by Bec McMaster
Miss Radcliffe swallowed, looking pale. "Of course."
Doctor Gibson looked up from his file, then gestured the actress toward the autopsy table. "There is some mild decomposition," he murmured, lifting back the sheet a couple of inches. "It's not very pleasant to look at. Please let us know if you're feeling unwell."
One glimpse. That was all it took.
Miss Radcliffe's eyes filled with tears, and she managed a brief nod, before turning away to cup her hands over her face. Garrett gestured for Doctor Gibson to drag the sheet up over the dead woman's face, and slid a hand over Miss Radcliffe's shoulder.
"Is it Nelly?" he asked, though he was certain. What other woman would have only one leg?
"Y-yes."
Seeing her distress, Garrett ushered her out into the corridor, away from the stale scent of formaldehyde and death. Miss Radcliffe burst into a storm of weeping, and he gently rubbed her between the shoulder blades.
"I'm sorry," she hiccupped, cleaning her face with the handkerchief he offered.
"Don't be. You've had a horrific day, Eliza, and this is only another nightmare to add to it. Thank you for your help. It's very important to the case."
"I truly thought she was going to come home to the theatre," Miss Radcliffe whispered. "I kept believing it was just a few more days until she was back, and now here she is... and she's been there all along and none of us even knew and–"
"We'll take care of it," he promised, rubbing her upper arms.
"Was it... deliberate?"
Garrett's lips thinned and he nodded. After what had happened to Perry he had a good idea of how poor Nelly had met her end. Doctor Gibson needed to inspect her lungs, but the obtrusion on the back of her head indicated she'd been struck with something at some stage, then she'd probably drowned, slipping beneath those dark waters without even a struggle.
So he had the means of her murder now, but not the why of it. Or the who.
Rommell? Or Beckham?
No. No, it had to be someone who knew the theatre well enough to know the water-filled tunnels were below. The idea of Rommell having knowledge of an illicit means to dump refuse was ludicrous.
The assault had happened in Nelly's dressing room, as evidenced by the blood spatter. Then the murderer had somehow removed her without anybody seeing, and dumped her down the chute without so much as a by-your-leave.
"That trapdoor you showed me," he said. "Is that the only access to the tunnels from within the theatre itself?" He knew there were other exits - he'd removed Perry through a small sewer grate in the nearby streets.
Miss Radcliffe nodded. "As far as I'm aware of. It's not something one pays a great deal of attention to. You would have to ask the stagehands, or the cleaning staff."
He certainly intended to ask. Now that they had Nelly's body, and knew what had become of her, he had a good solid lead.
Seeing Miss Radcliffe into a steam-cab with a few more questions, he found his steps heading toward the infirmary. The worst was over. Garrett knew that, but from the knot in his guts, his body didn't.
Garrett checked on Perry for the fourteenth time that day, easing the infirmary door open and just staring. Perry lay curled on her side, the short shock of silky dark strands darkening the pillow, and the half circle of her lashes fluttering uneasily against her pale cheeks.
The soft sound of her breathing was the only thing that grounded him.
She was tall for a woman; lean and strong, but here in the infirmary she looked frighteningly pale, and so small beneath the sheets. Garrett crossed the room on cat-silent feet. He didn't know how long he stood there, until Doctor Gibson made a sound of disapproval behind him, clearing his throat. Garrett spun, holding up his hands in surrender as the good doctor jerked a thumb toward the door.
Gibson mainly handled autopsies, but in the event of a serious injury, he often saw to the Nighthawks themselves. It was rare that a blue blood couldn't heal from an injury, though occasionally Gibson's dab hand with a needle sped the process up. The craving virus took care of the rest.
The moment the door was closed, Gibson sighed. "Christ, lad. I told you to let her be. She needs rest and blood, and she'll be hale in no time."
Garrett couldn't quite explain the obsessive need to check on her. He'd spent most of the day pacing the hallway, fighting the horrible certainty that she'd stopped breathing again.
