by Anne Renwick
Her actions here were a forced experiment with far higher personal stakes wagered upon a positive outcome. She prayed that whole blood would not, instead, worsen his condition.
“I need your arm.”
But no response came.
“Jack?” Cait twisted, reaching. At the movement, his arms slid from her shoulders, limp. His weight shifted and tugged, all of it now suspended from the make-shift sling wrapped about her waist.
Unconscious.
Her mind suggested that was for the best. Her heart vehemently disagreed.
Plunging her hand into the water, she grabbed at his wrist and lifted his arm out of the water. Resting it upon the edge of the well, she splashed alcohol over the crook of his elbow and took aim at the dark blue of a prominent vein. The needle slid inward, and she depressed the plunger, mingling her blood with Jack’s in a desperate bid to save his life.
Again and again, she repeated the procedure, waiting several minutes between each treatment, alert to any changes in the rhythm of his heart, to the depth of each breath. All while doubt and worry gnawed at her mind and churned in her stomach. She was no physician, equipped with the education and experience to judge Jack’s response.
He required sufficient plasma to neutralize the venom, but not so much as to trigger a negative response to her own red blood cells. But what was enough? What was too much?
Impossible to know.
Experimenting upon herself was all well and good. Such tests had been measured, gradual and carefully controlled. But the floating circus had given her a taste of what it meant to be an experimental subject who had not given consent. A terrifying experience, finding herself helpless beneath the hands of a volatile mad scientist driven by whim and impulse with no regard for her life.
She shuddered, pushed away the horror of the memory. The crimes of one Dr. Thrakos would be weighed and measured by the Queen’s agents. Justice would be served. If surviving the morphophídian strikes meant her blood could save Jack’s life here and now, that was all that mattered.
Releasing his arm back into the water, she cupped her hands over the precious syringe, over the small bottle of alcohol, to keep them safe from the blistering sparks that fell from the beams overhead. She bent her head and closed her eyes, forcing herself to take deep breaths.
Against her back, Jack’s chest rose and fell, a regular rhythm, if rather shallow. His heart thumped steadily, if a touch too rapid. All to be expected from a significant envenomation.
There was nothing to do but wait, to watch, to pray her blood was enough save the man she loved.
Time stretched as they hung, suspended in the cool water. Blistering heat from above beat down upon their heads. Her lungs demanded air, even as the fire sucked the oxygen from the room. She kept her breaths measured and shallow, trying not to draw a deep breath of the pollution that churned through the space around them. All while monitoring Jack’s vital signs.
“Cait?” Jack’s voice emerged as a faint whisper against the damp of her neck.
A tear ran down her cheek. Success?
He woke to smoke and flames and water and waves.
And Cait.
Alive. Even if the pounding in his head suggested his continued existence was temporary.
“Thank aether,” she exhaled. “It worked.”
There’d been doubt?
“Proven a few hours past, was it not?” he asked.
Her short laugh was rueful. “Under entirely different circumstances.” She looked over her shoulder at him, her fire-lit face full of concern. “How does your leg feel?”
“Swollen. Painful. And it hurts like the devil. This was not at all how I envisioned our pursuit of a lamia to end, but…” Were those tears upon her cheeks? He gripped the edge of the holy well, ignoring the pain, and gathered her close with his other arm. “Tell me.”
“I was so afraid.” She twisted the cloth about their waists that tied them to each other, bringing them face to face.
“What—”
“Symptoms,” she interrupted, then ran down a long list of every side effect a snake bite could possibly induce.
Every last one of them negative, save the searing pain in his leg. The persistent throbbing of his head and double vision was all too easily attributed to his pre-existing condition.
“Do I count as a success?” he asked.
“You do.” Her lips curved in a faint smile as she smoothed a finger over the furrow between his eyebrows. “The vial of antivenin shattered.”
“Then how did you— Blood?”
She swallowed, nodded. “A transfusion.”
