It saw me. I couldn’t just stand here and wait for it to seize me. I had to turn and face it.
With a sense of unspeakable dread, I slowly forced myself to turn and see what hunted me. When I did, my paralysis broke, and I screamed.
~ * ~
“Whyborne! Steady on; you’re having a bad dream.”
I dragged in a great breath, every muscle locked in terror. Sheets, damp with sweat, pressed against my back. The moonlight filtering through the open window revealed the familiar ceiling of our bedroom. Griffin’s scent, of sandalwood and male skin, enveloped me, his warm hand resting on my shoulder. My head pounded as if someone had attempted to drive a nail into my skull.
“Oh,” I said. I intertwined my fingers with his, and he gave them a reassuring squeeze. “It seemed so real.”
Griffin’s lips brushed the bare flesh of my shoulder. “Poor love. Would you like to tell me about it?”
I tried to recall what had horrified me, but the dream had already begun to unravel into fog. “I don’t quite remember,” I admitted. “Something about a city, and the ocean…something hunted me…”
Perhaps I’d had the disturbing dream on account of the murder we’d happened across. After seeing poor Tambling so deeply shaken, no wonder I’d had a nightmare.
Griffin stroked my shoulder. “You’re safe,” he said. “There’s nothing hunting you.”
“I know. It just seemed extraordinarily real at the time.”
A breeze stirred the curtains, bringing with it Widdershins’s fishy smell. Our cat, Saul, sat in the window, peering out at the lawn below, apparently fascinated by the movements of some nocturnal creature. Crickets chirped. I heard a nightjar loose its lonely cry.
“Night terrors often do.” Griffin’s hand drifted along my chest, tracing across my heart, down to my belly. My skin pebbled in response, nipples drawing tight. “Shall I distract you from the memory of it?”
My length twitched against his thigh, clearly approving of the suggestion. Griffin chuckled and bent to kiss me, his hand resting just below my navel. In the moonlit dark, he was nothing more than a half-glimpsed silhouette, best understood through the touch of his warm skin, his thigh sliding across mine, fingers twining in my hair.
I returned his kiss, exploring the contours of his mouth. He let out a little muffled moan and sucked on my tongue, which action stiffened my member entirely.
When we’d first met, I’d never even kissed anyone before. I spent my life successfully denying my urges, yet something about Griffin rendered him irresistible. His touch inflamed my every passion; my skin ached for the feel of his pressed against it.
“Yes,” I whispered against his lips.
His hand dipped lower, fingers trailing lightly along my cock from base to tip, making it jump and bob with need. His hard length pressed against my thigh, and he pushed his hip against mine, rubbing slowly. My arms encircled him, shaping the muscles of his back and side. He murmured encouragement.
Griffin nudged my thighs with his hand, and I spread my legs eagerly, baring myself to whatever he wished to do. I had no shame with him, my need too great to allow it. Warm fingers cupped my sack, rolling and tugging gently. I gasped at the pleasure. His teeth closed lightly around a nipple, worrying at it, and my hips jerked up, a bolt of ecstasy going straight from nipple to balls. “Griffin,” I said, but his name came out more of a moan.
He shifted lower on my body, his fingers finally encircling the base of my cock. A moment later, his lips closed around the head. I groaned with the desire to push into the wet heat of his mouth. I kept still, though, while he slid lower then back up, tongue worrying at the slit until I whimpered.
“I love how you taste,” he said, lips brushing the sensitive skin.
“Let me taste you, too, please,” I begged.
“Gladly.” We shifted position on the bed, until his legs bracketed my head, his cock pointed at my mouth.
I gripped the base with one hand, tugging him down eagerly. I rubbed the tip over my lips, spreading the salty, slick dew across them. In response, he groaned and sucked at me harder.
God! How I loved this, and him. Difficult to believe I’d known him for less than a year, so thoroughly had he become entwined with my life. My heart craved his presence, and my body craved his touch, like an opium addict reaching for the pipe again and again.
I took him into my mouth, concentrating on the feel of his thick shaft, the ridged veins against my tongue. Since my hands were now free, I gripped his taut buttocks, spreading him and getting a growl in response, which vibrated through my shaft.
