|
|
Holmes' eyes were closed but she sensed that consciousness had, as yet, refused to desert him. Scarlet agony trickled from his bloody, torn wrists, attesting to the man's efforts to free himself, but though the detective had struggled mightily the heavy ropes had withstood his strength.
There was silence from the dark trees surrounding the clearing. Raede took a moment to send her awareness out, seeking hidden watchers. It would be foolish to believe that whoever had left Holmes in this condition wouldn't be lingering to enjoy his enemy's agonies.
There was a brief, quiet scuffle some ways off, north of the clearing. Garth and Blair. Still she waited, silently listening for a sign to tell her how the altercation had ended. When a short while later the soft trill of a cricket broke the silence she relaxed. Her men knew their business, but there was always the unexpected.
Shaking herself free of the shadows at the edge of the clearing, she approached to the unmoving figure of the man who had always considered her a mortal enemy. He had sent her to prison once. A most interesting experience, and even quite profitable, though she had never told him that, of course. She wondered if he would remember her parting words to him, as she was led away in chains. Lost her temper, she had.
As she reached his side, she realized that his injuries were a great deal more widespread and serious than she had expected. His hands were horribly swollen; each finger had been meticulously broken and left unset. The toes seemed dislocated rather than broken, and his left shoulder as well. Starvation had taken its toll; he had always been a spare man but each rib and bone was so clearly defined he looked almost skeletal. His lips were cracked and dry; probably from dehydration. He would have to be moved to shelter as quickly as possible.
Raede bent over him, drawing her long knife from its sheath. The sound startled him and his eyes opened.
For a moment he stared at the knife in her hand, eyes half glazed with shock from the pain and exposure, and then as her identity began to pierce the fog of his consciousness disbelief spilled out onto his face, changing to stark desperation. His eyes closed as a wave of humiliation and despair shuddered across his taut body.
His body was cold to the touch, deathly cold. Raede slipped her cape off and draped it across his body, then deftly severed the ropes binding his limbs.
Holmes' eyes snapped open, pain filled and unable to focus on her face. "...what have...you...why..." His voice was harsh and broken, and then he began to cough, the sound rasping painfully across his raw throat.
Who had tortured and left him here, to be found in this public place? An eerie ghost of precog brushed across her nerves, like a goose and the grave, but there was nothing useful in it, just the half formed shadow of a warning. She and Holmes' enemy had met before, and would meet again, of that she was certain. In any case, she would have to be gone from this place quickly.
"You...dance to his piping now..." Another cough rasped across the man's throat.
Raede drew the detective's icy limbs in close to his body and closed his legs, the movement forcing a low, animal moan from between his clenched teeth. Dark stains had begun to soak the fabric as she tucked her cloak gently in around him. His whole body began to shiver as the warmth reached him.
Two large shapes separated from the light mist, one dragging a body. "We took three. One got away. Sent to 'warn the boss'. This one seemed to be in charge," Blair told her in a low voice.
Garth dropped his unconscious burden onto the frozen dew.
"Never mind him." Stepping back, Raede motioned them to Holmes' body. Holmes gave a short, choked cry as he was lifted and then the detective's head rolled to one side. Unconscious, she quickly determined. His pulse was weak, but steady.
The walk back to the concealed carriage lacerated her already inadquate patience. Holmes was quickly laid on one of the carriage's padded seats.
"Want me to go back for the other?" Garth offered.
"No, don't bother. He'll be able to tell me who his assailants were, I've little doubt. Blair, you drive. Watch for pursuit." She trusted Blair's senses more than Garth's. "Quickly, but watch the ruts. Garth, in here with me." If Holmes awoke and started struggling she'd have the devil of a time restaining him without injuring him further. Garth was a large man, and quite strong. It was one of the reasons she'd chosen to hire him.
She slipped into the carriage and Garth followed, pulling the door shut behind him. "Garth, give me your cloak."
Garth lifted one bush-like eyebrow as he handed it to her, peering at their unconscious passenger. "Another stray?"
"Not precisely. This is Sherlock Holmes."
Garth's other eyebrow followed its twin. "The private detective?"
"Yes." She tucked the heavy wool around Holmes' body as outside, Blair clucked quietly to his horses and the carriage began to rattle.
"The one 't sent you to Newgate?"
"The very same."
