Deosil, page 5
No one moved, but I felt their eyes on me. I knew Xanthia Quinn—or Mrs. Rodgers, I supposed—had left Widdershins many years ago, and that Mr. Quinn still visited her. As for why she’d left, I couldn’t imagine; it wasn’t something Widdershins natives did very often.
She would have known about the prophecy and the maelstrom. Perhaps she simply didn’t care to be collected, and leaving Widdershins for Boston had been her way of refusing to participate in the maelstrom’s plans. I almost envied her for having the choice.
“Very well,” I said. “Lead the way.”
* * *
The house was small but neat from the outside. Flowers sprouted in pots on the steps leading up to the front door, and each window box sported a rainbow of blooms. The scent of jasmine perfumed the air.
It was nothing at all like the boarding house Mr. Quinn resided in, or even the simple homes on the street Griffin and I lived on. There, one could count on the privacy of a hedge, or drawn curtains, not this…exposure. The houses to either side were almost identical to Mrs. Rodgers’s, with little to set them apart one from the other. It seemed subtly wrong to me in a way I couldn’t entirely articulate.
The one or two people we encountered on the street outside were terribly rude, staring with open curiosity at Mrs. Rodgers even though she wore a cloak with the hood pulled up to conceal her face. That sort of behavior would never do in Widdershins; no one wore a cloak in the middle of the summer to be looked at, for heaven’s sake.
The front door wasn’t even locked; she simply opened it and beckoned us inside. I glanced at Christine, who shook her head. “It reminds me of parts of Philadelphia,” she whispered as we made our way up the steps.
No wonder she’d left.
As soon as we were inside, Mrs. Rodgers shut the door behind us and pulled off her cloak. The parlor opened immediately to the right; I glanced inside and started badly.
Two girls, perhaps six or seven years of age, stood in the parlor staring at me unblinkingly. They were absolutely identical and dressed in matching frilly dresses. Each held the hand of a golden-haired doll, which hung between them limply.
“Er,” I said. I’d never been certain how to behave around children.
“Hello,” one of them said. She had the silvery eyes that seemed to run in the Quinn family; they reminded me uncomfortably of mirrors.
“Rose, Lily, it’s past your bedtime,” Mrs. Rodgers said.
“We wanted to see Widdershins,” the second twin announced. They finally blinked, though in perfect unison, so it wasn’t much of an improvement.
I didn’t want to imagine what Mr. Quinn might have told them about me. I glanced desperately at Griffin, who bent over and smiled at the girls.
“We met before, do you remember?” he asked.
“We remember,” one said.
“It was our birthday,” added the other.
“We’re twins.”
They both looked at me, then. “You’re a twin, too. But not like us.”
“No,” I agreed firmly. “Not like you.”
“To bed,” Mrs. Rodgers told them. “The rest of you, follow me.”
“Are you going to the basement?” one of the girls asked with glee. “We want to go to the basement, too!”
“Bed!”
They both stuck out their lower lips, but obeyed their mother. As Mrs. Rodgers led the way toward the back of the house, Griffin leaned over to Christine and murmured, “Perhaps they can be playmates for your child.”
She thumped him hard on the arm.
We reached the kitchen, and Mrs. Rodgers stopped and turned abruptly to me. “I wish to make one thing clear, Widdershins.” Her eyes locked with mine. “This wasn’t what I wanted for my family. I’m not one of your cultists, so do not think I will obey you blindly the way my brother does.”
“I never asked for a cult of book-wielding librarians!” I exclaimed. Quite the opposite; the only thing I’d really ever wanted was to be left alone and allowed to do my job at the museum. “And it’s Dr. Whyborne, not ‘Widdershins,’ if you please.”
Skepticism sharpened her silvery gaze. “I love Xanthius, but he will never understand my decision to leave Widdershins behind.”
“Xanthius? Is that Mr. Quinn’s first name?” Christine asked, before turning to Iskander. “It’s Greek. Do you think…?”
“Good heavens, no!” Iskander exclaimed in horror.
