Chapter 8
Griffin
That evening, I listened with growing horror as Whyborne detailed his encounter with Detective Tilton.
“You admitted you threatened Abbott?” I asked when he finished.
Ironically, we were in the midst of preparing ourselves to go to Abbott’s funeral. Whyborne sat in front of the mirror, trying and failing to tame his hair with Brilliantine. “Well, yes,” he said, frowning at his reflection. “I didn’t explain all the extenuating circumstances, but the blackmail threat would surely be reason enough.”
I resisted the temptation to clutch at my own hair in frustration, though only because I’d just finished combing it. “Ival, did it never occur to you it would be a bad idea to offer the police a motive for murdering Abbott?”
He turned to face me, blinking in surprise. “I told him the reason I said such a rash thing. Surely no one believes I actually killed a man, do they?”
I tipped my head back, willing patience. “You have killed men, Whyborne. More than one, in fact.”
“Not that the police know of! Besides, they were all trying to kill us first.” His chair creaked as he shifted his weight. “I would never murder anyone in cold blood.”
“I know that. You know that. The police do not know that.”
“Oh. I suppose you’re right.” The chair creaked again. “Will you not even look at me?”
I turned my gaze on him. A strand of his hair broke free of the Brilliantine and slowly rose back to its normal position. “All right,” I said, forcing myself to think past my fear. “Motive alone isn’t enough. Perhaps if you were anyone else, but the son of Niles Whyborne isn’t getting hauled into jail without actual evidence of wrongdoing.”
Predictably, the reminder failed to cheer him. “I wish you had been there. I was so relieved he hadn’t come to ask questions about us, I discounted any other threat.”
“Understandable.” I put my hand on his shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “But if Tilton—or any other police officer—returns, refuse to speak to him without a lawyer present. I’m certain Niles will be more than happy to give you the name of his most ruthless solicitor.”
“No doubt.” He touched the back of my hand with his fingers. The black pearl on his wedding ring shone softly in the light, revealing a host of hidden colors. “I’m sorry, darling.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.” I bent and kissed him swiftly. “Tilton has no desire to pursue this line of questioning. With no evidence to link you to Abbott’s death, the investigation will be quietly shelved.”
Ival didn’t seem convinced, and in truth neither was I. I’d noted the hiring of the new police chief, but not paid especial attention. Perhaps that had been a mistake. If the man thought he had something to prove, it could mean trouble for us.
I couldn’t help but wonder if the maelstrom had collected Chief Early for its own inscrutable reasons, or if he had come on his own. The latter, I suspected.
A knock sounded on our door. “That will be Father,” Whyborne said. “Or a footman, more likely, doing the actual knocking. We shouldn’t keep him waiting.”
Rather than bringing his new touring car, Niles had arrived in a carriage with the Whyborne family crest painted on the side. No doubt he felt it more appropriate for a solemn occasion. At my suggestion, Whyborne told his father about the visit from the police. Niles’s face darkened, and I had the feeling Police Chief Early was about to have a very bad day. But when he spoke, he directed his vitriol elsewhere.
“Blast Thomas Abbott for a fool.” Niles’s mouth tightened with disapproval. “His father had enough sense to leave sorcery to the sorcerers.”
“Like the rest of you left it to Blackbyrne?” Whyborne asked. “Oh, yes, that worked out so well.”
Niles glowered. “Thomas at least shouldn’t have summoned something he couldn’t control—”
“Like the Brotherhood resurrecting Blackbyrne?”
Niles shut his mouth with an audible snap. I directed my attention out the window and pretended to have been struck temporarily deaf.
The carriage joined the short processional just outside the mortuary. The Lesters had provided a catafalque, drawn by four black horses. “That was kind of Miss Lester,” I remarked. “To give Abbott such a sendoff, when I’m sure she’s not being compensated for it.”
“Anywhere else, he would have ended up in an unmarked grave in potter’s field,” Niles agreed. “But he was the last surviving heir of one of the old families. His bloodline helped to build Widdershins from an uninhabited wilderness into what it is today.”
“A horrible murder town,” Whyborne agreed.
Niles glared, and I sighed. “Whyborne, you’re being difficult,” I said.
For a moment, his lower lip stuck out rebelliously. Then he sagged. “Forgive me. The interview with the police has left me in a poor mood.” He glanced out the window. “Who are they?”
Despite Abbott’s fall from fortune, a number of mourners waited at the gates to the cemetery. They lined either side of the road, their clothing ranging from that of respectable businessmen to something more appropriate to sailors. As the catafalque passed, they solemnly removed their hats. I recognized some members of the Marsh and Waite clans, both from branches that had clung to respectability and those which had slid into poverty.
“Inhabitants of the town,” Niles replied with barely a glance. “Natives all, for many generations. As I said earlier, Abbott’s ancestors helped shape Widdershins. The obliteration of one of the old families is not something to be taken lightly.”
“What is the connection between the old families and the town?” I asked. “Is it only that they helped Blackbyrne found Widdershins, or is there something more?”
“Some arcane tie, you mean?” Whyborne asked.
“Perhaps.” Niles stared out the window at the mourners. “Blackbyrne was steeped in necromancy, and even those of his followers who weren’t sorcerers aided in his rituals. Once he was gone, the heads of the five families banded together and made certain their descendants would prosper here. Continuing the work of the Brotherhood of the Immortal Fire was one method they used to do so.”
