Lairs, Caves, & Credenzas
Page 6
Louisa balked. “No. No alcohol.” She shook her head. Yes, it numbed the senses but she needed to be able to get home after this—she needed to keep her wits about her. Alcohol had helped her mother “forget” but it also had helped her “loosen up” for particularly amorous clients. Louisa refused to put herself in that situation.
“This will be painful.”
She nodded.
Morrie dunked a piece of white fabric into the sink, ringing the bulk of the water out before laying it across the hot flesh of her arm, removing her fingerless lace gloves before wetting another piece of cloth.
She jolted.
He placed the other cloth over the opposite arm, then stood up and removed the upper half of his suit, allowing the torso and attached headpiece to hang from his hips behind him.
Louisa’s eyes grew wide. She was not hallucinating. A myriad of fine white scars crisscrossed his bare chest. The entire time Morrie bathed her wounds, Louisa kept her eyes riveted on his face; his sandy curls, no longer contained by the full-head mask, framed his features. She studied the knit flesh of the mottled scar he bore from his hairline, past his ear, to the square of his jaw. She hardly noticed the sting and burn of her arms.
“This is my parents’ home.”
“And where are they?”
“Dead.”
Bollocks. Of course, the sheets everywhere. “Why are we here? Why not downstairs?” Her voice sounded so far away.
“We need a place to work. To meet. My room in the pub is, perhaps, a little too cozy, and it’s a lot less conspicuous up here—especially since you have a habit of showing up either bleeding or pissed off. My patrons don’t need to know my personal affairs—or secrets for that matter.”
Louisa flinched as he patted her arms dry.
“Can you stand?” he asked, kneeling before her.
She tried but nearly teetered over and sat down hard.
“Gotcha. Okay, I’m going to carry you over to the bed. Are you all right with that?”
She glanced at his bare chest from below lowered lids and nodded. He swept her up into his arms. She laid her head against the smooth skin under his shoulder. He looked down at her, his lips brushing her forehead, or maybe that was her addled brain making things up. Morrie laid her down on the covered bed and placed her arms wound-side up. He brought over his medical bag and a chair with another length of damp cloth over the high back. Louisa watched him methodically string a curved needle.
“Isn’t that for furniture fabric?” she asked, fighting sleep.
“Larger gauge ones are, yes, but this is standard field medicine equipment.”
“Were you a surgeon?”
“My parents put me through school to be a physician. They had no intention of me being a surgeon. But when I went abroad to find work in the Americas, what I stumbled into changed all that. Now, bite down on this.” He placed a rounded piece of wood between her teeth. “Trust me.”
Morrie tied a knot in his length of thread. Its cream coloration told her it was unbleached cotton. Her brain locked onto the most mundane bits of information as the needle drew closer and closer to her skin. Morrie pinched either side of the gash, puckering it slightly. She shuddered and fell still.
It pierced her tender limb. She squeezed her eyes shut, bit down on the wood, and grasped handfuls of the drop sheet. But using her arm muscles hurt even more. Louisa spread her fingers wide instead, holding her body still as each new puncture sent a shock of pain through her.
She blacked out.
* * *
Thin gray light filtered between the crack in the curtains. Louisa sighed and rolled over. A sharp pain jolted her arm. She pushed herself up, the haze of sleep still muddling her senses. The room was too big and sparse and too—
“Morrie?” she whispered, confused. Then it all came crashing back. Louisa studied her wrapped arms. The leather under-corset of her mother’s old lace gown dug into her ribs. She remained clothed exactly as she had been when he’d laid her on the bed.
Louisa drew to the edge of the mattress and stared at the man sleeping on the simple wooden chair. Drag marks in the dust led to the dressing table on the far side of the room. His mother’s. Her gaze flickered back to Morrie, slouched in slacks and a shirt not fully buttoned to the collar, the sleeves rolled up haphazardly revealing his toned forearms. The full-body leather suit he wore to protect his identity was nowhere to be seen. He probably went downstairs to change before coming to check on me.
She flexed her hand. Bits of dried blood flaked like rust against the white sheet below. Her arms complained but no more than they might after a particularly brutal training session with Joe. Louisa smelled the bandage. Frankincense and … lavender.
On the bedside table rested a small jar labeled “Cut Salve.” The physician side of him. She looked at her bandaged arms. The surgeon side of him. She looked at the man in the chair. The reporter side. Something in her longed to see the hero side again. She thought of his lips brushing her forehead when he held her in his arms, still uncertain if that was delirium or reality. She stared at his torso. He’d been bare chested. Fire crept up her neck. She blinked the false memory away. Yes, he’d removed the upper portion of his disguise, but that was to allow for ease of movement when tending her wounds and to prevent bloodied water from dripping all over the leather.
He had not kissed her.
He was a perfect gentleman the entire time and had merely looked down to check on her before placing her on the bed.
Still, Louisa’s heart fluttered as her gaze traced the thin, white scars crisscrossing up his forearms and under the rolled sleeves. They’d spider-webbed across his body, likely tracking around to his back as well.
