Eleanor dropped to her knees. Little pieces of hay poked into her. “Please don’t kill me.”
“Kill you?” Denver Kristoff said. “After all you’ve been through . . . you still fear death? Trust me. There are worse things.”
He curled his mouth into a smile—or a Denver Kristoff smile, with one end of the mouth turned up, the other down. “I won’t kill you, as long as you answer one very important question.”
“What’s that?”
“Where is your sister?”
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Brendan and Will hustled toward 624 Taylor Street, in downtown San Francisco. The landmark building, known as the Bohemian Club, had a huge guard in front of it, with a shaved head and big rings on each finger.
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” said Brendan.
“It is if Cordelia’s inside,” said Will. The building was made of limestone and brick, occupying a whole city block. Carved in the facade above the door were an owl and an inscription: WEAVING SPIDERS COME NOT HERE.
“How did you know that was there?” asked Will.
“I know a lot about old San Francisco buildings,” Brendan said. “When Cordelia and I were little, we used to walk by this place and try to spot all the owls on the walls. And when we learned on our last adventure that this is where Denver Kristoff was trained by the Lorekeepers . . . I’ve been keeping a close eye on it ever since. Let’s look for a secret entrance.”
“What makes you think there is one?”
“US presidents were members of this club. They’d never go through the front door.”
“Could I help you?”
The guard approached. Up close, he was as big as two people stapled together.
“I noticed you lookin’ at the building,” he said. “You wanna walk away, or you wanna get free handicapped passes for life?”
“Free handicapped passes for life?!” Brendan shouted. “That means I don’t have to wait in line for roller coasters! That’s awesome . . . so what do I have to do?”
“Let me put you in a coma,” said the guard.
He grabbed for Brendan—and Brendan and Will took off running around the corner of the Bohemian Club. The guard came after them, gathering momentum with his trunk-like legs. They dashed into an alley at the side of the building and raced under bluish shadows, skirting smelly Dumpsters. Brendan glanced back—there was the guard, huffing his way forward, closing in fast. Brendan knocked over a garbage can—and then saw steam rising ahead. He noticed a nice smell too, very different from the reeking garbage. . . .
“The laundry room!”
“What?”
“Follow me!”
Brendan ran up to a metal grate in the sidewalk. The steam was rising from it. He dropped to his knees, pulled up the grate, and revealed a ladder leading down.
“This way!”
Brendan started going down. Will followed. The guard came to where Brendan had knocked over the garbage can—and yelped as he slipped on some old kale soaked in vinaigrette and his legs whizzed out from under him. He hit the ground on his back, getting the wind knocked out of him.
“Urf! Huh . . . Huh!” (That’s about all you can say when the wind is knocked out of you.)
Down below, the ladder ended and Brendan and Will crawled into an air duct that blew out laundry steam. They moved forward, coughing at the heat—and at the pieces of lint that blew into their faces. Within a few minutes it was getting very hot and stuffy, and Will started kicking frantically at a seam in the duct. Brendan realized that it could be a very slow death for both of them: They would collapse in the air duct and suffocate; their bodies wouldn’t be discovered for months; then, instead of the pleasant odor of laundry, the smell of their rotting corpses would pour out. . . .
Finally Will’s kicks worked and the seam split open. They slid out of the air duct, hitting the concrete floor below.
“We—kaff koff—we did it!” Brendan managed.
They were inside the Bohemian Club. But you wouldn’t know it from the laundry room. It looked like any other laundry room. Only when Brendan led the way out did they find themselves in the place they had expected.
The walls were deep, rich mahogany with mother-of-pearl inlays. Bookshelves were placed throughout, holding leather-bound volumes with spines embossed in gold and silver. Between the shelves were items on pedestals: Greek warrior statues, daggers encased in glass, and preserved animals in jars.
Brendan pointed to the ceiling: cameras. He and Will hugged the wall and walked sideways next to each other. They were totally silent, until they passed one of the preserved animals and saw that it was a muskrat with two heads.
