Page 28 of Of Gold and Shadows (Time’s Lost Treasures #1)

28

Ami whirled from the sight of Mr. Brudge’s body toppling backward. She wouldn’t allow the image of blood spreading like gangrene over his chest to be imprinted on her mind. The sound, though. Well, that was quite another thing. With her wrists bound behind her back, there was nothing she could do to shut out the whump of his corpse on the rug.

“Tully, get that meat out of here before it leaks onto the carpet. Flick, see to the woman.”

The man’s words were a death sentence—hers. Pain was coming. Sharp and unstoppable. Her heart banged against her ribs, pulse staccato, breathing wild ... the very things that would soon quit functioning forever. She’d always known she would die, just like every other human on the face of this blue ball, and yet, probably like Mr. Brudge and anyone else who’d ever lived and breathed and loved, she wasn’t ready. Not yet. A whimper struggled in her throat, blocked by the rag jammed in her mouth.

Oh, God, I’ve been such a fool thinking I’m invincible. I am not, but You are. Please, Mighty One, grant mercy. Spare my life.

Footsteps drew near at her back, muffled on the carpet, making the sound all the more menacing. Fingers bit into her upper arm. She scrunched her eyes shut. This was it, and not at all how she’d imagined. She should be older, greyer, lying in a bed surrounded by her husband and children. Ushered into the next realm with hymns and prayers, not with rank breath snorting hot against the back of her neck. How much would this hurt? How long would it last? Would it take a while for her soul to float to heaven, or would she see Jesus right away?

Cold metal bit against the base of her skull. Every muscle she owned tensed. How she wished her father were here. That Edmund were holding her hand, making things less frightening. Oh, Edmund. Tears escaped past her clenched eyelids.

A quick jerk.

Her head snapped, and the putrid gag fell away.

Her eyes popped open. Sure enough, the stained rag lay atop the toe of her shoe.

Another jolt to her arms. A strong slice. Her wrists broke apart.

Freed.

She wheeled about, rubbing the chafed skin at the base of her hands, hardly daring to believe her lungs still worked, her heart yet beat.

“May I—” She cleared her rusty throat. “May I leave?”

“Not so fast, love.” Mr. Wormwell’s voice sailed out of the blackness. “You have a debt to pay off first. Your friend Brudge’s there.”

She kept her gaze fixed on the wall of darkness past her circle of light, refusing to look at the body being dragged past her. “He was not my friend.”

Coarse laughter rumbled in the shadows. “It doesn’t matter to me if he was your blasted hairdresser. The fact is he brought you here, and you will service what he owed me ... that is if you’re all he said you were. Are you well-versed in Egyptian artifacts and their value, or are you not?”

Bosh! Of all the times she longed to be recognized as a renowned Egyptologist, this was not one of them. Yet it was that very fact that might save her life.

Summoning any shred of courage she had left, she straightened her shoulders and spoke into the inky void. “I am.”

“Good. Otherwise, I’d have two bodies to dispose of.”

A shiver spasmed across her shoulders. She had no doubt he’d get rid of her as easily as he had Mr. Brudge. The question was if she could please him long enough to figure out how to get away.

A match struck in the darkness, its small flame sizzling into life. For the briefest of moments, she glimpsed the man behind the voice—then wished she hadn’t. No wonder he preferred the shadows. Half his face was melted, the skin all puckery and purple. The eye socket on that side black and empty. The flame crawled into the end of a cigar, and after several puffs, expanded to a glowing red orb, too dull to illuminate any more of Mr. Wormwell’s frightening visage.

After a few more draws, he said, “I have a shipment of Egyptian artifacts that’s even now being unloaded. Before I pay the seller the exorbitant amount he’s asking, I should like to get your opinion of what it’s worth. Can you manage that?”

“Yes.” She swallowed, knowing her voice sounded impossibly small.

“If you’re lying,” he drawled, “you’re dead. If you try to escape, you’re dead. If you cat-scratch my men, you’re—”

“Dead,” she finished for him, perspiration popping out on her brow. “Yes, I get the picture.”

