Chapter 22 – Chancellor’s Lane

The transition was instantaneous and entirely devoid of fanfare. There was no rush of wind, no flash of light, and no sickening lurch of vertigo to warn them of the shift in reality.

One moment, they were sitting in the plush, cedar-scented warmth of the Cellar’s VIP lounge, the next, the world snapped into a different configuration of gray brick, damp cobblestones, and biting wind.

William hit the ground hard.

“Oof!”

He had been leaning back against a tufted leather booth that no longer existed, and gravity, unforgiving and immediate, introduced his tailbone to the wet pavement of a Dunwick alley. The impact drove the air from his lungs in a sharp wheeze. He scrambled to his feet, slipping slightly on a patch of slick, green moss, his eyes darting around the sudden gloom.

Eliza fared better. Much better.

She was hovering in mid-air, her legs still crossed at the knee, suspended comfortably two feet off the ground by a flat, invisible plane of solidified air. It was a reflex spell, cast purely on instinct the moment the environment shifted, but it held her with the stability of a marble plinth.

She took a moment to inspect her fingernails before she uncrossed her legs and stood up gracefully, dismissing the barrier beneath her with a faint, glass-like shimmer. Her heels clicked softly against the stone as she smoothed the front of her trench coat, looking as though she had merely stepped out of a luxury carriage rather than been ejected from a pocket dimension.

“Where…” William stammered, spinning in a circle. He patted his chest, checking his ribs, then his limbs, ensuring they hadn’t been rearranged during the transit. “Where are we!? Did he banish us to a dungeon? Is this the Abyss?”

“Hardly,” Eliza said, reaching up to untie the silk ribbons of her porcelain mask. She took a deep, deliberate breath. “Smell that? Stale pipe tobacco, wet horse hair, and the distinct, metallic taste of the municipal drains. It’s unmistakable.”

She pulled the mask free, shaking out her dark blonde hair which had been somewhat flattened by the straps.

“We’re in an alley off Chancellor’s Lane,” she noted, looking up at the slice of gray sky visible between the looming granite facades. A pigeon watched them judgmentally from a rusted gutter. “About two blocks from Headquarters. Awfully kind of him to drop us off within walking distance. Celo is nothing if not a gentleman about his evictions.”

“A gentleman?” William hissed. He brushed a streak of alley grime off his sleeve, grimacing at the smear it left behind. “Sheltie, he just warped reality to throw us out of a basement! I thought my heart stopped! Do you have any idea what that kind of displacement does to the inner ear?”

“Breathe, William,” Eliza commanded, coolly tucking the mask into the deep inner pocket of her coat. “And you can stop with the ‘Sheltie’ nonsense now. We’re out of the Cellar. Call me Eliza.”

William slumped against the damp brick wall, letting out a long, shuddering sigh. “Right. Eliza. Okay. We’re safe. We’re in Dunwick.”

He took a moment to compose himself, patting his coat to check for his wallet, his weapon, and his badge. Everything seemed to be in place.

Then he froze.

His hands patted his pockets frantically, slapping against the fabric. He checked the inside breast pocket. The side pockets. The small hidden pocket for emergencies. Nothing.

His eyes widened, darting to the empty space on the ground where he had fallen.

“Wait,” William gasped, his face draining of color. “The box. The Music Box.”

“What about it?” Eliza asked, examining a scuff on her heel.

“It’s gone! We left it on the table!” William looked at her, horror dawning in his eyes. “Eliza, that was a Class-B restricted artifact. We signed that out from Artifact Containment.”

“So?”

“So!?” William’s voice pitched up an octave. “If we don’t return it, Containment is going to flag us. Do you know what the paperwork for a lost Class-B looks like? It’s thirty pages, Eliza! Thirty pages of explaining why we handed a Class-B artifact to the Gatekeeper! I have to get it notarized by the Commissioner!”

“Forget it,” Eliza said, waving a hand dismissively as she began walking toward the mouth of the alley. “The Cellar has it now. And considering we are currently persona non grata, I doubt they will be processing our lost-and-found claim anytime soon.”

“But the Chief…” William groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Rourke is going to flay me. He’s going to use my skin to bind the report.”

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“Let the Department send the bill to Sorto Manor,” Eliza said, unbothered. “I’m sure Celo can afford it.”

William scrambled to catch up with her, his boots splashing in a puddle of questionable depth. “You are surprisingly calm for someone who just lost a classified artifact, got banned from the city’s premier intelligence hub, and… well, got cursed.”

He glanced at her warily. “The ‘bad dates’ thing. Do you feel… unlucky?”

Eliza paused. She stood perfectly still for a moment, waiting for a chill, a tremor, or a shift in the wind.

“No,” she said finally, resuming her pace. “I don’t feel any difference.”

“Maybe it takes time to set in,” William muttered, hurrying to keep up.

“Overall,” Eliza continued, ignoring him, “despite the ban and the petty hex, I would count this as a fruitful venture.”

“Fruitful?” William sputtered, incredulous. He gestured wildly at the trash-strewn alley. “In what universe? We lost an artifact, we angered the Cellar, and we didn’t get a single answer out of that Dragonslayer girl. She stonewalled us completely.”