Lightbound Serenade (The Sophia Kelly Chronicles Book 2)

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen Author's Note

  THIS IS A work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Amy J. Wenglar

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: amy@amyjwenglar.com

  First paperback edition November 2019

  Book cover design by Ampersand Book Cover Designs

  ISBN 9781701638594 (paperback)

  www.amyjwenglar.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  A TEA KETTLE shrieks. There is a clatter from another room and the clunk of high-heeled shoes as they move across creaky, old floorboards. A haze of stale cigarette smoke hangs stagnant in the air. My feet are glued to the floor, and I’m afraid to move. Afraid to breathe. The room is stuffy, I am disoriented, and my head throbs, which is only intensified by the sounds of the blaring tea kettle and the strong scent of gas from the stove. For a second, I think I am back home in the cramped, dusty apartment I used to share with my mother. But it’s not that dusty apartment. It’s another dusty apartment, where vintage, scratchy-sounding jazz drifts into the room from unseen speakers. It’s not the modern, Miles Davis kind, but the vintage, Josephine Baker kind. Where exactly am I? And what happened?

  A wisp of a woman with a sleek, blond finger-waved bob staggers into the kitchen and then stops, bending down to unbuckle her shoes. With a sigh of a relief, she takes them off and flings them into the adjoining sitting area where I catch a glimpse of an actual phonograph player and an older gray-haired woman hunched over a pile of knitting. What in the world is this? Why do I suddenly feel like I’ve stepped onto the set of an old movie?

  The younger woman looks normal enough. She’s close to my age, and the healthy amount of beads that shimmer over her stunning drop-waisted vintage evening gown and the stench of sweat and alcohol tells me she’s just returned home from some fabulous Roaring ’20’s party. She stands upright, takes one look at me through bright blue eyes that are generously caked with charcoal-black makeup, and then drops her tea cup and saucer. I jump at the sound and back myself up against the counter. The woman in the sitting room calls out a few words in a garbled, croaky voice. I don’t understand what she says, but I do understand that it isn’t English. It’s German. The flapper woman responds in German and then lunges toward me, grabbing the front of my dress with one hand while moving the screaming tea kettle with the other.

  “Ow, what are you doing?” I yelp, not because she’s hurting me, but because she’s going to hurt my dress. “That’s couture.”

  Good. Your first concern in this strange new world is about your dress. Off to a good start, Sophia.

  “Are you insane?” she hisses, thankfully in English. She jerks me forward, and I stumble, the heel of my designer shoe catching on the uneven floorboards as she proceeds to drag me from the room. “Everyone knows that Frau Schuler hates visitors at this hour. Don’t let her see you.”

  “I can walk,” I hiss back, bending down to remove my own shoes so I can follow her noiselessly out of the room, across a small foyer, and up a flight of stairs. I may be crazy for following this strange woman, but what choice do I have? It’s either this flapper or Frau Schuler, and from I’ve just learned, Frau Schuler hates late-night visitors, so she’s out of the question.

  Once I am safely upstairs, the woman pushes me into a modest bedroom and follows me inside, closing the door behind us. Probably so she can kill me.

  “Who are you?” she growls, whirling on me, her dainty red lips pressed together in a display of fierce determination. She presses me up against the door and, blindly grasping with one hand, produces a letter opener from the small table beside the door. She fumbles with it for a second and then holds it gently against my throat as if she’s not sure if she really wants to stab me or not. “And what in the bloody hell are you doing sneaking around in Frau Schuler’s kitchen?” Her grip tightens around her letter opener. “If you’re with that Russian mob, I swear I will kill you right now.”

  “Russian mob? No,” I squeak, holding my hands up to show her I’m not equally armed with a letter opener of my own. “I’m just an American. Can’t you tell?” I snicker. She does not. “I-I don’t know where I am or how I got here. I swear.”

