by Anne Renwick
“You’ve already taken my weapon.”
“A safety precaution. As is the cage. Queen’s agents are tricksy customers.” Dr. Thrakos crossed his arms. “Shall we start with what brings the two of you here?”
Cait answered. “We need information about the women with fangs.”
“You’ve run across more than one of them?” The scientist shook his head. “Bad luck, that. I expect you had a narrow escape from one encounter.”
“You made them,” Jack accused.
“Made?” The man tipped a hand from side to side. “I suppose you could say I created Ceyda, but only the one woman. Proof of concept and all that.”
Jack frowned, untangling the scientist’s words. “Are you informing us that the other woman was formed by nature, not man? That a snake-woman actually exists?”
“Fully assembled.” Dr. Thrakos grinned, turning back to Cait. “I expect you’ve visited the Menwith Hotel and Spa where they keep my artificial construct. Were you afforded a chance to view my work?”
“We were,” Cait replied. “Most impressive, though the glands do create a slight bulge.”
“An unfortunate effect, I agree.” He sighed. “Alas, the venom glands require a living incubator, otherwise they degrade with startling speed. She’s a pretty thing, Ceyda. Much more appealing to men—and women—than the alternative.”
“Alternative?” Jack asked.
“Well, snake form.” The scientist clucked his tongue. “All in the interest of reproductive health.”
“On that note, testicles have obvious procreative properties,” Cait said. “But what is so special about the pituitary gland? Why construct a medical device to extract it with such targeted elegance?”
Jack grabbed an iron bar of his cage, steading himself as his lungs ceased to inflate, frozen in anticipation of the answer.
“Elegant. Medical device.” Dr. Thrakos smiled. “How lovely to have my genius recognized for what it is. But the programing I was instructed to write?” The man shuddered. “A nasty piece of work to slip inside such a contraption of precision, but how does one reuse unlimited research funds? She’s released it upon young, healthy women, I gather?” He nodded. “Of course she has. And that would be what brought you here.” The scientist frowned, his gaze turned cold and sharp. “You want to stop the murders, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Jack kept his gaze locked on the man’s rheumy eyes. “Who is she? What—exactly—is she?”
“We live in an age of many curiosities.” The scientist’s eyes grew pensive. “One never knows what might crawl out of the depths of the sea, emerge from the interior of an ancient wood, or flap across the skies. Not to mention those creations handcrafted by man.” He turned toward the terrarium, pride glinting in his eyes. “Which can add levels of interesting complexity to our natural world.”
Worry slithered down Jack’s spine. Dr. Thrakos’ sanity was not at all certain. “Does this naturally venomous woman possess a name?”
“Of course. Helena.” The scientist poured a cup of tea, passed the delicate teacup upon its saucer through the bars. “I’ve no milk or sugar. My apologies.”
“Helena,” Cait repeated, her words a gentle prod. “No last name?”
“Not one I intend to share. Helena arrived at my door about a year ago, seeking my aid.” He tapped his chin. “But back to the question of what she is. The answer is most interesting.”
“Nagini?” Cait speculated.
“Ooo. Someone knows her snake mythology.” The scientist unclamped one of Cait’s wrists to hand her a cup of tea. “But no. She claims to be a lamia.”
“Lamia,” Jack repeated. “A different snake creature, also half human, but of Greek origin. A vicious seductress.”
Dr. Thrakos waggled his bushy eyebrows. “Fitting, wouldn’t you say?” He drew up short. “Unless you’ve not yet sampled the venom?”
“Recreational use of the venom is irrelevant to our investigation,” Jack said. He wasn’t about to share his experience.
“Oh, I beg to differ,” Dr. Thrakos replied, lips twitching. “On the whole, working with cultured venom glands is proving quite lucrative. The poison has many uses.”
“There have been murders,” Cait drew the scientist’s attention away. “Few survivors. I—”
She broke off at Jack’s hiss of warning, but too late.
The scientist might be mad, but he was, unfortunately, quite brilliant.
