The Forgotten Mountain (The Collectors' Society Book 3)

by Heather Lyons

  “Assignments will be sent out within the hour,” Van Brunt concludes.

  Marianne glances up from her laptop, waving her hand. “All communications will now be going through a new encryption program. An update will be available for your phones shortly. Do not neglect updating them, please.”

  When the majority of the audience files out, I say, “I will not leave him to the wolves.”

  Finn’s father’s mouth forms a grim line as he considers this.

  Victor comes forward from his place in the back of the room. “I take it Alice is going to 1812GRI-CHT to hunt the Piper?”

  “I will first be searching for the one who enchanted your brother, but yes, that is the plan,” I tell him.

  He nods, pursing his lips. And then he nods again, more resolute. “Then I have a solution. We’ll take him with us.”

  My eyebrows lift high. Again with the assumptions of tagging along.

  “Obviously Mary and I are going.” When he looks to her, she smiles brightly. “Did you think you were going alone?”

  “Of course not. I—”

  “I know my father is probably chomping at the bit to go, but, Dad. Let’s be realistic here.” He turns to Van Brunt. “There are too many pieces in play right now. You can’t just remove yourself to a Timeline, especially one we’ve never been to before. You’re needed here to help coordinate everything.” His lips twist ruefully. “I’m not Finn, Dad. Shite, both of us know this. He’s the one who can run this place, not me. I’m the one that needs to go, even if . . .” He pauses, tapping on his head with alacrity.

  Van Brunt may sigh quietly, but he does not argue with his son.

  “Look.” The doctor’s attention shifts back to me. “Here’s the thing. If you find the person responsible for doing this to Finn, do you plan on dragging him or her back to the Institute? Obviously, if they can enchant anything, we must reason that they’re dangerous. As strong as you are, and as charming as you can be,”—he winces a bit saying this—“the Grimm stories can be pretty terrifying when it comes to magic. My mum used to read those stories to me and Finn, and not the watered-down ones. Which witch are you thinking did this? It’s a witch, right?”

  Sometimes, I fear I underestimate Victor too much. Especially now, when his eyes are glassy and his movements erratic.

  “I cannot say if she is a witch or not. She goes by Wise Woman.”

  His brow furrows as he considers this, a foot tapping impatiently upon the floor. “Which story?”

  “Little Briar—”

  “Ah yes.” He snaps his fingers. “Sleeping Beauty, right? Shite, Alice. That takes this to a whole other level.” His exhale is loud. “Nonetheless, the more I think about it, the better it is if we simply take him with us. When we find the Wise Women and they miraculously do not turn us into toads or the like, we’ll want to waste no time. If he’s with us, and they agree to help, he’ll be cured all the faster.”

  Son of a jabberwocky, despite his behavior, he makes a decent argument. Still, there are other considerations. “Is Finn not hooked up to your medicines here? A feeding tube?”

  “We can take them with us. Well, not the machines, but the IV bags. I’ll monitor him the entire time.” And then, “I’m taking my meds, Alice. I—I can do this.” He sucks in a deep breath. “I won’t let him down again.”

  “I hate to be the Debbie Downer,” Mary says mildly, “but how do you suggest we travel with a comatose man? It’s not like he can walk or ride a horse.”

  “In a wagon, naturally.”

  “I’m just going to throw it out there that he would kick your arse if he knew you were trying to tote his comatose body around,” Mary says.

  “I would be happy for him to try, because it would mean he was up and moving again.”

  “What if these Wise Women live where no wagon can travel?” I ask him.

  “Then I’ll find a way to keep him on a horse. It won’t be the first time in history that’s happened. I’m not saying it will be easy, but I think it’s necessary.” His focus returns to his father. “Dad, you know I’m right. The people here, they’re good people. I know they are. But if they see Finn as a threat . . .” He shakes his head, more agitated than before. “You know that if it was anyone else, we’d have the same thoughts. I hate to give that prick any credence, but it’s true. Even if you’re here, monitoring him, something could still happen when you weren’t looking. This way, Alice and I will always be with him.”

  His father twists his neck until a small pop sounds, and then he sighs heavily again. “Fine. Mr. Dawkins will go with you as well. One never knows when a talented thief may come in handy.”

