Chapter 4
Whyborne
“So you knew this fellow, Griffin?” Christine asked.
We’d retreated to my office once the police finished questioning us. They’d taken away the bodies and Mr. Odell’s pistol, but Iskander had the presence of mind to pretend Delancey’s valise belonged to him, dropped in the confusion of the moment. Now he set it on my desk. Christine placed a bottle of whiskey she’d retrieved from her own office beside it.
Griffin shut the door behind him and leaned against it. He was in his shirtsleeves, his coat having been spattered with Delancey’s blood. While he washed the blood off of his face, I’d retrieved his belongings from the pockets of his ruined coat, and found a pair of theater tickets for tonight.
No doubt he’d meant them as a surprise for me. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the first time his romantic plans had been interrupted.
If Griffin had gone to live in some other city, he would surely have found some other man. One not constantly surrounded by madness and death. They’d manage something as simple as dinner and the theater without having to think twice about it.
“Mr. Odell,” Griffin said. He stared at the floor, his arms folded over his chest. “Yes. He was from Fallow. He was a farmer. Well respected.” His lips tightened slightly, as if at some memory.
“Fallow?” Iskander asked. “It seems an odd name for an agricultural town.”
“It’s shortened from ‘Fallow Place,’ I believe, which was just a mark on the early maps. There’s a barren patch of earth, maybe ten or twelve acres, where nothing grows. No one knows why—even if you try to plant it, nothing will come up, no matter what you do. There are all sorts of stories about the devil emerging from hell there every night, or Indian ghosts, or what have you.” A tiny smile flickered over his lips. “Benjamin Walter and I sat out there on a dare one night, when we were boys. We ended up scaring each other silly and ran all the way back to the house long before midnight.”
I wanted to touch him, but the way he’d withdrawn into himself made me uncertain if it would be welcome. “And this Walter was the fellow who...er...”
“I was caught with, yes.” Griffin shook his head. “And Mr. Odell was one of the men who made certain I was on the train for Chicago shortly after.”
“No loss, then,” Christine opined. She took a pull straight from the whiskey bottle before passing it to Griffin.
Iskander rubbed at his chin. “Surely Odell wasn’t referring to that incident, when he shouted at you,” he said to Griffin. “Did he have some other grudge?”
“None that I can imagine.” Griffin took a drink from the bottle and offered it to me. I refrained, as did Iskander, so it returned to Christine. “It’s been fourteen years since I laid eyes on the man. I’ve only returned to Fallow once since, when Pa took me home after...after the asylum.” He swallowed heavily. “One or two other people saw me then, of course, but for the most part I kept to myself.”
I tentatively touched the back of his hand. He cast me a grateful smile and linked his fingers with mine.
“Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with the incident, then,” Iskander said. “Odell must have been a member of the Fideles cult. Delancey said they wished him dead, and Odell was the assassin they sent. It was merely a coincidence that he and Griffin knew one another.”
“Perhaps, but Delancey specifically asked for Griffin in his letter,” I reminded them. “And he had just come from Kansas himself.”
“None of this makes sense.” Griffin shook his head. “Mr. Odell couldn’t be a member of the cult! He was a farmer. A simple man—intelligent, but uneducated. And the...the corruption on him. In him.” He shuddered.
I frowned. “Corruption? You said something was wrong with him. Your shadowsight revealed some spell, or...?”
“I’m actually not certain.” Griffin sighed and took the bottle back from Christine. “It didn’t look like a spell, though. I could see dark...roots, almost, under his skin. Like some sort of fungal hyphae spreading through him.”
“How ghastly,” Christine said. “Does that sound like any sorcery you’ve heard of, Whyborne?”
“No,” I said. “Let’s go through Delancey’s valise—perhaps there will be some clue as to why he wanted to speak with Griffin as well as me.”
As Christine was perched on my desk, she leaned over and opened the valise. A frown crossed her face as she peered inside. “What the devil?”
I released Griffin’s hand and joined her. Inside the valise was a smooth sphere about the size of an orange, made from some sort of metal I didn’t recognize at all.
