The Forgotten Mountain (The Collectors' Society Book 3)

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The Forgotten Mountain (The Collectors' Society Book 3) Page 13

by Heather Lyons


  “Bloody hell,” the A.D. whispers.

  I refuse to ask in front of her what the designation means, but whatever it is, it’s clearly unnerved both Van Brunt and the A.D.

  Van Brunt’s head angles toward his assistant. “Go and see if you can find any of these children.”

  “Your wish is my command.” The A.D. quietly slips out of the door.

  “I find it quite interesting that you were able to term your Timeline as such,” Van Brunt says, his voice low yet commanding. “One would think that you’ve spent time studying such things.”

  As he did not ask a question, she does not offer a free answer. But if looks could maim, he and I would suffer grievous bodily harm.

  “Is Mr. Pfriem also from 1812GRI-CHT?”

  She is seething now. “Yes.”

  “And the children here? Or rather the so-called children? Are they also from 1812GRI-CHT?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Be more specific, Ms. Bunting. Where do your wards here at John and Paul originate from?”

  A loud sigh shoots through her nose. “Some are from 1812GRI-CHT. Others are through the connected Timeline 1816/18GRI-GT.”

  Through a connected Timeline?

  She willingly adds, “You two will pay for this.”

  “Why is it,” I muse, “villains always say such things?”

  She hisses, lashing against her ties. “You are a cow!”

  How very curious it is that her resistance to the Truth Serum is much stronger than Rosemary’s.

  I bend down, gripping her chin with my fingers. “What do you know about blades that glow blue?”

  Ah. We’ve surprised her again—and frustrated her, because spittle decorates her full lips as she unwillingly admits, “They are enchanted.”

  “Who enchants them, and what are they enchanted with?”

  Astoundingly, she fights desperately to not answer this question. But eventually, once tears streak down her face and sweat lines her brow, she offers her answer in whispered, broken words. “It depends upon the blade.”

  “It was wielded by a boy who could fly, one who many assumed was Peter Pan.”

  Grethel Bunting is shaking, she is so livid with what we’ve done to her. But she tells me what I want to know after another round questioning and resistance, albeit breathily from her efforts. “The thirteenth Wise Woman enchanted his sword with the gift of transformation.”

  Van Brunt crosses his arms. “What kind of transformation?”

  “The best kind,” she sneers. “The kind that blesses a soul to become one of the Chosen.”

  His genteel veneer evaporates. “Who are the Chosen?”

  Another struggle leaves her winded. “The Piper’s Disciples.”

  And here is official confirmation of the fiend’s identity. Still, my blood runs cold at such a thought, of Finn being transformed into anything other than what he is.

  I will not allow it.

  I will not.

  “Who are you to the Piper?” he demands.

  “One of his lieutenants.”

  Well, now. What a lovely catch we’ve made.

  Van Brunt asks, “How long does the transformation take from this enchanted sword?”

  The sheen in her eyes is sadistically gleeful. It appears she has guessed one of ours has been tainted. “A full day.”

  And yet, it has been more than two days since Finn was stabbed.

  “What does the pattern mean?” Van Brunt asks.

  She blinks, the glee transitioning to confusion. “I know of no pattern.”

  He presses, “The one that develops around the wound.”

  “It is as I said,” she spits. “There is no pattern.”

  “What are the physical effects then?” I ask.

  “Eyes that can see the truth.”

  I am sorely tempted to shake her silly. “Is there a change in the eyes? Do they change color, and if so, what color?”

  “Black!” The chair bounces off the ground with her efforts. “They can turn black!”

  “Are you one of the Chosen?”

  She hisses, “Yes.”

  “Yet your eyes are not black. Why is that?”

  “I am not in rapture!”

  Interesting. “How long until the victim wakes up?”

  “You are truly a stupid cow! They wake once the transformation is complete—a full day!”

  Honestly, this woman is simply ghastly. But still, fresh hope grows within me. Finn has not yet transformed. He has not woken up. He is not someone else.

  Van Brunt’s phone beeps from its place on the table. He stares down at it before smacking his hand on the desk. “The weather is turning. We must head back.”

