by Anne Renwick
The count stopped by the door, a deadly blade clenched in his fist.
The count wielding a weapon? This was a first for her eyes. He might hunt, but the rest of the time, he’d been content to allow his guardsmen and Zheng to do the dirty work.
No longer.
Swallowing, Olivia concentrated on fisting her good hand and tensing her thighs, willing herself to remain conscious.
Ian set the tray down upon the small table inside Elizabeth’s cell and clasped his sister in his arms. “How are you? How is Olivia?”
“I’m fine,” Elizabeth said. “Aside from being held prisoner. But your wife, she’s not doing well at all. I’m certain there is tissue damage.”
Carefully, Ian lowered himself to sit by her side. He smoothed the hair away from her face and kissed her forehead.
“Mr. Black says we must leave,” she murmured. “Tomorrow. Dusk.”
“No whispering,” Zheng ordered.
“I need to examine your arm,” Ian said, raising his voice and casting Zheng a dark look. “It’s going to hurt.”
Unwrapping the cloth strips from the wooden slats, he poked and prodded, asking her to flex and extend her fingers, her wrist. “Broken, both bones. But the soft tissue damage is mostly bruising. We can proceed.” He stared into her eyes, his gaze both searching and apologetic. “If the patient is willing.”
“She consents,” the count barked. “Or Zheng removes three more heads, and I begin the search for a new, more cooperative scientist.”
“Two birds in a cage, what’s the alternative?” she answered Ian, hoping he understood.
“I see.” Disapproval tightened his voice. “Well, you certainly won’t be spreading your wings any time soon. The rats healed quickly, but it still took two days for the bones to knit.”
“Enough,” the count growled. “Proceed.”
“Elizabeth did a passing job straightening your arm, but it is tricky with two bones at once. When the procedure is complete, I’ll fine tune the alignment.”
Ian tipped a bottle of ethanol onto a cotton swab and wiped her forearm with the cold liquid. While it evaporated, he used a syringe to fill the glass reservoirs—the chambers connected to the India rubber tubing—of the osforare apparatus. Finally, he lifted the device into position, clamping the two jaw-like halves about her arm.
Her head felt unnaturally buoyant, as if all the air in the room had suddenly been replaced with hydrogen. “I don’t think I’m going to last long.”
“Stay with me a moment longer.” Ian flicked open the programming slot. “Can you confirm this is the correct card?”
“Yes.” Her voice was barely audible. Her breath came in short pants and her heart fluttered like a mouse cornered by a cat.
“Then there’s no more need for you to remain conscious. In fact, it’s better if you sleep, I’d rather not risk letting any movement disrupt its operation.” He lifted a bottle of ether, pouring a small amount onto a cotton cloth, waiting for permission.
“Please,” she begged, holding his gaze as her body began to tremble. “No memories.”
“This will work,” he promised.
There was the sweet smell of ether, then blessed oblivion.
Chapter Thirty-Three
HANDS TIED BEHIND his back, Ian was marched back to his bedchamber at knife point. A knife the count himself held. Confidence in his subjects had eroded, much like the mortar holding up his decaying castle. Still, they were accompanied by five guardsmen.
The count had finally managed to force him to do the very thing he condemned: experiment upon a non-consenting subject, for Olivia had been given little choice.
Testing his work upon her had filled his stomach with lead. To see the procedure carried out required precision, accuracy and steady hands, and finding Olivia feverish in that drafty tower room had induced a rage that banded itself about his chest, tightening, crushing his ribs. He’d felt anything but clinical.
As Olivia drifted into a drugged—and thankfully, painless—sleep, he’d walled off his anger, brick by brick, until he could no longer sense its presence. Then, and only then, had he begun.
Though the procedure had gone perfectly, the osforare apparatus functioning exactly as he’d envisioned, the moment it was over, misgivings rushed back, flapping about his mind like vampire bats, draining his confidence.
