Brass Carriages and Glass Hearts

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  Lysette smiled and set the first of the two ancient books on the fire.

  Emme cried out and lunged forward only to be caught up in the chain which pulled so painfully against her ankle that spots formed in her vision. “No! Lysette, no! They are not mine!”

  She lifted the second book. “Also not yours.” She added it to the fire, and Emme stared through horrified tears as the pages burned.

  Lysette checked a pocket watch pinned to her waist. “It is now late morning, although you wouldn’t know it down here. As we speak, Lady Blackwell is presenting information about scientific research and all that rot. Pity she doesn’t know her husband’s family journals have been destroyed. I wonder if he will hold her responsible.”

  Emme stared at her stepsister, tears flowing. “Let me go, Lysette. You need never see me again.”

  Lysette reached again into the bag. “Hmm. Now this is yours. By my best guess, it is two years of research, notes, journals, documentation, firsthand anecdotes, and various ramblings about the shifter population and society’s cruel and unjust treatment of them.” The portfolio holding Emme’s work was well-worn, and she knew every last crease and ink-smudged page. She closed her eyes and choked back another sob.

  Lysette waited until Emme opened her eyes again before carefully setting the portfolio atop the other burning papers. She paused and watched as the flames curled around the parchment, lighting each piece before devouring it.

  “I know you were to address the international body of distinguished guests tonight at the old castle. Your beautifully written notes—I’ve read them twice now—were crucial to your remarks. As you do not possess your dear friend Hazel’s permanent recall, the loss of those pages is significant.” Lysette paused. “Of course, you won’t be there to give the address, so perhaps it doesn’t matter.”

  Emme shook her head in mute denial of everything Lysette was saying.

  “You know, the hunting party managed to take down four of the captured shifters you set free. Thank heavens for it! The hunters prevented what might have been an ugly rash of murderous crime. The city is afire with rumors about the increased shifter and vampire violence. People are afraid. Perhaps the present time may not be ideal to discuss loosening the proverbial reins of those monsters.” She placed a hand on her heart. “If only there were someone to speak on their behalf, someone who could not only prove the recent murders were committed to resemble shifter attacks but who also had the emotional gifts to deliver the information compellingly.”

  Emme clenched her jaw, wishing she could rip the manacle off her ankle with her bare hands.

  Lysette tapped her lip thoughtfully. “But considering the last several months have seen a concerted effort by influential parties to skew public perception of shifters”—she blinked and smiled slowly—“and good-hearted vampires as well, could just one person really change things?”

  Emme swallowed hard. Everything she had worked for, everything she wanted to accomplish, was turning to ash right before her eyes.

  Lysette dropped her hands back to her lap. “You could tell the truth, and with your reputation, you would be believed. Sadly, you and I have gone missing, presumed killed by the shifters that escaped my hunters. I will miraculously appear at the proper time to tell my tale of bravery and escape. I will cry quiet tears as I recount the violent nature of your death at the hands of a human wolf. I shall comfort Mama when I explain that there is naught left of you even to bury.”

  Emme kept her mouth closed, and the tears flowed unchecked. The quiet hatred in Lysette’s eyes bore no mercy and never would.

  “Oh, Emmeline, I do believe you are finally crushed.” Lysette’s bright-blue eyes shone, but not with compassion, and her beautiful face took on a sorrowful countenance that anyone who did not know her might have believed authentic.

  “Why do you hate me so much? From the beginning, I wanted only to be your friend.”

  “And from the beginning, I knew you would always be in my way.” She lifted a shoulder. “I couldn’t very well have competition when I wanted a mother. And then as I grew older, when I wanted her money.”

  Emme’s brow creased. “Her money?”

  Lysette leaned forward and raised her voice. “Yes, Emmeline, her money.”

  Emme shook her head. “My mother’s money is hers.”

  “Yes, until she passes, at which point it goes to you.” Lysette paused. “Except that, sadly, you will already be gone.”

