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

Whyborne

I lay
rigidly on my back in the bed. To my left, a bony man twitched and muttered in
his sleep. To my right, an enormous fellow let out snores that could probably
be heard in Canada. The bunk above us sagged alarmingly, and the entire room
echoed to a chorus of snores, wheezing, and other, even more indelicate sounds.
I doubted most of the men had bathed this week, and those who didn’t reek of
sweat were pickled in alcohol.

At least
it was warm. That had to count for something. Didn’t it?

The
squirmer on my left flung a loose arm over my chest. “Mabel,” he mumbled.

Enough.
I could take no more. I didn’t know who Mabel might be, but I certainly had no
desire to take on her role. Given his breath, the real Mabel probably wouldn’t
have either.

I slid
out of the covers and climbed rather awkwardly over the large man on my right. “Sorry,
sorry,” I whispered, and hoped he didn’t take my inadvertent groping the wrong
way. I rather liked my teeth where they were. Fortunately, he only snorted
sleepily and rolled over. Freed at last, I found my sealskin boots, scarf,
moose hide mittens, and twill parka amidst the other jumble of clothing.

Where I
meant to go, I didn’t know, exactly. Perhaps I could order a drink at the
saloon downstairs and pretend to pass out. Would they leave me there unmolested
as I’d already paid for a bed? Or perhaps one of the prostitutes would let me
sleep in her tent if I offered her ordinary rate. Did they charge by the hour
or the customer?

I
imagined someone spotting me emerging from a prostitute’s tent and felt faint.
Perhaps not.

The
crowd at the saloon had thinned considerably. Griffin and Jack sat not far from
the stove, playing cards. I started toward them, then caught myself. Griffin
surely wanted time to get to know Jack on his own, without my hovering.

I hadn’t
imagined it would bother me for Jack not to know of our relationship. And yet I
couldn’t help but think how different the situation would have been, had I been
Griffin’s wife instead of his husband. All other things aside, Jack would have
looked on me as part of his family, someone who had a right to Griffin’s
affection and something of a claim on his.

For all
the terrible things I could say about Father—and heavens knew I had
plenty—he’d made Griffin a part of family gatherings even before Mother went
to the sea. True, most of his acceptance stemmed from the fact he viewed me as
illogically obstinate on all points, and thus knew he might as well resign
himself to my male lover, as I wouldn’t change to please him or anyone else.

And of
course Mother adored Griffin from the first. Persephone appeared fond of him,
but the ketoi didn’t seem remotely interested whether or not the sex of one’s
spouse matched one’s own. In truth, I had far more family—and
friends—who understood our relationship than I had any right to expect.
How could I complain when Griffin’s family, adoptive or otherwise, didn’t
number among them?

Perhaps
a walk outside would clear my head. I pulled up my fur-lined hood, tugged on my
mittens, and slipped out through the door.

And
instantly regretted it. Dear heavens, it was cold. Not nearly as cold as it
would be in the interior, but enough to steal my breath and nip at the skin of
my cheeks.

Still,
turning around and immediately rushing back into the saloon would attract
attention and make me look a fool in front of Jack. I didn’t want to embarrass
either Griffin or myself, so I huddled as deeply as possible into my parka and
started off at a brisk walk. I’d go a short distance, then return to the hotel.
Perhaps the relief at being warm again would overcome the awfulness of my
surroundings, and I’d drift happily off to sleep without caring if my bedmate
called me “Mabel.”

I found
myself grateful for the fur lining my parka and for the sealskin boots. Few
lights showed—I hadn’t taken into account such a place wouldn’t have any
street lamps—and only the stars and fat, full moon illuminated the frozen
mud of the roadway.

Not to
suggest the town slept peacefully—far from it. Dogs howled in their
multitudes, a maddening chorus of barks and yips. The gambling halls and
brothels did an excellent business despite the hour. The sound of a badly tuned
piano drifted out from one as I ventured past. Burly men in mackinaws went from
one tent to the next, swearing and shouting.

Hadn’t I
read something earlier in the year about Congress providing funds to the
District of Alaska to curb lawlessness? Or was I misremembering things? I
certainly hoped a cry for help would bring a policeman of some sort, and yet I began
to doubt it.

