But the maelstrom, somehow, sensed him. And in its blind, inhuman desire, it had nudged him at just the right moment, caused him to look down at precisely the right newspaper article when his father had asked him where he meant to go. At the time, the papers had been full of the great discovery made by Dr. Christine Putnam in Egypt, and of the journey of the mummy of Pharaoh Nephren-ka to the museum in Widdershins. So Griffin had, on a whim and with the name of the town laid out before him, decided to come here.
Just the tiniest push, the smallest alteration of chance. The pebble starting the avalanche.
Instead of spending the last four years in no more than the ordinary danger surrounding his profession, Griffin had found himself embroiled in magic and horror. We’d fought sorcerers and cultists, spoken to monsters beneath the mountains of Alaska, and fled for our lives through the wastes of Egypt. Griffin had bled and wept and suffered...and all because of me.
I could only pray he never found out.
Chapter 2
Whyborne
The next morning, I sat at my desk, the Wisborg Codex in front of me. Its open pages were carefully shielded by a host of other books stacked in front of it. Since the codex had already been stolen from my office once, the director would be furious if he knew Mr. Quinn had allowed me to remove it from the library again. As unnerving as I found him, the head librarian was a staunch ally, and I had no desire to get either of us in trouble.
The codex was encoded in cipher, and I’d hoped to find some key to unlocking it amidst Bradley’s things. But discreet searches of his home and old office had revealed nothing.
I knew some of what the codex contained, if only because of what the Fideles had been able to accomplish after stealing it. Some part of it contained instructions for building and sending the beacon to signal the masters. Presumably it also gave instructions on what the Fideles referred to as the Restoration, which would prepare the world for the masters’ rule.
If only I could tell what exactly the Restoration entailed, I might have some chance at stopping it. Or possibly even prevent the masters from returning to the world they’d abandoned so long ago.
There came a soft knock at my door. “A letter for you, Dr. Whyborne,” said my secretary, Miss Parkhurst.
I sat back in my chair, wincing as my back popped audibly. “Thank you,” I said, taking the letter from her. I didn’t recognize the sender’s name, although I was vaguely relieved to find it addressed to “Dr. P.E. Whyborne” and not “Widdershins.”
My correspondence had gotten rather odd of late.
“Would you care for some coffee?” Miss Parkhurst asked with a gesture at my empty cup.
“Yes, thank you.” I started to hand her the cup, then I recalled Persephone’s gift. “Oh, wait—I have something for you.”
An uncertain look crossed her face. “You have something...for me?” she asked, sounding oddly torn.
Why, I couldn’t imagine. Miss Parkhurst was a wonderful secretary, but I occasionally found myself baffled by her. Of course, that was true of people in general. I sometimes envied the ease with which Griffin moved through society, always knowing what to say, what was expected of him.
“My sister asked me to give you this,” I said, reaching into my desk.
“Persephone—that is, Miss Whyborne?” For some reason, her cheeks turned bright pink.
At my request, Griffin had replaced the wrapping of seaweed with one of silk. “It’s a summoning stone,” I explained as I passed it to her. “It—no! Don’t unwrap it!”
Miss Parkhurst hastily folded the cloth tight, her face going even redder. I could feel a blush of my own staining my cheeks. “I’m sorry—forgive me for my rudeness,” I said. “I should have warned you before handing it over.” I took a deep breath and reminded myself that she knew Persephone was my sister. There was no reason to be embarrassed about my ancestry. “As I said, it’s a summoning stone. In particular, it summons ketoi...or those of us with their blood. The silk keeps its call muted, but if you wouldn’t mind not exposing it in my presence...”
“Oh!” She blushed even more furiously. “Of course.”
“I’ve no idea why Persephone thought you would need one,” I went on, trying to steer the conversation to any other topic. “I can’t imagine why you would ever want to contact the ketoi.”
“N-no,” she agreed, the color still burning in her cheeks.
“But if you do, go to a secluded beach and throw it into the waves. They’ll come. Persephone herself most likely, although our mother might answer instead.”
The color drained from Miss Parkhurst’s face. Was she quite all right? “Mrs. Whyborne?”
I doubted mother would care for the name any longer, but I’d already exposed poor Miss Parkhurst to enough of my family’s eccentricities for one day. “Don’t be frightened of her,” I said. “Or any of the ketoi. They won’t harm you, despite their savage appearance.”
“I think they’re beautiful,” Miss Parkhurst said. Then her eyes widened sharply. “I—that is—I’ll just get your coffee.”
I stared after her, mystified, as she fled my office. Was it my imagination, or was my correspondence not the only thing growing odder?
With a sigh, I took out my letter opener and slit the envelope. The letter inside was hastily scrawled on cheap stationery bearing the monogram and address of a hotel in Topeka, Kansas.
Dr. Whyborne,
Forgive me for the imposition, but I must meet with you as soon as possible. I have information of great interest to yourself, which I cannot entrust to a letter. Allow me only to say that Reverend Scarrow is—or should I say was—a mutual friend. I fear his attempt to warn you about the Fideles came to the attention of the wrong people.