The iron gates to the cemetery stood wide, and the procession wound its way up the hill, toward where the oldest graves lay. At last it came to a halt, and we stepped out into the icy air. Pallbearers carried Abbott’s casket toward the row of mausoleums, and the rest of us fell in behind.
The cemetery ended at the very edge of the Draakenwood. I’d set foot in the forest once, but only for a short time. Though it seemed a prime spot for bird watchers and other nature enthusiasts, I’d soon learned no one who’d lived in Widdershins long would willingly set foot there. Every year, the newspapers featured an article on the disappearance of some visitor, who chose to go on a walk in the forest despite the warnings. Whyborne usually read these with a sad shake of his head, and in time I’d learned to do the same.
One of the arcane lines feeding into the maelstrom cut through the cemetery, its blue fire visible to my shadowsight. It ran directly beneath the extravagant monument with BLACKBYRNE carved into it. The grave rested nearly beneath the eaves of the wood—though of course, no body lay there any longer. He’d been swallowed up by the Outside, fallen into the opening he’d torn in the veil to summon horrors. Undone by his own magic, much like Abbott.
Less ostentatious graves surrounded the monument, radiating out like the spokes of a wheel. Most were worn to nubs from time and weather, but the names Whyborne, Marsh, Abbott, Lester, and Waite could be made out on a few.
At some point, fortune had allowed them to build family vaults, which stood a bit farther out, alongside those of other families like Rice and Mathison, who had arrived later in the town’s history. The procession stopped outside the Abbott mausoleum, and Miss Lester stepped forward to unlock the chain holding it shut. Her normal white furs were replaced with mourning black, and a veil shrouded her face from view. A priest from First Esoteric spoke a few words as Abbott was borne within. The wind sent the priest’s robes flapping about his legs, the weak sunlight glinting from the golden tiara he wore.
The mourners began to disperse as soon as the mausoleum door was shut and locked once again. I glanced at Whyborne, only to find him staring at Blackbyrne’s monument, his lips in a pensive moue.
“We’ll find our own way back,” I told Niles.
He glanced at Whyborne, then nodded. “As you wish.”
I waited until we were alone, before approaching my husband. “Ival? Is something wrong?”
He blinked, as if coming out of a reverie. “I...no. Nothing.”
I took his gloved hand in mine. “Something is obviously bothering you. Beyond what might be expected, I mean.” I glanced at the monument. “Is it something to do with Blackbyrne?”
His shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his woolen coat. “I suppose. It’s just...the thing that bothers me most about the maelstrom is it isn’t...moral?” He shook his head. “I’m not sure the word is adequate, but it’s the best I can come up with. It drew you here, and Christine most likely...but it also drew Blackbyrne, and the Abbotts, and my own ancestor, who barely escaped the hangman back in England. It collects people not because they’re good, but because they’re useful to it in some way, or because they...fit? I’m not sure how to explain it better than that.”
“Widdershins knows its own,” I said. “For which I, at least, am profoundly grateful.”
His dark eyes met mine, troubled. “It isn’t human. It doesn’t have a sense of right and wrong. Or if it does, it isn’t like ours.”
I considered his words carefully. “I suppose that makes sense. It would be asking a great deal to expect a massive, semi-sentient magical vortex to view the world the same way as we do. Even as humans, we cannot always agree on right and wrong, after all.”
“But I’m a part of it,” he said unhappily. “So what does that make me?”
“Human,” I said. “Well, a ketoi-human hybrid. A man, anyway.” I squeezed his hand. “The best man I’ve ever known.”
His cheeks pinked from more than the cold, and he ducked his head shyly. “You speak such nonsense.”
“My husband,” I pressed on. “My love. Of course you aren’t perfect, but neither am I. You might have come from the maelstrom, but it doesn’t define you. No more than where I came from—Ireland or Fallow, whichever you prefer to count—defines me.”
“It isn’t the same,” he protested.
And perhaps it wasn’t. I wouldn’t claim my understanding of his circumstances was entirely accurate, but from what I’d gleaned, his soul, for lack of a better word, was a fragment of the maelstrom.
Whyborne, a thorough-going atheist, would hate the comparison. But it was the best I could make. And perhaps some would consider his condition damning, but if I believed in divine providence, then it was hardly a stretch to accept God had ordered this as well.
“Look at how your brother turned out,” I said. “He carries no spark of the maelstrom. And yet you’re a better person than he could ever hope to be.” I hesitated, wondering if I could ever make Whyborne truly understand. “I know your connection to the maelstrom has troubled you ever since you realized the truth. But in bringing me here, it saved me, in a way I didn’t even know I needed to be saved. The fact you’re a part of it makes you more wonderful to me, not less.”
He blushed even more fiercely, but squeezed my fingers. “I love you.”
“I know. I love you, too.” I tugged on his hand. “Come. It’s getting dark.”
“All right.” He glanced at the shadows gathering beneath the nearby trees. “It probably isn’t wise to linger too close to the Draakenwood after nightfall anyway.”
“No doubt.” And perhaps it was merely my imagination, but as we walked hand-in-hand away from the woods, I couldn’t help but feel as though unseen eyes watched our backs, until the bulk of the hill hid us from view.