Threshold of Destiny (The Mysterium Secret Book 1) Read online

  Threshold of Destiny

  The Mysterium Secret, Book One

  Linn Chapel

  New Visions Books & Media

  Copyright © 2020 Linn Chapel

  This publication is intended for your personal enjoyment. No part of it may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ISBN 978-1-952440-00-4

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Dear Reader

  Bonus Chapter

  Poetry, Old Poetry

  Prologue

  London, 1890

  With the ease of long familiarity, he walked steadily through the foggy night.

  His route led him first to one of London’s hospitals, where he circled to the rear and entered without being seen. Leaving the hospital soon after, he buttoned his coat to conceal the pair of bottles he carried.

  Next his route brought him to the shop of an antiquarian bookseller. Through the front windows, he could see the soft glow of lamplight and the bookcases lining the walls, for unlike the other shops, this one stayed open all night.

  He stepped inside and made his way to the rear of the shop where he greeted the proprietor. The aged bookseller accepted one of the bottles from the hospital and then pointed out several newly acquired volumes on a nearby shelf.

  Leaving the shop sometime later with one bottle still buttoned within his coat and a paper-wrapped parcel under his arm, he turned the corner and passed down a crooked lane.

  The faint sound of a boot shifting had already alerted him to the presence of a cutpurse waiting for him in the darkness of a doorway. He was not surprised when the fellow stepped forth and brandished a long, gleaming blade.

  The stench coming from his assailant made bodily contact out of the question, and so, drawing up his hypnotic power, he sent forth a numbing cloud. After a moment, he continued on his way, circling around the frozen figure of the cutpurse.

  He turned down an even smaller lane where the fog was thicker, pressing up against him, damp and dirty from the smoke of factories. But he was grateful for it, nonetheless, for it muffled the noise of modern London so that all he could hear was the scurry of rats and the sound of his own footsteps.

  As he continued down the empty lane, a dark silhouette accompanied him, but it was only his shadow, slipping steadily down the pavement as he passed by the gaslights. But before he had gone much farther, he noticed a second silhouette moving along the sooty brick walls on the other side of the lane, keeping pace with his own shadow.

  He paused and doffed his hat for a moment so that his features could be better seen in the gaslight. Recognition must have come at last to his pursuer, for the second shadow suddenly melted away into the night.

  He replaced his hat and resumed his pace, brooding as he strode onward. It was bad enough that London was so filthy and filled with crime, but it had always been that way. It was the frantic bustle of modern times that he found unbearable, along with the din from all the carriages clogging the streets and the hissing and shrieking of the new locomotive engines.

  A pair of hansom cabs rattled past him, just then. The loud clop-clop-clop of the horses echoed within the confines of the narrow street, causing him to wince. The first of the drivers cursed him for being in the way and the second roared out a drunken rendition of a repulsive tavern tune.

  As the cabs clattered onward, he passed under one of the advertisements he despised so heartily. It was an exceptionally large hoarding, with garish colors that blazed in the gaslight to assault his eyes with fiery letters and a crude image of soap – soap! – when all the world should have been blanketed in the hushed forgetfulness of night. He turned his face away in repugnance.

  No one valued beauty anymore. No one honed their words like steel; no one seemed willing to fight on the invisible battlefront of ideas.

  London had become a marketplace filled with noise, but it would be no different elsewhere, he knew. And yet, his aching sense of loss might not be so keen if he were to leave his homeland, even if his quarrel with modern times persisted.

  Now that the nineteenth century was drawing to a close, he was more aware than ever of the passage of time. He’d pack his books and valuables and move away from England before another year had passed.

  His steady progress through the streets had brought him to his lodgings and now he quietly climbed the stairs. Unlocking his door, he entered his chambers. If the temperature dropped much lower during the night, he would be forced to light a fire in the grate to prevent his tissues from freezing.

  After setting the bottle on his desk, he found a match and struck it. The small flame flared to life, bright and hot in the cold chamber. Holding it with cautious precision between his fingertips, he lit the lamp on his desk, blew out the match, and drew up a chair.

  As he removed the wrapping from his parcel of books, he examined each one in turn. Few of the newer poets appealed to him, and he had been fortunate to find these timeworn volumes in the shop. They might last him as long as two weeks, for he was determined to read them slowly.

  Opening the bottle, he poured some of its contents into a wineglass. He set his drink carefully in its usual spot on the desk, to his left. Then he made a neat stack of the books to his right. Lifting off the top volume, he set it in front of him, where the oil lamp cast its soft circle of light.

  He opened the cover, turned over the title page, and began to read.

  Slowly, he reminded himself after the first few verses. Slowly.