  The person in question, still lounging at the table, his feet rudely propped against the gleaming wooden surface, tucks his hands behind his head. “Always is the proper answer, boss man.”

  Jack Dawkins has, much to my reflected surprise, been quite the good asset of late.

  “And me.” A coughing sound emirates from the corner of the room. “A party of five is bad luck, Your Majesty. Six is better; even numbers always are.”

  Isn’t that a lesson I’ve learned all too well.

  “Oh!” Mary claps her hands. “Yes! Yes! Grymsdyke must come, too.”

  I incline my head. “We would be much appreciative of your protection.”

  The spider drops to the table and kneels before me.

  Victor whispers to Mary, “Thank you for believing in me, especially when . . .”

  She touches his face gently. “I’ll always believe in you, darling.”

  Apparently Van Brunt is as much of a fan as I am of feet upon a table, because he deftly knocks his assistant’s boots back onto the floor. “Then it’s decided. You best go and see if Mrs. Brandon can find you anything appropriate to wear to 1812GRI-CHT. Afterward, I want you to collect your weapons of choice. Do not worry about being stingy. It’s best to be prepared for anything.”

  “One last thing.” Victor tugs out a dirty scrap of paper. “I found this on Todd’s body. Don’t know what it means, but . . .” His shrug is jerky. “It could be something.”

  It’s blank. But then, so were the papers in Bunting’s office. Van Brunt takes the scrap from him before dismissing us to get ready for our latest assignment.

  A CART TRUNDLES PAST us, its wooden wheels bouncing in enormous mud-filled potholes, sending a spray of brown that nearly splatters us.

  Mary grimaces as she watches the receding convoy. “This places smells.”

  I’d written us into Little Briar-Rose, figuring it was best to start where we had concrete proof the Wise Women had been. As the only place the story mentioned was a palace, I wrote us just outside the grounds specifically requesting a time period as close to the end of the tale as possible.

  And what a palace it is—or rather, a castle. With rounded, creamy rock-laden towers tipped with gray spires jutting up into the foggy skies, it looms in the distance surrounded by a spurt of dense, emerald woods and plenty of briar. A singular main road leads toward the castle, and at the base of the road sits a quaint medieval village of white and brown buildings with moss-covered, thatched roofs. Gray smoke from fireplaces curls out of the structures, twisting up into the mist weighing down upon the village. Uneven, disconnected bunches of thorny, blooming hedges creep in between edifices, lending an ominous feel to what otherwise might be an enchanting vista. The area is bustling, though. Carts roll past us every few minutes, and there are plenty of villagers carrying about their daily business. I can’t help but watch a group of children, who have most likely never seen nor heard of a bath, run through the muddy streets, tossing one another balls and hoops. Too many of them wear ragged clothes better suited for a burn pile.

  Old habits die hard, because I yearn to do something to better their conditions. That said, I must admit, Mary has a point. The stench of urine is unbearably strong where we’re sitting. And it’s validated when, in full view of anyone caring to watch, a man across the way undoes his breeches and pi
sses into a puddle.

  Frabjous.

  Grymsdyke peeks through the hood of Mary’s cloak. “The inhabitants here are barbaric. Even we spiders have special locations for defecation. Who does such things in broad daylight?”

  Mary promptly urges Grymsdyke to tell her more about Wonderlandian spider societies.

  Victor has gone off to acquire us a serviceable cart with gold he’s brought along; the A.D. has no doubt weaseled his way into the nearest tavern, intent upon inquiring about the Wise Women. Mary and I have been lounging irritably on damp grass for the last half hour. Finn rests next to me, his head in my lap, as I stroke his soft hair. Victor was able to hide the IV bag still attached to Finn’s arm within a rather large brown tunic we’ve dressed his brother in. I do not relish allowing the men in our group to go off without me, like I am some damsel in need of assistance, but Victor and I came to an understanding shortly before we left: one of us would be with Finn at all times. And as my German is rustier than his, Victor was the one best to go haggle in the village. On a more positive note, it’s given me a few moments to doze on and off. How the White King is used to existing on so little sleep still flummoxes me.

