Unraveled (Turner, #3)

The first thought that went through her was that Smite had changed his mind. A bolt of hope shot through her. He’d not given up on her—on them. But then the constable put his hand about her wrist and held her tightly.

“We’re told you’ve got something that doesn’t belong to you,” he said. Behind him, his companion reached out and put his hands into her skirt pocket. He rummaged about, and then pulled out a watch. It was tarnished and battered, but it ticked complicitly in the man’s hands.

She stared at it blankly. “That’s not mine,” she protested.

“We know.” The grip on her wrist tightened. “Make a note of it. She admits it.”

“No! I mean I don’t know how it got there.”

“They never know, do they, James?”

“Oh, no. It’s always planted there. You’re all innocent—the lot of you.”

“I am innocent!” she protested.

“Tell that to the judge,” James said sarcastically.

But it was the officer who held her who truly made her shiver. Because he leaned in and whispered in her ear what she had just begun to fear: “Tell that to the Patron.”





Chapter Twenty-one




AFTER MIDNIGHT, MIRANDA GAVE up trying to sleep. Her cell was cold; the cot impossibly hard.

When she lay down, her corset cut into her waist. She couldn’t reach behind her to loosen the laces of her gown. Instead, she listened to the guards that patrolled the area.

They hadn’t brought her to the gaol; that was for convicted criminals. She was in a small holding cell at the police station. The only window was a small square hole cut in the door. Closed, only a faint trickle of gray seeped around the edges. She could see nothing. Her other senses brought her little information, too. There was the regular sound of booted feet as the guard crossed the hall and stood, not ten feet away, as part of his rounds. When he stood close by, the dimmest hint of light shafted into her cell from his lantern. He stayed for a few minutes. Then his footsteps started once more, and he disappeared down the hall. She counted past two thousand in impenetrable blackness before he appeared again.

Over and over, the patrol repeated, until her head began to spin.

The pattern altered sometime after a clock somewhere struck three. The rhythm of the footfalls that drew near seemed more complicated—the sound of two people walking, not just one. Miranda sat up, clutching her blanket. The patrol stopped in front of her cell. This time, metal jingled and a key scraped in the lock. The door opened.

Two lanterns shed light, turning the people outside into black silhouettes.

Miranda shrank back against the wall. One dark, cloaked figure strode in, and set a lantern by the door.

“Who are you?” Miranda’s voice shook.

No answer came. The wooden door thudded shut, but the figure did not move. Miranda’s breathing grew shallow. She held still, as if somehow, if she didn’t move, he wouldn’t see her. Outside, the footfalls moved onward. The officer had left her alone with…with whomever this was.

Still, the figure didn’t speak. Instead, he advanced toward Miranda.

“I’ll scream,” she choked out. She looked around wildly for a weapon, but the only thing within reach was a tattered blanket.

“Go ahead.” The answering voice was raspy, and not at all what she’d expected. It was a woman. An older woman.

“You’re with the Patron.”

The woman didn’t bother denying the charge. She reached out and grabbed hold of Miranda’s shoulder. Her grip was surprisingly strong, her arm muscular. She brought her other hand up, and a glint of light caught a metal blade.

Miranda did scream then, and she kicked out hard. But the woman simply grunted, absorbing the blow, and pressed Miranda against the wall.

“Shut up,” she said, holding the knife up near Miranda’s throat. “This is what your life is worth—five seconds and a scream in the dark that nobody hears.”

Her assailant grabbed a hank of Miranda’s hair and jerked her forward. Her scalp stung; the knife flashed. Miranda bit back another scream.

But the woman had done no more than cut off a lock of her hair. She stepped back, putting her knife away. Miranda became aware of the rapid beat of her heart, the shallow rasp of her breathing.

“I thought the Patron wanted a replacement,” Miranda gasped. “How could this convince me to support his cause?”

A snort came in the dark. “The Patron decides matters of justice. If someone doesn’t like the Patron’s version of justice, well… you can just tell that someone to construct his own version in its place. This is a warning, dearie. Count yourself lucky. You could have ended up like George.” Another chuckle. “You still might. This—” the figure held up the hank of hair “—is just a token of the Patron’s good will.”