Page 36 of Rekindled (The MacTavish Heirs #5)

In which the cave walls are closing in.

Catriona…

A few hours later…

I’m still glowing with happiness as I assemble the materials needed to replicate the successful trial for the antidote- minus the final, key ingredient, of course. It’s time to put on a little show under the scrutiny of the lab cameras.

Hugo has left his lab coat draped over my work station, a silent and annoying reminder that I’m never free of him.

I hope the sabotage my father and Lucas are wreaking is making him suffer.

And making him distracted, because a good look at my notes will make it clear what kind of progress I’ve been making.

Going back and forth to the supply closet gives me the chance to create a precious vial of the antidote. Enough to replicate it even if I canna download and steal the formula this time.

Now, all I need… is Lucas. Charging over the ho rizon in his black tactical suit, guns blazing.

Instead, I get fecking Hugo.

“Surprise, ma chère! ” Strolling into the lab, he pulls on his lab coat. “My business, it seems, was not so dire after all. Certainly not as important as our breakthrough.”

That degenerate corned beef face syrup-wearing wankstain.

I was thinking I’d have at least two or three Hugo-free days. As he beams happily at me, I see the darkness spread through his eyes, like ink swirling in water.

He never planned to leave. He set me up. There was no question in his mind that I would finally create that antidote without him breathing over my shoulder. My only hope is that he dinnae know I already did.

Forcing a smile, I lay out all my ingredients, precisely in the right order. The equipment is set. Smoothing back my hair, I nod to him. “This is it, Hugo. This is the one.”

I take my time, I double-check everything, I move so slowly that he’s nearly dancing with impatience as we get to the final step.

The mixture is a bleary blue gray. The computer model spirals down into nothing.

“Putain de fils de pute, batard ! Goddamn son of a bitch bastard!” Hugo kicks a stool, sending it flying across the room. “How would this not work! You stupid girl!”

Furiously, he yanks his package of nicotine patches out of the pocket of his lab coat and slaps one on his arm.

“I’m sorry, Hugo.” I dinnae have to put a tremor in my voice, it’s already there. “I’ve been through these steps a thousand times now. It’s no exaggeration, this test was number one thousand one.”

His fists clench, face so red that I’m praying he’s having a heart attack. “You will examine your notes. You will find your error. We will speak at dinner and you will have my antidote. Are we clear?”

I manage a short, jerky nod before he storms out.

The afternoon drags on as I move through the lab, checking notes, reassessing computer models I’ve watched a million times.

My hand keeps touching the bumpy, raised scar on my leg, where Hugo tore out my tracker, my lifeline to Lucas.

I have the full formula for C-1161. Most crucially, I have the precious antidote. I could recreate it in my sleep.

What I dinnae have is a way out of this nightmare bunker. Lucas can find me anywhere, I believe this, but it will take time. Inside this mountain, I’m just as helpless as one of the glowing, sightless worms that make their way over the rock ceiling in the supply room.

édouard appears with his usual expression of existential despair. “Master Hugo wishes to have you dress for dinner, mademoiselle.”

Followed by six guards, he escorts me back to my room. “How are ye enjoying the hell of subterranean life, édouard?”

His sigh is redolent with suffering. “My life’s purpose is to serve.”

“Of all the things you’ve said to me, that has to be the most dispiriting, and we’ve had some deeply bleak conversations.” We stop at my bedroom door, the guards hovering. “Have ye seen the video?”

“Which video, mademoiselle?”

“The results of the poison. How it swept through twenty-five people in minutes. Can ye imagine their suffering? A father, perhaps, watching his son die first?”

I’m so fecking angry.

Not at édouard, exactly. At everyone, everything buried inside this fecking mountain with me.

His mournful gaze holds mine. “There is a new gown for dinner. I’ve put it on your bed.”

I’ve learned by now that of course, there’s surveillance cameras in my bedroom, in my closet. I canna find a trace of one in the bathroom, which I suspect speaks more to Hugo’s fastidious nature than anything else. Watching me pee is too much for him.

So, I dress in there, putting on the required black gown, heavy with glittering jet-colored beads and an irritatingly long train. There’s no pocket for the glass tube holding the antidote, the bodice is too tight to slip it in my bra.

Lucas told me a story once about a great-great aunt of his who spied for the Allied Forces during World War Two. She’d free prisoners by smuggling keys to them, hidden in her long hair, wound on top of her head in an elaborate bun.

Fortunately, I have a lot of hair, and a lot of kirby grips.

édouard is back to escort me to the dining room with all the gravitas of a soldier leading me to my execution, which is likely. The dining room is lit by a dozen candelabras, and the smell of melting beeswax is stifling.

Hugo’s seat is at the head of the table, and I’m always put to his left. édouard politely pulls out my chair and nods. “Master Hugo will be with you in one moment.”

Just as he leaves through the service door, Hugo makes his grand entrance, followed by two guards who stand sentry by the door.

“I am sorry to keep you waiting, mon petit chou, I had a bit of business to conduct first.” He puts his hand to his stomach, frowning for a moment.

“Are ye feeling awright, Hugo?”

He waves it off. “A bit of indigestion, perhaps.”

There’s another chair set to his right. He follows my gaze as he seats himself. “I see the question in your eyes, we do have a guest of honor for dinner tonight.”

It’s all orchestrated so grandly, this moment. The guards open the huge wooden doors, and two more drag in a man. He’s stumbling, hands tied, head down. He’s thrown into the seat, a rope strapped around his chest to keep him upright and they step back.

It’s Lucas.

***

Kirby grips - the Scottish name for bobby pins.

Mon petit chou - French for ‘my little cabbage’ which is sometimes a term of endearment.