Skeletons in the Closet (Phantom Rising Book 2)

by Davyne DeSye

  Christine pulled the light sheet from atop her and pushed her legs over the edge of the bed. She was surprised to find herself dressed in a simple white shift rather than her own clothing. A brief examination of her body, using both sight and smell seemed to indicate that she had been bathed while last she slept. Her hair smelled perfumed, and felt clean and untangled in her fingers. As she pulled a lock over her shoulder, she startled at the discovery that her hair was now dark, almost black.

  Why?

  Her pulse quickened and she felt her face warm with blood. Somehow, this was more of a violation than the discovery that she had been bathed and dressed by… who knew?

  How dare they!

  She shook off her anger and uneasiness, and stood to continue her investigation while she still might. She could not know when her captors might return.

  Her bare feet sank into a thick woven Persian carpet, patterned in red and black, upon which the bed was centered. The floor beyond the carpet appeared to be marble, smooth and shining in the lamp light, set forth in a checkerboard pattern of enormous square blocks in red and black. The floor was cool to her feet as she passed over it toward one arched doorway. Christine took hold of the door handle and, first pressing herself against the door to see if she could detect any sound from the other side, she tried to open the door. It was locked. She fought the impulse to pound on the door, and instead, ran to the other side of the room to try the other door. It also proved to be locked. She glanced around the room for any other door she might not have noticed, and finding none, returned to sit on her bed, again pulling her hair forward and frowning at the new color.

  Guided by her nose, she saw what she had not noticed upon awakening: a silver samovar steaming with the smell of coffee, and a bowl containing chunks of meat over rice. She wondered if the food could be trusted, but a loud rumbling from her midsection decided her against concern. If they wished to poison her, they could have done so long since. She ate the meal – the lamb was tender and well-spiced – using flatbread to wipe the bowl when she reached its bottom. The coffee was strong and sweet and flavored with cinnamon. She decided that if she should be poisoned, it should be with food as savory as the meal she had just consumed.

  Not that there was any reason she should be poisoned. Her captors had not taken her on such a journey, cleaned her, fed her, colored her hair?, and left her in such a room to kill her. She must be captive for some purpose, and that purpose related to Erik.

  Erik! Had he received her message? Had he deciphered it? Did he yet live?

  A panic descended upon Christine as she thought of Erik’s fate. He had told her he lay under a death penalty. Had the penalty finally been exacted? Was she a widow for the second time in her life, only awaiting the terrible news?

  She leapt from her bed, and again tried to open the near door – this time without any effort at silence. She pulled at the handle, rattling the door, inviting any interruption of her solitude. When this had no effect, she ran to the second door, pounded upon it, and then ran back again to the first.

  Erik! I must know what has happened to Erik!

  Had he escaped? Was he even now attempting to find her? As she pulled at the door, tears blurred her vision, turning the room into a garish kaleidoscope of red. Red like blood, Christine thought. No. No, I mustn’t think such awful thoughts. Erik is alive! He must be! And then, with a fresh spate of tears, Oh, Petter, as she imagined her son all alone in the world, without either parent. She took deep calming breaths in an effort to regain control.

  Having obtained no response from her captors despite her strident efforts, Christine moved around the room, examining whatever came to hand. She lifted small vases and statuary, lifted and opened decorative boxes, dropped to her knees to look under the bed and the furniture, lifted the large cushions littering the floor around a low table.

  As tears came again, she thought, What am I looking for?

  Exhausted, alone, and no further enlightened as to her circumstances, she returned to the bed and threw herself across it, weeping. She wept until she had no energy left for even that dismal occupation, and finally, she slept.

