Venomous Secrets

by Anne Renwick

  “You work for Dr. Oakes.” A flat statement meant to establish a baseline for their conversation.

  “I’ve nothing to say.” The woman stared over Cait’s shoulder, her jaw tight.

  “Is he the one who did this to you, installed those fangs of yours?” She waved at the woman’s mouth, careful to keep her hand out of striking distance. Someone needed a clear head. “Have you been forced into his employ? We can help.”

  “I need no help,” the woman hissed, her eyes narrowed to a harsh squint. “Work is steady here, the pay excellent. You’ll regret this,” Ceyda spit. “Both of you. There is always a need for spare parts.”

  “Spare parts.” Cait’s voice was calm despite an increased pounding in her ears as her blood pressure rose a notch. If they located the local coroner, would they find deaths that matched those in London? She’d bet her career on it. “Such as a stray pituitary gland? A pair of testicles that have wandered off?”

  Behind her, razor-sharp laughter tinged with outrage burst from Jack’s throat.

  Cait sighed, half turned to glance at Jack. “We’ll have to transport her to London, question her there. Any chance you can—”

  “London?” Ceyda cried. “Absolutely not!”

  “Stop!” Jack lunged, eyes on the masseuse, half-sliding across the tiled floor, reaching for—

  Cait spun back around.

  “Kraken!” She swatted Jack’s hands aside. “Let me.” A suicide attempt was not an outcome she’d anticipated.

  A tiny nip promised euphoria to a man, something as-yet undefined to a woman, but a substantial dose was deadly, and the woman had bitten her own lip, deeply. Blood ran over her chin, dripping onto golden embroidery. Carefully, Cait pulled her lip away, easing artificially sharp canines from rapidly swelling flesh.

  But the damage was done. The woman’s eyes rolled back as her entire body shuddered, convulsed.

  “Shit.” Jack locked eyes with Cait. “Is there any hope?”

  “With a full envenomation? It’s possible she’s developed a mild immunity, built up tolerance to the venom she must regularly swallow, but if she’s emptied the entire contents of her glands into her bloodstream…” She leaned closer to palpate the slight swellings behind the woman’s ears. “They’re a pair of good-sized glands.” Prying open the woman’s mouth, Cait peered inside. “One connected to enhanced teeth by a sizable duct.”

  He swore. “How long does she have?”

  “I’d guess some twenty minutes. Longer if she’s extremely lucky.” Her pulse spiked and a cold sweat broke out on her forehead.

  Could she? She’d never tried it before. Not even on rats. She dragged in a deep breath. Life and death scenarios had always been stories told by her brothers, not a part of her current reality.

  But she was an agent now.

  This would not be the last crisis.

  “What is it?” Jack asked.

  “There’s a small chance my blood could save this woman, though transfusions always carry risks.” Cait ran to the cabinetry and flung open the doors, dug through drawers with shaking hands. “Not a single piece of useful medical equipment!” she cried in frustration. “Without a syringe—or needles or tubing—”

  It was hopeless.

  “There’s nothing we can do.” Jack swore again. “We’ll have to summon help. Perhaps they possess an antidote.” He caught her arm. “Ceyda tripped, fell, bit her lip. This was a horrible accident. That’s our story and we stick to it. Agreed?”

  “Unless someone looks inclined to harvest our spare parts.” She dragged the dying woman away from the door, then cracked it open to yell. “Help! Please, come quickly!”

  Seconds later, two nurses rushed into the room and dropped to Ceyda’s side, exchanging worried glances as they checked her pulse, her respiration.

  Assuming the role of a hysterical young bride, Cait shed crocodile tears and stuttered out the details of a most unfortunate accident all while flapping hands at the masseuse as she twitched and moaned upon the ground.

  “Help her!” Cait cried.

  “There’s no protocol for this.” Wide-eyed, the nurse addressed her coworker. “Dr. Oakes isn’t due back until tomorrow. What do we do? The circus floated away three days ago.”

  “Do you mean Professor Grimaldi’s Floating Cabinet of Curiosities?” Cait asked.

