by Amanda Quick
He stood quietly for a moment, listening with all of his senses. At first he heard nothing. Perhaps he was too late, after all. Maybe the Hulseys had received some warning or their intuition had told them it was time to find a new employer. Or perhaps Luttrell had indeed decided to kill them.
Then he heard the faint, muffled thuds from deep within the bowels of the house. Someone was at home.
He went down the stairs into the front hall, turned and went past a small drawing room and breakfast room. The ground floor was empty, just like the one above. But there was a crack of light under what looked like a closet door just inside the kitchen.
He opened the door and discovered another flight of stairs that descended into a basement. The room below was dimly illuminated by gaslight. Pulling the shadows more tightly around himself, he went down the steps.
The underground room at the foot of the stairs was old. Judging by the stonework, he knew it was at least a couple of centuries older than the house. London had been building and remodeling itself since the days of the Romans. There were layers upon layers of ruins beneath the city streets. Entire rivers were hidden beneath the pavement. The city’s architectural past was a great convenience to those in his profession.
There was an entrance to a corridor on one side of the underground chamber. He flattened himself against the wall just to the side of the opening and looked down a short stone passage into another room.
Shadows bounced wildly in the second chamber. Urgent voices echoed.
“Are you sure this is necessary, sir? I was just starting to see some progress in my experiments with the mice. I thought we might move on to our human subject in a day or two.”
A young man, Griffin concluded. Bertram Hulsey.
“We have no choice.” The voice belonged to an older man. “Something has gone wrong, I tell you. The guard did not return with the supplies I ordered and there has been no word from our patron. I have been in circumstances like this on prior occasions. We must get out of here as quickly as possible.”
“But the chemistry apparatus and all of the instruments and glassware. We cannot afford to replace so much fine equipment.”
“We will find a new patron. There is always someone looking for men endowed with our talents. Hurry, Bertram. Leave everything except the notebooks and the fern.”
Griffin lowered his talent a little. He was no longer nearly invisible but he knew that Bertram and Basil would not be able to make out his features.
He reached inside his overcoat and took the revolver out of his shoulder holster. He had discovered long ago that a large gun always commanded attention in these sorts of situations. He walked quietly along the hallway and stepped into the second chamber.
“Don’t rush off on my account,” he said. “Basil and Bertram Hulsey, I presume?”
The two men froze in the act of gathering up notebooks. The older man bore an uncanny resemblance to a large, spindly insect wearing glasses. The younger man appeared to be in his early twenties. Bertram was not yet completely bald like his father, but there was no mistaking the family resemblance.
“Who are you?” Bertram demanded. He peered sharply at Griffin, squinting a little.
“So this is where the firm of Hulsey and Son does business.” Griffin picked up a glass vial off the workbench and examined the contents.
“What are you doing?” Basil squeaked. “Have a care, sir. There are some volatile chemicals on that workbench.”
“Are there, indeed?” Griffin set the vial down and moved to the straw basket suspended on an iron chain from the ceiling. The delicate, graceful fronds of an unusual- looking fern spilled over the edges of the container.
“Don’t touch that fern,” Basil snapped. “It’s extremely rare and absolutely vital to our current research.”
Griffin unhooked the basket from the chain. “Constructing paranormal weapons for crime lords is no doubt a very profitable line. Pity you chose the wrong client. You should have come to me first. I would have paid much better than Luttrell.”
“Are you the Director of the organization Luttrell calls the Consortium?” Basil stammered.
“I’m afraid so.” Griffin smiled. “It was my personal residence that was attacked with those vapor canisters you constructed for Luttrell. I tend to take that kind of thing personally. Petty of me, perhaps, but there you have it.”
Bertram went even paler than he already was. “We had no way of knowing how Luttrell would use the sleeping fog, sir.”
“What you must understand is that I’ve spent years building my reputation,” Griffin said. “It is my stock in trade. I cannot allow a couple of scientists to destroy it.”
“Now, see here,” Basil said. “My son just explained to you that we merely designed the canisters and concocted the gas. We are not responsible for what Mr. Luttrell did with them.”
“In future you might want to give that aspect of your business some consideration,” Griffin said.
Basil’s eyes glittered behind the lenses of his spectacles. “Are you offering employment, sir? Because if so, I am pleased to tell you that our services are available for hire.”
“Sadly, I must decline the opportunity,” Griffin said. “I understand Arcane is on your trail and I do not want to attract any more attention from that quarter.”
“Arcane?” Basil’s eyes widened. “They know that we have been working for Luttrell?”
“They do now,” Griffin said. “You see my problem. Hiring you would bring Jones and Jones to my door. I prefer to avoid those sorts of complications.”
Bertram’s mouth worked. “See . . . see here, sir, we are scientists, not criminals. It is not our fault that our former employer proved to be one of your competitors. What do you want from us?”
“Information,” Griffin said. “You have already explained that you are responsible for the sleeping vapor. Tell me about the red crystals.”
Basil blinked owlishly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What crystals?”
“Help.”
The cry came from the far end of another passageway.
