by Lindsey Duga
I drummed my fingers in time with the piano keys as the cup of orange pekoe I’d ordered grew cold. For a moment, I pictured Eris next to me on the barstool. Pictured her tilting her head and giving me a smile, all teeth this time, showing a small dimple in her left cheek.
I ached to know how she was doing. Her well-being, more than anything, had occupied my thoughts the past two days, but occasionally I would think of the envelope that I slipped into the pocket of her dress before I jumped ship.
It would’ve been lost once I went overboard. At least with her, there was a chance the blood vial could get to Dr. Durwich. Albeit a very, very small one.
“Oh when the river runs, flowers are bloomin’ in May.”
A small circle of metal pressed into my lower back. The muzzle of a gun.
“Move your assss an inch, and I’ll blow your head off.”
For just a split second, I froze at the familiar voice. Then I chuckled.
“Jimmy Sawyer. Always a pleasure.”
“I really can’t say the same, Clemmonssss.”
“And if you get good business, how do you do it that way?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Siren
They kept me drugged. Not in the way I’d seen a few girls come into the speakeasy, high on dope or some kind of other malevolent substance that robbed them of their wits. My drug was the clear liquid sprinkled into my water and food. I knew what it was each time I drank or ate and felt the familiar burning sensation in the back of my throat, robbing me of my voice.
Or rather, my siren magic.
It was clever, I had to hand it to them.
After Colt went overboard, everything just…faded into the background. The world became blurry shapes. Rough hands grabbed my arms and dragged me to a small cabin with nothing more than a bed, a bathroom, and a nightstand.
Unable to yell or speak or command, I simply lay on my bed and gave in to my tears.
They fell, hot and salty, down my cheeks and into the pillow and with every thought, I prayed. Please God, protect him. Save him. Don’t let him die.
But the truth was, I didn’t know if anyone was listening. Not that I didn’t believe in God. No, my faith in His existence was unshakeable. What I wasn’t sure about was whether I deserved to have Him listen at all. To answer any of my prayers.
Monster. Monster. Monster.
Endless scenarios of escaping ran through my mind, but everything I thought of was all pointless. Hopeless.
The only thing I clung to? The vial of blood in my pocket.
Colt had stuffed it into my dress when he’d held me close. I squeezed my eyes shut, cupping the tiny vial of blood in my palms. Dr. Durwich. I would find a way to get this to him. If nothing else, I would do this one thing.
Several days passed on the boat. I judged the time by the number of meals I received and how hungry I grew between them. The boat would pause in its journey at least once or twice a day. The motors would cease their whirring and the voices of the sailors would carry throughout the halls, yelling orders. Judging from the muffled words and footsteps, it sounded like things were being loaded off the yacht.
Were they delivering something at each stop? And if so…what?
With these endless questions and the long hours of doing nothing, I grew restless. Finally, on my sixth meal, I gathered up the courage to stop Billy, the brother to the first mate. He was the one who always brought me my meals.
When I placed my hand over his as he set down the tray, he met my eyes with a frown.
I pointed to the door, then threaded my fingers together in a pleading gesture. Let me go outside, please.
The man’s heavy brow furrowed deeper into a dark V and he turned away, grumbling under his breath. He closed the door and locked it behind him.
…
I’d been doing the same exact thing I’d been doing for the past four days—obsessing over the people I cared about—when Billy returned to my cabin in the early evening. Colt was a constant presence in my mind, but so was Madame. Was she still in New York? Had Stanley managed to find her?
Unlike all the other times before, Billy opened the door wider, stepping back as if to allow me past him. Shocked, I stood immediately. He was letting me outside?
Before I could take two steps, though, he gripped my upper arm. With a frown, I took his left arm and placed enough pressure to show him I wanted him to bend it. Once he did, I threaded my right arm through his outstretched elbow.
Billy’s eyebrows practically hit the ceiling. He cleared his throat, then we continued walking down the hall and out onto the main deck.
