Two steps from the river, something stung me in the neck. I had time to turn my head . . . time to see the man with the rifle, hidden in a camouflaged shooting blind among the bulrushes . . . time to raise my pistol and fire at him . . . then my muscles went limp. The last thing I remember is plunging facedown into the water.
13
LOCATION UNKNOWN: A MANSION
I woke in a four-poster bed—a voluminous thing with profusely carved woodwork and far too many flounces in its canopy. The room was dark, lit with a faint ruby light. Floral perfume pervaded the air. I breathed the subtle scent for several seconds before nausea swept over me. Fortunately, a nightstand with a porcelain washbasin stood beside the bed. I emptied my stomach into it, though I didn’t have much to retch up. A long time must have passed since my last meal.
The side of my neck still stung. I probably had a bruise. Tranquilizer darts sound ever so harmless, but in practice, they’re usually brutal. Think of a hypodermic needle slammed into your flesh with enough force to bury it up to the hilt. Remember that the syringe is filled with some chemical so virulent it knocks you out in seconds. No wonder I felt sick.
But I wasn’t dead. Urdmann apparently wanted me alive. Why? The obvious sordid reason suggested itself. Have I mentioned that my clothes were missing? All I had on was a filmy white shift I’d never seen before. And when a woman wakes up wearing unfamiliar lingerie in a bed that looks like it was designed for Marie Antoinette, it’s hard not to suspect the worst.
I didn’t think anything had happened yet—I felt sick but not used. Besides, Urdmann was the sort who’d want me awake: aware of what was going on. The only surprise was that I hadn’t been tied or handcuffed to the bed. If I’d been captured to serve as a pleasure slave, leaving me free was asking for trouble. Even an egotistical brute like Urdmann had to realize I’d fight to avoid becoming his harem girl.
First things first: look for weapons. I found a towel on the washstand and wiped off my mouth as I scanned the room. In the same way the name Marie Antoinette had popped into my mind as soon as I saw the bed, the rest of the room brought to mind French royal decor before the revolution—ruffles everywhere, too much silk brocade, and scrollwork carvings on every square inch of wood. Perhaps the poor of Paris hadn’t revolted for liberty, equality, and fraternity but in pursuit of uncluttered design and less crewelwork.
The only source of illumination in the room was a low-watt bulb with a pale red lampshade. The rest of the place brooded in darkness. Two large windows—both made impassable by strong iron bars—showed a black night sky and a greener-than-green lawn lit by security spotlights. As I watched, guards with Uzis strolled past on a sidewalk at the far end of the grass. The guards wore short sleeves and the sidewalk was overhung with palm trees, suggesting a warm, even hot, climate. My room, however, was pleasantly cool. It didn’t take me long to spot an air-conditioning vent in the shadows along the far wall. While I was looking around, I also checked for security cameras watching me. I didn’t see any . . . but cameras can be so tiny these days, I wouldn’t know for sure unless I checked every inch of the walls and ceiling. It didn’t seem worth the trouble. Better to concentrate on more productive activities.
By now, my queasy stomach had settled. I was still far from my best—I felt hungry, shaky, dizzy—but I’d collected myself enough to stand. The world stopped spinning after a few seconds. When I thought I could walk without falling over, I went to the nearest of the three doors that exited from the room. It opened onto a self-contained bathroom with sink, loo, and a claw-footed tub. I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth; I used the facilities quickly, splashing cold water on my face until my head cleared. There was a mirror over the sink . . . and yes, the tranq dart in my neck had left a bruise. Otherwise, I was none the worse for wear.
Back in the bedroom, I tried the next door. It led to a walk-in closet that looked like it had been stocked by a movie studio’s costume department. Gowns of all descriptions hung from the racks: not just Marie Antoinette–style hoopskirts and petticoats but Elizabethan stomachers, Roman stolas, and Greek chitons; Chinese cheongsams and Japanese kimonos; Indian saris and Turkish kaftans; even an assortment of strapless black cocktail dresses, some vintage, some contemporary. Add to that scanty undergarments; impractical stockings; two dozen pairs of shoes—all either high heels or flimsy slippers; a powdered wig bigger than a Christmas turkey; and enough bracelets, anklets, necklaces, belts, etc. to accessorize a goth senior prom.
