The Forgotten Mountain (The Collectors' Society Book 3) Read online

  My name is repeatedly shouted from beyond the door. Lygari roars at me with his rocks and wind.

  I angle my war hammer in front of me, pointing into the distance. A boulder slams onto the ground not an inch from its tip, and still, I refuse to flinch. This is nothing. This is a puppet show for children compared to what I’ve seen before. I shout, “Is this the best you can do?”

  The winds turn cruel and lashing. Shards of rocks tear at my skirt, my arms and cheeks, and still I stand. He has no idea that my fury, my vengeance, will always supersede his now. Knowingly or not, he’s deftly assured that.

  Pain is irrelevant. Achievement of purpose is all that matters.

  “Hear me now: I am coming for you. If you think I will not hunt you down and extract payment for your sins, then you do not know my story well enough.”

  The winds howl incoherently about me.

  “Your head,” I shout, my voice loud and clear in the insanity of the crumbling cave, “IS MINE!”

  An explosion sounds. The wind twists until my skirt whips around my legs and my hair stands on end. Blood trickles down my cheeks, down my arms, down my neck. Droplets swirl in the vortex around me. And still, I refuse to back down. I stay there, my hammer readied in defiance, my clothes tattering, until the last rock crumbles into place and the air stills.

  Silence descends in the filled tunnel. My colleagues shout my name again, more fearfully than before.

  “You and I are not done yet.” My voice grows until it slips through the cracks and crevices in the fresh wall looming before me. “But when we are, I want you to remember that you brought this upon yourself. There will be no mercy shown. No clemency. In those last moments, when I turn your severed head to face your stricken body, you will rue the day you came against me and my own.”

  My hammer swings and strikes stone. In the pale light angling beyond the lip, I watch how the cold gray of stone weeps red.

  And Marianne thought the smile upon my face in whatever trick Lygari played upon her was unpleasant. She would undoubtedly be horrified at the one curving my lips now. I finally give in to my impulse, and I laugh.

  Madness—that old, dear friend of mine—has come home for a visit. And I welcome its return with open arms.

  ABRAHAM VAN BRUNT’S ARMS are folded as he watches Mary apply some of her miraculous healing spray on the remnants of Lygari’s tantrum. We are convened within the medical ward of the Institute, and I am wholly indifferent to her ministrations, eager instead to resume my search. Lygari must be afforded no rest, no time to regroup. I desire the fiend to be scrambling on the defensive rather than continuing upon the underhanded offensive he’s waged against Timelines and the Society.

  The time for niceties and civility has passed. If he wants brute force, I am willing to offer it freely.

  The Society’s leader has been quiet thus far, simply listening to my team’s report. The moment we returned home, he was waiting in the parking garage beneath the Institute, the Librarian standing beside him. I’d had Marianne apprise them of our situation as soon as we began the journey home. And there they were, their faces serious, the muscles in their bodies taut as they awaited our reports.

  I met the Librarian directly in the eye, but she quickly looked away. Her mannerisms indicated it was to cough and then murmur something to Van Brunt, but I cannot help but think it was more than that. And now she stands quietly off to the side here in the medical ward, listening intently to the events of the morning, and I suspect I am the only in the room to see the discomfort and lack of surprise haunting her eerily bright eyes.

  “Our attacks must be multi-pronged.” My tone is cool. Efficient. “Whilst some within the Society continue researching the clues Lygari has left us, others must be on the front lines, actively searching for the liar.” My gaze returns to the Librarian. “Unless, of course, there are those within our ranks who would prefer sharing the information they already know?”

  “Ms. Reeve,” Van Brunt says brusquely, “that will be enough of that.”

  Since the moment she sent me to the hospital to examine my injuries caused by the destruction of 1905/06Sōs-IAAC’s catalyst, the Librarian has not spoken another word to me. But as I was loaded into an ambulance, she murmured something that has viciously played on loop in my mind. “I am so sorry, Alice. More than you can imagine. I failed. Remember to trust your instincts.”

