Taylor Davis and the Flame of Findul (Taylor Davis, 1) Page 9

  “Do you have a date?”

  “1693. We’d like records of a trial, a hanging, a death certificate, anything you can find.”

  As Mike spoke with the fellow, I studied the room, noting the location of doors and windows and the sections marked Staff Only. It was a fair-sized area with the creepy feel of a library but without the rows of shelves to hide behind. I felt exposed, as if hidden eyes were studying me. It made my skin crawl. I sauntered into the microfilm room to get away from it.

  Two ladies were using the viewing machines. One was older and had sneaked a bagel past security. She broke off chunks in her pocket and discretely slipped them into her mouth. The other was younger, pretty, but she wore pajama pants and a messy ponytail like she just rolled out of bed. Both women were intent on their research, but the nagging feeling of being watched didn’t go away. It intensified.

  Back in the reading room, Mike still stood by the desk while the old man squinted at his computer and pecked hesitantly at the keys. I blew out an impatient breath. This could take a lot longer than we feared.

  People were beginning to notice Mike now. He was a spectacle most folks didn’t see everyday. Coupled with the huge figure of Ranofur planted at the doorway like an X-Men action figure come horribly to life, they probably thought he was some B-list rock star who had brought along a bodyguard.

  I wandered to a row of bookshelves located at the far end of the room to remove myself from any more curious glances. Browsing among the titles, I pulled out a volume on Marshalsea Prison and sank onto a plush chair to flip through it.

  Time slowed to that dull crawl reserved for math class or those apprehensive moments before parents dole out a punishment. Eventually, Mike settled at one of the tables with a document or two. Perhaps “settled” doesn’t really capture Mike in a library. The phantoms of a thousand years of history infused him with energy. He bounced worse than a kid on a treasure hunt—or a sugar high—thrilled to bursting with his dusty old paper trail. Elena joined him, put her head down, and promptly fell asleep. Ranofur remained motionless by the door.

  I still couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling. I had noticed video surveillance equipment mounted in the corner of the room, but that couldn’t account for the goose bumps prickling all over my arms and neck. Peering over my book, I tried to spot a staff member who might be giving me the librarian’s eye. You know, pretending to be busy elsewhere but scrutinizing me as if I might make off with a case of old parchments, like they’re such hot items on eBay.

  Finally, when Mike and the elderly staff member were on their seventh or eighth document, I couldn’t take it any longer. I felt like I was in a scholar’s prison. “I’m going downstairs,” I told Ranofur as I left the room.

  The uneasiness didn’t relent, but it took less effort to ignore in the noise and commotion of the common area. I snagged a sandwich and Coke from the restaurant and sat down to eat where I could do some people-watching of my own.

  A tour group was just entering the building. They gathered around the welcome desk in their matching orange shirts like pumpkins piled on a roadside stand. In the bookstore across the lobby, a woman was arguing about a price that rang up on the cash register. And next to me, a kid in his early twenties was bolting down French fries as if they might walk away. Nobody looked threatening or even remotely interested in me. I started to relax.

  A glance at my watch showed that lunch had killed thirty minutes. I stood up and stretched, wondering how much longer Mike would take and devising strategies to keep from dying of boredom when I hit on a brilliant idea. I’d find a place to practice my swordsmanship.

  I tried the restroom first. It was crowded and noisy, but it had plenty of room to maneuver. If only I could find an empty one… I ducked back outside and checked a map. Yup, there was another located on the third floor that was bound to be less busy.

  I jogged up the steps, breezing through the checkpoint once again, and continued up the next flight. The bathrooms were in a remote corner. Inside, I checked under all the stalls to make sure I was alone, then I pulled the trashcan in front of the door. It wasn’t heavy enough to hold it closed, but I wouldn’t be caught unaware if someone were to join me. Finally, I drew my sword.

  It was a tight fit with my arms extended, but if I moved with precision I could manage. I held the weapon in high guard position, aiming purposefully at the electric hand dryer. Had it chosen that moment to attack, it would have been dead. Next, I eased into the middle guard, swinging carefully to avoid the metal bathroom stalls.

