“Eliza,” came the husky voice of Henrietta
Falcon. When she looked up at her, Falcon gasped. She must have been a sight.
“Eliza, what’s going on? Where’s Wellington”
She understood exactly what she needed to
do, but she would have the narrowest of windows for it. “Henrietta, I may lose
Wellington. He is surrendering himself to the House of Usher.” Henrietta’s
eyebrows raised as Eliza struggled to keep her composure. “I know what I need to
do… but…” It was difficult to breathe, to think. “... but how to begin... ”
Henrietta nodded, pulling another desk chair up to her. She eased Eliza into it and held her hands tightly. “I understand, and I think I know where to begin.” She looked to either side of them, assuring there were no agents within earshot. “And we start with Wellington’s measurements…”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
In Which the Mistress of Death Makes Good on Her Bargain
Filippo blinked once, twice, thrice, when the bag over his head was removed, then he took a deep breath. The dank smell of standing water tinged the air, and a rock ceiling carved by time arched over his head. He couldn’t tell if it was gas or electricity illumination, but his new surroundings were a cave.
He wanted to reach up and rub his face, but his right arm would not move. Neither would his left.
In fact, Filippo was unable to move anything. Not even his head.
He desperately wanted to. To his left, breathing, faint—but someone was there. There were several people there. He was certain of it.
Filippo strained his eyes to look as far to the left as possible, and once his eyes could move no further, he tried to force his head to turn. No pain. Nothing. Yet, his muscles refused to work. His skin prickled with sweat as his head turned against this bizarre, invisible resistance. Finally, the mysterious people came into view.
Several feet away from him stood a young woman, flanked by three children. From the rags hanging off their bodies, grime and filth decorating their skin, they resembled street urchins in desperate need of a bath and proper clothes. They stared as Filippo not in shock, not in fear, nor in revulsion. They stared at him as if he were a butterfly specimen pinned under glass. These four vagabonds took a full measure of him. Something ran down his temples. Sweat? He trembled. This unseen resistance was taking its toll. He gasped for breath. His lungs burned from the strain, but at least the burning was something.
"You should not struggle," a voice called from somewhere nearby. Words bounced around him in the cavern’s echo, so it was difficult to know much of the speaker. Female, definitely. But where was she standing? Only this was certain: this speaker was in control. "You will only injure yourself, Sigñor."
"Who are you?" Filippo asked, his voice booming against the surrounding rock.
Filippo did not want to panic. Not knowing where he was, nor who these people were, did nothing to calm his wits, but he would not give in to terror.
Footsteps were now behind him. His heart pounded faster, and for a moment, there was nothing except for the thrumming of his own blood.
"This must be unnerving, Sigñor," the voice spoke again. "Please, let me accommodate you."
The sharp clack-clack-clack of cogs catching on one another echoed all around him, the sound conjuring images of ancient torture devices used in the Spanish Inquisition. The world began to tip and spin. Filippo still did not feel anything but his world moved downward. Whatever restrained him now brought his captors into his field of view.
At the centre of the small group standing before him, was an elderly woman, her hair shock-white save for strands of black peppered throughout. She stood with the assistance of a cane, while at her side was another, much younger woman, dressed head-to-toe in black. She looked tired as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. The younger woman held a doctor’s bag.
The old woman rested both hands on the head of her cane; and much like the urchins to his left, she took the measure of Filippo. From the woman’s expression that prisoners were nothing new. "Mr Filippo Rossi," the old woman began, her diction sharp and deliberate, "your journey was not too unsettling I hope?"
Filippo’s brow furrowed. Not too unsettling? What sort of question was that? He screwed his eyes shut as he struggled with the last thing he remembered. Wine. He was having a glass of wine. A fantastic meal on his plate. His unexpected saviour sat across from him, toasting to their plan in dealing with the House. With an idea of what they would do next, he booked flights for them to Toronto where they'd be rescued by the House. He would put in a good word for her, but that was all. He would not care about her fate once she was handed over. Then...
The dinner was delightful as was the wine; but then he recalled only flashes of memory. Fabric slipping over his head. The sensation of being borne up and placed in a truck or cart of some fashion. His body rocking back and forth as he was being spirited away. Where exactly, he did not know.
Filippo simply needed to keep his wits about him. "To whom do I owe the pleasure?"
The old woman wrung her hands against the head of her cane. "My name is not important."
"It would certainly help, if we are to discuss matters at hand. You have me at a bit of a disadvantage, at present."
"I have you at a disadvantage?" The old woman smiled and nodded. "Well now, is this not a most interesting turn of fortunes? Not so long ago, it was you who had me at a disadvantage when you attacked my family. Without provocation."
Filippo considered the ladies and children to his left. His gaze narrowed on the old woman, and his heart continued its frenetic pace. The resemblance was uncanny.
"Nonna?" Filippo croaked out.
Her expression turned sour. "Yes, but you are to address me more formally, not as mi famiglia would. Either address me as Sigñora del Morte, or Francesca."
