The Forgotten Mountain (The Collectors' Society Book 3)

by Heather Lyons

  My own fingers curl so tightly inward my palms ache. “That will not happen to Finn, Victor. Do you understand me? You did not fail him. You most likely saved his life.”

  Eyes bright and shiny regard me sadly.

  “Neither of us will allow him to perish, will we?”

  “Don’t let it take me.” And then, “You need to understand.” He gently peels back one of Finn’s eyelids and stands to the side.

  If my heart had grown legs and dove down deep inside my chest in order to escape, I would not be surprised in the least. Finn’s eye—no, both eyes, as Victor further shows me—are solid black. There is no white, none of the beautiful blue-gray.

  My nails dig so strongly into my palms I draw blood.

  Mary peeks her head in. “Alice? I’ve got Wendy out here. She’s awake, but not by much.”

  It goes against everything inside me to walk away from Finn right now, but I do. But first, I offer him my promise. I kiss his cheek, my words for his ear only. “Hold on, love. Even if it requires me moving heaven and earth, I will find a way to fix this. All I ask of you is to hold on.”

  His head, ever so slightly, shifts toward me. I tell him again that I love him. This time, it is his face to brush up against mine.

  I pray our gravitational force is strong enough to keep him afloat.

  Van Brunt is already back, shoving a cart filled with a jumble of carelessly organized medical items. Victor rifles through them, muttering nonsense the entire while. Van Brunt says to me, “Whatever you need, Ms. Reeve, you will have it.”

  I nod and then step beyond the door. Wendy is resting in a wheelchair, Mary standing guard. Green hair a tangled mess around her head, eyes flat and sad all at once, the Society’s once-formidable technology expert is nothing more than a shade of her former self. Even the plethora of silver hoops that once adorned her ears and the colorful rings decorating her fingers are gone.

  I drag a chair over so I might sit before her. “Wendy, we must talk, you and I.” I lean forward, taking her cold hands in mine. She flinches, just a little, as one does with a bit of static shock. “I do not have much time. We must discuss what you know about Neverlandian magic.”

  Confusion wrinkles her brows.

  “There was a boy here, one who flew. I’m told there is a video that shows you talking with him.”

  Now, those bright eyes of hers turn glassy, racked with fear.

  “That same person stabbed Finn, Wendy. With a sword shining with a cerulean glow. And now, Finn is in that room behind us, unresponsive and fighting for his life.”

  Her head jerks in the direction I indicate, dislodging a pair of tears.

  “Around the wound, a strange pattern has developed. Have you ever heard of this before?”

  Lips move but only whispers emerge.

  “Do you know if—”

  “He kills people.” Her voice is barely perceptible. I lean in closer, as does Mary. “He—he kills his followers. His boys, the lost ones. When they grow up against his wishes, he thins them out. In battles, he will even switch sides.” She blinks slowly. “Funny how people overlook that part. I have never been to Neverland. London wasn’t—there wasn’t magic in the orphanage.” She licks her cracked lips. “Pixie dust is a Neverland thing. So is—he is.”

  I squeeze her hands. “What about his sword? What makes it glow blue? Is it magic? Poison?”

  Green hair goes flying when she shakes her head over and over again. “I—I don’t know—he—” Wendy’s eyes roll back until they are nothing more than whites a split second before convulsions wrack her body.

  Mary quickly steadies her head before it lashes against the back of the wheelchair. “Victor couldn’t find a reason for these, except that they occur any time she speaks of Pan.”

  The seizure lasts for approximately half a minute, leaving in its wake a limp Wendy, frothy spittle decorating her chin. Mary gently wipes the mess away, murmuring assurances neither of us can truly uphold: It will be okay, you are okay, everything’s okay.

  Everything is most assuredly not okay.

  Wendy’s eyes droop, her mouth moving like a puppet’s. No further words emerge.

  The urge to pluck strands from my hair grows, yet I force my hands to stay at my sides. “Who is the liaison for 1911BAR-PW?”

  Mary glances up from tending Wendy. “If I’m not mistaken, it’s one of the directors at the orphanage Wendy was found in.” Her nose scrunches. “I don’t recall her name, though. I’ve never talked to her—naturally, she was on this one’s caseload.”

