We crept down as quietly as possible. My heart thudded and my ears strained for the smallest sound. As a consequence, I let the match burn down too far, and dropped it when the flame blistered my fingers.
We were plunged into darkness. “Honestly, Whyborne,” Christine muttered, a tremor in her voice. After a moment of fumbling, I managed to light a second match.
We passed silently through the interconnected storerooms, hoping to lose the Guardian in the maze. Or at least, such was my plan, but Christine abruptly seized my arm and nodded to one of the rooms. I frowned at her and shook my head; it was a dead end, and we would be trapped if the Guardian followed us.
She scowled back at me, then stood on tiptoe, putting her mouth as close to my ear as possible. It reminded me irresistibly of the day in the alley with Griffin, although thank heavens Christine’s proximity didn’t affect me in the slightest.
“Can these things be killed?” she whispered.
“Yes,” I whispered back.
Behind us in the darkness, the stairs creaked.
Chapter 9
We exchanged a look, and Christine dragged me into the storeroom. Some of the vaults were given over to a single type of item: a room of nothing but antelope horns, or beetles, or shark teeth. Others were stuffed full of artifacts without regard to department: medieval manuscripts filed alongside shrunken heads.
This one seemed at least to be ordered according to provenance, although I couldn’t have said what people created the items within. There was a painted canoe made of bark, stacks of woven baskets, armbands decorated with feathers and beads, hundreds of stone arrowheads, blowpipes, bows…and a single long spear with a truly wicked-looking stone point strapped to the end.
Christine grabbed the spear just as the match burned down. I started to light another, then paused.
Would it—could it—work?
I placed the matchbox on the floor a few feet inside the door and fixed the location in my mind. Then I carefully groped my way into the room until I encountered Christine. I put my hands on the spear next to hers to help brace it. Even if my plan worked, this would take both of us.
We stood in absolute darkness for what seemed half the night. Both of us trembled, like a pair of rabbits hiding in a burrow while a weasel scratched at the entrance. At least holding onto the spear relieved me of the awkward decision of whether or not I should offer Christine comfort. My upbringing insisted I should, but knowing Christine, I would likely get punched in the face if I tried.
I strained my ears for any sound. The cloth of Christine’s shirt vibrated almost imperceptibly with her breath. Water dripped somewhere nearby, perhaps from a steam pipe. Inside the wall, a mouse began to chew on wood.
Was that the scratch of claws on tile?
No. Yes.
I locked my knees to keep them from shaking. Slowly, slowly the scratching drew closer, accompanied by the sound of snuffling.
It could smell us.
Christine drew in a sharp breath as she came to the same realization. Leaning close, I risked whispering: “Squint your eyes—and when the time comes, do as I do.”
It sounded insane, but she nodded, perhaps trusting I knew something she didn’t. God, I hoped she was right; if my plan didn’t work, we would both very likely die here.
And it wouldn’t work. It couldn’t. I wasn’t adept at anything except hiding in my office and reading dead languages. How could I possibly come up with a plan to save us?
It had been Christine’s idea to get the spear, though. I drew comfort from that; she’d faced threats to her life a dozen times in her travels. Perhaps we did have a chance.
God, please let us have a chance.
The Guardian drew nearer and nearer, its wet fur reeking of pus and foulness. I swallowed down my revulsion and concentrated only on listening.
It was at the door.
A loud snuffle, and the hinges creaked as the door swung wide. Claws on the tiles.
It was in the room with us.
Squinting my eyes, I focused on the matchbox and spoke the secret name of fire.
The box burst into flames, the light blindingly bright even through my lashes after such utter darkness. The Guardian fell back with a howl of pain, which contained just enough of humanity to make it a thousand times worse than the shriek of a monster.
“Now!” I yelled, and surged toward its cringing figure.
Christine moved with me, both of us lunging forward with all the strength in us. The point of the spear slammed into its hairy chest, grated against bone, then slipped between ribs and sank deep. The Guardian let out another ear-splitting scream, its body bowing as it tried to wrench away from the spear.
