Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3

by Jordan L. Hawk

  “Did anyone know about them to tell him?”

  “Oh no, no.” Mr. Quinn smiled dreamily. “Imagine, a secret passage in the library. How often we all walked past it without knowing. Anything could have been on the other side. Watching.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up. “Er, yes,” I managed, “well, if that’s all, I have, er, things. To look up.”

  “Of course, Dr. Whyborne. Do let us know if you need any…assistance.”

  Somehow, I didn’t want to bring up the name Yog-Sothoth to Mr. Quinn.

  My research revealed nothing more. Many rituals depended on astronomical phenomena. The winter solstice was fast approaching, but there was no guarantee it was the celestial event to which the ritual was keyed. The rise of a particular star, or a certain conjunction of planets, were just as likely.

  We didn’t know when, or where. Or who; some poor devil would have to serve as the ‘container’ of the entity called through, after all. No doubt the Brotherhood would choose one of their own, but other than Blackbyrne, we didn’t know the identities of the living cult members, let alone dead ones.

  Perhaps the madam would be able—and willing—to shed some light on our opponents. We needed something, anything, to give us a chance.

  That evening, Griffin met me in front of my apartment building. He strolled up the street in his dockworker’s garb, and I was shocked at my sudden desire to embrace him. Such a display would only end up with us both in jail, so I tucked my hands into my pockets to keep from touching him.

  “Hullo, Weatherby,” he said affably. “Nice night. Fancy a stroll?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” I fell in beside him. “Your day was well?”

  “Well enough. Yours?”

  “Unproductive.”

  “Ah.”

  I glanced at him. There were dark circles under his eyes, and a drawn look around his mouth. He was under a great deal of strain, and had been for a long time. He’d lived with the burden of having seen things most people wouldn’t credit; he’d been called mad; he’d endured knowing the Brotherhood was out there, plotting God-knew-what insanity, and been unable to do anything about it. Poor Philip Rice had already lost his life by the time Griffin came onto the case, but he was still responsible for bringing peace to a grieving father.

  And now I told him failure meant the possible destruction of the human race, or at least its enslavement. No wonder he looked troubled.

  “We’ll stop them,” I said quietly. The mix of snow and mud on the sidewalk squelched under our feet.

  “We have to. For all our sakes.” God, he sounded bleak.

  I badly wished to take his hand. Instead, I said, “Buck up, old fellow. We haven’t lost yet.”

  He cast me a small smile. “You’re right, of course.” Turning his gaze back to the fore, he added, “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

  Despite the circumstances, his pronouncement filled me with warmth. I ducked my head and tried not to smile too ridiculously.

  I was better prepared for the brothel’s atmosphere this time. It looked much as it had on my first visit: full of bad whiskey, bad breath, and badly-dressed women.

  With the addition, it would seem, of bad tempers. My partners at cards were there; catching sight of me, they rose menacingly to their feet.

  “Didn’t think you’d show your face around here again, Weatherby,” said the gap-toothed dealer.

  “Aw, no, ye’re not sore losers, are ye?” Griffin asked, slinging a friendly arm around me.

  “To hell with you, Flannery,” another man said. “You’re the one as brought him here. Guess you got a part of the cut?”

  “I didn’t cheat,” I said, affronted. How dare they suggest I was a cheat?

  “I’m here to see Rosa,” Griffin said, his tone going short and businesslike. “Weatherby, wait outside.”

  “You can just go with him,” said Nelly, who had been perched at the bar. “Madam Rosa ain’t seeing no one. She said we wasn’t to let anyone disturb her.”

  Was Nelly telling the truth, or had Rosa just left instructions to turn Griffin away? If she had knowingly sent him into a trap, she certainly wouldn’t want to face him again.

  Griffin’s face took on a harder cast; probably he’d had the same thoughts. “Sorry, Nelly, but this canna wait.”

  Nelly hopped down off the bar. “Ain’t nothing she can do for you as you can’t get from any other girl here.”

