Magic Lantern
In late 1700s Paris, a young but promising illusionist dabbles in the arcane art of phantasmagoria. But at his moment of greatest triumph–unveiling a magical lantern said to open a door to the Chinese spirit world–he is violently struck down by a vengeful phantom….On assignment in London, archaeologist Annja Creed is hunting down a man who claims to have discovered the Jekyll and Hyde potion. On the trail of one curiosity, Annja finds herself pulled toward another mystery…the origin of a strange, old-fashioned projector once used by eighteenth-century illusionists. As Annja delves into its rich history, a dark past begins to emerge. And someone wants to harness the power of this cursed artifact…risking everything for the treasures it promises.But Annja has a little magic trick of her own. One that she wields with deadly accuracy….
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The theatrics of an illusionist conceal a sinister truth...
In late 1700s Paris, a young but promising illusionist dabbles in the arcane art of phantasmagoria. But at his moment of greatest triumphâunveiling a magical lantern said to open a door to the Chinese spirit worldâhe is violently struck down by a vengeful phantom....
On assignment in London, archaeologist Annja Creed is hunting down a man who claims to have discovered the Jekyll and Hyde potion. On the trail of one curiosity, Annja finds herself pulled toward another mystery...the origin of a strange, old-fashioned projector once used by eighteenth-century illusionists. As Annja delves into its rich history, a dark past begins to emerge. And someone wants to harness the power of this cursed artifact...risking everything for the treasures it promises.
But Annja has a little magic trick of her own. One that she wields with deadly accuracy....
âMs. Creed. Get in the car, please.â
Annja hesitated, but realized the window of opportunity to run had passed.
âIf you attempt to flee, I will shoot you in the legs and pull you into the car.â The speaker was a man of medium height and Asian ancestry. He held the pistol with a steady hand.
âYouâll shoot me with the police just up the street?â Annja asked calmly.
âI will. And Iâll get away with it.â He waved the pistol. âNow, get in before I have you put in. We wonât be gentle.â
Sheâd escaped many traps in the past. Sometimes it was better to step into them. Annja folded herself into the backseat of the car. Another man, also Asian, sat in the front passenger seat, a pistol in his lap. Once she was seated, the two other men got back in. She was sandwiched.
At a word from the driver, the car pulled into traffic as smoothly as wax running down a candle.
Annja sat quietly between the men on either side of her. âDo you want to tell me what this is about?â
âItâs simple.â The man in the front passenger seat turned to face her. âWe want the magic lantern.â
The Legend
...The English commander took Joanâs sword and raised it high.
The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.
Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.
Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are reborn...
Special thanks and acknowledgment to
Mel Odom for his contribution to this work.
Contents
Prologue
Les Carrières de Paris
Paris, France 1793
In the darkness of the tunnel, the strong smell of old death struck MicThel Toussaint like a sharp blow to the face. He barely managed to keep from turning and leaving as the hair on the back of his neck rose.
Even the Revolution sweeping through Paris these past four years hadnât affected him this much. Possible sudden death in the streets at the hands of madmen was not the same as death of an arcane nature.
Gulping back bile, he wrapped his arm over his mouth and nose and breathed through his rough coat sleeve. He peered at the darkness outside the reach of the lantern light. Most of the others in their groupâthree abreast in this dank passageâcomplained loudly.
âWhere are we?â
âWhat is this place?â
The sound of their voices echoed and echoed again as it got lost in the long tunnel.
Their young guide raised the lantern above his head. The orange light cascaded over the nearby cave walls, chasing the shadows. The white limestone seemed to warm from the glow, but the chill air rattled Michel. He couldnât forget that he was now dozens of feet below Paris.
God willing, he would go home again tonight.
A fat man in expensive business attire tried to seize the lantern from the guide. Michel recognized him as one of the wealthy merchants who had convinced Michelâs editor to assign him the task of covering Anton Dutilleauxâs show. As a distraction to the conflict raging throughout the city.
The boy refused to part with the lantern. Michel didnât know if that was out of ownership or fear of the dark, which steadfastly lay in wait.
âGive me that light, you rancid bit of flotsam,â the fat man snarled. He swung his walking stick with considerable force at the boyâs head.
Outmatched, the dirty-faced street urchin let go the lantern and retreated with one hand raised protectively, scarcely avoiding the stick. Metal gleamed in the boyâs hand, and Michel knew the urchin had drawn a knife. For a moment the reporter thought blood was about to be spilled.
