by Anne Renwick
While they argued, Nick leaned close to Colleen’s ear. He needed to ask even if questioning her while using a sharp implement to pierce her flesh felt akin to torture. “Did you find anything of note?”
“Worms,” she half-gasped, half-whispered.
Though he’d known the answers wouldn’t involve wires or batteries, any other words would have made more sense than… “Worms? The creeping invertebrates one digs out of the dirt?” Another stitch.
“More the wriggling kind that infest an animal’s intestines. Threadlike and alive.”
Revulsion twisted and writhed at the back of his throat. He resisted an urge to glare at Maynard. Cure? The man was as insane as Farquhar. The needle plunged, the thread pulled. “You found them… in the safe?”
Confusion tumbled inside her amber eyes as she nodded her confirmation while gritting her teeth against the pain. “In the rosewood box,” she whispered. “Nothing else, save the vial in which they floated.”
Around them, the argument grew heated. He tied a knot, snipped the thread, and quickly bandaged her arm.
“Fine!” Maynard barked. “It doesn’t matter. We have her, and she’ll serve as our first human test subject.”
Ice ran through Nick’s veins. “What? No!” He’d not allow these worms to…
“You will if you wish to leave this basement alive,” the earl snarled. “As discussed, you’ll oversee the transplant, accurately recording human data, all while ensuring my niece cooperates.” He waved a hand at Farquhar. “I don’t trust a man who mutters like a loon about transmutation.”
“Both questions can be answered at once,” Farquhar defended weakly.
“I don’t think so,” Glover barked back, ignoring the mad scientist. “Not after you let him,” a hand slashed in Nick’s direction, “waltz out your front door with my fiancée!”
“No!” Colleen’s voice warbled as she struggled to sit up, to focus through an opium-laced haze. “I refuse.”
Nick tensed, sweeping his gaze about the room, hunting for anything that would make a suitable weapon.
“Everyone settle down,” Vanderburn said. He pointed Nick’s own TTX pistol at him. “Back up. We’ve time enough to wait for the lady to recover.”
Hands in the air, Nick complied.
“I care not who weds my niece,” the earl barked.
“But I do!” Glover yelled back. “Whoever controls the property, controls the profits. That cat sìth is replaceable, as is the witch herself. What cannot be replicated are the legal documents, conveniently inked with your own hand, and the marriage certificate, valid but for her signature. Imagine how pleased I was to find such documents and a certain vial all in her possession.”
Vanderburn met Nick’s gaze and slowly shook his head. Between the TTX pistol and the voltaic prod that hummed and crackled in Glover’s hands, Nick wouldn’t stand a chance.
“Fine,” the earl spat. “You marry her.”
“I will,” Glover said. “But I no longer trust you, a man who exploits his own niece’s inheritance, offered my fiancée to another, and lured Farquhar’s wife into stealing his hard-earned findings. All so you could quietly sell them for profit.” His lips pulled back. “For there’s no other explanation for the missing vial of worms in her possession, is there?”
“I meant to—”
“Betrayal after betrayal. Enough.” Glover rushed at the earl, ramming the humming weapon he held into the man’s stomach.
“Wha—” But the cry died in Maynard’s throat with a crackle as the Galvanic prod discharged, sending bolts of electricity shooting through the earl’s body and dropping him to the floor.
Colleen screamed and Nick grabbed the opportunity to kick out, landing a solid blow to Glover’s damaged leg. The man screamed as he fell, and the Galvanic prod skittered across the floor, useless until it recharged.
“Stop!” Vanderburn squeezed the trigger of the TTX pistol, discharging all ammunition at once. Crack! Ping! Thwack! The first dart went wide, glancing off the metal wall, but the second and third caught Nick in the arm and wrist.
Shit. He had mere seconds before unconsciousness.
He yanked them out and threw them to the floor, hoping not all of the toxin had discharged, then fell on Glover with balled fists. An uppercut to the jaw made a satisfying crunch, whipping his head to the side. Blood erupted from Glover’s mouth. But he felt nothing for his hand was already numb. A second punch to his abdomen doubled Glover over into a howling ball of pain.
