The Vault of Destinies (James Potter #3) (2 page)

At the end of the sofa, Deckham rooted in his bag of pistachios. "So, how's he doing this anyway?" he asked. "Did he tell you?"

"No," Filmore replied. "Trade secret and all that. All I know is we're supposed to wait in here for a minute or so while he convinces everyone the place has disappeared. When it's all over, the building reappears and I come back out the front door, waving like a goombah. Thank you and goodnight."

"Are we really the only people in the whole building?"

Filmore nodded, smiling ruefully. "That Byrne's a genius, really. He arranged to have the Department of Health evacuate the building, claiming that he could only promise the safety of one person—yours truly—when the building 'crossed over into the unknowable dimensions'."

"He didn't," Deckham laughed, crunching pistachios.

Filmore nodded again. On the television screen, Byrne was still standing with his head down, his arms hanging at his sides as if somebody had switched him off. A drumroll began. Slowly, Byrne began to raise his arms again, and as he did, he turned away from the wall of shimmering red fabric. The drumroll increased, building to an almost unbearable crescendo. Now Byrne had his back fully to the curtain, arms raised and head lowered, his hair obscuring his face, and still he paused.

Suddenly, the building around Filmore shuddered violently. Dust sifted from the ceiling and the power flickered, sputtered, and died. Filmore sat up, alarmed.

"What was—" he began, but stopped as a whirring noise deep in the bowels of the building cycled to life. The lights flickered on again and the television screen blinked into motion.

Deckham looked wary. "Was that supposed to happen?"

"I… guess so," Filmore answered slowly, nodding toward the television. "Look."

Apparently, the scene outside had not changed. Byrne still stood with his arms held out, his head lowered. Finally, theatrically, he dropped his arms and raised his head, flinging his hair back. Jets of white sparks burst into the air and the red curtain dropped, swirling and billowing as it fell. Beyond it was only empty space, punctuated by the crisscrossing beams of a dozen spotlights. The great shining building certainly appeared to be gone. The crowd exploded into frenzied applause and a live band struck up a tumultuous fanfare.

"Not bad," Deckham commented, relaxing a bit. "Looks pretty real."

"Meh," Filmore replied, squinting up at the screen. "It's too dark. You should be able to see the buildings behind it. The spotlights are distracting everyone."

"I guess you're just too cynical for magic, Chuck. Better just stick to politics, eh?" The big man climbed to his feet, balling the pistachio bag between his huge hands. "I'm gonna hit the men's room before we go."

"Sure," Filmore muttered, still watching the screen. Deckham brushed a few pistachio shells from his pants and disappeared through the bathroom door in a corner of the small room.

Outside, Byrne had commanded the curtain to be raised once more. Slowly, it cinched upwards, once again concealing the mysteriously dark view and the sweeping spotlights. The television screen panned over the observers on the main platform, showing their rapt wonder, eyes wide and mouths agape. Filmore imagined that they'd been forced to practice that expression during rehearsals. Maybe Deckham was right; maybe he was just too cynical for magic. Ah well, he thought, worse things have been said about people.

Across the room, the lobby door pushed slowly open as a breeze forced its way through. Filmore frowned at it. The breeze smelled vaguely unusual, although he couldn't quite place it. It was a fresh smell, wild and earthy.

"And now," the televised voice of Michael Byrne announced grandly, "witness the completion of tonight's feat. Ladies and gentlemen, let me reintroduce to you, your Chrysler Building, and your senator, Charles Hyde Filmore!" He raised his hands once more, facing the curtain this time. Another drumroll sounded, even louder this time.

"Hurry it up, Deckham," Filmore said, climbing to his feet. "The fat lady's about to sing."

Another vibration shook the building, making the lights flicker once more. Somewhere far off and high above, something crashed. Filmore glanced around nervously.

