Battle of the Beasts Page 6

  Brendan pointed to the ceiling: cameras. He and Will hugged the wall and walked sideways next to each other. They were totally silent, until they passed one of the preserved animals and saw that it was a muskrat with two heads.

  Brendan screamed. Will put a hand over his mouth.

  “Quiet now, they probably just took two of those creatures and sewed them together.”

  “Then why does one of them have a normal head . . . and the other one is all small and shriveled up and weird looking?”

  Brendan shook his shoulders to get the chills out. Up next was a staircase, which led to a hallway full of disturbing taxidermy, including an owl with a glass lens in its belly and a mouse skeleton inside it. That hallway led to another staircase. Brendan and Will went up to the second floor, where they heard someone talking.

  They were in a corridor that was open on one side, facing a breathtaking main hall with a crystal chandelier. The entire building was arranged around this grand space, which had long hanging tapestries and a table fit for a king’s feast. Surrounding the hall were two rows of giant portraits of former Bohemian Club members, including Teddy Roosevelt and Richard Nixon. The pictures looked down at the table. There, dwarfed by the room, were three figures.

  First was Denver Kristoff, wearing a hood thrown back to reveal his hideous face, striding up to speak with the second man.

  The second man was Angel—the Walkers’ ex-driver! What is he doing here? Brendan thought, but then he saw the third person.

  His little sister, Eleanor.

  Kristoff was holding her wrist tight. She was crying.

  Brendan felt rage burning deep in his guts. Of all the nasty, underhanded things for Kristoff to do, he had to go after Eleanor? Why couldn’t he come after Brendan? What a coward!

  I’d show him too, Brendan thought. Let Scott Calurio and his friends watch me take on Kristoff. We took care of him once; we’ll do it again. He’s nothing but a punk. Brendan lunged forward, ready to go Three Musketeers with Will, swing down on a tapestry, and take care of Kristoff, but Will stopped him and pointed: Listen. Brendan tuned in to the conversation downstairs.

  “So what exactly have I been paying you for?” Denver Kristoff asked the scared Angel. “You’ve been working with the Walkers for a month. You should be familiar with their daily routine by now!”

  “Mr. Kristoff, I tried to explain—” said Angel.

  “Just give me the information,” demanded Kristoff. “Where would Cordelia go?”

  “Usually she’d be volunteering after school,” said Angel, “but yesterday she started acting very strange, because of this thing with her teeth—”

  “You already told me about that. Good God, man, you’re useless!” said Kristoff.

  Brendan seethed as he realized: Angel’s been working for Kristoff! When we put up the partition in the limo for privacy, he probably had a microphone back there to record us!

  Kristoff continued. “Angel, all you needed to do today was pick up the Walkers and bring them to me. How could you fail in such a simple task?”

  “Because Mr. Walker fired me! I couldn’t help it! He said he needed to save money.”

  “The weak-minded fool,” said Kristoff. “I never expected it to be so easy. All I had to do was sit down next to him at a bar and convince him to bet on one basketball game—now he’s run through almost his entire fortune.” Kristoff shook his head. “I shouldn’t be surprised. His great-grandfather was the same way: simpering, soft, and weak. No core.”

  Brendan’s hate grew as he heard Kristoff talk about Rutherford Walker, his great-great-grandfather, who had helped discover The Book of Doom and Desire. It’s not enough for him to ruin my present-day family, he has to talk trash about my ancestors too?

  Eleanor, meanwhile, took advantage of Kristoff’s yammering and broke away from him, running for the door.

  “Don’t waste your time,” Kristoff called after her. “The doors are all locked. You can’t get out.”

  Eleanor beat on one of the big wooden doors that encircled the room, shrieking, “Somebody! Help!! Get me out of here!”

  Brendan wanted desperately to help—but inside the Bohemian Club, Denver Kristoff wouldn’t have to worry about people seeing his disfigured face or calling the cops. He could go full Storm King and blast them all to bits.