Oh no. In truth, I’d been concerned for Scarrow already. He’d sent me a telegram in July, with the promise of a longer letter to follow. That letter had never come, and I’d received no answer to those I sent him. But a part of me hoped there had simply been some interruption of the mail, or even that he’d been distracted by some concern of his own.
The Fideles will no doubt wish to end me as well, to prevent me from informing you of their plans. Hence, I must speak with you immediately. I will come to the Nathaniel R. Ladysmith Museum at 5:00 pm on Friday, September 27. Forgive me for granting you so little warning, but I’m sure you appreciate my urgency.
Sincerely,
Ralph Delancey
PS: Rumor has linked your name with that of Mr. Griffin Flaherty, formerly of Kansas. I believe some of what I have to say will be of interest to him as well.
Chapter 3
Griffin
I stared at Whyborne’s note and barely suppressed the urge to tear it up and throw it into the trash.
This was not how the evening was meant to go. We weren’t meant to be meeting some sorcerer, who might or might not be up to any good. I had made plans, curse it.
Ever since the battle against the Fideles in July, Whyborne’s mood had grown increasingly morose. His tendency to work long hours became even more marked; the nights and weekends were spent with a book in his lap as he feverishly attempted to decipher the Wisborg Codex. And if not the codex, then his attention was entirely focused on Persephone and her mastery of the arcane arts.
And failing that, he paced about Widdershins like a soldier on guard duty. He’d badgered his father into paying to repair all the broken windows resulting from Bradley’s activation of the arcane lines. Winter was coming, as Whyborne pointed out, and the poor shouldn’t have to suffer the cold because of Bradley. Although I applauded his efforts, he seemed to feel it his personal responsibility to check every replacement, and send angry letters to the contractors Niles hired when he felt they weren’t working quickly enough.
With so much occupying him, I’d started feeling a bit neglected, churlish though I knew the impulse to be. Last night had been the first time we’d made love in a fortnight.
In truth, though, I worried more for Ival than for m
e. The way he’d snapped at Persephone, when she indulged in a bit of horse play and knocked off his hat, reminded me how long it had been since I heard his laugh.
So I’d made plans for tonight as a surprise for him. Reservations for two at Le Calmar and a pair of tickets to the theater would ensure a pleasant evening, and keep his mind off of the masters, sorcery, and every other thing weighing down his spirits. We would enjoy a pleasant evening out, and when we came home I’d make love to him until his busy mind calmed and he could think of nothing else.
Except, of course, this blasted fellow Delancey meant to spoil those plans.
I put away the more formal suit I’d taken out in anticipation of an evening on the town, and replaced it with my everyday clothing. Shortly before five o’clock, I left the house and strolled down Water Street to catch the electric trolley to the museum. If only my poor Oldsmobile had survived. I’d barely had the chance to familiarize myself with driving it, before Bradley Osborne set fire to the gas tank. I’d already begun saving for another, but it would be some time before I could afford a replacement.
I could ask Niles for a loan, of course. But just the thought of Whyborne’s reaction made me wince. Father and son might have put a patch on their relationship, but any mention of Niles’s fortune was the surest way to make Ival’s worst suspicions come to the fore.
I descended from the trolley near the museum and made my way up the familiar steps. The elderly ticket taker knew me well by now and merely lifted his hand in greeting as I passed by. The museum was in the process of closing for the day, and visitors streamed out the doors, a few pausing to take one last look at the hadrosaur skeleton dominating the grand foyer. As I made my way to the staff door, it swung open, and Christine and Iskander emerged.
“—had best not be late,” Christine was saying to her husband. “I’m starving.”
“And who chose to work through lunch?” Iskander asked with a lift of one brow. Although his mother’s Egyptian blood had shaped the bones of Iskander’s face and given him his bronze skin, his accent was that of an educated Englishman. He and Christine had met on her first dig in Egypt, and he’d moved to Widdershins last year to be with her.
Christine waved his objection off. “Yes, yes. Oh, hello, Griffin. I suppose Whyborne told you some sorcerer fellow is on his way?”
“I’m afraid so, though he didn’t go into detail.”
“Neither did Mr. Delancey,” Whyborne said, emerging from the staff door himself. He looked tired—but these days, he always looked tired. The delicate lines forming around his eyes and mouth seemed more noticeable, and shadows ringed his eyes from sleepless nights. He’d neglected to visit the barber recently, so his untamable hair jutted in wild spikes. “Other than it has something to do with the Fideles and whatever new awfulness they have planned. I’m sorry for dragging you into this, Griffin, but Delancey mentioned you by name.”
I frowned. “Even if he hadn’t, I hope you wouldn’t consider meeting an unknown sorcerer without the rest of us.”
His gaze evaded mine. “No, of course not.”
Once we returned home, we were going to have a serious conversation about his odd moods as of late. Something was clearly bothering him, beyond the obvious.
“That must be the fellow,” Iskander said with a nod in the direction of the museum entrance.
The man making his way across the foyer looked perfectly ordinary at first glance. He might have been a low level clerk at some business, his suit clean but of last year’s cut, his hair conservatively trimmed. His skin was lightly tanned, however, as though he’d recently spent time outdoors. In his left hand he carried a simple valise.