  She claimed she failed. Failed at what? Figuring out who Lygari/Pfeifer is? Not determining the masterminds behind the catalyst destructions quickly enough? The challenge I offer her now is silent yet patently clear, and still, it remains unanswered.

  Our colleagues are now the ones to wear discomfort and surprise as they witness this hushed standoff. The A.D. is the first to attempt to redirect the conversation. “You act as if this is war, and we are in the midst of battle.”

  “It is astounding to me that there are still those of you who do not see that that is exactly what is occurring.” I wave off Mary. “And if you continue to remain blind to such facts, you might as well offer yourself up to Lygari’s machinations now.”

  “No one is going to do such a thing.” There’s anguish stewing in Van Brunt’s eyes, frustration and fury in every line of his body. “Ms. Reeve, a word in my office.”

  Minutes later, we are ensconced in the warm room, and I am once more staring up at the plaque that bears the Society’s motto. In paginis mundūs invenimus. In verbis vitam invenimus. In pages, we find worlds. In words, we find life.

  How unnervingly true it all has become.

  Van Brunt’s chair squeaks as he lowers his large frame into it. Hands folded before him, he regards me warily. “I would think that, as a queen, you would know that one of the more useful tactics in war is to brew discord amongst a group in order to unsettle and unfocus them. It seems reasonable to assume this is what Pfeifer is now doing.”

  I bristle at his insinuations. “In war, it is also important to remember that those on the battlefield often need to know pertinent facts. To send soldiers onto the battlefield blind is to demand them to risk more than is already being asked for.”

  He sighs quietly, grief coloring the sleeves he wears.

  “The Librarian knows more than she tells.”

  His regard is bemused, if not exasperated. “And how have you arrived at this determination?”

  “Via her own advice, during which she reminded me to trust my instincts. Those, which have rarely failed me, insist there are secrets she holds back that might very well be pertinent.”

  “Secrets are often just so for a reason, Ms. Reeve.”

  He knows them then. Or at least some of the things she hides.

  “That said, I have worked alongside the Librarian for many years now, and she has only ever been a valuable asset to our goals.”

  His tone stringently informs me there is no room to further argue the point. Fine. There are other important matters at hand.

  “You should have informed me as to where you went today,” he is saying.

  “I did. Marianne sent an email to you of our objectives and destination.”

  “En route, yes,” he allows. “The point I am making is that you should have informed me prior to leaving.”

  Before we left, his door was closed and both his cell and office phones rang constantly. Had I even knocked, I do not think he would have heard. Still, what’s done is done. “Each second we afford Lygari is another step he gains away from us. I could not risk him moving beyond our reach.”

  “Did you fear I would reject such a mission?”

  “No.” It’s honest. “I must admit, I did not think much of chain of command at all. I found the need for action to be far more pressing than bureaucracy, and did not wish anything to slow me down.”

  “Ms. Reeve—”

  No. The sorrow in his voice, the quietness, are contextual clues I do not wish to be illuminated. I shake my head, hold out my hand, but he says it anyway.

  “None of this will bring them back.�
��

  The breath that fills my lungs stings.

  “You must know how much I desire to find this Gabriel Pfeifer or Lygari or whatever his name is. My wife is . . .” His deep voice is tremulous. “Dead. My sons—”

  I am out of my chair. “You give up too easily, sir.”

  He stares up at me, as if it were me who was the one acting irrational. Somewhere in one of his pockets, a cell phone chimes, but he does nothing to answer it. “The Timeline destroyed—”

  “1905/06Sōs-IAAC. I am well aware of its identity.”

  He nods slowly. “While you were gone this morning, multiple attempts were made to contact it.”

  “Was there a liaison?”

  His forefingers come together to form a tent. “Yes. Unfortunately, all attempts at communication failed. We also tried to edit, but were unable to do that, either. We cannot deny that 1905/06Sōs-IAAC has been destroyed.”

  “What if that was not the Timeline we were in?”

