The Lost Codex Read online

  “Victor!” Brom grabs hold of my brother’s wrist. “What are you doing?”

  Dr. Addu and a few other doctors rush toward the bed as I translate what Victor’s saying.

  Gee hway.

  Get away.

  If eyes were capable of burning holes, there would be two tunnels straight through Mary. “GEE HWAY BEESH!” he howls. And then Victor screams, just flat out screams like his singular goal is to break every window in the Institute.

  “Somebody bring a sedative!” one of the doctors yells.

  Victor thrashes upon the bed, swinging clumsy yet rigid arms and fists out to make contact with whomever and whatever comes too close. He gnashes his teeth, he yowls until spittle streaks down his chin. He kicks one of the doctors so hard the guy doubles over. All the while, he refuses to let go of Mary’s hair, let alone stop glaring at her.

  Brom and I do our best to pin him down as Addu prepares the sedative. Victor continues to shout, hurling what I assume are garbled insults at Mary. Alice partially shields Mary with her body, but I can see exactly what Victor’s actions are doing to her. Her face is white, her limbs slack. There are no snarky or bitchy comebacks.

  Brom catches my attention, and it’s clear he’s thinking exactly what I am: Too much time has passed between protocol dosages.

  Mania has finally completely claimed my brother.

  Armed with a pill or two from Addu, Alice escorts Mary back to her apartment. Even after Victor quieted, Mary said nothing. She didn’t cry, either. I wasn’t even sure that was Mary who Alice led away.

  Addu loops his stethoscope around his neck. “You two look as if you need some stiff drinks.”

  A nasty scratch tears across my father’s cheek. “As do you,” Brom says.

  “He’ll be out for a few hours.” Addu rubs the bridge of his nose. “Until then, go have those drinks. Get some rest. We need to keep things calm for Victor. Maybe there was too much stimuli. Let’s ease him in to this new reality he’s woken up to.”

  Get away, bitch.

  I thank the doctor who bandaged my hand (appreciate the bite, bro!) and stand up. On the other side of the bed, Brom remains seated. “Wendy didn’t destroy all of your bottles of scotch,” I say. “I’m thinking now’s the perfect time to have some.”

  He massages the back of his neck, clearly torn.

  “The docs here will let us know if there are any changes. You’re no good to anyone if you’re exhausted.”

  My brother had said nearly the same thing to me once, after the boojum was removed from Alice’s back. Just thinking about it makes me want to howl alongside Victor. Does he know something is wrong? Can he tell? Is he trapped inside his mind and body, screaming to be let free?

  Brom finally stands up. He pulls me closer, hugging me while simultaneously patting my back. “You are right, as always.”

  I don’t take comfort or pride in such a statement, though.

  When the sedatives wear off, Mary doesn’t return to the medical wing. It’s for the best, because aggressive is a mild word for Victor’s behavior. A psychologist arrives, but even her gentle questions rile him up. He bites. He steals more hair. The doctors strap him to the bed, which only infuriates somebody already manic. One calls for another round of sedatives, but the psychologist insists she wants to talk to him as is.

  I think I want to throttle her just as much as my brother does.

  Brom and I don’t hover. We position ourselves across the room, afraid to overwhelm but still desperate to hear what’s going on. Our father crosses his arms so tightly, it’s a miracle he can breathe.

  He may be alternating between shouting and maniacally laughing as the psychologist settles in a chair just out of arm’s reach, but Victor’s speech is improving at an unbelievable rate. Within five minutes of constant shouting, I can understand all too well everything he’s saying.

  I’m a bastard, because, as I listen to him, I wish I couldn’t.

  The psychologist turns on a small recorder. “Victor, I’m Dr.—”

  “I don’t give a bloody flying shite who you are!” He lobs a massive wad of phlegm at her. She’s stone-cold amazing, because when it lands right on her face, she doesn’t even flinch. A tissue is quickly passed over, and she wipes it off as if it were nothing more than sweat from the midday sun. Victor yanks against his restraints. “Let me go, you bloody wankers!”

  A tense sigh rumbles out of Brom.

  Unfazed, the psychologist asks, “Do you know where you are?”