  I felt my confidence rising. It was my third practice session and I was learning how to move smoothly from one position to the next. I could slash and parry, and my arms didn’t shake quite as badly as they used to. I watched myself admiringly in the mirror and made a mental note to challenge Ranofur to a sparring match. If only my buddies back home could see this…

  There wasn’t enough ceiling clearance for the high rear position, so I swept the blade into front low and barely scraped the tip along the tiles. It left a three-inch gouge. “Dang,” I whispered, relaxing the sword and peering down at the mark. “Maybe I better ask Ranofur for a sheath before I cut my foot off.”

  At that moment, the trashcan rattled. I leaped into a stall and swung the door shut behind me. Crouched on the edge of the seat, I waited impatiently as whoever it was hummed a verse of “God Save the Queen” and took his time at his business. When the toilet automatically flushed beneath me, I nearly lost a limb.

  Finally, after three more verses, the other toilet flushed. Water ran in the sink. The hand dryer sprang to life. When it died away, I waited, listening. The room was silent. The fellow must have walked out before the dryer cycle ended.

  I stepped onto the floor and lifted the latch on the door.

  “I see you, Davy Jones, the One of Two Names.”

  I froze, the blood turned to ice in my veins.

  “I know who you are,” the voice came again. It was soft, conversational. “I’ve been watching you roam the building since you arrived.”

  A wave of heat rushed up from my knees and sent my blood roaring through my body. I could hear it galloping through my ears. Was whoever—or whatever—waited outside the door a friend or foe?

  I hesitated, uncertain what to do. I hoped my visitor would just go away, but those odds seemed depressingly low. “Wh-Who are you?” I stammered.

  “Why don’t you come out here and see for yourself?”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. Anyone with good intentions would announce them right away. Most likely, whatever stood outside was preparing to break though my door any second. I vowed not to wait for that to happen.

  Sword poised, I kicked my way out of the stall. I don’t know what I expected to find. A Swaug, perhaps. Maybe another Churkon, or some new perpetrator of evil. Instead, the grandfatherly archives worker leaned against the sink and gave me a disarming smile. My sword slipped just a little.

  The old man pulled out a comb and, with the unhurried pace of the elderly, tugged a fringe of long hair from one side of his bald spot to the other. Then he pulled off his glasses and began wiping them with a soft cloth. He held my gaze in the mirror. Without his lenses, his eyes burned with an unearthly gleam.

  “Such a young man,” he lamented, shaking his head. “They should have given your task to someone with a bit more experience.”

  I tightened my grip on the sword. “What do you want with me?”

  “Me? I don’t want anything,” he replied innocently. “But I know someone who’s very interested in what you’ve been up to today.”

  The man’s eyes tightened to slits. His smile stretched into a grotesque leer, and the skin of his face bulged into a mass of sagging, mottled flesh. I staggered backward as his shoulders swelled like mountains, ripping out of the twill suit coat. Mangy hair sprang from the creature’s body, and fangs protruded from a gaping hole in its face. From its fingertips shot jagged, eight-inch blades.

  I charged for
the door, but the creature sprang at me, swiping with one lethal hand. My arm blocked the blow instinctively, and my Schmiel glove took the brunt of it, but I was knocked off balance and thrown across the room. Gaining my feet, I parried his next attack with my blade. The sharp ring of steel on steel echoed through the bathroom. The creature leaped again, raking the air with both hands. A mighty arc of my sword knocked it aside and sliced through a metal stall divider.

  The monster crawled to its feet and laughed—a low, raspy sound devoid of humor. “You surprise me, Jones. I thought you’d be easier prey. You have determination if not skill. But I’ve been sent to see that your mission remains unfulfilled, and I intend to carry out my duty.” With a deafening battle cry, it launched itself high into the air. I dove out of the way and it crashed through the damaged stall.