Brendan screamed. Will put a hand over his mouth.
“Quiet now, they probably just took two of those creatures and sewed them together.”
“Then why does one of them have a normal head . . . and the other one is all small and shriveled up and weird-looking?”
Brendan shook his shoulders to get the chills out. Up next was a staircase, which led to a hallway full of disturbing taxidermy, including an owl with a glass lens in its belly and a mouse skeleton inside it. That hallway led to another staircase. Brendan and Will went up to the second floor, where they heard someone talking.
They were in a corridor that was open on one side, facing a breathtaking main hall with a crystal chandelier. The entire building was arranged around this grand space, which had long hanging tapestries and a table fit for a king’s feast. Surrounding the hall were two rows of giant portraits of former Bohemian Club members, including Teddy Roosevelt and Richard Nixon. The pictures looked down at the table. There, dwarfed by the room, were three figures.
First was Denver Kristoff, wearing a hood thrown back to reveal his hideous face, striding up to speak with the second man.
The second man was Angel—the Walkers’ ex-driver! What is he doing here? Brendan thought, but then he saw the third person.
His little sister, Eleanor.
Kristoff was holding her wrist tight. She was crying.
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Brendan felt rage burning deep in his guts. Of all the nasty, underhanded things for Kristoff to do, he had to go after Eleanor? Why couldn’t he come after Brendan? What a coward!
I’d show him too, Brendan thought. Let Scott Calurio and his friends watch me take on Kristoff. We took care of him once, we’ll do it again. He’s nothing but a punk. Brendan lunged forward, ready to go Three Musketeers with Will, swing down on a tapestry, and take care of Kristoff, but Will stopped him and pointed: Listen. Brendan tuned in to the conversation downstairs.
“So what exactly have I been paying you for?” Denver Kristoff asked the scared Angel. “You’ve been working with the Walkers for a month. You should be familiar with their daily routine by now!”
“Mr. Kristoff, I tried to explain—” said Angel.
“Just give me the information,” demanded Kristoff. “Where would Cordelia go?”
“Usually she’d be volunteering after school,” said Angel, “but yesterday she started acting very strange, because of this thing with her teeth—”
“You already told me about that. Good God, man, you’re useless!” said Kristoff.
Brendan seethed as he realized: Angel’s been working for Kristoff! When we put up the partition in the limo for privacy, he probably had a microphone back there to record us!
Kristoff continued: “Angel, all you needed to do today was pick up the Walkers and bring them to me. How could you fail in such a simple task?”
“Because Mr. Walker fired me! I couldn’t help it! He said he needed to save money.”
“The weak-minded fool,” said Kristoff. “I never expected it to be so easy. All I had to d
o was sit down next to him at a bar and convince him to bet on one basketball game—now he’s run through almost his entire fortune.” Kristoff shook his head. “I shouldn’t be surprised. His great-grandfather was the same way: simpering, soft, and weak. No core.”
Brendan’s hate grew as he heard Kristoff talk about Rutherford Walker, his great-great-grandfather, who had helped discover The Book of Doom and Desire. It’s not enough for him to ruin my present-day family, he has to talk trash about my ancestors too?
Eleanor, meanwhile, took advantage of Kristoff’s yammering and broke away from him, running for the door.
“Don’t waste your time,” Kristoff called after her. “The doors are all locked. You can’t get out.”
Eleanor beat on one of the big wooden doors that encircled the room, shrieking, “Somebody! Help!! Get me out of here!”
Brendan wanted desperately to help—but inside the Bohemian Club, Denver Kristoff wouldn’t have to worry about people seeing his disfigured face or calling the cops. He could go full Storm King and blast them all to bits.
