Moseh's Staff

by A. W. Exley

When the bath sat empty, one wound up the hose while the other dragged the bath out the door. He returned and picked up the clock.

  “Lights out soon,” he intoned before locking her up for the night.

  Cara gazed up at the two overhead bulbs in their steel cages. Who controlled these? And from where?

  She sat on the bed and bounced the ball while she catalogued all she learned about her prison. The constant motion of throw and catch stopped her from plunging into the abyss. The yawning darkness waited to suck her in the moment she dropped her guard.

  The lights flickered, once, twice, and the third time they remained off. Night time is not really dark, there is always a stray beam of moonlight or the distant stars to give some small measure of silvery illumination. When the lights go off in a stone bunker, the dark is breath stealing.

  The blackness swallowed everything. The furniture vanished. She had no idea where her ball ended up and couldn’t even see her hands to collect it. She pressed into the corner just to feel the hard stone at her back, to reassure herself she wasn’t suspended in a void.

  Not a scrap of light. No sound except her ragged breathing. No escape. No hope.

  She didn’t have to fear sleep and her recurring nightmare. It had found her while she was still awake. The abyss grew arms and reached for her. In the shadows, the demons waited. She curled into herself and bit her knuckles.

  “This isn’t me,” she muttered, hugging her knees tighter. She was a survivor, a fighter. She would either escape, or Nate would find her. She held hope in her heart, no matter what the dark whispered.

  “This isn’t me, it’s Mary Tudor’s sorrow twisting my fear.” She rocked back and forth. “This isn’t me.”

  Something scuttled in a corner. The beat of her heart became the pound of a footstep. She didn’t know if her terrified mind conjured up the creature that wrapped skeletal fingers around her ankle or if it really existed. In the void, she had no way of telling nightmare from reality. The grip tugged, trying to drag her off the bed.

  Blindly, she sought the iron bedstead and wrapped her hands around the metal, to hold her position. There was only one thing she could do as the creature tugged her backward.

  Scream.

  ate’s study became the war room. The expensive wallpaper disappeared under pinned up maps of the Thames and greater area. Each day, Nan ticked off the squares they had searched in green. Areas where they dug through the ice were marked in blue and a list detailed what they retrieved. Everything was cross-referenced by a number and colour. The Southwark house was ringed in bright red. Within its solid walls lay answers, he just had to crack it open and expose them.

  Rachel dropped another load of reports on his desk. “Did you find a dog yet?”

  He folded the child in a quick hug. “Not yet, but I’m working on it.” Her idea sparked a chain of events, but they took overlong to play out.

  “Well, when Cara is back, I really think we should get one, maybe even two.”

  He stroked her head and tried to smooth down the frizz of curls. “When Cara is back, we will definitely get at least one dog.” He would surround them with hellhounds if it would keep them safe and stop anyone from ever hurting his family again.

  She nodded in her serious fashion and left him alone. He rubbed a hand over his chest, a solitary thump faint against the pads of his fingers. Once, another beat thrummed through his body and flooded his spirit with warmth. Now, on its own, his soul withered and died. He turned into a cold automaton with one purpose—find her.

  A knock at the door.

  “Come,” he barked without looking round, his attention held by the pattern of ringed colours. How much longer?

  “Lights are on at Southwark,” Brick said.

  Nate swung away from the wall of maps and grabbed his jacket and a blade. No words were exchanged, they all knew the plan. His long legs carried him across the expansive entranceway in only a few strides and out to the carriage waiting in the cold. Natural equines became nervous and flighty with a plunge in temperature, but their mechanical counterparts stood immobile despite the freezing air. Their metal joints were wrapped in felted wool to stop crystals from forming within the delicate mechanisms, which would hinder movement and cause rust. The lightest coating of frost settled on their bronze rumps like a sprinkling of fairy dust.

