Maelstrom (22 page)

The room was nearly filled with five other
men, all of them dressed in dark robes, including the two who held
me. The one-eyed man with the horribly malformed arm wasn’t there.
But in the center of the gathering, his hand red with my blood,
stood Bradley Osborne.

Griffin

Hoping to keep the Boston trip from becoming
a complete waste of time, I stopped by the Pinkerton offices.
Fortunately, my old friend William Andrews was in, and appeared
almost as soon as I asked for him.

“Griffin,” he said, shaking my hand warmly.
“It’s good to see you again.”

“And you, Will.” He hadn’t changed much in
the five—or was it six?—years since I’d last seen him. His sandy
hair had crept slightly higher on his forehead, and a few more
lines showed around his mouth, but his smile was just the same.

“Come to my office,” he said, clapping me on
the arm.

I felt oddly dislocated in time as I
followed him through the building. So many things seemed familiar,
even though I’d never set foot in this office before: the faint
scent of gun oil, the chatter of the men, the rustle of papers. But
there were differences as well—the ring of a telephone, for one,
cheerfully answered by a young woman.

Andrews shared his office with several other
men, none of whom were present at their desks at the moment. “Gone
into business for yourself, then?” he asked, removing a bottle of
whiskey from his desk and pouring us each a dram. “And in
Widdershins, no less. Damned odd place, from what I hear.”

I felt a small flash of annoyance, then
wondered at myself. I’d said as much, many times. But it seemed
wrong to hear the words from someone who didn’t live there. Who
didn’t understand.

“It’s my home now,” I said simply.

Andrews downed his whiskey in one practiced
swallow. “What made you choose it, if you don’t mind my asking? I
would have thought New York or San Francisco more your sort of
place.”

I paused, unsure how to answer. He didn’t
know about my confinement in the mad house. The Chicago office had
kept it quiet, fearing for the reputation of the agency should it
become too widely known. “Glenn’s death changed me,” I said at
last, which was true as it went. “After...well. I think Widdershins
chose me, more than I chose it.”

Andrews gave me an uncertain look. “I see,”
he said in a tone suggesting the opposite. “I was just about to
send you a telegram, but you’ve saved me the trouble.”

I accepted his quick change of topic. No
doubt in some ways I’d begun to sound as strange as any lifelong
denizen of Widdershins. “You found something of interest?”

“Indeed. I’m sorry it took as long as it
did.” He rummaged about in his drawer for a few minutes, then
pulled out a stack of telegrams. “There were a few layers of
ownership, businesses that exist only on paper. But I finally found
a name for you at the bottom of it all.”

“Which is?” I asked without much hope.

“Dr. Bradley Osborne.”

My skin prickled, as if the air had gone
from summer to winter. “Bradley Osborne?” I repeated like a
fool.

He’d been on Lambert’s list. And of course
he was a scholar, who knew Widdershins’s history—would, in fact,
likely know about any early surveying map held by the hall of
records. The witch hunter’s paraphernalia lay in the keeping of his
department.

And yet...

Whyborne complained of him frequently, but
always as a petty annoyance. Given what I’d seen of him when I
first came to Widdershins, I’d judged him the same. Besides, my
shadowsight should have revealed him as a sorcerer when I saw him
last, at the night of the museum’s reception.

But the witch hunter’s dagger interfered
with my ability see magic. If that had been the very night he’d
stolen the dagger and manacles, if he’d had them on him...

He’d put his hand to the small of his back
while confronting Whyborne. Had the presence of a weapon meant to
kill sorcerers made him feel powerful? Helped him put his sneer
back in place, while he dreamed of murdering my Ival?

Oh hell.

Bradley was back in Widdershins, with
Whyborne and Christine and everyone else. None of whom would
suspect him of being anything more than an ass.

Andrews gave me a concerned frown. “I take
it the name means something to you?”

“Yes. It means I’ve made a terrible error.”
I rose to my feet. “May I use your telephone?”

Whyborne

“Bradley?” I asked stupidly. But this made
no sense. Bradley might be a loathsome toad, but he was no
sorcerer. No murderer. “You...what...?”

