by A. W. Exley
Was Nate breathing for her? Did he vomit polluted Thames water into a bucket to keep her lungs full of air, like she did on the Hellcat? Her fingers curled around a firm surface under her, and she sat up. A hand went to her chest, fingers expected to swim through water but touched only air.
I’m not underwater, but it’s pitch black.
Her brain pointed out she had her eyes screwed shut. She opened them and let out a deep sigh. “I’m not dead.” Grey stone windowless walls surrounded her and she groaned. “No, this can’t be possible, how can I be stuck in another damn basement.”
Her gaze swept her body; at least she wasn’t tied up this time. Her clothes were soaking wet and someone had removed her corset. She couldn’t find her pistols but she had a vague memory of dropping them as that thing crashed down. She sat on an iron-framed bed with a hard mattress and two woollen blankets. A small wooden table and chair were pushed against one wall. In another corner, sat a large bucket with a lid and next to it, at odds with the Spartan prison décor, a delicate hall table holding a porcelain pitcher and ewer. Painted in the palest pink with blushing roses and a gold rim, the items were completely out of place and signalled someone meant to keep her captive for some time.
Above her head, two electric lights cast intersecting circles from within wire cages. A metal door had no handle on her side. Even the hinges were on the outside, to stop her prising them up. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and crossed to the door where she laid an ear to cold steel and listened. Nothing. Cara continued her examination of her cell; she paced the floor and ran her hands along the mortar, looking for cool spots, weaknesses, anywhere to indicate another exit beyond. Nothing.
She dragged the chair over to the small vent set in the ceiling. With a hard pull, the grill popped out, but being only six inches by four, it certainly wasn’t an escape route. She sniffed the air coming through, hoping it might lead to somewhere outside and if she yelled loud enough, someone might hear. The puffs drifting through smelled recycled and old without the crisp bite she would expect from a fresh air source.
“Damn.” She dropped the grill to the ground and sat in the chair. She laid a hand flat over her heart, closed her eyes and tried to figure out how far away the cavalry was by judging the distance between the echoed heart beats. A frown settled between her brows and she screwed her eyes tighter. Her hand pressed deeper into her flesh.
A helpless cry rose in her throat and she bit it back. He was gone. No trace of Nate’s heart beat in her body. Their connection lay cold and empty.
Dead.
Despair pressed on her and like a physical presence, it forced sob after sob from her chest. She crawled to the tiny bed and curled up with her back to the wall. Tears rolled down her face. With their connection gone, Nate had no way to find her. She wrapped a blanket around herself, the combination of damp clothes and frigid basement made her shake, and her teeth chattered together. If her captor didn’t show soon with dry clothes, she would freeze.
With no clock, she had no idea how much time passed as she cried, stranded on an island of desolation. Then a heavy tread outside made her heart jump and skip a beat. She reminded herself she was no longer a frightened fourteen-year-old. She had proven she was not defenceless. Except, that one noise had the power to send her back eight years.
Would he rape her? The child deep inside cried out and hid in a corner of her mind. The woman wouldn’t go down without a fight. Not again.
She guessed at her captor’s identity, and had it confirmed when the door swung open. He flowed into the room and gave her a cold smile that never reached any part of his face except one corner of his lip. He stopped at the vent grate now sitting on the floor and glanced upward, then his lips pulled back to reveal his canines. She had tested his cage and found no weakness. She could not escape him. Not yet anyway.
Beyond the open door, wound an empty corridor of the same stone as her cell. Two of his men stood behind him, blocking the exit in case she decided to run for it. A third entered carrying a tray of hot food and set it down on the table. Her stomach rumbled at the aroma. Just how long she had lain here? Hours? Days?
Another monochromatic servant placed a pile of clothes on the end of the bed.
The Curator gestured to the bundle. “Dry clothes, I cannot have my guest succumbing to a fever under my care.”
She eyed the items with suspicion. “You could have sent an invite and a carriage, then I wouldn’t have gotten wet.”