  Emme looked at her dully, wondering if she should correct her. Would it make a difference? “That is not how the inheritance on my mother’s money works. I will tell you the details of it, but only once we are free from this place.”

  Lysette turned her head but kept her eyes on Emme. “I do not believe you.”

  “You were younger so you do not remember the stipulations my mother insisted upon before marrying your father.”

  Her mouth settled into a line. “Explain.”

  “No. Not until you set me free.”

  “That does not serve me one whit. No matter. I’ll draw the truth from your mother.” She put her hand to her chest. “Excuse me, our mother. Soon to be my mother. I’ll be her support through her mourning period.”

  Hester Castle’s money would go to Emmeline in the event of Hester’s death, but unless Emme altered the will then, at her death, the money would remain in trust for Isla, and Emme’s aunt, Bella, to either distribute to charities or hold indefinitely. The money would stay solely with the Castle women unless they stipulated otherwise.

  Emme might die in the catacombs, but she could protect her mother. “You’ll never get Castle money, Lysette,” she said wearily. “Do what you will with me, but please do not kill my mother. The inheritance line remains with her family, so you’ll get more from her if she’s alive and well.” She waved her hand and sat back, bringing her knees to her chest with a clanging of metal against the stone floor. “Be the perfect daughter, ­enjoy her as your own, but do not hurt her, if for no other reason than she will not be able to give you anything if she’s dead.”

  “Mmm. Sound advice. Perhaps I will be such a good daughter to her that she will find it best for her heart and soul to place me where you once were, in her affections and in her will. I will be the new Castle daughter, and you will be a sad memory.”

  Emme wrapped her arms around her knees, numb. Short of tearing her hip from its socket, she had no way of rushing Lysette when she opened the door. Thoughts of what might have happened to Oliver were too painful to contemplate, and she wouldn’t give Lysette the satisfaction of asking after him. He’d have found her by now if he’d managed to return from his brother unmolested. If Lysette had been telling the truth, it had been nearly thirty-six hours.

  She didn’t mention Madeline either, in hopes of keeping Lysette’s attention completely away from her twin. She hoped her own suppositions about Maddie had been correct, that she had begun to imagine a way to live away from her toxic sister.

  It was not to be. As though the very thought of Madeline slipping through Emme’s mind printed her name in the air, Lysette said, “Where is my sister?”

  Emme rested her forehead on her arms. “I do not know.”

  “Where is she?” For the first time, Lysette’s voice ­trembled in anger.

  “I do not know.” Emme lifted her head and allowed her fury to show in her eyes. “If she is lucky, somewhere far, far away from you. I have not seen her since the night you took me from the forest.”

  “Lies!” Lysette’s voice echoed through the cavern. “She is nowhere in the hotel, the hunting lodge, or the grounds. She has disappeared!”

  Emme allowed a small, satisfied smile to lift her lips. “Excellent. Were you ever planning to release her from the hotel room? It was very clever of you to request the room not receive maid service for the rest of the week. Fortunate, really, that I took your father’s last n
ame. As an O’Shea, I had means of entry.”

  Lysette launched herself at Emme in a fury, catching her on the side of the head with her fist and knocking her to the floor.

  Emme immediately wrapped both arms around Lysette’s legs and pulled her over.

  Lysette kicked, catching Emme in the jaw, and then the stomach, freeing herself and lunging across the room. Emme coughed, unable to catch her breath, and curled in on herself in pain. She watched through watering eyes as Lysette snatched up the keyring, ran out the door, and slammed it closed, locking it with a definitive grind of metal. She grasped the bars of the gate and snarled at Emme, shouting obscenities, her fury echoing down the dark halls.

  Emme waited until Lysette had calmed herself and straightened her clothing before speaking. “You are not a shifter, but you are more of a monster than anyone I have ever met.”

  Lysette grasped the bars once again and tightened her fists, and Emme awaited another explosion. With any luck, it might bring someone to investigate. As long as that person wasn’t worse than Lysette was, there might be hope.

