by Anne Renwick
Though even among the military elite, it was possible to overreach. Over a month had passed, but anger, guilt and sorrow still swirled together in his gut. That unwarranted enthusiasm of Davis for their last dive mission? Explained by the drug vial found in his sea chest. Striving to increase the ability of his red blood cells to carry oxygen, Davis had used an intravenous blood thickener of dubious origins and had, according to the autopsy report, thrown a clot to his brain.
If the man wasn’t already dead, Alec would strangle him. Davis had put the entire team at risk. Still, he’d called the man friend, and his death left an empty, hollow space inside Alec’s chest. Would his teammate still be alive if he’d forced Major Fernsby to address his concerns?
His brother clasped his shoulder. That had Alec’s instant attention. Logan avoided casual touch. Always had, even amongst family. Which meant he wanted something, and when Logan Black wanted something, there were few screws he wouldn’t turn.
Alec braced himself.
“Nonetheless,” his brother said with deceptive good humor, “your prompt grasp of the problem and instantaneous solution has convinced the Glaister Institute to offer you your own laboratory.” He slapped a sheet of thick, letterhead paper onto the workbench before him. “Congratulations! You’ll answer to no one but yourself. Except, of course, the Institute’s Board.”
Slowly, deliberately, Alec lifted the paper, touching its corner to the flame of a Bunsen burner. “No. Not for all the treasure of a sultan’s palace.”
Logan’s lips twitched. “What if I threw in the harem too?”
With huff of disgust and a glare that threatened to incinerate them both, Miss Russel stormed from the room. Miss Lourney, Roideach’s other laboratory assistant, frowned at him.
“My apologies,” he offered. “My brother can be an insensitive oaf.”
With a roll of her eyes, Miss Lourney turned back to her work.
“You have a way of burning bridges.” Alec tossed the charred offer into a sink and crossed his arms, waiting. His brother always had more than one option up his sleeve.
“It was worth a try. You’re certain you never witnessed Roideach’s people acting… suspicious?”
“Unless you count a certain shifty-eyed glance at the great man’s empty office before making excuses and slinking out the door for an exceptionally early tea?” He shook his head. “No. Now what is it that you really want from me?”
A crooked smile broke out across Logan’s face. “Follow me.”
Though his knee ached with the first few steps, it settled down to a low, manageable throb as they walked down a long hall, then turned off into a narrow corridor. Several flights of stairs—connected by cobweb-strewn passages and doorways—at last led them to a corroded iron door.
His brother produced a rusty punch key, a previous generation’s concept of security. Whatever lay inside, it was certain to be unpleasant. Even as a child, Logan was more likely to present a frog rather than a flower. He and his brother had been treated to many “gifts”—various reptiles, rodents and stinging insects—quite often left for them beneath the bedsheets. With a scrape and a hard twist, the door creaked open admitting them to—
“An air shaft?” Dust swirled, and Alec coughed. “When was it last used? During King William’s rule?”
“Possibly. More importantly, it’s long forgotten.” Logan closed the door before crossing the room to a stack of wooden crates upon which a silver refrigeration case rested. His fingers hovered above the latches. “A perfect location to unofficially store questionable items.”
“And you want me to…?”
“Work for me. For the Duke of Avesbury on behalf of the Queen.”
“As a spy.” Alec shook his head. “No thank you. If I wanted to sneak about on my own, I wouldn’t have joined the Navy.” Still, since Logan had breached the subject, he had to ask. “How is Quinn?”
Theirs was a family with interesting branches grown from an unhappy marriage. Only Alec and Quinn were full, legitimate siblings. Though all four children had been raised beneath the same roof, Logan and his sister, Cait, were the products of illicit affairs. Midst the constant squabbling, they’d formed a solid alliance, each developing unorthodox skill sets to discourage excessive parental intrusion.
And old habits die hard. Today, all four of them pursued unique careers incompatible with polite conversation.