  Will shifted as Kristoff went to Eleanor and picked her up, kicking and screaming. He felt something jab against his thigh, inside Dr. Walker’s pants pocket. He pulled out a tiny green pencil and a score card from the Presidio Golf Club. He wrote something on the card and showed it to Brendan: What do we do?

  Brendan took the card and wrote: U were right. We just listen.

  Kristoff was trying to talk to Eleanor as he carried her. “I’m going to ask you one more time: Where is your sister? We need to find Cordelia. If we find her, we find my daughter, and then everyone’s happy. And we can all go on with what’s left of our lives.”

  “Help me! Someone!!” Eleanor yelled. It was all Brendan could do not to charge down the stairs and pull her away from Kristoff and hug her. Even if he got killed immediately afterward, it would be worth it to comfort his little sister. Eleanor didn’t deserve this.

  But before Brendan could react, Eleanor kicked Kristoff between his legs.

  “Urp!” he managed, dropping her.

  “I hope that’s as broken as your face!” Eleanor yelled, running back to one of the doors. “Help me! Someone!!”

  Eleanor’s kick had done some damage. Kristoff was doubled over in pain, making squeaking noises. Brendan smiled. “No core.” Yeah, right. We have a core.

  Angel stifled a laugh. Kristoff glared at him, still bent over. “You—find this—humorous?”

  “No sir,” said a terrified Angel. “Not at all—”

  Kristoff reached up with a look of rage, chanting, starting to generate a blue lightning bolt over his palm.

  “No! Mr. Kristoff! Please!” cried Angel, trying to hide under the table.

  Kristoff gritted his teeth as the bolt grew larger, eyeing Angel with intent to fry, when one of the doors opened.

  The man who entered the room wore a black velvet robe and a tall, powdered wig, but he was so old and crooked that the wig didn’t stand properly on his head—it pointed forward like the prow of a ship. He hobbled up with a cane, tapping, until he got to Kristoff, who promptly dropped to one knee.

  “Aldrich,” Kristoff said, kissing the old man’s hand.

  Brendan wrote: Aldrich Hayes!

  Will mouthed, Who?

  Aldrich Hayes turned his head (and wig) up so that he could look at Kristoff. This movement revealed his face, which, despite the very serious situation, almost made Brendan laugh. The old man looked like a mad Ringling Brothers clown, with bright white powder caked from his chin to his forehead. His cheeks even had a rosy glow brought out by two bright red spots.

  After Brendan stifled his laugh, he thought, If that’s really Aldrich Hayes, leader of the Lorekeepers, he should technically be a corpse! He looks great for his age!

  “Denver,” Hayes said. His voice was throaty and strong; it easily filled the room. “How often must I remind you? When you are inside the Bohemian Club, you are required to wear our wigs and makeup.”

  “With all due respect,” said Kristoff, gesturing to himself, “I think that would be like putting lipstick on a pig.”

  Hayes regarded the putrid flaps and scars of Denver Kristoff’s face. “You do have a point,” he said. “There probably isn’t enough makeup in this entire city to hide your grotesque complexion! Now what sort of trouble have you gotten into? Who is she?”

  Eleanor spoke up. “He kidnapped me from my riding lesson—”

  “You kidnapped a child?” said Hayes.

  “I had no other options—”

  “And who is this man hiding under the table?”

  “That’s Angel, a driver, he works for me—”

  “Denver!” Hayes bellowed. “When you arrived, I never ex
pected you to bring all this trouble. ‘Weaving Spiders Come Not Here,’ am I right?”

  Brendan was writing: That’s Aldrich Hayes. Leader of the Lorekeepers. The dude was old in 1906! He must be magically preserved.

  “Hey! Ancient guy!” Eleanor said. “If you get me out of here, my dad can recommend a really good surgeon for your hip or whatever—”

  “Quiet,” snapped Hayes.

  Kristoff said, “I apologize if I’ve caused trouble. I’m forever in your debt. But I will remind you that over a century ago, I made a great sacrifice for this club.”

  “And what was that?”

  “I discovered the hidden powers of The Book of Doom and Desire,” said Kristoff. “And did I keep them to myself? No. I hid the book away in my own work to keep it from threatening the world.”

