Sheer Madness

by Laura Strickland

  He must think of something else—he must. Something besides the dark and the fact that he couldn’t breathe. Think of…

  Topaz. She blazed across his inner vision the way fire might rake the night sky. He saw her in motion, turning to speak to him, her golden eyes glowing like the jewels after which she’d been named, black hair swinging about her. She moved like a dancer, or an assassin.

  Her beauty lay not so much in her features as in her movement, in the fierce spirit that, from the very first, had drawn him.

  But she’d disappeared from his awareness. Or had she?

  Need, raw and hot, blossomed inside him. He didn’t care who she was or what she was—he needed to be with her, to feel the steady vibration of her soul, the comfort of her presence.

  He fought back the wild desire and found his miracle. For in his debilitating darkness, full and golden, her flame once more burned.

  ****

  Dr. Rasmussen proved to be tall, thin, and not above thirty, with a thick accent. He arrived carrying a battered leather satchel and after exchanging words with Patrick went at once to Rose.

  Topaz, who now hurt all over with an intensity that prevented her from discriminating among her injuries, hauled herself up from Patrick’s chair and went to watch.

  Rasmussen gave her one glance from pale blue eyes before he set to work, divesting Rose of most of her clothing while the woman lay senseless.

  Or dead.

  But no—Topaz marked how her chest rose and fell. She still breathed, and blood trickled from a small cut on her forehead.

  The burn marks on her wrists and neck stood out lividly. Rasmussen examined them with careful hands and looked at Patrick.

  “These marks, how did they happen?”

  “I don’t know, Doctor.” After returning to the room, Patrick had poured himself a glass of the ubiquitous whiskey. Topaz wondered fleetingly if he needed it to steady his nerves and then dismissed the idea as absurd.

  “They are quite recent.” Rasmussen’s gentle hands moved over Rose with care. “She has concussion. Broken right arm. Contusions to the hip and knee. Must have been thrown onto her right side.”

  “Chance of recovery?” Patrick asked.

  “Good. I can set the arm. Once I do so, we will have to try and rouse her.”

  He set about the task, and Topaz, restless, started for the window. Patrick caught her back.

  “No. I have lads on watch. They will tell us if anyone comes. I have sent two others to bring your brother if they can find him. They may have no luck until morning.”

  “Patrick,” she whispered so the doctor could not hear, “what’s going on in that cellar is a terrible thing. Rose was dead. I believe my father and his new partner trapped her spirit and forced it into another body, that of a cadaver.”

  Patrick didn’t so much as blink.

  “My father has long been involved with experiments, implanting the spirits of those deceased into steam units—a bit like you, actually. Or into the bodies of animals, though he plays that down. Why not into reanimated corpses?”

  “Aye, why not? Yet to reanimate a copse is no easy matter.”

  She leaned still closer. “I believe that’s where my father’s new partner comes in. In Britain his people have been undertakers for generations. What if he brought some knowledge with him from England?”

  “I do not think it can be a coincidence that this man and your soul mate, whom you seek, are both from England.”

  Her soul mate. That froze Topaz where she stood. Two weeks ago she would have sneered at any such notion. Now her entire being leaped toward it.

  “No coincidence, Pat. The last time Romney—my lover—contacted me, my spirit followed him back to where he’s being confined. I believe he must be in Grayson, since he’s not in the cellar of my father’s mansion. But here’s the thing—the man holding him captive and torturing him is none other than Danson Clifford. He is the connection. He’s evil, and his spirit terrifies me.”

  Patrick tipped his head. Topaz could virtually hear the clicks as his artificial intelligence assimilated the information. “I see. An interesting development, and one that may ultimately help us. I will treat this man with respect, for you are not a woman easily terrified.”

  “I didn’t used to be.” It suddenly seemed to Topaz she had been bold and unafraid mainly because she felt careless. Easy enough to take risks when she had little to lose. Now, though, the desires piled up on her: to find Romney by whatever name; to protect Carlotta and, yes, Rose; to discover the horrors taking place at Clifford’s orchestration and keep them from happening again.