  In the darkened interior of the carriage, he donned his jacket and strapped the short sword to his back. He tested the lever under his sleeve that ejected a blade into his palm and sheathed it again in a smooth motion. Satisfied, he stared out the window at the slumbering city, his eyes unseeing as his mind ran though his plan. As they trotted along the riverside and over Southwark Bridge, he ran through several scenarios and played out appropriate responses.

  A slight bump jarred his seat as they halted in the industrial district. The wheels still rolled as he threw open the door and jumped down. Men scrambled to keep up and guard his back as he ploughed up the cobbled walkway. He didn’t knock on the imposing door; he put his shoulder to the broken latch and pushed it open. He narrowed his gaze once over the threshold. His ears pricked for any sound, any hint that Cara was trapped within.

  Tonight, all the hundreds of candles overhead were lit and they cast their eerie silver light. Shadows moved and played over the grey silk wallpaper, making it appear to undulate as though something ran behind. Four expressionless men poured around a corner, but before they could do anything, Nate’s contingent spread out and pinned them to the wall and out of his way. His boot heels clicked as he strode over the marble floor and barged into the next room.

  The Curator stood in front of the blue-green fire. He wore a black and grey robe covered in black embroidery, the motif only visible under the play of light that caressed the silken strands. Oriental sleeves flowed to brush the floor. He turned and walked a few steps toward his visitor.

  One white eyebrow arched. “Ah, Nathaniel. What an expected intrusion.”

  Nate reached one hand over his shoulder and drew the short gladius from the sheath strapped to his back. With both hands wrapped around the hilt, he thrust the blade into the Curator’s gut. Using his forward momentum, he pushed the man backward. Muscles bunched, he leaned on the pommel and continued driving. The tip speared through the man’s body, glanced off the spine, and exited out the other side and embedded deep in the wood behind.

  The Curator grunted as the point of the blade pierced his torso and pinned him like an ornate specimen butterfly or a spider, displayed as a warning to others. “Hardly a conventional greeting. A handshake would have sufficed.” He coughed, and a dribble of grey water ran down his chin. Ignoring the sword in his gut, he extracted a handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed at his lip.

  “Where is she?” Nate kept his hands on the sword to stop the old man from pulling it out. “What have you done with her?”

  His host ignored the question and returned the folded kerchief to its pocket hidden in his robe. Then his gaze drifted down to the ornate silver work on the capulus, denoting that prior to jutting from his stomach, the weapon once belonged to an officer. “I see you chose the sword of the Roman centurion to impale me.”

  “It seemed appropriate for the job. I have a hankering to bring back the imperial eagle. Now, where is Cara?” Nate clenched his teeth, his gaze never strayed from the countenance before him. The man who stole his reason for breathing, took away the one creature on this earth who could keep his demon restrained. Now the monster emerged and shook off its bonds.

  The Curator turned his head and coughed politely, another dirty trickle spilled over his lips. “You waste your time, Nathaniel. You cannot kill me.”

  Nate grinned, a cold thing that turned his face from handsome to monstrous. A creature of nightmares who knew no boundaries in his pursuit of his treasure. “I’m counting on you not dying.”

  Using the secured tip as a leverage point, he wrenched the sword upward and sliced through a few inches of skin, muscle, and internal organs.

/>   A soft groan came from the other man. Not a sound of pain, but more like brewing indigestion. A quiet noise he tried to hold in, as though he didn’t want to offend a dinner guest by belching after consuming too much rich food.

  Nate leaned closer, his gaze locked with the cold one before him. “Answer my question.”

  “Such a horrible thing that happened to Cara all those years ago when she was a child.” The twitch of a lip, an almost-smile from someone who thought he held the upper hand. “I imagine it must be terrifying for her now. Confined, alone, and no one to rescue her. Do you think being unable to escape from her worst nightmare will shred her mind? How long can one last, thrust into a living hell?”