On the screen, Byrne allowed his fingers to tremble on the ends of his outstretched arms. The drumroll redoubled, drawing out the tension like a knife. Finally, with a grand flourish, Byrne threw himself forward onto his knees, bringing his arms down as if he himself were stripping the enormous curtain away from the scene. The curtain dropped, untethered this time, and drifted sideways in the breeze. It crumpled to the street messily, throwing up a cloud of dust and grit.

Behind it was nothing.

Filmore blinked at the screen, his eyes widening. Something had gone wrong. Not only was the Chrysler Building still missing, so was the mysterious blackness that had filled the space. Distant buildings could be seen beyond the rising dust, their windows glowing yellow in the dimness of the falling night. Byrne hadn't moved. He remained in the foreground of the television scene, kneeling, his head raised to the unexpected sight. Eerie silence filled the street all around.

"It's gone!" a far-off voice yelled suddenly. The camera view changed, cutting to a closer shot of Chambers Street. Acres of limp red curtain could be seen in the spotlights, covering the street like a blanket. The camera turned. Where the Chrysler Building should have stood was a great, broken hole. Pipes and electrical wiring jutted from the hole's sides, spurting water and sparks. "It's gone!" the voice cried out again, closer this time. "It's completely gone, and so is the senator!"

The crowd responded like a beast. A low roar rippled over it, confusion and disbelief mingled with panic, and the roar quickly turned into a cacophony. The view spun, focused on the observation platform. It zoomed in, centering on the figure of Michael Byrne. He was still kneeling, his face slack, completely perplexed and disbelieving. To Filmore, he looked virtually catatonic.

"Deckham! Something's wrong! Get out here!"

There was no answer. Filmore crossed to the bathroom door and flung it open. It was a very small room, with only one toilet and a sink. It was perfectly empty. A pair of shoes sat on the floor in front of the toilet, black leather, still tied. Filmore boggled down at them, speechless.

Another gust of wildly scented air pushed through the room, bringing the sound of the roaring crowd with it. Filmore turned, peering back at the doorway into the lobby. It swung shut slowly on its pneumatic arm. The television still flickered and warbled, but Filmore didn't notice it anymore. Slowly, cautiously, he crossed the floor.

The lobby was much brighter than it had been, illuminated by a strangely brilliant fog that pressed against the glass doors. Filmore stepped around the security desk and heard a wet smacking sound. He looked down and saw that he had stepped into a puddle. It rippled around his shoes, coursing merrily over the marble floor toward the banks of elevators. The entire floor was covered with water. It reflected the brilliance of the doors, throwing snakes of refracted light up onto the high ceilings. Filmore felt as if he was in a dream. Slowly, he made his way toward the front doors. Maybe, he thought, this was all just part of the trick. Maybe Byrne was simply a much better showman than Filmore had given him credit for. The view beyond the glass doors was seamlessly white, moving faintly, almost like mist. Filmore jumped suddenly as a gust of wind battered the doors, pushing them inwards with enough pressure to force more of that exotically scented air through. The breeze rippled over Filmore, threading through his hair and flapping his tie. The air was damp and warm.

Filmore reached out and touched the door. He steeled himself, squared his jaw, and pushed.

The door opened easily, admitting a burst of warm, misty breeze and a heavy roar. He had thought that the noise was the roar of the New York City crowd, but now he knew that that had been a mistake. No collection of human voices could make a noise like that. It was deafening and seamless, huge as the sky. Filmore stepped out into that sound, straining to see through the blinding whiteness.

The wind picked up again, suddenly and wetly, and it pushed the mist away, breaking it apart enough for Filmore to finally see the source of the noise. He craned his head back, higher and higher, his eyes bulging at the bizarre and inexplicable enormity of what he was witnessing.

