The Arcanum
Table of Contents
FOR CHRISTINA
Praise for
THE ARCANUM
“From some dark bridge between history and fiction, T
he
Arcanum
throws the reader into a midnight’s maelstrom of mystery, thrills, and pure adrenaline fun. Hold your breath and enjoy the ride!”
—Wes Craven, director of the
Scream
and
Nightmare on Elm Street
series
“Great fun . . . a fast-paced supernatural thriller.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“Wheeler does a good job bringing to life characters we’ve all at least heard of if we’re not all that familiar with them. . . . Enjoyable and a clever illustration of how the supernatural can be used to tell modern tales.”
—Santa Fe New Mexican
“A highly entertaining occult thriller.”
—Register Pajaronian
“A cinematic debut novel . . . with a wealth of well-researched period detail . . . Vividly written.”
—Publishers Weekly
“
The Arcanum
is a rare feat, a perfect blend of history, mystery, pop culture, and class-act pulp-fiction. It’s the sort of thing Lovecraft and Conan Doyle might have collaborated on . . . if they weren’t already characters in the novel.”
—Christopher Golden, author of
The Boys Are Back in Town
“Entertains and thrills!”
—Deadly Pleasures
“If a secret society involving Houdini, Conan Doyle, and Lovecraft isn’t enough, add voodoo, the
Book of Enoch
, and a young girl with a world-shattering secret. A roaring tour of a secret history all of us wish was really true.”
—Alexander C. Irvine, author of the award-winning
A Scattering of Jades
“A wonderfully plausible secret history of the United States, one where only Arthur Conan Doyle, Harry Houdini, H. P. Lovecraft, and their colleagues can save the world. A wild, thrilling, exuberant ride through the early twentieth century.”
—Lisa Goldstein, author of
The Alchemist’s Door
“A lot of fun!”
—Toronto Globe and Mail
“A wonderfully literate novel filled with period detail, insightful humor, and great rollicking exploits. An inventive tale of adventure and suspense that reaches new heights of imagination and bizarre depths of ruthless horror.”
—Tom Piccirilli, award-winning author of
A Choir of Ill Children
“A narrative that wrestles you to the floor, applies the handcuffs, and doesn’t let go.”
—Liz Williams, author of
Nine Layers of Sky
and
The Poison Master
“
The Arcanum
is an inventive hidden history, a dynamic supernatural thriller full of terror and mystery.”
—Robert Doherty, author of the bestselling Area 51 series
“History, mystery and dark fantasy combine to make
The
Arcanum
a noteworthy book, a pop icon and a source for a good movie. . . . Wheeler’s debut novel totally enthralls the readers with another perspective on the evil forces that threaten this world, making the horror feel new and exciting.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Set in 1919, a wonderful time, which Wheeler brilliantly evokes . . . There’s action and magic and weirdness enough in this novel to please most palates. . . . Wheeler’s future work will be something we can eagerly anticipate.”
—I Love a Mystery
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
LET US START at the beginning.
In addition to being a wonderful writer and storyteller, my father, Gerald Wheeler, also had a rich appreciation for history’s misfits, mystics, and rogues. This novel is proof my father’s enthusiasm was infectious.
The unconditional support of my mother, Judi Barton, and the creative example she set for her children has inspired me to view the world through a lens of adventure and infinite possibility. I love her and thank her.
My manager and friend, Warren Zide, has been a steadfast supporter of
The Arcanum
from its inception through its many generations. His partner, Craig Perry, one of the best story minds in Los Angeles, stretched, tested, challenged, and pushed
The Arcanum
at every turn, resulting in a vastly improved story and an often exasperated author.
My brother, William Wheeler, a formidable writing talent himself, could recite passages of this novel in his sleep. His patience alone has been heroic but his brilliant suggestions at critical junctures helped shape this story more than any other person save the author.
I would also like to thank my dear friends Bobby Cohen and Michelle Raimo for their early advocacy, outstanding advice, and steady guidance.
My researcher, Carolyn Chriss, and my assistant, Robbie Thompson, came to my aid late in the game but each had a lasting impact in defining this world and readying the manuscript for publication.
I’ll always be indebted to Mel Berger, my agent at William Morris, for his enthusiasm and able stewardship.
