The Final Descent (The Monstrumologist #4)(9)

Well, anyway.

“Will Henreeeee!” His voice, strangely far and wee, floated down the stairs.

I closed my eyes. “In a moment! Soak a little longer!”

I’d been going about it all wrong. I should have started at the closest point and worked my way outward. That was the Warthropian way:

Nature progresses from the simple to the complex and, as her students, so should we. When presented with a problem, look for the simplest solution first; that is always the route nature takes.

If it wasn’t on his person, the simplest place to hide it would be in the vicinity of the lock, where he could fetch it quickly.

If, that is, he had locked the basement to keep something in as opposed to someone out.

I have found it, Will Henry. The thing itself. My life’s work.

I slapped myself lightly on the forehead. Of course! It made sense now. His ghoulish appearance, the all-too-familiar gleam in his eye, the air of frenzied stillness. The monstrumologist wasn’t falling apart because his life’s work—and thus all its meaning—was done.

I had walked into the middle of a case.

What do you have locked up in your basement, Warthrop? What is “the thing itself”? And will you refuse to share it with me?

Or will you undo the bolt, throw wide the door, and say, “Come and see”?

Canto 3

ONE

I led Lilly to a safe little nook well out of sight of the curator’s office.

“Stay here,” I told her. “I have to fetch the key.”

She gasped, terrified and delighted. “It’s in the Locked Room?”

“I told you it was Warthrop’s greatest prize. There’s a bit of risk involved—not from it; don’t worry—from Adolphus. The key’s hanging from that hook directly over his querulous old head.”

I went back down the hall to his office. It was a treacherous journey through his inner sanctum to secure the key. The path was narrow and tortuous, snaking through listing shipping crates stacked four boxes high and chest-high stacks of papers and journals. The slightest nudge would bring one of these fragile towers down with a raucous crash. I eased past his chair; he kept the key on a hook in the wall directly behind his desk, beneath the Society’s coat of arms, with its motto Nil timendum est. I glanced down at his upturned face. The upper plate of his false teeth, fashioned from those of his dead son, martyred on the bloody fields of Antietam, had come loose; Adolphus slept mouth open, teeth together, a decidedly odd and disconcerting visual effect. But I did not tarry at the sight. Despite his exceedingly advanced years, Adolphus was a light sleeper and always had his heavy cane by his side. One well-placed blow would be enough to land me in a premature grave. And I was not ready to die, not on that night, anyway, while Lilly Bates, in a resplendent gown of silk and lace, waited for me and the night, like the unopened crates in the curator’s crowded office, hid promises of mysteries yet to be unpacked.

“What’s the matter?” Lilly asked when I rejoined her. She noticed at once the look of consternation upon my face.

“The key is gone,” I answered. “Someone’s taken it from the hook.”

“Perhaps Adolphus put it in his pocket for safekeeping.”

“It’s a possibility. Not about to frisk him, though.” I rubbed the back of my four-fingered hand across my lips.

“Let’s leave,” she said. She had picked up on my nerves, I think. “You can always show me another time.”

I nodded, and then seized her hand and drew her down the hall, away from the stairs, deeper into the belly of the Beastie Bin.

“Will!” she cried softly. “Where are we?”

“Let’s have a look at the room itself, just to be sure.”

“Just to be sure of what?”

“That it’s locked. That his special prize is still safe and sound.”

“His special prize,” she echoed.

The floor sloped ever so slightly downward. As we descended, the air grew heavier; our breath became shallow and our breathing a bit desperate. Black walls, slick floor, low ceiling. Past darkened doorways through which the meager light could not leach, down a path that ended at the sole locked door in all the Monstrumarium, the door to the Kodesh Hakodashim, the Holy of Holies, in which nature’s most perverted jests resided, those compelling arguments against our desperate conceit that the universe is ruled by divine love and an unblemished intelligence.

“William James Henry,” Lilly growled through gritted teeth. She stopped dead in her tracks, refusing to take another step. The Locked Room was just around the next corner. She pulled her hand from mine and crossed her arms across her bosom. “I will not move from this spot until you tell me what is in that room.”

“What? Don’t tell me the unconquerable Lillian Bates is afraid!” I teased her. “The girl who proudly informed me she would be the first lady monstrumologist? I am shocked.”

“The first rule of monstrumology is caution,” she replied archly. “I would think the apprentice to the greatest philosopher of aberrant biology the world has ever seen would know that.”

“Apprentice?” I laughed. “I’m no apprentice and never was.”

“Oh? If you’re not, then what are you?”

I looked deeply into her eyes, the blue so dark and so richly depthless in the flimsy light. “I am the infinite nothing out of which everything flows.”