Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3

by Jordan L. Hawk

  Fredericks nodded sharply. “Yes, sir!”

  I blinked, taken aback by his willingness to listen. “Er, they hate light,” I added. “It’s our best weapon against them.”

  Griffin snapped his fingers. “Lamps! Fredericks, the company keeps spare equipment in the office, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Grab as many as you can and get them going. Hand them out to anyone you encounter. It might not be enough to stop the yayhos, but it will at least slow them down.”

  “You heard the man,” Fredericks said.

  “One moment,” I added. “Does anyone know where Christine—Dr. Putnam—is?”

  Fredericks paled behind his big mustache, and my heart filled with dread. “Sh-she’s in the jail cell. She was causing trouble—preaching in the square how yayhos were going to come and kill us all—and Mr. Manning had us lock her up.”

  Griffin aimed a vicious kick at Elliot, who’d gotten to his knees. “There’s no time,” I said. “Come on!”

  “You’re right.” Griffin drew his pistol in one hand, and held his sword cane in the other. “We have to save her.”

  We started off, but I paused and glanced back at Elliot. “If she’s dead, I’ll kill you myself,” I said.

  Then I plunged after Griffin, into the chaos and blood of the streets.

  Chapter 20

  We ran into a town turned hellish.

  The sounds of shattering glass, bullets, screams, and the wet flap of the yayhos’ wings filled the air. Some of the residents cowered inside their homes; others fled or tried to fight. A miner swung his pickaxe at one of the yayhos, catching a wing and dragging it to the ground. It broke free and lunged at him. A moment later, it stood with his head clutched in its forelegs, while his body toppled to the side. Griffin fired at it, but it took off again, and I couldn’t tell if he’d hit it or not.

  Fortunately, it wasn’t far to the Pinkerton barracks. The door stood open, so we charged inside—and came to an abrupt halt.

  Two abominations stood inside the large front room. One seemed relatively normal, save it now sported four arms. The other, however, was far more terrible, a thing dismembered and put back together all wrong. My gorge rose at the sight, even though my empty stomach had nothing left to eject.

  In front of them stood what had once been Rider Hicks, facing the single small cell. Christine stood locked within, her head held high and her expression one of mingled fury and defiance.

  “You have caused far too much inconvenience,” said the creature in Rider’s skin, even as the four-armed abomination behind him leveled its several guns at Christine.

  “Christine, duck!” Griffin shouted, and fired a shot at Rider.

  He went down, blood and brains painting the floor and the bars of the cell. The abomination turned toward us, its guns swinging around. Narrowing my concentration to a single gun, I set fire to the powder within.

  It exploded, fragments of hot metal flying everywhere. The thing let out a shriek, staggering wildly, as Griffin charged the remaining one with his sword cane. Within moments, they were both dispatched.

  “Christine! Are you all right?” I exclaimed, rushing to the cell door.

  She was pale, but otherwise seemed unhurt. “I’m fine, but good gad, man, what of you? We were certain your brain had been swapped!”

  “I’m quite all right,” I assured her, as Griffin fetched the key from the wall.

  “He satisfied me as to his identity,” Griffin said, unlocking the cell. I felt my face heat, and hoped Christine didn’t inquire further.

  She didn’t. “Thank you, gentlemen,” she said briskly, as she stepped out of the cell. “I fear things would have gone quite unpleasantly if you hadn’t come along when you did. It’s good to have you back in one piece, Whyborne,” she added, giving my hand a firm shake.

  “Your rifle will most likely be in Elliot’s office,” Griffin said. “But I fear bullets aren’t our best defense against the yayhos.”

  “What do you suggest?” I asked, as Christine vanished into Elliot’s office.

  He hefted a chair and smashed it against the table, breaking off the legs. “Torches,” he said. “Run upstairs and grab some bed linens. We’ll soak them in oil and secure them with rope.”

  I did as he asked, and a few minutes later, the three of us exited the Pinkerton barracks, armed with makeshift torches. “What now?” I asked.

