I jumped, letting out an undignified shriek. “Steady on, Whyborne!” Griffin said.
My heart pounded so hard from my scare I could barely speak. “Griffin—look—there—”
“Where?”
The man was gone. I looked frantically about, half-expecting to see him sliding closer through the shadowy trees, but it was as if he had vanished into thin air. “There was someone watching me. And before, something else was moving in the trees.”
Griffin’s hand tightened on my shoulder. “I lost the one I chased, assuming it wasn’t the same man. I don’t think there’s anything to gain from staying here longer.”
~ * ~
I locked the door to my apartment behind me that night. I could not shake the memory of the watcher in the woods. Bad enough he had vanished with such unnatural swiftness, but that was not what troubled me. Rather, I had the growing conviction those unseen eyes had looked not just at me but into me, as if the secrets of my soul were nothing more than words on a page, to be revealed to anyone who knew how to read them. It was a foolish fancy, but I felt slightly safer once the bolt was thrown between my apartment and the world.
Then I remembered the sense of observation I’d had the other night, and the strange sounds from outside my window, and hurried to close the curtains as well.
After our morning adventure, I’d retired to the museum and spent much of the day carefully re-reading the opening chapters of the Arcanorum. Many of the mystic formulas contained within required esoteric ingredients far beyond my meager means. Not to mention even the most disinterested of neighbors would object to alchemical experiments carried out in their midst. The stenches alone would drive them to complain to the landlady.
I discovered a few rituals needing only minimal preparation, however, and it was one of these I settled on as an experiment. A “novice’s” spell, the text said derisively, something practiced only by rank amateurs. Which certainly described me.
According to the Arcanorum, I needed only a combustible material, a certain chant, and a focused will. The book implied the latter was the rare quality, which made a convenient excuse if the whole thing was indeed a hoax perpetrated on the gullible, as I’d originally assumed. The spell didn’t work? Oh, you must not have the strength of will. Try harder next time!
Having seen what I had seen, I was no longer entirely sure what a failure would prove, if anything. But a success…
I lowered the gaslight, until only a faint glow remained. I sat at my rickety table and placed a single candle before me. Feeling rather ridiculous, I tried to focus on the candle’s wick and clear my mind of other distractions.
It wasn’t going to work. Why was I even trying? This was nonsense, like believing the sun descended beneath the earth every night and battled monsters, or a rabbit lived on the moon, or a dragon encircled the world and only the chants of priests could keep it at bay.
I cleared my throat and self-consciously spoke aloud the Aklo phrase the book pompously referred to as the “true name of fire.”
Nothing happened, of course. But to be fair, I wasn’t exactly focused.
I repeated the phrase.
Who had the man been in the forest? Just an innocent nature-lover out for a stroll? But no one went into the Draakenwood just to take a walk.
Blast it. I needed to focus.
I repeated the phrase again. And again.
I went on until the words became meaningless. I focused on the sounds and the wick, and slowly other thoughts dropped away.
The candle burst into flame.
Chapter 8
The next morning, nothing seemed quite real. The newspaper boys shouting the latest headlines, the steam rising from the flanks of horses, the early morning light slanting cold and gray over the ocean: they were nothing more than a painted backdrop in a play, meant to distract the eye from the true nature of the theater.
I had lit the candle again this morning. And my stove. As I’d told Griffin after the fiasco at the warehouse, the experiment was repeatable.
Repeatable…but not understandable. I was no physicist, no astronomer, no mathematician. I studied languages, the more dead the better. How could I hope to make sense of any of it?
The spell worked. Although the Arcanorum couched everything in terms of gods, demons, and angels, I was not yet prepared to accept such explanations. I might abandon all reason before I reached the final page, but I would not take such a step in these early stages.
I spent the morning at my desk, combing through the book, checking and re-checking my translation. If I was to accept even a portion of the formulae within as genuine, then the Brotherhood had great power at its disposal.
My first priority was determining the nature of the monster we’d confronted at the warehouse. I had my guesses, but wished to have all the facts before I made my report to Griffin. I scribbled copious notes from the Arcanorum, then retired to the museum library for further reference and study.
The design of the library had been one of the more eccentric decisions on the part of the Ladysmith’s mad architect. The entry was on the first floor, and certain records and journals were kept there. The main part, however, was laid out in a labyrinthine design below ground, yet not accessible by any of the other lower storerooms or halls.
The result was nightmarish; the librarians did constant battle with mold and damp, employing every trick known or imagined to preserve the papers. Random shafts let light in at odd intervals, meaning anyone seeking a particular item had to rely on the dim gaslight from sometimes distant walls, a sunny day and luck, or a lantern. Additionally, sounds had an odd way of echoing, making far-off voices seem near at hand, and distorting ordinary noises until they were menacing and strange.
As a result, most of us disliked the library intensely. Christine and Bradley had spent endless hours in my office complaining about it, and I couldn’t count how many departmental meetings were sidetracked into a long session of mutual hate for the library, often combined with suspicion the librarians were hiding critical items for no apparent reason. Perhaps the architecture had driven them mad as well.
