by A. W. Exley
The estate held its own chapel, a quaint building constructed of local stone in a time when his family was more God-fearing, and the priest earned a good living absolving them of their sins. Then they decided to cut out the middleman and absolve themselves. A small cemetery serviced the deceased domestics.
He walked through the crosses and plain stone rectangles that marked the final resting places of hundreds of loyal retainers. Some graves were well tended with fresh flowers and headstones scrubbed free of moss. Others sat amongst overgrown weeds, decorated with lichen. To one side, stood the large mausoleum, the family crest of the rampant lion and dragon carved over the entrance. On either side of the wide step, stone urns bore granite lilies. The crypt held four hundred years of Lyons, stretching back to when a grateful Henry Tudor gifted the title and land to Alistair Trent in 1487, for his support during the War of the Roses.
“Always back the winning side,” he muttered as he unlocked the heavy padlock and slid the chain through the door handles. He pulled the doors open and a blast of cold, stale air hit him as a breeze rushed in.
An enormous decorative sarcophagus held the prime position. Alistair Trent had spent his newfound money on a lavish eternal resting spot. His marble hands clutched a stone sword to his chest, a symbol that the family won their place through action, not politics. His wife lay in a far plainer coffin in one of the sealed slots to the side. Even in death, the first Viscount Lyons didn’t want to share his limelight.
He walked past his ancestor and stopped at the back wall of coffins. They were stacked three across and three high, the head ends visible, their feet tucked into the dark. Dust and spiders coated them in thick layers. He reached out and turned the iron ring hanging from the middle coffin. With a creak and groan, the wall split and the entire section swung inward, revealing a black opening.
He turned the crank on the hand lantern to charge the battery and then flicked the light on. The bulb flickered, caught, and cast a circle of yellow light. Nate stepped into the opening and trod narrow stairs downward, into the earth beneath the founding members of his family. The musty scent of damp earth pressed into his nostrils. Below the ground lay a second crypt, dug out at the time the main crypt was constructed. Down here lay the rest of the clan, away from the prying eyes of any casual mourner. Some bodies were in coffins stacked four or five high along the narrow passageway. Others preferred a Viking funeral and rows of urns held the ashes gathered once the fires burned out.
Unease prickled his skin as he passed the dusty offerings. Some were newer, like the urn containing his father placed here eight years ago. Others were hundreds of years old and stored the remains of distant men who fought to establish the Lyons dynasty. They were all here and whispers glided over his skin as he walked among them. He had cheated them of his company already, he should have drowned in the Atlantic except Cara saved him.
He stopped at one shelf and removed the occupant, some distant great-aunt who made it to one hundred before being cast upon a bonfire. Sweat dripped down his back despite the frigid air. He placed the aunt on the ground and pulled another ring in the back of her niche. A stone panel dropped open to reveal the gold canopic urn with the head and body of Isis.
Cara was more in tune to the artifacts and this one in particular provoked a strong reaction. In the presence of Nefertiti’s Heart, a hand gripped her organ and squeezed, if she stood close enough she had trouble breathing. The diamond raised his hackles and set his teeth on edge. The sweat soaking his shirt was his body’s way of coping with the strange resonance that rolled off the object, as though the three of them could not occupy the same space at the same time.
Ignoring his roiling gut, he pulled on her crown, styled as a throne, removed the head, and then tipped out the jar. With a rattle and slide, the gem came to rest in his palm. He allowed a moment of wonder at the fist-sized diamond with its bizarre mechanical workings. Did it really once reside in Nefertiti’s chest? How was such a thing possible? The sweat continued to trickle down his spine, triggered not just by the mere presence of the artifact but by the information he sought within its depth.
This moment would tell him for certain whether Cara lived, or not.
In this moment, it would be revealed if his life stretched forth cold and alone or if there lay hope to recover his warmth, his sun, his cara mia.
Inside the gem, lay a drop of his blood and one of hers. The diamond combined their life forces and forged their bond. If Cara were dead, her blood would similarly be still. Lifeless.
Time to face this demon and learn the truth.
He took a deep breath, offered a prayer to God for the first time in a number of years, and held the mechanical heart to the light. A red glow suffused the crypt as the lantern’s beam filtered through the blood. He forced his vision to focus on the centre piece.
He spied movement from the singular pulse in beat with his own heart as his blood echoed the state of his body. A deep breath and he sharpened his focus, his throat and mouth dry as hope sucked the moisture from his body.
There! Another flicker, a mere stutter behind the first drop. The second not in sync but as though it continuously tried, and failed, to match its mate.
Relief crashed through his body as doubt was evicted from his mind. She lived.
Within Nefertiti’s Heart, the two drops danced and entwined around one another. A faint pulse visible in both.
Relief crushed through him. Two lives, not just one.
He wrapped his hand around the diamond, the closest he could get to touching her. “I will find you.”
For five days, his heart beat alone. One hundred and twenty hours without her smile. Seven thousand two hundred minutes immersed in frigid water without any hope of warmth.
