Maelstrom (27 page)

Oh God. If Father claimed assassins attacked
the house, tragically killing Griffin, Christine, and Iskander the
night before the wedding, who would gainsay him? Tilton, for all
his attempts to bring justice to Tubbs and Lambert, would
ultimately do as Father ordered. There would be no real
investigation.

I crawled out from beneath the rain apron.
At least no one else was on the street. I’d lost all track of time,
but it was surely after midnight. Still, I left on the goggles and
hat, just in case someone looked out a window or a police officer
decided to walk his beat despite the weather.

My shoes squelched wetly as I made my way
toward the house. Should I try the front door? Perhaps the
servant’s entrance would be safer, as I’d be less likely to
encounter Bradley. Could I claim to be making a delivery for the
wedding, despite the late hour? I entertained the idea, but
couldn’t think of a plausible reason they would let me in.

Would Fenton recognize Bradley Osborne’s
face? Possibly, if Bradley had met with Father here. If he’d gone
to one of Father’s business offices instead, though, Fenton might
not recognize my current features at all. Perhaps I could tell him
I was there with a message for Griffin, to be given privately? That
seemed possible, at least.

Silently praying my plan would work, I rang
the bell. Fenton answered with a promptness that surprised me,
given the hour. Disappointment flashed across his face, as though
he’d expected someone else. It was quickly followed by disapproval.
As for recognition, however, there was none.

“Yes?” he asked. Had he been a sorcerer, his
icy disdain would have changed the rain into sleet.

I must look like an utter madman. Although
the suit I wore had started off respectable, between the police
wagon and the abandoned estate, it had acquired quite a few stains.
Mud spattered both shoes and trousers, and every inch of me was
soaking wet.

I removed the hat and goggles, certain he’d
slam the door in my face otherwise. “I need to speak to Mr.
Flaherty,” I said. “It’s of the utmost importance, regarding
something he’s looking into for the Whyborne family.”

Fenton wavered, no doubt torn between his
distaste for letting such a disreputable looking person set foot in
the house, and his concern I might indeed have urgent business on
behalf of the family. “Very well,” he said, standing aside. He
didn’t offer to take my hat. “Wait here, and I’ll fetch Mr.
Flaherty.”

He had only gone a few
feet, however, before Father appeared in the foyer. “Who was—” he
began, then stopped when he saw me. “What is the meaning of this?”
Father thundered. “What the devil are
you
doing here?”

The anger and hurt that had simmered all
night rose to a sudden boil in my veins. I took a step forward, and
was almost shocked that the world no longer responded to my rage.
Wind should be shrieking through the foyer, ripping the portraits
of our damnable ancestors off the walls. Destroying everything
around me.

But there was nothing. I was cut off from
the arcane fire beneath my feet.

Thanks to him.

“I expect you never thought
you’d see me again, did you,
Father?”
I snarled.

“What in the name of hell?” Father took a
step back. “Fenton, fetch your pistol!”

“Don’t play the fool!” I snatched up a
priceless vase from its pedestal and hurled it to the ground,
smashing it into a thousand shards. “You were behind this from the
start! You and Stanford.”

There came the sound of running feet on the
marble floors. A moment later, Griffin, Iskander, and Miss
Parkhurst appeared. Iskander let out a shout of alarm, but Griffin
flung up his hands, as if calling for peace. “No! It’s not what you
think. It’s not Bradley.”

Niles glared at me. “I saw Dr. Osborne tied
up on the floor only a few hours ago. I assure you, this is indeed
him.”

“Bradley Osborne perfected a spell allowing
him to swap bodies,” Griffin said. “Which he did earlier today. He
stole Whyborne’s body, and put Whyborne in his body. The man you
brought back here wasn’t your son at all.”

Miss Parkhurst gasped and stared at me, as
if she expected to see my true features miraculously appear. All
the color drained from Father’s face. His gaze locked with mine,
searching. “P-Percival?”

“Don’t play the innocent.”
I took a step forward, my hands clenched into fists. “I know what
you’ve done. I know you offered the wedding venue to Christine and
Iskander, the stock to Griffin, the waffles to Persephone,
everything
, just to turn
them against me! You couldn’t stand I wouldn’t come to heel, so you
decided to make the perfect son. You took Bradley by the hand and
led him to the Man in the Woods, to the Brotherhood’s secrets, all
for this.” I made a disgusted gesture at the form I’d been
consigned to. “So he could steal my body and become the heir you
always wanted!”

