Bloodline (Whyborne & Griffin Book 5) (16 page)

I found myself suddenly pulled down. My ears popped
painfully, and my lungs burned. I tried to kick free, but the iron grip refused
to let go. I was going to drown here in the black depths, my body torn apart by
sharks or fish or the too-wide mouths of the ketoi.

An arm wrapped around my chest.

For an instant of panic, I thought a second ketoi had joined
the first. But this arm sought to drag me toward the surface. My lungs ached,
and I twisted wildly, kicking with all my strength at the grip on my ankle.

The hold on my chest let go. No—I didn’t want to be
left here, to be dragged to my death!

A hand grabbed my leg, but no claws sunk in. Something
bumped against me—then the ketoi holding my ankle abruptly let go.

A moment later, I was headed for the surface, hands dragging
me up. Even as my screaming lungs gave up the fight and I opened my mouth for
an involuntary breath, my head broke the surface.

I gasped, sucking sweet air into my lungs. A second gasp
sounded beside me, and the arm wrapped around my chest again. “Ival! Are you
all right?”

We were still in the water, and terror told me to fight, to
thrash, to cling. But I forced myself to go limp in Griffin’s hold, to trust he
wouldn’t let me drown. “Y-Yes. I think so. My hand, though—the ketoi
stung it.” My heart had calmed a bit, and my skin itched and burned.

“Hold this.” He pressed the knife he’d found on board into
my uninjured hand. No doubt he’d used it against the ketoi clinging to my
ankle. Once his hand was free, he struck out for the launch, dragging me after.

“Dear heavens, are you two well?” Christine called from the
boat. She must have scrambled down the pilot ladder to reach us.

“Help us aboard,” Griffin replied. “The ketoi stung Whyborne
with its tentacles.”

Fiona and Theo had reached the launch as well, and helped
Christine haul me out of the water. “Where were you stung?”

I held out my hand. Angry red dots showed on the skin, but
the pain had already begun to subside. “At least it doesn’t seem swollen,”
Christine said.

“It’s fine,” I said, flexing my fingers. “It barely even
hurts now.”

“Thank heavens,” Griffin said. “Come, sit down beneath the
canopy.”

“That was a bit more exciting than we’d planned, eh?” Theo
asked, clapping me on the back as I passed.

“Fire up the boiler, brother,” Fiona ordered as she went to
her place in the pilot’s chair. “Or else it will be even more exciting.
Remember, our craft isn’t nearly so difficult to climb onto as a cargo ship.”

Thankfully, we departed the area without any further attacks
from the ketoi. Soaked to the bone, Griffin and I huddled together beneath the
canopy, which at least kept out some of the wind.

“Go and get dry,” Theo said sympathetically when we reached
port. “Fiona and I will alert the harbormaster to the abandoned ship, before it
can become a hazard to any other craft.”

I wasn’t about to argue. We departed with Christine, none of
us speaking much, even when we parted ways in front of her boarding house. As
for me, I was bone tired; the day had been long, and the drama aboard the
Oarfish,
combined with the shock of falling overboard, had taken whatever reserves I had
left.

We were almost to our own walk when Griffin said, “You seem
more comfortable with your…what do you call them, ‘little spells?’”

Did he truly wish to have this conversation tonight? “I
haven’t called them such since Egypt,” I replied.

We reached our gate. Griffin opened it and gestured me
through. “I hadn’t realized, but yes. You’re right. Tonight it seemed to me you
were more…adept? You haven’t needed sigils for a while, but it seemed you’ve
almost moved past words as well.”

Curse the man. “So what if I have? Hasn’t it come in handy?”

“If by ‘handy,’ you mean upsetting the ship to the point you
fell overboard and nearly drowned.”

“Enough!” I turned to him, fists clenched. “You do nothing
but—”

“What’s that?” he asked, brows drawing sharply together as
he stared past me.

