by Anne Renwick
“I’d wondered if another letter might arrive.” Dr. Thrakos crossed to a window and a cool breeze drifted across Cait’s face. He retrieved the skeet pigeon, loosed the canister from the bird’s ankle, and teased out a scroll of paper.
The room tilted, spun. Cait blinked. Kraken. Was it past midnight? Was the circus on the move?
A heartbeat later, Dr. Thrakos loomed over her, his voice low and threatening. “You have made my clients very unhappy, Mrs. Tagert. Fascinating as you are, without funding, there is no research.” He was gone. Then back. “Tricky, balancing such scales. Unfortunately, they do not tip in your favor. I must accelerate our experiment, bring it to a final conclusion, and swiftly. Rest assured, I will utilize all data collected.”
Cait whimpered as, again, a morphophídian dropped upon her lap.
Coiled. Rose. Struck.
Yet more venom ran through her veins, followed by a blistering heat. Everything ached. Muscles. Joints. Even her eyeballs throbbed as the lights overhead grew too bright.
Then a needle pierced her skin at the crook of her arm. A rubber tube appeared.
“No.” Her voice emerged as a distant whisper as she tried to wrench her arm away and failed. “Please.” She turned her head, watching her lifeblood stream away, flowing steadily into a glass bottle set upon the floor. “That’s too much.”
“And yet so little.” A note of disappointment colored the mad scientist’s reply. But no sympathy. “It is with great regret that I must bring an end to your honeymoon. By death you soon will part.”
No. This was not how it ended.
She refused to believe it.
“Jack,” she called, focused on her partner, her only hope of escape. “Wake up.”
But her lips barely moved.
Chapter Sixteen
Jack woke to the soft creak and groan of wood and steel. Beneath him, the gondola’s floor rocked and swayed. The circus was on the move, floating across the moors. It must be past the midnight hour.
He breathed a silent curse as he tugged the hem of his shirt free and wiped his eyes. Only then did the horror before him swim into focus.
His wife fettered upon the surgical table. Dr. Thrakos at his desk scrawling notes into a leatherbound journal.
“Cait?” he called softly.
Her head lolled in his direction. She blinked, but failed to respond.
All color had drained from her face, emptied by a length of rubber tubing that ran from her arm into a large glass bottle. More than half its volume filled with blood.
“That’s enough blood,” Jack growled at the mad scientist. “Stop. Now.”
“A missive,” Dr. Thrakos waved at a skeet pigeon without lifting his eyes from his work, “from London dictates otherwise.”
“You intend to drain her?” Jack caught at a bar as the room tilted.
“Dry.” The madman snorted, dropped his pen and spun in his chair to meet Jack’s acid stare. “Though it was not my intent to play the role of vampire, the part comes naturally enough.”
“Have you no empathy? You answer to a cold-blooded murderer.”
“Murderer, yes. Cold-blooded? No. I assure you, Helena is, mostly, human.” Dr. Thrakos rose and began to collect his notes, adding them along with a few odds and ends to a leather satchel. “And her actions are justified. She seeks restitution for a wrong perpetuated by a so-called gentleman.”
“Lord Saltwell?” he asked. “What crime did the man commit?”
But Dr. Thrakos flicked a hand, dismissing him. He placed a metal-clad case upon his laboratory bench, snapped open its latches and raised the lid. Cold water vapor rolled forth. Mechanical grasping claw in hand, he began to transfer the morphophídia into it, one by one.
A telling move.
The mad scientist was gathering his most precious possessions, preparing to leave. There was no chance he and Cait would walk free. If he took no action, Cait’s bloodless body would follow his own to the fields below and the madman would board his glider-class dirigible departing, most likely, for London or Menwith.
Time to utilize a swift, if extremely risky option. Calculated insanity, really.
He squinted at the fetters snapped about Cait’s wrists, focusing on the locks that held them closed, judging them easily broken with a solid strike. But first, he needed to escape his cage.
Time to separate a few iron bars from their floor bolts.
