Bloodline (Whyborne & Griffin Book 5) (17 page)

“And the curse?” Christine prompted.

Norris blinked. “Curse? Well, I suppose if you were a witch
it would be a curse, wouldn’t it?”

“We’ll take it,” I said, and snatched it up.

My hand went numb, and pain sliced the scars on my arm, as
if someone had taken a penknife to them. I cried out, snatching my hand back.
The bare blade gouged a strip of varnish out of Norris’s desk as it fell with a
clang.

“Careful, there, Worthington!” Norris exclaimed.

“Are you all right?” Christine asked, reaching for my hand.

I cradled it to my chest. “Just nicked myself on the blade,”
I lied.

She picked up the sword, muttered thanks in Norris’s
direction, and hurried me out the door. As soon as we were safely in the hall
outside the secretary’s office, she asked, “What actually happened?”

“It might not be cursed, but the sword is definitely
enchanted,” I said. I flexed my hand—at least the feeling had begun to
return. “And since it affected me and not you, I’m going to suggest the story
is true, and it really does act against those of us who use arcane power.”

“How odd.” She inspected the symbols etched into the blade.
“How does it know?”

“I couldn’t say without taking a closer look.” But I
recalled the pain in my scars. “Hold onto it a moment—I want to try an
experiment.”

I’d naturally reached for the hilt with my right hand
before. This time, I carefully pressed a fingertip of the left to the blade.

Nothing.

I lay the length of my left hand against the cool metal. A
little sizzle of pain flashed through my right shoulder, where the scars began.

“How strange.” I spread my hands out in front of me: the
left unmarred, the right laced with a pattern of scars like frost on a window.
“I wonder…”

“Wonder later.” Christine started down the hall, forcing me
to jog to catch back up to her. “We’ve finally found something safe enough to
display in the foyer.”

“Safe? It’s a sword with a four-foot blade!”

“True. But at least it won’t turn the guests into
werewolves, like the Celtic ring, or drive anyone violently insane, like the
locket.” She grinned a bit ferociously. “And if we’re lucky, Dr. Norris will
drink too much champagne and skewer himself on it. Now that would be a lovely
birthday present, wouldn’t it?”

An hour or so later, I knocked on the door of the rented
house on Wyrm Lane. When I’d arrived back at my office, it was to find Theo had
sent a note, asking me to stop by during my lunch break.

Theo answered my knock almost instantly. “Percival! I’m very
glad you could join us.” He ushered me inside. “We have exciting news for you.”

“I have news as well,” I said. “Although not good.”

Theo’s face fell. “Oh dear. We’d best go straight to Fiona,
so she can hear as well. Come—she’s in her lab.”

When we reached the room at the top of the house, it was to
find Fiona hunched over her worktable. Before her lay what appeared to be a
short staff, made from some dark wood and polished until it shone. Carving
knives, gold wire, and a few crystalline gemstones lay scattered about. At the
moment, Fiona affixed a slender crystal, some four inches long, to one end of
the staff.

“Is that a wand?” I asked in surprise.

“It is,” Fiona said. “Not of the same magical tradition as
the one you used in Egypt, but it can still be used to channel arcane
energies.” She put it down and smiled eagerly at us. “Did you tell him, Theo?”

“Not yet. Percival has some news of his own to share.”

I told them of the attack on Whyborne House and Mother. As I
spoke, their faces grew more and more grave.

“Bloody ketoi,” Fiona said fiercely, when I was done. “We’ll
send them all to hell for this.”

“And whoever is the ‘one from the land,’” Theo added. “We
must put an end to this, and soon.”

“Perhaps the wand will be of some use,” Fiona said. “Theo?”

“We asked you to come because we wanted to show you
something.” Theo took out the map of Widdershins we’d used to mark the
locations of the arcane lines, and spread it out on the table.

“You finished it!” I exclaimed.

“Yes—we spent yesterday marking more lines, while we
were waiting to go out on the launch. Last night, we began to draw the lines
connecting the places we’d marked on the map, and well, see for yourself!”

Scores of arcane lines ran into the town, curving like the
currents of a whirlpool. They ran from the land and curled in from the sea, all
meeting in a single eye of power where the Cranch River entered the ocean, atop
the Front Street bridge.

“You were right—it is a whirlpool,” I said.

Theo shook his head. “It’s not a whirlpool—it’s a sodding
maelstrom. None of the whirls of arcane energy we’ve ever seen come close to
this.”

“Do you think Blackbyrne knew, when he founded the town?”

“Look at the direction of rotation,” Fiona said. “The
current moves anticlockwise.”

“Widdershins,” I breathed.

“Indeed.”

I stared at the map. “Why did he perform his works so far
out from the eye, then? He used this island in the Cranch, not the very mouth
of the bay.”

