The Walls of Jericho

Amber

The Titanic Belfast is arguably the city’s biggest attraction. Given the gruesome mystique surrounding the ill-fated and mighty RMS Titanic’s sinking on its maiden voyage in 1912 and the huge and tragic loss of life as a result, there’s a great deal of interest to be learned here.

The museum, if that’s what you call it, isn’t far from where we’re staying. Mercifully. I’m not much in the mood to listen to Damien’s painful attempts at flirting with Fia. Being trapped in the car with Channing while he’s in full-on possessive jerk mode doesn’t have much appeal either.

When we pull up and park, the heavy rain has lessened to a mostly annoying drizzle. At least it gives us the opportunity to get to the doors without getting thoroughly soaked. On the way, I overhear more than one person mumbling their disappointment that there were no artifacts or salvaged pieces from the shipwreck on display.

Far from disappointing me like it did the small collection of dark tourism types here to visit the place because of its grisly association with death and tragedy, the museum’s focus on Belfast’s shipbuilding heritage inexplicably holds vastly more appeal for me. Even before I reach the doors, I imagine I can see the docks  bustling with workers and showering sparks of blowtorches, hear the clang of hammers against steel and the shout of voices, smell and taste the welded metal across the years.

The building itself is an architectural masterpiece, built in the shape of a star similar to the White Star shipbuilding company’s logo, with the external walls designed to resemble the surface of an iceberg. Inside, it offers multiple interactive galleries, with numerous dimensions to the exhibition, and uses special effects, dark rides, full-scale reconstructions and some really inventive interactive features to allow visitors to explore the shipyard, travel to the depths of the ocean, walk the decks of the Titanic, and experience the vessel’s launch day.

I can’t figure out where it’s coming from, but I continue to hear what sounds like construction noises at varying noise levels throughout the different galleries and exhibits. Frustrated with it finally, I ask a docent what new building is going on.

“Building? You mean construction?” he asks, looking as confused as I feel. “There’s nothing new in the works at the moment, miss. It’s a rather extensive exhibit as it is, don’t you think?”

Dumbfounded, I stare blankly at him for a moment. “I do.”

“Babydoll,” Channing says, jogging up. “We’re going outside to tour the ships. You ready?”

“Thank you,” I tell the docent, then turn and follow my mate.

“Jericho, is there something wrong?”

At a loss for how to answer, I shake my head, but it doesn’t rid me of the sensation that something weird is happening. After all, hearing voices that aren’t there is never a good sign. “I think I could use some fresh air.”

Only instead of clearing it, as soon as we step outside, my confusion grows. The noise in my head gets louder. The world as I know it is swallowed into one I’ve never seen before.

Along the paved plaza, I struggle to discern what’s real and what’s not, stumbling against Channing as I try to dodge people who are invisible to everyone else, but very real to me. Overhead against a smokey sky, gigantic cranes creak and groan under the burdens they move, their engines droning and tracks clicking and grinding. I flinch, covering my ears as a high-pitched whistle sounds, then stagger out of the way of a shower of non-existent sparks sprinkling down at me. Crashing to my knees, I draw panicked breaths as a tramcar crowded with workers barrels by, its passing leaving the dusty coat of ages clinging to my flesh.

“Jericho!”

I clap my hands over my ears, and frenzied, try to sort the real from the past. From somewhere, I hear my name shouted again, but I can’t find the source of the voice.

“Do you need some help, ma’am?” A dark-haired man in peculiar clothes extends a hand to me. His grasp is strangely airy when I reach for his hand, almost like the feel of fog.

I yelp as I hit the ground painfully, falling through the man of the past as he vanishes. Around me, other strangely dressed people start laughing. One of them yells an obscenity and tells me to get my drunken arse back to work, swinging his hat as if to strike me. Scrabbling forward on hands and knees, I cringe against something solid, desperately trying to escape.

“Don’t touch her!” a woman’s voice warns. “See there? Her witch-wide eyes. She’s got the Sight. You’ll be taken too.”

“I can’t leave her like this! There’s no telling when it will stop or what it’s doing to her!”

Large hands grasp me about my upper arms and I fight against the man dragging me away from my place of safety.

“Jericho! Stop! It’s me! It’s Channing!”

Frantically, I look about, calling his name. “Channing! Channing!”

“She can hear you. Keep talking.”

“Right here, babydoll! Stop fighting me and look. I need you to focus, Jericho. Concentrate on my voice.”

A heavy hand grips my jaw, tipping my chin up and holding it. Through the fog of ages, the outline of his face becomes visible, the translucent lines wavering and ethereal. Lifting violently trembling hands, I close my fingers on the sides of his head.

The roar in my head grows deafening and so painful I start to lose consciousness, then suddenly, it stops.

Channing’s gorgeous blue eyes become crystal clear, and in the next blink, he’s kneeling before me. “Jericho?” He scans the area around us in disbelief, all his wolf senses on high alert. “Jesus, Jinks,” he breathes, his chin lifting as his eyes follow the arm of a crane overhead. “What. In. The. Hell?”

“Channing!” I scramble forward as he solidifies before me, clinging to his reassuring strength.

