“If this is too difficult—”
“No.” He shifted in the chair, and I withdrew quickly to my position near the fire. “We were hired to find a missing girl. To make a long and tedious story short, we tracked her to a rented house in Chicago. My partner and I broke inside. The upper part of the house seemed normal, but we found a trapdoor beneath a rug in the parlor. We went down…down into the earth.”
He closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. “The basements, the vaults…God, some of them were ancient. The Brotherhood must have known the diggings were there and built the house on top of them.”
“I’m sorry—the Brotherhood?”
“The Brotherhood of the Immortal Fire. A secret cult made up of very powerful, very wealthy men. Their existence is barely even a rumor. I would never have known of them if not for the last case. Their symbol is a phoenix clutching an ouroboros.”
“The mark on the book we found,” I said, feeling a stirring of dread. Surely secret societies and the like didn’t really exist; such theories of conspiracy were simply the product of paranoid minds. And yet the haunted look on Griffin’s face said otherwise.
“Yes.” He hefted his empty glass and looked at it, as if some secret lurked in its depths. “We went down into the catacombs, hoping to find the girl. But instead we found things, the like of which I can’t even begin to describe. If I said they were gelatinous, and floppy, and had pseudopods and things which must have been eyes…but none of that is quite right.
“Two of us went into that basement. I’m the only one who came out. I told everyone what I’d seen, but of course it sounded like the ravings of a madman. The police raided the place, with a force of Pinkertons, but the Brotherhood had closed up shop. There were no monsters, no horrors. Just dank tunnels and brick walls. They said I’d broken under the strain. I was mad.”
The injustice of it made my chest ache. “I’m sorry.”
“The thing is…a part of me hoped they were right. If I was mad…well, surely madness would be the better option, wouldn’t it? Because if I’m not mad, if I really did see those things, then it is the world itself which is insane.”
“Griffin.” Feeling horribly awkward, I knelt before his chair. I wanted to take his hands, but surely the intimacy wouldn’t be welcomed. “These monstrosities, whatever they are, operate on principles of science. The world may be many things: purposeless, random, and filled with happenings we don’t have the means to comprehend. But the book you gave me to translate is filled with formulas. Methods. Repeatable experiments. The outcomes of those experiments may be horrific, especially as there is apparently more to them than superstitious twaddle, but they are still predictable.”
He looked at me as if he’d never seen me before. Then he smiled for the first time since the warehouse and let out a genuine laugh. “My dear Whyborne, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you.”
I rose to my feet. “Forgive me,” I mumbled. I’d made myself look the fool as usual.
He rose as well, dislodging Saul, who mewed his displeasure. Griffin’s strong hands gripped my upper arms, compelling me to face him. “Don’t be ridiculous. With one sentence, you’ve given me more hope than I’ve had in the last two years.”
The firelight caught the blue and rust hidden in his green eyes and made them all but glow. Although his smile was not cheerful, it was at least hopeful, and the soft curve of his lower lip caught my gaze and held it.
God. If anyone here were mad, it was me.
“I-I only stated the obvious,” I mumbled.
“To you, perhaps.” He released me. Thankfully, because it put distance between us and removed the edge of dangerous intensity. I felt sorry for the same reasons. “Does the Arcanorum speak of things such as we saw at the warehouse?”
“Er, I’m not certain,” I said. “I didn’t pay as much attention as I might have, not expecting to actually encounter any of the things described within. I’ll rectify that tomorrow. The other book might help as well—do you still have it?”
Griffin’s expression fell. “No. I dropped it in my haste to draw my revolver.”
“Understandable, but unfortunate. No matter.” I knelt on the carpet and busied myself petting Saul, who had come to twine around my ankles. “What is our next move, as it were?”
“Our?”
I’d presumed too much. “Never mind. I-I’ll just leave it to the, ah, expert, then.”
“Whyborne?”
“Yes?”
“Do you want to help?”
