Hoarfrost (Whyborne & Griffin Book 6) (4 page)

Whyborne

Shortly
thereafter, I shut the door behind Christine and Iskander. I turned to find
Griffin in the hall behind me, one shoulder leaning against the wall, his
emerald gaze on me. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“For
what?” I asked, puzzled.

Griffin
pushed away from the wall as I approached. He tilted his head back to look me
in the face. “For accompanying us to the Arctic. I know you hate travel, and we’re
likely to live even rougher there than in Egypt.”

“Do you
think so?” I asked in alarm. “I thought there were towns and such near the gold
mines. The papers called Dawson the Paris of the North!”

“Somehow
I suspect they exaggerated its charms, just a bit.” His amused grin told me he
thought I was being naïve yet again. “Besides, Dawson and the places like it
were boomtowns. Most of them are deserted now the Klondike rush is over.”

“Oh.”
Curse it. “Still, sorcery is involved. What other choice do I have but to grit
my teeth and go?”

“That’s
just it.” Griffin caught my lapels and tugged me closer, until we stood pressed
together. “You do have a choice. You aren’t obligated to travel to the farthest
reaches of civilization to save a handful of people you don’t even know.”

“One of
them is your brother,” I reminded him. My hands settled at his waist, shaping
the line of his hip. “Christine is a brilliant archaeologist, and Iskander’s
family trained him to fight ghūls, but neither of them are sorcerers.” I
leaned closer, lips hovering just above his. “And you are my husband. Where you
go, I go.”

His warm
mouth tasted of wine and spice. The kiss began leisurely, then turned more
urgent as he nipped lightly at my lower lip with his teeth. When at last we
broke apart, he said, “Take me upstairs and make love to me.”

I
certainly had no desire to refuse such a request. I took his hand and led him
to my bedroom on the second floor. We kept two bedchambers, so as to present
two sets of used linen to the laundress each week, but never slept apart.

I turned
off the lights and lit the night candle with a whisper of power. We kissed,
tongues exploring each other’s mouths, lips caressing. I pushed his coat from
his shoulders and unknotted his tie. We attacked buttons and cuff links, slowly
stripping away layers of cloth to reveal skin. My fingers trailed over his
body, shaping the familiar planes, finding all the small scars and
imperfections.

And a
larger one. An ugly scar, left by the caustic touch of the horror beneath
Chicago, wrapped about his right thigh. After so long together, I seldom
noticed it; it was a part of him, as beloved as the rest.

Of
course, I had scars of my own now, tracing the path of lightning from the tips
of my fingers to my shoulder. Griffin traced them sometimes, with hands or
tongue. Tonight he merely ran his fingers up both arms, the marred and
unmarred. His member pushed against my thigh, hard and hot. The pupils of his
green eyes went wide with lust, and his breathing turned ragged and eager as he
said, “Take me, Ival. Make me
feel
it.”

I shoved
him onto the bed, climbing in over him. He stretched his hands above his head,
wrists loosely crossed in invitation. I pinned them with one hand, and he writhed
beneath me. A moan escaped me at the friction of skin on skin. His hard length
pressed hot against my belly as I straddled him. I kissed him hungrily, before
trailing my lips to his throat. He arched his neck to give me access.

A
whimper escaped him when I bit the juncture of neck and shoulder. His hips
worked, sliding his cock against my skin, his thigh against my own member. I
released his wrists so I could move lower, worrying his nipples with teeth and
tongue, then licking down the flat planes of his torso. The scent of bergamot
rose from his skin, mingled with sweat and musk.

His cock
bobbed against my cheek, as if asking for attention. I licked down to the base,
then farther. Shifting my weight, I said, “Spread your legs.”

I
nuzzled his sac, before dipping lower, drawing a groan from him. In the years
since we’d met, I’d learned every inch of his body with an intimacy I’d never
imagined having with anyone. And learned a great deal about myself in the
process.

We faced
months living in God-knew-what conditions in the far north. Would we have our
own tent, as we had in Egypt? Or live in a cabin with other men? We always
maintained an acceptable fiction as to our relationship in public, but at least
we passed our nights in each other’s arms. Pretending to have no deeper
commitment, with no reprieve day or night, would be agonizing.