  “Which is why I welcomed you back,” Hayes said. “But my generosity only goes so far—”

  “I need to find Cordelia Walker,” Kristoff said, cutting him off. “I cannot waste time. I’m certain that Cordelia knows where my daughter is.”

  “Your daughter is dead,” said Hayes. “The Walkers got rid of her.”

  “I thought she was gone too,” said Kristoff, “but not anymore.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because I’ve been keeping tabs on the Walkers.”

  “What?”

  “Following them to school, getting reports from Angel—”

  “You’ve been going out in public? Are you insane?”

  “Listen to me,” said Kristoff. “I’ve learned that the Walkers didn’t precisely kill Dahlia. This child banished her.”

  “To where, exactly?” asked Hayes, turning to Eleanor.

  “I dunno,” said Eleanor. “I just said ‘the worst place ever.’ I didn’t exactly have time to think clearly on account of trying not to get killed an’ all!”

  “So we really have no idea where your daughter is,” said Hayes.

  “No,” said Kristoff. “But I think the answer may start with Cordelia Walker. I couldn’t find her, so I took Eleanor instead. These children are like wild dogs: They operate in packs. It’s only a matter of time before Cordelia shows up. And when she does, I believe she will lead me to Dahlia.”

  “That all sounds very logical, except for one thing,” said Hayes.

  “What’s that?”

  “Why would you even want to find your daughter? The last time she saw you, she tried to kill you!”

  “Ah, but you don’t understand daughters,” said Kristoff. “One moment they despise you, the next they love you.”

  That’s actually true, Brendan wrote to Will.

  “This has gone on long enough,” Hayes said. He stepped closer to Kristoff, slinking under him and looking up like a snake. “Do you understand the enormous historical significance of this organization? The Bohemian Club has shaped the world! We have chosen presidents! We have influenced world politics! And we thrive on one thing . . . secrecy. But you have broken the rules by kidnapping a child and bringing her here!!”

  Hayes cracked his cane on Kristoff’s foot.

  “I’m sorry. I just want to see Dahlia. . . . I just want to get my daughter back,” said Kristoff. His voice hitched.

  Brendan felt something unspool in his chest. He couldn’t believe it, but he suddenly understood the man. Kristoff was trying to do the same thing his mom was: keep a family together.

  Eleanor had no such sympathies: “Hey, waffle face, if you want a family so much, join a zombie dating service! I want to go home!”

  “You will, little girl, soon enough,” Hayes said, turning to Angel. “You!”

  Angel looked up from under the table.

  “Leave this place and never tell anyone about what you saw.”

  “But what am I supposed to do?” complained Angel, climbing out. “I quit my old job to work for Mr. Kristoff. How am I supposed to get a new one?”

  “Start over,” said Hayes.

  “I’m too old to start over,” said Angel.

  Hayes answered by unscrewing the top of his cane. Brendan was sure he was going to draw out a sword and skewer Angel with it, but instead he pulled out a tightly rolled piece of paper. A spell scroll, Brendan thought. Hayes declared, “Famulus famuli mei, transfigura!”

  An explosion of smoke obscured Angel’s body. For a moment Brendan thought Hayes had made him disappear. But when the smoke cleared, and the driver stepped out . . .

  He was seventeen years old!

  Angel looked like a million bucks. He was tall and muscular, without any of the padding he’d picked up driving limos.

  “You’re a senior in high school again. You have a second chance to make something of yourself. Study, find a nice girl, and play some baseball,” Hayes said, unlocking one of the doors.

  Angel wasted no time hustling out, grinning as he took a selfie with his phone.

  “You should have killed him,” said Kristoff.

  “That’s where you and I differ,” said Hayes. “You’d resort to violence to keep Angel quiet. I give him hope, a new life, and he’ll still keep quiet.”

  “My methods are more secure,” said Kristoff.

  “Your methods are more emotional,” Hayes said, “and clearly you won’t listen to reason.” He began to pace in a circle. “So perhaps you’ll listen to proof.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What if I could contact your daughter’s spirit?” Hayes looked up. Brendan followed his eyes to the portraits that hung over the room, featuring the old Bohemian Club members. “What if I used the help of our brothers to summon her soul, and communicate with it? Then would you believe she was well and truly gone?”

