by Aliyah Burke
“All these years,” he muttered. They even talked to another alchemist and that man had not noticed the three symbols within the mark. Frustration welled up. He blew out a breath, berating himself would not be productive. “How did you…”
“I told you. Papa is into this as well. When he and mama taught me to look at something and draw it, they said to break it down into parts. Guess I still do it. My first recreation was not the best so I redid it.”
“This is incredible.” He pulled it closer. “May I?”
“Of course.”
He folded it only to open it back up. “What is this?” A name sat in one corner.
“Pierre’s?”
“Yes.”
“He is an alchemist who lives along the cliffs near Dover. Papa and he are friends. I remember we went for a visit when we first got back to England.”
“I need to stash you.”
“How much more hidden can I get? I am at a house with explicit instructions to not speak to anyone other than three people.”
“I know this is hard for you.”
“No. You do not have any idea, Trystan.” She slammed her book closed. “I love my family and not being able to see them or communicate with them is tearing me up. My family is close. We do not hate one another and I actually enjoy spending time with them. Our evenings were full of lively debates and games. I have gone from that to isolation. Do not sit there and tell me you understand. I may never see them again and I…I never got to say goodbye.”
She ran from the room and he let her go. Those heartfelt words tore a hole through him. With a muttered curse, he pocketed the drawing and followed after her. Slowly, he ascended the stairs to pause before her door.
“Jo?”
“Leave me alone, Tryst.”
“I am coming in.”
“Of course you are,” she mumbled.
He pushed in yet remained in the doorway. She was in the process of confining her hair into a braid.
He wanted to touch her. Undo the braid and grip her hair while he…
“What?”
“You will see them again, Jo. I will do everything in my power—”
“Do not,” she interrupted. “I want to go home. I have been gone for over two months. I miss my bed. Clara. Najja. Alexander. Pug. My parents. And even Colin.” She shifted on the bed. “You are not exactly talkative.”
He hardened his resolve and went to her side. “I know you think nothing is happening but we are working. I will have you home soon.”
She frowned, eyes narrowing. “Do you smell that?”
Trystan sniffed. “I smell nothing.” A warning snaked up his spine. “Stay here.”
Thankfully, Jo did not argue it with him. Giving her a nod, he slipped from the room. The house was silent. Eerily so. He moved swiftly and checked the entire house. Nothing was disturbed or out of place.
Still the unease remained with him and he hastened back up to her room. Had they been located? She watched the door with wide eyes. He did not miss however the deadly razor-sharp blade in her hand.
“I heard and saw nothing. What did you smell?”
She shook her head. “I am not sure. I smelled it before but I cannot recall from where.”
He did not dismiss her. Jo did not make things up. “Cam or some of his team should be here soon.”
“Why?”
“A hunch.”
She stared at him before rising to her feet. “I am going for a cup of hot cocoa.”
“Will you make me one? I would like to know more about the alchemy books you have read. I mentioned it to Jack in the missive.”
“That is why you think someone is coming?”
He ignored the niggling of reprimand from his conscience. “Yes.”
“What if someone intercepted the letter?”
“They would see a letter from me to the duke. Nothing more. Everything of value is in code.”
“Do you not get tired of it?” She hid the weapon on her body.
“Of what?”
Jo paused, her hand on the door. “The lies and deception.”
“No.”
“Guess you are perfect for the job then.” She walked away without a single look back.
Trystan thought about it on his way to his room. Her questions were honest and well deserved. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he wanted to give a different answer. Her words about wanting what Najja had, hit a resonating note within him. More and more of late, the idea had shown up. The more time he spent with Jo, if he wanted to be perfectly honest. He could make more of an effort to engage her however. It would make her happy.
Shaking off the warm and fuzzy thoughts, he headed from his room and paused, as he too, smelt something unfamiliar and unique. Correction, not without some hint of familiarity to it. He tried to recall from exactly where but he could not. What he did know was he should not smell anything like it, because it meant someone had gained access to the house.
Jo!
He ran downstairs, moving with both speed and stealth. Gun drawn in one hand and a saber in the other, he burst into the kitchen. The silence mocked him. That scent was more powerful here but it did not matter. Only one thing did.
Jo was gone.
Milk poured in a narrow stream to the puddle on the floor. The chocolate all over the counter. He ignored it all. His attention firmly on the partially open door with a knife embedded in it, holding a sheet of paper. Trepidation filled him as he yanked it free.