I really
should go back to the hotel. My bed partners might not be pleasant, but at
least they weren’t dangerous.

Decided,
I turned around and found myself face-to-face with a man.

I couldn’t
make out his features—his hood was drawn far forward, throwing them in
deep shadow, and he wore a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face. He
stood rather closer to me than I would have liked. How had I missed the sound
of his footsteps behind me?

“Excuse
me,” I said automatically.

“You
wish to break open the mountains and release the great worm,” he growled in a
low, threatening voice.

The
devil. Was the man drunk? I stepped back hastily and held up my hands. “I
assure you, I have no intention of breaking anything,” I said.

Apparently
he didn’t believe me, because he raised his arm. A long dagger flashed in the
moonlight.

I let
out a startled shout and scrambled back from him. My foot caught in a rut, and
I fell, tailbone impacting painfully with mud frozen into the consistency of
concrete. He lunged at me, blade swinging down, and I shouted the secret name
of fire.

Fortunately,
I rolled to the side even as I did so, because the spell did not a damned bit
of good. The blade flashed red with heat, and the smell of scorched leather
filled the air, but his heavy mitten prevented a burn as surely as it held back
frostbite.

Blast.

I made
it to my feet and ran. Boots pounded after me, and I stretched my long legs to
their fullest. My assailant was quite a bit shorter, but didn’t seem to have
any trouble keeping up with me. The cold air burned my lungs and stripped
moisture from my throat.

My steps
turned instinctively in the direction of the sea. The waves pounded against the
shore, the occasional gleam of white marking where a small floe of ice had been
tossed onto the strand. If I could only make it…

He
tackled me from behind, and I fell heavily. His body landed atop me, and I
snapped my head back hard. My skull impacted with his jaw, and his teeth cracked
loudly together. He fell heavily to the side, and I gathered my limbs beneath
me.

There. A
net, hanging from the nearby dock.

I tore
off my mittens so I could grasp the thick cords. Even as I hauled myself up,
the net began to shake under another’s weight.

Still. I
was close enough.

The
maelstrom of Widdershins might not turn beneath me, but I had the blood of the
sea in my veins. There came an angry roar, the cold water ripping across the
sand. The man below me let out a startled cry as the tide suddenly rushed in,
lapping about his waist.

I didn’t
wait to see if he washed out to sea. Hauling myself onto the dock, I ran in the
direction of the hotel without looking back.

By the
time I reached the door, I was half frozen and completely out of breath. The bar
had closed for the night, the saloon empty save for Griffin, who still sat at
one of the tables. As I entered, he shot to his feet. “I was about to come
looking for you,” he said. “Where on earth have you been?”

My teeth
chattered. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk.” God, it sounded stupid
even to me.

Griffin’s
expression suggested he agreed with my assessment. “You went for a walk?
Whyborne, this isn’t Widdershins. St. Michael is no Skagway, as Jack said, but
it’s not the sort of place to go wandering about alone!”

“Well…yes.
I couldn’t sleep, and you were busy talking to Jack, and it seemed the thing to
do.” I didn’t want to admit to the extent of my foolishness, but had no real choice.
“Except I was set upon.”

“Set
upon?” He started to reach for me, then seemed to recall we weren’t in private
surroundings. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my
pride.” I sighed. “Less than twenty-four hours in Alaska, and already someone
has tried to kill me.”

Griffin

I
managed to coax Ival into bed, securing us spaces beside each other by
whispering to one man that my friend had gotten terribly drunk and might vomit
at any moment. It convinced him to stagger to another berth, and allowed poor
Ival to sleep on the outside edge of the bunk, with me as a barrier between him
and the next man.

Still,
sleep came slowly for us both. Who had attacked him? And why? The words he’d
related sounded like the ravings of a drunkard or a lunatic.

“Could
it have anything to do with the umbra?” I whispered in Whyborne’s ear, as we
lay together in the crowded bed. “This ‘worm’ he mentioned.”

“I’ve no
idea,” he whispered back. His breath stirred the small hairs of my ear, and
sent blood rushing to my cock. I wasn’t at all looking forward to the upcoming
days of enforced celibacy. “And ‘break open the mountains?’ None of it makes
sense. The Eltdown Shards were found nowhere near a mountain, or what passes
for a mountain in England, anyway.”