"Hmmh," Garth grunted. "Must have sent up someone less forgiving than you."
"Wherever did you get the idea that I was the forgiving sort?"
Something in her voice warned the big man who leaned back, watching her from under half closed lids, his eyes alert. "Been with you a while," he said, after a long pause.
"Have you?" She gave him an icy, practiced stare.
"Figured out pretty quick how you operate. People disappeared but there were never any bodies. Lots of talk, wild stories, but I never met anyone who had ever really seen anything with their own eyes. Nobody reliable, anyway, who didn't work for you." He shrugged, but she could sense his uneasiness. He wasn't as sure of her as he was pretending to be.
"You're scary as hell when you want to be, but you take care of your people. None of them're scared of you. Don't fit. So I figure...reputation's your stock in trade. Scare em so bad you don't have to spend all your time proving you've got what it takes."
"So you think my reputation undeserved?"
"Nope. I've seen you operate. Better, belikes. Just not as bloody. Need the fear, though, in this business. Easier."
She held his eyes for a moment, and he bore her scrutiny unflinchingly. Then she nodded and broke eye contact, resisting the urge to smile as he let out a shaky breath. Garth would do, she decided. He'd seen evidence often enough of her...strangeness, and it hadn't thrown him too badly. Blair, of course, knew the whole.
Fortunately, Holmes had missed the whole interchange. He was still deeply unconscious. Raede uncovered the little hand lamp which hung over the door beside her. She studied his pale face, taking in the darkness of multiple bruises, swollen flesh distorting the sharpness of his high cheekbones, and the bruised, purpled shadows beneath his deep set eyes. Many of his injuries appeared to be only a few days old, but some had already almost healed.
How long had it been since she'd last heard him mentioned? Raede leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and cast her mind back.
There had been a murder in Whitecastle which she was certain he had been involved in, six months ago. She had caught him tailing her three months ago, disguised as a book seller, and later that evening a drunken, lecherous tradesman. Her lips twitched at the memory. She hadn't been able to resist tweaking his tail a bit before she slipped away through an inn window...
Crusted blood plastered Holmes' hair against his high forehead, and much of his hair was singed close the scalp. The blood pooled in his left ear might have come from a wicked looking slice running from top to lobe, but she suspected something far more painful had occurred.
Seven weeks ago she had planned a grand robbery involving several thousand pounds worth of exquisite diamonds and heirloom jewelry, and had expected him to attend. His absence had piqued her, and even made her wonder, with just a twinge of unease, where he was and what he was up to. She had assumed him to be out of the country, or merely involved with a more interesting crime.
Could he, instead, have been a prisoner all this time? Some of the burns above his hairline sported at least a month's growth of hair, though they didn't seem to be healing as quickly as they ought. Hardly surprising, of course, considering the conditions he had probably been kept in.
In the closeness of the small carriage, the rank odors of stale urine and sweat, and the sweetish odor of infection was almost nauseating, but she didn't care to risk the draft an open window would cause.
Looking up, she caught Garth surreptitiously breathing through a coarse linen handkerchief. He gave her a sheepish look, but kept the cloth pressed firmly over his face.
They continued in silence, Raede's eyes returning often to make sure Holmes' breathing and pulse hadn't weakened. He was a strong man, as she had always known, and she hoped his will to live had not been broken. It was all that could keep him alive until his body fought its way back to health. Without the will, the body could not heal itself. Even the pathetic English had discovered that fact.
Where had that thought come from? Frustration clawed inside her head, like a memory entombed. It was maddening enough that her mind was filled with dark places and memory came only in snatches, but with each snippet that returned the confusion grew. Was she English, or not?
Dogs began to bark; she recognized Tarrant's deep throated challenge and Sinbad's good natured howl.
"I want him taken to the inner parlor." With no windows and one door to guard, perhaps they could keep him from guessing the location of the place, though she'd not place a wager on that probability. "Keep him guarded at all times; even in this condition he'll be too clever to take chances with. No rough handling, though. If he escapes and has to be restrained call for help."
Garth nodded.
"Extra patrols on the ground, and no one is allowed into his room except you, I or Blair, especially no locals."
The fire roared and crackled in the grate, keeping the already heated room at a near tropical temperature. It was a pleasant change from the chill of an English pre-dawn in February. Raede wandered about the room making her preparations; heating water to boiling, selecting appropriate medications and implements, boiling surgical knives and the like.
