Skeletons in the Closet (Phantom Rising Book 2)

by Davyne DeSye

  “Quiet,” she said, as she gathered the girls in her outstretched arms and pushed them to the far corner of the room. She left them there, still clutching each other, eyes widened in wooden terror as she ran to the window. She searched from side to side, looking to see if any of the villains appeared in the gardens below. She saw nothing, no one, although with the maze of manicured shrubbery beyond her flower garden, anyone could be hiding. She looked a moment more, but the only movement she could detect was the glitter and shine of water dancing in a fountain. They must take the chance. She rushed back to the girls.

  “Go,” she whispered, gesturing behind them to the servant’s entrance to the room. The girls shook their heads, now clutching at her as well as each other. She ignored their unspoken protests. “You must! Take the stairs to the back of the house and hide in the garden. Cut your way into a hedge, if you can find nowhere else, but hide. I would not have you harmed.”

  Or worse.

  “But, Mistress…,” Aina whispered, and then stopped as a great crashing in the upstairs hallway caused them all to jump. The villains must be breaking down the first door near the top of the stairs. They would soon be outside this room. She reached behind the girls, and pulled open the servant’s door.

  “Go!” she whispered. “Go now!” She pushed them toward the opening.

  “Mistress, come!” Annika grabbed at Christine’s sleeve with such terror and urgency that the seam at Christine’s shoulder tore.

  “I will be fine. Please! Trust me and GO!” She pushed again at the girls, and as another loud crash sounded in the hall, the girls turned and fled. Christine closed the servant’s door, and placed a chair in front of it, knowing as she did that it was a useless gesture – it would provide no physical protection to the girls, nor any helpful delay.

  Christine spun away from the chair, nearly upsetting it, and hurried to the large bed. She crawled onto the bed, upsetting the coverlet, and falling to her face as her knees caught in her skirts. She freed herself, and crawled further, toward the wall at the head of the bed. At a touch, the enormous carved wooden headboard slid down, revealing a door in the wall, only large enough to allow a person to crawl through. She pressed on the door, and it swung inward revealing darkness.

  As voices sounded in the hallway outside the bedroom door, Christine flung herself into the darkness, the pressure of her weight on the tunnel floor beneath her causing both the small door and headboard to return to their original positions. Within moments she heard a nearby crashing sound which must be her bedroom door smashing into the room.

  She squatted in utter blackness, not daring to breathe, unable in her fright to move. She listened to the muffled voices of men moving through the bedroom on the other side of the wall, unable to make out words, but knowing by the lilting music of the cadence that they were speaking Persian. She heard a shout of triumph as the men discovered the servant’s door, and heard several go pounding down the stairs in search of… Whom? The servants? Herself? Erik? Were they all to be killed?

  She waited further, until the voices of the men became inaudible as they moved again to the hall. After a time, it seemed the only sounds in the house came from the lower floor, with occasional shouts from the gardens and yards about the house.

  She stood and made her way into the black passage and down a slender staircase, guided by her hands against the tunnel walls and her memory of the interior labyrinth Erik had insisted she learn by rote. She moved through the tunnels of the lower floor, stopping at room after room, using only those passive methods of watching that did not require the opening of any traps or peepholes. She did not light any of the candles or lanterns that were stored in abundance, for fear a glint of light from a crack or from behind a mirror would give her away. She blessed Erik for his insistence on her ability to move through the passages blindfolded – she now understood the need for what she had considered a silly exercise.

  Most of the men were gathered in the kitchen, helping themselves to what foodstuffs they found there, although several lounged in the drawing room – some even sleeping – while one restless man still wandered from room to room. All were dressed in the Persian garb. She could find no evidence of any of the servants, and she prayed again that this was because they had escaped, and not because their corpses had been moved out of doors. She did not worry about Erik coming back to the house and being captured unawares. The beasts had broken out several windows in entering the house, and the main doors now stood open. She hoped that he would not be foolish enough to worry after her welfare and attempt a rescue. He knew as well as she that these tunnels provided numerous points of ingress and egress should she find an opportunity to escape, and were also well stocked with food and water should she need to stay hidden for long. She could leave from any of several hidden exits once she knew the gardens were free of the searching men.

  She settled herself in front of – or rather behind – a large piece of glass that, from the room on the other side of the glass, appeared to be a massive gilt-framed mirror. She studied the men she could see from her position.

  Despite her predicament and her fear of the situation, Christine’s eyes soon grew heavy. She wondered if it was in response to the blackness that surrounded her and a normal instinct toward sleep when it grew dark, or if it was a reaction to the quiet exhaustion that came after fear and exertion.

  She was awakened by a nearby commotion of yelling and crashing noises. For a breathless moment, she could not recall where she was, or why, and she nearly cried out. The Persians limned in the glass before her brought her back to her monstrous reality. One tall, dark Persian she had not seen before seemed to be shouting curses or instructions, while gesturing at the walls of the room, and kicking those few men who were unfortunate enough to have been caught dozing on the various couches and lounges. Christine pressed as close to the mirror as she dared, hoping to be able to make out the words, and cursing her inability to open the vent that would allow her to hear.