  “Does it matter what you call that carnival of freaks?” the second nurse said, wringing her hands. “I’m afraid not even Dr. Thrakos could help. There’s no cure.”

  Save the possibility of her blood. But to offer such a procedure, to force it upon Ceyda who had chosen to end her own life rather than be transported to captivity in London…

  “A floating attraction?” Jack stood behind Cait now, skimming his hands over the silk of her dressing robe. Over her arms, cupping her elbows, then finally setting upon her hips. “Dr. Thrakos?”

  “The surgeon who works in the clouds. Creator of—”

  “Hush,” the other nurse interrupted. “Such information is not for guests.” The woman stood and, with a light touch, urged them toward the door. “Please, sir, if you and your wife would return to your rooms. I’m certain management will wish to compensate you. Follow the corridor to your left, then take a right through the red door.”

  “I can’t feel her pulse!” the other nurse cried.

  There was nothing Cait could do now, and it would be impossible to argue in favor of transporting Ceyda’s body to London. She left them to their resuscitation attempts.

  Cait wrapped a supportive arm about Jack’s waist, draped his arm over her shoulder, then led him, staggering, from the room. “Now might be a good time to make a dramatic exit from the hotel citing irreparable mental distress,” she whispered. “Send word of our failed honeymoon to a certain duke and duchess and request aid.”

  “Yes. But we’re not returning to London ourselves. Not yet.” The backs of Jack’s fingers brushed over the rise of her breast. “Would my bride care to visit Professor Grimaldi’s Floating Cabinet of Curiosities?”

  “She’d like nothing more.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “We must alter our appearance,” he’d slurred. “Mr. and Mrs. Tagert would never chase after a disreputable floating circus.”

  “Were this not a component of an active investigation, your wife would disagree.” In a flurry of activity, Cait had buzzed about their rooms, madly stuffing strange items into a small valise. “As it so happens, she’s one step ahead of you.”

  With that, his fate had been sealed.

  Eyes fixed on the horizon, Jack clenched his teeth.

  Traveling under the influence of venom that left him sympathetic with Priapus, god of fertility, meant that the remainder of his day would be one of complete and utter torture. Not since the age of fourteen had he been in such a state.

  Only a few firing neurons in his higher brain centers kept him from tossing Cait from the clockwork horse into a hedgerow and having his way with her on the side of a country road.

  “Are we there yet?” An irritable question, half-groaned and instantly regretted, for Cait shifted in the saddle before him and the soft swell of her backside produced a new and even more delightful friction.

  A low and throaty laugh floated back at him. She knew what she was about and found his torment amusing.

  Why was it he continued to play the gentleman when all evidence suggested his bride was as anxious as he was to consummate their union?

  He ought to have tumbled her onto the thick feather mattress the night of their wedding. Instead, the knowledge that he’d been one of many agents under consideration for the position of “husband” had made him petulant, and he’d insisted upon waiting until they came to an understanding.

  Stupid of him.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  The word repeated in his head, over and over, with each iron hoofbeat.

  With his heart hammering against his ribs and propelling hot blood through his veins and arterie
s at blistering speeds, they’d left the hotel in a snit, noses so high in the air they risked altitude sickness. Staff had zipped and zoomed about, trying to appease the brother of their titled investor, each worried their job was on the line. All while an undertone of tension buzzed and maids whispered into each other’s ears.

  A steam carriage carried them back to Harrogate—during which he’d sat upon hands that had developed a distressing tendency to wander unbidden. They’d sent a cryptic telegram to the Avesburys, another to Black, then boarded a train bound for London. Their trunks would arrive, but they would not. For the small valise they’d carried into a first-class compartment had contained garments with a coarser weave, brighter color and looser fit, permitting them to step back onto the platform as Mr. and Mrs. Swinton. That couple was on country holiday and keen to ogle the exhibits of Professor Grimaldi’s Floating Cabinet of Curiosities.

