Chapter 37
I wake refreshed the next morning, despite the cobweb of dreams clinging to my brain. Something about the Swarm and their city…
“Good morning!” Adrian calls as he opens the curtains. Light spills in, glinting on his freshly pomaded hair and modest gold tie pin.
I roll to a sitting position, my feet on the cold floor. “You’ve been awake a while.”
“I thought you needed to sleep in as much as possible.” He holds out a hand, and when I take it, levers me to my feet so we’re standing face-to-face. “I hope you feel better.”
“I think I do?”
“Good enough.” He kisses me.
For a moment, I savor his lips, the minty taste of Pepsodent on his breath. Then I draw back in horror, hand clapped over my mouth. “I haven’t brushed my teeth yet!”
Adrian laughs. “I don’t mind your morning breath.”
“I do!” I pull away and hastily don my suit, which is starting to look the worse for wear after travel. Perhaps Cleo can have someone break into my apartment, gather all my clothes, and ship them to Widdershins?
But no—with luck, I’ll be back home soon. I don’t quite see how, but I cling to the thought as I wash my face and brush my teeth. My hair remains abysmal, and I might have to insist on stopping at a barbershop, no matter what else is happening.
It’s not until I’m almost finished that I realize my reflection no longer fills me with dread. It’s as if, now that I know the cause, my mind has come to accept that there won’t be a terrible monster staring back. So perhaps my session with Dr. North helped in more ways than one.
We make it down to breakfast with just enough time to eat, then head for the train station once again.
Our route takes us back through Salem and finally deposits us in Widdershins.
The station is surprisingly grand for a town of its size, with marble columns holding up high ceilings and light streaming through enormous windows.
The wind blows strong off the ocean here, and I wrinkle my nose at the pervasive smell of fish.
A line of taxis await disembarking passengers, so we take the first one we come to.
The driver, an older man, only grunts at our request to be transported to the university and makes no attempt to engage us in conversation after.
I peer out the window at the passing streets—are we driving right past the cult who’s trying to kill me?
What if I’m spotted? Maybe I should have crouched in the footwell, but that would surely arouse the driver’s suspicions and probably get us both thrown out of the cab.
The university is at nearly the opposite end of town, well away from the ocean. The driver lets us out at the entrance: a long brick wall pierced by high gates of black iron. Above the gates, a stone arch bears a carving of a staring eye over the phrase Turn not your gaze away.
Beyond the gates lies a brick walkway slick with leaves fallen from the oaks towering to either side.
Campus buildings lurk beyond the trees, all of them of somber brick with windows that seem to stare like the eye above the gates.
Students rush about, many weighed down by books, while a few toss a football on a wide lawn.
We pause by the youths with the football to ask directions to the Department of Metaphysics. They point us to a building with an incongruous tower sticking out of the middle of it. What on earth had the architect been thinking?
Inside, students huddle in groups, heads bent over books and notepads.
We pass the lower levels, taking the central stairs up to the highest non-tower floor.
A large room opens just off the landing, the clack of typewriters coming from within.
Several people who I assume are secretaries sit behind desks typing, or file away paperwork in one of the many cabinets lining the far wall.
Just within, a formidable-looking woman sits behind the largest desk.
On spotting us, she says, “Can I help you gentlemen?”
Adrian gives her a charming smile. “Yes, ma’am. We’re here to see Dr. Dane.”
Her eyes narrow. “I see. And what are your names?”
“Sterling Caine and Adrian Evans,” I tell her, trying to sound confident as I do so.
The receptionist frowns. “You aren’t students.”
“No, ma’am,” Adrian says with a charming smile that doesn’t seem to affect her in the slightest. “We’re investigating an insurance claim—nothing to do with Dr. Dane, but we need to ask her a few questions.”
He produces one of his cards and she takes it from him. After studying it for a long moment, she says, “Wait here.”
We wait, Adrian apparently at ease, myself uncomfortable.
A pair of students enter in the midst of an argument, the gist of which seems to be a dispute over usage of a telescope.
They pull a flustered secretary into the quarrel, pointing at a sign-up sheet on her desk, then up at the ceiling, by which I gather the incongruous tower houses the astronomy department.
The receptionist returns, her expression icy. “Dr. Dane recognized your name, Mr. Caine,” she says, and my heart sinks. “She said you’re a fraudster who has been impersonating your former business partner in correspondence to her. I’ve been told to call the police if you don’t leave immediately.”
“There’s been a misunderstanding,” Adrian begins, but she reaches for the telephone on her desk.
We hurry out, feeling her eyes bore into our backs as we do so. Neither of us speaks until we reach the outside air once again.
“I should have used an alias, shouldn’t I?” I ask glumly.
Adrian puts a hand briefly to my elbow. “We should have discussed the matter ahead of time. The fault is mine as much as yours.”
I hunch my shoulders. A few yellow leaves drift from the trees, and a gentle rain begins to fall. The groups of students flee the inclement weather, except for the bunch playing football, who seem to take the wet grass as a welcome challenge.
“What now?” I ask.
Adrian considers as we approach the gate.
“We could return to the speakeasy. The bootlegger Myers works for, Vince Vitali, runs his operation out of Widdershins according to what Cleo told us. He must be the one responsible for spreading the Chrysalis. Maybe someone at the speakeasy can tell us something useful about him.”
“Or about the cult trying to kill me.” How did my life turn into this? “I’m not going to trust the liquor, though.” Not that I would have touched it anyway, after that dreadful Widdershins Special.
“Nor am I. We’ll mime drinking it, then dump it behind one of those papier-maché trees they have in there.”
It seems as good a plan as any. We hail the first taxi we see and ask the driver to take us to The Hooded Figure.
I feel as though I’ve aged a thousand years since the last time I set foot in the speakeasy, but in truth it’s been less than a week. Naturally, the place hasn’t changed at all in that short time.
We find a seat near the back wall where we can observe as much of the room as possible, given all the sinister imitation trees. The eyes in phosphorescent paint still glow from the branches and hollows, and I swear I see a pair blink when I turn my head.
Just nerves. Hopefully.
Adrian orders two more Widdershins Specials, and I glare at him when the things are put in front of us, fins and all. “You’re evil.”
“Maybe I just have a more refined palate,” he suggests with a wink. “Look at it this way, you won’t feel any regret at dumping the alcohol instead of drinking it.”
“To put it mildly.” I pretend to sip it and almost gag at the burnt, briny smell. “You didn’t ask our server any questions.”
“I want to get the lay of the land first.”
Adrian’s attention is already on our fellow drinkers, so I turn mine there as well. At least it might distract me from the abomination in my hand.
Everyone seems to be minding their own business.
A few sit in groups, heads close together as they talk.
A woman in a fashionable day dress bends over an old book, a frown on her face as she tries to decipher whatever is written within.
Two men are playing cards, though the cards don’t seem marked with the usual diamonds, spades, aces, or clubs, but rather with cryptic symbols whose meanings I can’t guess.
“The last time we were here, you said it reminded you of a place in Paris,” I recall.
“The Cabaret de L’Enfer,” he says. “It’s more…theatrical, I suppose is the word, than this. It’s meant to put on a show for its guests, whereas this place—”
He stops speaking abruptly, his eyes fixed on something. I glance in the same direction and see none other than Frank Myers, fake butler and real bootlegger.