Father swayed. “You’re speaking nonsense.
Why would I do such a thing?”

“Because Bradley wants what you want.” I
shook my head, feeling suddenly tired. “He’ll come work for you at
Whyborne Railroad and Industries. He’ll use his magic for your
benefit.” I laughed without humor. “He’ll even be of your blood,
since he’s got my body. He’ll be the son I never was. The one you
always wanted.”

“No!” Father seemed to gather himself. He
strode toward me, but I refused to give ground. When he stopped a
pace away, he grabbed me by the arms. I tried to yank free, but he
tightened his grip. “I offered Whyborne House to your friends, I
offered Griffin stock, all of it to show you that I care. That I’m
interested in your life, no matter how odd it might seem to
me.”

How could he pretend even now? “Don’t lie to
me!”

“I’m not lying. I know we’ve had our
differences. But after the Brotherhood was destroyed, when I
realized you didn’t trust me enough to come to me with what you
knew...that you thought I would agree to unleashing horror on the
world...” He bowed his head. “You stood up to them all. When
confronted by monsters, you fought back. You would have sacrificed
yourself to save the rest of us. And I began to realize I’d made a
terrible, terrible mistake.”

I didn’t want to hear any of this. I tried
again to pull away, and he finally let go of me.

“I tried to do better,” he said. “Donating
to the museum where you work. Including Griffin in family dinners.
But the harder I try to reach out to you, the harder you push me
away.” To my horror tears formed in his eyes. “I know it’s too
little, too late. But, Percival...you’re my son. I love you.”

Words deserted me. It might have been some
elaborate ruse, and yet I couldn’t believe Father would humble
himself so in front of others, even in the service of some
grandiose plan.

“Whyborne,” Griffin said softly. “I think
Stanford and Bradley acted alone in this.”

My mind grasped at one last possibility.
“Stanford didn’t know we had a Lapidem.”

“If Nyarlathotep is a servant of the ancient
Masters, he might be able to sense their artifacts,” Griffin
pointed out. “After all, Nephren-ka had one as well.”

He was right. I’d let my own anger over old
hurts blind me to any possibility save Father’s guilt. As much as
it pained me to admit it, I’d done him a disservice. “I...yes.” My
shoulders slumped, tension leaving them. “I’m sorry, Father. I
didn’t...I never meant to...”

“Later,” he said briskly. “The question now
is, where has Dr. Osborne gone with your body, and how are we to
get it back?”

Iskander’s face had gone gray. “When
Christine went to talk to Whyborne—it was Bradley she found. You’re
right, Griffin. He put her under some kind of mind domination, then
used her absence as an excuse to leave himself.” He swallowed hard.
“Do you think...do you think he hurt her?”

“Or Persephone?” Miss Parkhurst asked in
alarm.

I ran a frustrated hand through my hair. It
was too flat, too...tame. I’d never imagined missing my real hair,
but I did, desperately so. “The cultist at the estate said there
were only a few hours left,” I said. “And that was a few hours ago.
Whatever Bradley means to do to send this signal, it must be
happening now.”

There came a low boom, just on the edge of
hearing, like a distant explosion. The floor trembled beneath our
feet, and the chandelier swung alarmingly. “An earthquake!”
Iskander exclaimed.

“No.” Griffin stared at the windows flanking
the street, then ran to the door and flung it open. “Whyborne! Do
you see this?”

I ran to his side. But there was nothing but
the night and the falling rain. “No. What is it?”

“Arcane fire,” he said grimly. “As if one of
the lines feeding into the maelstrom suddenly surged with
energy.”

I followed his line of sight. Although the
magic was invisible to me, I could imagine it tracing a graceful
arc across Widdershins. “One of the lines...such as the one
intersecting with the standing stones on the island?”

All the color drained from Griffin’s face.
“Yes. He’s begun.”

“Then we must go quickly,” Father said. “The
motor car, Fenton.”

