My heart sped, and blood surged downward, stiffening my member. I shut my eyes and ground my fingertips against the rough brick wall behind me, frantic for distraction. Dear heavens, what was wrong with me? I should not—I could not—react like this, not to anyone, and certainly not to a man who made his living prying into the secrets of others.
His posture shifted into a ready stance, and I opened my eyes. Even though Flaherty’s overlong hair was nearly in my face, I was quite a bit taller, and could see past him to the entrance of the alley.
A figure had paused there, although whether man or woman, it was impossible to tell. A black cloak enveloped its stooped frame, and a long scarf and wide-brimmed hat concealed its features. Its head lifted slightly, and I had the horrible impression it was sniffing for us, like some sort of enormous bloodhound. The same repulsive scent I’d noticed outside my window last night teased my senses.
Flaherty froze, without even the slight stirring of breath to give us away. I did my best to mimic him, even though it seemed my heart was about to smash through my ribs. An instinctive fear and revulsion for the mysterious figure gripped me, something born from the primitive recesses of my brain, which yet remembered the terror of prey for its predator.
“Widdershins Enquirer Journal, only two cents,” a newsboy called from the street.
The cloaked figure flinched at the sound—then hurried on past the alleyway.
Flaherty remained vigilant for a few more seconds. Then the tension went out of him with a little sigh. “Well. Not one of Detective Tilton’s men, for certain.”
“No,” I agreed. I wanted to ask: “What was it?” But that sounded too mad to say aloud. It had just been a man, after all, or perhaps a woman. There was nothing else it could have been.
“Come.” Flaherty touched my arm lightly. “Let’s get you back to the museum, shall we?”
On the way back to the Ladysmith, I jumped at every sudden sound and eyed every passer-by with suspicion. No one seemed to give us so much as a second glance, however. Our pursuit, if pursuit it had been, seemed to have given up.
As I started up the broad marble steps to the Ladysmith’s public entrance, Flaherty said, “Dr. Whyborne?”
I paused and turned back to him. “Yes?”
He stood at the bottom of the stair, looking up at me solemnly. “I did not only invite you along because of your name, you know.”
I knew nothing of the kind, yet I found I believed him. Or wanted to believe him, perhaps. “Oh. That’s, er, good.”
His parting smile was wistful. “Thank you for a pleasant lunch.”
I nodded and climbed the stairs to the museum.
~ * ~
Late at night, I relived the scene in the alley as I dreamed.
As in real life, Flaherty pushed me roughly back against the brick wall. His finger rested on my lips, light as a butterfly’s kiss.
This time, however, I parted my lips, let my tongue dart just past their barrier, tasting his skin. There was a knowing look in Flaherty’s eyes as he slipped his finger into my mouth for me to suck.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” he whispered, pressing me back against the wall, the whole length of his body against mine.
There was no sense of cold or fear of discovery; nothing in the world but the two of us. I moaned a response, sucking frantically on his finger, desperate for more.
He pulled his finger free, replaced it with his mouth, his tongue probing. I gasped and arched against him, writhing, even as his hands shaped my body through the barrier of our clothing. A barrier which melted away even as he touched me, leaving only skin beneath his hands.
We drew apart; his clothing had evaporated as well. The light of sunset poured into the alley, gilding his bare skin, outlining every lean muscle. I longed to caress him, and his slow smile said he was aware of it and relished the fact.
Then we were together again: skin against skin, body against body, sending a cascade of fire through my blood. He wrapped a hand around my member, stroking, and I—
Awoke.
I lay paralyzed for a disoriented moment, gasping amidst tangled sheets, my every nerve sensitized until it seemed a stray breeze might bring me to release. I could think of nothing but continuing, of wrapping my hand around the thick rod of flesh and finding completion.
“No,” I whispered to my empty room.
No. No, this was in my control. This had to be in my control.
I rolled onto my side, biting the meaty part of my thumb, until the pain brought me back from the edge. I could not succumb.
