Finn’s eyes narrow, prompting Jack to clarify, “She’s restrained in a bed, so at least now she’s not rolling around on the floor like a hog tied before transport.”
Hanging from a newly constructed web in the corner of the Librarian’s office, Grymsdyke’s cough sounds more ominous than practical. “You are disrespecting her wishes by releasing her from such bindings.”
Jack slips his glasses back on. “She was banging her head against the wall, and now she’s got an ugly gash across her forehead. Traitor or no, she was always kind to me. I’m not going to stand by and watch her bash her brains out in the name of that arsehole.”
Henry Fleming, one of the Society’s best field agents, stretches his legs out in the small space afforded him. He and a few others arrived at the Institute only an hour before, weary after their combined missions. Unfortunately, there is still no word from Van Brunt or Mary. “I’d read the reports on Sara, but. . .” Fleming brushes a piece of lint off of his military-style pants. “It’s as if she’s possessed. She’s better off in the bed.”
Jack glances toward the corner, at the large assassin hovering there. “Don’t worry, my spider friend. Our princess is still blindfolded and deaf to the world, as the lady requested.”
“Sara Carrisford risked much in order to assist Finn when I was in the dungeons, and then again when we sought a way out.” My fingers curl into the fabric of my dress as I dare anyone in the room to contradict me. “She is not Chosen, nor the Piper’s—at least, not fully. She continues to fight against the Piper’s influence, and we must do whatever we can to aid her in the battle for her soul.”
Seated behind her desk, the Librarian observes me over the rim of her teacup. I return the action in kind. Does she have no snide instructions or mystical insights to offer?
“Of course we’re going to help her,” Finn is saying. “She’s family.”
“All that’s well and good, but what about Wen? Doesn’t she deserve our help, too? Isn’t she family?” A dark flush steals up Jack’s neck, across his fair cheeks. “What she did—that wasn’t Wendy, and you all know it.”
Seated beside him, a laptop perched on her knees, Marianne pats his arm. “None are blind to such a fact, Jack. Lest you forget, Brom ensured Gwendolyn is receiving the best possible care. She is—”
“Alone.” His lean frame shoots up like beanpole in the sun. “Somewhere far from everyone who loves her.”
“It was her choice, freely given during a moment of clarity.” The Librarian reunites her cup and saucer. “Wendy insisted upon a placement where we could assure the Piper could not touch her. And that is exactly what Brom did.”
“Where exactly is she?” Finn asks.
The Librarian waves a hand. “By design, only your father knows the exact location in an undisclosed Timeline. Be rest assured, though. Every precaution has been taken to protect Wendy.”
“I have no doubt that Brom did his best.” Finn leans forward, elbows propped on legs, arms dangling between in between. “But the Piper and/or his Chosen were able to get to Sara, even though only the A.D. and Alice knew what Timeline she was in. What’s to stop him from getting to Wendy again?”
The Librarian fingers a small sugar biscuit on a nearby plate. “Faith.”
Well now. If that isn’t a patently shoddy Librarian answer, I do not know what is.
Franklin Blake arrives, dropping a satchel just beyond the doorframe. His clothes are rumpled; dark circles ring his normally cheery eyes.
“Any luck?” Fleming asks as he passes our colleague several sheets of paper.
Blake settles into the last free chair, running a hand through mussed hair. “All leads have disappeared. I can’t guarantee it one hundred percent, but I would gladly place a wager insisting there are no Chosen left in this New York City, let alone this world.”
“What about Connecticut?” I press. “At the John and Paul School for Gifted Children?”
Van Brunt, Jack, and I investigated the mysterious school shortly after a conversation with Sara revealed a connection between the institution and the Piper. There, we not only captured one of the Piper’s lieutenants, a rather crazed woman by the name of Grethel Bunting, but encountered several of the Chosen as well. It was shortly afterward that we learned the John and Paul School for Gifted Children served as a local base for the Piper’s minions.
