Bloodline (Whyborne & Griffin Book 5) (14 page)

I stood up and began to unfasten my trousers. Grinning
wickedly, Griffin went to his knees, reaching for his own buttons as he did so.

“No,” I growled, catching his curls in my hand and forcing
him to look at me. “No touching yourself until I tell you to.”

His pupils dilated and he licked his lips hungrily. The
outline of his hard prick stood out against his trousers, but he obeyed,
instead using his hands to grip my buttocks and urge me closer.

I groaned as his mouth closed over me. I’d hailed a cab from
the alleyway, my blood thrumming with the aftershock of power and whiskey, my
cock half hard from it. I tangled my fingers in his hair as his lips and tongue
played with my shaft, the sensation bleeding into the memory of the moment when
the entire world had waited for my command.

“I’m going to fuck your mouth,” I told him. He moaned his
enthusiasm for the idea, so I did, pushing deep, until the muscles of his
throat worked around me. His gaze found mine, eyes wide and lips swollen, the
glisten of spit on my length as I pulled out and pushed in again.

The tingle in my sack warned me, and I had no wish for
things to end so soon. I pulled free. “Get upstairs.”

When he gained his feet, he kissed me deep, letting me taste
myself in his mouth. His cock felt like an iron bar against my thigh. We
stumbled up the stairs together, kissing and caressing, losing clothes along
the way.

We entered my bedroom, and I went to the nightstand,
retrieving the petroleum jelly in the drawer. Griffin tossed aside his vest,
then slipped his suspenders off his shoulders. As his trousers and drawers were
already unfastened by now, I shoved the whole lot down to his ankles, turned
him around, and bent him over the bed.

His hips shifted, rubbing his erection against the bedding
in search of relief. I gripped his hips to still him. “No breaking the rules.”

“Mmm, you caught me—ah!” His words turned into a
little sound of pleasure as I touched my slick fingers to his fundament. His
back arched, and he pushed against me.

Once he was ready, I took him, all at a go. His hands
bunched in the bedding and he gasped encouragement. I adjusted my angle, until
a groan signaled I’d found just the right spot inside him.

Then I rode him hard, wringing out cry after cry of
pleasure. My fingers gripped the bones of his hips, holding him in place while
I took him. The world spun around me, and I felt almost as I had in the alley,
the universe poised and waiting on my breath. It felt so good to touch the
secret fire that lay beneath reality, to shape and bend it, to coax forth magic
from what seemed so mundane.

Like this magic of two bodies moving together, the base clay
of lust shaped into something else: love and need and a strange sort of power
all its own.

A shudder ran through Griffin. “Ival, please, touch me, let
me touch myself, I can’t stand it.”

I could feel the impending wave of my own release, so I
gasped, “Do it! Come for me.”

He moaned my name when his hand wrapped around his cock, and
it was the end of me. I spent myself in him hard, back arching, pressing tight
against him until he gasped and spilled a few moments later.

I collapsed against his back, my breathing slowly evening
out. When I thought I could move without falling over, I went to the washbasin
and retrieved a damp cloth. We cleaned up and shed the last of our clothing,
before Griffin pulled me down into the bed by him.

“That was amazing,” he murmured, nuzzling my ear. “I love it
when you take charge of me.”

I rested my head against his shoulder. “I’m glad.”

“If preparing for the Hallowe’en tours inspires you so, I
hope the director makes them a yearly occurrence.”

Guilt squirmed in me, like a worm in an apple. I wanted to
tell Griffin. The only thing that would have made tonight better would have
been to have him with us.

Perhaps, once he grew used to my cousins and their ways, he
might consent to such an outing. But telling the truth tonight would only have
led to an argument. The evening would have ended with us lying on opposite
sides of the bed, fuming.

No, this was far better. I snuggled more tightly against
him, breathing in the scent of his skin. He’d come around eventually. Until
then, I simply had to be discreet. What Griffin didn’t know couldn’t hurt us.