  A laugh escaped Griffin, but it was oddly flat. “’Tisn’t that kind of business, girl. I’ll tell her ye tried to stop me; ye willna get in trouble.” He started for the stairs.

  The bouncer stepped in front of him. The man was a wall of muscle, his arms straining at the seams of his coat, and he wielded a short, stout cudgel. “You ain’t going nowhere if you know what’s good for you.”

  Griffin’s mouth thinned. “I don’t have time for this.”

  The bouncer lunged at him; Griffin sidestepped neatly, seized the man’s arm, and twisted. One moment, the bouncer was attacking, and the next he was on his knees, his elbow at a horrible angle, bellowing in agony. Some of the other men started for Griffin, but he drew his revolver and turned to them coolly.

  “Back off, boys,” he said, no longer trying to disguise his voice with a false accent. “I don’t mean Rosa any harm, but I will speak with her now.”

  No one moved. Griffin nodded and turned to the stairs. “Come along.”

  I hurried after him. “Do you, er, think anyone will summon the police?” I whispered as we went up the stairs together. Being arrested in an ordinary brothel would be only marginally better than being arrested in a bathhouse.

  “Not without Rosa’s order,” Griffin replied. His words were clipped, his eyes watching the doors we passed, the corners, the shadows, anywhere an assailant might hide. “I’m surprised she hasn’t yet come out. She must truly not wish to face me.”

  I winced. “Not looking good for her innocence, then.” I wouldn’t have cared, except it was obvious Griffin did.

  “No it isn’t,” he agreed flatly.

  The madam’s room lay at the very end of the hall. Griffin didn’t bother to knock, only grabbed the knob and tried to open it. It was locked, of course.

  The furrow between his brows deepened. “Rosa?” he called, pitching his voice to carry through the door. “I know you’re in there. I just want to talk.”

  I pressed my ear to the door. Someone within was eating dinner, as unlikely as it seemed, given the disturbance downstairs. The sound of chewing and slurping was loud, interrupted by an odd crack every now and again. And there was a sort of leathery slither, accompanied by a gelatinous burp, which sent a frisson of atavistic horror down my spine.

  I took an alarmed step back. “We need to get inside. Now.”

  Chapter 22

  Griffin swore and rammed the door with his shoulder. The cheap lock gave in the space of two blows, and the door flew open. Griffin charged inside, revolver in hand, and I could do nothing but follow.

  The stench rolled out to greet us in a wave: graveyard rot and sickeningly-sweet perfume twined together into a hellish blend. I reflexively touched the Arcanorum where it lay in my breast pocket, like a talisman.

  The layout of the rooms was reversed from what might normally be expected. In a hotel or apartment, the sitting room would greet the visitor first, then the bedroom. But in this place, it was the sitting room which was the private space, tucked in the back where the clients wouldn’t see.

  The bed dominated the room. The garish red pattern of the comforter seemed odd, even for a brothel.

  No, wait. It wasn’t a pattern, or at least not a deliberate one.

  Madam Rosa’s remains sprawled across a coverlet soaked in her blood. Her head dangled over the edge of the bed, her sightless eyes seeming to stare accusingly at me. A misshapen thing crouched over her; it looked up at Griffin’s horrified gasp, and its bestial face was smeared with blood and fluid. It had been feeding on her torn-open
body.

  Griffin fired his revolver. The monster lurched clumsily away, making for the open window. Like all of the abominable Guardians I had seen, it was partly human and partly something else, in this case a hellish admixture of bat. Its ears were huge, and its face so creased and wrinkled it barely seemed a face at all. Slimy flaps of skin hung in gigantic folds from its arms, rippling and stretching as it extended its hideously elongated fingers to drag itself across the floor.

  Griffin shot again, and it let out a scream and collapsed to the ground, flopping horribly. I cast about for a weapon, but before I could do anything, Griffin fired a third time.

  The bullet caught it through the skull, endings its torment. With a last, fading shriek, it began to crumble back into the constituent salts from which it had been formed.

