“I suppose,” he agreed reluctantly. “We could ask Allan if he recognizes it. I should visit him again, anyway, so he knows he’s not forgotten.”
My stomach clenched at the thought of facing Zeiler, knowing now what I did. How much worse must it be for Griffin? “I’ll accompany you.”
“Your work—”
“Can wait.” I brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. “We’re in this together, Griffin.”
He sighed and leaned against me. “I’m glad. I…I don’t know how I would do this without you. You’re my strength.”
I didn’t know how to respond to his words. I wasn’t strong, or brave, or anything really.
But he made me want to be.
~ * ~
“No! His face—no!”
Griffin’s cry pulled me awake from restless sleep. He sat upright, so tense the cords of his neck stood out. His shivers shook the bed with their intensity. A low moan started in his chest.
As he was in no position to object, I lit the night candle with a word. He flinched at the light, but his eyes stared unseeing into nothing, not even blinking.
“Griffin.” I reached for him. “Griffin, it’s all right. It’s—”
He jerked violently from me. “No! Let go of me! You can’t do this, you have no right; I won’t let you!”
My voice trembled, but I kept my tone low and reassuring. “Shh. Darling, it’s me.”
He shuddered, but didn’t pull away when I rested my fingers on his forearm. “Don’t hurt me,” he whispered. “Don’t make me go back.”
God, I hated these fits. I’d never before so vehemently wanted the death of a fellow human being as I desired Zeiler’s at that moment.
“Of course I won’t make you go back.” I wrapped my arms around him. He trembled, his skin covered with goose bumps, even though it was a warm August night. “You’re home. You’re safe. No one will hurt you, or send you away.”
“Home?”
“Yes, Griffin.”
“Whyborne?”
I hadn’t expected him to recognize me this quickly. Usually when his fits took him, he knew nothing around him for some time. “Yes.” I pressed a kiss to his hair. “It’s me. Your Ival.”
He relaxed against me, letting me draw him down and twine my legs around him as well. Gradually, his trembling ceased, and his frantic pulse calmed.
We remained still for so long, I began to slip back into a doze, until he stirred against me. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. His breath tickled the skin of my throat.
“You have nothing for which to apologize.”
“I thought I was doing better. I hadn’t had a fit in weeks, until this damned case…”
“I know.” I tightened my hold on him. “I understand.”
“You shouldn’t have to. You shouldn’t have to put up with this.”
“Hush.” I kissed him again. “I’m here because I wish to be. Because I love you as you are, right now, today.”
He sighed. “I wish I could have met you before. If you’d known me as I was then…”
Would I have loved him? He had still been with Elliot at the time…and his partner Glenn…and heaven only knew how many others. Probably I would only have been another conquest, bedded and forgotten.
Or perhaps not. I liked to think some special bond existed between us, something which would have still found us here, twined together in this bed, or at least one much like it.
“You’re speaking nonsense,” I told him. “Here—rest your head on my shoulder and let me hold you. That helps, does it not?”
Another sigh, nearly soundless. “Yes,” he admitted. “I…thank you.”
“You don't need to thank me.”
“You’re wrong.” He settled in against me, the weight of his head on my shoulder familiar and comforting to us both. “But I shan’t argue.”
“Very sensible of you,” I said. Or meant to; it turned into a yawn, and thence into the heaviness of sleep. But when I woke a few hours later, I found Griffin staring at the ceiling, a haunted look on his face.
Chapter 10
Fog shrouded the spires of Stormhaven when we alighted from our hired coach. Water dripped from the leaves of the stunted trees, the sound mingling with the roar of the ocean echoing from below the cliffs.
Dr. Peck met us in the foyer. I noticed Griffin very carefully did not glance at Dr. Zeiler’s nearby door. Dark circles showed under his eyes, giving him a haggard look, especially combined with the bloodless pallor his face assumed once we reached Stormhaven.
I didn’t look at Dr. Zeiler’s office, either. Because if I did, I might not be responsible for my actions.
