by Ranae Rose
The floor shook beneath Elsie as the distinct sound of a slamming door came from below. She would have jumped, but her bindings were so snug that her reaction was rendered more of a feeble flop. For a moment she fought to maintain balance, to keep from tumbling over onto her side. Her mind was only half-occupied with the struggle, while the rest of her thoughts were whirling in a haze of anxiety. A hint of hope made it all the more potent. Had her kidnapper just arrived, or perhaps…a rescuer? She knew she shouldn’t raise her hopes by daring to entertain the latter notion, but she couldn’t help it. Surely Damon had noticed by now that she was gone and was searching for her. The thought warmed her heart a little as staccato footsteps sounded, becoming louder with each click, as if someone was climbing a flight of stairs.
So she’d learned something else, at least – she was not on the first floor of a building. She was probably on the second. That narrowed it down some, if not by much. It was no mere shed or cottage that she was confined to. Perhaps she was in a house. But whose and where? The carriage ride could have lasted the entire night, or even longer, for all she knew. She could very well be in the Scottish Highlands by now!
At last a voice sounded, giving her a long-awaited hint at her captor’s identity. “Sleeping? ‘Ow dare you?” The accent was not a Scottish brogue – fortunately – but it was exotic. Elsie’s stomach churned as she recognized the honey-thick French accent. Véronique. God, could she have been brought all the way to France, dragged along like a piece of luggage?
The voice that replied was thoroughly British. “Just resting my eyes a bit dear. It wears on me, you know – staying up all night. I’m not like you. At least, not yet.”
“Excuses!” Elsie could practically see the flamboyant hand gesture that almost certainly accompanied such a vehement accusation. “Eef you still want to be like me, you ‘ad better do your job! We will be ruined eef you lose zee girl.”
The man snorted. “Lose her! She’s bound hand and foot with chains that could hold a bloody Man o’ War at anchor! I could sleep the day away and she would not make it out of that room.”
Véronique’s response was punctuated by a sharp sound that sent the floorboards rattling as she quite literally put her foot down. “We cannot afford to take any chances. Did you give ‘er zee morning dose of zee tea?”
The moment of silence that followed did not seem to bode well for Véronique’s partner – whoever he was. “Not yet,” he finally said. “I was just about to. I’ve got the powder right here, I—”
An exasperated sigh stretched on for several seconds. “After all zee work I went through last night to bring ‘er ‘ere, you cannot spare zee time to give ‘er a simple cup of tea every four hours?”
The floor rumbled as chair legs scraped across it. “I’ll do it right now. It’s only half-past nine. She’ll still be dead to the world.”
“Eez that zee last of zee powder?” Véronique called after him.
“I suppose it is, unless you’ve got more hidden away somewhere.”
“Of course I ‘avent! Why didn’t you tell me before I went out?”
“I assumed you knew.”
An exaggerated huff echoed down the hall as the sound of the man’s footsteps ceased.
Elsie tensed, then forced herself to relax before a door swung open, squeaking on hinges that were in severe need of an oiling. After what she’d just heard, it didn’t take much thought to determine that she’d better pretend to be asleep.
“Bloody bacon-brained chit,” the man mumbled as he stepped into the room. Elsie counted his paces as he strode toward her – there were six. “Bosoms from here to the continent though, I’ll give her that.”
“I ‘eard that!” Véronique called, sounding only half displeased.
He snorted and – by the sound of it – knelt in front of Elsie, who was letting her head loll on her shoulder. Relatively fresh air hit her face for the first time as the sack over her head was lifted halfway. She peeked from beneath partially opened lids, desperate for a glance of her captor, or at least her surroundings.
The room was dimly but thoroughly lit, as if there were a window somewhere above. Unfortunately, all Elsie could see was a hint of dusty floor boards, the front of her own body and a large thumb that was hooked around the edge of the sack, which apparently was very thick indeed. She quickly forgot the dirty floor as her gaze focused on the thin white muslin that only half-concealed her breasts, not to mention the rest of her. She still wore only her shift. It was suddenly very difficult to maintain the pretense of being relaxed and oblivious.