Bang!
Nick twisted about.
“I said stop!” Smoke curled up from the standard revolver Vanderburn held in his hand, one now pointed at Nick. He froze, stunned. At his feet, the earl lay in a rapidly spreading pool of blood, a gunshot wound to his head. Dead. “A man wants to be protected, he should pay his employees. The way I see it, the less people involved, the more profit there will be to share. I’m willing to reserve judgment, Torrington, but I’m not at all certain you’ve anything to contribute to our project, so don’t test me.”
As if he could. The numbness spread up his arm and outward. Into his chest. Across his face. He swayed as his legs began to give out.
“Nick?” Colleen’s distant voice was at his ear, but he couldn’t answer her. He could barely feel her arms wrap about him as, together, they collapsed. The floor rushed up at him, but—completely numb—he never felt it hit.
Chapter Nineteen
“Let me go!” Colleen screamed and clawed at her uncle’s henchman as he dragged her away from Nick. A desperate act, as the man’s body was three times the size of hers and comprised of nothing but thick, ropy muscle.
Nick lay motionless on the cold, metal floor. His wide and unblinking eyes gave no indication that he could see her. But for the faint pulse at his throat and the shallow rise and fall of his chest, he appeared dead. And might well be if the toxin overtook him. How many darts had struck him? Not enough to kill him. And that thought alone gave her hope, one she clung to. A tear trickled down her cheek. For the thought of living in a world without him brought far too much pain. Had she fallen in love?
She’d loved her parents, and now Isabella. Her bond with Sorcha was deep and unbreakable. But Nick? He was a friend, a colleague, a lover… and so much more. Love and marriage were scary prospects, for his thoughts, opinions and decisions would—necessarily—influence hers. As hers would impact his. Was this a weakness or a strength? She rather thought it might be the latter. And she was tired of being so very, very alone.
One thing she knew with certainty: she’d never loved her uncle. That cold, selfish, arrogant man was dead. Blood oozed from the hole in his forehead, spreading in a widening pool beneath his skull. Grotesque, horrifying, but she felt only detached relief. And a twinge of happiness. Not so much for her, but for Isabella. If Colleen didn’t survive this, at least her aunt would be free.
Beaten and bloody, Mr. Glover rose from the floor. He pressed his hand to his mouth, checking for broken or loose teeth. She spat at his feet, happy to see Nick had managed to bloody Mr. Glover before he’d fallen. “I hope you’ve lost several. You’re no better than the brutes you employ.”
Mr. Vanderburn’s hands tightened on her arms.
“And entirely capable of murder,” Mr. Glover agreed, eyes narrow. “Keep that in mind.” His nostrils flared as he glared at her. “Get what you need, Farquhar,” he ordered. “Take this chance while you can, before I end her myself.”
Here? This subterranean room was to serve as the man’s laboratory? But how? There was no equipment, no instruments. Only the blood-stained rug beneath her feet and a doctor’s bag that contained only the most basic of supplies.
“Yes, sir!” The mad scientist—who had pressed himself to the wall and cowered behind raised arms when the fighting broke out—tripped across the room, his steps too lively and cheerful midst the miasma of bloodshed and death. “A chair,” he muttered. “A chair will do.”
A chair?
“But fi
rst.” Mr. Glover threw her a malicious grin, and Colleen was glad to note his jaw continued to swell and that he had at least one broken tooth. “About our wedding.”
“I refuse.” She lifted her chin.
“Do you?” Vicious rage contorted his face and, though a limp hitched his step, he managed to deliver a swift kick to Nick’s ribcage. “Let me know when you change your mind. Quickly, if you wish to spare him a punctured lung.” A second. A third.
“Stop!” Wretched despair twisted her heart. “I’ll sign it! I’ll sign it!” Did Nick still breathe?
She told herself a marriage certificate was as worthless as the tree pulp upon which it was printed, provided she could set a match to its corner before it was recorded at the registry. And if it saved Nick’s life…
Dr. Farquhar returned with a chair and placed it upon the rug before her. Rope hung over his shoulder. “If you’ll sit, my dear.”
