Harley Merlin 12: Finch Merlin and the Djinn’s Curse Read online

  Harley Merlin 12: Finch Merlin and the Djinn’s Curse

  Bella Forrest

  Contents

  Problems reading?

  1. Finch

  2. Finch

  3. Finch

  4. Finch

  5. Finch

  6. Finch

  7. Finch

  8. Finch

  9. Finch

  10. Finch

  11. Finch

  12. Raffe

  13. Finch

  14. Raffe

  15. Finch

  16. Finch

  17. Raffe

  18. Raffe

  19. Raffe

  20. Raffe

  21. Kadar

  22. Kadar

  23. Raffe

  24. Finch

  25. Finch

  26. Finch

  27. Finch

  28. Raffe

  29. Kadar

  30. Raffe

  31. Raffe

  32. Finch

  33. Finch

  34. Finch

  35. Finch

  36. Finch

  37. Finch

  38. Raffe

  39. Finch

  40. Finch

  HARLEY MERLIN 13: Finch Merlin and the Locked Gateway

  Read more by Bella Forrest

  Copyright © 2019

  Nightlight Press

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  One

  Finch

  The cold seeped into my skin like I’d downed liquid nitrogen. Everything felt numb. A vast, white landscape of ice and snow stretched before me, interrupted by fractures that revealed a dark, impossibly deep ocean beneath. I floated above it all, half dreaming, half awake. The lines of reality blurred through the bluish haze that burned my eyes and seared into the backs of my retinas.

  My body—my real body, not this Casper reboot—was somewhere else. I couldn’t remember where I’d put it. It evaded my mind, just out of reach. Wherever it was, my body sketched these sights and put names to important landmarks. If I really concentrated, I could sense a hand trembling over a page, way off in the ether of… that other place. My hand. Though it felt like it belonged to someone else.

  I hung in limbo, detached from my physical body yet still faintly linked. The terrain below was starkly beautiful but felt dangerous. Like I could tumble out of the sky and fall into that frigid water, never to be found.

  I need a break before my eyeballs blow.

  I plunged into my mind and reached for the blue-tinged strands that formed a direct line to my body. I tugged on them, as if I were a caver in trouble, which wasn’t too far from the truth. A moment later, the icy world disappeared and I landed back where I’d started with a painful thump. I blinked a few times to get rid of the lingering blue haze and weird sensation of spectral floating.

  “Is all well, Mr. Merlin?” A voice behind me made me jump.

  “Mary, you’ve got to stop doing that!” I yelped, turning to face a familiar presence. “You might not have to worry about having a coronary anymore, but I’m still fair game.” Speaking of spectral floating…

  Mary Foster hovered nearby in all her translucent glory, dressed in a high-collared gown complete with a cameo brooch at her throat and about five strings of pearls. The whole nineteenth-century shebang. She had been shot by a Winchester rifle and sought sanctuary in this house after her death, as allowed by the woman who’d built the place—Sarah Winchester. Mary wouldn’t admit it, but I got the feeling she liked to scare the living daylights out of me. I’d only been here a day, and she’d already made a habit of it.

  Mary smiled. “You were gone for a long while. I started to worry.”

  “I just needed a break. No worrying required. Look at me—I’m the picture of A-OK.” It made me uneasy, leaving my body in this study room with the likes of Mary and the rest of her spooky pals, who could all come and go as they pleased. They had walking through walls down to a fine art, and it made for some tense trips to the bathroom.

  “Why do your eyes glow when you go into that peculiar trance?” She swooped in, coming right up to my face and stealing the breath from my lungs. Another activity these spooks just loved to indulge in. I’d stopped outwardly screaming about twenty-four hours ago—aka, within the first thirty minutes of arriving—but the inward screams were still in full force. Staring into the dead eyes of a ghost would never be comfortable.

  I shrugged. “It’s just part of the map-drawing.”

  “Is it coming along as you desire?” She stared down at the paper in front of me. Half of it was covered in the same lines, markings, and names as before—a partial road to Atlantis. The rest lay frustratingly blank. Etienne had underplayed the whole “it’ll be more difficult without the oranges” thing. Way underplayed it. He’d described it as trying to write an essay, when tired, without caffeine. But this was like trying to write an essay while comatose, or, at the very least, with half my brain leaking out of my head.

  So, why not regrow some more of those screamy orange willow shrubs, right? Well, as it turned out, they were hard to get hold of. The chemist team from San Francisco had swiped the last rare cutting of one to help me out, via Ryann. But they’d destroyed theirs, as per Ryann’s insistence, in case they dabbled in some orange tasting and started wigging out. And Etienne wasn’t about to hand more over to me, or he’d have done that before I left.

  “I’m getting there. Slow and steady wins the race, right?” I broke out of my cramped headspace.

