As an apology for almost destroying the world, it wasn’t much. But perhaps it was the best I could expect from him. “I’m sure the museum will be most grateful for your donation. Tell Mother I’ll see her on Christmas.”
He nodded gruffly, then touched his hat to Griffin, before hastening to the nearest cab.
We were alone together for the first time since I’d left him in anger, intending to never return. I read uncertainty in Griffin’s eyes when he glanced at me. “Will you walk with me?”
“Of course.” I fell in beside him, clasping my hands behind my back to restrain the urge to touch him. “Are you well? Do you need to see a doctor?” What might the Brotherhood have done to him during his long hours of captivity?
“I’m fine. A few bruises and cuts, nothing more. How…how are you faring?”
“Well enough.” I looked down at the slushy sidewalk. “Blackbyrne admitted to arranging Philip’s murder, by the way. I’m not sure how much you’ll be able to tell his father, but he should know the man chiefly responsible is dead. Again.”
“Thank you.” His eyes were worried, though. “Are you certain you’re all right? I know it couldn’t have been easy for you to…”
“Kill Leander,” I said.
He shook his head. “That wasn’t Leander, not really.”
“Of course it was. A twisted version of him, just as Blackbyrne was a twisted version of whatever man he had been. But still him.”
My voice trembled, and I pressed my lips together. Griffin put his hand to my shoulder, squeezing gently. “I’m sorry. You had no choice.”
“I did, though. If this had happened a month ago, before I met you, before I’d seen and done the things I have…I might have chosen differently.”
“I don’t believe that.”
I tilted my head back. Trees lined the road near Griffin’s house, their black branches stark against the dazzling blue sky. “I spent over a decade mourning Leander. I felt guilty for living when he died, so I didn’t live, not really. I clung to the past and to pain, and never took a risk or a chance. I locked myself in prison and pretended I didn’t have a key.”
We’d reached Griffin’s gate. I stopped and rested my hand lightly on the iron bars. “Then I met an impertinent detective who refused to let me remain in my comfortable cell.”
“Whyborne, I—”
“Let me finish. It-it was hard, putting Leander to rest last night. I almost didn’t have the strength of will, even knowing the cost of letting him remain. When I heard you call out to me, though…well. I realized I couldn’t sacrifice you, a-and Christine, or even myself, to a memory. No matter how fond a memory it might be.” I turned to him. “To answer your question: I’m fine. Or I will be, in time.”
His lips parted slightly, as if I had surprised him. Pushing the gate open, he asked, “Will you come inside?”
I followed him to the house. It was icy cold, the fires long gone out, so I kept on my coat as he led the way to the study on the second floor. He went to the hearth and set about laying a fire, his back to me. “When I saw you in the basement…”
I winced. “You didn’t get my hint, then? It was the only way I could think to let you know I hadn’t really joined them.”
He crumpled up a sheet of newspaper to use as kindling, stuffing it among the fresh logs. “On the contrary, I thought it quite clever of you. But I didn’t need it. I would never have believed you’d gone over to their side. No, my astonishment stemmed from the fact you came at all.”
“I don’t understand.” Surely he didn’t believe I would have simply left him there to rot?
He struck a match, silhouetted by the warm light. “My parents…they’re good people, but when I was caught with the neighbor’s son, they didn’t understand. Instead of standing with me, they sided with the ones calling for me to leave the only home I knew.
“Afterward, I found a new home with the Pinkertons. But when Glenn died and I was injured, no one believed what had really happened. Even those I’d counted as friends said I was mad. They abandoned me to the asylum. And I began to wonder if they were right.”
He rose to his feet and stood gazing down at the flames. “What if I was mentally aberrant in some fashion? What if my desire for other men and my imagined monsters were all part of the same sickness?”