I reached inside and pulled it out. The greenish-black metal revealed hidden bands of color when I turned it in my hands. A large hole appeared to have been burned or melted into it at some time in the distant past, revealing a hollow, featureless interior. Fresher scratches and a slight dint marred its exterior. There seemed to be some sort of ornamentation around its equator, and I felt a chill at the sight of the strange clusters of dots. “Oh my God. Christine?”
She snatched the sphere from me. Her dark eyes narrowed as she examined it carefully, her mouth drawing tighter and tighter as she did. “Blast,” she said at last. “I’d have to compare it directly with the stele to be absolutely certain, of course, but...”
“But it’s the same writing—if it is writing—as was on the stele and in the city of the umbrae,” I finished grimly. “The city the masters built.”
“Yes.”
No wonder the Fideles were involved. Had they been hoping to get the sphere from Delancey, or just to keep him from showing it to me? “If only we could read the masters’ script. What does it look like in your shadowsight, Griffin?”
“There’s nothing to be seen,” he said. “If there was ever any sort of magic associated with it, it faded away long ago.”
Christine turned the sphere over in her hands again, examining it with a practiced eye. “There are bits of dirt clinging to the inside. As if it was buried, and someone tried to clean it once it was dug up. And look at this.” She ran her finger over the edge of the hole in it. “Do you see what I do, Kander?”
An expression of unease crossed over his handsome face. “It almost looks as though the metal was burned through from the inside. But that isn’t possible.”
“I wouldn’t dismiss anything as impossible when dealing with the works of the masters,” I said. “Is there anything else in the valise? Some hint as to what the sphere is, or where it came from?”
Iskander peered inside, then shook his head. “No. I should have searched his pockets, but I didn’t think to.”
“None of us did,” Griffin replied. “Perhaps—”
There came a sharp knock on the door at his back. We all jumped, and Christine hastily shoved the sphere into the valise.
Griffin opened the door cautiously. One of the museum guards stood in the hall, a policeman behind him. “Excuse me, Dr. Whyborne, Dr. Putnam-Barnett,” the guard said. “This fellow here was looking for Dr. Whyborne.”
“Of course,” I said. “Did you have some more questions for us, officer?”
“Begging your pardon, Dr. Whyborne,” the policeman said with a quick bob of his head. “But Detective Tilton sent me. He’d like to request your presence at...well, at the morgue, sir.”
~ * ~
“Through here, if you please,” said the attendant. We stood in the large front room of the city morgue, where unidentified bodies were laid out for viewing. As it was night, the place was closed to the public at the moment, and we were alone in the viewing area save for the attendant and a single body. I glanced at it—then quickly away. The poor fellow looked to have been in the water for some time, and the fish had done their grim work.
Dr. Greene, the medical examiner, awaited us in the autopsy room, an expression almost of fear on his features. Detective Tilton lurked in the corner; he tipped his hat in greeting. “Thank you for coming at this late hour.”
“Of course.” I
gestured to Christine. “I’m sure you recall Dr. Putnam-Barnett.”
Tilton frowned and gave me a sharp look. “She should wait outside. This is no sight for a woman.”
Christine drew herself up, eyes flashing. “If you believe this is the first dead body I’ve seen, you’re quite mistaken. I assure you—”
“I take it this has something to do with the murder in the museum?” Griffin asked quickly. Distracted by the question, Tilton nodded.
“Dr. Greene, would you do the honors?” he asked.
Two bodies lay on the steel tables, each covered by a sheet. Dr. Greene approached one of them with visible reluctance. Given some of the things he’d no doubt seen, his fear and caution left me rather unsettled. “Mr. Delancey’s body was normal in every respect for a man of his age,” Dr. Greene said with the air of a man putting off something unpleasant. “Mr. Odell, on the other hand...well. See for yourself.”
He pulled back the sheet to the corpse’s waist. Odell lay still opened for inspection, his organs displayed to the air. The top of his skull rested beside his shoulder, leaving his brain exposed.
