to wiggle his fingers but they didn't budge either. His toes were equally disobedient.
Now in a full-blown panic, he urged his body to kick and scream—pictured himself doing it—but nothing happened. Not even a twitch or a whisper. How long must he lie here before someone found him? And what if they thought he was dead?
His eyes snapped open, but not of his own doing.
And through the windows of his eyes, he watched himself stand to his feet; yet he felt nothing.
Hannah emerged from the dining room and walked toward him. As she drew closer, she furrowed her brow. "Are you okay, Micheal? You look at a bit pale."
He wanted to scream for help—beg her to call an ambulance—but instead he heard himself say: "I'm fine. Just tired."
Why had he said that?
He wasn't fine at all!
"All right then, just checking." She smiled. "I'm off to bed, and you look like you could get some sleep yourself." She patted his shoulder and moved past him, continuing down the corridor and heading upstairs.
He began to walk toward the front entrance; again not of his own doing.
As the walls went by, the various arched doorways, paintings and statues, he sensed himself being pushed further and further back into the recesses of his mind until it seemed he was looking out at the world through a very narrow tunnel.
A prisoner in his own body.
Someway, somehow, he was at the mercy of an unknown puppeteer.
Ian rolled his sleeve back down and crossed both arms over his chest. "Do you believe that earth is the only place where life exists?" he said.
"Are you asking if I believe in alien planets?"
"No, more like, different dimensions."
She gaped at him as though he'd lost his mind. "It's not something I've given much thought to, Ian. Are you trying to change the subject? Tell me about your arm already!"
He drew in a breath and made an effort to keep the impatience from his voice. "Let's say there were other dimensions," he said. "What do you think would happen if there was a rift?"
"Are we talking about a portal to another world?" She raised an eyebrow and cracked a grin.
Despite the room being soundproof, he lowered his voice and leaned forward. "What if I were to tell you that there is an object—here from the beginning of time—that can take you to another dimension. An object that has been fought over for millennium."
She made no response to that, not even the twitch of an eyebrow.
"Everyone wants its power," he said, "but no one can control it."
She pursed her lips. "What are you getting at, Ian?" she asked, frustration in her tone, the humorous glint gone from her eye. "You're talking nonsense."
"Stay with me. I'm getting there."
She sighed. "Go on then."
"That object now resides in the attic of this mansion, you see, and it's the reason Auguste became wealthy. Before he found it, he was only a homeless pauper."
She sat bolt upright, eyes widening. "The secret compartment in the trunk—I knew it! Is it stocks or something? Gold, jewels?"
"How did you—"
"—I'm sorry, Ian," she interrupted. "I took the key from your workshop. Didn't you know it was missing—? Your bird, he . . . he flew away." She gave him a timid look as though anticipating a blasting, and cleared her throat. She broke eye contact. "That's why I got lost in the forest. I'm so very sorry about your bird." She lifted contrite eyes. "I was chasing after him but just couldn't catch him, and got lost and . . . somehow bumped my head. I must have fallen . . . "
Ian had to bite his tongue to hold back his temper, but a muscle twitched in his cheek. "No," he said calmly, though it took all his strength, "the bird is still in his cage, safe and sound. I didn't notice the key was gone." Blast it. His pulse picked up its pace and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
"Lily—" he said slowly, dreading the answer, "where is the key now?"
She hesitated. "It's in my room, tucked away."
He let out a sharp, breathy exhale. "Fine. We'll have to go get it. It can't be left lying around, you have no idea—"
"What's in the bottom of the trunk," she asked again, sounding impatient. "Stolen jewels?"
He considered this a moment and thought of his workshop. Did she think all those jewels were stolen?—that he was a thief? No wonder she wouldn't stop snooping around.
"Suffice it to say that Auguste didn't use the object simply for financial gain," he said in a flat tone. "He did something that disturbed the natural order of things in another dimension. Think I'm crazy if you want, but it's the truth." He steepled his hands and stared her down. "In so doing, he caused a war of evil against good, and evil was quick to win out. Anyone with a shred of good left in them went into hiding, but many of them did not escape with their lives. Some of them fled into this dimension"—he cleared his throat—"and I have sheltered them within the forest and the estate for many years now."
He paused, wanting to put this delicately. "All of this happened because of your grandfather."
Lily could only stare at Ian.
She didn't know what to think and could hardly process anything he'd said. The only thing that made sense so far was that something in the trunk had made her grandfather rich. Auguste's journal entries admitted much the same. Everything else Ian had said was some kind of sci-fi blibble-blabble. Was he hallucinating, or high on drugs?
"What did my grandfather do to incite this, um"—she paused—"this war, in a, what did you say—other dimension?"
Ian's dark eyes were smoldering; no doubt he knew she was patronizing him.
"He is responsible for the death of Serena—a powerful enchantress who ruled over the land of Alvernia—" he explained, "the other dimension. When she died, Morack—who was imprisoned deep within the core of Alvernia—escaped. See, for many years, he and his followers were kept captive. But her death allowed them to escape and they set loose like a cloud of locusts—devouring everyone in their path." His brow was heavy as though he carried a great burden. "Alvernia is but a shadow of the world it once was." He looked away. "It is completely ruled by evil now."
Lily searched for a deranged glint in his eye when he made eye contact again, but found none. "Ian," she said, "Serena, wasn't she my grandmother? She . . . died in childbirth."
His eyes widened and he blinked. "How did you know that?"
