“Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Tobin muttered.

  “Look on the bright side,” I said. “If they meant us any harm they could have just left us to the wraiths.”

  “I guess,” he said. “But trying to prevent the wraiths from getting the ring doesn’t necessarily mean they’re our friends.”

  “No it doesn’t.”

  “I don’t trust this.”

  “Neither do I,” I said. “But right now, I don’t see where we have any other choice but to let this play out.”

  “We could leave,” Tobin said. “I don’t trust Easton. I know it might sound a bit ungrateful, given that he saved our lives and all, but there’s something not right about him. Like a bad smell. I don’t know how else to explain it. It makes my skin itch.”

  I knew the feeling, but unlike Tobin, I could put words to it. It wasn’t fear, exactly. Just a heightened sense of awareness. That same feeling you get when you come into contact with a really large dog. It may seem tame and domesticated, but deep inside your lizard brain, you know that it’s capable of snapping at any moment. That was how it felt being around Easton.

  “I hear you,” I said. “But we can’t just walk away. At least not yet.”

  “So what do we do?” Tobin asked.

  “We watch and we listen. And all the while, you two stay close to me. I’ll guard your back. You’ll guard mine. Agreed?”

  “You mean you’ll guard the ring,” Tobin said.

  I blinked. “Say what now?”

  He drew in a long breath and dropped his cup down onto the table before shaking his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. Don’t know where it came from. Guess I’m just tired.”

  “We all are,” I said. “But we need to stay alert.”

  “Right,” he said. “I just wish I knew what they had brought us here for. What are they looking to do?”

  “We’re looking to guide you, Mr. Stoutroot,” a man’s voice said from beyond the table’s edge.

  We turned as one to see a figure standing beside the open doorway. In his early sixties, an inch or two over six feet tall, with a gray streaked beard and golden-brown hair receding in the front but left long in the back, he was dressed like an ivy league professor in tailored trousers, a dirty beige twill jacket, and pale gray neckerchief.

  He clasped his hands in front of him and ambled up to our table, giving each of us a long, appraising look before turning to me. “It is a great pleasure to meet you at last, Sergeant Mayfield. My name is Linus Penhaligon, and I am the chief curator for the New England Esoteric Literary Order of Cthulhu. Welcome to our headquarters. We’ve been looking forward to speaking with you for some time.”

  The Esoteric Literary Order of Cthulhu. Thursday, August 6th 1430hrs.

  Penhaligon ushered us through the double doors into a large room approximately the size of an upscale lounge. Dark bookshelves stretched the length of the walls, their shelves filled with leather bound tomes, small statuettes, and Roman facial busts. The rugs beneath our feet bore middle eastern designs, and dark leather furniture lay scattered throughout, angled around the half a dozen high-backed wing chairs surrounding a tree-stump-shaped coffee table in the room’s center.

  Two figures were already seated inside. The first was Amos Stoddard, proprietor of Blind Owl Books and a friend who’d helped me out more than once. In his late fifties, with bushy eyes and a mutton chop beard, Amos was widely considered one of the foremost authorities on historical literature in New England, and it made me feel a little better to see him here.

  The second figure was roughly the same age, with red hair, broad shoulders and a square, grumpy face that made me think she wasn’t thrilled to be here. Her clothes were modest, her jacket worn, and her knuckles gnarled and swollen, suggesting she was waging an ongoing battle with arthritis.

  Penhaligon took the center chair, leaving us to seat ourselves opposite them. Tobin and Alberad took the chairs on either side, and I ended up in the middle. I noted there was no sign of Easton. Maybe he’d gone off in search of that drink.

  “I hereby call this meeting to order,” Penhaligon said once we were settled. “Let no untrue word be spoken within these walls and let all present attune their thoughts and deeds to the service of mankind. We come together at a perilous time. All of New England stands on the brink of destruction, and without our intervention, it will surely fall to chaos and death.”

  “Uh, excuse me.” I raised my hand. “Point of clarification?”