Surrounding the building, encompassing it on three sides, was a wall of thundering water, so high and so broad that it seemed to dwarf the shining steel tower. It was a waterfall of such proportions that it defied belief. Filmore found himself stunned by it, nearly unable to move, even as it drenched him with its pounding, battering mists. Somehow, impossibly, the Chrysler Building had been transported, vanished away, to some entirely fantastic location. Filmore shook himself, breaking his paralysis, and spun around, looking back at the building behind him. It stood entirely intact, leaning very slightly, on a shelf of rock in the middle of a heaving tropical river. Its windows dripped with water, reflecting the mountain around it and its bounding, lush jungles.

"Greetings, Senator," a voice called, shocking Filmore so much that he spun on his heels and nearly fell over. "Sorry about your bodyguard, but the deal was for only one person. He may be somewhere, but let me assure you, he is not here."

"Wha…!" Filmore stammered faintly. He opened and closed his mouth several times, boggling at the figure as it approached through the mist, walking jauntily. It appeared to be a man, dressed all in black. A cloak flapped about his shoulders and his face was covered in a bizarre, metallic mask. As the figure approached, Filmore saw several more similarly dressed shapes unsheathe from the pounding mist, keeping their distance but watching him carefully.

"Do pardon the omission, Senator," the dark figure called out, stopping suddenly. His voice bore the cultured clip of a British accent. He seemed to be smiling. "I understand there are traditions to be seen to. This is, after all, a magic trick." The man curled a hand to his masked mouth, cleared his throat, and then threw out both arms in a grand gesture that seemed to encompass the Chrysler Building, the thundering waterfall, and even Charles Filmore himself.

"Ta-daa!" he cried out, clear as crystal in the roaring noise. And then he laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

A great distance away and some weeks later, a short order cook struck a bell with his slab of a hand and clunked a steaming plate onto the counter.

"Number three, hold the O, extra mayo, get it while it's hot," he called without looking.

A waitress in a dingy rayon dress blew hair out of her face in annoyance. "Keep your hair on, I'll get it in a second." She turned back to an overweight couple crammed into the window booth. They leaned over the little dog-eared menus, studying them as if they were final exams. The man looked up at the waitress, his eyes swimming in a huge pair of black-rimmed glasses.

"Does the tuna come open-faced or in one of those fancy tomato bowls?"

"Fancy—" the waitress blinked. She scoffed good-naturedly. "You don't know where you are, do you?"

"We're in Bridgend, aren't we?" the overweight woman said suddenly, glancing up at the waitress and then looking worriedly at her husband. "Aren't we? I told you we should've taken the expressway. We're lost now, aren't we?"

"No, I mean—" the waitress began, but the man interrupted her, producing a large folded map from his breast pocket.

"Bridgend," he said emphatically, unfolding the map and stabbing at it with a pudgy finger. "Right 'ere, see? You saw the sign when we left the last roundabout."

"I've seen a lot of signs today, Herbert," the woman huffed, sitting up primly in the red booth.

"Look," the waitress said, lowering her order pad, "if you two need a few more minutes—"

The bell at the counter dinged again, louder this time. The waitress glanced back, her temper flaring, but another waitress passed behind her and touched her shoulder.

"I'll get it, Trish," the younger (and decidedly prettier) waitress said. "Table three, right?"

Trish exhaled and scowled at the pickup window. "Thanks, Judy. I swear to you, one of these days…"

"I know, I know," Judy smiled, crossing the narrow floor and waving a hand to show she'd heard it a hundred times before.

Judy ripped an order slip from her pad and jabbed it into one of the clips on the cook's carousel. With a deft movement, she scooped up the plate and carried it to a table in the corner by the door.

"Here you go, love," she said, sliding the plate onto the table in front of a middle-aged man with thinning black hair. "Enjoy."

"Thank you very much," the man replied, smiling and unrolling his napkin so that his silver clattered onto the tabletop. "Why, if I thought I could get waited on by the likes of you every day, I might never even leave."

"You sweet-talker you," Judy replied, cocking her hip. "You're not from around here, then?"

The man shook his head with derision. "Not likely. I'm from up the coast, Cardiff. Just passing through."