Jack
could never find out. Griffin’s adoptive family had already deserted him
because of me. I couldn’t bear to cause him even more pain by driving away his
blood kin as well.

Anticipating
long days of nothing but covert looks, I set myself to pleasuring him with more
intent than usual. I traced his puckered ring, teasing and jabbing with my
tongue, until he wriggled helplessly.

“I want
you,” he panted.

I sat
back on the bed to look at him. God, I loved seeing him like this: face flushed
and breath short, his gaze wild with need. And all for me,
because
of
me. “How?” I asked.

He
turned, grasped the headboard, and spread himself wide. “Like this. I want you
to hold me while you fuck me.”

“Yes,” I
managed to say through a haze of lust. I pulled open the nightstand drawer and
retrieved the petroleum jelly.

I took
my time preparing him, working his body slowly with my fingers, until he
growled, “Damn it, Ival, do you wish me to beg?”

Some
nights the answer would be yes, absolutely. But I knew his moods, and this wasn’t
one of them. “We can’t have that, can we?” I asked.

I
finally touched my aching member, slicking myself thoroughly. His back arched
when I pressed the tip against his fundament, hands tightening on the headboard
until his knuckles showed white.

He let
out a small cry of pleasure as I worked in, careful not to go too quick. He
pushed back against me, asking for more.

I gave
it to him, everything I had. Recalling his earlier request, I wrapped my arms
around him. The sole advantage of my height was it let me cover him with my
body, draping myself protectively over him, while he supported us with his grip
on the headboard.

“Yes,”
he whispered. “Tighter.”

I held
him close, arms across his chest, hips moving slow and steady. His body gripped
my cock, hot and tight, every movement a sweet thrill of pleasure. I slid one
hand down to find his erection, wanting him to feel it, too.

He
arched his back against me in response. Encouraged, I stroked him in time to my
thrusts. “Yes, Ival,” he gasped and shuddered. “Faster. Please.”

I did as
he asked, giving myself over to the blind rhythm of desire. I pressed my face
against his neck, inhaling deeply, smelling his sweat and musk. Every shift of
skin on skin sent sparks of ecstasy crackling along my nerves. The flame of the
candle burned higher, and a breeze born from nowhere ruffled my hair.

Griffin
encouraged me with wordless grunts, and I closed my eyes, pleasure cresting
like a wave. I cried out against his neck, a night bird echoing me just outside
the window. The great vortex of magic turned widdershins beneath us.

Griffin
shouted, bucking in my grasp. A moment later, his hot seed slicked my fingers.

I slowed
my pace, wringing a last sigh from him before letting go. I remained for a long
moment, still wrapped around him, our breathing gradually returning to normal.
When I felt steady on my feet again, I pulled free and padded to the washbasin,
attending first to myself, then to him.

When I
returned to bed, he’d collapsed onto his side. I slid between the sheets,
touching his face gently with my hand.

“Do you
feel better?” I asked. “And do you want to talk about it?”

Griffin

I
offered Ival a rueful smile. “Was it obvious?”

“To me.”
Ival linked his hand with mine, gazing into my eyes across a few inches of
pillow. “But I like to think I know you a bit.”

“Just a
bit?” I teased. My body felt limp in the afterglow of pleasure. So much easier
to close my eyes and fall asleep beside him than think of these things.

“And now
you’re trying to derail the conversation.”

I turned
my gaze from his. The gentle light of the candle sparked off the rings on our
joined hands, warming the gold and finding a hidden sheen on the black pearl
adorning Whyborne’s. “I’m afraid.”

It was a
hard thing to admit, even to him.

“Of
losing Jack?” he guessed.

“In
part.” There were so many other things to fear. “I only just found him. We’ve merely
exchanged letters, but he seems a good man. A decent man.” Like Pa. “But I’m
afraid of losing you, too.”

Ival’s fingers
tightened on mine. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve
seen so much horror and death since we met.” I finally met his gaze again,
needing him to understand. “You came so close to dying in Egypt. And last year,
when you went off alone to confront the Endicotts…”

“Persephone
went with me,” he objected.

“But I
didn’t.” Because his damned brother shot me. Watching Ival walk out the doors
of the museum, staying behind while he went to save us all, had been the
hardest moment of my life. It gave me the strength to force my bleeding body
up, to go after him, to do something, anything, to help.