I paused in my ministrations long enough to thoroughly wet a finger with my spit, before taking him in my mouth again. I slid my finger along his crease, probing the tight ring of his passage.
He moaned around me and redoubled his efforts, sucking on my cock and tugging my sack, as if he wished to push me over the edge first. I took it as a challenge, if an unintentional one, teasing his hole before pushing in, searching for the spot inside him which would give him the greatest pleasure.
The muscles of his thighs went tight, and his member stiffened further against my tongue, warning me of his release. I swallowed the hot, bitter spend, taking him into me. He moaned as he spent himself, never pausing in his attentions to my organ, and his passion inflamed mine further. I closed my eyes and thrust up into the heat of his mouth, until my need eclipsed all control. I gave myself over to the blinding pleasure.
He pulled away, my softening member sliding from his lips. With a happy sigh, he collapsed on the bed beside me, head on my shoulder. “Well, my dear, did I distract you?” he asked, his voice ragged still as his breathing slowed.
“Distract me from what?” I mumbled, wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders.
He chuckled. “I’m glad to have been of service.”
I meant to make some reply, but languor gripped me as I slid away into a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep.
Chapter 2
The following Friday, I carefully set a bowl of water in the center of my desk then shut the door behind me. Located in the windowless basement of the Nathaniel R. Ladysmith Museum, my office was quiet and out of the way, which kept potential interruptions to a minimum. Indeed, if Christine were in the field, I might go weeks without speaking to anyone but the secretarial staff. A situation I quite preferred, in all honesty. The privacy allowed me to conduct my research without interruption.
And that’s all this was. Research. Outside the bounds of my job as the museum’s comparative philologist, but research of a sort.
Ignoring the guilt squirming in my chest, I took my seat behind the desk. I had cleared it off—well, shoved the piles of paper and journals to the side and relocated the cuneiform tablet I was in the process of piecing together to an out-of-the-way corner of the floor.
While I waited for the water in the bowl to still, I once again checked the book I carried in my coat pocket. I didn’t speculate too closely on the strange, fine-grained leather of its cover or on what hand had filled its pages with encrypted writing, alchemical symbols, and disturbing sketches.
When the Liber Arcanorum first came into my possession, I’d assumed the spells and sorcerous incantations inscribed within to be the ravings of a medieval madman, the sort of thing embraced by occultists of only the most gullible sort. Much to my surprise, I’d soon discovered the spells not only worked, but I could perform them.
Griffin wished me to restrict my use of the book. He didn’t understand it was just a tool, no different than his revolver or sword cane. All my attempts to convince him of his error had fallen on stubborn ears, even when I pointed out, quite rightly, the spells within had saved our lives on more than one occasion.
Having no desire to quarrel unnecessarily, I simply conducted my experiments where he wouldn’t have to see them. This way, we could both be happy.
When the water stilled, I leaned forward, careful not to stir the surface with my breath. This was a bit mor
e complicated than lighting fire with a word, or summoning wind with a drawn sigil and an incantation. Air and fire were the elements most easily changed, at least according to the Arcanorum, and thus even the will of a novice might have some effect on them. Water was thicker, more resistant, which took more sorcerous skill.
Of course, I was no sorcerer. Just a dabbler in a branch of science not fully understood.
Focusing my will, I concentrated on the water in the bowl. All else faded from my consciousness. I recalled its weight, the cool drops which splashed onto my hand when I filled the bowl, the taste when I touched my lips to the surface.
Moving slowly, so as not to jostle the desk, I raised my hand a few inches above the bowl and pointed a finger. Holding the result I wished very clearly in my mind, I moved my finger in a slow, counter-clockwise motion.
The water stirred. Slow at first, then faster, responding to the speed of my movements, far more easily than I had expected.
Elation filled me as the little bowl turned into a whirlpool, the water swirling almost to the rim—
“Whyborne, have you heard?” Christine demanded, flinging open the door to my office without knocking.
My concentration broke. Water went everywhere, cascading across the table and drenching my chest and lap.
