Alistair Grim's Odd Aquaticum (34 page)

“Home at last!” he cried. “The animus, the Odditorium—all of it is
MINE
!”

Every muscle in my body froze. Abel Wortley had transferred his spirit into the Odditorium!

The library doors slammed shut of their own accord and the organ began to play madly by itself. The floor trembled and shook, the spider legs creaked and groaned, and red lightning began raining down outside the balcony. Father just stood there, stunned, and Professor Bricklewick shook him by the shoulders.

“Snap out of it, Alistair!” he shouted.

“What’s happening, sir?” Mrs. Pinch cried from the talkback. “The cannons are firing by themselves!”

Lord Dreary screamed something unintelligible, and then Cleona cried out over the talkback too. “I’m trapped in my charging station, Uncle! I cannot move!”

“But this is impossible…” Father muttered.

“No, it’s sorcery!” screamed Professor Bricklewick. “Wortley is binding his spirit to the Odditorium! We’ve got to get him out!”

The professor yanked the transmutation dagger free from the prince’s chest, and his empty suit of armor crumbled into dust upon the hearth. Professor Bricklewick gave it only a passing glance as he made to stab the lion’s head, when a bolt of bright red fire shot out of its mouth and struck his hand. The professor yelped in pain, and the dagger went flying out over the balcony and disappeared into the river below.

The lion, its eyes flashing, roared triumphantly, and then Wortley’s deafening laughter filled the chamber. The Odditorium rocked to and fro, knocking books from the shelves and throwing me out onto the balcony, where, in the flash of the lightning cannons, I could see buildings exploding and people running for their lives. We were heading up the embankment—the boats, the docks, the very wharfs themselves crushed beneath the Odditorium’s massive spider legs.

Abel Wortley was steering us straight for the streets of London.

Coming to his senses, Father rushed to the organ, but when he tried to play, tiny bolts of red lightning shot out at his fingers and shocked him backward onto his bottom. Abel Wortley laughed, and another burst of red fire shot out from the lion’s mouth.

“I AM IN CONTROL NOW!”
he boomed.
“THE ODDITORIUM IS MINE!”

Father scrambled to his feet and tried the talkback on his desk. “Nigel, Gwendolyn—can anyone hear me?” he screamed, but only Abel Wortley’s voice came crackling back at him.

“Have a seat, Alistair, and enjoy the show!
”

Wortley turned the Odditorium toward the Thames and fired again and again on Waterloo Bridge. The stone exploded in great showers of rubble and dust, and then one of the archways crumbled into the river. Wortley howled with laughter, and yet somehow, through the mad drone of the organ music and the chaos outside, I heard Father say, “He’s won. There’s nothing I can do.”

Lorcan Dalach looked down at his shackles, then leaned in close to me and said, “Tell Cleona I love her.” And before I realized what was happening, the Gallownog streaked up into the hearth and Cleona started wailing high above us in her chamber.

“AAA­III­EEE­EEE­EEE­EEA­AAA­AAA­AAA­HHH­HH!”

I pressed my hands to my ears, and was vaguely aware that the organ music had stopped, when in the next moment the lion roared, and from out of the hearth Lorcan Dalach emerged with Abel Wortley’s smoky red spirit bound by his shackles.

The old man, more of a withered corpse than a man, was bald with hollow eyes and sunken cheeks. And where his mouth should have been there was only a ghastly, gaping black O. And yet he seemed to struggle with the strength of twenty men, hissing and clawing at the Gallownog like a feral cat that had been snared by the tail.

“Lorcan, no!” Father cried. But the Gallownog ignored him and dragged Abel Wortley’s spirit out onto the balcony. As they passed Professor Bricklewick, the old man shrieked and swiped at the professor’s face, and in a desperate attempt to grab on to something, snatched the demon catcher from his grasp. Lorcan Dalach gave his spirit shackles a final pull, and together he and Wortley tumbled from the balcony and plummeted toward the river below.

