Prologue, part I #2
The staircase complains beneath my boots as I climb.
Every instinct I have says that this is where he’s going to make his stand.
I have him cornered. Unless, of course, he wants to jump out of a window and replay what all those hoity-toity fellas did during the Wall Street Crash of ’29 when I was nothing but a boy…
He didn’t pull a jumper. As I reach the second level, peeking into the first room I find, Johnny is standing perfectly still in front of a—
Is that a mirror?
This must be some kind of lady’s room. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an abandoned bed with dusty linens.
There’s a dresser thick with the stuff on the top.
Wallpaper hangs in curling strips, a sure sign this place hasn’t had an occupant in twenty years.
The windows are closed with tattered curtains blowing—
I pause. Blowing? How are they blowing when the windows are closed?
And why hasn’t Johnny noticed me in the doorway yet? Yeah, he’s staring at the surprisingly clear glass of the mirror, locked on his reflection, but I’m there, too, yet I don’t think he can see me.
Johnny takes one hesitant step toward it, his hand outstretched.
I raise the Colt. I should just fire. Shoot him in the back like a man like him deserves. I can’t, though. He’s just another enemy, and one I’ll look in the eye before I take his life.
So I call out a warning: “Don’t.”
Did he hear me? He acts like he doesn’t. He certainly doesn’t stop, either, and my finger itches to pull the trigger after all.
And that’s when he presses his flat palm against the glass and… and…
“Holy fuck.” The words burst out of me as I race toward the mirror, Colt still in front of me.
I’m too late. I don’t know what kind of trick mirror that sucker is, but the moment Johnny touched the glass, it rippled and it opened, and as I watched, it sucked him in whole.
He’s gone.
Standing in front of it, my normally stoic expression suddenly wild, I use my free hand to rap my knuckles against the glass. There has to be a trick. There has to be a door or a window or a… I don’t know what, but where the hell did Johnny go?
I meant to knock against the glass, see if maybe it was hollow or something. Only, instead of knocking, my hand sinks straight through the mirror.
I yank my hand back, but that doesn’t do a damn thing to keep me from following right behind Johnny. Only it’s not a door. It’s not a window, either. But it’s gotta be a trick because I’m suddenly falling.
For one dizzy second, I can’t tell which way is up.
Cold closes over me like I’ve fallen through the ice in the middle of winter, only there isn’t any water.
Nothing wet. Nothing solid, either. Just pressure on every side and flashes of light behind my eyes while I continue to fall through all that nothingness.
My fingers tighten around the Colt on instinct, which is probably the only reason I don’t lose it straight off when the mirror spits me out.
I hit the ground shoulder-first, my coat splaying around me as I flop to my back.
Pain shoots down my arm, sharp enough to make my hand open, and the Colt lands somewhere in the grass beside me.
At least, I think it’s grass. For the first few seconds, I’m too busy trying to breathe to care.
The air’s been knocked clean from my lungs, and every attempt to drag it back in feels like somebody has a boot planted in the middle of my chest.
“Son of a…”
Stubborn as ever, I suck in another breath and stare up at a sky that shouldn’t exist.
Holy shit. There are way too many stars here.
That’s the first thing I notice once my lungs start working again.
They’re scattered across the darkness in thick, bright clusters, close enough that I almost feel like I could reach up and touch one.
There aren’t any clouds. No glow from the city.
No smoke from factory chimneys or apartment buildings. Nothing to dull them.
I haven’t seen a sky this clear since France, and even then, there was so much haze from the fighting.
Here, there’s only the glow of a moon, bigger and brighter than one I’ve ever seen.
Except it isn’t the moon I know. It’s too big, hanging low over the treetops like someone dropped it there. Trees… there are trees everywhere. Dark and tall, terrific and imposing… they surround me, with the shit ton of stars twinkling over my head.
Where the hell am I?
I sit up slowly, then look around.
The brownstone is gone. So is the mirror. There isn’t a wall behind me, a door, or even a footprint in the grass to explain how I got here. Just more trees stretching in every direction, and a single hazy patch that shrinks and disappears as I stare in confusion at it.
I shake my head. I don’t know where I am. Don’t know how I got here. But you know what I do know? That I came here to do a job.
“Johnny?”
My voice doesn’t echo as I call for him. No, it gets swallowed by a darkness that muffles. The quiet is stifling. It’s never quiet in Brooklyn, but here… I don’t hear a fucking thing.
Until I do.
My shoulder aches, but my instincts are as sharp as ever. Still on the ground, I grope for the Colt. My fingers close around the grip a second before a low growl rolls through the woods and, in an instant, I’m back on my feet, searching for the source of the sound.
It comes from somewhere to my left. It’s too loud for any dog, and there aren’t any bears in Brooklyn—if I’m still in Brooklyn—unless somebody finally got careless at the zoo.
Another growl answers from behind me.
“Johnny Wallace!”
Nothing. No surprise. The pervert ran through some sort of magic mirror and left me here to deal with whatever the hell is making that noise.
Fine.
I peer into the darkness, gripping the gun tighter when I see something flash. Eyes? Were those eyes? The growl sounds again, much closer this time. No doubt it’s some kind of wild animal, but I’m a city boy, born and bred, and a molded killer.
I’m ready for anything—and those might’ve just been my last words right there because who can be ready for what comes at me next?
The air shifts. Whatever predator is out there is stalking me. Toying with me. The leaves rustle, and a branch cracks somewhere ahead of me.
I keep the Colt steady.
The forest goes back to being silent.
The little hairs on the back of my neck stick up.
I know that kind of silence. Heard it before ambushes. Felt it in ruined villages where the Germans were close enough that even a cough could get a man killed. There’s always a moment when the whole world seems to hold its breath.
Then something comes crashing through the trees in front of me.
Running on instinct, I fire before I get a good look at it.
The first bullet catches it somewhere near the shoulder, assuming this fucking thing has shoulders.
It screams, rearing up on two legs before dropping back onto four.
Or six. Christ, maybe eight. It’s the size of a horse, but no horse has a mouth that opens that wide.
Pale skin stretches over a body made of ribs and knotted muscle, while two long arms—or front legs—end in claws that snap at me as it charges.
I fire again and again. My Colt—government-issued and a gift from Teddy Thanos—holds eight rounds; seven plus one in the chamber. I keep count and I squeeze the trigger, the bullets punching into its chest without slowing it one bit.
No.
“Come on,” I spit out through gritted teeth. I take two steps back, plant my feet, and put the fourth shot through one of its eyes.
Black fluid explodes from the ruined eye. The monstrous thing jerks sideways, but doesn’t stop coming.
Of course not.
I empty another round into its mouth as it lunges for me, ready to bite my goddamn arm off.
Its head snaps back. Momentum carries the body forward, close enough that one claw slices through the front of my coat before it crashes into the grass beside me. The ground shakes beneath my boots.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then its legs twitch.
I aim at the other eye and pull the trigger again until I hit seven. It’s gotta be dead, but I like to be thorough, and all I have is one bullet left.
One bullet for Johnny Wallace.
Where is he? Where did you go, Johnny Boy?