“Warren,” Warren stammered. “I’m…Warren.”
“What are you doing here, Warren?” The man had a Scots accent.
“I was invited.”
“You?” The man raised an eyebrow, arched sharply in doubt. “Who would be inviting you?”
“Edith Buckner.”
The man frowned. “She didn’t say anything about inviting you.”
“Maybe I made a mistake.” Warren started to leave. Before he reached the last step, though, he knew leaving was the wrong thing to do. That itch inside his mind tugged him back toward the building. He stopped and turned around, looking straight up the side of the building.
He felt the power inside the structure. It was strong, but it was unfocused, wavering, rising and falling like ocean surf pounding a beach. It was like a symphony, but rather than being in harmony, the notes were discordant and jarring. The vibration set his teeth on edge.
But he belonged inside. He was certain of that.
With meaty arms crossed over his broad chest, the big man still stared at Warren malevolently. His coat had opened enough to reveal the butt of the pistol he had hidden there.
Heart at the back of his throat, Warren ascended the steps again. He locked eyes with the big man, pushing with his mind the way he’d intuitively learned to do.
“I belong in there,” Warren said in an even voice.
“Not without an invitation,” the man replied.
Warren took the folded piece of paper from his pocket. He held it out.
“This is the invitation,” he said. He put as much confidence in his voice as he could, and he willed the bouncer to see exactly what he needed to see. “It’s the best invitation anyone could ever possibly have.”
The bouncer reached for the pistol under his coat, then pulled his hand away. He studied the piece of paper harder, then nodded. “Go on in.”
“What floor?”
“The eighth.”
Without another word, Warren entered the building. His heart pounded against his breastbone as he passed through the door. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten past the man. But he already felt stronger.
He took a torch from his pocket, switched it on, located the stairwell, and started up.
On the eighth floor, Warren felt the energy more strongly. It was like a river current, pulling him toward it. Even though he still considered turning back, he knew he couldn’t. Whatever lay before him in this life, it lay wherever the energy came from.
He flicked the torch on at the doorway, briefly illuminating the corridor. When he saw the people sitting on the floor in the hallway, all of them looking at him, he was so surprised he almost dropped the torch. The beam danced across the tattooed faces as his hand shook.
Too late, he realized that the light might be seen outside.
He didn’t want to draw demons to the building. He quickly flicked it off.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, pocketing the flash.
“He can’t see,” someone whispered.
“Who is he?”
“What’s he doing here if he can’t see in the dark?”
“How did he get here?”
“Is he alone?”
“How did he get past McCallum?”
Clothing rustled and Warren knew some of the people seated in the corridor had gotten to their feet and closed in on him. His imagination filled their hands with weapons, guns, and knives. He didn’t know how they could see him in the Stygian black.
Images of the magic shops his mother had dragged him to as a child filled his mind. Those places had been small, almost having to hide in plain sight so the average Londoner wouldn’t see them.
Some shops disguised themselves as magic shops for hobbyists. They stocked marked cards and even a few elaborate tricks for the cursory observer. But they kept the books on the arcane lore in the back.
Other shops declared themselves as New Age boutiques. They kept crystals and tarot cards. But—again—the real knowledge was kept under lock and key.
A few, like the ones Warren’s mother frequented, openly displayed their goods. Books on demonology, intricate artifacts modeled on items that had been brought back during the Crusades, and scrying glasses could be found on the shelves. But even they kept the skulls of sages, the bones of saints, and weapons that had soaked in the blood of victims in the back.
“I’m alone,” Warren said. He tried to broadcast a feeling of well-being over the crowd gathered in the darkness before him. During the time he’d had the flashlight on, he’d discovered the windows at either end of the corridor were covered in thick cloth that didn’t let light in or out. “I don’t mean anyone any harm.”
“You couldn’t cause anyone here any harm, boy,” a man’s voice promised.
Warren felt someone’s hot breath against the back of his neck. He didn’t move, not because he didn’t want them to know he was afraid—he was sure they knew that he was—but because he was afraid he was going to step on someone and make the situation worse.
“I didn’t come here to disturb anyone,” Warren said quietly. “I only came because I was invited.”
“By who?”
“Edith,” Warren said. “Edith Buckner.”
“Ah,” someone said. “He must be the one.”
“The one that Edith talked about,” someone else agreed.
“The one who talked to the demon.”
“She said he’d be coming to us.”
“I don’t believe what she’s said about him.”
“He’s here, isn’t he?”
Warren couldn’t believe the woman had told anyone about him. Or that she had felt certain he’d show up there.
He felt them moving around him in a circle. Every now and again someone’s robe would brush against him. Less often, someone touched him, the tactile impression so light that he barely felt it.
“She says he has power,” someone said.
“Real power.”
“You can see it in him.”
“I see it,” someone said.
“Get Edith.”
There was another rustle of clothing as someone left.
Warren stood very still. More than anything at the moment, he wanted to see through the darkness.
A moment later, a voice asked, “Do you really want to see in the darkness, Warren?”
He recognized Edith Buckner’s dulcet tones. He tried to face her, but he wasn’t sure where she was.
“Yes,” he said.
“Then,” she whispered, “open your eyes and see.”
Warren looked around in the darkness.