  “What should we do next?” she asked Kelly.

  “Leave it to me. You and your companion will stay here—safe—while I set things in motion. Once your brother is found, he will need to be apprised of what has happened and taken to Carlotta at the hospital.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we will attempt to free your Mr. Romney.”

  Topaz’s heart leaped, but she fought back the tangled desire and desperation. “You will act through the police? But apart from my suspicions and Clifford’s identity, we have very little actual proof.”

  Patrick lifted a brow. “You assume I will act through the police because I am an officer.”

  “Well, yes.”

  He leaned so close she could feel the warmth from the boiler in his thorax. “But, Miss Topaz, I am a couple of other things even before a police officer: I am an Irishman. And I am your Friend.”

  She stared at him, and he raised the glass of whiskey to her. “Trust me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The bright lights of the steel room once again, blinding him. He struggled against his bonds even though he knew by now that struggling did no good. He feared if he quit struggling he’d be worse than dead.

  He cursed in his mind and clung hard to the spark of light inside, the one that represented Topaz. The pounding brightness of the steel room all but blotted her out, another physical pain.

  “String him up.”

  That voice—that hated voice, soft and relentless… he didn’t even have to look into the man’s face to know him. His gorge rose, and had he anything in his stomach, he would have lost it.

  “Clifford, I must protest.” The man with the black beard.

  “I have told you not to use my name in front of him.”

  “He is barely conscious—certainly not competent to face questioning. I must protest in the strongest terms. I feel you have crossed a line from professional curiosity to—something else.”

  The two steam units in the room, ever obedient, ignored the bearded man’s protests and went ahead, lifting and stringing up their victim. Every muscle in his body screamed, and he sealed his lips against a groan.

  “This is my project,” the hated voice responded. Clifford? He should know that name, but his fractured mind refused to make the vital connection. “You are involved only peripherally.”

  “But I will be culpable if something goes wrong.”

  “Then I should think you would be in favor of assuring he cannot implicate us.”

  “Yes, but in my opinion this is no longer medicine; it’s torture.”

  “I did not ask for your opinion.”

  “Then I will not stay for it. You are on your own.”

  The bearded man crashed out of the room, leaving the air reverberating.

  “Bring the water,” the hated voice instructed the steamies, and he tried to close his mind to what must come.

  How long did the torment go on? He lost all capacity to tell. After a while, time ceased to matter. He heard the evil rabbit’s questions for a span, before even they faded into pain, pain, pain.

  Let me go, he begged his body. Let me go to her.

  From somewhere—from everywhere—came the knowledge: if you leave your body now, it will mean death.

  “—agent of the Queen?” The words came to him from a great distance. “Sent to apprehend me?”

/>   Speech beyond him, he could not reply. I don’t know you, do I? Except through this bond of hate.

  The electrodes, applied once more, barely roused him. His flesh flopped and flailed; his mind remained numb.

  Dimly he became aware of a great ruckus. Like the voice, it seemed quite distant and consisted of pounding and men’s raised voices. The rabbit swore and dropped the electrodes, but he, the prisoner, lacked the strength to open his eyes.

  “Right, lads.” A new voice echoed in the steel room. “Do not let him get away.”

  There came a blast that stunned the senses in the confined space. Something threw itself against him where he hung, causing him to swing violently. He felt heat before a second blast came, still louder.

  “Bastard has a steam cannon. Riley’s down!”

  The man who had hold of him said, “All right, lad, I’ve got you. Somebody help me cut him down.” And more softly, into his ear, “I’m taking you to Miss Topaz.”

  ****

  Breathless, Topaz gazed into the face of the man who sprawled across Patrick Kelly’s bed—asleep or unconscious, she couldn’t tell which. Like a woman in a trance she examined his every feature, marked each wound, and traced every hair. She had seen him before, or more precisely seen through him, but never in the flesh.

