While Nurse Hannah wailed, I reached over and grabbed the chain. She whirled on me, eyes and mouth black holes in a pale oval as I clutched the jewel in my fist and yanked.
The damn chain didn’t break, and like a demented feline, Nurse Hannah raked her nails down my arms. When I refused to let go, she grabbed a fistful of my hair and tried to rip it out. I slapped at her with my other hand.
Phoebe loosed an agitated huff. “Cheese ’n rice, we’ve no time for a bloody catfight. There’s a madman on the loose.”
She whirled and landed a kick on the side of Hannah’s head. The nurse went limp and I yanked the chain off her.
“Phee,” Collum called over his shoulder while bludgeoning someone I couldn’t see. “That mad bastard is coming your way!”
She nodded at her brother, then leaned up to peek over the tabletop. I followed, and wished I hadn’t.
Pinned between sporadic gunfire on one side and a knife-wielding lunatic on the other, we didn’t have a lot of options.
Phoebe slid her slim, steel throwing knives from her boot. Blowing out a breath, she leapt up and tossed all three in quick succession. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Eustace grunted loudly.
“Oh, sweet Moses.” Phoebe dropped down. “That’s not good. I’ve think I’ve but pissed him off.”
We peeked. Three knives protruded from Eustace’s torso. He did not seem to notice. Flames had begun to skim along trails of alcohol spilled across the floor, casting a golden light that shivered across walls and ceiling.
“Witch girl,” he called, taking one shambling step toward us. “Where are you? Thou shall not suffer a witch to—”
Flash and bang from Collum’s pistol and a precipitous black hole that appeared in the center of Eustace’s forehead. For a long and very strange moment he did not react. Orange flames glinted, demonic, in his eyes as his arm rose, index finger pointing at me.
Then, like a diseased tree succumbing to the rot inside, Eustace toppled over onto Dr. Carson’s flaming corpse. Sparks blasted up. In seconds, the flames consuming Carson had found a new fuel source to feed upon.
Collum was holding the pistol that had finally ended Eustace Clarkson for good.
Collum gestured with the gun. “This way.”
“They’re getting away,” someone shouted down the hall as we ran.
Phoebe grabbed my hand and pulled me behind her. A shot blasted. We ducked as plaster rained down on us from above.
“That was a warning, aye?” Mac’s authoritative voice carried over the shrieks and laughter of mental patients running through the halls. “Dark or no dark, anyone comes after us gets it in the chest.”
We moved through the shadows as a unit. Collum beside me. Phoebe and Mac guarding us front and rear. Midway down an inky corridor, I skidded to a halt.
“Come on,” Phoebe urged. “This way. We have to—”
“I can’t leave them here,” I told them. “We have to get them out.”
“Who, Hope?” Mac panted.
“My friends.”
With audible groans, they followed as I veered off toward Ladies’ Ward B. But when we arrived, the door was ajar, the rooms beyond, empty.
No time to wonder if they’d escaped or simply been evacuated as gunshots sounded from the vicinity of the front entrance. We turned back the way we’d come. The weak beam from the boxy flashlight flickered. One last, brilliant, white-hot beam, and the flashlight emitted an explosive pop-pop. Smoke began to leak from the hole cut into the wooden box.
“Uh, Collum?”
He cursed and let the box drop to the floor.
“Take a right here, lad,” Mac instructed as Collum, leading our little expedition now, paused and hooked a right. “Less than twenty paces. Here we are.”
We ran across gray stone, through scents of bleach and lye toward the open back door. Beyond it lay the diffuse light of a cloudy dawn.
Phoebe’s grin wrapped me like a toasty quilt on an icy afternoon. “Wait till you see the surprise.”
I faltered for an instant before I realized what she must mean. Or rather . . . who. And since I hadn’t seen him during the rescue mission, it had to mean he was waiting just beyond, acting as watchman, perhaps, or fighting off guards to clear our escape route.
I beamed at her, my feet propelling me faster toward the boy I knew was waiting for me outside.
Phoebe stopped me.