He barked in laughter. “I think Nathaniel made it quite clear at the museum that he wouldn’t let you visit me. Much better this way, now we can have our alone time.”
Helene’s warning to beware of the old noble came true and he had added her to his collection. “Better for whom? He will find me, you know.”
The smile curled both corners of his mouth. “No he won’t. I have gone to great lengths to ensure Nefertiti’s Heart no longer functions.”
She grasped at the wet fabric over her heart. “How?” For nearly a year, they had been linked, and she forgot the loneliness of a single soul rattling around in one body.
He chuckled at his clever scheme. “You have been anointed with the Tears of Mary Tudor. Such a tragic woman, underserving of the moniker Bloody Mary.”
She held out her hands and stared at them, expecting to see red stains or similar and she hoped that whatever it was, it would wash off.
“Torn from her mother’s arms, even her religion denied to her as Henry VIII stripped her title and cast her aside. Then the king forced her to act as companion to the bastard offspring of a witch. When she reached the throne, tragedy continued to stalk her. Her husband had no stomach for her, and her desperate need for a child went unanswered by her god, her womb barren and empty. The depth of her sorrow is the perfect antidote for your—” He waved a hand around her head, the word he sought choked in his throat. “Love. Her despair blankets and counteracts your connection. Nathaniel does not know if you live or dwell at the bottom of the Thames.”
She swallowed. If they thought she was dead, no one would look for her. She would die down here in this basement, and Nate would never know. She blinked, chasing away the gathering moisture. No, he would not give up so easily on me. He will come.
“He will hunt you down and find me.” Her voice took on a firmer tone. “And then, Nate will want to spend alone time with you and his blade.”
The cold sneer returned. “I am counting on your bereaved husband seeking me out. But first I shall give him time to marinate in his grief, it will soften him up for when I make my request.”
She didn’t want to ask the question at the forefront of her mind. She didn’t want to know the answer. Then the damn curiosity forced the words to whisper from her throat. “What do you want?”
“I have long desired to have you under my care and now you are here, and I can satisfy another want. I seek the same thing as your father.” His cold flat eyes reminded her of a shark. No hint of emotion flitted in their depths.
The situation was so absurd; she either laughed or cried in frustration. She chose to laugh with a slight tinge of hysteria thanks to Mary Tudor. “Then we are both in a bit of a pickle. I haven’t spoken to my father since the day he nearly beat me to death eight years ago. And of course, he’s now dead.” What he really needed was Helene and her gift to see through the veil, then he could simply ask her father his questions. The little voice nagged at the back of her mind, even then he would not let her go. The Curator had acquired her for his collection; she just needed to know to what ends?
“What I want, Lucas possessed long before that unfortunate incident. You will find it and return it to me.”
Cara met his gaze and his image flickered. A young man, breathtaking and powerful, tried to break through, but was held back by the ancient exterior. Part of her wanted him to burst forth from his old skin and she wondered what held him back. In that instance, the pieces fell into place in her brain. “The phoenix feather. You need it to
be reborn.”
“Yes. Through my research, I have found an item able to extend my life, but for decades, I have remained trapped in this shell. There is only one way for me to discard this form and arise, like the phoenix.” He inched nearer.
He wanted resurrection for himself. He probably never had any intention of letting her father revive Bella with the feather, but needed to dangle a carrot to get Lucas to search for it. “You used my father. But if he had the feather all along, what was your hold over him?”
“There are two parts to rebirth. One is the phoenix feather and the other a dragon’s breath. He had one, I the other. You inherited his collection, you must have it.” His hand reached out to touch her, as though he suspected she hid it on her person.
She shook her head and hugged her knees closer to her chest, drawing away from his outstretched fingers. She would be trapped forever, unable to give him something she didn’t have. “You’re wrong. It wasn’t among my father’s belongings when I cleaned out the house, nor is there any mention of it in his notebook. What makes you so sure he had it?”
