Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3

by Jordan L. Hawk

  “Yes.” His lips brushed my skin, then settled again. Curled together, we lay a long time in contented silence, before sleep claimed us at last.

  ~ * ~

  The sound of a fist pounding on the front door woke me. I blinked, bleary-eyed and rolled over. Only the faintest gray light showed through from outside the window.

  Griffin sat up, his body stiff with alarm. Even if whoever was outside meant us no ill, we were in a rather compromising position. My heartbeat sped, and I sat up as well, casting about for my discarded clothing.

  The cadence of the knock changed to a succession of smart raps. “It’s Christine,” I said, relieved and appalled in equal measure.

  Griffin’s green eyes widened. “Christine?”

  “Er, yes. I’ll see to her.”

  I fumbled on my clothing hastily. I had nothing to wear except the ruined suit from the night before, as my original intent had been to return to my apartment after the gala to preserve appearances, before joining Griffin later. Not only was the sleeve torn and bloody, but the shirt was missing most of its buttons thanks to Griffin’s enthusiasm. I swore silently and buttoned up my coat to conceal as much of the damage as possible.

  Christine waited on the stoop, dressed in her usual sensible boots, skirt, and shirtwaist. “Dear God, man, don’t tell me you were still lazing about in bed!” she exclaimed at the sight of me.

  Blood rushed to my face, but I pointed at the sky. “It’s isn’t even dawn yet. What on earth are you doing here?”

  “I had an idea,” she said, brushing past me and into the house, without waiting for an invitation. “There might still be a way of reading the scroll those bastards stole.”

  “You’re making no sense,” I said, rather shortly. Blast it, if she was going to spout nonsense, she could at least have waited until a decent hour. My head ached, and my arm ached, and other parts of my anatomy ached, although at least the latter pains I had obtained in a pleasant undertaking. “Shouldn’t you be on your way to Egypt?”

  “Don’t worry, old man, I intend to spend the day finalizing arrangements. With any luck, I’ll be steaming away from Widdershins on Wednesday. Now fetch Griffin; I don’t want to repeat myself.”

  It really was far too early for this. “Wait here,” I said. Leaving her in the parlor, I hastened back upstairs. Griffin was knotting his tie when I reappeared; he cast me a questioning look with more than a little worry in it.

  “Christine claims to have come up with some idea as to how we can know what the scroll said, even though it is no longer in our possession,” I said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Honestly, I think she couldn’t sleep and decided we shouldn’t, either. I’m sorry.”

  “It isn’t your fault.”

  “No, but she is my friend, and I feel I ought to apologize for her behavior.”

  “She knows about us.” It wasn’t a question.

  I clasped my hands between my knees and looked down. “She knows about me,” I clarified. “We have been friends for a long time, and she…well, she notices things. It’s one of the reasons she’s good at her job.”

  “She would have made a fine detective.”

  “Don’t be daft. She’d be a terrible detective. No subtlety whatsoever.” I watched as he put his coat on, straightening it in the mirror, his every movement stiff. He’d been run out of his small Kansas town after being caught with another man; of course he would fear discovery. “Don’t worry. Christine is my friend, and yours too, I think. She won’t tell anyone. That isn’t her way.”

  The set of his shoulders relaxed slightly, and he let out a rueful chuckle. “Christine seems more the type to shoot you in the chest than stab you in the back.”

  “Quite.” I stood up and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. “Dear heavens, I’d best stop by my apartment. I look like I’ve been mugged and beaten.”

  Griffin’s expression sobered. “How are you feeling?”

  “A bit sore, but nothing too troublesome. Or were you asking about my arm?”

  He laughed and closed with me, cupping my unshaven jaw with one hand and kissing me softly. “I have indeed corrupted you. The Whyborne I met would have never made such a jest.”

  “I might have, but only in my thoughts.”

  “No complaints concerning last night’s activities, then?”

  His need for reassurance made me smile. “None at all.”

  “Perhaps we shall try it the other way about next time.”

  It took a measure of will not to press my stiffening member into his hip. “You will have me in a state, and Christine is downstairs.”

