by L Rollins
At least she hoped they couldn’t see her anymore than she could see Victor.
“Now, that is not entirely true.” The foreman considered the leather belt, then looped it between two fist-sized gears atop the table. “But it wouldn’t matter if I told you why you were here or not. You don’t remember the previous times, just like you won’t remember this one.”
The foreman picked up the lamp and moved down the table. The orange light slipped over the gears and belt on the table, then a lever with several strings running to it and lastly a foot-tall tower of wire.
He paused and turned toward Victor. “Isn’t this unusual? Never once have you remained silent after I disclose that you won’t remember any of what we do here.” The foreman leaned a hip against the table. “What’s different this time?”
Blast. Leila focused on clenching her jaw tight to distract her from the intense urge to scoot yet deeper into the shadows. The foreman was on alert now; she couldn’t risk any sound giving her away.
With one brow raised, the foreman carried the light toward the center of the room.
Victor was tied to a chair. Thick leather straps wrapped securely around his calves, forearms, upper arms, and even his torso. He didn’t struggle against the bindings. Nonetheless, lamp light glistened off beads of sweat along his forehead.
“How do I know there ever has been a time before this?” Victor’s eyes were shut as he spoke and his head wobbled slightly from side to side. “You may be saying all this only to mislead me.”
The foreman cupped a hand underneath Victor’s chin and forced it up. “I have no need to mislead you. This room, all we say, it will all be gone in a few hours.” The foreman pulled down on Victor’s cheeks with a thumb, forcing one eye, then the other to open.
“Have mercy on a sick old man,” Victor said. “Please, let me go.”
The foreman barked a short laugh. “Old you may be, but sick you certainly are not.” The foreman moved back over to the table. “Drugged, yes. But not sick. Just like all the other poor souls in this town.”
Leila clenched a fist tight. If only she had pen, paper, and light to write by. What she wouldn’t give to be able to record all the foreman was saying word-for-word.
“You’re drugging them? All of them?”
The foreman leaned over the table once more and something began clicking. “Not me. I take orders.” He lifted a hand, finger pointing high. “And before you start in on your usual bit about how I don’t have to do this, let me remind you of what you’ve forgotten.” The foreman forced a large switch down and the tall coil of wires lit up, glowing blue.
Leila’s breath caught in her throat. This wasn’t twisted medicine. This was dark magic. What had Victor stumbled upon?
The foreman continued, his face illuminated by orange light on one side and blue on the other. “I would do anything for the woman I love. So save your speech.”
Did Victor have any idea that she’d followed him? If only she could let him know. More than that, let him know that he needed to get the foreman to tell him everything. Victor may not remember this conversation in another couple of hours, but she would.
“How did you two meet?”
Blast Victor, that wasn’t the direction Leila needed the conversation to take. Who cared about the foreman’s perverse love life? She needed to know who the foreman worked for, why they were drugging Conques, and how. Victor was a seasoned spy. He should know this.
Victor’s question made the foreman pause. He stilled and folded his arms. “She walked into my shop.” One side of his lips lifted in a half-smile. “She was radiant that day. Why she ever decided to speak to me beyond placing an order, I’ll never understand. But she did.”
He turned back to the table and connected two long wires to a thick strap of leather. “And she came back the next day. And the next. I still don’t understand how someone of her standing could ever have fallen for a lowly man like myself.”
He stopped speaking and the only noise in the damp room was the soft tap of the wires as he twisted them around bolts in the leather strap.
After a few breaths, Victor asked, “Would she still love you if she knew what you were doing right now?”
The foreman’s hands slowly lowered. He rested his hands against the tabletop and leaned over them, defeat evident in the way his shoulders slumped. “I don’t know if she cares for me any longer, regardless. Monsieur Martin is the only one she seems to want anymore. I suppose it was unavoidable—one as elegant as her deserves to be with those equally as polished.”
It seemed quite tragic. Not that he’d disclosed any of the particulars, but it was clear how much the foreman truly cared for this woman. And now, she’d turned her back on him. Leila almost felt bad for him.
But regardless of what any woman had done, or was doing, it certainly did not give the foreman any right to drug people. Or hold Victor hostage for who-knew-what purpose.
If only Victor would direct the foreman back to the matter at hand. Good heavens, what she would give for the ability to send a message to Victor informing him she was here, listening, and she needed to know the facts of what was truly happening.
The foreman still had his back to her. Did she dare sneak out? Perhaps if Victor caught a small glimpse of her, it would be enough? He seemed fully alert and in control of his faculties. Surely if he saw her, that would be enough for him to realize what needed to be done. Or said, as it were.
Leila stretched one leg out from under the table. She placed her foot down on the stone floor. Slow and noiseless, she slid out, eyes never leaving the foreman.
He turned. Leila pushed herself back under the table.
The foreman held the leather strip, wrapped into a circle with wires sticking up from half a dozen bolts—a gruesome crown.
He walked over to Victor and shoved it down on his head.
“If she no longer cares, why do her bidding?”
The foreman moved back to the table and flipped a second, smaller switch. Blue light flowed from the coil, down the wires, and to the leather crown.