Perhaps there was no malice in Zeiler; perhaps he believed his treatment of Griffin simply followed the dictates of modern medicine. Perhaps he’d even thought he might help Griffin, by curing his predilections.
I didn’t give a damn. The words of a dozen curses sizzled on the back of my tongue. I’d read far too much in the Arcanorum, spells which Griffin remained unaware of, spells I’d never intended to actually use. I could set a host of whippoorwills shrieking about Zeiler in the summer, and crows in the winter, to hound him from sleep and shatter his nerves. I could drive him as mad as the wretches around him, and God, a part of me longed to do so.
But Griffin feared for me. He wouldn’t consider such a revenge an even trade, would berate me for using the Arcanorum in such a fashion, even for his sake. So I wouldn’t. No matter the temptation.
“Good morning, Mr. Flaherty, Dr. Whyborne,” Peck said, shaking our hands in turn. If he noticed the strain showing on Griffin’s face, he didn’t remark upon it. “Your message said you’ve come to speak with Allan Tambling again?”
Griffin nodded. “I have a question about something we found at the scene of his uncle’s murder, which might shed light on who killed the man.”
Dr. Peck’s smile became somewhat pained. “You persist in your theory Allan isn’t the one responsible? I’m certain you know your business, Mr. Flaherty, but trust we know ours just as well. Allan murdered his uncle, for reasons we do not yet understand. Violent delusions seem likely. Whatever the cause, once he killed Bixby, he found himself burdened with unbearable guilt. The only way to escape the horror of his own actions was for his mind to draw a curtain across his memories so he might believe himself innocent. A victim, even. It’s a tragic delusion, but not as uncommon as one might think.”
Griffin’s expression had grown rather fixed. “Indulge me.”
“As you wish.”
Peck led us back to the wards as he had before. After we passed through the steel door, he asked the attendant on duty to bring Allan to the sitting room to meet us.
The air still reeked of urine and other foul things, and one of the patients seemed to be in the grip of a violent cough. Others sang to themselves, babbled, or stared at their hands with eyes gone gray with despair. I glanced at Griffin’s profile and saw his brow furrowed and his mouth tight with suppressed emotion.
I hated this.
Some of the other patients occupied the sitting room, rocking or staring at nothing. Another attendant herded them away; they shuffled off, one of them protesting loudly.
A short time later, the attendant returned with Allan. The poor man had clearly lost weight even in the few days of his confinement, and his welcoming smile trembled. “Do you have news?” he asked hopefully.
Griffin looked stricken, although he quickly hid the expression and assumed an encouraging air. “I think we do indeed have some clues,” he said, putting a comforting hand to the other man’s shoulder. “Hold tight, Allan. You aren’t forgotten in this place. We will have you out of here soon, I swear it.”
Tears gathered in the corners of Allan’s eyes, and he blinked rapidly. “Thank you. You have no idea what your words mean to me.”
Griffin swallowed thickly. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the folded piece of paper. “I found this in your uncle’s study.” He passed it to Allan, who beg
an to unfold it. “Do you recognize the symbol? Does it perhaps correspond to some tattoo your uncle had, or—”
With a frenzied shriek, Allan hurled himself on Griffin.
It happened so quickly, none of us had a chance to react. Griffin’s chair crashed backward, carrying both of them to the floor, with Allan on top. The madman’s hands locked around Griffin’s throat.
The attendant and I both flung ourselves on Allan, seeking to pry him off. The attendant managed to get an arm around the lunatic’s throat, but instead of responding to the chokehold, Allan continued to strangle Griffin. Griffin’s cane had fallen to the floor, so I snatched it up and struck Allan a hard blow across both forearms, seeking to break his grip.
Either my efforts or those of the attendant worked, because his hold slackened. The attendant hauled Allan off Griffin, and I fell to my knees at his side. Griffin’s face had purpled, and he gagged and coughed. Seeing my concern, he waved me off. “I’m fine,” he managed to grate out.
