Tarnished

by Cooper, Karina

  He paused. I watched the planes of his face soften as he turned to me. His eyes were hidden beneath the goggles, but his mouth turned up. Ingratiatingly sweet. “Ah, poppet. You look just like her. But the black . . . the black hair. Clever, girl. I didn’t know it was you until you inhaled the treatment.”

  My skin crawled. “What did that matter?”

  He stiffened, straightening his shoulders and staring down his nose at me as if I were a student in some lecture hall. I stilled, forcing my hand to bend at a painfully awkward angle to hide the pin projecting from the lock. “Alchemical formulae are exact, Cherry. It should have only worked for Josephine. I had no idea it would work for her daughter, or else I’d have never let you leave that exhibit with that fine fellow. What was his name?” he asked, suddenly all too crafty with his wide, gleeful smile. “Terrible choice of beaus, poppet, you need a thinking man.”

  I pushed through the chaotic stream of his words to focus on the topic at hand. “You . . . You knew? You knew what it was doing to me, to your own daughter?” It ended on a high, trembling octave, but I couldn’t believe it.

  Or maybe, it was one more thing I had no choice to believe, given the circumstances. My father was truly mad.

  “Once I saw the psychoactive compound take effect,” he said happily, “I knew. I knew!”

  My chest rose and fell much faster than I wanted, feeling as if it struggled to inhale enough. To breathe deeply enough, fast enough.

  I forced myself to slow it down. “Let me go, Papa, and I’ll help you bring her back.”

  The devil I would. Dead was dead. And the woman hovering just at the edge of my vision was a hallucination courtesy of opium and aether and God only knew what else.

  Nothing could bring the dead back!

  Not even the love of a man who worshipped her.

  “I’ve already unlocked your . . .” He tapped the tube by my arm. I didn’t feel it. Instead, I looked down. Cried out as I realized the tube was filled to the brim with pink liquid. Streaming, pulsing, sliding into me. “Well, let’s just say, you’re much closer to your mother than you ever hoped to be.” I was no longer sure this was as impossible as I’d hoped. “Now lay back and be at ease, Cherry. Your mother wants inside.”

  Something cold filled my heart. My chest. Replaced the feverish weight with something so icily real that I knew it wasn’t my own wild emotions carrying me away.

  I jerked my gaze up. Locked on shimmering green eyes once more floating above me.

  My mother’s hand lodged in my chest, buried to the wrist. Like a . . . like . . .

  I had no frame of reference for this.

  The doctor walked away, clapping his hands together like a giddy schoolboy. “Soon, my girl, you’ll be mine again!”

  I wrenched at the lock with one hand, even as my lips went numb. As my nose began to lose sensation. As my fingers began to ache and throb with so much trapped beneath my skin. I was going to burst; I was going to split like an overripe tomato as the vision of my mother pushed her arm deeper into me. Up to her forearm. Her elbow.

  Although she was silent, I have never to this day seen anything more disturbing.

  I tried to scream, but my throat went numb under a surge of icy pressure. My chest bowed; slammed into the bar and felt no resistance. I was in me, I was not me.

  I was floating over me.

  The drug was pushing me out?

  No, my mother was pulling me from my own skin! I gritted my teeth and fought her with everything I had. Just a few more moments, a few more precious seconds was all I needed as I fumbled with the pin.

  Stay with me, I heard Micajah Hawke snarl in my head. A memory, only a memory, but it was enough.

  I’d beaten this once. I’d beat it again.

  The tumblers caught, then clicked apart completely.

  As metal groaned, it seemed to me as if the whole laboratory shuddered. The first of the currents traveled through the table, into the brass bands, into the plate wrapped around my forehead.

  Into me. My brain, my heart, my body.

  I screamed, back bowing as I struggled to throw it all off.

  The gesture forced the lock free. Slammed the bars upright. With every ounce of willpower I had—feeling as if my skin, my nails, my teeth and heart and lungs and all of me strained to tear itself loose—I wrenched myself to the edge of the table. The band around my head tightened painfully.