I never had friends before coming to Scotland. My life had been a solitary existence of books and study and mind-deadening routine. I’d only recently learned about the very real existence of “best friend ESP.”
“Oh-h.” Phoebe’s eyes went soft with compassion. “Oh, I’m that sorry, Hope. The surprise isn’t . . . I mean . . . it isn’t Bran. He’s not here.”
Though I tried to hold it, I could feel the smile slipping from my face. “Oh. That’s okay.”
Phoebe leaned close, keeping the conversation private as she said, “Now you listen to me. That boy loves you, and no mistake. Don’t you worry a bit on that score. He wanted to be here, believe me. It’s only that some complications arose. But he’ll be meeting us, soon as he can.”
“You’ve seen him?” I asked, pulling back so I could look at her. “He’s okay?”
“Oh, aye,” she said. “Tell you all about it, later. But let’s get the hell out o’ this horror movie first.”
“You have no idea.”
From the doorway, Collum signaled for us to hurry. After ascertaining that the coast was clear, Phoebe dashed out. I started to follow, but Collum stayed my movement.
I turned to search the shadowy laundry room behind us. “What? You hear something?”
Collum’s steady hazel eyes searched my face as he shook his head. “No, no. I, uh, I’m just glad you still have all your nuts about you is all.” He smiled down at me, and the melancholic stab I’d felt at Phoebe’s news faded, a bit.
I felt like a piece of meat thrust through a grinder. Physically, emotionally, mentally. But I was back with my friends now. My family. And as Collum jerked his chin for me to precede him, I felt all the gummy little pieces of myself begin to mold back together.
“Me too,” I told him. “Me too.”
Chapter 34
CRISPY, FROST-TINGED GRASS BURNED THE SOLES OF MY FEET as I darted across the side yard toward the narrow servant’s gate.
“So . . . ?” I cocked my head at a guard slumped against a nearby tree.
“Just a wee doze,” Collum said. “Come on.”
The wrought-iron fence jutted skyward, spiked and imposing. I passed through the gate, then turned to look back. In the milky dawn, I could just make out the knots of people gathering on either side of the gilt-inlaid front gate. Carriages had begun to pull up on the street side. Enraged family members bundled out, shouting at the guards to open the damn gate.
The tall figure of Lila Jamesson appeared from behind the brick edifice, the others trailing behind her. Priscilla. Mrs. Langdon. Mrs. Forbes, only slightly bowed, tugged a wide-eyed Annabelle Allen along behind her. Lila approached the fence slowly. On the other side, a squat, balding man stepped forward. For a long moment he only stared at her. Then his mouth moved, and though I could not hear the words, Lila threw her head back and laughed. He reached a hand through the bars. After only a brief hesitation, she took it. The man nodded, let go, and moved to the gate.
He bellowed at the gatekeepers, “Open this gate immediately, I say!”
As if she felt my eyes on her, Lila turned. When she saw me standing at the rear gate, she smiled and dropped her chin in a graceful farewell.
On the cobbled street, a glossy black carriage waited to spirit us away. Harnesses jingling, two magnificent black horses stamped and huffed. They looked as anxious to get away from this hellhole as I was.
“Where’s Doug? And whose carriage is—?”
The door swung open, and it took me only an instant to process the identity of the man who stepped out.
“Ta da,�
� Phoebe sang quietly. “Listen. Be mindful what you say. He knows who we are and generally from where and when and all that. I’ll tell you later how it all happened. But for now, he’s made it very clear that he wants to know nothing of his own fate or that of his family, aye? Nothing. He made us swear.”
Our eyes met and I saw the sorrow and indecision that pinched her freckled features.
“But . . .” I began, then Collum stepped into my line of sight.
“Not a word,” he warned. “It’s not your place or mine. The decision was his to make, and he’s made it.”
Irritated, I nodded in acknowledgment. But this was not over. Based on Phoebe’s expression, I was pretty sure she didn’t think so, either.
In a speckled gray suit and greatcoat, the man whose portrait I had seen every day in the library at Christopher Manor approached. Top hat tucked under one arm, he dropped into a respectful bow. “Miss Walton. I am Jonathan Buchanan Carlyle, at your service. And if I may be so bold, I believe you and I are relations. Of a sort?”
