Netherworld Read online

  After resting for a while, she’d managed to gather up her things, small pains alerting her to bruises she’d acquired in the fight. She hobbled back to Little Chester, ordered a brandy at the pub, and thought about everything she’d done badly.

  She hadn’t made those mistakes again. She’d sealed five more gateways since, and, having engaged in several more battles, discovered that true confidence came from experience and knowledge.

  It was during the sealing of the fourth gateway that Diana met the medium.

  This gateway was located in London, in a rather unsavory section of the East End, and turned out to be in the ground floor of an abandoned, haunted house. Diana and Mina had entered the house unnoticed (or so they thought), and although she saw a few spectral forms, nothing had impeded the closing of the gateway.

  Afterwards, as they left the house, they were surprised to find a woman waiting for them on the street outside. She was perfectly ordinary looking, of middle age and unremarkable dress, except for the ornate, life-sized scarab brooch at her neck.

  “You closed it,” she said, regarding them with evident wonder.

  That simple pronouncement startled Diana more than any ectoplasm or ichor. She gaped at the woman for a moment, then answered only, “Yes.”

  “I didn’t know that was possible,” the woman told her.

  “It is. I’ve done it before.”

  “I wonder if I’ll still be able to hear them,” the odd woman had said.

  Diana, eyeing the colorful brooch, said, “May I ask about your scarab?”

  “Oh. For good luck,” the woman replied.

  An hour later, with dinner between them at the woman’s cramped little Bethnal Green flat, Diana heard the whole story.

  Her name was Isadora Feduchin. She’d lived in the house next to the haunted one for twenty years. Isadora had a penchant for gathering odd items, and her small sitting room was lined with cases cluttered with books, stones, vases, and dolls made of old corn husks. She apparently possessed some sort of natural ability to receive emanations from the residents of the netherworld, and over the years she’d mentally acquired all sorts of messages, everything from the locations of other gateways to cries of captivity to clues from dead men.

  That last, of course, intrigued Diana greatly. Although initially skeptical about Isadora’s claims of mediumship (London had caught the fever of spiritism some years before, and fraudulent mediums abounded, all too ready to deprive the gullible of thousands of pounds), Diana soon realized the woman did possess the talents she claimed. She had heard of Diana’s battle with the horned god (it was she who had first supplied Diana with the name Cernunnos, which research into Celtic mythology soon proved to be correct), and she had no interest in setting up shop to charge for her services; she survived from a small inheritance. It turned out that closing the doorway only slightly dampened the connection, and Isadora would continue to receive her “psychic messages.” She and Diana became fast friends, and whenever Diana was in London she visited Isadora, braving the East End’s pubs and streets full of dangerous urchins.

  Of course Diana had to admit the visits weren’t entirely out of friendship. She desperately hoped that someday Isadora would provide her with a clue as to the mechanics of William’s doom. Isadora had promised Diana to do what she could; unfortunately, the clues she received from the netherworld weren’t a two-way communication—she had no control over what she would “hear,” and at best she could only try to filter the messages for information that was wanted.

  The netherworld wouldn’t give up its secrets easily.

  So it was on this November eve in 1879 that Diana found herself on her way to visit Isadora. She was curious to know if her friend could offer any clues about the nature of the demon she’d fought in Hertfordshire; she’d never previously heard of a lesser-being trying to pass for Satan himself. Under one arm Diana carried a large wrapped package: Isadora dearly loved the works of Anthony Trollope (who Diana personally detested), and Diana had just purchased his new three-volume novel John Caldigate for her friend.

  It was the evening of November fifth, or, as it was more popularly known, Guy Fawkes Day. For more than two and a half centuries this day had been one of raucous merriment in England, celebrating the foiling of a plot (involving one Guy Fawkes) to blow the House of Lords to kingdom come. Diana knew that back home in Derby the surrounding hills would be alight with bonfires. Here in London, the streets were thronged with soot-covered boys capering about effigies and crying out rhymes:

  “Pray to remember

  The fifth of November,

  Gunpowder treason and plot,

  When the king and his train

  Had nearly been slain,

  Therefore it shall not be forgot.”

