Boneseeker

BONESEEKER

From the Journals of Arabella Holmes and Henry Watson

Transcribed by Brynn Chapman

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

Copyright © 2014 by Brynn Chapman

Boneseeker by Brynn Chapman

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Month9Books, LLC.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The mermaid icon is a registered mark of Month9Books, LLC.

Published by Month9Books

Cover Copyright © 2014 Month9Books

“I have frequently gained my first real insight into the character of parents by studying their children.” —Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

“How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?” —Sir Arthur Conan Doyle via Sherlock Holmes

To my one and only. Famous first lines. “I
could
love you.” And they did...

BONESEEKER

Brynn Chapman

Survival of the Fittest

Philadelphia, 1910

Jacoby Manor

22 Riddle Run Road

The portly man opens the door a crack, his gaze sweeping the street for prying eyes. He quickly swings it wide, ushering the tall man inside.

“Do come in Fredrick. All have gathered; you are the last to arrive.”

“Jacoby.” He nods and sweeps into the entryway and down the hall.

The towering man peers through the thick cloud of cigar smoke at the gathering of twelve about the round table and takes his place at its head.

He does not sit. Indeed, this situation requires he remind the others of his authority.

“Gentlemen. I shall dispense with the pleasantries and proceed directly to the order of business.”

The sound of a door opening and approaching footsteps silence the leader as his black eyes narrow in irritation and flick to the doorway.

A young, scraggly fellow pokes his head round the door, inquiring, “Is…this the meeting of the Darwinists?”

Disgruntled murmurs erupt at the use of this label.

The leader’s face blazes scarlet, and all twelve men fidget in their seats, each taking furtive glances at the man at the table’s head.

“
That
is not the correct name for this institution, but apparently you are in the right place.”

Jacoby clears his throat. “My apologies, Fredrick. My new son-in-law. I invited him. Do sit down. Do not make me regret extending you this invitation.”

“Sorry, sir.”

The tiny man tips his bowler hat and scurries to the table. He cringes when he sees the only empty chair is directly beside the glowering leader.

The tall man’s gaze scans the table, assuring all eyes turn to him before beginning.

“The Brotherhood of the Revolution stands at a crossroads today. With this unfortunate discovery our very purpose and hard work to further solidify Darwinism may be undone if this archaeological site proves authentic.”

The man’s eyes narrow, flitting back and forth across every face. “Miss Holmes is a growing thorn in my side, and that of our cause. If, indeed, the recovered bones prove to be Nephilim in origin, it shall greatly hinder our mission.”

“Miss Holmes as in Sherlock Holmes?” the tiny man peeps.

The leader’s eyes blaze with fury as he steadfastly ignores the interruption.

“Her perceptive powers are as formidable as her father. Fortuitously, the recovered hand was badly damaged and results of its examination and origin were inconclusive. Most of the team’s scientists are mediocre at best, but not Miss Holmes. If the bones are authentic, and she unearths the remainder of the skeleton, I am convinced she will know immediately.”

“The Nephilim?” the son-in-law whispers.

Jacoby replies, “From the book of Jude, verse six, ‘and the angels that did not keep their original position but forsook their own proper dwelling place.’”

The leader sneers, “Yes. To mate with the daughters of men. If the history lesson is over, might I continue?”

Jacoby interjects, “What course of action do you propose?”

“Miss Holmes must be dealt with by any means necessary. She must be removed from this expedition.”

“Beggin your pardon sir, but could you be more specific as to the particulars
of
how to remove Miss Holmes?”

“Did I stutter Jacoby? By any. Means. Necessary.”

Something Wicked This Way Comes

Mutter Museum, 1910

Midnight

Arabella

Fear.

The unfamiliar emotion brings a metallic taste to my mouth.

How did I miss the tell-tale signs?

The foreboding spreads; pumping its limb-numbing weakness from my heart to surge up and solidify into a ball of dread, lodging firmly in my throat.

My fingers grasp the lab bench behind me, cold, like his skin and the chill stealing into my bones.

My superior leans in close, much too close, shattering the great divide between student and mentor.

Forget propriety and society; we are beyond unchaperoned, we are utterly alone. The drop of a pin would clatter like thunder in the stillness of the dark, stone halls of the museum tonight.

“Miss Holmes, I have a proposition.”

My heartbeat floods my ears.

How dare I call myself a Holmes? I missed every clue
.