  One of the children I’ve been watching comes closer, his gaunt face streaked with filth. In each grubby hand is a beautiful rose surely taken from the briar hedges infesting the village. He offers one apiece to Mary and me. Grymsdyke withdraws into Mary’s cloak before the child spies him.

  Mary accepts the rose closest to her and smells it. She says in stilted German, “What a delightful little boy you are. Pray tell us, what is your name?”

  Apparently I am not the only one who did not pay close attention in German class. Mary’s accent is terrible.

  As I claim my bloom, glad it is a dusky pink rather than red, the child says, “Phillip.”

  “We thank you for your lovely gifts.” I offer him a gentle smile. “It was quite thoughtful of you.”

  He tugs at his tattered tunic, shrugging shyly. He must be . . . six, perhaps. Still so young, with so much life ahead of him. It aches to imagine the conditions he must live in. Grayish, dried dirt patches spot his face and neck, with some appearing more like skin better suited for an elephant than a child. His hair is matted, his bones far too prominent.

  The queen within me seethes to see such conditions. Not all those in my lands in Wonderland were prosperous, but none lived in such stark poverty. And yet here a boy is, offering Mary and me gifts and kindness.

  “Tell me, Phillip, do you live in the village here?”

  He points toward a row of smoking buildings. “With me mum and father.” And then, proudly, “Me father is the apprentice blacksmith.”

  His accent is strange, his words formed a bit differently in his mouth than what I originally learned. Still, I beckon him closer. “How wonderful. Do you ever go to the palace, Phillip?”

  He solemnly shakes his head.

  “We are recently new to this kingdom, come here from lands far away,” I continue smoothly. “Pray tell me, who are your king and queen?”

  He rattles off a pair of names, neither of which is Briar-Rose.

  I try not to show my frustration or disappointment. Briar-Rose had slept for one hundred years before waking and marrying the prince who found her. It’s a terribly long time between curse and end of tale, leaving plenty of opportunities for the Wise Women to disappear or even pass away. This realization sends a chill of trepidation down my spine, for as the Piper’s tale is nearly equally old, any swords or weapons the thirteenth Wise Woman might have enchanted could have been done so at a distant time in the past.

  “Do you know of Princess Briar-Rose?” I press. “Or perhaps even a Queen Briar-Rose?”

  His eyes alight. “She is the King’s mother!”

  Sweet relief fills me up. Time really does move differently in each Timeline. Just as I am about to ask him about the Wise Women, the A.D. reappears. “What do we have here?” he says in flawless German. “A little man trying to charm my ladies?”

  Poor Phillip is stricken before the A.D.’s sly grin surfaces. To make up for his teasing, our colleague digs into his pocket and extracts a pair of coins. “Here you go, little man.” He ruffles the child’s hair. “Go and buy yourself something good to eat, hmm?”

  “How surprisingly generous of you,” Mary comments once the boy bounds away. And it is, very much so. I’d planned on offering a coin, but the A.D. went and gave two.

  It’s more than generous. It is . . . sweet. Uncharacteristically so.

  The A.D.’s eyes soften as he watched the child. “I know what it’s like to be little and so hungry.”

  Well, now. There seems to be quite a bit of depth to Jack Dawkins that he hides all too often from the rest of us. Why does he hide so stubbornly behind such a flippant demeanor?

  He clears his throat, scratching the base of his neck. “Well, I have both good news and bad news. Which would you fine ladies like to hear first?”

  “Start with the bad,” Mary says. “It’s always better to start there. It’s like a bandage we can rip off. Get it over with and then apply balm afterward.”

  Grymsdyke reemerges so he may listen, too.

  “Fair enough.” He settles down on the grass next to her, wrapping his arms around his gangly legs. “The bad news is the men in the tavern are scared shitless of the Wise Women—all of ’em, by the way. None of them were willing to talk to me about these ladies, and threatened my manhood if I continued to press the issue.”

  Mary plucks the thorns off her rose. “Well, that is rather bad news.”

  “I can make them talk,” Grymsdyke says.

  The A.D. blanches. “By biting a fellow?”

