by Anne Renwick
“Ha! She’s waiting for you. She asked after you yesterday at tea.” An evil grin cracked Cait’s face. “Sadly, I had to inform her that you had yet to find yourself a bride.”
He closed his eyes. “Have I told you lately how much I hate you?”
“You have not. That is the problem. You simply disappear for weeks at a time. But no worries, I hate you too.” She pointed a finger at him. “Clean up, suit up, and present yourself in the parlor. Invent a fiancée. Anything to break her heart irreparably.”
“I can’t,” he said, pleading. “I need to go to the laboratory.”
“Won’t is more like it,” she said, planting a hand on her hip. “All this social nonsense keeps me from my own laboratory as well.”
“Anything but a dinner party. Not tonight.” He closed his eyes, prepared to be exploited. “Name your price.”
He could hear her grin stretching from ear to ear. “I want a chance to study that Russian nematocyst weapon you reverse engineered.”
He sat up straight in the tub, sloshing water onto the floor. “That’s classified! How—” He narrowed his eyes. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
“Logan said much the same thing.” Cait tipped her head. “Except he’s as slippery as an eel and even that didn’t keep me from studying his weapon.”
There had been yelling the morning his brother awoke to find his government issued TTX pistol missing. No one would soon forget the roar of fury that echoed through the house when he found its parts and pieces spread across a countertop in her basement laboratory.
“Well?” Cait said. “Do we have a deal?”
“Absolutely not!” Alec said. “Your proficiency with vertebrate poisons is disturbing enough.”
“It’s your funeral.” The bathroom door slammed.
So much for a brief respite upon a feather mattress. He shaved with such haste he narrowly missed slitting his own throat. A few rough hacks at the ends of his hair shortened it to a respectable length. Minutes later, he was dressed—punch key and samples in his pockets—and sliding down the drainpipe outside his window, ignoring the screaming protests made by his knee.
For the first time the Glaister laboratories felt like a refuge rather than a prison. He stepped into the air shaft, closed the iron door behind him and exhaled a great sigh of relief. Not only was he safe from swooning females, but a quick survey told him that Logan had met his demands. The wooden countertops groaned beneath equipment and supplies, including an Ichor machine, an inordinately expensive device. It was a measure of his brother’s clout that it rested here in such a room.
Alec set the samples on a wooden crate, then lifted a vial to peer at the blood collected within. As expected, it had clotted. No matter. Octopuses had neither blood cells nor hemoglobin; histological examination would accomplish little. What the creatures did have was hemocyanin, a copper-containing protein, to transport oxygen. And if that was present, he’d find it in the supernatant.
Using a rubber-bulbed glass pipette, he transferred a measure of the yellow serum into a capillary tube, then inserted it into the Ichor machine. He rifled through a number of punch cards until he located a Cu Quantitator program. Plucking it out, he slid it into the cipher cartridge.
A quick check of reagent levels, tubing connections and the battery power source revealed everything to be in working order, so he keyed in a command and flipped a switch. A small internal motor began to hum.
Turning his attention to the swabs, Alec prepped a number of glass slides, stains and fixatives. Locating the aetheroscope, he primed the gas chamber and slid in the first slide. An hour or so later, he had proof positive that foreign tissue had, at some point, been inserted into the dead man’s leg wound: non-mammalian tissue containing chromatophores. Octopuses employed these cells to undergo a physiological color change to adapt to their environmental background.
He was on the last slide when Logan walked through the door carrying a metal case.
“Did I trip an alarm?” Alec asked.
Logan grinned. “Did you find the healer?”
“I did. Mrs. McQuiston can now be linked to two dead men attacked by octopus.” He paused, attempting to frame a description of a hypothetical creature that would defy biological classification.
“McQuiston?” Logan tipped his head. “Mmm. I know that name.”
“She knew quite a lot about Glaister Institute considering her supposed lack of training.” Distance had done nothing to alleviate a growing curiosity about the beautiful, interesting widow. “Spit it out. It’s clear you know something.”
