by Anne Renwick
“Something the countess let slip. Warrick’s so-called cure apparently lies in the grist mill.”
“I help,” Wei announced. “I have perfect distractions. Slip us pass the guardsmen. We go darkest hours before dawn. Three strikes of the clock. Back before sun rises.”
“It’s not safe,” Olivia said. Lines furrowed her brow. It was much to ask of a child. “Perhaps if we formally request the count for an escort—”
“No.” Ian shook his head. “Warrick and Katherine are hiding this from him, from Zheng. There might be reason. We do this covertly. With Wei’s assistance. Then—after—she can carry news directly to Black.”
Olivia frowned. “You will end with an arrow in your back. The count did offer to grant us more time if I…” She swallowed, dragged in a deep breath and—with a soft whisper—threw herself on the sword instead. “If I agreed to grant him certain personal favors.”
In his bed? The question must have registered on his face, for she nodded. “No. Unacceptable.” Ian caught Wei’s small hand and walked her back to the drainage pipe. “Go. Stay safe. I will question Warrick and learn all I can before our trip.” He lowered the metal grate to the floor and strode back to Olivia to cup her skull. “Understand this. I don’t care that it might work. My wife will not play the whore. You are mine and mine alone.”
His kiss was hard, almost punishing, yet she leaned into him, matching every thrust of his tongue with her own. He had to force himself to pull away.
“Yours,” she breathed. “I like the sound of that.”
Ian stared at her swollen lips and something feral inside him stirred. He shoved it back inside its cage. “Something to consider another time. Right now, I need to insist upon some answers.” He dropped his hands and strode up the stairs to the cellar door. Pounding on its ancient boards, he yelled, “Open the door! I demand to speak with Warrick.”
Zheng slammed open the door. “Stop your infernal noise. He’s on his way.”
They glared at each other, jaws tightly clenched.
Several long, tense moments later two guardsmen marched Warrick through the door. Only then did Ian redirect his gaze. “About time. We have much to discuss.”
“Do we?” Warrick sauntered past, managing a tight nod to Olivia as he snagged a beaker from the workbench and strolled to a nearby barrel. With the turn of a spigot, he decanted fifty centiliters into his makeshift glass and tossed it back. “Riesling,” he said. “A nice apple undertone, but I believe it’s spent too much time in that oak barrel. Good of me to liberate it. Sure you don’t want any?”
Ian snatched the glassware from his hand and threw it to the ground. It shattered upon the stone floor. “Time runs out for both of us. I could save you. Why will you not work with me?”
“I wondered when you’d finally snap. So calm. So collected. Always in the right.” Warrick leaned back against the workbench, his elbows propped upon its surface. “Why? Because it amuses me to see you in such an impossible situation. Your research and reputation are in ruins, you have no answers, no possibility of escape. To top it all off, your bride is your Achilles heel. Turnabout is a sweet, sweet thing to witness.”
“Turnabout?” What the hell is he talking about?
“Yes. Turnabout. I loved Elizabeth. Despite appearances, I still do.” Warrick’s mouth flattened. “A year ago, my life was stolen from me. If your bride is snatched from your arms as was mine, then I shall consider it a boon.”
“Unlike you, I would do anything to keep Olivia safe. Imprisonment and experimentation?” Ian sneered. “Not the best method to win a woman’s esteem. Whatever happened, you brought it upon yourself.”
“Perhaps. But your own father, the great seventh Earl of Rathsburn, agreed with my methods. Your slow, methodical work exasperated him. Years of schooling, years of research and still no cure. When I proposed we present my research to the Committee for the Exploration of Anthropomorphic Peculiarities and suggest Elizabeth as a candidate for treatment, he agreed.”
Olivia gasped. So she knew far more than she’d admitted. No more lies, they’d agreed, but it seemed they’d yet to share all their secrets.
Betrayed by his own father. Was it possible? Pain stabbed through him as he remembered the constant missives, how Father’s inquiries into the progress of his work had increased in frequency following Elizabeth’s engagement. And then the letters had simply stopped. His own father had lost faith in him? Grasped at Warrick’s offer instead? Possible.