“In a moment,” Mr. Glover snapped. “We’ve a few legalities to attend to first.” He slid the horrid slip from her map case, a pen from his pocket, and slapped them both onto the chair before her. “Sign.”
Tears ran down her cheeks as she struggled to lift her throbbing arm, to scrawl her name in ink. “There.”
They were married. She snuck a glance at Nick and was relieved to see the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
“Again.” Another sheet of paper dropped before her. “Don’t even think of refusing. Remember, Torrington’s life depends upon it, and forging your signature is always a possibility.”
While Mr. Vanderburn kept a tight hand on her upper arm, she signed away control of Craigieburn and its lands. Then threw the pen at Mr. Glover’s face. Ink spattered everywhere, mixing with the blood still drying upon his lips. “Satisfied?”
“Not even close.” He folded the documents away, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe away the streaks of blood and ink that marred his face. “Profits, however, those will make me very satisfied indeed. Bedding you, an abomination, was only a necessary exertion to be endured. An experience I doubt I’ll be inclined to repeat even if you do survive.” He looked over her shoulder and pointed at the chair. “You may proceed.”
Mr. Vanderburn spun Colleen about, forcing her to sit.
“Survive?” she asked.
“Please,” Mr. Glover said. “The cure must first be tested on a healthy individual. Preferably one that is expendable. But don’t worry, Mr. Torrington’s sister will be next.”
Mr. Vanderburn’s grip about her wrist was tight and, though she resisted, the laudanum had weakened her. The rough fibers of a rope bit into her skin as he bound her to the chair.
“I shouldn’t worry too much,” Mr. Glover went on. “His last few experiments have been wildly successful and, with all the traits you share with your familiar, I’m nearly certain this first test will proceed without incident. If not?” She recoiled as his hot breath brushed across her ear. “As your husband I’ll inherit. Cryptid hunters will pay well for a cat sìth. One particular feline is sure to turn up eventually. We’ll test the market with your very own familiar, witch.”
“No!” She hated the pleading in her voice.
“No?” Mr. Glover shrugged, then gagged her with his bloody handkerchief by stuffing it into her mouth. “Well, then, we could always harvest the cure from its heart. Turn the pelt into a stole for you to wear about your neck. It did, after all, take Dr. Farquhar several cat sìth to suss out the reason for their longevity. Might as well make use of the remains.”
Her outraged cry was muffled by the rag.
“Time to let Dr. Farquhar have his fun.” He straightened. “Imagine if it works… We’d have to offer a package deal. One cat and one witch.” His laughter raked knives down her back.
“I’m nearly certain it will be so.” Dr. Farquhar approached with scissors. He cut through her shirt, peeling the linen away to bare her right shoulder while she swallowed back her tears, trying not to choke. “We can preserve your modesty for now, my dear,” the doctor crooned in a sing-song voice. “Particularly as there’s no need to shave the incision site.” He swabbed her skin with cold alcohol. “Given conservation of mass, there must be an additional concept I’m missing. Perhaps energy? After we witness your transformation, I’ll adjust my calculations.”
Her stomach churned and bile rose into her throat. The scientist really was insane. She could not transform into a cat any more than a cat could turn human. What had addled his brain to believe so?
“It must be exothermic,” he muttered, strapping surgical goggles to his forehead and adjusting the magnification. “Might be I should have attempted an endothermic reaction to shift the cat sìth into human form? But I expect cold would do the trick in this case. If not, I’ll need to reconsider my approach.”
“Enough blathering,” Mr. Glover snapped. “Save it for your journal article. On with it.”
Icy tentacles wrapped themselves about her spine and squeezed. Dr. Farquhar truly expected her to transform into a cat? Into a cat sìth? How?
No!
The room had metal walls and a metal floor. From the ceiling protruded a number of meat hooks and eye bolts. Giant sheets of iron riveted together—her lungs started to heave—it was one large refrigeration unit. Not running at the moment but—
She screamed into the gag and tensed her body against the ropes, ignoring the throbbing pain that was her arm. He intended to freeze her, to stop her heart? To jolt her back to life with… with what? Electricity? All she’d found in her uncle’s safe were those… Worms?
