Magic Lantern. Alex Archer
a garish figure with a horribly white face darted out of the doorway. The figure raised a long-bladed knife in one hand.
Robert stepped back with a curse.
But the figure wasn’t hunting him. The phantom turned on Dutilleaux. The knife flashed down and the flames went out.
Men and women cried and screamed as they stood in the meager pool of light provided by the lantern. None of them were close to where Dutilleaux had stood.
Trembling, Michel scooped up the lantern and carried it toward Robert and Dutilleaux. The light crept across the stone floor with him.
Robert stood against the nearby wall, obviously fearing for his very life. “That thing was here. I felt it. By God, it was real.”
Michel turned the lantern toward Dutilleaux and found the man stretched out on the stone cavern’s floor. Several skulls and bones littered the ground around him.
And the large knife the phantom had carried stuck out of the phantasmagorist’s chest. Dutilleaux’s face was already pale white in death.
1
London, England
Current day
“Couldn’t you have worn something a little more…revealing?”
Annja Creed frowned as she considered the question over the Bluetooth earpiece that linked her with her satellite phone. She stood in the middle of a dank alleyway stinking with rotting garbage and Chinese takeout. Dark rain clouds hung in the sky visible between the buildings. Sporadic smog patches drifted past.
“Doug, I’m way underdressed for a potential mugging as it is.” Annja wore a silver calf-length duster over black pants and a pearl-gray silk tie-waist blouse. Slouchy microsuede boots pushed her five-ten up to something over six feet. The boots were comfortable, stylish, and she could run for her life in them if she had to. She wore her auburn hair clipped back.
“This guy’s not a mugger.” Doug Morrell sounded put out. The producer of Chasing History’s Monsters—the syndicated television show Annja costarred in with Kristie Chatham—was twenty-two, young and driven by all things Twitter.
Despite the fact that he wasn’t really interested in history or archaeology, Annja genuinely liked Doug. He was like the younger brother she’d never had.
“I know he’s not a mugger.” Annja walked through the alley with her hands in her pockets. “He’s killed three women that the Metro police know about.”
“I saw those reports, too, which is why I want you to be careful.”
“Careful, but less dressed.”
Doug hesitated only a moment. “Yeah.”
“Not happening.”
“You could at least get rid of the jacket.”
“And give it to Igor to carry?”
“Don’t make fun of your bodyguard.”
Annja resisted the impulse to look back at Ray Venard, the guy Doug had hired for the shoot tonight. Venard was a large, hulking brute who had played professional rugby before he’d gotten caught shaving points, then was injured by outraged fans. He’d gotten through the court system unscathed, but the fans had left him with a knee that would never be the same.
“I thought he was a cameraman.”
“He is. He’s both. Kind of like a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Bodyguard and photographer.”
“Did I mention to you that when I met him in his office he was taking pictures of women for a skin magazine?”
Doug sighed. “You did.”
“So not only am I not going to take my coat off to be more revealing in this cold, rat-infested alley, I’m also not going to take it off in front of Igor.”
“I only mention the coat because it could help ratings.”
“The ratings are fine. We just got a two-year renewal.”
“So we could work on the next two-year deal.”
Annja kept walking. Working for the television show was sometimes a pain, but mostly it was fun. And there was Doug and a few of the other people she liked who were connected to the production. Not only did she get to travel, but the salary and bonuses were nice and allowed her to follow up on other explorations and digs.
She watched the shadows carefully. Detective Chief Inspector Westcox hadn’t been happy when she’d come to his office to discuss the recent murders that the media was attributing to “Mr. Hyde.” Of course, the reporters were only doing that because “Mr. Hyde” had written in, claiming responsibility for the murders.
Westcox had shown Annja the morgue photos of the victims. The DCI was closemouthed and professional, and he’d thought to frighten her off with the brutality of the killings. The victims had been stomped to death, their faces pulped by size eighteen Rufflander work boots.
What DCI Westcox hadn’t known was how much violence Annja Creed had seen. The police inspector had assumed she was a young woman inquiring into things much too bloody for her.
“I’m keeping my clothes on for the next two years, too.”
Doug whined. He was a good whiner when he wanted to be, but Annja was impervious.
“You have Kristie for the T and A ratings. With me, you’ve got history and archaeology ratings.”
The fact that Kristie Chatham was the fan darling because of her habitual loss of clothing and “wardrobe malfunctions” bothered Annja more than she would ever tell anyone. But she accepted it. She had her fans, too.
“Would Kristie agree to walking in a rat-infested alley at midnight so a serial murderer could leap out of the shadows and murder her?”
“No, of course not. If she got hurt, she wouldn’t be able to work.”
“And I would?”
“You’re not going to get hurt. You have Igor. Besides, you’re only there tonight to shoot a little mood footage. Igor also tells me the fog is going to have to be enhanced. Says it’s really weak.”
Annja looked back over her shoulder at the lumbering shadow that trailed her. Igor carried a portable video camera in one giant paw. “You’re talking to him?”
“Texting. I’m talking to you.”
“Great. So you’re distracting my bodyguard.”
“He’d probably be more focused on you if you weren’t overdressed.”
Turning her attention back to the alley ahead of her, Annja shook her head. Sometimes—most of the time—Doug had a one-track mind. “About the Mr. Hyde thing.”
“You said you loved the Mr. Hyde thing,” Doug said, instantly wary. “You said the Mr. Hyde thing was awesome. You couldn’t wait to do the Mr. Hyde thing.”
Annja had said that. But that had been when she’d thought her schedule wasn’t going to be so tight. She’d hoped to get out to Hadrian’s Wall. That had been the site of her first dig, and the place still held a special spot in her heart.
Then, when she’d seen those poor women in those police photographs, she realized that the “investigation” bordered on sensationalism. That the women were going to be fodder for the conspiracy mill Chasing History’s Monsters routinely set into motion didn’t sit well with her.
“You do realize Mr. Hyde isn’t real.”
“When you meet Mr. Hyde, tell him that. Either we’ve got one of London’s oldest and eeriest monsters returned from over a hundred years of being missing, or we’ve got someone who rediscovered Dr. Jekyll’s secret potion. I don’t