The familiar, contemptuous smirk twisted his
features. “Not all that bright, are you, Percy?” he asked. “But
then, if you had half the intelligence you’re credited with, we
wouldn’t be here, would we?”

I tried to break free from the men holding
me. If I had access to my power, I’d lay ice on their skin. I’d
summon wind to shatter bones, I’d set fire if I must.

But I couldn’t do any of it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I
said to stall him. If I diverted his attention, perhaps I’d find
some means of escape, as unlikely as it seemed. “But whatever
you’re doing here—whatever you think you’re doing—needs to stop.
Whoever got you involved with this, it’s not too late to walk
away.”

“Walk away?” he asked incredulously. “Oh no,
it’s far too late for that. I’ve seen the punishments the Man in
the Wood serves to those who fail to carry out his wishes.”

This was madness. “What could you possibly
know about Nyarlathotep?”

“More than you, I dare
say.” His lip lifted in a sneer. “What a waste you are. You might
have had so much—power, wealth, women. And instead you chose
this.”
He scanned the
room, disappointment written clearly on his face. “And speaking of
women, where is Flaherty?”

God. Quinn hadn’t had anything to do with
the cult. It had been Bradley all along.

But at least our mistake meant Bradley
hadn’t caught Griffin here alone. I settled for glaring at him in
lieu of an answer.

Bradley frowned. “He was meant to be here.
Killed in a struggle. But now he’s gone and made things
complicated.”

“What the devil do you want from us?” I
demanded. “Money? My father will pay you whatever ransom you ask.
Just tell me.”

Bradley arched a brow. “Money? Oh no. I want
your life, you quivering fairy. The life you’ve wasted. The life
you never appreciated or deserved.” He grinned. “Which is why I’m
taking it.”

He brought the hand slick with my blood down
on the Lapidem. All around him, the sigils sprang to life, burning
with blue flame that even I could see.

Pain spiked through my head, and he cried
out as well. The world spun, the room tilting first one way, then
the other. For a moment, I felt weightless, as though no longer
connected to my body.

Then I was on my knees, my fingers pressed
to my temples. The cultists must have let go of me. Iron no longer
encircled my wrist, yet I still couldn’t sense the maelstrom.

What had Bradley done to me? Nothing felt
right. The floor seemed an odd distance away, my limbs subtly
wrong, as though someone had taken me apart and put me back
together incorrectly.

“It worked,” said a voice, but it wasn’t
Bradley’s. One of the cultists?

I raised my head slowly, but the room
remained steady. Still, nothing made sense to my eyes. Somehow, I’d
ended up where Bradley had been, beside the now-quiescent Lapidem.
Across the room, where I had stood, the two cultists who had held
me unlocked the manacle from the wrist of a figure and stepped
back.

I looked up...and up. He was tall and thin,
his hair wilder than usual from being under the blanket, and his
face was familiar to me from each morning when I shaved.

“What?” I said, but my
voice was
wrong
.
As were the hands I stretched out in front of myself, the fingers
too sturdy, unadorned by either wedding ring or scars.

“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” asked the
person wearing my face. He motioned to the cultists, and a moment
later I found myself seized again, dragged to my feet and away from
the Lapidem.

“Bradley?” But it couldn’t be. This was
insane, impossible. I’d fallen asleep waiting for Griffin to return
from Boston. This was some mad dream.

He crossed the room and stopped a few feet
away, looking down at me. “Not any more. Now I’m Percival Endicott
Whyborne, heir to one of the largest fortunes in America.”

“No,” I said. “This can’t be real, it
can’t.”

He grinned, horribly, and I almost expected
to glimpse shark’s teeth behind his lips. “Oh, it’s real enough. I
projected myself into Lambert and Durfree, dominated their minds
and controlled their bodies. I only needed blood from each of
them—Lambert stuck himself with a pin while fitting my suit, and
Durfree cut his hand on a frame, so I took advantage of the chance
fate granted me. But to do a complete transfer of essence...for
that I needed the Occultum Lapidem. And your blood, of course.”

I reached for the maelstrom, no longer
caring for finesse. I’d burn the house down around us if I had to,
char myself to ash along with them. Anything to stop this.

