Maelstrom (6 page)

“Quite.” I hesitated, but there was nothing
gained by delaying. “How are the wedding arrangements coming?”

She frowned slightly. I had to admit, it
wasn’t the sort of question I would normally ask. I tried to look
innocently curious. “Fine,” she said.

“Oh good.” I nodded. “So you’ve made
arrangements with the florist?”

“Not yet,” she said. “Why?”

I bit back a sigh. Christine’s family might
not have ranked with the Vanderbilts or the Whybornes, but they’d
had enough money to move in society. She really ought to know
better.

“The ballroom and dining room at Whyborne
House are quite large,” I said. “A considerable quantity of flowers
will be required. It isn’t fair to the florist to wait until the
last minute and then expect miracles.”

Christine scowled. “I don’t expect miracles,
Whyborne. I...oh.” Her expression cleared. “Of course. I’m sorry,
old fellow.”

“Er...” Should I question whatever
misapprehension had led to her agreement, or take advantage of it?
“It’s quite all right.”

“I’ll make an appointment for us to visit
the florist tomorrow,” she said. “Or, even better, we’ll ask Miss
Parkhurst to do so, as you’ll be coming with me.”

I’d assumed by “us” she’d met herself and
Iskander. “I am?”

“Of course!”

“But...oh, very well.” If it moved things
forward, I’d resign myself. “Will you give me the codex back
now?”

“Yes, yes,” she said, turning the page.
“It’s very...oh.”

She turned the volume so I could see as
well. Unlike the fantastical illustrations that had come before,
this creature was all too real. All too familiar.

A ketoi.

“Blast,” I said softly.

“A family portrait?” Christine asked.

I shot her a dark look. “This isn’t funny.”
The ketoi was beautifully rendered, from its lithe body to its
mouth full of shark teeth, to the stinging tentacles of its
hair.

Filled with a sense of new urgency, I turned
a few more pages, revealing a progression of what looked like star
charts. An umbrae.

A longer page folded into the codex, which
when extended showed a Mother of Shadows on one side and the
dweller in the deeps on the other.

“What did Daphne say?” I asked. “She knew I
wasn’t human. She said she smelled the ocean in my blood.” I
flipped back to the ketoi.

“There are other sources,”
Christine pointed out uneasily. “The
Unaussprechlichen Kulten
for one. Or
the knowledge may have belonged to Nitocris. It doesn’t mean this
is the book that taught Daphne how to...do whatever she
did.”

“She called to the Outside, and Nitocris
answered.” I shook my head. “I don’t like this, Christine. I don’t
like this at all.”

Miss Parkhurst tapped lightly on the door.
“Dr. Whyborne? Mr. Flaherty is here to see you.”

“Send him in.” I gave
Christine a pointed look. “Do you see?
Some
people know to ask Miss
Parkhurst before they come barging in here.”

“Why the devil should Griffin, of all
people, have to ask to see you?” she countered.

Griffin stepped inside. My greeting died in
my throat, and the sober expression on his face brought me to my
feet. “Griffin? What happened?” A hopeful thought occurred to me.
“Did the motor car suffer some mechanical failure?”

“What? No, of course not.” He’d removed his
hat, but kept it in hand, absently tapping it against his thigh.
“It’s the case I’m working on. There’s been a murder, and I
think...well. Is Iskander somewhere about?”

“Indeed,” Christine said, rising to her
feet. “I’ll fetch him. He’s busy photographing some of the older
artifacts.”

Griffin’s mouth pressed into a grim line.
“Tell him to bring his camera. And his knives.”

Griffin

As the motor car would only seat two, we
paid a brief visit to Whyborne House at my request. A bit over two
hours later, a coachman drove us up the coast road north of
Widdershins in a spring wagon. Even though Niles had been out,
Fenton assured us that “Mr. Whyborne left instructions to treat any
request from you as if it came directly from him, Master Percival.”
As a result, Whyborne sulked most of the way out of
Widdershins.

Once away from the town, the coast became a
lonely, bleak place. Stunted trees clung to the sea cliffs, their
branches bent by the constant winds. A line of poles bearing
telegraph and electrical wires marched alongside the road. Many
seemed to be in disrepair, and I wondered if the electrical company
abandoned their upkeep after Stormhaven Lunatic Asylum had been
destroyed. Crows and seagulls perched on the leaning poles,
watching with curiosity as we passed by.