Can you catch me before I tire of her?
So focused on the note, he never heard the warning hiss of air as the club cracked him in the back of the head. Darkness descended instantly, his last thought of Jo.
Chapter Nine
To be free like the ocean.
To have no rules or dictates.
To come and go with the tides.
Never having to feel the sting of disproval.
What it must be like to know such freedom.
~From the private journal of Josephine Adrys
Jo’s head pounded horribly, her mouth dry and every inch of her hurting. She could not see anything. A rough burlap sack covered her head, filling her nose with a disgusting moldy stench. She tried to remain calm and figure it out, but her mind was too muddled.
The voices were muffled, however, she was not sure if they were whispering or they were far away. Her heart pounded in her chest and panic swarmed.
Where was she? Where was Trystan? Who had her? Most importantly, what would they do with her?
She moved slowly only to discover her hands and feet bound tightly. So tightly, in fact she had lost feeling her arms. She wriggled her fingers, crying out with the stabbing needlelike pain.
The kick to her gut came unexpectedly and no matter what she could not keep the painful cry contained. Fingers closed about her throat and she struggled for air as the man lifted her. She could not touch the ground. Stars flickered and she gave into the darkness swarming her.
When she woke next, the hood was gone and she peered through puffy eyes. Flames from a fire allowed her to make out four shapes around it. She struggled to sit up, still bound. Her head and throat throbbed. What happened?
The last vivid memory she could recall was standing in the kitchen about to make hot chocolate for herself and Trystan. Alone one minute, they were in the kitchen the next. Some man had hit her. She did not know him but she would never forget him.
She tried swallowing a few times, frustrated at how dry her throat was. Dare she call out to see if they would give her something to drink? No, the less she was in their attention the better.
Tears welled up as she realized this might be the end of her life. She would never see her parents again. Najja. Or Trystan.
Are you giving up? A voice identical to Najja’s echoed in her thoughts. She had asked that very question when things did not go her way. Her whining never mattered to Najja. She would stare and ask the question. It came again, firmer this time.
No. She would never give up. Trystan would find her. On the chance he was…dead, she had to get away. She breathed a bit easier now that she had an idea of what to do. What could she do?
She had her weapon and the small bag inside a hidden pocket. Najja had told her to always have that. Hidden away on her person. Money, matches, and a few other things. Her relieved breath was very short-lived when a large shadow rose up before her.
“Yer awake.”
The man towered over her, and would have even had she been on her feet. An ugly sneer on his face and she could not help drawing back in fear. He crouched down and pulled a wicked looking dagger from his belt. As if it were an everyday act for him, he settled the flat of the blade against her cheek. The cold metal made her flinch.
“Ya should be afraid of me. When The Alchemist is done with you, yer mine.” A sadistic and unholy gleam shone in his eyes. From the man or the fire light, she could not say. Either way, her body stiffened.
“What does he want with me?” It was hard to get the words out of her dry mouth.
“You are bait.”
“For what?”
“Viscount Wilkes.” The name was spoken with such rage she held her breath.
Trystan. Immediately anger began to replace her fear. They were using her again and it only made her more determined to get away.
“What makes you think he will care?”
“He said so.”
“So you do not know.” Condescension dripped from her words. “Not the smart one.”
“Shut up!” he hissed, spittle flying to land on her face.
The blade moved and now rested along her jugular. Ignoring the terror, she held his gaze without flinching.
“What good am I dead?”
He swore, sending another wave of putrid breath over her. Then came the meaty fist. He cracked her head into the trunk of the tree that had supported her. Darkness threatened but never came to take her into its bosom of unconsciousness. Through one eye, she watched him stride off.
She needed to relieve herself, she needed to drink, and she needed the blood and dirt on her face cleaned off. None of it happened though. They only talked to her to taunt her.
Time crept by, the dark blanket of night eventually gave way to morning’s light. She worked for some moisture, she just could not get any. Blinking away frustrated tears, she found another man watching her.
He stood a way off but there was no disguising what held his attention. Her. This was not the one who had hit her yet a fearful knot tightened in her belly. She was looking into soulless eyes. Pain would not bother him. He flicked the item he had chewed on away from him and strolled toward her.
Had she the ability she would have crawled away. He moved as if they were picnicking along a lake or stream. Walking through the West End to get a flavored ice at Gunther’s. An aristocratic hauteur surrounded him.