  “You started it,” he reminded.

  There was no arguing, so I kissed him instead: hard and deep, a promise for later. His arms wrapped around me, holding me against his broad chest for just a moment.

  “Come down when you’re ready, my dear,” he murmured, before hurrying out and down the stair, as if unsure he could resist the temptation to do more, should he linger.

  Another look in the mirror made me question what he might find irresistible, however. My hair stood up as usual, but this morning the spikes clumped together from both the application of oil and a night pressed against a pillow. Purple shadows encircled my eyes, and the bandage on my arm showed through the gaping, blood-stained holes in my sleeves. I’d have to call a cab; if anyone saw me on the street like this, they’d summon the police.

  A comb and a quick wash and shave restored some of the damage, at least. I went downstairs to find Christine and Griffin on either side of the desk in his parlor. Saul had jumped up between them and was accepting Christine’s attentions with a complete lack of feline dignity, his purr loud enough to hear from the hall.

  Christine and Griffin fell silent at my approach; Saul kept on, obliviously happy. Had they been talking about me?

  “How’s the arm?” Christine inquired gruffly. Perhaps she’d been asking Griffin about my health. Or threatening to dismember parts of his anatomy, should he break my heart. Either seemed likely.

  “Stiff, but I’ll survive,” I said. “Would you care to enlighten us as to your revelation of this morning?”

  Christine looked uncomfortable. “Whyborne, I…well. If I’ve been too blasted hard on you, I apologize. I rushed over here without thinking about your wound, or, er, anything.”

  What on earth had Griffin said to her? “We’re friends because of who you are, not you who aren’t. Think no more of it.”

  Griffin kindly fetched another chair for me, and Saul abandoned Christine to jump into my lap. “Well?” I asked, stroking his fur, “are you going to explain or not?”

  Christine leaned back in her chair. “The scroll is gone, and unless you gentlemen come upon a clue soon, it seems likely it will remain lost. However, while we were setting up for the gala, the director had all of the exhibits photographed for posterity.”

  I sat up sharply, dislodging Saul from my lap. “Are you saying there’s a photographic record of the scroll?”

  “I’m saying there might be,” she cautioned. “Even if there is, I don’t know if they would have captured the entire thing, or only parts of it. Thanks to the disaster last night, the director will no doubt be in his office today, even if it is Sunday. I’ll ask him to deliver the photograph to you for translation immediately, assuming it exists. If he wants to know why, I’ll tell him it’s a way of putting a small bandage onto the wound the museum’s reputation has suffered.”

  I could not keep myself from shaking her hand. “Brilliant, Christine. Truly brilliant.”

  “Dear lord, don’t go all maudlin on me,” she said, pulling her hand away. “It may come to nothing, if the photographer didn’t do his job properly.”

  “Of course.” I hastily composed myself. “Still, it’s worth a try.”

  “Precisely. Well, I expect by the time you arrive at the museum, I’ll be at the docks, discussing the finer points of loading my equipment onto a steamer. Never fear, though, I’ll be by the Ladysmit
h again before I leave, and you can inform me of your progress then.”

  Griffin and I escorted her to the door. “I’ll accompany you, if Whyborne has no objection,” he said to her. “If Dr. Hart balks, I’ll invoke Mr. Rice’s name and hint at the connection with my case.”

  She regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “A sensible suggestion. Come along, then.”

  We parted at the sidewalk, and I watched them walk briskly away. Hoping Christine didn’t say anything too terribly embarrassing about me, I turned in the other direction and headed for the nearest corner to hail a cab.

  Chapter 21

  It didn’t occur to me the theft would be the focus of every newspaper in New England, until I alighted from a cab in front of the Ladysmith and found a crowd of newsmen loitering on the steps. I started past them, assuming they waited for someone more important than me to speak with, and was surprised when the entire pack rushed to surround me.

  “Dr. Whyborne! Is it true you tried to apprehend the criminals?” one of them demanded, while another cried: “Do you think the police are doing enough, Dr. Whyborne?”

