The Reunion

by Michelle E Lowe

  Eilidh was very skeptical about his claim to stay out of it.

  “That’s all?”

  He fastened his gun belt and headed over to the wardrobe where his coat was kept.

  “That’s all. I promise.”

  “Then why do you need your weapon?”

  “Precautions.”

  She wished she had kept her mouth shut. Although Pierce seemed to be a good person and friend, she hadn’t realized how much he meant to Archie. Then again, Pierce had put himself in danger with a vampire to save Clover, and Clover meant everything to Archie. Eilidh only hoped that once the alcohol in his head depleted, he’d come to his senses and return before he did anything rash.

  He approached her while slipping his arms through the coat sleeves. He kissed her tenderly. “I shall not be long, my love.”

  She wanted to protest, but, for the life of her, she couldn’t think of what good it would do.

  “Be careful,” she whispered after him as the bedroom door closed.

  * * *

  After Pierce and Fan had come up with a strategy, they left for Newgate. When they arrived at the corner of Old Bailey Street, Pierce peeked around a building and spied the prison just down the road. The sight of it churned his stomach. He looked back at Fan, who was dressed in black baggy clothing and looked more like a man again, her long hair tied up in a bun, her face clear of makeup. Bartlomiej, who had joined them, was dressed the same way. Behind them was Fan’s horse and buggy.

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” he asked her.

  Her expression turned cross.

  “This is easy,” she scoffed. “Besides, you are the one risking your skin going into the place.”

  “Right,” Pierce said, putting on the tall hat. “Wish me luck.”

  “Break a leg,” Bartlomiej threw in.

  Pierce glared at him as he was about to mount his horse. Clearly, the youth was still learning different English phrases and where they belonged. Thinking on it briefly, though, he really wasn’t too far off. After all, Pierce needed to pull off a performance that meant the difference between life and death.

  “Cheers, lad.”

  The young man smiled widely like a goofy youngster.

  Pierce mounted and gave Fan one last look. “You’re much prettier as a woman.”

  She snorted. “I know.”

  He rode down the street. The wretched stench emitting from the building was noticeable well before he reached the place, as though the entire prison was filled from floor to ceiling with shite. The domineering structure wreaked havoc on his nerves.

  There were three front entrances to Newgate. One was located in the center, and two others on either side.

  The guard at the first door, stood under a single lamp hanging overhead, holding a flintlock rifle over his shoulder. He stood slouched, unlike the palace guards, whose backs were as straight as a bleedin’ plank. He was also dressed in common clothing, for Newgate Prison never required their unpaid guards to wear them. They were just as Clover had said, peasants looking for any sort of way to make a little bit of loot.

  Once Pierce reached the guard, he squeaked out, “My name is . . .” He stopped, took a breath, and reiterated with more force, “My name is Sergeant Crispin Gales. I wish to speak to the warden.”

  His strong, demanding voice made the lowly guard comply.

  “Aye, sir. Give us a tick, eh?”

  The guard knocked on the iron door. When another prison keeper opened it, the hinges squealed painfully, stabbing sharply into Pierce’s ears.

  “A Sergeant Gales here for the warden,” he informed the door guard.

  There was a brief pause before the voice from inside said, “Aye. Let ’im in.”

  Pierce dismounted and stepped underneath the light of the lantern. He gulped hard and exhaled deeply. The guard held the door open for him as he climbed the stone steps.

  “Take care of my horse,” Pierce ordered as he walked by.

  The stench of human sorrow and death engulfed him as he passed across the threshold.

  Chapter Four

  The Hiccup

  Pierce waited in the lodge, wearing the fuzzy black bearskin cap down low. He stood with his spine arrow straight, head held high. He hoped that by having pulled back his hair and keeping the scar across his neck well hidden under the high, stiff collar, along with the assistance of the dimly lit atmosphere, it would be enough to conceal who he really was.

