* * * *
Where am I? When am I?
The main buying hall at Sotheby's scrawled into definition, tinged blue-grey under a moon she couldn't see. Julie couldn't blink, nor could she look up or down. It was as if her eyes didn't have those muscles. Next, she tried to get up, but none of her limbs responded either. Paralysis? Her heartbeat would have quickened about now except she had none. Nor was she breathing!
And why aren't I panicking? No brain either?
The room was three-quarters full yet quiet, still as a graveyard. She felt sure the other figures were either mannequins or statues, and that this was the most bizarre dream she'd ever had. By a long chalk. The thought neither comforted nor frightened her. Julie Blalock merely felt ... helpless.
"Well, well, cometh the hour, cometh the woman.” A soft female voice rose behind her. “I suspected it might be you all along, though you were quite convincing. But I knew it had to be a woman.” The slim, 1940's figure of Esther May Morrow slinked into Julie's peripheral vision and stood imperiously before her, arms crossed, brow tightened. “You really had no idea what the Archangel was, did you? None at all. Sean told me that. He said you only coveted it because it was coveted by so many others. What kind of reason is that for killing a man?” She stared threateningly into Julie's eyes, a vein showing above her right temple. “I couldn't be sure it was you, not even when I saw your response to the news of Sean's death. And the way you tried to gain my confidence by ghost bidding, hiking the price for the timepiece, very clever. You were a worthy adversary, Dorothy Buchan. That's why I had you sit beside me. But someone like you could never let herself be outbid, not when the prize was there for the taking."
Julie didn't know what to say, nor could she speak. Shadows all around the macabre hall twisted the irony of her truth—dark, hideous mouths screaming her name. Julie Blalock! Julie Blalock! Julie Blalock! But no sound emerged. Esther May Morrow's red and white summer dress was now a sickly monochrome. Had this sorceress somehow manipulated time itself for her revenge? Julie wanted to shut her eyes, grab her pillow by both ends and bury her head under the covers.
"Don't worry, you won't be alone,” said Ms. Morrow, motioning to the other static guests. “I handpicked these buyers for one reason—they all deserve this fate. Many of them, like you, have consented to take a human life in the name of profit. Ponder that in this frozen hall, this ... eternal auction.” She glanced up to the ceiling window and sighed. “I'll tell you what the Archangel is, Mrs. Buchan. It's a dark, empty place under a crescent moon, where all who wish to own are owned by the night. It is lot sixty-two, Mrs. Buchan—the final lot for sixty-two withered souls. A crevice of time.” Walking away down the gloomy aisle, she turned and with an insouciant voice, said, “Guests, I bid you an unpleasant stay ... in your precious Archangel."
Julie Blalock watched the door ease shut. She tried to picture Derek's sweet face but couldn't. An empty podium of darkest wood loomed gauntly, and on it lay a gavel that would never end the night. She didn't know the figures sharing her prison. They didn't know her. And somewhere, Agent Northam would still be waiting. And waiting. Soon he would be gone.
* * * *
About the Author
Robert Appleton is an award-winning author of science fiction, steampunk, and historical fiction. Based in Lancashire, England, he has written over two dozen novels and novellas for various publishers, most recently Carina Press and Samhain Publishing. In his spare time he hikes, kayaks, and reads as many Victorian adventure novels as he can get his hands on.
Website: https://robertappletonscifi.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/robertappleton
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