Master of Myth (The Antigone's Wrath Series Book 1) (26 page)

As soon as the first blocked her from view of the second man, Jiao’s countenance turned icy. Within seconds her sword was free and slicing through his belly. As he fell away, she whipped the throwing star at the second guard. It severed his jugular before he had time to scream. A satisfying gurgling noise trailed her as she headed back to the stairs and up to the fourth floor.

For hours, Iris and Rachel sat in the darkness, bound to separate chairs. Gags prevented them from speaking, but their concern for Danton did not need to be expressed. When the screams began, Rachel watched her friend’s eyes widen in fear and then well up with tears. She fought against her bonds. The thought of the knife in the toe of her boot burned in her brain. The way she was tied rendered it useless. If she couldn’t kick, it was no good. Keeping it a secret was her best bet for now. In an effort to distract herself from the sounds of torture, Rachel tried to imagine all the ways she could kill Mr. Mustache. After what seemed like years, there was a break from the noise, but it didn’t last long. Perhaps Danton fell unconscious, then woke to further infliction of pain. Agonizing minutes passed, then, another sound, this time gunfire. Rachel assumed her crew was either dead or prisoners of the Brotherhood, but perhaps some of the men freed themselves and were taking back the ship and temple. It stopped as quickly as it started, and her hopes evaporated. Beyond the door, feet pounded against the floor. Something had happened, most definitely, but not the siege she would’ve liked.

A short burst of screams broke the silence that followed, and then faded completely. Someone approached. Voices murmured in angry tones, then the door was thrown open. She blinked painfully in the sudden brightness, even though it was dim lantern light. When she could see again, a figure stood, silhouetted in the doorway. It wasn’t hard to figure out who it was.

“Your little attempt at freedom isn’t going to work
Captain
Sterling.” Mortimer Cross said. “Your men will be caught and dealt with accordingly. I do hope you weren’t too set on a rescue.”

Rachel remained silent. She refused to let him think she had no idea of what he referred to.

“I expect we’ll be departing fairly soon. We have something very special planned for you, but I won’t spoil the surprise.” His words had a slimy, sweet quality. Rachel was sure he was grinning. “I’ve brought you a present.”

She heard him snap his fingers as he stepped back into the hallway. Two men dragging a third approached, and tossed the limp figure onto the floor in front of her. As she studied him, she realized, to her horror, that the bloody, beaten mass of a man was Danton. She frantically searched for signs of life, but it was too dark to see much. Glancing up at Iris, tears poured down the woman’s cheeks.

“He isn’t dead,” Brother Cross assured them. “I daresay he will be soon enough, though. I thought you might like to be with him as he expires. Consider it a… gift.”

With a snort, he slammed the door shut again, plunging them back into blackness. After the footsteps receded, they were left with nothing but the slow, labored sounds of Danton’s breathing. Rachel’s mind raced. Danton was going to die and there wasn’t a damned thing she could do to save him.

More noises in the hall distracted her. Something slid down the wall. Then, the door unlocked and opened slowly.

“Tashi dele?”
A familiar, feminine voice ventured in a whisper.

Rachel’s heart pounded as she let out a muffled exclamation.

“Captain Sterling?” She sounded surprised. “Where are you? I cannot see a thing. Please wait.”

Rachel was on the verge of tears as Jiao Wu’s form retreated back into the hallway. A moment later, she returned, this time bearing a torch, which she mounted in a bracket on the wall. When she saw Danton, she muttered something in Chinese. She stepped over him, towards Rachel, who shook her head fiercely and nodded to Danton. Jiao gave her a skeptical look, then knelt next to him. “He’s hurt very badly. I’m not sure there’s anything I can do for him.”

Iris, now animated, wriggled fiercely and attempted to speak through her gag. Jiao looked to Rachel for approval before freeing the first mate. The girl removed the gag first, then started on the ropes.

“Hurry,” Iris whispered. “I may still be able to save him.”

The instant she was free, Iris fell to her knees and gingerly turned Danton onto his back. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and pressed her hands to the sides of his face. At first, nothing happened, but by the time Jiao untied Rachel, there was a distinct green glow emanating from Iris’s palms. Danton groaned in pain. Iris released him and looked to the other women. “He’s stable, but needs more care than I can give him here.”