  A door squeaked open and in walked a short man wearing dirty clothes. His shaggy muttonchops and thinning hair made him appear like a bloody leprechaun on a bender. He also reeked of onions.

  “I’m the sheriff here. What’s this about, eh?” he demanded irritably.

  “Sir,” Pierce began in his best assertive tone. “I am Sergeant Crispin Gales. I am on official business. I was requested by the Queen to interrogate the Landcross couple.”

  The sheriff sized Pierce up, causing a shudder to race up his spine. He worried less about being noticed and more about his uniform being recognized as a Foot Guard’s uniform. Despite Clover’s claim that everyone working at Newgate wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, the warden, however, might not be so easily fooled.

  Then the scruffy cocker huffed and crossed his arms. “Them again? They have already been questioned.”

  Ooh, Pierce loved it when the lass was right.

  “Yes, but Pierce Landcross has yet to be brought in. We must make absolutely certain we have a great deal of information to assist us in finding the fugitive.”

  Pierce reached into the uniform’s breast pocket for the rolled-up note and handed it to him. “Here is a letter from Her Highness.”

  The little troll stepped over and took the scroll. Even though Pierce wasn’t concerned he would spy a forgery, for he highly doubted the man had ever seen the Queen’s handwriting before, he worried about the letter not being stamped with the Royal Seal. Regardless, the warden appeared to overlook it as he unrolled the paper. The letter consisted of an order to allow Sergeant Crispin Gales to interrogate the prisoners about the whereabouts of their son. The warden read it, or, at least, pretended to read it. The royal letterhead was likely what persuaded him to cooperate. He lowered the sheet and looked at Pierce.

  “I don’t know what you hope to gain, Sergeant, but very well.”

  Pierce didn’t thank him, but, instead, demanded, “And I shall need to speak to them privately, preferably in your office quarters.”

  The sheriff jerked his head back with his eyebrows knitted. His crooked mouth curled up in an unflattering snarl.

  “My quarters? That is out of the question. The prisoners must be monitored when out of their cells.”

  “I’m more than capable of handling a pair of shackled, middle-aged rovers, sir. From experience, I have learned that when people are at ease while being questioned, they tend to offer more information. Without your keepers looming about, I might gain new insight. Understand?”

  The twat seemed poised to protest when Pierce cut in with more weight in his tone. “If you disagree, please share your concerns with the Queen, who has personally sent me.”

  Surprisingly enough, that wasn’t a lie.

  The warden strained to keep his composure.

  “That . . .” he started to say. “That won’t be necessary. Andrew,” he addressed the scrawny turnkey with a short club hanging from his belt. “Go fetch the Landcross lot and bring them to my quarters.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  When the turnkey left, the sheriff gestured Pierce on. “This way.”

  * * *

  “You have dead?” Fan demanded in deliberate broken English to the guardsman stationed at the prison entrance where Pierce had gone.

  “What?”

  “Dead,” she repeated. “Any deceased prisoners in there?”

  “Yeah. We’ve had some who died yesterday.”

  Fan clambered off the wagon. “No, no, no, no. We need fresh dead. Only fresh will do.”


  The guard backed away some, obviously disturbed by the conversation, as well as Fan’s approach. Fan stopped and reached into her pocket.

  “I work for physician who studies bodies for medical purposes.”

  The guard’s stiff body slackened a bit.

  “Oh. I understand. Are you an assistant?”

  Fan was relieved the guardsman had dealt with this sort of thing before. He would be more interested in the amount she was willing to offer rather than telling her to piss off.

  She quickly pulled a coin purse from her pocket. “I am only collector. You see this?”

  She reached in and brought out a handful of gold coins. Fan couldn’t be sure in the dim light of the single lantern, but it appeared the guard was drooling.

  “This yours if you inform me about any recent dead. Bring them to me. The physician I work for is desperate. Needs bodies very badly. Man, woman or both.”