  The woman releases me, takes another step back, sighs, and then lowers her weapon. She still keeps it clenched tightly in her hand. I was hoping she would volunteer an answer as to where exactly I have landed, but she doesn’t. She just stands there, her dark, makeup-rimmed eyes glazing over as a dreamy expression relaxes over her face. It’s like she’s just forgotten there’s a stranger in her room that she may or may not want to kill.

  “Where am I?” I ask again, pulling her out of her hazy reverie. “And where is that damned Horace? Have you seen him? Handsome? British? Wearing a steampunk suit? He was supposed to help me get through, and of course, he—” I stop abruptly when I see the strange woman staring back at me as if I’ve just lost my mind. Which I probably have.

  “Get through?” she asks, curiosity rising in her voice as she eyes my dress. “Get through what? You made it into Frau Schuler’s kitchen, and she may be a little hard of hearing in her old age, but she’s not completely deaf yet.” She tilts her head. “And what is this steampunk?”

  I’m hesitant to answer her questions, but if I’m ever going to find Auberon and get on with this whole prophecy-fulfilling thing, I have to.

  “The portal? I came through a portal.” I speak slowly and try to gauge her reaction, but she just watches me, her face blank and her head tilted to one side. I have a sneaking suspicion that I have not landed in the right place. “You know what? Never mind,” I mutter.

  We both stand in silence, warily regarding each other like we’re both waiting for something to happen but are too curious about each other to actually do anything. I take a quick peek around the room. Aside from a few gurgled cries from a baby in another room and street noise from outside, it’s quiet. It’s too quiet. There’s no television. No computer or smartphone anywhere in sight. Aside from the table near the door, the room contains a narrow bed outfitted with a flimsy blanket and a crocheted afghan that has definitely seen better days, a small side table with a cracked glass lamp, and a large wooden wardrobe in the corner of the room.

  Perhaps I’ve landed in Amish country. But you’d think the furniture would be better.

  Without taking her eyes off of me, the woman reaches for a cigarette case on the table, softly whispering something about absinthe and opium dens. “If you want to rob me or something, just get on with it. But unless you have a death wish, you will leave Frau Schuler and the others alone. Got it?” She snaps her cigarette case closed and gives me a sharp, warning look.

  “I-I don’t have a death wish, and I’m not here to rob you,” I say, feeling panic bubbling up in the back of my throat. “I’m confused. I don’t know…” I stop aga
in, looking around, hoping and silently praying that Horace will enter the room and clear all of this up. But he doesn’t. I’m all alone here. “Is this Faerie?” I ask abruptly, the words rushing from me before I have a chance to stop them.

  I hold my breath, waiting for the woman’s reaction, but she only frowns as she takes a long drag from her cigarette. A huff of laughter escapes from between her lips along with a few strands of smoke. “You’d think that, I suppose. I certainly know plenty of them.” She rolls her eyes as the tension eases from her shoulders. “But no, honey, I’m not a fairy.” She returns the letter opener back to its place on the table. “But if that’s what you’re after, they’re all over the city if you know where to look.”

  Jackpot! Now we’re getting somewhere.

  “Do you know a man named Auberon? Or Horace? They…they are fairies.” I don’t want to reveal that Auberon is a Fae Prince who has been exiled from Faerie and cursed to live out eternity in human form. Not yet anyway. The woman’s eyes narrow, and she makes a noise in the back of her throat like she’s thinking, but after a few moments, she shakes her head and shrugs.

  “Listen, honey. I’m not sure whose opium den you just stumbled out of and how you ended up in Frau Schuler’s kitchen in your strange lingerie, but if you need help, and I think you do need help, I know someone. Louis Gaston has the best cures in town. He’ll have you sobered up in no time.” She grins. “Though you’ll probably have to wait a little while to see him. He’s usually pretty busy. Especially tonight.”

  Lingerie?

  I glance down at myself. Besides my mess of hair that has fallen from its loose, romantic New Year’s Eve updo, how bad can I possibly look? I’m still wearing the gorgeous black couture gown that Chris bought for me, and the designer shoes that probably set him back a couple of thousand dollars dangle from my fingertips. So what if there’s a little dirt on my face and my hair is a mess? I am the epitome of fashion. I just don’t know where I am.