  Silence fell within the little room. From outside came the sounds of revelry and the clop of hooves. The laughter and catcalls seemed strangely far away, as if they echoed from some other universe entirely.

  Griffin’s face was unreadable as a granite statue as he gazed down on the remains of Rosa’s corpse. My hands were clammy and bile stung the back of my throat, but I managed to say, “If you want me to search her room…”

  “No.” He closed his eyes briefly, as if at some pain. “Wait outside. I’ll…I’ll take care of things.”

  I walked out into the hall and waited silently. No one challenged me, for which I was grateful.

  Before much time had passed, Griffin rejoined me. “Nothing,” he said, and, God, he looked distant. Cold.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “What should we do with the, er, the body?” There wasn’t much point in summoning the police, I supposed.

  Griffin rubbed at his eyes. “I…I don’t know.”

  I touched his elbow lightly, steering him toward the stairs. He came with me without argument. On the way out, I caught Nelly’s eye.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “We were too late. Your mistress has been murdered.”

  She let out a small cry, pressing her hands to her lips. I wished there was more I could do, for her, for Griffin, even for poor dead Rosa.

  We went out into the night and walked back toward the more reputable part of town. When we came to the intersection which would determine our path, to his home or my apartment, Griffin came to an abrupt halt. His fists were thrust deep into his coat pockets, his jaw set firmly. “Whyborne, I…I’m not sure I would be good company tonight.”

  “What was she to you?” I asked, even though I wasn’t at all sure I wanted the answer.

  He passed a hand over his face, then tucked it back into his pocket, as if afraid it might wander on its own. “She was a friend. My first friend in Widdershins. I thought she was, anyway.” He laughed bitterly. “Of course, she never even knew my real name. Oh, how we delude ourselves.”

  How selfish was I, to be relieved even as I sympathized with his pain? “Do you not want my company, or do you think you won’t be good company? Because those are two very different things.”

  “I’m not really in the mood to entertain.”

  “That wasn’t my question.” When he looked uncertain, I let out a sigh. “Have we not already had this discussion? Or do you still believe my regard for you to be purely venial?”

  He hesitated visibly, as if caught between two prongs I could only guess at. The glance he stole at my face seemed to decide him. “I would be grateful for your presence.”

  I fell in beside him, and we walked silently back to his house. We undressed with a minimum of speech, and I took him into my arms, holding him against me.

  Although my body was not insensate to his presence, the sweet wave of arousal was less urgent than usual, and I ignored it as I cradled him. More important was making sure he understood he was not alone. The death tonight had shaken him, whether because he’d known Rosa, or because she reminded him of the girl he’d failed to save, or some other reason, I didn’t know.

  I held him close, hoping I could offer some comfort by my presence, by the press of my skin against his, simple and undemanding. Because I didn’t want him to hurt, or to be afraid, no matter how bad things looked.

  Because I wanted him to be happy.

  Because I loved him.

  I closed my eyes and pressed my lips against his brow, and held him long after his breathing had lapsed into sleep.

  ~ * ~

  I was in a dark mood when I arrived at the museum the next morning. Griffin’s sleep had been interrupted by a fit, which had left him shaking uncontrollably in my arms until almost dawn. Although he seemed largely restored by the time I left, the strain was wearing on him.

  He wasn’t the only one. How were we to stop a group of powerful men, one of them raised from the grave itself, from doing exactly what they wanted, especially since we had no idea when or where they would act? Our best chance of finding a link to them had died with Rosa, and I had not the slightest idea what to do next.

  Griffin had said something vague about tracking down some of the local resurrection men, but I doubted he would have much luck. Widdershins didn’t boast a large medical school like Arkham, and although there seemed to be enough inhabitants who wanted bodies dug up to keep a healthy sideline going, surely there couldn’t be very many employed full-time in the business, as it were.

  A knock came at my office door shortly after noon. I called a brusque command to enter; Miss Parkhurst timidly opened the door halfway and stuck her head inside. “A message came for you, sir,” she said.