My own clothes were nowhere in evidence. Neither were any other garments with an ounce of durability or freedom of movement. I have nothing against fancy finery in the right time and place—but the right time and place is race week at Royal Ascot. I seriously considered remaining in the sheer-nothing nightie rather than hampering myself with frills-and-froufrou frocks; but that might be a mistake. One should never underestimate the value of pockets . . . or a belt where one can hang a knife sheath . . . or dark clothing when one is trying to hide in shadows.
Besides, escaping this place was a high priority—right after feeding Lancaster Urdmann his own entrails and rescuing my friends if they were also being held prisoner. I’d definitely need clothes once I got away. The tabloids write enough rubbish about me already. Can you imagine what they’d say if I was caught trying to hitchhike back to civilization in nothing but knickers? LUSTY LARA IN LECHEROUS LINGERIE! PERVERTED PEERESS SHOWS EVERYTHING BUT SHAME!
As quickly as I could, I assembled an outfit I could live with: the best-made of the black cocktail dresses, ripped off above the knee so I could run in it; another black dress torn lengthwise down the middle and tied around my neck . . . for use as a cloak if I needed to hide my pale face and shoulders in the dark; the three least glittery belts, one around my waist and two across my chest like bandoliers, strapped tightly enough that I could tuck small objects under them for safekeeping; and a pair of black slippers, not on my feet, but under my belt. I was perfectly comfortable going barefoot, but the slippers, turned toes downward, could serve as belt pouches.
The final element of my ensemble was the sturdiest necklace on the rack: a silver chain as thick as my little finger. I tugged it a few times to make sure it was strong. With luck, it would stay in one piece if I needed to garrote someone with it. In the same spirit of improvisation, I removed a pillowcase from one of the bed pillows and tossed some heavy gold bracelets inside. I knotted the pillowcase down near the bottom to hold the bracelets in a single hefty lump. When I swung the result, it didn’t feel quite as deadly as a medieval flail but it would certainly be an effective blunt instrument when whipped full force at someone’s skull. It was strong enough to be used several times before the fabric broke—hurrah for 800-count bed linens.
I considered making other weapons. With my pillowcase bludgeon I could break the bathroom mirror, making shards of glass to use as daggers. I’m not superstitious about mirrors. When you’ve been hexed by Atlantean sorcerers and ancient Babylonian wizards, inanimate sheets of silvered glass lose their power to intimidate. But smashing the mirror would make noise; so far I’d avoided that. Any guards outside my door—and I assumed there must be guards outside my door—might not know I was awake. My ideal scenario entailed eliminating the sentries without raising an alarm, grabbing any weapons they carried, then playing things by ear. If I couldn’t accomplish that with the armaments I already had, extending my arsenal was a waste of time.
Still . . . I went to the bed and grabbed a pillow in case I needed to muffle an enemy’s cries before I induced more permanent silence. Good enough, I said to myself. Time to go.
I examined the final door—the one leading out of the room. Soft light shone around the frame . . . enough that I could check between the door and its jamb to see what was holding me in. I saw no extra bolts or padlocks on the outside, not even a simple hook and eye. The only thing keeping the door shut was its normal latch.
Slowly, very slowly, I tried the doorknob. It turned all the way. Unlocked
. A shiver went through me as I wondered what that meant. Why on earth would Urdmann leave me free to roam? Was he that confident? Or was he planning some awful surprise I couldn’t see coming?
Only one way to find out.
Left hand on the doorknob. Pillow under my left arm. Pillowcase flail in my right hand. Garroting necklace hung on my belt. I whipped open the door and hurled myself outside, expecting to find guards to pummel.
No one. An empty corridor: ornate in the style of a two-star hotel that’s trying too hard to earn another star. Rose-shaded lamps hung on the walls but far enough apart to leave long stretches of shadow in between. Either Urdmann liked dim mood lighting or he was tightfisted with his electricity bills.