She averted eye contact, earlobes growing hot. "I . . . hope you won't be too mad, but . . . I read the journal that was in the trunk." She grimaced. "Auguste's diary."
He looked flabbergasted at this.
A handful of seconds passed.
"Well, let's not waste any more time then. Auguste must have gone back to Alvernia shortly before he died and let—someone—in behind him. That would explain a lot." A look of angst filled his face and he leaned back in the chair, frowning. "Lily, you've got to believe me. There's a killer on the loose and he's looking for you. He knows who you are!"
She gasped and raised a hand to her heart. "Why would someone want to kill me?"
"Because you're Serena's only surviving heir to the throne."
She remembered something then and stiffened, heart skipping a beat. "My—my dream. In the forest. I was attacked by someone asking about my mother—"
It hadn't been real, had it? Her hands went cold and clammy. No, it couldn't be. Her face would still be torn up from the tree bark if it was. She touched her cheek. "It was only a dream though. A . . . a coincidence, I guess." She tried to laugh but Ian was taking her quite seriously.
"That wasn't a dream, Lily, and thanks to your grandfather's greed, millions of innocent creatures have lost their lives. He never intended it to be that way, but what's done is done. I've spent the past fifteen years dealing with the filth he let in through the rift."
Lily gripped the arms of her chair. He was really starting to scare her with these fantastic stories. It was one thing for him to have delusions about another dimension—but all this talk about a killer out to get her was too much.
Was he the killer?
"Ian, you still haven't answered. How is it possible for your arm to be healed within days of nearly losing it to a shark?"
"I come from Alvernia," he said, a pained look in his eyes. "I was born with the ability to regenerate instantly, except for scars. But my abilities are greatly weakened on earth and healing takes up to a day or two here, depending on the injury." He pointed to his nose which was no longer bruised. "This afternoon my nose was broken and bent sideways."
Lily swallowed the lump in her throat and resisted the urge to look toward the doors. "Who is this, uh, killer, out to get me?"
"The same person who killed Auguste is now seeking you." He crossed his arms. "There's something else. The shark attack wasn't an accident. The assassin infected them with a virus that makes its host homicidal. He was hoping for a 'natural' death—that I'd be torn to shreds. And I . . . almost was."
Her chest tightened. This was all so irrational, making a tall tale out of the shark attack too? Was he paranoid or schizophrenic? Or worse—psychopathic?
"If what you're saying is true"—and she didn't believe for a second that it was—"why didn't the sharks just kill each other?"
He frowned slightly. "The virus is a dark magic, like a spell. Whoever infects another puts an image in their mind of who they must kill. They become robots, essentially. This is why they had to be put down."
"But why would someone go to all that trouble? There are much easier ways to kill someone."
"To get to you—don't you see? I'm not that easy to kill." Impatience flashed in his eyes. "With me out of the picture, the assassin tried to attack you in the pool room during the night," he went on, "he was obviously lying in wait. I didn't know it was him at the time but it makes sense now. Someone, probably one of Serena's handmaidens, saved you. Did you seriously believe that hackneyed story the fake policeman told you?"
Her stomach turned. "Are you infected with the virus?" What was he going to do to her? Should she try to escape?
A pregnant pause.
If only she could read his thoughts.
"I'm immune to dark magic," he said finally. "But you aren't."
What was that supposed to mean?
She struggled to process which bits of information were credible and which should be discarded as nonsense; but everything congealed together.
He rose and came around the desk as she stood to her feet. He reached for her hand and she recoiled, ready to bolt.
"Lily . . . are you—afraid of me?"
She swallowed. Was it safer to play along?
"No-no," she said, taking a step backward, "it's just so much to take in all at once, is all."
"It's nearly midnight," he said, glancing over his shoulder at the cuckoo clock mounted between the windows behind the desk. His eyes darkened. "The killer will be less likely to stay in hiding once the staff are all in bed sleeping."
Her back stiffened painfully. What was he saying—that his alter-ego takes over at bedtime?
Ian stared down at her. "You're the only person who can kill Morack and save Alvernia. That's why your life is at stake."
Her head was spinning with questions. If Ian was the killer, did that mean he was the one who had murdered Auguste?
"Is this all a big joke?" she said with a nervous lilt. She tried to chuckle, glancing around. "Are Hannah and Mike hiding behind the drapes waiting to jump out and laugh at me? Because if it is, I don't know how you're able to keep such a straight fa—"
A tremendous crash stopped her short and the oak doors bulged inward like rubber.
The color drained from Ian's face like sand seeping from an hourglass—and he grabbed Lily by the wrist, yanking her toward the roll ladder and pushing it down the track.
"What's happening—" she cried.
"Hush." Releasing her wrist, he darted up the rungs of the ladder, and at the halfway point from the floor to the ceiling, ran his index along the books. He grabbed the binding of a hardcover and tugged it outward.
A narrow, vertical passageway opened in the shelves to the right of him.
"Hurry," he said, jumping down from the ladder and motioning for her to enter ahead of him.
She froze. Should she go with Ian—who was out of his mind—or stay and find out what was causing the doors to bulge inward?
Another crash sounded from the corridor and she jumped, letting out a little scream.
The door buckled further; they would soon burst open.
"Get in," Ian whispered fiercely, his entire eyes morphing into pools of black.
Seeing no alternative, she slipped through the opening in the wall, heart racing—and set off at a blind run.
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