  “The community center is large and defensible, with good lines of fire on all four sides,” Griffin said. “Perhaps we can rally the survivors there?”

  “We have to find some first.”

  “Come along,” Christine said, and led the way toward the nearest houses. “Let’s just hope the yayhos don’t have any snipers working for them.”

  We came to the edge of one row of houses. Christine peered cautiously around the corner. “Damn it. There are yayhos trying to break into one of the homes. We can’t fire on them from this angle, but if we can make it across the road unseen, we can set up a nice crossfire to catch them in.”

  “As you say,” Griffin agreed grimly. Turning to me, he asked, “How are you holding up?”

  “Well enough.” In truth, my feet were blistered and my legs sore from the running we’d already done, but I tried to put the thought out of my mind.

  “Let’s go,” Christine said, and dashed across the exposed road.

  She made it to the other side without incident. Griffin ran on her heels, and I last. For a moment, I thought we’d make it without alerting the yayhos.

  I’d forgotten I needed to worry about the sky above me as well.

  The sound of heavy wings gave me just enough warning. I spun, blindly swinging at the yayho with my torch. One of its jointed, insectile forelimbs lashed out, knocking the torch from my hand—and through the broken window of the nearest house.

  The thin curtains caught instantly, tongues of flame rushing up toward the ceiling. I let out a startled shout—then another one as the yayho grabbed my coat with its claws, as if it meant to drag me off with it.

  Griffin called my name, running out with his torch to fend off the creature. Christine risked a shot, even though it grasped me, and I felt it jerk as she made contact. It released me, and I fell to the dirt of the street as it vanished into the dark sky.

  Griffin dropped his torch to the ground; it guttered and went out. His hands closed around my shoulders, helping me to stand. The house was blazing now, and with a sinking heart I realized the fire would surely spread through the tightly packed row.

  As the flames licked skyward, the yayhos who had been trying to break into the house abandoned their task, taking to the air instead. Screams sounded from inside some of the structures as the fire spread, and those who had been hiding within now fled in favor of the streets.

  “The community center!” I shouted. “Go there now! Run!”

  A women in a nightdress bolted from her porch, and I recognized Miss Dyhart, one of the prostitutes I’d met my first night in this accursed town.

  One second she ran; the next, she was in the air, screaming as a yayho dragged her skyward. Christine swung her rifle up. “Damn it! I can’t see well enough, even with the fire! I might hit her!”

  The yayho rose above us, Miss Dyhart’s pale nightdress ruddy from the light of the conflagration. Then she was gone, carried off to who-knew-what horrible end.

  “No!” I shouted, like a fool. But I could do nothing to save her.

  Griffin’s hand closed on my shoulder. “We have to get to the community center.”

  “I’m not going.” An odd calm swept over me as I spoke. “I have something to do. You go without me.”

  Alarm flashed across his face. “Whyborne? What are you up to?”

  “We can’t win like this, not with them swooping down on people,” I replied. “So I mean to turn their wings against them.”

  ~ * ~

  “Whatever you intend to do, you must know we aren’t about to let you go haring off alone
,” Christine said briskly. “Especially considering we thought you lost once already. Really, Whyborne, do use your brain, since it’s still safely in your skull.”

  I glared at her, but in truth, her words warmed me. “Very well. I mean to make for the coal tipple.”

  “The coal tipple?” they both said in surprised unison. Under any other circumstances, I would have laughed.

  “Yes. But first…” I darted toward the torch Griffin had dropped. It had gone out, of course, but the end was nicely charred. Picking it up, I headed for the tipple.

  The coal tipple was among the highest structures in town, and not far from where we stood. Which unfortunately meant it wasn’t far from the rapidly spreading fire, either, but there was no help for it.

  It also meant a sniper crouched at the top, in the little tower of the sheave house, had the perfect opportunity to fire on us.

  Griffin spotted the glint of firelight off his gun barrel. “Down!” he shouted, hauling me into the relative cover of a wagon, where Christine took refuge with us.

