Heart Murmurs (17 page)

A sign near the throne proclaims: Council in Session.

Literati Oleander, Thistle, and Toadstool presiding.

One of the men is in a white t-shirt and jeans; the other, Georgian dress. The woman's beautiful Victorian gown shimmers in the firelight, sending silver and white undulations from her bodice to her feet.

I squint and lean over to Morgan to whisper, “I can't make out their faces.”

Georgian man, whom I'm betting my life is Toadstool, opens his mouth to respond, but the man in jeans interrupts. He nods to the sign. “That's by design. To protect our identities. Welcome, Mia Templeton, is it?” He gives Morgan a slight glance. “And you… her… protector?”

“His name is Morgan Kelly.” I feel the heat on my cheeks. This is like English Court. They're treating him like he's nothing. An insignificant courier. My insides tremble.

“Yes, yes. Mr. Kelly, the soldier extraordinaire. Do get on with it. I have much to do today,” Georgian Toady says, his voice bored.

The man in jeans rolls his eyes. “You seem to be gifted, Mia. Your approach is most unorthodox — we normally do the summoning. But I see you come on behalf of Beth Alcott.”

“She should be punished. For not responding to the order.” The woman's voice is shrill and cold. “How are we to control the tunnels if our Conductors do not obey?”

Morgan's hands ball into fists. “My sister has loyally served since 1858! Given life upon lifetime to you people. Left the family she loved.”

“Oh, cry me a river,” the woman barbs.

The man in jeans laughs.

“Did I say that right?” she eyes him, almost flirtatiously.

“Yep, that was great. Very modern.” He smiles back at her. He turns his bright blue gaze back to us, instantly serious. “We all serve for eons. Do I look young to you? I wish upon wish I were. There are rules, Mr. Kelly. As you well know. Think what happens to a brigade during wartime if the soldiers do not obey commands.”

Morgan opens his mouth.

“Chaos, that's what.” Blue Jeans cuts across him.

Morgan's jaw snaps shut and his teeth grind together.

I take a step forward and feel his hand tighten in warning. “Please, we've come to ask forgiveness for Beth. She and Louisa were only trying to help me. You see, I needed a heart transplant. They couldn't find a match… and… well, my time was up. Louisa saw M-Madelon suffering, dying — and thought of me. So they both broke the rules, but with a higher purpose in mind. To save a life.”

The woman shoos the air. “Yes, that's all well and good, but Beth's been breaking the code for years, writing her sister. She took chances with altering history. This is yet another strike.”

“Then, please.” Morgan steps forward, passing me.

My heart plummets. What is he doing?

“Please let me become the Conductor. Let Beth live out her life and pass. She's so very weary.”

The Georgian man actually stifles a yawn, wrenches his attention away from his fingernails. “You sir, are a courier. Nothing more.” His expression, his posture, everything about him, screams arrogance.

“Yes, but I've heard of people changing positions when there was a need.”

“Have you now?” Blue Jeans looks amused. My mind is confused. I register his expressions, but if someone told me to describe him… I'd have no idea. It's like the face-recognition-system in my brain is disabled.

Georgian Toady's suddenly interested, his face alight. “Mr. Kelly. Have you ever written anything?”

Morgan's face flushes scarlet. He stammers, “N-No.”

Toady's eyebrows rise in disbelief. “Really, now?”

Morgan's lips press together. “It was only scribbling. Just my thoughts in a journal.”

Oleander is piqued. “Tell me, Toady. I want to know.”

Blue Jeans rolls his eyes. “Another time. We have more pressing issues here.”

I swallow. “I—I know that I may be a Literati. Perhaps I could take Beth's place.”

Blue Jeans walks closer, examining us.

“That might be possible. We are having difficulty with a certain Literati. If you would assist us, the council might consider your request.”

A thunderclap vibrates the common room, shaking tapestries loose. They flutter down around in a colored shower like fallen flags.

Morgan pulls me to him.

“What is going on?” shrieks Oleander. Her tone makes me shiver like fingernails on a chalkboard.

Blue Jeans darts back to the stage, and the Literati huddle together, preparing for battle.

Georgian Toady shoots to a stand, and Oleander sneers toward the west castle wall.

