The Forgotten Mountain (The Collectors' Society Book 3)

by Heather Lyons

  That bit of news makes me much less happy than it does him. My eyes fall to the pile of books before me. Each tome has multiple stories. There must be hundreds of characters, hundreds of locations.

  We don’t even know which Timeline to begin in.

  The urge to pluck at my hairs is strong once more. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Finn is upstairs, fighting for his life. The Piper is out there somewhere, with his murderous horde of enchanted children who very well might die for his cause. We have no idea what they are capable of, where all they wait.

  I have seen magic before. Wielded it myself once or twice, although in greatly reduced capacities than what fairy tales spin. I have seen the beauty it can produce and the devastation it can leave in its wake. Magic demands respect. At times, the payment for such can be crippling.

  And still, I am ready to face it head-on and pay whatever I must if to do so brings answers and justice.

  “Were you able to locate the school?” I ask Mary.

  She looks away from a muttering and pacing Victor. “I believe I have. It’s a two-and-a-half hour drive from here. It’s rural and quite small for being a school that goes from elementary-aged children all the way through high school.” Her fingers clack away as she peers down at her laptop. “It’s also quite new, just shy of a decade. The Headmistress is named Grethel . . .” She looks up, eyes narrowing. “Bunting.”

  Jenn Ammer and now Grethel Bunting. What are the chances?

  “Grethel sounds quite a bit like Gretel,” the A.D. muses.

  “Who is this Gretel?” I ask. “Is she from one of these books?”

  “They’re two different people.” Victor tugs at his dark strands. “I remember the name. My mother used to read the Grimm stories to Finn and I, despite us believing we were too old for such tales. We listened, though. It’s not the same girl from the Hansel and Gretel story.”

  A glimmer of pain shines in Van Brunt’s eyes at the mention of his late wife, especially in light of recent news.

  Victor snatches Children’s and Household Tales off the table, ignoring the Librarian’s pleading for a pair of white gloves. “There was one that had a cook named Grethel. She . . .” He flips through the brittle pages. “If I’m not mistaken, she was greedy and ate a meal that was supposed to be for a guest. Not wanting to get caught, she told the guest that her master wanted to kill him, and then when he fled, she informed her employer that the guest stole the food. In the end, the master chased after the guest with a knife.” He forcefully taps on the book. “Yes, here it is! The story is called The Clever Grethel.”

  “Clever?” The A.D. snorts. “More like sadistic.”

  Mary’s laugh is ugly. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

  “I am a thief,” he says coolly. “And even thieves have codes. I never set out to have anyone murdered now, have I?”

  The Librarian deftly eases the book from Victor’s grip, carefully checking the pages for damage.

  Mary, though, is rolling her eyes at the A.D.’s comments. “In any case, the question now is: is the original Grethel working with the Piper, if he is, in fact, associated with the school, or is it yet another child he’s manipulated? Thanks to Todd and Rosemary, we now know that he’s apparently allowed some of the children to age, so we must entertain that possibility.”

  “I suppose we shall find the answer to that question sooner rather than later,” Van Brunt says. “Ms. Reeve, Mr. Dawkins, and I will be heading to this John and Paul school shortly. Until our return, I expect the Institute’s security reestablished, with frequent scans to ensure we have no more holes. From here on out, if we are to gain any foothold, we must not allow any more mistakes.” He stands up, smoothing his sleek coat. “Ms. Lennox, I expect the report on the Koppenberg alias sent to me the moment you have it done.”

  “Another note.” The Librarian sets the book down. “The day the Piper stole the children of Hamelin was June Twenty-Sixth, otherwise known as the day of Saints John and Paul.”

  Well, now. Yet another confirmation.

  “All assignments have been sent out.” Brom nods at the Librarian. “As of this moment, our searches for catalysts are put on hold. We must focus our attention and energies on neutralizing the Piper and his compatriots. Make no mistake. These are not children, if we are indeed correct in our assumptions. Anyone who has lived seven centuries, whether it be in a child’s body or an adult’s, will have a leg up on us in terms of knowledge and experience. We cannot allow our guard to lower around them.”

