Page 55 of The Devouring Time

The receptionist frowns. “You aren’t students.”

“No, ma’am,” Adrian says with a charming smile that doesn’t seem to affect her in the slightest. “We’re investigating an insurance claim—nothing to do with Dr. Dane, but we need to ask her a few questions.”

He produces one of his cards and she takes it from him. After studying it for a long moment, she says, “Wait here.”

We wait, Adrian apparently at ease, myself uncomfortable. A pair of students enter in the midst of an argument, the gist of which seems to be a dispute over usage of a telescope. They pull a flustered secretary into the quarrel, pointing at a sign-up sheet on her desk, then up at the ceiling, by which I gather the incongruous tower houses the astronomy department.

The receptionist returns, her expression icy. “Dr. Dane recognized your name, Mr. Caine,” she says, and my heart sinks. “She said you’re a fraudster who has been impersonating your former business partner in correspondence to her. I’ve been told to call the police if you don’t leave immediately.”

“There’s been a misunderstanding,” Adrian begins, but she reaches for the telephone on her desk.

We hurry out, feeling her eyes bore into our backs as we do so. Neither of us speaks until we reach the outside air once again.

“I should have used an alias, shouldn’t I?” I ask glumly.

Adrian puts a hand briefly to my elbow. “We should have discussed the matter ahead of time. The fault is mine as much as yours.”

I hunch my shoulders. A few yellow leaves drift from the trees, and a gentle rain begins to fall. The groups of students flee the inclement weather, except for the bunch playing football, who seem to take the wet grass as a welcome challenge.

“What now?” I ask.

Adrian considers as we approach the gate. “We could return to the speakeasy. The bootlegger Myers works for, Vince Vitali, runs his operation out of Widdershins according to what Cleo told us. He must be the one responsible for spreading the Chrysalis. Maybe someone at the speakeasy can tell us something useful about him.”

“Or about the cult trying to kill me.” How did my life turn into this? “I’m not going to trust the liquor, though.” Not that I would have touched it anyway, after that dreadful Widdershins Special.

“Nor am I. We’ll mime drinking it, then dump it behind one of those papier-mâché trees they have in there.”

It seems as good a plan as any. We hail the first taxi we see and ask the driver to take us to The Hooded Figure.

I feel as though I’ve aged a thousand years since the last time I set foot in the speakeasy, but in truth it’s been less than a week. Naturally, the place hasn’t changed at all in that short time.

We find a seat near the back wall where we can observe as much of the room as possible, given all the sinister imitation trees. The eyes in phosphorescent paint still glow from the branches and hollows, and I swear I see a pair blink when I turn my head.

Just nerves. Hopefully.

Adrian orders two more Widdershins Specials, and I glare at him when the things are put in front of us, fins and all. “You’re evil.”

“Maybe I just have a more refined palate,” he suggests with a wink. “Look at it this way, you won’t feel any regret at dumping the alcohol instead of drinking it.”

“To put it mildly.” I pretend to sip it and almost gag at the burnt, briny smell. “You didn’t ask our server any questions.”

“I want to get the lay of the land first.”

Adrian’s attention is already on our fellow drinkers, so I turn mine there as well. At least it might distract me from the abomination in my hand.

Everyone seems to be minding their own business. A few sit in groups, heads close together as they talk. A woman in a fashionable day dress bends over an old book, a frown on her face as she tries to decipher whatever is written within. Two men are playing cards, though the cards don’t seem marked with the usual diamonds, spades, aces, or clubs, but rather with cryptic symbols whose meanings I can’t guess.

“The last time we were here, you said it reminded you of a place in Paris,” I recall.

“The Cabaret de L’Enfer,” he says. “It’s more…theatrical, I suppose is the word, than this. It’s meant to put on a show for its guests, whereas this place⁠—”

He stops speaking abruptly, his eyes fixed on something. I glance in the same direction and see none other than Frank Myers, fake butler and real bootlegger.

38

Thank goodness he hasn’t noticed us. Instead, all his attention is fixed on one of the many staff dressed in floor-length, hooded robes. These robes are more elaborate, though, with gold embroidery at the sleeves and hem; perhaps a manager or even the owner?

I can’t make out what they’re saying, but Myers’s face flushes more and more red as the conversation goes on, and the robed person shakes their head more frequently.