The Curse of the Wendigo (The Monstrumologist, Book 2)

I watched—or rather endured—the proceedings from a vantage point high above the stage. We were seated upon a dilapidated divan inside the doctor’s private box, bestowed upon the family Warthrop by the Society in recognition of three generations of familial dedication to the cause. By ten o’clock, we had finally reached the F ’s, and the doctor was nearly beside himself with boredom. I suggested this would be an excellent time to catch up on his sleep—he had tossed and turned the night before—but my gentle proposition was met with withering disdain.

The sole bit of excitement came with the announcement that the president of the Society, Dr. Abram von Helrung, would not be in attendance until the following day, with no explanation given for his absence. Rumors had been rife that something earthshaking was on the horizon—that von Helrung intended to drop a scientific bombshell at week’s end, a proposition that would shake the world of natural history to its foundation. To those few colleagues who had the temerity to sound out Warthrop on the matter, the doctor gave a curt response, refusing to validate the other rumor that followed the first on eagle’s wings—that upon the conclusion of von Helrung’s presentation, his former pupil, the renowned Pellinore Warthrop, intended to rise in reply.

We were back in our rooms by six, which gave us more than an hour to dress for our dinner date with Dr. von Helrung. In any other circumstance this would have been more than enough time to change (the doctor, as I have noted elsewhere, was heedless to the point of disdain about his appearance). On this evening, however, Warthrop became as punctilious as the fussiest quaintrelle. I, as his impromptu valet, bore the brunt of his anxiety. His waistcoat was wrinkled. His shoes were scuffed. His cravat was crooked. After my third unsuccessful attempt to tie a proper knot, he pushed my hands away roughly and cried, “Never mind. I’ll do it!”

His lecture on proper etiquette—“Sit up straight, say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘may I,’ speak only when spoken to.” “The purpose and function of a finger bowl . . . ,” et cetera, et cetera—was mercifully interrupted by the arrival of Skala promptly at a quarter past. He grunted a good evening to the doctor and swept out through the doors without a backward glance, one hand buried in the bulging pocket of his peacoat—perhaps, I thought, he was caressing the butt end of a truncheon.

As we exited the building, the doctor moaned under his breath. I looked around for the source of his distress and spied the same ragamuffin character from the night before loitering near the Fifty-ninth Street entrance to the park.

The rig bounced as the huge Bohemian took his seat; the whip snapped and cracked; and then we were off at breakneck speed, whipping south onto Fifth Avenue, while our driver yelled curses and epithets at anything that dared get in his way, including pedestrians for whom, but a moment before, the act of crossing the street had not seemed a life-threatening proposition.

Our journey was mercifully short—von Helrung’s four-story brownstone occupied the corner of Fifth and Fifty- first Street. Still, by its end, I was battered and bruised and my pounding heart strained the buttons of my shirt.

We were met at the door by a person of color, a burly man whose girth rivaled that of Augustin Skala. He introduced himself as Bartholomew Gray, placed himself entirely at the doctor’s service, and then, with dignified and deliberate ambulation, escorted us into the well-appointed parlor.

Our host fairly bounded across the room upon our entrance. He was a stocky barrel-chested man with short thick legs and small quick feet. His enormous square-shaped head was topped by an explosion of cottony white hair, and he had sparkling sapphire-colored eyes set deep beneath his bushy brows. His ruddy cheeks glowed with veritable delight at seeing his old friend and former pupil, and I watched dumbfounded as he gathered my aloof and undemonstrative master into a bear hug, pressing his face into the doctor’s stiffly starched waistcoat. My astonishment was compounded when Warthrop returned the gesture, stooping a bit to wrap his leaner, longer arms around the shorter man’s back.

With tears shining in his eyes, von Helrung cried softly, “Pellinore, Pellinore, mein lieber Freund. It has been too long, ich habe dich vermisst!”

“Meister Abram,” murmured the monstrumologist with genuine affection. “Ich habe dich auch vermisst. Du siehst gut aus.”

