Chapter 19
Christine’s face paled, but she asked, “Are you certain? The man’s been dead for centuries, after all.”
“I’m sure. I’ve walked past his portrait in the art gallery a thousand times.” True, the painting didn’t come close to doing him justice; mere paint on canvas couldn’t convey the strange magnetism he exuded. “And even if I hadn’t, the man I spoke to was the same I encountered in the Draakenwood. I’m absolutely certain of it.”
Griffin didn’t question me, for which I was grateful. “They must be ready to make their move. Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.” I looked away, unable to meet his eye. “He slipped away.”
“Let us know if you spot him again.”
Christine muttered a curse in Arabic. “We have to stay close to the mummy.”
“Agreed,” Griffin said, and started in that direction, Christine at his side.
Something Blackbyrne had said nagged at my mind. Actually, everything he’d said nagged at me, like little worms wriggling in my brain. I’d spoken to a man who had died, who had been dead for almost two centuries, whose body had rotted to dust, and yet was now walking and talking as if he’d merely lain down for a nap.
I hadn’t really understood the power contained in the Arcanorum until now. If such a thing could be achieved…what were the limits? Did any limits exist?
A bell rang, its high, silvery peal cutting through the rumble of talk. Mr. Mathison had taken his place in front of the black drapes still concealing Nephren-ka’s sarcophagus. He beamed at the crowd, as if he’d personally arranged every detail, from the excavation to the layout of the exhibit.
“And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for,” he said. Mathison wasn’t known for his originality. “If you’ll all come close, we shall unveil the mummy! For the first time in four-thousand years, human eyes will once more look upon Pharaoh Nephren-ka’s face!”
Which wasn’t at all true, of course. Christine’s team had opened the sarcophagus in situ and shipped it over in multiple crates, to be lovingly reassembled for the exhibit. But a smattering of applause broke out in response, along with a surge of excited voices as the crowd moved into place.
What was it Blackbyrne had said? Something about the mummy.
“Most of those present are dazzled by the mummy…it is here, in these words, where true knowledge lies.”
Blast.
I caught sight of Griffin and Christine; they’d almost made it to the mummy. The guards had drawn back, but all their attention was on the crowd. I didn’t see anyone moving in the rear of the exhibit hall, and it seemed impossible a thief would try anything while such a gathering stood only feet away, but I knew I was right.
Even if I had called out to Griffin, he would never have heard me over the noise, which swelled louder as Mathison reached to grasp the cord to release the drapes. I had to act quickly.
I shoved my way to the edge of the crowd, receiving several angry looks and at least one muttered oath. One of the guards noticed and moved to intercept me, as I made my way along the wall. If I could convince him to help instead of hinder, perhaps we could get to the back of the exhibit before it was too late.
“I give you: Nephren-ka!” Mr. Mathison declared loudly, and pulled the cord.
Every light went out at once.
~ * ~
The hall erupted into screams.
A few voices shouted for calm, but they were lost in the general uproar. Bodies bumped into me, and I struggled to keep my footing. Devil take it, where was Griffin in all this?
Light gleamed near the back of the exhibit hall: the directed beams of police lanterns, much like Griffin used, reflecting from glass-fronted cases.
The Brotherhood.
I shoved recklessly through the crowd, not caring who I trod on or pushed aside in the process. “The back of the hall! Thieves!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, hoping to direct the attention of the guards, but the general din swallowed up my voice.
I broke free from the press, tripped over some irregularity in the floor, and barely kept my feet. Ahead of me, a shadowy group lit only by their shielded lanterns headed for the staff entrance.
I collided with a guard, who was striving to light a lantern of his own. Snatching the lantern from his startled hand, I lit the wick with a word and ran for the closing door.
“Whyborne!” Griffin shouted, but the door shut behind me, cutting him off.
The hallway was narrow, and the light from my lantern threw great, moving shadows on the bare plaster walls. A steep, narrow flight of stairs dove down, letting out onto a hall near the library.
The library.
The stacks were silent and deserted, but the odd acoustics amplified the hoarse breaths and muttered words of my quarry. I ran after the thieves, my heart pounding and a stitch forming in my side. What would I do when I caught up with them? I had to get the scroll back, but how?
And why the library? Why trap themselves in a dead-ended catacomb beneath the museum, where they would surely be cornered?
The answer awaited me when I reached the farthest room of the labyrinth. Part of one wall stood open—a secret door. Had the mad architect put it there?