Holmes' eyes had remained shut, but she could tell by the movement beneath his lids and the raggedness of his breathing that he had regained consciousness, though, no doubt, he was regretting it. She stopped to study him for a moment, admiration twisting like pity in her chest. The strength of the man was...impossible to deny.
Sweat stained his face and neck, more from the pain than the heat, she guessed.
A bit of pitch exploded in the grate, sending sparks showering out onto the bare wooden floor, and Holmes flinched almost visibly at the sound. The iron control which had always bound and concealed his emotions had been stripped from him, leaving his mind nearly as naked as his body.
His pride as well, so vital to the English. How would he react to her ministrations? Regardless of how she represented her intentions, he had merely traded one captor for another, or so he might assume. Had he the strength to fight her? If he hadn't, and he tried, she would have to be very careful that the effort didn't break him completely. If he hadn't been broken already.
First, a bit of powdered kular to settle him. What was it he was so fond of drinking? Gin...no, sherry. She searched through a cupboard and came out with a dusty, half filled bottle of a sparkling ruby colored liquid. Raede poured a generous portion into a glass and then, throwing out a quick glance to make sure she wasn't being observed, she sprinkled in a liberal dose of the creamy white powder. It dissolved quickly as she stirred the liquid with a forefinger, and then lifted it to her mouth.
Ruefully, she admitted that the mild sherry had no hope of disguising the not unpleasant but very noticeable taste of kular. Perhaps he would still be too much in shock to take heed of it.
Holmes hadn't moved visibly, but Raede noticed the merest flutter of an eyelid at her approach.
Gently, she pressed her fingers to the pulse at his throat, and felt him tense at the unexpected touch. Still his eyes remained closed, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge her presence though he had to have realized she had detected the movement.
"Come, Holmes, open your eyes. I have a nip of sherry for you, and something to make you sleepy. Don't fight me, Holmes, there's no point in it yet. Plenty of time for that later." She brushed her hand across his face, letting her thumb trace lightly over the uneven stubble of his underjaw. Scars there, too. Her fingers caught on the roughened surface, and a clear liquid stained her fingers.
At her touch something broke inside the man, and he began to shudder in earnest. His eyes fell open, sliding past her to focus on some unseen horror that dragged him back to the nightmare in which he must have lived for the past weeks. The fire danced and crackled, reflected in the orbs of his pain filled eyes.
"You're safe here, Holmes...it's over. They're gone."
Holmes fought her, refusing to heed or acknowledge her words, struggling to rise. Hastily, she set the sherry aside and pressed him back down again.
"There's no need for this, Holmes...listen to me. No one is going to hurt you."
Feverishly, he tried to force her hands away from his body, ignoring the pain the action must have caused his broken fingers. Even weak and ill as the man was he still had great strength and Raede doubted she could keep him restrained without worsening his injuries. Had she no more than the strength of a normal woman to call upon he'd have broken her hold already.
"Garth!" she called.
The large man burst into the room, gun at the ready, closely followed by Blair.
"Put that away...just hold him down."
Garth and Blair held the detective immobile while she tied his arms and bound his chest with wide restraining strips of thick, heavy cotton.
"Thank you. That will be all."
Blair gave her an unreadable glance as he exited the room with Garth.
Holmes fought the restraints for only a moment, and then lay still, jaw and eyes clenched against the pain that the struggle had caused him. Fresh spots of livid red dotted the light cloak that covered him, loosely now.
Raede scowled. If she didn't get that drug into him soon he might very well bleed to death. There was one bloody patch which especially worried her, at the juncture of his legs. She hoped her fears as to its source were groundless. Completely aside from the fact that such wounds bled excessively, the nature of that sort of injury would sap his will to live.
"Don't fight me, Sherlock Holmes." Raede pitched her voice low, spoke in a soothing drone. "We both know you haven't the strength to spare right now. There isn't any need."
The detective's eyes opened, reluctantly, and she could see the thin skin of control which protected the man's battered soul.
"How long..." his ragged voice was halted by another short, painful cough.
"I doubt it's been long. Certainly your life is in no danger. Most of your wounds seem of the painful but not life threatening variety." Raede took a threaded needle, and dipped it in an astringent mixture.