  “Tonight?” I repeat, pausing for a moment before I decide to take a new approach. “I know this is crazy, but it seems I’ve had a bit of an accident, and I must’ve hit my head or something, but… Can you tell me where I am exactly? And…” I chew the inside of my cheek as I survey the barren room once again. “What year is it?”

  The woman purses her lips and gives me a wary look. “You really are a mess,” she sighs. “You’re in Berlin.” She waits, studying me for a reaction, but I can only stare back at her, feeling the blood drain from my face. “And the year is 1921.” She sucks in her cheeks as she puffs the last of her cigarette. “Well, 1922 now, I guess. It’s well past midnight now. Yes, it’s 1922.”

  My God.

  “Do you need to sit down?” asks the woman, suddenly trusting me enough to step forward and lightly touch my arm. “You are very pale, honey. Very pale.”

  “I’m going to kill Horace,” I whisper before my knees crumple beneath me, and I sag to the floor, my frantic thoughts, the flapper before me, and the little bedroom fading into blackness.

  An icy fire surges across the left side of my face. My eyes, burning with tears of pain, fly open. Realizing I’ve somehow moved onto the bed with the dingy afghan, I scramble to sit upright, my hand reaching up to touch the warm, throbbing welt on my cheek. My attention is fixed on the flapper who stares down at me through those curious blue eyes, still ringed so heavily with the smudged remnants of jet-black eye makeup, she looks like a raccoon. Her right hand is still outstretched, and she shakes it rigorously.

  Berlin. 1922.

  “Sorry,” she says through gritted teeth, sucking in a breath of air and flexing her fingers a few times before letting her arm flop to her side, “but you were passed out, and you wouldn’t wake up. I had to slap you.” She bends down so that her gaze is level with mine and grips my chin in her hand, tilting my head so she can better survey whatever damage she’s done to my face. “That’s going to leave a mark.” She sighs, drops my chin, and straightens. “Well, I suppose if we’re going to do this, we should get going. I’d like to get to sleep at some point, you know.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re trying to get rid of me.” I can’t help but to joke. It’s ridiculous. Me. Time traveling. To Weimar Berlin. I carefully swing my legs around to the side of bed and rise unsteadily to my feet. “Where are we going?”

  The flapper scowls at me and throws up her hands. “To see Louis Gaston, remember?” Her eyes sweep over me once again, and she shakes her head. “Though if you go out dressed like that, you may be picked up for indecency unless you’re on the stage.”

  I look down to remind myself what exactly I’m wearing that is so inappropriate.

  “It’s Valentino,” I snap back at her, offended that she’s mocking my beautiful evening gown.

  Greta’s New Year’s Party now feels like it was a million years ago. It’s hard to believe it won’t actually happen for another ninety-two years.

  The flapper blinks a couple of times before she bursts into laughter. “Oh, you really are a mess. I’ve seen Valentino before, honey. You look nothing like him.”

  The actor. She’s talking about the actor. Because Rudolph Valentino was big. In the 1920s.

  I give her a tight grin in response, and she darts over to the wardrobe, producing a garish-looking leopard-print fur coat that I assume is not of the 21st century vegan variety.

  “Here. It will do for now. Until we can get you some proper clothing.” She arcs an eyebrow as she helps me into the coat, which smells very strongly of stale cigar smoke and bad decisions. “Unless perhaps there is a reason you don’t want proper clothing?”

  It takes me a second, but I finally get where this conversation is headed. Chris told me stories about what Berlin was like in the 1920s. “Oh, no. I’m no…” I pause and fumble for the most delicate word I can think of. “I’m no…”

  “Whore, honey? You can say it,” the woman says, rolling her eyes. “I’m not a child, you know. And heaven knows I’ve been called much worse before.” She takes my arm. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes, I can walk,” I say grumpily.

