by Anne Renwick
Dawn had arrived. With it came the sounds of iron-shod hooves. Cart wheels clattering over cobblestones. Halloos of workers calling out to each other. Ought they themselves scream from the depths of their prison? Or would it earn them another bucket of water? Did it matter? Yes, they needed to try. Any minute they might succumb to hypothermia.
As their circuit once more drew them near the opening of the ventilation shaft, his ears caught a faint sound. Metal scraping against stone.
“Did you hear that?” Colleen’s voice was a thready whisper. “It came from inside the coal chute.”
“I did.” With Herculean effort, he hastened their progress, but each step required far more effort than it ought and a horrible pounding had begun inside his skull. Each symptom attributable to the onset of hypothermia… save for the jump in his heart rate and an increasing shortness of breath. Something was dreadfully wrong.
Colleen leaned into the opening. “Copper pipe has been threaded through the grating of the coal hole cover.” She sniffed. “There’s a bite of vinegar and the air feels heavier somehow.” Straightening, her eyebrows drew together. “Might they pump some kind of gas down the coal chute?”
All too slowly, his brain churned, and then he swore. “Hypercapnia.” That would explain why the pulse at Colleen’s throat beat at such a rapid pace. “Carbon dioxide. Easily produced by mixing vinegar and sodium bicarbonate, otherwise known as baking soda.”
Aether. He glanced at the bolt-filled sleeve he’d left beside the door. Glover was smarter than Nick had credited him. Their captors wouldn’t be entering their prison, not while the occupants were still conscious. Instead, they would send a silent, odorless gas to ease their entry. It was fast becoming a struggle to draw a satisfying breath.
“That sounds… medical. And chemical.” She staggered sideways, then sagged against the wall. “Does it explain why the room has begun to spin?”
“Yes.” On the floor lay Colleen’s damp shirt, minus a sleeve. Snatching it up, he tore the other sleeve loose and pressed it into her hand. His ribs screamed in pain as intercostal muscles contracted with all their might, a futile attempt to provide enough oxygen. “You need to climb into the shaft, Colleen.” His words were a desperate plea. “You need to plug the pipe.” He pushed her toward the shaft, clumsy as she struggled to climb through the hole. “When its levels become elevated, our blood becomes too acidic. The central nervous system will shut down.”
“Can’t…” Her foot slipped off the wall, and she fell to the floor even as she reached again for the opening. “Too cold. Too tired.”
“No giving up.” Catching Colleen beneath her arms, Nick heaved. But she was dead weight and no longer shivering. Her eyelids fell shut. The rag tumbled from her limp fingers.
Shit. Hypothermia. Carbon dioxide poisoning. Both meant death. Air. Fresh air. Door. Crack. He grabbed the collar of her shirt and dragged Colleen across the room. His rib cage ached with the effort of pulling in air. Still, it wasn’t enough. The door was tightly sealed.
He’d failed the woman he loved by involving her in this mess. By provoking Glover to such rash behavior. Nick would kill the man at the very first opportunity. As he collapsed beside her, he wrapped his fist about the bolt-filled sleeve, praying he might have a chance to use it. “Sorry. So sorry,” he whispered.
A heartbeat before the gas stole the last of his vision, his hearing—both fading with every blink—the door slammed open and two men wearing gas masks burst into the room.
Cold. So very, very cold. Stiff rubber pressed against her face while warm air filled her lungs. Her body gave a great shudder. Pinpricks of pain needled her fingers and toes as feeling returned. Wet and damp, her clothes stuck to her skin. Soggy boots encased her toes and ankles. But she’d been lifted, transferred to a smooth surface. A table of sorts, the kind upon which a mad scientist might dissect his specimens.
Colleen pried open her frozen eyelids, blinking at the bright light that glared overhead. A shock of white hair rose above a beaked mask. Enormous circular eyes ringed in brass stared down at her. From beneath the pointed beak ran a hose, like a giant bird attempting to swallow an equally large worm.
Worm.
“No!” she screamed, her cries muffled as she kicked and thrashed against the iron bands that bound her wrists and ankles. Medical instruments upon a metal tray beside her rattled and shook. “No. NO. NO!”