Holmes' lip curled into a strained sneer. "How long...has Moriarty given you to accomplish the task that he was unable to complete?"
James Moriarty...she had suspected as much. A reptile clothed in the skin of an academic, mind as cold as it was brilliant. Mostly insane, she had judged him, though a tightly focused insanity and one which only made him the more dangerous and repellent for it. Though she and James had been associates, once upon a time, that was long past.
"You think I'm working with James?"
"It seems obvious. Aside from the fact that you are on a first name basis with him, he'd hardly have sent you to fetch me otherwise."
"I'm afraid you've gone astray there; James Moriarty did not send me."
"You can hardly expect me to believe that you happened up me by accident," he said fiercely. "Do not think to play me for a fool. You're wasting your time. You'll not break me, either..." his voice failed, and he fought back humiliation, no doubt believing she would take his physical weakness for an emotional one.
Raede could almost feel his pain herself, like a shadow pressing in on her mind. She had always suspected that the mind behind Holmes' ironclad natural shield would be very strong; now was not a good time to have to find out.
"I would have suspected that you had too much pride to sink to whoring for James Moriarty." His voice was barely a whisper, and in it she detected a note of something almost like betrayal. "Or do you choose to call it something less honest?"
"The keenness of your mind seems a bit blunted today, Holmes. I don't work for, or even with, James Moriarty. The business at hand is between the two of us. Put him from your mind. It's usually the most refined thing to do under any circumstances." She slipped her hand beneath his head, and took up the sherry. "I have a few questions for you, Holmes, and it's obvious that you haven't the voice to answer them yet. Come now, a bit of sherry will lubricate your dry throat," she coaxed.
Warily, he took a sip, then refused another, coldly. "I don't recognize the flavor. Some rare form of poison? No, something less lethal, certainly. I doubt your master would be pleased if I were to expire before you..."
His throat failed him again. After a long moment she lifted the glass back to his lips, and this time, after an instant of hesitation, he began to drink and did not stop until the entire glass was empty. When she laid his head back against the soft padding his eyes were weary and dull.
"I suppose you felt no need to point out that there are less pleasant ways to administer the drug, do you? You have the advantage of Moriarty in that. He lacks subtlety. He always has."
"How long have you been in Moriarty's...keeping?"
"I have no idea. Should I care?" The question was edged with bitterness and resignation. Silence stretched between them in the darkness, broken only by the crackle of the flames.
Raede left him to pile more wood onto the fire, and to light the many lamps and candles around the room. Shadows shrank back from the dark corners. She took her time at the task, giving the drug time to take effect. Occasionally, she caught his eyes following her about the room as best they could, given his restricted mobility.
"What day is it?" he asked, finally.
"The twenty first...of February".
"Two months." His quiet words seemed hardly meant for her. "It seems as if it must have been longer." She could see his muscles straining, twisting slightly underneath the restraints, then ceasing abruptly. "Tell me...what is it you intend for me?"
Raede hid a smile. His intentions leaked past the man's battered shields. The question was calculated to distract her, seemingly inviting her to indulge in her power over him even as he probed for a way to escape. The sound of her voice would also tell him where she was, and whether she was watching him or not. A worthy opponent, always, even in pain and half drugged. He never disappointed her.
Her silence seemed to disturb him. "No intentions of telling me? You prefer, instead, to keep me in anticipation? Subtle, as only a woman can be. Perhaps you will prove more dangerous than Moriarty, after all." It was getting easier to read him, as the drug relaxed his controls. He was hoping to draw her in, to probe for susceptibility to his calculated flattery, trying to gain her participation in the conversation. There was a strange...anxiety underlining his questions, though, that she didn't quite understand.
Locating a jar containing crushed aloe, she returned to his side and began to daub it onto the burns under his chin and above his hairline.
At first he jerked away from her touch, then regained control and submitted to her ministrations in tense dignity.
"Very subtle," he repeated, with a slight edge to his voice. "The velvet glove? Another waste of time, I'm afraid...I'm quite beyond responding to that...Moriarty's crude practices have blunted my sensitivity."
His pupils had begun to dilate. The drug was a fast acting one. He should have drifted far enough in another five minutes, though those few minutes should be...interesting...as the kular loosened his tongue.
|
|
|