No. Probable. Father was often sick that last year, and a man who once seized upon the promises made by every charlatan to arrive with a black doctor’s bag in hand… “You took advantage of a sick, old man,” Ian accused. “Of a man you proposed to call family.”
“Because I care for Elizabeth. Your research proceeds at a snail’s pace. Your father knew he was dying and wanted to see his daughter cured. I don’t want my wife terrified to bear children, and time runs out for her. Already it may be too late.” Warrick’s nostrils flared. “I was thrilled when the committee accepted my proposal and offered generous funding. We were slated to begin as soon as the wedding took place. Until you ruined everything.”
Ian sliced a hand through the air. “By bringing your unethical behavior to light, I saved her.”
“And lost your father,” Warrick snapped back. “That too you brought upon yourself.”
Ice shot down his spine. “Explain.”
“I had no choice. When you denounced me to the Duke of Avesbury, your sister broke our engagement, and your father wanted to step forward and reveal all. Had he named the members of CEAP, my life would have been forfeit. Loose ends had to be tied up and quickly.”
Ian clenched his fists and gave Warrick one last chance to save himself. “Loose ends?”
Warrick smirked and turned over one palm. “Was it lung fever?” Then the other. “Or antimony poisoning? The two so closely resemble each other.”
With a roar, Ian surged forward, grabbing him about the throat, pinning him to the stone wall. “Murderer! You deserve to die.”
Zheng shouted a warning and Ian loosened his grip. Slightly. Enough to allow a bare minimum of blood flow to the man’s brain.
“Possibly. But you need me.” Warrick laughed darkly. “Your refusal to break rules is rigid and naïve. It leaves you… vulnerable. The committee wanted nothing to do with you. Even your father-in-law had been left in the dark. Not a very trusting man, is he?”
Ian growled.
“Oh, yes,” Warrick breathed. “I know exactly who Olivia is. It makes my work here that much more poignant. Tell me, how much longer before the Queen’s agents arrive?”
“I do not work for him.”
Not anymore. Not since the duke had attributed Warrick’s illicit research to him, flinging allegations of wrongdoing without first verifying the source. Ian had dropped his TTX pistol on the man’s desk, turned his back, and left. No one had ever dared do such a thing. The duke had been furious, and Ian had nearly lost his position at Lister that day.
Later, there had been apologies, but no explanations. It was too little, too late.
“Are you so certain?” Warrick taunted. “The Duke of Avesbury rarely draws clear boundaries. If you work for Lister Laboratories, you work for him.”
Manipulated by him would be a more accurate assessment. “Give me a reason not to kill you.”
“Were you not listening? Though Elizabeth’s mind was poisoned against me, I vowed to see her cured. My cells will save her.”
Ian tamped down the simmering rage that threatened to boil over and shoved Warrick away from him. The man was talking, and that meant he would live. For now. “This cure you purport to design, what has it to do with copper and magnetite?”
Warrick’s eyes widened. “How—? Who told you?”
“So confident you are in your patronage, yet a conversation with the countess indicates her loyalties, were I to demonstrate a better method to make a man’s bones silver, could easily lie elsewh
ere.”
“The countess’ loyalties lie with her husband,” Zheng barked, striding forward. “Here. In Germany.”
“Do they?” Warrick sneered. “As do yours? A Chinese chemical peddler who overreaches, styling himself a warrior as he tries to climb the rungs of society’s ladder. You believe in loyalty? I doubt it. The minute I succeed you’ll want the biotechnology for your own Emperor. Would he not reward you generously for an army of soldiers with uncleavable silver skulls?”
The metal of Zheng’s sword sang as he drew the curved blade from its sheath. “I will have the truth now. If the countess is not loyal to Germany, then who?”
Warrick lifted his hands in the air. “No need to overreact, simply make me a better offer.”
“Who?” Zheng took a step forward.
“The countess claims my work for the tsar.” Warrick backed away, his eyes wild. “But my work, it’s all in my head. You need me alive.”
“Yet now two men wish you dead.” Zheng spit on the ground. “The count has ordered me to insist that you share all details of your research with Lord Rathsburn.” He pointed his sword at Warrick. “Ask your questions, Lord Rathsburn. The doktor will answer them or I will recommend to the count that he turn him loose so that he might hunt him from the sky.”