  She dropped the coins back into the sack, save for one sovereign, which she held up as she walked toward him. “We take break at the pub down the road,” Fan notified as she placed the coin in his palm. “You tell us, yes?”

  The hungry look on his face answered that question. “Absolutely. Bobby is your man.”

  Fan smiled at Bobby and turned to Bartlomiej, seated on the cart, holding the reins. She climbed up and sat down beside him. With a click of his tongue, the wagon headed slowly down toward the pub at the end of the road.

  * * *

  Pierce’s palms were damp with sweat. Not only was he standing inside one of the most dreaded places in Great Britain, but he was also about to be reunited with the people he believed he’d never lay eyes on again. Ever since he and Joaquin were separated from his parents as children, he’d held out hope a reunion was on the horizon. The chance that it wasn’t them at all had crossed his mind more times than he could count. If it wasn’t for Darius’s precise description, he might not have come this far.

  He breathed deeply and slowly, trying to calm the fluttering in his stomach. In times of stress, Pierce usually paced around, but he stayed seated in front of the warden’s desk, keeping his little nervous tells in check. The sheriff, who seemed more or less bored, sat in his chair, picking dirt and whatever else from under his long, broken fingernails with the tip of a rusty boot knife. Pierce thought he was about to go mad when a knock finally came behind him.

  “Come,” the warden ordered.

  A creak sounded and Andrew, the turnkey, entered. “I brought the prisoners, sir.”

  Pierce stood and held himself like a military soldier.

  “Let them in,” the warden commanded, also standing.

  The turnkey shifted sideways and said, “Go on. Move.”

  The scraping of chains echoed before anyone appeared. A shackled man stepped in first. A woman followed. Pierce recognized them immediately.

  Before his emotions got the better of him, Pierce faced the warden. “Thank you, sir. I shall call when I’m done with them.”

  He switched his focus on his parents and gestured with his arm for them to move farther into the office. As his mother passed, she stole a glance at him. Her eyes flickered.

  “I insist the door stay open,” the warden disputed, coming around the desk.

  Pierce placed a hand on the warden’s shoulder and led him out with the turnkey.

  “This is a delicate matter, sir. One that ought to be handled with care. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Yes, but . . . but . . .” the sheriff stuttered as Pierce closed the door in his face.

  “It’ll only be a moment,” he promised, stepping away in the hopes the warden wouldn’t re-enter and argue more.

  As Pierce passed his parents, he whispered, “We need to hurry.”

  “Excuse me?” said his father. “Hurry for what reason, sir?”

  Pierce halted and took in a long breath before turning to face them.

  “This may be a tad much to absorb, and we don’t have the tick-tocks for it all to sink in, but I’m . . .”

  “Pierce,” his mother said.

  Nona Landcross had recognized her son the moment her green eyes met his.

  “’Ello, Mum.”

  Her face brightened, and the entire room glowed. Before her voice rose with excitement, he shushed her. “Quiet now.”

  His dad looked at him, bemused. “Is it really you, son?”

  Pierce offered a smile. “It is, Dad.”

  This wasn’t the family reunion Pierce envisioned. He imagined finding them in a wide-open field somewhere, free, happy, and with the rest of the troupe. Not shackled like animals in some halfwit’s office quarters.

  “We ought to hold off on the hugs and kisses,” he advised. “I’m here to break you out.”

  “Eh?” his father said.

  Pierce brought two devices out from the breast pocket of his vest, which he still wore underneath the uniform. He handed one over to his father.

  “Take these and hide them. Are you both held in the same cell?”

  “Oui,” his mother answered.

  “Good, then one should suffice.”

  “What are they?” his dad wondered.

  “They’re dispensers.”

  “Dispensers?” he asked, looking at it more closely. “What’s in them?” He sniffed. “It smells odd.”

  The dispensers were copper-made things, the size and shape of an ink jar. Each gadget had tiny holes dotting the top of them. A tiny switch was located on the side near the base with a miniature voltaic pile battery fastened behind them. Both batteries had little wires connected to heating coils tucked away under the stand.