I slowed in front of the passage and held up my lantern cautiously. A dank set of steps dove into the earth. I saw the walls here were rough brick, and the breeze blowing up from the depths reeked of rot and slime. Hopefully the thieves would wrap the scroll to avoid exposing it to such conditions. Then again, perhaps it would be better if the papyrus disintegrated at this very moment.
I hesitated, but really, there was nothing for it. Taking a deep breath, I headed down the stairs.
The arched ceilings of the vaults below reminded me of some ancient wine cellar or catacomb, far older than the museum above. After a few such vaults, the decaying brick came to an end, giving way to rough-hewn stone. The voices of the thieves echoed back from just a short distance in front of me.
I passed through an entrance barely wide enough for my shoulders—then froze. Theron Blackbyrne looked back at me from the adjoining vault, his wickedly smiling face illuminated by a lantern.
God, he was beautiful. His dark eyes pulled at me, an almost hypnotic suggestion pressing against my mind.
“No,” I whispered aloud.
His smile grew wider, and he gave me a little nod, as if from one professional to another. Then he turned away, and a thuggish man armed with a gun took his place.
I barely had time to register the weapon pointed at me, before the roar of the revolver echoed through the catacomb.
~ * ~
My lantern hit the ground and went out. I flattened myself instinctively against the wall, still alive. The thug had missed.
Why was there something warm and wet trickling down my arm?
I looked down to see a ragged hole in the left shoulder of my coat. The pain hit an instant later: a hot, angry burn across my upper arm, near the shoulder. I clapped my other hand over the wound instinctively, even as I pressed my back tighter against the rough, stone wall.
No more shots followed, and the footsteps receded into the distance, taking the light of their lanterns with them. I considered chasing after them again, but doubted I’d fair nearly as well against the next bullet. Instead, I relit my lantern and groped my way unsteadily back to the stair. A wave of faintness came over me, and I sagged against the wall, then slid to the floor.
“Whyborne?” Christine’s voice echoed from above.
“I’m here,” I called. My arm throbbed in time to my heartbeat.
The rustle of skirts and vitriol of curses preceded her. At the sight of me, however, her face went pale as chalk. Gathering up her skirts, she rushed to my side. “Move your hand, Whyborne,” she instructed, even as she hoisted up her dress to reveal her underskirt.
I looked away quickly. “Your dress—”
“Devil take the damned dress.” There came the sound of ripping cloth, and a moment later, she pressed part of the underskirt against my wound.
I winced at the pressure but didn’t object. “It was a scroll. They were after a scroll. I didn’t realize soon enough—”
“Whyborne? Whyborne?!” Griffin’s voice echoed down the stair from above. A moment later, he appeared, his face white and his sword cane held out in front of him, trembling visibly. He was terrified of underground tunnels, and yet he’d come down here into the dank earth after me.
“I’ll be right there,” I called, hoping to spare him.
His eyes widened at the sight of me, and the last vestiges of color drained from his face. Ignoring my words, he ran down the final steps and dropped to my side.
“My dear?” he asked, voice shaking. He clasped my hand in one of his, while stroking my cheek with the fingers of the other. “Are you all right? We’ll call a doctor for you; I swear, you’ll be fine, you’ll see—”
“Dear God, man, get ahold of yourself!” Christine snapped. “You may not care for your reputation, but think of Whyborne’s!”
Griffin shot her a furious look, and for a moment it seemed they might end the evening with a brawl. “I’m fine,” I said hastily, even though my arm stung abominably. “It’s just a scratch, Griffin, truly.”
His green eyes shifted to me, searching for the truth of my words. Whatever he saw must have comforted him, because he nodded and let go of my hand. “I…yes. Let’s get you upstairs, shall we?”
There came the sound of many feet on the stairs, accompanied by startled exclamations concerning the existence of the hidden door and tunnels. Griffin rose to his feet, giving my good shoulder a quick squeeze. Striding to the bottom of the stair, he met the astonished Mr. Mathison and Dr. Hart, at the head of a large contingent of guards, trustees, and other men who had decided to investigate.
“Is there a doctor?” he called. “Dr. Whyborne has been shot!”
Christine let out a snort. “Men. Always so damned dramatic,” she muttered, as the crowd descended on us.
~ * ~
The next few hours passed in something of a blur.
I was rushed upstairs, despite my protests, as if I’d been gravely injured. Three of the trustees were medical doctors; all insisted on examining my wound, to the detriment of my coat, shirt, and dignity.