“Her husband worked here. Hematological research.” Logan lifted his chin at the Ichor machine. “That was his device.”
“Really?” A thought flitted past just beyond his grasp. “His findings?”
Logan shrugged. “Unreported at the time of his death.”
He leaned forward. “And how—exactly—did he die?”
“I’m told he was working to improve the efficacy and safety of blood transfusions.” Logan paused. “Autopsy indicated multiple ischemic events. Severe damage to his kidneys was noted.”
“That is an all too frequent outcome.” Alec’s brow furrowed. Reaching for the punch cards that accompanied the Ichor machine, he tugged out a handful and passed them to Logan. “Then this set of cards might be his design. They’re unlabeled and make no sense. Not to me. Can you have them analyzed?”
“Yes.” Mischief flashed in his brother’s eyes. “Lady Rathsburn will be delighted to help. Nonetheless, I see you have already found use for the device.” He bent to examine the Ichor machine’s progress, then slid his gaze sideways at Alec. “Interesting program choice.” His voice was wry.
“I know. It reads as if I’m analyzing blue Cornish pixie blood.” Logan’s sideways glance made Alec bark a laugh. “So there’s truth to that rumor. Dare I hope they’ve been caught dancing around a dolman?”
“I couldn’t say. Yet.” Logan’s eyes warmed. “But there has certainly been mischief.”
“Quinn?”
“That would be telling.” His brother leaned against the stone wall of the airshaft. “Now, before I bestow good news, a bit of bad first. Your return to Glasgow has been noted, and the price of your unprecedented freedom comes due. A pair of unwelcome eyes caught sight of your paperwork for advancement. Lord Roideach complained to the head of Glaister Institute who let slip that you are in possession of an Ichor machine. The board meets in two days’ time. Discussion of who should have custody is an item on their agenda. You’re to attend.”
The Glaister Institute’s board. Alec would instruct Munro to drag forth his formal military uniform for a thorough brushing. He hoped the balding, white-haired men would be impressed by the multitude of hardware pinned to his chest. If they weren’t, Lord Roideach’s lineage would reign supreme.
Alec had spent weeks in Roideach’s laboratory and barely set eyes on the man. Since his father’s death, the vast amount of his attention was focused upon the restoration of the family’s ruinous castle. When he did condescend to appear, not once had he lifted a single finger of his own to directly participate in an experiment. He’d swoop in, demand progress reports, shuffle papers in his office and yell at his secretary. In less than an hour, he would be out the door. Roideach had no business directing research when not one discovery or invention had emerged from this laboratory in five years.
“He wants it for himself,” Alec stated flatly. “But why? Mollusk blood doesn’t warrant exclusive use of such equipment.”
Logan raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, but I’m at least investigating human attacks.” Alec narrowed his eyes. “Is this why you’re in Glasgow? Does it have something to do with that case you’re clutching?”
“Politics,” his brother complained, “I’ve been caught in a net and dragged under.” Pain washed over his face. “My name was put forth as a guest for the royal wedding, and they want me to wear a kilt.”
Laughing so hard he almost broke a rib, Alec wheezed, gasping for air. “Why would they want to put your hairy knees on view?”
“Someone let slip that my father was—or is—the second son of a Scottish laird.” Logan gave him a dead-eyed stare. “They asked me if I could play the bagpipes.”
He nearly choked on laughter once more, but finally managed to shove aside the comical image. Logan considered himself Gypsy, not Scot. Alec dragged in a deep breath. “The one between some Icelandic prince and a Danish princess?”
Iceland had demanded freedom. But Denmark was too reliant upon Iceland’s natural resources to let the country cede. Rather than take up arms, a compromise had been reached.
To keep both the rebellious Icelanders under control and strengthen political ties, the King of Denmark had offered one of his daughters, an alliance to be cemented with the spectacle of a royal wedding. Any resultant children would be eligible for the Danish line of succession. A palliative gesture that might calm the majority of the population for a dozen or so years. Until they realized nothing had changed.