  “Do you think it possible that they could be . . .” The A.D. offers a light shrug. “Deprogramed, or the like?”

  “As right now we are only guessing at their true identities, there is no way to answer that,” the Librarian offers smoothly. But when her eyes meet mine, I see more than she admits.

  Someday, she and I will sit down and have a nice, long talk about secrets and truths. But for now, while everyone stands up and readies themselves for their assignments, we will start small. I make my way over to her. “Do you know more about Finn’s condition than you’ve let on?”

  Her eyes flick over toward where Van Brunt stands with the A.D. and Victor. “I wish in this circumstance I did.” She reaches out to gently touch my shoulder. “You must be careful, Alice. The road ahead of you is not easy by any means.”

  I’ve long learned that it never is.

  THE HELICOPTER RIDE TO Connecticut was surprisingly yet pleasantly short, although I would not term the actual journey as anything close to enjoyable. I attempted to use the time to sleep, but once the weather changed mid-flight, the turbulence (so-called by the A.D.) left my stomach jumping far more than the contraption I was in. Thankfully, a car was waiting for us once we landed, especially now that the heavens have opened up, spilling tiny, white flakes.

  Frabjous. More snow.

  The drive to John and Paul School for Gifted Children is also short, and as we wind our way up the road leading to the school, I cannot help but feel as if we’ve stepped back in time. Dense forests with trees like skeletons loom all around us, and with the piles of snow littering the ground, it appears as if silence has swallowed the countryside whole. At the top of the drive sits a large, foreboding gothic building partially covered in ivy, complete with a pair of peaked towers on either side of the entrance.

  As we pull up, the A.D. exclaims from the backseat, “How much do you want to bet that place is haunted?”

  I’m afraid I must concur with his assessment. If there ever were to be a building home to spirits, this would be it.

  “I’m still not sure this is the wisest course of action,” I say to Van Brunt.

  The Society’s leader parks next to a lone rusted red truck. “Schematics of the region show very little covert accessibility.” His smile is faint. “Hiking several miles in the snow when a storm is coming in is just not a feasible option right now. We’ll start with the Headmistress and go from there.”

  I grudgingly must admit I am no fan of trudging through snowstorms. Nonetheless, the idea of going back up in a helicopter in such conditions leaves me even more unsettled, as flying through the air is still foreign to me.

  The A.D. leans forward, clapping a hand on Van Brunt’s shoulder. “I never thought I’d see this day, boss man. Abraham Van Brunt, without a proper plan?” A low whistle fills the car.

  Van Brunt chooses to ignore this by exiting into the cold air, instead.

  When we approach to the massive set of doors in front of us, my breath stills within my chest. Carved upon these ornate doors are images eerily similar to those found guarding Bücherei, ones depicting gruesome situations: wolves eating little girls, witches and dragons, coffins, and birds pecking out eyes.

  “Bloody hell,” the A.D. mutters. “Are they trying to welcome children or scare them to death?”

  “This is our confirmation of an association with Lygari/Pfeifer.” I stare up at the images. “Those protecting the library at Bücherei were similar.”

  Van Brunt quie
tly orders the A.D. to take photographs. As soon as he snaps a few, the doors creak open. Before us is an elderly man, his gaunt, pockmarked face lined by years and his hair wild and gray. His small eyes are sharp, though, narrowing in on us immediately. “What do you want?”

  Well, how do you do to you, too? I do my best not to rise to his surliness.

  “My wife and I are looking at different schools in the region for our child.” Van Brunt wraps an arm around my shoulders. “We hoped to check this fine institution out as a possible candidate.”

  If anything, the old man’s eyes narrow even further as he glances around us toward the rental car. “In this weather?”

  “I’m afraid my work schedule does not permit me much time to look.” A rueful chuckle falls out of Van Brunt, and I silently marvel at how charming he has suddenly become. “Is there someone we might converse with about the school?”

  “No.” The doors swing to close, but I thrust out a staying hand.