It hurt to hear him speak so. I rested my hands on his shoulders, but he didn’t turn to face me. “Griffin—”
“Hear me out, while I still have the courage. Once I knew I hadn’t imagined the things I saw in Chicago, it made me angry, because no one had believed me. No one had stood up for me when I truly needed them. I swore I would never rely on anyone but myself. I couldn’t—couldn’t bear to be let down again.
“Then you walked into that basement, and I realized how wrong I’d been. You’d risked everything to come for me, and…and…I knew…”
He stopped, taking a deep breath, and his shoulders shook with a suppressed sob.
“Of course I came for you,” I said. “Just as I know you would have for me.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said thickly. “About the notes. I’m sorry I ever considered using you, even for an instant. I was lonely. I thought we could at least pass a pleasant time together. As for not telling you immediately that I knew about certain things, about Leander…a good detective never lets on how much he knows, because it’s more informative to hear it fresh from a witness, or a suspect. But you were neither of those things, and it was a poor way to treat a friend. I never intended to hurt you. I can only beg your forgiveness and-and hope you will give it.”
He allowed me to turn him to face me. The tracks of tears still gleamed on his cheeks, but he didn’t try to hide his expression of mingled hope and fear and regret.
I pulled him into my arms and kissed him: hard and desperate and deep. He returned the kiss, his arms wrapping around my waist and holding me tightly to him.
When it ended, I leaned my forehead against his. “You may take that as your answer,” I said breathlessly.
His lips stole another kiss from mine. “I love you, Ival,” he whispered. “When I saw you running toward that portal…God, I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”
My pulse fluttered in my throat. “When I thought…when I thought I was going to die…the only thing I could feel, besides fear, was regret we hadn’t had enough time.”
We stood together silently, wrapped in each other’s embrace. I laid my cheek against his hair: it was stiff with blood from his scalp wound, and both of us were covered in grime, but I didn’t care. Nothing mattered except him, alive and warm in my arms. For the first time in my life, I felt truly at peace.
After a time, he drew back a little. “The night you went to your parents’ house for dinner, you had originally intended to return to your apartment, do you remember?”
I couldn’t imagine where the non sequitur was leading. “Er, yes?”
One of his hands stroked my back, but he kept his gaze fixed on my tie instead of meeting my eyes. “I was sitting here alone, missing you, and it occurred to me I have a spare room I’m using only for storage. It wouldn’t seem at all odd if I were to take in a boarder.”
I drew back in surprise. “Oh?”
“Yes.” He still didn’t quite meet my gaze, as if half-afraid of rejection. “I’m very particular, though. This boarder will be tall, handsome, and speak precisely thirteen languages. But read more. He must be willing to put up with a roommate prone to nightmares, occasional fits of brooding, and a fondness for chess. Must love cats, keeping odd hours, and sword canes. Do you…do you know anyone who might fit the description?”
I caught his chin gently, tilting his head back so he had to look at me. “You know,” I said, bending to kiss him, “I rather think I do.”
Threshold
Chapter 1
Trapped. A miserable prisoner, I shifted farther into the corner, hoping not to be spotted. When would I escape? My eyes darted in the direction of the clock,
but its workings were surely broken, for it seemed the minute hand had barely lurched forward.
I was doomed.
“Honestly, Whyborne, do stop fidgeting,” snapped Christine, fanning herself briskly.
Christine—or, more formally, Dr. Putnam, my friend and colleague at the Nathaniel R. Ladysmith Museum—looked even more annoyed with the world than usual. Neither of us cared much for society, yet our employment required us to attend far too many donor galas and exhibit unveilings. At least she could escape to Egypt for months at a time, during excavation season. As a comparative philologist, my work generally came to me, rather than the other way around.
Tonight marked the grand opening of the newly completed Isley Wing, which would hold a number of large exhibits. Christine’s fantastic discovery of the tomb of Pharaoh Nephren-ka would find its home among them, once the mummy and his assorted belongings returned from their world tour. Half of Widdershins society had turned out to stuff themselves with finger sandwiches and cakes, drink champagne, and preen in front of newspaper reporters for tomorrow’s society column.