Will shifted as Kristoff went to Eleanor and picked her up, kicking and screaming. He felt something jab against his thigh, inside Dr. Walker’s pants pocket. He pulled out a tiny green pencil and a score card from the Presidio Golf Club. He wrote something on the card and showed it to Brendan: What do we do?
Brendan took the card and wrote: U were right. We just listen.
Kristoff was trying to talk to Eleanor as he carried her. “I’m going to ask you one more time: Where is your sister? We need to find Cordelia. If we find her, we find my daughter, and then everyone’s happy. And we can all go on with what’s left of our lives.”
“Help me! Someone!!” Eleanor yelled. It was all Brendan could do not to charge down the stairs and pull her away from Kristoff and hug her. Even if he got killed immediately afterward, it would be worth it to comfort his little sister. Eleanor didn’t deserve this.
But before Brendan could react, Eleanor kicked Kristoff between his legs. “Urp!” he managed, dropping her.
“I hope that’s as broken as your face!” Eleanor yelled, running back to one of the doors. “Help me! Someone!!”
Eleanor’s kick had done some damage. Kristoff was doubled over in pain, making squeaking noises. Brendan smiled. “No core.” Yeah, right. We have a core.
Angel stifled a laugh. Kristoff glared at him, still bent over: “You—find this—humorous?”
“No sir,” said a terrified Angel. “Not at all—”
Kristoff reached up with a look of rage, chanting, starting to generate a blue lightning bolt over his palm.
“No! Mr. Kristoff! Please!” cried Angel, trying to hide under the table.
Kristoff gritted his teeth as the bolt grew larger, eyeing Angel with intent to fry, when one of the doors opened.
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The man who entered the room wore a black velvet robe and a tall powdered wig, but he was so old and crooked that the wig didn’t stand properly on his head—it pointed forward like the prow of a ship. He hobbled forward with a cane, tapping, until he got to Kristoff, who promptly dropped to one knee.
“Aldrich,” Kristoff said, kissing the old man’s hand.
Brendan wrote: Aldrich Hayes!
Will mouthed, Who?
Aldrich Hayes turned his head (and wig) up so that he could look at Kristoff. This movement revealed his face, which despite the very serious situation almost made Brendan laugh. The old man looked like a mad Ringling Brothers clown, with bright white powder caked from his chin to his forehead. His cheeks even had a rosy glow brought out by two bright red spots.
After Brendan stifled his laugh, he thought, If that’s really Aldrich Hayes, leader of the Lorekeepers, he should technically be a corpse! He looks great for his age!
“Denver,” Hayes said. His voice was throaty and strong; it easily filled the room. “How often must I remind you? When you are inside the Bohemian Club, you are required to wear our wigs and makeup.”
“With all due respect,” said Kristoff, gesturing to himself, “I think that would be like putting lipstick on a pig.”
Hayes regarded the putrid flaps and scars of Denver Kristoff’s face. “You do have a point,” he said. “There probably isn’t enough makeup in this entire city to hide your grotesque complexion! Now what sort of trouble have you gotten into? Who is she?”
Eleanor spoke up: “He kidnapped me from my riding lesson—”
“You kidnapped a child?” said Hayes.
“I had no other options—”
“And who is this man hiding under the table?”
“That’s Angel, a driver, he works for me—”
“Denver!” Hayes bellowed. “When you arrived, I never expected you to bring all this trouble. ‘Weaving Spiders Come Not Here,’ am I right?”
Brendan was writing: That’s Aldrich Hayes. Leader of the Lorekeepers. The dude was old in 1906! He must be magically preserved.
“Hey! Ancient guy!” Eleanor said. “If you get me out of here, my dad can recommend a really good surgeon for your hip or whatever—”
“Quiet,” snapped Hayes.
Kristoff said, “I apologize if I’ve caused trouble. I’m forever in your debt. But I will remind you that over a century ago, I made a great sacrifice for this club.”
“And what was that?”
“I discovered the hidden powers of The Book of Doom and Desire,” said Kristoff. “And did I keep them to myself? No. I hid the book away in my own work to keep it from threatening the world.”