  The shot cracked off the sideboard. Christine reloaded her rifle. “Griffin, can you distract him?” she asked coolly.

  “What? No!” I exclaimed.

  They both ignored me. Griffin darted out from behind the wagon, weaving wildly as he crossed the long open space to the next house. As he ran, Christine swung up over the side of the wagon, sighted—and fired.

  There came a faint cry, almost lost beneath the roar of the flames. “Got him,” she said, sounding satisfied. As I supposed she had every right to be—even I knew it had been an amazing shot, given the conditions.

  “If Egyptology doesn’t work out for you, I suppose you can join forces with Annie Oakley,” I suggested.

  “Danger does nothing to improve your sense of humor, Whyborne.”

  We joined Griffin near the base of the tipple. “What do you have in mind?” he asked.

  I peered up at the towering structure. “I’m going up there,” I said, pointing at the sheave house. “And doing what I can against the yayhos in the air.”

  “Whyborne—” Griffin objected.

  “There’s no time! Yes, Griffin, I’m going to cast a spell. If you don’t like it, you can yell at me later, but for now, please, just go.”

  “No.” Griffin scowled. “We’re going to make sure no one comes up behind you.”

  “I don’t have time to argue.” I set my foot on the lowest of the rickety steps. “Just promise me you’ll flee if the fire comes this way.”

  I started up the stairs before he could either agree or disagree. Disagree, most likely, but as I’d said, there was no time to waste squabbling. Not when the yayhos circled like monstrous hawks, snatching helpless townsfolk for use in whatever hellish experiments they dreamed up.

  I’d never had a good head for heights, so I kept my gaze locked determinedly on the splintery boards in front of me. Unfortunately, the gaps between the steps were large enough I couldn’t help but notice how high above the ground I had climbed. My heart pounded, and my poor, abused legs protested this new torment, until I felt sure I’d never be able to make it back down without assistance.

  The stairs passed open doors, perhaps meant to allow access to the coal bins. I ignored them, pushing my aching legs higher, until I, at last, gained the uppermost height of the sheave house. The huge pulleys used to haul up the coal jutted out of the center of the floor. The sniper had collapsed against them in death; he had an extra eye implanted in his forehead, and a third arm as well. The rough roof seemed enough to protect from the rain, with a low wooden railing, but not much in the way of solid walls.

  Perfect.

  Simply drawing the sigil on my palm, as I had done at the museum, wouldn’t be enough this time. I needed not only to summon the wind, but to control its course. If it blew from the head of the hollow, it would surely drive the fire to consume most of Threshold. But if I called it from the other direction, back onto homes already burning, the fire might go out altogether, or at least do less damage.

  Unfortunately, it would also place the tipple squarely in the path of the flames.

  I broke bits of charcoal from the burned end of Griffin’s makeshift torch. Falling to my knees, I began to trace the sigil on the rough boards, whispering the words as I did so.

  Was that a breeze stirring my hair?

  I repeated the procedure a second time, concentrating all of my will on the sigil, on harnessing the very forces of nature to my beck and call. Smoke blew past now, the wind strengthening.

  Almost in a trance, I rose to my feet. The wind tore at my hair and whipped the flames, but it wasn’t enough. Abandoning my tracing, I stepped into the center of the sigil, flinging out my arms and shouting the words aloud. Making myself the conduit between earth and the sky.

  And the sky answered.

  A distant sound reached me, like a locomotive at full steam, roaring along the track. It grew louder and louder, slowly resolving into the howl of a gale, tearing through the trees until it poured down into the hollow.

  The fire went mad, twisting into huge pillars of flame, all of them bent toward the head of the hollow and away from the wretches crouched in the community center. Black shapes tumbled shrieking from the sky, smashing to the ground or falling into the firestorm to be consumed. Those who escaped crawled along the ground, scrambling on jointed legs in the direction of the mine.

