The Golden Spider (The Elemental Web Chronicles Book 1) (38 page)

S
OMETHING JOLTED HIM
awake.

Something was not right.

Vardo. He was in a gypsy vardo.

A brightly painted wooden canopy arched over him. Orange curtains hung near his head. An overly soft feather bed lay beneath him. Amanda was in his arms, her body pressed to him, her head tucked beneath his chin.

That much was right.

Wisps of memories crept back.

Luca, kidnapped by Sommersby and handed over to the eye doctor, Henri, who was his laboratory assistant. Luca and Lady Huntley found in a riverside warehouse, alive. His leg failing. A mission to protect the old gypsy lady. Sending word to Black. Waiting.

He blinked and ran a hand across his rough face and through his tangled hair as the last tendrils of an opium fog lifted from his mind.

Opium.

That last memory slammed into him. Amanda had repaired his leg. Or at least she had tried.

He flexed his foot experimentally, the one on the damaged side, and felt an odd tingling. Yet the blanket above his foot moved. His foot had moved! “Amanda,” he said. His mouth was parched and his voice sounded dry. “Amanda, wake up.”

She stirred in his arms, groggily lifting her head. “You’re awake.” She pushed up onto her arms, her eyes turning toward his leg. “How do you feel?”

Every muscle ached. Every. Single. One. He might have injected the Somnic into a specific location, but its effects had been systemic, affecting every skeletal muscle, every nerve. Shortly after they’d arrived, there’d been a point at which he’d been unable to move. When even the simple act of breathing had become a daunting task. Each inhalation, each exhalation had begun to require conscious effort.

The gypsy and his opium might well have saved his life. Just as Amanda had saved his leg.

“Sore.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed to sit beside her. One leg of his trousers had been cut away. Cotton wrappings wound about his calf, covering the incision that would have been required for the neurachnid to weave its golden threads. He flexed his foot again, this time watching closely. “Amazing.”

Despite all that had happened these past weeks, this past year, he let himself know a moment of personal relief. He’d been given a second chance. A chance he would not waste.

He reached out and pulled Amanda to him, planting a fast, hard kiss upon her lips. “Thank you.”

She smiled back at him, her eyes alight with the thrill of success. He took in the disheveled mess she presented. Her clothes were rumpled and askew. Hair twisted and fell around a face that bore the red imprint of his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. She looked like a well-tumbled woman.

His
well-tumbled woman.

Alas, this was neither the time nor the place. Not that inappropriate locations had stopped them before. Amazing how Amanda made him feel so very much more alive than he had in years. He opened his mouth to say something, and that’s when he heard it again. The noise that had awoken him.

A faint creak. A squeak. The sound of wooden boards shifting past each other. The caravan shifted and rocked ever so slightly.

Amanda caught his gaze, the same questions written on her face. What happened outside? Were they preparing to move? Why?

How long‌—‌exactly‌—‌had he been asleep?

His fingers slid into his waistcoat pocket, drawing forth his watch. He flipped open the cover and peered at the time. Six hours had passed with no word from Black? Something was wrong. He knew better than to ignore his instincts, instincts that were beginning to scream that something was very wrong.

The vardo jerked into motion.

Where were they going? Thornton tried to stand, but his leg buckled beneath him in pain and protest. He sat back down, clenching his teeth against the shock of pain that shot upward through his leg.

“It’s too soon,” Amanda gasped, reaching out to steady him. “The wound alone will take days to heal.”

The pain subsided, and he hissed an answer. “We don’t have days. We may not even have minutes.” He jerked his head in the direction of the partition that separated Nicu’s sleeping quarters from the rest of his wagon. “Take a look. Carefully.”

She crept forward and peered around the partition. Then sat down beside him once more, her eyes wide. “The gypsy driving is not Nicu. It’s Milosh, his assistant.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“After your surgery, I stepped outside to ask Nicu to send a message to my father. He was talking to Milosh and…” Her lips pressed together. She knew something.

“What, Amanda?”

She shook her head. “It was probably nothing. He wasn’t happy about our presence here, with Nicu.”

“Unlikely,” he said, his suspicions intensifying. Six hours without contact during an active manhunt was unheard of. His message to Black had never been delivered. Nor hers to the duke. “The gypsies have deliberately cut us off from outside contact.” Likely they’d bypassed his agents entirely.