Like Logan, Quinn was a Queen’s agent, but spent most of his time abroad. Or so Quinn led all to believe. No point in asking where he was or when he might return. Logan would die before giving up the slightest of secrets.
“Alive and fit, if perhaps uncomfortable.” Logan drew a deep breath. “I need your help. And you need mine. Commodore Drummond has issued papers for your discharge based on medical grounds.”
Every muscle in Alec’s body clenched, bracing for a fight he could not hope to win. He cursed. If the man wanted him out, there was little he could do.
“Wait.” Logan held up a hand. “I pulled on strings, ropes, leashes and lanyards to make those papers go missing. Then I called in several personal favors. Fernsby is in line for a promotion. In the event your knee never passes muster, I can’t reinstate you onto the BURR team, but I can see you installed as Fernsby’s replacement.”
His gut twisted at the thought of no more missions, no more deployments. Desk duty. But the alternative—discharge—was unthinkable. “I accept.” Though he’d expected to work for several more years—perhaps grow a few gray hairs—before such a position became inevitable.
His brother laughed, then shook his head. “It’s not that easy, not when the duke is involved. There is a task you must accomplish first.”
He should have known. Nothing with his brother was ever straightforward. He sighed. “What’s in the case?”
“A mystery.”
Logan waggled his eyebrows, and Alec rolled his eyes. Such drama. But as the lid lifted and a cold fog flowed out of the refrigerated case, a piece of ragged flesh torn from some creature of the sea became visible. White with interlacing streaks of red, it glistened.
Interest sparked, and he stepped closer. “May I touch it?”
“Of course.”
Alec lifted the scrap of rubbery integument and turned it over in his hands. “Kraken?”
“That’s what Professor Corwin thought at first.” Logan lifted a lid off one of the crates to reveal a small, portable aetheroscope. “Look closer.”
Though he was no cryptozoologist, the last few weeks studying predatory mollusks proved useful. Columnar epithelia, gland cells, neuronal fibers, connective tissue, striated musculature. Everything one would expect to find upon histological examination of cephalopod tissue. And yet…
He adjusted the focus as baffling details revealed themselves beneath the lens.
Strange.
A thin lattice-work of what appeared to be charred carbon fibers formed a kind of internal network around which the various cellular strata grouped. It was—or had been—a living tissue with a fabricated core. Neither artificial nor natural, but both at once.
In a heartbeat, Alec was caught in Logan’s net.
Straightening, he regarded his brother with a frown. “A wire mesh. Upon which cephalopod tissue has been grown. How is this possible?”
“Exactly what we’d like to know,” Logan replied. “Particularly as the man who collected this sample—along with a number of odd reports of deaths that may or may not be related—has gone missing.”
“Missing. From where?”
His brother tipped his head and lifted an eyebrow. “Do you accept the commission of the Queen’s agents?”
Arrogant bastard.
Alec rubbed the back of his neck. There would be a steep price to pay—of that he was certain—for allowing himself to become entangled in Logan’s web of intrigue. But what else awaited him in Glasgow? He could work as a general surgeon,
take a wife, produce offspring. A perfectly ordinary life. Absolutely nothing wrong with that. Except… to be cut off from the inner circles of the Navy and the innovations emerging from Glaister Institute? He wasn’t ready to let go of that. “I do.”
“Took you long enough,” Logan said. “Professor Corwin, chasing rumors of selkies near the Orkney Islands—”
Alec sniggered.
“You laugh, but Icelandic agents have approached our shores, why not disguised as mythological creatures? Recall why your failed mission was launched.”
Good point. Alec sobered. “Continue.”
“It has recently been brought to the attention of the Queen’s agents that there are shadow committees within our biological research facilities, ones that seek to investigate certain human… oddities. They call themselves CEAP, the Committee for the Exploration of Anthropomorphic Peculiarities. Speculations regarding the existence of selkies would certainly pique their curiosity. We believe the professor may have run afoul of one such committee.”
“Go on.”