  Lysette smoothed her hair and repinned a few curls. “The fire will soon die out, Emmeline, and with it all light and warmth. The world’s most important people will gather but will not hear you speak, and the changes to which you have dedicated your life will die just like that fire. A pity. With the recent violence, there are several ambassadors who are leery of signing the accord. You might have swayed them.”

  Lysette released one bar and smiled, her eyes cruel. “Do not hope for your fair detective to come to your rescue. His brother has taken care of him.”

  Emme stared as her stepsister finally turned to leave. “I will haunt you, Lysette O’Shea,” she said, glad when the woman’s step faltered.

  “Chew on that, you wretch,” she muttered once Lysette was gone. Emme had no idea how to haunt someone, or even if it was possible, but as long as it played in Lysette’s thoughts, Emme would be satisfied she’d hit a parting shot.

  The silence that settled, though, was oppressive. The fire still crackled, and as Emme watched the flames, she thought of the material Lysette had burned, and her eyes filled again with tears.

  And Oliver.

  Had Lawrence killed him? Turned him? Her grief broke free, and she sobbed. If he were alive, he would never know how to find her, and if he did, she might already be dead. She ached for just one more kiss, one more moment with him. It wouldn’t be enough, though. A million moments, an eternity of moments, would never be enough. She loved him so much she hurt with it, and she would never see him again.

  Something scuttled in a distant passageway, followed by a shriek. She was terrified to bring something worse down upon her head and tried to quiet her sobs. She lay down on her arms, prostrate on the floor, and her tears dripped into the dirt. She felt despair unlike any she’d known. Her heart opened up, and the emotions she usually kept behind the closed door flooded out, filling the air around her until she could barely breathe.

  She’d dreamed of helping people, of being the voice they did not have. She had worked and clawed and scraped—­literally—through masses of ignorant people bent on keeping themselves at the top of the human heap and all others squashed below. Her dreams were a farce, they would not come true, and she would die alone, abandoned in a tomb far beneath the earth. She and her idealism would disappear, and her family and friends would never know where she had gone.

  “I do not understand,” she whispered as the tears dripped down her nose. For the first time in her life, her optimism deserted her, and all hope was extinguished. She had nearly achieved all she had wished and had nearly claimed a life for herself with a man who was a prince among men. He had been keeping her safe since the very beginning. He was noble and good and cared about doing what was right. He was her prince, and she loved him, yet she had never said the words. Had he died not knowing she loved him?

  “Oliver,” she murmured. “I love you.” Her eyes drifted closed, and she took a shuddering breath. She remembered him in every encounter, visualized each scrape, each verbal sparring match, each glare and resentful spat. Each uneasy glance, each careful maneuver, each quiet conversation, each kiss. Each wonderful, dream-worthy embrace. The terrifying moments after she landed hard on the beach only to see him close behind, running desperately to free her from the Jump Wings and chastise her and scold her and hold her as though he would never in a million years let her go.

  She smiled, even laughed at his incredulity that she would risk her safety for the carpetbag that carried her treasures. Hot tears quickly filled her eyes again as she realized those treasures were now nothing more than ash.

  Everything. Gone.

  She paused, then lifted her head and sniffled. “Not everything,” she mumbled. She looked over her shoulder at the fire that still burned, thanks to the heaps of paper on it, but also the stool and the carpetbag.

  The portmanteau full of her things.

  She scrambled up and lunged for it, but the bag was just out of reach. Her fingers brushed against the stool, and she swiped once, twice, three times and then finally grasped it. She pulled it close and stood up, every muscle and bone protesting the movement, and then lifted the stool high above her head.

  She hurled it to the ground at her feet with all her strength and shut her eyes as it broke apart and bounced haphazardly into pieces. She grasped one of the legs, stretched her petite frame to its full length, and snagged the ragged wood around the bag’s handle. With a soft laugh, she pulled it toward her. She sat up and held it tight to her chest.

  That bag of treasures would lead to her freedom.

