Hoarfrost (Whyborne & Griffin Book 6) (2 page)

I’d
ended writhing in fits, unaware of where I was, convinced I’d been transported
back to that terrible time. Instead of rejecting me for weakness, Ival embraced
me, did everything he could to lead me back through the thickets of my own mind
to reality.

It
helped. Time helped, in its way. The fits grew less and less frequent, until
more ordinary nightmares took their place.

Then
we’d gone to Egypt, and I’d accidentally awoken the monstrous guardian of a
curious gemstone. It had hunted us through underground passageways, and only
daylight had saved us. Even so, it had come perilously close to killing us all,
and Whyborne nearly sacrificed his life stopping it.

After
that, the dreams changed.

I ran my
hand down Ival’s arm, tracing the scars lightning had inscribed on his flesh.
“I’m sorry,” I said.

His arm
and leg tightened around me. “Shh. You have nothing to apologize for.” His lips
pressed a soft kiss onto my cheek. “You’re grieving. Tonight you said goodbye
to the man who raised you. Bad dreams are to be expected.”

Emotion
constricted my throat. He’d always been so understanding. Never impatient with
being woken in the night. Never pushing me to speak of what haunted my dreams.

Perhaps
I should ask his opinion. But I’d already burdened him so much. He’d been my
rock through everything, from my fits, to my falling out with my parents, to
Pa’s death. I couldn’t ask him to worry about something that was probably just
some strange quirk of my mind.

Because
in my dreams of Egypt, I wasn’t fleeing from the daemon, as I had in reality. Instead,
I was the monster hunting us.

Whyborne

A week
or so after the passing of Griffin's father, I perused the morning paper over
coffee and cereal.

Our
breakfasts as of late had been quiet, ever since Griffin received his mother’s
letter in the morning post. Our dinners had been quiet as well, to be honest. I
could only prattle on so much about my work at the museum, after all. Griffin
ordinarily would discuss his cases with me, but he’d dismissed my questions
with a few terse words before lapsing back into silence.

I
scanned the paper for headlines that might draw him out.
Prince Tuan Banished to Siberia
blared one.
Three Others Sentenced to Decapitation
for role in Boxer Uprising
.

“It
looks as though the Chinese Emperor will return to Peking,” I remarked. “And
supposedly a wealthy Filipino is paying a bounty on American ears. I wonder if
he’s a sorcerer looking for body parts. Although I suppose nothing but ears
would be rather useless.”

“I see,”
Griffin said absently.

I
lowered the newspaper just far enough to peer at him over it. He sat with his
coffee cup forgotten, staring off into the distance. Mourning dictated he wear
a black tie and vest, rather than his usual more colorful clothing.

I
suppressed a sigh. Damn James Kerr for doing this to Griffin. I’d always been
instructed not to speak badly of the dead, but Griffin’s gloomy mood left me
increasingly angry with the fellow. How could anyone raise a man like Griffin, only
to abandon him for falling in love with the wrong gender? As though my sex
somehow outweighed all the good Griffin did in the world.

But
Griffin didn’t need my anger, even if it was on his behalf. He needed me to
find some way to engage him, to get him interested in the world and out of his
own thoughts. Easy enough to do in bed, of course, but the effect only lasted
until the next morning. What Griffin needed was a case challenging enough to
demand his full faculties. Perhaps it would give him the space to heal, to
lessen the immediacy of his grief.

The soft
clack of the mail slot falling closed echoed through the house. “I’ll get it,”
Griffin said, rising to his feet. “Finish your breakfast before you’re late for
work.”

“I’m
going to try to remove the curse from Dr. Gerritson’s pearl this morning,” I
said.

For once
he seemed to hear what I said. Stopping, he frowned at me. “Doesn’t that one
kill people?”

“Only
Polynesian chiefs.”

He still
looked dubious, but didn’t argue, only left to get the mail. Over the last
month, I’d studied infusing magic into objects, in the vague idea I might be
able to place some protective enchantment on Griffin’s wedding ring, for when his
cases took him to dangerous parts of town. It occurred to me, if one could put
a spell on something, one might equally be able to take it off again. The
Ladysmith’s trove of cursed objects seemed as good a place as any to test the
theory. If I made the museum a slightly less deadly place to work, it would
surely be for the better.

Griffin’s
tread sounded in the hall. “Anything interesting in the mail?” I asked.

“A
letter from Ruth, a flyer for Pears’ Soap…” Griffin put a package wrapped in
brown paper on the table between us. “And this from my brother.”