  The icy grip in my chest . . . moved. The foggy image of Josephine slid over me, gesturing with smooth, languid strokes. As if she were trapped underwater, held by something I couldn’t see. Her pretty mouth twisted, and I fought back tears of pain and anger and . . . Oh, there was too much all at once for me to handle.

  I had to focus on getting away. Get away, I told myself, get away and I could figure out the rest after. When I could think. When I could step away from it all and study it objectively.

  Just get away.

  She flitted like some oversize bat; a creature of light and airy grace framed in glittering blue. The figure rose over me, angry, I think. Demanding.

  Demanding what? That I obey?

  My fingers pulsated like overstuffed sausages, filled to bursting, and I sobbed brokenly as I clawed at the wires, the tubes.

  A glint of reflected blue turned to a shooting star in my swimming, drug-addled vision. It arced, only to wink out as my father stiffened. His mouth widened. Twisted.

  Blood trickled from his lips as he swayed.

  I gave up on the band, managed to get my aching fingers under the glass tube, and tore it from my arm. Pink fluid sprayed like a fountain, splattered over me, the table.

  The blue-lit shroud.

  Abraham St. Croix wilted, sinking to the floor with his bloody mouth agape. A scream split the air; it wasn’t his. It wasn’t mine. Josephine rose to the ceiling, hands outstretched, mouth wide and teeth bared, and I think the scream came from her. It sliced through the electric crackle, through the painful slam of my own heart in my ears, through space and time and all thought. A primordial thing; a shriek of fury so violent and inhuman, I wasn’t certain that I didn’t imagine it.

  The table edge was too close. I slid off, my limbs unwilling to obey me any further. The ground rushed up to meet me as the scream echoed and re-echoed; a crescendo that shattered glass in its wake. Machines sparked and shuddered.

  My temple slammed into the ground. My limbs twitched helplessly.

  A shadow leaned over me. Raked cool, gloved hands over my head and pulled the metal strap from my brow. Convulsing violently, I retained only the impression of a dark overcoat. A thin, angular jaw.

  The metallic, overly sweet scent of blood high and tight in my nostrils as I was gathered up like a child.

  As the scream faded into an altogether different sound, something that crackled and smelled like oil and smoke, my vision stretched out in front of me. As if I waited at the end of a tunnel. As if I could only listen through thousands of tons of water. Murky, frozen—pressing, and sucking at me and . . . I jerked.

  “Funny thing,” said a low, toneless voice above my head, “I’d made it all the way out of the tunnel before I turned back.” A hand smoothed back my hair. “I suppose you’re not just a bounty, after all.”

  I opened my mouth to scream. The collector I thought had abandoned me to my fate reached down to cover it with a bitter cloth. In my opium-riddled sight, his smile grew teeth long as knives. His hand wrapped around my jaw, my head, slid into my throat to reach for my heart.

  I didn’t scream. I couldn’t. Instead, I drowned. Smothered in pink-and-gold lunacy.

  Chapter Nineteen

  My cheek was damp.

  I surfaced from sleep slowly, this time. As if emerging from a vat of molasses. I became aware of subtle details first, varying nuances that warned me I no longer played in dreams.

  The smell, first. Something spicy, something musky.

  The linen under my cheek, although moist—bloody bells, I’d been drooling again—was soft
. Fine. My lashes scraped against the pillow as I opened bleary eyes.

  White sheets.

  Black silk bedspread.

  Red-and-green embroidery.

  I jerked up so quickly, the room spun wildly in protest. I felt the blood leave my head, drain into my twisted stomach as I clenched the sheets in both hands and stared wildly around the all-too-familiar confines of Micajah Hawke’s sleeping quarters.

  “Damn and blast!” I hissed, and jerked the sheets away from the mattress I knelt on.

  There was no stain. No sign of blood, so I hadn’t clawed myself again. No . . . other . . . what would I even look for?

  It was only as I glared at the innocent sheets beneath me did I realize I was fully dressed.

  Relief swamped me. I sagged, bracing my weight on my arms and letting my head hang for a long moment while I relearned how to calm my rapid heartbeat.

  My head throbbed, filled with brain-addling fuzz and a viscous goo too thick to think through. I cradled my forehead in my palm as I slowly straightened again. The room was quiet, darkened by heavy drapes.