More doors like mine lined the corridor. I looked through the keyhole of the closest. Lord Horatio lay unmoving in a bed identical to the one where I’d awakened. However, his door was locked. I considered kicking it in, but decided against it. Like me, Lord H. must have been drugged into unconsciousness; he’d be difficult to wake until the drug wore off. Even if he were fully conscious, how much experience did he have sneaking around silently? And with him in tow I couldn’t clamber over rooftops or play many of my other favorite games.
No, I decided, I wouldn’t try to revive his lordship yet. I’d scout our surroundings first. Learn what Urdmann was up to. Maybe get my hands on real weapons. Then I’d come back for my friend.
Quickly, I checked other nearby rooms. Teresa and Ilya were on the opposite side of the hall from Lord H. and me. They both seemed deeply unconscious too. I’d leave them alone for the moment. At least they weren’t in some torture chamber, with Urdmann holding a gun to their heads. “Do what I command, dear Lara, or your friends will suffer.”
But why not? Why no duress and ultimatums? I hated when villains like Urdmann acted uncharacteristically. What was going on?
At the end of the corridor, a grand spiral staircase led downward: heavy marble stairs, with cupped wear patterns where many feet had trod. The stairway might have been centuries old . . . which suggested the house was old too. I filed that away in my mind and proceeded downward.
A door was open at the bottom of the stairs. I peeked inside. A man stood in a pool of light, painting at an easel. All I could see was the man’s back, but I knew he wasn’t Urdmann. The painter’s body was hidden under an artist’s smock, but I could tell he weighed five stone too little to be Lancaster Urdmann, O.B.E.
The canvas he was working on faced my way: a portrait of a sleeping woman, nude. There was no model posing for the painter to paint. Instead, he kept glancing at a side table which apparently held a photo as reference. So far, the painted image only showed the roughed-out contours of the woman’s body—her face was a blank pinkish oval, waiting for features to be added. But I could guess who the subject was. Someone had snapped pictures of me while I was unconscious, and now this arrogant prat thought he could turn me into some grande odalisque for the next Salon.
Judging by the rest of the room, I wasn’t the first woman to receive this treatment. The walls were covered with other paintings—literally covered, with nary a square inch of open wall. Dozens of canvases, large and small, abutted each other like some mathematical tiling problem . . . and every one of those pictures portrayed a female nude.
The artist showed no prejudice in his subjects: the paintings depicted women of many ethnicities—light skin, dark skin—long hair, short, of all physical builds and coloration. Most looked to be under forty years old . . . but not all. The older women were painted just as lavishly as the younger—maybe even with fond generosity. But I wasn’t in a mood to think What a nice chap this artist is, so receptive to all feminine beauty! My thoughts were more along the lines of, You rancid exploitative pig, I’ll have your guts for garters. And not nice garters!
The only question was whether to cudgel him immediately into unconsciousness or take some less drastic approach. If I could overpower him without knocking him out, I might force him to spill useful information: where we were, what Urdmann was up to. On the other hand, I didn’t know if I could really fight the painter to a standstill when my best weapon was a pillowcase. This man might be smaller than the porcine Urdmann, but I doubted he’d be an easy mark. The painter was six feet tall, and his gloved hand was rock steady as it held the paintbrush. That took muscle control. Besides, the man’s loose smock could easily conceal weapons—a knife or pistol slung at the hip. What really decided me, though, was the cad’s sheer cheek, thinking he had the right to paint me in the buff. If he’d been painting a landscape or flowers in a vase, I might have hesitated to bash in his skull. As it was . . .
I stole silently across the floor. The painter didn’t hear me coming. He didn’t hear me wind up with pillowcase, or swing it as hard as I could at the back of his head. I daresay he heard the crack! as the business end connected with his cranium . . . but I wasted no time waiting to see how he reacted. An instant after he staggered from the blow, I had my necklace garrote around his throat, twisting it tight with my right hand. My left held the pillow over his face. Whatever sounds he made were lost in the pillow’s embrace.
