The Dark Deeps (16 page)

Finally, he spotted the
Ictíneo
and lumbered as quickly as possible toward it, pushing seaweed out of his way. The others, recognizing that something was wrong, caught up to him and climbed into the lock chamber after him. Soon the water drained out of the lock chamber and the door opened. Modo threw himself onto the floor, choking for air.

O
ctavia awoke, her mind made up. She had shed enough tears. Whether Modo was alive or dead, she had a task to perform. She dressed quickly, but took the time to comb her hair properly and tie it up in a bonnet. She pulled on her warmest jacket and gloves and dug into her portmanteau for money. With what she had, plus the funds Mr. Socrates had just wired her, she intended to make her way back onto the ocean, even if she had to buy a boat and sail it herself!

She had woken several times in the night, trying to puzzle out where she’d find a captain. Finally, the solution had presented itself and she’d been able to sleep soundly.

Instead of walking to the docks, she turned and strode into town, past the green-roofed cathedral. She soon found the building she was looking for. The wooden sign was written in Icelandic, so she couldn’t read it, but a ram’s head
and a goblet had been carved into the wood. In all languages, that meant one thing: a pub.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open. Peat moss burned in the fireplace, dung-scented smoke clouding the air. Two patrons were slumped across a table. She went up to the innkeeper, who was holding a mug of coffee. “I’m searching for a captain brave enough to sail to Nifleheim.”

The man laughed. He stopped when she handed him a five-dollar American bill; then he pointed to a darkened corner of the room, where a man sat. Well, he’s upright, at least, Octavia told herself. When she got to the table, she discovered that the man was using his detached wooden leg to prop himself up. If not for that, he’d have been slumped across the table like the other two. His eyes, a mass of red veins, rolled slowly toward her. He grunted something that sounded like “Valkyrie.”

“No, I am not a Valkyrie,” she said, “or an angel. I need a captain brave enough to sail into Nifleheim’s circle.”

He blinked slowly. His teeth were crooked, but she could see that he had once been handsome. Time and drink had scarred his face. “Only the dead go to Nifleheim.”

“I mean the place on the ocean. Not the realm of the dead.” Her answer surprised her. Proof she’d actually been paying attention to Mr. Socrates’ lectures on Scandinavian culture. Maybe learning to read would finally pay off.

“Hel awaits in her hall,” the man muttered. “She serves a dish called hunger.”

He was mad! He believed in the Norse fairy tales. “If you were a brave man, you would take me there.”

He let out a raspy chuckle. “Even Hermod could not save Baldur from Hel.”

Octavia recognized it as an argument, one that she must somehow win. She put money on the table and he stared at it balefully, then swept it onto the floor. There was a tattoo above his wrist, the shape of a hammer.

“Well, that’s nasty,” she said. Then she remembered a name from her studies. “Thor would not fear. Thor would go. He would take his hammer and strike a blow.”

That sparked a light in the man’s eyes. He stood abruptly and wobbled on one leg until he had strapped on his wooden leg. He thumped and clumped toward the door.

“Bring my money,” he said over his shoulder.

“M
r. Warkin, what’s afflicting you?” Colette asked. Modo ignored her. He had to act fast—he felt his chest expanding to fill the armor cavities. He unsnapped the helmet and dropped it to the floor, then tore at the buckles that held the aquasuit in place.

“Mr. Warkin! Be careful with the equipment!” Monturiol shouted, holding her helmet in both hands. “Speak! Tell us what is wrong.”

“Too small, too tight!” he hissed. Pain burned in his bones as he tried to make them maintain their shape. He kicked off the leg armor, his mind clouded by the agony of the transformation.

“Mr. Warkin!” Colette cried, and he turned away from her. She mustn’t see him like this!

He tossed the breastplate to the floor and slurred through his thickening lips, “I go to cabin! I must! My affliction!”

He burst past two of the beefy Icarians and down the narrow hallway, scampering through the library and bridge, up to his room, where he slammed the door closed. He threw his back against it and breathed heavily.