  “They’re filled with a special sort of hallucinogenic plant called Salvia divinorum. When made into a liquid form, Salvia becomes a very effective psychoactive. Look here.” He flipped the dispenser he held upside down to show the heating coils on the bottom. “It’s electric. Flick the switch to power them. They will act the same as a small boiler, releasing the chemical into the air in a mist when the pressure mounts.”

  “You’ve done this before?” Nona asked, accepting the dispenser he offered her.

  “Not with these. In the old days, we used to burn cloth dipped in Salvia.”

  Fan had instructed him on how to use the dispensers before they left for the prison. The devises were designed to turn water into steam in order to help with nasal congestion. The liquid was stored inside high-grade steel containers within the dispenser. When the liquid boiled it sent vapors through a tube running up the short neck of the device. Fan promised the result would be far more effective than the old way.

  His father was utterly fascinated by this. “What happens after the Salvia is released?”

  Pierce reached under his uniform and brought out a small jar from the same breast pocket. “Then the real magic begins. You have cellmates, I reckon?”

  They nodded.

  “Fantastic. When you return to your cell, find a safe place to switch the dispensers on. The pressure inside will build quickly. When the chemical is released into the air, that’s when you start talking about killing yourselves. Claim you both are going to drink the poison you smuggled in. Be convincing, and make sure people hear you.”

  He dipped his fingers into the jar. “Hold still,” he ordered as he smudged clear oil under their noses.

  “What did you put on us?” Jasper demanded.

  “It’s anise oil. It’ll block the smell of the chemical and prevent you from being affected by it, keeping your heads clear.”

  “And this chemical will have everyone else believing we’re dead?”

  “If you plant it into their heads—and I mean, make a show of it—they will truly believe you’ve done yourselves in. Most likely, someone will call for the keepers. Once the guards breathe in the chemical and listen to what the prisoners are telling them, they’ll also fall under the same illusion.”

  Pierce spoke fast, knowing that at any given moment, the impatient warden could come bursting in.

&nbs
p; His father studied the dispenser curiously. “What will happen then?”

  “I have someone outside who is going to pay to have your bodies released to her. She’s staging herself as a collector working for a physician needing cadavers. She’ll bring you both to safety. Just keep pretending you’re dead until she tells you it’s safe. I’ll meet you on the next road over. Got it?”

  “Oui.”

  “Aye.”

  “Right,” Pierce said. “Let’s get on with it.”

  “What about Taisia?” Jasper added.

  That stumped Pierce on the spot. “Who?”

  “Taisia. She was arrested with us.”

  An extra person was not expected.

  “Erm . . .” Pierce began, unable to think of what to do. “How unfortunate for her?”

  “Non!” Nona snapped angrily in French. “She must come with us! Do you understand me, young man?”

  Pierce narrowed his eyes and retorted back in French, “She cannot. I had not planned for this. Do you understand?”

  To that response, his father hissed.

  Nona Landcross quickly reminded Pierce of who was in charge in this family when she growled, “Then you best find a way to break her out, too, or we do not go.”

  Her tone made him feel like a five-year-old youngster again. He crumbled under the pressure.

  “I . . . I,” he stammered. “Fine. Give me the dispenser.”

  His mother handed hers over. Pierce tucked it back underneath his vest.

  “I’ll take care of it. Now, start crying, Mum. Both of you. I need you to look very upset because you’ve given out critical information about your son.”

  “Aye, we can do that,” his father assured him.

  His folks had always been top-notch performers. A wanderer needed to be, if they wanted to eat.

  Without much effort, his mum burst into tears and wailed loudly. Her husband took her by the arms, pretending to hold her upright. The door hinges creaked, and Pierce got into character.

  “Get them out of my sight,” he ordered Andrew.

  The dirty man led them out. The warden entered and looked at the prisoners with confusion.