  Grethel’s laugh is terrifyingly wicked sounding.

  Finn’s father digs into his inner coat pocket once more, extracting a small aerosol can. I step far to the side, covering my nose with a handkerchief from my pocket. He mimics me, also holding a cloth to his nose and mouth, as he sprays the woman in her face.

  The fight has left her when Grethel Bunting slumps in her chair, unconscious.

  Van Brunt pockets the canister. “What an unpleasant woman.”

  “Indeed.” I poke at the woman to see if she truly sleeps. “Was that SleepMist?”

  He studies the silver tube. “I suppose it does come in handy after all.”

  I pull out a dagger to cut Bunting free from the chair. “What are the chances that the school is bugged?”

  “Most likely excellent.”

  He heads over to the file cabinet, but it is locked. I toss Van Brunt the key ring, and within seconds, he’s got it open.

  It’s empty. There aren’t even dust motes within.

  A quiet swear escapes Van Brunt’s lips. “They can’t make this easy for us, can they?”

  I rifle through the desk. There are no pens, no pencils, no anything that a headmistress would normally have. There is a gun, though, and a rather wicked-looking knife.

  I slip both within my bag.

  As Van Brunt reclaims his phone and taps away at the screen, I check the underside of the drawers as well as the backs. There has to be something here. Something to help us. I’m about to turn away when a fingernail snags on a small button just beneath the lip of the desk.

  Excellent.

  A click sounds beneath the desk. I bend down and find a new drawer has dropped open. In it is a file folder. I hold my breath as I open it . . . only to find it filled with white, empty pages of parchment.

  Van Brunt peers over my shoulder. “Take it all anyway.”

  I add it to the collection in my bag.

  A quick peek through the door shows an empty hallway on both sides. Even still, my daggers are out and readied as I push it wide open. Van Brunt hoists Grethel Bunting over a shoulder and then exits the door.

  I always imagined him strong and capable, but I am impressed that he is so light and quick on his feet whilst carrying another person.

  I have just opened the main doors when the A.D.’s voice fills the hallway. “Go! Go!” A mere split-second later, a different voice louder than life bellows, “INFIDEL!” The sounds of pounding feet and squeaking floorboards follow.

  We do not have to be asked more than once. Van Brunt and I hurry to the car. The sky is white, it is snowing so much, and I can’t help but worry over how we are to make a quick getaway in such conditions.

  A child appears out of seemingly nowhere, his blackened teeth bared as he growls. Barefoot in the snow, his clothes ragged, he charges me as if running on burning coals.

  “I’ll take care of this,” I tell Van Brunt.

  The child leaps at me, but I’m quick enough to side step him. He does not sprawl, though—no, the little beast ducks and rolls before springing to his feet. If that weren’t bad enough, a girl appears on my other side, also barefoot, her long blonde hair matted. In both hands are sais.

  Oh, for goodness sakes. They cannot be more than six, perhaps seven, can they? Am I really to fight c
hildren? Or even so-called children?

  The slam of the car trunk sounds. “Tick-tock!” shouts Van Brunt.

  Cheeky bugger.

  I use the hilt of one of my daggers to knock out the boy when he charges once more. He falls to the cold ground, limp, just as the girl descends upon me. Snarling like a wild animal, she gnashes those blackened teeth at me as her sais swipe far too close.

  She’s got a bit of skill, then.

  She takes off, running and flipping, the sais whipping fervently as she shouts in a language I do not understand. All of her showmanship is for naught, though, as the moment she is within striking distance, I manage to knock her off balance with a kick. Thankfully, her skill is more demonstrative than useful. When she stumbles, I use the hilts of both daggers in my hands to crash against the base of her skull.

  It’s utterly sentimental, but I cannot seem to find it in me right now to properly take care of the child as I ought to. Not now, not when I know she has been hypnotized by the Piper—or worse, enchanted.

  The girl staggers and then drops onto the ground. She and her comrade will both have nasty headaches, perhaps even concussions when they wake, but they will wake. I snatch the sais from her open hands and sprint to the car. Van Brunt is already inside, switching on the ignition. Within moments, we are backing up and turning toward the road.