Victor went stiff. His head tilted back, his fingers clenched, and his back arched. He didn’t scream or cry out, but his eyes rolled back until only the whites showed.
“Quiet, old man.” The foreman said. “All I need to know is if London has sent your replacement.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
BLUE LIGHT ZIGZAGGED down the wires. It was like nothing Leila had ever seen before. It jumped and sizzled. It zipped and bolted. Forever surging forward in harsh, straight lines, only to stop, hiss, and surge once more. It climbed, like a demonic, bodiless being, hand over hand, up the wires. Leila held her breath. What was this strange magic?
Reaching Victor’s forehead, the blue light continued its gruesome crawl across his body. His chest, his legs, his fingernails each lit up in turn.
The foreman twisted a large gear and the sound of wood scraping against wood rattled the room. Soft mist billowed out of an opening on the wall to Leila’s left. She couldn’t make out the size of the opening, as the wall was all in darkness. She hadn’t even been aware there was another door to the room. Though perhaps the opening wasn’t a door, but something smaller. A window, perhaps?
Whatever it was, mist poured down onto the floor where it bounced and piled over itself. A few strands whisked against Leila’s arm. It was cold and thick with dew drops.
The mist swirled around Victor’s ankles. Blue sparks lit up behind the mist, like lightning amid a thunderstorm. The mist pulled closer to him, seemingly drawn to the blue light.
The mist continued to grow until it covered Victor. The undulating pillow lit up every few seconds, but Leila couldn’t see Victor at all.
Was he all right? Could he still breathe through such a thick fog of dew? There was no way for Leila to get to him without making her presence known. And in such an isolated part of the castle, it would be her against the foreman; it didn’t take long lines of reasoning to reach the inevitable concl
usion that, without a weapon or aid, she would be quickly overpowered.
With a loud crack, the mist split into three great pillars. Victor sat in the center of them, his back still arched and his form stiff.
The pillar directly behind Victor morphed. The mist gathered to its center, becoming dense. Then it took the form of a human—the head, arms, and legs clearly defined.
The other two pillars shrunk, the shades of light swirling until they were clear representations of a table, chair, and bookshelf.
The mist-man walked directly through Victor and toward the mist-furniture. He pulled out the chair and sat. From the tabletop he pulled an incredibly thin sheet of mist and held it up as though reading.
Leila rubbed her arms. What was this? Some dark method of extracting thoughts, or dreams, or memories? Her skin tingled as though the blue light danced against her as well as her friend. She should have stopped this. She should have stepped out from the shadows back in the linen closet the moment the foreman had walked into the room.
But she’d had no idea then that this is what the foreman had in mind.
The mist-man studied the parchment, hand going to his chin and a clearly defined finger tapped against his lips. From the bookshelf, a tall pillar of mist broke away and reformed into a woman.
The mist recreated her in fine detail, from the buttons on her dress, to her billowing hair. Hands holding up her skirt as she walked, the mist-woman strolled toward the mist-man and placed a hand on his shoulder.
The mist-man startled. How in the world had the foreman been able to make mist—something so wispy and formless—show something as distinct as a man being startled? But it was clear. The man crumpled the paper in his hand, hiding it away from the woman as he quickly stood.
She seemed to be speaking, her hands gesturing toward the paper he had unsuccessfully kept secret.
The mist-man shook his head, shoving the paper deep into his pocket.
There was another crackle, followed by a whine. Blue light sparked all around Victor, not unlike the final dance of a bird sick with the waltzing flu.
With a flash, the blue light blinked out. No fading, no lingering glow. It was simply gone. The whining slowed and puttered to a silent stop.
The mist-man and -woman disintegrated, stone pillars crumbling to dust, and the mist fell back to the floor.
The foreman moved toward Leila. Had he seen her? Lost in the magic, she’d completely forgotten about him. But the room had certainly been lighter with the blue sparks covering Victor. It was possible she’d been seen.
Leila silently pulled her feet under her, readying herself to spring forward. She wouldn’t go down without a fight.
The foreman crouched down to the floor.
He was so close. If he glanced over his shoulder, he’d most definitely see her, if he hadn’t seen her already.
Reaching out, the foreman tugged at something on the floor. A wooden hatch opened. Reaching inside, the foreman pushed something and a faint blue light, similar to the one that had encircled Victor moments ago, flickered up from the opening.
Leila held her breath. Maybe he hadn’t seen her after all.
Mist flowed toward the opening in the floor and disappeared deep down inside. Once the room was emptied of the unnatural mist, the foreman clicked the blue light off and closed the hatch. In almost complete darkness, he returned to Victor.
Leila sagged slightly. She hadn’t been seen. Holy gears above, she was shaking. Her training had covered sending, receiving, and decoding messages. It had covered reading people, and had lightly touched on how to casually pull information from others without alerting their suspicions.
But one topic that had not yet been taught was self-defense. That was clearly a large oversight. She would inform her superiors when this was all said and done and she was finally back in London. Self-defense should be one of the first things new recruits learned, not one of the last.