I looked up and found him watching me with the oddest expression. As if I’d said or done something so unexpected he didn’t know how to react.
Instead of answering, I asked, “What happened to the girl? The one you’d gone to save?”
His mouth tightened with remembered grief. “We were too late. There was just enough left for her mother to identify.”
“And if it is within my power to prevent such a thing happening again, do you think I would simply stand by?”
He laughed, as he had earlier: soft and half-amused, half-surprised. “I see. But I work alone, remember?”
Since his partner died, at least. Had the man been more than a colleague, or even a friend? “I understand. I will translate the text, or any other you find, of course.” I bit my lip, uncertain if I should continue. It was a miracle he hadn’t laughed outright at my fumbling offer. If I pressed further, his good humor might easily turn to contempt or patronizing dismissal.
If it were only myself…but I had kept silent once before, and Leander had died for it. More was at stake here than my pride. At least one man had already been murdered; if Griffin were next, and I hadn’t at least tried…
“You asked me to come to the warehouse with you, and your reasoning was sound,” I said. “I know I’m not a man of action, or courage, or anything really useful. But now that I better understand what it is we face, I can study the Arcanorum. The next time we come upon a scene such as the one in the warehouse, maybe I’ll at least be able to tell you what they were about.”
I expected him to laugh, or even sneer. Instead, he hesitated, uncertainty in his gaze. “You said earlier you need an expert,” I cajoled. “You have one. Make use of me.”
He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple working. “Stand up, please.”
I did, even though it put me several inches above him. He held out one hand, and I took it.
“I could use your help,” he said, giving my hand a firm shake. “For this case, at least. Welcome aboard, Percival Endicott Whyborne.”
Chapter 7
As I dressed the next morning in the clear light of day, the events of the previous night seemed like something from a dream. Surely there had to be some sort of rational explanation for what we had seen. Some sort of tragic deformity, perhaps, like that poor Merrick fellow in England.
As a child, I had once seen a “living curiosity,” as the traveling show called the wretch. But the drooling face and malformed body had inspired tears instead of terror—and a sharp blow from my father, who had been embarrassed by my “girlish display,” as he called it.
The sideshow freak had been tragic, but there had been something profoundly wrong about the creature we’d encountered last night. Something which inspired a loathing far beyond the worst nature could devise. And, God, the smell! Why did the thing reek of the graveyard?
It had snowed overnight. Although not unused to such weather, Widdershins seldom received the heavier snowfalls which plagued some of our inland neighbors, and the streets were far less crowded than usual. I stepped carefully along the treacherous sidewalk in my oxfords. The omnibus probably wasn’t even running this morning, so I’d have to trudge all the way to the Ladysmith in the snow.
As I passed the newsstand on the corner, a hand gripped my arm. I flinched back, before realizing the hand belonged to Griffin.
“Good morning, Whyborne,” he said, as if we met this way every day. His overcoat was buttoned up against
the cold, making him look far more somber than usual. “Do you have an urgent appointment at the museum?”
I wanted to pull my arm away. I also wanted for him to continue to touch me. “Er, n-no.”
“Excellent. Then you can accompany me to the Kings Hill Cemetery.”
Did the man feel a constant need to drag me all over Widdershins? “Kings Hill Cemetery? Why on earth would we go there?”
“After you left last night, I spent some time going over my case notes. Something you said the day we went to the police station has been itching at the back of my mind ever since.”
Something I had said? “What?”
“You mentioned the theft of the remains of the town founder.” He let go of my arm and took a folded sheet of newspaper from his pocket.
WIDDERSHINS FOUNDER’S GRAVE VIOLATED screamed the headline, dated November 1, 1897. And in slightly smaller print beneath: Blackbyrne Tomb Opened During the Night. The attached article rather hysterically speculated as to possible motives, including extorting a ransom from the town for the return of the body.