Being arm-in-arm with a man made me think of Colt. He was the last man whose arm I’d…actually, the only man until now.
Please, please be safe.
As soon as the wind hit my face, I felt somewhat rejuvenated. Not stuck in those wood walls with the white bed and the same dishes to stare at…I was so grateful, and I gave Billy a gentle squeeze on the arm to tell him so.
The sun peeked behind the clouds, making the lake shimmer—or was it a river? The shore was surprisingly close on either side. I could see the rocks and heavy fir trees line the coast. Even the water seemed shallower and the current stronger.
“We’re in a canal.” Billy outstretched his arm as he pointed from the hull of the ship to the bow. “Back there we left Lake Huron, and now we’re about to enter Lake Erie. The Great Lakes are connected, you know.”
My mouth popped open in a small surprised O. No, I hadn’t known that. But why were we traveling through the Great Lakes? Weren’t we supposed to be going to Manhattan if that was where my creator was? Seemed like it was a terribly roundabout way to go.
Maybe this man would tell me more. Give me some kind of hint to my fate. I made a continuing gesture with my wrist as if to say, go on.
Billy watched me with steady, dark eyes. He seemed around Stan’s age. Mid-thirties, if I were to take a gander. His black hair, parted down the middle, brushed his shoulders. A smooth deerskin jacket covered broad shoulders, a barrel-sized chest, and strong arms. Complete with his scruffy beard and tan skin, he looked like a trapper. I imagined him on the frontier, around a fire, fur pelts in the back of a wagon…
I gave him a small smile and made the go on gesture a second time.
He tilted his head in thought, then continued, “We went up Lake Michigan and through a small channel into Lake Erie. If this boat was much bigger we wouldn’t have made it. Me’n Frank wanted to take our boat, but it would’ve been too small for the crew, and Mr. Brocker insisted we take a lot of men. Luckily, his yacht turned out to be just small enough.”
Mr. Brocker?
“Then we went down Lake Huron and now we’re in a canal that’ll take us to Lake Erie.” He snaked his arm through the air, as if to depict how the waterways would wind. “From there, we’ll take the Erie Canal to the Hudson River and that’ll shoot us right out into the Hudson Bay. Mark my words, they’ll expand these canals and channels to be big enough to move ships like the Titanic through. Imagine being able to transport goods all the way from Europe to Chicago without stopping to unload.” He chuckled. “That’s the future.”
I tried to imagine this future Billy painted for me. Big tankers with shipping containers—practically skyscrapers lying on their side—floating down the river. They carried goods from Europe and…
I gripped Billy’s arm tightly, my fingernails digging into his thick jacket.
Maybe these canals were how monster parts were being smuggled all the way into the Midwest. They traveled up through the bays and canals, into the Great Lakes. They could smuggle the items in small boats and get away with it because the BOI wasn’t guarding and inspecting the shipments in Chicago ports, or at least, not like the ports in Manhattan. During our long drive, Colt had told me quite a bit about the monster trade, and Chicago’s m
ysterious talent in creating the most monsters out of all the cities—even New York. This could be why.
Ripping my hand from Billy’s arm, I hurried to the railing and looked down the port side of the yacht. Sure enough, large crates marked “BKH” sat stacked on the deck as if they were waiting for their next delivery.
Is that what was happening now? If I were to open a crate, would I find werewolf claws, manticore stingers, minotaur horns, or cyclops eyes?
Billy stomped toward me, his brows scrunched together, a harsh scowl on his face, angry as if I just betrayed his trust. I pressed my palms together and mouthed, sorry. His gaze softened and he offered me his elbow again.
I was pleasantly surprised. Just goes to show, you attract more flies with honey.
The squeak of the wheelchair came to a stop in front of my door, and my chest tightened with dread. The doorknob rattled and the monster who looked very much like St. Nicholas with a skirt of tentacles sat in the doorway.
