Page 44

G raham pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall, fighting to anchor himself in the present. The cell—eight feet by six, with a stained mattress and rusted chamber pot—swallowed light, time, and sanity with equal hunger.

“Evaluate me,” he rasped for the hundredth time. His voice was little more than sand and splinters. "I am a physician. I know my rights. You must examine me or set me free."

Only silence answered, broken by distant moans. The darkness pressed in.

You are Graham Redchester, Duke of Eyron. You are in London.

Think. Plan. Survive.

But the darkness had other ideas.

It tore away the walls of Hallowcross and hurled him back to a fetid alley?—

The man’s throat convulsed beneath Graham’s forearm, flesh giving way, bone straining against pressure.

Let him die.

“Stop,” Abigail’s voice—thin, desperate—cut through the roaring.

He did not loosen his grip. The man thrashed, nails scraping uselessly at Graham’s arm.

“That’s enough!” She sounded closer now, pleading, impossibly gentle.

Graham pressed harder. The man’s eyes bulged; breath rattled, broke. He could end this—just one more second, one more ounce of pressure, one less predator in the world.”

“Let him go. Please.”

Graham slammed his fist against the wall, the sharp pain dragging him back to the asylum cell. Blood smeared the stone where his knuckles had split.

"I am Graham Redchester," he whispered through clenched teeth. "I am in London."

A rustling sound drew his attention to the corner. A rat, fat and sleek, watched him with beady eyes before skittering toward the door. Graham pressed himself against the opposite wall, heart hammering.

Not the rat. The dark corners where it vanished.

The shadows there deepened, swirled, and?—

"Pity you won't see sense." Captain Hayes wiped blood from his knuckles with a handkerchief. "I'll have to turn you over to the doctor." He smiled thinly. “Not all cuts kill, you understand.” He leaned down and murmured to murmur in the man’s ear, “Some just make you wish they did."

Graham stared at the man bound to the chair. A French officer, caught behind British lines with coded dispatches. The information he carried could save hundreds of lives.

Hayes withdrew a slender knife from his kit and pressed it into Graham's hand.

His stomach churned, but his face remained impassive, a cold mask sliding into place.

His fingers woodenly obeyed the command to close around the hilt as something inside him retreated to a dark, quiet corner where the screams couldn't reach.

It was just another kind of incision. Same hands, different scalpel. Outcomes irrelevant.

He catalogued pressure points and nerve clusters with detached precision, already calculating which would yield results fastest with minimal permanent damage.

The Frenchman's eyes widened as Graham approached ? —

"No!" Graham stumbled away from the memory, his back hitting the cell door with enough force to rattle the hinges. His breath came in ragged gasps. "I am Graham Redchester. I am in London. Abigail?—"

The name acted as a talisman, pushing back the darkness. Abigail with her steady hands. Abigail who looked at him and saw a man, not a collection of nightmares.

A metallic scrape at the door made him whirl around. The small viewing slot slid open, revealing a pair of dispassionate eyes.

"Enough of that hollerin’," a voice announced. "Evaluation at dawn. Nothing more outta ya until then."

The slot slammed shut before Graham could respond.

He sank to the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees again. In the corner, the rat reappeared, whiskers twitching as it considered him.

“Forgive me,” he said to the rat, voice threadbare. “I’ve misplaced my manners.Graham Redchester. Duke. Physician. Occasional lunatic.”

The rat blinked. Graham nodded. “Strong silent type. I respect that.”

Somewhere in the bowels of the asylum, a man began to scream.

Rain slashed against the carriage windows as the dark edifice of Hallowcross Asylum materialized through the downpour.

The ancient stone building sprawled across its grounds like a sleeping beast, its windows barred and lightless save for a single lantern glowing weakly at the entrance.

Abigail pressed her forehead to the cool glass, fear pooling in her stomach.

"Looks even worse in the rain," Admiral Birkins muttered, tugging his coat tighter around him.

The carriage jerked to a halt far short of the entrance.

"This is as far as I go, Your Grace," the cabbie announced. "This ain't a place for honest folk after dark."

"Superstitious nonsense," the admiral grumbled, but his weathered face betrayed his unease.

Abigail pressed a few coins into the driver's palm. "Double your fare to wait."

“Not for all the coin in England." The driver crossed himself. "Things happen in that place that God Himself turns away from."

I’ve never believed in curses—but in this place, I might.

Admiral Birkins leaned forward. "Now see here?—"

"It's all right, Admiral." Abigail gathered her skirts, resigned. "We'll find another way back."

