The Shadows of London is the thrilling follow up to Nick Jones’s And Then She Vanished and the second book in the time-traveling sci-fi Joseph Bridgeman series! Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Chapter 3 before it releases on June 1st 2021 from Blackstone Publishing!
SYNOPSIS
Likable antiques dealer Joseph Bridgeman is back in the present and dreaming of a quiet life. But when a mysterious and enigmatic time traveler arrives in his shop, Joe learns that his first trip was just the beginning and this time, the rules of the game have changed.
Blackmailed into accepting a new mission, Joe is flung back to 1960s London where he comes face-to-face with a ruthless gangster and witnesses the brutal murder of an innocent woman. Joe knows better than most that death can be reversed and the final chapter is sometimes where the story actually begins. Emotionally involved, he has no choice but to act, and quickly. With the help of Vinny, his vinyl-loving sidekick, Joe once again sets out to change the course of history. Sounds simple enough … but when it comes to time travel, nothing is ever as it seems. Who is the old time traveler working for? And who decides what can and can’t be changed?
In a thrilling twist, Joe discovers that the victim is critically important to the future and what starts out as a straightforward mission soon becomes a race to unravel a mystery—one that threatens the very timeline he fought so hard to protect. Joe must dig deeper than ever, master his newfound skills, and save the woman before the past catches up with him for good.
Turns out time doesn’t heal after all. It just adds salt.
EXCERPT
As midnight approaches, I decide it’s time for bed. I’m just about to turn the lights off when they flicker. A brilliant flash of lightning is followed by a fizzing pop, and I’m plunged into darkness. I stand still, hoping the lights will come back on, but nothing happens. Either the power’s been cut or the fuse has tripped, but I don’t know where the fuse box is. I hear an insistent beeping from somewhere downstairs. It’s probably the alarm warning me that it’s been disconnected from the mains. I don’t want it to go off at full volume, so I head to the end of the corridor and down the narrow staircase to the shop.
As I feel my way down the stairwell, another huge rumble of thunder vibrates the walls, and a cold bead of sweat trickles down my spine. I feel a massive urge to run back upstairs and lock myself in.
“Don’t be so ridiculous,” I mutter. “Get a grip, Bridgeman.”
My foot finds the floor at the bottom of the staircase. As quietly as I can, I slide the bolt and gingerly push the door open.
By day, Bridgeman Antiques is a wonderland filled with intriguing treasures, but by night, it’s Stephen King’s favorite shop of horrors. The wind howls, shaking the front door like an angry ghost. Rain hammers the huge bay windows. A streetlight bathes the shop in a sickly aqua light, transforming channels of rain into swaying seaweed that dance playfully over the ominous shapes of the antiques. Shadows reach out like broken fingers, waiting to drag me into the darkness.
I fumble for the light switch and click it up and down a few times. Nothing. The beeping is louder now, and I think it’s coming from somewhere near my desk, toward the front of the shop. I notice a strange light flickering randomly near the front door, like static on an old television. I can hear buzzing too, like electric cables crackling in fog.
“Is someone there?” I call out. The power of my voice belies my fear.
The wind howls an ominous warning, and thunder crashes directly overhead. I take a few steps toward the ghostly light. As I approach the door, I notice that one of the cabinets is open. It was closed when I got home, I’m sure of it.
Then my heart all but stops. Someone is crouching on the floor beside the cabinet! Dressed in dark clothing and a hoodie, the person faces away from me, fiddling with something on the floor.
I freeze, rooted to the spot. What do I do?
The hooded figure suddenly turns to me. Lightning flashes, and the burglar’s dark, catlike eyes stare at me. Then the infiltrator jumps up, grabs a bag off the floor, and flees through the front door.
I walk quickly to the door, close it, and dead bolt it. There are no signs of forced entry, no broken glass or splintered wood. Leaning back against the door, I breathe slowly and try to think clearly. Did I leave the shop unlocked? At least the intruder had only a small bag and couldn’t have taken much. I’ll chat with Molly tomorrow, ask her to check whether any stock is missing, and report the break-in to the police. No point in getting anyone out of bed now.
That’s when I notice it: a Roberts radio. Cherry red and brand new, its round dials white and gleaming, its grille polished, the waveband display clear and well-lit.
Static electricity ripples over my skin. The buzzing sound is back. It changes quality, becoming sharper, the whistle and whine of a radio scanning the airwaves. I glide toward it, like a man in a dream, drawn to it as though the radio is luring me. Then, the dial begins to turn, all by itself. It locks onto a signal, filling the shop with deafening rock and roll, a fast tremolo guitar riff—A minor into G major, a progression I recognize instantly. It’s Del Shannon’s “Runaway.” He croons in his famous falsetto, wondering where she’ll stay. The keyboard solo howls, and the song gets louder, building to an almighty crescendo.
I reach for the volume dial, raw power crackling between my fingers and the radio. As my finger connects with the dial, I hear a loud, shattering pop, like a roomful of lightbulbs blowing in unison. The world becomes a blinding ball of light, and Bridgeman Antiques is no more.
From The Shadows of London by Nick Jones. Used with the permission of the publisher, Blackstone Publishing. Copyright ©2021 by Nick Jones