I rather doubted it, but chose not to argue, instead helping him to his feet. Screams spread through the ward, accompanied by wild shouts, as Allan’s howls excited the other wretches confined here. Attendants rushed in, no doubt summoned by the nurse on duty, and began to herd the patients back to their rooms, with blows if necessary to get them to cooperate.
“Take him to the fourth floor!” Dr. Peck ordered the attendant holding Allan. Turning to Griffin, he asked, “Dear heavens, are you injured? Come to the infirmary—”
“No.” Griffin picked up the paper where it had fallen. “You devils! You’ve done something to him, haven’t you?”
Peck took a step back, shock spreading across his face. “What on earth do you mean?”
“You’ve done something to Allan—mesmerized him, or put him under some sort of spell, or—”
“Control yourself, sir,” Peck said, scowling. “You are distraught, I understand. It must be quite a blow to discover your client is a lunatic after all, but—”
“He isn’t!” Griffin shouted, looking rather deranged himself.
I rather feared he’d end up condemned a second time. “Griffin,” I said urgently. “Please!” I didn’t want to believe it of Allan either, but the man had leapt on Griffin like a wild beast.
Griffin turned to me, eyes wide. “Don’t you see? Allan was perfectly fine until he saw this.” He waved the paper in my face. “The very symbol from the crime scene! Allan has been used—someone did this to him, before the murder.”
“Um…” The theory sounded mad, but given his current state, I didn’t know what Griffin would do if I expressed such an opinion.
His brows rose sharply, a look of revelation on his face. “Of course. They knew each other socially. Zeiler is behind it! He must be!”
As badly as I wished Zeiler destroyed, we had no evidence connecting Zeiler with the Eyes. As I flailed for a diplomatic way of saying so, Griffin bolted from the room, weaving in between attendants and patients. Peck and I exchanged a startled look then raced after him. At least Griffin couldn’t get far—the steel door was always kept locked.
Unless, of course, someone was in the process of going through it. As we struggled to follow Griffin, the door swung open. He shoved aside the nurse coming in, knocking a tea tray from her hands, and darted into the central section of the building.
Blast it. I managed to reach the door before Peck, relying on my longer legs, and dodged the alarmed nurse. Yelling echoed from Zeiler’s office, and my heart sank.
Griffin had flung open the door and seized the superintendent by his lapels, dragging him from his desk chair. I wanted to join him, to throw myself on Zeiler and beat him senseless for what he’d done to Griffin. But the rational part of me said this wasn’t the way; brute force would do nothing but bring the matter to the attention of the police, whose sympathies would never lie with us.
“What did you do to Allan? Tell me, damn you!” Griffin roared at Zeiler.
“Get your hands off me! Help!” the doctor shouted.
I grabbed Griffin’s shoulders and hauled him back, even as several attendants and Dr. Peck burst into the room. Griffin seemed to recognize a lost cause, and let go of Zeiler so abruptly I nearly fell backward.
“Calm yourself!” I exclaimed, clinging to Griffin’s suit coat in case he decided to lunge at Zeiler again. “This will gain us nothing, and certainly not help Allan’s case!”
The superintendent’s face had gone purple with fury. “I don’t know what you mean by this, but, Dr. Whyborne, you will take your friend and leave immediately. Just because you’re Niles Whyborne’s son doesn’t mean your associates can assault me with impunity my own office. I will not have it!”
I wanted to strike him. Instead, I only replied, “Come along, Griffin. We’re done here for now.”
Griffin yanked free of my grasp, straightening his coat. “This isn’t over.”
“I think you’ll find it is,” Zeiler replied. The attendants closed in, and for a horrible moment I thought Griffin meant to fight them. Then he turned sharply on his heel and shoved past me and out the door.
I hastened after him. The attendants followed us out to the waiting carriage, whose driver cast a curious look at us. Griffin ignored him, climbing inside the conveyance and leaving it to me to say, “Home, please. As quickly as you might.”
Griffin fumed in the carriage, his arms folded over his chest, a murderous look on his face. I waited until we cleared the gates before saying, “What was that about?”