“Survivors?” The scientist’s eyebrows rose, reaching for his receding hairline. “Yourself included? A woman? Helena only ever bites a woman to—” He whipped the scarf from Cait’s neck, stared at the gnarled, pink scar tissue. “You survived a full envenomation? How?”
“I nearly didn’t.” Cait’s hand shook and the teacup rattled upon its saucer. She lowered it to her lap. “Swift application of medical intervention saved me.”
“No,” Dr. Thrakos disagreed. “I very much doubt that.” His gaze swept over her. “Dark hair. A skin tone suggesting gypsy heritage. And yet—” He snatched up Cait’s hand, dumping warm tea into her lap to stare at the poison ring upon her finger. “A nagamani, the very one I last saw upon a man’s hand two decades past. Could it be you’re a daughter of Kālūnāth?”
Cait’s breath hitched, her eyes widened.
Shit.
She’d finally found a man who might be able to answer all her burning questions, to draw back the veil that concealed the details of her heritage. But something predatory and calculating had entered the scientist’s eyes.
“Absolutely not,” his wife lied. “My father is a Scottish businessman.”
“I doubt you believe that any more than I do. Which presents,” Dr. Thrakos snapped Cait’s wrist back into the restraint, then crossed to a workbench, “a rare opportunity.”
Jack’s hands tightened upon the iron bars of his cage. Strong, well-set iron bars. But—perhaps as a concession to weight—the roof and floor were constructed of wood. Not a perfect prison. Given time, he could break free.
Starting now, with a distraction.
He leapt into the air, slammed his boots against the boards beneath his feet. The dirigible shuddered, but the floor of the cage bowed. Shit. A trap door?
Dr. Thrakos spun about. A wide, snaggle-toothed grin twisted his mouth. “You’re not the first guest to object to those accommodations. And while it’s true that you’re a prime specimen of manhood, you are not particularly unique.” The scientist waved at the control panel. “Cooperate, or I won’t hesitate to lighten the load with the pull of a lever.”
“Don’t,” Jack growled. “We’ve caused you no harm. We only came for answers. Let us go.”
“I will.” Dr. Thrakos flapped a hand as he turned toward the terrarium. “Eventually. Once you’ve made restitution for breaking and entering.” He lifted the lid. “Behold my creations, my morphophídia.”
“You replaced the venom glands of a common adder?” Cait’s voice shook with the effort of drawing the madman back into conversation.
“Such brilliance!” the mad scientist exclaimed, then frowned. “A shame, really, that you work with a Queen’s agent. You would have made the perfect assistant. At least this once, however, you can lend a hand. Or an arm, as it were.”
“Leave her alone.” Jack twisted at the bars that kept him from Cait’s side. Not so much as a hint of give.
The mad scientist ignored him, rambling on. “Morphophídia are a much more portable and biddable, if less appealing, way to store and incubate the venom. Quite successful. But my mistress is a jealous and vengeful creature.” Dr. Thrakos attempted to catch a serpent about the neck with a mechanical grasping claw. Missed. “Not to mention dangerous. But if I were to possess an antivenin, my work would be much safer on all fronts, would it not?”
“There’s no need for the snake,” Cait pleaded. “Let me loose. I’ll help.”
“Ah, would that I could trust you.” The mad scientist caught one of his creatures. He pulled it free of its ca
ge, hissing and writhing.
Then dangled it above Cait.
“Absolutely not. Do not set that creature free upon my wife!” Jack howled, stomping upon the floor.
“There is no other way.” Dr. Thrakos shrugged. “With a few pints of her activated blood, I no longer need worry.”
Shit. The madman was going to allow the transformed snake to bite his wife? Bleed her to study the venom’s effect?
An image of Cait upon his bed struggling to breathe rose to mind. Venom aside, most women only possessed some nine pints of blood. The loss of more than four pints in too short a time frame would push her too close to death. The man was insane. Would he go too far?
“It won’t work,” Cait said. Confident words, but Jack heard the underlying tremor.
“That scar upon your throat informs me otherwise,” Dr. Thrakos said. “The snake-charmer’s daughter who survived Helena’s bite will be resistant. Nonetheless, we’ll begin with only one morphophídian, a single dose of venom to gently re-excite your immune system. Step by step, we’ll tease out the marvel of your blood. Won’t that be interesting?”