“Still,
a random lunatic seems unlikely.”

“Agreed.”
Whyborne sighed.

Well,
with any luck the fellow had been swept out to ocean and frozen amidst the ice
floes. A callus way of thinking, perhaps, but as he’d tried to kill Ival, I
couldn’t find any pity in my heart for him.

The next
morning, we gathered around the breakfast table. Iskander declared his desire
to take a photograph of the entire expedition. Crowding in so he could capture
everyone gave me an excuse to fling a comradely arm around Ival’s shoulders. I’d
have to remember to ask Iskander if he would consent to taking a private
portrait when we returned to Widdershins.

There
was no sign of the sun when we left our hotel. The stars blazed above,
shockingly bright in the cold, clear air. Our guides already waited with the
sleds, busy strapping the howling, barking dogs into their harness. One man
coaxed leather moccasins onto the dogs’ feet. Presumably the dogs were used to
such footgear, as they wore them with good humor.

“Ordinarily
most of our guides would be Tagish,” Jack said. “Or Russian creoles like Vanya.
But the measles outbreak this summer…it was an awful thing to see. Whole towns
left abandoned, and at least half the aboriginal population of St. Michael
carried off. The Russian creoles died in droves as well. At least I could bring
men from Hoarfrost with me, and I’m an old hand at mushing myself. Otherwise we
might have been in trouble.”

“I
wouldn’t mind learning how to drive a sled myself,” I said, stopping to pet one
of the enthusiastic dogs. Whyborne stayed well back, regarding them with great
uncertainty.

“I’d
love to teach you.” Jack looked around. “Speaking of Vanya, where is he? We
need to get started.”

One of
the other guides shrugged. “I haven’t seen him, Mr. Hogue.”

In the
end, the search for the missing Vanya severely delayed our departure. The wait
wore on Christine’s nerves, and she cursed the missing man roundly in Arabic as
the day—such as it was, given the lack of sunlight—stretched on. As
usual in the field, she wore a pair of men’s trousers in lieu of a skirt. The
guides stared at her openly, although to be fair they gave Whyborne some rather
dubious looks as well.

At last,
Jack returned alone. “I’ve no idea,” he said. “Vanya seemed a solid fellow. I
wouldn’t have thought him likely to desert us.”

“Probably
drunk somewhere,” one of the men opined. “Dirty creole. Lazy drunkards to the
last man.”

“What
else would you expect from someone whose father was a squawman?” another guide
put in. There came a general round of nodding, as if the statement were too
obvious to contradict.

I
glanced at Iskander, who wore a rather fixed expression on his face. I doubted
the guides held any better opinion of Arabs than they did Indians, although
presumably the fact Iskander was in charge of their pay might curb their
tongues. In his hearing, anyway.

“We
should go,” Jack said brusquely, cutting off any further abuse of the missing
Vanya’s parentage and habits. “Haswell, take over Vanya’s team. Dr. Whyborne,
Dr. Putnam, Mr. Barnett, Griffin, if you’ll come with me?”

We
followed him to the sleds. Most were piled high with our supplies, which would
have to last us until we arrived in Hoarfrost. Two bore lighter loads, however,
and I guessed Whyborne, Christine, Iskander and myself would be expected to
ride on them.

“This is
my sled—do you trust to ride with me?” Jack asked me with a grin.

“Of
course,” I replied immediately.

“You say
that now, but we’ve time to make up. Wait until I’ve delivered us to camp
without sending the sled over on a boulder.” He clapped me on the arm. “Be sure
you bundle up well in the furs.”

Looking
rather uncertain, Whyborne settled himself in the sled. I arranged myself
between his long legs and covered us both with the fur robes. As I tucked them
in about us, I murmured, “It seems likely this Vanya was the man who attacked
you last night.”

“Possibly.
Although I suppose there might be other reasons for him to vanish,” Whyborne
whispered back.

I
glanced at him over my shoulder. “Do you really believe that?”

He
sighed, and a rueful smile curled one corner of his mouth. “No. I’m afraid I
don’t.”