by Anne Renwick
“Here.” Jack slid a warm meat pie into her hands. “Eat. Replace some of the energy we burned.” Mischief glinted in his eyes. “A long night stretches before us and perhaps, later, a soft bed beneath us.”
“Beds.” She shrugged. Winked. “I suppose they have their uses.”
He laughed, and her heart swelled. Here, in the wind-swept Yorkshire countryside, she’d uncovered a new, lighter side to her husband. One she much enjoyed.
“I’ll buy us some tickets,” he said. “Sooner we go up, the sooner we’re down.”
There was much to admire about the man she now called husband. An intelligent and progressive mind. His dedication and perseverance. His strength and his most talented hands. He was a man likely to, one day, tumble her head over heels into love. She pressed a hand to her stomach, wondering at her good fortune.
For now, however much she wished to dreamily contemplate their future, their focus must be directed at acting upon behalf of the Crown. The London murders must be stopped. Every clue they could pry from Dr. Thrakos’ lips would be critical.
Hungry, she bit into the savory pie and considered the many divisions of the circus above. Scientists with secrets tended to set themselves apart. A few of the substructures beneath the smaller balloons held promise.
Jack was back. “Come. We’re in the next basket.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and drew her close. “While efficiency is always a priority, I’ve learned the circus floats onward at midnight. I suggest we add ‘stowaway’ to our list of activities and hitch a ride. At dawn, we’ll catch a train to London from York.”
Nothing but turmoil—of all kinds—awaited them in London. But there was a venomous murderer on the loose. They needed to return, soon, and with information.
“So much for a bed.” They were more likely to spend the night huddled on a coil of ropes beneath a tarp. Still, they could share body warmth. She threw him a coy glance. “Upward then.”
A short-skirted—all ruffles and striped stockings—beauty with a tumble of golden curls sat atop the basket’s edge, swinging her legs and waving customers onward with a flourish. “All aboard!”
Tickets were collected, the engine roared to life, and they lurched into the sky. Below, the expanding vista was stunning. Field after field rolled outward—some dotted with sheep, others bright with spring plantings. Beside a lake crouched Ripley Castle, an ancient stone pile marking the outskirts of the town.
Thud.
The basket slid into a slot, and their circus host leapt from its edge to thrust a fringed parasol above her head. It sprung open with a pop. “This way!” she proclaimed, throwing open the door before marching off.
Wooden slats beneath Cait’s feet creaked and gaps provided a glimpse of the distant ground.
Worse, the edge of the platform was guarded only by lengths of rope tied about flimsy wooden posts. A barrier easily missed without working peripheral vision. A risk that only now entered her mind.
“Careful,” she warned Jack, catching his hand to draw him away from the edge. “It’s a long way down.”
The path led through a hall of mirrors. Cait smiled at their joined reflections—tall, short, thin, fat. They stepped out onto the edge of a circus ring that invited guests to join in the spectacle. Before them swirled a riot of activity. A band played while poodles danced. Flaming swords were brandished and swallowed. One-armed, a strongman hoisted seated guests overhead.
Curiosities one and all, but not of the variety they sought.
Those were advertised by an overabundance of signs pointing every which way to a multitude of stairs and suspended pathways. Ignoring ANIMAL ODDITIES!, she grabbed Jack’s hand and tugged him toward HUMAN CURIOSITIES!
At a line of booths, spectators gaped at conjoined twins, a young boy sporting a tail, a horned and hoofed midget, and the promised bearded lady. They kept moving until Cait stopped short at the sight of the stall marked AYLA, THE SNAKE DANCER.
She squeezed Jack’s hand, expectant.
Then sighed heavily.
“Disappointing,” she said. Other spectators gawked while Cait frowned at the woman dressed in harem attire as she undulated upon a small stage. “All but one of her snakes are harmless, save the common adder.”
“From the disdain in your voice,” Jack replied with a hint of amusement in his own, “am I to assume you are immune?”