“Oh, no, no,” remonstrated the thickset Austrian. “Es ist nicht wahr—I am old, dear Pellinore, and near the end of my days, but danke, thank you!”

His flashing eyes fell upon me, and his joyful grin returned.

“And this must be the illustrious William Henry, conqueror of the wilderness, of whom I’ve heard so much!”

I bowed, extended my hand to him, and carefully repeated the greeting the doctor had taught me: “It is a pleasure and honor to meet you, Herr Doctor von Helrung.”

“Oh, no, that will not do!” cried von Helrung. He brushed aside my proffered hand, pulled me into his arms, and proceeded to crush the air from my lungs. “The honor is mine, young Master Henry!”

He released me; I took a long, shuddering breath; and he looked long and deeply into my eyes, his gaiety giving way to gravity. “I knew your father, a brave and loyal man who died too young, but alas such is the fate of many a brave and loyal man! A grievous loss. A tragic end. I wept when I heard the news, for I knew what he meant to mein Freund Pellinore, unsere Herzen sind eins—his tears, mine; his heartbreak, ours! You have his eyes; I see that. And his spirit; I have heard that. Remain faithful to his memory, mein Junge. Serve your master as your father served him, and your father will smile down at you from paradise!”

As if “paradise” were a cue, a rumble and a clatter erupted from the hall behind us; it sounded like an entire regiment was thundering down the stairs. Bursting into our midst in a storm of white lace and verdant velvet, her raven ringlets pulled back from her round face and gathered into a crimson bow, was a young girl, perhaps a year or two older than me, with eyes the same remarkable shade of blue as our host.

She froze when she saw us, an abrupt halt nearly as violent as her charge. She recovered quickly, however, turned upon von Helrung, and, in a ringing, unaccented voice, made clear her indignation.

“They’re here! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“They’ve only just arrived, mein kleiner Liebling,” replied von Helrung reasonably. “Dr. Warthrop, may I present my niece, Miss—”

“Bates,” interrupted the girl, thrusting her hand, palm down, toward the monstrumologist, who accepted it graciously, bowed low, and waved his lips in its general vicinity. “Lillian Trumbul Bates, Dr. Pellinore Warthrop. I know who you are.”

“Evidently,” returned the doctor. He nodded toward me. “Miss Bates, may I present—”

“William James Henry,” she finished for him, and turned upon me those eyes saturated in blue. “‘Will’ for short. You are Dr. Warthrop’s apprentice.”

“Hello,” I said shyly. Her stare was all too frank. From the first, it unnerved me.

“Uncle says you are my age, but if you are, you are quite undersized. How old are you? I’m thirteen. In two weeks I shall be fourteen, and Mother says I may go on dates. I like older boys, but Mother says I shan’t be allowed to date them.”

She paused, waiting for my response, but I was completely at a loss.

“Do you go to school, or does Dr. Warthrop instruct you?”

“Neither,” I replied in a kind of squeak that sounded embarrassingly birdlike to my ears.

“Really? Why? Are you thickheaded?”

“Now, Lilly,” remonstrated her uncle. “Will Henry is our guest.” He patted her shoulder gently and said warmly to my master, “Come, Pellinore, sit with me; there are fresh cigars from Havana in the humidor. We will talk about the old days, and the new and exciting ones to come!” Then, turning back to his niece, he said, “Lilly, mein kleiner Liebling, why don’t you take William to your room and show him your birthday present? We’ll ring up when dinner is served.”

Before either the doctor (who did not smoke cigars) or I (who did not wish to see Lillian Trumbul Bates’s bedroom) could protest, I was yanked from the room, hauled up the stairs, and flung into her room. She slammed the door, threw the bolt, and then sailed past me to belly flop upon the canopy bed. Rolling onto her side, she rested her round dollish face upon her palm and studied me frankly from beneath her delicate brows, with an expression not unlike the doctor’s upon ripping out the heart of Pierre Larose.

“So you are studying to be a monstrumologist,” she said.