Then it began to crumble. Patches of its flesh turned bluish-grey, before sloughing away, until the whole of the creature suddenly collapsed into a relatively small pile of extremely fine dust.
In the dying light of the flaming matchbox, Christine and I stared at one another. She took a deep, shaky breath. “What the devil is going on here, Whyborne?”
“I’ll explain later,” I said. “But please, let’s leave while there’s still some light. I don’t want to end up wandering around down here, lost in the dark.”
She paled. “Yes. Yes, I quite agree. Let’s get out of here and fetch the police.”
~ * ~
I got no sleep at all that night. Indeed, it was just as well my neighbors took no note of my comings and goings, because I didn’t even make it back to my apartment.
We found a police officer on patrol almost at once, which was a stroke of luck. I babbled out a story about a dead watchman and thieves, leaving out the fantastic aspects. Something about our wild appearance must have convinced him of the truth; he summoned other officers immediately, most of whom headed for the museum. Two remained with us; they wasted most of the time insisting Christine allow one of them to escort her home, to spare her any further shocks.
The policemen found poor Dillard’s body, and the body of the thief Christine had shot. Before the hour was out, Dr. Hart, Mr. Rockwell, and even the museum President, Mr. Mathison, joined us on the Ladysmith’s front steps. Rockwell marched inside and left the rest of us shivering in the cold, while he and the police made certain no more ruffians lurked within. None of them noticed the inexplicable pile of blue-gray dust in one of the remote storerooms.
By the time they were done, it was almost dawn. Christine finally gave up and left for home. My notes and books lay where I had dropped them; I gathered them hastily, trying not to look at the pool of sticky blood which awaited the arrival of the janitorial staff. After, I went to my office and straightened my clothing as best I could. Bradley kept a shaving kit in his office; I shamelessly stole the key, trusting Rockwell had better things to worry about at the moment. I suppose I might have waited until Bradley arrived and simply asked, but I was in no mood to endure his vulgar insinuations as to why Christine and I might have been in the museum alone together at such a late hour.
I took a few moments to scribble a hasty note to Griffin, letting him know his case had reached into the museum and suggesting we meet in the evening. I usually spent all of Saturday at work, rather than the half-day required of us, and I had the feeling I’d need the extra hours to finish my researches.
Dr. Hart called an all-staff meeting; as it happened, a garbled account of events had already made the rounds. No doubt the afternoon edition of the Widdershins Enquirer Journal would bear a lurid headline such as “Murder at the Museum!” or “The Mummy’s Curse!” or some such rubbish.
Christine returned, looking a bit more refreshed. She volunteered to give an account of our adventure to the meeting, and delivered it with verve. I tried to sink into my chair and look inconspicuous whenever she mentioned my name.
“Ha!” Bradley said, when she arrived at our confrontation with the “thieves” in the exhibition hall. “Whyborne screamed like a woman, didn’t he? Come now, you can tell us.”
There came a smattering of
chuckles. I stared resolutely at the pad of paper in front of me and forced a half-hearted little smile onto my lips. But my fingers clenched until my nails drew blood from my palms. The director hurriedly asked Christine a question, diverting her attention from Bradley before she could make any response; their fights were legendary among the staff.
Eventually, the meeting came to an end. As soon as the director declared it adjourned, I darted for the exit and was gone before anyone could speak to me.
I gathered my books and notes from my office. Some of the papers were edged in blood, where they’d settled too close to Dillard’s body. I stared at them for a long time, until I realized I was simply in a daze. There was no time for wit-wandering; I felt exhausted, yes, but the events of the night before had proved the urgency of the case. I could not afford to relax.
I hastily drank down a too-hot cup of coffee poured by Miss Parkhurst, then headed back to the library. Mr. Quinn, the head librarian, eyed me when I entered. With his black clothing and pale, somber coloring, he looked more like a funeral director than a librarian.
“Dr. Whyborne,” he said, gliding over to me. His voice matched his aspect: deep and hollow as a grave. “I understand you were the one to find the…body.”
