Instantly, we were plunged into complete darkness. His hand clasped my arm again, and he leaned close, his lips all but pressed to my ear as he whispered: “I came by during daylight, disguised as a dock worker, and didn’t see any watchmen. But we’ll wait a few minutes just to be sure.”
I’d never realized my ears were so sensitive, but I was hyper-aware of his breath on my skin, stirring the small hairs. A shiver raced down my neck, and I began to stiffen beneath my worsted trousers.
This was madness. What had happened, that I was suddenly prey to these urges which I had kept ruthlessly suppressed my entire adult life?
At least the concealing night prevented Griffin from seeing the blood rush to my face. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I nodded my assent, and he withdrew, satisfied.
He spent the next few minutes watching the warehouse for any sign of light from within which would betray a night guard on his rounds. I spent them concentrating on the cold, the unpleasant stink of fish, and how we might possibly explain ourselves if a police officer should happen along. Any distraction was welcome, if it kept my thoughts off the man at my side.
After a wait which seemed agonizingly long, although in truth it could not have been more than ten minutes, Griffin cracked the shutter on his lantern and led the way across the street to our destination. He avoided the main door in favor of a smaller entrance on the side, no doubt meant for deliveries from the alley.
“Hold the light steady on the lock,” he instructed, passing me his lantern. He rummaged through his carpetbag again and pulled out a bundle of rolled-up cloth. When spread on the icy sidewalk beneath the door, the bundle revealed a number of thin metal slips and picks. Selecting two, he set to work on the door lock.
“Did the Pinkertons teach you this?” I asked in surprise.
He didn’t look away from his work. “Actually, yes. Why—are you imagining a sordid past for me?”
“I begin to feel as if nothing about you would shock me.”
“My dear Whyborne, I do believe you think me a rogue,” he said as the door popped open. Grinning triumphantly, he took the lantern from me.
“I’ve yet to see evidence to the contrary,” I muttered, eyeing the dark room beyond. Once I stepped in, I would well and truly be on the wrong side of the law. Griffin stopped just within and looked at me expectantly. With a sigh, I crossed the threshold.
Griffin eased the door shut behind us, although he didn’t close it all the way, no doubt in case we needed a hasty escape. At his signal, I uncovered my lantern and used it to inspect the room. Perhaps it had been intended as some kind of receiving room, but now it was completely bare and slightly dusty.
He led the way to the door on the opposite wall and cautiously cracked it open. After peering through, he opened it further and beckoned me to follow.
Griffin swept his lantern slowly from one end of the cavernous room to the other. Although the beams were powerful, the lanterns revealed only a sliver of the room at a time, leaving everything outside the small circles of light in complete darkness. Pallets of all sorts lay strewn about, many of them containing large crates. Even a quick glance revealed the marks of a dozen different ports from around the globe.
“I’ll poke around down here,” he murmured; his breath steamed in the cold, forming a cloud floating through the bright beam of his lantern. “The stairs over there lead up to the offices. If there are any relevant books, that’s where they’ll be kept.”
“You, er, want me to look upstairs?”
“Please.”
Why was I so reluctant to leave his side? I’d never been one to fear the dark, and I’d never needed another’s company to reassure me against imagined terrors. Yet there was something about this warehouse I most emphatically did not like, a sense that something watched me from the darkness.
Except there wasn’t anything lurking, any more than there had been in my apartment. It had been foolishness then and was foolishness now. Straightening my spine, I nodded and made my way to the stair Griffin indicated.
The risers creaked beneath my feet. Despite the cold, the air was oddly close. I caught a whiff of putrefaction. A rat had died in the walls, no doubt. Or an army of them.
I swept my light across the landing on the second floor; something scuttled away, just beyond the beam. Most likely another rat—although it sounded terribly large for a rat. Well, we were near the docks; this was probably some king of its species from Sumatra or Shanghai, newly brought to these shores by one of the many ships crowding the port.