  Penhaligon frowned, his hesitation making me think he wasn’t used to being interrupted. “Yes, Sergeant Mayfield?”

  I debated for a moment on how to word this, but ultimately just went for it. “Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn here, but who the heck are you people?”

  Amos snorted in what I thought might have been a laugh and covered his eyes with his hands.

  Penhaligon cast him a confused look, then turned back to me, speaking slowly as if perhaps I’d misheard. “As I said, we are the Esoteric Literary Order of Cthulhu. The New England chapter, of course.”

  “Right,” I said. “I got that part but, uh, what does that actually mean?”

  “For Pete’s sake, Amos,” the woman said. “I thought you were supposed to be watching over the girl.”

  “Peace, Orla,” Amos said. “She’s been learning as she went. It’s been a busy year, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “Busy or not, the girl should have been made aware.”

  Amos shrugged. “I didn’t want to overwhelm her. We’ve had more pressing concerns than bringing her around our musty little group.”

  Orla snorted. “Musty? Speak for yourself.”

  “That’s enough,” Penhaligon said, his voice bringing their argument to an end. “Regardless of any previous mishaps, our society is now all that is left to prevent Boston’s utter destruction. Unless Sergeant Mayfield and Master Stoutroot agree to do as we bid, I foresee no hope for the future.”

  The three of them glared at one another, then slowly turned to regard us. I felt the weight of their stares, as I’m sure Tobin did too, but instead of backing down, I shrugged and held up my hands. “Maybe you could start by filling us in?”

  “I suppose that is a fair request, although I would have preferred to have you brought into the fold ahead of time,” Penhaligon said.

  Amos grunted but didn’t bother to argue. He likely figured it didn’t matter now, and he was right. It had been a busy year. That said, I was suddenly wondering just how many other secrets those I depended on might be hiding.

  Penhaligon drew in a long breath, taking a moment to center his thoughts before he spoke. “To understand the danger that stands before us, you must understand the ring. Alberad has told you when it came to be?”

  “Harvard, class of 1642.”

  “Excellent. Then perhaps you’re ready to know the why. In order to explain properly, however, we must unmask ourselves to you. I would ask that you not take our trust lightly. Our order survives through secrecy. If word of our existence were to leak out, we would swiftly find ourselves beset by fools and charlatans to the point that we would be forced to flee the city.

  “Mum’s the word. Got it.”

  “Very well. Tell me then. What do you know of Cthulhu?”

  I started to reply then forced myself to pause for a moment to really consider. What did I know about Cthulhu? Shortly after being assigned to Blue Moon, I’d made a point of hitting up the library and trying to familiarize myself with most of the major folklore and legends of North America. It had been a self-imposed crash course, and I’d more or less fallen off as of late, too busy trying to keep up with all my current cases. As a result, there were large gaps in my knowledge, and Cthulhu was one of them.

  “I know basically nothing,” I said, which felt like an honest answer for more than one topic.

  “I see,” Penhaligon said. “In that case, Amos, if you would be so kind?”

  Amos cleared his throat and learned forward in his chair. “Cthulhu is a fictional entity introduced by Howard Phillips Lovecraft in the 1920s. A being of malevolent power with an appetite for destruction unlike anything we can imagine. It’s likely he chose the name in reference to the Greek word chtonic, meaning ‘of the earth.’”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “But he’s a fictional entity, right?”

  “Well,” Amos said, drawing out the word. “That’s where it gets complicated. You see, Lovecraft’s work was largely ignored during his lifetime. It was only posthumously that it rose to fame. Life can be cruel that way.”

  “Pfft,” Orla snorted again. She was quite a snorter, evidently. “What do you know of cruel? That’s the problem with you men. You’re all so caught up worrying about your own darn legacies that you forget to live the life you have right in front of you.”

  “Thank you, Orla,” Penhaligon said. “We will take that into consideration going forward. Amos, if you please?”

  “Right,” Amos said. “Uh, where was I?”