  “What about the A.D.?” I ask mildly.

  “Have no fear, Ms. Reeve.”

  A gunshot, then another rips apart the silence.

  The backdoor is wrenched open, and the A.D. throws himself within. “Are you going soft, boss man? Why are you not further down the road?”

  A third gunshot strikes a tree not ten feet from us. I turn around to find Pfriem with a shotgun, surrounded by a dozen or so screaming children.

  “It’s snowing,” Van Brunt says, and then we are off, slush flying from the tires of the car. “That was a messy exit, Mr. Dawkins. Perhaps you are the one going soft.”

  “I’ll admit it wasn’t my finest.” He smacks the back of my seat. “Just wait until I tell Finn that his father and his girlfriend were pretending to be married.” The A.D. chortles. “I can only imagine how well that’s going to go over with him.”

  I say, “How very mature of you,” but silently pray that someday very soon, Finn will be able to hear such a story and laugh about it. But first, I must find this Wise Woman.

  A fourth, more distant gunshot scatters the snow covering a tree behind us.

  Van Brunt simply says, his eyes still on the road before us, “Report.”

  “It was hard finding the little buggers,” the A.D. says. “Old Pfriem was locking them in their rooms, and they are quieter than mice, I tell you. I did manage to locate one, a boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen. Just standing in front of a closed door, unmoving. It was creepy, to be honest. I tried to approach him, see if I could maybe talk, but I didn’t even know if the little bugger was breathing.”

  The car skids before Van Brunt rights it. “Did you take any photographs?”

  “I took plenty, boss man. Even of the kid, who didn’t bother blinking when the flash went off.”

  “What color were the child’s eyes?” I ask.

  “It’s funny you should ask that, Your Majesty. They were just as black as Finn’s. Also, Pfriem isn’t following in that truck of his.”

  The child was in rapture, then. Rapture for what, though? I turn to Van Brunt. “The fact that Grethel knew nothing of the patterns is troubling.”

  The car slides to the left, toward a rather large tree, but Van Brunt quickly rights it. “Agreed.”

  The A.D. asks, “Did you guys find out anything useful from the hag?”

  “Indeed we did,” Van Brunt says. “And once we get home, we’ll know much more. It turns out we’ve just found ourselves one of the Piper’s lieutenants.”

  “Is she in the trunk?” From the mirror overhead, I can see the A.D.’s eyes gleaming wickedly. “Please tell me she’s in the trunk.”

  “She’s in the trunk,” Van Brunt confirms.

  His assistant sighs happily. “Why can’t all missions be like this?”

  “TELL ME EVERYTHING YOU know about the Wise Women, specifically the thirteenth.”

  The Librarian glances up from the book she’s reading. “I was wondering when you all would return. I take it your trip was successful?” When I say nothing further, she offers me a seat.

  I choose to remain standing. We’re in her office in the Museum; I’d chosen to come directly here once we returned whilst Van Brunt and the A.D. situate Grethel in the interrogation room. “I searched for the term on my phone on the way back. There were nearly thirty-two million results, so I must ask you for further clarification.”

  “It depends on the story, of course.”

  I slide out my phone and hold it aloft for her to see. Both 1812GRI-CHT and 1816/18GRI-GT are visible.

  “Ah.” She tucks a piece of dark hair behind an ear. “Those are collections of fairy tales by the Grimm Brothers. The first one is Children’s and Household Tales, if I’m not mistaken. And the second is German Tales.”

  “The Wise Women,” I repeat firmly.

  She removes a pair of white cotton gloves from a drawer in her desk before standing up and rounding the desk. Still resting upon the polished glass and quartz table are the stacks of fairy tale books from before. She selects the one marked Kinder- und Hausmärchen and delicately flips through it. “What do you know of the Grimm’s tales?”

  “Very little.” I pocket my phone and come to stand by her side. “Except that they are fairy tales.”

