Bloodline (Whyborne & Griffin Book 5) (3 page)

No doubt Griffin had his ear pressed to the door, listening
to every word. But as far as I was concerned, anything she had to say to me,
she could say to him. Even if she didn’t know it. “About what?”

She started to gnaw on her lip, a nervous habit from
childhood, then caught herself. She must be truly worried about something,
having been cured of the gesture by the censure of Father and various tutors by
the time she was ten. “First, tell me the truth. I’ve heard…rumors…about you.”

Heat scalded my face and tightened my chest, although
whether from shame or fury even I couldn’t tell. “My private life is none of
your concern,” I said, tucking my shaking hands behind my back. “I have done
far less to bring scandal on this family than Stanford. Given that, I do not
see what business it is of yours how I conduct my affairs.”

Her eyes widened—then narrowed. “I’m talking about
sorcery, you idiot!”

Sorcery? How did Guinevere know about sorcery? The
Brotherhood Father and Stanford had belonged to would never have allowed a
woman into their ranks. Had Mother brought it up, shown Guinevere one of the
spells I’d taught her?

It hurt, to think she might have. I’d believed the magic was
something between just the two of us, something I could give back to Mother in
return for all she’d given me.

Embarrassment deepened my flush, and I straightened my
spine. “Father doesn’t
allow
me anything. I make my own decisions.”

She snorted. “Please. According to Stanford, you’re Father’s
favorite now, just like you were always Mother’s little pet.”

What game was Stanford playing, to make such a patently
untrue claim? “Father loathes my very existence.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just tell me—are you a sorcerer
or not?”

At least she was asking me about sorcery and not Griffin.
Although God only knew what Stanford might have said to her on that front. “Yes.
Shall I light the house on fire and prove it?”

She folded her hands in front of her. “Don’t be foolish,
Percival. And stop acting so offended by my questions. If anyone in this family
would dabble in the black arts, it would be you.”

“What do you mean?” I’d never wanted anything but a quiet,
scholarly life.

She sat on the edge of the bed. Right where I’d put
Griffin’s coat. With a frown, she shifted. “This mattress is lumpy.”

“The servants have become terribly neglectful,” I agreed. “I’m
sure Father will be happy to flog them later. But I thought you wished to
discuss sorcery, not the state of the furniture.”

“I don’t want to talk about sorcery. Precisely.” She rose
from the bed and went to the writing desk. Locating a pen and paper, she
scribbled something down and held it out to me. “Meet me at this address
tomorrow at midnight.”

The devil? I glanced at the address; it was on a street
somewhere in the more disreputable part of town. Surely Guinevere wouldn’t even
consider setting foot in such a place. “Is this some sort of childish prank? I
would have thought you had more to occupy your time.”

Her lips thinned in anger. “Just meet me there.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Why had I actually bothered to engage her
in conversation? I should have shoved her out the door. Or not answered in the
first place. “This would have been beneath you when you were a child. Did
Stanford—”

Her fingers closed hard on my arm, rings of jewel-studded
gold digging in even through my sleeves. Startled, I met her gaze, read a look
of determination mingled with fear on her face. “This isn’t a joke. This is
deadly serious. Do you know of the derelict ship found last week?”

“Of course. The papers have been full of nothing else.” The
Norfolk
Siren
was found adrift just off the coast, the crew gone and all the
lifeboats still in place. Hysterical headlines proclaimed it “
The New
Mary Celeste
” in huge
type, accompanied by articles speculating on the fate of the crew. “The
harbormaster had to put a guard on it, to keep souvenir hunters away. Why?”

“Don’t ask. Not here.” She released my arm and took a step
back. The shadow of the bed’s canopy fell over her face, hiding her expression.
But it couldn’t conceal the note of worry in her voice.
“Please,
Percival.”

Had Guinevere ever asked me for anything, in our entire
lives? Most of my memories of our youth consisted of her sweeping past, a small
coterie of giggling girls trailing on her heels, like courtiers after a queen.
They’d worn the same fashions, agreed with whatever opinion she put forth, and
laughed at her every joke.

