Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3

by Jordan L. Hawk

  She’d spoken in Greek, but the tips of my ears grew hot. “Mother!”

  She laughed and tightened her grip. Casting a rueful glance over her head at Griffin, I led the way to dinner.

  ~ * ~

  The dining room felt as cold and forbidding as it had ever been. This time, however, I had Griffin here to bolster me, a fact which filled me with pathetic gratitude.

  Father joined us within. He and I did not much resemble one another; he was shorter and stockier, with the look of an aged lion who had not yet given up his dominance of the pride. “Percival,” he said in a clipped tone, which was as warm a greeting as he was likely to offer me. “Mr. Flaherty.”

  Even I couldn’t read Griffin’s expression. Technically, they’d not been formally introduced. Unless being kidnapped by the cult Father had been involved in counted as an introduction.

  “Mr. Whyborne,” he responded, cool but not openly hostile.

  Father’s attention skipped past him and fixed on Mother. “Heliabel! What are you doing up and about? You’ll overtax yourself.”

  “I’m quite all right, Niles,” she said with a trace of exasperation. “Don’t fret.”

  He looked as if he wished to object further, but felt restrained by the presence of a guest, so instead settled for glowering. We took our places around the table, and I wondered if Griffin found the arrangement as absurd as I. Twenty people could sit comfortably in the ornate chairs, carved from the same black wood as the massive table. Every sound echoed back from the vaulted ceiling. Suits of armor flanked a fireplace large enough to hold an entire tree, as if in hopes of deluding visitors into believing we were descended from European nobility, instead of rascals who had fled to the colonies to escape the hangman’s noose.

  The four of us sat at one end of the table, with Father at its head, Mother to his right, and Griffin to his left. I sat next to Mother. Servants hurried to fill our glasses and offer the first course.

  Father usually invited any guests to say grace, but apparently he’d decided Griffin wasn’t worth a show of false piety. “Percival,” he said, dipping his spoon into the soup, “I hope that museum of yours is spending my money wisely.”

  I pressed my lips together. Having him acknowledge the existence of the museum was progress of a sort. And he had been very generous in his donations over the last few months, perhaps in an attempt to salve any guilt he might feel over nearly destroying the world. “Finance really isn’t my department,” I said, swirling my spoon around in the bowl without actually bringing it to my lips.

  Father let out an annoyed snort, like an old bull. “I don’t know why you insist on wasting your life. If you were serious about things, you’d be aiming for the director’s chair, or have it already. Or bought the museum presidency. Your problem is you have no ambition.”

  I stared at my soup, my fingers clenched around my spoon hard enough for the muscles to cramp. Damn him. Bad enough to be mocked every time I sat at this accursed table, but for him to humiliate me in front of Griffin…

  “Shouldn’t any man be free to do honest work he enjoys?” Griffin asked. Surprised and gratified, I glanced up, but he gazed fixedly at Father.

  “I didn’t build the biggest railroad in America with such an attitude,” Father shot back.

  “Griffin, dear,” Mother said quickly, “Percival tells me you used to work for the Pinkertons.”

  Griffin accepted the diversion. “I was stationed in the Chicago office, but I spent some time in the west as well.”

  “It sounds fascinating. Surely you must have some stories to share.”

  Griffin launched into a tale about foiling a train robbery, full of outlaws and horseback riding and other extremely manful pursuits. His natural charm came to the surface, and by the time the servants cleared away dessert, even Father looked impressed. As for myself, I could not help but feel a sense of pride in Griffin’s accomplishments.

  As the last of the dishes vanished, Mother pushed back her chair, and we all hastily rose. “If you gentlemen will excuse me,” she said, and I noticed her pallor had grown more marked. Had she touched much of her meal, or had she occupied herself with pushing it about her plate as I had?

  Griffin bowed to her. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “And yours, dear boy. Please do call again.” She touched my arm lightly as she left the room, just a little pressure of fingers through my coat, but I took it as a gesture of approval.

