Hoarfrost (Whyborne & Griffin Book 6) (3 page)

Whyborne

“Ah,
Percy, there you are!” exclaimed Bradley Osborne in an overly jovial voice.

I bit
back a sigh. Christine and Iskander had taken the fragment for photographing.
Once done, she would join me in the library and look through the archived
journals for every mention of the Eltdown Shards. I’d gone ahead, as I knew
nothing about camera or lighting, and would likely only get in the way.

I’d
almost reached the library without encountering anyone save for a few curators.
For a moment, I considered pretending I hadn’t heard Bradley, but past
experience taught me he’d only keep calling until I gave up and acknowledged
his presence.

Midmorning
light streamed through the high windows lining the outer wall, glowing from the
polished wooden floor and glittering on the chain of Bradley’s pocket watch. He
smiled as he advanced on me, but like his greeting, the expression seemed far
too forced, like an actor badly playing a part.

In most
of the years I’d worked at the Ladysmith, Bradley found me an easy mark for his
jokes and cutting words. Someone he could view with a sort of easy contempt,
whom he didn’t have to spend much time thinking about otherwise. Now I possessed
a better office than he did. Not to mention the ear of the director and museum
president, should I choose to have them. Exactly the things Bradley most wanted
for himself.

I
worried contempt had turned to jealousy, which was far more dangerous.

“Good
morning,” I said. “Did you need something? I’m in a bit of a hurry, you see.”

“Only to
bid you a good morning and ask after your health.” His smile took on a brittle
edge. “And Mr. Flaherty’s. How is he these days?”

A
whisper of cold slicked my spine. The battle against my brother in the museum
foyer revealed me as a sorcerer, but I feared it had also revealed something
else. Stanford had not only called me a disgusting sodomite, but shot Griffin
with the obvious intention of hurting me.

Everyone
present considered the episode part and parcel with the rest of Stanford’s mad
ranting…or pretended they did, at least. The museum had a long history of
ignoring the various eccentricities of its staff, so long as public scandal
wasn’t involved. As Stanford now resided in a private lunatic asylum, Bradley
would find it difficult to damage my reputation in Widdershins.

But
certain newspapers in New York would be more than happy to print scandalous
rumors about the heir to the Whyborne fortune keeping house with a male lover.
Father would crush them, of course, but the suspicion would have been planted.

Griffin
swore I’d cost him nothing. His father had been the one to demand too much, to
take too much. And I did believe him. But the thought our love might take more
from him through some sort of scandal turned my gut to acid.

“Quite
well,” I said shortly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work awaiting me in the
library.”

Bradley’s
lip twitched into a sneer, hastily suppressed. “Of course, Percy. I didn’t mean
to keep you from your dusty tomes. I’m certain your work is quite urgent.”

The
maelstrom whispered beneath me. The tingle of the power I’d absorbed from the
pearl shivered over my nerves.

If I released
the magic, with no attempt to shape the result, would it take a similar form as
it had in the pearl? Could I curse Bradley, not with death, but something
unpleasant?

I took a
deep breath. Griffin would never approve of using magic against Bradley,
especially for such a trivial reason. “It is,” I said, fixing him with a hard
look. “But I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

There.
Let him wonder what I meant.

I walked
swiftly away from him. As soon as I came to a window, I looked around, but no
one else was in the corridor. Flinging it open, I leaned out. The museum
grounds lay below, and I let the arcane power I’d stolen from the curse flow
from me in the form of wind. The trees beneath whipped into a frenzy, and the
hat of an unfortunate pedestrian tumbled away.

Oh dear.
But at least the buzz of power had vanished from beneath my skin.

Thanks
to Bradley’s delay, Christine caught up with me at the doors to the library. “Done
so soon?” I asked in surprise.

“I’ve no
patience for photography,” she admitted. “Iskander banished me as soon as we
set up the camera and lights.”

We
stepped into the library. Even as I looked around for a staff member to ask for
assistance, a dark figure seemed to materialize at my elbow. “Dr. Whyborne,”
Mr. Quinn intoned in his sepulchral voice. “How can we assist you today?”

I
regarded the head librarian with some unease, but he only stared back with pale
eyes, which didn’t seem to blink nearly as often as they should. The man had
always made me nervous, but the feeling had increased markedly over the last
year.

“Er, I
need some books,” I stammered.

“And in
the library, no less,” Christine said.

I shot
her a glare. “I mean to say, I need some of the books kept under lock.”

“Ah.”
Mr. Quinn’s eyes grew even wider. “Excellent. Give me the titles, and I’ll
bring them to you personally.”

What he
thought I meant to do with them, I hadn’t the slightest guess. Probably unleash
some terrible spell on Widdershins, or raise the dead, or something else
horrid. I had the awful feeling he would consider such plans an excellent
reason to allow me access to the tomes, rather than the reverse. “I, ah, thank
you.”