  What had happened?

  The last I recalled, I’d been kidnapped by the murderer I was supposed to collect, and bound to a table. I’d seen . . .

  I’d seen . . .

  My mother?

  My father . . .

  “Blast.” I knuckled at my eyes as the images warped and danced through my mind. Everything seemed too shiny. Too bright, too bloody loud. Even my own thoughts.

  Slowly, every joint creaking with the effort, I slid off the bed. My bare feet sank into the lush Oriental carpet and I took a deep breath, spreading my arms as my balance wavered.

  I felt terrible.

  I was sure I looked it.

  Where was there a mirror? There had to be one somewhere. Micajah Hawke was too much a peacock to go without. I spun, forcing myself to squint through the miasma of pain pulsing through my abused head. I felt as if I’d imbibed an entire barrel of bourbon.

  “There,” I muttered, and winced. Even the sound of my own voice grated as I staggered toward the tall vanity mirror inset behind a discreet screen.

  My reflection, I realized as I stepped into view, had seen some rough days.

  But it wasn’t obvious to anyone who didn’t know me. There were no signs of wounds upon me. Not even a circle where that glass tube had been. I frowned at the neat braid my hair had been plaited into. I touched my clean cheek, studied my hands as if by searching hard enough, I’d find the grime I knew was supposed to be there. Even my clothes were clean.

  Someone had dressed me while I slept.

  Someone had undressed me while I slept.

  Flushing, I turned, strode back across the empty, silent room, and found my own kid boots by the door. I struggled into them, fumbling for the door latch at the same time, and threw open the door.

  The hall was empty. Not even a servant present.

  I knew the way out. I took it hurriedly, my head down and shame bundled tightly in with my hung-over confusion.

  As I pushed into the muted, fog-free daylight of the Menagerie, I blinked hard, shading my eyes with an open hand. Now I saw where the servants had gone.

  They bustled to and fro across the lawn, carrying baskets, loads of washing, props, racks of clothing, trays and more. A full dining arrangement had been set up, tables and chairs and cloths and empty platters all extremely reminiscent of the adventures Mr. Carroll had written in Wonderland. A theme, I realized. An event was preparing.

  It was business as ever at the Midnight Menagerie, and I clung to the door frame for a long moment as I struggled to wrap my head around my own memory.

  What had happened? How did I get here?

  Once more in Hawke’s bed, no less?

  And what had I done there?

  Dread curled into a sick knot in my chest. I disliked not remembering. More and more, I felt as if my mind was going on a walkabout without me. But the images that rose to the surface were too fantastical to be real. Somewhere in there, in the shouting and the ghostly reflections and uncertain memory of my father’s face, I knew I’d find the truth.

  Opium twisted everything.

  And alchemy; God only knew what my father had done.

  I swallowed hard, my tongue gummy and sour in my own mouth, and wiped my lips with the back of my hand.

  “I said, git off!”

  The sudden roar of it lanced through my inward focus, and I jerked as the angry masculine voice was swallowed by gasps and jeers. I grabbed the door frame, peering across the lawn toward the knot of men by the private garden entrance.

  One man—a broad, squat, heavily muscled sailor, by the looks of his tattooed arms—had dropped his load of polished furniture. It lay scratched and forlorn as he leapt at a Menagerie footman, this one equally as muscled but taller and lacking entirely in hair.

  The gleaming chair he’d been carrying went sailing into the private garden gate, splintering loudly. The men didn’t care. As the other servants taunted and jeered and screamed around them, the two men hammered at each other, locking up until muscles bulged and threats became curses.

  “That’s enough!”

  I caught my breath.

  Micajah Hawke waded through the nest of cheering footmen without fear, his sculpted features tight with anger. With intensity. My fingers tightened on the wooden frame as I watched him seize one brawler by the nape of the neck, the other by his collar, and wrench them apart.

  Bared in just his shirtsleeves, the muscles of his arms rippled and shone. Bronzed and perfect, as if he’d been sculpted by Lord Pennington’s mother-in-law with distinct precision. The moss green fabric draped over his shoulder did nothing to ease the power he displayed as he shook each man violently. The men separated, not entirely of their own accord, and glared at each other as Hawke’s too-quiet voice tore into each.