  Then she departed in a rustle of silk and lace. The mood in the room dimmed immediately.

  “We’ll retire to the study and talk business,” Father decreed, and left without bothering to see if we followed or not.

  Griffin and I exchanged a glance, before falling in behind him. Griffin’s hand brushed discreetly against mine; I desperately wished I could take it outright.

  We entered the study. My heart began to race, and my stomach cramped around the small amount of food I’d actually consumed. How many times had I stood in this room, in front of the mahogany desk, while Father picked apart my every flaw? I was twelve years old again, or fifteen, or eighteen.

  “Cigars?” Father asked.

  “Thank you,” Griffin said. I demurred; I hated the reek of the awful things.

  Once the cigars were lit, Father poured us each a measure of brandy, indicating we should sit in the chairs provided for us. For himself, he settled in his much larger chair on the other side of the desk. “Well, Mr. Flaherty,” he said, “I suppose you’re wondering what sort of case I have lined up for you.”

  “Not at all,” Griffin replied. “I only wonder why on earth you’d think I would take hire from a man who tried to kill me.”

  Chapter 3

  Father’s expression was one of such surprise it bordered on comedic. How long had it been since anyone had dared to tell him no?

  “If it’s money you’re after—” he began, a threatening edge to the words.

  “No, sir, it is not.” Griffin’s voice sounded calm, but cold, all pretense of goodwill abandoned. “The Brotherhood, of which you were an active member, unleashed horrors. Many innocent people died thanks to your activities. My partner in Chicago among them.”

  “I had nothing to do with Chicago,” Father objected.

  “Perhaps. But you did have me kidnapped, beaten, and imprisoned with the intention of feeding me to some fiend raised from the dead. Yet you expect me to pretend it never happened. Do you believe I have no pride, no spine, or no scruples, to insult me so?”

  They stared at one another for a long moment, cigar smoke swirling languidly in the air between them. My heart swelled with pride at Griffin’s defiance, even as I held my breath, waiting for Father to break into a rage. Would he threaten Griffin with ruin, financial and social alike? Or did he realize neither I—nor, it seemed, Mother—would stand for it? Or did our desires ever enter into his head at all?

  Father ground his teeth, and his nostrils flared. Then, he took a deep breath, his jaw unclenching with apparent difficulty. “I can see how this might be awkward for you, Mr. Flaherty,” he grated. “Rest assured I did not bear you any ill will at the time. You were convenient, nothing more. Whatever your motives for accepting my invitation tonight, whether out of curiosity or for Percival’s sake, at least hear me out.”

  Astonishment robbed me of breath. Niles Foster Whyborne, back down from an argument? Ask someone of lesser social status to hear him out? Had some doppelgänger sneaked in and replaced my father?

  Or had being misled by the Brotherhood shaken him? He claimed not to have known their ritual would have ushered in the destruction of the human race. It certainly didn’t excuse his actions, but a miscalculation of such magnitude would surely be enough to give any man pause.

  “Very well, sir,” Griffin said, rather more graciously than I would have, under the circumstances. “I will hear what you have to say, though I promise nothing more.”

  Father looked miffed, but refrained from commenting. Instead, he sai
d, “I don’t know how closely you follow the doings of business, but it will probably come as no surprise to learn I own large shares in a number of companies whose main concern is coal mining. One of these is Stotz Mining, which has recently opened a mine in Threshold, West Virginia.

  “Threshold Mine began to have difficulties almost immediately—strange accidents, sabotaged equipment, and the like. Disappearances of various persons, mostly hunters and drunkards abroad at night. A band of outlaws, the McCoy gang, fled to the area from Kentucky, pursued by law enforcement. The lawmen cornered them in a blind ravine, from which they could not have possibly escaped—and yet, when the posse finally ventured in after them, no trace was found.”