  Shaking itself off, the creature advanced with slow and steady steps. I retreated, inching deeper into the bathroom with my sword at middle high guard. It leaped again, and I hacked wildly, without thought. Claws and blade engaged. I caught another raking blow down the length of my Schmiel glove and into the unprotected flesh near my elbow. I slashed and parried, rushed and retreated. Adrenaline gave me strength.

  The mirror shattered. Another divider collapsed. The sink ripped from the wall and smashed through the tiles. Water gushed from severed pipes and flowed under my feet. My style wasn’t pretty, but I kept the monster at bay.

  The sword, however, was growing heavier and heavier. A stream of red soaked the arm of my sweatshirt, and my breath came in gulping pants. I could not keep this up forever.

  The monster tensed to spring again, skittering on shards of glass. As it left the ground, I gave the nearest stall door a mighty swing. It collided with the monster’s face. Unfortunately, the backlash knocked the sword from my hand and sent me sprawling against a toilet. I rested there, sucking in great gulps of air and fighting down a rising panic.

  Where were the others, I wondered briefly. Had the noise of our battle not reached the quiet reading rooms?

  I had to rise. I had to act while the beast was still dazed. But even as I recognized the thought, I heard a rustle. The monster had come to.

  It growled, a low vibration that carried across the bathroom floor like the rumble of a distant engine. “This is the end, Jones,” it threatened. “You’ve nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. I will find you and end your life.”

  I heard only the gurgle of flowing water. Then the peace was shattered by the powerful, metallic crash of a stall door. A second crash followed. The monster was kicking in the doors systematically, searching for me. When it reached the fifth stall, I was dead.

  I cowered, listening to the third crash. Maybe if I curled up tight enough the door would land on me, hide me, buy me precious seconds.

  A fourth crash.

  I could see the monster’s hairy feet poised before my stall. I cringed with dreadful anticipation.

  Suddenly, the door to the restroom exploded open. I heard a rapid whirring noise followed by a deafening roar. Then a stream of green goo mixed with the water and flowed away to the drain in the center of the floor.

  “Taylor, where are you?” Ranofur bellowed.

  “I’m here,” I moaned.

  Elena rushed through the door in time to watch Ranofur lift me from the rubble. I’m always one to make a stunning impression on women. “Taylor!” she cried.

  “He’s okay,” Ranofur assured her. “Just a gash on the arm.” He ripped away the sleeve of my sweatshirt and used it to bind up the wound.

  “When we heard the crashing—” she began. “Where’s your sword?”

  I jerked my head toward the corner.

  “What happened?” Ranofur asked.

  “It was the staff member, the one who was helping Mike. He followed me up here and—” I shivered. “He said he was sent to take me out.”

  Ranofur frowned. “An assassin. It seems word about you spread quickly.” He set me on my feet. “Can you walk?”

  I was dripping, exhausted, and disheveled, but in one piece. I nodded.

  “Good.” He picked up a wicked throwing blade, rinsed off the goo, and tucked it in his shirt. “Let’s go find Mike.”

  “Mike,” I snorted with utter disdain. Once again I’d had to borrow someone else’s guardian angel.

  We elicited a few odd looks as we exited the bathroom. I wondered what story they’d come up with to explain away the noise and damage.

  Ranofur studied me closely. “Mike deserves your respect just as much as I do.”

  “Mike’s a dork,” I retorted. “Where was he when I was fighting Gramps in the bathroom?”

  “Gathering the information we need,” Ranofur countered. “If you haven’t noticed, he’s contributed more to this mission than any of us so far.”

  “By plunking away at computer keys? Burying his nose in old records?” I scoffed. “He’s a complete loser.”

  Elena stood by silently as Ranofur stopped, turning me to face him. “I have a deep respect for places like this, for knowledge and lore, for men with Mike’s brilliance. I know you admire what I do,” he said, “but I’m nothing compared to those who learn and build and create. My greatest talent is destruction.”

  “You keep us safe,” I protested.

  He nodded. “Safety is a basic necessity. I had to remind Mike of that after we met the Swaug. But safety is only the foundation on which civilization can flourish. We need people and angels like Mike. They are the ones who bring beauty to our world.”

