The Forgotten Mountain (The Collectors' Society Book 3)

by Heather Lyons

  I know whom she means. “Yes.”

  “Why does Jack keep calling you Your Majesty?”

  “Because I am a queen.”

  “The Queen of Diamonds, to be more specific.” The A.D. smirks when he tells his former colleague this. “Otherwise known as the infamous Alice Liddell from Wonderland you searched years for.”

  Her pale, bloody lips form a perfect circle right before the door closes behind me.

  “THERE ARE NO STORIES with glowing blue swords,” Mary tells me. “At least, none we can readily find.”

  I wipe my damp forehead as I stare down at my beloved. Still pale, still unconscious, the only change from when I left with Sara and the A.D. is the temperature of his skin. Not as clammy as before, he is now merely cool.

  I cannot bear to see him as such, yet loathe the thought I must once more leave if I am to discover anything behind the truth of his illness.

  “We’ve been scouring various databases with keywords, but there are little to no hits. The Librarian is wading through her stacks of books, but so far . . .” Her shrug is morose, her touch on my arm gentle. “Everyone is obviously still looking.”

  I turn to face the spider hanging in the corner of the room. “Anything to report?”

  “Only that a doctor other than Frankenstein came to visit, Your Majesty.” He coughs his strange little spider cough. “More blood was taken. This one was just as baffled as the last. No one seems to know what might ail His Highness outside of the wound from the sword.”

  I ask Mary, “How did your talk with the liaison for 1911BAR-PW go?”

  “Margaret Smith is a very nice woman, but her age is creeping upon her. She knows even less of Neverland than Wendy, and what she does know comes from Wendy. She claims no one there really believes in Peter Pan outside of what most people here do. He is a bit of a bedtime story legend and nothing else. She has no idea of anything to do with swords, let alone ones that glow blue, and isn’t aware of any poisons specific to her Timeline that differ from ours. Her London is similar to the one we’re familiar with, I’m afraid. That said, Brom sent Henry Fleming to investigate further. ”

  Fleming is a former military man, and one I’ve come to respect during my tenure at the Society. He’s fairly adept at interrogations himself, so if there is something to be found in 1911BAR-PW, I trust him to do so, especially as I cannot be there myself. I have children to hunt, as distasteful as it sounds.

  Children who might know of swords with blue blades and the terrible effects they wreak.

  “Also, why are you soaking wet?” Mary frowns as her eyes trace a line from my head to my feet. “You appear as if you’ve been standing in a downpour for the better part of an hour.”

  I’d immediately come to Finn’s room. Van Brunt was no longer present, nor was Victor. Mary was standing guard, and although I know her to not be one of the finest physical fighters in the Society, I also trust her more than most within these walls.

  “Do I?” I ask mildly, glancing about the room. “What a pity.”

  There’s not much within these walls: the bed upon Finn lies, a pair of chairs on either side, and the rolling cart Brom brought with him upon Victor’s request. There is a window covered in wooden, slatted blinds and a singular door leading out to the main part of Victor’s infirmary. I shut the door and begin my search.

  “What in the world are you doing?” Mary asks as I run my hands along the doorframe.

  “I would hate to think of it being dusty in here.” I move over to the window, examining every slat.

  “Have you gone even more mad? You’re thinking of dust at a time like—”

  “You have such a lovely singing voice,” I tell her when I move onto the chairs on either side of Finn’s bed. “Might you sing a song? I learned in the Pleasance Asylum that music is quite restorative.”

  Mary has, in fact, a cringe-worthy signing voice and is not at all ashamed to admit such a thing to polite company. And although the quirk of her lips tells me she thinks I’ve gone bonkers, she does as asked. A truly terrible, off-key version of Scarborough Fair fills my ears, and I do my best to not cringe. Grymsdyke, on the other hand, has no such manners.

  “If I had ears,” he says gravely, “they would bleed at such caterwauling.”

  I urge Mary to continue. One chair is examined, then the other.

  Nothing.