“The very one.” He rolled his eyes and sighed. “The Queen seems to think granting me an invitation is some kind of reward. What with the political outcry surrounding the wedding negotiations, she wants me to keep an insider’s eye on the situation. But enough of that,” he lifted the case, “I’ve brought you something… enlightening.”
“Another skin sample?” Alec stood, a twinge of jealousy erasing any lingering laughter. Weeks of searching and he couldn’t locate one. Then again, Logan was always one step ahead.
A nod. “This was found among Professor Corwin’s belongings at a nearby inn.” Logan thumbed the clasps, lifting the lid to reveal a misshapen ceramic lump and an attached flap of the odd skin.
“Where, exactly, did they find this?” Alec asked. “Near what town?”
“Tarbert on Harris.”
The main ferry port of another western Scottish Isle. Curious and yet not surprising.
Together, they moved the ceramic fragment—roughly the size of a hen’s egg—onto a rubber sheet, careful not to damage it, the scrap of hybrid skin, or the thin, tough filaments that connected the two. The loud mechanical buzz of a vibration knife filled the air and moments later, Alec placed a sliver of the ceramic into the aetheroscope.
He bent to the eyepiece. “Tiny pores.” Alec made a quick calculation. “None smaller than eight micrometers in size, which is the upper size range of a red blood cell. A ceramic blood filter?” He straightened and locked eyes with Logan. “The dead man’s blood vessels were pierced.” He quickly described the hooked, braided wire to his brother. “Not a coincidence.”
“Unlikely.” Logan frowned. “Professor Corwin’s body was drained of blood.”
Hairs on the back of his neck rose to attention. “Why must I drag everything from you?” Alec swore. “What more is there?”
Logan waved a hand, dismissing his question. “What connects the skin to the ceramic?”
Biting back annoyance—for nothing short of torture could force his brother to share information—he turned back to the specimen. More slides were prepared, more chemical reagents mustered forth, this time to study the filaments that bound the octopus hybrid skin to the ceramic filter.
“Byssal threads,” Alec announced. “Manmade components combined with octopus skin and attached to a ceramic filter using the keratin-polyphenolic proteins produced by clams and mussels.”
“I’m a spy. Not a scientist. Summarize.”
“Someone has undertaken a ground-breaking biotechnological project to create a very strange chimera.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “If I were to guess, I would say someone is trying to extract—and filter—the blood of these fishermen.”
They stared at each other for a long minute.
“There’s more to this.” Alec stood. “Much more.” His thoughts jumped straight to Mrs. McQuiston. Perhaps she could share details about her husband’s work. He didn’t believe in coincidences. “I need to go back into the field.”
“Not before you present yourself before the board,” Logan insisted. “And have that knee examined. You’ve gone crooked.”
Alec sighed. Dr. Morgan would want to explore the internal mechanisms and that meant more surgery. Perhaps he could entice the lovely Mrs. McQuiston to come to him.
Time to locate a skeet pigeon.
Chapter Eight
STANDING ON THE DECK of her houseboat, moored at yet another quay, Isa inhaled deeply. Tension melted from her shoulders. Nothing surpassed the salty, fresh smell of the ocean at dawn. The first rays of sunlight glinted on the horizon, reflecting off the waves. Overhead seabirds called, some swooping low to skim the water’s surface. The world felt at peace.
It had been a demanding night, attending a long and complicated delivery. A breech birth. There were hours when she thought the woman might not survive but, in the end, her baby was born healthy. The mother was exhausted—and rightly so—but Isa saw no further cause for concern.
She’d held the swaddled infant, a warm, soft bundle of joy, and stared down into his bright, blue eyes and kissed his soft, downy forehead. In a few years, his parents might call her back to remove the webbing between his fingers, but they had also murmured to each other about seeing their son baptized in the sea. That gave her hope that the Finn people might find a way to preserve at least a few of their ancient traditions.