“Hold still,” the scientist huffed, tracing the path of her collarbone and tapping at the bare skin that lay beneath it. “A percutaneous approach to the subclavian vein is a different procedure for a human. Bipeds differ from quadrupeds, altering the angle. But it provides almost direct access to the right atrium.” He glanced up at Vanderburn. “Hold her very, very still.”
Mr. Vanderburn’s hands pressed her shoulders tight against the chair. “It will go better if you cooperate,” he said. “The animals that struggled were… worse off.”
Dead, in other words. Tears streamed from her eyes.
It took her every effort to keep breathing slowly, steadily. If—when—she survived this, they would all pay. Nick would help her. She didn’t dare turn her head to look at him. He’d been breathing. He was going to be fine. Absolutely fine.
Dr. Farquhar lifted a gleaming hollow needle—one that more resembled a tiny tube—with a sharp point before his eyes. “We begin with a blind puncture at the junction of the clavicle and the first rib.”
A sharp pain pieced her chest and a warm rivulet of blood trickled down across her breast. She whimpered, but didn’t dare move. Breathing also seemed ill-advised with such a sharp piece of metal implanted in her vein.
“Excellent,” Dr. Farquhar congratulated himself. “And on the first try.” The scientist’s face disappeared. “The nematodes. Where are they?”
“Here,” Mr. Glover held out the fluid-filled vial she’d found in the rosewood box.
She shuddered at the horror of it all. Aether, what was he thinking, sending infectious worms directly into her heart? How could this possibly be a cure for anything?
“Still!” Mr. Vanderburn commanded.
The mad scientist uncapped the vial, then reached into the glass tube with tweezers, delicately extracting a thin, threadlike strand some four inches long. A single worm wriggled and twisted, glistening as a drop of fluid ran down its body to coalesce and drip onto her shirt.
Mr. Glover made a noise of disgust and turned his face away.
Colleen gagged on the handkerchief.
“Such a lovely, delicate thing.” Ever so slowly and carefully, Dr. Farquhar lowered his hand and, against her will, her gaze followed, straining the muscles of her eyes, of her neck, following his movement.
Terror battered her heart against her rib cage. The worm’s head—for it must be—lifted. Could it sense blood?
“There you go, little one,” the scientist’s voice encouraged, as if helping a child to take its first steps. The tapered tip of the creature slid into the blood-slicked opening of the hollow needle, and fresh tears pooled and overflowed from her eyes. “Follow the pathway. Squirm your way home.”
The worm disappeared into the tiny, metal tube. Into her vein. Propelled by the very pounding of her heart into the very structure it sought. But no matter the horror, she felt nothing. Nothing. The creature had slipped inside, taking up residence within her chest. Preparing to… What?
Tears slid down her cheeks, leaving salt-stained trails behind as they fell from her face, dripping onto her chest. Dark, damp patches upon her linen shirt spread ever wider as the mad scientist lifted another writhing creature from the vial and coaxed it to follow the first. Then another. Five worms in all slipped into her veins.
“Done!” Dr. Farquhar declared. He slipped the needle from her chest and pressed a ball of lint to the puncture wound.
Mr. Vanderburn’s hands lifted from her shoulders, but he made no move to loosen the gag that muffled her moans.
“What now?” Mr. Glover asked.
“We wait.” A distant, unfocused smile shaped itself onto Dr. Farquhar’s face. “The worm is in its final stage of development, ready to implant. Cold speeds the process, encourages the nematode to settle in, to make itself at home. Then we proceed.”
“Done,” Mr. Glover said. “For now. We’ve other tasks to see to in the meantime.”
“What of Torrington, sir?” Mr. Vanderburn asked, leaning over Nick. “He’s still alive.”
“Leave him.” Mr. Glover’s voice held an edge of malice. “He can play nurse to my wife, and I want Maynard’s death linked to Mrs. Farquhar’s partial evisceration, not his. Besides, if this works, we’ll need him to encourage his sister to serve as our second patient. If we cure Lady Anna of her heart condition, all afflicted ton will beg us to take their money in hopes that such a treatment will reinvigorate their own hearts.”