  Father took a long pull on the cigar then sent the smoke streaming in a noxious cloud in front of his face, before continuing. “Miners are superstitious fools at the best of times. Most of the men came from outside the area—there wasn’t much in the way of a local population—but they’ve latched onto the native legends to explain their bad luck and the disappearances alike. Tales of otherworldly creatures. There is great unrest and talk of general strike if nothing is done.”

  Griffin snorted. “You must hold a high opinion of my talents if you meant to hire me to prevent a strike. I am but one man.”

  “Stotz Mining already has a force of Pinkertons on hand to ensure work continues. Your talents lie elsewhere.”

  “Oh?”

  Father’s smile held no trace of humor. “Indeed. I wish to hire you to find out if the miners are right.”

  Silence fell. Griffin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You think there really is something strange occurring in Threshold. Something otherworldly, as you put it.”

  “The Pinkerton guards would laugh if I ordered them to investigate a legend. But you have seen things they haven’t. You know the possibility exists.”

  “I see.” Griffin’s mouth thinned to a tight line. “People disappear all the time, especially drunkards prone to going abroad at night. Accidents happen in a dangerous occupation like mining. As for the gang, it’s entirely possible, if not probable, some way out of the ravine existed of which the posse knew nothing. Do you have reason to think there might be something more happening? Some indicator the legends are true?”

  Father’s expression took on a triumphant edge I did not like. Opening one of the drawers of his desk, he pulled out a flat, black stone roughly the size of a dinner plate, which appeared to have broken off some larger object. A dense tangle of pictographs covered the surface. Intrigued despite myself, I leaned forward, trying to get a better look at them.

  “This stone was found in a cave near Threshold,” Father said.

  My hands ached to touch the artifact, to bring it closer and attempt to decipher the markings. Father watched me intently. Had I given too much away? “Can you read it?” he asked.

  “I-I don’t know. I’ll need to examine it.” But would he take any action on my part as surrender to his wishes? “It might be nothing.”

  “It might,” he agreed.

  But he didn’t sound as if he believed it.

  ~ * ~

  We escaped shortly thereafter, the stone a heavy weight in my hands. Because of the mild weather, we elected to walk home rather than summon a cab. As we strolled beneath the gaslight, Griffin tilted his head back and stared at the stars crowding the sky above.

  “Well. Your childhood home,” he said. “It was very…impressive.”

  I snorted indelicately. “Thank you for attempting kindness, but I know it’s horrid. A monument to past glories, meant to overawe the visitor and impress the inhabitants with our own importance.”

  “Perhaps it seems thus to you.”

  “What it seemed like to me was growing up in a mausoleum. I’d go back to my student apartment at the university before returning to Whyborne House.”

  “I suppose one’s experiences of a place must taint it,” Griffin said. “Your mother seems very kind.”

  “Visiting with her is the only good thing about going home.”

  “She was quite gracious to me. I suppose she would regard any close friend in the same way?”

  It belatedly occurred to me what he really meant to ask. “Oh! Er, no.” My cheeks grew hot, and I was glad for the night and the dim gas lamps. “Perhaps if I had brought home a lady with whom I had an understanding.”

  “She…knows?” He seemed taken aback. As his own parents had reacted more typically when he’d been caught kissing a neighbor’s son, it probably seemed very strange to him.

  How to explain it? “Mother has been sick since my birth,” I said at last. “While everyone else went out to church, or on picnics, or to visit the neighbors, I remained behind to keep her company. Which suited me quite well, to be honest. Confined as she was, her only escape came in the form of books, sent to her by correspondents the world over. She taught me Greek and Latin when I was a small child, so I could read something close to the original myths instead of the bloodless translations considered suitable for this day and age. We dissected philosophy, theology, and poetry. On each birthday, she would give me some new volume on language, or cryptography, or whatever topic to which my fancy had turned.”

  “My mother always cooked me an apple pie for my birthday,” Griffin said with a wry smile.