Filippo swallowed hard, and now his throat might as well have been full of crushed glass. He was in desperate need of a drink, but he dared not ask a single thing from the matriarch of the del Morte household. He knew there had to be others of the clan nearby.
Why was he unable to turn his head? What was wrong with him?
"Sigñora," Filippo began, a tremble in his voice—not the best way to start a conversation with an adversary. Never let the other side no how terrified you are. A basic lesson from when he was in the field for Usher. Filippo cleared his throat and started again. "Sigñora, I can only assume you have many questions for me."
"Many questions? What makes you think I have any questions? I understand the situation quite clearly. You set the House of Usher against the House of del Morte. You came into our village and attempted to wipe us out."
Filippo took in a deep breath. He had to find some sort of common ground—some kind of leverage. "I know famiglia matters a great deal to you. I know that turning your daughters and granddaughters on your own must be difficult. However, when one of your own kills another, I have no doubt you would want to avenge that death."
Nonna leaned in, her cane remaining steady even as she did so. "Go on."
"The one who brought this upon you, the del Morte who betrayed the House of Usher and in turn betrayed your family? I can deliver her to you." Filippo licked his lips, trying to assert control over the situation. "Grant me safe passage to Usher and I will personally pledge all of our European resources in finding Sophia."
"Now why would my Nonna ask for help from the House of Usher," spoke a familiar, luxuriant voice from behind him, "when Nonna knows exactly where her Sophia is?"
Her smile sent chills through him. He was oddly grateful to experience a sensation of any kind at this point. She took a place by Francesca, and the look on her Nonna’s face was one of immense pride. She had been his saviour, and eventually, his confidant. This dark Guardian Angel, Sophia del Morte, who had spun an incredible tale of desperation and alienation, but here she was in the bosom of her family.
&n
bsp; Filippo went to say something, but paused. The other woman to Nonna’s right, the one all dressed in black carrying a doctor’s bag, suddenly caught his complete attention.
On a small table next to Nonna, the woman began playing out a wide array of edged instruments. Were these the instruments of her office? Or were they instruments of torture in her hands? Perhaps, a bit of both? In her eyes, Filippo saw burning white heat. Her face did not twist in rage—she didn’t even so much as furrow her brow. This quiet stranger regarded Filippo with a gaze that drilled into him.
His attention jumped back to Sophia. "I saw you kill your sister..."
"Cousin," Sophia corrected him. "You saw me kill my cousin."
"Sister, cousin, we do not need to lose ourselves in the semantics of it!" he snapped. "You shot Lucinda twice in the chest, and then you had me hold her down while you smothered her."
Sophia’s eyebrows raised as she nodded. Quite a tale, her face seemed to say. "A grizzly task, Sigñor, but you answered the challenge. What you witnessed, however, was not what you believed it to be." She motioned with her hand for someone to step forward. The sweet shopkeeper that tried to kill him the other day, the same shopkeeper that hunted him through the stacks of The Raven bookshop—Sophia’s cousin, Lucinda del Morte appeared out of the shadows. She was wearing the shirt she had worn that day, still bloodstained from the shots Sophia had landed on her person.
Theatrics. The entire incident at the bookshop had been an elaborate illusion.
"You were protecting me," Filippo insisted. "You had plenty of chances to kill me. You saved me from being apprehended by the Ministry."
"Indeed, I did. And Sigñor, believe me, what I told about my standing in the del Morte family was not a complete lie," Sophia admitted, motioning around her. "I am held responsible for what happened at Montenegro. I had gone into business with the House of Usher, a sanction that Nonna specifically warned me against, and now mi famiglia have become refugees in our own country. This is my responsibility to bear, and I resigned myself to face my fate."
"Isn’t this the way of the young, Filippo?" Nonna asked him. "So melodramatic. So ready to fall on their sword for the wrongs they have done when they could just as easily make amends."
"There never was a sanction on Sophia," he whispered.
"To turn family against each other breeds only contempt and dishonour. That is bad for business." Nonna glanced at Sophia and then turned back to Filippo. "Instead, I offered Sophia another option: you."
"Tonight’s dinner. That is how you find yourself here, with us," Sophia offered.
He had to keep his wits about him.
He had to remain calm.
He was failing at every turn.
"We drank the same wine, ate the same food," he insisted. "Whatever I had, would’ve affected you as well?"
Sophia nodded. "Most perceptive, you are quite right. You and I prepared meals together, and we drank from the same wine bottles. Not to say you did not take precautions, at first. I did notice you only moved your food from one side of the plate to the other, drank wine only you purchased. Of course, I observed that." Sophia then took a few steps closer to him, resting her hands against her hips as she stood before him. She’d lured many men to their deaths with her beauty, but now she was less of an Aphrodite, and more a spectre, ready to escort him to the next world. "Did it ever strike you as curious while we were travelling that you were never able to wake me up in the morning?"
Her sleeping habits were infuriating, but what did that have to do with his current predicament? "What?"
"A woman does need her privacy, you can understand that? And in my private moments before bed, I would ingest good amount of tea brewed from Angel’s Trumpets, this rather delightful flower from Australia. Not enough to kill me, but enough that would keep me paralysed. All those times you were knocking at my door? I heard you. Every time. When you set off on your own, I was a little concerned I would lose you."