  “Her name is Miss Margaret Smith.”

  We both look toward the door; the A.D. has returned.

  “Does she know of Neverland?” I ask him.

  “I believe so.” Pained eyes linger on Wendy. “Just to let you know, Sara’s in the interrogation room. Give her a few minutes, and she’ll be right as rain. You should have taken the extra-strength tranqs, Mary.”

  She shrugs. “I was in a hurry.”

  I turn to Mary. “Will you contact this Miss Smith and inquire about Neverlandian poisons and magic? I think it’s time that Sara and I finally talk.” I cannot shake the feeling the former agent knows something. I motion to the A.D. “Perhaps you might ensure Wendy’s comfort?”

  “Of course.” He bends down before his friend. “How about we head up to your apartment and put on a movie? That might be nice, right, Wen?”

  Her head lolls to the side; unfocused eyes merely stare up at the A.D. whilst her lips continue to move without rhyme, sound, or reason.

  Just as I turn away, Mary stays me with a hand. “Keep in mind that Sara and Finn were close. He would not have gone to her home if he did not still trust her, Alice. I may have always thought her a pathetic cow, but she means something to him.”

  And yet, Sara Carrisford did nothing to contact the Society once Finn and Victor arrived—not even after learning of her former partner’s injuries. Her excuses ring hollow, even if she tried to protect him.

  “I’m just saying,” Mary continues, “that Finn has always been . . . protective of her, if you will.”

  Nearby, as he takes hold of Wendy’s chair, the A.D. interjects his agreement.

  “It is a shame, then,” I say coldly, “that Finn is not the one to be able to question her.”

  It is enough to silence their suggestions.

  Before we leave, though, the both of us cannot help but check on Finn and Victor once more. The doctor and Van Brunt are quietly talking as they stand guard next to my love’s bed, the father’s arm around the son’s shoulders. Part of me knows I ought to leave, that this is a moment meant for the Van Brunt family, but whether or not they realize it, they have also become my family, too.

  Finn is my family. He is my heart, my north star.

  The sound of the door clicking shut has Van Brunt withdrawing his arm from his son. Mary walks over the Victor, murmuring quietly.

  “Were you able to learn anything from Ms. Darling?”

  I shake my head. “Before she could tell me much, another seizure took hold. Mary is off to contact the liaison for 1911BAR-PW to inquire if they know anything of merit.”

  “I’m off now.” Mary squeezes Victor’s hand. “Let me know if you need me, all right, love?”

  After another brief kiss, she departs. I must admit, I’m a bit taken aback at how demonstrative they are. Although outspoken about many things, Mary has always been publicly guarded with her intimate affections. But I suppose love will do that to a person, and when it is risked or threatened, one cannot help but reach out and hold it as tightly as possible.

  Victor’s attention returns to his brother. A pair of liquid-filled bags attached to a silver stand next to the bed are adjusted; thin tubes snake from the sacs down to an IV attached to Finn’s hand. “The antibiotics will need time to work, but I’m hoping we’ll see a difference by nightfall.”

  Aches sincerely erupt throughout my chest as I stare down upon my beloved’s pale face. Huckleberry Finn Van B
runt is smart and strong and brave and deserves better than he has received. He did not give up on me. I will not give up on him. This is not how it will end for him, let alone for us. A prophecy might have torn me away from my first love, a prophecy I both respect and resent, but there is no prophecy at work here. Wonderland is not at risk. My people, my lands (which I have always put above my own wants, needs, and desires once I embraced my crown) have nothing to do with my relationship with this man.

  He is alive. He will remain so, even if I have to go to the ends of the earth and beyond to make it so.

  I tell Van Brunt, “The gloves come off from here on out.”

  It is a phrase I’d heard on a television program, early on during my stay here at the Institute. I’d had to look it up on my cell phone, but once I comprehended its meaning, I rather liked it. And here it is, fully applicable.

  The Society’s leader’s smile is faint as he regards me. Much still haunts his eyes: fear, relief, fury, helplessness. I am positive he finds the same in my own, only I know there to be cold resolve present, as well.