Startled from my vexation, I glanced at our door, where his
gaze had fixed. A bit of white paper protruded from the crack between door and
frame, just above the doorknob.

What the devil? I pulled the paper loose and unfolded it,
revealing a note written in a familiar hand.

Percival,

Come immediately. These ‘ketoi’ have attacked your
mother.

Yrs,

Niles Foster Whyborne

~ * ~

“Are you certain you’re all right?” I asked Mother.

We sat in the downstairs drawing room. Griffin perched on
the edge of his chair, as if ready to leap into action, although the time for it
had already passed. Father paced angrily back and forth in front of the fire.
As for Mother, she sat by me on the couch, wrapped in a warm dressing gown with
a soothing cup of tea in her hands.

“I’m fine, Percival.” She didn’t look fine, though, her skin
the color of fresh ivory. “I drove the creature off before it could gain access
to the house.”

“What exactly happened?” Griffin asked her.

Mother cradled her teacup, as if wishing to draw its warmth into
her hands. “I haven’t been sleeping well,” she said carefully. I lowered my
eyes; of course she hadn’t, with Guinevere and Miss Emily murdered. “I awoke
certain someone watched me. I thought perhaps one of the maids had come in, but
the room was deserted. Then I saw
it
at the window.”

I patted her arm. “They are horrible.”

“Horrible,” she repeated, then shook her head.
“But…beautiful as well? Her skin—I’m almost certain it was a
female—gleamed like mother-of-pearl in the darkness. She was sleek, like
something born to the water. Not human, but now that I think back, there was
something in her eyes…a look of grief, almost.”

“Your mind is playing tricks on you,” I assured her. “We
just came from a ship where their kind slaughtered the entire crew.”

Father and Mother both gasped at this. “The details will be
in my report,” Griffin told Father. “And some in the late edition of the
newspaper, no doubt. Whyborne is right, however—the ketoi have neither
remorse or mercy.”

Mother nodded her head slowly. “I suppose you’re correct. My
mind no doubt conjured up a fancy after the fact because, at the moment, I only
knew something inhuman tried to get into the house. So I summoned the wind. The
window burst outward, and she vanished.”

“We found no trace of the creature,” Father put in. “It must
have used its claws to climb up the outside of the house.”

I shivered. Too easy to imagine the thing scaling the stone,
its batrachian feet finding purchase in cracks no human toes could have. If
Mother hadn’t waked, what would it have done?

The answer seemed obvious. “It meant to murder you,” I said,
my lips numb. Bad enough Guinevere had died thanks to someone striking an alliance
with these monsters, let alone Miss Emily, but Mother?

The scars on my right arm pulled against my skin. We had to
put an end to this quickly.

Permanently.

“Why attack Heliabel, though?” Griffin asked.

Father paused in his pacing. “No doubt they believed either
Guinevere or Emily—or both—confided in her. Emily was her maid,
after all.”

Griffin looked troubled. “I suppose.”

“Perhaps they mean to strike at the entire family.” I sat
up, my heart beating faster. “Do they assume we all know whatever secret
Guinevere learned?”

“It will not happen.” Anger flushed Father’s skin. “The
footmen will all be armed straight away, as will I. Bel, you’ll move
immediately to a small room, with fewer windows. Percival, you should return
home as well.”

“If by ‘home’ you mean here, don’t be absurd.” All this
time, and the man still thought he could order me about.

His face darkened further. “Do not argue with me, Percival.
We are all in danger, and I will not have your stubborn pride getting you
killed.”

“And I won’t cower behind the footmen while monsters overrun
the town!” I rose to my feet.

“You will not take such a tone with me.”

The wind stirred, and a stack of sheet music slipped from
the top of the piano. My scars ached. “Then don’t take such a one with me. I’m
not Stanford, to come whenever you call.”

“God! Don’t I know it!”

Griffin’s voice cut into our argument, as surely as if he’d
placed himself between us. “We shouldn’t overtax Heliabel.”