  He seethes, tongue no longer fat and loose, “I’m not an idiot. I have a Ph.D!”

  Victor never throws his title at anyone. He doesn’t even like colleagues to call him doctor.

  Her smile is mild. “I didn’t ask about college degrees. I asked if you know where you are.”

  Something in him changes. He shrugs, relaxing against the raised bed. “In the Institute.”

  The psychologist crosses her legs. “Do you remember your full name?”

  “Victor Frankenstein Van Brunt.” He lifts up his fingers, although he can’t raise his hand or arm, and pretends to study his nails. “I don’t give a shite what your name is, though, shrink.”

  Tension rolls off of Brom in tangible waves.

  As if she hadn’t even heard the last part, the psychologist asks, “What are the last memories you have before today?”

  He leers. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Do you have any memories from Koppenberg Mountain?”

  “You’re a bloody moron.”

  “Are you in any pain?”

  “How many times do I need to answer that?” He glances around at the dispersed crowd in the room. “Is no one listening?”

  “Do any of your bones ache?” the psychologist presses, albeit conversationally. “Does anything itch?”

  “If you’re asking if I want to relieve an itch with you, sorry.” His laugh is ugly. “You’re too much of a cow.”

  I thrust out an arm to stop Brom from doing anything rash.

  “Why did you attack Mary earlier?”

  His lips curl distastefully. “Wouldn’t leave me alone.”

  “Do you know who Mary is?”

  A long, suffering, exaggerated sigh blasts out. “She’s the prissy bitch who tries to tell me what to do all the time.”

  “Is she nothing more than that?”

  “Is that not enough?” He leers once more. “Fine. She’s somebody I shag upon occasion.”

  Christ.

  He tilts his head to the side. “They’re coming, you know.”

  The psychologist leans forward. “Who’s coming?”

  A sneer twists his mouth. “You know who they are. You’ve got one hanging on your shoulder. Traitor.”

  She doesn’t bother to verify his claim. “Can you describe who you see over my shoulder?”

  “You’ll deserve what you get, nosy bitch.” All of a sudden, he convulses as he yanks against his restraints. “Let me out of here, you arseholes! I’m not going to die in here because you’re all too stupid to see! He’ll find me, and then she’ll kill me!” He stares right at Brom, right at me, still thrashing up a storm. “Don’t let her kill me! She’s going to put a worm in my ear and it’ll eat my brains until I’m nothing but their puppet!”

  Raising her voice above his, the psychologist asks, “Who will do that, Victor? Whom are you so scared of?”

  His screams transition into sobs. After ten minutes of getting nowhere, the psychologist finally allows Dr. Addu to administer another round of sedatives.

  When the needle slides into his skin, Victor howls. Those mismatched eyes of his laser in on us. “Don’t turn your backs on me. Don’t let me go into the darkness! Please, Dad! Finn!”

  Brom finally speaks. He tells his eldest child, “I won’t, son. I promise.”

  It’s something I promise, too.

  BRING ALICE AND COME to the interrogation room.

  Mary is already shrugging on a sweater as I finish reading the mes
sage the Librarian just sent to Mary’s phone. My sweater, to be precise, but I do not point this small fact out.

  She barks, “What are we waiting for?”

  Off with her head.

  Hackles rise upon my back, but I allow this, too. After all, it isn’t every day when one’s great love rips a good chunk of her hair out. Mary refuses to discuss what happened in the medical wing, though, and I respect her enough not to push.

  Together, we make our way down to the interrogation room, to where the Librarian waits alongside a blindfolded and earplug-wearing Sara Carrisford and, more astonishingly, a similarly restrained Grethel Bunting. Both are docile in their beds—indeed, light snores emit from the Piper’s lieutenant.

  Mary must share my surprise, as she motions toward the John and Paul School for the Gifted’s former head mistress. “I’d almost forgot about this one.”

  “Unfortunately for her, I have not.” The Librarian turns away from a small rolling cart filled with books, syringes, and vials. How very curious. “You took long enough.”

  There’s the Librarian I know. I refuse to rise to her jab at misperceived tardiness. “Why have you summoned us?”

