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  THE REALM JUMPERS

  Book 1: Realm of the Death Cult

  Lennox Brown

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Lennox Brown

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  Smashwords Edition

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Book 1: Realm of the Death Cult

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  For Sarah, whose patience and love make it all possible.

  1

  The cast-iron lock that secured the rear entrance of Stonebridge Manor was known throughout Dorset as a historical link to its aristocratic past and had long kept the valuables and persons within safe for centuries. Commissioned by the eccentric Edward Wolcott VII in 1702, it had been cast as a set of two, its twin having long ago been lost to the ravages of bad recordkeeping. Designed by the most revered locksmith in England and cast by the same foundry used by the Tower of London, the lock was brought to Stonebridge by coach on a pillow made from the softest goose down. From the Wolcotts to the Wentworths to the Devons, through countless renovations, extensions, and remodels, the lock stood as the one feature to resist the ravages of time and remain unchanged amidst the turbulent storms of progress.

  And now all those years of historical legacy, that cherished link to the past, that object of such irreplaceable value that many believed it belonged in a museum, was about to be smashed to bits by an intruder who just realised he’d brought the wrong tools.

  “Dammit…”

  Winston Lamb cursed into the cool night air as he looked over the lock with a torch. There was no way his little lock-picking set could deal with this. The lock was designed for use with a large iron skeleton key, the kind a butler would keep inside the cuff of his tuxedo and later use to kill a dinner party guest after cutting the power during an important banquet. At least it was according to Miss Marple, which was the only time Winston had ever seen anyone use a key like that.

  It was a quiet night and the only sound Winston could hear was the waves of the English Channel crashing onto the rocky shore at the bottom of a steep cliff at the edge of the orchard. The cliff was the only stony bit of terrain anywhere near the manor and had lead many historians to wonder just why Wolcott had bestowed the name “Stonebridge” upon his regal house. The rumour swirling about at the time of its construction was that it was in fact a replica of another manor somewhere in England, but this had never been verified. The other swirling rumour, the more plausible explanation in Winston’s view, was that Wolcott was Mayor Bonkers of Bonkersville and that the name could just as likely have been RootieTootiePurpleGumdropsIEatMyOwnPooManor. The name Stonebridge, although meaningless, was at least sensible.

  Winston shook these thoughts from his mind, as well as everything else he had learned from his night spent doing research on the internet. He had learned many useful facts, including the manor’s total square footage, the building materials used, the terms of sale agreements, and the fact that people spent way too much time filming cats.

  But none of these were useful now, so he tried to relax his mind and focus on the problem at hand. He could hear the waves crashing against the rocks on the shore below and he pictured how jagged those rocks must be.

  It gave him an idea.

  Winston searched the ground until he found two sharp stones that fit in the palm of his hand. He then looked closer at the thick oak slats that made up the door itself. Although the lock had been able to hold its own against a few centuries of salty sea air, the same couldn’t be said of the wood. Winston found the oak was eroding badly and was rather easy to chip away. Using the rocks like a hammer and chisel, he dug out enough wood to gain access to the inner workings of the lock. After checking no one was inside that could hear him, he smashed the small iron workings inside, as well as a large portion of his thumb, lifted the latch and opened the door.

  He was now inside.

  Winston found himself in an unused reception room. The lights were off but enough moonlight spilled in through the panelled windows to reveal the furniture was covered in ghostly white sheets. In front of him was a grand staircase and, below that, an unlit corridor leading to the north wing of the manor and to another reception room that glowed with soft orange lighting, revealing a butler standing at the door, ready to welcome guests. Behind the butler the sounds of a tinkling piano and the general wallah of a large group of people could be heard.

  Winston crept down the corridor until he was just round the corner from the butler. He then brushed a bit of mud from the knees of his tuxedo, pulled down the cat mask from the top of his head to cover his face, licked his fangs, and waited for his moment.

  He didn’t have to wait long. The doorbell rang and the butler turned his attention to the guests who had just arrived, giving Winston the chance to slip through the reception room unnoticed.

  Winston entered a large parlour where a posh fancy dress party was in full swing. Multiple chandeliers blazed from the ceiling, casting a warm comfortable glow on the patrons below. Winston grabbed a champagne flute from one of the passing waiters and walked about as if he’d been there all evening. He counted about fifty guests in total, each milling about in elegant yet tasteful costumes made up of bespoke tuxedos and grand ball gowns as they filled the air with fake laughter and cheap champagne breath.

  Winston mingled through the room, drifting in and out of conversations made up primarily of trivial small talk, and couldn’t help feeling he was back in his element. He was surrounded by the usual crowd one would find at a highbrow fundraiser, including the usual mix of bankers, high-level academics, arts patrons, vampires, and widows with dogs in their purses. Winston found the guests quite skilled at hiding their utter contempt for each other, which they buried deep under layers of pointless conversation about politics, what should be done with the poor, and what was currently fashionable in the health of small canines.