Fortunately, the man seemed intent on completing his task and escaping the room. Elsie nearly sputtered when he snatched the gag out of her mouth and shoved something rudely against her lips, popping a thumb into the corner of her mouth and forcing her to open her jaws as if she were a stubborn horse reluctant to take its bit. She swallowed the bitter-tasting liquid he poured into her mouth out of reflex. A good bit of it ran down her chin and spilled down her front, dampening her already scandalous excuse for cover. Apparently too occupied by thoughts of Véronique’s transatlantic bosoms to care, the man pulled the sack back down over Elsie’s head and rose. Something light brushed Elsie’s arm, but she was afforded little time to wonder what it might be. The sound of the closing door was the last thing she heard before her thoughts blurred and fuzzed, blending into an unnatural, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 18
Jenny wove her way through the London crowds without really seeing anyone. It was Sunday afternoon, and rather than taking a walk in the estate rose garden or languishing over a book in the library, she’d fled the house as soon as she’d been relieved of her half-day’s duties. The hysteria that had gripped the other maids was unbearable, and the more time she’d spent in their company, the closer she’d felt to tipping over the edge herself. Even now, despair threatened to overwhelm her. Offering up a quick prayer for strength in the face of hardship, she turned a random corner, heading down a row of shops she didn’t care about this Sunday. The only way she could possibly fight off the feelings of uselessness – the only way she could possibly do Elsie any good – was to keep thinking logically. There was an answer, even if she hadn’t been able to find it yet.
“Oh, Elsie…” Saying her friend’s name brought a rush of memories and intensified her pain, rather than bringing her any amount of comfort. Every time she thought of Elsie – which was constantly – she saw the footman’s crushed skull in her mind’s eye. Whoever had done that had taken her. The fact that Elsie was immortal didn’t ease her worries. If there was no way she could be harmed, then why would a violent criminal have kidnapped her? She cursed her lack of knowledge, wishing she knew more about the vampires she shared a house – albeit a very large one – with.
But no, she shouldn’t be spending time mulling over idle curiosities. There were only two things she needed to be thinking about: who had kidnapped Elsie, and where they had taken her. Naturally, she would need to determine the first before the latter. That was where logic would come in. Simple logic had never – well, almost never – steered her wrong in the past. If she just thought about it long enough, she was bound to come up with an answer, or at least some sort of guess to go on. Deftly stepping around a pile of horse manure, she mentally combed over the conversation she and Elsie had shared the evening before. If there was one advantage she possessed, it was that her memory never failed her – she was as likely to forget anything as a pig was to fly. The trouble was that it would be easier to avoid stepping in filth on a crowded London street than it would be to successfully mine useful bits of information from the dead-end wonderings and wild speculations she and Elsie had indulged in.
“Ah! Deesgusting!” A heavily-accented voice somehow managed to cut through the drone of noise that filled the busy street. Jenny looked up to see an aristocratic-looking woman lifting her skirts and shaking a foot as if it were on fire. Bits of manure flew from her boot, splattering unfortunate passersby, who glared at
her in return. A few locks of the woman’s vividly red hair flew out from beneath her bonnet as she whipped her head around, doing her best to return each and every bitter look. Jenny’s stomach plummeted down to her toes when she recognized the woman.
What was Véronique Renard doing in London? She’d disappeared days ago, as soon as she’d presumably discovered that Damon had brought a wife with him to London. Her flight had been relegated to the backburner of popular discussion, overwhelmed by news of Elsie and Damon’s marriage. Everyone had naturally assumed that Véronique had returned to Paris, humiliated, and yet here she was, muttering uncomplimentary things in French as she finally dropped her skirts and stalked into a shop. The sign hanging above the entrance indicated that it was an apothecary.