“You probably saw the newspaper accounts,” I
said to Christine and Iskander, who sat side-by-side across from
Whyborne and me. “But here are the facts.”

I related the details of my case. “Last
night, Mr. Tubbs’s body was found at a farm up the coast,” I said.
“The farmer, one Mr. Robinson, thought he glimpsed lights in a
distant pasture as he prepared for bed. Taking up his shotgun, he
went to investigate. Fortunately for him, the perpetrators had
already left by the time he arrived to find the body.”

“And Lambert didn’t have another...episode?”
Whyborne asked.

“He claims not. He might be saying so to
make himself less suspicious in front of the police, of course, but
I find myself believing him.” I reached into my coat. “After I
spoke with him, I stopped by Detective Tilton’s desk. Tilton wasn’t
in, but he’d carelessly left some photographs of the murder
behind.”

Whyborne’s eyes widened. “You stole one?” he
asked in a scandalized whisper.

“Good man,” Christine said, reaching for the
photo.

“The details aren’t distinct,” I explained
as I handed it over. “It looks to have been taken at night, with
only the police lanterns to illuminate the scene. Still, one can
see the brutality of the crime all too well.”

“I’d say,” she said with a frown.

Iskander peered over her shoulder. “Good
lord.”

The picture showed poor Mr. Tubbs, his
lifeless body sprawled across a low, blocky stone. His clothing had
been torn aside, and sigils painted on his skin in some dark
substance. His throat had been cut, and his chest pried open.

Whyborne accepted the photo from Christine
and studied it. “His heart?”

“Missing,” I confirmed.

“He wasn’t just murdered,” Iskander said.
“His death seems to have been part of some ritual.”

“Those stones in the background are hard to
make out,” Christine said, “but they don’t look natural.”

“According to the newspaper, Mr. Robinson
found the body amidst some old Indian standing stones.” I tucked
the photograph away again. “Which is why I requested you all to
accompany me. I want to look over the site, but I’m neither
sorcerer nor archaeologist. Nor am I as adept at camera work,
should we wish to document the area.”

“Not to mention going alone would be
foolhardy,” Iskander added.

“That, too,” I agreed.

The carriage rocked slightly as we turned
onto a narrow lane leading off to the west. The coast fell behind,
and the landscape became slightly less inhospitable. Shrubs and
real trees soon hemmed in the lane, and fields lined with rock
walls lay beyond.

Eventually the coach drew up in front of a
small farmhouse, its sides weathered but still sturdy. An elderly
woman tottered out onto the porch to greet us, her face creased
into a frown.

“We don’t want to talk to no more
reporters,” she snapped as I climbed out.

I beckoned Whyborne to follow me, then
approached her with my hat in my hand. “I assure you, ma’am, we
aren’t reporters,” I said. “Permit me to introduce myself. I’m
Griffin Flaherty, a private detective. This is my friend Dr.
Percival Endicott Whyborne, and—”

“Whyborne,” she said. She peered at him
through narrowed eyes.

I focused on my shadowsight. No mark of
sorcery lay on her, but there was...something not quite human. The
blood ran thin in her, but I was certain she was a ketoi
hybrid.

“Good afternoon,” Whyborne said, a bit
stiffly.

“Hmph,” she said. I couldn’t tell if the
sound was meant to indicate approval or its opposite. “My husband
found the body in the far field, over that way.” She indicated the
direction with a jerk of her head. “Just follow the lane there,
past the barn and the hayfield, ’til you come to the high hill with
the big oak. He was laying right on the altar stone.”

Whyborne looked aghast. “Altar stone?”

“I’m not saying we used it as such,” she
said defensively.

“Of course,” I said quickly. “Thank you,
Mrs. Robinson. Your cooperation may set an innocent man free.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to hear
nothing more about it. There’s things decent folk know to leave
alone, and this is one of them.”

She shuffled back into her house and shut
the door decisively. “I suppose that makes us indecent folk,”
Iskander remarked when we climbed back into the carriage.

“I’ve always said as much,” I replied,
signaling the driver to continue on. “She was one of your distant
cousins, Whyborne.”

He looked at me in surprise. “A ketoi
hybrid?”