  One thing they weren’t talking about, however, was what the fundraiser was raising money for. Whenever Winston attempted to raise the subject in a discreet way, it would be spoken about in vague terms and the conversation would move swiftly on. The only tidbits he was able to glean seem to suggest it was a religious cause, but he had little else to go on beyond a strange symbol that had been stamped on the napkins that featured a small cloud with a lightning bolt.

  But finding the cause of the fundraiser wasn’t why he was here. Winston knew he had to stay focused so he could spot his opportunity. He didn’t have to wait long.

  The piano player in the corner was given a light tap on the shoulder and stopped playing as the general din of conversation died down.

  “Excuse me, may I have everyone’s attention for just a moment?” came a voice from the front of the room. The guests turned their attention to a woman dressed in a bright red gown with a small set of devil horns worn on her head. She was somewhere in her forties with brown hair professionally done up in a tight bun except for the back, where carefully-sculpted strands were allowed to trickle over her shoulder, giving one the impression that she wasn’t Satan so much as Satan’s personal assistant, who always ensured the newly-condemned had fresh cups of tea and had signed their release forms before welcoming them to eternal damnation.

  “As I’m sure you all know, my name is Lady Nigella Devon, level twenty-eight witch, and your humble host for this evening,” the wo
man said. “I just wanted to thank everyone for coming out on such a chilly evening. I do hope by the end of tonight’s affair you will all feel it was worth it. We are attempting to raise money for a very worthy cause and I hope you can find it in your hearts to help us. Barring that, I hope you can find it in your wallets.”

  A polite chuckle rippled through the crowd and Winston couldn’t help but roll his eyes at Lady Devon’s mention of her witch level. The higher level witches never missed an opportunity.

  The only two not chuckling were two stone-faced men in ill-fitting suits who stood in the shadows on either side of Lady Devon. Winston knew security men when he saw them. But they were there to guard Lady Devon herself, not the house. This was his chance.

  “Now we have had some very generous donations already this evening,” Lady Devon continued, “and I just want to assure you that you will get a chance to meet our special friend a little later this evening once he’s woken up from his nap. So I hope you’re in not too much of a furry,” Lady Devon said.

  More chuckles in the crowd left Winston confused as he drifted toward the door leading to the back kitchen.

  “Now just a few words about what this fundraiser is all about and I will leave you to it, I promise,” Lady Devon said. “As most of you are already aware, the purpose of this event is to raise money for…”

  Winston slipped through the rear door and found himself in a kitchen buzzing with anxiety. Cooks hovered over serving platters piled high with expensive water fowl while waiters raced back and forth into a back dining room to set the places for a grand banquet to be served later. With all the chaos and confusion, no one took much notice of a man in a tuxedo and a cat mask with tiny eye holes that made it hard to see, burning his finger on the edge of a grill, stumbling over a mixing bowl, and impaling himself on a cutting knife.

  Winston popped through the door on the other side of the kitchen and found himself alone in the main house. He was in the middle of a long hallway. To his right, the hallway stopped at a locked door Winston guessed led to the disused horse stables. To his left, lay the longer bit of the hallway that ended at a large oak door. The door was larger and more ornately carved than any of the other doors in the manor. Winston knew from experience the larger the door, the more important the room. This was where his quarry must lie.

  Winston studied the hallway closely, noting there were no security cameras to be seen. He took a small bag of talcum powder from his trouser pocket and threw a handful into the air. He watched the talcum settle to the ground and reveal a complete lack of laser emitters or motion detectors. As far as Winston could tell, there was no security at all and it left Winston unsettled.

  Winston crept down the hallway, sensing the contemptuous glares of various Wolcott ancestors that resented his working-class existence from beyond their graves in the portraits that adorned the walls. Winston held his breath, waiting for klaxons to go off, bars to drop from the ceiling, and a small army of grey-suited men in Aviators to appear at any moment. To his surprise, he reached the large oak door without incident. To his further surprise, the original cast-iron lock for the door had been recently removed and replaced with a silvery Wells-Barnsley Type 131 number with the optional Impenetrable Double-Tooth Key Technology.

  Thank god, Winston thought. A lock made in this century.

  A few moments later Winston heard the clicking sound of the lock mechanism releasing and put his toolkit away, then went inside.

  The door led to a large study where the curtains had been left open, allowing moonlight to spill in and reveal the shelves that lined the walls overflowed with dusty volumes.

  Dominating the middle of the room was a dark antique desk, also piled high with books and old newspapers with a high-backed leather executive chair tucked behind it.

  Winston stumbled his way around in the dark before coming to a glass case. Feeling behind it, his fingers found a tiny switch and flicked it. The entire study now glowed with ambient light and revealed Winston’s suspicions to be true. It was a display case. And inside was what he had come for.

  What, is that it? he wondered.

  It was a teapot.