My editor at Bantam Dell, Richard SanFilippo, along with being a superb collaborator has also proven to be an honest broker, a trusted ally, and a great friend.
And, lastly, before anything I write sees the light of day it passes under the exquisite brown eyes of my wife, Christina Malpero-Wheeler. Her truth, her fire, and her wisdom give me daily strength. She’s taught me more than she’ll ever know. I want to thank her for being the passion of my life and for bringing Luca Thomas Wheeler into the world.
1
LONDON—1919
A SEPTEMBER STORM battered a sleeping London. Barrage after barrage of gusting sheets drummed on the rooftops and loosened clapboards. Raindrops like silver dollars pelted the empty roads and forced families of pigeons into huddled clumps atop the gaslights.
Then it stopped.
The trees of Kensington Gardens swayed, and the city held its breath. It waited a few dripping moments, then relaxed.
Just as suddenly, a Model-T Ford swerved past Marble Arch in Hyde Park and buzzed around Speakers’ Corner, peals of laughter following in its wake.
Inside the car, Daniel Bisbee held the steering wheel with one hand and patted Lizzie’s plump thigh with the other. The five pints had done their work, strengthening his resolve. Lizzie was still wearing her shabby costume from the theater, and pretended not to notice Daniel’s nudging fingers ruffling under her skirt. She was a notorious flirt but failed to realize the expectations that would arouse in her suitors.
As he inched his hand to her knee, she babbled on nervously. “And Quigley had the bloody nerve to give me notes right before I’m about to go on, completely shattering my concentration. And you know his breath is simply dreadful. I’ve no idea what he eats but there’s something unhealthy about the man. And where do they find these pitiful crowds? They didn’t laugh at all.”
Daniel smiled, giving the impression that he was listening, but his attention was focused on moving his fingers another five inches up her thigh. He crept like a spider into her skirts but she pulled him back with a shy “Danny,” while another round of giggles erupted from the backseat.
In the back, Gulliver Lloyd pawed Celia West—a less pretty, less talented actress than Lizzie, but one who still drew the boys by offering the carnal treasures Lizzie so coyly protected.
What Gulliver lacked in height he more than compensated for with his unflagging persistence. Also, being rich didn’t hurt. Celia fended off his pinches and pokes in a gentle wrestling match.
“You’re horrible, stop it,” Celia teased, then slapped Gulliver on the arm when he relented.
Gulliver snuck his hands around Celia’s waist, then swiftly brought his lips to hers and kissed her before backing away.
Celia touched her lips. “You’re terrible, Gully.” And she dropped her chin, gazing up at him with eyes darkened by mascara.
Up front, Daniel Bisbee clenched his teeth.
The four actors were halfway through the run of
Purloin’s
Prophecy,
a new play at the Leicester Playhouse. Daniel and Lizzie played the lovers, yet somehow, Celia was Gulliver’s fourth conquest of the run. And that wasn’t right. Daniel’s upbringing in the tenements on the East End had bred a competitiveness in him. Gully got everything he wanted because he was rich. Even Daniel’s excitement at driving Gully’s new car was dampened when he realized he’d become nothing more than an unpaid chauffeur.
Anxious breathing and rustling clothes replaced the giggles. Daniel looked over at Lizzie, who was blushing furiously.
He swigged from a cracked leather flask and pushed on the accelerator, skidding onto Piccadilly. Lizzie grabbed the door handle.
“Slower, Danny, please.”
Daniel spun another turn, thumping a curb in the process.
“Oi, Dano! A lighter foot, if you don’t mind,” Gulliver groused from the backseat. His hand was wedged between Celia’s breast and her corset. This was a delicate moment and he wanted nothing to upset his venture.
“Drop me off. It’s late,” Lizzie said to the window, her breath fogging the glass.
THE MODEL-T skidded around the corner eighty meters from the museum gates. The British Museum was closed for the night, its windows darkened. It was a solid, squat building stretching three square blocks, guarded by towering firs. Its small windows were barred, its tall gates sharp. The only visitor at this late hour was a fog that rolled in from every intersection, peculiar ground clouds that surged forth like a massing army, wisping about the buildings, misting the windows, choking off the rain-glimmered air. Shreds seeped through the fence and seized the interior grounds.
