Chapter One
Cynara des Jardin
The great city of London was a dangerous and deadly place. I knew this, and I had no desire to be here. But I had been forced to desert my beloved Paris to come to this dark and dirty city. Forced by one man, my once-lover and present worst enemy: Henri d’Estes.
He was the nephew of my darling Comte des Jardin, the man who had saved me from a life of crime, trained me, raised me from the gutters of my native city and taught me to be a lady. And now, Henri was on my trail. This I knew as well as I knew my own name and my own nature.
I ran from my former life through London’s filthy streets. I kept slipping against the cobblestones and nearly falling, catching myself only at the last minute. I did not care to know why the stones were so slippery, whether it was from the oils which drained from the tin men pulling the carriages, the mysterious slurry running freely in the streets throughout London’s working class district, or less savory substances.
At that moment all I was concerned about was escaping from those who sought me and were trying to strike me down. Evidence of an almost-successful effort on their parts now stained dark the blue of my dress, and the hilt of a blade extending from my side spoke of their intention.
They hadn’t expected me to fight them. I was meant to come with the unresisting passivity of a highborn lady. Witch though I was, we all had roles we were supposed to play. But when I faced the men my lover had betrayed me to, I failed in the pretenses of society. I fought them until one lay dead in the gutter, while the other ran after me with such tenacity it was as if his life were in danger instead of mine.
Perhaps it was. There was no limit to the damage Henri d’Estes would cause if my death warrant went unsigned. He had warned me, told me to leave England.
I didn’t listen. No, I refused to, for I was as determined to see him meet his end as he was for me to meet mine. And though I had the wealth to ensure his passing, I would not allow a stranger to take his life.
That was a pleasure I wished to reserve entirely for myself.
It appeared Henri did not share my sentiments or care how I died. He had sent others after me. I stumbled forward, weakness beginning to overcome my anger. I turned into an alley cluttered with a troop of the trollops who walked this section of London. If I fell here, I knew they would pick my body clean the moment my breath left it. As it stood, they simply stared aghast as I stumbled against the rough brick wall.
“Help me,” I begged them. But my words drowned in the blood flowing from my mouth.
“There you are, my pretty,” came a voice so close behind.
I slid down the filthy wall as I lost even the little strength I’d reserved. The sound of the trollops’ scurrying feet was followed by a deafening silence. I was quite alone with my attacker. I focused my dimming gaze to see him kneel down before me. A shudder rippled through my body when he grabbed the knife’s hilt, twisted it with a sort of unholy glee and pulled it free.
Pain filled me. Had I had my voice, my scream would have filled the lonely silence. That agony was nothing compared to what would follow.
Of this I had no doubt.
My powers as a witch were taking over, knitting my skin together to close the wound. To heal the damage. To make me whole once more.
The man watched with fascination, grinning as he observed the spectacle of my magic. His happiness startled me, as did his next words: “Oh, the Witchfinders will pay a great deal to have you in their stock, my pretty.”
Witchfinders…qui…not Henri? Mais…
The man lifted me before I could stop him, though I knew I wouldn’t be able to even if I tried. My strength abandoned me, and with each jolting step, so too did consciousness flee.
Sleep, heavy and fierce, came to release me as death had failed to do.
***
I did not again see the man who first captured me, though I cursed him often during the abuses I suffered for the endless days and weeks.
Witchfinders, they called themselves. When I overheard them speaking of the great WFG, a business known throughout Europe for its ties to England’s wealth, the pieces fell together. These men would take my wealth, and in the end my very life because of nothing more than my nature.
I should have feared them. Cowered when they performed their tests to discern my powers. Screamed when they hurt me, laughed at their surprise when their marks faded from my skin. Instead, I froze my heart and mind against them. Never once did they hear me cry for mercy. Never once did I demand they cease their evil. My benefactor, my beloved count, had trained me never to show weakness, though I was but a woman.
I was in the water tank in their laboratory, surrounded by three scientists in frock coats covered by stained aprons. I understood what they were doing: studying the effects of ice water on the body. But my realization didn’t make the chattering in my teeth any less as the large contraption of pipes and gears worked to fill the glass box. For you see, I have a deathly afraid of water. Of drowning. This glass prison made it all the worse, since I could see everything and everyone, none of whom would assist me when my lungs filled.
“Forgive me, sir,” he said as he bowed to one of my torturers. “Sir Eli has need of this one. He wants her prepared within the hour.”