  There was almost nothing left of his former life. But he did have books, and time.

  Far too much time.

  One

  A cold breeze traveled through the night air, swirling the fog into strange and ghostly forms that drifted slowly across Tressa’s path as she made her way down the narrow city street. Misty droplets, cold and tingling, touched her cheeks as she walked steadily along.

  On either side of her rose up the closed shops and apartment buildings that lined the empty street. A lamppost stood a little distance away at a corner, casting a circle of light onto the damp pavement. Resolutely she made her way in its direction, thinking she would be more visible in its glow, more likely to be noticed.

  As she walked onward, all of her senses were alert and prickling.

  All of my senses but one, she reminded herself.

  She paused for a moment in her progress down the street and closed her eyes briefly to use that extra sense. Letting her mind sweep outward, her
thoughts began to shimmer with awareness.

  A dim gray void spread out in her mind’s eye, broken only by the intentions of the hidden operative who was stationed in an alley behind her. To her questing thoughts, his intentions appeared as a small blue pool in the distance. A ripple pulsed across the pool’s surface, and then another, steady and even. She wasted no time in reading the details of the intentions within the pool, for she already knew that the operative planned to provide her with back-up, if she should need it.

  Pulling her questing thoughts back inward, she reopened her eyes and continued down the dark street. Only the sound of her own footsteps came to her ears.

  It won’t be long, now.

  High above the street, on the fourth floor of a vacant apartment building, Peter stood silently by a window, watching the scene below. All was dim and foggy but for the bright glow surrounding the lamppost at the street corner.

  His eyes flicked impatiently to the surveillance equipment to check the time on the electronic display.

  Seated next to the display, an operative reached out to make an adjustment, and suddenly a live video of the street appeared on the surveillance screen. Peter could see that the street was still empty, but he knew that was about to change.

  The edgy feeling he’d had all evening was worsening with every minute that passed. Why had he listened to Tressa’s pleadings? Her mission should have been cancelled the instant he had caught wind of it. Frowning to himself, he left the window to draw up a folding metal chair near the equipment.

  Peter’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at the surveillance screen, for Tressa had just appeared. Leaning closer, he followed her progress.

  In the pale silk evening dress she was wearing, she looked as if she had accidentally wandered away from the city’s theater district, which was only two blocks away. Peter watched her stop by the lamppost and hold up a map to study it in the light.

  A satisfied grunt came from the operative at Peter’s side. “There she is. Right on time.”

  Deftly, the second operative adjusted the controls. The sound of Tressa’s breathing – light and rapid with nerves – suddenly emerged from a speaker near the screen. It was clear that her audioscanner was working.

  The first operative flicked a glance in Peter’s direction. “Relax. We’ve got all the bases covered, and your sister knows what to do.”

  Peter felt his mouth firm into a tight line. He must have been crazy to let Tressa undertake a closeup mission with Operation M. There had to be plenty of safer ways for her to volunteer her time.

  But it was hard for Peter not to blame himself, for he knew it was his own involvement with Operation M that had put the idea in Tressa’s head. Now he was forced to wait and watch, high above the street, while she took the risks below.

  A second figure appeared on the screen, just then. The subject? No, it was someone else – a drunk coming from one of the bars, a shabbily-dressed man who had just rounded the corner of a building and was stumbling down the sidewalk.

  A streak of alarm went down Peter’s spine. He wanted to give the order for their man on the street to tranquilize the unexpected pedestrian, but he fought down the urge. The drunkard’s sudden collapse would look suspicious, and they might lose their chance to intercept their elusive subject, for he had to be in the vicinity right now.

  Peter suddenly edged his chair closer, for the drunk had stopped in his tracks and seemed to be watching Tressa. He changed his course and stumbled in her direction.

  Adrenaline pounded through Peter’s body. He rose to his feet and grabbed a spare tranq gun from the table. “Tell our man on the street to shoot. I’m going down to join him.” Peter swept through the doorway and was ready to race down the stairs when one of the operatives suddenly stood up and called out to him.

  “Peter! There’s someone else on the street. It’s him.”

  Peter swung around. “The subject?”

  “I’m sure it’s him,” called out the operative, who had turned back to the surveillance screen.

  The second operative was also staring at the screen. “Let’s wait. If we blow your sister’s cover, we’ll never get another chance – not with him.”

  Filled with misgivings, Peter crossed the room swiftly and grabbed the communicator.

  “Stay put in the alley for now,” he instructed their man on the street. Clenching his jaw, Peter brought all of his attention to bear on the surveillance screen.

  As Tressa pretended to study the map in the glow of the lamppost, she heard the shuffle of heavy footsteps across the street. Turning, she peered in that direction. Through the drifts of fog she could see a figure approaching.