“You are. It’s a viper native to Europe and Britain. Easily sourced with a bite that’s seldom fatal. Not the best of pets.”
“Pets,” he repeated flatly. “We’ll revisit that comment. I’m quite certain they’re not meant to live in houses.”
She only laughed.
“Onward?” he suggested.
“No.” She tipped her head. Without friends or acquaintances in London, weeks had passed since she’d indulged herself in trawling for feminine gossip. “She might know something, but with a man present…”
“Understood.” He dropped her hand. “I’ll go snoop around. See what locked doors and roped off corridors I can discover.”
She hesitated. “These rope-lined walkways are treacherous.”
“I’ll watch my step.”
Doubt twisted her lips. “Be careful.”
“Ten years an agent. I’ll be fine.” He left without giving her a chance to counter that his situation had changed.
Cait joined those who stood watching the harmless grass snake slither and twist about Ayla’s arm as she rolled her hips seductively for a largely male audience.
Was it the woman’s bare midriff that drew their eyes? The diaphanous material of harem pants that revealed shadows of long, shapely legs? The low cut, tight and cropped blouse beneath thin veils?
She very much doubted it was the limbless reptile.
“Come closer,” the snake dancer called to her. “Meet my friend.” As the woman extended her arm to welcome her new audience member, the snake slithered over her wrist and locked its eyes upon Cait. “Don’t be afraid.”
“Of a harmless grass snake?” She held out her own hand, inviting the reptile onward.
The five-foot-long, green and yellow beauty accepted, twining about Cait’s arm to abandon her mistress. Onlookers backed away, made their excuses and departed for the next—and perhaps safer—spectacle.
“She’s rather sweet,” Cait said, stroking the reptile’s smooth scales as it slithered upward about her shoulders. “Do you ever perform with the adder?”
“Are you mad?” Ayla asked. All seductive pretense fell way. “He’s for display only. The nasty creature is—” She snatched up Cait’s hand, ogling her ring. “But you know poison, do you not? Or if you don’t, you shouldn’t be wearing a black nagamani around here.”
“A nagamani?” She glanced down at the ring. For the first time ever, the stone embedded in the bezel had drawn attention rather than the compartment that rested beneath it. She’d thought nothing of the stone, save to value it as part of the ring, the sole item of her father’s that had come into her possession. And that word. Nagamani. Could it be all this time, she’d worn a stone sacred to the mythical semidivine beings known as naga?
“A snake stone,” the woman elaborated. “Taken from the head of a cobra, it protects its wearer against poisonous snake bites.”
“Mere myth.” An impossible fantasy, if perhaps one perpetuated by snake charmers. Ineffective as an antidote. Though a thought rose unbidden—could it be a symbol worn by those like her? Those with inexplicable immunity to venoms? “It was given to me by a man known as Kālūnāth. Have you heard of him?”
“No, I’m afraid not. Was he an amateur snake charmer like yourself?” Ayla snorted. “For my pet has taken to you like no other.”
“I’m told he was.” If her father had been here, it was before this woman’s time. But might there be others like him? Like her? “Have you known anyone else to wear such a stone?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve only heard the stories.” Ayla reached for her snake.
But the grass sna
ke hissed, making a decided preference known. The dancer hesitated to reclaim her animal and, as Cait had more questions, she permitted the snake its continued exploration of her hair. “You’re floating in a circus known for its curiosities. If not snake charmers, have you ever encountered their inverse, say a woman with fangs of her own?” She pulled aside the colorful scarf wrapped about her neck.
A gasp. “You met one.” The woman drew back, eyes on Cait’s scar. “And sampled her venom. Why are you asking?”
Sensing the woman’s imminent retreat, she wasted no time. “I need to speak with Dr. Thrakos.”
“No.” Ayla shook her head and began forcibly unwinding the snake from Cait’s neck. “I want no part in this. None. Professor Grimaldi has since banned all of his human projects.”
“Where can I find him?” she pressed.