I screamed in horror—the Gallownog would surely disintegrate as soon as he hit the water. Wortley cried out something that I didn’t understand. The demon catcher flashed in his hands, and then the spirits were gone, swallowed up in a violent burst of bubbling black.

After that, Cleona stopped wailing.

From an article in
The Times
, London. November 17, 18—

THE MYSTERY DEEPENS!


Despite circumstantial evidence to the contrary, The Times has learned that the authorities in Shepherd’s Bush have officially labeled their recent claim to fame “a natural disaster resulting from a meteoric impact,” thus dismissing once and for all any connection between the strange events there and the brief, albeit devastating, appearance of the Odditorium in London earlier this month.


Readers of The Times will recall how, just after midnight on the third of November, an unidentified flying object smashed into the marshlands between Hammersmith and Shepherd’s Bush. One eyewitness to the event reported seeing what looked like “a castle falling from the sky,” and another, “a blinding flash of brilliant red light.” However, as all that remains at the impact site is a water-filled crater thirty feet deep and one hundred yards wide, The Times has been advised by both the local authorities and a representative from the Royal Observatory to consider the matter closed.


Readers of The Times will also recall how, after wreaking havoc along the Thames on the very same night as the “Meteorite on the Marsh,” the Odditorium simply vanished into thin air, leaving in its wake a path of destruction even worse than that of its exodus from London early last October. In addition, The Times has recently learned that the wreckages of at least a half dozen underwater boats, or “submarines,” have been found amidst the rubble near Charing Cross, thus delaying construction of the new railway bridge and deepening the mystery as to why Mr. Alistair Grim—inventor, fortune hunter, and, some say, mad sorcerer—has once again seen fit to lay waste to our fair city.


Speaking on condition of anonymity, a source for The Times reports that, simultaneous with the Odditorium’s appearance on the Thames, a forced entry occurred in the evidence room at Scotland Yard. What items, if any, were stolen, the source could not say. However, as there can be no doubt that the aforementioned submarines are another example of Mr. Grim’s mechanical wizardry, it is the proposal of The Times that the title of “river pirate” be added to the growing list of Alistair Grim’s dubious professions.


Nevertheless, despite Mr. Grim’s continued disregard for the welfare of his fellow man, it is nothing short of a miracle that no deaths have been reported in the aftermath of his most recent visit. However, it is the opinion of The Times that, unless the unhappy man and his Odditorium are quickly found, Londoners will not be so fortunate the next time Alistair Grim rears his villainous head.


T
he afternoon light hung heavily in the library as Professor Bricklewick finished reading the newspaper and laid it on Father’s desk. All of us were there except for Cleona and Gwendolyn, and upon hearing the news that Alistair Grim had been blamed for both the theft at Scotland Yard and the invention of Wortley’s sharks, what little hope we had that the truth might someday be revealed was shattered in an instant.

Ever since our escape from London, Professor Bricklewick and I had been fetching newspapers for Father. Excalibur had disintegrated Judge Hurst’s body and the prince’s minions during the battle on the wharf, but we were certain that the authorities would find
some
evidence that would shed light, or at least cast doubt, on what really happened that night. However, it now appeared that any such evidence, except the sharks, had been blown to bits when Wortley’s spirit took over the Odditorium. Even Mr. Smears had vanished—either drowned or got away, we wagered. My gut told me it was the latter, for like all rats, my old master had a knack for surviving.

As for that business near Shepherd’s Bush, Professor Bricklewick and I had seen the crater up close a week earlier, along with hundreds of others who’d traveled there to gawk at the “Meteorite on the Marsh.” Father had been right. The explosion from the Eye of Mars incinerated Prince Nightshade’s castle and its contents upon impact, while at the same time its magic paint helped contain the blast so that the damage wasn’t too widespread.

“So now you’re a pirate, eh?” Lord Dreary said. “Well, as long as you don’t start sporting an eye patch and ask us to call you captain, I can live with such a title.” The mood in the library lightened. Mack, who was sitting on my shoulder, gave a hearty chuckle, and Father smiled and leaned back in his chair.