It was the labor of a few minutes to free two small, metal cases from compartments hidden inside his boots. One contained powdered ammonium nitrate and salt along with other additives. The other, powdered zinc.
From the first case, he fashioned two small mounds of the powder adjacent to the bases of the iron bars. Ever so carefully, he added zinc to each pile. Then added dry paper twists containing black powder to ensure the fire caught and held.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Dr. Thrakos shouted.
With an evil grin, Jack saluted him with the neglected cup of cold tea left within his cell. “Leaving.”
Dipping his fingers into the liquid, he scattered droplets upon the powder. Green flames burst to life in a most spectacular reaction.
“Open flames? Fool! This gondola is built of wood! You’ll kill us all!”
“You’ve already delivered a death sentence.” Jack splashed more tea upon the chemicals and sent more flames dancing. Beneath the burning powder, splinters of wood glowed orange.
Spitting expletives, the mad scientist strode with purpose across the cabin. Not, however, as Jack had hoped, to retrieve a bucket of water. Instead, he reached for a lever upon the control panel and pulled.
Shit.
He’d meant for the fire to spread, if not in this particular manner. Flames licking at his feet, Jack grabbed at the solid iron bars and braced.
Clang. An unseen mechanism engaged. Clunk. Thud. Gears ground as they turned. Thunk. A bolt pulled free and the floor of the cage dropped away.
Wind rushed inward, tossing a swirl of sparks into the air. Beneath him stretched nothing but inky darkness studded with pinpricks of light.
Hiss.
A spark caught upon the dried fur of what might once have been a rat.
Snap.
Another spark landed upon a wicker basket.
Whoosh.
A sheet of paper caught fire.
Dr. Thrakos howled his displeasure.
Jack yanked at the two bars he’d targeted with his chemical fire. Loose, but not enough. He kicked at the charred wood, sent flaming fragments falling into the sky.
“Jack?” His name a strangled but welcome sound on his wife’s lips.
Still alive, thank aether.
He intended to keep her that way.
The flames spread, already at a point from which there was no return. Dr. Thrakos cranked open the door leading to his escape dirigible, threw in his satchel, the case holding the morphophídia, then dashed to Cait’s side. The madman ripped the tubing from her arm, pulling the needle free. He grabbed the bottle of her blood then, sparing her not so much as a hasty glare, made his escape, abandoning them to their presumed deaths.
Flames were climbing the walls, time was running out.
With another yank, a bar pulled free. Jack let it fall through the gaping hole beneath him. Wedging his shoulder into the gap, he shoved. Again and again until, with a horrible creak and a wrenching sound, the second bar shifted an inch.
But it was enough.
Snap!
He fell onto the floor of the gondola, rolled and jumped to his feet, then rushed to Cait’s side. Grabbing the nearest solid object, he set about smashing the padlocks at her wrists and ankles.
He tossed her over his shoulder and spun about. There, his knife and pistol upon the mad scientist’s desk. Above a shelf holding stacks of notebooks. All about to be lost to the flames.
With two great strides, he reached the desk and quickly collected his weapons. Was there time to look? This might be his only chance. He snatched a notebo
ok from the shelf.
For the first time Jack had cause to thank his horrid brother for his fluency in Greek. One-handed, one after the other, he dropped notebooks to the desk, flipped through a few pages, tossed them aside.
Until he found one with most promising entries. Clockwork. Sharp knives. Pincers. Among other mechanisms that hinted at the concept behind the pituitary extractor.
Whoosh! The ceiling exploded into flame. Overhead, something snapped and the floor lurched beneath his feet.
Shouts of “Fire!” met his ears.
Time had run out.
One last thing—the message sent to Dr. Thrakos via skeet pigeon lay in a paper coil upon the desk. He tossed the missive onto the open pages of the notebook, snapped it shut and rushed for the door.
Smoke billowed around him as he crossed a rope bridge, landed upon a small platform. All about him, bridges, ladders and walkways of all kinds lifted and fell away. The circus was separating into discreet sections and floating apart—the only way to avoid the threat of the flames that had engulfed Dr. Thrakos’ laboratory.