  “Since our discussion about the Codex of Life and Death, I’ve thought about it quite a bit.” She pats the tome resting at the top of the stack of books. “More specifically, over how we can unlock its secrets, considering I cannot see its words.”

  I very nearly roll my eyes. Has defeat worn her down so much that she is deigned to regurgitate information we already know?

  “I considered what your debased Harry told you,” the Librarian continues.

  I am cool with my response. “Do not refer to him as such.”

  “He is unable to read the book, though, being debased,” she says, as if I hadn’t issued the veiled threat. “And I wondered . . . is that merely because he is illiterate? Or because he was forbidden to do so?” She taps her lips. “Or is it because he legitimately cannot see the words in order to read?”

  “Perhaps you ought to show him the book.” There’s an eagerness to Mary, one forced and undoubtedly mixed with gratitude for a worthy distraction.

  “I did.” The Librarian raps her fingers across the leather cover. “While he is illiterate, as is common for a slave or a non-educated man from his Timeline, he is able to identity the difference between letters and pictures. I tested the theory with several of the debased in residence.”

  I grit my teeth, my fingers clenching the folds of my skirts.

  “None saw any words in the Codex. Isn’t that intriguing?” The Librarian’s smile leaves me uneasy. “But it did leave me wondering if someone who isn’t debased could read the book. Someone Chosen.”

  I grudgingly appreciate her connecting of the dots. “Someone like Sara or Grethel Bunting.”

  “Exactly.” She pats a pair of syringes on the table. “Mary, I requisitioned some of your truth serum. Shall we see what these ladies know about the Codex?”

  I step in front of Sara. “I will not allow any torture to befall this woman.”

  Half of the Librarian’s mouth stretches upward. “But you will allow it for the other?”

  I think back to the day I met Grethel Bunting, and of how rude she was, and of how she attempted to use her set of pipes against Van Brunt, Jack, and myself. She was ruthless, remorseless.

  I have no idea if she willingly allowed herself to become Chosen. As one of the assumed original Hamelin children whom the Piper kidnapped, there is a small chance she was swayed at a young age. But decades have passed, and deeds completed. Her complicity in the Piper’s villainy is assured.

  Sara, though. . . She is fighting the rapture. Her only sin was to fall in love with the wrong person. She made no willing choice, and has continued to rebel.

  I stand my ground. “You will have to go through me in order to lay a single hand upon Sara Carrisford.”

  A rich, throaty laugh is the Librarian’s response.

  Mary snorts. “No one is threatening Little Miss Princess. Heaven forbid she be treated with anything other than a pair of her finest kid gloves.” She selects one of the syringes. “Let’s start with Sara, so you can save all your glorious wrath for the hag in the other chair.”

  The bed is activated so that Sara reclines rather than lies prone. I steady her arm to ready it for Mary. The only reaction she offers us is a slight grimace the moment needle pierces skin. We wait a minute before removing the earplugs and sleep mask.

  Green-gray eyes blink against the bright overhead lights.

  The Librarian maintains her distance, although I fear more for amusement than worry of threats. “Hello, Sara.”

  Finn’s former partner maintains her focus on the three of us rather than glancing around the room. “You should not have removed those. We cannot risk him finding me.” A hitch splits her tone. “I cannot risk hurting anyone else.”

  “We need your help.” I lay my hand upon one of her restrained arms. “We would not go against your wishes otherwise.”

  Her lower lip trembles. “I will, of course, offer any assistance I may.”

  Mary snorts once more, but tries to disguise it with a cough. I simply do not have time to deal with her childish dislike of this woman, though. I fire off a warning glance before returning my focus on Sara.

  “May I ask . . . are they all right? The people you brought through the doorway?” Sara queries. “Please tell me that no one retaliated against the one who stabbed me. She was only scared. With me being who I am, it is only natural.”

  “Ugh, now she’s a martyr,” Mary mutters.

  I shift my body to block Mary from Sara’s line of sight. “Grymsdyke wished to avenge you. I think he is rather taken with you, although he insists he will still happily bite you upon your request.”

  She laughs quietly. “He is a dear.”