  The demon inside howled and demanded vengeance. The man tried to block out the image the words conjured up. He lived with her nightmares, he knew the anguish the young Cara suffered, crying for someone to help her. Before she disappeared, she confided that the face in her nightmare morphed from Lord Clayton to the Curator. A premonition of what he planned all along, to snatch her. He couldn’t dwell on those thoughts and save her. Lucky his heart lay dead in his chest already, or imagining her pain would undo him.

  “You won’t break her, if that is your plan. She is stronger than that, and everything you inflict on her will be revisited upon you tenfold.” Nate levered the sword higher until it bit into the bottom of the Curator’s sternum. “But if you prefer, I could crack you open now. We could see if your heart beats or if your chest contains only a desiccated organ.”

  “Are you willing to gamble with her sanity in our little game?” Another cough as more fluid bubbled up from his damaged lungs. “She is entombed and cannot slip from any window this time. My men are quite perturbed by her screaming, she only stops when her voice gives out.”

  His chest constricted at the suggestion she screamed in the dark, alone. He stopped her cries by holding her close. Only in his arms did she find peace from the nightmare. With monumental effort, he thrust down his emotions. The Curator baited him for his own purposes and Nate couldn’t afford to be distracted from his task. Later, he would rage about her imprisonment and take out his anger at their separation down in the Pit.

  “For every hour you keep her from me, I will torture you for a day.” Nate wondered what artifact kept the man alive and how he could neutralise the effect. He wanted to keep him breathing but needed every nerve in the Curator’s body raw and on fire. He longed for the man’s screams of agony to echo in his skull to soothe the beast.

  If grey water runs in his veins, perhaps electricity would work?

  A long yellow fingernail tapped on the sword. “Yes, well, shall we move this social visit along? I’m sure we both have other things to do. I believe I have a hole in my wall to repair.”

  Nate arched an eyebrow. “What do you want?” Grey, viscous fluid pooled at their feet. If he twisted the blade and opened the wound wider, entrails would slither out to the floor. It might not kill him, but it would certainly inconvenience the man and create one hell of a mess for the staff to clean up.

  “I only require two things; the phoenix feather and dragon’s breath. Give me those, and we will discuss her future. She is a treasure that could shine bright with the right tutelage.” A light crept into his eyes. Greed shone forth as he imagined all he desired within his grasp. The younger version cracked through for an instant and then sunk back again.

  Nate pulled back an inch, his weight still resting against the pommel. The demon inside raged that the Curator had no intention of freeing Cara. “You want me to furnish items from two non-existent creatures?”

  The Curator emitted a wet laugh, spittle landing on his lips. “We both know they exist. Procuring them is not my problem. If you want her free, you have only to deliver the items. Her fate is in your hands.”

  Nate changed his grip on the sword and kept pressure on the bone. He was ready to carve the Curator’s ribs open, pull out his lungs, and lay them over his shoulders as befitting the history of the sword. “You’ve been too clever. How am I supposed to find them without her?”

  The old man opened his hands in a magnanimous gesture. “I will allow you a correspondence with her, to relay directions for your search.”

  A thump in his chest, the tiniest stutter that told him hope still lived deep inside. “A meeting, so I know she is alive and unharmed.”

  “No.”

  One syllable, and his vision blacked out. His mind screamed to plunge his hands into his opponent’s chest and rip out his lungs. To rend him limb from limb and crush his organs under his boot heel until he found the tipping point, where the Curator would be more dead than alive. He would watch him slither around the floor trying to rebuild his ruined body from thousands of tiny pieces. If he remained alive, so much the better, he could shred him over and over.

  A voice from the grave stopped his runaway train of thought. “Debilitate me, and you could search for a hundred years and never find her. I am your only connection now.”

  He took a deep breath and brought the monster under control. The beast was driven insane by the idea of Cara imprisoned, alone, and scared. He would find her, no matter what it took, or die trying. He was dead either way. Another deep draw of air.

  “I will deliver you a letter, in her own hand.” His prey dangled the most enticing bait.

  What remained of his heart leapt into his throat at the chance of something tangible from Cara. To touch something her hands held. He swallowed, trying to find a voice.