  She moves onto the second stanza of the song. I quickly check the rolling cart, but once more, everything is as it ought to be. If there is a so-called bug in this room, that leaves the bed.

  I check the entire frame before running my hands as gently as possible beneath the mattress. When I find nothing, I drop to my knees and peer into the darkness beneath. It’s there I finally find what I’ve been searching for. The size of a modern quarter, a small disk clings to the underbelly of the bed’s frame.

  Thank you, Sara.

  It doesn’t take much to pry the small bit off, just a few scrapes of nail against metal. I gingerly hold the piece up for a still-singing Mary to see, pointing to my ear. Her eyes go wide and then narrow as she continues to sing.

  He dares to listen to us.

  I drop the piece to the ground and smash it with the heel of my boot. The song abruptly ends. Grymsdyke leaps to the ground and scuttles over to where the pieces lay.

  “The entire Institute is infested with these.” I motion to the mess. “From what I’m told, there are dozens of them.”

  My assassin shoves at one of the bits of wires and metal with one of his hairy legs. Mary, on the other hand, asks, “How did you know that was there?”

  “I would ask you to fetch Van Brunt, as well as Marianne, and bring them here so we might have a conversation. Say nothing until they are safely behind this door.”

  I do not have to ask twice. “Grymsdyke, might you accompany me?”

  The spider glances up at me. I nod, and he scurries up her arm to settle upon her shoulder. The remaining strains of Scarborough Fair assault my ears as she shuts the door.

  I could have asked her to send a text, but I want—no, need—this small moment alone with Finn. I carefully crawl onto the mattress, inserting myself into the space between his side and the edge of the bed. My head on his shoulder, his hand in mine, I am tempted to give in to the terror and grief demanding to be acknowledged, but there are still miles to walk ahead of me.

  In Wonderland, the battles I faced seemed impossible at times, and yet, I was always able to face them head on. But now . . . now, Finn lies in this bed, stricken by a blue sword no one has heard of, with a bizarrely beautiful pattern developing across his skin. His eyes, once so expressively blue-gray, are now black. We no longer have any of Lygari’s associates within our grasp. He and they have disappeared into the vastness of Timelines unknown.

  I fear I am running in that caucus race from long ago. And yet, run I will and must, until sooner or later I will either stumble or discover what it is I need. I can only pray it is at a children’s school in Connecticut, wherever that is.

  Finn’s heartbeat is uneven against my ear. Worse yet, it is entirely too gentle. Panic blooms within my veins, sharp and clear and terrifying. Tick-tock, tick-tock, Rosemary used to chant. Such nonsense was bothersome at the time, and yet now, it’s all I can hear or feel. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

  Tick-tock.

  But I cannot allow this to solely be Rosemary’s battle cry, because it is also the song of Finn’s heartbeat, of the war drums that seem to follow each and every step I take.

  I hold onto his hand tighter, wiling his to return the pressure. I do my best to memorize each and everything thing I can about him—the way his skin feels beneath mine, the lingering smell that is wholly Finn despite the illness’ best attempts to mask it, the way his hair falls against his forehead and over his ears, the way his soft breath sounds.

  I lift our joined hands and kiss the back of his before pressing it against my cheek. Foolishly, I want to berate him, order that he simply cannot let go because I
am selfish enough to desire his presence in my life, but instead all I can do is offer a barely audible chant of my own, set in time to his heartbeat, one that tells him the depth of my feelings in three small words.

  And then . . .

  Then his fingers tighten against mine.

  I go still, our hands still pressed against my cheek. My own heart has ceased beating. Could it be . . . ?

  I gently squeeze once more. Callou, callay, he offers one of his own in response.

  I jerk upright up in the bed, staring down at his face in wonder. “Finn? Can you hear me?”

  There is no response. No change in his breathing, no motion of eyes beneath lids. Nothing to indicate the pressure I’d just been gifted not once, but twice.

  I kiss his hand again, twice for good measure. A nice clean, even number. Hope has come to bless me, and I must hold onto it with both hands. As I wait for the others, I allow my eyes to drift shut.