Of course, most of those jokes—at least the ones made
in my hearing—had me as butt of them.
“That was my sister Percival,”
had been a favorite, but she’d found shaper barbs for her arsenal as she grew
older. No one had been happier about her departure to Europe than I had.

I could deny her. I owed her nothing.

Griffin stood just on the other side of the dressing room
door, listening to every word. He’d spent the last year searching for his brothers,
adopted separately off the orphan train. What would he think if I turned down a
sibling’s plea for help?

“Very well,” I said grudgingly.

Her shoulders went back. “Thank you.” She took a step toward
the door. “I should return to the party, before anyone wonders where we’ve
gone. Will you come down as well?”

“In a moment.”

She left. I waited until the sound of her footsteps faded,
then opened the dressing room door. “I’m so sorry—are you well?” I asked
even before it was entirely open.

Griffin was pale, but not unduly so. I brushed ineffectually
at the cobwebs in his hair as he stepped out. “Blast—I’m sorry,” I said.
“I couldn’t think what else to do. My family…” My words trailed off into a
helpless sigh.

“I’m fine, my dear.” Griffin took my hands to still them,
but his eyes remained on the door. “Your conversation provided a welcome
distraction. I hope you don’t mind my eavesdropping.”

“I assumed you would.”

“What do you make of it?”

“Devil if I know.” I shrugged then freed myself to retrieve
his coat from the bed. Of course, it had become horribly wrinkled. “Presumably
she’ll tell us tomorrow night.”

“Us?”

I showed him the address she’d written down. “I’m not
foolish enough to venture into that part of Widdershins without someone who
knows how to safely navigate the area.”

“I see why you thought it a prank.” He frowned as he pulled
on his coat.

“What do you think?” I asked. “Your instincts are seldom
wrong.”

“I’m not certain. It seems an odd location for a woman of
your sister’s status to visit. Stanford, yes—slumming is hardly unusual,
and he seems the type. But Guinevere is married to an earl. Surely if someone
were to recognize her, the scandal could be considerable.”

“So it must be her idea of a bad joke.” Acid stung the back
of my throat. “She thinks to send me somewhere to be propositioned, while I
wait for an appointment she has no intention to keep. Probably the address
belongs to a brothel. Or a bathhouse.”

“No,” Griffin said absently.

“You would know,” I muttered.

“It’s something of my job to know these things,” he said
with a small smile. “Especially the locations of houses of prostitution,
saloons, and other places people routinely get themselves into trouble. And if
the bathhouse addresses once held a special interest, I didn’t have the chance to
visit before
someone
seduced me too thoroughly for them to hold any
allure.”

I snorted. “How terrible of me.”

“Quite.” He leaned against me, hip touching my thigh. We
both knew it was something of a lie—the cruel abuse of the attendants at
the lunatic asylum, where he’d been unjustly confined, had naturally made him
reluctant to submit to the touch of another. Until, apparently, me. “But no. I
don’t think it a trick. I may not know Guinevere, but I detected honest worry
in her voice. I think she’s afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That, only she can tell us.” Griffin turned to me. “You
should probably return to the guests. I can slip out on my own easily enough.”

“No.” I slid an arm around his waist, pulling him closer.
“I’d rather make my escape with you. Let them wonder where I went. Besides, I
believe I owe you something in return for all you gave me earlier.”

His pupils dilated, and his mouth curved in a hungry smile.
“Hmm. Then by all means, let’s hurry home.”

The next morning, I sat in the largest of the meeting rooms
of the Nathaniel R. Ladysmith Museum, trying to pay attention to the droning of
the museum director and having little success.

Dr. Hart frequently called all-staff meetings, which,
despite the name, excluded the secretaries, janitorial staff, and librarians.
Unfortunately, the rest of us were condemned to attend, even when the matter
had little to do with our particular jobs. Usually the subject was some sort of
scheme meant to elicit more money from the donors.