  We started walking again. I felt like a little kid chastised by a schoolteacher. I stuck my chin out stubbornly. “I still think he’s a geek.”

  Ranofur smiled. “He does have a few odd tendencies.”

  We found Mike in the reading room. “Great news!” he exclaimed when he spotted us. “I located Swain! He wasn’t hung for piracy after all. That nice elderly gentleman helped me find several—” He glanced around the room in confusion. “Say, where’d he go?”

  Lesson #12

  Angels and Karaoke Don’t Mix

  Ranofur dragged Mike from the reading room and through the downstairs lobby. “They’re on to us.”

  Mike’s eyes grew round as I summed up the party in the bathroom. He was going to drop off some money at the welcome desk to cover damages, but Ranofur stopped him. “Mail it to them later. We can’t leave further evidence that we’ve been here.”

  The cat cage hadn’t grown while we were in the archives. We crammed in and Ranofur peeled out of the parking lot. That is, if a three-wheeled chirp qualifies as a peel.

  “They outwitted us,” Mike admitted in disbelief. “That fellow was planted in the archives. Somehow they knew we were on Swain’s trail.”

  “Not necessarily,” Elena countered as she patched up my arm with a first aid kit Mike had provided. There wasn’t much we could do with my lopped off sleeve. “He may have been working there for years, just in case someone ever came searching.”

  “She’s right,” I agreed. “He didn’t even know my real name. He called me Davy. He was just assuming I was the one from the prophecy after you asked the right questions.”

  Ranofur eased off on the gas slightly. “If you’re right, we may not be in as much danger as I feared.”

  “Let me tell you what I discovered while you were engaged.” Mike snapped back into library mode the same way he switched traffic lanes. “Swain was apprehended in 1693, taken to Newgate Prison in London, tried at the Old Bailey courthouse next door, and convicted of the murder of someone named Samuel McClintock in a drunken brawl.”

  “The Tyburn Tree?” Ranofur guessed. He was leaning so far forward to clear the roof of the car that his nose almost touched the glass.

  “Yes!”

  “What’s that?” Elena and I asked it together.

  Ranofur glanced in the rearview mirror. “It was a triangular gallows huge enough to accommodate twenty-four men. Tyburn was synonymous with capital punishment in England for centuries.”

/>   Elena whistled through her teeth. “Sounds like hanging used to be the national sport.”

  “I wish I could find out exactly what happened,” Mike declared. “How he got to Hades. What transpired there.” He sighed. “I suppose those are things we’ll never know.”

  “Well, the day wasn’t a total loss,” I quipped. “I managed to live through an assassination attempt. And now we have some destinations in mind for another high-speed tour.”

  No one laughed.

  “We weren’t careful enough today,” Ranofur said. “We should have expected something like this. After all, the archives is the only logical place we could go to for information.”

  “Not the only place,” Mike said, pulling out his laptop. “I haven’t forgotten about my contact. Let me see what he was able to dredge up.” His fingers did their magic and Mike was soon reading through a long email. His mouth dropped and he laughed out loud. “This is it! This is the breakthrough we need!”

  Ranofur looked sideways at him. “Are you going to tell us today or make us wait overnight again?”

  Mike was dancing in his seat. “Morgen’s of London didn’t go out of business in 1810 as we thought. It simply changed its name. Several times. The most recent is Ivy Intrepid, which is currently active in London. And the man still running the business?” he paused for dramatic effect.

  We all said it. “Bartholomew Swain.”

  Mike slapped his thigh and let out his best “Yee-ha!”

  “How is that even possible?” Elena asked. “Wouldn’t people become suspicious of Swain after, say, his first two life spans?”

  “The business has been headed by a number of names. Whether these were Swain’s aliases or men under his control is unclear and irrelevant. Swain has been running things, all right.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We need to find out what he’s up to. Why has he been hiding this company for so many years? What’s going on inside? It’s still in London, but we need a full address—” Mike began typing.

  “Do you mean to go there?” I asked in disbelief.