“It’s
our pleasure to serve,” Mr. Quinn said, bowing slightly. “Dr. Putnam, have you
any requests? Where shall I bring the books? The nook in the southwestern arm
of the labyrinth has the most comfortable chairs.”

“Er,
that will do,” I said. Christine told him what she needed, and he glided away a
moment later.

“Is it
just me, or has he gotten even odder lately?” she asked as we made our way in
the direction he’d suggested.

Rumor claimed
the convoluted architecture of the library either displayed the final stages of
the madness that took the Ladysmith’s architect, or had been the driving force
behind his insanity. Whatever the case, the librarians were an undeniably odd
bunch.

“It isn’t
just him,” I murmured. We passed a group of librarians sorting books for
re-shelving. They stopped and bowed to us.

No, to
me.

“It
seems you’ve become something of a celebrity,” Christine remarked. “Do they do
this every time you come in?”

“As of
last October, yes. After the fight with Stanford, and the ketoi…” I shook my
head. “Everyone else pretends they didn’t see anything. I’m not a sorcerer, and
there weren’t really inhuman monsters from the depths holding them hostage.
They all
know,
but they act as if they don’t.”

A
librarian stepped out from the stacks, spotted us, and hurriedly gave way. “Widdershins,”
he said as I passed. As if it were my name, or a title.

“But
here you’re practically royalty.” Christine grinned. “You should rally them to
your banner at the next budget meeting.”

“It isn’t
funny,” I muttered.

“Oh, I’m
not laughing. Just planning to invoke your name any time I need something found
quickly.” She rubbed her hands together. “Or—even better—we could
tell them to hide any books or journals Bradley needs!”

“Christine,
please!”

“Hmm,
you’re right, he probably doesn’t read.”

We
settled into a nook in the southwestern arm of the labyrinth. Soon enough, Mr.
Quinn and two librarians appeared, carrying the books and journals we’d
requested. He seemed inclined to hover, so I said, “Thank you. That will be
all.”

“Of
course.” Looking disappointed, he retreated. Christine and I exchanged a
glance, then went to work.

Ordinarily,
I would have resigned myself to a long day of pouring through dusty tomes, as
Bradley put it. But with a few hours to contemplate where I might have
previously seen such symbols, I was able to narrow down the search considerably.

“Here,”
I said, keeping my voice low lest I draw the ire of the librarians.

Christine
looked up from the journal before her. “What have you found?”

“This is
one of the Latin translations of the Pnakotic Manuscripts. What language the
translation was made from, and how accurate it might be, is highly
questionable.” I pushed the heavy book across the table to her. Its iron latch
scraped on the wood, and I winced at the sound. “Supposedly this image is a
sketch of one of the original scroll fragments. See the writing on it?”

“It
certainly looks similar,” she agreed. “And it matches the Eltdown Shards. They
could still be a hoax…”

“Unlikely.”
I peered at the etching in the journal in front of her. “The Pnakotic
Manuscripts aren’t really the sort of thing most people would know about. This
is one of the few extant copies—a forger would have had to go to great
lengths, when it would have been easier just to make something up.”

Excitement
gleamed in her eyes. “Then it’s real. This stele in Alaska is somehow connected
to pottery fragments found in England.”

“So it
would seem.”

She
looked up sharply. “You don’t sound very excited. What do these manuscripts of
yours say?”

“To stay
away.” I bent over the thick pages, inscribed by some unknown hand centuries
ago. “It’s impossible to tell how much of this was part of the original
scrolls, and how much inserted by the later translator. But it speaks of
magically sealing away certain places in order to keep the
umbrae
in
check.”

“Umbrae?”
She frowned. “Shadows? What the devil does that mean?”

I shook
my head. “I don’t know. From the context, I’m guessing some sort of dangerous
creature, but it’s impossible to say. Whoever wrote the Pnakotic Manuscripts
sealed these
umbrae
away in various places across the earth, never to be
disturbed. There is a strong warning against approaching any of these places,
especially on
‘the night of greatest darkness’
when the seals are at
their weakest.”

“The
winter solstice?” she guessed.

“Yes.
And Jack said he’s planning to look for more artifacts this winter.” I met her gaze.
“If this manuscript is right and there is some sort of horror associated with
these sites…Griffin’s brother is in terrible danger.”

Griffin

Even
though I felt ill at the news Whyborne had delivered over dinner, I raised my
glass of wine. “A toast,” I said. “To the happy couple.”

We sat
in our study, accompanied by Iskander and Christine, whom we’d invited to
dinner in part to celebrate of their long-expected engagement, and in part to
discuss Jack’s artifact. I’d started the meal with a hearty appetite, but by
the time we finished, I could barely bring myself to look at the food.

Jack was
in imminent danger. Was I to lose my brother so soon after finding him again?

So soon
after losing Pa?

“Yes,
yes,” Christine said, clinking her glass rather brusquely with mine, before
downing a good part of its contents. “Kander, tell them what you found in the
newspaper archives.”