Jenny side-stepped a plump woman with two children in tow, escaping the flow of foot traffic as she pressed herself against the shop’s brick front, her mind whirling. It was obvious that Véronique hadn’t returned to Paris to lick her wounds. As the daughter of a wealthy family, she was almost certainly not used to not getting her way, and according to gossip, she was known for being rather temperamental. Could it be possible that she’d remained in the city, purposely keeping a low profile, with intent to exact some sort of revenge on Elsie for taking Damon?
It was a rather sensationalistic idea – more the sort of thing chattering maidservants would come up with than likely reality. And yet, it was all Jenny had to go on. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to quietly follow her after she left the apothecary, at least to see where she was staying. If anything seemed suspicious, she would tell Damon – provided that she could find him, of course. Last time she’d seen him, he’d been fleeing the house, looking as desperate to escape it as she’d felt.
****
Damon upended the drawstring purse he held, spilling dozens of coins onto the surface of the table. The men who stood at its edges eyed the pile of silver with eyes that shone with lust – some widened and some narrowed, just as some were brown and others blue. “Take one, each of you,” Damon said, his voice devoid of passion, “as a token of my good faith.”
The men scrambled for the money, snatching up coins and quickly tucking them into their deepest pockets. Their eyes glimmered with the desire for more, which was exactly the effect Damon had been pursuing. “There are plenty more where those came from,” he assured them, trying to inject some semblance of enthusiasm or encouragement into his voice. It was a difficult task when every fiber of his body burned with the desire to move, to do something to find Elsie on his own instead of delegating the task to a lot of thief-takers. Stuffing the empty purse into a pocket, he forced himself to meet the eyes of each and every one of the men in turn. This was without a doubt the most useful thing he could be doing, even if it felt like anything but. “Two hundred and fifty pounds to the man who brings me information that leads to my wife’s safe return. Five hundred to anyone who manages to bring her back to me safely. You have my solemn word. Now go.”
The men rushed from the room, many of them moving with nearly vampiric speed. When they were all gone, Damon pulled out a chair from the table and collapsed into it, cursing. He’d rented this room in a tavern and summoned every thief-taker London had to offer. Many had come, and still it was not enough. He slammed a fist down on the tabletop, causing a crack to spread through the surface. If only he had not gone out the night before – if only he’d stayed in bed with Elsie, as she had longed for him to do. The killer had not struck again on the streets last night, but in his own home.
Yes, he was sure the fiend who’d slain three innocent humans was the same who’d invaded his house, murdered his footman and kidnapped his wife. Before, he’d been convinced that the original three killings held a message, though what it was and who it had been meant for had eluded him. A bitter taste filled his mouth now that he thought about it. In retrospect, it was obvious who the intended recipient had been – himself. The message was clear, too – the two young lovers who’d had their hearts carved out were clearly representative of himself and Elsie. Had it been meant as a threat or a promise? He’d asked himself that a thousand times already. What the actress’ death meant was also still a mystery, but who cared? Elsie had been taken, and that was all that mattered. He already felt as if his own heart had been ripped out.
****
The fog faded slowly from Elsie’s mind, teasing her with tastes of consciousness and alternately plunging her back into restless sleep. When all that remained was a dull sort of headache, she tested her bonds. They were the same – heavy, snug and totally unyielding. She worked her hands and feet anyway, testing for the faintest hint of weakness, the smallest bit of slack. It pained her to do so, but sitting still and quietly waiting for her next dose of the sleep-inducing elixir seemed an unbearable alternative. She had to get free.
Removing the sack that covered her head seemed like the obvious first step. Once she could see again, she’d be able to take her first look at her bindings and inspect them for any flaw that might allow her to get out of them. The way her mysterious male captor had raised and lowered the sack had made it obvious that it had been simply slipped over her head, apparently not tied or secured in any way. With her hands behind her back, any sort of manual method of removal was clearly out of the question. But if she could manage to turn her head more or less upside down…
She ended up lying on her side on the floor – a position which she’d eased herself into as quietly as possible. Once there, she pressed the side of her face against the floor and began to twist her neck, determined to remove the sack by sheer friction or, if she was lucky, by forcing it to catch on a splinter or some other fortunate flaw in the woodwork.