“Which is why I welcomed you back,” Hayes said. “But my generosity only goes so far—”
“I need to find Cordelia Walker,” Kristoff said, cutting him off. “I cannot waste time. I’m certain that Cordelia knows where my daughter is.”
“Your daughter is dead,” said Hayes. “The Walkers got rid of her.”
“I thought she was gone too,” said Kristoff, “but not anymore.”
“And why not?”
“Because I’ve been keeping tabs on the Walkers.”
“What?”
“Following them to school, getting reports from Angel—”
“You’ve been going out in public? Are you insane?”
“Listen to me,” said Kristoff. “I’ve learned that the Walkers didn’t precisely kill Dahlia. This child banished her.”
“To where, exactly?” asked Hayes, turning to Eleanor.
“I dunno,” said Eleanor. “I just said ‘the worst place ever.’ I didn’t exactly have time to think clearly on account of trying not to get killed an’ all!”
“So we really have no idea where your daughter is,” said Hayes.
“No,” said Kristoff. “But I think the answer may start with Cordelia Walker. I couldn’t find her, so I took Eleanor instead. These children are like wild dogs: They operate in packs. It’s only a matter of time before Cordelia shows up. And when she does, I believe she will lead me to Dahlia.”
“That all sounds very logical, except for one thing,” said Hayes.
“What’s that?”
“Why would you even want to find your daughter? The last time she saw you, she tried to kill you!”
“Ah, but you don’t understand daughters,” said Kristoff. “One moment they despise you, the next they love you.”
That’s actually true, Brendan wrote for Will.
“This has gone on long enough,” Hayes said. He stepped closer to Kristoff, slinking under him and looking up like a snake. “Do you understand the enormous historical significance of this organization? The Bohemian Club has shaped the world! We have chosen presidents! We have influenced world politics! And we thrive on one thing . . . secrecy. But you have broken the rules by kidnapping a child and bringing her here!!”
Hayes cracked his cane on Kristoff’s foot.
“I’m s
orry. I just want to see Dahlia . . . I just want to get my daughter back,” said Kristoff. His voice hitched.
Brendan felt something unspool in his chest. He couldn’t believe it, but he suddenly understood the man. Kristoff was trying to do the same thing his mom was: Keep a family together.
Eleanor had no such sympathies: “Hey, waffle face, if you want a family so much, join a zombie dating service! I want to go home!”
“You will, little girl, soon enough,” Hayes said, turning to Angel. “You!”
Angel looked up from under the table.
“Leave this place and never tell anyone about what you saw.”
“But what am I supposed to do?” complained Angel, climbing out. “I quit my old job to work for Mr. Kristoff. How am I supposed to get a new one?”
“Start over,” said Hayes.
“I’m too old to start over,” said Angel.
Hayes answered by unscrewing the top of his cane. Brendan was sure he was going to draw out a sword and skewer Angel with it, but instead he pulled out a tightly rolled piece of paper. A spell scroll, Brendan thought. Hayes declared, “Famulus famuli mei, transfigura!”
An explosion of smoke obscured Angel’s body. For a moment Brendan thought Hayes had made him disappear. But when the smoke cleared, and the driver stepped out . . .
He was seventeen years old!
Angel looked like a million bucks. He was tall and muscular, without any of the padding he’d picked up driving limos.
“You’re a senior in high school again. You have a second chance to make something of yourself. Study, find a nice girl, and play some baseball,” Hayes said, unlocking one of the doors.
Angel wasted no time hustling out, grinning as he took a selfie with his phone.
“You should have killed him,” said Kristoff.
“That’s where you and I differ,” said Hayes. “You’d resort to violence to keep Angel quiet. I give him hope, a new life, and he’ll still keep quiet.”
“My methods are more secure,” said Kristoff.
House of Secrets: Battle of the Beasts Page 6