by Kim Foster
It is done.
Several hours later, I am back at headquarters. Julian, Hugh, and I stand before Hawksmoor in the war room as we did the night before, but we are a very different group. Julian has been released from police custody, courtesy of Hawksmoor’s quiet intervention, but his shirt and trousers are stained with dirt and he has a defeated slouch to his shoulders.
Hugh has learned of everything that’s happened, and looks triumphant, though he keeps shooting me wary glances. I am nothing like he expected.
As for me, I can barely begin to understand what has just occurred.
“I assume you’ve made your decision, sir?” asks Julian, trying to gather his dignity for the edict that is surely about to come.
“A secret agent does not receive accolades for his work,” Hawksmoor begins. “He does not receive awards. There is no glory. Those in his life will have no idea what he actually engages in. His Aunt Mildred—unless she, too, happens to be a Morgana agent, and perhaps not even then—will not be proud of him.”
Julian’s throat bobs as he attempts to swallow. He remains silent.
“The moment you start looking for glory, Mr. Blake, that is the moment you are no longer suitable as a Morgana agent.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“Mr. Blake, you’re out of the running,” Hawksmoor says flatly. “You may go.”
Julian walks out silently.
Later that afternoon, alone in my room, Jane brings me a light meal, then draws me a bath. “It’s just down to you and Mr. Torrington now, Miss Cole,” she says after I emerge from the water that was far less soothing than I’d hoped. I do not reply, staring at my reflection as she brushes my hair. Though I wear a warm robe, I feel chilled.
“Mrs. Isherwood said to tell you the final test will be tomorrow morning. Your time this evening is your own.”
My eyes snap to hers in the mirror. She watches me with concern, but says nothing more.
A plan forms in my head. Tonight is my final chance.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“In a moment I knew what had happened. I had slept, and my fire had gone out, and the bitterness of death had come over my soul.”
—H. G. Wells, The Time Machine
A thick fog curls around my ankles as I approach Tianjin House. My skin is cold and clammy despite the wool coat and cap I snuck out of the headquarters’ cloak room. I’ve disguised myself as a young man, all the better to blend in. Wandering this part of town alone as a woman was out of the question. Opium dens are the sort of place I took care to avoid even when I lived in Whitechapel.
Gaslight lanterns try in vain to drive back the gloom. While black coaches clatter past ramshackle, sooty buildings, I make my way on foot. I move swiftly over slick cobblestones, moonlight glimmering in the puddles between the cracks.
I have only been away from Whitechapel for a few months, but already I have grown used to the comforts and safety of my new life. Still, I have nothing to fear. I have skills now. And, besides, I have little choice if I want to find this cure.
I secreted away from headquarters when everyone else went down for dinner. I’m sure nobody will notice my absence. And if I can get the answers I need about the Huntsmen, it will be worth it.
Inside Tianjin House, the air is warm and damp and dark. The powerful scent of incense and opium twines through the smoky interior. Patrons lounge in red-cushioned alcoves, smoking their water pipes and drinking tea. They are from all strata of society, yet their features share a glazed, faraway look, their eyes glassy.
I examine each face as I pass. The sooner I find Dexter, the sooner I can be on my way. I am risking everything to find him.
Sig’s old daguerreotype of his former colleague gave me the particulars of my target’s appearance. I’m hoping Mr. Dexter hasn’t changed much since the image was taken.
I avoid eye contact as much as possible, though most here are in too much of a stupor anyway. One or two follow my movements, and I speed my search.
As the minutes tick by, I chew the inside of my cheek. Perhaps Dexter is not here tonight, or no longer frequents this place. Perhaps he’s dead.
I keep moving, even as I grow more anxious. It’s not just about the danger. Hawksmoor discovering this betrayal weighs heavily on my mind.
And then I spot Dexter. He looks thinner and more timeworn than in the daguerreotype, but it’s him, I’m certain. He lounges on a chaise tucked partially behind a silk curtain. His skin has a gray cast to it, and bruise-like shadows make his eyes look sunken.