  “Many consider them to be the epitome of the genre. Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm made it their mission to collect folktales throughout their lives. This volume,” she holds aloft the cover for me to view, “is their crowning glory. In English, it is called Children’s and Household Tales, although many people today merely refer to it as Grimm’s Fairy Tales. In this first edition, there are around two hundred and twenty-nine tales, although twenty-nine of those were later removed from future editions.” Her face is somber as she glances down at the pages. “With so many tales and so many characters and objects, you can imagine how daunting it is to try to access such a Timeline. That said, these stories have become the basis for many of the so-called fairy tales people embrace in today’s world, although most have become watered down from their often violent or gruesome originals.”

  “Grethel Bunting claimed she was from this Timeline.”

  This has her pausing. “Did she now?”

  I must admit, I’m a bit taken aback that she did not seem to inherently know this. “As soon as the SleepMist wears off, Van Brunt plans to question her further.”

  “And you are here, inquiring about Wise Women.” Her smile is faint. “In most fairy tales, a prince or princess saves their counterpart. How very timely, do you not think?”

  “I am not a princess.”

  “But you are a queen, and that makes you ripe for such a quest. Ah. Here we go, just as I thought. The Wise Women are featured in a tale called Little Briar-Rose, otherwise known as Sleeping Beauty. And herein lines another problem with our accessing Timelines. This tale is not only one the Grimm’s recorded, but a variety of other authors. The earliest known specific version of the Sleeping Beauty comes from a man named Charles Perrault, nearly one hundred and twenty years prior, yet even that one has its origins in a medieval tale. And that story had its roots from Germanic mythology. It’s a muddled mess, really, and terribly difficult to accurately assign a true designation to. In fact, legend says that the Grimm Brothers nearly left Little Briar-Rose out of their collection, as it was their policy to do so with French tales, but once they discovered its Germanic ancestor, they chose to include it.” Her bright eyes meet mine. “Do you know of the tale?”

  “It sounds familiar,” I admit, “but I cannot recall the specifics. I assume there was a sleeping woman who was quite beautiful. Probably named Briar-Rose.”

  She ignores m
y sarcasm. “In a nutshell, the story tells of a princess who is cursed with enchanted sleep. A prince wakes her with a kiss. Some versions claim it to be specifically true love’s kiss.”

  “Am I to take it that the Wise Women are the ones who cursed this princess?”

  “In the Grimms’ version, yes. In other versions, they’re fairies. And it’s not so much the entirety of the Wise Women cursed her, but one who had been excluded from a feast to celebrate the princess’ birth. There are thirteen of these women, all gifted with magic. Twelve were invited, as there were only twelve places at the table. The thirteenth—the one you mentioned—felt slighted and decided to take it out on the baby. Luckily, one of the Women had not yet bestowed her blessing, so she was able to alter the terms of the curse and allow the princess a chance to wake under specific conditions from what could have been an eternal sleep.”

  “She cursed a child over such a slight?”

  “Wars throughout the Timelines have been born from less, I’m afraid.”

  Isn’t that the truth—or at least it is in Wonderland. I peer down at the words on the page. They are written in German, typeset in calligraphy. As with Latin, German is yet another language I never seemed to pay too much attention to during lessons as a child. I suppose my tutor would find much satisfaction in my frustration with not being able to effortlessly read the text. If he was here, he would surely say, “I told you to pay better attention, Alice,” for while I can read and understand the basics, I would not go as far to claim fluent proficiency.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” I murmur, “you also said that the Piper was from a Grimm story.”

  “One of his stories, yes.”

  I motion to the book in her hands. “This one?”

  “I’m afraid not.” She shuts the book and sets it carefully back down on the table. “Interestingly enough, while the Pied Piper of Hamelin is an incredibly popular fairy tale, the Grimm Brothers did not include it in their most popular book.” She picks up the two books entitled Deutsche Sagen. “It’s in these.”

  Deutsche Sagen means . . . German Tales. 1816/18GRI-GT refers to such.

  “Grethel Bunting claimed that the children at John and Paul were from both 1812GRI-CHT and 1816/18GRI-GT. She referred to the latter as a connected Timeline. Do you think this possible?”

 

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