“We raided it,” Franklin is saying. “There wasn’t even a single piece of paper found upon the premises.” He jerks his chin upward toward Finn. “Brom enacted Protocol 11.”
“What is Protocol 11?” I inquire.
“We have a reserve squad of agents, built up of members from across various Timelines,” Finn explains. “The team can function in a variety of ways, including as a military unit, if necessary.” He brushes his forefinger across his upper lip. “Until now, we’ve never used them as such, though, especially since we aren’t officially a military body.” His attention reverts to Blake. “Did local authorities pose any problems?”
“None. A local contact intervened on our behalf. After we left, the FBI assumed control over the case and is now investigating the school for alleged child abuse.”
Which is, ironically, a truth of the complicated situation.
Fleming peers down at a copy of the report Finn and I submitted two hours earlier. “How certain are you two that the explosives set off in 1816/18GRI-GT were successful?”
When lines form between Finn’s brows, and his focus blurs from continued confusion over the last hour before we left the mountain, I say smoothly, “Not at all. Although, considering the room we were within prior to departing was demolished, I figure there must be a level of some success.”
Fleming considers this. “Think any of the folk you brought back with you might be willing to share what they know about the inner workings of the Piper’s organization?”
“That is a question you must ask them.”
Fleming nods. “After we’re done here,” he says, “I’ll go round and see if anyone is willing to talk.”
Blake glances up from his copy of the report. “I’ll go with you.”
I turn toward the Librarian. “Jack informs me that you have been examining the book he and Mary stole from the Piper’s lair. Is there any progress in determining its nature or importance?”
She pushes aside her tea in order to slide a heavy, leather-clad tome toward the middle of the desk. Taut lines form around her eyes and mouth. “No.”
I wait, but nothing follows. “No?”
The lines become more defined. “No.”
“Is it written in a language that you do not know?”
She snorts, inelegantly so. “There are no languages I do not know.”
Her ego is astounding. What nonsense. “Is it in German?”
“No.”
I wait once more, yet she offers no further response. I no longer hold back the rude burst of agitated air that shoots through my nose. “I do not particularly feel like playing any of your games today, including having to pry each and every detail of this book out of you. If you would just—”
“I do not tell you anything,” she interrupts tartly, “because I do not know anything.” She flips open the book and holds it aloft. The pages facing us are blank. She turns a gilded-edged, yellow-brown page; the next sheet of parchment is blank, as well. A chunk of pages is skipped, only to reveal more empty sheets. She does this several more times before displaying the cover and spine. There are no words, let alone symbols, to be found.
I leaf through the book myself, frustration mounting. “I am certain this is what the Piper is looking for. This is why he was no longer within the mountain once I broke free from the dungeons. There was much terror in my jailer’s voice when he mentioned how ‘the codex is missing.’” I face Jack. “Was it as thus when you absconded with it?”
“I din’t exactly flip through it when Mary and me were running away from hordes of psychotic kids,” he says, frowning. “Staying alive was a bigger
priority. I handed it over to the Librarian as soon as we edited back into the Institute.”
“Perhaps it is like some books in other Timelines, ones that require light from moons, fading sunsets, or other certain times of significant days,” Blake muses.
I run the pads of my fingers across the pages. The pulp within is thick and textured, not entirely smooth. It is not parchment, as I originally believed.
“This is papyrus.” And possibly Egyptian?
“Perhaps.” The Librarian takes the book from me. “Or something similar.”
“If I am not mistaken, papyrus is the oldest type of paper, dating as far back to the. . .” I dredge through long distance memories from a childhood spent in Oxford offices and classrooms. “Fourth millennium before Christ.”
“In this world, yes, this is true.” She settles her small frame back into her oversized chair. “But it is not for other worlds.”
“Do not all Timelines find their origins in this one?” I ask. “From authors who live here?”
The corners of her lips nudge upward a small tick. “That is the hypothesis the Society has worked under for some time.”
She is utterly maddening. “Why only a hypothesis?”