“You can’t. Not even if he’s here. And shouldn’t want to.” Snake in hand, the dancer turned away. New onlookers approached. She began to dance again. “He works alone, lives apart. But if it’s his handiwork you wish to view, visit the animals. The poor creatures ought to be put out of their misery.”
Dismissed and ignored, Cait drifted slowly along the pathway, pondering Ayla’s words. Was it possible that Dr. Thrakos sought to create a nagini? That what began as a circus attraction proved so successful, he’d sold the results, the women, to the likes of bored, rich gentlemen?
The solitary Dr. Thrakos would have to be found.
Chapter Fifteen
“What on Earth is that?” Cait whispered the soft words into his ear. She wrapped a welcome arm about his waist and drew close.
What was it?
The stuff of nightmares.
Every animal on display brought back memories of time spent at his family’s country home where his brother had first discovered a love of torturing his younger brother by releasing such things as wriggling spiders and damp frogs into his bedroom. Such abuse had continued until Jack purchased a large egg nestled in shredded paper and tucked inside a domed wooden box.
“A dragon’s egg,” he’d informed Aubrey. “Likely to hatch at any moment and remove a finger. Do you dare touch it?”
It was, in fact, a cleverly painted ostrich egg. But the threat of losing a precious body part had kept his brother away that summer.
Such were the childhood proving grounds of a well-developed peripheral vision and an acute sense for ill intent. Skills that had served him well as an agent. Here, he keenly felt the loss in his vision, several stories above the ground, where the creak of timbers and the snap of ropes and flags in the wind had prevented his ears from warning him of Cait’s approach.
“A three-headed rattlesnake from the desert southwest of the United States of America,” he answered Cait aloud. “Triple the venom, if you’re willing to believe the sign.”
“But you’re in doubt?” She bent to peer through the glass-plate window at the scaled creature, watching. “All three forked tongues flick.”
“Note the fine stitches—sutures, if you will—nearly hidden beneath the golden bands billed as collars?”
Beside them, two young men pointed. Whispered and sniggered, then moved on to the next oddity.
“Real, if surgically created in a laboratory?” she suggested. “But not found in the wild.”
“Given the venom present in the two snake-women’s mouths, it’s tempting to think so. But look closer.”
“Are those…” She inhaled sharply. “Two of the three heads are stuffed and mechanized. You can see gears rotating beneath the skin.” Her lips twisted. “How many others are similarly counterfeit?”
“Many. Though there is a microcephalic sheep and a one-eyed parrot. Some, however, are like this poor creature. Brace yourself.” Jack cringed as he drew her along.
“A cat with hooves?” Pain laced Cait’s voice.
Staring at the creature, his stomach turned again. He’d had to force himself to evaluate the surgeon’s work. “Not a natural state, but the grafted feet exhibit wound healing at the sutures.”
“The poor thing. To inflict such suffering, to allow it—” Shaking her head, Cait looked away, visibly troubled. “All of this is horrible. It does, however, establish that this Dr. Thrakos possesses the necessary skills to implant venom glands and ducts into the mouths of human females.”
“Ducts that end at canines altered to serve as fangs.”
“Quite an abnormal dentistry practice.” She shuddered.
“Did the snake dancer provide any useful information?”
“She did.” A strange look crossed her face. “The mention of venomous women made Ayla skittish. She did inform me it was impossible to meet with Dr. Thrakos, that he might not even be aboard. Then pointed me in this direction to view his creations.”
“I can imagine why.” He led her away to stand beneath the shadow of a balloon. Here a balcony overlooked the colorful chaos of the central ring.
Colorful.
Cait’s mere presence brought a long-lost vibrance back into his life and made him long for a future with her always at his side.
Tipping up her chin, he kissed her simply because he wished to do so. She nipped his lower lip as he pulled away, shooting a bolt of desire straight to his groin, tempting him to drag her into a deep shadow, hitch up her skirts and give in to the desire that curled through his chest, showing her feelings that he couldn’t yet put into words.
But work must come first.
Together, they scanned the haphazard chaos before them.