Memory snapped back. Frozen and gassed, they’d been all but dead. But Mr. Glover and Dr. Farquhar wanted her alive, if only so they could snuff out the last of her life to prove the miracle worked as promised. Try as she might, she couldn’t bring herself to believe in the resurrective powers of a heart worm.
Her heart gave a great twist. Nick. Was he still alive? Nick had to be alive. Her heart and soul insisted. He was still alive, her mind reasoned. Mr. Glover would save him, if only to hold him as a bargaining chip, as a lure to draw Anna into a similar trap.
Colleen fought against the rubber mask the giant avian creature held to her mouth and nose, turning her head.
There! On the floor. A long tube trailed behind another masked birdman, one who hunched over a collapsed form upon the metal floor. Nick. But instead of holding a mask to his mouth, the masked birdman snapped shackles about Nick’s wrists and ankles, ones bound to each other via chains, a design used to prevent a convict from spreading his arms, from lifting his hands above his waist.
Which meant Nick was alive.
For now.
The masked man stood, tethering a length of chain to a metal eye loop affixed to the ceiling with a padlock. Snap. He turned, then reached behind his head to drag off his mask. Thick-necked and unrepentant, Mr. Vanderburn stared at her with dead eyes. “All secure,” he called. “Air acceptable.”
The man who stood over her pulled off his beaked mask and handed it to Mr. Vanderburn. “If you’ll bring the rest of our supplies,” Dr. Farquhar said, “I’d like to take advantage of her near hypothermic state to begin the procedure.”
Gathering the masks and hoses, Mr. Vanderburn left the refrigeration unit as Mr. Glover strolled into the frigid chamber, wearing a fur-lined coat and a woolen muffler about his throat. “Rather Arctic in here, isn’t it?” He gave a dramatic shiver and patted his arms. “One wonders that you’ve not already died a time or two, wife.” He tipped his head. “Or have you, without yet slipping into cat form?”
She growled into the rubber mask.
“No? Well, we’ll have a few more tries regardless. We need firm evidence. To lose a Scottish woman with nothing but a courtesy title is one thing. More care must be taken with titled patients.”
“Let us go now.” Relief swept through her at the sound of Nick’s voice. Chains clanged against the metal floor as he stirred. “And I’ll consider letting you live. But if you touch Colleen again or dare to lay a finger on my sister…”
Mr. Glover snorted. “Ah, but that is precisely what I intend to do the very minute Farquhar here finishes working out a few pertinent details. Well, I’ll not touch your precious sister, but the good doctor will. Take heart,” he cackled, “the first step of the procedure appears to have done my wife no permanent harm.” Mr. Glover turned back to her and patted her cheek. “Did it, wife?”
Colleen snapped her head to the side, dislodging the oxygen mask, and bit his bare hand. A salty tang touched her tongue. She’d drawn blood.
He yanked his hand away, cradling it against his chest. “Witch!”
Silent, she curved her lips into a feral smile. Let him worry what would happen when she survived.
There was a clatter, and Mr. Vanderburn reappeared pushing a machine before him, one that looked exactly like the one Anna’s nurse had attempted to use, save this one’s wires were not connected to a sharp metal probe. Instead, the leads attached to a jointed metal belt. Humiliation burned as Dr. Farquhar’s cold, clinical hands unbuttoned the lower half of Nick’s shirt and wrapped the device about her chest. A leather belt cinched it about her ri
bs, and a buckle held it firmly in place.
Her heart slammed into her ribcage, then took off like a runaway train. “Please,” she begged. “Don’t do this.”
Dr. Farquhar leaned close, eyes dancing. “Know you make history, my dear, for in all the archives I’ve studied, only one man has witnessed such a forced transition of a witch, but—mired in his pagan belief of magic—failed to discover the scientific underpinnings of such a miracle. An element we will test today.”
Swearing, Nick pushed to his knees. Chains clattered as he struggled to stand.
