The Curse of the Wendigo (The Monstrumologist #2)(63)

“The next few days are critical,” he began in that lecturing tone I’d heard a hundred times before. “Your good fortune includes the fortuitous fact that Adolphus keeps a supply of khorkhoi anti-venom on hand in the heretofore unlikely event of two children sneaking into the Lower Monstrumarium for the purpose of sexing something that by its nature cannot be sexed. However, the extent of that good fortune is mitigated by the nature of the venom. It is extremely slow-acting. In the wild the Death Worm may go for months without eating, so it relies on its venom to keep its prey more or less immobile while it feasts—for days—upon its living flesh.

“The venom is a narcotic, Will Henry, known for its hallucinogenic attributes. Native tribesmen harvest it and ingest it in small doses for its opium-like effects, sometimes by diluting it in distilled liquor or, which is more common, by smoking rabbit weed that has been treated with it. You must tell me immediately if you start to see things that by all reason should not be there, and I will have to keep a close eye on you for indications of paranoia and delusional thinking. The latter poses the greater threat, since one might argue it’s your normal mode of operation. You’ll be fine one moment, and the next you may be convinced you can fly or that you’ve sprouted a second head, which in your case would not be a particularly bad thing. Another brain could not hurt.”

He was examining the earlier wound, the spot on my chest where John Chanler’s teeth had bored into me.

“What else?” he asked rhetorically. “Well, you may experience an intense burning sensation when you urinate. In particularly sensitive individuals, circulation is lost to the extremities, gangrene sets in, and the appendage must be amputated. You may lose your hair. Your testicles might swell. There have been cases of spontaneous hemorrhagic bleeding from the orifices, particularly the anus. Your kidneys could shut down, your lungs could fill with fluid, and you could literally drown in your own mucus. Am I leaving anything out?”

“I hope not, sir.”

He wrung out the cloth, pulled down my nightshirt, and arranged the covers around me.

“Now, are you hungry?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you think you can manage to stay out of trouble while I check on my other patient?”

“Lilly?” For some reason my heart fluttered with dread.

“As is so often the case, the instigator of the misdeed has escaped unscathed. I was speaking of Dr. Chanler.”

“Oh! No, sir, I’ll be fine.”

“If you do get hungry later, ring the front desk and have them send something up. Soft foods, Will Henry, and nothing too spicy.”

The phone in the outer room rang, startling him. He was not expecting a call. He left to answer it and returned a moment later, running his fingers through his hair.

“I’m closing the door, Will Henry. Try to sleep now.”

I promised I would try. I closed my eyes dutifully. Presently I heard voices coming from the sitting room. Were they real? I wondered. Or was this the venom talking? One was low-pitched, a man’s, the other’s register higher—clearly a woman’s. Muriel, I thought. Muriel has come to see the doctor. Why? Had something happened to Dr. Chanler? Had he finally succumbed? I fancied I heard the sound of her crying. The end has come, I thought, my heart going out first to her and then, with a stabbing rush of grief, to my master. I saw him in my mind’s eye trudging for mile after mile in the unforgiving wilderness, cradling her husband in his arms. I heard the desperate existential cry shouted in the sound-crushing atmosphere: Why did you come here? What did you think you would find?

Why had he gone into the wilderness? In Rat Portage he had seemed to mock von Helrung’s proposal and the man he’d claimed was responsible for it. Why, then, had he gone in search of something he did not believe existed? Had it been, as the doctor had theorized, a sycophantic act or an overly zealous show of filial devotion to a beloved teacher? What had driven Chanler to risk his life for something he himself admitted was a chimera, a fairy tale?

The voices without rose and fell, like the currents of a spring-fed mountain stream. Yes, I decided, it was their voices, the doctor’s and Muriel’s, most definitely. After a while I convinced myself of their verity. They did not exist solely between my ears, but outside them.

I am not proud of what I did next.

A short hall led from our rooms to the living quarters. Thankfully, the jets here were not lit, and I navigated the distance in semidarkness. Slowly—oh, so slowly—lying upon the floor on my belly like an advancing marine, I slid forward until, while comfortably reclining on my stomach, I could observe unseen from the shadows.

She was sitting on the divan, wearing a fashionable riding cloak over a lavender gown of taffeta and velvet. Though from my vantage point her lovely emerald eyes appeared dry, she worried with a handkerchief in her lap. I could not see the doctor, but following her gaze, I determined he must have been near the fireplace—standing, if I knew Warthrop. In moments of stress the doctor either stood or paced about like a caged lion. And this was definitely a stressful moment.

“. . . confess that I am having some difficulty understanding why you’ve come,” he was saying.

“They’re insisting upon discharging him,” she said.

“That’s ridiculous. Why wouldn’t they want him there? Do they wish for him to die?”

“It’s Archibald—his father. He’s furious at you for taking him there without his permission. And he’s terrified the papers will get wind of it. That’s why we didn’t commit him in the first place. Archibald would hear none of it.”