Today’s was no different. Dr. Hart paced back and forth at
the front of the room, his enthusiasm combining with his mustache to make him
look like an overly excited walrus. “Private tours,” he said. “Just the thing
for Hallowe’en. We will sell tickets at a price that will ensure exclusivity
and, of course, offer first choice to our most generous donors.”

I sat beside my colleague—and, other than Griffin,
best friend—Dr. Christine Putnam. We each had a notepad in front of us
and a pen in hand, in order to appear to be taking notes.

How is Iskander?
I wrote on my paper.

She glanced at my notepad, then wrote:
Still languishing
in Kent, attempting to get the estate in order before coming here.

I suppose he anticipates a prolonged stay in America,
then.

She smiled rather smugly at her paper.
No doubt.
How
was the party last night?

Abominable
.

“There will be special displays,” Dr. Hart went on in the
background.

That goes without saying,
she wrote back.
And your
magical research?

Griffin disapproved of my dabbling in sorcery. So I hadn’t
yet told him I’d decided to make it a serious study. Christine had fewer
concerns, and I felt a bit freer to discuss the details with her.
Do you
recall the line of arcane power in the earth, which led us to the Fane of
Nyarlathotep in Egypt?

Of course I do—don’t be absurd.

“The Ladysmith has the largest collection of cursed items of
any museum in America,” Dr. Hart declared with pride.

Griffin asked if Widdershins was a place of power, like
the fane. So I decided to find out if I could sense any lines of power here.

Can you without the wand?

“Tour groups of four or five persons, led through the museum
by a personal guide, with only a few judiciously placed candles to highlight
the cursed objects. Of course, since these tickets will be expensive, all tours
will be given by our expert staff members.”

Yes,
I wrote
. It took me some time, and I have to
concentrate, but I learned to do it. I’ve decided to map all the lines of power
in Widdershins.

“And finishing in the grand foyer, where there will be a
buffet and string quartet, along with a few more cursed objects to serve as
conversation pieces.”

Have you found any interesting patterns?
she
scribbled.

I have. The line in the desert was straight. These seem
to curve. I’m not yet sure if they meet at a single point, or if they form a
web.

“Now all we need,” Dr. Hart said, rubbing his hands
together, “is a few volunteers to select the appropriate items, write up the
descriptions to be used by the guides, and tend to the decorations.”

“It seems to me,” drawled Bradley Osborne, “Miss Putnam is
the obvious choice. It isn’t as if she has anything else to do.”

We both looked up from our notepads at the sound of Christine’s
name, to find Bradley smirking at us. Christine’s face went utterly white.
“Nothing to do? I’m working on
the
definitive book about Egypt’s Old
Kingdom!”

“Which has been dust for four thousand years,” Bradley said.
“Hardly any rush.” He glanced at me. “Old Percy can help you. It isn’t as if
he’ll have anything better to do either.”

“Hallowe’en is my birthday,” I objected.

Bradley gave me a vicious smile. “And you’ve already had
your party, haven’t you?”

Curse the man. Bradley had always aspired to high society,
and no doubt the newspaper reports of last night’s party had stung his pride.
Despite the delusions he entertained, none of the old families would even
consider putting such a newcomer on a guest list.

I longed to lay claim to prior arrangements. But I could
hardly say I’d already made plans to spend the evening in the company of my
lover.

So I could only sit and fume while the director beamed.
“Excellent suggestions, Dr. Osborne! The entire country is in the grips of this
Egyptomania, as the presses call it, thanks to our Nephren-ka exhibit. We’ll be
able to charge twice the admission if Dr. Putnam’s name is associated with the
event.”

Christine’s teeth ground together. “Be that as it may, isn’t
this a job for the curators?”

“That’s what will make this exhibit so special—headed
up by our own experts,” Dr. Hart enthused. “Dr. Putnam, Dr. Whyborne, I expect
a full report on your progress sometime in the next three days. Meeting
adjourned!”

