Tales from the Archives by Starla Huchton & Helen E H Madden & Val Griswold-Ford & Pip Ballantine

Author:Starla Huchton & Helen E H Madden & Val Griswold-Ford & Pip Ballantine [Hucton, Starla]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ImagineThat! Studios

“Whitby? Whitby, you lazy fool, where are you? I forgot to add something to my report.”

The door to the archives clanged open and in strode Field Agent Harrison Thorne. He stalked to the stairs and glared down at the Archives beneath him. Thorne had never had much use for the Archives in general, but Whitby was such a shiftless lay-about, he'd made visits to the place completely pointless. If it weren't for the director's insistence that detailed reports be filed on every case, Thorne would never bother with the place at all.

“Whitby!” he called out again. He squinted into the vast empty space of the Archives' main office. Was it his imagination, or did the place seem unusually dark? It was always a bit dim in the Archives, owing to its underground location, but the atmosphere now seemed practically sepulchral.

Thorne descended the wrought iron stairs to the main floor, ears alert for any hint of noise. The man had to be down here somewhere. He was probably hidden away, writing another one of his terrible stories.

“Whitby?”

Thorne had reached the floor at last. It was indeed darker, he realized, and far too quiet. The usual flickering glow that came from the main corridor of the vaults was extinguished. The only light came from a single gas lamp situated on the wall near the Archivist's desk. Thorne walked toward it and stepped on something that made a distinct crunching noise beneath his foot. Looking down, he noticed for the first time the litter of loose papers, scattered journals and fragments of artifacts that surrounded Whitby's desk. Many of the boxes of reports had been toppled. The desk itself was a shambles, a bottle of ink knocked over and bleeding its contents all over the surface.

“Bloody hell,” Thorne muttered. He grabbed a spare lantern from a hook on the wall, set it on the desk and lit it. Its feeble orange glow revealed the massive bulk of a difference engine behind Whitby's desk, its metal casing defaced with heavy dents. Surely it hadn't been like that when he was here an hour ago?

Thorne took his lantern and stalked to the corridor, a sense of dread growing in his stomach. The sight that greeted him there transformed the dread into the heavy weight of miserable understanding.

“My god, Whitby. What happened here?”

But Whitby was not there to answer him. There were traces of the man, to be sure. For who's blood could it be that stained the floor and mingled with the gleaming crystal splinters and rubbery, disintegrating specimens strewn everywhere? The destruction stretched from one end of the lengthy corridor to the other and resembled a battlefield more than a storage space for missions long since completed.

Was it Usher, Thorne wondered? Had they somehow compromised the Ministry's security and broken into the place to steal some treasure? Or was there someone within the Ministry itself, a traitor who had come down here soon after Thorne had left and then struck down the unsuspecting Archivist?

Thorne

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