  It was the usual size and shape with a tarnished silver colour suggesting it wasn’t much more than a century old. Much of its surface was covered in engravings with an eagle theme that featured a large beak for a spout, wings that protruded from the lid on the top, and four talons for feet that lifted it a few centimetres off the ground.

  It was remarkable in how unremarkable it was. England is swimming in teapots like this. Why are they paying me so much for this one? Winston wondered.

  Winston took out a small camera, framed up the shot, and clicked the shutter.

  And that was it. His job was done. All there was left to do now was slip out the window, get back to his van that was parked out by the main road, and he could be home in time to rage-stab open another can of beans for dinner and watch Newsnight.

  A stirring behind him interrupted his thoughts. Winston turned around to see something moving in the dark, beyond the edge of the light on the opposite side of the room. Two red eyes opened and stared at him from the darkness. Winston’s heart skipped a beat.

  The creature stood up on four legs and opened its mouth wide, revealing its sharp teeth. Then it splayed its front legs out in front of itself, as if bowing, and let out a whine.

  Winston realised it was a dog, yawning and stretching, having just woken up. It was on the larger side and covered in white fur. Behind it lay a doggie bed, complete with several chew toys and a big red ball. Had it been a proper guard dog, Winston knew, he would already be caught up in a tornado of teeth, claws, and screaming for mercy. But this one he reckoned was just a pet.

  “Stupid mutt…” Winston muttered and turned back toward the display case. He stepped back and took a few more pictures for good measure. This was an important job. He had to get these pictures right.

  Behind him, he could hear the dog continue its lengthy stretching routine, which became increasingly rigorous. The dog stretched until its joints began to crack, then the cracking got louder and sounded as if the dog’s bones were actually breaking. The smell of wet fur and moist dog breath filled the room as a deep, rumbly growl shook the windows.

  Winston turned back around to find the dog had somehow grown. What had once been a normal Alaskan Wolfhound mix had now become an eight-foot-tall hell beast drooling heavily from its massive jaws.

  Winston suddenly remembered he was still wearing his cat mask.

  The dog let out a howl and approached Winston, pinning him against the display case.

  Winston had never seen anything like it before. Where did you come from? he wondered as his body readied itself to be torn into bloody pieces and buried in the yard with the other chew toys.

  The dog licked its upper teeth and planted a paw on Winston’s chest. Winston knew dogs only braced their prey with a paw like that if they were planning on ripping off a piece first. Winston went for broke and plunged one of his lock-picks deep into the dog’s paw.

  The dog snatched its paw back and unleashed a howl of pain that rattled the windows. Winston took his opportunity and bolted for the door. He burst into the hallway, shut the big oak door behind him, and took off running.

  Behind him, Winston heard the dog hurl himself against the door but fail to get it open, giving Winston a chance to put some distance between them. Winston raced down the hallway, realizing now why there was no security. The Wolcott ancestors almost seemed to smile as he raced past them, fearing for his life.

  An explosion of smashing wood and plaster told Winston the dog had managed to barge his way through the door and was now tearing down the hallway after him, its massive size brushing the walls and knocking many of the portraits onto the ground and smashing them under the weight of its massive paws.

  Winston reached the kitchen door and threw himself through it, knocking over a waiter on the other side with a tray full of a brown goopy sauce that only
those above a certain tax band could ever enjoy. Both Winston and the waiter fell to the floor and found themselves covered in the pungent-smelling sauce.

  “Hey! Watch it! Who are you? Are you even supposed to be back here?” the waiter asked as the others in the kitchen whipped their heads around to see the drama unfolding.

  “The door!” Winston screamed as he scrambled to his feet. A moment later the white dog hurtled into the kitchen and threw itself after Winston amidst a wake of overturned tables, flying kitchen implements, and cowering wait staff.

  Winston lunged through the door that lead back into the main parlour where the fundraiser was in full swing. A thousand eyes stared at him now after hearing the sounds of destruction coming from the kitchen.

  Winston fought his way through the crowd toward the front door. Behind him, the room exploded into cries and gasps as the dog burst its way out of the kitchen and barrelled after him. The guests attempted to scatter in all directions, making it nearly impossible for Winston to shove his way through.

  One of the stone-faced security men stepped in front of the dog and held up his right hand.

  “Nice doggie! Nice doggie! Doggie want a treat, eh? Want a treat?” the man yelled, holding up a small candy bar he had kept in his pocket. “Then sit! That’s a good boy!”

  The white beast stared at the candy bar and began to salivate. It waved its haunches back and forth, as if preparing to sit.

  “Good boy!” the security man said. “That’s a good boy,” the man said in a soothing tone as he approached the dog.

  A loud crash and screaming came from the front door as a crowd of desperate guests attempted to claw their way past each other to get out the front door, knocking over various priceless vases and pottery along the way. This shook the dog from its trance for a moment and it turned its attention back to Winston, who was desperately looking for a way to crawl out the windows but not having much luck.