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” he reassures me. “At least I think it’s okay. Where are we?”

“It’s not ‘where’, Channing. It’s when, and I don’t know,” I answer in a rushed panic, terrified this will never stop. What had the woman’s voice said? ‘You’ll be taken too.’

Oh God. How will either of us get out now?

“Jillian! Wait. We should talk about this.” It takes me a moment to sort the man’s strangely resonant and marginally familiar voice from his Irish accent, despite that it’s clear as crystal through the surreal fog.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Cadmus,” a woman answers, the words rising in a choppy Irish-English singsong with the hard-hit ‘t’s.” If you want your mate, then we have to go. Now.”

Leaning away from Channing, I search the area around us for the sources of the voices.

“I hear them too, babydoll. Take my hand. Let’s see if we can stand up.”

“Who are they?” I demand, lacing my fingers with his then releasing one side of his head. “Can you still see it?”

“I can.” Channing draws me to my feet.

“I’m not here to start a war, Jillie,” the unidentified male voice comes again. “If she’s already mated, then you haven’t found the right one.”

“There!” Pointing, Channing drags me forward, swerving us through the ghostly figures on the crowded dock towards the source of the voices. “That’s them. That’s who we can hear.”

Like other men around us, the man wears a peaked cap, a tweed coat and a wool vest over a white collarless dress shirt with dark brown trousers and his feet in brown wingtips. But he’s much larger. Taller. Broader. As we draw near, it’s almost as if he hears us. His head tips down, leaving the woman’s face, and he turns, glancing over his shoulder to meet my eyes with a pair of distinct yellow-orange ones that dance as if with flames.

I draw up short, stopping Channing with me, as the man skims my clothing. He can see us. Or—me. He can see me.>

As if to confirm, his gaze flicks from me to Channing and back, then his fierce eyes narrow in his handsome face. Because he is handsome. Remarkably so, dark-haired and olive-skinned, with a square jaw and a cleft chin that seems to fit in perfect symmetry with the deep dimple groves in his cheeks and the heavy line between his drawn brows. He reminds me of someone. As if we’ve met before, but in all the confusion, how a man at least a lifetime older than me seems familiar escapes me.

“Cadmus?” the woman demands, her hands clenching in the white apron over her plain dress, her blonde braid twitching as her smoke blue eyes try to follow his. “What are you looking at?”

“Shhh,” he replies, lifting a hand toward her, a silent request for patience. “Are you lost, mage?” he asks, his eyes clearly fixed on me. His words roll slowly with a soft Irish burr, as if he’s uncertain I’ll understand.

Jerking my hand, Channing forces himself between us. The man’s yellow-orange eyes flick to him and lock. “Why have you come, wolf?”

Shoving my way forward, I reply. “He came because I brought him. I don’t know why we’re here. Or how we got—wherever this is.”

“Cadmus? What wolf?” the woman demands. “What’s wrong with you? I’m the mage.”

“You’re not the only one, Jillian,” he replies to her softly. To me, he says, “The ring brought you. Amber calls to its twin soul. You seek to gain a better understanding. Past experiences can assist one in the present.”

Startled, I look down at the ring on my hand. A repository for souls. More than a little pissed, I wing the thought to the glowing Amber, You might have warned me.>

Stepping in front of Channing, I hold the ring up so he can see it. “Five minutes. Then take the ring off. Bring me back to you.” With no more warning that that, I jerk my hand free of his and he vanishes.

When I face the dragon, Cadmus, again, he’s crossed his arms over his chest and there’s a subtle smirk on his face. “How does the mage wind up with a wolf?”

“Choice,” I answer.

“Ah.” His chin tips back and his eyes dance with amusement beneath lifted brows. “So you’ve sampled both.”

Instantly, my face flushes hot and a flash of dragonfire sparks along my nerves. “It’s not the mage you need. It’s the oracle. There are two bloodlines. Not just one. If you try to take the mated female, you will start a war that follows you across continents.”

“The mage and the oracle are the same. Surely, you know this.”

“What I know is that they’re not the same.” I glance at the woman, Jillian. She seems familiar too, but in her case, I know exactly why. “Where are her children?”

“She has but one,” Cadmus replies. “A daughter. She married a Swede. Sailed with her family for America last spring.”

“Family?” In the back of my mind, I can hear arguing voices rising and realize suddenly my five minutes must be up.

“Aye,” he nods. “A young daughter, and pregnant with her next.”

“We needed each other this time. Find them,” I order and Cadmus’ image wavers before me. Then he vanishes.

It feels like I’m falling, and floating, both at the same time. Around me, the ages blur like mist, parting in swirls of smoke, then I feel someone slapping on my cheeks.

“Jericho! Breathe, dammit! Come on, babydoll! Come back to me!”

“Her heart’s beating a mile a minute and she’s barely breathing. We need an ambulance.”

A harsh exhale leaves my lips as I open my eyes to find Channing kneeling above me. Opposite him, Damien’s eyes go wide and he stumbles backwards onto his feet.

“Jesus. Her eyes are burning like a dragon's.”