Heart in his throat, Jack turned, searching for escape and found a single option. A small dirigible nearby, still docked. But the path to it was unclear. He surged forward, praying he wouldn’t misstep and send them both plunging to the fields below. Slats rattled and creaked beneath his feet as he ran, jumping from platform to bridge. Turning left, then right. The air cleared as he drew closer. Almost there.
Thud!
A man dropped from the air above, landing on the platform before him. It was the sabre-juggler carrying a coal scuttle. He barely spared them a glance as he dashed past into the small aircraft.
Jack followed, darting into the gondola. A much smaller space than the mad scientist’s laboratory. A single Lucifer lamp hung overhead. A table and chairs. Two pallets upon the floor. The bare rudiments of what passed for a kitchen.
A small, frightened girl huddled in a corner leapt to her feet, ran to the sabre-juggler and threw her arms about his legs. Half-turning, she stared at him with frightened eyes. Tufts of fur sprouted—lynx-like—from her pointed ears, and a long, furry tail peeked from beneath her skirts.
The hands that held the girl close each bore six fingers.
Not his place to inquire.
“Why are you here?” The man disentangled the girl and began shoveling coal into the firebox. “Guests were to have left hours ago.”
“Over our objections, Dr. Thrakos insisted we stay. The fire interrupted his plans.”
The man’s gaze caught upon Cait’s limp form. He spat upon the floor and cursed the scientist’s name. “Lay her down, then help. It’s a shit engine, barely works.”
Jack tossed the notebook to the floor, eased Cait onto a pallet, then dropped to his knees. Tearing a strip of cloth from his shirt, he bound her arm to stem the flow of blood—the abrupt needle removal had left its mark—and she needed every last drop.
He couldn’t lose her. Not when they’d only just found each other. Emotions clogged his throat. Fear. Denial. And what he thought might be the beginnings of love.
“Cait?”
She moaned, but didn’t open her eyes.
“Stay with me,” he whispered. “We have a monster to hunt.”
Two fingers pressed to her throat assured him her pulse was steady, if too fast. She’d hold. The mad scientist hadn’t managed to steal enough of her blood that Jack needed to consider a hasty landing to search out medical assistance.
His palm against her forehead revealed a fever. A reaction to the venom—had Dr. Thrakos set all three morphophídia upon her?
What he wouldn’t give to wrap his fingers around that man’s throat and squeeze. But to do that, the mad scientist would first have to be caught.
With a growl, Jack stood. Time to depart this smoldering pile of kindling in the sky and point their vessel in the direction of London.
He nodded to the little girl, then crossed to the engine. The sabre-juggler was placing wood atop a layer of coal. Jack snatched up a rag, drenched it with paraffin and added it to the pile.
“Matches?” he asked.
“All gone,” the man answered, digging through a box.
Fire. The gods laughed, for midst the brewing conflagration, they needed a flame. Outside, he could see flames licking their way along floor slats, creeping ever closer.
Jack shifted, prepared to retrieve a burning plank.
But the man lifted a sparker. Metal scraped. Sparks flew, caught upon the rag and ignited. He slammed the firebox doors. “Cast us off!”
The gondola tilted sideways, pulled by the failing framework of the platform. Creeeeeak!
Quickly, Jack untied one rope, then the next, holding tight to the dirigible as he tossed away the final tether.
Free.
Jack and the man stared at each other. There was nothing more to do while they waited for water to boil, for steam pressure to build.
“The fire started in the laboratory?”
Jack nodded. “It did.”
“Go.” The man turned away to add more coal to the fire. “See to your woman. There’s water in the bucket. We’ll talk later.”
Seated upon the pallet, Jack gathered Cait into his arms as they drifted into the night sky. When she stirred, he dipped a tin cup into the pail, held the cool liquid to her lips.
“Try to sip,” he said, relieved when she did so.
“Snakes,” she murmured, her eyes still closed. “All three. One after the other.”
That rat bastard.