  Oliver staggered along Edinburgh’s Princes Street Gardens, eyeing the structures that had been constructed for the Summit week activities and tried to remain upright until he found the building he sought. The ragged wound on his neck burned, and the pain grew more intense with every passing minute.

  He pulled his collar higher and mumbled an apology when he bumped into a gentleman carrying an armful of purchases piled high. He sidestepped a gaggle of children who ran past, their faces and fingers sticky with spun candy and salt-taffy treats, and looked up to see the ISRO building.

  He approached the woman at the front desk, knowing his appearance was probably alarming in the extreme, and said, “I must see Signore Giancarlo immediately.”

  “Apologies, sir,” she said, wide-eyed and in heavily accented English, “but he is occupied.”

  Oliver planted both hands on the desktop. “Unless you want me to collapse right here in the next two minutes, either fetch Giancarlo or tell me which office is his.”

  Just then, the man himself poked his head outside the door directly behind the reception area. “Dio mio! Detective!” Carlo rushed to his side and helped him step around the bewildered receptionist and into his office. Oliver collapsed into a chair, and his head fell back.

  A quick stream of Italian flew from Giancarlo’s lips, and Oliver vaguely registered the man opening cabinet doors in quick succession until he returned to Oliver’s side. His eyes drifted closed, and he fought another wave of nausea, breathing shallowly, before managing to say, “Emmeline has been abducted . . . believe she’s somewhere here . . .”

  “Shh, here now. Be still a moment.” Giancarlo clucked his tongue in alarm. “This wound—it’s already turned green . . .”

  Oliver heard the rapid swirl of a spoon against a bowl and hoped Giancarlo was mixing anti-venom. The icy sting of the medicine against the jagged wound on his neck made him hiss through his teeth. Then he felt the lifesaving serum seeping into the wound, spreading instant relief through his neck, down his throat, and within a few precious moments, his heart regulated itself and he was able to take a full breath.

  He was exhausted, limbs aching from prolonged systemic exposure to the vampire venom. Lawrence had left him for dead, but he hadn’t killed him outright or completely exsan
guinated him, which suggested he hadn’t truly wanted him dead. Either that or he’d underestimated Oliver’s resilience and partial immunity to the venom he’d developed over time as a police program safeguard.

  Giancarlo rested one hip against the edge of his desk and wiped his hands with a cloth. He adjusted his spectacles and regarded Oliver with understandably serious concern. “Who did this to you, my friend?”

  Oliver managed an ironic smile as he put a hand to the bandage Carlo had fasted on the wound. “My brother.”

  His eyes widened. “Your broth—” He clearly made the connection and nodded. “Ah. I have heard of him.” He frowned. “Have you information about our Emmeline? Your Chief-Inspector has a small army searching for you both.”

  Oliver shook his head and swallowed, shoving himself upright.

  Carlo grabbed a pitcher and glass and poured him some water. He handed it to Oliver with an admonition to sip slowly.

  Oliver’s hand shook, but he managed to keep the water inside the cup. He swallowed gratefully and took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. “Thank you, signore. When I couldn’t find a medical or police tent, I came looking for you. I knew you would have medicine at the ready.” He winced at the pain that continued to pound in his head. “Emmeline was taken from the Grand Hotel the night before last.”

  Giancarlo nodded. “Inspector Conley traced her last whereabouts to the O’Shea hunting lodge. Quite a police presence there now, given the hunting scandal and abductions. Mr. O’Shea is being held in a jail cell while the investigation continues.”

  Oliver frowned and rubbed his temple. “I’m afraid I am unaware of the particulars. My brother took me shortly before Miss Lysette O’Shea absconded with Emmeline. Or so he claimed. I awoke less than an hour ago in a field outside town.”

  Carlo walked behind his desk to a small dry sink where he dampened a clean cloth and handed it to Oliver. Oliver gratefully held it to his face and wiped it from hairline to neck, relishing in the simple pleasure of a cool cloth against his skin. Carlo picked up a telephone on his desk and rang out, requesting something in rapid Italian, though Oliver caught Conley’s name in the mix.