My watch said it was half past eight. I figured the Keepers, like the Caulborn, kept irregular business hours. The same pleasant young woman greeted me by name and had Laras paged. A few moments later, I was back in the unmarked conference room with the smartly dressed Keeper.
After we were seated and he had offered me a beverage, he spread his manicured hands. “Now then, Mr. Corinthos, what can I help you with?”
I licked my lips. I had no idea where to start. Seeing my discomfort, Laras gave me a sympathetic smile. “Take your time, Mr. Corinthos. Our clients often come to us for circumstances that may be embarrassing or awkward. I assure you, we handle each scenario with the utmost discretion, and you are completely free of judgment here.”
I rubbed my face. “All right, here goes. I’m being held to a promise unfairly.” I explained what had happened with Megan, and Orcus’s subsequent interpretation of those events. “So basically I’m screwed unless I can somehow keep her fine forever.”
Laras steepled his fingers in front of his face and rested his chin on his fingertips. “Now this is an interesting case, Mr. Corinthos. An interesting case, indeed.” He pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling for a few moments, as if thinking something through. “I believe we can help you,” he said finally. “Julie will draw up the official paperwork, but let us move forward on a gentlemen’s agreement. We will keep your partner safe. In exchange for this service, there is an item I need you to procure for me. You are familiar with the Museum of Science here in Boston, I trust?” I nodded. “Good. There is a Viking exhibit currently on display. Within that exhibit is a chest inlaid with a silver cross. Bring its contents to me, and my organization will ensure your partner’s safety.”
“You’re seriously asking me to rob a museum?”
His lips quirked up in a sly smile. “Mr. Corinthos, the chest in question hasn’t been opened in over a thousand years. Its wood has resisted fire, acid, drills and much more. It’s on display as an oddity; the museum staff doesn’t even know what is held inside, so they’ll never miss it.” When I didn’t reply right away, Laras sighed. “Mr. Corinthos, I do not wish to waste your time. These are the terms of the agreement. If you find them acceptable, let us shake hands and seal the bargain. If you do not, let us shake hands and part company amicably.” He stood and held his hand out to me. “Which shall it be?”
I stood and shook. I couldn’t afford to waste time; the encounter with the wight yesterday had been too close a call. “I’ll have it to you tonight.”
I was preoccupied for the entire train ride to HQ. Once there, I went up to Megan’s office. I found her carefully paging through a worn, leather-bound book. There were stacks of books and old parchments neatly arranged on her desk. “Morning, Meg,” I said. “What’s all this?”
“Research material,” she replied. “I’m not going to get to be Care Taker unless I know everything.”
The Care Taker, the Numero Uno of the Caulborn, negotiated peace treaties, determined which locations got more agents, oversaw training and development, and guarded a vault of artifacts that were too dangerous for the world to know about. Whoever held the mantle of Care Taker was the living embodiment of everything the Caulborn stood for. “So what are you reading there?” I asked.
“This book is about singular monstrosities, those creatures of which we’re sure there’s only one.”
“Like the Tarrasque?” I asked. “That was a one hit wonder back in the first century that St. Martha got rid of with a bunch of holy water.”
“That’s in here, yes. Right now, I’m reading about the Glawackus.”
I ran a hand over my chin. “I don’t know that one.”
Megan turned the book around to show me an illustration of a creature that had the forepaws of a bear, the rear of a panther, and the head of a lion. “The Glawackus,” she read, “first appeared in 1934 in the town of Glastonbury, Connecticut. It went on a rampage, killing fifty people before moving north into Massachusetts. It seemed to grow in power, because it was able to completely destroy the town of Frizzleburg, Massachusetts.”
“Frizzleburg?” I said. “I’ve never heard of it.”
Megan nodded and put the book down. “That’s because the only way for the Caulborn to cover up the event was to erase all mentions of the town’s existence.”
I whistled. “So how’d they stop it?”
