The Last Necromancer Page 3

  I kicked backward, smashing my foot as hard as I could into my captor's shin, then jerked my head back hard. Unfortunately, his height worked against me and I only managed to hit ribs instead of a throat, chin or nose. The kick earned a sharp intake of breath from my abductor, but otherwise he didn't make a sound. Nor did he loosen his grip.

  I was out of ideas. I was good at avoiding capture—usually—but not so good at freeing myself afterward. The panic seizing my breath and overriding my brain wasn't helping either. Should I scream? Would anyone come to my rescue if I did?

  Instinct took over and I struggled again, trying to wrench myself free. But that only made his fingers dig further into my flesh with bruising strength.

  "Stay still," he snarled, in a voice that welled up from the depths of his chest.

  "Or what?" I was pleased that I sounded defiant. If I couldn't have my liberty, I could at least hold onto some dignity.

  "Or I'll be forced to hurt you."

  As if he wasn't already.

  "Want me to shoot him, sir?" That was Ugly's voice.

  "Idiot," said Pretty. "What'll that achieve?"

  "His copperation."

  "Doubt he'll feel very co-operative with a bullet wound."

  The grip of the man holding me changed, but before I could use the opportunity to my advantage, I was rendered immobile once more. He wrenched my arms behind my back and pinned them there.

  I winced as pain shot down to my wrists and numbed my fingers. "You're hurting me!"

  The man they called Sir didn't answer.

  "To be fair, he did warn you," said Pretty.

  Ugly snorted a laugh.

  Sir shoved me forward, but I refused to walk. I wasn't going to make this easy for him.

  "Move," he said, his voice surprisingly calm in my ear.

  I pulled my knees up so that my feet were clear of the pavement. He didn't so much as grunt with the effort of suddenly taking all my weight. I, however, gasped as my arms screamed in agony and my left shoulder popped out of its socket. I bit my lip to stop myself crying out and tried kicking again, but it only served to put more pressure on my already burning arms and shoulders.

  "Fool," Pretty muttered. He appeared in front of me and, walking backward to keep pace, went to push my hair off my face.

  I jerked my head from side to side then when that didn't work, spat at him. Ugly laughed.

  "Little blighter." Pretty raised a hand to strike me, but Sir's steely, "Don't," stopped him.

  "Go on ahead," Sir said. "Let me know if someone comes."

  Pretty glared at me then he and Ugly strode off around the corner.

  "Stop resisting," Sir said to me. "Nobody wants to harm you."

  "Your name Mr. Nobody, eh?" I laughed at my joke although I didn't find it funny. "I'm not going anywhere with you until you tell me what you want with me."

  "We can't talk here."

  "Then we won't be talking at all, Mr. Nobody."

  He continued to carry me forward, only to stop when Ugly's face appeared around the corner. "Gang of rough looking types coming this way!"

  A gang? They might be willing to help me, but it was unlikely. Most of the "rough looking types" in Clerkenwell only helped when there was something in it for them. Yet I had to try and get them on my side. I could claim Sir and his men were police. "Rough looking types" hated the constabulary. I opened my mouth to scream, but before a sound came out, Sir clamped a large hand over my mouth and my nose. He pulled me back against his body, one arm now bracing me around my waist, still pinning my arms, the other smothering me.

  I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move to scratch at his hand. The harder I tried to breathe, the quicker I used up the remaining air in my lungs. My chest burned, my throat closed, and blackness crept in from the edges of my vision.

  He was going to kill me and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. Fog clouded my thoughts. I felt my strength drain away. He finally let me go, but I could not have run even if I'd had my wits about me.

  The darkness swallowed me. I felt my body being lifted, but I was unsure if it were by human arms or the Reaper's, come to take my soul to the afterlife. All I did know was that everything was about to change.

  CHAPTER 2

  I didn't need to open my eyes to know that I was inside a coach. It had been many years since I'd ridden in one but the rocking sensation was unmistakable, as was the subtle scent of the leather seat on which I lay. My hands and feet were tied and I lay on a bench seat, facing forward. My shoulder still hurt, but not as badly as before. It had popped back into the socket while I was unconscious. By luck or by my captors?