“We must go quickly. When they discover the bodies…” Jiao cast a nervous glance to the door.

“Bodies?” Rachel asked, startled. “You mean, you—”

“There’s time for that later,” Iris interrupted. “There’s a hidden passage down the hall. Help me lift him.”

Jiao and Iris lifted Danton’s shoulders, and Rachel hefted his feet. They backed towards the door, where Rachel poked her head out. When she saw the two guards with their throats slit, lying motionless in pools of their own blood, she cringed. A girl of sixteen took down two hardened killers? She refocused. Minding the fluid to keep from slipping or creating tracks, Rachel backed into the hall. “Which way?”

“To your left,” Iris said.

They shuffled along as quickly as they could manage, the Frenchman’s arms flopping to and fro. Before the first turn, Iris stopped the forward progress. She transferred Danton’s weight to Jiao and ran her fingers along the wall. “If I remember correctly, it’s right around…” she trailed off as she searched. There was an audible click. “Here.”

Rachel cringed at the soft grinding noise the wall made as some of the stones scraped against one another. She was surprised to discover the rock was very thin with a wood backing: paneling, rather than solid wall. One section pushed back and slipped inside the hollow righthand side. It gave her a whole new round of ideas for the ship, but she dismissed them as they entered the secret corridor.

When they were all inside, Rachel set Danton’s feet on the dusty stones.

“What are you doing?” Jiao said. “We can’t stay here.”

“And I can’t proceed unarmed,” Rachel answered. “Those guards must have had weapons. As they aren’t using them anymore, I thought I’d take advantage of that.”

“But you shouldn’t—” Iris began.

She didn’t listen. “Close the door when I leave. When I come back, I’ll knock. If something happens, I’ll find another way out.”

Before another word was said, Rachel left and slid the wall back into place, the door closing with a
ka-chunk
of finality.

Silas tried to make himself invisible as he stretched his aching leg muscles. He was stuck in the same cross-legged position for hours. They never told him to remain completely still, but his fear kept him stationary. He was really quite disgusted with himself. He never thought himself to be much of a hero, but to be so paralyzed by fear, especially when Rachel was in serious trouble, was unforgivable. Still, what else could he do?
 

And then there was Eddie. The boy opted to stay behind when Silas went in search of a translator. What happened to him? The Brotherhood caught Silas completely by surprise as they swarmed into the hallways. Faced with ten men, ten pistols pointed at him, he saw no alternative but surrender. Any small amount of defensive skill he possessed was incomparable to the ruthless, violent tendencies of the Brotherhood.

The translation was an instruction manual for the assembly of a machine of some sort, but it wasn’t obvious what the function was. It occurred to Silas that, since this was a highly complex magical device, the instructions for actual operation might be contained in another volume. As yet, he hadn’t heard anything aside from measurements, part descriptions, and building instructions. He did have a knack for discerning purpose during assembly, however, so things would likely become clear soon.

He glanced up to where Jamyang continued dictating to the scholarly man. He looked again. The Lama’s left hand was tapping against his leg in a strange, stuttered rhythm. Monks weren’t known for fidgety behavior. He continued watching the tapping, and it dawned on him why it seemed so strange. Jamyang was sending him a message using code. Thinking quickly, Silas cleared his throat, hoping to get the monk’s attention. He needed to stop and start the message over. The trick worked. The monk paused, fingers poised over his knee, the rest of him giving the appearance of pausing for a particularly difficult translation. A few seconds later, the tapping started again.

Silas said a silent thank you for all the years of practice that increased his memorization skills. He watched the tapping and kept track of the letters in his head.

They will kill me when this is finished (stop). You must stop them from using this machine (stop). It will destroy humanity (stop). The ring is needed but Rachel is required (stop). Her blood is the key (stop).

The message ended. Silas blinked. Rachel’s blood? He needed more information. He stared at Jamyang’s hand, willing it to send more letters, but none came. When he looked up, he realized the room was silent. The book was closed and the scribe was looking around anxiously. The translation was complete.