She tracked him as he approached. Dark brown eyes snared hers and she tipped her head to maintain contact. His eyes ran over her face with a dismissive gaze. Very impersonal. He had blond hair drawn back into a queue.
“Do you know who I am?” He crouched and held a wineskin to her lips.
Watery ale slid past her lips, making her choke and sputter. She did not care. The relief of liquid soothing her throat was all she worried about.
“Answer me.” He removed the drink.
Blinking, she shook her head. This man was obviously the leader of this group. But she did not know him.
“Let me hear that voice of yours, darling. I have been told you have an accent.”
Dread filled her all over again. “No. I do not know you.”
He leaned closer and trailed two fingers down her left cheek. His smile not at all reassuring, and in fact caused her uncertainty to rise.
“Worry not. Soon we will be very acquainted with one another. You are much lovelier up close than I realized.”
“We have met?” She had to force the words past her lips.
“No. At least not officially. You did, however, admire my tattoo.” He readjusted and pushed up his sleeve.
Jo found herself staring at the image she had seen that day at the museum. One she had no idea would create such turmoil in her life.
“You.”
He smiled and withdrew a knife. She forced herself not to flinch yet breathed easier when all he did was slice through her bindings. Silent, he pointed to a tree behind her. Needles jabbed into her as the blood started flowing again. She got to her feet, looking for her first chance to escape.
“One thing,” he said, pushing soundlessly to his own feet. She halted. “You make any attempt to escape and I will personally slit your father’s neck, then rape and brand your mother. Once I am through with them, I will go after your friend Clara. And the Earl of Clifton and his family.”
This could have been said over lemonade or punch for all the inflection it carried. However, even with the calm and sincerity with which he spoke to her, she understood he meant every word. There would be no attempts. Not with that risk.
Fighting tears, she turned and stepped behind a tree to relieve herself. Her movement was slow as she made her way back to the tree she had been by before. As she sank back down to the ground, the man who had hit her approached again. She hid her fear and allowed thinly veiled contempt to arise to the surface. Actual escape may not be possible but causing tension, she could do.
He stood there, sneering down at her. Being cold and cruel may not come naturally to her but she had spent enough time around vipers to adapt and blend.
“Get up,” he barked.
She did not move. Just leaned back and closed her eyes. The kick—although expected—hurt and she barely restrained her cry.
“Get. Up.”
She rose slowly as if all the time in the world resided at her fingertips. “Are you feeding me now? I am very hungry and would like—”
“Quiet!” he yelled.
“So this is not about—”
He wrapped his paw around her neck and squeezed. Spots flickered before her eyes and she struggled, legs flailing until one connected with a part of his body. A satisfactory feeling swamped her even as he dropped her to the ground, cursing. She rolled away and came up on her knees, gasping for air.
“Not so docile after all I see.” That liquor smooth voice spoke over the moans of the man still on the ground clutching his privates.
“He was strangling me.”
“So he was.” No remorse or feeling of any kind.
“Was I supposed to let him?”
“Not at all.” He offered her a hand up. “I enjoy my women with fire.”
“I am not your woman.” Her response slipped out without any thought. She squeezed her eyes shut.
His robust laughter was not at all what she expected. She stared at him, unsure and still on the ground.
“He never told me just how feisty you were.”
He? He who? Goodness it was not easy keeping that question to herself. Somehow she managed. The look he leveled her informed her he expected her to ask. She was not going to give him that.
Still, when large and angry finally got off his knees and lunged for her, she was grateful for the other’s interference.
“Leave our guest alone.”
“She kicked me in—”
One hand waved idly around. “Yes, yes. I saw the dainty woman bring you to your knees. You brought it on yourself. I told you to leave her alone.”
“The Alchemist said I could have her,” he protested.
The other two men fell silent as an ominous tension settled over the area. Jo watched in horror as the one who had both threatened and saved her moved toward the man twice his size. She witnessed fear and determination in the larger one’s expression even as he understood he had made a grievous error.
The words were too low for her to hear and the second she began to breathe easier was when he struck. Like a bolt of lightning, he slashed. Two blades out and hidden again before big ugly even r
ealized his throat had been slit from ear to ear.
Bile rushed up her throat as the man sank to his knees and rich, dark blood flowed from his neck. He fell over dead. By then the one who had killed him as if he were a bothersome fly to be batted away had turned and walked off. Her entire body shook with fear.