“Ms. Eris…Or should I say Mrs. Clemmons?” the so-called “captain” chuckled and leaned forward in his chair a little. “I’ve come to tell you to freshen up. We’re about to arrive at our destination, and Mr. Brocker is mighty eager to see you.”
That name again. Mr. Brocker—whoever he was—had to be my creator. The one who had inserted this godforsaken pearl and condemned me to this fate.
The tentacles twitched and curled around the spokes of the wheels and my stomach rolled. Eyes twinkling, he gave me another grin and said, “It’s been a pleasure being your captor—I mean captain. I do hope you join us on one of our voyages again.”
I wanted to chuck my uneaten dinner roll at his head.
Actually, I wanted to do more than that, but I was scared of what this monster might do to me, despite his employer’s orders. I’m such a coward. The seemingly brave acts of putting a knife to my throat to save the children or throwing myself in front of Colt during a shower of bullets were nothing of the sort. Because I knew they wouldn’t kill me, it made it easy to be brave.
As the kraken wheeled away, still chuckling, I dropped my head into my arms and didn’t look up until Billy came for me.
This time he came with rope. There was an apology in his eyes, but I shook my head as if to tell him, I understand. You’re just doing your job.
As Billy knelt to tie up my wrists I had a flash of Colt kneeling down before me to rub ointment on my rope burns and cover them with gauze. Such gentle hands, such careful movements. My skin healed only to be rubbed raw again.
With my hands tied at my front I was given a long jacket to hide my binding. Then I was led to the main deck. We were just docking the yacht in the Manhattan harbor, and the crew scurried around, pulling ropes and dropping anchor. Lady Liberty loomed over the bay in the near distance, as if guarding all the incoming ships tired from their long journey across the Atlantic.
Before the gangplank was lowered, the captain spread the blanket back over his tentacles.
“Walk, siren,” he growled behind me as he rode his footrest on the back of my heel.
Wincing, I stumbled forward and headed down the plank to where Frank was waiting. The kraken remained on his yacht while Frank and Billy walked me down the pier. We crossed the docks, rancid with the smell of fish wrapped in old papers, and came to the most luxurious car I’d ever seen. Perhaps Henry Ford had made it himself. It was black with a long white hood and a silver miniature statue on its nose. Two men stepped out of the driver side and the passenger side, and then I was handed off.
Frank took the briefcase one of the men offered, and then he shoved me forward. “Pleasure doing business with you gents,” he sneered.
The man who’d handed over the briefcase caught me by the shoulders, then wordlessly guided me inside the car and slammed the door shut. Just like that, the deal was done.
We drove in silence through the “City that never slept.” Vaguely I recalled walking through these streets, holding tight to Madame’s hand as she whispered to me, Don’t look behind, Eris. Keep walking. Just keep walking.
If only I could somehow slip away and go look for her. I could turn over the blood vial to Dr. Durwich and maybe even the BOI would help me. I didn’t relish the idea of using my voice on agents—whenever my voice returned—but Madame was more important to me than any moral code, or any government sealing me away. I owed her everything, and I would do everything to make sure she was safe.
The buildings stretched upward. Some were all dark gray concrete or deep red brick showing off their history rather than the other newer ones cased in silver and chrome steel.
We passed a gaggle of flappers at the street corner and their skirts were the shortest I’d ever seen—almost to their knees. We passed streets with loud vendors and a few jazz players seated on overturned buckets, playing smooth bluesy rhythms to their heart’s content.
When we were in the heart of Manhattan, just a skip away from Central Park, the car swung into a scraper’s underground drive. The building was perhaps a few floors less than the infamous Woolworth building with its baffling number of fifty-seven. With spires and gothic trimmings, it looked like a modern castle, all the wondrous magic contained in one solid column of glass and steel. The drive sank below the earth and darkness descended upon our car. In just a few short minutes, we were parked and the two brutes practically dragged me into a wrought-iron elevator in the corner of the underground garage.