  Sleep granted at his side is miniscule. When Van Brunt and the others arrive, I reluctantly remove myself from his bed, ensuring I tuck his sheets around him. We wait until the door closes before Mary whispers harshly, pointing to the mess still on the floor, “That was a bloody bug, wasn’t it?”

  Marianne squats down to scoop up the bits. I must stifle a yawn when I answer Mary. “Yes.”

  Van Brunt peers down at the mangled mess in Marianne’s hand. “How did you know it was there?”

  I spend the next few minutes relaying Sara Carrisford’s story. To say the others are shocked by her duplicity would be an understatement, even when it is obvious to all that the source of her actions stems from Lygari/Pfeifer/Koppenberg. “They seem, in a lot of ways, to mimic those of Wendy’s,” I say. “Missing time periods, the inability to recollect events. Sara is plagued by headaches each and every time she tries to speak of such matters; both Jack and I witnessed her bleeding whilst struggling to give us the pertinent details. I cannot imagine the level of pain she was in. Even her eyes appeared to bleed, as if too much pressure was placed against her brain.”

  The others are momentarily rendered into silence, even Grymsdyke, who perches on Mary’s shoulder.

  “The blood vessels probably burst,” Mary says thoughtfully. “From the strain—or pain.”

  “Good lord.” Marianne covers her mouth with a hand.

  “Wendy, on the other hand,” I continue, “falls prey to seizures, effectively silencing her during any attempt to converse with us about the boy who’d been visiting her. It’s curious, don’t you think, that those who have been in regular contact with Lygari or his associates are now paying terrible prices to ensure their silence?”

  The door swings open, bringing with it a sopping wet A.D. “There you all are!”

  “Shut the door please, Mr. Dawkins.”

  Van Brunt’s assistant does as his employer requests. I ask, “Is everything situated?”

  He mock salutes me. “I found a nice lil’ hotel not too far from where we were talking, and paid upfront for a few days. While Sara was getting the lay of the land in her new digs, I nicked her a few pieces of clothing, considering her other one was covered in blood, and some food to tide her over. She’s got a nice telly to keep her occupied, and some cash for incidentals.” He pauses. “You owe me for that.”

  So far, Van Brunt has remained mostly silent, listening to what we had to report. But now as I take him in, I find his cultured, elegant veneer close to shattering. His body is trembling in rage, his fists curling tight, his lips nearly white from tension. I cannot help but think this a very, very good thing.

  “Ms. Brandon, I want the entire Institute swept and debugged by nightfall. Send an encoded text to each and every agent within these walls to begin searching immediately. All assignments, until this is completed, are on temporary hold starting now. I expect every bug you find to be destroyed save a pair for you to study. I want to know where the signal is originating from. At that point, I expect the Institute’s security system to be overhauled so that there are no more leaks.” He pulls out his phone and furiously types away at it. Marianne quickly excuses herself to get to work.

  Once the door shuts behind her, he continues, “Ms. Lennox, please begin an in-depth search on Gabe Koppenberg. I want to know everything about this newly discovered alias of Pfeifer’s, including the address in Brooklyn mentioned to Ms. Reeve. From here on out, it is best we keep Mrs. Carrisford out of the loop unless absolutely necessary.” He pauses, still beating against his cell phone with his thumbs. “I also expect an address for this John and Paul School in Connecticut within the hour.”

  “I’ll try my best,” Mary says.

  He looks up from the screen, his bright blue eyes darkening with cold fury. “I cannot accept efforts right now, Ms. Lennox. From here on out, we must simply do. The stakes are too high now for anything else.” To me, he says, “The Librarian is currently looking into what might be ailing my son. She—”

  “I do not trust her.”

  The other agents in the room all stare at me, agog, but all I can think is: There. I’ve said it.

  “I can assure you that—”

  “You can assure me nothing. You do not even know her given name.”

  He surprises me—no, all of us present—by saying, “There you are wrong, Ms. Reeve. I have always known her name.”

  Mary and the A.D. immediately, voraciously press for its reveal, but Van Brunt’s attention remains on me.

