Maelstrom (24 page)

I walked down the hall, the branch gripped
in my hand. The parlor door stood open, the glow from within giving
me just enough light to see by. When I was almost at the doorway, I
paused and took a deep breath.

I had to strike fast. No matter what awaited
me inside, I had to be prepared to use the branch with all the
strength this wrong body possessed.

Raising the branch, I stepped into the
room.

No one was there.

Griffin

I returned to Widdershins as quickly as the
Curved Dash would carry me. Niles had promised me he’d go to our
house and inform Whyborne immediately of Bradley’s treachery, but I
wouldn’t rest easy until I was with Ival again. The storms slowed
my progress, and by the time I reached Whyborne House, the sun had
already set.

The rain apron had kept me somewhat dry, so
I wasn’t an utter disgrace when I rang the bell. Fenton
nevertheless arched a brow when he opened the door.

“Is Whyborne—Percival—here?” I asked.

“Indeed,” Fenton said. “As are Dr. Putnam
and...others.”

Thank heavens. I handed my hat to a silent
maid and hurried into the ballroom. The florist had already
departed, and Persephone arrived. Buckets of roses and lilacs
filled the room, accompanied by water-soaked bushels of shells and
strands of pearls. Miss Parkhurst was there as well, and seemed to
be involved in creating some sort of arrangement with the shells,
pearls, and flowers.

Christine stood off to one side, watching.
As soon as she caught sight of me, however, she hurried over.
“Griffin! I have excellent news.”

Relief swept over me at the satisfied smile
on her face. “What happened?”

“Your call was most timely.” The smile faded
slightly. “Mr. Whyborne and I hurried over to your house right
away. And thank heavens we did—Bradley and his followers had broken
in and were trying to steal the Lapidem.”

“The Lapidem?” What on earth did the
umbrae’s stone have to do with anything?

She shrugged at my confusion. “I’ve no idea.
At any rate, they attacked Whyborne—they cut him, but don’t worry,
it was just a scratch. The other cultists ran off, and the police
took Bradley into custody. Whatever he had planned, we’ve foiled
it.”

“Thank goodness.” A weight seemed to lift
from my shoulders.

“Indeed. Now I can get married without
having to worry about the rest of this nonsense.” The satisfied
smile returned. “That should make Iskander happy.”

“I’m certain it will,” I agreed. “Where is
Whyborne?”

“Speaking with his father, I believe.”

I went in search of them. As I entered the
foyer, their voices drifted down from the second floor. I set my
foot on the bottom of the staircase as they crossed the landing
above.

Niles looked just as he always had. But
Whyborne...

It was like viewing a photographic negative.
Where there should have been light—fire—there was only
darkness.

I clung to the bannister, feeling as though
I might fall otherwise. They continued on past the second floor
landing, never looking in my direction. Thankfully, because I
didn’t know what I would have done if Whyborne had spoken to
me.

Something was wrong with him. Horribly,
horribly wrong.

Had Bradley done something to my Ival? There
seemed no other explanation. But what? What would possibly steal
away the flame that had burned so bright I’d sensed it even before
the Mother of Shadows altered my vision? What could have hollowed
him out in such a fashion—and why wouldn’t he have spoken of it to
Christine?

I should have wanted to run to him. To catch
him up in my arms and beg him to tell me what had happened.

So why did every instinct I possessed scream
at me to flee in the opposite direction?

The bell rang, and a moment later, Detective
Tilton’s voice came from the doorway. Stunned and in turmoil, I
turned as Fenton led the detective inside. Tilton’s mouth drew down
in a grim frown, which only deepened when he caught sight of
me.

“Bradley Osborne,” I said, because why else
would Tilton be here? “Something’s happened.”

Tilton nodded unhappily. “He’s escaped. I
came to let Dr. Whyborne know.”

“Yes.” Everything felt strangely far away.
“I’m sure Niles will want to speak with you as well.”

Tilton flinched, but I didn’t care. Bradley
had done something unspeakable to Ival, and now he was on the loose
once again, thanks to the incompetence of the police. I brushed
past him and went into the ballroom to find Christine.