The next morning found Christine and me in the library.
Sadly, not to do research, but as part of the Hallowe’en tours. Christine had
already removed a number of shrunken heads from storage, along with preserved
spiders of troubling size and the most disturbing mummies she could find. I
hoped none of the guests fainted during the tours.

“Cursed books?” Mr. Quinn murmured when we inquired as to
whether the library had anything it wished to contribute to the special tours.
“Oh, yes, yes. I have just the thing.”

He led the way from the desk near the library entrance,
deeper into the labyrinth. Sounds echoed strangely here: the rustle of paper,
the scuff of a shoe, someone whispering “The words are changing, the words are
changing” over and over again to themselves. The scent of old paper and dusty
covers hung thick and still in the air, and the irregularly placed lights threw
odd shadows.

We penetrated farther into the maze of rooms than I could
recall going before. The stacks towered up on every side, filled with volumes
bound in cloth and leather, some with stamped titles and others tantalizingly
unmarked. The assorted sounds of the library fell away, replaced by a deep
silence. The shadows seemed thicker, somehow, almost as if they had substance
of their own, rather than merely being the absence of light.

“One could die back here,” Mr. Quinn remarked, “and no one
else might know for weeks.”

I exchanged an alarmed glance with Christine, who looked as
if she wished for her pistol. Well, if Mr. Quinn meant to murder us both, I’d
simply set fire to a book. That would distract him long enough for us to flee. Assuming
I could find a common novel quickly enough, as I’d no wish to destroy a rare
tome, no matter the danger. Too bad I didn’t have any of Griffin’s dime novels
in my pocket.

Fortunately, Mr. Quinn didn’t follow up his remark with any
murderous actions. Instead, he halted before a plinth, bearing on it a locked
glass case. “Here we are,” he said, unlocking the case and taking out the
volume inside. It bore no title. “Note the anthropodermic binding.” His pale,
spidery hands caressed the tanned skin lovingly. “We call it the Lundsford
Codex, after its last owner, who donated it to the museum. If it has a title, no
one knows. It is said anyone who reads it will die within the week.”

“Perfect,” Christine said.

“Christine!” I exclaimed. “We’re supposed to entertain the
donors, not kill them.”

“Then the director should have put someone else in charge,
shouldn’t he?” Christine sighed at my reproving look. “We’ll keep it in the
glass case. Will that satisfy you?”

Mr. Quinn tenderly replaced the book within the case. “It is
my fondest hope to someday read it,” he said dreamily. “Perhaps I will tell
everyone of its wonders before I die. Or perhaps I shall keep them to myself.”

“What if it’s not very good?” Christine asked.

The lock clicked shut. “Be careful carrying the case,” Mr.
Quinn replied, a bit shortly. Personally, I thought Christine’s question a good
one. Bad enough to die from reading a gorgeously written book, but what if it
turned out to be rubbish? Being killed by bad prose would only add insult to
injury.

He swept out, leaving us alone. “I’ll take one side, and you
take the other,” she said, indicating the glass case. “And if we run into
Bradley on the way, we’ll stop and offer him a bit of light reading.”

~ * ~

During lunch, I slipped away from the museum yet again. It
had occurred to me that I knew one other who might be able to shed some light
on the ketoi. To that end, I sent a letter with the early post requesting a
brief meeting. The response surprised me with its promptness, but the moment I
could, I set out for a boarding house on Merry Cat Lane, not far from my old
apartment.

Amelie Bisset answered the door almost before I could finish
knocking. Neatly dressed, her skin clean and her red-gold hair pulled back into
a bun, she seemed a far cry from the madwoman I’d met at Stormhaven Lunatic
Asylum.

She offered me a dazzling smile and clasped my hands with the
familiarity of an old friend. She’d saved my life, and possibly the world, that
night at the asylum. And seen me naked, a thought I tried to put out of my
mind.

“Dr. Whyborne, I was so happy to get your letter.” She drew
me inside after her. The boarding house had a small parlor, the furniture worn
but still in good condition. “Would you like coffee? Tea?”

“No, thank you, Miss Bisset.” I settled myself in a chair
covered with a hideous floral print, and she sat opposite me on the small
couch. “You seem to be doing well.”