But one look dispelled any thought that this might be an ordinary clerk or salesman. Magic left its mark, revealed in my shadowsight as a sort of unnatural gleam about the eyes.
“He’s a sorcerer all right,” I said, shifting so I could feel the weight of my revolver in my pocket. I’d brought it even though guns were seldom safe to handle around sorcerers. More useful was my sword cane, which I held loosely in my right hand.
Whyborne straightened his shoulders. “I suppose I ought to speak with him then.”
“We ought to,” I corrected him. “And we should begin out here, where we’re at least in view of the guards. It may restrain him if he means us ill.”
Whyborne nodded and led the way across the marble floor. The man slowed, his eyes flicking over us each in turn. “Dr. Whyborne,” he said. “And this must be Mr. Flaherty, Mr. Barnett, and Dr. Putnam.”
“It’s Dr. Putnam-Barnett now, but yes,” Christine said. “And if you know our names, you know Whyborne relies on us in these, er, matters.”
Whyborne looked rather pained at her words. “Yes,” he said heavily. “You said you wished to speak to me about the Fideles, Mr. Delancey. Why did you want Griffin involved?”
The small, discreet side door near the main doors opened. One of the security guards moved to talk to the man who stepped inside.
Delancey remained focused on Whyborne. “There are plans afoot of which you are ignorant,” he said. “Forces moving to strike not just you, but this entire town.”
Whyborne’s frown deepened. “The Restoration Scarrow warned us about?”
“In part. You are sitting atop an incredibly potent source of power, Dr. Whyborne,” he said, lowering his voice. “The Fideles were fools—they listened to your brother and Dr. Osborne, when they should have reached out to you as the Cabal did.”
The man I’d noticed earlier had gained admittance and walked briskly toward us. Warning bells sounded in my mind, my instincts drawing my attention away from Delancey and to the newcomer. I opened my mouth to call out to him, but the words died on my lips, replaced by horror.
It was clear at a glance that something was deeply wrong with the man. Some sort of corruption—I had no other word for it—spread hideous gray hyphae across his features. As if something had taken root inside and grew like a horrible mold over his skin.
Bile stung the back of my throat at the sight, my stomach threatening to turn at the awful wrongness. “Dear God!”
“Whatever is the matter?” Iskander asked, looking from me to the corrupted man. In that moment, I realized two things.
First, the corruption was only visible to my shadowsight.
Second, the man had reached into his coat and drawn out a pistol.
~ * ~
I reacted on sheer instinct. We were out in the open, with no immediate cover, so I did the only thing I could and tackled Whyborne.
We struck the museum floor at the same instant the gun fired. Warm blood hit the side of my face, and for a heart-stopping moment I thought Whyborne had been shot.
Delancey’s lifeless body collapsed to the floor beside us.
I rolled off of Whyborne and to my feet. I’d lost my sword cane when I knocked him away from the assassin, so I reached into my coat and pulled out my revolver.
The man let his hand fall to his side, although he didn’t let go of the gun. He stared straight ahead, blinking slowly, as though now that he’d shot Delancey, he had no will to do anything else.
“Drop the gun!” one of the security guards shouted.
“There’s something wrong with him!” I yelled. I didn’t want to touch him, not even to grab the gun away. The horrible, grayish-black filaments seemed to writhe and flex across the back of his hands and over his face—
His face.
Dear God. It couldn’t be. But I knew those features, even though it had been fourteen years since I’d last seen them. Hadn’t I beheld them every Sunday of my childhood at church, at picnics, at potlucks and community dances?
“Mr. Odell?” I asked, bewildered.
“Griffin Flaherty,” he said. Then his face transformed into a snarl of rage, and he raised his gun a second time.
There came the crack of a pistol, echoing throughout the cavernous space. Odell collapsed in front of me, blood spreading across his chest. The museum guards r
ushed up with their weapons trained on him, but it was clear he was no longer a threat.
His breath rattled in his lungs, blood already filling them. I dropped to my knees beside him. “Mr. Odell? What’s going on?”
His dimming gaze fixed on me. “You’ll pay for what you did,” he managed to say through the blood choking him. Then he drew one last, rattling breath and grew still.
Whyborne’s hand came to rest on my shoulder. “Griffin? You know this man?”
I nodded. “Cotton Odell. I haven’t seen him in...it must be fourteen years now.” He’d been one of the men waiting for me at the depot, to make certain I got on the train that would take me out of Kansas. Out of the community where I’d grown up, the community where he was a respected man.
When I was a small child, he’d bought me penny candy from the barrel at the general store. When I was a youth, he’d always laughed and joked every time we’d see one another at picnics, or church, or in town to buy supplies.
But that day there had been no laughter, no jokes. Not even a smile. Nothing but cold judgment and disgust, for bending over the milking stool in the barn and letting the neighbor’s son fuck me.
“You’ll pay for what you did.” Surely Odell hadn’t meant that long-ago scandal.
“Is he from Chicago?” Whyborne asked.
“No. He’s from my hometown.” I licked dry lips. “From Fallow.”
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