"But your cousin was at The Raven. How did you find—?"
"My dear Filippo, once I found you in Assisi, the del Morte family set their plan in motion. We have been watching you in secret since we set off for Rome. And yes, you were right—if I wanted agents of the Ministry dead, they would be dead. I had to make certain that I won your trust. While I did so, I built my own immunity to this poison. When you finally believed yourself safe and under my protection, you now find yourself in this position."
The young woman in black, walked over to his left, out of his vision. A lever clanked. The cave filled with the sound of gears, high-pressure motors hissing to life, and wisps of steam slinking from under him to curl over the edge of his table. Looking to his left and right, he saw a long mirror mounted on a mechanical arm extending itself from underneath the slab on which he laid. The reflection that swivelled into view revealed Filippo lying against a featureless slab, only one restraint running across his chest. His arms and legs were free to move if they were able. Contorting his face, he looked at his limbs in the mirror, attempting to move even a finger. Nothing.
"And now I turn you over to my sister, Hortensia," Sophia said, motioning to the woman Filippo saw in the reflection of the overhead mirror. "She will be taking on the proceedings from here."
With a slight incline of her head, Sophia placed a kiss on Nonna’s cheek and then started ascending a stone ridge winding up along the far wall.
"Wait," Filippo called to her. "You’re leaving? After all this, you’re leaving?"
She paused halfway up the stone stairs before turning back to him. "Much as in your Ragnarök, you are merely one cog in the machine. This is only our first step forward. Ciao, Signor Rossi."
Filippo watched her for as long as possible, until Hortensia pulled another lever, conjuring more steam and mechanical clamour. The table underneath him began to move again as the loud clickety-clickety-clack-clack of gears and cogs echoed all around the cave. Filippo once again stared toward the rock ceiling, the reflection of his paralysed body mocking him in the mirror overhead.
Hortensia leaned into view, joined moments later by other members of the del Morte clan. The woman he had seen earlier was there, her expression no different. Her eyes were like all the others upon him: curious, studying.
Then Hortensia spoke. Her voice was a contralto—not as intoxicating or seductive as her cousin’s. She was far more clinical in nature. "Perhaps you are thinking, Sigñor, that I intend to abandon my Hippocratic oath. Do no harm. I tried to uphold it, you know? I tried so hard, and I still try. Every day. Family, I have discovered, presents an exception to even the most hallowed oaths." She pulled into view the small table with the tools of her trade on it. Hortensia held up the scalpel. "In my time as a physician I have learned that oaths have no meaning if they cannot be tested—at least, when the cause is just."
Dizziness swept over Filippo as he willed his hand to come up and grab the scalpel. He would drive it into her neck and then carve his way to freedom. If only his body were as strong as his will. Then, quite suddenly, sensation began to return. Her fingers running against his chest. His shirt scraping against his skin as she removed it. He still couldn't move, but tactile awareness was coming back.
"You took from our family our means of existence, our means for survival. Now we all must learn our craft over again. Nonna has given me the responsibility of educating my sisters, nieces, and relatives, and I intend to do so." Filippo’s breath caught as she stared at him for a prolonged moment before looking up at those gathered around him. "Tonight, with the assistance of Sophia’s poison, we have a lesson. We will study in detail the most vulnerable points on the human body." Hortensia looked to each of them in turn. "Shall we proceed?"
They all nodded in unison—even the children.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Wherein Eliza Says Goodbye
A chill in the air in the high desert wasn’t surprising, nor the feeling of loneliness and desolation. Still it was a spectacular part of the world, the Arizon
a Territories.
Seated in the waiting room of the remote train station, staring out the window, the vast skies scattered with stars called to Wellington. It was a beautiful scene that he enjoyed in silence even though he was not alone in the room.
Eliza left an hour previous to see to preparations, and he found himself glancing at the spot where she usually was—missing her. Even her simmering rage would have been some kind of company.
The others in the room—Bruce Campbell, Brandon Hill, Director Sound and Luther Highfield, Chief of the Office of the Supernatural and Metaphysical—were not so much comfort.
Though this was only Wellington’s second visit to the southwestern region of the former colonies, he was familiar it from a rather dramatic moment of Ministry/Usher history. The case involved his Canadian and Australian escorts. With tense shoulders and their silence, they communicated well enough what they were recalling it themselves. This train journey into desert was not their idea.
Wellington leaned back in his seat. "No need to fret, gentlemen, I am certain our friends at OSM have taken precautions. No cataclysmic collisions tonight."
Sound and Highfield stood by the door, talking in low tones and taking little notice of the others. The Chief towered over the Director so that he had to bend down a little. He was as well-dressed as the last time Wellington had seen him. Highfield, a broad-shouldered black man, obviously chose his fashion to compliment both his skin tone and height.
Brandon followed Wellington’s gaze and lowered his tone. "That particular mission was a delightful romp."
"I can only imagine."
Operation: Endgame (Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences Book 6) Page 26