  When next she awoke, the room was dark, except for the low burning of a tall lamp near the side table. Furious with herself for sleeping through an invasion into her prison cell – for that is what it was, lavish though it might be – she leapt to her feet, and ran to the near door. She tried it first quietly, hoping against hope that it had been left unlocked, and when finding it locked, she rattled the handle, and pounded on the door with her fists. She heard nothing in answer to her shouts and pounding. She might well be the only creature in an immense palace – or perhaps this room had been constructed in solitude in the center of an empty barren desert. Feeling there was nothing she could do, she returned to her bed, and this time, lay her head on the pillow and pulled the sheet over her body. Desultory tears slipped from her eyes as she stared at the dark domed ceiling – inlaid with stars around the central golden sun, as she had not noticed before – until she slept again.

  When she woke again, she could tell from the red behind her closed eyelids that the room was lighted again. She covered her eyes with her hands and exhaled, in frustration, in hopelessness.

  “My, you are a pretty thing,” a low feminine voice said, speaking in an accented French. Christine jerked her hands from her eyes and gasped, pushing herself across the bed, away from the near voice. “But not nearly as pretty as he said.”

  Wide-eyed, Christine looked at her visitor. She seemed a decade or more older than Christine, with fine lines around her eyes and mouth. But she was still very attractive, with dark hair and a voluptuous body draped in colorful bejeweled veils and all manner of gold jewelry.

  “Coffee?” the woman asked with a smile. Christine flinched at the smile, which seemed more akin to a cutting blade than an expression of geniality. The woman gestured with a hand, and it was not until a young girl scurried from behind the woman to place a cup under the samovar tap that Christine realized this woman was not her only visitor. She raised her eyes to find two stiffly erect male guards at the near door, and another young girl on her knees near their feet.

  The near girl, apparently a servant, extended the steaming cup toward Christine. Christine blinked at the incongruity of being served with such deference while being held captive. She shook her head, more to clear it than to refuse the fragrant coffee. It was not until the cup was returned to the table that Christine recalled the words spoken to her by the opulently garbed woman: ‘But not nearly as pretty as he said.’

  He said! Erik!

  “Where am I?” Christine asked in the same French that had been used to address to her. As her indignation rose, she pulled a lock of hair over her shoulder and thrust it toward the woman. “Who are you to dare…”

  “Tsk, tsk,” the woman answered, waving a finger at her as if she were a naughty child. “I dare because I may.” Again the sharp smile that brought to mind the eels sold on the docks near her home in Sweden. The woman’s amber eyes closed in a languid dip of lashes, then flashed open. The sinister smile was gone, her lips now pulled back over her bared teeth. Her hand flashed toward Christine, and before Christine could react, grasped a great handful of hair at the back of Christine’s head.

  “You will speak to me with proper respect,” the woman hissed into Christine’s face. “You will do so as if your life depended upon it. You will do so on penalty of instant pain.”

  The woman jerked Christine’s head back, and something sharp touched her neck just under her jaw line. A fingernail, a sharp edge of jewelry, a small knife? Christine inhaled as the pressure of the sharp object against her skin increased. She froze, her only movement the rapid blinking of her eyes.

  “There,” the woman said in sweet tones as she released Christine’s hair. “I believe we now understand each other.” Again the cold smile.

  “Yes,” Christine answered, raising a hand to the stinging point under her jaw. She examined her finge
rs, caressing the small smudge of blood between them. “Yes, mistress,” Christine amended.

  The woman threw back her head and laughed, her eyes sparkling with good humor, the full lips of her laughing mouth looking quite natural for the first time. Christine thought the woman could be rather beautiful if not so tainted with malice.

  “I approve,” the woman said. “Mistress. Yes, this is how you shall address me.” She gestured with one hand, and the same servant girl who had poured the coffee rose from her knees and approached.

  “Coffee,” the woman commanded in Persian, and with a raised eyebrow, looked back to Christine. Speaking French again, she said, “You asked where you are.”

  “Yes,” Christine responded, then added, “Mistress.”

  “You are in the court of the Shah-in-Shah of Mazenderan,” the woman answered. The answered chilled Christine, confirming her fears of who this woman might be. Erik had told her of the evil child Sultana of Mazenderan, and the malicious actions of the woman before her leant credence to the unbelievable stories. The woman’s next words drove away any hope Christine still harbored that this woman was not who she feared.