Enough venom to kill a grown man several times over. “We’re safe now.” From the evil scientist, if not entirely beyond harm’s reach.
“Skeet Pigeon,” Cait whispered. “From London. Saw you grab.”
The note. With one hand, Jack flipped through the pages of the notebook he’d confiscated, found the slip of paper and read the words written in an unfamiliar handwriting aloud.
Eliminate agents. Operation at risk. Destroy all evidence. Return any assets.
At the root of all this misery was a snake-woman with aphrodisiac venom, one with a vendetta. She’d made an excellent start establishing herself on these shores where there was no shortage of men and women willing to smoke, swallow or inject any number of mind-altering substances. Ones who wouldn’t recoil at the thought of a deadly creature nibbling and nipping at their neck in pursuit of certain hedonistic pleasures.
He brushed a thumb over the two puncture marks left by Ceyda as he cast his mind back to his own, personal experience. Such a tiny nip, yet the effects of the venom had manifested in mere minutes and persisted for hours before fading without any noticeable or long-term side effects.
No need to advertise such a sexual stimulant, it would sell itself. Carefully controlled and offered only to those with deep pockets, it would also be wildly profitable.
Which explained the substantial numbers in his brother’s account books.
Several hours removed from London, the Grand Menwith Hotel and Spa was a luxurious destination. Its practitioners and patrons easily managed. But once introduced to its pleasures, demand would increase. Hence the portable morphophídia. A much more practical venom source, easily carried about London. Had that been the plan all along, to establish a center, then meet the demands of addicted clients within the city?
His head throbbed. Much as he’d hoped to find another explanation, there was no denying the fact that Aubrey was in deep, that the money flowing from the spa into his family’s coffers was tainted with the blood of the London murders.
What role did this lamia named Helena play? Had she sent the note by skeet pigeon? Was she a part of the greater plans? Or had she introduced an unforeseen and chaotic factor by stealing out in the dark of night onto London’s streets with an agenda of her own?
One way or another, Jack would see his brother and friends answer for their actions.
But first, they needed to return to the city to catch and cage a myth before any more damage
could be done. And, near as they must be to York, the fastest way home was by steam train.
Such would require landing, the purchase of tickets, an explanation for their shocking appearance. All made more difficult by Cait’s need for rest—and above all else—fluids.
A faint light crept into the sky. Dawn arrived.
Perhaps there was another travel option.
The sabre-juggler reached for the blowdown valve. A moment later, the engine sputtered to life and its propellor began to turn. Mobility restored, the man picked up a spyglass and began to scan the still-dark sky, hunting, no doubt, for other members of the floating circus.
Easing Cait back onto the pallet, he crossed the gondola.
“Jack,” he offered his name with a nod. “My wife, Cait. Thank you for taking us on board.”
“You left me little choice.” The man snorted, lowering his spyglass. “I’m Torkel. My daughter Adie.” He fixed Jack with a keen eye. “Most who visit Dr. Thrakos don’t leave as they came.”
“Nor has my wife,” Jack said. “She’ll survive, but it was a near thing.”
Torkel’s face twisted. “The man is evil. After my wife died, he stole away my child while I worked. Poked and prodded at that tail of hers. Now she won’t speak, not to anyone.”
“She’s hulder?” A calculated guess. Fairy folk in the British Isles weren’t known for sporting tails whereas the Norwegian folktales often portrayed them as their own race.
The man nodded, then spoke with sad longing. “I’d leave the circus behind, return now to our people but…”
“The cost.”
Another nod.
“Take us to London, and I’ll help you travel home, if that’s what you want.”
Suspicious, Torkel’s eyes narrowed. “If you’ll pardon my own assessment of circumstances, you don’t look to have two shillings to rub together.”
Bending, Jack slipped his knife from his boot to slash open the hem of his trousers. Pound coins fell into his palm. He counted them out upon the console panel, noting surprise, then growing interest on Torkel’s part.
“Twice that when we land,” he said, “and enough to travel in a Captain Oglethorpe airliner—first class—as far as Sweden.”
