by A. W. Exley
Nate planned to pour over the maps with Clarence, find the most likely starting point, and take the search subterranean. He had hoped the sniffer dog from Russia would have arrived in time, but they would make do without him. He still waited for another letter from Cara, but perhaps he would hold her in his arms by nightfall instead. Or such was the sliver of light clinging to the corner of his soul.
Outside the carriage window, a fantastical London lay locked in time. Days flowed through May but the snow still fell. Commerce suffered in some areas and flourished in others. People kept off the streets if possible and the automaton and clockwork makers, flushed with the success of the Magical Night procession, released their creations on near empty lanes. Clockwork polar bears wandered and passed griffins and giraffes. Prancing unicorns became commonplace as did small dragons, the engines vented up the neck to release steam through the mouth and nostrils. A fantastical zoo claimed the streets as their own.
His fingers beat a tattoo against his thigh. Piece by piece, he would chip away at the Curator’s hold. Amy laboured on the Hebrew translation as there was still no word from a hidden Malachi. His itch said they were close to identifying the artifact the Curator wielded. Once he knew what item to locate, he should be able to neutralise the man’s power and make him vulnerable to attack.
Overnight, he received an alarming aethergram from his solicitor, McToon. Fraser had yet again appeared in his office demanding access to financial records. The incident was not the first time the inspector had openly sought evidence against him, but his sallies grew in frequency. McToon kept his calm and reminded the puffed up Enforcer he had no rights or any legal grounds to request such information. Liam kept him abreast of the man’s farcical attempts to question those within the Rookery. He thought buying a few drinks would change a man’s allegiance. The inspector saw the loss of Cara as a weakness, a chink in his armour. He failed to grasp that her abduction had the opposite effect. He pulled back from less important matters, his focus and determination reinforced him and meant he was less likely to stumble and give the inspector the opening he sought.
The carriage came to an abrupt halt and lurched him from his visions of his reunion with Cara. His gaze flew to the window, where the descending light glinted off metal. The driver rapped twice on the roof, the signal for trouble. He ran a hand over the sheath concealed on his forearm, and then pushed the door open. Trouble would find him well prepared. The automatic steps extended with a hiss and then dropped to the ground where a small puff of snow drifted up at the disturbance. He hung back a moment, in case someone launched themselves at the opening.
“Come outside and join us, Viscount Lyons, if you would be so kind.”
His top lip curled, but he pushed his emotions down before he stepped out of the carriage into a sea of blue and stark grey. Ten Enforcers were arrayed around the carriage, each man encased in a modified military exoskeleton. Armour plating protected the man within, the only thing visible the flash of eyes behind a glass visor. Each steel monster clutched a Gatling gun in his metal hands and the ammunition belt ran over his shoulder to a pack strapped to his back. A further twenty regular Enforcers stood either side of each hulking monstrosity as foot guards.
They stopped what little traffic there was on the street. Pedestrians hurried to shelter inside like worried locals at a western gunfight. A rich merchant walking a griffin spun on his heel and headed back the way he came. The mechanical creature clunked and whirred as it tried to change direction. A man across the road stopped and watched with narrowed eyes. In his lapel rested a silver and black pin. Nate made a hand gesture, and the man nodded and then disappeared at a trot.
Inspector Fraser wore a smirk. His hands clasped behind his back as he waited, soaking up every second of his triumphant moment. Nate wondered why the man didn’t engage a photographer to record the capture so he could relive it over and over.
“Expecting trouble, Fraser?” Nate waved a hand around him at the mechanised officers.
“Expecting? No. Hoping for it, actually.” Fraser smiled and took one step forward. “Nathaniel Trent, Viscount Lyons, you are hereby placed under arrest for the murder of Saul Brandt.” Fraser dangled a pair of handcuffs. “And for committing assault against a member of Her Majesty’s Enforcers.”
“Assault? Never gone a few rounds, have you, Fraser?” Inside, Nate swore. Outside, he arched an eyebrow. “But who was Saul Brandt? You’ll have to refresh my memory.”
Fraser approached, his face grim. “You know,” he all but hissed. “Turn around with hands behind your back.”
“I’m not sure this is strict Enforcer protocol.” He turned and made eye contact with Brick. He only had his driver and the bodyguard for immediate backup. The Rookery man would report to Liam, but he would be in Enforcer’s clutches long before he rallied the troops. With the numbers stacked against them, there was no point starting a fight here and now. He signalled his men to stand down. Three of them against an array of military exoskeletons was suicide, Fraser only waited for his moment to command them to open fire. Nate had no intention of departing this Earth and leaving Cara alone in the Curator’s grasp.
Fraser pulled his arms tight and snapped the locks around his wrists. “If you would follow me?”
Now he believed he had the upper hand the dapper man appeared to be the epitome of politeness as he lead away his foe. Nate planned to be out within an hour and back on his journey to survey the underground tunnels. The laudanum had settled too deep in the inspector’s brain if he thought he would go to jail for ridding London of a man who thought nothing of slitting a child’s throat. Saul Brandt murdered on a whim and had women tortured for his entertainment while he ate dinner. His removal made St Giles Rookery safer for the residents.