So many variables were unaccounted for, the results uncertain. Had he used enough fluid? Transformed sufficient cells within the periosteum? Would Olivia’s innate defense mechanisms accept the transformed cells, or mount an immune response and throw her into a delirium of fever?
On the experimental ward at Lister Hospital, Olivia would have been monitored around the clock by a team of trained professionals. Here he relied solely upon his sister. Her extensive experience with bone healing was small consolation.
The bones of a healthy individual took weeks to knit, and he—Olivia, Elizabeth, Wei—needed to leave this castle immediately. Olivia’s cover was blown. Black skulked in the shadows, his own agenda unclear. And Elizabeth had murmured in his ear that a Russian airship was expected. When their agent and assets failed to appear, would there be yet more spies to contend with? If Zheng brought the Chinese government into play… then what? An international incident precipitated by the desire to possess indestructible soldiers? All with his research at the heart of the matter.
No. It was time to leave. Before Olivia and Elizabeth took it into their heads to glide from their seven-story tower. He’d received that message, glimpsed the wood and canvas beneath the bed. An insane plan he prayed they would not need to enact.
To that end, he needed to retrieve a particular object. He could not leave the device behind, couldn’t risk the chance a chemist might analyze the residue left within its glass reservoirs. “Send the osforare apparatus to my room and I will continue to refine its function,” he said. Anywhere but here in Germany.
“Nein. I think not,” the count replied. “All further work will be supervised by either myself or Zheng.” He jabbed Ian in the back. “How long to cure my guardsmen?”
“All of them cannot be saved,” Ian said. “Those who show superficial signs of bone cancer, it’s too late for them. Their cancer is too far advanced. Only those Warrick treated these past two or three months have any hope of surviving.” He paused. “How many, exactly, fit that criteria?”
The count fell silent, leaving nothing but the sound of footsteps on stone as they climbed up the curving stairs. “About fifty.”
“Twelve men can be treated each day. At four treatments per guardsman…” Ian did the mathematics in his head. “If the solenoid is run twenty-four hours a day, they could all be treated in thirty-three days.” Assuming nothing broke.
They’d reached the end of the hall. Two guardsmen stood at attention.
“If he escapes,” the count told them. “Your lives are forfeit.”
“Please. Allow me to work,” Ian pled. “I can do nothing here.”
“Exactly,” the count replied, shoving him through the door into the bedchamber, locking it.
The key ring he’d lifted from Katherine’s person lay hidden in the mill. He was going nowhere for some time. Still, he had plans.
He stood quietly. Waiting. Pushing all emotion aside. Long, silent minutes passed. Finally, convinced no one else would be joining him, he crossed the room to the bed and pried the end panel free. Wrapping a hand about Katherine’s collar, he dragged the woman as far as the axon thrall band allowed. He located his syringe, the antidote to the crinlozyme, and found her vein. Again, he waited.
Five minutes. Ten. He frowned. She should be awake. He glanced at the vial. Had he used enough of the—
There was a crack to the back of his ankles, and his legs were swept out from beneath him. He landed hard upon his rear.
“Murmph!” Katherine cried through her gag as a blue arc of electricity stalled her escape attempts. She tumbled back toward the bed, her legs lashing out from beneath her
dusty skirts.
Ian rolled away, avoiding a second blow of her steel-reinforced boots, this time aimed at his spine. He hopped to his feet as she slammed the heel of her boot onto the floorboards. With a click, a blade shot out from the toe. He stared down into her dark eyes that glinted with threats, daring him to come closer.
“You will not be leaving for Russia,” he said.
She would not be leaving on the approaching airship, carrying away all she knew. There was a chance she’d withheld his name—and Olivia’s—from her superiors, intent upon presenting them and their work as her own discovery. Perhaps he was merely clinging to a fraying hope of suppressing his sojourn here in Germany, but he had every intention of returning to Britain—to stand before the duke’s massive oak desk—with enough data to keep the man occupied with Russians for a decade.