He still didn't know what had drawn him down that tunnel. Instinct? Some sound or scent that his mind hadn't quite recognised? What if he'd turned around, and gone back? He couldn't stop thinking about it.
Gibson saw it on his face. "Fine, lad. Just don't wake her up when you check on her."
"I won't," Garrett promised, relief flooding through him as he turned to stalk through near-silent corridors.
He left Perry alone, pacing into the depths of the guild. Smoke curled through his nostrils, tainted with chemical. Fitz's dungeon. Garrett strode past, then paused, rapping sharply on the door.
It jerked open, and Fitz blinked through a pair of magnifying goggles at the sight of him. "Garrett. Come in."
Feeling restless, he paced in front of the fire, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I need you to do something for me."
The room was a mess of benches, all of them smothered in an assortment of gears and metalwork, with fine tools hanging from hooks on the walls. "Of course. What is it?"
Garrett surveyed the gleaming glass eye that stared back at him from some sort of mechanical creature the young man was creating. He took a deep breath. "I need you to create a device for me, a method of tracking a person. It needs to be small and subtle, so that she's not aware of being traced."
"A case?" Fitz asked dryly, "or is this some new concept of courting a woman that I've not heard of?"
Of course he wouldn't have heard. Down here in the bowels of the guild, Fitz rarely came up for air - let alone conversation. The young blue blood was so absorbed in his mechanics that he rarely mingled with others.
"Neither. I'm going to put it on Perry."
Fitz winced. "Good luck with that."
Garrett privately agreed. She'd have his guts for garters. No doubt she'd think it some insane notion that he didn't respect her skills.
How to tell her that there was another reason entirely? That it would allow him to work with her again, without sending him into a rousing panic that something might happen to her again?
He couldn't lose her. He'd never precisely thought of it in terms of such, but their friendship was one of the things he valued most in the world.
"Just create something for me," Garrett said. "I'll do the rest."
Somehow he'd discover a way to put a tracking device on her.
Then he'd never lose her again.
The summons came that evening.
Garrett climbed the stairs to the second floor where Lynch’s study and personal rooms were, his heart as heavy as his feet. Taking a deep breath, he rapped his knuckles on the door.
"Come in."
Fire crackled in the grate, and Lynch’s focus was entirely on the case file in front of him as he made notations. Garrett waited in front of the desk, his hands clasped behind him.
Lynch finished what he was doing, and put his spring-pen aside, leaning back in his chair. He crossed his hands over his middle. "So what happened?"
"I assumed you saw the briefing note?"
"Yes, but I’m asking you. There are some inconsistencies that I’m not quite certain how to interpret."
Hell and damnation. Garrett turned aside, crossing to the window to look out. He knew exactly what his superior was asking of him, and he hated to know that he’d let both Lynch and Perry down in this circumstance. "I made a mistake." One hell of a mistake. His fingers curled into a fist. "I accept full responsibility for what happened."
"Which was?"
Shaking his fist, Garrett slowly uncurled it, and rested his fingers on the windowsill. "Perry and I… There was an argument between us during the initial question
ing on the day Miss Tate disappeared. Then another argument… and another. It just kept escalating. I let my anger with her direct my actions, and when it came to that day at the theatre, I... I cast doubt on her intuition and we argued again." The weight of it was like a mountain, sitting heavily on his shoulders. "I let her remain behind alone, when I shouldn’t have. I let…" And this was the hardest admission of all. "I let an attraction I felt for a witness compromise my case, and my duty toward my partner."
The only thing that broke the silence was Lynch’s sigh, a sound so filled with disappointment that Garrett had to swallow the furious lump in his throat. Why the hell had he been so bloody stupid? Arrogance and petty anger had nearly cost him his partner’s life.
"I’ve never had this problem with either of you. You always work exceptionally well together. Why now? What drove this argument? Your personal involvement with the witness?"