  “Believe me, Ms. Reeve. You would be hard pressed to find any other person so desirous of such a reality, but based on what you told us last night, there is little doubt as to the Timeline’s identity. We questioned Mr. Holgrave in depth this morning about his travels to 1905/06Sōs-IAAC, as it was on his caseload. Everything you reported corroborates with what he’s seen and experienced. The Librarian spent many hours poring over Japanese literature, hoping for a different outcome. This is the best fit. Anything different would be like someone claiming they’d seen a white rabbit with a pocket watch in 1925FIT-GG.”

  “I do not know that Timeline, sir.”

  He does not elaborate. There is no need to, not when his message is so stark. My chest aches. Van Brunt would not lie to me, not about this. And still, I cannot do what it is he wishes. Instinct insists I would know if Finn perished. I would feel it. My gravity would shift, a hole in my heart would form. If the man I loved ceased to exist, I would know.

  I cannot give up searching for him, not even if I am alone on this quest. To find Finn, I must find Lygari. The fiend must pay for what he’s done—and not because he’s simply wronged me, but because he has wronged far too many.

  I clear my throat. Force my fingers to loosen from the bunches of shirt fabric they’d twisted between. “Obviously, Bücherei is out of the question until we have the proper tools to overcome whatever enchantments Lygari protects it with. I believe your assistant mentioned prior to our outing that there is a flat registered to a Gabriel Pfeifer in Manhattan. I’ll be heading there within the hour.”

  His office phone is the one to trill now. Van Brunt purses his lips for a quiet moment. “Before you do, I would like you to go speak with a Miss Bianca Jones at the New York Public Library.”

  Remembering my first interaction with Bianca Jones, I let out a soft groan.

  “I have a research team working around the clock on all the puzzle pieces here. Minutes before your return, one reminded me of the connection between Ms. Jones and Pfeifer.”

  We’d gone to the library’s gala because Lygari/Pfeifer was a patron. “Send someone else to question her.”

  His pointer fingers tap one another. “Our resources are stretched thin as it is, Ms. Reeve. I am not arguing your need to be in the field—you have my full support in your endeavors whether or not you wish for them. But as you cautioned us earlier, we must not remain blind in the coming days. We simply cannot start poking sticks into each rabbit hole we uncover. Such rash actions will only slow us down.” Hands press down against the desk as Van Brunt pushes himself up, ignoring how the phone continues to yell out its desires to be attended. “Surely, spending a few minutes with an asset who has had multiple dealings with Pfeifer can only aid, not hinder, our efforts. All I ask is that you or Ms. Lennox keep me apprised of critical updates or plans.”

  “Who said I planned on taking Mary with me?”

  A faint smile cracks his lips. “I would very much like to see you attempt to leave her behind. Please make sure you get the proper equipment from Marianne before you go. I want recordings of every conversation, minor or important, that relates to Lygari/Pfeifer. And now, if you will excuse me, I must deal with more of that bureaucracy you mentioned before.”

  As I leave, I am quite thankful there were no telephones in Wonderland.

  I find Mary lounging on a bench at the end of the hallway. When she sees me, she rises to her feet. “Where to next?”

  I nearly chuckle at how soon Van Brunt’s words to me come true, but there is no playfulness on Mary’s face, no humor in her tone. She is just as serious about this quest as I am. “The New York Public Library. There’s . . .” I attempt delicacy, “an overly zealous librarian we are to question.”

  “It sounds as if you’ve had dealings with this person before.”

  A self-professed fan of the books hailing from my Timeline, Bianca Jones’ enthusiasm for all things Wonderland was most distressing. “More importantly, she’s had dealings with the man we hunt—as Pfeifer, not Lygari.”

  Mary’s lips curl in distaste. “That monster has too many names.”

  That he does.

  “We’ll find them, Alice. We’ll find our men.”

  The coldness in her words pleases me. “I expect no other outcome.”

  She nods, and then we are off.

  Marianne fits us with small earpieces and special recording devices that appear as tubes of lip rouge. This delights Mary, who informs me she now feels like a proper spy. “The only thing that could make this better is if we had lipstick that allows us to sedate anyone we kissed.”