  Oh, how she’d craved his flesh! And now, now…despite his injuries and clearly debilitated state, he surpassed all her imaginings. Sapphire claimed she had a type; Topaz didn’t know if that was true, but if so, this man must personify it.

  Fair hair the color of ripe corn and with a decided wave—now streaked with dirt, sweat, and blood—tumbled over a wide brow, the nobility of which found its match in a high-bridged nose with a decided hook. Lean cheeks, also marked by dirt, bruises, and golden beard, tapered to a square jaw. And his lips…

  Topaz longed so strongly to feel them with her own she felt dizzy. But the thick brown lashes lay closed, and his spirit felt far from her. She hadn’t yet seen the color of his eyes.

  Patrick Kelly came up beside her, and she tipped her head to look at him. “Pat, what can I say? Thank you.” To her dismay, tears clogged her throat.

  Patrick squeezed her shoulder with one hand. “I would have taken him in any case, even if you didn’t want him, once I saw what was happening in that room. I am only sorry the miscreant got away. He shot two of our men and used the distraction to slip out a hidden doorway. By the time we got outside, we could locate him nowhere.”

  “Your men—will they be all right?”

  “They already are. We can take a hit, Miss Topaz. It knocks us down but rarely kills us.”

  “I’m glad.” She covered his hand with hers. “You made this raid in an unofficial capacity?”

  “Quite unofficial. We were all masked and can’t be identified. Of course that means I cannot go to the authorities with what we discovered.” Patrick nodded at Romney. “When we found him, he was still hanging in the chamber where the culprit and his steam units had him, and he was unable to talk to us. Hopefully once he comes to he will give us more tactile evidence I can then take to my superiors.”

  “I hope this doesn’t strain your integrity to an unbearable degree.”

  “You are my Friend, Miss Topaz. As I have said, I would do far more to assist you.”

  “You are a good friend, Pat. A good man.”

  “I am not a man at all.” He glanced over his shoulder at Rose who, much recovered, sat in a straight chair situated behind the draperies that allowed her to see out the window without being seen. “Like your new acquaintance, I am not sure I fit any definitions.”

  “Has she told you what she remembers?”

  “Not in detail. I hope to sit down with her now while you strive to awaken your love.”

  “I only hope I may. I can feel his spirit, but it’s very far from me.”

  “Shall I summon the doctor once more?”

  “Perhaps. Let me see if I can awaken him first. You go speak with Rose.”

  Patrick moved off, and Topaz returned her gaze to Romney. He lay with his head turned slightly on the pillow, one cheek uppermost. Patrick had brought him in just before dawn, covered only by a soft shirt the automaton had lent that certainly did not hide his injuries.

  How had he endured the infliction of such wounds? The severity of the pain had driven him from his flesh once. What if he had now retreated beyond her reach?

  She cursed herself for her refusal to pursue those lessons her father had offered to impart. Not because she wanted to be like Frederick Hathor—never that—but because she felt completely unequipped to recall this man to her, even though her very heartbeat seemed to rely on his presence in her life.

  Behind her she could hear Patrick and Rose speaking together, their voices low and even as if they discussed the weather rather than atrocities too terrible to contemplate. They sounded like two ordinary humans.

  And what constituted true humanity? Surely something beyond the mere possession of a human body. Who could claim the larger share of humanity, Patrick Kelly or Danson Clifford?

  She took Romney’s hand in both of hers and closed her eyes, sensing for him. Come to me.

  She could feel him, but barely, so distant. Could she drag him to her by sheer will?

  Did she want to? Far better he came to her freely, by choice.

  Closing her eyes, she reached for him, not with her mind but her spirit. And it proved easy, far easier than she’d dared hope. Gladness flared when they made contact—his gladness or hers, she couldn’t tell.

  Ours.

  Come to me, she begged. Be with me.

  Kiss me.