Some of my colleagues enjoyed the opportunity to rub shoulders with the wealthy elite of the city. Having spent my childhood and youth among them, I only wished to get as far away as possible.
“I beg your pardon, Christine,” I said automatically. “Perhaps no one will notice if we slip away early?”
“Impossible, I fear.” She fanned herself even faster. “It’s the one drawback of making a great discovery—one’s absence tends to be noticed.”
I repressed a sigh. I could hardly fault Christine for her success. I did rather wish she would fan a bit in my direction, though.
An unseasonable heat had settled over the city a day or two before. Not a breath of air stirred within the museum, and the gaslights only added to the misery. As a result, even though we sat in a corner as far from the rest of the festivities as we could manage, sweat had soaked the underclothes beneath my tuxedo.
“Besides,” Christine went on, “why are you in such a rush to get away? Isn’t Griffin out of town on some case?”
“He was to return on the seven o’clock train,” I said, looking to the clock again. Had the minute hand advanced at all? It was after eight; he would have returned to our little house by now. Petted Saul, our marmalade cat. Thrown open the windows against the unseasonable heat. Perhaps stripped off his clothing to expose skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat…
Oh dear lord, I needed to think about something else, quickly. Griffin had been absent for three weeks, and I anticipated his return rather keenly.
“Come along, Whyborne,” Christine said, rising to her feet. “I can’t possibly endure this heat without a cold drink to brace me.”
“You dig in Egypt!” I exclaimed, gripping my chair with either hand, as if I could anchor myself to it. “How can you complain of this?”
“Because it is dry there, and I wear sensible clothing allowing for some ventilation.” She snapped her fan closed decisively. “Normally, I prefer whiskey, but at least the champagne is on ice.”
She’d only badger me until I surrendered, so I gave up and followed her. We braved the crowd, making our way to the table that held the sweating silver champagne buckets. I tried not to make eye contact with anyone. The waiter poured us each a glass; clutching the flute, I turned to slink back to the periphery.
“May I have your attention!” boomed Mr. Mathison, the museum president.
Biting back a resigned sigh, I stopped in my tracks and turned along with the rest of the crowd. Mathison, the museum director Dr. Hart, and Mr. Isley all stood at the entrance to the new wing. Above their heads hung an enormous banner, Isley’s name in letters five feet tall, celebrating the opening. A thick, blue ribbon blocked the entrance to the wing, awaiting the ceremonial cutting.
But first, there would be speeches. I schooled my face into a polite mask and wondered how much longer I’d be forced to endure this, while Griffin waited at home. God, I’d missed him. Until last December, I’d resigned myself to a life of solitude, and believed any passion I harbored for other men to be safely under control. He’d shown me how wrong I’d been—and shown me a great many other things, to our mutual satisfaction.
If I could not be home, I wished he could have been here. He’d posed as Christine’s escort once before, and it would not have caused comment. The sight of him in his formal wear, his overlong hair neatly combed, the cut of his coat showing off his trim waist…
I shifted uncomfortably. Perhaps it was just as well he hadn’t been able to make an appearance.
Dear heavens, how much longer could Mr. Mathison drone on?
Christine’s fan blurred with speed, as did those of most of the ladies. “Blast it,” she muttered to me. “It would at least be tolerable if there was but a stir of wind.”
Wind.
Perhaps there was a way I might at least ease the atmosphere of the hall, and banish the collected fumes of the gaslights and the stench of sweat and cigars. Not to mention distract myself from thoughts of everything I wanted to do to Griffin as soon as I got home.
The case which had brought him into my life had brought other things as well. One had been a horrible realization my father, brother, and godfather were all involved in an evil cult, which would have destroyed the world without our intervention. Another had come in the form of the Liber Arcanorum, a medieval book of spells, which, to my utter shock, actually worked.
Many of them were horrific, dark things I would never attempt. But some were harmless, or relatively so. A means of setting flame to anything combustible had even saved our lives last winter.