“Scientist or inquisitor, you be the judge.” Mr. Glover rolled his eyes. “But know I’ve every interest in this procedure working and becoming a financial success. Not to mention a living wife would help certify the veracity of our marriage. Though, I’ll remind you again, with the right solicitor, a grieving widower could easily take control of his lawful property.” Mr. Glover tipped his head, uncaring of Nick’s attempts to stand. “Torrington, however, presents a problem. For now he lives, but…” A shrug. “I’ve no qualms about disposing of your lover. We will need to point a finger at someone to explain your uncle’s death. A thwarted suitor would do nicely.” He gave her a sharp, toothy grin. “In the end, it might be the best course of action, allowing me to focus entirely upon you.”
“And all I possess,” she snapped. With any luck, the bite to his hand would grow septic and bring him the death he so richly deserved.
“All I possess,” he corrected. “I’m done dancing to your whims. To your uncle’s. I did everything he asked of me and more. What did I receive for my troubles? Nothing but contempt and a callous dismissal. From both of you. There will be no bargaining, no deals.”
Mr. Vanderburn was back wheeling a new cart stacked tall with bulging oil cloth bags tied with coarse string, and a bucket of ice. Tucked within the bucket, as if a bottle of fine wine, was a glass bottle filled with a clear liquid.
Mr. Glover stepped back. “Today you’ll die,” he waggled his hand, “eight times? Or just once, if Dr. Farquhar’s postulates prove false. I suppose there is also the possibility that you will transform into a fairy cat, in which case there will be much to rethink. Survive,” his face contorted into that of a madman as he cackled, “and I shall suffer a witch to live.”
“A quick test.” Dr. Farquhar fiddled with the knobs and dials of the Magneto-Shock Machine, then pushed a button.
“Ow!” She jumped as a buzz of electricity zipped through her. Or would have jumped, but for the restraints.
“Excellent. The machine appears to be in good working order.” Dr. Farquhar cinched the belt tighter still.
“Stop! This is madness.” She twisted, trying to loosen the electrical belt. “Shape-shifting is a physical impossibility.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. We shall see.” Dr. Farquhar’s wild eyes danced. “Behind all myths and legends lie core truths. The cat sìth are special, this is true, but I have established that they do not metamorphose into a human form.”
“How many?” she demanded, seething. “How many fairy cats have met their end beneath your hands?”
“A dozen, maybe more?” Dr. Farquhar answered as if her question was a request for facts, not a furious attempt to point out the harm he’d wrought. “It may well be the felines I’ve been provided are witches forced into a ninth and final transformation, fated to live the remainder of their lives in cat form.”
She gaped, unable to form a response to such insanity.
“You and yours may bear the name Stewart, but in my clan, those with eyes like yours once bore the Kellas name,” he rambled on as if recalling the bedtime stories told to him as a small boy, ones he’d now twisted into a bizarre hypothesis requiring experimental proof. “All but lost now. Finding you was a stroke of luck. All that remains is to test the stories, to determine if—when your life spark flickers and dies—your body will shift into the configuration of a cat. A black cat, I expect, with no white patch of innocence upon your chest.”
“Stop this now, Glover.” Nick stood upright, though he leaned against the wall for support. “Or you’ll end this day in a grave.”
“Ah, Torrington.” Glover shrugged. “A man in chains is not much of a threat, is he?”
Mr. Vanderburn picked up an oilcloth bag and lifted an eyebrow.
“Stack them upon her hips, waist, and chest. We need to drop her core temperature yet further.” Dr. Farquhar plucked a glass bottle with a nozzle from the ice bucket and hung it from the overhead hook by means of a leather strap before connecting it to a long rubber tube.
When the first bag of ice landed upon her, all the breath left her lungs in one giant rush. Cold. So cold. Another bag of ice landed upon her. And another. The warmth that had begun to seep back into her veins retreated once more. “Please.” Tears streamed down her face.
A vision of her own skull placed upon a laboratory shelf beside those of the cat sìth flashed through her mind. All of them cooled until their hearts stopped, never again to prowl the night.
“It’s true, I’ve been labeled insane by my colleagues, but see here?” He waved a hand at the Magneto-Shock Machine. “I took the precaution of insisting they locate and drag this device through the streets of London. Should my hypothesis prove false, should your heart not leap back to life, I will do my best to restart it.” He smiled down at her with benevolence in his eyes.
Did he expect her to thank him?