“Prepared?” I managed between my teeth, grateful to all the gods that the tank wouldn’t be filled to its capacity.
The scientist nodded, pushing a pair of shiny brass goggles from his face to the top of his head. He stepped over to a set of levers controlling the water and pushed one of them up. I couldn’t help gasping as a blast of the cold water rained upon my head. Nor could I control the coughing fit overtaking me as the assault stopped and the icy liquid lapping at my knees began to drain out of the tank. “Pity.” The scientist sighed as if the interruption meant the end of a great experiment. “We still have so much to learn from this one.”
The water gone, the front of the glass cage opened, and the guard yanked me out. I was shaking so hard from the cold, I paid no mind to the collar he placed around my throat. I did cough once more as the wretched man jerked me forward, leading me out of the laboratory and back to the cell that had become my home.
With my capture, I’d become nothing more than a guinea pig to these horrible men. The only thing needed to cement my new status in life was a large wheel to run on.
The guard opened the door to my cell, unbound my hands and throat then shoved me inside. He threw what looked like fresh clothes on the floor beside my straw pallet, followed by a bundle of rags. “Dry yourself and change. The Witchfinder General wishes to see you.”
I shook my head, blowing on my hands to warm them. “I don’t understand.”
The guard smiled coldly, sliding the bundle forward with one booted foot. “You’re the only one we have who has survived, and the master needs one of your kind. Now, you can do this yourself, or I can do it for you. Your choice.” He leered at me, his dirty face slashed in half by a mouth full of rotten teeth.
I pulled the rags to me and listened to his laughter as he left the room. I dried off the best I could, grateful for this new twist in my fate. Perhaps this general would know Henri. Perhaps he would listen to reason and release me from my plight. I changed into the simple linen dress with trembling hands, tightening the white skirt around a waist molded by the years spent wearing corsets. I was dry but still cold, my skin horrid shades of blue and red from the chill that had settled into my bones. It seemed it would take some time for my powers to erase the evidence from my time in the lab.
I ran my fingers through my wet hair as I dried it with the rags, trying to force its weight to obey until it fell straight down my back. My blond locks were still damp, but it would have to do. When I was finished, I tried to control the shaking. Tried to get warm in this place of stone and steel. But it was no use. I gave up after only a few moments, praying that the Witchfinder General would have a fire lit wherever I was supposed to meet him.
When the guard returned, and the lust I was so accustomed to seeing lit his eyes, I knew I was ready.
Their Witchfinder General would release me. This I vowed.
One way or another.
***
The guard bound my hands with coarse ropes and attached a leather leash to my collar as though I were some animal. Perhaps to him I was. I knew his touch on my bare throat gave him an unholy pleasure, but it was of little matter to me. In my mind I practiced the speech I was sure would lead to my freedom. I had no other choice. No matter what this Witchfinder would want from me, I would pay it only if he signed documents securing my release. Then, and only then, could I take the first airship back to France and do what I must to escape Henri.
Hide.
I followed my gaoler through brick tunnels and wooden walled passageways, going ever upward on steps of stone, all the while praying for the shaking to stop. I needed to appear strong. Determined. Confident. After all, no matter the cause, trembling wouldn’t help me make the case I needed to win my freedom.
When we stopped at last, in a narrow passageway barely lit by some pale and unseen source, the guard gave a staccato knock on a heavy carved door. Beyond it I could just make out voices, dominated by one that sounded quite ill, almost as if the person were choking. I could hear others, though I could not tell how many—all male, it seemed, except for one woman’s clear voice.
The ill-sounding voice called out; the door before us creaked open. The guard grabbed the leash and jerked me forward.
The light in the room dazzled me for a moment. When my eyes adjusted I could see several people. A slender woman with auburn hair and eyes of stormy grey sat in an armchair. A man about my own age, his hair blazing like a bonfire, stood behind her chair with an expression first of curiosity, then of outrage as he took in my poor appearance. One man, tall and blond and cadaverous, stared into the bottle of spirits he clung to and seemed to take no notice of any of us. A stocky man stood on the other side of a massive desk, beaming down at some odd box made of brass and silver and shining crystal. It had power; I could feel it calling to me.
Yet I had eyes only for the man sitting in a chair before the fireplace, near the woman. The others were étrangers, but this man I knew. He was the one responsible for my capture. On his head rested the abuses inflicted upon me.
Henri D’Estes.
My lover.
My enemy.