“Why would they do that?” she asked, her eyes round. “We’ve only tried to help.”

“Gypsies distrust governments. Of all kinds. They prefer to work outside and around anyone with direct ties to the Queen or the British government.”

“You think they’ve gone after Henri themselves?”

“Yes. Nearly all the victims have been gypsy.” All but Tony. “Can you blame them?”

She shook her head.

“I can’t allow that. I need him alive. I have questions. Many. I cannot allow my‌—‌our‌—‌devices to fall into other hands.” He wasn’t used to explaining himself, but for Amanda…‌ “I am not convinced of their ability to deal with a trained, foreign operative. If they act on their own, they put Nadya‌—‌and others‌—‌at risk. Henri may go to ground and finding him after today might prove impossible.”

He reached for the metal brace that had kept his leg from outright rebellion for so many months. Wincing at the searing pain, he pulled the leather straps tightly about the bandaged surgical incision. There was no help for it. Wound healing and muscle atrophy required the one thing he did not have. Time.

“You shouldn’t,” Amanda objected.

“I know. Yet we have to assume Black‌—‌or the duke‌—‌never received our messages. For all we know, they are searching for us.” Against his body’s protest, Thornton stuffed his feet into his shoes, pulled on his coat. “If you will please return my pistol?”

The blood drained from her face as she reached for her reticule, pulling the weapon forth. “You’re not going to…‌ going to shoot Milosh? He’s driving.”

He took it from her. “We need answers.” He shifted forward. “If you’ll hand me my cane, it’s time to test your spider’s work.” Solid wood with a silver cap, it was more than simple support. Properly employed, it too served as a weapon.

With a frown, she passed it to him.

Gritting his teeth, he stood. The first step was like stepping on broken glass. Pain pulsed up his leg. He held his breath and took another step. Only slightly less painful. Yet despite the pain, his leg worked. Nerves carried complete messages. Each muscle responded to his brain’s commands. With a deep breath, he wiped away any remaining expression of pain from his face and stepped around the partition.

Leaning a shoulder casually against the wall to compensate for the rocking motion of the caravan’s iron-banded wheels as they rattled over uneven cobblestones, Thornton lifted his weapon and pointed it at the gypsy driving the clockwork horse. “Please pull to the side of the road.”

The man glanced over his shoulder. His lip curled. Then he turned away. “You will not shoot,” he said.

“Excuse me!” Amanda, her shoulders squared and her back stiff, moved into the room. “Where is Nicu?”

The gypsy shrugged, his glance at her insolent.

“Tell us what is going on,” she insisted. “Or this man may have no choice.”

“He will not shoot,” the gypsy insisted.

“Can you steer the horse?” Thornton asked Amanda, leaning against the wall of the caravan.

She glanced at his pistol.

He gave a slight nod.

Her eyes widened and answered with a tentative, “Yes.”

He hoped she meant it. “Last chance,” he called to the gypsy.

The driver barked a derogatory laugh.

Leather boots were sometimes an impediment to the polymer bullets, so Thornton shot him in the thigh. The gypsy howled, grabbing his leg. Pain ran up his own leg as he lunged forward, wielding his cane to knock the man from his bench, sending him sprawling into wooden boxes piled upon yet more boxes. The old, dry wood shattered. Gears and pins and springs cascaded from their containers, burying the gypsy.

“Take the reins!” he yelled to Amanda, who stood frozen as the vardo began to careen widely into traffic

With a slightly panicked look, she scooped the leather straps from the floor and pulled. The vehicle shuddered as she slammed her foot down onto the wooden brake and steered them to the side of the road.

Relieved, Thornton lowered himself onto a nearby crate. From the floor, the gypsy let loose a string of what he suspected were especially colorful Romani curses.

“What have you done?” the gypsy yelled, when he finally regained the ability to speak in English. “I can’t move my leg. I can’t feel it.”

“I did ask politely the first time. Now, answer my questions before I am forced to take this further. I’m told your name is Milosh?”

The gypsy spat at him.

Thornton sighed loudly and aimed his weapon at the gypsy’s other thigh.

“Yes,” the gypsy growled. “Milosh.”