  She frowned. “I am not sure that can be correct. The swiftest has always been the victor, from the races I have witnessed. Slow and steady would only win if you were racing against someone who was slower and less coordinated than you are.”

  “Well, lucky for me this is a one-man race, then.”

  I sat back in my chair and looked around the room. It always took a few minutes to readjust after delving deep into that altered state. Melody had given me a study room for privacy, though privacy was a pretty loose term with a mansion full of spirits who didn’t give a damn about locked doors or “alone time.” The sickly green walls, with a thick border of mahogany, hadn’t gotten any prettier since the last time I took a break. If Sarah Winchester had been aiming for haunted vibes, she’d hit the bullseye.

  “How long have you been watching me, anyway?” I jolted again as Mary’s face loomed over my shoulder. Every time she did that, she took a good ten years off my life.

  “I have decided to be your sentinel during these times. One can never be too careful in a house such as this. Not all spirits herein are as amiable as myself,” Mary replied, in her clipped, old-timey British-American hybrid accent that would’ve put Cary Grant to shame.

  I nodded. “I guess it’s only natural to have a few angry souls hanging around, considering the nature of this place.”

  “Oh, more than a few.” Mary floated off to the far side of the room. “The majority of us have softened over the decades, with a sanctuary to call home, but there are some who, I fear, will never relinquish their grudges upon the family whose rifle stole their lives.”

  �
�You never did tell me exactly how you ended up here,” I said. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, not unless she’d been using a dynamite skin cream before she died. She drifted to the hefty desk where I’d been working. Or the “escritoire,” as she liked to call it.

  “A man hurt me, Mr. Merlin. Well, he did more than hurt me.”

  Her voice sounded sad, and it made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I stared down into my lap, feeling guilty for bringing up the subject.

  “Ah… Was it your husband?” I wasn’t sure why I’d jumped to that conclusion. Given the time she’d come from, I just assumed she’d have been married.

  “No, the wretch robbed me of any hope of marriage. He was a jealous suitor who did not like that I cast his affections aside for another. I went out walking with the man who might have been my husband, when he shot us both in cold blood. The man with me survived, but I… well, you can see that I did not.” She hovered back and forth—the spirit version of fidgeting.

  “How come you haven’t crossed over?” If that had happened to me, I’d have been off like a shot on a one-way ride to the afterlife.

  She laughed softly. “I suppose I am not ready to depart this world. I had so much life left to live when I was murdered, and I cannot quite surrender this existence, even if I no longer walk in the real world. Being here is a… compromise of sorts.”

  “It’s not a curse, then, to stay here?”

  “Goodness, no. It is a gift,” she replied, with a faraway smile. “It is a place to appease the angrier souls, who might otherwise have turned into poltergeists. Sarah Winchester did us a great service when she built this mansion. A prime example of feminine grace and dignity. She did not have to make amends for those who died by her husband’s creation, but she did. And it gives us an echo of life, though our hearts no longer beat.”

  I’d learned a lot about the Winchester Mystery House from Mary Foster. Sarah Winchester had hired a Kolduny to place a spell on the foundation of the house, and that spell held strong to this day. From what I’d gathered, the Kolduny magic in the very bones of this place acted as a vortex—though Mary had used the term “specter funnel”—drawing deceased victims of the rifle into the house if they didn’t pass on, giving them a choice as to whether they wanted sanctuary here or not. A sort of primary intervention to prevent potential poltergeists. A lot of Ps. If they stayed, the spell made the ghosts visible and able to speak to the breathing residents, as a constant reminder of the history of the Winchester name. The main part of the house was open to tourists, but an interdimensional bubble provided the secret hiding place for the ghosts and the Winchesters.

  “What wonders did you discover on your latest voyage of the mind? Did it reveal that rogue you mentioned?” Mary broke me out of my thoughts.

  “Davin? No.” I’d soared over Antarctica a few times now and found no sign of him. I took that as an indication that Davin was nowhere near done deciphering the map. We were still in the running.

  “That is excellent news, is it not?”

  I sighed. “I hope so, or Erebus will have his panties in a twist.”

  “Mr. Merlin! You should not speak of undergarments in a lady’s presence!” She gaped in horror.

  “Sorry. I mean, he’ll have my guts for garters.”

  Mary shook her head. “Mr. Merlin, please—you will turn my cheeks quite scarlet!”

  I doubt it… I didn’t say so, since I didn’t want to be mean. She was dead, after all. That required a softer touch.

  “Erebus is that chaotic fellow you told me about? The one on whose behalf you are doing all of this map business?” Mary recovered from her mortification pretty quickly.

  I nodded. “Yep, that’s the one.”

  “You speak so very peculiarly, Mr. Merlin, if you do not mind me saying. I confess, I hardly comprehend half of what you say.”

  “I wish I could say you’re the only one.” I grinned at her.