My mind thumbs through mental snapshots, disregarded. Lingering glances during my cadaver dissections; his eyes stealing across me as if my body was the anatomy lesson.

His hand, draped over mine, a heartbeat too long, demonstrating precisely how much solution to add to my bubbling concoction.

Inappropriate, unacceptable touches, which I foolishly reasoned away.

“You know of my high regard for you.”

His long, tapered fingers reach over to encircle my wrist. His hands restrain like icy shackles and I fight to keep my countenance calm.

I swallow. “I.” And clear my throat. “I was under the impression my presence at the Museum was…off-putting.”

My survival-brain wakes, analyzes, as my eyes perform reconnaissance around my lab. Two exits. My parasol lies across the room, useless.

It’s past midnight—not a soul will be in the museum to hear my scream.

I stare up at Dr. Stygian. He towers well over six feet tall. I haven’t a chance against him.

One word whispers, taunts.

Rape.
Is he capable of it?

I do not know. He is overbearing and caustic, but rape…

He inches closer still, pinning me between the lab bench and his body.

“At first, I was put-upon, yes. But I’ve been watching, making a detailed study of you and your fastidious nature. I know of your ambitions—very lofty for a woman, wouldn’t you say? I believe we could…help one another.”

He leans in and his lips brush mine and I recoil—my leg twitches, at the ready to knee the soft flesh of his groin.

“Miss Holmes?”

I hear the familiar shuffle-step that I know to be Dr. Earnest, my other superior. Thank God for the old man’s insomnia.

Stygian slides slowly away from me, as if savoring where our bodies touch. His eyes never leave mine.

Earnest shuffles into the doorway and his eyebrows rise when he spies Dr. Stygian’s proximity.

“Fredrick?”

Stygian grants him a nod and stoops to pick up his walking stick and his cape. “Miss Holmes requested I assist with her assignment.”

From behind his back, I bite my lip and give a singular, negative shake of my head.

Earnest’s eyebrows knit. “Well, I must insist you off to bed, my girl.”

Stygian flips his crow-black hair from his forehead and spins on his boot heel to swoop past Dr. Earnest out into the hall, disappearing without a backwards glance.

As I walk to Earnest’s side, I bend to pick up my journal and parasol and hope he does not perceive the tremble in my hands.

He guides me gently, his hand on the small of my back, and out the door.

“Dr. Watson warned me you were driven. But midnight? Work ethic be deuced, one must be reasonable, Arabella.”

I shiver again and vow to leave the lab by nightfall from now on.

###

A few months later.

Henry

The Mutter’s hallways are dim and the singular window, situated high near the cathedral ceiling, permits a paltry amount of illumination as the dreary drizzle of rain relentlessly pelts the pane.

The odd combination of candles and electric light give the shadows a treacle-like, stretched appearance. Father had related the Mutter preferred to spend its funds on antiquities, so the conversion from old light to new was painstaking.

The light was indeed dim, but I was still able to discern Father’s bright blue eyes turning to goad and hasten my progress.

A blast rattles my jaw. I lurch backward with the force.

My father’s eyes widen in shock, his left hand shooting out to ward off the unseen danger.

“What was
that
?”

This response is saying something, for the unflappable Dr. John Watson.

Another blast rings out; the laboratory door blows off its hinges and flies through the air, clattering against the opposite wall with a
‘bang’
, narrowly missing the glass case of shrunken heads.

I pull out a handkerchief, plastering it across my nose. Black billows of smoke barrel out the doorframe to fill the hallway.

Footsteps echo behind us, and father and I turn in tandem. My soon to-be-superior, Dr. Earnest, rounds the corner, his waddle changing to an ungainly lope as he spies the smoke. His bushy white eyebrows bug to life, shooting up and under the untidy flop of grey hair hanging over his forehead.

“Arabella!” His face flushes, instantly furious. “Can she
never
act like a woman?”

“No, Alistair, she cannot. Which is precisely why she is here,” my father strides toward the laboratory, “And not preparing for her coming-out party? What would you expect of a young woman raised by Sherlock Holmes?”

Dr. Earnest harrumphs, but follows obediently.

I am rooted.

Arabella. I haven’t seen her since I was a gangly, love-sick eighteen year old
.

I straighten my lapels. Much can change in four years’ time.

“For heaven’s sake, Henry, are you going to make yourself useful or stand there and choke to death?”

Father’s head whips backward and his glare, a white-hot, visual cattle-prod, urges me into motion.