Megan frowned. “The book doesn’t say. It mentions that an agent named Jack Santo somehow banished it, but Santo died at Frizzleburg of wounds he’d sustained fighting the Glawackus. No one knows how he did it.” Megan closed the book and set it down on her desk. “There are so many things out there, Vincent. So many unknowns. The Caulborn protect humanity from monsters, and vice versa, but can you imagine how strong of a world we’d be if we all banded together? When I was a diplomat, I handled several treaties for extraterrestrial entities, and some of the friendlier ones implied that many off-world species view Earth as easy pickings because we’re not united as a planet. Sooner or later, those things will come looking to conquer us. If I can become Care Taker, and bring paranormals and regular people together, they won’t get this planet without a fight.” There was a fierceness in her ice-blue eyes, a charisma that was contagious. I actually believed she could do it.
“I agree with you, Meg, but that’s a hell of a responsibility,” I said.
“Says the man who is literally a god.”
I raised my hands and smiled. “Fair enough, but gods don’t have to do paperwork. I can’t imagine what the Care Taker’s inbox looks like.”
“I’ll chance it,” Megan said. She gestured at the books and scrolls. “There are so many competing forces on this Earth, both mundane and paranormal. If we were able to bring all of them together, to get everyone seeing eye to eye, imagine what we could accomplish.”
“Not to rain on your parade, Megan, but a lot of those forces don’t want to play nice together. A lot of vampires resent humanity because we remind them of what they used to be, or they just see humans as food. Lycanthropes are big believers in survival of the fittest, and don’t get me started on the fae.”
Megan gave me a wry smile. “Your worshippers are fae.”
I put up my hands. “Fine, all the fae except for the Urisk. We’re talking about some really nasty stuff, Meg.”
“I didn’t say it would be easy, Vincent. But in my time as a diplomat, I was able to negotiate treaties with opposing factions that had been previously deemed impossible. I was able to get humans, aliens, skinwalkers, and others to sit around a table and talk like reasonable people. It can be done. I just need to understand how they think, and then I can do it.”
“Speaking of how people think,” I said, “any ideas on our grave robber?”
She crossed her arms and sighed. “Nothing. There’s no obvious connection between any of the deceased, nor is there any kind of occult ritual or event that might call for ingredients like these. Herb’s at a loss, too.”
“Uh, Meg, look, I don’t want to seem rude here, but how much do you really know about Herb?” In response, she handed me an inch thick manila folder with “Wallenby, Herbert Q.” written on its tab.
“That’s everything I was able to dig up on Herb. His family, his paranormal activities, his income, his address, work history, known associations, and anything else. He’s clean, Vincent.”
I hefted the file. “Wow, you pulled this together fast,” I said.
“It’s not complete,” she replied. “What’s there is mostly just the stuff on public record. I haven’t had a chance to cross reference everything properly.”
I glanced through the file. “Born in Connecticut, mother died when he was five, lived with his father until he was fourteen, then with his grandfather after his father disappeared. First time Herb popped up on the Caulborn’s radar was fifteen years ago, when a young Herb was taken into psychiatric counseling for shooting a corpse with a shotgun.” I looked up from the folder. “That’s kinda morbid, don’t you
think?”
Megan nodded. “The details of the event are sketchy, and some of the material is classified at a level I can’t access. However, since whatever happened that day, Herb has been nothing but exemplary. Not even so much as a parking ticket, let alone anything nefarious.”
“Well now I know he’s hiding something.” I said. “Nobody’s that clean.”
“I’ve never gotten a parking ticket,” Megan said dryly.
“Of course you haven’t.” I needed to change the subject. “So did your date with him last night turn up anything more about him?”
Megan’s expression cooled. “It was a date, Vincent, not an interrogation. I did my homework on Herb. If he was a nut job, I wouldn’t be spending my free time with him.”
I was digging myself into holes left and right here. Find something else to focus on, Corinthos. “So,” I said as I stepped up to the whiteboard. “Let’s get back to our investigation. What do we know so far about this grave robber?”
For the next few hours, Megan and I worked out ideas and theories about the grave robber’s intentions, but my mind kept drifting to the Museum of Science and my business that night. Finally, around four o’clock in the afternoon, I gave up and told Megan I had a previous engagement and that I’d see her in the morning. I was too distracted to even tell if she bought what I was saying, but the next thing I knew, I was stepping off the Green Line at Science Square and walking toward the museum.