“Though rumors proved false, an underlying pattern emerged. Inquiries led Corwin to the Outer Hebrides. Near a beach on the Isle of Lewis where this particular tissue fragment washed up, there was a curious incident involving a fisherman. A man found half-dead upon his boat was carried ashore. The local physician offered assistance, but the family waved him away. Instead, they brought in an itinerant, self-styled healer. The man died shortly after her arrival.” Logan tapped a finger upon a crate. “This put the good doctor’s nose out of joint, and he adjourned, grumbling, to the local tavern where our man, Corwin, overheard a most bizarre claim.” Eyes gleaming, his brother paused for effect.
“Don’t make me beat it out of you,” Alec warned. He stopped himself from leaning in. Not a chance he’d give his brother the satisfaction of seeing him dangling on a hook. “It’s a bad habit of yours.”
“Much as I’d like to see you try,” Logan snorted, “I need you intact.” His eyes flashed with pleasure. A grand reveal was imminent. Alec held his tongue. “As the doctor drank himself under the table, a snippet of conversation filtered through the general chaos. Corwin heard a man mutter about this not being the first time someone was killed by an octopus attack.”
“An octopus—not a kraken—attack?” That far north, both species rarely reached a substantial size, but only the kraken were given to attacking humans unprovoked. “How old is this Professor Corwin? Perhaps he’s gone hard of hearing?”
“He was entirely fit for duty, unlike some.” Logan threw a withering glance at his knee.
Was. Alec narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”
“The octopus is reported to have stabbed a tentacle into the fisherman’s stomach.”
“Stabbed?” Alec repeated. He glanced at the aetheroscope, scratched his jaw, but didn’t question his brother’s words again. “Strangled is at least a remote physical possibility—indigenous octopuses of sufficient size can survive off the northern coastlines—but the only sharp portion of an octopus’s anatomy is its beak.”
“Yet there is this.” Logan waved his hand. “An unexplained scrap of flesh, not easily dismissed. Moreover, my agent has gone missing.”
“And who better to act as an interim operative then your wounded, BURR-trained brother?” He gave a bark of laughter as it struck him. “The laboratory assignment was no mistake, was it? Orchestrated by none other than you, designed to drive me slightly insane while forcing me to study mollusk biology.”
Logan smirked. “I’d offer you a TTX pistol, but—”
“I’ve far, far better in my BURR locker,” he said, dismissing the weapon. “Assuming I’m permitted access?”
“Of course. You have full clearance and are authorized for independent shore duty. You report only to me. You share your findings only with me. Investigate the tissue’s origins and collect, if possible, a larger sample of the material. Blend with the locals and find out more about these rumors. Keep your eyes and ears open for news of Corwin. I want to know what’s going on.”
Chapter Four
April 1885
Stornoway, Scotland, the Isle of Lewis
WEEKS OF BITING COLD, lashing wind and endless rain had turned up nothing. No strange scraps of skin, no whispers of octopus attacks and no dead bodies—human or cephalopod.
All he’d managed to do was relax his grooming standards. He resembled a slightly insane Scottish fisherman inclined to pass his evenings in the local pubs. Yesterday, he’d caught a passing glance in a salt-crusted window and barely recognized himself.
Wind-bitten skin. Shaggy hair. A bushy beard. Wool sweaters and oilcloth outerwear. And though it wasn’t visible, a hint of rancid fish prompted the more finely dressed to step away with a wrinkled nose and a sidelong glance.
Temporary work on a fishing boat, hauling in nets of herring, had won him a cautious acceptance in town. He’d even dropped in on the local physician with complaints of knee pain—which was, alas, not a complete fiction—prompting the doctor with a fish tale of a kraken injury sustained at the London docks, but the man refused to bite. Alec’s direct inquiry about dangerous local squid had earned him an odd look, but he’d left with no more than an overpriced bottle of laudanum.
Only yesterday had a ray of sunshine finally broken through the clouds. His ears had pricked at talk of a wedding. Not because generous amounts of libations would flow—this town frowned upon alcohol consumption in all its forms, negating a valuable source of information that often sprang from loose tongues—but because the bride was sister to a healer. A female healer named Mrs. McQuiston.