  “Please, sir.” I lower my voice, color it with sadness. “We only want what is best for our child. A few minutes are all we ask for.”

  His eyes now turn to the A.D. “Your child is too old for this institution, or perhaps stupid. Either way, we don’t accept his kind.”

  Van Brunt and I both release forced, startled laughs whilst the A.D.’s cheeks color in indignation. “Oh, this is my husband’s secretary.” I offer a winsome smile. “He is here with us to take notes.”

  “Mr. Pfriem?” a feminine voice calls out from within the school. “Is there a problem?”

  He scowls but steps to the side. “There are some people here wanting to tour the grounds.”

  A handsome woman of about fifty appears, dressed in all gray to match the building. “In this weather?”

  Pfriem scowls. “I said as much, didn’t I?”

  There are a whole host of things I’d like to say to the both of them.

  The woman’s head falls to the side as she regards us. “I’m afraid our office hours have ended, and without an appointment—”

  “We won’t take much of your time.” Van Brunt’s smile nearly dazzles even me. “I apologize for the lack of prior notice, but it would mean a lot to my wife and I if we could speak with you.”

  A loud, irritable sigh bursts from her nose, but after a tense moment, she steps to the side. “Very well. Mr. Pfriem, please bring a pot of tea to my office for our visitors.”

  When he walks away, he does nothing to disguise his prickly, pointed mutterings.

  There is no chitchat as we make our way to the woman’s office, just edgy silence punctuated by feet against creaky, polished, wooden floors. The walls are unadorned and painted a dreary green, the sconces on the wall antique to even my sensibilities. Every door we pass is shut, with no windows to peer inside. It is unnaturally silent in these halls.

  Where are the children? There are no signs of them anywhere. No art on the walls, no signs for grammar or even behavior, no sounds, no anything to indicate that this is a school.

  The door marked HEADMISTRESS is also shut, requiring the woman to extract a massive key ring dangling from her belt. A bronze old-fashioned skeleton key is selected, and the sound it makes as it unlocks the door is frightfully loud in such a quiet hallway.

  “Well, you might as well have a seat.” Her voice is deceptively light despite these rude first words. “Although one of you will have to stand, as there are only two chairs.”

  The office is quite large yet fairly empty. A singular desk, a total of three chairs, and a filing cabinet are all that inhabit the room. There are no pictures on the walls or desk. In fact, there is nothing upon the oak desk sitting in the middle of the room—no telephone, no computer, no paper, no name plaque, no pens or pencils.

  She rounds the desk as Van Brunt and I sit down upon stiff, unyielding chairs set quite a distance from the desk. The A.D. hovers behind us, a pad of paper and a pen now in his hands.

  He plays his role surprisingly well.

  The woman before us folds her hands neatly upon the gleaming wood before her. “My name is Miss Bunting.”

  Lygari’s associates do not possess even a hint of their employer’s charisma, of that I am certain. She makes no offers to take our snow-covered coats, nor does she offer any further pleasantries.

  “My name is André Irving,” Van Brunt says. “This is my wife, Lorina.” He pulls a calling card from the inside pocket of his suit coat and passes it to the A.D., who then slips it upon the desk. I am impressed to find the assumed name he has just offered written neatly upon it, alongside the designation Financial Analyst. “As we were explaining to Mr. Pfriem, we are currently searching for the perfect school for our child. We—”

  Miss Bunting does not bother looking at Van Brunt’s card. “Our enrollment is quite limited, and the acceptance process rigorous. We cater to a very specific type of pupil here.”

  “Which is exactly what we’re looking for.” I lean forward in my chair. “One must be careful in ensuing the proper placement for a child’s education and welfare.”

  Before she can answer, Van Brunt asks, “How many children are enrolled at John and Paul?”

  One of her pinky fingers taps against the desk. “Policy dictates that I cannot disclose information about our population.”

  Insufferable woman. “Surely sharing how many pupils you have isn’t the same as a breach of confidentiality,” I say.

  Behind me, the A.D. snorts quietly.