Curse it. He was right.

I took a deep breath, struggling for calm. “Someone needs to
put a stop to all of this,” I told Father. “And if you imagine I’d let Griffin
and my cousins do so alone, you don’t know me at all. Not to say you ever did.”

I turned my back before he could make a reply. “Come on,
Griffin. Let’s leave Mother to her rest.”

I threw the door open, intending to make a dramatic exit.
Instead, I almost walked straight into Stanford. From the furious expression on
his face, I suspected he’d heard what I said about him.

And why not? It was true, wasn’t it? “Eavesdropping in the
hall now?” I asked. “You should have just come in earlier.”

The angry reddening of his face made him resemble Father even
more than usual. “I wished to make certain Mother is all right,” he snapped.
“What are you doing here?”

“I sent for your brother,” Father said in irritation. “And
where have you been? If you’ve turned back to drinking and whor—other
things,” he corrected, recalling Mother’s presence, “I won’t be held
responsible for the consequences.”

“No need to worry.” Stanford’s eyes narrowed. From his tone,
it seemed he and Father hadn’t reconciled from the argument I’d overheard a few
days ago. “I was attending to business.”

Business, in the middle of the night? Even Father’s doting
gaze would see through such an excuse. Although Stanford didn’t smell of either
alcohol or cheap perfume, at least.

“There was some excitement down on the docks,” he went on.
“Another derelict has been found.”

“Yes, your brother told us,” Father said, waving a
dismissive hand. “Well don’t just stand there, come in if you wish to speak to
your mother.”

Stanford’s face darkened. “You don’t believe me. But you’ll
see.”

“Don’t be a fool,” I said. “No one thinks you were ‘doing
business’ at four in the morning.”

He leveled a look of utter hatred on me, before pushing
past, his shoulder striking mine. I didn’t care. I just wanted to get out of the
damned house.

~ * ~

Very little of the night remained by the time we finally
arrived home, and as a consequence, I practically sleepwalked to the museum.

“Coffee, sir?” Miss Parkhurst asked sympathetically upon
seeing me.

“Please.”

“Right away. Dr. Putnam left word she’d like to see you as
soon as possible about the Hallowe’en tours. I’m certain they’ll be
grand—I can’t wait to see the gathering.”

“You’re coming?” I asked, surprised. A simple secretary surely
wouldn’t be invited to a donor event.

“I asked if I could help with the coat check. The galas are
too grand for me, but I thought perhaps this would be an opportunity to see you—people,”
she corrected hastily. “People I work with. Away from the normal day-to-day.”

For some reason her face had gone absolutely scarlet.
Perhaps she thought I’d disapprove of her presence? “It sounds like a wonderful
idea,” I said. “And it will give me someone else to talk to besides Christine.”

“Oh! I-I don’t imagine I’ll be allowed to mingle until after
the donors have gone.”

“Believe me, hiding in the coat check will be a welcome
respite for me,” I said ruefully.

“I—yes—I’ll get your coffee,” she said, and
darted away. What an odd woman. An excellent secretary, though.

After obtaining coffee from Miss Parkhurst, I went straight
to Christine’s office. Ordinarily, it was far neater than my own, all of her
books sorted and papers gathered. Various artifacts lay on shelves, awaiting
analysis: canopic jars, a mummified cat, small figurines carved from
hippopotamus ivory. Today, however, objects collected for the Hallowe’en tours
crowded her desk and chairs. Huge spiders from South America—all of them
long dead, thank heavens—necklaces made from human teeth, and every other
ghastly thing she could find.

“If your object is to keep the director from ever asking you
to do anything again, you’ve made a good start,” I said, gingerly moving aside
a foot, which seemed to have broken off a mummy sometime in antiquity.

“Let’s hope,” Christine agreed. Dark circles showed under
her eyes, but she frowned at me. “You look terrible. Don’t tell me your dip in
the ocean last night resulted in you catching a chill?”