  I didn’t know what he said. Whatever it was, the men grimaced, and the crowd dispersed as quickly as it had knotted. I watched money exchange hands.

  I watched Hawke fold his arms over his broad chest and stand like a conquering statue as the men set about collecting the broken chairs.

  I swear I felt it when his gaze lifted to me. All at once, he strode toward me, and a river of blue flame slid to my belly. And lower.

  I closed my eyes. Took a deep, steadying breath.

  Fabric rustled. Something displaced the air over my head, snapped like a sheet in the wind, and my eyes flew open. Startled, I jumped as verdant folds settled around my shoulders. Draped to my feet, soft and warm.

  I drowned in mismatched dark brown eyes, towering over mine.

  Hawke pulled the cloak tight around my shoulders. His ungloved hands were warm beneath my chin, his gaze intent on mine as his fingers slid the clasp in place.

  I wet my dry lips. “Mr. Hawke, I—”

  A muscle leapt in his jaw. Deftly, he flipped the hood up to cover my hair. “We can’t have all of London knowing what it is you do as a hobby, Miss—” He paused, and I reached up to ease the lined hood away from my eyes. Just in time to see his mouth quirk. “Miss Black,” he finished, with a wealth of meaning I’d never forget.

  Or be allowed to.

  I wrapped the folds of the loaned cloak tighter about myself. “What happened?” I asked.

  “Zylphia found you outside the Thames Tunnel,” he told me, but it wasn’t a pleasant revelation. Anger tightened his features. “Despite having searched the tunnel thoroughly prior.”

  I winced. “There was a . . .” My dry mouth failed me, and I was forced to wet my lips before I said uncertainly, “A laboratory, I think.”

  “Not in that tunnel.”

  “There has to be,” I countered, my fingers curling into the fabric. “I didn’t just disappear.”

  His jaw set. “You were smoldering, Miss Black. Like a fire log.”

  I looked away. How much voltage had that lab used? Woolsey—I caught myself, knowing it wasn’t in time to keep the wince from twisting my fea
tures. Not Woolsey, was it? My father.

  “That’s right,” I murmured.

  “Miss Black?”

  I glanced up at him, at the man who’d helped me overcome the very thing my father had created, and realized that I owed him more than just my gratitude.

  Damnation. I did not like the feeling.

  “Thank you,” I said, even if it sounded much more stiff than maybe he’d like to hear.

  His eyebrow arched. “No thanks are required. You failed in your collection.”

  I had, hadn’t I? I looked away.

  “Are you still intent on your fool hobby, then?”

  “It’s not a hobby,” I said, and even to my own ears I sounded petulant.

  His hands enclosed my shoulders.

  So warm, even through the thick cloak. I knew they were callused. I knew he hid working hands beneath his gentleman’s gloves.

  I imagined I knew what they felt like on my skin, but as I stared up at him, as his fingers tightened and his eyes banked with something I didn’t know how to read, I realized that I couldn’t be sure.

  Opium muddled it all, and I was quickly growing tired of the realization.

  Hawke let me go, only to tuck a finger beneath my chin. He forced my head up, until I was nearly on my tiptoes and half-seized with the urge to bury my fingers in his thick black hair as it stirred in the mysteriously fragrant Menagerie breeze.

  “I did warn you, didn’t I?” he asked, but there was not so much a question as a growl of . . . of possession in the words. A thread of, what, smug pleasure? “Now, Miss Black, you are a pet in my menagerie.”

  I clenched my hands beneath the cloak. “Unhand me, Mr. Hawke.”

  He ignored the order. “This time,” he said softly, his finger unyielding beneath my chin, “you will go home.”

  Anger gave me the surge of energy I needed to pull away from his finger. Allowed me to turn away from the heat of his body and the odd feeling the sight of his bare arms was having on my insides.

  I was just feeling ill from the events of the night, that was all.

  “Your point is well taken,” I said coolly. “If you’ll excuse me, I shall—”