As Griffin predicted, there were indeed offices on the second floor. The one to my right had large interior windows and looked out onto the warehouse floor below. No doubt it was meant for an overseer of some sort. The others might belong to…well, I had no idea who else might work in a warehouse. Someone more important than an overseer?
At any rate, if there was anything of a sensitive nature, it would more likely be kept in one of the closed rooms, where no one could just glance through a window. I chose the first room to my left and tried the door.
To my surprise, it was unlocked. Inside was a simple office: a desk, a filing cabinet, and a bookcase. A quick glance at the books showed only ledgers. I started to leave, then returned to look inside the desk. As I bent over it, I heard another scuttling from the shadows in the hall.
I jerked instinctively, shining the beam of my lantern in the direction of the sound. Nothing there.
Just rats. Rats in the walls.
I opened the desk. A leather-bound book lay inside. Burned into the cover was an unfamiliar symbol. A phoenix rose from flames, clutching in its claws an ouroboros: a serpent eating its own tail.
Griffin would want to see it. I took it from the drawer and tucked it into my overcoat; once I’d finished looking around, I’d show it to my companion before returning it to the drawer.
The next room was no office, as I’d supposed. Instead, it appeared to be a storeroom of some kind. Shelves lined the walls, and on the shelves were rows of cylindrical pottery jars, similar in design to those used by the ancient Greeks to store oil, even though they were obviously of modern origin. A small card was pasted to the shelf in front of each, inscribed with a date and a location. Salem 1683 or Providence 1791 or Widdershins 1812.
My curiosity aroused, I started to take down the nearest one, when the scuttling in the hall returned, louder than ever. This time, it was accompanied by a stench I couldn’t name: the foulness of unwashed skin, clotted with pus and mixed with the dry leathery scent of reptiles.
No rat smelled like that.
I left the shelf alone and hastened into the empty hall. Only one more door; I would look inside quickly, then gather Griffin and convince him to leave this place. My every nerve pulled tight, like violin strings about to snap.
I flung open the final door and froze. After a long, breathless moment, I turned and walked unsteadily back to the landing.
“Griffin?” I called. “I think you should see this.”
He came immediately, as if he trusted me to know what was important and what not. It might have warmed me, but what I’d glimpsed in the room had left too deep a chill.
I led the way back, even though I wanted to quit the building altogether. “I…I’m not sure what this is about,” I said as we reached the door. “But it cannot be good.”
Half the room seemed to be a chemical laboratory, reeking of sulfur. Our lantern beams reflected off glass jars, beakers, telescopes, and microscopes. There were coils of copper tubing, brass burners, and a dozen other instruments of whose function I was ignorant. Neatly-labeled bottles containing various compounds filled glass-fronted cabinets and shelves.
The other half of the room was the display of a madman.
The moldering remains of a dozen coffins lay broken and discarded, filling the air with a reek slightly less nauseous than the chemical stench. Foul rags of clothing formed a second pile, all of them of them encrusted with the unnamable filth of the grave.
“I don’t know what Philip was involved in, but whoever did this must be mad.” My voice trembled shamefully, but I could not help but stare at those coffins, wrenched from the earth with such violence, and wonder what had become of their poor contents. “They must believe their brand of occultism is real.”
Griffin wet his lips. “Yes. Mad.” His Adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed convulsively. “Was there anything else?”
“Just this,” I said, drawing the book from my coat and passing it to him.
Its effect was as immediate as it was unexpected. He started violently, and even in the dim light I saw the color drain from his face.
“Run,” he said.
“I-I’m sorry?”
“Run.” He tore his gaze away from the book in his hands. “Run, damn you, before it’s too late!”
I bolted for the door. But there was something already coming in through it.
Chapter 6
The beam of my lantern revealed a thing for which I had no words.