  Inquiries had pointed them north and, with all due speed, they’d hired a clockwork horse built for two. Though his mind was now much clearer, Cait cited venom intoxication and insisted upon holding the reins. She’d climbed astride, forcing him to sit behind her with his hands upon her hips. Thus precipitating his prolonged, excruciating torment.

  “We’ve many miles to cover yet.” The vixen glanced over her shoulder, eyes flashing with amusement. “Would you care to pass the time by viewing the biogels?”

  “Or we could stop. Rest at that barn in the distance. Make use of its hayloft.” His body pleaded with her to consent.

  “Tempting.” She laughed. The red scarf tied about her neck to hide the scar left by her attack fluttered in the breeze. “But your bride expects both understanding and an apology before she considers the possibility of consummation.”

  “Very well.” He held out a hand. “Science on horseback.”

  She unhooked the reticule from the belt at her waist and handed it to him. “Your heart is pounding against my back. Are you certain hayloft activities wouldn’t burst an artery in your brain?”

  Something else might well burst in the meantime. Three long hours had passed since the venomous masseuse bit him. How much longer would this insanity last?

  He yanked the drawstring open with his teeth and pulled out two biogel plates, each marked with a name. Three holes were punched in each. Beside the holes, he saw faint ink marks embedded within the biogel. On one plate, two white lines curved around one hole. The other plate showed—he squinted—nothing. “As I never ran with the laboratory rats, you’ll need to explain.”

  “Such rudeness.” She jabbed him with her elbow. “The ability to reveal what the naked eye can’t see will propel medicine through the next century.” Cait wriggled against him. “As you exhibit promise as a husband, I’m inclined to let your comment slide.”

  He groaned. “I could begin to demonstrate my regret now. A prelude, if you will, to the more intimate pleasures I could provide.” He leaned forward, murmuring the words against a bare expanse of her shoulder where the ruffles of her blouse had been crushed and tugged aside by the leather straps of his holster. “Provided you promise not to point my own TTX pistol at me again.”

  Her answering laugh promised nothing, save that a quick roll in the hay would only begin to satiate the desire that burned through him. “I’ll return it later, when I’m convinced the effects of the venom have worn off,” she said. “Shall I explain what unseen mysteries are revealed by the biogels?”

  He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss against her skin, resisting an urge to bite when she fell backward against him, tipping her head to provide him with better access. “Please do.”

  “One well—hole—in each plate received a sample of my attacker’s venom. A second well on each plate received diluted cobra venom. The variable is introduced into the third well of each plate—a sample of my serum in one, Mr. Acker’s in the other.”

  “You have access to a cobra?” That caught the breath in his lungs. “An actual, live cobra?”

  A vision of her coiling the poisonous creature about her shoulders, allowing it to slither and slide across her skin sent a pulse of lust through his blood.

  “I do, one recently acquired. Though I’ve yet to use its venom to challenge my immune response.”

  “Meaning you’ve yet to let the cobra bite you?” The question emerged as a fascinated hum.

  “Focus.” She slapped his thigh. “Look at the white line. This forms when an immune reaction takes place between two substances.”

  Recalling the scars—the punctures and lines—upon her forearms, he glared at the biogels and grappled with the implications. On the plate marked “Cait”, a curved line of precipitate arced between the two venom samples. There were no such lines on the other plate marked “Acker”.

  “You count this as proof that you are immune not only to the venomous woman, but also to the bite of a cobra?” Incredulous, his voice rose with each word.

  “Yes.”

  His wife, mistress of poisons. It worried him. But he’d be lying if he didn’t also admit the edge of danger it presented excited him.

  “Moreover,” she continued, “while my blood reacted to both samples, Mr. Acker did not react to either of them.”

  “If the London attack has rendered you immune, that suggests,” he forced his mind to wrestle with the medical implications, “one of two possibilities. Something or someone else bit Mr. Acker. Or his immune system has failed to render him resistant to the woman’s venom.”

  “Likely the later, given our venomous masseuse bit her own lip in an attempt to take her life. Such an act implies she knew herself not to be resistant to large quantities of venom.”