“Clever woman. Perhaps ol’ Brudge really did pay his debt by bringing you in. Imagine that.” The cigar bobbed in the darkness. “Take the woman to the loading dock, Flick. And if she doesn’t play nice, you know what to do.”

The pockmarked man next to her grabbed her arm. “Come along, darlin’.”

She didn’t object. In fact, she’d have to go along with anything and everything this Mr. Wormwell and his cohorts threw at her until she could devise a way to escape.

Mr. Flick led her down a labyrinth of passages, most lined by towering shelves of unmarked crates. The light from his lantern bobbed about, breathing life into ghoulish shadows, none of which were as menacing as him, though. Coming to a side door, he produced a key from his pocket and unlocked it. Air dampened by what was now a light rain smelled of musk and brackish river water. Mr. Wormwell’s warehouse sat on a Thames wharf. Which one, she didn’t know, so even if she did somehow get loose, she had no idea which way to go.

The brute tugged her across the thin space between buildings, steering her into the next warehouse. Inside this one, a hive of activity buzzed about. Lanterns hung on hooks, illuminating a huge unloading area. Big doors at the opposite end gaped open, allowing wagons to pass in and out. Burly men hefted crates off the drays, stacking them in rows, some of them with pry bars popping off the wooden lids. The closer she and Mr. Flick drew, the more her heart stalled. She didn’t need to look inside to see what treasure she was to evaluate. She’d already done so.

These were the same crates she’d worked on at Price House.

Missing relics were bad enough, but if Edmund couldn’t find Ami before anything awful happened to her, he’d never forgive himself—and neither would whoever dared to harm her, for he’d more than throttle the man. Or men. With all the fear and fury pumping through his veins, he’d mow down anyone and everyone in Angel Alley if she was hurt.

The cab jerked to a stop, his head and the professor’s snapping forward from the abrupt halt. Edmund jumped out into the light rain, then immediately wheeled about and held up his hand, barring the professor from doing the same.

“Wait here,” he said.

The professor’s eyes widened, the whites stark against the night shadows. “You can’t go in there alone!”

“Ami did.” And the thought still scraped his heart raw. Why did she care so much for ancient remains and so little for her own life? He handed a bill up to the driver. “Stay put until I return or until the gentleman inside orders you to leave. Is that understood?”

The cabbie’s jaw dropped as he stared at the exorbitant payment. “Aye, sir! Ye can count on me, sir.”

“Very good.” Edmund once again faced Ami’s father. “I need you to summon the police if I’m not back in a few minutes.”

The professor shook his head, a scowl digging a deep furrow in his brow. “You’re as foolhardy as Amisi. We should have the police here with us now.”

“We don’t know if she’s in there, nor do we know if a crime has been committed. We don’t know anything—which is what I plan on finding out. And the longer I stand here chatting with you, the more it delays discovering where Ami is.”

“Very well.” The professor huffed as he pulled out his pocket watch and flipped open the lid. “You’ve got two minutes, Mr. Price.”

“Make it three. There’s no telling how large the courtyard inside is. Here, I won’t be needing this.” He handed his coat up to the professor, ignoring the questions in the man’s eyes and pivoting away before he could voice any.

Four strides later, he paused before entering the narrow throat of Angel Alley. Stooping, he swiped his fingers along the sludge of the broken cobbles, then wiped the grime on his brow, cheeks, and jaw. Not as good of a disguise as Jameson’s old coat and hat, but it would have to do. Wouldn’t hurt to dirty his arms as well, so he shoved up his sleeves and once again smeared his fingers on the ground and—What was this?

He pinched a scrap of paper, and when he glanced at the penned words, his heart stopped. His poem. No, Ami’s poem. He sucked in a breath.

She was here! Ami was here, or at least she had been.

He jammed the paper into his pocket and scrubbed the rest of the dirt furiously on his arms. Buoyed by hope, he ripped open the front of his waistcoat, buttons pinging against the brick opening, and set off.