My mind flailed, trying and failing to make sense of what filled the doorway in front of me. It had four limbs, more or less, and a shape which overall suggested some perversion of humanity. But its naked body was horribly misshapen, the limbs of uneven length, the joints distorted. Thick, coarse skin covered it for the most part, but certain protuberances sprouted scales, and something horribly like human teeth jutted out of an elbow.
Its head was worse, however. Thanks to Christine, I’d spent many an hour bent over the art of ancient Egypt and its animal-headed gods. Those gods had a strange nobility and completeness to them. This thing seemed a mockery of the ancient deities. Its misshapen skull retained traces of humanity, but was hideously flattened and distended into an unmistakably crocodilian form.
Beady eyes fixed on me: blue irises punctured by reptilian pupils. Its jaws opened, the gape huge and lined with savage teeth, and it let loose a howl like something from the lowest pit of Tartarus.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t do anything but stare. Had I been alone, it would surely have ripped me to shreds.
The roar of a revolver snapped me out of my paralysis. The hybrid thing jerked from the impact of the bullet, and slick, thin blood burst from its flank.
I threw myself to one side, out of the line of fire. Griffin strode past me: his coat flapping against his legs, emptying the chambers of his revolver over and over again into the horror facing him.
The impact of the bullets forced the thing back; it shrieked every time it was struck. The sound alone was enough to freeze my blood. But Griffin kept advancing, his face set, driving it back until the hammer clicked on an empty chamber.
The monster cowered at the end of the hall. A trail of thin blood covered the floor, but it wasn’t dead. Perhaps Griffin hadn’t hit anything vital or it simply didn’t obey the laws of nature and couldn’t be killed. When the gun did no more than click, it slowly raised its head, its blue eyes shining evilly.
“Damn it,” Griffin said, almost conversationally. “Whyborne, my cane, if you please.”
I snatched it from the floor where he’d let it fall and tossed it to Griffin, even as the thing surged back to its clawed feet. He caught the cane almost without looking, gripping it in both hands firmly before whipping out the sword concealed within.
“Whyborne! The stair, quickly.”
I’d been standing and gaping like a fool. At his words, I dashed for the stair leading down. Perhaps we could outrun it—
Griffin hadn’t followed. Instead, he stood blocking the hall, his sword swinging back and forth in a blaze of steel, fending off the creature.
“Griffin!” I shouted.
“Run!” he barked, even as the horror drove him one step at a time back to the stairs. “Damn it, Whyborne, get out of here!”
I cast about wildly. Surely there must be some sort of weapon, something I could use to defend myself and lend aid to Griffin. But I had nothing except for the kerosene lantern clutched in my hand.
The horror barreled into Griffin with bruising force. The blade of his sword sliced deep into its shoulder, bursting several scaly tumors and releasing a nauseating stench. With a roar, it backhanded him, tearing his sword free of its body and sending him sprawling against the rail.
I had to keep it away from Griffin. With a strangled cry, I rushed at it, swinging my lantern wildly in the hope of driving it back.
Instead, its serrated jaws snapped at me. I jerked back instinctively, and instead of closing on my arm, its teeth crushed the lantern in my hand.
Kerosene and fire burst forth. I’d already released the lantern, but the heat still scorched the hairs from the back of my hand. The thing staggered back, screaming in agony. The flames died almost instantly, but shards of glass and metal pierced its mouth, and whatever kerosene it had swallowed surely did it no good. With a final howl, it crashed blindly into the rail—then tumbled over, falling onto the pallets and crates below.
I turned to Griffin, but he’d already recovered his feet. By unspoken agreement, we raced down the stair, across the room, and out the door.
Griffin finally slowed on bridge where Front Street jumped the Cranch. The thick water of the river rolled beneath us, black in the night. He stumbled to a halt, leaning against the railing and peering over, hands shaking visibly. When he looked at me, his face had the haunted expression he’d worn when he’d glimpsed the symbol on the book and told me to run.
“It…it was real, wasn’t it?” he asked. His voice was rough, the words cracking beneath some strong emotion. “The creature…it was real? I’m not mad?”