The foreman removed the leather strap from around Victor’s head. He was slumped forward, all the tension from the magic now gone. One by one, the foreman unstrapped the leather that held Victor to the chair.
The foreman opened the door, then returned to Victor, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him from chair. It seemed Victor would leave the room the same way he entered it.
Leila didn’t wait. While the foreman’s back was toward her, she slipped out of the room and hid in the darkness of the hallway beyond.
The foreman proved he was every bit as strong as Leila had assumed as he lugged Victor back up the stairs with seemingly little effort. Gracious, it was providence she hadn’t been found out. Even with training, she may never have been able to take down a foe so strong.
The foreman lugged Victor up the stairs and to a room full of patients. Leila stayed several steps behind him the whole way.
“Can I help you?” Leila recognized Natalie Doyle’s voice.
The foreman nodded toward Victor, still fully unconscious. “I found him in the linen closet. He must have collapsed.”
Several hurried footsteps attested that Natalie, and whichever other nurses were inside, had jumped into action.
Now would be a good time to make her presence known. Another nurse hurrying into the room would seem quite apropos, and she wanted to speak with the foreman. She couldn’t confront him with what she knew, but she could question him. If she pressed, he might slip up a little. Leila took a long step forward, then caught sight of a streak of charcoal along her white skirt.
She turned her hands over. They too were gray with dust. Blast it all, apparently the house maids weren’t charged with cleaning beneath the table she’d been hiding under.
Very well; she’d have to confront the foreman another day. Leila hurried down the hall and toward her room, choosing the passageways she knew would likely be empty in the hope that no one would discover her soiled state. All the while, her mind raced. Who was the foreman working for? Who was he in love with? And most importantly, what was the purpose of poisoning the entire town?
Leila made it to her room unnoticed. Shutting the door, she rested her back against it.
Perhaps this was more than she could do alone. She crossed the room to her trunk. First, she would change her clothes and wash. Then she would send word to Inez.
Her dearest friend was as wise as she was fierce. The foreman, and whomever he worked for, would rue the day they messed with Inez’s husband.
CHAPTER NINE
LEILA WATCHED THE foreman from across the local pub. The dim lights kept her from making out much of his dark expression, but he didn’t seem relaxed.
“However,” Natalie continued from beside Leila, “my brother didn’t arrive until after Christmas. By then it was too late for much fun.” She sighed at her own reflection in the window opposite their table.
Leila took a bite of bread. It was dry and stuck going down. But at least the berries were good.
The foreman shifted in his seat, glancing around the pub. Leila turned more toward Natalie, angling her shoulder and back toward him. She’d been tailing him every moment she wasn’t working for the past two weeks.
So far, she had nothing to show for it.
She knew his name was Alton Fowler and not much else.
Natalie rattled on about her brother and his many très beau acquaintances. It seemed Natalie did little besides think about men. She probably would have gotten along swimmingly with Leila’s older sisters. Which made Natalie an excellent alibi. If there was a single topic Leila was an expert at feigning interest in, it was the discussion of possible beaus.
Leila popped another raspberry in her mouth and glanced at the foreman. He was hunched over his bowl once more.
He stirred the stew.
Lifted the spoon to his mouth.
Took a bite.
Returned to stirring.
Leila leaned back in her chair and silenced the groan threatening to make itself known. This was pointless. She was learning nothing new.
&
nbsp; She worked as a nurse for long hours every day. Blessedly, she’d been able to check on Victor at least once each day since he was taken by Fowler. Victor was as ‘sick’ as ever; which she now knew meant he was more drugged than before.
A flash of memory—Victor tied up and writhing in pain—sent cold chills down her back. Leila spread her fingers wide across her lap, wiping her suddenly wet palms against her skirt. With a slow breath, she shoved the memory to the back of her mind and willed her brainbox to stay focused.
She still had no clue how they—whoever the foreman was working for—were sneaking the drugs into Victor. She’d found no new needle marks on him and she frequently checked the nurse logs that tracked his care to see if he ever received anything unusual. All to no avail.
However they managed it, Victor was far from lucid enough to confer with her on what she’d seen and learned. London had not sent a single missive since the first, in which they demanded she step down and wait for back up. Did her superiors have any idea just how blatantly she’d ignored that order?
“It was a shame, though, for I learned not two weeks later that he’d squandered most his inheritance before the age of five and twenty.”
Leila gave the appropriate sympathetic pout. “That is a shame.” Then promptly returned her attention to the more important matter at hand.
Fowler lifted a hand and waved over the bartender, who returned a few minutes later with another small roll. Once more, the foreman hunched over his food, like a wild wolf devouring the last of his catch.
Leila’s lips twisted to the side. Granted, she was new to spy work. But knowing that the foreman ate an inordinate amount of bread with his stew didn’t seem all that beneficial.
How was the town being drugged, exactly?
Best she could make out from what Fowler had unknowingly disclosed, the perpetrators were drugging people in the first place, but how, and where? Once they were in the castle receiving care, did they repeatedly drug them to keep them there?