I stood between them as the elevator rose and tried to stop myself from trembling.
This was it. My creator finally had me. I could almost feel claws around my neck, squeezing and squeezing.
Floor after floor passed us by, and I caught glimpses of marble floors and plush red carpets, of colorful, expressive paintings with gilded frames and velvet furniture. Bouquets of roses in ceramic vases, mahogany wood, and crystal chandeliers.
The elevator stopped at one of the top floors—thirty-four. The men opened the grating, pushed me out, and then closed the grate. The elevator rose again, my silent guards going with it.
They’d dropped me off in a suite. I was in a living area of some kind with a bedroom and bathroom visible from my vantage point.
I was still standing there, in my dress from the nuns, which I hadn’t washed or changed out of in nine days, when two maids scurried out from the bedroom.
“We are to give you a bath and dress you up, miss.”
I looked from one maid to the other and heaved a great sigh. Of course I’d be expected to be gussied up first. A man who’d paid so much to possess the world’s finest jewel wouldn’t leave it on a pedestal with smudges on it.
Nearly three hours later, I sat on the light pink settee, my back ramrod straight and my scalp still smarting from the way the maids had attacked my hair. Between my breasts rested the vial of blood. I had been cooperative enough with my maids that they’d let me undress and redress myself. I’d been stealthy in hiding the vial during my bath and tucking it into the fold of my clothes while they’d done my hair in silky, smooth finger waves.
My dress was sapphire blue with bold geometric designs in sequins. It was easily the fanciest thing I’d ever worn—or seen. Even the dress that Belva Murdeena had given me didn’t seem to compare. The fabric smelled like money. Like gold. And around my neck was a string of pearls because…of course.
The maids were off in the bathroom, cleaning after the storm that had been my hair and makeup, and I was just sitting…trying not to hurl into the potted ficus.
For nine days I’d been stuck on an awful boat, unable to do anything at all, and now all this anxiety and restlessness was about to boil over. Wringing my hands, I moved from the bedroom into the living area and stopped short when I came upon a dainty coffee table with a vase full of daffodils and a framed issue of Time magazine. I recognized the issue immediately. It was the one with the California article that David had brought to me that night
at the Dragon. But why was it here? Framed of all things?
My gaze narrowed at the cover of the dark-haired businessman in the sharp suit and the title, “American Royalty: Stocks, the New Gold.” Underneath the title it read, “A look into James G. Brocker’s roaring success.”
Lunging for the magazine, I knocked it to the floor, almost cracking the glass in the frame. With trembling fingers, I undid the latches and pulled out the magazine that held an entire profile on the man who’d ruined my life—and who I was just minutes away from meeting.
Mr. Brocker.
His portrait on the cover showed merely part of his profile, so I was unable to get a good look at him—but it was very artistically done. It was as if the editor of the magazine had wanted to make him like a king, or a president on a coin.
Sitting on the carpeted floor of my suite, the pages of the magazine shaking with the continual tremors of my hands, I read about “a hard-working American man with insight and experience.” The article went on to explain James G. Brocker’s humble beginnings as a young office clerk, and then his almost clairvoyant ability to foresee the potential in the stock trade.
Stocks, the article read, are pieces of investments into fledgling businesses that don’t have the money to be funded on their own. Once the new business starts making money, owners of stocks are able to earn back their investment and then some, growing their investment along with the company. But Mr. Brocker had decided to build his empire on the stocks, rather than the businesses themselves. By purchasing and controlling a multitude of shares in other companies, he made his fortune off the success of other businesses.
With every sentence about Brocker’s wealth and power and ingenuity, I grew more and more intimidated. How could I hope to escape such a man?
I was so consumed in the article that I nearly jumped when the elevator doors opened and a woman stepped out. A beautiful woman with raven-black hair, a fashionable rose-gold evening dress and three dark, glittering eyes.
