Whyborne & Griffin #4
Introverted scholar Percival Endicott Whyborne has spent the last few months watching his lover, Griffin Flaherty, come to terms with the rejection of his adoptive family. So when an urgent telegram from Christine summons them to Egypt, Whyborne is reluctant to risk the fragile peace they’ve established. Until, that is, a man who seems as much animal as human tries to murder Whyborne in the museum.
Amidst the ancient ruins of the pharaohs, they must join Christine and face betrayal, murder, and a legendary sorceress risen from the dead. In the forge of the desert heat, the trio will either face their fears and stand together—or shatter the bonds between them forever.
Necropolis is the fourth 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:
I elected to have Christmas dinner in hell and took my lover with me.
Not a literal hell, of course. As a materialist, I didn’t believe in such things. But if proved wrong and condemned by a deity cruel enough to fashion me to love men, then proceed to damn me for it, I rather imagined I’d find myself spending eternity here in my childhood home.
But at least this version of hell contained an angel. “Griffin, I’m glad you came,” my mother exclaimed, kissing him on the cheek.
Griffin’s smile removed some of the lines of care from his face. I always found him damnably handsome, with his overlong chestnut curls and bright green eyes, but his grin brought out all of his devilish charm.
“Thank you for the invitation, Heliabel,” he said. “May I say how lovely your home looks? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Christmas tree quite so large.”
I eyed the monstrosity in the foyer. Like everything in Whyborne House, it was absurdly ostentatious, as if Father refused to take the chance any visitor might forget just how rich and powerful a man lived here. The pinnacle of the towering evergreen brushed the ceiling twenty feet above, and its boughs hung low beneath the weight of ornaments, ribbons, and softly glowing candles. Melting beeswax perfumed the air alongside the spice of conifer.
The sights and smells transported me involuntarily to the holidays of my youth. Most of which featured my brother opening great mounds of presents, and myself making do with a few books from Mother and an orange from Miss Emily.
“Father gave me a child-sized pair of boxing gloves one Christmas.” I hadn’t thought of those in years.
Griffin arched a brow. “Did he? That seems…an unlikely gift.”
A charitable way of saying I wasn’t the most athletic of men. “He had unrealistic hopes,” I muttered, glaring at the tree. I itched to speak the words which would set it on fire, but burning down the house seemed a bit much. Even on Christmas.
“Have you investigated any interesting cases lately, Griffin?” Mother asked, rescuing the conversation.
Griffin began to relate the details of a kidnapping he’d recently looked into—successfully, I should add, with the abducted tyke returned to his family unharmed. I stood back and watched them. Griffin looked quite fine, dressed in his best suit, wearing the emerald tie I’d given him for a Christmas present. With his broad shoulders and trim form, he presented the very image of vigorous manhood.
Mother stood in sharp contrast. The year hadn’t been kind to her…but none ever were. Her health broke when she delivered my twin sister and me into the world. My sister never even took a breath, and I’d spent a good deal of my childhood sickly.
Mother hadn’t left the house for years; I couldn’t recall the last time she’d set foot across the threshold. But she had abandoned the refuge of her room and dressed for dinner, and if her skin held an unnatural pallor and her smile wore lines of pain around the edges, I couldn’t help but feel even more grateful for her kindness to Griffin.
Had it merely been the three of us, I would have looked forward to the afternoon with great anticipation. Unfortunately, I possessed other family members.
“Percival,” Father said crisply, striding into the foyer as if onto a battlefield such as he fought on under the command of General Grant. Although the years had grayed his hair and beard, his back remained unbent and his eyes still glittered like knives. His lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded in Griffin’s general direction. “Mr. Flaherty.”
Mother folded her hands together. “Wasn’t it kind of Griffin to join us for the holiday?” she asked pointedly.
Father had been involved in a cult which first unjustly confined Griffin to a madhouse, then tried to sacrifice him to an undead abomination. I rather thought it beyond kind for Griffin to respond to the invitation at all, instead of just flinging it into the fire.
Society, however, would more likely overlook Father’s crimes than the one Griffin and I committed by virtue of falling in love.
“Yes,” Father grated out, glowering as he did so. “Most kind.”
“Thank you for the invitation,” Griffin said, not warmly, but with more graciousness than I could have summoned.
The gong rang to announce dinner. Even though this was, in theory, an intimate family gathering, all the formalities must be observed. Seeming relieved, Father hurried to the dining room, while servants swung back the ponderous doors to allow us entry. Griffin offered Mother his arm, which she accepted.
