Summary:
Whyborne & Griffin #3
Mysterious happenings are nothing new to reclusive scholar Percival Endicott Whyborne, but finding one of his colleagues screaming for help in the street is rather unusual. Allan Tambling claims he can’t remember any of the last hour—but someone murdered his uncle, and Allan is covered in blood.
Whyborne’s lover, dashing private detective Griffin Flaherty, agrees to prove Allan’s innocence. But when Allan is deemed insane and locked away in the Stormhaven Lunatic Asylum, Griffin finds himself reliving the horrifying memories of his own ordeal inside a madhouse.
Along with their friend Christine, the two men become drawn deeper and deeper into a dark web of conspiracy, magic, and murder. Their only clue: a missing artifact depicting an unknown god. Who stole the artifact, and why can’t Allan remember what happened? And what is the truth behind the terrible experiments conducted on Stormhaven’s forbidden fourth floor?
It will take all of Whyborne’s sorcery and Griffin’s derring-do to stop the murderers and save Allan. But first, they must survive an even greater challenge: a visit from Griffin’s family.
Stormhaven is the third book in the Whyborne & Griffin series, where magic, mystery, and m/m romance collide with Victorian era America.
Books #1-4(Widdershins, Eidolin, Threshold, Stormhaven, Carousel, Remnant, & Necropolis)
Original Overall Review May 30, 2014:
Original Overall Review May 30, 2014:
I'm doing an overall review because each book flows fluently into the next. Each book is a mystery in itself but the relationships are ongoing and growing so they really need to be read in order, although I did read the short story last and it wasn't really out of place.
The characters are not only well written but easily liked or hated, as the case may be. As much as I love both Whyborne & Griffin, I really enjoyed Christine. A woman before her time and smarter than her colleagues, she doesn't hold any punches with anyone and she is the only true friend that both men come to trust and rely on. As for the hated characters, for me it was pretty consistently Whyborne's father and brother, they are both self-evolved with tunnel vision. But we can't like everyone in a story.
The mysteries are intriguing and definitely well written. They do rely heavily on the supernatural or paranormal, which is a plus for me. It's done so well that for those who aren't necessarily fans of magic I think will still find these stories interesting. This series is an excellent read anytime but a perfect read for October and Halloween.
RATING:
An array of probes lay on the table in front of it, some of whose use was made obvious by their shape. Bile stung my throat, and I glanced at Griffin, whose empty-eyed gaze had locked on the probes.
If he slipped into a fit now, we’d be caught for sure. I had to get him out of here. “Griffin,” I said, low and urgent. “Hang on. We’re almost there. I know you can do this.”
He swallowed convulsively, then nodded. “Yes. Just…lead the way.”
I did so, trying not to think of him locked in one of those cribs or chairs, let alone receiving shocks from the instruments. I wanted to take him far from here, wrap my arms around him, and shield him from every possible harm. But I couldn’t.
I led him further down the ward, wondering how many men might be confined here. Unlike the first floor ward, these walls weren’t painted a cheerful yellow. Instead, strange, swirling lines and symbols covered the raw plaster. I stopped to look at them, certain I’d seen many of the sigils in the Arcanorum and other occult tomes. A symbol hung above every cell, with sigils and lines twisting out from it, both inside the cell and to tangle with its neighbors.
What the devil was Zeiler doing with these men?
Griffin tugged at my hand. There was no time to gawk, I reminded myself. As we hurried down the ward, I shone my lantern into each cell, hoping for a glimpse of Allan. The wretched patients were little more than huddled shapes, for the most part, with the occasional gleam of eyes. The low moaning grew louder, and I realized it came from a cell halfway down the ward. Through some trick of the ventilation, the scent of the sea strengthened as we approached, drowning out the foulness of human effluvia. The air grew heavy and damp, smelling of salt and rot, dead fish and cold, cold mud.
My footsteps turned sluggish, as if mired in sludge. I needed to keep walking…and yet for some reason I felt compelled to look into the cell. Everything seemed to move very slowly, as if I’d slipped into some strange dream.
My feet came to a halt altogether, and I shone the beam of my lantern on the moaning man. The occupant of the cell crouched with his back to me. Unlike the shabbily-clothed patients I’d seen thus far, he seemed to be naked, his vertebrae strung like stones beneath his skin. Tattoos of strange design covered his arms and part of his back. Had he been a sailor, perhaps? Even one of the cultists?
The moaning fell suddenly silent. When the madman spoke, his cracked voice lilted strangely, like a child half-singing the words of a taunt. “You hear its song.”
My breath caught in my throat. “I d-don’t know what you mean,” I lied.
A low laugh started…then spread to the other cells, until we stood in the midst of a whole ward of laughing, cackling, giggling lunatics. “Don’t you?” the sailor asked. “It sings to you as it sings to us. In our dreams.”