I loved Leander, and he had died for it. I had taken notice of other men in the years since, men like Philip Rice, but such notice had never overwhelmed me. That could not change now, certainly not for an impertinent ex-Pinkerton like Griffin Flaherty.
If he knew my dreams, he would scorn me. At worst, he would denounce me to the world as a criminal. At best, he would look down on me as the helpless victim of a mental aberration, to be viewed with condescending pity.
If only I had been born in the time of Heracles and Iolas, or Achilles and Patroclus, or Alexander the Great and Hephaestion. Instead, I was cursed to be a stranger in my own homeland, forever cut off from sympathy and affection.
It didn’t matter. No amount of inchoate longing would alter my fate. I would simply have to pretend the dream never happened. My pulse had never quickened at Flaherty’s proximity in the alleyway. Any attraction was purely venial; my will was more than sufficient to overcome it.
Things would seem different in the cold light of dawn. This insanity of desire would be seen as the passing shadow it was. I would continue on as I always had.
And if the possibility seemed less comforting than I had expected…this too would pass.
It had to.
~ * ~
Eventually, I gave up on sleep and spent the rest of the night hunched over the cipher. Perhaps exhaustion—or desperation—inspired me, for by dawn I had finally succeeded in cracking it.
I took the book and my notes into work with me, only to spend the morning fending off requests from Christine, who seemed to think I ought to be back to work on the translations for the opening exhibits, and the curators, who insisted on asking me questions which should have been directed at Christine instead. Eventually, I locked my door in disgust and refused to answer even the most insistent knocks.
By late afternoon, I had decoded a good portion of the book, translating it as I went. Unfortunately, the more of its secrets I laid bare, the less I understood.
Shortly before five o’clock, there came a discreet rap on my door. “Dr. Whyborne? Do you have a moment?” Flaherty called.
When I opened the door, it was to find him leaning insouciantly against the frame. I had avoided thoughts of the humiliating dream all day, but the sight of his tousled hair and roguish smile brought it back in vivid detail. I turned quickly away.
“Dr. Putnam said you were hiding in here,” he said, following me in. The room was suddenly far too small and hot.
The words stung, although there was no reason for them to. “I wasn’t hiding. I’m working. On your cipher, as it happens.”
He settled into the seat across from me, wrapped both hands around the silver head of his cane, and propped his chin on his knuckles. “I’m glad to hear it, but I primarily came by to see if you’ve yet forgiven me.”
How was it he kept catching me off-guard? I could not understand the man. Why would he give a fig for my opinion? “For the incident at the police station?”
He raised a single brow. “Unless there’s something else I don’t know about.”
How about manhandling me in an alley and inspiring shameful dreams? “Er, no.”
“Well?”
I eyed him warily. “Do you promise not to do such a thing again?” It was a stupid question—after I finished translating the book, we would most likely never meet again. Certainly he wouldn’t be seeking me out for pleasant luncheons.
“Not without your c
onsent, at least,” he said with a little smile.
Damn the man; I could think of far too many things I’d happily consent to. “Then, yes. I forgive you.”
“Excellent.” He leaned back, and it did seem as if his mood had improved. “I believe you said something about the cipher?”
“Yes.” The book lay on my desk. “I fear I don’t know quite what to make of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“To begin with, it’s written in a mix of Aklo and bastardized Latin.”
“Aklo? I confess I’ve never heard of it.”
“Nor should you. The language’s origins are highly speculative; its main use was as a means of secret communication amongst various medieval cults. This makes sense in the context of the age of the book.”
Flaherty leaned forward, a small crease appearing between his brows. “And the book? What is it?”
“It’s a grimoire. A repository of spells and alchemical treatises. Liber Arcanorum is scrawled in a margin, which I take to be its title. The author, whoever he might have been, drew from the works of Paracelsus, Agricola, Al-Hazrad and the like. Its age and obscurity form its main value, as the contents are the sort of rank nonsense which appeals to occultists and spiritualists. I can’t imagine why Philip would have mailed such a thing to his father, except as a sort of joke.”