Her teeth chattered. She was sinking faster this time, unable to resist the pull of hypothermia. “I love you,” she called to Nick, her voice faint. The words wouldn’t console him, but she needed to say them nonetheless. Not at all the circumstances under which she’d wished to speak, but at least he would know. Should the worst happen. And she rather thought it might.
She didn’t want to die. Not now. Not when everything she’d ever wanted lay within reach. Marriage to the man who had stolen her heart and had done it without demanding she surrender possession or control of Craigieburn or its lands. Nights spent prowling the streets of London together, working side by side on behalf of their country. And, eventually, the possibility of welcoming a child of their own into this world.
“No!” Nick yanked against the iron chains that bound him in a futile struggle to reach her. “Stop this insanity!”
Dr. Farquhar tied a length of rubber tubing about her upper arm, then tapped along the inside of her elbow, hunting for a vein that had not collapsed in fear. “I don’t suppose you’ll cooperate and hold a thermometer in your mouth, my dear? No. It wouldn’t do to have the glass shatter between your clenched teeth. I suppose we’ll do without. Hypothermia is imminent, but the heart will not cease beating until it reaches approximately seventy degrees Fahrenheit. Chilled saline will hasten internal cooling and speed this process.” A ball of cold wet cotton swept across her arm a moment before he produced a needle from the instrument tray beside her. “Mr. Vanderburn, I require precision and our subject refuses to hold her arm perfectly still. Your assistance, please.”
Uncaring hands clamped down upon her arms, and the doctor slid the needle into Colleen’s arm. The scientist worked quickly, connecting the tube to the needle. Icy fluid burned a path through her veins, and she screamed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Excellent. She’s slipped into unconsciousness.” Dr. Farquhar released Colleen’s wrist to slide a thermometer between her lips. “Her heart and respiratory rates are dropping quickly as is her core temperature. A few minutes more and we’ll have our answer.”
Was that frost on her eyelashes? Aether, her fingernails were blue. After watching it fail during one of his sister’s attacks, Nick had little confidence in P.C. Hutchinson’s Magneto-Shock Machine, less still in Farquhar’s heart worm.
Frantic, his breath hung on the air as he yanked yet again on the chain that tethered him to the ceiling. The eye bolt shifted. Intent on Colleen and ignoring his frantic yells, their captors hadn’t noticed Nick’s efforts at escape. Losing her wasn’
t an option, not when he finally knew he’d won her heart.
Unable to reach his makeshift weapon, Nick focused his every effort on pulling free. The mortar crumbled, sending another puff of fine dust floating downward, yet still refusing to release the metal ring that held the chain. Dammit. But if he couldn’t break free, perhaps he could entice a villain closer?
“You lily-livered dowry thief.” Nick’s jeer sent a bolt of lightning straightening Glover’s spine. “Are you so impotent that you must resort to kidnapping and torture to snare a wife?”
The man spun around. Glaring at Nick, he waved a bloody hand, the one into which Colleen had fiercely sunk her teeth. “Gag him,” Glover ordered Vanderburn. “We can’t have him distracting Dr. Farquhar, and I weary of his blather.”
The henchman snatched up a scrap of cloth and stalked toward Nick.
Perfect. He braced his legs.
“Cooperate,” Vanderburn said. “Or we do this the hard way.”
Sneering, Nick curled a finger, inviting the man to try his worst. “What have I to lose?”
“The hard way it is.”
Nick feinted right then jabbed with his left, but the thick-necked guard side-stepped the attack. But Vanderburn had lifted his chin, a faint flinch. Even bound and manacled, the henchman believed Nick had a chance. “Scared?”
“Only that I’ll kill you. The boss wants you alive. Me?” He shrugged. “I’m still not convinced of your value.”
Nick wrapped his fingers about the chains that bound his wrists together. Readying himself. “More than yours. Hired muscle is cheap and replaceable. It’s brains that command a premium.”
With a low growl, Vanderburn stomped forward, eyes slitted.
The moment he drew close, Nick jumped, yanking with all his might on the overhead chain, lifting himself into the air as he kicked his feet forward and slammed his boots into the man’s chest with a satisfying thud.
Vanderburn staggered backward. “Good try.”