There was no stopping the transformation now. It had come upon him so quickly, and earlier than usual. His arms were growing thicker, his hump pressing against the door, his spine curving as each nerve tingled with pain. He tore off the India rubber suit, fearing that it would constrict his arms and cut off his blood. The little mirror reflected his sagging features. One eye was slightly larger than the other. His lovely dark hair was falling out, and tufts of red hair poked through his scalp.

“Mr. Warkin,” Colette whispered from outside the door. “Mr. Warkin, are you well?”

“Go away,” he slurred.

“Modo,” she whispered, “what’s happening?”

“I’m ill,” he said, wanting to slam his fists against his hump. He pressed hard against the door. “I need time alone.” If only he could turn off the light, but the ship was in its daytime cycle.

“Please, let me in.”

“No! No one comes in!” He let out a gasp. It was torture every time he twisted back into his original from.

“Modo!”

He struggled to make his mangled lips and throat form words. “I. Will. Not. Dine. Tonight. Please, Colette, go.”

There was silence on the other side of the door. Modo’s breathing was more controlled now.

“I will go, then,” she said, “but I expect a full explanation.”

“You. Shall. Have. It,” he promised, not exactly sure what he would tell her. He assumed she was gone. He rubbed his shoulder—he’d half dislocated it getting out of the aquasuit.

Another knock. “Please, go!”

“Mr. Warkin!” Captain Monturiol’s voice was stern. “Explain why you damaged that highly valuable equipment! What is the matter with you?”

“I—I felt smothered. The suit too small. Ocean too deep.”

“That is all in your head. You must get past it. Icarians have no fear of the sea. She is our mother.”

Modo took a deep breath. The pain subsided slightly. “I—I apologize, C-Captain. I really am sorry. Understand, these experiences are new to me.” He sucked in another wheezing lungful of air. “I’ve walked on the ocean floor. I never dreamed of such a thing. It was such a wondrous city.”

“Yes, yes, it is understandable. I should have prepared your minds for the overwhelming journey. Perhaps I am partly to blame. I will have food delivered to you. Soup?”

“I would appreciate that.”

“You rest, Mr. Warkin. Settle your thoughts.”

When he was certain she was gone, he sat on the bed, still catching his breath. His spine had twisted, and he shifted to find a comfortable position.

What to do now? There seemed to be no way out of the submarine ship. New Barcelona had been amazing. Mr.
Socrates would want to understand the science that had been used to create the city. Modo pictured such cities all across the Atlantic. Mining kelp, gathering coral, harvesting pearls, deep-sea fishing. A whole new world, much richer than even the Americas had been.

His foot bumped something under his cot. He bent over, picked it up. The wireless telegraph—in two pieces! Was this some mind game the captain was playing with him?

He examined the pieces. Nothing was seriously wrong; he could put it back together. But what was the message in this? Was the captain signaling that she knew about the device, and therefore knew that he was an agent? Or was it someone else who—

“You’re quite the ugly sot, aren’t you?”

A male voice! He snapped his head left and right, but no one else was in the room. He got up and pressed his ear against the door. Only the metallic creaking of the submarine ship. The person must be spying through a pinhole in the wall.

Light laughter from the far corner. Modo spun around to look in that direction, but no one was there.

“Looking for me, are you?” The voice was singsongy, playful, with a slight English accent. “That’s the thing, I can’t be seen. Can’t be found.”

“Who are you?” Modo scrambled to find his mask. “Where are you?”

More laughter, this time from right beside him. Then the voice fluttered out from across the room. “I move like the wind. I’ve been watching you for weeks. Weeks! You’re
enamored of that coquettish Colette, aren’t you? What would Octavia think?”

“Octavia? How do you know her name?” Modo wondered if he was going mad. “Tell me where you are!”

The telegraph pieces rose up from the bed and floated together, then drifted apart. Modo gaped.

“I tried to make the wireless work, but there’s a trick, isn’t there? A trick. And then it broke. Very flimsy. Very flimsy.” The pieces floated back down to the cot.

“Who—who are you?”

“Who am I?” And again that high-pitched laughter. “Why, I’m a little experiment that bends light.”

“But—but it doesn’t make sense.”