“Er, yes, th-that’s right.”
He nodded slowly, but his pale, bulging eyes never left my face. “I see. Do you think he…suffered?”
“I, er, I couldn’t possibly say. I’m sorry, but I have w-work to do.” I gestured feebly with my armload of books.
“Hmm.” He eyed my burden. “None of those with bloodstains belong to this library, do they?”
What would he do if I answered in the affirmative? Thank goodness I didn’t have to lie. “N-no. These are from my, er, personal collection.”
He didn’t say anything further. I backed away a few steps, then fled his presence. I only breathed again when I was sure he hadn’t followed me.
I spent the next few hours ensconced in my nook in the back of the library, amid the moldering tomes. The manner of the Guardian’s final dissolution confirmed my theories as to its nature, but I wanted to make absolutely certain before I presented my findings to Griffin.
It was difficult to concentrate on the crumbling pages and cryptic words. Every creak, every hiss of air through a ventilation grate, every distant footstep caused me to start. I’d sat oblivious in this very chair last night, while a man was torn to shreds only a short distance away. What if something came upon me while I worked? Would anyone else hear the sounds of my demise, or would they find my mangled body tonight, when Mr. Quinn appeared to lock up?
Surely the Brotherhood wouldn’t try anything in the middle of the day, would they?
The tap of approaching footsteps sent me scrambling to my feet, nearly knocking my chair to the floor. Thanks to the strange architecture, voices carried oddly clear into this room. I started when I recognized Griffin’s accents.
“Thank you for escorting me. I don’t think I would have been able to find my way alone—the place is something of a maze, isn’t it?”
My heart settled to back to something near its usual pace. I was about call out and let him know where I was, when Bradley spoke. “No trouble, no trouble at all. Tell me, did you stop bank robbers, when you were a Pinkerton?”
“Mostly train robberies, actually. I was stationed out west for most of my time with the agency. I also tracked a band of kidnappers over the border into Mexico, and one time—but you probably don’t want to hear about any of this.”
“Don’t be absurd! Your life sounds like something out of a dime novel and quite exciting. You must come to my Christmas party.”
“Most kind of you, Mr. Osborne.”
“Please, call me Bradley.”
Of course Bradley would find Griffin fascinating. Who wouldn’t? And surely Bradley, with his parties, would seem far more interesting a friend than me.
“Widdershins must seem terribly boring to you,” Bradley rambled on. “After all your adventures out west, that is.”
“Not at all. I find it a welcome change of pace.”
“Yes, but having to work with old ‘Why-were-you-born’…you have my condolences.”
I bit my lip until I tasted blood. It was nothing I hadn’t head a hundred times before. It didn’t matter. Griffin would join him in a hearty laugh, and it. Did. Not. Matter.
The footsteps halted. “Excuse me?” Griffin asked.
“Oh, you know, old Percy.” Bradley laughed. “Bit of a useless fairy, isn’t he?”
“I believe I can find my way from here, Mr. Osborne,” Griffin said, his voice hard and cold as a glacier.
“Oh, come now, Mr. Flaherty, it was only a joke.”
“Whyborne is my friend and a good man. I do not appreciate hearing him made the butt of jokes better suited to a boy still in primary school than a grown man.”
Bradley let out an angry huff. “Well. Good day to you, sir.”
His footsteps faded. A few moments later, Griffin’s resumed, accompanied by the tap of his cane. I tried to compose myself hurriedly, but my expression must have given me away, because he paused when he entered the room.
“Er, good day,” I said. My ears and cheeks burned, but at the same time, an unfamiliar warmth fluttered in my stomach. “Didn’t you get my note?”
Maybe he hadn’t. Or maybe he didn’t want me coming over to his house after work. Or maybe—
“Yes.” He leaned against the doorway, his hands shoved in his pockets. His tie was the color of rust, and brought out the shade in his eyes. “But after seeing the newspaper, I wished to come by and make certain you were all right.”
“I…oh. Y-yes. I’m fine.” A fine, babbling idiot.
