The handcuffs must’ve been Dankyo’s idea. One of her wrists was kept cuffed to the right hand pillar of the bed, and when she needed to go to the bathroom, the woman locked her wrists together. It made everything difficult, her arm cramping at times with it stretched over her head, and no one, gargoyle woman included, seemed to care that going to the bathroom was a laborious affair. She’d examined the cuffs. An ordinary pair she would stand a chance of picking, but these had some strange clockwork mechanism on each side. Still, a hairpin she found wedged at the back of the bathroom cabinet might be useful.
The little white dress they’d given her was already marked with blood. A bad color for concealment too. One mistake from them is all I need. Once my leg heals, I’m gone. But where to? Have I got the guts to desert? I can’t stay here.
She remembered something about the Brito-Gallic league—how they hated the PME. Perhaps she could pass as human there if she was careful with how she dressed, at least until she figured out if frankenstructs were legal.
Yes. To the west, then. She breathed out slowly. Settling on a goal had eased the tightness in her chest. To the west.
The late-afternoon sun streaked in through the glass doors, and Claire was halfway to the bathroom. The outer door banged open, and two guards trundled in a trolley bearing an engine of some sort with wires at one end, a crank at the other, and ridges of machined metal going halfway to the ceiling in layers like a steel wedding cake.
What the… Horrible images crammed into her head—sharpened steel, blood, pain—the paraphernalia of torture.
She stumbled. Her injured leg caved, and she went to one knee, with her cuffed hands on the floor just stopping her from completely toppling over. Fiery spikes screamed up her leg. She stifled a gasp of agony. The room hazed.
“Here now.” Quick solid steps approached her. Someone picked her up like a child and held her against their broad chest—the muscles and the scent of a man. Blinking to clear her vision, she let her gaze travel up to his face. The gray eyes she recognized.
“Good afternoon, agapi mou.”
That confused her even more. Had he just called her my love in Greek?
She screwed up her mouth. “I’m not your love. Put me down.”
A smile tweaked the corners of his lips. “So you can fall over again? I think not. Where do you wish to go?”
She reined in her instincts—striking at his eyes would get him to drop her…and then she’d likely be shot.
Squirming didn’t loosen his grip and only sent more pain spearing through her thigh. Fuming, she weighed her alternatives.
Very well. If he wants to carry me, that’s his problem.
“Finished thinking? That scowl does not become you.” He quirked an eyebrow.
This time she took a longer look—black wavy hair, a strong yet proportionate nose dividing his broad face, and black stubble on his chin. Her heartbeat accelerated.
“I was headed to the bathroom.”
With that he swung slowly around, took her to the bathroom, nudging open the door.
Alone in the bathroom, with the door closed behind her, Claire felt tremendously relieved, as if she’d barely escaped a trap. That a man had touched her without her permission grated on her nerves, though he’d not done anything. She’d be more careful in future. Try to keep out of his way.
Except when she opened the door, she found him waiting.
“I can get back to the bed myself.”
“Stubborn, aren’t you? No. I’ll carry you.”
And he scooped her up again. She couldn’t evade him, not with her leg injured and her wrists cuffed. The trolley with the strange machine awaited her at the bedside, as did an elderly man with thin gray hair. His neat suit and the stethoscope protruding from his jacket pocket marked him as a doctor. If this man carrying her hadn’t made her nervous already, the machine surely would have.
She said a mantra to get her pulse rate down. Why would they treat me as nicely as they have, only to torture me?
“Perhaps if we exchange names, you won’t feel so shy about being carried?”
Shy? She turned her gaze from the man holding her, to the machine, and back. What is this device?
“My name,” he said, maneuvering around the machine and lowering her to the bed, “is Theo Kevonis. I am the owner of this house and the adjoining lands. I was at the airship crash, and I helped rescue you. I must tell you how glad I am that we did that.” Very polite, but he hadn’t let go of her wrists. The grip was loose, as if he barely knew he held her, yet when she pulled away, his fingers tightened and kept her cuffed hands there.
Theo? The thought struck her like lightning. Theo was a shortened version of Theodore. Her target’s name. Inkline hadn’t given her the surname. Surely, it would be an impossible coincidence for this to be the same man. Besides, Inkline was dead, wasn’t he? Which meant her target didn’t matter, one way or the other. Professional curiosity crept in, though. Could this Theo be important enough for a nation to want him killed?
“Where is your other man? The mean-looking one?” She inched up the bed.