I’ve been coming to the Museum of Science since I was a kid. I must’ve made my mom sit through the presentation on lightning fifty times one summer, and the T-Rex statue and triceratops skeleton had me thinking I’d be a paleontologist someday. I used to imagine myself as a dinosaur-bone-hunting Indiana Jones, complete with fedora and whip of course, where I’d travel to exotic lands, uncover never before seen fossils and rescue them from my villainous rivals who wanted to steal the bones for their own nefarious purposes. I really don’t know what manner of nefarious purposes a paleontologist could get up to, but hey, I was eight.
I stepped through the museum’s revolving door and entered into a huge, high-ceilinged lobby and stepped out of the way of the foot traffic to get my bearings. To the right were the ticket counters and a set of turnstiles that led to the other wings of the museum. To the left was a member services desk and the corridor that led to the food court, gift shop, planetarium, and whatever the current special exhibit was. I wove between a few groups of people and finally made it up to the ticket counter. I purchased a ticket to the Norse Viking Treasure exhibit and headed down the corridor. The smell of cheeseburgers and fries wafted over to me as I passed the food court, and my stomach rumbled. I ignored it and continued on. Business first, food later.
I headed to the left at the end of the corridor and made my way up two flights of stairs. Banners depicting a knarr ship sailing against a pink and purple sunset had been hung at intervals along the walls, and a museum employee at the top of the stairs was handing out devices with a pre-recorded audio tour to interested patrons. I accepted one, put the ear buds in and made my way through the doors to the exhibit.
The doors opened on a foyer that held several large murals of Viking life. There were pictograms of sailing, hunting, and what I could only assume was burning, pillaging, and looting, based on the crudity of the stick figures. The Vikings may have been a hell of a seafaring people, but painting was not their thing. I joined a group of other museumgoers that moved from the mural room into another large room, this one lined with eight-foot-tall movie screens. A series of photographs of the Norwegian coastline cycled across the screens, and I pushed the play button on my audio tour device.
I half expected to hear something like, “Hi, this is Troy McClure. You might remember me from such science exhibits as ‘A Deadly Attraction with Magnets’ and ‘Nikola Tesla: Where’s my pigeon?’” Instead, a generic male voice actor that tried to sound dramatic, but only succeeded in sounding like it was taking itself too seriously, came through the headphones. “The Norse Coastline,” he announced, as if reading the sign above the photos. There was a pause. “The Norwegian coastline is dotted with fjords and stretches for 16,000 miles. This beautiful land was once home to some of the fiercest raiders in history—the Vikings.” The narrator’s voice dropped a bit as he tried to put dark emphasis on the words. “In these halls, you will see hallmarks of Viking culture and history. Who were these men who pillaged the British Isles? Where did they come from, and more importantly, what stopped them?”
There was a ding in the audio, indicating I should stop the track and move to the next exhibit. I followed a group of people into an adjacent room, this one housing various Viking artifacts. There were knives, pottery, coins, and weapons. My artificial tour guide told me that the Norse got their clay from the British Isles as there were no clay deposits where they came from. I pressed the Stop button.
There was another room with more Viking paraphernalia, but my patience was wearing thin. As fascinating as the history and details of Viking culture were, I had come here to find a treasure chest. I walked past a bunch of other patrons that were looking at some intricately carved urns and pushed through another set of doors. Two eight-foot-long sarcophaguses stood in the center of this room, propped up so their occupants were nearly standing.
Several people around me who were similarly equipped with the overly dramatic narrator were nodding as they listened to their headphones. I sighed and pressed the Play button, fast-forwarding until he announced. “The Viking Mummies.”
“The Viking funeral pyre is the stuff of legends. Many proud warriors who fell in battle were sent on to Valhalla after their bodies had been placed on funeral pyres. However, the Viking warriors you see before you were discovered in a hidden chamber on a small island off the coast of Iceland. Archeologists estimate they must’ve died in the late tenth century, just as King Olav Tryggvason converted to Christianity and ordered the cessation of Viking raids.