  “Will you continue in your endeavors, now that you have had a moment to collect yourself?”

  I stretched out my arms. “I might go talk to Melody.” I only had two more days to finish this map, but if I didn’t take a breather, my brain would splatter all over these nasty green walls, which would only add to the horror-movie aesthetic.

  “Oh no, you should not do that,” Mary replied. “She is busy in the family library, poring over the many tomes within. I believe she seeks a way to relieve you of this exchange you have with Erebus.”

  “I wouldn’t call it an exchange.” I sighed.

  She chuckled. “This burden upon you, then?”

  “Does this mean you spy on everyone?” I squinted at her. “Way to make a guy feel special.”

  “Oh my, I did not mean to offend you! You are very special, Mr. Merlin. But you are not so interesting when you are away in that other place, with your eyes glowing. I must entertain myself, so I drift from room to room until I feel compelled to return to you.”

  I laughed. “You know, getting bored and flitting off doesn’t make you a particularly good guard.”

  “I was always rather scatterbrained. My beloved mama always scolded me for having the concentration of a magpie—the moment I saw something bright and shiny, I would be off.”

  “Was the future husband the bright and shiny thing?”

  She nodded slowly. “The brightest and shiniest.”

  “I’m sorry, Mary.” It became clearer every hour that I had no idea how to behave around dead people. I’d even tested Melody’s patience with an ill-timed joke about the difference between The Sixth Sense and Titanic—one is “I see dead people,” the other is “icy dead people.” She’d tutted and told me to have a little more respect. And she was probably right. But, in my defense, I always made jokes when nervous, and there was nothing more nerve-wracking than spirits coming out of nowhere and making me wish I’d worn my brown pants.

  “Call me Miss Foster, if you please,” Mary replied sternly.

  “Of course. Miss Foster. Sorry, I keep forgetting.”

  She mustered a smile. “You have a face that one cannot help but forgive.”

  “And only a mother could love.” I smirked, but she didn’t get that one, either. My comedy prowess was wasted on these folks.

  “I thought your mother did not love you? That is what the other spirits whispered when they discovered that Finch Merlin had arrived in this house. I suppose it is better for you, not to have been loved by such a woman, considering the monster she revealed herself to be.”

  Wow… let’s just air out all my dirty laundry, shall we?

  “You make a great point. Forget I said anything.” I hurried to change the subject.

  “Not that it is your fault, of course,” she continued, not getting the hint. “I imagine you are very easy to love.”

  “Try telling Ryann that,” I mumbled.

  “Pardon?”

  I smiled up at her. “Nothing.” I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Ryann since Melody spilled the beans regarding her emotions right in front of me. There’d been love in there, among other things. Or something like love. But I was determined to consider it the real deal, even with Ted Bundy in the picture. Unfortunately, she hadn’t come with us to the Winchester House, choosing to stay behind and help Kenzie out with her mom and sister instead. So, I hadn’t had the chance to delve deeper into the revelation.

  “You really are strange.” Mary tilted her head at me. “So, will you stay a while longer and continue drawing? You seem to have made progress. I do not know what any of it means, but it is rather pretty to behold.”

  I glanced down at the map. The city of Atlantis, from my memory of the old one, was right in the middle of that ocean—between the big landmass of Antarctica and the smaller island of South Georgia. But I hadn’t gotten to that part yet, to iron out the specifics.

  “I suppose I should put in another shift.” I sagged back against the chair, looking for any excuse not to dive back into it. Procrastination at it
s finest.

  “Is Atlantis really there?” Mary drifted closer. “I heard about it in stories, as a child. I never once believed it could be a real place.”

  “Yep, the old girl is hiding somewhere on this page. Though you have to go through a gateway to reach it.” Yet another obstacle in our search for the lost city of Atlantis. Erebus had told us about it, and I vaguely remembered writing something about a gateway in the last iteration of this map. But the details were hazy and probably wouldn’t return until I redrew the entire thing.

  “When I heard of Atlantis, the legend said it was underwater. Surely, no one could survive such an environment. Are we to believe there are mermaid inhabitants?”

  I chuckled. “You know what, I’ve never seen a mermaid. Selkies and sea serpents, sure, but never a mermaid. No seashell bras or singing crabs, either.” She stared at me blankly, so I continued before the ground swallowed me up. “We don’t know what’s actually down there… wherever ‘there’ is. We don’t have much to go on, aside from stories. It’s likely ruins by now.”

  “Why would this Erebus fellow want you to search ruins?”

  “Another question I don’t have the answer to.” I put my elbows on the desk and held my head in my hands. “My guess is, it’s filled with treasures and ancient, powerful artifacts. Erebus loves his rare toys.”

  Mary frowned. “Is Miss Winchester unable to answer these questions, despite her knowledge repository?”