Free Bloodline (Whyborne & Griffin Book 5) by Jordan L. Hawk Page A

Draakenwood stood out against them atop the
hill. As we climbed toward it, the sound of branches rubbing against one
another came on the wind: creaks and groans and whispers, as if the trees
communed with each other.
    Perhaps they did. I’d only been past the forest verge once,
and it was not a place recommended for hikes or bird watching. Casual visitors
had a nasty habit of vanishing within its dark tangle of limbs. Surely the
lines of arcane energy laced throughout Widdershins must run through the wood.
Perhaps I’d return one day soon and map them.
    Guinevere had shared Mother’s slender build, but the edge of
the board dug into my shoulder, even through my coat, as if weighed down by
stones. Stanford should have been with us, should have been the one to bear the
other end of the makeshift bier. But when Griffin and I returned to Whyborne
House in the evening, we’d found my brother too drunk to be of any use. Was he
taking Guinevere’s death hard? Or did he simply use it as an excuse to fall
back into the bad habits that had cost him his marriage and his place in New
York?
    I didn’t give a damn. He’d left this task to us, not even
caring enough for Guinevere’s memory to stay sober long enough to honor her.
Thank heavens for Griffin.
    We reached the hilltop. A row of family crypts surrounded an
inner wheel of headstones marking the oldest burials in Widdershins. At the hub
of the wheel lay the ostentatious tomb of the town’s founder, Theron
Blackbyrne. A necromancer of the worst sort, he’d ultimately vanished screaming
through a portal to the Outside, after the Brotherhood ill advisedly
resurrected him almost two years ago.
    I felt a little flicker across my skin, like a faint
electrical charge. So the lines of arcane energy did cross the cemetery to the
wood. This one likely ran directly over Blackbyrne’s grave. No wonder he’d
chosen to be buried here.
    The first generation of Whybornes lay among Blackbyrne’s
inner circle, but we’d gained enough prestige afterward to build a crypt. No
one could know Guinevere had died, but keeping her body in the wine cellar was
out of the question. Quietly—and temporarily—interring her in the
family crypt seemed the best solution. Whenever Father decided to declare her
dead at the sanitarium, an empty coffin could easily be brought in with a
public ceremony. Until then, she would at least rest peacefully among the bones
of our ancestors.
    We reached the family crypt. Carved faces stared solemnly at
us from above the door. Presumably, they were meant to be angels, but their
expressions seemed a bit sinister for servants of heaven. A rusted chain and
padlock held the heavy stone door closed. I’d seen it open only once before,
when my grandmother had been interred. I’d been quite young then, and barely
remembered anything about the funeral, save for the terrible creak of the
hinges and the thud as the crypt slammed shut once more.
    Griffin and I waited in silence while Father fought with the
lock. The limbs of the Draakenwood whispered, perilously close. The spot
between my shoulder blades itched, and the small hairs on the back of my neck
prickled.
    Was someone watching us?
    I glanced apprehensively back over my shoulder. The wan
circle of lantern light showed only Griffin, dressed in his most sober suit.
    Who could be observing us, in a cemetery long before dawn?
Surely, no one would choose this hour to clamber over the low wall and visit a
family member’s grave. Resurrection men, then? Griffin had once remarked on the
startling amount of grave robbing in Widdershins, considering the university
lacked a medical school. But even the most foolhardy resurrectionist would
avoid disturbing the rest of any of the old families.
    Wouldn’t they?
    Griffin cocked his head; I’d stared too long. Clearly, he
didn’t feel anything amiss. It was just my nerves.
    The lock clicked so loudly I would have jumped, save for the
weight resting on my shoulder. The chain