Suddenly a thick, putrid stench emanates from the bricks. White worms wiggle from between the cracks.

My nostrils flare and I gag and press my arm over my mouth.

Blue Jean's eyes narrow. “Show yourself, Edgar.”

The castle wall disintegrates into writhing, black snakes, each pulling and twisting, one over the other. Trying to free themselves from the remaining bricks.

Black smoke billows forth, slowly melding into a face.

“You are going to send her? To subdue me?” A man with a slightly lopsided face leers from the center of the snake pit. He laughs; so brittle and bitter, I shudder at its sound.

Blue Jeans regards him, with eyes both serious and sad. “Edgar. We've all suffered losses. You must keep your wits. You must know you cannot win. The tunnels will win. They always do.”

Poe's face twitches spasmodically. His arm sweeps out of the wall in a huge arc.

Georgian Toady and Oleander join hands and a sparkling, iridescent wall erupts around the three.

The flames in the fireplace erupt, blasting off the grate.

Blue Jeans steps out of the circle of protection, hurrying toward Poe's image.

“He's either very brave or very mad,” Morgan whispers.

Poe's eyes shoot to us. “He's both.” And with a flick of his head, the flames spiral into a fiery funnel cloud. It incinerates the grate and spins toward us. Sucking in chairs and books and tapestries, spitting them out as a black ash, which instantly coats the room.

“Poe! Desist!” Georgian Toady commands.

Morgan pushes me behind him.

Blue Jeans rushes the fiery tornado, vaulting himself in its path. It cuts right through him, barreling toward us.

Five feet, two feet. “For the love of mercy, Poe!” Blue Jeans screams.

Its heat blisters our skin; like standing in the heart of a furnace.

It will devour us.

My hands tingle and I shoot them in front of Morgan. They fizzle and pop, exploding in an incandescent fury.

The twirling slows, the revolutions turning slower and slower, shrinking to a singular matchstick.

Poe roars in frustration. His eyes, wild and mad.

“I will be waiting.”

Oleander nods to the windows, and sunlight streams through the remaining black smoke.

Poe's face becomes smaller and smaller till it's gone. The snakes turn to stone and crash to the floor as the bricks rebuild themselves.

Morgan's face flushes bright red. “That is who you want us to defeat? You cannot even fight him yourselves!” His chest is heaving and he lunges at Blue Jeans.

Blue Jeans backs toward the stage, back under the protection of the trio. “Calm yourself, Mr. Kelly.”

Oleander smiles wickedly. “Do let me help.”

Morgan's face is instantly placid, his unfocused eyes staring straight forward.

“Is he alright? What are you doing to him?”

“He's fine,” says Georgian Toady. “We just need to have an intelligent, emotion-free conversation. I'm afraid Mr. Kelly is not currently able to participate.” Blue Jean's tone is one suited for a cocktail party. “Yes, we are very interested to see what you can do, Mia. So I am to understand it is Madelon's heart, giving you the power?”

“I think so.”

Blue Jeans steps off the stage, walking toward Morgan and me. My mind keeps darting in and out of recognition. His name's on the tip of my tongue, and then some unseen force pushes it out of reach.

“We have a proposal. If you agree to the terms, perhaps we can forgive both Beth and Louisa, and relieve Beth of her responsibilities.”

Morgan shakes his head and steps protectively toward me, almost shielding me with his body. I have to move around him. “What are the terms?”

“We are obviously having difficulty with Mr. Poe. He's gone rogue, if you will. His wife died—and he's totally run amok. Using the tunnels at will in his quest to find her. To stop her death. You know using the tunnels for personal gain is strictly forbidden, yes?”

Oleander's voice is grave. “We need you to stop him. Your skills, Mr. Kelly, will help Mia get to where she needs to be. In the same room with him. To battle.”

“I'm not sure if I know how to battle.” I hate the tremor in my voice. I clear my throat.

“If it's anything like what you just did to his little revolving fire of death, you'll do fine,” Georgian Toady says, stifling a yawn into the back of his hand.

“And Buttercup's wolves. Oh, I love how you put her in her place!” Oleander claps her hands vindictively.