My expression must have been alarming,
because she immediately said, “Good gad, what’s happened now?”

I lowered my voice. “Something is wrong with
Whyborne. I don’t know what, but I can see it with my shadowsight.
And Bradley escaped.”

“Damn it.” She put a hand to her temple, as
if to massage away the beginning of a headache. “I should have shot
him when I had the chance.”

“Probably,” I agreed, “but you didn’t know.
If Tilton had only...never mind.” I shook my head. “I need you to
keep a close eye on Whyborne. I’m not certain what’s wrong, but
whatever it is, it can’t be good for him.”

She frowned. “And what are you going to
do?”

“Bradley owns the Somerby estate. If nothing
else, there might be answers somewhere in the house.” I paused.
“And if I’m truly lucky, I’ll find Bradley hiding there.”

“Don’t give him another chance to escape,”
Christine advised.

I made for the entrance. “Don’t worry,” I
said over my shoulder. “I don’t intend to.”

Whyborne

I lowered the branch, my heart pounding
uselessly. A lantern sat on a small table, illuminating dusty
furniture and filthy panes of glass. Rain dripped steadily into the
fireplace from a leak in the chimney, and spots of rust dotted the
iron fire tools in their stand.

I moved further into the room. Someone had
been here recently...so where had they gone?

A footstep came from the hall behind me,
followed by an odd dragging sound.

What the devil?

Step. Slide. Step. Slide.

A soft glow appeared as well, growing
steadily stronger, until a figure stepped into the doorway.

It was the one-eyed cultist. In his human
hand, he carried a candle; the misshapen tentacle arm flexed and
curled by his side. His gait seemed horribly off as he came into
view. Nausea swept over me as I saw he had one normal leg...but the
other had been replaced just as his arm had been.

“Osborne!”

I flinched—then forced myself still. Had he
not heard? Did he think me Bradley? “Yes.”

He hastened across the room to me, features
twisted in outrage. I tried not to look at him too closely. “You
failed?” he demanded. “You didn’t take the hybrid’s body?”

The hybrid. Lovely.

“Things went...wrong,” I said. Recalling
Bradley’s ordinary attitude, I forced a sneer onto my lips. “But
don’t worry. I’ll have them fixed soon enough.”

“Damn you!” The man hurled the candle past
me into the fireplace. The misshapen arm lashed out, wrapping
around my shoulders and shoving me hard into the brick. My
makeshift cudgel tumbled from my grip. “I told you timing was
everything—there are only a few hours left until the stars are in
position!”

The muscular tentacle flexed, the sensation
horrible even through the layers of cloth separating my skin from
its slick surface. As I tried to think of some response, he all but
shoved his face into mine, spittle flying.

“Do I have to remind you of the consequences
of failure?” he roared. “If the beacon isn’t lit, what Nyarlathotep
will do to you will make this look like a beauty mark!”

He ripped off his eye patch. Instead of the
empty socket I’d expected, there writhed a host of tiny, squirming
tentacles.

A shriek of disgust and horror escaped me.
For a moment, he stared at me, as if confused. Then his malformed
limb tightened around me like a constrictor snake. “Wait a moment,”
he growled. “You aren’t Osborne.”

I flailed blindly behind me. My hand closed
around the rusty handle of the iron poker, even as he hurled me
across the room.

I struck the desk and fell to the floor. He
drew the witch hunter’s dagger from his belt and rushed at me. In
blind terror I thrust out the poker to keep him back.

The iron point buried itself deep in his
good eye. He screamed, then screamed again when I wrenched it free.
I rolled to one side as he blundered forward, slashing blindly with
the dagger.

I struck at him with the poker again,
catching him on the side of the head. Bradley’s greater musculature
lent the blow a force I couldn’t have managed in my old body, and
sent him to the floor. I staggered to my feet and stood over him,
panting. His mutated arm and leg twitched, but I didn’t think he
was conscious.

Raising the poker high, I brought it down
with all my borrowed strength. There came a dull crunch, and the
tentacles stilled.