I wasn’t always a reporter. He’d told her that once. He admitted to studying to be a physician and ending up a surgeon. He knew field medicine and went to the Americas where something happened.
Louisa slid from the bed and leaned over to wake him, but the absolute peace radiating from his features stopped her. Something told her he didn’t sleep well most nights. Besides, she knew the way out. Louisa grabbed the salve container instead, tiptoed to the window, and peered through the crack. A tiny slice of orange split the bleak gray of pre-dawn.
No one would be up at Bennett’s for at least another hour, maybe two, as he tended to sleep in on Sunday before heading out to church mid-morning. She hadn’t gone to mass in over a year now. Not since before she’d placed her mother in the asylum. Living under his room as Elenore’s official chaperone meant both women would be joining him today.
Louisa slipped her arms back into the shredded sleeves but didn’t bother to do up the buttons on the cuffs. She relieved herself in the commode and stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror. Black smears covered her eyes in exactly the same spot her mask usually rested. It’s never left a mark before. But during her fight with Scythe, when Louisa worked her way out of the headlock, her mask had flipped up. When she shoved it back down the polished leather side must have slid into place. The mask, having been part of an old pair of boots, still held layers of polish—which now raccooned her face, as Morrie had so graciously pointed out.
He’d said her secret was still safe. He knew Louisa better than Hersh did. The Inspector’s snarl came from being denied her identity. Between her sweat and the heat from Bug’s flame launcher, one simple mistake with her mask had saved her reputation. She pulled at the polish on her face. It barely came off. How in the Queen’s name am I going to—
Her elbow nudged a container on the back of the vanity. She was sure it hadn’t been there last night. Louisa picked it up. A handwritten label stated Shoe Polish Remover.
Of course. She smiled and tucked it into her coat pocket along with the salve. The leather driving jacket lay draped over the toilet seat. Louisa slid it on and disappeared down the stairs. A twinge of guilt tugged at her chest. She couldn’t just abandon Morrie after everything he’d done for her.
She looked around for s
tationary and finally discovered what the reporter had meant by working on an alternative place to meet.
The dining table sat linen-free holding files and pages of news articles covering the rise of the Syndicate. A bulletin board clung to the wall above a credenza, holding all of Louisa’s original sketches, strands of yarn connecting each one to various incidents and compiled information about the thief. Even High Tower and Tater Face, the first two thieves she’d helped capture, were posted in the upper corner. A photo of the Judge from an old article covering his rise to Viscount rested in the center.
Louisa’s heart soared. Morrie had gone above and beyond her expectations as a partner. This was absolutely perfect. After last night, she had a new sketch to add for their eyes only, and her brain already mapped the sharp features on a page in her mind.
She snagged a piece of paper from beside the typewriter and a pencil from a jar on the table. There was so much she wanted to write and not enough time to put it all down. It was better to say it in person.
Louisa snuck back upstairs and left the note on her pillow before disappearing from the house. She clung to the few shadows that remained an echo of the previous night and headed back to Bennett’s house.
Dear Morrie,
I cannot thank you enough for everything you’ve done.
See you tonight,
Phoenix
In the News
THE LONDON CHRONICLE
From Thursday, October 19, to Sunday, October 22, 1876
MUSEUM MAYHEM
By Morrison Tweed
Saturday night known thieves, Bug and Scythe, broke into the Vauxhall Museum, knocking out four guards and setting fire to six of the interior wooden columns. Though fire damage was kept to a minimum due to the fearless heroics of the fire department and their tireless workers, most of the canvas artwork suffered smoke, water, or heat damage.
Museum officials estimate millions of dollars in repairs and have closed the doors until the fire marshal has completed his assessment. Insiders do not believe the museum will open for several months, if at all, unless a priceless ancient Roman artifact the thieves stole is recovered.
The water purification device found in the northern areological site at the Chedworth Roman Villa is purported to be advanced technology once used to filter gray water. Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, was said to be interested in researching how this ancient tech could improve upon current inventions.
Inspector Hersh claims that the city guardian, Shadow Phoenix, was caught leaving the scene of the crime but escaped incarceration. She is wanted for questioning in connection to the fire and theft. He reiterates that she is not to be harbored or trusted and is convinced she is in cahoots with the thieves she previously identified and discredited.
However, none of the guards attacked are able to verify Hersh’s claims. One guard does remember grabbing hold of Phoenix’s ankle after being dragged out of the fire to safety.
Arrest warrants are out for the aliases Bug, Scythe, and Shadow Phoenix.
Episode VI: Masquerading as Yourself
COMING February 14th, 2020
Thank you for reading the fifth episode of
SHADOW PHOENIX
Please consider reviewing this story on
Amazon
Goodreads
or your favorite book site.
Every review an author receives is an honored gift.
Other Books by MJ Moores
The CHRONICLES of XANNIA
Time’s Tempest
Cadence of Consequences
Rebels Rein
Forgotten Fallacy
FLAWED ATTRACTION ROMANCES
Final Year
SHADOW PHOENIX VOL I
Answering the Call
Syndicatus Evolutio
Oubliette
Mettle & Bone