I spent hours immersed one of the small rooms near the very back, where certain texts were kept, their remoteness meant to discourage casual perusal. I’d always thought it ridiculous to keep the Pnakotic Manuscripts, Al Azif, and other tomes under lock and key. After my experiences of the last few days, I was no longer certain.
Entombed in the depths of the library as I was, none of the usual noises associated with the museum’s closing reached me, and when I glanced at my pocket watch, the late hour surprised me. I was probably the only one left in the building.
The shadows of the labyrinth-library seemed suddenly deeper. I hurriedly gathered up my things and left the room. The interconnected chambers and oddly-angled halls were lit only by moonlight streaming from the irregular shafts set into the ceiling. My footsteps echoed strangely, almost as if someone followed behind me. I quickened my pace, which only made it worse.
By the time I reached the entrance to the library complex, my heart thumped hard enough to make me light-headed, and it was everything I could do not to break into a run. Glad beyond words to be quit of the place, I shut the door behind me, turned, and tripped over the body of the night watchman.
~ * ~
I fell heavily; my books and notes went flying, and my palms left skin on the wooden floor. I rolled onto my back, scuttling away from the body like a crab, even as I searched the darkened hallway for the horrors surely lurking there.
The night outside was cloudless; moonlight fell through the windows lining one side of the hall, revealing only the wooden floor, the storage cabinets along the opposite wall, the body, and my scattered things. The air reeked of blood and less pleasant substances. The watchman’s glassy eyes bulged from their sockets and his mouth hung open in a silent scream, as if his last sight had been one of terror. Blood pooled stickily around him, and his uniform was shredded, as if from the claws of some frenz
ied beast.
There was another smell beneath the blood, nauseatingly familiar from the warehouse. My hands began to shake. The Arcanorum called them Custodes—Guardians.
Panic would get me nowhere. I had no weapons. My only recourse was to try to sneak out of the museum without being seen. Then I would summon the police.
Abandoning my books and notes, I rose to my feet and made my way along the hall as stealthily as I could. Every creak of wood, every scuff of my sole against the floor, even the ragged sound of my breath seemed destined to give me away. At least I knew the layout of the museum by heart; surely the Guardian would be at a disadvantage in the twisting maze of halls and storerooms.
But what was it doing here at all? Surely it couldn’t be looking for me, could it? How would anyone even know Griffin and I had been at the warehouse? Or had the man in the woods followed us unseen all the way back to the museum?
I turned into a narrower side-hall, not far from the offices of the Department of Antiquities. There was a small staff door nearby which let out onto an alley behind the museum. I should be able to use it to slip out.
I quickened my step, even though it was a risk. I hadn’t smelled the Guardian again, or seen evidence of anyone else in the museum. Just a little farther, and I’d be out on the street, where at least my cries might be heard.
Turning a corner, I collided with someone.
My heart stuttered, and my hands curled instinctively into fists—I wouldn’t go down without a fight, even one I was destined to lose—
“Blast it, Whyborne, look where you’re going!” Christine snapped. “And what’s wrong with you? You’re pale as a sheet.”
I slumped against the nearest wall, feeling as though I might collapse from relief. “What are you doing here?” I asked.
“What do you think I’m doing? Working on the exhibit, of course. The director wants me on hand for the gala, but I mean to be on a ship bound for Egypt the very next day.”
I winced at her strident tones. “Shh. Christine, listen to me, please. Someone’s broken into the museum. Th-they’ve killed the night watchman. We need to get out of here.”
Christine paled for an instant. Then, squaring her shoulders, she strode in the direction of her office.
I ran after her; my longer legs allowed me to catch hold of her arm before she reached her office door. “What are you doing?” I whispered. “We have to escape!”
“Let go of me,” she ordered. I did, and she continued to her office, marching in and going directly to her desk. “I don’t suppose you thought to take the gun off of poor Mr. Dillard?”
“Who? Oh, the watchman? No. I-I’m not sure I’d know what to do with one.”
She let out a sigh and shook her head. “Honestly, Whyborne, you’re utterly hopeless.” Taking her purse out of her desk, she drew out a petite revolver. “This blasted thing is all we’ve got, then. I wish I had my rifle.”
“Surely you can’t mean to confront the, er, thieves!”
“Of course I do! Do you know how much collectors would pay for certain items from Nephren-ka’s tomb? I’m not letting anyone make off with my artifacts, and I’m shocked you would!”
My mind flailed: what I could possibly say, which she might believe? “I think they, er, have some kind of attack dog with them. The guard—Mr. Dillard—was savaged. We need to get out of here and summon a police officer.”
Christine pushed past me. Her back was straight, her expression grim. “You go to the police,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m going to protect my artifacts.”
“Blast it,” I muttered under my breath, and hurried to catch up with her.
A small smile curled her mouth, despite the circumstances. “Good man.”
“I can hardly let you go by yourself, now can I?” I said. “But let’s at least be sensible about this. We should attempt to ambush them, or…something.” If we could only get a glimpse of the Guardian without it seeing us, the horror of it would surely convince even Christine to retreat.