Risky in the best of circumstances, but here, under such horrid conditions? “How?” His eyebrows shot up. “You used nothing but a syringe?”
“Repeatedly, and with only the roughest of estimates of how much volume to use.” She frowned. “The Haimatos Separation Machine uses a complicated algorithm—”
“You saved my life.” He caught her chin in his hand, pressed a brief kiss to her lips. They were bound by more than mere blood. “That matters most.” He glanced about at the burning wreckage. “Now we need to escape, that we might share the tale of how we hunted a venomous monster through labyrinthine tunnels and brought her attacks to an end. I want the duke and duchess to know why the lamia prowls London’s streets no more.”
“You want to write a report for the Department of Cryptobiology.” A teasing light came into her eyes. “Do you think they might, given her penchant for underground passages, hypothesize that lamiae are a cave-dwelling subspecies geographically located within the borders of Greece?”
“Emerging to prey upon young men and women in order to sustain their population?” He loved her mind. “Perhaps it’s best kept a secret? I shudder to think of the lives that might be lost in the pursuit of lamiae. Worse, even, than dragon hunting.”
“The reproductive drive is a strong one. And, according to Helena, Lamian traditions extend back into the mists of time.”
He snorted. “Is that what we’re calling castration now?”
“Not to mention cannibalism of the pituitary. Which reminds me.” Pulling upon the carved stone at the edge of the pool, Cait lifted her head above its edge, casting her gaze about, searching through the haze of smoke. “The pituitary extractor. It’s in the carpet bag beneath—”
He followed her gaze to where the desk had collapsed. “Debris and smoldering embers?” he finished. “All is not lost.” He spoke the words to comfort them both. Still, the thought of the device smashed to smithereens drove the nail between his eyes deeper. “The Thorntons have Dr. Thrakos’ notebook.” But the contraption would require modifications. After all, surgical outcomes were only positive if the patient survived. “Try not to worry. We’ll look for it after.”
After.
Would there be a second act—or ought they label it a third—to this cursed evening?
Overhead, feet stomped and voices shouted in alarm. The Opera Comique was a drafty tinder box and this fire far more than a simple spark. The theater would have been evacuated, the fire brigade summoned. With luck, in time to save lives.
Theirs?
Possibly. If the entire structure didn’t collapse down upon them in a giant, raging inferno.
Would that their luck held.
Cait sank back into the cool waters beside him. Distress filled her eyes. “How bad is it, your head?”
“Bad.” No point in lying. “There’s pain and double vision, as always. Save the pain now stabs rather than gnaws, and my vision has narrowed yet further. All of it accompanied by recurring bouts of nausea.”
Deepening concern carved a furrow between her eyebrows. “Meaning? Elaborate and explain, Mr. Tagert.” She poked him in the chest. “My medical expertise does not extend much past the physiological effects of biological toxins.”
He sighed as they bobbed in the water. “In all likelihood, it’s a pituitary apoplexy. I expect the tumor has ruptured, flooding the space in and around th
e sella tunica with blood, hydrostatically placing pressure upon my optic nerves.”
“You need surgery. Immediately.”
“It’s not deadly.” But such a comment side-stepped her question. Unfair. He relented, but delivered the bad news as if he’d merely forgotten his umbrella on a rainy day. “But, yes, it’s likely to render me blind on a permanent basis if not addressed.”
“Within what? Hours? Days?”
“Impossible to say, but it would be best to presume the timeframe for saving my eyesight is limited.”
She dropped her forehead against his shoulder, sloshing the water about them.
“Thornton and his wife, Lady Amanda, are tireless in their pursuit of novel neurosurgical procedures,” he offered by way of comfort. “No doubt they’ve already been to Clockwork Corridor half a dozen times consulting with Nicu Sindel, a master of clockwork mechanisms, with Dr. Thrakos’ laboratory notebook in hand. Even now, an equivalent—no, superior—surgical instrument might wait upon a chromium steel surgical tray for my arrival.”