Nausea twisted my gut, and I swallowed convulsively. Thank God I hadn’t eaten dinner. And what on earth was that noxious smell? Like a compost heap turned over to reveal all the mildewed rot in the center.
Christine marched over to the table without hesitation. “What the devil is that?” she exclaimed. “Whyborne, do stop being silly and come over here.”
I took out my handkerchief and pressed it to my mouth and nose. The sight of the opened chest, heart and lungs exposed, was ghastly enough. Even worse were the dark, threadlike growths which infiltrated them, seeming to sprout from the spine outward. Odell’s brain appeared even more infected.
“Oh God.” I turned away and stared resolutely at the wall, trying not to vomit.
“What is it?” Griffin asked, his voice a pale shadow of its usual self. “Some sort of disease?”
Dr. Greene’s voice was equally shaky. “I don’t know. It has an almost fungal appearance, but I’ve never heard of an infection presenting like...this. I’d imagine some obscure disease gained in a foreign port, perhaps, but...”
But we were involved, which meant something even more awful might be happening. He left that part unspoken, but the implication was clear.
“I think we’ve seen enough,” Griffin said. I turned back around when the rustle of the sheet assured me the dead man had been covered once again. Christine looked unmoved, which was hardly a surprise, but Griffin’s skin had taken on a distinctly greenish hue, and Iskander appeared deeply shaken.
“Is this something I should be concerned about?” Tilton asked, glancing back and forth between us.
The attention of the police was something I’d never desired, even before Griffin came into my life. Now that we lived in the same house and shared the same bed, the possibility of a knock at the door and a sudden arrest always lurked at the back of my mind. Especially as Griffin and Tilton had clashed over cases in the past.
But Tilton had come to us in July, when unnatural forces murdered Griffin’s client in jail. Tilton hadn’t survived as a police officer in Widdershins without knowing when to look away.
Was I now one of the things he knew to look away from? To pretend he didn’t see, just as he would ignore a hooded figure slipping down an alley, or the sound of chanting drifting from a basement?
“We don’t know,” Griffin answered. “But we are attempting to find out.” He paused, then added delicately, “Mr. Delancey dabbled in...matters better left unsaid. Did he have anything of interest in his pockets?”
“A hotel key.” Tilton passed it to Griffin. “And a small amount of cash. Nothing else. Odell had even less than that. We wouldn’t even have a name for him if you hadn’t given it to us.”
“Thank you, detective,” Griffin said. “Let us know if you learn anything further, if you don’t mind.”
Tilton’s mustache twitched. “I’d prefer not to learn anything further about it, to be honest. But if I do, I’ll pass it on to you.” He glanced at me as he spoke, and I nodded slightly.
We shuffled out. “Well, that was certainly disturbing,” Christine remarked once we reached the viewing room again.
“More than disturbing,” I agreed with a shiver. “What the devil was that?”
Griffin shook his head. “I don’t know. It looked like a physical manifestation of the corruption my shadowsight revealed. Whatever happened to Odell, it wasn’t just due to magic or infection, but some unholy union of the two.”
“Some creation of the masters?” Iskander suggested. “Like the ketoi and umbrae?”
God, I hoped not. “I’ll look at the Wisborg Codex,” I said. “Perhaps it will reveal something useful.”
“And I’ll see what, if anything, Mr. Delancey left in his hotel room,” Griffin said, holding up the key. “Perhaps we can find out precisely why the Fideles wished him dead...and why he so urgently wanted to speak to me as well as you.”
Chapter 5
Griffin
I slept poorly that night, visions of Odell blending with memories from my childhood. I dreamed Fallow had somehow relocated to the city of the umbrae in Alaska. I ran through the tunnels looking for Ma, while the Mother of Shadows whispered dire warnings into my mind.
Whyborne shook me awake. “It’s just a dream,” he murmured sleepily into my ear. “You’re safe, darling.”