The extended hand turned into a fist. Long nails dug into his palm, and he dropped it to his side. “It was our agreement, each of us to supply one part of the puzzle. He said he could locate the feather.”
Her mind raced back through her father’s notes. Never in any of those cramped pages could she recollect a phoenix mentioned. The feather certainly wasn’t languishing in any of his bank vaults or hidey holes. “If you want me to find it, you’re going to have to let me out. I cannot search from here.”
He huffed. “No. You will stay, I have waited many years for the pleasure of your company. Plus, your presence as my guest will guarantee Nate’s compliance. But you may have anything you require while under my roof.”
“So we’re in Southwark?” Her brain pounced on the one clue to her whereabouts. Once Nate figured out the Curator held her, he would tear that house apart and stride down that corridor to her cell. She just wished he would hurry, the more the Curator spoke, the more convinced she became he planned her to be a permanent fixture in his household.
The cold smile returned. “That is but one property I own.”
Damn it. She couldn’t think while the walls pressed down on her. If the feather wasn’t in her father’s belongings, where was it? She needed to play along, let him believe she worked in his interests while gathering more information, anything that might help neutralise the icy grip on London. Not to mention, Nate will want to know how to kill him.
“Books,” she said. “I will need books to aid my search. Anything you have about the phoenix and dragons.”
He nodded and tented his fingers. “Very well, I will allow you to work with my texts. Malachi says you are a bright student. I shall enjoy opening your mind further.”
“Malachi?” Her heart sank. Did the roguish tutor betray her to his former master? She once passed the Curator in the bookstore and hoped they stuck to business topics, not personal.
“He once spoke of teaching you, although became tight-lipped when I asked too many questions. And now his little shop is cold and empty.” The frown pulled his brow into deep furrows.
She looked over her mental list of things to do and moved long chat with Malachi closer to the top, once he returned from his holiday in the sun. It annoyed her that the Curator sniffed around, asking questions of those she thought friends, but she needed to hold her tongue. She needed him compliant so he would be more likely to slip up. If only she had Helen of Troy’s fan, she would be back in her own bed in short time.
She pointed to the lidded bucket in the corner. “I’m not happy with the sanitation arrangements and I’d like a bath.”
One white eyebrow jumped of its own accord. Excellent, if he had a twitch now wait until she got full-blown cabin fever. Even Nate would duck for cover. If rescue didn’t arrive soon, she would make him glad to be rid of her.
“A bath?” Twitch.
“I’m cold and wet, and I would like a bath to warm my bones before I catch pneumonia. You could let me out to use a bathroom, if it’s easier.” Asking for release was a long shot, but if you didn’t ask, you would never know.
“I will have the men bring a tub and hot water for you. The bucket stays, I cannot have you leaving this room for security reasons. Not yet.” The brow dropped as though it had successfully navigated her demands.
Bother, but at least she would have a bath and a chance to wash the fetid Thames off her body and hopefully whatever of Mary Tudor clung to her skin. “I would like privacy then, given you can materialise through the doorway at any moment. I need a screen.”
He blinked and twitched at the same time. “I shall have one set up for you.”
Another idea leapt to the forefront of her mind as she surveyed the grey walls. “And a rubber ball, please.”
A double twitch this time. He opened his mouth and shut it. The brows pulled close together. “A ball?” The words laden with suspicion.
She pointed at the stone walls. “For entertainment, I throw, the wall throws it back. Oh, and make it red, they bounce better.”
“Of course.” He sighed and then the frown transmuted into the smile of an indulgent parent. “Why don’t you eat your dinner while I arrange a bath?” Just like a solicitous concierge, except this was no five-star hotel. He bowed and backed out, and the door clanged shut behind him.
The smell urged her to her feet and she wandered to the table. The aromas of goulash and fresh bread made her stomach gurgle so she took a seat. Grabbing up the hot crusty loaf, she broke a piece off and swiped it through the rich gravy.