I leapt to my feet, groping in my pocket for a handkerchief. “Christine! Knock!”
Her dark brows drew down over her eyes. “What the devil are you getting up to in here?”
“Keep your voice down!” I admonished, wiping ineffectually at my dripping clothes. At least the Arcanorum had escaped a soaking. “You interrupted an experiment with a spell.”
Having rendered assistance to Griffin and I on several occasions, Christine was quite familiar with my secrets. “What, here at work? Why on earth didn’t you lock your door?”
“Perhaps I expected my colleagues to knock first?”
“There you have it. Really, you ought to know better by now.”
As if to prove her point, Bradley Osborne strolled inside. “Have you heard—oh.” He took in my wet clothing, and a condescending smile settled onto his lips. “Had a bit of an accident, eh, Percy?”
“Er, yes,” I muttered, feeling the tips of my ears go hot. No doubt Bradley would spread the tale to the rest of the museum the moment he left.
“Whatever do you want, Mr. Osborne?” asked Christine, not bothering to conceal her impatience.
“The same thing you do, I suspect, Miss Putnam.”
“Doctor Putnam,” Christine and I said at the same moment.
Bradley, as usual, ignored us both. “It’s all over the museum, of course, but I imagined Percy hiding down here in his monk’s cell wouldn’t know yet.”
I clenched my sodden handkerchief in my hands. “Know what?”
“Tambling,” Christine said hurriedly, before Bradley had the chance to respond. “They’ve arrested him for the murder of his uncle.”
“Wh-what?” The strength seemed to leave my legs, and I sank into my chair. It squelched under me. Now my backside would be as wet as my front.
“Tambling, the painting restorer,” Bradley said, as if I didn’t know. “Did away with his uncle in a most gruesome fashion, according to the papers. Stabbed him with an obsidian blade from the man’s own collection.”
“Tambling’s been jailed?”
“Even worse!” Bradley said with relish. “The doctors and judge think he’s violently insane and have sent him to the Stormhaven Lunatic Asylum.”
“How horrible,” I said. Poor Allan. Surely, it couldn’t be true, could it? He’d seemed confused and grief stricken on Saturday, but hardly the picture of a dangerous madman.
“You and your womanish sympathy,” Bradley said. “If you ask me, he always seemed prone to nerves. Dr. Hart should have fired him before he had the chance to go insane.”
“If the director fired everyone here who might go mad, half the museum would be depopulated,” Christine replied. She exaggerated, of course—I felt fairly confident less than a quarter of those who worked here could reasonably be said to have taken leave of their sanity at some point or another. The library staff would be rather decimated, though.
“Oh, really?” Bradley said, turning a patronizing smirk on Christine. “Afraid for your own position? You women have delicate nerves, after all—one of the many reasons the sciences should be the sole province of men.”
Christine drew in a deep breath, her eyes widening and her shoulders squaring. Knowing the signs well, I slipped around my desk and out of the office. As I left to get a towel from the washroom, I heard her shouts echoing down the hallway. Bradley responded in kind, yelling something about hysteria.
The man had no sense of self-preservation whatsoever.
As I dried off my clothing as best I might in the men’s washroom, my thoughts went back to Tambling. Had he really killed his uncle? Yes, he’d been covered in blood, but he’d also been standing in the road shrieking, which didn’t strike me as the act of a murderer. And afterward, he’d seemed overcome with grief. Although perhaps what I’d mistaken for sorrow had, in fact, been remorse.
I was no expert in human behavior; quite the opposite. Perhaps he’d done exactly what he’d been accused of. At any rate, the question of his guilt or innocence was entirely out of my hands.
Or so I believed.
~ * ~
Later in the afternoon, I bent over the fragments of the cuneiform tablet, attempting to piece them into a coherent whole. A knock from Miss Parkhurst on my open door interrupted me. “Dr. Whyborne? You have a visitor.”
“Oh. Er, come in,” I said. I hadn’t been expecting any visitors. I didn’t recognize the man in the doorway, twisting his hat in his hands, although he seemed vaguely familiar. Perhaps I had seen him around town?