  I laughed at the idea. “Cooking is what the servants are for. I know it must seem impossibly strange to you. To answer your question, though, I’m not entirely certain. Looking back I think she suspected my…nature…early on. And since she merely laughed and patted my head when I built an altar to Pan in the garden as a child, I think we can agree her religious sentiments probably don’t include a hell into which one can be easily consigned.” I shrugged. “I’m not certain what else to say. She loves me, and she wishes me to be happy. If you are what makes me happy, she will love you as well.”

  “I see.”

  I winced. “I don’t mean to imply your mother loves you any less, Griffin. I’m sure she and your father were motivated by what they saw as your well-being. If it’s any comfort, Father despaired of me long ago; anything I do only serves to confirm his poor opinion. If he says nothing disapproving, it merely indicates he’s washed his hands of the whole business in disgust.”

  We reached our gate. As I was carrying the stone, Griffin opened it for me then latched it behind us. Once inside the house, I put the stone carefully on the kitchen table, before turning to him. “Do you still feel affection for me, given my family?” I asked, taking his hands. “Having my father and brother try to kill you must surely put a damper on things.”

  The pensive look melted from his face, and he twined his fingers in mine. “I would still care for you, my dear, even if they were the worst wretches on earth.”

  “Take me to bed and prove it.”

  His grin grew wicked, and he drew me after him, pausing only long enough to turn out the light.

  ~ * ~

  The next morning, I made my way to the museum, the mysterious black stone secured in a small Gladstone bag. The usual morning bustle of factory workers, clerks, and shop girls crowded the streets. As the weather was dry and still rather warm, I made my way along the sidewalks on foot, rather than paying for the overcrowded omnibus. The air smelled of fish, thanks to the proximity of the docks, the ocean, and the canning factory.

  As I approached the museum, the crowds began to thin out. The day ahead, rather than my surroundings, occupied my attention. When a pair of hands reached from an alleyway to grab me, they took me completely by surprise.

  Before I could cry out, a second man shoved me from behind. I stumbled on the uneven cobblestones, even as my attackers grabbed my arms and dragged me hurriedly away from the street. My shoes scraped on the cobbles, and I tried to get purchase, but to no avail.

  What did they want? Robbery? Murder? “Help!” I shouted. “Police! Hel—”

  A meaty fist buried itself in my stomach, cutting off my cry. Pain bloomed in my gut, and my breakfast tried to claw its
way back up my throat. I gasped for breath, but my lungs refused to cooperate. My knees hit the old cobbles as my legs gave out, sending a second shock through me.

  One of the men tore the Gladstone from my unresisting fingers. Blinking through a haze of pain, I looked up. Both of my attackers appeared young, barely old enough to be called men, and dressed like simple laborers. Their faces seemed oddly expressionless, betraying no fear or anger, as if they engaged in some perfectly ordinary task.

  “Is it in there?” one of them asked in a voice as cool and smooth as the surface of a lake in winter.

  The other opened the bag and peered inside. “Yes.”

  He closed the bag and the two men began to walk away. My lungs unfroze, and I lunged after them, grabbing at the jacket of the nearest one. “No! Stop! Police!”

  He turned and, without the slightest look of worry or disturbance, struck me on the side of the head.

  My ears rang and light sparked across my vision. The wall of one of the adjacent buildings caught me, and I clung to the crumbling brick to keep from falling again. Nausea returned, and this time I gave up the fight and lost my breakfast.

  I leaned miserably against the wall, listening to their retreating footsteps. By the time I was able to raise my head without the world spinning, they had disappeared from sight, and I stood alone in the alley.

  ~ * ~

  “Are certain you’re quite all right, Dr. Whyborne?” asked Miss Parkhurst, one of the secretaries, whose desk I had passed on the way to my windowless office in the basement. She immediately became alarmed by the bruise forming on the side of my face, and insisted on tending me. “I can summon a doctor.”

  I pressed the damp compress she had fetched against the bruise, hoping it didn’t swell too badly. My stomach ached from the first blow, although, of course, I did not make mention of it to her. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you; you’ve been most kind.”

  “Shall I send word to the police?”