A rhetorical question, for a woman strapped to a chair and a man locked in a cage could not be expected to participate in reasoned discourse, no matter the fine china involved. With polite conversation at an end, all pretext of manners dismissed, it was time to act.
He reached for his boot, found his knife missing. Disappointing, but not surprising. Though it ruled out the possibility of plunging a knife into the scientist’s back from a distance.
He moved his hand to the hem of his trousers. The wire cable was still within. He ripped a few threads and pulled it free. Now all he needed was for Dr. Thrakos to step close enough to—
“Let me go,” Cait yanked at the restraints. “We’ll study the outcome together. Two scientific minds will make faster progress than one.”
“If you were more cooperative, I’d consider it.” Dr. Thrakos let the snake flick its forked tongue over Cait’s skin, let it grow familiar with its prey.
“No!” Jack jumped. Yelled. Slammed his boots again onto the floor. Again and again. Anything to distract the man, to draw his attention away from Cait. But the scientist was focused upon one thing, and one thing only. Jack didn’t even merit a heated glare.
“As you’re both keen to be on your way, we won’t waste any more time.” Dr. Thrakos released the snake, dropping it upon Cait’s lap.
It slithered forward, paused, then sank its fangs into her arm, flooding her system with venom.
Not a peep escaped her lips.
She caught Jack’s gaze, gave the slightest shake of her head.
She was fine. Or convinced she would be. And didn’t wish for him to risk his life on her behalf.
But men such as Dr. Thrakos always pushed and pushed and pushed, until they caused damage beyond repair. And she’d been so very, very sick after encountering Helena.
She might survive one bite without repercussions. But three, possibly in close succession? No matter how much he trusted her assessment of her tolerance for venom, fear wound through his gut, tied itself in a knot and yanked.
The morphophídian lifted its head and the madman caught the snake returning it to the terrarium. “We’ll wait an hour, see how you do. In the meantime,” Dr. Thrakos lifted a green-glass atomizer and turned, “your companion will rest.”
Jack lifted a hand. Turned away. Held his breath as—pffft—a fine mist drifted into his cage. But his lungs and diaphragm would not be denied. On a forced inhalation, a sickly-sweet and vexingly familiar scent filled his nostrils.
“He’s in a cage!” Cait protested. The ire that threaded her voice was not at all manufactured. “What trouble could he possibly cause you?”
Twice now, a misting oil had been applied to eyes that were already failing. The pain and panic written on Jack’s face when he’d woken from the first exposure had twisted her heart.
The oily mist had caught them both. When she’d woken, Cait had found herself strapped to this chair, trapped inside a room where various horrors hung upon hooks driven into the ceiling and walls.
She’d been captured, taken as a prisoner after little more than a full day as an agent. Alone, save for Jack’s unconscious presence, terror and humiliation had twined and twisted in her chest as she’d screamed. But, muffled by walls, drowned out by circus music, and buffered by the wind, her cries for help had gone unanswered.
“The hassles I endure to pursue my work are legion,” the mad surgeon complained as he approached. “Why else install a trap door?” He pointed the atomizer at her face.
Cait held her breath, refusing to give in to the tiny voice that hoped for oblivion.
Contemplative, his lips pressed together forming a flat, annoyed line. “No.” He shook his head and set aside the bottle. “There’s so much more to be gleaned from a conscious patient. Tell me, paidi mou, how do you feel?”
She glared at him.
“Still quite spirited.” Dr. Thrakos smiled, smug. His fingers landed upon her wrist to check her pulse. “Elevated, but no more than one might expect of a woman caught and detained. So many ignore the DO NOT ENTER signs, then act surprised when they find themselves deprived of their freedom.” He clucked his tongue. “There’s no chance, paidi mou, that I would set you free unexamined. I’ve never met another with talents like Kālūnāth Sapera. How fortunate for me, for science, that he found great favor with the ladies. Tell me, have you met any of your half-siblings?”