He stared at his hand, surprised to see fingertips. His blood withdrew from his extremities, trying to keep his core functioning. Where was she? Why couldn’t he sense her presence or share his life force with her? At times, he doubted and had to remember what he saw in the heart, her drop of blood pulsed. Somewhere her heart beat, he had only to find where.
He turned back to the map, the Thames and bank gridded into one foot squares, each marked off as a man cleared the ice and snow and checked below. They had thousands of squares yet to search, assuming she even lay under the Thames.
Where has the water taken her? Has the Curator retrieved her and hidden her somewhere? And how did he do it?
His men cut through the ice to figure out how fast the water flowed underneath so they could calculate how far the Thames may have swept Cara. He went back to current and distance calculations but could only see his last image of her, a hand outstretched, trying to reach him.
Nan and Rachel sat at his desk and organised dispatches before tallying the information on the chart. Despair grew with each passing hour. Nan rose and patted Rachel on the shoulder.
“Time for a break, I think, let’s go see what the kitchen can rustle up for morning tea.”
Rachel trotted behind but stopped by Nate. She looked up and chewed her bottom lip. He tried to stay tolerant of the child and found having her around made him curb the worst of his anger. In her own way, she temporarily leashed the beast.
“What is on your mind, Rachel?”
“You should have a dog,” she said, a serious frown creased her forehead.
“Why is that, dear?” Nan asked.
“A dog would find her,” she whispered, as though not sure she should offer the suggestion.
Now Nate frowned and dropped down to her height. “Why would a dog find her?”
“They’re good at that, finding their masters. Once, when Jefferson went missing when we played in the park, we told his dog to go find him. He sniffed all over the place and found him, down the bank. If you had a dog, he would sniff out Cara.” She held his gaze, waiting for his response.
The way she tried to think of new ways to look for Cara sent a spike of light into his empty soul. The child was trying even though they had no s
niffer dog. An idea burst into his mind and for the first time in five days, a smile tugged at his lips.
He gathered Rachel into a gentle hug. “You are a genius. That has given me an idea. Go to the kitchen and I will see what I can do about a sniffer dog.”
She returned the small smile and placed her hand in Nan’s.
“Oh hell!” Came from the corner.
Brick sat, reading the paper. He stayed awake every moment Nate did, blaming himself for Cara’s disappearance.
Nate’s head shot round. “What now?”
The colour drained from Brick’s face. He swallowed a few times and then stood. “You’ll need to see this for yourself.”
He carried the paper at arm’s length, as though the contents may contaminate him before dropping it on the desk. Nate shifted his attention to the gossip section and the headline.
Lady Lyons tragically drowned.
The tic in his jaw started at that one. She wasn’t dead. But how to explain it to everyone else? No, that error he could sweep aside, it was the by-line underneath that turned his anger into a river of cold lava.
What lucky lady will console the very wealthy, and very handsome, widower?
The article went on to detail how, with the socially unacceptable Cara Devon out of the way, London’s most eligible bachelor was back on the market. It further stated that he was in sore need of a viscountess to open up the Mayfair mansion to the ton. The reporter even managed to cast aspersions over their marriage.
He didn’t rage, yell, or throw anything. Inside remained artic with only a polar wind blowing through his chest. He embraced the cold and dark as his way of coping with the loss of his light and warmth. It never occurred to him to be angry about the article. He moved beyond that. There was only one thing he needed, a name, and there it was, tagged for his convenience. Simon Albright.
He threw the paper in the trash and then crossed the floor in easy long strides. “Let’s find out what Albright looks like,” he said to Brick, then grabbed his coat and disappeared out the main door, the air frigid in his wake.
“Oh, bugger.” Brick took off at a trot to keep up.
The carriage dropped them a road over from the newspaper office. He walked with a measured pace through the snow while events played out in his mind. As much as part of him longed to thrust a dagger into the man’s heart and watch his life force drain over the cobbles, he needed him alive. A dead man couldn’t write a follow up piece, but a shit-scared one could.
Brick went ahead to ask his questions and place a coin in the right palm.
Nate surveyed the office from across the road. Wide glass panelled doors opened to an airy entrance with a good view of the stairs beyond and everybody coming and going. There were five steps and then the pavement. To one side, a narrow alley wound around the back. The building was a squat three-storey with a flat roof. It shared one sidewall with an adjourning business and the free side had no fire escapes.
Brick emerged and pushed through the door. He glanced up and down the road before crossing. “Got him. He’s upstairs working. Home and his local are that way.” He pointed southwest, past the alley.
“Excellent.” Hopefully Albright would leave for lunch and head home or to the pub, either would play into his hands. “Signal when you spot him.”
Nate dodged behind a carriage and settled in the darkened mouth of the access way. He waited for over two hours. Patience was always one of his strong points. He spent the time creating new ways to torture the Curator once he wrapped his hands around his scrawny neck. He wondered if he was a screamer. Many men thought they could hold their silence but quiet use of a blade made converts of them all.
A low whistle caught his ears. He looked up to catch Brick’s gaze. The bodyguard nodded in the direction of a man trotting down the pavement with a blue scarf pulled tight around his neck. Nate stepped from the shadow. “Simon Albright?”
