Free Maelstrom by Jordan L. Hawk Page B

believed him...or thought I did,
anyway. He might employ subterfuge when it suited him, but
answering a direct question with a lie wasn’t in his character.
“And the ritual murder?”
    “Could have been performed for a number of
reasons.” He sat back in his chair. “I was never involved in the
sorcerous aspect of things, you know that.”
    “But you were at certain gatherings.” I’d
not absolve him so easily. “The one on Walpurgisnacht, when Leander
drowned in the lake. The one where Blackbyrne meant to bring
something in from the Outside and clothe it in Leander’s
resurrected flesh—and feed Griffin to it, may I remind you. I’m
sure many more of which I’m unaware.”
    Father scowled. “Yes, yes. My point is,
there are many reasons someone might be interested in these ruins.
And the Brotherhood was far from the only source of knowledge about
them. Our lore held that Blackbyrne himself learned such things
from the Man in the Woods.”
    A shudder ran through me.
“Nyarlathotep.”
    “If you prefer.” Father shrugged. “I’ve
little interest in religion.”
    “Perhaps if you did, you would have removed
yourself from the Brotherhood,” I said. “Nyarlathotep was a god of
chaos. I’ve seen his temple amidst the wastes of Egypt. The
faceless statues and blasphemous carvings.” He’d been worshipped by
the heretical pharaoh Nephren-ka, until the pharaoh’s death. After,
the priests of the other gods had done their best to expunge both
from the record. But traces had remained, and against all odds,
Nyarlathotep’s name reappeared in the Middle Ages as the Man in the
Woods, who tutored witches and sorcerers in the black arts.
    “It’s only a story,” Father said crossly.
“Look at you—you wield great power, but you discovered it on your
own, through study. Not by selling your soul to the Devil, or
whatever foolishness men like Blackbyrne spread about in order to
enhance their reputations.”
    “I have power because I’m an Endicott,” I
replied, as much as I hated it. “And I’m not at all certain there’s
no truth behind the legends. Nitocris was all too real.”
    Father looked skeptical, but then, he hated
to imagine anything might be out of his control. Even he would find
it hard to bully an immortal creature with vast sorcerous
knowledge.
    I changed tactics. “This symbol,” I said,
pointing to the odd swirl on the photograph of the altar. “Do you
recognize it?”
    “Not particularly.”
    Curse it. If the man had to be steeped in an
evil cult, at least he might have had the decency to learn
something useful. I drew out the Wisborg Codex and laid it before
him. “What about the script in here?”
    He perused it. “No. I don’t...”
    His voice faded away, as he paused on the
image of the ketoi. An odd expression passed over his face. If I
hadn’t known better, I would have thought it sorrow, or even
loneliness. But that was absurd.
    “At least the Brotherhood isn’t involved
directly,” I said. “What of the others who survived? Might one of
them be behind this?”
    He seemed to recall himself, closing the
codex gently. “It’s certainly possible. I’ll make discreet
inquiries.”
    “Thank you. But be careful,” I added
awkwardly, the memory of Lambert all too fresh in my mind.
“Whatever was sent to kill Lambert...well, presumably it might be
turned against others.”
    To my surprise, a small smile creased his
lips. “I’ll be cautious.”
    “I don’t suppose you have any ideas what
might have murdered Lambert in his cell like that?” I asked without
much hope.
    “A few.” He sat back, tapping his chin
thoughtfully. “From time to time the Brotherhood needed
persons...removed. We tried to keep it as discreet as possible,
which Lambert’s death most certainly was not. But at times we
needed to send a warning.”
    “Is that what you think this is?” I asked.
“Could someone be warning Griffin off the case?”
    “Or you.” Father didn’t look pleased at