  The tall Persian stood, legs firm and slightly spread beneath him, fisted hands resting on his hips, immobile except for the swivel of his head from side to side. Most of the men hurried from the room, and soon Christine could hear knocking and pounding coming from various rooms of the house, and echoing through several of the tunnels around her. It was not until the large Persian lifted a chair and began approaching the mirror that she understood what they were doing.

  Horrified, worried for her safety for the first time since entering the tunnels, she scrambled to her feet – tearing some portion of her petticoat as she did so – and ran toward one of the hidden exits. She must take her chance now for escaping the house. As she turned the corner from one tunnel to the next, she heard the crashing, tinkling sound of the great mirror shattering behind her, and heard the unmistakable shout of triumph followed by the words, yelled in Persian: “I have found the passages! I told you the monster would have passages!” Christine did not pause in her flight to hear more.

  She heard sounds of men ahead of her, and realized that the Persians were in the tunnels between her and the exit she sought. She turned and retraced her steps to another tunnel, toward another exit, only to hear again men yelling in the tunnel ahead of her. Trapped like a frightened mouse in a maze, she turned toward her final hope for escape.

  She stumbled into the hidden room she sought, unable to see anything, but knowing what she must do – and with little time left to her. She felt along the wall to her right, until her hands met a solid wood obstruction. She felt along the top until she found what she knew would be there – match sticks and a lantern. She closed her eyes before striking the match, not wanting to blind herself in the sudden flare, and then opened them and lit the lantern. The room burst into muted color around her.

  She had always thought the room sweet, but given her fear and the horror of voices yelling through the tunnels, she now thought it ridiculous. It was a woman’s bedroom, complete with pink lace coverlet and canopy, overstuffed chairs, la
ce curtains over non-existent windows, and a vanity. The vanity was covered with cut glass perfume bottles in various iridescent colors, a hairbrush and comb, and face powder. It was backed by an oval mirror, unattached to the wall. The stool that sat before it was slanted out into the room instead of tucked beneath the vanity, as if a woman had just left her seat before the mirror.

  Yes, a foolish room, but with an indispensable purpose. Christine ran toward the vanity, and moved the stool aside. She wanted to throw the stool in her hurry and fright, but even in her panic, she knew she could not allow the noise to lead the beasts to her. She removed the top to one of the perfume bottles, and tipped it to wet her finger with a clear, odorless liquid. Then, trying to think through all that she knew and all that she must tell Erik, she began writing invisible letters on the mirror.

  She had just finished her message when a voice began shouting that he could see a light ahead. The trampling of converging feet told her the men were not far – but far enough, considering that the tunnels were unknown to them. She still had a chance to escape. She replaced the top on the perfume bottle to insure that no attention was paid to the contents and the special odorless solution it contained. She bent, and with shaking fingers, loosed the buttons of one shoe. The footsteps pounded closer, and Christine dove from her position before the mirror to climb under the bed. If should could reach the trap door concealed under the bed, she could still make her escape from the house. She hoped all the men were involved in searching the tunnels, and that once outside of the house, she would have some chance to hide or escape.

  She pulled herself further under the bed, until her hand found the small lever that would open the trapdoor beneath her. As soon as she pushed the lever, the portion of the floor beneath her face and arms fell away, and the wet rock-scented air of the tunnel came into her face, smelling of freshness and freedom and the sea. This tunnel, she knew – even though she had only traversed it once – led to the cliff face well below the house and her last possibility of escape. She slid inward with as much speed as she could, preparing to lower herself the short distance into the safety of another blackness.

  Her breasts were over the gaping hole. With one more pull, she would be far enough to bend from her waist into the tunnel and pull her legs after her. Her hands tightened against the edge of the trap door and again, she pulled. Instead of sliding forward, her dress snagged on some protrusion poking from the underside of the bed. Nearly screaming her frustration, she felt backward with one hand, trying to loosen the snag. She could feel where the dress was caught at the full top of her skirts, but could not untangle it. She pulled again on the edge of the trap door with the greater strength of her terror, and heard her dress ripping.

  One more time! God, help me – one more time and I shall be free!

  She grunted with the effort to pull herself free, and the dress tore loose. She braced her arms for the headfirst plunge into safety, and then screamed as a hand gripped her ankle and held her from goal. Her scream echoed down the dark tunnel, escaping without her, leaving her behind as it fell toward the sea. She kicked at the hand with what little leverage she had, to no discernible effect. The iron hand locked around her ankle did not loosen, and the floor slid against her as she was pulled from under the bed.

  She rolled to her back, needing to face her captors as they pulled her into the light, hoping for the strength or the luck to perhaps strike a blow. Her progress was arrested as the front of her blouse caught on the same snag that had caught her skirt earlier. For a brief moment, foolish hope filled her.

  They cannot pull me out!

  Her other ankle was entrapped, and with another great tug and the sound of tearing fabric, she was yanked from under the bed, and pulled halfway across the floor of the small room. She was mortified to notice as she struggled to push herself up to a sitting position, that the front of her dress between her breasts was torn open, and only her chemise remained to protect her modesty. She lay back and brought both hands to the front of her dress. Panting full breaths, she looked up at the men surrounding her. Their strange dark faces seemed twisted with evil sneers, and she began to swoon with a dangerous light-headedness.