  The spider coughs. “If I use a small enough dose of venom, there is time to question a person before they perish.”

  “We will try questioning first,” I say firmly.

  The A.D. is oddly relieved by this. Who knew that a thief and criminal could be so squeamish at the thought of poisoning? “The good news is that they mentioned there might be one person willing to risk spilling the beans. Apparently, there’s an old lady living in the forest that the others claim is a witch.”

  “Is their logic that all old women—or witches—hang out together? Or have a secret network amongst themselves?” Mary snorts in derision. “Misogynistic pigs.” To Grymsdyke she says, “I bet spiders are not so terrible with their women.”

  “Hive mothers are revered,” he admits.

  “When it comes to human societies, especially that are here, let’s be fair,” the A.D. says. “These Wise Women might be the real deal if they can do magic and the like.”

  “We’ll go to this woman in the woods.” As I attempt to set the rose down next to me, one of the thorns pricks my finger. Blood is drawn, son of a jabberwocky. “We’ll see what she has to say. On a related note, I’m sorely disappointed in you, Jack. You claim you possess charm the likes that few have seen and you can’t even convince a bunch of medieval townsfolk to recount local legends.”

  Mary bursts out laughing.

  But the A.D. . . . well, he simply stares at me, mouth ajar and eyes wide as I suck on my bleeding finger.

  “Ogling so blatantly,” I tell him sternly, “is rather rude.”

  “Shall I punish him, Your Majesty?”

  I stay my assassin with a quick shake of the head. The A.D.’s voice is soft, uncertain, on the other hand. “You called me Jack again. It’s like the third time in as many days.”

  Have I?

  I am saved from addressing such awkwardness when Victor, atop a rickety cart led by an elderly, bowed horse, pulls up in front of us. “Did anyone call for a cab?”

  Mary slips the dethorned rose behind an ear and stands up. “Oh, ha ha. It took you long enough. My bum has gone numb, it’s so cold.”

  “And wet,” the A.D. says. “It looks as if you’ve pissed your pants.”

  The sweetness we’d seen vanishes, replaced with the A.D. we know all too well.
<
br />   As Mary lunges at him, Victor climbs down from the cart. “I’m sorry it took me a bit longer than I’d hoped. I also bought us some food for whatever journey we’re about to embark upon.”

  The spider leaps from Mary onto the cart. Whilst Mary attempts to tackle the A.D., I tell Victor, “An excellent idea. It appears we’ll be journeying into the woods first to meet up with an elderly woman who may or may not be a witch.”

  “Ah, another day at the office,” he quips. “How’s Finn?”

  Nearby, Mary manages to trip the A.D. When he lands flat on his arse, she sneers, “Who looks as if they’ve pissed their pants now, huh?”

  “Woman, if I had, it’d be in the front, not the back!”

  I roll my eyes. Those two are utterly infantile together lately. “The same,” I tell Victor.

  He nods. “I figured. Well, let’s get him into the cart. There’s fresh hay in there, and a small stack of cloth bags.” He peers up into the sky. “Hopefully it won’t rain anytime soon. Moldy hay is the worst.” He pats the old horse’s head. “Plus, old Lightning here wouldn’t like to eat it, would you, buddy?”

  The horse’s tail twitches.

  Victor continues, “I wanted to find a merchant’s wagon for us, but there were none for sale.”

  As I slide out from beneath Finn, I ask wryly, “Are you subject to moldy hay often?”

  “Some weeks,” he says solemnly, “it’s near daily.”

  For a moment, the breath in my chest stills. Victor’s countenance, his tone of voice feel all too similar to his brother’s. And although the man I love is here with me, his skin beneath my hands, his head in my lap, I miss him so fiercely I feel like howling into the heavens.

  Victor kindly does not question my sudden loss of humor. Mary and the A.D. cease their immature ridiculousness long enough to come over and help us—the A.D. up in the cart to lift Finn in, Mary to ensure the hay is covered and piled high enough. After our satchels and weapons are also stowed safely in the cart, I climb in, taking my place next to Finn. When I tuck his cloak around him, I can’t help but notice how pale he looks. There is no sign of fever, no clamminess, just cool, pale skin.