The very woman he watched now.
She’d arrived on a houseboat, one impossible to miss as it was painted a bright, turquoise blue, and docked next to the fishing boats. The somber and simple clothing she wore did nothing to hide her slender figure or its gentle curves and served only to highlight the brilliant shine of her copper hair bundled into a mass at the base of her neck. The black leather bag she clutched while preparing to disembark set his heart pounding. At last. This had to be the woman he sought.
As she turned, luminous silver-gray eyes caught what little light filtered through the clouds and every molecule of oxygen rushed from his lungs. She was stunning. Not a classic beauty—society would disqualify her due to her freckles and strong chin—but he could not tear his eyes away.
“You made it!” a second woman exclaimed, who rushed down to the quay to throw her arms around the first. The bride?
“Of course, Nina,” the red-haired woman said, kissing her cheek. “I wouldn’t miss your day for the world.”
“Mum would never forgive you.”
They linked arms and set off down the rutted street, heads bent together. He followed at a discreet distance, snatching snippets of conversation that drifted back to him on the wind.
“Traditional… at the turning of the tide.”
“Really?” The redhead frowned. “Mum agreed?”
Nina nodded. “…blessing… full immersion.”
Did they discuss the wedding? Or did the two sisters plan to dance in the light of the full moon before taking a dip in the sea? Either way, he was intrigued. He closed the gap.
The redhead’s jaw dropped. “Someone offered up their child? In April?”
“Pushed for it,” Nina replied. “Mrs. Carr is fit to be tied. Insists it’s ‘unseemly’ in this day and age. But Uncle Gregor and Maren managed to convinced the grandmums to allow it. He wants his daughter consecrated in the time-honored manner.”
The presumed healer stiffened. “Uncle Gregor is here?” A few steps more and she stopped in front of a curiosity store, The Dragon and the Flea. “Let Mum know I’ve arrived, that I’ll be along in a bit. There are a few supplies I wish to purchase.”
“He is family,” Nina insisted, glancing nervously at the ghoulish displays in the window. “As is Maren. Twice over once I
marry her brother.” Her sister paused. “She explained everything to me.”
“Did she? Everything?”
“Her husband was abusive, a philanderer. She had no choice but to leave the child with his father. Should she live her life forever alone? Besides, she and Uncle Gregor married according to the old ways. No laws have been broken. Is there no way to mend things?”
“Their marriage is their business, but they trespassed on mine. I want nothing more to do with them.”
The sisters parted, with Nina continuing down the road and the redhead pushing open the shop’s door.
Alec needed an excuse to follow. He fumbled open the neck of his oilcloth jacket and reached into a deep, interior pocket, fishing out a singular device. With a ragged fingernail, he flicked a pin loose from a brass hinge, letting the liquid microlens fall free. Even with that classified piece of material removed, Logan would kill him for what he was about to expose.
A blast of welcome warmth rolled over him as he stepped into The Dragon and the Flea. At the far end of the room, the proprietor waited on his latest customer. “How can I help you today, Mrs. McQuiston?”
As easy as that, he had confirmation of her name.
Glass-fronted counters defined a narrow pathway into the store. Behind the counters were more shelves, every available inch stacked with obscure items threatening a landslide. A customer might be buried alive and never discovered missing in a place such as this. It was impossible to rest the eyes upon a single object for more than a second. Taxidermied animals abounded, including a goat with two heads and a four-legged chicken. A mummified hand. A shrunken head with yellow teeth. Papier-mâché anatomical models detailing hideous skin diseases.
His eyes dropped lower, and he realized he’d stepped into what was—underneath all the trappings of a side-show—a medical supplies store. Brass microscopes, a trepanning drill, amputation kits, bandages, syringes, a birthing chair. Bottles and jars and paper packets full of powders and potions. A few fascinating items defied classification. Hours could be lost exploring this store’s wonders.