  At least one of them was with me in the cabin. I could hear soft breathing and feel a gaze upon me. My hair still covered half my face, reaching past my nose. A small mercy.

  "I wasn't expecting him to put up a fight." That was Pretty's cultured voice, coming from the seat opposite. Unless he was talking to himself, there must be another beside him.

  Nobody answered.

  "The lad's got some fire in his belly," Pretty went on. He paused, yet there was still no response from his companion. I suspected it was the one they called Sir then, not Ugly. Ugly was more talkative. "Do you think he'll have answers?"

  "Some." Yes, definitely Sir. I recognized his rich, velvety tones.

  "Do you think he knows where she is?"

  She? Who was he talking about?

  "Perhaps," Sir said.

  Pretty grunted. "Think he'll tell us where to find her, if he does?"

  "I'll see to it."

  A cold lump of dread lodged in the pit of my stomach. He had no qualms rendering me unconscious to capture me, so what methods would he employ to get answers? Answers to what? I didn't know the whereabouts of any missing women—

  Unless he meant me, Charlotte Holloway. If so, it seemed he hadn't connected Charlie the boy to Charlotte the missing girl. Yet. I needed to get away from him as soon as possible, before he worked it out. With my hands and feet tied, escape was not going to be easy.

  The men didn't speak for some time and the silence between them felt awkward. They weren't friends then, but more likely master and servant. A good ten or fifteen minutes passed before the leather seat creaked beneath the shifting weight of one of them.

  Pretty cleared his throat. "Odd that he hasn't woken up yet."

  "He's awake," Sir said.

  How had he known?

  The leather seat creaked again and I felt warm breath on my chin. I opened my eyes, startling Pretty. "How long have you been awake?" he asked.

  I didn't answer. I didn't want him knowing I'd overheard their conversation.

  The man sitting beside him spoke instead. "Since we drove off."

  Sir was not what I expected. He was strikingly handsome, although he seemed to want to downplay his good looks. His black wavy hair reached to his shoulders, a few errant strands spilling over one sharp cheek. No gentleman I'd ever seen kept his hair that length or in such disarray. Nor was the hair on his face the latest fashion. Instead of being styled and oiled to a sheen, it shadowed his jaw as if he'd forgotten to shave for two days. If he didn't wear such a fine, well-fitting suit, I would not have thought him a gentleman at all. He didn't even wear a hat or gloves.

  I sat up, which was not an easy task, trussed up as I was. Neither man assisted me. I shrank into the corner then remembered I was trying to look defiant and unafraid. I tilted my chin and stared into Sir's black, black eyes.

  That was a mistake. He met my gaze with his own fiercely direct one, and I felt like I was being sucked into a well so endless it would take a lifetime to reach the bottom. He gave away nothing through his eyes, yet I felt he could see everything in mine. Surely he must know I was not who I claimed to be. I wanted to look away before he saw too much, but I could not. He was much too compelling.

  It was only because the carriage slowed that I was released. He glanced out the window and my own gaze followed. We drove through a set of enormous iron ga
tes spiked with spearhead finials, then along a drive. Lawn carpeted the landscape, the occasional tree or shrub interrupting the smooth surface. I craned my neck and finally caught a glimpse of our destination as we rounded a gentle bend.

  I gaped at the mansion. It sat atop a low rise like a crow with wings spread out in either direction. The building was a mad collection of shapes. Tall, narrow pinnacles shot from the centers of square towers positioned between the triangular gables and rectangular chimneys. But it was the central tower that caught my attention. At almost twice the height of the rest of the house, it was an imposing entrance. Beneath the three cones at its crown was a small window, then nothing but dark stone plunging down to the large arched door. Rapunzel wouldn't look out of place in that high window, but it would take more than a lifetime for her hair to grow long enough to reach the ground.

  I recoiled and suppressed a shiver. Sir watched me with those all-seeing eyes of his. His expression remained cool, detached, unreadable. It was unlikely he cared what I thought about our destination, unless he could use that fear against me.