I sat still amidst the rustle of papers and gathering of
hats, feeling rather as if I’d been run over by one of Father’s trains. “But
it’s my birthday,” I repeated.

“Sorry, old fellow,” Christine said, collecting her half of
our notes. “So much for your Hallowe’en plans of bobbing for Griffin’s apples.”

~ * ~

I broke the news to Griffin that night, as we strolled
through town on the way to meet Guinevere. According to Griffin, the address
she’d given us belonged to one of the many saloons thronging the area closest
to the docks. The streets in this part of town lay dark, with only a few
gaslights to puncture the blackness of the night, and we’d never have found our
way without a lantern. The moon had already set, a wrack of clouds blocking out
most of the stars. Even the saloons seemed subdued tonight, only the occasional
burst of light and song from open doors, to vanish again when they shut. The
autumnal chill forced Griffin and me to huddle deeper into our coats and blunted
the edge of the fishy reek hanging over the docks.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” Griffin said. “We’ll celebrate your
birthday afterward. I’ll have cake and wine waiting for your return.”

At least he understood the interruption to our plans. “Thank
you. I can’t believe the director is forcing Christine and me to do this.”

“These cursed items…are they actually cursed?”

“No idea,” I said glumly. “I suppose I should try to find
out before we put them on display. Maybe I’ll discover one to make the
director’s mustache fall out.”

He laughed. “Perhaps.” Then he grew sober. “Just please
be—”

“Careful,” I finished for him. “I know, I know.” How could I
not? It was all he ever said concerning sorcery. I’d even kept my investigation
into the lines of arcane power a secret from him, because he’d surely find some
way to construe it as dangerous.

“Your sister,” he said. “What can you tell me about her?”

I was grateful for the change of subject, although uncertain
what to say. “She’s a year my senior,” I began. “But she always seemed much
older.”

“Was she close to Heliabel?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Mother never regained her health
after I was born. Many society ladies attend closely to their daughters’
upbringing, in hopes of making a good match later. Mother lacked the strength
to do so. Ordinarily, I suppose Guinevere would have been the one expected
remain with Mother and keep her company when the family went on holiday, or to
church, or outings at the park. But as Guinevere was the picture of health, and
I the sickly child, it fell to me instead.”

“I’m having trouble picturing Niles raising a daughter,”
Griffin admitted.

I shrugged. “He bought her whatever clothing or jewelry she
wished, arranged respectable company whenever she wanted to go visiting her
friends, and made certain she had the best tutors available. Even from
childhood, she always had a crowd of other society daughters around her.
Emulating her, for the most part. She was always the fashionable one, the beautiful
one, and all the other girls wanted her favor.”

“I see.” A saloon door opened, the scarf of light spilling
out to touch Griffin’s face, revealing a thoughtful look.

I eyed him uncertainly. “Do you find her beautiful?”

Griffin’s mouth shifted into a grin. “She looks a great deal
like you, actually. You both have Heliabel’s eyes and mouth. Although your hair
is entirely your own.”

I scowled and automatically touched my hair, which generally
stood up in spikes and refused to be tamed by any hair tonic created by man.
“How lucky for me,” I muttered.

“And for me.” He shot me a wink.

My cheeks warmed. He did rather enjoy running his fingers
through it, or clutching at the short locks while beneath me.

I hastily diverted my thoughts, before my trousers grew too tight.
“I don’t know how Guinevere will react to your presence,” I cautioned him. “I
assume she’s taken a private room. If so, I’ll go in and speak to her first. If
she truly wishes my help, she’ll just have to accept you are part of the
agreement.”

Griffin nodded. “This saloon…is it the sort of place she
would know about?”

“I
wouldn’t have known about it, at least not while I
lived in Whyborne House,” I said ruefully. “Although Guinevere wasn’t as
sheltered as everyone thought—I once found a book of, er, etchings a
friend had lent her.”