  Her lips thin as she first regards him and then me. “The safety of my wards is of highest concern.”

  “Of course.” Van Brunt offers yet another winsome smile. “We read online that yours is a school for gifted—”

  “We do not have a website.”

  I can practically feel the heat of Van Brunt’s annoyance from where I sit. Miss Bunting is no doubt saved from his sharp tongue by a knock on the door.

  Her eyes shift back to the A.D. “Open that, boy.”

  I must give him credit for keeping his mouth firmly shut and doing as she asks. Pfriem comes in with a small silver tray loaded with a teapot and four plain white cups. There are no biscuits, no sugar or milk. He drops it unceremoniously upon the desk, clattering the china and spilling a bit of the tea. “Is there anything else I can do for you, ma’am?”

  Miss Bunting is either oblivious to his sneering or as unimpressed as I am. “Begin making the rounds.”

  When he leaves, it’s as before with a number of strongly worded opinions not hidden well beneath his breath.

  Miss Bunting does not pour the tea nor does she offer us any. Instead, she calmly opens a drawer in her desk and removes a small set of pipes. One that appears eerily familiar to those used when the Institute was breeched.

  I am out of my chair in an instant, across the room before she can ever place the pipes to lips. She clambers out of her chair, back to where she thinks she has safety.

  “You do not want to do that,” I warn.

  Apparently she does, because a single note is played before I send both Bunting and the pipes sprawling with a kick to her chest. Thankfully, she does not hit the wall and thereby rouse interest.

  “Get the pipes,” Van Brunt orders the A.D.

  She’s a quick thing, because she’s on her feet nearly immediately. Bunting growls at me—growls!—, her teeth bared as she charges. Hands out, her long nails pointed toward me like claws, she no longer holds any semblance of propriety. The light in her eyes is all too similar to the crazed sheen of Rosemary’s. Growling transitions to hissing.

  I cannot allow the ruckus of a brawl to alert anyone of our change in situations. Besides, we’re not here to spar. There are questions that must be answered. So when she closes in on me, hands desperate for my neck, I quickly spin and snap back her arms so she is in front of me. Van Brunt wastes no time at the opportunity I’ve provided. A hypodermic needle is removed from his inner coat pocket as he advances on us.

  I head butt the back of Bunting’s skull just as she open
s her mouth to scream.

  “None of that.” I twist her arms until I know she must be in agony. “Be a good lady and keep your mouth shut.”

  Like a wild beast, she lashes in my arms, growling and spitting and hissing. I’m forced to yank us both to the ground so I can wrap my legs around hers, effectively restraining her from any ability to strike out at Van Brunt. I twist us until we’re on our sides, so that my head can pin hers down in just such a way shouting is not easy for her. Thankfully, he’s able to inject the serum into her fairly quickly. Bunting’s struggle against my hold continues for a good minute before she’s twitching beneath my body.

  I haul her up and slam her into the chair. What the A.D. calls zip ties are taken from his satchel and passed over. Arms and legs are both restrained.

  She slurs, “Bitch.”

  Van Brunt grabs hold of his cell phone and switches on the record function. “What is your name?” There is no longer any agreeableness in his tone nor his words.

  She sloppily licks her lips, hatred shining from shrewd eyes. “Grethel.”

  “Is your name truly Grethel Bunting?”

  Ah. There’s the frustration I was expecting. She’s now coming to the realization she must answer our questions, isn’t she? “It is the name I go by now.”

  “And before? What name did you go by then?”

  “Merely Grethel.”

  “How many children are present in this building? Or should I be more precise and say how many people who appear as children are present?”

  “Twenty.”

  Twenty out of a possible one hundred and thirty or more.

  “Where are they?” Van Brunt asks.

  “Upstairs.”

  “Where specifically are they?”

  Her words hiss from beneath clenched teeth. “In their dormitories.”

  Van Brunt leans closer. “What Timeline do you originate from?”

  His question surprises her, for her eyes widen. Just as quickly, though, they narrow once more into slits. “1812GRI-CHT.”