  My heart sank into the basement at the sight of the wax seal on the envelope. “Thank you,” I forced myself to say. She was only the messenger, after all.

  “Of course.” Still, she lingered in the doorway. “How is your arm, if-if I might ask, Dr. Whyborne?” Her face turned bright red, as if the question had been in some way personal.

  “I, er, quite well, Miss Parkhurst,” I replied.

  “Oh, the other girls will be glad to hear it! None of us were there, of course, but we heard, and well, you were very heroic.”

  My face was surely as red as hers. “Oh. N-not really. I didn’t…didn’t get the papyrus back, you see, and, er.”

  “Still, it was more than anyone else did, wasn’t it?” She twisted her hands together. “If you need anything, just let us know. We wouldn’t want you reopening your wound, after all.”

  I tugged at the knot of my tie. “Th-thank you, Miss Parkhurst. And please, extend my thanks to the other ladies as well. Your concern is appreciated.”

  She blushed again, but smiled as she left. I must not have sounded as idiotic as I feared.

  Once she had gone, I laid the unopened letter on my desk, as reluctant to touch it as if it had been penned in poisoned ink. But poison was far too subtle for my father; with an effort I picked it up and broke the wax seal bearing our family crest.

  The enclosed note was short and direct; I would have expected nothing else. My older brother Stanford was in town, and I was directed to dine with them tonight.

  No “How are you, son?” no “I heard from Addison you were shot, and wanted to make sure you’re doing well.” No “We haven’t spoken since your mother’s birthday, ten months ago.” Not even a damned “Merry Christmas.” Just a command to present myself for dinner at 7 o’clock.

  I didn’t have to go. I didn’t owe my father anything. Mother had sold her own jewelry to pay my tuition at Miskatonic, and I’d lived on my small museum salary ever since, without any assistance from him.

  But what if this summons concerned Mother? The old dread stirred in the back of my mind, like lead seeping into my veins, turning my heart sluggish. She’d been ill for a very long time. If the end were near…well, Father wouldn’t say it in a message. He probably wouldn’t even say it face-to-face. I’d have to see for myself.

  I put down the brief letter and pressed my fingertips against my closed eyes. I had too much to do…but at the moment, unless Griffin found some new clue, we were at an impasse.

  If Mother
had taken a turn for the worse, and I didn’t go…

  Stifling a sigh, I hurriedly penned two notes. One was to Father, accepting his invitation, as if he’d left me some choice. The other was to Griffin.

  That one I lingered over, unsure how to phrase things in a way he would understand. “My father has ordered me to come to dinner, and I intend to accept because I worry about Mother’s health. I shall most likely be out quite late, and miss our appointment this evening.”

  I folded the note carefully, then, on impulse, pressed the paper lightly to my lips. God, I would miss him tonight. I craved him, like an opium addict craved the pipe: the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand, his mere presence in the same room.

  How had this happened? How had I lost my heart this badly, after having such control?

  Had I ever really been in control? Or had merely fooled myself? Perhaps I’d never been truly tempted, until someone came along to engage all of me: a desire of character, intellect, and carnal dimensions.

  I needed to pull myself together. Addressing the note to Griffin with a firm hand, I took both missives up to the Miss Parkhurst’s desk. She turned pink again for no reason I could discern, and took them to post.

  The rest of the day dragged on. Griffin sent a message back, saying he’d made no progress which required my presence and wishing me a good evening with my family. His final line suggested we reschedule our “appointment” for tomorrow night. That alone gave me the strength to face the prospect of dinner tonight.

  After work, I stopped by my apartment long enough to freshen my appearance a bit. Then, like a gladiator walking into an arena he expects to leave bleeding and wounded, I summoned a cab and returned home.

  ~ * ~

  Unlike some other old families, who aspired to an actual estate, the Whybornes had occupied an enormous house on High Street almost since the founding of Widdershins. Let the Somerbys have their grounds and forest and lake, Father had always said, usually within hearing of Addison. The Whybornes remained where they could keep their fingers on the pulse of commerce.