Compared to the last time we’d dined here, the atmosphere was a bit more cheerful, thanks to the evergreen boughs above the hearth and the bows tied around the pikes held by the suits of armor. Not to suggest our family descended from European aristocracy—the Whyborne lineage consisted of thieves and whores who fled to the colonies to escape the hangman. But the money, which fueled our ascension in society, encouraged certain lapses in memory when it came to our sullied past.
Five settings lay at one end of the immense dining table, and I resigned myself to the presence of my elder brother. As we took our places, with Father at the head of the table, Mother to his right, and Griffin and I to his left, Stanford wandered in. From the flush on his face and his unsteady gait, it seemed he’d begun the festivities early.
Griffin’s eyes narrowed at the sight of my brother. I hadn’t the slightest idea if he’d been exposed to Stanford when the Brotherhood kidnapped him. If so, did it count as some sort of formal introduction?
Fortunately, Mother took matters in hand. “Stanford, I don’t believe you’ve met our guest. Mr. Griffin Flaherty, this is my eldest son, Stanford Preston Whyborne.”
Stanford grunted in Griffin’s direction and didn’t bother to extend his hand.
The servants poured wine and laid out the first course: oysters on the half shell. The conversation limped along: Father asked about my job at the Ladysmith, and I yet again explained my utter lack of interest in becoming the head of the Antiquities Department, let alone the director or—heaven forbid—president of the museum. Mother inquired as to whether I’d read anything by Mr. H.G. Wells. I hadn’t, but Griffin admired adventure fiction, and the two of them animatedly discussed The Time Machine through the soup and custard courses.
Father glowered but didn’t interrupt, no doubt consigning Griffin onto the pile of womanish frivolity alongside me. Stanford drank glass after glass of wine in silence, while the rest of us pretended not to notice.
For us, it was practically a scene of familial bliss.
Which of course meant it couldn’t last. The servants set out the chestnut-stuffed turkey and presented another bottle of wine. As they worked, Stanford cast a small, piggish eye on Griffin.
“Why is he here?” my brother slurred.
Silence fell. The servants pretended not to hear, but I could only imagine they strained to catch every syllable. My face grew hot. I didn’t know what, if anything, our parents had said to Stanford about Griffin, let alone why Griffin spent the day with us rather than visiting his family in Kansas.
Mother set her fork carefully down beside her plate. “Because everyone deserves to be with family on Christmas.”
Stanford snorted into his wine glass. “Doesn’t he have one of his own to go to?”
This silence was even tenser than the first. Griffin’s expression slipped into a mask of polite indifference. But anger turned the food in my belly to acid. How dare Stanford? I’d spent my youth enduring his taunts and torments, but I’d be damned if I let him callously dig into Griffin’s barely healed wounds.
I pasted a false smile on my lips. “And where are Darla and the boys?” I asked in the most pleasant tone I could manage. “I would have thought you’d want to spend the holiday with your wife and sons.”
Stanford’s face flushed brick red. “Shut up.”
“I only asked a question, as innocent as your own.”
“Innocent,” Stanford spat. “You don’t know the meaning of the word. How dare you expose our mother to your perversions—”
“You blasted—”
“Boys!” Mother slammed her hand down on the table. The wine leapt free of every single glass along the table, curling in the air for a moment before falling to stain the cloth.
For a long moment, no one spoke, as we all absorbed what we’d seen. Then a delighted laugh escaped me. “You’ve been practicing!”
Mother’s cheeks flushed with pride. “Well, yes.”
“Practicing?” Father’s tone bordered on horror.
Mother’s shoulders went back a touch. “I asked Percival to teach me some of his little spells.”
“What?” exclaimed Griffin, at the same moment Father thundered, “There are no little spells!”
Drat. I’d not intended for Griffin to find out this way. Well, technically, I’d not intended for him to find out at all.
“Mother requested to be tutored in a few small spells,” I said, aiming the words at Father. “The water spell came easiest to me, so I thought it might as well to her.” My annoyance gave way to excitement. “And it did! You used it on wine—what a brilliant idea!”
She smiled fondly at me. “Well, wine is mostly composed of water, of course.”
“No.” Father gripped his fork in one hand as if he meant to stab someone, as soon as he decided which of us to target. “Sorcery is a dangerous matter, Heliabel. I forbid you to conduct it within these walls.”
Her thin shoulders rose in a shrug. “Stop me.”
Griffin cleared his throat in the ensuing shocked silence. “The papers reported on a body partially exhumed and eaten yesterday,” he said. “I don’t suppose anyone here knows anything about it?”
Father beckoned for more wine.
Saturday Series Spotlight
Jordan L HawkJordan 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.
Necropolis #4
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Whyborne & Griffith Series
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