Lair of Dreams

Page 63

“What’s it say there?” Jericho asked. Beneath the mural, someone had painted words. He stepped closer, squinting to make them out. “‘Beware… the King of… Crows.’”
“Cheery,” Sam joked, though the disturbing mural gave him the shivers. He thought it might just be the spookiest thing in the entire Creepy Crawly. “Let’s see what we got,” he said, turning away from it. He lifted a piece of grimy, rusted equipment from one of the crates. His shoulders sagged. “Junk. That’s the one thing we’re not short on in this place.”
All the crates were nailed shut except for one, which had been partially broken. Jericho reached in and pulled out a sheaf of yellowed papers.
“Hey, what’s that?” Sam came and stood beside Jericho.
“If I had to guess, I’d say probably none of your business,” Jericho said, glancing down at the page.
“That’s my favorite kind of business.…”
“‘The last will and testament of Cornelius Rathbone, recorded this day, the fourth of January, in the year of our Lord, one thousand, nine hundred and seventeen,’” Jericho read aloud. “‘I, Cornelius Thaddeus Rathbone, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath my house and all its worldly belongings to William John Fitzgerald, with the proviso that he must continue our most important work.…’”
“Old Man Rathbone left this place to the professor?” Sam said, incredulous.
Jericho stared at the document. Years ago, he had asked Will how he’d come to run the museum. Will’s story was that he’d bought the dilapidated museum just ahead of the city’s wrecking ball. Cornelius Rathbone’s last will and testament proved that wasn’t true.
But why would Will lie to Jericho about it?
Quickly, Jericho moved on to the second page, a letter.
“What’s that one say?” Sam asked.
“It’s from Cornelius to Will, dated January thirty-first, 1917. ‘Dear William…’” Jericho read aloud.
This letter shall be my last, I fear, for I wait on Death’s doorstep, and soon, He shall bade me enter into that house of eternal rest. For these past many years, I could not forgive you the sin of your ambition for leaving me behind to work with the “great minds” of President Roosevelt’s ridiculous Department of Paranormal—
“Wait, Teddy Roosevelt?” Sam asked.
“Yes, Sam. Theodore Roosevelt. Large man with a big mustache. Was our president for a bit. May I continue?”
“Go on,” Sam grumbled.
It was I, however, who was ridiculous. It is imperative that we put aside our differences and work together in one last endeavor while there is still time. What I previously showed you of Liberty Anne’s prophecies was not all. Toward the end of her days, there followed far more disturbing warnings, dire predictions for the nation. At the time, I feared that her fever, which raged so fiercely, had addled her wits. For this reason, I locked away her final prophecy. I see now that I was remiss to have hidden this unholy correspondence from you. I fear we have underestimated the power of the man in the stovepipe hat.
My time grows short. I implore you: Let us bury selfish quarrels before it is too late.
Ever hopeful,
Cornelius
“You know what this is, don’t you?” Sam said, waving the letter in the air. “A gold mine! It’s the hook we need to make our Diviners exhibit a hot ticket: ‘Read the never-before-revealed prophecies of Liberty Anne Rathbone! Hear her dire predictions for the citizens of America before it’s too late!’ We just gotta hope Liberty Anne’s prophecies are somewhere in these boxes.”
“Only one way to find out. Let’s bring it all upstairs and have a look through everything,” Jericho answered, easily hoisting one of the crates onto his shoulder and ducking back through the doorway.
“Yeah. I was afraid you’d say that,” Sam said, grunting as he shouldered the heavy load.
“That’s all of them,” Jericho said as he carried in the last crate.
Sam fell onto the couch, gasping. “I may never use my arms again,” he moaned.
“No doubt the girls of New York City sigh in relief,” Jericho muttered, trying not to think about Sam’s arms around Evie. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
There were six crates in total, and every one had been nailed shut except for the damaged one containing Rathbone’s will. Sam reached into it. “Books,” he said with a sigh, pulling out musty tomes that released even more filth and dust into the air. “Always with the books.” Next was a cache of letters from Will to somebody named Rotke Wasserman in Hopeful Harbor, New York. Sam sneaked one from its weary envelope.