  He knows, yet will not tell us.

  “As I said,” he continues, his fingers still flying across the glass of the cell phone, “she will be researching into what might be behind this ailment while we go to Connecticut to search for answers of our own.”

  I ask mildly, “We?”

  He does not bother looking up. “Mr. Dawkins, your expertise will also be required. I have sent a list of items we will be bringing; please go and fetch them immediately. As for you, Ms. Reeve, I naturally assumed you’d want to go with.”

  He assumed correctly.

  The A.D. yanks out his phone before spinning on his heel. Once the door is behind him, Van Brunt says, “Any and all question once we depart will go through Victor.”

  Mary is surprised. “Do you think that wise? He’d been off his protocol for days.”

  “He will, as always, rise to the occasion, Ms. Lennox. I would think that you of all people would know this about him.”

  She sucks in a deep breath, blowing it out from between her lips. “I’ll have that address for you shortly.”

  He nods, and then she departs, as well. Grymsdyke stays behind, once more ascending to his massive web in the corner of the room.

  “You ought to know that I will not be gentle in my quest to find Pfeifer and to undo what has been done to Finn.”

  “I would never wish you to, Ms. Reeve.” His phone beeps continually beneath his fingers. “But I suppose that is one of the prices one must pay during war.”

  I am no longer simply Alice.

  “I wish for us to bring the truth serum along to this school in Connecticut. If necessary, I will utilize it against a child.”

  He nods gravely. “I already sent word to Victor to have him ready some for Mr. Dawkins.” And then, more softly, “Before we depart, there is something I must share with you. Something that I feel is important for us to keep in mind as we search for these ever-alarming truths.” He motions to the chair on the right side of Finn’s bed before bringing the other round. A minute of silence fills the space between us as he types away on his phone.

  And then, he holds it out to me, the screen facing upward.

  “Do you remember the child you found in your apartment? The one,” he turns to motion toward Grymsdyke, “he poisoned?”

  I take the phone from him, bringing the picture up to eye level. Before me is a document marked CLASSIFIED across the top. “Of course. She appeared to desire my crown.”

  “The child’s blood was foul,” Grymsdyke adds. “It tasted old.”

  “It’s f
unny you mention that,” Van Brunt murmurs to the spider. And then, to me, “It was decided that it would be best if an autopsy was performed upon the body. While we knew the cause of death, there was much . . . curiosity, if you will, over a girl in a red cloak who appeared to have the ability to lull others in a trance with a set of pipes.”

  I scan the document in my hands. There is a name of Jane Doe, a listing of weight and height alongside color of hair. A smattering of distinguishing marks upon her body are listed, including freckles, moles, and an oddly shaped birthmark shaped like a rat upon her left shoulder. A quick swipe of screen shows the mark, alongside a ruler that shows the entire thing to be less than half an inch long and tall altogether. Her teeth, according to the report, were in terrible shape: worn, filled with cavities, more rotting than not. Another quick swipe of screen shows a close up of the blackened shards littering her mouth.

  But those were not the most interesting characteristics of the girl. No, what immediately draws my attention is the notation on how one eye is brown, whilst the other is entirely black. A photo with both eyes opened is attached to the document, and when I stare down into the blackened one, a chill waltzes up my spine.

  It is nearly identical to what Finn’s appears like: flat, dead, lifeless.

  I quickly scan to see if there is a record of a pattern other than the rat marking on her body, but there is none. But there is still a pair of surprises left for me, on the last page of the report, starting with the presence of lesions riddling her brain and ending with the impossible.

  Age, based on appearance, height, weight, and maturity of sexual organs, is estimated at eleven years, give or take one or two on either side. However, analysis of teeth and bones puts Jane Doe at approximately 731 years of age. Additional testing is needed.

  My eyes fly up to meet Van Brunt’s.

  “Once the initial autopsy was finished, samples were sent to seven different coroners in seven different Timelines. No other information was given other than a request for age determination. Each follow-up report corroborated the initial findings.”