She laughed ruefully. “Better than one might expect from a
raving madwoman, at least.”

“I’ve followed your work for reform.”

“I rather fear you’re the only one who has.” She rested her
hands on her knees. “Your letter was rather unexpected—what do you need
from me?”

I wished I’d asked for coffee after all, if only to have
something to do with my hands. “I fear I must bring back bad memories. Last
year, you seemed to hear the dweller rather clearly, even without Dr. Zeiler’s
drugs.” Indeed, the god’s telepathic calls had been what sent Amelie to the
madhouse in the first place. When we’d met, she’d been too lost in visions to
communicate with any coherency.

She nodded slowly, her eyes grave. “Yes. I did. But the god
has slept since then.”

Thank goodness for that. “There were other, smaller
creatures which worshipped it. I recall their appearance, but learned nothing
else about them while the dweller possessed me. I wondered if you might have
gleaned anything more.”

A frown line creased her brow. “Such as?”

I spread my hands helplessly apart. “Anything at all. Their
motives, or their weakness, or anything.”

She stared at a framed print on the wall, which showed a
pastoral landscape complete with shepherd and gamboling lambs. I suspect she
didn’t actually see the banal scene before her, but something far darker.

“No,” she said at last. “I’m sorry, Dr. Whyborne. Most of
the visions I saw were of the dweller, and the temple, and you.”

“Me?”

“The dweller needed your help.” Amelie smiled. “We all did.”

Blast. Well, it had been rather a long shot. “I’m glad to
see you’re doing well,” I said, rising to my feet.

“And you.” She glanced down, then back up again. “You can
call upon me any time.”

“Oh.” I struggled to keep heat from my face. “That’s, er,
very kind.” I started for the door, then paused. “I don’t suppose the words
‘one for the land, and one for the sea’ mean anything to you?”

Amelie laughed, and for a moment, I was reminded of the
gleeful madwoman. How much remained beneath the carefully civilized persona she
cultivated now? “You mean the old poem?”

“Poem?” I repeated blankly.

“I don’t suppose you’d know of it. It’s not the sort of
thing the old families would care for. They don’t like to be reminded there are
powers that do not bow to them.” She offered me a secretive smile. “It belongs
to those of us who slipped in later, called by the town.”

Called by the town? She sounded uncomfortably like Miss
Lester. “Do you remember this poem?” I asked.

“Oh yes. My mother used to recite it to me.” She turned in
the direction of the unseen ocean. “She’s gone now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right.” Amelie smiled again. “It goes like this:

“Listen up little fish, little fish,

Let’s make a wish, make a wish,

For a time not come but yet to be,

One for the land, and one for the sea.

“When enemies arrive to dig our grave,

Tear down the bridge between earth and wave,

Then the town will rise to his hand,

One for the sea, and one for the land.

“A new queen shall rule beneath the flood,

Down with the sharks and the crabs and the mud.

Strike sharp and hard, in triumph free,

One for the land, and one for the sea.

“For Widdershins always knows its own,

In blood and spirit, breath and bone,

The time will come for one to rise,

To ride the foam and touch the skies.

“Listen up little fish, little fish,

Let’s make a wish, make a wish,

For a time not come but yet to be,

One for the land, and one for the sea.”

Dear lord, what awful doggerel. The meter was terrible, the
rhymes uninspired, the final line didn’t resonate throughout, and…well, no
wonder I’d never heard it. “What does it mean?” I asked.

Amelie looked at me as if I were a complete fool. “It’s a
prophecy. No one knows what it means until after it’s already happened.”

“Thank you. Most enlightening.” But despite my words, my
heart beat faster. The poem—prophecy?—obviously had some meaning to
Guinevere and Jerry the bartender. But what? “Truly, you’ve been most helpful.
Can you write it down for me?”

She grinned slyly. “Do I get a kiss?” At my expression, she burst
out laughing. “Just recalling old times,” she said, as she went to the writing
desk for pen and paper. She copied the poem quickly and handed it to me. “I
hope it helps.”

