Cynda’s visitor didn’t look familiar. He wasn’t young or old, but he looked fuzzy around the edges. She blinked her eyes to clear them. Still fuzzy.
“Do you know me?” he asked. She shook her head. His face seemed to fall. “It’s a sad day when you don’t know your own brother.”
Brother? Did she have one? Cynda frowned, picking through the clouds in her mind.
“Jane has always been very simple, and we’ve been embarrassed about how far she’d fallen. She was on the streets and…” he trailed off.
“Ah,” the attendant responded, nodding sympathetically. “She’d be easy pickin’s for some of them out there.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Still, ya’ve come for her, and that speaks well of ya.”
“Thank you.”
Come for me? Cynda stared at him until her head began to hurt again. It was no use. She had no idea of his name. Still, maybe it was all right.
An attendant walked her back to her cell, saying something about papers to sign. She dug in her pocket for a handkerchief to wipe her nose. A flutter of white fell to the floor. As she picked it up, she remembered. It was the piece of paper the veiled lady had given her. She kept forgetting it was in her pocket.
“Jacynda…Lassiter,” she whispered and then tucked it away.
The attendant returned. “Are you ready?”
Behind her was the man who’d come for her.
“It’s time for us to leave, dear sister,” he said.
Cynda stared at that unfamiliar face. It had a slight smirk on it. Or did it? It was gone in a flash.
Outside, a carriage waited for them. It seemed huge, all black with no markings. The driver eyed her, then turned away as if she was no longer of importance.
Not right. Cynda looked back at the big building. She’d miss the columns. As they’d walked toward the carriage, the new man hadn’t let her touch them, saying that was ridiculous.
“In you go, sister,” the man told her, devoid of emotion.
She thought of refusing, but what good would it do? Maybe the new place would be nicer. Maybe they’d help her get better.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
No reply. He pushed her into the carriage and she huddled on the far side, not liking him to touch her. The carriage rolled away the moment the door shut. She shivered in the cold. He wouldn’t let the curtains be opened, and the dark frightened her. Once her eyes adjusted, she studied him. He seemed younger now, his hair a different color. How could that be?
The coach rolled on for a long time. She huddled to stay warm. He’d not offered her a coat or a blanket to cover herself. Even the people in the crazy place had done that.
“Where are we going?” she asked again.
“To the river.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s where we need to go.”
A while later, the sound of the wheels changed. He drew back the curtain. “We’re on the bridge now. Nearly there.”
“Who are you?”
No reply. On instinct, she moved toward the closest door.
He launched himself at her in an instant, her neck in his hands, jamming her up against the side of the carriage. She flailed as his grip tightened.
“Just let…it…go,” he grunted, bearing down harder. Black stars swirled in front of her eyes as she struggled to breathe, fingers clawing at his iron grip. She kicked at him, clipping a knee. His fingers loosened for a second, then redoubled in pressure.
Panic exploded within her. Another kick caught him mid-groin, and the air filled with blistering oaths. Cynda jammed a bunched fist into his midsection, as hard as she could. This time he released her, gasping for breath. His face changed as the white fuzziness around him faded.
Cynda flung herself at the far door and it swung open, revealing patchy darkness beyond. She wrenched herself free from the hands on her shoulders, hearing her sleeve rip. When she landed, the impact drove the air out of her. She instinctively rolled, fearing the carriage wheels.
Her head came to rest against a metal support, a gas lamp on the bridge. With a furious shout and the skittering of horses, the carriage screeched to a halt a few feet away. As she pulled herself upward, hands grabbed her from behind. She fought back, trying to keep them away from her neck. Too late, she realized the man’s intent. With a grunt, he hoisted her in the air and heaved her over the side of the bridge.
Cynda sailed downward. The wind billowed her skirts and whistled in her ears. Acting on instinct, she tucked into a ball the moment before she struck the water, then sank into the freezing depths like a bedraggled mermaid heading for a muddy grave.
Chapter 7
Why didn’t someone help her? Furious, Cynda struggled upward. With a tremendous effort she finally broke the surface, only to sink down. Lungs splitting, she clawed desperately toward the surface again. The second time Cynda breached the water something jammed into her shoulder. She grabbed at it blindly. Shivering intensely, she clung to the wooden oar, trying to work her legs free of the cloth wrappings as the pull of the water worked against her efforts. A moment before she lost hold of her lifeline, hands pulled on her, drawing her up. She scraped across something and then flopped face down into the bottom of a boat.
“Why’d ya go and do that?” a rough voice asked. “If ya’d left ’er in there a bit longer, we’d ’ave got more brass tonight.”
“Oh, hush up,” a second voice replied.
Cynda focused on each breath. In…out. In…The breath caught and she choked, spitting up water in a heaving gasp, nearly causing her throat to spasm.
“That’s it girl, ya keep breathing, ya hear?” the second voice commanded.
“Just clunk ’er on the ’ead with the oar. Does the trick every time.”
“I can’t do that.”
The first voice swore. “And I thought we’d get another five shillin’s.” He spat into the water. “Maybe she’s rich, and we’ll get us a reward for findin’ ’er.”
“Not bloody likely. Give me that tarp, will ya?” Something heavy and rough enfolded her. “There ya are, girl. It’s up to ya if ya live or die. I’m not God, so I got no say in the matter.”