  “I would have it no other way, Ms. Reeve.”

  I allow my fingers to fall upon Finn’s shoulder, to have this small connection with him. “I will be interrogating Sara Carrisford shortly. If there is a change—”

  “You’ll be the first to know.” Victor’s eyes are still bright, but the set of his mouth is less frightful. There is no further talk of monsters—at least, the kinds that haunt a mad mind, rather than the ones I now hunt.

  Neither Van Brunt nor Victor sees fit to offer any warnings over my plans. Instead, Van Brunt rounds the bed and lays a gentle hand against my back. “You have my undying gratitude, Alice.”

  Alice.

  Nearly a year after my induction into the Society, and Van Brunt finally calls me by my given name.

  Emotions long buried threaten to swallow me. A lump crawls up my throat, my eyes sting once more. “Whilst I’m gone, I would ask that he is never left alone.”

  His attention returns to his stricken son. “That I can promise you.”

  “Please send word to Grymsdyke to stand guard in the room.”

  When I left Wonderland, it was only under the influence of a strong drug the Caterpillar obtained for me. It offered clarity and conviction in the face of madness, and even then, I’d wanted to tear my skin off because I desperately did not want to go. But I did. I put my people’s needs above my own. I walked away from my home, my love, my Court, my people, my lands, my duties, and my dreams. Today, I have no drug to act as my crutch. I am to walk away from this man I love, this man I never believed I would ever find. I am to walk away and ready myself for battle, because from here on out, there is nothing I will not do, nothing I will not try. I will save Finn. I will save him and then I will go even farther, because I am no longer solely championing the people inhabiting the Diamonds’ lands. I am now fighting for trillions of souls who do not know I exist, who do not call me their queen. I will fight for them even so. And they need Finn to fight for them, too. He has always been one of their best, their strongest of champions.

  Gabriel Lygari, I am coming for you. And I will have my vengeance.

  THERE IS NO GUARD posted outside the interrogation room, nor is Sara Carrisford restrained when I enter. That is of no matter, though.

  I do not bother locking the door behind me. This woman, this former agent at the Society, had more than one opportunity to overtake me at her home in London and yet was unable to do so.

  I have no fear of her, but I can practically taste her fear on my tongue.

  She is on her feet, body angled just so toward the door that she must foolishly harbor hopes she can get past me. If she feels the effects of Mary’s tranquilizers, she does not show them.

  Good girl.

  “Where is Finn?”

  Her voice is cold and tight, not at all like how I’d imagined it to be after hearing’s Mary’s characterizations. The woman before me is not sweet.

  Even better.

  I choose not to answer her question. “Explain to me why I found a pair of photographs of yourself in a Mister Gabriel Pfeifer’s flat in Manhattan.”

  Her eyes widen, but she does not let up on her defensive position. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

  “This again?” I tsk. “Mrs. Carrisford, let me be clear with you. From here on out, I will only ever ask you a question once. I assure you, you will not desire the consequences of refusing to properly answer.”

  She says, each word crisp in rebellion, “I do not know what you are talking about.”

  I am across the room before she can even blink, a forearm across her throat as I throw her up against a wall, one of her own arms pinned behind her. “I rather think you do.”

  Even as she spits, “Where. Is. Finn?” she cannot hide her pain behind defiance.

  My arm jerks up, slamming her head back against the wall. For a good pair of seconds, the whites of her eyes shine. But then she spits out between clenched teeth, “Where is he?”

  The next slam of black hair against wall and fist against ribs extracts a cry. “I would have thought you had learned your lesson earlier today. How unfortunate for you that you did not.”

  A gasp hisses between us. “I want to talk to Brom!”

  A knee slams against her thigh, buckling her stance. Another cry is torn from her lips.

  “It is critical you understand that I will go as far as it takes to get what I want, Sara Crewe Carrisford.” My arm against her throat pushes harder until wheezing reaches my ears. “What I currently want is for you to answer any and all questions I have. If you think there is a single person within these walls who will come to your aid, I must assure you that you are quite mistaken.”