Determining the location of the long sought-after Russian biotechnology laboratory was his first priority. It was known to be underground and east of Moscow, but in a country so vast, so cold, ground searches had yet to reveal the slightest trace of the facility.
Ian would then collect the names of sleeper agents. Katherine herself had numerous friends and family in London, a well-established life among the ton. He’d met her purported mother, sisters, a brother. He’d asked her father for her hand in marriage. Not a soul had so much as mentioned a German connection, making all of them suspect. Tugging at the threads of their lives might unravel an entire web of conspiracy, for who knew how many husbands she had tucked away.
And there were always the pteryformes to discuss.
Her eyes narrowed. Her foot shifted, glinting in the light. His mistake, missing that final blade.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m aware you will not speak willingly. We’ll skip the games.” He pulled a syringe and a vial of lyophilized veritasium from his waistcoat. Converting drugs into powder form made them lighter to transport and extended shelf life.
Screwing the steel needle onto the tip of the syringe, Ian crossed to the wash stand and filled the syringe to the five centiliter mark with water. To rehydrate the veritasium powder, he pushed the needle through the rubber stopper of the vial and injected the water. White powder swirled in the current, disappearing as it dissolved. Reversing the plunger, he drew one fifth, a mere centiliter, of the truth serum into the syringe.
He faced his captive. “We’ve enough, Katherine, for several extended conversations.”
Even with both her arms and legs bound, her eyes blazed with defiance.
“I realize you have no intention of letting me close enough to administer my truth serum, but it merely adds an extra step.” From his pocket, Ian plucked the dart she had fired at Wei. “Remember this?”
The poison chamber was empty now, but he easily refilled it with veritasium from the syringe. He tested the weight of the dart in his hand. A garbled noise came from Katherine’s throat.
“I understand your frustration. Quite a different game from the one I learned in the local pub, but…” He feinted to the right, then—as she rolled left—took aim and threw. The dart punctured her upper back, skewering her trapezius.
Katherine howled her displeasure through the silk-ruffled gag.
“Bit of a pinch?” he mocked.
In vain, she bucked and rolled, trying to dislodge the dart. Gradually, one muscle after the other succumbed, and she lay still. Not quite immobile, but rather like a young lord deep—very deep—in his cups. She would be able to form words. Her speech would be slurred and thankfully muffled, but intelligible.
Stepping onto her ankle, he bent to extract the blade that protruded from the toe of her boot. He tucked it into a concealed panel sewn into the lapel of his coat. Only then did he pluck the dart free, roll her over and yank the gag from her mouth. “Let’s start with your name. Your real name. Tell me.”
Her eyes blazed with defiance, but words tumbled forth. “Katerina Dyatlova.”
“Now, Katerina, satisfy my curiosity,” he began, tugging her into a sitting position and propping her back against the wall. “How many husbands do you have?”
She fought the veritasium, but the most she managed was to lift her chin at a defiant angle. “Four still live.”
Four separate dowries had been paid. Perhaps more. The assets backing her deception were astonishing. “Where?”
“France. Denmark. Austria. Italy.”
“Tell me their names.”
Her nostrils flared as she recited the names of four minor, but influential individuals. Ian memorized them, a peace offering for the duke.
“An excellent beginning,” he said. “We’ll return to your so-called family and friends in London later. When is the flyby?”
“Midnight.”
“Tonight?”
“Tomorrow.”
Ian fought the urge to swear. Time ran extremely short. If the Russians entered the arena in force, there would be little he could control. “Tell me the location of the Russian biotechnology research facility, Kadskoye. The one to which you so generously offered to escort me and my wife. Is it directly east of Moscow?”
Her head rocked back and forth. Her jaw clenched, her face contorting with the effort of keeping her mouth shut. “No.”
“Southeast of Moscow?”
“No.”
“The frozen icebox that is the northeast, then?”