“Forgive me for the intrusion, Dr. Whyborne,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Ernest Tambling. Allan’s brother.”
“Oh,” I said. I saw the resemblance now. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tambling. Can I, er, offer you a seat? Some coffee?”
“I’ll fetch it,” Miss Parkhurst said, hurrying off before we had the opportunity to either accept or decline.
Mr. Tambling lowered himself into the chair. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and the knot on his tie hung askew. I couldn’t imagine how much stress the poor fellow must be under. Should I offer him condolences on his uncle’s death, or would such a reminder be too painful?
Fortunately, he spared me the decision. “You must be wondering why I’ve called upon you,” he said. “But I didn’t know where else to turn. Allan speaks very highly of you.”
“He does?” I wouldn’t have imagined Allan had ever given me a passing thought before Saturday night. “That is, how may I be of assistance?”
“You saw him Saturday night, yes? Immediately after the…incident? Gave your testimony to the police?”
“Oh. Yes.” My heart sank. If he wished me to declare his brother either guilty or innocent based on our encounter, I wouldn’t be of much use. “He seemed, er, confused.”
Ernest Tambling leaned forward, his eyes intent and a little wild. “I don’t know what happened, Dr. Whyborne, but I’m sure Allan didn’t kill our uncle.”
“Oh,” I said again, unsure how else to respond. “Were they, ah, close?”
“Our parents died some years ago,” Ernest said. “Uncle Victor had no children of his own—a confirmed bachelor, as they say—and took on the role of father to us both. Allan is the sort of man to carry a beetle outside rather than smash it with his heel, let alone murder someone who showed us nothing but kindness!”
Miss Parkhurst returned with the coffee. “One sugar, just as you like it, Dr. Whyborne,” she said, placing it in front of me with a smile. Her floral perfume enveloped me, and I struggled not to sneeze as I thanked her.
By the time she left, Mr. Tambling seemed to have regained control of his emotions. Picking up his coffee, he held it in his hands without drinking. “I have
evidence,” he said. “My uncle is—was—a collector of antiquities. He had a rather large ceremonial bowl in his study. It’s gone missing. Surely, whoever killed him must have stolen it.”
Although I knew the antiquities trade had a reputation for viciousness—Christine had a near-infinite supply of tales concerning tomb robbers and murderous thieves—killing a man here in Widdershins seemed rather extreme. “Are you certain he didn’t simply sell it?”
“The maid said she dusted it earlier. I’ve told the police, but they refuse to listen, and the doctors at the madhouse are no better. They say the fact Allan can’t remember Uncle Victor’s death is proof of his lunacy. Even Dr. Zeiler, whom we’ve met socially from time to time, considers the matter to be closed. But how could a man lapse into complete insanity for ten minutes or less, brutally murder his own uncle, make off with a large bowl, which is yet to be found, then revert to perfect sanity afterward? It makes no sense!”
I remembered the fleeing figure Allan claimed to have seen. Griffin had found no trace, so it could have simply been a madman’s fancy. “It would seem impossible,” I agreed cautiously. “But I fear I know little of medicine, and still less of the alienist’s arts.”
“Allan is my younger brother, Dr. Whyborne. With our uncle gone, we’re one another’s only family. I must render whatever aid possible.” Mr. Tambling leaned forward, his eyes fixed hopefully on my face. “Allan said you helped a private detective recover the scroll stolen from the museum during the Egyptian Gala. I fear I can’t recall the man’s name, if I ever knew it. I wonder if you might arrange an introduction?”
Ah. Now his visit made sense. As far as I knew, Griffin was the only private detective in Widdershins. He did not advertise, however, relying on a good word from previous clients and a reputation for discretion to bring him new business. “Oh, er, of course. I’ll speak with Griffin—Mr. Flaherty—as soon as can be arranged.”
“Thank you. I’m not a wealthy man, but my position at the bank has allowed me to put aside some money, and I would spend every cent to clear my brother’s name.” Ernest rose to his feet, discovered he still held his coffee, and downed it in a single gulp. “I eagerly await word.”
Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3 Page 49