“Worse.” I told her what happened at Whyborne House.

“The things are after your mother now? What the devil?”
Christine frowned. “What if it is this Abbott fellow behind it all? Does he
have a grudge against your family?”

“His father died thanks to me.”

“And Griffin and I,” she reminded me.

“True. Not to mention, he was in love with Guinevere at one
time—I suspect she may have turned down a proposal from him.” I frowned
as a memory nagged at me. “And he and Stanford were arguing at the party the
other night. Well, not arguing, but Stanford was clearly angry about
something.” Curse it—the man
must
be guilty. How it tied into the
prophecy…well, as Amelie had suggested, maybe it would become clearer later.

“Let me know when you choose to beard the lion in his den,”
she said. “In the meantime, we still have this absurd showing of cursed
artifacts. Dr. Norris finally deigned to answer us—apparently, the
American History Department has some sort of sword. At any rate, the man is
almost as much of a swine as Bradley, so you’re coming with me.”

“Why?”

“To keep me from strangling him with his own tie, of
course.” She rose to her feet. “Come along, Whyborne, and let’s get this over
with.”

~ * ~

As befit a departmental head, Dr. Norris’s office was large
and airy, with windows looking out over the garden and fountain nestled between
two of the wings. His desk would have taken up most of my office, let alone the
sideboard well stocked with decanters of brandy and whiskey, or the large
cabinet displaying a collection of Thomas Jefferson’s dishes. A gigantic
portrait of George Washington loomed on the wall behind the desk. I hoped it
was well secured; should it ever fall, it would probably crush Dr. Norris like
a bug beneath a flyswatter. A sword with no scabbard lay on his desk, looking
wildly out of place.

Dr. Norris sat in his leather-backed chair, trimming a
cigar. “There you are,” he said, as if he’d been waiting on us, rather than had
his secretary keep us cooling our heels outside for twenty minutes. “Pitman,
Windleby.”

Christine’s eyes blazed, and she drew in a deep breath.
Hoping to cut off any vitriol that would only prolong the interview, I hastily
said, “You had something for the private tours, Dr. Norris?”

“Yes, yes.” He lit his cigar. The odor of burning socks
filled the air. My upbringing insisted I chide him for smoking in front of a
woman without first asking her permission, but I had the feeling Christine
wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment, so I kept silent. “Brilliant idea the
director had, wasn’t it? I was just telling some of the board members what a
genius Dr. Hart is last night, while we were at the club.”

Now Christine wasn’t the only one grinding her teeth. “Yes,”
I forced out. “Brilliant.”

“Of course, it took us a while to come up with anything in
our
department,” he went on, apparently taking great pride in the fact. “None of
that superstitious twaddle here—we Americans confront curses head on,
don’t we?”

My smile felt as if someone had pasted it onto my face, and
not done a very good job at it. “You aren’t from Widdershins, are you?”

“Not at all, Wembly. I was born in Philadelphia—our
fine nation’s original capital, if you recall.”

“Yes,” Christine grated out. “I’m also from Philadelphia.”

“Are you, Miss Pembroke?” he asked, sounding as if he rather
doubted it.

Christine reached for the sword on his desk. I managed to
seize her arm before she could touch it. “Is this the item for the private
showings?” I asked hurriedly.

“Yes, yes. It belonged to a Brother Matthew, who claimed to
be a Knight Templar or some such nonsense. We’ve only a fragment of diary left,
and it’s badly burned, but apparently he believed the sword allowed him to kill
witches by giving him immunity to their spells. He came to Widdershins a decade
or two after its founding, apparently intent on wholesale slaughter.” Norris
shook his head. “Fellow was completely delusional by then, I suppose. At any
rate, no one knows what happened to his body, but the sword and diary survived.
The blade itself is of Spanish make, fourteenth century.”