Snap. Hiss. Crash! More wood fell about them, splintering upon the ground, flinging fiery sparks onto their skin.
Jack extended his arm, dipping them deeper into the water.
“A procedure which, to quote yourself, possesses a high likelihood of mortality.” Her voice betrayed her anguish.
He pressed a kiss to her damp and sooty hair. “Should the worst come to pass, please apologize to Angela for the overly protective and primitive instincts that caused me to object to her career choices.”
“No. You’ll do that yourself.”
Crackle. Thud. Pop.
Her head snapped up. “Jack!” She grabbed the far edge of the well and yanked, pulling him with her.
Crash!
A heavy beam fell from above, narrowly missing them.
Water rained from the ceiling.
Rained?
“Help!” Cait cried, her face tipped upward. “Is anyone there? We’re down here!”
No answer came.
He added his voice, shouting with her.
Minute by minute, the flames died down, sputtering and hissing from the onslaught of an overhead deluge.
They kept yelling as long, seemingly interminable minutes ticked past.
Then an answering shout, “Someone’s in the vaults!”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Outside, men and women dressed in their finest thronged the street gaping at the firemen who tromped in and out of the theater’s entrance, dragging out the few remaining bedraggled souls who’d managed to become trapped inside.
Amongst whom she and Jack numbered.
Their rescuers had dropped a ladder through the collapsed ceiling down into the vaults. Relieved, she and Jack had abandoned the underground carnage and charred remains of the lamia’s lair, clambering from the underground vault and winding their way out into the relatively fresh air of London’s streets.
Not, of course, without retrieving the pituitary extractor.
Or, Jack insisted, the case containing the preserved remains of Helena’s infant, the drakonourá.
She clutched the soggy and sooty yet precious carpet bag to her chest with torn and bloody hands. Jack gripped the case. Battered but not yet beaten, it had been quite the task, dragging away burnt timbers to reach the lamia’s luggage, but one should never underestimate the motivation of an anxious wife or a fascinated scientist.
Beside her, Jack swayed.
Cait shot out a hand to steady him.
Here, beneath the light of a streetlamp, his expression was drawn and grim and she didn’t care for the pallor of his skin. Was his condition worsening? Had he downplayed the severity of his symptoms? Both?
They needed a crank hack, one that would convey to them to Lister at a swift clip.
As she cast about, a man broke away from a knot of people and rushed toward her. “Cait.”
“Logan? Thank aether you’re here. But how could you know we—”
“Were involved?” Logan all but rolled his eyes, as concerned irritation replaced relief. “You failed to return home. Nor did you arrive at Lister, where those poisonous snakes await your analysis. Then reports of a raging fire near Holywell Street reached my ears. It wasn’t much of a gamble. When my agents disobey orders, disasters usually follow. And here you are, soot-streaked and soaked to the skin.” He frowned. “Am I going to learn the two of you are responsible for the fire?”
“It’s a long story,” Jack said, pressing a hand against the nearby lamppost.
“He needs medical attention,” Cait said. “Now.” There was no sense in denying the obvious. Deep inside her chest, her heart refused to settle. “The Thorntons are best prepared to assist.”
Logan pulled a decilamp from an inner coat pocket, gave it a shake and flicked it into her husband’s eyes. “Mismatched pupils.” A long string of Romani curses fell from his lips. The ones he always refused to translate. “What—exactly—is wrong with you, Tagert? And no equivocal answers, if you please.”
“Rupture of a pituitary adenoma,” Jack answered on a sigh.
“That explains all the cagey behavior.” Logan shot her a speaking look. “And why the Thorntons have been sending out skeet pigeons trying to reach me.”
She stuck out her jaw and lifted a shoulder. As if she’d betray such confidences. “He’s my husband.”
Her brother gave the slightest shake of his head, then sighed. He pulled Jack’s arm across his own shoulder, steadying him. “This way.”