I sat up, and the blanket slid to my waist. The chilly fall air raised goosebumps on my arms. Whyborne mumbled a protest and drew the blankets more securely around him. “The Mother of Shadows,” I said aloud.
Whyborne blinked. “What about her?”
“If Iskander is right, if this corruption is some creation of the masters, she might know of it.” She’d given me the Occultum Lapidem so I could call upon her if needed. I’d used it once already to warn her of the return of the masters. “Or I suppose the ketoi might.”
“The umbrae remember things the ketoi have forgotten,” Whyborne said, “but I can ask Persephone, if the Mother of Shadows doesn’t know.” He glanced at the window. Dawn broke outside the window, low gray light filtering around the edges of the curtains. “Is there still time to call upon her before the sun comes up?”
The umbrae were creatures of the night, unable to bear the touch of sunlight. The telepathic link between us worked best in the dark. “No.” I sighed. “If only I’d thought of it last night.”
“You still have the hotel room to search,” Whyborne reminded me. “Come. The alarm will sound in a few minutes anyway, so we might as well dress and have breakfast.”
We’d almost finished a breakfast of toast and oatmeal, when a sharp knock sounded on the door. I waved Whyborne back down when he made to answer it, as I was closer.
Detective Tilton loitered on the stoop. Tilton had first reached out for our help in July, and I didn’t think he would suddenly decide to arrest us, even if he did have his suspicions as to our relationship. But even the possibility sent a tingle of fear through my extremities, and my mind raced to categorize all the incriminating details sitting out in plain view should he come within. A photograph of the two of us on the couch, in a pose suggesting a certain amount of intimacy; one of Whyborne’s scholarly journals left on the dresser of what was ostensibly my bedroom; the spare dressing gown in his wardrobe, far too short for a man of his height. Even the simple domesticity of sharing breakfast and the newspaper before beginning our day might be read as criminal, were Tilton so inclined.
“Detective,” I said, loudly enough for Whyborne to hear me in the kitchen. “I must say, I’m surprised to see you this early.”
“Believe me, I’d rather be in bed right now,” Tilton said. I made no move to let him inside, and he didn’t seem to expect an invitation. “But I left orders at the station for anything relating to the case from last night to be brought to my attention immediately. It seems Mr. Odell had a friend who shared a room with him in a boarding house. H
e grew worried when Odell didn’t come home last night, and stopped by the station this morning before going to work.”
“Did your men tell him what happened?” I asked.
“No. Said we’d look into it.” Tilton rubbed at his jaw. He’d missed a spot while shaving, and he grimaced when he found it. “It seems the roommate worked in the freight sorting yard at the railway depot, along with Mr. Odell. A Mr. Klaus Johansson.”
I nodded. “Thank you. I’ll speak with him myself.”
“Good.” Tilton hunched his shoulders beneath his wool overcoat. “As I said last night, I’ve no interest in learning anything more about this than I have to. This sort of thing is best left to those who know how to take care of it.”
As soon as he was gone, Whyborne emerged from the kitchen. No doubt he’d waited for the detective to leave, hoping out of sight equaled out of mind. Or at least made it easier for Tilton to politely ignore our living arrangement. “Tilton has a point,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I know more about sorcery, and you know more about asking the right questions. Instead of going to the hotel room, why don’t you talk to the men at the freight sorting yard?” He held out his hand expectantly. “Christine and I will go to the hotel where Delancey was staying. If there’s anything of either archaeological or sorcerous interest in his belongings, we’ll find it.”
“It’s Saturday,” I reminded him. “You both have to work a half day.”
“Miss Parkhurst and Iskander will lie, should anyone ask our whereabouts. There are enough obscure storerooms that someone could spend all day hunting for us at the museum.”
I hesitated, but he was right. Splitting our forces made a certain amount of sense now that we had two different directions in which to investigate. “All right,” I said, taking the key from my pocket and passing it to him. “But be careful. Don’t handle any strange artifacts unless you’re sure they aren’t cursed.”
He bent and brushed a kiss across my lips. “And you be careful as well.”
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