  The subject, at last. With an anxious shiver, she sent her thoughts questing outward. In her mind’s eye she could see a mounded shape not far away, jumbled and uneven, like a heap of rocks. One of the rocks tumbled down, rolling out of sight, and then another. She read the intentions within the heap as quickly as she could.

  The newcomer planned to catch up with her and drag her somewhere out of sight. Then the intentions broke off, jagged and unfinished. She reopened her eyes with a snap.

  Dread ran down her limbs. She had worked so hard to prepare herself for tonight, but now that the subject had arrived on the street, she could barely face the rest of her mission. The sense of impending doom was strong, stronger than she had expected.

  The time had been passing as slowly as the drifting swirls of mist, but now the seconds sped up in a wild and dizzy rush. The footsteps became louder and then a figure stumbled into the hazy light of the lamppost. But as Tressa caught sight of the man’s tattered clothes and swaying movements, she knew she had been mistaken about his identity.

  He wasn’t the subject, but he clearly meant her harm. Where was her back-up? The operative in the alley should have intervened by now.

  The tramp lurched forward, leering at her. He was so close that Tressa could hear his ragged breathing.

  Panic raced through her veins. Frantically she reached down and slipped off her high heels so that she could run. But the action had cost her precious seconds. As she straightened, she found that her attacker was only a short distance away, with his arms outstretched to block her flight.

  Then a tall shadow seemed to grow behind him. A pale, capable hand reached out and touched the man’s neck.

  Tressa stared as the tramp folded forward at the waist and sprawled face-down on the sidewalk at her feet. Frozen, she watched the tall, shadowy figure step around the tramp’s body and approach her.

  In the glow of the lamplight, she could see that it was a man in his late twenties, tall and lean, dressed all in black. His dark hair fell in loose waves to his shoulders, and the collar of his black jacket was turned up, as if he were chilled by the fog. He came to a stop and his dark eyes moved over Tressa’s face, examining her closely.

  She was unable to speak or even to breathe. His appearance fit the profile of the subject, but she sent her thoughts out briefly for confirmation.

  Even that hasty check, performed with her eyes open, informed her that she was right. To her questing thoughts, his intentions appeared as a blazing sphere so startling that she nearly gasped out loud. Like a flaming star, the sphere burned with a dense white core, fiery and bright. She had never encountered such a blazing burst before, but deep within it, she sensed the relentless pull of need.

  He was speaking to her, she suddenly realized. She quickly drew her scattered thoughts back inward.

  “You shouldn’t be walking here alone,” he was telling her softly. “It isn’t safe.” A cultured accent modulated his voice.

  He’s English. Tressa’s thoughts were still unfocused. They didn’t tell me that.

  She remembered then that she was being watched on the surveillance screen high above the street. Peter’s temper had always been uneven, and he was probably close to exploding right now as he waited for Tressa to take action.

  Realizing that she was still gripping onto her shoes, she bent
over to slip them back on and took a deep breath. Still shaken by her recent fright, and filled with trepidation now that she was in the company of the subject himself, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to deliver her lines. Having an audience listening and watching from above the street was making matters even worse.

  Shielding her free hand with the map, she slid it into her pocket and let her fingers run over the high-tech devices she carried. When she located the flat disc of the audioscanner, she switched it off. Peter and the others would only be able to see her on the surveillance screen now.

  She withdrew her hand, and with a rueful smile, she spoke. “I’ve just been to a show at the Willoughby Theater with some friends, but I lost them in the crowd as we were coming out. I tried to find the parking garage where we left the car, but somehow I ended up here.” She shot a glance at the drunk, who was still lying motionless on the sidewalk. Her pulse began to thud again as she remembered her narrow escape. “You came along just when I needed help – thank you.”

  Her rescuer nodded, and then his eyes left her face. For a long moment he stared off into the drifting fog, and when his gaze returned to her face, there was a look of resolve about him, as if he had come to a decision.

  “It was a privilege to be of assistance.” He stepped closer, coming to her side.

  Do it now, Tressa told herself. But she couldn’t make her hand reach into her pocket for the device she needed.

  The subject was standing beside her, now. He gestured to her map. “But you’re still lost,” he murmured close to her ear. His voice was as smooth as silk. “Allow me to assist you further.”

  His voice seemed to be having an almost hypnotic effect on her, but she knew he couldn’t be using his power to mesmerize, for that would feel much different. Whatever the source, she wanted to hear him speak some more. “Alright. If you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind. A lady should never be left to make her way home alone. Let us leave, now. That unfortunate creature lying upon the pavement will awaken soon.”