  “Posthumously,” I said.

  “Ah. Because he was largely unknown, our resources regarding Lovecraft’s creation of the mythos are limited. We do have it on good authority that the being known as Cthulhu first appeared to him in a dream, or, perhaps, a vision.”

  “The being known as Cthulhu?” I asked.

  “That’s where the complexity comes in,” Penhaligon said, taking back over. “Such a being has been seen before. It was first spoken of by the Pennacook and the Nauset tribes, then by the European settlers who came afterward. It has gone by many names. Vorlathos, Zherkuthal, Ix’Malyth. The Infinite Maw, the Broken Constellation, and The Cataclysm. Always it has appeared in dreams, and always it has been bound to the Earth, imprisoned by the ley lines that hold its malevolence at bay.”

  I held up my hand. “I’m sorry, did you say ley lines?”

  Penhaligon frowned. “Surely you’re familiar with ley lines? The magical pathways woven into the fabric of the world, allowing for the creation of all life?”

  “Right, I think I missed that episode of National Geographic.”

  Orla snorted. Maybe she had a sinus infection? “Mock if you wish girl, but you owe those lines your life and the lives of everyone you’ve ever cared about.”

  I scrunched up my face. “Do I though?”

  “Neither the sun, the moon, nor the ley lines require our belief in order to function,” Penhaligon said, casting his voice before Orla could answer. “However, in this case, said ley lines are not without limitations. They are of the Earth, and their energies must be renewed if the barrier is to be maintained.”

  “I’m guessing this is where the ring comes into it?”

  “Indeed,” he said. “When it became clear that the European settlers would not be ousted from these shores, the Native American tribes sent an envoy under a banner of truce. There, they provided precise instructions for the means to hold the entity at bay: a series of precious stones and metals designed to renew the ley lines when they begin to weaken. In time, such metals were used to forge the rings which were given to those who would one day lead. Men loyal to New England, who could be called upon to act for the good of all men when required.”

  “And I suppose the time of requirement is drawing near?”

  “Alarmingly so,” Penhaligon said. “Our order exists to ensure the entity known as Cthulhu remains imprisoned. We are scholars, librarians, and free masons. We search through all of literature to discern fact from fiction and ensure the entity is never allowed to escape.”

  “Right,” I said. “So, you’re kind of like the Watchers Council in Buffy?”

  Penhaligon blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You know, Buffy the Vampire Slayer? They’re available for rent at the library.”

  Amos sighed and rubbed his eyes. “For Pete’s sake, Chloe.”

  “Yes, I know Buffy,” Penhaligon said. “We’ve never considered ourselves as such,”

  “Kind of hard to ignore the similarities though, isn’t it?”

  Penhaligon cleared his throat. “Sergeant Mayfield, this is a most serious matter and requires our full attention.”

  Clearly, they weren’t fans of the show. Which made sense, I suppose. If you spent all day investigating and averting potential supernatural disasters, it’s probably the last thing you want to do when you go home at night. “I don’t see what the problem is. I mean, we have the ring, right?” I motioned to Tobin who instinctively brought his hand up and touched its form beneath his shirt. “So let’s get on with it. Do whatever needs to be done so I can focus on arresting a bunch of wraiths.”

  “If it were that simple, we wouldn’t need you, girl,” Orla said.

  “My name isn’t girl. It’s Sergeant Mayfield.”

  “Bah,” Orla said and waved her hand as if brushing away a fly.

  “The ring cannot infuse the ley lines through mere proximity,” Penhaligon said. “It must be utilized correctly. That is where the tower comes into play.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What’s the tower?”

  “The entity known as Cthulhu is not the first being to threaten our world. On every continent, towers exist, structures that burrow deep into the earth, designed to replenish the ley lines that protect us. You can find them everywhere, provided you have cause to look.”

  “Examples?”

  “The pyramids would be among the most obvious. As well as the Pantheon, and Stonehenge.”

  “Historical sites?”

