Hoarfrost (Whyborne & Griffin Book 6) by Jordan L. Hawk Read Free Book Online Page A

shirtsleeve turned to ash. And for
a moment I’d felt every living thing in the city—every heartbeat, every
footstep, every quavering breath.
    Some
believed Widdershins possessed a will of its own. It collected people to it,
for unknown reasons. And once it claimed a person, or a family, or a bloodline,
they would never be able to leave for very long. I’d always hated travel, had
taken a job at the museum here, instead of leaving this place and my family
behind. Mother had remained, even when she might have taken up residence at a
sanitarium for her long illness.
    I’d left
before, for months at a time while at university. And later during our trip to
Egypt. But at the time, Widdershins hadn’t awakened to my hand. And though it
slept now, like an uneasy beast, I couldn’t deny I’d grown used to feeling the
whisper of power beneath my feet. What would happen when I left?
    Nothing,
hopefully. Perhaps it would even be for the best. Maybe whatever I’d roused
would return to deeper dreams without my presence, and when we came back
everything would be ordinary again. Or as ordinary as Widdershins had ever
been, at least.
    Perhaps.
But some doors once opened could never be shut again.

Chapter 9
     
    Whyborne
    By the
time we put into port in Alaska a month later, I was heartily sick of the
steamer that had brought us to these wild shores. And yet my first glimpse of
land over the rails quelled whatever desire I had to leave the ship.
    The
journey began auspiciously enough. We’d traversed the country in comfort,
thanks to Whyborne Railroad and Industries. I’d felt a bit odd once we’d left
Widdershins, as though I were slightly off balance, but the luxuries of our
private car softened any sensations of discomfort.
    The
steamer awaiting us in San Francisco, however, provided no such amenities. The
thing was more scow than passenger ship, and packed to the rafters with exactly
what Christine most feared: a hundred men and women who, having missed the
great stampede to the Klondike two years ago, now rushed to the new finds in
Nome and Hoarfrost.
    The
sight of so many people who, as she put it, wanted to destroy her dig site,
sent her wild with indignation. Griffin tried to calmly point out they would
likely be stuck in St. Michael for the winter, until the spring thaw allowed
them and their goods to be transported up the Yukon. It did little to improve
her mood.
    I hid in
the cramped berth I shared with Griffin and tried to avoid everyone for the
duration of the voyage. My sensation of being slightly off, as though some mild
illness weakened me, persisted. Combined with my intense dislike of traveling
on the water, it left me miserable and short tempered. When not complaining of
our fellow passengers, Christine teased me for being a fish-man afraid of
water. I quickly tired of her sport, and our barbed exchange ended with us
thoroughly out of sorts with one another.
    As a
result, I’d been desperate with longing to leave the blasted steamer and have
dry land beneath my feet again. Now I viewed the wharf, such as it was, and
wondered if I hadn’t appreciated the confines of the ship quite as much as I
should. The thin sunlight, which lasted only a few hours at this latitude,
revealed a chaotic scene of ships, cargo, people, and animals. Stevedores
cursed in French, English, and Russian, horses whinnied in alarm as they were
hoisted off the deck of a nearby ship, and dogs barked incessantly. Unlike the
old quays of Widdershins, these docks were hastily built from raw lumber and
looked as if they might collapse at any moment. The solid land beyond was
nothing but a churned mess of half-frozen mud, snow, ice, and dog waste.
    I’d
expected to see a town much like Widdershins—not as venerable, of course,
but consisting of orderly streets lined with shops and homes. Instead, the place
was a ramshackle sprawl of tents, shacks, and rough buildings, its roads
nothing more than raw muck.
    “This is
St. Michael?” I asked