Theo leaned his hip against the table. “I suppose he didn’t
want to lose control over his workings. The magical energy at the center must
be phenomenal. You said Blackbyrne was summoning things from the Outside,
correct? Any pinprick in the veil between the worlds near the heart of the
maelstrom would be blasted open by its power to form a tear in reality itself.
As for other spells, tapping into a source of such power directly would be
suicidally dangerous. Much safer to work a bit farther out, where you have
access to power but can maintain control of it and not burn yourself up like a
scrap of paper in a fire.”

“A tool such as the wand would help—the energy would
be funneled through it rather than the sorcerer,” Fiona added. “But it would
still be a huge risk. Believe me, if we use this wand anytime soon, it won’t be
on the bridge.”

I lightly traced the lines of converging power. So much
magic, lying under our feet, unseen and unguessed at save by a few. “The bridge
is the oldest in Widdershins. I wonder if Blackbyrne put it there just in case.
Or was it just to form part of the Brotherhood’s symbol?”

“We’ll never know, and it doesn’t really matter.” Theo
smiled at me. “It’s just a good thing we came here.”

“Yes. I can’t express how grateful I am for your assistance.
And friendship.”

“Of course. You can call on us at any time. For any reason.”
Theo put his hand to my shoulder, his blue eyes sincere behind the shields of
his spectacle lenses.

The touch on my shoulder reminded me. “Something odd
happened at the museum today.” I told them about the sword and the effect it
had on me—or, specifically, on the parts of my body marked by the scars.

“Strange,” Theo murmured. “They were left by a lightning
strike, you say?”

“Yes. I called lightning down using the Egyptian wand,
directly above a line of arcane power I found in the desert. The strike
destroyed the wand altogether.”

“Can we see the scars?” Fiona asked.

“Er…” My ears grew hot. “They go rather high on my shoulder,
you see…”

“Just roll up your sleeve, then,” Theo said. “Here, I’ll
take your coat.”

Striving to control a blush, I slipped off my suit coat and
handed it to him. Were Griffin here, he’d no doubt laugh at my reticence. I
undid my cuff and started to push up the sleeve.

“Here,” Theo said. Having hung my coat over a chair, he took
over the matter of rolling my sleeve neatly up, well past my elbow.

“Oooh,” Fiona said. “It must have hurt.”

The scars were yet new enough to be red, although I supposed
over time they’d fade to white. They ran from the backs of my fingers up my
arm, forming a pattern like frost on a windowpane.

Theo’s hands lingered on my rolled-up shirt. Instead of
dropping them, he slowly ran his fingers down my arm, tracing the pattern over
the bicep, then down into the hollow of elbow. His touch was warm, and yet my
skin pebbled beneath his fingers. Somehow the gesture felt shockingly intimate,
and I looked away quickly, striving to control my body’s blind reaction.

“It’s beautiful,” Theo murmured.

Surprise caused me to look back at him. They were scars, a
disfigurement. How could they be beautiful?

Theo met my gaze, a little smile on his lips meant only for
me. “Lines of power, inscribed on your skin by arcane fire, summoned by your
will. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. But then, I’ve never met anyone
quite like you, either.”

“I-I should get back to the museum,” I stammered, pulling
away and tugging down my sleeve.

“Will we see you tonight?” Theo asked.

“I don’t know. Griffin meant to look into Abbott’s finances
today. I should go home. Talk to him,” I babbled. “I’ll send word as soon as I
know.”

“Until we meet again, then.” Theo leaned against the table
and watched me pull my coat back on. “We’ll await word from you most eagerly.”

~ * ~

That evening, I entered our house and hung up my coat and
hat. The rattle of cookware led me back to the kitchen, where Griffin stood at
the sink. The savory smell of a roast filled the air; he’d already placed it on
a platter, beside a bowl of mashed potatoes. He’d stacked pans in the sink, but
seemed to have lost his train of thought, staring out the window blankly.

“Griffin?” I asked uncertainly.

He turned, offering me a welcoming smile. “Forgive me, my
dear. I heard you come in, but the case has me rather distracted.”

I should have been with him, instead of wasting my time at
the museum on the absurd Hallowe’en fundraiser. Curse the director.

“Of course.” I crossed to him and pressed my lips to his. He
tasted of the sage he’d used to garnish the roast, and I slid my arms around
his trim waist, pulling him closer. “I could distract you from your, er,
distraction.”

Griffin grinned. “The roast will get cold. Help me set the
table, and we’ll discuss things first. You can distract me all you like after
dinner.”

I released him and went to the silverware drawer. Soon
enough, we sat on either side of the table, the roast sliced and wine poured,
and Saul begging shamelessly for scraps.

“You’ve already been fed, you beast,” I scolded.

Griffin raised a brow. “He might take your admonishment to
heart, if you weren’t slipping him a scrap of beef as you gave it.”

Saul and I both pretended not to hear him. “So what has your
thoughts so occupied?” I asked, cutting my slice of roast into neat chunks. I
preferred fish over the flesh of terrestrial animals, but Griffin’s years in
Chicago and the west had instilled a love of beef in him. We compromised, as
with all else.