I let the poker fall with a dull clang. Bile
stung my throat, and I barely turned away before vomiting.

When I felt able to move again without
nausea, I stood up carefully and wiped my mouth with the
handkerchief from my pocket. It was as soaking wet as the rest of
my clothes, and I let it fall to the floor when I was done.

I’d come here for answers, and I’d gotten at
least one. Whatever Bradley and the cultists had planned—something
to do with lighting a beacon?—would take place only a few hours
from now. And given the horrific growths and mutations that had
befallen the man I’d killed, Bradley had to go through with it or
suffer the consequences.

Which meant stopping him and getting my
rightful body back, before I ended up with a tentacle arm.

I stepped around the fallen cultist, careful
not to look at him too closely. I scooped up the witch hunter’s
dagger and tucked it into my coat, then took the lantern from the
desk. The answers as to just what Bradley had planned and where he
meant to do it must be here somewhere.

I just had to find them.

Whyborne

The study smelled faintly of mildew and
rats, of a place shut up far too long without airing. Little had
changed since the last time I’d been here. Addison’s old desk and
chair remained, and I almost expected to catch a whiff of his
tobacco lingering on the air. The old wallpaper peeled in places,
and darker patches of color betrayed where portraits had once hung.
In place of the missing picture of Leander, an old map had been
tacked on the wall.

This must be the stolen
surveyor’s map. My gaze went to the island in the lake, where the
surveyor had written
Indian Ruins
in a cramped hand.

A sheet of onionskin lay rolled up on the
desk. I picked it up—there were dots on it, and lines. It was about
the same size as the map, so I held it up.

The dots mapped perfectly onto the two sets
of standing stones we knew of. A third, to the south of the city,
was also marked. Bradley had used their position to calculate three
other places beneath the sea. No doubt they corresponded to the
ketoi’s reefs.

And at the center of them all was a spot on
the Cranch River I recognized all too well. Even though no modern
structures showed on the old survey map, I’d stood there before,
atop the Front Street Bridge.

The lines drawn between the six clusters of
standing stones all intersected at the eye of the arcane
maelstrom.

I let the onionskin fall from numb fingers.
Dear God, did Bradley mean to conduct some sort of ritual there, in
the very center of the magical vortex? Had the various rites at the
standing stones been only the beginning—some sort of priming for
whatever he intended to unleash?

Whatever he had in mind, it would surely be
insanely dangerous. Even Blackbyrne hadn’t conducted rites there,
lest its wild power rip open the veil between our world and the
Outside.

The Outside, where Nyarlathotep, whoever or
whatever it or they were, lurked. Where the rat-thing had come
from.

No. That would be mad. Bradley was many
things: greedy, cruel, hungry for the power and attention he
believed he deserved. Destroying the world would do him no good. I
was missing something.

The disfigured cultist had
spoken of lighting a beacon. But what did that mean? Beacons were
meant to signal, but who—
what
—did the cult mean to call out
to? Did it have something to do with the Restoration they wished to
bring about?

I turned to the desk. Neat
stacks of correspondence covered its surface, and a number of books
filled a shelf above it. A Latin translation of the
Al Azif
stood at one end,
followed by the
Cultes des Goules,
the Pnakotic Manuscripts, and other tomes of
sinister repute.

Most of the books were in poor shape, too
incomplete or damaged to catch the eye of a museum or library. How
long had it taken Bradley to locate these? Or had they been a part
of the estate’s library, and Bradley simply plucked them from the
shelves?

At the far end of the shelf, I found an
unlabeled volume, the cover badly tattered, the pages falling out
even as I picked it up. A familiar spiral illustration drifted out
to land on the floor.

The Wisborg Codex—or an incomplete copy of
it, at any rate. The museum copy his horrid familiar had stolen
wasn’t here. Did he have it with him? In easy reach somewhere in
Widdershins proper? And if so, why?

I turned to the letters. Perhaps they would
give me some clue. Seating myself behind the desk, I picked up the
first missive from atop the neat stack.

The handwriting belonged to my brother
Stanford.