The wound itself was quite shallow. The bullet had merely grazed me, removing a divot of flesh just deep enough to bleed profusely. I was subjected to cleaning with alcohol, which stung rather more than the bullet itself. Then I had to be bandaged, and offered laudanum, which I refused. The entire time, Dr. Hart hovered around rather alarmingly, as if worried I might suddenly expire. Mr. Mathison pumped my good hand with gusto, blathering something about loyalty and the museum, to which I could only nod and smile rather fixedly. Then they both went into a long diatribe about what a disaster this was for the Ladysmith, reinforcing one another’s list of woes, until finally one of the doctors forced them out of the small side room in which we’d taken refuge.
Once they left, Addison appeared. “Are you all right, my boy?” he asked, taking my hand in his.
“Percival! Where is Leander? Where’s my son?”
…A hand let go, and water closed over…
I focused relentlessly on the here-and-now. “I’m quite fine,” I reassured him. “I have three doctors, and none of them have tried to amputate yet.”
A small smile flickered around his lips. “I’m glad you can face this with a sense of humor.”
“I know it’s a terrible embarrassment to the museum,” I said carefully. It was a blow to far more, but there was no reason to trouble him. “I don’t mean to suggest otherwise.”
“I know. I know.” He hesitated, and for a moment his watery blue eyes fixed on mine, as if he strove to impart some message. Then he sighed and patted my hand. “Things will work out in the end, though, Percival. You must believe it.”
I hadn’t believed anything of the sort once I was old enough to leave the nursery, but I nodded anyway. “Of course, Uncle Addy.”
He left, and I was extremely glad to see Griffin and Christine were my only other visitors. One of the doctors secured the final layer of gauze and snipped it off with a pair of sharp scissors.
“There you go,” he said briskly. “Now, is your wife here? Tell her to change the dressing in the morning and make sure there’s no sign of infection.”
I glanced down. “I, er, no. I’m a bachelor.”
“I’ll look after him,” Griffin said with perfect ease, as if he were simply a friend interested in my wellbeing. “I have a spare room. Whyborne can stay with me tonight, and I’ll keep an eye out for fever.”
The doctor nodded. “Good, good. I don’t expect any trouble, but one can never be too careful, yes?”
He left, taking his kit with him. I considered asking Griffin how close an eye he intended to keep on me, but Christine was there, and I found I couldn’t manage it. “Can we leave?” I asked instead.
It came out rather more plaintively than I intended. Griffin arched a brow at me. “Are you sure? You’re the hero of the hour. The newspapermen will want an interview.”
I turned scarlet and looked down. “I-I know I failed, but…”
“Oh no, Griffin is quite serious,” Christine said. When had they decided to use each other’s first names? “You were the only one to realize what was going on and actually give pursuit, despite the ‘small army’ Mathison hired.”
“But I didn’t—”
“You tried,” Griffin said. “And you came a great deal closer to foiling them than the rest of us.” His fingers brushed my cheek lightly, before withdrawing. “Come. You look exhausted.”
It had been a trying evening, to say the least. I nodded mutely and followed him out. The gas was back on, and every light in the grand foyer burned, perhaps to reassure everyone order had been restored. Most of the attendees had left already; those who remained were either museum staff or reporters. Mr. Rockwell lined up the hired guards, roaring imprecations at them. Christine took my good arm and glared daggers at anyone who tried to approach us.
The air outside revived me somewhat, although it also heightened the pain in my arm. A hired cab hurried to retrieve us; Griffin gave the driver Christine’s address, then his.
“Well,” Christine said, when the cab had pulled away from the curb and we were more or less alone for the first time, “that was a damned mess.”
“It was my fault,” I said miserably. “I realized what Blackbyrne was after, but not until it was too late.”
Griffin sat directly across from me, his gaze fixed on my face, as if nothing else in the world mattered at the moment. “You didn’t fail. I should have questioned you more closely about the conversation with Blackbyrne. You were the only one who acted quickly enough to even come close to catching them.”
“And after the Brotherhood resurrected Blackbyrne, the mummy wasn’t a bad guess,” Christine put in. At least she’d managed to keep my blood off her dress, although her underskirt would have to be replaced.
“Do you know what was on the scroll they took?” Griffin asked.
“No,” I admitted. “Nyarlathotep was mentioned, though.”
“Blast,” Griffin said, his jaw tightening.
I hunched into my overcoat. “I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault, Whyborne,” Christine said, staring out the window at the passing street lamps. “It isn’t any of our faults.”
Perhaps she was right. But if so, it was a cold comfort indeed.