  “When?” The word rasped from his throat.

  “I will have my pupil pen you a clue for this little game. Expect it tomorrow.”

  Deep in his gut, Nate blew on the tiny ember of hope. Let him play his game. Nate intended to win and would savour his victory while the Curator burned in hell. He nodded.

  “Very well. Keep the sword.” He walked from the room, leaving the Curator hanging from the dado rail.

  His men followed in his wake, releasing the servants to deal to their master. Outside, they stood in the frigid night, their breath curling on the air.

  Nate glanced to the fortified building. “We watch him all night. He has Cara and will have her write me a letter. We cannot lose sight of him now. Not when we are this close.”

  ara screamed until her throat was raw and exhaustion dragged her down to a restless slumber. The lights came on and flooded her domain with brightness and jerked her awake. Blood pounded in her ears, and it took several deep breaths to bring some calm back to her tired body. She swung her legs over the bed and planned out her day. First, she listened at the door before using the bucket behind the screen and then washing her hands. Then she prowled her cage with restless legs and a hoarse voice. She walked until the frustration built and she let out a raspy cry and pounded her fists on the rough stone walls but only succeeded in removing a few layers of skin.

  “Think, think, think,” she chanted to herself as she took yet another look at her prison. The only way in and out was the door. From what she glimpsed when the Curator visited, he kept at least two and sometimes three of his drones guarding the outside.

  I suppose I should be flattered, considering the lengths he has gone to, to ensure I don’t escape.

  Given the rattling noise that preceded any visit, she laid money on them lacing a chain through the outside of the door just in case she did manage to reach through solid metal and pick the lock. She needed another route, even if she had to make her own. That left the walls. Her main problem was not knowing what lay on the other side. Beyond could be solid earth, water, or molten lava.

  The Curator thought he took precautions removing her corset with its metal boning, the means of her previous escape from confinement. However, he allowed her to keep her boots and hidden in the heel of one, she kept a lock pick and in the other, a tiny blade.

  “Please don’t back onto the Thames,” she said to the wall. Then she dragged the bed frame out and knelt down. Working with the small pocketknife, she dug into the mortar. Lit
tle by little, it crumbled to the floor. Her plan would work, eventually. “Might not be the fastest escape ever, but I seem to have time on my side.”

  She concentrated on one stone and chipped away, a slow fraction of an inch at a time, on the glue that bound it to its brothers. She only managed a depth of a quarter inch when the rattle of chain made her jump to her feet. She pushed the bed back against the wall and glanced down to ensure no trace of the mortar gave away her plan. She slipped the blade back down the side of her boot and was seated at the table looking bored by the time the heavy door swung open.

  The Curator glided across the room accompanied by the wash of cold air. “I have bought you breakfast and some reading material.” He gestured to his bland retinue.

  One carried a tray bearing coffee and a Spanish omelette laden with potatoes, tomatoes, and bacon. A hearty start to carry her through interminable hours. She poured a coffee and added sugar and cream. Her brain didn’t have time to wait for her to stir the brew, and she raised the cup straight away. As she sipped on the richness and let it soothe her fractious nerve endings, another man deposited several hefty tomes onto the free corner of the table.

  “From my own collection.” The Curator smiled to demonstrate his favour.

  Her fingers itched to open the books and turn the pages. Instead, she clutched the coffee cup tighter and kept a cold smile of her own plastered on her face. “I’d rather read them in a comfy library in front of a fire. It’s a tad chill down here.”

  He huffed a laugh. “I keep my treasures secure, you might be stolen from me if I let you from this room.” He almost looked apologetic for holding her prisoner.

  “I am no treasure.” A trail of ice crawled over her skin as she stared into the coffee. He referred to her like an object, is this what Helene warned her about? That he saw her as a thing to grace his collection, but why? Was it his curiosity about the effect Nefertiti’s Heart wrought on her body or something else? The tiny voice at the back of her head said there was an older reason, something deeper and tied to the falling out between her father and the Curator.