She frowned thoughtfully. “I suppose not. What do you think about Bellerophon?”
“Not now, Christine,” I said. “Mrs. Rodgers, I have no desire to impose on you or your family, and I quite understand Widdershins isn’t for everyone. You have every right not to be collected by the maelstrom if you don’t wish to be.”
She seemed surprised by my words. “And my daughters?”
“That’s their decision, once they’re old enough.” I could more easily imagine them skipping through the Draakenwood, picking up skulls, than playing…whatever it was that children played in Boston. It seemed impolitic to say aloud, however, so I kept the opinion to myself.
She didn’t look happy at my words, but only said, “The problem is, they have to live long enough to grow up. I may not want to return to Widdershins, but I’m not a fool. Xanthius has sent me any number of hints in his letters, but I only recently found out just how dire the situation is.”
Griffin cocked his head. “And how did you learn that?”
Mrs. Rodgers opened the pantry door, shoved aside some sacks of flour—and swung open a trapdoor, presumably leading into the basement. “The answer to your question is down there.”
* * *
I cautiously descended the steps into the basement. Spells tingled on my tongue, and I readied myself to either leap forward or sound the retreat. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Mrs. Rodgers, but my general experience with underground spaces had been less than ideal, to say the least.
But this time, a sense of odd familiarity swept over me as soon as I glimpsed the room. The warm glow of a lantern greeted us, offsetting the cool air of the stone basement. Rather than the jars of preserves one might expect, these walls were lined with shelves, each one of them packed with books. Some of the tomes had modern bindings, but others were of cracked leather, or aged wood, or bound with iron hinges. We might have been in one of the Ladysmith library’s more distant chambers, the air full of muted whisperings whose origins could never be traced.
The space was provided with a desk and chair; a flask sat on the desk, beside the remains of someone’s dinner. There was also a small pallet against one wall, a bundle of blankets and pillows that looked hastily put together.
A young man propped himself up on the pallet, blinking owlishly as he fumbled on his silver-rimmed spectacles. His golden hair was in disarray, his clothing stained with dust, ink, and blood. A crude splint encased the lower part of his right leg. When he caught sight of me, he let out a gasp. “Widdershins! You’re here.”
I was truly weary of being called that. “It’s Dr. Whyborne, please,” I said. “And you are…?”
A light blush spread over his face. “Sebastian Rath, Junior Librarian, at your service. Mr. Quinn sent me here. His nieces said you’d come.”
Prophetic children. Wonderful. What would we encounter next?
Griffin stepped past me. The lantern light caught on a strand of silver amidst his hair, and the strain of the last weeks showed in the fine lines around his eyes. “What’s happening in Widdershins? Why did Mr. Quinn send you here?”
Mr. Rath struggled to sit up, wincing as he did so. “Do you know—but if you’re here in Boston, you must know something.”
I gestured impatiently. “A ketoi told us Widdershins has fallen to the vanguard of the masters. The Fideles are in control of Whyborne House and have my father hostage.”
Father would be fine. He’d survived the War Between the States, he’d survived Blackbyrne, survived being captured and tormented by my brother. Likely, he was even now driving Mrs. Creigh mad with his implacable demeanor and imperious demands.
He’d be fine.
“Oh dear.” Rath paled. “I’m terribly sorry, Dr. Whyborne. I didn’t know that.”
“Then what do you know?” Christine demanded. “Stop dawdling, man!”
“It began at the museum,” he said hastily. “Or at least, things went wrong at the Ladysmith very close to the same time as the creatures appeared.”
“The nereids?” Iskander asked, at the same moment I said, “The museum?”
My heart twisted at the thought of something befalling the Ladysmith. True, I’d confronted monsters and cultists before in its halls, but it was still far more dear to me than Whyborne House ever could be. Not to mention the irreplaceable collections. “Please tell me none of the artifacts or specimens were damaged.”
Christine paled. “My work!”
Rath glanced between us, confused. Griffin held his hand up. “In order, if you please, Mr. Rath. Tell us what you saw and heard. The rest of you, let him speak.”