There came a new sound—the rattle of
carriages and the clop of hooves. “What now?” Iskander wondered
aloud, even as he drew out his knives.

A small battalion of carriages, gigs, and
coaches appeared at the end of the street. Seated on the driver’s
seat of the foremost one was Mr. Quinn.

They drew to a halt in front of the mansion.
Mr. Quinn frowned at me, then glanced questioningly at Griffin.

“Bradley Osborne used magic to swap bodies
with Whyborne,” Griffin said bluntly. “He means to use the power of
the maelstrom in a spell, and probably kill Dr. Putnam to
boot.”

Quinn’s eyes widened, and he drew himself
up. “This is an outrage,” he said, and the anger in his voice was
more than a little frightening. “An affront against Widdershins. We
will not tolerate this.”

“Excuse me,” Iskander said, “but what the
bloody hell are you doing here?”

“I returned from Boston and rallied my
fellow librarians to defend the town,” Quinn replied, as if the
answer should have been obvious. He offered me a small bow from his
seat. “The librarians are at your disposal, Widdershins. We will
fight to the last man.”

Whyborne

I clung to the seat of the Oldsmobile as
Griffin took another corner at death-defying speed. Iskander
perched in my lap, clinging to me in turn. His hat was gone, and
his thick black hair ruffled in the wind as Griffin navigated the
streets recklessly. Somewhere behind us came Father’s motor car,
Fenton at the wheel, followed by the librarians in their varied
horse-drawn conveyances.

My heart pounded in my throat, in part from
Griffin’s mad driving and in part from fear. I could only imagine
what Iskander must be feeling at the moment. If Bradley had hurt
Christine, I’d kill him with my bare hands. The moment I had my
body back, I’d tear his to pieces.

There came another boom as we drove, and
Griffin pointed to the north. The site of the standing stones on
the Robinsons’ farm appeared to have become active in the same way
as the other.

Two down. Four to go.

Whatever Bradley had done to the arcane
lines, they didn’t simply glow more brightly. As we drove, we
crossed the first one. Every building it ran beneath had shattered
windows, and the electricity had gone out over wide swathes of the
town. People milled wildly in the streets despite the rain and
darkness, forcing Griffin to honk the horn even more than
usual.

“There’s the bridge,” Griffin said at last,
and the grim note in his voice made my heart sink. Why had the city
rebuilt the blasted thing in the first place? Yes, it was a major
road linking one half of the town to the other, but still. I’d
write a sharply worded letter to the mayor once all this was
over.

Assuming I lived long enough to do so,
anyway.

The electric lights had gone out, but
torches lined the bridge, flickering in the rain. Robed cultists
lined either end of the bridge, clearly guarding against anyone who
might think to disrupt the proceedings. In the uncertain light, it
looked almost as though they had no faces, only blackness beneath
their hoods. But no, they wore masks—smooth and featureless, save
for the holes for their eyes.

The police were notably absent, whether paid
off or warned away by someone they thought to be me, I didn’t know.
In the center of the bridge stood a strange a metallic device. The
Occultum Lapidem rested atop it, like the lens of a telescope.

Three more robed, masked figures attended
it. Two of them held a struggling figure between them.

“Christine!” Iskander gasped.

A gag covered her mouth, and her dark hair
had come out of its bun. Though her hands were bound, she thrashed
furiously, and one of the figures abruptly doubled over as she
managed to land a blow to its gut.

The third turned and made a furious motion
toward them. Though a mask covered his face, he was much taller
than the others, and my stomach turned to realize it must be
Bradley.

Wearing my body.

The light from the lamps of Griffin’s motor
car flashed across the cultists blocking the end of the bridge. One
shouted a warning, and Bradley turned to us.

Perhaps some sympathy still bound me to my
real body, because I knew in that instant exactly what he meant to
do.

“Jump!” I shouted as we hurtled toward the
line of cultists. “He means to set the gasoline in the tank on
fire!”

Griffin

At Whyborne’s cry, I hurled myself from the
motor car.

I landed hard, rolling to absorb the hit.
Iskander shouted, and a dull thump marked Whyborne’s impact against
the brick-paved road. For a fraction of a second, I wondered if
he’d been wrong, and we’d risked broken bones for no reason.