  “Is it true your father doesn’t contribute the museum? Does he think it isn’t safe?”

  “What sort of artifact was stolen?”

  “Show us where you were shot!”

  “I, er—no!” I exclaimed. Clutching the collar of my overcoat against the cold wind, I hurried past them.

  Rockwell glowered from his post in front of the doors, which no doubt explained why the reporters had gotten no farther. As I started past him, he laid a meaty hand on my upper arm, directly on top of my wound.

  I winced, but bit back a gasp. “Good morning, Mr. Rockwell.”

  “Think you’re better than us, do you?” he asked in a low voice. His hand tightened on my arm, sending a throb of pain through the trail left by the bullet. “Trying to show us up? Running after the thieves like you think you’re some kind of hero and we’re nothing?”

  “I-I, no,” I said, barely holding back a gasp of pain. Hot blood trickled down my arm as the scab broke under his grip.

  “If I were you, sir, I’d keep to my place.”

  Hidden in my office, out of sight and mind. God knew it’s what I would prefer. “Y-Yes. I will.”

  His eyes assessed me for an uncomfortably long minute. Then he gave a curt nod and let go. My arm throbbing, I fled past him and into the museum.

  I didn’t slow until I’d reached the safety of the hall leading to my office. Damn the man. If he’d only done his cursed job, he wouldn’t have to fear a thin, weak scholar would show him up. Every beat of my heart sent a pulse of pain through my arm, and I shifted my shoulder uncomfortably, trying to get my coat to hang less heavily on the bandage. I could not afford to ruin another shirt.

  The book in my coat pocket tapped lightly against my breast, dislodged by my movements. If he knew the power the Arcanorum could give me, Rockwell would never dare lay a hand on me again. Bullies like him were only strong while assured of victory; when faced with anyone more powerful, they turned into fawning sycophants, desperate to prove themselves. I could—

  Could what? Turn into Blackbyrne, commanding a secret army of men and thugs and monsters? The idea was so absurd as to be laughable.

  Wasn’t it?

  The smell of coffee greeted me as I approached my office, and I entered to find Griffin seated in the spare chair. A large box of photographs occupied the center of my desk.

  “The director jumped at Christine’s suggestion,” he said, nodding at the box. “Unfortunately, although the photographs were developed, they haven’t been sorted yet. Christine has left for the docks. Have you eaten?”

  “No,” I said, closing the door behind me.

  “I suspected you wouldn’t take the time, so I brought you a donut. It’s there beside your coffee.”

  His thoughtfulness brought a smile to my face. “Thank you.” I reached for the coffee with my off hand, then winced when the wound pulled.

  Griffin was instantly alert. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Mostly.” He gave me a narrow look, though, and I relented with a sigh. “I had a bit of a run-in with Mr. Rockwell.”

  I tried to make light of the account, but by the time I finished, Griffin’s brows were pulled down in a threatening scowl. “Damn the man. He had all the guards he should have needed, not to mention every reason to suspect something would happen last night. He should have positioned his men better. If this had been a Pinkerton job—”

  He caught himself with an effort, his lips thinning. “Well. There’s no sense in what-ifs. But if the man is weak enough to bully you because you performed his job better than he did, then your security is ill-served. I will mention the matter to Mr. Rice.”

  I was sorry I’d said anything. “Don’t, please. I don’t want to cause trouble.”

  “He’s a wretch.”

  “He’s afraid of losing his job.”

  “As he should be!”

  I toyed uncomfortably with a pencil. “I know, but I don’t wish any conflict with him.”

  Griffin looked at me closely, before letting out a sigh. “Very well, my dear. I won’t mention it to Mr. Rice. But I won’t forget about it, either.”

  I sat down and pulled the box of photos closer. “Help me sort these,” I said, hoping to distract him. My dignity wouldn’t survive Griffin thrashing Rockwell on my behalf.

  We spent the next hour combing through the photographs. Eventually, I found a single image of the stolen scroll. The angle and lighting were poor, and I wasn’t certain I’d be able to make out enough detail. I took out a pad of paper and a magnifying glass, and set to work.