Above the fold was a large photograph showing the disturbed grave, the earth black against the white snow. A grim-faced policeman stood to one side. In the center loomed the monument, the words THERON BLACKBYRNE, MARCH 11, 1671 - MAY 1, 1723 still deeply cut despite a century and a half of weathering.
I recalled the moldering coffins in the warehouse, the piles of clothing stiff with the filth of the grave. “Do you think the Brotherhood was behind the theft?”
“I think it a possibility, at least enough of one to investigate further. I’d like to take a look at the gravesite. Would you care to accompany me?”
I could hardly refuse, after arguing to be included. “Of course.”
His smile made me forget the snowy morning. “Good man.”
~ * ~
A cab let us out near the wrought-iron gates of the Kings Hill Cemetery. The cold air stung my face and ears, and the wind slithered icy fingers through every tiny gap in my clothing. I tugged my scarf more securely around my neck.
The snow outside the old burying ground showed the passage of hooves and feet, and I glimpsed a few black-clad figures entering through the iron gates. I detested funerals, and looked away quickly, as if afraid their grief might be infectious.
Inside the low stone walls, the tombstones stretched out in ragged rows, their tops frosted in white. Leafless trees loomed over all, and in the distance I could make out the dark wall of trunks forming the boundary of the cemetery.
“That’s the Draakenwood,” I offered, pointing in the direction of the forest. “Blackbyrne’s grave was near the trees, in the oldest part of the cemetery. I remember seeing it when my grandmother was laid in the family crypt.”
“Your family is buried here, then?”
“All of the old families have crypts.” The snow crunched under our feet as I led the way past the funeral. The sonorous voice of the priest followed us on the wind.
As we drew closer to the older section of the cemetery, the monuments grew more worn, and the family crypts appeared. Snow obliterated some of the names, but others I could make out, the letters softened by a century of rain: Marsh, Waite, Abbott, Whyborne. I paused outside our crypt. The padlock on the door had rusted badly; the last time it had been opened had been to inter my grandmother. My twin sister lay within as well, having died within hours of our birth; I was told my life had been despaired of as well for some time after.
Beyond the guardian row of crypts lurked the oldest part of the burying ground, on the pinnacle of Kings Hill: not the physical heart of the cemetery, but certainly its metaphorical one. Here lay the earliest settlers of Widdershins, those souls who had joined Theron Blackbyrne, years after he’d fled Salem one step before the witch hunters. Their graves were simple for the most part, in stark contrast to Blackbyrne’s grandiose monument. Unlike the orderly rows of the rest of the cemetery, they radiated out from a central point, forming a loose wheel of sorts. And at the hub of the wheel was the grave of Blackbyrne himself.
Undertakers had refilled the grave at some point since the theft, but I detected a decided concavity even beneath the snow, like the socket of a missing tooth. Stepping carefully around the disturbed ground, Griffin approached the monument and began to examine it in detail. “What do you know about Blackbyrne?” he asked, brushing snow away from the ornate carvings.
“Very little,” I admitted. Had Griffin asked me here assuming I would know the history of Widdershins? “He fled the witch trials in Salem. And he died in mysterious circumstances. Otherwise…well, I, er, never made a study of American history, you see.”
I stared at my shoes, expecting mockery. But Griffin only said, “No one can be a master of everything, my dear Whyborne.”
As he examined the monument, I wandered closer to the dark eaves of the Draakenwood. Unlike the wholesome groves of other forests, the trees of the wood seemed to huddle together, their black branches interlacing to form a deliberate tangle. Nothing stirred in the underbrush around the verge, and even in winter the branches blocked enough sunlight to render an impenetrable gloom a mere few yards in. No one took walks in these woods, and to my knowledge it had never been cut. It was the sort of place where boys dared each other to run in under the trees, although never far enough as to lose sight of their friends waiting outside. Occasionally, there would be rumors of someone who entered the wood and vanished without a trace; out-of-towners for the most part, who didn’t know any better.