The man halted on hearing his name. “Yes—”
Nate grabbed him around the neck, pushed him into the alley, and had his back to the red bricks before Simon could finish drawing out the single syllable.
The monster within growled as it rose up and took control. One of Nate’s hands wound in the soft woollen scarf, controlling the man’s airflow, the other pressed the tip of a blade to his nostril.
“V— Vis— Viscount Lyons,” the man attempted the name three times before he managed to stutter it out.
The reporter was shorter than him, so he hauled him a few inches upward by the scarf to meet the man’s gaze. “Cara is not dead.”
The man tried to turn his head to the side, which dislodged his bowler, and it tumbled to the ground. His toes scrabbled to touch the cobbles and remove the pressure around his neck. He seemed to have forgotten the blade up his nose in his haste to breathe. “It has been five days, my lord. No one could survive that long under the ice, surely you must—”
The words squeaked to a stop as the knife tip slipped further into his nostril and a bright red drop gathered and then dribbled down his face.
“You will print a retraction and ask people to help in the continuing search for my wife.” Nate kept his tone low and controlled. Brick stood at the end of the alleyway and stopped any pedestrian from getting too curious about the hushed conversation.
“The city mourns with you, my lord. We all understand your grief—” Another sob as Nate pressed the blade a quarter inch deeper. Blood trickled down the blade and off the hilt to the dirty snow.
“Not dead,” he growled each syllable.
Simon screwed his eyes shut. His breath came in short gasps as his fingers clawed at Nate’s hand.
“When my blade cracks through the gristle at the back of your nose and pierces your brain, do you think it will kill you or just lobotomise you?” He leaned on the knife handle a fraction more. The man’s nostril couldn’t accommodate the width of the metal and sliced open.
Blood flowed down the man’s face and dripped off the end of his weak chin, then splattered down his coat. Sobs came from between Nate’s fingers.
“If you ever write such untruths about my wife again, I will find you and finish this conversation.”
Tears rolled down the man’s face and a wail worked to erupt from under Nate’s hand as he twisted the scarf harder.
“Do we understand each other?”
Albright tried to nod, which forced the knife deeper into his face. He choked on pain and tears. “Yes,” the barest whisper.
Nate pulled his knife free and let the reporter go. He wiped the steel on his trouser leg before returning it to the sheath at his back. The man slid down the wall and pressed the scarf to his bleeding face. As he left, he didn’t need to look to know his message made its way through to the reporter’s feeble brain. The pungent odour of urine filling the alley was confirmation enough.
my did what she could to help and with Nan and Rachel controlling the army of searchers, Nate gave her the task of pulling together all that Cara had learned about the Curator and what artifact might be freezing London. Malachi’s bookstore sat closed up against the cold, and there was no sign of the ancient scholar so their hopes lay at Amy’s feet. She took up residence in Cara’s study with books and papers sprawled on the desk in front of her. Delicate gold-rimmed glasses sat on the end of her nose as she peered at an ancient text. Reaching the end of the passage, she closed the book and tossed it to the pile on the corner of the desk.
She cast a glance at Nate who stood by the fire, reading a letter. He took a rare break from his constant search to report to Lady Morton, who ran things with military precision. She collated hourly reports from the teams along the river, and Nate even had a man searching under the water in some submersible device. Although all the operator found so far was logs, every object he located below was retrieved by men above. They dug holes in the ice covering the Thames like moles in a lawn, hoping to find something in the murky water.
“This is all fairy tales and while it’s distracting, why
is it relevant?” The presence of Jack lent her bravery, normally she would never speak up to Nate. He scared her with his criminal connections and piercing gaze. He only held her regard because of Cara’s deep love for him and his fierce protection of her. They all grieved these past days in different ways, she found some comfort in running her fingers over the words Cara had penned.
He folded the sheet of paper and slipped it into his pocket. “Because within those texts will be the clue about how to bring down the man who holds Cara.”
Amy let out a deep sigh. He spoke as though the man kidnapped Cara, when most of London saw the wave break through the ice and drag her under. She shuddered. It was a terrible freak accident, how could any man have been responsible? She desperately wanted to believe her friend still lived, but five days had passed with no sign of her.
“I wish I were as convinced as you that she is still alive.”
Nate spun and fixed her with a hard gaze. Amy shrunk in the chair and Jackson stood to protect his woman. He moved to stand behind her, as Nate picked up one of the books. “This is why I am convinced.” He shook the text. “These are not just fairy tales. Have you considered what if everything within is true but people just cannot comprehend it?”
Deep in her heart, she believed in magic and fairy tales, but this story was shadowed by too much death. She shook her head as tears sprung to her eyes. “She is my friend and I want to find her as much as you do. But five days under the Thames?” She looked down at her hands in her lap, blinking the tears away. Jack squeezed her shoulder and she drew on his strength.
The book fell and she jumped.
“Look at me, Amy.” Nate’s tone softened.
She tried to meet his gaze but the blue was as cold as the ice that took Cara. She looked away again.