  One little chap, dressed in rags, face smeared with charcoal, ran boldly up to Diana and extended a hand. “A penny for the Guy, Miss?”

  Diana smiled, juggled the books to reach into her purse, and tossed him a coin. The boy caught it and doffed his hat to her.

  “Thank you, Miss!”

  He ran off to rejoin his fellows, and Diana continued on her way, amused by the ritual.

  She arrived at Isadora’s house, and after exchanging greetings and the gift (for which Isadora, whose budget left very little money to spare for books, was thrilled), they sat down with a plate of Bonfire Parkin cake between them. “Beastly stuff that I know will only fatten me up,” laughed Isadora between mouthfuls, “but I can’t resist it. At least it’s only once a year.”

  As they exchanged tea and pleasantries, Diana noticed one new acquisition perched on a nearby table; it looked like a very old dinner roll.

  “Oh, there’s a lovely story behind that,” Isadora said. “Do you know about soul cakes?”

  Diana nodded. “Yes. They used to be quite popular at All Souls’ Eve. Weren’t they given to beggars in exchange for prayers on behalf of deceased loved ones?”

  “Your knowledge never disappoints me—yes, quite right. In some areas, though, they were given to neighbors as well, and it was thought to be good luck to keep one for a year. Well, that one was given to a lady who not only kept it for all of her eighty years, but passed it onto her daughter. That cake’s two-hundred years old.”

  “Please tell me you’re not about to serve it.”

  They both laughed, and Diana felt a surge of affection for her eccentric friend. She made a mental note to search out a more unique gift for her next visit.

  “Is there any news from the other side?”

  Isadora shook her head. “Sorry. I’ve been off to Whitby looking after my sister Beatrice—she took ill with fever, and she’s got no one else to care for her. But she recovered and sent me home—she’s a bit of a hermit, that one—and I just returned yesterday.”

  “Could we try to make contact now?”

  Isadora rose. “That we could. It might even help to have you right here in the room—sometimes the spirits have specific messages for those with me.”

  Unlike the fake mediums, Isadora didn’t turn out lights, seat guests around a table, or close her eyes and pretend to enter a trance. There were no spirit cabinets, or musical instruments levitated with strings by hidden assistants. She and Diana seated themselves on the sofa, and Isadora merely gazed intently at her friend. After a few moments, Diana saw her eyes take on a glassy look, even as her brow furrowed slightly. “Oh,” she murmured at one point, but Diana knew better than to interrupt and waited silently.

  After perhaps ten minutes Isadora’s attention came back to Diana, and her eyes widened. She jumped to her feet, and paced a few steps before Diana addressed her: “Isadora, what happened?”

  The medium stopped pacing, took a deep breath, then looked down at her. “At least you’re already sitting down. You’ll need to be, for what I have to tell you.”

  Diana didn’t respond. Isadora sat next to her, and took both of Diana’s hands in her own. Torchlight flared outside the window, and Diana heard the raucous c
ries of the boys out in the street celebrating as they lit their effigies on fire:

  “A pound of cheese to choke him,

  A bottle of beer to wash it down,

  A jolly good fire to roast him—”

  Irritated by the merrymakers, Diana spoke to her more sharply than was necessary:

  “Tell me, Isadora!”

  “Diana,” Isadora said, biting a lip between words, “I was told that your husband isn’t dead.”

  Diana stared at her friend for a moment, then barked a harsh laugh. “That isn’t possible. His body rests at this very moment within the Furnaval family crypt in Derby.”

  “Didn’t you tell me that William was killed in some village in Eastern Europe?” asked Isadora.

  “Yes. In a province called Transylvania.”

  “And the body was shipped back to you?”

  Diana felt a chill steal over her. “Yes….”

  “Did you ever actually see the body?”