“When
Christine told me of the umbrae, I wondered if there had been any…” he paused
delicately “…
unusual
deaths connected with the excavation of the Eltdown
Shards. I searched through the newspaper archives of the time, to see if I
could find something of interest.”

I had
the terrible feeling I didn’t want to know what he’d found. “And?”

“A
startling number of local villagers went missing over the same weekend, not
long after excavation began. Officials determined they began to celebrate Christmas
a bit early and fell through a frozen lake. Their bodies were never recovered,
however, and anyone who challenged the findings of the inquest disappeared
shortly thereafter.”

“The
solstice,” Whyborne said. “Blast. It seems the Pnakotic Manuscripts were right.”

“Jack is
in danger.” I put aside my wine.

“And
anyone else in Hoarfrost.” Whyborne absently ran a hand back through his hair.
As usual, the dark spikes resisted any attempt to flatten them. “I wonder if
the Endicotts did away with the umbra in Eltdown?”

Whyborne’s
cousins might be dangerous sorcerers, but they were dedicated to the
destruction of what they perceived as monsters. Unfortunately, their methods
tended to result in the deaths of a great many innocents as well. “They
probably did in the villagers too.”

“I
wouldn’t entirely rule it out,” Whyborne agreed. “Very well. What are our
options?”

“I can’t
write Jack and warn him. He’d think me—” the word
mad
caught in my
throat. Jack had no reason to believe horrors existed beyond the ordinary ones humans
perpetrated on each other. A letter would only damage our relationship, and do
nothing to dissuade him from disturbing the site further.

“And I
can’t sit here until spring, knowing there’s a valuable archaeological site that
might even now be destroyed by overzealous gold miners,” Christine added.

“You
mean to excavate?” Whyborne exclaimed.

“Why
not?  An actual globe-spanning civilization, outside of the superstitious
ravings about Atlantis, potentially older than any other known culture? Do you
think I’d simply sit here and leave it to be torn apart by fools digging for
gold? Good gad, man, what sort of scientist are you?”

“The
kind who prefers not to be eaten by monsters,” he muttered. “But Griffin is
right—anyone in Hoarfrost is facing danger, if we can go by the
disappearances surrounding the Eltdown excavation. The seals will be at their
weakest on the longest night.” He stared down at his wine glass as if not
really seeing it. “December 21, this year. There isn’t a great deal of time to
spare.”

“I wish
we knew what sort of creature this ‘umbra’ might be,” Iskander said. “Did the
Pnakotic Manuscripts not give any hints?”

Whyborne
shook his head. The firelight caught his dark hair, illuminating the occasional
lighter strand, and limned his profile in gold. “Not really. I assume they
aren’t fond of light, given their name and the fact the longest night of the
year seems to favor them. But that describes a great many otherworldly things.
Without being certain what we’re facing, it might be best to concentrate on learning
how to reinforce the magical seals. If we can keep the umbra trapped, wherever
it might be, we won’t have to fight it.”

“Where
do you think it would be trapped?” I asked. “Is it something trying to come
through from the Outside?”

Not to
say I quite understood what the Outside even was. Blackbyrne had tried to
summon horrors from the Outside into our world, in the first case I’d worked
with Whyborne. And Nitocris, Queen of the Ghūls, somehow withdrew there
between her possessions of women throughout the millennia. Possibly the yayhos
we’d faced in Threshold had come from there as well, or at least Whyborne had
come to believe so.

“It
might,” Whyborne said. “Or it could be something literally sealed away, in a
clay pot or under a stone or…there are a great many possibilities, I’m afraid.”

“Well,
then.” Christine finished her wine. “Our course of action seems clear. I’ll go
to the director tomorrow. Rather than a full expedition, I’ll propose a survey.
Just a small team to determine if there’s anything worth excavating, stake our
claim before any other museums can get there, and leave as quickly as possible.
Kander, you can take up your old role and travel ahead. Gather whatever
equipment and supplies we need, and act as a liaison with Jack and any other
miners who might have a claim to the site.”

Iskander’s
dark brows swooped toward his prominent nose. “But what of our wedding?”

“It can
wait,” Christine replied impatiently. “We can waste no time—if these
seals are truly weakening, we must get to Hoarfrost before December 21.”

“I’ll go
to the director with you, Christine,” Whyborne said glumly. “Although I’ve no
idea how to convince him to send me, of all people, on your expedition. Perhaps
I can claim a sudden desire to do field work? Do you think he’ll believe me?”

“You
saved his life last October,” Christine said. “And the lives of the board of
trustees, the president, and, most importantly, some of the more generous
donors.”

“And my
reward is to tramp about in Alaska. How lovely.”

“Oh, do
stop complaining.” Christine rose to her feet, and the rest of us followed suit
automatically. “It’s settled. We’re off to the Yukon!”