BLUEMANTLE, Karen Langston [best classic romance novels TXT] 📗

of the way without talking, until they reached the final stop before Wakenfold. “It’s too risky taking the tramway any further,” said Ursel. She pulled out a compass from a pocket in her tunic. “We head west, out of the city, then north into the Nanso Heights. I reckon we’ve an hour or so hike ahead of us.”

Sundown had been followed by a warm, still dusk. Crickets chirped at their heels, while small red and green birds flitted overhead, preparing to roost. The air was close; oxygen, low. The long climb was gruelling. Chase bent forward, his hands on his knees. “Can’t we stop for a bit?” he said, breathless.

“We haven’t time. They’ll be on soon.”

The coordinates encrypted in the cut-and-paste pages of Bluemantle finally led them through the Heights and up to a vertiginous wall of rock. Ursel checked their surroundings, then held her hand against the stone. “This is it.”

“What?” Chase looked around him. “But there’s nothing here…”

Ursel stepped back and appraised the edifice before them, studying the surface from right to left. “Over there.” She walked up to what appeared to be a line of shadow, cast at an angle. She held out her arm; half of it vanished. Turning to Chase, she smiled, then the rest of her disappeared.

“Ursel?” Chase ran over to where she had stood, discovering that the shadow was, in fact, a narrow crevice roughly five feet high. “Ursel, wait!” he called, squeezing his body into the gap and forcing himself through.

On the other side was a narrow passageway, cool and dark – a disorientating contrast from the warm gloaming outside. His eyes struggling to adjust, Chase edged forwards, arms outstretched, blindly feeling his way. All around, infinite echoes of trickling water. The sound reverberated, growing louder as he descended deeper.

As his eyes adjusted, he could see by a pale, washed-out light. Black faded to grey beneath a ghost of illumination. It revealed a path before him, snaking past stalagmites and beneath weeping soda straws. The air smelt damp, yet it held a freshness, pure and stone-still.

Following the path, Chase turned a corner. The light changed in a seamless spectrum-shift from grey to faint orange. The colour danced, rippling across rock. As he moved forward, the orange intensified, no longer a suggestion. The sound changed too: dripping taps drowned out by a pulsing beat. Sensing the vibrations beneath his feet, Chase imagined the beating heart of the mountain. Colour and sound conspired, conjuring an illusion that transformed his surroundings. The mountain became alive, its inner flesh pulsating. Warm blood pumping through moist tissue. Chase, a parasite coursing through the arteries of his host. “Ursel?” he called, his own heartbeat racing.

The narrow passage ended, spilling into a cave around four metres in diameter. Gas lamps were attached to the walls, trailing rubber tubes that led off through a further passageway. In the centre of the opening stood Ursel, circled by the intensified sound. It poured in from behind her: fervent chanting, over and over. “Chief! Chief! Chief! Chief!”

Ursel looked radiant, her eyes alight. “Welcome to the Underground Scene,” she said. “Forget your fears. Abandon your assumptions. Embrace the moment with a mind free of preoccupation.”

“But Wella—”

“I will find her.” She held out her hand. “You must watch Chief.”

Chapter Nine

“Chief! Chief! Chief!” The chant was both a demand and a conjuring of promise. As Ursel led Chase by the hand towards the sound, the air grew dense, pregnant with noise and heat and the weight of anticipation. They stepped through the passageway into a vast, illuminated cave. Before them, a large crowd of men and women, old and young, calling in unison, “Chief! Chief! Chief!”

The crowd were impassioned, expectant, hot. Black strap shirts were wet with sweat. Exposed flesh and ornate tattoos glistened. A faint haze hovered above heads as steam rose to replace the cooler air above. The ceiling of the cave oozed condensation. Every face was turned to a platform at one end, on which stood a drum kit, microphone stands, amps, monitors and other gear. The skin of the bass drum was emblazoned with a thick band running horizontally across the top.

Kohl-lined eyes stared ahead, searching. Waiting. Faces were frozen, their expressions a universal language: joy, excitement, ardour, need. Chase looked at Ursel and found the same. She knew what was coming, what to expect. Chase himself had no idea, yet he could feel the anticipation electrifying the air. His chest tightened. A raw, adrenalin-fuelled excitement rose from his stomach and flushed his cheeks.

“Stay here and watch,” shouted Ursel. “I’m going to look for Wella.” She let go of his hand and slipped through the crowd.

At that same moment, the gas lamps dimmed. Arms were raised into the air and the chant became a roar as four figures emerged from nowhere. Chief and her players took to the stage and surveyed the crowd, not saying a word.

The amps crackled to life. The event began.

Chase could not take his eyes off the stage. The centre was filled with a tall, slim woman dressed in patches of grey. Silver dreadlocks flowed over her shoulders. Her piercing blue eyes were locked on to the crowd. Around her were three other people, also dressed in grey – possibly men, but their androgynous appearance raised the question.

Then there was the music. A powerful blend of avant-garde and alternative rock, mesmerising with its minor keys and compelling rhythm. The singer’s voice was deep and powerful: the sound of an earthquake heard from the ocean floor.

Feeling a strange lure and dizzy from the effect, Chase tore his eyes away from the stage and let them dwell on the crowd around him. Despite the dim light, he could see their faces. Everywhere, the same expression of ecstasy, of unbridled joy. Some danced to the music, others jumped or swayed. Some stood motionless, transfixed. All were moved. Moved in a way that Chase could not fathom yet could feel the first trace of within himself. A spark had ignited inside