“An added curiosity was the strange treasure chest found within their burial chamber. Scientists initially thought it was made of petrified wood, but now believe the chest is made of some sort of ceramic whose creation process has been lost to time.” My eyes flicked down to the chest. “Note the stylized crucifix engraved on the chest; this reinforces the theory that these Vikings converted to Christianity, and the chest may contain early religious documents. The chest has no apparent lock or hinge and has resisted all forms of attempt to open it. In 1988, scientists tried to drill through the chest to gain a sample of the air inside to no avail. Some of the broken drill bits that were used are on display in a case just in front of the chest.” I took a look at the drill bits; they were as blunt as unsharpened pencils.
The narrator went into drama mode again. “What treasures might this chest contain? Riches? Jewels? Some lost scroll or tome of ancient knowledge? Perhaps an early copy of the Bible? Only the Vikings know.” I clicked off the audio.
The chest and the sarcophaguses were roped off, and a security guard stood nearby, ensuring that no one got too close. I knelt down in front of the ropes to get a closer look at the chest. Despite the dimmed lights of the room, I could clearly make out a stylized cross carved on the chest’s surface.
An impatient part of me wanted to pop the chest open right then and make a break for it. Instead, I did a circuit of the room, pretending to inspect the other parts of the exhibit while I was actually noting where the security cameras were placed. Satisfied, I left the exhibit, went down to the food court, and crushed a bacon cheeseburger and some fries. As I licked ketchup from my fingers, a voice came over the museum’s intercom.
“Attention, visitors,” it said, “the Museum of Science will be closing in thirty minutes. Thanks for joining us today, and please come back soon.” I threw away my trash, found an office that was being used as a storage room, and settled down among a handful of disassembled exhibits on Pluto, which had been removed from the planetarium once it lost its planet status. I figured this was a
pretty safe place to wait for a bit.
About half an hour later, I snuck out from my hiding spot and crept back to the exhibit. I didn’t encounter any roaming guards or members of the cleaning crew and grinned when I got back to the main exhibit hall. The place was completely empty. I telekinetically latched onto the cables that powered the security cameras and tugged. The red lights above the lenses winked out. Now I had to be fast. It was only a matter of time before someone came down to investigate. I shot forward and Opened the chest.
A wave of stale air hissed past me, and my nose wrinkled. I reached in and my fingers brushed against a bundle of cloth. I pulled out an oilskin-wrapped bundle that weighed about three pounds. As I moved to unwrap it, a metal manacle on a chain shot out from inside the chest and clamped down on my wrist. Tears of pain came to my eyes as the skin beneath the manacle suddenly burned.
I yelped in surprise as the chain jerked me forward. I slammed into the chest as a row of serrated blades popped up from the chest’s rim with a shik. The chest looked like a mouth now, with the manacle serving as some kind of horrible creature’s tongue. The manacle dragged me forward, and time seemed to slow down. I could see very clearly that the lid would chomp down and bite my hand off. I twisted my wrist, and the lid bit down on the manacle with a clang. The manacle started to collapse under the lid’s pressure, so I Opened the chest again and hurled myself back, stretching the chain out about five feet. I had almost regained my footing when the chain pulled me forward again, the chest’s lid chomping up and down in anticipation of eating my arm. Screw that. I Opened the manacle and threw my weight back, performing an awkward and graceless backward somersault. The manacle lashed out at me once, twice, three more times, but I was at the edge of its range and it couldn’t reach me. It snapped back inside the chest and then the lid slammed itself shut. It didn’t move again.
I scrambled to my feet and ran a hand over my face. Then I hastened around the corner and telekinetically pushed the camera’s cables back in. With luck, the museum’s staff would chalk it up as an equipment glitch. Holding the bundle tight against my side, I rushed from the exhibit hall and turned down the hallway with the gift shop. The shop itself was closed up tight, but the exit was just a few hundred feet beyond.
Promise: Caulborn #2 Page 6