Inside the steam-powered carriage, he sat on the hard seat and eased his shoulders back until they rested on the cool side. Fraser sat opposite and Connor filled every available inch in between. Whatever evidence Fraser thought he held, Nate needed him to fumble. He needed a weakness to slice verbally and loosen the man’s grip and confidence.
“I’m curious about something, Fraser. Why stick to laudanum? I thought that was for women and poets. Wouldn’t release be faster from a pipe? Or are the opium dens too public for you to sprawl on the floor in the throes of your ecstasy?”
“You know nothing about what I do in private.” Fraser turned to stare out the small porthole.
“Really? Odd, since you have no trouble fucking a bobtail in an alley where anyone could watch, or was that your intention? To let everyone see her lips wrapped around you dick?” He kept his gaze locked on his prey. Shackles made no difference to the power play, he remained in charge, Fraser just didn’t know it.
Fraser lunged across the carriage and for the first time ever, Connor intervened. He caught the inspector mid-flight and pushed him back to the timber seat.
“He’s trying to rattle you,” the sergeant said.
Worked too, Nate watched the other man’s nostrils flare. That was the problem when you obsessed over finding one man’s weakness, you often exposed your own.
He endured the ride to Enforcer Headquarters in silence. Wheels would already be in motion to secure his release, he could do nothing but wait. Gossip travelled much faster than a cumbersome coach, and by the time he stepped out of the horrid conveyance, reporters were crammed on the pavement. They clutched notepads in their hands, eager for some word from the fallen man. Only one met his gaze, the one with the row of ugly stitches running up the side of his nose. Albright smirked and mentally Nate added his name to his growing list.
He scanned his surroundings as Fraser led him through the entrance to a noisy and cramped processing room. With four dark blue uniforms at his back and one on either side, he got the impression they expected him to bolt at any second. He took in the line of prostitutes with their sagging breasts, missing teeth, and lined faces. They were interspersed with panhandlers and petty criminals. Voices rose and fell as they sp
otted and then recognised him. The ear splitting noise fell to a hush and eyes widened to track his progress. Whispered speculation shot around the room as the villainous viscount was dragged amongst the common muck.
“Is this really necessary?” He had to rescue Cara, any time wasted here was non-productive and was being added to his mental tally of how long to keep Fraser a resident in the Pit.
Fraser grinned, basking in his moment. He pulled out a grimy chair by a desk. “Have a seat, Lord Lyons, while we check you into your room.”
He took the seat behind the desk and picked up a clean sheet of paper. Fraser took his time feeding it into the typewriter barrel and lining up the margin. Not happy the first time he removed the sheet and did it twice more before he gave a satisfied noise. “Just a few routine questions. Name?” His fingers hovered on the keyboard.
Nate closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The rage inside reached crescendo and he wanted to slice the laughing visage opposite him, to lunge across and savage the bastard with his teeth, since his hands were still tied behind his back. Could he chew off his nose before the uniforms dragged him away? The scenario played out in his mind, and the beast only allowed itself to be placated because the odds were still against them, and it wouldn’t risk any course of action which potentially left Cara alone. Once he wrestled control over himself, he opened his eyes.
“Play your game if you will, but you will get nothing from me.”
He sat in silence, while he plotted his revenge. For people like Fraser, a blade was too merciful. Too quick and clean. He wanted something dirty and prolonged. A rusty metal crochet hook for example. He wondered if he could remove one of Fraser’s eyes on the first attempt with such an instrument, or would he need to stab it a couple of times before the hook caught and pulled the gelatinous ball from the socket? What internal organs could he reach and remove through the bellybutton? He ran through his rudimentary anatomical knowledge, considering and discarding where to start, while in his mind, Fraser screamed in agony chained to a wall.
Except he wasn’t. The inspector droned on asking his questions, each one met by silence as Nate embellished his plans. Eventually, the inspector grew tired of his game. The novelty of the viscount sitting on a filthy chair and ruining his buckskin trousers, wore off. Whispers resumed around the room, then minute by minute, those whispers turned back into loud conversation. Fraser pushed away the typewriter and signalled to the Enforcers standing around the desk. One reached out a large hand and pulled Nate to a standing position.
They removed the cuffs and patted him down for weapons. One Enforcer took his belt with the dagger and sheath. Another pushed up his jacket and shirtsleeve to remove the one strapped to his forearm. Yet another ran large hands down his legs and found the switchblade in his boot.
“I’ll be wanting those back when I leave,” he said as each item was dropped into a cardboard box. His name and the date were scrawled on the front in black pen.
Fraser frowned at the contents. “Three knives and no gun?”
He met the other man’s hazel gaze. “Guns are so impersonal.”
With his escort in place, they led him back through the processing room and then pushed him toward a spiral staircase that wound down into the ground. Round and round they went, like a drill straight to the core of the earth. After hundreds of steps, the tight space opened out into a long corridor that stretched left and right. Stout doors with inlaid grates were dotted at regular intervals. Laughter, cries, and shouts echoed off the stone walls. Far beneath the soil, the Enforcers kept those criminals they didn’t want to see the light of day ever again. Some of the residents would only leave feet first, others would drag their toes to a place of execution. This was the domain of those classed too dangerous or too high a flight risk to inter in Newgate prison or the holding cells above.