Rath bit his lip. Exhaustion aged his features, but he was likely a decade younger than myself. I strove to recall if I’d noticed him among the librarians, but no memories came.
“I haven’t been a librarian—junior librarian—for long,” he said. “But I was born and raised in Widdershins, and getting the job was a dream come true.”
“Poor fellow,” Christine muttered to me. I shushed her.
“I was in one of the more distant rooms, returning books and making certain the shelves were ordered properly, when I heard…no, not heard.” His thin lips pressed together. “I felt it in my bones. Like thunder so distant it reaches the nerves but not the ear. The air seemed to shift somehow—perhaps a change in pressure, I couldn’t say, only that everything felt different somehow. Off.”
Griffin’s green eyes sought mine, but I had no answers for him. No doubt magic was involved, but that much was obvious.
“I stopped what I was doing and hurried to the more trafficked parts of the library, to see if I was needed. My fellow librarians ran past me—in the opposite direction. I grabbed one and was told Mr. Quinn had ordered them to evacuate to the tunnels.”
“The tunnels Blackbyrne used?” I interrupted. “I thought those were sealed off.”
Rath’s expression grew pained. “Mr. Quinn would never let such a resource go to waste.”
“Of course.” How could I have imagined the Head Librarian would simply look the other way, when there were tunnels filled with unknown horrors to be explored? He’d probably sent some other hapless junior librarians to do it.
“I probably should have gone with them, but I didn’t wish to run away the first time I was asked to confront danger. I missed the action in the Draakenwood, you see.” His mouth curved into a rueful smile. “I should have listened more closely to the other librarians’ stories. If I had, I would have realized just how bad the situation must be, if Mr. Quinn ordered us to flee rather than fight.”
I wasn’t certain if Rath was brave, or simply a young fool. “Go on.”
“Yes, Wid—Dr. Whyborne.” Behind the lenses of his spectacles, Rath’s eyes were a murky shade of hazel. “I left the library in search of Mr. Quinn. People were running, some shouting about a fire, others about an earthquake.” Christine clutched my arm at the mention of fire, her grip hard enough to bruise. “The guards were busy trying to get the visitors out safely.”
“What about Miss Parkhurst?” I asked, a new fear crowding out my worry for the exhibits.
Rath shook his head. “I can’t say. I didn’t see her, for whatever that might be worth.”
Very little, blast it. “She’s a sensible woman,” Griffin reassured. “I’m sure she left at the first sign of trouble.”
I might have believed him, but the very fact she’d taken up with my sister cast doubt on her sensibility. But there was no point saying that, certainly not in front of Rath.
“Dr. Gerritson finally said he’d seen Mr. Quinn near the Isley Wing earlier.” Rath went on. I felt Christine tense beside me. The Isley Wing had been built to exhibit a selection of the artifacts from her Nephren-ka excavation, including the ancient pharaoh’s mummy. If the Fideles had damaged the collection, she wouldn’t rest until every last one of them were dead. “So I made my way there. That’s when…when I saw it.”
His face took on an ashen hue. Griffin took the flask from the desk and passed it silently to Rath. Rath managed a grateful smile and took a swig from the flask.
“They were at the entrance to the Isley Wing,” he said, his voice rough from the alcohol. Or from remembered fear. “Dr. Hart. Some of the guards. Men and women in horrible masks.”
“The Fideles,” Griffin murmured. “We’ve seen them.”
“And he was there, too.” Rath swallowed, Adam’s apple jumping in his throat. “His flesh stained by ancient resin, desiccated by natron, the skin cracking as he moved. His face…he had no face that I could see. Only the featureless funerary mask, fused to the skull.”
All the hair on my arms stood up, but it was Christine who spoke. “What…what are you saying?”
Rath bowed his head. “Nephren-ka, the Sorcerer-Pharaoh, has risen from the dead.”
Chapter 12
Whyborne
“The Lord of All Lands, who shall awaken from his long slumber remade by the masters, and herald the coming of the new world, when all will be purified,” I quoted through numb lips. “It was Nephren-ka the Codex referred to.”