“Help, please. I can hear someone out there. Save me, I beg you.”
“Who the devil is that?” Griffin asked.
“No one important,” Basil assured him. “Merely the experimental subject that Mr. Luttrell provided for us.”
“Damnation,” Griffin said. “I knew this was going to get complicated. What is the subject’s name?”
Bertram frowned. “Harper, I think. Why?”
“Let us hope for both your sakes that Mr. Harper is still in good health. Otherwise—” Griffin ceased talking and made a vague motion with the revolver.
Bertram and Basil reacted as if he had suddenly released a deadly serpent into the room. Both men stared at the gun in horror.
“Where, exactly, is Mr. Harper?” Griffin asked.
“He’s in a chamber just down that hall,” Bertram said quickly. “He’s fine, really. We hadn’t got around to running any experiments on him yet. I was hoping that perhaps in a day or two when we were certain that no more mice had died—”
“Go and get him,” Griffin said.
Bertram dropped his stack of notebooks and bolted toward the entrance of the hallway. Basil started to follow him.
“You will stay here, Dr. Hulsey,” Griffin said. “Think of yourself as insurance for your son’s good behavior.”
Hulsey’s thin shoulders slumped. He watched Bertram disappear into the hallway.
A short time later Griffin heard scrambling sounds at the end of the corridor.
“Where are you taking me?” Harper demanded. He sounded terrified. “What’s going on? You have no right—”
Bertram reappeared. He had a man of about forty in tow. Norwood Harper was evidently still wearing the same clothes he’d had on when he disappeared after the ill-fated visit to Luttrell. His excellently cut coat and trousers were badly wrinkled. His shirt was crumpled and he had lost his tie at some point. I
n addition, he was unshaven and his hair was matted. His hands were bound.
“This is Harper,” Bertram said. “He’s all yours.”
Norwood Harper shuddered and stared, terrified, at Griffin. “Who are you?”
“The Director of the Consortium,” Griffin said. “Your family asked me to find you. Frankly, I assumed that you were probably dead.”
“The Director?” Norwood appeared stunned.
“Correct.” Griffin gestured at Bertram. “Untie him.”
Bertram hastily freed Norwood’s hands.
“I cannot express the depths of my gratitude, sir,” Norwood said to Griffin. “I believe these two were about to carry out some diabolical experiment on me. There was talk of a drug.”
“We will discuss the details later,” Griffin said. He angled his head toward the corridor that led to the kitchen stairs. “Wait for me in the kitchen.”
Harper needed no further urging. He broke into an awkward trot and disappeared down the passage.
Griffin looked at the anxious Hulseys. “Let us return to the subject of the crystals.”
“We know nothing about any crystals,” Basil said, affronted. “We have been conducting chemical experiments, not working with crystals.”
“Oddly enough, I actually believe you. Well, gentlemen, I think that brings this conversation to a close.” He motioned again with the revolver. “Let’s go.”
“Where are you taking us?” Bertram asked.
“Not far. I’m going to leave you in the cell where you imprisoned Norwood Harper. Never fear, someone from Jones and Jones will be along soon. I’m sure the agency will have some questions for you.”
“No,” Basil shrieked. “You can’t do this to us. We’re at a critical point in our research—”
The muffled roar of the explosion on the floor above cut off the last of the sentence. From somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen, Norwood Harper screamed.
“Damn it to hell,” Griffin said, mostly to himself. “Should have seen that coming. Amateurs. They never follow orders.”
He hoisted the fern basket in his free hand and headed for the kitchen stairs, running hard.
“My fern,” Basil called out.
Griffin ignored him. He pounded up the stairs. The exterior wall of the kitchen was already in flames. The fire blocked the window and the door that opened onto the small garden. Norwood stood statue-still in the center of the room.
“I told you to wait for me in the kitchen,” Griffin said. “Why the hell did you open the back door? It was bound to be trapped.”
Norwood’s mouth worked but he was clearly unable to form a coherent sentence.
“The front door will also be trapped,” Griffin said. “We’ll go out from the floor above. Move, man.”
Harper needed no urging. He fled down the hall to the main staircase, seized the banister and took the stairs two at a time. Griffin was only a pace behind him.
By the time they arrived on the landing smoke was drifting down the ground floor hall.
“Bedroom at the far end,” Griffin said.
Norwood rushed forward. “How will we get out from up here?”
“By doing exactly as I say.” Griffin followed him into the bedroom. “Take these.” He stripped off his leather gloves and tossed them at Norwood. “Put them on. You’ll need them to go down the rope.”
He went to the window and uncoiled the length of rope he had secured to the bed. He tossed one end down toward the ground.
“Go,” he said to Norwood. “Hurry.”
Harper did not ask questions. He pulled on the gloves, took a deep breath and scrambled out the window. Clinging to the rope, he half slid, half lowered himself to the ground. He landed hard on his rear but he got to his feet, unhurt.
When Harper released the rope, Griffin yanked it back up, attached the basket to the free end and lowered the fern into Harper’s hands.
He was about to follow Harper and the fern when the blast of killing energy scorched his senses. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a dark figure in the bedroom doorway. A crimson light glowed in the shadows.