"At first." The words came spilling out of him, the story grudging, but he had made the mistake. It was his duty to rectify the situation. With every word, Garrett felt like he was looking at the situation again, and seeing it in a new light. Wondering why the hell certain things he’d said had seemed to infuriate Perry. Even looking back now, he still couldn’t work it out.
By the time he’d finished, some of the weight had shifted from his shoulders. Not all of it, but some. "I made a monumental mistake, and Perry nearly paid for it. I almost got her killed." Garrett’s voice roughened. "It will never happen again. Never."
Lynch looked thoughtful. "That explains your part in it, but the idea behind a partnership is that there are two people involved. From what I understand, Perry let pride – or God knows what – drive her to search for a potentially dangerous witness on her own. She should have waited for you, regardless of an argument. Do you think that something is bothering her? Something outside the case?"
"I don’t know," Garrett admitted, and it bothered him. The whole damned mess bothered him. "We’ve been... dancing around each other a little." Not working together at all.
"It seems out of character for her." Lynch frowned. He’d been making notes the entire time Garrett had been speaking, which was utterly humiliating.
Garrett knew Lynch kept files on all of his Nighthawks, but for this to be written up…He didn’t say anything however. It was only pride again, eating at him. He’d earned whatever scorn Lynch could cast his way.
"She’s usually more careful than this."
"Sometimes… she takes risks when her gender is challenged," Garrett said carefully. "And Rommell was getting under her skin. I– I didn't support her when Rommell accused her of making a foolish decision, because she's a female. Perhaps she felt she had something to prove."
"Hmm." Lynch drummed his finger on the desk. "Do you think she’s a risk to herself in the field?"
In the field…? "Sir, she’s barely–"
"She’ll heal." Lynch looked up from beneath hooded eyelids. "But in the meantime, I certainly don’t intend to see my two best Nighthawks on scullery duty."
"That’s it? You’re not punishing us?"
"Do I need to offer punishment?" Lynch quirked a brow. "Or are you simply looking for something to absolve you of your guilt?"
"Sir, I–"
"Finish the case," Lynch cut him off, uncapping his pen. He dragged open another case file and began perusing it. "I shall give Perry another day to recover – Doctor Gibson informs me that the craving virus has healed all of her wounds, and that she’ll be well in no time. In the meantime, you will work with Byrnes. Once Perry is on her feet, she’ll rotate in."
"I’d rather she didn’t," Garrett said bluntly. "Let me and Byrnes handle it."
"The answer to that is no. I don’t give a damn what the argument between you pertains to. You will, however, discover a means to deal with it between the pair of you. You will work with her, Garrett, and you will do everything in your power to keep her safe, and to solve this murder. I will expect nothing less of you."
"Yes, sir."
Lynch’s dark head lowered again. "Dismissed."
Dawn spilled through the thin metal slats that covered the window. Someone had opened them. Perry winced, dragging the sheet up over her aching head, and burrowing into the warm mattress beneath her.
A hand snuck beneath the blankets, and tickled her bare foot. Perry jerked upright, her knees drawn in against her chest.
"No time for that," Garrett said. "You've been asleep for two days."
Finding herself wearing little more than an old nightshirt someone had dressed her in - hopefully not Garrett! - she dragged the blankets around her chin. "What are you doing in here?"
Garrett lounged back onto her bed, sprawling on his elbows. "I wanted to see how you were."
She swallowed, feeling the faint echo of rawness in her throat. "Why? What–" Looking around, brought her the realization that she was in the Guild. The last thing she could recall was falling through the trapdoor into the icy cage of water. Feeling it crawl up her body, the pressure of it tight on her lungs, leaving no room, no air for her, no–
Garrett caught her hand, his jaw set in a firm line as he avoided her gaze. "Aye, I know."
"How did I get here?"
"I found you." The expression on his face was devoid of emotion, but his fingers tightened on hers, and all of a sudden, something darkened in his eyes, as if he saw something she didn't. Or relived it, perhaps. "You weren't breathing."
Of course not. She remembered the water washing through her lungs, burying her under it until there was no air... Garrett's grip bought her back into the world.