“We can dismiss the smallest balloons,” he said. “The structures beneath are too small to hold a laboratory. Logic suggests one of the mid-sized balloons with independent structures lashed to the sides of the circus. Adjacent, yet apart. Care to guess which one houses his so-called surgical practice?”
“The unimaginative blue one with the attached escape dirigible.”
“A basic model.” He nodded agreement. “Glider class with patagium wings. Retrofitted to carry a propulsive engine that would permit him to travel as far as London without much trouble.” He offered his wife an arm. “Shall we?”
But it was Cait who looked after his safety, who kept him from plummeting to the field below as he cursed his failing vision. As they picked their way across hanging bridges and crooked ladders, she warned of missing slats and rungs. Pointed out rope railings as they traversed narrow ledges.
By the time they reached the door to the gondola beneath the faded, blue balloon, not a drop of adrenaline remained in his system, and the fine hairs on the back of his neck failed to send a shiver of warning across his skin.
Still, the lack of a lock up on the door sounded alarm bells.
“Cait, don’t—”
Too late. The door swung inward.
Pffft.
A fine mist coated his face. “What—”
The room tipped, he stumbled and the floor rushed up to smack him in the face.
“Awake at last.” A bright, white light flicked across Jack’s eyes, momentarily blinding him. “Mere trespasser or thief, I’ve yet to decide, though your lovely companion claims you merely dropped in for tea and conversation. I remain unconvinced, though I’ve put the kettle on.”
Jack pushed himself into an upright, seated position and blinked. His eyes burned. He blinked, cursing. He’d adjusted to a blankness about the edges of his vision, but this blurriness was new. He prayed it wasn’t permanent. Squinting, he stared at the face that swam before him.
An older man with snarled teeth and a wild expression etched into weathered skin. All framed by a shock of white hair that lay flat against one side of his head but stood straight up upon the other—layered in jagged clumps as if he used a serrated knife as a comb.
“Cait?” He reached for his weapon—and found his holster empty. Stood, only to find all forward movement blocked by iron bars.
Shit.
He spun about.
A cage?
“Over here.” A tremor shook her voice. “I’m
fine. For now.”
The faint overhead blue-white glow of a Lucifer lamp revealed her seated form, if not the details of her face.
What was wrong with his eyes? Panic leapt into his throat. But no, the symptoms were wrong. This was not the tumor’s doing. Something—a chemical-laced oil—had been sprayed into his face, into his eyes.
A damp cloth was thrust into his hand. “Wipe them.”
The thousand pricks of pain eased and his vision cleared, though it brought nothing akin to relief.
Time slowed as he took in the scene before him.
Living quarters occupied one end of the gondola. At each side, a door. One through which they’d entered. A second that presumably led into the small glider-class dirigible they’d observed from above.
The rest of the space was given over to Dr. Thrakos’ unorthodox pursuits.
Overhead, dried bits of animals dangled from strings. Open-topped boxes of all sizes were lashed to the walls and filled with an assortment of clockwork components. Misshapen and deformed embryos floated in jars, a collection housed inside a cabinet with a secure door as a concession to the floating nature of this—dare he call it such—laboratory.
Jack’s was not the only cage, merely the largest. Most were empty, though a trio of beady-eyed snakes stared back at him, unblinking, from behind the glass of a terrarium.
A shudder ran down his spine.
All the clutter surrounded a central surgical suite where more modern equipment rested. A fume hood, an incubator, and a bright overhead light above a jointed metal table, one folded into the approximation of a chair. There sat Cait, her wrists and ankles clamped in place by iron manacles.
“Let her go.” His words emerged with such coldness they all but froze the air they touched.
“We’ll discuss that.” The scientist didn’t bother to look at Jack as he measured out dried leaves into a teapot, poured boiling water over them, then left the tea to steep. “Traipsing into the ‘restricted’ section of the circus, breaking into my home? Did it never occur to you that to do so was to trespass?” The man sighed. “Everyone wants something from the great and powerful Dr. Thrakos, so few wish to give anything in exchange.”