“Yes.”
Ian crouched directly in front of her. She twisted her head away. He gripped her chin, forcing her to face him again. “Give me its exact location. Latitude and longitude.”
Katerina’s body vibrated with frustration. An eye twitched.
Ian reached for the syringe. An additional centiliter of veritasium forced the numbers past her lips. “Excellent.” This information alone would save him. “Tell me the names of the scientists you—and others—have collected for Russia. Begin with British citizens.”
Defiance laced her voice, but Katerina produced name after name. Ian sat back upon his heels, listening in amazement and concern. He recognized almost none of the names, but they hailed from all over the globe. A team of agents would be required to systematically investigate each individual, to analyze the implications of such an intellectual stockpile.
As his detachment slipped, he ran a hand over his face. Katerina couldn’t be allowed her freedom; she would sound the alarm. Yet coldly eliminating her was undesirable; she was a wellspring of information. She needed to be dragged to British soil and interrogated with more finesse than he could manage. Once her sins were delineated, she could pay the penalty for her crimes.
“Who introduced you to Warrick?” He wanted the name of the man who sat on the shadow board, whose desire to seek out humans who were “other” put both individuals and his country at risk.
Clamping her lips shut, she shook her head.
Ian glanced at the window. Where the hell was Black? With only enough crinlozyme to immobilize her for six days, he needed—
The lock clicked, and the door slammed open.
Though guardsmen stood behind him, the count himself was poised upon the threshold. He raised a crossbow, pointing a steel-tipped arrow directly at Katerina’s chest.
His brow furrowed and his nostrils flared. “How disappointing to find you in another man’s bedchamber,” he growled. “Our entire marriage, nothing but a convenient fabrication to pry into the affairs of the German empire. And now you have moved on to British undertakings. How easily you maneuver from one man to the next, manipulating all to your advantage. Yet it simplifies everything.” He squinted, taking aim.
“Don’t!” Heart pounding, Ian stepped in front of her. Stupid of him. The self-absorbed count rarely made rational decisions and rage glittered in his eyes.
The crossbow lowered. “You defend her?”
“I do not. But swift and cold revenge gains you nothing.” Ian stepped forward. “I do not advocate mercy, but before you dispatch her like a rabid animal, might I suggest a dispassionate interrogation? Her secrets have value
.”
“Secrets? Russia? I don’t understand.” Katerina’s voice trembled and a fat, glistening tear rolled down her cheek. “I came to visit Frau Rathsburn. What’s going on, Otto? I have no secrets. Why has Herr Rathsburn done this to me?” She held out her ankle showing him the thrall band clamped about it. “Is he Russian? I’ve told him nothing.” Her voice took on a more hysterical note. “I know nothing to tell!”
Already her speech was clearer, her ability to lie restored. A surprising and impressive tolerance to veritasium.
“You might start by asking about her most recent visit to London,” Ian suggested.
“London?” The count eyed his wife.
A torrent of pleading German poured forth, and the count pursed his lips, considering.
Ian swore. “Do you not see what she’s done? What she’s doing? Don’t let her win.”
Had this entire project been orchestrated by Katerina, by the Russians, right from the start? Why not? How better to fund research than to access her enemies’ resources? Discover those most easily manipulated, then bring them together. Disgruntled British scientists. Lofty German ambitions. The dark corner of a primeval forest. Watch and wait. Transport to Kadskoye only those experiments that meet with success. Terminate all others.
“We—my wife and I—will discuss this elsewhere.” The count shoved the crossbow into the arms of a guardsman and barked a series of orders.
A guardsman with bulging tumors aimed a voltaic prod, gesturing at Ian to back up. Hands in the air, he did so. A second guardsman unlocked the axon thrall band about Katherine’s ankle, and the count swept his deceitful, polygamous wife into his arms and marched from the room.
Ian very much doubted both of them would survive the night. If he were pressed, he would lay odds on Katerina.