“Of course it does. It’s just that your brain is too tiny to comprehend the wondrous being in front of you. I’m Griff, the first invisible man, and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

G
riff couldn’t suppress a giggle. The monstrous freak before him was so slack-jawed he looked like a puppet. His crooked eyes were wide with fear. Fear of me! Me! Griff had never seen such ugliness; the chimpanzees altered by Dr. Hyde were handsome by comparison. This agent’s features made Griff want to retch.

“Ah, I messed up my introduction,” Griff said. “Silly me! It’s been so long since I’ve spoken to anyone. I am Griff, Invisible Man the First. Get that? I am the first! And we are agents under the same flag.”

He watched Modo snap his head from side to side again, searching the room. “Where are you? Please stop this game.”

Griff shrieked with laughter. “Oh, don’t gape like a country bumpkin! I’m right before your very eyes. Ta-hee!” This is how lesser beings behave in the presence of greatness, Griff realized. This underling’s dim intellect cannot even
begin to comprehend my existence. I shall have to provide proof! Griff yanked a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders, over his wiry muscles, displaying his shape. Modo watched him in awe. Yes! Yes! He was beginning to get it.

“This is impossible,” said Modo.

“Nothing is impossible; it’s all probabilities. That’s what the brilliant doctor taught me.”

“Doctor?”

“Yes, for the Association.”

“The Association?” Modo looked positively bewildered.

Griff smiled, invisible lips pulled back from invisible teeth. Was it really going to be this easy? “The Permanent Association, Modo. Your masters.
Our
masters. I’m on your side.” He had heard Octavia use the name in New York while he’d been crouching in the corner of their hotel room.

Modo leaned against the dresser. “You’re an agent of the Association?”

“Quick little boy, aren’t you? Yes, I am. I’m their majestic experiment. You and I have much in common, don’t we? I’m guessing that your particular talent, which I’ve now observed closely, has been with you since birth. They trained you in some secret location, didn’t they? Mr. Socrates is the one who yanks your leash.”

“You know Mr. Socrates? Did he—did he raise you?”

“No. No. I know
of
him. I’ve not had the pleasure of a face-to-face with the ol’ boy.”

Modo took a deep breath. And another.

Good, good, Griff thought. You’re calming down.

Modo brought his hands up to hide his lower jaw.

“Are you concerned about your looks? I’ve seen worse,” Griff lied.

“How long have you been following me?”

“Since New York. I was haunting the library, told to find Colette Brunet and this mysterious
grand
fish. I followed you onto the
Hugo
. I snatched food here and there. I was right beside you when the ship was rammed, and I fell over the edge before you. Nearly froze to death in the water. And when you ripped open the
Ictíneo’s
hatch, I went in along with you.”

“You mean before me. And you struck me on the head!”

“What can I say?” Griff raised his arms, lifting the sheet. “I apologize for the blow, but you have a thick head and I was desperate. There was no time to explain who or what I was. I recovered in the library and have kept myself well hidden since then. The food is awful here. I hate fish. At least this ship is warm.” He coughed. Ah, he could never escape his own lungs, the hated cough they produced. It was truly the bane of his existence. Sometimes he blamed all the hours he’d been made to spend in the ice room, training to withstand near-freezing temperatures. Sometimes he blamed Dr. Hyde and the years and years the doctor had fed him tinctures. Maybe one day he’d feed the doctor some of his own medicine.

Modo was squinting at the space above the blanket. “Trying to find my eyes, are you?” Griff said.

“Why didn’t you announce yourself earlier?” Modo demanded.

“I was told to operate alone. Does Mr. Socrates allow
others in the Association to know he has a shape-shifting monster in his employ?”

“I am not a monster!” Modo cried, and in a heartbeat, he was across the room, his hands around Griff’s throat. “Who is your master? Tell me! Don’t lie!”

“M-Modo.” Griff spat the word out. The hunchback’s grip was strong. “We’re partners. And—and you know I can’t tell you. We’re not allowed to know the names of the other members of the Association.”

“No, we aren’t.”

“Then her name would mean little, wouldn’t it?”

“Ha!” said Modo, releasing him. “It’s Lady Artemis Burton!”

Griff sucked in a breath. And another, stroking his throat. I’ll flay you alive for touching me, he thought. “You said you didn’t know their names.”

“I lied. I met her and several others a few months ago. I believe she is the only female in the Association.”