“Whyborne,” Griffin said urgently, but he seemed very far away. On the other side of the world, or at the bottom of a well.
I took a step closer to the cell, fascinated by the tattoos on the sailor’s back. Was it a trick of the light, or had they begun to move?
The lunatic sprang to his feet, slamming into the bars, mere inches from my face. “It sings to you!” he screamed, spittle flying everywhere.
No, not spittle—sea foam. Somehow—I didn’t know how—the ocean had risen into Stormhaven, an inch of water splashing beneath my feet, the scent of the murky depths filling my nose. It wasn’t possible—it would take a cataclysm indeed for the ocean to rise so high, and surely the building would have been swept away. But where did the water come from?
What was happening to me?
“It’s coming!” the madman howled, shaking the bars of his cage. “The dweller in the deep is coming! The god is coming, singing; don’t you hear it, don’t you hear it?”
A hand touched my arm.
If he slipped into a fit now, we’d be caught for sure. I had to get him out of here. “Griffin,” I said, low and urgent. “Hang on. We’re almost there. I know you can do this.”
He swallowed convulsively, then nodded. “Yes. Just…lead the way.”
I did so, trying not to think of him locked in one of those cribs or chairs, let alone receiving shocks from the instruments. I wanted to take him far from here, wrap my arms around him, and shield him from every possible harm. But I couldn’t.
I led him further down the ward, wondering how many men might be confined here. Unlike the first floor ward, these walls weren’t painted a cheerful yellow. Instead, strange, swirling lines and symbols covered the raw plaster. I stopped to look at them, certain I’d seen many of the sigils in the Arcanorum and other occult tomes. A symbol hung above every cell, with sigils and lines twisting out from it, both inside the cell and to tangle with its neighbors.
What the devil was Zeiler doing with these men?
Griffin tugged at my hand. There was no time to gawk, I reminded myself. As we hurried down the ward, I shone my lantern into each cell, hoping for a glimpse of Allan. The wretched patients were little more than huddled shapes, for the most part, with the occasional gleam of eyes. The low moaning grew louder, and I realized it came from a cell halfway down the ward. Through some trick of the ventilation, the scent of the sea strengthened as we approached, drowning out the foulness of human effluvia. The air grew heavy and damp, smelling of salt and rot, dead fish and cold, cold mud.
My footsteps turned sluggish, as if mired in sludge. I needed to keep walking…and yet for some reason I felt compelled to look into the cell. Everything seemed to move very slowly, as if I’d slipped into some strange dream.
My feet came to a halt altogether, and I shone the beam of my lantern on the moaning man. The occupant of the cell crouched with his back to me. Unlike the shabbily-clothed patients I’d seen thus far, he seemed to be naked, his vertebrae strung like stones beneath his skin. Tattoos of strange design covered his arms and part of his back. Had he been a sailor, perhaps? Even one of the cultists?
The moaning fell suddenly silent. When the madman spoke, his cracked voice lilted strangely, like a child half-singing the words of a taunt. “You hear its song.”
My breath caught in my throat. “I d-don’t know what you mean,” I lied.
A low laugh started…then spread to the other cells, until we stood in the midst of a whole ward of laughing, cackling, giggling lunatics. “Don’t you?” the sailor asked. “It sings to you as it sings to us. In our dreams.”
“Whyborne,” Griffin said urgently, but he seemed very far away. On the other side of the world, or at the bottom of a well.
I took a step closer to the cell, fascinated by the tattoos on the sailor’s back. Was it a trick of the light, or had they begun to move?
The lunatic sprang to his feet, slamming into the bars, mere inches from my face. “It sings to you!” he screamed, spittle flying everywhere.
No, not spittle—sea foam. Somehow—I didn’t know how—the ocean had risen into Stormhaven, an inch of water splashing beneath my feet, the scent of the murky depths filling my nose. It wasn’t possible—it would take a cataclysm indeed for the ocean to rise so high, and surely the building would have been swept away. But where did the water come from?
What was happening to me?
“It’s coming!” the madman howled, shaking the bars of his cage. “The dweller in the deep is coming! The god is coming, singing; don’t you hear it, don’t you hear it?”
A hand touched my arm.
Saturday Series Spotlight
Jordan L. Hawk is a trans author from North Carolina. Childhood tales of mountain ghosts and mysterious creatures gave him a life-long love of things that go bump in the night. When he isn’t writing, he brews his own beer and tries to keep the cats from destroying the house. His best-selling Whyborne & Griffin series (beginning with Widdershins) can be found in print, ebook, and audiobook.
If you want to contact Jordan, just click on the links below or send an email.
Stormhaven #3
Whyborne & Griffith Series
B&N / iTUNES AUDIO / AUDIBLE
KOBO / iTUNES / SMASHWORDS