It was slow going, due not least of all to the fact that she had to keep her movements in check, trying not to jingle her chains. For the first time, their painful snugness seemed a blessing. Had they not been biting into her flesh, they would have made a terrible lot of noise.
The sack succumbed to her efforts inch by agonizingly slow inch. By the time she was finally free of it, the intense sensation of relief and exhaustion that followed seemed as if it might have been more appropriate for a woman who’d just given birth, not escaped a simple head covering. Still, the success was heartening, and she immediately committed herself to studying her surroundings.
The room was small and bare; the corners dusted with a light film of dirt. A high window admitted sunlight that cut through the air in a thick bar, motes dancing within the beam. Elsie twisted her neck, straining for an outside view, but only the pale blue of an afternoon sky was visible, relieved here and there by the occasional wispy cloud. Her headache intensified instantly, but it was worth it to be out of the dark sack. Looking away from the window, she gave the room another onceover. The balled-up piece of fabric her captors had used to gag her lay in a soggy little heap to her left. It nearly hid the small object that lay behind it, but not quite. Straining to return to a sitting position, Elsie craned her neck for a better look at what lay behind the discarded gag.
It appeared to be a folded piece of parchment. A fuzzy memory returned to Elsie as she began to scoot quietly towards it – something had brushed her arm after her captor had forced the tea down her throat. It must have been the square of paper. Mingled hope and curiosity nearly overwhelmed her. Whatever had been written on the parchment – assuming it wasn’t blank – might provide another piece to the puzzle that was her kidnapping. Her chains jingled a little as she moved, causing her to wince. If her captors were in the next room, as they had been last time she’d woke, a single sound might be enough to alert them that she was awake. But she’d be damned if she was going to sit still and wait for her next dose of tea.
It took a couple of the slowest minutes of her life, but she eventually succeeded in sidling up to the mysterious bit of parchment. Of course, this accomplishment presented a whole new problem – how could she possibly manage to pick up the letter and unfold it? Her feet were too clumsy, and the chains around her ankle
s tended to make the most noise. She’d have to use her hands. Moving in a slow circle, she eventually managed to turn her back to the piece of paper. Once that was done, it was a matter of seizing it with clumsy fingers and unfolding it behind her back while staring at the door and hoping desperately that no one had heard her.
The parchment was new and inflexible, stubbornly refusing to lie flat. Still, she managed to unfold it into something more than the square it had been a few minutes ago. When it slipped from her fingers, there didn’t seem to be much of a point in picking it up again. Pushing her feet against the floorboards, she turned in another half circle, her chains jangling softly as she eagerly eyed the creased sheet of paper.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding when she saw the tidy scrawl that had been inked across the page. Swinging her legs around and awkwardly pinning down one stubborn corner of parchment with her big toe, she read. Her keen eyesight made it easy to decipher the hand-written script. The very first words addressed what was plainly a letter to Damon.
A wave of longing swept over Elsie as she stared at his name, penned by a stranger’s hand, but her curiosity demanded that she shove her softer emotions to the back of her mind and read on. We have your wife, the letter began, cutting straight to the chase, and intend to hold her until due payment is rendered in the sum of ten thousand pounds. You are afforded three days to deliver said sum, in cash, to a specific location that will be revealed in another letter, which will be delivered to you soon after this one. Your wife will be returned to you unharmed shortly after you surrender the ransom. If you do not render the payment in full within three days, your wife’s heart will be cut out. To assure you that the damage has indeed been done as promised, the organ will be delivered to you in a box and you will be given three more days to render payment with the incentive of receiving your heartless but living wife back. Should those three days pass without receipt of the money, she will be burned to ashes, which you may also expect to receive in a package in due time after they have cooled.