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 upperarm. 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 isifyou’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 hislantern 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.