  I want to pull away from her, but I find her touch comforting. Reassuring, even. She looks over her shoulder at a little gold clock on the table. “Almost 3:30 in the morning,” she observes. “We should go now if we want to get there before Louis shuts up shop for the night.”

  She gives a parting glance to the little room as if worried she might not see it again before she shuts off the lights and ushers me out onto the dark landing.

  “We have to be quiet,” she whispers, and I nod as I follow her, tiptoeing as quietly as I can down the stairs and into the foyer. “If Frau Schuler catches me sneaking out again…” She doesn’t finish her thought.

  “This Frau Schuler… She sounds very strict.”

  “She’s not always strict. She just has rules for the girls who rent from her.” I hold my breath while the sneaky flapper quietly releases the latch on the front door, pushing it open just far enough for us to get through. Once we are safely out of Frau Schuler’s house of rules, she pulls a large stone from the flowerbed and sets it in front of the door. “It’s our secret code. Hopefully Frieda will see it and leave the door unlatched when she gets home. She likes the opium dens, too. Sometimes she doesn’t come home at all, and then I have to cover for her at breakfast the next day.” The flapper dusts her hands on the front of her dress, and I follow her down the sidewalk, intrigued with her casual chatter about people I don’t know and events that mean absolutely nothing to me. “Anyway, Frieda didn’t see it last time, and I got locked out, and oh, honey. What a mess that was. Annaliese, that little brown-nosing brat. She held that over my head for weeks, and— Watch it.” Her hand flies out, halting me at the edge of the sidewalk and catching me before I take a tumble into the cobbled streets. “Haven’t you ever seen an automobile before? Be careful.” I gasp as a huge old tank of a car chugs by. It’s exactly like one I’d seen in Chris’s garage back in L
.A. He’d called it a Horch. “I’m Jo, by the way. Josephine to be exact, but everyone just calls me Jo,” says my flapper companion, my near-death-by-Horch experience forgotten as she turns to face me, hand outstretched.

  I grasp it warmly, relieved at the thought of having a friend here, even if that friend had threatened to kill me. The best friendships form from near-death experiences.

  “Sophia. It’s nice to meet you, Jo.”

  Jo resumes her idle chattering as we continue on our way, but I can’t help but tune her out while I gawk at the sights around me. There are people everywhere. Half-dressed revelers parade down wet streets lit by cozy gas lamps that emit a warm glow in the drizzle. Noisemakers sound from all directions as laugher and debauchery float out of the nightclubs we pass. I see men who look like women. Women who look like men. And cops, lots and lots of uniformed cops patrolling the streets, beating down disorderly drunkards with sticks. I look away, a sick feeling forming in the pit of my stomach. Jo’s gaze remains forward and focused as we maneuver through the streets. She is either completely desensitized our surroundings, or she’s too tired to notice or care about them.

  “What brought you all the way from America to…”

  I still can’t bring myself to say it. Mostly because I can’t believe I’m here, too.

  “Berlin?” She lets out a huff of air as she reaches in her purse and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “Would you believe it if I told you it was a man?” Surprised, I stop walking and turn to meet her gaze. She emphasizes her point with a nod. “Yeah. A good-for-nothing bandleader. Brought me here. All the way from Texas. And then left me with nothing but the clothes on my back and that old pelt.” She motions toward the leopard coat. “I’m making it work,” she continues, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag. “It ain’t easy, that’s for sure. But I’m doing the best I can. Frau Schuler has been a godsend.” For a second, I wonder what she means by “doing the best she can” as the conversation seems to be heading back to the promiscuous subject we’d taken up earlier. “Oh, now it’s not like that,” she says quickly, nudging me with her shoulder and dismissing my thought with a wave of her hand. “They may call me a whore, honey, but I am a lady. And I try to be respectable.” She takes another drag, inhaling deeply before she erupts into peals of girlish laughter. “Hell, who am I kidding? I don’t even believe it myself.”