“It has not yet been proven.” She leans forward, folding her well-manicured hands. “This book does nothing to verify that idea, either.”
“Could we not test the paper? See if it originates from the papyrus plant?”
“And potentially destroy its secrets?” Tendrils of black hair spill from her chignon as she shakes her head. “It matters little, anyway. I cannot access this book because it is enchanted.”
A tiny scoff escapes Marianne. Blake nods sagely, as if this is confirmation of his suggestion.
“You think it was the thirteenth Wise Woman who enchanted it, don’t you?”
Finn’s voice is emotionless as he says this, but the tic that ripples upon his jaw does not escape my notice.
“I would very much like to talk about her with you.” The Librarian’s head tilts as her vivid blue eyes narrow upon him. “Provided you are willing to do so after all that she has done to you.”
Her careless yet paradoxically carefully placed words seize all of my nerves, paralyzing me. I . . . I knew that Finn had been tortured, I knew that the Chosen attempted to bring him to rapture, but I did not have confirmation the thirteenth Wise Woman personally dealt with him.
I know little of the magical fiend, other than she is one of thirteen sisters who once guided 1812GRI-CHT. Slighted by a king’s negligence to include her in attendance at a banquet honoring his newborn daughter, the thirteenth Wise Woman cursed the child to a hundred year’s sleep that could have lasted much longer, had a prince not arrived with true love’s kiss. Coupled with her relationship with the Piper, and the assumption that she is in love with a murderer, I cannot help but assume that she, too, is a psychopath.
I reach for Finn’s hand, uncaring that everyone in the room is witness to my dread. My grip is tenacious, too firm to be soothing. But then, terror does not allow for tenderness.
Finn tolerates my hold, though he does not return in kind. There are no assurances offered, no comfort. He simply nods, his mouth an ominous slash of a line.
Word arrives, via Jack’s phone, that Van Brunt and Mary are expected by nightfall. When the meeting adjourns, all depart save the Librarian, Finn, and myself. Even Grymsdyke hops upon Jack’s shoulder, insisting he will once more scout the Institute for anything nefarious.
I refuse to vacate unless Finn demands it so. Part of me wants to, though. Desperately. Part of me wishes to find the sharpest of blades and find a way back into 1816/18GRI-GT, for if the thirteenth Wise Woman truly invoked magic upon Finn. . .
There would be no Timeline she would be safe in, not if she still draws breath.
“The report from the doctors is encouraging.” Clearly broaching a safer topic, the Librarian presents Finn with a folder. As he peruses its contents, she continues, “Victor’s heart is strong and brain functionality is within normal ranges, considering. According to their diagnoses, though, he is in a medically induced coma.”
How is it that a creature in a Timeline such as 1816/18GRI-GT would have access to medicines that can do such a thing?
Finn holds aloft a translucent black, gray, and white sheet of plastic that has outlines of human bones upon it. “How is this possible?”
His question, muttered beneath his breath, is for the Librarian, not me. I peer at the plastic sheet, curious as to what it is he sees. His brows pull together as he holds aloft another sheet similar to the first. This one features the outline of a skull. “Are you sure these are Victor’s?”
The Librarian rises from her chair only to perch upon the desk, one leg crossed over the other. “I cannot think why the doctors who have examined him thus far would deceive us.”
He tugs out yet another black-and-white sheet. “Are the wounds superficial, then?”
I can no longer bear it. I ask, “To what is it you’re referring?”
He runs a finger across the outlines of bones from the first sheet. “There are no signs of fractures, no indications of bones being cut or sawed.” His frown deepens. “Victor broke his arm when he was in college. A friend dared him to jump off a building. Even though it healed, there’d still be evidence of it in these x-rays. But there’s nothing. Not one bone looks as if it has ever been broken.”
“It’s most intriguing, is it not?” the Librarian posits.
Alarming is more like it.
“Read the rest of the report, Finn, although I fear you will have more questions than answers.”