The admiral climbed down first, offering his hand. Abigail stepped into mud that nearly came over the top of her boots.

The driver's relief was palpable. "There's a tavern down the road, The Blackbird. You can wait there and someone will drive you back to town come morning." He flicked the reins. “God’s mercy on whoever you’re to see.”

"Marvelous," Elias grumbled. "Now we're stranded at the gates of hell."

"We're not stranded," Abigail said, squaring her shoulders. "We're precisely where we need to be."

The rain intensified as they climbed the steps, soaking through Abigail's shawl and gown within moments. Lightning cracked the sky, followed by thunder that Abigail felt in her bones. Her dress clung to her, heavy and cold as chain mail.

Abigail tugged the iron bell-pull. Its hollow clang echoed, followed by silence so complete she wondered if anyone remained alive inside.

"Perhaps they've all gone mad and killed each other," Elias muttered darkly.

"Admiral!" Abigail scolded, but her own pulse quickened at the thought.

A man–hollow-cheeked, with hair sprouting in uneven tufts from his scalp–opened the door. His uniform hung from his frame like washing on a line, the brass buttons tarnished almost black.

Abigail took a step, unsure if this was a patient or an orderly.

"No visitors after dark," he announced, moving to shut the door.

Abigail wedged her foot in the gap. "I am the Duchess of Eyron. My husband is being held here. I demand to see him immediately."

The orderly blinked, watery eyes darting between her and the admiral. "No visitors after dark," he repeated stubbornly.

The admiral drew himself to his full height, rain dripping from his grizzled eyebrows.

"Listen here, you festering excuse for a doorman.

I am Admiral Elias Birkins of His Majesty's Royal Navy.

You will admit us at once or face the consequences of obstructing officers of the Crown in the execution of their duties. "

"The execution of—?" The man's brows drew down.

Abigail pressed the advantage and withdrew a folded paper from her reticule. "We have authorization." She thrust it toward him, revealing a formal, ornate letterhead and official seal.

The orderly squinted at the rain speckled paper–a mundane correspondence from her dressmaker about the fitting schedule for new walking dresses. She held it just far enough away to prevent him from reading it, but close enough to display the ornate seal.

"Can't read in this light," he mumbled, hesitating.

"Then perhaps you should let us in before we all drown," Abigail suggested icily.

The orderly's mouth worked, uncertainty playing across his face. Finally, he stepped aside with a reluctant nod.

The vestibule of Hallowcross was worse than she'd imagined—a high-ceilinged space that trapped the stench of unwashed bodies and despair. Iron sconces cast fitful shadows across damp stone walls. The air hung heavy with mold and something sharper, more medicinal.

"This way," the orderly mumbled, shuffling ahead of them down a narrow corridor.

Gas lamps struggled against the darkness, casting weak pools of light. The walls were stone, the floor flagged with uneven slabs. Every twenty paces, a heavy door interrupted the monotony, each fitted with a small barred window and a substantial lock.

From behind one such door came a soft, rhythmic thumping. Behind another, someone sobbed. The orderly never slowed, never acknowledged the sounds.

“Night supervisor's Mr. Hodge."

He led them through the door into a cramped antechamber where a more substantial figure sat behind a scarred desk, a ledger open before him. This man was cut from a different cloth—broad-shouldered and alert, with a neatly trimmed beard and shrewd eyes that assessed them instantly.

"Simkins," he barked at their guide, "what's the meaning of this intrusion?"

"Visitors for the duke, sir," Simkins mumbled, shrinking back toward the door. "Got papers."

Hodge's eyes narrowed. "Do they indeed?" He rose slowly, revealing a powerful frame beneath his dark coat. "You may go, Simkins."

The orderly scuttled away, leaving them with this new, more formidable obstacle. Abigail stepped forward.

"Mr. Hodge." She removed her sodden gloves, her movements deliberate. "I apologize for the late hour, but I must see my husband, Dr. Graham Redchester, the Duke of Eyron."

"No visitors after sunset," Hodge replied flatly. "And no visitors prior to evaluation." His gaze flicked to the admiral. "Fancy papers notwithstanding."

Abigail reached into her reticule and withdrew a small purse. The coins inside clinked softly as she placed it on the desk between them.

"I understand rules exist for good reason," she said, her voice steady though her heart galloped away in her chest. She met the supervisor’s gaze. "I also understand that men who enforce those rules deserve compensation for their discretion."