  From my vantage point, I could just make out the bulk of the yayhos vanishing into the mouth of the mine. In the town proper, a few scuttled flaming from the ruins, or else were overwhelmed by infuriated miners and Pinkertons, shot and stabbed until they moved no more.

  God. Had I done it? Had I driven them back?

  Exhausted, I turned toward the stairs—and beheld a frightful figure blocking my path.

  Orme.

  The flames reflected in the depths of his black eyes. I had thought him emotionless before, but now rage transformed his borrowed face. “You could have had the wonders of the universe opened to you,” he growled, and now his voice barely sounded human, as if some cold-blooded thing worked his mouth like a puppet. “Instead, you chose death. So death you will have.”

  Before I could protest, or even think what to do, he rushed at me. I tried to dodge, but he was too fast. He shoved me violently, and my back collided with the wooden edge of the rail.

  Then he was on me, his hands wrapped tight around my neck. Spots exploded in my vision, and I clawed at his fingers. My heart pounded, and blackness began to edge my consciousness.

  Orme let out a startled grunt and staggered free. Gasping and gagging, I collapsed against the rail.

  Griffin stood there, amidst the smoke and flying sparks, clutching a coal shovel in both hands. Blood streaked Orme’s face; Griffin must have struck him with it. But the thing in Orme’s skin wasn’t down yet, and with a low growl of fury, he charged Griffin.

  I sprawled across the floor on my belly, grabbing one of his ankles with both hands. Orme tripped, his shoe pulling free in my grasp. Griffin took the opportunity to strike him again, sending him reeling toward the rail.

  The cheap wood cracked beneath Orme’s weight. With a last, hoarse cry, he tumbled through and into the fire below.

  “Whyborne!” Griffin helped me to my feet. “Are you all right, my dear?”

  I coughed, both from my wounded throat and the smoke now billowing around us. “I believe I am.”

  “Come along.” He pulled me from the small room and onto the stairs. The flames were close enough their heat beat against my face, and sparks and ash swirled about us. Griffin half-carried, half-dragged me to the bottom.

  “Just a little farther,” he encouraged, when I tripped and nearly went down. “We must escape the fire.”

  It seemed to take forever, but eventually we came upwind of the smoke, and my coughing eased. Turning to look at the town below us, I saw my plan had worked, and the fire slowly died from lack of fuel. The gunshots had fallen silent, although there seemed
to be a great deal of shouting. A bucket brigade had hastily formed, passing water from the noxious creek to the buildings which still burned.

  Griffin and I exchanged a look. We were both utterly filthy and exhausted, and I felt as though I should like to sleep for a week. But work remained to be done, so squaring our shoulders, we joined the brigade.

  Chapter 21

  I snatched an hour or two of sleep just before dawn, curled up on the porch of the community center, surrounded by men taking their break from the bucket brigade. By the time I awoke, just as the sun rose, the fire was completely out and the other sleepers stirring. My throat ached where Orme had tried to strangle me, and my shoulder and hip protested my hard bed. I pulled on my suit coat, now hopelessly wrinkled and stained, and went down the stairs to stand in the road.

  The tipple still smoked, the coal stored inside yet on fire. Only a heavy rainstorm would have a chance of putting it out; otherwise, it and the slate piles would burn until they ran out of fuel. A third of the town lay in ashes, homes gone along with the machine shop. At least the building where the blasting powder was stored had been spared.

  All about me sat or stood exhausted, despondent men and women. The dead and wounded had been taken inside the community center. I heard muffled moans and the sound of weeping coming from inside. Griffin and Christine sat on the steps of the nearest house, appearing filthy and tired. As I joined them, Griffin gave me a grim look.

  “I have bad news,” he said. “Do you remember the explosion we heard last night? It was the train trestle leading out of town.”

  “And the telegraph poles have been felled,” Christine added. “It seems we’re utterly cut off from the outside world.”

  Damn it. The yayhos had planned this far too well. No doubt they’d only been biding their time all along, waiting for the dark of the moon to destroy us, just as Rider had warned.