“Have you eaten lunch yet?”
I hadn’t even had breakfast; my stomach growled in response. Had he heard? “No.”
“Then let me take you out; you can tell me what happened.”
“Of course. I suppose Christine should come with us,” I added, a bit reluctantly. She needed to be involved, of course, but it would have been nice to have an hour alone with Griffin when we weren’t in danger of our lives.
God, I had to stop thinking such things.
“Certainly.” Griffin gestured out the door. “Lead the way.”
~ * ~
“All right, Whyborne,” Christine said as we settled into a booth at Marsh’s, “Out with it. What has this detective involved you in?”
I sat beside her, while Griffin took the bench across from us. He leaned over the table and folded his hands in front of him. “What do you know already, Dr. Putnam?” he asked.
She eyed him distrustfully. “I know I was attacked by a creature—a Guardian, I believe Whyborne called it?—which should not exist by any natural laws. I also know Whyborne can apparently set fires merely by speaking a few words.”
Griffin gave me a startled look. “Then you know more than I.”
The waiter slid in a plate of poached fish in front of me, giving me an excuse not to meet their eyes. “I, er, decided to experiment a bit.”
“Repeatability?”
I risked a glance up. Griffin smiled. “Repeatability,” I agreed.
Christine glared at me. “Whyborne…”
“Allow me,” Griffin said. While we ate, he laid out the facts of the case, including our encounter in the warehouse. I took up the narrative from there, detailing my experiment in summoning a flame. Christine contributed from then on, and together we told Griffin about our adventure in the museum.
When I explained how we had defeated the Guardian, Griffin arched a brow. “That was rather clever. Or devious.”
“It seemed obvious,” I said, my cheeks warming from his praise. Hopefully neither he nor—heaven forbid—Christine noticed.
“It saved our lives,” Christine said matter-of-factly. “I must say, gentlemen, this all sounds rather unbelievable. If I hadn’t seen what I did…but I have.” She shook her head and scowled down at her plate. “You still hav
en’t said what these Guardians are, however. Or why the one we killed turn into dust.”
“Not dust,” I corrected. “Salt.”
Griffin folded his napkin and set it aside. “Tell us, then.”
“I could be wrong, of course, but based on what I’ve read in the Arcanorum, the creatures we saw in the warehouse, and the lists in the book I’ve found, I think they’re…well, they’re made from the remains of humans and-and other dead things.”
“Do make some sense, Whyborne,” Christine said.
“In my readings, there is a great deal of talk concerning alchemical experiments which could reconstitute a person—or creature—from its essential salts. As for the, er, non-human bits…one seemed to be part crocodile, and the one last night had hyena in it.”
Christine’s eyes widened. “The thefts from the museum!”
“I’m afraid so. Once the…parts…were gathered, the salts would have to be properly prepared, again by alchemical means, from the mortal remains.”
“That’s not possible,” Christine interrupted.
“Neither is conjuring up fire with words and willpower.”
“Touché,” she muttered.
“The Guardians aren’t attempts to resurrect anyone, per se, merely to use the salts of humans and other creatures to create slaves.” The poached fish swam uneasily in my stomach. “Horrors unrelated to the bodies from which they were created.” At least I hoped such was the case.
Griffin sat back and stared fixedly at his half-empty plate, although I doubt he saw anything beyond his own thoughts. “Blackbyrne, though. He was one of the Brotherhood, judging by the symbol on his tomb. Would they try to truly resurrect him?”
It was surreal to sit in the normalcy of the diner and discuss such things. “I don’t know. It would require a complicated ritual to bring his essence back into true being. As to why they would—and why now, after two-hundred years—I can’t guess.”
“Could he be the one behind the creations of these Guardians?”
“It’s possible, but again, we have no way of knowing.”
“Hmm.” Griffin rubbed absently at his clean-shaven chin, staring off into nothing. “Putting the matter of Blackbyrne aside, why would the Brotherhood be interested in an exhibit at the museum?”
Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3 Page 8