“Rather explicit, I take it?” Griffin asked with a chuckle.

“To say the least.” At the time, I’d been half shocked and
half aroused. “But youthful curiosity is entirely different from being familiar
with the less savory parts of town. Enjoying unchaperoned outings with youths
of the same social standing while in Newport is one thing. Consorting with the
sorts of persons we’re like to find near the docks is quite another. Stanford
might have come slumming, though. Perhaps she asked him?”

“Perhaps,” Griffin murmured, but I could tell the detail
still troubled him.

The saloon was indeed ramshackle, even for its kind. Close
to the wharf, it mainly served sailors and fishermen, and appeared every bit as
weather-beaten and rough as its clientele. Grime coated its windows so
thoroughly it was impossible to see inside. Only a faint glow escaped to show
there was any life within at all.

The door hinges shrieked, apparently never having had oil
set to them. The architecture suggested it dated from the end of the last
century. It had probably never seen a coat of fresh paint or even a mop in all
the time since.

Thankfully, only a few drunkards lolled amidst the long
tables, either half asleep in puddles of spilled beer, or else conversing in
low voices. Nets decorated the walls. Glass fishing weights added the only
spots of color. Everything else, including the people, was the same gray as the
weathered boards.

The bartender gave us an unfriendly look. Clearly neither
Griffin nor I was a seaman of any stripe, and although we’d deliberately worn
our oldest suits, we still appeared better off than any of the other customers.

Had my first instinct—that it was all some sort of
silly joke—been correct? Because surely Guinevere would never come to
such a place willingly.

Still, I had to find out. I crossed to the bar and cleared
my throat. “Excuse me. I’m looking for a woman.”

“Brothel’s down the street.”

“Oh!” My cheeks burned. “No. That isn’t what I meant. A
lady—my sister—arranged to meet me here tonight. She may have taken
a private room?”

“Your sister, eh?” The barman looked uncertain for a moment,
then shrugged. “Ain’t no gals here right now. Wait for her if you want, so long
as you buy a drink while you’re at it.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Griffin agreed.

The barman seemed slightly mollified, even though he kept a
close eye on both of us as he poured a pair of whiskeys. Griffin drank his with
aplomb; I barely touched my lips to my glass. The fumes alone were enough to
make my eyes water.

I checked my pocket watch every few minutes. The watch had
been a gift from Griffin; one side of the case opened to reveal the clock face,
and the other held a photograph of the two of us together. The photograph and
the declaration of love, which had accompanied the gift, made the watch one of
my most cherished possessions

When the minute hand showed it to be a quarter after
midnight, I put it away. “She’s not coming,” I said, half-shocked at the
bitterness in my own voice. “Of course it was nothing but a stupid joke. No
doubt she and Stanford are having quite the laugh at my expense.”

“Perhaps,” Griffin allowed. “She sounded sincere last night,
but I suppose she may simply be an excellent actress. Be that as it may, let’s
walk back along the route she would have taken from Whyborne House, just in
case.”

“If you like.” Surely she wouldn’t have walked, though, not
through streets such as these. She would have hired a cab, at the very least.

No, Guinevere was safe and sound at home, probably asleep in
her bed. While Griffin and I tromped about in the freezing cold, because she
still found it fun to mock her little brother, as though we were both children.

We abandoned the saloon to its dreary inhabitants. Stuffing
my hands in my pockets, I hunched my shoulders against the icy bite of the
wind. Damn Guinevere. I’d make certain not to cross paths with her again for
the duration of her stay. England could have her.

A soft moan caught my attention, barely audible above the
keening wind blowing around the cornices. Griffin came to a halt, casting
about. “I heard something.”

“So did I.” The wind’s chill seemed to touch me within now.

The cry came again, almost breathless. A name.

My name.

~ * ~

“Guinevere?” I called in alarm, while Griffin swung the beam
of his police lantern to and fro. Oh God—had she been attacked? “Where
are you?”