  I hold back my smile. “Are you planning on kissing anyone today?”

  “One never knows when such activities may be required.”

  My snort is entirely unladylike. “How would one wear such lip rouge safely? Would it not put its wearer to sleep, as well, considering it would touch her skin, too?”

  Mary slips the tube into her purse. “Who would have guessed you would be such a wet blanket?” She turns to Marianne. “Surely you can see the benefit to such a thing?”

  Marianne wisely says nothing.

  Soon enough, we are in a taxi on our way to the library. Mary pulls up the profile of the librarian we’re heading toward on her cell phone. “Bianca Jones, thirty-five years of age, born in Atlanta, Georgia. Currently married to lawyer, she resides in Queens. Holds a Masters of Library and Information Science from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. Has been employed by the New York Public Library system for the past five years. Contact with the Society first occurred four years ago, at the suggestion of Daisy Wickershim. Wickershim, just to let you know, served as a local liaison for the Society for nearly a decade prior to her retirement. Jones has expressed interest in serving as more than a liaison; she’s applied to become an active field agent. A notation from Brom on her file states there was some concern over the psychological test results, though.”

  A horn blares nearby, and our driver releases a string of expletives from his open window. I ask, “What psychological test?”

  “Most agents go through a battery of tests to determine if they are a good fit for our line of work.” She peers down at her phone. “Brom’s comments claim Bianca Jones is too . . .” A low chuckle rumbles from her chest. “Naive. He was concerned she might not be able to pull the metaphorical trigger if need be.”

  “I took no such tests.”

  “Unfortunately, you were the only person we could find that had been to Wonderland, so no other could do. It’s not to say that you weren’t observed during your initial weeks of training, though. They obtained the data they needed. And obviously, you proved your mettle fairly quickly.”

  “Did you take such tests?”

  “I did. Finn didn’t, if it’s any consolation. Nor did Victor. Granted, their cases reek of pure nepotism, if one wants to put a fine point on it.”

  I wish I could laugh, but the syllables of the one I love’s name once more serve as a fist to my belly.

  “Are ther
e any agents who hail locally?”

  “One of the techs, I believe. There are also a few who help the Librarian with research.” She pauses. “Oh! How could I forget? There was one who was a field agent about five years ago.”

  “Was?” I prompt.

  She lowers her voice. “He met a girl in one of the Timelines he’d been sent into and fell hopelessly in love at first sight.” A grimace twists her lips. “Refused to come back. Sent the catalyst with his partner instead. Utterly unprofessional, right?”

  When we arrive at the library, the sun has already begun to set. People mill about, many lounging upon the steps, reading or chatting with others. Shadows chase the stone lions guarding the building, and I cannot help but recall the time when I stood by one not too long ago, conversing with Lygari.

  Our situation would be so very different if only I’d known who he was then.

  Inside, we proceed to the information desk so Bianca Jones might be paged. The library is quiet; lamps glow upon reading tables, and the few that are here are deeply immersed in their readings. Mary and I do not break the peace until the librarian we are to question appears. And when she does, I find myself desperately not insisting upon personal space and decorum when she throws her arms around me. “Ohmygod! I am so, so glad to see you. I was hoping we would get to work together again!”

  I offer an awkward pat of her back before she releases me. “Hello, Ms. Jones.”

  “Don’t be silly! Call me Bianca, remember?” Her dark eyes turn curiously to Mary.

  “Bianca, this is Mary Lennox. She—”

  “SHUT. UP.”

  Both Mary and I startle at Bianca’s shout. So do a number of patrons whose glares redden the librarian’s cheeks. Her voice lowers significantly. “Ohmygod. Mary Lennox. Here! With Alice in Wonderland!”

  The look Mary angles at me indicates she finds my description of overly zealous to be mild, at best. Selfishly, and perhaps a bit sadistically, I am delighted the librarian’s focused interest switches from myself to Mary. Yet when Bianca does little else but ogle my colleague, I find myself needing to prompt her. “Perhaps we might go to your office so we may converse?”