The man never really struggled. I assumed he’d been knocked unconscious by my first attack. I held the smother choke anyway, counting to a hundred before letting him go. When I did, he slumped to the floor . . . just as I expected he would.
What I didn’t expect was the look of the pillow I’d held over the man’s face. As I pulled it away, I saw its white surface had been smeared with tan-colored smudges. Makeup . . . the fellow was wearing a layer of foundation that had rubbed off on the pillow.
I gazed down at the man: my first good look at him. Where the pillow had come into contact, his cheeks and forehead had been wiped clean of makeup. Beneath the cosmetic tan surface, his skin—his real skin—was shiny metallic silver . . . as bright and polished as the silver serving trays in Croft Manor.
As I stared, the man’s eyes opened. He smiled. “Ah, mademoiselle. You’re awake.”
Startled—reflexively trying to silence him before he called for help—I lifted my bare foot and stomped his face. It was like slamming my heel onto concrete. Whatever metal the man was made of, he was as solid as a stone statue.
Or perhaps a bronze one.
The light dawned in my mind. I didn’t attack again. If this silver android could withstand choking, smothering, and a full-strength stomp, why waste my energy searching for other ways to subdue him? Maybe if I found my pistols, I’d try again. Until then, there was no point.
Besides, I was beginning to realize this was a setup. My door had been left unlocked so I’d do exactly what I did—come down the stairs and sneak into the first open door at the bottom. The metal man had been waiting, secure in the knowledge I couldn’t hurt him.
“All right,” I said. “You’ve got me here. What do you want?”
The man smiled and rose to his feet with easy grace. “I wish merely to talk, mademoiselle. What else should a gentleman do with a beautiful woman?”
He cocked one eyebrow as if inviting me to suggest something. “Oh, please,” I said in disgust. “Spare me the innuendo. Who are you, what are you, what’s your master plan?”
“Ah.” He leaned comfortably back against a heavy wood table that held his collection of paints, brushes, and other art supplies. “Who am I? I have gone by many names, but with you, mademoiselle, I shall not use false pretense. You may call me Silver.”
With a theatrical gesture, he swept the sleeve of his smock across his face. I think his intention was to take me by surprise: to wipe off his makeup and reveal the silver beneath. He didn’t seem to realize I’d already blotted away his artificial coloring with my pillow. I gazed at him and thought, You’re not as smart as you think. That made me smile.
If Silver was disappointed with my response to his dramatic revelation, he hid it well. “What am I?” he went on. “Surely you can guess. You know my bronze counterpart, do you not? You’re employed by his devoted Order. S
o you must have surmised your bronze leader and I share a similar nature.” He gave me a coy look. “But I am more handsome and charming.”
“Sorry,” I said, “but I’ve never pictured myself being charmed by an android.”
“An android?” He made a face. “Is that what you think I am? An assemblage of wires and transistors? A mere automaton?”
“What would you prefer to be called? A golem? An elemental? A nanotech swarm impersonating the Tin Woodman?”
“Mademoiselle,” Silver said, waggling his finger at me as if speaking to a naughty child. “All these labels you suggest simply show your ignorance. Your language has no word for what I am.”
Actually, I suspected English had a number of perfectly good words for what he was . . . though they were words I was too well-bred to use. “Let’s try this then,” I said. “Are you magical or simply high-tech?”
He sighed. “Again, mademoiselle, your question betrays the abysmal state of your knowledge. I am magical, I am high-tech; I am both, I am neither. I am my glorious self: a mystery you could never fathom.”
“So I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where you’re from either. Outer space? Mount Olympus? The future?”
“Suffice it to say,” Silver answered, “Bronze and I hail from the same place. You might call us cousins . . . though with different personalities. Diametrically opposed.”
“You’re evil and he’s good?”
Silver laughed. “I’m a witty, delightful companion. Bronze is a self-righteous stick-in-the-mud.”
“Bronze seems programmed for law enforcement. What are you programmed for?”
The Man of Bronze Page 23