In March of 1895, Jonathan Carlyle was close to thirty. He’d been married to Julia Alvarez for a few years now, and their only son, Henry, was due in late summer.
“How—how do you do?”
In only three months, this kind, intelligent man would witness the gruesome, Dim-related death of his friend and brother-in-law. And in fourteen years, his precious little girls would die because of an innocent mistake made while on a voyage to his own past. A mistake that would forever cement the war between the families Carlyle and Alvarez.
He deserved to know.
Jonathan’s face crumpled with compassion. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a clean, folded handkerchief, and pressed it into my hand. “If you will forgive me, Miss Walton, you look as if you might weep. Of course, you’ve been through a terrible ordeal. One that would cause anyone to become undone. Please, allow my carriage to transport you to a place of safety.”
When Jonathan offered his arm, I took it gladly.
“You!” Three guards rounded the side of the building. “Stop right there!”
“Damn!” Collum hustled me into the carriage. He, Phoebe, and Mac jumped in after, slammed the door shut, and yelled at the driver to move it. We took off at a run, and in moments had left the nightmare of Greenwood Institute far behind.
The buggy was luxurious, if a bit tight. We crammed in, shoulder to shoulder on the creamy leather seats. Me, Phoebe, and Mac on one side. And opposite, Collum sat next to a smiling Jonathan Carlyle.
When we turned off the bumpy side road onto a main thoroughfare, the ride smoothed out and the carriage picked up speed on the macadam road. A row of three- and four-story brick townhouses lined the street in this quiet, wealthy neighborhood. Bundled against the morning chill, people hurried along the tree-lined sidewalks or popped in and out of the tidy shops. I hugged myself as wind whipped in through the open windows, blowing my loose hair everywhere.
Collum shrugged off his overcoat and handed it to me. “Here. You’re shivering.”
“Thanks.”
I thrust my arms backwards into the coat and nestled into the warmed wool. The homey scent of lanolin and soot and boot polish reminded me of Christopher Manor. I struggled not to burst out in hysterical sobs.
Mac squeezed the back of my hand. “Good to have you back, lass.”
Things had been so crazy up till now. Getting Doug out. Dupree. Getting caught and waking up on the surgery table. Eustace. Everything had happened so fast, I hadn’t had time to think. To process.
But now, in the quiet of the carriage, it swarmed over me.
“Is your eye paining you, Miss Walton?” Jonathan asked. “You keep rubbing it. I pray you were not injured?”
I smiled, shook my head, and ordered my hand to stop. Just stop. But I could feel the kiss of cold steel against my nose, the tip of the lethal ice pick as it pricked the inside of my eye. My hand rose to my face, again and again and again. The remnants of the drug cocktail I’d been injected with jittered through my nerve endings. And every time I tried to close my eyes I could see Carson hovering above me, the mallet raised to strike.
I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed.
Shaking. Not just from the chill. Jonathan was talking about how very much he wished his Julia had come along on this journey. How the pregnancy had been difficult, but that had she known about our presence, she would have braved anything to be able to meet us as well. Upon learning that the woman who’d appeared at his home only months before was only posing as friend, Jonathan’s kind hazel eyes went flinty with indignation.
“The lady was a charming creature, to be sure,” Jonathan admitted. “And yet I confess to some trepidation. My wife felt no such compunction where our visitor was concerned, particularly upon hearing her to be a blood relative. She will be sorely disappointed.”
When he spoke of Nikola Tesla, his brow creased in remorse.
“I deeply regret my own naiveté,” he explained. “Had I not handed over the plans the lady gave to me. Had I listened to my heart and not my head, he would not now be closeted with his assistants, refusing entry to anyone, until the innovation is complete.”
“He won’t let anyone in?” I asked. “Not even you?”
“I’m afraid not,” Jonathan said. “It has always been Niko’s way to withdraw from society when a new idea strikes.”
“But he’ll attend the party at the Vanderbilts’ tonight,” Phoebe said. “At least we believe so.”