Griffin’s
two older brothers had been adopted separately from him. While he hadn’t yet
located the eldest, he’d managed to track down the middle brother, renamed Jack
Hogue by the couple who adopted him. Jack had joined the other stampeders in
the Yukon, and the two had exchanged lengthy letters over the past year.

“Perhaps
it’s gold?” I suggested.

Griffin
hefted the package. “It is heavy, although not heavy enough, I think.”
Retrieving a penknife, he cut the twine around the parcel and slit open the
paper wrapping to reveal a letter and a battered cigar box.

We
exchanged a puzzled look. “What does the letter say?” I prompted.

Griffin
unfolded the paper and read aloud:

Dear
Griffin,

I’m
sending this from St. Michael, where I intend to stay until I get your
reply—I hope soon. When I last wrote, I mentioned my intention to spend
the year in what we’ve dubbed Hoarfrost camp, way up in the mountains north of
the Yukon River. Although others have found gold, I think Nicholas and I
discovered something far more valuable. I’ve enclosed a photograph—it
looks like some sort of broken column, buried deep in the permafrost.

Griffin
frowned and opened the cigar box. A photograph lay atop the straw packing. I
leaned forward and peered at it with him. Although the poor lighting it had
been taken in failed to show details, the photo revealed a deep pit dug through
layers of gravel and dirt. At the bottom rested a jagged bit of broken rock,
which looked like the base of a stele. Other fragments of rock lay in a jumble
around it. Some appeared to have carving on them.

It
doesn’t look anything like what the natives make. They don’t have any kind of
writing, and this column or what have you has some strange words on it, although
I couldn’t tell you what it says. I showed the fragment to a couple of Tagish I
know. They said the entire area is bad medicine, so I’m guessing whatever is
here hasn’t been disturbed by anyone in a long time.

Nicholas
knows a little about these things and said it might be from an unknown
civilization. I mentioned you’re friends with the lady archaeologist and Dr.
Whyborne, so he suggested I send this to you to show them. Or maybe you know
some collectors who would be interested?

Keep
the fragment I sent with this letter, whatever you decide. After finding this,
Nicholas has taken over the saloon, instead of working the claim, in case there’s
more to it. If the weather holds, we plan to continue digging through the
winter and see if we can find anything else. Let me know if we should wait for
you or the lady archaeologist.

Sincerely,

Jack

“Do you
think there’s anything to this?” Griffin asked.

“It
certainly looks like something,” I admitted, putting the photograph aside. “Let’s
see what your brother sent us.”

Griffin removed
the straw packing to reveal a small, flat rectangle of greenish stone. It had
been carefully polished on two sides and what appeared to be a rounded edge.
The other three sides were rough and broken. Although weathered, the signs of carving
remained clear, including a series of dots and lines I thought I recognized.
Where had I seen them?

Oh. Oh
dear.

“The
pattern. It seems familiar, but…no. Never mind,” Griffin murmured, a puzzled
frown on his face. “What do you think? I know you’re not an archaeologist
yourself, but your philological studies have given you knowledge of at least
some ancient peoples.”

“I have
seen something like it before,” I said. “In a book in the library. One of those
kept under lock and key. You said it seemed familiar to you?”

“I…no.”
Griffin shook his head. “It was just an odd feeling, nothing more. You said
you’ve seen similar things among the restricted tomes? That isn’t good.”

“No,” I
agreed. “It probably isn’t.”

“Is the
artifact dangerous?” His face paled sharply with realization. “Jack. He’s in
St. Michael now, but what if he returns to Hoarfrost, where he found this? Do I
need to warn him? Would he even believe me if I did?”

“Griffin.”
I put my hand on his, stilling him. “I don’t know. But I promise you, I will
find out.”

Whyborne

An hour
later, I settled behind the desk in my office in the Nathaniel R. Ladysmith
Museum. After years exiled to a windowless office in the basement, I now
occupied a rather nice space on the second floor, complete with large windows
to let in the light. I’d also gained a personal secretary, in the form of Miss
Parkhurst, who came in quite handy for preventing visitors from disturbing me.

Rather
than immediately turn to the library for answers as to the fragment Griffin’s
brother had sent, I decided to wait for Christine’s expert opinion. She’d not
been in her office when I stopped by, so I made a mental note to round her up
for lunch, then set myself to the work I’d planned to do before the arrival of
the package.

Not that
removing the curse from one of the museum’s possessions constituted my work in
any official capacity.

The
cursed pearl lay in front of me on the desk, wrapped in silk. Although Dr.
Gerritson swore it only killed Polynesian chiefs, I had decided to treat it
with great caution. After all, there was no knowing what might in truth
activate the curse. A certain bloodline? Sorcery? What if the chiefs in
question had been ketoi hybrids and the thing decided to attack me as well?