Blue Jeans eyebrows rise and he tsks with disapproval. “Your jealousy is not becoming, my dear.” He turns back to us. “It's a battle of… creativity. Your mind, against his. We think it's a genetic phenotype gone postal. Excuse my cliché. The ability to open and close the tunnels; to temporarily create matter. We don't have all the answers. We aren't the creators of the tunnels.”

“S—” The woman chastises him. “She doesn't need to know everything. Not just yet.”

Blue Jeans smiles. “Sorry. I'm still a little wordy, after all this time. Poe's run amok. He must be stopped.”

“Pity, really,” Oleander says, with no pity in her voice, whatever.

“Brute force is necessary.” He gives the other two a significant look and says, “We've tried diplomacy, with no success. He's too far gone.”

“How do we find him?”

“The tunnels. They'll show you the way.”

 

Who's Afraid of a Tell-Tale Heart?

 

“Be careful, Mia. I am anxious to see your power. And take care, Mr. Kelly,” Blue Jeans says; his blue eyes somehow dancing and serious at once.

The fireplace, blazing with heat, shrinks, fizzles, and dies. The whole of the stone hearth, mantle and all, lifts to reveal another tunnel. “Here is your entrance. Or exit, however you prefer.” Blue Jeans steps out of the way. Georgian Toady looks grim, but remains silent. “Bon chance!” Oleander says.

I whisper to Morgan, “She actually sounds sincere.”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course she does. It's a suicide mission — one they don't want to address. So they're sending us, the pawns. I don't trust them. First, it will be Poe — then another, and another…”

“You think more Literati are going postal?”

“It happens. It's stressful, as you can image. Especially if they are alone too long.”

Morgan and I grasp hands and enter. One step past the entrance, and it's freezing cold. Snow swirls about the tunnel in huge, white flakes.

My breath rushes through my teeth and my lips quiver; I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. Morgan is black and white again. Dread settles in my chest. This is significant.

He stops, eyes focused on my face. “What? You're pale as the snow.”

“You've lost your color again.” A tear escapes.

He swipes it away with his fingertips and pats himself playfully. “I don't know what I could've done with it.”

But I can't smile. It's important — but I don't know what it means. Beth and I don't lose our color in the tunnels. When Louisa peered down in, her flesh was unchanged. My mind searches for reasons.

Louisa was a courier, like Morgan — so that isn't why.

“I can't believe I forgot to ask them,” I moan.

“You think her highness Oleander would answer?” Morgan scoffs.

“No, but Blue Jeans seemed… at least civil?”

He shrugs and grabs my shoulders with both hands. “We have more important things to worry about.”

More important than you? I don't think so. “Fine.”

As we approach the tunnel's end, street sounds hit my ears. Horses are whinnying, their clopping hooves muffled by the snow blanketing the streets.

I stare down at my clothes. And out in the streets.

I squint, and can make out people, heads down, hurrying against the wind. I close my eyes, searching my mental catalog of period clothing.

Morgan turns to me. “Well — my guess is—”

“Early 1800's.”

He smiles. “Yes.”

I close my eyes, imagining the clothes. I hear a rustling of wind, and my hair flies up, circling my face. On the ground lies a dress and man's attire.

I bend over, picking up the day dress. “You need to turn around and close your eyes.”

He smiles, despite everything. “Don't know if I can.”

“Hmm.” I close my eyes, and gasp as a circular dressing divider appears. I laugh. I wish the creative matter were permanent — and wouldn't fade.

And the profoundness of the thought smacks me. How easily one could be seduced by this power. Even if its time-slides and matter changes aren't permanent.

People could make themselves wealthy, stop tragic events… postpone death, like our target.

Something occurs to me. Fear closes my throat. I shouldn't — but I'm going to anyway.

I close my eyes and ball my fists against them. In my mind's eye, my perception shifts, like it's lodged in a house of mirrors — where miles of images repeat, each more distorted with the depth of the reflections. I feel the ground under my feet shudder and rumble.

“Mia, what are you doing?”

I hear Morgan step behind the divider.

The reflections are racing, causing vertigo. I bear down harder, raising both arms before me. The tunnel walls shake and boulders let go from the ceiling, falling around us like hailstones.