  “I am the Sultana Naheed – although you will continue to call me mistress – and you are my… special guest.” The chill smile stretched into a broader smile that was all the more frightening for its childlike sweetness. Christine shuddered. Erik had also informed Christine what the Sultana did with those she referred to as “special guests.”

  God help me!

  Christine shivered where she lay. The Sultana dipped her eyes as she sipped at her coffee. Without raising her eyes to Christine, she said, “Have you no more questions for me then?”

  Christine longed to ask after Erik, wanting more than anything to know whether he lived. Terror sealed her lips.

  “Come now,” the Sultana purred. “I see the question in your eyes. Ask it.”

  “My… my husband,” Christine stammered. “Is he… well?” She could not bring herself to ask the true question and allow the word ‘dead’ to pass her lips. She shivered and clenched her teeth in frustration as unwelcome tears once more filled her eyes.

  The Sultana’s eyes narrowed as she leaned toward Christine. “He is yours no longer,” she said, almost spitting the words across the small space between them. “He is mine again, and will be joining me soon. We shall see if he still wants you for his own when I am through with you.”

  Christine flinched backward from the vehement words, and the tremors in her body nearly brought her clenched teeth to chattering.

  The Sultana leaned back again, and smiled, cocking her head to one side and placing a finger on her bottom lip. Her lips closed over the tip of her finger, as though she had brought a drop of coffee to her lips. She sucked the tip of her finger once, and as she removed her finger, her smile grew. Christine imagined that this was how the Sultana would taste a drop of her victim’s blood.

  “Are you afraid of me?” asked the Sultana, sweetness dripping from her words like icing.

  “Yes, Mistress,” Christine whispered.

  “How marvelous,” the Sultana answered in a low voice, closing her eyes and undulating as if with sexual pleasure. Leaning toward Christine without opening her eyes, she said, “Yes, I can smell you.” She sucked in a deep breath.

  Christine closed her eyes. She listened as the coffee cup was deposited on the table, and waited… waited… for the blow or the stab or bite that would follow. She heard the rustle of movement, and then the opening and closing of the door. When she opened her eyes, she was again alone.

  “Erik!” she cried, although her cry was little more than a whisper. “Oh, help me. I am so frightened.” She lowered her head to her arms and wept until the tremors were washed from her body.

  CHAPTER 17

  PLANS ARE MADE

  Petter returned from his walk feeling dreamy and content. Everywhere he went in the city, even just walking in the area around the Persian’s flat, he imagined Constance with him, her hand clutching his arm, her parasol tilted back as she exclaimed at the sights and sounds of Paris. Although – in truth – Phoebe would more perfectly mirror his interest in the architecture. Using his Brownie, he took several photographs of the more interesting buildings – he could share these with Phoebe on his return to London.

  As he entered the Persian’s second floor sitting room, he found the Persian and his father bent over a large table over which a map of Persia had been spread. He drew near and listened as the men debated the rescue plans.

  Rescue plans! Petter was jerked back to the reason behind his presence in Paris, despite the fact that even now he had difficulty believing the reality of the situation.

  “By land or by sea is the question,” Erik said, looking up at Petter. The question was not directed at Petter, but he was alert and interested in an instant.

  “The farther from Constantinople,” Faraz said, pointing to the map, “the less danger for you. Abdul Hamid remains Sultan, and he will not have forgotten you.”

  “Yes, but think of the time that could be saved taking the straits to the Black Sea… haste is of the utmost importance,” Erik answered.

  “And we shall be seen traversing the Bosphorus from the very windows of the Yildiz,” said Faraz, with some vehemence. Quietly he murmured, “I should think your head would be of the utmost importance,” but not so quietly that Petter did not hear.

  “Head?” Petter asked, with some alarm.