  "Is this Bedlam?" I asked. I could well imagine the mansion was the infamous insane asylum. It looked bleak enough to house those miserable, mad people. People like me.

  Pretty snorted. "An apt assessment, but no."

  The coach pulled to a stop and Sir opened the door himself. No servants emerged from the house to do it for him. The cabin dipped as he stepped off, then dipped again as someone jumped down from the driver's seat.

  Ugly came into view beside Sir. "How's he going to walk with his feet all bound up like that?"

  "You're going to carry him," Pretty said.

  Ugly looked to Sir, but he merely walked off. "Put him in the tower room," he said. "See that he's fed and bathed."

  "Don't just stand there, pizzle head." Pretty signaled to Ugly. "Come get him."

  Ugly grimaced, revealing two rows of broken, jagged teeth. "Why don't you do it?"

  "Because I'm in charge, and the one in charge doesn't do any hard labor."

  "You're not in charge, Death is." Ugly jerked his head at the retreating figure of Sir. They called him Death behind his back and Sir to his face? I wondered if he knew.

  "I'm second in command, and since he's no longer here, I am in charge. Grab the little blighter and get him up to the tower room."

  Ugly sighed and reached for me. I scooted along the seat into the back corner. "I'm covered in lice," I told him.

  Ugly scratched his bushy sideburns. "Do I have to touch him, Seth? Couldn't we just untie him and let him walk up?"

  "And risk him running off? I'd like to see you explain that to Death." Pretty—Seth—grabbed my arm and dragged me to the cabin door. Without warning, he shoved me into Ugly's waiting hands.

  The big man caught me easily. "You stink."

  I managed to dig my elbow into his ribs and received an oomph for my troubles. "Compared to your sweet smell, you mean?"

  Seth chuckled. "I think I'm going to like you, lad."

  "Don't get too attached to him." Ugly hoisted me under his arm and carried me toward the house like a roll of fabric. "Death'll get what he wants out of him then send him back to the sewer."

  "What information is that?" I spat.

  "Stop moving," Ugly said. His arm tightened around me and I thought he'd cut me in half.

  "You're hurting me!" I wriggled and kicked out with my bound legs, but connected with nothing but air.

  "Calm down, lad," Seth said. "Co-operate and you will not be harmed. Fight and it will not go well for you. Death doesn't like it when his orders aren't followed."

  "I don't have to follow his orders. He's not my master."

  "Yet he will get what he needs from you nevertheless. He's good at that."

  I gulped at his ominous tone as much as the promise in his words. I imagined the man they called Death extracting my real name from me with the use of medieval torture devices. He probably kept them in the dungeon. Surely a place as grim as the one we were now entering had a dungeon, with walls so thick that no one would hear my screams.

  "What you shivering for, boy?" Ugly said, hoisting me higher on his hip. "It ain't cold."

  "This is uncomfortable," I told him. "Can't you put me down and let me walk?"

  "No," Seth said.

  "Where are we?"

  "Lichfield Towers."

  "Are we still in London?"

  "Yes. Highgate."

  I knew Highgate had some big homes, but estates of the scale of this one weren't common. I could picture only two that I knew of, both behind high fences and rows of trees. Now that I thought about it, the front gate had looked familiar. We weren't too far from the cemetery.

  Knowing my location buoyed me somewhat. If I did escape, finding my way back to Clerkenwell wouldn't be too difficult. The first thing I'd do when I returned to our basement Hell would be gather my few belongings and find a new place to live, somewhere where nobody knew me. Somewhere far away from Stringer and his gang.

  I got to see very little of my surroundings, facing downward as I was. The floor tiles in the entrance hall were mostly covered by a crimson Oriental rug and the walls were paneled in dark wood. Ugly carried me up a grand staircase, his footfalls deadened by a carpet runner. Despite being daytime, the lack of windows meant it was dark in the stairwell without the chandelier lit. We continued up and up, Seth following behind us. We passed many doors, all closed, until we finally reached what must have been the highest room in the central tower.