He strode through the dark passage, gut revolting at the putrid stench permeating the moist walls. Nor did it get any better when the channel opened into a dank courtyard of filth. Sweeping a glance around the area, he prayed to see the flash of some bodacious peacock feathers on a multihued gown. But no. Only black and grey met his eyes. Colour didn’t live in this place, save for the hellish flames of a small brazier spitting against the rain. Four men stood about it, eyeing him. In a nearby alcove, a couple was all arms and legs, doing what ought not be seen in public. And off in the corner lay a body, drunk to the world.

Edmund swaggered over to the four men, dipping his head as he approached. A strange waft of gardenia hovered around the tallest fellow.

The man closest to him turned aside and spit, then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Do I know ye?”

Edmund met his gaze. “Doubtful.”

The man next to that fellow nudged his friend with his elbow. “Don’t be daft, Muggs. That toff ain’t from round ’ere. Them threads is too fine fer the likes o’ the Angel.”

“He’s right,” the third fellow said as he pulled a knife. “So move along, toff.”

The tallest man said nothing, but the set of his jaw wasn’t any less threatening than the blade in his comrade’s grip.

Though everything in him screamed to fleet-foot it out of there, Edmund forced a grin. He didn’t know a thing about knife fighting, but he did know how to negotiate—and thug or suit, every man was a businessman at heart. “Easy there, gents.” He held up his hands. “Just looking for a bit of excitement in this dreary place. Heard this is where a man can find some action.”

Muggs narrowed his eyes. “It’ll cost ye, dependin’ on what sort o’ fluff up yer wantin’.”

“I’m looking for a woman. Colourful gown, feathers down the backside. Dark hair. Slight of frame.”

The men exchanged glances, though all seemed to single out the tallest fellow. He toyed with the tip of his curled moustache, saying nothing. Ah. He did know something about Ami.

“I’m willing to pay for the information,” Edmund prodded.

The tall one cocked his head. “What ye want her for, guv’ner?”

To love. To cherish. To make her my own and never allow a single harm to come to her.

He shoved down the passionate thoughts. These men wouldn’t respect such soft sentiment—and that blade yet gleamed in the firelight. He forced a slow curve to his lips. “What does a man ever want a woman for?”

Coarse laughter guffawed out of them, curling Edmund’s hands into fists.

The tall one’s tongue poked about his cheek. He winced, sucking air through his missing front tooth. “What’s it worth to ye, guv’ner?”

“I can make it very worth your while if you tell me where she is.”

The man with the knife aimed the tip at him. “Or we could jes’ take it from ye. A toff like you is child’s play.”

Sweat mingled with the rain dripping off the ends of his hair, trickling down his neck. Showing weakness now would be waving red in front of that bull.

“You could,” Edmund admitted, “but I doubt you could dispose of my body before the police show up. If I’m not back on the street in one minute, my associate will alert the bluecoats. So either we conduct this business in a profitable fashion or in one that involves shackles and very poor meals.” He pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket—which was either a baited hook or a death warrant. Hopefully the former.

The tall man’s eyes locked onto the money. “I know where she is, guv’ner. The Shadow Broker’s in Wormwell’s warehouse over in Rotherhithe. Leastwise that’s where ol’ Brudge were takin’ ’er an hour or so ago, an’ tha’s God’s truth.” He held out his hand, palm skyward.

It always paid to examine a man’s chin when cutting a deal. If it twitched to the left, he was lying. To the right, no malintent, but it was a bluff all the same. The big man’s jaw didn’t move a hair. Edmund handed him the money. “Good doing business with you.”

The big fellow tucked it inside his shirt. “’Tweren’t a fair hand Brudge dealt the little woman, but as me mum always said, shadows may bend, yet they ne’er break. Keep that in mind with whate’er you intend concerning the woman.”

Huh. He might almost think the man had a care for Ami. Even so, Edmund backed away, keeping an eye on the lot of them while listening for any movement behind him. He didn’t know a thing about the Wormwell warehouse, but he did know a fair amount about the Rotherhithe wharves.

And they weren’t any less dangerous than here.