  “No one will guess ‘Aqa Erik’ is aboard ship,” his father answered, as though he had not heard Petter’s utterance.

  “Head?” Petter asked again, and this time he placed a hand on his father’s arm, demanding attention. Instead of meeting his eye, his father glanced sidelong at the Persian.

  “Your father is rather famous across Asia,” answered the Persian. “Shall we say he is highly regarded? It is much more pleasant terminology than to say he is wanted.” Faraz chuckled as Erik glared at him.

  Petter’s frustration mounted, despite his resolution not to press his father for details or information. He squeezed his father’s arm, and said, “Father?”

  Erik stood. “Later, Petter, I swear to you. I will say that there are two places to which I thought – hoped – never to return. Mazenderan, and Constantinople. The first is our destination, and we must pass through the second.” When Petter looked at his father with stricken eyes, Erik continued. “For your mother, we must do this. I will not be discovered in Constantinople, I assure you.”

  “But we need not go through Constantinople,” Faraz interjected. “We could land here, near Cyprus, and travel overland from there. This area is far south of Constantinople, and you will not be recognized there.”

  “It is a waste of time!” Erik answered. “If we take the Black Sea to its easternmost point, we have little land to cross, and we can come to Mazenderan by the Caspian Sea. It will be much faster.” Petter followed his father’s finger as it roved over the map, and had to conclude that his plans seemed best. If speed were the only factor.

  Petter bent to the map as the two men looked to each other in impasse.

  “There are the mountains to consider if we go as Mr. Akhtar has suggested,” Petter said into the silence.

  “Yes, thank you, Petter,” Erik said, and he placed an arm about Petter’s shoulder, although he did not take his eyes from Faraz.

  Faraz sighed and raised his hands into the air in surrender. “I only worry for you, my friend,” he said.

  “I must get to Mazenderan and Christine,” Erik answered. “By sea then,” he said, and left the room.

  Alone with the Persian, Petter thought to satisfy some small part of his curiosity. After all, his father had said he would explain matters later, but had not told him he could not seek information from other quarters.

  “Mr. Akhtar,” he said, glancing at the door through which his father had departed. “My father’s head?” he asked, not knowing how to phrase the question.

  Faraz bent clos
er to the map, and then stood and raised his jade, wrinkle-shrouded eyes to Petter. Petter saw calculation in the man’s eyes, and knew he was weighing his words.

  “Your father’s curse,” Faraz said, “is that he is possessed of a brilliant mind.”

  “Secret information again, then?” Petter asked. “Father told me he was wanted in Mazenderan because he had secret information.” Petter pulled at his coat, looking for a reaction from the Persian that might indicate surprise or denial. When the reaction did not come, he said, “Was he a spy?”

  “Not a spy, merely a genius. A mad genius, some thought him, but he is not mad.”

  “But, Mr. Akhtar…” Petter started. The Persian interrupted him.

  “Petter, your father is a good man, whatever questions the current circumstances may raise in your mind.”

  “I am not questioning that. I do not believe I could ever question that, even if he was a criminal,” Petter answered, defensive on behalf of his father.

  “Your father will be pleased to know that,” Faraz answered. He raised a hand to ward off any further questions, and said, “Come, let us find your father. It is time for luncheon.”

  They lunched at a pleasant outdoor café situated on the corner of the intersection of two streets. Petter thoughts returned to Constance as fashionable young couples passed, or settled at a nearby table. His mind was fastened on thoughts of Constance’s small hand on his or clutching at his arm, his arms embracing her, and the wet warmth of her mouth on his. He imagined escorting her to this café, and introducing her to French cuisine. The café was not lavish, but the newness and excitement of a Paris café would appeal to Constance.

  Looking to a street vendor selling flowers, Petter thought of the flower he had painstakingly carved for Constance. He wondered where she had decided to display his gift, or if it still remained imprisoned in the gift box – perhaps resting beneath a fresh new bouquet from a fresh new suitor. His mouth turned down at the thought.