As he does, I slide a photograph of Victor out and tap upon one of the arms. “Victor had matching tattoos ringing both biceps. This skin is now bare.”
“He got those as a dare, too,” Finn murmurs. And then his face pales as he pinches a handwritten report so tightly wrinkles form.
I come closer “What is it?”
His eyes are bleak when they meet mine. “They did a biopsy on his different limbs. The arm. . .” His throat bobs as he swallows. “It’s not biologically the same. Neither is one leg.” He rubs his upper lip. “Part of his scalp is different.” More quietly, hoarsely, “But there’s an eye that isn’t his, too.”
Dear lord.
Finn shoves the paper toward the Librarian. “How is this possible? How do the bones show no signs of grafting? One of his legs is black now, so unless the creature knew how to change pigment, it’s a given that leg is different. How is it that my brother’s blood type went from AB to unknown?”
I take the paper from him as she says, “I wish I had the answers to give you, Finn. I do not, though. Not yet.”
Finn tugs both hands through his hair, swearing quietly. Before I can peruse the page, he says, “I need a minute to take this in,” and then exits the office.
“Leave him be,” the Librarian tells me. “Finn, like most people, requires time to process the unimaginable when faced with it.”
An eyebrow lifts. “And I do not?”
“Only those found within the Twenty-First Century,” she says mildly. “Although you did an admirable job of doing so in short time.” She stands, brushing her hands together. “I’m glad for the few minutes alone with you.”
“Are you, now?”
Bold as bold can be, she says, “As you well know, things are not always what they seem.”
“Are you referring to Victor?”
“Unfortunately, no.” Her attention flits toward the office door, still propped open. “Although time will tell if he is the Victor we know and love. No, I am simply reminding you that you must be ever vigilant in your quest.”
“I have long tired of your riddles,” I say coolly.
A sense of weariness sags her physically tiny yet always metaphorically giant shoulders. “Do not allow your suspicions of my loyalties to dissuade you from doing what is right.”
Fine. I will then start with, “Who are you?”
&
nbsp; Her smile is fragile, less smug than the standard I am accustomed to. “I am someone who believes in the Collectors’ Society and its agents.”
My chin tilts upward. “You refuse to answer, even now, even when so much is at stake.”
“You wonder if I am an ally or an enemy, friend or foe.” Her neck cranes so her eyes can meet mine. “You wonder how so many within these walls come to me for guidance and help without asking the same question. Shall I tell you that you are right in wondering these things? I will, if that will ease your conscience.”
My pulse escalates until the dull roar of its beat in my ears.
“Allow me to answer this one thing for you today. Know that I am freely offering you this, because I respect you and your suspicions, Alice. Many have known me as an angel; many more have known me as a monster. It is always intent that makes the difference.”
Something flashes in the depths of blue still rooting me to this spot, something infinitely, primitively menacing. I am taken back to nights spent as a child, when every sound was followed by worries over beasties or ghouls beneath my bed or within my armoires. My screams would be soundless, fear would strangle me so. And now, a graveyard sprouts across my skin, hundreds of tiny tombstones rising out of nowhere. A ghost’s hand traces the length of my spine.
I ask carefully, “What is your intent within the Society?”
She clucks, amusement replacing the ghastliness I just witnessed. “I already answered that question for you long ago. You should know by now that, while I may not always give you all that you wish for, I am no liar. Lying does little for my complexion.”
She laughs then, merrily, loudly, and the goose pimples upon my arms double.
Finn reappears in the doorway, sheepish yet exhausted all at once. “I’m still worried about my memory or if I’m seeing things right. I wanted a moment to take it all in.”
The Librarian brushes past me, toward him, the scent of her floral perfume strong. “Apologies are wholly unnecessary in this instance. You are merely human. Now, shall we discuss the witch you met?”
I make my way over to where they stand, unnerved on several fronts. “You think of the Wise Women as witches?”
The Lost Codex Page 12