"You're safe now," he said hoarsely. "And if you ever bloody go off by yourself again, I'll tan your hide. You went after Lovecraft, didn't you?"
Everything came rushing back. Perry tipped her chin up. "I had a job to do."
"We had a job to do. That doesn't mean–"
"You were busy." She threw aside the blankets. "And despite what you thought, I was right. Lovecraft was the key to it - he saw the man who shot Hobbs. Perhaps you should have listened to me - instead of hurrying to placate that blue blood leech - and then none of this would have happened."
There was a decanter of blood on the small table by the bed. Perry's hand shook as she forced herself to pour a glass of it. Decorum. Still, as it wet her lips, she drank in greedy gulps. Finally the lingering silence caught her attention.
Garrett looked as though she'd kicked him in the cods. His entire face had paled, dark shadows ringing his eyes. For the first time she noticed the strain there. Had he even slept? He looked dreadful. Garrett never looked anything short of impeccable, but now she saw that his coppery hair was ruffled, as though he'd run both hands through it, and his clothes were rumpled so severely that it looked like he'd slept in them.
And then she realized what she'd said to him. Careless, spiteful words. She might as well have used her knife. "Garrett–"
"No. You're right. You nearly died, and it's my fault. You think I don't know that? You think I haven't played out every possible scenario for the past two days, wondering what might have happened if I didn't turn down that tunnel, where I found you?" His voice hardened. "I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry, Perry."
The abject misery in his expression stole her breath, and when she reached out, he clasped her hand in his, and cupped it against his face, his lashes curtaining his eyes. The roughened stubble along his jaw grazed her palm, and Perry brought her other hand up to cradle his cheek.
"I shouldn’t have gone after Lovecraft by myself," she whispered. "I should have waited for you. This is as much my fault as yours."
"I wish I could believe that."
He looked up, and the choking blue of those eyes made her heart ache in her chest. Guilt wielded a heavy lash. Perry’s shoulders softened, "I’m sorry too."
Another moment of hesitation, of doubt, and then he dragged her into his arms, the scent of his clothes enveloping her, and her face tucked tight against his throat. The tight crush
of his grip drove the breath from her body, and Perry realized her breasts were pressed hard against his chest. A part of her wanted to stay there, just as she knew that she shouldn't. Longing ached within her, that horrible yearning she was trying not to let herself feel. Perry closed her eyes and drank in the sensation. Just this once.
And only once, would it be. With a sigh, she pushed at him, but his strong arms only tightened.
"Please," Garrett whispered. "Just let me hold you."
Perry gave in, her entire body relaxing into his grip. His cool breath stirred against her cheek, one of his hands sliding down the centre of her back, tracing the indentations of her spine. His breath eased from his body in one long exhalation, and he turned his face into the curve of her throat. The intimacy of the moment was uncomfortable. How she’d longed for something like this – for him to say those words, or for him to hold her. If he ever guessed… The thought was like a wet drip of icy water down her spine, and she cleared her throat. "Garrett? This is indecent. I'm only wearing a nightshirt."
"Christ, I've seen you in your unmentionables before - that time when I didn't realize you were getting changed and barged into your room. It's not as though I think of you as a woman, Perry."
Her heart broke. With a stiff nod, Perry turned away, and poured herself another glass of blood. Of course, he didn't care. What did it matter if he saw her bare legs? It wasn't as though she were female in his eyes. Perry knew that. She'd worked hard to never let him know what beat in her chest, or how much it hurt every time she saw him with another woman.
Just once, she'd like to let him know she had needs and desires too. To give into the yearning that burned in her heart... To kiss him...
Instead, she drained the glass. Then another. She couldn't risk it. What would she do if he laughed at her? Or worse, looked at her with a guilty expression as he tried to carefully explain that he didn't feel the same way.
Never.
She could never tell him. Just bury it deep, where it didn't hurt anymore - or if it did, she could pretend that it didn't.