  “She was prepared to die before betraying her employer’s secrets.”

  “Secrets which may be on that biogel you hold,” Cait added. “When two substances are unrelated, the white precipitate forms two lines that cross like an X.”

  Not at all what he held in his hand. “But when they join in a curve?”

  “Then the two samples are similar, if not identical substances,” she said. “Based on these results, a zoologist would declare both species members of the same serpent family, elapidae.”

  He slid the plates into her reticule and clipped the bag onto the D-loop of the wide leather belt encircling her waist.

  That left his hands free for exploration. A quick glance about informed him they were quite alone. Unbitten, she might not share his hyper-aroused state, but drugs weren’t necessary to spark the chemistry that flowed between them.

  “So if our not-a-vampire walks and speaks and is, to all appearances, a young woman, she is either an undiscovered, undocumented subspecies or…” He walked his fingers upward over the clasps of her belt, stopping to toy with the topmost fastening, the one nestled just beneath her breasts.

  “Or someone has implanted the venom glands of a cobra-like snake into at least two young women and,” she leaned back, ever so slightly, into his arms, encouraging his explorations, “altered their teeth to function as fangs.”

  “Meaning?” Flames of lust licked across his skin. He cupped her breast, drew his thumb over its gentle curve, delighted that only a single thin layer of cotton separated her nipple from his caress.

  Her breath hitched. “Meaning we must locate and speak with this Dr. Thrakos.”

  Astride, her skirts were hiked almost to the knee—all that much easier to slide a hand beneath their hem and onto the silk of her stockings. Stocking turned into the smooth skin of her thigh and still no material stayed his hand—only fading willpower. “No underwear?”

  “Whomever packed my trunk forgot to include them.”

  He hissed, uncertain if such was a curse or a blessing.

  A cluster of brightly patterned balloons appeared on the horizon above a distant field. Professor Grimaldi’s Floating Cabinet of Curiosities. Soon Jack would be expected to climb from this clockwork horse. And walk. With a persistent erection that had his cods aching. He prayed they wouldn’t turn blue and fall off before he
had a chance to bed his bride.

  “One thing bothers me.” Cait shifted in the saddle, turned and caught his lips for an all-too-brief kiss that nonetheless threatened to stop his heart. “Not once has a cobra’s bite ever been reported to produce an aphrodisiac effect, not even at low doses.”

  “Perhaps this Dr. Thrakos altered the cobra’s venom somehow?”

  She blew a long breath. “Unlikely. Venom is a complicated protein.”

  “Or discovered an unknown cobra? For this venom was—is—most effective.” His blood boiled and seethed with throbbing need. “Though I hasten to add it only served to enhance my attraction to you, to lower barriers. Not to conjure it out of thin air.”

  “That is very much the correct answer.” She turned away, then rocked her hips. Laughed when he groaned. “Now all I require is an apology.”

  “I am deeply, deeply sorry to have doubted you and your science. It won’t happen again.”

  With a twitch of the reins, the clockwork horse turned off the road. The barn rose up before them, its grounds deserted.

  “Cait?” Only the cage of his ribs kept his heart contained.

  “I expect the farmers have abandoned fieldwork in favor of visiting the floating circus. It’s time to settle things between us.”

  “Now?”

  The clockwork horse clopped into the barn, gathering in the margins of their world. Overhead, a hayloft beckoned. “You want to wait?”

  Hell no. “There’s no telling what effects the drug might produce. I don’t want to—”

  “Hurt me?” Cait scoffed. Directing the horse to the ladder, she downshifted the lever to full stop. “You won’t. I’m not some delicate, fainting ninny. If it helps,” she snorted, “consider it your duty to the Crown.” She slanted him a teasing glance. “What kind of agents would we be if we fail to explore the full extent of the venom’s potency, to understand exactly what draws men and women to the Menwith Spa?”

  “So romantic.” An aggrieved edge sharpened his voice, but his cock throbbed, reprimanding him for daring to lodge a complaint.