“Perhaps,” Flaherty murmured, but he only seemed to be half-listening. He stared off at nothing, or rather at something only he could see.
His reaction surprised me. “Er, does this mean something to you?”
He blinked slowly, then looked at me. The full weight of his scrutiny fell upon me: judging, considering. I looked down and away, because any such judgment would inevitably find me lacking.
“Yes.” He resumed his earlier position, resting his chin on his hands. “Are you up for an after-hours excursion, Dr. Whyborne?”
My thoughts went instantly to the alley—and the dream. “I, er, th-that is, what did you have in mind?”
“When I agreed to take the case for Mr. Rice senior, he was able to give me two possible lines of inquiry. One was the book, which you have kindly translated for me. The second was access to his son’s banking records. It seems Philip had made several rather large purchases of expensive—and unusual—chemicals. Most of these chemicals are not in wide use, and there was nothing in Philip’s business or personal life to explain their purchase. Nor had they been delivered to his home. It took some doing, but while you’ve been hard at work on the cipher, I’ve been chasing down various suppliers and delivery companies, and have discovered the final destination for the shipments: a warehouse on the docks. Tonight, I plan on breaking in and having a look around.”
“Is that legal?”
“Not in the slightest. I don’t intend to steal anything, though, unless I stumble across a signed confession to Philip’s murder. But if these chemical shipments are related to this book of alchemy, there may be more texts in the warehouse. Normally I work alone, but in this case I could use an expert eye to identify anything potentially useful.”
I hesitated. I had done as the director requested and translated the book. My part was done; there was no reason to involve myself further, especially if it meant aiding a crime. The museum tolerated a great deal of eccentricity in its employees, but even the director wouldn’t be able to turn a blind eye if I was arrested for burglary.
“Nothing will go wrong,” Flaherty cajoled. “We’ll be very careful. At the first sign of a watchman or passer-by, we’ll scamper off to safety.”
I’d been right the day before; he wasn’t the sort to give up until he got his way. “Very well, Mr. Flaherty.”
Surprise flickered over his features. Then his expression dissolved into the familiar grin. “Surely we can use first names, as we’re to be partners in crime.”
“I suppose, er, Griffin,” I said, and hoped he put my blush down to heat or shyness or anything other than thoughts of the crime I’d prefer to be partners in.
“Thank you, Percy,” he answered with a satisfied smirk.
I winced. “Please, just—just Whyborne. I’m not very fond of my first name, you see.”
“Of course.” Flaherty—Griffin—rose to his feet and picked up his hat. “Well, then, my dear Whyborne, I’ll see you tonight. Meet me on the corner of Front and River streets at ten o’clock. Oh, and wear something dark.”
He swept out, his overcoat flaring behind him. I sat and stared at the closed door for a long moment.
“Oh,” I said aloud. “Oh dear. What have I gotten myself into?”
Chapter 5
The slush of the streets had frozen after sundown, and the thin crust of ice crunched beneath my shoes as I made my way to my appointment. I huddled into my thick, woolen overcoat, wishing my hat did more to protect my ears from the cold.
The great clock above the courthouse chimed ten just as I reached my destination. As I approached the corner, Griffin stepped beneath the nearest streetlight, a carpetbag in one hand.
“Punctual, just as I expected,” he said with a smile.
“Skulking in the shadows, just as I expected.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wished to take them back. Griffin only laughed, however. “I am wounded, sir! Wounded to the quick.”
“Somehow I doubt it,” I muttered.
“Hmm. And you took my advice on dressing, I see?” He reached out and tugged lightly on the thick, purple scarf wrapped around my neck. “Although I must say, you have unexpected depths to you. I assumed all your clothing was some shade of brown or gray.”
“It was a Christmas gift, from one of the servants in my parents’ house.”