“You almost escaped me, Winters,” Luttrell said. He raised the red crystal. “I must admit, I’m impressed that you got this far. Thought for sure my little surprise in the kitchen would be the end of the matter. Most men would have made a dash for the nearest exit. But you do not think like most men, do you?”
Should have left Harper and the damn fern in the basement, Griffin thought.
45
THE RUSH OF PANIC CRACKLED THROUGH ADELAIDE LIKE A lightning-ignited wildfire in desert brush.
“Something has gone wrong,” she said.
Delbert looked at her. “How do you know that?”
“I just know it,” she said. She started forward at a run. “We must hurry.”
Delbert leaped to follow her. “Come back, Mrs. Pyne. The Boss gave strict orders to keep you safe.”
She paid no attention to him. Flames were licking out a window at the end of the street.
“No,” she whispered. “No.”
“Bloody hell,” Delbert muttered.
She ran faster. So did Delbert.
By the time they reached the house a plume of dark smoke was thickening the fog. The first floor was half awash in flames.
“Dear heaven,” Adelaide breathed. “Where is he? Where is Griffin?”
“The Boss will come out the same way he went in,” Delbert said. He sounded as if he was trying to reassure himself rather than her.
“From one of the upper floors. The Boss never goes in through the ground floor. Got a rule about it. He’s probably around back in the garden by now.”
“No, he’s still inside,” Adelaide said. “In mortal danger. I can feel it. We must get to him.”
“There’s no way we can go into that house now. The Boss can take care of himself. He’s had a lot of practice, believe me.”
“I must get to him,” Adelaide said. She started toward the front steps.
Delbert gripped her arm and yanked her back with considerable force.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Pyne,” he said, his voice roughening. “I can’t let you do that. The Boss would slit my throat himself if I allowed you to enter that house. The whole first floor will be in flames in a few minutes.”
“But he’s still in there.”
She was frantic now. Delbert’s hand tightened on her arm.
“Help.”
The voice came from the walk that separated the burning house from the neighboring building.
“Help.”
Adelaide saw a man running toward them. A large, bulky object swung wildly from his hand.
“What the bloody hell?” Delbert asked softly. “That’s not the Boss. It’s someone else. What’s that he’s got?”
“I think it’s a fern,” Adelaide said.
46
THE SEARING BLAST OF ENERGY WAS UNRELENTING, A GREAT weight crushing his senses. For a few seconds Griffin struggled to pull more shadows around himself but he knew he was wasting his strength. The same was true of what he knew he would always think of as his second talent. He could not project a wave of nightmares, not against the psychical torrent that was roaring over him.
No one could maintain such a level of power for long, he thought. He had to stay conscious until Luttrell exhausted himself.
“How do you like my new toy?” Luttrell asked. “I don’t pretend to understand the para-physics involved, but you must admit that it produces an impressive result. It enhances my natural talent to an astonishing degree.”
Griffin could not force his muscles to do anything so he tried the opposite approach. He stopped fighting the overpowering energy altogether and immediately crumpled to the floor in front of the window.
The sudden, unexpected movement must have caught Luttrell by surprise, because for a heartbeat or two he lost his focus through the crystal.
Griffin could breathe again. The mountain that had been s
itting on his senses lightened briefly. He pulled a tiny bit of energy along with a deep breath. He managed to cloak himself in some shadow light, not enough to make himself invisible but perhaps enough to make it harder for Luttrell to see him clearly.
Luttrell responded with rage.
“Don’t move,” he shouted.
Luttrell found his focus again almost immediately but it seemed to Griffin that the crushing weight of energy was not as steady nor as stable as it had been a moment ago.
There it was again, a tiny flicker in the resonating pattern of the currents. Either the shadow light was throwing off Luttrell’s focus or the crystal itself was losing power. The human mind was not a machine that gave off energy at a constant rate. Talent was no different from hearing, sight, touch or smell. Like the normal senses, the psychical senses were affected by everything from strong emotion to the rate of one’s pulse.
“I’m going to miss the Hulseys,” Luttrell said. “They have been useful, but I have concluded that they are more trouble than they are worth. I always knew that sooner or later Arcane would come looking for them. I don’t need that particular problem just now. I’m going to have my hands full taking over your organization.”
Griffin sensed another short spasm in the currents of energy Luttrell was throwing at him. He used the short interlude to gather a few more shadows.
“My parents,” he managed in a hoarse whisper. “Why did you kill them?”
“I had no choice,” Luttrell said. “Believe it or not, I didn’t know they were at home that day. I thought the house was empty. But as it turned out your mother and father were enjoying a few private moments upstairs. Your father heard me when I cracked the safe and came down to investigate. He had a gun. What was I to do?”
“Bastard.”
“No argument there.” Luttrell walked closer and stood looking down at Griffin. “I never had the opportunity to meet my own father. I understand he died in a knife fight a few months before I was born. But, then, we all have our sad little stories, don’t we? Lucky for the social reformers. Just think where they’d be without so many to save.”