Dustin Long - Icelander

“We’re in here!” Nathan shouted out.

And a moment after that the door was shattered into splinters of wood and light… It stung my eyes into a sudden squint, and when I could open them wide again the first things I noticed were the dust particles floating in the air all around us.

And then I saw what lay beyond the door, and I realized where we were.

“It is very good that you are here,” Blaise said, poking his head through the huge hole he’d made in the door. “But you should come out now and join the rest of us in the parlor.”

“What is this place?” Nathan asked as we stepped through the shattered doorway.

“Hubert Jorgen’s house,” I told him, leaning down to pick up Garm. And then, as it dawned on me more completely: “The Bluebeard basement door! That room must have been his workshop… And I don’t suppose it’s a coincidence that it connects up with the tunnels where the Refurserkir have made their lair, either… I guess that sort of seals it for Hubert, then. Or it would if he weren’t dead.”

“Bluebeard what?” Nathan asked. “Seals how? Who’s Hubert, again? And what sort of workshop?”

I chose not to answer. Blaise beckoned us to follow him up the stairs and on to the parlor.

I’d always considered the parlor to be one of the stranger rooms in Hubert’s house. It was anachronistic—difficult to reconcile with the rest of his taste. Lots of red plush and mahogany. Two epees hanging over a plaster bust of Orson Welles upon the mantelpiece. There was a glass case in the corner displaying a collection of Meerschaum pipes, each of which was imbrued by a different blend of tobacco (labeled). Yet Hubert neither fenced nor smoked.

Blaise entered ahead of us and hung his door-smashing hammer [48] Actually a Viking battle-axe, a gift that Jorgen received from the Master himself. on the far wall along with the rest of the Vanaheimic weaponry of Hubert’s collection. As Nathan and I followed him in I saw that quite a coterie was assembled there already. Wible and Pacheco were slumped on a loveseat to the doorway’s left, Constance Lingus sat in a large plush armchair, and my father was there, beside her, on a small sofa by the drinks table.

His white hair was ruffled, but otherwise he appeared unharmed. I didn’t move. I felt woozy.

“Dad…” I said. “You’re all right.”

“Yes, yes, dear thing,” he said dismissively. “I am fine. It is nice to see that you are fine, as well.”

“I found him wandering around downtown near where that snowplow fell through the street,” Connie said.

“You made me think he was dead!” I yelled at Nathan.

“No, I just—I didn’t know. That’s all I meant. I was completely cut off from everyone else down there. So I didn’t get to see what happened to him. And before that I was kind of engrossed in my swordfight, so… I’m sorry.” He sounded almost meek.

I turned to the rest of the room. “What’s going on here? Why are all of you in Hubert’s house?”

“My partner and I have been here since shortly after our meeting with you this afternoon. As we informed you at that time, we believe the librarian to possess some knowledge regarding—”

“I discovered them tethered by ropes to bedposts in an upstairs room,” Blaise clarified, taking a seat beside my father.

I noticed then that Garm was licking my hands, so I set him down on the floor. He ran over to curl up at my father’s feet. “And the rest of you?” I asked.

“Your hands,” Blaise replied. “The blood. Are you all right?”

“We’ll talk about my hands later.” I found my gloves still stuffed into my jacket pocket and pulled them quickly on. “But perhaps we should start a fire, first.”

“It is certainly cold in this room,” Pacheco said, “however—”

“Well, if someone has some matches we can remedy that,” I interrupted. I rubbed a sleeve across my bloodshot eyes. I could feel the swollen veins within them.

Nathan followed me over to the fireplace, and he poked through the ashes before throwing on a couple of logs and some kindling from the pile beside. Wible came over, too, and offered up his box of matches; within a few minutes we had the beginnings of a good fire going.

“So how much do you all know? What brought you here?” I asked.

“I came to find Hubert Jorgen,” Blaise answered. “I believe—”

“Wait a second; hold on.” I was confused, and I shook my head rapidly to communicate the point. “I thought Hubert was dead. Is it not true that Hubert is dead? Did you not find his body?”

“I did, in the Two-Story House, but it disappeared again before I could verify its lack of life. He had no pulse, and yet… That is why I came here, perhaps to find him.”

I put my left hand to my forehead to steady myself but then quickly removed it, fearful that blood would seep through the glove. “Let me get this perfectly straight,” I said. “You’re telling me that Hubert might be alive after all?”

“I do not know. I felt certain that his body was lifeless, and yet… I do not know. But I believe that his possible murderer and the murderer of my wife may both be the same man, and this is also why I have come here. You mentioned Jorgen to me earlier in connection with her. Furthermore, the Two-Story House describes a murder, and… I believe that Shirley, when she was in Denmark a few years ago—I believe that Hubert Jorgen may have been the one who—”

“Oh,” I said, his meaning becoming abruptly clear, albeit only to me and my drug-addled mind. “Oh… No, Blaise. He wasn’t.”

“You do not know what I mean; I am not making myself clear.”

“No, you’re not, but I think I do know what you mean. And you’re wrong.”

“I think I’m a little lost here,” Nathan said, grabbing the poker and stoking the fire. It was already blazing quite nicely, although I still felt rather cold. “Who’s this Hubert guy? I thought this whole thing was about whoever murdered that Shirley girl, and Prescott trying to kill your father, and burning down his library, and stealing your dog.”

“Do you know the name of he who killed my wife?” Blaise asked Nathan, raising his voice almost to a shout. “If so, we must find him immediately.”

“Actually Blaise, I think I know his name,” I said.

He almost leapt out of his seat at this. “Why did you not tell me this before?”

“Well, when I saw you earlier I still didn’t know,” I said. I looked down then, avoiding his gaze, and began toying with my empty glove finger. “Though I suppose I should admit that I did have a vague idea about why Shirley might have been killed. And I didn’t tell you. It was the last thing Shirley asked of me, though—specifically not to tell you—and since I wasn’t sure at the time that it definitely had anything to do with her death… I mean, it was just a vague idea…”

Blaise was just staring at me white-faced when I looked back up. “But now—” he began.

“Just wait a second,” I interrupted. “I want to clarify something up front. You seem to be under the impression that Shirley was cheating on you. I want to assure you that she wasn’t.”

“But just what was this vague idea you had, then?” Connie blurted before Blaise could say anything.

“Well,” I said, keeping an eye on him as I spoke. “I’d known for a long time that something horrible happened while Shirley was in Denmark a few years ago. Something involving… another person. But Shirley only ever hinted at it. She never told me exactly what it was until a few nights ago. And even then she still didn’t reveal the identity of the other person involved. But she did tell me that she was planning on confronting this other person. And I thought that that sounded like a good idea, based on what she had told me—like it would help her get over the whole thing. So I didn’t stop her… And that was the last time I saw her.”