  “In part,” Penhaligon said.

  “And we’ve got one here in Boston? Cause I didn’t see it listed on the Freedom Tour.”

  “Nor would you,” Penhaligon said. “Times have changed. People have become—”

  “Stupid,” Orla said.

  Penhaligon cast her a sideways glance. “Bolder. More curious. And more reckless. In ancient times, such monuments were enough to deter any would be trespassers. Alas, we live in a different time. Such a blatant display would only invite mischief and vandalism, and so we are forced to erect such monuments in secret, to disguise them in such a way as to draw as little notice or interest from the public as possible.”

  “In other words, you hide them in plain sight?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Care to tell me where?”

  “I should think it obvious. What tower stands tall beyond all others here in the city? A shining monument built upon a ley line’s nexus, designed to reflect people’s gazes outward rather than in?”

  I didn’t need to think long before it hit me. “You’re talking about the John Hancock Tower?”

  Penhaligon let out a pleased sound. “Indeed. Perhaps you are as clever as Amos seems to think.”

  I wasn’t feeling clever. More like the opposite. Although, if I was being objective, there was a certain poetic appeal to what he said. The Hancock Tower was the tallest building in Boston, sixty stories or so, and its surface was coated with mirrored panels designed to reflect the nearby Trinity Church and Public Library. Both beautiful buildings with historical significance, “People work inside the Hancock Tower. There are business offices and such inside.”

  “Indeed, merely more camouflage. Those businesses exist along the peripheral edges of the tower, unaware of it’s true purpose. A lone stairwell rises throughout the tower’s center, leading to a final room where the ring must be returned in order to cast its power down into the earth and renew the ley lines.”

  “How often do these things need replenishing?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation before Penhaligon and Orla cast sideways glances toward Amos.

  “It depends,” he said. “In centuries past, it might be five, maybe even six decades. More recently, since the 1970s, when Lovecraft’s works took hold of the public’s imagination, it’s been closer to every ten years.”

  “We think the public’s renewed interest might be causing the entity to stir,” Penhaligon explained. “Hence another reason we seek to avoid drawing attention to ourselves.”

  “I guess that makes sense.” I straightened in my chair, drew in a long breath and let it out in a whoosh. “Okay, just so I’m clear. You’re telling us that we need to take the ring to the John Hancock Tower, and renew these ley lines before this entity breaks free and destroys the city? And if we do this, we’ll be good for another decade? Plenty of time to appoint a new ring bearer?”

  “That is…correct,” Penhaligon said, hesitantly.

  The way he drew out the word caused me to narrow my eyes. “But?”

  “There are complications.”

  “Like what?”

  “For starters, time is against us. The entity stirs even as we speak.”

  “How long?”

  “A day, perhaps two.”

  “That’s it? You’re really running down the clock on this one. What else?”

  “There’s the dragon.”

  I stared at the three of them for a long moment, desperate for some sign that they were kidding. “I’m sorry, did you say the dragon?”

  “Best brace yourself, Chloe,” Amos said. “We’re getting to the bad stuff.”

  “Right, cause the malevolent entity looking to destroy all of Boston was the fun part.”

  “The dragon is not our enemy,” Penhaligon said.

  “That’s good to know. I got worried for a second that I might need a bigger gun.”

  “Dragons are guardians of this world. Some say they are born of the Earth. It is why they crave the touch of gold and precious metals. Regardless, it was they who first bestowed upon men the knowledge for how to contain the entity. They who taught men the smelting and shaping of precious metals, and who showed us how to build the towers so that we could replenish the ley lines. And it is said they devised traps to protect them.”

  “Protect the towers? You’re telling me there are traps inside the John Hancock Tower? Indiana Jones style traps?”

  “Indeed,” Penhaligon said.

  “Lovely. So Tobin and I might end up getting run over by a giant, runaway pinball?”

  “Hopefully nothing so overt,” Penhaligon said. “But the dangers are real, and we can only begin to guess at the nature of said protections.”