  I will not faint. I will not! Somehow, her body obeyed her command.

  After what seemed an infinite moment, one of the men bent toward her, and laughing, grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her feet, wrenching her arm. He pulled her close, keeping a tight hold on her. Mere inches away, he laughed in her face, and she saw in a flash before she closed her eyes and turned her head that his teeth were crooked and stained. She kept her free hand pressed to her torn dress front, and squeezed her eyes together, waiting for a blow or a stab from one of the many knives she had seen in the hands of the men. Believing her end near, she eased her loosened shoe from her foot.

  Her eyes flew open again as another rough hand pulled her hand from her bodice, and another tore at it, opening it to the waist. Raucous laughter filled her ears as she screamed again. She struggled anew, prepared to bite, or at least to spit upon her attacker.

  “STOP!” The volume of the order, and the unquestionable command in the voice caused even Christine to stop her struggles. It took a moment for her to register that the word had been spoken in Persian, and could not be any kind of rescue. Several of the men before her moved aside and the tall, dark Persian who had broken the mirror stepped into her view. He looked at her for a long moment, expressionless as his eyes took in her disheveled hair, torn dress – every detail of her, down to the tip of her remaining shoe. He lifted the edge of his tunic and reached beneath it toward the waistband of his baggy pants.

  Just as Christine began to struggle anew, fearing the worst, he pulled out a section of cloth that had been tucked into the side of his waistband, and held it to her. The men to either side of her released her wrists and the tall man before her mimed wrapping the cloth around her shoulders. She unfolded the cloth, discovering that it was quite long and wide enough to act as an adequate shawl. She draped it over her shoulders and pulled it around to cover her torn bodice. She could not bring herself to thank the man, in his or any other language.

  The tall man ordered the others to examine the room. Two men entered the hidden tunnel under the bed. Christine held her breath as one man moved to the mirror, but he only passed his hand behind it to show the leader that it could not be hiding another passage.

  Satisfied that the room held no surprises, the tall Persian turned back to her. In broken Swedish, and pausing between each word as if to insure she understood, he said, “We. No. Harm. You.” He raised his eyebrows and nodded, seemingly asking if she had understood his statement. Shaking with fear and hope that his statement was true, she nodded in return. Without another word, he began to lead her from the room. At the door, she turned, and forgetting that the men would not understand Swedish, she said, “My shoe,” and pointed. One of the men brought her shoe, and she clutched it to her chest. She was led from the room, through the tunnels, and out of the house.

  CHAPTER 8

  PETTER AND CONSTANCE

  Petter’s head swam with the giddiness of a balloon lost in flight. Constance was his… or at least more nearly his than he could have hoped for so soon. She must love him as much as he loved her.

  His day had begun with a morning call upon Constance. He had reasoned with himself that if he wished to luncheon with her, he could not call too late, but the truth was that he had awoken before dawn, and by mid-morning, had exhausted his ability to wait any longer to see her. Given the early hour, he was rather chagrined to discover that he was not the first caller of the day. However, Constance put him quite at ease before his insecurity could rise to crush him.

  He was led into a small sitting room, quite pleased to be afforded such an intimate setting. He held a small bouquet of yellow roses (he had decided on yellow upon remembering the color of her dress), and the smile he wore stretched his face to the point that he felt it might reach his ears. His smile faltered – but did not f
ail him – when he entered the room to find another man in the room with Constance. Not merely in the room, but sitting quite close to her on the couch, leaning toward her in an intimate and thus disturbing manner.

  “Mr. Petter Nilsson, Miss,” the butler announced, his eyes fixed upon a spot on the far wall. The man turned and left the room without any answer from Constance.

  “Petter. How wonderful!” she said. The glowing smile she directed at him as she held her hands out to him took his breath away, and almost made him forget that another man sat at her side. He stood transfixed before uttering her name, careful this time to address her by her proper name.

  “Miss Pendleton,” he said, and bowed.

  “Tosh, I was Constance to you when first we met and I simply must be Constance now and forever.” She giggled and turned to the man beside her. “Petter was quite charming.”

  Petter’s face reddened at her words, and then reddened further as the man reached for her hand and grasped it in both of his. When he spoke he pulled her hand to his heart and held it there. “Constance, please!”

  Petter’s instinct was to charge the man, but before he could take so much as a step, Constance acted.

  “Do not be so familiar,” she said, pulling her hand from his. She flashed Petter another glowing smile, as she said, “I asked Petter to call on me.” Petter could not remember ever seeing so beautiful a sight in his life. She glanced at the man, who seemed about to fall on his knees before her, and said in a lowered voice, “Michael, don’t be such a bore.”

  The man dropped his chin to his chest, then rose to stand at her side, the pleading expression on his face turning to something meaner. He spun and strode toward the open door of the room, murmuring as he passed Petter, “Just you wait until she decides you aren’t rich enough or exciting enough.”