Free Prospero in Hell by L. Jagi Lamplighter Page B

a second disaster. An explosion had destroyed one of our warehouses in Michigan—luckily not the one in which Mab had stored the warded crate containing a gate to Hell his men had taken from the warehouse in Maryland. (It had been while fighting the creatures that emerged from this crate that we had first encountered Mephisto in his big bat-winged form.)
    Following so soon after the loss of the truck carrying phoenix dust, less than two weeks earlier, even Mab admitted there might be some truth to the suspicions of foul play voiced by my familiar, Tybalt, Prince of Cats—and Mab hated to agree with anything “espoused by the furball.” These suspicions grew stronger when the burnt remains of what might be a saboteur were found at the damaged building. Two of Mab’s assistants were already on site examining the situation, but Mab did not trust them to do a thorough job. He headed off to Michigan himself, while I arranged for the replacement of the lost inventory. Luckily, this warehouse had stored only mundane goods.
    Once that matter was in hand, I checked on the Great Hall, to see how the renovations were coming.
Oreads
and other spirits of the earth had repaired the damage Seir of the Shadows had done to the mansion when he attacked in early December. They had also restored about half of the statues of my siblings that had stood in the hall’s alcoves. Alas, the rest of the statues were beyond repair. As I had feared, the joyous face of Theo’s statue was among those that had been ruined.
    Returning to the Lesser Hall, I sat down and read the
Book of the Sibyl
through several more times, contemplating each word carefully. Some of it was familiar to me, such as Eurynome’s history, or made obvious sense, such as the description of how to open locks. Had I a Sibyl mark upon my forehead, it would be an easy enough matter to bend down and touch it to a lock I wished to open. Other descriptions, however, baffled me. Love the water? Where a Sibyl disdains, Life flees? What did these things mean? I frowned and rubbed my bare forehead where no Sibyl mark yet rested.
    The matter of Astreus and Mephisto weighed heavily on my mind—so much so that I could not bring myself to start on the embroidery I had promised Astreus as the prize for his winning our wager over whether or not I would accept his gift. Using the excuse that there were more pressing issues, I put his heraldry aside and returned to the matter of the Three Shadowed Ones, the main threat to our family.
    My family was clearly in danger. The demons had already attacked several times. I was beginning to wonder if warning my siblings, as Father had requested, was not going to be enough. In the old days, we would have banded together and done something to eliminate the threat. It was a shame that option was no longer open to us. We were so much more effective when we worked together.
    Currently, I had no method to directly discover the demons’ plans, but I felt that the key to all this lay in discovering what my father had been doing when he visited Gregor’s grave last September. Poring over Father’s most recent journals, I had examined his treatises—terrifying things that they were—and unraveled his poems, thanks to my familiar, Tybalt, Prince of Cats, who recognized them as translations of odes written by the ancient Greek hero, Orpheus, for the Eleusinian Mysteries.
    The only avenue of inquiry I had not yet exhausted was Father’s horticulture project. According to Tybalt, this project was located in the Wintergarden, here in Prospero’s Mansion.
    In my father’s house were many mansions, making for some very long hallways. Walking from one wing to another was out of the question, unless one had the time for a week’s outing. So, to hasten my trip to the Wintergarden, I borrowed Father’s magical Turkish throw rug.
    The flying carpet floated down the hallway. Piloting it was Caurus, another of the three incarnated Northerlies. He sat cross-legged