“I think you are suffering a bit of an overreaction, Fraser. Something troubling you?” Nate asked, as two Enforcers pushed him into an open cell. One man held him while the other uncuffed his wrists.
The door slammed and turning, he found Fraser’s face pressed to the grate. “Do enjoy your stay.”
Nate rubbed the blood flow back into his wrists. “Remember your role as concierge, Fraser. I require pen and paper, I am allowed to correspond with my solicitor.”
Fraser’s eyes narrowed, then he slid the covering shut with a clang, leaving Nate alone with only the grey walls for company.
He waited as their footsteps echoed along the stone corridor and were then absorbed by the circular stairway. Alone, trapped like Cara, Nate’s beast would no longer be restrained.
It broke free.
He slammed his fist against the stones over and over, until red smeared over the grey.
Cara worked on the fourth stone with her blade. Each morning, after her breakfast tray was removed, she chipped away at a little more mortar. She limited herself to a small section each time and cleared away all traces of her escape attempt. She swept up the pile and deposited the dust in her bucket in the corner, hoping no one looked too closely at the contents. Holding her hands to her hips and comparing them to the area she worked over, she judged she would soon have an area large enough for her to squeeze through. Assuming she could kick out all four stones at once and there was nothing fatal on the other side, like the Thames, lava, or woman-eating crocodiles.
The warning rattle heralded another visit and she slid the knife back into her boot heel and dragged the bed to its place against the wall. Sitting down, she grabbed the bright red ball and began a game of catch with her prison.
The Curator entered her cell and today (or was it evening? time lost meaning with no reference point) he clutched a newspaper.
“Our search has encountered a slight problem.” He handed the paper to her.
She let the ball fall to the floor and scanned the headline. Villainous viscount imprisoned.
“No,” she gasped and sat up, pulling the paper closer. Fraser had arrested Nate for the murder of Saul Brandt and he now languished in prison deep under Enforcer’s Headquarters. She swallowed but her raw throat dried up and her tongue caught at the back of her mouth. “Surely he will be released.” Her voice rasped from long hours of screaming.
“The Inspector is quite adamant he has a case, and Nathaniel is incarcerated until his hearing. He now resides in his own underground tomb. A situation that doesn’t seem very conducive to carrying out his task. Your last letter went undelivered.” He spread his hands and frowned, as though he expected Cara to somehow remedy the situation. “You must pick someone else to resume the search.”
A snort of desperate laughter shot from her throat. Her problems kept multiplying. As if being kidnapped by a rahab, doused in Mary Tudor’s tears, and trapped in a waking nightmare wasn’t enough. Now Nate was caught in Fraser’s trap. Infuriating man. He really has lost sight of what he should be doing. Loki had gone native somewhere in the Pacific and taken Miguel with him. Nate had probably chained Brick to the bottom of a mooring bollard for failing to protect her. That left Jackson to head operations and try to rescue, well, everybody.
“This is ludicrous. There is no one else who can resume the search. Surely you see you must now release me?” Thanks to Mary Tudor, she wanted to curl into a ball and cry. Could things get any worse? A tiny part of her brain reminded her that Nate had a very canny lawyer. There was a slim hope McToon would have him sprung, although she had no idea how long legal proceedings took.
He slid his hands into the deep sleeves and kept his black gaze on her. “It was always meant to be this way.”
She grew tired of riddles and threw the paper down. “What do you mean?”
“We are simply at the point I determined nearly twenty years ago. When I offered the dragon to your father.”
Twenty years ago, two years after Bella died. Two years after her arrival in this world heralded her mother’s exit. “What exactly was your deal?”
His lips twisted into the semblance of a smile. “
I would aid him to resurrect his beloved wife by giving him the one thing he needed to complete the ceremony and in return, he was to give me what I wanted. You.”
Inside peals of hysterical laughter rang through her mind, he was either insane or trying to drive her to Bedlam. Given her nights spent screaming and fending off demons, she could move straight into the lunatic asylum and wouldn’t be out of place. “You’re lying. My father had no qualms about trading me to Clayton in return for his gambling chits. Do you really expect me to believe he wouldn’t give me up to bring back Bella?”
“Perhaps, things changed in the decade between those two events.” His gaze drank in her reaction, as though her misery and confusion were an elixir to his deformed soul.
A chuckle broke free and it was soon followed by another. The situation so ludicrous she had to do something, and being trapped in the cell for too long, her body gave way to the tide of hysterical laughter that crashed through her. She rolled over on the narrow bed as the violent spasms racked her body.
“You don’t even know what you are,” he said, as the cold smile pulled at his thin lips.
She turned her face from the blanket to watch him. Her mind tried to splinter like Helene’s, but she managed to cling to the fragments. “I know you want to break me, that’s why you plunge me into the dark and send your creatures to attack me. I see your face, not this one but the other one. The young you. You hide in my nightmare and try to shatter me, but you’re won’t succeed.”
He turned at the door, driven away by her sobs and laughter. “And why is that?”