  Kristoff stammered . . . as Hayes started lighting candles.

  “I don’t want you to do a séance, please,” Eleanor begged. She was getting very frightened as the crouched, makeup-caked Aldrich Hayes placed a wooden board on the long table in the Bohemian Club’s great hall. The table was lit up with candles like a birthday cake. Eleanor was holding still, her shoulder in the grip of Denver Kristoff’s big hand, but now she was getting way too scared to be here. If Hayes were really going to do a séance, that meant ghosts and spirits, and Eleanor wasn’t sticking around for that. Luckily, by not moving for so long, she had made Denver Kristoff relax his grip, and with Hayes tending to the table, she broke free!

  Eleanor ran toward the doorway that Angel had just walked out of. Kristoff called angrily after her, but she didn’t turn around—and then she heard Hayes’s voice, calm: “Wait, little one. You’ll be needing some money.”

  Eleanor stopped, turned back. Did I hear that right?

  Apparently she did. Because Hayes was holding out a hundred-dollar bill.

  “I want you to get a taxi, go back to your parents, and never tell anyone about being here. And keep the change. Understand?”

  “You’re letting me go?”

  “Mr. Kristoff was wrong to bring you here.”

  Eleanor glanced at Kristoff, who stood behind Hayes. He was clearly angry but also powerless. The old man really was his boss. Eleanor hesitantly took the hundred-dollar bill and strode toward the door. Behind her, she heard Kristoff whisper to Hayes: “You’re making a mistake. We should get rid of her. Permanently. I know a place under the Bay Bridge where we can dispose of the body—”

  “Enough. Make yourself useful and bring me more candles—”

  “I’m not your servant—”

  “You are in my home and you will follow my rules.”

  Eleanor paused as she approached the door, catching sight of something above. She turned slowly, so Hayes and Kristoff wouldn’t notice—

  And saw Brendan staring down at her.

  He was upstairs, on the balcony, next to Will!

  Have they been up there the whole time?

  Eleanor had to get to them.

  Two sets of doors stood in front of her: one that led out of the great hall and one that led to the street. She went through the first set and opened the second,
so it would sound like she was leaving . . . but then she dashed left, climbing the stairs to the balcony. She squeezed her eyes shut as she passed a pedestal holding a glass-encased stuffed falcon with huge, sharp claws. She had to get past all the scary stuff in this place. She had to get to Brendan and Will. And there they were! So close . . .

  Control yourself, stay steady, no sudden movements, she thought, but it was all she could do not to cry out as she fell into them.

  Their three-way hug was as strong as it was silent. It had only been a few hours since Eleanor had finished her riding lesson with Crow, but she thought she was never going to see her family again, and knowing that Bren and Will had come reminded her: Sometimes your siblings annoy you, but sometimes they save your life.

  Then, all of a sudden, the lights in the Bohemian Club went out.

  Eleanor, Brendan, and Will turned to the great room below, where there was a faint glow.

  The white candles on the long table were arranged in a figure eight stretching from one end to the other. Hayes and Kristoff stood at the center of the table. Beside them was an ancient record player, equipped with a rusted windup crank and a large metal horn. Next to it was the wooden board that Hayes had brought to the table before. Brendan and Eleanor didn’t recognize it, but Will knew it was a planchette, a board used for “automatic writing.” A pencil was stuck through its middle, and the idea was that if a spirit contacted you during a séance, you placed your hand on the board and allowed the spirit to guide you, spelling out the words it wanted to say automatically on paper below. Planchettes were forerunners to the Ouija board, which Will knew since the whole idea of speaking with spirits was very popular in his time.

  Hayes put a black vinyl record on the record player, dropped the needle, and turned the crank. A squeaky, wince-inducing sound filled the room. Brendan, Eleanor, and Will held their breaths.

  The record player let out a loud crack, and then staccato pops, signaling that music could start at any moment.