I took a tentative step just under the branches. Thorny underbrush caught at my coat, as if trying to hold me back. I noticed black feathers snagged on the thorns, and I leaned closer, peering at them. Had some poor bird gotten tangled?
“Whyborne! Come see this!”
Startled by the low urgency in Griffin’s voice, I hurried back to his side. He stood in front of the now-bare monument, his gloves caked in snow. He stretched out one hand, then seemed to think better of touching the cold marble, and pointed instead. “Look.”
Amidst the bewildering profusion of faces, vines, and symbols carved into the monument there nestled a phoenix clutching an ouroboros in its talons. The symbol from the book last night, which had struck such fear into Griffin.
“The Brotherhood?” I said, bewildered.
“He must have been a member.” Griffin’s hand curled into a fist, then dropped to his side. “Perhaps this town isn’t the only thing he founded.”
“But why steal his body? That is, if he was one of them…”
Griffin shook his head. “I don’t know.” He glanced at me, then down at my hand. “What have you got there?”
I uncurled my fingers, revealing the pathetic bundle of feathers and bone I’d pulled from the underbrush. “A dead crow, I think. It was in the bushes, over there.”
He frowned and went to the edge of the wood, before bending down. “There’s another here. And another. They’re scattered all over. A whole flock.”
“A murder,” I corrected automatically. “It’s a murder of crows.” All of them dead, as if the entire group had simply dropped straight down from the trees in which they’d roosted. “Some people believe they carry souls to the afterlife.”
“From the state of them, they’ve been here a while,” Griffin said. “A month, perhaps?”
From the shadows beneath the trees came the unmistakable sound of a twig snapping.
Griffin jumped to his feet, the metal of his revolver gleaming in the dull sunlight. I peered anxiously into the wood: surely it had only been a deer, or a squirrel, or—
Something large and dark moved suddenly among the trees, its two-legged gait carrying it swiftly away.
“Someone was spying on us,” Griffin exclaimed, and a moment later charged into the woods after the fleeing figure.
I balked, every story and ghost-tale of the Draakenwood I’d ever heard flooding into my mind. But Griffin wouldn’t know the stories of travelers who vanished forever under the dark branche
s.
“Blast him,” I muttered, and gave chase.
The trees closed around me in a dense tangle; only a few yards in, and I could barely make out anything beyond the verge. Thorn-covered vines gone brown with winter snagged on my clothes and knocked off my hat. A branch dumped snow on my bare head, and I stopped to wipe it from my eyes. When I looked around again, there was no sign of Griffin.
Some of the snow had gone down my collar, and I told myself that was the reason for my shiver. Selecting the direction I thought he had dashed, I pressed further into the woods.
I’d never been one for exploring the countryside, even as a boy. Within a few minutes, I came to a stop and looked around, disoriented. I couldn’t have gone far…but which way would take me back to the graveyard? Was I going in circles? Heading farther in?
The trees gave me no answer, their thick, gray trunks looming on every side. Every direction looked the same now: trees and snow. Even the sunlight was diffused by the heavy clouds, so I was unable to tell exactly where it stood in the sky.
The wind came up, shaking the branches and sifting snow onto my head and shoulders. A low moan echoed from somewhere near at hand.
Branches. Not a moan. Just branches rubbing against one another.
Something moved deeper in the wood, just on the edge of sight, but I couldn’t make out what it might be through the trees. I opened my mouth, intending to call out in the hopes it might be Griffin, but my voice seemed lodged in my throat. The way the form moved didn’t seem entirely human.
Enough. I was getting out of this damnable wood. Surely even I could retrace the tracks I’d left behind me in the snow. I turned, intending to do just that, and froze.
A man stood watching me.
The trees and shadows half-obscured him, and he wore a dark, hooded cloak. All I could make out was the shape of his jaw, the curve of his lips. Eyes glittered from under his hood, and, realizing I’d seen him, he smiled a cold, cruel smile.
A hand came down on my shoulder.
Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3 Page 6