  I will refrain from telling him this, as no assassin wishes to be thought of as such a sweet thing.

  “All is well with everyone. Have no fears.” My smile fades. “What can you tell us about the Codex of Life and Death, the tome that sat between the Piper and thirteenth Wise Woman’s thrones in Koppenberg Mountain?”

  Her brows furrow as she considers my query. “It is their Bible, only . . . it holds no religious stories. It’s also like a ledger.”

  “Well, that makes perfect sense,” Mary mutters.

  “Do you recall what is in it? Or any of the text?” the Librarian asks.

  “Most of my recollections are hazy,” Sara murmurs, “but I believe it tells the first story.”

  “You said it had no stories,” Mary unhelpfully points out.

  “Religious stories, no—at least any like I have ever heard or read. There are no mentions of gods or goddesses.” Sara licks her lips. “What lies within the Codex’s pages is the first story, the one that—” She winces as blood begins to trickle from her nose. “I . . . I . . . I can’t be sure, but I think it hails from the first Timeline. Maybe here? Or. . .”

  The blood flows thicker, and I rip off a piece of her gown in order to press it against her nose. “Perhaps you ought to rest a moment.”

  She shakes her head, wincing as if her head fiercely aches. Her words are muffled. “Or gave birth to the first Timeline.”

  With my free hand, I grapple with one of her restraints. Sara’s fingers fumble for mine. “Alice, please. Leave me be. I cannot allow myself to be his puppet.”

  The Librarian joins us by the bed. “Respect her wishes.” To Sara, she asks, “Do you remember any of the story?”

  “Just snatches. They have a very dream-like quality to them.”

  The bit of cloth I’ve used to stem her nosebleed is soaked through. I quietly ask Mary to obtain some gauze and ice, as well as a painkiller to counter whatever torture the Piper inflicts upon those who tell his secrets. My request annoys her, but she swiftly leaves the room.

  “Anything will help,” the Librarian cajoles. “Any detail, no matter how small. Think about it while we wait for
Mary to return.”

  It only takes our colleague a few minutes to do so. Gauze is stuffed up Sara’s nostril; I press an icepack against the outside. Another shot is administered, this one morphine.

  Shortly, Sara relaxes even farther into her bed, eyes glazed. “I’m ready to tell you what I remember.” Her voice is light, dreamy even.

  Mary pulls out her phone. “We should record this.”

  “There was Darkness before anything else,” Sara says. “It was rich and thick, all encompassing. Darkness ruled its domain with utter ferocity. Nothing was allowed to penetrate the velvet of nothingness. There were no sounds, no sensations, and, most of all, no light. For many millennia, this pleased Darkness.” Her eyes flutter closed. “It was Darkness’ choice to bring about change. It tore itself into two, and together, the two halves shaped themselves into whatever they wished.” A smile plays across her lips. “In the dark, anything can be anything. Or it can be nothing at all.”

  Mary rolls her eyes. “Well, now. We better make room in the philosophy section for Sara Carrisford, shouldn’t we? Watch out, Aristotle.”

  Before I can say anything, the Librarian snaps, “That is more than enough out of you, young lady.”

  Well, now, indeed.

  Sara continues, “Darkness can even be a story, if it likes.”

  The Librarian asks, “What kind of story?”

  “All stories. Although, if Darkness is done with a story, it can do that, too.”

  “This makes no sense,” Mary mutters. “Darkness as a storyteller? What about authors?”

  Although the question was surely angled toward the Librarian and myself, Sara is the one to answer it. “Authors, the blessed ones, take Darkness and make it into something more.” Her eyes flutter open. “But the truly powerful, the ones who control life and death . . . They are the ones who take something and make it nothing. That is all of the tale that I remember.”

  Mary crosses her arms. “Fat lot that did.”

  “Did the book speak to the Piper or the witch?” the Librarian asks.

  “Speak?” Sara’s head tilts to the side; she squints. “With spoken language?” She titters quietly. “The Codex of Life and Death is not an audio book.” A long sign lifts her chest. “I miss those, by the way. Funny what things you take a liking to in the Twenty-First Century.”