The
sight of him floating in midair over the ruined bridge, blue fire pouring from
the scars on his arm, from his eyes, had seared itself into my memory. And then
he’d fallen into the river, where he would surely have drowned if Christine
hadn’t gone in after him. While I stood by and watched helplessly, terrified he
was dead, or the maelstrom had burned away his mind, and unable to do anything
to save him.

“What if
you had died?” My voice cracked on the words. “If Fenton hadn’t come back for
Christine and me, or if Christine hadn’t been there, you would have perished.
And I couldn’t have done anything to prevent it.”

“Oh
darling.” He pulled me close, tossing his leg over my hip and twining his arms
about me. “I didn’t know it weighed on you so.”

I clung
to him, hiding my face in his neck. Breathing his scent of salt and ambergris,
of the ocean wind. “Things have been so much better this last year. Quiet. I
thought perhaps our lives would be normal now, or as normal as they can be in
this town.” I swallowed against the tightness in my throat. “And now this, with
Jack, and Pa, and everything. I’m dragging you back into danger again, and if
anything happened to you…”

I felt
like a raw nerve, like a clam with its shell pried open and its soft body
exposed. His hands stroked my back soothingly, and his lips pressed against my
hair. “Shh. It’s all right. Is that what you’ve been having nightmares about?”

“No.” I
felt wretched putting this on him. “Or yes, occasionally. But most of my
nightmares have been about Egypt, except
I’m
the daemon chasing us. And
this morning, for a moment I was so sure I recognized the stele fragment, but I
didn’t, I couldn’t. I’m afraid…what if the doctors at the asylum weren’t
completely wrong? What if I do have some seed of madness in me?”

“Griffin,
listen to me.” He propped himself up on his elbow, gripping my shoulder with
his other hand. “You aren’t mad. There was no justice to your confinement.”

I
avoided his gaze. I’d told him how I’d shrieked at the other Pinkertons about
the monster beneath Chicago, but he didn’t really understand. They’d thought me
mad, yes, but I’d
felt
mad. My mind had been full of screams and pain,
of the sight of Glenn’s bare skull and the gelatinous thing slowly dissolving
him alive.

He
caught my chin and turned my head, so I had to look at him. “As for the stele,
there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. The shards were discovered in 1882.
You would have been, what, thirteen at the time? You probably saw a newspaper
article, then forgot all about it.”

The
explanation was so sensible I was shamed not to have thought of it myself.
“You’re probably right.”

“Of
course I am. And as for the dreams, I’m sure they’re just some trick of the
mind. Strange, but not aberrant.” He ran his thumb tenderly over my jaw.
“You’ve been under a great deal of stress, and this discovery of your brother’s
has only made it worse. But you’ll be all right. You’re a good man, Griffin
Flaherty, and I love you more than I can possibly say.”

I held
him tight. “I love you, too, Ival.” And hoped he was right.

Whyborne

True to
her word, Christine dragged me into the director’s office first thing the next
morning. She began with demanding funds to make a survey, and ended cataloging
the list of horrors that might be visited on an invaluable archaeological site
should we not arrive quickly enough.

The
director seemed a bit taken aback. On the one hand, he’d dealt with Christine
before and was well prepared for her tendency to simply bully everyone into
submission. On the other, her record spoke for itself. The discovery of the
tomb of Pharaoh Nephren-ka had catapulted the Ladysmith into the international
spotlight, not to mention brought in a great deal of revenue.

When she
finally ran out of steam, I leaned forward in my chair. “I’ve examined the
fragment in question,” I said. “The markings on it match those of the Eltdown
Shards. If some unknown civilization lies buried beneath the permafrost and is
destroyed in a stampede, the loss to science could be incalculable.”

The
implication, that the loss of revenue would be equally incalculable, wasn’t
lost on Dr. Hart. Less than an hour later, we left his office with orders to
make our way to Alaska and secure the find as quickly as possible.

Furious
activity filled the next two weeks. Iskander left within a few days, bound for
St. Michael to meet Jack and secure whatever we’d need to survive a winter in
Alaska. Most of the supplies would be shipped immediately from St. Michael to
Hoarfrost, before the Yukon River froze in mid November. Although far more
expensive than purchasing supplies in the states and bringing them with us to
the territory, it would allow us to travel light when we arrived.