I
removed the silk wrapping carefully. The pearl looked innocuous enough, its
luster shining against the dark cloth. Hopefully removing the curse, assuming I
even could do such a thing, wouldn’t damage it in some way. My salary was
generous for my needs, as I lacked a wife or children to support, but it would
hardly cover the destruction of a large and presumably rather valuable pearl.

I closed
my eyes for a moment, opening my senses. Magic whispered far beneath me, flowing
through the lines of arcane power that converged here in Widdershins in the
form of a gigantic magical vortex. Now that I’d become attuned to it, I felt
the slow rotation under my feet, the pulse of power along the scars on my right
arm.

I sensed
nothing from the pearl. Either the curse didn’t actually exist, or I would have
to touch the blasted thing. Taking a deep breath, I hesitantly poked it with my
forefinger.

A little
tingle ran up my arm. There was something here after all.

Hoping I
wasn’t about to do something foolish, I picked up the pearl in both hands. I felt
the arcane energy trapped within it, quiescent for the moment. Waiting for the
wrong person to wander past, no doubt.

I ran my
fingers over its smooth surface, hoping to feel the shape of the spell. The
Liber
Arcanorum
had spoken of drawing or painting certain sigils, wrapping the
magic about the object to be enchanted like a net, and letting it sink within.
If I could find the warp and weft of the spell, I might be able to pick it
apart, like pulling just the right thread to unravel a sweater.

I might
as well have been trying to read Monsieur Braille’s system of letters. There
was
something
there, but what I couldn’t even begin to make out.

Very
well. This enchantment hardly seemed like a thing of great power, despite its
effect on certain chiefs. If I couldn’t untie the knots, perhaps I could simply
cut through them.

My scars
ached hotly as I drew power from the maelstrom beneath me. I’d spent almost
three years honing my will into an instrument of sorcery. I found a place where
the spell seemed thinner, for lack of a better word, and focused all my
concentration on forcing it apart.

The
enchantment responded. I
felt
the edges unravel, the spell fail as it
shattered beneath my will. My fingers burned, arcane energy releasing from the
pearl directly into my skin, my blood. A tingle ran through me, and I hardened
beneath my trousers.

“There
you are, Whyborne!” Christine exclaimed, flinging open the door.

I
dropped the pearl: it fell to the desk, rolled past the clutter of piled books
and notes, and tumbled off the edge onto the carpet.

“Blast
it, Christine.” My cheeks and ears went red, and I scrambled under the desk in
search of the pearl. “At least have Miss Parkhurst announce you.”

“What
the devil for?” She strode in. Iskander followed her, looking a bit more uncertain.
I was surprised to see him here. On the strength of his experience in Egypt, he’d
done a bit of work for the museum, cataloging items and the like, but didn’t
have a full position on staff.

I found
the pearl, thankfully unharmed. The power still sizzled beneath my skin, but at
least my rather inappropriate erection had faded. “I was doing delicate work,”
I said, brandishing the pearl at her.

“Is that
Dr. Gerritson’s cursed pearl?” she asked.

Iskander
looked alarmed. “It’s cursed?”

“Not any
more.” Perhaps I sounded a bit smug, but surely I was allowed.

Christine
was far less impressed than I’d hoped. “Don’t let the director hear you say
that.” Indeed, Dr. Hart seemed under the impression a vast assemblage of cursed
objects drew crowds rather than drove them away. I had to admit that thus far,
he’d been right.

I put
the pearl safely in a drawer so I could return it later. The power I’d taken
from it still seethed uncomfortably, aching through my scars, but I ignored it.
“I have something for you,” I said, pulling out the cigar box.

“We’re
getting married,” Christine blurted out.

I
blinked. Iskander beamed, and Christine looked…well, slightly terrified, but
mostly happy.

The
announcement didn’t come as a surprise. After all, Iskander had relocated from
Egypt to join her here in America. I rose from my seat and went around the
desk. “I’m extraordinarily happy for you both,” I said. Iskander was a fine
fellow, and I thought his sensible approach to life would do Christine a great
deal of good. I shook his hand, then embraced Christine. “Have you set the
date?”

“Not
yet.” She returned my hug. “I’d be happy to go before a judge, but Kander wants
something more elaborate.”

“Is it
wrong of me to want to mark the occasion with ceremony?” he asked.

“Of
course not,” I said, feeling as if I ought to stand up for him.