Several minutes later, the door was pulled open. Two grey men dragged a copper tub to the middle of the room. Another hauled in a Japanese paper screen with delicately drawn cranes, which he set up around the bucket. Then an endless procession of steaming hot buckets started. One by one, interchangeable men in grey appeared with a bucket in each hand and tipped them into the tub. By the time she finished her first prison meal, the bath was ready.
The Curator glided in holding a small, black-glass vial. “Can’t have you washing yourself too clean.” The cold smile touched his lips, and then he pulled the cork from the container. A desperate moan escaped the bottle, and whispered around the room, and sent a chill over Cara’s body.
He tipped four drops into the tub. Each black tear was a tiny spinning vacuum of despair that sucked warmth and happiness from everything around. As they hit the water, there came a hiss and another phantom sob mingled with the rising steam. The tears divided and multiplied. Each split made them smaller and smaller until Cara lost track of them amongst the vapour.
“I’m not sure I want a bath anymore,” she muttered. She would rather bathe alone than in the bodily secretions of Bloody Mary.
“I will give you one hour, and then my men will return for the tub.”
“I don’t seem to have my pocket watch.” She patted her sides. “Or my corset, what happened to that?”
“We can’t have you forging weapons from corset boning. As to the clock—” He reached into the voluminous sleeve of his robe and extracted a copper clock no bigger than the palm of his hand. He placed it on the table, facing the bath. It read eight o’clock, but she had no way of knowing if it were morning or evening.
Handy that, robes with deep sleeves that concealed a multitude of things. “You wouldn’t happen to have a crowbar in there?”
The arctic smile pulled his lips back. “No. Have a pleasant bath.” He retreated with his automaton men and the heavy chain rattled over the door.
Steam curled off the water’s surface, but she eyed it with suspicion. Mary Tudor’s sorrow awaited her. Another shiver racked her body. The goose bumps on her damp flesh stood to become permanent residents unless she did something. “Damn it. I either strip and bathe or die of cold, which would mean not seeing him get his comeuppance.”
She tossed her clothes in a sodden pile by the door, placed one foot in the water
and then sunk down. As she stared into the bath, tiny black dots attached to her limbs. She swiped a hand over her arm, but they remained like micro limpets. She scrubbed harder with the provided loofah, but the dots burrowed into her skin and disappeared. Cara bit back a sob as a lifetime of anguish speared through muscle and bone and took up residence in her marrow.
A void opened inside her, and the sucking loneliness that almost consumed her before she met Nate, returned. Her eyes moistened with unshed tears. How could she possibly escape this? She would spend decades encased in stone and never feel Nate’s touch again. This time, the tears rolled down her face.
She wallowed in the futility of trying to escape given the Curator probably trapped her deep underground to further mute her connection to Nate. Mary Tudor’s tears infested her until she became an ice maiden with frozen bones, despite the sweat beading on her temple.
The clock hands swept over the face and with a sigh, she climbed out and briskly towelled off before slipping on the dry clothes. Thick woollen stockings would keep her feet warm in her boots. A long sage green skirt and matching tunic were so silky, the garments must have been spun from angelic sheep. Each item was of high quality and soft, with not a single stitch or embellishment she could use as a weapon or to formulate an escape.
She picked up the rubber ball, tossed it against the wall, and caught it on the rebound. Bounce and repeat. Bounce and repeat. Over and over, until outside the chain rattled and the padlock dropped to the floor with a clang before the door pushed open.
Two grey men wrangled a hose and some type of bellow into her prison. She watched with mild curiosity as one end of the hose went into her cooling bath. The other end slinked out the door and disappeared. The corridor beyond showed not a slither of illumination to hint at a window farther along. One man worked the bellows while the other held the hose, no words exchanged between them. Soon water gurgled up the narrow pipe. She raised an eyebrow. They must be emptying it into a drain, so there was some access point down the hall.