Griffin frowned at his plate. “I haven’t been able to find
any link between Abbott and the disappearing ships—the
Oarfish
is
the only one I haven’t been able to yet look into. However, I obtained a sample
of his handwriting on some legal documents. It matches the note you found in
Guinevere’s room.”

My stomach contracted around the bites of roast. “It’s him,
then. Thomas Abbot murdered Guinevere and Miss Emily.”

I’d stood only feet from him, the night of the party. If I’d
known, I should have struck him down, should have saved everyone from his evil.

But I hadn’t known then. I did now. And he would pay.

Griffin frowned, his gaze focused on the empty air. “I don’t
know.”

“What do you mean? His guilt is certain!”

“Is it?” Griffin countered. “The note is disturbing, yes.
But I heard Guinevere’s voice when she spoke of him the night of the party. It
seemed obvious to me she considered him an annoyance, nothing more. Her tone
was quite different when she pleaded with you to meet her at the saloon. If he
had something to do with the prophecy, surely she would have sounded more
concerned.”

What the devil was wrong with the man? “Guinevere only
interacted with three families before the night of the party. You’ve ruled out
the Waites and the Lesters, and now shown Abbott threatened my sister!”

“And yet it doesn’t change the face Guinevere spoke of him
as a separate matter from that of the
Norfolk Siren,”
Griffin countered,
irritation showing in his voice. “Think, Whyborne!”

“I am thinking!” I put down my fork, my appetite utterly
gone. “Abbott threatened Guinevere and argued with Stanford. What more proof do
you need?”

“Some link to the disappearing ships would be nice.”

“Clearly he has a grudge against our family! Guinevere
spurned him, I was indirectly responsible for his father’s death, and God only
knows what Stanford did. Why not try to destroy our finances at the same time?”

“I spoke to your father,” Griffin reminded me sharply. “The
ship disappearances haven’t harmed the Whybornes—quite the opposite, in
fact.”

Why would he not see what seemed so obvious? “Then the ships
are part of some grander scheme. The man has a vendetta against us!”

“You don’t know that.”

“So what are we to do? Just wait for some—some proof
of his guilt good enough to satisfy you? My sister is dead, and my mother has
been attacked!” I crumpled up my napkin in my lap. “Will my corpse be the one
to convince you?”

“Damn it, Whyborne, don’t you think I’m worried?” Griffin
hurled his fork onto the table; it bounced off and hit the floor beside Saul.
“Your Father has turned Whyborne House into a veritable fortress, arming all
the footmen and carrying his Remington from the war on his person. But accusing
the wrong man won’t help anything.”

“I mean to do more than accuse him.”

“I know, which is why I’m asking you to give me more time.”
His green eyes grew dark with memory. “Don’t you think I’ve seen men in the
Pinkertons, or the police, so certain of their convictions, so blasted
overconfident they condemned suspects without sufficient evidence? Do you know
what it feels like to see a man’s widow crying over the corpse we gunned down,
only to find out a week later he wasn’t the guilty party after all?”

“That isn’t the case here.”

“You don’t know. You can’t.”

A knock sounded at the front door. We both fell instantly
silent and exchanged glances. “I’ll answer it,” Griffin said, in a tone that
left no doubt our argument wasn’t over. I followed him into the hall and leaned
against the kitchen door, arms folded over my chest.

As Griffin’s hand reached for the doorknob, the door burst
inward.

~ * ~

A heavyset man charged into the hall, a wicked-bladed knife
in his hand.

Griffin leapt back, and the knife passed through the air in
front of him, just inches from his skin. Even as a cry of alarm escaped me,
Griffin snatched my coat off its hook and hurled it onto his attacker.

The man dodged the coat, but it gave Griffin enough space to
retreat toward the parlor, where his revolver lay within a desk drawer. The
thug rushed after him, and I sprang forward, ready to leap on the man’s back if
I had to in order to keep him from Griffin.

A second shape slipped in through the front open door, all
squirming tentacles and shark teeth. The ketoi’s unsettlingly human eyes met
mine, and it hissed like some eldritch cat.

I bolted for the stairs. The sound of its claws on the
wooden floor tracked its progress at my back. Was this the same horror that had
sought to kill Mother, or some other?

The narrow risers foiled the abnormally long feet of the
ketoi, slowing its ascent. I practically flew up the stairs and into the study.
A throw lay on the couch; I snatched it up and turned back to the landing.

The ketoi bared its rows of shark teeth from the top of the
stair. I hurled the heavy throw over it, covering its head and shoulders in the
thick folds. It scrabbled at the cloth, swaying dangerously unbalanced.

I struck it as hard as I could in the chest. The thing went
over backwards, snarling and flailing in the folds of the throw, flesh thumping
on the hard edges of the risers. It came to a halt at the foot of the stairs.

I rushed down after it, not giving it time to gather itself.
Springing from the sixth stair up, I landed on it with both feet. Something
gave way beneath me with a wet snap, and I pitched forward. My palms burned against
the hall rug.