Still, Griffin was uneasy with my experiments with the Arcanorum’s spells. But he had been gone, and I hadn’t really done anything—well, except for the one thing, but that had merely been testing the parameters of the fire spell. I needed something to distract me at night, when I lay in my lonely bed. It was only natural I’d taken the opportunity to study some of the other spells, one of which, very innocently, summoned wind.
Surely even Griffin couldn’t object to that.
I would just raise a small breeze, to blow through the windows and provide some relief. Just a flutter.
The spell required a sigil to be drawn. Without pen and ink, the best I could do was discreetly trace it on my palm with a finger. Probably it wouldn’t even work.
I traced the sigil and murmured the words under my breath. Nothing. As I expected.
Still, I might as well try it again.
Was that a slight breath of coolness against the back of my neck?
Encouraged, I whispered the words and traced the sigil again.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a roar as if the ocean itself had risen against Widdershins, a gale tore through the windows and flooded into the hall.
Hats went flying, half the gas lamps blew out instantly, and two paintings crashed to the floor. Women and men alike screamed, grabbing at fans and skirts and remaining hats as they pelted for shelter. The table with the silver buckets fell over, scattering ice everywhere and sending the fleeing revelers skidding across the floor.
I stood frozen to the spot. As I watched, affixed with horror, the huge banner tore lose from its mooring and ponderously, dramatically fell directly onto Mr. Mathison, Dr. Hart, and Mr. Isley, bearing them to the ground and destroying what last shreds of dignity the event maintained.
~ * ~
Three hours later, I finally reached our gate.
I thought of it as our gate, anyway, even though as far as the world was concerned, I merely rented a room from my good friend, Mr. Griffin Flaherty. The house sat well back from the street, offering privacy to Griffin’s clients, and to us as well.
Glad beyond words to be home at last, I hurried down the walk and let myself in. The sight of Griffin’s hat and coat hanging in the front hallway made my heart perform a little dance in my chest. “Griffin?” I called, locking the door behind me.
No answer
. Perhaps he’d gone to bed, wearied from his journey? It would be a blasted disappointment if he had, although I had no one other than myself to blame for the late hour of my return.
The museum’s president, director, and benefactor had to be rescued from beneath the weighty, enveloping folds of the gigantic banner. Gaslights had to be either shut off or relit, to keep gas from flooding the room. Hats were collected, the knocked-over tables righted, and the paintings removed to back rooms to keep them safe from further damage. None of which was strictly my job, except I’d been the one to cause the mess, which made the entire ruined evening my responsibility.
“At least we didn’t have to listen to the rest of Mathison’s speech,” Christine had said, clapping me on the arm, when I confessed to her what I’d done.
Hoping Griffin might have waited up, as anxious to see me as I was him, I peered into the parlor, which served as his office in which he entertained clients. All lay silent and dark, as did the kitchen, so I headed up the stairs to the second floor.
No fire burned in the hearth, of course, but the lamp was on, as if someone had recently quit the room. The only occupant at the moment, however, was Saul, who lay curled in my chair with his fluffy tail tucked over his nose.
I frowned and stepped further into the room. Where on earth was the man? “Griffin?”
Someone grabbed me from behind.
~ * ~
I let out a startled yelp and instinctively threw my weight against the strong arm wrapped around my waist. If I could just break free—
I became aware of Griffin’s laughter in my ear. “Very funny,” I muttered. “You’ve given me heart palpitations.”
“Forgive me, my dear,” Griffin said, although he didn’t sound at all sorry. His hold loosened enough for me to turn to face him.
Most would consider his height average—in other words, several inches shorter than me, although broader through the shoulder. Chestnut curls fell across his forehead, unfashionably long, at least among the drawing rooms of the east. He might not have looked out of place around a cowboy’s campfire, though. A light dusting of freckles highlighted his cheekbones, and his eyes were green as the leaves budding outside, shot through with threads of blue and rust.
Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3 Page 27