  Her chill became a shiver. “I…no, I…I’m sure our man Howe did.”

  “How sure, my dear?”

  Diana was the one pacing now, as possibilities raced through her mind. Surely it couldn’t be…? She’d received a letter from a legitimate magistrate, telling her about William’s death—why would this magistrate lie? Unless…was it possible they’d mistaken someone else’s body for William? Or was the letter a fake, written by someone merely pretending to be a magistrate? And if William wasn’t really dead, merely vanished, then where was he? Still in Transylvania somewhere? No, it’d been three years, he would have found some way to contact her. Amnesiac in some hospital, perhaps? Not likely. No, there was only one place William could have disappeared to:

  The Netherworld beyond the Transylvanian gateway.

  “Diana,” Isadora said, drawing her friend’s attention back from her troubled thoughts, “there’s something else….”

  Diana stopped pacing. “What?”

  “William kept a journal, did he not?”

  “Yes,” Diana answered, “in all the time I knew him he never missed a day. And yet when I received his belongings back from the inn where he’d stayed, his final journal wasn’t among them. I wrote the inn several times, asking them to check the room again, but they swore it was nowhere to be found.”

  “It is somewhere to be found. In fact, it’s here in London.”

  Diana was suddenly bending over her friend with great urgency. “Where is it, Isadora? Do you know?”

  “It wasn’t a complete message, dear. All I got was that it’s in a chapel in London. I’m sorry it wasn’t more specific.”

  Diana pondered the strange information. “A chapel in London…how many chapels do you suppose there are here?”

  Isadora shook her head. “I don’t know. Dozens. Maybe even hundreds?”

  “Then I’ll have to search every one of them,” Diana answered. She considered briefly, then turned back to Isadora. “How could William’s journal have wound up in a chapel?”

  “I’m sorry, Diana, I don’t know the answer. The…emanations, or impressions I get are rarely even as complete as that.”

  Diana said, “We should be able to rule out most by simply using common sense.” After a few seconds, she added, “Unfortunately, by applying common sense I’d rule out all of them. It is a bit baffling.”

  “Maybe,” suggested Isadora, “the journal was found by a travelling priest.”

  “Perhaps,” admitted Diana.

  Isadora added, “There’s another possibility we should consider.”

  Diana stared at her, raising her eyebrows (including the one just now growing back).

  “Something could be toying with you, my dear. This could all be a lie, some great scavenger hunt to send you running to all the chapels in London instead of closing more gateways.”

  Diana considered that, then answered, “That’s certainly possible. But if there’s any chance William is alive somewhere—even the tiniest, slightest chance—you know I’ll pursue it. And locating his journal would be my best way to learn what happened to him.”

  After that they sat for a while, and finally the revelry outside began to die down; the bonfires sank to a few sputtering embers, and the boys drifted back to their homes, to await next year’s Guy Fawkes holiday.

  It was after midnight when Isadora offered, “Why don’t you just spend the night here? It’s getting awfully late, and I’m not sure I like the idea of you walking the East End streets alone at this hour.”

  Diana had to smirk at her friend. “Dory, I was battling a demon who fancied himself to be Satan less than a week ago, I think I can handle the streets of East End.”

  At Isadora’s look, she relented. “—but your offer is really quite kind, and I’d be happy to accept.”

  Isadora made sure Diana was comfortable in her guest bedroom, and then excused herself for her own bed. Once alone, Diana didn’t immediately undress, but rather stoked the fire in the small hearth, pulled an overstuffed chair nearer to the warmth, and seated herself, resting her chin on one hand.

  As far as investigating William’s death, it wasn’t a particularly difficult matter, although the process would be far from pleasant: She’d have to pay a visit to the Furnaval family crypt and open her husband’s coffin.

  As to the matter of locating the mysterious chapel…she forced herself to analyze that dilemma carefully. What sort of chapel would have journals? Was there some other meaning for the word chapel? A chapel that didn’t belong in a church? One that housed—

  —books.

  Of course!