Cynda couldn’t speak; her throat hurt too much. She focused on each breath as the watermen chatted back and forth. She finally caught their names: Syd and Alf. It’d been Syd who had suggested they hit her on the head with the oar. Listening to their conversation, it sounded as if they spent their nights hauling passengers back and forth across the Thames. Occasionally, they’d snag a body. Those were always worth money.
Her eyes blinked open when the boat landed.
“Is she still alive?” Syd asked.
Alf peered over at her. “Yup.”
He spat into the water again. “Never get a break.”
~??~??~??~
Saturday, 27 October, 1888
Rose Dining Room
As usual, his superior was already in his chair, paper at his elbow, enjoying his breakfast. They’d traded terse pleasantries and then food had arrived. Still, Satyr sensed that all was not as it should be.
“Are the buyers in London yet?” he inquired, swirling a bit of toast around the plate to capture the remaining bits of egg.
The Ascendant did not answer, but poured himself another cup of tea. Satyr poured his own tea, buying time. He always took it black. The darker the better. In fact, the dining establishment made a separate pot just for him as his superior had pronounced it unpalatable.
Satyr tried again. “Have our customers indicated how they’ll remove the items from London without drawing attention?”
“That is not your concern.”
Satyr’s irritation rose. “On the contrary; as Lead Assassin, everything is my concern if it involves you, sir.”
“The transfer is in hand,” the Ascendant replied tartly.
“Do you need me there to ensure—”
“Not needed.”
What is going on? Why am I suddenly of no importance to this project?
There was a tap on the door. The servers knew never to interrupt them unless they were summoned. Satyr was up and moving in an instant, vanishing into nothing as the knife came out of his pocket.
“Not to concern yourself, Mr. S. It is one of our associates.” The Ascendant put down his cup. “Come!”
That was unwise. His superior had no notion who was on the other side of the door. To Satyr’s surprise, the man who entered was one of his associates. Or at least he was presenting as such. The Lead Assassin remained vigilant.
“Ah, Tobin, there you are,” the Ascendant called in a welcoming tone, beckoning the man forward. “Please come in.”
Satyr returned to his usual form, eyeing the newcomer. Tobin was equally uneasy. He made the customary sweeping motion with his finger across his left wrist, the sign that he was one of the Seven.
Satyr closed the knife and dropped it back into his pocket. Secondary assassins were not invited to this breakfast meeting. That was reserved for the Lead Assassin only, a perquisite of rank.
“Sir,” Tobin greeted, giving a slight bow. He repeated the gesture to Satyr, but the bow wasn’t as deep as it should have been.
Currying favor, are we? The junior assassin was ambitious. Not necessarily a bad trait, but one that put Satyr on edge. There was only one position higher than Tobin’s at present—his own.
“I trust you have good news for me?” the Ascendant inquired.
With another cautious glance toward Satyr, Tobin replied, “Yes, sir. She met her end last evening on Southwark Bridge.”
She? “What is this?” Satyr asked.
“You seemed to have an issue with removing Miss Lassiter, so I asked Tobin here to tidy up the situation. And so he did. Well done, young man.”
The flame of Satyr’s anger ignited. Only the Lead Assassin was allowed to assign a contract to one of the juniors, as he was the best judge of which man and technique should be employed. How dare the Ascendant go around him as if he were some inefficient clerk? “Sir—”
“I know it’s a breach of protocol, but I felt it necessary,” the Ascendant replied. “So how did you do it, Tobin? Did you take my suggestion?”
Suggestion? Now he’s dictating technique. This is outrageous!
Tobin, emboldened by the Ascendant’s praise, explained “Yes, sir. I bribed one of the staff who told me which inmates had been admitted in the last week. Once I knew which one it was, I left, changed forms and returned as Miss Lassiter’s brother. I gave them false dismissal papers, after which she went meekly to her death.”
Their superior leaned forward. “How did you dispatch her?”
“I lured her into a carriage and then strangled her. I threw her body in the river. It sank immediately.”
“Splendid,” the Ascendant remarked, raising an eyebrow in Satyr’s direction. “According to the Lead Assassin the lady was hard to kill.”
“I did not find it so,” the young assassin replied, offering Satyr a smug glance.
Liar. Satyr’s face was a mask of calm. Beneath, lava boiled in his veins. “I will be filing a protest with the Twenty, sir,” he announced. “Your actions are unacceptable.”
“Oh, don’t be a fusspot, Mr. S.,” the Ascendant retorted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I just needed to have a good night’s sleep knowing the young woman is no longer a threat.”
“You never said why that was the case.”
“That is not your concern.” At that, he rose. “Come along, Tobin, you can walk me to the cab stand. I want to hear all the details.”
“Yes, sir.”
Satyr remained standing long after the Ascendant and the junior assassin had departed, the lava in his veins now white-hot. The Lassiter woman was to be his kill, the crowning moment in his career, and at a time of his choosing. To have Tobin dispatch her was an insult to both him and the victim.
He forced himself to pour more of the dark tea. Fate had a way of turning the tables on men and their petty ambitions. A showdown was coming, and it would be his task to ensure he’d be the last one standing when all the scores were settled.
~??~??~??~