“As do I.” I leaned in and, very quickly, brushed my lips
across her cheek. “Take care, Miss Bisset.”

~ * ~

Griffin met Christine and me for dinner at Marsh’s. “I
assume you heard from the twins?” he asked as he slid into the booth beside me.
Under the cover of the table, he gave my hand a welcoming squeeze.

“Yes.” I discreetly shifted my foot so my ankle rested
against his. “They’ve secured a launch for the evening, and will meet us at its
berth.”

The waiter came to take Griffin’s order. “I have news,” I
said, once the waiter departed. I quickly outlined my conversation with Amelie,
and passed the poem around for them both to read.

“A prophecy?” Christine exclaimed. “Good gad, this is
becoming absurd. Your sister wasn’t involved with spiritualism or some such,
was she?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “But it obviously meant
something to her.”

“Not just to her,” Griffin said with a frown. “Or the
bartender. But allow me to start in order. I met with Niles this morning. Guinevere
visited—or was called upon—by only three families before the night
of the party.”

“Which ones?” I asked.

“The Lesters, the Waites, and the Abbotts.”

“The Lesters certainly are odd enough,” I said with a
shiver. One of Griffin’s cases had involved the retrieval of a sinister family
heirloom for them. The chances of them practicing dark magic seemed rather
high. “And Miss Lester spoke of Widdershins as though it had a will of its own.
It ties into the prophecy.”

Christine made a rude sound at the word “prophecy.” Griffin
and I ignored her. “True, but recognizing there is something odd about this
town and ascribing it to some sort of sentient force…well, I’d be shocked if
she was the only one.”

I held my tongue. Griffin had once asked me if I believed
some greater power had brought us together. I didn’t, but I understood he found
the idea attractive, whether due to divine providence or some other force.

Our conversation paused while Griffin’s meal of fish soup
was served. Once the waiter had left again, he said, “I had to ask your
father…how did he put it? Impertinent questions.”

“I fear to ask what,” I said.

Griffin sighed and swirled his spoon in the soup. “There is
one family far more obvious than the Lesters, Waites, or Abbotts to be hybrids,
although not to have murdered Guinevere and Miss Emily.”

I stared at him blankly. “Well? Who?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Christine said. “He’s talking about the
Whybornes, of course.”

“My family?” Shock gave way to annoyance. “This is about
what Daphne said, isn’t it? When we were inside the lightless pyramid in Egypt,
and she accused me of not being human.”

Griffin had the grace to look guilty. “Yes.”

“Are you daft? These—these ketoi are animals!
Monsters! To suggest someone in my family
mated
with them is
preposterous.” I swallowed back my revulsion. “The Whybornes are scoundrels who
fled the hangman in England, not supernatural monsters.”

“Scoundrels who helped Blackbyrne found this town,” Griffin
countered.

“And the Endicotts
fight
these creatures, have done
so for centuries!”

“Don’t be angry, my dear,” Griffin said to me. “I didn’t
think it true, but I had to ask. Your father was as offended as you.”

“With every right! Not only did you say we have the blood of
monsters in our veins, but you all but accused him of killing his own daughter.”
Father and I might never have gotten along, but he would never murder a family
member. Not even me. “And then hired you to, what, uncover the truth? What a ridiculous
notion!”

“All right, all right.” Griffin scowled at me. “You’ve made
your opinion very clear. As I said, I couldn’t imagine it to be true, but I had
to ask for the sake of thoroughness. Your father’s answer was as vehement as
your own. How did he put it? ‘The Brotherhood was founded to
control
otherworldly forces, not
breed
with them.’”

Christine snorted at his rather eerie imitation of Father’s
most supercilious tones. As, for once, I agreed with Father, I glared in
Griffin’s direction. “Was there anything else?”

“Yes.” Griffin sobered. “I also requested to see Miss
Emily’s room, in case some clue of her involvement with Guinevere’s trip to the
dock might be found.”

The sharp sting of grief punctured my anger. I sank back in
the booth. “Did you find anything?”

“I wasn’t certain at the time, but now that I’ve heard the
prophecy…well, I’m afraid so.”