“Yes.” I glanced at him. I’d grown used to
the sight over the months, the odd feeling that the untameable
spikes of his hair would suddenly become tentacles, or I’d tug his
collar down and discover gills beneath. “More human, though.”

“Do you think they’re involved?” Christine
asked, twisting around to peer back at the farmhouse.

“The Robinsons or the ketoi?” Iskander
asked.

“Either.”

“No,” Whyborne said firmly. “That is, I
can’t speak for the Robinsons, but Persephone would never sanction
murder.”

“I would never cast aspersions on
Persephone,” I said carefully, “but Lambert’s odd episodes...”

“Were nothing like those the dweller caused
in me!” he exclaimed. “You said so yourself! And do I have to
remind you that Persephone is my sister?”

“I know.” I held up a hand for peace. “And
Persephone risked her life to stop war with the land. I haven’t
forgotten. But not all of the ketoi wanted that peace. It’s too
early to discount any possibilities.”

Whyborne folded his arms over his chest,
back to sulking again. I resisted the temptation to roll my
eyes.

Cows watched us pass from behind a fence,
their dark eyes mildly curious. Their animal scent perfumed the
air, mingled with sweet hay and sun-kissed grass. It brought back
unexpected memories of my youth in Kansas: muscles aching from a
long day of hard work, the feel of warm hide beneath my hands, the
clang of the bell summoning us to dinner.

“It seems a well run farm,” I remarked. My
voice came out slightly thicker than I’d intended. Whyborne caught
it, of course, and cast me a concerned look.

“If you say so,” Christine said. Like
Whyborne, she’d lived her life in cities. Or in tents in the wastes
of Egypt. But Iskander looked nostalgic; perhaps he thought of the
rural estate in England where he’d grown to manhood.

The lane grew more rutted the farther we
went. We left the cows behind, and soon I spotted the hill Mrs.
Robinson had mentioned. An enormous oak sprouted just short of the
crown, spreading its hoary arms wide.

Whyborne shaded his eyes against the
westering sun. “Look, at the hill crest. Are those the stones we
saw in the background of the photograph?”

Something about their shape seemed horribly
familiar...but no. Surely I was simply being paranoid.

“This is as close as I can get, sir,” the
driver said as the carriage creaked to a halt at the foot of the
hill.

“Thank you,” Whyborne replied as he climbed
out.

“Should I bring my camera?” Iskander asked,
gesturing to his bag at his feet.

I scanned the area carefully, but there
looked to be nowhere for any attackers to conceal themselves.
Likely whoever had done this was long gone. “Yes,” I said. “But
bring your knives as well. Just in case.”

We started slowly up the steep hill.
“There’s a line of arcane power here, isn’t there?” Whyborne asked
when we were halfway to the crest.

I nodded. It burned in my shadowsight, a
wide swath of blue fire, feeding into the great vortex that lay
beneath Widdershins. “Yes.”

The stones cast long shadows across the
grass, and the late sun stained them orange, save where blood had
lent them a darker hue. Some of the stones had fallen long ago, but
the rest of the menhirs stood higher than a man. At the eastern end
of the circle lurked a rough stone block—the altar Mrs. Robinson
had referred to, no doubt.

Centuries of weathering had blurred the
figures carved thereon, but I made out hybrid abominations
reminiscent of the terrible Guardians that Blackbyrne and his ilk
had raised. On another face, what could only be ketoi swam
alongside a tentacled titan.

All boiled and pulsed with the same blue
fire as the maelstrom, as if its power had been drawn up into the
stones somehow.

“I wish you could see this, Whyborne,” I
said. I reached for one of the stones, but at the last minute
thought better of the gesture and let my hand drop.

His look sharpened. “What is it?”

I described the scene as best I could. “So
is the magic from the ritual?” he wondered aloud. “Or did the
stones always look like that, and that’s why the murderer chose to
conduct it here?”

“I won’t pretend to be an expert on either
sorcery or North American archaeology,” Christine said, “but
doesn’t this site remind you of anything?”

Iskander frowned. “Not particularly.”

But it wasn’t Iskander to whom she spoke.
“It looks like the stone circle on the island in the lake,” I said,
half amazed my voice didn’t tremble. “Where Blackbyrne and the
Brotherhood meant to open a gateway to the Outside.”