“What?” Warrick cried. His face turned ashen.
“I’ve seen the results of the count’s last hunting expedition with my own eyes,” Ian said. “Rather gruesome. I suggest you cooperate. Now, how can these cancerous bone cells be stopped?”
“By making them grow even faster,” Warrick spat out.
“He speaks nonsense.” Zheng’s blade sliced through in the air.
Behind him, Olivia whimpered. She was right to be worried; a promise of death glinted in Zheng’s eyes. “Perhaps not. Let him continue.” He wrapped his hand around the barrel auger Warrick had used to tap into the count’s wine supply. It was the only metal tool available with any hope of deflecting Zheng’s sword.
“Rapid proliferation enlists certain internal cellular mechanisms,” Warrick blubbered. “Cells destined to become cancerous can be induced to accumulate a certain toxin and self-destruct.”
At last, answers! “What toxin?” Ian demanded. “Respond to what?”
“A cure is possible,” Warrick insisted. “It can be done, but the minute I tell you how, I’m a dead man.”
Entirely possible. If Ian had the answers to save Elizabeth, he would find it difficult to mourn the man’s demise. He turned back to Zheng. “Warrick claims he has not kept a written record of his work. I don’t believe it. Perhaps you might persuade him to produce his research notes?”
“Perhaps a little bloodletting.” Zheng eyed the sharp edge of his blade. “Pain has a way of loosening tongues. Not to mention wolves have such an excellent sense of smell, and the count would enjoy the added challenge of racing against the wolves in an attempt to bring you down.”
Warrick’s eyes bulged from their sockets. He turned and walked down the narrow path between the wine casks, all but disappearing into the shadows. Wrenching free a barrel lid, he reached inside and dragged forth a handful of loose paper before striding back into their brightly lit corner and dropping the disorganized pile on the workbench. “A puzzle to wrap your mind about.”
Ian set down the augur and lifted one sheet of paper, then another. Words were scrawled in every direction. Nothing was dated. Or numbered. A chaotic pile of notes that looked to be written by a mad scientist. It would take days, possibly weeks, to sort through such scribblings. Still, as he flipped through the notations, he saw flashes of brilliance behind the disorder.
Olivia appeared at his elbow, lifting a piece of paper covered in equations. “A Harald-Fletcher formula!” Wide-eyed, she turned to face Warrick. “Can you explain why you think cyclic loading stimulates cell growth?”
“Can I?” From the sound of Warrick’s voice, he was back to being recalcitrant.
“Do you have what you need?” Zheng asked.
“I think I just might,” Ian said, turning a sheet of paper sideways. “It appears he was using Mendeleev’s periodic table to—”
Olivia screamed and Warrick let out a cry of protest.
Zheng advanced on Warrick, spinning the curved blade in his hand, angling it so the cutting edge aligned with Warrick’s neck.
“No!” Ian cried, grabbing the iron barrel auger from the benchtop, lunging between the two men, lifting the augur. The steel sword clanged against the wrought iron cork screw, ripping the tool from his hand. But though he had succeeded in deflecting the blow, he’d not prevented the blade from meeting flesh.
Warrick fell screaming, clutching his arm as blood poured from a deep gash.
“How dare you interfere!” Zheng bellowed.
“He still has information I need!” Ian yelled back. He turned back toward Warrick. The wound was deep. The blood was bright red. Ian yanked his cravat from his neck, crouched beside Warrick, and began to apply a tourniquet. “If you care for Elizabeth, now is the time for you to tell me how to save her.”
“Toxin in… my coat.” Warrick’s eyes were glassy, and he gasped for air. “Feed her toxin. Then… the cells… need oscillating m—”
A blade whistled past Ian’s eyes. There was a sickening crunch, and Ian stared at a knife protruding from Warrick’s chest. Zheng’s blade had passed straight through his heart.
He stood, spinning toward Zheng with both hands clenched into fists. “You bastard! You just signed my sister’s death warrant.”