A scant few minutes later, Logan handed them both into a steam carriage then climbed in to take the seat opposite. The vehicle jerked into motion, moving swiftly through the streets.
Her brother eyed the carpet bag on her lap. “Might that contain a murder weapon, one pituitary extractor?”
“It does.”
Falling debris had half-crushed the brass device, snapping yet more parts and pieces from its frame. Non-functional, yet still more informative than the inked lines of a concept drawing. How much so? Jack was confident of Lady Thornton’s clockwork skills. Cait reserved judgment.
“You intend to deliver this device to the Thornton laboratory along with your husband?”
“Immediately.” She hated how every jostle, every jolt caused Jack to wince.
“There is to be surgery?”
Cait swallowed.
“As soon as possible.” This time Jack answered. “It’s the only hope of saving my vision.” He winced, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Though the operation carries considerable risk.”
“Not that he’ll be dying,” Cait snapped. Such an outcome was unacceptable. Falling in love was a process, and she was not quite finished.
Lips pressed into a thin line, Logan eyed the silver metal case at Jack’s feet. But he failed to ask about its contents.
How very unlike him.
Instead, he cleared his throat, then drew a document from an inner coat pocket and held it out. “About your marriage…”
Unease crept up her spine on tiny, spiky feet and her stomach clenched. Kraken claws. Her brother was a weaver of convoluted secrets. But he never hesitated. Such unusual behavior was not to be trusted.
She snatched it from his hand and peered at it in the gloom, frowning. “It’s our marriage license, signed and witnessed.”
Eyes narrow, Jack plucked the paper from her hand. Bewilderment crossed his face. “Why has it not been filed with the registry?”
Logan cleared his throat—and Cait’s stomach sank.
“The duke and duchess arranged your marriage without consultation,” her brother began. “Vows were spoken under duress. As I wished for you to have a choice, a chance for you to back out after your trip north, I withheld the document.”
Jack’s nostrils flared. “Our honeymoon was a mission, not a lark.” Her not-quite-a-husband dropped his voice to a growl. “An agent with a penchant for explosions. Your sister, mistress of poison and mischief. Are you mad? If I die, your sis
ter inherits nothing.”
“Nothing.” Cait echoed the word, instilling it with threats of dire retribution. “Not even the assurance of my position within the Queen’s agents. How could you betray me, your own sister in such a manner? How dare you make such decisions on my behalf!”
Logan was a romantic at heart. Few realized this. But to turn on his own sister in such a manner? To act without consulting her? If a single dart had remained within the chamber of her TTX pistol, she would have fired it, point blank, into his chest.
Beside her, Jack tucked the marriage document into an inside coat pocket, silent.
Unease slithered through her chest, twisting its tentacles about her heart.
Propriety. Position. Lust. Such had defined their beginnings as a couple.
Was that all that was to her not-yet-an-official marriage? Was she a fool to believe their mental connection, their physical intimacy was more than a primal response to a crucible of shared ordeals?
“The record’s office is open tomorrow.” Her brother crossed his arms, unconvinced. “If you wish to legitimize your marriage, file then. Now tell me what’s in that silver case.”
“Semi-human remains,” Jack snapped. “A deceased infant that Helena intended to carry home to Greece as proof of her reproductive potential.”
“Semi?” Her brother’s eyebrows rose. “Explain.”
Vexed and miserable, Cait took a deep breath. “In a room on the lowest level of the Opera Comique—an area known as the vaults—there are charred biological remains that will require transportation for further examination.”
“Plural?”
“Helena, London’s not-a-vampire.” Her voice grew cold and emotionless. “She died from an overdose of TTX. There are the remains of other, non-viable offspring also present.” Cait dragged in a rough breath. “Elsewhere in the labyrinthine halls of the vaults, you might find Carruthers, Lord Saltwell.”
“Might?”
“During the confrontation with the lamia, he escaped, locking us in the room with his mistress.”
Logan swept a hand through his hair. “And how did this come to transpire?” He waited, expectant.