A year spent adrift, loosely connected to all the Finn communities, had revealed a pressing need for better medical care. But there was only so much a single woman could accomplish, particularly when her own medical education had stagnated.
It was time to return to Glasgow, to resubmit her application to medical school. She could be as good a physician as Anton ever was, if only the University of Glasgow would allow her to matriculate so that she might broaden her studies. With an official degree in hand, she hoped to convince more Finn—particularly women—to train as healers.
Glasgow.
A flush crept up her neck. If she were honest with herself, she missed Dr. McCullough. Missed—despite the morbid task he pursued—how he managed to swat away the gloom with flashing eyes and an easy smile. And teasing words. She’d spent the better part of that night awake, telling herself that his flirtations were empty and meaningless, akin to listening to the lure of sirens. To listen was to crash upon the rocks…
Isa snorted at her musings. Crash she might, but she certainly wouldn’t drown.
He’d left her a note, pinned to the table beneath a rock. He’d thanked her for her hospitality and care and promised to keep her abreast of any developments. A perfectly proper note, yet she’d run her finger over his scrawling script.
What was it she felt? Regret?
Three years of marriage. Three years of watching her vibrant dreams fade to a dull sepia. A year of widowhood, wearing black and gray, an itinerant healer at the beck and call of others. Not that she regretted providing remote Finn communities with quality medical services, but somewhere along the line, she’d lost herself.
But in Dr. McCullough’s presence, she felt a renewed sense of purpose. She grinned. Along with a renewed interest in functional male anatomy.
Isa refused to let recent events—fear of what might lurk beneath the water’s surface—keep her from a short swim near the shore. Setting the linen towel she held upon the deck, she removed her dressing gown. Such a perfect April morning ought not be wasted. She was no fool, however. Her dive knife was strapped to her thigh, its blade sharp enough to cut through any octopus tentacle, whether or not it contained a braided wire at its core.
Naked, she leapt into the water.
The water was cool, but not cold. Not to her. One of many physiological advantages all Finn shared.
Again her thoughts strayed to the well-muscled Dr. McCullough and his swimming abilities. He’d climbed onto her boa
t, water sluicing down his body… Could there be Finn heritage in his family tree? Blood. The lint she’d used to blot the blood from his head wound might hold a clue. But only if she could analyze it using Anton’s equipment. In Glasgow.
She shouldn’t. To do so without his knowledge or consent crossed a certain boundary. But perhaps if he called upon her once more, she might find a way to breach such a topic. Cautiously.
As she bobbed at the surface, the salt spray misting her face, a gull landed upon the railing of her boat. A living creature, but it reminded her of the punch card she’d handed Dr. McCullough, its address programmed to send a skeet pigeon to her Glasgow home. Glasgow, because when next she saw him, she wished to wear a gown more appealing than the dull, gray wool suited to her role as an itinerant healer. How long since she’d last felt an urge to preen?
If she left now, she could dock there this very evening. She took a stroke back toward her boat, then paused. Forever at another’s beck and call, it had been too long since she’d allowed herself to swim in the sea, and she’d missed it. With a reputation to protect, Isa had denied herself this pleasure—too many pleasures—all in the name of professional dignity.
No more. The world could wait a few more minutes. Then she would attend to duty. Or—she smiled—Dr. McCullough.
Taking a deep breath, Isa flattened her nostrils and dove.
~~~
The metal brace about his knee caught at the inside of his formal uniform trousers as he limped down the hallway to the board meeting.
“A relatively simple repair,” Dr. Morgan had said, then fixed Alec with a narrow-eyed glare before sewing up the inch-long incision. “But no more pivoting. As I stated before, you no longer have an anterior cruciate ligament, and this artificial joint cannot take that kind of sheer strain. Next time you might not be so lucky. I’d hate to have to install an entirely new joint.”