  Seth slipped past us and pushed open the door. The room was larger than I expected, with more furniture than I'd seen in one place for a long time. Still, it was bare compared to my childhood room in Tufnell Park. It contained only a small bed, a dresser, table and chair. There were no knickknacks on the table or dresser, no pictures adorning the deep red walls, and the bedspread was plain gray. Yet I loved the room. Once Ugly and Seth left, I would be alone inside four walls for the first time in an age. It was a luxury I'd feared never to experience again.

  Not that I would experience it for long this time. If I could tie together the sheets and blankets, I wouldn't need Rapunzel's hair. I could simply attach one end to the bed and climb out the window. I glanced at the window and bit my lip. Perhaps not. It was a long way down.

  Ugly dropped me onto the bed. I bounced on the mattress and had to suppress a smile before they saw it. The mattress was soft.

  "How're we supposed to bathe him up here?" Ugly said.

  "I don't need a bath."

  "Smelled yourself lately?"

  Seth looked me over and I made sure to keep my face dipped so that my hair hid it. "You stink worse than Gus."

  "Oi!" Gus protested. "I ain't that bad."

  "Besides, our orders are to get you bathed."

  My face flushed and I was glad my hair covered it. My filth was a foolish thing to be ashamed of, but I couldn't help it. My mother had been a stickler for cleanliness, scrubbing my skin with carbolic soap and my fingernails with a slice of lemon every day. She would have a fit if she saw the grime that had been deeply ingrained into my nails and skin now.

  "Fetch a washstand and bowl of water," Ugly—Gus—said.

  "It won't be enough," Seth said. "The water will be black before he's even half clean."

  "Take him to the bathroom and fill up the tub."

  "The bathroom's two levels down. Besides, Death didn't tell us to take him to the bathroom. He said to bring him here."

  "Then what'll we do?"

  "A jug of water and a bowl will do me well enough," I said, sitting up. "There's no need to bother with a bath."

  Seth jerked his head at Gus. "You get it. I'll strip those rags off him."

  "No!"

  They both blinked at my vehemence. "Why not?" Gus asked. "You ain't got nothing we ain't seen before. Only smaller." He chuckled as his gaze focused on my crotch.

  "You'll be perfectly safe with us," Seth said, somewhat soothingly. "Neither of us care what you look
like."

  They would if they knew I looked like a girl. "I've got scars. I don't like folk seeing them."

  "Me too." Gus began to unbutton his jacket. "I'll show you mine first. Ain't no reason to hide scars. Shows you're a fighter."

  "Or careless, in your case." Seth's eyes gleamed with humor. I almost found myself smiling along with him.

  "Weren't my fault the water got spilled." Gus didn't continue to unbutton his jacket, nor did he do them up again.

  "No, but it was your fault there was still hot water in the pot. You were supposed to empty it."

  Gus gave Seth a rude hand gesture. Seth ignored him and bent to untie me. "Guard the door," he told Gus.

  Gus did. He was a solid man, a wall of brawn that I would never get past without a distraction.

  "Don't think about running off," Seth said. "Death will get you before you even leave the house."

  I tilted my chin. "How will he know I've escaped?"

  "He'll know. He knows everything. That's how we found you."

  "Death's a machine," Gus chimed in. "And like God, too. A god-machine. Don't push him or he'll come down on you like a ton of bibles."

  "He probably knows you just said that," Seth said with a wink at me.

  Gus swallowed heavily and glanced around the ceiling, as if looking for the god-machine himself up there.

  With my hands and ankles finally free, I felt more human. I stood and walked around the room, checking the drawers in the dresser—they were empty—and looking out the window. Definitely too far to climb down.

  "Go get the water," Seth said. "I'll fetch him something to eat."

  Gus narrowed his eyes at me. "He'll escape."

  Seth grinned and pulled a key out of his waistcoat pocket. "Now, why would he want to leave this comfortable room and return to the sewers anyway?"

  "I didn't live in the sewers," I growled at him.

  "You lived in a cramped, dark cellar that stank like a sewer. You're better off here, lad. Don't forget it."

  "Do I have my freedom here?" I snapped. "Can I come and go as I please? No? Doesn't seem like I'm better off."