“Thank you. Let’s start at the beginning. Did Nicu send word to the Queen’s agents on my behalf?”

Milosh narrowed his eyes. “We take care of our own.”

“Not an answer. I’m not in a mood to play games. Answer me.”

“No.”

“Where were you taking us?”

“To your hospital. Lister,” Milosh grumbled. “I told Nicu never to trust a
gadjo
.”

“Why?”

“Because you are all scum.”

“Save your insults for later. Why Lister?” Thornton asked.

“Because your traitor, Henri, has been found.”

“Found?” He lifted his eyebrows.

A nasty smile curled the corners of Milosh’s lips. “Dead. Henri was found dead in Hyde Park. Floating in the Serpentine. Your people have him now.”

Thornton kept his face blank. “Would you happen to know if they found any…‌ devices in Henri’s possession?”

Milosh looked blank. “Devices?”

Perhaps Henri had been working with someone, had passed the phaoscope and the neurachnid to a fellow German agent, but he had a strange feeling that something was wrong. He’d missed something. If the threat had been neutralized…‌

From the bench beside him, Amanda asked, “Where is Nicu?”

The gypsy looked away.

“Something is wrong,” Amanda said, echoing his thoughts. “Has Nadya been found?”

Milosh swallowed. “No. She has not been found.”

Amanda turned to him. “Nicu told me Nadya was last seen with a woman wanting her fortune told. How hard could it be to locate her?” Her voice rose with impatience and worry.

A flicker of something crossed the gypsy’s face.

And it all fell into place. “Lady Huntley,” he said. Speaking the words aloud hurt. The betrayal cut deep. “It’s her. Not Henri.”

“Lady Huntley?” Amanda asked. Her hand flew to her mouth. Her next words emerged on a breath of disbelief. “Lady Huntley is the eye doctor?”

He jerked his head.

It had been her all along. And John? Had he been guilty of anything? Anything more than falling in love with the wrong woman? Lady Huntley, scheduled to board their dirigible, crying off at the last minute, her husband conveniently dead and unable to be questioned. And he’d brought her into his laboratory. Trusted her with his most secret, groundbreaking research.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Good Lord, he’d handed her everything she needed. Everything but human patients, which she’d obtained easily enough.

“Henri?” Amanda asked. “Was he friend or enemy?”

“Does it matter?” Milosh said. “Either way the spy emerges from your own nest. And you wonder why we do not trust
gadji
?”

Thornton raised his weapon once more, this time pointing it at the man’s chest. “Answer quickly. Do my men know?”

“Ha!” Milosh said. “They certainly do not. The Roma do not wish for your interference.
They
can handle one woman.”

“Airship Sails,” Amanda said.

“If Lady Huntley has Nadya, how would they know?”

“Our note to Black. Or my sister. The Roma are her family. She would tell them.” Amanda hesitated. “And not my father.”

The gypsy smiled smugly. “Probably it is already done.”

“What‌—‌exactly‌—‌is done?” Thornton demanded.

“Gypsies move about, everyone knows that.” Milosh shrugged. “They also provide entertainment. Fortunes. Juggling. Fire swallowing. A tribe stopping for the afternoon by the side of the road to entertain those poor workers, locked up inside that large factory away from the sun and the stars, no one would think anything of it. If a few should slip through the gate to reclaim one of their own…” The gypsy shrugged again.

All hell would break loose.

“Thank you, for your cooperation,” Thornton said. He shot the gypsy in his other thigh.

Milosh howled.

Amanda gasped.

He slid the weapon into an inner pocket of his coat and stood, swallowing the pain it took to do so. “In a few minutes,” he informed the gypsy, “the numbness will spread. You will start to lose consciousness. You will wake up here, safe, hours from now. The side effects are minimal.”

“Do not interfere,” Milosh warned, his words already beginning to slur. “This is gypsy business. Your possessions will be returned to you. We have no need of them.”

Thornton wanted more than what Lady Huntley had stolen. He wanted answers, perhaps a touch of revenge. “Will you drive, Amanda?” he asked, turning away from the gypsy. “I’m afraid I’m not quite up to it.”

“Vauxhall Bridge?” she asked, shifting on the bench, throwing her weight onto the brake to release it. With a slap of the reins, the clockwork horse began to clomp forward.

“As quickly and as directly as possible.”