  It was 1 a.m. when she dashed out of her bedroom and down the short hall to Isadora’s closed door, onto which she frantically pounded. “Dory—”

  Seconds later her friend appeared in her nightdress, looking blearily concerned. “What’s wrong?”

  “I know where William’s journal is. It’s not a church chapel, it’s a bookstore specializing in occult texts called Chappell and Son”.

  Isadora wearily nodded. “Oh, that’s wonderful, dear. Now go back to bed.”

  “But, Dory—!”

  “Diana,” her friend chided her, “you can’t very well visit a bookshop in the middle of the night, can you? Now go back to bed.”

  Isadora shut her door, and Diana returned to her room…but she didn’t fall asleep until nearly dawn, and then she only dreamed of her William.

  Chapter III

  November 6, 1879

  London

  Diana awoke after only a few hours of troubled sleep; in her dreams, William called to her from the end of a long, dark tunnel, but—although she ran towards him in desperation—she was never able to reach him. And unseen things lurked along the sides of the tunnel, things with strangely shaped eyes—some in sets of three or four—that glowed at her as she passed. When she’d awakened she felt more fatigued than she had when she’d fallen asleep.

  She left Isadora’s and returned to her own house, where Mina greeted her with loud meows of displeasure at being left alone for the night. Diana’s parlormaid assured her the cat had been fed, and Mina seemed to calm down once Diana gifted her with a few moments of lap time and some loving strokes. By 10 a.m. she’d arranged a noon meeting with Chappell and Son.

  The two hours ‘til noon were among the slowest of Diana’s life. She paced anxiously, petted Mina, paced some more, drank one small cup of tea, and paced still more. By the time 11:30 arrived, she had literally worn a slight circular groove into the Persian carpet adorning her drawing room floor. She called for her carriage and departed.

  At precisely noon she was met at the unmarked door by the elegant younger Chappell, who actually offered her a smile this time. Before they’d even reached the bookshop, she had asked if they ever acquired journals.

  “Yes,” Chappell answered, “provided they contain significant enough content or provenance to be of interest to our clientele.”

  They entered the cloistered shop, and Diana immediately turned to face him. “I’
m looking for a journal by my late husband, Lord William Furnaval.”

  “Ahhh,” the bookseller responded, then added, “I’m very sorry, Lady Furnaval, but I know our stock quite well and I’m certain we have no such volume.”

  Diana was instantly crushed. She’d been so sure: it’d felt so right. Perhaps Isadora’s suggestion that they’d been misdirected was accurate. Or maybe she would simply have to search every church chapel in London—

  “Where did you say your husband died, Lady Furnaval?” asked Chappell, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Oh, in Eastern Europe. A place called Transylvania.”

  “Did his reasons for being there have anything to do with some sort of gateway?”

  Diana’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes, they did.”

  “Ahh. Then I apologize. If you’ll follow me…” Picking up a lamp, he walked back through the stacks, and Diana followed. They passed row upon row of tall cases, and Diana couldn’t help but wonder how it was possible–the shop gave no impression of such size from the street. Finally the bookseller turned right down an aisle and stopped before a section that held a curious collection of folios and unmarked volumes. Diana barely had time to wonder how he could possibly remember what each of these untitled books were when he pulled one out and passed it to her. “This hasn’t his full name. Would this be the journal?”

  Diana’s fingers trembled as she received the book: she recognized it instantly. It was considerably more battered than when she had last seen it, but otherwise all of William’s journals were identical, bound in Morocco leather with gilt edges and a ribbon marker. His initials—W.F.—were embossed on the front board. “Yes, this is his,” she could only whisper.

  Chappell leaned over her with a polite nod and flipped the book open. “As you can see, we received this volume absent a number of pages from the beginning.” Indeed, Diana saw that at least twenty pages had been torn out; several others were filthy beyond readability. The book looked as if it had lost a boxing match with a hurricane. Fortunately the remains, perhaps fifty or so pages, were intact and legible, although the last few were blank.