  Some hours later, I sat back in my chair. My neck and back hurt from leaning over the desk, and squinting through the magnifying glass left me with a headache.

  “Well?” Griffin asked.

  I glanced at him guiltily. How long had he sat there while I ignored everything but the picture before me? “I don’t have a complete translation. The photograph is too poor to make out some of the hieroglyphs. But I do have the gist of it. I’m afraid the news isn’t good.”

  “And here I’d hoped it would be an ancient birthday party invitation,” he said dryly.

  “I mean this is bad news even for the Brotherhood,” I clarified. “I can’t imagine what they’d want with it.”

  “Who is translating for them?” Griffin asked.

  A question I hadn’t considered before. “I don’t know. Mummies are cheap enough, and there were plenty of Greeks who spoke both their own language and Egyptian, who might be resurrected and forced to translate. Perhaps not from the same era, but close enough to read the hieroglyphs. If the Brotherhood could raise Blackbyrne, they—or he—might be able to raise a mummy. Assuming Blackbyrne didn’t learn to translate hieroglyphics during his earlier occult career.”

  “What does it say?”

  “The scroll speaks of raising the dead, which the Brotherhood already knows how to accomplish. But it takes things a step beyond. It talks about the path to immortality.”

  “Immortality,” Griffin repeated, but he sounded oddly resigned. “Of course. If you’re a society of powerful, wealthy men, what’s left?”

  The next words stuck in my throat, but I forced them out. “True, but…it’s immortality at a cost. Listen: ‘Lo, he has come into being; the man who was dead has come into being; the container has come into being. Then shall you call on the Beyond-One, saying, “You who are All-in-One and One-in-All, the God Behind the Veil, who open the gate and are the gate, Yog-Sothoth, let Those from Outside see and rejoice, let this container be filled.” Then say to the one who is summoned, ‘I have called you while the stars stand at…’ I can’t make out the rest of the incantation, I’m afraid, so I don’t know where the stars are supposed to be. It picks back up at: ‘…the container will be yours to command, and lo shall it make the rivers into deserts, and the desert into ocean, and lift up the land or cast it down as you say.’
”

  The silence after seemed very great, as if we weren’t surrounded by a city, or were the only living beings in the whole of the museum

  At last Griffin stirred. “What are we looking at if we don’t stop them?” he asked quietly.

  I met his gaze. “The end of the world.”

  ~ * ~

  “Someone paid off Rosa,” Griffin said.

  We had sat in silence for several minutes, during which my thoughts spun in useless circles, like a machine with a slipped gear. “What?” I asked.

  “Rosa. The madam. The Brotherhood either paid her to betray me, or fed her false information. I’m guessing the former, as she’s too savvy for the latter. If she knows someone in the cult, or at least someone who works for them, perhaps we can chase them to ground.”

  “It’s worth a try,” I agreed.

  Griffin rose to his feet. “Shall ‘Weatherby’ and ‘Flannery’ make their triumphant return?”

  Considering my last experience, “triumphant” hardly seemed appropriate. Still, I nodded and said, “If you think my presence will be of use, then of course I’ll go.”

  “I knew I could count on you.” He came around the desk, leaned down, and brushed his lips across mine. “I have some things to look into. I’ll meet you at seven o’clock outside your apartment.”

  I spent the rest of the day hunched over the Arcanorum, making notes and attempting to match certain passages to the information on the scroll, in hopes of building a fuller picture. I made a few brief trips to the library; on one of them, I overheard Mr. Quinn discussing the secret passage and old tunnels the thieves had fled into the night before.

  “Has anyone looked into them?” I asked.

  Mr. Quinn turned his unnerving stare on me; he didn’t seem to blink quite as much as normal people. “Mr. Rockwell took a troop of men into the vaults last night,” he said in his sepulchral voice. His long hands twisted together like a pair of white spiders. “The thieves collapsed part of the tunnel behind them. The director has had work crews tramping through the library all morning, trying to move the rubble. Mr. Bradley is quite put out he was not informed there were ruins beneath the museum.”