I slide onto a cushion in the booth next to his.
“Mr. Dexter?”
He continues to stare ahead blankly.
“Mr. Dexter, sir, if I may have a moment of your time—” I begin, then curse under my breath, and correct my language. Damned deportment training.
“Oy. You dead, mister?”
Dexter is barely conscious. I close the curtain a little, hiding him from view, then grasp a pitcher from a nearby table and throw the cold contents in his face. He barely flinches. But he does, at least, focus on me.
“You gonna finish that?” I ask, eyes going to his pipe.
He shrugs and makes no objection as I reach for the mouthpiece and pretend to smoke. His rheumy eyes fasten on my face but still he says nothing.
“All out of bob, you see,” I natter, by way of explanation. “Not a penny to my name.” I exhale and sit back. He nods with sympathy. Money troubles are something he can understand, I’m sure. “Although … I heard a rumor yesterday,” I continue, choosing my words carefully. “Somethin’ about a job opportunity with a particular group of people. Delivery work. That’s somethin’ I can do, I reckon.”
“Sure you could,” he slurs and drops his gaze. I hardly expect him to be lucid under the opium’s influence, but I’m hoping his defenses will be lowered enough that I can get a little information out of him.
I lower my voice and lean in close. The smell of him—unwashed, covered in his own filth—makes me gag. “The people doin’ the hiring are called the Huntsmen, they say. That’s the word on the street. Know anything about that lot?”
His head goes up. “Huntsmen? Best stay away.” His voice is gruff, gravelly, like he hasn’t spoken in a year.
I pause, nodding. “Maybe you’re right.”
I reach for the pipe and pretend to smoke again.
After a moment, I clear my throat. “But … let’s say I do want to see about this job. Lend a hand, maybe, and help meself, too. Any idea how I might find them?”
Dexter’s brow furrows. He shakes his head.
I glance around. A tall, slender woman in a glossy black gown stands on the other side of the room, watching me through narrowed eyes. When I first arrived, I noted her closely monitoring the patrons of the opium den, pacing slowly through the room. She must be the mistress of Tianjin, the woman in charge. She motions to a man standing beside her.
I don’t have long. Time for my next gamble. I produce a drawing I made of the pattern on the Huntsman’s pin. The actual pin is still with Sig in his lab. “I saw this on one of the toff’s cloaks once,” I say. “It’s strange. Any idea what it means?” I scan his face for a reaction.
Dexter looks at me clearly for the first time, glances at the paper I’ve pressed before him, then laughs, a weak, wheezy sound.
He reaches for the pipe, mumbling. “Pleasure, a most mighty lure to evil.”
I frown, but the statement tickles my memory.
Plato. He’s quoting Plato?
“You know it?” he says, seeing the recognition in my eyes. “How about this one, then? Until philosophers are kings … cities will never have rest from their evils.”
More Plato. He’s clearly lost his grasp on reality. His eyes roll back and he falls onto the chaise. His breathing slows. He’s asleep. Or possibly on his way to death. Either way, I’ll get nothing more from him.
My time is up. The guard starts to cross the room. I pull my cloak about me and slip out
of the alcove and quickly away. I’m out the back door before the man can reach me.
The moment I feel the cool, foggy night air in the alley behind Tianjin House, I know I’ve made a mistake.
Five men stand beside a black carriage, arms folded, waiting.
Warwick is among them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!”
—Lewis Carroll, “The Crocodile”
I reach for Aristos, but it’s too late. Two more Huntsmen are on either side of the doorway, and they grab me, and the others are upon me before I can blink.
They hustle me out to the street and stuff me into the coach. The side of my face presses into the velvet of the seat cover as I struggle. Warwick slides in like a serpent, settling himself on the bench opposite me.
“An interesting spot to visit, Miss Cole,” he says. “I know you come from the streets, but I truly thought you’d left all that behind.”