“Excellent idea,” Christine said cheerfully. I didn’t say anything further, fearing to attract the attention of the creature. Christine moved quickly, but far more quietly than I could manage. She cast one or two irritated glances over her shoulder when my shoe scuffed too loudly for her liking.
We made our way toward the front of the museum. The mummy and his tomb-loot occupied the grand exhibit hall on the south side of the main hall. If the Guardian didn’t find us before then, we’d discover the exhibit undisturbed. Perhaps then I could talk Christine into fleeing out the front door with me.
But as we drew near, I heard a thump and the muffled sound of a very human curse. Had I been wrong? Had I only imagined the familiar smell outside the library? But no, Mr. Dillard had been ripped apart; no mundane thieves could have done such a thing.
We entered the main hall, clinging to the shadows along the wall. Moonlight poured through the enormous glass ceiling, spilling over the hadrosaur skeleton, which formed the centerpiece of the grand entry. Its empty eye sockets seemed to watch us with sinister intent as we crept past.
The sound of boots on the wooden floor came from the exhibit hall. A great black drape stretched across the entry, to keep the curious public from catching a glimpse of the exhibit before its unveiling. The rope barricade placed in front of the curtain had been torn aside, and the drape hung askew.
Christine’s mouth tightened with fury. Holding her revolver at the ready, she eased along the wall, her skirts barely rustling as she moved. When she reached the crack where the drape met the wall, she put her eye to it. After a long moment, her expression transformed to a grim smile.
Then, before I could prevent it, she flung aside the drape and aimed her gun. “Stop right where you are, or I’ll shoot you down, sir,” she said with remarkable calm.
Skylights let the moonlight into the exhibit hall, competing with the warm glow of the thief’s lantern. He bent over a crate, a crowbar in one hand. “Back away, and put down your tools,” Christine ordered.
As I stepped up behind her, I caught a whiff of putrescence, like an unwashed body left unburied for too long. All the hairs on my arms and neck tried to stand up. “Christine!” I said urgently.
The ruffian let his crowbar fall. Did the clatter cover another sound, of claws scraping wood?
“Christine!” I repeated.
“Not now, Whyborne! Can’t you see I’m busy?”
It emerged from where it had hidden amidst the crates and boxes. Moonlight revealed its awful form, and my gorge rose.
If the Guardian in the warehouse had been some unholy mixture of human and crocodile, then this one bore the traits of man and hyena. Wet fur covered large patches of its body, leaving other parts horribly pink and exposed. A crest of stiff hairs ran from the back of its head down its spine. Its head was a nightmarish thing, one eye and part of the face of a man, lips twisting into the maw of a predator and filled with wicked teeth.
“Run!” I shouted.
~ * ~
Several things happened at once.
Christine caught sight of the Guardian, and her eyes went wide. Swinging her gun around, she fired, and was rewarded by a howl of rage. At the same moment, the thief reached into his jacket and drew out a revolver of his own. It was much larger than Christine’s.
“Run!” I yelled again, wondering if I was going to have to drag Christine bodily out of the museum.
She fired two quick shots at the thief, causing him to duck, before turning and fleeing. I ran close on her heels.
We raced across the main hall, dodging around the bones of prehistoric animals as we headed for the main door. A bullet smacked into the marble directly in front of my feet; Christine pivoted smartly and dragged me with her to the door leading deeper into the museum.
The thief fired again, and the bullet blew chips of fossilized bone from the skull of some toothy reptile. I risked a look over my shoulder, and my heart almost stopped at the sight.
; The Guardian raced across the hall toward us, running on all fours in a horrible, loping gait neither human nor animal. Its claws scrabbled for purchase on the slick marble tiles of the main hall, which was the only reason it hadn’t yet caught up with us.
Behind it, the thief aimed his gun at Christine.
“Christine! Duck!”
She turned on her heel instead, and their guns discharged at the same instant.
I would have sworn his shot actually stirred Christine’s hair. She didn’t flinch however, and it was the thief who fell backward in a spray of blood.
We didn’t stop to find out if the bullet had put an end to him. Instead, we ran through the door, slamming it shut and locking it an instant before the Guardian’s heavy body impacted it from the other side.
I backed away, staring at the door, which shook in its frame from repeated blows. Christine swayed and grabbed the wall. Her face was deathly white, her eyes wide with fear.
“What is it?” she asked, and her voice quivered slightly. Perhaps the shock was catching up with her.
“It’s called a Guardian.”
“You know what it is?”
“Unfortunately. It has something to do with the case Griffin is working on.”
The fear drained out of her expression, to be replaced by anger. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“Well, I hardly expected one to turn up at the museum, did I?”
With an ominous crack, the wood of the door began to split.
Christine eyed the door in alarm. “It’s going to break through.”
“Perhaps we can lose it in the storerooms,” I suggested, backing away.
We hurried down the hall, made a sharp turn to the right, then one to the left. I paused at the top of a steep flight of stairs leading to the below-ground storerooms. At the moment, it looked like nothing but a black well.
From the distance came the sound of shattering wood.
I took a box of matches out of my pocket and lit one. It wouldn’t provide much in the way of illumination, but at least we wouldn’t break our necks in a fall.
Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3 Page 7