Jonathan frowned. “As you have said, and yet I am not certain. Niko can be a stubborn creature when it comes to his experiments. I do, however, hope to convince him of the necessity of his appearance.”
As they chatted of our plans for the next twenty-six hours I tried to listen, tried to nod at the appropriate times. But their voices faded in and out, going smeary and warped.
Delayed shock, I realized, as I brought up a series of facts and figures, letting them roll through my vision in the hope that logic might counteract the cascade of symptoms. A common reaction to emotional or psychological trauma.
Heightened perception. Check. My skin felt too tight. And what the hell was that smell drifting in the window?
The aftereffects of excess adrenaline, which can bring on extreme fatigue or nervousness. Check. A burned, metallic taste on the back of my tongue. Muscles sore from exertion. So, so tired.
Shallow breathing. Difficulty concentrating. Trembling. Check. Check. Check.
I shifted, trying to make a bit more space. But with Phoebe on one side and Mac on the other, there was little room. Too tight. Too tight. Got to breathe. Need air.
Oh, and nausea, I realized. That’s a symptom we can add to Wikipedia.
“Hope?” Collum’s eyes narrowed on me. “What’s wrong?”
“N-nothing.”
Jonathan was watching me, his expression soft with concern. “Stop the coach!” he called. “At once.”
The carriage jerked to a shuddering halt and I bolted, crawling over Mac and stumbling down the steps to the sidewalk.
Phoebe hopped down beside me as I doubled over, retching. “It’s all right. Just breathe. You’re doing fine.”
Mac, Collum, and Jonathan stepped out and without a word, made a ring around us, using their bodies as a shield from passersby.
The sickness was subsiding. I cleared my throat, hacking and spitting in a most unladylike manner, one that probably alarmed the gentlemanly Jonathan to the core, though he said nothing.
I couldn’t seem to stop the tears. I didn’t know if it was from the dry heaves or just a profound relief at not having had a steel instrument jammed into my eyeball. At not becoming another Annabelle Allen.
Yeah, that was probably it.
Without a word, Phoebe wrapped her arms around me. We held on for a long time, both of us aware of how bad it could have been. Finally, snotty and hoarse, we told the boys we were ready to go.
The closer I got to stepping back into the carriage, the more my
pulse raced. The thought of being crammed up in that small space for even one block sent my gut into another rebellion.
“I, uh, think I’m going to walk for a bit.”
Collum started to protest, but something in my face stopped him. Sighing, he snatched his coat from the carriage floor where I’d dropped it, and draped it over my shoulders.
“Wrap this around you,” he asked. “Don’t want you catching pneumonia before they’ve invented penicillin, aye?”
Chapter 35
BY THE TIME WE’D GONE A COUPLE OF BLOCKS, I was starting to regret the whole “walking barefoot through New York City” plan. The icy March wind—a mere annoyance while we were inside the carriage—now seemed dead set on bowling me over. A freezing mist floated from the narrow strip of sky overhead and clung to every inch of exposed skin, turning my bare feet into meaty hunks of ice.
But I could breathe again, and . . . I was free. A little frostbite? Meh.
I tried to hide it when I started limping.
Something was happening down the block. Angry shouts erupted and carried toward us. At the corner, we saw traffic come to a screeching halt. A buggy slewed to the left, causing the wagon driver behind it to haul on the reins to avoid T-boning the smaller vehicle.
Barrels rolled from the wagon bed and burst upon the macadam. The scent of vinegar wafted toward us as a hundred green, tubular objects rolled into the street.
A horse in the same smoky shade as the sky careened around the corner. Its rider was leaning low over the animal’s back, a slouch hat shading his face as he dashed in and around the wagons and buggies, never slowing as he twined his way through the gridlock. Pedestrians scurried for the sidewalk. The rumble of irritation rose. Police whistles shrilled. People cursed and hurled produce at the rider. Something smacked him in the chest and splattered. He ducked the vegetative missiles until he reached the clear strip of road that ran between the backlog of wagons. The horse broke into a dead run.
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