“Zeiler did something to Allan. Mesmerized him, perhaps.” Griffin pulled the wadded-up paper from his pocket and glared at it. “You saw for yourself, Whyborne—he was perfectly calm and ordinary until I showed him the symbol. I wager he has no idea why they’ve taken him to the violent ward. No memory of the attack, any more than he remembers…”
“Murdering his uncle?” I asked. “I thought…I mean, this new assault does weaken our theory Allan didn’t kill the man.”
“One of the men who assaulted us on the docks had this very mark etched into his skin. There is something happening here—something organized. It must be linked to the ceremonial bowl, somehow. A sea god, the ledger said. And the men who attacked us were sailors. Zeiler isn’t, but Niles said he was the son of a sea captain. He has to be involved.”
I didn’t know how to respond. The evidence was tenuous at best, but Griffin could hardly be expected to think rationally when it came to the superintendent, and for good reason. Truthfully, though, we had nothing to link Zeiler with the symbol.
“We don’t even know what the cult wanted with the ceremonial bowl,” I said at length. “Or if Bixby might have been a member himself, rather than an innocent victim. Which has no bearing on Allan’s innocence,” I added hastily at Griffin’s dark look. “Perhaps if we can learn more about the cult and what their motives might be, we can find a way to help him.”
Griffin sighed and slumped back against the seat. “You’re right.”
“I’ll take tomorrow to look into certain volumes at the museum.”
“Thank you.” Griffin stared out the window, his expression grim. “I have some ideas of my own to pursue.”
I hoped they didn’t involve an altercation with the asylum guards. But as Griffin didn’t seem in the mood to discuss things, I merely touched the back of his hand lightly. We rode the rest of the way home in silence.
~ * ~
The temple loomed above me in the crushing black of the depths.
I no longer felt any surprise or confusion at seeing it. Rather, a sense of familiarity settled into my bones, as if I returned to a place I’d lived as a child, but had long forgotten existed.
A thousand fish swarmed before the temple, drifting along just inches off its surface, as if they too heard the song calling me within. Their bellies glowed with the ghastly light of corpse candles, and as they moved about, they more clearly illuminated the section of stonework nearest to them. Here was a carved limb, almost human but subtly
, horribly not. There a face leered from a bas-relief, its mouth filled with shark’s teeth.
A mixture of revulsion and curiosity shuddered through me. I didn’t want to see the temple façade any more than I wanted to see the faces on the great statues flanking the door.
Did I?
One of the idly swimming fish crossed just above the lintel of the colossal entrance, casting its nacreous glow across what appeared to be a symbol carved there. Its shape…I knew it, I was almost certain.
Then another fish joined its brother, and, even as the dream began to fragment and fade, I beheld the stylized eye of the cult.
~ * ~
I spent the next morning in the museum library, amidst a stack of books and notes. Mr. Quinn, the head librarian, had been lurking about the entrance when I arrived. He unlocked or located the various rare texts I needed, caressing them with his white, spidery hands before passing them to me. Some of the staff swore the labyrinthine library demonstrated the final descent into lunacy on the part of the Ladysmith’s architect, while others claimed it would drive those who stayed too long in its walls mad as well.
Which was an even more disturbing thought than usual. “Do you know anything about Stormhaven?” I asked Mr. Quinn. “The lunatic asylum, that is, not the cove.”
Mr. Quinn stared at me with his strange, pale eyes. He didn’t seem to blink as often as ordinary people. “My father died there,” he said, but the note in his voice was more a sort of dreamy relish than the grief such a pronouncement would usually contain. “Syphilis.”
“I…oh.” Who would think to share such an untoward diagnosis with a colleague he barely knew? “I’m, er, sorry.”
“Yes,” he agreed. Not knowing what else to do, I nodded stupidly and fled into the depths of the stacks.
I found a small room where I could put my back to what I hoped was a solid wall, although after the discovery of hidden tunnels last December, the prospect was less than certain. The most promising book I’d chosen was von Junzt’s Unaussprechlichen Kulten, so I turned my attention to the heavy volume with its forbidding iron hinges.
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