A guard at the back of the room opened the door enough to address someone standing outside. There was the sound of shoes running on stone, then nothing more. A few minutes passed in awkward silence before Brother Cross returned with a retinue of men.

“I hear that you’ve finished the translation, is this correct?” He stood, arms crossed, looking incredibly angry.

Jamyang nodded slowly. “It is done, as you requested.”

“Excellent.” He smiled and relaxed a bit. “Mr. Jensen, if you’d be so kind as to collect the book and its translation, I think it’s time we were on our way.”

Silas swallowed hard and got to his feet, then approached the monk. As he took the book from Jamyang, he tried to think of anything he could do to save the man. Resigned dread settled into his stomach as he realized there was nothing he could do; he was completely and totally helpless.

Jamyang smiled kindly. “It is all right. Sometimes fate cannot be avoided. I am not afraid. My work is complete.”

Silas nodded numbly, then turned to collect the transcription. The scribe was far less composed and shook violently as he handed over the green fabric-covered journal. His eyes pleaded for any kind of help. All Silas could offer was a grim smile and a shake of his head. As the first desperate tear slid down the man’s cheek, Silas turned away. He didn’t look back as they led him out of the room and into the hall. He shuddered as the first gunshot echoed through the corridor, followed closely by a second, final burst.

She crept back to the bodies of the guards, but when she heard the shots, Rachel broke into a run. She skidded to a halt in front of the collapsed guards and ripped open the jacket of the nearest one. There were footsteps approaching from around the corner. Lots of them. The body was slumped over onto the same side as his holster and she couldn’t budge him. She tried the other guard. His pistol was free and she snatched at it.

The first of the Brotherhood men turned down the corridor and spotted her. “Brother Cross! One of the women is escaping!”

The first man, followed by five others, charged towards her. Rachel scrambled to her feet and fired at them. One doubled over, but the others pushed him aside and continued their pursuit. She ran, firing another shot behind her, but missing completely. The corner was only feet away. She could make it!

As she stretched out her arm to knock, Mortimer Cross’s face emerged from around the corner. She dug in her heels to stop herself, but her momentum pushed her forward. His arm came up, brass billy club fully extended. With a sharp, downward swing, the metal connected with her head and lights danced in her vision. Rachel knew she was falling, but darkness consumed her before she hit the ground.

Sensation returned before she would have liked. Rachel’s head hurt so badly she knew better than to open her eyes. Instead, she remained as she was and allowed her other senses to feed her information. Manacles suspended her arms, her back slumped against a cold metal wall. At least she was seated. With the blow to the head she received, she would no doubt be nauseous when standing, if she was able to do so at all. So, she was a prisoner. That much was obvious and not exactly an improvement from her previous situation.

She continued to take stock of anything else she could glean without opening her eyes. As far as she could tell, she was alone. There was another sound though: a deep, steady hum of engines and the occasional clank of metal on metal. This was not the
Antigone’s Wrath
. She knew the sounds of her ship, and these were foreign. It was also quite cool, given her apparent proximity to machinery. Now this was a puzzle. On any normal ship, a room this close to the inner workings would be warm at the very least. Where was she?

Bracing for the side effects of a head injury, Rachel cracked an eye open. The light was dim, but she could see well enough. Her eyes focused on the floor. For the moment, it was all she would risk trying to see. Black steel swam before her, and she closed her lids as her stomach roiled. Black steel was rare and expensive. It was also incredibly strong. Something nagged at her. Was it just the floor? Breathing slowly and deeply, she opened her eyes again, this time to look at the walls. With surprise, she realized the entire room was made of the material. It shocked her so much, she jerked at the realization, and a powerful wave of nausea sent her reeling. Her stomach heaved and she leaned to the side to avoid retching on herself. The motion only made her sicker. Rachel fought to still herself.
 

The clacking of hard shoes on metal floor gave her something new to focus on. Not that this was a great development. Now there was no way for her to seem still unconscious. The smell of vomit burned in her nostrils. Perhaps they’d at least mop up the mess. At this thought, she chuckled.