Griffin arched a brow. “Oh? A blushing maid, taken with the youngest son?”
“Of course not! Miss Emily served in the household long before I was even born!”
“Not in contact with your father, but exchanging Christmas gifts with the servants. You are quite the enigma, my dear Whyborne.”
“I exchange cards with my family,” I protested weakly
“But no gifts, unless I mistake your meaning. Surely not one you would select to wear tonight. Was it for the dark color, or for luck, I wonder?”
I bridled at his determination to dissect me. “Wonder all you wish. I am not one of your cases.”
“Is it wrong of me to want to know more about a friend? If so, I fear I’ll be begging your forgiveness rather often.”
Friends? Us? I did not have friends. I had colleagues. Well, Christine might be considered a friend, although we didn’t associate outside the museum. I didn’t dislike people, exactly, but I’d never quite got the hang of the casual interactions which seemed to come naturally to everyone else.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing, to have Griffin as a friend. Especially since he seemed willing to put up with my eccentricities. His good looks and charm had nothing to do with it.
“I, er, yes,” I said. “That is, no. I mean, no it isn’t wrong of you.”
His smile could make a man imagine he stood on a tropical beach, rather than a freezing street. “Good to hear. Now,” he hefted the bag in his hand, causing several things to shift and clank within, “shall we go forward with our excursion?”
This was my last chance to back out. To decide, no, I really didn’t want to risk ending up in jail tonight. To go back to my apartment, lock the door, and bury myself in a book. To preserve my quiet existence.
But Griffin was my friend now, and he had asked for my help. Just as Leander had asked so many years ago.
No. This was no boyish fancy: Griffin was trying to bring a murderer to justice. I was not accompanying him out of selfish reasons, but because I might be the only one who could decipher any texts we found. Could I sleep at night, knowing I might have brought some measure of peace to Mr. Rice, but turned back out of pure cowardice?
“I’m ready,” I said.
Griffin flashed me a grin. “Come then, Whyborne. We have work to do.”
~ * ~
The warehouse was two blocks from the waterfront, tucked along a side street occupied by boarded-up buildings and pawnshops selling the curious objects acquired by sailors in far ports. It was not an area of town I had ever before frequented, and my steps grew more cautious as we left the known streets farther and farther behind. The air reeked of fish, and I glimpsed the stacks of the canning factory only a few streets away. The whisper of the ocean was like the deep throb of a giant’s pulse.
At this hour, we encountered few on the streets, except for a handful of wretches seeking somewhere quiet to sleep. The bawdy houses and saloons clustered around Queen Street, four blocks to the south. At least we didn’t have to pass any leering dockworkers or red-lipped whores.
Gas had never been installed along the streets nearest the warehouse. The area lay in complete darkness, without a single light to brighten the overcast night. As we reached the last of the streetlights, Griffin paused and removed a pair of police lanterns from his bag. The faint smell of burning kerosene tinged the air as he lit one and passed it to me.
“If I tell you to cover it, obey me immediately,” he said, indicating the shutter.
I swallowed hard, and hoped he didn’t notice the shaking of my hand as I accepted the lantern. “As you say.”
“Then cover it for now, and walk close behind me. The fewer lights we show, the less attention we’ll attract.” The strong beam of his lantern cut through the night as he spoke. “I wish we could have waited for a moonlit night and forgone them altogether, but there’s no guarantee of getting one of those until next spring.”
“If then.” Dismal rains were rather the mainstay April through June.
“Lovely.” He came to a sudden halt, putting a hand to my arm. Even through the layers of clothing separating our skin, his touch felt like a jolt of electricity. “There’s the warehouse. I’m going to dim the light—stay close to me.”
“I will.”
He released me and eased the shutter of his lantern closed, letting only a thin sliver of light escape. We remained on the side of the street opposite our goal, until we stood directly across from it, when Griffin shuttered the light completely.
Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3 Page 4