The implication that her father was—had been—promiscuous and fertile was unsurprising. But Cait’s inebriated mother had only divulged a first name. “Sapera?”
“Were you told next to nothing of your origins?” Dr. Thrakos tapped his chin. “Snake-charmer. Is that all you know?”
Of her father? Very nearly.
As she’d aged, grown wise to the secrets her mother hid from her, Cait had taken note of the strange ring with the black stone that made her father frown.
Instinct connected the ring with her biological father. And, when she’d lifted it from her mother’s dressing table to claim it for her own, she’d hoped the long, silent look they’d exchanged across the breakfast table might lead to revelations. But her father had merely risen and pressed a kiss to Cait’s forehead. “Do try to stay out of trouble,” he’d whispered.
Too late for that.
She and her brothers had already established a secret laboratory in the cellars… and once Logan joined their number, trouble hadn’t been far behind.
“I know plenty,” Cait replied. No matter her hunger for details, she refused to be drawn into a conversation where she spilled her secrets, hoping for a few scraps of information in return.
“Yet not of lamia,” he pointed out. “A narrowness of focus upon a single culture is always a mistake. India and Greece. Gods and goddesses. Snake-charmers and snake-women. Might you be diametric opposites? A fascinating thought. Regardless, you’re a hunted woman.”
“For what, my pituitary gland?” Cait swept her eyes across the room, letting her gaze rest upon the various clockwork parts that littered his workbench. The effort it took to keep from glancing at her husband’s crumpled form within the cage was enormous, but she would not hand the mad scientist any more ammunition than he already possessed. “What device did she commission from you in exchange for samples of her venom gland?”
Their situation was dire. Should the morphophídia be set upon her in quick succession, delirium would follow. Blood loss would make her situation worse. This might be her only chance to learn about the contraption.
Dr. Thrakos’ eyes darkened. “I cautioned Helena against hunting in London, but she will pursue her grandiose plans. Failure has only made her more resolved. She tries for another child, a problem given—” He waggled a finger. “Ah, but you have distracted me, paidi mou.”
“Fertility?” she pressed. Four London men were missing two of their most-prized possessions, and Lucy Cooper a portion of h
er brain. “Is the pituitary gland involved?”
“Why else make such an effort to collect it?” Dr. Thrakos waved a hand. “But enough of that, I wish to discuss the marvels of your immunity, not her reproductive concerns.” He dragged a fingertip across the fine mesh of white scars on her forearm. “These suggest a number of tightly controlled and self-inflicted studies. To what other poisons have you proven invulnerable?”
Cogs and pins, did he think she’d give him reason to keep her as a long-term laboratory rat?
“The restraints, Dr. Thrakos. I’ll list them all, if you’ll remove them and free my—”
“Husband?” He chuckled. “Don’t look so surprised. A gold band, as yet unscratched. The proximity of the Grand Menwith Hotel and Spa. The bite at your neck. Married off to a Queen’s agent, were you? A most excellent plan. Save it failed.” The mad scientist turned away, plucked another hissing morphophídian from its cage. “From your perspective, that is. From mine? It’s worked out quite nicely.”
Once again, a flicking tongue explored the taste of her skin.
“It’s too much,” she objected. “My system needs more time to recover.”
“Does it? I detect no effects from the last dose of venom, so we’ll press onward.” He dropped the snake in her lap.
The snake coiled, lifted its head, then struck.
Cait clenched her fists and bit down against the pain of a second envenomation. Poison coursed through her system, spreading a prickly warmth across her chest, down her arms and legs. All of it followed by an ache that gripped the muscles of her neck with pointed claws.
“Much more of an effect this time.” Dr. Thrakos’ hand was back at her wrist. “And yet your pulse is only mildly elevated.” His voice was a distant murmur. “Most impressive.”
“Too soon,” she gasped. “Please. Not again.”
“We’ll wait a few minutes,” he conceded, “monitor your response.”
Tap. Tap, tap, tap.
A distant sound, one that called to mind skeet pigeons, beaks against glass. Could a floating circus receive such targeted missives?