Another Huntsman—a woman—slips in beside me. And then another on my other side. I recognize him from the train. I hazard a glance at the woman—glossy black hair, red lips, angular cheekbones, eyes dead and cold, like a spider’s.
I focus on my breathing. I must stay calm.
Warwick shouts to the driver and the horses leap forward. The carriage bumps over potholes as we race through the streets. A second carriage, just ahead of us, carries the other Huntsmen.
The woman, the Black Spider, quickly binds my wrists in front of me. I fix Warwick with the most hateful glare I can muster. “You’re despicable. You’re hunting your own kind. Why?”
He shrugs, unruffled. “I have reasons.”
“What reason can you possibly have for trying to stop the Morgana?”
He leans close to my face, his hot breath assaulting my cheek as his nostrils flare. “I’m not trying to stop the Morgana, you foolish girl. I am Morgana. The way Morgana are meant to be.”
“What are you talking about?”
His rage recedes as quickly as it flared and his expression melts into placid amusement. “Out in the open.”
I snap my mouth shut. The carriage continues rolling ever forward through the night, and soon, we’ve left the city behind. I catch glimpses of shadowy countryside, but no other clues to our destination. There’s no point in demanding where he’s taking me. He won’t answer.
Finally, Warwick breaks the silence. “Now, before we get much farther, there’s something I must do.” He withdraws a black leather case. Inside rests a glass syringe to which he attaches a long, steel needle.
“What’s that?” I demand, my eyes going wide as I strain against the Huntsmen on either side who labor to hold me still.
This cannot be the end. I can’t leave Nate alone. I won’t leave him to fend for himself.
I grasp as hard as I can to Aristos, but it’s no use. They are too strong. My arms are pinned in front of me, bound at the wrists. The woman grips my arms and roughly pushes my left sleeve up above my elbow.
Light glints off the cruel tip of the needle. A sharp pain burns through my arm as Warwick plunges the needle into my flesh.
But instead of pushing the plunger down, as I expect, Warwick draws it back and the small glass tube fills with my blood—deep red. Horrified fascination unfurls within me, and I stop struggling as I watch my blood curling into the vial.
Warwick removes the needle and the Huntsman on my left presses a stinging cloth against my arm. Warwick gazes at the vial of my blood with something approaching … reverence. I suddenly feel ill. He tucks the vial into its black leather case and snaps the clasps shut.
“Your father would be very proud of how cooperative you’re being, Miss Cole.”
“You know nothing of my father.”
“On the contrary. In fact, I knew him quite well.”
Dread prickles up my spine. “What are you talking about? My father would never have worked with someone like you. He was an honorable man. He was helping search for a cure.”
“I’m so sorry to disappoint you, my dear, but your father was assisting us. And it wasn’t a cure we were looking for. Although—to be fair—that might have been what he thought at the time. But nonetheless, the advances we made with the use of your father’s blood—it was the closest we’ve ever come.”
“Come to what?”
Warwick smiles, but doesn’t answer.
A horrible thought occurs to me. “Did—did you kill him?”
“Of course not. His death was most inconvenient.” Warwick’s mouth pinches with irritation. “We were so close to perfecting the formula, and then …” He pats the black leather case and smiles wolfishly. “But now, thanks to you, we have a new hope. You should be flattered, Miss Cole. Your blood is the missing key we need.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
He lifts a lock of my hair and my skin crawls as his hand traces down the side of my face. “Such interesting coloring. So different than the usual English rose. Dark hair, lovely skin, green eyes. Your family is from Greece, is it not?”
“It is. What of it?”
He shrugs again. “Well, if you haven’t figured it out yet, far be it from me to spoil the surprise.”
I can’t make sense of what he’s saying, but I have the feeling the truth is just within reach—if only I could remember. If I could grasp onto the missing piece of the puzzle….
The carriage gives a lurch and there’s a loud thump, and then the driver calls out. We’re tossed into the air as the carriage careens off the road and comes to an abrupt halt.