“Pirate indeed,” he said. “It appears old Wortley has a knack for framing people even in death.”

My eyes darted to Nigel. The big man stood in the very spot where Nightshade’s armor had crumbled into dust. Broom had long since swept all that up, but I kept expecting it to appear again at any moment with Abel Wortley back inside. Professor Bricklewick, however, had assured me that both the armor and its former occupant were gone for good.

“As is often the case with supernatural entities,” he told me earlier, “fairies, Shadesmen, goblins, and trolls—as well as Odditoria like the Eye of Mars—usually vanish once they cease to function. Thus, since Wortley’s spirit had been bound to the Black Knight’s armor, once it was released, the armor no longer served a purpose and disintegrated. Just as the old man’s spirit did when it hit the water.”

The professor still felt awful about losing the transmutation dagger, but given the circumstances, not to mention the burn on his hand, one could hardly blame him.

“But come now, sir,” said Mrs. Pinch. “Can it really be there’s no evidence to implicate Abel Wortley in all this? No chance of you clearing your name or Nigel’s?”

Father shrugged and smiled sadly. “I’m afraid that, at least for the time being, any hope of vindication seems to have vanished into the Thames along with the Gallownog.”

Again, a heavy silence fell upon the library. And while the rest of us hung our heads in sorrow, Father poured us some brandy to honor our friend.

It had been nearly two weeks since Lorcan Dalach sacrificed himself to save us, and yet in my mind I could see the moment when he hit the water as clearly as if it was happening again before my eyes. A sob rose in my throat. That Cleona should have wailed the Gallownog’s death as if he were part of our family meant only one thing: Lorcan Dalach, in his heart, had joined us at the Odditorium after all.

Our glasses now full and in hand, Father raised a toast and said, “To Lorcan Dalach. May his memory live on forever here at the Odditorium.”

“Hear, hear,” said Lord Dreary, and we drank. This wasn’t the first time we’d toasted our friend, and whereas I had once been quite fond of brandy, in the days since his passing its taste had grown bitter with mourning. Our grief, however, could not compare to Cleona’s, and although most of the time she managed to keep a stiff upper lip for the rest of us, on more than one occasion I’d heard her weeping alone in her chamber.

Poor Cleona, I thought. I really should check up on her.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” I said, setting down my glass. “May I be excused?”

Father took my meaning, and with a glance at the clock, said, “Just be mindful of today’s lesson, my young apprentice. The hour draws near.”

Before I could answer, Mack said, “You can count on me to keep the lad on time, sir.” I snapped his case shut and tucked him inside my waistcoat.

“Yes, blind me, will you look at the time,” said Mrs. Pinch. “I’d better get cracking on supper if it’s to be ready when you get back.”

“Jolly good,” said Lord Dreary, and as the old folks hurried off to the kitchen, Kiyoko rose unsteadily from her chair.

“There, there, miss,” said Professor Bricklewick, and he held her elbow. Kiyoko had suffered quite a blow to the head, and even after a steady diet of Mrs. Pinch’s magical remedies, had yet to fully recover. Father insisted that she stay on at the Odditorium until she was better. The professor agreed to stay on with us too. After all, there was more work to be done, he said, and how could one go back to teaching after an adventure like that? I, however, suspected an even bigger part of his reasoning had to do with Kiyoko. The professor had been assisting in her recovery the entire time and had clearly grown fond of her—and she of him, from what I could tell.

“Some fresh air is what you need,” said the professor. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me onto the balcony?”

“I would,” Kiyoko said with a smile, and as the two of them strolled arm in arm outside, Father crossed to Nigel and put his hand on his shoulder.

“Take heart, old friend,” he whispered. “We’re closer now than ever.”

Nigel was about to reply, but upon noticing my presence, jerked his chin at me. Father glanced back over his shoulder and was surprised to see me still standing there.