Then, somewhere in the darkness, glass shattered and an alarm bell started clanging.
FOG SURROUNDED THE car. Beyond the windows, nothing was visible save tendrils of twisting air. Lizzie pushed her foot on an imaginary brake.
“Danny.”
Daniel Bisbee tapped the low-speed pedal as the road disappeared before his eyes.
“What’s all this, then?”
Lizzie later told the police that her first thought was “snow angel.” Her wealthy grandparents once took her skiing in Switzerland with her two younger brothers, and they learned to make snow angels in the deep drifts. The gray blot in the fog was in the shape of an angel, with wings outstretched. But soon those beating wings made her think less of beauty and more of panic. And as the fog peeled away, the feathery wings melted into mere arms, waving frantically.
“D-Danny?” Lizzie said.
But there wasn’t a chance.
A body erupted out of the fog. Lizzie’s hands slammed the dashboard as she screamed. Daniel Bisbee crushed all three brake pedals with both feet and spun the wheel, but the body had already collided with the hood and was somersaulting over the windshield. The sounds of crunching metal blended with the snaps of human bone. The Model-T surged over the curb, skidded on the grass, and chimed off the steel fence, while the body slapped onto the wet pavement and rolled to a halt.
Lizzie buried her face in her hands and screamed.
“DAN, JESUS GOD— ”
“Was it a man? Was it a man?”
Daniel couldn’t think over Lizzie’s screams.
Gulliver turned to the back window. “Oh, by Christ, Dano! He’s in the road!”
“I didn’t—” Daniel stared at the windshield, now crunched inward in the shape of a body. A clump of white hair had torn off on impact and was stuck to a crack in the glass.
Celia shook Gulliver’s arm. “Is he dead?”
“Lizzie, open the door.” Gulliver shoved at her seat.
“Oh-my-God-oh-my-God-oh-my-God—”
“Lizzie, for Christ’s sake.” Gulliver scrambled over Celia as Daniel stumbled out into the street. The two men sprinted toward the body, their path marked by a wide swath of blood.
The body was bent at impossible angles, a lumpy mound on the road.
Daniel and Gulliver circled it warily.
“By Christ, Dano. By bloody Christ.” Gulliver ran his hands through his hair.
Daniel could tell, from the white hair and beard, that he had hit an old man, over six foot, with thick arms and a wide back, still fit. But now one arm seemed twice the length of the other due to a graphic dislocation. A shoulder blade erupted through the skin like a white shark’s fin. And the old man’s right knee had buckled in the wrong direction, making him appear like a blood-soaked marionette dropped from a player’s hand.
Daniel’s guilt brought him to his knees. He touched the old man’s hand. His face was mashed into the pavement.
“S-s-sir?” Daniel gave the fingers a squeeze.
A groan emerged in reply.
“That was him, Dano. He’s breathing!”
Daniel peeled the body away from the pavement. Half of a stripped face flopped in his lap.
Gulliver wheeled back.
Most of the old man’s face was still on the pavement. His surviving eye blinked. Where the flesh was pulled off, Daniel could see the muscles of the old man’s jaw working, dripping blood onto his beard. A large hand took hold of Daniel’s biceps. Daniel attempted to back away, but the old man held him firm, lifting his head a few inches from the pavement.
“He’s in—”
“Gully, get ’im off!” Daniel cried, trying to pry the old man’s fingers from his arm. “Agh, Gully! He’s—”
“He’s in my mind,” the old man shouted.
Gulliver tried to pull Daniel off, but stopped when he heard the words.
“What’d he say?”
The old man yanked Daniel closer. Daniel could smell blood and tobacco on his breath. And death. The old man hissed: “. . . warn . . .”
“Oh God—” Daniel again tried to pull away.
The old man suddenly let go and Daniel scuttled back into Gulliver’s arms. The old man’s head lolled to the side. The good eye stopped blinking. He stared at nothing.
His last word, “Arcanum,” echoed through the silent streets, punctuated only by the girls’ muffled sobs.
The clouds suddenly parted for the full moon, which cast a white glow on the street and washed over the old man’s ruined features.
Despite the light, no one noticed the glint of a blue monocle in the shadows. There was another witness. And in a swirl of a black topcoat he was gone, leaving behind only the hush of the retreating storm.