Zheng pointed his sword at Ian. “The man was a traitor. You have what you need. I do us all a favor. And do not think to challenge me again, Lord Rathsburn. Next time, I will cleave your hand from its arm.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
IF THE GUARDSMEN who escorted them to their room looked a bit panicked, they had good reason. “Können Sie uns retten?” one man, his jaw painfully swollen, rasped in German. Can you save us?
She caught up his hand and stared at his knobby joints. She couldn’t lie. “I don’t know,” she answered in German. Could she leave behind so many young men, condemn them to death if an answer was in reach? No. “But we will do our best.”
“Gunther,” the other guardsman barked. “Do not consort with the prisoners.”
Any hope that she might convince them to let her walk free in the early hours of the morning evaporated like a drop of water on a hot iron skillet.
The door closed. A key turned.
Setting the armful of scrawled notations he carried onto the desk, Ian crossed the cavernous tomb of their bedchamber to stand at the window and stare through its leaded glass panes. She set down the case holding the osforare apparatus and followed, moving silently to his side. In the far distance a pteryform soared beneath a full moon. She squinted. Did Katherine ride upon its back?
Tempted though she was to admit to her possession—or rather—that Steam Matilda housed an active acousticotransmitter, given Ian’s reaction to Mr. Black’s presence in the forest, she didn’t dare confess. Besides, now was not the time. Warrick had all but admitted to murdering Ian’s father to save his own hide. She would offer whatever comfort he’d accept.
“I’m so sorry, Ian.” She laid an unsteady hand on his shoulder.
And then his arms were around her waist, pulling her close. She lay her head against his chest and listened to his heart beat as he dragged in a long, ragged breath, struggling for control. They stood together wrapped in silence. For a brief moment, the harsh world about them faded.
All too soon, Ian set her aside. His eyes were tired and tense. “Tell me what you know of this committee, of CEAP.”
Given Warrick’s revelations, he deserved to know. She swallowed hard, then nodded. “This past fall, while listening at doors, I overheard my father discussing something preposterous with one of his men. He ordered an agent north, to investigate the possibility of selkies on the Scottish shore.”
Ian scoffed. “Seals who can shed their
skins and take the form of a woman?”
“Such is the myth. From what I could gather, there are members of our government who believe that myths and fairy tales conceal core truths. They have formed a shadow board, side-stepping rules and regulations of all kinds in an attempt to discover their underlying biological facts.”
“They’re interested in more than simple facts,” Ian said. “It would seem they also strive to create new myths. Men with unbreakable silver bones would easily weave into the fabric of legend.” He paused. “I’ve known the duke to bypass the law before.”
“Father would, but only in the most honorable of ways. He wouldn’t support men who would willfully harm other humans, no matter what peculiarities or talents they might possess.”
“Are you so certain?” Ian asked, his eyes haunted.
“I’ve no evidence.” She caught Ian’s eye. Would he believe her? Trust was a fragile thing between them. “But we will ask him when we return.”
“I asked once,” Ian said. “He refused to acknowledge the existence of shadow boards. He will not answer questions.”
“He will answer mine.”
Ian stared at her for a long minute, then nodded.
Thoughts of returning to London called to mind Mr. Black, who even now lurked in the German forest, ready to assist their escape. Yet they could not turn tail and run, not until they’d exhausted all possibilities of finding a cure.
“Warrick spoke of rapid growth and the accumulation of toxins. What was it that he whispered as…” As his own blood pooled about him. A horrible death, but one such agents must witness with regularity. Olivia closed her eyes. Perhaps she was not cut out to work in the field after all. “I saw you reach beneath his coat.”
Ian pulled a vial of powder from a pocket. “This.”
“Antimony?” The moonlight gave the powder a silver cast.
“It can’t be antimony. The color is a shade different. Without access to a laboratory, I can’t be certain, but I believe it may be arsenic.”
“Arsenic!”
“A certain poison. But what if it could be delivered directly to the cancerous cells?” He began to pace. “Warrick told me to feed this to Elizabeth and then to induce rapid cell growth. With his last breath, he told me the cells needed something that oscillated.” Ian ran a hand through his hair. “But Zheng’s blade cut him off before he could finish.”