It was like an amputee groping with a
phantom limb. I couldn’t feel the arcane power of the vortex, and
no flame responded to my call.

“Trying to cast a spell?” Bradley asked with
lips that had belonged to me. He snapped his fingers, and the
candle above the fireplace burst into flame. A delighted laugh
escaped him. “Look at that. If I’d had this power from the
beginning...but no matter.” He turned back to me. “All that matters
is that you die.”

The clang of the iron gate sounded from
outside. “Whyborne!” Christine bellowed. “Are you in there?”

An expression of fury distorted
his—my—his—features. But just for a moment. “Go,” Bradley ordered.
“Out the back! Leave him here!”

The cultists released me and rushed for the
back door. “Christine!” Bradley shouted. “I’m in here! Help!”

I staggered to my feet. I had to stop him,
before this went any farther. I launched myself at him, knocking
him back into the doorframe.

The front door burst open, and I glimpsed
Father and Christine. “He’s trying to steal the Lapidem!” Bradley
shouted.

“No!” I firmed my grip on his lapels. “It’s
not—”

“Finally, I get to hit something,” Christine
exclaimed. I glimpsed her fist flying at my face. Then stars burst
across my vision, and I collapsed into darkness.

Whyborne

“Bradley, a sorcerer!” said a voice from far
away. “I’d never have believed it.”

“The Man in the Woods and the rat-thing must
have tutored him,” said another voice. My voice?

But not from my throat.

I blinked sluggishly. The light seemed to
stab my eyes, and my head ached abominably.

I lay on my stomach, my cheek pressed
against the carpet. My mouth tasted horrible, and something seemed
to have been stuffed into it—a rag? I tried to reach up and pull it
free, but my hands had been secured behind my back.

“He’s waking up,” my voice said.

Bradley.

I tried to cry out, to warn Christine, but
the rag prevented it. “A good thing you thought to gag him,
Whyborne,” Christine said. “We definitely don’t want him casting
any spells.”

“Indeed.” His foot connected viciously with
my side, and I tried to curl up to protect myself.

“Steady on, there,” Christine said. “I know
it’s Bradley, but he’s helpless now.”

Christine’s shoes approached across the
carpet. “I can’t believe it. That is, we always knew he was an
idiot, but this? Murder? Sorcery? What the devil did he hope to
gain?”

I tried to signal her somehow with my facial
expressions. If I could only make her understand the real murderer
was standing right behind her.

“Is he having some sort of seizure?” she
asked.

Blast.

“How did you know to come?”
Bradley asked. His—
my
—shoes retreated out of my line of sight. “I’m grateful, of
course, but your intervention was rather timely.”

“Griffin telephoned from Boston. Mr. Quinn
had nothing to do with any of this—as you’ve clearly guessed.”

“Mr. Quinn?” Bradley exclaimed
incredulously.

“Er, yes,” Christine said. “He is why
Griffin went to Boston.”

“Of course, but...well. It didn’t seem very
likely. Quinn doesn’t care about anything but old books.”

“Well you certainly seemed to think it
likely yesterday,” Christine snapped. I willed her to question him
further. To doubt. He’d make some error soon enough, and she’d
surely realize she wasn’t really talking to me. Instead, she went
on, “Griffin’s Pinkerton friend followed the trail of deeds from
the old Somerby Estate to Bradley. Naturally he was alarmed and
wanted us to know as soon as possible. Your Father and I came to
tell you...and a good thing we did.”

“Yes, how fortunate,” Bradley said, although
the comment didn’t sound very sincere to me. “He meant to steal the
Lapidem—for what end, I can’t imagine. His accomplices are still
out there, so I’d best keep it with me, in case they try
again.”

The floor creaked beneath Father’s feet as
he entered the room. “Detective Tilton is here.”

“I still think we might have handled this on
our own,” Bradley said.

“And done what?” Christine demanded. “We can
hardly kill the man in cold blood.”

Bradley could. Had in fact done so, when it
came to poor Mr. Tubbs, and the other unfortunates he’d offered up
as sacrifice. And it was laughable to believe Father would have had
any qualms.