  Without hesitation she bent and laid her lips on his. Light flared still brighter as his spirit streamed to hers and stretched full into his body once more. Their collision made such a cataclysm, she couldn’t believe neither Pat nor Rose heard, yet they went on talking.

  She took her lips from his and opened her eyes. His eyes, now open, were all she could see—quite possibly all that existed in her world.

  They were blue, the exact color of a clear Buffalo sky in May, quizzical and full of intelligence. Air filled her lungs and with it momentous relief.

  “You’re back,” she whispered. “You returned to me.”

  “I believe I will always return to you.”

  He lifted a hand, livid with electrical burns, to touch her face, and she saw as well as felt delight flood him.

  “I can touch you.”

  “And I can touch you.” Tenderly she laid her palm against his cheek.

  “Makes all the pain worth it, if I’ve come to this.”

  “Don’t say that,” she begged.

  “It’s true. You kept me sane, Topaz Hathor—you’re all that did. I would suffer far worse to be with you.” Light filled his eyes. “Now kiss me again. And don’t stop.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “With what Miss Topaz has told me and Miss Rose’s help, I believe I have formed a working premise of what has been taking place at the home of Miss Topaz’s father,” Patrick Kelly announced, “and possibly at the place you call Grayson, as well.”

  Romney—he supposed for want of a better appellation he’d better continue calling himself that—eyed the big automaton. He then turned his gaze on Rose, scarcely able to accept what he’d been told.

  The four of them sat around the small table in Kelly’s parlor, Topaz holding Romney’s hand. He still felt as if he’d been run over by an ale lorry, weak beyond expressing, but better when she touched him. It seemed as if her strength flooded into him whenever they made contact. And as he knew, Topaz Hathor possessed formidable strength.

  They looked like a band of wounded warriors holding a war conference—which perhaps they were. Rose wore a cast on her right arm, bandages around her ribs, and a host of scrapes in addition to dark singe marks confined to her wrists and neck. She also wore an air of calm like a suit of mail, but her eyes held a lost, desperate expression.

  Kelly had apparen
tly taken a glancing hit from one of the blasts fired during Romney’s rescue. It had burned away the skin on his cheekbone and at his temple, revealing steel beneath. One of his fingers had also been torn and now hung by a knuckle, a state to which he paid no attention.

  Topaz—Romney turned his gaze on her and felt the gladness—the rightness—flood him again. She too bore a number of scrapes to hands and face, and she limped when she walked. He’d heard Kelly ask how her ribs felt, which she’d answered with a mere shake of her head. Her black hair, loose on her shoulders, made him ache to touch it.

  As if she felt his regard, she turned those golden eyes on him. Her fingers tightened.

  “Help me make sense of it,” he bade Kelly. “From what the evil rabbit said, I was sent here as an agent of the Queen, apparently to hunt him down. He’s called the Undertaker in my country. But most of it’s lost to me.”

  “Queen Victoria?” Rose looked momentarily distracted from her deep unhappiness.

  “Yes. At least, I think so.”

  Topaz said, “The first thing you need to remember is that the Undertaker, after whom the Queen sent you, and Danson Clifford—my father’s assistant—are one and the same.”

  “Ah.” Rom considered it, the missing piece falling into place. This explained, perhaps, why he’d streamed to the house on Humboldt Parkway in spiritual form, following his assignment even then. And it explained in part why he’d turned to Topaz for assistance. “I should have tumbled to that, shouldn’t I?”

  Topaz tightened her fingers on his hand. “You were in no condition to tumble to—or remember—much.”

  Rose gave a tight smile. “You recall too little, sir, and I far more than I wish. For I remember it all—every separate detail.”

  Topaz leaned forward. “I know you’ve been over all of it with Patrick, but will you please tell us?”

  Rose twisted her fingers into a knot. “It began with my husband—a man I never wanted to marry, a brute who insisted on controlling me in words, deeds, everything from whom I saw to what I ate. When I rebelled, he raised his hand to me. When I went to the police”—she glanced at Kelly—“he paid them off. He is a very wealthy man.”