“What’s happened?” Warwick hollers as we struggle to right ourselves. Before I can even contemplate escape, the three Huntsmen grab at me. Warwick turns to my captors. “She’s not to move an inch.” He leaps from the carriage to investigate, leaving me pinned between his associates.
I wonder if we’ve suffered a broken axle. I crane my neck to see out the window. Another carriage has stopped just ahead. We are much farther into the countryside than I’d realized. Forest surrounds the country lane, mist creeping between the trees, obscuring shadows and muffling sound.
Perhaps this is my chance. I consider how long Warwick might be gone and how I might break free.
“Don’t even think of it,” says the woman, her icy voice slicing through the hush.
Both Huntsmen are peering out the left carriage window, straining to see what’s caused our delay. I catch a flicker of movement to the right. A figure darts along the edge of the woods, a few feet away. I recognize the gait, the silhouette of broad shoulders.
Julian Blake.
CHAPTER FORTY
“All such things touch secret strings
For heavy hearts to hear.”
—Dante Gabriel Rossetti, “Even So”
Glancing at my captors, I bite my tongue to keep from crying out. They haven’t seen Julian yet. Surprise will be our only advantage.
I still myself and let Aristos flow through me. Time slows before my eyes; the Black Spider turns her head and her hair moves with unnatural slowness. I’m ready.
Julian stops moving, partially tucked behind a tree. His dark hair is damp and wild. How did he find me?
From the shadows, his eyes meet mine. He puts a finger to his mouth, motioning for me to stay quiet. His glance flicks to the front of the carriage, where Warwick must be speaking with the driver.
We wait. I keep my eyes down, staring at my hands. There’s a flicker in my peripheral vision. Julian is moving quickly toward the carriage. I twist and bring my arms up toward the the Black Spider and catch her right under the chin; her head snaps back.
The door to the carriage flies open and Julian reaches in to grab the Huntsman on my right and fling him out of the carriage. I scramble out. The woman is out cold, slumped on the seat.
Julian and the man struggle on the ground while I slice throu
gh my binds on a sharp edge of the carriage door. In a moment, Julian gains the upper hand, delivering a knockout punch. The Huntsman goes still.
A shot cracks out, barely missing Julian as he ducks. Warwick is charging toward us, pistol drawn. Julian grabs my hand and together we run for the trees. I expect to feel a bullet ripping through my spine at any second.
There, just past the tree line, a horse is tethered to a branch, the breath from its nostrils misting the air. Julian leaps into the saddle and pulls me up behind him in one swift movement. He spurs the horse forward and my hair whips in the wind as we gallop away.
We fly through the woods, weaving madly between trees and rocks and leaping across small brooks. My hands are frozen, clenched around Julian’s waist.
“We have to keep going,” Julian says over the thundering of his horse’s hooves. “Just a little farther.”
Several minutes later, we reach a small glade. Julian slows the horse to a walk and leads us to a spot tucked away from any visible paths.
After we dismount, he retrieves some water from a brook. I drink while he attends to the horse. The water is gloriously cool and clean. It drips down my chin and I wipe it away with my hand.
“We can rest here. But only briefly,” he says. “Are you hurt?” Concern furrows his brow. Concern and … something else. Fear?
“Not really, although they took … some of my blood.”
Julian goes very still. “They what?”
I tell him about the syringe.
“Let me see your arm.” He examines the spot where the syringe pierced me. “Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
His jaw flexes. “Why would they do such a thing?”
I shake my head, and explain what Warwick said about my father, but Julian can make no more sense of it than I can.
Shuddering, I move to pull my cloak around me, but remember I left it behind in Warwick’s carriage. Cold seeps into my bones. My clothes are torn; my boy’s disguise is now filthy and ripped at the shoulder from my struggle with the Huntsmen.
“You’re shivering,” Julian says. He removes his cloak and puts it around my shoulders. It’s heavy and warm and smells like him.