What was wrong with him? Unsure what else to do, I awkwardly patted him on the shoulder. “There, there, old fellow.”
I expected him to pull away or shake me off, but he didn’t. Instead, my feeble attempt at comfort seemed to have a bracing effect. He blinked slowly and some of the color came back to his face. “It’s real,” he repeated. “All of it.” He lifted a trembling hand to his eyes, then let it fall. “Dear God. I wish I had been mad after all.”
“Er, yes,” I said. “But, Griffin, do you think you might tell me what the devil is going on?”
He finally met my gaze. “Yes. Let’s go to my house. You and I have a great deal to discuss.”
~ * ~
“Welcome to my humble abode,” Griffin said, unlocking the door.
We had walked to his home in silence. Griffin lived in an older part of town, modest but not run-down. The two-story house was small, set well back from the street with a tall hedge to offer privacy. No doubt some of his clients wished to maintain as much anonymity as possible.
While I scraped the slush and mud of the streets off my shoes, he went inside. A moment later, the soft glow of gaslight spread through the narrow entry hall.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” he said, divesting himself of his overcoat and hat, and placing them on hooks near the door. I followed suit.
A door to my left opened onto a parlor. “Very nice,” I said, glancing at the rather formal-looking decor.
Griffin smiled, a bit ruefully. “This room is to impress the clients. Upstairs is my study. It’s far more comfortable.”
I followed him up the stairs. An extremely large orange cat bounded down as we went up, darting between Griffin’s feet and nearly tripping him. “Blast it, Saul, if you break my neck, who will feed you?” he groused good-naturedly.
The cat stopped to inspect my shoes. I bent down and offered a hand to sniff; apparently finding me to his satisfaction, Saul rubbed his big head against my fingers. I scratched him behind the ears and was rewarded with a rumbling purr.
“He likes you,” Griffin said from above me. “Saul’s an excellent judge of character, you know. If he hisses at a client, I refuse the case.”
I wondered if he was serious. “I wish I could have a cat, but the landlady doesn’t allow it.”
The stairs creaked under Grif
fin’s feet as he continued. Saul saw his master disappearing and dashed after him. Abandoned, I followed them to the second floor.
The study was located directly above the parlor; as Griffin had promised, it had a more informal, welcoming air than the room downstairs. An overstuffed chair sat close to the fireplace, and the mantel was cluttered with framed photographs, small watercolors, and other knickknacks. A large bookcase filled one wall, a couch opposite it. The spice of bergamot mingled with the warmth of leather and smoke.
A sideboard held several bottles and tumblers. Griffin paused long enough to stoke the banked fire to life, then poured a measure of brandy into a glass. “Would you care for a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Are you a teetotaler, then?” he asked.
“No.” I walked to the fireplace and held my hands to the flames, grateful for the warmth after our long walk in the cold. “I simply prefer to keep my wits around me.”
He took his glass to the chair and sat down. Saul hopped into his lap and curled up like a fluffy, orange throw rug. “You’re quite remarkable, Whyborne. Most men would want something to ease the shock of seeing…that.”
I shrugged at the compliment and glanced away. Whatever else I might be, remarkable certainly wasn’t it. I couldn’t imagine what he meant by such baseless flattery. “I take it you have seen…whatever it was…before?”
He closed his brilliant eyes for a moment; when he opened them, their look was dull, and he kept his gaze trained on the dancing flames instead. “Not exactly. Do you recall I used to belong to the Pinkerton Detective Agency?”
“Of course.”
“My last case…went wrong.” A bitter bark of laughter escaped him, and he tossed back the rest of his drink in a single swallow. “Which is a damned poor way of describing the hell I witnessed.”
He fell silent, his eyes far away. I drew close to his chair, then hesitantly touched the back of his near hand when he didn’t seem to notice me.
It worked; Griffin blinked, gave me a look of surprise, then sighed. “Forgive me.”
Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3 Page 5