The
director might have rethought his permission given the expense, but a quiet
note to Father ensured Whyborne Railroad and Industries helped underwrite the
expedition. What he’d want from me in exchange for the favor I didn’t wish to
contemplate. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about it until we returned a few
months hence.

On the
final day prior to our departure, I left my office a bit before closing. Miss
Parkhurst rose to her feet on seeing me. “You’re leaving, Dr. Whyborne?”

“I’m
afraid so,” I said glumly. I disliked travel of any sort, and this trip
promised to be even more taxing than our journey to Egypt. How was poor
Iskander faring in St. Michael? Had the cold been a terrible shock to him,
after spending his life in England and Egypt?

“I’ll—I
mean, we’ll—miss you.” A light flush spread across her cheeks.

I
winced. “I’m sorry you have to return to the general secretarial pool while I’m
gone. With any luck I’ll be back by spring.”

“Oh, no,
it’s not…never mind.” Her color deepened. “I-I have something for you.” She
opened a drawer. “The papers all say it’s terribly cold in Alaska, and I
thought you’d need a scarf.”

Now
truly crimson, she thrust out what was possibly the ugliest scarf I’d ever
seen. Its color could only be described as puce, and it appeared to have been
knitted by a drunken spider.

“Er,
thank you?” I took it from her, trying to look as though I enjoyed the ghastly
color.

“Do you
like it?” she asked anxiously. “I made it myself. For luck.”

“It’s
lovely,” I said, although I meant the gesture rather than the scarf. I pulled
off the much more somber scarf I wore and replaced it with the puce. A light
floral scent rose from the folds, and I recognized it as the perfume she
ordinarily wore. Had she accidentally spilled some while knitting? “Thank you,
Miss Parkhurst. You’ve always been very kind to me, and…well. I appreciate it.”

A
tremulous smile touched her mouth. “I’m glad you like it. Safe travels, Dr.
Whyborne. I’ll…I’ll be here waiting when you get back.”

It seemed
an odd thing to say. Had one of my colleagues, dissatisfied with his secretary,
tried to steal away mine? Just the thought of having to work with a stranger, perhaps
one less agreeable than Miss Parkhurst, put my nerves on edge. “Thank you,” I
said fervently. “Your loyalty means a great deal to me.”

I left
the museum, pausing on the bottom of the steps leading down to the sidewalk.
The sounds and sights of Widdershins spread out around me: rushing hansoms, the
occasional motor car, the newly installed electric trolley making its way
toward River Street. I breathed deep, smelling the scent of fish and salt permeating
every corner of the town.

Instead
of making straight for home, I wandered. My feet took me almost of their own
accord to the Front Street Bridge over the Cranch River. The eye of the
maelstrom.

The
bridge had been rebuilt last summer. I paced to the center of the span,
standing against the low railing while traffic of every sort clattered behind
me. Beneath my feet turned the magical vortex that gave Widdershins its name. Lines
of arcane energy poured down from the land and spiraled up from the sea to meet
here, in a single point of titanic power.

I’d
touched that power last year. It had filled me, burning through my blood,
leaking through the scars on my arm until my shirtsleeve turned to ash. And for
a moment I’d felt every living thing in the city—every heartbeat, every
footstep, every quavering breath.

Some
believed Widdershins possessed a will of its own. It collected people to it,
for unknown reasons. And once it claimed a person, or a family, or a bloodline,
they would never be able to leave for very long. I’d always hated travel, had
taken a job at the museum here, instead of leaving this place and my family
behind. Mother had remained, even when she might have taken up residence at a
sanitarium for her long illness.

I’d left
before, for months at a time while at university. And later during our trip to
Egypt. But at the time, Widdershins hadn’t awakened to my hand. And though it
slept now, like an uneasy beast, I couldn’t deny I’d grown used to feeling the
whisper of power beneath my feet. What would happen when I left?

Nothing,
hopefully. Perhaps it would even be for the best. Maybe whatever I’d roused
would return to deeper dreams without my presence, and when we came back
everything would be ordinary again. Or as ordinary as Widdershins had ever
been, at least.

Perhaps.
But some doors once opened could never be shut again.