“No.” Christine straightened her back, her eyes blazing. “No, you’re quite wrong. Mr. Rath is confused by what he saw.”
“I assure you, I’m not,” Rath protested.
“You have to admit, Christine, it does make sense.” I turned to her. “Nephren-ka worshipped Nyarlathotep as a god. And remember what you always said—his tomb was designed as though to keep something in, rather than tomb robbers out.”
“I know what I said,” she snapped. “But you’re wrong. We’ll get back to the Ladysmith and find him lying peacefully under glass, just as he has been ever since he went on exhibit. It was some other mummy Mr. Rath saw.”
The librarian’s brows drew together. “I’ve viewed the funerary mask, and I’m certain I recognized it.”
“Exactly.” For once, all the hours Christine spent in my office were paying off. “Remember, Christine, how you always said it was incredibly unusual for the period? Other Sixth Dynasty mummies only have a plaster covering, whereas Nephren-ka had an actual gold mask, if a simple one. And—”
Christine rounded on me, one hand on her belly, the other curled into a fist. “I know what I said! But you’re wrong. It can’t be Nephren-ka, because I brought him to Widdershins. I didn’t invite some unholy monster into the heart of the museum I love! I didn’t fight my way through university, didn’t climb over every barrier men placed in my path, didn’t leave my family and abandon Daphne, only to unleash something that will kill us all!”
Oh. I fell silent, unsure how to respond. Because it sounded as though that’s exactly what had happened.
“Christine, love,” Iskander said softly. He put his hand on her shoulder, but she shook it brusquely off. Her eyes glittered with tears of fury, or anguish, or both.
“This is all your fault, Whyborne.” Her voice cracked, but she soldiered on. “Your precious maelstrom collected me, after all. If it had just…had just left everything alone, Nephren-ka would still be in Egypt.”
“That isn’t fair,” Griffin objected.
Iskander glared at him. “Nor is it fair to blame my wife.”
“No one is blaming her.”
“As though none of you are thinking it,” she snapped at Griffin. “‘Look at the woman, who should have stayed out of a man’s field, and left well enough alone!’”
I couldn’t take it anymore. The arguing sawed at my nerves, even as Griffin replied, and Iskander shot back something angry drowned out by the blood rushing in my ears. “Stop this!” When no one so much as looked at me, I gave up all pretense at decorum. “I said, stop this!”
The house above us creaked and groaned, and wind suddenly gusted from nowhere, scattering the papers from the desk across the floor. The flame in the lantern flared, the glass cracking from the sudden heat.
Silence fell. I’d gotten their attention, at least.
“Now isn’t the time to turn against one another.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Iskander, Griffin, there’s no need to lash out. We aren’t enemies. And Christine, be reasonable: no one is blaming you for any of this. None of us are even thinking it.”
She lowered her eyes. “Perhaps I am,” she said in a small voice.
My heart contracted painfully. “Then continue to blame me instead.” I’d rather she turn her anger on me than herself.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She wiped angrily at her eyes. “Finding the tomb of Nephren-ka was my greatest triumph. I thought I’d showed everyone who doubted me that they’d been wrong. I wanted to wipe the sneers off the faces of the men who told me I didn’t belong in archaeology. And I did, at least for a while. To find my victory led to this…how can I ever be proud of anything again?”
“If I hadn’t insisted on going to Balefire, the Fideles might never have dared approach the museum and raise the pharaoh,” I replied. “There’s plenty of blame and guilt to go around. Let’s just…just concentrate on what we can do now to fix things.”
She nodded miserably. Iskander wore a stricken look on his face, as though he wanted very badly to make her feel better, but had no idea how to do so. When no one said anything further, I turned back to Rath, who sat quietly on his makeshift bed. “What happened then?”
Rath had kept politely silent during our conversation. He tensed at my question, then shook his head slowly. “Dr. Hart had brought some guards to try and stop Nephren-ka and the Fideles. One of the guards was dead—there was too much blood for him to have survived—but even as I watched, he got to his feet and attacked the man next to him.”