Christine
twisted her hands together. “Whyborne, I know…well, it’s terribly silly, but
will you give me away?”

Her
request warmed me, even though I knew it must be painful for her and Iskander,
both. “I’m sorry your father—”

“Bah!”
Fire flashed in her eyes. “Devil take my parents, if they can’t accept having a
half-Egyptian for a son-in-law, no matter how good a man he may be. They’re no
better than Griffin’s accursed father. And even if they would deign to come to
the wedding, it’s you I’d want to stand by me, anyway.”

“I
understand,” I said, and I did. Christine was my sister, more truly than any
who shared my blood, even Persephone. “Of course. I’d love to be a part of your
wedding, in any way you wish.”

She
arched a brow. “Even if I asked you to put on a dress and be my bridesmaid?”

“Even
that, although you would be better off with Dr. Gerritson in such a role.” I
considered Dr. Gerritson a personal friend as well as a colleague, but he did
have an unfortunate penchant for dressing in women’s underthings at work.
Although I admired his independent spirit, I had tried to point out a dress
would be a more appropriate choice for a professional setting. He claimed the
skirts and neckline inhibited his thinking. “He probably already has the gown
for it.”

“No
doubt.” She sat in the visitor’s chair. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s
in the box?”

I handed
her the artifact and photograph. Iskander leaned over her shoulder to study
them, and a line sprang up between his thick brows. “It can’t be one of the
Eltdown Shards—they were pottery—but it rather looks like them,
doesn’t it?”

“The
what?” I asked.

Christine
frowned as well. “That sounds vaguely familiar.”

“The
shards were discovered in southern England…oh, it must have been twenty years
ago now.” Iskander settled on the arm of Christine’s chair. Her eyes strayed to
the seat of his trousers, and I hoped she was paying attention to the
discussion instead of her fiancé’s attributes. “I primarily remember them
because I’d already developed an interest in archaeology, despite my young age.
I collected every newspaper article I could find about them.”

“Do you
remember any of the details?” I asked. “The culture that created them?”

“That’s
just the thing.” Iskander shifted slightly, his brown hands resting lightly on
his knee. “They didn’t seem to have a connection to any previously known
archaeological finds. The man who dug them up—sod it, I can’t recall his
name at the moment—swore they were genuine, but given the depth of the
stratigraphy, they far predated any known human habitation of the isles.”

“A hoax?”
Christine asked.

Iskander
shrugged. “Impossible to say for certain, but that seemed to be the consensus.
It’s probably why you’ve never heard of them. Where did you get this, Whyborne?”

I sank
back into my chair, uncertain what to believe. “Griffin’s brother sent them. He
claims to have found the stele while digging for gold in Alaska.”

Christine
straightened. “Do you think the find to be genuine?”

“I don’t
know. I can’t imagine what he could gain from a hoax.”

Her dark
eyes flashed with excitement. “What if the Eltdown Shards were real? Can you
imagine—evidence of an ancient seafaring culture that spanned the Old
World and the New!”

“Er,” I
said. This wasn’t what I’d intended at all.

“Just
think!” She held the artifact up, as if in triumph. “An unknown civilization,
and within the borders of American territory! Buried beneath the permafrost
along with mammoths, undiscovered and unsuspected until now.”

“That
would be…something,” I agreed, a bit alarmed by her enthusiasm. “The thing is,
Christine, I believe I recognize some of the symbols. And not in the context
Iskander knows them from.”

Iskander
frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I’d
have to go to the library, but I’m almost certain I’ve seen them in some arcane
writings.”

“Oh.” He
pursed his lips.

A
horrible thought occurred to me. “Do you know anything about sorcery in
England? What happened to the shards? Eltdown is near Cornwall, isn’t it? Could
the Endicotts have them?”

His eyes
widened in alarm. “Dear heavens, I’ve no idea! I didn’t even know England
had
sorcerers until Christine wrote me about your cousins.”

“There’s
no point in worrying about it now,” Christine said with a wave of her hand. “What’s
important is we might have genuine evidence of an ancient civilization no one
else even realizes existed! Seafarers like the Polynesians, perhaps, who might
have traveled over vast stretches of the earth. We must investigate further.”

Blast,
why hadn’t I anticipated this? After losing the firman to excavate in Egypt
last year, Christine had devoted her time to writing a definitive history of
the Sixth Dynasty. I should have guessed she’d long to return to the field and
its accompanying thrill of discovery. “But if there’s magic involved, it could
be dangerous.”

“Then
what are we dawdling here for, man?” she exclaimed. “We must get to the library
and find out if this will revive my career, or kill us all in the process!”