  Her greenish-gray eyes are utterly wide now, but I believe she rapidly understands our current situation. “At least grant me the knowledge of your full name!”

  That I can give. “Alice Reeve.”

  “How do you know Finn?”

  I press harder against her throat. Softly, difficultly, she manages, “I don’t know why photos of me were found in some flat.”

  Not good enough. The fingers of my free hand now dig painfully into the spaces between her ribs. “There was one where you were in a man’s arms, laughing. He has curly hair, a dark suit.”

  Yet another cry surfaces. “I’m telling the truth!”

  “You have been gone from the Society for well over a year. From what others have informed me, the pictures in question must be at least two years old. One is thought to be Central Park. The other appears to be at a party.” I twist my fingers until tears swell in her eyes. “In the first, you were wearing a yellow dress, your hair in a loose bun.”

  “I went there to relax sometimes,” she gasps. “Like a lot of people.”

  I wait, unrelenting with the pressure I place upon her. Her free hand grapples uselessly against me.

  “I don’t know a Gabriel Pfeifer!”

  “What about a Gabriel Lygari?”

  Her slim brows furrow as she weakly struggles against me. She is not so good an actor to hide this truth, I think. She’s genuinely confused by the names I offer.

  “Shall I make it easier for you? Were there any Gabriels in your acquaintance here in New York?”

  “I . . .” Her body twitches below mine, sincere fear now attacking all her muscles. “I know—knew—a Gabe Koppenberg.”

  Ah. There it is. “Describe this Gabe Koppenberg to me.”

  “I can’t . . . breathe!”

  My smile is vicious, I’m certain of it. “Of course you can. If you couldn’t, you’d have passed out by now. Yet here you are, telling me about Gabe Koppenberg.”

  She tries to strike at my kidneys with a weak fist, sweeping at my footing with clumsy feet. If I weren’t so enraged, I might very well chortle at her pathetic attempts. Soon enough, though, she weakens into submission. Raspy now, barely voiced, she informs me that Gabe Koppenberg was tall and good looking, his h
air curly and dark, and his chin indented.

  Well now. Is seems the man with two names now adds a third. “Did he wear a lapis ring?”

  Fear is replaced by terror. “If you value your life, the lives of those you love and work with here, you must allow me go home immediately.”

  I increase pressure against her windpipe.

  “Yes!” She coughs, sputtering. “The man I knew wore that ring!”

  My God. Lygari/Pfeifer was in league with a Society agent.

  “How is it you came to know this Gabe Koppenberg?”

  “Don’t do this,” she rasps. “I beg of you. Not here!”

  “Do what?” My tone is cold. “Inquire as to why photographs of you have been discovered within the lair of a psychotic murderer, one whom many within these walls feared had erased the lives of the two men I found in your home?”

  She has the astounding audacity to hush me, all the while shaking like a leaf beneath my grip. She mouths, “He’ll hear you, you must—”

  “I must what?”

  Her wide eyes flit about the room. Louder now, yet still a whisper: “Send me back to my Timeline before it is too late.”

  I stare at her, our faces so close it would take nothing to head butt or even kiss her. Her breath trembles between us, her heart jackrabbits beneath my hold. Tiny beads of perspiration decorate her hairline until several take the risk to fall toward her chin.

  Defiance, terror, agony, shame, and bitter, bitter guilt stare back at me.

  Perhaps I am a fool, because I murmur, “Is there something here which ties your tongue?”

  Her breath quakes out a nearly inaudible confirmation.

  I mouth now: “This room or the Institute as a whole?”

  She mouths in return: “Whole.”

  I lean close. “If you attempt to flee from my hold or even step a toe out of line, I will not hesitate to ensure it is the last thing you ever do. Is that clear?”

  I hear, rather than see her swallow. “Yes.”

  I carefully release her; she sags against the wall, coughing and trembling. Before I can change my mind, I unceremoniously yank her upright. “Into the hall.”

  She lurches forward, cradling the wrist of the arm I’d pinned behind her. On the other side of the door, we find the A.D. pacing. Or eavesdropping, as he’s ever so prone to doing.